Warm and fuzzy

The weather has been amazing lately. Mid-February has brought clear, sunny days, 70 + degree days and long, lingering sunsets...until today when the temperature barely got above 50 and I froze my sweet ass clean off.

I may not have had the good sense to dress appropriately myself (even though my desk might as when be in Alaska), but I bundled the kiddo in multiple layers, found his raincoat, and even pulled out his rain boots. He missed seeing the hail that pelted the area in the early afternoon, but there is talk of lightning later tonight, so he may get to enjoy this insipid weather after.

That being said, this post was written from my bed, under the winter down comforter, with the heater cranked...and two dogs on my ankles and hips. And it's not even 4:30 in the afternoon yet.

The Easy Way Out

"Pretend I fell on the floor and you cut my head off."

"Pretend I have power to make you go back to life."

"If you step on that part, it will kill you."

"Ok, then I won't step on it."

"Now I am a kitty, and this kitty is scared."

"Meow, kitty, let's make a kitty house so we can hide together."

There are three five-year old boys downstairs in Samson's room, and they are LOUD. The are playing, yelling, SHOUTING--and I am on cloud nine. With neighbors across the street who are just the right age and just the right kind of kids, I hardly ever have to crawl on around on my hand and knees pretending to be a kitty anymore. I can do Legos and books and arts & crafts no problem, but this endless imaginative play is not my cup of tea. Hooray for friendly, active, loving and like-minded twins that live across the street!

Dreaming of the Emerald Isle

In 2006-2007, Max and I had the amazingly good fortune to spend a year living in Dublin, Ireland. The country was chock-full of beautiful landscapes and powerfully emotional history, not to mention kind and welcoming people. Our time there led us to some thrilling places (like Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland, in the above photo), and handed us some unforgettable memories with friends, both new and old.

Today we met up with of my favorite results of living in Ireland, a wonderful friend who was there at the same time as us with the same group of folks from Max's company. I haven't seen him much since we all came back to the states (remember? wedding, baby, multiple moves, home buying, terminal illness, etc), but today's San Francisco lunch date with Max, Samson, our buddy and his 9 month old son made for some seriously joyful memories of days of yore, and grand expectations of times to come. Slainte!

The Gambler

It's true--you do need to know when, in fact, hold them. I usually do know when it would prudent to hold them, and in this case, "them" is my tongue, or whatever snarky, defensive, or downright mean thing I'm about to say. Ah, but knowing when to hold them is different from know how to hold them. No, Kenny Rogers didn't cover that part of the relationship game when he sang his professorial top 40 hit. Enter joke about Kenny Rogers' Roasters being super gross here.

When I was growing up, I found solace in sayings like "acknowledge, move on" and "knowing is half the battle." For me, half of the battle was PLENTY, especially if it was the first half. That's when the threats are thrown down, when the posses gather with bicycle chains and bandannas. The second half of the battle is when everyone dies, and the victors, breathing heavily and bleeding from their arms and heads, survey the battlefield, collect their dead, and head back to their homes. No thank you.

This explains why I excel at ditching in the middle of fights--no, let's say arguments--with my husband. If I decide it's time to fuck shit up, I do just that. And that gets old pretty darn fast. At some point, usually after he's tried to diffuse the situation or unsuccessfully pacify me three or four times (which is also when he starts to get pretty pissed off at me, and therefore invested in said argument), I decide it's time to acknowledge something obvious ("We have different perspectives on that" or "That's the difference between men and women" or "I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree") and move. the. fuck. on. And of course, that's just about the time Max has gotten riled up and ready to see this thing through.

It's amazing that he has the power to just shake his head, step aside, and let me drive the argument. I tend to steer that wreck over to shoulder, pop the hood and wait for the tow truck to arrive. Tonight, the tow truck a vodka cocktail. Good night.

Everyone, I mean Nobody, Wins

Which smells worse: dog diarrhea or burnt popcorn? No matter--my house smells like both!

Hooray for a nice February day in the upper 60's so I can open all of the upstairs windows and air out the house before the family shows up for shabbat dinner. Note to self: just because Turkey Sandwich is super cute, that does NOT mean she can eat bacon for breakfast, even if her eyes tell you differently. Thanks, self. LESSON LEARNED.

A Heart Full of Fancy Ingredients

(For those of you who are keeping track: that last post was written yesterday afternoon, and I thought I had posted it last night. When I opened my computer this morning, I realized that I hadn't actually hit the "Publish" button. Still totally counts for yesterday!)

