I love Sam!

Here is the only thing that made four hours of back-to-back birthday parties worthwhile on Saturday....

Sam, by the way, is the artist that drew us.  I think he nailed it. 

Take your sense of entitlement and stick it!

I am pouting like a petulant child.

There's something in my life I feel like I have earned, and yet, I've been denied it.

There is really nothing worse than being a grown up and feeling like you've really earned something, be it an increase in a credit limit, a coveted position on the PTA board, a promotion at work, or finally landing the ever popular position of Team Mom for the soccer team, and being denied it based purely on what someone else thinks about what you think.

I won't go into this here, for reasons of personal privacy. But there is something out there I think I deserve. I found out today I didn't get it. And I am not one bit happy about it.  Suffice it to say that I do not agree with the powers that be AT ALL about the reason they gave me for not giving me my golden ring.

In fact, I cried myself home today (and in case you've not been paying attention, I am not a crier). I am giving myself one red snotty faced, crappy assed night to cry over spilled milk, or whatever label you want to give it, and then I'm done with it.

Truth be told, my feelings are hurt.  I felt like I deserved what I thought I had coming. And when it didn't come to me, I felt like my legs had been kicked out from underneath me.

You might want to remind me that superheroes don't cry.  Oh yeah, tell that to my pile of snotty tissues. You might want to remind me that good things come to those who wait. And to that I would say, how damn long does one have to wait?  A month? A school year?  A decade?

So, tonight, I'm pouting like the spoiled entitled little brat that I am. Tomorrow, I will put on my big girl panties and head back into my day.

Screw 'em all I say.  You want a big fat happy face? That's what you'll get. In the meantime, I am gonna have a good cry and most of a bottle of merlot.

Tomorrow is a new day, and I'm sure it will dawn fresh and bright. 

Ever forward, friends.

I'm a dirty, dirty superhero!

From a CNN report...

"As the country was sinking into its worst financial crisis in more than 70 years, Security and Exchange Commission employees and contractors cruised porn sites and viewed sexually explicit pictures using government computers, according to an agency report obtained by CNN...More than half of the workers made between $99,000 and $223,000."

I'm not a particular fan of porn, but I'm not opposed to cruising porn sites all day if I'm bringing home a salary in the low 200s.

Call me!

Smack on the playground used to mean something else entirely

Thank God I'm from Texas! Here, we just worry about handguns....

Third-grader had heroin at Pennsylvania school

by Associated Press

Posted on April 14, 2010 at 3:49 PM

Updated today at 4:12 PM

WILKINSBURG, Pa. — Police near Pittsburgh say they have confirmed that more than 60 small bags a third-grader was handing out to classmates were full of heroin.

The 8-year-old boy brought the bags to Turner Elementary School on Tuesday before a teacher discovered them. Wilkinsburg police said at a news conference Wednesday that some of the bags were found empty in a trash can but there was no evidence any of the kids ingested the drugs.

School officials sent a letter home to parents about the incident.

Police say the bags had the words "trust me" stamped on them and would have a street value of about $1,000.

Police have contacted the boy's parents. The investigation into where the boy got the drugs is continuing.

Ya think??

Left, Left, Left, Right, Left!

Have you been missing me? If so, it's because my left brain buried me.

As my last post said, I've signed up for the 3-day walk, and I have expended a huge amount of mental energy planning and preparing for the task ahead. As a sales person, I'm already pretty focused on chasing the Almighty Dollar. But this is different, and I've had to approach it differently. So I've done all kinds of thinking about what will work, what won't work, and how to raise an inordinate amount of money so I don't have to pay it out of my own pocket. (Click the link to the right if you'd like to help me reach my goal! I'm just saying.)

I also got tapped at work about three weeks ago to assist on another sales team temporarily.  While I know my product inside out, upside down, front and back, I know only a teeny tiny bit about the other product they've asked me to sell. I've been selling for a decade, and I'm pretty good at what I do, but being asked to change horses mid-stream has had me absolutely bumfuzzled.  I work the other team in the morning, then return to my team in the afternoon. So I spend a big chunk of each day having to re-orient myself to the appropriate product.

