Bikram...

When I was playing soccer at El Camino College, our coach used to make us run around the college as a warm up; not every practice, but often. Around the college as a warm up AND, for the first week, Bob came out onto the field carrying only cones, no soccer balls. Now when a coach does not have soccer balls, you know that means only one thing. I remember vomiting at least twice during that season, but most of us tried not to as it clearly exemplified weakness and we were not weak, we were athletes. The kind of training required to be in soccer shape, well, good soccer shape is simple. Run, sprint, run, intervals, run, weight train, run, situps, run, run, run... even a child can do it and they do. There were practices when, literally at the end, we were flopped on the grass, exhausted, sometimes nauseous, pissed off and Bob expected that, really, he demanded it. College soccer, in any way, shape or form is not for the faint of heart. But when it came to play, when we walked out onto that field, we were warriors in the best sense of the word and we could go for 90 minutes every time. Sure we lost, but we didn't lose because we were outrun or outlasted; Bob made sure of that. My point here, for those of you who are sticking around to read what it is, is that, after those initial weeks of training and after the vomiting stopped, my body was so fit that I didn't think twice about pushing myself and, the pain that you feel when you have worked yourself to the limit, when you have pushed past your limit is such an addictive feeling that I regret that I lost it for so much time. Like an adrenaline rush, when you physically exhaust your body from intense, strong, painful exertion, there is no better feeling because, soon after, your body is better. It performs, rests, feels, looks and is better, is stronger and is more capable than you ever thought possible.

This anecdote regarding soccer comes to mind because I've taken on a new challenge and today's class marked day two and, I am still alive... a friend had talked me into taking yoga some time ago, well, about three months ago and I love it. I love the teacher, I love the relaxation, the meditation, the good karma, all of it. But, as our class is now on hiatus while our yogi travels to India (she's amazing), I've had the opportunity to train in the gym lately, to run and yesterday, to convince one of my crazy ass friends, who had done this before, that we needed to wake up at 4:30 am to go and take a 90 minute Bikram yoga class. Yes, she is a great friend because most of my other friends wouldn't have even taken the call, let alone gotten up, picked me up and laughed with me about how crazy we are to being taking on yet another "activity." For those of you who are considering Bikram, but you have never done it; take my hand and walk with me into another world...

In a large room with ceiling to floor North facing windows and mirrors that line the West and South walls, there are close to 20 people, men and women, all ages, all body types sitting or lying on their mats, resting, waiting. Large jugs of water are catecorner to every mat and towels not only line the mats, but there are handtowels nearby as well. No shoes are allowed inside and you must immediately close the door upon entering. Most students arrive early to acclamate to the environment and since this was my first class, it was especially important to get a feel for what the next 90 minutes would be like. Rosh opened the door and I followed, closing it behind me. She smiled at me right away as I looked around the room, my eyes resting on 1, 2... 11 humidifiers lining the walls, all at full tilt, expelling steam into the air. I moved to a spot to lay down my mat and I noticed that I was directly underneath the air vent that was blowing out heat full blast. I quickly moved my mat behind the pillar. When we first entered and sat down, the room felt about 90 degrees, but it was the first class of the day and everyone hadn't "warmed" up yet, so it was going to get hotter. For those of you who are unaware of the practice or the intent behind this well disguised torture, Bikram is a series of 26 poses, completed in 90 minutes of non-stop movement in a room with a temperature of 105 degrees. Once you get an image of 20-30 bodies in this room, trying to hold poses while sweat literally pours off of your body; you'll get a better idea of how intense it is. When the class began, I followed as much as I could and I tried very hard to remain still, to hold poses, to breathe and... to not pass out. After the first 20 minutes or so, I actually felt very loose and the sweating aside, I was enjoying the movement and the challenge and, all of a sudden, the teacher was bidding us "namestay" and telling us to be thankful for what we had done for our bodies. I looked at Rosh, she looked at me and we gave each other the thumbs up. I couldn't do nearly every pose and it was hotter than Hades in there, but it was a really great first experience. I was told that the practice especially helps those with arthritis, tendonitis, carpal tunnel, joint problems, really any malady and in addition, you are doing 90 minutes of stretching which, done properly, can never be bad. I felt so good after as a matter of fact that I asked Rosh if she wanted to do it again today. The brochure and the instructor told us that it is best to take your second class within 24 hours to help with the stiffness and the soreness. Rosh jumped in (Bless that girl) and we were signed up to go this morning at 7:30. In all fairness, she also warned me that the second class is harder than the first... I should have listened.

I've been fortunate enough to train with my parents' personal trainer the past two weeks. They haven't felt well and as they recover, they asked me if I'd like to go in their stead. I agreed wholeheartedly, having worked with Jerry before and today marked the last session that I'd get to see him for awhile. Jerry Gamallo looks like a Gladiator; he is one of the most intimidating people that I've ever seen up close. If you didn't know him, you'd probably be afraid that he'd kick your ass and, frankly, he could if he wanted to. But the funny thing is, for as ripped as he is, he is the very kind and soft spoken and he takes his job and your health seriously. He and his wife Rachel are two of the fittest people I've ever met and two of the most down to earth and dedicated. That aside, Jerry does not let you quit or slack off or tell him that you "can't;" instead, he gives you reasons why you should and how you can. He pushes me the way that Bob used to push us on the soccer field and he makes me want to do every rep and every situp, well, not every one and sometimes when he turns away, I cheat a little. Hey, I'm only human, but, he has an answer for that too, "You're only cheating your fitness level, not mine." Hmmm, wonder if I could get a cheeseburger after this...
I digress, so, back to Jerry. Today, Friday, New Year's Eve, last day of training; the dreaded, most feared of all days, LEG day. No explanation is necessary here if you read that correctly and I thought, at the end, that I did pretty well considering it was just me and Jerry and his stopwatch for an entire hour. I worked hard and I felt great when I was done even though I knew that I'd be "good" sore later on and tomorrow. I felt SO good in fact that, you guessed it, I met Rosh for round two of Bikram yoga right AFTER my turn and burn session with the personal trainer. What can I say? I'm an adrenaline junkie or, really, just plain stupid.

Rosh was waiting for me this morning and I had to laugh, that Irish lass, she was hungover; at least we were both hurting going into this. We walked into the room just like we did yesterday and... we should have run; we should have known better and we should have seen it coming. The room was a veritable roaster and we were the turkeys about to be fricassed for Thanksgiving. It was 105 degrees at least and we looked at each other, trying to mask the fear and the thought that "the second class is always tougher than the first" and we put out our things. I also should have known when the instructor walked in wearing what looked like a bikini. She had, by far, one of the best bodies that I've ever seen in my life. Those bones that jut out from a guy's hips that you can see and drool over when he has a six pack, she had them. Her ass looked like you could bounce quarters on it and her posture was so straight that I'd have thought that she had a two by four in her shirt if she'd been wearing one. Impressive and awesome. She was the poster child for why I needed to drag my sorry ass into the studio in the first place.

Class began and every minute of today's practice was painful and intense to the point of nausea which, by the way, the teacher will tell is "Completely normal, keep holding the pose, it will pass." I don't know about you, but when I feel dizzy and nauseated to the point where I think I'm going to pass out; that doesn't feel all that normal to me. But Rosh and I hung in there and we shifted, pose after pose, the sweat dripping off my body, running into my eyes and ears and down my calves. I felt like one of those hand washed blouses from the early century that's put into the ringer and twisted through. I had no hydration left in my body and I drank a quart of water. A quart and it wasn't enough. Next time I'm bringing a hose with me. Next time, you caught that didn't you... you're getting smarter or you just know me by now. The class was difficult today, made moreso by Jerry's leg workout, but also by the fact that flexibility is not my strong suit, never has been. My mom used to tell me, "Bend, stretch, touch your toes" when I did gymnastics, but I would've gotten a 3 on a scorecard for flexibility. So yoga is helpful, but difficult with which to begin especially for me. After class we went to breakfast where Stacey met us and that too was helpful; three cups of coffee and much needed food later - you are also not supposed to eat 2-3 hours before Bikram, probably so the vomit doesn't stain the carpet when students do actually vomit I'm guessing... I felt better, just tired. A 15 minute power nap and the longest shower of the century and I was back in action...

Now, as I sit here, on New Year's Eve, listening to the four year old snore, I am once again reminded of those days at El Camino and that feeling of my body at rest after I've exhausted it. The soreness and the pain feel so great that it is like an addiction. Because I know that as I recover and even after, my body will be so much stronger and leaner and more flexible that the rest of it will be forgotten. Well, maybe not completely. Regardless, I will be back in the studio by Monday, to punish myself, to reward myself, to thank myself for working hard and tonight, as my heart is at rest and my skin is clear and my mind is at peace, I will be thankful for the opportunity to have discovered another challenge, just in time for the new year.

