Drive

Hey. It’s been a while, but I’ve managed to conjure up a long one for you. You may want to save it for some relaxing vacation reading by a nice cool pool, lake or whatever…enjoy! – Jenny

I was 17 years old when I was ordered to see a judge.

It was Thanksgiving break and I had woken up early (at least to a college freshman) and driven down to some courthouse in LA by my dad.

I had received yet another speeding ticket and this time there was a judge who wanted to scare me straight, although I think the drive to the courthouse with my father was even more frightening than the meeting with the judge.

We had directions from MapQuest, a relatively new gimmick at the time, that my mother faithfully researched and printed out for us. They were wrong, and we got lost. Or they were right and I failed to read them correctly from my lofty (yet unwanted) post of ‘navigator’. Who knows.

Being my dad’s navigator was (and still is) the least desirable place to sit in any vehicle for any human being. I would sooner be on a dirty train to Darjeeling than in the plush, air conditioned comfort of “Navigatordom”.

Fortunately, the world has blessed me, my mother and any other poor soul who must guide my dad from point A to point B with satellite navigation. That inventor has my deepest gratitude. Unlike me, the little voice inside the GPS-wonder won’t start crying when it gets asked, “RIGHT OR LEFT? RIGHT OR LEFT, GOD DAMMIT?” Although I admit that I would enjoy hearing the computer-voice snark back to him, “Simmer down, sir! All I said was to merge with traffic in two point five miles! I’ll let you know what to do as we get closer! Do you need me to drive?”

Back in the judge’s office (is it OK to call them ‘chambers’?) I was nervous, yet cocky at the same time. When the judge asked me, “Do you realize that I can take away your license?” I remember thinking “Yeah right! I’m only 17. In a couple days I will be 18 and many of this drops off my record!” (Which the judge had previously mentioned).

I apologized to the judge (somewhat half-heartedly) and endured a cold-yet-fuming father all the way home. (And yes, I think we managed to get lost on the way home, too.) I don’t remember because I was completely obsessed with just getting home to hang out with all my other friends  who were also home for break. Yay, friendship!

Later on I received a letter in the mail from the then-Governor, Pete Wilson, because I had received three speeding tickets within a year. Or was it 6 months? Not sure. I still have the letter somewhere, but it was just full of ‘shame on you’ text that his secretary had written and contained no real penalties. Of course I wasn’t paying for my own auto insurance at the time, so I’m sure my poor mother would have much to say about how much my speedy road trips were really costing.

Driving is one of my absolute favorite pastimes.

Driving always symbolized that I was getting to escape one place and trade it for another.

All my family was out of state, so every vacation was to either Las Vegas or Phoenix. The roads were straight and the speed limit was lax, and when we all figured out that a child (me) with extreme motion sickness should not be allowed to read in the back seat, these drives became relatively uneventful.

Normally, I’d hurl on any road trip that was over 30 minutes long (or past the bustling metropolis of Acton on Hwy 14) but soon we curbed this annoying habit and we were good to go.

Check out this handy visual I made for you! Home = no problem. Acton = time to start puking. And yes, I miss Hwy 14 every time I have to drive Chico’s janky Hwy 99.

A typical family road trip followed these basic steps:

• Drive through the Air Force Base to shave off 30 minutes? Check.
• Stop for food around the halfway point? (A McDonalds that resembled a train car)? Double check.
• Only pee at the restaurant? Absolutely. Rest stops were gross.
• Beg my parents to go visit the giant Cabazon Dinosaurs from Pee Wee Herman’s Big Adventure movie? Every time.

We actually did stop and visit them once when we were driving with my friend Monica. They were really cool, albeit, blazing hot inside. No A/C inside those dino-babies.

As I got older, driving became my thing.

My car, an unassuming silver 1992 Hyundai Sonata with a sneaky V6, was surprisingly, the most reliable vehicle out of all of the clunkers my friends owned (or didn’t own). This meant I was often the one elected to drive on our many outings. (Oh, and the free gas credit card from my parents also helped.)

Growing up in Lancaster, CA  these outings were usually all about escape! We’d venture 30 minutes to Santa Clarita to visit our teacher for a card game or old VHS movie night (Oh yeah – party on, kids!) or 45 minutes to Magic Mountain. Sometimes we’d push the curfews and scream our way to Beverly Hills so we could try and eat at our favorite fifties diner, Ed Debevic’s (Now closed for 10 years – boo!).

When I started college 7.5 hours away from home in balmy Chico, California, my driving was, once again, a huge part of my life. Even if you didn’t count all the I-5 trips home (any 3-day weekend I could muster) I was one of the rare students in the dorms that had a car, so late night trips to Winco for ice cream and candy to console a friend’s broken heart became my duty.

Vent-Driving 101 – An Introduction and Case Study

If you know anything about me from this blog, you know that there were a few boys who played a big role in my girl-chases-boy phase. This phase was probably about 14 years long and often ended up with me finally getting the picture: No — That boy does not want me to chase him any longer!

Once I had my driver’s license, my go-to venting/crying/radio-blasting/purging myself of all things “HIM” was done behind the wheel. Is it smart to drive when you’re freaking out and blubbering about that one time he smiled at you over bumper pool? Is it the safest idea to go racing down a highway while simultaneously gazing at the yellow sticker he gave you from McDonald’s that said “SPECIAL”? No. Absolutely not. Get yourself together, woman!

