My Allen Noonan Art Collection

I've been collecting art from the Allen Noonan "Originals" series for the past three years. I've purchased six pieces total, and here are some pictures of them as they're hanging in my home. The ones directly to the left (wine bottles) are from Deja Vu in Long Beach. I paid $200 for the pair.

I don't know much about the artist, but after contacting Atomic Ranch magazine and doing a little research myself on the interwebs, I believe that these are by the Long Beach sign painter-turned-UFO Cult leader, Allen Noonan.

I also know that he designed wood mosaics for the Hody's Diners in the Los Angeles area during the mid 1960s. I believe that the two mosaics you see below on my orange kitchen wall are from one of these diners, as they look very similar to the ones I've seen in old Hody's pictures.

I bought all six pieces in Long Beach, and I've seen some others on eBay and etsy, but I didn't purchase them for various reasons. One reason is that a set I saw on etsy were horrible colors. They were so cool in shape--geometric amoeba and boomerags--but the colors were ick. I couldn't justify plunking down $250 for art that I just didn't quite like. Also, I had the chance to purchase a huge still life for $250, but again, I just didn't like it that much. I like the quirkier and more abstract ones. I do think that I have a pretty good collection going, though.

I love these. These are the second set I bought, and I bought them for $175 for the pair. They're hanging in my dining room above the mid-century table I restored.

These are the first Allen Noonan Originials I bought, and I got the pair for $220. These are my favorites because they are more three-dimensional than the rest. They were filthy when I got them because they'd just been dug out of someone's basement in Long Beach, so after a thorough cleaning, I proudly hung them on my favorite orange wall.

Too Tired for a Title

Obviously, I haven't written for a while. Shortly after my last post, I got my knee brace off. I can now drive and walk somewhat normally. I don't have much of a "compromised gait," as they say at physical therapy. I still attend my PT twice a week, and I've officially made my goal of 100% range of motion. This means that I can bend my knee 180 degrees while lying on my stomach. That doesn't mean the pain or swelling is completely gone, but almost. I can't quite walk up and down stairs without a death grip on the railing, but I suspect in a couple of weeks I'll be able to.

Other than PT, I've still been taking it easy. I wish I had something more exciting to tell you other than that I've become addicted to Big Brother (no reality show is too trashy for me) and have been reading like a maniac. I figure that reading balances out the brain cells I've lost watching stupid reality TV. I also entered a local poetry contest, which I do not expect to win. But, it was a big step for me just to submit something.

In addition, I've been doing a little prep for the new school year, but not much, because I may have seen the last of my teaching days. I accepted a position as the school's testing coordinator for next year, but I thought I'd be teaching two classes. I've been told to plan on not teaching now, as they want me to work that position full time. I have mixed feelings, as I love working with teenagers and sharing my passion for reading, writing, history, politics, etc., but the job has been downright stressful the past couple of years. I truly can't be the teacher I want to be (and know I can be) with 40+ kids in a classroom. At one point I had 200 students, and if each one turned in just two assignments per week, I spent all my free time trying to catch up on grading. And, don't get me started on trying to grade that many essays. Even if I staggered the assignments for each class, I still had hours and hours of grading that I couldn't keep up with. So, I will not miss that aspect of my job. And, I now get a real office with an outside phone line! This is a real treat at my school, and you can bet I will appreciate it. I also get the chance to work around and with more adults, which can be a blessing and a curse depending on which adults I'm working with. Luckily, I adore the co-worker with the office next to mine, as he is smart, funny, and helpful. A blessing!

On the stepmom front, things are fairly quiet. Stepson is starting a new school in a couple of weeks, as his parents didn't like the last one he attended. This school has a great reputation, so we're hopeful. I am not looking forward, however, to the back-to-school picnic. Whoever designs these events obviously does not have a blended family (I hate that term but haven't found a better one). It's awkward, to say the least, to be there as a stepmom and with my stepson's mom there. She's not evil--not at all--but it's still weird for all of us. And, it's my last weekend of summer vacation--why do they have to ruin that by scheduling a school activity? Plus, add in all of my social anxiety about stupid small talk with other parents and I'm apt to have a wonderful time. I abhor small talk with people I will probably never see again, and I just don't delight in all the baseless compliments that people throw around about each others' kids. I'm not conditioned that way, and my ego doesn't need to know how cute or smart my stepson is because he's not my kid. I'm not saying this in a mean way--just a matter of fact one. But, I will go and smile and be cordial, because that's what I do to support my husband and stepson (as if my stepson even cares that I'm there). At least there will probably be some good people watching, and you never know, some of them could end up in my next blog!

Who is the Adult Here?

Today's got me feeling a little like girlfriend above.

It's been a while since I wrote about stepmom issues, but today, one definitely came up. There's something about being a stepparent that makes me doubt myself and feel ashamed from time to time. Today was one of those days. For the stupidest reason, I got jealous today of my stepson. I'm embarrassed to even write it, but confessing will probably make me feel better. Maybe. Here goes:

I'm jealous because my husband is taking my stepson to Six Flags Hurricane Harbor tomorrow. Do I like theme parks? Hell, no. Do I enjoy water parks? Absolutely not. So, why am I jealous? It's fairly transparent to me that I am jealous of the time that my husband will be spending with my stepson, and, I'm angry because I will be stuck at home all day. I don't have clearance to drive yet since my knee surgery, and the only place within walking distance that I could actually make it to without killing myself is the grocery store, Ralph's. It would be weird for not only me, but the store clerks as well, if I hung out at Ralph's for longer than an hour. Oh, I could do it, though. I could spend at least 45 minutes smelling those delicious Paula Deen candles. That broad can really make some sweet scented wax! Or, I could stay home and watch QVC or HSN. When you're stranded at home for weeks on end, it's amazing what you'll force yourself to watch. Anyone seen "Quacker Factory"? Jeanne Bice is pure glamor in her fetching holiday sweaters. Don't believe me? Check this out: http://www.quackercruise.com/Home_Page_Quacker_Cruise_and_Vacations.html

You know you're booking that cruise with me.

I've also cleared my calendar for Monday, August 16, to watch Marie Osmond's 19th Anniversary Doll Show on QVC. If you haven't been sufficiently creeped out lately, look at these:

How do you feel now? Would you feel better or worse if I told you that boy doll is named 'Donny'? Because it is. You, too, can have your very own "Baby Donny Little Bit Rock n Roll" for only $99.95. I'm not kidding.

In the meantime, while waiting patiently for Marie Osmond's anniversary, I will find some way of getting over my jealousy. I huffed a little and tried to explain this to my husband, but I don't want to be a total baby. It's just that he is so busy all the time--working, training for a triathlon, planning stuff for his son--that at times I feel overlooked. The times I get to spend with him are usually wedged between all the other obligations, but the kid gets a whole planned day of fun without interruptions. I know--he's the kid and that's what parents do. I'll get over it eventually.

