I Really Need Your Help. It Might Even Be an Emergency. WIN a Copy of My Book, Too!

Photo source

I went to my first roller derby meeting last night. It was very eye-opening, and almost scary enough to make me say, "Sorry... I must've walked into the wrong meeting," and walk out. But not quite.

2011 is my Year of YES. (More on this in next week's column.) It means I'm saying yes to things that ultimately terrify me, but I know I can conquer.

One of those things is public speaking. I hate public speaking. In fact, in my high school speech class, I had to give a demonstration speech, and my hands were shaking so uncontrollably, I dropped all my props and failed the speech. My Speech grade left an ugly blemish on an otherwise stellar academic record. Well, that, and Wood Shop. Whatever.

Anyway, I walked into Mr. Editor's office at my home paper, the Lake Chelan Mirror, whining because someone was mean to me on Facebook. It's unremarkable that some people don't like me (and by "some people," I mean that one woman who really hates me), because I do tend to be a bit opinionated and often come across as pushy in written discussion. However, this particular (different than "that one woman who really hates me") woman attacked me over something I didn't even say, and nothing upsets me more than someone being upset over something they've only imagined about me.

I mean, good gosh - I beat myself up for my own imagined shortcomings enough, without other people inventing new ones to be ticked off at!

Anyway, Mr. Editor said exactly what I thought he'd say. He's always quoting a couple particular passages from the Epistle to the Romans (11:29 and 16:17), and paraphrasing it to "Don't let the haters get you down, Gonzo."

Then he said, "We're doing a podcast." Podcast? Really? The Gonzo Mama does NOT do podcasts. Then I remembered it's the Year of YES, and sucked it up and did it.

Here it is.

It didn't totally suck, so I guess I can do another one. As you can hear, I'm taking on some pretty scary things this year, like doing the Winterfest Splash, and joining roller derby.

Which brings me to my big problem.

I had the perfect roller derby name picked out ("Tawdry Hipburn"), but - I learned at the informational meeting - derby names are exclusive, and no two girls can have the same name. Or, it appears, even terribly similar names. There's already a Tawdry Hepburn and an Audrey Hipburn registered, so I'm out of luck.

I need you guys to give me a roller derby name!!!!!

I'm thinking something with "Gonzo" in it, or something that highlights my glorious veganism, like Gonzo Gladiator or Tofu Terrifier or something, but I'm totally open to suggestions. My goal is to take The Gonzo Mama, if I'm allowed, but I need a back-up name!

I'll take your comments here and on Facebook for the next few days, then put up a poll, and everyone can vote on it.

Aren't you excited? I'm taking you on this derby journey with me, in the hope you'll keep me accountable when I'm nursing a broken arm and want to quit.

Also? I need a busload of money for skates, equipment, insurance, dues and fishnet tights, which means I'll either have to take a part-time job or point excitedly to the donation button up at the top of my blog.

See the donation button? *points excitedly*

Don't forget to leave your suggestion for my derby name in the comments here or on Facebook! I'll have to run suggestions through the list of registered names, so if you don't see your suggestion in the final poll, it's because it was already registered or too similar to a registered name.

I'll send an autographed copy of my book, Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House, to the suggester of the winning suggestion, and there's no limit on the number of names you can suggest, you suggesters, you... So get to it!

To clarify: The readers' favorite will win a book. MY favorite will win my heart! Just wanted to get that out there before everyone voted for "Fat Bottom Ghoul" and then wondered why I didn't adopt it as my own.




"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

Sexy Vegan Mama: Whatcha Gonna Do With All That Junk, All That Junk Inside That Pumpkin? Four Different Pumpkin Seed Recipes to Try

The Gonzos carved pumpkins this year for the first time in ages. There were a whole lot of pumpkins goin' on at our place, and that meant a whole lot of pumpkin seeds.

A whole lotta pumpkin seeds

I seem to remember my mom salting and roasting pumpkin seeds when I was a kid, but I pretty much shun salt, unless it's crucial to a recipe. I wanted to do something... different. After an online search, I'd found about a thousand ways to make tamari pumpkin seeds, but all the recipes seemed boring.

You know, The Gonzo Mama is not into boring food.

I ended up making four different flavors of roasted pumpkin seeds, and they all turned out so yummy, the kids want to gut more pumpkins so I can make more. The procedure is the same for all four.

Garlic-Ginger "Tamari" Pumpkin Seeds


Seeds from a pumpkin or two
Enough Bragg's Liquid Aminos* to coat seeds
Garlic powder to taste
Ground ginger to taste


*Note: for all these recipes, I used Bragg's Liquid Aminos, which is a natural, low-sodium alternative to soy sauce, tamari or shoyu. I imagine you can use soy sauce, tamari or shoyu, but I don't know how that will affect cooking times, if at all.


Blend all ingredients well before putting seeds in to marinate.




Curry-Nutmeg "Tamari" Pumpkin Seeds

Seeds from a pumpkin or two

Enough Bragg's Liquid Aminos* to coat seeds

Curry powder to taste (I used the Aunt Rhoda's curry blend from my local natural foods store, but you can use your favorite) 

Ground nutmeg to taste

Blend all ingredients well before putting seeds in to marinate.

