Kitchenville.

Status Quo

2011-12-20T10:41:00.000-08:00

Two years later, another kid, and another occupation later! I've returned to the BLAHg! Lame, I know! Blogs are a dime a dozen now and don't get me started on food blogs. Eck. I've been blogging back when time was a leisure. Here I am, to continue my ramblings and blah, blah, blah that is clunking all around my empty head.

I stumbled upon this blog just by mere googling my name to see what came up. This embarrassing of a car crash was runner up to my facebook. Then there was another woman with the same name in Wisconsin or Wyoming? How many Shellie Kitchen's are there? To my amusement, just two! I, fortunately, married into this name and now with my new found occupation, Food Truck owner, have suffered the "stage name" snafu. I've actually had someone say, "oh sh*t, I thought that was your stage name!" Stage name? I'm that shallow that I would ditch my bad ass maiden name (Cadelinia) for a name that is as stiff as a super starched shirt. Gnarly.

My kids are growing like weeds. My new addition to the great wide world is Ms. Kingston Fox Kitchen! She's fantastic third child! She's chill. She's happy. She's not needy! Everything a full time working mother can ever ask for. She was born a day after the San Francisco Giants won the World Series. In fact, I sat there watching the game amongst my closest friends as I was advised by my OBGYN that morning to get induced right away. My husband, in turn, got wasted drunk in which I ended up driving myself to the hospital as the San Francisco celebrated the baseball win! Husband rushes into the triage, "alright my wife is going to give birth tonight, right now! On the eve of the Giants win on the world series and with the coolest birth date ever 11/1/11" As the nurse recalls, "right." But, that's another story..

These days I'm dealing with three wonderful kids, the best husband and babies daddy, and trying to run my own business that is a food truck. That's a lot in two years. That's a lot in one sentence. It's insane! It's whacky! It's wonderful! Exhilarating electric. For once in my life, I am alive.

Top of the Morning

2010-07-22T22:36:00.000-07:00

"...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.

2010-06-25T20:40:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-01-26T23:54:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-01-19T22:53:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T22:58:00.000-08:00

“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

2010-01-14T21:25:00.000-08:00

“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

2010-01-13T23:41:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-12T14:33:00.000-08:00

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"

2010-01-11T12:28:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-08T11:27:00.000-08:00

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!

2010-01-07T22:08:00.000-08:00

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!

Got Pumpkin.

2009-10-19T20:14:00.000-07:00

As a growing family, it is written that traditions should always be established in order to make the heart grow fonder. I always say, “bring on the love!” As it is Shane’s nature to be mildly aloof when it comes to the general masses, he caved in to the wild wild west that is the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Patch. Note to self, in all the autumn festivities that encircles my favorite time of year, even I don't fall for the Pumpkin Festival. Amateur move.

We had plans to meet up with both my sisters’ families at nine o’clock am at Lemos. It’s a challenge in itself to get myself ready, yet two children seemed like a fifty yard dash with surprise hurdles up ahead. Thankfully, Shane has proven instrumental in the process of getting the kids ready. I, on the other hand, wrestle with outfits and wardrobe dilemma’s of my own. I’m not proud, but it’s a problem that needs some mending in the time management department.

We're on the road S280 and breaking through the fog that is Daly City. I disappointingly sip from a pedestrian latte disuguised as a cappuccino. I noticed not a peep from Hunter Styles and Stevie Day in the second row. Shane cradles my hand as he steers the car south. The traffic to Half Moon Bay was non-existent proven our hypothesis was a success, "Get there before ten o'clock." Up on the horizon the rows of orange awaken our solemn drive from the city. Hunter points, “look pumpkin, pumpkin daddy, pumpkin mommy, pumpkin, daddy, mommy,” he is sparked with intrigue. I'm content to know our monthly tuition to preschool is not a waste, he recognizes a pumpkin. The wafting smell of roasted pumpkins and air popped corn mingle, my heart drowns in the crisp autumn air.

Hunter and his cousin Alyssa and Sydney are thick as thieves. Personally, I never had the benefit of cousins and always envied others that did. Hunter laughed and smiled, playfully jousting with them. I watch from the outside, as an outcast, as the observer, as his mother. Stevie warm in her cozy stroller idly watched as the cousins menaced in the rows of pumpkins. Alyssa held the pumpkin that Hunter’s expressed such affection for, “my pumpkin.”

I wistfully purchased a few tickets for the kid zone activities, assuming that Hunter was open to all that was kid zone. He enjoyed the pony rides as he pushed my offer and advances with a stern, “no, I don’t want to.” He participated in the petting zoo with arms crossed and chest out, “no, I don’t want to.” As a proud parent, the train ride was a hoot! Beside, the fact that he shoveled blue berry scone due to mild starvation, the train ride was a success. Finally, Sydney and Alyssa volunteered to take Hunter down the slide which wheeled no parent coercion whatsoever. Eureka!

“Hunter say good bye to the pumpkins,” Shane gently reminded his son.
“Bye pummmpkins!” Hunter waived to the rows and rows of round orange pumpkins, “I love you!”

This is Shellie exclaiming, “It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown” back to you Bob at the studio!

seis mes.

2009-09-06T11:46:00.000-07:00

The big S-I-X! There’s no mess up on the vowel selection for you filthy mind(ers). I really do mean the big six! Time is whizzing by and it’s freaking me the hell out! If there were a “pause” button, I’d press it. Instead, my kids have to suffer through the storm of kisses and hugs that could gradually lead to suffocation and anxiety. I know back off right?

Here’s the six month status on little Stevie Day. She’s flipping over like a fish on land, flopping all over the place making historical distance travel across the living room. In fact, she’s attempted to break that prison of a crib by pulling herself up with two hands and peering from the top of the rails. Shriek! The abrupt shock of it all drop kicked my heart into a mild cardiac arrest. Literally.

In other areas of lifestyle, formula was starting to get a little pricey even at $14.99 a pop, the solid food option couldn’t have come at a better time. She’s on homemade organic purees and loving it! Culinary school has stooped me back to the basics. No mother sauces need apply. I’ve always enjoyed cooking for my loved ones and cooking for her just satisfies my soul. Occasionally, Hunter gets a little jealous with the spoon feeding, but I’m curbing his spoiled ways with the back of my hand. (easy there child advocates, that was just a joke so put the phone down.)

Unlike Hunter, she’s a little gabby gabba, chatting away in her baby gibbers. In the early morning, I’ll hear her jabbing away from her crib. It’s a delightful feeling like drinking chamomile wrapped in a cashmere throw on a Sunday morning. I absolutely adore it. Her female attributes are developing quite nicely, she’s definitely female.

Until this house is sold, the kids will learn the power of sharing 101. Hunter in the toddler bed and baby in the crib, it’s cozy and it’s perfect. Alas, the largest leap of them all, sleeping through the night! Sigh. What’s that? Besides the guzzing sound of my husband snoring, that’s the sound of me knocking on wood, as we’re about to embark on the season of teething and who knows what sick and torturous acts fate has up her sleeve. Perhaps, fate may give me another “get out of teething for free” card for all of the good deeds and intentions I’ve bestowed on my fellow neighbor.

For you ladies who were afraid to make the plunge, motherhood is not only chic trendy and fashionable, but absolutely fabulous! It can get somewhat tiresome for some, but shake off that soot and get your booty out of the house. Life is rewarding just look around you. Until then, I’m embracing the coolness that is Stevie Day’s six month bench mark. Hooray. I’ve made it with just mild scrapes and bruises.

This is Shellie, “Just be thankful for what you got. Diamond in the back, sunroof top, Diggin' the scene with a gangsta lean,” back to Bob at the studio!

Quattro

2009-08-27T23:34:00.000-07:00

It was mid eighties in the East end of Kauai as the sun in all it’s array lit up the ocean blue sky, the schlack of foundation gradually melting off my face. It was just as I pictured it, ocean front the serene sound of the gentle waves caressing the golden shore, champagne, and most importantly family and friends. The acoustic band played Israel’s version of Some where over the Rainbow as I walked up the aisle arm in arm with dad. There he stood waiting for me in white linen. Eyes rimmed with tears, dad hugged me one last time and handed me over to the man, in a few moments, that I would call husband. Shane mutters through his smile, “is that fake eyelashes?”

Along with the push up bra, he absolutely despises cosmetics. Every night before I went to bed he dreamily says, "your so beautiful why do you put all the crap on your face?" I am greeted more aggresively in the morning as I slap on the makeup, "I don't know why you put that shit on, you don't need it!" Little did he know that I've been hiding underneath all the makeup, as a shield from insecurity since highschool. Although he could just be saying that, to reduce the hours it took me to get ready. There I stood in the midst of paradise as my soon to be husband is fixated on my fake eyelashes and the schlack of foundation on my face. He was so astonished he forgot to point out my half-witted debacle of walking in sand in four inch heels.

Girls get whisked away in their wedding delusions of grandeur, stuck in the details like dresses, bridesmaids, flowers, photographers, and caterers. Consequently, after the five hours of celebration and a bank account with non-existent funds, one is stuck with that dude of a husband. If a female can see beyond the diamond ring, white wedding, and the house with the white picket fence, than your disappointment factor is marginal. Like a goody bag, you never know what you’ll get. Shane and I, never fought not even a whisper during our four years prior to marriage. I retract that statement, I nailed his manhood to his brain cell, once when I exploded from an unforeseen nicotine fit. Six years later and one cold turkey later, nicotine fit be gone! We have yet to have a shouting match of absurd proportions. Most definitely, that's the sound of me knocking on wood.

He’s the only man that I saw fit for forever. We were cohesive, confident in ourselves from the very beginning. We were smitten. We were tight as possums. He withstood the others by the true fact that he was a very candid person sometimes to a fault. He addressed issues that men in the pass feared to tread. He trekked the new frontier with great maturity. Bonus points, he was equipped with a sense of humor. He didn't have me at hello, but he had me soon after that. New York always grows them correct: witty, blunt, chivalrous, and far from a sucker. Besides his obsessive compulsive disorder, and his need to aggrandize everything, he was “issue” free.

A very wise person once told me, "all the things that you are so fond of, will -in turn- become an irritation."

Indeed a bold statement, but I can see how that could come to fruition. Forever is a “long” ass time! Thank god this padded cell is comfortable and cozy!

We have a lot to show for four years. Mainly, a boy and a girl. Like a stick in a spoke, riding this bike took more practice. We’ve stumbled along the way and we have scars to prove it. The kids are endless treasures, but they’ve been known to terrorize. A moment in particular, Stevie Day belted a striking sound to murder from her bassinet and Hunter chimed in with his toddler melt down. My thoughts were deafened. I look to Shane and both his hands are up like a conductor at a symphony. We burst into laughter. As we chuckled, it was that defining moment that I knew it would be okay.

On occassion, I am false eyelash friendly. He still tells me I’m beautiful at night and yells at me in the morning when I'm enhancing, he calls it tinting. All the same, we’re still happy as clams in a bucket of sand. As far as I can see, forever is not a problem. Again, the sound of my knocking wood. We’re stuck together through vows, kids, and debt. I accept it. Everyday, I’m thankful for all the beauty and goodness that surrounds us and for that I love him more. Happy four years!!!

This is Shellie waiving the white flag back to you Bob at the studio!

Girlesque

2009-08-20T21:48:00.000-07:00

Little Stevie was a mover and a kicker. In my belly, she voraciously thrust her fists and feet every which way, but still. The ultrasound technicians went berzerk attempting to capture an image, she always hid behind her appendages, "nope that's her hand, there's her feet..silence...that's her other hand...longer silence....that's her thigh..." I wondered if my future Pisces would be a future recluse as well. Let's just say I never had a cute picture of Stevie as she took my body hostage for nine months. Just like Hunter, the gender was unknown, but my female intuition yielded a girl. Why? Well first of all my emotional instability was a dead give away.

The second time around was like sipping a flute of Veuve Clicquot. Besides my induction, my labor took no more than eight pushes and out she came. Look out world make room, because Stevie Day has arrived! There she was six pounds nine ounces and nineteen inches long of love wrapped in my arms. Little Stevie’s almost six months, that’s half a year, approximately 26 weeks, or six hundred twenty four hours. I can’t help but notice how time is whizzing by. She went from a docile little newborn to flipping over like a fish on land. She once slept so cozily in her bassinet and now she occupies the crib in Hunter's room.

She is mild natured baby with a voracious appetite. She enjoys being held, but what can I say except, “um yeh, she’s a girl!” All her little quirks and personality traits are apparent like the way she likes to ham it up, smiling and batting her eyes which, to me, sounds like trouble.

It's been a joyful journey with the second child in tow. It took getting accustomed to the high balance beam act, but the circus act must go on. Besides, the Kitchens are a team to be wreckoned with so get the hell out of the way. Besides, my honorable respect for the single parent, I have a newfound respect for parents of twins and beyond, "What the hell were you thinking!!! You crazy?"

Whatever the future holds, I look forward to watching her grow and flourish. I’m even more excited to watch both of them grow together, expecting the fantastic and the terrible. Certainly sleep has it's perks and being coherent 24/7 twenty is overated. Simply put it, I'm happy. If my day ever goes awry, all I have to do is reach into my heart and hold on to the two jewels that are Stevie and Hunter.

This is Shellie is numero tres my lucky number? Back to you Bob at the studio!

"Two. Terrible. Tantrum"

2009-08-18T20:29:00.000-07:00

As Hunter has made great strides into the underbelly of the terrible twos, he has also discovered the power to publically humiliate his parents route screaming. As his tantrums never work at home, he can kick and scream until the takeover of interplanetary aliens, we never cave in. The public forum, on the other hand, was it’s own circus act. He has been known to throw objects across the room, if his requests aren’t met like ice cream for breakfast. After throwing, he would follow with hitting and his new phrase, “but I want it,” or “but I don’t want it” which ever was appropriate at the time. I’m unimpressed of his familiarity with all the letters of the alphabet, but I find it diabolical that he’s able to play the public factor to perfection.

As our bank reflects the current financial climate, babysitters are allocated for special occasions like anniversaries or birthdays. As for friends and family, that it didn't apply for last minute events unless his godmother pulled her last minute hook and ladder play. This only leaves us with the option of a) stay home like normal parents or b) double dog dare to bring Hunter.

We attended an Augtoberfest that expected a hundred plus guests. As Shane and I share a brain cell, we took Hunter with us provided the circumstances that he was functioning on the idea of sleep. At this point, we were mocking the gods. The beer festival was on with German music, steins, lederhosens, sausages, and kraut. Shane did his best to be a great dad and a supportive husband, but the keg lured it’s sexy tap far and away from his family. Hunter was Hiroshima just waiting to explode. I cradled Stevie against my chest in the bjorn as I tried to keep an eye on the H-bomb. I look over and Hunter's sucking on an electric blue lollipop! No sooner than I could pluck that from his grasp, the sugar touched down in his blood stream and the screaming ensued. Through the crowd of german wear and sour cabbage, he plopped himself in the middle of the party and self-orchestrated his kick and scream symphony. Shane, oblivious to his son’s screeching, drank from the traditional German drinking boot as the party cheered him on. It had gone awry and the slippery slope was a steep one.

Flashback to our pre-family days, Shane and I prefaced that the kids wouldn’t impose on our lifestyle, but the shrill from Hunter's tiny two year old lungs, I discovered that we were naïve in our assessment. Hunter wasn’t a helpless dolllike infant anymore. He had opinions. He had choices. He had a scream that could deafen dogs at a thirty mile radius. Finally, he wasn’t at home. Right then and there, I could just bury my head in a paper bag of sharp shattered glass. As he kicked and wailed and dozens upon dozens of eyes looked on, I was officially mortified. Shane was useless as the alcohol had swooped him away from the responsible role. I was on my own. Shit. Why I thought this was a good idea was far from my perception. I didn’t even drink beer! I loath the foaming mess. Five hours and thirty Hunter tantrums later, I threw in the towel.

Before I could sneak out, Shane swayed and slurred something about going home as well. I was responsbile for three kids. I knew as soon as I stepped on the gas pedal, that much needed sleep would fall on my once little sweet Hunter. In the meantime, I mistakenly gave a drunk person a ride home only to find that she removed Stevie from the car seat on a busy Guerrero Street on a hectic Saturday night, because she was incessantly crying. As I would’ve loved to violently boot her into fast oncoming traffic for being a complete and affable idiot, I knew this was just another test of patience before I cashed in the day.

Shane's boisterous snore rose up from the couch downstairs. Hunter sweet snore from his bed. A sleeping Stevie cuddled in my arms. I decompressed the mild events of the day in my bed like a zombie in my cotton pajamas with a nice mug of chamomile, and a movie. Hunter’s tantrums seem distant in the silence. He was finally home. Asleep.

This is Shellie trying to wrap her head around everything responsible back to you Bob at the studio!

The G Unit

2009-08-17T21:04:00.000-07:00

Shane’s dad or as everyone calls him the Duke landed in San Francisco for a visit with the kids. It was his first time meeting Stevie Day.

In usual Hunter fashion, he didn’t warm up to Grandpa Duke immediately. The last time they met, Hunter was eight pounds and a mere two months old. Hunter circled his grandpa like a vulture, playing with his train set. I handed Stevie over to the Duke, “Hi Stevie Day.” Cool Hand Duke held his granddaughter for the first time. Hunter discovering his replacement, ran over to his grandpa faster than the idea of a gallon of chocolate covered ice cream. The wheels to sibling rivalry reared it’s ugly head, the game was on. Grandpa Duke, the coolest in town, hugged both kids equally. He had that grandparent glow that grinned from ear to ear.

Like everything fantastic, Grandpa Duke’s visit was a short one. He made enough of an impact, that he's got Hunter marching around the house repeating, “granpa, granpa, granpa, granpa.” He left this morning back to New York, but on the drive to preschool Hunter muttered, “Granpa. Where’s granpa? Granpa? Mom, where’s Granpa.” Just when the kid had grown to love his grandpa, he was gone. I guess Grandpa Duke’s job here is done.

Unfortunately all grandparents live nowhere close to home, but we’ll take what we can get. It is imperitive that the kids have a connection to the royalty that is their grandparents. They should always know where they came from. They should be proud of who they are. Unfortunately I didn’t have the luxury of meeting both of my grandfathers, thus this visit was a mine of gold.

This is Shellie G Unit representing back to you Bob at the studio!

Domesticated

2009-08-09T23:55:00.000-07:00

Dratz! The children did it to us this time. Docile like camels beaten in the dessert sun, we were officially domesticated.

As sleeping in on the weekends has become just a phantom of my immature adolescent angst, weekends have become the equivalent of weeding the backyard; a cruel must. It takes a healthy good hour to get the family out the door, which essentially means nagging Hunter to “please” finish his breakfast followed with a mild case of power struggle when brushing his teeth, than onward to peeing in the potty. Meanwhile, Stevie’s screeching her sweet little lungs out, because she’s on her stomach and she’s not down with tummy time. Essentially, she's not down with receiving the short end of the stick. In the back end of the house, Shane’s wrestling with his obsessive compulsive disorder and ruthlessly losing to the mess in the kitchen. I have been accused of dabbling in the dawdle of my wardrobe cohesiveness, thus my circus juggling act ensue.

Fifty five minutes in and a few toddler melt downs later, we were on our way to Sunday Streets, a safe, fun, car-free place for people to get out and get active in San Francisco neighborhoods. We jumped on 280 South and were well on our way. Too add more noise to the raucous, Chloe and Oliver, our two dogs yelped as they were detained for the journey. Shane dearest father and husband boasts “equality,” thought it was unfair to abandon the dogs at home. We had a truck load of love transported for the weekly Kitchen family day. Ambitious.

The Great Highway was blocked off from Sloat onward, I strolled Stevie and Shane rode his bike with Hunter as tote. The air was warm and delightful. A cluster of kids whizzed by with the fury of their training wheels as their parents faint voices begged them to slow down. The sun gradually burned off the fog and all was good in the world as Stevie looked back at me. Bonding has it's rewards.

