Locked Out, Tuned In

Yesterday, a funny thing happened. It was time for Carter’s piano lesson, so I had rounded up Carter and CJ, Carter’s piano books, my wallet, my phone, a cup of coffee for me, and a sippy of milk for CJ. We all left the house and headed to the car to load up. When I reached the Durango and tried to open the door, it stayed locked. That’s unusual because it’s supposed to automatically unlock when I open it if I have the keys with me…which is what I didn’t have with me—the keys. I usually have the keys with me inside my coat pocket, which I did that morning. However, half-way through the day I had switched from my heavier coat to a down vest, since it had warmed up a little that afternoon. The vest I was wearing did not have my keys in it. The keys were safely pocketed in the coat which was draped over the dining room chair, in the locked house. We were locked out. Locked out of the car, and out of the house. 

It was at that time I realized, but not for the first time, I really needed to hide a spare key somewhere outside. I mentally reminded myself to remind myself, again, to hide a spare somewhere. Luckily, I did have my phone, so I called Carter’s piano teacher to tell her Carter would not make it to his lesson that day. Immediately after, I called Anthony to let him know we were locked out. He was very nice about it and told me he would wrap things up at work and head straight to the rescue. My hero!

Shortly after the call, Carter and I watched a video on YouTube on how to pick a lock. We weren’t successful in picking the front door lock and gave up. I was reassured we would not make good burglars, as we retreated to the backyard. It was beginning to get chilly, so I told the boys to jump on the trampoline to keep warm. I did a little phone scrolling, and then my phone battery died. No phone, no problem. 

I sat on the porch, alternating between watching the boys on the trampoline, and staring at the grey skies bubbling with threatening storm clouds. Just watching, smiling, realizing what a crystal-clear, beautiful moment in life that was happening. Carter, who is over twice CJ’s age, and over twice his size, laughing and bouncing and play-fighting with his little brother. CJ reveling in the thrill of being bounced high into the air by his big brother. Both being truly happy spending time with each other. No forced interaction, not tolerating age differences only to please the parents—just two kids on a trampoline, moving, breathing fresh air, fighting imaginary foes, cheeks pink from the cool air. Me being still while observing the constant movement of nature, clouds churning, bugs buzzing, breeze blowing—hoping we didn’t get caught in the rain, but not too worried if we did.

This wouldn’t have happened if things had worked out as scheduled. This beautiful moment was brought on by things not working out as they were supposed to. It was brought to me by schedules falling apart. Getting locked out of the house opened up the magic of released expectations. The cell phone dying allowed me to be present and not distracted by unimportant things. I want to remember yesterday forever, which is why I am writing this down. 

Each day, life presents us with infinite moments of concentrated beauty. It also presents us with infinite distractions from these unique moments, life is mischievous that way. In the end, it’s up to us to recognize when life is telling us to lock ourselves out of the house, and spend some time in the backyard.

Housewifery Tip #312

Dirty dish rags, if left alone in the washing machine long enough, will magically make your entire house smell like a pungent blend of sour milk and rotten broccoli.

The Best Part

Waking up to the sound of my sons' laughter is the best. Folgers ain't got nothing on that.

Light it Up, Beyotch!

All that means is that I'm going to attempt to put up some Christmas lights...before Christmas is over. I'm sure there will be something humorous, or sad, to write about my experience.

Parental Tip #37:

When in the course of trying to be a fun mom, if you ever find yourself saying, "Shoot me in the forehead with the Nerf gun...," stop yourself before you get hit. At close range, Nerf suction cup bullets hurt--and will most certainly leave a red mark.

Should I Be Concerned?

Colton, who is home from school sick today, comes wandering into the living room from his bedroom.

"Hey, buddy--how are you feeling?" I ask.
"Okay, I guess," he replies.
"Mom, can I have a Coke?"
"Sure." I answer.
He cracks open the Coke and goes on to tell me, "I've been watching a documentary about the prohibition--and for some reason it's making me really thirsty."

Should I be concerned?

Caprese Charisee

I just got done pulling up some old basil plants from my backyard garden box. Now, whenever I get a whiff of my hands, I can't help but thinking that I should eat them with some sliced tomatoes, mozarella, and a drizzle of olive oil.

