Just asking

Is it asking too much to expect my daughter to talk to me with as much respect as she does her teacher?

Burned at the Stake

Last night I set a 4-pound sirloin steak on fire. Seriously. I spent the greater part of the day looking up the perfect recipe and grilling technique -- only to have that disobedient piece of cow explode into flames.

Can you say Flame- migon?

Alien Invasion

No one quite prepared me for the day my oldest daughter would transform into an alien being.

Now there really isn’t much of an excuse. I was a dreadful pre-teen.

I remember the day my parents hands felt toxic to my touch and their hugs became the equivalent of Chinese water torture.

That summer my grandparents graciously treated my brother and I to a trip to Yellowstone National Park, a land filled with magnificent waterfalls, its own “grand canyon,” a spectacular clear blue lake and geysers and smudge pots galore.

Unfortunately I was championing the belief that “nothing was really beautiful, and life and love were an illusion.”

How could someone filled with so much pre-teen angst not be prepared for the day when her own child’s smile vanishes?

Well, I wasn’t.

I was caught off guard the day she went all bi-polar switching between the expressionless face of a bored statue one minute and into the overly dramatic face of one destined to the heretics’ barbecue the next.

In truth, I thought she was sick. Anyone who cries real weepy nasty tears over someone sitting in her chair for dinner either has no sympathy for Goldilocks or has to be coming down with the flu.

For days I waited for the hysterics to stop.

“I think she’s depressed,” I confided to my mom. “She hasn‘t smiled in weeks. She barely talks to me any more, and she rarely comes out of her room.”

“She’s not sick, Bonnie,” my mother said. “She’s just 10. You were horrible at that age.”

My mother left me with the sweet assurance: “It’s only going to get worse.”

I imagined her cackling from the safety of her pre-teen-less Texas hideaway because “paybacks are hell.” I had fulfilled my destiny by having a daughter “just like me.”

I took comfort in the fact that my daughter wasn’t rebelling. She was just bothered. A little time away might do her good, so she stayed with her nana and went swimming while her sisters and I went on our annual road trip.

For two weeks, I was Maggie-free. Now some might think I relished my time away from the girl who locked herself in the tower and awaited the Spanish Armada, but I didn’t. I missed her even though for two whole weeks my life was free from gum battles and foot fights.

My little girls played like the best of friends, shared clothes and even spent their own money to buy each other presents.

You’d think I’d be relaxing by the fire with a pina colada and celebrating my good fortune, but I pinned for my daughter living it up without her mom.

And then-- we crossed paths in Arizona.

I greeted her with June Cleaver excitement. She retired to her room with a book and didn’t come out until supper.

Every time her sisters looked at her, she’d turn into Abigail Williams (from “The Crucible” ) and go on a Puritanical witch hunt.

After two days, I felt guilty because I shamefully admit I wanted to return to my two-child pre-teen-free road trip.

No souvenir was cool enough. No musical download “current” enough. In short, I was uncool.

Once home, she locked herself in her dungeon and came out only to fight with her sisters (every 15 minutes). Her fights were dramatic tirades destined to split my eardrums and make burst a blood vessel.

How could I comfort her? How could I unlock that beautiful Maggie smile? She was my sunshine girl.

A sign on her door ordered no one to enter without knocking first. Hmm? Hmm?
I whipped open the door. She threw the covers over her bed. Hmm?

“What are you hiding?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said, flashing a nervous I’m-up-to-something giggle.

Hmm? Probably a picture of Adam Lambert, the unattainable love of her pre-teen life. I shut the door.

The next morning I whipped the door open more quickly. This time she wasn’t fast enough. A corner of a well-known off limits book peaked out of her bedspread. The rebel had been captured. The book banished.

And so, I am going on notice to all friends of Maggie, my beloved and thoroughly grounded daughter, please do not bother calling her or emailing her until further notice. She’s been sent to at-home labor camp and will be unavailable for some time.

So I drank a bottle of wine . .

You know does it REALLY matter? I'm legal. I didn't drool on the couch or sing "Love Shack" off key while waving my arms over my head. Beside the blinds were closed so even if I had, it's not like anyone would have known anyway-- good grapefruit I'm not that nice to my neighbors. Like would I really give them MORE fodder for the gossip train!

