Feeling a little under inspired today - first day at a new job will do that to a girl. I sat through 9 hours of orientation. Gawd it was awful. I ate three cookies and drank 6 cups of Farmers Brew coffee just to keep myself awake through the “How to avoid infections diseases” portion  of the day. At some point the word “sputum” was used, which caused my drowsy head to jerk into an upright position and I wondered whether or not I had chuckled out loud or just dreamed that I did.

On the home front, my mom is in town watching the kiddos for me this week. Her first day went off without a hitch, except Josh karate kicked his crib in a (successful) attempt to avoid a nap. He actually managed to dislodge the whole side of the crib and it fell to the floor, with him riding it like a wave. So, long story short…he starts his MMA training next week. Kimbo’s got nothing on my little whitebread brawler. I’m sure he’ll be sporting gold teeth and matching contusions over each eye by 3rd grade, asking everyone to refer to him as the White Heat.

Assuming the children don’t burn down the house and I don’t encounter any infections “sputum” at work, I should make it through this week with lots to write about.

The other day I was running at the local high school track. There was a guy running behind me who decided after a few laps to switch directions. After doing so we ended up passing each other twice every time we went around the track. After passing each other approximately 10 times with no eye contact or acknowledgement, I decided to be friendly. Here was the exchange:

Me: Same pace, huh?

Dude: Yeah! Good for you!

Excuse me?

For the next two laps I kept going over what he said in my mind. Was he serious? Yeah good for you? What does that mean? Was he trying to say that he was some sort of stud and I was lucky I could keep up with him? I was incensed. Who says such stupid things?

Cut to two days later, Kevin and I are running at the beach with the kids. The boys are in the BOB stroller and Kevin is pushing them. A guy passes us and says:

Guy: You are making him do all of the work!

Me: Yeah because I had to push them out!

Did I just say that?

Apparently my quick judgement of the guy at the track was ill advised, because when running, who knows what may come out of your mouth.

I realized the other day that I have really high expectations for life. I really do expect to win the lottery or “be discovered.” For what you ask? No clue really, I just believe that someone is going to come up to me and say, “You are so interesting and the whole world must know immediately.” Might be the same reason why for the entirely of my teen years I was convinced that if Keanu Reeves could just meet me, he would love me. Yup, that’s why I’m in therapy people. I am not sure where these delusions of grandeur come from but I think it might have something to do with a few childhood moments. Let me explain…

Somewhere between the ages of birth and seven, people noticed that I didn’t take bad pictures. In fact, pull out a camera and I was likely to put on my best smile. I might even strike a pose or maybe you want me to do this with my hands or laugh like this?

Like an actor slipping into character one vertebrae at a time, my camera persona fell over me like a familiar old jacket. It was nothing I was taught, I just loved the feeling of being captured in a moment. As though the camera could hold time still and I could languish in the attention for an eternity. As time went on and awkward teenage years ensued, I would loose that love but for the duration of this part of the story I was always camera ready.

Obviously people encouraged my ham-like nature, which in turn fed the compliment hungry beast. All of this picture taking/pose striking led to obvious questions about what one might do with this skill that I possessed. After hours of discussion and an ill advised but thankfully short deliberation about pageant entry, my mom and I decided that I would try to get a gig as a child model.

My mom proceeded to take pictures of me in different situations and sent them off to several talent agencies in San Francisco. After a considerable wait period, we got answers from two of them. The first was a huge agency in the City that represented some pretty big child stars. The agency asked that I come in for an interview. I vaguely remember the waiting room to be a bit like the set of Ugly Betty, lots of pictures on the wall of beautiful people and glass doors. There was also lots of pastel because after all, this was the 80’s and who didn’t love the Miami Vice look?

For weeks my mom and I had rehearsed my “audition” and I finally had it down. I would be reciting the lines from a popular L’Oreal commercial, only we had changed it up a bit. For those of you that remember the 80’s, the commercials we chose were done by Andy McDowell and she always started them with the line “You know what really chips me off?” Then she would explain how whatever chipped her off wasn’t her nail polish because L’Oreal nail polish doesn’t what? Chip. That’s right.

We had added a little humor to the lines and I felt comfortable enough to say them aloud in front of strangers. “You know what really chips me off? When I go to Paris and my luggage goes to Rome!” Oh the hilarity! What 8 year old hasn’t experienced that unpleasantry?

