Top of the Morning

"...nine fifty four, nine fifty four, nine fifty four,” I repeated to myself as I walked down the stairs from the parking lot to the train station. “Nine fifty four, one thirty, nine fifty four, one thirty...” I attempted to keep track of my blood sugar number, because I was too lazy to jot into my journal. “Two dollars, two ninty five. Shit, that’s four ninty five!” The amount of money it cost to park and the cost of a one way fare to the San Francisco financial district. I tripped over numbers like a man made mine field. Okay, I realigned myself, I have to remember the lot number which was what again? Nine fifty four? Or was it nine forty five? Crap on a stick, I was stuck juggling in my insanity that is dyslexia and it wasn't even eight in the morning.

The train was a sardine can of faces staring down at their current electronic. Fingers darting, they communicated anxiously with haste. My blackberry lay somewhere in the deep dark dirty of of my dark leather probably next to the half of an avocado perfectly sealed in saran wrap. I didn’t want to know what was going on in the world or with my friends or with my family. I had to much going on in my head.

Third pregnancy and I was embarking on the wonderful world of nesting. What office desk had to do with nesting? A lot, apparently. Suddenly, our home office space was insufficient and lacked organization. I shopped feverishly for the perfect desk and new computer. I convinced my husband and his business partner that they needed to relocate their office by restructing our bathroom which, by the way, was a generous room by Manhattan standards. Furthermore, the kid's playroom, after my own personal assessment, required major overhaul. The playroom was a civil war between vehicle of sorts. The trucks piled into the trains, the train tracks piled into the fire station play house, the dinosaurs ruled all. Nesting goes something to the fine tune of obsessive compulsive disorder in over drive.

Fortunately our home was nothing close to that show hoarders which should be renamed "I'm an effing lazy sloth pig!" When a person is so lazy to toss his dirty toilet paper in a corner instead of in it's proper place, um that’s just prolifically horrifyingly disgusting!

I was a few stops away from Montgomery station, the mass of texters remained glued to their little screens. Zombified. I felt refined among these common dominators of sloths. Full stop! I was highly privy to Lindsay Lohan's status such as her decrease in jail time down to nine days. I'd rather say I heard it on the morning radio, but really I have a small addiction to the boob tube.

This is Shellie urging each of you to "slowly, very slowly, place your text gadget down, turn the power off, and simply enjoy the silence" back to you Bob at the studio.

Back it Up.

Hello dear sweet friend. It's been a while since I've spit on my blog. Due to a very hectic schedule, my attempt to juggle is all laughs. The household is alive with interesting events as the kids bloom into their own personalities. I’m still trying to fathom how my three year old manages to hold a conversation. It’s mighty mind blowing.

Speaking of my three year old, I’m interestingly enough expecting my third child. Oh yes, it is my duty as a human to overpopulate this earth even further. Aghast, this wasn’t an accident. The earth’s ground ripped open and swallowed my logic a long time ago. I have a long task list that needs to be tended to by the bittersweet ripening age of forty. Eek. I said it. I think my pulse stopped for a second as I face reality in the vast black hole of the internet. I’m half way through the pregnancy and gosh darnit, loving it. The Kitchstar III is due on Nov 6, 2010. I’m honored to be sharing the due date with three other girlfriends who have all been trying for a very long time. I've always wanted an autumn baby! I attempted, and I succeeded.

In the meantime, I’m continuing to do what I do best sip champagne, eat, shop, and love. Surely, I kid…about the eating. I do what I do best, scramble on the daily managing to keep my ducks in a row without having my head spin out of control. I’m not sure what we’ll do with three kids in a two bedroom home. My nesting in a newly remodeled home is a pipe dream, so I will do with what I have. Did someone say bunk beds? I'm a subject of a family of ten, so I'm expected to survive anything. No matter the chaos.

Shellie Top 10 Pregnancy Cheats
10. keeping heart rate below 120
9. lifting and exerting heavy items
8. fast food
7. caffeine
6. circuit training work out
5. traveling
4. too patient with kids, note to self bring down the hammer of discipline
3. not taking advantage of darling husband
2. sashimi
1. last, but not least, ba ba bubbly!!!

Life’s too short to be cautious. Live big. Live well. Life is all about changes and taking chances, the future is a great wide open field.

This is Shellie swerving down the road of life in her hoopty back to you bob at the studio!

and the award for best actress goes to...

Last year Shane and I did our share of tours. The touring of preschool through eighth grade independent schools that is. Our tours entailed a series of successful arguments brewing with disagreements. Some education institutions, online, seemed right up my philosophy alley, but that’s when tours are crucial. For instance, I was convinced this particular school was the one until we walked the halls. The scent of disappointment was stifling, “I don’t like this school, this sucks,” I sadly admitted to my better half the defeat of my assumption. “Don’t worry, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but I didn’t like it either.” My husband admitted in relief.


Hidden in the kingdom of the Portola neighboorhood, a magical and fantastical institution exists. Street parking was a b*tch (excuse my astute observation), but as soon as we cleared the secured wooden gates, the kingdom was breathtaking. The students walked the halls with a confident, but worldly bounce in their step, a very honest description. The environment lacked the evangelistic coddling philosophy that's reinforced by constant whining. The kind and gentle philosophy that kid's would fail to thrive , if ever exposed to, the temperamental predatory that is the real world. This educational institution was precisely amazing.

The preschool's “North” room enormous and brightened with a wall of large windows, a fireplace, a performance stage, a kitchen and everything artful and imaginative. The preschool program ranged from three to six year olds, the six year olds were mentors and leaders to the younger students. The outdoor play area was short of spectacular. There were trees, a generous play area, basketball hoops, lower beyond a grassy green space for garden, compost, and science and observation and such. Shane, who is obsessed with sports and the outdoors, even gave me a nod of approval. Shane and I were quiet as we observed the little ones playing and interacting. We moved through each building, observed each class through eighth grade. I gathered, from each grade, every student was motivated, passionate to learn. Ironically, happy to be there. Heck, I was happy to be there!

The group of parents reconvened in the library for Q&A. Center stage, parents adorned with triplets, the father (paralyzed from the waist down) prefaced his concern with the wheelchair access throughout. Great, here we were trying to get one slot and we were up against a family that required three. Dratz. Unlike other open houses, this was highly organized, and informative. Limited space. The drolling obstacle of living in a city. As many of these schools preface diversity in every aspect possible, we weren’t sure along what lines. Did it mean that the kid with two moms made the grade? Did it mean that the kid with the transgender dad gets first dibs? Did it mean the family that suffered from the current plummeting financial climate had leverage? Or the family that could buy the institution in one swoop transaction? I was at a loss.

The Caucasian parent that was our tour guide, spoke triumphantly that she was chosen on the first selection and she was convinced her essay was apblomb. The tables have turned. The odds just shifted as my fervor for writing was obvious, but essays were my true delight. Unbeknowst to me the online application disallowed unlimited characters for the essay section. I hesitated as I’d rather have hand written the essay and submitted archaically via the United States postal service. As soon as I hit the submit button, I had a sinking feeling.

There were limited slots for preschool. It was written in stone that siblings were treated as royalty on top of the current class composition. As this school is well sought by many parents, I was flippant and sure that Hunter would make it in. The school's curriculum is absolutely divine and perfect, nonacceptance wasn’t an option. Filing an application to private and independent schools is tagged with a fee, in this day and age non-refundable money seemed brainless. Seventy five big ones, the amount equivalent to one Whole Foods grocery bag, was handled with care.

