Candy Crush Your Soul

It started out as a simple game and now it's taken my soul: Candy Crush.

I avoided it for so long, poo-pooing it whenever a Facebook friend would send me a request. After all, if its that popular, it cant be good. Right?

But now, I've found myself addicted, playing during commercial breaks, at red lights, and whenever my husband isn't saying something interesting at dinner. But the game is insidious. You can only play for so long before it cuts you off.

Next life in 54 minutes it tells me.

I've created things to do while waiting for said next life: wash dishes, vacuum, clean the toilet. In Candy Crush's defense, my house has never looked so clean.

But last night I hit a new level on the game and I beat it. And Candy Crush didn't just cut me off for an hour, it cut me off for an entire day.

"Come back in 24 hours for your next quest."

Mother F...

Of course, the beauty of this 'free' app is that you can spam your social media friends with requests for tickets and extra lives and even things that will make winning easier. Then they can get infected by the bug. Its a never ending trap.

But I haven't resorted to that. Yet. In 8 more hours I get to play again. I can last that long. There's a yard that needs to be weeded and a cat I haven't fed in several days. I have things I can do. I can make it.

I have become a Crombie (a Candy Crush Zombie). And I have joined my tribe.

The Reality Show Reality

I'm not a huge watcher of reality shows, but I enjoy them in moderation. I usually pick one show a season as my guilty pleasure. Pretty Wicked Moms was my poison of choice last season and I'm really looking forward to Big Rich Texas returning in November.

That said, I have no idea why I watch them. It's like going to an all you can eat shrimp buffet. It seems like a good idea when you enter the joint, but by the time you are done with it all you can think about is throwing up.

My husband is fascinated by my love of aging, rich blond women and my hatred of them. "Why do you watch these if you are going to curse at the TV?" he asks. I respond by asking him why he does the exact same thing with football.

I took his question to heart though. Why am I fascinated enough by their lives to use up one of my DVR recording slots?

Maybe reality shows are the grown up version of playing Barbie. Bitchy, tequila-shooting, Barbie. These women all have the fabulous homes, the shoes, the clothes, the bullet boobs, the makeup and the Ken Doll. Granted, Ken is now a fifty-year old, womanizing alcoholic going through a mid-life crisis, but at least he still has his Malibu home.

Unlike Barbie, however, none of these women have jobs, or if they do its something like real estate agent to the stars or clothing designer for K-mart. It's all work that can be done on their own hours and with a drink in their hands.

Not to say it's all easy for these gals. Tragedies happen: Botox clinics shut down, cars get keyed by jealous bitchez, nails get chipped in cat fights. But, for the most part, these women are still leading a fantasy life that doesn't involve changing dirty diapers or scooping up week-old kitty litter. It's kind of nice to see that sort of parallel dimension.

Reality shows are like magic mirrors. They can transport us away for an hour to a place where the kitchens are always clean, but we're always glad to be back in our own hovel when it's over. And while I didn't marry Ken, that G.I. Joe action figure taking up residence on my couch while playing the X-box and calling for a sandwich is real and I love him.

And that's the real secret of reality shows: they make us appreciate our own reality, beach-less house and all.

Sick of Being Sick Ramble

Oh, how I hate being sick. I really do. Mainly because I'm not good at it.

The thought of sitting down and doing nothing all day is exciting, but when it actually comes time for it, all I can think about are the things I'm missing out on.

Such as the sunshine I can see through the cracks of my curtains. The beam almost, but not quite, hitting my toe on the couch.

And I can hear people laughing. Having fun in the world. Without me.

I think this is what it must be like to be dead. But being dead is probably a bit better because then you don't know what you are missing out on. Unless, of course, you are a ghost. That would really suck. So to sum it up, being sick must be like being a ghost.

At any rate, I pulled my half-dead body up from the marathon of House Hunters International just to see what was going on in the world. In the online world of course. The real world is too brutal for me today with it's sunshine and happiness. The online world mirrors my mood more at the minute. At least on CNN.com. Funny enough, not much has changed.

Yep. I'm rambling. Waiting for husband to bring me soup. And maybe pie. Apples are healthy right, which aid in the healing process.

Super excited that The Witches of Dark Root is coming out this week. I've poured my soul into it. It's funny, as you read the last line of a book you've written, that feeling of awe that comes over you. I've given birth to something. The most popular kid in school? A monster? I will just have to wait and find out.

Hope you all are having a great week so far!

Cheers!

Stick Figure Family Values

 "Speed up," I tell my husband. We are closing in on a silver mini-van. I push the imaginary gas pedal from the passenger side, hinting that my husband is driving too slow. "We are going to lose them."

   He speeds up and soon we are neck and neck with the van, both cruising towards a red light. Bingo!

   As both vehicles idle at the light, I turn to check out the other driver. It's a round woman with too tight ringlets in her hair and a dour face. Her cheeks are flushed and her mascara is running. She looks pissed off. Maybe it's because we've been chasing her down for the last ten minutes. She doesn't look at me, even though I'm waving cheerfully out the window. She has two young children in the backseat, who appear to be arguing. As soon as the light turns green she hits the gas and speeds off.