When they called my name and I walked down the hall all by my lonesome, I began to feel nervous. Just because I could manage not to look like a freak in front of a camera didn’t necessarily translate into solo interviews with strangers whereby I recite a ludicrous commercial and wait for approval. However, as I sat down in front of the four adult strangers something strange began to happen. I shook hands with all of them, and began to recite my commercial. After my first line, they laughed…in a good way. I was dizzy with the glow of approval, they thought I was funny! When I finished they asked that I repeat the commercial again, only this time with a southern accent. I’ll be frank, I was 8 and I am sure my version of southern was no where close to spot on, however if they were going to laugh again, I was willing to do anything. I’d speak martian or gibberish or Valley Girl for that matter. Come to think of it, I think Valley Girl was involved.

They pretty much offered me the job on the spot. My mom was shocked at the process and told me in the car that she could hear them laughing from the waiting room. She implored me to tell her what exactly I had been doing in there. I told her what happened and I distinctly remember her reaction was something of shock. She hadn’t taught me that part, the part where I make stuff up on the fly. Her little ham was growing up!

To make a long story short, I didn’t go with the big agency because they wanted too much of my time and I wasn’t ready to drop out of school and hire a full time tutor. There were Barbies to play with and kids to prank call, I didn’t have time for “homework on the set.”  However, the agency we did go with paid me $80 an hour for the work I did, which was mostly print work for Macy’s and brand name toy companies like Mattel.

According to an inflation calculator, $80 in 1985 has the same buying power as $163 dollars today. Considering I just took a job making somewhere in the $30 an hour range, is it really that surprising that I am disappointed?

These days I have settled for less money in the workplace but also I have moved to the other side of the camera and now relish in taking pictures of others. I look back on my years doing modeling work as an important part of my life. It made me learn to be comfortable in an interview and at ease with a crowd. Unfortunately, it appears that my 15 minutes of fame may be over and I was too young to enjoy it. Like a meringue on a foggy day, I peaked early.

Twice now our family has had professional shots done and both times the photographer asked if our son Isaac would ever consider modeling because, you guessed it, he takes great pictures…

One of my favorite childhood memories involves hours and hours of tennis lessons. It started when I was four and I didn’t really stop playing until after high school. Growing up on the Peninsula, everyone plays tennis. If baseball is America’s past time, then someone should tell Monterey because here, it is all about the courts.

I remember a specific conversation with my mom, wherein she explained that if I was to ever be a proper woman, I should know these few things:

- how to correctly match my shoes and belt

- how to sprinkle my conversation with impressive vocabulary

- how to kick an opponents’ ass in a friendly game of tennis

Her quest to make me a real girl started with group tennis lessons and quickly moved to private lessons as finances provided. So, at the tender age of 8 I would walk from Carmel River School to Mission Ranch next door and have private lessons twice a week. I absolutely loved the freedom of walking from point A to point B and I especially loved the individual attention of the lesson.  

The lessons were scheduled for twice a week and on those days I would cut through the back of the school, where there was a hole in the fence and make the treck across a field to Mission Ranch. Before I hit the courts, I would stop in at the front desk. The office had a candy vending machine with what I thought was the best candy bar known to man, the Violet Crumble. My mom was a bit restrictive on the sugar front at home so this stolen chocolate treasure was usually the highlight of my day. 

After my candy break I would head to the court to meet my instructor. He was tall and tan and he wore the typical short white tennis shorts of the early 80’s nature. He had the perfect sandy blonde hair and a really cool accent. Even at 8 years old, I was aware of my good fortune in tennis coaches. The best part about him though was his name, Chic. He had no last name of record but does it really matter when your first name is Chic? Chic was from Australia and he moved to the Peninsula with the sole purpose of teaching tennis, I think. For this I am sure that every well kept wife, with a sudden interest in tennis, was thankful for his voyage from Down Under to the West Coast.

So, as Chic moved about the court teaching me proper forehand and backhands, serves and volleys I took it all in. I just knew that one day I would be a tennis star and Chic would be in the stands cheering me on. After my lesson was over, I would head back over the school and wait for my mom to pick me up. She would come racing in after a long day at work and ask how my day was and if I enjoyed my lessons. I would of course answer that my day was fine and lessons were okay, I couldn’t let on that I had a big 8 year old crush on Chic, lest she decide to tease me or find a less intriguing coach so that I would pay more attention to the game.