They were a few decent public schools in the city, as Shane a product of, therefore an advocate for public education, wasn’t up on his ever slimming California state budget research. Some bay area public schools lacked libraries! What good is a school without books? Meanwhile other schools' music and art programs, and physical education programs were axed. Public schools were on a lottery system which meant we were more likely to fly to the moon on a back of a flying pig, then get into the selected public school. A decent education in San Francisco has proven tougher then thought. I now understand why parents make their pilgrimage outside of the San Francisco city limits, for proper education for their kids.

If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylums would be filled with mothers.
-- Edgar W. Howe

Today, I got off work at four o’clock and picked up the kids and was home by five fifteen. I prepared a dinner of pork chops on a bed of sauteed onions, cauliflower, and kale. “Did you check the mail today?” I asked Shane as I never made it down to the dungeon that is the garage. “No, why? Expecting something?” He sensed my urgency as I could care less about the mail, if it was piled ten foot high. “Yes, we should be getting the acceptance letter sometime before February.” My stomach turned, tightened along with my clenching jaw. I felt ill.

He returned from the dark dungeon with a pile of mail. I sorted through the stack and there it was. The white letter damped from the rain. My heart galloped. I had to sort through my thoughts. Hunter and Stevie circled around the kitchen table laughing and playing, oblivious to my sudden anxiety attack. My palms surprisingly wet with nervousness. This is ridiculous! Why am I getting worked up over a letter? My son’s only two and three quarters. Shellie, honestly! Have I become one of those moms? Am I the overbearing and obnoxious stock? Am I one of them?

“What’s the matter you nervous or something?” My husband hitting the nail on the head.
“Yes, I am. I’m scared.” I sort of chortled so as to hide behind the thick fear. I have become one of those stage moms, but for wild sport of education. Meanwhile, my perfectly sautéed onions sizzled on medium high heat. Like a bandage over a cut, I tore the envelope open quickly and there it was in plain big loud words, “…Due to sibling priority and an enormous amount of applicants, your child hasn’t been selected for the next admission step... a final letter will be sent in March 14, 2010...” They thanked us for our interest and so on and so forth. I couldn’t finish the letter as the message was brief and concise.

Essentially, the second step was to bring the selected few into the classroom for a behavior assessment. Following a distribution of final acceptance letters in March in which the families are given ten days to accept with a thousand dollar deposit on the tuition. Still a light of hope as perhaps, this school may not be their first choice or financially the selected family is unable to afford the tuition in which opens up a slot of chance for Hunter. I coated my daydream nice and thick over the growing pain of rejection.

The energy in our home had shifted in to a quiet and somber one. “Well, I’d better do some research.” My husband unfazed by the letter, was clearly relieved by the financial aspect of this endeavor. I, on the other hand, was in a high tail spin like a deer in headlights during rush hour. My world had ceased to turn on it’s axis. The onions remained on high medium heat. The pork chops rested collecting it's juices plainly on the cutting board. My body numb.

I couldn’t believe it. I was astounded. We didn’t make the cut. I was already planning on attending the child behavior assessment session. In my head, I was already invited. The decision warped through my head moving slowly into reality. Our application was just a “wall flower” in comparison to the sea of applications. The rejection amplified far beyond the break ups from former cheating boyfriends and deeper then psychotic former girlfriend (that verbally battered husband into complete submission via guilt and kids) and harder then lying and deceiving unworthy former relatives. This was the ultimate betrayal.

“Can you please heat up the kids’ dinner?” My outburst was short and loud.
“Hey, don’t take it out on me?” My husband reminded me that there was still life outside of my tightly screwed bubble that is my expectations. “I didn’t do anything.” My husband happy on cloud nine as the tuition to this institution was equivalent to an ivy league college education, it eased his future expenses. “I’m not taking it out on you.” He didn’t need my convincing, my body language fessed me up. My shoulders curved. My posture slouched like a weeping willow. Thankfully, my bottom lip didn't curl into a pout. I didn’t discipline Hunter when he refused to eat his pasta and defiantly walked to his playroom.

The mystery of the application selection trampled through my head. I excavated every response on my application trying to discover my error and my flaw. I was really taking this personally. After I finished my dinner, I announced that momma was simply tired. It wasn't a lie, mentally my mind was flopped. I scooped Stevie Day up and headed upstairs for bed. It was six thirty eight and the sun had just expired.

I sunk deep in my disappointment and failure like quicksand. I was sucked in the vapid blackness. I couldn’t understand it. I was better then this! I’ve been through hardships that, for some, is unrecoverable. Here I was crowing about some selection process, that wasn’t exactly over? My nine siblings would clearly be disappointed at my weakness, "buckle up, it's not the school that molds the child, it's the parents. It starts from home." Somehow I knew this, like I knew my own name. I was mourning my rejection process like a donkey plowing a field of hard soil, I was having a hard time with it. Who in the world of mars, did I think I was? I was human.

Stevie actively squirmed in the bed. It was too early for sleeping even for her. I’m allowed minimal time with my kids, here I was hiding from the world like a third grader pouting in my sand box. I scooped her in my arms and gave her the biggest swelling hug. As the citizens of Haiti were being dug up from rubble, I was feeling sappy for myself (even I wanted to kick myself). Shane and Hunter joined the rest of the family in the queen size bed.
“Momma wotcha doing?” My son extraordinaire observed my odd silence. He wondered why momma resorted to a dark room and flat panel television, watching crap about celebrity updates.
“Mom’s sad that’s all.”
“Momma’s sad? Momma’s not happy? Why momma not happy?” My son simple perspective to my maze of ridiculousness,” Momma, I love you too.” He swarmed me with his little arms around my shoulders. There it was, my success in plain stupidity. High quality pedigree as my son expressed kindness as my husband, the crux of the family, grinned from ear to ear (he was the bigger sap). I was surrounded by good old fashioned kindness. Love that is in and of itself, my creation. Mine. My family loved me. The heavens parted and from the celestial, clarity was hatched. That evening, I didn't mind sharing our bed with the kids. I needed all the love I could get.

This is Shellie “no drama for your mama” back to you Bob at the studio.

Dear God, are you there? If so, is that you peeing on my head?

The thing about the West Coast (or the people that migrate here), myself not included, that they’re such a bunch of pissy temperamental whiners. Regardless of the social circle, the fair weathered westerners aren't content. If the weather's warm, "it’s way too hot." If it’s too cold, "It's freezing." Whah. Whah. Whah. What a bunch of infants. Suck on this. This is not a generalization, but an observation of over twenty years. I don't hide behind a tough brute exterior, whetting my opinions and beliefs with argument, that's not me. (As a young child, dad rooted whining not an option, and my discontent with the weather would land me more then just a spanking.)

The turrential rain stirred up some nostalgia. El Niño was back with a vengeance. The rain came down whipping on the tail of the wind sideways so an umbrella was pretty much useless. The wind howled and our pine tree in the backyard shiver and shake. The neighbor’s wall of bamboo was being thrashed over like a plastic bag in a wind storm. It delighted me to all end. The neighbor's pulled a dick weed move by planting it without the consideration in the world. The wall of bamboo took a good chunk of our view. This on the heels of preventing them from building a twelve foot fence. So I say, thrash away storm, if you must, thrash away.


By Monday, my third day off with the kids, I was a neurotic babbling mess. I was hoping to exert Hunter’s toddler frenzy at the local playground, but El Niño wouldn’t let up. Balls to that! Hunter was uninterested with his playroom, unbelievable since he can watch Thomas the Train over and over until the fruit flies came home. Instead he exercised his new and special talent to "test and push". He had a gleam of mischief in his eyes, the little sneaky snot rag, was up to no good and I was onto him like a vulture. Let's take Saturday evening, for instance, when I prepared his pasta and cautioned that the dish was hot, "Don't eat it yet honey, it's hot." Quick with the draw, dimples gouging the sides of his cheeks, he shoveled the food in his mouth. He quite possibly seared his tongue. He wailed. I highlighted his lack of obedience. He tossed his bowl on the ground. Let's just say he starved that evening. Stevie, of course, was a ball of joy. She was easily content, chortling and smiling. I remember when Hunter too was like that.



