Murder was the Case that they Gave Me

Okay. It wasn’t murder. It was Robbery in the Second Degree – but it’s Yakima, Washington for crying out loud, not Chi-town.  I’m not sure what I expected from being on jury duty, but it certainly surpassed my expectations. Yes, it’s my civic duty. I know that. I would like to maintain my status as a productive member of society, but if I’m going to be honest, it felt a little like murder each and every day of this two-week affliction.

Why did it suck? Let me count thy ways.

1.       Unplanned, 2-week Sabbaticals are slightly “inconvenient”

Each and every day you must arrive at the courthouse at the appointed time. You, and 60 other “average” citizens are crammed into this holding room where you painfully wait. And wait. And wait. And then you take a “restroom” break. And then you are herded back into the room to hurry up and wait some more. About an hour and a half into this process, the bailiff finally arrives to randomly assign and arrange everyone in numerical order. The lower your number, the more likely you are to be selected as a member of the jury.

I did not know that. So, when I was labeled “Juror #4” I was beaming. I gloated a little. I thought to myself, “Suckas…I’m going to be out of here fast!” The bailiff informed us that we would be escorted into the courtroom and the judge would ask each and every one of us if it would be a burden to serve time on the jury.

Hell ya! Let’s see. I have a 6 year old that has to go to school at 8:30 and be picked up at 3 p.m. And I have a 4 year old that goes to school at 8:30 and picked up at noon. Oh, and did I mention I have a 2 year old who still craps his pants and requires constant supervision? Oh, and I am working part time and the ONLY event my organization sponsors each year happens to be THIS WEEK. And I’m the only employee. Does that sound slightly inconvenient? Sure, I would much rather sit in a chair all day and listen to a grown person justify why they felt it necessary to beat and rob someone…but I have shit to do!

Or, so I thought.

Apparently the judge on this case did not think that I would be inconvenienced by serving on this jury. Ergo…You can now call me “Juror #4.”

2.       Is this what you call “A Jury of your Peers?”

Before the trial was to begin, the Prosecuting and Defense attorneys wanted to “get to know us a little better” so that they could eliminate a few potential jurors at will. All 60 of us were handed an identical questionnaire and one-by-one we had to take the microphone and answer the questions. It was pretty simple and straight forward, but my God, the answers were down right horrific. If I had a dollar for every time I heard this response…

Uh. I’m not married.
I’m currently unemployed.
I have a couple of kids, but none that live with me.
In my free-time, I like to play Poke Man and Wii.

Dude, what the hell is Poke Man? In case you didn’t know…You are like 40 Years Old! Perhaps it is time to expand your “free-time” repertoire and hit the gym. Or see your kids. Or, rent a place of your own and get out of your parents basement. I don’t know. It’s just a thought.

This went on and on. I seriously doubted that they would be able to select any sort of “jury of your peers.” But then it hit me. It’s not my peers…It’s the scary Robber who attacks people’s peers. Maybe, just maybe, I will be eliminated in the final hours of this thing. Had I shown up like I usually look in the morning as a mom – wrinkled clothes, hat over my unwashed hair, and sans make-up  – I may have looked like a peer. It would have made sense. But I looked good today! I had my hair did. I brought my “smart” looking brown leather Ralph Lauren brief case. I sported a really cute trendy little poncho. I had some bling on. Surely I would be dismissed in a heartbeat. I may have even passed for a conservative Republican. Apparently, I was wrong. They saw through my façade and pegged me as this Robber’s “peer.” Flattering for sure.

3.       The Inefficiencies of our Judicial System are Mind-Numbing.

You know, the actual trial was quite interesting. All 45 minutes of it. But that 45 minutes of testimony – from exactly 3 people – spanned four days filled with numerous breaks, recesses, and side-bars. If you were told to be there at 9 a.m. you could bet your booty that you wouldn’t actually get into the courtroom until 10:45. Exactly one witness would be called to the stand, answer a few questions, and they would dismiss us for a “potty break.” We would return to the courtroom only to hear a few more minutes of testimony, and then we would break for our 1.5 hour lunch. We would return at 1:30, sit in the holding room for another hour, and maybe hear 30 more minutes of testimony only to be dismissed for another “potty break.” Jeesh. My four-year-old can hold his urine longer than this. Once we returned from this afternoon urine break, we would be almost immediately dismissed for the day and asked to return again tomorrow. Let me repeat. Three witnesses. 45 minutes of testimony - total. FOUR days.

4.       Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems.

If that is true, than Jury Duty leaves you “problem-free.” Oh yes. You are paid for your time, service, and utter inconvenience. You are paid $10. No, not an hour. $10 a day. I can tell you right now that I spent more than that on lunch. In fact, I spent about $13.78 each day at Second Street Grill so I guess jury duty actually put me in the hole roughly $12 during my brief stint as Juror #4. At least I didn’t have mo’ problems!

5.       Anything but Murder.

Once our three witnesses testified, and we heard the closing arguments, our Jury of 13 (12 jurors and 1 alternate), we were ushered into the deliberation room. Our alternate was excused to leave, we were given instructions from the judge, and the debate began.  The first hour seemed harmless. 11 of us were in total agreement and ready to submit a verdict. But…there is always an outlier, and our outlier carried around her leisurely reading like a trophy. Here is a piece of advice. If you are EVER on a jury of 12 people, and one of them religiously brings the book “How to make an argument and WIN” – you are in deep doodoo - especially if your opinion squarely conflicts with hers.

We went round and round with our outlier. We approached it from so many angles.

Do you believe the suspect was at the scene of the crime?

Yes, I do.

Do you believe she assaulted the victim? (Insert 20 photos of a battered woman).

Yes, I do.

Do you believe she stole the property she was accused of stealing?

Yes, I do.

Do you believe she is guilty?

Yes, I do.

Than for God’s sake, what’s the problem lady?

Well, I just think there could have been some other people hiding in the basement who may have had some involvement.

But, even if there were 200 people hiding in the basement…they are not on trial. We only need to believe that the suspect was there and committed the crime.

But, what if there were other people who orchestrated the robbery?

See the same answer as above.

I thought to myself…we will never get out of here. Ever. This woman has one enormous imagination and it is going to hold us hostage forever – until I murder her. After four hours of this “deliberation” the outlier said she felt sick and needed to be dismissed from the jury. Okay. Interesting. Now what?

The bailiff was called in, heard that the juror wanted to be excused, and informed us that we would need to call our alternate back in and START OVER. Yes, you heard it folks. Start over. Don’t get me wrong. I love our country and our judicial process.  I believe whole-heartedly that you are innocent until proven guilty (even when there are 20 photos and 3 witnesses). I believe, that as a juror, you should not compromise what you truly do not agree with because a person’s life is at stake. And even though all of these warm, fuzzy beliefs exist within me…

I still wanted to kill the #$!!#$%. But then I would be the one on trial.

Politcal Enthusiast

I would like to say that I am fiercely independent when it comes to politics. It angers me to hear people say they cast their vote solely for Democrats or Republicans – with absolutely no regard for the candidate or their character. I mean, I get that each party has their particular platform, and stances on important issues, but shouldn’t they be voted into office on more than just their affiliation? Who knows, maybe I’m the dork – it’s totally possible.

Some might call me a flip flopper.  Quite often, I flip when I should have flopped. For example, I voted for Al Gore in the 2000 Presidential Election and then George Bush won. But then, on 9/11, I remember thinking…God. I am so glad George Bush is in office and not Al Gore. For one, his name is Al. And two, I think he just would have been a little pussy boy during such a horrific crisis. I could be wrong. I usually am.

By 2004, I absolutely hated George Bush. Just Google “George Bush Blunders” – and that pretty much sums it up. Needless to say, I voted for John Kerry in 2004, and lost that one as well. Don’t worry. I haven’t shed too many tears over that.  John Kerry was as vanilla as … I don’t know. Something REALLY vanilla. I used to have a boss that would call something “milk toast” if she thought something was bland. I guess he seemed bland to me. If you are an eater, what could be worse than something bland?

Now that it is present day, I couldn’t really tell you any details of either platform (despite the obvious differences in party affiliations) …I just hated George Bush and thought he was a total moron. I secretly prayed that John McCain would run. That was a Republican I could really get behind. Who doesn’t like a man that can spend more than five years as a POW only to emerge with a slight limp. What a bad ass! Who cares if he is older than dirt and could die tomorrow?

Sure enough, my prayers were answered in 2008 when he decided to run for President. Why, oh why, did he have to pick Sarah Palin as a running mate? Did I mention that McCain is as old as dirt and could die tomorrow? What the hell was he thinking picking her? I know there are plenty of folks out there that love her child-rearing, gotcha question, down-to-earth, geography-challenged ways, but I really disliked her with a passion. In fact, I enjoyed watching Tina Fey’s version of Sarah Palin – more than Sarah Palin herself. At least she was TRYING to be funny.

