Boo-Yah Motherfuckers! You Had the Chance to Kill Me, But Now It's Gone!

And as much as I'd like to be the kind of person who says Boo-Yah Motherfuckers without an apology or disclaimer, I'm not. So let me just say that I love the feel of saying that. Come on now: say it. Under your breath if you have to, whisper...boo-yah motherfuckers! Feels fantastic, doesn't it?
I'm also not one for exclamation points, but this. ! Bryan has been gone for the past week sailing a regatta in the Caribbean. !!! Dude, I know. I was invited to go but felt that Ozzy was too young to leave, so I stayed here and single-mom'ed it. Can I just say hats off to the single moms? Holy shoosh, people. That shizz is hard. I only showered at night after the kids went to sleep but kept my head outside the shower door almost the whole time so I could hear...I don't know. Have you checked the children? "When a Stranger Calls" apparently played a big role in my formative years along with Bloody Mary and The Patchwork Monkey. I have not allowed myself to mention Bryan's absence either on my blog or on Facebook lest someone terrible comes to kill me, but tonight Bryan is back and Boo-to-the-mother-effin-Yah.
The male pin-ups? Well, they're just rad. Titled Men-Ups by photographer Rion Sabean--I believe the photographer is actually the hunk with the power drill. I am sure there is something to be said here regarding the social commentary of men in Vargas girl pin-up poses and my rather traditional gender role of feeling safer when my husband is home, but I'm too tired/excited/want to eat a bowl of cereal to explore that train of thought. Plus, I have to watch my tivo'ed episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County before Bryan gets here...

xo,
S

THE GOLD CHAIR

Zoey really wants to read in The Gold Chair. Or maybe it should be all uppercase like this: THE GOLD CHAIR. Because apparently THE GOLD CHAIR is THE SHIT in kindergarten, except of course that is potty talk and we don't use that kind of language BUT HOLY FUCK, SHE REALLY WANTS TO READ IN THE GOLD CHAIR.

Truth be told, I would like her to read in THE GOLD CHAIR, too. And yes, I am finding all this willy nilly uppercase annoying, too, but you see, THE GOLD CHAIR is tufted, mustard-gold, stained, but most important of all, it is where you get to sit and read a book to the entire kindergarten class when you are ready.

And Zoey is not ready.

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind...

This is the book Zoey has chosen, so every night we practice. T-hh-ee, she says. What sound does 'th' make, I say. Ch, she says. No, I say. Look at the letters. T-atch-ee, she says. His? No, I say, THE, the the cackling and popping in my throat like this:
The. So we've got the. And then we get to night. She starts to sound it out, enn, iih, guh hhu-? Night, I say, it's night, fast and dark, I don't know how or why but it's night, damnit. ThenightMaxworehiswolfsuitandmademischiefofonekind turn page andanother turn page hismothercalledhim"WILDTHING!"andMaxsaid"I'LLEATYOUUP!"sohewassenttobedwithouteatinganything.. Every page like this, plodding through words feeling tight in the chest and eyes quick, peering through the wrong end of our binoculars at THE GOLD CHAIR so that it looks as if it's even farther away.

Because I suck at teaching my daughter how to read. Night! I say, mischief! Rumpus! And then when she pauses too long, concentrate! A tiger mom who lost her stripes because I honestly don't understand how anyone learns to read when ghoti spells fish. Stay with me here: gh, pronounced /f/ as in tough /tʌf/; o, pronounced /ɪ/ as in women /ˈwɪmɪn/; and ti, pronounced /ʃ/ as in nation /ˈne͡ɪʃən/. Letters, words, sentences, all of it a mystery I don't care much to unravel, the beauty of it almost in its ineffability, itself an illogical thing to say.

When Zoey was a baby she hated the sand. Would curl up her feet like a newt if we so much as tried to sit her down at the beach, and Bryan was in a way almost hurt by this. So what? I said, the sand is kind of dirty if you think about it, but he is a water-man, a surfer and sailor with salt in his veins and sand in his cracks, and now I get it.

