What Does My Inner Rock Goddess Wear?

Do I want to look like a clubbing queen, a rock star, a fashionista, a SAHM, or an ethereal goddess? Thursday night the Kiddo is staying home and Hubby and I get to hit the Hard Rock to see a sold out Florence + the Machine concert.  We haven't been out in ages.  And I am having a wardrobe crisis.

As a SAHM/blogger/writer I don't get out much, but I like adore clothes.  My closets and drawers are overflowing, and yes, there are many items I have never worn.  Not the everyday boring stuff  like  yoga pants and tanks to wear to the gym and  errands after if (I don't feel to bloated and lumpy in the clingy clothes), shorts and tanks, skirts and tanks, and almost always flip flops.

The day I wore a pencil skirt and red wedge sandals to the grocery store I was stared at as if I had grown a third breast and a tail.  It just isn't done at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning around here.

So going out--and to a rock concert at that--makes for some major wardrobe decisions.   I'm going to drink beer and dance my ass off.  And I need to be able to stand for hours, so comfy shoes are essential.

Adding to the challenge is this week's temperatures in the upper 90's. Take a couple of thousand sweaty and drunk bodies dancing and bouncing  against each other on top of that and it's going to be ridiculously hot.  No jeans, no pants, no sleeves allowed.  And prey it doesn't rain.

Two hours wasted playing a racier grown-up version of dress-up and I still don't know what the hell I'm wearing. 

Finding the perfect balance of hot but not slutty, hip but not like I raided my hypothetical teenage daugher's closet is hard freakin work.

Do I show off lots of leg with black hot pants and a sleek black top?   Too short?  I spent twenty minutes staring at the back of my legs searching for cellulite.

Too black?

I find an irridescent emerald green top and belt it tigh around the waist. Damn, the Victoria's Secret bombshell bra (aka boob job in a box) makes me feel like a stripper.  But the green sets of my red hair and makes my eyes glow--awesome.  An infuriating line of ruffles going down the center has got to go.  I spend a half hour cutting the huge ruffle off and try it back on.

But my parents are babysitting.  My Dad will pitch a fit if I walk out the door in heels and hot pants.  Next.

How about a sexy but classy black dress?  Hmmm, lots of cleavage and skims my sides just right, but it comes down just past my knees.  I feel too respectable.  And old.  Next.


Why don't I go long?  I slide on a black halter maxi dress.  I feel mature.  {sigh}  But it could work.

Another black dress (why do I have so many?) discarded.  Clingy but neckline is too boring.


I try on a green halter top maxi dress with a patterend flowy skirt.  Hmm... I pin a flower in my hair.  I look pretty, not like a rock star.  Do I want to do pretty?  Will I dance on my skirt hem?

 
I find a vintage silk skirt covered with Warhol's Cambell's Soup cans.  Interesting.  Love this piece but I have never had any place to wear it--it's dayglow colors just scream "stare at me."  I try pulling it up to make it a strapless dress--nah, too blousy.  I pair it with a salmon strappy tank top--interesting.  Very comfortable.  Does nothing for my hair or eyes.

But the show is sold out.  We are going to be packed in there like oily tinned sardines.  No one will even be able to see my skirt.  So it's all about the top and staying cool, right?

Tops...how about the Asian halter with a pencil skirt?  Or the black trapeze with the annoyingly flowy middle but interesting shoulder straps?  Ugh, it makes me look as if I am knocked-up with a beer in hand.


And why do I even care?  It's not like I'm trying to pick up a date.  Hubby already thinks I'm a catch (and if he didn't tough luck--he's stuck with me).

Sometimes I hate being a woman.  These outfits all suck.  I'm too old and boring and it seems my smoking hot rock goddess jumped ship years ago. Maybe I'll just shove it all back in the closet and wear shorts and flip flops.


What do you think?  Help a girlfriend out, please.....

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Why I Can't Find a REAL Job {Part 1}

 It's no big secret that I have been hunting for a job to supplement our income and give me a bit of my own life back. 

I've only applied for five jobs so far but my phone has yet to ring with opportunity.  Perhaps it's time to start applying for the jobs listed below.  All are real and unedited jobs(except to remove locations and numbers) I found on my local Craigslist yesterday. 

Don't blame the lack of grammar or morals on me...

