Ham and Cheese

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will Work for Food

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nueve

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

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

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


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

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



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

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

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

Bottleless Pit

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

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

“Hiya! Whatcha doin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanny Can

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

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

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

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

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

Adapt is Futile

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

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

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

I shlepped into my pajamas and plopped on the couch.

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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


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

“I don’t think so?”

“Yes, he is.”

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

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

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

Shane remained quiet waiting for the decision.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accidents Happen

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time and Balance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present!

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

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

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

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

Gym Crack Corn, and I Don't Care

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

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

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

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

Autumn Comes New Leaf

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

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

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

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

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

Trick or Treat

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

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

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

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

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

Mantra: Marriage is priority. Kid comes second.

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

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

Crime of Fashion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shed

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



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

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

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

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

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

Hello, Nurse?

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

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


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

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

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

Hau`oli Lā Hānau

In highschool, I was never that girl that could pass for an eighteen year old. I was a slim jim. A stick. A duffle of bones. A slender fragile fire cracker that barely slipped into a pair of size zeros. My seven brothers called me rat salad, why my inability to gain weight had any relation with a rodent, just proves that my brothers were complete idiots. I embraced my slender being with the usual insecurities of a teenager. How I enjoyed being a squeamish teen. Needless to say, I was never that teenager blessed with the opulence of beauty and body.

As a teenager in angst, I didn't have anything in common with my childhood girlfriends. They smoked menthol cigarettes hoping to capture maturity. Meanwhile, lapped on goops of gob on their eyes and held spell binding conversations that encompassed popularity, boys, and cars in that order. They were always in a hurry to find love, get hitched, and have babies, usually not in that order. As most females were in a rush to grow up, I strayed in a different direction. Me, I was the runt of the group, sure I had the usual crush, but I wasn't boy crazy. I had a flare for fashion, I sewed all my clothes. I was a half pipe skater loaded and sponsored with a fury for punk rock and new wave. Mostly, I adored poetry and literature. I was a whopping nerd. Certainly, I day dreamed of being legally eighteen and how divine it would be to be free from the nagging rules of my parents, but other than that, I was in no haste.


A whole decade has swooshed by and I’ve experienced the good, the bad, and the ugly. My seven brothers still call me rat salad, but that’s because they’re still idiots. I can’t really tell you what happened to my girlfriends back in Hawaii. Sometimes -upon visit- their names are woven in small town gossip. For the most part, I am still the same person. Not so slim. I am still that firecracker, thus I haven’t seen a size zero in ages. A victim to fashion, no time to sew. I have no guts for skating and no ear for punk rock. Although, I am poetry and my experience is literature.

It’s a few minutes till midnight and I’ll be a year older; thirty six to be precise. I sit up in bed and to my left Shane snores a chainsaw symphony. At the foot of the bed, Chloe is curled up in a snow colored shag. In the corner of the room, Hunter’s softly rests in his little cove. Our bedroom opens into a vast view of the bay which is well lit by the moon and the city lights. A brew of emotions bubbles and it will take an army and the marines to hold back this bliss. Me, I’ve never been so rich in love. I’ve a beautiful family. A wonderful home. It looks like I’ve finally landed! Anchors down! Now I understand what all the rush was all about. Sigh.

This is Shellie sipping champagne and noshing on caviar dreams back to you Bob at the studio!

Mommy Dearest

I kissed him goodbye and closed the front door that read Hang Loose. My emotions cloaked slightly with numbness, a natural reaction when my heart is plucked quickly from my chest. In the meantime, I held my head high and my shoulders back and sought through my paper sack of a soul for a positive reason for my decision. The morning sun was brisk as I walked down the hill to Third Street. My charcoal Armani slacks swooshed with each stride over the I280 overpass. I took a breath in full and told myself it was going to be okay. There was singe of sadness in my electricity of a new day.

I stood at the Third Street platform waiting for the train to arrive. On the outside, I was prim and fine hoping to lose myself into my headphones that softly played “Happiness is a Warm Gun” by the Beatles. I got on the train and held on tight. The words, “Someday, not for long,” from the gentle lips of my husband echoed in my buzzing brain. I recalled that he held me in his arms in bed trying to alleviate my worries. What does “someday” mean? Someday, I could win the lotto? Someday, I could learn to tap dance in a tutu. Someday, a purple flying elephant could take a big turd on my head. Someday. Humph, that’s like saying, “Hey, where’s the house keys?” “I don’t know, it’s somewhere.” The cart was a load full of rigid blank faces except for this infant that beamed from ear to ear. It was that very second and that very breath that grounded me here to this train, grasping tight to this pole. A smile from that little angel was all it took to ease the pain.

