Have some "Faith"

We always get phone calls from friends and family to create designs for a variety of things. Michael remembers making sketches for kids in his neighborhood, on their skateboards, hats, the walls (of course), etc. I was always called to make signs, designs, birthday cards. I fondly remember when my family participated in this chili cook-off--I was the one called in to make little hand-made signs for snow cones, tacos, burritos, etc. I think I was about 11 at the time. Then in middle school I was the one who always drew "anatomically correct" people at the back of the bus, with a crowd of people around me. Funny how I could expertly draw a penis without actually having seen one. Heh.

That's just how it is when you're an artist.

But neither of us have ever designed a tattoo for anyone. Some good friends of ours asked if Michael could design a graffiti-style tattoo for their son Kash, who was turning 18.

I don't know about you, but there was not a chance in this lifetime that my mama would have let me get some ink on my 18th birthday. I have two other good friends who are letting their daughter do the same thing. This is a whole new generation! I guess it would be kind of hard to say no to tattoos when as a mama, you have a full sleeve AND gargoyle wings on your back (love you, Christina!).

So Michael set out to create an original design for Kash. When his mom told me where he was gonna get it, I thought, wow, that's pretty ambitious for his first tattoo. I heard he was in quite a lot of pain there for a minute. Ouch.

I think the design turned out great. But we didn't know how close the tattoo artist Worm was gonna get to the design Michael made. They changed the colors a bit, but the integrity of the design remained the same. My husband never ceases to amaze me.

I think it turned out amazing, don't you?

Droppin' balls.

Here is a funny little tidbit about me. When I am under alot of stress, I'm very forgetful. I drop the ball. Like, in a major way.

Take about two weeks ago. I forgot to pay the utility bill. I know, right? Water is sort of vital to the running of a home. Sure, I've had plenty of occasions where we had to scrape up the pennies. But we still managed to pay before it got shut off. Well, on this fine Wednesday morning, we were finishing up with breakfast and about to wash the dishes when, for some strange reason, no water was coming out of the faucet.

Hmmmm, that's odd.

Turns out, it got shut off. Your girl forgot to pay the bill. To make matters worse, after we paid the bill in full, they didn't turn it back on until the end of the business day....the next day. Yeh, it was feeling all Little House on the Prairie up in this piece.

Then there was the really cool art show I agreed to be in. Allllll the way up north in Oakland. I got all my paperwork in order, turned in my bios and my narratives, framed my stuff, touched up some things, etc. All on time. And I had this date stuck in my head. The 10th. All artwork has to be in Oakland by the 10th. So here I am thinking I'm making good time. I'll be able to send it UPS ground, it'll get there in time, all is well, etc.

Then I get an e-mail from the curator of the show, the lovely Rachel-Anne. I haven't received anything from you yet. Did you send your artwork already? All entries should be submitted by the 5th.

Wait. Wait. Wait!

So as I went back to the legion of e-mails I have stored in folders I found it. The email that said all artwork was to be submitted by the 5th.

Your girl must be slippin'.

I am slippin'!

So I panic. Sure, I can send it out next day air or 2-day priority, but it'll cost me an arm and a leg--almost $200. That may not sound like alot to you, but this is me, remember?

I just got my water shut off and I had to clean my armpits with a washcloth and a bowl of water.

If I send it UPS ground, it might--on a lucky chance--get there by Monday, which was the last possible day before they began to hang the show. So I got to thinking...do I wanna get done wrong and have my stuff hung way down the hallway, around the corner and by the bathroom, cuz I sent my stuff in late?

Uh, no.

I hate, hate, HATE to appear flaky and unreliable. When you are raised by a super efficient single mother, it sorta becomes this monkey on your back. I can claim that I live a crazy life (which I do) and that I'm responsible for way too many lives for one person to manage (which I do)...but that just sounds like an excuse. But being a housewife, helping my husband with his business, working with a nonexistent budget, homeschooling the chil'rens, having one of the chil'rens play sports, being an art teacher (grading papers and creating projects), staying involved in our small group, trying to create my own art AND trying to stay sane is getting the best of me. And being under duress is causing me drop balls left and right.

Michael put on his Save-the-Wifey cape and promised to find a reasonable solution. "Don't worry, baby, we're gonna get it there if I have to drive them myself!" But of course, I didn't take him literally. I should have known. About a half an hour later, he busted into the kitchen with a huge smile on his handsome, glowing face.

"Ok! I know how we can do this."

And I'm standing there like, ok...yeh...ok...well?

"I'll take the paintings to Oakland myself!"

And I'm still standing there like, ok...yeh...ok...well?

Help me out, honey. I'm drawing a blank. How is that a solution?

Turns out, it cost less money to buy a bus ticket to Oakland on the Greyhound than to ship it. Sure, most people couldn't take the day off in their busy work week to go all the way out to Northern California. But you have to realize, my husband is special. To me, anyway. He didn't see it that way. Remember how I wrote about my son having fresh eyes, and how he saw things differently from you and me? Well, he inherited them from his daddy! He saw it as an opportunity to travel to a new place, to enjoy the ride, the scenery, the freedom of being alone and not having to worry about six chil'rens and the wifey. To his complex, ADHD-riddled mind, it made perfect sense.

Which leads me to where I made yet another boo-boo.

As he was getting ready to leave for L.A., I bought his bus ticket online. I printed out the confirmation page, packed the ipod, the camera and some clean chonies. I'm nothing if not a practical wife. And off he went.

Then I got a phone call an hour later.

Turns out I printed out the confirmation page, but not the actual tickets. It was our responsibility to print out the ticket. It was nonrefundable.

Gulp.

I started to cry a little. Out of panic. Are you serious? How could you mess up again? How could you not have read the letters that were in BOLD, ALL CAPS?

And...scene.

Michael called me back within ten minutes to tell me the supervisor was understanding of his situation and printed out his ticket.

Whew. My butt cheeks could finally unclench. That was a close one. I had my "I forgot again!" pity party and then went to sleep.

But let's set all that aside.

My paintings are in Oakland! Safe and sound. My husband is back home! Safe and sound.

Being a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants mama for the past twelve years has worked out fine for me. But no more--there is just too much stuff to do, to remember, to go, to buy, to wash, to cook, to mail in, to accomplish.

I think I just might have to follow a schedule or something.

Mom, are you listening? You can die a happy woman now. I have finally caved! She's been trying to get me on a schedule for years now.

Now, if I can only find the time to schedule creating the schedule, I'll be just fine.

Heh.

Missed the opening and then the closing. Boo! Hisss!

Last night was the closing of Retna and the Mac's Vagos Y Reinas show. We had the best intentions to go to the opening at the Robert Berman Gallery in Santa Monica back in September. The chil'rens were taken care of, we had a fabulous sushi dinner here in Riverside and then we took off to L.A. Well, turns out we totally missed the opening because it closed at six. And seriously, what art opening in L.A. on a Saturday night closes at 6 p.m?

Apparently, this one.

Sigh. I was really looking forward to this show, having followed Retna and Mac's collaborations over the years. About a month or so before the show, Michael went out to L.A to pick up some new paint from Nova Color. As he was picking out his colors, in walked Retna. They are old friends and fellow writers. It was one of those chance meetings on a random day during the week. They got to hang out and Michael got a glimpse of a project he was working on.

So of course we were bummed out that we missed out on the show. Retna and Mac's collaborations have been sick. However, we did get to see the giant vagina over at Mid-City Arts / 33third on West Pico Blvd.

I suppose that affirms the notion that a trip out to L.A. is never in vain.

Michael wanted to make the closing last night but...his car was in pieces on the driveway as he tried to replace the water pump. Ahhh, the realities of life.

Michael went with Mo to pick up these letter/shape thingies.

Mo, doing what all post-modern artists do when they move on to the next level of their creativity: they explore the sculptural elements of their work.

Amazing. Loved the title of the show, too!

So this is what he did with those shapes. Looks like Egyptian hieroglyphs.

It must have been a big step to break away from the amazing color he is known for.

It sorta felt like you were being birthed all over again. Um, yeh.

Catching a case.

Oh, snaps. Looks like homeboy caught a case big time. $15,000! Ouch. I feel for the dude. But on the other hand, people have got to realize that all this social networking is bound to come back and bite us on the @$$.

The po-po aren't complete fools. I know someone who worked for the sheriff's department and they routinely check on people's online activity when they try to apply for some sort of law enforcement position. And believe me, tagging on the walls is nothing compared to some of the sick things people are into these days then they still choose to share it with the world.

If its a criminal activity, isn't it common sense to watch your back and not broadcast it online? Sure, there are other fish to fry...but you just never know. I know a graffiti artist who is very active in the graffiti community so he posts pictures of his artwork on various sites. But he always, always obscures his face in some way. Sure, his name is out there, but you can't tie his face with the name. I asked him about it once and he said, I just gotta keep it low profile. You just never know.

He should tell that to all the stupid adolescent boys on myspace who create albums full of their crappy little tags.

Show us your grill!

Halloween is not a big day for me. It's just not high on my list of priorities. And when you're a homeschooling mama to six chil'rens, you need to have your priorities in order or your world will come crashing down around you.

Sadly, I'm not one of those mom's who decorate their house with webs and giant spiders. I don't make pumpkin-shaped cookies. And, I don't plan on each child's costume. I mean, I can't rationalize spending $$$ that I don't have on costumes they'll wear for a few hours when I could be buying them clothes that they will actually wear everyday. I mean, hello, I just recycled a soggy roll of toilet paper.

I'm nothing if not practical.

What I've discovered is, we get by on donated costumes or we just get creative and run with it. This year was no different. We celebrated Halloween on Friday because we were going to our church's Trunk-N-Treat. So we pulled down the giant bag of costumes from the top of the closet and went through them. I got away easy this year. Three of the boys were at Disneylandia with their Daddy, so that just left me with three to dress. Xixi decided she would be a "titty-tat". Xixi translation: her kitty cat was actually a leopard. Maya wanted to be a pirate, complete with eyeshadow, blush and lipstick. She settled for some brown eyeshadow smudged around her eyes.

And Cyan, well....Cyan wanted to be a gangsta rapper.

We researched Little Wayne and Snoop Dogg on google images.

That's when he came up with the baggy pants, his boxer's sticking out, wife-beater and "blingage". The dookie braids and grill were my idea.

He was deep in character all night long.

Heh.

Recycling at its finest.

This is a testimony as to how broke/cheap I am.

On Monday, Xixi knocked a brand new roll of toilet paper into the toilet. No worries, there weren't any surprises in the water. So as I fished it from the toilet, I thought of how quickly we go through t.p. A 24 pack is gone in a matter of days. I usually have to buy the mamma-jamma package from Costco, or the biggest one they offer at Target.

Granted, we have lots 'o butts to wipe.

But I've also seen how much paper the chil'rens waste. Mounds upon mounds flowing out of the trashcan, stopping up the toilet. I figured if I let the roll dry out, it would be perfectly fine to use. I mean, my butt's not that picky. Well, actually it is.

Nevertheless, I was right. The roll took about five days to dry. I put it back on the roll today. It looked kinda jacked up, but it did a perfectly fine job of wiping.

Perfectly fine, I tell you.

I'm feeling rather smug that I saved a roll of t.p that costs me approximately .33 to buy.

Ta-dow.

Heebie Jeebies

I'm telling you this so you can have sympathy for me.

I have a very sadistic father who enjoyed torturing his children with scary movies.

He made me and my little brother watch Night of the Living Dead. "They're coming to get you, Barbara!" We must have been about four and five years old at the time. I remember being soooo afraid of that movie. I didn't sleep for days. Days.

When The Exorcist came out, I have vague memories of seeing it. Maybe I was in the back of our yellow Datsun while they watched it at the drive-in, and I peeked. Because somehow I remember seeing that stupid movie. The levitation, the demonic voice, the head spinning...aagggh. And the song...I really, really hated that song. The tubular bells song. It was awful. It would just creep me out.

So the story goes like this: My dad bought the tubular bells album. Yep, that is how old I am...we used to listen to albums growing up. I did not like when he used to play this song because it scared me. So one day, I was upstairs in our little condo in San Diego and my Dad began to play the album. All of a sudden, he hears my chubby little feet stomping down the stairs. I march right over to the record player, scrape the needle across the album and turn it off.

"I don't like that song."

And that was the end of Dad's tubular bells album.

Heh.

Noah and I were doing some late night shopping for Disneylandia snacks last night. As I'm figuring out which bread to buy, I hear this very song come on. I froze. I literally froze.

All these years later, and that song can still trigger the heebie jeebies in me.

So, I'm standing there, staring off into space. Noah asks, "What's wrong, mom?"

"Childhood trauma."

I told him the album scratching story and he laughs, "That sounds like something Xixi would do!"

He's right, it does. So I leave you with the Tubular Bells song. Tell me if it doesn't give you the heebie jeebies!

Raising a Visionary.

One of the several reasons why Michael and I were compelled to homeschool was because we wanted to give our children the freedom to mature and grow at their own pace. I can take off my mommy goggles every so often and see who they are as individuals. Some are pretty much in line with their age, in terms of maturity. Others have really needed the cushion that homeschooling provides. Then there were the learning challenges. Who else would love them and advocate for them more then their own mother?

Sol just turned 9 last month. He is one of the coolest kids you will ever meet. He always has a smile on his face. He's very lovable and affectionate. He's very helpful. Friendly. He works hard and he loves hard.

But this year is the first year that I began to notice him struggling with his schoolwork. Up until this point, I just thought he was just being scatter-brained. Lazy, even. But I realize now that while everyone else is advancing, he's staying the same. Then I came to understand that he was never at their level to begin with. He's been struggling since day one, getting by on memorization, decoding pictures and having his brother Diego read and write for him, since he constantly flips letters and numbers around--classic signs of dyslexia.

And that just breaks my heart. Because if you knew this boy, you'd know he is very bright. He loves to build things with his hands. He's very active. He's very helpful. He is far from incapable or "dumb".

One thing about Sol...he loves, loves, loves to draw. I think because he faces so many challenges with his learning, the easiest way for him to communicate is to draw. We work on reading, writing and I can visibly see his mind chugging along, like a train on a crooked track...it just doesn't flow smoothly. But put a pencil and drawing pad in front of him, and he just goes and goes, and there is nothing holding him back.

Its like second nature.

Everyone always asks if the chil'rens like to paint and draw, what with having two artists for parents. Some do, more than others. Some show promise, at a very young age. Others looks like should be drawing on the short bus--clearly their gift will be in some other area of life.

But Sol..he's wired for creative expression.

He finished dinner and then got his new "Where the Wild Things Are" book that his grandma bought him, pulled out some paper and set out to create one of the characters. He didn't ask for help. He didn't trace.

He just flowed.

You go, boy.

I like to think that God didn't create him with a learning handicap, or some sort of hopeless disability...but with a different way of seeing things.

He has a fresh pair of eyes.

The same kind of eyes that belong to famous artists, architects, musicians, athletes, inventors and scientists.

So basically, I'm raising a visionary here.

I'm blessed.

Where My Wild Things Are

I must confess. I don't remember Where the Wild Things Are, at all. I should say its the actual story, the words that I don't remember. I totally and completely remember the illustrations in the book. As a library-lovin' book nerd, I would sit and flip through the pages over and over. It might be that I had this book before I could read. Nevertheless, it had a visual impact on me over the years.

When I heard about the movie, I was excited to see it. I knew that the "Max's" of my family would enjoy it, too. So off we went to the drive-in, where every family with more than three children watch movies.

It was a perfect, fall, Sunday night. The drive-in was pretty empty, the chil'rens had their snacks, everyone was bundled in their blankets. Everything was good. It's hard for me to concentrate while at the drive-in, but when this movie began...I can't explain it, it just captured me from the moment it began. The story, the images, the soundtrack, I loved it.

It was almost magical.

I watched the wonder on my kid's faces. It was a mixture of horror, worry, humor, interest, awe. My two "Max's", Diego and Solomon, couldn't take their eyes off the screen, they were so enthralled by the story. I also suspected that their Daddy had a little bit of "Max" in him, too.

I have to say, it really captured my heart. Unbeknownst to me, it captured my son's heart as well. When it ended, Sol came over to me quietly, put his head against my chest and he just started sobbing. It touched him so deeply. Then, of course he made me cry! He laid there for a long time, crying.

What is it, Sol? Why are crying? I asked him.

Its just so sad. He said.

How do mean? I wondered.

Because he had to leave the Wild Things. That makes me sad. But then he left his family, his mom. That makes me sad, too. Then he started crying again.

Aaah, to have children who are so emotional, who feel things so deeply. Solomon went on to explain how much he would have liked to have been Max...to play with the Wild Things, to build those cool forts. But to be with the Wild Things meant he had to be away from his family. And that made him sad.

It was so sweet. What was even sweeter was how his brothers and sisters rallied around him, hugging him, patting him on the back, trying to make him feel better.

And that, I guess, is the struggle. To live out the wild rumpus that goes on in their mind...yet to be in the present, with their family who loves them. Yes, that is a struggle indeed.

That's just the way we roll.

We took the chil'rens to the Getty in L.A. last week on a field trip. What a beautiful place. The views overlooking the city from the museum were amazing. We spent a long time out in the garden area. The chil'rens loved all the plants and little trails they had. They had a lush, green grassy area where people were eating sack lunches and napping in the sunlight.

Well, Michael decided it was a perfect spot for the chil'rens to roll down the hill. You should have heard how loud they were. All I could do was stand there and smile...yes, I'm responsible for these little people AND their dad...and roll the camera.

To return or to tailor, that is the question?

I am a relentless shopper. Meaning I will search high and low for something once my mind is zeroed in on its prey. I will bargain shop, I will go to several different locations of the same store, I'll have customer service call their other stores to locate a size for me, I'll hunt online, etc. etc. Then when I find what I'm looking for I'll seek out a coupon to the ends of the earth.

I've been searching for the perfect black blazer. You could say I've watched one too many What Not To Wear episodes. You know the formula...dark rinse jeans (boot cut), cute embellished cami, fitted blazer, pumps and necklace.

Ta-dow.

You are now a well-dressed milf.

I don't always agree with their formula that they like to impose on everyone (that said, I think I would have to slap the taste outta Stacy's mouth cuz she's a little too sarcastic for own good) but I will say this: that style is universally flattering. And now that I'm getting up in years, I have realized that I can't continue pulling off the jeans, t-shirt, and Vans look. I've tried to polish my style a little. Like my bro says, I'm a bit too bohemian. I've collected some jewelry. I've bought some cute, girly shoes. I buy handbags. I wear earrings. Shoot, I've even worn scarves!

I just can't help the fact that in my heart I am a jeans, t-shirt and Vans girl!

My mind can't seem to grasp the concept of layering. Where some super fashionable people just layer all these cute items and work it, my mind is baffled thinking, what was wrong with the t-shirt? Must we put something else on? But like I said, I've been trying to dress age appropriate, whatever that means. I guess it means I know, after all these years, what looks good on me and what I need to stay far, far away from.

I've been hunting down a black blazer. Something that could be a staple, that I could dress up or down, that I could funkdify with my own style. I found a really cute one at Torrid, on sale for $19.99. Score! The next day when I tried to order it, it was gone. Gone, I tell you! I was so bummed. Finding nice stuff for girls with curves ain't easy. So then I tracked one down at Old Navy, I was excited. I hoped it would fit. I hoped it looked nice in the flesh.

I hoped I didn't look like someone's fat grandma in it.

So it came in today. It's nice but....but the arms are just a fraction too tight. Like I feel I could do an Incredible Hulk and rip the back seam if I really tried. The sleeves are a little long. And it's too big at the waist. I can easily button it up and there is still an excess of material in the back.

Not exactly the fit I was looking for.

That's when my What Not To Wear education stepped in. Why not get it tailored? I thought. Stacy and Clinton say they do it all the time. I mean, I paid less than $40 for it. It would be worth it to get some minor adjustments. I just have no idea where to go and how much I should expect to pay.

So I'm debating. If the peeps that live near me know of someone who tailors, let a sister know. If I can't find someone or its too pricey, I'll have to return it. Along with a denim jacket I bought there like three months ago and didn't like, all for the same reasons. I should have learned my lesson, right?

Anyhow, if any of ya'll tailor your clothes, give me some pointers, por favor!

I'm still alive.

Ever since the chil'rens began school last month, any and all plans and/or projects for my own entertainment have been put on hold. There is just no time. My "spare time" consists of laundry and cooking and flag football and small group and life. I have a couple of paintings that are just sitting there getting dusty because I haven't had the time to nurture them!

Our days have been filled with reading, learning how to write, the solar system, spanish, mastering times tables, etc. I make it to the end of the day feeling like I've been beaten prison style. You know, with a tube sock filled with soap bars so the bruises don't show.

Ow.

I've been asked to be in a couple of shows for the Day of Dead, coming in a couple of weeks. You don't know how much I'd love to create something new to submit. I have so many things swimming around this big, fat head of mine. Just waiting to come out. But alas, there is no time.

It just isn't my season.

So it must be shelved. I have no animosity about it. Thats just the way it is sometimes. If I do begrudge anything, its the fact that I can't release some of the pent up frustration I have toward life in general. To sit there and just paint, it affords me some much-needed release. Recently, I worked on a clay sculpture project with the high school art class I teach. I sat there with my students and began to shape my own sculpture. It was practically euphoric, to sit there and shape the clay with warm water and manipulate it between my fingers.

I kept sighing and stuff. The students were looking at me like, oh Mrs. Cortes must be havin' a moment.

Sigh.

I had to pass on two shows. Two shows. One, I just couldn't make the deadline. I stayed up for so many days trying to complete it, and I just couldn't make it. My fault, since I knew about the deadline for like, three months. But again, life happened. The second show, I couldn't make the deadline again. My stuff needed to be framed, I needed money to pay for the frames, then I had to drive out to Pasadena, where the gallery is. Couldn't do it.

Oh, poo.

This third show, however, I'm making my best effort to participate in. I'll be submitting works that I created last year, so I won't be killing myself trying to complete something new. I'm really looking forward to this show. You see, when you're an artist, its not so much having your stuff in a gallery. Of course, that is really cool but it's really about the other artists that you'll be showing alongside. If their artwork is amazing, then that elevates yours...it affirms that your art is of the same caliber and deserves to be there.

And that is exciting!

I'll give more details later, I just wanted to let ya'll know that sister girl hasn't forgotten about her art.

I'm just in a resting phase.

But when I come out....B O O Y A H K A H.

Watch out.

Heh.

Why I could never be a nurse.

I've discovered I'm no good in a crisis situation. Over the years I've developed a queasy stomach for blood and guts. Literally, when I think of a bloody injury, I feel lightheaded, my knees get shaky and my butt quivers. No, not my buttcheeks.

Like rectum quivering and stuff.

Wait. TMI? It's the weirdest sensation.

See! It just happened right now!