As time went on, I began to loose interest in tennis and began to flirt with other sports. Tennis went from first love to an old mistress, thought of fondly but no longer properly nurtured. Because of this, my game never really went to the level I would’ve liked but I still managed to make Varsity in high school, where a small and spry female coach would scream at me from the sidelines of practice about my form and concentration.

The disenchantment came fast a furious during my years on Varsity because how exactly does a girl go from playing tennis at Mission Ranch in Carmel with Chic to a high school court in Turlock in 106 degree weather? For this reason, I still have a love hate relationship with the game, but many fond memories to keep me going.

Yesterday my four year old had his first private tennis lesson at Carmel Valley Ranch. When I asked him how it went, he said “Good.” He was very non committal about it, which made me wonder if maybe Chic now has a daughter and she is a tennis instructor at Carmel Valley Ranch.

This is one of those posts that isn’t meant to entertain or enlighten. It is a moment of self-awareness simply put to paper.

Since we moved, I’ve had good days and bad. As with any transition, the consequences of change are felt. It is wonderful to reside amongst such jaw dropping beauty. If I take a deep breath when looking at the ocean or the trees occupying the nearby cliffs, I feel prettier, smarter and more fulfilled. Internalizing the beauty of your surroundings isn’t hard to do around here.

However, I am really missing the safety net of my old home. I miss the comfort that comes with familiarity. Turlock is ugly. Well, maybe not ugly but unconvincing and awkward. The people, however, are like family so the make of the town never bothered me entirely. Once I set foot in my old job, Turlock ceased to be an issue. It was where this amazing opportunity was so, I would no longer question the town’s beauty or comfort.

When we made the decision to move, it was precipitated by a 12 month period of wanderlust. We both felt like we wanted to live someplace else. We wanted to choose where our children would be raised, not just end up someplace and call it home. I look back on that period of time as very purposeful because had we not been looking, this opportunity would not have landed upon us.

For me, the biggest part of leaving Turlockwas shockingly not the prospect of leaving my family. We are amazingly close and I knew that no span of time or distance of space would change that truth. My mother, father and sisters are a part of me and in that way are always with me in what I do. I knew I would miss the ability to just stop by their houses but I knew the move would allow for periods of extended time spent together that would be more meaningful than the “drive-by’s” of old.

So, the clincher for me really, was leaving my job and all of the things/people that went with it. My job had fallen into my lap 7 years ago. I was offered a shiny present that I hadn’t yet earned, all wrapped up with a wonderful salary and title. I treated the present with great care and after a few years, had earned that title and salary with great effort. My job became a second persona. It was still me, just better. The person I strived to be at work was, for the most part, the woman that I wanted to be as a child. When I saw myself as a grown-up, the picture of me going to Washington DC for a conference came to mind. It was the best of what I had pictured myself to be (once I gave up on my dream to be a doctor, which ended promptly in a high school calculus class).

The day Kevin was offered the job, I was with him. We had gone together for his final interview and I waited anxiously in the car. We knew he would get it and we knew we were inclined to accept it. However, once it was in writing, it felt more official. On the drive home we kept repeating, “We’re moving!” as though saying it one more time would make it real.

As I am apt for negativity, the excitement waned quickly for me as I moved on to the slew of details that had to be completed for the move to actually take place. I would spend the next 60 days just doing things, the things that needed to be done. I was shockingly detached from the emotions of the move due to the busyness of our details.

Once we moved and unpacked, it hit. All of the things to be done were done. We had moved, we had made a major change. When I got a call from a friend the other day who had applied for my old job and wanted some pointers, at first I was excited for him. Then, as I began to explain my job and what was necessary for the position, I began to get melancholy. In fact, after the call, I got down right depressed.

My job had been my ideal. I was accepted, I was understood and I was one of the few who had access to the top of the organization. I could speak eloquently on any one of the myriad of issues facing my organization at the drop of a hat. My job was one of my best accomplishments and now, it would be handed to someone else. Someone who may, or may not, treat that accomplishment with care and concern. It was like watching a woman move in on a grieving husband at his wife’s funeral. I was not done with my job, yet life had allowed for it to end.

