The Calculated Risk of Joy

Your first kiss. Getting your driver’s license. The thrill of that first roller coaster. So very many firsts are unforgettable. Yesterday held such a magical moment for my 8-year old son Ryan. Because yesterday, after completing a grueling week of physically demanding and oh-so-globally aware –indeed gloriously green, Rock Climbing Camp (here it comes), I indulged Ryan in a life-altering first. His first Big Mac.

The drive-thru lady handed me the fragrant paper bag, and as I balanced it on my lap while trying to clear my cup holders, the entire car was perfumed in eau du French fries. Forget lavender and eucalyptus, this is the intoxicating aroma of carb-kings everywhere. Ryan must have sensed his booty was at risk.

“Pass me the bag,” he demanded.

“I’m making room for the drinks,” I said, clearly getting high off the fries.

“Pass it to me now!” he insisted.

I put my small diet coke (yes, that is all I ordered for myself) firmly in the cup holder and pulled away from the window.

“Can I have it NOWWWW?” Veruca Salt whined from the back seat, desperation mounting.

“Absolutely,” I said with complete calm as I stealthily stole five fries from the bag. “Here you go!”

And then there was silence. You could have heard a fry drop in the car. A few minutes went by and then the Roger Ebert of fast food said, having dissected his two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun, “Wow Mom, it’s like two burgers in one.” His voice trailed off into mmm’s. And when I figured he was done, I said “Ryan, this was your first Big Mac, so can you describe it for me in one word?”

He paused and then said simply, “OHMYGAWD!”

In my defense, I waited eight years to introduce Ryan to the “gateway drug” they call the Big Mac. I prepared him for this day by feeding him healthy food, teaching him the value of exercise and making him watch “Super Size Me” –the documentary about the impact of eating fast food on your body. By the time Ryan downed this first Big Mac, he was wise enough to ask me “Mommy, is this as bad for me as it is delicious?”

Knowledge is power when it comes to all things, including food. It’s always good to know when you are making a poor decision and the consequences, right? So, it was with great joy (and horror) that I learned California is the first U.S. state to force fast-food restaurant chains to post calorie information on menus.

"This legislation will help Californians make more informed, healthier choices by making calorie information easily accessible at thousands of restaurants throughout our state," Governor Schwarzenegger said.

Can’t you just smell the avocado on his breath?

According to the California Department of Public Health, Californians have gained 360 million pounds over the last decade. One in three children and one in four teens are overweight or at-risk, while obesity is listed as the second deadliest cause of preventable death among Californians after tobacco.

So, while my son was “lighting up” his first Big Mac, I decided that life is too short to always make the wise decision. Sometimes we have to take calculated risks in the name of blissful yet fleeting joy. Ryan’s first Big Mac was one of those moments. I am glad I was there to be his drug/joy dealer.

On The Golden Rule & Raising Kind Kids

Karl Malden died yesterday. And so, this blog is dedicated to the man with the incredible, memorable nose.


The nanny could not catch her breath. I could tell it was her on the phone, because even through the sobs, I could make out her Aussie accent. But, this was not a Russell Crowe moment. More like Nicole Kidman weeping with all appropriate pale frailty.

“The kids are so mean to me,” was all I could make out.

Five minutes later she had regained her Aussie-composure enough to tell me in some detail how my kids were demonically insensitive and mean. And I say that with no sarcasm. Apparently yesterday morning, the sweet nanny, took Damien and Freddy to brunch at the bagel joint. While awaiting bagel and a schmear, bad seed #1 made comment that the good nanny had a big nose. She poo-poo’d him.

“Big noses rock!” she said playfully.

Humor is often a good technique with children but my monster would not be deterred. “Yours is really big though,” he chided. She tried distraction.

Then his older brother leaned in to take a gander and agreed.

“Yep it’s pretty darn big,” he offered.

I wasn’t there to offer a life preserver, but apparently I was in spirit because the Nanny countered with, “Your mom’s nose is as big as mine!”

