New Year's Eve

It's new year's eve, and never mind that I am frantically writing a post to my blog an hour before the clock strikes twelve.  I don't think I would rather be at a party wearing a glamorous dress and fabulous shoes, sipping champagne, and counting down the seconds to a new year.  I'm just not in the mood. 

Instead, I feel as if I am being chased by ghosts of 2010, and think that if I could just put those ghosts to rest before the witching hour, I can have a fresh start in 2011.  There are cases I postponed that I cannot possibly complete in 40 minutes, topics I wanted to blog about but procrastinated until I forgot about them, projects that I started but didn't finish, friends that I meant to catch up with but never did, activities I meant to do with my children but put off for another day, relationships that I damaged and couldn't repair.  There is so much pressure -- self-applied, I admit -- to bring in the new year with a clean slate, levity and glee. 

So I take a deep breath.  And exhale. 

I resolve not to dwell on the past or project too far out into the future.  To steal a quote, "We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand – and melting like a snowflake."

Sweeping the Floors of Hell

 When I was a first year law student, I went to a party thrown by a second year student at a rented house, and there were a lot of people I didn't know.  I was standing next to this very debonair guy, when a group of people walked in, including a woman who shall remain nameless.  She was dressed in wrinkled khakis and an ill-fitting thermal type top, and her blonde mane was frizzy and unstyled. Her face was pale, and she had conspicuous bags under her eyes.  If a picture of that scene were to be placed in a kid's activity book for child to figure out "what's wrong with this picture," the answer would be "her face" because the expression on her face did not match the party atmosphere around her.  I coolly leaned over slightly to my side and said to the guy standing next to me in my typical blase bitch manner, "My God, she looks like she's been sweeping the floors of hell." 

I'm fairly certain the aforementioned debonair guy spewed out beer, and absolutely certain he doubled over with laughter.  As nothing facilitates bonding faster than cruel and juvenile humor, the guy -- Derek -- and I became friends from that moment onward.  Derek insisted on borrowing one of my lipsticks so that he could quote me on the bathroom mirror in that house. 

Although that incident took place 15 years ago, I have never stopped feeling bad about being snarky to a total stranger.  She didn't hear me, thank God, and I don't think she even knows I exist, but because my playground brand of name calling made me feel so bad, I have never forgotten her.  This is my mea culpa to her.

She should get the last laugh, because although I was a bitch that night, karma is even bitchier, and my recent experience is proof of that.  One of Skyler's classmates had a costume party at her house the other day.  Although we had all planned to attend, for various reasons Randy and I decided to just drop Skyler off.  Randy had been mowing the yard all day, and he was wearing his lawn-mowing "uniform" of camoflauge pants, red fleece pullover, and Crocs.  Needless to day, he did not feel "presentable," in his state, so I escorted Skyler into the house for the party while Randy, my mother, and Jagger waited in the car so we could get lunch afterwards.  Having handed Skyler over to the hostess, I turned around to leave.  As I did so, I saw a woman who was wearing baggy jeans, a loud purple tshirt and a long sweater that could have been mistaken for a bathrobe.  Her hair was haphazardly pulled back, she was wearing no make up, and she had extremely dark circles under her eyes.  In short, she looked like she had been sweeping the floors of hell.  Why in the world, I wondered, would someone attend a party looking like that?  No sooner did that thought surface than I realized that I was looking at my reflection in the window.  To my horror and dismay, I had become a sweeper of hell's floors. 

This rude awakening coincided with the feeling I have been having lately of inadequacy, for lack of a better word.  It seems like the women around me can breezily hold down a full time job, tend to their young children, prepare gourmet meals using organic ingredients and home grown herbs, work out at the gym daily, drive their kids to their sports and lessons of every variety, keep their houses as if they were personally trained  by Martha Stewart, and still look like...well, MILFs.  I just don't know how they do it. 

I read this quote recently: "There comes a time when a woman needs to stop thinking about her looks and focus her energies on raising her children. This time comes at the moment of conception. A child needs a role model, not a supermodel." --Astrid Alauda, on the "hot mom" trend.

First of all, who in the world is Astrid Alauda? I've never heard of her. And I don't care for her philosophy. Since when did trying to be a good mom and trying not to look as if one has been sweeping hell's floors become mutually exclusive? Is striving to be a "hot mom" just a "trend" (I remember my mom going to aerobics classes, shopping for designer jeans and purses, and getting her hair professionally styled regularly when I was 14 years old, and she still does!!)?  Is it really a good idea for anyone -- people with or without kids -- to stop caring about their appearance?  I think not.  Watch this momma put away her broomstick.

Parenting Just Got A Little Bit More Complicated

We have lived in Finksburg for almost three years now, and I have yet to meet a couple of our neighbors. I think it has something to do with the distance separating all the houses, which are on around two acres each -- we don't just happen to see each other on the way out of the house. 

For the same reason, the kids don't just happen to see each other playing in the front yard, so Skyler doesn't have regular playmates in the neighborhood.  But recently, some of the neighborhood kids have been coming over and ringing the doorbell to ask if Skyler can play outside.  Randy and I were pleasantly surprised by their overture, and we were more than happy to let Skyler play with them.  Our enthusiasm was, of course, curbed by my public-defender-job-and-CNN/HLN-addiction-triggered paranoia about all things bad that can happen to little kids.  Nonetheless, we let Skyler play with her new friends on her playset in our yard or in her basement playroom, and we didn't think about the fact that the kids were much older than Skyler.  There is a boy who is in the 7th grade, and two girls who are in the 4th grade.

The other day, Skyler came running up from the basement to announce that one of the girls was having a bonfire at her house and wanted Skyler to come.  It was going to start at 9 pm.  Although Skyler was still on summer vacation, I told her she couldn't go because (1) it would be past her bedtime, (2) she is five years old.  What I did not tell her is that (1) I don't know the people who would be at said bonfire,  and (2) five year olds have no business going to bonfires unless they are camping with their parents.  Skyler went downstairs and loudly announced, "Bad news, guys.  My mommy won't let me go to the bonfire."  After a noticeable moment of quiet, Skyler came running back upstairs and announced, "Mommy, I'm going to the bonfire, and you'll just have to punish me for it later."

I remember reading an article about the Academy-Award winning actress Gwyneth Paltrow (yes, I say that with some sarcasm) who grew up in Manhattan with her director dad and movie star mom.  Gwyneth said that when she was in high school, she would sneak out of her house by climbing out her bedroom window and go party all night.  She used to leave notes for her parents that went something like this:  "Dear Mom and Dad, I'm going to a party and then clubbing afterwards and won't be back until tomorrow morning sometime.  I'm prepared to take whatever punishment you deem appropriate." 

I don't think Skyler came up with her remark on her own.  But it doesn't matter, because she still said it, and I'm sure she will learn things from other kids in the future.  Randy and I have never really talked about how to handle in-your-face defiance from our children.  Frankly, we didn't think we would have to think about it quite so early in our parenthood.  Also, we were lulled into a false sense of security because Skyler has always been a pretty compliant child who liked pleasing her parents.  We don't spank our kids.  So, when Skyler said that to me, I just gave her my sternest expression and said in an authoritative voice, "Excuse me?  Where did you learn to say that?  The answer is no." 

That time, it was enough to persuade her that hers was a very bad idea indeed.  Afterwards, I explained to her as patiently as I could that she would not be allowed to do certain things until she gets older, and that I'm just trying to keep her safe and healthy.  I also explained in terms that a five year old would understand that there is no way on God's earth that I would allow a child of mine to behave like Gwyneth Paltrow. 

I have to say, I don't know if I'm cut out for parenting an older child.