By the way, for all of the skeptics out there, a woman of my height and weight who does a 90 minute session of Bikram yoga... 1089 calories burned on average. Google it, research it and, don't make resolutions; total waste of time. Instead be resolute and remember what it felt like when you were a kid, paralyzed with exhaustion after a day long excursion of tree climbing, bike riding, wall climbing and, then, take a chance, sign up and I promise you one thing; it will be unlike anything that you've ever experienced and, really, isn't that reason enough to give it a try? Happy 2011...

Super size it...

Let me just dispel the notion that what you think isn't always correct. And just for the record, if you even remotely think that skinny jeans make you look thinner, you are seriously delusional. Look, I don't care what you look like, I really don't, but I find it very hard to believe that people put on the tightest pants possible and then imagine that they are somehow flattering? In an attempt to not sound prejudicial here, those skinny jeans only look good on people who weigh less than 140 pounds and even then, most of them are teenagers and, to contradict what I just said, I don't think that they look all that great anyway. Of course, supermodels are the exception or most models for that matter, but that could be said for any article of clothing that a Victoria's Secret angel is donning at the moment. By the way, some of those models are truly a few of the most beautiful on the planet. I give them full credit for having great genes, not jeans and any other factor that keeps them looking so stunning. It is nice to have an ideal I suppose although some women would argue with that notion, but it's necessary too. There are all types of us out there and there is no "benchmark" for what is the ultimate in beauty now is there? I made the mistake as I do daily of asking the 13 year old's opinion, just to get that "generation's" viewpoint and he looked at me and said, "Well, if Kim Kardashian is at the top and Ugly Betty is at the bottom, you're somewhere in the middle Mom." Hmmmm, food for thought, coming from a kid whose idea of beauty is a green piece of paper with Andrew Jackson's face on it.

I weigh 163 pounds and I don't want to write that here, I don't want to look at that number, I don't want to acknowledge that I've let my body get 33 pounds heavier than I'd like it to be. My doctor told me, I know, back to him again, and, you can read this in most "body" type magazines; that, for an athletic woman, her ideal weight is close to that when she was 18. Exactly my point. Although 23 years have passed in the gaining of that 33 pounds, it was only until recently that I gave some real credence to my weight and my health. I actually hadn't weighed myself since, well, I can't remember to tell you the truth because the number doesn't interest me as much as how my body feels and right now, it feels pretty damn GREAT. I suppose that any activity level and the subsequent benefits of adding more activity will make most people feel that way. But I really do feel better, stronger, like I'm doing the groundwork for the next stage of my life. I don't have a concrete number in mind although I just kind of joked about the 33 pounds; that is a lot of weight to lose. But here's the thing, I want my body to rest at a weight where I don't have to work out for 3 hours a day, 7 days a week to maintain it. AND, I want to eat chocolate and cheetohs and I want to drink alcohol and I want to eat Mexican food. So, if that means that the number will reflect itself in a higher category then, I guess, I'll just have to live with that. But for those of you who've looked at yourselves and thought, I could be better; you can be. And you do have to start small and you probably will vomit along the way. I have, unexpectedly. I've also cried, fallen down, screamed, been in intense pain and shaken so badly that I just wanted to lay down and not get back up. Reminds me of childbirth actually, then again, there are drugs to help with that so the point is moot I guess. Regardless, the body is an amazing machine and it does remember and even if you weren't an athlete growing up or even if you were the last kid picked for kickball, all it takes is a little extra time and effort; prep work if you will and, maybe at the beginning, a kick ass trainer to motivate you. There is much to be said for trainers who know what they are doing and physical therapists who can come and help you to iron out the kinks and, there will be kinks,that I can assure you.

Instant gratification is not for those whose ultimate goal is to wear skinny jeans. To wear those things, if you really want to, you will have to work at it, day after day, like a dog and even then, there are no guarantees, just ask Jenny Craig or Nutrisystem or any other program that touts the "miracle" cure. Those programs do work and they work well for people who STAY on them, but, like you and I both know, it's easier to quit. It's easier to run to the store and pick up a week's supply of Haagen Dazs and then eat some of it while watching the Biggest Loser and telling yourself, Hey, at least I'm not as big as they are. Sad, but, yes, that is the type of person I am. I still won't give up the ice cream, not even if you told me I could be Alessandria Ambrosio; she's my favorite angel, whatever. Some comedian said, as a response to the age old question, "Honey, do these jeans make my butt look big?"
"No dear, those jeans don't make your butt look big, your butt does." So maybe the mirror isn't telling us exactly what we want to hear and maybe having to lay down on the bed to get into your pants is not the best measuring stick for whether or not you should wear them out in public. Maybe some common sense will help out here and despite your size or your condition or whatever is keeping you at the weight that you are at, do not feel compelled to buy something that you "think" will make you look smaller because,in the end, it won't. Really, the only thing that will make you look smaller is to stand next to a person bigger than you, like I said, common sense.

It's taken me over two years to get some control over my body and to begin to feel like the athlete that I was so long ago. But I don't want be someone who has to be taken care of due to infirmity or obesity or high blood pressure which, incidentally runs in my family and I definitely don't want to live to old age if it means I have to just sit around and wait to die. I want to be Betty White and Dixie Carter and Mia Hamm Garciaparra, wait, she's younger than I am, well, I want to be her later on because you know that she'll still be kicking the soccer ball at 80.

The woman who I saw today didn't really make me think anything other than, she should not be wearing those jeans. Aside from the fact that she could barely move, she was trying to chase two toddlers around and she was having more than her share of difficulty. I understood, hell, I understand, but that doesn't change that something shouldn't be albeit even if it is only my opinion. I was shopping for new jeans the other day and I am between a size 12 and a 10 and although I squeezed myself into the 10, I couldn't buy them yet because I won't wear them unless they fit properly and that means not making me look like Randy from A Christmas Story who, in his snowsuit, cannot even move, let alone stand up unassisted when he falls to the ground. I'm not saying hide who you are or wear a mumu; I'm saying, let's show a modicum of taste and grace and tact, especially in places where people take their children. "Mom, those pants make that woman's bottom look huge" I hear as we wait in line, No hon, the pants don't do that I think. Did I mention that we were in line at McDonald's? Bon Appetit...

Lesson learned...

Ever been in the process of doing something that you knew that you were going to regret, but then, you did it anyway, out of some preconceived idea that it was the right thing to do at that moment? If you have EVER felt like that, well then, welcome to my world. It is not so much a feeling of regret as it is a need to take it back or to apologize or to wonder if you could have saved yourself the humiliation that you now feel, thinking that you had to say it, but knowing that there really was no point. So, why say it then? Maybe there is an option not to, for you or for someone else. For me though, there is not. Part of it is being impulsive, part of it is being exhausted and part of it is just being, well, me. I do have a filter, but it is rapidly tearing and puncturing itself to the point where it will one day be unrecognizable. I don't know how long that will be, but I'm hoping that it coincides with my senility so that I can blame it on that condition. In the end, today, I tell myself that at least I was honest, at the very least, I was honest with myself and because I didn't want anything out of what I said, I feel better about having said it.

I lose friends, I make friends, I hate friends, friends hate me... you see the cycle happening here. But what's really intersting to me is that I no longer spend a great deal of time worrying about what other people think. In the aforementioned situation, I did worry that I overstepped and created a scenario that was misunderstood, a situation where the other person and I were not on the same page in the slightest. But, then I thought about it, I'm thinking about it now and I realize that we are in two totally different places anyway and the likelihood that we would have ever been friends in the first place was miniscule with which to begin. So, because it was unlikely that a friendship would develop and because it did, I guess I'm pondering the outcome because I would like to keep this person around. I would like to think that my blunders or missteps might be overlooked in lieu of my brilliance and sense of humor, but, Dennis Miller I'm not. So, as you read the thoughts as they sprint through my mind, maybe all of it will be justified by telling this friend that I am sincerely sorry for underestimating how awkward and unnecessary the revelation of a few thoughts that I had were in the daily news show that makes up a relationship. Maybe my friend will understand if I simply say, I make mistakes too...

