tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-104741902024-03-12T16:16:19.039-08:00Redtruckbetty TalesJoanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-15112007178968727072016-04-27T13:15:00.003-08:002016-04-27T13:46:13.870-08:00Moms in Transition<i>I am back. I have still been writing but mostly small pieces, primarily about Motherhood and Family. I am starting to write about a whole new topic that will demand another blog, but in the meantime, I would like to start sharing the pieces I have written over the last few years and I am sure I will have more insights into the thrilling process of growing a human from scratch. Here is one of my more recent pieces.</i><br />
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I am standing in line at my favorite ice cream shop, it’s hot outside. This used to be a place I’d take my son on a special occasion and it still is from time to time, but today I’m alone, I’ve walked too many dogs, I’m a dog-walker, and I need to cool down. Scanning the counter people tossing scoops and smashing ingredients, I look in front of me to see a baby girl sitting on her mama’s hip. She is all chunk with michelin man legs, five creases deep and shiny copper curls. I can almost smell the sweet and sour of spilled milk in those tiny little crevices. I want to reach out and squeeze her chubby legs, smiling at her mom. A moment later, before I can catch the words coming out of my mouth, I tell her how I used to carry my own son on my hip, the exact same way she’s holding hers. But, she isn’t interested, smiling blankly and looking away, not engaging. My son, Jake, is 13 now, almost 14. I can still get hugs, snuggles and a sneaky hand-hold here and there but the odds of him coming with me everywhere, everyday, every moment of my life, is not happening. Here is this new mom, she is in the middle of it, sleep deprivation and trying to make all the right decisions. Her child less often makes her mad and more simply exhausts her. They are helpless at that age newborn to five, mother and child. This is the time when a new mom is hashing out all the guidelines for the type of mother she will be. She has read the innumerable books on how to do everything but it’s go time now, this is not a rehearsal. Circumcisions, vaccinations, breastfeeding and naps, discipline, religion, daycare, work or stay at home, and which brand is best? Meanwhile everyone is offering their opinions and personal experiences! This woman just wants to watch her little girl enjoy a spoonful of ice cream and maybe sit for a bit and zone out. </div>
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As my son and I grow older, I see these new parents out and about, their kids melting down at a restaurant or running through the aisles of a grocery store. My son never comes with me to the store anymore so often I am alone, smiling as the parents are apologetic or simply annoyed. I have this deep desire to raise my mama freak flag and say, “I’m one of you, you are not alone, and it gets better. You’ll miss these days, smile, laugh and rush to scoop that baby into your arms, embrace the moment”. Those are the words I’m saying when I smile, in my head.</div>
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In the early days of Jake, I didn’t have many friends who had kids. It was just Jake and I, my husband worked as a chef and was gone most of the day. I was a kitchen-widow. I defended my decisions on co-sleeping, on-demand breastfeeding and letting Jake take his time with each step whether it was walking, talking or potty-training. I laughed when he kept saying “duck”, louder and louder at a restaurant, only it wasn’t Duck. He couldn’t say D’s so he said it with an F, proudly. Those years, I have never known such exhaustion, joy and heartache. </div>
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Kindergarten is when I found my people, my community, my parental demographic. A few parents had older children, those I kept close, their invaluable knowledge meant to be weighed and willingly ignored if necessary. Most had smaller children too, a few years younger than my own son. This was a source of heartbreak for me, as I had lost Sophia to stillbirth when Jake was three and it was difficult to not imagine her own spirit in each little girl, skipping along behind the boys, tugging at the moms to leave soon. </div>
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The after-school pickups were our savored moments of the day, huddled together at the playground, conversation was mostly about who we were, desperate for socializing with women of our own age, living the same life but different. We would bull-shit about wine, past lovers, where and how we grew up, our awful parents and our amazing parents and what we did for money. We bitched about our husbands or shared good stories, encouraged each other to try new jobs, workouts, diets or shoes. Slowly friendships developed. We sorted out… the moms who worked “real jobs” while others free-lanced. Some owned businesses, while others went to school. We all parented differently and the same. </div>
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Now days we fret about our children and the decisions together, in intimate facebook groups or IM’s, all with the same intensity of a new mom. Will letting him drop band mean he won’t have a social group to keep him out of trouble, or will forcing him to stay in make him hate me and lead to smoking weed? Do I care, should I care? Will he lose focus if he drops out of the art strand? Is deciding to be a creative writer going to lead to a life of alcoholism? Another mom worries about her son and his girlfriend, how far have they gone. One boy has low grades, he isn’t trying hard enough, the other has high grades but he is stressed. As we see the final stretch span out before us, each decision makes the parental tight-rope ever more precarious. Our children come home to us now, no more after-school gatherings, but we have found other ways to communicate. We know they still love us, need us, but they are, in their slow and inevitable way, growing their wings which will be necessary for them to fly away. These wings are very difficult things for them to grow and all that effort comes with a price. Our sweet little michelin man babies are now long and lean, grumpy and sullen, lazy, depressed, and even detached. They sleep all day, eat all our food, disrespect us and reach out and hug us. They seek us out late in the evening for a quick snuggle and a quiet talk. Making decisions as a parent is all so confusing and worrisome because we know that all that pain, strife, aggravation and effort comes with an inevitable ending, adulthood. They will leave and from what I have heard, it’s really hard, no matter how mean they can be.</div>
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Back at the ice cream shop I release the compulsion to engage with that young, fresh mom with all those years ahead of her. I remind myself to smile and know, these new moms will seek us out when they are ready. When they have gotten comfortable in their mom identity. When they have cast their suit of armor and made an imprint that will stick. My mind turns, 180 degrees and searches out a mother of an adult child, 22, 26, 30 years old. This woman patiently nods and understandingly laughs with those well-earned creases around her eyes that say she has survived the pain. Does she miss them, yes? Will I survive, yes and I will be lonely and I will be proud and he will come back around and it will be fun because we will be adults and friends. Relax and enjoy the moment. These upcoming high school years, I will pace myself. I learn to smile inwardly when I see that young mom with the chubby-cheeked toddler screaming because she wants a piece of candy or another toy. I have been there and I didn’t want to chat either. I enjoy my quiet times, refilling my cup of tolerance for the patience it will take to persevere through another evening of difficult algebra homework of which I cannot help, 7am sectionals for band, and not knowing most of the people he interacts with at school. I enjoy the chatter and hugs that I do still get from him, and I order him a cup of ice cream, dutch chocolate, his favorite and bring it home, slipping it into the freezer, because he’s still asleep, it’s 2pm and he will be hungry when he wakes up. </div>
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Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-69540349443824955272014-02-11T11:40:00.001-09:002014-02-11T11:47:37.170-09:00The Rocking ChairHumans are preoccupied with inanimate objects. Our homes are filled with special shirts from years past, books from our childhood, stuffed bears tucked away in tubs, and art pieces from a family home not quite in sync with our own personal taste, but important somehow. These objects, knick-knacks and such make up our identity, they bring us comfort, they remind us of our past and we often attach a personality to them whether it’s the sweet stuffed kitty we got at Terra Toys or a coffee mug from a favorite vacation spot. Just the other day I relinquished a favored mop to Goodwill. My husband whimpered a little, knowing it was a hard decision for me. I love my housecleaning tools and I’m particularly attached to those from my dream team of functionality. We have favorite possessions that bring us luck. I always wear my Grandmother Oma’s bracelet when I go out for the evening in hopes that it will call her spirit to watch over me and keep me out of harm’s way. It has worked 49 years. My husband, Joel, will never toss his green hoodie, ratty and old now. It reminds us both of a time when things were simple, less responsibilities, more drugs, sex, rock and roll and bike rides.<br />
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My son, Jake, born into this world with multitudes of objects, enough to fill a room, but arriving with nothing but simple needs and a driving force to get at mama’s milk, has chosen a very large piece of furniture as his most special object. It all started in the early morning hours of the day he was born, my baby daddy, Joel, had settled into an exceptionally comfortable glider rocking chair in our hospital room and realized that it was a definite must for our parenting journey. His parents, eager to give us a gift after the birth of their grandson, found one just like it and had it waiting for us at home.<br />
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Jake’s life started in that rocker. I would hold him close, on-demand breast-feeding, watching tv, reading or staring out the window at the snow covered ground. Ten months later, we packed that rocker into a moving truck and took it with us to Vail. Lonely nights as a chef’s wife were spent rocking Jake to sleep grateful for his company, his fingers clasping mine, nuzzling close. Later, when I found a job as a restaurant manager, we would alternate working nights. I would come home to Jake and Joel settled into the rocker with beer and milk bottle in hands. That rocker helped us through two severe cases of bronchitis, hospital stays and an oxygen tank attached to Jake for weeks at a time. The Vail Valley is a tough ride for a Texas baby.<br />
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Three years later, we once again loaded it up for the inevitable move back to Austin. Jake was getting bigger but I could still pick him up, legs wrapped around me, and rock him through a bad dream, a scratched knee or a bruised ego.<br />
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Finally, we settled into our forever home and the trusted rocker, now scuffed and rickety, pillow frayed and stained, made it’s way front and center in the living room. By now it was quite the eye-sore but still comfy, kids loved rocking and twirling in it. I had resorted to tossing a series of sunny sheets and red velvet fabrics over it, cursing my inability to upholster. We had reached the point where quarterly conversations popped up about whether to keep it. Each time we asked Jake’s opinion, was it time to let it go? Jake’s response was always “no, I like having it around, it makes me feel safe and comfy.” It was nice, I did like sitting in it and rocking, it brought back memories. But, our living room needed space.<br />
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We came up with a compromise. We bought another rocker and moved it with the old one to the porch. We tossed the old cushions and found a fun splashy outdoor one. In essence, breathing new life into the rocker and giving it a buddy. A perfect arrangement for relaxation on the back porch, coffee in the mornings watching the dog’s run and play, and evenings rocking around the chiminea.<br />
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Last year we obtained a fourth dog, a puppy, much to my husband’s dismay but that’s another story. As I opened the patio door, the pup took two steps and leapt into the rocker. It was his safe place in the dark and he became stealth at making the leap, never touching the ground. He has, over time, tarnished the colorful cushions with his muddy paws and gnawed at the armrests. The other dogs have found it to be a good place to sit and watch the squirrels. We bought yet another rocker for the porch so it’s a trio. For now, the original rocker still works, a little more creaky, still twirls, a little more stiffly and still creates and spills out memories. A splash of paint could breath new life into it and maybe a new cushion. It’s still here, it’s not going anywhere, this rocker has life and purpose and a personality. It’s home.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-92016289975264187492013-04-24T06:43:00.002-08:002013-04-24T06:43:48.233-08:00For Denise, a tribute to my Grandmother!