I Miss Iowa?

My husband had to go out of town for five days for a physics conference (fun!), and since I'm still laid up with my bum knee, I had to stay home. That was a bummer, because the conference was in Portland--a city I haven't been to yet but desperately want to visit. So many of my friends and family members have told me they think I'd love Portland--especially since many neighborhoods there maintain the vibrant mid-century modern architectural style that I love. So, since I couldn't go along, my mom and aunt decided to come to L.A. to keep me company and take me to my appointments. I still have to go to physical therapy twice a week, and there are many doctors appointments, too. I can't drive, and they thought it would be fun to chauffeur me around and get a mini California vacation.

It was so much fun seeing them. My aunt had never seen our new place, so it was fun showing her the "urban" life of Culver City--like the egret, blue heron, and cormorant that live in my backyard. It's like living in the wetlands--not the second largest city in the country. More like "A River Runs Through It" than "Boyz in the Hood." One of the best things about seeing my mom and aunt is that they love to shop, so they'll take me anywhere I want as long as there is something to buy. I'm not kidding that they shopped the gift shop at the carwash. Yes, the carwashes here have gift shops--and good ones, too, I might add. And, for some reason (and I'm not complaining here), they always want to buy me things. I scored a very cool pink polka-dotted dress (that my husband said looked like something Betty Draper would wear), a Marc Jacobs handbag and matching laptop case (!!!!!), a pair of sensible shoes (comfort shoes are still killing my fashion pride), and many dinners out. In addition, we stayed up late watching old movies (Gidget--Sandra Dee!), gossiping, laughing...just having a good time. And then they left.

I don't know what happened, but their departure was rough on me. I cried several times yesterday like a baby, and it's hard to understand why. It's always been hard for me when leaving Iowa to come back to L.A., and I'll get a little teary on the plane, but usually after several days of guests, I'm ready to have my place back to myself. Not so yesterday. And, all day today, I've had this hollow, empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I miss my family and I miss Iowa. I start thinking that maybe being so far away from my family is a mistake, and that someday when they're gone, I'll regret that I moved so far away. Maybe this is just a part of growing older. Luckily, my friend Sara called to be my "Robo Wake-Up Call." She reminded me that there was nothing left for me in Waterloo, Iowa. That's probably true, but I still miss it. I don't look down on anyone who lives in Iowa--in fact, I'm jealous. I love the cold and snow. I love the heat, humidity, the storms. I miss the lightning bugs, being able to find a parking space at Target, and the way the stars look in the country--far from the city lights. Sara said she feels the same way after her family leaves--she's from Des Moines, so she knows the midwest, too. But, at the same time, she has her sister living in Phoenix, so she always has some family around. I'm an only child, and the closest things I have to siblings--my cousins--all live in Iowa with their families. I'm sad that I only get to see them a couple of times a year.

As with all homesickness, it will fade with time, I'm sure. That's one of the hard things about visiting family--whether here or there. It's so much fun while it's happening, but the withdrawal can be brutal. It's also hard to go from days packed with activities to being back in bed, staring at the TV.

I realize I need some kind of change. I feel down and unattractive in this stupid leg cage, so I'll do one of the few things I can think of right now as a pick-me-up. I'm going to blonde myself tomorrow. Something to feel like I've seen at least a peek of the summer sun.

How to Push My Buttons--Literally and Figuratively

A couple of things that crossed my mind today that I thought were funny. Sorry if you don't, but I'm going to write about them anyways.

First of all, I've been taking a lot of elevators lately, since it takes so long to walk upstairs in this leg brace that I call "the cage." (I think I'll call it 'Nick' for short). Usually, I'm not the only person waiting for the elevator, especially since I'm just going to physical therapy or the doctor with other incapacitated persons. But, what is it with people pushing the elevator buttons dozens of times? Once is enough. It's not like the elevator has a brain and thinks, "Oh, wow! 17 people have pushed the button on that floor. I'd better hurry, or I'll have a shit storm of angry patrons. They'll never ride me again, and I'll lose my job...won't be able to feed my family. I'd better haul ass now!!" The same goes for hitting the button to get the walk sign. People--the lights are timed. You're just telling it to include the walk sign once it changes.

Second, I think it's great that many people still write thank you notes. I'm all for manners, and thank you notes are pretty old school, so I don't really care if someone just gives me a heartfelt verbal thank you on the spot or later. Even an email will do. Now, I shouldn't complain about getting a thank you note in the mail, but I'm going to, because I have a friend that I believe sends me a thank you note for a gift before I've even left her home. I have seriously received the thank you note the next day in the mail, and in a city like Los Angeles, that either means she's Johnny-on-the-Spot Extreme or she's creeping up to my mailbox in the middle of the night, but since my home alarm hasn't gone off, I'll assume it's the former. Why would this bug me? Well, when I get a thank you note immediately after giving a gift, it feels so perfunctory-- like a formality that must be gotten out of the way. It's like my friend is a Stepford Wife who just uploads niceties from her brain into an envelope the second I've left her porch. Wait a few days. Make me wonder. Think of me as that guy you like but don't want to call right away after the first date, lest you seem too eager...desperate. Or, at least make me think that you're so enthralled by the perfume, book, guitar, lite brite, or gold-panning kit I've given you that you just couldn't tear yourself away to write that thank you for a couple of days. But don't wait more than a week, because that's just rude.

Isn't it Cool When Things Turn Out the Way You Want?

I sure think so. I guess I'm a tough customer, because it doesn't happen very much. My expectations are always too high. With a job and homelife about as unpredictable as Lindsay Lohan, I like it when things turn out the way they're supposed to--according to my brain. I'm referring to the picture here of my living room.

This is some art work that my husband and I created last week. We bought the shapes several months ago and planned what we wanted, but we didn't have a good block of time to put it all together until last week. My husband spray painted each one, we measured out the grid on the wall with string, and voila! I love being married to an engineer, because you know that everything will by leveled, measured, and calculated to the max. We were both very happy with how it turned out. We've been in the process of turning our 1970s place into a more mid-century modern kind of place. We have huge walls to fill, and we didn't want to spend a fortune, so we chose our own "do-it-yourself" project. To me, it's perfect!

Since I've been laid up in bed lately, I've been reading a lot. I just finished an interesting book called Furious Love: Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, and the Marriage of the Century. At first I thought their marriage was so romantic, but as I kept reading, I realized it was just a horrible case of co-dependency. Seriously, that book just made me want to drink Jack Daniels and pick incredible fights with my husband, because that's what I was reading about all day long. Wow, those two had some blowouts! Still, it was a fascinating read.