Humor masks pain, hatred masks fear, attraction masks loneliness; all of it, hiding behind something, hiding from something. Contrary to what you might think, I'm not all that happy and I struggle with finding some kind of balance. I fear that by the time that I do figure it out, it will be too late to do anything about it and what really frightens me is that nothing, regardless of what it is or who is in my life, that I will never get to a place where I can accept that this is my life. And, if I can't do that, then I might as well just give up now. I feel like I have a huge hole in my heart that will never be filled because it isn't the kind of void that yearns for someone else or something else even. It's the kind of void that can only be filled by me; by my ability to do what I said and accept my life for what it is. It is completely ironic and ridiculous even because I have a great life. I am very lucky and I know that, but that reiterates my point for me; it is not external, it's internal and every day that goes by where I feel like this makes me realize that I might unravel the very things that have gotten me to where I am today. I may be the catalyst that destroys my own life and the very possibility of my own happiness.

I've changed and I am a different woman than I was when I married Tim, even before that. But I have changed because of the circumstances that I've created by the choices I've made, even the choices that I feel were mistakes. Some of those, ultimately, may have been the most important. Maybe I'm grappling with the idea that my life didn't turn out the way that I thought it would or maybe, it turned out exactly the way that I expected it to. I lay in bed at night and I worry that this is all there is and it makes me feel guilty for thinking that because "this" is pretty good. But if I'm honest, it might not be enough for me. I am never entirely satisfied with any one thing and I am constantly searching for... I don't know what it is that I'm searching for. I suppose that is part of the problem.

You misunderstood me or I didn't say what I meant in the way that I meant it, but either way, I am sorry. It was a moment, a weakness, a second where I contemplated the "rightness" of my words and I thought that they were accurate, appropriate, timely, but now, after hearing your response, I know, absolutely in my heart that they were. And that is why I said what I did. That is why I was being true to myself when I said them and that is why I also wish that I could, on some level, take them back. Finally, I want you to know that I will let it go after I send this and I hope that you can too. But if not, I will be grateful once more for hitting the Send button, not knowing where tomorrow might take me or you or our friendship.

Life is like Blackjack I think and sometimes you do just bust...

Merry Christmas...

"My father worked in profanities the way that other artists worked in oils..." Maybe one of the best, the absolute best things about Christmas is the 24 hour loop of A Christmas Story on TBS. I've watched it three times already from beginning to end and I like to keep it on, just for the mere fact that every scene or practically every line from the movie makes you smile or laugh. The more I watch it, the more I realize that although the movie itself timelessly captures a certain period in American history and culture; quintissential American life, it does more than that. It epitomizes everything that is special and memorable and magical about "that" Christmas; the one where you hoped and wished and prayed for THE gift that would define your childhood. When Ralphie reaches behind the desk to grab the wrapped rectangle that holds his prized Red Rider BB gun, it is the look on his father's face combined with the sheer joy that crosses Ralph's face as he rips the paper off at the end of the movie that immortalizes that feeling of Christmas. I've seen it a hundred times and every time it takes me back to that second when I held in my hands, the Walkman or the record or the book that I so desperately wanted that year when I was a kid. It reminds me of that incessant period of time that I had to wait, leading up to the 25th of December and how it nearly killed me, but at the same time, how the building of excitement made me nearly sick with anticipation. "That" Christmas was the one that you would always remember and Ralphie Parker's plight as he strategizes a way to get the gift of his dreams is our plight; every kid who ever wanted something so badly that we thought we were going to keel over if we didn't get it. Christmas. Another one almost gone.

I sat at St. James last night at Midnight Mass, well, at 11:00 Mass now and I sang along with the choir and I listened and I watched as the Christmas pageant was re-enacted. I looked around, the church filled to capacity as people stood lining the walls and I shook hands with my neighbors, greeting them, wishing them a happy Christmas. I thought about how much I love going to church during the holidays, yet another lovely tradition. The decorations on the alter, the warmth of community, the laughter of the congregation as a little boy in the front yells out "Hi" to Father Jim repeatedly throughout the service and the even louder laughter as Father Jim responds back. The angelic voices of the choir resonating throughout the church singing in tune to all of the annual favorites. I get chills every year when we sing, O Come All Ye Faithful, my personal anthem to the holidays and to being a Catholic. Earlier that afternoon, we attended the children's Mass where the sounds of kids of all different ages filled the church throughout the service and no one cared; babies cried, people sang and laughed and Santa made a surprise visit, ambling slowly down the aisle toward the altar to leave the baby Jesus a birthday gift. The collective surprise "Oh's" from the kids as he made his way toward them made everyone smile. Moments of sheer joy from that part of childhood that is never skeptical and which is open and accepting of what just is...

Watching my niece and nephews and my sons rip through the wrapping paper quicker than we could even hand them a gift, reminiscent of a time when Rich, Steve and I did the same thing. Tearing through one present, already reaching for another one. Katie taking our picture with her new digital camera. John and Christine building a Lincoln Log ranch for Brady and Ty. Luke's eyes rolling back in his head when I ask him if he likes his Bionicle, clearly excited at the prospect of putting it together. The anticipation and the thrill of opening up one present after the next, it almost didn't matter what it was, well, for the bigger boys it mattered, but for the little ones, it was that moment of utter exhileration and wild abandon that only comes once a year when there are several packages with your name on them and although you may not fully understand why everyone is giving you gifts, you don't really care; you just open your hands and wait for the next one.

Staying up late, wrapping last minute gifts, sitting in front of the fire, listening to Christmas music, drinking a glass of wine, contemplating the beginning of yet another year of your life, of those whom you love. You sit and think about all that it took to get you through this year; all of the joys and setbacks, the heartbreaks and the laughter and you anticipate the moments in the morning when your own family opens up the packages that you so carefully selected and which Santa specifically chose for each of them.

"Santa must have heard me say I wanted a Snuggie. We were in CVS and I said that I wanted one. How did he know?" Nick's statement this morning was one of the moments of hilarity in the hour of chaos that was decorated by screaming and shoving, throwing, yelling, squealing... I actually am enjoying watching Jake and Nick now that there are "things" that they really hope for and want and to see their faces when they get them; it makes the whole holiday worthwhile. Ty is in it solely for the ripping and the basic annihilation of packages that have his name on them. The clear evidence is strewn all over our living room floor right now in the shape of plastic dinosaurs, gumballs and tools that will never find their way back into the respective places of the toys with which they came. Every brand is represented this morning, our own personal homage to helping out with the faltering economy. Punctuating the chaos is the sneaking of candy and the brewing of coffee and the endless stream of questions "What is that? Where are the batteries for that? What did you get? What did you get? Are you sure that isn't mine?"

"The Skud Farcas Affair" "The Epic Battle of the Lamp" "He looks like a deranged Easter Bunny" That Christmas Story... so the morning ends with a trip to the grandparents house and a chance to see my nephews and sister and in laws; an opportunity to revisit a tradition that I once looked so forward to when we were first married and even before that. Brunch and presents for the kids and a chance to chat with my ever maturing 19 year old nephew who makes me think that I just blinked my eyes and he went from 2 to 19 just like that; handsome, funny, smart, yet another reminder of the fleeting passage of time. Another moment of hilarity, when Ty pulled out his new Nerf gun and fired a shot right between the 19 year old's eyes and then the laughter that ensued. Hey, it was a great shot...

Christmas is certainly a time of sentimentality and friends and family, but it's also a time to indulge those who you love. It doesn't mean that you have to buy huge gifts or even any at all, but it's a time to turn to them and to others, especially those in need and to let them know that you are thinking of them, that you care about them and what happens to them and that, particularly at this time of year, that you are considering all of those who make up your life and how much they mean to you. I find it odd when we take so much time and spend so much money to pick out just the right "gift" for someone, yet often we are unkind or mean to them otherwise. Seems kind of pointless. This year, Christine came up with the idea of making donations to charities of our choice on behalf of one another in lieu of gifts. Make a wish, Feeding America, Unicef, APLA and others were recipients of a variety of donations; a gift that made us all feel good.

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't more than a little relieved that it's almost over too. I love this time of year, but it is stressful and overwhelming and I can barely keep my eyes open and it's only 4:00. Looking around the room, I dread the clean up process and my stomach is upset from the plethora of food that I've consumed these past 24 hours, sloshed in together with the alcohol and I have the feeling that the word indulgence doesn't begin to cover the amount of calories that I've ingested. I am feeling very slothlike at the moment even as I reach for another gumball to ease the pain. The Play Doh and Light Sabers, The Pillow Pets, The Video Games and the Candy... a never ending stream, reminders of money both well spent and wasted. I don't want to clean it up, I don't want to clean it up...
Besides, The Wizard of Oz is coming on next. And so, I light the fire and laugh at the television and I'm going to pour myself another glass of wine. Then I'm going to take a bath and make the kids tuck me into bed... a last Christmas gift for their frazzled mother.

...the stars in the sky look down where he lay, the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay..." I wish you many moments filled with love and joy and wonder in the coming year. May peace fill your hearts and make you whole... Merry Christmas!

