The Minivan Monologues

Powerless

2011-06-02T00:15:00.000-04:00

I gave too much away.
Someone knows it all and I can't hide. The codes, the keys that keep me are not for me or mine alone. They are in....I am out...never sure of where I stand.

Is it fair or smart or real? Do I regret this loss of "voice"...and rue the days adrift, floating through the house in bliss?

I gave too much away.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Au Revoir Ma Grande Ta-Tas!

2011-05-17T00:41:00.004-04:00

As I was watching the controversial “Born This Way” episode of Glee on-demand, I kept thinking about the one or two things about my own physical appearance that I would want to change....my less than bodacious ta-tas. Yes, I admit it, I have a big boob obsession....mainly because, well, mine are so not. It’s been 6 months since I had the baby, and well, things have definitely flattened out and gone south. At breakfast this morning, as I sat, braless in my pjs, sipping coffee, my 7 year-old son was looking at me funny and pointed to my chest, “Ah, mommy are you going to do something about those……ah floppies?”

And I thought, “Oh no he didn’t! Oh no he didn’t just diss the twins! Wow, maybe he ISN’t gay.” But floppy is as floppy does and before anything would flap about in a breeze, I went up stairs to put on proper foundation garments. As I came back into the kitchen, decidedly not blowin' in the wind, my thoughts wandered back to a conversation I had had on the subject with my husband, just before the baby was born. And come to think of it, it really wasn’t much of a conversation, but just me announcing my intentions amid the glow of big pregnancy boobs and, he, more or less ignoring it.

We had been sitting on the couch durning football preseason. He was deeply engrossed in the HBO football series, "Hard Knocks," yet all I could think about were "hard knockers." Mine, in particular. The one true perk of pregnancy, is, let's face it ladies, bigger boobs. It's the one sexy thing we got...as if in some cosmic equation, they were a perverse consolation prize for the hemroids, heartburn, nausea, fatigue, extra weight and kankles...whoever complains about bigger breasts. (Except if you have DD hooters already, and if ya’ do….you’re not getting my sympathy anyway.)
The only downside I was experiencing was that my décolletage was becoming a collection bin for cookie crumbs, goldfish, loose earrings, dust, bugs, and the occasional spilt beverage. Thus, I have been taking great care to buff and moisturize my burgeoning cleavage. Late at night, while all in the house were asleep, I would slip out of bed to fluff and powder them until they gleamed with a high powered shine.

"I think when all is said and done with this baby, I want to get a boob job."

"Hmm, yeah...." he was well into the Jets' Revis negotiations.

"I said BOOB JOB."

"What? For who?" He was perturbed that his attention was diverted from the business side of football and driven straight to my breasts.

"For me....I dunno, after the baby....maybe." I couldn't gauge his reaction. It wasn't no, it wasn't yes...he seemed to think about it, but his furrowed brow returned to the TV, much like the time I had declared that I wanted to learn to play the harp, the time I felt I really needed to learn how to cook authentic Indian curry, or the times I wanted to learn to SCUBA dive, swim on a National Master's team, and hone my conversational French with a native-born tutor. None of which have come to fruition.

The real reason for my fascination with my “lady lumps” was that I knew that the effect was fleeting.. I knew the minute the baby came, they'd pop, and “poof’” I'd be back in the land of shriveled plums and padded push-up bras. I thought my request was reasonable, I wasn't going for anything over 3rd letter of the alphabet....Heidi Montag took all the appeal out of the letter "G" when she tweeted about having to massage her implants to keep them soft. I don't need bowling balls, just a little bit of bounce. Not looking for the added flotation enhancement or anything that I'd need to sling over my shoulder and tie back with a pashmina the next time I'd go for a run. Just a slight augmentation. A whisper, just enough to show the whole world my girls can still sit up and beg like the best of ‘em.

For the most part, my feeling of enhanced self confidence was fueling these silly boob job fantasies. I felt, in my on head at least, that I looked better and garnered more looks from men, more than ever before. This skewed logic completely ignored the fact that people really could have been looking, in confused disgust and/or pity, at the 3 unruly children hanging off me or my gargantuan belly as it would jump out from underneath my shrinking maternity shirts every time I hoisted myself in and out of the car.
Yet, my “a-ha” moment came at a soccer tournament on Long Island. It was the end of the day and we were packing up for the trek home. In the distance, I caught something slowly making its way up the side of the field. There was lots of movement as the game had ended. I was bending over, not to gracefully at the waist, folding up tailgate chairs, blankets and picking up random bits of trash. As I was doing this, I notice the object had stopped and a long shadow was cast over my collection of chairs and coolers...Still bent I looked up to squarely meet the gaze of a mid-forties man in a motorized wheel chair.....who had been very obviously trying to look down my shirt. I immediatlely shot back upright, preggo belly in full salute and trying to make sure I was covered in all the right places. The man feigned some type of mechanical failure and inadvertently sent his chair into reverse.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. It's never a hottie, celeb look-alike that you catch trying to seek a peek.....its always some pervy creepy “Danny DaVito” with no teeth, a jersey shore tan and a serious physical imparement. Or some odd ball in the grocery store, who makes a mind-numbing comment like, “Wow! You look like you’re going to have a good time with those!” as you are trying to fly through the express line with infant diapers, a bag of apples and garlic bread. It’s those moments when I realize, you really do, like Heidi Montag, need to be careful what you wish for. Bigger is not always better, and I guess I'll just have to learn to be more creative with what I do with ‘em and invest in a wardrobe of killer push-up bras. Yet before I play taps and carelessly fling the huge pregnancy brassieres into the fire....the one's that now look like Jared the Subway guy's huge pants... when I hold them up and for wistfully moment of silence and wonder how hell did those underwired cups ever get filled out..

Happy Mother's Day to "The Worstest Bestest Mom Ever!"

2011-05-03T21:43:00.000-04:00

"You're the meanest, worstest mom, EVER!” my 7 year old son announced. “You don’t ever listen to me. You don’t ever care about me.” He screamed and stomped up the steps to his room. Over the slam of the door, I vaguely heard him shouting something about how I was ruining his life. I stared up the darkened staircase, sheepishly sighed and thought, “And the award for most dramatic response to the question, ‘Did you do your homework?’ goes to….”

By now, the baby was crying, as the noise and commotion had woken him from a very brief nap. On to the needs of the next one…because just a squeaky wheel gets the grease, the child who screams “MOMMMEEE,” the loudest and shrillest, inevitably gets the pleasure of my undivided attention and/or disciplinary wrath.