At home, the balancing act of time and energy management continues. MrG made me fire the maids, so now, we have to do our own housework. (I don't like him much right now, for the record.) Luckily, he's been much more willing (and able, I should add) to assist in the housekeeping chores, and LittleG is a whiz with a Swiffer. After six and a half years of having someone else worry about the dusting and scrubbing the bathrooms, I now have to work that into our schedule. The laundry never seems to stop, and for some reason, those people that I live with insist that I feed them at least daily, which means grocery shopping and kitchen chores.

Anyway, my point here is that I have been compartmentalizing all the "stuff" I have on my mind. At work, I'm focusing on just where in the building I'm sitting at the moment, and what that particular product requires of me. At home, I'm balancing the chores I've been used to, as well as working in the ones someone else has been handling for me.  I assign myself the title of Soccer Mom for practices and games, and PTA Board Member when that time comes.  With all of my free time, I'm thinking about how in the world I'm going to rasie the money for Komen.

So my left brain has been working overtime. Planning, scheduling, putting continengcy plans in place in case my original plans fail. I haven't had the smallest itch to be the tiniest bit creative.

But a beautiful thing happened yesterday.  I found my right brain!  I wrote. I baked. I decorated. And I created a cake that I may be as proud of as any other I've ever decorated.  See?

I should note for the record that I'm an Aggie, and this is an Arkansas Razorback cake.  It pained me to make it, but my friend who asked for it has promised a nice donation to my Komen pot, so I struggled through it.

I don't have any grand delusions that my right brain will ever trump my left. I think all that we can hope for is tiny glimpses into my emotional, creative side.  Hopefully my right brain will have its moments of brilliance and greatness through interesting blog posts and beautiful cakes (even if they are cakes with red and black pigs).

At least that's what I'm planning for!

The sound of silence

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence." ~ from The Desiderata by Max Ehrmann

This poem has hung in my mother's sewing room my entire life, although since my dad died and she got the house repainted, there's really no way to know where it is has been relocated. Regardless, during my years at home, it hung there, and I saw it, maybe a million times, and still take its words to heart.

I heard yesterday that women spend something like three years of their lives shopping. As a working mom, I'm not surprised by that at all. My stolen minutes of shopping time - be they at the grocery store or the mall - are often my only quiet times of the day. I work in an office surrounded by people who make noise, a lot of it. I leave my office and drive five minutes away, where I pick up LittleG, who makes noise, and a lot of it. Once I get her to bed, MrG and I have our grown up discussions, or time in front of the TV, neither of which is quiet time. So I spend my days surrounded by noise.

When times get tough, as they often do, I will slip away to pick up an item or two at the grocery or drug store. I often find myself uncharacteristically dawdling during these trips. After all, a trip to the store for band-aids should be just that - in, out, done. But I tend to wander the aisles, looking at the pretty shiny things. During this time, my mind is my own, with no intrusions from coworkers, clients,or needy family members. In these days of horrible customer service, I rarely have to worry that my quiet time will be intruded upon my a store employee. But that's another blog.

I had some time alone after work yesterday. LittleG had soccer practice, and I somehow convinced her father to take her so I wouldn't have to go. They left the house, and I started dinner and pulled out a work project that still needed some attention. I worked quietly by myself until they got home about an hour and a half later, bringing with them a a swirling dervish of noise and mayhem.

I didn't realize until they came in just how quiet it had been. I had not turned on the TV, radio, or iPod. I was in the kitchen, where the only sounds came from the flipping of my paperwork, and the bubbling of food on the stove. Even the dogs were quiet.

My dad used to ask for "peace and quiet" for his birthday every year, and now I understand why. As a textbook extrovert, I tend to thrive on the noises from people around me - laughter, chatter, quiet conversation. But as a mom who is stretched pretty thin, silence has become therapy for me.

I haven't shared this news with many people yet, and now is as good a time as any, I guess. I've made the decision to walk the Komen 3-day walk in Dallas this November.