   "Well, that was a disappointment," I tell my husband, who pulls into the McDonald's drive through for an ice cream cone.

   "It generally is," he agrees.

   What initiated our car chase was the stickers on the rear windshield of her mini-van.  It was a set of those cutsie, white, stick-figure families. There was daddy stick figure in a chef's hat. Mommy stick figure, a lean woman with a big smile and a briefcase. Two children's stick figures, one with pom-poms and one with a football. And Doggy stick figure, sitting obediently by an empty bowl.

   I had been desperate to find out if the people in the van matched their stick figure counterparts. But once again, I came up empty.

   "Why do you think people do that?" I asked my husband, who was driving with one hand and holding his ice cream with the other. "I mean, why lie about your life?"

   "Maybe they see things differently."

   "Maybe," I agreed. "Or maybe they just want to present an image to the world that isn't accurate. Maybe they think that if that's who they present themselves to be in fantasy-land, that's how people will perceive them in reality."

   "Maybe."

   I have chased down many stick figure families in the past year, desperately trying to reconcile the fun families on the window with the tired, unsmiling families that are usually in the car. During this time I've noticed a few things:

• Daddy stick figure is always first. Even though it's most likely mommy's car as she is usually the one driving.
• Mommy stick figure is always thin. And happy. There are no flawed figures or under eye circles in stick figure land.
• Kiddie stick figures are always playing sports. They are never fighting. None of them are wearing baggy pants or skirts three inches too short.
• Pet stick figures never do a no-no on the back windshield. It just doesn't happen.

   When I see vehicles with the friendly stick figure families I am immediately reminded of the parents who put the 'my kid's an honor student' bumper sticker on the back of their car. Sure, it's nice. But is it necessary? Does everyone need to know that my kid is better than your kid? And why do we feel this incessant need to advertise how swell our life is going

   I would love to see a more accurate representation of the world, such as:

• Mommy stick figure has a swollen belly and dark circles under her eyes from trying to work, get the kids to school, and still have time for daddy. She stares absently ahead from lack of sleep.
• Daddy stick figure comes with a remote control in one hand and a beer in the other.
• Kiddie stick figures are armed with Smart Phones and Ipods, and they sit on the other side of the windshield, ignoring everybody.
• Doggy stick figure begs for food while trying to mount the family stick figure cat.

   I thought about buying my own cutouts, just to place on my windshield for shock value. I was going to put a Mommy stick figure surrounded by seven Daddies. Every daddy would have a different role, attending to mommy's every need. In this scenario mommy's smile really would be warranted.

   But as I proceeded to pay for the stickers I chickened out. Who knows what someone with an inflated sense of morality and no sense of humor would do to my car? It's the same reason I won't put the fish with the little legs on my vehicle.

   For now, I'm content to just chase down these mini-van billboards hoping that someday, the image will mirror the reality. The first time I see all five members of the family, in their corresponding gear and with happy smiles pasted on their faces, I will shut up about the whole thing.

**
(Decal above available on Amazon)

Smile and Nod

(Note: This piece differs in content and tone from most of the other things I write in this blog. I wrote this five years ago but never published it due to the sensitive nature of the subject. It is not written as a dig at my mother but rather a snapshot of what I was going through during the year that followed my father's death).

***

     I wade through the boxes, bins, and totes that are strewn across my mother’s apartment. The living room is filled with long-forgotten treasures recovered from her storage unit; treasures collected from her daily trips with my father to the Goodwill store. Treasures that probably cost her $500in total to buy, but which she has paid $800to store over the past eighteen months.

     There are memories here, memories of when my father was alive; remnants of her happy past, lovingly preserved in a tin can tomb. Each item has a story and my mother is more than happy to tell it.

     "Remember this?" Her eyes mist over as she holds up a picture of a French village, ripped from an old calendar. The picture once had a frame and hung on her wall. It was ugly then and uglier now, crinkled and torn at the edges, but I’m a dutiful daughter. I smile and nod.

     "Your father and I found it by accident. We were out looking for salt and pepper shakers one day when we came across this perfectly good calendar. It was a few years old but the prints were still good so your dad framed them. Got twelve pieces of art for less than a quarter. I wonder where its frame is?” She searches through another crate and, not finding it, sighs. “Oh well, I can probably decoupage it onto a piece of wood or something. I need to get started on making Christmas presents anyway.”

     "What will you do with the rest of this stuff?" I sort through a nearby tote and find pictures of my dad from his infancy through his sixty-fifth birthday, when he was taken from me; pictures I resent my mother having because some part of me believes they are mine. I was his child. She was only his wife. I take a few, concealing them in my purse. She will never know. She has so many.

     "What do you mean, what will I do with this stuff? Keep it!" She clutches an old Tupperware bowl she has just unearthed to her chest. "I'm too old to start over now."

     My heart softens. This is her life. All that she owns. Every ounce of self-worth she still possesses is neatly bundled up in boxes I helped her gather from behind Safeway. It's junk. All of it. But it's her junk.

     "My therapist will be happy," she continues. "Going to storage and getting all this stuff back is a big step in my grief recovery."