Laughter

While caring for others and wanting to make the world a better place are two admirable and fine goals; right along with all of the many wonderful things that people do and how they think and what they feel, I was reminded today of how powerful a remedy, an aphrodisiac, a cure if you will, laughter is. Giggling, smiling, guffawing, chuckling, squealing, silently bent doubled over, tears streaming down your face; we've all been there and we've all appreciated what that moment of absolute abandon did for our psyches and probably for our health because let's face it, however much we laughed today or yesterday or last week, it wasn't enough. Even if you tripled the amount and you made a deliberate attempt to laugh at things that weren't even that funny, it still wouldn't be enough. We are entrenched in a time of civil, personal, societal, political, economic, religious turmoil. Of course, one might say that for any time throughout history particularly in the past century, but, for my generation, the forty somethings going on twenty somethings (once again get your mind out of the gutter, or hell, is it just me?), I notice very minutely the details about the people with whom I interact on a daily basis and, sadly, although many of them try, laughter does not seem to permeate as the primary source of their happiness or even of their contentment. And it is because, they are not happy. I completely understand this and I find it difficult to crack a smile when my mortgage payment comes due or you won't find me giggling when I walk outside to get in the car only to find that my right rear tire is flat. And you most certainly won't hear any sustained squealing as I mop the cat shit off the floor for the thousandth time this month. Whose idea were those fucking kittens anyway? Oh right, it was mine. But I digress... and no, I'm not smiling or giggling or laughing at how cute they are and frankly, I might hang one of them in the garage if I didn't think that it would somehow torment the children for the rest of their days. Then again, I may have already done some tormenting, okay, okay, you know I have, but moving on. Clearly, (not so much) my point is that aside from all of the difficulties that we are having in our modern day lives, how necesary and vital laughter is for all of us; a race of people inundated with technology and debt and just, responsibility.

I equate laughter with freedom; that ability to break the ties that have bound you to an idea or a person or a place. It's like that moment when you pick up a wrapped gift and you look at the shape, considering it, feeling it, turning it over in your hands, mentally making a list of things that it could be and then you hold it up to your ear and you shake it, gently at first but then a little more boldy, instantly declaring that you "know what it is!" But the thing is, it wasn't that you knew what it was, rather it was the excitement of the possibility that you were right! And ultimately, you didn't really care what it was, well, some of you may have, but overall, most of you were just so happy to have a gift in the first place and the rest of you were thrilled that it shifted inside of the box, indicating something that wasn't clothing related or a jacket. Who in the hell wants a jacket as a gift anyway? Even if you found an adorable one that you just "had to have" who in their right mind asks for a jacket? I'm completely lumping everyone into the same category here; I'm doing it and I make no apologies for doing it so fuck off if you think otherwise. But the moment when your eyes light up and you feel the corners of your mouth creeping up slowly toward the sky, the warm pearls of jubilance washing up through your diaphragm; it's that split second, when you cannot stop it, when the laughter radiates throughout your face and your chest and your mouth and your very soul when you feel like you have literally been given a gift. And for however long it goes on, however long it takes you to creep back into yourself, abandoning that moment of joy, you feel completely, wholly alive. Powerful to say the least.

(Jake has entered the domain of the blog and as he lays here next to me, I ask him...) "What did you find funny about the blog?" (I just read him what I'd written) and he said, "Nothing, but it was good and can you finish it later so that I can watch the Simpsons? You worthless people, stop reading my mother's blog, don't you have anything better to do?" Hmmm spoken like a true pain in the ass 13 year old who just felt compelled to pass gas while I sit here trying to examine something meaningful and important.

Today when walked down to the store, the group of old guys and, yes, they are old were sitting out having coffee as they do every morning and I always stop and chat with them, back to that comfort level with men I suppose, but also because they are good, smart, funny men who say really significant and often really offensive things which I find utterly amusing. You have to have a thick skin to hang out with that pack. Mike, who works down the way was standing there, taking the brunt of it when I walked up and one of the guys goes, "Hey Yvette, we were just saying how we think Mike is gay." Mike is not gay, in fact, he's happily married with an adorable little boy, but in the moment, you've got to run with it so I turn and say, "Yeah Mike I always thought that you were gay" and Mike just looks like someone punched him in the stomach, but then he laughs, knowing that everyone is just "busting his balls." He's a good sport... but then it was my turn. Mr. M turns to me and says, "Hey Yvette you look really good, still running?" and I said, "Yeah, thanks, but you know, that's implying that I've lost a lot of weight if I look good now" and he doesn't miss a beat, he fires back, "Yeah I know, you were a lardass before" and I see Tim, my husband of 17 years, my supposed best friend and defender and he is doubled over laughing, tears almost coming out of his eyes. What am I going to say? I would have told him to go fuck himself, but that may have been a tad disrespectful so I smiled and walked away as they all laughed and I laughed too. What are you going to do? I will say this though, if I could find more laughter in the silly things and the unimportant, my life might be warmer and fuller and my family might not have to walk on eggshells as much...

One of the cartoonists in Playboy this month drew two snow creatures sitting next to one another, really hideous snow creatures and it's obvious that they just had sex and the one says to the other one, "Was it abominable for you too?" I laughed so hard I got a cramp in my stomach. From that type of humor, one can certainly assume that my meter for what is "funny" is probably very low on the scale for sophistication, but you know, I think Chris Rock is funny and I think that Denis Leary is hilarious. I love it when children tell jokes wrong and when people trip and fall and then laugh, checking to see if anyone saw them do it. I find South Park ridiculously offensive, but I can't stop watching it. I get why Bart Simpson is an icon for teenagers and adults too. Tim was shaving his face the other morning and so, I jumped up on the counter in front of him and gave him the old two eybrow lift, CLEARLY indicating what I wanted. He looked at me and smiled and I thought I had him when he moved and said, "Yvette, I really have to get to that meeting" and then... HE LEFT TO GO TO THE MEETING. But you know, I laughed because what the hell else am I gonna do? Sulk, suffer, get out the vibrator (pause for reaction) and for those of you who are saying, Yvette, too much information, I told you, I don't care what any of you think. I write this for myself and if you feel compelled to read it, do so at your own peril because I refuse to censor or filter my thoughts because yours are rated PG-13. I make no apologies, so laugh along with me, laugh at me or delete this blog from your world, but know this, for whatever I say, there are 20 things that I'm NOT saying and don't you wish, right about now, that I'd say them...

Lastly, having a sense of humor doesn't mean that you get it, doesn't mean that you tell jokes or stories better than anyone else. A sense of humor means that you can laugh at yourself, at a situation, at other people when it is often inappropriate and even, unwanted. People are ridiculous, stupid, ignorant and fucking hilarious. I include myself in this "grouping" by adding that I find things funny that no one else does and often I am standing in a room laughing by myself, at myself, wishing that somebody got what the hell I was trying to say in the first place...

Nick: "Mom, Mom, Knock Knock"
Me: "Who's there?"
Nick: "Ya"
Me: "Ya Who?"
Nick: "Yahoo, Get it, like a cowboy, get it mom?" grips his stomach laughing hysterically before exiting the room.

Yes Nick I get it, I get it all and then some, maybe that's part of the problem. Enjoy today and do me a favor, try to laugh at something; it really is contagious... :)

A yearly visit...

There I lay, flat on my back, his hands resting on my breasts as he looks down into my face and begins to describe, in infinite detail... his golf game? I had to write it down exactly the way it happens every year that I go into his office for my annual exam. My doctor or more specifically, my OBGYN who, incidentally, I think is one of the greatest people on the planet; I am in pre-mourning for the day when he retires, which I ask him about when I see him, now only once a year. And, as I told him today, I refuse to choose a physician who is younger than I am, at least not yet. For now, I'm sticking with him and then, well, depending upon when he retires, I might just have to find another older man or (sigh) a woman. As I am not at all a gender biased person, well, maybe a shave in this instance, you will have to forgive my preference for a doctor, well, doctors who prefer Sir to Madam.