Both my genetic anomalies disagreed vehemently. “Nope, yours is much bigger. In fact, yours looks kind of like a pig nose. Doesn’t it?”

“Yep it’s definitely a pig nose,” his evil twin agreed. “Definitely piggish.”

They did all but start oinking and digging for truffles. The nanny was flustered. And where as I would have probably oinked at them and told them they looked like jackasses, she’d been dealt a fatal blow. And my little jackasses sensed weakness. The farmer had lost control of the animals. Kids can smell it, ya know. If you are tired or burnt out, they may just knock you on your butt and, as they did in Lord of the Flies, grab the conch and take over.

Likewise, if you have an Achilles heel and they are lucky enough to stumble across it –good luck. They can be relentless. I remember how it would drive my mother nuts when my brother would yell at me venomously “I wish you were dead!”It horrified her and he knew it. So he would say it constantly! I often remember that when my monsters spew evil nonsense.

To hear it from the nanny, the imps were uncontrollable. She told them they could not talk to her like that, it was mean and hurtful. They had to stop. They were upsetting her. It was not permitted. And then, completely exasperated, she shuttled them off to camp, had a flashback about being teased as a kid about her honker, broke down, and called me in tears.

When my kids behave horribly and are called on it, I am flooded with emotions. Anger, shame, embarrassment and a good dose of defensiveness. After all, these guys are a reflection on me and my life’s work –raising them (or maybe one day writing about raising them!) At least, now that I have three births under my belt, I’ve learned to not react immediately and to get the entire story, which can take a good deal of time to unfold (makes me wish they were equipped with video cameras when they aren’t with me sometimes.)

My demon seeds are actually sweethearts and often demonstrate sensitivity and thoughtfulness. So, they seemed genuinely shocked that their teasing hurt the nanny so much. And their father and I sat down with them to discuss The Golden Rule and the concept of Respect. Treat others how you would like to be treated, we explained. You can’t get much simpler than that.

“It was just a joke,” Thing 1 countered defensively.

“Yeah, she is awfully sensitive,” added Thing 2.

They were missing the point. This required bringing it closer to home.

“How do you think I would feel if you teased me for having a big butt buddy?” I asked. He shrugged. “You do have a big butt Mom.”

ARGH. This was not working! Ok, plan B.

“Your feet get pretty Stinky and your hair is usually not brushed, right?” I asked.

Rosemary’s baby nodded, his big brown eyes doe-like.

“Well how would you feel if someone made fun of your stinky feet and knotted hair?”
The parallel hit home.

“Badly,” he said. Bingo!

Then came a mini-lesson on respecting your elders and those in positions of authority. Nannies, teachers, policemen, moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas. These people deserve your respect and you must speak to them politely whether you like them or not. Damien and Freddy looked like our words were actually getting through to them.

Next came the consequence. A technology moratorium. No TV. No computer. No playstation. As soon as the punishment was handed down a protestor’s wailing “Noooooooooooo!” filled the room and tears began to flow. (Silly, huh? This wasn’t Guantanamo Bay and clearly the only one about to be tortured --with constant whining-- was me!)

“We are sorry we have to punish you,” we explained (more sorry than you know!) but it’s the only way we can teach you how to be better kids.

The good news was that the Evil Twins could earn back their technology by completing any of several activities that demonstrated kindness, respect and good citizenship. They spent the remainder of the evening: writing the nanny an apology letter, taking out the trash, reading to their baby brother, loading the dishwasher, organizing the toy room, and taking the dog for a walk. Today, they will be on doggie poop pick-up duty. And by this evening –after delivering their letters to the nanny and apologizing in person—their debt will be paid. Their lessons learned (at least for a week or two.) And I will have survived another precious parenting challenge.

It was a rough day, and when I retold the story to a dear friend who is also a parent, she reacted with the empathy that only another parent in the trenches could give. She said with rare sensitivity, “So Big Butt, what are you going to do about Pig Nose?”

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?