A few of my friends from college have new books out that I'm excited to recommend. Julia Story's new book of poetry, Post Moxie, has been garnering praise and multiple award since its recent publication. The book is hauntingly gorgeous. Marc Rahe has a new book of poetry called The Smaller Half, and it, too, is full of surprises and beauty. Both of these talented poets have been writing for a long time and know how to craft some of the most interesting contemporary poetry I've read in a long time. Another friend from college, Joshua Ferris, was recently named to the New Yorker's Twenty Under Forty for his fiction. His first novel, And Then We Came to the End, was a National Book Award finalist, and Stephen King just named his second novel, The Unnamed, as one of the summer's must-reads. How did he do that? He was always talented, but I actually remember him complimenting me on my writing back in the day. Where's my Pulitzer?!

More Boring Summer Stuff

It is now two weeks since my surgery, and things are going well. I've learned I have a high pain tolerance, which means I don't have to take those nasty narcotics. I can see how people get hooked on them, because they gave me a euphoric feeling, but the nausea, headaches, and dizziness just couldn't make up for a short period of bliss. I have now gone to two physical therapy sessions, which, sadly, I look forward to--it's one of my few outings. Today, my husband asked me why I was putting on makeup and jewelry for therapy. I guess it's to trick myself into thinking that I'm going to a social event. I even wish I was back to work sometimes, and as a teacher, summers off are one of our few perks.

My stepson will be leaving on Sunday for two weeks with his mother. It will be weird to have him gone so long. Some of my stepmother friends have told me they feel sorry for me because we have 50/50 custody, but I actually see it as a benefit. If he were only here every other weekend or during the summer, it would feel more like an intrusion on our home life. But, knowing that he's coming over regularly has forced me to prepare and accept that this is a huge part of my life. On the other hand, it also never lets me get too comfortable in either situation--as just a newly married couple or as a "family." I'm not sure what it will be like to have two weeks without seeing my stepson. My husband will be gone for work during most of one of the weeks, but my family is visiting from Iowa--probably just to make sure I don't fall in the shower and break my neck.

I've really felt for my husband lately, because while I think the role of a childless stepmom is hard, I think his role as the father is often harder. He has so many people to please and negotiate with--me, his son, his ex-wife, his mother and father. We all demand things from him. This doesn't even count the rigors and expectations of his work. He hardly has any time left for himself, and sometimes I feel bad for not stepping in to relieve him of his parenting duties. Sure, I'll look after my stepson--I'm not a total cold fish--but I have chosen not to be a parent myself, and I know I don't have to be a parent to my stepson. He's already got two parents. I try to help when I can, but I don't overstep my boundaries, and I'm thankful that my husband doesn't expect me to be a mother, maid, or babysitter. I would go crazy if he did.

Now on to the good stuff--I've been watching "The Hills." There. I said it. Now I feel better for getting this off my chest. A couple of months ago, I turned it on while I was cleaning, as it was the only thing half-interesting on. I like to watch the news, but only Fox was showing actual news. I'm too sick of those "To Catch a Predator" on MSNBC, and the local news is just chicks with huge boobs doing the weather. There's no way I was going to watch Fox, so I watched "The Hills." Those kids are crazy! My favorite part is partying vicariously through Brody Jenner, even though he is King Douche. No, Prince Douche, because Spencer is the King. I'd seen all of season 5 and 6, so the past week, I've been watching the earlier seasons online. I'm hooked. My husband makes fun of me, and I know it's stupid, mindless pop culture crap, but what's wrong with that every once in a while? Shoot, if Ken Burns would've documented this, it would've been labeled a masterpiece. So, I'm going to watch away, because the series finale is so close. What will I do without my "friends"?

Some Recent Pictures

I used to wear these shoes.

But now I have to wear these....

Why? Because of this: (Warning to the squeamish)

This is my knee one week after my MPFL reconstructive surgery. Isn't it beautiful? It actually doesn't hurt that much, and believe it or not, the scars will probably not look as bad as the one on my left knee pictured above. That scar was acquired when I was just 17 years old. I'm thinking about getting a tattoo of a zipper on that one. That would crack me up. Next Wednesday, I get the sutures removed, but I have to wear the huge brace for at least five more weeks. Oh, you wanna see that? Here it is:

Doesn't it look so comfortable??

Luckily, I have these to keep me company and make me laugh:

Bump Alert!

I've been talking to some of my childless stepmom friends online and asked them what phrases or words from parenthood irritate them the most. Here are a few of mine:

1. Playdate: I've mentioned this in previous posts. Since when did it become a date? It's worse when I hear kids say it, as if they are savvy enough to be scheduling social events on their calendars. Maybe they should have a special Toddlers/Kids section on match.com to set up these affairs. It's a date!

2. Mommy Brain: Um, no. Lazy, forgetful--yes. (Okay, not always, but come on. Another way to use your parenthood as an excuse).

3. Bump: It's not a bump when you're pregnant. Bumps are like bruises you get when you fall down. On second thought... It's gross when celebrity magazines or entertainment news shows have a section on "Bump Alerts" or "Bump Watch," as if it's a national security issue. Does it raise the security level to orange? Pink? Blue?

Recovery Continues

I am now on day 5 post-op and I feel swell. Swollen, actually, but I do feel fine. I stopped taking the percoset on day 3, as I just couldn't handle the nausea, dizziness, and headaches. My body was starting to adjust, but I didn't like even the slight effects or the sleeping all day. The worst part was that I wanted to read, but I couldn't because I felt seasick just when looking at the page. So, I stopped and haven't taken anything since Friday. I feel great--hardly any pain at all. I even went for a little walk today out to our "lake," and it is a weird thing to see a blue heron, white egret, and cormorant in urban Los Angeles. Cool, though.

The hard part about the last five days is that my stepson has been here most of the time, and he really has no concept of sharing time or that someone who has just had major surgery needs some quiet and attention. He has demanded most of my husband's time, and it's frustrating. It's not that I really need my husband--I've actually been pretty self-sufficient, even making my own breakfast and watering the plants--but sometimes when you're in pain or nervous, you just want someone there to wait it out with you. I feel like a slug who's strapped to the bed. I can't really do much and I can't drive to escape anywhere. I get fed at my "feeding times," but I have to wait until stepson goes to bed before I get much attention from my husband. They went swimming, to the movies, to tae kwon do, have played games, and I'm just sitting in the bedroom with my leg elevated and iced, watching "The Hills." Again. And then, BM had to call and monopolize DH's time to talk about schedules so he didn't hear me call for help to get to the bathroom. Arrgh. Even when I need some help, it's tough to get it.