     My toddler niece, born the day of my father's funeral, enters the room and removes a photo from a carton. "Look!" mom says, a smile spreading across her face. "She found a picture of your dad. She knows her grandpa." She has always been convinced that my niece is the reincarnation of my dead father. This cements her theory. She pulls my niece onto her lap and strokes her hair.

     I smile and nod.

     "I never knew being a pack rat was a sign of mental illness," my mother sighs. This was a new confession coming from her lips.

     "Well, being a hoarder,” I explain, purposely changing her wording, “means that you can't let things go, or that you have an obsessive-compulsive personality."

     She laughs. "Maybe both!" She is giddy. She used to deny she had a problem but lately she has begun to relish her craziness, to luxuriate in it like one would a hot bath. It defines her. It gives her purpose. But she will only accept it in the context of my father's death. He caused it. Before that, she insists, she was perfectly normal.

     "My psychiatrist told me there aren’t enough years left in my life to cure me." She grins like she has just won a game. "So he loads me up on pills now. I can't believe your father's death would do that to me."

     I want to say more. I want to say ‘mom, don’t you remember our childhood? Remember how checked out you were? Remember how you were so depressed you slept for days at a time and we were left to fend for ourselves?’

     But I don’t.

     I smile and nod.

     I spy another picture of my dad on the top of the nearest pile. I perform a sleight of hand trick and take it, knowing she would never give it up willingly. It's mine now. I’ve got secrets too.

     "But I think my psychiatrist is just going through a mid-life crisis and hates all women," mother continues. "He's probably about forty-five. You know how men are when they get that age? Crazy, all of them.”

     ‘Yes, mother,’ I want to say. ‘All your problems are related to my father's death and by men suffering mid-life problems. Your sanity, or lack thereof, rests completely with the men around you who have oppressed you in one form or another. Either by dying and leaving you behind, by running off with your mother's best friend in your formative years, or by labeling you a nut so far gone there isn’t enough time left on this earth to cure you."

     But I don't.

     I just smile and nod.

 

In Defense of Barbie

     I've given my step-daughter all my old Barbies, including the 'collector' dolls that may be worth a few bucks. I have about fifty of them, in various stages of dress and decay, accumulated since childhood. They've been sitting in my garage for years now, collecting dust, and I figure someone should have some fun with them.

     She gasps as I hand her each one. She asks me about their costumes and accessories. I tell her the story of how I came to own each doll. She gives them loving hugs and sets them up in her playroom.

     She plays with them all, combing their hair until it falls out, dressing and undressing each one. I try not to cringe when she puts the Bob Mackie dress on Vetrinarian Barbie.

    She looks longingly at the Barbies that are still encased in their plastic boxes, and asks if she can remove them. "I will be very careful," she promises me as I glance towards the 2002 Holiday Barbie I let her take out of the box the previous week. It now resembles a beat up drag queen. I shake my head, letting her know it's not yet time.  She nods, undetoured, and plays with them anyway. She lines them up in their containers, marching them into their dream  house, as if they are on their way to some macabre all-mime ball.

     "Some girls aren't allowed to play with Barbies," she tells me conspiratorilly. I smile and say nothing. I've heard the argument. By allowing our girls to play with these dolls we are setting them up for unrealistic body expectations. Once Barbie infiltrates their brains they will start hating their bodies, puking up their lunches, and appearing on the Dr. Phil show.

     "You can play with them when you are here," I respond to her. "You know they aren't real right?"

She nods, showing me the foot of one of the dolls I had chewed through when I was a kid. She giggles and responds."If this was real, it would really hurt."

     I'm not sure who first decided that Barbie was the devil. I never looked at Barbie and thought, 'if only I had her small waist and those giant, nipple-free boobs my life would be perfect.' The reason I wanted to be like Barbie had less to do with her measurements and more to do with her kick ass shoe collection. She had the closet I always wanted.

      Barbie isn't the antithesis of feminism. In fact, I when I was a kid I saw her as a superhero, second only to maybe Oprah. She could babysit Skipper in the morning, pull an afternoon shift at the McDonalds, perform surgery in the evening, and still have time to go into space.  She may have dated Ken but she never had to ask him for money. When you work four different jobs, you can buy that dream house on your own.

     Barbie isn't bad. It's just a toy made of plastic. We don't tell our boys they shouldn't aspire to be transformers, mainly because we know they understand the difference. I would hope we give our little girls the same credit.

     I will do my best to teach my step-daughter the difference between fantasy and reality. In fantasy you get perfect skin and arms that bend in every direction. You get twelve careers and a house that never gets dirty. You get a boyfriend with a corvette who only comes around when you want him.

     In reality you get...



     Well, maybe I won't teach her about reality yet. It's going to be tough enough on her when she learns about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I'll give her a few more years before I tell her about the real world.

Un-Decorating the Tree

“It’s time we take down the tree.” I hollered downstairs to my husband who has had his eyes glued on the NFL playoffs all morning. Suddenly, like a comic book superhero, he ran up the stairs, zipped past me, and stood in front of the tree.

“Already?”

I sighed. My husband liked Christmas more than most children. It was one of the things I found endearing in him during our early stages of courtship. He would keep the tree up all year if I let him.

“Yes, honey.”

