Love is Patient. Love is Kind. Love STINKS.

"The rarest of all commodities in this world is love. It is that thing that we all yearn for at some level — to be simply loved unconditionally for nothing more than who we are — not what we can get, give or become."

Not sure I could have said it better. This insightful gem was swiped from a love letter from South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford to his Argentinian mistress. Why his most personal communications could be intercepted and then published for the world to see is beyond me. It’s a complete breach of personal space and an invasion of privacy. It wrong…it’s absolutely galling…and it’s irresistible. (http://www.thestate.com/sanford/story/839350.html)

It’s irresistible not because of some shadenfruede. I take no pleasure in reading about yet another public official who’s gotten nabbed cheating on his incredibly supportive wife. Join the club; it’s not exactly an exclusive group. The fact is, husbands cheat on their wives and wives cheat on their husbands. It’s the corollary to marriage. It’s logical to presume politicians and other “powerful” people cheat more often. Frankly, I don’t think it impacts the job they do any more than it impacts the job of a cheater with a lesser visible job. It certainly didn’t seem to screw up Bill Clinton’s work. Then again, getting a lynch mob together and putting these men (I’d say people, but come on) under the microscope, doesn’t exactly improve their productivity. As an interesting side note, I worked with a woman who did PR for George Bush Senior and she told me that everyone on staff knew he was having an affair (so did you the moment you laid eyes on Barbara, right?) My friend told me, it was the job of the President’s staff to help cover for him. A happy President makes for a happy country, nes pas?

The emails got me thinking about the incredible passion and love and chemistry that bubbles over when the cork of new love pops. This is the stuff that dreams are made of. I read the emails and thought, damn the torpedoes! This is true love! Everyone deserves this. Full steam ahead. But then, as I was chasing the happy ending and nauseatingly heard the Governor, in a press conference, quote Corinthians (Love is patient and kind blah blah blah), I had a cynical thought. Maybe it’s just infatuation. Even if Romeo Sanford were to marry his Latino Julietta, odds are in a matter of years he would be in the same place, only with a different leading lady. Familiar. Married. Numb. Or even worse. Contemptuous. Miserable. Cheating?

Maybe we just aren’t meant to be monogamous or maybe marriages are like milk and should come with an expiration date, so you can prepare for the spoilage. All I know is…I want some emails like the ones Maria’s been getting!

Is marriage like milk and doomed to spoil? (skim, low-fat or whole?)

Is marriage more like cheese? (moldy, stinky but getting better with age?)

One Psychedelic Medium (Hold the Fries)

The session started with a prayer of appreciation and good intention –asking spirits from the afterlife for their positive guidance. “Amen,” I said hoping my beloved Grandpa Joe was about to make an appearance. So, Cheryl, a “medium” who has been a practicing psychic for some 25 years, set about connecting me to my loved ones “on the other side” –my guardian angels and spirit guides.

“We are going to find you some clarity,” she said. A lofty goal if ever there was one. Clarity has been my holy grail for a couple of years now. I have craved clarity like an alcoholic craves Jack. In fact, I want it so badly that I ordered and pre-paid for a custom-made ring with the world “clarity” stamped on it. The artist pocketed my money and my clarity never came. I figured it was a sign that some things just can’t be bought. Yet, here I was again ever hopeful, shelling out $150 in hopes of grabbing hold of that elusive wench –Clarity.

“Clarity is coming,” said Cheryl. “And so is the ring. You’ll get it in 2 to 3 months. Don’t be surprised.” I sat back in my chair and wondered what other surprises Cheryl had in store for me.

The phone went quiet for a moment as Cheryl became in tune with my spirit guides. "Your mother’s mother is here,” Cheryl said. “She is telling me she has a special affection for your oldest son because he is the only one she met in the physical world, though she knows all your children.”

So, Grandma Ceil is watching over me, I thought. Nice idea. “She says not to worry about your oldest son this summer,” Cheryl went on. “Is he going away to camp for 2 or 3 weeks?” This was the first on-da-money surprise. Ethan is in fact going cross country for his first 2-week sleep away camp experience. “Your Grandma says not to worry about him. She knows it’s hard to let go but the experience will be good for him and he will come home with many wonderful stories.”