SS will go to BM's for the next couple of days, then back here for two days before we have the weekend to ourselves. Then, next week--no camps and we have SS all week long. This could be very tough on my nerves and attitude.

MPFL Reconstruction

Yes, it's been a long time. The end of the school year is always rough for me. This year, it was awful for a smorgasbord of reasons. First, I received an email in mid May from my school district saying that the academy at my school (for which I am the lead teacher) needed to spend $67,000 by June 1. WT**?!  We were told that our grant money for the year was gone, but someone made a mistake at the district and we did have money--a lot of it. So, I ordered my heart out--computers, document cameras, photocopiers, books, LCD projectors, and more. But the end of the year is stressful, and this was just one worry I didn't need on my plate this year. Normally, I would have a coordinator to help me, but she's been out on maternity leave, so I had to do it all myself.

Second, I had a lot of paperwork to figure for my academy's grant for next year, I had to line up a student teacher for next year, and worry about my paycheck, because we have five furlough days this year and seven next year! My check was $700 shorter than normal last month. Ouch.

Let's see...I also got a new position which will start in the fall. I will only teach two classes, and the rest of the day I will be my school's testing coordinator. I'm looking forward to that challenge, and although I know I'll miss not having as many students, I will not miss having fewer papers to grade. With 40+ kid to a class (and 5 classes per day), it was becoming so hard to keep up with grading. This will be a relief. I may actually get to be the kind of teacher I want to be when only teaching two classes.

Finally, I had surgery--today. I had an MPFL (Medial Patellar Femoral Ligament) Reconstruction. Basically, my own hamstring was used to create a new ligament in my knee. I will describe the surgery more later, as I'm running out of steam right now and drugged out on Percoset. I want to use this blog as a journal to update my progress, as I know there isn't a lot out there about the surgery and peoples' experiences with it. I know because I looked for them!

So, today, I'm hanging in there and hoping to get back on the computer tomorrow!

I Did It All for the Nook(ie)

I haven't written in a long while. Maybe because I don't essentially writing to myself and posting it for (mainly) myself to read. I know there are a few of you readers out there (I thank and love you), but mostly, it's just me. So, I took a little break to heal up the knee and I'm almost as good as new.

On June 23, just two days after school is out (yes--two whole days of summer fun for me!), I'm having an MPFL reconstruction. That stands for Medial Patellar Femoral Ligament recontstruction. Basically, I have no groove for my kneecap to sit in. It's flat, which allows for my patella to freely travel to the outside of my knee (ouch) as it did in December. It is beyond physical therapy, as there really isn't any therapy for bone deformations. So, I'm having the ligament that I tore reconstructed so it will (hopefully) keep my kneecap better anchored. The reconstruction comes with an interesting option--I can choose to use my own tissue for the reconstruction, which would be taken from my hamstring, or, I can opt for donor tissue from a cadaver. My stepson thinks that "dead guy" tissue would be cool, because then I would be like a zombie. It is less painful to use the donor tissue, but there is the minimal risk of tissue rejection, too. Choices, choices...

Now, on to the subject line for this blog...the Nook. My husband is so cool that he bought me a Barnes and Noble Nook eReader so I'll have many reading options when I'm stuck in bed this summer. I will admit that when eReaders debuted, I resisted. I sneered. I guffawed. "No way will I give up my paper books! I love paper and I need to feel it and smell it and carry it with me." Well, I got over that--quickly. One thing I love more than paper is the ability to read several things at one time. I like to be reading about 2 or 3 books, a couple of magazines, and a newspaper. And, this is the true beauty of the Nook. I can flip from one to another in seconds. When I want to buy a book, I can have it in 30 seconds. I can even download a 15-30 page sample of the book before I buy it. I can read for one hour a day from any eBook at a Barnes and Noble location. There is a built-in dictionary, a function for highlighting and taking notes, and a web browser. On top of all that, there are super-cute covers and accessories. I love to accessorize, especially when it's a Jonathan Adler designed Nook cover. Ahhhh....

So, if you'd grappled with the decision of whether or not to sell your book and paper-loving soul to an eReader, I say go for it. My bet is it will only take a few minutes to convert you. And although I still love my traditional books, I have actually read more in the past month than I have in a long time, in thanks to the Nook. When someone recently gave me a hardcover copy of Kathryn Stockett's The Help, I even replied, "Oh, thanks, but I'm going to get it on my Nook." And I did--in approximately 15 seconds.

****By the way, if you've got any suggestions for books or movies about people laid up in bed or with injured legs, I'd love to hear them. My goal is to read and watch as many as I can to make the most out of this surgery. Current suggestions:
Rear Window
Misery
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
My Left Foot

Please No Baby for Carrie Bradshaw!

I was a latecomer to Sex and the City. In fact, I had always looked down my nose at it. I love fashion, guys, and girlfriends, but from what I'd heard, the series just seemed so...vapid. That was until I got divorced and the show became my best friend. My mother rescued me by buying me the whole series, all packaged in a pink velvet box, and I managed to watch all six seasons over the course of four days. Pathetic? Definitely. Useful? Yes. I had just moved into my own place after a seven year marriage, and there wasn't a lot of fun or humor in my life. After watching the first few episodes, I was hooked. I laughed and actually got excited about being a single gal again. I dusted myself off, got a few cute outfits and new pairs of shoes, and got back in the game.

When the movie came out, I was worried. It looked corny, and it was. My new and fabulous boyfriend (who's now my husband) sweetly agreed to see it on opening night after a friend bailed out. How could I not go see my "friends" on opening night after a three year absence? I think he was the only man there, but he endured this girl-fest like a trooper. I am embarrassed to admit it, but my eyes actually teared up when I heard the opening theme song. It brought back so many memories--good and bad--but I needed to see what would happen, especially to my favorite character, Carrie Bradshaw.

Did you know there are quizzes online that you can take to find out which Sex and the City character you "are"? I suspect that most women who would take this kind of quiz think they're Carrie, and once the quizzes start, it's fairly easy to skew the results. "Would rather buy Manolos than groceries." Or "Always picks the wrong guy over and over again." Or "Loves to take fashion risks." See where it's going? Well, yes, I took the quiz, and, yes, I was Carrie. I definitely identify with Carrie--a whimsical, funny, goofy fashionista (god, I hate that word) who has the ability to laugh at herself. But, as even my husband pointed out (come on--I had to share the results with someone!), I have a healthy dose of Miranda in me, too--Carrie's analytical, terrifically sarcastic and skeptical friend. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out why the whole Sex and the City formula works--because every woman has a little bit of each of the four characters inside of them. Duh. That sounded like a commercial for the show.