At the Lincoln intersection, the sight and sounds of children were apparent. We had arrived at what's was essentially the "kid zone." The man with the monkey and organ grinder entertained the children. Hunter immediately wanted off of the bike to meddle in the playware provided by the YMCA. We parked ourselves in the median and joined in the festivities. Hunter mingled and meshed with everything plastic. Shane and I exchanged smiles as my heart glopped with goodness and my insides were aflutter with butterflies.

We were a block away from Park Chalet and our thirst required immediate quenching. We parked the stroller with a snoozing Stevie and spread our picnic blanket. I sipped from my glass of Prosecco and snuggled with my sweet husband as we paved our memories of our children brick by brick. In all the warm weathered goodness, the mild ocean breeze, and the crowd of friends and families that surrounded us, I couldn’t help but feel choked up.

This is Shellie, mommyhood now I know what the fuss is about, back to you Bob at the studio!

Potty Down Like It's 2009

2009-08-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

It was a Saturday and we were focused on training Hunter to go to the potty based on the 48 hour theory of no diapers. This was on the heels of Hunter’s daycare jacking up the monthly rate to thirteen hundred dollars a month. I still haven’t figured out the care situation for Stevie, but all I knew was that I had two day cares to worry about.

First things first, the pre-k programs were significantly cheaper, if the child was potty trained. Besides, I completed the application claiming that he was potty trained and for six hundred fifty dollars a month, how could I not? At what stage did they have to be potty trained? Is there a class curve? What’s the margin for error? We were up on the waiting list and received the call, I was determined to fulfill the divine prophecy of potty.

Shane and I watched Hunter carefully, we enticed him with delicious wholesome filtered water in which he threw across the room. As soon as he had an urge to urinate, we plopped him on the potty and in the repetitive words of other parents before us, “pee pee in the potty.”

Not clinically proven to be a “control freak,” I possibly nagged my dear husband, with an attention span of a germ, to never turn your back for a second. I had too had to go to the potty.

Upon my return, Hunter, in full monty, urinated on the front window while standing up on his table, on the sofa, and in the kitchen. Hunter shamelessly tinkled as Shane was as effective as a wet mop in a corner. As regularity comes with a schedule, I anticipated Hunter’s droppings estimated time of arrival was anytime now.

In the playroom, Father and son delightfully played with his Thomas the train set. My cerebrum had been dulled down by the constant concentration, as I fought off a nap that weaved an intricate web. It had only been an hour.

Suddenly a shriek from dear husband, “shit, he took a crap!” Once again, dear husband was bedazzled by our son.

“You were playing, what happened?” I was curiously baffled by husband’s lack of awareness.
“Exactly, we were playing and he stood up and there it was.” My dear husband rattled.

There it was in all it’s magnificence, Hunter’s fresh droppings. Dear husband, equipped with a weak stomach, began his rhythmic gagging. Hunter pointed in great amazement, “big poo poo momma, big poo poo.” In silent failure, we threw in the towel.

In the words of other lenient parents before us, “They will let you know when they’re ready, you can’t force it.”

In the past weeks, Hunter has finally taken to the potty and I am beyond thrilled. So we missed the boat on the six hundred fifty dollars pre-k. Hot dog! Hunter can whizz like a mother trucker!

This is Shellie kicking her heels up back to you Bob at the studio!

New Kid on the Block

2009-08-05T11:30:00.000-07:00

My first entry for the year 2009.

I've returned from my sabbatical that is motherhood. Rewind to Mar 6, 2009, exactly at 5:27pm I gave birth to a baby girl. It took us a day to come up with her name, but we settled on Stevie Day Kitchen. It took eight contractions of pushing. It was so much of a breeze that another baby didn’t seem so far fetched. Mister Hunter is handling the new addition like a big brother in his twos. I have come to embrace his new behavior as the “menace” henceforth will be known as the menace. We acclimated to Stevie like a hand in glove. She is mild in nature, but unlike Hunter she likes to be held. She is such a girl.

Life, as I have come to know it, is an ever changing animal. Hunter’s in a new pre-school. Stevie is in a separate Spanish immersion family daycare. I returned to work after three months of maternity leave. I can be found at the gym six days a week shedding off the baby weight like a rat does cheese. Perhaps, this may be perceived as mere neglect towards my children, but I’d like to call it “me” time. At the same time, nothings changed I am still a shopaholic, a foodie, a wife (surprisingly), and a social mishap.

Honestly, there is not enough time in a day. From the time the alarm goes off, to the time the kids go to bed, life keeps me on my toes. If I had an au pair, well that would just flip this story a thousand times over. This, on the contrary, is not a complaint. My kids have bestowed upon me a gift of appreciation. I’ve been humbled by it and have kicked myself a hundred times for being such a fool. Thus, I cherish every moment as I am slowly realizing every day that I have yet to live.

This is Shellie advising you to “check yourself” back to you Bob at the studio!

Happy Holidays

2008-12-24T03:00:00.000-08:00

Shane put the finishing touches on Hunter’s Christmas presents. He spent the latter part of the evening assembling our little boy’s present a kitchen set that came with two hundred and fifty pieces for assembling. The last three hours he fiddled with instructions, screw drivers, and a hammer. I showed my support by watching The Christmas Story on the couch. It was a little before two o’clock as we blew out the candles and turned off the lights except for the tree. We stood there in the dark with the tree illuminated in the silence of the darkness, reminding us of our own childhood on Christmas Eve. Here we were with our new family. Creating new memories with our son and others to follow. That emotion in the pit of my soul grew strong and clear, no gift was more endearing.

We headed upstairs to our bedroom. A brief storm was at hand as the wind and the rain blew hard, but from our bedroom window I saw through the trees and the lights that reflected off the bay, a silence, peace was at hand. The first year, for me, I learned the true value of Christmas. I am content. I have a wonderful husband, a beautiful son, in a wonderful home, and a miracle that was growing in belly. My world is complete.

This is Shellie Merry Christmas to me back to you Bob at the studio!

12 Days of Carbohydrates

2008-12-12T21:22:00.000-08:00

On the _________ day of Carbohydrates my true love gave to me...

12. Twelve Mission tamales
11. Eleven bites of pork pupusas
10. Ten golden french fries
9. Nine scoops of egg nog ice cream
8. Eight types of Holiday baked cookies
7. Seven sips of blue bottle cappucinno
6. Six pieces of chocolate
5. Five slices of sausage pizza
4. Four Rechutti vanilla bean marshmallows
3. Three glasses of champagne
2. Two servings of greek yogurt granola parfait
1. One warm bowl of spaghetti with wild boar ragu

The Carborator

2008-12-11T18:24:00.000-08:00

Once again, my pregnancy harbors an insulin dysfunction. My pancreas is slow on the draw with the insulin. That’s right gestational diabetes. I said it. Gasp, I said the word. Once again, I’m locked in to a food journal to meticulously count carbohydrates. I, food nerd, have succumbed to becoming a nutritional label whore and weighing all products on my electronic scale. My doom has settled fresh in the belly of my mind as everything I adore is a carbohydrate like yogurt, fruit, vegetables, breads, pastas, rice, sweets, and dairy. It's always the case, once I'm restricted than my urges become irrational like suddenly a late night bowl of ice cream oozing in warm caramel is a delicious idea. In actuality, it would send my blood sugar in fits and tizzys.

It would be simple enough to omit carbohydrates from my diet, but not that simple as it would jeopardize my baby’s health as well. It’s an even keel of keeping that fireplace burning at a moderate flame. Without it I could flop into a serious seizure and too much of it would 'cause my baby's pancrease to work overtime.

Every two weeks, I meet with the dietician and nurse to assure my figures are within controlled limits. Approximately in the second and third trimester, the disease becomes aggressive, thus I must counteract it with pre-meal insulin via needle to the belly. To make matters worse, I am required to check my blood sugar 5 times a day by finger pricking.

The attention to detail to this disease seems overwhelming, but like my dietician says, “it’s all in the good of the baby.” My thoughts instantly damn the baby, but than I quickly digress from my self centered galaxy. As I’ve strategized preventional tactics (gym and cardio) to prevent the disease from rearing it’s ugly head, I’m predestined into damnation. The bright side being, at least I’m not porking down on bon bons and greasy fries. I’ve a head start on cinching my waistline as soon as I spit out the second child, my circuit training body better be fit enough to kick ass.

I’m a little under 30 weeks, and am ready to come out insulin a blazin’. My first pregnancy seemed traumatic with the strict diet restrictions, injections, and finger pricking. This time around the trauma is lulled to sleep. Like the doctors say, it’s all for the success of a healthy baby. As Hunter was only 6 pounds and 11 ounces, I am hoping the gods will humbly look down on me once again.

This is Shellie enjoying a delicious carrot stick and a spoonful of cottage cheese back to you Bob at the studio!

Dont' Worry Be Happy

2008-12-05T21:11:00.000-08:00

In the past year, a baby explosion went off like Hiroshima. A mass of friends tossled into the birth canal of new parents. The parental fellowship grows. Meanwhile months, upon months, upon many months have gone by where I've missed the opportunity to make my stop for well wishes. As I'm deterred by my motivation or lackthereof, my emergency brake is replaced with a warp speed button.

As my intentions are good, my time managing skills have gone down the toilet. Between work and family, I’m wedged in a tight spot. Conceptually, it seems possible, but my days jumpstart the moment Hunter awakes to nine o’clock in the evening. Until I find myself in the divine grace of my couch, unfolding into delicious relaxation, my mind is ablur. Currently, my days consist of sprinting in a circle of days, gradually into weeks, plowing into months and here I am at the end of the year scratching my head. Perhaps, if I wasn’t a working mom it wouldn’t seem so far away, but it’s hard to deny a nice salary and benefits. Thus, reality seeps in.

As I beat myself constantly for being a deadbeat in the schedule department, my husband put a fresh spin on my dilemma, “They didn’t come to see you after Hunter was born? So stop trippin'” He was right? This coming from the man that taught me that turning the other cheek is best, “…just because they’re jerks doesn’t mean you have to treat them the same way…” Was he contradicting himself? Ironically, my husband’s childhood friend had a second child and we pounced with a gourmet dinner in tow three weeks after their baby’s birth. Hence, this is cold hard evidence that I am utterly useless as a fly on an elephant's ass. My pregnancy and Hunter as an excuse would only be a juvenile cop out.

I’m not alone in this vast vacuum of a world. I’m certain there are others with home made dishes suffering freezer burn or beautifully wrapped newborn gifts that are most likely outgrown. I have succumbed to the mere childish fact that I absolutely suck. Shrug. If I’m lucky, these new parents will understand as they’re suddenly pummeled with new responsibilities to notice my trivial lullaby. Thus, I have another one on the way and the last thing on my mind are visitors or well wishers, maybe that's just me...

This is Shellie making a mountain out of a mole hill back to you Bob at the studio.

Center of Goodness

2008-11-30T18:45:00.000-08:00

I’ve always heard the nagging woes from young parents, “You don’t know what it’s like to have kids.” Now I do and I really don’t understand what the whopping “woe is me” deal is. I enjoy it. It is so much fun! If I could do a triple sommersault and circle the moon and back, I would.

I’m an advocate for spontaneity. Since Hunter, life’s been a wonderful adventure of uncertainty. Needless to say, sleeps not abundant. Hunter's impeccable listening skills and obedience needs some tweaking like when he climbs the coffee table and spin on the table top until he’s dizzy. Perhaps, it’s his stunt devil side that runs back and forth across the couch with his arms up mere inches away from the corner’s edge of the brick fireplace. Maybe it’s his way of communicating when he yells and throws objects across the room to get his point across. In all the fantastic insanity, he keeps me on my toes. As mom has always advised me, life is what you make it.

Certainly, my lifestyle shifted. We have date nights, where friends and family watch the little monster while Shane and I rekindle our romance over dinner and a movie. This is very important as one can drown in the love of their child meanwhile putting a lid on marriage. Although the girlfriend arena is distant and less of a priority, it would be more successful if my girls weren’t so flighty. It’s a balancing act. If parent(s) refrain to roll with the changes, that’s when life becomes a tall mountain to climb.

I must boast, motherhood is heavenly! I heart my husband over diamonds, but Hunter has brought so much joy to my life, enriching my soul with delight. Every day is a new day. In that new day, a discovery is uncovered such as a new word, a new skill, a new phrase, a new love. It’s phenomenal. I never expected it to be so fulfilling. The best thing about the whole scheme is that my husband and best friend for life shares the same sentiments. That, my friends, doesn’t get better than that.

This is Shellie buckling her seat belt for the ride of her life back to you Bob at the Studio.

Word'em Up

2008-11-29T19:54:00.000-08:00

In my current pregnant state, I’ve been immersed in my family life. Although I'm on the verge of becoming a waddling mess, I've managed to keep up with my son. Hunter brings new meaning to the word fun. He never ceases to amaze me. As he is gradually weened off the binky, his vocabulary slowly increases. It’s cold hard fact that females are privy to conversation and vocabulary at this age than their very simple counterpart. Introducing Hunter’s new words:

1. Buh = Bus
2. Cuh = Car
3. Truuh = Truck
4. Nigh = No
5. Dog = Dog
6. Ugg = Come here
7. Mama = Mom
8. Pop uh = Dad
9. Vroo = Vroom
10. Sit = Shit
11. Oh Sit = Oh Shit

When my fire ball of energy isn’t darting every which way, but still, or climbing on precarious objects known to set my body on instant cardiac arrest, or sticking his hand in the toilet, he’s browsing through his books. He plops on his big red pillow and peruses through his favorite books usually illustrating automobiles. Despite the “read to your child for 20 minutes daily” deal, I’ll settle for his self educating prowess as he’s never sat still for me for any book. Besides reading and torturing the dog’s, my newfound penis enthusiast entertains himself during his diaper change. Such is the world of males...

This is Shellie stating boys will be boys back to you Bob at the studio!

Shit

2008-11-08T20:14:00.000-08:00

Between my many prenatal visits and my newfound gestational diabetes, I thought I’d let Shane take Hunter to the doctor today. As Dr. Treece is a decent pediatrician, I made the decision to transfer Hunter into a new practice. I felt that he required more attention than his current St. Luke’s pediatrician. It would only seem fit that my husband shares the parental responsibility. I had faith in my husband even though he wasn’t privy to the doctor’s office.

No sooner than I walked into my office, my phone rang.“Hey it’s me.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m filling out all these forms and I don’t know who to put down for emergency?”
“Put Laurie down she’s very accessible.”
“What about Jill?”
“Yes, but she never answers her phone when she’s working. I put Laurie down for everything.”
“Alright, I’ll put Jill on here.”
“Why did you call me, if you’ve made up your mind?” I was perturbed that he was unable to make a decision without jabbing me with the irritation serum.
“You don’t understand. I have like a million forms to fill out.” He was flabbergasted.
“Um yeh, so what? It takes like two seconds. I do it every time I go to my doctor’s visits.”
“Well I don’t fill them out as fast as you do.”
“Shane it is not a quiz or a test, just fill it out. I gotta go.”

My confidence in my husband’s self – efficiency began to droll. No sooner than a pigeon could crap on a bald head, the phone rang again. “Hey I have the doctor here with me, can I put her on the phone?”
“Sure.” I could’ve pricked his scrotum with a thousand needles as I was taken away from my project.
“Hi Shellie, it’s Dr. Moore and I’m here with Hunter and your husband. He was uncertain as to a few questions so I hope it’s an okay time to talk.” Her voice pleasant and calm, “How many words does Hunter know?”
“About seven.” Side swiped by the inquiry, Dr. Treece was never this interested.
“Alright. How often does he drink from a bottle?”
“He drinks three bottles of formula at night.”
“Oh we need to get him off the milk and formula.” She was appalled. “He should’ve been off of the bottle and milk at one year old.”
“Alright doctor.” I quickly felt inept and in the dark.
“What’s his eating habits like?”
“Well, I only see him total three hours a day. As far as I know his daycare says he eats a lot, but he never really eats dinner nor breakfast with us. Otherwise, I’m not sure what his day eating habits are as I’m not there.”
“Alright. We need to move him off the bottle and on to a sippy cup. He needs to drink more water. This in exchange will increase his eating habits. The more milk he drinks the more it stunts his hunger. Also we need to wean him off the pacifier to prevent his teeth from getting well…you know.”
“Alright doctor, we’ll try our best.” I kicked myself for not being one of those edgy and uptight mothers that lived by the word according to Dr. Sears. Today, I felt like a donkeys behind.

Later that evening, I inquired about his weight and height. My husband shrugged. I was upset that he didn’t take interest. Husband was upset that I didn’t understand that he had to get Hunter undressed to put him on the scale and dressed again. Case in point, he was too busy dressing Hunter to take note. I wondered if all fathers uninterested, or just mine. My hormones were clawing for an argument; instead I counted my blessings and told my hormones to calm the heck down. In a quick reassessment, my husband has acted on his own accord in more ways than I can count. I found no reason to persecute him? I buried the hatchet for there was no need for the inquisition this evening.

“C’mon Hunter let’s go.” Shane hustled Hunter out the front door.
“Shit!” I dropped my mascara on the bathroom floor. “I’ll meet you in the car in a second.” The door closed behind Shane. I gathered my things and headed down the stairs. “You just taught your son a new word.” Shane laughed, “s-h-i-t.”
“No.” I stammered.
“Oh yeh, he said it like eight times walking down the front steps.” Shane chuckled at my parenting skills.
“No, are you serious?” Is it that time? Is he my precious sopping sponge of knowledge? Could it be?
“Oh yes, mommy just taught Hunter a new word right?” Shane reversed the car out of the driveway.
“Sit, sit, sit.” Hunter repeated in his car seat waving to the invisible circus outside of his passenger window.
“Dude, he’s saying sit, not s-h-i-t.” I fumbled around in my head grasping the last word my precious sweet baby overheard before being whisked away by his father. He was right I did just add another new word to his list of vocabulary.

“I will let Dr. Moore know that he knows eight words now.” My husband so glad that I was too was human. We both chortled. Hunter repeated the mildest of cuss words. If we didn’t curb our swearing ways, Hunter’s vocabulary was about to take a toll for the interesting.

This is Shellie relieved that the world is a better place, because it feels so natural to go against the grain back to you Bob at the studio!

Self Taught

2008-10-25T20:33:00.000-07:00

The weekends are always blocked out for Hunter. As the first rain poured, I decided to make use of my Recess Urban Recreation membership and show up for once. As my husband’s useless nagging to cancel our membership is drilled into my head, I decided to ignore it today. I made a call to a friend who I haven’t seen in ages and is also a member. The parking lot was full. Strange, all the cubby holes were occupied with diaper bags, shoes, and jackets. It was a packed house today. Like rats in a sewer, the rain brought in a slew of tots.

I made a stop at the coffee shop for two cups of decaf latte, but with the energy level whirling around like a herd of Tasmanian devils. I should have settled for a caffeinated beverage. To my amazement kids of all shapes, sizes, ages, genders ran the place amuck. I left my cozy home for this war zone of screaming and crying children fighting, pushing, and shoving. I was fifty kids deep into trouble.

As a working parent, I am a stranger to the world of play group, play dates, and most of all full time moms. I am that loner parent amongst the fellowship of moms. Although Hunter has his day care cronies, I am partially a part-time parent. I am there when he gets up and I am there when he sleeps. As it kills me to not be spending ample time, with great delusion, I believe in quality over quantity. I would probably claw at the walls of my brain, if I was sentenced to twenty-four hours a day with my child. I go through a mild withdrawal on Monday, but by the end of the day I am back.

Hunter has always been independent; in his own world. He made way to the train table stocked with train tracks and trains. Kids circled the table learning how to share or lack thereof. A blonde, two and a half, with bowl haircut, stirred havoc by pushing and shoving the others. He snags Hunter’s train for his own. Hunter, unfazed, moves to another activity.

“There are never this many kids here!” I say to my friend.
“Really?”
“Oh yeh, this is insane! There are usually no more than five kids when I’m here.”
“Probably the rain.” She replies with more sense than I can piece together. Her coffee was effective.

