Stuff my kids say

CAST OF CHARACTERS


The Professor
Age: 7 going on 12
Career Goal: Mad scientist
Interests: Mythbusters
Plants vs. Zombies, Legos, 
Star Wars, Reading, Karate
Catch-Phrase: "Let's build one!"

Bam-Bam
Age: Just turned 5
Career Goal: Super Villian
  Interests: Angry Birds
Phineas and Ferb
Action Figures, My Little Pony
Chaos and destruction
Catch-Phrase: "Ak-waaaard."

Mommy
Age: 38
Designated Straight Man

Bam-Bam: "Mommy, can I have cow milk?"
Me: "What's the magic word?"
Bam-Bam: "Abracadabra!!!

Bam-Bam: "Mommy, can I have a donut?"
Me: "I don't have any donuts."
Bam-Bam: "How 'bout you ask your phone to find us a donut shop an' you can get some donuts for you an' me?"

The Professor: "Mommy, I got bit by an ant today. What's gonna happen to me?"
Me: "Probably nothing."
The Professor: "Oh ... But I MIGHT turn into Ant Man!" 
 Me: "I suppose that's possible."
The Professor: *fist pump* "YES!!!"

The Professor, sending Bam-Bam down the big, curvy slide first: "Are you dead?"
Bam-Bam: "No!
The Professor: "Okay, I'm coming down."

Me: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Bam-Bam: "I will be a Villain!" *evil laugh*

Bam-Bam, consoling the dog on his impending doggie vaccinations: "Whatever you do, just don' look at da shots ... And, after, maybe you get a lowipop."

The Professor: "Why is Dr. Who's time machine a phone booth? If I had a time machine, I'd make it a bouncy house, to have fun on the way."

Bam-Bam, drawing a picture-story: "Ok, Daddy, now you are suwownded by lava and dere's a 3-eyed dragon wif sharp teef. An' you don' have your sword."

‎Bam-Bam, crying in his bed after the Professor brought home a Mother's Day craft from school.
Me: "What's wrong?"
Bam-Bam: "I didn't make a mother's day present."
Me, heart melting: "It's okay, sweetie, I don't need a present. I just want to spend the day with you. You don't have to give me anything."
Bam-Bam: "Okay ... But you won't forget to get me things for Christmas, right?"

Me: "What do we call an animal that only eats meat?"
The Professor: "A carnivore!"
Me: "And an animal that only eats plants?"
The Professor: "An herbivore!"
Me: "And an animal that eats both meat and plants?"
Bam-Bam: "A mommy-vore!"

Car: *rattling* a little over a bumpy part in the road.
Bam-Bam: Oh no! She's breaking up! We gotta jump for it!

Bam-Bam: "I'm good at hopping. Hopping is my talent. ... And my other talent is being cute."

Bam-Bam, walking into my bathroom just after my shower, wrinkling his nose, declaring: "It smells like girl in here." and marching out. 

Me: Want to help me pick out what to wear today?
Bam-Bam: No. Daddy can do that. I really don't want to see you naked.

Me: Oh, look at the cool pic @grantimahara tweeted.
The Professor, so awed there is a real danger he might suck all the air out of the rooom: "Grant Imahara?!? The MythBuster who was raised by robots!?! That's SO cool!"

Bam-Bam, running into my room at 6:30 a.m.: "Mommy, there's a black puddle in the living room!"
Me, following them back to the living room: "Oh dear ... That's dog diarrhea."
The Professor: "What's diarrhea?"
Me: "It's dog poop."
The Professor: "Ewwwww, Bam-Bam, it's melty dog-poop!"
Bam-Bam: Oh darn. I was hoping we struck oil.

Bam-Bam, meditating:

Miss me?
Zen

Give sorrow words

"Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break."
~ William Shakespeare Macbeth, Act 4, Scene 3

"Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don't go on forever. Must have been shattering, stamped into one's memory. And yet, I can't remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We must be born with an intuition of mortality. Before we know the word for it. Before we know that there are words. Out we come, bloodied and squalling, with the knowledge that for all the points of the compass, there's only one direction, and time is its only measure." 

~ Tom Stoppard
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

Inhale. Exhale. Gone.

Death is a wound - a hole where our loved one used to fit snugly.

It might be a violent puncture, leaving you bleeding out and fighting for every breath. It might be a slow burn, devouring you by inches. It might be an illness, weakening you from within.

We know, from experience, the wound will heal over. Time will knit ragged flesh together, transmute the pain to numbness, cover the gaping emptiness with layers of scar tissue.

Still, we fight it, for a while. We huddle over our wounds like protective mothers, hating and loving the pain. Because to heal is to admit that life goes on, that the clocks don't actually stop, that the stars and the moon still shine. Without them.

Every day is a step farther from the love we knew. Every day the now becomes the then. Every day is another layer of memories sliding in on top of the old.

Every day becomes a reminder that our entire lives are spent within the tiniest span between the breaths of the universe.

Inhale. Exhale. Gone.

The knowledge would be humbling to the point of paralysis.

If it weren't for those moments.

Those moments that are so beautiful, so painful, so brilliant that they rip the breath from your lungs and scream through your brain: This is life! This is why! This is what is so fucking amazing about this fragile existence that we persevere through the knowledge that we are only candle flickers on an insignificant rock at the ass end of the universe.

"You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? ... If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. ... For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

~ Kahlil Gibran
The Prophet

The ultimate irony is that the knowledge of death is what makes every moment of this life so heart-achingly beautiful. And the ultimate tragedy is that we are so preoccupied with "life" as a whole that we miss SO many of those moments. Because they're not just the big moments. They're the "normal" moments, all day, every day, every moment. If we just stop to live them.

Inhale. Exhale. Gone.

But, oh, what comes between.




Namaste,
Zen

Where I'm From

I am from science fiction stories and Saturday morning cartoons.

I am from summers that melt and winters that drizzle.

I am from acres of farmland, spring fruit blossoms and fall harvests.

I am from laughing voices raised over classic rock radio in crowded kitchens with kids and pets underfoot; from hand-me-downs and potlucks; camping and fishing; climbing trees and running around barefoot.

I am from mom's patience, dad's temper, brother's humor.

I am from fierceness and freckles.

I am from more-the-merrier and anything-for-family and own-your-choices.

I am from logic and reason, from compassion and kindness, and from just doing the laundry.

I am from the Emerald Isle and the Dust Bowl, pan-fried chicken and homemade biscuits.

I am from hallways lined with photo collages, doorways climbed by faded pencil marks, concrete impregnated with tiny hand prints, cedar chests filled with handmade quilts.

I am from simple homes and strong roots. From extended families and generational gatherings. From births and deaths, celebration and mourning, love and loss - all made better by the sharing. 


Inspired by: Where I'm From and SFD and TwoBusy.

Zen

Kid Logic: Conversations with my Kids

Borrowing a page from my pal DaddyGeekBoy today to document some of the funny and/or interesting "Wit and Wisdom" moments of my kids. If you follow me on Twitter or Facebook, you may have seen some of these pearls, already.

I swear both of my boys say the most hilarious (to me, at least) things almost every day. At the time, they crack me up. And I think to myself, "I have to tell their dad (or grandparents) about that, later." But I usually forget. And then I wish I'd written them down. 