Alright, so the believer in me was hopeful but the cynic was dubious. “Are you separated honey?” she asked. I am. “I see your husband watching you from across town through a telescope. He’s watching but not in a stalker like way. Just from a distance.”

Ok, that was admittedly a little goose-bumpy. She went on to tell me loads of things about my estranged husband. Information about finances and his work life. About his personality. About changes. All ridiculously accurate.

I asked about close friends and I asked about family. In each instance Cheryl had something piercingly relevant to say. My best friend was a “drama queen” and my demanding daughter in prior lifetime when we were French royals –oui oui. My Cali-friend whose name ends in “a” was a trustworthy confidante. My youngest son is extremely empathic and may absorb others' negative energy and complain of random tummy aches. Another friend, who was my brother in a prior life, is destined for big things professionally and I am going to be a critical part of that. While, yet another is going to bring a ton of easy joy into my life as we navigate through similar rough waters. My parents will remain healthy, as will I, and my kids will adjust quickly to this new life as they see how much happier I am becoming.

I asked about my career and I told Cheryl I was an advertising consultant and writer. She chuckled. “You write little slice of life pieces that are funny like Erma Bombeck, don’t you?” she asked. “I do,” I said. “Well they make you laugh when you are writing them. They make other people laugh too but you really enjoy writing them,” she said. Uh-huh. That is very true. She went on to say how I could have several novels in me. Fantastigorical tales that would make Harry Potter residuals seem like chump change. If only. “You’ve been creatively stifled by all that’s happened in your life and that’s changing now,” she said. “Maybe you should think about writing a blog!”

Do you believe in angels and spirit guides?

Ever had a similar experience you can share?

I don’t want a dog. It’s put me over the edge.

Our heartbroke heroine was craving beer for the first time in years.
Hardly haughty, she looked out at the splendid mountains surrounding her
Relocated to a sunken valley of the dolls 3000 miles from home
She wondered yet again for the umpteenth time
“Why am I here?” and took a swig from the amber bottle.
It was recyclable. Like so many things out west.
Just waiting to be reinvented. Replaced.
The hearty hops danced across her palette as playfully as the words that had become her heart’s haven.
Teasing her. The lengthy lexicon tempted her. Inspired her.
Our bemused muse amused herself
realizing she was at the starting line again.
Twenty years prior she stood on a marble podium hand extended.
The University President was stoic in cap and gown.
Our impish graduate reached for the rolled parchment and the ceremonial shake.
Passing the true BMOC an icy cold and very unexpected brewski.
Their eyes met and time froze. As must have his hand.
He looked down and smiled smirkily.
Cracked it open and raised it to the crowd of some hundreds before taking a hearty gulp.
At that moment, our graduating wordsmith stood proudly alone.
The moment needed no words.
The beer tingled tangy across her tongue with the memory .
You may have no map, but you still have moxie, she told herself.
She took another swig and stared out the window.

Drive-In Dreams

He outstretched his arm, all clever-like, feigning a big ole stretch and repositioned it around her shoulder. She smiled and nudged closer into the crook of his arm as they watched the movie dance past their windshield.

Remember that little slice of Americana called the drive-in? Well it’s not dead yet.

It’s been at least 25 years since I went to a drive-in movie theater. I recall those trips were all about finding a safe place to “get busy” in the back seat of a very spacious white-leather interior/red-cherry exterior, Oldsmobile Delta 88.

Well the drive-in isn’t just for James Dean and Sandra Dee. Last night me and my puerile posse packed up an SUV full of blankets, pillows, whoopers and chips and headed to the drive-in movie theater just 15 minutes from my Cali-home. The line of cars waiting to get in was impressive. Apparently, the drive-in is still very much alive and kicking.

A little research taught me that drive-in popularity peaked in the late 1950s with there being a high of 4063 drive in theaters. Now there are only about 377 nationwide (18 of those in California.) This drive-in was not exactly as I remembered them. Rather than the one mammoth screen, this parking lot was now packed (like so many theaters) with six more modest screens arranged in a crescent shape. We paid a very reasonable $10 for the carload and pulled in by our assigned screen, setting our radio to the movie’s station. The films were projected from a round building in the back of the lot that also housed the concessions (a perfect name for all indulgences sugary and buttery that temporarily silence children.)

