Random reader.

            I’ve currently read every book in my house with the exception of two I just can’t get into.  It doesn’t happen often that I simply can’t finish a book; usually I will sludge through because it’s sitting there staring at me.  But for some reason I can’t force myself start one of them (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) and have no interest in finishing the other (City of Fallen Angels).  That reminds me, I need to return the latter to a friend.

            So last night while my husband was attempting to sail through a storm during the Wednesday night races, I curled up in bed with four of my favorite books and read forty or so pages from each.   The excerpts were random selections, all four beginning in the middle of a chapter I flipped to arbitrarily.  Granted, these are books I’ve read several times; there are no surprises and I know the characters well.  But there is something about dropping in on a story that makes it feel new and exciting.

Though I planned to finish only a chapter in each, I soon found it was ten o’clock and definitely my bedtime.  A sizeable portion of each story devoured, I lay in bed thinking about what it is that makes these books so hard to put down.  After all, the writing styles couldn’t be more different; the subject matter isn’t the same; some are part of an ongoing series and others are stand-alone works.  Regardless, I love them all and it probably won’t be the last time I read them, even in an incomplete manner.

One day soon I hope someone will be lying in bed reading one of my books, unable to put it down.   Though I’m sure I’ll have my fair share of readers who can’t force themselves to start or finish too.  In the meantime, and until I can make it to the bookstore, I’ll settle for some more random reading of my old standbys.  And I’ll keep dreaming of the day I see one of my books situated on the shelf settled amongst my favorites.

Watch your mouth!

             I have no problem admitting I have a potty mouth.  But I am pretty darn good at controlling it around my kids.  Of course there have been times when choice words slip out and the kids LOVE repeating them.  The most prominent memory is when Teague was 18 months old and we were dining at a restaurant over the water in the Cayman Islands. 

My diaper bag fell over and a whole stack of diapers took flight and spiraled into the ocean.  The shore was rocky, there was a 6 foot drop to the water, and there was absolutely no chance of me recovering my litter.  The S word flew out and Teague must have said it 5, 000 times over the next week.  Luckily, he forgot it by the time we returned home.

            But today at CharlesTowne Landing, I realized there is another type of word usage my kids are picking up on.  It’s not of the offensive variety, but it might be frowned upon in Kindergarten next year.  It’s all of my slang. 

Examples from our visit to the animal forest this morning follow:

            We approach the turkey pen.  Teague says, “What up, turkeys?”  Notice it’s not, “What’s up?”  It’s, “What up?”

            We leave the puma enclosure.  Crews says, “Peace out, pumas.”

The bugs start biting and I say, “I should probably hit you up with the bug spray again.”  Teague responds, “Yeah, hit me up with that, please ma’am.”  At least it was politely done.

Crews throws a tantrum at the otter exhibit because Teague climbs into his spot in the stroller.  Teague tells him, “Chill-ax.”

When I can’t get the kids’ attention or we are in a big group of screaming children, I tend to yell, “Yo!”  Most other kids quiet down because they don’t hear it often and my kids instantly know it’s me.  I pull this one out at the bison paddock today when the boys are climbing the fence.  Other people look at me like I’m crazy.

There are plenty more words in my awesome slang repertoire, but I’ve already embarrassed myself.  I’m not saying I will abandon my phrases, but I might have to accept that it’s time to cut back.

In the meantime…Later taters!

Laser hair removal of the bikini line kind.

            A few months ago my new obsession Dealmobs (It’s like Groupon), ran a deal for $450 worth of laser hair removal for $99.  I’ve wanted to try it for years, but couldn’t justify the outrageous prices. Especially since a pack of razors costs about a dollar.   But when I spotted this deal, I quickly shelled out the cash and today was the day I got zapped.

            I must admit I really wasn’t nervous about the procedure until I started discussing it with my friends.  Almost everyone I spoke to had heard from someone that it was incredibly painful.  Some described it as being popped with a rubber band while others said it was like being charred.  Neither sounded very fun, but I decided it couldn’t possibly be more uncomfortable than pregnancy and childbirth.  So with a handful of well-wishes and several dozen “Let us know how it goes” I went to visit Gina the laser lady at two o’clock.

                Here are my lasering notes:

First, if you are at all shy or modest, bikini line lasering may not be for you.  After stripping down and sitting in what looked like a dentist’s chair, cross-legged, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. 

Second, if you're like me, you might begin to doubt your pain threshold when a laser is pointed at your nether regions. As Gina powered up the machine and completed her “research,” I started wondering exactly how high my pain tolerance was.   There were a few seconds where I thought this might not be the best idea.