I love words. a, e, i, o, u, and all the time y. I want Zoey to love to read, and I know that she won't with me yelling at her night! So I told her I was sorry, that we were both learning here because I have never taught anyone how to read, the words pawing angrily at my teeth. LET THE WILD RUMPUS START! I am going to have to find a way to swallow the words, those wild things. Anyone know why night spells night? Because I don't, and as much as I'd like this post to end with a triumphant seat in THE GOLD CHAIR, it's not. Not yet anyway. It ends with the same thing tomorrow night. Night! Night.

Crawl Fish (Good With Butter and a Bit of Cayenne Pepper)

Is it horrible that I like to put something shiny on one side of the room and Ozzy on the other, only so I can watch him pull himself across the floor like a very determined paraplegic?

Yes, noted. It is horrible and delicious and I only have t-minus a very short time until I will no longer be allowed to relax ever again because he will be walking into doorknobs and off cliffs and onto paths where all I will get to see is his back as he totters and then walks and runs toward a life without me.
Is it just me, or is everything happening fasterfasterlikethis lately?

xo,
S

Who Were (Are) You?

I was the kind of kid that parents liked. Please, thank you. I was not smarmy or sassy or sulky or sad. I never pinched my friends' little brothers or said ew, I won't eat that. I followed the rules, don't, do, so I didn't and I did. You get the picture.

Even later, when we drank. At 15, 16, 19 and beyond. I had (or have) a nice face, a round face, the kind of face that people trust, or at least don't think too much about, so even then, in the kitchen of a friend's house at midnight, drunk or high or both, even then the parents liked me as they wondered if we were drunk, maybe even wished I would rub off on their kid because my eyes did not cut. Even then, drunk or high or both, I followed the rules, ish, the rules being that I had to play the role of a stupid teenager making bad decisions, but also that I had to be good. And I was (or am) good.
A few years ago, three jobs back, everyone had to undergo personality profiling, something like Meyers and Briggs but not. I came out as a Dominant Introvert, which I guess is true, yeah, I can see that, but what I really remember is that you were either a rebel or a follower, and I came out as a follower.

A follower. Nobody wants to be a follower. I mean, no way, right? I'm totally a rebel! I remember thinking, see? I'm rebelling against being told I'm a follower! Fuck that! Only I didn't say that out loud because, well. Yeah.

There are certain things that I love about getting older. I can buy whatever I want at the grocery store. I don't have to pretend to like roller coasters anymore. I enjoy staying home on a Saturday night. Big, white, cotton underwear. And more and more this: I am a follower. There, I said it. I like rules. Balancing my bank account. I like mailing back my Netflix as soon as I'm done and wearing sensible flats so I can actually walk. I am the deer in the coveralls, the bunny with the smocking, and even if I would've had a huge crush on the cat wearing the vest, I still wouldn't date him; the raccoon with the striped shirt is more my style.

Anyway, I love this artwork by Angela Rossi, and I hope you do, too.

Say hi to your parents for me.
xo,
S

I'm Coming Out!

I'm totally having a rainbow moment. Or a mid-life crisis. Whatever, I love rainbows...me, the part of the gay community that embraces bumper stickers, and Mariah Carey circa 1999. In my head I just know I am going to find the perfect rainbow frock that screams gray skies are gonna clear up. And in it, I am fairly sure I will look something like this, sans creepy stare and split ends.Truth be told, though, I'm afraid I may look something more like this:
Because honestly. Type "rainbow dress" into Google or ShopStyle and what you get are either Sequoia Nana hippie tie-dyed numbers which, um--no--or the cutest freaking dresses ever...for kids. I mean, is it wrong that I want her dress, her hair, her boots, and her elbows that could actually be described as insouciant?? God, I really wish my elbows were still insouciant. Or souciant even. Because as a grown up my elbows are just pointy and there.

So yeah, the only perfect rainbow dress I have found for the over 6 set is this vintage number that has already been sold. And had a 26" waist, so, yeah. *sigh*

The only available rainbowish dress still out there is a Kate Spade polka dot thing that, although on sale, is still a leeetle pricey, plus I find it terribly hard to trust pigeon-toed models.