Randy and I are starting to talk about how to handle situations like that with Skyler, who is growing up really quickly.  For starters, we aren't going to let her play with much older kids (my sister, a 3rd grade teacher, pointed out that there is a reason why older and younger kids are segregated on the playground -- they are on different developmental planes.).  We are going to make a point of planning playdates with the other kids in the neighborhood who are around 5 or 6 years old, rather than the 10 and 12 year olds she was playing with that day.  I'm also explaining certain decisions to her, such as why she can't walk around the neighborhood in the evening with the 6th graders who invite her out.  Fortunately, she hasn't rebelled. 

The other evening we were driving home after dark and we saw those same kids riding their bikes near our house.  I reminded Skyler that she would not be allowed to go outside if they came and asked for her.  She explained that they would not be coming around.  I asked how she knew, and she said that she told them not to come during school nights because she is not allowed to play with older kids on school nights.  It's not totally correct, but it's close enough and, therefore, good enough, for me.

Forget The Farmer's Almanac -- Ask The Yellowjackets

     Jagger tried to eat a dead bee that he found on the morning room floor the other day.  I was able to fish it out of his mouth before he could swallow (I know, big ick factor) but didn't even think twice about how a bee got into our house.  A couple of days later, our nanny said she had smooshed about four bees in the room, and she believed they were coming in through the wall.  I pooh-poohed this notion.  We had never had bees in the house before, and I didn't know how they could possibly have gotten in through the walls. 

     The next day, I got home from work and she said that there was a beehive hanging off the frame of one of the windows of our basement.  (For you Californians, basements are not merely the basements that you hear about on TV -- scary storage spaces where boogeymen hang out.  Basements on the East Coast are part of the living space of your house).  Again, I dismissed this. 

     The following morning I thought to mention it to Randy so he could look at it.  He came in talking about needing to call an exterminator.  I thought he meant "at some point in our lives."  But as soon as I got to work Randy called to say an exterminator was on his way to our house and Randy was leaving work to meet the man.  When the exterminator arrived, Randy wasn't home yet, so I had the pleasure of talking to the exterminator by phone.  Evidently our house was the scene of an attack of the Yellowjackets.  They had made a humongous bee hive at the window, and they had infiltrated our house -- they had built hives inside the walls and were coming into the house through the vents.  Just in the few hours that I had been at work, the nanny had captured nearly a dozen from just one room.

     Apparently, the number of bees in the summer is directly correlated to the inches of snow in the winter.  The exterminator said that last summer he was extremely busy attending to bee calls.  This summer it was even worse.  The last call he got was for the same problem as ours -- bees in the walls.  In that house, he forced "safe" chemicals into the walls to kill the bees.  The bees tried to escape, and THOUSANDS of them came out of the vents and into the house.  It sounded like a horror movie.

     At our house, the exterminator duct taped plastic trash bags over the vents on the floors to catch any bees that escaped.  He then put on his bee suit (I haven't forgiven Randy yet for not taking a picture for my blog of the exterminator in his bee suit), took down the hive outside, and sprayed the "safe" chemicals into our walls.  (Check with me in 20 years -- if I'm alive and don't have an extra arm, that will be the proof that he was right about the chemicals being safe).  The exterminator said that there would be a lot of bees coming out over the next couple of days.  If it got bad, we were instructed to call him for a second shot of the chemicals.  Fortunately, thousands of bees did not come ito the house through the vents.  It was more like around one hundred, not all at once and not all through the bagged vents.  The bees kept coming for a few days afterwards. One day, Jagger tried to eat one again.  (Yes, Mama, we are feeding Jagger enough.  He just likes to put things in his mouth.)  Unfortunately for Jagger this one was not dead, and it stung his lip on the way to his tongue.  Jagger's lip swelled up to about five times its normal size, and he screamed bloody murder.  But he was okay, and Benadryl brought his lip back down to its usual sweet shape. 

     Our lives have not turned into a horror movie about bees.  But according to the exterminator, it will be a very scary-cold winter.

The Art of Grieving Part I

It's a Friday night, the kids are in bed, and I am up working on a case that is bothering me very much.  I can't divulge much about it, but suffice it to say that it involves a young child who wants desperately to be with her mother, and is grieving because the powers that be won't let her go home. 

Suddenly, I've started thinking about this puppy that I had when I was 14 years old.  Her name was Chubby, and she was one of a litter of six that came from our family dog, Bowsey.  Although Bowsey was "our" dog, I never really felt like she was "mine."  I loved her, but we didn't have that special connection.  We gave away most of the dogs in the litter, but my parents let me keep Chubby.  I thought she was a boy initially.  She was so cute, as puppies can be.  As you can guess, she got her name because she was a fat ball of fur.  I tried to resist, but as soon as I was told I could keep her, I loved her with abandon. 

Now that I am older, and I look back on the way I loved my puppy, I sort of marvel at the fact that I already knew to be cautious about love.  Although I was only 14, I already knew about the pain of loss, albeit in a limited way.  Maybe I subconsciously experienced the grief bourne of loss when my father had to leave the Philippines ahead of us and we were separated for a year, or when my maternal grandmother died when I was only four.  Maybe those experiences already primed my heart to be reticent.  I'll never know for sure. 

But my first conscious experience of grief was when I was around 10.  My cousin, Ate Betty, had come from the Philippines and was staying with us in California.  She had had a teacherous journey from the Philippines and made her way via Mexico, where she encountered some very bad people.  I heard about the dangerous situations she had endured and was very relieved when she finally arrived.  When she made it to California, she came to stay with us, and I thought it was for forever.  Ate Betty was wonderful.  She obviously adored me, my sister and brother.  She helped me organize my special Avon perfume bottles on top of my bedroom dresser, told me stories about our cousins in the Philippines, taught me how to give myself a manicure, and laughed at things that I said that I intended to be funny.  She used to say "by and by" when she meant "later" and "come again" when she didn't hear something we said.  I loved her so much, and I didn't know anything about holding back to protect myself from hurt. 

One day, Ate Betty's "grandparents" (technically, the woman was a sibling of a grandparent, but in the Filipino culture, your great-aunt is regarded like your grandmother) came from San Diego to take her to live with them.  Ate Betty was my father's brother's daughter.  She was very close to my parents.  So I didn't understand the factors that went into the decision for her to leave us and move to San Diego.  I remember that she went reluctantly.  I remember crying so hard I could hardly breathe.  I remember someone saying to get me water so I could calm down.  I remember flinging myself on my parents' bed and refusing to get up to say goodbye to her.  She came in say goodbye, and I remember being so distraught that the only thing I could manage to say between sobs was "don't go."  But she explained that she had to go.  Then she was gone. 

We still talked to her, and she eventually got married, moved to Texas, and visited us regularly.  In fact, I am flying out to see her in October. But it wasn't the same as having her live with us, and the memory of that separation was painful to me for a long time.    That experience taught me to hold back just a little bit. 

But Chubby was the most adorable little dog in the world, and when I learned I could keep her, I couldn't help but love her completely.  As you've probably predicted, my story about Chubby had a sad ending.  She got sick before her first birthday and died in her sleep.  When I first realized she was dead, I called my mother at work crying.  She tried to console me, and I pretended to be consoled.  By then I had become pretty good at hiding my feelings and for the most part cried only in private.  Perhaps no one in my family realized it, but I was extremely heartbroken.  Almost 30 years later, I still cry when I think about Chubby. At a young age I developed a sense of empathy for anyone who loses a pet. Even at age 14, I knew, through personal experience, that losing a pet is just as painful as losing a person. Some people think that losing a dog (or any other kind of pet) doesn't have the same impact. But trust me, your heart breaks into just as many pieces.  If you have ever lost your beloved pet, you and I share a bond, for we know the terrible feeling of grief for the selfless creature who brought so much happiness into our lives and asked for so little in return. 