He's been my doctor for 15 years since I was, hmmm, not good with Math... since I was 26? Wow, that long? I had a doctor prior to him, but, I didn't particularly care for her and prior to that it was good old Planned Parenthood. Another topic for another rant, maybe one focused on the lack of societal "common sense" in funding programs that SAVE young girls from lives of indenture and ignorance by providing them with education, but... I digress. So, Dr. M. 15 years, almost as long as I've been married to my husband. A coincidence? Another question, but really, not all that interesting. Anyway, so Dr. M was referred to me by my primary physician, Dr. R who, is also of the male persuasion and who I LOVE. He is the kind of person who you want to date, marry, to have father your children and then to care for you your whole life. Either that, or who you want to talk to when you've had two miscarriages in a row and you drag yourself into his office only to have him tell you, in the kindest voice, "Yvette, I know you and you are not depressed and, you will survive this" and then have him hand you a card, telling you to just give this therapist a call and after which, you realize that the man is a genius because the therapist turns out to be a lifesaving device in the tsunami that has become your life. When I asked Dr. R for a referral, he never asked me if I preferred a female physician, which I find interesting in and of itself because I know that there are many women who do not feel comfortable with a man that close to their "private" areas, but, hell, isn't that the point? And, if a man or men weren't up in those areas in the first place, aside from an annual exam, you wouldn't really need a gynecologist anyway, would you? Whatever, I mean, I am a moderately modest person, always have been, but when I'm in the doctor's office, you might as well install a pole because there is no shame in that small space. But, again, I digress, well, just a smidge. So, Dr. R. tells me to give Dr. M. a call and interview him, see what I think and to come back if I don't like him. Good enough I say and I make an appointment. At the time, I'm 26 and he is, oh, let's say 50, charming, charismatic and, does not mince words. I mean, I thought I was direct. Dr. M. gives me a run for my money. He asks me about having children, sex and everything in between and I shoot right between the eyes, something that he clearly appreciated by the laughter and the smiles and the banter between us that first afternoon. He asks me what I'm looking for in a doctor who will have a great deal of say in the childbirth process and in my health as I go through my childbearing years and after. I remember thinking about that and, ultimately, I decided right then to be perfectly clear: I don't want to be coddled, I don't need you to tell me that everything is going to be okay, I need you to tell me what I should do when I am too emotional or psychologically challenged to be able to decide for myself, I don't want to discuss everything, I just want to do what is necessary, I like medication and I do not want to be a martyr or a heroine. He looked at me and said, "Good enough." and we shook hands, parting as friends and we've been on good terms since...

There have been many moments over these years when I've needed sound advice, when I've needed a rational voice to guide me and to help me see what wasn't the best decision or path at the time and which Dr. M. along with Dr. R. have provided. At one point, they may have been faking their warmth and affection as they did not yet know me and despite only seeing them seldomly, I get the feeling; well, they make me feel as if they do care about my well being. They sit, we talk, we laugh, Dr. M. pauses as he gives me a breast exam, EVERY single time and I chalk it up to he forgets what he was saying and then doing. Men, not the best at multi-tasking and besides, his hands are always warm... okay, I'm just fucking around right now. He's a decent and kind human being and he has seen me through 3 childbirths and 2 miscarriages and he's held my hand and told me to calm down and, I'm positive that more than once he's wanted to tell me to fuck off, but, he hasn't. And, he always seems glad to see me, kind of picking up our annual conversation right where we left off. For me, it's not only helpful to have a "guy's" perspective, but in this facet of my life, it's a necessity.

When I was getting my MA, I was walking one night on the Dominguez campus and I noticed a man walking toward me. I think I noticed him initially because he had on a suit with a red shirt. The closer he got to me, the more I felt my lungs constrict and I suddenly couldn't breathe. My doctor, Dr. R. was right there and as he stopped, as he shook my hand and smiled and throughout the entire conversation, only one thought kept recurring through my mind; he's seen me naked. I know, not the most poignant, but it's different when your doctor is staring at you, making small talk and it's completely benign when you are in the office and he sees you as the "patient." Weird... very Twilight Zone. Outside of the office though, they are men, like real people and I guess that's what I found kind of odd.

In thinking about my relationships with my doctors; I also began to think about my relationships or interactions with men in general. I prefer a male masseuse when I get a massage, regardless of the type of massage. Some of my friends prefer women because their hands are smaller, but that doesn't matter to me in the slightest. I like the feel of a man's hands on my body, the strength; maybe it's because I'm so tense and what not or maybe, ultimately, it's just that I feel more comfortable around men. I think I always have. That's something that my therapist and I (who, incidentally, is a woman so that dispels that "all or nothing" notion, whatever that notion might be) will have to discuss. I just don't feel as judged by men which in and of itself is kind of ironic as I often do feel that they are sizing me up in a "can she hold her own" type of way. So, they are judging. But I really appreciate the forthright attitudes and the direct manner of speaking and more often than not, when I'm angry, I'd prefer to throw something or kick someone's ass than to talk it out. Yes, I'm generalizing, but that's they way it goes when one goes off on a tangent. Cosmically appropriate then that I ended up being the mother of three boys then...

I guess, in thinking about today and schlepping myself to yet another appointment of some sort, I was considering that there may not be too many visits left with Dr. M. and it also made me think about all of the men in my life, the ones who are important and who take care of me. Ironically enough, when I think about it, all three of my sons have a female physician and a female dentist. Hmmm, maybe there is some kind of cosmic balance to the universe. See you next year Dr. M. and, thanks for the chat...

Goodbye...

I've let something manifest itself in my mind and in my heart and it has gone on long enough that now I realize, for my own sake, that I have to let it go. I think I've tried to avoid the whole "midlife" crisis thing for the past couple of years to the point where I just haven't let myself accept that this is where I am in my life and that I have to keep moving forward. I give lip service to this notion, but I don't think that I've really accepted it. The funny thing is that I'm content with who I am and where I am, but there are things about my life that I am having a hard time accepting; that I don't want to accept. Like making a list of goals and dreams; things to accomplish as you grow up, only to find that, all of a sudden, you are running out of time and that, those desires, those goals if you will, you suddenly cannot achieve or cannot accomplish anymore simply because you are of a certain age.

It never goes away; the longing to be a certain way or to have certain things or to be chased or loved or desired. It's very much like having a conversation with a stranger; they see you, in that instant and there is no baggage, no additional criticism or doubt or analysis; they just see you and they listen and... they hear you. I don't like to generalize and I really hate stereotypes, but there is something about being a woman, growing older, wanting the same things as when you were younger, but also, changing psychologically, biologically, emotionally; watching that shift happen and part of you wanting to stop it and yet, not entirely wanting to stop it. I don't want to go back, I don't want to be a teenager again. But I do, often these days, long for the simplicity of going out for a night with no concern but for myself, of anonymity, of recklessness of the kind of abandon that is reserved for the young and ignorant. Making bad choices and yet having the kind of experiences that one can only share much later on, knowing that if that information got out, one might be grounded for the rest of her natural life. I suppose there is a part of me that wishes for more time, but a bigger part of me only wants it if it is meaningful time. I don't want to feel trapped or tied down or longing for places and people that I'll never see or who I can never have. It's frustrating and annoying and ultimately, futile.

I want to accept life and people and the time frame that I've been given, but a huge part of me fears that if I do accept it and when I do, then really, what do I have left? Accept what you are and then, what? Exist. I no longer want to just exist. I want to fall in love with life every single day for however many days I have left. I want to fall in love with ideas and people and places and pictures and the simple notion that however I was raised does not ultimately and solely dictate how I live out my life. I want my children to know that although they have to live by certain rules in order to function in this society, that, they can choose to live however they choose and that the only real rule that they have to follow is that one day they will have to answer for their choices. They control their choices and those choices don't have to fit a mold or a frame that was built by someone or some ideology that was out of their control.

A real gift, one that I would consider a gift is one's ability to let things go, to forget, to forgive, to, again, accept how things are without any kind of preconceived notion and at these, I am inept. I have an extraordinarily difficult time letting go of the past, of my desires; especially those that are the most harmful. I keep it all inside and it begins to manifest itself as something else. Outwardly, it shows up as irritation, impatience, boredom, even sadness sometimes and then I attempt to counter those feelings by trying to do something useful or helpful, maybe do something for someone else.

Ultimately, I know it is about finding balance. I don't want to wait for the day when someone isn't walking behind me saying "Mom, Mom, Mommy" in my ear and yet I already know that I will miss it terribly when that sound goes away. Part of the parenting conundrum I suppose is that we want it to be both ways and we can't have it both ways. Like so many things, we make choices. I've made choices and, as with my children, I have to live and then answer for thsoe decisions. That I can accept. Maybe in finding the balance, the new age "zen" that helps people to focus and center, I have to acknowledge that much of life is spent in bondage of some kind (get your mind out of the gutter for a second, well, mine went there too). When we are young, we are bound to our parents, our families until we go out on our own. And then, it's school, work, partners, spouses, marriage, mortgages, bills, religion, laws; something is always binding us to some "thing" or some "one" or some "place." I feel like I'm in a box, maybe an empty refrigerator box because my life is big, very full so to speak, but a box nonetheless. All the sides are connected and if I break down one, the whole thing loses its shape and then, is it still a box by definition? Is it still my life or will it have become some strange new shape, defined by nothing more than the fact that it is different than what it was...

