Because I am totally self-involved and I assume that what I think is interesting, you will too, I have composed a little Thursday morning link round-up.  Surf away!

I read this article this morning, a bit depressing. If all of us are going to be overweight, will a size 10be the new 4? I could totally dig that. However, in 40 years I will be in my 70’s and given my portuguese heritage, I will be lucky if I haven’t shrunk to 4′11” and am sporting a good 200 lbs.

Since I am on a health link kick, I was surfing around about the benefits of flaxseed in your diet. My new boss told me it would boost my metabolism, WebMD said it might cause uncontrollable diarriha.  Up to you.

Since it is Thursday, and this website is all about Thursday and hair, it seemed appropriate. Super fun website to check out if you like hair make-overs. Also, if you have time, shoot over to the author’s blog. She is super funny. I mean, not funnier than me but if you have to substitute, it wouldn’t be a bad choice.

So what do you get when you cross a porn star with a chest thumping, testosterone driven UFC fighter? Well, apparently the world is going to find out. Do you think she’ll breast feed? I guess the better question is, with all the steroids will he?

And finally, I know this is from last thursday but I am still laughing about it, so I figured I would spread the joy.

Oh and did any of you watch the new episode of Tori and Dean this week? I’ll catch you up - Tori and Dean still haven’t moved into their new house, then they wrote a song and then baby Stella was born and I cried like a little tiny girl.

Happy Thursday y’all!

I have a really cute outfit on today, if I must say. My hair turned out good as well and as I came in to work I was feeling sassy. I was rocking the red carpet entry into my office. I figure if you have to dislike your job, you might as well look good doing it, right?

Then…

After my third cup of coffee, I had to hit the restroom. As I was finishing up, I realized that my underwear were on inside out. What am I 5 years old?

Thanks for all the comments (even the contrary ones from my BFF)!!! Glad to hear that you all are listening.

 I love all 6 of you to death.

At this rate because of your loyal readership, I just might be famous 20 years from now. Gawd, I hope I don’t end up being one of those people who ends up famous after they die. If I am going to go to my grave in relative obscurity, it sure as heck better stay that way after I’m gone…ain’t no one getting famous off of Mama if Mama ain’t around!

So, I am starting to get the idea that in your 30’s you question things. And by things I mean everything. If I could sum up my 20’s, it would be OVERLY CONFIDENT.  I knew who I was, who I wanted to marry, how many kids to have, what job I wanted and when I wanted to retire. I was a registered voter and dedicated Republican. A faithful churchgoer and volunteer. I was a Coach purse loving, Grande Mocha drinking, Addidas wearing, Newsweek reading, George W Bush voter. I had it figured out people!

Then, one by one the bricks began to fall. I like soy lattes? I prefer Kate Spade and Asics? I hate republican politcs? Who am I? Mostly it started with having my first child. Isaac helped me to see beyond my point of view. He forced me to realize that everyone is someone’s baby, which puts a whole mew spin on how you see the world. So, with this change in mind, at 27 I did what I knew best, I figured it all out again.  I read Babywise and 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. If being a parent was a brave new world then I would conquer that world. For the next two years, I managed to work, be a mom and even balance the budget.

Then came Joshua. Okay, take a deep breathe, re-organize and start over. Only this time the starting over was like a sputter that never really got to a full start. Much like my Volkswagon in college, it looked pretty but it didn’t have second gear. I couldn’t manage my job and house and kids and everything else like I had before. All of the sudden traveling for work was painful and getting ready for church on Sundays was too hard to pull off. I couldn’t spend the time with my friends that I wanted and I felt relationships slip away. Having two children made me feel like little pieces of me were stolen away and they might not be given back. Worse yet, the question that haunted me was, do I want them back?

Do I want those friendships? Do I want this job? Do I want to go to church every Sunday? What is really important to me? It was like charting a totally new course, or building a house brick by brick. I felt really ill-equipt.