I'm not really sure what the point of this post is. I guess it's a vignette of the way in which a young person learns to be a little bit afraid to give her heart so readily to someone she loves.  I guess it's my mind pondering the ways in which the little girl in the case I'm working on will be scarred by the forced separation from the mother she desperately loves.  I guess it's my ode to a puppy I loved so intensely even if only for a short time.  I guess it's only the tip of the iceberg on the topic of grief and loss.

Adventures In Flying

My family and I are attending an out-of-state wedding in October, so I booked our flights last week.  I haven't been on a plane since March of 2009, when I was three months pregnant with Jagger and we went to California so I could be with my mother, sister and brother for the anniversary of my father's passing.  When I reached my sixth month of pregnancy, my obstetrician ordered me not to travel too far.  Orson Welles once said, "There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror."  Poor Mr. Welles.  Perhaps his problem was that he placed too much emphasis on the ride itself instead of the destination.  Surely, he never flew with a baby.  As for myself, I have a special fondness for the invention known as an airplane.

Coming To America

My new life in America began with  a trip in an airplane in 1976.  At the age of six, my mother, sister, brother and I boarded an international flight from the Philippines to America to reunite with my father, who had gone ahead a year earlier to establish a home for us.  Prior to boarding, the pilot of the Philippine Airlines plane first had to undertake a special mission:  to carry my younger sister onto the airplane.  My mother had her hands full with my one-year old brother.  When my sister, who was only three at the time, saw the jumbo jet, she planted her bottom on the ground just outside the portable stairs leading into the cabin and refused to board.  Fortunately this was long before 9/11, so her demonstration was considered "cute" rather than a potential act of terrorism. 

Imagine how challenging it is to take care of a baby during a flight.  Multiply this by three.  Add the transcontinental factor.  The fact that we were leaving our extended family for an indefinite period of time to move to a foreign country raised the emotional toll of the trip exponentially.  This gives you an idea of how difficult that flight must have been for my mother.  Fortunately, she met a very sweet Canadian couple on the flight who offered to watch me so that my mother could focus on my brother and sister.  At least she was able to subtract some of the stress, and seeing my father again after year apart with limited telephone contact was well worth all of it.   

What Not To Wear

We took a fair number of trips by airplane when I was growing up to attend weddings or go on vacations.  Once my cousin from Texas sent me a ticket so I could visit her. It was my first flight alone.  I was a goofy teenager and had just watched a movie where the heroine wore high heels and a short skirt on a flight.  I thought it seemed sophisticated and worthy of imitation, so I put together a little get up that  included high heeled pumps.  Having been accustomed to wearing little white Keds and having had very little experience in heels, I had a difficult time walking.  To make things worse, back then carry on bags did not have the little wheels that make them easy to tote around now.  Teetering on high heels while a heavy bag hung from my left shoulder, I walked more slowly than an 80-year old with a cane.  It took me so long to get from point A to point B that I missed my connecting flight. 

Look Homeward, Angel

After I moved to Maryland I flew to California around three to four times each year.  My memories of those trips back home are very happy ones.  Being away from my family was hard, but each visit home was special.  I am certain that I was able to be that far away from my family only because I knew they were only a six-hour plane ride away.  Looking back on it, I wish I had gone home more frequently.  But I was young and felt like I was on an adventure of sorts;  at that age I didn't think about the fact that my immediate family was on the cusp of dispersing.  Soon, my brother would join the Navy and leave for another state as well, and my sister would finish college and settle down where she found a teaching job.  My father would take an early retirement, and he and my mother would begin their empty nest years.  Although I was able to fly home, I couldn't ever really go "home" again.  Times were changing.  After I finished law school and got a job, it became harder and harder to take time off to fly back home.  And then after I got married there were two work schedules to accomodate, and visits tapered off to twice a year -- once during the summer and another time during the holidays. 

Headline News

It wasn't just our work schedules kept me from flying back home.  Randy and I wanted to do some traveling before we started a family.  Our first vacation as a married couple was our honeymoon in the French West Indies (with a stopover in Florida).  We were seated near the wing on our flight out.  At one point Randy leaned over me to look out the window and commented on an unusual brown fluid on the wing.  A few moments later the pilot announced that the hydraulic fluid on the plane was leaking and we had to make an emergency landing in Puerto Rico.  Ever the fatalist, I immediately began to imagine that Randy and I would be the newlywed couple whose tragic and early demise would be the subject of Katie Couric's feature on the Today show.  In every plane crash there seems to be a newlywed couple off to start their new life together when tragedy strikes, and they sink to the bottom of the ocean, holding hands in death, their wedding bands serving as the means by which they are identified by recovery crews.  It would be a cruel and ironic death, the story used to illustrate the truism that you never know when it's your time.  Fortunately, that was not our time.  We landed in Puerto Rico, where emergency response teams were waiting for us on the runway.  The plane had lost so much fluid that there wasn't even enough to power the door.  The plane was not immediately reparable, so we had to continue our trip on another plane.  The flight attendants knew we were on our way to our honeymoon, and they compensated us with a nice bottle of champagne.

Flying With SARS

Randy caused a bit of a panic when we flew out to Puerto Vallarta on vacation in 2003.  It was the summer of the SARS epidemic, when people were dying after catching a dangerous strain of the flu.  Right before our flight, it  was announced in the news that the Center for Disease Control believed the virus originated in Asia.  As a precaution on our flight. Randy decided to don a surgical mask to cover his nose and mouth.  I opted not to wear the mask he had brought for me because it made my face sweat.  We were one of the first people to board the flight, so as others boarded, they saw Randy in his get up. Seeing a random man wearing a surgical mask sitting next to an Asian woman evidently set the bells off in many passengers' minds, and soon the plane was abuzz with nervous chatter about the SARS virus.  Feeling somewhat like a leper, I nudged Randy hard with my elbow and pleaded with him to remove his mask or risk a mutiny on the plane.  Some people even asked us point blank if he was wearing the mask because of SARS.  Eventually he became uncomfortable with the attention and he took it off.  If you ever want to get a lot of attention, put on a surgical mask and take along an Asian woman when there is a potentially life threatening strain of the flu that originated in Asia.

Let's Go Paris!

We planned a trip to Paris before I discovered that I was pregnant with Skyler.  Although I would be unable to drink wine or eat cheese, we decided to go ahead and take the trip, predicting (correctly as it turns out) that our ability to travel would be severely curtailed after we had a baby.  My goal on that flight was simple:  to be as close to the lavatory as possible.  One symptom of pregnancy is the frequent need to urinate.  So mine was a good goal to achieve, because  I spent what seems like the entire flight in the bathroom.  That trip was special for a couple of reasons.  First, I had always wanted to go to Paris.  Second, even though we only had to buy two plane tickets, it felt like there were three of us on that trip.  I was only four months pregnant, but our baby was already the most important thing in the world to us, and we talked a lot about our baby (we didn't know we were having a girl).  It felt like I was seeing Paris for the first time with my baby.  Skyler reads about Paris in some of her books, and she shows a lot of interest in it, so I promised her that we would take her there for her 14th birthday and we would sing happy birthday to her atop the Eiffel Tower.

