Reunited

I didn't plan on being the go-to gal for my fifteen year high school reunion. I had a decent enough time in High School and I had friends in all social circles, but I wasn't the Class President, or the Homecoming Queen. I never waived pom-poms at a football game or kissed the quarterback behind the bleachers.

I did attend dances, some with my closest group of girl friends and others with actual dates. Although I think my favorite date was my BFF Kelly to my Junior Prom. We each got one another a corsage and went dress shopping together. She and I were the modern day Anne & Diana of Anne of Green Gables; bosom buddies, kindred spirits.

Homecoming 1995 with Kyle Meador and reunited at our 15-year reunion

After having to change the reunion location three times, we ended up at Churchill Arms pub in Folsom, home of our Alma Mater. Two bands that were playing that night consisted of members of our graduating class so it seemed like the perfect venue.

When I arrived at the Pub there was only one group of girls from High School that I recognized. They were the girls who had waived pom-poms at football games, and made out with the quarter back behind the bleachers.

I told myself that I was no longer sixteen and was an amazing woman who deserved to breathe the same air as them. I walked over and was greeted warmly and thanked for putting the event on. One of them even hugged me, but she had always been sweet to me even in High School. The others still had a bit of a righteous air about them but they were the only ones there I recognized so I stayed and chatted.

They talked about one of the bands that was going to play, Brown Shoe and one of its members, Aaron Baggley, whom we graduated with. The band has done well--has two records and is comprised of four brothers who were blessed with the beauty gene. Aaron was the guy that all the girls wanted in high school. He had and still has, boyishly handsome good looks and a smile that makes any girl go a little weak in the knees. We had reconnected at the ten-year reunion and he had shown a genuine interest in the fact that I was a foster parent.

As the ladies all talked about Aaron and the level of crushes they had on him in high school, Aaron appeared right in front of us. His eyes got big as he said, "Erica! How have you been?!" and hugged me. We chatted for a minute before one of the ladies tried to talk to him. He was polite and answered her question before turning back to me to say he sees the photos of my daughter on Facebook and how adorable she is. After he left the girl next to me hit me in the arm as the rest of them picked their jaws up off the floor.

Cheerleaders 0 Erica 1

It's not like I'm keeping score, but it sort of felt like something you'd see in a movie, and it sure felt good.

Brown Shoe Band--Aaron Baggley second from left

More old friends appeared throughout the night and I ended up reconnecting with a lot of my really good ones, and building deeper friendships with people that I only knew as acquaintances. For the most part, a lot of the people were still the same, most had gotten married and several had children.

If I could go back and do high school over I would not change much--I had a lot of different friends and lots of fun while also getting to experience the embarrassing moments that we all have to suffer through as a high school rite of passage. I wasn't afraid to try out for plays or teams or join clubs, and I hope my daughter feels the same way when she's in high school.

If I could go back and talk to myself, I would say, make sure you enjoy the people in your life while they are there, realize that girls hold power over teenage boys, and not to worry about Windy, she ends up pregnant and working at Old Navy.

Bon Appetit

I am not much of a cook. I mean I'm not a complete waste of space, I can boil noodles and do the basics. I wouldn't invite you over for dinner though. To me that implies that you are going to be treated to a meal, and how much of a treat is spaghetti sauce from a jar?

It's not that I don't enjoy entertaining or having people over and if you cooked me something out of a jar, I'd be grateful, I just get too self conscious. I'm afraid you're going to take one look at what I'm preparing and turn your nose up. Or worse, push your food around your plate and leave hungry. That's what happens when you come from a family of people who really know what they're doing in the kitchen--people who know what ramekins are for and how to use them. Last year Rachel Ray made her gnocchi recipe look so easy my toddler could accomplish it.

Rachel Ray's a liar. 

After a long day of work I made a special trip to the store to get the ingredients. It was a disaster. I ended up throwing away my oddly discolored potatoes and wasted eggs in the trash. A friend of mine who is married to a French baker and is an accomplished cook herself tried to make me feel better by telling me gnocchi is hard to make, but I still felt like a failure.