Motherhood is definitely not for the fragile of ego. With four children in my house, ages 12 years to 6 months, the pendulum of emotions swings in an instant from “I love you! I love you! I love you!” to “You don’t understand me! I hate you!” or in the case of my tween, in an eye roll.

I fully realize that just as the storm clouds gather and erupt, they quickly dissipate. And as I feed the baby, my 7 year old will quietly come back down, apologetic, with hugs and kisses. Once an evil ogre, I am again the White Queen of his small world. (Though, when straightening up his room a day or two later, I will undoubtedly find an angry crumpled note, in which he vents “Mom is mean. This is a story of my Meanie, Meanie Mom!)

As Mother’s Day approaches, I haven’t, to date, ruined the lives of my 12, 10 or 7 year olds. I know this because Sunday will bring a small stack of handmade cards, each stating that I am “The World’s Greatest Mom,” or “I love you Mommy, because” or “U R Awesome Mom,” and possibly a random shaped pasta necklace or coupon to ‘help fold 1 load of laundry.” Small consolations for 364 days of misbehavior and mayhem, but I’ll take it. Along with the burnt bagel, my daughter will say she toasted, but did not, and the afternoon of quiet that ensues after my husband loudly wrangles all four kids into the car under the auspice of “OR ELSE!” I will sit back, reread the “Meanie Mom” story and laugh…..then call my own mother and apologize.

Immaturity Trumps Midlife Crisis

2011-02-08T22:21:00.176-05:00

When I went to bed last night, I knew the morning wasn't going to be pretty. Before I had finally fallen asleep, my husband had said, "Okay, so if I'm working from home tomorrow, you need to figure out when you are going to go workout." Aggh, I groaned. The alarm went off at 6 a.m., but what woke me was the poke from my husband. "Just drop the kids at school and go right to the gym," he said as he pushed the covers onto the floor.

Fast forward two hours. It's 8 a.m.and I'm sitting in the parking lot of the local Y. I'm angry, really angry...royally pissed off. Pissed at my husband for pushing me out the door to workout. Pissed that I didn't go to bed earlier and as a result am so damn tired. Pissed that I am completely unorganized and had an argument with my pre-teen daughter regarding socks vs. no socks with Uggs because she couldn't find any clean socks to wear. Pissed that my workout clothes are too tight and pissed that I can't afford new ones. That I couldn't set a schedule and stick to it. Pissed that I had let my self go, that I let my weight run unchecked, launching my pantsize into the double-digit stratosphere. Pissed that 99% of women depicted in the media are glossy and flawless and perfect.

I can't be perfect. And I'm pretty damn pissed about that, too.

Yet, everyday I buy into the "perfection trap." I get up and fool myself into thinking that the aphorism "Today is a new day, I will try my best," will somehow work. I turn a blind eye to the thought that "trying my best," is really code for "Bitch..Be perfect." There is no alternative. Cee Lo Green could be the soundtrack of my life:

As I sit in a far corner of the parking lot, covered in flakes of butter croissant and nursing a luke warm latte, it is hard to keep my eyes open. My eyelids are heavy and I long to go to sleep. My mind wanders back to my anger and I vow that I will just go through the motions. Sit here and pass the time, while I let him think he got his way...got me out of the house and into the gym. But the more I thought about it, the stupider my plan seemed. I was the brat, the immature one....having my very own little inner temper tantrum. Throwing excuses around my head with reckless abandon. Looking for every reason why this moment supremely sucked and why it was not my fault. .

As others went about their routine, I sat and sulked. This was something that I envied - something my profound lack of discipline prevented my success....at anything. I was displacing the anger I had at myself and projecting it onto my husband. On the cusp of midlife, I was silently acting more like a spoiled toddler than mother of four. My discontent was with myself....but why? What was I afraid of? Why do I keep holding myself back? Will I ever know the answers to both questions?

I hope so....
But until I figure it out - the best I can do is multi-task: brush the crumbs off my fleece as I move the car closer to the entrance, and hop on a treadmill for 30 minutes with a smart phone to walk and blog....

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Days like this...

2010-12-15T00:30:00.000-05:00

So Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johansen are divorcing after 2 years of marriage....I mean come on....Really? I admit, my first thought was "whatever..." but then I thought about it and just got mad! Two years of marriage and now divorce! Really?

Two years of marriage, in terms of a lifetime together, is metaphorically, a rain drop in the ocean. Ryan and Scarlett, you bailed without even trying to figure the whole marriage thing out...It's the equivolent of standing on the customer service line at Walmart for 45 minutes for a return, then deciding to say "Fuck It!" and leave just as you make it to the cashier.

Marriage is hard. Relationships are hard. It all needs constant work and attention and revising. But that's life. Isn't that what most of us signed on for? Aren't we in it for the long haul? Believe me, after 13 years of marriage, I know, the whole experience ain't for wimps!

No one tells you about how you will fall in and out of love with a spouse, then passionately back in again. No one tells you there'll be times when you feel your pulling all the weight, or that you'll be so overwhelmed you want to pull the covers over your head and give up.

No one tells you that for every great day together, there
will be two that will bring adversity and challenge. No one tells you how to deal with in-laws or jealously or illness.

Or that you need to hold tight to the history you share as a couple, because those memories will keep you sane, keep you grounded, keep you in each others arms.

Almost anything you purchase comes with insructions....an owner's manual. Why isn't there one for marriage? Somewhere along the way we've all bought into this Hollywoodized version that neatly ties up relationships with a witty "meet cute" and a white pickett ending.

In reality, there is nothing neat about it. Spousal relationships are raw and visceral...like make-up sex. The answers lie hidden in the stolen moments, when you lie in bed together intertwined....just hold on and breathe.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

It's Not Always What You See

2010-08-19T23:08:00.001-04:00

You don't know the all of me,
you only know what you can see. Sometimes, I am sweet, sincere, devout. Then other times I'm just inside-out.

Gruff and frustrated, simmering, too. Not sure to tell you off or give in to an angry screw.

The world is big and wide and full of doubt. You only see the me you want - heartfelt, subservient, with little thought...

It's not that I want to run away, just have you see the all of me, that elusive enigma that even I don't always see. And maybe one day, we'll all agree.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Not Tonight Honey, I'm On A Diet....

2010-08-12T14:58:00.003-04:00

A recent poll published in USA Today cites that "for some women, weight control is more important than sex." I had to read that sentence twice. Honestly, I did....because I'm dying to ask those ladies, "Are ya' doin' it wrong?"

