Grapefruit Epiphany

It's taken all of my 31 years, but I've finally figured out how to eat a grapefruit. I used to approach the task with civility. Cutting the fruit in half, then running a knife around the edges of each triangular section to "loosen" the fruit from the skin & rind. Followed by spooning out the fruit in neat wedges. It always seemed like an inordinate amount of work, and time consuming at that. It wasn't until recently that I figured out I was going about the consumption all wrong. The methodology previously described had to have been introduced in a culture where servants prepared and served the food. No one in their right mind would think, oh, why don't I complicate my breakfast routine to such an extent that it takes me 15 minutes to prepare it, just so I can eat it with a spoon. As I'm no aristocrat with a team of people waiting on me, I decided to take a more primitive-caveman approach. So what if I'm standing at the counter, leaning over the cutting board, slicing the grapefruit into wedge slices, fanning out the wedge, and then biting out the fleshy fruit, while juice runs down my chin. It shaved 10 minutes off from breakfast, and I'm eating citrus verses popping granola bars like they were M&M's.

Y+Top 40=Soccer Mom

It's official, I'm a "Soccer Mom". Last Thursday sealed the deal. After bringing Zayne to the Y to sign up for Spring soccer we were driving home. As I was surfing through some radio stations to avoid the NPR fund drive, Zayne piped up from the back, "Mom go back to the 'tonight, yeah baby' song!" You know you are a Mom, when you turn the dial back to "The Edge of Glory" by Lady Gaga. I turned it up so that he could belt out the chorus. I smiled widely as I watched my singer bob his head to the beat in the rear-view mirror. It wasn't until evening that I remembered why I avoid Top 40. Besides the obvious grating to my rock-n-roll soul. The repetitive-can't-get-it-out-of-our-heads cacophony of "There ain't no reason you and me should be alone tonight...." for the remainder of the afternoon, from both Zayne and myself, clinched it. Yet of course next time I hear "Mom, turn it back to...", I'll enthusiastically comply. What's a "Soccer Mom" without a Top 40 soundtrack?!

Pink Sheets

I did it. Hot Pink Sheets. Sexy, Pervy, Girly--the connotations are endless. Johnathan will be horrified...but hey, I'm the only girl in the house. So I think I'll win this one!

People Magazine Meets POLITICO

I've always wondered about that Angelina Jolie, bad-ass or bat-shit crazy? Today as I caught a quick glance of a tabloid in line at the grocery store... (While fielding questions about Hershey's Chocolate Bars from the 5 year old, and the peremptory huffing warning of "I'm tired and want a nap. You people better not cart me anywhere other than my crib, because I've already been to the doctor & the pharmacy, and I will lose it" from the 1 year old.) As I read "I love being pregnant"-Angelina Jolie, printed over-top her smoldering demure smile...I leaned in the direction of bat-shit crazy. Who loves being pregnant?!? Oh yeah, a bad ass.

And while I'm on the topic of tabloids, let me just say, People magazine intrigues and perturbs me. Historically the talented and physically-advantaged-elite have always been a source of admiration and curiosity. I feel that in order to indulge in celebrity gossip as a guilty pleasure, there are a few rules of requirement. The rules are structured to position yourself from an objective & 3rd party perspective, in order to enjoy the full spectrum of salacious scandals.

Number one: You must acknowledge that these creatures exist in a reality so far removed from the common person. Examination into their drama laden lives as a source of entertainment and distraction from the hum-drum monotony of the endangered middle class. Never as a measurement of attainability. (You don't want to be that 15 year old starlet that moved to Hollywood to become the next Reese Witherspoon to find themselves a homeless/prostitute.) Number two: Never compare yourself to them. Celebrities have a team of people working for them. Personal trainers, chefs, housekeepers, nannies, Feng Shui specialists, lawyers, designers, accountants, make-up artists, pool boys, etc. Number three: Acknowledge that the rich & famous are elevated to these pedestals by the media. Because it is lucrative. Financially advantageous. It's all about selling stuff. Look at it from that angle, and then knock yourself out with the mind numbing prattle. Jennifer Aniston pregnancy rumors, yes please...

Although, the Washington end of the celebrity circuit usually gets more of my attention than the Hollywood version. Politicians, Lobbyists, etc. Same scenario as the actors/rock-stars/artists, the spectrum vacillates between actual talent and fame-seekers that have either physical or social prowess, and/or deep pockets. Somehow they all get muddled up together. The "scandals" sound surprisingly similar. The main difference is the measure of power that politicians hold over our lives, communities, and country. Perhaps that is why I speculate the motivations of those that aspire to positions in politics. I have a difficult enough time keeping my little world in a functional revolution. I can't fathom the desire to take on the problems of an entire nation for $400,000 a year. Especially when Will Ferrell made $350,000 during one season of SNL.