So, I did what I always do…Flipped. I admit, I got swept in by the whole Barack Obama love fest. What wasn’t there to love? He was smart, well-spoken, educated, charismatic, and black. I love that. As it turns out, I wouldn’t be called “racist” when I voted for the first black president…but I might be called “racist” for not voting for him next time. I want to be clear, the fact that Barack Obama is black has nothing to do with why I won’t vote for him next time…but that is just the label you get when say something as blasphemous as that. What it could be is that I just don’t like the job he is doing. Did he inherit the country at its worst? You betcha (that is Sarah Palin slang right there). Could someone else have done a better job? I dunno (that is a little George Bush impersonation). What I do know is all the “hope-y, dream-y” stuff just isn’t doing it for me anymore. Like a fish out of water, I think I’m gearing up for a flop.

So, at our house, we have been glued to the debates. I have to admit, the candidates are not all that exciting. Mitt Romney…boring. Rick Perry…Bush-esque. Michele Bachmann…just not good enough. Now Herman Cain…interesting. I just can’t get enough of his 9-9-9 plan. In fact, I just love a man with a plan. It’s just so catchy and appealing – even if it does sound like a pizza special. And his explanation is just so enlightening, “If 10 percent is good enough for God, than 9 percent should be good enough for the government.” Can I get an Amen?

So, if I voted for Barack Obama – a black Democrat. AND then I vote for Herman Cain – a black Republican…and I think Beyonce and Jay Z are just the cutest couple ever, and I lived in an all-black neighborhood in Chicago (w/white Polish prostitutes…but that is neither here nor there), am I still racist? Or, am I just an un-loyal, flip-flopping person, with an affinity for black people, who just picks the wrong political candidates in every election? Ponder that one people!

You better fine-tune that 9-9-9 plan Herman Cain…my vote is the kiss of death!

O-B-G-Y-FRIEND

Yes, it is ironic that I am married to a doctor and yet I hate going to one. I don't actually "hate" the person, I just strongly dislike playing the part of the patient. Because of this, I tend to avoid them like the plague and only see one when it is absolutely necessary.

Last week, I was officially two years overdue for my "annual" exam. I dread this exam the same way I dread picking up dog poop in the rain, singing Karaoke at a bar, or having a volatile diarrhea episode on the side of Mt. Adams.

Compounding matters is the fact that I'm actually friends with my GYNY doctor and it is beyond embarrassing to have her fingers up my vagina as we catch up on small talk. But, you can't escape the importance of prevention when you cohabitate with a physician, so I knew I needed to bite the bullet, coif the goods, and schedule an appointment with my O-B-G-Y-FRIEND.

Wednesday it was. It was an incredibly chaotic morning to say the least. I woke up late - as I often do - and tried to make coffee, breakfast, and lunch for my husband before he ran out the door at 6:30. Meanwhile all three kids are bright-eyed and bushy tailed, mad as hell they haven't eaten breakfast yet, and my oldest son is screaming for me to watch him poop (for some reason, he can't perform without an audience). Tango, the insane Golden Retriever puppy is humping our youngest, and my daughter is throwing a hormone-induced tantrum over the botched "side" ponytail.
.
Because there is a God, and miracles do happen, I did get everyone out the door and to school on time - but I was dirty. No shower. No brushing of my pearly whites. No make-up. No coffee. No breakfast. No Likey. Normally this would not be all that tragic, but I refuse to pay my O-B-G-Y-FRIEND a visit without giving my parts some time and attention. A shower was simply not a convenience today, it was a necessity. 

As I raced home from dropping the kids off at school, I knew I only had about 20 minutes to make everything right again. I showered, shaved, put on a cute pair of undies (not sure why, it's not like she sees them), and doused myself with yummy smelling body lotion. I figure she has got to see some real doozies throughout the day...Why not give her a little something to look forward to? Okay. That's probably overstating things a bit. But at least she wouldn't have to "dread" my cervical scraping. Let her dread one of the other women in that waiting room - not me.

I felt a bit nostalgic just being there. With more than 11 pregnancies and 3 actual kids in the prior 5 years, her office had become my home away from home. Although this time, I wasn't going to have to pee in a cup, endure a vaginal ultrasound, or potentially hear bad news about another pregnancy. I simply had to undress, fashion a lovely gown that opened in the front, get my boobies massaged and warm up the cold speculum. Know that I think about it - it almost sounds spa-like.

Soon my O-B-G-Y-FRIEND knocked on the door (after a 30 minute, long and cold wait). We spent the first few minutes catching up.

Me: How are the kids?
Her: Great! How are yours?
Me: Great!
Her: Bla, bla, bla, bla, bla, bla....
Me: Bla, bla, bla, bla...
Her: yadda, yadda, yadda...
Me: Right back at ya...
Her: Okay, now I'm going to insert my fingers into your vagina.

 Holy Jesus. I'm glad the rest of my friends are stay-at-home moms.

Sweet Home Chicago

After five long years, I was heading back to my favorite city – Chicago. I missed the steamy hot summer, the stanky smell that seeped up through the alleys, the fast-paced feeling of the city, the food, unparalleled shopping, and the great friends I left behind.

For those of you that know me well, I’m sure it goes without saying that I was not looking forward to the plane ride. Because it was going to be such a short trip, I opted to leave right out of Yakima and take the direct flight from Seattle into O’Hare. The Yakima flight left at 6 a.m. which hardly gave me much time to perseverate on my impending demise. I also felt that it was a little too early to take any medications – I mean it was 6 a.m. after all – and the 30 minute flight is a dry one. Despite the fact that I was wedged next to a very nice woman who probably should have bought both seats, dare I say, the flight was both smooth and pleasant?

Upon landing in Seattle, I only had a brief moment to grab a quick bite to eat, pop some pills and settle in at the nearest bar to slam a double Captain and Diet. With a mere three strips of crispy bacon in my stomach, a Xanax, a stiff drink and a sleeping pill, I was ready to tackle the world. I was even ready to tackle this four hour flight on American Airlines (and we all know their track record).

With my carry-on bag in hand, I patted the exterior of the airplane three times and headed down the narrow aisle pushing my way to the very back of the plane. Yes, the very back - the very last row to be exact.  Like some sort of curse from God, as I zeroed in on my seat – 32A – I couldn’t help notice that it was a Dad and his two, 2-year-old twins, flying solo for the very first time in his life. Occupying the window seat was 2-year-old number one, the terrified Dad who looked like he was about ready to wet himself was occupying the middle seat, and 2-year-old number two was sitting on his lap. I use the term “sitting on his lap” lightly as it was more like “riding his Dad like a bucking bronco.” But, as a mother of three, I felt a twinge of pity for this poor man. That only lasted a few seconds and then I prayed that my first solo flight sans children would be deftly quiet.

Hahahahahhaha….I’m sure you know how this turned out. Just as my drug-induced coma was comfortably setting in, I had to take the two year old girl to the bathroom. Once I passed that painful hurdle, the lunch cart reared its ugly head. The poor Dad had to use my tray to hold the three open-container apple juice cups that he ordered for his children, 3 bags of pretzels, their coloring crayons, napkins, and cookies. Now I was trapped with a stock pile of children and their plethora of accouterments holding me hostage. I mean…what if I had to go pee? What if there was an emergency? What if I needed to go ape shit on some terrorist hijacker trying to bring the plane down? Fortunately for me, and the other passengers, my OCD compulsion to pat the plane’s exterior, followed by my ritualistic prayer, must have saved us all from doom. I did not have to do any of those things. I just had to be a “mom” on my “mom-less” vacation.

We landed at O’Hare uneventfully. Since my husband is now managing our budget, I decided to take the train into the city. It was nearly 3 p.m. on a Friday, and I really didn’t feel like sitting in a cab watching the meter tick. I would rather use those funds for a Giordano’s pizza or a Potbelly’s sandwich.  Just like old times I scurried down to the bowels of O’Hare where I fought with the CTA machine that relentlessly tried to take one of my dollar bills. I sat above the tracks just hoping to see a rat scurry by – I always found that fascinating. The train was packed and I found myself falling into old habits…wedging my luggage next to me so that a urine-soaked bum wouldn’t sit by me…not making eye contact with anyone…especially someone trying to beg for money, pretending to know where the hell I was going although I really had no idea. And loving every minute of it.

I ended up transferring from the Blue line over to the Red line and getting off somewhere in the “Viagra Triangle” – that’s what we used to call the area anyway. I had to hoof it several blocks to the W Hotel on Lake Shore and I had forgotten how hot and humid the city was in August. I secretly peered down the alleys to see if I could spot any of my old favorite bums – but just like Weezy and George Jefferson – I guess they had moved on up.

