LifeKu

All My Children

2011-05-10T17:09:00.000-07:00

precocious six
freshman jock or senior stud
i love them all. yep.

Robert gave his Tuesday Talk at school today. Wow, am I proud. Even though I don't really have a right to be. People keep congratulating me, and all I can think to do is shrug modestly and say, "Thanks, I made him myself."

But I didn't, really. No one did. All three of my children are fascinating products of genes and environments and their very own marvelous spirits. And I love them all.

Barre None

2011-05-03T15:55:00.000-07:00

O, prissy barre class
I scoffed at you; to my shame
Now I cannot walk.

"Seriously?" I said to myself, when my friend Chanda suggested I try the latest trend in personal fitness at her studio, IM=X Pilates. I mean, I'm not one to brag, but I've got some good workout game, and the notion of standing in place and fluttering my arms and legs around didn't strike me as particularly worthwhile. I am a busy working mom, for heaven's sake. No time for tutus.

But I went anyway, because I actually love Pilates, and figured if Chanda suggested it, a barre workout had to have something going for it, if only the opportunity to feel like a pretty ballet dancer for a while. (My last attempt at this, when I was about six, ended in ignominy and an irritated Frenchwoman suggesting I might be better suited to field hockey.)

Chanda led me and a group of about seven other woman - many of them impressively taut - through a series of leg bends and arm lifts that felt incredibly easy ... until they didn't. About halfway through my IM=X barre class, my shoulders began to burn and my thighs started protesting in stereo. By the time we were done, I was drenched in sweat and whimpering for mercy. Two days later, my butt still barks every time I approach a set of stairs. And this is good, because after eating more than my share of nummy Chocolat du Cali Bressan eggs over the recent holiday, I need my butt to do something other than strain the seams of my yoga pants.

So here's to another lesson learned over here at MamaKu's place: don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Or it just might knock you back!

what's in a name

2011-04-30T20:40:00.000-07:00

may i recommend?
a post by alice bradley;
she's braver than I.

http://www.finslippy.com/

I wish we could give the biochemical imbalance currently called "depression" a new name. Because it's not, as someone once nervously told me when I felt I had to confide, "feeling a little blue." It's not a self-indulgence, a "pity party." It's certainly not an option. You can't "snap out of it" "pull yourself up by your bootstraps," or take any of the other well-meaning but ultimately painful advice offered by those who have no experience with it. Depression is an illness, with a physical cause, just like arthritis or eczema. Only society at large doesn't treat people with this particular disease with the same sympathy and support it offers sufferers with more physical symptoms.

If an Olympic athlete suddenly fell victim to an attack of lupus, for example, most people would feel pity and offer good wishes and hopes for a cure. If that same athlete woke up one morning devoid of hope and literally unable to summon the will to walk to the starting line, the press would probably call him a spoiled brat, and he'd most likely lose his corporate sponsorship.

No Vons checker has ever asked me if I want to round up my grocery tab to support medical research to seek the cause and ultimately a cure for depression, the way they always want me to ante up for prostate cancer and muscular dystrophy. For myriad reasons, the very word "depression" makes people uncomfortable, so those who suffer from it tend to be stuck with some pretty negative labels. ("Unstable," was my personal favorite, but I've heard quite a few.) So naturally those who suffer from it are reluctant to 'fess up ... which is really too bad on a number of levels, because we're not unstable or unreliable or any of those things; in fact, we depressives as a lot tend to be pretty smart and competent, kind of like whatever gene makes us occasionally feel unworthy of existence is karmically linked to some really good DNA that also makes us unusually bright and capable of great things. A disproportionate number of authors have suffered from depression; before their tragic self-inflicted ends people like Hemmingway and Plath created works that will live forever.

People like Alice Bradley (and J.K. Rowling, and other writers who have come clean to their public about having depression) offer hope, though. By giving their disease a different name (Alice's might be offensive to some, but she pretty much sums it up) and framing it in metaphor, these authors help others look past the stigma of depression and understand its very real physical effects. Anyone who shuddered when they first read about the faceless dementors of the "Harry Potter" series, hooded horrors with the power to suck a soul through a lipless kiss, has gotten a glimpse of what happens when depression strikes.

If greater understanding is possible, then acceptance should be, too. I just read Alice's latest post at http://www.finslippy.com/, and I feel compelled to share, and to applaud her. She's a smart, multi-talented woman - and not afraid to name her Demon and face it, head on. I'm nowhere near so brave. I've kept my own depression on the down-low, partially because of the stigma and partially because I'm just as prejudiced as most people ... I've been ashamed.

But Alice has made me feel braver. And inspired me to be more openly honest about the genetic legacy that causes my brain to occasionally misfire. I have depression. I also manage it, I think, with admirable strength, and a lot of love and support from my family and a few close friends. There are times when this physical ailment prevents me from functioning at top capacity, but on the whole I am in pretty great shape. So there you have it. I have depression. I might wish it had a more impressive, multi-syllabic Latin medical name that didn't carry quite so many 19-th century "hysterical" connotations, but I guess I'm stuck with the name, just like I'm stuck with the disease.

And now you know.

Thanks, Alice.

fear but not loathing

2011-04-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

the snake was there first
i had no right to freak out
but did anyway

Ok, first of all, a confession: I am afraid of snakes. Irationally so. I can't even look at a serpent wriggling across my TV screen without shuddering; on the rare occasion I encounter one in real life I morph into a whimpering lump of panic. The only other thing that sends the metallic taste of adrenalized terror into my mouth faster than coming face-to-face with a snake is the prospect of a world without Planned Parenthood ... but since snakes are an integral and important part of the natural world and politicized misogynists are not, I have been gamely trying to overcome my horror of the former.

Today that fear came to a head ... literally. Because but for the iron nerves and quick thinking of my friend Leslie, this morning I would have stepped right smack into a rattlesnake's fangs, an act of stupidity that could have spelled the end of my days as MamaKu. Heck, it could have meant the ends of my days, period.

Leslie is my hiking buddy. Although she only moved to Santa Barbara from the East Coast a couple of years ago, she has taken to our backcountry like a bobcat, and knows more about our local trails than I do. (Which is saying something, because I love to hike and have been getting myself lost in the Santa Ynez Mountains since I was ten.) Leslie and I have kids the same age, and lots of similar interests, and it's fun to share notes while we ramble around the foothills. She, I will note, is not afraid of anything, at least not that I know of.

However, since I am a great big baby when it comes to things that slither, I am usually the one with the more paranoid eye on the trail when we go hiking. Leslie has two handsome and well trained Labs she watches while we hike and, frankly, I think we both figure the dogs make enough of a ruckus running ahead of us to scare off any reptiles that might be sunning themselves on the path. Certainly I wasn't thinking about snakes this morning, which was a particularly glorious one, cool and clear. The recent and unusally heavy El Nino rains have rutted the familiar trails behind Montecito into strange, convoluted channels, and wild weeds and grasses have taken over many places where foot traffic usually keeps the trail barren.

I am used to looking for snakes in open spaces, on rocks, seeking the sun. I haven't really considered the provenance of the phrase "snake in the grass" because we really don't have that much grass in our chapparal-covered mountains. That's why I was so stunned when one minute I was walking along the newly-greened trail, chatting away, only to find myself suddenly being shoved sideways so hard I almost fell over.

Imagine that - walking along, talking to a dear friend about something pleasant and personal when *WHAM* that same friend shoulder-checks you into the dirt. I was about to protest - loudly -when Leslie hissed, with steely calm, "snake." She had an iron grip on my forearm and was looking at me with the kind of intensity one usually sees on reality shows when one of the lamer participants is about to do something really stupid and the experienced eventual winner needs to reign her in lest everyone on their team end up dead.

And that was when I saw it. Extending across the path, semi-hidden in the six-inch grass. The part I could see - which included the pointed head I had been about to step on - was about five feet long, dark brown, and faintly marked with the interlocking diamond pattern frighteningly familiar to anyone who has grown up in the environs of the Crotalus oreganus ... the Pacific rattlesnake.

I am embarrassed to admit that, at that point, I shrieked. Loudly. Piercingly. Which was a stupid thing to do, because Leslie and I were still only about eighteen inches away from the animal, and as anybody who watches "Animal Planet" knows, an adult rattlesnake can cover that distance in a lightning second ... especially if you've made it mad.

Both Leslie and I jumped back, instinctively, and fortunately for us, the snake has not yet warmed up enough to take any agressive action. It just stayed there, lying across the path, thick as my forearm, sluggish but potentially fatal for all that. Leslie shot me an irritated glance and ordered her curious dogs to back away. Skirting the snake, she walked a ways up the path and looked at it from a safe distance.

"Big," she commented. "Can't even see the tail." We both knew if we could, the rattle would be disturbingly large. Leslie, bless her, just shrugged and gave me one of the knowing little smiles she uses to such effect. "Are you coming?" We still had another half a mile or so uphill to go, and Leslie started walking. With my heart still pounding so wildly I couldn't catch my breath, I followed my friend's lead and, giving the rattler a wide berth, continued up the trail.

Leslie pretended not to notice when I leaned over and picked up one large rock ... and then another. Not that I really believed the snake was going to follow us - I didn't - but still. For the rest of the hike, I acted like a nervous herbivore, eyes darting everywhere and jumping everytime I saw a downed oak branch that might have possibly resembled a snake. I told Leslie about my irrational childhood fear. She laughed and called me a chickensh-t, which was exactly what I needed to hear. She had carefully noted the spot on the trail where we had encountered the snake on the way up, and on the way down (as I cowered behind her) she reassured me it had moved on.

I put the rocks down before we got to the end of the trail. I know that any real nature lover who had seen me clutching sandstone weapons would have pegged me for a tourist ... worse, an idiot, because we hikers really have no right to pelt snakes with rocks or really, hurt them in any way. The backcountry is their home, and we are just vistors. It's up to us to look out for them when we're on their turf.

I can't say that my herpetic encounter this morning has cured me of my fear of snakes. Heck, my heartrate is increasing even as I sit at my keyboard, recounting the story. But I can say I'm grateful to one snake in particular for not biting me this morning, particularly as it would have been my fault if he or she had. I also owe Leslie a great deal of thanks, both for saving me from doing something dumb and reminding me that snakes deserve our respect and appreciation.

One thing's for sure: I won't tread so carelessly in the future.

TARP-ku

2011-04-11T15:32:00.000-07:00

you got my money.
now you pay me back with less.
how is this ok?

