I need your help. I really do.

Just got a note from the AIDS/LifeCyle:

"With just nine (yep-nine!) weeks to go before the big ride in June, we're keeping our fingers crossed that more sunshine comes our way..."

GAAAHHHH!!!!!

I'm a bit nervous over here. That's nine weeks to get up to speed on the cycle-- which I KNOW I can do-- but moreover, nine weeks to raise $900.

That's $100 per week!! (See? I took high school math.)

For those out there who are sitting on the fence, please, please donate. It is an amazing cause, and a tax-deductible one at that. Any amount will help.

Thank you!!!

And the Oscar goes to...

My dream of hearing these words has changed over time, from having my name immediately appended to the phrase, to the realization that it will likely be my daughter's. I know this because she is seriously one of the greatest dramatic actresses of the modern age.

To wit: Last night, as her dad is bringing her home, my barrel of sunshine leaps into my arms, giggly and happy and filled with sugary-babygirl sweetness. "Bye, Dad!" she sings, as she throws her arms around my neck, kissing my cheeks, dancing back and forth in my arms. Filled with giggles she announces that she wants to watch t.v.

It is at this point in the story that I must add that I am totally a second-rate parent, one who apparently completely ignores the constant ringing of the clue phone in the background. Had being a mom required a college degree, forget the ivy league, baby-- Bob's College and Janitorial Supplies is more my level.

Completely ignoring the scene at hand, the fact that she's almost 3 and that she's been pushing her independence buttons more than one would think humanly possible, I smile at my sunny monkey and say, "Awww, we're done with t.v. for today. It's time for --"

With laser-swift speed, my daughter's tiny face cracks wide-open, tears exploding from her eyes. Before I can even finish the sentence, "nigh-nights," (READ: Bedtime) she throws her head back, shakes her tiny fists at the heavens and howls, "Noooooooooooooooooooo!!! NOO NOOO NOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

My bored expression turns to see her father's rolling eyes.

Ms. Bernhardt pushes her face into my shoulder as she begins to wail. Said wailing continues for several minutes until her father, interrupts, saying his goodbyes.

Up pops the little head, wet faced but returned to calm, and out pops a charming "Bye, Dad!" complete with smallish grin. She then looks at me, throws her head back again, and resumes her Shatneresque wailing. ("Kaaaaahhhhnnnnn!!!)

I kept waiting for her to shout, "SCENE."

Tonight's sunset

Tonight's sunset
Originally uploaded by girlm0nkey.

The throne

The throne
Originally uploaded by girlm0nkey.

Proof of previously posted discussion, Lunch Break Notes. (She was watching Clifford, btw.)

MISSION: San Diego

On Saturday a general perusal of Harrison's folder revealed that the fourth grade mission project was upon us. For those out-of-staters, California was originally settled by Native Americans, followed by Mexicans, prospectors, prostitutes, Levi Strauss, and Catholic Missionaries, I think in that order. The missions are a huge part of California History, which is what every able-bodied fourth grader is forced to study. As part of the project, you pick a mission, bone up on its architecture, and build a model out of household goods.

My ten-year old is generally mum about anything schoolwork related, vascillating between being such an acute smarty as to finish all his homework on the bus before it leaves the school parking lot; or leaving projects so painfully to the last minute that we scramble to finish them in the car, on the way to the busstop in the morning. Rarely are we so fortunate as to have an in-between.

With this assignment, we actually had time to cut, glue, paint, paste, mold, curse, recut, dry, and form the project sometime not the day before.

A rarity in our house.

That afternoon we raided Michael's, along with 30 other students and studious looking parents.

It was charming listening to kids work with their folks. "Dad, we need glue," says an intent young man. "Mom, let's build it out of clay," another is heard to say.

And then there is me. "Please put that down. Let's look at the--honey, no, we're not getting that... seriously, no--, you do not need feathers for this thing." To shorten the dialogue, nor did we need knitting needles, a giant plastic sunflower, the $7 set of silver bells, nor the package of edible modeling clay.

Harry did have some interesting ideas. Yes, I suppose we *could* have built the piece out of styrofoam cut into small blocks and used chopsticks to paint the exterior of the mission. I went the more traditional route of foamboard and tempura paint.

The truth is I am a sucker for this kind of project-- or really, anything that allows for the use of an exacto knife. I am so overboard, in fact, that I think my children actually fear parent/student projects, because all of my fascist stage-design class tendencies burst out.

But in my defense, when in the life of Web design do you get to build anything, you know, tactile? Crikey, when do I ever get to use a freakin' pencil??