Bikini Carwash

We are now hiring girls to wash and detail cars in their bikinis.. If you are pretty, look good in your bikini, are loud, have a flirty attitude, and can stand in the sun all day we want you!!!!
We are Rise & Shine Carwash located at XXXX at the Citgo gas station at the corner of Old XX Highway. We have two shifts 11-3 & 3-7.. or you can work all day!!
You will make all of your tips which range anywhere from 20$- 100$ a day... Its really up to you.. if you need are serious please respond to my add with the days and times that you are available
and a picture so i know what you look like and I will respond with my phone number.... Talk to you soon 

Compensation: Tips..$40.00-$ 100.00 per day 

seeking apprentice for body modification

for any or all of these fields:
Piercing
3D Body Implants
Branding Ear Pointing
Shaped Punches
Transdermal Implants
I'm a very motivated, dependable and reliable person. This is a path that I would like to otake to help shape the rest of my life. Please contact me with anything you think may be of interest to me. 
compensation: n/a

ATTRACTIVE LADIES WITH COMMUNICATION SKILLS MAKE A $1000.00 WEEKLY

Growing company looking for attractive women between the ages of 18-35 to work for our bikini maid services...You can make your own schedule and we have morning, afternoons, and night shifts available. The job consist of performing light house chores. You can make a $1000 plus tips a week working part time!!! Serious applicants please send us a pictures of your face and full body!! NO NUDE Pictures necessary!!!If you have any other questions don't hesitate to ask... 

Body wax\bleaching assistant needed

I am looking for an assistant. I have been doing bodywaxing for over 11 years. I am slowly expanding my business. I'm also looking for volunteers to train on with students. I am willing to pay the volunteers for their time. I work in and cater to the adult industry so my assistant would have to be ok in that setting. It pays from $300- $500 a week. No experience necessary I will train.(ladies only)

Cleaning/Janitorial

A CLEANING COMPANY F IS IN NEED OF 2 PERSONS MEN and WOMAN PREFER IF THEY ARE HUSBAND AND WIFE TEAMS. DUTIES ARE TRASH COLLECTION, SWEPT FLOORS, DUSTING,VACCUM CARPET CLEANING, AND ABOUTH TWISE A YEAR CARPET TREATMENT EXPERIENCE AND STRIPP AND WAX EXPERIENCE REQUIRE HAVE OWN TRANSPORTATION., NEED GOOD DRIVING RECORD. BACKGROUND CHECK.
THIS IS A PART TIME BASE ON 2 OR 3 HOUR DEPENDING IN YOUR SKILLS
PREFER IF LIVE CLOSED TO THE JOB SITE THE HOURS START AT 8:00PM
NO ALARM SETTING CODE.,ONLY KEYS FOR ACCES
PLEASE LIVE ME A TEXT. MESSAGE AT xxxxxxxxx BE ESPESIFIC ON THE TEXT,IF LIVE CLOSED BY HOW FAR.,IF HAVE TRANSPORTATION.,IF HAVE EXPERIENCE
Compensation: $7.50 AN HOUR X 2 OR 3 HOUR A DAY X 7 DAYS A WEEK 

Experienced Pet Bather

All Creatures Pet Grooming is looking for an experienced pet bather. Must have worked in the field for 2 years, have knowledge with ear flushing, gland expression,  and different skin problems. Part time

• Compensation: $9-10 per hour

female model or like model

Seeking a female model or like model that wants to suppliment her income or is looking for a great supporter. Must be intelligent, highly independent lifestyle, classy and single, be willing to travel occassionally, and ready to climb the ladder of success, whatever it may take...someone motivated to succeed in life. Please email photo.
I need only real people, fakes and criminals keep out.

• Compensation: TO DISCUSS

Real Couples for TV show $$

Divorce Court is looking for married couples on the verge of divorce, or feuding couples that have been living together for at least 3 years. If you are a great talker, and want to bring your story to our show, please call us. Both sides have to participate. We will pay 570 dollars for each side in the argument, and we will cover your flight and hotel in Los Angeles. We want your story ASAP!

• Compensation: $570 per person  
  
  
  
  I wonder if I could get a call back from any of these jobs?  Doubtful.  Maybe I should send a bikini shot along with my next resume...
  