Dont' get me wrong, I'm glad there are people that are willing to advocate on behalf of the masses. I'm just not convinced that the individuals the masses would select even have a fair shot at public exposure in this all-mighty-dollar-media-frenzied-anti-bipartisan reality. Yet regardless, I believe the potentials deserve our close scrutiny, especially when it comes to their diplomacy, job efficiency, and simply how they get things done. I have to say as far as bad ass and bat-shit crazy goes on the political circuit? (Namely Congress, the slew of GOP nominee contenders, and any number of Lobbyists pushing self-serving agendas?) For the majority? I'm afraid I'm leaning towards bat-shit crazy.

Friday the 13th

I knew that Friday was going to be a busy day. Anytime I take both boys out on my own to more than one public place, you know it's going to be a scene. Zayne is home from pre-k on Fridays and so that usually means an outing. I had promised the boys a trip to the Fort Worth Science Museum, and we had just received word earlier that week that our house in Utah (which has been the bane of our financial existence the last 3 years) was finally closing on Friday the 13th. I took it as a good omen in reverse.

So after a weeks worth of signing & scanning, signing & faxing, signing & notarizing, signing & mailing. I was given the final clearance to go to the bank on Friday morning and wire the money we were paying to sell the house. So first stop the bank, second stop the science museum. We made it out of the house, and walking into the bank by 9:30, which I thought was quite admirable on what is usually our one 'lazy pajama morning'. Pender on my hip, diaper bag slung over the other shoulder. It's a good thing my Zayne takes care of me and lugged the big bank door open with all of his 5 year old might, then held it open for me.

The bank was a quiet unassuming place as we walked in. We immediately changed that. We were invited into a cubicle and were helped by two friendly women. (Yes two. I told you we are a scene--But thankfully a cute adorable one!) About 10 minutes into juggling Pender on my lap, he exhausted the offerings of paper, crayons, dum-dum suckers from one of the Tellers. I looked around and as Zayne is sitting on his seat, concentrating coloring with hushed narrations of intermittent fighting sounds, I look down at Pender and I, and the floor has been littered with paper, crayons, toys, and receipts that he kept grabbing from my wallet. There is a dum-dum sucker sticking on my pants. It was as if I had just tried to wrestle the Tasmanian Devil from escaping the cubicle. Yet, we left the bankers in smiles.

The drive took 45 minutes. Zayne and I talked the whole time. Pender fell asleep. I was surprised to see that the annual Stock Show had started, closing down most of the roads surrounding the museum. But once we were inside, we disapeared into the world of exploration. We spent 15 minutes looking at the constructed model of Fort Necessity in the George Washington exhibit. Zayne was transfixed by the battle, the blood, the arrows, the Indians. We practiced Zayne's letters at the Quill & Ink station, set to represent what the signers of the Declaration of Independence used, and played for awhile on the huge lite-brite. All of the sudden I realized it had been awhile since I had checked my phone for messages. I scrambled to the stroller hoping John hadn't needed us. 19 missed calls. 4 Texts. And 2 scathing voice mails. Crap.
So I called him, and was met with a "Where are you in the museum!? I need your signature and it needs to be there in 20 minutes. I am outside where should I meet you, all of the roads are closed for the Stock Show!" I told him to park across the street in a residential neighborhood an we would head outside and cross the street. Apparently my problem solving skills were in full swing as I navigated us directly into a near-death experience.

I was pushing Pender in a stroller, and Zayne was at my side. Instead of walking the block and a half up to the nearest cross walk, I explained that we would be crossing the street, and when it was clear we would run for it. "Okay, run!" We took off. Halfway across, I saw a car turn onto the road approaching us. We could clear it, but would have to hurry. So I commanded "Run fast Zayne." His feet bounded up the curb just as I fell. I heaved the stroller up the curb towards Zayne, and I fell flat in the road on the asphalt. The car. Surprisingly my survival instincts surged into play instantaneously. I bounded up onto the sidewalk, just as I heard the screech of brakes. I turned and saw the vehicle come to a stop. I quickly checked my kids, while turning to rolled down window and emphatically apologize for scaring the hell out of the poor woman. She looked relieved and rattled as she drove off. It was then I checked myself. The asphalt had shredded my trousers, and my left knee was scratched and bleeding from the pavement. My right ankle twisted and strained. I looked down at my ripped blood stained pants and thought, "Thankfully these are the only casualty--But did they have to be the trousers I got on Newbury Street, in Boston, in my early twenties, that I finally got back into!?" Crap.