Italian self-cannibalism--it's a good thing.

No More Apologies

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! I'm sorry I screamed at you!" Carter screamed to his father.

Pondering the Complexities of Urine Puddles

Today I'm going to totally be on it. It's true. I've wrote out a list of everything that I'm going to do. It ranges from going to the post office to folding laundry. I've already drank two mugs of mojito mint green tea, but I feel that might not be enough for what I have planned today. Seeing as we don't have any Diet Pepsi left in the house, I might just have to make an emergency run to the Burger King down the street and get a large one. I know, the price of buying a soda at a fast food joint is enough to buy me a liter at the grocery store. Well let me tell you something--you can get off of your six pack of budgetary lectures, because I have The Husband to tell me those things.

Anywhoo, I've put in a load of laundry, loaded and run the dishwasher, made my bed, and put the Soft Scrub in the toilets for a very-near-future scrubbing. Which brings me to the question that keeps plaguing me: Why, why, why must there be little drips and dribbles of urine somewhere on each toilet? I guess I could blame it on Carter--he just barely turned four and his urinary skills are sub-par. However, my instincts tell me that there are three more older contributors to this bodily fluid phenomenon. I am not one of them. My fluids are contained-yo!

From my previous post you would know that we had a party at my house. Previous to the party, I cleaned the place up pretty good. After all the excitement, I cleaned up as well. The toilets were pee free as of last week. Sadly, I know it's time for a deep clean when the earthy scent of urine starts to mingle with the exotic aroma of my Island Paradise Air Wick. That is the perfume that greeted my nostrils this morning as I used the hall bathroom. It was the smell of a housewife called to action!

To be honest, I don't really mind a good deep clean every couple of weeks. It is time for me to turn on, tune in, and take out the trash. I think what bothers me most is the obliviousness, whether authentic or faked, to my efforts. Why wouldn't my loved ones want to make my work a little easier? Why can't the men of my home control their aim better for their dear mother, and beloved wife? If they did, the toilet would do it's awesome job and just flush the pee away leaving no trace of "eu de hobo" in the bathroom . Is it laziness? Is it a physical problem they should see a professional about? Am I being insensitive because it's so easy for me to make the excretory target?

As the Soft Scrub slowly makes its journey down the three toilet bowls of our house, the question forever remains:

Why is it that certain males just can't get all of their urine into the toilet bowl? And, if a puddle or drip does happen, how hard is it for them to just clean up after themselves so I don't have to?

Now that I got that out of my system, it's onward and upward!

[Charise holds scrub brush directly into the air as if holding the glowing flame of Lady Liberty]

Saturday Evening Post

Last Sunday Carter turned four years old. It's been really amazing as each year passes, that I, a noble faired, long-haired, leaping gnome, have been able to keep each of my three children alive and kicking. I'm pretty proud of myself for getting up each day, making sure they are fed and watered, clothed and sheltered, and for the most part, properly hygienated. Cody and Colton for fourteen years, and Carter now, for four.

It was a lovely affair. Carter chose to have and "Angry Birds" themed party. For any of you reading that don't know what I'm referring to, congratulations--you probably have a very fulfilling and active life. For those of you that do know what I'm referring to, congratulations--you know what it is like to live with addiction. I'm not judging.

In the past, birthday dates would sneak up on me and The Husband. We would postulate back and forth about whether or not we should go all the way and have a party...with balloons. Inevitably, we would succumb to our slacker-selves and decide on taking the kids out to dinner, or out of town in lieu of an actual birthday party...with people. Well, this year we made the leap. Carter told us what he wanted, we consulted with one another, and finally The Husband said, "You better just send out the invitations before planning anything, because if you don't, we will back out and not have a party...with balloons and people." So, I made up a guest list, and shot off the invites through Punchbowl. And what do you know? People RSVP'ed. Funny how that works.

Our little Angry Bird-day party went down without any major occurrences. In fact, it was downright pleasant. I made decorations, barbecued, decorated a cake and socialized with people. There were even balloons! It was a success. It was so much of a success, that no sooner had the last guest stepped out the door, before Carter started planning his next party--a Spiderman party. With a Spiderman cake.