I don't remember ever being this way. I've had my share of cuts, surgeries and stitches. I mean, come on. I'm a mama to six chil'rens. I've had live sh!t under my fingernails. I've scooped up drippy boogers (the nasty green kind!) with my hand for lack of a nearby tissue. I've been peed on. I've cuddled a baby only to discover the warmth across my lap was some foul-smelling, bubbly diarrhea. I've rinsed vomit chunks (hotdogs and chili beans!) off of bed sheets.

Come on.

Seriously?

I've given birth at home four times. Those of you that have never had a homebirth, suffice it to say, its not as neat and tidy as a sterile hospital birth. There is amniotic fluid, vernix bits, lady-parts juice, more blood...not to mention the ginormous placenta that gets put in a bowl to be inspected and dealt with later.

My births never affected me in that way. It seemed natural and normal, for some strange reason.

But injuries, they are hard for me to endure. Especially when something happens to the chil'rens. Today Xixi got a metal gate slammed on her hand. And I just fell apart. It seemed like it took Michael a thousand minutes to get to us. I needed him to take care of her because I just couldn't do it. I didn't know what to do to help her. I just knew I had a child in pain, her blood literally on my hands and I had no way of alleviating it for her.

She is okay, thank God. But what really bothers me is my inability to be calm and level-headed when the situation demands it of me. I can't always rely on my husband to rescue me. He's not always going to be around. I'm alone with the chil'rens all day long.

Aside from all that, I have awesome friends. They stepped in to take care of me, to help me wash my hands, to calm me down, to reassure me that Xixi would be okay. They helped bandage her hand, they cleaned her boogers, they gave her juice, they prayed for her. They even give her a giant piece of chocolate cake.

It seems I've passed down the womanly art of consoling oneself with food.

I am thankful for friends that love me, that love the chil'rens.

What's next? I believe I need to take some sort of first aid class, CPR included. Maybe if I have an idea of what to do, it wouldn't scare me so badly.

Maybe it will eliminate the butt quivers, too. One can only hope.

Love, Peace & Soul

Until the day I die, I'll be a Soul Train fan.

While some of you were rockin' your side ponytail, smackin' your frosty pink lip gloss, groovin' to the Go Go's and wearing your sunglasses at night with Dick Clark on American Bandstand...I was getting my groove on with Don Cornelius.

Soooooooooooul Traaaaaaaaaain.

Yep. That's right. My mom would press pause on her whip cracking that took place every Saturday morning while we cleaned the house, and Soul Train would usually be playing in the background. When a good song came on we would turn up the TV. When the Soul Train line would start, we'd get our dance on. We would shake our butts to Patrice Rushen, clap with Earth, Wind and Fire....pass the peas with the JB's.

That is where I got all my dance moves from.

For reals.

The earlier Soul Train is best. I dig the 'fros, the music, the moves. Doesn't it seem like they are all on the same beat? This was before musicians felt that had to cultivate this persona--their brand. They were just themselves, doing what they love.

And it was groovy, baby.

103...a fat kid story.

I vowed I would never have a fat kid in my house.

Ever.

Not because I am cruel. The main reason is I remember what it was like to grow up as the little fat girl. Always being bigger than everyone is your class. Not running as fast as everyone. Being teased. Your mom having to buy your clothes in the ladies section, and then hemming your pants at home. Remember, they didn't carry husky or plus size lines for kids then.

I didn't want to put that on my children.

I've seen some fat kids. Cellulite on their bellies. Red, sweaty faces while they do the simplest of tasks, pulling down their tight shirts to cover their stomachs. So what I continually strive to do is make sure the chil'rens have a well-balanced diet. We eat fresh food, lots of fruit and water, very little snack/processed/junk food in the house. If we do have cake, sugary cereals, pop tarts, frozen pizza, its definitely a treat. But their diet consists mainly of home-cooked food.

What can I say? I have four boys who are very rambunctious. They love to skate, ride bikes, wrestle on the trampoline. They work hard, they play hard. Never in a million years did I expect one to pack on a little extra weight.

Diego.

Over the past year, I began to notice he was developing a little gut. His face is a little rounder. His love handles feel like baby walrus skin. At least, what I believe baby walrus skin would feel like, anyway.

I swear.

By no means is he "fat". He still wears the same size Noah does (who is skinny), only he doesn't need a belt to keep his pants from falling down. He is still active. I don't need to shop in the husky department. You see, he's on the precipice of fat.

But I've discovered myself doing something bad.

I've become my parents.

I nag him about his food choices (lots of carbs--bread and white rice are his faves). I police his portions when his skinny brothers get thirds and sometimes fourths. I huff over his lack of physical activity...his favorite thing to do is read, draw and watch TV (don't know where he got that from). I ride him for his overall slovenliness (he is a bit lackadaisical with the brush and deodorant). Yeh, I'll admit to calling heifer, chunky, husky, slob (he is messy, too), cochino. I know, mean and horrible mother, right?

And the kid's not even fat.

So why put this complex on the poor child?

All he has to do is watch his portions, get a little more active and I believe when puberty hits, he'll grow out of his thickness and he'll be okay (like his Uncle Josh, who also went through a stage of possessing baby walrus skin). But it won't be that easy if he sees himself as fat.

I know this.

But that child-parent cycle is vicious, yo.

A couple of weeks ago, Michael took Diego to the gym with him and Noah. He was totally excited. They got to play racquetball and lift free weights. All at six in the morning. When they came home, Diego breathlessly told me how much he weighed.

104.

Which is not alot. He is turning 11 soon, he wears a size 8 shoe. He's gonna be a big boy. Noah weighs about 93 lbs.

I got this very unpleasant flashback. A fat kid flashback, if you will.

I was in the fifth grade. The Fall brought with it some boobs, hips and a bubble butt for me. Sigh. Not exactly a welcome thing when you're in a classroom with little girls that still wore pigtails and tights under their dresses. My Dad picked us up and took us to the doctor's office to get a physical exam. When the nurse put me on the scale, I cringed.

Scales were to be avoided at all costs.

Does anyone remember the President's Physical Fitness days in elementary school? A whole day devoted to physical activities, ribbons and prizes etc. Not exactly a fun day to a girl who enjoyed drawing for hours or staring into the trees, happily fantasizing about life and whatnot. I vividly recall my teacher lining us up for the nurse's office. There, they would measure our height and weigh us, so they could group all the students accordingly on Physical Fitness days.

Every year I was grouped with Pam Ulufanua. She was Samoan.

Nuff said.

But imagine that. Waltzing right up to the scale with your entire class standing right behind you. I remember having stomach problems days before this would take place. It was awful. I even tried to stay home, pretending I was sick. I can still feel the dread, like if it was yesterday.

So that day at the doctor's office with my Dad, I was mortified to discover I weighed 103 lbs.

103 lbs.

To be a developing girl and be over the century mark. It wasn't a good thing. I was so embarrassed. I anticipated the teasing. I hung my head for the rest of the afternoon.

To make matters worse, my Dad decided to announce to everyone the number on the scale. And for several weeks, my nickname was "103". My brother called me that. My uncles called me that. I hated it.

103.

So when Diego told me that he weighed 104, it just brought back a flood of memories. And I vowed I would not tease him about his extra weight. Sometimes I forget, but the rest of the chil'rens remind me. Remember, mama, when you were teased and it made you feel bad?

Yesterday, Noah and Diego were up at 5 am. Crazy kids. When they got back from the gym, Diego proudly announced that he weighed 102 pounds. I was proud of him, happy that he was going to crack the code.

But it still stung, how aware he was of the number on the scale.

I can't help but think its my fault. No matter how hard you try to not make the same mistakes your parents did...it comes back in some form. And what's worse, you feel powerless to stop it. But I think when you become aware of it, you acquire the tools to combat it. Diego has his father, his brothers, his sisters who will support him even when his mama is still in her own fat funk.

I'm relieved to think of it.

This is Diego at two years old. This is how I would often find him, laid out and watching Sesame Street. I should have known then. LOL

My Diego now.

Last month, upon his return from camp (which explains his overall crusty appearance). This is also testimony that you can't get a normal picture from this child.

Ya mon!

This is how I know the chil'rens are all me and their dad.

We were in art class and everyone was sketching with color pencils. For a brief moment, there was lull in the chatter. Not a common occurrence with a classroom full of elementary students.

Then Noah speaks up, to no one in particular.

"Dude, we need some music in here. I wish we could listen to some Bob Marley!"

Blank stares from the other kids.

Except his bro Solomon, who was also in the class.

"Yeh! Buffalo Soldier...dreadlock rasta! Stolen from Africa..."

"Exodus! Movement of jah people..."

"Don't worry...about a 'ting. Cuz every little 'ting's, gonna be alright!"

"I wanna know ya...and treat ya right. I wanna know ya, everyday and every night..."

"No woman no cry. Nooo woman nooo cry!"

"Them belly full but we hungry...a hungry mob is a hungry mob!"

"I shot the sheeeeriff but I did not shoot the deputy!" After that song, Sol bust out with grin, complete with his crooked dimple.

And they just kept trading off Bob Marley songs to one another like that.

I could not stifle the huge smile on my face. I mean, that's what we do around here. We listen to good music. Their dad paints. I paint. They line up on the kitchen counter and draw. That's what our life is like (on a good day). So to see the chil'rens correlate the two...we're doing art...and now we need cool jams.

Well, that just puts a smile on my face!

This is why I am so opposed to those ridiculous Kidz Bop cd's. I never understand why parents liked them so much. Why feed children mindless, regurgitated, cleaned up pop music? You can let them listen to quality music and they'll get it.

They will. Trust me.

Virgins

Out of the blue last night, Noah asked me this question.

"Mom, what's a virgin?"

Sigh. Heavy, heavy sigh.

I almost opted to not answer and have his Dad explain it to him. Not because I was embarrassed but because I know the chil'rens. They can take a topic and run with it.

Trust.

So I took a few moments to formulate my answer.

Ahem. A virgin is someone who has never had sex before.

His eyes widened. "Ok, now I get that part in Transformers."

Then I went on to explain how God wants a person to stay pure before they are married. Its just better that way, I reasoned.

He nodded with me. "Yeh, I don't want to sin against my own body."

I nodded emphatically.

Then I added, "You will be free of disease."

He threw his head back, "Yesssss. No herpes!"

Um, okaaaaay. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud because he was so relieved.

I continued, "You will preserve your mind and body for the person God wants you to marry. A special woman just for you."

"That's a good thing. I don't want to get my girlfriends' pregnant. Like Dad."

*cough cough*

Then I had to think on my feet.

"Yes. We all make mistakes. You see what a hard time Daddy has dealing with Mikey's mom. Its not fair to have a child that can't have both parents in his life. So...its just best to wait until you are in love and get married and then have a baby. So being a virgin is a good thing, Noah." I added, with emphasis.

I was seriously starting to break a sweat.

"Yeh. Plus I don't want to have sex and then have to raise a bastard."

I almost choked on my own saliva.

"NOAH!!"

"What, mom?"

"Don't ever say that word again! Don't ever CALL someone that word either!! That is a bad word! Very inappropriate!"

Then he looked rather sheepish.

"Awright, mom. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll never call anyone that again!"

I started thinking about how he even knew what that word meant. The chil'rens have an ongoing list of words that are forbidden for them to say (d*ck and sonofab!tch being the most recent). Once they asked me if it was ok to say the word bastard and I told them NO and explained exactly what it meant.

So he must have put two and two together.

These chil'rens are going to be the death of me!

Pizza Night

Occasionally, I will pull something exciting for the chil'rens to do out of the thick recesses of my brain. It was a Friday night, I had one extra monkey to take care of. Instead of sloppin' the food on the plates like a bitter old lunch lady with black shoes and a hair net, I decided to make it a fun, hands-on experience. So Pizza Night was invented.

I guess you could go the extra mile and have your kids chop up all the ingredients themselves. I just thought it would go smoother (and safer, since I had just almost chopped my two fingers off three days before, using my newly sharpened knives) if I did all the prep work myself. A few of them rolled out their own dough and they were all put to the task of building their pizza. They were very excited, to say the least.

Sol comes in from the backroom, dazed from his video game playing. It takes a minute for his brain to function properly after playing Lego Star Wars.

Sol: Uh, mom. What's going on? What are we doing?
Me: What does it look like, Sol? We're making pizza!
Sol: Our own pizza? We get to make our own?
Me: Yeeeessss. Just like that time we went on that field trip to John's Incredible Pizza, and you got to tour the place and they let you make your own pizza! Remember?
Sol: Uh, mom. I didn't get to go to that field trip. You only took Cyan, Maya and Xixi.
Me: Oooooh. That's right. My bad!

Anyhoo, the chil'rens had fun, it was delicious, and very inexpensive. The best part, the chil'rens look at me with happy, smiling faces.

They were very impressed how everything was laid out for them.

Yes, I let them slop it on. Now is not the time to worry about mess!

Whenever we do something like this, I need my hype man around. He gets the kids excited and keeps them in line!

And up in the air it goes!

The girls, building their pizza...they piled on the veggies, which made this old lady's heart happy. But then when it was cooked, they pulled them all off.

My two knuckleheads.

Look at that yummy cheese stretch!

This was the adult pizza. Mmmmmmmm!

New digs.

I'm always on the lookout for some sort of project to do to make my home even more beautiful. When you are on a budget--and by budget, I mean waiting on manna from heaven--you have to be creative with the things you've got. I am notorious for moving furniture around, rehanging pictures, buying new pillows and painting furniture.

I cannot tell you how many times we've rescued furniture from yard sales, church sales, dusty garages and the side of the road. If its "antique" or "vintage", chances are the quality of construction will stand the test of time. All it needs is some TLC.

Before you think I have all the free time in the world to restore furniture, remember this: when someone has the motivation, they can do pretty much anything. If I wanna do something, I can carve out time for it and get it done. If I don't wanna do something, that's when it sits for months in my garage, waiting for my attention.

My brother had this really cool door propped up against the back of his house. What are you gonna do with this? I asked him. Nuthin, he said. Someone had given it to him. Now it was just taking up space. So he gave it to me.

Where it ended up propped against the back of my house.

But I didn't forget about it, oh no no. I was waiting for the time to come when I would redo my room because I was sick to death of the green I've had on the walls since we moved into the house. I knew I could use the door in some way. At first I envisioned the door as a kitchen table. But with the wood carvings it would be impossible to use without fitting a piece of glass over it. And then I had visions of grimy fingerprints and me spraying it with Windex every two seconds. Too impractical. What about for the front door? Too large, not worth cutting down to fit.

Then I was watching HGTV and saw a door used as a headboard.

Bam!

That's what I wanted. So I hoped and prayed the door would be okay under the eaves, away from the wind, rain and sun. Well, a couple of weeks ago, the stars and moon aligned and Michael was ready to help me with my project. Now, I was all set to patch and stain it, but he went ahead and did it, which was really nice of him. Thank you, dear sweet husband!

Well, the beauty of the headboard surpassed my expectations. It came out amazing! It was a nice way to finish off my room, which is made up entirely of vintage furniture, aside from the mattress and duvet. I put up this antique mirror I bought at a yard sale for $3, some old candle holders we spray painted expresso brown to hang on either side of the headboard and oooh la laaaa.

My new digs.

"We" had to sand and patch the door with wood filler before staining it. Whenever Mike works on a project, you will find Sol nearby, helping out. And what wife doesn't enjoy watching her man work shirtless? Eye candy! LOL

The end result. I feel like I'm sleeping in a hotel everyday. Heh.

Spread your wings and fly!

During the craze of preparing the chil'rens for their first day of school this week, I didn't post anything about my oldest son, who turned 12 last Wednesday.

Yes, I am old enough to be the mother of a tween.

I will be cliche and write, I remember when he was just a little baby just like it was yesterday. And I do, I do remember. Just me and him. Every single accomplishment he made, every new food he tried, his delicious giggling, the thrill of taking him a bath... I remember it all.

And now we're on new territory. The dude has hair under his pits. Just like a grown man, he likes to boast. He's asked me to pluck the stray hairs off his unibrow, so I did. His feet are growing really fast and his shoulders are getting so wide it looks like he's got a hanger under his shirt...while he's still wearing it.

But its more than the physical changes.

He's growing into this awesome young man. When he returned home from camp this summer, I had several people come up to me and tell me what a good kid he was. How helpful, kind, funny. How he loved to pray for people. It moved me, it really did. We've sacrificed wealth, creature comforts, free time and sanity so I could be home to raise these kids. It feels good knowing our efforts haven't been in vain.

I can't help but think God didn't bless me with this son so I could make this life-changing impact on him. Oh, no. Its been the other way around. I made drastic changes in my own life the minute I discovered I was carrying him. He helps me to stay organized. He helps keep me accountable. It was he who made me come home, want to be a wife and mother and give him what my parents tried but couldn't accomplish: an intact family. You see, I was unmarried and about to graduate from college when I discovered I was carrying him.

The thought occurred to me that he's at the age where he clearly sees his parent's shortcomings. Do you remember when you looked at your parents like, you people don't even have it together and you want to tell me what to do? I remember it. My son is aware of money struggles, marital struggles, family struggles. And yet he still loves us, still has faith in his mama and daddy.

For weeks he's tried to get his Dad up early so he can "train" him and get him healthy. I have to say for almost two weeks straight he tried, but Michael often stays up late and he just couldn't open up his eyes as early as Noah was trying to get him up. Then last week they had a breakthrough. Michael told him, "Maybe if you make me a cup of coffee, that would help." He showed him how to make it and that was that. Noah woke up his daddy at 6 am, complete with a cup of instant coffee. I swear to you, it was hot and sweetened and everything.

And his father woke up and got dressed.

After a visit to the YMCA, his reward was driving lessons around the empty high school parking lot across the street. He couldn't stop talking about it all day. Driving...its pretty easy, he told me.

So do you understand me when I say this son has been a blessing to us?

I love you, son.

Hope you had a happy Birthday. Stay strong. Spread your wings and fly.


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Beast like me.

Now that she is four years old, I think Xixi must have taken some sort of smart ass seminar when I wasn't looking. She has been super sarcastic with me. Granted, I have the same exact habit and I find myself aiming this sarcasm at my kids. I do it with Michael, too. When I'm getting all smart alecky, I can see my husband's eyes glaze over like he is planning my death, are at least causing me some sort of bodily injury. But Xixi, its like she woke up one day with a 'tude and a sharp little tongue.

What's up with that?

And it's not just sarcasm. It's this crazy, don't-you-know-yo-mama-will-snatch-you-up-by-your-hair-if-you-keep-talkin'-like-that kind of attitude.

Take Monday, for instance. Nap times in my household--beyond the baby years-- are code for, I can't stand to be around you for another minute. If you want to continue living, please take a nap. So, I put her in bed. Obviously, these children do not grasp the divine privilege of getting to take a nap in the middle of the day.

A few minutes later, I went to check on her and she was having a full-on Barbie/My Little Pony reunion on her window sill. Toys, dolls, doll clothes, crayons, brushes, rubber bands, barrettes and coloring books strewn all over the floor.

In a matter of minutes.

I put her back in bed, gave her the warning and shut the door behind me.

Then I went to check on her about ten minutes later. She was doing the same thing, humming to herself quietly, without a care in the world. This time I bent her over and gave her a good one on her padded little behind.

I know, that was like kicking a puppy. Shooting a baby deer. Stomping a baby chick's nest.

C'mon, my daughter inherited her mother's butt. That spank didn't hurt her in the slightest. It was the message I wanted convey to her that was important, not unlike whacking a small dog with a rolled up newspaper. You may be the baby, you may be my mini-me, you may have the cutest little New York accent, but I still have to deal with your naughty little ways! She let out an obligatory cry and before I could even get out of the room I hear her little voice.

"That didn't even hurt."

It kinda sounded like this: Dat didn't eeeven hwut.

Oh really?

All of my Pentecostal background came right back to me. The robes, the speaking in tongues---ooooh, shamma-lamma-ding-dong!--the dusty bible hitting the pulpit, it all came flooding back. I was ready to get all Old Testament on her.

Spare the rod, spoil the child. Oh, you know me too well, Lord. I won't spare anything!

Do not withhold correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. See, she won't die, cuz I only wanna beatest her a little.

Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell. All I'm doing is saving this poor child!

Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him. And that is what I felt like doing, driving far, far from here.

Xixi got...how can I put this delicately?...an Old Testament can of whoop ass opened up on her. You'd think I was killing her with the way she screamed bloody murder.

"Now, did that hurt enough?" I asked, in the sweetest tone I possess, with a smile on my face.

She just cried louder. I would have spanked her for that, but I already had a crowd of boys at her door behind me, demanding to know what happened to Xixi, and why did I have to spank her. So I told them if they didn't disperse from my view, they'd get what Xixi just got. They all scurried away like roaches.

That's what I thought.

Later on that day, I overheard Xixi playing with her dolls again.

Oh my gosh, like yeh. Hi, friend. Do you like my dress? Do you wanna come and play? Uh, yeh, like totally! Um, hey friend, did you know I have like, the meanest mama evah? Um, like yeh, she gives lot of spankings and I didn't even do nuh-thing, alls I said was that didn't even hurt...duh! Uh-huh...

I told Michael what she said and he just laughed. "That' s what you get. Your daughter is a beast just like you. Like mother like daughter."

I swear, I get no respect around here.

He's got a point though.

Heh.

Fourteen years have passed...

Wow.

That's a really long time.

I am so old.

Heh.

I created this painting for my Chicano Art History class at CSULA in 1995. Fourteen years ago. We had to turn in a project at the end of the semester, so I created a trio of paintings. Looking back, I've discovered that is my favorite way of conveying my images, in a triptych. I've used this method over and over.

I guess because there is perfection in three's...Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

Sadly, I have no idea what happened to the other two pieces. I think I may have given one to a friend, the other who knows. They were small, really powerful paintings--a testament to my cultural awakening.

The one I gave to a friend was of a small girl in pigtails, holding a bloody tongue--it was about the cutting off of the mother tongue, my frustration at not being able to speak Spanish. Yes, it was all very Chicana-power!-I-wear-braids-Mexican-peasant-dresses-and-carry-a-serape-purse.

Good times.

This is the only painting from the triptych that still exists. My Dad had it all these years. I recently got it back, its hanging in my livingroom. It's called, "Mother's Milk".

I love, love, love the drop of breastmilk.

I know, I'm strange.

Enjoy.

Two words...

Uh-mazing.

Oishii Time Lapse: RETNA's Tina Turner for American Revolutionaries from Oishii Creative on Vimeo.

Feels good to know that an artist from humble beginnings...a graffiti artist, first and foremost--is able to attain and enjoy this level of success with his art. He also did a Jimi Hendrix portrait that was sick.

Just sick.

You go with your bad self, Retna.

Troops strippin' zoots...

Yeah, never forget that the whip snapped your back
Your spine cracked for tobacco, oh I'm the Marlboro man, uh
Our past blastin' on through the verses
Brigades of taxi cabs rollin' Broadway like hearses
Troops strippin' zoots, shots of red mist,
Sailors blood on the deck, come sista resist
From the era of terror check this photo lens,
Now the city of angels does the ethnic cleanse
Heads bobbin' to the funk out your speaker, on the one Maya, Mexica
That vulture came to try and steal your name
But now you found a gun, you're history, this is for the people of the sun.