Just then I see Johnathan pulling up to the curb ahead of us. He leaps out, pen & paper waving, and running towards us. I meet him with a "Sorry. Don't say anything, I'm not fine. I just fell in the road, and narrowly escaped being hit." To his credit, he just said "Are you okay?" as he looked at my leg. Then I said, "Where's the paper? Lets get this nightmare over."

He walked us back across the street. Imagine me, being a little skittish at attempting that feat alone again. We waved good bye to Johnathan and re-grouped back into the museum. Blocking out the propensity to dwell on the ominous implications of that "near-death-experience". We were happily diverted with dinosaurs, followed by running into one of Zayne's friends from pre-k. They played for the remainder of the hour, and then it was time to go. Two-o-clock and the carrot sticks and apples had worn off, so after settling us all into the car I sat down in my seat with the phone to check how far the newish In & Out Burger in Fort Worth was from us. 4 minutes. Hallelujah. First stop back from the brink.

Lest I forget that I'm toting the kids on my own, and adding a potentially wild third stop. At the counter I'm juggling Pender on my hip, trying to get out my wallet, ordering, and keeping an eye on Zayne. Once again our scene elicited compassionate generosity of the youner-than-me cute Hispanic gal taking our order. "I'll help you carry your tray to your table. I have a 3 year old. I know how it is. You are brave to take two out on your own." Brave. Crazy. In need of some comfort food. Take your pick.

After the juicy-salty-tangy goodness we were piling back in the car, relieved to be home bound. When Johnathan calls and asks me to drive to his work to sign "one last document", I acquiesce in unsurprised annoyance. Not at him, just at the culminating drama that has existed in the arduous process of undertaking the route of a short sale from the beginning. I wouldn't have expected the end to be any smoother sailing. And it wasn't. But at the end of the day, 11pm to be exact, we received the email from the Realtor that it was complete. Final relief. And a celebratory sigh that I hadn't allowed myself to appreciate until it had gone through.

"Over the river & through the woods to Grandma's house we go." If only it were that easy...

I'll preface this post with the scene of my long time childhood friend sitting across from me one morning at the Orem Juice N Java during my week in Utah. As I related the "adventure" (Johnathan's words not mine) of our road-trip from Texas to spend Christmas at my parents with all my siblings and my new nieces, she kept exclaiming apologetically "No, there's not more!" But there was.

As if packing up a family of four for a 20 hour road trip isn't enough of a project under normal circumstances--add to that stacks of wrapped gifts, bags and suitcases of gifts from Santa (reinforced & hidden), winter & ski clothing (keeping track of the tiniest boots & gloves imaginable for the 1 year old), and the four advent calendars we "couldn't" leave behind. One Star Wars Lego, two chocolate, and lets not forget the giant-blue-felt-sewn-Pottery Barn inspired-Christmas Tree monstrosity with the hand-sewn detailed pockets (which its completion consumed November 2009 & 2010.) But my hard work was not why Zayne insisted on its transport. It's my own fault really. Last year I started the tradition of leaving small prizes in the pocket each night for Zayne to find in the morning. In my defense, I was pregnant, nesting, and oblivious of the yearly commitment I had bound myself to. It's all I could do to keep up with it this year. I told him that it was me that filled the pockets most days, but sometimes the "Christmas Elf" beats me to it with a special prize (like the Captain America & Wolverine action figures that we could never find at the store.)

The promise of meeting my new niece, seeing all of my siblings, and bringing my boys to the magical play land of Grandma & Grandpa's at Christmas propelled me through the week and a half of preparation & packing. Monday December 20th we set out in the rented SUV, packed to the hilt at 3pm. The plan was to drive straight through the night and arrive in Utah sometime late afternoon on Tuesday. About 10:30pm we reached the Texas/New Mexico border and were alerted that the main highway had been closed due to a snow storm. I have to admit I had a sinking foreboding that toyed with the idea of just turning around. Our driver had already found us an alternate route on the trusty iPhone, and we were headed south in a sight distorting tunnel of billowing snow. We made it to Clovis (aka BFE) NM when we hit a roadblock. An oil tanker had spun off the road, resulting in a spill, thus closing our "alternate route". Sometime after midnight we checked into a thankfully clean but amenity-less Econo Lodge. The next morning about 9am we headed back on the road after hearing that the interstate was to be reopened. As we joined the rows of semi's and vehicles lined up for the impending opening, our children began to be restless after 10 minutes of stationary idling. There is a discrepancy between Johnathan and I on the conversation that transpired at this point. I say that I suggested we go turn around and have breakfast and map out our options. He says that I said "find us an alternate route." (Because that worked out so well for us the night before)--somehow logic dictates that as we are out in the middle of nowhere with ice and snow covering every surface I wouldn't just flippantly suggest taking County Farm roads into an uninhabited abyss of fields. Whatever I said, his interpretation was to drive us out into the back farm roads filled with snow with the "reassuring" declaration "It will be an adventure!"