Haha! Fat chance young lad. In the four years you have known me, haven't you figured out I don't do action figures? Only iPod apps.

Me & The Neverending Weight Obsession Extreme Ramble-Fest

Okay, you might not know it by looking at me--but I'm a little weight obsessed. I know, you would think if I cared so much about my weight I would be health conscious, fit, or have a non-dormant eating disorder. But that's just it, I care about my weight--but only enough to obsess over the thought of being chunky, not really do anything extreme about it.

Don't get me wrong, I exercise and try to eat somewhat healthy--but both of those I do inconsistently. I will go through periods of time where my eating habits are really great, or borderline anorexic, either way during those periods of time I am watching what I eat. I also go through periods of exercise. In fact, I just got done doing an hour of Just Dance. Yes, I know, there are newer version of the game out there, but I don't update my technology all that often. In fact, I am typing this blog on a Datapoint 2200.

Recently, I took a trip to my home state for a couple of weeks and during that time I, of course, fell out of any healthy semi-routines I had been doing. In fact, I acquired another bad eating habit on the trip--I started drinking sugar free Red Bull. I know, you're thinking, "Okay Ms. Edgy-Edger-Pants, drinking Red Bull is not really bad." Okay, I know it's not bad, but it's really not good for me--right? I mean, I can tell by the way it makes my heart flutter like a bird in a bread basket that it's probably not what I should be drinking. Want to know why I moved to Red Bull? Because, Starbucks coconut frappucinnos are choc-full-o-fat. Okay? I replaced a fat habit with a heart attack habit. At least I won't be contributing my hard earned money to those greedy Jewish capitalists at Starbucks anymore...like I care. Anyway, now there are empty cans of Red Bull rattling about on the floor of the back seat in the car, because at least I care enough to think about recycling. THINK about it.

By the time I had returned home from my trip, my jeans were fitting a little snugger--and to this day, they still are. In fact, last Sunday afternoon I was taking a nap and the waist of my pants was digging in to my newly blossomed gut. I thought for a moment that if I undid the button on my pants, I would feel much better, but then I realized if I unbuttoned my top button, that would be acknowledging the fact that I have mini-muffin top. Instead, I pulled my pants up higher up past my belly button. The resulting wedgie was much less painful than the muffin top torture. I slept soundly for about 37 minutes. It was great.

One of my tactics during a time of weight gain is to avoid the scale. I don't know where or why I acquired this tactic, and needless to say it doesn't help the problem at all. When I had gotten home from my trip I weighed myself and realized that I had gained almost four pounds. After avoiding the scale, I gained two more pounds. Obviously scale avoidance isn't working. On the other hand, when I am doing well with my weight management, I will weigh myself an unhealthy amount of times throughout the day. I have gotten better with this number obsession over the years, which is to say I now weigh myself less than half-a dozen times a day. I know, it's stupid, but you are wasting your day reading blogs about weight, so what does that say about you? Just kidding. You're not stupid. I love you and so does Jesus and his harem of angels.

Anywhooooooooo, just thought I would get this weight thing off of my chest, butt, and thighs for a moment. Like I said, I played Just Dance for an hour, and I'm going jogging this evening, so as for exercise I'm on the right track. However, I did eat chicken enchiladas with sour cream, a few salt water taffys, a white chocolate macadamia Cliff bar, and a peach...so far. Time to moderate the eating too, I guess.

I was telling one of my friends the other day that I needed to hit the gym because I was pudging up. She was so nice to tell me that she hadn't noticed, and that it was probably water weight. See, that's what really good friends do--they tell you it's water weight. Even though it's obviously coconut frappucinno ass.