There are many things that I would give up if the Ab Genie granted my wish for a rock hard core, or if a plastic surgeon took me on as a charity case.....like lying about my age, cheating at Monopoly, rolling through stop signs, making my kids do silly dances for me before I will feed them, removing from my head the word "ruh-tard" when I see a mentally handicapped person, looting and pillaging my neighbor's collection of mail-order catalogs, hoarding and eating the kids Halloween and Easter candy.....but sex (for many different reasons).....would be no where on the list (despite my current knocked up condition).

Don't get me wrong, for as much as I love my husband, his penchant to grab my breasts in greeting, "just because he can" can actually be a turn off (side note: I mean, seriously, what is up with guys and boobs? We were walking in Fisherman's Wharf in SF a month ago and a fat old guy walks past us wearing a T-shirt that said "I love boobies"....what up with that?!?). So when I get really fed up, he whines that I can be a one woman sex excuse generating machine:

It's too hot.
It's too cold.
I have to poop....and it can't wait.
Odd days of the week are such a turn off.
Ugh, you didn't change the channel & I'm so NOT watching Leno, good night.
I just moisturized.
I think one of the kids just puked, better go check.
Poking me on facebook does not constitute foreplay.
I'm just 146 pages away from finishing up "Pride & Prejudice" for the 18th time.
You really shouldn't have had all those onions with dinner.
Oops, I forgot to put the laundry in the dryer.
I'm too worried about the economy and why Bill O'Reilly keeps picking on poor Jennifer Aniston?
Ooh, "Castle" is on and you know how much I love that Nathan Fillion....
This is a really hard Sudoku puzzle...I just want to finish it
John Mayer has been tweeting like crazy today....I can't wait to see what he says next!

And the list goes on.....I'm sure you all have other good ones to add to the list (please feel free to share!)....

According to eHow, "30 minutes of intercourse will burn 195 calories." Isn't that a much better way to burn off that late afternoon grande mocha? So why take one option off the list that would actually help keep those rockin' abs a rockin'. Granted, it's no Zumba class, but it actually can be fun, when you get out of your head and let it. Besides,there's a reason the book is called "Skinny Bitch," there are more health benefits related to sex than starving yourself, such as better body image, feeling sexier, stress relief, ....did I mention STRESS RELIEF?

I bring up stress relief, because we are becoming an increasingly angrier and angrier nation. Workplace shootings; pissed off flight attendants; Kelsey Grammar (who, btw, recently dumped the wife who convinced him she had something called "irritable bowel syndrome"...and made him go on TV and talk about it...damn, why couldn't I pull that one off!); all those greasy, sweaty, hairless, leather-like gorilla Jersey Shore guys "creepin'" all over the place; the incompetent New York State legislature; and more and more Kardashians coming out of the woodwork each day....we are awash in a perfect storm of a listless economy, general overall resentment, tawdry voyeurism through 24-hour gossip sites (LUV U PEREZ!) and global warming.....so I must ask, is anybody out there (other than me) having any sex?

The Steven Slater Effect

2010-08-11T02:27:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, at a local diner, I recieved the shock of my life. As the middle aged waitress (not to be confused with the Bitchy Waiter, btw) brought out our food, I lightly touched her arm and asked, "Could you bring us a new bottle of ketchup?" The 6 yr. old, Crazy Man, was already eyeing the, for all intesive purposes, "empty" bottle on the table very dubiously. I thought I would ask, in an effort to head off the volley of questions that would spew from Crazy Man's mouth.

She turned on me with angry glazed-over eyes and announced, "Do I look like ya' mutha? Do I look like I have the time to go all the way back to the kitchen, then come all the way back here with a new bottle of ketchup, FOR YOU? Look, look around.....does it look like I'm not busy today?"

I did look around, and was embarrassed to see the majority of the restaurant staring at me. "No...it's okay, don't worry about it," I mumbled. But she had already turned hard on here heels, loudly saying, "But here I go, getting you another mutha-fuckin' ketchup, like I'm the f-ing Heinz 57- St. Paulie girl...."

"Quick, before she comes back.....grab the bottle from the table over there....AND HIDE IT." I told my 9 yr. old, fearing that if she saw, we'd be pelted with small packages of orange marmalade or even worse, the germ-laced mints at the register. Then it hit me, in one angry, curse-laden mouthful, I had been Steven Slater-ed.

Like the pissed-off JetBlue flight attendant, who according to Jimmy Fallon, "grabbed two beers and jumped." I believe I was the victim of a walk by, table side "Slater-ing" - one, in what I fear might be a rash of copy cat acts from employees in the service industry, most of whom are fed up with the general douche-yness of their customers and the lull of modern life.

Now granted the flight was coming in from Pittsburgh....need I say more, but I feel that Steven Slater could've behaved in a more professional manner. Let's face it Steve, if you can't handle the luggage, then get off the plane.....which you did, after you smartly threw down your very large carry-on bag, which I'm told looked like it would NOT fit in any of the overhead bins.

Let's not canonize the guy for re-gurgitating the "take this job and shove it" mantra and turning it into a glittering broadway revue.....soon to star Hugh Jackman as a down-on-his-luck singing, dancing,disgruntled sequin-clad air steward. Because we all know that the fanny-ing about with the drink cart has its perks, including making thinly veiled passes at married men, trying to secretly seduce them by coyly slipping them an extra Dr. Pepper, or two.

And while air travel has become increasingly no frills - no pillows, blankets, food or leg room - the flight attendants are there to set a friendly tone and to gently remind passengers that we're all in this together, so let's make the best of it. Having recently flown from coast to coast in my "fragile" state, it was not only an uncomfortable experience, but an extremely eye-opening one.....NO ONE....I repeat NO ONE helped the very visibly pregnant woman hoist her bag into the overhead bin, then once again, hoist it back down at the end of the flight. Of the 4 flights, (I connected each way), NOT ONE of my smelly, agitated fellow passengers, or any of the "friendly" flight attendants so much as lifted a finger to help, or ask if any assistance was needed. I realize that pregnancy is not a handicap, and women were long ago giving birth on the job in rice paddies and farm fields, but I thought modern manners would have garnered me a little help, and not comments like, "Oh my, you have to pee AGAIN, dear?"

I could have put any number of people in my pregnancy-fueled hormonal-cross hairs, but I didn't. Propriety brought me back to my seat to do numerous sharp reps of kegel exercises. As I counted and clentched, my anger subsided, though, sadly, the urge to pee did not. Now with every new news item about Steve Slater (or the now inevitable View appearance), working class hero, or t-shirt with Steve Slater in the likeness of Che Guevara, or Facebook tribute page, I just want to scream! Because if he had only "Queen-ed" up, done his own version of a kegel exercise and turned the other cheek, he could've been trolling for a sugar daddy on the next flight to Boca....like tomorrow!