But vent-drive I did, and damn, I was good at it, too. The first time, I vent-drove, I had recently received my license and was on my way “to the sunset” (Dramatic much?) and I got pulled over for speeding. As the CHP approached me, he got a front row seat to my ugly cry-face behind my gas station sunglasses and my passenger seat full of used tissues. Plus, I had never been pulled over before, so I was majorly scared about getting in trouble. And wasn’t this just PERFECT? What a crappy day…getting pulled over made things even more dramatic! I felt like I was in a movie

The CHP could see I was upset and told me that it wasn’t a good idea to go around driving in that condition. Then he told me to scamper along home with just a warning. He had a teenage daughter too and hated to think of her vent-driving and heart-broken like I was. Mwuh ha ha! I mean, “Thank you, Officer.” {Sniff-sniff}

I think I turned around and went to the beach instead, which was probably about two hours from that pull-over point. (I know. I know.  I was a big-time brat. I can still be really bratty when the occasion calls for it now, too. Look out.)

But again, I love me some dramatic moments and shaking things off via vehicle is still my number one choice. Getting out of Chico and cruising up to Lake Almanor (Curvy roads have nothin’ on me if I’m behind the wheel – Puke problem, be gone!) or driving over to to see family in Reno. Both journeys have been very therapeutic for me.

When I used to commute to work, that drive home was just the antidote I needed to belt-sing away my stress from a crummy work day, which were the majority of my casino-worker days.

These days, it’s trickier to just hop in the car and drive.

We have a family vacation that will involve a good 10+ hours of driving (yay!), but belting out your troubles to your favorite Civil Wars/Alison Krauss/Phantom of the Opera soundtrack (Don’t judge me) is a bit harder to do with an audience of children in the car. Or a husband who’s head may explode if he ever witnessed the hot-mess that is, me BELTING “The Music of the Night” or one of my many “My Fair Lady” movie soundtrack ditties. I know we’re supposed to be ‘ONE’ and all, but there are just some things I will forever draw the line on. Scream-singing in the car is just one of those things best left to some alone time.

What do you like to do to shake off stress?

Does driving soothe you or add to your problems?

PS: Curious about the three dumbest things that ever happened while driving?

Mom, you can stop reading this now. Kids, you may read this only to know that there is nothing you can do that will surprise me. But don’t even think of trying to top me. To the rest of you, I implore you not to hold these driving-sins against me. I am much less reckless now that I am a mom with two kids in the car at almost all times

1) Attempting to remove the glass insert to my custom installed sunroof. While driving.

Just picture a giant glass window the size of a cafeteria lunch tray, flying backwards through the air, then — a huge glass-explosion, as it disintegrates into the road. Two seconds later, a motorcyclist came up behind us. It still makes me shiver to think how close we were to killing someone that day. The rest of the damp Seattle-outskirts summer (an El Nino summer, by the way) seemed like a small price to pay for the stupidity. Did I mention I was trying to impress a boy?

2) Driving my sedan (same car as above) over a rusty, springy bed-frame in the desert while the entire car-load of sleepover girls were only wearing their bras for tops.

I can’t even begin to explain this one, but I managed to get my car caught up in the springs, despite climbing under the car to jiggle it free by hand, and yes, I am completely aware how inappropriate that outfit-choice was at that time. When I eventually gassed the car free, I managed to damage something that covered up some other part underneath my car so every time I pulled into a driveway or parking lot, my car scraped unceremoniously loud and caused everyone to look and say, “What an idiot. Look at that big plastic thing hanging down under her car.” I think I told my parents I broke it on the washboard dirt road of my friend Rob’s house. This was not true. I apologize for the mistruth although that horrible road probably could have damaged my car on it’s own too.

3) Four-wheeling at night, in the rain in my ‘86 Bronco II over a giant boulder.

Once again, I was trying to impress a boy (make that three) with my fearless girl-power skills.

Had I ever been 4-wheeling before? Sure.

Had I ever been the driver on these 4-wheeling expeditions? Nope.

Did I try to get one of the boys to drive instead and get denied by all of them? Absolutely. Those chickens!

So, after a few donuts around some power line guide wires, I was feeling pretty confident. Eat my dust (mud) cute boys! Then – BUMP! – my Eddie Bauer-edition beauty was off the ground and rolling on a huge boulder that had been lurking in the grass. Good bye, drive shaft. Hello, broken car. Hello, humiliation and the beginning of weeks and weeks without a vehicle which at that time was torture.

But the next thing I knew, I was riding in the passenger side of my broken beat-up car while a pair of blue eyes smiled at me from the driver’s seat. This boy, who I had just met that night, said he would drive my Bronco II out of the mud, back up the ravine and to the main road so we could get it towed to town. (AAA has a thing about rescuing dumb girls who break their car in a mud pit.)

Even though it was a dumb choice and I had made a mess of things, I had him. And it would be OK in the end.

Running Hates Me and the Feeling is Mutual

Have you ever done something completely uncharacteristic or insane to impress the people around you?

I have worn ridiculous clothes, participated in lame activities and even gotten baptized* to capture the ardor and attention of those I hold dear to my heart.

Lately, I’ve added a new activity to my life that has been inspired by some close friends. And by “lately” I mean, the past two days, because frankly, who knows how long I’ll be able to keep up this charade.

Perhaps you’ve heard of this torture I speak of? In some cultures it’s called “running”. In other cultures it’s called “escaping”, “fleeing persecution” or “chasing dinner”. I prefer to call it a four-letter word that would make the mothers in my life turn purple.

It’s a well-known fact that I have never run a mile without stopping to take a break and walk.

Never.

Well, maybe in high school softball, but I was crying at the time, so I’m not sure if we actually ran a mile, or if it just felt like it. I probably blocked it out. What I WISH I could block out is the memory of our softball coach (who, I assume, would have much rather been coaching the football team and not messing around with some sissy girls) and his very unique huddle position.

To any of those old BCHS softball team players out there reading this, do you remember how our coach used to stand in the huddle? He’d be wearing those classic blue BIKE-brand coach’s shorts, a tucked-in BCHS polo shirt and his well-trimmed mustache. Then he’d take the softball bat and balance it on the ground between his feet and up and under his man-zone like it was some sort of tripod. Then, with hands-free to gesture to different areas of the field, he would chat about the things we needed to improve upon and how we needed to stop being big babies about having sliding practice on a field littered with broken glass and desert gravel that STILL has left scars on my knees. So much for my knee-modelling career, Coach! Ugh.