Dear Fed,

Let me see if I've got this right: You used my money (well, mine and some other people's, too) to bail out several financial institutions. As collateral, they offered up shares which at the time were equivalent to the dollar value of the money (mine and other people's) received. And now these institutions are paying me (and the other people) back with devalued shares ... not enough shares to equal the dollar value of the original bailout money but in the actual number of shares that were worth more at the time of the bailout. So by paying their debts back now, before their shares go back up, these institutions (which are loudly and proudly trumpeting how responsible they are by paying me-and-other-people) are getting free money. Mine and other people's money.

Am I right?

I know I'm supposed to be better with words than with numbers, but, really ... even a six-year-old can figure out this isn't fair. In fact, mine just did. And she's not to happy with you right now, Fed.

Sincerely yours, MamaKu

On the Road Again

2011-04-09T16:38:00.000-07:00

on the road again
dont know if im north or south
until i hear "eh."

It has been a whirlwind tour of the Pacific Northwest, meeting people all across Oregon, Washington, and now, Canada. I have forgotten how much I LOVE this part of the world. It looks green; it smells green; it IS green. And everybody is so nice. Not SoCal I'll-Kiss-You-On-The-Cheek-In-Public-Because-My-Highlights-Look-Really-Good-Compared-To-Yours pseudo-nice but honestly and truly kind and interested in each other. It's hard to say who I love more, the sophisticated Portland Foodies, the Seattle-ites who really might just be saving the world, or the Canadians (bless their hearts) who take hospitality to levels I've never experienced anywhere else on this continent. I am sorta tired and really homesick for my family, but wrapping up the trip on an evening boat ride out of Granville Island with a couple who speak in that lovely, lilting Canadian way is a wonderful way to wrap things up ... eh?

Hot Like Him

2011-04-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

If you think he's hot
Chances are others do, too.
Roll with it, Girlfriend!

I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

The first time I clapped eyes on the man who would eventually become my husband, I (swear to God) literally couldn't breathe for about thirty seconds. Then I automatically assumed he must be married and/or gay and/or incredibly arrogant, because anyone that good-looking couldn't be just a nice, single straight guy hoping to settle down and raise a couple of kids.

Fortunately for me, I was wrong, and here I am, married to Mr. Breathtaking … who is, I must say, aging nicely. (The same gray hair and crinkly eyes that are making me look like my grandmother Harriet only add to his masculine appeal; go figure.)

Anyway, the Big Kahuna is a babe. I knew it then and I know it now, so it shouldn't come as a shocker when other women say as much … but it kind of does. I remember the first time it happened, shortly after we began dating. We were both teachers then, and BK was also coaching basketball. Besotted as I was (and even though I've never been a particular fan of the game) I loyally parked myself in the bleachers and cheered my heart out. ("Go, Panthers!") One night, seated amongst the other fans, I was watching my beloved in the process of getting booted off the court for arguing with a referee when the woman next to me sighed.

"He is so hot."

Puzzled, I looked over at Panther mom, whom I knew slightly. Was she talking about the ref? (The guy in black and white stripes was paunchy and bald, but hey, lots of people think that's cute.) She must have seen the question in my face, because she gestured toward the court and smiled … a little lasciviously, it seemed to me. "Mr. K." Then she scooted over and gave me a little poke in the ribs with her elbow. "You're a lucky woman, you know?"

Well, yes, I thought to myself … I certainly am. But it felt kind of awkward admitting as much to a near-stranger, as if she somehow had an inside track on my relationship and knew way more than she should, like just how much I lusted after this man and wanted to marry him and have his babies and spend the rest of my life basking in his presence …

Of course the Panther Mom sitting next to me knew nothing of the sort. She was just stating the obvious: the guy who was at that point striding back to the bench was a remarkable specimen of male pulchritude, put together in all the ways that define aesthetically pleasing, worthy of admiration and comment …

In short … hot.

It was a throwaway remark – a compliment, really – and I'm sure Mrs. Panther (who was starting to look more like a cougar to me) never gave a second thought to the interchange, but over the years I've had reason to recall that brief interaction more than a few times, because it happens … not all the time, to be sure … but people respond positively to the Big Kahuna's fine appearance. Sometimes it's just eyes following him appreciatively as he crosses a room. Less often someone will actually say something to me about him: Wow, your husband's a good-looking guy.

More often than not, I'm kind of flattered when a friend or acquaintance expresses a healthy appreciation of my man. It makes me feel validated, as if someone is admiring my taste in males much in the same way she might compliment my shoes. But sometimes – and it's hard to say exactly at what point–another woman's admiration for what's mine crosses the line from flattering to flustering.

I'm not talking about flirting with someone else's spouse here. That is another can of worms entirely, and rarely (if ever) acceptable, in my humble opinion. Noting the attractiveness of another person’s significant other is a far more subtle practice that can be perfectly acceptable … until it's not.

My friend Starshine, who writes a wonderful syndicated column about things like life and relationships in the modern world, puts it this way: "After years of marriage, it's healthy to glimpse your spouse through the fresh eyes of someone who doesn't, you know, rinse out his coffee cup four times a day. Like, 'Oh, yeah! He IS kind of studilicious. I forgot!' But when a gal pal presses the issue, I get suspicious and begin swatting words like 'swinger' and 'homewrecker' out of my head until I can change the subject."

So: while it's OK to give a girlfriend a compliment and fresh perspective on her life partner, it's not OK to belabor the point. Context is also important. My sister can make fun of my marriage all she wants (“What does he see in you, horseface???”) but she’s my sister, for heaven’s sake, and it’s her duty to taunt me. Plus, she’s got a perfectly decent spouse of her own, so I’m not threatened.

But family and friends are one thing. Leering at a coworker's guy when he comes by the office to drop off lunch, or insinuating attraction for a mere acquaintance? Not so much.

My colleague Barbie (who is herself a hottie of the highest order) is very comfortable with the fact that her husband, Ken, leaves a wake of swooning women pretty much everywhere he goes. She's used to it, and they are charmingly, goopily, in love, so it's no big deal. Until one of Ken's random admirers starts trying to get a little too close … to her.

“We were at a professional function one evening, and this woman looked right at me and said my husband was ‘just her type.’ That was weird. I could feel myself turning red.” On cue, Barbie starts to flush whenever she relates this story. “It still bugs me,” she admits.

So in the end … as with so much in life … navigating the waters around someone else’s marital good fortune comes down to my mother’s favorite dictum: appropriateness. Giving a girlfriend a verbal high-five for having landed a babe? Appropriate. As long as you say it, and then drop it. Complimenting a co-worker or acquaintance with a few thoughtful, well chosen words (“You two look terrific this evening; you’re such a striking couple!”) is also perfectly acceptable. Sidling up to a matched pair and implying you’d like to join in on the fun is most decidedly inappropriate …

… and so on. We’re all grownups, so it should be pretty easy to put ourselves in the other person’s shoes and weigh the impacts of our actions. It’s nice to make other people feel good about themselves.

My friend Kay (who in addition to being the stereotypical Hot Librarian is also godmother to one of my children and one of my favorite people in the world) happens to be married to a Brit who makes Hugh Grant look like sloppy seconds. This is duly noted by a lot of people, especially as their two sons appear to be turning out just like dear old dad – gorgeous. No harm, no foul as far as Kay is concerned. She sent me the following from her iPhone in between intercepting tweenie text messages and putting the kibosh on dating until high school:

“Maybe it feels like a reflection on my excellent taste, or maybe it makes me feel like people are wondering if I have some well-hidden sexy side myself.

“That,” she wrote with an arch-smiley emoticon. “Doesn’t bother me at all.”

Twins

2011-03-31T07:37:00.000-07:00

Two new lives, compact
Have changed the world already.
Happy Birthday, boys!

There is nothing-but-nothing like the birth of an eagerly awaited child to make this world feel like a better, more hopeful place. It's twice as good when there are two! I know my friends K. and S. are over the moon now that their two healthy, beautiful little boys have been born. The rest of us are pretty darned happy, too.

Facebook Friend Finder

2011-03-29T10:32:00.000-07:00

Facebook Friend Finder
you insist on showing me
my less-than-best self.

Newsflash: I'm not a very nice person, sometimes. Longtime readers may have noticed I have a certain ... shall we say, caustic ... outlook on life that, while occasionally humorous, also carries a certain sting. I'm not proud of this, but I have to be honest and at least acknowledge my inner bitch if I'm going to do anything to lessen her impact on my better self and become the more loving, lovable human being my priest, my yoga instructor, and my therapist all insist I can be.

The reason I bring this up is beacuse of a strange thing that happened to me while I was wasting a few minutes on Facebook this morning. You know that "Friend Finder" banner they have? It pops up on the right of your homescreen and scrolls the faces of "People You May Know!" along with their names and the fact that you have a gazillion mutual friends. You are encouraged to add these people as friends, so you can happily share all future posts, pictures, and birthday wall-scribbles (Happy 29th!!!XOXOXOXO.) I usually ignore this aspect of FB, because 1) I really don't know most of these people, even though we apparently have acquaintances in common and 2) I realize that this is only one more way Facebook is trying to take over and control my online life. (I'm not really ready to be taken over or controlled by Mark Zuckerberg and his ilk, not just yet, anyway.)

Only today, my screen popped up a couple of faces - one from the past and one from the present - I really can't stand. Does that sound extreme? I thought so, too ... but one glance at those pictures and I felt that most revolting of emotions: hatred. My mental gears switched right from "mellow" to "mean." The girl from high school who made my teenage existence miserable? I decided the posed glamour shot she was using as her profile pic made all the bad cosmetic work she's had done in the thirty years since I've seen her far too obvious. The business acquaintance I've caught undermining his colleagues time and again? I was momentarily tempted to grab a Sharpie and scribble an ugly mustache on his smiling, smarmy face ... only then I remembered that that face was on my computer, and while Mr. Smarmy would never know I defiled his image, my husband would be sure to question the marker all over the screen.

That was when I realized that this is my lesson for the day. Like most people, I suppose, I spend way more time engaging in ill-feeling about people over whom I have no control and who most likely don't give a rats-ass about me or my opinion. The only person hurt by my negative reaction to them is - d*oh! -me.

I don't have to "friend" these folks, certainly. I don't have to go out of my way to spend time with people who don't make me feel good in real life, either. But I do have to let go of my reactions to them, justified or not ... because, really, aren't most petty resentments just that ... petty? They're as easy to release as dandelion fluff, if you just decide to do it. Hang on to them, though, and they'll irritate your insides to no end. So thanks, FB. That brief exposure to my lesser self wasn't very comfortable, but I'm heading off into today with a higher purpose, and that's good. Just ask my priest, my therapist, and my yoga instructor.