Knocked-Up.....AGAIN!

2010-08-02T01:51:00.002-04:00

I stared in disbelief at the three pee-soaked sticks on the bathroom vanity....two thin lines, then just a plus sign, then finally, the nail-in-the-cradle....a new-fangled digital LCD display that arrogantly flashed "YES!" ....As in "Yes, you stupid bitch, the rabbit died...YOU ARE PREGNANT!"

I fumbled for the test instructions, reading and then re-reading again in Spanish...then French....hoping some shred of information regarding false positives was lost in translation. But I quickly realized, that "You're fucked," pretty much means "You're fucked," in any language.

And on many levels I was....or had been...very vigorously (but not memorably) sometime around the beginning of February. Now it was April and I was pregnant. But before the reality crept in, before I told anyone, before I let my mind begin to ponder what color would we have to repaint the guest room....I began to oddly rationalize my way out of this situation, because hadn't my husband once famously announced "We have three....you're not having anymore, at least with ME anyway."

Afterall, maybe the pregnancy tests that I had purchased at the local CVS were wrong. Maybe all of the pregnancy tests in the state of Connecticut were wrong. Or maybe, I shouldn't have purchased that one with the lines at the Dollar Store. Or maybe I have some syndrome in which your body only THINKS its pregnant. Or maybe this is just the final episode of LOST.

It wasn't any of those and I started to mentally live out my own variation of the movie "Knocked Up"....but my husband is much cuter than Seth Rogan (though probably just as hairy), and we ARE married...doesn't that count for something....AND.....no one in the house had a raging case of pink eye.

We should have known that somewhere between my husband's horniness, an astonishing disregard for any kind of birth control, my fertile Irish peasant genes, and my cast-iron uterus (which has known to go by the moniker "Ole Reliable") we were playing with fire. And so we sat dumbfounded in the Obstetrician's office when he confirmed what I already knew and then flatly stated, "I thought you said at your last visit, you were done?" I didn't know what to say, because honestly, a year ago, I thought I was. It was my husband who spoke first, visibly peeved by the comment, "Yeah, well, that's what Brett Favre kept saying, but he still signed with the Vikings."

As we walked out of the office, I had a sinking feeling that I'd hear that comment alot. That the question of "I thought you said you were done?" would be dogging me until November. And really, how DO you respond to that? "Well....it sure beats a 9 to 5." Or, "It was either a baby or a dog....and we know my husband's not allergic to babies."

Slowly, I began to test the waters with my news....by telling total and complete strangers. People that I knew had no connection with any friends or family members. Random people that I knew, a Russian Reflexologist, an Asian yoga teacher, my Israeli therapist, the mentally handicapped bagger at the grocery store....all who had no idea who my husband was and had very thick accents....So there was little chance of any of them running in to him with a chorus of congratulations and VERY little chance of him understanding them if he did. Thus mitigating the "What the hell, why did YOU tell HER" arguments from my husband.

But as June rolled around, and maternity jeans loomed in my near future, we anxiously waited for the Amnio results before we told our kids about sibling number 4. But when we did, one night at dinner at a local diner, after the 6 yr. old's short stack of choclate chip pancakes arrived, their reactions were not what I had expected. Crazy Man, the 6 yr. old, was at first excited, then turned very serious and asked, "So, where is it going to sleep?" My third grader, who up until this moment was the quintessential middle child, was very worried, and looked at my husband and said, "You're kidding. This is a joke, right?" But the 11 yr. old rejoiced to hear the baby was going to be a boy, and her Queen Bee status would remain intact. "Well, I feel bad for those two. You know, I'll get a lot of attention, because I'm a girl and the oldest....and the baby will get a lot of attention because he's the youngest....you guys are on your own." she said and pointed to her two brothers.....because yet again, in her middle school mind, good news, no matter whose it was, was always, in some way, about her.

To make matters worse, reactions didn't get any better when started to tell family members, each dumbfounded in their own way, all seemed to offer up different versions of "You've got to be joking!" or "Better you than me." However, the most unusual comment came from a neighbor who remarked, "Well, it's good to know that someone on the street is still having sex." I'm still trying to figure out if that last one was a backhanded compliment or just plain creepy.

Now it is August and only a few more months to go and we have finally reconciled ourselves to refer to "The Situation" as a pleasant surprise, and not a covert military op (i.e., shock and awe). But, I fear the little playful jabs will linger...at a BBQ this past weekend, a friend remarked, upon hearing of our recent trip to the West Coast, "Well, at least when the two of you are alone together between now and November, you can't possibly make #5."

Oh silly friend, where there's a will, there's a way.....and if not, there's always the fear of osmosis.

The Game of Life

2010-07-29T01:52:00.001-04:00

Viva la vida.

If only life truly was like the board game. And all that you needed came in one bright, shrink-wrapped box. One little pamphlet of instructions was all you needed, in English and Spanish, to start you on your way. One spin and the decision is made and your path decided...all by the caprice of a mini multicolored roulette wheel. There are no heavy sighs, no pros and cons to weigh....just an eagerness to get on with the game. There are no arguments in your little plastic car about money, the children, sex, who didn't take out the garbage and who left the toilet seat up. Even during the mandatory marriage stop it doesn't matter if the front seats are occupied by pink-blue; pink-pink; blue-pink; blue-blue....come on, is anyone REALLY going to stop the game to protest the coupling of same sex plastic pegs???

And while the stakes are high, someone always wins and someone always loses, they are not serious. There is always the promise of next time when the game is put away and taken out again, days, weeks, months or even years later. Perhaps what I've been craving is that intangible ability to hit the reset button and play anew with a different and exciting outcome....the way you can only do in a game or at a sporting event. Each time a team takes the field, be it soccer, basketball, football, etc., there is that wonderful unknown promise of a possible victory...of possibly pitching a perfect game, or running for a record number of yards. And while much may be chalked up to luck - being in the right place at the right time - this luck, this fate, it is also ours to make....or break.

And while eternal optimists will drum up slogans to make you feel good about life's incongruities and the mistakes you've made along the way, such as.....

"Life is a cabaret." - Liza Minnelli as Sally Bowles

"Life is like a box of chocolates." - Forrest Gump

"Life is what you make it." - Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus
"Life is one long menstrual cramp." - Snooki from "MTV The Jersey Shore"

The paradigms are all pretty much bullshit. Life is good. Life is crap. But in the end, it pretty much is what it is....real life, not a game, full of emotions and tough decisions with countless wonderful moments in between.

