Happy Holidays

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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!

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

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

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!