Do you ever do that? 

So, I'm using the power of social media to preserve a few of these gems for posterity. And by "posterity", I mostly mean to torture them with when they are older.

Please to enjoy ...

###

Bam-Bam, picking up my umbrella: "Does it shoots? Like da Ping-wen?"
Me: "Nope, sorry."
Bam-Bam: "Aww, man. Dat wud be bedder."

###

The week before The Super Bowl:

Me: "We'll go to the library Sunday."

The Professor: "Mommy, Sunday is a Holiday!"

Me: Huh???

The Professor: "It's Feasting and Football Day!"

Husband: *Sheepish Grin*

###

The Professor: "I learned to French kiss today!"
Me: o_0
The Professor: *plants air-kisses on each side of my face*
Me: "Oh!!! That's GREAT, Sweetie!"
*ohthankyousweetbabyjeebus*

###

On the way home from the Sitter's, driving by plant nursery:

Bam-Bam: "Plants! Plants turn into pizza!"

Me: "Watched Wall-E today, didja?"

###

Bam-Bam, getting out of tub, genuinely freaked out:
"Aaaaaahhhhh! Mommy, my hands are OLD!!"

###

The Professor: "Mom, Bam-Bam is adopted."

Me: "Um, no, he's not. What makes you think that?"

The Professor: He doesn't look anything like me! Except for our skin."

Me: "Honey, what do you think 'adopted' means?"

The Professor: It means 'different'.

Me: "No. That's not what it means. C'mere and let's talk about where some babies come from ..."

###

At the dinner table:
The Professor to Bam-Bam, the finicky-eater (In a bad British accent.):
"You can't have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat."

###

Bam-Bam: I have 5 arms and swim backwards! What am I?

Me: Um, a squid?

Bam-Bam: A michelinoceras!

(Yeah. I had to look it up, too. Thank you, DinosaurTrain.)

###

6yo: Know who I love best? You, Mommy ... And Gaga (Grandma) ...
Me: Awww.
6yo: Oh, and the Yo-Yo guy! (who performed at his school last week.) He's awesome!
Me: Ah.

### 

What funny things have the kids in your life spouted off lately?

Zen

We don't go anywhere with "scary", "spooky", "haunted" or "forbidden" in the title

In honor of Halloween season, I'm recycling my favorite "scary" story...
 
My first warning should have been when my date told me our evening was going to be a "surprise". In my experience, surprising me rarely ends well for all parties involved.

But, I was young - 19, I think - and he was a fun and romantic guy intent on creatively wooing me. So, I thought to myself, "Hey, self, try being spontaneous for once! It'll be fun, right? Right!

- dundundun-

My only hint of what was to come before he picked me up that chilly October evening was when he told me to wear comfortable clothes and walking shoes.

Still, when he proceeded to take us far out of town into the sparsely populated countryside, I have to admit my inner monologue was starting to sound something like this:

Ummm. Okay. This isn't scary or anything. I'm sure he's totally NOT a serial killer taking me to a secluded spot to chop me into tiny pieces. But, just in case I'm wrong, let's just examine the handle on this car door in the event that I may need to jump out and run for my life.

So, I have to admit I was just a little relieved when we turned a corner and came upon a big lighted parking lot out there in the middle of nowhere.

Of course, that relief turned to dread again when I realized we were at a "Haunted Forest".

Now, here's something you need to know about your Auntie Zen, kids: I don't do scary.

I've never worn a scary Halloween costume, I don't watch horror movies; I only rarely read scary books (and then it's only during daylight hours and I usually follow it with a Disney movie chaser to get the ick out); I'd rather roast s'mores than listen to a spooky campfire story; and I've been known to totally freak myself out a la the Blair Witch Project over unidentified noises and shadows in the dark. (By the way, the person who forced me to watch the Blair Witch Project - I'm still not speaking to him.) For heaven's sake, I slept with a night light until I was ... oh, wait, I still sleep with a night light!

And I most definitely DO NOT do Haunted Houses.

So, yeah, you get the idea ... having scary things jump out at me in close quarters is pretty high on my things-I-never-want-to-do list.

My enthusiasm was for this "surprise" date was flagging just a bit at this point.

But, hey, I'm a trooper. I can do this! It will be fun! Right? Right! And, oh! Look! There's not-scary stuff here, too! There's kiddie games and a hay ride and corn maze! I can do that!

I was pondering whether or not I might have preferred the "So I Dated an Axe Murderer" scenario when said date grabbed me by the hand and enthusiastically led me right past the kiddie games and the hay ride and the corn maze and straight to the "Haunted Forest".

Oh, Hell.

Okay. Pull it together, you. Look at the little kids going in there in front of you! If they can do it, you can do it.

Just about then, the screams started drifting out of the thicket of trees.

"Um, so, are you sure you don't want to go do the bean bag toss or bob for apples or ... " I started.

"Oh, don't be scared," my date was the picture of manly support. "I'll be right there with the you the whole time."

More screams. And now, growling noises.

Ohmigawd-ohmigawd-ohmigawd. Self, we do NOT want to go in there, right? Right!

"Or we could go make out on the hay ride!" I said, desperate now.

That almost did it. He paused, but then laughed and handed our tickets to the witch at the entrance. "Don't worry, it's just good fun."

Famous last words.

Okay, self, suck it up. You can do this. Oh, and self, you should maybe not squeeze your date's hand so hard. I think his fingers are turning blue. And try not to think about the dark branches that seem to be reaching out to grab you... or the dark, tight space closing in on you ... or that rustling noise in the bushes ahead ... or that sound like heavy breathing near your ear.

I was pressed up against my date so tightly at this point that you couldn't see light between us - even if there had been light to see. Which there wasn't. Because it was freakin' dark in there. Did I mention I don't like the dark?

Okay, breathe, you can do this. Right? ... Right? Um ...

I honestly could not tell you a single thing about the first 1/3 of that haunted forest, except to say that it scared the bejeebus out of me. Apparently, I've blocked out all of the traumatic details.

But I do know that I was damn-near hyperventilating by the time the werewolf jumped us.

We were coming around a corner when the werewolf leaped out of the bush right next to me - meaty arms raised, sharp claws reaching, pointy canines bared, a deep throaty growl on his bloodthirsty lips ...

Yeah, it was exactly like that.

What the hell do you think I did? I shrieked like a little girl and jumped about two feet backwards - tripping over an exposed tree root in the process and landing on my ass - but not before I heard an ominous *snap* from the general direction of my ankle.

My date honestly did not believe me at first when I told him I was pretty sure I'd broken my ankle. But I guess the screaming and falling back down when I tried to put weight on my leg did the trick. He jerry-rigged a (pretty decent!) field splint and helped the EMTs carry me basket-style out of the thick trees. Then he followed the (probably unnecessary) ambulance to the nearest emergency room. And he sat with me in the exam room and entertained and distracted me while the (definitely necessary) pain meds kicked in.

Ahhhhh, drugs are good. Everything will be okay, now right? Riiiiight.