Man Versus Gopher

2011-03-28T07:13:00.000-07:00

Man versus Gopher

Herbivore eating our plants

Eternal Struggle

grumpy 6 year old

2011-03-24T06:50:00.000-07:00

grumpy 6 year old!
there can be just one diva
in our little house.

... and it ain't you, honey.

The Luckiest Woman in the Universe

2011-03-18T20:55:00.000-07:00

anniversary
so, so much more than a date
a time to reflect.

It's been a long week. A big conference on Monday and bad news from the state regarding the budget for schools on Tuesday and a big paper that had to be done by Friday 9:00 am and the usual hate-speak from the crazies out there and crashing antiquated servers and ... did I mention half the family (including me) is sick? Nonetheless, the man I love more than anyone else on the planet made reservations at the restaurant where we had our first date and spent an hour telling me why he loves me, our family, and our life.

We were going to to take maximum advantage of the fact that our oldest (17 years) was on hand to babysit our youngest (6) and spend the night on the town, browsing bookstores and maybe even hitting some good local music. Instead, we drove up to the Riviera to look at the full moon and the city we love, and decided to come home early and hang with the kids. Right now the Big Kahuna is asleep in the twin bed where he fell asleep reading "Dragonslayer Academy 8," and I'm more in love than ever.

PS - to my PIL ... I never forget the package deal I got when you two entered my life as well. I love you. XO L

Gardenista

2011-03-18T05:55:00.000-07:00

Keep your clothes and shoes;
My passion is not fashion -
I'm much more "grounded."

Other women may get all excited when the spring couture collections come out; not me. What gets my goosebumps going are the garden supply catalogs that start hitting the mailbox right about this time of year. With their promises of fecundity and ease ("Grow great TOWERING tomatoes!" "Precision Planting with No waste, No thinning!") gardening catalogs make me feel like an Earth Goddess just waiting to happen - Demeter ready to throw the welcome-home garden party of the century for her long-awaited offspring.

Will this be the year I finally coax a peony out of the dusty ground with a can't fail SoCal hybrid? Can my strawberries REALLY be sweet and AND big? Maybe what I've really been waiting for all my life is the right pair of Nitrile gloves - "Fit like a second skin and wear like iron!"

Sigh ... there is so much promise in a garden supply catalog. Fashion catalogs, with their in-one-year-out-the-next peasant blouses and wedge sandals just can't hold a candle. I'll leave it to my more elegant sisters to sport the latest in oversized handbags. What I'm really lusting after is a new compost crock. (Gardener's Supply Company Item #37-985, in case you're interested.)

March 17

2011-03-17T07:27:00.000-07:00

i don't drink green beer
or believe in leprechauns
still ... erin go bragh!

Having spent four years in Boston evading the drunken advances of guys named "Sully" every time St. Patrick's Day rolled around, I've never really been a fan of the holiday as it's celebrated here in the U.S. (What's with the pinching, anyway??)

Nonetheless, Ireland has a fascinating history, and they continue to make some of the best music in the world, so I'll raise a pint of Guinness tonight in gratitude for all things Irish ... especially MaryPat O'Connor!

Flu Haiku

2011-03-12T17:37:00.000-08:00

It's been so long since
I've been sick that I forgot
I'm not essential.

Woke up at 3 am with a raging sore throat and headache; had a fever and body chills by dawn. It still took me half a day to realize the world would function very well without me if I just put my sorry self back to bed, where I belong. I think this happens to moms, in particular ... we do a lot and get to thinking everything will fall apart without us.

Trust me.

It won't.

Heading for the Hills

2011-03-07T22:01:00.000-08:00

there are times, I think
when it's best to turn your back
on the obvious.

rain

2011-03-02T06:46:00.000-08:00

rain, rain go away
come again another day
...it's haiku? Who knew?

Sick Kid Poker

2011-02-25T10:38:00.000-08:00

I'll see your meeting;
raise one overdue report.
It will work ... somehow.

The game always starts in the middle of the night, when our bed is invaded by someone who either has a fever or wants to barf. After taking the usual precautions - hugs, cool water, Tylenol and/or big bowl in case she suddenly starts vomiting all over the place - The Big Kahuna and I snuggle her back down and turn to one another ... it's time for Sick Kid Poker.

You working parents know exactly how the game is played. Your child is ill; you can't send her to school, but you also both have jobs that - peskily enough - require your presence and attention. Sometimes, if the child in question only has a mild case of the sniffles, you can bring her into the office and park her in the corner with some Kleenex, a box of colored markers, and the contents of your recycling bin. At the end of the day she'll have had an adventure and your entire office will be covered with cute kid art. When she's truly sick, however, she needs to stay home, in bed, and be treated with lots of parental TLC. Which means one of you has to stay home from work the next day.

The question is: which one of you can more easily afford a day away from the job? In this economy, with so many people laid off and those of us who are left standing struggling to fill their shoes as well as our own, that's never an easy call. That's where Sick Kid Poker comes in.

Kahuna has more letters after his name than I do, and much more public and prominent position, so he usually opens with something showy and superficially impressive, like:

"I've got a 10:30 with a newly elected member of the State Assembly;"

But I'm no slouch either. Narrowing my eyes, I counter with the information that I'm working on a major publication. Under deadline.

So he says: "Budget meeting this afternoon," reminding me that people's lives and livelihoods are in his hands.

However, I can play that game, too. "Grant proposal due Monday."

"IEP meeting."

"Conference call."

... and so on and on we go as the clock ticks steadily toward dawn, listing all of the things we both absolutely have to do the following day, until, finally, one of us concedes the other holds the upper hand. One of the many things I love about our marriage is that the winner is not always the one who makes the higher salary or holds the more "important" job. Both of us believe that being good parents is our most important obligation, followed closely by being responsible and effective employees. Playing Sick Kid Poker actually helps us decide, on any given day, the most reasonable and productive compromise. Sometimes (thank you, internet!) one of us can work from home. Other times, like today, we will literally tag-team parent, taking turns throughout the day being with our daughter and being in our places of work.

It's a tough game to play, and there are many times I wish our family could survive on one salary, just so we didn't have to spend so many nights this way. But, like I wrote, we are lucky to have jobs, to have each other ... and somehow we always make it work.

jalapeno hangover

2011-02-23T06:56:00.000-08:00

jalapeno chips
spicy, kettle cooked, from the bag
i just can't quit you.

Oh, dear God, even though the "nutritional" information was staring me right in the face as I held that crackling Lay's bag in my greedy little hands and popped one fiery, salty chip after another into my mouth I ... just ... couldn't ... stop.

Do I have a problem?

Do I?

Do I?

I do.

Jury Duty

2011-02-16T07:16:00.000-08:00

My fellow jurors:
Housewives and Bored Retirees-
Not "Twelve Angry Men."

I had kind of hoped my civic duty might involve some kind of meaningful responsibility - a chance to represent that most wonderful of documents, the US Constitution, and ensure liberty and justice for all. When I got that brown summons in the mail, I instantly formed a mental picture of myself wearing the flowing robes and blindfold of Lady Justice, and I must confess ... it wasn't a half-bad look for me.

Instead I found myself shivering in a large, cold, holding pen with an assortment of stoic businesspeople, harried-looking parents (the spit-up stains on their left shoulders a dead giveaway) and nice older folks who wanted to talk to everyone. It was kind of like being on an airplane, only there weren't any snacks.

Then, instead of getting some really cool case involving civil rights or freedom of speech or some other weighty issue, the other prospective jurors and I were asked to consider the case of an over-coiffed Beverly Hills matron whose slimy-looking attorney husband was attempting to sue the pants off some hapless surgeon who apparently botched her latest face lift. I'm pretty sure the fact that I snorted out loud when the judge stated one of the claims was "loss of marital consortium" had something to do with my quick dismissal.

Sigh. Maybe next time.

Live

2011-02-14T07:00:00.000-08:00

all thumbs while texting
i missed the "o" and got "i"
now i live for love

truth in advertising

2011-02-10T05:26:00.000-08:00

the smiling lady
on the box of "Two Week Cleanse"
is a crock of sh-t.

I know what you're thinking! MamaKu used a bad word?!? How crude! How awful! How ...

Accurate.

Call it whatever non-expletive you choose - "Number Two," "BM, or (my personal favorite) "The Poopies," - my life is all about it these days, and my friend Caro is to blame.

Caro, who is older than I am but looks about a decade younger, occasionally does this fourteen-day nutritonal "program" and swears it makes her more alert, energetic, and all-around better than she felt previously. Since Caro is the perkiest person I know, this is saying a lot.

Anyway, between lots going on at work and home, I've been eating poorly, not exercising much, and sleeping even less. (Night being the best time to worry about pointless things.) I've got bags under my eyes big enough to carry an iPad in ... if I had an iPad. (I don't. But I wish I did. I thought I might win one in this contest on Facebook, but that turned out to be a hoax. But see what I mean? My mind is all over the place these days. I can't stay focused AT ALL.)

I tried drinking more coffee to stay alert, but all that did was give me the jitters. So dear Caro took one look at my sorry-old, baggy-eyed, shaky-handed self last week and said "Why don't you try 'The Cleanse?'" and directed me to the nutritionist who sells this stuff to women like me. He was nice enough, and had lots of degrees on his wall, and the plants in his zen-like waiting room were real and looked well-cared-for, so I thought "Why not?" and went home with a Spartan diet and a box containing four different bottles of pills made from various herbs and spices and complex instructions to take a certain number of certain pills at certain times of the day with plenty of water and (best of all) one glass of red wine every night.

(It was the wine that sold me, I think.)

The box that "The Cleanse" comes in looks promising enough. There is a picture on it of a happy, smiling woman with lustrous hair and glowing skin. Ostensibly this hair, skin, and overall aura of joy and contentment are the result her following all the instructions to a "T," so I followed suit. For the past three days, I have been popping little herbal pills and drinking lots of water and following my diet and enjoying my glass of wine every night and, truth be told, I actually feel pretty good.

Except for one thing. And I'm sure you've guessed what it is.

That lovely woman on "The Cleanse" box is only pictured from the waist up, and I'm reasonably certain that that, my friends, is because her other half is permanently parked on the potty. "The Cleanse," it turns out, is basically a full-on flushing of the gastro-intenstinal system that leaves users themselves flushing all day long. I won't go into the gory details, but I will say that my commute to and from work has become literally a race against time. I have harkened back to the days when my children were transitioning out of diapers, when I knew the exact location of every (clean) toilet along the routes of our daily routine.

I am "cleansing," all right.