Wasabi-"Tamari" Pumpkin Seeds

Seeds from a pumpkin or two

Enough Bragg's Liquid Aminos* to coat seeds

Wasabi powder to taste 

Blend all ingredients well before putting seeds in to marinate.

BBQ Pumpkin Seeds**

Seeds from a pumpkin or two

Enough Bragg's Liquid Aminos* to coat seeds

A teaspoon or more of thick vegan BBQ sauce

Blend all ingredients well before putting seeds in to marinate.

**Note: This particular recipe is very prone to burning. Keep a close eye on it while in the frying pan and oven!

Put the pumpkin seeds in a colander and rinse them, rubbing them between the palms of your hands to remove the little strings of pumpkin funk. As you go, toss the clean seeds onto a plate covered with a paper towel or tea towel to drain.

The eco-Nazis are going to kill me for using paper towels, aren't they?

Use one of the recipes above to make a "marinade" for the seeds in a bowl, and dump the seeds in, making sure each seed gets covered.

Make sure no one gets left out... Everyone needs a good coat!

Preheat oven to 250 degrees.

In a wok or large frying pan, heat a small amount of oil (I used sesame oil, but any cooking oil will work) over medium heat.

Use a fork or slotted spoon to remove seeds from marinade (you want the seeds, not the liquid) and drop them into the heated oil. You'll want to keep the seeds moving so they don't burn. You'll know they're done when they start to puff up and look bloated, sort of like The Gonzo Mama after a soy ice cream binge.

They're starting to bloat like fat little Gonzo Mamas stuffed with soy ice cream.

Carefully remove the seeds from the oil and spread them out on a baking sheet. Put the sheet in the oven and roast the seeds for 10-12 minutes. The time will vary, depending on what you coat the seeds with, so keep your nose alert for the aroma of smoke and check on the seeds often!

Allow the seeds to cool (if you can wait!) and enjoy.

Oh, and may I also insist tossing a handful of these tasty things on top of your salad? Crunchy, spicy goodness!

Vegan Double Chocolate Chai Cake (Recipe)

I've had many requests for my prized vegan cake recipes from fellow vegans - and from friends who are looking for cholesterol-free desserts. Did you check your calendar today? Because today's the day I'm going to give away my top-secret recipe for my never-fail Vegan Double Chocolate Chai Cake!

This recipe makes one tall, decadent 8-9" round:

1 2/3 c. all-purpose flour
1 c. packed brown sugar or evaporated cane juice crystals
1/4 c. cocoa powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 1/2 t. loose chai tea
1 c. water
1/3 c. olive or canola oil
1 t. apple cider vinegar
1 t. vanilla

1/2 c. dairy-free chocolate chips (Did you know Kroger Value Semi-Sweet Chocolate Chips are dairy-free and amazingly cheap? I get them at Fred Meyer!)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large mixing bowl, combine dry ingredients and mix. Add wet ingredients and beat on high with mixer for 2 minutes or beat 150 strokes by hand.

Pour into greased 8-9" round cake pan. (Note: I cut a circle of wax paper and place it in the bottom of the pan to help it come out of the pan easily. I highly recommend you do so, too. This recipe doesn't have any eggs to bind it, so the wax paper helps the bottom of the cake stay together when it's warm.) Sprinkle chocolate chips over top of batter before placing in oven.

Bake for 35-40 minutes, or until the cake begins to pull away from the sides of the pan and a toothpick inserted into the middle of the cake comes out clean.

Let cool in pan for 15 minutes, then turn out onto a cooling rack. Wait another 15 minutes, then turn right-side up onto a pretty plate.

This sweet cake needs no frosting, but you may dust with powdered sugar, if desired.

Photo: Snugglebug and Curlytop love helping make this cake. They ALMOST get as many chocolate chips on the cake as they do in their mouths!

Bad Gratitude Monday: WEEDS

That's right - I said it.

I'm grateful for weeds.



Ordinarily, I try to ignore them. I tend to adopt a "live and let live" principle, and I've even been known to opine weeds are just flowers that no one wants. Unfortunately, Mr. Wright does not share my opinions.

So, this morning, I took an antihistamine and ventured out to the jungles of the flower beds.

Sometimes the Lord blesses you with abundant crops and fragrant blooms; sometimes he blesses you with weeds. I learned several lessons from the little green demons this morning:

• From the weeds I'm sure I pulled before: Persistence.
• From the weeds with deep, deep roots: Sometimes, getting the job done means getting my hands dirty.
• From the weeds with sticker-y barbs: Look out for yourself, and don't surrender easily to defeat.
• From the weeds growing among the intended ornamental grasses and shrubs: We CAN all live together.  (Of course, I was out there, ripping them up by their roots - but the lesson was still valid.) 
• Also from the weeds growing among the intended plants: Don't be afraid to surround yourself with greatness, and consider yourself worthy of greatness in your own right.
• From the weeds that refused to release their roots, but broke off at ground level: Don't give up! I may feel broken, but as long as my faith remains rooted in fertile soil, I can grow to be strong again.

