How is it that young men can be so clueless? Earlier this year at a shop, the manager and I began to talk about girls and boys and the pains they undergo in their early dating relationships. The woman was just flustered. Her granddaughter is a particularly beautiful young girl--stunningly so. The girl had been hoping that the boy she carpooled with would ask her to the school dance. Long story short, he did call her--to get her advice on how he should ask out another girl. The grandmother, in her infinite wisdom, counseled the girl that these things happened when she herself was a girl, too. Boys can be a little short-sighted, she said. But the woman and I just shrugged. I'll never understand it myself. Boys can do many strange things.
This past year, one of my step-daughters was invited on a date by a man in his mid-twenties--old enough to be more mature, right? When she arrived at the theater to meet him, he told her to wait and that he was getting them free tickets from his pal in the projection booth. The whole thing felt very juvenile as he scampered off. Mae told me that even if he was so cash strapped he couldn't afford tickets, he could have at least procured them discreetly before her arrival without looking like a kid about to rip off a candy store. Mae gave him a chance at a second date and then ended things. The ticket incident had only been a red flag about his lack of maturity with other choices.
Mae's sister Juju was flustered over bizarre behavior herself at least a few times this year. "If everything is going well and we are having fun together, why does the guy suddenly drop off the planet?" She has asked this question more than once. I told her that often, the guys act according to what they think their friends will approve. And it's disgusting, really, as I see the sweetest (and prettiest) of young ladies get their hearts broken. I told her that sometimes the guys come to their senses, but more importantly we need to just move along and forget about them.
Easier said than done. In high school, before my date and I were old enough to drive to a dance, my date told me he wanted to rent a limo to take me to the prom. This was a new concept in my parents' world and they said no. My dad offered to drive us. The boy was too cool for this, so he dumped me instead. I'll never forget that feeling, and my parents, of course, were wise enough to tell me the boy was not worth my time if he were to treat me that way, but I didn't believe it. I had to learn it over and over. Apparently, I was 35 before I really learned it.
Over the years, I was dumped for not being a heavy drinker (at least twice). I was ignored because I wasn't in a sorority (countless young men in college years). I was treated badly for wanting to talk about the last book I read (Harry the Jock). I was cast aside or treated shabbily for many unknown reasons. I remember why I initiated my break ups as well: one young man had a terrible case of pathological lying, another was consistently 45 minutes late for each date and entirely rude about it each time (oh, that would also be Harry), and other dates just never "gelled" comfortably. I do remember one very nice boy that I said I couldn't see again because he stared at me the entire time and it was so off-putting--while he was driving, while I was watching a movie, while I was eating. I have never quite had anyone do that so blatantly. It's like he couldn't believe he was actually with a live, two-legged, teenaged female. There are the break ups for reasons you know, but the worst ones, like Juju says, are the ones that leave great questions.
Once, I was hopelessly in love with a potter that kinda-sorta wanted to be with me--but I wasn't allowed to receive any affection in public or meet his friends. I was lovesick, clingy, and even more hopeless and pathetic when he suddenly fell off the planet. I actually looked him up on Facebook one day to tell him, because I believe I had been a bit of a stalker, that I was sorry for not having just broken things off cleanly. The response was surprising. "I'm the one that should apologize," he wrote, "for having been less than mature." He said kind things, remembered me far more kindly than I thought possible, and wished me well. He and his wife have just had their second little boy this year.
Maybe, there is hope for some young men after all.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Simple Procedures? Not with Children!
When rearing children, everything is a project. I'll never know why, but following simple procedures is beyond the still-developing minds of the very young. Take, for example, trying to leave the house with children.
The other day, I told my eleven year old what time it was, what she needed to do to be ready for riding lessons, and what time we were leaving. (Sounds organized--doesn't it?) My son should have been less complicated; all he needed was his shoes. Instead, this is what happened:
"Tiny? Tiny. What are you doing? Put that down. Clean that up. Where are your shoes? Are those your shoes? Behind you, where you have been playing. Those? All mixed up with your toys? Put your shoes on. No, put that down. Get your shoes. No, son, other foot. No, that shoe. Okay, finish putting on your shoes. Come downstairs when you have cleaned up your mess."
