Author: charleneaross

Today

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Today is a bad news day. Not just bad. Terrible awful no good news. The kind of news that makes me need to hug my kids in the morning and they actually let me even though they’re trying to get ready for school. And when Chandler asks for a ride to school even though he has plenty of time to walk and I do not have plenty of time to drive him I smile and say, “Of course,” because that means I get to spend an extra two minutes with him today. And after crying and phone calls and holding my coffee cup staring into space as my coffee grows cold, instead of rushing to get to work on time I am kind to myself and let them know that I will be late. And when I drive to work I call my mom and tell her the news, which is the worst because nothing is ever real until I talk to my mom about it. So I guess this is real. And at lunch when I eat the leftover chicken thigh I packed for myself instead of ripping off the skin and throwing it away like I always do I eat it. I savor it. I allow myself that pleasure today. And when I sit down to write my blog – my just one paragraph that I haven’t been keeping up with anyway, so what’s the point – nothing funny comes. But of course, how could it today? After lunch I go to the bank to deposit a check for work. The greeter at the door asks cheerily, “How are you today?” I smile and say, “Great!” The lie tumbles out of my mouth automatically. “How are you?” I ask. Social pleasantries that feel anything but pleasant to me today. At work I am given a project that requires me to think. It’s difficult for me to focus. Truth be told, I’m lucky I didn’t fuck it up. After work I go to Trader Joe’s. I need broccoli and white rice for dinner. I spend $62 and forget to buy the rice. In the parking lot I see a woman whose car has broken down. She wears the disappointment of her day on her face. Her groceries are becoming warm. She just wants to get home and get dinner started. I want to tell her it could be worse. I want to tell her I’ll trade her dead engine for my dead friend, but I don’t think she’ll take the trade. As if she could. As if I could. I come home and pour a glass of wine to drink while I cook dinner. Chandler has good news. He’s made varsity for Cross Country. Dinner is nice. No fights. Good conversation. I manage to smile and even to laugh. Everyone helps clean up. We sit down to watch a movie I’ve already seen together and I sneak away to finish this post about my terrible awful day and wonder if I should hit publish because who would want to read about the day I had today. But I think I will. Unedited and raw – how I rarely allow myself to be. Just for today.

Goodbye my sweet friend Harvey. I will miss you always and forever. Long, long, long after today.

One of the 5,687 Reasons Why I’m A Terrible Mother

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I was deep cleaning the kitchen the other day. You know – the move the appliances and the knife rack off the counter and scrub the grout with a toothbrush kind of cleaning, instead of my daily wipe the bread crumbs off with a sponge type of cleaning. It’s amazing the amount of clutter that accumulates on the counter – things I don’t even “see” on a daily basis. The sea salt I cook with that I rarely bother to put back into the cupboard. Ditto for the honey used on peanut butter sandwiches. And for the box of dandelion tea. Behind the toaster I found a napkin holder that Chandler made for me when he was in elementary school. I don’t know if it was a class project or something from Indian Guides, but can I be honest? It’s ugly. I suppose it does have a bit of a Mondrian quality to it. (You know, if Mondrian were sloppy. And didn’t use yellow.)

ugly-child-craft
Proudly displayed on my kitchen table for years.

I used to proudly display it on our kitchen table, as good mothers of bad artists do, but we use cloth napkins now, so not only is it ugly, it’s useless. I can’t quite bring myself to throw it away, so I do what any bad mother would do – I chuck it into the back of the high pantry cupboard never to be found again. At least until the next deep cleaning. Chandler is 16 now. I’m 100% positive that if someone else made it he’d find it not only ugly, but offensive. I know that even though it sat on our kitchen table for years he’s forgotten all about it. And he’s certainly smart enough to know that we have no practical use for it. But I also know that if he found out I threw it away he’d never forgive me. So to the back of the pantry it goes. At least until I tackle that with a deep cleaning.