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Oldie but a goodie...........................</div>
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I'm lying here with my baby on
Mike and Denise's bed. My boy has been
struggling, fighting sleep for the past hour at his godparent's home. As soon as his head hits the pillow he starts
nudging towards me, fingers tugging and pushing, pawing me like a kitten taken
from his mama too soon, lips anxiously latching onto my breast. This is a bad habit I know I need to break,
like most vices, you know it's no good, but it feels so nice. His eyes begin to roll and flutter, humming
and moaning with the soft pull of sleep.
The smell of fresh baked bread drifts from the kitchen coupled with the
thrills of Denise's laughter as she assists my husband cooking mussels and
clams. Mike's setting the musical tone
of the evening, Italian soundtrack, while the soft clatter of porcelain and
silver signal dinner is nearly ready. I
snuggle closer to Jake, enjoying Denise's indulgence in bedding, corduroy
comforter with 100% Egyptian cotton sheets, the feather mattress
enveloping. The window shares its view
of the cedar elm trees dancing. Trees
amaze me. Grand, lovely trees filled
with the sincerity of a history that cannot be altered by the interpretations
of time. They survive amongst us for
hundreds of years, no matter what the size of the town, the trees continue to
thrive. Maybe not as many as before, but
there are plenty enough for me. They are
like mothers . . . grounded, swaying, strong, never leaving, always growing and
renewing with the seasons of life. I
think of my grandma while I watch one in particular. This tree is powerful and swaying largely with
the wind, way high up in the air, its branches fan the sky brushing the clouds
along their way. My grandma has just
passed through this world, this life, and I'm wondering where she has gone. I'm wondering how long it takes to get there
and who's there with her. I feel her
presence at this moment so real, just there in the highest branches of that
giant old elm. She's so strong now that
she can see me through the tiny window of this comfy room with the rough red
walls. She can see me lying with my son,
giving him my breast and my love. I know
she is smiling at me, happy I have finally found a purpose, a real reason to
quit blowing off life. I think about her
when I see that old elm because it reminds me of my grandparent’s home. The home they had when I was born, the home I
spent many years living, off and on, from time to time. Floods of memories rush me now. I remember her dog, Silver, taking my hand so
gently in his mouth, leading me around the yard to his special places. Her heart broke the first time when he
died. This home where she set my hot
cereal out on the porch, letting it cool just enough for me to eat. I remember her rich, home-cooked meals of
chicken fried steak, green beans, mashed potatoes, iced tea and peach
cobbler. The rusty old dinner bell she
used to ring to let Grandpa and the rest of us know it was suppertime. I could never sleep in any room in that big
old house but theirs. Grandma would put
up a cot for me to sleep in, but I would always end up crawling between them,
waiting for Grandpa to mutter "spoon" then we'd all curl up real
tight. God, I loved them, they were my
home. Grandpa died too early. It tore Grandma's heart up waiting years to
join him. Now I lay here with my son,
wishing I had one more talk with grandma.
I wish she'd follow me into my room one more time to watch me pack,
asking questions about all my clothes, books, jewelry. I wish I could get grumpy one more time so
she would tell me how much I reminded her of Grandpa. I wish I'd hugged her more and how I wish I'd
crawled into bed with her in those later years, snuggling up behind her,
feeling her soft skin smelling of cold cream and the smooth satin of her
gown. I know she needed more hugs than I
thought I could afford. Selfish on my
part, I'd go to visit her when I needed to run away from my own life, not
realizing how precious those moments were.
I always thought I would have one more trip, one more chance. I wish I had listened better when she talked
about her French grandfather, showing up drunk and ornery, full of adventurous
stories, or when she spoke of the early years with Grandpa, running off with
him against her father's wishes. It's
been just over a week since she died and I think to call her everyday, I miss
her so. It was never easy for her to say
goodbye. She would stand on her tiny
front porch, covered with vibrant ceramic roosters and tiny floral shrubs,
waving until she couldn't see me any longer, tears hiding in the distance. I can still see her waving there in the tall
trees above. I try to wave back, hoping
she sees me. Then, looking down, I rub
my face against the soft cheeks of my baby boy, snuggling into his crinkled
neck, sucking in the bitter smell of milk.
I pray to someone that I'll be as good a mother to him as she was a
grandmother to me. I know she'll help as
much as she can. I know she’s nearby,
right here by my side, smoothing down the wrinkles, wiping off the counters,
airing out the rooms. This much I know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-86043682715098718572013-04-17T07:05:00.001-08:002013-04-17T07:05:04.475-08:00The Shoes
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Tennis shoes are not a big deal. They aren’t supposed to be, but we do live in
them. They define us. They tell the
world who we are. Some people wear pumas
and to me, this says “I have style and money”.
Adidas say to me, I have style and I work out, but not really. Nike says, I workout, period, all the time. Converse Chuck Taylors have always spoken to
me, personally. I love them, I live in them, I have six pairs of them. Converse say to me, I have style but I’m not
gonna blow all my money on a pair of shoes. As Isabelle Allende mentions in her
novel, Paula, that when you are in your 20’s poverty is fashionable, and sadly,
I’ve never grown up, I still like looking poor. Converse are comfortable, like
barefoot comfortable. I am wearing my
black ones as I write this. I have two pairs of black, some crazy purple
all-stars, brown high-tops and a pair of red ones for special occasions. When I had my son, I did the most natural
thing a Converse-lovin’ mama would do, I bought him a tiny pair of black ones and
I put them on him the first chance I got, which turned out to be a
disaster. He had no interest , screaming
and yanking them off, discarded to a closet, I later gave them to friends with
kids less stubborn than mine. I tried
for years, suggesting different styles, commenting on their coolness and noting
those people he admired who wore them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In his 10<sup>th</sup> year of life on earth he decided that
he wanted to learn how to play the drums. Specifically, he wanted to take the
School of Rock summer camp. We live for
music. Dad is a drummer, we met at the infamous Electric Lounge, spending years
attending every live music show we could get to, nightly. We even worked in bars to get our fix even
cheaper. Our ideal date night is to head out, in a cab, sucking down five-hour
energy drinks to see one of our local faves from years gone by, The
Pocketfishermen or maybe The Hickoids.