Our unusually enormous living room window was a perfect view to the beautiful storm. The sky was dark and hovered gruesomly over the water. The droplets pelting across the window rhythmically, but aggressively. I sat on the couch with Stevie, as nature meddled with discourse. We were cozy with home, family, and storm. Shane and his business partner huddled on the dining table, dueling apple laptops, discussing numbers, invoices, bids, and projects. Their current project was on hold due to the weather, they tackled the mound of paper work. They make a good team. During their pow wow, it was unfortunate as Hunter pleaded for daddy’s attention. One thing about kids, if you don't have them, they can drive you to commit hari kari on a sharp no. 2 pencil. I felt for Shane’s business partner. Although he had two dogs, dogs weren’t kids. You could always return the dog to the pound. Needless to say, I don’t think they got any work done.


One continuous storm and an abrupt thunderous crash later, I was awoken at five thirty in the morning on Tuesday. I bounced out of bed. I was on a mission. I was excited like the first day of school after three months of summer. Please don’t think that I don’t love being with my kids, I wholeheartedly do. Besides, enjoying my job, ditching calories at the gym on my lunch, that sense of freedom made parenting even more important. No guilt here. Time with my kids is about the quality.

It was the usual morning madness, Hunter defying all that was authoritative. Stevie going number two after a diaper change. I stuck to my guns and geared forth on Project 110 with the Champion I extracted fresh kale, carrots, celery, and beets. Shane whipped the kids into shape, he was the true master at this kung fu. I applied my war paint and meandered through my wardrobe, “alright blast off in five minutes.” My fair warning to my husband to start gathering the kids' things.

"Why aren't your wearing your rain boots?" My husband the shoe Nazi.
"I don’t' want to wear it to work, it’s frumpy and it doesn’t go with my outfit." A girlish, but logical reply.
"Shellie it's storming out there. I know you paid a lot of money for that one pair. You have eight pairs of rain boots and you haven’t worn one." Since when did my husband become an advocate for shoes, rain boots at that! I don’t tell him what to wear and why should he care? He was right, I haven’t given my rain boots much attention. They were unloved and lonely in that dark pile in my closet. I looked like a dork with rain boots on, I didn’t come to this conclusion till after eight purchases of rain boots. Besides, I didn’t enjoy the frumpy gardener look. Hunter boots brought back blocked memories of garden time with mom and dad.

I slipped the Hunters over my pencil jeans and buttoned my coat. I packed my lunch, coffee, and made sure my wallet, checkbook, and handbag were in my handbag. Despite my due diligence, I overlooked my office keys and the electronic gadget that authorized my entry into the elevator wasn't in the vicinity of my handbag (unrealized until I got into the building lobby). It was always a scene at the Kitchen household as we descended from the front stairs to the Lucy, the large R350, or the living room on wheels.

The drive to work was brutal,” Momma where’s daddy?” Hunter knowing well where his sperm donor was. “He’s at home honey.” I spoke kindly and motherly. I turned the radio to Sarah and Vinnie on Alice 97.3. It was a short road trip, but a daily routine nonetheless. The rain was torrential and our body heat wasn’t helping the fogging of the window. The defroster or defogger wasn’t kicking in, which made driving dangerous. I’m more careful with my precious cargo when driving. Ever experience the ninty year old elderly barely seeing over the dash, but swerved from lane to lane at 5 mph? Yours truly with the kids in tow.

The traffic on S280 was jammed. I was never going to get to work on time. I allowed a good hour and a half to get there and even that wasn’t enough. On a normal day, it would take no more then twenty minutes to drop both kids off from home to the train station. I blamed the bunch of pissy whiners that couldn’t drive in the rain, which was all of them. To be fair, I’m no wizard when it comes to driving in a blizzard.

Finally made it to the financial district, in the underground a sax player was all about the jazz, around the corner a college band jammed, clanged, some hippie drone, I assumed, for their next month's rent or kegger. The newspaper lady pushed the Examiner met me at the light of the stairs. The sea of umbrellas were as far as the eye can see. A homeless man yelled obscene garble and was going toe-to-toe with a street pole. I've been resurrected. felt above it all in this weather condition with my hat and rain coat. Meanwhile, the ant heads were inexperienced at maneuvering their obtuse objects through a swarm of rain.

It was good to be back in the land of the living. I have no shame! I’d wear it proudly with a badge pinned to my bare skin. I was on the train back to Daly City station where the beast Lucy was stationed. The exercising of my cerebral cortex exceeded my expectations. For as much as I enjoyed work and the heart warming purpose of providing for my family, I drove fast and furious to the arms of my children.

This is Shellie “you cursed brat! Look what you've done! I'm melting! Melting!" back to you Bob at the studio

Viva La Vida

“Daly City stop,” the driver came through the speakers, “please check your surroundings and make sure you have everything. This is the last stop Daly City.” I embarked on my three day weekend, blissful to spend it with my two children and loving husband. I stormed down John Daly Boulevard to swoop Hunter from daycare. I was always worried about extinguishing my son’s anxieties. For most of the time, he was the last child to be picked up, and I didn't want to be liable for developing a mild abandonment complex. It was a gamble and a risk being punctual for the five thirty cut off time as I place all my eggs in the basket that is public transit. I was just thankful it was BART and not the miserable misfortunes that is MUNI. Samantha, teacher extraordinaire, was always understanding when it came down to delays, but I knew she had other places to be as she had two teenage kids of her own.

In traffic, I’m that crazy woman in the car with Rage Against the Machine smoking the speakers, as the kick ass bass lines awake the angry beast inside my calm being. I swerve from lane to lane, cursing at stop lights or anything that gets in the way of my punctuality and my son. Today was a good day, I had fifteen minutes to buy so all was good on John Daly Boulevard. Once Hunter is strapped in his car seat, I return to planet sanity.

Ever since I can remember, mom always had a snack ready for me when I came home after school. This tradition has always stuck with me. This moment was always parked in a warm spot in my heart. It was the seventies when deep fryers and transaturated fats were trendy as well as marshmallow rice krispies treat. I was greeted with mounds of fresh onion rings or french fries. My mom wanted so much to be the all american mom, she'd make her famous spaghetti and ketchup bolognese. The fact that my mom never missed one day of snack time, made me want to do the same for my kids. Having a snack on me daily can prove challenging when there's no back up in the glove compartment. Hunter has come to expect the daily snack so today I was on time, but I forgot his daily snack. I pretty much sucked.

I kindly asked Samantha if she had anything in her house that could sustain Hunter for the drive home as I've forgotten in the past and couldn't bear his crying and made a stop for french fries at Burger King. In college, I've taken nutritional classes that confirms that fast food chains chemically derive flavors in a lab to ensure addiction or craving. Yes, that yearning you get for McDonald's french fries is not because it's delicious. You're expiriencing withdrawals. Scary. Here I was well knowing, but couldn't tolerate the wrath of my son. Samantha, the all ever gift from heaven, gladly gave me a bag of pear chips, "oh no problem, he loves this stuff." I would've groveled on my hands and knees in appreciation, but a simple thank you sufficed.