Anyway…I chose to play softball in high school to impress my boyfriend and because my older friend Monica said they needed players. Turns out the baseball team my boyfriend was on traveled to all the same schools we did for away games, so we got to hang out.

Random fact: I chose the softball number 19 because it was the closest thing to my boyfriend’s number (61). I justified my choice by saying if I did a handstand, my number 19 would turn into 61! Ah, dumb young love!

But back to my new-found torture – running.

Oh, and if you think this will be one of those blogs where it starts out all “Oh, I hated it but now I love it! Whoopee! Running is awesome!” then you’d be very wrong and I’d be forced to ask you, “Do you even KNOW me?!”

I’ve always love the drama of running; the idea of getting outside and escaping the stresses of the day. The symbolism was not lost on me and I freaking love symbolism. (I have been known to get all googly-eyed over stargazing and sunsets, as well.)

I had had a particularly annoying day that included the return of the dreaded “wonky-head-itus” that I had juggled for three months last summer. (Think ‘vertigo’ but not as bad, and without an explanation, cure, etc. Just spinning and dizzy feelings that jump out at you when you’re driving, typing, walking, microwaving, etc. They come and go throughout the day, every day, until they just randomly leave.)

Anyway, I had been talked into playing a 9:30 co-ed company softball game because they needed the girls to be eligible.I was feeling better after it was all said and done which was a welcome change. After the game I pulled into the driveway and thought, “Holy cow. I think I’m going to go for a run!”

I was wearing my black Pilates pants (think wannabe Lululemon pants but much cheaper), my black company softball tee and the deciding factor – an actual sports bra! When in the world would I EVER being wearing one of those? And tennis shoes, too? It was all too perfect.

I walked in the house to find my husband on the phone talking about motorcycles. (Conditions were continuing to be even more perfect for a run down the street.) I told him I was going for a walk-run and he looked at me with a look that said “Are you wanting a divorce?”. Apparently previously storming out of the house for a late night walk to cool down after an argument has permanently typecast my activities. I assured him I was fine and quickly left to avoid more questions and before I could lose my nerve.

I was going to DO THIS!

I grabbed my phone and my son’s Storm Trooper earbuds. Runners listen to music, right? Psh, I’ve got this. Wait a minute. I don’t have any pockets. Am I just supposed to hold this thing? Wow. It’s really dark outside. Wearing all black is not the wisest choice.

But I’m running! Oh my gosh! This is really happening! I am such a bad-ass! Won’t all my runner friends be so proud of me? Is that a raccoon? Yikes! Nope. Just a dark stain on the road. I really wish there were a few more street lights on this street. The light from my phone and JT’s lovely face on my music screen should be enough to guide me though, right? And if I get attacked or pass out, my last name is printed on the back of my softball shirt so that will help identify me, despite my lack of identification, birthmarks or tattoos.

As I was skipping music tracks, I heard a loud noise. Phew. It was just me wheezing and gasping for breath. Is that normal? I hate running? I’m turning back now and getting out of this stupid sports bra. Is this a long enough run to brag about to my runner-friends? Damn, I hope so.

After a few more walk breaks and then making myself “finish strong” with a paltry jog back to my driveway, I checked the clock. 10 minutes. THAT’S ALL? I feel like I just left a lung on the side of the road for a whopping 10 measly minutes? Jeez, running! I hate you even more!

The next morning, I measured the distance with my car and learned that I had limped out a one-mile trek. WOW!

The next night, I talked myself into trying again. At that point, running down the street, albeit in pain, was better than cleaning the bathrooms, so off I went. I managed to run a longer distance before stopping to catch my breath, but it still took me just as long. This bugged me.

Is spent a good 10 minutes cry-texting some of my running friends about how much I hated running. None of them told me that it would get easier and that I would grow to love it. They said they loved it but that it was still hard.

What was wrong with these people? Why did they like this crappy thing? What was wrong with me? Why didn’t I like it? Why have I always been so horrible at it? (Memories of me trying out for the track team in Jr. High to impress a boy (surprise-surprise) and ending up tripping on my face at the turn right before the finish line came back to me as I cried dramatically on the new rug in front of the TV.)

My husband was off the phone now and realized I was doing my whole ‘after-exercise’ crying thing. He gave me a hug and I told him how much I hated running. I told him how much I hated that ugly line that was forming on my stomach and — look! — there a new line even lower now too! Good Lord! Just kill me now!

Let me just say that my husband has NEVER been one of those guys to say, “Ah, shucks, honey! You’ve had two over 8-pound children. You work a full-time job plus a stressful side job. You are juggling weekly softball games and little league games for the boy. When in the world would you even have time to work out? You look fabulous the way you are and I’d still do you.”

Nope. My husband is the type of guy to honestly look at you and say, “I know you aren’t satisfied with the shape you’re in.” The end. That’s it. (More tears from me and dramatic stomping for good measure.)

Husband, attempting to change the subject: “You want to watch Survivor with me?”

Me: [Sniff] Ok. Let me go rinse off real quick. (Even though I only ran for 10 minutes, apparently it’s enough to get sweaty as if I just did a big-girl workout.

The night ended with TV watching (as straight as I could make my stomach so as not to continue the ever-growing crease) and some crunches.

Lord, help me. I’m not cut out for this crap.

* The blog about the time I got baptized to impress the pastor’s son and his family, to come at a later time.

Confessions of a High School Streaker

I have a mental list of people that I would consider as possible suspects, in case I ever get murdered or kidnapped. (Doesn’t everyone have this list?)