I still think he only really believed my ankle was actually broken when the doctor showed us the x-rays. But he was still very chivalrous and attentive during the whole evening.

Especially when the werewolf showed up again.

Yep, the young man who played the werewolf at the Haunted Forest actually stopped by the emergency room when he got off of work to check on me. Wasn't that sweet?

I gave him a hug. Of course, I was all hopped up on those really good pain meds by then, so I'm pretty sure I was hugging nurses, doctors, x-ray techs, and anybody else who said a kind word to me at that point.

I think my date was just a teensy bit jealous when the werewolf - who was kinda cute without his mask - gave me his phone number and asked me to call him to let him know that I was okay. There might have been growling. (Please note me NOT making the obvious dogs-fighting-over-a-bone joke here. You're welcome.)

For their part, the Haunted Forest folks sent me a bright orange t-shirt that said "I survived the [redacted] Haunted Forest". (Later, I corrected it by adding "barely" with a Sharpie.) They also sent me some free passes to come back.

Riiiiight.

Believe it or not ... this is not the weirdest date I've ever been on. Or even the only date to end in medical treatment.

Even more amazing? There was a third date with Haunted Forest guy.

But that's another story ...


Still easily spooked,
Zen


How about you? Have a good haunted house (or forest or whatever) story? Gather 'round the virtual campfire and do tell ... 

*Post title from: Scooby Doo

Light up my Room

I'm sitting alone in the dark of the pre-dawn hours: Crunching my numbers, stretching my dollars, exercising my patience.

The cold that creeps up from the hardwood floors has numbed my bare toes and prickled my skin. Or maybe it's the unnatural quiet of my sleeping house that inspires my chill.

But the dearth of daylight hours has driven me into the dark, where I'm buried under piles of paperwork; choking on never-ending lists and tasks and bills and chores; drowning under the weight of my own spinning thoughts.

If you sit alone in the dark long enough, you can start to forget what the light feels like.

But the sons will be up soon, dragging the dawn in their wake, bringing back my light.



Post Title: Light up my Room, BNL

I'm not an extrovert, but I play one on the interwebs

The ZenHusband and I take turns picking up the 5-year-old Minion from kindergarten. The other day, we were comparing notes and an interesting fact came up:

He has had several complete conversations with many of the other kindergarten parents waiting to pick up their kids.

I've never said so much as a word to any one of them.

That pretty much sums up one of the biggest differences between me and my husband:

He is an extrovert - a bonhomie for whom it is easy and natural to strike up a conversation with darn-near anyone.

And I am the introvert - I'm borderline anti-social when it comes to meeting new people. "Socializing" does not come naturally to me; and most social gatherings are just varying degrees of uncomfortable for me.

So much so that strangers and casual acquaintances have described me as unfriendly and even snobby. I don't think that's accurate. I like to think I'm actually quite a nice person, when you get to know me. :)

But I understand why I come off that way - I don't make it at all easy for people to know me.

Let me clarify here: I'm not shy. I'm introverted - two different things. "Shy" describes someone who avoids social interaction because of nervousness. Shy people want to interact, but they are anxious about it. Introverts are not nervous about social interaction - they just don't enjoy it.

In other words: A shy person is lonely. An introvert is just alone.

For me, there are some exceptions: With friends and close family, I can be very friendly and talkative - it can sometimes be hard to shut me up! At work, I'm never slow to speak up - in fact, formal and informal communication with all kinds of people is a key element of my job. A job that I happen to be pretty good at.

And yet, I'm the last person in the world who would strike up a casual conversation with a stranger. In fact, I'm more likely to be the person striding purposefully, headphones in my ears, avoiding eye contact with passersby.

Random chit-chat with strangers? Casual communication without purpose?

Meh. I'll pass.

I just don't have the inclination for "small talk" - it doesn't interest me. It feels forced and uncomfortable. It drains me. I'd really rather not do it.

That's where the (mis?)perception that I'm a snob comes from, I know. But it's true: If I'm not really motivated to get to know you for some reason, I'm not going to waste my time and energy - or yours - with idle conversation.

And then there's the internet ...

Where I bare my thoughts and ideas and opinions on a regular basis; where I engage perfect strangers in blog comments; where I strike up up random conversations on Twitter; where I trade jokes with Facebook friends.

For an anti-social person, I'm curiously entrenched in social media.

If you only "know" me online, I'd be curious to hear what your perception of my "socialness" is. Because I find it a lot more enjoyable to "talk" to people online than I do in person.

And I'm not sure why that is.

Why is it relatively easily for me to communicate with people online and yet I find personal engagement so uncomfortable? How can I have developed such strong bonds though a computer (and, yes, a few of my online friends have become very good IRL friends, too) ... and yet feel so completely removed from people I see every week - like the parents at my son's school?

Yeah, yeah, I know: It's not an unusual phenomenon. I gather there are many people like me - more comfortable conversing through a computer than face-to-face. There's probably even a name (and maybe even a pill, considering the state of things today) for it.

But, hey, this is my blog, I can naval-gaze if I want to. ;)

Whatever it is, I don't see it changing anytime soon. It seems like the older I get the less inclined I am to stretch outside my comfort zone and make the effort - and yes, for me it takes a great deal of effort - to "socialize" with new people.

And, you know, I'm really okay with that. As much as I love my darling, extroverted husband, I'm just not interested in sliding over to meet him on the extroversion-introversion scale - I'm not broken. I don't need fixing. 

Yes, I'm probably missing out on some interesting people in real life because of my (anti-)social quirks. But I'm pretty happy where I am - even if it is mostly in my own head.

So, I'll leave the socializing to The ZenHusband and he can leave the blogging to me. Maybe eventually he can introduce me to the other kindergarten moms.


What about you? Are you more introverted or extroverted? Is it easier for you to talk to people online then in person? Or am I just a weirdo? :)

Waitin' for my letter from the Harper Valley PTA

My baby - my first born - starts kindergarten tomorrow.

Eeep.

I have all the "normal" feelings of bittersweet excitement and nervousness. And I might write about them after I get over these first-day-of-school jitters.

But, today? Let's talk about me, instead.

Because, you know what? Starting school is WAY more stressful on parents than on the kids.

And because I have a secret fear I need to share with you: I'm afraid of the Other Mothers.

No, really. I'm freaked out about having to socially interact with other moms. So far, in my limited experience, I've found that I'm really not very good at it.

I know this might sound a little weird coming from someone who babbles about her life and thoughts to anyone with an Internet connection, but: I'm an introvert. I do most of my living in my head or in my small select circle of loved ones.

The ZenHusband is - as he is so many ways - my Balance. He's an extrovert - the original never-met-stranger, comfortable-in-any-situation, go-with-the-flow kinda guy. When we're together, his outgoing personality lets me ease into situations and his presence makes it easier for me to be more social, too.

But when it's just me ...

Well, one of my very best friends can tell you that the second time we met - oh so many years ago! - her impression was that I was snobbish and rude - I'm neither, I swear! :) - because I was so stand-offish and unsociable. When, really, I was just shy and uncomfortable and very in-my-own-head that day. Typical.

Fortunately, we got the chance to get to know each other better over time and now she knows what an amazing and wonderful person I really am. ;)

But, yeah, I guess it's safe to say that I don't always make a great first impression in new social groups.