Alternatively, you might find us sipping beers or enjoying a bottle of
wine while happily dissecting an old album from our youth, ZZ Top, Adam Ant,
The Clash or maybe The James Gang. When
Jake reached out expressing his desire to play, well I was ecstatic. He wanted to play drums, yummy, drummers are my
personal weakness. I always dreamed of
playing the drums but instead I married a drummer, close enough. I could already see it, my son, Jake, a hard-rockin’,
tattoed, bad-ass drummer, going on tour with some mid-grade band, barely
scrapping by, living at home when he was not touring, eating our groceries,
bumming money, wait, well, let’s slow down!
We did not hesitate, but headed directly to the School of Rock, welcomed
by tattooed, rock-n-roll, friendly types. I was dreaming, I was delirious and
like any good mother, I pulled out the credit card and coughed up the $450 for
one week of camp. Damnit, my son was
going to be a rock-n-roll star! Next
stop, fashion, because all great rockers know how to dress and when all else
fails, black on black always works. My
credit card was burning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He announced he wanted cool black t-shirts, done, easy. Target men’s department has a slew of cool
band t-shirts. Then, he said….wait for
it….that he wanted to DESIGN his own converse high-tops. Babe, the sky, the
fucking sky, the damned cosmos is the limit, whatever you want my sweet
beautiful son because I know that these
hightops and your summer band camp are going to come back ten-fold in tattoos
and rock and roll. You are going to
fulfill all my fucking dreams. Am I
confused? I mean when I was 18, this was
my dream and because of my lack of maturity, I am not able to think like a
reasonable mother. Some moms wish for
suits and ties, a home in the burbs, a good wife and a couple of kids, the 401K
and insurance included. Here, I am gunnin’ for sex, drugs and rock-n-roll, all
wrapped up in a summer camp and converse tennis shoes. I was losing perspective but I wasn’t aware
of it yet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Back at home we sit down at the mac and get busy, logging
into Converse, I am excited, I am panting, I may have stopped breathing. He begins his process of picking out the
high-top, my senses think low might be better but I’m not going to interrupt
this awesomeness. He begins, picking
blue, with purple outline, purple and blue paint splatters on the toe-tip,
light blue stars, dark blue lining, aqua inner lining, I’m smiling and
uh-huhing, what do I know? I mean this
look is total 1980’s and I’m thinking it is coming back, right? I can see these shoes on David Lee Roth or the
drummer from Def Leppard or maybe one of the guys from Duran Duran. Did wear
high-tops? No, but The Bay City Rollers
did. My beautiful, artistic son knows what he wants and who am I to point out that
this design is wild and crazy and intense and not….exactly…rock-n-roll 2012,
maybe a little new wave 1983. This crazy
color combo is surely hip for the youngsters. It never, ever, ever occurred to
me that this gorgeous boy, with his golden surfer locks, amazing personality,
straight A’s, viper wit, nerdy dungeons and dragon creativity and intense
ability to warp the English vernacular to fit his every moment of emotional
expression was suffering from a legacy of colorblindness that would
simultaneously create the craziest yet mildly unwearable converse ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We stared at them for a while, quiet. “Do you like them?”, I said. “Yes”, he said. Well then, let’s do this. I paid for them. Another $115 bucks, this rock-n-roll
lifestyle was expensive but totally worth it.
A few weeks later they arrived, a delightful smattering of 1983 throwbacks.
I would have loved them when I was 17.
I’m sure I even tried to create a pair using powdered dye. Jake was hesitant. He had not meant to have a purple outline
around the base, he didn’t know that the various blues didn’t match, yes, the
aqua inner liner was intentional (whew), but he hadn’t realized there was also
an issue with white and off-white canvas clashing. We tried to toughen them up with some black
shoe-strings.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He was hesitant to wear them but he did, every day of camp,
and I really thought they were beautiful. He was the enigmatic cool, recreated cool, one
of a kind cool. But, at the end of the
week, the shoes were discarded into the closet, never to be worn again, a
constant reminder to me, that for a moment, he almost joined my converse
cult. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe he would have never known if I hadn’t asked him, so
sweetly, if he just really grooved on purple.
Maybe if I had never brought up the variating blues, asking him if he
had meant to do it, he would have never cared.
He still plays the drums but not with that ecstatic fever I had hoped
for and I’m thinking he is going to be a graphic designer or cartoonist,
slightly more stable, less drugs for sure.
But there are the shoes, those shoes, winking at me every time I put
away his clothes, reminding me that they are a size 9, my size. So, I picked
them up and tossed them into my pile of converse. I’m not getting rid of them, I’m keeping
them, a symbol of that brief moment of creativity and imagination when I knew
for sure that my son would be a rock-n-roll star, wanted to be one. I’ll figure
out the perfect time to wear them. They
aren’t my style, yet. Later, when I’m 70
or 80 I’ll take a cruise around the block in them, maybe bang on the drums in
the garage, or if I’ve landed on bad times and I find myself pushing my
belongings in a grocery cart, living in a box, my last act of defiance will be
to pull on those damned converse. Bury
me in them, I’ll scream. And Jake, well,
Jake is back to his running shoes and his sweatshorts. Just a normal kid, with a crazy mom, and
that’s o.k. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-69148698033380260662013-04-01T16:58:00.002-08:002013-04-01T16:59:19.990-08:00Haiku April #1<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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everyday I change,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
today, I'm a skater girl<br />
what will I be next?</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-62464420699514886742013-04-01T16:56:00.001-08:002013-04-01T16:57:39.513-08:00Morning Ritual<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The sweet sounds of Glenn Miller’s orchestra playing
Moonlight Serenade awaken me. I lift my
body from the bed, drinking my water down then stumble into the kitchen for
coffee. I sit. I wait.
Slowly, soon I begin to tick and hum, I’m ready. I call Ellray, our
puppy, “Let’s wake up Jake”. I hope and
wish and dream about him waking easy.
Ellray jumps on the bed, sits on him, licks his neck. “Wake up wake up wake up wake up”….he barely
moves, “one finger cold, two fingers hot”.
This is our system of communication.
I need to know whether he wants hot or cold chocolate. I need to
know. No answer, I head back to the
kitchen to pull down the tall vintage glass with the diamond print, grabbing a
spoon. Holding the hershey’s high as I
pour the syrup down the sides, filling the bottom. As I pour the milk into the glass, I begin to
clang the spoon around the inside of the glass mixing milk and chocolate. I
love the sound, making it louder than it needs to be. I want him to remember, just like I do, the
sounds of morning rituals. He stumbles
in with half his bed wrapped around him, “Toast, bagel, fruit, tortilla, what
will it be?”, no answer, “tortilla it is”.
I proceed gayly, humming to myself, having conversations with the dogs,
entertaining us all with my silly voices, random thoughts and stupid
rhymes. KUT news in the background. Meanwhile, I’m stealthfully eying him, like a
hostage watching it’s captor. Checking
for signs of life, a flicker of a smile or chuckle. Soon the sugar kicks in and my son, not this
beast, will emerge. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Laughter, I hear it, a smile at one of the voices I’ve made
for the dogs and we are off, “15
minutes, you’ve got 15 minutes”. It
seems like forever but not for the master of distraction. “Get dressed, socks, shoes, teeth brushed”.
It seems so simple, but it’s not. There
is plenty of time to display the pooping tortilla or pretending he has stolen
something and I must find it, or kiss and hug all the dogs or crawl under Dad
while he does yoga. GET DRESSED! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Packing his lunch, the same thing, fruit, meat, veg, candy,
salty snack, clif bar and a fruit twizzle.
Slamming the bottle of water into the lunchbox, I shove it all in his
backpack. GET DRESSED! Pulling his clothes on, he is momentarily
distracted by a pencil sharpener, the minutes are ticking. I change into an
acceptable amount of clothing to walk him to school. BRUSH TEETH!
NOW! “I DID”, he yells. We live ½ a block from the school but
sometimes we are so late we actually drive .
“LET’S GO”. I stand by the door with
backpack in hand. I’m freaking out and
ready to go as a stand-in for him, just leave him behind. The coffee has kicked
in good now and I’m tweaking, I’m flying.