Third, areas that are tan cannot be lasered.  So part of this process will have to be completed in the fall when I no longer live in a swimsuit every day.  Kind of a bummer since being in a swimsuit every day is the reason I bought it!

Fourth, I decided what the heck and had my underarms done too.  I really didn’t think the laser was that painful and I was already there.  The first hit was shocking because I didn’t know what to expect, but truly it just felt like a burst of heat that lasted about two seconds.  Totally manageable.  I will say the bikini area is a little more painful than the underarms but not significantly so.  Regardless, Gina was nice enough to ice down my armpits and crotch.

Less than an hour after the treatment, I feel good.  I think it will be worth it in the long run and I would recommend it.  I go back in a month for round two and I’m thinking I might do my legs then.  Thank goodness Dealmobs ran another laser special yesterday and Living Social has one right now.  Happy early birthday to me!

Luck or the Law of Attraction?

           This has been a strange week to say the least.  I wouldn’t go so far as to label it horrible, but it is one of those weeks where things seem to be off balance.  Usually, when something goes wrong I try to brush it off and move forward.  But when thing number two goes wrong, I start to feel a little superstitious and think about the rule of three.  You know how people say bad things happen in threes?  Well, this week has kind of exceeded the rule.   Except the bad luck seems to be spread amongst several people.

            Monday:  I learn that a friend of mine has been side-swiped on a bridge and needs to get her car fixed.  I also keep getting a flat tire and can’t figure out why.

Tuesday:  My friend Amanda totals her car and Colin and I get rear-ended in the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru after dropping off my car for service.  They are two completely separate incidents though they happen at the exact same time.  Then, I experience the whole beach/sunscreen/lack of swimsuit/seatbelt debacle.  Admittedly, Amanda’s issue is far worse than mine.

Wednesday:  Well, actually Wednesday is pretty good except I get the worst pedicure of my life.  But still, someone rubbed my feet for ten minutes and it was “me” time so I feel like I can’t complain.

Thursday: I ask my brother-in-law, Chris to meet me at the water park at 9.  I arrive at 8:45 only to discover the water park does not open until 10.  We spend an hour at the park across the street and guess what?  I don’t have on a shirt.  I thought I was going to the water park!  So I’m wearing a bikini and shorts and as other moms show up they are giving me the stink eye.   Awesome.

We finally go to the water park at 10 and when we pull into the parking lot, Chris’ girlfriend locks her keys in her car.  She has to wait an hour for the locksmith to show up and it costs $70.

When we enter the park, Crews finds a penny, heads up.  I think our luck is about to change.

But then I open a new bottle of sunscreen and it won’t spray.  Thank goodness I have brought a backup bottle.

At 11:40 when Crews loses his mind and threatens to collapse on the ground and Teague is convinced that the only grilled cheese on the planet that can satisfy him is at the water park snack bar, I quickly gather our stuff and herd everyone to the car.  The ride home is uneventful and I get Crews down for a nap.  Score! 

As I exhale and crack open a Diet Coke for a little late morning energy boost,  I realize I’m still wearing a towel and my new linen shorts are still at the water park.  I bribe Teague with a popsicle and return to the water park.  My shorts are still there and I’m ecstatic. 

I then proceed to have a wonderful pool playdate at my house with my friend Jodi, her sister Meredith, and our kids.  The water is warm.  The conversation is fantastic.  And there seems to be no more bad juju in sight.  For now…

I hope whatever this is turns around tomorrow.  But most of all I hope I am not putting all of this negativity out into the universe.  Today, I decide this is just a string of bad luck.  But if tomorrow rules, I will definitely take credit and go with the law of attraction.  We all flip flop sometimes.  Right?

The curse of overreaction

            I’m pretty sure my birth was dramatic because I made it that way.  I have a knack for taking any situation and turning it on its ear.  It wouldn’t surprise me if I was dramatic on my first day of life.  I’ve certainly been that way every day since.

            When I had kids, my goal was to stop to stop freaking out all the time or at least to tone it down.  I certainly didn’t want them to be overreactive weirdos like myself.  But Teague is five and half years old and I can honestly say it hasn’t gotten much better as evidenced by the events of my afternoon.

            Today the heat index was between 105 and 110 degrees.  I still decided to brave the beach alone with the boys.  Everything was fine, initially.  We got a good parking spot.  I managed to carry our bag of snacks, drinks, towels, and changes of clothes all the way down to the water.  Teague carried the buckets of toys.  Oh, and I carried Crews as well.  When we finally reached the perfect spot and set up camp for the afternoon, I realized I’d left the sunscreen in the car.  This is where the fun begins.