The funny thing is that I can be very outgoing in some specific situations. But, most of the time, I'm reserved, quiet, and more into doing my own thing in my own little world than in "normal" social interaction.

So, yeah, basically, I'm Sybil.

Moving on.

So, how does my situational introversion apply to the Minion starting kindergarten?

Oh, holy hell, people, grade school is a social MINEFIELD for the introverted parent!

Birthday parties, field trips, sports, after-school groups, student performances, room mothers, phone trees ... these things scare the ever-lovin' crap outta me.

Don't get me wrong, I mean, I want the Minions to have school friends and play soccer and take martial arts and learn music and act in their school play and whatever other activities interest them.

I love the idea of "participating" ... but the application intimidates me.

And, from what I've seen so far, some of those Other Mothers really freak me out ...

• I just can't relate to Crafty Carla, who keeps her glue guns and glitter in a shoulder holster and who painstakingly handcrafts personalized Arbor Day cards for every kid in the class ...
• I have nothing in common with Helen Homemaker, who bakes gourmet, organic, non-allergenic cupcakes from scratch for the whole class for little Joey's "half-birthday" ...
• And who wants to try to keep up with Judy Joiner, whose kids are in so many sports and clubs and activities that they need their own personal assistants just to stay on schedule ...
• I can't imagine having anything to say to Academic Annie, whose kid is so much smarter and more talented that yours, but who will be glad to tell you all about her birth-to-5 plan to raise a super genius, even though it's too late for your over-the-hill kindergartner ...
• and don't even get me started on Holy Heather, who can't decide if she wants to "save" my heathen Minions or just have us all burned at the stake at the next church potluck. We have those in spades around here.

Seriously, people:

Do. Not. Want.

*sigh*

Maybe I'll get lucky and meet a Blogging Betsy or a Slacker Suzy and we can snark about the Alpha-Moms over coffee at an Internet cafe while we should be cleaning our houses.

Pattern Recognition

My first pop culture crush was Han Solo.

No, wait, actually, my first crush was a rat named Justin. But my first human crush was Han Solo. And I'm pretty sure Indiana Jones was second or third on the list.

So, I don't think it's entirely unreasonable for me to blame George Lucas (and maybe Harrison Ford) for my long-term attraction to lovable rogues - the charming tough guys - "emotionally unavailable" I think the kids are calling it these days?

But, while Ingenue-loves-Rogue might work great in the movies, it's hardly ever a recipe for a happy ending in real life.

You can file that little bit of wisdom under "Stuff Zen Learned in College That was Not on the Approved Curriculum List", boys and girls. It's a big file.

Looking back, the self-perpetuating pattern seems painfully obvious. But, back then, I just wondered why every guy I dated turned out to be such a stunning jerk. Now, I see that I really just dated the same guy with different faces a half-dozen times:

- The Frat Boy: Who was killing time 'twixt break-ups with his high school girlfriend.
- The Soldier: Who should have been a sailor, based on his "girl in every port" habit.
- The Cowboy: Who just quit calling and coming around when the newness wore off.
- The Executive: Who forgot to mention his wife and kid back home.
- The Writer: Who wooed with great skill and enthusiasm, and lied the same way.

And then there were all the ones who oh-so-obviously only wanted to get into my pants.

Tinker, Tailor, Rich Man, Poor Man: Liars, cads, manipulators - all.

Is it any wonder that this is around the time I started to develop my "All men are pigs" theory?

Personally, it took hitting an emotional rock-bottom for me to finally recognize that the problem - the pattern - was mine. And so, in a strange way, I will always be grateful to the one who broke my heart the hardest and the last.

Still, it would be easy to blame him - to blame all of them. To label them Bad Guys and leave it at that. But I know, now, that they didn't do it by themselves. I mean, if you stick your hand in the hive, can you really get angry at the bee for stinging you?

Really, I did it to myself. Because, not only did I keep falling for the same "type" over and over ... I was falling for someone who was never real to begin with - an idea, a fantasy, a myth.
My college roommate - a Nice Guy of the highest order - always lamented that, despite what we claim, most women are attracted to the men who treat them like crap. And that Nice Guys just can't compete with that.

I countered his argument with the truism that (most) men want the woman they can't have - until they can have her. And maybe that's why our Prince Charmings so often turn into wolves.

See, Sir Nice Guy and my inner Ingenue had the same problem - but from opposite sides of the fantasy: I was in love with a charming rogue who would never commit to anything beyond "today" and so broke my heart over and over again. And he was in love with a woman who used him as the rebound guy in between her own Bad Boys.

We spent more than one night nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels at our kitchen table, debating the finer points of our theories on the theme of "Love Sucks".

We never did come up with any completely satisfactory answers.

But one thing we did decide in our brilliantly drunken and love-sick ramblings, was that pop culture has to shoulder at least part of the blame.

One night, we lounged on our living room floor (the kitchen chairs just seemed too dangerously high at that point) cursing all of the jerks who had ever broken our hearts, swearing we were "over" them, toasting to our wise epiphany, and damning-to-hell all of those chick-flicks and love songs and romance novels - and especially those insidious fairy tales - that set up such unrealistic expectations about love and sex and romance.

- Wuthering Heights? Drivel.
- Gatsby? A bloody fool.
- Bull Durham? An urban myth.
- Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty? Pfft. We don't need no stinking princes.
- Westley and Buttercup? True Love only happens in bedtime stories.
- Superman, Batman, Spider-Man: Type A, emotionally unavailable jerks.
- John Hughes: The devil.
- Jane Austen: A whore.
- Shakespeare: Her pimp.
- Even my beloved Han and Indy were thrown onto the raging bonfire of our anti-romanticism, along with James Bond and James T. Kirk : Cads and bounders, they were. Not worthy of the love of a good woman, thank-you-very-much.

As we tipsily pondered who we might be able to sue for our extreme emotional distress over these pop culture crimes against the heart, we made a vow: No more romantic fantasies for us, we declared, high on whiskey and our own worldly wisdom. We were done with it all. We would be all about the "anti-romance". And we would kick each other in the ass when we needed reminding of that.

Of course, after we sobered up, we both went right back to the jerks who had driven us to drink in the first place.

Sometimes, those epiphanies take a while to sink in, yeah?

The good news, though, is that this little tale does have a happy ending - two of them, actually.

A couple of years after finally hitting rock bottom in her last humiliating heartbreak over Mr. Emotionally Unavailable ... our Beloved Ingenue had healed up enough to take a risk on love again. And, more importantly, she had wised-up enough to pick a man - a real, red-blooded, imperfectly perfect man - who was worth the risk.

And Sir Nice Guy? Well, he took just a teensy bit longer to come to his senses. He actually married his rebounding princess. I know! Look, I desperately wanted to chuck a bottle of Jack Daniels at his head during the entire ceremony, okay? But this was a path he had to walk on his own. So, I just smiled through clenched teeth throughout the whole thing, hoping that I was wrong about her.

I wasn't.

Thankfully, he came to the same conclusion not long after and finally purged her from his life. Today, he's happily married to a smart, good-hearted woman and has two fabulous step-kids.

