It all comes from cows! Just move!

I am the main procurer of food in my household.  And I can feed my family of four three meals a day on four hundred dollars a month. Go me!  (Making things from scratch is one of the key elements to eating cheap but that's another blog) 

Since I work from home, well, being home is sort of my job, I have the luxury of not having to go to the supermarket between the hours of 4:30 and 7:00 p.m. during the week.  I can't say I enjoy waiting in line to pick out bananas.  Or getting stuck in the shopping cart traffic jam in the condiments aisle.  And those blind corners actively frighten me. 

This week, after I attended a focus group I took my envelope of cash and went to the grocery store at 6:30 in the evening on a Monday.  There were a number of items gone from the shelves.  Just an empty display where the bananas should be.  I know they were on mega-sale, but shouldn't there be at least a few green hands of 'naners? 

I actually had the thought "Is there some kind of emergency happening that I don't know about?".  Remember the movie "Shaun of the Dead"?  How Shaun doesn't know the zombie apocalypse is happening because he hasn't watched television and is really hungover?  That would happen to me. I'd be listening to CDs in the car, watching Netflix instant at home and miss the fact a hurricane was bearing down. 

I was living about forty miles from Los Angeles when the riots broke out in 1992.  Local grocery stores restocked water three times in six hours, which I thought was ridiculous.  I knew there were bored, idiot teenagers who'd run out to riot in the streets of Cucamonga  (meaning they'd go to their high school to spray paint and throw trash cans around) , but not to the point one needed to lay in a supply of water and canned goods.

Anyway, I went to the store and remembered why I don't go to the store at 6:30 in the evening on a Monday.  People in their work clothes were crowding around the deli counter for a prepared dinner to take home.  Women in gym clothes were loading up on fruits and veggies, all of them wanting the same grapes and plums I did.  Then they'd stand in front of the black plums for a while for apparently no reason at all.  Or maybe it was to purposely keep me from getting to the plums because they thought of them as THEIR plums.  I know that's paranoid but the grocery store does that to me sometimes.  

Milk is the worst.  How long does it take to select milk?  Why does a person stand in front of the display frowning, pondering?  

I want to wave my arms around and shout  "It's milk!  You pick up a jug and put it in your cart! The difference between one percent and two percent is one percent!!  Pick it up!  PICK IT UP!  You know what?  Step away from the milk. You can't handle the milk!  Auuuuggghhhh!"   I wonder if they order a half-skim, half-whole milk latte because the milk thing is just too confusing?

I understand taking your time on bath tissue as the difference it makes in your quality of life is significant, but milk?  Come on!

I must remember to wait until after 8 o'clock in the evening if I need to get foodstuffs.  It would make me less crazy.

I did, however, get an invitation to have coffee from a very nice man named Roger. 

Amanda's beauty tip of the day:  If your skin creates a lot of oil,  a thin layer of milk of magnesia will help absorb the excess oil.  You can layer your foundation over it.  The milk of magnesia can also be used to spot treat blemishes. 

Are you sure this is legal?

I'm a mom.  I've been a mom for a decade.  Being a mom leaves a big gap in one's resume, so I have to be creative in my attempts to increase our household's income.

I sell things on ebay.  I take clothing and shoes to consignment stores.  I've sold a few paintings.  And I've figured out how to get paid for online surveys.  It takes some research.  Not all survey sites are created equal.

MySurvey.com  will mail you a check upon request or they have an extensive list of merchandise and gift cards to choose from.  The more surveys you take, the more they send you.  Once in a while you'll be selected to try out a product, shampoo or some such thing.  I was one of the try-er out-ers of an Herbal Essences shampoo before it hit the market.

But Online Opinion rarely approves you to complete any of their surveys, so I've marked them as spam.

I've filled out multiple questionnaires about our financial situation, H1N1, my grocery shopping habits and even the movie Eat, Pray, Love.  (I answered their questions truthfully.  I can't stand Julia Roberts and refuse to see any of her movies.)

Through my continued searches for ways to make a little extra cash with the least amount of effort, I've gotten registered with local market research companies.  The first time I was approved for a focus group I thought it was too good to be true.

"Wait a second? I tell you my opinion and you PAY me?  Is this a joke?"  But, yep, that's what it is.