Reaction #1: We should just go home.  If I have to walk all the way back to the car and carry my 2 year old, we should just leave.  So what if I paid $7 to park?  Screw it.  We’re going home.

Reaction #2: “Teague, leave the toys here.  If they get stolen I will buy you new ones.  But I can’t carry Crews, the bag, and the buckets of toys you are refusing to carry back to the car.  I’m sure they’ll be fine.”  Why the hell did I say that?  Now Teague is crying about potentially stolen toys?!

Reaction #3: (Lecturing Teague even though it’s really my fault the sunscreen is still in the car.)  “See Teague.  I told you we should put sunscreen on before we come to the beach.  Remember how I asked you to let me apply sunscreen at home but you said you wanted to do it at the beach?”  Once again, this isn’t helping the situation. 

We finally get slathered in sunscreen and schlep our way back over to the beach.  As we approach the water, Teague says, “But I don’t have my swimsuit on.”

Seriously, I had to bite my tongue and it took every ounce of strength to not pick both of them up and carry them to the car.  I was hot, tired, thirsty, and frustrated.

Then, Teague looks at me and says, “Mom, you know, it’s alright.  I’m not mad that you forgot the sunscreen.  It wasn’t so bad walking back to the car.”

And standing there in the 105 degree heat my heart melts.  I am a total overreactive freak and my five year old is consoling me!  We proceed to have a wonderful afternoon and I’m so proud of my kids for not being like me.

As we begin to drive off into the sunset for grilled cheeses and chocolate shakes, Teague absolutely loses his mind and starts screaming like someone is killing him.  He can’t fasten his seatbelt and clearly the world might end.

I calmly pull over and put the car in park realizing that he is just like me.  Lord help us all…

I'm agnostic not an atheist.

            The list of things I respect about my mother is virtually endless.  But two of the greatest gifts she gave me were those of an education and open mind.  I grew up in Mississippi, which I truly do not associate with understanding or open-mindedness.  It’s one of the reasons I ran like hell from there when I was 18 and haven’t been back since 2000.  I found the religion stifling and the racism appalling.  I’ve been gone a long time and I never want to go back.  But I digress.

            From an early age, my mother took me to Sunday school and for years I willingly attended a Methodist church.  But when my interests waned and my mother’s curiosity waxed, we began to explore different religions from Southern Baptism to the Mormon Church.  We attended services, hung out with families, and spent a lot of time discussing what we believed.

When I was in high school, I started attending a Southern Baptist church and going to Young Life on Wednesday mornings at 6:30 am.  But somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t truly invested in what these groups believed.  Certainly, I believed there was something bigger than us, but I had no idea what or who that was.  And when I moved away to college and started discussing my feelings with others, I quickly earned the label “agnostic.”

            It amazes me that people are so misinformed in 2011.  Many times when I’m asked about my religious beliefs and state that I’m agnostic, people ask what I have against God and why I have devoted my life to hating him.  Such statements and questions shock me every time.  So I just want to be clear: It’s not that I don’t believe in a God or that I hate him.  I just don’t know who or what he/she is.  It doesn’t make me a heathen and it certainly doesn’t make me ignorant.  In fact, I know more about many religions than the average Joe. 

Additionally, being agnostic does not mean that I refuse to teach my children about religion.  Teague has been able to recite the Lord’s Prayer and the 23^rd Psalm since he was 4 and knows more about the Old Testament than he does nursery rhymes.  As a toddler, I gave him the option to pick out a book at Barnes and Noble and he chose the illustrated Beginner’s Bible.  Other than horse books, these are his favorite bedtime stories.  And I present them as precisely that: Stories. 

If he decides one day that they are his stories and he wants to live his life for God, then so be it.  I will accept him as I always have.  But if he decides that he doesn’t know what’s out there and would rather be agnostic, at least I will know I have done my job in educating him and that he has made an informed choice.  Over the next few years, my kids will be introduced to Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, and everything in between.  If they decide to listen to the Grateful Dead and worship peace, I will support it.  My job is to give them options.  Present them with all possibilities.  And trust them to make an informed decision.  And I’m ready to accept whatever that might be.  With a little help from Xanax.

Thank God it's Book Club.

             I can’t remember when my friend Jodi asked me to join her book club.  Nor do I remember the last time we actually selected or discussed a book.  Actually, I do.  It was back in February when my first novel was the selection and I didn’t sleep for four weeks because I was so afraid of letting people I didn’t know read it.  But now I know everybody and I received some great feedback.  It was a phenomenal opportunity and I’m so glad I overcame my fear of letting strangers read my books.  After all, letting strangers read them is my ultimate goal.