Yet, with all of this said I know intellectually that the job itself was not mine, it is the company’s. The successes and failures of the job were mine to own and I did for a time. However, with this move and my new employment looming on the horizon, it is time to let go. I can not hover like some ghost over my old accomplishments, I need to prepare myself for the next phase with the same care and concern I gave the last. Somehow though, it still feels like a part of me is dying.

Dear Tori Spelling,

Just stop it. For years, I have hated you. I have made fun of you and your fake boobs that hung so unpleasantly off of your emaciated chest, as though trying desperately to leave your presence. I despised your character on 90210 and I didn’t care whether or not you slept with David. I just wanted you to go away so I could keep on pretending that Kelly and I were friends.

After the 90210 years you thankfully dropped off the radar for a bit. Then back you came with a vengeance in some ridiculous faux reality show and a big Beverly Hills style wedding. I was annoyed again. Whenever you were on a gossip mag I would be so upset because, other than being Aaron Spelling’s daughter…what did you do? You were like the pre-Paris Hilton. Like a Paris Hilton warm-up. (thankfully you wore underwear, because I seriously would’ve clawed my own eyes out if that would’ve shown up in a magazine)

Then, we all got to hear about your affair with a married man and your expeditious divorce to first husband. In my mind, I figured your were just being who I expected you to be. Mostly I wanted you and whatever husband you stuck with to use your frontal floatation devices and get lost at sea.

Then, a month ago, out of sheer boredom I stumbled across your new season of Tori and Dean. I thought that I would watch a few minutes, yell at the television and be done with it. Oh, but Tori you vixen, you knew that wouldn’t be the case.

Here you are, in my front room, pregnant and funny and vulnerable. WHAT? I am actually liking you? Hold on, maybe I need to re-think everything? Okay, can I blame global warming?

Seriously, as you talked away on the show I was thinking that you were saying things I would say. You were being paranoid that your hubby was cheating with a hot scuba instructor and I thought, well you should be because he cheated with you. Then you said, “we started with cheating and so I will always be fearful that he will cheat again.” Whoa. Okay, something happened and started to like you.

So, now four episodes in to Tori and Dean and I am hooked. I actually told someone the other day they should watch your show and they looked at me like I had definitely spent too much time at home with the kids.

Tori, here is the bottom line. I used to hate you and now I think we could be friends. If you are faking all of this, I’m gonna be pissed. Be real with me girl, if you want this thing to last we have to be honest with each other.

Sincerely,

Your new fan - Jenn

My BFF, Rebecca is a super star. Not only does she put up with me… her and her husband are co-founders of a rockin new website for mom’s called Momfaves. In her spare time, she is raising two fantastic little boys that are nearly the same age as my two boys.

Becca and I met when we were 14 and it seems like a lifetime ago. We both had big bangs, well really it was just me, and we liked older boys that were no good for us. Becca is the ying to my yang, as Jerry Meguire would say… she completes me. I have been forever jealous of her crazy long legs and thoughtful personality. I know that she is jealous of me too…of my crazy loud laugh and my t-rex midget legs. I know that she will be my friend until we are silly, incontinent ol’ ladies headed out of this world to meet Jesus who art in heaven, amen.

Every friendship has stages. There was the grunge music, smoking and sneaking out stage. Then the we’re too cool to date boys from this school stage. Then there was college and the meeting of the future husbands stage. I never thought that the having kids stage would bring us so close, however it has completely cemented our friendship in ways I can’t explain. 

 Dear goodness I just re-read this and it sounds like I am going to propose to her. Rebecca I love you and I see us growing old together….

Okay so the best part of hanging out is watching our children become friends. So check out some pictures of our visit and our kids blossoming friendship.

Isn’t she lovely?

My Mom’s birthday was Saturday and I didn’t wish her a proper birthday with a blog post about how rad she is. Yes, I said rad.

So, my Mama turned 59 this weekend and I know that she is struggling with aging, as we all do. It probably didn’t help that Isaac put the numbers on her cake and turned them around, so they said 95. Oops. However, I wish she would believe me when I tell her that she is beautiful just the way she is, no matter how many decades she has existed on this earth.  Honestly, I hope that I age as well as she has because looking like her as I round the corner on 60 would be a pretty amazing thing.

