Pain in Her Bundt

When I was eight years old, I decided that mi madre needed to do things differently. I would tell her,

"When I'm a mom, I'll let my kids eat Lucky Charms. I'll buy a year supply of sugary cereals; we'll never run out of Fruit Loops. Never. Cheerios will be like saying a dirty word."

"When I'm a mom, I'll buy Wonder bread. My kids will never have to gum through whole grain anything. I'll only buy white, refined, and pure--the way bread was born to be bought."

"When I'm a mom, I'll never bake a bundt cake. Kids don't like walnuts coated in cinnamon and sugar, baked into a moist yellow cake mix, topped with powdered sugar. Bundt cakes are for old ladies at tea parties. Kids like store bought Barbie cakes, the kind with a real doll wearing an edible skirt."

My comments collected and returned to haunt me like a self-inflicted curse. My kids have cavities. Always. They can't stand whole grain bread, and they can never get enough fiber in their diets. We have to give them shots of Metamucil before bed. "Who's ready for a fiber party?" mi Amor always calls out each night.

Then, a while ago, my brother made a bundt cake for a family gathering and my kids said,

"Can you bake a cake like Uncle Boosh?"

"I can't. Bundt cakes have rat poison in them."

"That cake was the best cake ever, especially the nuts. Uncle Boosh would never poison us, right, Mom?"

So, last night we made a bundt cake. And while my homegurl and I gathered the ingredients, we talked and talked. Not once did she say, "When I'm a mom..." And I was grateful for her graciousness; I wished I were more like her. Then my thoughts turned to mi madre and how wonderful she was to me, so patient and kind. I quietly thanked Heavenly Father for giving her the strength to not slap me into next week. I was such a pain in her bundt. She'd never admit it, though.

Big Bang

Brittney Spears and I have one thing in common (maybe two). Number one: Our dance moves mystify. Number two: We get rid of our hair whenever the going gets tough. When I'm under any sort of duress, my hair is the first thing to go: lips, brows, underarms, legs, and, of course, the hair on my head. Gone. Gone. Gone.

In college I had decided that I was NEVER getting married. I wasn't the marrying type. Too grouchy. Too headstrong. Too unsure of myself. My emotions wrapped themselves up in a pair of scissors and dared to cut my hair shorter than Spock's, and yes, I looked just like a Romulan, ears and all. Weeks later, I was standing in the doorway laying a wet one on my beloved. When I least expected love, it was there crumbling the Bumble and bumble in my slicked hairdo.

My college haircut has repeated itself, again and again, like a religious ceremony. Each time something big happens: newborn baby, disappointment, new church calling, loss of a loved one, new house, or an empty nest for eight hours a day, the scissors come to do the job.

Like a caterpillar emerging from her cocoon, I leave the bathroom transformed. I'm stronger, ready to grab life by her necklace and get back what I came here for. All the while, I'm cushioned with unbreakable love. I always know, in the back of my mind, the fall will never be hard enough to break what's bolstering me upward.

Why does it take a new set of bangs to remind me that nothing will change more than this life?

Embrace it, chica.

Temple Bubble

I went to the temple tonight, and the session was extra long. The Extra gum I was chomping on kept me alert and interested, so I enjoyed all four hours of being there. But, next time, I'll keep my bubble blowing inside my mouth. It wasn't appropriate and was bordering on irreverence. (I only blew one outside bubble.) A temple worker gave me a crusty, and I should've swallowed my gum like a school girl about to get busted, but I didn't. Next time I'll work it like mi madre and pack some Breath Savers in my pocket. She's so classy.

P.S. Is that photo illegal? Who cares; I need some excitement around here.

Ready, Set, Don't Go!

The three empty holes in my heart: I ripped off Build-A-Bear's idea and stuffed a heart filled with kisses and wishes into each of their pockets.

The napkin my homie refused to pack in his lunch, "I can't read yet," he said.