I Thought I was the Worst Twerk Fail EVER

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By now everyone has seen the “Worst Twerk Fail EVER – Girl Catches Fire!” video. (And if you haven’t – where ya  been? Camping in the wilderness with no WiFi or cell service? What’s wrong with you?)

Here it is in case you missed it:

And you also probably know that it’s fake (though I admit, it fooled me) via the ever so awesome Jimmy Kimmel Show.

I think it’s hilarious, but I’m bummed that it’s fake. I felt badly for the girl when I saw it, but I was a little bit happy that someone had an even bigger twerking fail than me. (And of course Miley.)

Yeah, you heard me right, I myself have had a twerking fail. And I think it’s time to come clean…

A few weeks ago the four of us were watching America’s Got Talent and Robin Thicke was on singing “Blurred Lines.” That song is a current guilty pleasure of mine, but Dave and the kids are not fans. And since I know they all hate it, I got up and danced in front of the TV. I waved my hands in the air and sang along. I was having a good ol’ time. (No, I wasn’t drunk, just obnoxious.)

Marley said, “Hey Mom, let’s see you twerk.”

“What’s twerk?” I asked.

Yeah, I’m obnoxious mom, but apparently not pop-culture-savvy mom.  (This was a few weeks before the Miley Cirus twerk fail.)

“Oh my god, Mom. You don’t know what twerking is?” Marley asked me, unable to believe her my-mom-is-so-lame teenage ears.

She took me straight to YouTube and showed me this:

I watched the video very closely then squatted down, stuck out my butt (which even with my recent weight loss seems to be the perfect size for twerking) and then I thrust my hips. And almost threw my back out.

It seems these old hips do not move that way. I spent the rest of the night rolling on my foam roller.

Thank god there was no video. I mean, I wouldn’t put it past Marley to post it. Of course if she did, I’m pretty sure it would have gone viral.

Worst Twerk Fail EVER – Suburban Mom Throws Her Back Out!!!  That fake girl on fire wouldn’t have stood a chance against me.

Stupid Airport Shoes

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I recently read an online fashion magazine article titled “What They Wear: Airports”. There were photos of 10 starlets dressed super cute for their very glamour trips to the airport.

But then there were these shoes:

Celebrity Airport Shoes
Gorgeous – but the airport… really?!

There was actually a full body shot of the actress wearing these shoes,but I cropped it to only show the shoes. I will not name the actress because (1) I am not that mean and (2) I’ve actually never heard of her. (She’s probably very young and gorgeous. Whatever.)

But c’mon – really?! These are the shoes you wear to the airport? Do famous people have some sort of pass where they don’t have to go through airport security shoeless? Yes, the shoes are adorable, but they have to take at least 5-10 minutes to take off and put back on again. And the magazine called the shoes a good and practical choice for travel because of the wedge. But what about the part you have to wrap around your ankle 5 times and then tie?! She probably flew on a private plane and didn’t have to clear security.

Which just goes to show… Stars are not like us people. Not like us at all!

Writing Sucks

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Writing Sucks
This about sums it up.

I wrote a post last week called Running Sucks (because it does), but honestly, what sucks even more is writing. Writing is so hard, sometimes I wonder why I do it at all. Sure when I run I’m out of breath and uncomfortable and hot and sweaty and miserable. I don’t sweat (much) when I’m writing, but uncomfortable, out of breath and miserable? Check, check, and check! When I run my body hurts. When I write my brain hurts. The blogs I write in my head are seriously awesome. They’re clever and funny and relatable. Trust me when I tell you that they are freaking hilarious. But when I sit down to type them? Meh. The words do not flow from my brain to my fingertips. They fall flat on the screen. I know I can do better, I tell myself. That word isn’t right, that’s not what I’m trying to say. Then I put my head in my hands and stare a the cursor on the computer screen blinking at me. Baiting me. Daring me to turn it into words. So I put my fingers back on the keyboard, take a deep breath, and I type. I turn that cursor into words and hate every single second and wonder why anyone in their right mind would chose to do something so hard and so terrible. Something that sucks so very much. 