I am entitled. If I'm going to lose it, I need to thoroughly lose it so I resist losing it again and turn stalker.

Last week I turned 36 and in my downward spiral of reading the "Twilight" series in four days, obsessing over American Idol and discovering a certain song on my 10-year-old's MP3player, I drank a bottle of wine-- and some people had the nerve to snicker, to judge and proclaim "You DRANK the WHOLE bottle!"

Well yes I did because everyone knows wine isn't as good the second day.

Now the song was MY fault. I usually screen my daughter's music, read the lyrics-- etc. However,on this occasion I just took her word for it. The song: Jason Mraz' "Butterfly," which incidentally isn't really about colorful winged insects. No the song is a middle school sex ed class wrapped up in a metaphor of -- well a "butterfly-- of sorts."

Thank goodness my babe is 10 and naive and doesn't know WHAT he is singing about.
And so the song is now on MY IPOD-- next to an empty bottle of wine.

Twilight-- more evidence I'm headed for a midlife crisis

I'm in love with a vampire. And like a deranged 17-year-old, I just wish he'd bite me on the neck.

Last week, I read 1,100 pages in two days just so I could finish "Twilight" and "New Moon," the first two books in the Twilight series. My verdict: the books were overwritten, funny where I'm not sure the author intended comedy and send a bad message to teenage girls.

Though I could see all the faults with the books, I couldn't help it-- I KEPT reading. My eyes blurred. My sides ached from laughing in all the wrong places. My brain ached for MORE. I wanted to fly through the forest on the back of a vampire and hold really still for a kiss.

My theory behind this obsession with the book is that I think I dated "Edward" in high school and college and I think I obsessed over him as much as Bella. Edward was the never fully attainable bad boy who always left me thirsty for more. How many times did I make this heartbreaking mistake? Unfortunately the author seems to have forgotten Edward is indeed dangerous in "New Moon," which is my biggest beef with the series. Part of the sex appeal to the book was the tension-- how DO you LOVE a vampire? I never felt like he'd lose it and turn her into a happy meal. It turned all Harlequin on me-- I hate romance novels.

Maybe I keep reading because I hope Bella will grow up and figure out life should never revolve around one person? But alas it's more probable the author will do the predictable and turn her into a vampire. I wish she'd get it over with. then Bella could turn super hero on us and the books could turn interesting again.

Anyway, if you've read the books, give me your theory-- why are they so popular and why can't I put them down-- though I really don't like them?

36-- ouch! (from my column in tomorrow's Paradise Post)

Yesterday was about the most depressing day of the year-- well the most dreaded day of the year.
I turned 36 and noticed that more than just my mood was on the “decline.”

I remember when my brother spilled down the downhill slope of 30 and started rolling onto 40.
I thought darn he’s getting old. Sure I was only two years behind, but crinkling your nose in an adolescent-esque head shake at someone else’s expense is quite enjoyable (when it’s family).

For my brother 36 was the beginning of a new life and adventure as his miserable marriage drooled to an end and he considered the possibility of happiness for the first time in more than a decade.

It took him a year to commit to the idea, but I still have to think than downward spiral toward the big 4-0 made him realize life is too short to be miserable.

Since the candles faded away on his 36th birthday cake, he’s finally grown up (it takes some men a long time to do this). The past two years haven’t been easy on him or on my family as child custody battles turned into nasty bitter pills everyone had to swallow. For a while I cut off virtually all communication with my family over “the divorce.” Call it self preservation-- those pills were arsenic laced cruelty.

Sometimes I just don’t understand how the judicial system can be so cruel.

But through the poisonous fog choking out my brother’s newfound independence, his calm, politeness shook me to the core. I doubt I’ll ever fully understand how he has managed to keep it together and not go postal.

He certainly wasn’t the angry teenager from my youth whose anger was a hand slapped on the kitchen table and a slamming door rattling the dishes. He was a man trying to keep it together for his daughter.

Now as I sip my tea on the fateful 36th year of my life, I wonder how I will mature over the next year. What kind of happiness awaits me?

I’m content in my beloved town. Heck my town throws a parade for me every year on or around my birthday-- who am I to complain?

I love my husband as much as I did the day I met him though I admit it’s different.
I’m not all awash in poetry and music.

