Mar9
Mar7
Faking It as a Country Girl
10 years ago I did something unbelievable; so amazing in fact, that my friends and family were in awe (or, shock was it?). I moved, with my husband and two boys, from the city to my husband’s hometown in rural mid-west Missouri (for how city girl met country boy go here).
Now, I know what you are thinking: California girl moving to the country – train wreck about to happen. Well, sometimes, it felt that way. In truth, there were adjustments to make.
First off, in an attempt to minimize my transition trauma, we chose a house in “town” as opposed to one smack dab in the middle of a farm – like, without neighbors…and lots of snakes. However, while it is true that in “town” I can actually see my neighbor’s house, it is also a fact that “town” is basically a one block main street with some off-shooting streets, not even enough inhabitants to fill up an AMC Movie Theatre (unless you include the animals and livestock), and to get a decent work-out, you must run/walk/bike the circumference of the “town” numerous times.
However, in addition to learning to survive a rural mid-west winter (A California Girl’s Guide here), I have acquired knowledge of immense use to making it faking it as a country girl.
1. Anywhere in town, always leave your keys in your unlocked vehicle. This is very important, because you never know when someone will need to quickly jump into your vehicle to move it out of the way of a passing farm apparatus, help an elderly person needing your parking space, or borrow it for some quick, random errand. If all goes well, your car will be in the same location when you go to retrieve it. If not, a few phones calls (in my case, usually to car-swapping brother-in-law) will quickly establish a location and alternate transportation if needed.
2. Don’t be fooled, in the country the snakes live in town too. In fact, they enjoy flaunting this fact by dropping out of trees in front of your house guests, sunning themselves outside your kitchen window, slithering through your baseball pick-up games, or hibernating in your domicile. It is best to pretend you are copacetic with co-habitation and hope they are eating rodents and not your baby birds.
3. If you run out of or forget an item at a store, seek help. “Running” to the store to get a needed item is just not an option, the store might as well be a billion miles away (Which explains why savvy country dwellers have pantries the size of Mt. Rushmore). Therefore, if you need an item such as eggs, milk, spices, butter, canned corn, etc…appeal to a neighbor. If you require items such as: Whole Wheat flour, tofu, tempe, organic beans, or turkey bacon…make spaghetti.
4. Learn how to follow road directions. I know what you are thinking…how dumb can you be if you can’t follow directions. But trust me; survival depends on a vast amount of UN-documented knowledge. Here is generally how my first direction experience went:
Me: “How do I get to xyz?”
Direction Giver Guy/Girl (DGG): “Drive straight out of town then turn left at the Smith house”
Me:“Who are the Smiths?”
DGG: “The Smiths are the people who used to live in that house next to the barn where John Chaney kept his horse named Champ”.
Me:“Oh”.
DGG: “Then, take a right onto Boat Road”
Me: “So, there will be a road sign?”
DGG: “No, that is not the actual name”
Me: “Huh?”
DGG: “It is called that because of a building that looks like a boat”
Me: “So, I will see this building that looks like a boat and know when to turn?”
DGG: “No, the building was torn down several years ago.”
Me: “Oh”.
DGG: “Then, when you see the black bull standing in the pasture..”
Me: “You mean, like with horns?”
DGG: “Yeah – turn right at the sharp corner where Duke Dudley wrecked his truck and there you are.”
Me: “Where?”
DGG: “At the chicken coup with the rooster weather vane.”
Me: “Oh”…
And as a country Mom, I have learned to curtail the shock of watching my kids driving before their feet reached the pedals, wielding all manner of power tools and weapons of mass destruction, and requesting flying squirrels as pets. But, that is a story for another day.
In closing, if there is one key thing I have learned about rural life, it is this…
The good thing about living in a small town is,
When you don’t know what you are doing, that’s ok…
Everybody else does…
Feb29
Today’s Best Moment: Wednesday 2/29
Today’s best moment came when I walked into the room to find my 12 year old son listening to the Rolling Stones while doing his homework, all of his own accord.
It was at that moment I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, as a parent I was doing something right. For clearly, he knows good Rock & Roll when he hears it. I felt so proud.
Feb27
Bulldogs Don’t Wear Lipstick
A special time of year is quickly approaching. It is the time, each year, when I transform from your typical mild mannered Mom (did I hear someone snicker?) into something scary and not a little bit dangerous…the Sport-Mom.