When I was growing up my step-dad, Alan, or Chef Muck as I liked to call him, had my little brother and I prepare and cook a fancy meal for the rest of the family. He had us prepare an appetizer, main dish, and dessert. I have no idea what I made, but I do remember the dessert. It was vanilla bean ice cream which seemed unique to my adolescent taste buds in itself, but we topped it with a raspberry Grand Marnier sauce. I will never forget the taste of that sauce. It felt like the first time my mouth had come alive from a flavor.

My brother made us sushi, and I only remember that because there's a photo of him dressed in a Japanese headband holding a platter of sushi rolls. He married a chef, so it seems he too had the idea of eating good food impressed on him.

My step-mother, Stella, also had an affinity for cooking. She was Assyrian and introduced me to foods most American kids my age never try. She used to put me in charge of mixing the hamburger meat and making the hamburger patties. I can still smell the oddly comforting scent of ground beef mixed with salt, pepper, and every once in awhile, dried onion soup mix. Even during those years of middle school and high school when I became a vegetarian after watching a film in science class that went behind the scenes of a meatpacking factory, she kept me in charge of the meat mixing. Truth be told, I enjoyed it. To this day I have yet to taste Baklava that can compare to hers.

I am decent at cleverly frosting cupcakes and I do make some yummy banana swirl Nutella muffins. I once made an entire vegetable garden out of cupcakes, candy and other edible items that I molded to look like little heads of lettuce (conrflakes coated in pale green frosting), and carrots complete with a "just pulled from the ground" look (molded Starbursts rubbed with cinnamon).

These aren't the ones I made but they looked exactly like this. 

Photo Credit to Jacqueline Bianche

However if you asked me to make Cornish games hens, wait, that's it! I honestly just remembered what I made for my meal all those years ago--Cornish game hens. Maybe I'm not as inept in the kitchen as I thought.

A few years ago my mother-in-law gave me Martha Stewart's Cooking School book as a gift. Most would have taken it as a hint, which I'm sure it partially was, but it was the first time a cookbook actually answered the questions most novice cooks are too embarrassed to ask. How do you properly steam an asparagus and the likes. I still call and ask her things like, "How long and what temperature for a yam?" I'm sure she's lost hope for me in the kitchen.

But it doesn't mean I won't trust my culinary abilities in the future. In fact, I will make it a point to cook new things. Most importantly, I will try to impress upon my daughter the joys of cooking so that one day, she won't be intimidated by ramekins and Tarte Tatins.

On my first attempt at cooking with my daughter, I had her make couscous and although she was very proud of herself and loved that she was able to help in the process of making dinner, I felt like we should take the next step and be more adventurous than a boxed item.

The next week I decided to let her brown her own ground turkey for the spaghetti sauce. She sat there patiently, watching it change colors and flipping it around every once in awhile. I was surprised at how much attention she gave the whole process. The best part was when she took the leftovers to school the next day and beamed with pride when her teacher and friends found out that she had made it herself.

So the sauce was from a jar, but she cooked the ground turkey to go in it!

Cooking with my daughter sort of feels like I get a second chance. I can start easy and no one is expecting a culinary masterpiece from a three year old. I may never be the kind of cook that others seek tips from or treasured recipes but for the time being I do have one adoring fan who thinks I'm a culinary genius.

Doggone It

This week has been exhausting and I just don't have it in me to write a blog, so I'll leave it to our furry child, Ramsey to share this week. Enjoy.

Hey there. I'm Ramsey, named after chef Gordon Ramsay--one of my mom's was into the show Kitchen Nightmares when I was born. I'm a three year old black lab. I like to eat, wag my tail, run, eat, lick, wag my tail, then repeat.

I live for adventure. I love my family, especially my mom who takes me for rides in her truck. I am free as a bird in her truck. Sometimes she even lets me run in the woods. I was born to be in this family. They recently brought home this little girl--she's cute and drops so much food on the ground that I look past the tail pulling and trying to ride me like a horse. Life is good.

This is me and my little sister on 4th of July. She doesn't have fur, but we still love her the same.

I like when they take my picture. I've been told I'm handsome, whatever that means. 