Even though I can no longer stand the sound of her voice, I've stooped to using the title to one of Miley Cyrus' #1 hit songs: "Ready, Set, Don't Go." I must admit I cried tears of joy when I saw her in concert two years ago. Our seats were so close to the stage, we could almost smell the scent of her baby-powder fresh deodorant. I'm a fickle, fair-weather fan and now realize that she's devoid of any real talent, but her song title suits the mixed feelings I've had while returning my homies back to school.

Since 1998, I've waited for the chance to try on clothes, uninterrupted, in a dressing room without three little soldiers all in a row, faces turned opposite of mine. I've dreamed of having lunch where chicken nuggets and hot dogs are not a menu choice. I've pined for the day when I could rock out to The Smiths without protests from the back row, "This song stinks. We want to listen to the Jonas Brothers!"

Today is that day. It's finally arrived, and I don't know what to do with myself. The options are endless and overwhelming. It's like I'm standing naked on an open stage, my hands cupping only what's necessary; I' m completely unprepared, stagnant, and afraid. Last night I told mi Amor,

"I need to find a job, something with structure, predictability. Then I've got to hide behind it. I no longer have an excuse for inefficiency. People will expect perfection, and I'm expecting even more than that. The pressure is unreal."

He told me to relax, to enjoy it. "Do all the things you've dreamed of doing: Go to the gym. Write a book. Blog until your fingers are numb. Go back to school. Go shopping. Build a closet. Organize. Get your hair done. Paint your nails. Read your scriptures. Go to the temple."

"Where do I begin?" I asked.

I've been crying on and off since last night's father's blessings. I already miss my kids like crazy. I drove home, from dropping them off, in a silenced haze, almost missing the entrance into our neighborhood. No one is here standing next to me, typing gibberish like: 2+6456+2+659 33333662, while I'm trying to blog or answer emails. I am now my one and only distraction, and that realization is making me a sick, nervous wreck. I can't stand being alone with myself; we don't get along.

So now I'm counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until their return. We're going to get frozen yogurt when they get home, and I can't wait. We'll talk about how much I've missed them, and about all the latest drama. I won't tell them how naked and alone I feel without them here. I'll tell them to continue spreading their wings, soaring in this beautiful world of opportunity. Then I'll pray I can do the same.

Glee

This show looks promising. We watched the pilot episode and within the show's first twenty seconds, we were laughing out loud. It took me a minute to get past all the stereotyping, though.

As I'm writing this, my homgurl is telling me that I shouldn't be recommending this show. I guess later on in the episode there's a bum grabbing, make out session (I missed that part). So don't get mad at me for suggesting filth like Glee. Just ignore this post.

Fatboy Slim, I Praise YOU!

Yesterday was extra horrible, mostly because I let my thoughts wander into a dark swamp filled with despair. I was near tears the entire day as I entertained my mind with worry and self doubt: Will my new IUD kill me? Will I die of Melanoma? (I had a mole removed and now have stitches and a black eye.) I was sure of the dying part, so I moved on to grimmer details: Who will be the the new mom when I die? Will she be prettier and have bigger boobs? Will she love my kids better than I love my kids? I bet she won't be such a swamp witch, yelling at these kids like crazy; they really deserve better.

My negativity was rotting my heart, so I said a tinsy prayer, right in the middle of the kitchen floor. I committed to making today a little better and brighter. I said I'd be more grateful for the good things: friends, family, my church calling, and dancing. Thank you, Fatboy Slim. Your dancing made me bust-a-gut.

My life would be better if I had choreographing skills like Spike Jonez. Hold up. I'm not entertaining those kinds of thoughts today. Envy rots my bones. Remember yesterday's swamp of despair? I'm not going back to that place for at least another 2 days.

P.S. Please note the LA temple in the beginning scene. temple attendence+sassy dancing (after you're done with a session., of course) = a joyful soul.

P.P.S. Dr. English just called and said my mole was BENIGN! That's another thing to dance about.