There is a lot I could say about my Mom here, like the fact that she has a wicked sense of humor and a buff body from all the Pilates she does. I could go on and on about how she has a way of saying just the right thing to me when I am dangling off the cliff of self-involvement and pity. She also has an uncanny way of remembering the name and artist of every song. Everytime we are in the car and the radio is on she says, “Okay, 10 bucks to anyone who can tell me the name and artist of this song.” Sometimes, if she is feeling sassy, she’ll throw in the year it came out as well. Funny though, she always asks because she has the answer but in the event that you do know the answer, the 10 dollars never seems to materialize…

When I was little, my Mom worked hard to make sure that I did my homework, played sports and became a well rounded person. She always pushed me to do a little more than I wanted but never too much so as to be overwhelming. In this respect, she taught me a wonderful life lesson and that is, anything good in your life probably came with a little bit of sacrifice (or a lot).

She wasn’t all homework and hard work though - she knows how to party, my friends. She always had music on and we used to dance around the front room like total freaks when I was little. In fact, I think my greatest ambition at age 6 was to be a Solid Gold dancer. Good times. My mom is also the master at hide and seek. She even plays this game wtih the dogs and manages to freak them out too.

One of her best traits however is that of the housewarming nature. Let me explain…

Every house I have moved into, my Mom has been there from day 1 making it look beautiful and helping unpack. She can make a house look like a home in 48 hours flat. My first apartment in college was decorated a la Jane and my roomates were shocked when they moved in. She helped turn a dumpy college apartment into the cool place to hang out. Now, I will say she has a thing for dried flowers that I don’t share but everything else is spot on.

The older you get, the more you appreciate your parents. I also think that becoming a parent certainly makes you realize how hard that role is and maybe, just maybe, the people who raised you deserve a little grace for their mistakes. I love and appreciate my Mom today more than I ever did when I was little and depended on her for everything. Mostly because now, I fully realize all that she has done for me.

So, Mama - I love you and I am darn glad that you are still around. Thanks for sharing this birthday with me. Here’s to next year, the big 6-0!

WARNING - GIRL PARTS MENTIONED, PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION

(this is Spanish for if you are my father-in law or my Dad, do us both a favor and skip this post)

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So, I oft set out to prove why I am a total jackass and today, my friends, I succeeded with flying colors. My Mom and Dad came into town for my Mom’s birthday this weekend and I was excited to spend some quality time with them.

First thing’s first, Mom and I head to the mall. I proceed to buy a ridiculously expensive pair of Coach sunglasses and man, am I feeling sassy. I swear I put the glasses on and all of the sudden, BAM! I was Posh Spice, Beck’s is my man-toy and I am hard rocking it people. These sunglasses are amazing, more on that later though.

So, part of our adventure involved a previously standing appointment that I had at a nice spa in Monterey for a little waxing. My Mom wanted nothing to do with this, but I was all in baby. I have been to a few spa’s in my time and feel fairly comfortable in the spa environment. This is usually my downfall, believing far too much in my own ability to act normal in any given situation.

I wait my turn in the incense filled holding area for my esthetician and I am casually wearing my sunglasses indoors, because I am totally famous.

Juliette greets me and we go into Room 3. She explains that I need to get undressed and here is a towel, blah blah, blah. I stopped listening because I had started thinking about how much this was going to hurt and how I should have had a glass of wine before I started this process. Juliette leaves the room and I begin to undress. On the table is a towel and a sanitizing wipe. Now, for those of you who have had a wax before, this is totally normal and you just go about following the directions given to you. However, I was too involved in my Posh pose to listen and now here I am opening the sanitizer and begining, um, application.

WOW! That burns! Ha Ha Ha. Wow, that really burns. Holy Crap, I am burning alive, get water! STAT! As I run around the room looking for water I am sure that she is coming back in the room any minute and she  is going to catch me splashing water on my nether regions and wondering what in the good Lord is going on in here.

After the water puts out the fire, I walk back over to the table and pick up the packet that I so hastily tore open. IT SAYS HAND SANITIZER! Oh my goodness, people hand sanitizer does not go there. So now I am panicking, did I do permanent damage? Clearly I’ve failed to listen to directions? Wait a minute…why do my hands need to be clean for this? What the heck is going on here and does this happen on Dr. 90210?