You see, very soon, it will begin to warm up, the grass will turn green and my two boys will be heading out of doors with their bat, ball, and glove to “take the field”. And I, being the devoted Sport-Mom, will be right there with them. I will sit in the stands, with all the other Sport-Moms doing what Sport-Moms do in such circumstances: guide in all sporting skills, guard against sport pitfalls, protect from lurking evil sport entities, and provide snacks.
Now let me say, it has taken some time for me to become the full-fledged proficient Sport-Mom you see before you today. There were those novice days when I unknowing purchased football cleats for my son to wear for an entire baseball season. The time I actually calmly watched as my son took the mound for the first time – frivolously unaware of the high stakes of Little League Baseball. Oh, and the worst – the time I forgot the snacks.
But now, I come to play – bring my A game, as it were. I try to be good, I really do. But it is a struggle. Let’s face it, whoever decided it was a good idea to meld the Mama-Bear mentality with kids sports had to know trouble was on the horizon. I fear the day I could morph into that Sport-Mom who runs to the dugout to chew out her son for a mistake made on the field because she thinks the coach isn’t doing an adequate job of it. Or, the Sport-Mom who corners the coach after the game with notes on what he needs to change – which usually includes her little dickens starting in pretty much every position. Or, the Sport-Mom who wears sexy, tight and inappropriate outfits to the game in an attempt to distract the opposing team’s coaches (ok, I might do this one if I was blessed with the goods).
Therefore, as the time approaches, even though there is no denying my ability to coach from the bleachers is, well, beyond impressive, I will head into the season with a fresh approach. Strict directives- some self-imposed and some “suggested”- to keep from getting too out of hand.
For example:
I will (per request) make every effort to restrain from screaming out those annoyingly obvious instructions such as “Throw strikes” “Hit the ball!” “Make good throws” “Keep your eye on the ball” “Just play pitch and catch” “You gotta want the ball” “Bat to ball”
and my favorite “See ball…Hit ball” (I definitely won’t say that one because someone might mistake me for an idiot).
I will squelch the impulse to hurl chunks or obsessively pace every time one of my boys comes up to bat – takes the mound – squats behind the plate… ah heck, takes the field in general.
I will resist the urge to go Spider Monkey on the Sport-Mom who is convinced her kid is getting drafted into the Majors straight out of Little League…or the Umpire who doesn’t know the rule book…or the coach who takes advantage of the Ump who doesn’t know the rule book – I will send my friend Nikki to do it.
Lastly, I will not, under any circumstances whatsoever, tell my kid (or anyone else’s) “Get your head out of your butt and get in the game”, unless, of course, it is, and in that case we are probably headed for the hospital.
I will, however, cheer until I am hoarse, gives high fives & hugs when they win, give high fives & hugs when they lose, tell them they are awesome…always, eat the teams combined weight in Good n Plenty, wear my sunscreen, and quietly kvetch with empathetic fellow Sport-Moms. All the while, keeping in mind there is undeniably, only one true answer to the question:
What is the difference between a Bulldog and a Sport-Mom?
Bulldogs don’t wear lipstick.
Feb23
Ode to Chris the Caveman
My son was an action figure connoisseur of sorts. As a kid, he spent hours engaged in elaborate battles with his huge collection. These ‘campaigns’ would continue for days on end and until completion, I was not allowed to alter their tactical arrangement in any way. In the majority of these battles, an action figure he named Chris the Caveman (of mysterious origins) was invariably the leader and subsequent conqueror. I asked my son once, why?, and he replied that his battles required super-hero strength against extreme powers and Chris with his ripped muscles seemed like the man for the job…
Head over to Mamapedia, where I am honored to be a featured writer today, to find out how Chris the Caveman aides in this Mom’s fight against the most powerful, and sneaky opponent of all time!
Go here!
Feb17
Little Orphan Annie Wears Dittos Jeans
From left: Lori Kickliter, Kristen Sauter, Jennifer Cihi, Michele DeCuir, Paula Benedetti (Danner), Molly Ringwald.
Today I am hanging out at one of my favorite places to guest post, DenimDebutante.com.
I love random. Today, I am writing about the musical Annie and Dittos Jeans. It may not be as random as you think (then again…). I guess you will just have to go here and find out. And yes, that is me in the picture (Annie/National II) above…a “few” years ago.