This May, a sequel to the Sex and the City movie will be released, and what has me worried (other than the trailers where the cast seems to be partying fashionably in the mid-East) is that some spoilers *****WARNING, DANGER, Will Robinson!**** say that Carrie will find out she's pregnant. Noooooo!!! Please say it's not true! Not that I have anything against mothers, but as a childless woman, I've always liked it when TV characters like Bradshaw buck tradition. There aren't a whole lot of childess female characters on TV, and I have to admit that I want Carrie to keep living my fantasy--as a sassy writer who can dump however much cash she wants on Christian Dior because she doesn't have diapers to buy or a college fund to start. I want her to stay out late, sans babysitters or nannies. Just because most women have children doesn't mean that this interesting character needs to follow the same predictable path. Let me have my childless Carrie! Sure, you could make the argument that this will make her a dynamic character--one who finally realizes that all those Chanel handbags and Prada dresses were a mark of shallowness. She would finally see that having a career as a writer isn't nearly as important as diaper duty, and that she surely could never have found the meaning of life until she discovered the joys of breastfeeding. Blech. For once, please just leave that to Charlotte.

Are You Prepared?

Living in southern California for the past 10 years has taught me to expect and prepare for earthquakes. Luckily, there hasn't been a huge one since I've lived here, but I'm sure we're bound to get one sooner or later. My fear is that I'll be sleeping, naked and without my glasses, in bed, or I'll be in the middle of a shower when the big one hits. Nakedness and blindness may be, perhaps, even more frightening to me than surfing the earth's crust before wiping out into a sinkhole.

But, events like the ones that happened recently in Haiti and Chile always put me in my Girl Scout "let's get prepared!!" mode. I make sure the disgusting looking beef burrito MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) haven't expired. I double check the batteries in the portable radio. I verify an extra pair of glasses and a stash of cash. Most importantly, I replenish the Vicodin. I say "replenish" because I've probably dug some out from time to time. Even if I'm not hurt in the quake, I'm absolutely certain I'll be needing it. Who wouldn't in a mess like that? It's a must-have in any survival kit.

While updating my survival kit recently, I started to think about why no one has ever invented a "Stepmother's Survival Kit." I need one and I'm going to start preparing one. I'm going to make my list here, and I hope that you all can help me add to the list so I don't miss any important necessities. I want to be a tip-top survivalist!

Stepmother's Survival Kit

• 10+ sets of earplugs


• Unlimited bottles of wine (or hard liquor of choice, depending on how difficult bio mom is)


• An ice pack


• A heating pad


• Tape--to help you keep your mouth shut before you say things you'll regret


• A helmet


• Protective shoes (have you ever stepped on a lego in the middle of the night?!)


• One bottle Vicodin (see above)


• A locker with a good padlock (who would've thought a 4 year-old boy would want a bottle of Pucci Vivara perfume?!)


• Extra furniture (for when the cool stuff you had when you were single gets ruined by melted crayons, markers, scissors)


• An extra pair of glasses (also see above)


• Your mother and best friend's numbers on speed dial


• Thicker skin


• A copy of Izzy Rose's The Package Deal
• An iPod full of power songs to get you through any situation

I Coulda Been a Contender?

It's depressing that I haven't written poetry in a long time. I'm not trying to brag, but I used to be quite good. I started writing it when I was in eighth grade, and the craft eventually overtook my life until I graduated from college. Then, I slowly withdrew.

Back at Iowa, I was accepted into the Undergraduate Writers' Workshop in Poetry several times, and I made some of the most lasting memories there. I met many of my heroes of contemporary poetry, and created some work of which I'm still proud. Two of my favorite professors told me they thought I had some talent and encouraged me to apply to the graduate workshop. I knew that the chances of getting in there were slim, even though I knew much of the faculty, but with writers I admired urging me to go for it, I did. I was rejected. I never re-applied or sought acceptance into any other graduate creative writing program.

Sure, I continued to write poetry, and I even had a great group of writing friends in Des Moines who constantly inspired me to keep going. Again, I wrote some of my favorite poems during this post-college phase of my life, but somewhere between the Des Moines of 1999 and L.A. from 2000-present, I just lost my touch or my muse or my words. Whatever you want to call it, that's what I let slip away.

In some ways I'm glad I let it go. Poetry was beginning to consume many aspects of my life. It would come at the oddest moments, and it was hard to explain to a dinner companion or customer at the cosmetics counter why I had to dig around frantically to find a scrap of paper and a pen. Every piece of conversation, every book I read or movie I watched became fodder for poetry, and it was exhausting.

But, lately, the thought of what I've lost has made me sad. I've seen some of my dear friends from the workshop days go on to publish incredible things. Rosemary Griggs wrote a beautiful book of poems, Josh Ferris was a National Book Award finalist for his first novel, and I eagerly await Julia Story's first book of poetry. I actually remember Josh telling me and Julie Story one night at dinner that he thought we were the "stars" of the workshop. Well, they are all stars now, but I'm just burned out.

What is important about poetry to me, though? Sure, I'd like to be published. Who wouldn't like recognition for their creativity? But another part of me remembers that I never started writing poetry to become famous. I started writing because I liked the way the words sounded. I wrote the things that I, myself, would like to read. Where have my words gone? Is it that now I am "settled" that I have nothing more about which to write? I always wrote the best material in periods of heartbreak and depression. Maybe married life and medication have dulled the ache to write. Even when I try, I feel I can't write anymore. I never re-applied to the workshop or applied anywhere else. I have submitted a couple of poems to journals, websites here and there, but the only writing credits I can list are being footnotes in a couple of books about Elvis (thanks, Peter Nazareth) and a credit for comparing John Ashbery to William Carlos Williams in a poetry book (thanks, David Hamilton). I even tried to share my poetry when I was accepted into the UCLA Writing Project a couple of summers ago. While the writing coach had positive, encouraging things to say, the other members often said they just didn't "get" what I was trying to write, so they couldn't give me feedback.

I have observed, too, that the California style of writing is much different than the Iowa style. I remember delving into Robert Creeley, John Ashbery, and Charles Wright with zeal. Here, everything is narrative and multicultural, and a friend and published poet Amy Uyematsu told me that she has observed that it's much easier to get published here if you've got an angle--preferably a multicultural one. She even experienced backlash when her second book of poetry strayed from the Japanese themes of her first book.

I don't know what I'm looking for. My family says that I should write again to help with my feelings of isolation, but without a community, I feel more isolation. I need to figure out first if I even want to write poetry anymore. I mean, just because we used to be good at something doesn't mean we will always be--or even that we have to be.