The worst part, I guess, is that I am one of those people who likes to *think* I am creative; admittedly I have many brilliant ideas; sadly, I execute them flawfully. Which is to say, I can't cut straight, I can't measure at all, I'm a sloppy gluer and I wear my frustration on my sleeve.

Lucky, lucky Harry.

Organized like a fox

One morning after a good hard cry and eleven hours of sleep, I awake partially refreshed (if not somewhat achy), stumble my way to the kitchen and grumble my way through making coffee... when I realize that my oldest son has grown sixteen inches since his last semi-formal event.

What the???

Trevor was invited to a mitzvah of some kind (bar or bat... I'm really bad with the jewish nomenclature) , and said mitzvah was this morning at 10:30. Being that I was on my deathbed last night, I made the foolish assumption that his laundry was all caught up and that he was set, clotheswise.

I made this same assumption a few days before his First Holy Communion. And my grandfather's funeral. And my father's funeral. And my second son's First Holy Communion. And... you get the picture.

Trevor is now fifteen feet tall and has actual hooves. He looks like Lurch in his old dress clothes, with bare wrists extending beyond his long-sleeved dress shirt and six inches of white sock peeking out from beneath his navy trousers. But it's really the look of dread that captures it all.

Sadly, Trevor's not one to notice that his clothes don't fit. The look on his face is more related to my screams of horror and the declaration that we must go clothes shopping. NOW.

Like every mother in my situation, I bark orders the entire way to the store: We are going to the buy clothes. You stick with me. Which means RUN. We have a half hour to find something that fits.

Damn my deathbed antics last night!!

We rush into the store, only now my darling son is no longer a sweet size "ten" or "twelve," but has graduated to "mammoth," and "mammoth" sizes are located in the Men's Clothing area. It's like a foreign country over there. I wonder if my currency will even work.

Men's Clothing knows nothing of ten or twelve. It comes in mysterious sizes based on a whole different set of parameters, each article stamped with a mathematical equation on the tag: 30x30; 32x38; 102x54. And the shirts-- vast amounts of shirts and none that will ever, ever fit my lanky son. He's grown, but he's not that big.

I make a quick pass through the teen area and am instantly horrified. Everything has a distressed look: jeans with holes, suit coats with frayed edges, entire ensembles meant to be worn with flip-flops. I ask the clerk if there is anything that will fit my tween.

She laughs.

The short story is that we did it: we found something. I was gazelle-like, swift and sleek, moving about the store with intensity and purpose. If there was an olympic event for panic-shopping, I would have taken the gold.

Except that they had next to nothing in his size. Anywhere. And the sun was in my eyes. So make that a bronze.

We did find shoes for his puppy feet that, when he outgrows them, can go to his father. Hand-me-down khakis and a borrowed coat from a cousin worked well; and there was one size 16 dress shirt not only fit but was heavy enough that it wouldn't expose his nipples. (SIDE NOTE: What is it with men who don't wear undershirts? What is that? Do they just not know it's bad taste? And just plain yucky? And worse, what is it with the clothing companies that they make see-through shirts? Gah.)

Dressed in his new-ish finery Trev was ready for his friends' big event. And he looked... like Lurch. But in clothes that fit.

Twelve weeks

Holy mother of gawd. I got a letter in the mail today saying that the AIDS ride is a mere 12 weeks away.

Twelve weeks.

I have twelve weeks to get up to riding 100 miles a day. Day after day.

My dinner tonight was a handful of hot tamales and a few slices of plastic-wrapped cheese.

I'm so stressed out at work my body feels like a giant rock. Everything aches. My neck, my shoulders, my head... I swear someone has a voodoo doll of my likeness filled with pins. I constatnly get these pricking sensations all over my body. My hands occasionally go numb, especailly my right hand. A lot. Everytime I look up from my desk, someone is heaping on another great idea over my head, because it would look nice and what's another 15 minutes in my daily workflow?

Another 15 minutes is heaping guilt that I actually took a lunch today. Saying "I can't" makes me look obstinate, like I'm not a team player, and who wants to be that person?

But after several weeks of this increasing physical discomfort, I don't know that I can be this person.

I have to get out and ride. And not eat Hot Tamales. And maybe find a different job, one where I don't feel like dying/killing myself all the time while subtly being accused of not being a team-player in the process. There is no I in team. There is no I in me, either.

I am a drone.

I would so go to another country and become a Buddhist monk if I could just take my kids and live oppulently.

Twelve weeks. Almost a hundred miles a day. Seven days.

Gawd I need some Advil.

OMG, how could I neglect to tell you?