--Zach De La Rocha, "People of the Sun"

When I heard them play this song at Coachella, Zach called out, "What up, raza?" My blood started to pump and I almost wanted to cry with pride.

Every time Zach raps, "Troops strippin' Zoots", I always think of my grandfather, my mama's dad. He wasn't a gangster, or a cholo. He was a zoot-suiter, a pachuco. Probably because it was the hip thing to be. It's what was in style at the time, in the early 1940's.

My mom often tells the story about how he would wear his zoot suit, how he stood a tall six foot one, with curly hair and a handsome face. Sadly, he would have to be very careful and strategic when he made his way home because there were always white soldiers home on leave, looking for any brown-skinned man with a pompadour and a zoot suit to beat up. They would assault them and then strip them of their fashionable attire. How degrading. It makes me infuriated every time I think of it.

I think of the movie Zoot Suit, how Daniel Valdez's character is innocently getting ready for a night out on the town, ironing and making sure his creases are straight. His mother calls him from the kitchen to eat dinner and he heats up a tortilla and makes himself a taco. Little did he know what would happen to him that night, unfairly accused of killing a man at Sleepy Lagoon. Then there were the flashback scenes from American Me, when Edward James Olmos' father is in a tattoo shop, decked out in his zoot suit. Riots break out, sailors come in and attack them and rape his mother. It's such a sad legacy. But the movies vividly portray the times.

Little did my grandfather know--as he crept through the streets of East L.A., trying to get home safely--he would marry a beautiful, curvy woman who people called Honey...she was also his neighbor. Together they would share seven children. They would eventually own a rancho, complete with cows, horses, chickens, geese, turkeys, and pigs. Later, there would be twenty-five grandchildren. And later still, forty-nine great-grandchildren.

I look at this photo of my grandfather and I always feel an immense swell of love and pride.

Me and pets don't mix yet we are continually mixing.

I've said this before, me and dogs have a love/hate relationship. I love them when they don't stink, when they sleep alot, when they like to cuddle, when they are running around happily, when they bark and let me know someone is at the gate.

I hate them when they shed fur everywhere, when they poop in my house, lift their leg on my furniture, chew up chanklas, break out of the yard, bust through my screen door, dig holes, get the squirts right by my back door and spread fleas everywhere.

I have a very colorful history as a dog owner.

Yes, colorful. That is the best way to describe it. I subscribe to the George Lopez/Latino stance on dogs. They are animals first, family members second. Therefore, animals should be treated as animals.

But relax, I'm not so mean. They have beds, blankets, toys, water and food.

Geez.

If you've noticed, certain loved ones of mine have alluded to the fact that I am a dog killer. No, no, no, that is not the case. Seeing as how we have a new furry friend, I thought I would break down and confess my history.

I need to cleanse myself, therefore releasing myself of any liability for my new furry friend.

I'm just sayin.

Hold on to your butts.

Ok...our first dog was Coco, a German Shepherd. Since I didn't want the chil'rens to step in her ginormous piles of ish around the yard, she spent the better part of her life in a dog runner. I think she was starving for attention. She would twirl in circles and spaz out whenever we would walk outside.

She was all but screaming, DON'T FORGET ABOUT ME, FAMILY! I NEED LOVE!

I mean, come on, I've watched enough of the Dog Whisperer to know this dog needed some human time. To make matters a bit more unpleasant, she began to chew her tail. I don't mean just chomp, I mean she chewed a nub off of it. In the process of spazzing and jumping around when she saw us, she splashed blood all over the place. Her runner looked like a freaking murder scene. We would put ointment on it, bandage it, put a muzzle on her, stick her head in one of those cones...she would still get at her tail. So now none of us wanted to go and pet her because she would get blood on our clothes. Ew.

It was just our luck to have an emo-self-mutilator as a family pet.

I know, right?

So Coco got...how shall I delicately phrase this...removed from the home. Which was a relief to me. I just had too much stuff going on to be dealing with a crazy animal.

Then about a year later, I was at my brother's house when we discovered his neighbor's had a litter of pups and wanted to get rid of them. Would we like one? Uh, no thanks. But when I heard they were half chihuahua/half dachshund, I went to check them out. And they were so freakin' cute. I went home to talk to Michael about it. Eventually, he went back to pick out a pup and she was really small and cute. Chela. Yes, that's right she's a Mexican dog.

I broke all my pet-hater rules and let her snuggle on the sofa, I watched tv with her on my lap, I bought her a cozy bed, a studded collar. She went with us when we went camping.

Gasp.

For reals. I know, your girl is slippin'.

My dear husband thought she was lonely, so he charmed the owners out of another dog. A male, this time, Gus. They frolicked around the yard, they slept braided together at night. All was content in our little family.

Then I gave birth to our sixth child. It was around this time, in August, and it was blazing hot. The puppies were now four months old. I had a two week old baby and it was one of the first days here alone without Grandma-mama for assistance (prepared meals and clean laundry!). Can I say I was slightly overwhelmed? We had gotten in the habit of feeding one dog at a time so they wouldn't squabble over their bowls. So we would put one dog in the crate, feed the other and then switch. The crate was in the back yard, in a shady area under the eaves.

Little did I know that crate would turn into a dog roaster.

So I instructed the boys to feed the dogs. I reminded them, don't forget to put the dog in the crate. Of course, they listened. They fed Gus first, put Chela in the crate then they switched them around. They left Gus in the crate and then came inside the house. Meanwhile, I am here, enjoying the a/c, putting my gorgeous, chubby little babe to sleep. Nowhere in my mind did I even ponder the plight of my dogs.

It was about two hours later when I suddenly did ponder them.

Sol came in front the back yard and told me, "Mom, I keep trying to play with Gus but he won't wake up! He's still asleep."

Oh, noooo. We forgot to take him out of his crate. This can't be good.

I told the boys to go and watch cartoons and I went out to look for him. The boys must have moved the crate away from the house because it was right in the middle of the yard in full sun. He was dead, already stiff. I felt soooo bad. I tried not to alarm the chil'rens, and distracted them with toys and cartoons until their Dad could come home and deal with our deceased pet.

Sigh.

For that point on, my family has not ceased in teasing me about being a "dog killer", a "dog roaster" and a host of other unpleasant names. But I put on my big girl chonies and I deal.

It was an accident, people. An accident I am still trying to live down, four years later. They let me take care of Meatball one weekend, and look what happened then. Don't forget about my love birds, Lolli and Pop.

So we've enjoyed a one pet existence for four years. Then my husband decided to get a pit bull mix named Zuco a few months ago. He was white, mild-mannered, and super cute. When he wasn't humping Chela's face, he played with the chil'rens, went on walks, etc.

Then he got Parvo and died.

With this pet's death, the chil'rens were old enough to understand. They bawled their eyes out. I mean, seriously bawled. I sat there that night, with six sobbing chil'rens on my lap. It was sad, it really was.

Then a couple of weeks after that, my husband decided again that we needed another pet. As if we hadn't killed enough already, right? Enter Roscoe, a lanky, brindle-coat mini-Boxer mix. He was just too freakin' hyper. After four years of Chela, who lays around and sleeps all day and for the most part is pretty low maintenance, this dog got on my last good nerve. To boot, he loved eating the figs that fell all over the ground of our back yard. Do you know now what you get from a fig-lovin' dog?

Fig squirts.

Everywhere. I'm still shoveling up petrified fig squirts to this day.

Disgusting.

Roscoe also had a licking issue. He licked everything. He would go to town on your toes, if you didn't shoo him away. And he was a squirter. In his excitement, he would pee all over the place. He was like this unattended garden hose, soaking everything in his wake. He once even peed on my husband's face, right on his sunglasses, when he bent down to pet him.

Oh snaps.

So I had enough of this dog. Personally, I felt no loyalty to him, considering my husband brought him one night without as much as a mention of it to me. I didn't want Roscoe, sorry to say. So it wasn't difficult to say he needed to go.

I made the ultimatum. Find Roscoe a new home or I will take him on a Chicago ride.

And if ya'll don't know what a Chicago ride is, ya better ask somebody.

So Roscoe went to a very loving home, a drug and alcohol recovery home, where the men dote on him day and night. Michael went to visit him, and he said he was already getting chubby and he was extremely happy.

That was also when Michael got squirted in the face.

So I thought maybe that would be it. We were destined to be a one-dog family. Chela was a lifer. She is a Mexican dog, after all. She's descended from the great pyramids of South America, yo. You can't kill this dog. And I know because I've tried.

Repeatedly.

Ahem.

Enter Oobi. My sister had a tiny long-hair chihuahua that she couldn't tolerate anymore. I guess she figured, what's one more living thing my sister has to care for? Let's see if she wants him.

I'm happy to say he has survived throughout this week. He hasn't pooped or peed in the house once. He doesn't really bark. He loves his crate--which we make sure is always in the house now--his toys, his food, his new family. He's pretty obedient, which I totally owe to my sis, who used to regulate with a flyswatter.

We're trying to get him to mellow a bit, to actually sit down and chill instead of buzz around like a spazz. But I guess that's normal when you only weigh about 3 or 4 lbs. We're teaching what are Oobi-free zones. Most days, Chela is wearing him like a hat, since his favorite thing to do is hump Chela backwards.

But, so far so good. I kinda hope he lasts.

His poop is the size of a tootsie roll, so that's a good thing. We want to change his name from Oobi to Doobie because he is white with some grey/black on his face. Heh.

Long live Oobi Doobie.

Freestylin'

I love my church!

Peep this video. Every week they do a short announcement video called "The Transmission" before service begins. While we were at the beach baptism, they asked me to do it and I was all, no, I'm boring and I'm embarrassed and I'm shy and not nearly as interesting as....him! Pointed to my husband and told them they could probably get him to rap and beat box, since he doesn't have a shy bone in his body. You could wake homeboy up from a deep sleep and he'd be ready to freestyle.

So he did.

And here he is.

Transmission 029 from sandals church on Vimeo.

All the bands I wish I had seen...

I was thinking of my friend Ricky, who bought orchestra seats to see Depeche Mode in San Diego. Well, they cancelled the show and he was S.O.L. Too bad so sad. I would have been crushed, for sure. Not to be put out in the cold, he got tickets to see them play at the Hollywood Bowl. Good man. And in the O.C.

Lucky dog.

I don't think that would have been a possibility for me. One, I just wouldn't have the motivation and two, finances. I couldn't justify the expense. I don't have that kinda money to buy tickets to several shows like some obsessed groupie.

*cough* Ricky. *cough*

I mean, as it was, we lived off of beans and tortillas for weeks when we bought our tickets for Rage Against the Machine at Coachella. I risked going into overdraft for that show. I kept thinking, well if the lights get shut off, I have plenty of candles.

It's not like the good old days when I lived in L.A. and shows cost $22 bucks or so. The cheapest I ever paid was to see Tool in San Bernardino for $14. $14!! That is insane. It was in a gym or some sort of barn...but it was Tool, yo.

I really like Depeche Mode, but I resigned myself to the fact that I already saw them in concert in '91, when Violator first came out. And that is fine with me cuz Violator is my fave Depeche Mode album. But then it got me thinking about all the bands I got to see in concert...and those I never got to see. There were a variety of reasons...sold out shows and I wouldn't pay scalper prices...the venue was too far away...my stupidity...or the opportunity just never presented itself to me.

So here is my list, in no particular order. For some strange reason, I really needed to make this list, to reconcile the fact that I probably won't ever see them play live cuz I am poor and an old lady.

1. Red Hot Chili Peppers...I remember they were playing at the Long Beach Arena and I had some family event happening. I love me some Anthony Keidis, always have. They also played at Lollapalooza in '92 but I didn't make that show which is really unbelievable because I managed to make it out to 4 out of 7 Lollapalooza's. It sucks because I could have killed two birds with one stone and saw #2 on my list.

2. Pearl Jam...they also played at Lollapalooza in '92. During my early college years, I had a major thing for Eddie Vedder. Not because he was so handsome or sexy or anything...but because his lyrics were so deep. I love all of Pearl Jam's music, so that makes me sad I never got to see them live.

3. B-52's...I've been listening to this band since I was a little girl, thumbing through my aunt's stack of vinyl records. They were quirky and cool and they wore beehives. And yet, I never got to see them. Boo Hiss. Like I always say, who doesn't love some beehives and fag hags!

4. U2...sigh. 'Nuff said.

5. Prince...for years and years I wanted to see Prince. I started listening to Prince because of my Dad, who was a big Prince fan. There I was, a little kid of ten years old listening to this album with some black guy in a pair of speedos and a trench coat. Heh. I missed a chance to see him play at the Hollywood Bowl in '96...then the opportunity presented itself to see him play at the Staples Center in '04. It was one of the best concerts I've ever been to. So I guess I can cross Prince off this list now, can't I?

6. And finally, Sublime...my hands-down, all-time favorite band. They are a perfect blend of all my favorite things: reggae, punk, hip hop, dub and ska. I can never be sad listening to Sublime's music. They were still selling music out of the back of their van at the time, doing lots of local shows. My stepbro's girlfriend was really into them, and they'd always play their music when we were together. Who is this band? I remember asking them. And I even went to Cal State Long Beach for a year or so and they were really popular there and played lots of parties and bars. I guess the stars and moon weren't aligned right because I never got to see Bradley Nowell play before his untimely death in '96. It just wasn't meant to be. But until then, I have their entire discography on my ipod...

I know there are lots more, but these are the main ones that stand out in my decrepit mind.

Concerts are exciting. But I remember what Coachella was like and that was just a couple of years ago. I am waaaay too old for that business! I need concerts that cost $40, they feed you a dinner and everyone sits in their seats. Fo reals. Heh.

I guess in my granny, crusty years, I will always have my memories.

That thumb sure must be tasty.

I have a thumb sucker.

Out of six chil'rens, I had one pacifier-crazed baby (my first and last--I learned my lesson after many sleepless nights when the paci couldn't be found and all my backups were under sofa), three that could care less to suck on anything else but my Nat Geo boobs, one that sucked his two middle fingers so it always looked like he was getting ready to whistle...and then there is the thumb sucker.

I admit, I encouraged the habit. When you have five children under the age seven years old, crazy things begin to happen to your mind. Irrational thoughts. And when my screaming, fussy, blotchy-faced newborn found her thumb...she shut up. She remained quiet. She was content. She fell asleep.

I could maintain my sanity for another day.

She was actually too small to find her own thumb, so I guided her a couple of times. It was way easier than sitting there and holding the stupid paci in her mouth until she got the hang of it. She took to the thumb beautifully.

My mother said, "Oh no, she is sucking her thumb! Her teeth are going to be ruined!"

And I sat there, feigning concern, like, oh no, thats not good.

But inside I was like, damn skippy! Keep sucking that thumb, baby!! Don't listen to that woman!

Every night I could hear her petite little sucking sounds.

sucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksuck

It was comforting to me, in a way. It was as if she wore those little bells on her shoes. I could always hear where she was, if she was getting into things, if she was asleep.

sucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksuck

Most days I would find her, sucking her thumb and twirling her hair into a little dreadlock. It was cute.

Was.

Past tense.

My thumb sucker is now five and a half years old. Her grill is a little crooked. The nail on her thumb very rarely grows beyond her fingertip. She still resorts to sucking her thumb when we're in the car...and when she watches cartoons...and when she goes to sleep.

Our conversations have gone like this...you're a big girl now...don't you think you should stop sucking your thumb...pretty girls have nice, straight teeth--don't you want nice, straight teeth...your thumb has germs on it, you know...you need to stop sucking your thumb...that thumb is nasty....GET THAT THUMB OUTTA YOUR MOUTH!

Today we were driving home from Kohl's. It was about ten o'clock at night. She was relaxing in her booster seat. I could hear her sucking.

"Maya, when are you gonna stop sucking your thumb?"

She paused to reflect for a moment. Then she pulled her thumb out of her mouth and said, "When I'm old enough to wear a bra, that's when I'll stop sucking my thumb!"

Heh. Oh, my midget. I gotta love her! You gotta admit, though, her rationale is on point.

The tree.

I am thankful that my parents, divorced almost twenty years ago, still have a good friendship. It has made my childhood and my adult life much more peaceful. I never worry about planning family gatherings or the holidays because I know they are fine being in the same room together.

If anything, they will sit in the kitchen and chat like two comadres.

Not like two people who were once married and all that entails but like friends who have known each other since they were 14 years old, walking the streets of El Sereno.

My mom always says she doesn't think of my Dad as an ex-husband, but more like a brother. Which I think is cool. I don't think I could hang if my parents were still clinging to resentment in their old age. Seriously.

Recently, my mom bought me two trees to plant in my yard, her effort to beautify my Malcolm in the Middle lawn. If there is any type of plan to improve her eldest daughter--whether it be to get me organized, to encourage me to wake up at the crack of dawn and make my husband a full-on breakfast and then pack his lunch, to get my fat ass to shrink in size, to fix up my long-neglected yard--she is on board.

Sigh.

So she bought me a crepe myrtle and a jacaranda tree. About the latter, she waxed on and on about how beautiful it would grow, how it would shade the house, how it had tiny little purple flowers and feathery leaves.

Don't you remember the jacaranda tree we had when we lived in San Diego? Oh, it was so beautiful! Right in the middle of our back patio...

I had vague memories of the tree because our shoes would always stick to the purple flowers on the ground. What I really remembered were the palm trees we had in the front, and how my Dad would curse the trees and the dates that would spill all over the place. Dad really hated those palm trees.

So Michael went ahead and planted the trees and I began to look forward to the privacy and shade it would provide the boys' room over the years, how our yard looked a little less bare. Like someone actually cared.

Fast forward to Saturday night, when my Dad was over and we went to the store to run a quick errand.

Dad: Mija! Is that a jacaranda tree?

Me: Yes! My mom just bought it for us.

Dad: Ugh! Have Michael take it out! Those trees are horrible! The leaves get all crinkly and they make a mess and then those stupid purple flowers spread all over the place and they are all sticky! Man, I hated that tree. Remember the jacaranda we had in the back yard in San Diego? All I did was clean up after that damn tree. Have Michael dig it out before the roots dig in. Ugh!

Me: Chuckling to myself. No, I don't remember the tree. But my mom said it was beautiful, though. All the little purple flowers...

Dad: Yeh, she would say that! I was the one that was always cleaning up those little purple flowers.

Too funny.

And this is how it's always been between my parents. Two totally different recollections, two totally different people, two totally different ways of loving their children. I often wonder how they were ever in love and had a life together.

Baptism at the beach

Today my oldest son was baptized in the Pacific Ocean.

Noah will turn 12 in a couple of weeks, and as my oldest child, he is very serious and conscientious about his faith in God. Seriously, sometimes he makes me feel like a heathen. He blows my mind when he prays. I like to think that a child's prayers are more holy because they don't carry around the baggage that we adults do. So when he asks for God's spirit to dwell in him, for His hand to touch his heart, to forgive him of his sins, I know God is listening.

Noah expressed an interest in being baptized sometime last year. I wanted to wait until Sandals did their baptism at the beach, so it would have some serious John the Baptist flava.

We were at Corona Del Mar State beach. It is really beautiful there. We had quite a walk and climb on some rocky cliffs to get to the place where they were baptizing, but it was worth it. Places like these always make me remember how blessed I am to live in Southern California.

Watching people walk into the water and make a public confession of their faith made me remember when I was baptized, probably around the same age as Noah. It was at my Nana's full gospel church. They had one of those baptism pools behind the pulpit. They made us wear white gowns. It was all very thank-ya-Jesus-Hallelujah-Halleluuuuujah-Lawd-Lawd-Jesus and shamma-lamma-ding-dong and all that good stuff. It was very Pentecostal up in that church. Mine was a very different experience, but I remember taking it seriously, too.

Noah: Mom, will I feel different?
Me: I think so.
Noah: When I come up out of the water, will I be a new creation?
Me: That's what the bible says, mijo.
Noah: I can't wait. It's gonna be cool. I'm not gonna want to beat up my brothers anymore!

On that one, I didn't respond. I thought I would let him discover things naturally. Sure enough, on the way home, he pounced on Solomon in the backseat. Then he felt really bad afterwards.

Noah: Mom, I really need God in my life.

Don't worry, son, you are not alone.

Noah with our Pastor Matt.

She's not dramatic.

Oh no, not at all.

Yesterday I found Michael's fat cap Sharpie marker without it's lid on the bathroom counter. Oh no, I wonder where they scribbled on the walls with this permanent marker? I didn't see anything on the bathroom walls or in the girl's bedroom, so I shrugged it off.

But then this morning I discovered some little person had wrote all over my sofa cushion...the sofa cushion that I cursed when I bought it because I didn't have the presence of mind to check, while in the store, if I could reverse the back cushions. No, they are sewed in place. So I can't just turn the cushion over and forget about the dark blue scribble of permanent ink.

Sigh.

Yeh, the sofa set is five years old...but they still look decent and in this financial climate, a sister doesn't know when she'll be able to get a new set. So that dark blue scribble hurt.

I didn't see her do it, but I had a feeling Xixi was the culprit. The fact that she ran for her room to hide when I discovered the scribble didn't help her case either. The other chil'rens were standing around, ooohing and aahhing over the stain. So I called Xixi over to me. She was a like person inching toward a fire, afraid they would get burned.

Me: Xixi, did you do this?
Xixi: Yeeeees.
Me: Xixi, what are markers for?
Xixi: For colorweens and dwawings (that's colorings and drawings, folks).
Me: Are you supposed to write on Mama's walls?
Xixi: No.
Me: On books?
Xixi: No.
Me: On mama's furniture?
Xixi: sigh. Noooooo.

I didn't spank her but I did put her in the corner. Normally, I'm not a naughty corner type of mama, but putting Xixi in the corner while everyone is around her playing is like torture for this little girl.

So while I cleaned the ceiling fan, she sat in the corner. First she slid down off her knees and plopped on her butt. Then she laid down. Get up, I told her. I walked into the garage to do something and when I returned, it was like she was taking a mini-vacation. She had grabbed a pile of books, crossed her legs and began to enjoy herself. All she needed was a glass of ice tea with a lemon wedge.

Me: Um, excuse me. There is no relaxing and reading while in the bad girl corner.
Xixi: But mama--
Me: There is no talking either. Zip it!!

She whimpered and cried a little. She said she had to pee. She asked how long she would be in the corner. And I tell you, she wasn't even there for five minutes when I heard her little voice, "Maaamaaaa! Do you want your little baby to die right here?"

Too funny!

You don't mess with the Grandma-mama bear!

Last week, the stars aligned with the sun and moon, and I went out to lunch with my mama and a couple of the sibs. Apparently, my mama and my baby sis were gonna meet at the Olive Garden for some soup and salad, and since I was running an errand in the area and I only had one kid with me--and being that I'm the moocher that I am--I totally ingratiated myself on the deal. But then my bro and Caucasian sister in law were at home, and they decided to join us. Then my other little brother wasn't far behind, he didn't want to be left out.

So what was gonna be an intimate mother/daughter/granddaughter luncheon was now a small family gathering.