Feb14
True Love By Way of a Kitty Dance and a Bucking Horse
Over the years I have been encouraged to tell the serendipitous story of how my husband, Jim, and I found each other. Valentine’s Day seemed like a good time. Honestly, I tried to keep it short, but it just isn’t that kind of tale.
I was 23, touring as a performer in the National IV tour of CATS. He was 25, working at his family owned hotel in New Orleans, LA – which is where the story begins. The tour stopped in New Orleans for 2 weeks of performances and some of us ‘Kitty’s’ were thrilled to find and stay at his quaint, historic hotel. Our first meeting occurred over a broken stove. I called the front desk to have someone come repair the stove in my room (this was when cooking actually seemed fun) and he showed up at my door. Over that hot and steamy repair job (kidding!) the attraction was immediate. We spent those 2 weeks together, getting to know each other.
After those two weeks, though, on I went with the tour to the next city.
Over the next several months we stayed in contact by letters (you know the handwritten thing that goes on paper). We kept in touch while I finished the tour and went back to Los Angeles to continue my performance career and he cruised around South America starting an export business (the legal type – Alpaca sweaters) and around the US on the PRCA (Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association) circuit as a Bull and Bronc rider (all true, I swear).
Finally, an agreement was made; he would come to LA to visit me. However, not long after his arrival in LA, I informed him “I do not see this relationship going anywhere”. In truth, I do not recall saying it in just this way (as he relayed to me some time later), but my Mom ratted me out by saying it sounded “exactly like something I used to say in those days”. (There went her Christmas present that year!).
Anyway, off he went, back to New Orleans. That was the last time we spoke.
7 years went by (yep, 7 years!).
In that time he continued with his export business, riding the Pro-rodeo PRCA circuit, and attending to the hotel. I kicked around LA doing commercials & videos, singing in bands, marketing music artists, and doing what all aspiring performers do in LA –bartend, waitress and do odd jobs.
But, the pertinent part is, during that time, I had the pleasure occasion to kiss a lot of frogs. Cute some may have been, but none of which turned into a handsome prince (although, a few morphed into evil wizards with bad complexions).
Then, it happened. One day, on the heels of the crown jewels of bad relationships, I was teaching Line Dancing at the trendy Denim & Diamonds Country Music Nightclub in Santa Monica (one of those odd jobs). I happened to look up at the TV screen with the ever running assortment of ‘all things western’ and there he was; on the screen, in all his Pro-rodeo glory, riding a bucking horse (well, getting bucked off a bucking horse if you must know), in a PRCA rodeo in Texas. Thus began the obsessive thought process that would plague me for days on end: “He was a really good guy”…”What was I thinking back then (as in, what an idiot I was)”…”man, I really blew that”…”I wonder what he is doing now…married???”
I spent days thinking and thinking about it; until I could not take the cosmic hammering anymore and decided to take action.
At the time, I was performing in a trio that was preparing to open up for Carlene Carter. As the group was addressing promotional postcards with our picture on it (this is what one did before “social networking”), I addressed one to him at his hotel in New Orleans, which consequently his family still owned, with a small note (and, duh, my phone number) included. (oh, home-wrecker I’m not – one call to chatty desk clerk at hotel confirmed bachelorhood).
Since our final parting 7 years prior had been, ummm, not the best in his memory, he was prepared to possibly discard the greeting. That is until his English friend (I knew I liked that bloke), in his never beat around the bush way, pointed out that due to the “positive physical attributes” displayed in the picture, perhaps at least a return phone call was in order (praise be the wisdom of guy-logic).
He did call. Then he called again, many times. And then we arranged to get together. Gullible Forgiving guy that he is, he, again, came out to see me in LA. This time, I did not send him home with some stupid edict, but rather with the promise of a reciprocal visit to New Orleans and more.
And despite the fact that I bristled ever so slightly at the statement made by him some months later that if “anyone had ever told me I had already met the girl I was going to marry, I would never have thought of you” and he, annoyed by the fact that I had to slobber all over a bunch of frogs before finally getting it right…
We married a 1 ½ years later.
Well, 7 years and 1 ½ years later.
This year we will celebrate our 16th anniversary. I am thinking all those frogs and bucking livestock were well worth the trouble – which only goes to show that it is a good thing, life is what happens while you are busy making plans!