You arrive, partake of the snacks and beverages the company has set out for the group.  Sometimes, there's an early-bird drawing,  meaning, if you arrive 15 minutes early your name is entered into a drawing for an additional wad of cash.

After you hang out with the focus group in a room with microphones and cameras giving your opinion you're handed and envelope of money.   Sometimes, you arrive for the focus group but aren't selected to participate.  You still get the envelope of money.

These days are fantastic.  I will take total advantage of the fact I already have a babysitter and go wild.  I'll hit the bookstore before having a meal by myself.  It's surprising I've never been arrested the way I run amok!

It's almost as good a gig as my full-time housewife job.  Which I should be getting back to, but I have a survey to fill out real quick.

Amanda's beauty tip of the day:  To clear up a blemish quickly, put a little lemon juice on it a couple of times a day.

The Breakfast Club

There's been a goodish amount of attention given to the 25th anniversary of the movie 'The Breakfast Club".  

When this movie came out I was deep in the throes of adolescent misery.  My hormones were raging.  I was convinced that I was the only one who didn't have it all together, felt fat and ugly all the time, had no idea what to do with my hands and was terrified of sex.   

And this movie came out.  Containing every single high school archetype.  Each and every person in high school could be assigned to one of these symbolic characters.  

Oh, how I ached to be Claire.  Molly Ringwald.  Pretty, rich, popular, thin. So many of us wanted to be Molly Ringwald with her red curls and her fantastic wardrobe.  I was so far removed from that clique of popular, pretty girls and jocks I still don't have any idea what they are like.  

Life seemed so easy for them.  Good looking, well dressed, allowed to go on unchaperoned ski trips with eight friends, the hotel room paid for by one of the parents.  They drove up the mountain in a 1967 Mustang and a Blazer, 16th birthday gifts.

How do I know about this?  They took a video camera and filmed the whole thing.  The tape was dubbed and passed around, even reaching me and my morbid crew.  

They went to senior prom in a huge group on a party bus complete with bar and bartender, again paid for by parents.  They had those nice cars and enough money to buy cocaine. 

Why wouldn't I long to be in their good graces?  Not that I would have been allowed to go skiing at a resort six hours away.  The road trip required one item to be shoplifted from each gas station they visited.  There was a huge amount of alcohol and I would have been expected to have sex.  I'm pretty sure I would have been rejected on the grounds I was too uptight.  

They didn't like me, well! I didn't like them either!  They could just keep their keg parties, their Mustang convertibles and their size six Guess jeans.  I'd keep my poetry journals, my beat up Toyota and my combat boots.  They could strut around knowing they had the world on a string and parents rich enough to pay for it.  I'd keep pretending I had nothing but contempt for them.  Stupid people who weren't smart enough to have fun without a Coors party ball.  

I may not have consciously realized it at the time, but The Breakfast Club told us that we were actually all the same.  They were just as insecure and sad as I was.  They wanted to say no, they didn't want to go skiing but then they'd be ousted. They wanted to write poetry but their friends made fun of them.

Maybe they listened to X and the Violent Femmes when they were alone in their car the same way I listened to Whitney Houston and  Bon Jovi.  How many of them wanted to put on a black dress and come sit with us in the shade where we'd stay pale?  Did they want to  go with us to this new thing they'd heard of called a 'coffehouse' to drink something called a 'cappuccino' and smoke cloves?  

They were, according to this film,  just a bunch of miserable kids in the middle of a miserable time trying to figure out ways to not be miserable.  

Small comfort during that transitional time, but comfort none-the-less.  Now that I'm staring down the barrel at forty, I want to hug Claire when she says she hates doing whatever her friends say and tell her they hate it too.  That it's going to be okay, high school ends.  It ends and when you run into people who go on and on about how high school was the best time of their life, you feel sorry for them.  It's just....... high school.  

And, this film taught me how to apply lipstick with my cleavage.  Next time you see me at a party ask me to show you.  

Amanda's beauty tip of the day:  If your elbows have gotten so dry they've cracked, put a big blob of Vaseline in a  plastic bag and heat it in the microwave.  Stick your elbow in it for a little while.  Repeat until you feel a difference.  This will work on your heels too.

Trust? What is this trust you speak of?

