Whereby I Want to Punch the World in the Face, but Michael Stops Me

I have an air of aggravation. Nothing is wrong, per se. I am more stressed than usual, as I line all my ducks up in a row for my impending Holiday Boutique and somehow they keep waddling out of line. I have some personal conflicts that are annoying, but not overwhelmingly so. I can't seem to keep my house clean...which makes me irritated, not only because the house is not clean, but because I used to laugh at a character in a musical (Jack's Mother, in Into the Woods) for singing a complaint that her house was a mess...because isn't that just her own fault? So, there is nothing particularly wrong...it's just not unicorns prancing about shitting cupcakes and rainbows...which, as a friend pointed out, just means it's life.

But the air of aggravation grows. It grows because I spend more than my fair time on Facebook, on HuffPost, on Google News, on Twitter, and I am reading posts and stories and articles and links and tweets on injustices, injustices perpertrated against a group to which I belong, if only marginally. Injustices which could have had an impact on my life, but for the grace of Bertha, haven't and in all likelihood, won't. I am talking, of course, of the rights of same sex couples to marry, the fight for marriage equality. I was lucky enough to meet the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with when I was only 23. He happened to be a man, but my sexual orientation remained unchanged. If Michael had been a woman, I would have just as easily lived happily ever after with her...but he wasn't, so I luckily got to get married in the eyes of the government. Bi-sexual doesn't have to mean you have to have both...it just means you've got a lot more options to start from, but that's a whole other blog entry.

This morning, I was reading yet another post, this one about the Rhode Island governor deciding to veto a bill allowing same sex couples the right to plan each other's funerals, something married people take for granted. Already aggravated from the world not providing me with Unicorns shitting cupcakes and rainbows, I read bits of the article to my husband, whose back is to me as he works on his computer. Incensed, my voice rises and I become completely shocked by the utter awfulness of the situation. I proclaim: All of these people are going to hell!

And herein lies one of the myriad of reasons Michael is the person for me...without turning from the computer, he says, very calmly and matter of factly, "The noise is always worst before the dyke breaks. They're trying everything now because they're ultimately going to lose." And with that, I am calm. I am no longer vengeful. I might even see a unicorn in my front yard.

Whereby the Universe Punishes Me for Trying to be Nice to the Earth

It’s the day before Halloween, which of course means that I am sewing like mad, grumpy, and covered in glitter.

I used to like Halloween. It was never my favorite holiday, but I did enjoy it. Now, I feel like it’s a tedious waste of time. Despite that, I have been doing my best for the years I have felt this way to put on a happy face and carry on. As a former costumer, the assumption is that I love the holiday, that I live to sew my children’s costumes, to come up with something creative for myself and Michael, and to go out and par-tay. Sadly, both you and me are asses in this scenario, as it is simply not true.

But my feelings on All Hallow’s Eve are neither here nor there, as what day it is (or day it will be) has little to do with my total annoyance right now. I am being tried. I am being tried by some unknown force, being punished for my commitment to living life with a small environmental footprint. And I don’t know what to do about it.

The morning started off with the usual flurry of waking up, getting the kids dressed and ready for school, feeding them breakfast, and all the insanity that entails. It was made more crazy than usual because today is the Halloween Parade at the school, so costumes had to be put into bags, shoes found, bags labeled, etc. Yes, this was something an organized person would have done the night before, but I was busy making the damn costumes, going to a friend’s book signing, making dinner to take to my mother in laws, and visiting with a good friend here from China (yes, that was all done at night, although not in that order and not separately). Suddenly, Max decides he needs a brown paper bag. “But, why?” I ask, considering all the reusable lunch bags and totes and other cloth methods of carrying devices of which we have a plethora… and he explains that what he needs to do is make a bag to carry whatever Halloween treats he gets at school. I explain right back that he has a fabric trick or treat bag, covered in skeletons, that I made him, that would serve this purpose. No, he insists, it has to be a brown bag that he can decorate RIGHT NOW before he leaves for school. Not really in the mood to fight over this particular battle, I sigh and mumble something about Mother Nature being disappointed in his desire to kill more trees and find a brown bag leftover from something for him to decorate. He happily scampers off to decorate it, and since it’s the first morning in weeks where I only had to ask him once to get his shoes on, I am relieved and pleased that there won’t be fighting, although, admittedly, still a bit irked.

Suddenly I hear Michael talking to someone at the front door. I walk into the front of the house and hear him talking to the city guy standing there about taking away one of our black trash cans and one of our blues. Now, we have 2 of each, and haven’t filled them both in forever, and since I was under the impression that we were being charged for them, I thought it right to go ahead and have them removed, and save the money. I called earlier in the week, and in the course of the conversation with the lovely lady at the DWP learned that we hadn’t been being charged for them. So I carefully backed out of the whole thing in such a way that I thought she and I had an understanding. Evidently we didn’t, as she put the order in anyway and now the guy had actually shown up to do my bidding. I become more annoyed but not in a way that makes any sense to anyone but me, as Michael had not been told about the whole thing, and as far as he was concerned we were being charged for the cans and were totally fine getting rid of them. I start stomping around and flip flopping on the issue, trying to explain to Michael why exactly I am annoyed and what was going on, at which point he also becomes totally annoyed with the situation but neither of us know how to tell the guy taking away our cans to stop. So we don’t. But we’re now both irritated. Him with the situation, me with myself for messing everything up. Ironic, since really, I had WANTED them to get rid of the trashcans not 3 days ago, but that was when I didn’t know they were free. Also, we honestly never even fill one, which I am PROUD of because it means we don’t generate a lot of trash. Which, of course, just made me more annoyed. I mean, the fact that I was annoyed when I didn’t have any real right to be just made it all worse.

Michael takes the kids to school and I get ready for my day of erranding and work. On my first errand, I call him and start to talk about all my little irritations of the day, some so embarrassingly trivial, I cannot bear to see them in print, so you will be spared. The cumulative annoyances put me in tears…so now I’m crying and at the bank. Fine, the tellers know me and are very, very sweet to me as I do my business. I leave and go to the drugstore to pick up some things and while I am there, feel the need to use the restroom.

Ok, this is where I am placing the warning. If you have an issue reading about feminine (yes, menstrual) issues…then just stop now. Skip ahead to the end and spare yourself. Otherwise, buckle up, cause I’m going to get personal…and kinda graphic. So, my need to use the restroom has nothing to do with me emptying my bladder as I am feeling that old familiar feeling of the mess coming on. I think “oh, no…” and head to the back of the store. Now, I don’t use tampons or pads. I use something called a Diva Cup. It’s a silicone cup that I insert in my hoo-haa when Aunt Flow comes to visit. I keep it in for up to 12 hours, take it out, empty and rinse, and put it back in. Once in a while I have a really heavy few hours and have to empty it more often than that, but it really never leaks or anything like that, and I’ve been using it for over a year now, so this sensation is very unexpected. I think my cup may have runneth over, and go into the bathroom to check. I happened to be wearing back tights under my pants today, as it was so cold this morning, I thought it would help keep me warm, so I sit down and look and lo and behold, there’s some mess on my tights…ok, I look at my pants. Oh my Bertha. It’s everywhere. EVERYWHERE. All over my LIGHT green twill pants…through to the outside everywhere. Evidently, in my annoyance and haste to get ready this morning, I mis-inserted. I sigh, am reminded of the time this happened in France (pre-Diva cup), and think the Studio City Rite Aid is not nearly as nice a place as the Arc De Triomphe. On the upside, there is a sink in the restroom, so I manage to rinse off everything, and put my now clean, but wet tights and pants back on, possibly the ickiest sensation ever. I walk out of the restroom, with my visibly sopping wet pants, head held high, daring anyone to question why I would have wet pants on, and continue with my day.

But in my head, I am thinking…Fuck you, Universe.

Dewey!

It's true. I should probably rename my blog Ariella's Little Chickens, for as much airtime as they get. It seems like it's even more than my children. Eh. I'm a city girl with a small town fascination and so I raise chickens. As much as I devoured the Little House books growing up, particularly fascinated with the detailed chapters on things like "when we slaughtered the pig" or "getting maple sugar out of the tree", it never occurred to me that in my life as an LA girl, a defining characteristic that has lost it's luster over the last few years, that I myself would have my very own chickens to care for. But I do. And they are crazy animals.

Michael's mom had a pet chicken when we first started dating...way past her prime, she was allowed to wander the large backyard and do whatever she wanted. I used to pick her figs off the tree, lay next to her on the grass, and feed her half while I ate the other half. Yes, I'm odd. When we moved into our own house, a mere 7 blocks away, on the huge by LA standards 1/3 acre lot, we decided to get our own chickens...and as I've blogged about before, it's been an interesting decade of learning the fine art (or not) of poultry farming, so to speak

Which brings me to the last few weeks, where I have repeatedly shouted in the modern day commons (FB status updates and Twitter Feeds) about the fact that a hen keeps making her way into my bedroom. This is generally the cause for a just amount of amusement in said forums, but I don't think people quite understand why this is even happening. And so, I blog.