I checked in, unpacked my bag, and quickly ordered up a bottle of champagne. A bunch of my girlfriends from KPMG were going to meet me in the lobby bar at 6 p.m. to try to recreate the old days. We had the best team ever back in the day. First, there is Lora, my favorite Jewish event planner. I mean, she plans events and happens to be Jewish…not that she plans Jewish parties for a living. She is well traveled, loves horses and always sports the most impeccable pink manicure. Regina, the brilliant Irish-Catholic redhead, puts the capital “A” in Type A personalities. She can “strategize” until the cows come home, but we all love her despite her uptight ways and poor choices in footwear.  Then there is Fales.  Her name is Jennifer and she likes to say that her middle name is “never.” Jennifer Never Fales. You get it. And that is exactly her personality. She was the alumni coordinator while I worked at KPMG which was perfect for her bubbly, outgoing, Hello-Kitty loving ways. Tracy, our favorite Minneapolis gal pal, lived the kind of life you only read about in romance novels. She had interesting trysts, a killer rack, and a body to die for. I only use the word “had” because she is now engaged. All other things are still presently valid. Kathy, another Irish Catholic converted Southsider, is a tall, blonde bombshell who makes rearing four kids look effortless. And I mean EFFORTLESS. She sends out this great Christmas newsletter every year that details how her oldest son (age 10) has fallen into drugs and alcohol, and how they accidentally left their youngest daughter with Lupe, the Mexican maid, while on vacation in Mexico. No, the stories are never true and it’s just the best letter ever.

Lora & Amy

Regina & Amy

Fales, Amy & Kathy

We hadn’t seen each other in five long years and we more than made up for it. We started at the lobby bar, ate an amazing dinner, stumbled upon a Karaoke bar, and somehow found ourselves in the midst of a quinceanera. How is that for a diverse evening? Drunk and tired, I found myself back in my room by 1 a.m. which was pretty early for Chicago standards.

Saturday I was to meet up with good ole’ November Rain. She and her family had just moved back to Chicago and I was so excited to see her.  Because she had to schlep herself in from the burbs, we agreed to meet at Nordstrom’s around 2 ish – giving me just enough time to feed my hangover a Potbelly sandwich. I always enjoy ordering the vegetarian and then asking them to put turkey on it. I know, it defeats the purpose just a tad, but it’s oh so delicious.

Inhaling my sandwich and planting myself smack dab in the middle of Nordstrom’s shoe department, I shopped while I waited for November. And then, in the distance, there she was. To me, she seems about 6 ft tall with her super long legs. When you add the 6 inch stilettos to her already tall frame, it can make a 5 foot nothing girl feel slightly frumpy.  We walked toward each other and as we leaned in for the hug, my head barely reached her armpits. Some might call us an odd pair, but I call us friend-mates.  In the short time we have known each other, she has seen me through some pretty sub par times. So, it was great to reconnect in Chicago. We even got lucky enough to weather one of Chicago’s famous summer storms. The rain in Chicago comes down with a vengeance. Forget an umbrella  - those are for sissy’s. If you are brave enough to attempt an umbrella in a summer storm, it usually ends up inside out from the wind, hail and rain. Meanwhile, don’t even think about putting on a rain coat. The downpour, paired with the steamy and humid temperature, creates this sauna sensation. You are wet and comfortably warm at the same time. I imagine it feels a little like being in the womb…or something like it anyway.

We ate, shopped, drank and chitchatted our day away. We had to head back to the W Hotel to get ready for our evening festivities – each of us had separate dinners to go to. I met back up with my KPMGers for our final hurrah. When you visit Chicago, you can pretty much guarantee that you are going to eat and drink your way through the city…and day two was no exception. Regina, our Type A friend, brought her cousin, Sara to our dinner. We had a lot in common. We both were in relationships with Mexicans and we were both white. That’s about all you need to have in common when you’re partying in Chicago. We grew so close that evening that she even attempted to “motorboat” me on the Matchbox patio. That could have been a “win-win” situation, but it never actually escalated to that point.

Fales, Tracy, Lora, Regina, & Amy

After my final night in Chicago ended, I had to get back up the next morning and catch my 11 a.m. flight back to Yakima. It always amazes me how easy it is to reconnect with friends after so much time has passed. Our circumstances were all so much different when we first met. Some were married, others weren’t. A couple of us were just starting to have children, and now we have 9 between us. Some still work at KPMG, and others have moved on to other things. Despite time, distance, and life’s changing circumstances, it was just like yesterday. I have met so many amazing friends in Chicago. There is just something about that city, the people who live there, and the friends you make.

As I boarded the plane, I tapped the exterior three times and took one last look at O’Hare airport. The plane lifted off and drifted up into the sky. Below me I could see the Lakefront, Wrigley Field, the Magnificent Mile, Lincoln Park, and the millions of cars, trains, and people that make the City what it is…Sweet Home Chicago.

Just a Girl and Her Ice Axe

I am a firm believer in the philosophy - Just because you CAN, doesn't mean you should. This saying holds true in so many situations. For example, have you ever seen a 40-something year-old woman in cut-off shorts? Sure, her legs might be skinny, but the contrast of her white skin against her bulging varicose veins far outweighs the fact that she can still squeeze into a size six.

Or, another example. Any episode of Jack Ass. Or, another. Buying size 16 "skinny" jeans. You get the picture.

So, when Larry casually mentioned that we should climb Mt. Adams over a two-day period, I should have stuck to my guns and ran the other way. The conversation started nonchalantly, "Mt. Adams is a really easy climb. I've read that it is really good for beginners." In my head I am thinking...Well, that's good. Considering I haven't climbed any mountain, or the hill behind our house, I guess I would be considered a beginner.

He let me stew on that for a few hours and then he casually mentioned, "If you think you might want to do it, we really need to rent you an ice axe and some crampons."

What? Why the hell would I need an ice axe and crampons? And what the hell are crampons, anyway?

In a very calm, soothing manner he explains that I might need to "self arrest" during a fall down the glacier. The crampons, which strap to the bottom of my hiking boots will keep me from slipping and the ice axe can be used to save myself during an out of control fall to my impending demise.

This really isn't sounding so "beginner-like" to me anymore. Sure, I am flattered that he has so much confidence in me, but seriously? What makes him think I can hike up 12,000 feet and get myself down safely without the help of a rescue crew?

I must have been high because I agreed to this insane adventure. First, we had to hunt for our backpacks that were buried deep in the bowels of our garage, somewhere under the "high school memorabilia" boxes. Once he located mine, I had to remove the Spanish Air luggage tag from the shoulder straps that carbon dated back to 1999 - which was the last time I ever had on a backpack.

We had to take a quick trip down to the Tri-Cities to rent a 2-person tent - one that was suitable for the side of a glacier at 9000+ feet. I was in desperate need of a very warm, sub-zero sleeping bag because this sissy does not like to be cold. And, I had to rent my crampons and ice-axe of course!

We encountered one small hiccup at REI when we found out they gave away the crampons we had reserved. Larry, being extremely resourceful (he was a boyscout after all), managed to locate a man who rents crampons out of his Richland, WA home. When we pulled up to this guy's door, you would have never known he had any love for the outdoors. His lawn was a fire hazard and all of his windows were blacked out and/or had the blinds completely shut. I was a little scared sending Larry in there by himself, but I wasn't about to take my three children in there. We both thought the whole scenario was reminiscent of that scene from Silence of the Lambs at Buffalo Bill's house. After being in there for 15 minutes or so, I finally had to text Larry, "Does Precious want a biscuit?"

Luckily, he escaped without becoming this man's new dress. But, when he showed me our crampons, I about died. Let me explain... Larry's were very state-of-the-art, easy on, easy off crampons. My crampons, however, consisted of these very old, weathered, leather straps that connected to a pair of the rustiest, metal spiky things that looked as if they were the first crampon ever invented. The pictures are below. I'll let you guess which crampons were mine.

So, this was worrisome to say the least. But the plan was already set into motion, and there was no turning back now. We had the gear, we packed our bags, and we were driving to the base at zero-dark-hundred the very next morning.

Once we made it to the Ranger Station, we had to "check-in" and purchase a permit to climb. The Ranger asked,"You have a GPS, right?" Uh. No. She cringed ever so slightly and handed us our forms to fill out. Apparently a few people had gotten lost recently and a GPS device was strongly suggested. Nahhhh. Who needs it? Not this beginner.

When we got to the trail head, Larry handed me my back pack. This felt somewhat like a small adult hanging on my back. Within the first 5 minutes I was thirsty, panting, and seriously doubting whether I was going to pull this off. I think Larry was a little worried to. It turns out, I have an extremely long adjustment period. It takes quite awhile to get my groove on. And you can't really call it a groove.We soon learned that there is "average time" and "Amy time" - it takes me nearly twice as long as the average newbie to go the same distance. But that aside, I did push through it.