What unexpected lesson are you grateful for today?

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/robotography/2722477781/

I Only Associate with Geniuses. Buy Their Books.

Have I ever mentioned how amazingly talented my friends are? Talk about literary genius! The only reason I hang out with them is because I'm secretly hoping they'll spill the beans and give away their secrets for juggling careers, kids, husbands, divorces, sailing around the world, backpacking through third-world countries and writing while somehow staying alarmingly beautiful and getting the hook up with publishers.

Perhaps you remember Corbin Lewars? She calls me Angelina. As in, Jolie. A har-de-har-har reference to my collection of children, I assume. I'm certain it's not the result of my lip plumper. Anyway, Corbin's book recently hit the shelves of your favorite local independent bookstore. I haven't snatched up my copy yet, but I've read and heard excerpts and can't wait to read the rest!

You can order it from your local indie bookstore using the link below:

Creating a Life: The Memoir of a Writer and Mom in the Making

Some may say it's not enough to have one genius friend, and some are right. That's why I keep Monica Murphy LeMoine on my list of names to drop. Monica's book is - believe it or not - a humorous memoir of miscarriage and stillbirth, among other things. Believe me when I tell you you'll find yourself laughing, and not even feeling guilty about laughing at a Dead Baby Momma. Well, not very guilty, anyway.

Support the amazing Monica (who just gave birth to a baby boy - welcome, Sean!) by ordering her book through the link below. (For some reason, Indiebound can't locate her. I'm going to send you through Amazon for this one - for now. As soon as she gets into the Indiebound catalog, I'll update this link!)

Knocked Up, Knocked Down: Postcards of Miscarriage and Other Misadventures from the Brink of Parenthood

Are you jealous of my freakishly talented, hot friends yet? I know you are. That's why I'm going to rub it in and share again about Janna Cawrse Esarey's book, which is amazing, entertaining, and just plain great to read.

Keep your dollars local by shopping indie through the link!

The Motion of the Ocean: 1 Small Boat, 2 Average Lovers, and a Woman's Search for the Meaning of Wife

Forget personal trainers and lipsuction... If I'm going to keep this kind of company, I need a publishing contract to look good.

Visit my friends online. Let them know how awesome they are.

Corbin Lewars

Monica Murphy LeMoine

Janna Cawrse Esarey

Someday, I Won't Be Here To...

Dear Mr. Wright and kids:

In the event of my untimely demise or incapacitation, I am leaving the following list of instructions. Put them in a safe place - you'll need them.

1. The toilet paper roll is held in place by a spindle. When one roll is empty, you may replace it with a full roll by firmly grasping one end of the spring-loaded spindle between your thumb and forefinger, then pulling toward the center of the spindle. Once free, remove empty toilet paper roll, then replace with full roll. To put spindle back in place, follow above directions in reverse.

2. The stovetop may and should be cleaned. To accomplish this mysterious task, allow cooktop to cool (this is important, lest you burn your fingers and have to look for the aloe vera gel - and we all know Mom is the only one who can find it). Then, use a damp sponge to wipe away spills and food particles. Repeat as necessary.

3. To clear cutting board of bread crumbs, use a clean sponge, a paper towel, a washcloth, or even your hand. The important thing is that you do it.

4. Bread will dry out if the bag is not closed properly. For this reason, bags of bread are sold with a handy closing device called a twist-tie. The twist-tie doesn't cost extra; it's thrown in as a free accessory. USE IT.

5. Dumping clean clothes on the floor tends to make them dirty much more quickly. Some genius, way back in history, created a wondrous device called a "dresser." It has miraculous little things inside it called "drawers." You will find that clothes stay cleaner much longer when placed inside these strange "drawers." To use: Firmly grasp knob on outside of drawer. Pull knob toward you, thus opening drawer. Place folded clothes (see Appendix A for instructions on how to fold clothes) inside drawer. Gently push drawer closed. Slamming drawers has never been proven to help them stay shut.

6. A stick of margarine will, by its very nature, collect bread crumbs. May I suggest using a butter knife to slice off the amount of margarine needed, instead of stabbing or scraping at random parts of the stick, smearing on toast, and going in for another scrape, leaving crumbs embedded in the cube?

7. Getting dirty dishes to the kitchen may sound like an insurmountable task, but I will try to explain it in elementary steps. First, grasp plate, bowl or glass in hand. Next, lift the item. That's right - just pick it up. Good! Now, turn your body in the direction of the kitchen, and begin walking. Continue until you reach the kitchen (see map, attached). Finally, place dishes in sink. For the advanced, an attempt at rinsing dishes may be made.

8. You're just going to have to accept that when I'm gone, there will be no one to stay up all night baking cookies for the bake sale you forgot to tell me about until bedtime. There's just no way around that. I have, however, drawn a map to the nearest bakery (attached).

9. Go ahead and pour those last few drops of milk out of the jug and put "milk" on the shopping list. No one is going to yell at you.