May the Force Be With Me

My stepson told me last night that I would look "way more like Princess Leia" if:

1. I had two buns on my head.
2. I had on a white suit.
3. I had more freckles.
4. I had a smaller mouth.
5. I had different eyeballs.

and, my favorite:

6. If I had a "way less bigger" nose.

As my friend Chris said, "Show him a picture of Carrie Fisher now--that'll shut him up!" Time for an "Extreme Makeover," I presume.

Me--more Betty Draperish than Princess Leia-ish.

I Can't Fight This Feeling Any More

REO Speedwagon said it best: "I've forgotten what I started fighting for." Man, my job sucks lately. Furlough days, lay-offs, pay cuts, and class size increases seem imminent. I'm teaching classes of 40+ ninth graders, which is enough to bring this ship into the shore and throw away the oars forever. Okay. Enough. I don't even like that band.

I'd like to think that when all this crap is going on at work, that at least your colleagues would have your back. Mine don't. I'm a lead teacher for an academy at our school, and every decision I've made with the coordinator has been criticized by the other academy teachers (who aren't in a leadership position, by the way). A couple of years ago, my friend and I became the co-coordinators of this academy, and we were elected over two "veteran" teachers. So, of course, these two teachers feel free to complain about anything and everything we do, from choosing a meeting day and time to what kind of computers we order to which counselor we choose to replace the old one who's retiring. It never ends. To make things worse, when we "took over" the academy, funds and programs had been mismanaged and neglected, and these other teachers hated the fact that we were trying to clean things up and get back to enforcing the curriculum, grant codes, and rules of the program. They'd become accustomed to doing what they pleased (and giving themselves handsome cash bonuses in the process). So, even though we were doing the "right" thing, we got labeled as the bad guys. Note to self: Whenever one tries to do the "right" and "ethical" thing after others have abused the system, that person will become a pariah. That's me--Pariah Carey.

Now, why I'm whining for myself: My co-coordinator and friend is leaving tomorrow for the rest of the year on maternity leave. She is so excited to get the hell out of there, and I don't blame her. But, this leaves me with no ally--no buffer--between the complainers and me. As if being a teacher at a rough, impoverished inner-city school isn't enough, now I'm going to be even more isolated than before. Luckily, the other teachers at the school know that the other academy members are *dare I say* crazy. But, I don't have to work with those sane teachers on a daily basis--I get to work with the loopy ones. Oh, help me.

Hurry Up, Please! It's Time!

T.S. Eliot said that April is the cruellest month, but I'm certain it's February. The weather, regardless of locale, is craptastic, and as a teacher, I'm living for Spring Break. This year, it doesn't happen to be until the first week of April, which, to me, means that February lasts now until the first week of April. There's just nothing interesting about March. I prefer to skip it altogether.

Lately I've been watching entirely too much T.V. It's embarrassing. I've always been a reader, and although I've never been one to shun T.V. (oh, how I love my pop culture), I don't think I've ever watched as much in my life as I have during the last two months. Much of this has to do with my immobility from my knee injury, but when I find myself singing the "lapband song" in the shower, I know I've got a problem. Big time. "Let your new life begin, call 1-800-GET-SLIM..." or, is it "THIN"?

One T.V. show has me thinking about stepmotherhood recently, though--"The Bachelor." This is the first season I've actually watched it, and I'm so impatient that I read all the spoilers online after I watched the first episode. Of course I told my mother everything that I'd read would happen, and now she marvels at my "insider knowledge" as every detail I reported has come true so far. Want to know who wins?

What bothers me about "The Bachelor" is the way that the show involves the children of the contestants (is that what they're called?!) in this inane process of finding a mate. It's fine if you're a single childless guy or gal, but if you've got kids, why in the world would you want to parade them in front of the cameras for the world to see? And, is it a sound idea to tote your tot along on a date with someone you might never see again? In this season, one of the women had an eight-year-old son who actually sent a toy airplane along with his mother to give to the bachelor (who is a pilot). When the lady gave it to the bachelor, she mentioned that her son couldn't wait to meet him someday and hopes that his mom finds love. Puke. To make things worse, the lady actually brings her kid along on a date to Sea World with the bachelor, who sends her packing after the next episode.

Is it me or it that just wrong? I didn't even meet my stepson until after about six or seven months of dating my now-husband. We waited until we knew that things were stable and serious between us until I began forming a relationship with his son. I can understand if the child was a little older, maybe, but it just seems wrong to get a kid's hope up--let him meet this cool guy that takes him and his mommy to Sea World and then never sees them again. Did I mention that this kid's dad had died in a plane crash?

Then, I found it revolting that another contestant, Rozlyn (kicked off the show for an 'inappropriate relationship' with a staffer), had a kid who she kept secret from the bachelor. According to the spoilers, she was told to keep it quiet, so I don't know if she chose to hide it or not. Regardless, when someone is meeting and dating a potential spouse, that person deserves to know that the other has a child. Any of us stepmoms know what kind of baggage comes along with a stepkid. People need to know up front what they may be getting into, as entering stepmotherhood or stepfatherhood is no joke. It takes patience, understanding, and the ability to keep your mouth shut from time-to-time. From my conversations with dozens of stepmoms, many have said that they don't know if they'd ever even gotten involved with their significant others if they knew what being a stepmom actually entailed. Can you imagine if you didn't even know until after you'd fallen for someone? Some people may say it wouldn't matter--love conquers all...blah...blah...blah...Wrong. It does matter. And you'd better be darn well sure you're the type of person who likes an E-ticket roller coaster ride.

Finally, this brings me to the bachelor last season (Did I say I'd never watched it before this season? Oops!), Jason. How can you forget his proposal to Melissa, which he took back in order to swap her for Molly? Imagine what his kid went through. "Hey, Ty, remember Melissa? The woman I told you and the whole television world that I would marry? Well, Daddy changed his mind. Here's your new stepmommy--Molly!" And, I love how the show just completely skipped over the fact that Jason doesn't just come with the baggage of a kid, but with a bio-mom, too. Where was she? The producers of the show should've hauled her in, the future in-laws, any shared friends he had with his ex, about twenty of the little kid's friends, and a therapist, because all of those people are about to enter her life, too. But, no. This "reality" is all for show. Welcome to "The Wasteland."

Now I'm completely embarrassed that not only do I remember last season's charmer, Jason, but also the name of his son. At least I got in three references to T.S. Eliot, though, for counterbalance. Whew! Brain saved--at least for today.