I took the elevator to the 19th floor. I opened the door to suite 1975 and a tall dark haired woman greeted me, “Are you Shellie?”
I forced my winning smile, “Yes, I am.”
“So nice to finally meet you!” She finished with a hug.

I was going to be okay. Styles is fine. He was at home with Mary, the poster nanny. Life as a freelance writer is bliss, but a ball of laundry lint makes more than I do. Life remains vast and great. Privilege comes with a stay at home mom and I just didn’t have privilege right now. Someday.

This is Shellie trying to strike a deal with the devil back to you bob at the studio!

Slim vs. Smile

September is upon my heels, and there’s so much that’s happened. What can I say except that I’m a lousy blogger. No I take that back, I am not lousy just lazy. To keep you up to date, I can say that Styles has been smiling, speaking baby in his gurgling ways. It's, how can I say, magical! Magical! Besides, trying to fit into my deep abyss of pre-pregnancy wardrobe, is a big to do! And I thought I was chunky before the pregnancy. Chuckle. These days I'd be lucky, if I can get my pants past my knees. (A mild exaggeration...a little higher in the thigh region.)

I’ve been driving across town to the Marina to cinch my ever growing waistline at the Dailey Method or as a friend would like to call it the Jane Fonda work out. It’s an hour of great music and women determined to hold on to their youth with me included. Big plus, they have childcare! Sigh. Yes, and I even gave in to purchasing lullulemon gear. Hell, Jill the owner, is practically the spokesperson. I fell into the peer pressure. I just wanted to fit in.

Some mother's are lucky, they push their baby out and "whap" just like that, they're abs are back in play! I, on the otherhand, am slightly cursed. I'm not fat, but I'm not skinny. I'm a marsupial. I have a fanny pack. A pouch. A pooch. A bulge of fun. If I could lose ten pounds, I would be good. If I could lose twenty, I would be perfect! Problem is, losing two pounds is like a prayer to god. So I ask myself, "I say self? What can I change? Increase cardio? Take up jumping rope perhaps? Sprinting? Weights? Diet?"

I've been bashing my head trying to figure out my error in ways. I think it''s my diet. I love food. I'm a foodie! A former chef (when I say chef I mean a line cook) what can I say, I live in one of the best culinary cities. I’m taking three hour lunches at my favorite haunts like Bar Bambino, Boulettes Larder, Delfina Pizzeria, Salthouse polishing off a couple glasses of roset only to follow up with a nice kid portion of malt ice cream at Bi-Rite creamery the best homemade organic ice cream this side of the Mission. By then, I’ve put back the calories I attempted to ditch that very morning so I do a couple laps around Dolores Park.

As we are planning on our second sometime soon, I want to make sure my body is a slender machine. Studies have shown that gestational diabetes will not occur in women that is slightly under weight. Hence, my want to lose my fanny pack. My pouch. My pooch. My bulge of fun. I enjoyed my last pregnancy, but I didn't enjoy the gestational diabetes aspect not one tidbit.

I realize that I am different. I am not that woman with a resilient abs of steel. I have to work harder. I have to watch what I eat. Or eat less. Or eat more often, but in small portions. All the same, I heart food. So I say, "Self? You must increase the cardio" So when Styles recognizes my voice when I call his name and his eyes light up and his mouth curls into a super smile. My heart does a triple axel somersault. My eyes brighten. I am awe inspired. I want to carry him in my arms and fly to the moon and back. I say to myself, "Self, I’ve got it damn good!" Sigh. I love being a mom! I have absolutely no agenda except to spend precious time with Hunter. I couldn’t ask for anything more. Sure I could lose some weight, but my weight has taught me to be patient. Besides, the flattest abs will never make me feel as golden as when my son smiles.

This is Shellie's heart skipping a beat back to you Bob at the studio.