Some of them are old co workers who excelled at giving off a creepy vibe or always had that weird look in their eye. A few are old schoolmates or acquaintances who seem really into me, although I haven’t talked to them in person since I was seven. I have shared this ‘persons of interest’ list with my husband, so if I do happen to go missing, be sure to talk to him and ask about it.

One of the people that has been on my potential future kidnapper list is a strange man who used to live around the corner from me when I was growing up in the Antelope Valley. Today I could have sworn I saw him driving the same beat up old car he always had in his driveway, but this time he was in front of me on the Esplanade. The license plate was the same old-fashioned blue background with yellow text-style plate we Californians has in the 80s. The license plate frame said ‘Valencia’.

Right then, as I was coming back to work from my lunch break, I was 16 again and traipsing down the street in my underpants.

Allow me to back up a bit.

The year is 1996 and although my high school years were completely free of alcohol, drugs or learning the art of smoking a cigarette, my friends and I decided to dabble in the art of Truth or Dare. No joke — we were amazing at that game and we were more than capable at accomplishing debauchery without booze, drugs or tobacco. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

Somehow or other, though, our sleepover shenanigans almost ALWAYS ended up with us daring each other to run up and down the street in our underpants. Not very creative, if I think about it now.

Our neighborhood was a quiet one with personal mailboxes for each house positioned on the good conditioned neighborhood sidewalks. There were lots of cul de sacs and it was very rare to see a dumpy house. Most people there had lived there for a long time. It was a great place to grow up.

In high school, we were serial sleepover participants and if it was a Friday night, you could almost guarantee that we were all at Becky’s house around the corner, getting our soda/chip/sugar-high on ‘til the break of dawn. We also excelled at Phase 10 competitions that would involve the non-stop hits of the Oldies on K-Earth 101.1 FM. Good times.

If it was one of our larger girl-gatherings, you could be pretty sure that less than half a mile away, in the other subdivision across 25th St. West, there was another sleepover taking place, but with a group of rowdy boys from our class.

The guy-hang out (something tells me they never called them ‘sleepovers’) was within walking distance and it was the ongoing task of our girl-gaggle to sneak over and attempt to hear the boys talking about how into us they were. Well, at least that was my goal. See? I’ve always been into myself, especially when other people are into me too.

The one time we caught the boys actually outside and within eavesdropping range, they were playing basketball and talking about lame things like video games and sports. It was not the riveting ‘Whose cans are the best in class?’ or ‘How adorable are those cheerleaders, anyway?’ topics that we were hoping to stumble upon.

We ended up stomping back to our sleepover and decided to act as cool and carefree as we could, all the while, glancing furtively over our shoulder to see if the boys had just so happened to try sneaking over to spy on us.

A few times, we actually were wrapped up in doing girl stuff (talking about the boys and trying on each others clothes) and we were surprised by the guy-group. They had snuck over to our neck of the neighborhood and were chucking apples at the tent we had set up in the front yard. (In our neighborhood, this was a completely safe thing to do and we didn’t run the risk of waking anyone up in the house with our high-pitched shrieking.) Why apples? I have no idea. I just figured it was a weird boy-thing.

I will always feel proud of my quick witted deduction when I analyzed the apples that were being thrown at our tent.

“Wait a minute. These apples are Golden Delicious apples. Vinny had a Golden Delicious apple with him at lunch today! It must be the boys!”

Quickly we checked our hair and outfits and burst out of the protection of our tent. We eventually hunted them down a house away, crouching behind a cinder block wall. It always did feel nice to be the ones being pursued.

It was this truth, that at any time, the boys could possibly be hiding around a corner, that added such a thrill to Truth or Dare: The Scantily Clad Edition.

The Game

Late at night, we’d dare one of the girls (usually Becky — the bravest streaker in the bunch) to run across the street, touch the other sidewalk and then we’d let her back inside the house. The dare-posse would hide in Becky’s bedroom and watch the dare-victim scamper across the road in everything from bra and underwear, bra and pajama-boxers, etc. Sometimes we’d even make our streaker wear high heels and a garter we had lying around from an old French Maid Halloween costume. (Note to self: NEVER buy my daughter a French Maid costume. You never know what lascivious acts those accessories may induce.)

I will not go into the details of how Becky earned the nickname “Bucky” but I can assure you, I was too embarrassed to even watch her claim her infamous title after she dropped her robe on the sidewalk and strutted fearlessly to high school glory. Man, was she awesome! No one else ever had the guts to bare all.

An Unexpected Audience

One evening, we got a hankering to walk from Becky’s house to my house. Usually we drove my car, but we purposely chose to be active that evening. Not something we did often. We were fully clothed and chatting about how the objects of our affections came ‘this-close’ to actually being as awesome in real life as we had built them up in our heads.

As we walked by the creepy-guy’s house (technically, I think it was his handicapped mother’s house and he just happened to live there with her) he was in the front yard and approached us by walking toward his front gate. Picture an older man with a comb-over wearing a tight, white, undershirt tucked into short 70s denim shorts (not cut-offs). He also wore socks pulled up straight (too short for knee socks) and fast-food worker-ish black sneakers.

Creepy neighbor: Hi there.

Us (avoiding eye-contact but responding because we had good manners): Hello.

Creepy neighbor: You have any sleepovers lately?

Us (Confused because we were totally naive to the fact that ANYONE could have easily seen us): What? No…

We kept walking and turned the last corner onto my street before we realized — OH MY GOSH! THE CREEPY GUY IS TALKING ABOUT OUR STREAKING CONTESTS!

Then two beats later we realized — Wait a minute…he doesn’t live anywhere near Becky’s house! OK, sure, he lives on the walking path between our houses, but he doesn’t live in a place where he could have looked outside and seen us scuttling about. Nor is his house on a path that he could have been driving by her cul de sac that was located in the back part of our subdivision.