Needless to say, my friend and I were too busy keeping an eye out for the safety of our personal wonderment that catching up was as likely as a snail playing the fiddle. Hunter – with fierce determination – bolts in any and all direction for anything with wheels. Her son, a mere fourteen months, hovered over my eighteen month old who is in the low percentile. Our intentions were to get the kids together and bond. Yet kids, as parents are blind, have their own agenda. Hunter pushed anything on wheels around the room through the mayhem of parents and kids. I ate my low bran pumpkin muffin with latte on hand. I occasionally scanned to make sure he wasn’t climbing the stairway to the slide or to ensure he wasn’t sobbing of displacement.

He made a detour back to the train station. Two feet away a group of siblings pushed, screamed, wrestled as their parents attempted to cease the madness. I watched intently as the parents, ignored the fist punching and slapping and pretended the world was flat, “Alright boys now are you going to behave?”
“Shut up and go away dad, we hate you?” They punched their dad with rhythm and heat.
“Alright now.” The gentle parenting was effective as the kids continued their fist tirade.

I was fearful of the future. Is that what the future had in store? Wild and untamed beast of a boy? The gods had it in for me; I will be tested up and down and sideways to hell and back. One is a product of their environment; perhaps I offer a healthy environment that is conducive to my son. Perhaps, kids are just born that way. On the other hand, he’s a Taurus well known for being stubborn with a weakness for accepting less than he can achieve. Sigh.

I moved Hunter to the infant area so he could get to know Colton. Instead, Hunter dashed to a walking toy and made his way around the crowd. I waited for him to come around. After a few minutes, my eyes scurried the room, but I didn’t see him. My heart panicked which quickly switched to anxiety. He wasn’t here! I walked the room a few more times, my gut twisted and turned, he was no where. He wasn’t here! My mind swarmed with news flashes, “Negligent parent. Sipping Coffee. Not watching her child. Shane’s going to fucking hang me! Amber alert!” Breathe. As I made my way back to the infant area, he sat hidden in a little one foot spread fiddling with a steering wheel toy. I scooped him up and held him in my arms as he pushed me away.

As autumn quickly fades into winter, I am reluctant to cancel my membership. It was a convenient fifty bucks a month especially in the cold and rain. It was a cool space for Hunter to be anti social and bond with himself which in time I hope will extend into a healthy interpersonal platform. Until then, I look forward to more non-play dates, panic attacks, and motherly drones.

This is Shellie exclaiming, “Weekends are made for fun back” to you bob at the Studio!

Bloodline

2008-10-23T01:11:00.000-07:00

He had a heavy hand and along with that his words slashed deeper than bone. She was nobody special just like the other nine siblings. His fits of fists never showed mercy, he was blinded by blackness unknown to anyone. Despite his disease, his calloused ways molded her gentle soul into cheap leather. Each day, she grew to fear him, but it made her stronger.

Her childhood came in different colors and bruises. She was filtered through an old world generation where obedience was the word according to god. Her father, a soldier for the militia of Catholicism, instilled a vengeance for pain and suffering. In time, her sadness was comforted with the open arms of hate. As a child, like the roots of a banyan, she grew exactly where she was planted.

“One can spend a life time spindling thread, but never make fabric.”

She sat on the Bay Area Rapid Transit among the cart of stoic faces, she stared down at her growing belly that bore hostage the innocence of pure love. She had reached the 20 week mark. The halfway point. The movements of life fluttered her insides like wild african butterflies on a sweltering spring day. She harbored only good intentions for the future. Her father had withered in age, and his violent grip is a five o’clock shadow of yesterday. It was a long time ago, when that chapter in her life had been auctioned off to the highest bidder in trade for forgiveness. She closed her eyes and made silent promises that life is cruel, but beautiful. He was her father and the grandfather of her offspring. She settled into the grave that blood was blood, but her blood wasn’t poison. In her belly only love was being resurrected from a heart with too much soul.

This is Shellie living life according to her own bible back to you Bob at the studio.

Splendor

2008-10-12T16:48:00.000-07:00

She woke up to the gentle alarm of Hunter’s morning musements. If her calculations were precise, it was about seven fifteen in the morning. It took a couple lung heavy wails before proceeding downstairs, but judging by the transition into a blood curdling scream his toy courting was disrupted by his dirty diaper. On weekdays, they alternated the morning depending on whether or not Hunter slept through the nightt.

She had a good nights rest and found it in the goodness of her heart to let her better half sleep this Saturday morning. She made her way downstairs not without Chloe and Oliver scurrying past her practically tripping her down the narrow flight of stairs. Like sunshine parting the sky of gray he stood teeth beaming through his big smile. “Hi loves,” she scooped him out of his crib and threw him up in the air and held him snug in her arms. The offensive odor of his diaper shifted the mood to the changing table. “Note to self, changing tables are useless after infants have full control of their body movements,” as she hastily flipped him over and popped his binky in his mouth. Lightning pace, she changed his diaper like it was Nascar, the smallest delay could cost the race.

The morning sun broke through the living room window bright and warm. She opened the back door to let the dogs out for their morning business. In the meantime, Hunter pawed at her pleading to be picked up. She went on ignoring his pawing as she tried to prepare his breakfast of neatly sliced bananas and strawberries. Finally, she picked him up and placed him in his high chair, although not without struggle. “Got ya.” She latched him in with the proper restraints and planted a kiss on his nose. She placed the fruits in front of him. She let out a sigh of sweet relief, as he fed himself fruit to mouth. He participated in the occasional free hand fruit toss to the floor, but he wouldn’t be a toddler otherwise. She turned up the sweet sax of Charlie Parker on the speaker. She walked over to the front window and the city sky was crystal blue, not a drop of cloud in sight. By the looks of it, today was going to be a beautiful day.

They rode along the coast with dogs and toddler in tow. It was a little before nine o’clock and Ocean Beach was infested with surfers. Unlike Hawaii, the smell of the ocean did not permeate the air. Nonetheless, the gods have blessed them with lacquer of warmth. Hunter, like most babies, fell asleep in the car. It was a crime to wake him from deep slumber, but the sand and water demanded play. Shane plucked him from his car seat as he molded to his dad’s chest and shoulders. Hunter was a good sport about his parent’s liberal decision.

The dogs, on the other hand, could care less about the sleeping toddler. They yelped, barked, scratched like they were being released from solitary confinement. Alas, they were relinquished from their leashes and both canines bolted for freedom in the sun and sand. Oliver’s freedom did not absolve him from urinating on anything dead and alive with his male utensil.

The shores were crowded with families and dog walkers. A few feet to the left a chocolate toy poodle the size of Oliver’s male utensil chased after a ball and returned it to it’s master. Now why is it that her dogs could not perform such simple feat? The toy poodle the size of Oliver’s male utensil’s master said, “Actually, it’s the ball? I have the same ball in blue and she couldn’t be bothered with it.” She couldn’t help but wonder how many balls she would have to go through before she found the right one? It was such a trivial concoction that she tossed it directly into her garbage disposal that sat conveniently in the outskirt of her mind.

Shane had manned the situation by shadowing Hunter’s stroll which headed straight into the water break. It was all a bit much for her to envelope. Hunter’s independence struck her hard. He walked waist deep in the water as he refused to hold on to Shane’s hand. Hunter delightfully smiled at the rise and fall of the foaming water. He was fearless. He wanted more.

She sat on the shore witnessing his love for the water that brought her childhood to the forefront. She could not help but wonder that Hunter inherited her love for the ocean as well. As a child, one would violently have to break her arm and legs to get her to come out of the water. Otherwise, she spent hours in the ocean life pretending to be one with the never ending waves.

Summer was long over due in San Francisco. No matter, it was here now. She sat in the belly of the sun as her son took to adoration of the great ocean. He laughed, smiled, and played in the waves that welcomed his presence. Today was her summer, and she could not wait to share this beauty with the love that increased in her own belly as she absorbed the love that is her family in the sun, sand, ocean.

This is Shellie singing, "La La La Love Life!" Back to you Bob at the studio!

Countdown

2008-10-11T19:58:00.000-07:00

I'm 19 weeks and counting. For you humans, that’s a week shy of five months. Last week, I went in for my 18 week ultrasound. That’s right the appointment that determines the gender. Gasp. Like my last pregnancy, we enter the world of the gender unknown. People always wonder how I am not curious. It’s all about the surprise. For instance, I don’t unwrap my Christmas gifts until late afternoon like three o’clock. I’m the kid that ate the entire contents of Cracker Jack, set the secret surprise on my dresser and waited a couple hours to see what was inside. It’s the result of coming from a large family. I relish every second of goodness, before it subsides.

“Are you finding out the gender today?” The technician turning on the machine.
“No.” My husband answered for the both of us.
“So this is your second.” She rubbed my belly with warm jelly. “What did you guys have before?” There was a gentle motherly sense about her.
“A boy.” Husband short and sweet.
“Alright close your eyes, we wouldn’t want you to see the surprise!” She held the secret to the unknown.

After a few seconds, she instructed that we were free to view the monitor. My husband with an attention span of a flea, kept fidgeting and pouncing out of his chair every time the roaring engines of the blue angels shot by. During his down time, Shane held my hand sweetly. She rubbed the device on my stomach trying to get every view of the baby and entered the data into the system. There it was little Kitchen deuce, my adorable angel draining my energy vortex. According to the technician it's approximately 7 inches long and 6.6 oz. Kitchen moved at every opportunity making it interesting for the technician. It was camera shy as we hoped it would flip over on it’s back, it either shunned us or curled on it's stomach. Sigh.

The technician turned the volume up so we could witness the fast pace of it’s heart, “Wuuu, wu, wuu, wu, wuu, wu.”
“That's as normal as a heart beat gets.” Shane squeezed my hand to convey his elation. We were so excited. The creation of life inside of me, flourishing, growing, existing. Even though it’s my second, the thrill isn't faded. I am glowing with delight.

I'm half way through the pregnancy. Twenty weeks to go and with the holidays at the bend, March will be here in no time. Whatever the outcome, my wish is for a healthy baby with five fingers, five toes, and normal body function. Girl or boy, I will accept him or her with open loving arms.

This is Shellie anxiously awaiting the second coming back to you Bob at the studio.

The View

2008-10-11T19:25:00.000-07:00

Besides my constant self consumption of bloating and pregnancy, I understand that there’s an axe battle of politics at hand. I keep politics to myself just for the sake of avoiding a debate with a cantankerous dimwit. Besides, I am not one to preach - gross. I reserve the right, hence our votes are cast privately. Why shouldn’t I uphold the same right when it comes to my political views? Politicans are selected accordingly to ones’ interests like religion, tax bracket, privacy, and –most popular- idiocy. I am bewildered that it’s a close presidential race. I don’t understand. Perhaps, I give Americans more credit than they deserve.

On a recent trip back to San Francisco, I boarded a plane and was held hostage by a conversation that confirmed the bleak outlook of America’s future. “Your not voting?”
“Nah dude, like it’s all bullshit dude.”
“I can’t believe your not voting?”
“Like why would I vote? There all crooks and criminals, but if I did, I probably vote for McCain. He’s the liberal one.” The people in line gasped. “I mean he’s old and shit and probably will kick the bucket. Dude, but Obama is a good speaker and all dude for sure. Like, I’ll giv’em that. But, I’m down with McCain dude. Dude Obama says he’s pulling out of Iraq right away, McCain is going to continue the fight. I don’t want the troops pulled out dude, I mean like we just got there! We can’t like just show up and pull out dude. It’s all about the fight. So man, when we land, can I come over and play Halo?”

"The fool in a crowded room is the one that thinks he knows everything.”

My bowel movement had more smarts than the yokel behind me. My husband, who is as political as a boot strap, was baffled by this oaf. It all came together as to my unending question, “Why was the race close?” He was just once voice representing a young generation of blockheads. Should I be relieved that people like that aren’t voting? Or should I be livid that they’re wasting they’re right to vote? I’m not sure how I feel about it.

We are a different breed. A generation of reality television. An America brought up by Jerry Springer. A country that doesn’t find texting an anti-social epidemic. We are a stoic society that doesn’t forfeit their seat to the elderly on a crowded train. The civil rights movement wasn’t that long ago, a time when Americans fought for the right to be who they are. Today, the same fight prevails; proposition 8 the crux of all Christians and self righteous groups.

I feel betrayed by my fellowship. I am disappointed at the ignorance. Our defiled Government -that assumes the population is completely brainless- needs to know who wears the flag in this relationship. Which brings me to the million dollar question, "Why is it a close race?" As a female and a daughter of immigrants, many have fought for my right as a female to vote. I will vote. It’s just the idea of a country that is forward-thinking and progressive, it seems we as a country and as a people are stuck.

This is Shellie saying vote smart you dumb ass back to you Bob at the studio!

Balance

2008-10-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

As I’m en route to hibernation aka Hermitville, I thought it would only be fit that I shake the couch and go out for some fresh air. Perhaps, immerse myself in the self engrossed city of wi-fi and texting enthusiasts. Choke. I unglued myself from the couch to finally make time for my girlfriends. Since Shane refused to go to Santogold with me at the Fillmore, I decided to take the only person that I knew would get off on Ms. Santogold as much as I would. “What happens, if you get smoked out?” Said husband cautious of my lung damage.
“What do you mean?”
“Well they’ll be smokin’ out in the audience?” This coming from the same person that never struck any chord of concern at Reggae on the River where plumes upon plumes of pot smoke bellowed in my face.
“I’ll be fine.” I reassured him by rolling my eyes.

Normally I am not embarrassed to shine my baby bump, this was one occasion where I didn’t feel so hip. Like the time I blurted I was twenty seven during a particular smoke break on my culinary stint. I was thirty two at the time, but among green thumb minion twensies, I felt the pressure to deny my real age. Case in point, I scheme to hide the lady hump that wasn’t so lovely by dressing like a teenager, a charcoal top and black pleather tights. I prayed I didn’t look like those cougars that couldn’t shake their stiffed and teased bangs from the eighties.

"Vanity does not discriminate against insecurity."

Next on the agenda, protecting the baby from flailing arms dancing to the ripe beat of Santo. Two hours and three opening bands later, the Fillmore was packed with hipsters anxiously wait for the stage to light up. I was even more excited for Vanessa to witness the funky groove that was part of the Brooklyn music explosion. The room grew loud with applause and beats. There she was in her glory with high waist canary yellow jeans and a short crop jacket. She was accompanied by two back up singers/dancers resembling the female version of Devo’s “Whip It Good” video. Her music a clear influence of Missing Persons with a splash of dub and reggae electrified the room. “She is so fucken fresh!” Vanessa became an instant disciple. Word. She is fresh as a can of beans! As soon as the show started it was over and pass my bed time.

To continue on my social escapade, I was committed to a movie date with fellow culprits the subsequent night. I haven’t been to the movies since sanitary napkins were invented. There’s a magic that I love about a good film, like a good book, whisks me away into an alternate universe. Needless to say, I laughed, I related, I could’ve sobbed if my hormone level was paramount. I had a fantastic time.

I had dinner the next night with a dear friend who lives just a few blocks away, like a bad astrology sign it seems we can never get our schedules align. The past two evenings had me yearning for relaxation, stat! I felt horrible for rescheduling, but I would be an oblivious mess at dinner.

In my few days away, Hunter had grown a beautiful liking to Shane. My absence allowed them to cohesive relationship. Although it was only two days, I was quickly blasted an outcast. It was a treat as Shane experienced first hand the undying need of Hunter’s wrath.

As his duties as a father came to a head, Shane used my few days gallivanting as leverage. He exercised the right for boys night out, unfortunately there were no boys to embellish in his plans, this coming from the man that is fortunate, over lucky, to golf once every weekend for the past year. I highlighted his fair fortune of his manly duties of socializing via drinking, slurring, and stumbling were never ceased by his wife.

In the end, my antithesis of my slothfulness is a success. Perhaps, I stagger my girlish fun instead of an action packed week to prevent burning out. Otherwise, I am fighting the good fight in hopes to not become an appendage to my ever luring couch

This is Shellie trying to wedge her fat ass through the doorway back to you Bob at the studio!

Clash of the Titans

2008-10-01T20:28:00.000-07:00

As I leave the office building, the aggressive scent of McDonald’s french fries manage a ruthless air raid resulting in my taking cover for safety. As I have to pass three McDevil’s to get to my destination, I brace myself to get to my healthy destination of organic greens. Suddenly I’m grappled by the idea of two cheeseburgers along with a petite french fry. “Why not?” I lay out the pros and cons, “I’m pregnant. The baby wants it. I’m hungry. Live a little!” The opposing tirade takes front and center, “It’s unhealthy! It’s greasy. Definitely not great for your complexion! Think of your waistline. Mon dieu! (I am clueless as to why my thoughts blurt a little French.) Scientists labor in labs creating flavors addicting to the customer. Not a good idea. Refrain. The power of Christ compels you!” I continue my journey to Sellers Market, but am quickly dissuaded by the cost of my organic salad. “Ten bucks for a salad. Really? You can make that at home for free? Get a cheeseburger, you only live once.”

“Stuffing your face with cheetos, grape nuts, and cheese pizza doesn’t constitute one to be a vegetarian nor healthy. It’s just vulgar.”

My mind entangled in a war with my mischievous hunger. I was in the bunker strategizing with my thoughts. I could always starve a little longer and head to Loehman’s where my Iisli coat waited for my purchase. Better, I could head to Loehman’s shoes where my Italian hand made leather boots wept impatiently for a good home. At this point, anything was possible starvation for shoes or transfat over organic. I haven’t had anything to eat since eight o’clock this morning and it was almost one. The heady thing to do was eat. I was never my best when my blood sugar plummeted into the abyss of my irrational being. I could throw my heels across Market Street in hopes to hit Mr. Chu, the man that waives that gibberish sign, “12 Galaxies. Tetrafluoride.” Grrrr.

I made the fine decision to stick to my gut and get a salad. Not just any salad, a cobb salad, chockfull of avocados, tomatoes, hold the bacon, free range chicken breast, hard boiled egg, and cucumbers. Perhaps, it’s not worth $9.95. Perhaps, the two McDevil’s cheeseburgers still plague my mind as I chomp on spoonfuls of organic greens. Perhaps, my thoughts still wrestle in regret on the decision. Fact still stands, fetus Kitchen is being fed and I’ve made it through one more day closer to my due date (March 13, 2009).

This is Shellie dissing fast food, but would totally destroy a big mac if given the opportunity back to you Bob at the studio!

Grand

2008-10-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

I grew up with my Lola (grandma). She was my surrogate mom when mom charged family responsibilities like restoring unity within the household and my nine siblings. As I always fought for mom’s attention, she was grossly engaged with limitless duties. Thus, afternoon naps with Lola was always my favorite time of day. I’d lay in bed as she stroked my hair and spoke in her native tongue something about good behavior and heaven. As one of the youngest siblings, attention was as common as monkeys flying out of a buffalo's butt. Lola was an angel, because she knew how to make me feel special like I was the only one, and for a child that was attention deficient it was a dancing monkey on a stick. Although what made her the best Lola was that she did that for all my siblings.

Today, it's rare to find a Lola within arms reach much less the same hemisphere. Unfortunately, Hunter is conveniently part of this population. I've mentioned to mom that she had an open ended invitation to our home as she has the availability to travel anywhere in the world for free, thanks to my brother who is an engineer for United. Nonetheless, her life is in Hawaii with her children and grand children. Alternately, we could always relocate to Hawaii the sun, sand, and family. (It would be part of my aforementioned "change" program.)

Recently, Grandma Kitchen made a surprise visit from New York so Shane could whisk me away for my birthday. She embellished Hunter with attention and love just like Lola did when I was a child. As Hunter can run the mightiest man down to the ground with his undying energy, she did her best to keep up. What a treat! By the time we returned from our trip, Grandma Kitchen had enriched Hunter's life. A connection had been established, and I couldn't be more thrilled.

It reminded of the importance of family and the cohesiveness that binds us. Lola has long passed, but I know for the short time she spent with me, I carry her in my locket of a heart. For as important it is to be raised by both parents, the same applies for Lolas. More than ever, I can preface the fortune of my siblings in Hawaii is no less than golden and no more than priceless. Bastards.