I found myself day dreaming about ham and brie sandwiches with spicy honey mustard on a hard baguette. Wouldn't that be nice to eat at base camp? Or, how about a smudge of foie gras on a cracker. Yummo. In between my food daydreaming, I thought about my next eyelash appointment - which was long overdue. I really hoped I the sweat wouldn't adversely affect the last remaining lash extensions that clung to my eyelids for dear life.

We hiked, and hiked, and hiked, and hiked some more. Our goal was to get to about 9000 feet where we would stay the night at the "lunch counter." I thought to myself, "This sounds fabulous!" It just sounded like Mel's Diner. I envisioned Flo serving me hot coffee and powdered doughnuts. And to get there, we had to put on our crampons and pull out our ice axes and hike up Crystal glacier. We reached the lunch counter at about 6 p.m. We did not see Flo. We did not have doughnuts. Instead of coffee, we had water that Larry pumped from a small glacial run-off. And we ate freeze dried spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. My lower abdomen was so sore from carrying that dang pack up the mountain that it felt like my uterus might fall out of my vagina. Hunkered down in our tent, on the side of Mt. Adams, we would awake the next morning to begin our climb to the summit.

We got up early, but probably not as early as we should have. Out in the distance you could see fifty or so stick figures beginning their climb up the false peek. I was definitely nervous and contemplating what the hell I was doing there, but I had made it this far and I was not about to give up.

With my archaic crampons and ice-axe in had, we started for the top. At some point you just start climbing up these ice steps that other's have created before you. First, you throw down your axe into the snow, and then step up as you lean down on the axe to help you take your step up. It is so steep and so high, that I had to take 10 steps at a time and then rest. I repeated this over and over. Annoyingly enough, there seemed to be one buzzing bee by my side the entire climb. It is the only time in my life that I did not flail out of control at the prospect of having a bee near my face.

Did I mention I am afraid of heights?
Did I mention it's near impossible for a woman to pee or poop in any sort of privacy when you are on a glacier?

So, here I was. Ice axe. Crampons. An annoying bee. Vertical ice steps up a steep glacier. I had to pee. The freeze dried spaghetti and meatballs were making me have to poop. And at this point, there was no where else to go but up. Step...one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, REST! I essentially climbed Mt. Adams in 10 step increments with a full bladder and bowel and refused to look down. I couldn't. I was terrified.

But, as they say, what goes up, must come down. The entire trip Larry kept saying how amazing, fun and easy the "down" would be. I didn't really give it too much thought. But, when you take off the crampons - the only thing that makes you feel safe and stable on a body of ice, and you look down from the top of Mt. Adams, it pretty much scared the shit out of me. You don't just walk down either. You "glissade" or slide down on your ass. When you get going out of control, you wield your ice-axe like lumberjack, bury it in the glacier, and pray to GOD it slows you down. This was not as easy as it sounds. I also cannot describe how cold your butt cheeks get and the size and sheer magnitude of the snow wedgie that builds up in your vaginal area. Not so good.

We glissaded down to the lunch counter where we were supposed to break camp, put our packs back on and hike all the way back down the mountain to our car. I wasn't feeling so hot by the time we got back to our tent. Larry was worried that I was both exhausted and experiencing elevation sickness - and I think he was right. I could barely think and I was shuffling my way down the mountain in typical Amy time. On our last little bit of glacier, I tumbled down a steep embankment and did not wield my ice axe correctly. My "self-arrest" occurred by slamming into Larry at the bottom which luckily broke my fall just in time. It was then and there that the mama drama began. I was terrified and started crying. I knew we had so much longer to go and I was feeling horrible. The only good news was the fact that we had made it off of the snow and had hit dry land once again. Teary and practically hysterical, we only had approximately 2 more hours of daylight to get off the mountain.

My skin flushed. I was hot, clammy, and super nauseous. I could only shuffle my feet down the mountain at a snail's pace. And, no, I am not exaggerating! Larry is trying to politely coax me down faster because we were going to be screwed if we didn't get to our car. And then it happened. The "911" of diarrhea emergencies. There is no portapotty. There are very few trees. There is absolutely no privacy. Larry had to re-con the area to find me a suitable rock to sit on. At this point, I didn't care who saw me. I was so sick. And on my way to humiliate myself on this rock, I started vomiting profusely. I couldn't stop. There I was, halfway down Mt. Adams, leaving tiny little bits of myself everywhere- from both ends. I really just wanted Larry to throw that sub-zero REI sleeping bag at me and leave me under a tree. I was in no position to go anywhere.

At about 7000 feet, Larry made a decision that probably saved my life. He carried his backpack on his back, and he carried my backpack on his front. He was literally wedged between two human-sized backpacks so that I could walk a little faster. This went on and on...and on and on. But, it seemed to work. It took us an hour and a half to get to our car from that point. Poor Larry was exhausted, and I was barely feeling better myself.

When we finally reach our car, I was over-joyed. Elated. Amazed. Proud of myself. Grateful for my husband. I felt victorious. Like million bucks! Larry loaded our packs and got in the Jeep. As I mustered the strength to get in the passenger's seat, I looked at him and asked, "So...when do you want to climb Rainier?"

TRAIN Wreck

Awww...It's that time of year again. The sweet smell of flowers, kids frolicking in the pool, beautifully bronzed skin, and summer concerts that will blow your mind. My personal favorite is Dave Mathews at the Gorge. Just me, Dave, the hot summer sun, camping, yummy wine, and my husband. There is nothing else like it.

It is so good that I even managed to convert my DMB hater of a husband into a DMB die hard. Constantly debating the merits of the band, and trying to convince my husband that Dave was an amazing musician partly based on the fact that he so effortlessly "speaks to a woman's soul," did not seem to win me any points. His response never wavered.

"I am not going to listen to some guy play adult contemporary muzak!" Emphasis on the the muzak. Such a low blow. He absolutely believed with all of his heart that rock-n-roll NEVER included a piccolo. "You cannot ROCK the piccolo. You just can't. It's so uncool."

As it turns out, nearly 15 years later, I am the cool one. He has come to the dark side. I am vindicated. Yes, you can rock the piccolo, the flute, the saxophone, and the violin. And you can look pretty damn cool doing it. So, it is with great pleasure and anticipation that we will again attend the Dave Mathews Band concert at the Gorge for the third year in a row. Oh yes, for all three days. Mmmmhmmmm. That will be me, rocking out to the piccolo, and sopping up every sappy word Dave sings with a biscuit. And that will be Larry, filming the whole thing on his iPod like a giddy, drunk groupie.

The most fun I have EVER had at a concert though was at last year's TRAIN concert at Maryhill Winery. Am I a huge fan of TRAIN? No. Was I that night? OH yes! The biggest fan EVER! I doubt it had anything to do with the actual band, and more to do with the 6 plus bottles of white wine we drank. I am pretty convinced that NO ONE should ever get intoxicated on white wine. It wasn't pretty then, it wasn't pretty later that night, and it sure as hell sucked the big one in the morning. Rather than seeing TRAIN on the stage, it was more like having a train running over my head the next morning...but it was a fun ride getting to that pathetic point.

It kind of played out like the "Hangover" where you wake up the next morning and have no idea what happened or how you got to that point. All I know is the day started at Maryhill Winery and ended in the parking lot of Legends Casino. One of our newest friends puked barf nuggets all over Larry's flip flops and I found the lead singer's guitar pick wedged in my bra. By daybreak, I had "Facebook Friended" and posted pictures of my new best friend that I met at the concert. Although her name was Gina, I affectionately referred to her as "Jina" with a long "I" all night long for no apparent reason. It just felt right. Stories surfaced of a front row scuttle butt between myself and some bitter, bitchy TRAIN fan - someone who was apparently there to listen to the concert. I felt betrayed by the tiny stature of the lead singer and found myself heckling him as if it was his fault. Who the hell am I? I am barely 5 ft tall...and I have the nerve to degrade this poor, tiny thing. He is a rock star after all. That has to provide for some sort of street cred, right? Hmmm...maybe that is why the lady in the front row hated me so much. Geez, I guess hind sight is 20/20. Our car never made it home with us and had to be picked up the next day from a neighborhood that was not ours. And the only thing that made it all better was an "El Jeffe-sized" carne asada burrito with avocado and sour cream.

It really was an amazing night. The kind of night where strangers became good friends, and old friends became like family. To this day, I still keep in touch with Jina (emphasis on the long "I") and I still have that guitar pick. No, it's not in my bra anymore, but somewhere in the depths of our junk drawer. Every now and again I come across it while rummaging around for the toe nail clippers and I can't help but start singing, "If...it's love...then we're two birds of a feather and the rest is just whatever..."

