New blog and picky eaters

So, I got this new writing opportunity. A j-o-b.

I know, right?

Years of languishing in front of the computer screen typing away, pouring my heart out to you and living that whole starving artist business and now finally, your girl is actually seeing some profit for her blood, sweat and tears.


So this is why posting has been a little sparse over here. I'm just trying to get myself acquainted with a new community over at Babycenter. That and trying to homeschool, be a good wifey, teach art, working on projects on the side and oh, trying to keep six chil'rens alive and healthy.

Some might call me insane, but if I didn't have so many balls in the air, I would most likely be laying around like Jabba the Hutt as we speak.

So last week I posted Picky Eaters? I Wish..., sharing about how my chil'rens eat like locusts. My nephews were over that day and as usual, they received death threats from their mama so they could swallow three bites of the food I prepared. I was amused, to say the least. I began to wonder what my life would be like if the chil'rens didn't have such voracious appetites. Picky eaters was sounding pretty good, considering my huge grocery bill. I wasn't trying to brag about my awesome parenting skills and how superior I am because the chil'rens can chow down. But apparently, some people took it that way.

It totally struck a nerve. What is that saying? If you throw a rock at a pack of dogs, the one that hollers the loudest is the one that got hit?

Well, there was a whole lotta hollering.

Another blogger was so upset by my post and she decided to write her own post in retaliation. She ripped me a new one. She mocked the types of food the chil'rens eat, the words judgmental, smug, and beeyotch got thrown around. Oh snap.

I was like, oooh, okay it's on.

I've been called alot of things but smug is definitely not one of them. Heh.

I already said my peace, so I'm not going to rehash it here at Pearmama's World. But if you have some time to check out the drama and the 50+ comments for each post, head over to Babycenter and see what the fuss is all about. It's quite entertaining!

And send me some comment love, here and there.


The crying spot

Everyone needs a crying spot.

A place where you are comfortable to let the tears flow, whether it's because you are beyond frustrated, sad, you don't know how you will make it to the end of the month, a song you heard on the radio reminded you of your childhood, its that time of the month and you're feeling especially hormonal--whatever the reason, sometimes you just need a good cleansing cry.

If you don't have a crying spot, you must be cold as ice inside. People that don't cry creep me out. I am one of those people who cry for lots of things, good and bad. Don't ever ask me to speak at a ceremony, a wedding, or a eulogy because I will fail miserably through my tears and I'll most likely make that ugly crying face.

Hence my crying spot.

Since I am almost always surrounded by the chil'rens, I've discovered that besides the shower (where I am interrupted constantly), the number one place I find myself crying is in the car, while I'm driving.

I can't tell you how many times the chil'rens have been in the back seat, jabbering away, listening to the radio, watching a movie...while I am in the front seat bawling my eyes out. No one asks me any questions, no one feels uncomfortable or responsible for my tears. I am free to let it out and they are none the wiser.

It's rough to be mama, being pulled in so many different directions all day long. I often find myself contemplating life and my struggles in midst of everyone's day. They are often clueless, munching on grapes or jumping on the trampoline. But when I feel a heavy burden on my shoulders, I often find myself on the verge of tears. Then I'll pray. I'll read my Bible, going straight for the scriptures that have given me comfort over the years. To be honest, I don't have to look them up because I know them by heart, but the exercise of opening up God's word gives me such a great sense of comfort...like when you know your parents are on their way to take care of you, and everything will be okay.

So my car has become my crying spot. At the end of our journey, my tears have already dried, my eyes are just a little puffier, and my soul feels cleansed because it got to release some of that pent-up emotion.


Custom-painted Converse

In between the craziness that is my life, I worked on a really sweet pair of Chucks for one of my readers. We were all set to do a traditional hibiscus flower, but she was inspired by the sun I drew for my siamese soul sistah. We still wanted to explore color (because color is my first love), but she also wanted me to inject some of my whimsical flavor, with the curliques and whatnot.

I love the way they turned out. First of all, the color of the shoe was amazing. Sangria. The finished product is really cute and feminine, but still cool enough to wear without looking cheesy.

I'd rock 'em.

Would you?


Hide yo kids, hide yo wife....

My bro showed me these videos last night and...let me just say...I almost needed an oxygen tank because I was laughing so hard. The first video is the actual news footage. The second video is....hilarious!!



Girls gone graff in the backyard.

So, let me break it down. Girls Gone Graff is a company that pairs artists with models as their canvas. A cool concept, but I find that the women are basically the piece of meat in their little bikinis that the men can objectify, all in the name of "art".

It's a story as old as time.

Lots of graff artists are involved in these events, which take place at galleries, night clubs and parties. Michael has alot of friends who do these events which are now commonplace, and from time to time, they've tried to get him at an event.

As an artist, I'm like, cool. As wifey, I'm like, hell to the no.

Because seriously, it's all about palming flesh that doesn't belong to you. Lust of the flesh, have you heard of it? I just don't think it would be healthy to partake in this sort of scene, for many obvious reasons and some that are just personal ones.

Methinks the husband wouldn't appreciate it if I was painting Frida on some random dude's firm butt cheeks. Or his rock hard abs. Or his bulging forearms. Or...you get the idea!


