Anonymous Mom

Tooth Fairy

2008-08-24T19:25:00.000-07:00

I was driving the kid to school last year (4th grade). We drive in silence, no radio, both of us sort of zoned out by the frenzy of waking up, making breakfast, grabbing the backpack and my computer bag and racing out the door.

The silence is interrupted by the kid, "I lost a tooth yesterday."

I am quiet -- immediately doing the math.

"What did you do with it?" I ask.

"Put it under my pillow," he says.

Clever child. He was running an experiment.

I reach into my purse and pull out a $5 bill. Normally in hour house you get $1 for each tooth, but I figure since we both know the gig is up, he should get a bonus. I reach over the backseat and dangle the $5 in front of him. I feel him take it from my hand.

We are both quiet. Then a question.

"What about Santa?"

"What do you think," I ask.

No comment from the back seat.

Mother's Nightmare

2007-04-17T21:12:00.000-07:00

Every mother's nightmare is being lived at Virginia Tech right now. I have been reading blogs and watching the videos. This story is so very personal. And these kids are so online. It is all out there for us to see, feel and understand. The world has changed so very much. The forty-something crowd needs to embrace this change, or be left behind.

This online journal is an example: Bryce Carter http://ntcoolfool.livejournal.com/

This article from the LA Times this morning caught the trend perfectly. Sad and significant.
http://www.latimes.com/news/printedition/front/la-fi-web17apr17,1,501609.story?coll=la-headlines-frontpage

Video "We Are Virginia Tech" Convocation:
http://www.cnn.com/video/partners/clickability/index.html?url=/video/us/2007/04/17/sot.nikki.giovanni.convocation.cnn

Video on YouTube expressing sorrow:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzVMQht96bM

YouTube CNN Cell Phone coverage:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ni81O2KWxg

Absent

2007-04-17T20:46:00.000-07:00

I have been absent. My readership doesn't seem to have missed me. About the time of my last post, I began to look for a new job in earnest. My old job kind of imploded. Long story, my company bought a company and put their management in charge and they let all ours go then I decided to quit. So beginning Nov. 2006, I started hard core looking for a job. Oh the joys of being 40+ working in the young go-go-go world of marketing. I was really, really good at getting interviews. Chat chat chat chat chat. My all time funniest moment had to be when 4 mid-20's guys (complete with tattoos and piercings) interviewed me for a position at the massive online multi-player game, World of Warcraft. How inappropriate a hire would I have been? I made it through a screening phone call and then a first interview to this final round. They called me a few days later and seemed to really regret telling me they didn't think I would fit in culturally. DUH. I was terrified they would offer me a job.

Finally, in February 2007 I landed a position with an interactive health care marketing agency. Wow...quite a change from the computer hardware business. Needless to say my head is spinning. But I feel I am starting to come up for air. All these problems a typical Newport Beach mommy wouldn't have to worry about!!! It has been unsettling starting a new job...no vacation, farther from home. And, worst of all, I haven't been able to volunteer in school and keep track of my kid's annoying teacher.

Speaking of school, we decided to vote with our feet. The local Catholic school opened another 4th grade class. The Kid took an entry test and much to our astonished surprise...he got in. So next year we are abandoning public school and trying out parochial. Given the recent priests scandals, you probably think I am an idiot. But, I was so disgusted with the second/third grade combination and the distinct lack of learning in this sub-standard situation at the local public school, I had to investigate something. Not to mention this year's silent auction fund raiser SUCKED. So badly I, true to my name, sent an anonymous letter to the Principal. Poorly organized, ran way late, no booze on table, no tables, no food, all auctions closed late, rude drunk women running it. We had brought some friends with us (and paid $180 for their tickets thank you very much) and were very embarrassed by the whole situation.

So, on the last day of applications to the Catholic school, I turned one in for the Kid. The rest is history. Uniforms and daily religious education, here we come. Ya gotta fight back somehow.