Irie

We had no more family coming to visit. It was a relief. We survived the onslaught of relatives. It was a last minute decision, as I skirted the issue unable to commit. Would Styles have an allergic reaction to the north woods? Lately, I’ve managed a daily routine that included Styles and Hunter. I am confident that Styles was ready for his first camping trip! The yuppie wagon was stuffed with camping gear, mostly food and spirits and my usual impractical outfits. Hunter was accompanied by his backseat buddies Cliff and Chloe. Hendrix played in the CD, “Dewd, where’s the reggae?” Cliff starting on his jabs early.
“Aw crap! I forgot it.” Most of the time, I had to pick up my short term memory off the floor. Otherwise, I was too busy trying to make sure all essentials were packed for Styles.
“C’mon mann it’s Reggae Rising!” Cliff with a quick jab and a clue. It was dusk on Thursday and the traffic was mild, yet not mild enough to get out of the city quick enough. We were on our way to Reggae Rising formerly Reggae on the River which took place four hours North in Piercy. I have a deep fervor for the Redwoods and the Eel river. Styles awoke on the last leg of the trip and sang Cliff a loud lung song. “Oh my god, did you just turn the music louder?” Cliff chuckled in amusement, “He’s been going for about thirty minutes. He should be stopping anytime now.”
“I know, I think he’s losing his voice.” I turned Mos Def up a couple decibels to drown out my son’s wails. My selective hearing was paramount.

We arrived at the camp sight around eleven o’clock. The silence was wonderful. Joel sat at the camp fire as the logs crackled. Ruby, president of Styles fan club and potential baby sitter, crept out of her tent, “Is Hunter up?”
“He is, but he needs to eat then he’s going to bed.”
“Is that why he’s crying?” Ruby’s observation sharp as a knife.
“Yes. You can hang out with him tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Ruby smiled and returned to her tent.

Joel poured me a glass of white and offered the men a tug off of the bottle labeled Knob Creek. Let the decompression begin! We retired to bed. The sky jeweled with stars, I lay my head on the down pillow with Styles peacefully resting Shane kissed me good night.

I was awoken by the feeling that we were being watched. A light rustling came from outside the tent. There they stood Ruby and Simon, another disciple of Styles fan club and future baby sitter, peered into the tent with no sense of privacy. “Can I hold him now?” Ruby smiled with all her adorable charm.
“Girl he is still sleeping.” I yawned.
“Wake him up?” The dictator of fan club insisted.
“Hey did you hear that? I think your dad’s calling you?” I tried to dissuade them from waking up the kid.
“No he’s not.” Dictator Simon was on to me, “no one’s calling us.”
“Yes, do you hear that?” I conjured their imagination.
“No, I don’t hear anything” The dictator sneered.
“Simon and Ruby get away from there let them sleep.” Maxine, mother of disrupters, whipped them into shape.

I was tempted to go back to sleep, but the morning light dusted the top of our tent. It was hard to get back to sleep especially when most of the air in the mattress had escaped. I got dressed and left Styles to continue resting. I craved a full flavored mug of decaf coffee and a cup of Wullaby yogurt. Traci and crew gathered at our site, thus she began organizing the breakfast menu. The sweltry air made my skin sticky. I couldn’t wait to get to the watering hole.

It was a divine day as we headed down the watering hole with our coolers stuffed with alcoholic beverages, water and snacks. We were welcomed with cheer and delight. Jill and Greg were accessorized with a bottle of beer waist high in the water. Randall and Gabby boasted their fancy water furniture. Lorelei, old roommate, whom I haven’t seen in over five years waded in the water. It was a reunion of sorts. Besides all the positivity, we were all equipped with ice cold beverages.

Baby rested in his bassinet on shore, he was sealed in protective sun block. My heart went pitter patter as his chest rise and fell from his deep sleep. I couldn’t wait to introduce him to the water. In the meantime, Chloe was sopping wet, resembling a wet rat. Soon enough, Styles was awaken by the tempered heat. I removed his diaper and held him to my sticky skin. It was evident that he was irritable and hot. I handed him off to Shane for quick cool quenching. I scrambled around for my camera. This was huge! Photos were in order! Everyone watched with a curious eye. Shane held him at his chest and not a whimper. Ha! He was my kid! He enjoyed the water. Within five minutes Styles closed his eyes to return to his rest. Meanwhile, Chloe on her own accord adventured into the water. It was a joyous day.

The night was all about Reggae. A group of us got on the shuttle and made way to the music grounds. Ticket prices were ridiculous, but we knew there was a group discount to be had. I felt like we were on the hunt for drugs as we nonchalantly inquired about tickets. For the three nights of Reggae, Styles slumbered in the bjorn, but he was among thousands. The highlight of the weekend next to the watering hole was the Marley brothers. Hubba Hubba. It felt great to be admired by many for introducing the culture at such an early age. It was love!