A Different Kind Of Carry-On

Skyler took her first flight when she was six months old.  We went to California in May of 2005 to visit my family.  My mother came to Maryland to help us after Skyler was born, but my my father had yet to meet Skyler, and his birthday was in May, so I had the idea of taking Skyler out ot him as a birthday present.  Nothing makes a person feel more like a responsible adult than flying cross-country alone with a six-month old baby.  Security was tight already at the time because of 9/11.  I went through security with my diaper bag, which doubled as my purse, extra bag of toys, breast pump, baby sling, and stroller.  I had to put all of the items through the conveyor belt, including the Baby Bjorn, remove my shoes, and fold up the stroller, all while holding Skyler. On the first flight I held her in my lap. That was difficult only because there was so little room for moving around.  Skyler was an easy baby, though.  She maintained her regular eating and sleeping schedule.  I took out brand new toys to keep her distracted and walked up and down the aisle when permitted in order to lull her to sleep.  It was a surprisingly easy flight.  When I needed to go to the bathroom I just kept her in her sling attached to me.  Southwest Airlines doesn't have changing tables in the lavatory, so the flight attendants set up a makeshift changing area on the floor in the front of the plane.  The most awkward part of that flight came when I needed to pump breastmilk.  I don't know what possessed me to think that I could use my battery-operated breastpump while in mid-air (I had a non-stop flight).  Like I said, Skyler was in my lap.  Needless to say, there was no privacy.  Fortunately, the gentleman sitting next to me had just had his first baby, too, and his wife was nursing their baby (albeit in the comfort of her own home).  So, I simply covered up with a blanket and nursed Skyler for a little while and then used the pump single-handed.

Caution: Barfing Baby Ahead

As Skyler got older, flying became both easier and more difficult.  I bought her her own seat, had to bring more complicated toys to keep her interested, and it was more difficult to change her as she became mobile.  Still, she was good flier.  I also learned that I could use her to try to discourage passengers from sitting next to us on flights that weren't full so that we could have the entire row to ourselves.  For example, because we were permitted to board first because I had a young child, we had our pick of seats.  To discourage people from sitting next to us, I would have Skyler make a lot of noise as other passengers were boarding, in hopes of having people think she would be noisy on the plane so they would avoid sitting next to us.  One businesswoman didn't take heed, though.  She sat at the window seat next to Skyler.  She took out her laptop to do work, and Skyler, thinking it was a dvd player, ever so gently reached over and positioned it so she could have a better view of the screen.  What could I do but shrug my shoulders at the woman.  On another occasion, I told Skyler to hold a barf bag near her face, thinking that if people thought she was prone to motion sickness they would let us have the entire row of seats to ourselves.  That worked.  Sneaky, I know, but if you've ever flown on a plane with a child, you understand the desperate measures one takes in order to be more comfortable.

Family Vacation

One of the happiest times in my life was when Randy, Skyler and I went to Cancun, Mexico,  on vacation with my parents.  It was a long and crowded flight, but the excitement overtook us, and the all-inclusive resort where we spent a week was well worth it.  It's always sad to end a vacation, and the flight back home was slightly more nightmarish, mostly because the airport in Cancun seemed totally chaotic, prompting my father to shake his head in disgust and say to Randy, "This airport is no good."  He was a seasoned traveller himself.  Despite the hassle, I am so grateful to have taken that trip, as it was the last vacation I would ever go on with my father before he died. 

Frequent Flyers

By the time Skyler was four years old she had been aboard a total of 40 airplanes.  She received frequent flyer ticket from Southwest when she was only three years old.  She knew how to give the safety demonstrations that the flight attendants give at the beginning of each flight.  She understood the diagrams on the emergency landing pamphlet at the back of each seat.  I knew she had become a seasoned flyer when at the age of three she knew to take off her toy jewelry and purse, place them in a bin on the conveyor belt, and remove her shoes before going through the metal detector, her arms outstretched so as to reveal her weapon-free torso. 

The longest flight Skyler ever took was to Bulgaria for Gergana's wedding ,where she was a flower girl.  It was  17-hour flight, with two plane changes, one in Frankfurt, Germany, and the other in Switzerland.  We expected the trip to be a nightmare with a 2 1/2 year old, but with a portable dvd player and Skyler's favorite DVDs, new coloring books and crayons, and a few new toys, she did exceedingly well.  I think flying is in her blood.

Enjoying the Ride

The flight out to attend the wedding will be Jagger's first airplane experience.  We are very excited to see a lot of family members that we don't get to see very often anymore.  It will be the first time Jagger will meet most of his extended family.  We are leaving just a couple of days before his first birthday, so we will have a small birthday celebration at our destination, and our flight home will be on the evening of his birthday.  For all of these reasons, this flight will mark the beginning of a special celebration.  God willing, it will be just the first of many flights we take together as a family. 

Sorry, Mr. Welles, but you got it all wrong.  Flying these days is not terrifying.  In an airplane, when you're en route to your destination, it is easy to forget for a few hours the fact that you are in a man-made machine defying the laws of gravity and travelling at a rate of speed that at which perhaps human beings were never intended to move. And flying is anything but boring.  Even in the days before a scheduled flight everyone's emotions begin to bubble over with excitement.  Flying is a prelude to joyful reunions, new experiences, relaxing vacations, and sometimes even the fulfillment of lifelong dreams.

Skyler Says...

IMAG0244, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Skyler:     I'm going to train Jetsam to hunt for Easter eggs.

Me:          Okay.

Skyler:    And I'm going to train her to do twirls.

Food Is An Important Part of a Balanced Diet

 -- Fran Liebowitz

Tell me what you eat, I'll tell you who you are. ~Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

I wouldn't call myself a foodie.  I just love to eat.  I have a voracious appetite for both posh and unrefined food.  

For our honeymoon, Randy and I went to the French West Indies, to St. Maarten/St. Martin, known as the gourmet capital of the Carribean, and with good reason.   Our honeymoon was one gastronomical feast after another, with breaks to lay out on the beach of Anse Marcel.  I loved the onion tart, goat cheese salad, pate, and duck confit.  I wore a size 4 at my wedding and returned from the honeymoon a size 6.  I can't wait to go back there.

But happiness for me does not always come from dining in a fancy restaurant.  If I were on death row, my choice of a last meal would be fried chicken.  If the warden would deign to purchase it from Royal Farms, all the better.  Just give me a side of Mafran (the Filipino ketchup) with it and I would die with a happy tummy, never mind the circumstances of my passing.   

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. —-Virginia Woolf

Here is something I will never understand:  Women for whom a complete meal consists of a small salad with the dressing on the side.  That may sound sexist, but I have yet to meet a man who orders just a plate of lettuce.  There are few worse experiences than looking forward to eating out with a friend, anticipating and dreaming about the cuisine that will be transporting me to nirvana, finally seeing the day of our outing, getting to the restaurant, and having my companion order just a salad with the dressing on the side.  Once my lunch companion ordered a house salad with just a wedge of lemon on the side for dressing!  When this happens to me I view it as a mini-tragedy, because though I love to eat, I can't indulge in a full meal if the person sitting across the table from me will be nibbling on a carrot.  It makes me self-conscious and pressured to eat quickly, lest my friend end up watching me for an hour passionately devouring the full meal I have ordered.  When I eat with someone like this, my joy dissipates, and no matter how much I may enjoy my friend's company, I spend the whole time slightly distracted by thoughts of what I could have been eating. 