We were at a pool party last Saturday. Michael's been working on a portrait of my nieces, and since he sometimes finds himself in the corner drawing in his sketchbook in social situations, I suggested that he just bring his paint and canvas. You know, to work on it while the party was going on. He's a performance artist like that.

He wasn't there for five minutes before he had people around him, wondering if he was willing to paint something on their skin. It was totally spur of the moment. The paint he was using was not specifically body paint. But, pretty soon a tip cup was brought out. One cochina asked if he would paint on her breasteses.

I made a mental note to scare her later on.

Another woman wanted, "a kitty cat on my ass".


Once she was told that I was wifey, she was very apologetic. But she still wanted that kitty cat. I looked over at the tip cup which was filling up rapidly. Sigh.

Then I turned to her and said, "Let me see your butt."

It was flat and saggy.

I said, "Proceed with the kitty cat, honey!"

Watching him have his hands on another woman's flesh was a little strange, so I can only imagine what it would feel like to have him painting a girl with her thong in his face.

Um, yeh I don't think that will be happening any time soon.

Chatting up the ladies.

Sadly, it all washed right off once they got in the pool. But sorry, no refunds! LOL

Michael and "his canvas".

Her son's name. Looks cute!

The tip cup was brought out by a very business-minded person who reminded me, "You are providing a service!" Holler.

She said she wanted something "gangsta".

Loved the way this one turned out.

Muffin tops are fun to paint on.



Happy birthday, my Lovie.

Last night, on the eve of her 5th birthday, Xixi and I cuddled together and I got to retell her favorite story: the night she was born. Or I should say early morning, because she was born at 2:33 in the morning.

She loves to hear how we dragged the big black birthing tub into the back room (the kids TV room slash office) and her Daddy lovingly filled it with warm water, so I could be comfortable.

How my Dad wanted to be near for her birth but couldn't take all the horrifying sounds I was making, so he went to hide in one of the chil'rens rooms. But just knowing he was still here made me feel better.

She giggles when I tell her how chubby she was, how I marveled at the rolls on her fat little neck and chest. Then I grab her neck and tickle. She giggles some more. It sounds delicious.

I tell her how I fell in love with her the moment she came up out of the water...her beautiful light skin against her dark hair, eyes and eyelashes. I don't remember hearing any other sounds at that moment because I was so entranced by this little mermaid, my daughter, my sixth child.

She was so perfect.

So worth all the discomfort and pain of the moment. So worth all of my heartache, my questions and worries about bringing yet another soul into this dark, hateful world.

She was worth it all.

Happy birthday, little mama. I love you more than my own life.


He loves girls with curls.

You know the old saying, you always want what you can't have.
I've always wanted perfectly straight, long, black hair. The kind you can flip around with your hand and it would still look perfect.

Instead, I was born with frizzy/curly in some spots/wavy in others/part down in the middle/it's so groooovy/hippie hair.

But thanks to smoothing products and fat-barreled curling irons and mini straight-irons, I can make my hair look straight and long and fabu. I usually reserve these practices in the cool seasons because seriously, who wants to stand under a straightening iron when it's hotter than the devil's buttcrack outside?

Uhhhh, not me.

So when the summer hits, I usually let my hair do it's thang. When I stand under the diffuser for like 120 seconds, mist it with some sprunch spray and I'm out the door, it begs the question. Why not wear my hair like this all the time? It's sooo much easier to do what comes naturally, right?

I suppose.

But I have another motivating factor.

I get waaaay more action as a girl with curly hair. Ahem. Oh wait, let me rephrase that....a Latina with curly hair.

He loves (brown) girls with curls.

My husband gives me much more attention when my hair is curly. He will look at me and say, "Honey, you are so cute!" or he'll brush it away from my face and tell me, "Your hair looks beautiful, queenie!" He gives me the googly eyes more. He flirts with me more. He chases me around a bit more. And...well, we all know where I'm going with this.


So I guess these old, frizzy curls aren't so bad. Granted, every woman needs a change every once and a while. Admittedly, the straight hair is totally for me, to relive some junior high fantasy I have about perfect straight hair. But to my husband, I'm the most appealing when I am the most natural.

I think can live with that.

At a family luau. Workin' the curls.

Oh my.



Michael CAN draw.

Way back in the stone ages, I worked for a visual merchandising company. We painted racks upon racks of stuff. Mannequins, sculptures for Disney, Warner Bros and several casinos in Las Vegas just like this one.

Sounds glamorous, right?

It was sooo not glamorous.

We worked in a large warehouse in the bowels of the Commerce area in L.A. If you've never been to this part of L.A., be thankful. There are mangy ghetto dogs running around in packs, the streets smell like piss, roach coaches hover around to feed the masses (this was before food trucks became gourmet), and the air carried a foul stench thanks in part to the pollution and the Farmer John factory a couple miles away.

Nothing like the smell of rotting swine to make your workday more productive.

During the summer, the temperatures soared to 105 degrees inside the factory. We would guzzle Gatorade so we wouldn't dehydrate. Not that we did any physical work. We usually sat around the work tables, painting, taping, spraying, laughing and talking with one another.

We'd tape down butcher paper to cover the work tables. Since many of us fancied ourselves as artists--even though what we did on a daily basis didn't really have much to do with art--we got into the habit of decorating the butcher paper to entertain ourselves with drawings, funny faces and for some of the coworkers, graffiti.

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