Beyond the obvious benefits that come from participating in a walk like this - comraderie, friendship, exercise - I will be giving myself the gift of silence. I will have to train for hours and hours, and most of that time, I will be alone. Even when I'm walking the days of the event and I'm surrounded by others, I have to think that some of my time will be spent in silence. The sheer determination that it will take to push my body to walk 60 miles in 3 days will dictate quiet time.

So I will push forward during this next seven months, remembering the peace there is in silence.

Hugs,
LadySteele

P.S.   My sweet aunt pointed out I should make it easy for my dear readers to donate to the cause. If you're so inclined, click the widget on the right of your screen to make a donation online!

My brilliant, brilliant child

LittleG: Hey, Mom?
Me: Yes, LittleG
LittleG: Does the Crimson Steed have a name?
Me: No, LittleG
LittleG: I have the perfect name for her, then
Me: What should her name be?
LittleG: Vanessa, cause she's a van.

I don't name my cars, and I always kind of felt like the Crimson Steed was a big old boy horse. But really, how do you argue with logic like that?

Buy that kid a pony!

As if being a working mom who travels every now and then is not hard enough, I found this in LittleG's room while deep cleaning during my "day off" this week:



For those of you who are not fluent in the Language of the Six Year Old, please let me translate:

"Dad,
Where is my mommy? At Las Vegas."

The picture shows either a really sad child with pigtails and big fat tears in her eyes, or a praying mantis in a dress. I'm not sure. Either way, this creature is very unhappy.

Orson Wells once said that there were only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror. I'd like to add a third to that....guilt!

Leave the light on for me, LittleG - I won't be gone long!

Love,
Mom of the Year

A family in need

A coworker of mine delivered twin babies last week at only 24 weeks. Both children are in the fights of their lives, and the medical bills are mounting for Mom and Dad.

One of our exhibitors has graciously donated a Barcelona 6-person spa (a $6,500 value) and an Infra-Red Deep Heat Sauna (a $3,000 value) for us to raffle off. The tickets for the spa are $20 each, and for the sauna are $10 each.

If you are interested in helping a family who is in dire straights, please click the link below for more information.

Kosa Babies

If you would like to purchase raffle tickets or place a direct donation, please contact me at sdfgarcia67 at gmail dot com. I will work something out with you through Paypal. If you are local in the DFW area, I can give you directions to our office where you can purchase the tickets yourself.

The raffle will be held on Wednesday, March 17, and ALL proceeds from the raffle will go directly to the family. The spa and sauna will be shipped direct from the manufacturer to the winner of each of the raffle drawings.

Please link back to this post as many times as you can. This family needs our help, and you or someone you know could be a big winner!

Those of us who can help should help.

Peace and health,
Lady Steele

A record shattered.....almost

I should have known what I was about to be up against when I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror late Sunday night. It was gray and ashen, the color of a corpse. Sweat glistened on my cold clammy skin as waves of nausea rolled across my body, and a toxic cold fluid filled my veins and squished through my intestines. It was clearly going to be a really long night.

It turns out, it was a really long 36 hours. A. REALLY. LONG. 36 HOURS.

I'm not one who throws up. I have horrible memories of vomiting as a child, and as a grownup, I will go to nearly any length to avoid ever doing it again. So many lengths, in fact, that I've not paid homage to the porcelain god Ralph since August 19, 1987. It's a strange thing to keep track of, I know, but there is some degree of significance attached to the date.

I've been sick twice on alcohol in my life. The first time was in July of 1987, and the second was August 19, 1987. I remember the second time the best because my sister and I had just moved away to college together and I got stinkin' drunk with a boy I had liked for a handful of years. I matched him beer for beer through a 12-pack, then we made the rather questionable decision to go out after more beer, and for some reason, barbecue. I remember throwing up and passing out. The next morning, I vowed never to do it again. The throwing up part, of course, not the drinking part!.....

And so, I haven't. Through my years of bar crawling as a college co-ed, a pregnancy, and six years of living with a little petri dish who drags home every gastrointestinal germ known to man, I have been vomit free. I cleaned up kid poop and kid puke and dog poop and dog puke, I've picked up the remnants of the former living, now rendered lifeless by one dog or another, without a single gag or retch.