This is Shellie claiming Grandma’s rule the world back to you Bob at the studio.

Shoot. Shoot. Bang. Bang.

2008-09-30T23:49:00.000-07:00

I’m an advocate of change. Change is fantastic. If you ask me why I’ve lived in San Francisco since I was seventeen, my response is always the same, “piss off.” Like most females, I’m impulsive. With the increase of hormones coursing through me, my hair’s been growing like a compost soiled weed. I saw the opportunity to chop my hair. Of course, I would never trust my current stylist as he was an advocate of innovative design and creation. My stylist with his Manchester accent, is not one for long hair and I would somehow find myself with a short do that was individualistic for my ever growing plump face. Besides, others would stray from a salon named Mr. Pink Whistle, but I was a curious as a black cat.

I was on a star search for a new scissor hands. Jeeun recommended I take her boyfriends appointment slot as he couldn’t justify a hundred fifty for a men’s cut. Her stylist wasn’t accepting new clients, so I was in luck. It was settled except the appointment wasn’t till mid November. My dilemma was that my weed of a head was growing at an alarming rate and it hadn’t been cut in twelve months. It needed a little fixing.

I phoned the usual big names, Vidal had a one thirty appointment with their senior stylist and DiPietro had a four o’clock with a senior stylist. I opted for the latter as most of my previous stylists were Vidal alumni, switch up. As I strutted Post street, my intentions were to just get a trim. A little snip and call it a day.

I plopped into the chair. “What can I do for you today?” Regina’s head toppled with beautiful curls that would best be described as a weave.
“Bangs.” What was I saying? I continued, “Chinese bangs, straight across.” My heart raced with excitement.
“What about the ends?” She held up the aftermath of my former stylists sharp razor tips now jagged. “I mean really?” She was appaulled. Little did she know my last cut was a year ago and above the shoulder.
“Cut it off.” I was spontaneous and going with the flow. “I'm pregnant so it'll grow back in no time.”
“This much?” Her estimate was about three inches.
“Sure go for it.” I was giving this stranger full control of my mane.
“Layers? You need layers.” She was a car sales man hooking me up with options.
“No.” I stammered as the word “layers” is so 2005. “Just a trim.” I put my foot down. Regina’s eyes burned as she yearned to snip all my hair into a contemporary layer filled cluster. Besides, I had to leave a decent canvas for the real stylist in November.

Following a crap job of a shampoo absent of a scalp massage, I made way to the snipping chair. She combed my hair in front of my face. “Ready?” Regina leering a smile. “I’m scared.” I said it aloud.
“Don’t be scared honey.” She was warm and motherly. “Here we go.” She ran the scissors across my forehead. I could feel the steel softly run across and saw the fall of the royal length hit the floor.

A male customer flew in from Seattle also sought change. He initially flew in for the Folsom Street Fair, a gay and lesbian leather sexual extravaganza. The stylist amputated his blond ponytail that ranged approximately eight inches long. “Oh my god!” The gay man shrieked at the sight of his dead weight. Oh my god was right, as it wouldn’t be his new locks that would be the focal point at the leather affair.

Meanwhile, Regina quietly snipped refining the lay of the land that was my hair. I always treated my hair cuts like a massage, with silence. If I wanted to discuss current events, I’d plop myself at a coffee shop in the outskirts of the Mission. I liked what I saw in the mirror. It was exactly what I wanted straight thick bangs just like when I was five years old. It was hot! I absolutely loved it!

As the Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy warns one of the major rules of pregnancy is to not get a major hair cut. When gaining weight, I am one of those unlucky people that gains in the face. As I am gradually ripening with pregnancy, I assume that my face will follow suit. Instead of stuffing my face with egg mcmuffins, I thought squaring my face off with bangs might assist in slimming my cheek bones.

In the changing room, my face speckled with tiny chards of hair, I cursed the pedestrian service as Simon, former stylist, usually dusts me off like a dirty floor. Otherwise, I rejoiced in the haircut. My heart performed back flips in tune to my excitement. It was simple. It was clean. It was fabulous. I walked down the street with a bounce in my step and a different head on my shoulders.

This is Shellie stressing live life don’t let life live you back to you Bob at the studio.

Brilliance

2008-09-30T18:54:00.000-07:00

I guess it was time that I stop ignoring my readers and start writing again. I left you with a big pow! Pregnancy. Again. Wow. My mission to exceed China’s population was a complete flop, but sex is god! After a month of a wonderful anniversary and a year of celebrating aging, I’m back to embrace my reality. My simple “reality” that is the couch, my sweet Hunter, and husband extraordinaire. As zebras are not painted horses, this pregnancy is much different than the last. It’s calm, but the undertow of Hades is just a few levels hormone deep. I barely made it through the last 16 weeks calm, having to talk down my emotions down from jumping into the fire by isolation.

“Anger is an indulgence that requires careful forethought.”

Shane is clueless as to how close he got to perhaps getting both his achilles sliced lengthwise. Instead, I removed myself from short ended situations and made way to my bedroom until the emotional tsunami passed.

In the meantime, Shane has been fending for himself in the dining arena as my appetite has dwindled to fast food or nothing. There’s been nights he’d make a run for Pizza Hut for a personal pan super supreme. “Gasp!!!” Went the die hard foodies elitists, that’s right I said it. I am certain he didn't do it for me, but for the benefit of that special someone that takes my body hostage. In good time, my appetite returned to its five senses. Shane has been my little apprentice in the kitchen. As I carefully guide him into the gentle ways of cooking, he has come to appreciate my hard work in the kitchen. After a long day of work, handling Hunter, and slaving in the kitchen to sit down to a three course meal at eight o’clock, he is exhausted. Little does he know, I am preparing him for the arrival of the second Kitchstar.

As I found my way out of the lethargic fog in my first pregnancy, I found rest to be luxuriously effective in my current. Enter stage right, bedroom. I have officially become a professional at siestas. There’s nothing better than a good snooze. Awaking to feeling refreshed and renewed enough to instant reposition my head and repeat the luxury. As for my gym life, it requires a bit of resuscitation. Alright I did one day of circuit training in my 14 week, but no more nor less. Tsk. Tsk.

As I reflect on my first pregnancy, I am quickly reminded that I was in an entire different era. Pregnancy was a romantic notion. Diet and exercise was on the absolute forefront. Finally, I was not a parent. Today, I manage a household and family. Working full time and a part time mother and wife, leaves no room for anything else. Pregnancy remains a romantic notion, yet the glamour and glitz has worn off. As I would love to work out and be healthy, this pregnancy steers me different. Do not fret, as I am sure like everything else, I will find the magic that weaves refinement back into my game. Until than, life is beautiful in all it’s glory. As my belly begins it’s up rise, I am reminded of the innocent goodness that is blooming in my own being.

This is Shellie staring straight into the sun back to you Bob at the studio.

May the Force be with You!

2008-09-06T20:03:00.000-07:00

Mood: Radiant
Song: “Bicycle Race” by Queen

Children. Some want them. Others can’t stand them. While others can’t get enough of them. Me, I want a gaggle of kids driving me up the wall with sheer insanity in a home where wooden spoons are a means of discipline. I couldn’t imagine my life otherwise. According to my nausea and waistline, I’m on my way to increasing the Kitchen herd. “Mooooo-ve over weight loss something meaty this way comes! It’s been an interesting first trimester. As they say, each pregnancy is different and I can vouch for it. This pregnancy couldn’t be any different from Hunter, "I second that emotion!”

Something exciting is brewing in my belly pot!
Recently, my cravings have geared towards fast food like a swarm of flies to an Ethiopian village. On the double edged sword, my appetite has been nill. Furthermore, my tongue shrivels at the sight of fruits, vegetables, or the term organic and seasonal of the sort. This second coming, is determined to give me an ulcer. Like a mental patient refusing to take her meds, I forcefeed myself to eat fruits, vegetables that are of the term organic or seasonal. Although it taste like radiator vomit, I know I am doing the nation of Shellie a world of good.

In other sorted events, Nausea -my number one enemy- turns it’s gentle serrated edges into my gut letting me know who is Queen of this Kingdom. I haven’t had the courtesy of barfing (knock on wood), but the belly of the beast can always make it’s way to the surface. I beseech you oh Nausea to let me be. Meanwhile in the Northern Hemisphere, Sleep troops have taken the city of Consciousness by storm! Violently accosting the town with demands of rest and relaxation.

In relative news, deep in the jungle my emotions have beat me into submission. Sobbing has become my new pass time. Like a leaky faucet, I sob in tiny doses. When the surge of irrational current begins its up rise, I take a deep breath and lock myself in a padded room. Alright my bedroom is not padded, but my bed is soft enough to embrace the turbulence. Besides, Shane nor Hunter need not be an innocent bystander. Sometimes a nice bubble bath, jazz, and a novel are also good medicine.

Finally another menacing birthday is around the corner, I’m sprinting against time. I refuse to be a useless senior citizen when my children turn eighteen. The thought of being threatened by fall, resulting in breaking a hip is cruel. Suddenly, this whole teenage pregnancy hullabaloo is genius! A mother of an eighteen year old at age 33 is sexy! What was I thinking with college and traveling! Also, irrelevancy has become part of my morse.

Thankfully, I’m in my second trimester!

Release the shackles and let the slave graze the earth.
I’m still enchanted by this miracle. The creation of life is the shit! I can't believe my mom went through it ten times! I can’t wait to do it again. I am fortunate to be so lucky in this lifetime. In the meantime, goodness is growing in my belly!

This is Shellie exlaiming, "Something joyous this way comes!" Back to you Bob at the studio!

Tres

2008-08-27T06:54:00.000-07:00

After a succession of dating men and relationships for decades, she concocted a list that would be full proof Trifecta. First and foremost, male can not be a product of divorce. Her former boyfriends were all products of divorce and the repercussions were too much of a mind fuck. The issues were far and beyond light, space, and meaning. Secondly, must have a job. It seems so basic, but her last six boys were unemployed musicians. Could she find a mother effer with an effen job? She thought of crossing off musicians, but that would be uninteresting. She was distraught of paying the rent, bar bills, and meals. Finally and fundamentally, he must be equipped with a sense of humor. A man without a sense of humor is a man with a shriveled heart.

She wasn’t in the market for neither love nor boyfriend of the sort. Perhaps a good lay would be interesting. Until that menacing cupid decides to go on a rampage and shoot an arrow through your jugular. She occupied her nights at bars with girlfriends and stumbled home. Her usual stragglers placed their after hour phone calls, as she strummed her guitar and chain smoked her American spirits. She picked up the phone, “yep the doors unlocked.” It was him. As she balanced a few guys, she realized how he had become a regular late night and the other three were slowly being cut. It started to become a ritual. We would reconvene at the chime of a closing bar and depart at sunrise. As he constantly professed that he didn’t want to be in a relationship, he sure called her an awful lot. Word about town, was that he had never had a girlfriend ever! He was not the settling down type. She, on the other hand, was steadfast on the single track. She was a chronic relationshipaholic and was on a mission for independence. This was a perfect situation. Never once, did she call him. By the wise word of her mom, “never chase men! A woman should never resort to such desperation, let them chase you.” So by mom’s wisdom, she never phoned this late night regular. Nor did she question the intentions.

Three months later he asked her to be his girlfriend and to move in. There was calm about the whirlwind situation. I was not reluctant. Sure, I had to pick between him and another guy. Her Trifecta Theory quickly debunked. He was a product of divorce, but his parents divorced when he was twenty. She hadn’t been with a construction worker before (blush)! He was so hilarious he could make a dead man laugh. He was golden.

They’ve been together over seven years and married for three. In a world where getting a divorce is shorter than a lifespan of a fly, they hoped their promise is bound forever. Today they celebrate their three year anniversary. The Kitchens with their delightful little fifteen month boy in tow are excited to announce that there’s a little bun roasting in her oven expected next spring! In honor of her parents who have been happily married for fifty one years, she can only hope to follow in they’re footsteps.

This is Shellie always in love back to you Bob at the studio!

Kindred Roots

2008-08-23T10:39:00.000-07:00

Her dad said it best. She was seventeen and leaving for the airport for the big move off the little rock. He said, “You’ll be back.” Her father’s words reinforced this teenager’s plight to cut the umbilical cord to sheer independence. Deep inside he knew the determination that burned in her dark brown eyes, that his daughter was gone. She smiled, “right,” she softly closed the screen door behind her. With just one thousand dollars, she saved over a year’s time of work, in her pocket she left all that was home for California. On that departing flight, she promised herself she would never rely on her parents for anything. She was certain her future and her fate stood in her hands.

Her first few years in the city, she put herself through college while working full time, oblivious to what a keg stand was. The value of money quickly slapped her into a field of somber, especially when rent was due. Her meals consisted of a healthy diet of ramen, Kraft cheese and macaroni, burritos, or quesadillas. She discovered that best friends and buds were simply acquaintances and thugs. She fell flawlessly face in the mud until she could distinguish the difference between sex and love. She grew up fast at seventeen. Like molded clay that’s been in the kiln for too long, she became hardened by life.

Pensively analyzing through trial and error, she had it good at home. She was provided with free room and board, enriched with no responsibility to pay for bills. Although never once in the fifteen years, has she regretted her decision to leave. Pulling her weight is self rewarding. It was freedom. No late night phone calls to mom on how she spent her last paycheck on clothes and booze. She was her dad’s daughter, her pride and promise dictated to move forward. She would pick up a part-time job to supplement her social habits.

She would not exchange her life experiences and the souls that have embraced and shattered her. Falling has been the golden gift, humbling to the touch; it helped her realize that imperfections are what made her authentic. On this arduous journey, she looks forward to embracing future failures, from the words of her nine siblings, “…nobody’s perfect. You’re not perfect. Failure is the perfect way to learn to love yourself, the ones that don’t learn well there just stupid.…” Her siblings the back bone to her “no guts-no glory” philosophy. Her siblings had taught her tough love, speaking the truth absent of smoke and mirrors.

She credits her siblings and the hawaiian way of life for her courage and compassion. If it weren't for them, she would be lifeless, gutless, and cold. As her heart still pines for her family, the warm Hawaiian ocean and the way of life that is Aloha and kindness, she knows one day she’ll return with a family of her own to plant her own seed to instill roots and like her, it can never be uprooted.

This is Shellie in third person back to you Bob at the studio!

Taste Test

2008-08-19T18:56:00.000-07:00

In usual Kitchen fashion, we found a reason to eat out, “let’s celebrate the signing of your contract!” I was the culprit. Besides, I needed a break from the kitchen. We headed to Slow Club where we were guaranteed a delicious dinner. We were immediately seated with high chair in tact.

“How old is he,” inquired the blonde hipster server with big hoop bakelite earrings.
“15 months on the ninth.” I was proud to not be at home like most parents enslaved to their child’s schedule.
“I have two myself,” the female server topped me one better.
“Cool!” I must admit she looked fantastic for two kids. I can only wish the same for myself.

The server brought over two ice waters and placed a paper cup with a straw for Hunter, “here you go,” like a natural mom, she knew what was up. Although she was unaware that Hunter was not privy to the straw, but he went for it anyway. He bit on the straw, but the concept to suck went straight out the window. Shane and I giggled, yet irritation brewed when we moved his cup to the end of the table. As his high chair’s safety belt was suspiciously broken, he wiggled his way out and began crying. No sooner than I could say, “crap on a shingle,” the bus boy placed a plate of bread and olive oil on the table. “Thank god,” I thought, “he loves bread!” I tore the bread into pieces and placed it in front of him. He took a handful and threw it against the wall. My sigh of relief quickly skipped to humiliation. Shane and I exchanged looks that translated to possibly leaving to an unpalatable destination like Chevys.

I personally wanted to bury my head in the sand. Horrid. I quickly questioned my humiliation. There were other things that would have my head in a tizzy. My Hawaiian upbringing simply told me to "relax"; thus stop trying to keep up appearances. That quickly put me in check.

Shane and I laughed it off and proceeded to finish our wonderful meal by switching off. "Oh my god, you've gotta try this," Shane fed me forkfuls of his blue corn grits and roasted pork loin as I fed Hunter his bottle. Subsequently, he would relieve me so I could finish my black bean soup which wasn't share worthy.

In the grand scheme of things, we adapted to the downshift. It was a gentle whirlwind of eating. We enjoyed our dinner at a fine, but slow pace. We embraced the fact that this would be our last dining experience as a family. Before leaving our table, I made sure we picked up the garbage dump that Hunter created amiss the floor. It would be a few years before we skim the fine dining rim again. Although we’ll make the best of it, here’s to more romantic dinners with my husband. Perhaps this is a prelude to date night!

This is Shellie ruling, “not all good things come to an end, it just takes time to refine” back to you Bob at the studio!

One Step Towards Mankind

2008-08-18T21:34:00.000-07:00

It is official! At 15 months, Hunter has taken his first steps. Sigh. Walking is such an enormous feat. I should be calendaring his surging developments, but I haven’t been doing such a good job. It happened so fast! I feel victimized by time. Although he’s only a year and some months, time is swift. His birth vivid in my mind, thus photos of his infancy remind me -like all of us- we are just game to the master “time.” I am a fool as a slight err of somber hinders my celebration. Nonetheless, his adorable triumph to travel around on his new found legs has my heart whipped up in all kinds of inspiration.

More and more, I discover that the miracle of life is amazing. In retrospect, I can conclude that motherhood, and being a wife, kicks ass! It is so fantastic! I am going to explode in sheer delight! Not even his wild and crazy toddler antics can dissuade me from this unselfish bliss. It may all seem silly to the non-parent, but my soul has never brewed such wild adoration for such magnificence. Perhaps, when he’s sixteen and he tells me that I’m ridiculous and to stick it where the sun don’t shine! I’ll have great memories that will subdue me from possibly choking him into submission.

As we are open neglectors, we took the whole family (Hunter, Chloe, and Oliver) to Ocean Beach yesterday. The dogs dashed like demon fire in circles and crazy eights around Hunter. My son continued his tender walking balance, oblivious to the canine chaos that had passers by ogling. He continued un-phased by his environment and took the next step without caution. He walked ahead fearless as the gentle breeze sweeps in our direction, Shane looks over, "life is good."

This is Shellie taking the gold medal in the sappy mom race back to you Bob at the studio!

Miseducated

2008-08-04T20:26:00.000-07:00

Oh my god! Oh the aching of my head. One word, preschool. Everyone’s making a fuss about it. Shane’s more concerned about the tuition than the curriculum. Curriculum! I know the kids three years old, what curriculum is considered standard at that age, “make sure to color within the lines.” Seriously, preschool should be an introduction to social interaction than academics. My brain is on the verge of busting! Advil por favor. Waiting list. Tuition. Waiting list. Gender balance. Waiting list. The crux to my dilemma.

Speaking of crux, a Marin Day school is two blocks from my office. Convenience, besides he would riding the train into the city. How tres’ chic! I discovered the tuition was $18,500 a year; not convenient. My Spanish speaking nanny cost more dough and she didn’t speak English, I’m tired of constant bum violations. Painful. In fact, the Lycée Français La Pérouse is only $14,000! I can dig that! I’m on the waiting list for the Chinese American, Japanese immersion, Italian immersion, Spanish immersion. I’ve got an interview with Temple Emmanuel. Yes, Jewish why not we’re in San Francisco? Diversity, I’m from Hawaii I can handle it. I’m in a whirlwind of open houses, tours, and applications. There’s one particular preschool that has a stellar reputation among the community that runs $7,600 a year! It would only be in good taste that there be a waiting list the size of Noah's Ark and Hunter is on that list. The big kick in the shin is his acceptance is based on gender balance. That’s right, the strict balance of gender in that particular class enrolled. Suddenly, the room is shrinking and getting smaller. My chest is tight and heavy…can’t breath….must…make way to bed…to…lie down.