Halloween Postscript

2006-11-12T13:06:00.000-08:00

My husband and I were getting the mummy ready for his adventures. We wrapped and tied and applied gobs o' makeup. When all was done and we were satisfied, the mummy went to the full length mirror in our bedroom and took a look. Honest to god, the first words out of his mouth were, "Does this make me look fat?" Umm, maybe a little, but it really makes you look scary, in my opinion.

Don't be too appalled. Our Kid isn't headed for the nearest eating disorder clinic. He was simply repeating what his mother says anytime she is in front of a mirror. You have to admit, where else but the O.C. would an 8-year-0ld boy ask such a question. Something new to worry about.

He was satisfied that he was scary when anyone under 3 feet shied away from him during trick-or-treating and many, many of the treat passer outers commented on his scary costume as opposed to his girth.

Halloween is for mummies.

2006-11-05T18:37:00.000-08:00

After the first few years in our neighborhood we learned our lesson. We get absolutely no tricker treaters whatsoever. So we stopped splitting up, one going with the Kid out to gather candy and the other staying home to hand out goodies to the neighborhood kids. Cause the one who stayed home would invariably feel like the lonliest guy on the block. There simply are NO tricker-or-treaters. Not that there aren't plenty of kids. They just don't come to our street.

A few years ago we began a new tradition. We decorate the house (spooky like) and leave out a bowl of candy in front of the gate. And we both take the Kid around to the immediate neighbors, so they won't have to complain at work the next day, "we got NO trick-or-treaters last night." Especially the new ones who would share our original perplexity at this strange kids live here but don't stop by phenomenon. (One could almost get a complex.)

After doing the nieghbor rounds, we get ourselves down to Balboa Island, or, alternatively, Halloween Central. Now, these people do it up right. They dress in costumes, decorate their houses and buy vats of sticky sweet candy for the kids. It is bumper to bumper on the sidewalks. Parents are dressed up and parading around with their tiny ghosts and goblins. Where else could you see a 6' 3" Dalmation gentleman taking his two-year-old Dalmation kid puppy out for a stroll? How about a grown adult superman out with his teeny tiny three-year-old superwoman?

We stopped at one house and a coven of witches and warlocks were cooking up treats for the kiddies. "Ohhh children, what do we have here? The bones of one who fell in from last Halloween?" My Kid shrieked and ran off. He wouldn't go near this house.

There are graveyards, giant pumpkins, Halloween theme music playing from Disney's Haunted Mansion and ghosts whirling around high above a bayfront home. Lights are a-glittering, parties are in full progress and everyone is having a rolicking good time.

I honestly can't think of a better place to spend Halloween. And they say the O.C. doesn't have a personality?

Type A? Not me.

2006-11-02T21:11:00.000-08:00

My husband was recently chatting with a transplanted dad at a soccer game, who had uprooted his family and moved out to the O.C. from Michigan. My huband queried him about how he liked it here in the land of milk and honey. The dad said fine, the weather is great, the schools are wonderful. His wife was having a hard time though. Oh? My husband knew to draw him out, sensing a perceptive outsider's view of the madness.

His wife's observation was that she "had never seen so many Type A moms in one location."

How true that statement rings. I don't really include myself in this category since I am a Type A working girl which is quite different from the Type A moms. In my working life, I run a Marketing Department with 10 people for a $1.2B corporation. In my mom life, I take orders from the Type A moms. I volunteer at the church as a Catechist Assistant (Catholic for Sunday School teacher). There, two skinny, perfectly coiffed volunteer mom teachers toss orders at me like burly army sargents for an hour every Sunday morning. 3-hole-punch this, staple that, drop and give me twenty. Every Sunday I dread it and wonder why I volunteered.

In the Kid's class, I volunteer for Math Centers on Friday's which is run by Type A moms who tell me which center to go to, what to do and offer helpful comments about the Kid's performance at their math center ("he seems to cry when he is under stress"). Gosh, I hadn't noticed.

