House Party

I'm totally pumped! I just got an e-mail that I was selected to host a House Party (no, it's not the Kid 'n Play kind of House Party).

This one is to get on the right track with New Year's Resolutions! My friends and I will be able to work out to the new Wii Your Shape game and test out Jello's newest tempting product. Should be a fabulous combination.

I cannot wait!

The House of Sand and Fog

I spent the entire week driving to work with some level of fog in my midst.

On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I drove in absolute admiration and wonder of the beauty of fog. The gorgeous white thin layer of cloud danced over the fields I drove past. They glimmered and reflected the rising sun. Gorgeous colors of muted pinks, purples, and blues just greeted me. I spent those drives capturing the images of barren tree branches reaching up to the skies in my mind. Everything was so beautiful. Amazing. Unfortunately, I had only left myself enough time to just get to work.

If I had thought better, I would have planned ahead and taken out my trusty camera and captured something, anything, so that I could come home and show John. On those three days, I thought of convincing John to wake up early and head out on a photo quest. We could pack up some warm goodies and fill up a thermos with some cocoa and shoot some scenery.

Neither of us are big fans of having photos of ourselves everywhere. With no kids to embarrass, there's not much to put up on the walls. Thankfully, John has an amazing ability with cameras. This little adventure would mean we could get something up on our new walls. Or so I planned.

Then came Thursday with its massive amount of fog. The thick, ugly, dangerous fog that hung low and high and wide. Covered everything. No bright sun rays peaking through any cracks. No wonderful black branches standing boldly against the sky. Only the thick scary fog. What was so beautiful and captivating to me had changed to some ominous force of nature to be reckoned with.

I had originally picked my route to work to maximize on the speed limit - a sweet 55 on the country roads. Fast enough to feel like a speed demon and avoid a large amount of traffic. The fog had changed all that - I was now driving a timid 35. Gone were the desires to capture any beauty held within the fog. Now, I just wanted to get to work alive.

Amazing how something so simple and even beautiful can quickly change into something so treacherous and dangerous. Fog isn't just a San Francisco treat, it's definitely in our area. And now that we have moved further away from town centers, it's something I have to contend with.

Hopefully, Thursday's fear won't keep me from bundling up in sweatshirts and charging camera batteries. I'd like to have some shots framed and on the walls within the next year.

On the Scale of 1 to Fierce

Angelica and I were able to meet up for dinner last night and, as always, we had a super long gab session. Of course, we hadn't seen each other for about 2 months, so there was a lot to catch up on.

Angelica and I relate on so many levels, so it is so easy to open up and talk about the things that are going on in our lives. Our talks together tend to be very therapeutic for both of us. There's so much about her that I admire, but especially how fierce she is.

She's one of those people that is not afraid to take risks, to put herself out there, to try something new, and make no excuses for it. I am such a timid person, that I can't imagine living like that. There's a reason that I tend to win at the game "I've never" and that my high school Bible study group called me a goody two shoes. I am just not the fearless, self-confident type. I'm the timid one that apologizes for everything as though I were somehow to blame.

Last night, we were looking for a place to eat and ended up at KFC - to try the new grilled chicken. We stayed for over 3 hours chatting and during the course of our conversation, we talked about the fierceness that I admire so much in her. I don't know who was more surprised: Angelica for hearing that I thought she was fierce or me for how much Angelica doesn't see it. In my eyes, the girl is fierce. In hers, all that she sees is meekness.

I read once that what we admire in others is really our true selves begging to be unleashed; the part of ourselves that we desire to become.

We concluded that perhaps, because of my timid nature, my definition of fierce is much larger than the norm. Maybe I'll be the person in the nursing home whispering about that rebel Betty who ate a bowl of chili after 6pm. Who knows?

What I do know is that I admire her ability to at least try something new. To jump into a realm of unknown and give it a go. To find the areas in her life that seem to be dark and find the right dose of sunshine. She's willing to just try whereas I am often stunted by fear of the unknown.

When Natasha Richardson died, I had this moment of awakening. I was in the gym trying to make the most of my cardio and read the closed captioning of Larry King announcing her death. Here was a woman who was young, vivacious, well-loved, and had money and yet, was no different than the rest of us. A life cut short from something so simple. Floods of calls came in from fellow celebrities talking about this woman's life, her body of work, and the things that made her so special.