I have had such a terrific Valentine's Day, and I hope all of you have, too. I got to watch the kiddo's face EXPLODE with joy when I gave him his very own box of conversation hearts and then IMPLODE with joy when I gave him his very own heart shaped box of chocolates (with a kitten on it! squeeeeeee!). Another Valentine's Day like this and the kid won't have any face left.

On the way to work, I listened to the awesome Valentine's Day playlist on Spotify that I made for Max--really, it's amazing. A little bit of soul, a little alt-rock, some Mr. T Experience and absolutely ZERO Air Supply.

At the office, I was the surprised and thrilled recipient of flowers and chocolates from The Best Coworker Ever. After kindergarten pick-up, I got to watch Grandpa smile as kiddo delivered a Valentine's Day card and quick kiss to my folks. And as if all of that wasn't enough, after walking Turkey Sandwich tonight, I got hand made cards from both of my Valentines and SUPER FANCY CHOCOLATES with things like LAVENDER and PISTACHIO in them. Well played, husband.

Heal Thyself

Everything was going along just fine. And then Max and I decided it
would be just fine to get married, have a baby, move twice and buy a
house (oh wait, move three times) all in one year. And then my brain
decided to go all out of service on me. It's no wonder I'm sitting in
the lobby of one of my two weekly therapists offices. It's no wonder
there are a pile of folded clothes permanently affixed to the top of
the shelf in my bedroom. It's no wonder I ask myself daily, almost
hourly: "What the fucking fuck?"

Anyone with a five year old will tell you, get used to it. Life at
home now consists of doing laundry and dishes, packing lunches and
playing with Legos (or dolls or pillow pets or play dough...). In a
rare and shining moment of me time, you can find me paying bills or
grocery shopping. Sleeping in means sleeping past 7.

I know it sounds like I'm complaining. That's probably because I am.
Even five + years after welcoming my tiny new housemate/employer, I am
taken aback by the massive change being a parent has made to my life.
OF COURSE for the better. But also for the annoyinger, the busier and
the tireder.

T-Ball Furies

If any single age group knows how to intimidate me, it's five-year-olds. Boundless energy. No sense of socially appropriate filters. The ability to whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine like nobody's business. And my five-year-old, in particular, has some intense negotiation skills. And that is how I lost $1.50 in the token-ticket game area at Mountain Mike's tonight.

On the plus side, we met Samson's new Little League coach and most of his teammates. And on the plus plus side, the coach is not me.

Double Duty

You know how they say the shoemaker's children go barefoot? So. Freaking. True. At work, nary a thing goes by my desk or inbox without at least getting labeled and added to a list or two. Most things get done within the same week if not the same day. Need a document? A seven month old invoice? A half-written contract for a client that we never landed? Give me 2 1/2 minutes and it'll be on your desk. Yet visitors to my home need hard hats to protect their heads lest a pile of paper should fall upon them between the front door and the kitchen.

This evening has been devoted to paperwork, paying bills and checking items off of lists. Plus, my underpaid, part-time admin laughed at all my jokes, just like a good employee should. I'm thinking of giving him a raise--what's 5% of absolutely nothing? My kind and generous father's sole form of payment for his good deeds is the occasional bag of pretzels or mostly-stale potato chips, whatever's left in the snack box we keep in the pantry that the kiddo hasn't eaten. A true testament to the idea that when your last kid goes off to college, you should CHANGE YOUR ADDRESS, my dad is helpful and patient, and donates one the most precious resources a person has: his time. Thanks, Dad!

Sunday purge

With Max finally home from airport purgatory, we got straight to work by purging our tiny-yet-completely-full-of-crap, spare-ish room in preparation for extra trash pick-up day I scheduled for tomorrow. Man, that's a lot of hyphens.

The room looks amazing, in that I can see the floor, and the new printer is hooked up and seems to printing actual things! Now it's time to go out for carbolite and celebrate our amazing success.

Third wheel date with the sasquwatches

Max and I had a double date planned tonight with our awesome neighbors. They have twins that are Samson's age, and the three kids will spend a few hours the at the local gymnastics center so the old folks can go out for dinner.

That was the plan.

Well, poor Max got stuck in Hawaii an extra day (it's worse than it sounds, he's been stuck in the airport for about 20 hours), so our double date night turned out slightly uneven. But I never complain when there's child care and Japanese food involved! So this me, not complaining, getting ready to binge on some premium sashimi. Imagine my ear to ear smile--although it would be bigger if my partner in crime were here, too. 