It has been weeks though it feels like MONTHS since I've sat down and written a "meaningful" blog post (READ: Anything frickin' at all). I woke up this morning, looked at the calendar and thought, "Whaddaya mean it's MARCH?" The spring equinox has come and gone already-- don't even get me started there. I think I have officially entered that stage of life where time moves at warp speed, where one drink feels like too many and where eight a.m. is defined as sleeping in.

Is it because I am less aware of time that it moves so quickly, or rather, more aware of my impending death?

HAPPY THURSDAY, everybody! Call me Ms. Chipper. I don't know, maybe it's the weather and the fact that I haven't ridden my bike. At all. In weeks. It's not for lack of want (she quickly adds)-- it really is the weather. There's a story here. In fact, I have several stories here, and they have all been brewing in my otherwise-preoccupied brain. I will start with...

The "half century ride,"(aka, or "The Mother of Good Intention")

Two weeks back I spent the weekend in a small town called, "Solvang." It's this amazing Dutch hamlet on the central coast, near Buellton (of Andersen's Split Pea Soup fame). My friend joked that you needed a passport to gain entry, and I think he was only half-kidding. They actually sell wooden shoes there. And not like smooth, Dr. Scholl style shoes-- I mean actual rough-hewn, splintery wooden shoes that need a good sanding. The Dutch are a tough people. Don't be fooled by their flaky pasteries. Those shoes will kill you.

Registered as I was for the Solvang Half Century, I knew I was in for a pretty great ride and a blistered arse in the end. Fifty miles is a long haul and would be my longest ever (I'd done 46 the weekend before), but my saddle issues hadn't changed and I was pretty much dreading the chaffage.

The weather was also a factor. It was freakishly cold out that weekend with storm clouds drifting threateningly overhead. As I lay down that night, images of blisters in delicate places dancing in my head, I secretly hoped for rain.

I awoke to sunshine. Blue skies, some clouds, and still the freakish cold. I mentally bid adieu to my privates, and headed out to face my destiny.

The second I stepped out from the building's overhang, it began to hail. And not just regular hail, but like, small animal-sized hail. It was charming at first, but then, after some 15 minutes, I realized I wasn't headed out on my bike anytime soon.

The fact is, I intended to ride. I intended to get out there, do my best. I intended to perform like no other... so I went wine tasting instead. I mean come on, hail, fear of blisters--whaddaya gunna do?

Proof of the hail, which was later followed by rain. Lots of rain.

NOTE TO SELF: Wine "tasting," not "guzzling"

So my friend and I head on into the wine country, to execute enological edification (done herein only aliteratively, of course).

According to my father, wine came from two places: Sonoma County and France, and the latter only sometimes. As he put it,"If you want car parts, you go to Napa. If you want wine, you come to Sonoma." I don't know that my dad even knew they grew grapes in the Central Valley prior to his relocation here in 2001.

And me? Gah. Growing up an avid beer drinker in a wine-snob household, you think I'd have picked up something other than "Pink is not wine" knowledge. But I didn't. I learned more from working at the Watergate Hotel and befriending the sommelier than I did growing up in the greatest county in California. Unfortunately, the sommelier knowledge amounted to, "Professional wine tasters have stinky breath." (He was a close-talker. And a smoker. Gah.)

My wine-tasting experience-- which was only the second or third in my lifetime, and the first time not with my parents-- was wonderful and silly and filled with ignorance and lots of wine.

My summation: Wine tasting is like golf. In golf, you got the duffers, the guys who look like they've just walked out of one of those obnoxious dentist-office paintings, with the radio-controlled bags stuffed with Callaways and TaylorMades, and you just cringe thinking you're going to get stuck in their foursome because gotDAMN they look good. And then they tee-off and you are reminded yet again that everyone sucks at golf.

Wine tasting is the exact same thing. Everyone swirls the glass and sniffs the wine and makes, "mmm"ing and "ahhh"ing noises, and tries to come up with pretentious sounding statements about its delicate tannin earthiness and full-bodied bouquet and in the end, they're just as s**t-faced as everyone else, having quaffed what should have been sipped. For every Tiger Woods of Wine tasting, there are a hundred dorks trying not to look as drunk as they feel and wondering if it's okay to admit they liked what they just drank, or hated what is supposed to be loved.

My experience: Liked some, disliked others, will not ever hit six wineries in one day again.

The only thing sexier than me declaring I was going to get sick was the actual sound of me retching on the side of the road. As cyclists rode by, no less. Cyclists from the event. The one I was supposed to be in.

I am such a badass.

It was cold. Those are foothills, with snow. We're talking an elevation of like 500 to 700 feet or something.