The common thread through all of these makeshift eulogies was that Natasha was someone who embraced life, that she was bold, unabashed. And of course, this caused me to take stock of my life. What could I do to erase the "Oh man, that freaks me out" from my arsenal of colloquialisms?

In that moment, I decided to live. To enjoy what I had in front of me and to make the most of what God had blessed me with. To venture out and try something new.

So, when we head out on our cruise, I'm doing several things that are WAY outside of my box of comfort: helicopter tour of a glacier, speed boat tour of a volcanic coast, and a zip line ride through some Alaskan rain forest. We had already booked these excursions before my resolution, but now I am embracing the idea of it all. I may scream, I may pee my pants from fear, but I'm going to do it and have fun. In the end, I'll be able to laugh about it. Well, not if I pee.

Do you speak Puerto Rican?

I never know how to respond to that question because I want to be polite, but I also want to teach people that Puerto Ricans speak Spanish.

Well, this Puerto Rican chick doesn't speak Spanish. It's not something I'm proud of since I learned that language first, came to California, and then learned English. Somehow, Spanish was lost.

When I was growing up, people assumed that if you were Hispanic / Latin (or whatever the PC term is today), that you must be Mexican. In California, odds are higher that a Latino is Mexican, but the serious shock that ensues when I tell people I am Puerto Rican is a bit much. It's kind of like "Why are you here (in CA and not NYC)?"

Well, surprise, surprise. Latin people can live in any location.

Apparently, the Sacramento radio stations don't seem to understand that. A few years ago, the Spanish music stations were off the hook. Just great. Salsa, merengue, and other types of Spanish music that I grew up with. This of course was fueled by the whole Ricky Martin / salsa craze that gripped the nation. As time has worn on, the radio stations have played less and less global Spanish music.

I hit my preset radio buttons in my non-cd playing car and am met with nothing that would make me want to shake my bon-bon. With all the various types of Latin music, it's hard for me to accept that only Regional Mexican (the official Latin Billboards music category) can be played on the radio. Needless to say, it's frustrating to only hear one type on at least three Spanish stations in the Sacramento area.

For those who don't listen to Spanish music and are probably internally wondering what the big deal is: imagine turning on the radio or pulling up Pandora and only having one specific type of music within one genre to listen to. And add to that it's not your favorite type of music. It's like only getting to hear Dixieland Jazz when all you want to listen to is Classic Rock. Doesn't quite cut it.

I don't have the heart to change the radio presets. I guess I have this delusion, that somehow, the radio stations will wise up and add more Tropical, Salsa, or other Latin style of music that I love. I'll even take some old school tunes if that's what it will take.

While I wait for the radio stations to start playing my music, I have to resort to some mix tapes friends and family have made for me. It's a sad existence to rely on such lowly musical devices, but it's all I have.

Kiss of Death

Last week, I had a runny nose and some congestion. I spent much of the week popping allergy pills and just meandering along. I was battling allergies and not really winning.

During that time, I thought back to when I was younger and stayed home from school with similar symptoms. I wondered if I had been misdiagnosed by my parents all those years. Allergies are systemic and can manifest themselves like a cold, so perhaps all of my illnesses - or starts of illnesses - were really just allergies. I rolled that over in my head a lot during the week but never really came to a conclusion. But, for this current state of sniffles, I was determined to believe that my symptoms were induced by the dreaded allergies.

I had gotten old and the flowers and pollen and dust and mites and dander and everything else that is evil in Zyrtec commercials had decided that I was their next victim. That somehow I was special enough to be a part of the allergy suffering community.

And then on Thursday, John turned to me and said, "Are you sure this isn't a cold?"

It had never crossed my mind. And I didn't want it to. The thought that I could be sick, that I could take my germs and infect my friends and coworkers was just something that was almost embarrassing. After ending my senior year of high school with pneumonia, I had decided to stay home at the slightest thought of being sick. Catch it early or else it will get really bad. If I had been more concerned about my health in April and not that I had missed 4 days of school visiting a college campus, then I would not have spent my last month of senior year and the entire summer miserable and lonely. Oh my yearbook, with so few signatures, is such a testament to that illness.