Going back and re-reading the euphemistic fine print on the box-with-the-smiling-lady, I guess I should have been prepared for this. They do warn you, in oblique terms, what is about to happen. I guess I just didn't expect it to happen quite so ... ah ... powerfully. Y'know? Who ever has such high expectations for their own colon? I sure didn't.

So there you have it. Truth in advertising. A smile on the face and your tush on the toilet. Yin and Yang. Balance? I'm not sure. I actually do feel much better these days, and my system seems to be adjusting to and appreciating all the TLC I am offering up. I slept (almost) all the way through the night last night. (The cat jumped on my head at 3 am, but I was able to go back to sleep, which would not have happened last week.)

I've been productive at work, and nicer to my family.

I'm going to stick with "The Cleanse," and see what happens. Wish me luck, though.

I might need it.

Korean Spa

2011-02-04T16:17:00.000-08:00

without a stitch on
in a room full of strangers -
strangely comforting.

Normally being naked in public is the stuff of anxiety dreams, those awful ones wherein you're merrily strolling the aisles at Trader Joe's only to suddenly realize you don't have any clothes on and you're stuck at the far end of the frozen foods, begging a TJ's employee to sell you an ugly Hawaiian shirt. As a veteran of many of such nightmares, I should be a little hinky about public nudity. But I'm not. Not in the least. Especially when it comes to Korean Spas.

Don't know what a Korean Spa is? Not to worry. MamaKu knows, and she's about to tell you:

It's heaven.

No, seriously. A good Korean Spa is like God took a sharp knife and sliced off a little piece of Paradise, and populated it with kindly Korean angels in practical black underwear who want nothing more in life than to get you cleaner and softer and more relaxed than you have EVER been in your ENTIRE life. A good Korean Spa is hot herbal tea and iced cold cucumber water in rooms lined with exotic materials with magical sounding names and curative properties: The Jade Room, The Yellow Clay Room, The Amethyst Room, The Mugwort Room (ok, this last one actually smells a little funny, but supposedly it cleans out your internal organs and gives you nice dreams.)

It is Heaven.

When you go into a Korean Spa you are given a locker key, a towel, a robe, some sandals, and strict instructions to keep your hair up. (Hint for Newbies: the little wrist-twist that holds your locker key is perfect for this purpose.) That is the last time you will see your clothes for hours. You will wear your nice clean robe all the way through the lounge area, where you might pause to have some of the aforementioned tea or water. Thus refreshed, you will enter the main spa area, hang your robe on a hook, and become one of a sea of naked people practicing what is surely the world's best hygiene.

I should note here that Korean Spas are gender-differentiated (men get naked only with men, and women with other gals) but they are still not for the prude-of-heart. Once you drop your robe, male or female, you are going to find yourself strolling around with dozens of people who have the basic equipment you do but in every different size, shape, age, and color you can imagine. You are also likely to see a few scars and tattoos that normally don't enjoy the light of day. It's all out there.

But nobody cares, and that's the beauty of the Korean Spa experience. Everybody's naked, and no one cares ... so long as you keep your hair up, because if you don't, a couple of little old (naked) women will scold you and try to put it back up for you. I know. It happened to me my first time. Never again.

You will take the first of what will be many thorough showers at this point, making sure you are clean enough to take part in the communal cleanse-a-thon.

Then you go for it. In addition to all the nifty rooms, there are hot saunas and cold plunge pools; jacuzzis and pungently scented steams and open showers you visit again and again, to rinse off whatever toxins are leaking out of your pores as a result of all these wonderful places. At a Korean Spa, you can wash and scrub yourself stem to stern - rows of pristine little showers with stools to sit on make this easy - or, as a special treat, hire someone else to do it for you.

That's where the angels come in. Professional Korean bath attendants know their stuff. They wear a uniform of very un-sexy black underwear (think more "Lady Jockey" than "La Perla") because, basically, they work (and work hard) in a never ending stream of warm water. Under such conditions, less is definitely more.

If you choose to receive a Korean Spa treatment after you spend as much time as you like in the main spa area, you are escorted by your own personal angel into a large open room lined with padded plastic tables. This is not your lavender-scented intensely private spa "space" with Enya and Kenny G. drifting through the air. There is no music (unless you think as I do that the Korean language is a inherently musical). The aesthetic can only be described as Early Hospital Morgue - everything lined with tile, and with drains spaced at intervals in the floor. Big industrial trash cans filled with warm water are refilled from plumbers' taps in the wall; wire racks hold gallon jugs with unknown contents and - wait for it - piles of raw cucumbers. (I will get to that part later.)

Bare as the day you were born, you will be prompted to hop up on a plastic table only about three or four feet away from other naked people on other plastic tables. But you will not care, because your eyes will close and, honest to God, you will immediately revert to infancy. Your new Mama in black bra and panties will take a bucket and slosh warm water all over you before donning a pair of loofah mitts (fresh out of the package) and getting to work making sure you are as clean and soft as the proverbial baby's bottom. All of you. Even that selfsame bottom. From your neck to your armpits to your back and breasts (boobies are apparently just another appendage to be scrubbed, in the world of the Korean Spa) all the way down through your nether regions to the space between each and every, believe me here, toe ... you will be scrubbed to within an inch of your life. But kindly. Your attendant will gently lift each limb and body part, work methodically through every crack and crevice, and tap you gently before rolling you, with all the strong assurance of a practiced parent, from front to back to side to side.

(If you manage to open your eyes through the sheer bliss of this experience, you will see literal sheets of your own skin rolling off your body like nasty gray cigarette papers. I recommend keeping your eyes shut. The bath attendants will deal with with your dermatological detritus without your needing to look at it, and that is best for everyone, I think.)

When she is done, your Korean angel-mama will stand you up and send you off - yet again - to shower off the scrub. Take note: When you get back, she will check to make sure you have not left a grain of exfoliant to interfere with the rest of the process. Your ears will be flapped up and down, your hairline inspected, and, depending on the spa and the authenticity of the treatment, you may or may not have a middle-aged woman run her finger up the cleft between your buttocks. If she finds so much as a speck of soap, grit, or exfoliated skin there, she will send you back to try again.

Try to get it right the first time.

Then comes the good part - the massage.

How can I describe this? Having lurked at the bottom of the spinal gene pool for almost all of my life (lordosis, stenosis, scoliosis, degenerative discs - I've seen it all) I have experienced just about every therapy, chiropractic, and medical treatment out there. Nothing, but nothing, equals the ability of an experienced 4-foot-nine-inch Asian woman who is literally straddling your prone body to figure out and cure what ails you. These ladies take muscular tension as a personal affront; during one Korean Spa visit in LA the 50-something woman taking care of me grabbed hold of one arm, lifted it above my head, and hissed right out loud. One of her colleagues came over to see what was the matter, and before I knew it, the two of them had, I am convinced, dislocated and reinserted my shoulder. Not that I was really aware. It didn't really hurt - there was just a flurry of limbs and some very loud pops, and then my lady was patting me with a sweet mixture of consolation and admonition.

"Too much stress," she chided me. "You cut it out."

Then she continued to massage my problematic left trapezoid with the same powerful, assured strokes that had basically jellified the rest of my body, and all I could do was mentally agree: "Yes, Angel-Mama, I will stop gripping the steering wheel so tight. I will chill on the keyboard. I will stop wagging my finger at drivers who cut me off on the 101. I will do anything you ask, just please ... don't ... stop."

And she didn't, until I was drooling all over the towel beneath my head and pretty sure that the numbness that had been plaguing my left pinkie was ... gone.

Then, with one of those deft taps, she flipped me over and disappeared. This is another thing American spa-goers need to understand. Korean bath attendants aren't like the white-t-shirted Karmas and Larses of the American spa experience. They don't feel obliged to have one hand comfortingly on you at all times. In fact, at some points during your hour-long treatment, they will disappear altogether, leaving you (warm enough and swaddled in towels) all alone on your plastic table in the middle of the big tile room. (Rest assured, Newbies. They are just off making things even better, if that is possible.)

Toward the latter half of your Korean Spa treatment, your attendant will leave you alone for a while, whisk a fresh cucumber out of the stash on the rack behind her, grate it (you will hear this) right in the vicinity of your head, and proceed to apply the resultant moist, fragrant slop to your cheeks, foreheads, chin, nose, and jawline. You will at this point think you have recached the apex of your Korean Spa experience, because shredded raw cucumber on your face feels - and smells - sooooooooooooooooooooo good.

But you have not. Ultimate bliss is reserved for the shampoo and scalp rub that follows and will, as one friend of mine once put it, leave you feeling as if your hair has never been so wet nor so richly full of mysteriously healthy, good-smelling unguents in its life.

Ah. This blog post has gone on too long, the way I wish all my visits to Korean Spas would. It's been a few years since an old friend treated me to my first Korean Spa experience, and only a few days since I did likewise to a more recent acquaintance, who left our joint appointment in San Francisco beaming like a religious convert. We're all hooked now - addicts of a sort. We know the sweet satisfaction of being THAT clean, of smelling THAT good, of having milk-rinsed skin so soft and muscles so relaxed that it takes days - literally - for the glow to wear off.

We don't have a Korean Spa in my hometown of Santa Barbara, but I wish like anything we did. If I had money to spend on setting up a business, it would be, hands-down, an authentic Korean Spa, with minimalist decor and wise, practiced ladies in black underwear to take care of us all and remind us that, in a world where - truly - we control so little, we can at least take care of each other. Naked and without judgement, just doing our best to be clean and happy.

Kind of like Heaven.

Disneyland Dirty

2011-01-30T07:37:00.000-08:00

Disneyland dirty -
middle American muck
clings to us, like dreams.

Despite what you are probably thinking, this is not a rant about how tacky Disneyland is or the bizarre people you see there, wearing pirate mouse ears over their shaved mullets. Even though I am sometimes perplexed by the fashion choices and parenting methods of my fellow visitors, I go to The Magic Kingdom because Disneyland inevitably makes kids - even teenagers - happy. And really, how many places can lay claim to that kind of power? I don't like Disney bashers. They're mean, and there's enough of that in this world.

But yesterday I went on my bi-annual trek down to The Happiest Place on Earth with a whole Suburban full of students and experienced a revelation: Disneyland is DIRTY. No, not soiled and gum-on-your-shoe dirty - the place is actually obsessively neat in that regard. Cheerful Cast Members are all over the place, sweeping and emptying clever thematic trash bins and wishing you a "good day" while they do it. More than once I had to hustle to beat a lady with a cleaning cart into one of the pristine bathroom stalls there.