Meanwhile, his sister walked the house in riding breeches and stockinged feet, saying, "I can't find my helmet. It's not in the silver tub."
"I know it's not in the silver tub, sweetheart. It doesn't belong there. Go check your room."
"But it was in the silver tub!"
"It was not in the silver tub and doesn't belong there. Go check your room."
"I checked my room. It's not there!"
"So go check the car, then." Chicken Little headed to the SUV and explored the trunk and recesses under the back seat bench. Meanwhile, this was now taking place:
"Tiny, choose one toy to take with you. No. One. One toy. I see you have two. Fork over the one in your shirt. Hand it to Mommy." Tiny held his ground, one Transformer toy clutched in his hand and the other clumsily concealed in his shirt. (Mind you sometimes he shoves things in his pants and I have to frisk him before we leave a store.) With no cooperative movement from my son, I began the count. "One." Still he stood feet planted and fingers clenched about the two toys. "Two." He stared back unblinking.
"Three. Time out. Go to your room." Crying, tears, and the usual, "Whhhhhyyyyyyyy?" As he headed upstairs, my daughter came back into the house and said she couldn't find her helmet.
"Oh, dude. You lost your helmet. Geez. Ok, maybe it's at the ranch." The price of a new helmet ran through my head briefly. "Just go check your room one more time. That is where your helmet belongs."
"But--"
"Just do it. Go on. Check again to be sure."
Eventually, my daughter came downstairs with her helmet that had been hanging on her bedroom wall the entire time. She showed it to me sheepishly. You can't miss the helmet; it sports a lime-green and polka-dotted cover. So, helmet in hand, daughter's boots pulled on, we called down the little guy, and he showed me he was ready with his one toy (and nothing shoved up his shirt or down his pants). As the kids headed to the car to climb in, I turned to Juju who had been calmly observing the circus from her safe position on the couch and I said, "Do you see why I am exhausted before I even get out the door? Why does everything have to be a project?"
My days of simple exits and entrances are over for still another few years. There's fooling with the booster seats and the untwisting seat belts; reminders of retrieving book bags, lunch boxes, permission slips, and sports equipment; making sure the little guy doesn't get his fingers or toes slammed in the car door by his sister; making sure neither vacuous child gets hit by a car while entering or exiting my vehicle; stopping the arguing over who touched whose toy in the back seat. What kills me is when I am told I will miss these days. I was told that when my kids were babies, too. No, with those days done, I do not miss them. And as much as I adore my children, I won't miss trying to get them out of the house on time either.
The other day, I told my eleven year old what time it was, what she needed to do to be ready for riding lessons, and what time we were leaving. (Sounds organized--doesn't it?) My son should have been less complicated; all he needed was his shoes. Instead, this is what happened:
"Tiny? Tiny. What are you doing? Put that down. Clean that up. Where are your shoes? Are those your shoes? Behind you, where you have been playing. Those? All mixed up with your toys? Put your shoes on. No, put that down. Get your shoes. No, son, other foot. No, that shoe. Okay, finish putting on your shoes. Come downstairs when you have cleaned up your mess."
Meanwhile, his sister walked the house in riding breeches and stockinged feet, saying, "I can't find my helmet. It's not in the silver tub."
"I know it's not in the silver tub, sweetheart. It doesn't belong there. Go check your room."
"But it was in the silver tub!"
"It was not in the silver tub and doesn't belong there. Go check your room."
"I checked my room. It's not there!"
"So go check the car, then." Chicken Little headed to the SUV and explored the trunk and recesses under the back seat bench. Meanwhile, this was now taking place:
"Tiny, choose one toy to take with you. No. One. One toy. I see you have two. Fork over the one in your shirt. Hand it to Mommy." Tiny held his ground, one Transformer toy clutched in his hand and the other clumsily concealed in his shirt. (Mind you sometimes he shoves things in his pants and I have to frisk him before we leave a store.) With no cooperative movement from my son, I began the count. "One." Still he stood feet planted and fingers clenched about the two toys. "Two." He stared back unblinking.
"Three. Time out. Go to your room." Crying, tears, and the usual, "Whhhhhyyyyyyyy?" As he headed upstairs, my daughter came back into the house and said she couldn't find her helmet.