Rainy Day Ramblings

I haven't seen my stepson for the past five days. That's the way our shared custody works--five days on, two days off. Then, two days on, five days off. It's such a weird dichotomy to feel like a carefree newlywed couple for five days and then be completely kid-centric for the next five. As someone who doesn't want kids herself, it's always a tough adjustment. It's not that I don't like my stepson; it's just that I don't always enjoy all the trappings of pseudo-motherhood. And, compared to many of my stepmom peers, I have it easy. But, after five days of quiet relaxation and a clean home, I struggle with the opposite end of the spectrum. I'm sure many people enjoy the sound of "Spongebob" or endless car motor/bomb/rocket noises, but I prefer the quiet. After five days of working in a school, I need some silence. I'm a "calm activities" kind of gal. I love to read, listen to music, watch movies, take long nightly baths, go for walks. I'm solitary, a touch of a neat freak, and quixotic, which I believe, makes me a horrible candidate for motherhood. At least I figured this out before I popped out a few kids.

On the weekends and weeknights when we don't have stepson, we try to do things that are more difficult when he's here. For example, we'll grocery shop, go to the movies, and have a few nice dinners out. I watch TV and play music as loud as I want (a treat). I get to sleep in past 6 A.M., and I don't have to worry about whether or not everyone's going to like what's for dinner. And, I try to take advantage of one of the biggest things I miss about our childfree days--my ability to walk around naked or partially clothed. I'm no nudist or exhibitionist, but with a female-body crazed six year-old wandering around, I feel the need to cover all bare skin at all times.

It bothers me when people assume that I don't like kids or think that I'm selfish because I don't want children. Yes, I have some selfish tendencies (see above), but how can someone who's selfish and hates children be an effective public high school English teacher for the past ten years? I know that every school has those old hag teachers who never smile and are waiting to either die or retire, but I'm not one of them. I love my job, and the kids like me. I have oodles of affection and concern for them, and I spend every minute of my work days, from 7:45-3:15 with the nearly 200 kids I teach, for very little pay. I've won teaching awards and (sorry to brag here) have been named more than once as one of Los Angeles' most inspiring teachers. I would hardly say this describes someone full of selfishness and hatred.

I do love kids, but, I love myself more. I love that I know myself well enough to know that I would feel lost and depressed in the role of "mommy." I admire those who can do it, but with the stress and anxiety I put myself through on a daily basis, I know I couldn't be both a good mom and teacher. I know my career would suffer, and to me, being a teacher is who I am. I don't want to sacrifice my career, where I feel I make a difference in the lives of students. They would most definitely suffer if I became a mother, as I wouldn't have the time and energy necessary to be an effective teacher. Right now, I need to stay who I am.

And, now, for more important things: "Jersey Shore" and Heidi Montag. Okay, I live in L.A., so, of course, I get sucked into the entertainment machine. I'm embarrassed to admit that I was pulled into the black hole called "Jersey Shore." I'd heard so much about this mindless show, that I had to watch an episode or six this past weekend. I'll admit that I like reality TV as a mindless escape. I'll take a Kardashian or a bachelor or a Hugh Hefner centerfold or a slut from Staten Island any day. Real people (although edited and altered for TV) are so interesting to me. If you haven't been able to watch this gem, I highly recommend it, if only to see an idiot who actually nicknamed himself "The Situation."

Heidi Montag: I was never one to follow "The Hills," but her face has been plastered all over TV and magazines for a couple of years. Have you seen her lately? Whoa! She had 10 plastic surgery procedures done in one day, and she looks nothing like she did a year ago. I know this is round 2 of plastic surgery for her, but I thought she looked good after the first bout--like a subtly improved version of herself. But, now...she looks absolutely plastic. It's gross. Take a look: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/01/14/heidi-montags-10-plastic_n_423855.html

I'm a vain person. I spend ample amounts of time and money on my hair, cosmetics, clothes, anti-aging products, and I am not against cosmetic surgery to approve one's appearance. But, after seeing a parade of photos lately of stars who have gone under the knife, I've changed my mind. Seldom do these people look better--they just look scary. Look at Priscilla Presley, Kenny Rogers, Courtney Love. Reel in horror at pictures of Joan Van Ark (remember her?!) Be sure to scroll all the way down. http://plasticsergeant.com/celebrity/joan-van-ark-face I personally think that even Madonna looks freakish these days, although I've debated this much with my friend who thinks she looks great. I want to stay fresh and young looking, too, but I don't want to look grotesque, and I thank all these stars for paving the way for people like me who are too vain to risk looking like these ghouls. I'm going to attempt to age gracefully and see what time deals me.

The T-Shirt I Can't Forget

Some of you know that I've taught English at an inner-city L.A. high school for the past nine years. At times it can be heartbreaking. I've seen a student shot to death in the faculty parking lot, and I've had students couldn't do their homework because they were evicted from their homes and had nowhere to live. Fights have broken out in my classroom on occasion, once a kid tried to light himself on fire in my class, and a girl pushed me in the student bathroom and called me "Retard" when I caught her smoking pot. Good times.

On the other hand, I've had some brilliant honors students, who exceed my expectations and write incredibly detailed and creative essays, stories, and poems. I've been amazed at the resilience of a student with a brain tumor, and in awe of the student who missed my class weekly to endure blood transfusions and never missed an assignment. In fact, she finished with the highest grade in the class. I truly do enjoy my job, even though it can be trying.

Today was one of those days, though, when I was taken aback by a t-shirt a student was wearing. As a veteran teacher, it takes a lot to leave me surprised or speechless. I usually have a "bag of tricks" for dealing with undesirable behavior, but I was a tad thrown off guard today. During my fourth period class, one of the quietest, shyest, sweetest students was wearing a t-shirt I don't think I can put out of my mind. I couldn't believe he was wearing it, and all I could think of was that maybe his house caught on fire last night and this was the only shirt he managed to save. The funny thing is that I didn't even notice the shirt until the bell rang and he got up to walk out, even though I recently moved his seat near the front.

This timid, soft-spoken model student's shirt said:

Beaner With a Huge Weiner.

Just in case you live somewhere that lacks diversity or racism, "beaner" is a deragatory slang term for Mexican. Maybe I was sheltered growing up in nearly all-white Iowa, but I hadn't heard that term until I moved to L.A. So, what did I do? Nothing. I didn't know what to do. Part of me was disturbed that this kid's shirt forced my mind to take a trip somewhere I didn't want to go, but the immature, 16 year-old boy in me found it hard not to laugh. And, we English teachers like us a good rhyme (even though I prefer the spelling "wiener"). It's funny. But, not at school.

I know I should've said something--told him to turn his shirt inside out or sent him to the dean. I know the kid is suffering from a particularly hard break-up with a girl who dumped him. Did I mention that both she and her new boyfriend are also in that class? Sucks to be Mr. Beaner Weiner. Does it make me a bad teacher for letting that go? I don't know. It honestly didn't seem to disrupt anyone but me in the class. There's that saying about choosing your battles, and this just wasn't my choice today.