So, through my twenties, I gave in to every illness. As soon as I sneezed, I locked myself in a room, lounged on the couch in pajamas, and coddled every cough. A well meaning plan of attack created an insufferable patient. I am well aware of how whiny and needy I can be when I'm sick, but it's become a necessary evil.

I really enjoy the juice Popsicles, chicken soup, and the attention. The sad looks I get from my loved ones as I get tucked in with my snuggle blankets is just a little bonus. That is so not John. He doesn't like being coddled and so he treats others in the manner he would like to be treated.

Thanks to my little illness philosophy, once I think about being sick, that's it. It's over, the thought has jumped immediately to a confirmed diagnosis. No doctor, no tests, no medical website could tell me otherwise. It's as though the pajamas and lounge wear immediately throw themselves on me and the kitchen screams out for soup to be made.

The power of suggestion is just too strong; I've never been able to fight it.

My brother knows this and has enjoyed predicting the future with me. And when it comes to illness, we have a pact. If I ever get diagnosed with some terminal disease, he's going to make sure that the doctor doesn't tell me how much time I have left. Bubba will tack on some months and tell me, like a good brother. With me, if you tell me that the headache will last three days, I will feel better exactly 72 hours later. Not a second before, not a second after. We laugh and laugh about this, because it is so disgustingly true.

I think in the time I've known John, he hasn't really known or understood the truth behind this plan. If he had, he would not have been so casual about "maybe it's a cold" and found a covert way to suggest that different meds might be necessary. Something like "Do you think that your allergies are so bad that you might get an ear infection? Maybe you should double up and attack both ways so you don't get sick." This sort of suggestion would put me in warrior mode (but not the kind of warrior like that creepy Coach on Survivor because I never want to be like that guy) and not the damsel in flannel dress.

But no, the error was made and I spent the next few days woeful about the impending illness that would ensue. I was a champ and still went to work. I figured that if I went to work, I was battling the suggestion and would somehow will my white blood cells into overdrive. I would prove the hubby wrong; and allergies would prevail. Hmm. I just realized how Survivor Coach that sounds. And a little Cheers Coach, too.

Saturday was the day of confirmation. The day that I would have to admit that my husband was, yet again, right. I was miserable. My head had to be propped on pillows, outside clothing could not be donned, tissues had to be within arms reach. I stayed in bed to encourage napping (I'm an illness-only napper) and have some hours unaccounted for according to the cable guide.

I suffered through the cold (?) alone. I must have stumbled downstairs for Odwalla Tangerine juice ten times, each time, grateful that the pounding of going up and down a set of stairs while ill would soon be a thing of the past.

A week later, I'm still with the sniffles. The cold, which John is now calling allergies, just won't go away.

Perhaps it's both. I guess I should go and treat my symptoms.

More of a molehill

I had promised John that once we were married, I would buy all of the gifts for birthdays and holidays. I felt like this would be a slam dunk for both of us. I enjoy shopping and tend to remember what people want several months later and John wouldn't have to hassle with anything other than signing a card.

On top of that, I've prided myself in being able to select the right gift. Several years ago, I chatted online with a friend and helped him select Christmas gifts for each of his siblings. The gifts were a hit with his family and my shopping ego was inflated to gargantuan proportions.

There's one thing I never want to be known for and that's a boring gift. The gift that the adult wants the child to have rather than vice versa. And yet, that's the road I went down at Christmas when I bought John's goddaughter's present. Her mom had told us that she had mounds of toys coming to her, that the toy catalogs in the house were all earmarked to better help Santa. Clothes, she said, was this three year-old's new obsession.

My old fashionista self heard the buzzwords and squealed. I love little girls' clothes - they're so cute and frilly. I was told that she asked Santa to bring her a jacket that looked like mommy's. All I had to do was look for something edgy and cool that would go with her new jacket or sparkly shoes. Not a problem! I went to a kid's boutique and bought two outfits. We presented her with the gifts a few weeks later and were met with utter disappointment.

First the tot looked at John and asked, "Did you buy this?" John, who had been good about buying her latest toy obsession was quick to point the finger to the new wife; the one who had giggled at the sparkly shirts and the soft fabrics and had spent the previous month eagerly anticipating the happy eyes and smiles of the grateful child. What I saw in her reaction was a replay of that gift opening scene in "A Christmas Story" where the boys throw back the socks and other boring gifts in an effort to get to the good stuff. I had become the lame gift giver!