I'm quite proud of him - of both of us - for overcoming our pop-culture poisoning and finding happiness in our perfectly anti-romantic romances.

And, though he may never read this, I realize now that I owe him a big Thank You.

Not just for being a shoulder to cry on, and a pal to drown my sorrows with, and a big-brother figure to make me laugh or to offer to punch a jerk in the face ... but for being a constant example to me that there were, indeed, Very Nice Guys out there. And they were just looking for Nice Girls to love them, too.

Without that bit of light in the darkness, I might never have found my way out of the woods and into the arms of the Very Nice Guy who I married and still love madly to this day.

So, belated as it is: Thanks, J.

Love you, man. Cheers.

But if life were made of moments, then you'd never know you had one

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to run into him somewhere.
A chance encounter at the store, on the street, in a coffee shop.

Would we greet each other warmly, sitting down to chat like old friends about our new lives? Or would we offer smiles that don't reach our eyes and exchange uncomfortable small talk before going our separate ways?

Would we share pictures of our spouses and kids? Or would we just share a private, nostalgic look as we pass?

Would I see the passionate young man, in the middle-aged stranger in front of me? Would he see the care-free girl in the mother of two?

Would his smile still make my stomach do flips? Would he flirt and bring up old times?

Would my cheeks burn at the flood of memories? Would his eyes sparkle at my blush? Would mine brim with tears when the moment was past?

I love my husband, my children, my life.
I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world.

But, sometimes, I wonder.

###

That's what woods are for:
For those moments in the woods...
Oh, if life were made of moments,
Even now and then a bad one--!
But if life were only moments,
Then you'd never know you had one.
...
Let the moment go..
Don't forget it for a moment, though.
Just remembering you had an 'and,' when you're back to 'or,'
Makes the 'or' mean more than it did before.
Now I understand--
And it's time to leave the woods.

~ Stephen Sondheim
Into the Woods

Moments in a Life Well Lived

"There's a shadow on his x-ray."

In my mind, I can see the photographs that have lined my grandmother's bookshelf for as long as I can remember: My grandfather ... in three-quarter profile, looking impossibly young in his Army uniform ... standing ramrod straight in a simple suit next to his beautiful young bride ... in front of the family car with his two strong boys, his brightly smiling daughter, and his baby girl in his wife's arms ... Standing behind my grandma, his big hands resting on her shoulders, celebrating their 50th anniversary.

"It started in his lungs ... "

I am seven years old and my Grampa is a giant with a booming voice and constant grin. He tells funny stories and teaches us to play card games ... He pulls quarters from behind my ears ... he "sneaks" me extra cookies from grandma's jar ... he sets me on his knee and we shell nuts as we watch Star Trek on the tiny TV in his living room ... He picks me up and dusts me off and sends me back into the game to "show those boys what you can do."

"... but it's spreading."

He's in his overalls and worn work boots, a holster on his hip, straw hat shading his eyes. He's mounting his big red horse, more at home on the farm than he would ever be in a city.

He's in a suit for my wedding day and he tells the whole room how I was an ornery little tomboy and "then she finally got boobs" and shoots me a joyfully wicked grin when I blush to my ears.

"Considering his age and medical history ..."

He's lying in a hospital bed after surgery. He's tired and in pain, but he's still giving the surgeon a hard time and flirting shamelessly with the nurses.

He's sitting in his backyard on a sunny Spring day, smiling as he watches his children's children's children run and scream and play.

"... there's nothing they can do for him."

It's his 80th birthday and he's holding my tiny two-week-old son, smiling so proudly you'd think it was his first child rather than his 10th grandchild. "You done good, Sis," he tells me with a wink.


You too, Grampa.

Thank you.

Who I Am

My blog has identity issues.

I mean, "What's your blog about?" should probably have a more interesting answer than, "I dunno. Stuff I like. Or don't like. Or think about. Or do."

Yeah. Not exactly riveting, eh? Or specific.

So: What is my blog about? Me? Okay ... Who am I?

• I'm a Mom-Who-Blogs. But I don't think I fit the MommyBlogger profile.
• I have moments when I think I'm funny. But I don't think anyone is ever going to mistake this for a Humor Blog.
• I sometimes mention my work, but this is definitely not a professional blog.
• I like to talk about books and quotes. But this isn't really a Book Blog.
• I sometimes comment on current events. But this isn't a political blog.
• I like to share my love of all things geeky pop-culture. But not (I think) in an obsessive sort of way.
• Some of what I write is probably pretty boring to some people, but I would hope that is not a blog-defining characteristic. :)

Ironically, in my super-secret alter-ego, I'm a public relations professional. My job is all about defining my goal ... identifying my audience ... directing my message .. targeting my communications.

But, here ... in my blog ... I don't have to do that. It's not so much that I'm missing my target as that I've just declined to identify one. As a marketing plan, that's a great big FAIL.

But that's just it. This blog isn't a job. And I don't want it to be. If I start "marketing" my blog ... trying to make it fit some niche definition ... well, that kind of defeats the purpose for me.

I love it when new people find my blog and have something to say about it. I think it's fun "meeting" people, getting feedback, engaging in conversation ... but that's not what drives me. That's not why I'm here. That's not "Who I Am".

Who I Am ... is a writer.

I write because I have to. Because I love to. Because I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't.

I'm lucky enough to get paid to do what I love, but that's not enough.

Don't get me wrong, I love the writing I get paid for. I really do. But, that writing is ... limited. Defined. Bound. Here, I have no restrictions. No rules. This is where I come to write about whatever happens to be on my mind.

I write about what inspires me, confuses me, amuses me, frustrates me, excites me.

I write about what I know, what I think, what I want, what I feel.

I write about what I love.

I write ...

Because I don't know how not to.


And that is Who I Am.

On chivalry and broken bones

- I have to warn you, I've heard relationships
based on intense experiences never work.

- OK. We'll have to base it on sex then.

- Whatever you say, ma'am.

~ Speed

I'm a klutz. This is an established fact.

Born that way. Probably gonna die that way ... Literally.

The other day, I told someone that I was the only person I know who could end up in the Emergency Room on a date ... three times.

But, really, two of them were totally not my fault. And one of them was not even my injury, so I'm not sure it even counts ...

Disastrous Date #1

My best friend introduced me to a guy she went to high school with and he asked me out for a casual "bite to eat" kind of thing. First date, right? So, he acts the gentleman and comes around to open the car door for me ... and proceeds to slam my hand in his car door.

OhMyFuckingGawdThatHurt.

I ended up losing most of the nail on that thumb and still have a small scar to remember it by. But the highlight of the evening had to be when my date proceeded to FAINT at the sight of my bloody hand. Seriously. He made it about 10 steps away from the car before he went a little pale and pitched over - hitting his head on the glass doors of the restaurant.

So, I'm standing there holding my bloody hand and staring down at my date's still body, thinking, "Hmph. That's not good." and kind of hoping this isn't going to end up being my "How I Met Your Grandfather" story.

Fortunately, my date came-to rather quickly and was quite chivalrous about my wound. (You'd think he would have learned. I mean, chivalry was what got us into this mess in the first place.)