But on Sunday night, my internal fortitude was sorely tested. I sat, naked, sweating, and shivering (how is that even possible?) on the side of the tub and prayed to just let it all go. Barf out whatever horrid germ was tormenting my insides and rid myself of the misery. And yet? Nothing.

I am almost jealous of the people who can feel sick and just puke it all out. I have a girlfriend who throws up every time she has a headache or gets stressed out. This is a trait she has passed along to her daughters, lucky devils. In hindsight, it seems rather perverse that I was sitting naked on my bathtub thinking about my girlfriend and her daughters. Until you've been there, don't judge me people!

Regretfully, according to Murphy's Law of Stomach Flu, what does not go up must certainly go down. Most of my readers are pretty smart folks, so I will leave some degree of mystery and let you wonder exactly how I spent most of the next 36 hours. Not a fun day and a half, I assure you.

At any rate, it's now Wednesday evening, and I felt for the first time today a gnawing hunger. I've fed myself like a fussy toddler for the past two days....a juice box here, a handful of dry cereal there, maybe a piece of toast or some watered down sprite. But this evening, hunger came to call. And I've never been so happy to want food in my life.

And so I indulged.

So far, so good.

Like a clear fresh morning dawns after a dark summer night's storm, I feel like I might just live to see another day, maybe even to stretch the limits of a long held record. Praise the Lord and pass the Taco Bell!

Wait! Not so fast!! LittleG just called out from the hall bathroom, "Mom, will you come look at my poop?"

Yes, Shelly, even modern superheroes fall victim to earthly illness. Just hopefully not more often than every two decades or so.

Hugs and Lysol to you all,
Lady Steele

Update

Oh. My. Goodness. And Ouch. And Wow. That's all I'm going to say on the subject.

Oh Holy Day, Indeed

I will apologize in advance, dear readers, because I know some of you will read this on Ash Wednesday. It's inappropriate and will be offensive to some of you. Sorry. I mean it.

I am in the show business. Not the "there's no business like show business" kind of business. I am in the Trade Show business. And my show is next week. There's no way to describe how frazzled and full my brain is, but let me take a shot anyway. This is the equivalent of April 13 for a CPA. It's December 23 for anyone in retail. It's the last day of the month for someone who sells cars. It's the weekend before school starts for anyone with kids. Are you getting the picture?

I have a bunch of last minute stuff to coordinate. I have to time perfectly the haircut, the manicure, buying enough milk to get the family through my time away, without overstocking the fridge. There's laundry to do, bills to pay, outfits to coordinate, and a whole host of personal care items that must be addressed. And even though I've known for a year this day is coming, it seems to slip up out of nowhere and run me down like a bus driven by an angry man.

I realized at the PTA board meeting two weeks ago that Ash Wednesday falls two days before I get on a plane to leave for a week, right in the middle of Pre-Show Hysteria Week. My days are carefully scheduled to be sure nothing falls through the cracks, and I realized that night that I have no time to celebrate Ash Wednesday service as I have in the past.

I am a really terrible Catholic, but I have always attended mass on Ash Wednesday, and I wear my ashes proudly and keep in my mind what they symbolize.

Last year, I committed myself to living consciously during the days of Lent, and rather than give something up, I pledged to write something every day. Some of it I published online, some of it not so much. I kicked off the days of Lent by celebrating with dear friends at Ash Wednesday service over lunch. The church was beautiful, the message right on target, and the company could not be beat. And I did pretty darn well with my pledge.

This year, my dear sweet friends will meet again to go to church over lunch and to reflect on the days past and more importantly, the days to come. They will kneel together and sing and walk down the aisle for communion.

And you know what I'll be doing? I'll be getting a Brazilian wax job.

That's right, folks. As my friends kneel together in prayer and reflection, I will be getting my lady parts sugar-waxed by a lady aptly named Kim Lower, who owns Pretty Kitties salon. Really, girls, you can't make this stuff up. Google her.

Anyway, I'm hoping God will forgive me this year for over-scheduling and overlooking the uber-holiday that is Ash Wednesday. I'm pretty sure I'll be serving my own type of penance while my friends go to church.