My sister soon brought me down to earth, “we didn’t go to preschool? So what’s all the fuss?” The fuss is I wish I did. In true parent fashion, I want the best for my son. It does not mean that he should be enrolled in the top preschool. Will he benefit from being bilingual? Is yoga an integral growth into his spiritual being? Education augmented by theories and challenging philosophies stem at such an early age in San Francisco, I can see why parents are psychotic babbling neurotic freaks about the entire ordeal. Whatever happened to enhancing the simple social interaction of a three year old child? Go climb a tree! Learn to share. Sit in a circle and sing. Finally, what ever happened to simply laugh induced playing? I patiently await the phone call, in the meantime I go about my business. It all filters down to one laughable, but important factor, it’s only preschool.

This is Shellie popping my colorful meds back to you Bob at the studio.

Soul to Sole

2008-08-01T20:22:00.000-07:00

It is no top secret that I am a victim to shopping. Online or on site, I am whole heartedly addicted. My husband likes to refer to my condition as impulsive compulsive, but I feel, like all females, we are equipped with the shopping disease. As a new parent, I have learned to curb my vice by displaced addiction. That’s right. I have found a justified reason to increase my son’s wardrobe. Guilt free.

It was on that suspicious day; I forgot my gym bag and was tussled into the peril of the internet on my lunch. “Hmmm,” I thought, “Heels.com, Piperlime.com, Zappos.com,” I found myself endlessly skimming the sales for last seasons pairs as the day before my new puppy Oliver had gotten his pesky little jaws on six pairs of my shoes including three designer pair. Sob. Than I remembered that Shane wanted to purchase a special “phat” pair of sneakers for Hunter. I thought it would be nice of me to make that purchase on his behalf.

I was on a mission. I had a task to complete. One pair for Hunter coming up! I was aware of my husband’s selective nature. He absolutely loathed crocs and anything of the sort and as his wife, I second that motion. A couple clicks, double clicks, I found perfection. There it was just like I imagined the Adidas III. True precision for a toddler. This multi colored toddler size kicks were equipped with velcro straps. As it wouldn’t be considered shopping if I stopped now, I pursued additional pairs for shop’s sake.

My purchases were completely justified, regardless of the price. It was an essential. I felt exhumed with bliss. It felt good to give. Since the birth of my son on May 9, 2007, I can honestly say I have put my son and husband before myself. As the ninth child of ten siblings, I have played the role of spoiled brat to the tenth power. Was it my destiny to be generous of heart? Not if I had any say. Here I am a mother, a parent, and a wife. Happiness couldn’t come at a better time.

This is Shellie sole searching back to you Bob at the studio!

Smart Wheels

2008-07-27T23:08:00.000-07:00

Diddle, daddle, dawdle, that’s me in a fiddle! Well, not so much so as my former life as a singleton, but I remain true to my craft. For a year I’ve been meaning to sale my X5 to the next sucker. I take that back, I have traipsed into the craigslist world, but that has proven to be the most unreliable source known to the galaxy. Twelve months and $4.95 a gallon later, and my monster automobile remains parked in the driveway. Sigh. The hike in gas prices has put a little spin on my perspective. I’m that obnoxious three headed snake driving in the suv as hybrid owners zoom by with looks of displeasure and disgust. I’m not proud to be contributing to the global warming effect. Alright you temperamental NPR subscriber and earth crisis activists gently put the rotten tomatoes down. Besides, I keep my driving to a minimum. In the meantime, I make up for my excessive carbon footprint by composting and recycling, but that’s for another entry. Why did I purchase it in the first place you ask? One word “Tahoe.” Second word, “Snowboarding!” Since my purchase, I have been to Tahoe a total of three times. Thus, I am an idiot.

As I fall in the pit of fads, I’m humiliated by my yuppie gas extravaganza. I’ve got a fever for a Smartcar. They whiz by and I’m so apt to jump on the bandwagon. Sure, it’s a hyped up goal cart, but who cares. It’s urban! It’s hip. Speaking of hip, the Vespa is congesting the San Francisco streets! I heart Vespa. Its gas usage is heaven on wheels. If I sell my car, I can get both! In addition, I could get a Honda Element! Parking would be a breeze! The ideas clash, turning wheels in my noggin like rubber cement on the verge of drying. “Three vehicles? Why do you need three vehicles in the city? Where would Hunter’s car seat go? Where would I sit!” Shane bursting my day dream bubble, “oh yeh.” I chuckled as Hunter crawled like an arachnid across the wooden floor, “oops.” I smiled with my light disregard for my family.

If I ever have the energy to breath, I will exert some strength into ridding my fuel inefficient vehicle. Until than, hybrids, Vespas, and Smartcars continue to taunt me at every four way stop. I am a mother and as a mother, I should see to it that I make a better world for my sweet Hunter Styles and others to come. That’s where daydreams come in handy.

This is Shellie reassessing my lifestyle for a better quality of life back to you Bob at the studio!

smitten

2008-07-17T00:22:00.000-07:00

Mom always told me that marriage always came first. Otherwise, a family would give into a weak foundation. In honor of mom’s advice and their fifty one years of blissful marriage, Shane and I left Hunter with Auntie Vanessa and painted the town romantic. We intend to do this at least once a month, but babysitters in this town come at a lofty price. Thank god for friends and relatives.

We drove along King Street as we embarked on the romantic view of the Bay Bridge. We silently took in the scene of the lit cityscape as the full moon kissed the bay. We were headed to destination unknown, “Where do you wanna go? We could do dinner or we could do a movie?” Shane was always open for anything. My hunger made an abrupt decision for dinner. As we are creatures of the (easily mistaken) pretentious food phenomena, we thought we’d through caution to the wind and head for North Beach.

The Parking Fairy obliged us with a rock star parking spot. We walked hand in hand past Saint Peters and Paul church with the full moon lighting our path. The cold wind whipped my hair in different directions as my outfit was best suited for summer. We perused the menus on Stockton Street, but twenty four dollars for spaghetti and meatballs only victimized the European visitors who could afford such leisure and lack of quality in food.

We turned the corner of Stockton and Columbus and there it sat Café DeLucchi. As I recall, the home made pasta here reminded me of my time spent in Florence. Shane flitted for the wine list as my thirst yearned for mineral water. The menu, just as I imagined, was traditionally simple, good, and cheap. Shane reminded me that he wasn’t famished, but ordered skirt steak and gnocchi, one of the lighter fares on the menu. As my mind lectured my body that a salad and soup would benefit from my vigorous workout at the gym, I went face first for the Caesar salad with white anchovies and the lasagna. Our dishes were light and delicious just as expected. Shane’s gnocchi were pillows of clouds; delectably fluffy. We headed next door for dessert gelato.

I thanked him for dinner as he, in trade, thanked me for the gelato. We walked arm in arm to the car with the menacing wind cursing our movement. The Madagascar vanilla gelato only contributed to the frigid factor of my outfit best suited for summer time. Shane, usual knack for impulsive urinating, headed for Washington Park and before I could caution him of homeless or ongoing gay activity, he disappeared behind six foot bushes. I sat in the passenger seat as harmful thoughts wildly intruded my head. My heart raced as it would be our luck that he is raped by a big hairy gay man dressed in cheap leather costume or stabbed by a homeless person. My heart faded to normal when his silhouette emerged from the bushes. His mischievous smile struck from ear to ear.
“Were you accosted by a gay man or did you pee on a homeless dude?”
“Before I knew it," He interrupted with a laugh as words seem to choke him, "I was peeing on some homeless dude’s leg!" He paused to laugh again, "All I saw was a pair of Adidas.” His childhood laugh was contagious.
“Did you aim elsewhere?”
“No," He choked and paused and choked, "I couldn’t.” He continued with his infectious chuckle.
“So you just continued to pee on his leg?”
“Pretty much.”
“Geeze.”
We both laughed for a whole five minutes before putting the key in the ignition. Mind you we were still parked three feet away from the suspicious bushes.

Shellie's Mantra: "Young grasshopper must achieve the pinnacle of nirvana with laughter and urination."

The full moon witness to our recent occurrence parallel our drive home bound. The delightful thought of Shane, urinating on a poor homeless person in the bushes of Washington Square Park, was the highlight of our night. For most females they equate flowers or poetry to romance, a good laugh always makes my heart grow fonder.

This is Shellie urinating behind closed doors back to you Bob at the studio!

Sleep Matter

2008-07-14T05:38:00.000-07:00

The past six months have been a wet dream when it comes to getting shut eye. There's nothing more fortunate than a good nights rest. It is only a matter of time before the lull breaks.

In the realms of one o'clock in the morning, a wild shriek from the bottom floor disturbs my dream state. Shane and I pretend the sound is just a figment of our imagination. We both are awake, but we refuse to acknowledge reality. The parent stand off begins. I close my eyes tighter in hopes he would retreat back to sleep. Hunter's wails continue on a downward spiral. A few minutes later, "Can you please check on him," I gently knudge my sweet husband. He rolls out of bed and slumps his way downstairs. I wrap myself deeper into my down comforter hoping Shane will manage to silence our son. Instead, Hunter howls increase by the minute. I immediately find a problem in my husband's easing tactic. I come downstairs to find Shane sitting in Hunter's crib. "Dude what in the hell are you doing? Your going to break that thing?" My husband's logic was outrageously ridiculous, when all else fails get in the crib with my son. We get into a mild tiff and I send his useless existence on his way upstairs.

At this point, Hunter is yelling from the top of his lungs like his toes were being plucked with pliars. His nose running, cheeks flushed red, face freshly washed with tears. I realize that his diaper is secreting mustard colored squish. I pick him up to make way to the changing table and his skin is cloaked with a fever that is hot to the touch. How could my dear husband be so blind? Beside the flagrant poop factor, my son was teething on an excruciating level. I dart for the orajel and the homeopathic teething pills that Shane likes labels "baby crack." I follow it up with a hit of tylenol. In a few minutes, Hunter's shrill attack is done.

I give him a fresh bottle of milk and made my way to the couch. In good time, he is snoring and he snores just like his dad. He sleeps with both arms behind his head, he sleeps just like his dad. As my husband is sweet as nectar, I wished on the morning starlight that my son did not inherit his dad's unsound late night practices.

This is Shellie bidding you a good night back to you Bob at the studio!

Centered

2008-07-13T21:48:00.000-07:00

I plopped Hunter down on the carpet as Bach chimed in surround sound. The twins stared up at me than returned to their building blocks. I’ve been accustomed to Hunter clinging for the life of abandonment, but today he joined the others in play. He crawled through the pile of building blocks and continued to build. I looked at the teacher and shrugged, “I guess he’s over it.” Naturally, I was sullen as I was quickly put on a mantle. At least, he wasn’t wailing for his mom. I kissed him good bye.

I returned from work and witnessed his long stand off. He stood there hands free next to Taylor. They both stood there amongst a sea of wooden alphabet blocks. He was upright with no apparent knee buckling. He looked over at and gave me one of his smiles, “Oh my god he’s standing!” “I wanted you to see for yourself,” Bernadette smiled under her glasses. “Wow!” I replied to Bernadette. I’ve seen him stand, but not for so long without any thing to catch his fall. It was an adventure with his new tricks. It took a few minutes for him to warm up to me. That was fine, I’m sure the pressure was on with his little daycare cronies. He didn’t want to seem like a mamas boy. Good boy! It’s the end of the second week of Hunter’s new found daycare. Hunter’s adapting pretty nicely.

The coddle one-to-one childcare is faded. I'm over it. It's funny...how reality trumps my expectations! In the back of my mind, I always thought I'd raise my family on the rural outskirts of Oahu where the sugarcane meets the shore. Rural enough for my child to roam the countryside and sea from morning to sunset. Instead, I settled for San Francisco where the rolling hills meet the Pacific bay. This cosmpolitan bubble has it's quirks like aggressive child philosophy pragmatics. I had different expectations in regards to raising my family. It's not so bad. I can deal. All in all, I can't dwell on expectations, but I can make the most of where I am. Today, I am centered, hence content with life; I can live anywhere.

This is Shellie saying, "to play or not to play, that is the question," back to you Bob at the studio.

Nanny No How

2008-07-09T18:49:00.000-07:00

It has been a week, since my nanny mishap. I am more productive now that I'm nannyless. Thus, I’m busier, but such is life.

As the sunshine slowly tips it’s toes into our home, the gentle sounds of Hunter playing with his stuffed animals fills the room. Shane makes his way downstairs at the crack of Hunter’s cries which usually involves a diaper fiasco. I follow his lead soon after his reflexes give way to clamorous gagging from Hunter’s innocent excrement. I find a good healthy chuckle in his diaper disposition.

I unlock the back door so Oliver and Chloe can do their doggy duties in their toilet which I recalled used to be our backyard that was free of canine urine and feces. I start the water for our breakfast cereal. Hunter finds the closet door stopper more entertaining than his room full of toys. In the wake of the nanny’s absence, I discover that the kitchen and the floor are not self-cleaning entities. I wash Hunter’s hands and place him in his high chair for his quick breakfast nosh of fresh fruit and fig bars. He dances in his seat to the songs of Jack’s Big Music Show on Noggin. Meanwhile, Shane and I sing a long as we clean the room.

Shane finishes the warm breakfast cereal with honey, almond slivers, and currants. I’m groomed and ready to tackle the big task; outfit. Six changes and 15 minutes later, my outfit a la mode is complete. I not so meticulously make the bed before heading down. The clock ticks eight o’clock and Hunter remains in his pajamas. Shane and I share an understanding when it comes to dressing our son. If I’m running behind, he compensates for my inefficiency. Visa Versa. Today Shane is losing time by dropping science. I put him in shorts and a Marley t-shirt, “Shoes, shoes! What shoes go with this wretched outfit?” I scoured the mountain of heels that is my closet. “You know you should really organize that,” Shane done with his science project thought his two cents would make a difference. Ironically, my red Kenneth Cole sandals were absent from the heel pile. My banal outfit too monotone for words, required a splash of color. Sometimes one must give in to fate, hence I wore black wedges. Pedestrian.

I have Hunter in my left arm. I struggle to untangle the diaper bag strap, hence forgetting I had a gripfull of milk, I spilled it eloquently over my outfit. The breeze blew my hair in a direction that was cumbersome. I entered the daycare to the sound of music. Hunter was on to me as he grasped tight to my calves. His cries become loud and brash. His clingy behavior just came on like a summer fever, I wasn’t sure if it was an age thing or a day care thing. Whatever it was, it was going to make me late. I held him for a few minutes and dashed out the door to the sound of his screams. My heart sunk deep into my chest as I turned the ignition and pressed the gas. I briskly walked to the bart station. Note to self: wedges good for looks, not for walking.

It’s half past five o’clock when I enter the daycare. I observe him playing with his fellow friends. He is up on two legs and pushing a cart while laughing. My soul is rich. He is gentle. He laughs. He smiles. Serenity, that peaceful feeling over came me like when I lay afloat for hours looking up at the blue sky as I was cradled in the warm hawaiian ocean as a child. “He is such a good kid, really well mannered.” Bernadette whispers, “they went to the park today and played for an hour and a half and he took a two hour nap. I’ve watched many kids and he is a fine child.” I am a modest mom. Her compliments ease my heart and silence my guilt.

Today he is fourteen months. Fourteen months, it's not a year and it's not a year and a half. Every day is just as significant as the day he was born. I thank my lucky stars. I thank the karma gods. I am blessed. I scoop him into my arms as he enriches me with a hug and a giggle. We drive back on S280 as Beulah celebrates through the speakers. Through my rear view mirror, he taps his feet to the melody of my heart that is happiness.

This is Shellie bliss rules all back to you Bob at the studio!

Switch Up

2008-06-30T11:54:00.000-07:00

Our nanny decided to take off without any notice last week. Take off as in “quit.” That little B*#ch! I have bent over backwards for this woman to make sure her job was cush. We insured her job after acquiring legal citizenship to go back to Columbia for three months. Three effen months! In the corporate world, three months off meant get another job jocko! She had free reign to our home. Whatever she wanted. She had all the smoked trout to feed Alaska’s wildlife. Mostly, she had the easiest child to care for. By word of mouth, Hunter is a very low maintenance easy going child. Knock on wood. Such is life. Onward and upward, I say to myself.

After shaking my fist up to the nanny gods, I was fine. My main mantra in life is, “Things happen for a reason so deal.” Instead of crying into my no nanny fondue, I began to scour the endless craigslist ads for a spanish speaking nanny. As a side note, the nanny career is lucrative aka rip off. I was on the prowl for a bargain! I phoned the prominent day cares in near proximity, but was struck down by the year and a half waiting list, according to my calculations I had half a year to go. After hitting a few bumps of stress breakdowns on my lunch and yelling at my husband on the phone, I was done. “Shellie,” I said to myself, “Get yourself together!” I made contact with a family that just moved into the neighborhood and we were meeting with them for a coffee play date tomorrow for a possible nanny share. In addition, I had an appointment with a daycare on Sunday that seemed promising. My chest didn’t feel so heavy at the end of the day.

The Kitchens had to work fast. Fortunately, my husband had two weeks between projects, which meant that he could step in to relieve the pressure. As I thought we were free from worry, he had meetings all week with potential clients. Fate was working against the grain. After a long day of innocuous leisure, Sunday I awoke with a touch of a hangover. I made way to the gym to exert my stress and sit in the steam room for a little rest and relaxation. We made it to the daycare in Sunnyside/Glen Park and did a walk through of the facilities. As I walked through the daycare, the tension in my shoulders slowly softened. I had a good feeling about this spot. It was perfect! The backyard was kickin’ with a playground fit for kid! The residing street parking was free from residential and hourly restraints. It was a ten minute walk from the Glen Park Bart Station which means muni can kiss my caboose “ciao”! To make things brighter, we would save twelve thousand a year. We were in the clear.

I am convinced that things happen for a reason. There is nothing more useless than living in the past and using it as a crutch. I may be bruised and emotionally exhausted, I always thrive in changes. Like my lovely nine siblings always say, “Shellie your like the dinosaurs you will survive anything.” Growing up I hated that saying, but today I am proud to have self strength. I wouldn’t want to walk in shadows during my existence unmoved by change. Banal.

Monday rolled in and I dropped Hunter off at his new day care. The fellow toddlers looked in awe as Hunter was seated for his oatmeal breakfast in the kitchen. I run on intuition and it was all good. I kissed him good bye and closed the door behind me. Today is a good day. Viva la Vida!

This is Shellie throwing a penny in a wishing well back to you Bob at the studio!

Cultivate

2008-06-25T20:16:00.000-07:00

Looking back, a lot of my childhood encompassed our acre large garden and live stock. Dad made two hundred dollars a month for a family of ten, thus our garden was our source of survival. Back then, the garden and all that set root was my core enemy. It intervened in my playtime especially in the summer when school was out, all I ever heard was, “it’s time to go to the garden.” When school was in session all I heard was, "remember come home straight from school you have to go to the garden." I blistered in the sun toiling with these darn fruits and vegetables while my friends chased each other down the block and through the fields. Saturdays the main artery to my loathing, my morning cartoon session was cut short. As a kid, all I lived for was running rampant with the neighborhood kids till nightfall. I cursed our garden. I spit on our farm life. I swore to never speak of such things out loud.

Twenty years later, the slow food movement makes an up rise from Europe to America. No thanks to the pioneer frontiersman Alice Waters for making it all happen. I skipped the Ferry Building Farmer's Market on Saturday, and hit the Alameda Farmer's Market instead. After strolling through the Alameda Farmer's Market I left with a few pots of chili peppers, English and french thyme, basil, tarragon, rosemary, thyme, cilantro, parsley, cherry box tomatoes and arugula all under the cheap fare of $20. Shane shook his head as he has grown accustom to my compulsive projects that has a life span of a week. I, Madam Black Thumb, decided to face my farce of gardening and prove to myself that I could see a project to the end.

I was excited. I could sense victory on my horizon. Besides, herbs in my meals have become a staple in my cooking in the past four years. Conveniently, plucking it from the backyard would be sensational. Mom and Dad would choke on a chicken bone, if they witnessed my soil attempt. Me, the serial cactus strangler, is moving out of my circle. I plugged in my ipod speaker system and let Thelonious Sphere Monk tap on those keys in all that is jazz. I dusted off my gardening kit from our Clayton Street home, and I made way into the backyard. “This is the first time you’ve spent time back here, since we moved in.” my husband heckled, “you sure you know what your doing? Remember you have to plant the basil next to the tomatoes for it to grow well.” Suddenly, my husband King Horticulture repeated his sister’s advice to a healthy basil life in San Francisco. I removed the herbs from their temporary pots and replanted them in the new soil. I felt a sense of exuberance with the notion that the life of these plants relied on my sensitive care.