10. Using a snowshovel and rake to shove everything from your bedroom floor into the closet is not the same as cleaning your room. Along the same line, cramming every available space in the house full of stuff is not the same as being organized. Find a place for everything, and keep it there.

I know it will be hard to go on without me, dear husband and children, but rest assured that I am in a much, MUCH better place.

Love,

Mom


Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/urbanwoodswalker/ / CC BY-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/designpackaging/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/indieman/ / CC BY 2.0

Bad Gratitude Monday: Family Treasures, Poetry & Cutter Racing

Did y'all know I've written a little poetry in my time?

Well, I have. You can stop laughing, now.

The thing is, I never had a gift for rhymed verse, though I wanted to. I totally wanted to rock that ABAB or ABBA or ABCBA rhyming scheme, but I actually sucked at it. I like to think I made up for it with my free verse, but only my English teachers and the few editors who actually published my poetry will ever know the truth.

My great-grandmother, though - she's amazing. She's darn near 100 years old and she can spout off verses she wrote sixty years ago. From memory. We should all be so blessed when we're nearing a century on this planet.

While tidying up my bookshelves today, I came across a slim pamphlet titled Madison Cutter Association Sixth Annual Winter Carnival: Saturday, February 14, 1970 - 12:00 PM. The cover features a photo of the championship team. I couldn't help but smile at the find, for two reasons: First, my great-grandpa Charlie was a cutter racer. I knew his name would be found inside the program as one of the racers. Second, Great-grandma Nellie was the cutter association secretary and poet laureate, so I know I'd find one of her written treasures inside.

I wasn't disappointed.

What is cutter racing? Go ahead; you can ask. Don't be shy. Cutter racing looks something like Roman chariot racing, but with weird little one-man open carts. Great-grandpa Charlie bred and raced horses for this foolhardy sport, and Great-grandma provided the color commentary with her writing.

Inside my antique program I found two poems attributed to Great-grandma. Dear Granny has macular degeneration, so she can't see that I'm going to share them with you, here. Let me preface the sharing by saying that I'm as protective of her copyright as I am of mine, so enjoy, but there will be positively no stealing - if you know what's good for you. That being said, here we go:

Cutter Fever

When the wind is getting chilly,
and there's snow and fog and frost --
There's a bug or virus comes to life,
and cutter men are lost.


They get the chariots and harnesses out
and oil and clean them up,
And start trying out their horses
to pick the very top.


They meet in Associations
and start setting up the rules,
So that every man will know them
and when to pay their dues!


A day is set and agreed upon
for the racing season's start.
And every driver feels elation
and quick beating of the heart.


"Will I go to World Meeting,"
is what every mind will say,
"or be eliminated as we race
each Saturday?"


No day too cold or snowy for
these NUTS who cutter race,
And you wonder how men and animals
can stand the grueling pace!


Then when it's finally over
and the finals have been run,
And the trophies are awarded,
then we know it's all been fun.


All the drivers that were losers
make a promise to their pride,
"Next year I'll get some horses
to take me to World Wide!"


(c) Nellie Hall 1970


A Cutter Racer's Prayer


God grant that I could own a team
A snappy pair of colts,
That can run their race in 23.0
And never try to bolt.


I'd have them with a nerve of steel
But gentle as a lamb,
If I could have a team like that
I wouldn't give a damn.


When I put the harness on
To race and go out on the track,
I'd want another picture
For my winning picture rack.


I think the sire should have some 3 bars blood
Or Joe Reed or maybe Dial
With a record on the Dams side
That is bulky in their file.


I'd like to win each race I run
To put me at the top
So that when the World Wide Days are held,
I wouldn't have to stop.


I'd like to win a few there, too,
And I would be so proud;
A trophy would be nice, dear Lord,
While we pose before the crowd.


This is my prayer to you, Lord
And don't think me out of line;
I'd settle for some horses
That win part of the time.


Amen.


(c) Nellie Hall 1970







What family treasures do you have to be grateful for, today?



Photo credit: All American Cutter Racing Association

Makeup Sex

Makeup sex (noun): cathartic copulation practiced by two consenting relationship-bound adults after a spat or argument, right? You fought. You’re sorry. You’re putting it all behind you with a little under-the-covers kiss and giggle.

I used to think of “makeup sex” that way, too. I got over it.

Now, “makeup sex” refers to the memorable and repeated experience of being screwed over by my cosmetics. It’s not the cosmetics companies’ fault. Sadly, I am an intelligent woman who, despite knowing her dermatological limits, continues to purchase and apply products to her skin, usually with horrifying results.

For me, like so many other girls, junior high was a period of dangerous experimentation. While my friends were exploring the limits of their recreational drug use and sexuality, I was living on the edge by applying glitter to my eyelids. “Ho-hum,” you say? “Yawn,” you declare? Let me tell you, I was living dangerously! As it turns out, I was allergic to whatever metallic garbage the glitter was made out of. My eyes were nearly swollen shut for a week.