I turn the aggressively nineties political music off and opted for a top forty San Francisco station. If you haven't noticed, radio stations play the the same songs at the same time -so much for random. Hunter had an ear for music like when the Black Eyed Peas song Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Good Night clogs my main aorta, he identifies it in three notes. As I always hone his music skills, nonchalantly switching radio stations, I’m confronted with a fight, “No momma, on. Momma on, “ he is pointing and demanding from the second row as if he was English royaty, “Pease momma, on! Pease.” This can go on for ever, but he’s incorporated the mannerisms of “please” - I cave in.
“Tonight, tonight, let’s live it UP, I got my money, lets UP.” Hunter enthusiastically sang .
“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.” I joined in the sing-a-long.
“No momma, stop, my turn, stop, pease momma!“ My sweet brat demanded, again with the please. My beautiful voice came to a screeching halt, I loathe the song like I loath grapes with seeds.

Stevie Day always excited to see me. As she is with Lola, her wonderful care taker, for approximately ten hours a day. I’m redeemed as her spirit is lifted as I enter the room. This is evident by her swift swinging legs. So swift that if lifted a couple inches off the ground, she looks could be sprinting the fifty yard dash! Her bright grin from ear to ear, illuminated the room as she leaned towards me. Her eagerness to be in my arms, rectified my guilt and I couldn't help but think that I could dance on the ceiling! Lola reviewed the play by play of the day, “Tres poo poo, grande! Four hours sleep. Bath, Eat, eat, eat. Besos. Besos. Besos,” Lola continued on beautiful that is Stevie Day, “She’s my flower, my orchid, my rose.”
“Gracias,”I thanked her in my ever so fluent Spanish. Truth is, I was grateful for finding Lola as she is the grandmother that my kids don’t have in San Francisco. She was the stand in grandma. We suffer the abhorrence of out of state parents, she completes the formula. Unfortunately, Lola’s been stricken with a range of tumors, thus kids aren't in her future. Alas, I'd be honored to have Stevie Day as her stand in, so be it.


“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Stevie Day discovering her singing prowess.
“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Hunter joins in the family musical.
“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Stevie Day has a set of lungs on her. Hunter sang in synchronicity. The headlights bright in the lane ahead, we descend Cesar Chaves Street off ramp. “Momma, Momma we’re home!” Hunter excitedly pointing at the home front with the front bay windows lit, “Daddy!! Daddy’s home!” Hunter wails, “out, momma, out, pease.”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Stevie day joined in the circus of daddy. It was the end of an arduous work week, and both of the kid's facilities were closed for Martin Luther King Jr. day. I was beyond thrilled to spend a three day weekend with the ones that I love.

This is Shellie revitalized, “it’s a wonderful life,” back to you Bob at the Studio.

Weight a Minute...What's Project 110?www.proj110.blogspot.com

“Some of you may know this song,” Libby Kiser, fitness instructor with killer abs to show, switched her music on. "Everybody come on dance and sing, everybody get up and do your thang!" Oh no she didn’t! She reeled me back to seventh grade dance party USA, and made me feel ancient as the twenty (is the new ten) somethings stood their like bobble heads unfamiliar to Madonna way back when she was mod punk. Shuh! Libby, the only fitness beast that raps, sings, and orchestrates the best work outs suited to motivate us to push ourselves farther, "What's going on? Are we a family? Are we here to give our best? Mamacitas say hell yeh."
"Hell yeh," double cross jab kick, I beamed from ear to ear.
"Love is free so why do people hate?" She was always positive without preaching, "now chicas give me a hell yeh! now poppies give me a hell yeh..."

I snuck into her body pump class knowing that her class had sold out. What where they going to do? Escort me off the premises? Please. I was one of three women that worked out without a step platform. A little awkward, but I didn’t give a sh*t. Libby was ripped from here to Timbuktu, "Momma said knock you out, what? I can't hear you team? What? What? What?" She continued her singing as I continued my sweating. I had three pound weights in each hand, and I wasn’t embarrassed to be boasting a light weight for I wanted to be toned in the arms department. I lifted with lengthy repetition, "Come on ya'll smile, when you work out, be positive in your new year. Be positive in life. Remember you’re working out for you, so if you’re not doing the full extension the only person your cheating is yourself." She was politely positive and reinforced goodness.


Next morning, I was a crippled mess. My muscles excruciatingly tight and filled with pain. You fucking kidding me right now? I cursed the lunges, side lunges, squats, lateral pieces of turd, tricep, bicep curls. This was the first day, which meant tomorrow would be thrice the pain. “Momma hold me?” Hunter’s request to pick him up as I dawdled down the steps, “Sorry honey momma can’t do that, she’s hurt.” I was more then hurt, I was framed. From the bedroom to the kitchen, the stairs was my only obstacle to convenience. Holy sh*t, it took me a few minutes to clear two flights.

Here's my theory, in order to lose my ten pound goal - I had to switch it up. My muscles needed a jolt. A shakedown. My body slummed the 30 minute eliptical, 30 minute interval sprint / uphill jog, and the 30 minute interval jump rope, turbo kick box class, body combat class, or spinning. Each day alternated with a different one hour cardio, and I maintained, but it was time to kick this fat to the curb. If the contestants from "The Biggest Loser" can do it, then what was my deal? Of course, the candidates are equipped with personal trainers and work out for hours upon days, it's a clear indication that it's possible.

Project 110
My goal weight in a duration of a healthy two months. My game plan includes mixing up my work outs so my muscle will be blind to my body blow. Like boxing, I’m coming at you from all angles, “jab, double jab, left hook, right hook, uppercut, jab, straight.” In the eating department, I will not slope off not even on an off day for two months. Small portions, label control, lots of water, vegetables and fruit. Grab your partner to the left and do-si-do. I went cold turkey on two and a half packs of cigarettes a day, thus my will power is golden.

The Champion, my spine just tingled, a Valentines Day present from my sweet husband two years ago is a key contributor to my healthy weight loss. It’s been collecting dust and usually sees the light of day on a quarterly. As of late, I start the day off with an organic blend of kale, frozen blueberries, celery, carrots, beets, and a couple pears. It sounds grosser, than it tastes. This drink wheels my digestive into overdrive and doesn’t know what to do with this healthy chock, but it gives me this energy that could be mistaken for red bull.

On top of an organic fiend I’m also a label whore, a calorie counter: the calories from fat, the saturated fat, and the carbohydrate. My husband thinks the whole organic movement is smut, "the whole organic movement is a racket, seriously $7.99 for strawberries, fucking bullshit." I'll takek pesticide free strawberry over a chemically saturated berry any day of the week. You are what you eat! Which makes me a neurotic organic label hog.

“never eat more than you can lift” – miss piggy

On the broad, yet sensitive, topic of carbohydrates, current studies are emerging that low carbohydrate diets are taxing on the liver. It’the case of protein that’s gone too far. Omitting carbohydrates from my lifestyle is like cutting off oxygen to my blood stream. Like a junkie, I’ve learned to maintain. I love my carbohydrates! You can’t tell a true Filipino to cut out the white rice from their diet. My mom would starve herself silly. I'm not so much a white rice monger, but a warm loaf of walnut bread from Tartine or a baguette from Acme Bread can send me to the moon and back. I would hunt down a wildebeest for a warm plate of home made pappardelle with a simple boar ragu. Home made pizza with a simple garlic, mascarpone, seasonal mushroom with fresh thyme. It's simply a felony to omit.
Meanwhile the social elite that gorge on pasta, loaves of bread, and slabs of butter, and can simply wedge yourself into a size 3/4 well, that's just wrong.

