Status Quo

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

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

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

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

Top of the Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back it Up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and the award for best actress goes to...

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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



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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Viva La Vida

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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