And so while I wobble in and out of the blog-o-sphere, I thank you for your continued support and well-wishes, because life of late has thrown me for an unexpected loop and a brand-spankin' new infant seat will be in the minivan come November! (Yes, baby #4!) But more on that to come.....C'est la vie!

Adversity

2010-04-19T11:21:00.001-04:00

Everyday, we make choices. Some are agonized over, some are as simple as what should i have for breakfast or do i want butter or cream cheese on my bagel....and with all of the seemingly irrelevant decisions, how often do we really think about their universal impact on who we, as a person, ultimately are.

Yet, today, I have to make a decision that will have profound impact on every part of my life....on every part of my soul.

I am faced with 2 roads to walk down. One decision will bring my entire family along with me. It will not be easy, there will be bumps and hills and challenges for everyone at different points along the way. Each will be effected both positively and negatively at various times in there life because of this choice. Because of my choice. But, we will all be in it together.

The second choice will only truly and adversely effect me. It will be my cross to bear and it will be a dark and infinitely windy road. The decision will be made and locked away in some far away corner of my mind. It will be my memory and mine alone. Life will go on for those around me because they never knew...and I will never tell. I know for everyone this might be the right choice. Why disrupt life for so many on the whim of just one. Is that really fair?

And through all of this, my heart and my head rally for two different choices. What I want, everyone says is impossible or ridiculous or selfish. What I want should not be an option for consideration.

I look at my family and my heart aches. In the end, they will not know what I faced and how I agonized and cried...I will change and they will not and it is so. It is not fair, either way. It just is. It is life. And life is full of adversity.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

I am.

2010-04-07T09:38:00.001-04:00

Am I a Super Woman? I am.

I have been knocked down, chewed and spit out. My cape may not be as brilliant as it once was. There are tears, imperfections....but they make me wise.

They make me smile. They remind me to laugh, to be, and to sometimes just be still.

I have so many facets, yet not enough time to let them all shine. A diamond, solid and tough. Brilliant and elusive.

I am every woman and you are me.

Fat Grrrl, Thin Grrrl

2010-03-07T22:48:00.000-05:00

Some one once told me, with a very straight face, that inside every fat girl, there is a thin girl dying to be let out...what a load of crap! Or in my case, abdominal fat. Once again, I've found myself at the heavy end of the gain-lose-gain-lose-gain roller coaster that dominated my twenties and early thirties. But as I inch toward 40, it is time to get off.

These days I find myself trying to mentally peel away the layers of stress, inadequacy, failure, fear, loneliness and unfulfillment that have encircled my thighs, arms, chin, neck and torso in a cage of fat. There is no thin girl underneath it all, just me. Looking deep this time, beyond appearances, beyond feelings, beyond excuses and rationalizations to solve the riddle that is me: fat girl, thin girl, girl caught in the middle.... Yet, all three are one and the same.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Inner Peace is Hard Work

2010-01-21T10:51:00.000-05:00

I am not perfect. I am not always silly, funny, snarky. I am not always organized, thoughtful, together. There are some days in which I feel that all that I am and all that I offer is the sum of what I am not.

As the first weeks of the new year unfold, I resolve to be at peace with who I am. To be at peace with what I am not. To be at peace with my mistakes. To be at peace with forgiveness. To be be at peace so that I can let it all go.

Below is my poem, my mantra, my mission statement. When you read it, know that however you are, however you feel, however life finds you at this moment, it is okay.

Taming The Demons Within

Tonight I want to howl at the moon

with wild, visceral abandon.
To cast off cobwebs and shadows and demons of the past.

I want to throw my head back and let out a throaty, reckless moan.
From deep in my chest, from the curve of my spine, to the kink in my neck
I need to let go.

Of anger and guilt and shame and regret.
Of numbing emotions that caused me to forget
What it is like to live, to thrive, to be.

I need to release the memories, the excuses, the fear
That have woven themselves into my mind, my being,
The very essence of my soul.

I have let this happen. I have indulged those thoughts.
I have rewritten and crossed out and amended myself according to the interpretation of strangers.
And over time I believed this was my story, my sacred text, my I Ching of me.

Tonight I want to howl at the moon, to reclaim myself. To cancel, erase and delete the untruths.
To cast off the worries, the bandaged battle scars, the mantle of discontent that I has hung over my shoulders and neck and temples in an illusion of watery, dripping jewels.

And now I, and only I
In one long guttural burst can let it all go, can shatter the past, release the future, and recreate the mold of myself
Only I can blossom and boom and start anew
With passion, and zest and strength.
In one long guttural burst I can embrace my strength and chart my direction and my find my true self.

And when the dawn has broke and the day has begun,
When old familiar thoughts start to creep back in, and ooze about the cracks in my resolve like hot, sticky paving tar.
I will howl to myself, in my heart, with a clear conscience and true vision of how I want to life my life.
To make bold colorful choices and harbor no regrets.

I will howl and howl and howl. Until the negative is no more.
Until I use my internal compass to find my way again. Until the only voice I hear is my own.

Neil Diamond + Chanukah Song = GROOVY

2009-12-10T14:02:00.004-05:00

So over Thankgiving, as we were driving up to my in-laws, the song "Forever in Blue Jeans" by Neil Diamond comes up on our iPod. I've always liked that song, and I start humming along. About 1 minute into it, my husband proceeds to tell me, "you know, this song is all about Neil Diamond wanting to have hot animal sex with his woman....listen to the lyrics". I was totally appalled.....that literal bastard had done this to me before with "Shipping Up to Boston" being about a pirate's lost wooden leg, and with George Michael's "Freedom 90" about him struggling to come out of the closet. Sure enough, he managed to do it again....I can never listen to that song without thinking about leopard print rug, a young Neil Diamond (whose modern equivalent, btw, is the one and only John Mayer) and some coked up '70s skank getting it on in a California chalet.

So on the heels of that....I found out today that old Neil just posted a cover of Adam Sandler's "The Chanukah Song" on his website, with a South Park like animated video. Given that Friday is the first day of Chanukah, I thought I would pass it along to you as my gift. I don't believe there is any hidden meaning to the lyrics of this one, but I am sure my asshole husband will figure out a way to ruin it for me somehow. In the mean time, enjoy!

UPDATE: There is now a YouTube version for those of you on your phones! Click here!

WTF! It's The Most Gaaawwd Awful Gift Guide

2009-12-10T01:54:00.073-05:00

For the Wife whose husband has "DONE" everything & everyone:

Okay, okay, that was a fake book. I was being silly and milking the Tiger Woods story as much as everyone else is. But the following are actual products I found at Ocean State Job Lot in RI that you can buy a loved one this Christmas....