"Oh, dude. You lost your helmet. Geez. Ok, maybe it's at the ranch." The price of a new helmet ran through my head briefly. "Just go check your room one more time. That is where your helmet belongs."
"But--"
"Just do it. Go on. Check again to be sure."
Eventually, my daughter came downstairs with her helmet that had been hanging on her bedroom wall the entire time. She showed it to me sheepishly. You can't miss the helmet; it sports a lime-green and polka-dotted cover. So, helmet in hand, daughter's boots pulled on, we called down the little guy, and he showed me he was ready with his one toy (and nothing shoved up his shirt or down his pants). As the kids headed to the car to climb in, I turned to Juju who had been calmly observing the circus from her safe position on the couch and I said, "Do you see why I am exhausted before I even get out the door? Why does everything have to be a project?"
My days of simple exits and entrances are over for still another few years. There's fooling with the booster seats and the untwisting seat belts; reminders of retrieving book bags, lunch boxes, permission slips, and sports equipment; making sure the little guy doesn't get his fingers or toes slammed in the car door by his sister; making sure neither vacuous child gets hit by a car while entering or exiting my vehicle; stopping the arguing over who touched whose toy in the back seat. What kills me is when I am told I will miss these days. I was told that when my kids were babies, too. No, with those days done, I do not miss them. And as much as I adore my children, I won't miss trying to get them out of the house on time either.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Ponies in the Ring
Last week during my riding lesson, I paused to watch a young rider attempt to wrangle her pony into a more cooperative state. It seems that Blue didn't want to jump. His rider managed to stay mounted despite his last-minute balks and halts before the stacked and layered obstacles, but she still needed assistance. So in an attempt to reassure the pony, I was asked to sit with my horse in the middle of the ring, where Blue knew we would be watching. Moral support, from pony to pony so to speak. In the world of horses, social relationships are often as complex as our own, and I can truly say from experience that regardless of species, similar souls comfort one another in difficult situations.
This past weekend, my ex-husband and his wife came to our town for the first time. With my daughter finishing fifth grade and beginning middle school in the fall, celebration among family was essential. While I was thrilled that the father of my children would finally come see where and how his children live, I was stressed that he and his wife would find fault with things when they got here. I worked to make sure that they would be comfortable and attended details such as tourism guides, restaurant and hotel recommendations, and arrangements for a family lunch. These are people with whom I share difficult history, but I am tied to them, and if they came and had a wonderful time, they would continue to return and share in the life that my children have here. This is what I want for my children, a growing relationship with their dad, a secure place in the heart of their step-mother, a comfort zone of approachability for times when discussion, advice, or negotiation of some sort is necessary.
Having the company of my family helped me feel better--cognizant, calm, graceful. Their steady presence helped make this visit with my children's dad and step-mother a successful one. Having cleared this hurdle gracefully and landed safely on the other side, I can approach the next visit with more confidence. To my husband and Juju, thank you. Thank you for being my ponies in the ring.
This past weekend, my ex-husband and his wife came to our town for the first time. With my daughter finishing fifth grade and beginning middle school in the fall, celebration among family was essential. While I was thrilled that the father of my children would finally come see where and how his children live, I was stressed that he and his wife would find fault with things when they got here. I worked to make sure that they would be comfortable and attended details such as tourism guides, restaurant and hotel recommendations, and arrangements for a family lunch. These are people with whom I share difficult history, but I am tied to them, and if they came and had a wonderful time, they would continue to return and share in the life that my children have here. This is what I want for my children, a growing relationship with their dad, a secure place in the heart of their step-mother, a comfort zone of approachability for times when discussion, advice, or negotiation of some sort is necessary.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Rabbit Schemes
The rabbit, Chester, has been having a visitor who leaves minuscule droppings about the deck. I was amused by this until I found those tiny droppings peppering the feed tray of the rabbit cage. I asked the rabbit what was going on, but apparently hare-lipped creatures aren't loose-lipped, so I discussed the matter with a neighbor who suggested installing a "bunny cam" so we could track the goings-on between critters. Instead, my children and I researched the feces (mouse) and, much to the amusement of my husband and Jujubee, I set a trap baited with peanut butter. What I would do with the mouse, I really didn't know.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" asked Chester as I carefully lay the cage-style trap near his house.