Cities made of yogurt containers and egg cartons

Samson's class revealed their city to the public today. Super Kid City is amazing and well thought out and planned, and professionally managed by a queen in a kindergarden teachers costume. It was amazing and unreal and reminded me of the fact that my amazing child needs this. He needs lots if things, I need to give him lots of stuff, sure. But he needs a kindergarden class where he has to stop an evil cow from turning into a bowling ball and ruining the city. It must be this way.

Whoops again!

I've been blogging daily for a while now, about a month or so. And yet, somehow, I completely forgot to post last night! I'm sure it had nothing to do with the extra glass of vodka and diet cherry Dr. Pepper.

Regardless, I don;t have much to say this evening, and I really just want to go to bed early. Thank you for understanding, and please-oh-please, be mine!

When it's my moment in the sun

Oh how beautiful I'll be!

Join the Army

My pal Liz--over at The Liz Army--is such an inspiration. Her blog design, her tenacity, her commitment to community and spreading the word are all amazing testaments to her character. I have a hard time identifying with cancer in any way unless it involves a serious bout of depression and flooding rivulets of tears.

All of my Glioma Girls are amazing, no doubt. Erin is constantly working, remastering the skills associated with using two legs and two arms. Liz Z. has gone through craniotomies and treatments--and STILL has the strength to carry a child, give birth and raise her first baby. Katie is raising three kids under the age of 10. YIKES.

Most days, I'm fine. Better than fine, even--some days, I'm downright good.

But some days, I can barely get through my six-hour work day--despite my doting and attentive husband, two healthy and retired parents who are, 24/7, chomping at the bit to help with the kiddo, and a warm and inviting community of friends and classmates. It seems that I have everything around me that I need to be fulfilled and successful. To be happy.

But tonight, I am sitting in bed, and I am SAD. Kiddo is fast asleep, there are two dogs sprawled across bed and a tangled up pile of pink-toed feet and striped tails atop the cat tree. Hockey is on, belly is full, dishes are done, laundry is folded. SO WHY AM I SAD? I've had 3+ years of clean, consistent MRI's since my Glioblastoma IV diagnosis in 2009. I'm as close to remission as someone who has a cancer that doesn't have remission can be, for heaven's sake. What will it take to get the sadness out of my soul?

Still don't want to drink Budweiser, though

I want a horse!

And if you watched the Superbowl today, so do you.

School Book Sale Fundraiser

Huh.

Way Back Machine

I recently found the old playlist we used to play at Samson's bed time when he was teensy tiny. We added it to his current bedtime playlist on Spotify, and now I get my tearful, joyous, nightly dose of nostalgia--you know, because there aren't enough things already that make me cry.

Track one just send me so far back, I can almost feel the old rocking chair against my back; I can almost smell the lavender nighttime lotion...and the pampers swadlers...



Nighty night, tiny little infant Samson.

Struggling

I'm watching the Sharks struggle more than they have in the 6 games they've played this season. They're not congealing as a team, the communication is weak, they should be making better plays. Everyone is expecting more--not only because they've been so stellar this season, but because we know they can be better. They're not failing; at the end of the first period, it's tied at zero. And everyone is disappointed in them. They are disappointed in themselves.

Now let's change the pronouns around. 2011 was my off-season. Time to rest up after surgery, radiation and a year of chemotherapy. Time to spend with my family after a season on the road, a season of 100% commitment to the team, to the game. 2012 should have been the next season, but my player's union and my owners COULD NOT AGREE on some of the basic rules of how to be comfortable and to happily exist as a regular person. So the off-season ran about 4 months longer than intended, and has been in danger of losing a significant number of fans, and training camp was pretty much ignored. Complacency settled in, I got straight up lazy and some of my best players hit the road to keep from going crazy.

It's 2013, a deal has been reached and the lockout is over. Drew and Randy are providing color commentary and always routing for me to be successful. The fans are back, the Dippin' Dots are plentiful and my season, so far, is one for the record books. It's time to overcome adversity and play for a full 60 minutes.

Some friendly tips for the homeless people that hang out in front of my therapist's office in San Francisco

1. Don't address me as "girlfriend," "girl" or "honey." Please.

2. Finish urinating on the building BEFORE you ask me for money.

3. If you are indeed as hungry as the cardboard sign in front of you says you are, maybe you should eat your puppy.