Not one to learn a lesson easily, I spent a week’s worth of allowance on mascara in electric blue, teal and lavender. (God, forgive me – it was the Eighties.) The very first application of circus-caliber color to my lashes served as such an irritant to the rims of my eyes that I developed a raging infection, causing my eyes to actually glue themselves shut with bacteria-ridden, seeping goop.

I didn’t wear mascara again until I was 25, when a friend recommended her favorite brand of “hypoallergenic” mascara. I forked over forty bucks, and repeated my junior high medical misadventure. I’ve since concluded the use of the term “hypoallergenic” is actually just a little joke that advertisers like to play on people with sensitive skin.

For most of my adult life, I simply didn’t wear makeup. It wasn’t worth the hassle – or the medical bills. Time was taking its toll, though, and the smooth skin of my youth was being unkindly replaced by a drier complexion that, I knew, was just waiting to cultivate wrinkles. Fortunately, the miracle of alpha hydroxyl creams filled the beauty aisles at my favorite department store. Unfortunately, I was foolish enough to apply some to my face. Instantly, my face broke out in deep red splotches. Five minutes later, the hives started popping up. Within ten minutes, I was contacting the nearest burn treatment center and reconstructive plastic surgeons.

My highest level of makeup masochism came about a year ago, when a momentary lapse in judgment allowed me to purchase and apply a product I’d read about in a fashion magazine: lip plumper. The packaging promised “naturally fuller lips,” and it delivered, but the “plumping” effect was actually due to the blisters that immediately formed over every surface of my lips, and lasted a little longer than intended (about a week and a half).

My husband and I were in the car, en route to a family function, when I first applied it. “I wonder how it works?” I mused out loud as I stroked the clear liquid over my kisser with the sponge wand applicator. “I mean, how does it—HOLY CRAP!”

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?” my startled husband asked, as I used a Taco Bell napkin to try to wipe the battery acid off my lips. (That didn’t work, by the way – I only succeeded in rubbing it farther into my lip tissue, which, by that time, resembled raw hamburger.)

I tried to tell him my lips were on fire, but by that time, my medical status had progressed from burning to shock-induced numbness and it came out, “Muh wiffs uh on fiiiiiiiiuh!” My husband shook his head and kept driving.

I consider it a mark of true professionalism and experience that he doesn’t even bother with the “What were you thinking?” or the “You know you can’t wear makeup” and instead just drives me to the nearest emergency room.

Just when I was coming to terms with the reality that I may have to live my life in a bubble, I found the most amazing thing: Physicians Formula cosmetics.* Finally, a “hypoallergenic” label that isn’t a sick joke! All of their products are fragrance-free and gentle, even on my freakishly sensitive skin. As a bonus, they are absurdly affordable and I have yet to develop hives, blisters, seepage or partial blindness from any of their products… If that’s not an endorsement, I don’t know what is.


The above essay originally appeared on LipstickDaily.com. Unfortunately, the LD mamas, Kate and Elaine, have decided to shut down the site for the time being. With their blessing, I republished this treasure here, on TheGonzoMama.com. I wish Kate and Elaine all the love and merlot in the world, and I hope they'll put LipstickDaily back online sometime!

* Dear FCC: I have never received product or compensation from Physicians Formula cosmetics.** I just like to plug a good product when I find one.

**Dear Physicians Formula: I wouldn't necessarily OBJECT to compensation or free product... Just sayin'.


Photo credits:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/434pics/ / CC BY 2.0
http://www.flickr.com/photos/ashleyrosex/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Physicians Formula website

Bad Gratitude Monday: Thanks for the Global Warming, Mr. Gore!

Last Monday, due to the holiday, both the school and the daycare were closed. Fortunately, the weather was glorious and most of the snow had melted. I took Curlytop and Snugglebug to the Japanese garden for a little run-around-a-lot-because-Mommy-wants-us-to-take-a-nap time.

For once in my life, I had my camera with me and planned on posing the girls for some sweet pics in the garden. They, on the other hand, had other ideas. Every time I got the perfect shot lined up, they took off running. As a result, I got a lot of pics of the backs of their heads and bodies.

When we got home, I uploaded our pics to Facebook with a toddler on each knee, and let them describe what was going on the photo. Instead of my boring commentary, I used the girls' words for the captions. Here are some of my favorites:

Snugglebug: Look! I silly, climbin' on a rock!

Curlytop: Snugglebug wearin' shoes, Mommy!

Snugglebug: I go on there, Curlytop. I go, one, two, three... I go on there!

Curlytop: A biddge [bridge]!

Snugglebug: I's running!

Curlytop: Is a car! It not Mommy's car...

Me: A car? Is that what you see?

Curlytop: Yes, Mommy. A car. It not you car, okay?

Curlytop: A yock [rock]. Is a big yock. A real big yock.

Curlytop: Heeeheeheehehah! Look, Mommy! Boots [pointing to Facebook ad for Uggs in sidebar]!

Me: *sigh*

Curlytop: I lookin' at songun [something] on the ground...

Today, we woke up to this:

What a difference a week makes.