One of my coworkers (yes, this has been a subject of great interest to my friends at the office) suggested that rather than going with the standard full monty or landing strip, perhaps I should consider leaving only a cross. That would sure keep the Lord on my mind for the next 46 days.

Peace be with you.
Lady Steele

This conversation brought to you by the idiots at ABC

Last week, ABC dunked me and LittleG face first into a conversation I was hoping not to have for awhile. Some genius at ABC decided it would be ok to run a promo for the Grey's Anatomy/Private Practice crossover where McSteamy drops trou and ends up with Addison on top of him on the floor in her office. All of this at 7:30 pm. And so it went like this.....

LittleG: Mom, is that sex?
Me: Yes, LittleG, that is sex.
LittleG: Mom, do you and Dad have sex?
Me: Yes, LittleG, all married people have sex.

This would have been a whole lot easier on both of us if MrG had not been in the room about to either burst an artery or hyperventilate. Thankfully, we only skimmed the surface of the subject. We still have all those fun things to cover, like how sex works, and how sometimes unmarried people have sex, or people married to other people have sex. I think I'll go burst an artery now.

C'mon ABC, she's 6, and I'm having this conversation with my Kindergartener?? I hate to sound like a fuddy duddy old mom, but for the love of all that's holy, can we keep the naked guys off t.v. at that hour of the night?

Prudishly yours,
MrsG

The old switcheroo

Some substitutions are easy ones to make, and they work beautifully.

Are you out of buttermilk and need some for a recipe? Substitute plain white milk with a bit of lemon juice or white vinegar. Sour cream and plain yogurt are interchangeable just about all the time. Rum works as well in eggnog as bourbon does. Shower gel makes a nice replacement for bubble bath if you can squirt it in the tub when your kid isn't looking. Plain water in a squirt bottle works exceedingly well when you are out of Monster Spray.

All of these are good. Some, I've found, are not. My dad suggested one time that instead of baby wipes, I use the Clorox wipes in his bathroom to clean up LittleG. God bless his soul, he meant it.

Here are some other examples, from my real life, in the past two months. I have been either really distracted, or I am a total loser. You really can't make this stuff up, folks.

1. Do not squirt Shout onto your counter top in place of 409. It definitely does NOT Shout the stains out, and it does make one big greasy mess.
2. Just because your carton of Eggnog looks just like your carton of Heavy Cream, you cannot make mashed potatoes with Eggnog. Well, you can, but they are truly awful.
3. You should not attempt to wash your hair with conditioner. The bottles look the same. The result? Not the same.
4. You cannot substitute a brown shoe for a black shoe, even if they shoe styles are exactly the same. Someone at Starbucks will notice, and that's just embarrassing.
   
5. It's a bad idea to buy a big tub of Eucerin creme to use on all your dry scaly places when your big tub of hair goo looks just like it. Turns out hair goo is no better on scaly places than Eucerin is in your hair. Yes, I've done that switcheroo both ways, with equally catastrophic results. Sometimes a girl just gets busy and doesn't pay attention.
   
6. Don't wash your face using the moisturizer in the EXACT same packaging as your cleanser. Write your own joke here.
7. Part 2, don't put your facial cleanser on your face in place of your moisturizer, then get halfway through your makeup routine before you diagnose why things just don't feel "right." Laugh out loud at your own joke here.
8. Don't use baby powder in place of carpet freshener. You will be cleaning a fine mist of baby powder off of your baseboards and flat surfaces for as long as you live in your home. Don't judge me people, I had a musty room and a linen closet full of powder I was NEVER going to need for my now school age child.
9. A plain old tissue works well for cleaning up a smudge on reading glasses. A Puffs Tissue with Lotion, not so much.
10. Skittles may look like M&Ms, but they are clearly not candy coated chocolates. Therefore, you should not make cookies with them.
11. You can add a splash of boxed mashed potato flakes to thicken up mashed potatoes with too much liquid. You should not add Bisquick instead.
12. Hair Spray and Air Spray sound alike. But boy do they have a different effect on your hair. I'm just saying.
    

And one more I don't have experience with, but I find it hysterical to consider. Don't ever take your little blue Ambien pill in place of your little blue Viagra pill, or vice versa. Seems like no good could come from either switch.