Not long ago, I went to spend some time with a couple of very excellent mom friends.  We try to get together once a week to keep our sanity in check.  We vent about our children, our husbands, our lives.  We talk about the funny things that happened that week,  books we're reading, shows that are worth getting from Netflix.  It's 90 minutes I look forward to every week.

I've admitted to everyone I know that I need a lot of attention.  I just do.  I talk a lot.    I've actually gotten better.  It may not seem like it to those who spend time with me, but I have.  I swear! 

My friends had invited a couple of their friends, which is great.  I like meeting new people.  I'm a social sort of person.  One of the women I've met before and like very much.  I was glad to see her.  

I had known that she was completing her Master's in photography but I had never pondered it.  The new person I met was asking her a bunch of questions about getting her degree.  They were questions I wanted to hear the answers to so I was listening intently.  

Then the little voices started to creep in that it was really, really stupid of me to even think about pursuing a career in art of any kind.  I've been thinking very seriously about starting the long road to becmoing an art therapist.  I'll need a Master's, possibly a Ph.D.  to practice.  

However, listening to this very talented woman discuss her final project, paper, and display got me really squirmy about my own talent.  It's not her fault that I have these issues, it's mine.  I'm clear about that.  But my continued need to pinch myself out of feeling any sort of confidence is troubling.  And, of course, my taking to the internet to proclaim that I AM talented and should go after anything I want to do is the most conceited thing I could do.  I'd be fishing for "oh we love you!  Yes, yes you are fantastic!"  and who wants to be that pathetic?  

I finally got the courage to create at almost forty and now I'm trying to talk myself out of it because my stuff might not be everyone's cup of tea.  What was it I told my Brownies?  Don't let anyone tell you your art has no value?  If it has value to you, it's valuable? Isn't that what I said?

Jackson Pollock is understood by very few people outside of the art community.  Rembrant, Monet, Rafael, Cezanne, Zuberon, Van Gogh, Degas, Goya, Picasso hundreds of others as the art museum in Pasadena used to tell us on local Los Angeles area television were there for the general public to appreciate.  Pictures that looked like something that a person could recognize.  Even in Picasso's paintings you could tell what it was he was painting.  It doesn't make Jackson Pollock's work any less valuable or significant.  

But what makes art significant?  Because it sells for a great deal of money and it must be good?  Because the reviewers tell us it is?  Because the artist was tortured, depressed, sex addicted, drug addicted or all of the above?  

Andy Warhol pointed out that art is around us all the time, we just don't see it anymore.  His art was art because he said so.  He proved that it's just that easy.  Here is a Campbell's soup can.  An artist designed this, created this, this is art.  See?   I told you so.  

Children create artwork with no strings attached.  In the children's book "Dot", the main character is told by her art teacher to make any mark on her piece of paper.  She draws a dot.  Her teacher then tells her to sign it.  Now it's artwork.  Our heroine goes on to make bigger dots, colorful dots, textured dots, sculptures of dots.  She finds her artistic voice.  

Then she encourages a boy to make any kind of mark on a paper.  He draws a line.  She tells him to sign it.  Now it's artwork, a place to start finding his voice.  

I've just started to find my voice.  A woman who bought two of my acrylic on paper paintings, told me not to doubt my voice.  Sure, try different tones and pitches, but stay true to my voice.  It will tell me what to say.  

Maybe I'm not right for the Art Institute.  Maybe it's not right for me.  Maybe I'm right for community college first and then trying for the University of Texas program.  Or that process will lead me somewhere else.  Midwifery, a career in the funeral industry, education, who knows?  

These are the most difficult processes for me, trusting, waiting.  I can't do anything but trust myself that it is the way I feel it is.  The possibility of being wrong.  

I can't think of anything more scary.  And since it's frightening, it's probably something I need to do.

Amanda's beauty tip of the day:  Exfoliate your skin before you shave, wax or use a depilatory to prevent bumps. Exfoliate regularly afterwards to prevent ingrown hairs. 

Allow me to tell you why my daughter rocks.

My daughter is great.  Of course, I would think this anyway because she's, well, my daughter.  But this week she told me a great story after school.