And then, I made the mistake of volunteering to get Islands Restaurant off of Bison to run a weeknight fundraising dinner for our school after chatting with the store manager who asked us which elementary school we went to and would we like a fundraiser evening at the restaurant? Just pick the night and he even does the flyers. Seemed easy enough. I emailed the principal, who emailed the PTA president, who talked it over with the fundraising committe. They got back to me, via email, and said they called the manager and set it all up for mid-December, I should just call him and handle the details like the flyers, the banners and anything he needs. Thanks ladies, I'll get right on it. I wasn't doing ANYTHING at all mid-December.

I am grateful that I only dabble in the Type A mom world from time to time. These women make me look like a rank amatuer.

2006-10-28T18:21:00.000-07:00

Stray Kitty

Guess who's coming to dinner?

2006-10-28T17:52:00.000-07:00

The whining for a pet began this year heralded by random muttered wishes for a dog increasingly accompanied by incessant begging to stop by Russo’s pet store in Fashion Island to “look” at the kitties and puppies. Over and over I said no a thousand different ways:
-I’ll check into it.
-I’ll think about it
-Ask your father.
-Not this week.
-Maybe for Christmas.

Don’t get me wrong, I grew up with dogs. In my single days, I had two cats, male and female Abyssinians. I kept them indoors as they would have surely been stolen if allowed to roam (beautiful expensive rare breed). They had golden brown coats, soft fur and deep golden eyes. They were loyal companions to me for years, hanging around me wanting nothing more than an occasional pet and a snuggle. My husband had to marry them as well as me. After the Kid was born, their personal stock plummeted. I considered them mostly a hassle as they needed to be fed, their litter box cleaned, taken to the vet, and watched during vacations. They became ignored mostly by me and mild entertainment for the baby.

When the Kid was two, my husband got the itch for a dog. I stupidly relented. My husband adopted an extremely overweight 7-year-old golden Labrador retriever who had been given up in the inland San Diego area (read red necks). This pathetic creature panted loudly, drooled puddles, lived for food and had numerous health problems. He couldn’t really run and was horrible on the leash especially around other dogs and yanked my arm so badly out of the socket after one walk, I had to seek physical therapy for months afterwards for a torn shoulder. We had tried to adopt a better Lab, but the Lab Rescue people were extremely picky about who got the young, energetic, good looking dogs. We were deemed a poor house for a one-year-old lab as we had a young child and weren’t home during the day. Please ignore the fact that these dogs were essentially abandoned by their previous owners. I was highly annoyed that we couldn’t pass the screening test for a stray pet. That should have been my warning. I disliked “Yankee” almost immediately. And to compound my loathing, within a year of his arrival in our lives, both cats died of mysterious blood diseases the vet couldn’t diagnose. I always thought the rogue dog killed them. I hated the dog after that even more so because he took a good long four years to exit my life. One day his hip dysplasia overcame him and he could no longer stand up. My husband reluctantly told me the bad news. He was sort of fond of the dog in the way you love an ancient uncle who smells bad. I told my husband “you know what to do.” And Yankee (his god given name by his previous owners) was no more.

I didn’t miss having pets. Less stuff to do and less things to clean which was in line with my life simplification goals. Unfortunately, my husband began to join in the pet whining after the Kid started third grade this year. The Kid was having a horrible time and it was carrying into other areas of his life. All of the sudden he became afraid to walk down our hall, afraid to shut the bathroom door, afraid of the noise of a flushing toilet, worried about me leaving on business trips and horribly concerned he would never learn to multiply. My husband felt a dog would give him confidence. "No pets," I maintained. But secretly I was weakening. My trips to Russo’s with the Kid became more frequent. I started looking up dog breeds on the internet. I asked around the office, “Did anyone own a particular type of dog that met all my criteria: small, but not too small, easy to housebreak, no digging or scratching, no biting, doesn’t mind being left home alone for 8-10 hours a day?” I got lots of suggestions and continued my research, but most dogs were defective in some area or the other, in my opinion. I got the impression the Kid and my husband felt I was stalling.