Last Saturday my mom took me for a ride in her truck. I was so excited. We were going down the Highway and there were so many smells and sights that I leaped towards them and broke my chain. The last thing I remember was hitting the ground and my mom running towards me on the road. I had to go to the doctor, at least that's what my little sister kept saying.

There were lots of nurses and doctors and my mom's cried, a lot. Then they gave me this stuff that made me dream of chasing deer and bunnies and I slept for a long time. When I woke up I heard this guy with a mask telling everyone it was one of the worst open would fractures he's seen. I guess the guy is good at playing board games because they called him the jigsaw puzzle master--I had eight pieces of bone in my leg and he put them back together again.

I finally got to go home yesterday and all I could think of was eating scraps off the floor, playing fetch, running next door to poop on the neighbors lettuce, and laying in the sun with the other furry child in our house, Simba. He's a cat. Something tells me I'm supposed to eat him, but he's just so good at snuggling... 

My excitement was short lived when my mom put me in the laundry room and told me that's where I was going to have to stay--for six weeks. I don't know how long that is but by the look in her eyes, it's a long time. I've only been let out to go pee. Even then I have to be on a leash. Things are gonna get awkward when I have to take a poop.

I think they'll let me have visitors. Perhaps one of you could bring some bacon, and a lock pick. 

Love and licks, Ramsey

Practically Magic

In the year 2000, I got my first apartment at the age of twenty with Melissa, a girl who worked at an Italian restaurant. She was a few years older than me and had a fun outgoing personality, the kind that made you want to be spontaneous and adventurous.

Her back sported a tattoo of a dog wearing a confederate flag. Oh--and she had once been a stripper.

I was just on the eve of having my first serious relationship, I was in college, I worked at Border's Books--you get the picture, we were different.

I'm pretty sure she was an alcoholic with big emotional problems (think faked miscarriage) but she did mean well and was a loyal friend--except for taking off with the apartment deposit money a year later.

She introduced me to people who were unlike any of my other friends back home in suburbia and I had life changing experiences during the time we lived together--some good (think best night of your young life mixed with euphoria and the giggles) and some ugly (think sobbing on the floor, mascara running down your face).

She once told me a story about how the owner of the strip club she worked at had been slow dancing with his wife to Prince's "Little Red Corvette," when someone came into the club and fired shots, killing his wife.
Who has stories like that? I thought that only happened in the movies. She could have been lying but I heard her tell the story on multiple occasions.

She took me to my first strip club, and I don't remember anything because I was three sheets to the wind (always wondered where that saying came from). The one thing I do remember was a Russian man asking me to come to his car--pretty sure I dodged a bullet there.

For those of you who have seen the movie Practical Magic, you will remember a scene where they have Midnight Margaritas. That was the kind of things she made me do, only hers were combined with running through the sprinklers. She was the Gillian Owens--sexual, daring and rebellious, to my Sally Owens-- practical, reserved, and cautious.

I learned a lot from my experiences with her and that life we created in our little Sacramento apartment. She made me push my comfort levels and try new things. She also got me to pick up smoking menthol cigarettes, a short lived experience, and the worse hangover to date. It was one of those times in life that seemed magical, but was pretty dark.

I found her on Myspace years ago and she apologized for the things that happened but when I wrote her back she never responded. She had a boyfriend or husband, not sure, and a baby girl. I just checked my old Myspace account and her last name has been changed and she lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I doubt her kid(s) even have a clue about half of the things she's done in life--which probably goes for the majority of us. Her stories give the term "a misspent youth" a whole new meaning.

In retrospect there are many things she guided me through; valuable life lessons that you can only learn by doing and experiencing. As dysfunctional as we may have looked from the outside or in hindsight, we were just what the other needed at that time in our lives. There's a reason opposites attract--she helped coax out my inner siren and I calmed the chaotic seas inside her.

Don't be afraid to take the path less traveled my friends, and always put the lime in the coconut and drink them both up.

Girls

Girls can be down right mean to one another. The "you can't play with us," starts as young as Preschool. Girls can be their worst enemy and can be each other's worst nightmare. I can remember being in the second or third grade and walking out on the playground when out of nowhere a little girl maybe a year or two older than me, decided she didn't like the look of me and yanked me to the ground by my hair. That was my first experience with a serious mean girl.

