YIN MY YANG, BABY

I clean.

They mess.


Yin and yang, right?


Once in awhile, I actually feel I’m approaching nirvana (shut it) as I get to the end of a session of wiping, scrubbing, and disco dancing (What? Doesn’t everyone dance the dirt away? Um, don’t answer that.).

But ultimately, after much (okay, some) thought and quiet meditation, I've come to the realization that I don’t feel that I’ve been placed on this earth to be my family’s maid.


Homey don’t play that.


I watched my mom clean up after her three girls and my dad (at least until she recruited us to fend for ourselves) and, after a few months of making my own lunches and unloading the dishwasher at the tender age of eight, I knew I didn’t want that crap job for life. Nope, uh-uh, no way.


I wanted to get an education so I didn’t have to be a housewife (come to think of it, while we were cleaning up, mom was reading books in her Laz-y-Boy….not sure who got schooled exactly, there…). Huh.



My parents, neither of whom went to college, made it clear: there was no question that my sisters and I would attend college and graduate. Which we all did. My younger sister even has a Masters degree (show off). All us little chickees then spread our wings and flew gracefully (well, some more than others) off into the world.


My drive and ambition kicked into high gear early on. Maybe it was the cheerleader in me (I was the smart-took-AP-classes-didn’t-get-pregnant rare species), who knew I wanted to get the hell out of Sacramento pretty much back when I was in high school. I was not gonna be a townie. Ask anyone who knew me back then--I was not long for that place. I wanted to travel. And I wanted to live somewhere pretty.


I moved back east in my twenties – on my own. Not with my family, not because of a guy. Got my own promotion, fancy car, nice home. Far away from the thought of keeping house for some guy in my hometown. As if. Went to Europe a few times, the Caribbean, Hawaii. Met a man.


Fast forward twenty years: married said man (in ’92), hated the career choice so I quit in ’04, have two young children, and…I’m an OC housewife (not in Sacramento, thank God). I live in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, mere steps from the gorgeous Pacific Ocean. We’re not rich, but we’re pretty happy.


Not that I see the ocean that often. Cause if I’m not stepping on tiny little Lego people, I’m looking for their minuscule heads and arms my five-year old son suddenly can’t live without; finding plastic swords in my pocket or makeup case; cleaning sticky bubble-gum flavored lip gloss off my car’s leather seats; hunting down Spongebob undies and left-handed scissors; and scrubbing my kitchen counter at least three times per day from flu-spreading germs while fighting cavities and naughty words in a single bound.


(I think women who say they love all this may be lying. I love the soft cheeks, precious hugs and snuggles, reading books and chats. I don’t even mind the fatigue or when they’re sick. A Lego light saber stuck in my heel, not so much. But, I love it more than some idiot manager going off on me and all the inane reports. I will admit—it IS more fun to watch my five-year old lose his shit. That is cute. So in that regard, okay yes…I love it. Passionately.)


All while writing books and now helping writers learn social media. (So technically I WORK – just waiting for the making money part to kick in :-).


I took to motherhood like a bird takes to flight, which surprised me a little given that I’m kind of a high-strung selfish bitch. Vodka helps. Finding a balance between writer and mom is a constant struggle. Throw in finding (and using) my groove as a sexy woman and whoa – it can be an effort. Humor, snark, coffee, red hair – those are my crutches. (Well, don’t forget black heels and nude lip gloss--like you would.)


As is a guy who cooks, semi-does the laundry, and makes me killer martinis at just the right moment when I’m clinging to the ceiling like a cat on its ninth life.


I’m not complaining.


A cleaning fairy would really clinch the deal though.





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CRIMINALLY LAME (An Indie Ink Challenge)

I participated this week in the awesomely cool challenge posed by the innovative folks over at Indie Ink. Check em out if you haven't done so. I j'adore them.




Challenge: Is our society still worthy of the debt metaphorically being paid to it by criminals?


Uh-oh.


Listen, I’m that snarky writer chick from Orange County, CA. A redhead in a sea of blondes. Those are a lot of serious words for a girl like me:


Society.


Debt.


Metaphorically.


Paid.


Criminals.


Wow, when I received this prompt relayed by Indie Ink editor Stacy (who rocks), I immediately reached for my coffee. Realizing it was too late in the day for caffeine, I thanked the heavens for timing and made myself a dirty martini, double, extra olives. Phew. I clearly required an extra bit of, um, creativity for this project de-deconstruction.


Because, see…this is what I do. I deconstruct things. Well, usually men (a man is a thing, right? Noun = person, place, or thing. Oops.). I’m known as the Mancode chick. In fact, I’m writing a book about it. Er, them.


I observe male behavior and dare to ask WHY? How can men change the world but not a toilet paper roll? How can they check out a woman’s rack and think we don’t notice (um, as if)?