One of the delights of life is eating with friends, second to that is talking about eating. And, for an unsurpassed double whammy, there is talking about eating while you are eating with friends. —Laurie Colwin

Subconsciously, I must screen potential friends for their style of consuming food.  I don't mean the ability to pack away as much food as possible -- I'm not advocating unhealthy gorging.  I'm talking about people who relish their food and savor each morsel without thinking exclusively about the calories.  My late friend Dian took real pleasure in a good meal.  One of my most enduring memories of her is of a meal we had with another friend in Cape May, New Jersey circa 1995.  I don't even remember the exact meal, but I know it involved several delicious courses and took us nearly three hours to complete.  We shared a bottle of red wine whose name has long escaped my memory, and talked and laughed throughout the meal.  If only all dinners could be like that one.   

There is no love sincerer than the love of food. ~George Bernard Shaw

Occasionally, when we can each take a break from our respective two kids as well as our jobs, my former roommate Brian and I get together for lunch or dinner.  One of the many things I love about Brian is that he loves the Cheesecake Factory as much as I do (I am not a food snob and I like some chain restaurants).  I can always count on sharing crab dip, potstickers, or southwestern eggrolls before our main course.  He is an appetizer aficionado, so I always let him pick.  Likewise, Christine and I share the same size appetite.  Free and unhibited would be good words to describe me when I eat with Christine.  Our regular spot is Banthai, where she orders Thai iced coffee and I order Thai iced tea, we each order soup, she gets Larb (minced chicken with lime juice and spices), I get ped pad kaprow (crispy duck with sweet and hot sauce, basil, and Chinese broccoli). Dessert is sweet rice with mango.  It should come as no surprise that my friendships with Brian and Christine have endured extreme highs and lows of life.  The power of  a bond formed over a tasty dish is not to be underestimated.

I have long believed that good food, good eating is all about risk. Whether we’re talking about unpasteurized Stilton, raw oysters or working for organized crime ‘associates,’ food, for me, has always been an adventure. —–Anthony Bourdain

It's no surprise that I love food as I do.  I grew up in a family that loved food and was not afraid to try even the most exotic treats.  The only challenge I could ever hope to win on Survivor is the food challenge -- I am fearless when it comes to food, and I have a cast iron stomach.  We Villamars were born and raised that way.  I've eaten dinnuguan (involves pig's blood), goat, snails, squid, beetles, frogs legs, duck embryo, and tripe.  We are a tolerant people, the Villamars, but we have no patience for those who show weakness in the face of unfamiliar food.  The fastest and surest way to be accepted into the family was to feast heartily on the concoctions served at our table.  The boyfriends my sister and I brought home -- the smart ones, anyway -- picked up on that right away.  We immediately took pity on the ones who said they would just have some salad.

The 2010 4-H Fair

The 4-H CLub held its annual fair last weekend.  The four H s' stand for "Head, Hands, Heart, and Health."  The 4-H Club members pledge goes like this:  I Pledge My Head to clearer thinking, My Heart to greater loyalty, My Hands to larger service and My Health to better living for my Club my Community my Country and my World.  The fair is held every year at the Caroll County Farm Museum.

Welcome to the 4-H Fair

Farm scenes such as this one were on display.

My favorite event this year was the antique tractor square dance. 
There was a "caller" calling out square dance positions, and the tractors would "dosey doe".

 More square dancing

There was a "tractor pulling" contest for little kids. 
Check out this guy's outfit, complete with cowboy hat and boots. 

Looks like this little piggy is taking a little nap.

A youngster prepares to display his prizewinning ewe "Monster".

Fashionable female sheep farmers.

"Jagger, meet your future source of milk."

Jagger says he prefers mommy's milk.

Snack:  Dutch style funnel cake and lemonade

Who says size doesn't matter?  This corn collector is the biggest
piece of farm equipment I have ever seen.

I was willing to move out to the country, but I draw the line at driving giant tractors.

The tire is big enough to sleep Skyler.

I call this "Filipino American Gothic."

Date Night

In front of the Washington Memorial in Mt. Vernon

Last night was Randy's and my first time out with someone other than my mother babysitting Jagger.

The Babysitting Dream Team:

•  Juvy, former nanny, loving maternal type
•  Gilbert, Iraqi war veteran, head of security for the children, black belt in judo
•  Glen, nurse-in-training, black belt in judo, dog whisperer - necessary for Jetsam's happiness
•  G.R., IT and media specialist, necessary for successful operation of DVD player, black belt in judo 

Site of our date: 

• Maisy's, http://www.maisys.com/, 313 North Charles Street, Baltimore, creative American food with great wine bar
• Our friendly server:  Levi

The menu: 

• Appetizers -- onion tart, blue corn battered calamari
• Entrees --  ceasar salad with steak for me, whole romaine hearts with crab meat and steak for Randy
• Dessert -- chocolate chip cookie pie with vanilla bean ice cream
• Beverage --  copious amounts of wine 
• NOT on the menu  -- chicken fingers

Gas to get us to and from Baltimore:  $20.00.

Android cell phone used to call to check on the kids 10 minutes after arriving at the restaurant:  $150.

Dinner and tip:  $100.00.

Babysitter:  $50.00.

Cosmetic surgery to reverse the signs of aging caused by the stress of getting dressed and out of the house on time:  $2,500.00.

Cost in 1815 to build the George Washington Monument in Mt. Vernon, where we took a walk after dinner:  $100,000.

Time alone together:  Priceless.

The Blogger's Dilemma

So I'm at my official place of blogging -- the breakfast table -- attempting to entertain and amuse the small group of readers who officially and unofficially follow my blog, and  my psyche feels the not insignificant weight of pressure.  Even though I began this blog as my method of relaxation, a purely selfish form of recreation that I can pursue any time of the day when the kids are in camp/school/bed/free play, I weakly permit myself to be influenced by someone else's blog about the Top Ten Rules for writing a successful blog.  Although it has never been my intention to blog for any reason other than for fun, I cannot get the Top Ten Rules out of my head. One of the Top Ten Rules is to post something new at least three times per week.  I have to admit that I am really thrilled that there are people who are reading my blog faithfully, and some who even call me to ask when I am going to post something new, so although I initially thought I wanted to write a blog just to write, I have come to the realization that I want to write a blog to be read. Therefore, this bit of advice about how to write a successful blog is nagging at me.

Becoming a blogger has changed my perspective.  Now, every event, conversation, and observation goes through a blogworthiness filter.  It's sort of like Elaine's spongeworthiness analysis on Seinfeld.  I don't want to blog about just anything old subject, notwithstanding the fact that I have blogged about laundry.  My dilemma is this:  I love to spend time with my family, so when I'm not working at the office, I'm home with my kids, husband and dog, reveling in our domesticity, doing things that I love but which are too mundane for anyone to read about in a blog or elsewhere.  In other words, there simply isn't a lot of blogworthy activity right now.  

While I am not without problems, I lead a rather charmed life.  How can such a charmed life suck so much that I don't have enough material to post something new three times per week?  I could blog ad nauseum about the craziness that our job-related and child-centered schedules create, but it wouldn't be all that different from the craziness that is experienced by anyone with a job and/or kids and/or grandchildren.  Everyone's life is crazy and stress-filled, and I don't suppose mine is especially so.   

I love having kids.  I never would have predicted feeling this was when I was unmarried and childless, but becoming a mother is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.  That it happened twice is a grace that I can't quite grasp.  Only God knows what I did to deserve this kind of blessing.  My children have made me discover things about myself that I didn't know could be true:  that I have a large capacity for patience; that I can become sincerely interested in something simply because my child is interested in it; that I am happy to put my wishes second to my children's; that I am capable of loving with such depth; that I can be fierce when I am protecting my children; that 18 years feels heartbreakingly short to me.  I would rather be with my kids than doing anything else in the world. 