As a Women's Studies major I have done a lot of research, contemplating, reading, thinking, speaking, and writing, on this topic. I could, but won't go into who is to blame, the list it too long and most of you would stop reading because we've dealt with it or heard about it our whole lives. If you really want more answers or need girl friend advice, visit the Friendship Blog. I think we have bigger things to worry about and pitting women against one another or talking about how "bitchy" we all are--it only adds fuel to the fire.

For example, did you know that California women only make 85% of what a man makes for doing the same job? Now that's something we should be focusing on. I think we let petty things get in the way of real issues and if we as women, the majority mind you, grouped together to tackle problems that all women face, we would not only be happier and healthier, but less inclined to claw the eyes out of the woman next to us.

I think a lot of things boil down to confidence. I think we are all born with confidence and for some people it gets "knocked down" or worn away by life, other people, and certain experiences. I have always been fairly confident in my abilities. Don't get me wrong, there are days when I allow others to tell me my dreams are made of pipes, but I still dream them. For instance, my dream is to one day own my own Tea Shop. My families running joke is, "You might as well open up a Smoke Shop, since its' a pipe dream." Joking aside, they would support me no matter what. (*I plan on charging them double as retribution.)

There's a great article on confidence over at the Tiny Buddha. It is not only a reminder on how to build confidence but how to live the life you want.

If you're too lazy to click the link, I'll summarize:

• Know your strengths and weaknesses
• Trust your Capabilities/Believe in yourself
• Expect Success
• Take risks
• Learn to Receive Praise

It's never too late to be the person you have always wanted to be. Treasure your true friends and cultivate friendships with the women in your life that you respect and trust. Be kind to one another and for all the ladies reading this, don't judge other women. You have no idea what kind of day they have had, or what road they've had to travel. I have found that when a woman seems to be glaring at me, the best response is to smile. Once, a woman with "poop lip" (a face scrunched up in disgust, as if smelling poop) was staring at me and my smile stopped her. She smiled right back.  I don't think she even realized she was making that face, but my smile made her change her whole demeanor. 

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined." -Henry David Thoreau

Keep Calm & Marry On

June 26th 2013 was a big day for my family. Our daughter ran away in Safeway and they had to announce her name over the PA, asking her to come to customer service. I don't know if they've met a three year old but that tactic was not going to be successful. Luckily a friend found and returned her to me. The San Francisco Giants also got swept by the Dodgers—that was a hard pill to swallow.

There was also this other little thing that happened. The Supreme Court decided that it was unconstitutional to deny same sex couples the right to marry in California. I think it had a little something to do with separation of Church and State—you know, not allowing one religion to dominate an entire counties set of beliefs—but I've been a “bad” Catholic lately, so I could be wrong.

I have been fortunate to have supportive people in my life, people that continued to love me even after I came out. Some of them have even gone above and beyond and are crusaders and champions for gay rights, people who  aren't even gay themselves, yet see the need to speak up and aren't afraid to do so.

Our phones and emails were fairly quiet all day. No one called to say, "Congrats," or "Wow, what a momentous day!" I got an email from a friend of my little brothers who was so excited he had to email me, the only "married" lesbian he knew. His enthusiasm and genuine appreciation for equality was extremely touching.

I think most people forget or don't fully understand what it's like to be denied a right that seems so basic. Our families threw Alissa and me a fabulous wedding in 2010, and although it wasn't "legal," it was a wedding in every sense of the word. That was their way of saying they believed in our love and our rights.  

I have lost some "friends" over this battle for gay marriage. For the most part it all boils down to religion. They believe that it's wrong for same sex couples to marry, that their religion and morals can't permit it. I am totally okay with that. Why? Because everyone is entitled to religious freedoms.  You may believe in one God and religion, and someone else another. That doesn't mean that your beliefs are more important.

Your religion can choose to not accept gay marriage, but your religion doesn't get to make decisions that legally deny someone the right to marry. Your church has every right to ban gay marriages to take place within their walls, but that doesn't mean it can ban people from marrying elsewhere.