Sunday in the Suburbs

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Today I went running at eight o’clock in morning and left the kids a list of chores – vacuuming, dusting, bathroom cleaning – the bare minimum to make our house presentable tolerable. I ran two and a half miles today and I’ll admit that it was easier than the two miles I ran last week, but that’s because we ran a much flatter course, not because I’m getting better. Everyone in run club is so nice and encouraging. They all say that they hated running when they started. A lot of them tell me that now they love it. I know I will never love it. I refuse to drink the running Kool-aid. But I think I will go back again next week. Maybe. After running I went to coffee with some friends from the gym. It’s nice to have gym friends. 20 years of gym memberships and this is the first time I’ve made actual friends there. At coffee we talk about kids’ sports, the scariness of paying for college, and what a treat and a luxury a Hawaiian family vacation would be. When I got home the house was clean. Not company-clean. Or mom-clean. But kid-clean. It’s not perfect, but I didn’t have to do it. It works for me.

This is Not a Lay Low Weekend

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Chandler likes what he calls lay low weekends. Lay low weekends are do-nothing weekends. He’ll do his homework. Maybe play some video games. Revel in the luxury of boredom. This is not a lay low weekend. This is a sports weekend. Chandler had a Cross Country meet on Friday. He kicked butt and got a PR. (15:51 in case you’re curious. That’s right my son ran 3 miles in under 16 minutes. Sorry. Braggy mommy moment over.) After the meet he got off the team bus and met some friends at the high school football game and got home around 10:00. Marley skipped cheering her brother on at the XC meet and went to a friend’s house for the day. She and her friend went to the football game as well. Of course everyone knows that football games are more about socializing than sports. Especially for 8th grade girls. They’ve got to check out the social rituals of high schoolers to help lessen the culture shock they’ll be experiencing in one short year. Dave and I enjoyed an impromptu dinner at a cute Mexican place called El Rey a few miles from the meet in Ventura. I’m still eating clean and eating four meals a day. In all the excitement of the day I forgot to eat my third meal. Forgetting to eat is something that never happens to me. The food was amazing. And not just because I was so hungry. (As a bonus, the owner/manager was also super hot quite handsome.) We’ll be back for sure. Saturday morning everyone got up at 6:00. Chandler had a 15 mile run at 7:00 and Marley had to be on the soccer field at 7:30. After we got home we barely had time to catch our breath before Dave and Chandler ran out the door to volunteer at a triathlon in Malibu. (I told you it was a sports weekend.) Marley got a haircut. Then we ran errands. As I type this I’m daydreaming about the beer I’ll be enjoying tonight with the burgers I’ll be grilling.  Tomorrow the kids have nothing going on but I have to go on a stupid sucktacular 2.5 mile run with the run club that I accidentally joined. I’m tempted to blow it off, but I signed up to bring pretzels and water. But afterwards I’m going to do a whole lot of nothing. I’m going to lay low.

Hormones Make Teenagers Insane

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I am not a doctor (nor do I play one on the internet), but I’m pretty sure that hormones make teenagers mentally unstable.

For example, this happened:  Two weeks ago my thirteen year old daughter and I were at the library to find her a book. She was ecstatic to find the books Everwild  and Everfound by her favorite author, Neal Shusterman.

“I didn’t know this was a trilogy. I’m so excited. Everlost was one of my favorite books. This is so awesome!”

Everlost-Everwild-Everfound
The Skinjacker Trilogy

As I said, that was two weeks ago. She has yet to pick up book number two, much less move on to book number three. I guess even the second and third installments in a trilogy of “one of her favorite books” by her very favorite author pale in comparison to the wonders of YouTube and Instagram.

Today is a school holiday. She doesn’t have any homework except, you know, studying for Monday tests that she “already knows everything” about. I walked into her room this morning and handed her Everwild. “I’d like you to read two chapters of this today.”

She responded most sassily, “I can’t read that, Mom. I don’t remember what Everlost was even about. I’ll be too confused.”