Scott and I were both teased in school.  Neither of us handled it very well and we've carried that with us up until today.  I know everyone gets teased.  But we were both subjected to being hit/kicked in the back of the head, having the bathroom stall door kicked in while we were in there and other mean things.  (To this day I'll press my feet against a stall door if I'm feeling insecure)

I picked Zoe up from school and asked her to tell me two good things that happened at school.  We ask her this everyday.  She told us she was silly at recess.  Oh?  What happened?

Well, turns out that someone let their dog poop on the playground and didn't pick it up.  Zoe stepped in it a little.  Her friend yelled that Zoe stepped in dog poo!

Zoe announced "So?  I have two dogs at home.  I step in dog poop all the time.  I LOVE! dog poop!"  then she ran  after the kids standing around, waving her arms and yelling "I love dog poop!  I love dog poop!" before going back to what she was doing.

I almost cried with happiness.  She handled that gorgeously.   There's nothing to say to that.  She's also told us about days when one of her friends is in a bad mood and acts out, tossing pebbles at her or calling her a name.  In those instances, Zoe leaves after asking her friend to stop.  She just walks off and does something else.   I was an adult before I learned that skill.  

We told her she was awesome.  She grinned and giggled.

I have heard that parents have started to advise their children to say 'Yeah, and?'  when someone says something nasty about them.  There's no answer to that.

You're ugly!!!
Yeah, and?
Uhhh......


This is pretty much what my daughter did that day.  Said Yeah, and? and it was over.


The fear, of course, is that the bully will become frustrated and smack you one.  But, you're not the one who'll be suspended.

The anti-bullying attitude in schools is very different from when I was in school.  We are very lucky that we live in an area where the school district takes it very seriously.  I have confidence that, should we have an issue, we would be listened to and a plan put into place.

If not, I'll send my kids to martial arts classes and tell them to defend themselves but only if they have to.

However, it would appear that we've got a nice amount of self-esteem going on in our girl-child.  She should be able to handle things on her own.

Amanda's beauty tip of the day:  Mayonnaise is still one of the best deep hair conditioners.  Apply to dry hair, concentrating on the ends.  Put on a shower cap and leave it for as long as you can stand it before shampooing.

Are you two kidding me?

I'm an only child.  I need to preface what I'm about to tell you with the fact that I'm an only child.  I don't have a sibling.  I don't have any other person who grew up in the same house I did.  I have no understanding of the sibling connection.

While my children are different genders and four years apart, they're close.  There are days they get along remarkably well.  Zoe is a protective big sister.  If she's finds out someone is being unkind to her brother she'll fetch him and keep him close to her. 

When he was tiny, she was his very favorite person.  He'd scream with happiness when he saw her.  The first time he walked to a person was to his sister.  Up until 9 months ago, he called her "My Zoe".  

Will is now four.  Zoe is nine.  They know how to push each other's buttons.  Sometimes you can just see the delight in their eyes in making the other one crazy.  I have no idea what to do about this fighting for the sake of fighting.  I've been told the thing they are fighting over doesn't matter.   They'll fight over anything if they're in the mood.   

Not long ago we all went for a hike at a park that is dog friendly.  You can let your pets off their leashes so they can run and splash in the creek.  The dogs loved it.  They ran hard and got all wet and muddy.  Everyone you meet has a dog, so you're all members of the dog owner's club.  Lots of instant friends. 

Part of using this particular trail is that you are expected to clean up after your dog.  It helps keep the creek and surrounding woods clean as well as the shoes of your fellow hikers.  The park has thoughtfully provided bags at the beginning/end of the trail.  

Whenever we are out walking the dogs in our neighborhood the kids want nothing to do with this process.  On the trail, however, they wanted to help.  We were very pleased that they were showing a sense of responsibility.  And I guess the doggies found pooping in the woods exciting because they pooped a LOT.  

Once we got the bags filled and tied either Scott or I would carry them.  Then each of the kids started asking to carry them.  

When Zoe had one, Will got upset because he didn't have one.  He ran up to his sister and tried to take the bag away from her.  She cried out that Willie had taken the bag from her.  Then she tried to grab it back. 

My children were fighting over a bag of shit.  

We had to promise that when we cleaned up after the dog again we would make sure that each of them had a bag of shit to carry.  