HOWEVER ... somewhere just outside of Tomorrowland it occurred to me that even the most obsessive cleaning crews couldn't do anything about my fellow guests. And - how shall I put this? - not all of them seemed particularly concerned with good hygiene. Disney forces you into proximity with others at every turn; from the moment you're herded onto the tram to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers from Topeka and Taiwan, you are, basically, at the mercy of the Gods of Contagion. Forget all the folks who blithely skip right out of the bathroom without washing their hands - and trust me; in the ladies room outside Cinderella's Castle, at least, there were a lot of them. Hour-long lines in which you are literally chained into tight herds of humanity provide ample opportunity to observe myriad gross habits:

Little kid with the sickly green discharge coughing and sneezing all over without a single parental attempt to get him to use his elbow or even, God forbid, blow his nose? I did The Matterhorn with him.
Woman with - I swear to God and the image nauseates me still - a large open sore on her tattooed arm resting said arm across the seat back of the boat in front of me in Pirates of the Caribbean. (Which happens to be my favorite ride and she RUINED it.)
Not one but two open-air diaper changes with nary a sink in sight;
Finally - wait for it - a completely oblivious "Ukrainian Hankie" right into the waters of the Jungle Cruise. Even the guy doing the lame safari-guide-schtick broke character for a second and looked appalled.

By the time the tepid, probably fetid, waters of Splash Mountain were washing all over me and everyone else in our shared petri dish, I knew it to be true. Disneyland is a pandemic waiting to happen. Toward the end of the day I was passed by a Japanese tour in which several members were wearing those medical face masks that I've come to equate with the Avian Flu, and I was actually a little jealous: Why hadn't I thought of that? The best I could do was make it through the two-hour drive home and have a long, hot shower once I got there.

After that, I had the most wondertful dreams. Maybe they'll all come true - that is, after all, the Disneyland promise. I'll be back. Maybe I'll just be wearing a face mask. And gloves.

revolution

2011-01-28T11:24:00.000-08:00

cameras don't catch
the small acts of subversion
only their effects

My New Love

2011-01-26T12:14:00.000-08:00

Absurdly in Love

With my New Water Bottle

I Just had to Share.

So I love Bikram yoga, right? Only it's really hard to stay hydrated when you're exercising for 90 minutes in a super-heated room. Even if you bring a bottle of iced water in with you, ten minutes into your practice the ice has completely melted and the water has gone tepid. Nasty when you're already a little queasy from standing on one leg with your head on the other knee for a minute and a half. Even worse, if your bottle is metal (which the best ones are) it gets hot and burns your lips. Very un-cool. Enter the G2V Zero Mass Vacuum Bottle: first of all, it's sustainably manufactured of fully recyclable, BPA-free materials. Ethical products are good. It's odor and stain resistant ( if you've ever spent time in a Bikram hot room, you know how important that is). Best of all ... the way this thing is constructed means it keeps whatever is inside freezing cold ... indefinitely ... no matter how high the ambient temperature. How do I know this? Because I just took my sexy new bottle to yoga, and, when class was over, the ice cubes inside hadn't melted AT ALL. Which meant that after camel pose, when I needed it bad, I had a fabulous drink of coldcoldcold water! I guess this might seem a little obsessive and weird if you don't do Bikram, but if you do, you are nodding along with me right now, aren't you?? AREN'T YOU??!!??? I love this new bottle. Oh - and the outside doesn't sweat, and the BPA-free plastic mouth stays cool, so you don't hurt your kisser. I am going to go and kiss my bottle now. You should try it, too.

Bartleby the Scrivener

2011-01-20T07:13:00.000-08:00

the man at the desk
said "i would prefer not to."
and sat there, quite still.

Caffeinated

2011-01-18T05:50:00.000-08:00

Th-th-th-th-that
secondcupofcoffeewas
NOT A GOOD IDEA!

Apparently my tolerance for extra caffeine, like so many other things, is decreasing with age.

The Downside to Multitasking

2011-01-13T07:21:00.000-08:00

"Hello, Officer"
I mumble through the thick strips
Of tooth whitener.

OK, I know I am the first one to rail against distracted drivers, but Crest Whitestrips aren't distracting ... at least to me. And if not during the morning commute, when else is a working mother going to have thirty minutes free to spend with gluey pieces of plastic plastered to her teeth?

And no, I didn't get a ticket. I think he liked my smile.

Wherein MamaKu Takes a Stand

2011-01-11T10:16:00.000-08:00

"Guns Don't Kill People;
People Do." Just easier
for people with guns.

I think since I lost two people I love to a gun, I get to have this opinion.

Why?

2011-01-08T08:51:00.000-08:00

why do people wait
until january first
to fix what ails them?

Enough with the resolutions already. If you noticed your pants wouldn't button back in October, why did you wait three months to cut back on the calories and get some exercise? What stopped you from practicing more kindness last June? Maybe I have no appreciation for the symbolism of New Years - I just think we'd all be better off if we addressed our "issues" as they crop up.

On Applying Cosmetics Behind the Wheel

2011-01-04T13:13:00.000-08:00

If undertakers
Exercise similar care
You will look good, dead.

Open memo to the woman who spent the entire commute this morning weaving around on the freeway in front of me because she was applying her makeup in the rearview mirror: I hope your survivors don't blame the poor schmuck who will inevitably rear-end you in the fast lane because you apparently need to take your foot off the gas pedal every time you dab at your lashes. I hope it doesn't hurt when the mascara wand impales your eyeball and plunges into your brain. I hope your apparent lack of a brain doesn't hurt anyone else. I hope ... oh, never mind.

2011

2011-01-02T09:19:00.000-08:00

Peace, prosperity
Good health to you and your own.
These I wish for you!

Fashion Haiku

2010-12-30T06:12:00.000-08:00

... nothing like the holidays to bring out questionable taste in clothing. Oy.

Older than forty?
Step away from the mini.
It is not for you.

What conspiracy
resulted in the advent
of Lycra "jeggings?"

Ugg boots, like gym clothes,
have a purpose and a place.
Not in public, please.

Yes, you may be "hot."
You should still put on more clothes
When it's cold outside.

The Way to My Heart

2010-12-29T05:53:00.000-08:00

The way to my heart
lies not in verse nor in song
but in chocolate.

Good chocolate. And lots of it.

Boxing Day

2010-12-26T08:42:00.000-08:00

The Day in Between
Is a Very Good Day to
Buy Me Lots of Gifts!

Guess whose birthday is December 27??? Just guess!!!

Bad, Paul!

2010-12-24T13:20:00.000-08:00

It is most unwise
to agree to sit a dog
with your husband's name.

It seemed like such an easy thing to do - add one more Golden Retriever to our menagerie for the holidays and give a couple of dear friends (who are expecting twins, no less!) the chance to travel home for one last Christmas without car seats and diaper bags. Except that this particular dog has the same name as my husband. And a penchant for inappropriate barking and grabbing food off the kitchen counter when he thinks we aren't looking. It's not really the occasional misbehavior that is the problem - I am a very good alpha pack member and know how to correct. It's just that when I do, my husband thinks I am correcting him. And this is not good for our marriage. With advance apologies to our friends, I am going to change their dog's name to "Steve." Just until the New Year. Because I really do love my husband ... Paul.

Internal Struggle

2010-12-21T08:33:00.000-08:00

The garbage truck comes.
I did not take out the trash -
but my bed is warm.

The Christmas Hamster

2010-12-18T12:27:00.000-08:00

The Christmas Hamster.
There are those who don't believe;
I know it is real.

Too many pets

2010-12-16T06:04:00.000-08:00

Fell over the dog
while I was carrying the cat,
Thus spilling the fish.

It's official; we have too many pets ... and did I mention I landed right on my knee? The one that just had surgery? Well, I did. And it really hurts.

College Acceptance

2010-12-12T08:25:00.000-08:00

When I was 18
It wasn't THAT big a deal.
Now it's *like* ALL that.

The good news is: my oldest just got into the one college he really wants to attend. The bad news: the application process was awful and angst-ridden, and he, frankly, just got lucky. A lot of his friends who are equally talented and hardworking etc. etc. received deferrals or outright rejections. I know competetive college admissions are these days ... I don't blame the schools ... but are we parents putting wayyyyyyy too much importance on where our kids do their undergrad? Do employers really even care where potential employees spent the years between 18 and 22, so long as they didn't post anything stupid on YouTube or Facebook? I don't know ....

Farewell

2010-12-08T18:09:00.000-08:00

Dear Ex-Favorite Blogger:
You hooked me with your great wit,
But your posts are stale.

It's happened: I've become one of those crazy people online who find a new blogger and just lovelovelove her so much I check EVERY SINGLE DAY to see what witty observations she has made. Then I write equally witty and pithy comments of my own telling her how great she is and how my every day is made brighter by her and her TOTALLY AWESOME blog. But NOW but it seems that she is now writing a book or raising a child or something and she doesn't have any more time to write for us, her loyal blogience. She hasn't posted anything new in * like* three days. So it's over. She won't have me to disappoint. I'm not going back to her sillystupid site ANY MORE. No more gushing comments from Mamaku for her. Never. Just watch!

Christmas Gift Ideas

2010-12-01T06:23:00.000-08:00

my email inbox
full of christmas gift ideas
from folks i don't know

Every retailer from whom I have ever purchased anything on line assumes 1) I celebrate the holidays 2) I have money to buy lots of presents 3) they know what my friends and family like. I don't know why, exactly, but that bugs me.

Squishy

2010-11-24T05:48:00.000-08:00

Mum's squishy tummy:
A source of great amusement
To those who caused it.

On a similar note, it is the one who refused to wean until she was almost in kindergarten who criticizes my breasts "because they don't go up like other ladies' do." Little ingrate.

Dog Day

2010-11-18T07:09:00.000-08:00

Golden Retriever!
You eat everything in sight.
Why not take your pill?

A teacher's POV

2010-11-18T05:54:00.000-08:00

Enabling parents!
I would love to help your child,
but you're in the way.

One of my teacher friends said my last post nailed the parental point of view, and she asked if I had any perspective on the Parent Conference phenomenon from the teacher's point of view. It's been a long time, but I do remember a few things ...

Parent Conference

2010-11-16T05:43:00.000-08:00

Parent Conference:
An inordinate power
to please or dismay.

My children are their own people. I should no more feel guilty for my teenager's extreme shyness than proud of my six-year old's reading ability. In both cases, it's just a matter of genetics. But still ... what is it about those twenty-minute sessions with our kids' teachers that inspires joy, trepidation, and everything in between...?