It’s so easy to get sucked into the day to day of living in the city. It is ridiculous to get sucked into the blackhole called drama. It isn’t hard to get drawn into the undertow of surviving. Reggae Rising was a privledge. It was the perfect prescription. A big dose of redwoods and friends. It brought Shane and I closer, as well as our friends. We can't wait to next year where we’ll hopefully thicken our love for nature and reggae. I can not preface enough how important it is to slow down. Life is roots. Without roots we have no life. We would like to send our appreciation out to the Blescakecs for showing us the light.

This is Shellie "I swear I did not inhale" back to you Bob at the studio.

Day Dream

A stay at home mom has special priviledges like not working. Me, I manage through the day drabbly dressed on six hours, if I'm lucky, of snooze. Despite the lack of sleep, I feel invincible. Besides, I enjoy every second with Hunter. That said, my heart goes out to all the working moms.

I absolutely love Potrero Hill, the warmest part of the city, but on a hearth of a day like today, I make my way to the North end of town. I load Hunter and Chloe into the X5 -the yuppie wagon- and pop in the Ethiopians CD. I roll the windows down and slide the moon roof ajar. The temperature gauge reads eighty four degrees. Yay! It's days like this that I wish I lived in Hawaii again. Nonetheless, a late morning departure usually makes for a ten minute drive to Crissy Fields. I turn into the parking lot as Chloe begins to scramble in the backseat like it was raining dog jerky. "Get off of him!" Styles caught in Chloe's trample of excitement. I pop the trunk to get out the kicks aka bugaboo - yuppie stroller. I plop Hunter's car seat in the stroller, grab Chloe's leash and we're ready to go!

The shore dense with families, canines, and the ocassional sun chaser. I quicky released the Bichon and away she went into dog euphoria. She was adored by all as she kicked up dust during her circular spazz attacks. I briskly walked trying to make good time towards the base of Golden Gate bridge. I smiled and proudly walked tall and nodded to my fellow mothers and dog walkers. Up ahead strollers were parked in a long row, "ten more seconds!" The militant instructor screamed at the group of women in their snug lullulemons holding their squats in hopes to lose their baby gut. I, too, was on the same mission to lose my jiggle! Up ahead Chloe was roused by a a pair of maltese. They each sniffed in a circle. Their noses muffed in their back ends, licking, and pawing. What is it with dogs and butts? Manners need not apply. If only humans were that simple. Hunter was down for the count. His eyelids were gentle and his lips part. A quick flashback of my birth played in my head. Motherhood is beyond cool! Part Shane and me, he was an absolute bundle of love. Double sigh.

In haste, I pick up the pace trying to pump some life into my aorta. The go getters, joggers, effortlessly pass me in light foot fashion. A herd of grustling German tourists in their dark denim pencil jeans rustle by on their bicycles. A pretty brunette in a vintage summer dress sit nestled in the arms of young man. As I got closer, "Please yew tek a photo?" The tall and handsome spoke in the language that made me knees give in. I quickly took a picture of the darling couple. The french woman melted at the sight of Hunter. I melted in the presence of Frenchman. No sooner than I could say, "Hubba Hubba," Chloe, in her speedy demon ways, picked up some heat and was a goner. I bid them adieu, and continued on my way.

There it stood tall and majestic, the base of Golden Gate bridge. We made it! I placed my hands in the palm marker and Chloe placed her paws on the dog marker as european tourists looked on at the silly Americans. I continued to push the stroller in hopes of making good time. I strolled upon a playful group of Jack Russells trying to get their yayas on Chloe. I chuckled at the dog walker and was miffed at how they managed to keep the leashes untangled. I was slowly coming towards the end of my walk and realized the boot camp mamas were done. Hunter remained in his sweet slumber as my work out was almost at it's end. "Sexy back. You mother effers don't know how to ack..." The gaggle of latina teenagers sang and chuckled and weaved through the human traffic on tourist bikes.

I made it back in under thirty minutes! I improved my time. I unlocked the tanker to let some cool air in. I unlatched the car seat and dropped him into the booster. Chloe followed my lead. I poured her a bowl of water, but she was too pooped to lap it up. In usual fashion, I let all the windows down and let the sun shine through the moon roof and turned up the rocksteady. I returned to Potrero Hill with the Golden Gate bridge behind me, I thanked the blue skies. Some women are hardened by being at home with their child. Some women rejoice in the rewards of spending all of their time with their child. I am exulted. Honestly. Today is a good day. Ah, this is the life! I am living. I am alive.

This is Shellie swimming in the womb of life back to you Bob at the studio!