As author Saul Bellow so eloquently put it:
“Unexpected intrusions of Beauty. That’s what life is.”
Happy Valentines Day
Feb9
A Decade of Wisdom
I have a son. I have had him for a decade. Apparently, 10 years is a long enough time for some to acquire a significant amount of knowledge and I have, consequently, learned a vast amount from him. Not the usual wisdom one might aspire to but, I have come to believe, he is definitely onto something. What, exactly, I couldn’t really say; but valuable, to be sure. And, what good is knowledge if not shared? Therefore, in the interest of fairness, here are some of the Decade Boy’s most admired words of wisdom.
Why goof of tomorrow when you can goof off today.
Girls who chase boys are pathetic.
Smart people are often “over-rated”.
The enjoyment of any activity is always increased by the removal of all authority figures.
School (work) could actually be fun in Heelys…and, of course, no teachers (bosses).
The song “Animal Crackers in My Soup” is worth singing repeatedly after changing the word “Soup” to “Poop”.
School is completely unnecessary, just “figure it out.”
Forget motivational speeches, prizes, or perks…you want results? Show me the money!
Which brings us to:
Career goal: “To be Rich.”
Most Memorable Quote:
“All the seasons of Childhood are wasted while in School.”
And lastly:
The person who decided it was a good idea to have 5 days of school/work to only 2 days of weekend was the dumbest person on the planet.
Confucius say: He who passes gas in church sits in his own pew.
Decade Boy say: When all else fails…kick butt.
Like I said…clearly onto something.
For more Pre-teen isms – A Decade of Wisdom – Go Here!
Jan30
Todays Best Moment: Monday 1/30
There I was, wrestling with “The Beast” (aka: Full Kitchen Trash Bag), out-manned, out-matched and out-maneuvered as contents began to spill out onto the floor. “Help Needed!”, I yelled to no one in particular. Both of my boys came bounding into the kitchen to my aide. Together, we tamed “The Beast”. They’ve got my back. I’m not alone. It feels good.
Jan26
I Am Woman (Ode to Chris the Caveman)
My son was an action figure connoisseur of sorts. As a kid, he spent hours engaged in elaborate battles with his huge collection. These ‘campaigns’ would continue for days on end and until completion, I was not allowed to alter their tactical arrangement in any way. In the majority of these battles, an action figure he named Chris the Caveman (of mysterious origins) was invariably the leader and subsequent conqueror. I asked my son once, why?, and he replied that his battles required super-hero strength against extreme powers and Chris with his ripped muscles seemed like the man for the job.
Now, Chris the Caveman sits on a dusty shelf in the playroom – his battles behind him. The truth is, he has not only been abandoned by a maturing boy, but he has also been replaced by an enemy I must now face. A foe I wonder if even Chris the Caveman would have had the strength to overcome.
Electronics
Before I go any further let me just say, Electronics are not inherently evil – ok, maybe they are, but in the interest of political correctness let’s just say they ‘behave badly’. And like most families these days we are equipped with the usual: computer, HDTV, phones (my smart phone may have been a stumble into enemy territory), microwave – plenty enough to distract from human interaction (those microwaves can really be addicting). But, I have tried to hold firm against an all-out invasion (i.e. big gaming units with flesh eating Zombies).
Nonetheless, I was blindsided by the enemy’s recent ploy. My weakness has been identified…my kids. When my boys presented the idea they “earn and save” the money (they took that Get a Yob thing seriously) to buy their own desired items I was all aglow with: smug relief (Ha! They will never be able to save that much), and maternal pride (look at those little darlings willing to work for something they want, aaah). However, this Custer–like underestimation of my opponent has proven to be a fatal misstep. For now, my boys are both in possession of their desired electronic, complete with bells, whistles & Zombies, and I feel like Mickey in Fantasia, helpless as Electronics march over me and into my house.
In essence, I have become Chris the Caveman – except, without the rippling muscles and you know, cool loincloth. I am single-handedly attempting to fight an enemy of extreme powers with only help from my minions (well, minion – my husband) – struggling to stop the time-sucking, interaction-obliterating, Electronic devices from completely taking over my home. And as in all of Chris the Caveman’s battles, I fear it will get worse before it gets better, be bloody, body parts scattered, and end with only one true victor. But like Chris the Caveman, there is no “if ya can’t beat em’ join em”, only a fight to the last one standing. I think I am the woman for the job but just in case…
Better save a spot on that dusty shelf for me.