Youth is currency in our society and no matter how much I want to dispel that notion, I am still surprised by how one's face or body can dictate a conversation or a relationship and yet, how many people are overlooked, people who are beautiful and interesting and unique, but who don't entirely posess that "thing" that we are trained to see as "beauty." I am realizing, as I age (you don't know how painful that is for me to type), that it is painful to know that something that once defined how people saw you no longer defines you at all. Yet, often, if people give you a chance and they get to know you, you are reminded of how they looked at you when you were 18 or 25 and you remember what it feels like to be appreciated. I guess that's part of my argument for why life has to be lived strongly and fiercely, quickly even in the sense that I want to fill every day with more moments in which I feel that appreciation, for myself and by others. Because, if I'm totally honest with myself, it still matters to me how others see me in terms of what I want from them but, now, how they see me no longer defines how I feel about myself. Another benefit of maturity (not getting old), less insecurity, less self criticism; maybe not for all, but that's something to consider.

I told Nick yesterday that if I live to be 82, I've lived half my life. He paused and considered that for a second before astutely responding, "Well Mom, if you live
to 164, then you've only lived a quarter of your life." Hmmm, I didn't want to burst his bubble, but I think he realizes that I'm not going to live that long nor would I want to, but I like the way that he thinks. Ah youth; the idealistic, hopeful, delusion of ignorance. Bliss...

Amor es lo mismo en cualquier lenguaje...

Estoy escibiendo esta noche como un regalo a mis amigos de Espana y en la fuerza de algun dia, puedo regresar al pais de mi corazon. Espana es un lugar de memorias pero tambien, es un lugar de un trozo de la historia de mi familia tambien. Quisiera saber mas del pais en que vivio pero quiero aprender mas de la gente tambien. Ahora tengo amigos en Espana y es posible que en un ano o dos que mis hijos van a conocerlos. Si es posible. Recuerdo cuando estaba en las clases de espanol para tres anos aqui y en Espana tambien. Estaba estudiando la lengua y la cultura de los Espanoles pero hasta yo fui al pais, no comprendio la foto completamente. Es imposible pues, es dificil para aprender a hablar espanol en una clase solamente. Es mejor cuando estas caminando en un calle de un pais donde la gente esta hablando y puedes escuchar y entonces diga lo mismo. Es mejor tambien cuando estas hablando con la gente y especialmente cuando haces errores en la conversacion. Aprendio muchisimo cuando digo la palabra que no fue corecta. Mucho mas que uso la palabra corecta. Ahora, estoy escribiendo en ingles y despues, estoy tratando escribir las palabras que dicen los mismo en espanol y no es buena. Pero no practico mi espanol estos dias. No tengo la oportunidad para hablar con personas con quien espanol es su lengua primera. Algos dias uso palabras como "Hola o Adios" pero son todos. Es triste pero es la situacion. Espero que va a cambiar cuando regreso a Espana para visitar mis amigos. Creo que una persona necesita una "oreja" para la lengua y es absolutamente necesario obtener la oreja con la gente de un pais en particular como Espana. Los Espanoles tienen un amor de amistad y con las personas que quiere aprender mas. Con respeto y practica, es posible y paso muchas horas divertidas con Eva, Michel y Celine en que estaba tratando usar las palabras apropiadas. Son gente genial por supuesto.

Espero que mis hijos van a aprender Espanol y si quieren algo, entonces es bueno tambien. Pero algun dia, voy a viajar con ellos al pais con que estoy enamorada. Hasta entonces, voy a practicar mas. En mis suenos si no tengo el tiempo para practicar en mi vida. Hala Espana...

Dear Yvette,

You have so many items, like a checklist, twirling around in your mind, swirling, unrecognizable, colliding, fracturing any semblance of a short term memory that you might have had left and now, you don't know what to do with them all. You just don't know what to do.

You're so tired of multi tasking and never quite finishing any one thing before ten other things spring into place. You yearn for time and quiet and yet you clamor for attention and noise and laughter and even, chaos. The juxtaposition between what you need and what you long for is almost pathetic. For, ultimately, you're never going to be able to keep up with the demanding, incessant need that you have to try and find "fufillment." Truly, you found everything that you wanted as a young girl and yet you still want more; you still want that thing that escapes you, that holds the key to your happiness. But what your real problem is, you don't know what that key is and honestly, you probably never will.

For a while, you thought it was God and then school and then love, family, children. At times you've thought that being at peace meant that you could look yourself in the mirror and not frown or not wish that something was different about your face or your hair or the inevitable wrinkles that, interestingly enough, are a genetic gift from your father. Other times you've sat alone, in the dark, letting the tears come, wishing for an entirely different chance; a life very unlike the one you've created. Lately, you've felt enveloped in challenges and a desire to want to help others through charitable work or, through your own work. You've begun to want to make a real difference and yet, your own children are suffering from a lack of guidance on your part. You are not strong enough to be in three places at once, to take on ten things at once and complete them all successfully so you're going to have to choose. And the choice that you make is going to dictate the outcome of the lives of the people you love the most, including your own.

More often than not these days, you feel selfish and reckless and you make feeble attempts to live life to the fullest without really accomplishing that from the safety and insulation of your home. Maybe you need to heed your own advice and make the notion of "stepping outside the box" more than just a saying that applies to what's safe and instead ask yourself the harder questions. Instead of wishing and waiting for change to happen and then complaining when it doesn't, maybe you need to accept that you and those others whom you so readily criticize, have faults and issues and that ultimately, it takes time for real change to occur; real, meaningful change.

You know what it is and you know why. The holidays always seem to bring out the best and the worst in you; the melancholy and the joy in your heart. Gift giving and sharing and spending time with the people who've cared for you in some way, all of your life, it's well, it's wonderful and exhausting. Spending money that isn't there and wanting more for everyone and, at the same time, wanting less for your spoiled children who, incidentally, got that way because you spoiled them. Maybe it's time to just accept that it's the time of year when you allow yourself a moment to reflect and to consider what you want for the next year or phase of your life. Because, in the end, it is yours for consideration, regardless of what brought you here or how long it took or who is involved in it now.

Maybe happiness isn't a goal worth seeking because so far it has eluded you. Certainly you've had moments of clarity and peace and wonder, of joy and love and gratitude and, happiness. But the kind of happiness you seek is one in which you find peace in your heart. And Yvette, your heart is restless; it is the glass that is half empty instead of half full and as you continue to chase your tail, trying desperately to find the other "half" of fulfillment, you are letting more time slip away, time in which you could be accepting of what you have and where you are and who loves you instead of wanting other things. You need to take a long look at yourself and imagine how you would be without those things and those people and those moments and, despite already knowing the answer, imagine what that picture of life would bring you. Maybe that is what you are doing, right now, as you write away.

Try harder to feel the positive and not dwell on the negative. Try to see the good in situations, even where there isn't much there. Try to be more forgiving of yourself and of others whom you secretly criticize because you think that they don't somehow live up to your expectations. Try to be honest with yourself, even when that means that you judge yourself the most harshly and, for God's sake, try not to be so easily swayed by what could be and instead focus on what is. If for nothing other than your children who, in case you haven't noticed lately, need you more now than ever before, in a variety of ways and, if you don't see it soon, you will continue to fail them as you continue to fail yourself.

Try to see it from my point of view...

YLH

Hoo ya... I am a Spartan.

I won't do this justice; no matter what I write here, it will not accurately describe how I spent this Sunday morning and afternoon, with friends and with about a thousand other crazy ass people in the canyons of Malibu. I would like to preface this description by saying that all ideas seem good "at the time," as in, when you are signing up, usually months before and, in this case, signing up after having done a race that you thought was relatively easy. Sure, I did that, I can do another one, no problem. If the Warrior Dash that we did awhile ago was oh, um, the teacup ride at Disneyland then the Spartan race that we did today was oh, um, Tatsu at Magic Mountain ON CRACK...

I hope we make it into next year's promo video because we went balls out; all of us: Rosh, Nancy, Mangler, Deb, Deirdre, Noah and other friends whose, I'm sorry, names escape me at the moment due to the probably severe loss of memory and blood in my body today. The Spartan race is touted as a 5K, which it is and it has multiple obstacles, which we encountered and it is described as tough. Well, tough is the politically correct term for "the course will kick your fucking ass and take names."