The very next morning I lightly sprayed some water to quench the soil. I talked to the plants as I would a friend. I recall my fifth grade teacher, Ms. Ito, mentioning an article on classical music and plants and how they thrived successfully. Pregnant moms play classical music for their babies in their bellies all the time so why would this be any more queer. Two weeks later, my garden is abounding with life. I made an arugula salad topped with fresh cherry box tomatoes and rosemary chicken topped with a garlic tarragon and parsley butter.

I am glad that the slow food movement is slowly entering the general public. As living off the land goes way back in history and it is nothing new. The world today is moving too fast and too large with no respect for patience. As I enjoy a beautiful fresh meal, I have come to understand the satisfaction and accomplishment of my parents’ meals and the importance of finishing everything off our plates. My parents worked hard to feed their family. I hope that my children will appreciate the importance and find the beauty in life.

This is Shellie pleading, "plant love not war" back to you Bob at the studio!

The Trinity Strikes Again.

2008-06-18T20:57:00.000-07:00

“I sense something. A presence I've not felt since...”

-D. Vader

Habitual

2008-06-14T19:22:00.000-07:00

Lately, Hunter’s been developing habits that is standard to baby dome. The little menace is a wily little one. His exclusive bad habit, the numero ex factor uno is sitting a foot away from Chloe’s water bowl waiting for our lame discipline tactic, “Hunter do not touch that,” I lower my voice hoping it will set the tone for an ass whooping, “Hunter don’t you dare!” He turns around sparks his angelic smile and wade his hands in Chloe’s water bowl and laughs. I’ve gone so low as slapped his hands followed with, “bad, bad, bad.” Handling Hunter as one would a canine, my light slapping making him explode into laughter. My first experience in many where my child will find my parenting skill set laughable. I am relieved to know that he found humor in my chore. Needless to say Chloe’s meal time is not as convenient as it used to be.

Onto bad habit numero dos the let down. The let down is his relentless need to be picked up only to be put down. This little worm nuts refuses to be held. As Hunter wants nothing to do with cradling, my devil spawn demands intensive crawling time. His play room is fortified with berserk capacity, instead he dismisses the play room for the outskirts of the unknown. He, with great peril, delves into everything that is dangerous and off limits. Lately, he’s found an attraction to the kitchen. He switches all the gas range knobs to off which makes cooking difficult, than making his way to the book shelf to ‘cause more havoc. As soon as someone opens the refrigerator door, he darts for the opportunity to get in the cold box. Regardless of the generous size of his play room, Hunter is not aware of the parameters.

Now for the bad habit, the mucho gusto of them all, numero tres. Stairs. That’s right the harmless series of flights that get one to another level. Our little menace sent me into instant shock therapy, the unfortunate Wednesday morning that curdled my blood to tears. As I brushed my teeth I heard him faint and distant, instantly with great mommy instinct I bolted past the unlocked gate to the second floor. There he was in our bedroom a foot away from the open glass sliding door to the open face balcony overlooking our backyard. I thanked my lucky stars, and cursed and hobbled my husband for his negligence. Hunter’s newfound mobility has me on edge. The experiences are a few, but it’s enough to put me in a mental hospital.

As many women are in love with the notion of being a mother, like accessorizing their life with an exquisite Valentino or a pair of Chloe's. Thus fashion has it's seasons, and so do children. Having a child is magnificent, but brace yourself for a turbulent, yet beautiful experience. It’s a blast! I’m a little beat, but my philosophy to “free style” has gotten me through bruised and harmed. Besides the lack of sleeping in, I venture where my little man takes me. It keeps me on my toes. Life would be boring otherwise.

This is Shellie exclaiming, “boys kick girls asses any day” back to you Bob at the studio!

Heart Attack

2008-06-13T16:39:00.001-07:00

I dreaded this day the moment I signed her on as nanny. Perhaps, for a second, fate would over look my misfortunes and decide to give me a break. Fate, unpredictably, decided to switch it up and bitch slap me a couple good ones.

I frantically unlocked the front door. I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms and cover him with kisses. There he sat enthralled with his Tonka truck wheels, “Hi loves!” I screamed with arms out ready to wrap him in my sweetness, “come here sweets.” Instead he turned and made a bee line for Mary. As soon as he got to her feet, he tugged her slacks a sign to save him from that strange person, “no that’s your mommy,” she gently scooted him away into my direction. A hair fracture cracked my heart. My ego was afoot slumming it. What did I expect? She was there from eight o’clock to six o’clock. She had ten hours on me. According to my calculations she's kicking my ass by 50 hours a week. Hell on a popsicle stick, I couldn't beat that one down with a stick. My swollen heart how it grows heavy in my chest. I thought I had armored myself heavy for the battle, yet I am slain with emotions.

I’ve been quite sullen with this brash reality. I made the decision when I returned to the work force. I would be risking his unfamiliarity to me, his mother and biggest fan. Nanny and son have a special bond that only leaves me to make up for los time during the evenings, mornings, and weekends. To make matters worse, they even have a language that casts me further from the inner circle. Now, I have to jump in the fast lane and learn spanish on the fly. Cruel.

As I spotlight the downside, I know am not alone in this dark space. I am just one in millions that do not have the luxury to stay home. I know there's worse things in the world, but god damn. As I am witness and victim to this catastrophe, all I can do is smother him with motherly goodness when time permits It is a constant war between quantity vs. quality. It is more often than never that I gently pluck him from his crib, even for just for a second, to hold him in my arms while he slumbers. In the end, there's no winner. All the time in the world is never enough as time escapes with my son on his wings and a little of my happiness with it.

This is Shellie requiring heart surgery back to you Bob at the studio!

Friends are Fashionable

2008-06-08T18:30:00.000-07:00

Getting all the girls together for a night out is like building a sand castle in the sky. Plan B: gather as many skirts together to see the movie. My skirt gang consisted of Jeeun, Angela, and Aussy, five weeks from babyville. As we cleverly decided “not” to make reservations on a Saturday night, we were faced with a 45 minute wait an hour and a half out from the movie. As Aussy is not privy to the power of her pregnancy, I advised that she stop concealing her roundness so we could play the pregnant card with the host. If carefully planned we could have the whole world eating out of her hands. Instead, we darted for a couple leaving their section at the bar, making sure any rivals that dared to swoop would have to go up against a wobbling woman that was starving for two. Twenty minutes and a frustrated server later, we were out the door to stand in line with our fellow skirts.

San Francisco was unlike any other metropolis as we were outnumbered 3-to-1 by gay men. Worse, they were dressed better. Gay men were, by code, snide little bitches. They had a way of making women feel fashionably inept, if appropriate, by a mere huff and sway of their manly hips. I didn’t receive such a stare, but they weren’t discreet with others.

“Man there’s a ton of guys here,” Aussy forgetting she resides in the city of sausage, “Why is that?”
“They’re gay Auss.” Angela and I chimed in synchronized response.
“Oh, but they’re so many of them?” The little one sucked the life from Aussy's rational cells.

“Cheers!” Jeeun and I clanked our paper cups filled with pedestrian espresso. To the left, a gaggle of amateur skirts sipped their plastic cups of soda inconspicuously filled with cosmopolitans. Judging by there behavior, they were straight from the burbs. A bag of buttered popcorn in hand and a big bottle of water, I couldn’t wait for the lights to dim. In the meantime, Jeeun aka Text Master 500 proceeded to configure my device for instant messenger feature. Her fingers triggered at lightening speed putting the coordinates together. Before I knew it, Text Master 500 had blackberry messenger up in a flash. As everyone knows, I have dodged the cell phone phenomena for years. I disliked the fact that I could be accessible by another's whim. Until one day my husband, unfortunately born with the terrible worry gene, bought me my first death phone, How does one dodge texting? Perhaps, cut off my fingers?

As the first two beats of the theme song started, the girlish screams from skirts and slacks alike filled Audotorium 7. The opening credit sequence gave way to an explosion of Manhattan street sophistication. The movie was a definite feel-good hosed with product placement. If you’re a fashion moron like me, "Sex and the City" proved to be no less than orgasmic. Proven horrid was the big labels that demanded the film. The best thing about the show was Bradshaw's wash up of dime store outfits.

As the show has proven it's influence, be certain that skirts around the world are scouring for a pair of Dior gladiators. I am guilty as charged.

Speaking of sex, it was pretty bare in comparison to the series. "Sex and the City" has delivered -as promised- a decent skirt flick perfectly predictable, but it was no "Steel Magnolia."

This evening has proven to be no more than absolute fun. I don’t get out much to the big screen much less with my skirtfriends. As I sat there laughing and smiling, I grew nostalgic for my fellow missing skirts. In my ever shifting life furnished with loving husband and son, and a social life that needs a proper tuning, I wonder if there will ever be a time where a date with all my skirts will be more often than a baby shower.

This is Shellie discovering that Pâte à Choux is not a fashion designer back to you Bob at the studio.

Appreciation of Art

2008-06-03T21:57:00.000-07:00

From one o’clock to the beautiful chimes of midnight, I was on my feet; on the run. As soon as I disrobed into that drab chef's jacket and apron, like a cat being declawed, I was defeminized of all that was girl. The fellow cooks greeted me with light and friendly perverse gestures. The only girl on the line, I was accustomed to the austere filth that was a man’s mouth and mind. If I didn't have seven brothers, I might find some offense to their remarks instead of humor.

A restaurant line consists of stations. A standard restaurant line would entail cold appetizer, hot appetizers, sides, meats, and desserts. Each cook is responsible (and accountible) for their station. In my case, I have proven my worth by slaving my way three notches up the line. Regardless of the station, it was all the same, my mise en place (fancy word for ingredients) and all reinforcements best be ready by service. When the stations are orchestrated correctly, like witnessing all the dishes come together like Mozart’s Concerto No. 10 in E-flat Major.

I was on the "side" station which worked very closely with the meat. It was my first time working on a flat top, friend and foe, which was like staring the sun blatantly in the face. A flat top is so scorching hot that it cured my hangovers almost immediately through sweating. Instamatically, my body was quenched with sweat within the first fifteen minutes of exposure. Shrug, I was conveniently rewarded with twelve percent body fat. For the next twelve hours, I was imprisoned in a heat box fit for roasting pigs. Stage name: Sweat Master.

As I fervently prepare my station, all cooks will tell you the same thing, there is never enough time to get your station ready. Never. There's a gradual under tow of anxiety that strengthens as seconds sprint by, but I always found time for a smoke break. The key to a finished station is "passion." If you don’t have it, than all you have is half ass shit. There are two kinds of cooks in the kitchen: the one that has the "love" and "patience" always on the move for improvement and the one that is covering his ass just so he could make it through service. I found myself somewhere in the middle as I could always use improvement in my time management.

Chefs, where do I start. Chefs are the maestro and composer to all that is the menu. Chefs have a love and hate relationship with perfection, it is never good enough. Chefs demand absolute respect. Chefs come equipped with tempers triggered by expectations. I’ve seen it so many times before service, middle of service, after service. Dodge, to avoid that Misono from your shoulder blade. At the same time, compliments were medals of valor and was worn with pride.

Line work is by the very definition 'harsh'. It’s degrading. Cooking in an open kitchen, watching “foodies” strutting their food network prowess, unaware of the components that contributed to the dishes set forth. Do they appreciate the medley of vegetables that are perfectly sliced in brunoise fashion? Do they taste the symphony of salty, sweet, heat, acidity? Do they know the labor intensive process to produce that streak of reduction? And just like that, the art is gone in one swallow followed with a sip of wine that complements the flavor.

Today my biggest life irritants could easily be resolved by one splurge. Fine dining. There's a still vacany, if I do not splurge one night a week. Unlike the usual San Francisco foodie, I appreciate a fine meal. I am privy to the labor and love it entailed to produce such excellence. Especially when a server sets a dish before me I can’t help but admire the plating and the accompanying aroma. I’ve been known to buy the line, each a shot of patron for a superb meal.

I have retired my chef's jacket years ago. Although my short stint in the industry was just a spit in the span of my life, but it was an experience unforgotten. I was a runt amongst cooks striving for the success of chef some of them hailing from the likes of Bouley, Jean-Georges, Wylie Dufresne, DiSpirito, and Bottali. I was humble and I held my own under their guidance.

Gone are the days of twelve hour shifts of cussing, constant sexual harassment, cigarettes, cussing, cooking, cigarettes, burns, cussing, cussing, cigarettes, midnight happy hour, and more cigarettes. I miss the hurly burly of cooking in a restaurant. I miss the challenge it put forth and the glory at the end of service. I miss the company of cooks in all their haute ego and modesty. I have learned that simplicity is complex. I have come to understand the complexities of the never ending creation and master to the art. Instead, I embelish my quiet nights to the likes of "Top Chef" or "No Reservations."

Time to time, I'll receive emails from my old cronies. Some opened their own shop, meanwhile others to French Laundry, Cru, and El Bulli. I am fortunate to know that there was a time in my life that I rubbed elbows with greatness.

This is Shellie breaking my sauce back to you Bob at the studio.

Skirting the Issue

2008-05-29T23:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-28T22:41:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-23T16:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-22T21:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-11T20:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-10T18:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-09T06:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-01T19:09:00.000-07:00

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.

Kick Ass Mofo

2008-04-13T13:54:00.000-07:00

In lieu of my recent mom tangent, I purposely ommitted the most important, the Big Kahuna, the Top Best, the one that have paved the way for all…america’s sweetheart Ms. Meaghan Benjamin! The first time I met Meaghan, she hosted a dinner at her home in North Beach in hopes of getting to know one of her old friend’s – Shane – new girlfriend (me). They just moved back into the states, previously running their own bike tour in the lovely town of Florence, Italy. We instantly hit it off when we exchanged childhood stories and realized we were both products of a family of ten accessorized with a hefty catholic upbringing. How can one not be catholic with a family of that grandeur? The final component that fused us forever was our vexing for “powdered milk” (part of our staple growing up) that vividly affects us to this very day.

From that day on, I had been touched by the Megstar. It is because of this beautiful woman that our network of friends have flourished into a ridiculous size. It is because of her, we’ve been enlightened by the fabulous Minniti’s. It is because of her, we have been blessed with the Grundman’s. It is because of her, that I can balance work and family life without the guilt of not being a stay at home mom. It is because of her, that Angela and I helplessly pee in our pants when we think of South Beach, Miami. Although she has left us for Chicago, the distance is a mere “skype” away.

The Benjamins

On April 11, 2008, Megstar made way for her first baby boy! That’s right a healthy Elias James Benjamin 9lb. 9 oz. After a sprint of three girls, she has broken the dash for girldom. Next to my own mom, Meagan comes pretty close to the perfect mom. Besides her bubbly and magnetic personality, one can not help but to look to her for wisdom and advice. I am overjoyed to have a friend that is uniquely rare in magnificence!

This is Shellie popping the cork to a bubbly back to you Bob at the studio!

Mother Dome

2008-04-10T19:08:00.000-07:00

I write as if I’m the only mother in the world. In fact, I have a few gal friends that are in the process of joining the motherhood fellowship. Erin, Aussy, and Bliss (in that order) will be mothers this year. I applaud them for walking this exciting plank. Motherhood is everything and more. There’s nothing like it. It is so effen cool! Sleepless nights, dirty diapers, breast feeding, oh my! Kidding. Hunter has made my life rich with happiness. To think they count the days to meet their special little one that flourishes in the belly. Sigh.

I can’t wait to have my second, third, and so forth child. I can’t wait to have a house full of Kitchens. I’ve enjoyed Hunter so much and can’t wait for him to mentor and possibly kick around his future siblings. Time it flashes before me. He’s gone from laying on his back to flipping over to crawling to pulling himself up. His gibberish conversation crumbles my soul into little tiny pieces. It’s all a bit too much for me to take. It is overwhelming to think that it’s almost been a year. Sniffle.

I am thrilled for them as they will never know the strength these little babies have on us, until they arrive. I sit back and watch from the sidelines as they enjoy their own experience of pregnancy into motherhood. In great expectations, I wish them love, well, and joy.

This is Shellie saying, "Mother's Effen Rule!" Back to you Bob at the studio!

and the award goes to

2008-04-09T20:13:00.000-07:00

Top 10 - 2008 Hopefuls

1. Hopefully (fingers crossed) pregnant with number two, possibly three, weeeeee
2. Molding and watching growth spurts of Styles
3. Drop weight to fit in waif category – Surely I kid, not really
4. Shane succeeds with Hive Builds
5. Sell my useless gas guzzler and environment crusher BMW X5 in trade for another useless European auto
6. Go for a vacation, Provence or Barcelona would suffice – I can smell the foie and toe fungus cheese now
7. Knit, knit, knit, must learn to knit!
8. Mas Girls night - yummy tequila shots and shakin my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump
9. Clear out my massive wardrobe and make way for new wardrobe
10. Continue on the path of happiness. Ohm. Namaste.

Top 10 - that didn’t make it on the 2008 Hopeful list
(mostly due to my age)
1. Take up DJ(ing)
2. Sign up for break dancing
3. Rock a mid riff
4. Short bettie page bangs
5. Braces
6. Starting a band
7. Surfing, brrrr, not in these chilly shark infested waters. I’m shriveled as it is
8. American Idol
9. Tap dancing
10. Taken seriously

This is Shellie breaking a sweat back to you Bob at the studio!

T is for "Therapy!"

2008-04-04T20:32:00.000-07:00

I used to be this somewhat polished party girl who loved going to bars, sipping from a pint glass of cazadore margarita on the rocks, hold the salt, and dancing till the break of dawn. I should say the key words being "used to." These days, living on the edge means steeping my decaffeinated tea more than five minutes and going to bed at nine thirty which I consider way past my bed time.

“The old Shellie’s back.” Sophia had repeated what her husband was so clearly jubilant about. It was the day after Tim and Karen’s pre-wedding celebration and the day of their wedding. An offensive sour odor wafted, there next to the bed a stock pot and the waste basket lined with plastic. My organic 800 thread count Donna Karan European sham stained with last nights cosmetic debacle. My brain throbbed and my head spun. I partied like it was nineteen ninty nine the night before, throwing down shots of chilled patron one after another, regardless of my tolerance which was the immense size of a germ.

Angela entered the bedroom with frightful treats, “okay who wants an egg mcmuffin?” I was disappointed with myself. I had gone almost three years with no fast food. “Honey, you still have this from last night?” My sweet husband pointed to the brown burger king bag stale full of my blurred memory, “you didn’t touch it at all.” They both laughed. One of the many reasons why I don’t drink is my fascination for fast food. I shamefully ate my quicker picker dumper, hoping it would ease my spinning head and soak up the alcohol. The second helping of hash browns was not my saving grace.

“Okay, I gotta go get this shit to KJ,” Angela pointing to another McDonalds order, "before it gets cold." We thanked her for making a stop. I rolled over to appease my throbbing brain. It was that day in that dying moment that I realized my love for tequila and it’s fellowship had taken a back seat. This coming from a person that worshipped reposado and nothing but.

Since my pregnancy, I have grown accustomed to a glass of nice wine or glass of champagne. I enjoy the pace of grapes. Grapes never made me dance on a bar. Grapes never made me scratch my head in wonderment as to where that large bruise on my arm came from. Grapes never made me the center of a manwich or womanwich on a dance floor. Grapes is the marijuana of the alcohol phenomena. Perhaps, grapes was behind my altruism. I needed an instant demise stat.