Now, granted, not all men do this. The seemingly perfect ones (who leave comments on my blog or Twitter stream, by the way), will be the first to disagree with me and tell me that I’m wrong. They’re right. That women actually owe a debt to men for all the wonderful things they do for their women, all the time. Obviously, I need to pull my head out of my ass. Metaphorically speaking, of course.


Other times I talk Chickspeak, where I parse out long-held maxims of the Mystery Female Society to dudes, along with a secret decoder ring. Most guys are willing to take the walk with me, given that they’ve more than paid in advance in sweat, blood, and tears while failing in their attempts to discover what “I’m fine,” or “I’m tired,” really mean. These essays tend to be some of my most popular for some reason. Hmmm.


So what does all this have to do with criminals? Jack, really.


Though, as I watched the vodka swirl in my martini glass from my cozy perch here in my warm (albeit small by OC standards) comfortable home, I did have this thought:

As we leave the poor to fend for themselves, creating opportunities for crimes to occur out of necessity for survival - where Mancode and Chickspeak, Twitter and blogs don’t matter - when children’s hungry bellies are the order of the day…maybe we need to question who the criminals really are.


Uh-oh.
 
 
Comments and retweets welcome. Thanks.

TOUCH

She feels his hands holding her soul.

Keeping the garden of her emotions,


Close inside his fist.


Meeting her rush of words,


With a silent finger.


Shhhh….







Standing guard his heart,


Brushing aside all that matters,


With his clear-eyed gaze.


He grasps her fire,


Before watching


It slowly fall.







Dusting off her tears,


Work to be done.


He knows but can’t see,


What he can’t hold.


She turns, waiting…


Urgent for his touch.









He clasps in his hands


What he can’t deny,


And doesn’t question.


It’s what he doesn’t


Carry anymore,


That cages him.








They walk along the shore,


Folding her heart in his hands.


He keeps it with him,


In the pages of his journal,


Like a bookmark keeping his place


Hidden, perhaps mislaid.







She used to be so strong,

Never handing over her love.

But he’s taken her, filled her…

His slave, his mercy.

Her heart so raw; he doesn’t know--

She’s already lost.

 
 
 
 
A departure for me today. I hope you enjoyed it. Comments and retweets appreciated.
 
 
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CHICKIE NO TALKIE (A #CHICKSPEAK POST)

Women speak a language all our own.

This is not news to men.


When we say “I’m fine,” the smart men among you have figured out that we are anything but, and you circle around us like vultures going in for the kill. Which you are really…if you have any hope of ever getting laid again. Finding out why we are not fine, usually simply by asking us (it’s not rocket science, dear), is the best way back into our good graces (yes, I mean beds).


Today I’m going to discuss our other language—our non-verbals. You know, the crossed arms, rolled eyes, and quiet glares that at times do quite nicely in place of “oh no he didn’t.”


Surely you know of what I speak.


You are a man, after all.


Let’s deconstruct, shall we?


• Crossed arms: usually when a person (male or female) crosses their arms during conversation, people interpret this as a sign that you have closed yourself off to what they are saying (which may or may NOT be the case. Some people simply prefer to listen with their arms crossed.)






Chicks however, when we are mad or irritated with you, will cross our arms as well as jut out one hip. This conveys that not only are you in the doghouse, but that you are to turn on the groveling channel—clearly you know what channel that is since you control the remote.

• Rolled Eyes: now I’m normally not an advocate of the eye roll. It’s kinda rude, a bit Valley Girl, and to be honest, so played. And we don’t, ya know, like, talk like that. (Okay, maybe just a little.)






However, a well-placed eye roll can be quite effective in showing one’s displeasure with one’s man, particularly when it has to do with him choosing football or golf over time spent with us. Or, ya know, when he’s wearing stupid pants.






• Quiet Glare: men, men, men. When will you catch on to The Quiet Glare? How many dinner parties/picnics/barbecues have I been to where I’ve given my man the “It’s time to leave, dear,” glare and he’s just not gotten it and kept on talking? Sigh. Eighteen years of marriage and he STILL hasn’t learned.






You can bet he got The Quiet Glare in the car on the way home.






To be fair to our poor, befuddled men, The Quiet Glare can be used for any number of reasons:






 Are you really going to wear that?


 You bought what for dinner?


 Where have you been?


 You didn’t put gas in the car like you promised…again.






Like that.






If you think we women are being bitchy or playing games (as some men on this blog have commented previously), I can’t say I disagree completely. But hey, that’s part of the dance. It’s the instinctive give and take, ebb and flow, clutch and release of male-female relationships.


Just as you like to see our racks--we just have to make you work a little for it (dare I say reach?).


Because that’s it right there--your non-verbal light at the end of the tunnel…that makes the dance all worth it.


 
 
 
 
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JUNE. SHOVE IT, PLEASE. (A Guest Post by Amber Scott)

The husband gave me the LOOK again last night. Do you know the one? That just-this-side-of -edible scowl over my latest attempt at a wholesome meal for my hardworkin’ man?