Jan19
Word-Up: Get a Yob!
Yob: I did it! I created a word. At least I thought I had. Until I discovered some slippery, sly English peops (I can say that because some of my best friends are English) had beat me to it. However, when my son won at scrabble using “Yob”– which according to Merriam-Webster is b-o-y spelled backward (really?), and meaning: a young man who is rowdy, rude, noisy, and aggressive (I live with Yobs and didn’t even know it), and rhymes with Gob (Ha! Didn’t see that one coming did ya’) – I was forced to face the disappointment or lobby M-W for inclusion.
You see, for some time, Yob has been a Homonym of sorts in my household. Allow me to illustrate.
“Get a Yob”: In this context, Yob is most effective in answer to the frequently asked question from minors in household: “Mom, can I have…(fill in blank with overpriced electronic of choice)”. Used in this form, Yob means: If you want particular time sucking device, you will have to work, earn money, save, spend it all on desired item and realize you are flat broke…again.
Positive attributes of usage being, minors are proud purchasers of mind emptying electronics and my Botox emergency fund remains intact…oh, and they like, learned some kind of valuable life lesson or something.
“Not my Yob”: The usage of the word in this context is a clear indication that a “pass the buck” scenario from one adult to another is about to take place (from myself to hubs if you must know). At this crucial moment, husband is forced to revisit the possibility he failed to examine the fine print in the marriage contract explaining his Yob description included: all things gross (puke clean up), all things that make you simultaneously sweaty & dirty (summer yard work), and all things smelly ( taking out all trash).
Sadly for him, the misplacement or loss of said document has relegated husband to taking wife’s word on the subject.
“Do your Yob”: The bellow of the word in this context is music to the ears of one occupant of the household…my dog. At moment of utterance, the word ringing in dog’s ears causes her thought process to go something like this…The Mom is cooking…dropping food on the floor…all over the floor…like always…I must away…to the kitchen…no time to waste…to clean the floor…I love my Yob,…no, I REALLY, REALLY love my Yob. (Which in this context means – That thing one does when not sleeping, eating or urinating on the tires of cars in the driveway…preferably you are a dog if you are using the word in this context).
Disclaimer: For those of you getting the ole undies in a bundle over the use of this questionably politically correct pronunciation, please keep one thing in mind. As a person from San Hose, who has endured a lifetime of “You really do know the way to San Hose, don’t you!” and “Are you from San HosA or San HosB?”– I think I have paid my dues and deserve to take a few liberties. No Yoke.
Only a few words were maimed in the writing of this blog.
Jan17
Today’s Best Moment – Monday 1/16
Watching my boys learn how to make Macaroni and Cheese.
Seriously, it was poetry in motion. I laughed, I cried, I cleaned up burnt pasta water all over the stove. Actually, the best part of the moment may have been seeing them growing up?… Learning to do for themselves? …No, it was when I realized I won’t have to do it anymore. Laundry, anyone?
Jan12
Today’s Best Moment – New Feature Inspiration
First of all, I want to give a huge thank you to my niece, Gina Benedetti, a very talented photographer and graphic designer, who created this wonderful logo for my new feature on Sweet Spot.
I came up with the idea for this feature after attending the funeral of a good friend’s Mom. My friend’s Mom had been on this earth a long time, so I am guessing she must have learned a few things along the way. At the funeral, it was explained how she had a special journal where, each day, she recorded her Best Moment of the Day. When you visited her home, you were encouraged – very encouraged – to add your own best moment of the day to her book.
I thought this was such a wonderful life skill. One I wish I was better at. So, of course, I wanted to bring it to Sweet Spot. I already “unofficially” started over Christmas with Santa Cruz (this pic!), Lake Tahoe and Lake Tahoe2.
Where I will go with it next… I’m not sure. But that is ok. In fact, it is the Best.
Jan9
Woman vs. Machine
As promised in my last post, New Years Non-Resolutions, here is my full confession…
It was a normal afternoon. My sons and I were in the kitchen. I was making toast. When all of a sudden, for no reason at all (ok, I may have burned the toast), the smoke alarm- where it had been strategically placed on a cabinet directly above the toaster waiting year after year to be hung from the ceiling – began to go off.
Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I frantically waved the smoke out of the air and removed the offending item from the toaster (fine, I did burn the toast, happy?) so as to relieve the smoke alarm from duty.
But still – Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I climbed up on the counter and brought the alarm down to show it that all was well. Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I pushed its button in assurance. Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I begged, pleaded, demanded it stop. Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
I threatened. I threatened it with a short trip and a quick end; as in –“Stop or I will throw you against the wall”. You can’t say it wasn’t duly notified. Surely it could hear the crazed frustration in my warning.
And still – Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.
So in the interest of follow through, you know good parenting and all that, I chucked it as hard as I could at the nearest kitchen wall. It crashed against that wall – pieces of plastic flying, battery hanging out like entrails, cover dislodging as it landed with a thud on the floor.
Finally…it was quiet. We all three stood frozen in the silence; me, reveling in the peace; the boys, awestruck at my conviction (or… fearing for the potential loss of a few more cards from my deck). 10 seconds…20 seconds…30 seconds…
Then it happened. Out of the silence in a ‘man down but not out’ kind of way, labored and painful, slurring like the moo of a drunken cow (if cows could, you know, belly up) came the smoke alarm’s final words –
Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp – As it continued, despite all aggressions, to attempt to do its job.
We stood. We stared. Our jaws dropped open. And then, we laughed hysterically until our bellies hurt.
In the end, it was decided the smoke alarm had earned retirement with full benefits (but no severance pay), I should never make toast without the aid of Mother’s Little Helper (the prescription kind) and Dad/Husband should be called immediately the next time a machine in our house malfunctioned (and even with this assurance, my machines have never since treated me the same…)
What is the point to this twisted machine abuse story?
Simply this- It is moments like this that I live for. The kind that get funnier with each retelling. The kind that teeter on the edge of crazy. The kind my kids will remember. The kind where I get to laugh with them.
The kind that teaches them no matter how bad, frustrating or crazy things are, if you can laugh, life is good.
Jan3
New Years Non-Resolutions
Yeah, I know the New Years Resolution Bus has passed. However, due to the fact that my Christmas Cards invariably hit the ground running about mid-January, I decided to claim end of the year procrastination as a “tradition” and forge ahead. Besides I was occupied between Christmas and New Years combating a bunch of kids for a patch of mountain on which to ride my board (hey, I only took out a few…that I know of) -man-made snow, quite the hot commodity.
Anyway, I will make this easy. I do NOT make New Years Resolutions. Not since, after occupying Los Angeles for 10 years, I Resolved to give up using the F bomb – which has led me to a lifelong, frustrating and futile search for its replacement equal.
Therefore, here are my 6 New Years NON-Resolutions:
I will NOT drink more water. Let’s face it, at a certain age the Pee Pee dance is no longer cute and becomes potentially hazardous. (If you are not getting a mental picture here, just give it a few years).
I WILL add to my embarrassingly large, spilling out of the closet, “yes, honey, I swear I got that for a good price” denim collection. However, as an attached rider, I renew my vow to shun all things bearing the name “Jegging” and I will pass on the new “Ass-Cam” now being installed in select designer denim fitting rooms.
I WILL eat sugar in my coffee, in my soda, in my desserts, in my snacks; Even if it means the possible acquisition of a JLo Butt (wait, maybe I should re-think that Ass-Cam…?). “I’ll have boobs to go with that butt please.”
I will NOT give up the right to throw things when the situation demands. For example, kids’ shoes I have tripped over a cajillion times, malfunctioning machines (full confession coming soon), cat that lies right in the middle of the room (jk – of course I would not throw my cat…she’s too fat.)
I WILL cook way more pasta then anyone wants to eat. Furthermore, I WILL, in a fit of thinking I am the next Pioneer Woman, mangle some poor unsuspecting piece of beef, force my family to eat it, and expect them to give me praise.
Lastly, I WILL, in my totally un-cool Soccer Mom van, peel out when local teens make fun, bump into curbs, back into low concrete walls and drive over the grass on the side of our new driveway that hubby is desperately trying to grow. Because, well, that’s how I roll.
Happy 2012. May all of your New Years Non-Resolutions be a success!
Dec30
Today’s Best Moment: Lake Tahoe, CA – Take 2
Lake Tahoe, CA – Take 2, December 2011
Last Day Snowboarding: Today, more snow, less people, and still there is that lake.