The Carrs wedding occurred last October. Since then I’ve been the virgin mary, determined to return to my orignal weight prior to my pregnancy. My healthy life style has ruled as the tyrant overlord, dismissing any want to veer off the health kick. What have I become? I look forward to a good night's sleep so I could have a great work out the next day. Friday nights I toss and turn with excitement for Saturday's farmers market at the ferry building. I've become obsessed with finding the best sparkling mineral water on earth. A mani pedi is my pint of ice cream. I am a cardio addict looking to break my weight record. I am "that" person that weighs out my meals on an electronic scale. I have become an anal retentive cardio hog caloric counter freak magic. The thought of a shot of tequila made my waist line cringe.

Lately, I've been feeling a bit empty. I am a party girl drop out. I realized that I haven't had "obnoxious drunken" fun in almost two years! No wonder, I was feeling lost! I had lost a part of myself somewhere between pregnancy and motherhood. I concocted a date with a bunch of my chicas tomorrow night. This is the new Shellie telling the old Shellie to liven the shit up.

This is Shellie “stirred” not shaken back to you Bob at the studio.

Luxurious

2008-03-25T20:13:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reality Bites

2008-03-12T19:05:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Caffeine

2008-03-11T20:16:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Contempt

2008-03-06T23:19:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Remedy

2008-03-04T20:04:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Book it

2008-02-19T23:41:00.000-08:00

In appeal to my hectic schedule, I introduce a literature circle (a fancy term for the nerdum; Book Club). Originally I thought it would be leverage for girl time, but in a tailspin it evolved into something meatier. The group has immensely grown involving not just women. I am excited to hear everyone’s perspective to the first read. The objective to this nerd forum is to hone my love for a good read.

In my junior year in high school, Mrs. Sabado quizzed us on the thought process of poets and writers. As an adolescent, deconstruction of literary pieces was moot. How dare I attempt to analyze the great minds of Homer, Byron, Carroll, Poe, Shelley, and Keats. I was just a mild acne waif invisible to her classmates. I guess that was the point to my teacher’s responsibility, trigger critical thinking, but at the time there were stronger forces in play like the furies of being a teenager. Decades later I circle that square, because here I am hosting my first deconstruction.

I picked up the book this past Tuesday. I have managed to wedge my reading to and from work with my head in the book. One must be very careful when reading and walking so as to not step into a tree or a building. Although I accomplished most of my reading on the stair machine on level eleven interval steps. I am that lonely geek on the cardio machine obliviously sopped with sweat, meanwhile enthralled by words, foreshadow, paragraphs, and similes.

Saturday is our first gathering to discuss Love in the Time of Cholera. I am excited to be among different levels of people discovering the different facets of the work. Mrs. Sabado’s face would be ablaze with joy, if she knew that she was the only teacher that harmonized my love for words.

This is Shellie claiming books are not the enemy back to you Bob at the studio.

Ham and Cheese

2008-02-14T06:18:00.000-08:00

Shane was never one for holidays or birthdays. Christmas he would break into hives trying to find the ultimate gift. My birthday he hyperventilates as the lack of ideas trumped unruly on his existence. Simply put, celebrations pained ruthless on him. Celebrations were like taking a nice poison oak bubble bath; luxuriously painful. Today is Valentine’s Day 2008, the successful ad campaign for amateurs.

Shellie’s Proverb: Orchid that sits in a vase is short lived.

We awoke a little after four in the morning to Hunter screaming his tonsils out. Shane changed his diaper and wedged him between us on the bed. Chloe, attention deprived, jumped in the center of the family hug. Shane kissed Hunter’s head and I followed. Chloe vigorously wagged her tail resulting, Hunter to sit up and smile, laugh, and babble. Then he dove for Chloe’s tail as Chloe playfully licked Hunter’s cheeks like he was canine lollipop, “alright Chloe give it a rest.” I tried to diffuse the situation so I could selfishly get more snooze.

“This is the best. I could watch them all night. Who cares about sleep, my family’s right here.” Shane beautifully honest and I returned a grin that equated his content in the moment. Back on his back, Hunter’s eyes slowly glazed by the warm lullaby of his bottle.

Today is Valentines day and people scramble about in search for the perfect fluff and frill to say, “I love you,” albeit flowers, card, jewelry, and pre-fixed dinner. As Shane is always in pursuit of my happiness, little does he know that my heart—it lives in his happiness.

This is Shellie shot through the heart back to you Bob at the studio.

Will Work for Food

2008-02-11T21:08:00.000-08:00

My month of no meat has come to an end. It wasn't the master cleanse, nonetheless, it was difficult. Although I have faltered a little throughout the month of January, I continue my stride towards eating healthy. Fresh, seasonal, and organic, I try my best to integrate a little more raw vegetables into our meal. Albeit, my husband would highly oppose as he would rather chew on gristle than have another meal consisting of seafood. For weeks now, he has been dreaming of a nice luscious medium rare rib eye bone in. Gasp, steak on my ever cinching waistline? How dareth thy foul words from thine sweet lips.

San Francisco has fed my fervor for food. With different fresh and new restaurants sprouting all over, it’s hard to not dig in. I have vowed to keep our dining down to zilch, I find myself making reservations at the new and upcoming restaurants such as Conduit, Laiola, Serpentine, Spruce. Worse off, I have my arsenal of repertoire: Ame, Bouchon, Range, Bar Tartine, Salt House, 1550 Hyde, and Boulettes Larder. I can’t help it. It’s like an addiction, “the need to feed.” I feel that by staying home, I’m missing out on the life’s culinary pleasures. The beauty in food is flourishing all over the bay area, and I can’t sit at home without labeling myself fifty one fifty.

“Worthless people live only to eat and drink; people of worth eat and drink to live.” –Socrates

One can not eat out every day, technically you could, but why? Once I entered culinary school, it pried my eyes wide open to the craft. I continued onto cooking restaurants, I quickly realized I didn’t know poop about food. As I was destined to move to France to further hone my ardor, marriage happened. Quel dommage! Until than, cooking is my therapy. If I’ve had a long arduous day, a normal person would start a warm bath. On the contrary, I spend a good one to two hours whipping up a three course meal for Shane. I immerse myself into a world of seasonal ingredients and simplicity. I slice, brunoise, mince as different sized pans sizzle, the oven is preheated, pots simmer, and the house gradually permeates my culinary orchestration. The pulse of our home is in the kitchen; of course the bedroom comes a very close second.

Enjoying the finished product is difficult when our dining table is collecting dust in our garage. My enjoyment is lulled when confined to eating on our couch. The evil and vile couch, because our nursery has replaced our dining room. There’s something beautiful enjoying a meal at a table. Preparing a meal together and sitting down at a table, enjoying it with loved ones makes for a remarkable experience. Substance. Thus, we have come full circle. Dining out should never be a sin.

“There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.” Mahatma Ghandi

Nueve

2008-02-09T15:00:00.000-08:00

“Da da da da da da da da dada da da…” Hunter repeated from his crib. His affinity for his first words quickly separated my husband and me. I was a little bitten, but I will get over it. Shane, of course, walks around the house repeating Hunter, “dadadada, “ laughing absurdly ecstatic like he just won the gold medal table tennis match. “Did you hear him? He said dada?” His chest wide, he paraded the living room with Hunter on his shoulders, “say it again Hunter boy, dadadada.” They both in sync, “dadadadadada,” I sat amazed at how such a small feat made me feel like I was sitting on top of the heavens.

Hunter is nine months today. Yes, our little runt is babbling like a maniac. He is sitting up and playing with his toys. Sure, he sometimes teeters over, but so do I. He is pulling himself up from the crib and scaring the shit out of me. Our crib setting has been dropped to the very bottom, yet Hunter seems focused on making the big escape from his crib by pulling himself up. He gets that from my side of the family. Diaper changing has become a difficult task as he is always trying to roll one over on me. So changing him after a good healthy poo takes a lot of agile and wit. I strategize by taking his attention to a new toy or a book while I attempt to quickly change his filthies. This morning he flipped on me so fast that he almost made a head dive off the changing table. By the way, the safety straps are useless at this point.

Mister Crawling McCrawler, isn't official, but he pulls himself forward with his arms. He's fast! He’ll get up on all fours wobble to and fro than flop back down on his stomach. Repeat. Let's just say that I can no longer leave him alone unless he is fenced in.

Dr. Treece says that he is “failing to thrive,” referring to his weight. He is sixteen pounds. I don't understand, because he eats alot. Many women would kill for his metabolism, but in baby world it’s not cool. He is constantly salivating, because his two bottom teeth are growing in. I wondered if his teething is contributing to his lack of weight gain. Sometimes, little man's gnawing on his hand like he was a zombie from Night of the Living Dead. To care for his gums I give him some homeopathic teething pills that instantly dissolve alongwith rubbing his gums with teething gel. If he develops a fever, than I drop it like it’s hot by dosing him with Tylenol. I believe that all babies grow at their own pace. I'm not worried about my little featherweight.

Speaking of food, my baby food processing days has come to a ceasing halt. It seems my darling boy prefers the store bought stuff. Traitor. I don’t mind except that it be organic and no sodium. Safeway has a great organic line and it’s cheap! Screw Whole Foods, Safeway’s organic line is the poo. I guess it’s just as well as it takes time off my hands and creates some space in our freezer.

As Chloe always fights to be the center of adoration, he and Chloe are creating a close bond every day. There’s nothing like Hunter’s growing interest in tugging on the white furry tail of our Bichon. Once a day, they sit nose to nose for a few seconds and than Hunter bursts into a chuckle. This goes repeatedly a few times, before I put a stop to it. You never know when our bichon may turn on Hunter. It’s like a bunny rabbit gone wild, but it could happen.

Stay tuned for his next month’s baby’s new trick report. Hopefully, he’ll be babbling “mama” and crawling like spider in heat.

This is Shellie and the rest of the Kitchens bidding you good “dadadadada day” back to you Bob at the studio!

Bottleless Pit

2008-02-09T13:36:00.000-08:00

For months now, I’ve successfully managed to go through the day on a minimum of four to six hours of sleep. Lately, Hunter’s teething has got me up in all spurts of the night. Most of the time, I don’t mind as I don't get to see him during the day, any chance with him is all worth while. Recently, we have been awaken by his loud wail. A wail so loud that I am trained to pounce out of bed. Mostly, he just wants his plug back in his mouth or a bottle which I have all ready to go.

For the past five years, I’ve become this morning person. For instance, sleeping in past eight thirty in the morning is like struggling to do a hundred push ups. In turn, yours truly takes pride in sharing my morning with my loved ones.

“Hiya! Whatcha doin?”

“I knew it was you, only you would call before eight.” My sister incoherently tousled by the phone call, “you woke your neices you know.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to wish you a good morning! It’s a beautiful day out there, you should get up!” As I lay in bed comfy in my 2005 christmas pajamas with husband, Chloe, and Hunter, “alright, I’ll call you later go back to bed.” I giggled and made a mad dash dial for fellow victims. I pounced on friends that couldn’t see past ten o’clock in the morning. They never answered the phone which left me no choice, but to sing them one of my personalized jingles usually in the form of a seventies tune like Close to You by the Carpenters, “Why are you sleeping like a bear? Are you hung over? Do you care? Just like me, I long to be, up earleeeeeee. Click.” I would go on chorus over chorus until their voicemail cuts me off.

“Why do you do that?” My husband always shook his head in dismay.

“It’s funny.” I always shrug with delight.

On Saturday mornings, we’d go for an early work out at the gym or to the Ferry Building and hit the farmers market before the the late risers got there. Well, this particular Saturday I rushed the family out the door at eight to get to the farmers market. After a few weeks of over cast and wind chills, we were exhilirated to be up early on a beautiful sunny day. As Shane stood in line for a breakfast sandwich at Rose Pistola’s stand, I waited for a lushes cup of Blue Bottle coffee. Shane had Hunter in the stroller thus he began crying, I quickly went for the bottle in the diaper bag. My heart quickly shoved up my throat, the bottle was no where to be found. I quickly retraced my steps and realized I left the bottle on the counter when I opened the back door for Chloe. At this point, Hunter is wailing like his big toe’s been snapped off and he has thrown his yellow plug on the ground. Rats!

As I’m constantly grilling Shane to keep his diaper bag stocked, I wholeheartedly screwed up this one.

“I forgot his bottle.” I felt like a five year old that had wet her bed.

“Are you serious?” Shane was astounded, especially after my lecture on making sure we had a back up of everything in our diaper bag.

“Yes, I’m an idiot.” Still, I was determined to shop for tonight’s dinner party.

“I can drive back home and pick up a bottle. We can’t stay here with him like this.” Hunter’s wails began to disturb the peaceful shoppers that basked in the warmth with their coffee and breakfast.

“Stroll around and I’ll find you,” My quick resolution to defy the bottle.

“We can’t stay here without his bottle?” Shane threw me a look sharp as a five star ninja blade. He unstrapped Hunter from the stroller which instantly ended his battle cry, “Go shop, I’ll hold him.”

I wanted to stroll through every stall, but we didn’t know how long Hunter would last especially with his teething and the absence of his bottle. He was a ticking time bomb. “Shellie hurry up.” Shane shook his head as I patiently stood there tasting a bite of Alaska sprouts from the sprout vendor.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get some fish and hit the Wine Merchant than I’m done.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Shane liked it best when we had direction. Heck, I liked myself better too. We entered the Ferry Building into the mass of people. There were more early risers than expected. I quickly made a detour to the mushroom stand, I grabbed two varieties of shimeji mushrooms. Shane two stalls ahead held Hunter on his forearm like a football, witnessed my weakness. After purchasing a whole escolar we were almost done, we made our way to the wine shop. Shane a few steps ahead of me, I thought I’d sneak into Recchuttiti to see if they had any fresh marshmallows in today.

“What are you doing?”

I was busted. “Getting some marshmallows. I figured I’d get some for Valentines day for myself.” I grabbed for the quickest reason, but came up with a lie.

“I was going to get you some.” Shane always full of surprises, "now your not getting any this year."

“I wouldn’t want you driving here on Thursday. It'll be insane. I’ve saved you some time.” I smiled waiting to see if this lie could make it to the surface of common sense, “besides they’re always out.”

“Oh my god, I’ll meet you at the wine shop.” He saw straight through my fib.

We drove back home Hunter asleep. It was a close call. For it was my fault, because I removed the back up bottle yesterday, I thought the bag was to cumbersome for Shane. Shane grabbed my hand as I apologized for my inefficiency, “That’s okay honey, now you know that when I forgot something it’s not on purpose.”

This is Shellie discovering the many facets of being human back to you Bob at the studio!

Nanny Can

2008-02-05T23:06:00.000-08:00

Nannies. San Francisco is a haven for them. The good ones are in high demand like the flawless cut. You see them everywhere pushing trendy strollers on the sidewalks of the neighborhoods of San Francisco. On a weekday, they travel in packs and meet at the playground guffawing about the parents outlandish demands. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes: college graduate, teenager, elders, bilingual, no lingual. One could even set up a nanny share, if one is financially strapped. The options are endless. Some nannies run equivalent to a mortgage payment and that’s cheap. Some are blessed with the advantage of a bay area grandparent, we have a Mary. I know there are some haters out there. I can feel the pride strong bitterness, but to bitch his own.

As much as I wanted to stay home with my little precious, we decided back in September that we would move ahead with the plan. Mary, nanny extrodinnaire, is no exception. She came recommended by one of Angela’s client. She is a god send. I prefaced a spanish speaking nanny as it is vital that he is immersed in two different languages. From the second she sets foot in the house, she is in work mode. As she changes his diaper and gets him ready for the day, she sings nursery rhymes in Spanish. This ritual lasts a good fifteen minutes, because Hunter’s flipping over on all fours and causing havoc. She is even keel and patient. We interviewed a good amount of nannies, she was the only one that was genuine and trust worthy.

She takes him on walks in golden gate park or the zoo, singing class, reading time at the library. On top of her commitment to Hunter, she manages to keep our home stunning. Our home has never been so immaculate. Upon opening the front door to a beaming bathed baby and holding him in my arms, I observe an orderly home. His crib is neat, the kitchen is tidy, the bedrooms are spotless. Miraculously, our laundry is put away. I go to hang my coat in the closet and realize that each pair of shoes are lined up in orderly fashion. It’s insane.

I am grateful for Mary. She has made our house a home and has placed Hunter in the center of her universe. If I were a stay at home mom, I wouldn’t be able to pull it off. I could care for my child, but the housekeeping would be disastrous. After seven years, she finally made permanent U.S. citizenship and is in Columbia for two and a half months visiting her family. I have grown very fond of her and consider her a part of our family, in her absence she is greatly missed.

This is Shellie in her own orbit back to you Bob at the studio.

Adapt is Futile

2008-02-03T13:34:00.000-08:00

Shane always had the freedom to do anything and the same for me. Recently, it just came to slap me in the face. Since the birth of Hunter, I made a point to establish the romance in our relationship, hence date night. As having a nanny has its benefits, alas it comes with a cost of a pretty shiny penny. We have many friends and family that have step forth to baby sit, but it is a delicate situation when it comes to last minute situations without coming off inconsiderate. Ideally, to enhance our marriage, I thought it important to introduce date night, which excluded Hunter, into our lives.

Early Friday evening as I lightly dust blush on my cheeks Shane mutters, “Oh Anthony says he won’t watch Hunter unless I go out with him after the movie.”

“Well I guess we’re not going out then.” Shane’s friend was newly dumped by his hot girlfriend of three years. I thought it be a good idea that Shane play wing man after our date night like laying in the path of a python.

I shlepped into my pajamas and plopped on the couch.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re staying home.” I browsed through five Netflix videos that collected dust for months. Staying home sounded welcoming, since the weather was dreary.

“Don’t be silly go get ready, he’ll be here soon.”

“No serious, we can stay home. Call the dogs off. Besides, I don’t want you going out with him after the movie. This is our night. I don’t mind.”

He huffed, “We’re going to the movies. Now go change.”

I hiked up the stairs and made a wardrobe change. I must admit I was slightly singed with the deal my babysitter had proposed. Doesn’t he have other friends? Rude.

“You know your husband’s coming out with me when you guys come back right?” The bull headed dumpster was absolute.

“I don’t think so?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Well, not unless you want us to get a divorce than sure he’s going out.”

“I had other things up my sleeve after our date.” How could one end a date without the assuming the biblical?

“No, he’s coming out with me. You guys don’t have sex anyway.” It was no surprise
why this person successfully fails flawlessly in his relationships, lack of perspective perhaps?

Shane remained quiet waiting for the decision.

No Country for Old Men was a smash, we had such a nice time together. I savored the richness of our time. We went to some restaurant and topped off the evening with a glass of champagne and some appetizers. The evening was early and to be a nice wife, as usual, I vowed to let Shane join the dumpee. I lay whole heartedly in the way of the sharp jagged fangs of disappointment.

Most women would put their foot down. I, on the other hand, put my husband’s happiness before my own. I allowed him to continue his lifestyle with no risk to responsibility or commitment to his family. Hence, my failure is my leniency.

Shellie’s Proverb: A pot of stew is no good without flame.
Meanwhile a couple hours later back at the cave, I had a text war with ex babysitter. I turbulently disposed my displaced anger on the dumpster, he shot back, “You’re overreacting, so what he saw you calling and he didn’t pick up,” it was apparent why he was brilliantly single, “blame your husband for coming out.” I stopped in my tracks. Subsequent to throwing his wing man under the bus, he is precisely right! Shane is gregarious and very well respected, but the idea of marriage and family hasn’t come to fruition. My calls went ignored which ensued the release of the ferocious beast from within. I made sure Shane came out bruised and scathed as I grappled with the dark idea of divorce. I couldn’t see straight at two thirty in the morning.

Mister Carr, Shane’s long time buddy, said it best, “Perhaps, this is something you pent up.” Brief and concise, he was grossly smug, but precisely correct!

Side bet: I would like to see any of his buddies pull off a Shane without being disembowled by their wives first. They're on lock down more than they precede.)

It was true. I held it all in. Was I submissive all this time? I am a fools’ fool. I allowed him to gad about on his many boy trips of football, golf, snowboarding, boy time with not a phone call to me.

I have prefaced my importance of these phone calls before, but I have gone days without a phone call. Days. I was always mild mannered, turning a blind eye. Any other, would have been butchered with a serrated knife. Instead I greet him with a hug. In essence, he never had to face the wrath of a woman’s worry. I bottled my anger so beautifully deep, that Friday night just blew the mother ship wide open. He nor I never saw it coming.