The perfect bedtime read-aloud series for the Parent who wants to "Scare the Shit Out of Your Kids":

Book 1: "Don't ask why Mommy is frantically flushing the toilet"

Books 2 & 3: "Oh, Look! It's A Kitty...Sweet Dreams!" & "No honey, I don't think the book will be staring at you while you sleep "

Book 4: An instant classic, as is the sequel "Rivers of Blood"

For that annoying Religious Zealot in your life (or elderly family member):

"BYO H2O" Bring Your Own Holy Water Bottle (be sure to pour some out for your homeys) & "Show Jesus the Money" Coin Purse...'cause he'll holla' for a dolla'!

For the person who just needs one reason to protest:

Move over (RED), 'cuz you're about to be overtaken by elves (and not the Keebler kind or the ones you can toss)!

Nightmare on Tiger Street

2009-11-29T22:40:00.025-05:00

As I read more about the Tiger Woods saga, it has become abundently clear that he is stonewalling the situation.

My stoic grandmother always said, "nothing good ever happens after 2:00 a.m." And while we may never find out what happened outside Tiger's house in the wee hours of November 27, there is plenty of web speculation to chew on.

Another of granny's favorite sayings was, "Shit happens. If you don't look down, you'll step in it."

Tiger, in many ways, really stepped in it. And his wife is pretty damn angry.

I know this because after 12 years of marriage and various domestic disagreements, a spouse does not swing a golf club in the early a.m. without just cause. Hell, my temper has flared over much stupider things and once impulsively kicked a hole in my bedroom wall with a clog....but that's another story for another day....

So, in the tongue and cheek vein of my "Sesame Street Layoffs" post and an "open letter from Barbara Walter's Vagina, The Cha-Cha Chow-enge," here's my view of what really happened:

All was quiet in the sprawling Florida home. The children, safely under the nanny's care, had long been bathed and put to bed miles away in the estate's southeast wing. The lights were dim. She sat alone at the sleek modern dining table. The places were still set with Hermes china - a gift from Oprah - featuring a tiger design and starched linen napkins featuring an embroidered entwined double E. "Elin and Eldrick....it really meant something...once," she sighed. Bacarat crystal golblets glinted in the mix of candle and moonlight that flooded into the room from the bare baywindow. Yet, even in the shadows she seethed. Perhaps it was the rumors of an affair or maybe just the effects of the Pinot Noir-fueled "American Psycho," "Saw III," and "Fatal Attraction" filmfest she insisted upon earlier in the evening. The regal profile and mantle of platinum hair was offset by the cold, hard stare in her eyes. The time on her Tag Heurer watch read 2:00 a.m.

"Where the fuck was he?" she thought. "Rvvhel!" (swedish for asshole) she muttered under her breathe as she fixed her eyes on the long, gated drive, looking for the tell-tale headlights of his Cadiallac Escalade. The Buick Enclave was already parked at the start of the front walk along the circular drive. It was packed and ready for an errant getaway. "I have had enough," she thought. "He will not make a rvvhel out of me!"

She could no longer sit, and strode down the long hallway to the garage. "Everything is set," she thought. The pristine, damask couches in the study had been stripped of their pillows and covered in layers of course canvas tarp, mylar and industrial plastic. "That is where he will see me," she told herself as she opened the door into the garage and scanned the wall for power tools. "Rvvhel knuller!" she breathed (asshole fucker) as she walked toward the DeWalt chainsaw. There, standing stoic and mocking underneath the horror movie weapon of choice, was his prized set of Nike Titanium golf clubs. These were no practice set, or reserves. Encased in a glowing halo of stainless steel, these clubs were the PGA equivalent to the holy grail. This was the set that had won countless titles and championships. The set that helped construct the large and looming ego that he could do no wrong.

Without a thought, she grabbed the driver with the largest, widest, sharpest head and resumed her perch in the dining room. Then, the gates opened. He killed the headlights and eased up the driveway. It was too much, and she snapped.

"Where the hell where you?" she screamed as she leapt out the front door, brandishing the driver high over her head. "Were you with HER! Were you with that jdvlar fitta hora ab ab ab?" she screamed (fucking c-word whore).

"Whoa! Whoa! Eels, baby. I was with the guys." he explained and opened the car door.

"On Thanksgiving? You shit, you should be with your family! Where were you? Where did you go? WHO WERE you with?"

"Jesus Christ, you Nordic bitch, I was with Shaq and Mike....we were watching the game. What the hell? I just lost track of time...and besides you said it was a silly American holiday...."

"YOU JUST lost track of time. You have a mother fucking Rolex watch for every day of the year and you LOST track of time?" She swung at him hard. Nearly missing his Nike Golf hat. She hit the hood of the car. "Your stupid fuckin' cheating friends." she cried and hit the grill. "Why can't you just hang out with that nice Bill Nye the science guy we met at the block party last year." She swung wildly, hitting him squarely on the shoulder.

"Ouch! That's the money arm you crazy motherfucking Dane. You better settle yourself down, you live in Tiger's Den, under Tiger's rule."

"Aggghhh....I'm SWEDISH, you ass!" She hit the windshield.

"Damn." he said and jumped back in the car, turning on the ignition and shifting to reverse. He hit the gas and didn't even look. Bam. Right into the Buick Enclave. Reverse again as she hit a quarter panel. Bam. "Shit." he thought as he backed through the gate and hit the fire hydrant across the street. She was foaming at the mouth, running after him.

He quickly tried to Twitter, "Wife is crazy, mad, hot, mess. Damn I'm turned on. Tiger Out." But before he hit send, she sent the driver crashing through the back window hitting him in the head. Trying to dodge the club, he veered and hit a tree.

As he was slumped over, she dropped the clubs and cried, "Oh Eldrick! Eldrick! Are you hurt? Can you hear me? I'm so sorry! Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"Fuck," he thought to himself, "crazy wife, broken golf clubs, two wrecked cars....Steel, I mean Shaq, where the hell are you man, hook a brother up...Fuck TMZ, the make-up sex on this one alone is gonna kill me...."

Harvest Blessings

2009-11-26T00:25:00.005-05:00

Early on Thanksgiving mourn,
autumn's final blush fulfills
the legacy of settlers past.

Sparse are leaves upon the trees,
all lie abundant in the dewy grass.
Damp and cold and icy still
a lonely tern wavers across the muted umber sky.

Breathe deep the golden moment
let it seep down to your bones,

let it rush about in glorious waves,
revel in this state of grace.

God and country,
Family, friends and memories that are held most dear
Sing from the heart and broadly smile
for your blessings are infinite, mysterious

like morning stars faint upon dawn's breaking light.