Now, let's get a head count. My mama, Josh, my sis Jen with her three girls (ages 3.5, 2, and 4 mos.), my bro and Caucasian sister in law (their two boys, ages 6 and 2). Then there was me and Maya (considered one of the "good ones").

Six adults and six kids.

I know, right?

Of course they seat us in the center of the room, with all the booths surrounding us, all eyes peeled on us. It was lunch time so it was busy. I positioned myself in the middle...away from the whining 2 year old in the highchair on one end and the crazy/loud 2 year old on the other. I was totally impersonating a mom with only one child--smiling, peaceful, without a care in the world.

Heh.

If you've ever been out to lunch with more than one child, you know its a game of Russian roulette. Sometimes they are happy and charming and smiling at everyone. The old people bless you and say how cute your kids are. The waitress comments on how well behaved your children are. Then there are the other times. When the old people aren't blessing you, but looking at you like you're disrupting their wonderfully calm, child-free, retired right to life. When the kids are behaving like Linda Blair, before the exorcism. They are bucking in their seats, frothing at the mouth and you are giving them that just-wait-until-I-get-you-home-I-will-tear-that butt-up glare.

If I've learned anything, it's the restaurant better offer crayons, chips and salsa, crackers for the kids and a Xanax for the parents before the food gets on the table or kids start to unravel. Like, crazy unravel.

Just like my niece Fia. She was hungry and pissed cuz they were lagging with the bread sticks...which made her cry...for like, a really long time. In reality, it was probably less than five minutes. In crying child years--not unlike dog years--it felt like a reeeeeeeally really long time. Long enough to get a few unfriendly stares from the people around us.

The old people were chomping on their Italian trio but there were no smiles in sight.

My sister Jen, she took it like a champ. It really frustrates me to see parents get all worked up because their children are fussy and/or crying in public. They are more concerned with not offending others around them instead of trying to figure out why their child is upset. Jen was like, wassup, she's hungry, haven't you ever heard a child cry?...get over it.

Meanwhile, I am sitting there with a stupid smile on my face because for once, I am relaxing, not a care in the world...whistling, if you will. I mean, come on, it's usually me about to have a breakdown in a restaurant.

There were two women sitting in a booth across from us. Apparently, we were their chief form of entertainment for the afternoon. They sat there with their brassy blond highlights, wrinkly sunburned cleavage, drinking some cheap Olive Garden red wine, wagging their tongues and shaking their heads in disapproval. I had to turn around to look at them, and the both times I did, their lips were curled and they were openly staring.

"...oh my God, there are just too many of them."

I caught that remark. I just shook my head. Caucasian sister in law was floored that people could be so rude. Jen just shrugged her shoulders. Meanwhile, I was chowing down on my bread stick like, What? Ya'll just don't know. I go through this allll the time. It didn't slow down my bread stick consumption whatsoever.

But then there was my mom, who was sitting across from me. Her eyes were slightly narrowed, her nostrils flared, her leg was bouncing up and down in this agitated way. I was thinking, run, run blond ladies! Run for your lives! Do NOT mess with a grandma-mama bear! She will rip you a new one first and then ask questions later. She wanted to beat up a man at Costco once because he was a little slow to use his brakes as we were all crossing the street. She stood there in front of his car like Clint Eastwood, snarling her lip, all, "Don't you see my grandchildren crossing the street, punk?"

Mama is gangsta. She don't play.

If my mom is anything, it's fiercely protective. Her grandchildren are her pride and joy, her heart. She is one of the most hospitable, kindest, most helpful women you will ever meet. But if you mess with her grands, you will get dealt with.

Check yourself before you wreck yourself.

"Mom, calm down. They are just ignorant people, that's all."

She kinda laughed it off and said the only thing stopping her from getting up and giving the two ladies a piece of her mind was the fact that she had on her christian lady hat, complete with Jesus' thorns on it that said, His pain, your gain.

Don't you just hate when that happens?

So apparently if she didn't have on this hat that identified her as a believer in Christ, it would have been on and poppin'. I could just see it now....mom getting up...pushing her chair out of the way....tossing her hat to the side...Dr. Dre's What's The Difference Between Me and You bumping in the background.

Ah, good times with the family. Good times.

It was still a good two days after it happened and it was still chapping her butt. She was still formulating what she would have said to those women, what she would have done differently, etc. etc.

Oh, mama.

If I only had a fraction of her spunk...

Fat girl blogs put a smile on my face.

Sometimes, when I'm feeling like a cow and I can't bear the sight of my own double chin, when the sound of my thighs rubbing together is deafening...a good way to brighten up my mood is to read fat girl blogs.

Fat girls blogs open up a world of fatty goodness. They celebrate the almighty curve. They show me that yes, I can wear a belt. I can wear a snug pencil skirt. I can be creative with my clothes. And oh yes, big girls can rock a stiletto pump.

Brave girls.

And since fat girls share this unique camaraderie (chub rub, spanx, wide width shoes), I get to find out where to find cute big girl clothes. Nothing saddens me more than to see a big girl wearing matronly, shapeless, fugly clothes. Just like skinny girls, fat girls come in all shapes and sizes. Some fat girls look like apples on sticks. Other fat girls are all cleavage and back fat. Then there are the fat girls with a whole lotta hip and junk in the trunk (that's me!). I am always more than willing to point her in the direction of fat girl heaven.

I mean, I like to be as helpful as the next girl. But to be totally truthful...fat girls that don't dress cute give us all a bad name. It's just another excuse for someone to say, ew...she's a cow and she can't even find cute clothes to wear!

And that is so, so untrue.

I think some women who've gained some weight lose any and all motivation to look nice. They believe that since they are no longer skinny, what's the point? So they settle with whatever is hanging in the back, or in the plus size section.

Horrors.

It's all ugliness. Hideous, hideous ugliness. Let me tell you something, ladies. There is always someone bigger than you. Fatter than you. So, you don't got it that rough. And you don't see these girls lamenting over it. They figure, shoot, I'm still gonna look cute. Yes, I will pour myself into these "skinny jeans" and pointy-toed flats. If Beth Ditto can go out and perform in her spanx--can allow herself to be photographed nude, for goodness sake-- then surely I can brave a fitted top and some chunky jewelry.

Surely.

There are some haters out there who will snicker, stare, gape open-mouthed, sippin' on the Haterade with a thick straw. Like, dang, I didn't think they made skirts in that size. Fine. Let them. But if you are comfortable..if you feel beautiful...if you've wasted countless years self-hating and doubting yourself, then work it out. If your husband/boyfriend/significant other thinks you are gorgeous and tantalizing, then work it out. I have.

Some days, anyway.

Those are the good days, right? Lord knows I've lived enough bad fat days. Celebrating the good fat days seems in order, don't you think?

Saks in the City.
Young, Fat & Fabulous
Too Fat for Fashion
The Pretty Pear

No Walls Community Outreach

If you happen to be in the Riverside area and would like to join us, come on out. No Walls will be at the park, reaching out to people in need, hanging out and listening to some cool music, too. And of course, free food!

"Taking Woodstock"

Is anyone else really looking forward to this movie? I am a total hippie at heart. For whatever reason, this time period really intrigues. I would have enjoyed nothing more than to be a dirty, long-hair, protestin', spliff rollin', long skirt-wearin', frizzy hair parted down the middle, concert-goin', patchouli-wearin', free love havin' hippie.

Groovy.

I saw the previews for this movie on Saturday night. I was totally excited! I never knew the back story to Woodstock, and how it happened. It didn't give a release date, it just said coming soon. Can't wait.

Love Don't Change

Unbreakable.

So we made it. We've been married for twelve years now. Yes, we're both ragged, torn and bloody from the effort, fingernails holding on to the embankment for dear life, rocks and rubble falling in our face...but we made it.

Ok, so I'm a little dramatic with my words but those of you married for longer than a minute know what I'm saying here.

Married life is tough. It's glorious. It's this other person with a beautiful golden glow enveloping their spirit, hummingbirds and butterflies streaming around their head, please don't ever leave me because I'll die without you. It's the gate of Hades, it's oranges flying past your head in the heat of battle (inside joke), it's this feeling of wanting to drive yourself off a cliff, Thelma and Louise-style, so you can be free.

Oh wait. That's just me.

I'm fully confident that God joined us together. He sat up on His throne, looked down and said, "Yes, these two of my children shall be together. No one else could possibly want them." This man is my soul-mate, if there is such a thing. I know that I am the perfect woman for him and he is perfect man for me. When I look at it from that perspective, it just makes sense. Sometimes, I love him more than I love myself. I could never be apart from him no more than I could chop off my arm and send it overnight express to Thailand.

I need him. I need my arm, too.

So I am committed to this man and this marriage. But I'll be real...it's hard. What I resolved to do is to deeply take in the good times--enjoy it, savor it. Hold it close to me in an embrace to tide me over when the bad times hit.

What we both want, desperately, is to be successful at this marriage. We may not have prosperous careers, build our dream house, travel the world, sell a painting for a million dollars, have good credit or drive a brand new car off the lot...but this marriage and these children...more than anything, we want to succeed at that.

We want to be unbreakable.

Which is the same title of one of our favorite "me and you" songs by Alicia Keys. We see ourselves in all of these couples (except for Oprah and Stedman, Russell and Kimora--[who just had Djimon Hounsou's little African bundle o' joy] for obvious reasons). So I leave you with some of the lyrics. Ahhh, every time I hear the line about struggling like Fo and James Evans, or having enough kids to make a band like Joe and Katherine, I get all emotional and stuff.

sniff sniff

We could fight like Ike and Tina
Or give back like Bill and Camille
Be rich like Oprah and Steadman
Or instead struggle like Flo and James Evans
Cuz he ain't no different from you
And she ain't no different from me
So we got to live our dreams
Like the people on TV

We gotta stay tuned
Cuz there's more to see...Unbreakable
Through the technical difficulties...Unbreakable
We might have to take a break
But ya'll know we'll be back next week
I'm singing this love is unbreakable

See, we could act out like Will and Jada
Or like Kimora and Russell makin' paper
All in the family like the Jacksons
And have enough kids to make a band like Joe and Katherine.

We're living our dreams
We're living our dreams
We're living our dreams
We're living our dreams

And we got to stay tuned
Cuz there's more to see....Unbreakable
Through the technical difficulties...Unbreakable
We might have to take a break
But ya'll know we'll be back next week
I'm singing this love is unbreakable

Happy anniversary, love. What will the next twelve years look like?

Hey, you'se guys!

I've been told by the people who've known me the longest and the most intimately that I can be somewhat of a snob. I always combat this with, "I'm not snobby, I'm just shy!"

Tis the truth.

But one thing I will totally own up to is this: I'm somewhat of a word ho. I can be ghetto fabulous with the best of 'em, speaking in spanglish and ebonics and all that good stuff. I be knowin'. But when people mispronounce words or conjugate improperly or straight up make up words...that drives me freakin' nuts! It's like I can't even process the conversation because I'm still thinking of the ignorant thing they said just a minute ago.

I was listening to the radio on the way home today, and this woman was giving a shout out, "Whenever people come into our office, they always ask, 'What station are you listening to?!' You play all the old skool james! I just wanted to say I love the music you'se guyses are playing!"

I can't believe they put that on the radio! Who says you'se guyses? Seriously?

I used to work with this woman who acted like she knew everything. It used to grate on my nerves like you wouldn't believe. She knew everything about credit scores, home loans, the type of screws we used to buy for the warehouse, foam core board--she was exhausting!

And her favorite word was supposibly.

"Supposibly we're supposed to get Friday off."
"Supposibly, Candice is messing with that married guy."
"Yeh, we were gonna go to Mickey D's for lunch but supposibly the boss is gonna buy us all King Taco."

Aaaaaaaaaagh.

Sometimes, when I got up the nerve, I would tell her, "It is supposedly. There is no such word as supposibly."

"Shut up. I like supposibly."

Um, okay then.

Then there is the word ask...but its pronounced ax. "I axed you to get me a cup of kool-aid." or "He axed me if I wanna go out Friday night but I told him I have to get my hairr did."

It's ask. Ask. Aaaaaaaaaagh.

Oh, what about the youse? Which, I believe, is the plural form of you. Yeh, you is singular and youse is plural. Like, "Are you'se guys coming to the park on Sunday? We're gonna cook some carne asada!" or "You'se are craaaazy."

Aaaaaaaaagh.

I cringe when I hear people say this: "Oh, I answered this question uncorrectly." or "I saw him at the mall. He was totally inrecognizable!" Aaaaaaaagh.

And last but not least, the word conversate.

"Hey, sit down so we can conversate, girl."
"I like him cuz he know how to conversate."
and
"Supposibly, that fool be conversating with all kinds of girls. He is inbelievable! I axed my mom and she said he is no good. What do you'se guys think?

Aaaaaagh.

Heh.

Just sayin'.

What words drive you cruu-azy?

Lazy girls don't wash, they wipe.

For as long as I can remember, I have completed my nightly ritual of washing and moisturizing my face. Without fail, I have done this. I don't care if I've been drunk, high, studied all night, been to the beach all day, had some spontaneous lovin', sick in bed with the flu...shoot, just given birth...I have stuck to my nightly ritual.

I don't know what it is, but I can't sleep comfortably if my face is dirty. I am disgusted by the thought of those nasty ladies who leave their Mac studio fix plastered on their faces, their mascara cemented to their eyelashes.

Ew.

Maybe it's my fear of acne. My intense dislike for the feeling of oiliness on my cheeks. Or the years of subconscious training I received from all the beauty mags I've read over the years.

That is the cardinal rule: Never go to sleep with your makeup on.

It's not something that I particularly enjoy. There have been countless nights where I've nodded off in front of the TV. I could have easily switched it off, rolled over and been countin' sheep. But nooooooo, my ritualistic mind starts working double time.

You need to go wash your face. Must wash face. Come on, get up, go and wash your face. It'll only take you a couple of minutes. You don't even need to warm the water first. Do it with cold water--it'll be refreshing!! Wash your face. WASH IT NOOOOOOOW.

FYI, yes I do talk to myself that way.

So I drag myself to the bathroom and wash my face. Then moisturize. Like clockwork. I could prolly do it asleep. But alas, I cannot. So night after night, it's this struggle.

Then I found these. Now, I've cleaned my face with the chil'rens butt wipes before, so the idea was already planted there. But this stuff is made with this sole purpose in mind.

Holler!

I bought a little refill back and put it on my nightstand. Now, when I'm feeling super lazy or super sleepy, I just reach over and grab a little face wipe, clean my face and I'm all clean and sparkly.

If it makes my life a tiny bit easier, I am a devotee.

Some trends should never come back.

Ever.

Seriously.

On Saturday, chillin' like a villain on the shores of Huntington Beach, I was doing what I love to do best. It provides hours of entertainment for me and I never tire of it.

People watching.

Give me a comfy seat, some sunglasses, perhaps a cool beverage and a snack or two and I'm good to go. A partner next to me can be fun but isn't required.

I don't even need a magazine to keep me occupied. I mean, who needs an InStyle mag when you are sitting on the beaches of sunny California, with literally hundreds of people from all walks of life strolling past you?

So I'm sitting there with my baby bro Josh when these two hipsters jog past us. They are wearing this silky/spandex pair of short shorts. I guess they could pass for booty shorts--booty shorts for men. Could those be...? No, that's impossible! Dove shorts? I haven't seen a pair of Dove shorts in years! My Dad used to sport those all the time.

"Oh dear Lord. Those dudes are wearing Dove shorts!" And I laughed, remembering these hideous shorts way back in the 80's, when they were popular. Totally unforgiving with that silky/spandex material, with little slits up the side...sometimes they would have half blue and half white, with a little Dove in the corner. Oh my, how they were completely ugly.

I believe I owned a pair or two.

My mom didn't really like me to wear them out of the house, because it showed my butt too much.

"Oh yeh. They are coming back in style now. I'd wear them...if they were a little bit longer." He said and I looked at him like I rode the short bus. Seriously Josh, you would wear them? I got the heebie jeebies. What is this world coming to? Acid wash jeans, bubble skirts, skinny jeans, crimped hair...and now Dove shorts? Surely the Apocalypse is drawing near.

Surely.

Then I got this flashback (which totally explained the heebie jeebies)...being a kid and visiting my Dad in San Diego over the summer. We'd be relaxing in front of the TV after a long day of swimming in the pool. My Dad would be sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa...wearing the Dove shorts...with nothing on underneath but...his junk (spilling out the side).

It was the 80's and all.

So to me, Dove shorts are synonymous with a pair of purple plums.

Oh my. Sometimes I really wish I didn't have such a good memory.

**I looked high and low for a picture of Dove shorts...couldn't find any! So the plums will have to do.

Missed opportunities

For some crazy reason, spending the 4th of July down at Huntington Beach sounded like a good idea. Normally, we always spend it at home with family, we relax, watch fireworks over at Mt. Rubidoux and celebrate Mom's birthday, which is on the 5th. But this year, we were adventurous and decided to hit the beach.

Along with 250,000 other people.

But I have to say, despite the crowds and general craziness of this holiday, the overall mood was a happy one. We had family reserve a fire pit at 4 (!) in the morning, and as the morning progressed, more and more of us showed up. The chil'rens had a good time swimming in the freezing Pacific ocean and the weather was beautiful.

And we only had to park about 3 miles from the actual beach to find parking.

That's what happens when you arrive nearly four hours behind schedule. But it was ok. Mike dropped us off and I did my Socorro-crossing-the-Rio-Grande imitation, crossing PCH and Beach Blvd. with five chil'rens (two were with their grandma and I had my nephew with us), six backpacks, two ice chests, a table, an assortment of chairs, a huge pile of beach towels, four packages of tostada shells (for the ceviche--duh)...all balanced on a skateboard.

For reals.

Gangsta, I know. But we did it. In the midst of all this were family and friends. There were a few people I didn't know, friends of my cousins. At one point, we were all sitting around the fire pit, laughing and eating and dancing to the music on the radio. We were having fun, you know?

A young mom with two little ones decided to plop herself in the chair next to me. No, she didn't try to strike up a conversation and neither did I. My eyes were too busy counting heads, making sure everyone was accounted for and didn't wander off. That and waiting for them ribs to come off the grill. She just discovered an opening to the circle and wanted in. The entire time, I could hear her struggling with her kids who were both toddlers. She had them on her lap, and she was doing her best to keep them there, despite their whiny protests and their best worm-imitation, trying to slide out of her grasp. All they wanted to do was run around and join all the other kids running around and having fun. In her frustration, she was speaking to them in a pretty gruff voice, slamming them on her lap, yelling, hissing...basically man-handling them. It got to the point where it was really bothering me. But I thought twice about saying something because she didn't know me from Adam. And you know that saying, if you don't have anything nice to say...so I just picked up my chair and moved somewhere else.

I know, very Christian-like.

About half an hour later, she moved her chair over by me again. I was like, duuuude. And she started up again, man-handling her kids. Then I was all, are you serious? I believe at one point I asked her if she could move over so I could fit another chair in between us. My sister, who was sitting across from me, said she was watching the entire time and she was quite entertained. Apparently, I was wearing my angry eyebrows and flaring my nostrils and this was funny to her.

But I totally don't remember doing that. Heh.

The next day I told Michael about it and he just smiled and shook his head. "Maybe she wanted to sit by you. Maybe she wanted you to talk to her. Maybe she wanted to hear from someone with six kids of her own."

And I was just sitting there with my mouth open.

I was confused because I didn't get this vibe from her at all. You know you can tell when someone wants to talk to you. I didn't get that from her. And we were never really introduced so how could she possibly know about me and all these chil'rens? He went on to tell me he heard some of the ladies whispering, as I was walking toward the water with my girlies.

Oh, that's Renee's cousin.
Oh, really?
Yeh, the one with six kids.

Sigh. Then I started thinking. Then I felt bad. Then I felt sheepish. Then I felt like a failure.

I missed an opportunity to help a young mother. That's what happened. This is something I always strive to do. I know how hard being a mom can be, and I always want to give some encouraging words to a mom so she can smile and keep pressing forward. Lord knows how many women God has put in my path for just this purpose, and it helped me immensely. I've been that mom, exasperated with her kids.

They could have just turned up their nose and asked me to move my chair, just like I did to this young mother. It's like I was put in this particular place with a task set ahead of me...and I failed miserably.

And I don't really know why. What was I doing that kept me from seeing this young woman as someone who needed a kind word and not someone who I just needed to move my chair to get away from?

My mind wasn't on my Father's business. And it should be. And this is something I am striving to change. I want to be a blessing to other people and not turn a cold shoulder when someone needs help.

My Vegas Itinerary

So, Michael and I went to Las Vegas for a couple of days last week. Would you believe that I've never been there? People are always shocked when I say that. Well, that's not completely true. I went to Vegas when I was eight years old.

My mom and my Nana were some serious gambling fiends, and for whatever reason, they thought my little bro and I would enjoy the trip. All I remember is my mom reaching around to give me a beat down everytime I poked my legs into her seat on the long, hot, boring drive...running out of money and sitting just outside the casino at Circus Circus trying to get the attention of my chain-smoking mother and grandmother...staying in a tacky motel room with red carpet.

Years later I learned my mother was horrified to discover two prostitutes were entertaining their johns in the room next to us, and they could hear them through the walls. I just asked my mom today why she even bothered to take us. She said, "Because I couldn't find anyone to babysit you." Nice, mama.

Good times.

So now, twenty nine years later, I finally have an excuse to go back. Truth be told, my first choice for a vacation destination would be some type of beach and/or art show. We're not the gambling/drinking/partying sort of people. And it's not like I have the $$$ to just plan a trip. But Michael's brother was getting married and he didn't want to miss it, so this was the perfect opportunity for a mini vacay in Vegas.

What is that saying? Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?

Yep. *cough cough* I wish I could say we lounged by the pool, ate at fabulous restaurants, caught a show or too...but nah, not quite.

My Vegas Itinerary:

Wed. @ 11: Dropping off the chil'rens with my mama, who so graciously agreed to watch them all. I waved, said my goodbyes and I love yous and my mom snickered, "Wow, that was very enthusiastic!" and I laughed, thinking, we'll see how enthusiastic you are when I come back to pick them up.

Wed. @ noon: Planned to leave at this time, instead...wait for Michael to---> find an outfit for the wedding, change the oil on our car, deposit money in the bank and shave. These were the only four things--four things, count 'em--he was responsible for. Meanwhile, I had already reserved a room/cleaned the house/shopped for travel essentials/packed for both of us/packed for six chil'rens/created homework packets/safely delivered them to their grandma/got feet done/bought cute dress/got hair did/bought snacks for travel. I kept thinking of my sister's words, you are wasting precious Vegas time! Aarrgh.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Wed. @ 4: We pick up Hungry sister in law and we finally get out of dodge.

A couple hours later: Get off in Baker for some ice. Saw an angry lesbian become irate because she paid $4 for an 8 oz. bottle of Dasani. At that moment, I'm very glad I bought that case of water for $3.99 and I didn't care that Michael and Hungry Sister in Law scoffed at the amount of 'travel snacks' I brought. They always do, but I didn't hear anyone complainin' as they munched on my Hot Cheetos.