I thought our parameters were understood under the respects of consideration, but I was wrong. I never threw my arms around like a gorilla and battered him with threats and consequences. I could be a monster and put a stop to his fun. Why? That wouldn’t make me feel better and it wouldn’t contribute to a healthy marriage. I'm tired of playing the doormat. I bid death to the “cool” wife routine. He will quickly realize how good he had it. Aretha belt it out sister friend, "respect!"

In the end, I understand that marriage is an ever changing entity. Furthermore, a child plays an integral part to this anomaly called balance. In this day and age, dashing through a McDonald’s drive thru and getting a super size divorce seems convenient. I, on the other hand, choose to fight for love. Naturally, divorce scrambles through my brain, but love always prevails. Thus our loves deserves to bloom and a change is in order. How else would we grow closer, but to grow in change.

This is Shellie watering my backyard roots back to you Bob at the studio!

Accidents Happen

2008-01-19T13:18:00.000-08:00

I have failed so beautifuly on my new years resolution. In order to realign my health, I thought it would be trying to omit meat except for fish and the likes. Three weeks into my challenge, I’ve fallen face first off the meatless wagon. I sneaked a chomp on my husband’s sopressata hero as he stepped away to grab himself a drink. He shook his head and laughed, “you know that was meat right?” I could spit in my eye.

In addition, I succeeded to fail in the “no dining out” sector. That was a given. As I clucked with my girlfriend’s at Serpentine on some juicy gossip, I ate to my heart’s content. Until, that is, I get to the homefront, Shane inquired about dinner, “You should really give it up, you can’t do it.” My husband may be precise, for once, I enjoyed delicious lamb riblets and stuffed quail, regardless of thought or restriction.

I absolutely refuse to forfeit. So what I did a couple free styling face plants, I also used to smoke two and a half packs of nicotine a day. I had to tell Angela, my BFF, and she found a healthy chuckle to my demise. She’s surprised that I’m not going through withdrawals and slowly introducing meat to my system at this point intravenously. As she is part filipino, she expressed the absurdity of my challenge. It is true, my dead ancestors would urinate on my head, if they could.

Ironically, previous to the new year I wasn’t devouring much red meat. I resigned to poultry and fish incorporated with the usual seasonal suspects of fruits and vegetables. So what was different? I could whip up a tasty meal given a minimum of ingredients. As my husband boasts, “He’s never had the same dish twice.” He’s spoiled, if you ask me.

The best thing that came out of this is that I’ve learned to be creative with dinner. My dinner preparation is shorter. Time spent with Hunter is longer. My weight on the scale is lighter. Nonetheless, Shane is going through fits of heaving as he’s being force fed wild fish and vegetables. He will axe me off when he finds out my next venture, raw meals. Never ask “why,” but “why not!”

This is Shellie taking one step at a time towards a healthy life back to you Bob at the studio!

Time and Balance

2008-01-15T19:14:00.000-08:00

Life at the Kitchen home is a balance beam act. Happiness takes a lot more than saying, “I love you.” Taking on too much will forcibly throw us off our axis. In this existence, it’s give and take. Since Hunter, I’ve come to realize that there is not enough time in a day much less a year to accomplish my wants versus needs.

It is essential to spend time with Hunter. It is vital to share time with Shane. It is crucial to sit down during dinner. It is necessary to exercise. Most imperative is to get a full night’s rest. This is my cohesive foundation and without one, my world crumbles. Everything else is superfluous.

Because time is utmost limited, my husband and I bicker about who gets to go the gym. This only occurs in spurts when my husband finds it convenient to go to the gym, which is usually once every two weeks. I, on the otherhand, integrated exercise into my life since my decision to drop weight. Our gym provides child care, except that it’s very limited and is difficult to get in on the same day basis. Which is where my husband typically wedges his fat head.

If it came down to one of us making it to the gym, I am fair when it comes to the deciding factor such as, “What did you have for lunch?” He is automatically disqualified, if he has devoured a pile of pork fried rice, which is usually the case. That’s a “try again tomorrow” factor. I would take into consideration his portion control, but the fact is that he polishes off a pile of fried rice. Hence, he is a perfect candidate to my “absolutely not” campaign. Fortunately, if we have a reservation for kid’s club than it’s a free for all, because it all comes down to who is watching Hunter.

I am just in my decision. His practice is inconsistent when it comes to healthy. It is to our disadvantage that our metabolism has decided to take a ride in the backseat. Shane always bellows about the past, “I used to be stick thin till I hit twenty seven than it all went downhill.” What he doesn’t recognize is that gorging four slices of pizza and topping it off with a beer contributes to his non existent abs. For the record, twenty seven was eleven years ago. Deal.

Just one in many instances, of the limit on time and balance. We have continued with our life as normal with the exception of making sure to make time for ourselves. There’s all the time in the world, if you can’t find it, you “make” it. It’s easy and it works. Luckily, we have made this far and managed gleefully without scratching our eyes out . Life is grand.

This is Shellie drowning in the belly of happiness back to you Bob at the studio!

Present!

2008-01-05T22:38:00.000-08:00

We survived 2007 without a scratch. Knock on wood. As soon as Halloween arrived, I was blasted into oblivion. I was joyously propelled between traveling to New York, chomping on holiday turkey to sipping glasses of champagne to festive parties to flying to Hawaii to welcome the new year, I’m not sure where to start! I must exclaim that I did lose a whopping fifteen pounds. I can’t believe it! My weight is the lowest it’s been in ten years and I’m still not done. Which leads to where I’ve been spending my spare time for the last three months, and it hasn’t been blogging. I’ve been sweating my bum at the gym. According to Jill, sister in law and astrology extraordinaire, Saturn is in Virgo for the next two and a half years. According to her, fellow virgos will be very health and fitness saavy. Well, whatever hoodoo voodoo is going on, it is working!

While mother’s are tiptoeing around their child’s schedule, I take mine to the child care at the gym. I’m so exhausted of the typical bay area mom…I mention mothers as dad’s really could give two you know whats…engrossed in their child’s schedule. I hear it all the time, “I can’t meet you for a stroll, because that’s when my child is napping.” Boring! Step it up and get refined. It must suck having to be confined to a schedule. Stifling, it's like they're amputees! My visit back to Hawaii only rectified my exact suspicions that urban moms are pod people. A product of body snatching.

Let's slow down and discuss my new year’s resolution. As everyone’s squirreled up about cinching their waistline, I’ve gone a different route. I’ve denounced meat for a month. That, my friends, is one tough habit to break. I celebrate meat! Meat is my best friend. I would marry meat, if I could. Along with that self infliction, I’ve cut myself off from fine dining. Vile! As I live and breath in one of the culinary jewels, I find that would be a challenge. As new and innovative restaurants (Laiola, Spruce, Conduit, Serpentine) are popping up I hold tight to the homestead. My vow also includes brunch. I can do it, I went from smoking two and a half packs of cigarettes everyday for years, hence I can do anything!

Marriage is swell. I am smitten in bliss. I’m trying not to gloat, but parenting is so much fun. Don’t let the parents with the screaming child on the floor of the grocery store fray you, motherhood is sweet. My job is the best. Have you ever worked for men? Sigh, refreshing! Life is great! Time is precious, thus it is difficult to sit down and blog when. I am very fortunate to be content. Here to a beautiful 2008!

Gym Crack Corn, and I Don't Care

2007-11-10T19:44:00.000-08:00

We finally got the call back from UCSF Bakar Fitness. Only the best gym in San Francisco equipped with two lap pools, one inside, the other outside, a wall climb that overlooks the financial district, ample supply of cardio machines not to mention a lush circuit training section. Classes offered are great. What I like best about this gym is that it’s not chockful of the slender giraffe types. It's not a crime to jiggle.

We were told that the wait list is six months, it was actually almost nine months. Mon dieu! Whatever the case, we are official members! We couldn’t believe it. I am thrilled because they offer child care for six bucks an hour. I just finished French Women Don’t Get Fat and am awe inspired by food and fit. I set a lofty goal for myself and with patience and hard work I am confident this jiggle is just a fangle.

I have been tortured with this weight gain, and I am tired of hearing that I just had a baby. That's not a good excuse. I’ve met mother’s that are slimmer now than before they’re pregnancy. I know for me it will be arduous, but nothing in life comes easy. I accept that challenge with a big smile. I am set to cinch my waistline the only way I know how, through enjoying my meals, chewing slowly, drinking lots of water, and daily exercise. Easy. On guard, you menacing fat, away with you. Be gone!

This is Shellie from the pinnacle of her madness back to you Bob at the studio.

Autumn Comes New Leaf

2007-11-06T19:59:00.000-08:00

Once again, I find myself trapped in the web of time. I can’t believe it! As soon as Halloween hit, I’m catapulted into pumpkin pie, mistle toe, and fireworks. As the holidays rolls upon us, I’m filled with a mish mash of joy and exultation! Suddenly, I am struck with the idea of traveling back east for Thanksgiving. As mom deuce is probably going through withdrawals of Hunter, I say to myself, “Why not?” Thanksgiving equals family. The past few years, Shane and I were withdrawn from our family. We were so overloaded by our wedding that we needed a break. Two years and a baby later, we’re back in the game.

We purchased tickets equivalent to a high definition fifty inch plasma, thus we closed our eyes and took the plunge. I was never one to travel during the holidays, yet I didn’t understand what the hubbub was about. I love myself a healthy hustle bustle once in a while, it whips me into a flurry, but I don't mind. Most importantly, I couldn’t wait for Hunter to spend time with his grandparents. Onward and upward.

This will be the first time that we skip Manhattan and head straightforth upstate. Normally, I would object to such a vile and disturbing proposal, but not today. As much as I would like to take Hunter to Rockefeller center and indulge in my favorite culinary delights of Manhattan, I remind myself, “in good time young Jedi.”

Most of the time, it’s not about me. I would like to think sometimes, but mostly never. It used to be, but than I found myself at a four way stop sign signaling to the other drivers to go first just so I could bask in their “thank you(s)”. I was one with myself. Not a psychotic thought stirred through me, not even an ounce. Peculiarly, I’ve found myself at Whole Foods register purchasing meals for the needy. Am I oblivious to the turning of my new leaf? Most disturbing, I’ve found myself skimming through the volunteer section for Glide Memorial church. I had to bear a child in order to reconnect the wires to my soul. Never in a thousand midgets would I imagine. God moves in mysterious ways.

This is Shellie grounded like dirt to a doormat back to you Bob at the studio.

Trick or Treat

2007-10-31T22:45:00.000-07:00

“It’s about the kid.” Shane insisted as I placed the wig on my head. I was Amy Winehouse. If anyone needed rehab, it was me. Hunter was dressed in his skunk outfit. I had just rushed home from work and was getting ready for the kid parade on 18th Street. Oddly enough, the neighborhood kids didn’t make it to 20th Street. Our block is completely bypassed, hence we do not get to pass out any treats. What a trick!

It seems Potrero Hill is very parade friendly. In fact, the past Saturday they had a halloween pet parade. Festive freaks. This year non of our friends hosted a halloween party and so I was going through a bit of a withdrawal. The parade started at five thirty, and we – or I- was running late. Shane, on the otherhand, kept reminding me that it was about Hunter. My husband, the sourpuss, was not in costume. He was going as himself for Halloween. He was as bland as table salt. Even more uneventful he wanted to post up at Rube Wine. I reminded him that it was about Hunter.

We ventured down the hill as I had to adapt to my depth perception of my billowing hair. My hair kept entangling itself in the tree branches. Chloe kept trying to outwit her leash in her pirate costume. Shane pushed the stroller. 18th street was a madhouse! We weaved through waves of families dressed in their favorite characters. It was great to be among such a live community. Hunter was oblivious of the buzz in the air. For the most part, my costume was unknown, except for the usual parent or teenager that would rave with delight. Otherwise, I could have been Marge Simpson for all they care.

After the parade, I would have been content plopping on the couch with a comforting meal watching a scary movie, but it was Felix’s birthday. So we made our way to the hip part of the Mission at Medjool. First of all, we had Hunter the skunk with us. I absolutely love being a mother, but dragging Hunter to a roof top bar is tasteless. I’m that person. I’m that parent. I felt slightly foolish for bringing him as Halloween in San Francisco is a drunker’s delight. Originally, we were just dropping in for a drink and making our way to a restaurant. So why am I sitting here tending to Hunter three drinks later? My drinking days are on “pause”. For Shane, it’s a reason for him to mingle with his friends. Ah the fun tryst of parenthood. As I don’t find any tingling sensation when urinating on his fun, we were heeding ten o’clock with an empty stomach. There goes our dinner plans, hello burrito!

In most cases, to be a parent means to be flexible. In my case, to be a wife meant to be patient.

Mantra: Marriage is priority. Kid comes second.

So why do I feel so slighted tonight? Shane never coerced me into it. For some death defying reason, I am not allowing motherhood to slow me down. It shouldn’t! At the same time, I don’t want to be that loser at the roof bar with the my son again. I need to start being a mom to my son. Ding! There’s an idea! So I shed the cool skin? I gain myself a sweet skunk.

This is Shellie having a treat of a time back to you Bob at the studio!

Crime of Fashion

2007-10-23T22:39:00.000-07:00

Angela and I browsed through Diane von Frankenstein’s collection, chuckling at the sale prices, “This is crazy!” Angela bushy tail and bright eye to the fashion world, “who buys this sheeyat?” She pulled a polka dot tunic from the rack, “My grandma has shit like this. This is three hundred sixty eight dollars? Gimme a fucken break!” Meanwhile, I fell into the gaping dark hole of seventies groovy vintage by See by Chloé my absolute. I loved anything obscenely colorful. Shrug, I’m Filipino it’s in my hemoglobin.

There in the right corner of the show room, hung this exquisite coat. A Nairobi snake print coat that lured me in to its lair. This trench was sleek silk with a cinched and buckled wide waistband and cuffs. With great haste, I placed my bag on the floor gently tried it on and, “whoa!” Cavalli you bastard! “Holy shit that looks awesome on you!” Angela boisterously spoke the truth, “That is fucking awesome! How much is it?” She grabbed the tag, “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me? Twenty nine hundred dollars? Why don’t they just call it an even three grand, shit after flippin’ taxes!” I didn’t care about the price, this piece was slick! It was beyond slick. It was orgasmic. It handled my body like Lamborghini on wheels. I slowly removed the article from my body and returned it to its rightful owner.

We traipsed a few other collections, “Angela check this out.” I handed her a Valentino bold garden print dress Italian silk that gathered at the side waist, “Dude it’s like two grand!”
“Who cares, just try it on!”
“Oh, alright.”
That dress was gorgeous on her frame. We both admired the dress. She twirled and circled in the mirror like a little girl at a royal tea party. She was gorgeous as usual. There was nothing in this store that our bank account could handle. We shamelessly made our way to Forever21 where the dollar is king. We perused through the blouses, slacks, sweaters, and coats only to be disappointed. The pieces were pretty, but like Angela observed, “There is something to be said about designer clothing. They’re made better. Fit better and feel is better.” She was right we had been defeated by the designers’ precision in quality. Yet the styles of both stores were dead similar, Forever21’s quality was offensively brash. Lesson for today: window shopping is fun when you have a best friend to share it with.

************************
(This is dedicated to Minitti – fashion guru yoga meister)
**********

A dear friend of mine, I’ll call her Minitti, resides in Costa Rica. Formerly, the dean for the fashion program at CCAC. Prior, she worked on the designing team for Donna Karen. Now that you have her credentials, she was just here for a visit. I was never one with the fashion phenomena, thus she taught me a lot about the art and industry. I “love” clothes as much as the next girl, but I have a lot to learn. I am always awe inspired by the European women as they are so sophisticatedly simple and classic. I’m as trendy as a rainbow print tube top on a roller rink. I’m a fadster.

Three years ago, a bunch of girls sat around the living room and Karen, modest, “I’m going jean shopping tomorrow can you girls tell me where to go?”

“Oh my god!” Minitti turns to Karen arms speaking in tongue, “ you definitely need to get a pair of True Religions! They’re stitching is wonderful!” Mind you this was when True Religions wasn’t as common as Kraft cheese. “Let’s see what else…oh! Imitation of Christ that’s not a bad one. Habituals they’re decent. There’s Citizens of Humanity, Chip & Pepper, Joe’s Jeans, Paper Denim. Yeh man! For sure!” She crinkled her nose and clapped her hands together.

By this point, she had thrown us sub humans in a whirl wind of obscurity. The roomful of girls sat there flabbergasted. It was comical as no one really had the guts to interject. She lost me at Imitation of Christ, I couldn’t believe the branding genius behind that one. She was an evangelist. She gave a thirty minute lecture on jeans! Is she for real? Personally, I bought my jeans at Ross Dress for Less with labels that read Paris Blues and Rampage.

Jeans have come a long way. Now they cost more than a liver transplant. What gives? They’re just jeans? Well, I’d bet Minitti would have a rebuttal for my question. “It’s all about pieces.” She reminds me, “you don’t need a lot of clothes in your wardrobe.” She says things like, “I almost have it to where my wardrobe is almost complete," she spoke like it was a long running project to world domination. Unlike my closet that’s full of clutter that is so out of fashion that it’s back in. There’s a lot of pressure to keep up with the Miu Miu, Chloe, Valentino, Carolina Herrera and the likes. Besides pressure, who has the cash?

I’m glad to have a Minitti in my life. Everyone needs a Minitti in their life. She is fascinating and passionate about design and fashion unlike us mere mortals. She can whip up a dissertation on a Peugeot pepper grinder in two seconds flat. She can deconstruct a piece of garment while maintaining vrischika-asana. It’s amazing. That’s just on fashion and design, you should see her “spit” on gastronomy!

This is Shellie putting someone else in the spotlight back to you Bob at the studio!

Shed

2007-10-03T22:40:00.000-07:00

As a kid on blistering days, one of my favorite things to do was to soak in a refreshing bath and watch the wind frolic with the curtain to and fro. I would sink slowly under water to dull the noise. Upon coming up for air, the sound of the neighborhood kids playing completed the silence. Besides, it was a relief away from the harassment of my nine older siblings. I relished my time alone. Silence. The occasional pound on the bathroom door phased me as much as the dust on the shelf.

As I rinse my hair, I notice an unusual amount of hair at my feet. I didn’t think anything of it, until I began to notice it was everywhere! On the couch, the kitchen floor, the bedroom floor, the bathroom floor, the bed, on Chloe, in my under wear. My hair had covered the entire surface of the globe! The final straw was finding Hunter chocking on a strand! What the fu_ _? Gross!

Till this point, I hadn’t read up on post partum. Who had the time? I’d rather sleep. I recalled, my sister mentioning hair loss subsequent to giving birth. Was it time? I trust it must have some relation to my hormone upheaval. I was losing hair by the handfuls! Heck, I could make a throw rug. Eek! After a quick internet research, I realized that it’s normal. Women shed, some more than others, hair. Thus, they forget to mention the hazard to a child. It was that point that I realized that we, women, tolerate a lot of crap like tampons (sanitary pads for you special creatures), waxing, males, estrogen, emotions, aging, peers, and designer shoes. We’re tangled in our own web. What next? Eve just had to take a bite out of that apple. Cursed.

It’s natural for me to be negative. It's difficult not to take it personally. That's when mom's voice pops in my head reminding me to, "stop wasting my time on things you can't change." She was right? My stress is some one else’s joy. Truly, being a woman is a gift (specifically, a woman in America).

As I soak my blessings in my tub full of steaming bubbles, I remind myself to embrace my womanhood: tampons (sanitary napkins for you other creatures), estrogen, waxing (plucking for you prehistoric mammals), cramps, menopause, boys (men, if you won the lottery), stretch marks, shedding, gravity, and aging. I immerse myself under the warm bubbles. Silence. Let my hair fall where it wants to.

This is Shellie from the roots of her scalp back to you Bob at the studio!

Hello, Nurse?

2007-09-27T15:03:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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