Ever forward friends, until we meet again!
Lady Steele

I'm a MEXICAN?!

I've struggled for a long time with this post - it is a sensitive topic, but it's been on my mind for a long time now. I hope I do it justice.

First, a little background. I am White. Lily White. Pasty White. I have blue eyes and freckles. Oh So White. My maternal grandmother traced our genealogy, and I'm pretty sure we are Scotch/Irish all the way back to Adam and Eve. MrG is Mexican Hispanic. His mother was born in Mexico, and his father was born in Texas to Mexican immigrants. Legal, I will add, not that it's any of your damn business.

LittleG is a perfect mix of me and her dad. She has beautiful brown eyes and long flowing dark hair like his side of the family. She gets her freckles and her temper from mine. She is quite possibly the most amazing White Caucasian Mexican Hispanic ever born. She also just recently found out she's part Mexican, and the news did not go over well.

We had never addressed the issue of her heritage with her, because for us, it's not an issue. My parents did not teach me to see skin color. Race was never discussed in our home when I was growing up, and clearly it wasn't an issue for MrG's family either, since they took me in to their very family with nary a bump in the road. And thank heavens for that.

And therein lies the problem. Skin color doesn't matter to us, so I guess we just assumed it wouldn't matter to her. Oopsie.

The face that little adorable Juanita makes in the clip above? EXACTLY the one we got when LittleG found out SHE is part Mexican. She is also part Lily White, but that doesn't seem to bother her much.

The only time skin color or race has mattered to me personally is when I've been asked to categorize the race of my daughter. I don't know how to answer that question. She is as White/Caucasian as she is Hispanic/Latino. And yet, there's no box for "Both" when it comes time to assign a race to your child. You're forced to pick one, thereby arbitrarily assigning her to a demographic category that will follow her for the rest of her life.

We saw this last winter when the headlines screamed "Black Man Elected President." Really? The guy is every bit as White as he is African American, but nobody was saying anything about "Half Black Half White Guy" getting elected to anything. I guess Mrs. Obama was forced to choose a box for her kid 48 years ago, and she selected African American over White/Caucasian.

Please don't misunderstand - I TOTALLY get it that we as a nation celebrate the fact that an African American was elected, even if he is part white. African Americans were, for far too long in our country, held as second class citizens, and Barak Obama's rise to the most powerful office in the land has historical significance that we are probably only beginning to understand.

But I don't celebrate his election because he's black. I celebrate because he was the right guy for the job. I voted for him, and in spite of current popular opinion, I would do it again. His skin color didn't have a damn thing to do with why I voted for him. And it shouldn't have mattered to anyone else as far as I'm concerned.

And there's the rub. We just can't look at him as a man. We have to see him as a black man. But as I said, he is as white as he is black. So WTF?

Minority groups have for decades asked for equal treatment - fighting for it, losing their lives in some cases. The civil unrest brought about by folks like Rosa Parks and nine brave students from Central High School in Little Rock Arkansas certainly shook things up back in the 1950s. Cesar Chavez and his band of farm workers took a stand in the 1960s and forever changed the face of migrant farming in our country.

And yet these same groups fight now for recognition and celebration of their races that would never be tolerated for Whites/Caucasians. We have Black Heritage Month, Asian Heritage Month, Hispanic Heritage Month. Hispanics have their own scholarship programs, 100% race based. We have Essence Magazine, "the black woman's guide to what's hot now."

History months and scholarships, and magazines, oh my!

But what's good for the goose isn't necessarily good for the gander, at least where skin color is concerned.

Can you imagine what would happen if my white brothers and sisters suddenly created their own White History Month? What about their own White Scholarship program? I can hear the motto now, "money for college, but only for the white kids!" And what about Lily White Mag, what every white skinned beyotch needs to know?

The outrage that would follow our celebration of our skin color to the exclusion of others is almost unimaginable. And yet, it's ok for minorities to celebrate their heritage and race, and we are not supposed to complain? Again - WTF?