Our "special chicken", aptly named Catfood (pictured above in her awkward period) was henpecked at around 10 weeks old. Rescued during this trauma by Max, her bloodied body and neck barely moving, I set her in a box with some water and food, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. I didn't have the heart to finish her off. Much to my surprise the next morning, she was up and walking around...and eventually healed completely. Well, kind of. I now know that chickens now better than me about what is good and what isn't, and well, Catfood is a bit, um, developmentally delayed. Also, Physically challenged. Her feet are completely deformed and turned in on themselves, and she's at least a few months behind her sisters in feather development. Because of these issues, and the fact that she is not welcome in the coop, she has been allowed to roam free in our yard. She hobbles about and doesn't really cause any trouble and the dogs ignore her. It turns out she's not as dumb as one might think, as she started nesting right by my bedroom door (I have french doors off my room). I tried to avoid using the a/c as much as possible this summer, and so at night I would open my doors to cool down the room...unbeknownst to me, Catfood used this opportunity to wander in and find herself a much more comfortable nesting spot in the corner of my room.

If you've been in my room, you know it is not the most...empty environment, so a habit was formed without my knowledge. Once I figured out what was happening, I started leaving the door closed. She figured out how to use the doggie door. I blocked it. It seemed to fix the problem. I unblocked it, tired of having to constantly remember to let the dogs in and out. She noticed and came back. I took her out every night to another location, where she'd stay...and then I finally put her in her own enclosure, so the problem became moot. But then... there was Dewey.

More later...going out tonight. :)

Beauty is in the Eye

I'm working on a few quilts right now, all custom orders, and the one that has consumed me the most has been a t-shirt quilt that was ordered by a young lady for her (now) ex-boyfriend, who happened to have been a high school football star.

Generally, I don't think much about the aesthetics and artistic merits of t-shirt quilts. Someone mails me their old, sentimental for whatever reason t-shirts, we choose sashing fabrics and I make them into a quilt. This one in particular was interesting, partially due to its story- the client is only 17. She and her boyfriend dated for the last 3 years, and she started to make him this quilt, but stopped when they broke up. She was nice enough to not just dump the pile of cut up shirts on his doorstep, but found me online and actually enlisted my services to do what she felt she could no longer do herself, finish his quilt to preserve his high school memories, which, in her words, he deserves.

The school colors on this one are funny...red and green. I sent her fabric combo options, she chose, and away I went. Anything I thought about the quilt was in the story behind it, in the mathematics involved with dealing with her having cut the squares differing sizes (PITA), and making sure I did a good job. Any beauty was lost on me. When I sent her the picture of the top, to make sure she liked it before it was forevermore untakeapartable her response was overwhelmingly positive. Lots of exclamation points and accolades...so many in fact, I was a little shocked. I mean, she sent me these t-shirts. She picked the fabric I sent in her color preference. What was the big deal? What on earth was she expecting? Seemed too enthusiastic for the situation.

Later that day, a friend was over and saw the finished top. She couldn't stop saying how pretty it was. Last night, my husband was helping me sandwich it, as it's just a bit too large to do myself, and started waxing poetic about how beautiful it was. He was particularly struck by how a bunch of old, worn t-shirts could be spun around and attached to fabric and made into something useful, keepworthy, and artistic all at the same time. He's seen a million quilts in his life, including every single one I've ever made, but this was different. It was late, I was tired, but I was so overcome with the sweetness of the absolute sincerity of his words that, well, I had to tweet about it. That's gotta mean something. :)

It had me thinking all day though, about how I dismiss these quilts as more practical, less artistic, than my others. I love helping people preserve their memories, but it isn't necessarily artistically fulfilling. But it seems like I may need to rethink that.

September What?

I know most of the country is working on being contemplative about the fact that tomorrow marks the 8th anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Towers...but I find myself consumed with other contemplations.

As I sit here in my living room, my often laundry covered sofa providing me with a comfortable spot to sit and write, my poor, overworked, sleep deprived husband completely crashed out next to me, a very ambitious cricket outside tries to get noticed, and a developmentally disabled chicken sits brimming with malcontent outside on the step after being kicked out of the house. Again. This is my life.

When the planes struck the towers I was pregnant with my first child, and after days of sorrow, I tuned out all coverage of the event to protect my fetus from my overwhelming sadness over the losses felt by so many people. Today, the day before the 8th anniversary, I sent my baby boy off to kindergarten. His first full day of school, the first day of the new era, and I found myself torn. Full of sadness? Not exactly. Melancholy, nostalgia, regret for every morning not appreciated, every opportunity potentially lost by me having a quilt to finish, or payroll to submit, or dishes to wash...yes, those things I felt. An overwhelming sense of freedom and the excitement of what lies ahead for both of us? Yes, I felt that too. But as much as I struggled to find my identity after Max was born and I stopped teaching, I didn't realize I'd have to find it again now.
PTA vice president? Yes.
Office Manager? Kinda.
Housewife? I don't think so.
What I want to be and what I can be are very different. I'd love to spend all day creating things, sewing, quilting, making and posting new things for sale on Quilting Mama, but it doesn't seem a valid career option. Teaching is not an option, thanks to Governor Terminator. Office manager is a full time job in theory, but seeing as my paycheck is non existent, it doesn't really count. The plan is to seek representation and try and find work as an actor, but that's a tough world too, and talk about not terribly secure...and what does that mean anyway? Who will I be? It's just all so confusing. And the worst part is that I'm going to miss conversations like this:

Max: Mama, do you know what kind of pets I am going to have when I'm a grown up?
Me: No, honey, what?
Max: I TOLD you already! Why don't you remember??
Me: I'm sorry, sweetheart, can you remind me?
Max: I'm going to have 4 cats, a lizard, a snake, and a hamster.
Me: Hmm, ok.
Max: I don't want dogs because I don't want poop in my backyard
Me: Seems reasonable, but you know those other animals poop too, you're going to have to clean their cages at some point.
Max: I'll make sure to be at work when that happens.
Me: Well, then you'll need to clean the cage when you get home.
Max: (whispers something)
Me: What was that?
Max: (loud sigh) Nearaiah will do it.
Me: How do you know she won't have a job and not be at home either?
Max: She's going to work at home.
Me: You can't decide that for her...she may want to become an astronaut like you and go to the moon, then no one will be home to clean the cages.
Max: She can be an astronaut from home.
Me: That may not work.

Things I Like

(repost from old blog, from May of 2008, but still very applicable...)

The ceiling fans in my house
The freckles on Magnolia's nose
A good episode of Law and Order
Jeremy Sisto (yum)
My new Target panties
Singing on stage
Our bed
How Michael's hand has to touch his belly when he sleeps
Max's curls
The way Xena picks up whatever is closest to her to try to control her own bark when she can't help it.
Fabric
Our Backyard
Good Burritos
The way I feel doing my 3rd downward dog
Dusting
Nesting Dolls
Camp during devotions
Making Stuff
The first tomato of the summer (homegrown)
Dinner with an old friend
The looks I get when I talk about the fact that I keep chickens
When I come home to a clean kitchen
Getting a sale on Etsy
Watching the kids in the ocean
Cleavage
That Whitney won ANTM
Grace before meals
Text messages
Sunscreen
Pedicures
Gift Cards
Feeling Productive
Berries
Jumping in waves
Catching a wave on my boogie board
Ice Cream
Laughing until I can't breathe
Dancing with Michael
Waking up without an alarm

It's Funny

Life can change so quickly. Expected, unexpected...the changes just keep coming. In 2008 I experienced a horrible life change. 20% of my immediate family all of a sudden getting sick and dying. Yes, it was only one person, but the 5 of us were a team. An often dysfunctional and sometimes weirdly codependant team, but a team nonetheless. And in 48 days we went from 5 to 4. I felt all the stages of grief. I still feel like I cycle through them, even though it has been over a year since Mimma passed. I am a different person because of it.

2009 has brought forth change as well. Sometime in March, I asked the shy, quiet construction worker with the incredible opera voice in my musical theater class if he'd sing a song with me. The song was A Little Priest, from Sweeney Todd. It was the most fun I've had in my class. When our showcase performance was over, I got more accolades from random audience members than I have ever gotten in my life...and Michael insisted it was time. It was time for me to get back on stage for real.

When I got the email from my teacher, I didn't think much of it. It was announcing that one of our vocal coaches was music directing a musical, Nunsense, in the West Valley and they were having auditions the next week. The audition conflicted with a camp directors' meeting. The show conflicted with camp. After much discussion (M and I do nothing with simplicity) we decided it was worth trying. The process could be a blog post in and of itself, but to keep it brief, I'll just say- I got the part.

The process has brought me to tears of happiness, of anger, of frustration, and of pure joy...and with all of that it has given me a gift I had all but given up on. It gave me back my passion. From the day my stepmother chastised me for telling a dinner guest who asked what I was interested in that I was an actress ("Don't call yourself that, it's pretentious and it makes it seem like you're saying you're a professional, which you are not. No one pays you.") to the day that my HS counselor told me I needed to lose weight to land better parts to the day my college boyfriend suggested I work on costumes to continue my work in theater post graduation and beyond...the roads all led me away. I am back now. And it's really quite wondrous. I can't believe I let it lie for as long as I did.

So I advise, if you have something you love doing that you don't do...stop not doing it.