"Absolutely. Someone's pooping in your food. We can't have that."
"I can work around it," he said, "In fact, I have been working around it quite nicely!"
"Not an option, Rabbit," I stated firmly.
He hopped into the far corner of his cage to clean his ears and sulk. I began to suspect that the mouse was part of an organized movement to free the rabbit, whom we keep in an enclosed environment for his own safety--we have hawks here.
Just before my bedtime Sunday night, I checked the trap. Inside, trembling, wide-eyed, and absolutely confused, scurried a little brown field mouse. I held the critter's cage up to the light and admired him with my family. His large, floppy ears and shiny, dark eyes reminded us a bit of Desperaux. His white, full belly showed all the signs of a rich and limitless diet of rabbit food. After we discussed a range of options, Jujubee dubbed the critter Dudley and we decided to give the tiny rodent a new station in life altogether. At 11 PM, we drove him four blocks away in the cover of darkness to a large church and released the beast in a garden there. The newly-appointed church mouse eagerly scurried among mulch and shrubbery to embrace his new career, rabbit-liberating a suddenly very distant thought in his head.
At home, standing sentry on a neighbor's lawn as my step-daughter and I returned with the empty cage, stood another of Rabbit's associates, a wild cotton-tail with white flecks across his brown body. Surely, we had thwarted some kind of plan. I set the trap one more time in hopes of capturing any siblings that we could take to the mouse's new home and away from scheming with Chester... and pooping everywhere. Checking on our pet bunny early this morning, he refused to speak to me. But after I came home from morning errands, the cage held a new captive. This time, I had managed to capture a chipmunk. Chester sat smugly.
"They'll just keep coming," he said, "I have connections."
"I bet," I mused as I observed this new little friend. He sat smartly striped and fidgeted. I noted that he ate all the peanut butter that last night's mouse could no longer muster an appetite for. Like Dudley, the chipmunk will be released, but back into the yard because the most trouble he ever really causes is eating the fallen fruit from the trees and leaving pits scattered about the sidewalk. I think my job is done and I can replace the trap in its box back in the shed.
Meanwhile, Rabbit will need a Plan B. His last escape attempt, which I stopped when I found him loose and pretending to be a statue on the back deck, only drove him to recruit assistance. I wonder if he'll stoop so low as to involve the dog.
In the meantime, I have received the following message from my husband, who has discovered Dudley's true identity. Read my husband's note below:
As the acting attorney for the defense, I'd like to point out that the evidence directly contradicts the DA's assertion. Not only does physical evidence from Mr. Chester's food tray indicate a single species perpetrator, I can call to the stand one Hilda Mouse, who will tell the court that she engaged the services of my client, Mr. Dick "Chipmunk" Tracy, to locate her missing husband, Mr. Marvin "Mellowtones" Mouse, missing since late yesterday evening, and believed to have been the victim of a foul play. Chipmunk Tracy had traced Mellowtones to a pasty partially hydrogenated platform when he suddenly found himself in the condition represented by the photograph labeled Exhibit A. This is a clear case of entrapment, and we therefore move for immediate dismissal and release. Further, as compensation for his improper detention, we suggest the court provide at least a handful of peanuts (preferably unsalted). The defense rests.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" asked Chester as I carefully lay the cage-style trap near his house.
"Absolutely. Someone's pooping in your food. We can't have that."
"I can work around it," he said, "In fact, I have been working around it quite nicely!"
"Not an option, Rabbit," I stated firmly.
He hopped into the far corner of his cage to clean his ears and sulk. I began to suspect that the mouse was part of an organized movement to free the rabbit, whom we keep in an enclosed environment for his own safety--we have hawks here.
 |
| Dudley, temporarily trapped |
At home, standing sentry on a neighbor's lawn as my step-daughter and I returned with the empty cage, stood another of Rabbit's associates, a wild cotton-tail with white flecks across his brown body. Surely, we had thwarted some kind of plan. I set the trap one more time in hopes of capturing any siblings that we could take to the mouse's new home and away from scheming with Chester... and pooping everywhere. Checking on our pet bunny early this morning, he refused to speak to me. But after I came home from morning errands, the cage held a new captive. This time, I had managed to capture a chipmunk. Chester sat smugly.