He is kissing each dog good-bye, there are FOUR OF THEM. He is smiling, we are out the door and now,
the mood changes as we walk, no stress, we are on the road. This is when we squeeze in some fun or
important conversations or maybe our schedule for the day. Sometimes he tells
me about his most recent superhero he has created, I know I’ll miss these
days. I may tell him a story of when I
was young. Today we talk about Lady Rainicorn from Adventure Time. We ponder
why she only speaks Japanese and is it real Japanese. We laugh about how Jake the Dog got a
translator for her to talk to Finn but she sounded like an old man. Then we recap last night’s latest obsession,
Heroes, we are junkies. We cross the
busy street, my excuse for still walking him even in 5th grade. “Have a good day”, I wrap up our conversation
quickly and act cool and detached. I’ve learned to no longer expect a hug or a
kiss, something I couldn’t have imagined I would be able to do 4 years
ago. As he walks alone, he looks back
for a subtle wave and I know it means, “I love you”. I turn and walk in silence, home, careful to
not step on a crack, I don’t want to break my mother’s back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-37732745492592924132009-07-09T08:54:00.003-08:002009-07-09T09:07:52.936-08:00Kids<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7bXz2ogSW1muFqOEN5ABSjxIi-n-rQNQpFRnJdawR0X3CWdCbrEzc0aZm0N-4Iw-VCyNV_HeBZi7JFD8de4xiKBQKRBy1cMFRaLIwysRSpq1tKkZfMqlXv7CdLXT2Uv3TgucsA/s1600-h/DSC02513.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7bXz2ogSW1muFqOEN5ABSjxIi-n-rQNQpFRnJdawR0X3CWdCbrEzc0aZm0N-4Iw-VCyNV_HeBZi7JFD8de4xiKBQKRBy1cMFRaLIwysRSpq1tKkZfMqlXv7CdLXT2Uv3TgucsA/s400/DSC02513.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356508247891035474" border="0" /></a><br />"Basically people don't know how kids think, I guess they forget. But when you're a kid it's like you're wearing these binoculars strapped to your eyes and you can't see anything except what's in the dead center of the lenses because you're too scared of everything else or else you don't understand it and people expect you to, so you feel stupid all the time. Mostly a lot of stuff just doesn't get registered" <span style="font-weight: bold;">Rule of the Bone</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">A Novel by Russell Banks</span>.<br /><br />Wow, I have spent over 6 weeks at home with my son this summer and this quote shot me in the heart. How fucking stupid am I. Of course. It's changing how I react right. . .Now. . .Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-57419536694088125002008-10-23T20:11:00.003-08:002008-10-23T20:25:29.872-08:00Can you live with it?How often in one day do you watch someone else not living up to their own potential. Or are you lucky enough to see everyone just simply maximizing. Is your life like a fucking Nike ad. Congratulations . . .mine's not. I'm pretty sure I'm most definitely not living up to MY potential. But, starting today, I'm going to try very hard. Try to look away as I blunder, stumble and fall, picking myself back up again and slamming through the back door of the parallel life that I've obviously been missing out on. Meanwhile, don't pass judgement on me as I look backwards, waving goodbye to those who have, with the slightest gestures, assisted in keeping me right where I've been. Now, take a deep breath, exhale, step outside of IT and take a good hard look. Are you happy? Could you be doing something more and better that would not only make you more complete and satisfied but could also, in some extremely insignificant way, just niggle a bit of an 1/8th of an inch, the path of destruction that our world is going. What if everyone made themselves just a bit more complete, a bit happier, a bit more driven, what if that just changed the course of everything. Just step back and think about it, then just get up and shoot one big long middle finger at everyone who's fucking with you and feeding you the bullshit that makes you think you can't have more. I think I might.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-31015330118034620192008-01-30T12:56:00.000-09:002008-01-30T13:37:52.116-09:00Parents Out There<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRnhmJTL-8N9vKVk7kA5pKbdPPURYw76MU3_SuNciXxPZQlgHXCH_BHdP8Q_Mn-OHuimVGpv2uHxbnBhdbty3NBgvF57icI1DzMQmwmLyFqUI-NpwIZpWrlBA2mEIHB3y47G45nw/s1600-h/DSC01285.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRnhmJTL-8N9vKVk7kA5pKbdPPURYw76MU3_SuNciXxPZQlgHXCH_BHdP8Q_Mn-OHuimVGpv2uHxbnBhdbty3NBgvF57icI1DzMQmwmLyFqUI-NpwIZpWrlBA2mEIHB3y47G45nw/s400/DSC01285.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161401144502661554" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLxEXC3sDBvq8YK64xD7gneCRu5KjtrK6I4ZDvL_zUxbLYr2iTzw5TW8WmTsAz2Qw5WjFuZrj-uhZQ-EAbUPi-k-B6gxtpIZT8L24arIUqZJqimd4WNEmsXmOQIzDg67m9fCJ1A/s1600-h/DSC01287.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLxEXC3sDBvq8YK64xD7gneCRu5KjtrK6I4ZDvL_zUxbLYr2iTzw5TW8WmTsAz2Qw5WjFuZrj-uhZQ-EAbUPi-k-B6gxtpIZT8L24arIUqZJqimd4WNEmsXmOQIzDg67m9fCJ1A/s400/DSC01287.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161400418653188498" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpG4O_s7kRLxVVbm-r4n2S5aAsN9pSGPLcC71yVs3UR_z4QdLnE5ODSualw-Qs-IbNh3Zg-aE0cDunA9yXq36q7Y4EMsnzRdAzUyFZc5ghtZstvsLQ7eQ6aSsUDMNzJQQusmQpgQ/s1600-h/DSC01274.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpG4O_s7kRLxVVbm-r4n2S5aAsN9pSGPLcC71yVs3UR_z4QdLnE5ODSualw-Qs-IbNh3Zg-aE0cDunA9yXq36q7Y4EMsnzRdAzUyFZc5ghtZstvsLQ7eQ6aSsUDMNzJQQusmQpgQ/s400/DSC01274.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161400053580968322" border="0" /></a><br /><br />If you read this blog and you comment, answer this question . . .Is parenting hard to you? Yes or No. If you say No, then I need to talk to you. Oh my, how parenting is hard. Is it really that bad to consider raising your child under the same context as you might raise, um, say, well, let's just say, a dog. I've actually tried it before. Using the sounds and finger movements that the Dog Whisperer uses on dogs, only on Jake. Making him sit before he can have a snack. Leashing him and walking him. Haha. Just kidding. It's just so much easier with dogs and they definitely don't talk back. Nonetheless, they also don't talk to you in your language, which can be hilarious. When Jake uses my phrases it cracks me up. It's hard though. I'm worn out by my own negativity. Constantly lecturing about how it has got to be. I've been reading this awesome book called The <a href="http://www.wendymogel.com/books.html">Blessing of a Skinned Knee</a>. It's teaching me about the wisdom of the jewish religion and how you can intertwine it into your relationship with your child. Easier to read than it is to do, I definitely think that I'm on the right path, but every day is a new day. Another wonderful place to visit is a website called <a href="http://earlyparenting.com/">Early Parenting</a>. Currently co-blogging authors, Carrie Contey and <a href="http://www.bernadettenoll.com/">Bernadette Noll</a> are hashing out parenting issues using Carrie's vast education and Bernadette's wonderful wisdom. I look forward to loads of learning. I'll take it any way I can get it. Meanwhile, instead of blogging, I should go play with that munchkin. Enjoy goofy pics of my easier, furry kids who are just happy with a treat and a quick run. Wait that works for Jake too. The two together are Izzy and Pico crashed after a day at the Pedernales, and the other guy is our new dog Clyde Blue. There is a whole post just about him coming. Love and Peace to all.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-42673654635946808932008-01-26T06:29:00.000-09:002008-01-26T06:46:38.044-09:00The Pack is Back<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz-5Q2TFTW4PoFiMGyjiConSvcGImZELlG0UouufavgIPih7nzPdnSfiN4hYu7o2mSn_P89-1QrTUs' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span class="down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif" alt="Link" border="0" /></span></span><br />Life just isn't right without our pack and we have missed Gus so much. Pico de Gallo and Izzy Pretty have been fine on thier own but a couple of girls with no boy only leads to bitchiness. So, we hit <a href="http://bluedogrescue.com/">Blue Dog Rescue</a> in search of a new family member. We came across this beautiful boy and read his story. It was hard not to want a dog who had just climbed in a car for a roadtrip and seemed to enjoy it, so we set up a meeting. Check out his story at Blue Dog Rescue, just scroll down to Brando. He is everything you see here and more. What a fanstastic fella. We have such high hopes and know that here, in his new home, he will find the companionship he could only hope for. We are trying to decide what his new name will be. He's been Brando and Harry in his past lives, but we want him to start his new life with a solid name that represents the kind of life he will have. This is a pup who will snuggle in bed, run at the pedernales, hang in the yard with his two bitches, Izzy and Pico, guard his new kid, Jake, and have huge stuffed stockings at Christmas. We are so excited. Some names that have bantered around, Hank, Bloo, Bill and Sam. I thinking Hank or Sam are gonna be the big winners. Take a look at his video. We are going to have the most beautiful pack ever.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-50578823715715745402008-01-19T05:25:00.000-09:002008-01-19T05:44:31.193-09:00Date Night<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxH9gju5DNXJ5xxXmyRNLxJhHgEs41zZAnn8-WJhMoG7h9pJK3oNlJ6wMo5YwcHm5UOh_qWPCcfrYZ09t9tHB-UR9sF1CXoAtveDKCDZW_OzUTZiv9TF1DLLm0MfQvhRme6SmGA/s1600-h/DSC00651.