Wed. @ 8: We finally arrive in Vegas. Its just getting dark and its raining. Listened to Hungry sister in law say, for what seemed like the tenth time, you could see the light from the Luxor in outer space. Okaaaay.

Wed. @ 8:15: Shocked at how many people were walking the streets with giant-size funnels of some type of alcoholic beverage. Observing the true distance between hotels (they all look so deceptively close on Mapquest) and thinking these old, fat people know what's up as they whiz past in their little motorized carts.

Wed. @ 9: After some gangsta driving manuevers, we arrive at Treasure Island. As I get out of our car BAM!! the Vegas heat just hits me in the face like Chris Brown did Rihanna. I can already feel the cuteness melting off my face.

Wed @ 10--midnight: Walk the strip. After walking--or should I say dragging cuz it felt like my husband was pulling me by my arm the entire time-- about a quarter of a mile, starved (Hot Cheetos only fill you up for so long), having already imbibed a cocktail on an empty stomach...I realize that I might not be cut out for this Vegas lifestyle. My deal: the new sandals kinda hurt, the smoke was grossing me out, my rubbing thighs were about to start a forest fire, I was about to stomp a mudhole in one of those people handing out naked lady flyers in my face (p.s just cuz you put a star over the nipples doesn't make it appropriate) and I just kept fantasizing about that bed with the beautifully crisp white sheets at Treasure Island.

When exactly did I turn into an old lady? Come on, Dee, you're in Vegas!

Thurs @ 1 am: Head over to the Hard Rock Casino with some family. We see what we assume is a group of young ladies out on the town, miniskirts and high heeled pumps all around. Until a guy gets out of a car and booms, "Alright b!tches! Get up, its time to get back to work!" and they all stand up, pull down their skirts and clickclack back into the casino. Startling.

Thurs. @ 1-3 am: Discover that some people who are completely pleasant when they are sober turn into people that are not so pleasant when they are drunk. Family drama ensues. Bitterness gets spewed. Fingers get pointed in faces. Meanwhile, I am in the middle trying to diffuse and desperately trying to find my happy place. Michael stood there and stared at the pants Gwen Stefani wore on tour through the glass display. And wooo, I cash in at ten big ones.

Thurs. @ 4 am: I discover what time it really is. Up until this point, Hungry sister in law keeps telling me, it's still early, Dee. Red Bulls rule. Srsly.

Thurs. @ 5: The family drama continues. Gets rehashed a hundred different ways. I so hate that. When people apologize, let it go. Way to throw a wet blanket on my Vegas trip, homie.

Thurs @ 6: We walk out of the casino to find the sun coming up. I swear, I feel like a vampire, hissing at the sun. Get me to our room, now! I tell Michael. They're hungry but food can wait until tomorrow. I need to put my old, crusty self to bed before I spontaneously combust!

Thurs @ 6--1: Sleep in a gloriously cool, blackened room. We would've slept longer but I set the alarm. We realize we have to go to a wedding in three hours. We eat breakfast/lunch, I take a bath, Michael goes down to the casino...time gets away from us, as it usually does. I discover that my feet are on swoll and have doubled in size! Now I can't fit them into my kitten heel pumps without it looking like a can of biscuits exploded. Dang.

Thurs @ 4:45: Walking around the Wynn (in sandals, which totally don't go with my outfit), trying to find the wedding salons, really hoping they are behind schedule since we were already 45 minutes late.

Thurs @ 5pm: We try to blend in, but they totally know we missed the ceremony. How many people can say they went to Vegas a whole day earlier and still missed the wedding? *cough cough*

Thurs @ 6: Head over to Mexican restaurant for dinner party. I'm greeted with a giant sized margarita. It is shut-yo-mouth-and-say-it-ain't-so-delicious. Totally makes up for the biscuit dough feet.

Thurs @ 9: The words "party bus" gets thrown around. I'm scurrrrred.

Thurs @ 10:30--Fri @ 3am: Said party bus is foggy from smoke machine, wet from dranks being spilled all over the seats and it smells like 25 different kinds of sweaty a$$.

Fri @ 3:30 am: Making our way up to bride and groom's suite at the Wynn. I wrinkled my nose up when I discovered they didn't get any maid service all day. Totally took away from the beatiful suite they had. Duh, that is the best part of staying in a hotel.

Fri @ 3:45 am: Drama ensues uh-gain. Sigh. We make a quick exit out. I don't even think they noticed we left.

Fri @ 4 am: We walk back to our hotel. Michael and Hungry sister in law decide they are hungry. I decide that I am tired. Food can wait. Michael deposits me safely at TI's lobby and they leave. My digestive track decides it can't wait for me to travel the 18 floors to my room before I hit the toilet. Lobby restrooms it is. I give an apologetic smile to the bathroom attendant as I walk out the door. Then, sleeeeeeeeeep. Hello, beautifully cool, crisp white sheets.

Fri @ noon: Checkout and hit the Rio buffet, to see what the fuss is about. It was aiiight. Hungry sister in law catergorized all of her plates: Seafood, Italian, Chinese, Salad, and Fried. We spent the rest of the afternoon visiting the places I only saw through the party bus window. But the heat and the excessive amount of people...bah. I just couldn't handle it. And I missed the chil'rens.

We drove home later that day, around seven, to avoid the heat. It was a nice drive, with the sun setting behind the mountains. Will I return to Vegas? Who knows. Maybe in another twenty nine years. Yeh, that sounds good to me.

R.I.P Michael Jackson (1958--2009)

Thriller was the first cassette I ever owned and I listened to it over and over again on the Walkman my Dad bought me for Christmas. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

I choose to remember him as a kid growing up in the 80's. When he was black. And had a real nose. [enter Forrest Gump voice] And that's all I have to say about that.

It's sad to see someone die so young.

I can't say which is my favorite song--its a three-way tie between "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough", "Working Day and Night" and "The Lady in My Life". But, "Remember the Time" is my all-time favorite Michael Jackson video. What is your favorite Michael Jackson song?

Michael Jackson - New Music - More Music Videos

Go ahead, work your magic, baby.

We got a check from the child support state disbursal office today. What the...? And instead of trying to get blood from a turnip, like they usually do, the letter said they withheld too much money from our taxes...and so now they were going to reimburse us for that amount.

$85.

We looked at each other like, if this a joke? For reals? Did they make some kind of mistake? I checked the envelope for any ticking noises. Seriously, I was expecting the thing to blow up in my face, literally.

Cuz if you are fortunate enough to not have to deal with your state's child support office, lemme just tell you: they aren't in the practice of giving money back to you. Oh no, no, no. They're like roaches that scurry out of the woodwork the minute you come up with some $$$. They don't give a rat's butt about the "children", they are looking out for their cut.

One time, they made a mistake with our wage garnishment, and they collected about a $1000 from us. When Michael called to alert them of the mistake and get our money back, I could hear them laughing in the background. They told him, straight out, no. When he asked if it could just go to the baby mama instead, they said no again. They would just hold onto the money in their greedy little paws, just in case he stopped paying child support, switched jobs or he ever got into arrears. A $1000. That stung. It really did.

So imagine that, $85.

Then later, after running some errands, we took the chil'rens to get an ice cream cone from McDonalds. When the girl at the window handed us our cones, Michael batted his eyelashes and said, "Can I get a cheeseburger? For free?" The girl looked at him, smiled and turned around. She made the cheeseburger her dang self, and brought it to him. For free.

His eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. He said he was going to buy a lottery ticket....child support money AND a cheeseburger...we are living the freaking high life over here, ya'll.

Hollywood, you suck...and your Transformers do, too.

This is one of my pet peeves. Hollywood and it's producers like to mass market and saturate the people's eye with their upcoming crap movies. Even if I lived like the Amish, I wouldn't of been able to keep the chil'rens away from Transformers when it first came out.

I grumbled through some of the unnecessary foul language, the dirty-old-man-ogling of Megan Fox and her irritating little pout, the mindless noise and violence and... seriously?...the masturbation talk really set me on edge. I remember kicking myself for bad parenting and not doing a quick review of the movie beforehand.

So of course, the chil'rens are pumped about Transformers 2. I, however, am not. I have no memories of watching this cartoon as a child. I was probably in the kitchen eating a snack every time this was on TV and my brother was watching it. Who knows? Booooorrrrriiinng.

But back to the movie. The chil'rens had plans to go to the drive-in tonight, wooohoooo, we're so excited, etc. etc. Of course, this was their plan, I had nothing to do with it. But little do they know they are not going to see it.

And this is why I feel Hollywood sucks. They don't care about your children. They don't care about the appropriateness of crude sexual humor. They don't care if a few F-bombs are dropped--even the word p*ssy was thrown in for good measure. They don't care if your ADHD-riddled child's mind is going into hyper-drive watching all that violence. And they shouldn't, I suppose. They are just about making money and entertainment.

But you, as a parent, should.

Michael went to the midnight showing of the movie and took one of our boys, much to the sadness of our other three who really wanted to go. He did a little lotto system to choose who would get to go with him, and the rest would get to see it at the drive-in later. Personally, I didn't think they would be able to stay awake. But Sol told me he stayed up for the entire movie and it was his dad who was snoring. Great.

But they both emphatically agreed it wasn't a movie for kids. Even Sol recognized that at 3 am, when he was standing over my bed, telling me about the movie. So now my other chil'rens are totally bummed that they can't see it. Which brings me back again to the total suckitude of Hollywood.

Why market it to children? Why air the previews on cartoon channels? Why plaster it on every billboard? Why put Transformer toys in Happy Meals?

Cuz they don't give an ish about you and your kids.

They just want your $$$.

So what I'm gonna do is put on my love beads, remove my bra (oops, its already off--my bad!), dance around barefoot in my long skirt and handmade sign and protest this movie. I'm gonna protest it by not taking the rest of my kids to see it. By not handing over my hard-earned $$$. Yeh, I know, the $67 is just a drop in the crap bucket that is the Hollywood movie-making machine, but still...it's the principle.

Fight the power, people.

"Things that are scary..."

So I was talking to Michael about how his little heathen children were going on about how they refused to have fat girlfriends/wives.

He chuckled and said, "That's okay. That's how their daddy used to be."

You could say that I have reformed him. He has since seen the error of his ways. I like to think that I broadened his horizons (literally) because baby mama had the body of a 13 year old boy. For the past twelve years he has lived the exciting life of curves, dips, hills, dimples, valleys and "squishiness". And its all good in our hood.

But he wasn't always like this.

One Thanksgiving evening, about fourteen years ago, I called him up and invited him to hang out with my family. We hadn't seen each other in several months because we had taken our friendship in separate directions. But on this night, he accepted my invitation and drove over to my grandparent's house in East L.A.

I have to admit, I was really, really hoping he had turned ugly. I knew it was going to be rough hanging out and being buddies if he still looked good and I was attracted to him. So when he walked in, looking all cute and whatnot, I was all daaaaaaangit inside. But on the outside I maintained my composure, and we spent the evening playing board games and laughing.

I'll never forget the night. We were playing Scattergories. I was being my usual smart-assed, know-it-all, overachieving-board-game-playing self. I wasn't gonna let up just because a cute boy was playing. Note: that's just how I am when we play board games. I wanna win!

Hopefully, you're all familiar with how to play Scattergories. You get a list of random things, you roll the dice and then have to name off all this randomness with whatever letter your dice has landed on. I was smokin' everybody. Apparently, it didn't occur to me that trying to show how smart you are whilst playing a board game wasn't all that attractive to the opposite sex.

But anyhoo.

The dice, if you can call it that--it's a faceted ball with letters of the alphabet on it--landed on "F".

Names of fruit...figs!
Type of animal...frog!
Things you throw in the trash...fish bones!
Type of spice...fennel!
U.S State Capitals...Frankfort!
College majors...finance!
Things that are scary...firestorms!

Needless to say, I was tearin' it up. Like I was gonna win a trophy or something.

When the timer went off and we had to reveal our answers, Michael had this tiny smirk on his face. Oh, just let me have the chance to wipe that smirk off his gorgeous face when I add up all my points, I thought.

So we all reveal "things that are scary".

Firestorms.
Freddy Kruger.
Fantasia.
Falling off a cliff.

Then he said it... "Fat chicks."

Whoa. Whoa. WHOA. D-d-did he just say what I think he said? Did he just go there? Oh no, he didn't! Oh, no he didn't just say he was scared of fat chicks.

You could hear the crickets.

And there was that smirk again. "What? That's my answer! I'm not trying to offend anyone. What?"

Pretty ballsy move considering he was sitting at a table with me and my auntie Glo, whose ghetto booty could smoosh him dead in a second. If she wanted to. Together, we could crush him to dust, a fine powder, if you will. That table was pushing about 500 lbs., yo. And that was just me and my auntie Glo. Recognize.

Shoot.

But my auntie Glo was a good sport. She laughed. I laughed. We all laughed. But for 1.5 seconds, I caught her nostrils flaring and I knew she was thinking, what kind of cocky little $hit did my niece just bring up in this house?

And I was like, daaaaaangit....he still looks good though.

Now you know where my son's obnoxiousness comes from. Every time Michael is ready to skin Diego alive, I remind him: He is just like you, dear.

Freeballin': the joy of having so many male role models nearby.

My boys love, love, love spending time with their uncles. They are a never ending source of cool. Even if it's just to hang out and clean up their yard, take trips to the dump, wrestle to the death on the trampoline, recycle cans, throw the football around, go fishing, cruise the mall, my boys really enjoy that time. We are blessed that we have so many male role models around to positively influence their lives.

It's takes a village, you know.

So Ben Diesel and Sol spent the night with their tio Eric, working hard at yet another uncle's house, then going to a pool party, and finally spending a night of unlimited video games and movies at my bro's house.

The next morning, Michael picked them up and the boys rushed in to get ready for church. When they are on their little "man vacations", they are a little lax with the bathing schedule.

Me: Did you take a bath today?

Ben Diesel a.k.a Cyan: Uh, no.

Me: Last night then?

Ben Diesel: Uh, tió Eric said we didn't have to because we went swimming.

Me: Ugh. What does that have to do with anything? Get in the shower, please!

Ben Diesel: But we were wearing our swim trunks yesterday, so tió Eric said we could freeball it, mom. We're freeballin'! You know what freeballin' means, mom?

Me: I know what it means, Cyan!

And he chuckled, long hair in his eyes, monkey face smiling, very proud of the fact that his masculine little testicles were swayin' in the wind, unencumbered by a pair of clean boxer briefs.

Ben Diesel: Yeh, I'm freeballin' it!

Heh. Thanks for the positive influence, bro! Its these little things they will remember for a lifetime.

No fat daughter-in-laws.

So yesterday during lunch, Noah decided he was going to rat out his little brother Cyan to Grandma. Did he hit someone? Steal gum from the grocery store? Say a bad word? Throw another one of his famous tantrums?

Nope.

He just has a little thing for a girl at church with blond hair and blue eyes. For some reason, Noah felt that his choice in Caucasian crushes wasn't acceptable and he wasn't havin' it.

Noah: Grandma-mom! Did you know that Cyan is gonna grow up to be just like tió Eric?

Grandma-mom: Why?

Noah: He likes blond haired girls with blue eyes just like tía Cassie!

I have no idea where he got the idea that girls like Caucasian sister in law were unacceptable. *whistling*

Grandma-mom: And what's wrong with that? As long as she loves God, that's all you have to worry about. Who cares what color eyes and hair she has! She can have black hair, blond hair, straight, curly. She can be tall or short. She can be ugly, pretty, skinny or fat!

Gasps around the room.

Diego: Um...Grandma-mom. Fat? We don't want to marry fat girls! Oh, um...sorry about that, mom. *giggle* No offense.

I'm thinking, where is my boot? I need to stomp a mudhole in this kid. Like right now.

My mom died laughing. I couldn't help but laugh with her. I almost spit pasta fagioli through my nose.

Little heathen.

Bedroom mural project

Just because you are an artist doesn't mean you can do all things "artistic". Everyone has their gifts in specific areas. For instance, I'm not very good with pastels. I can't stand to oil paint. And I can't work an airbrush to save my life. Mural painting is one of those areas where I don't excel. Yes, I have painting and rendering skills, but to take on a mural is something else.

What people fail to realize is, painting on a large scale goes way beyond basic painting skills. You gotta play by a whole 'nother set of rules. I'm learning, I'm learning.

A few years ago, I painted a little girl's nursery for a family friend. Not something I do all the time, but it was a small bedroom, near my house and they were really flexible with the hours I could paint. Turned out fantasticals.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when I got a call from the same family friend who wanted me to hook up the spare room she was making for her five granddaughters, who also happen to be my nieces. Was that confusing? You can figure it out. Follow along!

She wanted their names in pretty script and some bows in pink and brown. I was thinking, bows? Like Christmas bows? Hmmph. Well, okay. Simple enough.

She asked how come I didn't take on more projects like this to make money and I had to confess. It's just too difficult. First off, large scale is challenging for me. Second, my fat ass up and down a step ladder? Um, no thanks. And thirdly, it's a scheduling nightmare. Having to work around my husband's schedule and trying not to exhaust my only faithful and capable babysitter (grandma-mama)...well, in the end, it's just not worth it. But, because I did her other room...and she's practically family...and I know she'll pay me well...and she's got really good snacks at her crib...I said, yes, of course.

So this was the project I was working on a couple of weeks ago. Took me three days. I should say, it took us three days. Without Michael's help, it would have took me way longer. Way, way longer. He put his mural/sign painting expertise to use and helped me with the layout, which is always the most difficult. I can't tell you how thankful I was. He kept saying this was like having a romantic date with me, with each of us painting in our own respective corner.

So sweet.

That is the amazingly awesome part of being married to a fellow artist. He made the work fun. And it was nice to get some peaceful time alone to paint without being disturbed once. I even got to listen to the waterfall that was right outside the window, which was so nice. It made up for almost going partially blind and insane painting script on a very textured, bumpy wall.

But it came out fantabulous. The script? Very feminine. The bows? Classy. I am very pleased with how it turned out.

After we confirmed all the measurements, we created a pounce pattern for the lettering. Ya'll didn't think people do this freehand, did you? Teehee.

The chalk we used to put down the pounce pattern was making a mess, so we ended up just using the brown paint sort of like a stencil.

Michael was trying to photograph his hot mess of a wife. Don't think so! Above the doorway read: I am a child of God. The yellow is the stencil.

She wanted her grandchildren to wake up and read the words, "You are my sunshine."

Miss Selah's wall.

Putting the finishing touches...really, you could just keep going, touching up little things here and there, but you have to realize it's going to be seen from a distance. It takes discipline to stop perfecting every single line!

Miss Amarah's wall and all those cute curlicues.

Miss Stella Purple happened to get her own wall...so I had to give her a little extra oomph, hence the bow tilted to the side. Her own gangsta lean, if you will.

All the names are tied together by the bows and ribbon. And all those swirls? I was kicking myself in the butt later on! Heehee

This is a close-up of the textured wall. I don't know how people who paint outdoor murals do it. That is alot of work! It wasn't easy. But in the end, it turned out lovely!

Nopales!

Growing up, I used to stomp into my Nana's kitchen and peer over the stove.

"Nana, what's that?"
"Nopales! They're delicious! You want some?"

Cactus? Ew. My wrinkled up nose said it all.

But over the years, I learned to like them. She would cook them in scrambled eggs or in a red chile sauce. All from the cactus that grew against the fence along the backyard. I don't know what turned the tide for me, but I began to enjoy their bright, slightly lemony, green-bean like bite. It was probably the fact that she made them. That's what ties this meal to my heart. The memory of my chubby, soft Nana wearing an apron standing near her little stove, dicing up the cactus into little squares...that is what brings a smile to my face and warms my heart.

So when I walked into my Mom's kitchen on Saturday and saw what was on her stove, I got a little nostalgic. And to see the chil'rens eager to try it...the food that sustained raza and their familes over the years...the reason why you always see Latinos with cactus growing in their yard...well, it made me feel good. The chil'rens were amazed that they could eat something that grew off the back fence that was covered in tiny spines. It might seem insignificant to some, but it meant a while lot to me.

Every woman must choose the hill she will die on.

This is a completely fictious post. All names and scenarios have been changed to protect the innocent who do not want their idiosyncrasies to be put on blast. This was written for entertainment purposes only.

Are all men and women as different as Humberto and Socorro? Their concept of what is "clean" is on opposite ends of the spectrum. Its humorous because Socorro spends the better part of her day teaching, cooking, picking up and organizing after a crowd of six muchachitos and Humberto can go through the entire day without so much as picking up his crumpled up, crusty socks after a long day of mowing lawns and trimming shrubs.

So this is the struggle they have.

He is the Kitchen Sponge Nazi, bleaching those little yellow and green things until they are half dead. He sprays Lysol on all the door knobs. The sheets, too. If there is leftover crud on the blender, he looks at poor little Socorro like she's a cretin. Or worse, a huevóna. Just last week, he lugged the pressure washer into the bathroom to blast their white-tiled shower because he couldn't take the grime one second longer. Its obvious he is more concerned with disinfecting and germs than she. Now, I'm confident that Socorro enjoys disinfecting as much as the next person, but come on, she's not gonna miss the forest for the trees.

Meanwhile, everything else that needs to be cleaned is apparently Socorro's domain. If, after all that she has to do, she still has it in her--then she'll get to the doorknobs...or the kitchen sponges...or the microwave...and the bleaching of everything that doesn't breathe.

Fact of the matter is, poor old Socorro would love to have all that stuff clean, but she just can't seem to get to it.

Remember the six little muchachitos?

They kinda fill up a person's day. So when Humberto does bring it up, ugh--have you smelled the sponges? Disgusting! Me da asco, Socorro! He unwittingly makes her feel like a second class housewife. And no self-respecting Mexican wife would ever be a second-class housewife.

But listen, a mujer can only do so much in a day.

And so, Socorro must choose the hill that she will die on. And that hill doesn't include a spotless blender. Or the funk that collects in the bottom of the toothbrush holder. So she lets him get all loco en el coco over that stuff. But Socorro can't help but laugh. She routinely trips over his funky towels, dirty chonies, work boots, receipts from 1993, bottles of shaving cream and mouthwash (not the tasty green one, but the brown one that makes you feel like a wino chillin' in an alley after you use it)...but as long as the sponges are cool, Humberto's world can continue rotating peacefully.

We all have our priorities. And at the end of the day, Socorro and Humberto still love each other. And that's all Socorro cares about.

The Drive-In

If wasn't for the drive-in theater, the chil'rens would never get to see a movie when it first comes out. Seriously. Who can afford to take their kids out to see all the new movies? Kick in the popcorn and candy...then after you know they will want something to eat (at least mine will), maybe an ice cream and some St.Arbucks for mama and daddy. I mean, we're looking at spending well over a $100 everytime we go to the theater. Its ridiculous.