We plowed through snow, circumvented deep tracks, drove up on the shoulder, got stuck for a few minutes to which he skillfully rocked us out, and continued onward. Although the road was not getting clearer, I restrained my passenger seat comments (I've been married 11 years know how backseat driving is received, and know that I have another day in the car with this man.) When I look ahead I see the large grooved tracks from a semi that had skidded off the road, and cruuuunnnncccchh. And Stop. Rev the engine. Rock the SUV, alternating between drive and reverse--and nothing. We are stuck. As I glance around, I see snow, sky, and the semi up the road. Nothing else, for miles. To my credit, I say nothing. Johnathan later described it as an "uncharacteristic silence".

So he starts trudging through the snow in his Chucks with no socks to the semi-truck up the road. I begin settling in with the kids for the long haul. 20 minutes later Johnathan returns cut & bleeding, & laboring under two 2X4's. The object is to rock the wheels onto the boards to gain traction. I'm ushered into the drivers seat while he pushes the car from the outside. Now I can't really say what transpired in those moments, except that it's clear that despite my upbringing in the Michigan winters, I never learned how to expertly "rock" the car out of a snowbank by alternating Drive and Reverse at the correct intervals. All the sudden I realize the exasperated commands have stopped and see Johnathan trudging his way back up the road. I look down, see his cell phone in the center console, and jump out and start yelling. The wind carries my voice away and he doesnt look back. I jump back inside and my morbid mind fast forwards to the worst case scenario. We've been left here to die. Surprisingly my survival instincts kicked in and I took a quick inventory of our fuel, food, milk, clothing, water, toys, games, snacks supply. Next I decided I should attempt to pin-point our GPS coordinates now instead of when I'm on the phone with 911 in a hypothermia induced daze. I don't know why I thought we'd still be on the grid. My google map returned as Unknown Location, and my Garmin was back home in my car. We could still place calls and so I got the boys lunch (clementines & string cheese), and dialed my mom (She's loves me, I knew I'd get sympathy there, and if we were MIA too long I could count on her to organize a search party for us.) My mother advised that I find out where we are with the google maps app and then call the state troopers... Yup, unknown location mom. I've gotta go salvage my phone battery and attend to the beckoning from the backseat. I held out hope for John, said a prayer, and forewent the call to the state troopers, on 78% phone battery left.



A couple hours later, as the boys and I are singing "10 Little Reindeer" led by Zayne, I caught a glimpse, of what appeared to be, an approaching vehicle in the distance. I asked Zayne to watch and see if it was getting closer, while I wrestled Pender through a diaper change in the front seat. I may or may not have thought, "I certainly hope that is Johnathan, or a good Samaritan, I'm really not in the mood to prostitute myself out of this situation." (Hey...remember I'm jaded, I've had a couple of girlfriends along the way who ran into some trouble out in The Middle of Nowhere, NM. Scary stuff.) I'm jolted from my over-the-top-but-realistic-paranoia by Zayne exclaiming that "Mom! It's a big green tractor!" Relief. I knew it was John. Sure enough, he was riding on a huge John Deere tractor that proceeded to pull us out of the snow. Grateful we thanked & payed the rancher for his help.....with cash.

Being stuck for hours in a car that is moving with children is challenging. Being stranded in a stationary vehicle with a 11 month old and a 5 year old? I had nearly exhausted my nursery rhyme song index and had just resorted to a goofy rendition of Party Rock Anthem. Another hour, and I might be massacring a Barbara Streisand classic. So it would make sense that instead ofcruising directly out of the County Road maze to the now clear entrance ramp to the freeway we may need a pit stop. Just to use the bathroom. Regroup. Or GET THE HELL OUT OF THE CAR!? Somehow we blew right by the last McDonald's play-world for hundreds of miles. (I wasn't driving.)