In reality, “Book Club” is just a girl’s night out once a month at a different restaurant, but there’s something about calling it book club that makes it more fun.  And legitimate.

Here are my top 5 favorite things about book club:

1)      The chicks in my book club rule.  Period.  We talk about everything and anything.

2)      Saying you have book club can get you out of other not-so-fun-things.  Like watching Free Willy 4 starring Bindi the Jungle Girl with your kids for the billionth time.

3)      Saying you go to book club makes you seem smart.  Or at least interested in reading semi-serious books.  I prefer YA, but whatever.

4)      Husbands are much more open to you going to book club than just going out to have a few.  Mine is open to both, but I bet there are some that need convincing.

5)      Going out on a Friday night allows me to reminisce.  There was a time when we got to the bar at 10 and stayed out until 4.  Of course, now we meet at 6:30 and are home in bed by 10, but my kids get up at 6 am and I need a solid 8 hours.  Reminiscing is fun and all, but by 9:45 I’m yawning.

So tonight I will go to book club and have a fabulous dinner at Leaf.  Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I will be at reading class with Teague.  I like it this way.  It’s the perfect balance.

There's something about you that sticks.

Twelve years ago today I met my husband Colin.  And according to him I “fell for the stone-cold hustle.”  In Colin-speak, that means he had us set up.  Oddly, I didn’t know until two years into our relationship. 

But that is exactly the kind of thing I love most about Colin.  He is damn funny and will tell you the most random thing at the strangest time.  I guess it never occurred to him that he should tell me he had a mutual friend bring me to Zebo’s bar that night so we could meet.  Or maybe it did and he simply thought it would have more of an effect at a later date.  Either way, it’s a good story as most of ours are.

            Colin is the kind of husband and father everybody wants, but many aren’t lucky enough to have.  He is kind and thoughtful.  He is patient and dependable.  He is just about the cleanest person I have ever met.  Seriously, he vacuums every day.  He splits laundry duty with me.  He does the dishes.  He is obsessive about yard work.  He can build or fix anything ranging from an IMAX movie theater to a 500 piece wooden swing set that wasn’t pre-drilled and arrived without instructions.  He changes diapers.  He reads to the boys.  He teaches them about sports and the ins and outs of boating.  He drives Teague to school every day that he isn’t traveling and sometimes he picks him up too if he has a few free minutes.

            But most importantly, he has managed to put up with me every day for twelve years and rarely ever complains.  In 2000, when I said, “Hey, I’m moving to San Francisco.”  He said, “Ok, let’s go.”  After a year there I said, “Hey, I got into grad school in Florida.”  And he kindly drove our stuff back across the country.  And in 2005 when I got pregnant and wanted to move back to Charleston, he thought it was a great idea.

            Colin makes me happy every day and as his birthday and Father’s Day approach this weekend, I want him to know how special he is. 

He’s amazing.  I love him dearly and so do our boys. 

Happy Father’s Day, babe and Happy Birthday to the coolest (and pokiest) dude I know.

Wine is sunlight held together by water.

Eleven years ago my husband and I moved to San Francisco.  I wasn’t a big wine drinker at the time, but that quickly changed when I discovered Napa Valley and its big bold reds.  Now, I’m a sucker for an intense Cabernet though I will tolerate a strong Merlot.  Pinots are far too weak for my taste and don’t ever attempt to hand me a glass of white.  Champagne is acceptable on occasion, and by “on occasion” I mean mixed with orange juice to make our Sunday Funday mimosas.

For me, the best part of living in San Francisco was the extensive wine selection at jaw-dropping prices.  Bottles I’m forced to pay $25 for in Charleston used to cost me around $8 at the corner shop on Third Avenue in the Richmond district.  Therefore I spent years trying to find a delicious Cab for under $10.  I’d heard stories of the wonder that is “Two Buck Chuck” but the closest Trader Joe’s has always been hours and hours away from Charleston (I know.  There is one opening in Mt. Pleasant very soon and I’ll probably run over and grab a case).

So in my long search for the perfect cheap Cab, I stumbled across what my friends and I now refer to as “Chicken Wine.”  Technically, this delectable treat is called Rex-Goliath, but the label has a drawing of a giant 47 pound rooster on it and in my opinion it really shouldn’t be called anything else. 

When I started serving it to guests several years ago, they always commented on how delicious it was.  And when I casually mentioned it cost $6, people were shocked.  Over the last year, Chicken Wine has won 30 gold medals and the winery has made a fortune off me and my friends.  When I found it selling 2 for $10 at Earth Fare I was ecstatic.  When I found it somewhere else (I can’t reveal my secret.  It’s been flying off the shelves) two weeks ago for $4.97, I bought every bottle they had. 