Looking back, I guess that wasn't such a TRAIN wreck. It is actually quite a nice memory! Thanks Larry, Meg, Dave, Chelsea, the other Dave, Sarah, Liz, Brandy, Matt, and Gina :) Let's do it again...but with less white wine!

(Me and Gina...the two hottest bitches there!)

Even Better Than a "Man-ny"

After a series of unfortunate events, I decided it was time to take a walk on the wild side. This poopoo changing, time-out giver, cheerio scraper-upper was going back to work...part-time anyway. And like a message from the Gods, the perfect job literally fell into my lap. Yes, you can now call me Executive Director. I don't know why, but I just like that title. It sounds really important. And it is, in my organization of one. Okay, so I may just be the only employee. And I might just give myself my own reviews. But I have to say, I am doing an amazing job...and my boss agrees (Yes, that's me, but so what).

At this glorious new job, I can make my own schedule, work from home or the office, and it's only a half-time position. But what I like most is the fact that I have a reason to wear something other than my "mommy-wear" uniform and I interact with people who don't pout when I give them a time-out or call me "bad mommy" when I don't feed them cookies before breakfast. The icing on the cake is that I love both of my jobs even more now. I guess I'm one of those people that needs to be half in/half out of the workplace. It just makes me a better wife and mother.

Initially, the only draw back was finding a part-time nanny. Let's face it, the options here in Yakima are not great. I would even dare to say "dismal." But, just as everything else in life, if it's meant to be, things just seem to fall into place...and they did. A friend of a friend told me of this 25 year-old woman from Portland who had worked at the Parks Department Youth Program and nannied for a couple of families. She had just moved back to Yakima and would be very interested in the job.

Ugh. A young, 25 year-old prancing around my house during the summer months - probably in a tiny bikini around the swimming pool - made my stomach turn. What dumb-ass woman would be stupid enough to pay for that kind of temptation? Not this one. I briefly fantasized about hiring a "Man-ny" and thought that could be the perfect solution to my dilemma. But, honestly, there is something slightly creepy about a guy who wants to watch little children all day. Reluctantly, I agreed to meet this woman. It was a necessary evil.

When she came to the door, and walked into my house, I have got to say that I have NEVER been so happy to see a lesbian in all of my life. Are the Gods smiling upon me? Am I really that fortunate? Have my prayers been answered? YES! A lesbian! That is so much better than a man-ny. And let me say, she is amazing! This lesbian is sweet, but runs a tight ship. She is athletic and artistic. She is punctual yet flexible. Basically, she is perfect.

I had to give her the low-down on each of the children and explain, in great detail, our "Don't Ask, Don't Tell Policy." Simply stated, don't ask the kids what they "want" to eat and don't dare "tell" them what you are making. That would be a huge mistake and would result in you making three different meals at any given time.

As far as my daughter goes, she is girly in a grungy kind of way. You might have to tell her to get her hands out her pants, or to comb her crazy wild hair that she refuses to maintain, but other than that, she should be golden.

My three-year-old son has a few anger issues, but nothing serious. When angered, he sometimes yells, "PENIS, PENIS, PENIS!" and then runs upstairs. We're not sure if that's normal or not. I mean, as an adult, I often  yell, "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!"  and that seems totally acceptable to me. Maybe that is the three-year-old version of that...we're not sure, but just thought I'd warn you.

And my two-year-old son is on the verge of potty training. And so is our 4 month old golden retriever. So, when you see a poopoo on the floor, be sure to rub the right nose in it. Unfortunately, they are about the same size, but have distinctively different odors. And Angelo, our son, has a tendency to announce that he is "Poo-Ping" just before he does the deed. We're not sure why, but he has been taking off his diaper and pooping on the floor. Sorry.

Tango, our dog, behaves like he is on crack-cocaine in the morning...and in the afternoon...and even at night. He thinks the kids are his play toys. He likes to get to second base with Angelo, so you have to really keep an eye on those two when they are playing outside in the grass. He also humps their stuffed animals, so try to keep those up high where he can't reach them.

After describing their imperfections in great detail, I was a little worried that she would run scared. But that's the great thing about lesbians, they aren't scared of anything. It reminded me of a saying that I use on my husband all of the time. I like to tell him, "If anyone CAN, Mexi-CAN!" And I feel the same way about my new nanny. She was the answer to my prayers. Her lesbian-ism even trumped the man-ny fantasy. It was a gift beyond my wildest dreams.

With a firm shake of her hand, I said, "Welcome to Funny Farm. You're hired!"

Political Weiners

Isn’t it funny how periods of your life can be defined by certain senses or memories? To this day, just the smell of lilacs can transport me back to my grandparents’ house and conjure up about a million memories. As a kid, I spent a lot of time there, and summers were the best. They had these huge lilac bushes that flanked their house and the smell was just amazing. I remember climbing the cherry trees that used to engulf their backyard, and picking fresh raspberries and peas straight from the bushes of my grandpa’s garden. Most summer days you would find him out in his garden, with large suspenders attached to his baggy, worn out denim jeans, tending to the huge corn stalks, picking the sweetest cucumbers and cherry tomatoes you’ve ever had, and zucchini that my grandma would fry up with eggs and onions for breakfast. And I’m not sure why, but the grass even seemed better there. I think it was when they still planted grass with seeds. The blades were longer and thinner, and a little sparser than the densely packed sod we have now. It was the kind of grass you could really lay down on and read a book in the hot summer sun. Ahh…all those memories come flooding back whenever I smell lilacs.

God things were simple then! I was too young to be jaded. The things that define periods of time in my life are so vastly different now.  If you’ve read earlier posts to this blog you’ll know that rap music brings back a whole plethora of memories – but I wouldn’t say that is a warm fuzzy way to remember your college days, or your 20s, or your 30s, and so on and so forth. I mean, fashizzle my nizzle. Sure, I like reliving the days when I was up in da club, or riding dirty, but I can’t say that I would package those precious memories into a Hallmark card. I’m not sure how you would even illustrate that. Well, I guess that I can, but it wouldn’t be pretty.

But, even worse than having rap music trigger fond memories is the type of crap that defines us today. I think it’s much worse than rap. Are you ready for this people? It is all of the political Wieners out there. Yes, this period of my life – my “upper” thirties – is going to be defined by the political sex scandals – and others - that were going on during this moment in history. It seems like every time I turn on the TV, or read the newspaper, or God forbid scan Yahoo News, there is another political wiener that has reared its ugly little head and managed to find its way into the wrong vagina.

I don’t care if you are a Republican, a Democratic, a Tea Partier, or a Libertarian. Somehow, someway those wieners just won’t stay put. And true, I don’t mean to assert that it’s just political wieners that I am tired of hearing about, it’s everyone’s wieners. This, of course, includes Hollywood wieners, musical wieners, athletic wieners, and so on and so forth.

All these wieners are just overwhelming to say the least. I simply can’t wrap my mind around all of the roaming wieners, so I’m just going to have to pick one category – political wieners.

We shall call this the 2011 Spring/Summer wiener fest. Whenever you think of Spring/Summer 2011, you will instantly think to yourself, “Oh yah. That was the Arnold Schwarzenegger, John Edwards, Anthony Wiener period in politics - the trifecta of wieners if you will.

First, there was Arnold’s bombshell - an out-of-wedlock “love child” with an absolutely heinous, big busted, old, Latina house cleaner. (I only use Latina as a descriptor; it adds nothing to the “ick” factor. I am married to a Mexican you know…no prejudice here). But seriously, this woman is borderline scary to look at. My friend once said – “It’s NEVER about looks.” Man, she was spot on.  I’m actually quite amazed at the women men will cheat with. Often, they are the most unattractive, non-threatening, uninteresting types. So, if it has nothing to do with looks, it must simply be that they are “willing.” Now that is some tough criteria to live up to.  Ugly and willing…I’m guessing those are the easiest types to come by!

Then, we had the John Edwards saga. This really isn’t a new saga. In fact, it’s actually old news about an old wiener that made its way back into the news because his wiener might actually have committed a crime. More like a white collar crime. The type of crime one gets accused of when misusing political dollars to support your ugly mistress who also birthed a “love child” while you were running for office on a “family values” platform while your wife was dying of cancer. Ewww. That was actually even hard to write.