Then, one night I was sitting at the dining room table. Something moved quickly past me through the front door. I yelped. We have had rats run into the house from time to time. Particularly unpleaseant memories. No rat, but a cat. A very skinny little girl cat with a beautiful calico-like coat in shades of butterscotch and deepest mahogany over a snow white background. It even had a little black spot under one eye. It came right up to me and meowed. I yelled for my husband. The Kid and my husband came running. They saw the cat as it scampered out the patio doors. We didn’t think much of it.

The next week I went out of town on business for a few days. Upon returning, The Kid informed me that the kitty was visiting. And they were feeding it tuna fish out of the can. That’s great, I thought, it will never leave. Sure enough it began showing up consistently in the morning and evening for food. It began staying in the house for an hour or two after being fed. The Kid would dangle string and pet it. Could my child have willed a pet into his life? A pet that didn’t need its litter box cleaned, came and went as it pleased, never needed to be walked and made little demands on me.

And, it was really cute. One night, I was working in the office. The cat appeared at the door and I let her in. She jumped to the top of the desk, laid down next to the monitor and went to sleep purring as I petted her. For the first time I was right on top of her and got a good look. Reallly pretty little tiny thing, with ribs poking out a bit although she was fattening up. She seemed to be quite clean and had no fleas that I could detect. I also immediately figured out that she had no claws on her front or back paws. This was somebody’s pet. My heart sunk a little as I realized we should try and find the owner. I called for my husband, waking up the cat. “She doesn’t have any claws.” He got that glint in his eye realizing his good fortune “She’s perfect!” I explained that far from perfect, she had an owner. He insisted she was a stray considering how skinny she was when she began stopping by.

The next day she came to the patio door for her usual breakfast. She also brought a friend. A dead rat. The next day she brought another dead rat. The deal was becoming quickly sealed. This cat had a purpose. No more talk of dogs came from my husband or the Kid and the rat population of our property was slowly being destroyed. She was perfect.

We hit on a plan. I would buy a collar and put our phone number on it. If she went back home, the owners would surely call and say “why do you have your phone number on our cat?” and I would explain we were trying to locate them (the owner). Meanwhile, my husband would take her to the vet and get her checked out for fleas, worms and get her spayed. I estimated her age at about 6 months which meant she was old enough to spay. We would continue to feed her and allow her to hang out inside the house if she wanted to. She spent the night one night (curled up next to me on the bed), but for the most part, seemed to want to roam outside which is a little dangerous for a cat without claws. However, we weren’t sure if she was really our cat, she didn’t really want to stay inside and we were worried we might be preventing her from finding her owner. So outside she went.

That Friday, my husband called me with the update from the vet. “She’s a he.” What?? “It’s a he/she.” Turns out our little friend had already been neutered. The lack of fuzzy balls had confused us. She was indeed a ten month old malnourished he. The vet thought it was unusual for both sets of claws to be missing; typically cat owners will only remove the front claws. The vet also felt that the owner was no longer looking for this cat at the pound as it appeared to have been on its own for awhile. He liked our plan with the tag and was happy someone was looking after the cat.

At this point I had mixed feelings. This really was someone else’s cat. I decided that no more overnight stays were allowed. It would go out at night and find its owner. The very next night another cat appeared on our doorstep with our little hobo. It was a small orange cat with a fluffy orange striped tale, also neutered and also missing all claws. The two cats seemed to know each other but weren’t too friendly. In fact, the orange cat chased our male out of the yard. Where were these cats coming from? The whole thing was becoming vaguely disturbing. I was upset about it to the point of tears. I had started having feelings for this little runaway. Given the orange cat, to me the owner had to be somewhere nearby. And the orange cat could help our kitty find its way home. I shooed the orange cat out of the yard, and felt this was the beginning of the end.