"They'll just keep coming," he said, "I have connections."
Meanwhile, Rabbit will need a Plan B. His last escape attempt, which I stopped when I found him loose and pretending to be a statue on the back deck, only drove him to recruit assistance. I wonder if he'll stoop so low as to involve the dog.
In the meantime, I have received the following message from my husband, who has discovered Dudley's true identity. Read my husband's note below:
As the acting attorney for the defense, I'd like to point out that the evidence directly contradicts the DA's assertion. Not only does physical evidence from Mr. Chester's food tray indicate a single species perpetrator, I can call to the stand one Hilda Mouse, who will tell the court that she engaged the services of my client, Mr. Dick "Chipmunk" Tracy, to locate her missing husband, Mr. Marvin "Mellowtones" Mouse, missing since late yesterday evening, and believed to have been the victim of a foul play. Chipmunk Tracy had traced Mellowtones to a pasty partially hydrogenated platform when he suddenly found himself in the condition represented by the photograph labeled Exhibit A. This is a clear case of entrapment, and we therefore move for immediate dismissal and release. Further, as compensation for his improper detention, we suggest the court provide at least a handful of peanuts (preferably unsalted). The defense rests.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
How to Fall Off the Wagon
Yesterday's venue: two Krispy Kreme doughnuts, three chocolate chips cookies, lime tortilla chips, one margarita, one glass of wine, beef for both lunch and dinner, several mini-naps, and no work-out whatsoever.
Looking at climbing back on the wagon today, I am wondering how hard it's going to be to work off the doughnut I ate for breakfast again this morning. And I already need a nap. Damage done, maybe I can just worry about this tomorrow. I'll deliberate this carefully over another cup of coffee infused with half-n-half and sugar.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
The Mini-Foodies
When I became pregnant with my first child, I had already spent about four years in classroom settings watching what children ate and how they behaved. I promised that my kids would not be the ones with artificially-colored fake fruit snacks and last night's chicken nuggets in their lunch boxes. I was also troubled by how limited most children's diets were--mostly, items that came from boxes. And I wanted the kids to be able to eat what they were served without having an embarrassing break-down or time-consuming negotiation over the meal. My problem is that in my quest for the kids to eat well and eat a variety of foods, I created a monster. Sometimes, Mommy just wants a burger and fries. Sometimes, jusssst sometimes, I feel the urge to have a pack of pressed-together-chicken nuggets dipped in some fructose-based faux sauce. My children often disapprove of this openly.
"Your step-dad is picking up Taco Bell on the way home since I have had such a long day," I said last week.
"Well, I really don't like Taco Bell. It's not so good for me anyhow," complained my daughter. Snob! This makes feeding the kids during our monthly road trips is extremely tough. While I usually pack an in-car picnic meal with sandwiches, fruits, and veggies, the kids eventually get hungry again. On my last road trip with the kids, we had this conversation:
"We can stop here--here's a McDonald's. Are you hungry for a burger?"
"I don' wike McDonald's bu'gers. Is nasty," pipes up Tiny.
"What about fries?"
"No fwies either!!"
"Seriously? What would you like to eat?"
"Sushi!" state both children. Mind you sushi is a forty dollar meal for three people, and in truck stops and gas stations, sushi isn't a culinary mainstay anyhow. The prepared sushi at the grocery never tastes right to me, so I won't buy it for the road. Plus, these are kids. My kids. I make the rules. "Eat or starve," I'll say. "We have miles to go." Sometimes I can find a Subway or sandwiches from a gas station. I still laugh to myself when my daughter requests salad with a side of fruit at Wendy's, but I am so thankful that she wants this. To be honest, I personally prefer the number one combo with no cheese.
We have our moments--sometimes we have pizza. We enjoy Chinese food on Sunday nights--and God knows what is really in that stuff. My children's biggest weakness is soda, which they can only have once a week at best. And like most children, given total freedom, mine would choose cake for dinner. But when it comes to choosing an entree? Well, let me just quote my eleven year old: "Mom, I'll have the crabcakes with a side of pasta salad, please. And can I have a small garden salad with that?" I suppose I could have worse problems.