As our racial groups become more blurred, I think the question of race becomes even harder to answer, and perhaps less important. What happens, for example, if LittleG ends up married to a man who is the son of a Pakistani man and a Korean woman? What little racial box will her kid fit in? Furthermore, why the hell should we care?

I think the answer is that we should just all go blissfully, stupidly colorblind. You want to celebrate your skin color? Do it, whether you're black or brown or white or red. But don't deny me the opportunity to do the same. You want to marry someone who is a different color than you are? Do it. I did, and it worked out pretty damn well.

Until we do go coast-to-coast colorblind, we'll still be forced to fill in our little race box when it comes time to apply for a job (for demographic purposes only, of course!!), get a drivers license, or fill out a a census. We'll still be able to read our racially biased magazines (or not, for us white folks). We'll still check a box on a birth certificate to indicate the racial make up of our child, even if it's only half right.

I think it's just a crying damn shame that my little Mexican kid might have opportunities available to her, or denied to her, that my little white kid might not have. It's too bad colorblind couldn't get here a generation ago.

Why am I in a crimson steed, with my boltcutters, anyway?

I've had a request from one of my most frequent readers (no, not you, Mom) to explain the origin of my blog name and by-line.

And so, I shall tell you the story, dear readers.

Once upon a time, way back in 2006, I began writing this little blog. Truth be told, I was trying to comment on someone else's blog, and it seems like the blog required me to have a blogger login. So I fell back on my old faithful, sdfgarcia.

I think it's awfully nice that my parents named me with the initials "SDF" and super nice that I married MrG, so now my initials are SDFG. Type it out. Go ahead and see how nice it feels to have your left hand just tap in rhythm across the keys. It feels good, huh? But I digress.

sdfgarcia has kind of been my go-to name for "stuff" like websites, emails, etc. It just followed that I would use that to create a blogger login.

So I created my login, and then I figured since I had it, I may as well use it. I wrote and wrote and sometimes people found me, but more often than not, they didn't. Was it my totally lame ass boring blog name? Probably, but I'll never know.

Because, dear readers, everything changed late in the night on September 1, 2008. I got a call from my BFF, who lives only a mile or so away. Here is how the call went, more or less:

BFF: Hi.
Lady Steele: Hello. You're calling late.
BFF: Yes. I know. Do you have any bolt cutters?
Lady Steele: Why yes, I believe we do. I think they are in the room where we keep the car.
BFF: Can you get them and come over right away?
Lady Steele: Why yes, of course. Whatever has happened?
BFF: You know the metal baby gate between the living room and the foyer?
Lady Steele: Yes, I believe I do.
BFF: Well, Toby has managed to get his head wedged between two bars, and we can't get him out!
Lady Steele: Holy mother of pearl! I will be there forthwith!!

And away I galloped.

Actually, I went into the room where we keep the car, found the bolt cutters, and hauled ass in my dorky red minivan to my best friend's house, where we proceeded to pry the metal baby gate open enough to release one very scared little weinee dog. (I should note for the record that no animals were harmed in the naming of this blog).

My BFF is a notorious night owl, and I suspect after her scare that she was up for hours just working off adrenaline. Nevertheless, when I awoke the next morning, I had an email thanking me for my late night trip over to save her (she would have done the same for me, and more!). In the email, she said I reminded her of a superhero, charging forth on my crimson steed, boltcutters ever at the ready.

And a superhero was born! Well, not born, but definitely named.

I do consider myself a modern superhero. I parent full time. I work full time. I do laundry ALL the damn time. I manage a house full time. Ok, so maybe the manage a house part is only part time, but I pay the damn maids to fill in the parts I can't or won't handle. I'm on the PTA. I'm a soccer mom.

Maybe I don't make the most money or keep the cleanest house or feed my family the best meals ever, but I do a pretty good job at covering the bases most of the time. And for that, I consider myself a modern superhero. As I consider every other working schmuck mom out there who holds down a full time job, then comes home every evening to start her second job.

I went to a terrific Thanksgiving potluck at a dear friend's house last month, and I was so thrilled when one of her guests hopped up, hugged me and said "you're Lady Steele!" As great as my initials are, nobody ever called me by them at a potluck. So I figure, I've got a winner.