Sure enough, the phone rang that night around 10PM. My husband answered.

“Yes, that is our phone number.” Pause.
No it is not our cat. It’s a stray.” Pause.
No, we aren’t going to come and pick it up.” Longer pause.
Just let it go.” Good night.

So, now, our little wandering traveler was sucking up to a new family about a block away. I was pretty pissed. And, everybody was going to think we just let our stupid cat wander all over the neighborhood. As a very conscientious pet owner, I was embarrassed. I went to sleep that night feeling pretty sad. I thought I had the perfect pet, and simply had somewhat of a bizarre situation.

The cat stayed out all night that night, and every night thereafter. We didn’t know where it went, but it showed up for breakfast literally at the crack of down, and appeared out of nowhere when we come home from work every day for two weeks. Two nights ago, I came home from a long business trip and the kitty was inside the house. My husband said it had been hanging out for about four hours. It greeted me at the door and wanted petting which I did for five minutes or so. Then, it quietly stepped through the front door and out into the night. He hasn’t been back since. No one has called, so I have decided something happened to him, which makes me tear up when I think about it. I think I'm ready for a pet.

Tis the Season

2006-10-15T21:58:00.000-07:00

It's back to school in the O.C. And, as usual, I have begun to receive the usual barrage of invitations to school fund raiser events. A Spanish theme for one, a Hollywood theme for the other and an Island theme for the third. These events are designed to raise money for the schools and make a dent in your Christmas (or holiday) shopping budget. So far, I have bought tickets for one (not attending, just sucking up to a potential school that I want the Kid to get into if I become even more disgusted with his current situation this year) and raffle tickets for two others...supporting some friends of mine. My Kid's public school won't run their event till the spring, which is surprisingly stupid since most holiday shopping is done in the fall. What do you expect from a public school?

These events raise literally hundreds of thousands of dollars to support the schools. Which is bizarre considering some of the private schools ask parents to pop for up to $14,000 per kid. Couldn't they just ask another $1,000 or $2,000 considering the parent's level of obvious wealth and skip the lousy fundraiser? These are the questions I mull over at this time of year. That being said, I am still an easy mark for the $100 lottery ticket, only 400 sold for a chance to win $10,000. I could use a little extra cash this year. And, it's tax deductible.

Back to School Combo

2006-09-25T20:23:00.000-07:00

We got a surprising call from The Kid’s second grade teacher the weekend before school started on Friday, Sept 1. "I don't want you to be too surprised, and I think this is the best thing for him..." My mother's “little voice” synapses began firing. Hmmm, was she about to reveal something that I just might not like? Yes, Sherlock Holmes. In fact The Kid was put into a "second third grade combo class." Meaning 10 second graders and 10 third graders. Basically, half the time students sit around waiting for the teacher to give them their instructions or answer their questions. This can be compared to the ever so successful bilingual education programs running up in Anaheim and why most of my 7 nieces and nephews are in parochial schools.

So I had my doubts. We went to the school over the weekend to check the student list to see if The Kid knew anyone in the class. Nope, not a soul. And next to the class list was a note posted by the principal. The essence of the note was that “combo classes are interesting, my own children have been in one, don’t even think about complaining to me until 3 weeks have passed.” Again, my mother’s little voice rapped at my skull. “It appears to me that they think I am not going to like this.”

Later this weekend, I bumped into a mother I knew from Kindergarten. We exchanged the usual pleasantries concerning teachers and third grade. She got a funny look on her face when I told her the teacher The Kid had. “Oh, we had Mrs. Know-it-All last year,” she said. Wow, my mother’s instinct smacked me in the face this time. Things didn’t seem good.