Uh…oops?


Honestly, though, I’ll take that scowl any day over the I-think-you-just-poisoned-me frown.

If I peer close enough, I can see my reflection in his gaze and can discern a tidy apron around my waist, a scotch in one hand and his slippers in the other. And I’m smiling. *ting*

That’s when I go throw up.

I blame his “Ma” and June Cleaver.


June showed her man how wonderful he was in all the little ways, with a gracious grin. Ma paid attention. Ma cooked hearty meals, packed his lunch every day, and on random days after school had new toys set up in the living room (surprise!) just to show how much she loved him.


Toys? I can do toys!! #yeahbaby


But, the rest of it? #forgetitimdone


I. Am. Not. June. Cleaver.


Nor am I Carol Brady. (except the hair on Wednesdays.)


In fact, I give Peg Bundy a run for her money. #seriouslyfolks


Why does this disappoint him so? When we met so, so long ago, he lurved my independent nature. He liked my roar! Now, he literally wonders out loud if, since I’m getting up early to write, why can’t I make him lunch, too?


WHAT?!


If I’m crawling on all fours to my laptop at o’dark thirty, toothpick-propping my eyelids open over a steaming cup of coffee strong enough to sucker punch me awake, I am not going to give up ten long glorious kid-free minutes to wipe peanut butter onto bread.


Does that make me an ingrate?


NO, really! Does it? Because the very idea makes me feel like my turtleneck shrank in the dryer. Oh, wait. I hate turtlenecks.


June, honey, I’m sure you are perfectly nice in person, but sometimes, I hate you.


Just sayin.




With a clumsy Cupid character like Millie Match, it's no wonder Amber Scott admits to her flaws. Yes, she burns dinner. But she cleans a mean dish then escapes into the fates, loves and complications of her characters.

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I expect a full report in the morning.

THE SHUSH. DECONSTRUCTED. (A Chickspeak Post)

Boys and girls watch movies differently.


In my house, the closest we’ve gotten to a chick flick lately is The Proposal with Sandra Bullock. My husband actually enjoys the movie. Well, I think he does. Usually, while it’s on, he and our five-year-old son are roughhousing so loudly that my eleven-year-old daughter and I can’t even hear the movie; so mostly I’ve watched how hubba hubba gorgeous Ryan Reynolds is, lip-read the dialogue, and drooled over Bullock’s fab clothing, shoes, and handbags.


It seems really good, though.


I’ve certainly enjoyed Reynold’s abs quite a lot.


When the boys watch their B sci-fi movies, like The Blob or the classic The Day The Earth Stood Still, the volume is turned up so loudly, surely our neighbors can hear every word.


I know my guys haven’t suddenly lost their hearing. I wonder--why do they have to have it up so loud? Especially since they’ve seen these movies at least fifty times already. Asking my husband to turn it down is apparently a travesty and against unsaid marriage vows (who knew?).


Thank goodness for iTunes and industrial strength earbuds.


Are men and women simply wired to watch movies differently from a young age?


Having observed a husband, son, and daughter, I’d say that’s an unqualified YES.


I was raised around women. I have two sisters, a niece, my mom, and (had) two grandmas. In my experience, chicks sit quietly when watching our preferred dramas or chick flicks, perhaps with popcorn, munching neatly, rarely speaking, wanting to hear every word of dialogue.

Men, on the other hand, will spread their snacks everywhere, chewing loudly (causing us to turn up the movie louder than we prefer until they’re done with their noisy mastication, followed naturally by bellowing burps), making comments and asking questions throughout.


Honestly. It’s why women have perfected The Shush.


Ask any man. They are familiar with The Shush.

Initially, The Shush is unisex. As children, we all grew up being shushed by our parents. “Why do… (insert annoying question here)...?” “Shush!” they admonished--and so it went. As young women, we were determined NOT to be a shusher. We vowed not to nag our men. Not to whine. Not to become our mothers.


But put us in front of our girlie shows with a chatty husband in the room and it’s all over, baby. We can’t help ourselves. We might as well let our hair go gray and start wearing the stretchy pants now.


What did women do before the pause button? Or rewind? DVRs? I shudder to think.


On the rare occasion you do get to enjoy your program, it is mandatory (See Mancode, page 102) that your fella whine about the girlieness of your show. Not that you give him a hard time about the manliness of HIS show—no, no. We’re not allowed.


My husband of course disagrees with my perception. He says he’s not a sloppy Carl’s Jr. ad. I think he just doesn’t notice because he’s so engrossed in his show. How can he not be? It’s so freakin loud.


Even if he wanted to think an actual coherent thought he can’t. He’s gone into The Zone. It’s part boy-selective-hearing, but it’s also that the synapses have failed to make the chick connection. Put a man in front of a television – no matter the screen size – and even Angelina Jolie might have a hard time getting his attention.

Especially if he can watch her in 3D.


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