“But we just put it up.”

“Almost two months ago. It’s time.” I crossed my arms and he slipped back into his mancave. If I wanted to un-decorate the thing he wasn’t going to stop me, but he wasn’t going to help me either.

My step-daughter sat on the sidelines, half-watching, half-playing with her harem of new Barbie Dolls that Santa had somehow managed to load onto his sleigh.

“You okay with this?” I asked her. She nodded back, ponytail bobbing.

I sighed again, returning to my task. Dozens of lights, ornaments, bows, and candy canes donned our tree. Removing them was a daunting task. It was always more fun putting them on the tree then taking them off.

I reached for an ornament, stopped, and found another. My brain said ‘take them off’ but my hands weren’t cooperating.

“Okay,” I said out loud, feeling crazy because my husband and step-daughter had lost interest by now, “you can do this.”

As I reached for the purple ceramic teddy bear - painted long ago by my son when he was young and still thought I was amazing - I stopped. I couldn’t take it down. It was too much.

I wasn’t just stripping the tree, I was stripping away my life; Years of collected memories going into a box. How could I do this? It was almost cruel.

I surveyed the tree again. Every ornament had a story: the beautiful, expensive ornaments given to us as gifts, hanging alongside the dime store decorations accrued during  years I could barely afford a holiday. “Remember that one?” My inner voice asked. “Your dad gave you that one on his last Christmas…”

I choked.

"Stop being silly", I told myself. "This isn’t permanent. I will see all my treasures again next year."

But maybe I wouldn’t

I thought about people I knew - whose lives had suddenly ended. They hadn't gotten their 'one last Christmas'.  I thought about how fleeting life was and how you never knew for sure if things as simple as a holiday would come again. I choked again and the tears welled up.

“You okay?” My husband hollered up at me. He was good at ‘feeling’ me, even when it was the NFL playoffs. I gulped, swallowed, and nodded. He didn’t see me but he understood.

Somehow I collected myself and got the job done. I removed them all, carefully wrapping each one in soft newspaper. I placed them in boxes in long, thin rows, hoping they would make the journey through another year intact.

“You know the holidays are coming back,” my step-daughter said, marching her dolls around in a parade on the floor. “They are in a circle.” She is an incredible girl. She understands things on a level most people don’t get.

I nodded at her and smiled.

“Halloween first?” She asked. Her blue eyes widened as she tried to imagine what she was going to dress up as.

“Not Halloween. Not for a while.”

“Oh. First it’s Valentine’s Day, then Easter, then my birthday…” She counted down. “Then Halloween?”

“Yep. You’re getting good at that.”

“That’s why I go to Kindergarten.”

I saved her Hallmark Ornaments for last: Ariel, Cinderella, and Snow White. They had all mysteriously lost their arms during the festivities this year. She gave each a peck on the head and told them she would see them next year. Then I put them in the last bin, and closed the lid.

I smiled. She had faith in the circle. So could I.

The house looked starker, emptier as I removed the last trappings of Christmas from our house and piled them into the garage.

“All done,” I told her when the last bin was stacked.

“Maybe we can get some glue and glitter and red paper and start decorating for Valentine’s Day,” she said. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

“That sounds like a great idea. I think a trip to the craft store is in order.”

“I’ll get the keys,” my husband said. He must have heard us, even though his team was playing.

“No.” I looked around the house. My husband was cozy in his sweatpants, my step daughter was dressing one of her dolls. Pictures of my family – my sons, my siblings, my mother, my father - graced the shelves. Life was uncertain but life was good. “Let’s wait a few days. It’s good to remember things before moving on. Besides,” I added, looking at the bare window where the Santa Claus cling-ons had been only moments before, “It will give us something to look forward to next week.”

Going Ho-Ho-Home for the Holidays

     Getting ready to drive to MT for the holidays. It seemed like a good idea when we planned it. A case full of snacks, my travelling play list, magazines to read, and a joke book to keep the driver (my husband) entertained while he watches the road.

     Road trips are always fun, right?

     Except that I forgot one crucial element: the weather.

     It seems that Jack Frost is working against us. There are blizzards and closures and all manner of bad things falling from the sky. Now I have to ask myself what I was thinking when I thought driving to MT would be more fun than flying?

     Its looking like we may be late getting to our destination. Or maybe not getting there at all.

     But if my Hallmark holiday movies have taught me anything it's that as long as there is Christmas, there is hope.

     The movies start out like this: a well meaning couple with a car full of presents, snowed in. They are depressed and miserable.  How will they get back home for the holidays?

     Perhaps the snow will miraculously let up and they can make the drive at the last minute.

     Or maybe the family will come to them.

     Or...maybe the couple will decide to spend the holidays at home, making the best of it with hot cocoa and candle light while munching on Spam and fig newtons (okay I fudged on the menu).

     Those are fine endings, but my favorite goes like this...


     It's Christmas Eve. We werent able to make it home. We are woebegone as we hang our empty stockings on our non-existent fire place. "Maybe we can just sleep through Christmas," I say, looking at the clock and the bottle of Nyquil on the nightstand.

     "Sounds like a good plan," my husband says, sighing dramatically. "There's always next year."

