Skirting the Issue

The root email started from Jen Minniti trying to lasso the girls for cheap dinner and “Priceless” at the Lumiere. Audrey Toutou, formerly from the whimsical wonderful “Amelie,” was back to shine on the big screen. In return, it flickered a response from Jeeun expressing her anxious anticipation for opening night of “Sex and the City.” That was the start of it all. Finding the perfect date and time ricocheted back and forth. This was one of those movies that would be a hoot to see on opening night, synergized in skirt power and the San Francisco gay population. That evening was met with no conclusion of date or time. Meanwhile, Jen’s proposal for “Priceless” was priceless as it was brushed under the rug, never to be seen again.

On the eve of possibly the biggest skirt flick ever, all skirts world wide unite in a flurry mimmicking the fluff: sipping cosmopolitans in their designers and J. Choos. Barf. We’ve settled for next Saturday cocktails, dinner, and sex. Ironically, Angela and Jen Minniti aren’t fans of the show. Angela’s genuine response, “I tried to get into, but I couldn’t.” My husband's no stranger to that phrase. As a fashion academic, fellow New Yorker, and former fashion designer, Jen Minniti finds the show lull with no heart beat.

In good sport, I demand these skirts get their panties in a bunch like the rest of us - for the sake of skirts night out. Perhaps I lightly coerce them like that gentle scene from Clock Work Orange and pin back their eye lids with razor sharp claws. Although I can see Jen tackling her way to the nearest exit in her best Philly fashion, “Get me the fuck outta here,” because the wardrobe was vulgar and lacked luster. On the other hand, Angela might discover that she is a little like Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte all rolled up into one. Me, as a wife and mother, I will take any opportunity to enjoy the company of my fellow skirts. Personally, I’ve been waiting to see Smith Jerrod on big screen. That's it. That's all.

“Sex and the City” has created a glossy movement for women, Manhattan, cosmopolitans, the rabbit, and J. Choos. A bunch of wealthy cougars in Manhattan in search for the perfect hero. I get it, it's only a show and it doesn't exist. Besides, having to face our day-to-day isn't as splashy, we need the fluff to avoid smothering our husbands to their death. On the opening weekend of “Sex and the City,” Jen is in Paris speading perfectly tempered foie gras torchon on an exquisite slice of baguette dusted lightly with fleur de sel (bitch!), Sofia is in Chicago, Angela is finding an excuse like a baby shower, Jeeun's moving, Aussy's Aussy. That's my nitty gritty fact. “Sex and the City” is a conduit for all skirts to sit in a dark room and be whisked far away for 2 hours and 15 minutes in enjoyment and hassle free from our husbands. Priceless.

This is Shellie dying to have sex in any city back to you Bob at the studio.

Destination No Where

As the price of gas escalates, it is clear that I am not going anywhere anytime soon. "Highway robbery," I say, "slit my throat for fuel please?" Which takes me to the topic of vacation. The culinary fiend that I am, yearns for Spain, Provence, Turkey, and Morroco (in no apparent order- I would gladly return to Paris and Italy, but I need to venture out of that beautiful circle). But skimming for a good fare is as common as a cow jumping the moon. California Lotto here I come!

As of June 15, 2008, American Airline declared they will charge passengers $15 for a checked bag. In pursuit, last week American Airline charged $25 for the second luggage. Suddenly, the gas guzzling economy has sunk my travel ship. With the dollar as weak as my libido, I have to reconsider my travel to Europe as traveling to Central and South America proves just as expensive. I have to step back and reassess. I could always travel to the windy city to visit Meghan who is due a visit from the Kitchens. On the other hand, Manhattan is always a good fall back. I have been stagnant for a few years, that I'm finally fevering for the flavor to fly.

Last year, we traveled to Hawaii and New York to introduce our newborn to the family. It was as adventurous as going to the toilet (it wasn't that bad), but the travel bug has found a home in my butt and it hasn't been comfortable for me. Besides, most airlines preface that children from the age of two must purchase their own seat. Christ on a cross, it's getting hectic. Hence, the need to trek this the globe is dire. But, where?