  

My Summer Bucket List Sprung a Massive Leak

1.  Finally finish the 1st draft of my novel!!!!

2.  Spend an afternoon in the hammock reading without being carried away by mosquitoes.

3. Break out the slip and slide and make a few good runs myself.

4. Accept my paleness and wear shorts with pride.

5. Find a rocking Sangria recipe and enjoy by the pool with friends.

6. Teach Kiddo to become an expert boogie-boarder.

7.  Build a sandcastle at the shore.

8.  Get a blog article syndicated.

9.  Get paid for my writing.

10. Write an article for a local magazine or newspaper.

11. Join twitter.

12.  Teach Kiddo to roller skate without either of us breaking anything.

13. Float down a cool spring in a tube.

14. Eat watermelon naked.

15. Help Kiddo read the first Harry Potter book.

16. Experiment with a new recipe each week.

17. Form a solid writing routine.

18. Transfer all our home videos to the computer.

19. Have family nights watching home videos.

20. Make s'mores over the bbq grill.

21. Make some kick the can ice cream in the backyard.


22. Dance the night away at a concert.

23. Take Kiddo go-cart racing.

24. Loose the couple of pounds that found me.

25. Be vigilant about sunscreen with everyone in the family.

26. Become a yoga goddess.

27. Read at least 6 books a month.

27. Swing on a swing-set as high as I can.

28. Celebrate pajama day with the family several times a month.

29. Make pasta sauce with tomatoes grown from my own garden.

30. Discover a new farmers market.

31. Finish at least one of the dozens of sewing projects in my sewing trunk.

32. Play family board games at least once a week.

33. Go out for ice cream cones.

34. Go to some writer Meet-Ups.

35. Make homemade fruit popsicles.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hold the phones...shit...a little bit of life got in the way...

36. Check out as many resume, cover letter, and interview books as possible.

37. Rewrite resume for any possible writing jobs.

38. Rewrite resume for any possible library jobs.

39. Rewrite resume for any possible retail jobs.

40. Rewrite resume for ANY possible job.

41. Apply for at least 10- 50 jobs a week.

42. Promise myself not to stare at the phone waiting for it to ring.

43. Try to keep a positive attitude.

44. Try to squeeze in as much family time as possible before there is no chance of it.

45. Keep up a strong front for Kiddo.

46.  Get a professional haircut in case of an interview.

47.  Cancel gym membership.

48. Attempt to catch up with baby book, school papers saved, and photo abums while I can.

49. Get a job.

50. Learn to embrace change.

Why I Deserve My Mommy Wine...And So Do You

First came The Wine Sisterhood,  Girl's Night Out, Working Girl Wines, and Little Black Dress: sassy wines with snazzy labels targeting the growing women's wine market.  Then came Mad Housewife, Mommy's Time Out, and Mommy Juice:  wines marketed towards not just women but {gasp} Mothers.

 Why are Mommy Wines such a hot button issue?

The big brouhaha is over Mom wines has me in a sober stupor.  I was overjoyed the first time I ever spotted a bottle of Mad Housewife as I pushed my shopping cart full of toilet paper and a testy toddler through my local grocery store.  It might as well  have been illuminated by a ray from heaven.  How did they know I was a mad housewife?  They must have made it just for me.  I immediately popped a bottle of chardonnay in between the applesauce and fruit snacks even though it blew my grocery budget.  I didn't care.  I deserved a treat too.


Now, don't worry.  I didn't rush home, leave the groceries in the trunk and plop Kiddo in a playpen in front of Baby Einstein while I cracked open the bottle and downed it in one goldfish bowl-sized glass.  Relax.  I am a responsible parent.  I am an adult.  And I am not an alcoholic.  But I did enjoy a glass later while I cooked dinner. 

And yes, my child was still awake.

And yes, he sees my husband and I enjoy a glass of wine on a regular basis.

And I think that is just fine.

I do not understand the whole viewpoint stating children should never see a mother enjoy a glass of wine.  Beer is marked directly to dads.  It is perfectly acceptable for fathers to sit and watch the game or hang by the bbq grill with a frosty beer in hand. 


This Father's Day cake from our local grocery store is a perfect example of the double standard.

Dad + beer = good 

but 

Mom + wine = unacceptable?

 I do agree that kids should not see their parents acting like drunken fools.  I'm not talking about downing a bottle while watching Sponge Bob with the neighborhood kids. Wine should not be the beverage of choice for an afternoon playdate.  But there is nothing wrong with savoring a glass of wine with dinner, even in front of the children.

So many average Americans just don't understand the culture of wine.  It's in no way a beverage to chug just to get drunk.  It is a delicacy to savor, to swirl in a glass to release the aroma, to sip while enjoying each variety's layered and distinctive flavor.   Wine has a unique relationship with food; when properly paired with a dish (be it calamari or cheesecake) it enhances the complex flavors of both the food and the wine. 

It's no wonder Europeans think Americans are so uptight. Wine is not taboo across the pond; instead it is a common beverage to drink with  meals.  Many children are given watered down wine from a young age in order to develop their palate and an appreciation for the taste.  Growing up in Germany, my mother's primary school took field trips (including tastings) to the local wineries.  Wine and the art/science of winemaking is a vital part or their culture, industry, and life.   {Calm down, I'm not advocating doing that here, just loosen up a bit, please.}

We have all heard about how numerous studies have shown moderate consumption of red wine is good for your heart but it also has some other benefits.