Maxism in the Morning on a Monday

It's been a while since I've written...part me being busy, part me being lazy, part me being overwhelmed with the idea of it...so I thought no time like the present to jump back in...but I am starting slow, with a little recounting of the conversation I just had with Max.

Max (stealing the sleeping kitten off of my shoulder): Can I have a burrito?
Me (on computer, jumping between twitter, facebook, and paying bills): Sure.
Max wanders off...

About 10 minutes later, I get up and away from the computer, and start tackling the to do list for the day, which involves tidying the front of the house, so I pass through the back with a pile of stuff, where Max is watching The Incredibles.

Max (on couch): So, did you make my burrito?
Me (not stopping, still putting things away and walking back and forth): No. You know how to make a burrito, I thought you were going to make it.
Max: No, that's ok, you can make it.
Me: No, I don't want to make it. I am doing something. You need to make the burrito if you want the burrito.
Max: I can't right now because I am watching the movie.
Me: Then I guess you won't get a burrito then.
Max: Please!
Me: You have to make it yourself. Not optional.
Max: But my hands are full.
Me: What?
Max. My hands are full. Full of kitty.

At this point, I just stopped talking. Full of kitty.

Me Me Me!

Lately, I've been having little meltdowns (on a more than normal basis) after my musical theater class. The last one was in front of my teacher, so to try to convince him that I am not a lunatic, I sent him an email. He responded with a very nice reply which of course made me break down again. I started to write back to him, but the more I wrote, the less like an appropriate email it seemed and the more like a blog entry it sounded. So I stopped mid paragraph and decided to write it out here. Thanks, y'all, for being free therapy.

I know I am talented. Sounds so conceited...especially in print...:) but I've always known I can act. I've been doing it since before I have memories, and I've always known I was good at it. It has always been the external things that have kept me down, so to speak. Body type, parents who aren't willing to take me to auditions or rehearsal, that sort of thing. The voice part has always been a struggle. Fifth grade, Ms. Sullivan's music class, warm ups...and my elementary school nemesis leaned forward and hissed "Ariella, you need to quiet down, your voice is terrible. Really, don't sing." Sadly, I kind of listened. I was still in the shows as long as I was at that school (til 8th grade), which were musicals, but I never sang out again. In junior high, I focused on just plain drama, and went to my high school planning on the same. I fell into the musical theater class to get out of doing PE, as was my option, and had the good fortune of being taught by 2 incredible people who absolutely kindled my love affair with the musical. I actually remember being asked by the principal, who was doing my schedule (it was a small magnet start up then), "You're here for drama, do you want to do Musical Theater Workshop as your PE requirement?" My response? "What's Musical Theater?". Heh. He explained that it meant Broadway Style shows, and being as I had been in plenty, and being as I had just come from a junior high where PE meant running around the giant grass field, I said yes straightaway.

High school was fantastic. I loved it a lot...I never made it into the smaller, fall productions, as I didn't have nearly the voice to compete with the incredibly talented folks who were favored by the powers that were, but I did do all the Drama performances, and I was in the larger Spring musicals as part of the ensemble. I knew that the director would have liked to cast me with a bigger part, but since I was unwilling to lose the weight he and the school counselor suggested I lose, and since even with him working with me my voice wasn't nearly as strong as the other girls with similar body types, I got ensemble. There are no small parts, only small actors, I was told repeatedly...and I took what I got and worked my booty off. I felt a little vindicated when I was the person he called the summer after graduation to fill in for a role in a show he was directing at a CLO...but it would have been nice to get some bigger parts in high school. Just sayin'.

One place I have always felt confident singing has been camp. When I was a CIT, I was singing a camp song during the slideshow we always had after the dance, and the now husband of the counselor I was paired with turned and looked at me and earnestly said "Share that gift, babe". I remember thinking it was odd, no one had ever complimented my singing before...and obviously it had an effect, cause I remember the moment clear as day, 20 years later. I often think about it when we are at campfire, and I am standing at the front of camp, holding the guitar books for the guitar players...especially on the first few nights, when everyone is still timid and unsure of the songs, and I feel like I need to sing louder to make sure they feel like they can sing too...I am taken back to that moment, sitting on the floor of the dining hall, a camper in each arm, being given that nugget of praise. Gift? I don't know about that...but it made me feel ok sharing it anyway.

When I got into UCLA, my fate was sealed. I wasn't allowed to apply to the University of Michigan, where I wanted to go to major in musical theater. I'm still bitter. UCLA's theater program was not well thought of by the teachers I loved so much, and they only had ONE musical theater class...so I didn't even bother trying to major in theater there. I had a nice run as RA of the arts floor in the dorms and we put on several shows over the years I lived in the dorms. I got to play Janet in The Rocky Horror Show...with my boyfriend playing Rocky, which worked out nicely...I got to direct A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, where one of the best compliments I got was from an ex who came to the performance and said- "Wow, I really thought this was going to suck, but it didn't! It was great!". I costumed Into the Woods, after a very stubborn me decided I would only be happy with one of 2 parts. Sadly, someone way more talented than me got the Baker's Wife part...deservedly so, and someone who was more convincing than me stole the Witch part from under my feet (later regretted by the directors). I'm still bummed I gave an ultimatum on that one, although I am still proud of those costumes... :) After college, I just stopped performing, unless you count karaoke...which I don't. All this time, I considered myself an actress who sang...not a true triple threat at all, since the dancing was certainly only passable. But I love musicals more than straight plays, so what do to? Just stop, I guess.

I fell into this musical theater class at Valley College pretty much by force. Another music teacher from my high school was chairing the Music department, and when my 2nd semester of piano was cancelled, he insisted that where I needed to be was the Broadway class. He signed me out of the pre-reqs and gave me an add slip. All I had to do was find a sitter. I am so thankful he did. It's made me aware again of how much I love being on stage. I am in shock that I kept away as long as I did, that I was willing to give that up. That was 2 years ago, and now, in my 5th semester of the class, I feel very comfortable getting up there and singing my heart out.

But here is the thing. It isn't a "voice" class. It's a performing class, so we discuss the performance, but he doesn't give us voice critique. It's great for me, cause I don't have a great voice. That elementary school nemesis aside (she's now my friend on FB and on one survey bemoaned the fact that she wishes she could sing...haha), I know my voice, and it's ok. It's not trained, it's not impressive...it just is. I am lucky that I can pull off a performance on my acting ability, and I can stay on key, and I sing with confidence...so those are all good things...but I am realistic about it. And usually, that's enough. But the last few weeks have been hard. I am singing a song that, put nicely by the accompanist, makes me sound like I am a worse singer than I am. Great. I am feeling frustrated and just plain sad that I don't have the sort of voice that I always wanted to have. I am pretty sure it's a phase and it will pass, but it means that I have been bursting out into tears after class, and feeling very down about it. I don't like feeling this way. I love to sing. I love it. When I was talking to my teacher, while breaking down, I said aloud something I had never even thought about before. I said it isn't fair to love something this much and to know that no matter how hard I try or work at it, it will never be what I want it to be. But there are worse things in life, and I am sure I will regain perspective. I hope.

The History of Sewing

I was taught to sew by my mom when I was very young. I remember making pillows with her at around 9 or so. In the 80's we would make our own seemingly fashionable tunic tops in colors like purple and magenta, fantastically simple creations which were like giant tubes with shoulders. What a feeling, indeed.

My stepmom nurtured the skill as I got older...and bought me my very own sewing machine when I was 19. It was the only gift I ever remember receiving from her and biodad, and it was during the era that I thought she was on my side. That Singer worked its ass off, I costumed show after show after show on it. I supported myself using that machine after college, when, upon the advice of a boyfriend, I decided to become a costume designer, based upon the desire to keep working in theater. Being an actress seemed impractical, and so, like usual, I put aside what I loved to do to be realistic. To make ends meet while being a mediocre freelance costumer, I worked at a great costume shop, where I often pretended to know way more about what I was doing than I actually did. I learned a lot about costumes, but even more about sewing...and thankfully my bosses loved me and were relatively happy to point me in the right direction when necessary.

When you are starting out, and working on your own, you do whatever is necessary to make it. Well, I did, anyway. I made umpteen Renaissance Faire costumes with it, for myself and to sell...I made wedding dresses, and bridesmaids dresses, and Rocky Horror costumes, and WeHo Costumes, and did alterations for everything from my grandma's slacks to the Red Shoe Diaries (yes, they wore *some* clothes). I took on sewing gigs, costume design gigs, dresser gigs, wardrobe supervision gigs, anything with regard to fabric or costumes, and I would do it. Eventually, I burnt out. Well, more like exploded. But regardless, the time came for me to be done and like the impatient girl that I am, I changed my profession almost overnight and started on the teacher track, leaving all my seamstressing behind.

Within a year I was engaged, and my future mother in law, an amazing quilter, inspired me to make a quilt for Michael as a wedding gift. She gave me some direction, the best being introducing me to an amazing quilt shop whose owner was a parent of a Y person. We got along swimmingly, and she helped me figure out what on earth I was going to do. I started quilting in April of 1997, and I never looked back. Clothes? Costumes? What were those? My rayons and velvets and corduroys and gauzes were all put away in bins to make room for my calicos and cottons and batting. The specificity and patterns and colors and art of it was just what I wanted...I was never good at the other stuff. I was good at this.