This is Shellie digging a hole to China back to you Bob at the studio.

Uncouth

As a new parent, I have discovered that there must be a plan B when it comes to getting somewhat shit faced. As one must always choose his battles selectively, the same principal goes for hangovers. Since Hunter is on a better sleep schedule than anyone in the universe, seven to seven, I’m pretty much flushed, if a headache starts to jackhammer my skull open.

That’s exactly what happened this morning after Shane left at eight o’clock to make a ten o’clock tee time. I was left to be responsible for my one year old. I quickly wrapped myself in my green robe bright enough to make a blind man see and made way to the bathroom to wash off my smoky raccoon eyes. To make it to the bathroom, with my super mother senses I had to covertly make it pass Hunter’s crib. With the rattle and shake in my brain, I walked a tight rope. As soon as I was in crib's sight, I heard him fiddling with his toys. Ugh, operation covert is a flop. I accept the fact that I'm screwed.

Luckily, Hunter is self-entertained. It must be either a first child thing, a boy thing, or in the genes (most likely the Cadelinia side), because he is by the very definition "low maintenance." I pluck him from the crib and place him in his play room the size of my tidal headache. He immediately finds his Tonka which means that I'm safe for the next thirty minutes. The couch, my ever saving grace --next to a nice long shower, but that was not going to happen. The couch, on the other hand, would be the magical arms that would cradle me back to life. Sure enough a couple doses of Food Network, Tyler's Ultimate and Oliver's Twist to be exact, with my subconscious fading in and out of reality, and I was on my way to salvation. A cup of french press would make my situation fashionably correct, but that too wasn't going to happen.

It was time to roll. I peeled myself from the couch and dragged my head hard into mommy gear. It was mind over matter. I quickly fed the little squirt some yogurt, meanwhile questioning my audacity to indulge in the antics of alcohol the night before. Through it all, I smiled and played the jester to my son as I shoveled organic apple yogurt his way. Although I suffered severely from the last shot of patron that did me in last night, the laughter of my son made up for my mistake. Thanks to a nifty thing called a schedule, he was ready for his morning nap. I filled a 10 ounce bottle of milk, dropped him in the crib, and turned the mild tunes of beethoven a few gentle decibels. Viola. My dreams were a mere second away from my head hitting the pillow. I gently wrapped myself in a chocolate chenile cocoon and had a moment of reflection, "Like a rat to a piece of poisong, I would gladly do it all again."

This is Shellie practicing the kung fu of hangover back to you Bob at the Studio.

False Confession

Shellie: Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been a week, since my last confession.

The sky closes in blackness

Priest: What have you done my daughter?

Shellie: I am guilty of for the sake of being guilty. I am guilty for not cleansing my son from mortal sin. I am guilty for not fulfilling my duties as a wife to my loving husband. I am guilty for having such filthy thoughts. My mind, father it wonders. I am guilty of pious treason.

Lightning and Thunder clang and clash


Catholic Priest: You have sinned against almighty god.

Marking the sign of the cross with rosary in hand

Catholic Priest: You must say two our fathers and six hail marys. Now go in peace my child.

Shellie bows her head and finishes her act of contrition and makes her way to the pews. As she kneels she repents and seeks forgiveness from god, the holy mary, and the holy trinity. She quickly makes her way out of the church steps to the parking lot.

Shellie: Suwheet, I should be good for a week!
(under her breath)
The sky cracks open with sunshine. Orchestra start William Tell's Overture




I don’t think the participants of a breakup in a relationship, never take into consideration the people that will be hit by the separation. It was a shocker to discover that two really good friends of mine have taken the high road.