Picture Books

2010-11-13T06:49:00.000-08:00

What do I do now?
The youngest has outgrown them;
I can't give them up.

Best Done in Private

2010-11-10T06:05:00.000-08:00

Personal Hygiene
Like Sex and Using the John
Best Done in Private.

Ok, so Mama's been thinking about yesterday's guest post, and she figures it's time to share a little hint with ALL the public groomers out there ... not only the office nail-clippers (although that's pretty egregiuous), but also the restaurant-table appliers of makeup, those who see waiting in line at the checkout counter as a good opportunity to floss, anyone who brushes/combs their hair anywhere in public and ... wait for it ... people who PICK THEIR NOSES IN THE CAR. (As if we can't see you. We can! And we're appalled!)

Cut it out. Please.

Guest Haiku!!!

2010-11-09T05:59:00.000-08:00

Today I am happy to share the musings of a fellow cubicle dweller - who shall remain anonymous but much appreciated. She writes:

We're not paying you
to gross out those around you.
Clip your nails at home.

mondays

2010-11-08T05:40:00.000-08:00

unlike other folks
i relish monday mornings
new week, here i come!

too darn hot

2010-11-04T15:00:00.000-07:00

when Bikram yoga
is cooler than the outside
it is too darn hot.

Sinus Infection

2010-11-03T14:37:00.000-07:00

Little elves with picks
Are pounding at my eyeball.
Sinus infection!

Support Systems

2010-10-25T06:05:00.000-07:00

Spanx and my girlfriends:
What would I do without them?
They both have my back.

Web Stalking is So Not Cool

2010-10-19T16:27:00.000-07:00

creepy ex-boyfriend...
i know you've been searching me.
restraining order!

Camping in the Rain

2010-10-17T08:40:00.000-07:00

Camping in the Rain
Romantic in Theory
In Fact, Cold and Wet

on the road again

2010-10-15T06:01:00.000-07:00

in the car alone
i listen to npr
makes me feel smarter

Gender Confusion

2010-10-14T06:58:00.000-07:00

My sweet flock of hens
Is not all it seems to be
Cock-a-Doodle Doo!

Apparently those people who "sex" chicks before you buy them are not always 100% accurate.

After the Event

2010-10-13T07:03:00.000-07:00

It's like postpartum
Only without the stretch marks
And a lot more sleep.

one of those nights

2010-09-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

went to bed at ten
read 'til twelve; tossed until three
finally got up

Busy brain, won't stop.
Important thoughts, jumbled with
Junk - utter nonsense.

People who say they
Love dawn have usually
Slept through the nighttime.

Six Year Old Fashion Statement

2010-09-22T07:18:00.000-07:00

Purple tights, bright orange shirt
Thick pink socks and tiara
You make it work, Babe.

I'm just hoping her seventeen-year-old brother doesn't show up in the same outfit ...

10.30.10

2010-09-20T06:55:00.000-07:00

October 30
I sure know where I will be!
Jon Stewart, here I come.

foggy september

2010-09-18T08:26:00.000-07:00

santa barbara
is supposed to be hot now
global warming? Ha!

Ode to the 154

2010-09-16T07:19:00.000-07:00

You're on your way home
When I hear the sirens pass
Half an hour of hell.

Dear casino-bound partiers, impatient truck drivers, and road warriors in general: Please cut it out. The highway over San Marcos Pass is a curving mountain road, not a freeway, and people die when you forget that fact. I live right at the base of the 154, and I hear the fire and ambulances on the way to clean up the messes you've made at least a couple times a week. It's particularly awful when I know my husband is on his commute to and from work in the Valley. Last night someone lost a loved one in a seven-car wreck allegedly caused by a drunk driver. The sirens lasted a long, long time during that one.

I'll repeat: please just cut it out.

out of the ashes

2010-09-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

I will tell our kids

abundance can and will rise

out of the ashes.

This is my garden (yes, that's the famous chicken coop in the background.) You can't see it in this snapshot, but there are raised vegetables plots to the right and some really awesome fruit trees to the left. This year, everything has been almost embarrassingly abundant. We've collected bundles of flowers, baskets and baskets of snap peas and plums, apricots and squashes of every description ... berries galore ... and so many tomatoes even I can't figure out what to do with them all.

Yep, it's been a banner summer for produce.

The kicker is, last summer was a dud. Flowers never bloomed; the trees grudgingly dropped a few measly fruits before closing up shop way too early in the season, and the vegetables all seemed to suffer from the malaise my old baby-raising books always identified as "failure to thrive." The fact that I, like most mothers, would blame myself if my infant failed to be fat and happy is not lost on me as I make the comparison to my garden. Last year I was convinced I must have done something horribly wrong to thus wither my vines.

But the truth in both cases isn't anywhere near so clear-cut. Plants and children are affected by myriad factors, many beyond the control of even the most careful of guardians. Last year, for example, a raging brushfire - the third in as many years in our lovely little piece of the Central Coast - dumped what looked like truckloads of ash on our neighborhood, which tho' spared the actual flames that crept up to the end of our street and tragically destroyed the houses of so many of our friends didn't (thank goodness) burn our home to the ground.

That ash had some caustic power of its own, though, and by coating the tender leaves and buds of my plants at a crucial point in the growing season, it pretty much nuked any chance those plants could do more than survive; in fact, the summer of '09 saw some of my favorite perennials lose the fight and die, despite all the care I could give.

The plants that did struggle through were rewarded - thanks to that same ash, now worked into the soil as a powerful nutient, abundant rainfall, and two unexpected heat waves during the following winter. Late last spring the garden in my backyard burst out anew. The aformentioned bumper crop of flowers, fruits, and vegetables has given this summer a luster of success I could never have imagined a year ago.

That's life.

One year ago my family's constellation was blown apart by personal tragedy - the kind that wakes you up with a midnight call from a police station and keeps you awake through days and weeks of unwanted outreach from reporters and the morbidly curious. There were times my own grief - and other emotions still too fragile to mention - rendered me incapable of anything more than basic survival. I know my siblings, my husband, my father and even worse all of our children were also damaged by this. There were times I questioned our individual and joint survival.

But here we are. Love and faith and the sheer demands of life - the peremptory will to live on in spite of the rain of deadly ash and worse - kept us somehow together and, somehow, I think, even improved. More attuned to the ways of others. Less preoccupied with the unimportant.

Willing to forgive.

Our family's garden is scarred and blooming.

We thrive - in spite of and perhaps even in some cases because of - the damage inflicted upon our roots and stems by powers beyond our control.

Without knowing what the future holds, I am comforted by a new understanding of nature's course, and I will make sure our children do as well, in all the harvests to come.

god and politics

2010-09-01T06:44:00.000-07:00

god and politics:
keep them out of your email
and things will be fine

Social media are the millennial version of the dinner table; if we want to keep things civil, there are certain topics that really should excluded from the conversation.

So the next time you're about to proselytize on your FaceBook page, forward the latest political diatribe making the email rounds, or leave a grossly partisan comment on a news article ... STOP. Think about whom you might be offending.

Otherwise we're all going to end up screaming at each other, which I guess online would be in ALL CAPS with lots of EXCLAMATION POINTS and, even worse... emoticons.

Why I'm Not Mature Enough to be a Webmaster

2010-08-31T07:08:00.000-07:00

Can't help it. The term
"Administrative Backend"
Simply cracks me up.

Talk Less; Listen More

2010-08-30T06:02:00.000-07:00

if you stop talking
and listen for one second
you'll get your answers.

On the Road Again

2010-08-27T06:24:00.000-07:00

Commuter's Lament

one third of my life
spent with children and deejays
no wonder i'm odd.

Road Hazard

Hey, Mercedes Girl
Texting while doing eighty -
Drafting your obit?

HWJD

That fish on your car
Must be praying really hard
Not to become scrap.

Author's note: this post originally caused quite a kafuffle; if you're interested in learning more, check out MamaKu #8 of July 27, 2010.

On Car "Decor" in General

Reducing your life
To stick-on decals and such
Strikes me as bizarre.

The Fast Lane

There's always that guy
Going sixty in the left.
I can't stand him. You?

Nasty, Brutish, and Short

2010-08-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

i romanticized
the keeping of my own hens
they eat their own young.

Couldn't figure out why egg production in the Maison du Poulet was down until I caught one of the Chanticleers in the act. Eating eggs. Might have been one of hers, maybe the laying of another hen, but .... eeeeewwww!! I guess during the idyllic establishment of my own henhouse I blithely skipped right over the chapters about how nasty chickens can be. Not only will they on occasion peck each other to death (sometimes out of sheer boredom), but they often develop a taste for eggs.

Cannibalism is bad enough but eating your own offspring ratchets the ick factor up quite a few notches.

"Curing" this behavior is tough and sometimes impossible. You can try calcium supplements in the feed, putting golf balls in the nest (chickens are dumb enough to confuse Titleist ProVIs with the product of their own loins) and just hanging out near the coop until you catch one in the act and tell her she's a "BAD chicken!" but ....

In the end, if a certain hen just won't quit eating eggs, you have to remove her from the flock altogether, because ... let's face it ... having one of your BFFs stalking you while you're trying to have a baby so she can immediately eat it would upset even the mellowest of souls. An egg-eater can spoil the whole flock. This means a more "final solution" for the offending hen, and that, my friends, is the subject of another post altogether.

My friend Miss Kate - who actually grew up on a real-live working farm, in Missouri - has watched with some bemusement as I've set myself up as a Suburban Lady Farmer. Like any good Daughter of the Midwest, she's taking my disillusion in stride and encouraging me to do the same. Apparently there are things even grosser than eating your own young.

I don't think I'm ready for that, yet, so ... haiku!

Early Morning Haiku

2010-08-24T05:52:00.000-07:00

Green at 5:00 am

O, recycling truck
Must you do your good work now
Outside of my house?

The Snooze Button Controversy

You like to wake up;
Go back to sleep; wake up; sleep ...
Let's just say I don't.

Mommy Needs her Java Fix

Of course I love you
It's just I will love you more
After my coffee.

Suspicious Character

2010-08-21T06:16:00.000-07:00

Time to cut your hair.
The Neighborhood Watch calls you
"Suspicious character."

Is it bad when you turn onto your street and note a really scruffy looking guy lurking around only to realize it's your own son?

For Better or For Worse

2010-08-19T06:19:00.000-07:00

Let's get one thing straight:
"For better or worse" did not
Cover bad music.

Most of the time I really enjoy the tunes the Big Kahuna puts on our shared playlists. He does have a maudlin penchant for sentimental folk ballads, however, that makes me want to download the entire Andrew Lloyd Weber collection and sync it right into his iPhone. How do you like that, Big Guy? Huh? Huh!