We were beyond freaked out.

I’m pretty sure that we had already given up our tawdry ways before we had our Megan’s Law candidate encounter, but it surely helped put the final kabosh on any future nude activities.

Even this past summer, nearly 15 years later, when Becky and I went for a walk in my old neighborhood, his house still gave me the chills.

I’m really hoping that wasn’t him driving down the Esplanade in Chico.

If you are one of my offspring, please read this:

I’m glad that you have somehow managed to find my blog and that your reading level has improved to get you this far into the post. Be sure to write down your reading times so we can add it to your homework log!

Now, you may read about some things that mommy did when she was in school that may shock you. I hope you take them as examples of stupidity and not examples of awesomeness.

Although they certainly seemed awesome at the time, there is nothing commendable about dangling your teenage body (or any aged body) out as bait for potential creep-encounters. I will continue to pray that you will grow up with more sense and personal dignity than I had when I was a teenager. Now get back to your homework/music lessons/SAT prep tests.

Love you, forever,

Mom

Valentine’s Day In Your Face

I occasionally aim my blogs at a group of specific people, but today I plan on talking to my husband. Yep. You there, in the jeans, white t-shirt and old man slippers. (A hot-mess if I’ve ever seen one.) Feel free to read over his shoulder, blog readers. But don’t try and talk to him while he reads. He hates that.

Hey, husband!

So, Valentine’s is coming up and we haven’t had time to talk about what we’re doing yet this year. We both know this isn’t 100% true, but seriously, what’s more fun — Talking about Valentine’s Day or watching that awkward guy who sells homes to professional sports players in all his odd-chinned glory?

I figured I’d send you this note / blog post, to help lay out what I was thinking for the upcoming Thursday Of Love. Of course, talking face to face like some (all?) married couples do, is also an option. I just thought this way sounded a bit more fun. Especially since the kids can’t manage to interrupt these soapbox ramblings.

Yes. Valentine’s Day is THIS Thursday. February 14th. Yes, it is always on the 14th. Every year.

1) Dinnertime

I am not expecting any day-of Valentine’s Day plans like a fancy dinner. Boy Wonder has his first little league practice that evening, and then we have to drive both kids 135 miles south to your parent’s house so they can watch the kids for us while they get a couple days off from school and we are stuck working like schmucks.

Let’s accept it now: In-N-Out will most likely be our dinner locale, just like it is every time we drive the kids to your parents’ house. At least neither of us will have to cook and no one will be stuck wearing uncomfortable (albeit, sassy) shoes.

I am hoping to have a conversation on the way home that doesn’t involve me asking you, “Who’s that that keeps texting you?” or “When is it my turn to pick the music?”. I’m hoping we can avoid our customary huge-driving fight that we often do as soon as we are kid-free. That’s lame.

2) Chocolate

It would be nice if you could buy me some chocolate and give it to me some time on Thursday.

Note: All of my favorite chocolate can be purchased at Target.

When you walk in, turn left at the dollar section. (Just look for glow-sticks and gift bags.) Turn right when you come to the new cold-foods section. (Yes, I realize that section is technically ‘new’ anymore, but you know what I mean.)

Walk straight until you almost hit the back of the store. Pass the wine aisle, pass the chips and school snacks — THERE! Now turn left down the candy aisle. (I could use some more Wintogreen Life Savers while you’re down there. Remember: DON’T GET THE SUGAR-FREE ONES! The sugar-free ones taste like minty vitamins and make me sad.)

You remember that dark chocolate with sea salt we had a few times? It’s in a white wrapper with some black and blue on it. I can’t remember who makes it which I understand is not very helpful, but it’s not like I buy the stuff all the time. Godiva? Ghirardelli? Lindt? I seriously can’t remember who makes it. Just look for dark chocolate with sea salt and I’m sure it will be yummy.

Stay away from almonds because they make my throat itch and no hazelnuts. Those things are gross.

Do not go down the Valentine-themed aisle. I repeat: DO NOT GO DOWN THERE! The chocolate there tastes like cheap dollar-store “choc’lit” and I will be disappointed with anything in the shape of a heart or pair of lips. Although if you wanted to get Boy Wonder that motorcycle made out of chocolate, that would be cool. I forgot to buy that the last time I was there and I liked that you wanted to get that for him. You’re a sweet dad.

3) Cards

Psssh! I really don’t want to spend $2.99 on a card that you will read once and then throw away. We both know the cards you buy for me at the store often contain fart-jokes so I’d rather just skip the whole card thing, if that’s OK,

Seriously, spend the card-money on the chocolate.

The kids will have extra school Valentine cards. I’m thinking of just using one of those. Or maybe I’ll write you a note. Hey, maybe this blog post can count as my card! Brilliant! What’s that sound? Oh , that’s just the sound of money being saved, thankyouverymuch! (Does that count as a gift? Probably not.)

If you’ve already gotten me a card — WOW! I’m impressed. I haven’t got you one yet. There were too many people crowding around that section when I was at Target over the weekend and it feels weird to read something so mushy with a bunch of other people breathing down your neck.

If a card is super-important to you all of a sudden, let me know. I’ve heard that sometimes spouses can totally reverse their feelings on random things after they get married (eating meat). Maybe cards are one of those things, too. You never know!

4) Jewelry

There is no change in this arena. I still am not into fancy jewelry and can be just fine with a cheesy cheapo necklace from Forever 21. Since you got me about four of those for Christmas, I think it’s safe to say that we can skip that gift-area entirely this go-round. But I appreciate the thought!

5) Flowers

Husband, you have set the bar high when it comes to flowers. I have known you to pay extortionist prices for fancy florist-delivery, and I’ve seen you drive 45 minutes to my workplace and deliver them in person.