Which brings me to my first rule to carbohydrates when attempting to shed some fat: carbohydrates must only be incorporated with breakfast, snack, or lunch. Carbohydrates are forbidden after sunset. Carbohydrates is a source of energy and I need my energy most during my excessive morning or lunch workouts. Disagree, but you don’t share my body type and my sad gene cesspool. I’m not top heavy or bottom heavy. I’ve been cursed with the middle heavy body type. Let's just say, I’m not so much heavy as I’m not tight in the mid section.

The first and last time a six pack was ever evident was when I was fifteen. Jerome Bousefield, first boyfriend and first heart break affiacionado, “wow, you actually have a six pack, that’s insane!” Before that, I would’ve never noticed the little tight flat muscles that I referred to as my belly. I was a street skater and shred the twelve foot half pipe with one foot vert. I was a sk8er. One of the reasons I moved to San Francisco was my obsession with the street skating scene with Mark Gonzales, Tommy Guerrero. They were god and I was seventeen. Set aside the teen years as it doesn’t count! My torque and horsepower metabolism decelerated in my late twenties, due to a flat tire.

By the golden words of Madam Mireille Guiliano the author of French Women Don't Get Fat, food should never be associated with diet, but to be enjoyed and praised. I'm hoping that I can approach two months highly sophisticated minute portions of pats of butter, chocolate, baguette, and triple cream cheese. I'm hoping that Enjoyment of food and exercise is living life. Goshdarnit. Here's to ten pounds and the next two months! Follow my troubles possible foils, mistakes, and possible success at www.proj110.blogspot.com

This is Shellie tossing her midriff to the wind back to you Bob at the studio!

How Much is that Puppy in the Window

In the wake of mother nature’s bowel movements, California’s continuous earthquakes and Haiti’s flattened and devestated. It frightens me that my office is nineteen stories high in the town of tremor. It's pretty scary stuff and a topic that weighs heavy in my chest. Well, now that I have two beautiful kids and a wonderful husband, I treasure my life more then ever.

Still, I can’t live my life in constant fear. Listen I was born into a draconian Roman Catholic household. My home peppered with a varietal of statues of saints, virgins, jesus, baby jesus, bloody jesus nailed to a cross. Gulp. Growing up I was under twenty four hours of religious surveillance, preparing for the end of the world. When I meet Saint Peter, heaven's glorified door man, I hope he would let me into Club Heaven and direct me to the VIP section with unlimited bottled service. Alas, mass therapy and decades later, I've kicked my guilty habit. I know a thing or two about damnation, destruction, hell stone, and brimfire. My kind apologies to my family and friends who remain under the thumb of the holy trinity. You gotta do, what you gotta do.

In essence, my heart and thoughts go out to the people, families, and nation that is Haiti.

On to brighter, not so bleak, yet somewhat interesting subject, urine. Yes, you read right, urine. Father’s day 2009, I decided to throw caution to the wind and adopt Oliver, original name Sherman, from the SPCA. Against the SPCA counselor's advisement, “Perhaps certain dogs are meant to be alone. Did you ever think of that?” the counseling session wasn’t going as expected. There was another family, that wanted dibs on Sherman. This I gathered from sitting in the waiting room with the other excitable candidates. Originally we were gung ho about Grover, a cool unknown breed with a peculiar brow, sporting a turtle neck sweater with an intelligently coquettish sway. He was the Sherlock Holmes of the canine club. Well, he was snatched before I could spell impulsive.

Sherman was down for Chloe, this was evident by the badgering and butt sniffing. On the contrary, Chloe wasn’t down with Sherman; she sheepishly wanted nothing to do with his anus. As a female, I concur. I understand. "Well don't you think they'll eventually get along?" I thought. Naturally, why wouldn't they? The family of four in the waiting room was in for a disappointment. I was a mere steps away to closing the adoption.

Chloe, our bichon frisee, was lonely without our company so we thought we’d be a pal, and get her a pal. Besides, she was a frigid little fluff that was afraid of her own shadow, literally. Another infant and a year later, I’m questioning my decision. First of all, we have no idea of Oliver’s, formally known as Sherman, background. It's not always the case when rescuing a dog. All I’m certain of is that he can clear jump over anything, like we’re talking equestrian and shit. On top of his super vaulting prowess, he can run like a habanero fueled cheetah. Sir Oliver is whipped with a fury of vim that can make an old man do the shimmy shack shake. I’d like to think that he’s an aggressive blend of Chihuahua with a hint of miniature italian pinscher. My husband tells everyone, "He's whippet Chihuahua mix for sure."

Either way, he requires the mystical assistance of the “Dog Whisperer.” I’ve seen the television show twice and he’s bone down amazing. Essentially, it all winds down to the owners, the masters, if you will. We entered into the commitment with the brilliance that the dogs would play in our backyard during work. Oliver clears up and over the enclosed deck, scurries down the backside of the hill and goes on an adventurous fury, harassing pedestrians and yapping at his fellow dogleagues. Did I mention that deck was built by Shane in two days, specifically to keep Oliver in.


On this specific day, Stevie was newborn and Hunter wasn't in daycare, a friend stopped by with a care package for the baby. At the crack of the front door, Oliver made past the prison walls dashed straight into street traffic. Stevie wailed as Hunter screamed, "Oliver, momma Oliver!" What do I do? I can't leave the babies? Ironically, straight out fiction, there were four police cars each at opposing four way stop. Oliver weaved and dodged traffic, barked at pedestrians. I was embarrassed on top of furious. "Lady please keep your dog on a leash," the bullhorn blared from one of the cops cars as the other policemen chuckled at my despair. There I stood barefoot in my pajama bottoms and white t-shirt, "Here Oliver, come on boy, Oliver please come here." Oh, Sir Oliver, if I could only get my hands on you. The men that swore to Serve and Protect, Sat and Chuckled. Sir Oliver, I should rename Judas, possessed not a smudge of loyalty in that little body. He simply took off like the wind and returned thirty minutes later.

These days, I simply leave the backdoor ajar and patiently await his return. He's swift with no regard to his Lords and Masters. Marking his territory on our bed, now there was a new one. I’m not a dog psychic, but I think Oliver's unhappy, if not livid. I get it. I'm just glad he didn't paint a picture on our comforter, substituting acrylic with feces. Sir Oliver is unable to exert all the genetic wattage, as he is best behaved when given a good run, free of leash; freedom. Sadly we're unable to accommodate him with the daily leisure. To be straight, two kids and two dogs, we can't afford to walk him daily period.

In light of his great urination, it was the great crate highway for Sir Oliver. Readers I do not advise utilizing the crate as punishment for your animals. The dog need not associate the crate with punishment. Sir Oliver cried the entire night. I wanted to cry the entire night. No sleep. If it’s not the kids, it’s the dogs. If it's not the dogs, it's the kids or sometimes my drunk husband. I'm embracing my chaos to allow for harmony to enter. Tonight I will tackle the matter at hand. Sir Oliver will get his first walk to make up for long neglect.

To set the record straight, I really should’ve gotten one of those coin purse sized dogs that I could just tote around in a designer handbag. So here I am, wearing myself thinner which, unfortunately, isn’t equivalent to my physical stature. I’m hoping that this dog walking, may contribute to launch my weight loss and minimize the indoor dog made pool.

Yes, I think I just dedicated the entire entry to my dog, Sir Oliver. Pathetic.

This is Shellie from the top of Potrero Hill with my hind leg up, “here’s to marking my territory” back to you Bob at the studio.