And last, but not least, the third political wiener that will help define Spring/Summer 2011 for all of us is the Wiener himself – Anthony Weiner. I have to admit, in my opinion, this political wiener is really the less of all evils when it comes to the aforementioned scandals – but it is all how you look at it I guess. At least with this “wiener” there was no “affair” no “penetration” – or at least none that we know of – and there was no love child. Apparently he is just a guy who likes to “sextext” borderline gay-porn looking photos of himself to strange, slightly underage women.  Hopefully his 2 week stint at sex addiction therapy a la Tiger Woods is working out for him. And seriously, if you are going to be named after a Weiner and engage in a sex scandal, perhaps you should consider changing it to something meatier and manlier, like Kielbasa. Anthony Kielbasa. Now, that sounds like something to talk about!

Tales from a Bush Wacker

Certainly there are many professions that require training. In fact, I can't think of one career that would not. But I have to ask, what in God's name attracts any human to seek out training in people waxing? Specifically the waxing of the pubic region? I'm sure there are some thick, scary uni brows that might be hard to tame, but surely that can't compare to a hairy wildebeest with muff straight out of the 70s.

Well, lucky for most of us, there are a few daring women who chose to venture into this dark world of pubic hair waxing. I suppose these ladies also enjoy popping blackheads on their boyfriends backs, or peeling back layers of lifeless sunburned skin from their shoulders. I guess if you like the grosser things in life, than by all means, this might just be the perfect career for you.

One could argue that only those who regularly landscape their vajayjays would seek professional help. So, how bad can it really be? But we all know this isn't true. Case in point. Have you ever been to a nude beach? Surely nude beaches are filled with 20-something hard bodies with well-oiled 6 packs, right? Um, no. I haven't been to a ton of nude beaches, but back in the day, when I was a 20-something, Larry and I trekked our way through a deserted train tunnel in Cinque Terre, Italy to catch a glimpse of one of the most remote, pristine beaches in all of Italy. Now, he could have warned me prior to our arrival that it was a nude beach, but unfortunately, he did not. As we reached a rickety wood door at the end of our hike, we had to ring a bell and pay to enter.

To my surprise, a very tall naked Italian man opened the door, took a few Euros, and let us in. I couldn't help but to gaze downward at his disturbingly long (and not in a good way, but in a gravitational pull kind of way) man parts that suggested he had been living at this beach for decades. Getting past this lovely gentlemen was a small victory. Stretched out before us were a small handful of other "characters" who you would never pay to see naked...unless you were us. And we had, in fact, paid to be there. My point is, you never see what you expect to see at nude beaches. Just like you never really see a lipstick lesbian. I usually see the "Pat" type lesbians, or the hardcore softball player lesbians...never the cherry chaptstick kind of lesbian that Katy Perry sings about kissing.

So, back to the bush whackers - I mean, bikini waxers. You know they are seeing just the worst of the worst. Or, at least that is my theory. I've also found that bush whackers are really good at an array of things. For example, they might give really good facials - AND a mean Brazilian. They might shine at mani/pedis - AND a mean Brazilian. If you're really lucky, they might weave the best eyelash extensions - AND a mean Brazilian. You just never know. I even found one that house sits!

Speaking of eyelash extensions, the last time I visited the very talented Ms. Cayla at Winks, she had a few questions for me that I was not prepared to answer. After she laid me down on her plush, cozy massage table, and packed my lower lids with gauze and tape, she asked me, "Hey, do you write a blog, or something?"

Me: Yah. Why?

Cayla: "Oh, one of my clients was telling me about it. You don't know her, she found it through a friend. But she said that you said it hurt your eyeballs and you made fun of my decor."

Me: Well, I tend to embellish things a little bit. You know...to amp up the humor if you will. I've told you that I hate my eyeballs packed with gauze and I think I made fun of the elderly woman sitting in the lobby with her oxygen tank. Other than that, I only said good things!

In my head I am praying that she doesn't "accidentally" drip glue into my eyeballs, or rip out a few natural eyelashes on purpose. Her poky tweezers are dangerously close to my cornea and I am in no position to talk trash to this girl. And honestly, I LOVE what she does to my eyelashes! I'm sort of an eyelash junky now. Every two weeks I need a fix and I'm happy to give her $50 bucks to do it!

I definitely showered her with much deserved compliments and she seemed as though she might be the type of person who gets my sense of humor. I swiftly changed the conversation from lashes to bikini waxing - because that is so much more interesting!

I asked her about some of the nastier jobs that she has had to deal with - and there have been some real doozies. She left me with a few tips to pass on to those of you "first-timers" who might be considering a muff job sometime in the near future.

• So fresh and so clean, clean!Showering is of paramount importance. Don't think you can just go to the gym, get in a quick work out, towel down and head to your waxing appointment. That is a big EWWWWW... According to Cayla, you don't even have to go the gym to be gross. Just going about your "desk sitting day" can leave you foul, so by all means, why not treat it like a date? Shower. Powder. Spruce it up a bit.
  
• Tame the BeastYes, she will wax you. Yes, she will transform your shapeless landscape into something soft and pretty. For the love of God, trim the beast a little bit before you get there. She prefers to use wax, not scissors, and if your "area" is long and unruly, get out the weed whacker and tighten up that pretty little package.
  
• Too Long or Too ShortSize doesn't matter, but length does. For an optimum waxing experience, treat your pubic hairs like Goldilocks would porridge. Only instead of the porridge being too hot or too cold, you don't want your whiskers to be too long or too short. If that isn't descriptive enough, and you want an actual number to go on, let's just say 1/4 of an inch ought to be just fine - no more or no less.
  
• Say Hello to My Little FriendIf your waxing appointment happens to fall on "that time of the month" - it is okay to call in sick. It is actually preferred. Nobody wants to see your little friend - no matter how good you are at hiding it.  'Nuff said.
  
• Consistency is KeyThis is where I falter just a bit. As if I need another appointment on my calendar. Hmmm....Gynecologist once a year. Dentist twice a year. Hair cut and color every 6 weeks. Eyelashes every two. Mani/Pedi once a month (should be more)...and now I have to factor in a regularly scheduled bikini wax? In a word - YES. You can't treat your waxing routine like a yo-yo diet. Let it become a "lifestyle" - like your healthy eating and workout schedule. (lol).

Well, that's about all she gave me. I would like to thank Cayla for her words of wisdom, sense of humor, and amazing eyelash extension abilities. I commend you for your attention to detail, and above all, your willingness to whack bush each and everyday. You are an amazing woman. You give us a gift. A gift that we can share with our significant others. You touch lives. You are a saint. And for that...I thank you.

Desperado

So, my husband and I walked into this bar the other day...

No, this isn't a joke. We really did. It was this tiny little dive bar down the street from his hospital and everything about it screamed "iffy" - I half expected to see Jody Foster getting sexually violated on the pinball machine or Pony Boy, the Greaser, fighting off a group of Socs with a dirty switch blade.

Luckily, we didn't wander into any of those situations, but the clientele was interesting to say the least. Seated directly at the bar was a petite, 60 something Asian lady who struck a striking resemblance to LaToya Jackson - complete with a Captain's hat. As she simultaneously took drags from her cigarette and played pull tabs, I couldn't help notice the bald, beer-bellied Hells Angel biker dude wearing a black leather vest over a wife beater tank top. He had a stack of dollar bills in hand and pretty much declared himself  "DJ" while he planted himself at the jukebox and held us all captive.

While my husband chomped down some potato skins, biker dude went from playing "Murder was the Case that they Gave Me" to Sheryl Crow's "Are you Strong Enough to be My Man." I think he was in the middle of some sort of identity crisis and struggling to come to terms with his softer side - ergo the Sheryl Crow tune.

With Sheryl singing softly in the background, my husband correctly pointed out that nobody is "strong enough" to be her man. She's dated Eric Clapton, Kid Rock, Owen Wilson, Lance Armstrong...you get the picture. According to Larry, if Lance Armstrong isn't strong enough, even though he has won Tour de France like a thousand times, with only ONE ball - then sorry honey. Nobody is strong enough. Might as well switch teams and think about adopting a child.

That aside, let's get back to the jukebox. Don't you just love a good bar with a jukebox? I do. In fact, the smaller the bar, the better the jukebox - at least that has been my experience. Not too long ago, one glorious Saturday night, me and my girlfriend, Kristen, were chauffeured around town by her husband - who sadly knew little about what he had signed on for.

Kristen and I have 6 kids between us, five of them being boys, and all of them under the age of seven. Ready for our big night out, we eagerly left our children at her house in the capable hands of two 14 year-old girls who probably would have rather been just about anywhere else. But we didn't care. Dressed to the nines, we traded in our sports bras and sweatpants for sexier clothes...a bra with under wire, jeans, a tight shirt - free of puke stains - and of course, heels. We showered, blew dry our hair and applied make-up. We were "in it to win it" if you know what I mean!