“But what about Hunter?” I was despondent with Anthony on my cell. I was an athiest, but concerned about their duties as the god parents to Hunter. I love the idea of my son having god parents, but not so into the baptism aspect.
“I really wasn’t thinking about that when this happened.” He stomped on my selfishness and lack of connection to his forlorn diatribe.
“Yep.” I was silent. I had two left feet when it came to dancing with a dude’s broken emotions. It’s a whole different groove when it comes to a male. On the phone, I was stumped.

After speaking with Anthony, I had made up my mind and was singed with Vanessa. I should’ve stopped right there and not played victim to the fiddle. Stop right there. That’s where the foundation cracks and the gaping hole gives in. Who the hell am I? I am just a listener so I should do just that. Instead, my hormone estrogen pumped veins took no safety. I immediately put Vanessa in a cardboard box and shoved her six feet under so her screams were faint.

I received an email from her a few days later, hoping the split didn’t effect our friendship. After hearing Anthony’s saga, I felt slightly cheated and betrayed. How could she be so negligent and cruel? I responded to her email with a light dust of fresh brutal honesty. I recalled my psychology professor’s rule of advice when it came to listening, ‘objectivity’ judgment based uninfluenced by emotions or personal prejudices. I lacked objectivity.

Needless to say, I bashed someone’s feelings. Regardless, she is a friend. I was caught in a web of “he said, she did” and visa versa. I should’ve remained neutral, but my emotions stepped into the defensive. I am embarrassed.

Anthony and Vanessa are really strikingly good people. So it didn’t work out? Does that mean that one must perish in excommunication? Nah, that’s bullshit. I extended an olive branch to Vanessa and professed my friendship and as a friend, “I am committed to honesty.” Here’s to wisdom (behaving accordingly) and to life long and fruitful friendships.

“Love” well that’s everyman for himself. Sink or swim.

This is Shellie capsized in an alligator infested moat back to you Bob at the studio.

The Climb to Apex

As I sit at Mint Plaza, sipping my mineral water in my M. Jacobs peony dress I wonder to myself, “Where in the hell did the old Shellie go?” I’ve checked under the pillow and the bowels of my husband. I’ve stuck my head in the hot oven even the San Francisco sewage gutters. I’ve even ventured into the hellfire of my soul, but nothing! I’m a mom and a wife, but where did I go?

Circa 1998, life was stagnant. My “I could give a fuck” attitude was alive and boiling. I rented and was annoyed by roommates. I hung in limbo in a six year relationship with a man that did not believe in marriage. The sight of a homeless person abuzz with gnats, relieving herself on my doorstep with feces, did not phase me. My version of fine dining was an El Farlito burrito. I favored a stiff pint glass of low grade vodka and cranberry over a bottle of J. Lassalle, Cachet D’or. My encounter with fashion was the sewing room that wreaked of moth balls - a mess with fabric and vintage clothes from the mission thrift stores. Sunday mornings I escaped free from blackouts only to discover bruises from a fist fight the night before. My credit was flawless, but my bank account was as empty as my existence. I was nimble, but I was numb.

In lieu of cleansing my palate to happiness, I have executed friendships that were cruel, on the same rusty blade I have slaughtered friendships because of my own cruelty-- but that’s another entry. Ten years later, it’s midweek as I sit at Chez Papa in Mint Plaza having a leisurely lunch in my designer dress purchased at discount.

In the last ten years, the ruthless dragon -that has run rampant in my guts- has gone into hiding, for good reason. Sometimes, on days when my patience wears thin, I feel the hearth of it’s fire, but I silence it with the laughter of my son and the jest of my husband. On rare days for a breath of fresh air, I relinquish the beast in light intoxicated blurts. These days, I am happy. Content. I no longer run steadfast into walls, bashing my head in search for answers. I have nothing to prove, thus I have enough happiness to drive a self loathing loser to pack an AK and go on a murdering rampage. Although I detest mom groups and associate with normally positive people, my life is seasoned perfectly.