This was starting to feel familiar. I loaded the kids up on the roof rack (oh, on how many long car rides have I dreamed of doing that?) They mounted the pile Iwo Jima style, my eldest victoriously planting the bag of Tostitos in his lap and settled in for their first drive-in experience.

“This is so cool Mom, thanks for bringing us!” I heard from above.

There was no room for me on the roof. And so, I huddled in my chaste car catching wanton glimpses of the couple in the pick-up beside me. Thinking, “Damn, I miss those days of the Delta 88.”

See if there is a drive-in near you –visit www.drive-ins.com and search for your state.

What are your memories of the drive-in?

I'm Raising A Derelict

I’m raising a derelict. This evening I took my three sons out for dinner. This is no small feat. I’m the woman you look at from the balcony bar while sipping your brewski and think, “That poor woman, how does she do it?” Well apparently she does it not as well as she would like.

While the kids were finishing up their dinners, Ryan put the finishing touches on his menu art. He is fantastically imaginative and artistic. I’ll give him that. Apparently he’d had his fill of paper art and crouched under the table. I figured he was just messing about. I was wrong. My budding artist had taken a crayon and written under the table. There amongst the dried out gum wads was Ryan’s first piece of graffiti "art." Scribbled hastily in sienna crayola, in an 8-year old’s shakey lettering was the king of four letter words: “F U C K” .

While his older brother may have been momentarily impressed by this vandalistic (there's a new word) act of terrorism, I wasn’t. I had one thought. I’m raising a derelict. And then after a moment the mother’s mouth moves. “What in god’s name were you thinking? Do you realize you damaged someone else’s property and that is against the law? Your behavior is not only horribly wrong, it is also embarrassing and shameful. You should be ashamed Ryan Pifer. Would you like me to call the owner over so you can apologize?”

I went for a damp rag and Ryan spend the next 10 minutes under the table scrubbing and tearing up pleafully (another new word). “It’s not coming off Mooooom. What should I do?” He ended up scribbling over it. And then, as his eyes welled up with tears, he asked me “Could I go to juve for this?”

The punishment was swift and severe by Ryan-standards. Two weeks without Play Station. And Ryan has spent the last hour attempting to right his wrong with “I’m sorry's” galore. I explained to him that it’s nice to say “sorry.” but it does not undo what he did. Actually, now that I think about it, he doesn’t care so much about righting his wrong as he does negotiating away the consequences. And, I’m not caving on this one. Because, damn it, I am not raising a derelict.

Ever had an experience like this?
Think its a harbinger of worse things to come?

I Almost Lost My Lunch

Last week, I almost lost my lunch (and my shit) in a terrifying confluence of crazy circumstance because I "misplaced" one of the most precious things in my life --my four-year old son Eli. It was Open House at the elementary school and my middle son Ryan was very excited to show me his art projects. Together with his younger and older brother, the four of us walked the block and a half to school.

Little Eli was in the classroom with me. My eldest Ethan ran off to the tetherball courts. So, I did what mothers always do…I gave my two sons one eyeball each. And when Eli found a preschool buddy of his to occupy him, I was able to “Ooooo” and “Ahhhh” for Ryan with single-minded focus. Single-minded focus. Now, there is a novel concept for a mother of three. It is rare that I am able to focus completely on anything when the kids are around. Again, circumstance and adult onset ADD converge to create a world of challenge for me.

When the school bell rang, my sons and I proudly paraded out to the playground to watch the third graders do-see-doe. Again, the kids dispersed. Ryan off to find Ethan on the tetherball courts and Eli tagging confidently behind. He’s a third child and thirds are notoriously competent. That’s when my senses hit overload. I was trailing behind them, one eye on the goofy dancers, when I was intercepted by that rare creature that comes into my life on occasion –another adult. This one was a friend I’d not seen in some time and we had loads of catching up to do. She bought a house. She was headed back East for the Summer. Would we like to come swim in their pool? I looked past her and thought Eli looked fine with his brothers and so I enjoyed a few minutes of adult chat.

The time flew as it always does with adults. And then it was time to go. Most everyone had left the playground. So, I walked to the courts to grab the boys. They weren’t there. I saw them off in the distance on the grassy field and waved them in. Three had become two. Where was Eli? They didn’t know. They hadn’t seen him. I’ve been a mom long enough to know it’s never too late to assess blame (which clearly falls on me in this case.) Now was not the time. It was time to breathe, focus, stay calm, and simply find Eli.