I was determined that when March rolled around, her birthday gift would be a toy. I would not buy an unsolicited book or clothing. Puzzles and anything educational were absolutely banned. I never wanted to see that look of disappointment again.

When the time came, her parents would take her on a recon mission of the toy aisles and report the items that piqued her curiosity. When I heard back, the list contained one toy. All the others had been taken up by the parents and family members. The toy she wanted, that had been left behind, was a Barbie cash register. As a child, I had always wanted one of those stand up play houses that looked like a kitchen and then they created one that looked like a store. This toy sounded like it was perfect for me (um, us) to give her. I could have fun with this.

Then I went to Amazon to do some research on this toy. It's not some old school cash register with real-looking play money. It had coins and bills, but it also had credit cards and a scanning wand. Super high tech.

I love gadgets and so does John, but I wasn't excited to give this gift anymore. There was something about it that made me think that this toy was the root of all evil. That somehow, this toy indoctrinated children into commercialized society and would encourage reckless spending. This little cash register with its pink plastic buttons was the exact reason that our economy was in its current state. A lot of power and blame for one toy, I know.

I agonized over the purchase. Do I give the child what she expressly requested? Do I pick out another toy with the chance that it may be duplicated? Do I go to the boring route (in the eyes of the child) and give her another outfit? Do I purchase what her parents have approved but I cannot get behind?

I decided to take the easy route and let the the toy be a toy. I bought it and had it sit on my kitchen table for a few days. I walked by it and waited for the toy to win me over. The demo would reassure me that the perfume, jewelry, and dress I bought were good choices and an absolute steal. I cringed. What had I done?!? I gave in to my ego and bought something that I felt surely would drive this new four year old into dependency upon credit and self validation through retail therapy.

At some point, John assured me, toys are just toys. Kids enjoy realism and this is what they see when they're out with their parents. This is what the child wanted and it's the parents' job to raise the child and help them understand the value of money and the responsibility that goes with it. She's four and just wants to play dress up and pretend to be an adult. Assuaged by the reality that was presented to me, I wrapped the gift in the pink paper and presented it to her a week later.

The same ho-hum response greeted us when she unveiled the register. All that grief for nothing! But a few minutes later, she was begging to have the register removed from the elusive packaging and a few hours of noisy play ensued. She was entertained and happy.

Perhaps it was just a toy and my concerns were unfounded.

Men are from Mars

John and I are opposites. Books have been written about the differences between men and women, but no matter what I read, I'll never understand him or how it is that we work so well together; it's a mystery.

Case in point: John's birthday.

John turned 40 this week. I've been talking about this big day for over a year. Come to think of it, I don't believe he had an opportunity to enjoy being 39 because I was so incredibly focused on the upcoming landmark birthday.

The plans I tossed out varied at all levels - romantic weekend, quiet dinner with family and friends, big bash of a day riding go karts or screaming through a zip line tour of a local cavern, or cheering on a friend at a nearby body building competition and joining her and her husband for a meal and drinks afterward. Whatever I offered was met with a shrug, a "maybe" or some other nonchalant, non-committed answer. Friends would ask me about what I had planned, but I had no answer.

Oh yes, that's right. I'm the wife. I'm the one that plans these things. Not because it's some societal duty, but because, between the two of us, I lean more towards planning. I thrive more in social environments. It's only to be expected that I would have something up my sleeve, or at least be in the know.

Not only was this a landmark birthday because it was John's first step into his 40's, but it was his first married birthday. It was a big deal to me to make sure that he had a good day. Possibly because I love birthdays. Your birthday is your special day; a day to get pampered and treated with love.

I don't know if John has a birthday philosophy, but he has never been super pumped about any of his birthdays. Perhaps it's my pestering about possible gift choices. Once we finish with Christmas, I ask him to start on his birthday list. He prefers to be left alone and let things drift by, unnoticed. To celebrate his birthday, he once told me, would mean a meal at a restaurant.