The harvest table brims with love.
Look around to see,

share a legacy alit so bright.

With awe and wonder hold it close, never fade or forget each gift

with the passing day, the season's change. Let it endure.

For peace, prosperity and tranquility will prevail when each and every day becomes Thanksgiving again anew.

It's a Mad, Mad Maverick's World!

2009-11-18T23:35:00.008-05:00

The Minivan Monologues is proud to present exclusive excerpts from Sarah Palin's much anticipated autobiography, "Going Commando." (Oops, my bad, "Going Rogue")

Chapter One: Humble Beginnings

"Come and listen to a story about a man named Jed. A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed. Then one day he was shootin' at some food and up through the ground came a bubblin' crude. Oil that is. Black Gold. Alaskan Tea. "

Chapter Two: Growing Alaskan Roots

"Well, the first thing you know it ol' Jed's a millionaire. Kinfolk said, 'Jed move away from there.' Said, 'Californy is the place you ought to be.' So, they loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly."

Chapter Three: The Veep Vetting Process

Hmmm...me thinks this story sounds vaguely familiar???

Where have you gone, Jethro Clampett,....I mean, Levi Johnston? Special interest groups and aerial bow hunters turn their lonely eyes to you....woo woo woo. Ellie Mae? Tripp? Trig? Track? Tuna Fish? Tonto? Tattoo? ....Are you there?....I think they all saw Hurricane Sarah comin', threw their shit in Fred Sanford's truck and "moved on up" to Green Acres. Amen!

The End.

Which Came First...the Mummy or the McMuffin?

2009-11-18T17:19:00.013-05:00

Maybe it was my thoughts about holiday goodies creeping into my head, or perhaps it was the pending shortage of Eggo Waffles, but I found this interesting: USA Today reports that CT scans of mummies show that heart disease predates fast food by over 3,500 years. However, some local archeologists announced the surprising new finding of two previously unknown, unseen and unresearched hieroglyphics (pictured above) from the tomb of the ancient prince Grimacenkamen, outside of Cairo...thus cancelling out the "heart disease without fast food theory...."

The contradictory discoveries have left many doctors, scientists and historians to scratch their collective heads and ponder the age old question: which came first the Mummy or the McMuffin?

No word if this may lead to answers to the obvious follow up question regarding the possible links between the Shamrock Shake and St. Patrick.

Some Gifts Never Stop Giving...

2009-11-16T12:10:00.007-05:00

Roses are nice....
But....

A vagina is forever!

Ode to Saturday Morning, 6 a.m.

2009-11-14T10:00:00.001-05:00

Rain, rain go away...
don't want the kids inside all day!
Screaming, hitting, "it's no fair!"
Third time this morning had to stop 5 year-old from pulling oldest's hair.
Hubby is nestled up snug in bed, trying hard to ignore the chaos insuing as I get the kids fed.
Sitting with my coffee irked and annoyed, I have hit my limit...
"Everyone out of the house this instant!"
Out into the garage to make your clatter and when I've calmed down I'll explain what was the matter.
All I crave is 5 minutes peace - a time when the shouting, whining and cries of "Mommmeeeee" will cease.
Being a mom is 24/7 with nary a shot going straight to heaven.
The weekend has come and I feel I've earned a bit of a rest....
So, everyone, please shut the fuck up and stop being a pest!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

If I Gave A Tweet...

2009-11-11T22:23:00.016-05:00

Twitter confounds me. It's right up there with the fine line of the facebook status update - either mundane and boring or extremely witty and funny. There never really seems to be a middle ground...and for the most part, I thought that "tweets" were silly, narcissistic cyber shout-outs - the online equivalent of a blog's poor WT trailer livin' cousin.

Then I read an article on TechCrunch regarding a Twitter account called "Shitmydadsays." The posts made me laugh so hard, I nearly peed my pants. With a lot of inspiration and an econo box of Depends, I composed the following "bon mots" as if I really gave a tweet - therefore, if I twittered this is what I'd say:

I hate it when people stop me to say, "Wow! You look really great today." Then, I have to respond, "Thanks, I finally took a shower."

Happy Birthday! I heard you're turning 40, but want to hear the best part...I'm not!

Met a friend for coffee. First thing I said was, "I got dressed today...what the fuck happened to you?"

If men can come up with remedies for conditions like Erectile Dysfunction, why the hell can't they fix "Man Boobs?"

Am dropping the kids off at the pool...no shit...literally - I AM AT THE POOL...with the kids.

Now that I've had three kids, I really should've rethought the location of that "Hamburgler" tattoo...

WTF!!! WR R HR SPX? (Where are her spanx?)

Too much green. Too much pink. Too matchy-matchy is what I think.

Just fucked my husband...will he just get the hell off of me already!

Why does Eli Manning always look like he was beaten with an ugly stick?

Just farted in Starbucks and blamed it on the 5 year-old.

Not all soccer moms are angry and vulgar...just me.

And the list could go on....because this is kinda fun...and because I have so much stuff pent up in my head....and because you know you want to....you can now follow me on twitter here.

All Roads Lead to a Good Moisterizer...

2009-11-09T13:50:00.018-05:00

Much to my husband's chagrin, I am nothing if not predictable. For example, when there are two roads diverged at a major intersection...I will inevitablely travel the path to the closest retail shopping establishment.

So...as I sat at the stop light this morning, I had a major decision to make: Turn right in the direction of the car dealership to once and for all take care of the burnt out tail and brake lights on my car......or turn left into the town center to pick-up my much needed deep hydrating boutique moisterizer.

As the light changed, there was no hesitation. Despite my husband's almost hourly chorus of nagging emails, tweets, voicemails, texts and instant messages regarding the car - my actions were intuitive. I made a beeline for the "chi-chi," "fru-fru" cosmetics store. The sentiment, "A good moisterizer is better than any vitamin," echoed through my head. It sounded like some glorious and sage advice that had once rolled off the tongues of Diana Vreeland, Coco Chanel, Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, or at the very least, RuPaul. Yet, it was simply copy for a new skincare product advertised in a recent SELF magazine.

"Moisterizer!" "Vitamin!" "Brakelight!" The words riccocheted through my thoughts like ping pong balls. As I eased my car into a prime parking spot in front of Pottery Barn, I knew that what I was about to do was no small feat. To pull off the equivalent of a cosmetics "quickie," I had to be a woman on a mission - get in, get the goods and get out....without any upsell and purchase of additional products and services.