     Suddenly, there's a jingle outside.

     "Honey," I say to my husband, "are you expecting a package?"

     "No." My befuddled husband scratches his head. "The post office is closed for the day and the weather is so bad no cars can visit. Not sure where that jingle is coming from."

     I (naturally its me, and not the befuddled husband) rush to the door and fling it open, fighting back the snowflakes that are obscurring my view. I see a brown hoof on our lawn, and then another. I do a quick count. Why, there are (what's 8 x 4 again?) oh there are 32! My eyes rise towards a shiny red craft in the yard. A sleigh! A fat old man sits atop it, a giant red bag to his side.

     "I've come to take you two to your family for Christmas. Get on in!" He waves us over. Our jaws drop. We jump into the sleigh, no sweaters or gloves, and sail away, over the blizzards, and are set down gently on the roof of my in-laws.

     "Thank you!" I say as I tumble out of the sleigh. But I'm too late. The mysterious, fat stranger is gone.

     Somehow we slide off the roof and hop down onto the ground without damaging our ankles. We look into the window. There is goose and duck and turkey on the table (though I can't tell the difference between any of them). Holiday music is playing magically on the piano. We have made it just in time for Christmas Eve dinner. And all is well.


     That's how I think it will play out. Hallmark wouldnt lie to me. If TV has taught me anything it's that if you wish hard enough, miracles happen.

Or maybe we'll just make the drive and take our chances. The worst that can happen is that we get stranded in the snow and have to eat each other. But that's another movie and it's on the Syfy channel. They don't air that till New Year's.

My Holiday Ritual

As part of the Meet the Family Blog Hop we are supposed to share something we do as a family during the holidays.

I've never had much permanency in my life. I spent most of my childhood moving from one house to another. In my early adult years I also traveled quite a bit, living in 5 states in 12 years. These last ten years in Oregon have been the longest I have ever lived anywhere, and in the same home.

One tradition that I have established for myself is my end of the evening 'me time'.  This includes finding the cheesiest, gushiest Christmas movie I can tolerate from TV stations like Lifetime, Hallmark and TMC. The plots are pretty much the same. Save a town. Save Santa. Save Christmas. Sometimes characters find love in the process. I've been doing it since I've owned a TV. Admittedly, its gotten better since I got cable.

I'm a writer but I enjoy how predictable these are. They are like comfort food for me. I know without a doubt that everything will be okay by the end of the movie and that are no surprise endings. If I'm really lucky there's a kiss under the mistletoe.

A few years ago I got married. The first year my husband watched me watching my movies. He said it was cute and charming and one of the things he loved about me.

Last year he started watching them with me. Every night before bed he would slide onto the couch with me, pick up the remote, and find one the two of us would watch together. We ate cookies, drank cocoa and laughed at all the ludicrous plot points of our chosen flick.

Of all the wonderful things my husband does for me, this little tradition ranks high on the list. These movies aren't his thing, but he shares them with me. He's telling me I'm not alone anymore. And that's more than I could ever ask from Santa.



This post is part of a "meet the family" holiday blog hop. Please visit others participating in this activity by clicking on the button below.

Feliz Navi-Enough?

     Making cookies with my mom this morning. I feel bad that I'm not more 'jolly' about it. The commercials tell me that I should be smiling, singing, joking, utterly and completely enjoying my task. But my face is drawn  and my brow is wrinkled as I mix and knead the dough. I don't like cracking eggs. I am sure an eggshell or two escapes into the bowl. My fingers are sticky and I can't wipe them off with a paper towel. I wash my hands a zillion times. This is supposed to be fun, but its work.

     I have lights on the tree and candles glowing and baby it really is cold outside. But in these moments I wonder where all the 'magic' of the season is; Why I look forward to something so much only to have it become another thing on my 'to do' list?

     I know that when this season is over I will mourn it. I will have nothing to stave off the lonely months of January through March. Portland winter rain, without the warmth of twinkling lights, is downright depressing.

     I jump back into my cookie making, determined to give it the spirit it deserves. Sprinkles. That's what these cookies need. Sprinkles make everything better.

     Meanwhile mom is buzzing, her hands elbow deep in dough. She is talking about things I don't understand. Relatives I never knew. Conspiracies I can't imagine. And what Bones is doing on TV.

Fa La La La - Run!

So I'm going away for Christmas. It's the third year in a row that I will be spending Christmas with my husband's family, and not my own.

I'm okay. Really I am. My family has plans of their own on Christmas anyway. Still, it feels funny. It's like my house will miss me or something.

It also feels weird to hang lights and deck the halls when we won't be around to celebrate.

My step-daughter asked me if Santa will still come to our house if we aren't there. I want to tell her that yes, of course, Santa will come. He won't skip our house just because we aren't there. We have a Santa Stops Here sign that says so.

However, although she is five I think she may be trying to trick me into more gifts.

She knows we are doing 'present day' early this year, before we take off (she will be spending Christmas with her mom).  If Santa comes and we aren't there, naturally there will be presents waiting for her when she gets back.

Clever kid.

For now I'm just fudging, hoping she forgets. She's only five. Her attention span can't be that long.