This Monday, I'm grateful for:

• The warm weather that allowed us to play comfortably in the fresh air last week
• The snow we have this week, which is essential for our agriculture
• Friends and family

What are YOU grateful for today?

Shave and a Haircut...

... two bits TOO BAD.

There I am, in all my makeup-free, split-end glory. I'm very aware of the fact that I need to get it cut before we go to Japan next month, but I'm sort of stalling. For no good reason, in fact.

It's not that I don't want my hair cut. It's not that Mr. Wright wouldn't watch the babes while I got it cut. It's certainly not that it doesn't need to be cut, for crying out loud.

It's just... Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that no one does it just right. I have yet to find my stylist soulmate, and I always walk out of the salon, cringing. 

Also? I don't know how I want it cut. That's a dangerous mental territory to be stranded in when you walk through the salon door, because someone will inevitably talk you into a cut that will cause you to walk out of the salon, cringing.

Plus? I want to do something different. Something a bit reckless and carefree. Something that says, I'm an individual, just like the 500 other trendy women in my county who have this cut! Something that doesn't require hot rollers, a curling iron, a blow dryer, hairspray, gel, mousse, pomade or spritz. Preferably something shower-optional, since sometimes I don't get a shower until afternoon nap time. You know, something I can sleep in and wake up looking glorious and ready to greet the Jehovah's Witnesses at the door! Something I can just fluff with my fingers and know I look HAWT. Hassle-free. Gorgeous and sophisticated.

Or maybe long, blonde waves... Can we make that out of the black, brittle, flat, limp, shoulder-length mop on my head? Could I please have Scarlett Johansson's hair transplanted onto my head?

What do you suggest, readers?

Photo from xrayvision.today.com

Mama's Reads: The Dust of 100 Dogs

Every once in a while, I read a book that's so amazing I have to recommend it to every book nut I know. As a library volunteer, I know a lot of book nuts. As a blogger, I probably know a lot more.

The Dust of 100 Dogs chronicles the story of Emer, a 17th Century teen who, through a strange set of circumstances, becomes a notorious pirate. After tangling with a nasty Frenchman, she finds herself cursed to die - and to live the lives of 100 dogs before she can return to human form - but not before she hides her booty in the sands of Jamaica.

Reclaiming her humanness as Saffron, the daughter of born-to-lose parents in contemporary America, Emer/Saffron carries with her the memories of not only her pirate life, but also the 100 dog lives she's lived. Now a complex teenager, all she wants is to graduate high school, hop a flight to Jamaica, and recover the treasure she buried there hundreds of years ago.

The Dust of 100 Dogs is a page-turning adventure and a star-crossed romance, all bundled into one of the most fantastic stories I've ever read. It's billed as Young Adult (YA), but I could not. stop. reading.

Fun fact about the author, A.S. King: I "met" her on IndieBound.org, where I use the handle jarethamarie. At the time, I knew she had a book coming out "sometime," but rather forgot about it until The Dust of 100 Dogs came across my library counter. You can follow her on Twitter here.

Can't wait to get your hands on this fabulous book? I don't blame you! You can shop from right here, and support an indie bookstore:


The Dust of 100 Dogs from an independent book retailer

Yup, that's an affiliate link, so you can also help me feed my kids. Win-win!

I Hope Jesus has a Sense of Humor

When GirlWonder's fifth-grade teacher informed us that our darling was an excellent student but had a habit of "blurting" out of turn, I wasn't surprised. In fact, I am pretty sure where she gets it.

I harnessed my dubious talents of blurting and having a general lack of decorum at a very young age. In fact, I skipped the third grade due to said talent. "I can't have her in my classroom another day," an exasperated Mrs. P complained to the principal and my mother. "She talks out of turn, blurting out answers. True, they're correct answers, but... I just think perhaps she isn't challenged enough."

Two weeks later, in Mrs. I's fourth-grade classroom, I spent recess inside, listening to her chastise me for correcting her in front of the class. "Perhaps you are, indeed, very familiar with Roman numerals. Perhaps the example that I posted on the board was, in fact, incorrect. However, in the future, you will call it to my attention privately, and not blurt it out in front of the entire class."

Well, sheesh. I was only looking out for the best interests of my fellow students. I mean, what kind of an education could they be expected to receive if I couldn't correct the errors of our teacher?

My high school English teacher actually removed me from the classroom for the duration of my senior year. "I feel that perhaps my class isn't challenging you enough," he sighed. "Perhaps you would benefit from an honors class of sorts... Go write a book. Check in with me at the end of the year." He didn't fool me. He just wanted to remove my loudly-stated ideas from the classroom.

True, these individuals held the keys to my educational success in their chalk-dusted hands, but it never really occurred to me to be afraid of ruffling feathers with my lack of propriety.

Jesus, though, is another matter. He holds my very salvation (along with "the whole world") in His hands.

Does Jesus make a note on my report card when I ask, in the middle of a sermon, if the land of milk and honey allows vegans? I'm seriously concerned about this. I mean, the Bible makes it sound like it's all that, but really? Milk and honey? Could it be any more un-vegan? What if I get to the land of milk and honey and find there is, in fact, no soy milk and no stevia? What am I going to do then?