We are blessed to have the choice of two drive-in theaters in my hood. Two! So we're talking $14 for two adults, and kids are free. Woooot. Although the drive-in's are getting hip to the game, they are now starting to charge for kids ages 5-10, $1. Still, that is manageable. Bring your own snacks and maybe some burgers for the chil'rens, and we are good to go.

Personally, watching a movie in a drive-in is not my first choice. You lose so much in the quality of the movie and if you are like me--highly distractable--then you spend alot of your time watching the cars drive around, observing everyone's drive-in set up, wondering how much time you have to sit down and relax before you have to do a potty run, etc. This is why we usually see kids' movies. That way they get to see what they want, it's cheap and we are all happy.

Growing up, my parents always took us to the drive-in. The first movie was something for the kids, then second feature was for the adults. So that meant we were relegated to the back of our yellow Datsun, where we had a mattress with blankets to lay on and my mom had sewed cheery Hawaiian patterned curtains for the windows on the fiberglass shell.

But we didn't always go to sleep.

I'll admit, I got most of my sex education at the drive-in. The movies I vividly recall watching while my parents thought me and my brother were asleep....Animal House, Saturday Night Fever, Apocalypse Now.

Good times.

So last Sunday, we thought we would take the chil'rens to see Night at the Museum 2. I would endure that so I could see X-Men Origins after. They were all sufficiently fed, dressed, we piled up our camp chairs and blankets and were off. We got there about 40minutes before the movie started, but I was shocked to see a huge line of cars waiting to get in, from both directions.

Seriously, people? You all want to go to the drive-in?

Memorial weekend and all. No one had to worry about getting up to go to work the next day. So we finally got in with minutes to spare before the movie started. I couldn't believe how packed it was. Thankfully, my sister saved us a spot. Cars were still circling around until well after nine o'clock. Halfway into the movie, someone parks right next to us (in a no parking zone, no less) and unloads all their chairs and stuff and can I tell you, they were sitting so close, they totally could have smelled me if I farted.

If I farted. I said if.

It was awkward. But I didn't trip. I just kept shoving Red Vines and Hot Tamales in my mouth like they were going out style, to numb me from the fact that I was watching a part two when I had never even seen part one. But it was good, funny. I can't complain.

Halfway into X-Men Origins, I drifted off to sleep. And the scary part was, I woke up really disoriented, like, where the heck am I? In the middle of the drive-in surrounded by strangers, my children sitting there watching a movie, completely unattended! I looked over to find Michael sleeping in the van with Xixi, snoring amidst the speakers blasting by his head.

Geez.

I heard they were knocking down the drive-in to build a Costco. I hope they don't. Let's keep movie watching affordable for the poor...and the multi-childrened (is that even a word?)...which are usually go hand in hand.

Hello obsession.

I told myself that if I ever gave birth to female children I wouldn't be all fuu-fuu about their clothes. And I do believe I haven't been that way. They haven't been gussied up in crinoline skirts or white tights or patent leather shoes, like, ever. But I will say that those girls have more clothes than all of us combined. Shoes too.

I get kinda fanatical about their stuff. Their barrettes. Their skinny jeans. Cute sundresses. I guess you could say I "live skinny" vicariously through them. Aside from that fact, it's sort of like this game. I see something that is really cute for them and I'll start creating schemes to go and get them. I'll sit there and contemplate blood and semen donation...car wash...surrogate motherhood...putting donation buttons on this blog. I mean, seriously.

For instance, their chankla collection. For those of you who have no idea what a chankla is, ya better ask somebody. And that is pronounced ax...not ask.

Chanklas=a pair of flip flops.

I've rationalized that since they only cost $2.50 a pair at Old Navy, then why not buy them every color out there? This way they'll have a pair that will go with everything. Last time I counted, they each have about 13 pairs each. Then I went out and bought an over-the-door shoe organizer, because I was tired of having to run outside and search through the grass whenever we needed to leave and we couldn't find that one turquoise chankla. Curse that turquoise chankla! You could also say I wanted that shoe organizer so I could set up all those colorful flip flops like a freakin' shrine.

Niiiiice.

Our next obsession...Hello Kitty t-shirts. Basically, Hello Kitty everything. Who doesn't love Hello Kitty? Can a billion Asians be wrong? I think not. I've loved Hello Kitty since forever, so naturally, my daughters love it, too. Hello Kitty backpacks, Hello Kitty chonies, Hello Kitty purses, Hello Kitty sweatshirts, Hello Kitty lunch pails, Hello Kitty nightgowns, Hello Kitty toothbrushes, Hello Kitty lip gloss, Hello Kitty toys, Hello Kitty blankets. You get the idea. It's all about the kitty...or as Xixi says, hello titty.

It all started with cousin Selah, the resident fashion diva of the family.

Selah may only be 3 years old but she is always dressed fabulously. Down to her matching hair bows, this little girl is stylin', largely due to the fact that her mother (my sister) is just as crazy and fanatical style-conscious about her daughter's clothing as well.

See, this makes me feel almost normal.

So back to Selah. The Hello Kitty obsession originates with her. She has this thing for Hello Kitty. So my girls saw her wearing it all the time, and they love their cousin and often say she is so beautiful...so they naturally started asking me for shirts like Selah had.

So I've been on the hunt. Hello Kitty ain't cheap. I've hit all the stores that carry Hello Kitty--Target, Sears, Kids 'R Us. Basically everywhere but the Sanrio store. My sis found the mother lode at Ross, for $5.99 each. Wooohooo! That does not mean you can go out and clean out all the Rosses of Hello Kitty. That would just be mean.

And I'll find you and then sit on you.

We've got quite a collection, so I'm feeling the obsession start to dissipate slightly. It's almost a relief. I can stop making plans to find more when I should be laying in bed sleeping.

Until the next obsession....

Must.Get.Back.To.Blogging.

I haven't forgotten about my blog...I've just been too busy to sit here and write something. But I shall be back soon.

XOXO

Dancin', dancin', dancin'!

My man. He's a dancing machine. Ever since I've known him, he's loved to dance. Anywhere we go....if there is music playing...and a space to dance...he will dance.

And he usually drags me onto the dance floor with him. Sometimes I get embarrassed to be the only ones out there dancing...sometimes I just want to sit there and bag on the way people dance...other times I just want to munch on appetizers...sometimes I just don't want all the eyes on my big behind, sashaying to the beat.

But I go out there with him anyway. I know there are lots of other women who would be willing to dance with him anytime.

One time we were at a wedding. And I had to sit at the table and nurse the baby. A convenient excuse. But that didn't slow him down, because he was off to dance by himself. My family laughed, saying you should let him out a little more, Denise! As he salsa-ed and cumbia-ed around the rented floor, I had to agree.

We are usually the last people on the dance floor. He won't stop until the DJ calls for the last song, the lights get turned on, the fog machine is turned off and people are stacking up chairs. At that point, I am way over the dancing. My fat lady knees ache and I feel sweaty.

And yet, there he is, still trying to his get his groove on.

This last Saturday was no different. As the band played some rockin' blues music, my husband just had to get out there and dance. I swayed with him, and with a smile on my face I told him, "You just have to dance, don't you?"

And he smiled back at me, "I have to, baby. It's an expression of what's in my soul."

And what a beautiful soul it is.

Michael and Cyan getting their groove on.

Cyan really gets into his moves, too.

Work it, work it.

Breaking it down.

Now that Michael has a wealth of chil'rens who love to dance as much as he does, he will never be without a partner. Cool.

Mary, mary.

I bought this statue of the Virgin Mary two years, while vacationing in Mexico. My plan was to give it a little patina with some craft paint and display it in my front porch. You know, total O.G. beaner style. Well, it's been sitting in my art cabinet, awaiting it's patina. I finally decided to just display her the way she is.

But truth be told, I was a little leery about putting up a statue, what with it being an "idol" and a "graven image".

That old Pentecostal guilt doesn't die.

I realize I'm not worshipping the statue. I'm not praying to it. I'm not burning incense as an offering. Still, there was that little thought in the back of my mind. But I'm gonna call it what it is to me. It's just a beautiful piece of art. And I'm cool with it.

Knowing full well what her response would be, I asked my mom, "So, do you like my Virgin Mary?"

Her scrunched up nose said it all.

And that was the end of that. My Mom spent many years as a Catholic, being dropped off to Mass by her parents--she said she would take home a leaflet from the church to prove to my grandparents that she went--so she's had many years of perfecting that religious guilt. In my experience, reformed Catholics who have turned Christian are tough on their former house of worship. Thats just the way it is.

I've come to realize that there are Christians who eschew any sort of ties to the Catholic Church, the Virgin Mary being one of them. I've said it before, the Virgin Mary is beautiful to me. I don't really carry any of that baggage with me and it's easy to look at these statues for what they are: sculptures.

I knew she would find a good home amongst all the succulent cactus. I just love to walk up to my porch and see her sitting there. She was blessed among women, you know. I like to think I'm blessed among women, too.

Mama's day musings.

"I just don't know how you do it with all those kids!"

"My two just drive me crazy! How do you do it?"

"Wow, you must have a ton of patience!"

If I had a dollar for every time someone said that to me...I wouldn't get disconnect notices from the utility company on a regular basis.

The fact of the matter is...I don't have alot of patience. And every night, as I am on the threshold of blissful sleep, I wonder just how I survived the day with six chil'rens under the age of eleven.

How will I be able to meet their needs?
How will I be able to feed them all on my nonexistent budget?
Am I teaching them everything they need to know?
Am I making the best decisions for them?
How can I get them to do the laundry without me?

It's a wonder that I even get any sleep at all.

And then when I wake up to the sound of birds chirping and my neighbor paying to get his lawn trimmed down 1/4 of an inch every Thursday, I am confronted with the thought once again. How am I going to survive the day with six chil'rens under the age of eleven today?

Cuz yesterday I just made it by the skin of my teeth.

The thing is...I was once just like that mama with two children. I had two boys, fifteen months apart. Then every other weekend and on summer vacation, I had my stepson with me. I was like every other mama in the world, tearing my hair out because they would get into everything (like the chili powder--which they proceeded to dump all over the sofa...on the coffee table and down the hallway to the bathroom). They would strip themselves naked every night while "sleeping" in their crib. I never got to shower in peace--I always imagined them burning down the house or swallowing something poisonous in the 3.5 minutes it took me wash my hair and scrub my butt. I endured making dinner amidst screaming toddlers slapping my thighs behind me. I planned any and all excursions around nap time/lunch time/dirty diaper time. I went to bed every night like someone beat me over the head with a sledgehammer.

It was rough.

To go from the carefree, single person life to that was mind-boggling, to say the least. No one is fully prepared for what motherhood brings. I just knew I wasn't cut out for this motherhood thing. I started to think about contributing to our struggling household, about how I should utilize that as-of-yet-unpaid-for college education and get a career...that I should stick their butts in daycare like all the other normal kids.

Then I got pregnant with my third son, and all those plans went out the window. That's when I started to embrace this life as my life. And whether or not I believed I was cut out for this motherhood gig...I was gonna fake it til I make it.

I knew a woman from our church that had eight children. Every Sunday I saw her glide into church with this beautific smile on her face. She's gotta be on something, I thought. Look at her! It's like she doesn't even realize her three boys in cowboy boots are body-slamming each other on the pews. Or that her older kids are inhaling all of the donuts! How in the world does she do it? Nothing ever phases her! I could never be like her. I can barely make it to church with two fully clothed children, much less eight!

And to be totally honest, I didn't want to be like her. Why would someone have all those kids on purpose? Ironic, I know. But then, I realized one day that someone thought the same thing about me that I had thought about her, all those years ago.

One day, in the middle of teaching sixteen kids art in a stuffy classroom without a sink, a mom at our homeschool co-op said to me, "Oh! You are always so calm and cool. All this noise and craziness doesn't seem to bother you! How do you do it?"

And I thought, she must think I am crazy. Or on something! Then I swallowed and thought, I must be crazy. And I should be on something!

I got a good laugh at that one.

But the fact of the matter is, with each child you learn to have more patience. I didn't just wake up one morning with six children and unlimited patience. No, as the years went by and each child was added to our family, I was growing as much as they were. In patience, humility, grace, kindness, love, mercy and a sense of humor.

Not to mention hip width and butt size.

So, this whole *motherhood thing* isn't something I was miraculously born with. I struggle just like the next mother. If you spent a few days with me, you'd know. Most people who knew me from before I had children are astounded that I have as many as I do because I was one of those people who just didn't want kids. And yet, here they are....all six of them. I like to think I am a better person now because of my children then I was when I was that single, carefree gal who slept until noon and let her grandmother wash her laundry. I've learned valuable life skills I don't think I would have picked up anywhere else.

I love my life.

It may not seem like it sometimes. Really, I do. I realize some people shape their character going through far easier channels than I have chosen. Me, I'm one of those knuckle-headed people. I needed to push out six giant-sized heads through my quivering loins to really learn something. To be a better person.

To value life.

Happy Mother's Day.

This is what my life was like living with two little boys...such a long time ago. How I wish Noah and Diego were this age once again.

Lust, eyeball sex and lookin' for Jesus up in them clouds.

So we were walking into the Den of Thieves...a.k.a Costco...when what did my astigmatized eyes behold?

A woman with a slammin' body...dressed in a practically sheer orange-colored maxi dress...and a thong.

We were navigating through the madness of trying to find a cart, making sure none of the chil'rens were abducted, and debating whether to buy them pizza before or after we shopped. Like right in front of the entrance. Then that's when this this woman walked by. And I swear, it was like Moses parting the Red Sea. You could see every man with a set of eyeballs just zero in on her and this dress.

Or should I say, lack of a dress.

Oh, sure. It was a long, summer dress. But you could see right through that bad boy. And come on, sister had to know how sheer it was.

I don't think you could have gotten away with wearing that around the house unless you were a Woman of the Leisurely Arts, i.e. a Ho.

I could clearly see her thong...the tag on the thong...a couple of dimples in her butt. Shoot, I could tell you if she had a Brazilian wax or not. That is how little was left to the imagination with this dress.

So I stopped to observe this woman. Literally, I stopped in my tracks. There is no shame in my game. I turned my head over to my dear husband with a laser-cut precision of the eyes, boring deep holes into this skull and I was like....

Stare at this woman's behind and I will karate chop you in the throat first and then ask questions later. I dare you. Stare at it. I dare you.

And I continued to stare at him until the woman walked safely in the store amidst the howls of all the wolves that were oogling her. He was staring very intently at something in the sky. He also had a tiny, innocent smile on his face, like he knew.

I know a woman's butt in a thong just passed me by. I know it.

Oh, he knew.

But he kept staring up at the sky....like if he was searching for Jesus up in them clouds.

Damn straight.

But I know it took alot of self-control to do that. I mean, if someone is going to put themselves on display, what is the harm in taking a peek, right? Wrong. Lust is wrong, God doesn't like it. In fact, He says...if you look at a woman with lust in your eyes, it's just like you had sex with her! Imagine that. I bet its safe to assume we've all had lots of eyeball sex with random people over the years. Gross. So it's just a habit that we're trying to work through. It isn't the easiest thing when people are walking around half nekkid all the time.

We're just trying to respect one another and our marriage. This is one of the ways we've been holding it down for almost twelve years.

Gum is bad for your hair.

Noah said he was "wrestling" with Sol, and by some act of metaphysics, his gum flew out of his mouth and got stuck in Sol's hair. And I don't mean a little piece of gum that one could easily pluck out.

Oh, no. That would make my life much too easy.

This must have been the stickiest gum ever created. We tried to pull it out but it hurt Sol too much because it was smooshed down right near his forehead, down at the root. I wanted to salvage his hair, since I was letting it grow back out, so I iced it. It didn't help. So he spent two days with gum in his hair, hiding under a hat.

Then I had to do the inevitable.

Buzz.

Sigh.

Oops, she did it again...

Xiomara. Xixi!

This girl.

This is the little girl who says exactly what's on her mind, much to her mama's embarrassment. Sometimes I have to distract her, so she won't follow through on the thought she has brewing. I know this girl. I know because she is 100% her mother's child.

Just last Saturday, as we were having a little garage sale, she focused on his short, chubby woman walking into our driveway. She had a little belly, but it was clear she wasn't pregnant. She was too old. But I saw the look of intent on Xixi's face.

"Look, mama! That lady has a baby in her tummy!"

I almost choked on my saliva.

I tried my best to divert her attention, because she was on her way over to pat the woman's stomach. "Xixi! Xixi. Please go inside and wash your face! It's dirty!"

My sister sat there snickering, like, that's your daughter!

She does not possess any sort of filter on her thoughts.

I have no idea where she gets it from.

*cough* *cough*

Today, we had the pleasure of spending time with my little brown Nana, who is well into her 80's. Xixi was sitting there cuddling with her great-Nana, when she stood up and patted Nana's butt.

Xixi: Are you wearing a diaper?
Nana: No! Why?
Xixi: Betuz old ladies have to wear diapers.

Ahahahahahaha! Thank God my Nana has a good sense of humor.

Could you spare some change, brother?

If you haven't seen it already, may I direct your attention to the left, right under my art blog link?

It's a donate button.

Well, I feel sheepish.

But shoot. Shoot. I've read blogs where people have tried to raise funds for a new iphone, a weekend to get some booty, etc.

Since I "outted" him by this whole bucket post, Michael felt like I threw him under the bus.

Him: It sounds like I don't take care of our vehicles.
Me: *cough cough*
Him: I take care of our vehicles!
Me: I did not implicate you in any way...I just said the van was systematically breaking down and we didn't have the money to fix it. Ok, I did say you didn't take care of the a/c and I wanted to plot your slow, painful death but that's it!
Him: Hmmph.

So he went ahead and put the donate button up there.

Think of it as...

Alms for the poor.

So disadvantaged, brown chil'rens can get around in comfort.

So I can get rid of my sweat mustache.

So I can throw away the aluminum bar and roll down the window when I get my .59 tacos.

So I can drive 50 mph.

It's either this or I take the chil'rens to Venice beach and have them entertain the crowds with my monkey grinder.

Why poor people drive buckets.

I used to think that those poor souls who drove around town in crappy buckets for cars just didn't care about being seen by other people, they just didn't care about nice, stylish automobiles...they just drove it around because it got them from point A to point B.

It never occurred to me that maybe those poor souls were just too poor to either fix up the bucket or get a new one. But now I know.

Cuz I have become one of those poor souls.

I drive a 2000 Chevy Astro Van. That's not too bad, its only nine years old, you must be thinking. True dat. But a 2000 Chevy Astro Van that has to drive around eight people all the time is a whole 'nother story. You could say it's gotten some wear and tear. I've just trained myself to not mind the car. Who cares what it looks like. It runs. It's paid for. The chil'rens can fit in it. It's paid for. Amen. I realize that many of the problems are cosmetic and to be totally honest, we just haven't gotten around to fixing certain things.

So why not fix it, then?

Well, when you have a thousand other things that are screaming at you to be bought (food, water, clothes) and to be paid (electricity, gas, roof over head)...fixing the broken grill on your car just doesn't seem like a big priority. It's one of those, we'll get around to it someday things. But that someday...it just ain't coming. Not anytime soon.

But in addition to the broken grill....the whole left side looks shaved because it slammed into the center divider on the 91 last two years ago...so the driver side door won't open and close right and it creaks like a 90 year old lady's knees and I fear it might fall off in the parking lot of Trader Joe's....some of the dashboard is cracking off...one of the seats can't adjust...armrests are broken...the new stereo got jacked in '07 and its never been replaced so now there a hole covered with black tape...the volume nob is lost...the seat belt stem broke so now it's held together by duct tape...my automatic window motor decided to die so when I drive up to Starbucks and/or Del Taco, I have to open my door and hand over my money (thus, showing the piece of cracked dashboard--fabulous, I know)...and there is a wide assortment of deflated juice pouches, dried hamburgers and fries, boogers and church crafts scattered on the floor.

Whew.

I wish I could say, at least the motor runs like a champ. Even though it looks like hell, it runs great! Nope. Despite getting a new radiator, transmission and a new motor two and a half years ago, and a myriad of other things I won't bore you with its still a bucket. Whenever I'm driving 50 miles an hour, it starts shaking like I'm driving over a thousand little balls.

So I just never drive 50 mph.

Then, to add insult to injury, one day a few months ago, the air conditioner decided it only wanted to blow out toward my feet. Oh, it blows fine in the back of the van for the chil'rens and my feet have never been frostier...but in my face, under my sweaty eyes and upper lip where I need it most, there is no air. Just sweat. I told Michael, please don't wait to fix this until the weather starts to get hot. I will kill you.

It was over a 100 degrees a few days ago.

I fanned myself. And plotted my husband's slow, painful death.

And. And.

My automatic locks for the entire vehicle decided they don't want to work anymore. That was the final blow, the most cruel. I can't unlock the hatch of my van, not even with the key. So this means that when I shop for groceries, I have to pile everything on the empty car seats and floor. And I always, always seem to forget the gallon of milk that went sliding around when I drove home. If I have the misfortune of shopping with the chil'rens, then they sit in their seats with bags of chicken breasts, granny smith apples and bagels on their lap.

Yeh, its kind of pathetic.

The other day, while getting ready to leave from the chil'rens homeschool co-op, I was getting ready to pile all of my art supplies in the front seat. I was already grouchy because of the heat and the thought of no air conditioning, even though the co-op is about 120 seconds from my home. But it was gonna be a hot 120 seconds, nawmean? I looked around at all the other moms with their nice, clean mom/mini vans and just really started to hate being poor and having bad credit.

Waaaaah, my life sucks.

Then Noah calls out to me, "Mom, its ok! You can put your stuff in the back. It's open." And here I am thinking that thousand pound window is going to slam down on his big, bobble head. But no, there was no danger of that because my son had the hatch propped up...by a big aluminum bar.

So everyone is driving off in their new cars, waving and smiling while I am standing there sweating with all my little brown, hungry chil'rens, in front of the bucket with a bar holding up my back window.

Could I be anymore of a walking stereotype?

All that's missing is a Mexican blanket on the seats, some Santana blasting on my broken stereo and the chil'rens can take off their shoes and start selling chiclets to everyone.

Sigh.

You know, its not that the car isn't cool enough. I truly am one of those people who just want something to get me from point A to point B. I don't care about the latest models, paint jobs, rims, how fast it drives. I've even resigned myself that I may someday soon have to drive one of those ginormous carpool vans. I can deal with that. Its just that the basic amenities of the vehicle I currently drive are breaking down, and its making my life hard. The locks and the air conditioning is the straw that is breaking this camel's back.

I just wanna drive it over a cliff, Thelma and Louise style.

So why not go and get a new car?

And there you have it, my friends. The crux of the matter. Poor souls without any money can't afford to go out and buy a new car. Or a used one for that matter. They drive around in their buckets because they have to. They have no other choice. That is the byproduct of poverty. Sadly, I don't see any new cars in my future.

Should one come down like manna from Heaven, cool.

Until then, don't feel sorry for me. I like to think of it as character development. God has this funny of way of breaking down certain habits I possess. I'm cultivating thankfulness, patience, gratefulness, and long-suffering. Lots and lots of long-suffering.