"Your step-dad is picking up Taco Bell on the way home since I have had such a long day," I said last week.
"Well, I really don't like Taco Bell. It's not so good for me anyhow," complained my daughter. Snob! This makes feeding the kids during our monthly road trips is extremely tough. While I usually pack an in-car picnic meal with sandwiches, fruits, and veggies, the kids eventually get hungry again. On my last road trip with the kids, we had this conversation:
"We can stop here--here's a McDonald's. Are you hungry for a burger?"
"I don' wike McDonald's bu'gers. Is nasty," pipes up Tiny.
"What about fries?"
"No fwies either!!"
"Seriously? What would you like to eat?"
"Sushi!" state both children. Mind you sushi is a forty dollar meal for three people, and in truck stops and gas stations, sushi isn't a culinary mainstay anyhow. The prepared sushi at the grocery never tastes right to me, so I won't buy it for the road. Plus, these are kids. My kids. I make the rules. "Eat or starve," I'll say. "We have miles to go." Sometimes I can find a Subway or sandwiches from a gas station. I still laugh to myself when my daughter requests salad with a side of fruit at Wendy's, but I am so thankful that she wants this. To be honest, I personally prefer the number one combo with no cheese.
We have our moments--sometimes we have pizza. We enjoy Chinese food on Sunday nights--and God knows what is really in that stuff. My children's biggest weakness is soda, which they can only have once a week at best. And like most children, given total freedom, mine would choose cake for dinner. But when it comes to choosing an entree? Well, let me just quote my eleven year old: "Mom, I'll have the crabcakes with a side of pasta salad, please. And can I have a small garden salad with that?" I suppose I could have worse problems.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Top Ten Signs of Blogworthiness
I know I've written a good blog when I reread it hours after the last set of proofs and tinkers, and I find myself laughing again. And one good blog triggers another. I have begun to feel very chicken-and-egg about blogging--does the event trigger the blog or does the blogging make the event noteworthy? Nevertheless, here are some of the signs I have learned that show me when an event is blogworthy or when a blog is going to entertain:
1. When my husband does something and says about it later: It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wonder if he'll be saying that about the motorcycle he bought a year ago that he will finally be bringing home from storage this summer. Frankly, I see myself with a hard cast up to the hip after my first-ever motorcycle ride saying the same thing. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
2. Anything my son does involving what a girlfriend of mine calls "Shit-iroshima". You can draw a conclusion about what this might mean based on the fact that we now call Friday night's 3 AM vomiting session "Puke-asaki". I have yet to write about it, but then I have written before about the mass eruption that is children's barfing. Do we really need to go there again? Yes. Yes, we do.
3. When an event is a metaphor for something else, the event is now blogworthy. For example, the day my dog died, the dog I once shared with my ex-husband. Enough said.
4. When a lesson is learned. For example, why I should never shop with my children. And this week I learned another new lesson: I should have ignored my son when he asked me if using the middle finger was bad. I said yes, and today he willfully and knowingly shot his sister the bird. He's not even five. I have so much to learn.
5. When I eat something so incredible I immediately transcend time and space, my five senses become electrified, and I swear I'm having a foodgasm. I wish I had taken the time to describe every breakfast I ate at Cafe Pasqual's in Santa Fe, New Mexico this year. I love food. I think food is amazing. It's multi-sensory, sexual, comforting, basic, extreme, and a mastery of chemical reaction both in creation and consumption--all at once.
6. When I experience something that I know will directly relate to a reader, a common topic, and put a twist on it you didn't see coming. Or maybe, I put something out there that I never could have said at the kitchen table growing up, like my friend Jay's line in this post: http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/12/facebook-vs-blogger.html. It's a super short post. You'll know the line when you see it.
7. And when I experience something inspiring or life-changing. The posts about New Mexico are particularly examples of that.
8. Anytime I have to explain sex to my daughter. Remember this one? http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/05/joy-of-sex-education.html And just recently, we had a whole separate discussion when someone let my daughter watch an inappropriate film. And I quote: "Mom, I thought the guy's thingie went into the girl's thingie like this." She made a gesture. I said yes, that that was true. "Ok, but I just saw this movie where this girl was in love with two guys and one of them got her from behind." You can imagine the phone calls I had to place after THAT.