Red wine can rev up a woman's sex life: An Italian Research study found that women who were moderate red wine drinkers had a higher libido than those who drank other alcoholic beverages or who abstained. (Women who drank more than two glasses were no included in the study so drunkenness would not influence results.)

Wine is good for your waistline:  Reuters reported trim middle-aged women who drink moderately (red wine especially) are more likely to maintain their weight as they age opposed to non-drinkers. 

And in our home wine is also beneficial to our sanity.  Many nights when Hubby finishes working at his stressful job he joins me in the kitchen while I cook dinner.  We listen to music and sip on a glass of wine as we discuss our hectic days.  It is a ritual: we bid adieu to our accumulated stress and  relax as we enjoy each others company.   Hubby's doctor actually told him that a daily glass of wine keeps his blood pressure down and keeps him off Prozac.

Before children we relished going to wine tastings and preparing gourmet wine paring dinners with friends. At one time we had a moderate collection of decent wines, but my choice to stay at home with Kiddo limited our wine budget significantly.  We still crack open a good bottle to celebrate birthdays, holidays, good news and to share with great friends.  But if we ever win the lottery we will have a fully stocked and rocking wine cellar.  No more cheap wine for us.

We have always been label whores.  Wine purchases are often made not by the WA Points but by unique and funny names and labels.  And as a woman and a Mom I am drawn to the labels that reflect my lifestyle: Mommy Wines.  They are unpretentious, engaging, and a bit tongue-in-cheek, just like me.

Yes, I understand that some people out there are alcoholics or just do not know when to say when.  But the rest of us should not be judged by their behavior.  I am an adult.  I am a responsible parent.  And I enjoy wine.

Yes,  I deserve a bottle of Mommy wine.  Not because my life is so damn hard I need to get drunk, but because I deserve to be recognized as a responsible and respectable wine consumer.

Keep bringing those beautiful bottles on.

Syndicated on BlogHer Today

 You can find me over on the fabulous BlogHer site today dishing about becoming a Thrift Store Shopaholic.   Want tips about how to find the treasure amidst the trash while slash your wardrobe budget?  Check it out.

I have a confession. I rarely set foot in real stores, yet my closets and drawers are overflowing. I was forced to buy two packs of hangers last week and cleared out the guest room closet to handle the overflow. My Kiddo has a wardrobe stocked with the next two sizes up just waiting for him to grow into. And I would rather slit my wrists than pay retail.  Read more >

And if you're not  a member of BlogHer yet, you should be.

Or if you want to check out my original post click here.

Cheers.
VB

The "C" Word

I did not get the phone call to cancel my follow up appointment at my doctors office yesterday. Which meant that the biopsy did not come back good. I was not in the clear. 

It meant the dreaded "C" word.

But to what degree?

I had two spots biopsied. To ugly little patches of discolored skin, not quite freckles, not quite moles, just something else...but what? Would they be basal cell carcinomas, not likely to spread or cause to much damage? Or would that frightening black thing on my ankle, which to some may have just looked like stray sharpie marker slash, be the notoriously feared melanoma?

I have three friends who lost parents, lost a vast chunk of their childhoods, to melanoma.

Two glasses of wine and an Advil PM could not lull me into a blissful unconsciousness.  The darkness of my bedroom formed a backdrop for the scenes playing across the screen of my tightly squeezed eyes. Some were dark, grainy, and frayed at the edges like and aged Super 8 film while others played like HD IMAX blockbuster, clear, bright, and real enough to trigger faint traces of sense memories.  A technicolor slideshow...

Have you ever wondered what you life looks like when it flashes before you eyes?

Why had I spent so many years baking in the sun, unsuccessfully attempting to darken my pale, freckly skin?  Because you can't be pale in Florida.  Because I wanted to fit in.  Because I wanted to be pretty. Everyone hears about skin cancer, but who really gets it? 

I didn't know much about skin cancer. Would they just have to cut it out deeper, leaving a playing card sized pit on my calf? Would I need radiation or chemo? My hair was finally starting to grow out. I'd look terrible in a scarf. I'd have to buy a wig. Why have I bothered sweating at the gym when I will just become a fragile skeleton from the nausea and sickness involved?

What will I tell my son? He's only seven. He still cries when he thinks about a cat we lost two years ago. I'm terrible at keeping a game face and hiding my emotions. How can I possibly be strong enough for him?