Love,
Charise

For Suzy and Smelly Socks

(Disclaimer: I am not a poet, and I know it)


Let me tell you a tale of stench

of crusty foot coverings

and smells that gut-wrench


A tome purely written

solely for soles

small toes peeking out

from worn cotton holes


It all begins in a young lady’s lair;

a lass very sassy

and incredibly fair



At first glance we see

her abode looks swell

But take a second glance,

and not all seems so well



Perfumes, clothing, and books

all shelved neatly away,

or hanging on hooks

New Wave CDs

snuggled up in their cases

toiletries and make-up

all in their places



But upon a deep whiff

rancid foot scent will tell

that under the bed

festers levels of hell


It smells of gym lockers

and wet vinyl seats

Fat lady crotch sweat

and food nobody eats


there are high notes of blue cheese

and puffy plastic pants

there are undertones of dishrags

and stuff that attracts ants


So one day the lass

could stomache no more

she looked under the bed

to find the fish-smelly core


Ho! Ho! Hey! Hey!

What should there be?

Huge hoards of smelly stockings

of all variety


socks with yellow smileys

and brown polka-dots

socks that were knee-high

and some that were not


socks with aliens

and funny colored flowers

socks that had lady bugs

and clocks with cool powers


They were all of high quality

no one could deny

but the problem with these socks

is their stench was sky-high!



Dirty socks under the bed

are tomfoolery for kids--

not for nice ladies

that wear fancy lids!



So off to the laundry

those crusty socks went

into the washer

to freshen their scent


Then out of the dryer those fluffy socks came

and the moldy smell of death

no longer remained



So socks on the floor

hiding under the bed

will no longer be

how this life will be led



When socks become dirty

into the hamper they go

No longer seeking refuge

to the laundry they'll flow!


A lesson was learned by that lass so fair--

the girl with the beautiful, silky blond hair

shall no longer toss footwear

under the bed anymore

and soiled socks on her floor,

there shall be

nevermore.



A Poem Written Just for Me

A Fine Wheel of Cheese



The Newest Threat

For kicks lately, Cody and Colton have started telling Carter that they are going to "bite his head open". This, of course, terrifies Carter and he will either scream bloody murder or cry, or alternately do both. In response to this, my blood pressure rises, boils, and probably thins...a little. This pisses me off. So, I calmly tell the boys to leave Carter alone, 99 percent of the time they don't listen and keep tormenting Carter. This pisses me off even more. So, then I yell at them to, "knock it off!" If they don't stop after this, I scream some more incoherent rants and take an Ativan. Then, everything is okay.

The End.

Brotherly Letter to the Editor

I secretly submitted my brother's note on some up-and-coming Utah legislation to the Salt Lake City Weekly, and they published it in their editorial section. Kewl!

Observations of a Teenager

Last weekend I travelled south to the La Jolla Festival of the Arts with some family I had in town. I love art festivals, but somehow the love of creative overkill, lesbians in Crocs, and very expensive outdoor food vendors did not get genetically passed on to Cody and Colton. Because of this, Cody decided to stay back home, passing his time playing video games with the occasional interlude of "Carter torture". Colton on the other hand, out of sheer love and guilt (mostly guilt), decided to come along for the festivities. Obviously, this was a poor choice on his part. Not even half-way in to our drive, Colton was already wilting from regret in the back seat. But it was too late for him to change his mind--we were well on our way.

Upon arrival to the festival, Colton quickly observed that he was the only kid his age wandering amongst a maze of various mediums. It was true, the place was packed with middle-aged men and women ready to get their wine buzz on, and make some art purchase they would most likely regret later. Although I could tell Colton was experiencing his own personal hell, he was doing his best to soldier through. To help ease his suffering, I purchased a four-dollar lemonade, and a five-dollar Hebrew National dog from one of the festival's food scalpers.

With his food in hand, Colton took a seat at a table near the outdoor stage. While he noshed, a band of Hair-Club-for-Men-forty-somethings played covers songs from the 70's and 80's. A lone couple danced at the foot of the stage, obviously a little tipsy from their Magners Irish Cider. It was at this point Colton made a very pointed, very accurate observation:

"Mom," he said, "this whole festival looks like one big Cialis commerical."

I looked around for a moment, and realized he was absolutely correct. Liver spots, silvery hair, and dentured smiles canvassed the scene. The smell of Avon Skin So Soft mingled in the air with the smoke of barbecued pulled pork. And something that happened earlier; something I tried to forget, quickly surfaced to my conscious again--when I used the bathroom...there was a puddle of liquid on the floor at the base of the toilet. I told myself at the time it was a spilt cup of Zinfandel, but more than likely it was a living testament of some poor woman's need for VESIcare.