One last thing

In regards to my arse and the continued fear of blistering/chaffing/overall horrendous pain, I just forked over bank for a new saddle. And yes, while it was a lot of money, I've learned so much already: Apparently, the human body has these things called "sit bones" which, oddly enough, are made for "resting one's hide." The sit bones are two pressure points on the rumpus.

I finally learned what other people (READ: Men) are refferring to when they say their arse is hurting from riding. Clearly, it's not their vagina. While I was entirely correct in using that particular organ for childbirth, I was way off-base trying to use it for sitting. I'm clear on that now.

There. I've said it outright. My other seat was forcing me to sit incorrectly. THAT issue appears to have been resolved.

My arse, on the other hand, frickin' hates me now.

Conversation

Sydney: Please have juice.
Me: How do we ask nicely?
Sydney: Please.
Me: Sydney, I'll get you juice if you ask me nicely.
Sydney: Please.
Me: "May I please have juice?"
Sydney: Please have juice.
Me: May I
Sydney: May I
Me: please
Syndey: please
Me: have juice?
Sydney: Please have juice.

Lunch Break Notes

I got an e-mail from an old friend of mine, whom I just informed of my marital status. Despite my feelings to the contrary, he informed me that I am not, as I fear, "White Trash," but rather, "White Recyclable."

In other news, I've recently learned an open bottle of red wine lasts 3 or so days, and tastes amazingly vinegary after 15.

As a side note, vinegar-tasting wine is horrendous and despite all rational thought, does not taste any better on the third, fourth, or tenth sip. It also can cause mild stomach discomfort.

When potty training a toddler, be aware that when you come home from work you just *might* find the potty chair full and placed directly in front of the television.

You might also be presented with a full-potty bin at any given moment, especially when you are least expecting it. Like making dinner, for example. Such presentation is usually made by the toddler, proudly greeting you with her potty bin hoisted overhead and pants around her ankles.

Tween-age boys sometimes speak in falsetto. Randomly. Mid-sentence. They also develop underarm hair. You must be sly when investigating if they have reached that point in development, or rather, have merely stuffed a dead rat in their pocket to produce such a musky stench.

Ten-year old boys, however, do not speak in falsetto but if they catch you trying to slyly determine whether their brother has underarm hair, they will slyly check their own armpits for such hair, when they think you aren't looking.

I'm going to PERU!!!!!!

I did it.
I planned.
I saved.
I got tour books.
I shopped online for months for the perfect flight.

I DID IT!!!
I got tickets-- 3 of them-- for Trevor, Harrison and I to fly out of Los Angeles on June 19 and into Lima, Peru!

We're going to the inti raymi festival!
We're going to see colorful birds!
We're going to touch the waters of the Amazon and walk through the Amazonian Rainforest!
I'M GOING TO GO SHOPPING IN SOUTH AMERICA!!!!!

Anybody got travel tips for me?

I don't want to talk about my moronic inability to master such difficult tasks as walking.

I have a sunburn.

I had one of those days yesterday. One of those days that followed one of those days, and when I stopped to calculate, I'd had several of those days that filled many weeks in a row.

When I realized that I just needed a really good cry, and couldn't, I knew I needed some "me" time.

The concept of crying to relieve stress is foreign to most men I know. When I say most men, I mean all men except for maybe Scott Thompson.* But as members of the more sophisticated gender, we women understand that a good hard sob is the equivalent of a good 2 hours of vigorous exercise (...and no, that is not a euphemism, because clearly if there was 2 hours of that kind of good vigorous exercise available, there'd be no need for the crying). And one better on the exercise: if planned right, a good hard sob can be followed chocolate. Nothing lifts one's spirits more than a good hard cry and chocolate. This is not stereotyping. This is FACT.

In point of FACT, I had already stolen my kid's chocolate the week before and I couldn't cry if my life depended on it, and lacking all vigorous exercise... I decided to take off. Leave town. Hide out among the trees.

And I did not protect my face sufficiently from the sun. Apparently, I scrumbled on the sunblock with a paint brush, because my face is like an impressionist painting-- spotty and red with Van Gogh's ear right in the center.

Suffice it to say I had a cathartic time.

SIDE NOTE ON THE CRYING: Hard laughter works just as well.



*For those who don't recall, he's from Kids in the Hall.

Good morning, sunshine!

As I walk past my daughter's room, coffee cup in hand, I pause to smile at the peaceful sight before me. My sweet girl has just opened her tired eyes. She strrrrrretches her tiny toddler arms above her head and yawns a deep, sleepy yawn, cozily snuggling further into her comforter.

She sees me in her doorway, oozing all the love a parent has to offer and answers my quizzical "Are you waking up, sunshine?" smile with a demonic, "I NOT, MOM!!!"

Gosh, I so look forward to the teen years.