For the record, I didn't actually have to go to the ER that night. Because my roommate was well versed in first aid and he bandaged me up nicely. (He was all excited he got to use his mad medical skills. As long as I promised not to bleed on him. Dork.)

I went to my regular doctor the next day to make sure nothing was broken. All my little hand bones were okay, but I still was kind of handicapped for a while. Couldn't even manage the button on my pants.

Which was no big deal. 'Cuz there was no second date. ;)


Disastrous Date #2

This one did end in the ER, but I wasn't the injured party for a change.

I was working as a waitress* and I had a little crush on one of the sweet, hunky Bus Boys. So, when another co-worker invited a bunch of us over for a movie night, I thought, "Cool. A chance to get to know him outside of work."

I knew the rest of his family, too. So I wasn't surprised to see his (just as sweet) Older Brother there, and we all had a really nice night. At the end of the evening, I offered to play designated driver for two inebriated gal pals and the Sweet Brothers decided to walk us all out to my car.

As we were crossing the parking lot, a truck came roaring around the corner and almost ran me down. The driver swerved into a nearby parking spot, his passenger grabbed the 12-pack of Coors Light out of the bed of the truck, and they swaggered toward a nearby apartment.

Well, my chivalrous (are you seeing a pattern here?) Bus Boy took umbrage at my near-death experience and hollered something manly like "Slow down, you idiot."

And all hell broke loose.

The two drunks and two more of their friends from inside the apartment came out swinging for Bus Boy. Older Brother tried to break it up and he ended up getting knocked down and hitting his head - hard - on the curbing. The drunken idiots had enough sense to run off when they saw our friend bleeding on the sidewalk. But not too much sense - because they ran into their own apartment. Which I was happy to point out to the cops before following the ambulance with Older Brother to the ER.

He ended up with a concussion, poor guy. But, he was okay. And the drunken assholes who hit him were prosecuted, I'm glad to report.

But I'm sorry to report that I never did have a real date with Cute Bus Boy.

(*You know you totally have that song in your head now.)

Disastrous Date #3

This one was a second date. I blogged a little bit about it once before ...

He surprised me by taking me to local "haunted forest" attraction where people in spooky costumes jump out at you randomly. Little did he know that having spooky things jump out at me is pretty high on my least-favorite-things list.

So, I got a death grip on his arm, pressed myself up against him so tight you couldn't see light between us (hmmm, that was probably part of his plan, eh?), clenched my teeth and braved the spooky.

About halfway through the "forest", a werewolf jumps out of a bush right next to me. I scream, jump backwards, trip over a root ... and hear an ominous snapping sound as I hit the ground.

They carried me out of the forest, whisked me off in an ambulance to the nearest emergency room, and declared that I had a broken ankle. Ouch.

I never did see the rest of the haunted forest. But they sent me a t-shirt that said "I survived the [redacted] Haunted Forest". (Later, I corrected it by adding "barely" in Sharpie.) Also, the werewolf came to visit me at the emergency room. I thought that was sweet. :)

Again, my date got the chance to play chivalrous (See, I told you there was a pattern.) as he filled my pain prescription, took me home, tucked me into my bed and even watched some Disney movies with me.

Unlike the others, there was a third date after this one.

But that's another story ...

Rainbows and unicorns

This post officially falls under the TMI category. If you are at all squeamish (or have a Y chromosome) you might want to skip it. Here, look at this picture of rainbows and unicorns, instead.



Still here?

Okay, you asked for it.

This post is about cramps. Specifically, menstrual cramps from hell.

I used to be one of those annoying women who had (pharmaceutically achieved) perfect cycles: Regular schedule, light symptoms, relatively painless.

When Minion #2 was born - by unplanned C-section - I told the doctor that as long as he was in there, he could just tie those puppies off, 'cuz I had no intention of using them again. So he did. And the husband and I celebrated with several months of enthusiastically unprotected sex for the first time. (What?! I totally warned you about the TMI.)

And then I stopped breastfeeding.

And, soon after, Eve's curse reasserted itself. (Feel free to go back to the pretty unicorn now. It's only gonna get worse from here.)

And now, every 28 days or so, I have about 12 hours of oh-my-fucking-gawd-will-someone-please-stab-me-in-the-eye-with-a-pencil-to-distract-me-from-the-pain cramps from hell.

Now, 12 hours might not sound like an unsurvivable term in hell to the uninitiated. But, in pain-time (like bullet-time but way less cool) it's about 4,000 years. Remember, it's all relative: 30 seconds kissing a your lover is a totally different span than 30 seconds holding the handle of a hot pan. Don't take my word for it, ask Einstein. ;p

Anyway, on a pain scale from 1-to-childbirth, this is about an 8.5, which puts it somewhere above a broken bone, but just below a full-blown migraine headache. (Which is arguably worse than childbirth - at least you get a baby afterwards with the latter. With a migraine, you just get nausea and a headache-hangover.)

In terms of the type of pain, these hell-cramps are (not surprisingly) similar in nature to labor contractions.

Not the early ones you can "breathe through" ... and not the late ones where you at least get to do something about it by pushing ... but those insidious in-between ones that we only recall later as blurry, red-tinged vignettes of sweating-panting-teeth-grinding waves of oh-my-gawd-pain punctuated by increasingly shorter periods of blessed respite and a string of faceless nurses telling you that you've only progressed 1 centimeter when you know that you could totally drive a fucking mack truck through there by now.

(If you're looking for those rainbows and unicorns, they're still up there.)

For those of you who have never given birth, think John Hurt during his last meal on the Sulaco.

If you've never given birth AND you've never seen Alien ... well, I have no frame of reference for you. Try shoving a pumpkin up your nose or some other similarly sized orifice. That comes close. I guess.

Then, go rent the Aliens movies. Well, rent 1, 2 and 4. You can skip 3. It sucks.

Where was I? Oh yeah, in excruciating pain.

So ... it's been several months of these hell-cramps, now. And I am getting pretty damned tired of them.

So much so that I've resorted to drugs.

That might not sound like a big deal. Unless you know me.

Except for migraine medication, I don't take anything stronger than Tylenol on a regular basis. (Because, when you have a severe migraine headache, you will do damn near anything to make it Go. The. Fuck. Away. Seriously, if someone told me that sacrificing a baby Harp Seal and eating it's heart would make the pain stop, I'd be all, "Hand me a handsaw and some ketchup.")

Anyway, I don't even do OTC cold medicine except in extreme cases.

It's not that I have any philosophical hang-ups abut better living through chemistry. It just that meds screw with my system.

Stuff that other people can nom-nom-nom like candy makes me sleepy or dopey or grumpy or some other dwarf. I tried my husband's OTC allergy antihistamines once and I thought I was going to drop dead in a heart-racing, room-spinning, nausea-inducing cold sweat.

And don't even get me started on NyQuil. I don't call it the nighttime-sniffling-sneezing-what-the-hell-am-I-doing-on-the-kitchen-floor medicine for nothing.

So, when I say these cramps have driven me to drugs, this is a serious development.