Why couldn't we be okay with saying, "You can have your marriages in your churches, we will have ours in the churches that allow same sex marriage, or on beaches, in homes, City Hall, etc." and be done with it? I will never understand the argument that says marriage is between a man and a woman because my religion tells me so, therefore it's the law. Yes, it may be the "law" in your church, but one can’t be so narcissistic to think their religion has the power to create laws for the rest of us.

Should atheists be denied marriage as well?

I'd like to share the story of my friend Tom Paniccia, an openly gay Air Force sergeant who spoke up in a Senate Committee hearing in 1993 regarding Don't ask Don't tell. He appeared on Good Morning America and fought for equality.  The guy had gumption and wasn't afraid to be who he was.

Tom and I worked together in 2004 on a job with the State of California. There we met Jamie, a Pastor’s son. Tom and Jamie became very close and eventually Tom became the Outreach Coordinator of the church where Jamie’s dad was the Pastor, and in turn, the Pastor became a mentor to Tom. Unfortunately this Pastor told him that he had to live a life of celibacy or be turned away from God.  Tom followed the strict guidelines of the church and tried to be a model member of the congregation, torn between who he was & who the church told him God wanted him to be.

Tom killed himself in 2007.

Our actions and words have power. When we deny someone equality or shame them for being who they are, we send a message that it's okay to treat someone as an "other," as "second class." The suicide statistics in the LGBT community, especially among its youth, are staggering.  Let's try to live with a little more compassion and a lot less judgment. 

Here’s to you Tom, Courtney Puffer, & all those that took their lives or lost them tragically, just for being you. May you rest easier knowing that today we live in a better world. 

Note: If you are gay and have thought about suicide, there's help out there & people just like you. Check out the Trevor Project and It Gets Better. 

Brown Santa

My partner who works for UPS works hard-not like most of us who can troll the internet, catch up on Facebook, or play Candy Saga Crush (a game I have yet to let myself succumb to) from our desk jobs. There’s no coffee “meetings” at Starbuck’s or lunch dates with an old friend for her. She goes in at 9am, and comes home whenever she’s done delivering packages. When she’s not driving, she’s running through town, trying to meet her time quota and rearranging her truck on her lunch break. From 9am to usually 7pm, she’s running nonstop.

I would collapse from exhaustion around stop 2. I’d probably just roll up to a house or office, throw open the doors and honk the horn. If that didn’t get a response I’d chuck the package out the door, hope it landed safely, and forge the receiver’s signature as I sped away.

One day while I was checking Facebook statuses from home (not work, just in case any of my employees are reading) I saw a friends post who said he couldn’t wait for “Brown Santa” to arrive with his package. By that he meant the UPS driver clad in brown that brings him packages. I instantly fell in love with the idea and as soon as Alissa walked in the door I said, “Brown Santa is home!” For most of us who are expecting a package from UPS it’s because we’re eagerly awaiting a present or a coveted item we found on Etsy (I shamelessly plugged my own shop, but this place really is great for finding all sorts of awesome items). Perhaps in the future we can all see our driver as a jolly bearer of gifts rather than some peon that is late in delivering packages. 

Check out this funny video done by UPS driver, Ken Jones from Springdale, Arkansas:

However, some people feel the need to give “Santa” an earful or make outrageous demands, such as, “Walk these ten fifty pound boxes all the way across my chain drugstore, even though there’s a designated drop off post,” or “Wait here while I rearrange my stock room to make room for these fifteen boxes. You’re not in a hurry, right?”  My all time favorite is “I know I ordered this package C.O.D, but I’d like you to sit here and wait for me to open it up and see if I really want what’s inside.”

Do you expect this of the real Santa? Do you stand by the chimney at night and tell the big guy you’d like to open the presents before he floats away on reindeer to see if it’s what you really wanted? I mean that would be nice, but not the Christmas spirit.  Granted the difference is you paid for the items being dropped off by UPS, and the driver is a real person (Well so is Santa but don’t tell anyone I still believe).  Shouldn’t this be even more reason to treat the drivers with kindness?