For more Sweet Spot Travels: Go Here!
Dec29
Today’s Best Moment: Lake Tahoe, CA
Lake Tahoe, December 2011.
End of snowboarding day. Not enough snow, too many people, but there is always that lake.
For more Sweet Spot Travels: Go Here!
Dec26
Today’s Best Moment: Santa Cruz, CA
Sunset in Santa Cruz, California – Surfers grabbing the last waves of the day. December, 2011.
Mid run to the water entrance, a surfer stopped to catch a moment of the sunset. We caught it with him.
For more Sweet Spot Travels: Go Here!
Dec23
Merry Christmas
I hope you find your Sweet Spot this Holiday Season.
Dec20
When All Else Fails…Cry
What is worse than baby screaming lungs out on airplane? Being the parent of baby screaming lungs out on airplane. Wait, no, it wasn’t me. I mean, aside from the possible ramifications of confiscating ipods that could produce hysteria to rival any 6 month old, my kids at 10 and 12 after much experience, have grown into seasoned travelers.
No, on my recent trip, the unlucky parents of 6 month old travel baby happened to be sitting across the aisle from me. Clearly, the parents were newbies to the joys of Airplane Travel with Baby. How do I know this? Well, when baby began to holler like a horror movie scream queen not long into the 3 1/2 hour flight, the look of terror in the parents eyes told all. They began to all but dumpster dive into their “appropriately” sized bag for items of distraction: teething toy, bottle, cuddlys, electronics, Mom boob (ok, well, that was not in the bag) – all to no avail.
And as their desperation rose, I began to feel anxious for them. I wanted to share with them some of my experiences. Comfort them so they would know it was fairly unlikely the flight attendant was on her way to escort them to seats on the wing, designated for disturbers of the peace. To assure them they were not alone.
For example, the first time I flew with my, then 4 month old, son, and he screamed all the way to the coast, body stretched in ridged stress, like stick man shrieking out his dying breath. I was sure I was headed to that seat in the wing (at least I hoped anyway).
Or, the time my, then 18 month old, son decided everyone sitting behind us (which was basically the entire plane) was fascinating and proceeded to over and over again force his way off my lap into the coveted standing position in order to socialize over the seat. Which honestly, I could have handled had it not been for the unsympathetic flight attendant who continually demanded I restrain him to sit on my lap (right!). Finally in exasperation I suggested that if she had any constructive ideas as to how to accomplish this, I was very open to suggestions. She had none to offer, but I swear I saw a flash of something involving ropes, a gag, and horse sized sleeping pill flash across her face. We did not get our Chocolate Chip cookies that time.
And then there was the time when, due to overbooking, we were all seated individually – scattered throughout the plane. After gallant efforts by desk attendant, we were finally told we would have to board, sit in scattered seats, and see what could be done. There we were, on the plane, standing ambiguously in the aisle when it suddenly dawned on my, then 5 year old, son the grim possibilities of having to sit next to a stranger (AKA: one who must be an undesirable ‘cause I don’t know you and might smell funny). No sooner was this realization reached did big fat tears began to roll down his face accompanied by soft puppy like whimpers. In an instant, the plane was filled with Jack-in-the-Boxes on crack as people popped up in order to give us seats together and rescue traumatized child. Thus, the birth of travel motto: When all else fails, Cry.
I wanted to warn them against attempting to change a diaper in the plane bathroom; to tell them to never allow accidental upgrade to first class when travelling with a lap baby; to advise them to always bring an “inappropriately” sized bag for that unexpected 7 hour delay; to always know where the barf bag is; and to inform them that when their child begins to read, explain that “cocktail” on the plane menu is NOT Shrimp Cocktail to be ordered from Flight Attendant during beverage service.
I wanted them to know that not every flight attendant will treat you like Rosemary and her baby, and some will even be kind.
But, in the end, at the flight’s conclusion, I just gave them thumbs up, told them they did a good job and promised it would get better.
Judging by the not-as-defeated smile the Mom gave me, and the I-needed-to-hear-that look the Dad imparted (don’t you know he was contemplating their possible 17 ½ year ban from flying), I am thinking…It was enough.
For more Sweet Spot Travels: Go Here!
Looking for the Sweet Spot 