Luxurious

I quickly made my way off the Third street train with gym bag and purse in hand. My pace and heart quickened with anticipation as I strode up the 280 over pass on 20th street. In three inch heels, I hiked up the vertical hill towards home. Chloe’s sharp bark was evident as her white head bopped in the front window. She barked ferociously as I approached the top of the stairs. “Chloe please,” I closed the door behind me as this puppy of a dog pawed endlessly at my slacks, “stop it.” I quickly dropped my things and headed for the sink for a good antibacterial lather. The house was spotless as Hunter, freshly bathed in his christmas pajamas, smiled boasting his new teeth.

“Hi mommy,” Martha greeted me with a hug, “he went to sing a long class, and he loves to clap clap with music. He went to playground and played with girlfriend. He pull her hair like this,” she demonstrated his early flirtations with the other sex, “He made big poo poo, two poo poos. He ate dinner and bath.” She meticulously covered Hunter’s daily activities.

“What time did he eat?” I scooped Hunter up as he sat at my feet.

“About four thirty, pollo and rice, yogurt, and water.” Martha a mother and student gathered her things, “say ma ma?” She instructed Hunter to repeat after her.

“Ma ma.” He laughed and waved his arms. There it was the very words that I’ve been patiently waiting for. The words that took a back seat to “da da and la la.” The two syllables that brought me closer to smitten. I held him tight as he repeated the two most special words to date. As I wanted to hold on to this moment longer, he began to wiggle rambunctiously breaking our unity. I placed him down so he could venture the wooden floors with his newly discovered crawling feature. He scrambled away to the front window, “ma ma mama ma ma,” he pulled himself up from the window sill to peep at the world outside.

There it was short and sweet. He and my husband were the real reasons behind my sprint home from work. Another minute away from home is a negligent minute wasted. There’s nothing in existence that could substitute for the lush and richness of my home.

This is Shellie speechless from the center universe of my heart back to you Bob at the studio.

Reality Bites

Alright, I will come out with it. One of my guilty pleasures is reality television. I know I should be stoned and left for dead in a midst of hungry wolves. Reality television has become one of my closet addictions. As Shane absolutely loathes the concept of my addiction, he has grown to love a few of my favorites. Actually, not one of my favorites, Shane shamelessly watches Making the Band 4. He somehow finds a deep connection with -cheese factor- Donnie. Shane's modest illusion of himself when he was Donnie's age. Shameless.

As I routed for the 21 year old Christian Siriano from the beginning of Project Runway’s season four. Last week, he “fiercely” took the winner’s position. It’s shows like this that makes my heart grow fond. It's an opportunity for talented dreamers to aspire. Christian is the poo so take a whiff! This little whipit of a 21 year old was absolutely amazing and pulled through flawlessly with each challenge. Now that Project Runway is done my heart is not saddened as my diamond of all gems starts tonight!

Top Chef! I can usually sniff out the winner from the first show. The winner is confidently produces dishes that include simple components, but hold complex flavors. Each quick fire challenge always gets my blood pumping, I hang by the seat of my pants. Twenty minutes to create an innovative dish out of gas station food is phenomenal. The dishes range from “off the hinges” or for some “not even a hinge.” Furthermore, I love to hear what Bourdain will say next. This season there are four chefs that hail from San Francisco. One of them, I’ve had the displeasure of staging for a line position, a cocky one dimensional chef that is a “shoemaker” as they say in the culinary world. As I have always been keen on picking the winner from the very beginning, I am predicting his stint on Top Chef will be short lived.

There you have it. My confession in writing. As my affinity for Law and Order, Entourage, Californication, Tudors, Big Love, The L Word (in that order) lives on. I still find myself surfing basic cable for reality television. So drop whatever your doing and grab your bowl of rosemary parmesan seasoned popcorn and plop your bums on the couch, it’s Top Chef Season 4!

This is Shellie where today’s reality is reality television back to you Bob at the studio!

Caffeine

As I have been caffeine free previous to the birth of Hunter, I was thrown under the wagon wheel the day I returned to work. There’s nothing like sipping a warm cup of tea in the morning, but my office is not equipped with the warm water dispenser, thus heating water in a microwave debunks the beauty of tea. It’s like poaching an egg in the microwave, ew! Oh how, I long for a nice mug of genmaichi. Hence, I have succumbed to the essence of black mud.

It all started with a harmless cup of decaf hoping the little evidence of caffeine would give me the right boost. Between Hunter’s late night wailings and my having to be on point at work only called for the real stuff. One cup of thick brewed peets. In truth, I never finished a cup, because a few sips did me in.

As a final protest, I wrote off coffee and caffeine. Did I really need it? What’s a couple sips? I did away with nicotine this should be a parade. “Slam!” I walked straight into a brick wall. I am struggling. Especially, after a late night dinner party, I’m hanging from tooth and nail. I struggle to hold my two ton eyelids awide. My head brainwarps into a blank stare, pulling me into a deep abyss of nothing. As amnesia drops an arsenal on my memory, I sit amidst paper and files trying to grasp the vacancy effect.