And there's nothin' like driving around in a beat up old car with six chil'rens spilling out of it the minute you park to teach you some good, old fashioned humility.

Hope.

I think it was his way of saying, look Dad--I'm just like you. I wanted to be like you because it makes me feel closer to you. I packed up my backpack with your spray cans and snuck out the back door in the middle of the cool night air while our family slept peacefully. Just like you used to. It was exciting to climb up on buildings, to spray my name on those pristine, white walls. And when they caught me, I knew. I knew I was in deep trouble. But would you still be there for me, Dad?

And he was. His Dad was still there for him. Of course he would be there. But what us children of divorce sometimes wonder is...does that parent who left us...does he still love me? Sometimes it can be the smallest seed of doubt. I had a mother who, for the most part, kept her opinion of my father to herself. But sometimes, in her extreme frustration, she would say little things. Little things that my siblings probably didn't notice, but I did. Your father lies all the time. I can never believe a word he says.

Your father lies.

Those three words would continually stab me in my heart whenever I thought of my father, and the words he said to me. Mija, I have to work this weekend. Or mija, I'm going out of town so I won't be able to make it. And of course, he could be busy...or working...or going out of town. But in my mind, I wonder. He is probably lying. It's awful, I know. It's something I've tried to conquer for the last 30 years of my life.

So when I contemplate my stepson, I think of all that he has been told of his father. He loves his other family more than you. He doesn't love you. He doesn't have time for you. He never gives us any money. He hasn't called so he must have forgotten about you. And for the life of me, I wonder, how can he believe that? He knows how much his father loves him. He must know the lengths his father has gone to be in his life.

But sometimes it's the doubting voice that is louder.

Sometimes it hurts to be a parent. Even more so when your hands have been tied by the other parent. Forcefully tied, to the point where the rope is cutting off your circulation and it begins to rub your skin raw and bloody. When you have resigned yourself to the fact that you can only do so much for a child that has been fought over for the past sixteen years of his life. There is a wound so deep, so raw and tender...that I don't know if it can ever heal. By our hands, anyway. But I know that His hands can heal us all.

So he was here and lived with us for almost three months. It wasn't easy. But finally, to be in his life...it was a really good thing. I didn't blog about it because I wanted to respect my husband's privacy. But now that he is gone, swooped up once again by his mother who thinks she is doing the right thing by him, all there are reminders of him. His school books. His empty closet. His cologne. His ipod. His pimple pads.

And it feels like a death. Its like we are in mourning. That's the best way I can describe it. Some of the chil'rens can talk lightly about him, some of them can't. My husband cannot. It still hurts too much. To finally have his son here, to be a part of his everyday life...and then to have him get into trouble--on our watch, no less--it's been one of the hardest things we've had to face. No one wants to see their child make poor choices. But I can't help but feel like we're part of the reason why he's making these poor choices...because he's crying out that he's hurt.

Two more years until he's eighteen. Two more years until he's eighteen. I say that like it's a mantra.

For now, we go back to calling and hoping he answers. We go back to driving to his home which is eighty miles away, hoping he is home and wants to see us. Then I look to the book of Isaiah, which says but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

And that's all I can do.

Happy Birthday, Ben Diesel!

Today is the day my fourth son came into this world. Right from the start, he proved to be a unique child. He was born in the middle of the kitchen floor, which he doesn't like to tell people. Kitchens are for eating--not having babies, he told me one day.

He came out with a head full of bushy hair and a fat nose. He looks just like his daddy, I remember saying.

On day #3 of his life, he began what would become a six year fascination with his two middle fingers. We had a hard time breastfeeding because he preferred those two fingers. So in the middle of night, exhausted, scraping by on a couple hours sleep, I gave in. He won that battle.

Go ahead, suck your fingers, Cyan.

Every time he went to sleep, you heard that little sucking sound. Sucksucksucksucksucksuck. When he got older, he tried to get undercover about his little finger-sucking habit. So he'd hide in a Spiderman blanket so we couldn't see him. But we could still hear him. Sucksucksucksucksuck. Then, if he was really trying to be sneaky about it, it would sound like this:

suck (pause) suck (pause) suck (pause) suck.

He was also the first child that made me wake up Michael in the middle of the night so he could help me with the baby. I just couldn't do it anymore. Help me, I would cry. There were many mornings I woke up to find Michael splayed out on the livingroom sofa, mouth hanging open, snoring...with Cyan snuggled in his arms. One night I woke up startled, because I had gotten more than two hours of interrupted sleep and Cyan was not in the bed with me. This is what I found in the livingroom: my husband knocked out on the sofa, his boxer briefs stuffed in his butt to give him a fantastic wedgie...and Cyan, buckled into his carseat....which was swinging back and forth...from a chain...which was hanging from a hook in the ceiling...which was drilled into the ceiling sometime during the night.

Yeh, being an exhausted parent with a screaming child makes you do some crazy things.

I suppose buying a swing from Toys 'R Us would have been ideal. But when its 3 a.m and you need to make a kid shut up before you do something rash, and your wife was going through this crazy, attachment-parenting phase which forbade said parent from buying any "mechanical baby-holders" such as a swing....drilling a hook into the celing and hanging a chain on it and attaching a carseat with a screaming infant inside of it...well, it makes perfect sense to me. He loved that homemade, ghetto swing, too. And it gave us precious, much-needed sleep.

And it was funny.

Another thing that makes Cyan unique is his ability to make himself pass out, which thankfully, he doesn't do anymore. But those I'm-mad-so-let-me-hold-my-breath-til-I-turn-blue were a daily occurence for a while. Then there were the tantrums. I have seen my fair share of shoes, toys, hangers, and books fly past my head as he's experienced one of his he done lost his ever -lovin' mind episodes. I've never seen a boy get his butt whooped as often as this child because let me just say...you don't throw a book at this mama's head and get away with it. You better run first and ask questions later.

I'll give you a head start.

What I love about Cyan is he has alot of heart. Being the youngest of five boys isn't easy. He's the baby, without really being the baby. So he has cultivated this tough guy persona. The way he talks and the way he walks screams, "Don't mess with me!" He's like this little pitbull who loves to terrorize his little sisters and a couple of his big brothers. But in reality, out of all the chil'rens, he is the one that really needs that extra TLC. I have just a couple of those in the family, and they just pull at my heartstrings. Probably because they are most like their daddy, and we all know how much I live their daddy.

And finally, Cyan is a boy with several aliases. Most people don't even know him as Cyan cuz we call him Benny all the time. Benny a.k.a Benny the Jet Rodriguez from The Sandlot. He is his grandma's "Chango Chango" because he looks like a little monkey. And now, he's been christened Ben Diesel because he's got it like that.

I love you, son. Hope you have a happy 7th birthday.

Benny and those fingers. He always looked like he was getting ready to whistle at somebody.

Huh? What? Can I get some juicey?

This is what he looked like for about five years straight. I'm serious!

Happy Birthday, son! You've made this adventure of motherhood anything but dull.

Please don't ever make me talk about sex again.

I have just exited the depths of parental torture and hell.

Sex. They made me talk about sex.

Dinner started out innocently enough. Tuesdays we have school at the co-op, so we always have pizza for dinner because it's easy and cheap. But some how, some way...the conversation during the evening meal spun out of control.

And I found myself in the center of The Sex Talk.

Noah asked me a random question about prison and juvenile hall. Why was it scary? Can people hurt you in there? So I began to list the dangers of being incarcerated: drugs, gangs, murders, rape.

Huh? All I got was blank looks on their faces. Shoot! Now I have to explain this to them.

Me: Do you know what rape means?
Them: Um, I think so.
Me:Its when someone forces you to have sex.
Them: You mean, they force you to kiss them and stuff?
Me: No, that is not what sex means...

Then I had to go into logisticals...woodies...vaginas...entries...exits...procreation...fornication...etc. etc.

Needless to say, it wasn't pleasant. They howled with embarrassment and they giggled like a bunch of hyenas. Each time I explained something, it was like the elevator door opening up to some new type of horror.

"Next floor...ejaculation!"

You should have seen the looks on their faces. I could just see things clicking in their minds as they realized why you have sex, who has sex, what happens when you have sex, and so on and so forth.

Them: Mom!! So YOU HAVE SEX TOO???
Me: Sigh. Yes.
Them: With daddy?
Me: Yes.
Them: How many times?
Me: Six times.
Them: But sometimes we hear you. The bed makes noise. You do, too.
Me: Oh. Just kill me now. Just kill me and put me out of my misery.

In an effort to get the heat off me, I started naming names.

Me: Grandma-mama has sex. Your tia Fo has sex. Your tio Eric has sex...

I just started droppin' dimes left and right.

Them: WITH PAPA?!?!?!?!? WITH TIO JUSTIN!?!?!?!?! WITH TIA CASSIE!?!?!?!?!
Me: Yup.
Them: What about Uncle Fernie?
Me: Yeh, him too.
Them: So basically all our ancestors of humanity have had sex? [this was Noah's question]
Me: Correct.
Them: Aaaarggghhhhhhh!

Then it was like a domino effect.

Them: Every time you have sex, you have a baby? Cuz Uncle Fernie doesn't have babies.
Me: No, you don't have babies every time.
Them: Oh, then why do you do it? You have sex because you like it?
Me: Ahem. Yes.
Them: So does that mean you like to have sex, mom?
Me: Please stop asking me these questions.
Them: Wait, so Grandma-mama had sex with Papa? And Tata Ray? OH MY GOSH!!
Me: Yes, because she was married twice.
Them: What about daddy? Did he have sex with Mikey's mom? They were never married! You said you should be married before you have sex!
Me: Yes, I'm aware of that.

Loud gasps around the room.

So I tried to tie up the conversation at that. I refused to answer their questions about the *stuff that comes out* that makes a woman have a baby, since they deduced that a woman doesn't get pregnant each time she has sex. I refuse to discuss sperm 'n semen with my children. I have to draw the line somewhere. I had to let my mind go to my happy place when they started talking about how when they are in the shower and their penis gets hard, they try to push it back down--and it just won't go down--and how it kinda tickled.

Oh dear Lord. So then I left.

A few minutes later, Noah bursts into my room.

Noah: Mom, how long does it take?
Me: Playing ignorant. What?
Noah: Come on! The sex!
Me: Uhhhhhhhh. It depends.
Noah: You mean to tell me you have to leave your penis in the vagina for a really long time? Like an hour or something? Does Daddy leave his penis in your vagina for a really long time? I was hoping for about three seconds or something like that.
Me: Uhhhhhh. At this point I was at a loss for words.
Noah: Well...then I think I'd rather adopt cuz I don't wanna have to stick my thing in anyone's vagina for a really long time.

Oh em gee. I just wanted to die laughing. Die.Laughing.

The little monsters I have created.

I have vivid memories of being a little girl and fighting with my mother every morning before school. She would have an outfit laid out for me and I would moan, groan, whine, hiss, cry, plead, and basically rain down terror on anyone in my firing range. Why? All because I hated the clothes she would pick out for me.

I had to be the one who chose the clothes because I was the one who had to wear them all day.

And if I was uncomfortable, then my entire day would suck. So after a while, my mom would just let me pick out my own clothes. And everything was as it should be.

Fast forward about thirty years. I'm now a mother of six chil'rens. Six chil'rens that I have to dress. You know what they say 'bout karma?

Its a biznatch.

Not that I believe in karma or anything, but lets just say I'm using it for theatrical purposes.

I always lay out clothes for my boys. They are cool with it. On occasion they will request to deviate from my "clothing suggestion", and we will negotiate. Some are better at dressing themselves than others. The others will come out wearing that faded pair of Wrangler jeans (a hand-me-down that I couldn't bear to throw out--"You can use these for when...you paint! Mow the lawn! Scrub my floorboards!") in a size 10, belted tightly and pulled all the way up to their armpits. Paired with a giant t-shirt that resembles a girls nightgown. They would so come out looking like that. I've seen it with my own two eyes. They just cannot be trusted to dress themselves yet.

Michael has said, they aren't your own life-size Barbies dolls, you know.

And I usually respond, if they have passed through my aching, quivering loins and I have to be seen with them in public, then I have the right to dress them!!

Its all good in our hood.

But the female offspring...its not that easy.

I remember my mom--and my dad--telling me this often as a child, "I can't wait until you have kids--then they will come out just like you!"

And I couldn't understand what they meant. Who wouldn't want a smart, witty, artistic, chubby bookworm for a daughter?! Apparently, that's not what they meant.

Well, either way, I'm paying for it. Paying for it big time with these female offspring. Once, while my sister-in-law was babysitting the chil'rens, she said she was amused that Xixi sat with her for an hour on the sofa, flipping through an Instyle magazine. "Oh, I yike that dwess. That's bootifuuul. Ew. That's ugleee. Oh, that's bootifuul." And she also made her aunt choose from four different pairs of pj's before she agreed to the pair she liked.

Oops. My bad.

Here is a little sample of what getting dressed in my home sounds like:

Me: Here. Put this on.
Them: Nooo! That's ugly! I don't want to wear long pants. I want to wear shorts.
Me: Its cold out. Put the pants on.
Them: Ugh! I'm gonna look ugly in that.
Them: They make me feel all itchy and scratchy!
Them: They make me feel all sweaty and stuff!
Them: I'm gonna look so ugly!
Them: People are going to laugh at me.
Them: Pleeeeease! Pleeeeeeasssse Mommy!
Them: Mommy! Why can't I just wear the shorts??
Me: Are you kidding me? PUT IT ON.
Them: Nooooooooo!! waaaaaaaaaah! I can't wear this! I can't!
Me: Sigh. Ok. What about this dress? This dress is beautiful! You will look so pretty in this. Your cousin [resident fashion diva Selah] has a dress like this and she always looks pretty! Do you want to wear this dress?
Them: No. I want to wear these shorts.
Me: Ok. Put the shorts on. Freeze your butt off then.
Them: Yay! Shorts!

And they win. Just like that. I like to tell myself that I stand firm and force them to wear what I tell them but when it comes down to brass tacks, I don't. I totally cave. Partly because I remember being that kid who wanted to wear what I wanted. And partly because I want to puncture my own eardrums so I won't have to continue hearing whiny girl voices.

So my mom says, "They are horrible! You have created little monsters! They are just like you. I can't believe they battle you on what they will wear! They are 3 and 5 years old, Denise!"

Yes, I am aware of that, mother.

I also discovered that I totally have to present their "clothing suggestions" in a certain manner, to sell them on the idea. "Oh, look at this cute dress I just bought for you! And look, matching flip flops! Aren't they cute? Oh, oh and here is a matching barrette you can wear. And if it's cold out, you can wear your jean jacket until the sun comes out. See, you will look totally cute!" All that said with a super sweet, upbeat voice.

This was totally the conversation we had when presenting their Easter dresses to them.

I hyped them outfits just like Flava Flav hyped Public Enemy back in the day.

Occasionally, I would take out the dresses so they could ooh and aaah over them cuz mama didn't want no problems on Easter morning. So on Sunday, they were more than happy to wear the clothes I laid out for them.

But where do I go from here? Right now it's shorts and long pants. Pretty soon its gonna be thong chonies, miniskirts and booty shorts. Oh dear Lord baby Jesus. I just have to resign myself. I have, in fact, created little monsters.

But those are some cute little monsters!

Peace and bacon grease

I was at a gathering of friends last night to celebrate Good Friday. A chica that I love with all my heart (she does good hairrrr) was sitting there all by her vegetarian self, a pathetic little plate of beans and rice in front of her. The rest of us, we were scarfing down on carne asada tacos, pastas, salads, sandwiches, chips, dips, you name it. And I was thinking...it must really suck to be a vegetarian sometimes. Only because you have to mingle with us carnivores and our carnivorous pot lucks.

So I thought of something that alarmed me. Most Mexican restaurants/markets sell beans that they make with...lard.

Yes. Lard.

Surely a vegetarian would not want to consume something with animal fat.

Disgusting, right? I can visualize some of my dear Caucasian readers shrinking back in horror but yes, it's true. Beaners buy thick slabs of lard and put that stuff into the beans because it makes it taste...mmmmmmmm. Now, I have refined my palette fine enough to know when lard is in the beans. So I can taste it. Personally, I don't put lard in my beans, but I do put something that is equally fattening, but way more tastier.

Bacon grease.

Or should I say, bacon fat. That's sound a little less offensive than grease. Here's the deal. We eat turkey bacon around these parts. First of all, its healthier. It's tasty. It's cheaper. It's easier and less messy to make. Most importantly, I don't have to get popped by the hot grease which is something I really, really hate.

But on occasion, I buy a package of real bacon and we all lick our chops like wolves on the prairie.

Bacon!

But this is the real reason why I make swine bacon. Bacon grease, my friend. I need the grease, yo. After I cook the bacon for breakfast, we stand around and howl by the stove and wait for our portion. Then I pour every last drop of hot bacon grease into a ceramic cup, where it is then stored in the refrigerator, waiting to be spooned into my boiling pot of pinto beans.

Mmmmmmm, good stuff.

A ham hock will do in a pinch, but I can only think of two occasions throughout the year when we eat ham, so that option just isn't feasible. My mama is a big bacon maker, so she always has the bacon grease stockpiled. I'll call her up and ask for some.

"Mom! Can you send me some bacon grease?"
"How much you need?"

Imagine my mom standing in an alley, hat tilted to the side, sucking on a toothpick. How much you need? And just like that, I get a small cup of the stuff. Yes. And believe me, I've tried to make beans without bacon grease but it just isn't the same. I've put onion in it, garlic, a jalapeno, cheese but eh, it didn't have that richness in the flavor. It just wouldn't sustain us during Bean Week, ya know what I'm sayin'?

Think about it, the next time you make bacon and you throw all the lovely grease in the trash can.

Noooooooooo! It hurts to think about it.

I leave you with this, my recipe for a delicious pot of beans.

When the time comes at the end of the month and you are broke and need to feed the family somehow, you need to know how to make a pot of beans! But, of course you could eat them any other time during the month for the simple reason that they are delicious.

I can't give you specific measurements because I only know how to cook for a small army, so you'll have to tweak your own recipe. I cook about ten cups of beans at a time and I just realized I should be cooking about twelve, so I can stretch them out further. Lemme just tell you, that's a whole lotta beans.

End Of The Month Beans

• Bring a pot of water to boil, with the lid on (its faster).
• Most people will soak beans overnight so it can release some of its poot power, but I always forget. This method works fine. And a little pooting never hurt nobody!
• Rinse your pinto beans in a colander. Do not forget this step. You will end up with some gritty beans if you don't. There are tons of sandy rocks in beans. Trust me, I know.
• Once the water is at a rolling boil, turn it off and take it off the heat. Pour your cleaned beans into the pot and cover it. Let it sit for an hour.
• After the hour is up, you will notice the beans have doubled in size. They get all swollen like a pregnant mama at a 4th of July picnic.
• Drain and rinse the beans, give them fresh water and put back on the stove. Set the flame on medium low and cover, but make sure there is a little escape for the steam, or else your beans will overflow and leave your burners caked with burnt bean juice that won't get cleaned for about four days, or until your husband can't take it anymore and he cleans it himself.
• Throw in a big, fat juicy jalapeno (with the stem cut off). Pretty much any type of chile will do. Its just for flavor.
• While the beans are cooking, keep checking the water, adding more if necessary. The last thing you want is burned beans. Ew!
• I'd estimate the beans take a couple of hours to cook. At least, my giant pot does. Those of you making a much smaller pot will probably cut the cooking time in half.
• While the beans are simmering, take out that ceramic cup of Golden Goodness a.k.a Bacon Grease. Measure out a tablespoon or so and put it in the beans. I have also been sinfully indulgent and put actual pieces of bacon in the beans and holey smokes that is good. Again, I make alot of beans so I put more bacon grease in when I need to.
• While my beans are softening, that's when I put in salt. Not garlic, just regular old salt. If I'm feeling snooty, I toss in sea salt. Salt to taste. When your beans are soft and mushy, that means those bad boys are ready.
• Cheese! Let's not forsake the cheese. Shred it. Throw chunks of it in there. It'll melt and be completely yummy.
• Now, the Bean World is your oyster.

You can either leave the beans whole and eat them as a sort of soup. Spoon some salsa into the bowl and heat up some corn tortillas and you'll be in Bean heaven. Or you can mash them up, add some cheese and use them for a variety of purposes and thus, commence Bean Week. Bean tostadas with cotija cheese, bean and cheese burritos, beans and chile con carne, beans and scrambled eggs, bean soup, mashed beans spread on toasted bolillos, bean tacos, bean nachos, etc. You get the point.

This is a bean's world, but it wouldn't be nothin' without a cup of bacon grease.

So I asked my dear vegetarian friend if she knew there was probably lard in the beans...which meant her lips were currently touching animal fat. I could think of worse things your lips could touch. Oh, the look of horror on her poor face.

"Why? Why would they do that? Thank God I only ate a little bit!" And she went over and tossed her plate in the trash. And that, my friends, is when I thought of this post.

Burgers 'n booty

This is too funny. But I ain't mad at Sir Mix-A-Lot. He's gotta pay the bills, somehow.

The only reason why I would sit and watch the Nick Kids Choice Awards

Um, yeh. I ain't gonna lie.

The chil'rens were so excited about Kids Choice Awards and they talked about how cool it was gonna be, how cool the slime was gonna be, etc. etc.

ZZzzZZzzZZzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Yeh.

"Mom, do you wanna watch it with us?! Come on, mom, it's gonna be so cool!"

"Uuuhhhhhh. I don't know. We'll see." I have to cook dinner/fold laundry/wash dishes/wash the dog/peel off my toenails.

And any kid with some sense knows..."we'll see" is just parental code for...ain't no way in hell kid, so quit asking.

But then I got a glimpse of the host. And that lovely tattoo.

Then, it suddenly became interesting.

Move over, kids, mama is coming to watch TV with you, and she won't fall asleep this time, I promise!

Under the Sea is so not where I want to be.

Just so you know, when all is quiet on the blog front, it's cuz all is crazy on the home front. Lots of stuff going on, but we're coping. In the midst of it all, we had a field trip with our homeschooling group to Sea World. I've discovered something strange about myself: I do not like to see sea animals through the glass.

It just creeps me out.

Now, the actual animal isn't what I find creepy because we saw the moray eels and they looked like big, long floating turds. What really gives me the shivers is the thought of these disturbingly large creatures just a few feet away from me, behind a sheet of glass....that thousands of gallons of sea water is right there and it can come crashing though at any moment. It's just unnatural. Ugh. It gives me the chills to think about it. I know, weird.

I didn't mind the manta rays, the seals, the sea otters, the sharks, the polar bears, the penguins were cool. But the giant walrus, the killer whale, this strange white whale--the bugela whale--it just made me want to run out of the exhibit. And forget Shamu--we didn't bother to see his show. Watching those people jumping in the water with the killer whales...aaaaggghhhhh! And then when I contemplate how deep the tank is...um. Yeh. Freaky!

And to think, when I was seven years old, I wanted to become a marine biologist.