And communion! I've screwed up communion so many times, I can't quite believe that it's not going on my permanent record. Sometimes, when my church forgets to order communion wafers, they substitute butter crackers or shortbread. On more than one occasion, I've piously placed the sacrament in my mouth, only to spit it out when I realized I just put a morsel of butter or egg-filled cookie in my mouth.

"What do I do?" I've asked my pastor. "I spit out the body of Christ! That can't be good, right? I mean, I'm a vegan on principle, and I don't think Jesus wants me to compromise my principles, but He can't be too impressed with me spitting out His body, right?"

I mean, really, what WOULD Jesus do?

Or, more appropriately, what would a vegan Jesus do? "The bread I'll multiply... But the fish? Really kid? Do you have any tempeh? Tofu?"

Bad Gratitude Monday (on Friday)

It's taken me all week to get to my gratitude post. I suppose I've been overlooking small, daily gratitude opportunities in my manic scramble to organize the upcoming Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between) show, but yesterday, I got my gratitude socks knocked off, and I couldn't put off the weekly gratitude any longer.

1. The officer assigned to Mr. Wright's assault left a voicemail stating, "We're ready to charge the three guys who jumped you... We've located two witnesses and have some suspect photos for you to look at."

2. The adoption support division called to say that both Curlytop and Snugglebug have been approved for adoption subsidy. That means they'll get medical coverage from the state until they graduate high school. It will cover their speech therapies, physical therapies, sensory integration therapies, occupational therapies and cognitive therapies. Treatment and monitoring of Curlytop's epilepsy will be covered. In-home nebulizers for Snugglebug's asthma and emergency room visits for steroidal treatments when she can't breathe will be covered. If the girls need counseling in the future to sort out their feelings about their birth parents, it will be covered.

I was actually so relieved after getting off the phone with the adoption support worker that I broke down and cried.

3. Finalization for the adoption of the girls' half-brother, Omri, should take place within the next week or two. The family who is adopting him had been in - as his adoptive mom calls it - "adoption hell" for the past several months, hitting paperwork snag after paperwork snag. Finally, blessedly, it appears that all of the documents are in order and the court is ready to proceed with finalization.

We are in frequent communication with Omri's adoptive family, with whom he has lived for most of his five years. Our families have both determined that building a relationship between the three children is a top priority for all of us. The children, even at this young age, know about one another, and we visit in person as often as possible.

I'm grateful, too, for Omri's adoptive mom, who is biologically the great-aunt to Omri, Curlytop and Snugglebug. She is the tribal family link to our girls' Native American heritage - a heritage we embrace, treasure, value and are dedicated to passing on to our daughters.

4. My column sparked another impassioned letter to the editor... and this time, it wasn't hate mail.

It was, instead, a totally supportive letter, affirming my point of view in my piece, Don't Lie for Me, Argentina? Cue warm fuzzies and feelings of validation.

What are YOU grateful for?

Bad Gratitude Monday (on Wednesday)

I'm just getting around to blogging today, but I couldn't forget about gratitude this week, because I have a lot to be grateful for.

This week, I'm feeling oodles of gratitude for:

1. The amazing mamas affiliated with Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between). These hot mamas are helping to pull everything together for our upcoming performance on August 1st in Chelan, Washington. It's going to be an amazing mamapalooza!

2. The Historic Downtown Chelan Association, who has generously agreed to sponsor our event. That means we'll have two additional hours of performances, vendor booths and the possibility of a wine garden!

3. My great friend, Mommy-Muse, who just moved to my town. She went to the pitch meeting with Historic Downtown Chelan Association with me, and was invaluable in her contributions and persuasive comments. You can follow her on Twitter for wonderful, inspiring tweets!

What are YOU grateful for?

Bad Gratitude Monday (Blushing Bride)

Look... I had long hair once. That's me, June 30, 2004. Any guess what I was doing that day?

This week's Bad Gratitude Monday is all about Mr. Wright, as we prepare to celebrate our five year anniversary.

Let me tell you, readers: Mr. Wright's list of talents is extensive, and I am grateful for each one of those talents. He is, in no particular order:

• gorgeous
• a wonderful cook (he even caters to my vegan diet!)
• a rock-solid political strategist
• my Sanity Management Director
• a rockin' drummer
• a top-notch snuggler
• the only person on the face of the planet who FULLY "gets" my sense of humor
• a compassionate sounding board
• my equal when it comes to useless trivia (a huge feat, folks)
• the guy who tirelessly plays the "random lines from Eighties movies" game with me
• the sweetheart who picks the non-vegan Jelly Belly jelly beans out before giving me a handful
• a bigger deal than Bob on the Enzyte commercials, if you know what I'm saying...
• the only guy who has ever beat me at Scrabble
• the dorkishly sweet man who carries pictures of my boobs around on his computer when he's away on business
• my favorite travel companion
• a phenom on the dance floor
• the sacrificial prince who makes coffee before waking me up and drives 30 miles in the middle of the night to buy me an emergency Diet Coke
• the attentive companion who makes sure I eat when I'm manically working on a project
• a guy that even my girlfriends like to have around on Girls' Night because he's so darned cool
• the wonderful father of our seven children
• my biggest fan and cheerleader (or is that "cheer king?")
• a saint for putting up with me

His favorite of our wedding photos:

My favorite:

That was back when we only had five kids, after all...