I wondered for a moment, how did my attendance to this event reflect on me? Were my artistic wanderings putting me on the fast track to Depends? The possibility of this frightened me. It was at that very moment I decided, next year, I'll skip the arts festival and do something more youthful. It was at that moment I decided, next year, I will spend my summer's sitting at home, playing video games, drinking Red Bull, moisturizing my elbows, and exfoliating my skin. That should keep me out of the living Cialis commericals--at least for another decade or so.

Right? Right?

Efficiency

I take three pills every morning: birth control (to keep me from getting pregnant), Wellbutrin (to keep me from going crazy), and Hydroxycut (to keep me from getting fat). One would think the first one would handle all three problems.

The End.

Jazz and Middle School Finality

This morning I dropped the boys off at school for their last day of the 8th grade. Their last and final day of middle school. Before we got to school, at their request I took them through the McDonald's drive through to get a pre-last-day-of-school bite to eat. A "last breakfast" if you will. They munched contentedly while we drove our way to school, KJazz soundtracking the morning on the radio.

It's cloudy out right now, like it was this morning, but the rain has stopped. Sometimes the rain here isn't what you expect when you think of "rain". This morning the Pacific rain was just a mist; a mere suggestion of weather from an indifferent storm system. It made the sidewalks and air smell lovely, and the moisture provided a balmy cover up for my bare arms.

As I got closer to the school, I thought about how far I have come with my boys. From a bumbling, foolish teenage mother of tiny preemies to the matured mother of two tall, confident young men. I am amazed by them each day--the strong personalities they have developed, the inquisitive minds they have grown. I want to take credit for who they are right now, but I would feel like a thief. As their mother, the most credit I can take is one of stewardship. I've shown them the ropes of this wacky thing called life, they're the ones who have each taken the world into their hands and will make it into what they want it to be. My reward is watching them journey down their own individual roads. I get to be a spectator of their passions, dreams, and development. I get to cheer them on as they reach various destinations.

We pulled up to their middle school, McDonald's fully consumed, and my boys ready to finish off what they started three years ago. The rain was still drizzling on the windshield as I watched them walk in to school together. Endings, beginnings, sons, brothers. I took the long way home, past the beach. I cried while Bill Evans played on the radio. Words will never describe how amazing it is to be a mother, but sometimes jazz comes close.

An Afternoon Dialogue

[Upon giving Carter a root beer float]

Carter, you have to sit at the table with your root beer float.

Why come I have to sit at the table?

Because the computer is on the counter, and if you sit on the bar stools you could spill your root beer float on the computer.

What happens if I spill on the computer?

Well, it would break the computer.

And it would get electrocuted?

Yes, you could get electrocuted.

What happens if I get electrocuted?

Well, you could get burned really bad.

How come electrocuted burns you?

Because it's dangerous.

Does electrocuted make you die?

Yes, if it's bad it could make you die.

Why come electrocuted makes you die?

Because when you're electrocuted your heart stops.

Oh. When somebody electrocute you do you have to go in somebody else's room?

Ummm, I guess it would be safer if you went in somebody else's room.

But, Mom, electrocuted would happen too fast.

[slurps root beer]

Mom, I don't like this show. (Fairly Odd Parents)

Okay, I'll change it.

Mom, what's the name of Scooby Doo?

Scooby Doo.

Mom, do you like the straw show?

Straw show? I don't even know what that is?

You know what it is. It called the Straw Show. Like when all the straws walk.

[My brain spills out my ears]

TECH SUPPORT! TECH SUPPORT!



FIN

Things I Thought About Googling Today...But Didn't.

• If I ate a bunch of sand, what would it do to my digestive track?
• What percentage of the national budget goes to farm subsidies?
• Sen. Weiner's chat transcripts
• How to make funeral casserole
• City of Torrance Public Works office
• What plants go with sea grasses?

Oh, the things I could have learned today...but didn't.