This can't be happening. He needs a mother. He needs ME. It's a good thing I have that life insurance policy—but it was short term. When does it expire? Will I expire first?

I should have dropped what I was doing yesterday when he asked me to play a game with him. The laundry could have waited. I should have challenged him to a cannonball contest in the pool last weekend, but I hadn't, I wanted my hair to stay dry. I am a terrible mother.

I should look for one of those recordable Hallmark books so he can have my voice reading him a story when I am gone, so he won't forget me, won't forget the sound of my voice lulling him to sleep each night. I should have taught him how to roller skate, showed him how to properly make a fort in the backyard, taken him on  a camp-out. We might never get to learn to surf together. But I had promised him...

An hour past my appointment time I still sat in the doctor's office waiting room. My stomach had liquified. Distracting myself with a book was out of the question. I couldn't even focus on a glossy fashion magazine. Hubby sat next to me, calmly reading a classic.

"What's wrong," he asked?

Everything’s wrong, I thought.

My foot bounced, my bowels knotted, I picked at a snag in my fingernail. I just shook my head and mumbled, "nothing...nothing at all."

Ten more minutes of waiting once I was escorted to the sterile blue and white room. Posters advertising Botox and eyelash growth serums decorated the walls.  Beautiful, smiling women sitting on the decks of sailboats and at fancy restaurants stared down at me, their lives complete now they had fewer wrinkles. I felt as if they were mocking me. Don't these people know there matters of life and death going on in this room? I imagined I was only worried about the crow's feet creeping around my thinly lashed eyes.

The nurse returned with the folder and silently sat down across from me. 

That's not good, hold it together girl...

"How are you're wounds healing?" she asked...kindly, compassionately, as if she were talking to a timid child.

"Fine. Great."  Why do you care when you have to cut off my skin all around my wounds anyway?

"We got your biopsy results back," she started...

No shit. That's why I'm here. Come on already...

"The good news is, the one on your ankle is nothing.  It's just a mole."

My exhale echoed between the glossy white walls. That was the spot which sent me running to the dermatologist's office last month when I spotted it's dark, motley, irregular shape. Okay, but...

"The one on your shoulder did come back as a Basal Cell Carcinoma.  You have cancer."

Everything was still.  Absolutely still.

"But that's the good type," she smiled.

I didn't know there WAS a GOOD type of cancer.

But apparently, if you are going to have a cancer, this is your best choice. It's very common. No chemo or radiation.  I just have to come back in next month to get a hunk of my shoulder carved out.    I guess I should wear all my strapless sundresses now.

I'm still shaking when I walk out of the doctor's office. I'm still shaking now.

But it will be alright. Nothing is going to stop me from watching Kiddo finally win a soccer game, graduate from college, become a father himself. 

I will still get to read to him each night in bed when all big kid pretenses are brushed aside and he is my gentle little boy again, innocent and bursting with a day full hugs and kisses. We can just switch positions for a while so he can snuggle up and rest his head on my unscarred shoulder.

We can still learn to surf together. I just might have to be wearing a tacky long-sleeved sun shirt.

The sun is now my enemy.   But life will go on as I learn to embrace my scars, inside and out.

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Baby Girl's Third Leg

I sat on the table, the paper crinkling under my slowly expanding bottom, my hands clenched at my sides.  The lights were dimmed as the tech squeezed a cold blob of goo onto my abdomen.  It was time for my 16-week ultrasound.

It was time for me to see who was growing inside me.

I was nervous as hell, as was to be expected.  Pregnancy #1 hadn't gone to well and had ended after only 11 weeks.  This little girl was sticking around though, I knew it, I could feel her strength, I could see my belly slightly expanding, I could imagine her tiny hair follicles growing into downy strawberry blonde curls.

I just needed to see her and she would be real.

The tech smiled as she angled the ultrasound wand around.  "Looking good," she said.   My little princess measured at the perfect size for her e.d.d., her little heart was pumping away, her profile looked a bit like an alien, but so what.  She was doing okay.

"Do you want to know the sex?"  the tech asked.

Hell yes.  I was not going to buy all green and yellow clothes for her.  I needed to break out all my old Barbies, stuffed animals, and Cabbage Patch Kids to decorate her room.  I needed to make a final decision on the nursery set.  I needed to have those little knit Mary Jane booties sitting in her drawers waiting for her delicate feet.

I squeezed Hubby's hand as shivers ran down my spine.  "Yes, tell us," I gushed.

"Congratulations.  It looks like you are having a boy."