As I strode confidently across the street, just steps from the open shop door, the bark ring tone on my iPhone rang out. Shit! My husband! Damnit! I stood holding the barking phone as other shoppers gawked and stepped out of my way. "I will DEAL with the car, LATER!" I think I angrily said ou tloud and let the call slink into voicemail. But there would be no message, because, like clockwork, in five minutes, the phone would bark again.

It was now or never. I had a strict timetable to keep surrounding bus schedules and soccer practice. Circling back with kids in tow, was really not the best case scenario. The last time I drug the five-year-old, aka The Crazy Man, along on my quest for the perfect skinny jeans, he discovered eight new GapBody fragrances and to spite me, sprayed them all on his hair - at once. We both left the store smelling like potent combinations of Designer Imposters cologne, Deep Woods Off, rose hips and wet dog. On rainy days, when the lingering smell can be detected in the car, I am reminded of his hijinx and how it touched off everyone's allergies.

When all was said and done, I was able to pull off an impressive trifecta: got the moisterizer, got the car fixed AND got everyone to their practices reasonably on-time. But later, I knew I would have to patiently listen to my husband's monotonous "man-trum" (man tantrum) over car maintenance and why he didn't appreciate my cavialier attitude about brakelight safety. I knew that while, he wouldn't understand it, the explanation was elementary...While you can't go too far on the road less traveled without brakelights, you do, however, have a much better chance of talking yourself out of a fine, ticket or warning with glowing, dewy, well-moisterized skin.

In a Bloggin' State of Mind

2009-11-03T15:31:00.016-05:00

Last June, I jinxed myself. As I sat at the kitchen table on a lazy Sunday morning, sipping coffee and blocking out the sounds of arguing children, I read a New York Times article about the inordinate number of blogs that go fallow...abandoned forever in cyberspace with a tell-tale dateline/time of death and cingular, often arcane final headline such as, "I'm a playa, I'm a playa," "Looooooook at ma thingy," "Photos of the world's largest cookie cutter collection," and "Won't post again until we all get free weed."

I sat bolt upright, slapped the paper down on the table and announced, to no one in particular (as my husband is VERY good at blocking me out), and said, "This will SOOO not happen to me!"

Then the writer's block hit.

In reality, blogging is hard work. It is hard to be consistently witty and relevant and at the same time self-depricating while you wear your inner most thoughts on your sleeve. Yet, what is even harder, however, is learning to live with what you've put out there for all to read, reference, comment on, and email to friends.

I have, more or less, reconciled myself with the fact that I have willingly given a multitude of eyes and ears a peek into my life and bedroom. Therefore, the full scope of my online musings/actions never really registered with me.

Until....I ran into a friend and former colleague of my husband at the grocery store. There I was, at the deli counter, scolding my 5 year-old for sitting on the kaiser rolls - (Why do they keep them so low? Do the supermarket powers-that-be not realize that small children will want to stack them like legos to use as a step ladder?) - He came up to me with a big hug and kiss.....

"Hey," I said, "How are you?" and continued with the usual pleasantries about work and his wife. When the conversation had run its course, he just gave me a wink and a sly smile and said, "Oh you...how's it going...haven't checked your....(slight pause)...monologues...in awhile."

The full gravity and reality of what I was putting out there hit me in that instant. For a split second I couldn't move, paralyzed like a deer in headlights. It must have flashed across my face before I could recover, because he then gamely gave me a playful, "knowing" punch on the arm and said, "Ahhh...that hubby of yours....give him my best." Then he was gone.

As I turned back to order my salty meats, I felt both oddly violated and flirted with at the same time. Never, in all of my months of silly stories and vivid description, had I ever once stopped to think about how someone's view of me could be altered - for better or worse - regarding the stories I chose to share. And never had I given a moments thought to the typical male perspective on it all.

In my mind, my audience has always been smart, savvy modern women. Those with or without children, who wear many hats - mother, daughter, wife, friend, lover, teacher, sister, aunt, neighbor - and were fraught with many of the same issues prevalent in my life. I was never really trying to be provactive, just timely and topical and above all else funny. The only guy, I thought, that really read my posts was my husband....if he laughed, not a little tee hee, but a full, throaty, showing all his teeth, clapping his hands laugh - then I knew it was good - be it obnoxious, ridiculous, voyeristic or over the top.

But then, I am one to naively stand at the early morning school bus stop in my flannel pajamas amid a group of husbands waiting with their children then scurrying off to work and think no one notices.....or is offended, annoyed or even oddly turned-on.

Whether in a conversation or a blog post, I've always sacraficed social convention for a punchline. To me, funny is sexy. (Come on, would Paulie Shore have gotten any ass in his lifetime if he wasn't funny?....okay maybe funny is sexy doesn't apply to the Weasel...) And when the timing is right I will go in for a laugh, like a skilled boxer who has perfected her upper left hook. Most don't expect that it is coming and the mousey, four-eyed girl always walks away with the biggest laughs.

But then after my panic at the deli counter, I stopped. I stopped writing. I stopped sharing. I closed down. My opinions felt irrelevent and tired. Plus, I was a bit scared of the monsterous, over-sexed online corner I had become to believe I had painted myself into. Was that wave and smile from the neighbor that I knew read my blog really mean, "Hi! How are you?" Or was it really, "Oh yeah, she's a horny mother fuckin' freak!"

Then school started and we stopped eating lunch meat. The quick uptick in the family schedule left me cranky and tired and without time to myself. Without time to think, to write and to be circumspect about it all and my thoughts were relegated to the daily ebb and flow of email responses. And as I religiously checked my inbox, I began to get increasingly annoyed by the sheer speed in which some people could crank out responses. And not just a phoned in WTF LOL half email/half tweet, but the long circuituous way that they got to their point. I was so jealous of their use of words and quick chirpy verse.

What pushed me off the ledge, however, was a series of novellas written and sent by a soccer coach. His emails were like long idle walks down a country road, meandering yet quaint and full of Norman Rockwellian antecodes. He prattled on about the joy of autum and mulling spices, crisp leaf peeping and soccer playing weather, the unabridged history of the soccer ball (Who knew they were once oblong rocks?), seminole moments in Pele's athletic career (Where would Brazilian soccer be if he hadn't flunked out of law school?), and the unconfirmed story that Posh has been secretly drugging Becks with low doses of Viagra.

I was dumbfounded. As I hit delete, I may have even thrown up in my mouth. This person had written more in one email, than I had blogged about in months.....hmmm....dare I start looking into guest bloggers? Nah......because, just as Jay-Z raps that "I'll be hood forever," the allure of an online persona will always lead me back and compell me to share my voice and hopefully a laugh about life, love, sex and the insanity of it all.