So the next time you see that UPS driver running by, give them a smile. If your package doesn’t arrive on the day that you expected, remember that they have no control of the weather in Atlanta or that accident on I-5. Instead of waiting to pay for the C.O.D or asking what’s in the package (Do you expect them to have x-ray vision?) just pay up, sign the board and say thank you. The longer you take, the longer my family has to wait for our Brown Santa to come home, delivering love and hugs, or in my case, dinner!

This customer was so excited for this final part they were waiting on that they took a picture of their UPS driver. Don't forget, drivers love to be remembered around the Holiday's. Last year "we" got the best homemade cookies I've ever tasted. Lucky for me, Alissa doesn't like Oatmeal in her chocolate chip cookies. 

Ghosts

I have never understood people who treat service workers as people who are less than, that for whatever reason they do not deserve your proper respect and appreciation. Maybe my understanding comes from having been raised in households that owned and operated small businesses.  Perhaps it’s because I have been working since the age of fifteen and have had a slew of menial low wage professions along the way.

While attending Humboldt State University in 2001, I got a job at one of the coolest places in town to work, The Minor Theatre. 

Houdini himself even performed there, the trap door is still intact. This was the place where the cool kids slung popcorn that the hip natives could sprinkle yeast on that was provided complimentary. The cashier’s could let in their friends and were privy to “Midnight showings” of all the new releases.

I was the janitor.

I got to clean up after the midnight porn shows, scrub the urinals, check the mice traps and for a special treat every once in awhile I got to run petrified from the 1914 three room theatre, equipped with a balcony, sure that I had just seen a ghost. (Side note: The place really is haunted. Several people have claimed to see a little girl in white in the balcony seating.)

The best day was when I was enthusiastically (out of fear, not the joy of cleaning) climbing the stairs of said balcony and smacked my head on a speaker. It knocked me out cold; I fell flat on the walkway, luckily avoiding any chairs.

The next thing I knew I felt a sharp pinch on my arm, almost like a tiny bite. It shocked me awake and as I collected myself I couldn't help but think it was that little girl in the white dress, making me come to. I cleaned by myself so who knows how long I would've laid there.

I wasn't so scared after that day, although some probably would've quit, I felt like we had a mutual understanding after that. I would allow her to stay there and scare the shit out of people and she would let me work in peace, even come to my aid if need be. I ended up in the ER that night with a concussion and the ligaments in my neck torn, but that’s another story in itself.

This is opening night in 1914. My favorite are the two girls in white hats. I have looked at this photo so many times I feel as though it's a family photo.

One day I was mopping the tiles outside and a man stopped to ask me a question about a movie that I didn't know the answer to so I told him, “I don’t know, I’m just the janitor.” To which he replied, “You’re not just the janitor. Your work is important too.” It made me stop and think about the roles we all play and how a little kindness can go a long way, especially to those who do the jobs that most don’t want.

I eventually became a concessionaire and then a cashier and even started to be trained as a projectionist. The tales were all true. There was drinking, parties, wild nights, and popcorn with as much yeast as I wanted! The best part was that I made lifelong friends with some of the most interesting people.

Moral of the story, people who clean urinals are people too, please aim wisely. 

Flawed

I like to look at my family as a little matryoshka each of us represents a different doll, a different layer, and we all fit together as one. There’s our daughter Sophia, age three, my partner Alissa, who works for UPS, and me, a Preschool Director. Of course there’s much more to us than just what we do for a living. One of those layers is Foster and Adoptive Parent. Our journey through hell, err, adoption started for me in 2007, and together in 2008. Now, I don’t mean this as a deterrent to adoption, it has been the best thing that has ever happened to me, hands down. It’s the journey itself that, should you choose to accept, should end with knighthood or sainthood. I’m not joking.  Make a bronze statue of my face and erect it on a monument.

Normally I’m pretty modest, you don’t catch me talking about the sacrifice and heartache we’ve gone through, we just simply foraged ahead, like so many others.  Some might think stupidity or naivety kept us going but I like to think of it was unrelenting optimism and hopeless romanticism.