Recently, though, I have started feeling the desire to get out once in a while.  I fully acknowledge that there is  a strong possibility that I am the one who suffers most from separation anxiety; the children are fine.  Now that Jagger is almost 10 months old, I think he and I are ready for me to start going out without him to someplace other than my office.   So, tomorrow, Juvy my niece is coming in the evening to babysit. 

Randy and I don't know what we will do with our few couples-only hours.  Probably something simple -- a nice dinner, or a nice dinner and copious amounts of alcohol, or just copious amounts of alcohol.  It doesn't really matter.  My goal is simple:  To venture someplace where chicken fingers is not served.  What's important is that we will be out and I will be carrying a purse, not a diaper bag; Randy will be holding my hand, not pushing the stroller; our conversation will be uninterrupted by a baby squealing with glee at the top of his lungs or a 5-year old with unending questions about millions of subjects; we will be led to a table that has a tablecloth by a hostess who does not have to bring along a cup of crayons; we can eat with our plates in front of us and not off to the side, far away from a baby's reach; and we can leave the restaurant without apologizing for the mountain of crumbs and cheerios on the floor.    It's all so exciting.

And, because I believe in jumping in with both feet, here is another bit of news:  We have a sitter for next weekend as well!  We are going to the Chelsea vs. Milan soccer game at the M&T Stadium in downtown Baltimore, courtesy of Gergana the Sophisticated European Friend.  (My previous post has left her concerned I will leave Finksburg, so she feels motivated to offer me more cosmopolitan diversions to offset the fact that I have penciled in my calendar the smash up derby for next year.)

As I try to develop some semblance of a social life again, I will keep my eyes and ears and nose open for blogworthy experiences.  Stay tuned.

Finksburg -- Wasteland Sweet Home?

I fell in love with this house, which is why we moved to Finksburg.  Before we started house-hunting, I had only ever been to Carroll County once, to visit a client in the local jail.  When I arrived in Carroll County that day, I wondered why in God's name anyone would ever live here.  Let me put it this way:  I am a shopper, and the only stores that I eyed were Truckin' America and Tractor Supply Company.  Carroll County used to be mostly agricultural, and only recently has it been developed.  To be fair to Finksburg, that visit to the jail took place almost 10 years ago.  Recently there has been a lot of movement to this area by young(ish) professionals wanting to get out of the city but not be too far from it.  That would be us.  In fact, we were introduced to the area by our friends, Carl and Gergana.  Gergana is a sophisticated European.  If she could live in Finksburg, then surely it can't be bad, thought I.

There are days when I question my real estate judgment.  Gergana and I have considered circulating a petition to change the town's name.  That would be a start, but doesn't really get to the heart of the matter.  I'm not knocking my community at all.  Finksburg is part of the greater Baltimore area-- there are beautiful houses, blue ribbon public schools, lovely parks, a decent mix of chain and independent restaurants, and acceptable shopping (including Target).  The crime rate is low, and the people here are very friendly.  It's only 20 miles into Baltimore City and 45 miles into Washington, D.C.  But I grew up just outside of Los Angeles, one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world.  By comparison, Finksburg is like a certain unmentionable city in Egypt.  When my children get older I want them to feel like they had a culturally rich upbringing, and sometimes I worry they will be deprived of that because of the effort it takes to access the offerings of a big city.  Randy and I are tired.  I worry we won't  have the energy to make aforementioned effort, and as a consequence, when my children are older they will seem like there were raised in the unmentionable city in Egypt.   

I voiced my concern to Randy on Saturday.  "You wanted this house," he reminded me. 

That is true.  I knew when I pushed this house on him that I would never be entitled to complain about anything associated with it ever, but I loved it so much I didn't care. Randy was on the fence about this house.  Ever so persuasive, I reasoned with him:  "We could buy the house that we like and can easily afford, but you would have to hear me say for the rest of our lives, 'I like our house, but I wish we could have bought that other house.'  OR  we could buy the house that we love even though it costs more, and you could hear me say for the rest of our lives, 'I LOVE our house.'" I guess the thought of listening to me complain about our destination house for the rest of our natural lives was too much for him to bear, because, well, here we are.

"I love our house," I reiterated, "but don't you think we sort of live in a cultural wasteland?"  

Randy gave me this look. A look that I interpreted as saying, we're not moving.  "It's not a wasteland," he said.  But I noticed that he didn't offer anything in the way of support for his position.

Approximately six hours later, Randy came up with something to back up his claim.  He had heard from his new female barber (who has several tattoos and was shot (yeah, with a gun) on July 4th, evidently lived to tell about it, and was back to barbering by July 17th) that there was an event happening that evening that we might be interested in, since I wanted to expose the children to enriching experiences.  The event:  The smash up derby.  Having never been to such an event when I was growing up outside of L.A., I asked him to explain.  Definition:  "It's like bumper cars, but with real cars that are junky, and they go fast." 

And I thought we lived in a cultural wasteland.  Silly me.  What better way to turn out sophisticates than watching cars purposely crashing into each other at high speeds?    

I have to admit, though, that a small part of me is interested in the smash up derby.  Unfortunately, we had prior commitments, so I made a mental note to remember to do it next year.  Really.  No, really.

Randy also reminded me that the 4-H fair is also going to be next weekend.  We have gone to the 4-H fair before.  Last year, Skyler watched piglets being born.  My mother even went with us and saw Alpacas up close and personal for the first time.  We watched sheep being shorn, and learned to identify different cows. 
There is also a carnival circuit that goes from fire department to fire department.  So far we have been to two carnivals this summer, and we plan to go to our favorite one, the Reese Volunteer Fire Department Carnival, on Friday. 

Did I just claim to have a favorite carnival?  I guess I did.  We have made a tradition of going to these local carnivals every summer.  Skyler goes on all the kiddie rides, and Randy goes on the bigger rides with her while I take pictures.  (See pictures following this post).  We always eat dinner there -- usually pit beef and milkshakes -- and then get funnel cakes for dessert.  Skyler comes home with junky prizes and a look of pure contentment.  It's usually on a balmy summer evening, and we always see someone we know -- a neighbor, Skyler's classmate, my hair dresser.  I never went to carnivals when I was a kid -- although there were lots of trips to Circus Circus in Las Vegas -- and I sort of held an aversion to them.  Something about a ferris wheel that is transported on a small trailer bothers me.  But I have actually grown to like carnivals. 

Now that I think about it, last year we attended several Carroll County events that we really enjoyed:

• The roasted corn festival.  My mother was here last summer and saw this advertised in the paper.  She loves corn, so off we went.  For $9.00 per person, you got fried chicken and all you can eat the roasted corn-on--the-cob, served by a volunteer.  We ate tons of corn just before a huge thunderstorm rolled through, soaking everyone. 
•  The peach festival, where there were things made of peach that I didn't know could be made of peach. The cobbler was to die for. 
• The butterfly festival, where you could adopt a monarch butterfly and then track it to see if it made it to Mexico.   (See pictures posted following this blog)
• The home and design show at the Farm Museum, where everything related to taking care of your home was on display.  For some reason a lot of the vendors were giving away wood backscratchers, and Skyler any my mother went on a mission to collect as many as possible. 
• Handbag silent auction at the Carroll Arts Center. 
• Peep Show.  Works of art made of the marshmallow treats.  One of my favorite entries was a bust in the likeness of the singer formerly known as P. Diddy, and it was entitled "Peep Diddy."  Next year, Skyler and I plan to submit an exhibit.  
• Christmas tree farms.  It's great fun to trudge out in the snow, pick the biggest tree that will fit in our house, and watch Randy cut it down with his bare hands and drag it to our truck.  There's always free hot apple cider and hot chocolate, too. 

There are other events that we haven't had the chance to attend yet:  tractor pulls, apple festival, parades, tree-lighting festival.