Jack Pot

I tossed and turned. I sat up. I fluffed my pillow. I laid back down. I tugged at the down comforter. Shane and I finished the ever so uplifting joyful “Revolutionary Road” in the living room. Too exhausted to pick up the kitchen, we headed upstairs to bed. During my transit to work and back, I’ve been reading and fulfilling my objective for the year. I’m halfway through the laugh out loud Julie & Julia. Plus, everyone that knows me, knows that I’m poisoned by television. I’m still feeling a little remorse subsequent to passing over the Law & Order: SVU marathon last Saturday, due to prior family engagement. I flipped through the cable channels and low and behold, the new season of "Big Love". It was nine o’clock and I should smartly get some rest, instead I was reeled into the high drama exciting world of Mormon and polygamy.

Stevie melted in my arms earlier this evening. I was prepared to stay up later, Lola, her kick *ss caretaker, advised that she had a three hour afternoon nap along with three large bowel movements to boot. She was in her crib dreaming of plowing destructively through Hunter's perfectly constructed train tracks, grazing on cheerios, and a clean diaper. Hunter, my sweet stubborn weed, rooted to stay up late. After some persistence, I coaxed himself to bed. Actually, I can't take credit, he put himself to bed. I don't know how. I don't know what. I didn't care. He was down, so crack open that bourbon and pour me a stiff one.

There I lay, in my 800 thread count sheets infested with cereal crumbs and dog dandruff enjoying my polygamy. The evening was grand. Shane's reached the perfect sleeping altitude, his mouth gaped open with the raucous of a buzz saw in the direction of my left ear. I’ve learned this trick years ago via trial and error, turning him on his side lulls the snoring orchestra. On his side, the orchestra lulled.


It was ten o’clock and the household was harmonious. Chelsea Lately was on with guest Giulliana and Bill Rancic. I was a big fan of Chelsea and her jugular vein wit, but never thought much of Giulliana, “to the Jersey Shore crew if your watching, you're not Italian, you're not Italian. I was born in Italy and you're Italian. Sorry.” The slender E Host was adamant and proud of her true Italian roots. Suddenly, I felt a certain affinity towards the sleek and charming Italian that verbally put up her dukes.

“They’re definitely from New Jersey,” Chelsea intervened, “Believe me, I’m from New Jersey and I can assure you, they're from New Jersey. People from New Jersey, they have that certain lack of something.” All this was triggered by the MTV Jersey Shore show that has the entire nation captivated. I was beyond captivated, I couldn't wait for the upcoming episode. Yo, extra butter on that microwave popcorn. I was riveted.

I feared soon as I delved into the lush jungles of sleep, I would be awoken by the wails and tantrums of Sir Hunter. Four thirty something the night before, Hunter crawled into bed, munching on a frozen blueberry waffle. The crumbs toppled on my sleeping head. He further managed to go downstairs, open the freezer door, grab the last waffle, but not his first. He proceeded upstairs back into our bed to finish off his second serving of frozen blueberry waffle. I was too flopped to reprimand the situation, it’s not like he’d fall ill and die from frozen waffles. Right? “Why is the blueberry waffle box in the compost?” Shane, deep sleeper extraordinaire and oblivious to son's early morning hunger initiative, discovered suspicious activity had gone about the kitchen last night.

I should be getting some snoozers, instead I flipped through the channels like a zombie. Brains. I need Brains. My brain swelled I was experiencing a mild neurotic breakdown. The silence was discomforting. Has Stevie suffocated? Maybe she couldn't’t breath and suffocated between the crib bumper and mattress meet. Maybe she choked on a detachable tire that Hunter threw into the crib as a gesture of sharing. Perhaps, she pulled the blanket over her head, oxygen is limited. It's too quiet. Did Hunter stick his finger in the electrical outlet and managed to remove the childproof socket locket. I couldn’t take it anymore and made haste to their room across the hall. Stevie hummed her sweet little breath, her chest rise and fall. I put my ear closer to make sure her breathing was regulated. Hunter lay with his Hawaiian quilt gentle breathing, still as air.

I turned the television off. Coming from a family of ten siblings, noise always settled the madness of my thoughts that scurried like rats in the attic. My mind hostage to the terrorists of thoughts. I better kickstart this writing project like pronto! Would I hide behind a pen name or use my real name? Maiden name. Married name. My maiden name is sexy. Kitchen just doesn't suit me. Sterile. Oh my god, the kitchen is a mess. Maybe I'll get up early and do the dishes tomorrow. Wait tomorrow is today. What am I cooking for dinner tomorrow, I mean today? Bananas. I should make use of those soon to be rotten bananas and bake banana muffins and give it to Hunter's day care and Stevie's care taker. Fudge and fiddlesticks! I need to order groceries for the office. Office work, maybe I'll go in on Saturday to catch up. Nah, I'll take the laptop home and export the folders and files from there. Did I send that email to our bookkeeper? Ugh, tuition. Hunter's tuition. Tuition assistance? Private preschool. Public. Mortage, it's due in a couple days! Why don't we have a calendar! That way I can record birthdays. Family. We need to get on this family vacation. New York. Portland for wedding. Other vacation possibilities. Hawaii. Hmmm. I'll never be able to rock a two piece bathing suit. Increase cardio workout, stick to your calorie count. Mini tummy tuck. I wonder, if it's free if I agree to be followed around with cameras on Dr. 90210. The new Beverly Hills 90210 sucks. I'm so tired. I need to get up earlier to juice vegetables for my breakfast smoothie. Yummy, steam vegetables for dinner. Heck, steamed vegetables for breakfast! After an hour of exercising my mental knots, the pitter patter of the rain outside cooed me down.

It was seven fifteen in the morning. I made it. We made it. The kids did it. Stevie Day joyfully played with Shane. “They slept through the night and Hunter's still asleep,” he was proud of the large feat. “Wow. Crazy right?” I was Rocky Balboa running up the Philly Museum of Art stairs, getting stronger.

I headed downstairs with Stevie in my arms. I had to take my one on one time where I could get it. It was an atrocity that she spent more time with her care taker then her parents. It's a sour lemon to swallow. Stevie Day was my cuddle bunny, if ever there was one. Beaming with glee, we danced in the living room as she lay on my chest smiling and I whizzed her around, “My cuddle bunny, sweet, as pie. My cuddle bunny, I swing, so high. My cuddle.”
His bed mane wild like a lion, “momma,” he pointed, “cereal.”
“We’re out of cereal, love we have oatmeal?”
“Ohmeal, momma, oahmeal.” Hunter head on Shane’s shoulder pulled the strings for he was the puppet master.

I scrambled around getting his oatmeal ready. Stevie self amused in her activity center content with binky in mouth. The oatmeal took ten minutes from start to finish, I prayed that Hunter would wait patiently. Maybe I was asking for too much after last night’s peaceful performance. He didn’t as he whined, “ohmeal, momma, ohmeal, momma, ohmeal, momma.”
“Alright, love, please stop your whining. It’s coming.” I poured him some fresh orange juice to buy myself some time. Snaggle tooth! The mush was hot off the pot. Steam bellowing over the bowl, “Hunter it’s hot, so let’s blow on it.” We both blew as he half whined and cried. I added some drama to his meal by sprinkling brown sugar and cooling it off with some milk.

Shane released the barkers to the backyard. As I flossed, the door opened and closed, there sat little Miss Stevie Day staring at her reflection in the mirror. Goshdarnit. The bathroom was my lethal escape from the kids. There she sat, on the filthy floor, that is the bathroom. Gross. I’ve learned as a parent, means being ten steps ahead of your kids and having eyes behind your head. I proceeded to apply black gunk to my short lashes meanwhile observing her stationary stance. I was reluctant afraid she would wander further into the bathroom. Please note that our bathroom is the size of a traditional New York apartment, giant! It’s obnoxiously roomy that one would be saturated with guilt when it was toilet time. The house was purchased under the assumption that a major remodel was in the near future. One faulty financial crash, government bail out, and five years later, we remain stuck to the barf pink pepto bismol bathtub with pedestal sink to match.