The next 11 years passed, I quilted, I made baby stuff, but I never went back to clothes the way I did before. I made some stuff for my kids, some pj's for friends and family, only things I felt like making. There have been custom quilt projects which drive me up a wall, but generally speaking, I feel pretty lucky to be able to invent and create the things that pop into my head.

For various reasons I have been taking on sewing gigs for things in the last few weeks which I haven't made for years. Belly dance costumes, kitchen curtains, Rennaissance Faire costumes...things keep falling into my lap and I've been making them. Sometimes I grumble a bit, but mainly that has to do with procrastination on my part, and overall I appreciate the work. Last night, I was working on some alterations, and I was actually proud of what I had made. It came out well, and I knew it would make my client happy. It inspired me this morning to get up and actually attack my own alterations, which so often just sit in a pile and get looked at, but never fixed. I actually made my happy pants into a happy skirt...something I have needed to do for months. And I feel like something changed, I can sew clothes again. It has changed from chore to creation. No, I am not giving up quilting...I am just excited to find joy in what was for so long a bore. Hopefully the laundry epiphany arrives tomorrow.

Le Show

It could be construed as nightmarish...Kung Fu FIghting blares over the DJ's speakers, renegade fluffs of cotton candy waft through the air, attempting to thwart my attempts to my items clean, making cheerful smalltalk with strangers who may truely like my items, or might just be trying to steal my ideas, no bathroom breaks for hours...yes, folks, I am at a craft fair. Well, actually, that's generous. I am at an elementary school's spring festival fundraiser. And while the turn out is impressive, people aren't really here to buy crafts.

I don't know why I always get so wildly optimistic about these things...I spent the better part of the prep time before making a crapload (30) hooded towels. It's an elementary school, I think. They'll be clamoring for them! I could sell out! They're so awesome! Turns out, the only clamoring is over more tickets for the damned cotton candy machine.

But still, it's ok. A friend texted me to see how it was going and I responded with "slow, but (ultimately) not surprising". As optimistic as I get before these things begin, I am too soon reminded of the reality of them. People look at my booth (if I'm lucky) and say "OH! How cute! Everything is so CUTE!" followed by "too bad my kids are too old for any of it!" Oh yeah? What about coffee cozies? What about tote bags? Or fabric gift bags? Or re-useable lunch bags? Your kids are too old to LOVE THE EARTH, motherfucker? Ahem. And don't even get me started on how I'm sure you never have a freaking baby shower to go to. No, no, it's fine. But I smile, and say something friendly about taking my card, if they'd like, in case any baby showers come up. Sometimes they take one and move on and that is how the day goes. Today I got dissed by a 7 year old whose dad asked- hey honey, wouldn't you like an apron for when you are cooking with mom? She wrinkled her nose and said disdainfully "I don't need an apron!". Ok then.

Texting back my friend, I said what is true- It could be worse. I am sitting in the shade, in a comfy chair on a beautiful day, knitting...the music isn't terrible (even Kung Fu Fighting meant I didn't have to listen to the insipid DJ), the world smells of BBQ and Cotton Candy, and who knows, someone may buy something sometime.

It's funny, I've never not made back a vendor fee. I usually do better than the folks around me...it's the swarming that rarely happens except in my pre-show fantasies. But today, the chick in the booth to my left, whose business name is "Ugly, probably lead infested crap from China", is buzzin' while my booth is dead. My vendor fee is recovered, the 2 bucks Michael had to promise to Magnolia's bff to get him to loan us the 20 bucks I needed for change is recovered, the money I've given to my kids for snocones and gameplay was recovered, and there is still an hour left.

I ended the day with a dent in the fundraising campaign for new kids' dressers, and at least one potention scrapbook quilt custom order. Now I remember why I do these. :)

Lust and Sloth

It was parent conference week for the kids. I used to hate parent conference week when I was teaching. First, dealing with report cards was never fun, then the whole week the kids' schedules were off, and add to that meeting with 20 sets of parents, many of whom I would have to basically chase down, and well, I was happy it only came twice a year. As a parent, it has been a bit of a pain as well, as it means that Magnolia gets out early every day (1:40) but Max gets out at the same time (2:30) so my day is chopped up something awful. It being a busy week anyway, between prepping for a show tomorrow (and realizing only a week ago how small my inventory had gotten) and having a huge translation project due for a client, never mind my usual mom stuff, my usual work stuff, and the fact that taxes are still hanging over my head, and the week wasn't looking pretty.

So I manage to remember to show up for Max's conference, and overall, he's doing fine. Academically, fine. He's ready for kindergarten. No surprise there, as many of our conversations lately go something like this:

Max: Where is my camera?

Me: I don't know, where did you last have it?

Max: C-C-C-C-C camera!

Me: Uh huh

Max: Camera begins with a C!

Me: yep.

But the teacher does have a concern. Evidentally, he has a very hard time facing forward on the rug. He insists on sitting sideways, and even when corrected, will eventually swivel back to being sideways. Huh. Really? This is the big problem? I mean, I volunteer in this class and there are kids running around, and hitting, and my kid sitting sideways is the big concern? Ok. Whatever. It's preschool for goodness sake, I am not going to be too worried about it. Then the teacher leans in, somewhat conspiratorially and says, sotto voce, "you know he's in love with Nearaiah, right?". Actually, yes, yes, I do...because he has been talking, dreaming, and scheming about her since October. He says he loves her, he wants to marry her, when you mention school, he mentions Nearaiah. At their birthday party last week, all he cared about was her coming, and the minute she did, he took her to his room and they got into his bed. Nothing happened there, they just went up and hung out for a bit, before heading to the jumper...but seriously, this girl hung the moon, as far as Max is concerned. So, guess where her assigned place on the rug is? Yep. To his side, but not directly next to her...so in order to see her, he has to swivel. Heh. It seems to me an easy solution would be to re-assign her spot on the rug to be in front of him, if his swiveling is such a concern, but I guess I am not the teacher. I tell her I will talk to him about it.

Cut to the next day, and it is time for Magnolia's conference. She is working above grade level, she has the highest grade you can get in all of the language arts areas and in math. She is likely highly gifted, she is well behaved, and the teacher loves her. Great! Yeah, except for one thing. She's lazy as all get out and her homework is minimalistic and sloppy, and there are days where her work in school is too. So, we need to find ways to motivate her and make sure she works up to her potential. Oh, and also she happened to be a part of a clan of first grade girls who stole shoes from a group of second grade boys (why were their shoes off?) and hid them at recess the day before. I see.

Going home, I called Michael, and went over everything that had gone down in the meeting. He sort of sighed...none of this is news to us. He bemoaned the fact that fixing these issues weren't easy...why couldn't there be easier issues- like, having trouble with addition? No, our kids are bright, that is for sure, and with the brightness comes a different level of challenges, strategies that need more than just flashcards. And once again, I harken back to the conversation I had with a good friend of mine, the mother of Magnolia's best friend since birth, when the kids were about 20 months old, and Magnolia had pulled off some kind of sneaky feat...after hearing about what Mags had done, my friend sighed and said with not a bit of faceciousness "Man, I'm glad my kid is just average." Sing it, sister.

What's Right

When I was 19, I took on a personal challenge to live a noble life. While this sounds a little heady for a 19 year old, the bonus was that I got to define said noble life all on my own. Now, reading back on my journals in those days, I am actually super impressed that 19 year old Ariella actually had a clue, and for the most part, I completely agree with what she was talking about. One part of a noble life, she (I) concluded, was to live a life respectful of mama Earth, and to do everything reasonable to make sure her (my) footprint (modern term) was as small as possible. I am proud that before it became hip to do so, I was concerned with the environment...and it is something that continues to be important to me today.



I am in the middle of preparing for the kids' birthday party. I tried to talk them out of it. I did...I tried both bribery and coersion, and when neither worked, I resigned myself to pull off another party. Thankfully, my regular cast and crew was all for it, and so I have tons of help. Unfortunately, our parties tend to be a little over the top (making dinosaur/sports themed aprons for each kid in attendance, having a head cut out photo op with the ocean/mermaid/ ocean theme, homemade lollipops, cakes inspired by Duff...you get the picture) and this year, money is tight, so I am trying to be reasonable, and to lower my own bar. It's amazing how Little Miss Frugal goes a little nuts when trying to make my kids happy on their birthday...but I am a birthday freak. So we planned the party for 2pm, thus making it so that a "meal" wasn't mandated, made out own goody bags, our own decorations, our own activities, ,all with the goal of spending as little as possible. Nicole and her husband chipped in so that a moonbounce was ordered and Colleen's brother had a drunken fit of generosity that resulted in the ability to rent a cotton candy machine, so all in all, we were on our way to an affordable and awesome celebration.

Then I start running errands. And I see more things that can go into goody bags, more decorations which would match the themes, colored plates, cups, napkins...and I want to buy all of them. And while money is an issue, a bigger issue (and the one that ultimately stops me) is the environment. None of the guests need more plastic crap from china. The goody bags have snacks, new crayons, a ring pop, some bubbles, and some balloons. They're fine. We don't use plastic/disposable cups or plates here, we have enough where people can use the real thing, and I live with washing all of it for the sake of the Earth. And it's a lot easier to stop myself when I am reminded of the real reason why it isn't necessary to have those things. I am sure the party will be a hit. Even if my plates don't have rocket ships on them.