Okay, so it's not Shakespeare at the Ford Amphitheater, but it's not that bad.  There is a very special feeling that comes with belonging to a community that gets excited about the carnivals and festivals that take place every year.   Upon further thought, I feel fortunate that my kids will have the best of both worlds:  small town and big city experiences.  It really doesn't take much effort to drive into Baltimore or Washington, D.C. - there are tons of museums, ethnic restaurants, the ballet, opera,.  Also, we fly to California regularly still, and we will take the kids on trips to foreign and exotic places.  But it's also nice to have fun in our own back yard.  Upon even further thought, I love our house, which is in this great neighborhood, which is in this neat little town, which holds these fun events that we will turn into fond memories.

Skyler and Mama get ready to catch butterflies

Skyler and Mama get ready to catch butterflies, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Skyler and me (6 months pregnant) at the Reese Carnival

Skyler and me (6 months pregnant) at the Reese Carnival, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Skyler and Randy at Reese carnival

Skyler and Randy at Reese carnival, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Skyler finds a butterfly

Skyler finds a butterfly, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

Little Earthquakes

There was an earthquake in Maryland at 5:00 a.m. today.  I was awake when it happened.  The windows rattled and I felt the house shake a little, but I thought it was just thunder and strong wind.  It was a 3.6 magnitude quake, so it was noticeable.  But what jolted me more than the strength of the quake was that it happened at all.  I didn't know Maryland had any fault lines, let alone an active one.

The last time I felt an earthquake was when I was living in California. I was in college but home for the weekend.  It was past midnight and my friends and I were driving back to my house when the sky turned orange and the streetlights sizzled -- the quake had blown power lines.  My parents had been asleep in their bed.  When my mother heard me come in she came downstairs.  My father stayed in bed and turned on the news.  My mother, always fearing The Big One that has been predicted for California for as long as I can remember, was a bit breathless, but my father remained calm.  His philosophy about natural disasters was that if it's bad enough to kill you, it's bad enough to kill those around you whom you love, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.  What you should fear, he thought, was everyone around you being killed but you being spared and being left all alone in this world.   

Because of my mother's fear of The Big One, we were always prepared with an emergency plan.  At school we had earthquake drills, where we ducked beneath desks, head tucked into laps and arms wrapped protectively over heads.  But at home, the plan was to stand underneath a doorway, which is supposedly the sturdiest part of the house.  Back then both our dining and breakfast tables were glass, so it vexed my mother to no end that we didn't have a table under which to duck when The Big One hit.  Years later she replaced the glass breakfast table for a large wooden one, and our plan changed from standing underneath a doorway to going under that table.  In the trunks of our cars, my mother had packed food, water, medicines, first aid kits, flashlights, flares, and blankets.  At one point someone predicted that The Big One would be so strong that California would break off, drift into the Pacific Ocean, and sink. This precipitated special features on Nostradamus, the accuracy of his prophecies, and references to his works pointing to The Big One happening imminently.  During that time, we packed extra clothes and shoes in the car, too, in case we had to evacuate.  We designated my cousin in Texas to be our check point person in case we weren't at home when The Big One happened and we couldn't find each other in the post-quake chaos. These preparations weren't excessive, either.  It seemed like everyone was equally prepared as we were.  When you live in California, the thought of The Big One is never very far from your thoughts.

My mother feels a certain sense of relief when she stays with us in Maryland because she is free from worry over The Big One.  So when I called her today to tell her about our earthquake, I was surprised by her nonchalance.  "Oh, that's nothing," she said when I told her the magnitude of the quake.  "Remember the Northridge earthquake in 1994 -- that was 6.7," she said.  That quake didn't sink California, but people died, houses collapsed, and parts of a freeway fell.  That might have been The Big One.  Maryland's quake made headline news today, but it was "nothing" to someone accustomed to anticipating a quake so strong that it would sink a sizeble chunk of the continent.

The little earthquake this morning coincidentally took place as I was experiencing a shake up of sorts in my personal life.  My oldest, and one of my closest, friends dumped me by email this week.  From my perspective the disagreement that ultimately led to the disintegration of our relationship seemed minor, but obviously her perception of the events is different.  I have to admit that I have been in shock for the past few days.  But it wasn't the magnitude of the event that got to me, it was the fact that it happened at all.  That she would end our friendship under any circumstances came as a shock the way today's earthquake came as a shock:  I didn't think it was possible.

There was a time when a close friend's "breaking up" with me might have been catastrophic.  But I'm older now, and I've experienced some pretty significant earthquakes in my life.  My father dying unexpectedly was The Big One for me.  That day, a part of me broke off, drifted and sank someplace dark.  But the rest remained intact, as he would have wanted.   Here's the thing about earthquakes:  When you spend years anticipating The Big One, and then The Big One happens and you survive it, other earthquakes are just little ones. 

I feel my friend's absence from my life right now because the our breakup just happened, and in my mind the event is on the front page.  But like today's earthquake, tomorrow it will be old news, but for follow-up stories about how there were no serious injuries or significant structural damage.

Jessica Simpson's Super High Pumps

IMAG0189, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

On Monday, I wore my brand new open-toe platform pumps with 4-inch cork heels designed by Jessica Simpson.

I love these shoes. Although the heels are 4-inches high, and the platform is 1-inch high, making me a towering 5-feet 10-inches tall, these shoes are totally wearable. They don't feel like Uggs, of course, but I can wear them all day at the office, where I have a desk job. To boot, they make my legs look good. There is one teeny problem: They smell like deli meat.

At first, when I was taking the subway into work, I thought someone in the car had packed a bologna sandwich for lunch. But I kept smelling that "sandwich" long after I had settled into my office. I realized then that it was my new pumps. These shoes have a classic design, with the cork heels lending an edgy touch. The 4 inches give my legs a longer, leaner, more toned appearance, the effect of which unfortunately was minimized by the fact that my lower extremeties had the odor of a hunk of meat from the deli counter at the local grocer's. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't like the smell of deli meat. I do! When I'm at a deli. Ordering meat.

I went out earlier in the day to run an errand, and a man passing by me looked and said, "Sexy." But before I could feel either flattered or indignant, the wind shifted, and he wrinkled his nose and sort of pulled his head back, then walked away faster than you can say, "A pound of pastrami, please." Later, I wondered whether he was being sarcastic when he said "sexy" and that what he really meant to convey was "Yah, like it's really sexy to belch after eating salami on rye."

Out in the high temps characteristic of summertime in Baltimore, my new shoes became even more pungent. At one point on the way to my errand, a woman complimented the shoes and asked if they were comfortable. Comfortable! Who cared about comfort. At that point, I was just hoping I wouldn't pass by any hungry dogs.

On my way home that afternoon, on the subway, I was surrounded by a group of what appeared to be grandmothers on their way home from taking their grandchildren to an outing, perhaps at the Inner Harbor. Once I settled in and turned my iPod up to a volume that blocked out other people's chatter but not loud enough to block out emergency announcements, I noticed more than a few of them sniffing the air, looking around to see who was breaking the no eating in the train rule. One of the grandmas caught my eye, and, hoping to avoid being outed as the woman who smells like sandwich fixin's, I subtly tilted my head in a direction away from me, suggesting that it was the man in a dark suit across the aisle who was chomping down on a little cured treat. Then I slipped on my sunglasses and pretended to go to sleep.

At home later that evening, I asked Randy to take a whiff of my shoes. He thought they smelled like something, but he wouldn't describe that "something" as deli meat. My husband has always thought I was olfactory-gifted, able to detect odors nearly as well as Jetsam, our dog. On the other hand, I think Randy is olfactory-challenged, because he needs me to tell him when his shirts get that mildewy smell after being left in the washer too long before drying. I don't know why I bothered asking him about my Oscar Meyer footwear.