I opened the bathroom door to release the Stevie into the wild. Hunter monopolized the playroom with Thomas and his homies train tracks in the middle of the room. Peculiar, my son lured my daughter into the bathroom so he was free of crawling menace and disaster monger. “Momma, close the door. Momma, close the door. Please momma?” Gasp. Did I just hear what I thought I heard? There it was the magic word of all words. Did I hear right? “Please momma?” There it was again! I swooped Stevie Day up and closed the door behind me, “Sure Hunter. Of course.” If he asked me for the keys to the car, I would’ve gladly relinquished it. There it was, bright as sunshine on this gray of a rainy day. The polite word fell perfectly from his lips. Today, I walk among the giddy. Proud.

This is Shellie from San Francisco’s BrainWash laundromat, “This cycles on me!” back to you Bob at the studio!

"Please is My Co-Pilot"

I decided to give the gym a rest this morning as I looked forward to spending the day with my kids. It was Shane’s birthday weekend, technically it was last Tuesday, I allowed him free reign to golf and boyishly juvenile behavior. I extended the leash for a twenty four hour length. Meanwhile, I baked a ham, rosemary, and cheese scone. Ever since Hunter's baked us a delicious Christmas bundt cake at his preschool, he’s transformed into this curious helpful little ball of wonder. My patience at the forefront, I hone the little assistant in him, “Momma, like this,” he proudly mixed the egg wash as if he scrambled eggs in the bowl. He then proceeded to lift the egg wash and incorporate it with the dry ingredients, “Hunter, don’t do that! I mean, please don’t do that.” It took all the strength of the Greek gods to hold me back from raising my voice. Stevie Day, the daredevil crawling machine, circled the kitchen, batteries not included, at top speed. “Momma whatcha doing,” Hunter the inquisitive master, climbed up on the chair and observed in wonderment. “Momma’s baking,” I smiled, “eat your breakfast?” I kindly pleaded. “No,” he clamored, “Momma watcha doing?” Our conversations were like a dog chasing his tail, repetitive and never ending.

Shane excited for his twelve o’clock tee time was prepping for his day of boys, balls, and beer. As I was left to paw off the kids, minus my morning caffeine, could prove perilous. Instead, he was upstairs changing collared t-shirts and slacks to make sure today’s outfit was hip, yet made to look effortless like he didn’t spend twenty minutes finding the perfect wear, “Shane, can you come down and help me out?” I teetered on the edge. Ever since he shed twenty pounds, merely by diet, he’s been obsessed with his reflection in the mirror. Was it too early for his midlife crisis? I’ll wait for the mother load, trading his truck for a bitchin’ camaro. Until then, I can’t say that I didn’t see the signs.

Shane came down stairs, in his argyle gray cashmere sweater and his gray slacks that he purchased at the vintage shop at upper height for eight bucks. I, on the otherhand, teeth unbrushed, hair aghast, and flannel Christmas pajamas needed my caffeine stat, “Seriously? Your tee time is in three hours. Lame.” Not to mention, that I was a bit jealous that he had allocated twelve hours free from kids and wife. “It smells good in here,” he scooped Stevie Day from her circling race, “come on Stevie Day let’s go in the playroom. Come on Hunter, let’s go play with your trains.”


Now that the savory scones were in the oven, I tackled the cherry and pecan scones. My pantry overflowed with ingredients from my over ambitious attempts to Christmas cookies. In my short stint as a cook, I discovered the spoils of a dishwasher. In a restaurant, I didn’t have to worry about cleaning my pots, pans, or utensils. This, in result, was a downfall for my performance at home that was easily mistaken as slobbery, “Jesus! You use every utensil and pot when you cook.” My husband suffers mildly from OCD and the thought of a messy kitchen threw him into a high blood pressured tizzy fit. Plus, everything that I couldn’t cram into the dishwasher was placed in the sink which Shane usually handled from there. A slob falls for a dashing obsessive compulsive, seemed like a good idea at the time. A huge oversight.

“You know the perfect chef is the one that gets through service with out a splash on his chef’s jacket. Imppecable. Jean Gorges worked in Prada shoes and a crisp white jacket which was spotless through out service.” My former chef and mentor would ramble before, during, and after service. Obviously, I couldn’t afford Prada and if I did, I wouldn’t be flaunting my pair in a kitchen like a pair of house slippers. I'm a cook, not a chef. Alas, my jacket was always blotched with sauce and reductions and wreaked of cigarettes.

Motherhood proved more of the same, I was disheveled in my parenting skills. Hunter spoke in demanding order, “Momma, I want milkie. Momma, crackers. Momma, books. Momma, I want juice. Momma, I watch choo choo.” He demanded with out the special password that was the key to the magical kingdom of praise, "Hunter please, you have to say please. Always say please. What's the magic word Hunter?" In which he would respond softly, "please." A product of his environment, please didn't come naturally to his vocabulary. I was guilty. Shane was guilty. We were guilty.

Why isn't he saying please? I had come face-to-face with the quandry. His preschool teacher prefaced that he was very cordial and always said please and thank you. Was my son just running a gammit? Was he milkin’ us for all we've got? Naturally, I pondered parenting seminars on potty training and manner and etiquette. Formerly, I scoffed at the idea of these seminars that proved too lenient. I rolled my eyes at the idea of a sleeping therapist. Flagitious. Now I find myself at a dead end with my free style parenting skills, wishfully thinking this is just a result of his terrible twodome. A dear friend mentioned, “Kids are a product of their environment.” Therefore, confirming that I was the culprit all along.

There are parents that are too hog-tied to set rules or boundries. You know the kids that effortlessly terrorize the dog and castrate the cat, but the parents traipse along as if the world was flat, “oh honey, please don’t dump that ice cream cone on your little brother that’s not very nice. Now, this is your third warning, now come here and give me a hug.” Then there’s parents that are cool as kittens with a ball of yarn, “Son, you dump that ice cream on your brother and you’ll be seeing stars,” brief and concise, straight to the point; desist. Me, I strive to be the latter.

It’s been two days, since the new implement and I’m mentally crippled, “Shane Stevie pooped, please change her diaper. Hunter please don’t throw your toothbrush in the toilet bowl. Darling, please pass the peas? Shane, please pass the grey poupon.” I thought my head would explode and a fountain of blood would gush from what was once my head. In good time, it will come naturally, like an involuntary muscle. As of right now, it feels like open heart surgery without being put under. Ouch.


It wasn’t too late. My little sponge that is Hunter will make me proud. His preschool boasts of his complaisant behavior, I’m bewildered. Are we referring to the same beast that flings his trains across the room when he is instructed to share? Or the stubborn master that refutes that he pooped in his diaper, “no it was Stevie momma.” I’m determined. I’m motivated to bring my son back to square one. As he embarks on the triumphant threes which I’ve been warned is worse then their twos. Huff.