I love getting flowers at work, but I am cheap, and you know I’m really wanting to save up and replace that old nasty couch by the fireplace. Please don’t splurge on delivery. If you happen to be off work and you want to stop by with a lovely bouquet, that would be really cool, but if it doesn’t work out, I promise not to cry about it in the shower.

I know I’ve only told you this 1,800 times but remember: Flowers = Costco. I’m not into the whole baby’s breath and ornamental fern inserts. Just cut to the chase and give me the good stuff – the flowers!

I will always favor a multi-color rose bouquet over a red rose bouquet, no matter the holiday/occasion. The only thing that could trump Costco’s multi-colored roses is when they feature their limited time bouquet of fresh pink peonies. As a side note, I would really like you to buy me one of those bouquets of peonies this spring when they come out. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll text you a picture of them when they are in stock.

6) Miscellaneous Gifts

I’ve had no time to shop for anything. Can we just skip this part? Does chocolate count as a gift? Am I the worst Valentine ever? I think so. I did manage to get a couple things for the kids though.

Weekend?

Even though our Valentine’s Day is shaping up to be pretty lame tame, I am hoping that we’ll hang out together this weekend, especially since the Boy Wonder and Princess will be out of town with grandma and grandpa.

I think a dinner date out on the town in uncomfortable shoes and undergarments is much more doable after our work week is done and Valentine’s has passed. Don’t you?

Oh yeah, maybe a motorcycle ride for two!

Love you always,

Jenny

Odd Man Out

I’m not sure if you were around at the beginning of this blog gig. If you were, you may have stumbled into a reading coma, especially after my early long-winded posts. Originally I wanted to take a stab at writing about things that were super-cool or trendy, even though in a normal setting, they were actually really odd.

Remember that?

Being a crazy coupon fanatic, sewing your own clothes and raising chickens were all super fun to poke fun at and call into question.

The other day I was reading one of my favorite blogs by MLP and she had done a really fun post about her Not-In-My-Bucket List. It was awesome! It reminded me that even though I have an insane appreciation for many go-with-the-crowd activities like Pinterest, Downton Abbey and frick, even blogging, there are still many, MANY, things out there that I just can’t stand, even though the masses around me seem to have banded together in an unofficial if-you’re-cool-you’ll-do-these-things club.

Well, not me, brilliant reader!

Here’s a list of more things I love to say “Psh!” to:

1) Drinking coffee

I really tried to to be a coffee drinker, especially during those two summers in the late nineties when I worked outside of Seattle.

Drinking coffee is like wearing shoes; sure, not everyone does it, but you know you look funny at the ones who skip it.

My dislike of coffee is actually a mutual thing between us since it technically hates me back too. My stomach lacks the hipster-enzymes needed to break down the acids or something, I don’t know. But I am in pain for two days minimum after attempting any coffee drink.

Mochas, the baby-steps version of How-To-Start-Drinking-Coffee, kill me, too.

I think if coffee tasted better to me, I could see sacrificing my stomach-sanity for a cup or two, but it just refuses to taste like anything other the bottom of a bitter old shoe. Coffee ice cream and coffee-flavored candy are nasty too. That’s just a train I refuse to board, people.

2) Eating sushi

Yeah, yeah…I have finicky taste buds, so the fact that I abhor sushi should really come as no surprise to you.
My jaunty little rhyme to explain my food quirk goes a little something like this:
“If it lives in the sea, it’s not for me!”

Yes, this includes seaweed. Blech!
Rice, I have no problem with. Fish, crab, squid etc. will most likely poison me.

Friends have told me just to get avocado, rice and cream cheese wrapped up in egg roll wrappers and yet, since avocado is on the ‘no-thanks’ list, I can’t really do that either.

Sushi is so dang cool, yet it will continue to be in the land of Can’t-Tolerate-It-Ville until I can manage to deaden all the extra-sensitive taste buds in my mouth.

3) Wearing bedazzled jeans

Cross my heart and hope to cry. These things are hard to take in.

Okay. I’m going to level with you. I started you off simple with coffee and sushi, because people love feeling superior over us picky eaters. I knew I wouldn’t lose you over those items. But wearing bedazzled jeans just may push some of you over the edge.

Ladies (and sadly, some guys), I just don’t get the attraction. Why are you wearing fake jewel details on the back pockets of your jeans? Do tons of fake jewels equal femininity now? Is there a theory out there that says plentiful pearly pockets will help minimize the symptoms of mom-butt?

Even if the jeans fit your tush well and make you look ten pounds lighter, you lose me with the crazy details. Why would a fleur de lis or — Father, forgive you — a cross, be an acceptable accessory for each of your butt cheeks? Please tell me there are no plans for a crown of thorns version too.

Bedazzled cross jeans! Putting the “God” in “gaudy” since 2010!

When Christ said “Do this in remembrance of me”, this is NOT what he was talking about! This bedazzling pushes me over the edge, friends. I know you won’t be letting those pants go anytime soon, but you need to stop thinking I will ever join you in that butt-dazzle territory.

4) Wearing TOMS shoes

TOMS Shoes: Perfect for sitting around on the ground and looking too cool for school. Now in herringbone to keep things classy! Image courtesy of This Girl Sylvia (who actually is drop dead gorgeous, despite her shoes).

Do you want to see people get all riled up and feisty? Just post something on Facebook about how you think their TOMS look like hobo-shoes and watch the sparks fly!

I still think they resemble homeless shelter shoes, and honestly, friends, they kind of make your feet stink like hobo toes, as well. I get that they donate a pair to the shoeless in Africa (or wherever they are needed) but I’m just not a fan of the swaddling-cloth slash burlap-sack look for my tootsies.

What’s that? They’re comfortable? Psh! Again I say, “PSH!!!” I can recommend at least 100 other pairs of shoes that are comfortable. Even better, my picks won’t make your feet look like potatoes.