Sometimes I wonder, if it is so hard for ME to not get swept off in a sea of consumerism...me who is frugal and eco-conscious and cares so much about those things...it is no wonder we're (collectively) in the state we're in.

Maxisms

They're nothing like Marxism...

This morning:
Max (watching A Bug's Life): Mama, can we build a bird?
Me (dusting): Pardon?
Max: A bbbbiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrd. Like they're doing! (points at tv).
Me: Hmmm. I don't actually know how to do that.
Max: Ok, then can we build a rocket ship?


This morning he was helping me focus on my to-do list. 3 items began with his name, so he was thrilled. When we got to Max-haircut, he said- "Mom, can I have it allllll smmmoooooooth? With no curls? Just like with a swoosh?"

Heh.

In other news, the bad puppy may have killed a full grown chicken today.

Five Hundred Twenty Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes

I debated about writing about today...it's the one year anniversary of my aunt's passing and we had a mass said for her this morning at our neighborhood church. It's been a rollercoaster of a day, and this whole writing thing is very therapeutic, so I fell on the side of the fence that has me journaling my thoughts with you present.

So, while technically her time of death was on March 16th, 2008, it felt much more like it happened the day before, as it was just a few hours past midnight, and the Rocky Horror-ite in me still feels like it isn't a new day until I've slept, which I hadn't. Because of this, my personal memorial began yesterday, when I started packing to sleep over at my parent's.

I didn't want to have to wake the kids up to cross the dreaded 405 in time for an 8:15 mass, so I thought I should just go spend the night there. As I collected up my things, a wave of recollection hit me. When my aunt was sick last year, for the 48 days in between diagnosis and when she passed, I spent every moment I could at her condo. Towards the end, I slept there too, and I always packed projects and my clothes in the same bag I was now using to pack for the overnight at my moms. The familiarity of it washed over me and I started to cry. Accustomed to crying while being productive, I didn't let it stop my packing, and managed to get mine and the kids' stuff, plus the foldy mat, into the van. Michael had to work, so he was going to meet us in the morning, not being bothered about early wake up times when he's having another all nighter anyway, so it was just me and the kids who headed over to Brentwood as early dusk began. The problem with this is that the gentle tears falling uncontrolled from my eyes were periodically replaced with horrid, racking sobs which made it difficult to see and dangerous to drive, especially on the freeway. The kids were a bit concerned, but once they made sure they were not the cause of my crying, they let me go at it without more questions. I wondered what people were thinking as they pulled up next to me, but not enough to actually look at them or attempt to pull over or, you know, stop crying, as if that were an option.

The thing is, I cry because I miss her all the time, but really, this crying was different. The hours between 7pm and 3am last year were without question the worst 8 hours of my life. The process of packing and preparing for this evening had brought those memories back in force. Cancer is a terrible disease, and it is common opinion that pancreatic cancer is the most awful of all of them...I have no arguement against that. Details aside, the awfulness all came back to me.

I drove down Sunset Boulevard, past the place where I would have turned left to get to my aunt's condo. Magically, the crying stopped, and about a mile later, I turn into my parent's driveway, somber, but sob-free. The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful, I played online, listed items in a new Etsy store for my mom, and watched some of the Celestine Prophecy movie, in between looks with my grandma, who was in and out of tears herself. I stayed up way too late chatting with a good friend online, and was particularly bummed when Magnolia came into the room at 4am, complaining of nightmares. I move over and let her into my brother's twin bed with me, which of course then means I can't fall back asleep. Perched on the edge of the mattress, all I can think about it how am I going to make it through Monday with only 3 hours of sleep? Eventually, I hear my dad leave for the office around 5am, then the mini dogs begin their reveille around 6. Once Max woke up and got into bed with us too, I resigned myself to not falling back asleep.

Coffee, packing, dressing, loading the van back up and I get a phone call from Michael, he cannot find his keys and since he is still on the wrong side of the Sepulveda pass and we're 30 minutes from the service, he isn't going to make it. A bit annoyed am I, although the annoyance turns to embarassment when I discover his keys are for some reason in my purse (oops) and we're on our way to church, 2 blocks away. My bff meets us, and we head in. My cousin and his wife arrive about 20 minutes later, and since mass only lasts about 40 minutes, they've missed most of it. This seems odd to me, until after the service where he informs me that I told him 8:30. I don't know why I would have done that, we've gone to the weekday services before, they are always at 8:15, they've never been at 8:30, but I know that sometimes I say things wrong so I feel terribly guilty and apologize (even though I was supposed to give up guilt for Lent). Breakfast at Norms follows, per my grandma's request. She explains that she remembers coming here when the 5 of us lived together and we were seriously poor.

After all of this, I felt quite wiped, so I excused myself and took Magnolia to school, headed home, took care of some last minute work stuff for Michael, and took Max to school. Some well deserved "me" time followed, and I felt refreshed and rejuvinated again to face the world. For now.

Incidentally, I looked up the email I sent everyone with the information about the mass. It said 8:15. Boo-yah.

I am a Snob

Seriously. I mean, I know being raised by an uber classist mom means that some of that is necessary, but my history in the theater and my liberal arts education tried very hard to ground me to the roots of the people...I try so hard to not be any kind of "ist" but today I failed.

I belong to my neighborhood YMCA, a different Y then where I volunteer and go to camp...my local Y is where I work out, as it is only 4 blocks from my house and is very convenient. It is also very ghetto. It's funny, because the senior directors are by in large very obviously from comfortable backgrounds (hi Suz), once you make your way into an exercise class or the workout room, the socio-economic level presents itself handily. Even getting most of the front desk staff to smile (they tend to look like extras in some angry musician's video, you see...) is more impossible than getting through the Sadist's step class without breaking a sweat. And usually, I like it. I like working out next to people who I don't ordinarily spend time with. It's also one of the things about Magnolia's school that I particularly appreciate, the very real diversity of the students and families there don't let me take anything for granted. It isn't without its challenges, it isn't always ideal, but I do appreciate it. So at the Y, I sweat next to people with whom I have practically nothing in common, and I like it. Usually.

Listen, I went to college because it was expected. I didn't go where I wanted, I didn't study what I wanted, I did what I thought I should do, because my parents (both immigrants) and their parents had higher education, and therefore not doing it wasn't even an option. Where I was going was barely an option. It certainly doesn't make me a better person. The best thing UCLA gave me was Michael (even though I graduated before we met). But I have lots and lots of friends who didn't go to college for a myriad of reasons, and many of those people are brilliant. I know plenty of people who went to college who are none too bright, so when I talk about my particular form of classism, it isn't so much about upper education...it's more about a state of mind.

So I take this cardio class called Zumba. It's a latin/salsa/hip hop dance class that is super fun. It is easily the most popular class at the Y, upwards of 50 people ranging in age from 11-90 typically take the Thursday night class. I've been going for around a year, although I often miss the night classes due to my Musical Theater class...but I am there a lot, and the teacher often has me lead songs on my own or come up next to her to help her teach the dances. This, to me, is super comic. But, I am a ham and never really mind the spotlight, even if it makes me (me!) an aerobics instructor. Today, I came in late and was towards the back, so I stayed in my place throughout the class. At one point, the teacher had us partner up and freestyle salsa dance with our partner. This used to be a staple in the class, but has seemed to not happen as much lately. My partner's name was Claudia...I had never seen her in class before, but she was closest to me...so partner we did.

The music is loud, and all we are required to do is shake our booties, but I always feel compelled to introduce myself, and make a little small talk, at least as we begin. I size up the partner and decide to start in Spanish...which I do, by asking her name. That part goes clunkily, as first she thinks I am asking something else...and then proceeds to ask me if this is my first night in the class. I say no, and ask if it is hers, she says no, she's been 6 times. A little judgmentally she says she's never seen ME there before. I smile, say we must have different schedules, and try for names again. This time, I get Claudia, but she doesn't ask for my name back, so I give it. Of course the combination of the loud salsa music blaring, the booty shaking, and the fact that I have a weird ass name makes this relatively unsuccessful. Continue the booty shaking. I notice 2 little girls dancing on their own on the patio outside and comment on how cute they are. She asks if they are mine, and I say no. We continue to have a conversation about whether we have children and how many, sexes, etc, and I get this OVERWHELMING feeling of "I'm better than you.". And it rocks me, cause honestly, I have no reason to feel this way. The only reason I do is because I am an elitist. I try not to be, but it comes out, bubbles over, and I would never ever make it apparent to the outside world, but everything in my body was looking at Claudia shaking her tush and thinking that she was kind of a peasant, in the words of my mother.

And that made me feel guilty, which is unfortunate, because for Lent, I gave up guilt. Maybe I should have given up being a snob.

One Week

It's been a slow week in comparison to the tree crashing, chicken slaughtering weeks of old...but upon reflection, this slow little week has come and gone with all kinds of twists and turns.