As new people enter my life, they will never have the fortune to meet the Shellie that found solace in body piercings, permanent ink, and conflict. Some people run from themselves all their life and escape to excuses like indulgences, vanity, a new city, job, and/or relationship. It's only human and I speak from experience. Yet beyond the exterior shell of my body, it is my fighting spirit and the loss of my pride that got me here. So here I am, both flawed and beautiful. I am me. Without the old Shellie, I would never be me today. I like me.

This is Shellie chasing her tail in the lost and found bin back to you Bob at the studio.

Rager

As birthdays go hand in hand with celebration, here comes the party! San Francisco is a city complete with micro climate, we chose potrero hill playground for the festivities as it is the warmest spot in the city next to the mission. My parents had flown exclusively from Hawaii to witness Hunter’s, their 13th grandson, first birthday. Shane was very adamant about making Hunter’s birthday cake. He carried his mom's tradition birthday themed cakes. His pithy remarks towards store bought cake said it all. Friday night we had a few close friends celebrate his real birthday in hopes to prepare for tomorrow’s big kaboom. The girls were responsible for cupcakes and the gift bag. The boys were accountable for the creation of the cake which would be in the form of a train.

My idea to distribute rubber ducks to one year olds expanded to organic juice and airplane graham crackers which was than met with a packaging dilemma. That’s where Vanessa “Martha Stewarts” protégé and McGyver’s student comes into the scene. She quickly scoped the room for wasteful decoration. She snipped ribbons from Hunter’s birthday ballons and punched holes into brown bags. She proceeded to run the ribbon through the hole and decorate the outside with the rubber ducks. She than rewrapped the airplane graham crackers with the tissue paper from Hunter’s recently opened present. I bequeath you Vanessa Pena from hereonin you shall be known as Martha McGyver I.

After a few glasses of wonderful margaritas and slices of pizza, we were off to make his birthday party preparations. Shane had baked his cake the night before and I had already made the frosting. The girls were done glossing the strawberry cupcakes. We chuckled at the intoxicated men’s attempt to creativity. In the meantime, Hunter was being entertained by his two cousins in his playroom. At first, the cake did not resemble a train, but a tank. In an hour and ton of laughs, the tank began to take form of a train. It was exactly as Shane imagined and what a child’s cake should resemble. Peanut butter oreo cookies for wheels, red licorice for the grid, vanilla wafers for the smoke stack. It was beautiful.


We were met with a hint of a hangover on a beautiful sunny day. We raided the grassy end of the park with barbecue grills, ice chests, balloons, chairs, and picnic blankets. I had the pleasure of meeting Hunter’s play buddies. The different age kids ventured the playground and the adults noshed and nibbled food. Shane manned the barbecue grill with beer in hand. The men gathered on the basketball court and other’s attempted to battle on the tennis court. Unfortunately, Hunter’s not used to all the attention as he immediately took to tears to the tune of Happy Birthday. He enjoyed a spoonful of his choo choo train cake. All in all, it was gratifying to have friends and family gather today to celebrate a day that makes life worth living.

This is Shellie bidding everyone good day back to you Bob at the studio!

Numero Uno

Today is the glorious day. The big uno. I never thought it would arrive, but here it is looking me in the face. I recall the excruciating pain of labor exactly a year ago 4:00am in the morning surrounded by my husband, and three sisters exposed and swollen. The swarm of nurses and midwives concealing the heighten dosage of pitocin as I begged for more epidural. The hospital was full of women in labor such as the absence of my doctor. I wanted it out. I wanted to meet this magic soul that stirred in my belly.

I was delirious. The doctor demanded that I take a break from pushing for hours. That’s right hours, I pushed. Almost six to be precise. These mandatory pregnant classes teach you how to relieve the contractions, but they never advise on the proper techniches of breathing and pushing. I was a flunkie. A failure. A total flop. Meanwhile, my husband gently urging me relentlessly like a cheerleader at a football game, “to push like your pooping.” The only thing I wanted to push was his face.