9. When the small moments are really big moments. I went to a children's talent show at my daughter's school this weekend. Those awkward displays of burgeoning (or failing) talent were beautiful. I have never seen so many brave young people. I watched one little girl sing "Yesterday" by the Beatles. She fought her nerves the entire time--stopping to fight tears, dropping words, and still managing to finish. I haven't even seen that many grown ups present themselves so vulnerably and courageously.
10. Love. Joy. Any moment that makes those things blossom in my heart and any moment that marks loss or transition relating to those things. My blog posts have run the gamut from self-indulgent to self-deprecating, but what I want to share the most is love. Like I said to someone this week, life is hard, but I would rather live celebrating its good moments. I hope that comes through on this blog. My life mission is to connect with others, make their living a better experience than it might have been otherwise. I hope that all the joys and trials of life that I have chosen to so neatly pen here in this blog are an element of that desire to love, share love, and be loved.
Happy reading! And as ever, thanks for coming back here again and again.
1. When my husband does something and says about it later: It seemed like a good idea at the time. I wonder if he'll be saying that about the motorcycle he bought a year ago that he will finally be bringing home from storage this summer. Frankly, I see myself with a hard cast up to the hip after my first-ever motorcycle ride saying the same thing. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
2. Anything my son does involving what a girlfriend of mine calls "Shit-iroshima". You can draw a conclusion about what this might mean based on the fact that we now call Friday night's 3 AM vomiting session "Puke-asaki". I have yet to write about it, but then I have written before about the mass eruption that is children's barfing. Do we really need to go there again? Yes. Yes, we do.
3. When an event is a metaphor for something else, the event is now blogworthy. For example, the day my dog died, the dog I once shared with my ex-husband. Enough said.
4. When a lesson is learned. For example, why I should never shop with my children. And this week I learned another new lesson: I should have ignored my son when he asked me if using the middle finger was bad. I said yes, and today he willfully and knowingly shot his sister the bird. He's not even five. I have so much to learn.
5. When I eat something so incredible I immediately transcend time and space, my five senses become electrified, and I swear I'm having a foodgasm. I wish I had taken the time to describe every breakfast I ate at Cafe Pasqual's in Santa Fe, New Mexico this year. I love food. I think food is amazing. It's multi-sensory, sexual, comforting, basic, extreme, and a mastery of chemical reaction both in creation and consumption--all at once.
6. When I experience something that I know will directly relate to a reader, a common topic, and put a twist on it you didn't see coming. Or maybe, I put something out there that I never could have said at the kitchen table growing up, like my friend Jay's line in this post: http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/12/facebook-vs-blogger.html. It's a super short post. You'll know the line when you see it.
7. And when I experience something inspiring or life-changing. The posts about New Mexico are particularly examples of that.
8. Anytime I have to explain sex to my daughter. Remember this one? http://cafecatiche.blogspot.com/2010/05/joy-of-sex-education.html And just recently, we had a whole separate discussion when someone let my daughter watch an inappropriate film. And I quote: "Mom, I thought the guy's thingie went into the girl's thingie like this." She made a gesture. I said yes, that that was true. "Ok, but I just saw this movie where this girl was in love with two guys and one of them got her from behind." You can imagine the phone calls I had to place after THAT.
9. When the small moments are really big moments. I went to a children's talent show at my daughter's school this weekend. Those awkward displays of burgeoning (or failing) talent were beautiful. I have never seen so many brave young people. I watched one little girl sing "Yesterday" by the Beatles. She fought her nerves the entire time--stopping to fight tears, dropping words, and still managing to finish. I haven't even seen that many grown ups present themselves so vulnerably and courageously.
10. Love. Joy. Any moment that makes those things blossom in my heart and any moment that marks loss or transition relating to those things. My blog posts have run the gamut from self-indulgent to self-deprecating, but what I want to share the most is love. Like I said to someone this week, life is hard, but I would rather live celebrating its good moments. I hope that comes through on this blog. My life mission is to connect with others, make their living a better experience than it might have been otherwise. I hope that all the joys and trials of life that I have chosen to so neatly pen here in this blog are an element of that desire to love, share love, and be loved.
Happy reading! And as ever, thanks for coming back here again and again.
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