Dirty Fish

Summertime is upon us, and unlike the rest of the country, we're a bit "Bleh" around here.

We eat out on our patio almost all year long. The beach is always 20 minutes away. Our neighborhood pool has been open for quite some time. The grass is perpetually green, the flowers always bloom.

Yawn. Sometimes great weather can be so boring.

So what did we do to shake things up? We had a bona fide date night, folks. With a real LIVE babysitter and an outing that did not involve Matt' s work. (The only date nights we've had since moving here have been to benefits where I came home with a puppy or drank too much and hid in the ladies room to avoid Matt's boss).

I put Matt in charge of the festivities. Which means at 6:30, he was shaking the crap out of his I-phone to find some decent places. (Oh Urban Spoon, you silly app- you really need to update your recommendations).

His I-phone led us to a sushi joint about 2 miles from our house. It's been there 30 years, and is "supposed" to be popular.

It's not.

It is dirty though.

A bit of history? I'm not much of a sushi fan. I've learned to work around certain things because my husband adores Japanese food. And when I was pregnant, it was all I wanted to eat, which was ironic and convenient at the same time. But this place? This place was G-R-O-S-S. They sat us at a booth next to the kitchen, and despite the Japanese banners covering the doorway, I could still see a dirt infested kitchen with multiple buckets filled with grey water.

My sushi tasted funny, which was all probably in my head, because I had visions of them dipping it in dirty bucket water before rolling it on their cute little bamboo mats.

I didn't eat very much, but my husband proclaimed the "Dirty Fish" (as we now call it) to be fantastic. He took pity on me and then drove me to a snazzy wine bar so I could wash out my mouth with a Sauvignon Blanc.

Next date night is all mine, folks. And after "Dirty fish" I think I'm going to take him to a reading of "Bridget Jones' Diary" and out for tampon shopping. It's the least I could do.

Completely Random and Useless

I don't really have anything interesting to post.

I do have a sink filled with dirty dishes, and yet I'm using my superpower abilities to turn them invisible and thus ignore them.

I spent yesterday afternoon planting petunias and other annuals (so named because you throw useless money away at them annually). They already look tired and droopy.

My kids are now reenacting their own UFC tournament, and I'm second guessing my decision for a camp-free summer.

I had my first Sprinkles cupcake yesterday (won't be my last, damn are those good) and it counterbalanced the gardening and my "30 Day Shred" attempt.

The 4.7 earthquake from the other night rattled more than my house. I keep thinking I'm feeling aftershocks.

I got my hair highlighted last week and the guy used a purple toner. I now look like an old lady. Say hello to LollyGranny!

I am secretly hoping I run into "DeeDee" again.

Did you know Jackie O was 31 years old when she became first lady? I read that in a book and it completely freaked me out. And made me feel lazy.

I'm making sausage and peppers for dinner. (Chicken sausage from Costco- and my secret ingredient is to sweat the peppers and onions, and then add a splash of apple vinegar, a bit of sugar and tomato paste. Lots of garlic and you're done! And smelly).

The Emperor's New Workout Clothes

Today, I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It really wasn't all that bad, I just like to quote random children's books.

Have I told you lately that I despise my kids' preschool? I truly do.

A big problem with the school is the parents. Not a big community feel there, folks. Lots of fancy cars, lots of big diamonds and expensive yoga outfits, but not a lot of substance, if you catch my snotty drift. This morning, I was driving in the parking lot when a white Escalade cut me off and made me slam on my brakes. I noticed her vanity plates said "Dee Dee", and "Dee Dee" barreled towards the school and hightailed it into a handicapped spot. Able bodied and dressed in very expensive workout clothes, "Dee Dee" slung her expensive Dolce bag over her shoulder and grudgingly released her son from his carseat.

I purposefully parked right next to her, and worked up my best pre-coffee Evil Eye. "Dee Dee" was oblivious to my morning voodoo and pranced herself into the school. The security guard did roll his eyes after she sashayed past. We then shared a regular folk giggle about how ridiculous Orange County can be.