On Back-to-School night, the second week into school, I met Mrs. So and So. She was pleasantly plump, just shy of forty, a mom of a 10-month-old, dumpy dress and cute southern accent. Her one give away to her true personality was that she kept referring to the older kids in the class as “Big Third Graders” when explaining how they would need to step it up this year. Hmmm. Outside the class I bumped into a woman who has always been kind to me, another mom. She is sort of the Desperate Housewives type. Beautiful face, clothing and figure with two adorable young girls and a husband 20 years her senior. I assertively approached her and said “HI” and reintroduced myself knowing she wouldn’t know me from Adam. Her face lit into a pretty smile. She asked how it was going. I said great, but my kid was in a combo class. Her perky grin faded and she looked seriously at me. “We were in a combo class last year.” I leaned in closer as her voice dropped to a whisper. “Keep a close eye on things, ya know what I mean?” We exchanged knowing looks and I slithered away into the darkness of the evening mulling over my information.

So I started watching his homework really carefully. Half finished scribbles. Writing assignments that didn’t make sense. Homework that was confusing. Finally, when we figured out which spelling list of the 3 possible he was sent home with to work on I realized he was being given word 3 letters long and one syllable. WHAT? An outrage! He had these in second grade. Things were amiss. Time to take action.

A brief email to Mrs. Big Teacher was in order.

“Mrs. Big Teacher:
3 letter words are pretty basic for his level. This is a step backward from where he was spelling last year and this summer. Do we always pick the ‘blue’ list... and was he supposed to know this? Was he not paying attention so he couldn't give me directions? I would like to understand what level he is in at school, why he is placed there, if he is able to follow directions in the split class. He is a kid that has trouble concentrating so with two sets of directions, it seems that it would be even more challenging for him rather than more helpful. When would be a good time for me to schedule a meeting with you? I know he is pretty frustrated and I want to understand what we can do to help now rather than wait till a meeting in November.
Thank you. Anonymous Mom”

That day she fired back a reply and cc’d the principal, just in case I misunderstood the official nature of her response.

“He was assessed on his spelling skills individually and this is where he fell. I always clarify directions for him individually because he needs this (even when only the third grade is in class). I am concerned that you feel his attention issues or difficulties are because of the combo class. I assure you that I am overly aware of combo issues and go to great lengths to make sure this doesn't interfere. I have spoken to Mrs. Second Grade Teacher and she let me know it was a concern last year even in the full 2nd grade. In any class if you are meeting the needs of all your students there is going to be different directions and different things going on at the same time. If this spelling is review he'll quickly move up. I'll reassess him next week to see if he is ready to move to the next level. Remember he is working on the spelling pattern not the individual words and on his pattern sheets he has done in class he has had a little difficulty. For instance for an "AN" pattern he put san which is following that pattern but not a word. I can meet with you next week on Tues. at 3:00 p.m. Please keep in mind that 3rd grade makes quite a jump and this also may cause his frustration. At the meeting, I'll talk with you about the accommodations I am making for him and the contact Mrs. Second Grade Teacher and I have had. I'll also speak with you about what you can do about the up and coming concepts but I don't want to waste time focusing on the combo situation. It can't change because we are completely full and this is how the district arranged our classes. I am very happy with my class and feel things are working well and want to focus on the positive of the combo. I'll do what ever I can to help The Kid as I would with any student and I'll try and meet your needs as far as assuring you that he is getting individual help and progressing. I'll show you the spelling assessment at that time. I'm always available to help.”

To which I replied (and do I get a medal for class?) – no cc to the principal thank you very much.

“Dear Mrs. Defensive,
Perfect. I look forward to meeting with you on next week on Tues. Sept 26 at 3:00 p.m. Please rest assured that our goal is to understand The Kid’s behavior in the classroom, 3rd grade curriculum, The Kid’s placement in it, challenges that you perceive, and what we can do at home to ensure that The Kid continues to progress at what you would consider to be an adequate pace, and that he completely masters 3rd grade material so that we are not still catching up when he moves to 4th grade. Thank you very much for your time and kind consideration. Anonymous Mom”

I am looking forward to the Tuesday 3PM meeting. Mrs. Pain in My You Know What is about to meet A Mother Whose Little Voice Is Screaming at Her.