We arrived half an hour before our heat, checked in, numbered up and met some friends. We hydrated and got in the corral as we watched people from the earlier heat coming around the corner; we laughed as "Gladiator" types in Speedo shorts pummeled runners with those giant Qtip sticks, not thinking that would be us soon enough. We waited a few minutes, snapped some shots, jumped around to the Beastie Boys and we were off. Within ten feet was a strip of fire over which we jumped only to be shot in the face and chest and head with firehoses not 5 feet later. Freezing cold water shot at your head is not usually the way that I start a race, but hey, it's a military course and those guys don't mess around. We move and see the first hill, thinking that we'll "jog" up it. We make it halfway and then, we're walking and we're walking through most of the course for the rest of the course because the Spartan race is not really a race, it's a torturous, bloodsucking, relentless mass of hilly, gravelly terrain that makes Pendleton look like a walk in Central Park. Lining the course and in the midst was a path that literally was overgrown with branches and drop off stones big enough to choke a giant, mud, barbed wire and plants scratching at your non covered legs as you manuevered by. Coming out of the brush was a relief only to see, you guessed it, another fucking hill, to the amusement of the guy from the Navy who had the ingenuity to say, "That's the last one." Fucker. Not only was it NOT the last one, but it wasn't even close. As we meandered along the canyon, up into nowhere, we passed people who looked seriously ill and of course because we're SPARTANS, there is no water on the course. The military is hardcore I tell you. Hard fucking core... that's why we admire them and simultaneously, at least today, hate them for laughing at us as we attempt to get through a course that they think is cake.

A little over halfway through and the obstacles begin: a 15 foot long tent that one must crawl through over gravelly dirt, a rope wall, a balance beam type puzzle that you had to walk over or, upon failure, you had to do squats. Yes, squats in the middle of the course. And yes, I did them, after which, do I even need to say it, there was another damn hill; trying to mix up my obscenities here for your enjoyment. The next heat was coming through at that time and the show off athletes were actually running up the rolling slopes. They were nice to look at, but annoying to have pass me; I was tempted to stick out my foot and trip one of them. Then, there were two walls; cake, jumped over them no problem and after, a bigger wall; I was proud of myself for making it over that too. Put my foot up on the block and pulled myself over. I love that stuff. Forever a tomboy. After the walls came more hills (sigh) and then we began the last 1/4 of the course.

Now to accurately describe what happened over the remainder of the course, I need for you to visualize a troup of people, hot, sweaty, tired, bloody, angry, thirsty and trying very hard not to hurt themselves as they round a corner and view the first mud pit. I dove right in, along with my comrades and I could feel the skin ripping from my knees as the grainy mud tore at my flesh. I watched and ducked so as not to stab my eye or my forehead on the barbed wire as I crawled through, pulling with my elbows while this sadistic girl screamed at us and threw mud in our faces. Of course I yelled at her, "Is that all you've got?" and subsequently, she fired a handful in my face, but hey, I came to play right? I stood up and turned and chucked a handful at Rosh, but she's a great sport and she laughed.

Next came the water pit, more crawling and pulling, this time under ropes and then it was onto a wall with footholds, but it was impossible to get a grip. You had to crawl sideways and I couldn't even get my feet on the damn blocks! So, I took my punishment, 25 pushups and 75 situps and then we were climbing through some haystack looking obstacle of mud, under a fence and around another bend. I'm not getting the entire sequence entirely right here, but I wanted to save the ice water for almost the end because I've never felt like I did when we waded into that water.

We sat on the dock for two seconds and then we were waist high in a lake of ice water and upon taking a few more steps, it was up to my chest and I suddenly couldn't breathe. I was gasping, along with everyone else and I felt like someone was squeezing the air out of my lungs, like I was hyper ventilating. Rosh grabbed my arm and asked if I was okay and if I wanted to go back, but she was hurting too so we all did the only thing that we could and we swam the rest of the 40 yards or so until our feet touched the shore and then we pulled ourselves out and for about a full minute, I was so cold that I was actually hurting. My feet were like blocks of ice and I was, well, let's just say that after that, I thought that I could do anything.

We moved and walked and jogged a bit as we came down toward the last part of the race and as we rounded the bend, we stopped at the javelin pit where everyone took a turn throwing a javelin at a huge suspended haystack. If your javelin didn't stick (you guessed it), more pushups, followed by another wall with a rope where you had to pull your body weight up and over. I tried twice and I almost got my hand to the top and so did Nancy (who kicked complete ass today by the way). I hated to quit, but I really think that if it hadn't been so slippery from the mud that I could have made it. It irritates the hell out of me not to be able to do something, but I couldn't do it. So, I did my pushups and ran with the other four girls toward the Gladiators and their sticks. I dove down so that he couldn't whack me, but he did anyway, on my BUTT and then we all crossed the line together. We got our medals and a group of guys yelled, "Way to go girls" and it felt like a moment. Solidarity. We were Spartans, all of us; covered in filth, freezing, sunburned, pissed off and delirious, but we were fucking Spartans. Hoo ah!

I'd like to say that we took a nice warm shower, had some food and went home and relaxed, but it didn't happen like that. Did I even intimate that anything was remotely easy about the day? Nope, shower lines were too long so, Rosh, the Irish lush, I mean lass that she is, went and got a beer and then we all headed toward the shoe donation booth where we prompty donated our shit covered shoes to help defer the cost of military housing. What a great cause and what a hell of a lot of shoes! We rounded the corner and there was a blood drive happening; like we hadn't given enough already? Joking here, so, the three of us sat down, filled out the forms, ate some snacks in the bright afternoon sun and then we laid down when it was our turn and we donated our blood. It was a highlight. Walking away, still covered in filth, smiling, thankful and exhausted, I couldn't have wished for a better way to spend a Sunday.

What I noticed the most about today was that the people who participate in these events, although most of them are athletes of some sort, mostly runners, they, we all share a common ideal and that is a very simple one; grab life by the neck and choke it dry. Coaches tell us to leave it all on the field so that when you walk off, you don't ever have to look back with regret like you didn't do enough or try hard enough. Well, let me tell you, everyone who ran that course today, left it all out there and then some and they are the ones who are at home, right now, going, you know what? Life is pretty damn good and, where do I sign up for the next one?

Spartan Race, 12/12/10... Hoo to the fucking ya baby! See you next time...

Wanta go?

I am not a tackle dummy, I am not a tackle dummy, I am not a... and, I'm on the ground, shoulder behind me, mouth against the carpet while the 4 year old does a pretty good imitation of a flying Wallenda as he lands right on my head. I have not even begun to appropriately describe the intensity with which my boys come at me nor have I even scratched the surface of how much it physically hurts to be treated like a wide receiver who is getting pummeled repeatedly by a lineman who is heavier, stronger and much, much younger. I close my mouth so as not to hit my teeth on the hardwood floor while I wait for the 13 year old to show some mercy and let me live. He decides that he's going to torture me a bit longer and then laugh hysterically about my predicament. Insult to injury, of course, what more could a teenage boy ask for. Injuries aside, raising 3 boys is very much like a football game only lately, I have been the ball.

They like to come at me when I least expect it and usually from the side where they think I can't see them as well with my peripheral vision. And when I DO realize that a body is flying at me, you guessed it, it's too late to do anything about it and all I can do is brace myself for the certain impact that I know is coming. Most of the time I get my hands out or I try to bend a knee, but I swear, it still hurts, every time. And, to Tim's chagrin and to my obvious continued pain, I go right back at them until I don't have any left to throw. Why you ask? Well, it's fun, it's challenging and it's just the way that boys are. They are disgustingly physical and it is an incessant need that they have to grab, push, touch, slap, punch (insert aggressive verb here) and that need must be satisfied. I mean, I can completely appreciate an elbow to the head or a charley horse delivered in an exact manner or a "big elbow" dropped in just the right spot if the recipient deserved said punishment, but what irks me is the notion that I can be just sitting here or there or watching television or reading and all of a sudden, I'm tumbling forward or falling off the bed while a kid comes at me, no regard for my safety or my body. But, that's just the way that boys are. I keep telling myself that and hoping that pretty soon, they'll just take pity on me and go after each other or someone else who, every once in awhile will beat the shit out of them so that they know what it feels like. I really hate it when they laugh; that's just downright insulting.

And so, as in a variety of situations, I try to hold my own until the day that I no longer can and then I will, well, I don't know what I'll do to tell the truth and maybe I'll miss the constant question, "Hey mom, want some?" or the endless "Wanta go?" No boys, I don't want to go, I don't want some and if you continue to pester me, I will do everything I can to kick your ass frontways and back. I get it, I really do, but for those of you who don't have boys or if you have some kind of stepford child who does not engage in this reckless behavior, then try to be patient with those of us who have many who do. Incidentally, while I type this, Ty just grabbed my left breast and growled before flopping back down on the bed. I didn't even flinch. It's just par for the course, or so I'm told.