There were spurts where he was absent from my side only to find him peering between my legs, anticipating the little one. A couple hours prior, Chris, my eldest sister, commented on how this was the most calm birth she’s ever experienced. Maybe that was my problem. I was too calm, my room was in a meditative state that I couldn’t seek the urgency. After turning the lights on from dim and heightening the pitocin to increase the contractions I shrieked, “Stop!!!!!!!!” The room of supporters halted, “There’s something in my butt!!!”
The room tittered as Dr. Birmingham softly explained, “That’s the baby just keep pushing it’s almost here.”
“You have been saying that for the last couple hours.” I was losing the little energy I had, “I give up, I give up, just cut me open, I want a cesarean.” I dehydrated so many sopping towels, I couldn’t tolerate Shane blotting my forehead any longer.

I was encompassed by an army of midwives and nurses as they checked my blood pressure and my blood sugar, my newfound claustrophia had reared it’s ugly head. I was going to murder the next person that tended to my needs, “Your blood pressure is really high, are you stressed?” Some jerk of a nurse inquired. Instead of sawing her tongue out, I rubuttled with a harmony of curse words that could have slaughtered a lamb.

“Push, just push really hard, ready, remember inhale and push,” Dr. Birmingham desuaded me from my impulsive madness.
“Where’s my husband?” I quickly turned into a five year old looking for my favorite toy. There he stood at the doctor’s view waiting for our little angel to blow through the gates. He quickly made his way to my side, he knew better. With my husband at my side, hand in hand, I pushed so hard in hopes to propel this little human from me. Suddenly, the room filled with deafening rapture. As everyone hugged and laughed I missed the boat, “What is it?”
“It’s a boy!!!” Jill gleamed, “he’s an old soul.”

I knew it! I knew it! I knew it was a boy from the beginning! I cried as they placed his gentle love on my chest. There he was my little angel swathed in my arms.

Hunter Styles Kitchen
6 lbs 11 ounces
19 inches long

I will skip the entire placenta removal procedure as I would like nothing more than to surgically remove that from my memory. The request to push again after thrusting a thanksgiving turkey from my womb was like asking me to scale the empire state building. A year later, my world has gone topsy turvy. I am a better person. Patient. Happy. Content. Happy first birthday to my sweet Huntz.

This is Shellie fist fighting with “age” to never let this beautiful memory fade back to you Bob at the studio.

Wow

Raising my child in a city arena has it’s perks and it’s plummets. To have a multitude of cultures as a backdrop is outstanding, but to be surrounded by moms that fidget with every growth fart of their child really erks me! Back in the day, my generation pretty much raised ourselves, so to see mom’s fret and boast over every progression freaks me the eff out. It’s bizare. I understand the need to compensate for our childhood, but do we have to handle our children like fragile faberge? Honestly. I sure as hell don’t, thus my frets are null to void. For instance, I am bombarded daily with nonsensical emails from mom’s groups with subjects that read, “Margarita Mondays” or “Playdate 5/5 at 1030am” or Beach Day.” I think the only reason I’m a member is possibly because I’m into self infliction. I get the premise of a parent group, I do. I know it is all jealousy. I am bubbling with green as I sit in my office as the string of emails buzz like wildfire, resulting in the tightening clench of my teeth.

Which brings me to my question, "where's my parent group?" The weekend warriors. The Wednesday night cocktails mixers. The full time moms that surrendered all nine to five memories to a responsible nanny. I want to sip cocktails with fellow cohorts that share my experience. I’m all about the playdates and comparing notes. At the same time, I would like to balance it with a pleasant social environment that doesn't involve whining, bitching, or boasting. I enjoy being a mom more than anything in this world, thus the continuous aching of my heart while I’m at work. Yet, where do “I” fit in. Perhaps, there are a few stragglers that are wondering around like me. Maybe, I just need to grow up and give in. Maybe my frets are not null to void, but alive and brewing. Until I discover the ideal shoe that fits, I will not sit still.

This is Shellie seeking aimlessly for the perfect nitch back to you Bob at the studio.