Transitions

2006-07-31T20:49:00.000-07:00

For me, by far, my most anxiety filled and stressful moments have been created by any change in the Kid's routine. For example, Kindergarten was, quite simply, a heart attack. My little tiny 5-year-old was all of the sudden spending hours a day with strangers and, to add fuel to the mommy trauma fire, riding the bus. A hall of fame life shortening moment came when I got a frantic call from our full-time babysitter (oh let's just call a spade a spade ... our nanny). "The Kid didn't get off the bus." My heart literally stopped in my chest. I raced out of the front door of my company, to my car, gunned the engine, and drove eighty plus miles per hour to the elementary school, arriving in nine minutes with tears streaming down my face, all the while frantically trying to dial the school to put me in touch with my Kid's teacher.

I grabbed a parking spot, madly galloped into the school and careened into his room. There he was sitting with his teacher. I gasped at her, "why wasn't he on the bus?" She said "I am so sorry, he told us he didn't take the bus today. I don't know why I listened to him. But he was very insistent." I glared at the Kid, I'd deal with him later. Then I glared at her. She didn't have kids. She had no way of knowing she had just shortened my life by a couple of days.

Another horrifying memory was created by soccer camp. One summer the Kid had a week of morning soccer camp. My husband would drop him off and I was supposed to pick him up at noon to take him home to the nanny. The very first day, Monday, I looked down at my watch at work. It was noon, wasn't I supposed to be somewhere? Then it hit me--soccer camp. I high tailed it out the front door, jumped in the car, sped all the way there. Visions of the Kid being taken away by some stranger danced in my head. I dared not call my husband who would have probably seriously considered, for 30 seconds, reporting the incident to social services. I parked the car as quickly as possible and ran a 3 minute mile to the field. There I found my son, sitting on a soccer ball, sobbing in the middle of the chaos of coaches, kids and parents. I was 13 minutes late. Wailing, he said "I thought you weren't ever going to come." Hugging him to my chest I said I was sorry over and over again. To this day, 3 years later, I still randomly get "Remember the time you left me at soccer camp?"

The start of second grade brought another monumental change. I let the nanny go after six and a half years of dedicated service. She took it way worse than the Kid, as she had been with us since he was 6 months old. She was now just part-time, working mornings at a neighbor's and afternoons with us. We really didn't need her that much, and we felt that the Kid was ready for a little Darwin (survival of the fittest). So, at the start of second grade, we put him in an after school program for a couple of hours. He seemed to really like it. They had snack, did homework and played on the field with friends from his class. My husband picked him up at 4. This transition was surprisingly smooth and hassle free.

Then time to make summer arrangements. For the last 3 summers, the Kid has had a combination of his nanny and the local yacht club summer program. Let's just say he was living really large and experiencing a totally different lifestyle then me or my husband have EVER experienced. The club informed us it was time for him to graduate from the kiddy boating program to actually sailing his own sabot. Since, we had no plans to become boaters ourselves it was an easy decision. No more yacht club. The elementary school care was running a summer program, so we thought, great! Between my husband's vacation, my vacation, my mother, my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law, the Kid would only have to spend 5 weeks in the school summer program. No big deal.

The first week I felt awful about the whole thing. It seemed like there were only about 25 kids. I wondered where the other after school kids were (typically there are 40-50). It seemed lonely at the school with just this little outpost of humanity. The Kid seemed shy about the whole thing. His regular buddies weren't there. And, although the camp had a daily schedule of all kinds of activities, it appeared that only one from the list was ever really executed.