Last Sunday, March 1st, was my late aunt's birthday. She would have been 58. She also would have killed me for publicizing that...without any work she didn't look a day over 36 and having a 31 year old son was her only giveaway. We didn't celebrate. We didn't really even acknowledge. I called my mom a few times and passed along love to my grandma, who wouldn't even come to the phone. I called my cousin and left a voice mail to make sure he was doing ok, a text message response told me he appreciated me checking on him. I cried off and on during the day, but kept myself busy with a visitor...Caren got in the night before to spend 5 wonderful days with me and I was enjoying every minute possible with her, which meant not a lot of crying.

Caren came with me to my class on Tuesday, and I got to perform for her. She hadn't seen me on stage since forever...and it was nice to be able to then gossip about all the folks in my class to her. I performed my song, and I think I did fine, but I continue to think it may be time to move on. Several of my buddies are no longer in the class, and I am feeling that I may need to take the next step into real stage time. *gulp*

Magnolia turned 7 on Friday, which of course meant a lot of non working time was spent cleaning the house, buying presents, and prepping for a family dinner Friday night. Oh, and I also agreed to organize and run the pizza sale at the school from 4:30-5:30 that night. Cause I am crazy. Mags decided she didn't want cupcakes at school, she wanted root beer floats...which added a little extra effort on my part, but birthdays are important to me, so it was fine. She wanted them for dinner that night too, so no baking for me. It was relatively uneventful, an acceptable number of Littlest Pet Shop crap was acquired, so everyone was happy. And now I am the mother of a 7 year old, which is bizarre. I've said it before and I'll say it again...if it weren't for the children growing older, I am sure I would still be in my 20's. I feel no different. Kinda.

The week was bookended by Sunday, my grandma's 90th birthday. No celebrations again, she has felt this whole year anniversary of the 48 days my aunt was sick is a time of more intense mourning, and I can't say I blame her. She refused all offers by my mom and my cousin to go out or get together, but agreed to me coming over to visit. I didn't even wish her a happy birthday, just went over and we cried a little, laughed a little, and she eventually decided just running out for some pizza wouldn't be that bad after all...as long as I kept it a secret. Good thing none of them read my blog. :) I let her have pepperoni even with her bad blood pressure, because I know if I ever turn 90, if someone so much as looks at me thinking the words "that's not good for your diabetes" I will kill them handily. I wish I could have stayed longer, but duty called, and I had to head home to let Michael go back to work.

Next week will be the one year anniversary of my aunt's passing. I can't believe a year has already gone by. But for now, another week came and went, and it will continue to be a wonder to me that the earth keeps moving along, no matter what we do about it.

Chicken Fall Out

I am sitting in bed, listening to the cheeping of 7 new chicks. They're called peeps, as I have learned from Mr. Rodgers, because of this sound. My son, possibly the youngest animal savant in history, is forgoing his Saturday morning video to sit in the bathroom and take turns holding each baby chick. I am hopeful he'll lose interest before he becomes Lenny.

It occurred to me that some follow up might be good. When I finished the last blog, I was still emotionally touched by the whole chicken event. I definitely ran through a gamut of emotions on Wednesday, but landed pretty squarely back onto normalcy, as has my family. Michael generally doesn't read my blog, so he wasn't aware of the whole picture, and took it very smoothly. While a little surprised when I gave him the news and the basic information, he pretty quickly moved on. Max made a pouty face when I first told him what we were going to do, but after I explained it was the chickens he didn't like, he also moved on. So that left me and my very very smart, very very sensitive daughter.

I went to the school to pick them up, ready to go get more baby chicks. I can't very well run a chicken farm with a bunch of chickens who won't lay...so I had called our supplier, ascertained that they had the breeds of chickens I wanted, and was ready. I also did a fair bit of poultry research instead of working on tax accounting, and learned all sorts of things about breeds, all of which inspired me to get more chickens. But first, I needed to break the news.

She was bright and cheerful as we left her classroom and walked across the campus towards the preschool, and I decided to just jump right in. "Hey, honey" I said, "So, Didi and Dodo are gone". Without skipping a beat, she nodded and said "Okay". Remember the petting zoo/farm idea? She was expecting it. It's why the 3rd menopausal chicken had been given a stay of execution- they knew the other 2 were going to go...and they wanted to keep Dewey. We take a few more steps and she looks up at me and says "So, where are they?". Hmm. What to say? I need to strike a balance. I need to be honest, but not scary...I need to be matter of fact, but recognize that she is only 6...this is careful parenting time. I took a deep breath and said "We killed them." Um. Oops.

"What?!?"

"Well, honey" I backpedaled madly "I took them over the the Blancas (all the girls are actually named Blanca- mom and daughters) and Blanca took care of it for us. Remember, we were done with them, and this is what happens with chickens?" As we reach the bench for Max's classroom, her eyes have filled with tears and the sobbing has commenced. I sit on the bench, stroke her hair and say that I understand, that of course it is normal to feel this way and I remind her how when we eat chicken we discuss how it is the same animal we have outside, and I reassure her that this is the end of the cycle for Didi and Dodo and tell her about the little bit of thanks I said over the chickens for all that they had given us. She is sobbing into my chest as I say all of these things quietly only to her, and the other parents, who already think I am odd, stare at me and make those "ooo, that seems rough" looks. If they only knew.

When I am done saying all of my things that are supposed to make her feel better...and tell her that the good news is we will be able to get new baby chicks...and say that they felt no pain and that Blanca was going to clean them and bring them over for us to cook...her crying subsided. She was on her knees at this point, with her head on my belly, and she looked up at me, her tears drying, her eyes red and pensive. "Will there be a drumstick?" She asked hopefully. Whooosh! All the guilt I had disappeared. "Yes, honey, there will". And then, in a turnaround that would make any farmhand proud, she did as close to the Hannibal Lector fava beans lip smack as one might be able to do, if one isn't Anthony Hopkins. Um, ok, that kind of creeped me out.

Max's class arrives and Magnolia panicks, "Does Max know?" I assure her that he does, and that he is excited to go get new chicks, and also...well, reluctantly..."Hon, you know, Didi and Dodo were kind of old, and old chickens, well, see, we weren't going to roast them, the way you like drumsticks, cause they just won't taste as good, so we were, um, well, going to make soup with them. " Breath held, waiting for the reaction...She turned and looked at me- "Chicken Noodle Soup??" Well, actually I was thinking tortilla soup, but um, "Sure", I say. "Yay! I LOVE chicken noodle soup!!!" and off she skips to get her brother. Ok. So that trauma has passed.

We have an unsuccessful trip to the feed store in Tarzana, where the woman explains to me that just because they HAVE the chicks, as I inquired about over the phone, it doesn't mean that they can sell them today. They are only a day old and must be held until Friday. I am pissed, but the kids take it well, the free popcorn and promise of future chicks tides them over. Later, at home, I hear Magnolia calling to me- "Mom! The chicken is here!", I go to the door, and there is Blanca, white grocery bag in hand. I take it and say thank you and make sure she kept one of the chickens for herself. As I head into the kitchen I open the bag and right at the very top of the pile of raw chicken are 2 very clean chicken feet. Oy. I can't deal with chicken feet! Magnolia wants to see, and I put the bag on the counter. She picks up the foot and asks if it is, indeed, a foot. I confirm and she laughs. Laughs. She waggles it at Max, who is curious, but uninterested in touching it...and after checking to see when the soup was going to be made (not for a few days), they both scampered off to play.

I am proud of my kids. I am proud of myself too. I don't know that I will ever be able to do this by myself, as a friend pointed out on my facebook last night, it is not I that is hardcore, it is Blanca. But I certainly will enjoy the soup.

Not For the Faint of Heart

No. Seriously. It isn't for the faint of heart. If you have heart faint, stop reading now. If you don't, it is your own fault, because I warned you.

I am torn between giving you background on all of this or just jumping in. Hmm. Well, since my heart is still racing, and there is nothing like adreneline-fueled writing, I am going to just jump in. Kinda. Tiny background first...in case you don't know. We keep chickens.

I could sit here and explain how it has come to pass that in 11 years of keeping chickens we have never had to come to this before, but that will take precious time...so let's just say that for the first time ever, we had 2, um, menopausal chickens whose very presense irked me. The fact that they haven't laid an egg in over a year, the fact that they are mean and pick on the younger chickens (yes, I understand pecking order, but still...), the fact that they will actually chase my children around the yard during free range time (ok, that part is kinda funny), well, all of these facts bother me. I was ready to take them to the petting zoo near my friend's house and huck them over the fence one night. And, until a dose of utter practicality set over me this morning, that was the plan.

The economy sucks, right? Our personal economy has sucked for 2 years, so the worldwide phenomenon is kind of old hat to us, except that we're really tired of it already. Every time I buy chicken food I consider if I get enough eggs out of the deal to make it worth it...and for the last few months, that answer is NO. Now, chickens don't generally lay in the winter, and we have some oldies who don't lay at all, and we had a chicken massacre in December thanks to the neighborhood raccoon, who may have scared the surviving hens out of doing anything for a while, so there are reasons for it. I have decided in the last few days that it is time I take matters into my own hands. That if I am unhappy with something, I need to fix it, moping just won't do. This has meant a lot of being proactive...and this morning, it spread to the chicken coop.