What I think my sculpture would like & what they'd probably give me.

Our first love Lia came to us when she was one month old. We went to court to establish de facto parent rights nine months later. She was the best baby I have ever met, and working with infants each day, that says a lot. She slept through the night, rarely cried, and was generally a happy baby. Except for the days she came back from visits with her biological parents. On those days she came home fussy & agitated, sort of like Roseanne Barr during her show Roseanne, not Roseanne the Macadamia Nut farmer.  I’m guessing it was from the 8oz bottle they would insist she needed to eat even though she only drank 4oz bottles and had already eaten before every visit.

The overburdened social worker aid that was actually doing the job of the social worker would comment on how fussy she would be during visits and assumed she was generally an unhappy baby. The social workers in Fort Bragg, which I’m guessing are like most departments, only care about one thing, reunification.  A court date was set to determine if Lia should remain in foster care or be reunified with her bio parents. We came with our paperwork, prepared hopeful that things would go our way and Lia would not be placed with her bio parents who, just take my word, were unfit.

While waiting in the same room as her bio parents, the mother’s lawyer said that her “pee test” had come back dirty. Halleluiah! We knew she was back to drinking and doing drugs, and this proved it. The mother made all sorts of excuses, “Oh I did have a glass of wine at Christmas,” and, “Maybe it was the Nyquil I took for that cold.” We walked into the courtroom, our foster daughter’s attorney and the social workers sat on one side and her parents and their lawyers on the other. When it came time for the social workers to give their opinion on whether or not Lia should go back to her bio parents, this is what they said, “We believe they have taken the necessary steps and the child should be placed back into their custody.”

Hearts broken, no, shattered.

I do not know what these “necessary steps” were. I’m guessing they are along the lines of…

1.       Abuse the system.

2.       Continue to live as you have in the past; drugs, alcohol, etc.

3.       Get a job, but no one will check on you a week later to see if you’ve kept it.

4.       Continue to receive welfare even though your child is no longer in your custody.

5.       Learn how to manipulate everyone around you.

I wish I could say this story has a happy ending for our little Lia, but alas, her father was just arrested for raping a young woman who was living with them.

The foster care system is flawed to say the least.

Future Gold Medalist

My three year old started taking private swim lessons this week. She was three feet tall at age two, nice wide shoulders, so naturally, we've already planned her future as an Olympic swimmer. We'll settle for professional goalie of the Women's US team too, she's just too young to start soccer. I intend to keep her in that pool long past the "prune" stage, have her tread water for a good 30 minutes each day, you know, start her out slow.

I can't tell if she's swimming away in fear...nah, just keep swimming, you'll be Natalie Coughlin in no time.

(Disclaimer: the above is what's known as sarcasm.) 

The Day Penelope Became Pete

Last year we got a guinea pig as a pet for the Preschool. I tell you she was the cutest rodent (although I would never call her that to her face mind you) I had ever seen.

This photo really doesn't do her justice. What you can't see is her adorable all white behind.

This is the Bio posted on her home (okay, I made most of it up, but I'm sure she'd agree):
Full name: Penelope Jane
Born: June 13, 2012
Likes-apples, playing tag, water, being read to
Dislikes-People tapping on her glass house
Favorite Books: The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Pride & Prejudice
Favorite Color: Blue

We all fell in love with her and wanted what was best for her, and according to the experts, it was another guinea pig. About six months later we welcomed another little girl guinea pig into our family and they even got a deluxe 50 gallon tank as a new home!

Here she is, Isabella, named after the little girl who loved her dearly & was sad to her go, but happy for us.

Full name: Isabella Corduroy
Born: December 29, 2012
Likes: playing hide and seek, traveling, dressing up
Dislikes: Being left all alone
Favorite Books: Olivia & the Fairy Princess, Diary of a Wombat
Favorite Color: Purple

The guineas seemed happy and started making all sorts of fun new noises and were constantly playing tag and hide and go seek, as previously mentioned in their Bio's. Life was great. Then on May 7th I walked into the classroom and saw this...