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxH9gju5DNXJ5xxXmyRNLxJhHgEs41zZAnn8-WJhMoG7h9pJK3oNlJ6wMo5YwcHm5UOh_qWPCcfrYZ09t9tHB-UR9sF1CXoAtveDKCDZW_OzUTZiv9TF1DLLm0MfQvhRme6SmGA/s400/DSC00651.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157198323739746226" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHeX9EuTvyc-4wGO2oVOJnqBA8pv65bmrLFLsODrLV2Wh3I3NnY89LythTT0yeEmqhHW7iJgxk6nqMVosvGd9xcD2Fehc4ASSusmrWoGWSDLAVhVU6OvBpVRwMRO5oLnfdpmqNA/s1600-h/DSC00632.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHeX9EuTvyc-4wGO2oVOJnqBA8pv65bmrLFLsODrLV2Wh3I3NnY89LythTT0yeEmqhHW7iJgxk6nqMVosvGd9xcD2Fehc4ASSusmrWoGWSDLAVhVU6OvBpVRwMRO5oLnfdpmqNA/s400/DSC00632.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5157197713854390178" border="0" /></a><br />I had a couple of excellent experiences yesterday. First, I spent the day at my son's class. All day. It was huge. There is no way that you can possibly do anything that is cooler than observing the social interactions of your child with his peers. We had a rough week but came out better for it. I veered him away from click behavior and hope to nip that in the bud immediately. We also experienced our first sleepover. My hub and I got to go out on a date and it was amazing. Eating out is something that we love to do. Real date. We went to <a href="http://sampaiosrestaurant.com/">Sampaio's</a>, which is a Brazilian diner on Burnet Rd. I tried a wonderful Malbec (wine) which I had sworn I wouldn't like. I had one bad Malbec and it turned me off to all of them. Can't remember the name, sorry. We had mussels and fried brie. Creme Brulee for dessert with espresso. Yum. Life can be good . . .and rich . . .and I'm not talking about money. For the holiday, we are headed to the Pedernales for some R&R. These photos are from last year. It's very relaxing and we are on the hunt for fossils for Kinder Science Fair. I think we will have some success. It's fossil heaven.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-57654267117619271172008-01-17T07:41:00.001-09:002008-01-17T07:49:22.279-09:00Revived!It's been a while since I've posted my thoughts. All this <a href="http://www.yogadenada.blogspot.com/">Yogadenada</a> blogging got me thinking. Last night, as I sat awake, long after the boys had gone down, a few questions arose . . .<br /><br />Whoever happens to be in the know:<br /><br />1. Who's really in charge here? (Planet Earth, etc.)<br /><br />2. Is there really alien life form on other planets, are they roaming earth, and more importantly, should we be scared?<br /><br />3. Is "The Secret" really "The Secret" and if so . . .is everyone really practicing it? Because, if they were . . .wouldn't we all be happy, secure, living in a wonderfully green society filled with world peace and tranquil harmony . . . weath abundant?????<br /><br />4. What happens when we die? Jake wants to know.<br /><br />O.K. thanks, and how sad that Kit got bumped off <a href="http://www.bravotv.com/Project_Runway/index.php">Project Runway</a> (Bravo, Wednesdays). I really liked her.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-42594392554634092032008-01-10T07:16:00.000-09:002008-01-10T07:19:27.745-09:00Redirecting!For any of those left of you who randomly check this blog. I am now determined to build Yogadenada.blogspot.com. Come check me out. I'm pledging to blog daily, Monday-Friday. Thanks Shannon. For lighting the fire again.<br /><br />Hit the title of this blog and it will get your there!!!! Save it on your bookmark and change the way you see things!Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-67752807010893655482007-08-21T18:34:00.000-08:002007-08-21T19:02:15.778-08:00Gus '07<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVr6a68TdJ5t25563pHo3P2CZuJMgcrR0CahtazepCu5kgfMCZqzlEZE7Gi6Mxk31xD2ZzRO0Y9fuz5tYzo3ubkdGMbjIzdfPHBh-JCDR8qcx7M_tHPjLu9vT9iLIeVB_cH_o4jg/s1600-h/DSC00733.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVr6a68TdJ5t25563pHo3P2CZuJMgcrR0CahtazepCu5kgfMCZqzlEZE7Gi6Mxk31xD2ZzRO0Y9fuz5tYzo3ubkdGMbjIzdfPHBh-JCDR8qcx7M_tHPjLu9vT9iLIeVB_cH_o4jg/s320/DSC00733.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101351712622892546" /></a><div>A few weeks back we put our blessed old soul, Gus, down. Gus had been with us since the first few months that Joel and I had dated. I was out on a job in L.A., Dallas, wherever, and Joel called to tell me that a dog had been following him. It was Gus, who must have seen a pretty good ride in Joel, what with Lucy and Red following him. Those girls were nothing but beautiful. Gus came to us scruffy, skinny and beat up. He barely had any teeth and he had a bad case of heartworms. We were able to miraculously subdue him for a month in order to kill the heartworms and he grew into a beautiful dog with a loving and dear personality. I'll never forget how he followed me around when I was pregnant with Jake. He never let me out of his site. He loved Red dearly and was the only one with her when she died. He tolerated Izzy until he loved her and Izzy never felt anything but utmost adoration for him. He set Miss Pico straight from the moment she showed up, letting her know the hierarchy of the household with a simple and gruff growl. We will always miss you, Gus. You we're our boy. I know you are there with beautiful Red, romping her up for a good run to keep her in shape. You two are waiting for us, while Lucy sheriff's the whole rainbow bridge population. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry it's been so long since I've enlightened anyone out there with my witty observations about life, etc. I am currently feeling the heat of yet another catering season blowing it's steamy breath into my eyes and causing my heart to pace a little quicker. My bank account hungers for those caterings while my joints roll over and hit the snooze button. I'm already plotting t-shirts . . ."I survived Catering Season '07" TACODELI!! I am looking forward to, to, to, ummmmmm, nothing. I get more tattoos on my birthday, yippee. I'm about to enroll in Introduction to WWW Authoring and XHTML, the first website design class at ACC Informal Learning. Just creating a little backup plan if you know what I mean, hint, hint, wink, wink. These joints ain't gettin' any younger and I'll be damned if I'll be greeting losers at the local Wal-Mart in my 70's. <br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Kindergarten is upon me and I have no idea what to do. I'm terrified. I can already see Jake graduating, and thank god, apparently he plans to have me live with him forever in order to show him how to make ramen and also tell him how to get to his best friend, Brandon's, house. He mentioned we needed to get beer first. I have no idea where he got that idea!</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I've written more than I expected. Keep on keeping on and don't forget to stretch, breathe and smile, every hour, every minute. </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Oh, swimming season is closing in on us. Don't forget to get your dunk on as much as you can in the next few weeks. The title is linked to Austin's pool schedule.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry, I'm no photographer.</div>Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-12683579105305293712007-07-28T17:51:00.000-08:002007-07-28T18:13:43.499-08:00Run. Eat. Learn.So, what I know now is that you have to create something cool in photoshop or illustrator, then create an image and html it into the blog. That is how I will make this blog lovely. And, I have got to get rid of the dots. They are starting to make me crazy. And how about this rain . . . oh my god. I lived in Portland, Oregon. This is much worse. I lived in Colorado. This is not as bad. I yearn for hot summer days and dips in the pool. I don't care what anyone says. Kindergarten starts in 4 weeks. We've got one week left of summer camp and our life as Jewish parents will slowly crawl to an end. Though my hopes are high that we might make frequent visits to the Jewish Community Center, the fact is that we won't. We never go there other than to drop Jake and pick him up and I'd rather spend my money on yoga and <a href="http://www.gilbertsgazelles.com/index.php">Gilbert's Gazelles</a>. Joel has taken up running and it's been awesome. He has run up to 7 miles on one day and frequents 3-4 mile runs regularly. He looks awesome. I keep dreaming of consistent running but have lightly sprained my ankle twice just since I started messing around with it. My ambitions are high but I'm very much still committed to YAAC (yoga at all costs) which has been working out great for me. There are so many things to do and never enough time for all of it. I constantly struggle with time. Time for Jake, time for me, time for love and family, time for the dogs, time for the house. The struggle to balance is impossible and I really don't see where I am supposed to fit in any extracurricular learning. Maybe I should consider ritalin. Atleast I could focus long enough to learn how to sew. My own compelling need to fix this ugly blog will eventually force me to learn some HTML. Here's a tip for anyone who's chasing whatever latest fad diet that exists. One, those diets only work once. If you gain the weight back, they rarely work twice. Two, consider that you may look great just the way you are. Three, consider a lifetime change in diet. My bestest gal and hottie chickie friend, (you guess who you are) told me about her lifetime change years ago and I've done it twice and it always works. Drop wheat out of your life, consider dairy too if you are a huge cheese, ice cream type eater. I'm not. The wheat is my demon. Suddenly I'm not drinking beer, eating bread, flour tortillas, crackers, goldfish, etc. Immediately I drop water weight. It's awesome. Then I lean down, just a bit. Gotta exercise too. Don't forget your supplements if you skip dairy. I promise prettier blog and pictures. I'm lazy about uploading. Happy Raining!Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-89802269195663446792007-07-18T05:17:00.000-08:002007-07-18T05:23:40.900-08:00Learning HTML!<span style="font-family: lucida grande;">Does anyone out there know HTML. I'm trying to teach it to myself. I can't stand not having control of my blog. I keep thinking about starting the web design program at <a href="http://www3.austincc.edu/schedule/s207u/vicd207ufac.htm">ACC</a> but then I think, this is stupid. I can learn HTML. Nonetheless, I'm very excited because I just changed the fonts on my blog and that is enough to put a smile on my face. Yippee. If you are trying to learn HTML, check out the link on this title. Oooh, just looking at the classes at ACC gets me excited. O.K. must go wake up the Jake.<br /></span>Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-72753777244357362422007-01-21T16:18:00.000-09:002007-01-21T16:23:16.986-09:00New DestinationI'm not sure how heinous this is. But, I have moved my blog to wordpress.com. Just like any move, it's in shambles but I'm working on organizing it, and my blogging ambitions are rusty these days. I loved wordpress because of it's awesome templates and the fact that it fused my three blogs into one place, yogadenada, joanna fried poetry and redtruckbetty mamastuff. So, go check it out by hitting the title of this blog. Hope you follow me. I'm going to try to get busy hitting you with all kinds of new and exciting information about yoga and mamacrazies and maybe a bit of new poetry. Take care for now, and so sorry Blogspot. It was sweet while it lasted.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-1164199931953948192006-11-22T03:46:00.000-09:002006-11-22T03:55:35.876-09:00NanananananananaToday is my birthday. Nananananananana. Gonna have a good time. Yes, today is my birthday and I'm guessing there arn't alot of you out there who actually read this and that's just fine because it's for me anyway, so that is why today, in this blog, I want to say one thing to myself . . .by the time I'm 50, I would like to have something that isn't a blog. Something that is more substantial than a blog. Screenplay, novel, book of poems. I don't care. But it must be something. So, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JOANNA. God, you look great for your age. Congratulations for maintaining a positive attitude all these years and sticking to your guns. I have a new mantra in life. If you hate your job, be happy you have a job. If you hate your belly, be happy you have food to eat. If you are frustrated with your house, be happy you have a house. Life is good, you have the option to change if if you don't like it. You get the picture. O.K. going to do yoga. Just wanted to put the dream on paper, on internet space. Etc.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-1162647864863413292006-11-04T04:01:00.000-09:002006-11-05T06:23:58.303-09:00Yoga, Halloween and Barack Obama<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/1600/DSC00147.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/320/DSC00147.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/1600/DSC00148.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/320/DSC00148.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/1600/DSC00176.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/320/DSC00176.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/1600/DSC00174.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/320/DSC00174.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/1600/DSC00157.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/320/DSC00157.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Someday . . .I will blog on my yoga blog, yogadenada. I started it, oh so long ago, and I've only written one entry. The words are swirling around in my head, desperate to get out, finally, they've worn down and found a dark corner to hide in, waiting patiently and speaking up when necessary. No surprise here that I believe that yoga is the number one best exercise ever. There are many styles of yoga, from the sedate, slow-moving Iyengar, to the more aerobic, strength-building hatha flow. I have never practiced Ashtanga, but I get the idea it's an ass-kicker. I am terrified. Nonetheless, yoga is not just about the body, it brings mind, body and spirituality together as one. If you can make yoga a regular practice in your life you will be flexible, strong, mentally healthy and feel a sense of oneness with those around you and the universe. And, if you like the idea of being happy and healthy well into your 90's and 100's, then I say, go out and buy a yoga mat today, sign-up for a few classes and get yogaing. It partners all activities well. O.K. now I'm going to collect my check from the Yoga Foundation. <br /> <br />Halloween! I love Halloween. Ours was fast and furious. Jake was Speed Racer and I was a super-hero that looked more like Billy Jean King gone Glam. I wasn't hot. Leading up to Halloween we hit a pumpkin patch, pics attached by Jake and myself. As in, Jake took the pictures, except for the crazy ones he is the subject of. We did pumpkin painting, pumpkin carving, caramel apples and then wrapped it up with trick or treating. My job is done. Moving on to Birthday (mine), Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's (um, bloody mary's in the backyard). I fucking love the Holidays. I'm not being a smartass. And for once in a long while, I think I'm feeling o.k. and mentally healthy for a change. Big question of the New Year, is Joanna dumb enough to get pregnant one more time? Yes, No, only time will tell. Back to Halloween. Jake was coming down with a cold and pooped out early. I had to take his heavy load of candy. The wierd thing was, he never ate it, didn't ask about it. Joel and I polished it off in two days. Wierd, very wierd, very, very wierd. He's into gum these days. Oops, he just asked about it. I guess I'm running to the store for some candy now.<br /><br />If you haven't heard about Barack Obama, which I'm sure you have, check him out at the title link to this blog. He offers hope in the face of our nation's problems. Not that a Republican in the office is a problem (ahem), but a dumb-ass republican puppet who is an embarrassment to our country and misrepresents the people, continuouly making press blunders, is just the little whipped flowers on top of the icing on the cake. He's a small problem. A front man. We don't know who the big problem is because we arn't really sure just who's in charge. Barack Obama is (shhhhhh, don't tell anyone) ... Black. Can America diversify? Is America ready for diversity at that level? It would be new and refreshing to have a woman as president and it's unbelievable that a female president is even an issue, though probably not a great idea . . .we are a bit emotional . . ."I'm so pissed at China, they didn't compliment my nice red dress I bought especially for the meeting we had last night, bomb them damnit." I keep thinking Hillary's real reason to get into the presidential office is some evil revenge on Bill that the whole country is going to be forced to witness. Anyone other than a big, white goon in the office at this point would be great. What makes us think that being caucasian makes someone smarter or better informed at making decisions about America. Obama's belief and efforts are in-line with a more progressive way of running our country. He tackles issues of political corruption and his efforts are devoted to breaking this nation's horrible addiction to oil. His campaign title "The Audacity of Hope, Reclaiming the American Dream" is awesome. He's a visionary, and maybe a bit of an idealist, and we all know the country is ripe for a change in direction. Will he run for president? I don't know enough. I'm still trying to figure out who he is. He's young and I'm excited about the whole idea. When I was digging around looking at press on him I found this hilarious <a href="http://www.wearatshirt.com/leftwing.html">t-shirt</a> site. If I didn't think I'd get punched by some asshole right-winger, I'd definitely wear "F*ck Republicans" with the donkey humping the elephant. Too fun. Or the retro-looking "I miss Bill" t-shirt, I have to buy that one. Enjoy our kooky spooky pumpkin pics. Jake and I had a blast taking photos. The last one's a finger. Verrrrrry artsy. I'm sure he meant to do it.