I was out feeding the chickens and it occurred to me. Today was the day. The 2 old birds were going today...I would put them in the car and tonight take them to the farm. But out of curiosity, I first called our babysitter's mom, who is also our across the street neighbor, and also keeps chickens...although more in a Mexican Farm way than in our Hippie Hen Haven kinda way. I asked her what she did with her non layers...and she (after ascertaining that I understood that hens lay less in winter) said that she killed them and made soup. Nice. After some discussion, she agreed to come over and show me how. I agreed to it, thinking this is the practical thing to do...I eat chicken...why not eat ours? Of course as soon as I hung up, I began to freak out. I can't kill a chicken...I can't even kill a bug! I throw the hated snails into the chicken coop so they can do my dirty work, I move spiders outside on a piece of paper or in a cup...as much of a carnivore as I am, I can't handle doing it myself. Michael of course was unavailable for advice, so I set to work in my garden, hoping I would figure it out...and maybe 10 minutes later, over came Blanca.

She explained to me that it was easy. She would help. We would hold their feet and their wings, and cut off their heads. After their blood drained we would boil water, stick them in, and pull out their feathers (do I use my Le Creuset pot for that?). Once their feathers are out, we cut them open and take out their intestines! Oh goody! Is that all? Yeah. There is no way. So I admit my reluctance and she says "ok, I'll do it for you" (in Spanish, of course). Hmm. At this point we are each holding one of the hens, and we head over to her house. I am attempting to be brave and burly, but I am cringing inside. Like it's nothing we put Max in front of PBS kids in her living room with her 9 year old, she grabs a kitchen knife, all the while holding a chicken, and heads outside. I follow her.

Her backyard transports me to a foreign country, as it always does. All dirt, fruit trees of all kinds in amazing condition (why doesn't my orange tree look like that?), clothes, non functional applicances, a chicken coop, several dogs, and a trampoline suspended in air being used as a sun or rain roof...I take it all in as she puts the dogs away. I pet Didi, the hen in my arms (although, truth be told, it might be Dodo...they're interchangeable) and give her my thanks. I tell her that I appreciate her eggs and all the nourishment they have given me and my family and friends, and that I am sorry if she feels any pain. I tell her all of these things looking into her beady chicken eyes and petting her red feathers. Blanca returns, and as easy as pie, puts Dodo (or Didi) on the ground, one foot holding the chicken feet, one foot holding the wings...lifts her head up and begins sawing away at the chicken's neck until blood begins to spurt out and eventually it is no longer attached. she tosses the head casually to the side, then continues to stand there while the chicken body writhes and spurts blood. She is wearing her regular clothes, and has not even a drop of blood on her...well, until a bit from the turning, twisting neck piece spurts onto her shoe. We have a conversation about the English idiom running around like a chicken with it's head cut off. Executioner small talk, you know. Dodo is finally done, and she steps off and grabs Didi. Repeat.

Did that really just happen? She's going to peel and take out the insides for me, she thinks my squeamishness is cute. I have told her to keep a chicken in exchange. I feel like I am imagining all of this...but I didn't. Time to order some new baby chicks and get my soup pot ready.

I pride myself on not being a stereotype. I like floating between worlds. If I had to pick my favorite self adjective it would be chameleonesque. And I don't know if that just means I have a lack of commitment. I'm enough of a farm girl to raise chickens, clean their poop, use said poop to fertilize my garden...but slaughter? Um, no thanks, I'll go to Costco and get a bag of chicken breasts- boneless, skinless, as far from the original animal as they can resemble, thanks.

Shaken Off, Shaken Out, Shaken Up.

Michael came home from work about 20 minutes ago, very upset because a server crash in a data center downtown completely messed up his day. Meetings were made worthless, plans have to be changed, everything got screwed up. Like the Tasmanian Devil he came in, scrounged around for what he needed, then went to leave. Right before he left he turned around in the doorway, looked at me, smiled, and said "Shake it off, right? I just need to shake it off". I smiled and said yes, absolutely. He smiled wryly, then turned and left.

About 5 minutes later I heard a sound like a landslide of recyclables had just been dumped out. It was loud, and it sounded like it was coming from my driveway...I considered it for a minute, then went back to work, convinced it was likely my neighbors doing something with their trash. It is trash day, after all. Maybe 3 minutes later I hear Max shouting for me. It sounds like he is upset, which of course makes me jump out of my seat. "You have to see what happened, Mama! You have to come see what happened!" Ok. I ask what it is, but before I can understand what he is saying I am at the back door. Oh. My. God.

The very large, very old tree which sits on the property line between ours and our (other) neighbor's fence has been completely uprooted, and crashed down upon our very large wooden play structure, bringing the fence with it. I am in shock. Michael isn't answering his phone. So I blog.

These are the things I am freaking out about:
We can't afford to pay to fix the fence or the play structure, or cut apart the tree, and Michael has no time to do those things and I have no ability to do them either...

These are the things I am thankful for and trying to focus on in between bouts of tears and shaking:

The kids and dogs are fine. No one was out there, no one got hurt.

The only Must Do is fix the fence. The rest of it can kind of wait until we can deal with it.

It didn't fall on any power lines.

It didn't fall on the house (although, that would have been nice in a way...the house needs fixin').

It will be fine. It will all be fine. This will be my mantra today.

Daddy's Girl

There are times where my life is very confusing. I can imagine that reading about it may be even more so. I have a dad, who is technically my stepdad, who is legally my actual father, because he adopted me when I was 20, after being in my life since I was 8. As the adoption announcement he sent out stated- We will be in fact what we have long been in reality, father and daughter. I love him and all his eccentricities, his quirkes, his talents, his abilities, and his nobility. Never have a met a more trustworthy, honest, decent man...and he's a lawyer. This of course, made me not understand everything that is said about lawyers until I was an adult and realized they just weren't all like my dad.

I also have a Biological father. He and I have always had a troubled relationship, due in large measure to, I think, a lack of communication. He lives close by but we don't see each other very much. I call him Biodad when I am talking about him, but I call him Daddy when I talk to him or about him with my siblings, also his children. He was once also an attorney, but a heart attack followed by a stroke followed by a series of unfortunate instances have left him unable to work for the last 10 years or so. He's not a bad person, and I know he loves me in his own way, but there have been a lot of shortcomings which I choose to blame on him, since he was the parent, and while I harbor no ill will towards him now, I doubt that we will ever be close. He's Biodad, and important in his own right...but he really isn't my "Dad".

I just got off the phone with my mom, who relayed a conversation she had with my Dad (stepdad, right? see? it's confusing sometimes) at lunch which made me basically burst straight into tears because what he said was so sweet and so loving, I was overcome by emotion. I feel so lucky to have this person in my life. So lucky to have someone so good love me so much. I often say that Michael has a lot of my dad about him...and sometimes it isn't me being very nice. They are both workaholics. It's true, and I hate it, but there is nothing I can do to change them. Either of them. But they share all of the positive traits too, and for that I am so thankful. As much as I insisted I would never marry someone like my father (adolescent frustration over the working), I kind of did. And after hearing the message from him today, I am reminded how lucky I am to have both of them in my life.

Good Grief

The first funeral I remember attending was that of my paternal Grandmother, who passed the December of my freshman year of college. I was 17 and living at home, and I got the phone call from my uncle, letting me know that she had died. She had been sick for a long time, but as a typical teenager, it didn't occur to me that she was going to go anywhere, and so a combination of sadness over her being gone, and guilt over not seeing her more often overtook me. The service was going to be the next day and my mom, my grandma, and I would go. Later that day I got a call from my biodad telling me the news. He was annoyed his brother had beat him to the punch, but asked me how I was. I said, "I've been better" and he lost it. He started hollering at me that I didn't deserve to be sad, I didn't have the right, that it was his mother who had died, and I didn't care about anyone, and he was the only one who had the right to be sad. Shocked, I stopped crying, turned into my normal "Ariella talking to biodad emotional fetal position" and just got quiet. He calmed down and asked if I had directions to the Temple...and I made the mistake of mentioning that my mom was planning on coming and that she knew how to get there. More hollering about his ex wife and how she didn't deserve to be sad either. More quiet Ariella. That night I went out with 2 very good friends trying to cheer me up and while at the Fatburger across the street from the Beverly Center, my purse got very dramatically stolen from the counter right in front of me. The man came in, wandered, snatched my beautiful Italian purse, a gift from my exes parents, which happened to contain all of my tip money from the month, over 400 dollars in cash, which was to be turned into Christmas presents that weekend. Bummer. The funeral was pretty uneventful after all of that. I mourned under the protection of my mom and more importantly, my grandma, who no one would ever mess with.

My next 2 funerals were hard. My boyfriend was killed in a car accident. His funeral was the largest I have ever been to, but I was in such crushing grief I couldn't leave my pew I was crying so hard. Then my brother in law died, which had been expected, as he was sick, but having my sister and her 2 young boys be robbed of his life was heartbreaking.