Also, I think it's a nice tribute to my BFF, who is there for me always, asking nothing in return, except maybe a late night trip to her house with a tool of one sort or another.

And there you have it friends, a tale of the birth of a modern superhero. I hope it was worth the wait.

Hugs,
Lady Steele

It's hard to keep up with them Joneses

This whole Christmas decoration thing is becoming quite a burden. First I have to nag MrG to go into the room above the garage, which I think he refers to as "the attic." Then I have to listen to him yell in a muffled voice about how much crap we have up there and how much of it we really need to keep. Once he gets it all down the stairs, then I have to nag him and LittleG to help me get it all placed appropriately in the house and the yard.

For what? So we can try to one-up the neighbors in our quest for the perfectly decorated Christmas wonderland, deep in the heart o' Texas?

By the time we're finished, we're all three mad at each other and exhausted. And we never freakin' one-up anyone. So this year, we're taking another approach. Instead of trying to out-Christmas our neighbors, we're going to bow out politely and let them win. Here's my basic plan....



Don't hate me because I'm clever. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! And by the way, Miss Betty, you've got a light out on your eave.....

It's a Festivus Miracle!

Well, dear readers, I cleared a hurdle today. A big one.

This was my first post-op mammogram since finishing up my radiation, and I'm glad to say I passed with flying colors! Both of my girls are free and clear, at least for the next six months.

I won't go into many details, except to say that after my first diagnostic mammogram after two surgeries and 33 zaps of radiation, I will NEVER again complain about the old run of the mill screening mammo, which heretofore, I thought was the most painful thing ever. I know better now.

Get 'em checked girls. It's better to know than not know!

Hugs,
Lady Steele

Baby announcements from Mars and Venus

Reminders of how different men and women are can strike at the strangest times! We've had two babies born at work in the past couple of months. One's birth was announced by a woman, and one was announced by a man. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

You think you can guess which came from the man?

Subject: Baby Smith is here

John Alexander Smith was born 8 lbs 12oz and 21 inches long. Mom and baby are resting and doing great. Chris said something about the baby being cute…That’s the 48th time we’ve heard him use that word in the last 2 weeks.


Subject: He is here!!!!

I am happy to pass along that

Jackson “Trey” Young Brown III

Arrived at 4:02 am this morning – 9 lbs 3 oz and 20.75”

Mom went into labor on her own yesterday, they checked into the hospital yesterday afternoon at 4, she pushed for two hours, and Trey arrived via c-section this morning.

Mom is fine and dad is ecstatic!

I have attached a picture and will send more later.

Congrats to the Brown Family!!

The Brown family baby was born first and the announcement was made by...yes, you guessed, a woman. The woman was kind enough to use lots of happy punctuation and gave us both the time and date of the blessed arrival. The man, on the other hand, gave us straight up information. No silly talk about dates or how the baby got here. No fancy schmancy punctuation or special spacing. Baby is here, all is fine.

I was excited to get the news in both cases, and both of them pretty much got the job done. But it was striking how different the messages were, both in tone and content.

I guess there might actually be something to this Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus theory. Maybe I'll spend some time thinking about that this weekend during the celebration of the six anniversary of the birth of the most spectacular child ever born. Or as MrG says, that "damn party."

Mother of The Year, indeed

Can any of you more experienced moms please weigh in on this?

LittleG: Mom, these shoes are too tight (use your whiney voice for best effect).
Me: I will fix them when we get to Nana's .
LittleG: Mom, these shoes are too loose!
Me: How can your shoes be both too tight and too loose at the same time?
LittleG: Because you won't fix my shoes.
Me: LittleG, do you realize that tight and loose are opposites? It is not physically possible for something to be both too tight and too loose at the same time.
LittleG: Nuh huh. Because YOU. ARE. THE. WORST. MOM. EVER!

All of this at the tender age of 6. Before, by the way, 8 o'clock in the morning. On a Monday.

Thanks, Mom, for taking one for the team this week. I'm sure you are having a delightful day already. Thank heavens you quit being the worst mom ever about a decade ago. I guess it's my turn to take the reins.