“But you picked this book. You were excited to get it. And you need to read a book for school. You need 15 AR points by next month and this book is 16 points.”

“I know, but I already told you. I’ll be too confused. I can’t read it.”

Two weeks ago she was giddy leaving the library with those two books in her hands. Today they’ll only cause confusion. Please explain to me how this makes any sort of sense.

Start investing in California grapes people, because the amount of wine I’m sure to be ingesting while living with this hormonal bundle of contrariness for the next five years is likely to make me single-handedly bring up their stock prices tenfold. (At least.)

California-Wine
I’ll be drinking a lot of this over the next five years!

 

*For those of you who know I’m supposed to be writing Just One Paragraph every day in September, I apologize – it was driving me insane to look at all this dialog bunched together. I just had to hit my tab key. I’ll try harder tomorrow.

*Book image from st0rmtrooper via Tumblr

How to Write a Blog Post When You Don’t Know What to Write

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I don’t really know what I was thinking when I challenged myself (and sort of pledged, I think) to writing (and posting) one paragraph a day for 30 days. I really expected hoped to hit the ol’ “I have no idea what to write about” phase sort of mid-month rather than Day 5. (Day 5!) Though, I don’t know why I’m so surprised. I mean, I try very hard to be a funny writer and every once in a while something so terrible happens that I’m a poignant writer, but I’ve never been a prolific writer. I mean, yes, while my posts themselves are often overly long to the point of ridiculousness er.. prolific, they are usually not plentiful. And speaking of ridiculously long, who am I kidding with the whole “one paragraph” thing? Any grammarian who’s been reading my posts for the last couple of days is surely out of her mind and screaming at her computer screen, “That is not just one paragraph! It’s a bunch of paragraphs smashed into one. You’re not fooling anyone just because you refuse to hit the tab key!” Although grammarians who read my blog are probably used to shaking their heads in disgust. Especially this one and this one. (Thank you for continuing to read anyway ladies!) So today my (already more than one) paragraph is about nothing. My unimaginative brain doesn’t even have the creative capacity to figure out a picture to post. Tomorrow (and the 24 days that follow tomorrow) I hope to do better. (But I’m not holding my breath.)

Why I Should Never Walk Out the Door Without my Cellphone

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Modern life has made cellphones somewhat of a necessity. Any mother will tell you that they need for their children to have a phone so they can always know where they are. It’s also quite helpful with the arranging of after-school or after-sport pick-ups. Of course we grown-ups need our cellphones too. How else is our husband supposed to let us know we’re out of milk? (And more importantly how are we going tweet about the long line at the post office?) Unfortunately, much to my family and friends’ dismay I am sort of known for forgetting my cellphone. And it always seems to bite me in the ass. Just last week I was standing in line at the bank and saw Angelyne. I had the perfect shot of her to text to my friends (OMG – look who is at the bank!), though admittedly if I had had my phone I probably would have chickened out and not taken it. If you are scratching your head wondering who the LA phenomenon known as Angelyne is, Google Image her. Or just click here. I’ll wait here while you wash your eyes out. (I know, you can’t un-see that. So sorry.) Yes, she really does dress like that. And yes, she is elevendy. (My friend Tina brilliantly called Angelyne a cross between Debbie Harry and Phyllis Diller. Hot Damn, Tina is funny!) A couple of days later I was at Trader Joe’s and saw some dude wearing a light-colored Hawaiian-type shirt with dark yellow pineapples all over it and contrasting dark-colored shorts with light yellow pineapples. It looked like a grown-up version of Garanimals that had gone horribly wrong. I think he was being ironic? Or maybe he just had really bad taste. Either way, it would have been nice to snap a sneaky photo to snarkily text to my friends à la People of Wallmart style. So obviously I have to be more careful and stop leaving my house without my phone. Forget about my husband or kids needing to get a hold of me. Every time I leave my house without my phone I see something spectacular.

Hawaiian-shirt-shorts-combo
If only the pineapple outfit had been this “stylish!”

Photo credit: thefader.com