Knowing we would soon be intoxicated, David agreed to be our personal driver for the evening. I'm sure somewhere deep down inside him, he too was more than willing to ditch the chaos of six children who were literally bouncing off the walls in some sugar induced food frenzy. Hmmm...supervise this circus I call home or chauffeur two drunk, hot bitches around town....Decisions, decisions....Hot bitches win every time! (If you are a straight guy).

We were truly pimpin in the family minivan - because that's how we roll. With one of the boy's little purple dragon toys wedged under my butt and perhaps a stray cheerio or two, David settled into the driver's seat and played his favorite Eminem mixed tape to get us in the mood.

Hi! My name is... What? My name is... Who? My name is...s s s Slim Shady!

All was going well - musically that is - until it wasn't. I'm not sure how we went from Eminem to Glee's rendition of "Don't Stop Believing" but we had taken a turn for the worst. As David frantically started to surf the FM channels in the minivan, we berated him as our DJ and tried to take the matter into our own hands. At one point, the station even landed on Desperado - which clearly is the way to END your evening, but not begin one.

He drove us to this new, hip, trendy bar somewhere within the confines of the Costco parking lot. The White Buddah Lounge looked exceptionally promising with the red velvet ropes and red carpet leading up to the strip mall entrance. Everything was white - the tables, the chairs, the walls, the curtains - but in a very hip, minimalistic kind of way. And despite the fact that there was not a single sole in the place, there were RESERVED signs on all of the tables. Apparently we had arrived just before the rush. We were told that we could occupy one of the enclosed curtain seating areas that was clearly reserved for VIPs - until the VIPS arrived. We were there nearly two hours and unfortunately, never met a single other patron, or VIP the entire night - but the $12 martinis sure were tasty!

As we pushed our way through the crowd of none, we decided to go to an old favorite - the Pub. This is the drinking man's bar. A place where you eat and throw your peanut shells on the floor. A place where you don't want to sit on the toilet seat when you have to pee like a race horse - until you are too drunk to care. The kind of bar that is open on all holidays - even Christmas - and pathetically always has a few cars out front. It also happens to have an amazing jukebox. We gathered our drinks, a couple bowls of peanuts and settled into a table in the back. Because I had verbally abused David the whole way there for being such a piss poor DJ and ruining our buzz with the pathetic songs he found on the radio, David "suggested" I take the $10 bill and shove it up my (bleep). I mean, try my hand at setting the mood with a song selection or two.

No problem. I got to the jukebox and impressively worked my way through the list. It took me the better part of a half an hour to pick the 30 songs that our $10 allotted us, but I did return victorious. I prepared the group to be ready to get their groove on because we were going to be there for a very long while. I'll be damned if I was going to leave before my very last song selection played. I know the value of a buck and did not want to waste it!

How will we know when it's the last song?

Oh, you'll know. It's only the most PERFECT song to end a stellar evening such as this.

We sat at that bar for about three hours because that is how long it takes to go through $10 bucks. Every time a song would start and end, we would get all excited and say, "What's next???"

Shook Me All Night Long...
Free Bird & Sweet Home Alabama...
Are you Gonna Be My Girl...
Brick House...
Brown Eyed Girl
SexyBack...
Blister in the Sun...
In da Club...

It just kept getting better and better.

What's next? Is this the end?

And then, like a scene out of Seinfeld, the four of us sitting at the table, we heard the words that signalled our personal finale. Instinctively, we gave each other a knowing nod, pushed ourselves back from the table, stood up, and waved to the other dumbfounded patrons as we walked toward the door in complete unison. Softly playing in the background...

Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
You been out ridin' fences for so long now
Oh, you're a hard one
I know that you got your reasons
These things that are pleasin' you
Can hurt you somehow


Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home
And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'
Your prison is walking through this world all alone


Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
Come down from your fences, open the gate
It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you
You better let somebody love you, before it's too late

In that one glorious, well-timed moment - we were rock stars. We were George, Jerry, Elaine & Kramer. (Not exactly, but kind of). It was our curtain call. Time to go home. Time to slip off that uncomfortable underwire bra and put on our "mommy" jammies. Time for reality. Time for a glass of cold water. But those people in that bar didn't know who we were. For all they knew, maybe we really were famous...

Have a good night folks. Our work is done here... See you next week. PEACE.

November Rain

I know. It's odd to be mourning November in May.

No, it's not the month of November that I am referring to, but rather, one of my newest friends here in Yakima. You see, November recently announced that she and her family will be moving back to Chicago at the end of this month. When I heard the news, I felt like pitching a fit like my 3-year-old. Initially he likes to hit someone, then throw something, and then finish with an ear piercing scream, "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!"

Meeting friends at this stage in life is not easy. If you think about it, you typically meet your friends at school, college, or work because that is where you spend most of your time. And if that is still a true statement, then I guess I would have to say my best friend is Oprah. Or maybe Ellen. Nope, definitely Ellen. For one, that girl can really rock a blazer and I'm pretty sure Gayle keeps Oprah on a tight leash.

Although I spend a fair amount of time with Oprah and Ellen, I was really excited to meet November - last November. How appropriate. Initially we had a lot in common. Our kids went to the same school. We both had just moved from Chicago. Our husbands were physicians. We both have horrible Italian tempers. And we are practically twins. She just happens to be naturally blonde, about six feet tall and gorgeous. I, however, am blonde - but not naturally, five feet tall and older. Other than that...twins.

Don't get me wrong, I have a few friends here in Yakima, but November was the first friend that I could really connect with. You know, the kind of friend where you show up on her doorstep looking like a filthy freak (having not bathed in a couple of days) and sprawl out on her couch and talk about nothing and everything. Those are simply the best kind of friends.

I always thought of friends to be a little like fashion accessories - some stay with you for a season or two, and a small hand full stay with you for life. If you are anything like me, sometimes you mourn a friendship that you use to have and pain over what went wrong. Now that I am older, I have come to appreciate that all friendships - both short-lived and lifelong - define a particular season in your life. Friends seem to come into your life at just the right time. It has not even been a year, but she has been one of my biggest fans, a great listener, a shoulder to cry on, and someone who brings me excessive amounts of alcohol and food when I am feeling my absolute worst.

I laughed the other day, because since she announced she was moving, the only song I seem to hear is November Rain by Guns n' Roses. Seriously. That has to be a sign from God, because who the hell plays that anymore?

Well, I will definitely miss November all seasons of the year - but I know in my heart of hearts, she will be a good friend for life. It has also made me think about all the other friends who have come in and out of my life...but the memories never fade. Although too many to mention, here is a smattering of some of my favorite friends who have made an impact on my life, albeit too short!

Guy Rodriguez
I met Guy when we were about 4 or 5 years old. My first neighborhood friend, we lived just across from the ghetto. We were so poor, we had to share a single pair of strap on roller skates. We also set up an arts and crafts stand to sell our great creations - but, unfortunately, nobody ever bought anything. It goes without saying that neither of us ended up being artists. Guy is now happily married and an amazing TIGI hair stylist and owner of B&G House of Style in downtown Kennewick. If you want to get you "hairs did" - look him up and make an appointment.

Stacey Storm
Stacey and I met in kindergarten and she soon became my very first best friend. I remember one of our very first playdates (we did not call them playdates at that time...and I really hate that term now). We rode skateboards down her street on our bellies and she took off the better part of her chin. We shared many laughs and good times all the way through to the 8th grade. I will never forget that she taught me about saying "I'm sorry" - slumber parties, pink denim jackets, Bruce Springsteen, family dinners, and hunting for her father's Playboy magazines. Stacey just opened an office in Costa Rica...how cool is that?

Scott Chase
Scott was one of my favorite college friends. I'll never forget riding home from class on the back of his scooter, his famous broccoli cheddar Bisquick casserole, and his love of the power nap. He was goofy, hysterically funny and made me laugh more times than I can count.

Kelly Krieg
Kelly was my first east coast friend - which is both good and bad. She was a real hard ass bitch but loads of fun. I loved how she pronounced my husband's name "Laaaarry" with this really long "a" sound. I was in my very early 20s and she was in her 30s. She would always demand, "Make me feel young again!" when we were out drinking after work. Pretty mean, but totally likable, she was obsessed with Pottery Barn and the quest for the coziest sofa. I'll never forget when she moved back to Rhode Island. I asked her if we would stay friends. In her harshest east coast voice and attitude she replied, "why would we?"

Michael Bolen
Michael was one of the first guys I met in Chicago. He was the biggest, gayest Texan you'll ever meet. He closely resembled a big blonde Santa Clause with jolly red cheeks, a huge smile, and an infectious belly laugh like no other. When I introduced Michael to Larry, I remember he shook his hand, gave him a hug, and told him he wanted to "slop him up with a biscuit." Larry maintained a cautious distance from Michael from then on out. Although Larry was quite a sport and did accompany us to many Boys Town bars like the Man Hole.