This is Shellie, “Now that we’re cruising at an altitude of thirty five hundred feet and the seatbelt light has been turned off. I wonder who is flying this plane?” Back to you Bob at the studio!

too sleep or not to sleep, it's not a question

The alarm to my blackberry gently awoke me like soft ocean waves to my restless haze. Hunter, the pariah, slumped horizontally across the bottom half of the bed. Little miss Stevie Day tossed and turned and gurgled and gabbed as she wedged herself between Shane and me, was having a parade of her own. Simultaneously, the bedroom alarm clock blared in clashing synchronicity with my blackberry alarm. It was five thirty in the morning and there was no way I was shoveling my way out of this disarray of a bed to a treadmill at the gym. Lofty in nature, instead of working out on my lunch, I entertained the idea of revving my metabolism at the sound of a rooster’s crow. It didn't seem impossible, I used to go to yoga at six o’clock in the morning from Potrero to the Marina for a year and a half, five days a week, to fulfill the Darth Vader that was my six year relationship. This headstrong idea has been stirring some trouble for a week and I’ve gone once. When I did, I disreputed the household, in turn, Shane was up at six o’clock in the morning cursing my intentions. Did I forget to mention that our two dogs also occupied space on our queen size bed. My husband severely suffered from the Lincoln complex, all men are created equal, screw our dogs, screw equality, I need sleep!

Early last evening, we were hip to the kid’s routine. We quickly Skyped Grandma Colleen in New York, as she was on a 3 hour difference, to make sure she got to see the kids and for Hunter to bid her sweet dreams and bed bugs bite. Kyle, brother in law extrodainnaire, gave Grandma Colleen a webcam for Christmas and 2010 has never been the same.

Hunter shoved Stevie as he was in one of his non-sharing mood, conveniently, non-apologizing mood as well. Instead, he screamed his new vocabulary favorite, a stern, "no, mommy, no," as he threw fists in the air. We simply ignored him. I loathed my parents when they'd enforce apologies, but I did the same with a toddler and an infant. In highschool, I went two years on a non-speaking term with my brother Steven, because he disapproved of my boyfriend. My parents would mediate especially over the holidays to shake hands, hug, to forgive one another in that Roman Catholic way, but I’d rather have swallowed a thousand chards of broken glass then break my code of silence. Here I was enforcing the same rubbish on my kids. Where's the old Shellie? Have you seen her anywhere?

After a few minutes of man handling, or boy handling, to apologize to his little sister. Our cheap version of instilling a good trait for life, we secretly gave in to dinner time. We had to keep to our schedule, otherwise this here boat would capsize. It was orzo with a brown butter sauce for the two kids and roasted rosemary chicken over a bed of french lentils, kale, carrots, and onions for us. Stevie Day blew Hunter out of the water when it came down to eating, hence her healthy growth of a ten month old. Hunter’s very particular and gravitates closely to simple carbohydrates like juice and candy. Hunter maintains a very petite frame that I almost envy. Stevie Day, on the other hand, will mow down on protein, vegetables, and cardboard boxes.

Following dinner, we brushed Hunter’s teeth, pajamas, and plopped him in front of the television for two series of Thomas the Train. He was obsessed with Thomas. Not sure when that came about, because previous to that, he had an obsession with Yo Gaba Gaba. Don’t ask, I won't tell. As he sat in front of the devil box, we geared Stevie Day for bedtime which included a warm bottle of delicious formula, blanket, and darkness. She puts up a big fight with “sleep” harshly tugging on her ears and shaking her head from left to right, right to left until she’s fraught with exhaustion. Unlike Hunter at her age, I couldn’t plop her in the crib with a bottle and drink herself to sleep. She required a bit more couth.

Shane did well in the reading department and did so nightly with Hunter. Besides, those books were at the appropriate reading level of my husband. I never met anyone so boastful of not reading then Shane, then again, it took an army of boyfriends and awkward dates over decade and a half to discover this gentleman. So he doesn’t read, there were other traits on my list of criteria that made it easy for me to overlook. Shane was generous with his reading, sometimes reading over four books or the same book four times.

We’re riddled with lack of space, so we must separate the kids to avoid any disruption. As soon as Hunter is asleep, Stevie Day is then placed in her crib adjacent to Hunter’s toddler bed. Mommyhood is daunting, but someone's gotta do the shiznit. The clock read eight thirty eight. The house's quiet. I ponder the idea of the gym which is conveniently located down the hill off of 16th Street. Instead, I plop on the couch next to my husband and put my feet on the ottoman as he inquires, “what time is Jersey Shore on?”

This is Shellie advising, “tomorrow’s another day, it’s another opportunity to chance,” back to you Bob at the studio.

2010: Bring it on!

2009 pretty much spiraled through a funnel like Alice falling into that rabbit hole. Where am I? As my girlfriend Vanessa woulds say, all in good fun, "Your in 2010 b*tch!"

I bid 2009 adieu with my dear husband's mouth gaping open an hour prior to countdown. Hunter sugar infested melt down snoozed cozy in his bed. I greeted 2010 with my fellow cohorts Angela and Kenny "On the Nutz" J. Stevie Day, on the other hand, outlasted us all, racing around the hardwood floors past midnight like she was in the Indy 500. Not one bone in my body felt a vengeance to get sh*t faced. On the contrary, I just wanted to be with my family: my kids and my husband. Besides, babysitters were making a killing on new years eve. Who do they think they are? Those shifty little blood suckers cornered the market. I wasn't falling victim. Besides, Valentines day is just around the corner, in which I will probably have to give in to the coercion.


I admit it. I pretty much fell off the face of the blog world. I lead the louse life. I took to hiatus and chose mommyhood. Since Stevie Day, juggling two kids, two dogs, a full time job, my husband. Plus selfish gains like gym time five to six days a week. In addition to losing my baby weight, I struggle to lose an additional fifteen pounds. It's seems absurd, but everyone is not five foot two, alas doesn't wrestle with weight distribution. Finally, assisting my husband's general contractor business. If your chest is swelling with anxiety, then welcome to my world, come on in!

Actually, I enjoy the fast paced way of life. There's nothing more satisfying and yet challenging. I'm furiously thriving. It's a rush that's vivacious. When my head hits my pillow, be rest assured that my sleep is well deserved. I leave behind my yearning to have traveled abroad. That's correct I did no traveling last year. Sure, I went to Tahoe for a summer wedding, but that doesn't even count. Neither does a drive to Sonoma to hang out with friends poolside. Last, but not least, my high school class reunion (decade not included to preserve the right to my privacy; age). I had no intention of attending. I left town at seventeen, why would I want to see these people? My decision was concrete until I found myself searching for flights and accommodations a week out from the reunion. As my husband confirmed that he wouldn't be attending with me, due to financial lynching, I folded my reunion cards.

Here's to 2010! Hard to fathom, but we are headed to the five year wedding mark. Holy sh*t right? It comes fast! Have money, will travel. Perhaps, New Orleans Jazz Festival or South by South West. Definitely visiting with family in New York and Hawaii. If I can find a flight that's an absolute steal, Spain or Portugal or a Greek Island. Note to self: when considering travel, don't forget about your two kids. Second note to self: All kids over the age of two are subject to airfare charges. Okay, so maybe I may have to ex nay on the travel nay. Snarl.
Read, not that electronic kindle gadget, but a real wholesome novel. I've been lured into the shameless reality television galaxy: the HIlls, the City, House wives of what city. My head was wrapped in the warp of it all. I'm taking the initiative to be whisked away in to the world of literature. Can't wait. On the same vein, writing. I must write. I need to write. I have to write. Lastly, overambitiously, finish my novel and call it a year. Third note to self: stop blogging and get to your chapters. Right. For extra credit, participate in the California Lottery. Now that we're considering Hunter's education, money must grow on trees.

So my goals for this year are not resolutions, but goals. Objectives, if you will. Of course, the usual suspects will continue such as spending one on one time with my husband, keep a strict rule on my little chitlins, and neighborly love and all that kumbaya conundrum.

It's a new year. It's a new decade. It's a new chance to live life your way!

This is Shellie shouting, "look alive damnit, feel alive! Now fist pump everyone!" back to you Bob at the studio!