The other day I read an article on CNN.com.  Apparently, a group was commissioned to study women and shoes, and the study concluded that in their lifetime, women collect around $24,000 worth of shoes. They needed to commission a group to reach that conclusion? They could have just looked in the closet of their female family members and friends. Randy calls it the biggest understatement of the century to say that I have a lot of shoes. I have been wearing the same size for nearly three decades, so the shoes do add up. Different shoes serve different purposes: work, court, date night, mommy outings, beach, cold weather, and now, deli-meat shopping.

Sardines

IMAG0188.jpg, originally uploaded by NCVillamar.

I miss my father.

I miss him all the time, but I really miss him today. A lot of things make me think of him, and that's okay, because even though when I think of him I get a lump in the back of my throat, and that sort of hollow feeling inside, I like thinking of him. Whenever I think of him, I try to say it out loud, especially if my kids are in the same room, because I want them to be familiar with the word "Papa," and I want them to feel his presence in my life. Because to me, that means that he will be present in their lives, and they will sort of know him, even if only through my talking about him every time I miss him, which is all the time.

What triggered my missing my father today was seeing a tin of sardines in my food pantry. When I moved to Baltimore I was only 25 years old and I didn't know anyone here. The furthest I had ever lived away from my parents was 60 miles. My parents were always worried about me, but they were so good about letting me go. They used to send me care packages because I missed Filipino food. My father always added a couple of tins of sardines -- the exotic kind in spicy sauces. I always told him he didn't have to do that, because although when I lived at home I ate them whenever my father ate them, I didn't really want any. But he said that I should just keep them in the pantry, so that I would have something to eat and would never go hungry, even if I ran out of food.

Inevitably, because I was a poor law student, and because I hated grocery shopping, I would run out of food. I savored the sardines with crackers and cheese, and to me, they tasted absolutely luxurious. In the next care package, I always found more tins of sardines.

Sardines make me feel loved.

I miss my father.

Randy & Nena Plus 2 and a Dog

Okay, so the title doesn't have the same ring to it as Jon & Kate Plus 8, but at least a reality show about my life wouldn't be as annoying as the show about the prolific now-divorced couple and their eight children -- twins and a set of sextuplets. 

Generally, I hate reality TV, but I been riveted to the tv by shows like Intervention and First 48 Hours.  My guilty pleasure used to be the show about Denise Richards, known mostly for being Charlie Sheen's ex and for kissing Neve Campbell in Wild Things.  Randy's reportoire is considerably broader, with shows like Cops, Inside America's Prisons, Dog: The Bounty Hunter, and Operation Repo commanding his attention while his very own reality show called Your Life takes place around him.  I don't mind that he watches these shows.  It's just that I don't get it.  These shows all feature characters who are all, well, clowns, or buffoons, or, okay, I'll say it even if it's politically incorrect, so trashy.  And the predicaments these clowns find themselves in are usually of their own making or due to their stupidity.  I think it's a bad sign when after watching one of these shows the first thing I think is, "Well, that's 30 minutes of my life that I can never get back." 

Randy told me that a new show was coming out that he was interested in seeing, called The Exterminator.  The producers couldn't even come up with a clever title -- it's a show about exterminators, people whose job is to kill bugs and such.  I mean, really, if Hollywood has to resort to that, they should consider giving me my own reality show.  Surely my life could offer up more excitement than stomping out insects.  Think about it, I told Randy, it could be a show about regular people and their regular lives.  The masses would identify with it because it would be just like their lives.  It would be a huge hit. 

So this morning I was imagining what a camera would capture if my life were a reality show. 

The day started off tense, thus creating the type of drama that hooks the audience:  we woke up at 7:15 because Jagger didn't wake us at the usual time of 5:30.  Skyler ran into our bedroom already dressed for summer camp.  Not hearing any noise from Jagger, who only recently began sleeping in his crib in his nursery instead of in our bedroom, I asked Skyler to check on him.  He was sitting up playing by himself and began flapping his arms with glee when he saw his sister.  There's your cute factor.

Having accidentally slept through the night, I am in desperate need of my breast pump.  Okay, that part would have to be edited.  It's not sexy, glamorous or intriguing and it would take up more than half of our half-hour time slot.  Plus, the FCC might fine the network because for sure the powers that be are unelightened and think breastfeeding is more akin to nude sunbathing than nourishing an infant who otherwise would starve to death.

While I dress and feed the kids, Randy has to shave, shower, walk and feed the dog in time to leave to make an 8:30 meeting in downtown.  Oooh, suspense.  Will he make it?  Will Jetsam promptly poop? 

The dog compliant, Randy leaves on time.  I will be working at home today, so rather than taking Skyler to the bus stop so I can make my train to work, I can drop her off at camp.  Having promised her friend A. that we would give him a ride today, we make our way to his house.  But, wait.  The panel in my car indicates that my gas tank is empty.  Uh-oh, more suspense.  I decide that I need to pick up A. before getting gas since the gas station is on the way to camp.  I would of course explain such decisions as the camera closes up on my face.

On the way to camp, I try to entertain Skyler and her friend A.  "A," I say, "do you know how to say tongue twisters?"  "Yes," he answers.  "Let me hear," I say, waiting to hear about Peter Piper picking pickled peppers.  "Tongue twisters," he replies.  He got me there. Skyler laughs hysterically.  Humor, check.

Unfortunately for the network, the ratings will not go up due to an episode wherein I run out of gas and have to push my car while my 5 year old drives.  I make it to the gas station to filler up, and deliver the children to camp on time.  With Jagger in one arm, Skyler holding my other hand, and A holding Skyler's hand, I look like a typical SAHM (stay at home mom) waiting to get home to pop my much needed workout video into the DVD player. 

But here's a twist: I am not a SAHM.  I have a full time job.  I work from home sometimes, but all that means is that I have to do all the things that SAHMs do AND THEN do my lawyer work.  I get Jagger home, feed him his breakfast, and put him down for his nap.  Now here is where it turns into must-see television.  Becuase for the next 2 -3 hours, I will be sitting at the kitchen table or in the morning room reading trial transcripts.  While the transcripts themselves will be filled with intrigue and excitement, that will not translate on camera, because I will just be reading the transcripts, not reenacting them.  Besides that would just turn my reality show into Cops. 

It is at this moment when I realize, with some mortification, that The Exterminator actually provides more entertainment for the masses than my life.  When I was single and childless, I remember reading an article giving advice to new parents. One piece of advice that for some reason stuck in my mind was "Stop telling people all the cute things your kids do or say. No one finds them half as entertaining as you do." Having been duly forewarned, I pull the plug on Randy & Nena Plus 2 and a Dog.   Before Randy & Nena Plus 2 and a Dog is even produced, it is canceled due to projected low ratings. 

The Exterminator features poisonous snakes, disgusting rats, and obscene numbers of cockroaches.  Plus, the Exterminator and his family all dress like circa 1980s heavy metal band members, and while we are not supposed to think they are trashy because that would be politically incorrect, they are.  All of that spells entertainment, baby.  My little family and I can't compete, even if we throw in our personal dramas and whacky adventures. My life is crazy and busy and wonderful and lovely and funny and stressful and filled with action, but maybe not the kind of action that makes for good reality TV. 

Just one more thing about Jon & Kate Plus 8.  I did like the opening sequence on their show.  In it, they say, "It might be a crazy life.  But it's OUR life."  My sentiments exactly.