CatKu

2010-08-18T07:00:00.001-07:00

Thursday

Sweet little kitty!
Why are you gagging like that?
We are much concerned.

Friday

Sick cat went to vet
many tests ... all appears well.
Four hundreds bucks, please.

Saturday/Sunday

Kitty will not eat;
Lies around, looking horrid.
Children are frantic.

Monday

Yaak ... monster hairball.
Feeling better now. Meeeeooow.
No more hair band snacks.

Shout out to Guest Haiku-ist, my sister! Also to her family and their newly acquired (and, apparently, indiscriminately greedy) feline.

Product Placement

2010-08-16T06:19:00.000-07:00

Mammary alert! To male and/or prudish readers (that means you, Dad): If the very thought of breasts and bras (mine, anyone's) makes you all flustered and uncomfortable, stop reading now.

Unless it's too late, in which case, you might as well enjoy the haiku.

Back fat in bra cups.
False advertising? Or just
Good product placement?

The back story (pun intended) on this one has to do with the age-old female practice of making one's "bosoms" (as my grandmother used to call them) look bigger and more perky than they really are. I say age-old and use my Granny as a reference here, because one of her favorite stories involved the time during their 1920s courtship when my grandfather Clifford took her up in an (unpressurized) airplane and tried not to notice when the inflatable falsies in her shirt began - literally - blowing up. Fortunately both Granny and Papa possessed a good sense of humor and were able to laugh the incident off ... at least, as Papa would inevitably assert when Granny had finished relating this saucy tale at family gatherings, he was spared the honeymoon surprise experienced by most men of his generation when the buxom women they'd just promised to love honor and cherish took off their "Lady Parts" and put them in a drawer.

Well, here it is, almost a hundred years later, and things haven't really changed. Gel inserts have replaced blow-ups, and surgical implants have added a whole new dimension to the practice, but the fact remains that many of us who are less-than-well endowed in the Lady Parts department are always on the lookout for a good enhancement opportunity.

I thought I knew every trick in the book, but this one took me by surprise ... you might even say "aback."

Ha.

As those of you who may recall all the way back to LifeKu post #3 ("Dressing for One of Those Days"), earlier this summer I experienced the sad and (literally) painful loss of My Favorite Bra. That sorry tale utimately had a happy ending; those of you who are curious can go back and look in the comments section of that post.

For me, however, it was the process as much as the outcome that proved really interesting ... even, one might say, "uplifting."

Ha AGAIN.

Anyway, a-bra-shopping I did go, and I met a very nice and very knowledgable saleswoman (or "fit consultant," as she prefers to be called) in the Nordstrom's lingerie department. According to her, the secret to really rocking a good bra lies in one's ability to incorporate the entirety of one's "torso flesh" (aka "back fat") into the cups of the aforementioned brassiere. This involves, literally, using one's hands like little fleshly backhoes to "scoop" everything forward, back to front, so that once the scooping is done and the bra is safely secured by its clever little front closure ...

Voila!

Instant cleavage.

Cheating? Maybe. But only a little. And far less alarming than having your beloved's boobies explode.

Attention Teenagers

2010-08-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

You aced your APs.
Great! Since you're so smart, surely
You can clean your room.

Aw, you grew your boobs.
Thanks for sharing them with us.
Now put them away.

On the contrary:
I do not exist solely
To embarrass you.

The fact you called me
"Mommy" makes me wonder if
You need more money.

Ode to Joe

2010-08-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

the hinge and fulcrum
of my oft imbalanced life
are your frozen foods.

I complain about the parking lots as much as anyone, but - as God is my witness - but for Trader Joe's I would have no social life and my family would go hungry six days out seven. Im just sayin' ...

People of Walmart

2010-08-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

People of Walmart
Never fail to make me smile
Just like the icon.

Betcha thought I was going to follow up with some snarky comment about Middle America, clinical obesity, and chronic bad taste. WRONG! Actually, what's makes me happiest about http://www.peopleofwalmart.com/ is the knowledge that there are people out there who are secure enough in ther own skins to wear whatever the hell they want to go grocery shopping. Some of them even bring livestock!

I love a good dose of chutzpah, I really do.

Mad Cat

2010-08-10T09:51:00.000-07:00

Asked to wash the dog,
Kids went for extra credit;
Shampooed the cat, too.

...and now he's sitting in the corner, staring balefully at me. As if it was my idea. It's kind of scaring me. If I don't write any haiku for a couple of days, would someone please check on my welfare?

poorly written

2010-08-09T08:00:00.000-07:00

it's just possible
my horrible penmanship
caused the recession.

My husband just spent forty-five minutes on the phone explaining to Jim at the West Coast Wells Fargo Call Center that the check they just cashed for two hundred and fifty dollars was in fact a check for two dollars and fifty cents. (Well, I lost my water bottle; it was hot, and all I had in my yoga bag was my checkbook.)

They figured it all out, but the Big Kahuna reports that at one point while they were looking at the online .pdf of the check, Jim said "Sir, I got my supervisor right here, and we both agree this is the most illegible instrument we've ever seen."

Kahuna just texted me the image. They were right. My handwriting sucks.

I'm not allowed to write any more checks.

iPain

2010-08-06T09:56:00.000-07:00

you got an iPad.
Good for you! Now put it down
and get back to work.

Of a Certain Age

2010-08-05T04:00:00.000-07:00

"Of a Certain Age"
Nothing says it better than
A pair of duck lips.

Gather 'round, girls. Boys, you come too. Mama wants to talk to you.

Actually, what I have in mind is more of an intervention. Because I'm worried about you. About all of us, really. There's something very personal we have to discuss before things get any further out of hand.

No, don't try to hide that Peet's cup behind your back. I'm not about to deliver a lecture about the dangers of consuming too much caffeine. And don't worry about your diet, either, because Mama would be last one to point fingers in that direction. The secret of your daily visits to Crushcakes is safe with me.

But you ... yes, you with the big sunglasses you've been refusing to take off ever since you "went to San Diego for a wedding" ... of a friend none of us has ever heard of before ... You stop trying to sneak away and sit yourself down right next to me.

And don't look so smug, Mr. Former-Wearer-of-Baseball-Hats-At-All-Times. Your hair plugs may have grown in a little since you proudly started showing us your fuzzy new dome, but you're still a victim and you still need to hear this:

We're not fooling anyone.

I'll say it again, because the feigned looks of innocent surprise peeking through the otherwise blank expanse of your collective Botox-brows indicates a certain degree of denial is still at work here:

We ...are...not...fooling...anyone.

In fact, not only are we not fooling anyone, but we are making ourselves foolish. Those sunburned tourists in the socks and speedos that we make fun of at the beach? They are laughing at us. The slacker kids who hang out in front of de la Guerra Plaza asking for money snicker when we walk past not because they are stoned but because they can see very well what we are trying so pathetically to hide:

Our age.

Dammit, people, we are middle-aged. What in the name of Don Draper is wrong with that? When our parents were in their forties and fifties, they accepted the fact and still had fabulous cocktail parties and even (although it grossed us out when we were teenagers and forced to think about it on those occasions when things got a little loud) fabulous sex. With each other. Wrinkles, bald spots, laugh lines, and all.

Yet here we are, reaching the same confident, sexy stage of our lives and instead embracing that - "Hey! the kids can drive themselves to the movies; let's make martinis and go skinny-dipping while they're not home!" - we're trying desperately to recreate the physical attributes of a youth we should be proud to have moved past. A s if preternaturally smooth skin, inflato-lips, and strange-looking Rogaine hair will make us look younger and more appealing... instead of the opposite.

Don't make me say it. You know where this is heading.

The bizarre appearance of faux-youth is as much a part of our cultural consciousness as the combover, yet, just as that hairy practice inexplicably persists, here in good old SB altogether too many of us continue to believe that we may be the one exception to the national joke. We believe against all reason and even People Magazine that we may be the one person on the planet on whom cheap, artificial procedures don't look ... well ... cheap and artificial.

Now, please don't get me wrong. The purpose of this intervention is not to self-righteously unload on cosmetic surgery in general. If going to a licensed, qualified professional and shelling out the big bucks it takes to address a physical flaw or fault that really, really bugs you is going to make your life happier and more fulfilling, then by all means go for it. (Mama would do this in a heartbeat, if the joint spectres of a Santa Barbara mortgage and college tuitions didn't haunt her far more than her incipient jowls.)

But please, for the love of all that is right and beautiful about being "of a certain age," quit going out and injecting yourself full of weird stuff that just makes you look weird. The next time you are invited to a Botox Party, think of Kenny Rogers. If your facialist suggests you do something about those laugh lines, remember how cute Meg Ryan used to be. If someone with a syringe says she can "fix" your lips, sum up a mental image of Janice Dickinson, and run for the foothills.

If all else fails, think of Mickey Rourke.

Well, I guess that's it. Thanks for this time together. I think we've accomplished a lot today, and Mama's got a few other things she'd like to do before the kids get home from the Airport Drive-in.

Skinny-dipping, anyone?

New Party Game!

2010-08-04T17:10:00.000-07:00

Oxy, Vi, Per, Hi!
add to dro, co, con or li;
tin, set, done or dine ...

Multitasking Mama

2010-08-04T10:25:00.000-07:00

Tell me that YOU can
Wield crutches and the plunger
Both at the same time.

Public Bathroom Haiku

2010-08-03T10:43:00.000-07:00

Hygiene Horror

Your failure to wash
Makes me see you and your hands
In a whole new light.

Note to the next stall over

Potty Etiquette
Suggests you end your cell call
Before you pee.

Disappointment Strikes

Disappointment strikes
Deep in the heart of she who
Finds the roll deplete.

Brain Freeze

2010-08-01T13:40:00.000-07:00

Ow. Ow, ow owow.
So it's not on my diet.
Did I deserve that?

Changes Afoot

2010-07-31T12:36:00.001-07:00

Parts of me are flawed

Fixing what I can

Cannot stress the rest.

Yep, these are my feet. Heinous, aren’t they?

My parents left me some very nice genetic legacies, but taking the bad along with the good I got the infamous family “Skank Toes,” a condition in which not one but two of my secondary toes are longer than my big toe, which is itself (as you will have observed) uniquely large and ugly. The result is that my feet kind of look like monkey hands, but they’re nowhere near as useful.