Now here I am in a new town, with a new job and feeling like I am not only lost but maybe someone burned the map and I am left to sift through ashes for directions. I am not unhappy or ill content, just confused about my future. I love my kids and on most days I actually long to have more. I surf the web and look at pictures of newborns or read birth stories and I even think about sneaking upstairs at the hospital and peaking at the nursery (this however is frowned upon by management and some federal laws). However, I can’t imagine adding another child to our chaos. I am also afraid my bladder might actually revolt at the prospect, along with my boobs…both would head further south.

On the other hand, I want to get a better job, one with more responsibility. I thrive on last minute decisions and finishing projects. I enjoy managing things, in fact it is something that actually comes naturally to me. It may sound crazy but on a really busy day at work, where I feel valued and responsible, I might not even think about the kids all day. (Yikes, that sounds bad)

However, what my 20’s taught me is that in my 30’s I don’t think I can’t do both, at least not in the traditional sense. I can’t work 8-5 in a managment position and have more children or even manage the schedules of the ones I already have. So am I supposed to take a break from climbing the ladder to have more children? Or is the fact that my life is chaotic enough right now an indicator that one more child would throw me over the edge?

So, I am 31. I am learning that what I thought I knew in my 20’s, I will re-evaluate in this decade. Does that mean it will happen again in my 40’s? Or at some point do I cease wondering what else is out there and feel comfortable that what I’ve chosen is right for me?

These are just some of the questions that go bump in the nightime of my mind. I promise to let you know if I figure out the answers. However, I can almost guarantee the answer will be different for each of you.

I want another baby but I don’t have the attention span for one. But I crave that newborn smell, do you?

How is the “points” diet system any different than budgeting? I am not good at budgeting so methinks this diet might not be right for me.

I hate it when people repeat their own jokes, not because you didn’t hear it the first time but because they think they are funnier than they are.

I am officially sick of working in a man’s world.

I wish I would’ve gone to law school or finished my master’s because a lot more opportunities would be open to me.

I hate my job and for the first time in my adult life I find myself fantasizing about running out of my workplace screaming.

I see a pattern here – do you?

My best friend asked me recently why I couldn’t just sit at my job and get paid, more specifically why I feel the need to “climb the ladder.” I wish I had an answer to this other than, it is who I am.

I have been told multiple times in my life to stop thinking so much. Now would be good.

Sometimes I can’t help but be brutally honest. Well, most of the time. Take for example that shirt you’re wearing, it isn’t working for you. And the plan you have to make a bunch of money by selling your plasma, I’m going to call “shenanigans.” Not sure when the honesty bug bit me but I really can’t remember a time when I wasn’t infected by it.

Unfortunately, I also lack what some might call a poker face, or the inability to visibly hide my true feelings about a situation. The silly grin pasted across my face probably means I have good news, just as the furrowed brow might mean you are currently annoying me.

As you can imagine, this honesty issue has wreaked havoc on many a relationship or job situation. Over the years I have learned to keep my mouth shut for the most part but most of the time my face gives me away, that cheating bastard. I try really hard to manage what is going on inside my little brain but I now believe that I was meant to tell it like I see it…it is my destiny. Some people are meant to be cowboys or wizards or the President, I was meant to be like Jack Nicolson in A Few Good Men and spill my guts on the witness stand because “you can’t handle the truth.”

So, why the discussion about brutal honesty you ask? Well, sometimes I feel like I hold back on this website. As though I write knowing someone might read this and think differently of me. I really don’t want to do that anymore. This website has been cathartic for me in many ways but I always hold back a bit because I am afraid of offending someone. I obviously don’t want to purposely offend but this website is a form of catharsis for me, a way to vent and toss around my thoughts or feelings about subjects. I want to be able to freely talk about things here, like how hard this move has been emotionally or how I am worried about people liking me or even my struggle with being more joyful. Sometimes I want to write about questioning my belief in God or the decision to have more children but I need the freedom to do so without feeling like someone will be disappointed in me or worried about me. I need people to understand that my writing is a way of processing things; it is neither definitive nor complete by its very nature.

I hope I don’t alienate any of you with this post but if I do, well then I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.  Thank you to those of you who have commented and emailed me about this site, you keep me going and I love the feedback, even when you tell me I am crazy. However, to this I say, can you handle the truth?

New job and I am sick. I feel terrible, will resume posting later this week….if I don’t die.

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.