Today, I actually took a prescription narcotic (I have some around for emergency migraine treatment). These totally screw me up. When I take them, I usually pass out for several hours of anesthetized coma. Which is not exactly something you can do when you have two small kids to take care of. So it's really a last-resort thing for me.

But, today, the pain was already so debilitating that I could barely unfurl from the fetal position, so I figured it was a choice of being non-functioning AND in pain, or just being non-functioning.

Not a tough choice.

So, I took a half-dose. And then, through some supreme force of will, I managed to only sleep for about an hour before I dragged myself out to the couch to rejoin the living.

The little men in my abdomen have now exchanged their ice-picks for felt-wrapped mallets. I'm still a little fuzzy-headed - I probably shouldn't operate any heavy machinery for a while - including blogging. But it's a trade-off I'm comfortable with for now.

Fortunately, The ZenHusband had things under control in the kid-care department while I was in la-la-land, despite the fact that he actually has a minor back injury right now. He's a trooper.

But ... this is becoming a problem.

I have a pretty high pain tolerance. (Did I mention the two childbirths and the 20 years of migraine headaches? Not to mention a lifetime of general kluzty-ness. I'm no wuss.) So, if I'm being forced to resort to narcotics to function - even just one day a month - I guess it's time to make an appointment with my OB-GYN and see if there is anything modern medicine can do for me.

I guess I've been avoiding going to the doctor. Probably because of my aforementioned aversion to drugs. And my general feeling that there's probably not anything he can do to "fix" me. Except maybe going back on birth control pills. Which I don't want to do. Because those side effects suck, too.

So, I really don't want to go see the doctor.

But I also really don't want to be a doubled-over, whimpering, quivering mass of hell-cramps again in 28 days.

*sigh*

Okay, I'll call the doctor next week.

Maybe.


Holy shit. Are you still reading this?

I bet you wish you'd opted for the rainbows and unicorns.


*This post brought to you by Codeine: The #1 choice of babble-inducing narcotics for bloggers everywhere. And by Rainbows and Unicorns: Coming soon to a nightmare near you.

Nobody Told Me

When my first son was only a few months old, another mother said to me:

"Being a mother is like having your heart walking around outside of your body."

I agreed. But I didn't fully understand at the time.

I stood there with her and I thought of my beautiful new baby. I thought about how surprised I was by the depths of my love for this itty bitty new person ... and I thought about how becoming a mom throws all of your other priorities out the window ... and I thought about how I knew I would do anything for this amazing child of mine.

And I thought I understood what she was telling me.

But I didn't. Not yet.

All I knew in those precious, priceless first months was that my son was the new center of the universe. I knew the joy. I knew the excitement. I knew the overwhelming love. I even knew some of the nervousness and fear.

But I didn't know about the pain. Yet.

I didn't realize, then, that a Mother feels everything her child feels - only magnified.

I didn't know that when my sons were hurt, I would bleed.

"Being a mother is like having your heart walking around outside of your body."

Nobody tells you these things before you're a parent.

Nobody tells you that when they fall down, you feel the earth bruise your body. Nobody tells you that when they get sick, your skin burns with fever. Nobody tells you that when someone breaks their heart, you can feel yours rip open, too.

Nobody tells you how painfully joyous it is to let your Heart walk out into that big scary world out there every day, knowing that you can't protect them from all of the dangers they will face.

Then again, maybe they do tell you. Or try to.

Maybe we just don't hear it. Maybe it's one of those things you have to learn on your own.

"Being a mother is like having your heart walking around outside of your body."

Of shamrocks and lumberjacks

Slainte!
Happy St. Patrick's Day!

St. Paddy's is a celebration trifecta at the House of Zen:

1 - Our family heritage is Irish/Scottish, so it's an excuse to celebrate (read: drink to) that.
2 - The ZenHusband is a homebrewer partial to British brews (another toast to that, please) AND
3 - It's the anniversary of the day The ZenHusband and I first met. :)

Yep, 12 years ago today, this Big Lug picked up this Sweet Lil' Gal at the local saloon ... and the rest is history ... well, sort of. What's that you say? Romantic? Kismet? Fate? P'shaw. Almost never happened.

The Sweet Lil' Gal - that would be me, for those keeping score - was new in town, mourning the recent untimely death of her beloved Dalmatian, and had to work late that night ... so she almost didn't go out that night with her roommate to a local bar-and-grill.

And the Big Lug - again, for those keeping score, that would be The Husband - hadn't really planned on going to that pub that night, either. But he ended up there anyway, having a pint with a pal.

After getting a couple of girly umbrella drinks at the bar (and getting hit on by a couple of nice-but-no-thank-you guys), my roommate and I decided to take our drinks out to the patio to enjoy the unseasonably warm evening and to avoid the more meat-markety feel of the bar area.

We were out there chatting and laughing when I suddenly heard this deep, rumbling voice behind me ask if I he could join us. So, I turned in my chair and saw ...

... a lumberjack.

Seriously. That was my first impression: This tall, broad-chested, dark-haired, red-cheeked, brown-eyed, long-lashed, baritone wearing a red plaid shirt, blue jeans and a friendly smile - He looked like he belonged on a package of Brawny towels.

I said yes.

For the record, my darling Husband tells me his first impression of me was "Nice Rack."

Awww. Innit-he-suhweet?

Anyway, he and his friend (who, a few years later would serve as our Best Man) did join our table and we had a nice chat about work, beer, pets, family, our town, and so on.

That first impression stuck for a while. My roommate would tell me "your sexy lumberjack called" or ask if I was going out with "Mr. Brawny" again. Which, of course, I did.

The first date was coffee (and meeting his beautiful Dalmatian, Patch); the second was a B.B. King Concert, followed by a movie ... a candlelight homemade dinner (Don't worry: He cooked, not me!) ... a day hike in Yosemite ... dinner with his family ... Easter with my family ... After that, it's all pretty blurry. :)

As time went by, we jokingly observed the 17th of each month as our "Monthiversary". Even after we got married, St. Patrick's Day was still our other special day of the year.

Two years ago, we had a chuckle over the fact that we "made it" to our 120th monthiversary.

But today! Today marks 12 years of 12 monthiversaries a year. That's a pretty special milestone, if you ask me. :)

So: Happy 144th monthiversary, Honey. You'll always be my sexy lumberjack. :)

Resolved

My New Year's Resolutions for 2009:

(Yes, I know it is January 8, thank-you-very-much, Ms. Smartypants. See Number 4.)

1. Complete Zombie Attack Contingency Plans. (Seriously, the time to think about the proximity of your chainsaw and a full tank of gas is NOT when the undead are already gathering on your lawn!)

2. Don't strangle annoying co-workers. (That "Temporary Insanity" plea only works so many times. Don't push you luck.)

3. Develop Jedi Mind Powers. (I'm thinking that having a Force Push option could really help with #2.)

4. Start working on next year's resolutions. (So that, in 2010, I will be the FIRST to post my list! Mwahahahaha!)

5. Be less competitive. (With just a little work, I know I can be less competitive than Jenn. Heh Heh Heh. I'm totally going to kick her - oh, right, um. I mean, whatever, it's cool.)

6. Stop using so many parenthetical phrases. (Seriously, I never realized it was so annoying.)


Alright, you got me. I don't actually make new year's resolutions.

