Hello, Nurse?

I plopped myself in front of the fifty inch plasma television in the conference room. It was that time again. I placed the breast shield on my rightie and hit the switch. The slow woosh of the pump whisked me away to boredom. Darn it! I forgot to grab my meaningless literature, celebrity gossip smut. I guess I was better off staring at the white walls. Pumping, now there was a challenge. I was as luscious as the Mohave dessert. Ahem, I was not as fortunate as the others. It took me over twenty minutes to get a couple ounces, if I was lucky. Alcohol, on the other hand, was magic.

Honestly, I was racing against time. Hunter had become accustomed to the bottle and the flavor of formula (blah-yuck). His time with my boob was dwindling, since I started work. If I could provide more nutrients and antibodies for an additional couple months, I would be pleased. Besides, what mother can resist the weight loss via breast feeding. Duh, it’s a no brainer. As I was against formula originally, it has allowed me a bit of freedom. I was hoping to continue, but the gods have other plans for me. It’s called shrivel and dry. I can hear the deep “gasp and whispers” of the “pseudo neurotic hyper pyschotic” mom militia. I’m all about having an opinion, like body odor, keep it to yourself, sister.


The sun was on it’s way down as my left shoulder ached from dragging the beast aka breast pump from work only to produce a measly ounce and a half. Ugh. I’m also struggling to balance my maroon hobo purse that could be mistaken for a garbage bag up the gradual incline in Potrero Hill. Well, my four inch heels isn’t helping any. Fashion, I am such a sucker. Five foot two and ten pounds overweight, I was a hobbling mess. I couldn’t wait to get home. My heart raced and my stride quickened. I had two monstrous hills to conquer before I was homeward bound. The longer the walk the heavier the beast got.

I ran up the stairs and swung the front door open. Momma’s home now! There he was in the arms of Shane. His big brown eyes widened and his lips curled to show a smile full of gums. I whisked him from my husband’s arms into mine. I held him close and tight as he squirmed. I slowly set him down to my chest so he could nosh on his afternoon delight. Some need a glass of wine. Others need a pint of ice cream. Meanwhile, some may need a cigarette. He was my chocolate lava cake; sweet and petite.

This is Shellie savoring each second before he dumps me for the bottle back to you Bob at the studio!

Hau`oli Lā Hānau

In highschool, I was never that girl that could pass for an eighteen year old. I was a slim jim. A stick. A duffle of bones. A slender fragile fire cracker that barely slipped into a pair of size zeros. My seven brothers called me rat salad, why my inability to gain weight had any relation with a rodent, just proves that my brothers were complete idiots. I embraced my slender being with the usual insecurities of a teenager. How I enjoyed being a squeamish teen. Needless to say, I was never that teenager blessed with the opulence of beauty and body.

As a teenager in angst, I didn't have anything in common with my childhood girlfriends. They smoked menthol cigarettes hoping to capture maturity. Meanwhile, lapped on goops of gob on their eyes and held spell binding conversations that encompassed popularity, boys, and cars in that order. They were always in a hurry to find love, get hitched, and have babies, usually not in that order. As most females were in a rush to grow up, I strayed in a different direction. Me, I was the runt of the group, sure I had the usual crush, but I wasn't boy crazy. I had a flare for fashion, I sewed all my clothes. I was a half pipe skater loaded and sponsored with a fury for punk rock and new wave. Mostly, I adored poetry and literature. I was a whopping nerd. Certainly, I day dreamed of being legally eighteen and how divine it would be to be free from the nagging rules of my parents, but other than that, I was in no haste.


A whole decade has swooshed by and I’ve experienced the good, the bad, and the ugly. My seven brothers still call me rat salad, but that’s because they’re still idiots. I can’t really tell you what happened to my girlfriends back in Hawaii. Sometimes -upon visit- their names are woven in small town gossip. For the most part, I am still the same person. Not so slim. I am still that firecracker, thus I haven’t seen a size zero in ages. A victim to fashion, no time to sew. I have no guts for skating and no ear for punk rock. Although, I am poetry and my experience is literature.

It’s a few minutes till midnight and I’ll be a year older; thirty six to be precise. I sit up in bed and to my left Shane snores a chainsaw symphony. At the foot of the bed, Chloe is curled up in a snow colored shag. In the corner of the room, Hunter’s softly rests in his little cove. Our bedroom opens into a vast view of the bay which is well lit by the moon and the city lights. A brew of emotions bubbles and it will take an army and the marines to hold back this bliss. Me, I’ve never been so rich in love. I’ve a beautiful family. A wonderful home. It looks like I’ve finally landed! Anchors down! Now I understand what all the rush was all about. Sigh.

This is Shellie sipping champagne and noshing on caviar dreams back to you Bob at the studio!

Mommy Dearest

I kissed him goodbye and closed the front door that read Hang Loose. My emotions cloaked slightly with numbness, a natural reaction when my heart is plucked quickly from my chest. In the meantime, I held my head high and my shoulders back and sought through my paper sack of a soul for a positive reason for my decision. The morning sun was brisk as I walked down the hill to Third Street. My charcoal Armani slacks swooshed with each stride over the I280 overpass. I took a breath in full and told myself it was going to be okay. There was singe of sadness in my electricity of a new day.

I stood at the Third Street platform waiting for the train to arrive. On the outside, I was prim and fine hoping to lose myself into my headphones that softly played “Happiness is a Warm Gun” by the Beatles. I got on the train and held on tight. The words, “Someday, not for long,” from the gentle lips of my husband echoed in my buzzing brain. I recalled that he held me in his arms in bed trying to alleviate my worries. What does “someday” mean? Someday, I could win the lotto? Someday, I could learn to tap dance in a tutu. Someday, a purple flying elephant could take a big turd on my head. Someday. Humph, that’s like saying, “Hey, where’s the house keys?” “I don’t know, it’s somewhere.” The cart was a load full of rigid blank faces except for this infant that beamed from ear to ear. It was that very second and that very breath that grounded me here to this train, grasping tight to this pole. A smile from that little angel was all it took to ease the pain.

I took the elevator to the 19th floor. I opened the door to suite 1975 and a tall dark haired woman greeted me, “Are you Shellie?”
I forced my winning smile, “Yes, I am.”
“So nice to finally meet you!” She finished with a hug.

I was going to be okay. Styles is fine. He was at home with Mary, the poster nanny. Life as a freelance writer is bliss, but a ball of laundry lint makes more than I do. Life remains vast and great. Privilege comes with a stay at home mom and I just didn’t have privilege right now. Someday.

This is Shellie trying to strike a deal with the devil back to you bob at the studio!