Even better, the odd conformation of my toes makes wearing most shoes uncomfortable, so when I’m not at work I tend to live in flip-flops. Therefore (unlike the golden glow that graces the sun-kissed backsides of my more shapely Californian sisters) my “thong tan” is on my feet. Unfortunately this tends to make my feet look dirty (they’re really not … usually) and more like hippie feet than the appendages of a 40-something-year old professional.

True, I could make more of an effort to prettify my hooves, and I do indulge in the occasional pedicure … but more often than not I have much more important things to do with $40. So there you have it. I’ve got ugly feet, and one of the best things about being my current age is being able to accept my flaws and admit some things just can’t be changed.

But that doesn’t hold true in every case. Change is indeed at work in my world, both physically and metaphysically.

First: the bod. In addition to Skank Toes, Mom and Dad passed on a tricky spine and a couple of obstreperous knees, all of which seem to require surgery on a depressingly regular basis. Tomorrow it’s knee #2, the right one, which made a funny popping sound about a month ago and has, like a challenging teenager, been refusing to do its chores ever since. So Dr. E. (“Hey, it’s you again!") is kindly going to go in with his little mini-vacuum and clean things up. I am not that nervous about this procedure as:

1) Dr. E is very good at his job and even takes little internal pictures of my joints while he’s at work to prove his mad meniscus-mending skills;

and

2) According to my father, a diabetic cancer survivor with more health problems he can shake his walker at, what I am having doesn’t even really count as surgery. He says – and he’s right – that you can’t call it “going under the knife” if all they do is stick little micro-tubey things into you.

Who can argue with that?

What I’m not looking forward to is the whole anesthesia thing. It’s bad enough when the smiling guy-or-gal in the green surgical mask saunters up and asks you to sign a piece of paper giving him-or-her permission to load you up with the same stuff that killed Michael Jackson … (“Propo-what???!!!” ). Recognizing the possibility of your own demise is unnerving at the best of times; it’s worse when you’re in a public place strapped to a gurney wearing one of those lame hospital gowns and a stranger wants you to promise that your survivors won’t sue if you don’t have enough stamina to make it through your minor little operation.

But then they actually give you the anesthetic, and next thing you know …

Well, you don’t know, and I hate that part. Being a bit of a control freak, I have a hard time letting other people load the dishwasher if I’m not supervising. Far less do I like the notion of others messing around with my body parts while I’m unconscious. Given my druthers, I would rather have my knee fixed with only a local anesthetic, so I could observe and offer constructive criticism to Dr. E. and Co. while they’re at work. (And I’m sure this is one of the many reasons my request to not go all the way under was politely declined.)

So heigh-ho, tomorrow off I go, and when I awake to the gentle sounds of the recovery-room nurse screaming at me and slapping me in the face (Why do they do that, anyway?) I will be fixed, altered, forever changed … for the better, I assume. That’s the physical part of my evolution.

Other good changes in my life include this blog, LifeKu. I started it just a month ago, and like all worthwhile endeavors it’s a work-in-progress. Thanks to some good advice, I’ve made some changes to the format and the way I post. Most notable is the fact that, going forward, if I have explanation (like this) to share with my haiku, then I will place it in the “comments” section rather than the body of the post in question. I do this on the advice of my BFF Babs, who is wicked smart and has known me since I was nine. As only a dear friend who is much more intelligent and web-savvy than I can do, Babs gently took me aside after reviewing my initial efforts and suggested I clean things up a bit.

“You do tend to go on, you know,” she said with infinite gentility and care.

Yes I do.

I love Babs.

I’m also going public, which is not something I expected to do, as LifeKu is really something I only intended to inflict on friends and family. However, as another good friend pointed out, someone as opinionated as I am really should spread the joy (pain?) around beyond my immediate circle. Hence I’m linking to one of my very own favorite local website, EdHat, which will (I am assured) open me and my seventeen-syllable takes on life up to a whole new world of readership and (I am also assured) really mean commentary called “trolling.” I actually had to look that up (as again, I am not that web-savvy) in order to realize that from now on, complete strangers can anonymously say anything they want about me with equally complete alacrity. (Dear Mama: you have the ugliest feet I have ever seen. You should be ashamed and go someplace far away where women are not allowed to write OR show their feet in public so the rest of us can live without the nightmare-inducing memories of your Skank Toes OR your horrible poetry!!!! LOL!!!!)

But that’s change for you; you take the bad along with the good and hope for the best. In the end, I guess I’m not going to worry too much because – for a good part of the next 24-hours at least – I'll be too out of it to care.

Please take care, and thanks for reading - MamaKu

giving Mommy space

2010-07-31T10:17:00.000-07:00

"giving Mommy space"
does not mean yelling at her
from farther away.

FaceBook Haiku

2010-07-30T10:21:00.000-07:00

To My Assistant

Your latest update
Was posted during work hours.
Where are my letters?

To My Stalker

No! We were never
Friends in the real world. So why
Would I friend you now?

To My Former Classmate

Congratulations!
You've clearly gotten in shape.
Now put your shirt on.

Frequent Flier

Your status updates
Twelve times a day make me think
You have a problem.

To My Son

Thanks for friending me!
Now please just tell me one thing:
Who are all those girls?

About that photo of you doing body shots?

These things, like tattoos
May seem like a good idea
At the time. They're not.

Appreciation

2010-07-30T08:09:00.000-07:00

Appreciation
Dormant, can be awakened
By coincidence.

New and Not Improved

2010-07-29T10:47:00.000-07:00

Botox, Juvederm
Invisalign and Implants ...
Have we ever met?

I had a little bit of a crush on this guy in high school; he was good-looking then and I imagine he stayed that way until some plastic surgeon got ahold of him. Now he has a big, immobile forehead, Joe Biden eyes and weird pouty lips over teeth so big and white they look like headlights. I just ran into him and at first I didn't recognize him ... then I just felt sad.

Why?

Why???

How would Jesus drive?

2010-07-27T09:34:00.000-07:00

That fish on your car

must be praying really hard

not to become scrap.

This is one of those haiku that probably requires a little backstory:

Between chauffering the kids, my commute, and client meetings all over the place, I do a lot of driving on the 101 freeway, and I've had ample opportunity to observe the culture of SoCal asphalt. Say what you will about Californians being laid-back and mellow ... they can be as insane as any Jerseyite once they hit the road.

Over the years, I've noticed certain trends, and one of these is the fact that some of the most aggro drivers out there are:

1) women (which is just funny because it's testosterone, not estrogen, that's supposed to make you all feisty)

and

2) a surprisingly large percentage have those little metal Christian fish symbols on their bumpers.

(DISCLAIMER TO THE DEFENSIVE: I am not about to bash Christians! I am a Christian, for heaven's sake. I just also happen to have a rich sense of the ironic. If what I just wrote makes you want to hunt me down and shoot me, then please ask your minister for a reference to a good anger-management counselor. And pray for a sense of humor, because it really does help.)

So there it is: a disproportionate number of the road-raging, steering-wheel-pounding, middle-finger-flipping tailgaters I've observed proudly identify themselves as members of The Flock with these little fishes, and ... let's be honest here ... THAT'S FUNNY. Like these folks figure they don't have to worry about dying in a fiery rollover collision because the Big JC has their back ... bumper, that is.

Driving my son to baseball practice yesterday, though, I came across an all-time Best (or Worst?) in this particular category. Not only was this intense-looking blond pushing her honkin' big Yukon over the Summerland hill harder than a stock car, tailgating, passing on the left, and cutting off other drivers all over the freeway, but her little fish symbols were arrayed all over her back window in such a way as to represent what must have been her family - Big Daddy Fish, Medium Mommy Fish, and a whole school of little fishies. (These my-family-as-window-stickers thing is another road oddity I just don't get, but that is the subject of another haiku, I think.)

I have to wonder if KidzMom (according to her vanity plate), good Christian woman that she must be, was shooting to get herself and the offspring buckled into her back rows into Paradise on an accelerated schedule, 'coz she was - and I am not exagerrating here - driving like a woman possessed. It was scary to watch.

I dunno. Maybe they were late to VBS or something.

Anyway, to all my fellow Christians out there, and especially to those of you who proclaim your faith on your car - please note I AM NOT MAKING FUN OF YOU. Or our faith. Or anybody's faith. I am just poking fun at hypocrisy ...

and how better than to Haiku?

High School Redux

2010-07-26T11:30:00.000-07:00

High school reunion
Friends and Happy Memories!
Why are you so drunk?

This one speaks for itself, I think. What about you, Gentle Readers? Do you go to reunions? Or do you figure you've kept in touch with the people who matter to you, and the rest should just stay where they are - as memories in your yearbook.

Bad Mother Haiku

2010-07-26T11:28:00.000-07:00

Death in a Bowl

I killed my child's fish
Changing its guppy water
Right down the drain ... oops.

Tournament

Watching you play ball
It's hot. Pray your team loses ...
So I can go home.

Adolescencia

I liked you better
When you were small and still thought
I was really cool.

Summer Camp Blues

Pickup is at three?
I don't get off until four.
Won't you keep my kid?

I love my children more than anything in the universe, up to and including chocolate. My seventeen-year-old son is one of the kindest, most moral people I know. He also happens to be tall and handsome and a great student. My fourteen-year-old is a philosopher, wise beyond his years, and so athletic he already has various coaches bickering over where he should "take his talents." (He did not get this from me, BTW) Their little sister, AKA "The Littlest" was a true surprise gift from God, and not a day goes by that her smiles and never-ending stream of consciousness don't bring immense joy to us all.

Having said that ... there are times when the kids drive me crazy, and when motherhood (especially when juggled with the financial necessity of employment) really makes me question my better self. When that happens, what else to do but Haiku?

What about you, gentle readers? How do you cope with the dichotomy that is parenthood?

Road Hazard

2010-07-26T11:27:00.000-07:00

Hey, Mercedes Girl
Texting at the traffic light -
Can't you see it's green?

What is it with all the people texting behind the road these days? Don't they watch the same horrible news reports I do?

Dressing for one of those days

2010-07-21T11:03:00.000-07:00

Stabbed in the left breast
By the errant underwire
Of my favorite bra.

This felt like a betrayal. I love this bra!! Now what am I going to do? (Besides Haiku, that is.)

To my yoga instructor

2010-07-21T11:01:00.000-07:00

I've been doing this
Since you were an embryo
So get off my back.

Is it just me, or is it really hard to take direction from someone young enough to be my daughter? Especially when she weighs half as much as I do?

When disaster strikes

2010-07-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

When disaster strikes
And my shrink is out of town
Haiku never fails.

Welcome, friends. I hope your life and loves are generally happy, but when you need an extra smile, there will always be Haiku.

(And yes, the eggs in the picture are from my hens.)