Honestly? I just don't see the point.

What is is about a "new" year that makes everyone go crazy over "goals"?

If it's important, why aren't you doing it already? Contrariwise, if you are not doing it already, maybe it's not really that important.

If you are going to do it ... just DO it. Be it. Live it.

Don't wait until Jan. 1. Don't promise or pledge or resolve. DO.

Don't get me wrong, I love lists. And it can be good to have goals, to want to improve yourself and the world. But - for me - writing down some grand list of pie-crust promises each Jan. 1 (and, let's face it, for some people it's just a repeat of last year's list) is not the best way to do that.

No. For me, I'll stick with the wisdom of Jedi Master Yoda: "Do or Do Not. There is no Try."

Tale of the Magic Jeans

I don't like shopping for jeans. C'mon, who does? Really?

For me, it's like "Cathy" shopping for swimsuits. I start out with positive expectations and slowly devolve into disappointment, frustration and lowered self-esteem to the point where I want to grab the nearest fashion designer by the ears and scream, "REAL WOMEN HAVE CURVES!"

Well, it turns out someone was paying attention to that war-cry of hippy women everywhere (I'm lookin' at you, moms.) Because NYDJ came out with Not Your Daughter's Jeans with "Tummy Tuck" technology.

I know. You're skeptical. So was I! I saw the sign and thought, "Pfft, yeah, whatever."

Then I read their miracle-tonic label, "Flattens your tummy! Lifts your Butt!" Suuuuuure it does. "Makes you look and feel a size smaller!" I actually snorted at that one. Ignoring the dirty look from the nearby saleswoman, I read on: "... no love handles ... more comfortable than your favorite sweat pants ..."

What? No claim that it erases wrinkles and cures world hunger?!

I didn't buy their snake-oil sales pitch for a minute .

But ... they did feel really soft ... and the color and cut were nice ... and maybe, just maybe, this pair might actually be made to fit a real person and not some stick-figure fashion model. So I took them into the dressing room and tried them on ...

And a chorus of angels burst into song as I sank softly into the most comfortable pair of jeans I'd ever put on.

I knew without even looking in the mirror that I would buy them, they fit and felt that good. And then I dared look in the mirror: Hmmm, not bad from the front. Not bad at all. No mommy bulge ... no muffin top ...

But what about the back? I stepped outside to face the dreaded three-way mirror.

And there was that choir of angels again!

Waaaa-hooo! My ass looked great, if-I-do-say-so-myself!

Seriously, these are the most comfortable thing I have ever put on my lower half.
They are magic ... a'la Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. They FIT. They DO make your tummy flatter and your butt firmer, and they ARE so comfortable that you could do yoga in them.

I mean, c'mon! Sliced bread's got nothin' on these jeans!

And then I found out they come in SLACKS, too!

*Haaa-lle-lu-jah ... Haaa-lle-lu-jah*

Consider this a Public Service Announcement for curvy women everywhere: Buy. These. Jeans.

At least go try them on.

If I was Oprah, every woman on my show would get a pair of these jeans. "You get a hot ass, and you get a hot ass, and you get a hot ass ..."

* Disclaimer: Jeans may or may not include angelic chorus.

I know it's here somewhere

I seem to have misplaced my Calm.

I know it must be around here somewhere. I mean, I just had it a bit ago.

I know I had it this morning when my four-year-old threw up in his bed. And I'm sure I still had it when I could not find the one-year-old's shoes. I think it was still there when the zipper broke on the baby's brand-new jacket.

I remember clinging to it desperately when the four-year-old threw a tantrum for no particular reason, causing the one-year-old to follow suit as I was trying to get them both in the car. But by the time I had gotten to the sitters' house and realized I'd forgotten their day bag, it was well-and-truly gone.

I know if I could just set aside this pile of little frustrations, I would find my Calm underneath them all.

So I need to wash bedsheets tonight ... so I was a little late to work ... so the kids went an hour without their bag ... so what?

I have two beautiful, healthy children ... I have a wonderful babysitter who loves them like they were family ... I have a loving and helpful husband who doesn't sweat the small stuff ... I have a kind and understanding boss who realizes that some mornings are just out of control.

The four-year-old is not sick. The one-year-old is warm. The shoes will be found. The Husband delivered the bag to the sitter.

Everyone is where they need to be and doing what they need to do. The world is an amazing place. This day is an amazing gift. All is right with the world.

Ahhh, there it is. That Calm wasn't so hard to find, after all. And it's brought a Lesson back with it:

I must work on growing my Calm, if I want to keep from misplacing it again.

After all, my Calm must be too small, if I was able to lose it among such little things this morning.

"Calm in quietude is not real calm.When you can be calm in the midst of activity,
this is the true state of nature.

Happiness in comfort is not real happiness.
When you can be happy in the midst of hardship,
then you see the true potential of the mind."
~ Huanchu Daoren

Scars

I have a fabulous marriage. But, like everybody else, I had "failed" relationships before I made the right match.

Except they weren't "failures". Not at all.

They all ended, yes. And some ended badly. But that doesn't mean they were failures. And it doesn't mean they were wastes of time. Just the opposite, in fact. If it were not for those early relationships, I would not be who I am or where I am today.

I learned a lot about life and love and ME from those "failures".

Some of those lessons were beautiful - like little whispers of happy wisdom laid gently into my psyche. And some tore my heart open, leaving scar tissue that changed my whole perception.

But I'm thankful for both kinds.

I'm thankful for the high school crush who was my first experience with that heart-racing rush of infatuation. He left me breathless and taught me that boys that age are fun, but irresponsible. And that girls that age are over-dramatic. And that love is not really about breathlessness and drama.

I'm so thankful for my first "real" love, who was - before, during and after our brief romance - a true friend. He taught me that love can be playful and tender. And that, when romantic loves ends, it is possible for it to evolve into something even better.

I'm thankful for the college lover who taught me so much about passion ... including the painful lesson that passion alone is not enough to sustain a relationship.

I'm thankful for the ones who showed me my own boundaries - the places I would and would not go for love.

I'm thankful for my platonic men friends. They taught me that not every relationship with the opposite sex has to be about sex or romance. I especially appreciate the few men friends I have with whom I can joke and flirt and be myself without worrying they might take things the wrong way.

I'm thankful for the ones who taught me that sometimes men can be sweet and charming and nice ... and still break your heart.

That's a tough lesson to learn: That not everyone who hurts you is evil. Sometimes there is no "bad guy" ... just very bad decisions.

I think I might be most thankful for the men who hurt me. Who used me. Who lied to me. Who cheated on me. Who betrayed my trust. They helped me realize some of the most valuable lessons of all.

Between them, all of these men taught me balance. The balance between protecting your heart and opening your heart to the possibilities of love. And they taught me to recognize what love IS and what love ISN'T.

And those lessons paid off for me: I am now married to the love of my life and I couldn't be happier.

I could have walked away from these "failed" relationships learning nothing ... or learning the wrong things. I could have become jaded. I could have fostered hatred in my heart. I could have given in to despair or anger. I could look back with regret.

But I chose - and continue to choose - to see the good. To be thankful.

Even for the scars.