On another note we are leaving on Dec 21, 2012, the day the Mayan Calendar ends and some say, so does the world.

I was watching the History Channel and it aired a special on Nostradamus and his end of world predictions. According to Nostradamus experts they've narrowed down the exact epicenter of the end of the world. Ironically, it happens to be the exact place I will be traveling to on that day.

I can just see the line of cars leaving the area as we are driving in.

I guess if the world is going to end its better to be at the center of it than the perimeter. I've read The Road. I don't want to be kept on ice in some body's basement meat locker when the resources run dry. At least this way it's Boom. Game over.

Still, I might stock up on water and jerky. With Twinkies out of the equation I'm not sure what other food sources will last indefinitely and are easy to pack.

I'm also running up credit cards and running on the treadmill. The first is in case the world really does end. Might as well charge as much as I can if I don't have any debt. Does this mean my student loan is finally forgiven?

The second is in case the world sort-of ends and I need to run away from shit. All that treadmill running will come in handy.

Growing up in the 70's (For Jimmy)

My nephew recently told me that he wished he could have been alive in the 70s to see what they were like. I had to pause for a moment as I was hurled through memory lane. I was a kid in the 70s. Maybe I could help him.

The first thing I remember is the simplicity of the decade. Plain clothes, straight hair, muted colors. We lived in a world of plaid and paisley but it wasn't blinding. Mustard yellow was a wardrobe staple.

We didn't spend our weekends at the Mall or the movie theatre. Going out to the Ihop was a treat. McDonalds was a luxury.
We spent our summers in the front yard running through sprinklers, zipping through neighborhoods on our bikes, or huddled under yards of sheets in makeshift forts. We had toys, but I had never seen a Toys R Us. My parents purchased my Christmas gifts at Kmart. I'm not sure where the other kids got their presents, but it must not have there because the K word, in the third grade, was a dirty word.

There were no vidoe games to keep us occupied. There was just one TV. We had three channels to choose from. Four if you were lucky and could get the clothes hanger your father installed as a makeshift antenna to work. My mother guarded our TV by day, and my stepfather took over at night. Occasionally, I was able to sneak in Mork and Mindy or Happy Days, but only because my mom found neither of those shows deplorable. She hated The Brady Bunch though, so I had to stay in the closet about that one until I came of age.

Homes were large and mostly one level. If you were lucky you got your own room. Most of the time I was unlucky, having to share a space with two sisters and several family pets. But once we lived in a four bedroom house and for two glorious years I had an entire room to myself. It was painted white and I dreamed of yellow fluttering curtains that my mom never got around to hanging up. I littered my room with Nancy Drew books and Slurpee cups from my weekly treks to 7/11. I put on shows for money to keep up my Slurpee habit. Bad singing mostly, but the kids in the neighborhood had few other options for entertainment and so they came to see me and my cousin perform. It was like Little Rascals without the really cool clubhouse.

Our living room was panelled to offset the green cabinets and yellow appliances of the kitchen. My mother would say that the panelling provided warmth. It also helped hide the drawings of my budding artist brother. The adults drank coffee together, brewed in our our house, discussing music and politics as they visited at speckled tables. And they played cards. Lots and lots of cards. The days of gathering on front porches and whittling had vanished but community, conversation, and neighbors were still very important. My mother opened up her house to everyone. This didn't sit well with me. There were six kids in our family and our house was always a mess. But my mother didn't care. She was as friendly as she was undomestic and the only people who seemed to notice were her own children who teased me about it the next day at school.


The adults of the 70s were the children of the 60s and they had come to this decade with the ideals of their youth, even if they were now saddled down by 'the man'. They talked about them too, oftentimes around children. We weren't as protected from words back then. We learned about wars and sex and who was doing what with who as our parents gossiped over chocolate fondue. But we also learned about freedom, sacrifice, and what it meant to be an individual. My mother was very open with me. She told me things that would make parents today gasp. She told me about a man she knew who shot children in the Vietnam War and never came out the same. She told me about the importance of a woman having control over her own body. And she told me that it was okay to love whoever I wanted, regardless of race or gender. Maybe that was too much to tell a child, but even then, I respected that she saw me as a person, not just a kid.

Speaking of protection, our generation was probably the least protected groups of children in current times. We didn't wear helmets when biking, and there were no bark chips on our playgrounds. In our day we played on hot, metallic monkey bars and if we were dumb enough to do an aerial flip and crack our heads on the pavement below, it served us right if we walked around drooling for the rest of our lives. I was too chicken to try most of the flips and so I (and chickens like me) stayed safe. But we watched with wonder as those kids, like my brave cousin, twirled around the bar three times, flew high into the air, and landed gracefully on their feet. There were no adults telling them to be careful. We had walked to the park. Alone. If it was during school hours you might have a playground attendant blow a whistle in your ear before she waddled away, but that was about as much attention as our stunts ever received.

We were the last generation to go to Drive-In movies and one of the first generations to witness the giant, naked breasts on the screens that surrounded us. My parents may have taken us to see The Fox and the Hound but we were gawking at the half-naked women running from a masked psychopath on the screen to our left. The movies of the 70s were a feast for those who love scifi, fantasy, horror, and boobs. And at seven years old, lying on a blanket on the hood of our my car with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, I had front row seats to a world formely privy only to adults.