Don’t misunderstand.  I absolutely love expensive wines and we drink those in our house too.  But our go-to bottle will always be that of the chicken.  So stop on by for a glass and maybe I’ll tell you where you can find it for under $5.  Or even better, bring me a bottle when you come.

Girlfriends? Yes please!

Being a good girlfriend is hard.  At least I think it is.  That’s why I spent the majority of my life making guy friends.  Then about two years ago, I was having a conversation with my sitter (who became more family than friend) and she said, “So I’ve never seen you have a girl’s night out.  Don’t you ever just want to hang out with girls and talk?”  My immediate answer was, “No way.  Too much drama.”

But the more I thought about it and the more I realized I tended to shut out women who made genuine efforts to befriend me, I asked myself why?  It didn’t take long to find the answer:  High School.  Girls were devastatingly mean in high school and terribly vindictive.  My guy friends were not.  Ever.  And so began the pattern of shutting women out of my life.

It’s not that I never made girlfriends.  I did.  I just didn’t make a concerted effort to maintain the friendships.  At the first sign of unrest, I would cut and run.  Only the truly persistent survived.  I put my friend Tracy at the top of that list.  And I can’t discuss our friendship without mentioning how we became friends.

When I moved into my first apartment, there was a tall beautiful blonde chick who lived upstairs from me.  She ALWAYS smiled and waved and I thought she was crazy.  I didn’t know her and couldn’t understand why she was being so nice.  For the longest time, I thought she had mistaken me for someone else and that’s why she waved so excitedly every time she passed me in her car.  Then one day she stopped me and said, “I’m trying to be your friend.”   That was in 1998.  Since then I’ve lived in California and all over Florida and she has hunted me down wherever I went.  She is one of my dearest friends.  She has the best heart.  And I’m incredibly thankful she never gave up on me.

Fast-forward to January 1^st, 2010.  I make a resolution to nurture the friendships I have and cultivate new ones.  And I can honestly say EPIC SUCCESS!

I have the most fantastically supportive, eclectic group of women in my life these days.  They range from the moms at Teague’s school now and moms I met in Gymboree years ago to my amazing friend Amanda who isn’t a Mom and willingly deals with my writing-induced daily deviations from sanity.  Some of my friends have trickled back into my life from college and others I have even approached in public (If you really know me, you know how shocking this is).  They are single ladies, married women, some are divorced or separated.  They are stay-at-home-moms, artists, writers, business owners, students, medical office staff, chefs, and reiki practitioners.  I could go on forever.  The point is I need these women in my life.  I need them almost every day.  And I’m grateful that someone pointed that out to me two years ago.  Even though it's not always easy, it has made a world of difference.

I've had writer's block for days...

             Instead of spending the afternoon crafting the plot of my fourth novel, I'm thinking about other times I've felt "blocked."  Like when I first became a Mom. 

This is what I come up with:

Sometimes, when you have kids, you have to implement rules like, “First one to the shower gets an M&M.”  And sometimes, when you’re a mom, you say things such as, “I would gladly give up sex with my husband forever for one more hour of sleep.”  It doesn’t mean you’re a bad mother or wife, it simply means that at this point in life, you know how to pick your battles in order to avoid a war.

The very first time I made one of these statements, I was sitting in the floor of my kitchen with my five-week-old son in a bouncy seat.  He was crying, so was I, and my husband was on a business trip.  I’d watched my mom drive away after two weeks of helping me survive new motherhood and then I’d taken my husband to the airport.  Heavy tears dropping on the hardwoods, I said out loud, "I will give up cupcakes forever if one or both of them come back tonight."  (Cupcakes are my kryptonite)  I’d never felt more alone.  Or stupid.  Or incompetent.  Or tired.  Or insane.  Or ridiculously fat.  Or totally unattractive.

But then I wrote my first book.  Got some rest.  And kind of recovered my body.

Now, that five-week-old is a five-and-a-half year-old and the kid who wasn’t even a thought in my mind is a twenty-six month old.  Technically, he’s two years and two months.  I know some people frown upon perpetuating the month thing after a year.  But as I tick away the moments in my life and add to those of my children, I cherish that I still know exactly how old my youngest is in months.  In another year, I will have a kindergartner and a preschooler and I won’t have time to count anything by such small increments.  So I enjoy every second of their lives that are also a part of mine.

And I shouldn't worry so much about having writer's block this week because my kid's always think my stories rule.  And it's entirely possible that motherhood is easier than giving up cupcakes...