Once we finally stopped for lunch/dinner the rest of the day went fairly smoothly. The boys were troopers! We did a gas station, bedtime "routine", and they both drifted off. Until we were crossing the Utah border. Pender woke up screaming bloody murder, disoreinted and upset not to be in his bed. We pulled off in Monticello at a gas station and re-situated the entire seating chart so that I could switch places with the tub of toys in the backseat to sit by Pender. Zayne of course woke up in the process, also disoriented, and freezing from the cold Utah air. He too began uncharacteristically wailing. Even after getting re-seated, the doors shut, and heat pumping at full volume, both boys were still going strong as we pulled out of the gas station accelerating onto the entrance road to the highway. I heard the expletive in the front seat before I heard the siren. Sure enough, we were getting pulled over, right in front of a 40mph speed limit sign. The sobbing reverberating the interior of the car was deafening. Until the two cops were peering in the drivers and passenger side front windows. Complete silence. My eyes menaced at both of them. Really! Really!?! You both choose this moment in life, the one moment I need you to scream as loudly as possible, to not make a peep. Fabulous. Apparently we were clocked going 41 mph in the 30 mph zone although we had barely turned out of the parking lot and got pulled over in the 40 mph zone. He wrote it for the higher bracket. To which, Johnathan exclaimed, "Really! I have my kids, we were stuck in a snowstorm, we've been driving all day, and they were screaming the last half hour, you really can't give me a break!?" Bad cop, good cop. Bad cop won out. John grumbled at the cops as he rolled up the window, and as the cops walked away from the SUV, both children burst into tears again. I saw the neck muscles tense as he jerked his head to our direction and yelled "EVERYONE SHUT UP!" Immediately followed by a semi-shushed "Shut up is a bad word. Daddy said a bad word." I shot that child the "mommy death look", the one that would silence the inmates. We still had 5 hours left, and all I could think was the line Reese Witherspoon says as June Carter in the movie Walk the Line, "Get me outta this car & all these boys..."

We made it to my parents at 3am, the only way Pender would stay asleep the last 3 hours was if we kept listening to his Rock-a-bye Baby Journey CD (it's probably not a mistake that it was one of the items that was left at my moms.) But the details of the drive immediately began to mute with the exuberant reception from my parents.


Some of the highlights from our week with my fam include:

-Watching my father and brother play Just Dance 3 on the Wii.

-Zaynes interjection into the Christmas Eve dinner conversation with all of my siblings, aunt, and grandmother of "If you are looking for the perfect girl, my mom is not the perfect girl!"

-Wrapping presents in the basement with my siblings on Christmas Eve while we laughed and reminisced.

-Hanging out with my sister in my parents basement bathroom while she straight ironed her hair for a date, while relaying her experiences of being pressured into joing LDS Singles. com by our grandfather, and then the string of dates that ensued. One which included a divorcee who told her that on his wedding night he was "too big" for his wife. Compensating for much buddy!?

-Meeting my beautiful new niece Lucy, and watching my brother be a great father.

-Enjoying the bubbly adorableness of my niece Jade.

-My Mom's amazing holiday meals, that take a day or two of preparation.

-Painting a 5ftX6ft canvas for my sisters Christmas present "Beach Therapy" in my parents garage. My Dad helped me set up my station with tarps, and loaned me some residential painting supplies. My sister loaned me her paints (I brought my own brushes.) And My Mom watched my boys while I got to escape completely into the canvas.

-Taking my boys up American Fork canyon to go sledding, and watching Pender explore snow for the first time.

-Visiting with my Aunt Deb & Grandma Crawford one afternoon.

-Going up to the foothills of the mountain to go shooting with Johnathan, my Dad, and brothers. The shot gun was awesome!

-Lining up with my siblings and sister-in-laws on the stairway of my parents basement on Christmas Eve listening to my father outline the rules of the "Hide the Pickle Ornament Game". Listening to the resulting Q&A session that ensued until our exasperated ADD tendency siblings exclaimed "LET'S JUST START!" Then racing through the kitchen towards my Mom's Christmas Tree to search for The Pickle Ornament. The winner receiving a massage at Sego Lily Day Spa. We actually maintained much more order than I thought possible of our group. That is until I heard a cry of pain from under the Christmas Tree, and my husband emerging clutching his eye. Apparently he laid down under the tree to peer up through the branches and at the same time someone parted the branches from above, plunging a pointed crystal ornament right into his eye. His cornea visibly scratched and red, he declined the hospital, and went to bed. Delaying the ER visit until Christmas morning, as we were all gathered around the kids watching them explore their Santa gifts. My father didn't make me abandon my kids on Christmas morning, and stepped up to take him to the ER. They were thankfully back within the hour without further complications, with a pocketful of Percocet, which incidentally landed Johnathan in bed for the rest of the holiday. As bad as I felt about his injury & discomfort, I have to admit I was more than a little disappointed that he got stabbed in the eye with an ornament and we had to forgo Christmas sex.