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-1161264149263130482006-10-19T04:48:00.000-08:002006-10-19T05:41:44.906-08:00Whirling Words about the WorldMy latest addiction is Itunes Radio. I know everyone does it and I've done it forever but my awesome iMac, that doesn't serve much of a purpose other than feeding music at my workstation, sends ethereal ambient tunes from Drone Zone on SomaFM, served best chilled, safe with most medications. Since recently I've been spending a lot of time thinking about the mediocrity of the human race in comparison to the cosmos, it seems best to have a soundtrack reminiscent of space. The music actually has a vibration that resonates through my brain and compels a certain meditation. For those who don't know, my son Jake attends a religious school, the JCC-ECP, the Jewish Community Center-Early Childhood Program. It's awesome. It's a really wonderful school and though I am not religious AT ALL, I have no problem with their very beautiful education about God. If I have to align with a religion, I'll take God's chosen. Nonetheless, this is not a diatribe about religion, what I am embarking on here is that my son comes home with many questions and statements about God. "Why does god make the clouds?" was one. I skirted that one with "Do you think God is a man or a woman?". "Woman", my gorgeous, intelligent young son said. Good Boy. You see, I ain't raising no dummy. I also don't spend a lot of time skirting issues by the way. If he asks me about God, I quickly explain that some people believe that God created the world, but Science very clearly explains away (atleast to me) any chances of some ethereal sort creating the world in 7 days. I mean come on. It's pretty obvious that our ancestors are little hairy types and maybe even a few fishies. As a matter of fact, not to be insulting, but I would say that we are really more of a product of de-evolution as opposed to evolution. Once upon a time, there was a planet void of toxins, trash and war. Are we really anything more than a dirty little vermin, slowly killing off this planet like a nasty disease that no antibiotic can kill. All the other planets are pointing and laughing at Earth. Poor guy. He's got those nasty humans and he can't shake them no matter how many earthquakes, monsoons, hurricanes, etc. So sorry. I just had to get that off my chest. I think my mind wanders too much and sometimes, well, we as people just take our lives so seriously that we stop living it. We are so busy working to buy better cloths, houses, cars, jewelry, groceries, upgrading, not re-using, not recycling, not re-planting. Our world is a consumer world and we can't stop churning out more shit, way more than we are extinguishing, wouldn't you say? We are so consumed with the next buy, even me, I'm not placing myself outside of this guilt. I just can't get over consumption. Target, Wal-Mart, Sears, Home Depot. Is this product or trash? I know I rattle on all the time about this, but what are you and me and everyone else doing to make this a better world? A healthier planet? Life has to move outside our inner circle. We have to look at the bigger picture. I get an opportunity to meditate almost daily at the end of my yoga sessions. Recently, in the last year, I've started looking forward to these times and deeply appreciating the moment, I get excited. I used to think it was such a waste of time. Laying there, flat on my back, I sink into the earth and my mind opens to a broad space. I begin to have a sensation of lifting above the earth and being a part of everything. At that point my thoughts become so large (that's the word) that I can't herd them into any one place. I just grasp a greater sense of being and feel both very small yet connected to everything. Mind you, this is not a religious moment, it's a sensation that we are individually very small, but as a race we are great and can do huge things. As a population we can change direction. We can all meditate, for a brief time everyday and float into a bigger space and realize that we are both great and small in our minds. But if we put our minds together we can change the direction of a huge motion of negative energy and swooping wide, we can change the tide. Wanna try?Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-1159328874616651382006-09-26T19:16:00.000-08:002006-09-26T19:58:33.646-08:00Real ParentingO.K., it's 10:10pm and the hub is in the bedroom reading stories to Jake, not Jake's bedroom, our bedroom. It's all the same around here. Jake is drinking milk from a sippy cup and odds are he won't brush his teeth afterwards. Sometimes we do, sometimes we don't. We didn't eat supper until 8:30pm. Jake sat ON the table, not at the table. Me, Joel and Neighbor sat on the couch. We each had some form of alcohol, beer or wine. We watched Southpark.<br />Jake goes to school at 8:30am, atleast that's the idea. This morning he woke up at 8:15am. He really didn't want to wake up, but I sang a little ditty and blew mouthfarts on him, making rhyming tunes to words like fart and poop. I know it's bad, but hey, it makes him laugh and I laugh too. I managed to get him dressed, teeth brushed and hair hand-combed and out the door by 8:30am. Not sure how, it was a bit like being a drill sergeant. Did he eat breakfast? No! Damnit. Oh, I said "Damnit", I'm sure. "Oh shit!" is a big favorite too. "Oh Shit, I forgot your shoes." "Damnit Izzy, get out of the trash." You know, shit like that. I dropped him off at school, kisses and hugs and kisses and hugs and lots of "I love You". Life is good. I worked my fucking ass off all day but that's another story. I come skating up to the school at 2:40pm, 2:45pm is the last minute pick-up. Racing into the school, I clip a parent with dawdling kiddos, trying to make it before it is embarrassingly late. I waltz in to a wonderful closing of Jake playing outside with his classmates, "Mom, I don't want to leave yet." I breath a sigh of relaxation. "O.K.", I say. We hang out, then dawdle down to the Frog room. We hang out there too long because we simply love Jaqlyn too much, oh if only I could spell her name right. I am shamed by her wonderfully natural way of observation. As she reads over his class report, she asks Jake "What did you say you were sorry to God for Jake?", "I said I was sorry for talking so loud in class," said Jake. Ouch. Why didn't I ask that question. Moving on. We dallied there for awhile then ran off to finish my work day at TACODELIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!! In the car I asked Jake what Dad and I should say we are sorry for to God. I won't get into it too much, but let me just say that it turns out that Jake isn't missing alot around here, as in, he does know exactly what we should feel bad about. O.K. now we know Jake's an observant little booger. We went to Tacodeli where I promptly gave him a chocolate chip cookie and lemonade so that he would let me finish up work. We got home and he did awesome artwork and colored and watched T.V. while I worked even a bit more. Then, YEAH!, we went to the park where he played with Zoe and dreamed of playing soccer and being in kindergarten. When we got home he asked me if boys took ballet. "Why yes," I said, with great delight I might add (Joel's eyes were rolling). I ran to get my New York Ballet workout tape to show him just such types of fellows. He lost interest immediately. Jake just got out of bed and asked to brush his teeth and pee. Then he crawled back into bed with Dad. I'm gonna go take a shower and crawl in next to him. Fuck you Parenting Magazine. We co-sleep, we single sleep, Jake sleeps in his own bed and our bed and sometimes I sleep in his bed alone. I say fart and poop and there is no fucking way that ignoring it is going to make him stop saying it. This kid is way too smart for that. He's already signed his forms for class clown of 3rd grade. Dad's been priming him since birth. This is a real day in the real life of a parent of a 4-year-old. I wish we could be better. We did get broccoli and salad in him for dinner. I'm feeling good about that one. I just can't take the pressure of proper parenting anymore. We are animals, we breed, we raise our brood. I can't keep up with the many new fangled ways of raising kids. Americans who raise thier children by the book, end up with cows. Sure, they travel in herds, but you can't tell one from the other. I'll take my crazy zebra-striped Hyena anyday. He's one of a kind.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-1154479963157274922006-08-01T16:52:00.000-08:002006-08-02T18:48:02.416-08:00Swim like you think yer dyin'!Can you stop time? Have you ever wanted to? How about for one or two hours a day you just shut the world off and forget that your job sucks, you can't pay your bills, your house is dirty, your ass is too big, whatever. I've got the secret . . . It's called swimming. You know, you've heard of it, right? You did it when you were a kid. No dumbass, not that shit where you put on goggles and a cap and ear plugs and drudge along back in forth in those boring fucking lanes, counting strokes and getting that silly exercise stuff. I'm talking about good old heart-thumpin', chlorine-stinkin', swim-suit losin' swimming. Jumping in with yer knees up to your chest, back-slapping, ass-kicking fun. Actually, I'm not much for jumping, but the other day Jake and I put on our goggles and started exploring the deep end of our neighborhood Brentwood Park pool. Since then, nary a day goes by that we don't make it there for a quick underwater expedition. I have found that for a couple of hours a day I actually forget that I'm miserable in my life, unable to decipher a single bit of it. For a little while, I'm Joanna, the 8-year-old, swimming underwater, blowing bubbles up to the top and sitting on the bottom of the pool. I can remember showing up at the pool at opening time in Tulia, Texas. I'd ride my blue 10-speed the four or five miles to the pool and stay till closing, everyday, all summer long. Flirting with the cute life-guards and eating lunch at the snack bar, I was a brown bean, just like The Jakey now. Who new about skin cancer? I'm sucking at that whole concept even now. I don't think I even wore sunscreen back then. These last few days of Jake's summer I'm showing him the way of the underwater world. Everything beats slower down there, everyone flows. I'm creating this concept of underwater yoga. It's beautiful. So, if you haven't made it out to the pools yet, I think you have one more month. Pull out that moldy old swimsuit, slather on some 50 spf, and get some Vitamin D. The sun isn't all that evil. You'll find us there, looking like racoons in our goggles, popping up for air. Hit the title for a link and find a free pool near you.