Moving right along…

5) Sporting a French manicure on your toenailsI get the whole French manicure thing on your finger nails, but why in the world is it OK to wear that look on your toes?

To me, I see that little white crescent-tip and think, “Gee whiz, someone needs to trim their toenails. Oh wait…they did that on purpose?”

When did having long, glamorous toe nails become something to strive for? On fingers, the painted technique looks neat and clean; simple, if you will. But on toes, to me it just looks like you’re bragging about how long you’ve been dodging the clippers. And that kind of grosses me out.

Have no fear!

Even if you’re a coffee-drinking, sushi-loving, walking fashion faux pas, it’s OK! We can still be friends! I’m not shallow enough to (or popular enough) to weed out the people in my life, simply because they love things like tankinis, Crocs or scrapbooking (or the list above).

I know I wouldn’t want to be skipped over for a pal-gathering because I insisted on wearing the same hairdo I’ve had since 2009 or because I occasionally over do it with the cameos.

Thanks for putting up with me!

Swimsuits: Satan’s Little Secret

There was a time when my dream wardrobe consisted of a one-piece swimsuit and a pair of nose plugs.

I grew up in the high desert of So-Cal and most of my relatives lived in Phoenix and Las Vegas. It’s safe to say that I was no stranger to burning-hot, liquid-magma climates.

I didn’t have a pool when I was little, but occasionally, my friends did, which helped summertime pass by in the best way. Freckled noses and shoulders, weird tan-lines and blood-shot eyes from peeking underwater during Marco Polo — Oh, huzzah for summer!

Even though it’s only January, it’s safe to say that I’ve already been thinking about this year’s bathing suit season. Sure, our local Target has been selling suits since the first week of January, but that’s not why I’ve been thinking about it.

I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere in life, I developed a great aversion to swimsuit season.

At the moment, I feel like blaming it on my strict private-school’s dress code. I HATED that dress code that held me in its evil, no-midriff clutches for 12 long years.

The school dress code varied every couple of years, but basically it looked at whatever clothes were fashionable, affordable and/or easily accessible, and made those items illegal on school grounds or field trips.

Clothing with WORDS on them? Psh. Not unless they were promoting a college.

Sorry ALF. You’re not allowed at school.

Skirts? Try again. Unless you were lucky enough to find a frumpy piece that wasn’t any higher than 2 inches above your knee. When you’re 5’ 9’’ and 15 years old, you can pretty much count out skirts all together.

Thanks a lot, Cher. I’ll never be allowed to dress like that on school grounds.

Shorts? Sure, it gets over 100 degrees out, but apparently shorts were the Devil’s way of causing mankind to stumble face-first into a pile of cool and comfortable sin. Nope. No shorts were allowed. Ever.

Yikes! I’m not so sure I’m bummed about never being allowed to wear those things.

Midriffs were also not to be seen, even when that fad was everywhere. Midriff tops were made for teenagers! I feel like a great injustice was done to me by having me skip that fashion-blip when I actually had the lack of jiggle to take advantage of it.

Think again, Kelly Kapowski. That midriff top will have to stay at Bayside and far from my school.

Now, no one was wearing swimsuits to school, but if we ever went on a class trip (which for some reason, we seemed to do every year like it was our God-given-right as teens) we’d get to bring our swimsuits.

One-piece swimsuits, only, please.

I get it. A bikini basically looks like a bra and underwear that matches and is less see-through. I can see how that look may not be appropriate when you’re trying to teach teens to memorize scripture instead of ogling classmates in their underclothes.

One-piece suits seemed like another cruel joke on Teen-Me by the fashion-gods. Nothing cute was ever long enough for me. Normally I just had to try and hide the fact that my suit was actually compressing me together like a sad accordion. Either that or riding up into a constant wedgie in the back. (And people wonder why I have such horrible posture? Yes! Another thing I can blame on that dress code!)

To help keep our male classmates from getting caught up in the great ‘Who’s-got-bigger-cans?’ debate, many times, we thoughtful teen-gals would don a charming old t-shirt over our swimsuit. Nothing says ‘comfortable swimming attire’ like a baggy t-shirt. I’m actually surprised that lifeguards haven’t attempted to outlaw them. But, we had to come out of the water some time, and that’s when the accidental wet t-shirt contest would begin. Those poor boys had no chance.

When I worked at a summer camp in college, the one-piece swimsuit rule carried over into my daily activities. By this time, I had discovered board shorts, which meant even more modest coverage, and I never went to the pool without them. I was a regular Joan-of-Arc for modesty, I tell ya.

By this time, I was sure that being in a bathing suit in front of the male species was akin to dressing up as Delilah and performing on a pole. It was somehow, my responsibility to protect all of the men around me from stumbling into some random over-appreciation for the curves the Good Lord had given me. (Or not given me, if we’re still talking about those teen years. Yeesh.)

To love others, I must contain my lady-ness at all times.

Now that I’m well-past the age of bathing suit innocence and above-reproach summer-employment rules, I find myself running into the arms of the brazen two-piece swimsuit.

Not just because they were so forbidden, but because they just fit better. Plus, going to the bathroom is WAY easier in a bikini.

But I feel like there is a weird Mom-Law about swimsuits. Sure, a two-piece is great for when you look like a fresh-faced (or string-bean-big-boob-ed) twenty something (like an obnoxiously HIGH number of my mom-friends actually do). But, if you’re a standard mom in her thirties, tankinis are more of your expected tune.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that tankinis have helped with concealing stretch marks and occasional jiggly pieces left behind by pregnancies and parenting-stress. Hey, they even have helped make the going to the bathroom issue even easier. But for some reason, they just reek of ‘mom-ness’ to me and even though I am 100% M-O-M, I just can’t bring myself to enter into the tankini territory.