My smile dropped faster than boobs after breastfeeding. Did I hear hear right? No freakin way.  IT CAN'T BE A BOY!  Hubby reached down and gave me a hug, looking so proud of himself for possessing masculine sperm.

"Are you sure?"  It was early.  How could she be so sure?

She pointed out the painfully obvious fifth appendage on the image.

What's worse: a girl with three legs or a boy? 

I wasn't sure.

I pasted on my dazed country club smile {no teeth and glazed over eyes} and held it together long enough to reach the parking lot. Then I proceeded to collapse as I broke into hysterical tears.

 I can't have a boy.  I was always supposed to have a girl.  I don't have any brothers.  I have no clue what to do with a boy.  He won't play dolls, or wear cute dresses and pig-tails while playing with My Little Ponies.    He'll pee standing up and stick bugs up his nose and fight and like sports and comic books and want me to buy him playboys when he's a teen.  I can't do this.  I'M SUPPOSED TO HAVE A GIRL.

Somehow I made it to work.  I sat in the lunchroom like a zombie clutching the ultrasound in my lap, just staring at the alien creature growing inside me.   A co-worker asked me who's picture it was.  Her eyes grew wide when I said it was mine--I had yet to even announce I was pregnant.  She whooped and attracted everyone's attention when I said it was a boy.  Congratulations and well wishes flew around the room like a swarm of mosquitoes.  In the end, I was emotionally drained.

Don't worry.  By the time my son was born I was completely sold on the whole boy thing.  I wouldn't have it any other way.   But I needed a little time to get used to the idea.  Much better to break down in an empty parking lot than the delivery room, right?

This post was in response to one of Mama Kat's writing prompts:
Barefoot and hormonal…describe an incident that upset you when you were pregnant, but now looking back makes you laugh.

A Year of 1st Grade Edumicaton...

School is OUT for summer.  And no one is happier than my Kiddo.  He is smart, sharp, and houses an entire ant colony in his size seven shorts.  I can now stop threatening to duct tape him to a chair so he can finish his homework and mute the constant lectures about practicing verbal self control.

Kiddo brought home backpacks full of his leftover school supplies, massive amounts of foamy crafts, and his End-of-Year Journal.  Yes, after cupcakes, Skittles, and party games he had to sit down and fill in 20 pages of school year memories.

Yeah, right.  His a hyper-child on a sugar rush.  He filled in those blanks as fast and frantically as his frosting-caked fingers would allow.

The unedited (and yes, it looks uneducated, but he can spell and write normally, I swear!) results:

Let's hope he doesn't major in education--lazy teachers of the world unite!

 What kid's favorite subject ISN'T recess?  Really.  (We know it's not handwriting or spelling.)

Yes, that's a boy. Math, science, listening, self control, subtract and add.  A girl's would have said pretty handwriting, reading, gossip, & Bieber.

Forget about learning to READ this year.  It's a good day when he doesn't get checks for those not listening and  practicing verbal self control.  He's going to make a fabulous husband someday.

Well, if he WAS rich then he COULD buy all the Legos in the world.  Or maybe just Legoland.  

And he's in love with his teacher.  But he still doesn't listen to her.  

At least he's consistent, considering he still doesn't listen to me.

He doesn't need to LEARN anything next year, it just needs to go by faster.

Thank you to my dear friend who introduced my boys to country music.  Kiddo has been walking around singing Zac Brown's Chicken Fried for a year now.  

And the Toes song as well.  He thinks if he's singing a song he can say "ass."  Thanks.

He also presented us with his award for "Funniest Boy" in his class.  Yeah, I'm in trouble...

Where to Find Me Today

Today I'm making a quick appearance over at the fabulously funny Kelley's Break Room.  Come on over and see how well you can do on another enlightening round of Name That Job.


 

See you there!

Cheers.
VB

Road Trip: Costa Rica and the Oh My God Bridge

Costa Rican road trip day 4: a supposedly "relaxing" journey from the Arenal Volcano to the Pacific paradise of Manual Antonio. Hubby and I were crazy enough to drag a 5-year-old through a Third World Country for an adventure of a lifetime.  Our ride was a manual 4 x 4 Diahtsu Bego,  which is a Central American version of a Kia Sportage or basically a tin can on wheels.  But it was a gutsy little tin can; it had already climbed rain drenched mountain roads and forded two rivers and a washed out bridge without a cough or a sputter.  The same could not be said for me.  Costa Rican Imperial beer was our reward for surviving each day...