The chil'rens lookin' all soggy after they rode the rapids ride. I was wet too but I used two of their sweatshirts to protect my hair. Heehee!

My oldest son Noah who informed me that he would not respond to me if I called him, "Baby" in front of his friends. Geez!

I loved the polar bears. They were so beautiful. And big!

Xixi cakes.

My girls at the dolphin show. Can you see the 'tude on Xixi's face?

Back away from the glass! Back away from the glass!

Sol was really digging the manta rays. They would swim right up to the edge, expecting to be fed. They felt like cold, wet pieces of menudo!

"My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..." I tell them to pose and this is what I get.

An afternoon in San Diego is incomplete without a trip to the Old Towne Mexican Cafe, where a bunch of Mexican ladies make fresh, homemade tortillas all day, everyday. You would have thought we were a pack of ravenous wolves the way we attacked those bad boys.

A new life...

My sister Jen was exactly one week overdue last Saturday. She was like any other tired, swollen mama that is past her due date--she just wanted that little fattie out. I met up with her and her husband at the hospital. I walked into her room just as they were about to give her an epidural at 5 cm. I waited out in the hallway and listened to the other moms who were giving birth just a few feet away from me behind closed doors. There was alot of activity, nurses and OB's running around, so I knew there were lots of women giving birth that day. But what struck me as odd was the fact that it was so quiet. I think I heard one mom grunting a little and then a few seconds later, cries from a baby. One mom.

The hospital is a very sterile, quiet and controlled environment to give birth in. Doctors don't like surprises. What I missed was the primalness of it all. The excitement of the pending birth. The rawness of a mother who is big with child, sweating, groaning, grunting and crying out from the effort of it. There is power in that rawness. I remember feeling like I could conquer the world right in the moments after I had pushed out my child into the warm water. Powerful. Strong. Womanly. Beautiful.

Justin went out to get something to eat and Jen was comfortable after getting her epidural. The funny thing about being there in the hospital with a mom who is dead from the waist down is this...you're pretty useless. There are no breathing exercises to breathe, no need to rub the mom's back because she can't feel anything anyway, no ice chips to administer, no soothing, encouraging words to murmur. You just sit there and watch the movie channel and the fetal heart monitor go up and down. And wonder if you can get in on those ice chips.

So I took a little cat nap. In the middle of a birth, imagine that.

Jen joked that I would rather see her screaming in pain. Heh. There is some truth to that, I suppose. But I was with her for her last two births, and I definitely did not enjoy seeing her in pain. And truth be told, I would get an epidural in a heartbeat if I had a baby in the hospital. I did during my first labor--it was a lifesaver.

The bummer was, I didn't actually get to see Stella Purple Richards born in the early evening on Saturday, March 28th, 2009 because I had to go home briefly. I thought she had a while to go, and I had to wait for Michael to get home so he could stay with the kids. She is my first niece that I didn't get to see make her entrance into the world. I didn't get to hold onto my sister's hamhock thigh. I didn't get to give dirty looks to the nurse who barks out the push count. I didn't get to see Stella's squishy little face the moment they laid her on my little sister's chest. I was a little sad about that.

She is beautiful and fat. 10 lbs. 3 oz.! My sister has them child-bearing hips cuz that is one big baby. And remarkably, Jen is feeling good. Not like she just pushed out a baby heavier than a sack of Idaho potatoes.

See, no moaning, no cool cloths on the forehead, just chillin', watching Hancock and chatting.

Big sister Selah meeting her new baby sister.

Jen got a big kick out of Selah, who thought Stella would want to hear Alladin, which was playing on TV. She put the speaker up to her ear.

From the beginning, Selah said that Stella was going to be her "purple sister". Stella Purple just stuck. We all rubbed Jen's stomach and called her Stella Purple. Now it's on her birth certificate.

Jen looks radiant just after giving birth to this big baby girl. This is her third girl in three years. Woohoo!

Justin and big sister #2 Sophia.

She is the cutest, most chubbiest baby ever. And she smelled like heaven. I love her already!

"Teenagers suck!"

Those words belong to my dear friend Deanna who is a grandmother at 38 (!) and who is also having a hard time with her 15 year old son (who is not the one who gave her a grandchild, by the way). They were her words, not mine.

But I totally, totally, totally infinity! agree.

I have been entirely too quiet on this subject. The subject of my dear, on-the-verge of-manhood, 15 year old stepson. He's been living with us for the past couple of months. Yeh, I know. I've been pretty tight-lipped on the subject here on my blog. I can still keep a few details up my sleeve, can't I?

Well, I wouldn't inflict a teenage boy on anyone. They eat everything. They stink. They are lazy. They are sneaky. They steal your face scrub. They lie for the stupidest things. They eat all the pickles. They do something wrong and when challenged on their behavior, they give you the deer in the headlights look. And they want everything but you have to beg them a hundred times to pick up their dirty underwear. They lie about having a Myspace account when you've already discovered their profile and monitor it without them knowing it. They are failing all their classes but when asked if they have homework, they say, nope I already did it. Maybe I expect too much, but I'm discovering that the 15 year old is much more frustrating than my 8 year old. I mean, come on.

I'm exhausted.

And I've come to the realization that at this stage of the game...trying to raise a 15 year-old boy is just damage control. When they have been reared in another person's household, when bad habits have been allowed to go unchecked, when a bad example is what they've witnessed on a daily basis--that negative, irresponsible behavior is ingrained. I know that teenagers are difficult, even the ones who've grown up in a strict household...but how much more difficult can the teenager be if they've lived a life of total and complete freedom with no consequences for their behavior? That's what we are dealing with. A huge part of the problem is because Mikey's been raised with an unstable mother. One who has tried to alienate Michael for years. And now I can't help but feel like she has made this huge mess...and she wants us to clean it up for her. Finally, when it's gotten too much for her, now she wants to acknowledge Michael as a father. Hmmph. But you know, we'll do it because we love Mikey.

Sigh.

But I ain't gonna lie when I say I second Deanna's sentiment. Teenagers do suck. I remember one day moaning and groaning because my little ones were driving me insane. My mom said, "Oh, mija. Enjoy them right now. This is the easy part. Wait until they are all teenagers!" And I looked at her like she was crazy. But now, I see the wisdom in her words. What on earth am I going to do when I have a....21 year old...a 17 year old...a 16 year old...a 14 year old....a 12 year old...a 10 year old...and a sassy-pants 9 year old?

I mean, seriously?

I totally should have thought about that before I went ahead and had them, right?

Pray for me.

Good smellin'...

On a rare trip to the mall last night with my very pregnant, overdue freak show of a sister ( I say freak show not because she is weird but because her big belly attracted alot of attention from people who lacked any sort of subtlety), I had the opportunity to wander through all the aisles of Sephora and covet. What was even more blissful was the fact that I didn't have any of the chil'rens with me, so there was no one bugging me that they needed to pee...that they were starving...that they were bored...that I never want to go into the Game Stop...and why oh why do we have to go into that store with the big lady clothes?

I love makeup as much as the next girl, but after a while, all the bronzers and lip glosses and eye shadows start to look alike. Its like sensory overload or something. I picked out what I needed--Lorac Double Feature concealer so I can spackle and hide my oldness--and then I watched as my sister circled the lip glosses like a vulture over a carcass whilst my eyes glazed over. To entertain myself, I went down the entire row of men's cologne to try and find a new scent I would like.

Not a scent that he would like...but what I would like. Come on.

I am a firm believer that the proper scent can inflame the senses. Remember Michael's bottle of Fahrenheit? Well, its all gone and now wifey wants something new. Jen found me sniffing a bottle of Fahrenheit and she was like, "Ugh!" She knows of my fascination with it. So I plunged ahead. Time to try something new. There were lots of nice smells, lots that reminded me of gay guys but nothing that made me go Mmmmmhmmmmmmm. Finally, I found it.

Bvlgari Aqva Pour Homme.

Wooo doggie!

That stuff is delish! I sprayed it on a tester and today, it still smells divine. When I showed it to Michael so he could get a sniff, he didn't like it. He is still stuck on some Abercrombie & Fitch cologne which is fine and dandy for a cute white boy with a 32 inch waist but it doesn't have the oomph this big girl requires.

So I'm thinking I should just buy it and then he'll be forced to wear it. Tell me, what is your favorite men's cologne?

Diagnosis: Esopha-colon

I was kickin' it at Will's house, enjoying a calm Sunday evening. They were bbqing some steaks and all of my carnivorous senses were in full effect. You see, I don't eat meat all of the time. Well, I do eat meat, in the form of chicken breast and ground turkey--if you can even call that meat. Ok, toss in the occasional tri-tip. But not true meat, sizzling and juicy and hot off the bbq grill. That is reserved for special occasions.

So a handful of us were hovering over the grill, like a bunch of ravenous cavemen. We didn't even bother with plates or utensils. We were just grubbin' the steak which was covered in Worchestire sauce, seasoning salt and chili flakes.

Big, hot chili flakes.

And that is where I should have taken heed.

My stomach felt a bit gurgly after that, but I ignored it and moved on to the Funfetti cake...which, around these parts, is known as Crackfetti because I don't know what's in the stuff, but it's crack pipe worthy! Delicious. Then later that night, I threw back a few antacid pills and went off to bed.

Then I was woken up at 3:30 am to a frightening choking feeling. Steamin' hot bile was rising up my throat and I couldn't get any air, giving me the sensation that I was about to die. I ran to the bathroom and projective vomited onto the (white) carpet and side of the toilet. It was horrible.

I hate to throw up.

I hate to feel the spasms. I hate the taste of the vomit. I hate that I pee a little as I am vomiting. The whole act is just disgusting. But this was even worse because all that tasty meat was coming back up, but worse still...all the red chile flakes. My throat and my stomach were on fire. I had to pull out my entire repertoire of breathing techniques (hee hee heeew hee hee heeeew) to keep myself calm, to will myself from vomiting more.

You idiot, you should've known better than to eat all that meat!

I just wanted to roll over and die. So I cleaned up my mess, changed my clothes, reported my illness to my husband for sympathy, chugged more antacid, and then rolled back into bed. I still get a little shiver thinking about it.

The next morning I texted all my meat-eating partners in crime, to see if they too, got sick in the middle of the night.

Nope, I feel grrrrrrrreat!
No, I'm fine.
I'm good.
No, maybe you have the flu.
Do you have gallbladder issues? Maybe you need to be seen by a doctor.

This last comment was from Richie, who is a nurse. A crazy people nurse, but a nurse nonetheless. I texted him back and told him that I got my gallbladder removed about ten years ago. Then he responded with, "Maybe that's why you got sick. Your body can't digest the fat in the meat."

And then ten years of heartburn, stomach cramps and the squirts came flashing before my eyes. The reason why I earned the nickname "Esopha-colon" from my little brother. He says my food goes from my esophagus and then immediately to my colon because the turnaround is so...quick. Well, duh. Maybe that's why I have the issues I have. No one told me I actually needed that stupid gallbladder!

All I know is, after I had my second child, I would have these excruciating pains in my stomach-- pain even worse than childbirth! When the doctor told me my gallbladder was infected, I said take it, take it out now, I don't care how you have to do it, just remove it so I don't have any of those pains ever again!

And now it's gone and all I have left are three buckshot scars on my stomach (Michael likes to say its where I got shot in a drive-by) and bellybutton. Had I known what I know now, I definitely would have searched for a natural way to remedy the situation.

Cuz I don't care what people say--a kidney, a spleen, a gallbladder--if God didn't want you to have it, He wouldn't have given it to you in the first place! So it turns out I needed that dumb gallbladder after all. After doing some research online, I am floored. Floored that so many people suffer from the same side effects and floored that I was so willing to get my gallbladder removed, that I didn't count the costs although I realize that pain was a huge motivating factor. I didn't do any research, I just blindly trusted my doctor when he said I would be fine without my gallbladder.

Some of my research turned up acid reflux, diarrhea, bloating and unexplained weight gain. Geez. And it only took me ten years to figure this out. So tomorrow I am off to buy some homeopathic meds and some enzymes to see if it will help.

I don't wanna be called Esopha-colon anymore!

I ♥ herbal tea

Does this make me an old lady? The fact that I love me a warm, steamin' cup of herbal tea? And that I have a whole drawer full of different varieties...does that make me an old lady?

You sleepy? I got you.
You frazzled? I got you again.
Do you have cramps?
The sniffles?
How is your throat?
Does your stomach feel kinda yucky...it'll take me just a minute to get you a cup of mint tea.

The chil'rens know if they are complaining of some type of ailment, I will make them some hot tea to drink way before I offer them some nasty-tasting medicine. All those years I was pregnant and couldn't take any pain meds, herbal tea was my saving grace. I would drink red raspberry tea until I couldn't stand the stuff and it tasted like grass to me. Once, I made Michael some St. John's Wort tea...and I kicked in a few dropperfuls of St. John's Wort extract for good measure...and it made him feel really strange and funky and he was mad at me, saying I was trying to poison him.

Heh.

Not yet, buddy. I haven't got my full use out of you.

So now I never underestimate the power of the herbal tea.

Groovy, man.

Paired with some delicious, local orange clover honey from the Farmer's Market mmmmmm I can't think of anything better to drink when all I have is a few moments to gather myself before it's time to teach/clean/cook/discipline/shop etc. which is like all the time.

When people say they don't like tea, I'm like, what? Is you crazy? Tea is delish!

So now you all know that I am a crazy tea bag lady with boxes stuffed in kitchen drawers. What about ya'll? Does anyone out there share my love of tea? What is your favorite kind?

Hands down, my fave is Sleepytime and Honey Vanilla Chamomile. Oh...and Blueberry Breeze green tea...and peppermint tea, and....sigh, you get the picture.

Some advice to my 21 year old self.

As I was squeezing the death out of my frizzy bangs with my new (new to me, it was a hand-me-down) mini hair straightener, I started think that my bad hair days would have been solved along time ago. Imagine that, twenty years of good hair days.

I could see my sixteen year-old self, standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom of my mama's house, listening to 99.1 KGGI (which, by the way, was the only station we got in the I.E at that time) and hissing about the state of my sometimes-straight-sometimes-curly-always-frizzy hair. There was this blond girl named Linda who rode my bus. She had the nicest, smoothest, straightest hair that hung almost to her butt. When I would catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass of the bus window, I would be disgusted by all the frizzy baby hairs that fuzzed around my head like a halo gone bad. I wish I could have told that girl in the reflection, Girlfriend, go and find yourself a little flat iron!

But that was back in the dark ages...I don't even know if they made them back then.

So to have this little mini straightener would have been a godsend. All my bad hair days would have been eliminated. But knowing me, I would have found something else about me to obsess about. But then I got to thinking. What other advice would my wizened, crusty 37 year-old self have for my fresh, ignorant, non-saggy, sex-starved, optimistic 21 year-old self?

It goes a little something like this.

Girlfriend, enjoy your body the way it is now. Yes, with all the little "imperfections". Believe me, you look good. You are beautiful. You are strong. You are healthy. Nothing jiggles that's not supposed to. Keep working out. Keep eating healthy. Have some confidence in yourself. Your curves are way before their time.

Keep all of your Vans. They will never go out of style.

Yes, you will need to have good credit to buy a house someday, to buy a new car, to avoid cashing checks at the local Latino market like a vagabond. So stop accepting all those credit cards from Macy's, Target, Best Buy, Discover, Visa, Mastercard, Mervyns, and the National Bank of the Philippines. Just stop. Yes, you will have to pay this back one day. Yes, you will have a life outside of college and yo mama's tit--yes, you will have to make your way in this world alone financially someday. Don't screw it up with a 23% interest rate.

Please stop sweatin' that tall, skinny dude with a baby 'fro so hard. Trust me. Yeh, he is caught up in baby mama drama right now but someday he is going to be all yours. He is even going to want to marry you. And then you will have six of his baybay's.

When your dad tries to teach you how to drive stick, learn! Quit being lazy and saying you will just always drive an automatic car. Learning how to drive stick is definitely a good skill to have. Not to mention butch, and you know how much you like to be butch-y.

Put down your bong and put in 100% of your effort in college. You actually don't know everything.

Enjoy all this free time you have, especially those quiet, "boring" moments. Cherish every morning that you get to wake up at 9am, not having to worry about feeding little people, working on phonics, washing peepee blankets and worrying if the mortgage is going to be paid that month. You think holding down an brainless part-time job and studying for finals is stressful? Heh. You poor, clueless young girl.

Go to church.

Next time your 7 and 8 year old boy cousins come over and terrorize your Nana's house, observe their behavior instead of hiding upstairs in your room. Can you hear them running up and down the stairs, whining, yelling, hyperactive and smelling of puppy? Well, you're gonna have four just like them--perhaps even more loud, more hyper, more whiny and even smellier, if that's possible.

Don't bother washing your hair every.single.day. Think of how much shampoo and conditioner you'll save. Think of how much extra sleep you'll get. Think of how much better your hair will look if you recycle your mousse. And no, it's not stinky. Think about it, you rarely ever sweat.

Instead of planning on which nightclub you're gonna go to, why not visit New York? Italy? Spain? Anywhere but the Florentine Gardens in El Monte.

And don't worry, big booties are going to be in some day, so show me what you're working with.

'Coon alert!

Towards the end of everyday, our garage door is open as the chil'rens are running in and out, riding bikes in the driveway, wrestling on the trampoline and otherwise wreaking havoc on the quiet neighborhood that is filled with old folks. We also eagerly await Michael's arrival home, where he is always greeted with shrieks of joy.

Tonight, the chil'rens were outside playing, and I was serving Michael dinner since he got home a bit late. All of a sudden, Diego walks in, one hand clutching a half-eaten chicken quesadilla and the other a black sock, his eyes watering and his face horrified. And he was shaking. He starts to whimper and point outside with the hand holding the black sock. And in one second my mind is racing.

Is he hurt? What happened? Did he see something bad? Did the dog get run over? Are the girls ok? Maybe something is wrong with one of the girls. OhmyGod something happened to Xixi. Why the hell is he holding that black sock?

I couldn't stand it. "WHAT IS IT, DIEGO!"
And he couldn't speak because he was crying and shaking.
Michael says, "He's scared. Denise, calm down!"

And after a couple of seconds, Diego calms down enough to speak.

"A big raccoon--outside! It was looking at me! I don't like raccoons!" And then his back slid down the wall he was standing against and he plopped on the floor, crying.

Are you freaking serious? A raccoon? All this drama over a little raccoon! You have got to be kidding me, Diego. I looked down at his crumpled, sweaty body and I just shook my head.

"Calm down, Diego. A raccoon isn't going to do anything to you. It is more afraid of you than you are of him. Come here, give me a hug." And I consoled him, quietly laughing to myself. Only this child could muster up enough drama to cry and shake in distress over a raccoon. It really threw me for a loop. I've never seen him that afraid of something.

After he settled down, he told me what happened. He was happily munching on his chicken quesadilla as he walked outside to the curb, to wait for his Uncle Josh to pick him up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move by the storm drain. Thinking it was--in his words--an old sock, he walked closer. Then the "old sock" turned to look at him with black, beady little eyes and sharp claws. He said he screamed and took off for the house.

But of course he did not drop his chicken quesadilla.

He got everyone else all riled up. They all ran out to see the big, bushy raccoon. He must have been the daddy or something. He just looked at us like he was bored as hell. Half the chil'rens were crying, the other half were chanting, BB gun! BB gun! BB gun! BB gun! Sigh. I think Diego was still inside shivering. The award for Best Dramatic Actor in a Raccoon Drama goes to:

Diego James...a.k.a Deggie....a.k.a Deg-o....a.k.a Diego Doggie...a.k.a D.J.

Then...when I should've been laying down like a sloth and watching ANTM, I was googling raccoons, looking at pictures of their cute little black bandit eye masks, explaining to the chil'rens that they are just foraging for food (near our trashcans), they like damp places (the storm drain), sometimes they nest in your attic and/or chimney (that was just fun fact for me to toss in), and if they encounter another raccoon, they are to yell in a loud voice, stomp their feet and raise their arms.

Aw, wildlife.

He told me not to put him on blast...

But I digress.

I have to.

Way back in like July, Fayola over at Fodder in Her Wings e-mailed me about my dear old man Michael hooking up a pair of her Chucks.

We said cool. E-mails were exchanged. Design references were discussed, etc. etc. Then she shipped us the Chucks.

And thus began The Saga of Fay's Shoes.

Michael was a bit challenged on what she wanted to have painted on her shoes. In the end, he worked it out. But I know my husband. And at times, he has the attention span of a sweaty seven year-old boy in need of an industrial-sized tub of Ritalin. He burned the midnight oil one night and then he...fizzled out.

He laid the shoes down in search of other stimulation. Signs and graphics, silkscreen shirts, banners, paintings on canvas, graffiti, movies with Seth Rogan in them...you name it, he did it.

And there they still were, sitting in the dusty Converse box in the corner of the kitchen, on top of my art bin.

Fay's shoes.

So it became this game we played.

"You watching a movie? What about Fay's shoes? Why can't you work on them and watch the movie at the same time?"
"What? You're gonna do what for who? What about Fay's shoes!"
"I'm sick of seeing Fay's shoes. Finish them already!"
"The shoes! This is so embarrassing!"
"You are making me look bad! Poor Fay, do her shoes already!"

Everytime I offered to help him along, he refused my help. No, I got it. I don't need your help! And Fay, she has been super understanding. She kept saying everything was okay, there was no rush, she knew we had a crazy life, etc. At one point, she even forgot she sent them to us! How sad is that. I hate feeling like a flake!

So just how long did it take?

Ahem.

Well, that was back in July...and it's March now, so....that's...umm...

Eight months.

Oh em gee. That's a long time. Dude. So it is without further ado, I present you with the finished Chucks.

Fay, girlfriend. I hope you like them and I hope you didn't wait eight months for eh.

P.S. I still haven't shipped them. I'm getting around to printing out the shipping label. I swear! LOL I know, I know....horrible.

Proud Parent of an Artist...where is my bumper sticker?

Can I just take a few moments to brag on my boy? This is Solomon's second semester taking my art class, and I have to say, this little dude blows me away with his creativity.

Yeh, yeh, I guess you could say I am a little biased, but come on. He had no help from me on this Frank Stella project. Well, I actually did help handle the hot glue gun, but other than that, it's all him. And the fact that he is just eight years old is mind-boggling. What kind of art will be be creating when he is a young adult?

It just makes me swell up with pride when I see the chil'rens express themselves creatively. There is no questioning, no doubt, no hesitancy, no presumptions...just their creative energy out for the world to see. Aww, to be a child once again.

Done.

I finally finished Joe's painting. Since he complained that he was burning in eternal flames of damnation, I had to make up for it and give him a pair of angel wings. This was a fun painting to do because I didn't really have an objective, I didn't have a deadline, I could just let myself be free. I didn't even lay a sketch down, I just attacked it with my brushes and paint.

This is mixed media (acrylic and decoupage) on wood. For some strange reason, I am not much of a canvas person, I would much rather paint on wood. Ever since I took this torturous oil painting class in college, painting on canva