I think I put them in the same mind-corner as mom-jeans and minivans. Great for you if you need it, but God, help me if I ever get to that stage because I just may not recognize myself anymore.

Being a mom, I have had my children take over my home, my brain, my heart, and my body. They bang on my bedroom door and ruin nearly every Song-of-Solomon-session as if they think that if their dad and I spend more than 15 minutes alone together, we may forget about them and abscond to Aruba or something. “HURRY! Bang on the door! They may forget to feed us!”

Do they have to take away my fashion sense and vehicle-vanity too?

But that’s for another blog.

Seriously, if you have a minivan or wear a tankini, just calm down already. You’re fine. If you’re wearing mom-jeans, on the other hand, we need to talk. There are options out there and comfort is nothing you will have to sacrifice to look presentable to the rest of society.

So, basically, tankinis (for me) are out but if you love sporting the ol’ tankaru while cruising around in your Odyssey-Caravan-Town-and-Country-Swaggerwagon, then more mom-power to ya.

I don’t think I am cooler/better/more chic than you. Well, maybe a little bit, but we can still be friends. You’re probably way better at cooking, sewing, teaching your children how to make bird feeders, raising livestock as pets, wearing a fedora, decorating your home, wiping down the baseboards, eating vegetables, buying organic toddler-snacks, etc. than I am.

Now that I’m working two jobs and juggling a home, two kids and a marriage (not in that order) my swimsuit time has obviously dropped significantly.

Again, this is not necessarily a bad thing.

The lack of swim-time (and swim-place availability) has actually saved me money by not needing to invest in new suits.I still wear the one I bought to go to Mexico with my husband way back in 2009. In fact, I actually still have the swimsuit my mom bought me when I graduated high school and the one I bought for my honeymoon. (As if those will ever come in handy one day again.)

I love the idea of wearing shorts and a swimsuit without feeling overly self-conscious about my mom-thighs. I really do. I’ve actually become so obsessed with the sad state of those two traitors, I’ve started taking Pilates and am even drinking water during the day. I have also tried cauliflower and have taken to regularly forcing down a salad or two. Dear Lord, I hope it’s worth it by the time the warm days arrive.

Because — just maybe — the stars will align and I will get to go swimming and frolic in a pool or lake or something with my family and friends. Probably not, but I like to be prepared in case the situation arises. And the idea of getting to stroll around in my swimsuit bottoms SANS COVERUP shorts/dress/skirt has me all kinds of excited and hopeful.

What do you think about swimsuit season? Do you overthink it, too? Do you choose a bathing suit based on the audience around you, or based on what would make you the most comfortable?

Do tell. I have no life and cyber-discussions are a bit easier to squeeze into my schedule than actual face-to-face ones. Don’t judge. It’s just a season. Right?

The Antics of a Seven Year-Old

If you’ve been keeping up with any recent Facebook posts or BlogHer posts, you may have noticed that we are in the midst of Consequence Week Two at our house.

The night before our kids when back to school from Christmas break, I received a phone call about how our 2nd grader had been struggling with injuring innocent classmates. This initiated a stern lecture and a ‘No-Kindle-No-Computer-Games-No-DS’ week.

Then on Friday, he managed to get a red card pulled in the after school program for punching an older kid (who he actually REALLY likes) in the gut. Sigh. Seriously, kid? Combine that with a weekly report from the teacher that listed his behavior as “Fair — although his behavior on the playground (where he was injuring children) had greatly improved.”

Good golly, son.

So this week we added TV to the no-no list of consequences and hoped that maybe it would influence some behavioral changes. We’ll see what the report says on Friday after school. If he manages to get a “Good” or higher, then the consequences will be over.

Since the kids get home when we do, after a full-day at work, there really isn’t a ton of TV time between homework, dinner, showers and reading. Without TV, our seven year-old has been discovering toys that have long since been buried in his closet or under his bed.

He also is getting to talk to us at dinnertime more.

Last night I tried to focus on all the good things that happened in his day.

“What was the silliest thing that happened to you today?”
When Violet and I both tooted at each other while dad was unlocking the front door.

“What was the weirdest thing that happened to you today?”
Ironically, B. brought in a trophy for show and tell, just like I did. (We then discussed what ironic actually means. I managed to get it wrong and lose some legitimate writer’s-cred, but my husband helped explain things and scored bonus points by bringing in death to the conversation.)

“What was the best thing you eaten today?”
My Grahmful snack and this dinner.

Then I carefully edged into tricky territory and asked, “What would your teacher have thought about your behavior today?” I knew this was a risk and it could turn the whole conversation sour, but I just went for it. It’s like I’m a parental Evel Knievel or something.

My son paused and then told us about how he had been commended for standing quietly in line and  how he had told the girl next to him to be quiet like he was. His teacher said, “Oh! I love this front part of the line!” Then the calmness spread on down to the cheerful-talkative kids in the back and on they went on with their day.

We told him how proud we were of him for foregoing the party-in-the-back with his friends and for being a good leader for the rest of the class.

It may seem silly, but when we catch him doing something good, we really try to heap on the praise so maybe, just maybe, he’ll start liking that attention enough to corral some of his other antics.

My husband stepped away from the table for a moment, and my son looked at me seriously and said, “Mom, I have something to tell you.”

Now, I had just watched my DVR’d Parenthood the night before, and even though I wasn’t expecting my son to tell me something akin to Drew’s latest debacle with his girlfriend, I was nonetheless prepared for a dramatic moment between me and my seven year-old that would add an extra level of bonding to our mother-son connection.

“What is it?” I asked.

PPRRRRRTTTTTTTTT. He farted.

“Ha ha ha!” he laughed.

Sigh. So much for that magical mother-son moment. Luckily  I was eating a salad, so I already was running short on a decent appetite.

Fingers crossed for Friday.