We marshaled the troops. The boys searched the entire campus—checking the classrooms we had been in. The fields. The playgrounds. My friend’s kids checked all the bathrooms. The principal made an overhead announcement. Eli was no where. And as I saw all these people scattering across the school property, I felt my panic gathering in my chest. I’d had this feeling before. The building tightness. I’d lost Ryan a couple of times. He had a nasty habit of disappearing –once in a department store for a good 10 minutes (he decided it would be fun to try the escalator.) Once, as a toddler he unlocked the back door and left the house, managing to get the garage door open, locking himself in the car and then closing the garage door shut. That terrifying episode ended with a policeman in my driveway insisting I open the garage door just to be sure. And there was tear-stained Ryan, a set of headphones on to protect his ears from his screams for help.

So, this feeling of instantly mounting pressure was unfortunately familiar. I had a little dialogue with myself. “Stay calm. We will find him. This is a good neighborhood. No one would steal him. Freaking out will not help. Just a couple of more minutes and you will call the police.”

Just then I got an idea. “Run home and check if he’s there,” I dispatched Ethan and he took off for the 1-1/2 block walk to our house. Just as he leaped into action, we caught sight of Eli walking towards us, hand-in-hand with a neighbor of ours. She had spotted him sitting on our front stoop waiting for us.

Eli was cool as a cucumber. “I couldn’t find you,” he explained shrugging. “So I walked to my house.” I scooped him up in my arms. “I knocked on the door and I ringed the bell and no one was there. I was sitting on the stairs waiting for you and I was staying calm.” he said. “So was I Eli…I was trying really, really hard to stay calm.”

(After my heart stopped hammering, I explained to Eli that he should have stayed at the school and gone to the office or asked an adult for help.)

How my four year old managed to navigate his way home after only taking that walk one or two times with me, escapes me. He must have some GPS device linked to his Y-chromosome. I was so relieved to have him in my arms and completely exhausted by the experience. I’d like to say it was a huge wake-up call and it will never happen again…but after three kids, I know better and on the upside, I am too overwhelmed to beat myself up.

What’s the most precious thing you’ve lost? Did you find it again?

(and ffs, please don't say true love...I can't handle it this week.)

To Blog or Not to Blog

The problem with being a writer is that everyone else is one too. Writing is different than other subjects we learn in school. While I know 12*12 is 144, I don’t fancy myself a mathematician. Though I was able to calculate my odds for having a blue-eyed baby (remember the Punnett square?), I never thought of myself as a scientist. The same can not be said for writing.

Everyone who took Mrs.Assenheimer’s fourth grade English class, thinks he can write. Writing is more than proper grammar, spelling and punctuation. Writing is art. Writers are painters and their palette is words. I love words. Their meaning, sound, and rhythm. Nothing excites me like a writer who gives good word …ok, maybe a chef who gives good food. Put the two together and you’ve got Anthony Bourdain…my dream man. But I digress…

The holy blog has made the proliferation of “published writers” downright viral. There are many, many days I wonder if I am really a writer. Yeah, I’ve sold articles, written ads, and even seen my name on a magazine masthead. But, I’ve been blessed with something that will guarantee I’ll never be a successful narcissist –unwavering self-doubt. Basically, anything I’ve done just doesn’t impress me anymore. I’m the anti-narcissist. So, many days, despite my accomplishments, I wonder if I am really a writer. (And if I’m not a writer…then what the hell am I?)

Well, I’ve come up with some writer’s affirmation therapy. It’s a two part process.

- Firstly, I will read other people’s blogs. Believe me, nothing can make an insecure writer more assured of her talents, than reading another “writer’s” crap.

- Secondly, I will write and share my words with people who perhaps can’t all “write” but certainly can read.

That’s where you come in. If you would simply read and react, I would really appreciate it. I will share my thoughts with you because writing about life is what I love to do. To ease you of any burden, know that I am not searching for free therapy. Frankly, I have a high-priced therapist for that. And since I know you’re not all writers, I sure as hell know you’re not therapists! (then again, if one of you is…maybe we could work a trade?)

So, please…read and react. I love it. I promise to value your thoughts and I hope you get a kick out of mine.