As it happened, John's car had been misbehaving on Sunday and the first day Dan, his friend/mechanic/former roommate, could come by and make a diagnosis was John's birthday. We were limited with time, could not coordinate with friends, and I was feeling pretty lousy with allergies. A long fancy dinner was just not possible, so we went and had burgers at Habit.

A year of mental planning and we had burgers. And John was happy.

I don't get it. That wouldn't be enough for me, but somehow he's pleased. Oh, the man is a mystery. How I do love him.

Naked

There are few things that I cannot truly live without. Two things that are absolutes:

A) I must have clothes on in to keep my prudish and law abiding self comfortable.

B) I must have corrective lenses on to keep myself visually connected to the world.

After that, everything should be negotiable. Right? I figure I can leave the house without a wallet, keys, or anything else and still be a functioning member of society. Well, I used to think that was the case until this morning when I couldn't find my phone.

I have always considered it just a phone. I don't use it for music, photos, e-mail, or anything other than phone calls. Texts are rare. Today, I realized it's not just a phone, it's a freaking life line. I rest in the knowledge of its physical nearness to me. I take comfort in the fact that people who want or need to speak to me are just an arm's length away. But today, that electronic woobie was nowhere to be found and my morning routine was dramatically altered.

Every morning, after breakfast, I grab my silver bar phone that is nestled at the top of my open purse and call Ginny (my neighbor, friend, coworker, carpool buddy) and see if she's ready to leave for work. I head out through the garage door, grab my clicker (because it's Thursday and she usually drives), and meet her on our joint driveway. This morning, though, the phone was not in my purse: I could not locate it in the small pocket that I have set aside for the utmost important purse items - keys, phone, and headset. Nor was it hiding amongst the other non-essential purse items: checkbook, hand lotion, makeup, or drugstore items. In a panic, I rushed to the living room and (so smartly) searched in the dark through the cuddle blankies, couch crevices, and other places where my phone just might be. Nothing!

I rush upstairs and knowing how silly I might sound to my super sensible husband (even in a state of half-sleep the man can out reason me), I did not wake him up to see where my blessed phone could be. His reply, I just knew would be one of the following:

1) Um, did you think to use the wall phone?

2) Just use my cell phone - her number is programmed in.

3) Who cares?!? You can find your phone after work today. Just walk next door and ring her doorbell!

I had several responses to each of those, but they were all emotionally based arguments which win no points with my pragmatic sage of a husband. Of course, I will share them here with others who understand what it is to have an illogical emotional attachment. And my responses were as follows:

1) "I don't know how to use that contraption. I have never been able to figure it out. I just don't get it and it's a time waster. " No matter how bad things get, I don't want my husband knowing how much smarter he is than me. And well this would most certainly confirm that truth and lifetime ridicule would ensue.

2) "I don't know where your phone is. What if I use it and then put it in a place that gets your schedule out of order?" Oh the trouble that will befall us today if both of our days are off-kilter!

3) "Ew! How Neanderthal!" Okay, so it probably would have been more like this. "But the noise of a doorbell in the morning is almost deafening and it would be disturbing." Not very friendly; I just couldn't bring myself do it. Plus, it would have been out of Ginny's schedule.

In the end, I just used John's phone which was perched on his dresser next to his belt, pocket knife, and work watch (his own daily essentials). To ensure that my frenzied state had not raised the level of my morning-inside-voice which could wake the Slumbering One, I took the phone downstairs and made my morning call. Risking the chance of skewing John's routine, I left it on the kitchen counter sitting next to his keys, sunglasses, and bike bag (his other essentials).

The day got off to a rough start, a small hiccup really, but I was able to stay on schedule and work the entire day. I wistfully looked at my purse a few times during the workday knowing that my phone was out there - in some dark alley of a corner in my house. I had no fear that the phone had been lost outside of the house. If that had happened, I would have been absolutely frantic. How many phone numbers were stored there and nowhere else? Only God knows.

This afternoon, as we neared the house, my anxiety rose. The anticipation of being reunited with my phone was growing to an intolerable level. My precious phone: where might you be? Would I find this darling doodad sitting on the leather ottoman - its usual lost and found spot - or would my graceful gadget be in some unseemly place?