Like I said, there are too many to list. I just want to say "thank you" to all the friends who have come in and out of my life. And thank you to Kristen and Ronda who have been there forever - you two are always there for me when I need  you the most - and I've needed you a lot! And Tina B...you are the best too! And November - you better get used to the phone sister! Just cause you are moving to Chicago doesn't mean you are getting rid of me! I will be visiting.

In closing, here are some of my favorite quotes about friends:

A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg
even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.- Bernard Meltzer

A true friend is one who overlooks your failures and tolerates your success.- Doug Larson

Friends are God's way of apologizing to us for our families.- Anonymous

A true friend stabs you in the front.
- Oscar Wilde

Love is blind; friendship closes its eyes.- Anonymous

Take some time to thank your friends today! What would we do without them?

Vanity is a Bitch

Vanity can be a real bitch - especially as you get older. I remember being about 14, sitting in my living room reading some tween magazine like Seventeen and rubbing cream all over my feet. This beauty regimen lasted about one day before I thought, "Screw it! This isn't going to do anything for me long-term!"

Now I'm wondering if an ounce of prevention would have prevented the thick layer of callused heel skin that now snags lingerie on my bedroom floor. The picture below looks exactly like the bottom of my current feet - minus the "After" shot.



God forbid I used sunscreen or moisturizer. After slathering pure baby oil on my body, I wasn't about to consider an anti-wrinkle SPF potion. You just don't think you are ever going to age - until you do. Sooner or later, it just hits you in the face like a Chris Brown vs. Rihanna brawl in the parking lot. (Ok. Poor taste. But that's how it feels...I'm guessing.)

So, now that I am in Yakima, my choices for various beauty regimens are pretty limited. Where or where will I find Kim Kardashian's eyelashes? Or, skin like Jessica Alba? Or, a bikini wax like that of a Las Vegas stripper? Work with me people! Where is a girl to go? Little hidden gems are everywhere in Yakima - you just have to crawl under a rock to find them. Here is a smattering of hidden gems that are sure to bring my aging body back to life...

Jessica Alba's Skin Tone - Spray Tans at Paradise Island Tanning



The younger, better me had a very nice tan. I'm assuming that when you are thinner, and enjoy wearing a bathing suit, you naturally expose more of your body to the sun. Unfortunately, I would rather eat cow dung than be in a bathing suit in public - as I am quite sure that others would rather eat cow dung than have to look at me in a swimsuit. Sure...I gotcha. That being said, I feel more like an albino than an Italian - and I am not at all happy about that. So, you know what they say...if you can't tone it, tan it.

And being lazy and impatient, I don't really have the time or inclination to go to a tanning booth. So, I bit the bullet and scheduled a spray tan. I was told that Paradise Island was the very best place to go. Actually, it is the best place by default because it is the only place - but that's beside the point.

I was told that although you can go topless, you must wear some sort of undies. They stated this in such a way that led me to believe they had seen something awful...something they were not willing to see ever again. I happily complied and showed up in a loose fitting cover up, a strapless bra, and some teeny tiny underwear. Turns out this was not a great look.

Kathy, my "airbrush artist" had me step into this closet and undress. My boobs, being both large and real, are extreme victims of gravity. Not wanting tan lines that outlined limp and lifeless breasts, I opted to keep my strapless bra on.

Well, that was not a good idea. Strapless, obviously implies no straps. No straps implies that there was nothing to hold me up. Nothing to hold me up meant that I was doomed to a tubular-shaped tan line somewhere around my mid section. Highly attractive.

Kathy then asked me to stand up straight with my arms out to my sides and my legs spread apart. In order for me to have my thighs not touching, I have to spread my legs very, very, far apart. I am now about 3 feet tall and about to lose my balance. To say that I was "airbrushed" is a little misleading. In realty I was hosed down like a muddy jeep at a car wash. It was cold and the spray was violent. Even worse was that I had to turn around and allow Kathy to hose down my big, white butt cheeks. With my short legs, and her hosing me down while sitting on her knees, her face was pretty much at butt cheek level. No wonder she insists on you wearing something down there. I wouldn't want to look up the ass crack of fatties all day. And you know it's just the fatties that get this done. The skinny bitches are out at the beach in their little bikinis getting the real deal - actual sunlight. Meanwhile, I am standing half naked in a closet in front of a woman with a hose - and paying for it. Winning.

Wax or Vajazzle Your Bikini Area at eNails


I did it! I finally found the very best waxer in all of Yakima. I think her name is Phoa Quong Li - or something traditional like that - and she was sent from the waxing Gods. I happened upon her while getting a mani/pedi at e-Nails in Chalet Village. As Phoa Quong Li was sloughing the callouses off of my heels, I heard another patron ask if she was available for a bikini wax. Naturally, my ears perked up and I asked if I, too, could be squeezed in for an impromptu waxing. Poor Phoa Quong Li had no idea what she was in for. It had been a few months since my last waxing - but this was now her problem, not mine.

She escorted me to the waxing room and asked me to pull down my pants. Having just had my nails done, there was little I could do to comply with this request. I didn't want to ruin my fresh mani! But Phoa Quong Li did not hesitate. She whisked over to me and said, "I pull down pants for you. No ruin your nails."

Okay. This feels awkward. Now, I pull down my kids pants all of the time, but this was a first for me. And it's not like I was wearing stretchy pants with elastic. I had on my tight jeans. Yes, all of my pants are tight, but that's neither here nor there. Here I was, standing with my arms up, nails drying in the air, with a tiny Asian woman working her ass off to get my pants down. While my husband might think this was the start of a very happy ending, I was not so hopeful.

I finally got on the table and Phoa Quong Li started to examine my pubic area. I'll admit, I was a little alarmed and embarrassed that she darted out of the room and came back in with rubber gloves and a mask. I reasoned that an Asian might not know what to do with an Italian and she quickly recognized the scale and magnitude of the task ahead of her.

Let me tell you, she was amazing. I'm not sure what she did, or what tools she was using, but she was some sort of modern day Edward Scissorhands for the pubic region. She used hot wax, then scissors, then tweezers, and then a few contraptions I had never seen before. She was an artist working her magic.

rip, rip, rip!
snip, snip, snip!
tweeze, tweeze, tweeze!

I just had to close my eyes, try to relax, and let her work her magic. With the length of time it took, and the arsenal of tools she utilized, I half expected my pubic hair to resemble a perfectly coiffed Disney character. But when she finally handed me a mirror to check out her work, I have to say it was truly amazing. Her Engrish may need some work, but for a hairless Asian girl, she sure can rock the bikini wax! (I passed on the vajazzle...I'm not quite vajazzle-ready.)

Kim Kardashian's Eyelashes? Try Cayla at Winks Eyelash Studio



The latest gem I recently uncovered is a little place called "Winks" and it was tucked deep in the bowels of a salon called "Hair Cafe" conveniently located at 48th and Tieton. Here, I was told, is where Cayla could brilliantly transform my eyelashes into that of Kim Kardashian - one eyelash at a time. Considering that my eyelashes are nearly translucent, short, and extremely sparse, I was eager to try this "eyelash extension" craze. When I called Winks, I was told that I would have to wait six weeks for the next available appointment. Wow! I guess I am more than a little late for this fad - even by Yakima's standards - and that is not okay.

The Hair Cafe's lobby looked a little like the early bird dinner seating at the Elk's Lodge. It was here that I almost tripped over Mildred's oxygen machine. Mildred was actually sleeping on the large, plush, brown sofa - eagerly waiting for her perm - and I scared the dickens out of her. This was not a good sign.

Eventually Cayla led me back to her studio filled with pink and black faux fur and a pair of fuzzy dice dangling from the ceiling fan. Although tempted to dash for the door, I had secured this appointment with a $75 deposit and was not about to lose it.  I climbed up on her table and laid down.

Cayla: Do you want something natural? Or, something dramatic?
Me: Is there a happy medium?
Cayla: Of course!

Cayla informed me this would take nearly two hours to complete and I would not be able to open my eyes at any point during this procedure. I have to say, laying down for two hours and being forced to have my eyes closed seemed well worth the $75 already. But, as with any beauty regimen, there is always a price to pay. She asked me to look up and then began taping down my lower lashes. This did not feel good. In fact, I felt like she was stuffing gauze underneath my eyeball. Not fun.

Then, the tedious work began. One eyelash at a time she would glue one false eyelash to one tiny real eyelash on my upper lid. I tried to relax as the sound of the moving ocean and chirping birds sang in my ears. Every now and then I would feel like I was totally relaxed until I realized that my butt muscles were totally clenched and my toes were curled straight out.

Two hours later, here is the final result -

What do you think? I am sure you are all just so happy I spared you the "After" shot of my bikini wax :) You're welcome!