We were an interesting generation, unprotected from the adult world yet somehow spared the fears of global annihilation that generations before and after knew. The Bay of Pigs and Vietnam were old news, and the threat of Russia was years away. All we had were long days of bell bottoms, great music, and Gilligan's Island reruns. Time stood still in this decade. At least when you are seven years old.

I got my first radio in 1977. It was shaped like a ladybug and when you pulled its wings out you could hear music. It picked up two channels but I can still remember the thrill of tuning in and hearing Top of the World playing for me alone  the very first time. With my radio came freedom. I was no longer at the mercy of my mother's Bee Gee's albums. I was introduced to a new world of music to explore (if I were patient enough to wait for the song to come on), and as I was listening, I was dreaming. I started writing my own songs. Really, really bad songs. My sister would mock me as I'd tell her, all fists and seriousness, to leave me alone because I was going to be a famous songwriter one day. Once, she even stole one of my songs to piss me off and claimed it was hers. I was sure that she would get famous for it and no one would recognize the creative genius behind it, but that never happened. It turns out a song entitled Boy Oh Boy Ardee, written by an overzealous eight-year-old, was not destined to pop the charts. We weren't the first generation to have been inspired by music, but the mellow sounds of Bread and The Eagles, and later the harder sounds of Zeppelin and punk and early metal bands, all changed the way we thought and felt forever. Maybe I'm turning into an 'old fogie', but as I look back now I can't think of many songs as powerful and enduring as Hotel California.

You can't stay locked in a world forever. The 70s, like childhood, was about simplicity. But adolescence was on the horizon and another decade was about to roll over. New music was being recorded. Malls were being erected. Kids were wearing things that cost more than their parents made. We grew tired of simplicity and patches on our knees. We wanted new.

I was watching The Facts of Life one day and thinking...if all I ever get in life is a real pair of Jordache Jeans, a really cool blazer, and hair like Blaire's, I will be happy. Please, God. Please let me have those things. Brooke Shields, who had made her fame by living on an island in The Blue Lagoon, was now telling us to buy Calvin Kleins. And if Brooke was pimping jeans, we had to have them. My cousin and I wrote Brook a letter begging for a free pair since all the other kids would have them and our thrift-store shopping parents certainly wouldn't get them for us. Brook never responded. We resorted to cutting out the labels of my older sister's clothes and sewing them onto our own. I'm not sure anyone really bought that we were wearing Gucci cutoff shorts, but the power was in the words plastered across our butts. They made us superheroes, at least in our own heads. We started classifying each other. Those who wore designer jeans. And those who did not.

The 80's arrived and I was a decade older, ready to embrace the next chapter of my life. The world became nosier as gadgets and gizmos invaded our homes. We were one of the first houses to get an Atari and a VHS player, but one of the last to get a microwave. We also got an additional TV which mom put in her bedroom. She now had two to lord over, but I became queen of the remote during those hours when she slept and I'd turn on something called music videos and sing along. Maybe I wouldn't write songs after all. Maybe I would produce music videos instead. They were the future of the industry. With more TVs and gadgets came the necessity for more money and moms started going off to work. There wasn't after school care for us, there were TV's and VHS players to keep us entertained until our parents returned. We were the first and only latchkey generation, raised on the wisdom of Meatballs and Fast Times at Ridgemont High. We were free. Independent. And knew how to make our own macaroni and cheese.

More access to information also meant more news. We learned about the doom and gloom of a dissipating ozone and the real possibility of a global nuclear war. The 80s brought me into the real world and it was scary. So I did what every other kid of my generation did. I listened to loud, obnoxious music, ratted my hair out, and drowned out the world in the most gaudy pieces of fabric I could drape across my body. When the movie The Day After came out in 1983, depicting the horrors of humanity after a nuclear attack, I checked out of the real world and disappeared into the fantasy of the early 80s. If simplicity hadn't saved me, then excess might.

The 90s, of course, brought me back. While the 80s had taught me to Rock and Roll all night, the 90s reminded me of the frailty of human existence. The artists of this era sent out a wake up call, reminding my generation of the things we had tried to forget. Wearing hot pink and having hair that rivaled the height of the Space Needle was no longer in. The 90s meant you had to get real. I couldn't live in a pretend world anymore. The world was sticky and messy and at times rather unpleasant, but it was the world I lived in.

My nephew wanted to know what it was like to live in the 70s and I hope I told him. But that was my experience as a child. I knew nothing of what haunted the adults of that generation, those who had lived through wars and depressions and civil unrest. I only know that for me, it was a shelter before the storm. Maybe that's because i was a kid, and that's how it should be, in any era.

Inn Too Deep

Conversation with my mother during a recent road trip:

Me: The country out here is beautiful

Mom: Yeah, wouldn't it be great to open a bed and breakfast out here?

Me: In theory yes, but I think it would be hard work. Not sure I'm up to it.

Mom: It wouldn't be hard work. You could just hire someone to do the work for you.