Later in the teachers' break room, I heard two teachers debating the merits of a school dress code (something our school is considering). One insisted that uniforms didn't help curb bad behavior at all when she taught at an inner-city school in Detroit. She said, "When you tried to report a kid, how could you describe him? Well, Officer, he was wearing a white shirt and blue pants...just like 759 other students at this school." She has a point. I'm fairly confident that anyone would be able to identify "Beaner With a Huge Weiner" if he commits some crime in that shirt at school, and that gives me at least a little comfort.

For your viewing pleasure, I now present:

That's What Friends Are For?

Well, I've kept smilin' and shinin', but Dionne Warwick and Friends are nowhere to be found on my doorstep. Yep, I'll admit it. I'm completely lacking in the friend department. Sure, I have some friends, but I'm missing the kind of friend I've relied on in the past--friends you can call when you want to do something spontaneous, like go shopping or go to the movies or just go for a ride.

First, I live in Los Angeles, which is not a very friend-friendly place. Sure, you'll meet all kinds of people, but they live clear across town and hardly leave their neighborhoods. Or, just when you're starting to like them, they move across town, or, worse yet, they move away from Los Angeles. L.A. is full of transplants--non-L.A. natives who come and go when they don't make it big or land that high-paying executive job. You just have to get used to the ebb and flow of people, and I've lost many friends that way.

The other annoying thing about L.A. people is that either they're flaky people to begin with, or, they develop L.A. flakiness in no time flat. You make plans and they don't call, cancel, don't show up. This has happened to me so many times that I've started deleting these "friends" from my cell phone and facebook. For example, last year, one of my "friends" thought it would be a blast to have a girls night out for the opening night of the "Sex and the City" movie. Great! I was excited. "We could get all dressed up, get a limo and champagne, and after the movie, we could go dancing in Hollywood!" she exclaimed. She asked for help planning the night, and like the good midwestern gal that I am, I dug up some fun party hors d'oeuvres and dusted off my vintage cocktail shaker. Two weeks before the party, I ran into my friend, and she introduced me to her neighbor, who would also be at the party. Cool! Another connection, I thought. The week before the party, I left a message with my friend to ask what she needed help with. She never returned my call. The day before opening night, I wondered what had happened. It must've been something bad, right? Had she fallen and couldn't get up? I called and got her voicemail, but opted not to leave a message. Luckily for me, I have a sweet and wonderful husband who stepped up and braved the estrogen-laced theater with me on opening night. I am forever grateful and mention it frequently as something for which I still owe him.

I wish this had been the only time this friend had stood me up. It's confusing, because she's also been there for me during some incredibly trying times in my life. When I separated from my first husband, she brought Thai food and ate it with me in bed (as I couldn't find the strength to change out of my pajamas for weeks). She helped me move out of the home I shared with my ex, and she even got me a couple of sweet television and music video appearances. But, again, about six months ago she invited me to see a concert with her, but I never heard back after the initial invitation. I texted her about two months ago, asking her if she could get together over the weekend. I heard nothing until Sunday night, when she texted, "Had a great time with you guys on Friday night! Love you!" Then, five minutes later, "Oops! Sorry. That was meant for my other friend." Oh. Okay. And, just last week, it happened again. "Merry Christmas! Love you guys!! Can't wait to see you on New Year's Eve!" I assume it was for the same friend, whose name is different from mine by one letter, and therefore, must be right next to mine in her cell phone.

Have I done something wrong? I don't know. I've really thought about it. Maybe I'm no fun anymore since I became a stepmom. Maybe I talk too much and don't listen enough. Maybe I seem to desperate for friendship. Maybe...maybe...maybe...but I know I'm a fun person. I'm honest and friend-worthy, but I can't find a girlfriend to save my life. And, we stepmoms need them sometimes. Sometimes we just need to get out of the house and need a friendly face as refuge. Maybe my "friends" are tired of being my refuge. I just don't know. Another thing is that many of my friends are starting their own lives now, no longer single or childless. Being someone who doesn't want a child, maybe they feel they don't have anything in common with me anymore.

So, last week, I deleted the above mentioned "friend" from my cell phone. It was a big step for me, as I've never had a friend just drop out of my life. There have been long periods of time where we didn't see one another, and then we'd get together and it'd feel like we'd never been apart. Maybe that was my problem--accepting that from the beginning. I guess we really do teach people how to treat us, and maybe that's one of my biggest mistakes on the friendship path so far.

SS Finally Says It

I've mentioned earlier in my blog that I've never heard my stepson actually call me his stepmom before. When kids or adults have referred to me as his mom in front of him, he adamantly sets them straight, each time forcefully saying, "SHE'S NOT MY MOM!" But, there has never been further clarification on who or what I am until yesterday.

When I picked up SS from his winter day camp, the camp counselor said, "M, your mom is here to pick you up." He immediately responded with a gentler, "That's not my mom." And then..."She's my stepmom." Ahh! Music to my ears. A complete outsider no more.

Nothing to Write?

My SS has been on vacation with BM for the past week, so it's been a pretty quiet week here, providing me with little fodder on which to write. DH and I painted and bought some art for our new pad. It's a strange feeling having this sort of Jekyll-Hyde life. Our neighbor (who is married and has two kids) made the comment last week that one of the best parts of being divorced (if something good can come out of it) must be having time "off" from the kids. That can definitely be a plus. As a stepmom, we get the opportunity to test the pseudo-mothering waters, but we also get to have more alone time with our partners than full-time parents. Having joint custody can be a plus, too, as the children don't feel as much like visitors. They're here too often to feel that way. But, it also doesn't allow for that much of a break, and it's difficult to get too comfortable in one situation over the other. But, I guess that's how it's supposed to be. According to research, stepmoms in homes with joint custody usually have an easier time adjusting than those in every-other-weekend or other arrangements.

One weird moment this weekend was when DH read my blog. I hadn't really shown it to him, although I'd often share bits and pieces or describe a story I'd written. Since being "Ms. December" and a guest blogger on Izzy Rose's website stepmothersmilk.com , though, I showed him some of my "accomplishments." While he laughed and said he found humor and some insight, he also worried about BM reading some of the posts. He encouraged me to keep writing and sharing my thoughts, but he said that if BM ever read them, she might get offended and raise holy hell. So, where do I draw the line? Do I censor my true thoughts in case BM reads this eventually? Or, do I say what I think and deal with the consequences if or when they come? It's a hard decision. I actually went back and edited one recent post, and I think I can find a middle ground here. I'm wondering what other bloggers have found success with. Have their BMs ever read their blogs? What was the outcome? Would you censor your blog just in case BM is a mad-Googler on a rampage?