It turns out, those "experts" were right, guinea pigs do love company, unfortunately, they also didn't know how to properly sex a guinea pig. Oops. It has made for some fun classroom conversations. My favorite was from a four year old who when talking about how mommy's carry their babies in their tummy's, he replied, "Mine carried me in her shoe." I love my job.

Best Laid Plans

I had the day planned for months. Send the little one to grandma and papa's for the night, book a suite at The Andiron in Little River, CA, for our fifth anniversary of being a couple, seemed fitting since that's where we got married and I adore the place (You will too, go on, pick up the phone and reserve a cabin. We've stayed four times and have always chosen the William & Mildred Suite, for sentimental reasons, but I've been inside each cabin because we rented out the whole place for our wedding, & they are all uniquely charming). We arrived, only an hour late, not too bad for parents of a three year old, and immediately I sprawled out on the king size Sealy Posturepedic bed, champagne in one hand, and a book in the other. I planned to stay there until they kicked me out. Maids were going to have to knock, say housekeeping, turn the key and still find me in that bed, then roll me out whilst changing the sheets, shaking out the crumbs, books, champagne bottle, and empty Ben & Jerry's pint.

This is what I had in mind, and what I got to experience for about ten minutes...

Then all was changed by a ringing phone. There's no service out there, so when I heard the old fashioned black phone ringing in the other room I bolted out of bed, unsure of what was happening. Was it Scott up at the Inn's office, telling me we were fabulous and deserved a complimentary bottle of wine? Yes it was Scott! No. He was not offering wine. My in-laws were at the emergency room. Fear set in as I imagined our daughter needing stitches or a cast, but he calmed my nerves a bit when he said she was okay. Turns out something my mother-in-law ate did a number on her, so bad so that she was in excruciating pain and had to be taken to the ER. I retold the story to my partner who was in the shower-a shower later she would confide was the best shower she'd had in months. That's what a good shower comes down to when you have a child; no one peeking there head in, asking what you're doing ten times in a row. Then I dashed back to Fort Bragg, which is a good twenty minutes away. Once in the ER I found my father-in-law was managing to keep our daughter entertained, asked how grandma was, "No word as of yet," then headed back to the Andiron, feeling happy that my mother-in-law was not in a life or death situation, but feeling a little defeated. The rest of the day consisted of entertaining our daughter, but there was a little more lying in bed with my book, it wasn't uninterrupted, but I did get a foot rub (Yes!!) and more champagne (double Yes!!). 

Our daughter however had the time of her life...

I'd say that one day we too will get to have that big of a smile on our face from getting whisked away to a beautiful Inn, but the truth is, once you have a kid, nothing is certain or set in stone. On the bright side, she makes our heart smile everyday, so we're pretty damn lucky. I mean, how can you not feel okay with missing out on a romantic weekend when you see that scrunched up nose smile?

p.s. We'll always have The Andiron, July 10, 2010. And, Scott DID give us a bottle of wine in the end!

Finding the littlest Matryoshka

If you've read the title of this Blog then it should come as no surprise that I have a thing for Matryoshka's. It started when I was a little girl and shook a bright red Matryoshka that stood, red lipped and smiling, on a shelf in my grandmother's house. Her little wooden eyes encouraging me to pick her up, and upon hearing the rattle inside, I only found my curiosity peaked that much more. After a minute or so of forcefully shimmying her waistline to and fro, out popped another little red lipped beauty, and then another, and another, and just when you think there couldn't possible be one more, there she is, the littlest of the Matryoshka's, or as like to call her, la petite Matryoshka, which isn't really proper considering they originated in Russia, but my Russian needs some work, well, so does my French for that matter.

It wasn't until a trip to Ellis Island in 2011 that I finally purchased my very own set of nesting dolls. I walked into the section marked "Russia" and my little heart went all aflutter. Dozens of little nesting dolls in all shapes and colors! It took me a good twenty five minutes to finally decide on one.

From here on out I won't be bombarding you with images and tales of Matryoshka's, okay, well I probably will a few more times. I just wanted to start out by telling you how the idea got started and how I look forward to talking about all sorts of things, and unraveling the beautiful, comical, and interesting pieces of life, one little layer at a time.