A friend recently asked me if I was a "trophy wife" when we wed, since I'm a newer, sleeker version than the original. "Maybe," I answered. "And I'm totally okay with that!"

GRATITUDE.

What are YOU grateful for?

Wedding photos by Dean's Photography

No Longer a Birthday Princess

Why do mamas always get the short end of the stick when it comes to birthdays? We bust our butts, making sure our offspring have MTV-worthy celebrations, but who is throwing us rock star birthday parties?

My guest blogger, Rose Norton, recently had a birthday. She's taken time to reflect on how we mamas get ripped off when it comes to birthdays. Check out her hilarious blog... I promise you'll laugh!

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When we think of birthdays, we think of that magical day when we are the 'special princess‘. It is a day of pampering and love and gifts and smiles and booze and sex. People go out of their way for you just so you can live the day in bliss. The mere mention of your name should send people out for chocolate and perfume.

For one day, you are a goddess. And all you do is sit regally and look down at the nimiety of gifts at your feet. And you’re drunk and sexy. And everything you eat has the calorie content of celery. And kittens purr louder just for you.

For some odd reason, this doesn't happen for me!

I admit this is a little disappointing. Even still, every year I hold fast to the hopes of being gifted a bottomless bucket of love and booze. Instead, there is an overflowing toilet to deal with and play practice and sobriety, thanks to the tandem tantrums the babes are having. The duties override the carnal need for debauchery.

It's mommyhood.

There were times when I didn't have responsibilities on my plate, as I do now, and I had some great birthdays. If we went chronologically, I think I was super happy for the first three birthdays, and from about the age of four through eighteen I was grounded on my special day. I was trouble.

Imagine, if you will, being grounded on your birthday at Disneyland. Yup, it happened.

My two favorite birthdays were my 20th (where I tripped around the Gorge for three days, never sleeping once) and my 23rd (where I finally fell in love with my hometown, as I skinny dipped and walked around naked with 15 dear friends). After that, it sort of went downhill.

At the time of my 24th birthday my then-boyfriend , now husband, gave me a gift. It was the last gift he ever gave me. I came home from work and upon arriving, he asked me to close my eyes and walk outside, down the steps, around a corner (by this time I was thinking if it wasn’t my palomino pony I’ve been wanting for 20 years, I would leave him) and then he said, “Okay! Open your eyes!”

Certain people express disappointment in different ways. Some cry and crumple, some curse the heavens and beat their chest. I took the logical approach.

Me: Interesting. Hmmm. Tell, me have I ever told you how much I like goldfish?

Eric: No

Me: That’s because I don’t, Eric. I don’t like goldfish.

Eric: But I like goldfish! And I like you, so I just assumed you would like them.

Me: I can see how your train of thought would lead you to that conclusion. Permit me to derail it, though.

Eric: But, see! When I put the fountain in it, it’s really cool, huh?

Me: Exactly what possessed you to think of getting me feeder goldfish in a pond that is now taking up the crafting table?

Eric: Well, they were right next to the cake at the store……

I’m going to stop this right here. I don’t think I need to elaborate any further. I went to the refrigerator and took a look at my cake. “Happy rthday ose” is all that I could make out, due to the fact that a slice had already been dislodged.

From there on, birthdays took a turn for the mundane. The mother’s burden is never lifting, regardless of the date. You get the birthday song when you are cleaning up your children after they do their biz-nasty on the john. But rewards are simpler and more worthwhile. The cards I got from the kids were dripping with love and toothpaste (how else would you stick sequins on?).

But virtually, I had a great birthday! Thanks to social networking sites, people sent me birthday love in bundles. I even got a Youtube video of Paul McCartney singing the birthday song. Computers knew it was my birthday. I went to the gym for a birthday-air-conditioned-run and when I swiped my member card, instead of a melodious, “welcome” calling over the speakers, a demonic voice garbled a sinister, “Happy Birthday.” It was like I had the devil himself chanting underwater, which scared the hell out of me, but I was nonetheless touched.

Now I have to pose a question; if you only have a virtual birthday, do you actually age?

I’m 29 this year! I’m officially a grown up! After this birthday, the only thing that’s left is anniversaries of my 29th birthday. I bet I could get at least another fifteen years of my 29th birthday anniversary. Well one can only hope.

So, here’s to us! All mothers that never really had the birthdays of our dreams. May we forever be 29 years old! May our thighs stay skinny, may our children give us foot rubs and feed us dark chocolate and mimosas all day. May hot men fan us and give us stripteases, and may our husbands wash the toilets and feed the dogs.

Viva la mama!

Virtually yours,

Rose

Photo by Pink Sherbet Photography