When I entered the house, I quickly tossed my purse on the counter, hung my fleece coat and began my hunt. I searched the old fashioned way - with my eyes - and came up empty. The kitchen, dining room, living room, and bedrooms were all part of this mass conspiracy to test my sanity. I returned to my purse thinking that perhaps - just perhaps - I had missed it in one of the sweeps (yes, that's plural) of my purse's pockets. Nope. Not there.

But my headset which missed it's electronic buddy reminded me of their special connection and how that item that could act as a honing device. I donned my bluetooth baby and crept around the house, like some wacky ghost hunter, intermittently pushing the button to activate voice dial. As the signal strengthened, I was able to narrow my search area and began a more involved search. Narrowed, but not ended.

I voice dialed my brother and left him a desperate message asking him to call me so that I could resume my search. I then gave up and came downstairs to my evening constitutional - AOL and Facebook - hoping to get lost in happy thoughts. Surely, the phone's daily alarm would alert me to its location in a mere 15 minutes. Hopefully all of this will end before John comes home and learns of my silly escapade.

No such luck! When the alarm went off, he was already seated in the living room waiting to do his crosswords while I started to document this whole event. Of course, this was one of those days where his discernment abilities were heightened and he noticed that I was searching for my instead of taking my pill. So, being the loving husband that he is, he picked up his phone and started dialing mine. We went up and down the stairs and both came up empty. Thanks to a stroke of genius, John thought to look in my car.

Apparently, the little one had slipped out of my purse last night and fallen to the floor of the passenger's seat. I've been so happy about my prodigal phone returning to the safety of my eyesight that I haven't allowed myself to think about it falling out in public. The horrors!

Right now, I'm rejoicing. Feeling whole again; like I'm dressed. I guess I should make a phone call...

Bring It!

I have never thought of myself as a competitor. When I was a kid, sports were never in the mix of my life. Sure, I would play a mean game of four square and anything else that I deemed safe. The monkey bars were a surefire way of breaking a bone and forget about double dutch (rope burn on the face is no way to have fun). Flag football and dodge ball had a way of getting out of hand (there are rules people!) and I started to stay away from those as I moved up the elementary hierarchy.

The competitive spirit never infused me. I could never understand why people would get so hyped up to win. It's just a game. It's just a game. It's just a game.

With academics, there wasn't much competition either: who wants to be known as a nerd? I certainly didn't. I craved to be the girl in the perfectly pegged Guess jeans, super white Keds, a Swatch perched on her wrist and the Esprit tote bag hanging on her shoulder adding to her scoliosis woes. What I craved and what I was in junior high were two different things. As much as I didn't want to be the nerd, I was. You can't help being anything other than yourself. The more you try to hide it, the more the awkwardness of your unnatural state shines through.

Switching high schools helped me embrace the nerdy part of my life, but I still never strived to be the one with the highest grades (who wants to give a speech in front of so many people?!?). The lack of drive, or competitive spirit, got me labeled as "lazy" by one of my teachers. I just didn't care that much. Am I getting A's? Yes. Can I get into a good college? Yes. Okay, so my goals were met, no biggie. If the top score was on my paperwork, great. Too much excitement would mean that I had tried and that I really wanted it (nerd alert!).

Marriage has undoubtedly been the largest factor in nurturing my competitive spirit. I married someone who is infinitely smarter than me; he is never wrong and his point always prevails. It's frustrating to be with someone who always tops you in just about every segment of life. At first, I just accepted it and figured I would just learn from this man. Then, I decided to search for a sign of something; I sat back and studied the man and realized he gets really upset when he's losing a game. It's a small thing, but it is victory.

Our house is full of games: cards, Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, and several video games. What brings out the worst in us, though, is the Touchmaster game for the Nintendo DS. We each play in private trying to best the other's top scores. Simple mindless games, but still pretty addicting. The competition has been heated since we were given the game, which is why my accidental deletion of the scores looks very suspect in John's eyes. I swear to all that it was an unintentional incident that cannot be explained. Unintentional, but very much appreciated.

With a blank slate, I could actually enjoy the games without having to worry about John's top scores. That's why I abandoned the Brain Age games; I couldn't bear being the younger one in the marriage but having the oldest brain. With a blank slate on the Touchmaster, I can scream "In your face," laugh in an evil tone, and leave the DS lying around showing off a great seemingly unbeatable score.

Ah the victory! It is so sweet.