I try to counteract the lethargy with a nice refreshing glass of room temperature water, guzzling 10 ounces in two seconds flat. I repeated the guzzling until my belly couldn't take it anymore, each breath brought chest pains. I was about to explode. I defy the advice of my acupuncturists to drink no more than eight glasses of water a day. Did the eastern medicine practice know more than the french who drink as much water as they’re daily butter intake? I tried everything like blasting Flashdance’s Maniac on the speakers and working up a sweat dancing like I’ve never danced before. That only further exceeds my exhaustion. There I slouched in my office chair bloated, sweaty, and exasperated.

Finally, between the sweating and bloating, it hit me. I need to switch up my daily routine! Instead of working out at the end of the day, I would do it on my lunch! Eureka! I’ve struck gold. As I absolutely adore Bakar Fitness, compromises need to be met. Working out on my lunch has provided that extra "hmph" of energy. Adios coffee. Hello cardio!

This is Shellie gasping for air from the escalator doodad that goes nowhere back to you bob at the studio!

Contempt

Living in San Francisco comes with its perks and pests. In this case, getting Hunter into a nursery program is ridiculous. I’ve been advised by members of the higher echelon to submit applications as soon as birth. For some, during pregnancy. I thought these claims were frivolous, until I realized the absurd demand for a well rounded curriculum that is San Francisco. Let’s start with the momsters, they travel in mobs with their little angels duds and diet consisting of nothing less than organic. The fellowship of momsters have a mental diagram, plotting on the highest aspirations for their privileged spawns; baby ivies. The crummiest of all momsters is the “momster dearest” accessorizing herself with children like a pair of Cathy Waterman earrings, but abandons all responsibilities to the nanny. Vulgar. What's my point? Like an army of ants to a crumb, San Francisco is going through a grotesque baby epidemic! Hence, has created a bit of congestion in the nursery arena.

I vividly recall my former boss – nickname stepford for her overzealously trite personality - bursting with orgasmic delight over her daughter’s acceptance to an exclusive jewish preschool. Dumping a bucket of water on her would probably result in a short circuit. She was over the moon like her daughter had just been accepted into Harvard. Prior to acceptance, she had interviewed with all the top nurseries making sure it was the right one that would kick start her daughter for success. I assumed the Congregation Emanu-El had the best curriculum in finger paints.

As I’ve started my trek into the system, I was startled by the year and a half to two year waiting list. What should have been simple became the latter. I have my work cut out for me. After a healthy research in programs, we completed the applications along with the non-refundable fees. Shane and I have appointments to visit these institutions to get a feel for their philosophy and curriculum. Now and again, I have to remind myself that it’s just preschool: crayons, gardening, yoga, potty accident, watercolor, read time, construction paper, sing-a-longs, and play. On the contrary, the sought out nursery program (proper term is early childhood) leads to a matriculation process into a decent private kindergarten program requiring curriculum vitae. If you ask me, it's supercilious. Regardless of all the frippery and flam, there’s one vital element –with high impact- the most prestigious school can never instill and that is a good home. As parents, we are committed to establish a deep root of goodness and strength in solid ground.

Remedy

As I’ve been feeling faded and fatigued, I decided to visit the American College of Traditional Chinese Medicine a few blocks away from home. I always feel better after a good pricking. Acupuncture the feng shui for the soul. Since my original acupuncturist is on the other side of town, I thought I’d take advantage of the close proximity of the needle dome.

I couldn’t wait to lie down so they could pin point the exact cause of my unbalanced self. If I was lucky, maybe they would perform moxibustion to stimulate my blood circulation. I couldn’t wait to fall into deep relaxation with my body and my mind realigned.

There I sat against a panel of four students and a teacher. They probed me with questions of libido, regularity, stool solidity. They studied my pulse, tongue, and blood pressure. I was hoping they could put to rest this lethargic bomb. Deep in the shallow of my head, I knew my fatigue stemmed from accomodating sir Hunter in the middle of the night, causing great raucous with my R.E.M. Nothing less or nothing more. Instead, here I was explaining my menstrual cycle, blood clots, color and size with a bunch of students.

Because they were students I anticipated the lack of finesse with the sharp tip, “That’s H9,” the teacher reminded the student, “your looking for H6.” In the bright fluorescent lights, it suddenly hit me, I am an experiment. I am the lab rat. Oh my god, I am that fermaldehyde frog in biology class. My nervous system was tip top, because my heart rate kicked in high gear.

They left me for thirty minutes, steeping in the needle connection. Normally I fall into deep rest, but I was wide awake combating with my thoughts burning rubber on the parking lot of my mind. The minutes dragged by as I forced my eyes shut hoping for the needles to do their magic. Nope, not today. The frog that I placed on the bunson burner as a prank back in tenth grade had come full circle.

I left the college still exhausted and off keel. I walked up Connecticut street defeated like a pyre being lit inside me. Than my cell rang, it was a call from my best friend, “Hey do you wanna go to Gary Danko tomorrow night? Just me and you? I need to get rid of this two hundred and fifty dollar gift certificate. There’s no one else that I’d rather go with” I smiled and accepted her invitation.

Right then, right there, standing under the street light on 20th and Missouri Street -almost immediately- like a B12 injection, I was alive and warm. Hearing her voice and experiencing her white bubbling energy made it all worth while. It just brought more clarity to my theory, “Friends is a perfect remedy to feeling better.”

I would like to close with one of my favorites by a true favorite Oscar Wilde, “True friends stab you in the front.”