A little background on the roads: there are no street signs or addresses in Costa Rica,  no "highway" exits are marked, and the traffic lanes have this particular way of ending with absolutely no warning.  Mountain roads consist of two of the narrowest lanes known to man smashed between a rock wall and a cliff. No guard rails. There can be two lanes then suddenly there is a one lane bridge with a several hundred foot drop on either side.   Roads go from pavement to dirt without any rhyme or reason and the potholes are big enough to eat a small car. It took me a while to learn how not to wet my pants or scream as we traversed the treacherous "roads."

We said goodbye to our beloved Volcano Lodge perched just below the constantly erupting Arenal Volcano and made a quick stop to collect some pumice stones and sand along the banks of the rainforest river.  We spent a couple of hours cruising along the far side of Lake Arenal before settling down onto the flatter roads of the Central Valley.  Troops of monkeys chattered in the trees above us, herds of cattle moseyed across the broken pavement, and powerful mountains puffed away in the distance.

Not long after lunch we were pulled over in a speed trap.  We played the roles of stupid Americans as Hubby learned how to correctly bribe the Policia in a Third World Country.  Perhaps a nearly sobbing wife and a cute 5-year-old smiling in the backseat helped us get off with only a $15 "fine" and a promise to slow down.

We broke for a pit stop at a little cafe by a large river.  As I held my wiggling child with a vice grip we crept across a narrow concrete bridge as semis overflowing with logs and watermelons barreled past us only a foot away.  Below us lay dozens of crocodiles: wild, fearsome, and really fricking big.   As the massive trucks rumbled by I wondered if I would rather let us get plowed over by a semi or jump and take our chances with the crocs if I had to pick.  I chose getting the hell off the bridge instead.

We dipped our toes in the Pacific for the first time on the beach of the famous surf town of Jaco.   Tanned boys tamed massive waves against a breathtaking backdrop of cliffs and rainforest as we wandered between the cigarette butts and used condoms.  Time to move on.

A little further South we pulled alongside a beach side bamboo shack shaded by coconut palms.  We dangled our feet in the black sand as we sipped papaya smoothies and watched the waves roll in along the deserted Hermosa shore.

Kiddo sang Dave Matthews at the top of his lungs and hand surfed as we drove through lush palm oil plantations.  There was no dvd player, no cartoons for amusement, just a new world passing by through the open windows.  It was enough.

Traffic came to a sudden standstill.  The road instantly narrowed to one lane.  A lumbering metal structure caked with rust and age rose ahead of us.  The bumpy asphalt ended, replace by jagged ancient wooden planks.  We waited as cars and motorcycles bounced across the so called bridge, their shocks squealing in dire protest of the rugged conditions.

Oh my God.

An old pickup across the river flashed its headlights.  It was our turn.  Hubby revved it up to a whopping 10 km per hour.  The old metal railroad trestle didn't start for at least 25 feet.  There was not even flimsy  wooden rail separating us for our impending death in the river.  The planks were spaced unevenly and there was not much clearance on either side of our narrow car, which I knew would crunch like a soda can if we fell off the bridge.

Oh my God, oh my God...

Strips of metal were laid  across the boards in a few places where ruts wore the wood down to splinters.  The car hit one with a resounding crash, jerking us up and down.  In a few spots the wood was completely absent.  I could see the river directly below.

Oh my freaking God...

My head hit to roof on the last violent buck.  As we neared the end, patches of pavement were plopped around like blobs of play-dough over the worn wood.  River grasses crowded the edge as we hit the solid pavement of the actual road with one final thwack.  We had survived.

That was fun!  Can we do it again?  Kiddo cheered from the backseat.

 Oh. My. God.

This post was in response to one of Mama Kat's fabulous writing prompts.  Check her out. 

The Day I Decided TO BE

To be, or not to be...

That was the question I asked myself as I decided who I would become as I made the transition from the hellacious world of middle school into high school.  I was painfully shy, with only a handful of friends (other freaks and geeks), but smart.  If you had seen me back then...actually, you wouldn't have seen me.  I was invisible, silent, never raising a hand even when I knew the answer, my nose hidden in a book as I waited for the late bell to ring.  It was safer to be invisible, ignored by the poisonous vipers who roamed my school hallways looking for their next victim.

I decided a new school could equal a new life.  I desperately wanted to shed my shyness like a husk of dried up scales and break out into high school flashing my new skin, shiny, beautiful, and effervescent.   I talked myself into signing up for drama.  I decided TO BE.

Of course, I doubted my rash act of bravery once I had my first significant drama piece in hand waiting to be memorized: Hamlet's tormented To Be or Not To Be soliloquy. No need to start with the easy stuff, right?