Me: I've known a few people who have B&B's and most of them are barely scraping by. I doubt I'd be able to afford to hire anyone.

Mom: What you do is hire a college girl who needs extra money. She could be your maid and you'd give her a room. Then you can enjoy your place and just hang out and write and talk to the neighbors.

Me: (scratching head). Mom...that's the plot of Newhart.

Mom: And you could get a handy man to live there too.

Me: Let me guess...he's a lovable yet dimwitted local with a knack for fixing things. And he lives down in the basement right?

Mom: Yes! Wouldn't that be fun?

Me: Still Newhart.

Mom: Or you could hire someone from another country who could work cheap. A maintenance man.

Me: Mom, that's the plot of Fawlty Towers.

Husband: (laughs out loud). Yes, I do believe your Inn would be more like Fawlty Towers.

Me: (getting frustrated). The owner of Fawlty Towers never looks like he is having fun. He just wants to be left alone but the Inn keeps falling apart.

Mom: I don't know why he isn't having fun. I'd have fun if I owned an Inn. I'm still not sure why he's at war with his wife. But I think he is secretly having fun.

Me: (bites lip). You do realize these are TV shows right? That people like me sit around writing things and none of this is real?

Mom: Of course I realize that! But it does look like fun. Especially when you have neighbors like the Daryl brothers.

Me: Mom...

Husband: Honey...leave her alone.

Mom: You know what would really be fun? Having a big house and opening up a designing business with a few of your friends. Why don't you do that?

Me: Mom, that's the plot of Designing W....Oh, never mind. Yes, mom. That would be fun.

Prepare to Follow Your Bliss

I woke up this morning and had one of those magical epiphanies that changes everything. I realized that I am one of the luckiest people on the face of the earth. If someone would have told me a year ago that I would be living my dreams right now, I would have thought they were on something, but here I am, married to my soulmate, writing novels, and teaching fitness-dance classes at a spiritual center.

It wasn't an easy road. I had been working at the same place for the last four years and had pretty much resigned myself to the fact I would probably be working there forever (or in a very similar situation). Not that there was anything wrong with my workplace. On the contrary, my boss was great and my coworkers were kind and supportive. But something was missing. I knew this wasn't the life the Universe wanted me to live. My cup was half-full and I was all miserable, even if I only admitted it to my husband and myself.

At the time, I was working on a novel but the writing was flat and uninspired as I slogged through chapter after chapter. The world I created seemed inauthentic and as one dimensional as the paper I wrote on. But I was determined to get through it, even if it meant endless edits. I was also working out, and had been attending aerobic style dance classes. It's funny, I thought, when I was younger I danced all the time, but for some reason I simply stopped. Why?The simple answer was that dancing (and writing) came after everything else: work, kids, husband, social obligations, house. I didn't have time to microwave a potpie let alone carve out any real time for myself.

Even though I was exhausted I decided to get a certification in dance fitness. It was intense but I completed it and my wonderful husband hung it on the wall. In my life, I've accomplished many things in my life, but that simple certification was one of my most significant.

Every day I practiced my routines (choreographing them myself). I did this before and after work, and on my lunch breaks and I'm sure my husband thought I had gone off the deep end a bit when he would come home and see me shaking around the living room coaching an invisible audience (although he swears it was also a turn on. Men!). One day, while having a drink with my husband at the bar, he looked into my eyes and asked me if I wanted to quit my day job.

"What will I do?" I asked.

"What you were meant to do," he said. "Teach dance and write books."

Whenever I am angry at my husband, I think back to those words. What he was offering me was the opportunity to be the Real Me, the kind I had only imagined. It was a huge sacrifice too. We would be giving up my income, insurance, and the 'prestige' of me having a real job to take a risk. He would have to take on all of the bills. I would have to stop buying 'extras'. There might even be endless nights of ramen noodle consumption. But I had to go for it. I realized that no amount of Starbuck's Latte's were worth giving up what my soul really longed for. To hell with new clothes. To hell with professional haircuts. I would shave my hair bald and wear my mother's velour sweatsuits if it meant following my dream.

Carpe Diem!

Seven months later, here I am. Some days I write so much I feel like my fingers might become permanently crooked. And I'm teaching a group of ladies that often can't afford the cost of the class so I comp them.  I haven't made a profit yet, but I will. The more I follow the path that was chosen for me long ago, the more I know I will be taken care of. I have faith.

Following your bliss is not easy. It's work! I don't sit around eating bon-bons watching Oprah (Oh, but on some days I'd really like to).  I write, edit, critique, workout, choreograph, advertise, market, network, and smile. On top of that I still take care of the house (hey, it's only fair) I work harder at trying to create a new reality for myself than I have ever worked at any job. The work can be grueling, but the happiness that comes from following your dream is something you can't put a price tag on.

I'm certainly not saying everyone should vacate their cubicles and audition for American Idol. I never could have attempted this while raising my sons. And I'm lucky I have a husband who believes in me enough to shoulder the burden until my career matures. But if you have a dream, you should never stop working on it. There is another saying: Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. In my opinion, truer words were never spoken. Prepare and wait. I feel lucky, but I understand that determination mattered much more than luck in the grand scheme of things. You can't just dream, you have to do.