Closed Curtains

So this is kind of uncomfortable to talk about, but we are experiencing the first serious illness of one of our friends. I need to be somewhat vague on this whole thing, but it's disturbing, and distressing. At this stage in our life, we should be bitching about poopie diapers and hectic days filled with too much to do.

We have a friend fighting for her life. With stage IV Breast cancer that has spread. My husband is in the thick of it, serving as a medical translator at times, sourcing new information and relaying encouraging words from experts in the field. But mostly? Mostly he's being there for his friend.

She is writing as this process unfolds, and I find her writing, in all of its honesty, to be completely disarming. I've always felt like mortality was this kind of curtain, that is always in front our our face but we choose to not see. When something happens- something like this- I feel like the curtain is whipped away and we're forced to look at something that has been there with us all along. Does that make sense? The Italians have an old saying- if you ask them how they are doing, they reply:
"Fine. For now."

They get it. They get that time is fleeting and that the shit will hit the fan eventually. It made this mothers day that much more bittersweet, and I must confess that I scooped up my little ones and hugged them a bit longer.

My Bag Of Tricks Is Almost Empty

Today's surgery was a roaring success. The surgeon removed my Lucy's tonsils, and because he is a colleague of my husband's- he photographed them, and brought a copy of the photo out to the waiting room. Matt and Lucy's doctor huddled over the picture, and I overheard her surgeon exclaim, "Now those were some big gazongas!" (Note: must check WebMD for latest definition of "gazonga").

When I got to the recovery room, I tried to blot out the images of gurneys being rolled by with little kids strapped down, moaning from the anesthetic. I also tried to blot out my insensitive husband, who sees this stuff every day and would exclaim with glee "Look! Another Casualty!".

This was an outpatient clinic- so all of the kids around us were having ear tubes put in, or their tonsils and adnoids taken out. My lucky girl had all three. When I got to her, she was just coming to. They placed her in my arms, and I cradled her, and I kissed her, and then I tried to give her back.

She was pissed. Seriously, def-con level 3 mad. We tried to explain this to her in the days leading up to the procedure, but to a 3 year old, all you really hear is "What? I get to eat ice cream? FOR DINNER? FOR TWO WEEKS? Bring it on!".

The reality? Not so pleasant. She's grumpy. She's mad because her throat hurts. She's mad because I can't draw a butterfly exactly like her eight year old cousin. She's mad because there are bubbles in her bath, and then sobs when they all go down the drain. The dog licks her and it makes her scream. He scurries away and that makes her sob.

All joking aside, I am so grateful and blessed that this is all I have to complain about. That my little one is well enough to be crabby, and that we were out of there in 5 hours. And since I started sobbing like a banshee when they came to take her to the OR, I'm pretty sure the hospital was grateful to see me go too.

I Speak Nerd Fluently

Tomorrow, my 3 year old is getting her tonsils taken out. They are also removing her adnoids and putting in new ear tubes. I'm certainly not looking forward to the procedure, or the recovery- but it will be great to not have a little Darth Vader in bed with me at night. Her snoring and sleep apnea has gotten so out of control, that she awakens in the morning with dark circles under her eyes.

In other news, I went to the Apple store yesterday to get my macbook fixed. The power outlet stopped working, and although I dread having to visit the pompously named "Genius Bar", I'm continually amazed at Apple's awesome customer service.

My "Genius" had bigger boobs than me. He was wearing a blue t-shirt that read "Not all heroes wear capes" and I overheard him talking about the new Wolverine movie. He looked at me warily, fixed my problem in ten seconds, and grinned sheepishly when I loudly proclaimed:
"YOU ARE A GENIUS! THANKS SO MUCH SUPERMAN!"

We then got to talking, and I immediately slipped into my nerd lingo. I quoted a little Tolkien, discussed the movie "The Matrix" and talked my genius into putting a new top and keyboard on my out-of-date warrantied laptop for free. I promised to come visit him when the new i-phone comes out, and may convince him to let me take him to the spa next door to get his uni-brow waxed. And buy a man-bra.