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-1153505478350500562006-07-21T10:10:00.000-08:002006-07-27T11:18:57.113-08:00The Evolution is Upon Us!!I would not be so bold to say that I know much about anything. In fact, that is exactly my problem and why I am, and have been, stuck in such a long, on-going rut for so long, long, fucking long. From the time I was 17, I have begged and pleaded for anyone to help me make a decision as to what I should do with my life and with boring dismay, I must confess, I have still not discovered it. But nonetheless, here I am to annoy all of you with my ill-educated ramblings on whatever happens to cross my mind in those sketchy early-morning hours when it's too early to get up but just close enough to that time that I can't go back to sleep. First, I should tell you that I have become highly addicted to chocolate covered peanuts. I consider them to be an anti-depressant. I'm trying not to drink so much and they have become an awesome substitute. Watering plants is a good anti-depressant too. I think if you see a beautiful garden, you can bet that person is working through some shit. Anyway, for those of you who arn't up-to-date on my life, here's the low-down. I lost my best dog Red, old news, but losses like that don't just go away. Hell, I'm still mourning my grandma Beulah and that was 4 years ago. A drop in the time bucket. I try to call her everyday. And I listen for Red's shuffle every morning. Joel and I gave the preggers concept one big fat fucking final try and to no avail, the Gods slapped our hands and reminded us that, in our case, one is enough. Fine, I'll look the other way at all those who get to have 2, 3, 4, 10. Getting on with my life with liposuction, running, yoga and such. I've been scanning the news these days and I'm scared. My recent National Geographic talked about hurricanes, CNN talks about heat waves in California, fighting in Israel and Lebanon, and goddamn it's hot. When I read these reports, I see very little mention of what might have caused the environmental concerns. It's just something we must persevere. I can't help but wonder if there is something that we can be doing. I know, we are recycling and riding our bikes and cleaning with non-toxics. I've got my borax, Dr. Bronner's and vinegar and my compost pile to decrease the landfills. I try to only purchase thrift. No new shit for me, thank you. I recycle clothing, damnit. The deal is . . .it's not just about what we are doing but how we are thinking. We have to shift gears. We have to acknowledge, that we humans, are the most destructive thing to ever happen to Earth. And Bush is quite possibly the devil. We procreate and we don't think about what it will be like for our children, hell, what it will be like for us. I fear for the day that we live in plastic bubbles, removed from the contaminated planet we call Earth. Bladerunner. 12 Monkeys. Sci-Fi isn't really fiction, it's prophetic. Atleast that's how I see it, and that's all that counts on this blog, right. I have always believed that practicing yoga (really practicing it), not just as an exercise, but a way of believing, thinking . . . might help evolutionize us, grow our brains bigger, expand our souls and ways of thinking. No more destruction towards ourselves, each other or the planet. It's hard not to think it's too late. Like I said, I don't know much about anything at all and I certainly haven't spent much time with the bible or history. Not enough to know whether what is going on right now is prophetic in anyway. But, what I see, is reason for concern. I see pollution, war, destruction and hatred. It concerns me. It scares the shit out of me. I wonder what life will be like in 20 years. I wonder if we will look back on 2.75 a gallon gas and say "Can you believe it got that high?", or "Wow, those were the good old days!", or "What was gasoline anyway?". I wonder if we won't have a choice as to whether our sons and daughters will fight in a war. That's what really makes my heart skip a beat, feeling the rush of blood as it catches up with itself. I have to admit, sometimes I think. . . it's too late. There is no changing this blood ugly course we've got ourselves on. Then, I go and pop YogaShakti in the DVD player and do a long yoga session, throw some coins for the I Ching and think . . .today I'll try to evolutionize, just a little bit.<br />And now, give this a think . . .if you arn't part of this evolution, then you might just be part of the problem. What can you do about it?Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-1148648248190995672006-05-26T04:55:00.000-08:002006-06-01T06:39:51.360-08:00Foster's Home for Imaginary FriendsLook, if you haven't seen this show then you are an unforgivable turd who lives life boring the shit out of everyone around you. First, the animation is delightful and addictive. As soon as the theme song starts, you should immediately start dancing. That's the only way to do it. I'm not saying this is educational tv, but it's better than being put through a series of learning programs on Noggin (which I love by the way, but can only stomach so much of) and not as bad as letting him watch . . the Simpsons, the Oblongs or Family Guy. It's clean, it's funny, it's adorable, it'a entertaining. Check it out on Cartoon Network. I sit down and watch it everytime it's on for a little lighthearted pick-me-up. I'm trying to do this crazy new thing called "Live Today". Try not to think about yesterday too much and avoid thinking about tomorrow a whole heck of alot as well. Seriously, thinking about something that hasn't happened is a total waste of time. Today is Today and in the exact moment when it happens, it's the only chance you will get to experience it. So, at the risk of sounding wholly cliche, stop and smell the bluebonnets, reach in and feel the texture of a plant's leaf, listen to the crickets and frogs and birds in your yard. On a cool summer evening, go outside and plop your ass down in a chair and stare at the sky, touch the fireflies and have a goofy conversation with your 4-year-old, or husband, or wife, or sister, or mom, or dog, or cat about what it would be like to ride a shadow, or whether you've ever seen a ghost, or what would happened if it rained lollipops. Last night, Jake and I sat outside in chairs facing each other with our legs wrapped up singing "Cowgirls, Cowboys won't you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight, etc." Jake made up verses and we talked about the shadows. Our shadows have become our new friends who often play with us in the mornings. I have spent so much of my life worrying about the past and fretting about the future and it's this little fella I grew from a very small seed that has finally made me realize that it's this very moment that counts the most. And with that said, I'm going to make the most of this one and go do yoga to start the day.Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10474190.post-1148012436544867702006-05-18T20:11:00.000-08:002006-05-18T20:20:36.556-08:00Playdough<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/1600/DSC00052.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/320/DSC00052.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/1600/DSC00059.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/320/DSC00059.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/1600/DSC00051.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7075/811/320/DSC00051.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />O.K. so I tried to start a new blog but I realized that it was stupid so here is the one post that was at that blog. I also linked to a really cute site where you can learn how to do other cool things with your kid, wife, cousin, niece, nephew, dog, alone, whatever. Hit the title of this entry. I've been doing a little baking so I might give you a bit of a how-to on that next time and I might even do a little starter (sourdough, that is). Yeah, call me Marta Hewlert or something. Sorry for the icky pics but to be honest, playdough isn't pretty to get to, just fun to play with, smell, taste and eat and . . . I'll stop there. <br />PLAYDOUGH, PLAYDOH, PLATO, ETC.<br />2 cups of flour<br />1 cup of salt<br />1 teaspoon of food coloring (always use more).<br />2 tablespoons of oil<br />2 cups of water<br />1 teaspoon of cream of tartar. <br />Cook it in a saucepan over a medium heat and you will get a soft, lovely, pliable playdough that is not only fun to play with, but yummy to eat. No silly, don't eat it. Make the alphabet with it. We always make tons of it because it lasts forever. Try not to get too stressed. It's messy and it should be. We forget how to be friends with our kids, so busy to make sure they are good little humans that arn't offending anyone. Just remember, who they are now is only a fraction of who they will become and what you do now will determine every bit of what they will become. Think about it. They get in our way and slow our day down. Oh, if only I could have a cup of coffee in solitude. Solitude will come your way. It's called "old age" and who you are now will determine who is by your side in 40 years. I would love to have Jake come by and visit me in my garden when I'm 80. What would you like?Joanna Friedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01784780644431186396noreply@blogger.com0