I was then fortunate in that the next 2 funerals were for people who had lived their lives well and for whom death was a welcome passage into the next stage. My great grandmother, who had made it an incredibly long time, finally succumbed to age. My dad had been raised by her, so it was too hard for him to say anything, and I was asked to read his eulogy, and give my own. I somehow managed, through the tears, to speak with pride and love about this incredible woman. Michael's grandma was next, after battling Alzeimers for a very long time, and I honestly cannot remember more about the service than the color of the church. Seems fitting. Alzeimers is a cruel, cruel disease.

After that I had a break, and it wasn't until a few years ago that I was touched by death again. My very good friend's mom was battling cancer and lost. I helped him clean out her apartment then hosted a reception for him at my house. It was the first time I was so involved in the process, and while I knew her, my participation was because of him. Having become a mother, and caring for my friend who had lost his own, was an intense but incredible experience. During the reception, it was discovered that one of our baby chicks had been, um, played with by our eager dog and hadn't made it. I was very upset for about 3 seconds, until I realized we were basically at a funeral, albeit without a service, and in my backyard, and that being upset about a month old chicken was perhaps insensitive. I went to tell Magnolia the news, and as a toddler, she handled it exceptionally well. Her little face got very pensive and she asked "will we bury her?" and I said yes. Her face then lit up and she said "oh good, then Marble can become a flower!". Done and done.

My father in law battled with Muscular Dystrophy for years before I met him. Once I became part of the family, he very quickly won my heart with his spirit, his sense of humor, his patience, and his kindness. When he died the day before Magnolia turned 4, my heart ached not only at my own loss, and that of the world, but for my children who would never grow up knowing this incredible man, their grandfather. His funeral service seemed to last for days, mainly because it did. There was the rosary said the night he died, the rosary/mass before the funeral, the funeral service the next day, the burial, then the reception. Everything was a flurry and there were plenty of times to talk about Tommy, about his pain in life, and his release into death and into heaven. I remember looking through tears at his very plain casket dressed in the quilt I had made for him, which he often told me was his favorite gift ever. I remember being surprised and touched at the fact that my own family and friends came to the funeral to support me and Michael, and I feel like it was my first funeral as a grown up, in a manner of speaking. I didn't consider that it would just be the beginning. Tommy was taken before his time, but was well warned. We knew it was going to happen, it was just a question of when.

I can't talk too much about my Aunt's passing yet. Last year, at this time, I had just started my musical theater class and we had the news. Pancreatic Cancer. We were expecting to have 8-24 months, and I was ready to pack my bags and go wherever Mimma wanted, as soon as she wanted. I was ready to give up everything so I could be with her for whatever time she had left. Within a week, we realized it wasn't going to be that long. Within 2 weeks, we didn't know how much longer it would be, but it was going to be quick. 5 weeks later she would be gone. After some deliberation, we had the service in my backyard a week later. It was quite beautiful, and painful, and at one point, problematic, but that passed and everyone agreed that it was a good tribute. I am still recovering from the experience as a whole, and the loss, but the funeral itself is practically no part of that.

Yesterday, I went to a funeral for a friend of mine whose dad had passed after battling cancer for several years. I didn't know him, except through the stories, but I wanted to go and be there to support my friend. It was very hard for me, as he was about the same age as my aunt, and was leaving behind a devoted wife and 2 adult children very much not ready to lose their father. I cried a lot during the service, and ended up having to meditate away from the funeral to go to my happy place so that I didn't turn into a blubbering mess. It made me think a lot about funerals, and why we have them, and why we go. I realized that now I may go to as many funerals as I go to any other kind of life event, and the importance of grief. I thought about my own funeral, and hoped that it would not come for a while. While I have every intention on living as long as I can, I recognize that with my health history, I will probably go younger than most of my friends, and I think I am ok with that. Let them plan the party. But in a very weird way, it felt good to be there. It felt good to be able to support my friend and her boyfriend and her brother, even if it was just with hugs and smiles. It felt good to cry and be sad about loss, recognizing that life does go on. I rarely say die anymore. I say pass. I am not sure what we pass into, but there is something oddly comforting about talking like a southern african american woman.

My Gun Shoots Love

I decided before having children that raising children who were impervious to societally constructed notions of gender and sexual orientation was of priority to me. I recognized before they came along that I was in for an uphill battle, and one that would not be without biological warfare, as I believe strongly in the position "nature" holds over us all. However, I refused to be a part of it. I wanted my future children to be nutured in whatever way it seemed they needed, but not to go along with society's defined roles.

Once my actual children came along, it proved to be difficult. My daughter, dressed in a combination of gender neutral yellows followed by the scores of much needed pink and pinker hand-me-downs from her 4 older girl cousins took to girlishness much more adeptly at first than I was comfortable with. I didn't want to be militant, I know the road of the rebel, so I allowed her to choose once she was able, always offering the more neutral (ok, honestly, the "boy") versions of items first and more excitedly. She rarely bought it. On the occasion of her 3rd Christmas, she was a few months shy of 3 years old, and what she wanted was a pink Princess Aurora(I refuse to call the character Sleeping Beauty. The woman had a name, for goodness sake) dress and I balked. There was so much pink in this dress it made Peptol Bismol look butch. And Disney? Ugh. And a Disney Princess? Double up Ugh Ugh. But I considered the fact that this is what she REALLY wanted. And wasn't raising children who were fulfilled part of my ultimate plan? *Sigh* Yes. And so I bought the dress. And there, on Christmas morning, amongst the fabric wrapping bags, and recycled/upcycled gift tags, and the learning toys, out came that pink dress. The look on her face was priceless, truly. She was thrilled and begged to put it on. As we pulled it over her head, her face aglow with delight, she asked, "Mama, am I a princess?" And I took a deep breath and replied, "Yes, darling, you're a princess. You're a princess who is strong, and brave, and smart!" And she ran her little hands down the front of her Pink Extravaganza and breathed out "And SPARKLY!".

On the other hand of the fence (tm), Mother Nature blessed me with balance in the way of a boy. And what a boy he is. Many many articles I've read on the subject made me realize that no matter how hard I try, I wouldn't be able to keep him from sometimes being aggressive and probably from loving guns and fighting and war. I'd managed to keep him away from transformers and power rangers and all things fighty until he went to preschool and caught on very fast that what these other boys were talking about was COOL. His first Christmas after preschool he was clear, he wanted a Transformer. When asked what kind, he said with much determination, "the kind that turns into a Tree!". Awesome. A hippie transformer. :) Sadly, those days have now passed and he is keen into guns and light sabers and karate. He still hasn't seen enough of these things in the way of movies and the like to truly understand, but man, he wants to.

So yesterday, we were building with this cool buildy thing my sister gave the kids. I made a paint sprayer to paint beautiful paintings, Magnolia built a food ordering device that could make 4 dishes- ice cream, noodles with pesto, grated cheese, and shrimp, and Max made a gun. After playtime came work time, and I went into the yard to prune some fruit trees. Max came along, shooting stuff in his wake, and then offered his gun to me. I took it, wanting to bond and play with him, placed the very large device over my shoulder, took careful aim, and shot, making my exceptionally pitiful shooting noises. He was impressed and asked what I was shooting. I told him I was shooting love into our garden. He looked perplexed and took the gun back. He peered at it suspiciously until his gaze focused on 4 little bolts on one of the gun crossroads. His confused look changed to understanding and said "oh, mama! Did you use the love button?" Smiling, I responded..."yes, honey, I used the love button". He looked again at the gun and pointed to the bolts, naming them. "See, mama, this button is for arrows...this one is for love...this one is for, um" ("good energy?" I offered), "Yes, good energy...and this one is for just blowing things up." Ok. That's ok. As long as sometimes the gun shoots love.

Fear and Loathing

I have been thinking a bit about fear. Once, in a pre-blogging blog, I wrote about what happens when you face the people or situations which you admire (or to some degree, fear). I tried to link it here, but evidentally the source is broken. (For you long time readers, think back to the Bernadette Peters entry from my trip to Italy blog) I have had this happen to me but I don't think I have learned enough to consistently extrapolate it into life.

In the last few weeks, and more importantly, hours, I have realized that my Voldemort is stupid. Really, really dim. I have feared, made life decisions, had personal image issues, and during a time of teenage melodrama and angst- tried to take my own life, based on things I was told by my own personal he-who-must-not-be-named. And even though the demon was vanquished over 2 decades ago, it was always with me...in the back of my mind, whispering those evil thoughts in the back of my brain. And if it sounds as though I am speaking in code, I am. With reason. As Voldemort has returned and as I just figured out, he is not the sharpest took in the shed, but he might just read my blog.

In related news, it turns out God is unhappy. Not your god...a different one, I guarantee. Still, he is unhappy to a degree, and very very human. Also, quite possibly as big of a dork as I am and completely fun and nice, after all. Isn't that weird? (I don't know, Ariella, because you're still talking in code and it is kind of confusing to figure out what on earth you are referring to). Well, let me assure you: it is weird!

So what is all of this about fear and loathing? Shhhhh. It means nothing. Fear of other people, loathing people, envy, holding on to what people may say or worse even, what they think, is meaningless, worthless, and really really bad for you! I am going to free myself from these chains that have held me for almost 3 decades. I am done worrying about "them". I just figured out that them is just one of us after all. And at least one of them is stupid.