Could somebody please grab me a tourniquet; I think I'm hemorraghing...

Discipline

What the hell does that kid think that he is doing? I mean seriously, does a 13 year old, think, even in the remotest corner of his slowly developing and linear mind that he stands a chance verbally sparring with me? And then,even less of a chance of changing the outcome? Strangely, ironically even, he does and he insists on testing my patience, of which I have very little with which to begin AND he tempers that testing with an irritating combination of guile and charm. I find my son ridiculously charming, but not to the point where, at the end of a tirade; mine usually, that I am going to suddenly say, "Okay Jake, you know what? You're right, you don't deserve that punishment. I'm so sorry for doleling out an unreasonable and completely unfair regiment of chores and restrictions." Like hell I am. Even when I know that I've been unusually harsh or insistent that my point of view is the only one, then, I do what any self respecting mother does; I squelch the urge to admit fault, I wait until the kid goes to bed and then I drink more than I should, or, if I feel really lonely I go on Facebook and visit all my "cyber" friends. Not really, except for the drinking and facebook. Truly, I do apologize when I am at fault, but the most difficult part of that is knowing when I truly am at fault. I need a better means of measuring the "wrongness" of a decision, based on more than I have that sinking feeling in my stomach or my son has tears welling up in his eyes.

The thing is, handing out "appropriate" discipline is as difficult as having to hear about the infringement in the first place. I can feel my eye begin to twitch as I listen to yet AGAIN why so and so did this or didn't do this or why he got the grade he did or the mumbling under his breath or the eye rolling or the shaking of the head. Insert deep breath here. The really difficult part is that it is extraordinarily painful to give an appropriate punishment when you are pissed off. Seems easy to do, but, really, it's almost impossible to match the consequence with the crime when your face is red and you are screaming at the top of your lungs at the very same child who, not so many years ago, you held in your arms and nursed back to sleep. I swear, sometimes I look at Jake and I simultaneously want to slap his face and hug him and then I think, how long until social services shows up? How long before my kid threatens to call them himself? And then I sigh and send him to his room so that I can cool off before I really go ballistic. The "you better get away from me right now" tactic is one that I engage in frequently these days.

Spanking, yelling, grounding, taking things away, chores, whatever you call it, I call it a necessary means for a parent to implement a strategy in the power struggle with offspring that mirrors the game of chess. He makes a move, then I do and ultimately, there's going to be a winner and, sadly, that means, a loser as well. But the play will determine if the players still have a relationship at the end of the game. And, I want a relationship with my son. He hasn't yet realized that he holds many of my pieces already and that he is only a few moves from taking them; in a few years, he will have the power to decide and our relationship will be based primarily on whether or not he wants me in his life. I have to act like that doesn't matter and that the power struggle doesn't exist, for his sake and for our family, but it does. It always will. See, I want a relationship with him when he leaves here and although I tell him that he might hate me in the end, that what I do, I do because I think it's the right thing, that I'm not being honest at all; with him, with Nick, with Ty or with myself. Everything that I do or say or don't do or don't say is like another move on the board. But will it all work out? Will I win and if I do, doesn't that, again, mean that he loses? It's a frightening thought really. Sure he will realize someday that what I take from him or deprive him of doing was "for his own good" or maybe he'll just simply forget about it or maybe he will never speak to me again.

But isn't that the chance that we all take as parents? I mean, I've had many coversations with friends about the truly fucked up way that we handle things with our children and how in every instance we feel "bad" for what happened, even if we know that we aren't to blame! Blame and guilt, two feelings that I would very much like to see drowned in the kiddie pool. Nonetheless, why must we compromise when it comes to disciplining our children and why must others feel compelled to offer their insight as to what is best in "that situation?" Just go to a bookstore, the sickening amount of self help parenting books filled with pop psychology fill at least 1/4 of the shelves and if you don't buy one or you claim you never have, but you really have, then you feel an inordinate amount of shame for having spent the money and never reading it, or, at the very least, not having implemented the very successful "7 steps to getting your child to harmonize with his siblings." Unless they are talking about forming some kind of quartet, I'd rather just see them beat the shit out of each other than "harmonize." But, I digress, as usual. Just trying to feel my way around where I should end up tomorrow...

And so, Jake is grounded until the weekend and his last comment to me tonight was, "I'll be in my room staring at the wall." Apropos, considering there is nothing in his room to do, but stare at the wall. Did I punish him inappropriately? Do I feel badly about how I handled the situation? Do I wish that I got a do-over? A redux... Nope, none of the above; it's a simple case of defy the mother, get your ass kicked. Parenting 101 here I come. And so, my disciples, heed this word of advice, "Don't let them make you feel badly about any of it and more importantly, do not make yourself feel badly..." Remember, there are moments of choice and even if you do make the occasional or, the "often" poor choice, keep in mind that your parents probably felt exactly the same way and, look, you turned out just fine... well, maybe that wasn't the best argument that I've come up with. Then again, I still blame my parents for everything that's wrong with me and... you're still listening to my advice? Go away now, I'm busy thinking up the next punishment that I can give out...

At a crossroads

It really is a game, all of it. When you sit down and think about it, it's a game and you and I are playing and, there is no winner, ever. Winning isn't the point, but playing, being involved in the play, is most certainly the point. Leaving the comfort of your home, challenging yourself, stepping outside of your comfort zone, all motivation to help get you there, wherever "there" is. Maybe at 26, "there" is finding your own space or at 43, it's trying to understand where and how people fit into your life and, if they do at all anymore. Maybe it's simply a matter of living the way that you want to live and forgetting the rest of it: people's expectations, society's influence, the whole notion that you have to be a certain way or act a certain way. Maybe it's as simple as living for yourself and making time for others and things and jobs and vacations as you see fit. Taking care of yourself and becoming the person that makes you happy will inevitably lead to the invitation for other people to make you happy. I'm sounding way too much like Oprah here but optimism has to breed something positive, especially in those moments when you just don't want to get out of bed or when you just want to give up. Don't give up.

Went to an art display last night and I was moved by the talent of the artists, but more than that by their committment to what they love to do. It cannot be even remotely easy to try and find the time and space to create something meaningful and then try to make a living by selling it. I would have bought every single piece if I could have just to show them that it is worthwhile and that they have to keep at it, if that is their love, if it is what makes them whole. Life is nothing without passion, without a drive to want to be great at something, other than making money. And, it's true what "they" say, money doesn't make you happy; it creates the time and space that people desperately want, but it is still up to you to make yourself happy, whatever that means, whenever it happens.

The maniac asked me, "Hey mommy, want to play red light, green light?" as I'm in my underwear, trying to gather my work stuff and pack his suitcase all at the same time. I looked at the clock; there was no time to play right then. I looked in his very blue eyes and I sighed and said, "Sure buddy" and we played, for 10 minutes and it almost sent him into a frenzy of happiness. 10 minutes, that's all it took. Sure I had to put my makeup on in the car and risk possible death from unplanned, ridiculously insane driving tactics, but it made the kid happy. And, ultimately, it made me happy too.

You could die tomorrow or today and so could I. You might never find your place or live your dream. It's sad, but it's the truth. Starting out is excruciating because you don't know where you're going to end up, but, if you really think about it, that's what makes it exciting too. There is no time frame on when you have to do something or be somewhere and ultimately, what really matters is that you get there when you are ready to get there and then, another challenge arises. I cried almost every night when I first started teaching. The days were long, the work was hard and the amount of pressure and stress turned me into someone who I didn't really know or want to be. But, I learned so much about what I didn't want to be or do that it brought me to a much better place, with no job security and much less money, but a hell of lot more peace. I also discovered that things at which I thought I was good, in reality, they were things that I couldn't do well. I tried, but I wasn't cut out for them and I had to accept that. There's much to be said for acceptance.

Live in the moment, isn't that what everyone says? Enjoy what you have and who you have for as long as you have them? I don't know; sometimes I think that it changes so quickly that I don't have time to "enjoy" it. One minute it's this and the next, I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, my face in my hands, weeping and I don't know how I can enjoy anything at all. So, I understand the feeling of being at a crossroads, pretty much every single day and I empathize.

Be appreciated, be loved, be patient, be kind, be open to new ideas and experiences, be forgiving, be willing to admit that it's your fault every once in awhile, be generous, be accepting, be fun, be silly, be sentimental, be sexy, be gentle, be a hardass, be critical, be first but sometimes, be last, be angry, be unusual, be friendly; be yourself. And, if you're reading this, I like you, hell, I might even love you and although I was never a cheerleader, I'm still in your corner and I'm still rooting for you. Now, get up off the couch, step away from the computer and go out and do something for yourself; you never know who or what is right around the corner...