Parenting is surreal sometimes.  I plan to use this story when my children bring friends home.  "Remember when you and your brother were fighting over that bag of dog poo?  hee hee hee!"  

That's going to be fun.

Amanda's beauty tip of the day:  Putting milk in your bathwater and exfoliating with sugar will leave you with silky soft skin.  

Getting over being ashamed of monogamy

I recently had a conversation with a friend about polyamory.  We've both known couples who've opened up their relationships.  Either to just one other person or to several who come and go. Some to great success. 

It's none of my business what anyone does inside of their own relationships.  It doesn't make any difference in my life and I have no problem discussing it with my kids.  

In addition to the couples I've known who opened their relationships, I also have heard of people who tried to open up their partnerships.  

After a number of years being monogamous, one person met someone they really felt they could connect with.  They then went to their long term partner to discuss the possibility of trying out a polyamorous lifestyle. Maybe, just maybe mind you, changing the contract they made a long time ago. The issue was approached in a very intellectual manner.  A "we're just discussing the possible situation and how that would impact the two of us"  sort of conversation starter.  

It used to make feel unsophisticated or maybe emotional to a fault knowing that I would react, shall we say, badly to that particular topic.  I'd be hurt and pissed.  I'd feel like the person I really loved was asking for permission to cheat on me.  I'd demand my husband not even be friends with this person he wanted to spent more time with.   As much as I hate the word "disrespected"  I find it appropriate in this hypothetical situation.  

Years ago I watched the documentary When Two Won't Do about a woman who convinced her boyfriend to open up their semi-live in status.  But, when she would visit her other partner, she would repeatedly ask for validation.  "Are you sure?  Are you sure?  Are you sure?"  At one point she had three men in her life.  One was the man she lived next door to.  The other a man who was seeing just her.  The third a man who was actively involved in a polyamorous relationship. 

By the end of the film, the man who was seeing just her had met another woman who didn't dig the sharing thing.  He agreed to the new woman's terms.  And our heroine felt hurt and confused and mad.  

Her married but poly man brought his wife to meet her and the semi-live in boyfriend.  Things did not go well.  The wife said "You can't think you'll ever be as important as me".  And screamed they were breaking every rule before storming out of the room.  Later, the wife goes to see HER lover.  When they call her she yells at them on the phone before hanging up and refusing to speak to them. 

And in all this looking for attention and love and validation the wife never found it.  Not in any of the relationships she was a part of.  During filming she committed suicide.  Everyone sat around wondering what happened. 

I knew what happened.  Nobody loved just her.  She wasn't enough.  She wasn't special.  She was one of a cast of characters that moved in and out of her life.  Everyone left her.  And I felt sick to my stomach.  

And, during the documentary, there was a great deal of self-congratulation on how well everyone was able to keep their egos in check and accept the needs of everyone they were involved with.  

As I said, I've felt like I'm unable to separate my emotions from my intellect to understand that my husband DOESN'T feel unfulfilled or unhappy or dissatisfied with me should the topic come up.  He's just met someone he likes and thinks he could have a separate connection with them would be the reality.  Something DIFFERENT from our connection.  Not in place of, not to fill a need, just something DIFFERENT.  I'd still be the alpha bitch.  I'd still be number one. Should I be open to such a suggestion.  (I want to make sure I'm clear that this hasn't happened. However, I'm very aware of my feelings about it.)  But my complete opposition to this idea has left me pretty convinced this makes me insecure and lacking in the smarts department. Especially, the smarts department.  

As my friend and I talked I realized that that's not the truth for me.  That's me finding something to beat myself up about.  

The way I really feel, is that I deserve to have someone be faithful to me.   I have a good man.  He loves me to distraction and takes his responsibility to me and our children very seriously.  He puts up with my sometimes shrew-like behavior and need for attention. We have horrible fights and no one runs off to someone else until it all blows over.   We work it out and if that doesn't go anywhere we get some help.  

He loves me enough to want to be with just me.  And I love him so much I want to be with just him. That's pretty amazing.  

I'll take amazing.  Why would I give up amazing?  We're both worth amazing.  

Does that make me rigid, square, prudish, old-fashioned, a buyer of the society norms we've been sold by the media?  Maybe.  

Or maybe it makes me amazing.