Nor am I the exciting sweet thing spontaneous and ready to fly on a moments notice. Dancing only happens in Vegas-- and the theater, my once beloved past time, only happens when the stars align and I’m the luckiest girl in the world to secure a part.

I’m not the girl who couldn’t get the rhythm and sound of words out of her head or who woke in the middle of the night with her fingers inching to write a story.

I’m a mom. I’m a wife-- all the wildness of my youth is pretty much gone. Sedate, mature, loving and tender, fiercely protective and as unorganized as ever-- that’s me. Calm, comfortable, an old shoe, a cup of soup.

My family is my life, but I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I miss my youth.

Would I trade it for my family? Never.
Being young wasn’t all butterflies and roses.

It’s easy to forget the impossible heartache of youthful disappointment, the catty ridiculous time wasted in juvenile arguments and the bad life altering decisions we all learned to live through.

Infatuation was much more damaging than love and writing was often the release of pent up emotion.
Youth is hot, too fast, too passionate. For all it’s blessings, I don’t want to go back.

So I look forward to the next several years wondering what it brings. As my children mature will I find a new kind of thrill or will I just continue to age into a refined, smooth lobster bisque?

True Confessions of an American Idol Addict

This is humiliating, but I think it's time I come out of the closet.

I' m one of those people who counts down the seconds until Ryan Seacrest prances to center stage and says "This is American Idol!!!!"

I haven't always been this nutty. In fact, I ignored the first season.

When season two rolled around, I think I must have been bored or something-- maybe that was around the same time NBC started fizzling with too many Law and Order reruns (love the shows, but I've seen them all already!).

One night I watched and liked this nerdy kid named Clay who seemed straight out of a confused rendition of "The Wizard of Oz" where Dorothy's cousin Theodore kicks her off the rainbow and jazz walks down the yellow brick road with his mysterious ani"male" counter parts.

What can I say? I was hooked.

Until last year, I remained in the closet with the doors tightly padlocked and sounds turned down low (though when my husband intercepted my copy of Clay Aiken's "Bridge Over Troubled Waters," I definitely thought the news had jumped with Toto out of the basket).

This year I can't hold back.

It all starts Wednesday nights after the results show. I tuck the kids into bed and jump over the cat as I race to my computer. It's time to predict who's gonna sing what and to read reviews and snarky blogs.

Thursday morning I call my mom to re discuss how I thought the vote went, down load my favorite songs and then read more idol predictions.

I swear the clock tick-tocks in a sorted water torture as I wait for the next Idol. I need help. I need an Idol support group, but the truth is if I found others like me, I think we'd just feed each other's nonsense.
By Monday I'm worse than a non-snooping five-year-old waiting for Christmas.I consult the Magic Eight Ball, DialIdol, sports betting sites and every poll imaginable, wondering is he gonna be safe, what's he gonna sing.
By Tuesday evening I'm hooked up with a live Idol Blog where I can read about how the performances via bloggers from the Eastern and Central Mountain Time Zones. Of course, I'm also listening to it live because I have to talk to my mother who lives in Texas as she watches it.

"Did you hear that!" my mother screams.
"Not really," I said.
"Let me get closer to the TV because that was fabulous!" she screams into my ear. I hear fuzzy stuff on the other end-- static, a high pitched dog call????
"Oh Bonnie you have got to watch this-- I'm definitely downloading that one!" my mother teases. "How long do you think it will be before it's on You Tube"

"I don't know," I say.

"Go check. You need to tell me what you think," she said.

Twenty minutes later I've located a video of our favorite Adam Lambert.

My mom stays on the phone as I skim reviews of the show and read her the juicy parts.

"You're still going to watch the show because you really need to see this," she said.
"Yes," i said.
"Well don't call. It comes on too late," my mother said.
I watch. I read reviews. I wish I had hosted a party for the viewing. I worry over who's going home. I look over DialIdol.

The next day I listen to the results show as it airs at my mother's house two hours earlier.

This year my mother and i have decided to step up out Idolatry by going to one of the concerts.
"If we do it, we have to commit," I said. "We've got to meet the bus and make a sign."
"Absolutely," my mom said. "Where should we meet-- Texas or California?"

"There are going to be seven shows in California-- let's hit them all," I said.
"You know Utah and Oregon aren't too far away either," my mom said.
"Good point."