Smart Wheels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

-D. Vader

Habitual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Destination No Where

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

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

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

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

Uncouth

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

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

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

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

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

False Confession

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

The sky closes in blackness

Priest: What have you done my daughter?

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

Lightning and Thunder clang and clash


Catholic Priest: You have sinned against almighty god.

Marking the sign of the cross with rosary in hand

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Climb to Apex

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rager

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

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

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


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

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

Numero Uno

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hunter Styles Kitchen
6 lbs 11 ounces
19 inches long

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

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

Wow

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

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

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