I jump on the table and try to act normal as Juliette knocks and asks if she can come back in the room. I say yes, and in she comes. She sweetly asked if I was ready.

Um, I think so? Hold on, let me get my glasses…

So, just because I have been changing diapers for a living doesn’t mean that I have completely resigned in my position as headline news correspondant to the stars. (The Captain never ceases having opinions, sometimes she just resigns to share them entirely with her family…lucky them!)

So, a while back I heard a presentation done by a management consultant. He was attempting to show the aging “Baby Boomers” how to let go and let the next generation lead. Basically, his topic was succession planning. Anyone in the workplace knows that we are about to experience a major managment drain in the next 5 years as the Boomers head to Sunnyhill Manor.

Now, first off, we all know that the Boomer generation has some mad leadership skills that have served this country and many, many companies very well. However, some of them are in their 70’s now and it is time to retire and go fishing/golfing/drinking/whatever. So, as they exit the workplace who are they to leave in charge?

Typically this would be the next generation, which in this case is Generation X. Gen X is usually defined as those born from 1965-1980 (dates vary). The way I like to think of it is Gen Xr’s should know the following: the first video played on MTV, the name of U2’s first hit single, what night the Cosby Show was on, who Alex P Keaton is, why Zach and Kelly broke up, what Grunge is and who the two Corey’s are.

So back to the consultant. Well, Mr. Brilliant had this to say, “Skip Generation X completely, too few of them are management material, and go straight to training Generation Y (the Millenials).”

What?

Did he just say that? Before I could put on my cape and go WWF on this guy, some jokes were made about how he wasn’t entirely serious but basically Gen X was a bunch of overpaid slackers with inappropriate expectations due to the scars left from their parents’ divorces in the 80’s. Well, that and it is mostly Madonna’s fault.

Alight look, we all know that Generation X has its’ flaws. I mean, those of us who watched Reality Bites and said “Hell yes! Fight the Man! Don’t work at the Gap!” have some tendencies toward belief in corporate espionage and tend to be a bit too sarcastic for our own good. But does that mean that an entire generation should be discounted for leading this country and it’s corporations into the next era? Hell no!

After I took a deep breathe and realized this was just another typical Boomer talking I did some self-reflection. What does Generation X stand for and what do we have to offer? Everyone knows the Boomers are smart and motivated by their WW II era work ethic. However, they also tend to be stuck in their ways and unable to see the forest through the trees. They invented the 70-80 hour work week and they think that anything less is proof of non-committment.

So, what does Gen X we bring to the table? (besides a belief that Eddie Vedder is a demi-god and that flannel was a fashion trend worth recognizing?) Here’s what I think (I know you were waiting for this). I think that we haven’t yet shown the world what we have to offer. We haven’t stood as a collective voice and said that we want to be the leaders. We experienced a totally different reality than the Boomers, we saw divorce and MTV and a general lack of commitment from those who were leading us. Because of this, Gen X has an overdeveloped sense of entitlement about what we deserve from the world and highly attuned sense of sarcasm. But we are also smart, really smart. Some of my fellow X’rs are incredibly educated and also really committed to making family life a priority. I think we might be the generation to show the world what a real work-life balance can look like.

Yes, we demand a lot from our employers. We are the generation that saw the Family Leave Act come to fruition and we also have demanded equal rights for domestic partners. We care about the family (no matter what it looks like) because a lot of us were lonely kids. We want more for our kids and sometimes our work life takes a back seat.

However, America I ask you…is that such a bad thing? Does that disqualify us for leadership like that jackass consultant said? Or does it mean that we can show the next generation that you don’t have to work 70 hours a week in order to be the boss? I vote for the latter.

I have to say, as with most things that make me mad - like the scale, or So You Think You Can Dance result show night - this motivated me. This consultant threw down the gauntlet and said our generation wasn’t worth it. I say, not only are we worth it, we can be damn funny and real while we prove that we are. Come on people, show those Boomers’ who is boss (no not the 80’s television show, you Tony Danza lovers).

I don’t know about you, but I just want to make Mr. Huxtable proud.

Update: you must read this article. I found it after I wrote this and it is really great.