Which leaves me with accessories. I adore this bracelet, but can't quite pull the trigger on an online order for all of $15.99. Which, I know. Damned if you are très cher, damned if you 'aint...

And while we're on the subject of insouciant elbows (I know I'm still thinking about them), why are all kids clothes so much freaking cuter than clothes for grown ups? I've been searching for the perfect leopard flats to replace my thousand year old faves that are getting holes in the toes and I came across these perfect little meows...

I mean seriously? It's everything I ever wanted in a shoe, and only $49 to boot. Or to ballet. Whatevs. Wonder if I could fit into the largest size if I shaved down my heels?

Ugh. You guys, it's raining here. Not even the hard kind of driving rain that makes your tummy feel funny in a good way, but the drizzly spit kind of rain that makes the day something to get through. I don't want to just get through the day. What I want is a rainbow frock. Or a shirt. A skirt? Sandals? Something? Can anyone point me in the general direction of where the sun is refracted through water droplets in the atmosphere, and there is a bevy of beautiful rainbows for me to buy?

xo,
S

Friday Triple Bonus Happy Edition (Better Than Kittens Even)

Don't smile. Remember that game? Or maybe it's cousin Whatever you do, don't laugh? Said with a very small mouth, and then you smile or you laugh and you lose, only how can you lose when you're smiling? Yeah. It's Friday, 70+ degrees in my neck of the woods, a payday at that, and my mouth is wide with happy. So smile, or don't, whichever, but I defy you not to feel pure joy while watching this video because ohmyeverything, this makes my insides curl up like a ribbon.

Apparently this little guy was stuffed up so his nose whistled when he breathed. It made him giggle, which makes me so want to be his friend.

xo,
S

I Like Big Lists (And I Cannot Lie)

Apropos of Wednesday, i.e. nothing, here is a list of things that I hope I don't pass on to Zoey and Ozzy:

1. The little breathy thing I do in place of a laugh. I wish I had a great laugh, a loud laugh, one that people shushed at the movies, but I don't. Instead I do this little exhale thing even though I find most things in life very, very funny.
2. My propensity for a double chin.
3. Intolerance of crowds, people cutting in line, close-talkers, loud voices, people who take up too much air, the bullish among us.
4. My over-active imagination when it comes to germs. The above does not help.
5. The disgust I have for fish, mushrooms, most meat, eggplant, beer, hard alcohol, runny eggs, coffee and hot sauce. It is very hard to be a convincing adult when you don't like these things.

And because this is Hump Day, equal parts the beginning and the end of the week, here is a list of things I hope Zoey and Ozzy get from me:

1. The inclination to find most everything funny. Absurd. To find themselves constantly amused by what is going on around them.
2. Long limbs, pretty toes.
3. The ability to fall asleep anywhere. Seriously. If tired enough I could curl up on the street and snooze (so long as I had a sweatshirt to wad up beneath my head, see #4 above). I am fairly confident that at some point in my life this will become a valuable asset.
4. Comfort in calling children pet names. One time my childhood friend Christine said that she remembers my mom always calling her honey, that she loved the way it made her feel, and now I am pleasantly surprised by how easily these words fall from my mouth with Zoey's friends. Silly chicken, sweetie, love. I hold this as a talent, to naturally call people these names, and mean it.
5. The love of reading. Books, magazines, bumper stickers, billboards, packaging. For all the world to be a story forever unfolding, just waiting to be read.

And now just because. Not that I want this to become a blog about napkins, but this:Zoey drew me a napkin to put in my lunch today. I know. Which just goes to show that what I have already passed down to her is the ability to discern the best nib to use on double-ply Bounty, as well as the knowledge that a surprise fish with eyelashes at noon is like having cupcakes for lunch with a side order of vacuum-fresh cereal marshmallows.
xo,
S

And Then It Was Sunday Night (But That's Okay, Cause I Have a Good Book To Read)

It was the kind of weekend to which all other weekends aspire.Unseasonably hot, chock full of friends and wine, strangely enough a limo, toenails painted tangerine, and children who smell of sunscreen and skipping.

Bring it, Monday.
xo,
S