Shakespeare and I had met just a few months before and he was rocking my 14-year-old world.  It was challenging yet it was more beautiful than any written words I could ever have imagined.  Even saying the name Shakespeare sounded like a lovely breeze sighing through my lips.  I had a bit of a crush on Old Will.

I can picture myself lying on my childhood bed, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me, the blue flowered curtains gently blowing in the humid afternoon breeze as I drilled those 276 words of Elizabethan English into my poor brain.  With Webster's Dictionary at my side I struggled to not only know the words, but to understand them, to feel them flow through my veins as if I was the tormented soul struggling to  comprehend why we keep going through this often wretched life.  It was rather apropos.  It took several nights of fierce concentration, the phone ringer off, my current novel left untouched on the nightstand, to embed the piece into my soul.

The day of the performance I was a wreck.  My palms sweat, my legs barely held me up in the hallways between classes, my knees bounced and knocked against my desk.  I thought I would throw up for sure as the drama teacher called my name.  It took the deepest breath I had gasped since the day I was born and slinked up to the make-shift stage.  And I opened my mouth...

The classroom was filled with words, beautiful, powerful, and passionate flowing through the air.  I didn't just speak them, I lived them.  They came out without thought or force but with a practiced cadence, clear and pure.

The piece was over before I knew it.  The class erupted in applause.  A scarlet blush flooded my cheeks as the adrenalin coursed through my veins.  I had done it.  And I had done it exceptionally well.

Two days later the drama teacher pulled me aside after class.  One of the leads in the school play had dropped out--would I like the part?  I said yes: to the play, to the part, and to a new chapter in my life.  I was an actress.

To this day I can recite every word of Hamlet's famous soliloquy by heart, although now it is just a cool party trick.  Thanks Will,  for everything...

Be all my sins remember'd.

This post was written in response to a writing prompt from The Red Dress Club: By Heart.

Rich, Dark, and Hunky

Rich. Decadent. Dark. Hunky. Sweet. Easy. Luscious.

Sounds like the perfect man, right? But it is far better than a man.  It's silent, scrumptious, doesn't care what you look like and satisfies you anytime, anywhere. It's one of my favorite comfort foods from childhood: my Mom's Magic Camping Brownies.

Okay, so that title doesn't quite give them the justice they deserve, so I shall explain.  Growing up we didn't have much junk food in our house--Oreos were not an after school snack nor did Fruit Loops ever grace our breakfast table (except on my birthday).  But we always had dessert.  Never a Ho Ho or a Twinkie, but a freshly baked portion of utter deliciousness.

Mom usually reserved these treats for special occasions and baked upon request for parties, school events, and the regular group camping trips.  Forgetting the beer or even breakfast would have been forgivable, but we would have been fed to the alligators if we showed up without the famous brownies.

When I went away to college Mom sent them in care packages.  What else could a college freshman possibly want when she woke up Saturday "morning" at 3 p.m. than to nibble on a little piece of gooey chocolate and caramel heaven.  They were also popular at late night parties, and once, perhaps while a little intoxicated, I called them "Magic" brownies.  The accidental misnomer excited the party-goers to a near frenzy to grab at the delectable morsels.  They were only slightly disappointed when I insisted they were not, ah em, spiked with special herbs.  But by then everyone was too busy reveling in chocolate ecstasy to really care and the name stuck.



Mom's "Magic" Brownies

• 24 kraft caramels (7 oz) unwrapped
• 1 5 1/3 oz can (2/3 cup) evaporated milk
• 1 package devil's food cake mix
• 1 cup chopped walnuts
• 6 tbsp. melted margarine
• 1 small bag (1 cup) chocolate chips

• Combine all but 2 tbs. evaporated milk, cake mix, walnuts, and margarine; mix well (it will be thick).
• Spread half the cake mixture in a well greased 13x 9x 2 inch pan.
• Bake at 350 for 10 minutes.
•  Meanwhile,  melt caramels and 2 tbs. evaporated milk in a small saucepan over low heat until smooth.
• Sprinkle half the chocolate chips over the hot baked crust.  Drizzle the melted caramel on top.
• Drop the remaining cake mixture by spoonfuls all over the caramel and carefully try to cover as evenly as possible (it will still be lumpy).
• Sprinkle the remaining chocolate chips on top.
• Continue baking at 350 for 20 minutes more.
• Cut into bars while still warm (but not hot).
• Cool in pan.
• Enjoy.   If you don't there is something wrong with you.

{This post is in response to this weeks Mama Kat's Writing Workshop prompts.}