Everyday with a worried look on my face I asked the Kid "how is school?" And everyday he said "good." On Friday at the end of the first week, I picked him up and he had six inch wide asphalt marks down the front of his t-shirt and skinned and bruised arms and knees. He had apparently fallen hard playing on his Razor. "Who helped you?" "No one. And the big boys yelled good one Kid," he said to me using the typical playground singsong mocking tone.

Later that evening when my husband came home, I wrung my hands repeating the story with tears in my eyes. My husband, by the way, is the youngest of 5 children, the 4 older ones being some of the toughest women I have ever known. I finished my sad story, questioning our childcare option, doubting my life choices, thinking we should move to Riverside and I could start selling on eBay so our poor son wouldn't have to spend the summer in the after school program. I wound down my diatribe and looked mournfully at my husband for his reaction. He turned from me, went back to his computer and tossed over his shoulder "what a whiner."

The Kid is now in week 4 of his 5 weeks, he seems to have friends and graciously tolerates the seven hours of non-stop summer partying. I still check though. Just tonight I asked him how it was going with the big kids. He said "I don't talk to them very much and they don't talk to me very much." Another transitioned survived.

Not at dinner please!

2006-07-18T21:45:00.000-07:00

Religion isn’t an acceptable topic of conversation at most dinner parties. It makes people uncomfortable. Especially white, upper middle class, graduate school educated people. And, most certainly my recent conversion to Catholicism was not only unexpected but, having picked an exceedingly unpopular religion by the standards of the above said group, it was somewhat outrageous. A couple of friends were aware of my enrollment in Catholic education studies, but everyone else wasn’t.

After a few bottles of wine, over dessert, someone in the know would blurt out (probably for shear sport), “So how’s your Catholic thing going?” I would mumble “Fine,” then quickly complement the hostess on dessert. And an ordinarily polite group of friends who wouldn’t dream of commenting on your weight, your boob implants or your obviously botoxed forehead immediately would go for the gut.

“What about those pedophile priests?” I don’t respond right away, drawing on my inner strength and steeling myself. “It has never been my practice to leave my son alone with any adult male non-relative, priest or otherwise.”

“Priests should be allowed to marry. That would fix everything.” I pick up my glass of wine, swirl its contents, lift it to the light then take a slow sip. “I think they would certainally have more priests if marriage was allowed.”

“How could you join a religion that treats women so badly?” I look down at my plate and mince what’s left of my pie into tiny crumbs before taking my last bite. “Catholics don’t treat women any worse than they are treated at General Motors.”

“What about the birth control. That must be a problem.” I slowly fold my napkin into a 1” square. “I’m 44. It’s really not a problem.”

“How can you belong to a group that has so many bad rules?” I unfold my napkin. “I have worked for large corporations my whole life. I am used to old institutions with bad rules that never change.”

“Why Catholic?” I fidget in my chair a little and gaze at a painting. “Because I was baptized Catholic, my father’s family is Catholic and my husband’s family is Catholic.”

“Why now after all these years?” Finally an easy question. “Because I have been worried about raising my kid in this day and age in the land of the rich and privileged without a moral compass.”

“Do you like it?” And the easiest question of all. “I like nearly everything about it. The history, the traditions, the ceremonies, the priests, the congregation, the buildings, and the services.”

“Just last month we went to a church and the speaker gave a great motivational speech. None of that Jesus God talk.” I take a long swig of water, smile and excuse myself to use the restroom. Of course, I had neglected to mention the part I like best. But no one really wants to hear that stuff.

Park Closed for the 4th

2006-07-05T08:51:00.000-07:00

For many years on the 4th of July, around 8:30 PM our family has walked to the empty dirt lot at the corner of Jamboree and PCH to watch the spectacular fire works show over the Back Bay. We were always in good company as countless other people strolled down to this ideal vantage point with lawn chairs and blankets, plopped down on the sidewalk up and down PCH and on the immediate hillside in the dirt and the weeds for the thirty minute display. From this vantage point, you can not only see the main Back Bay display, but along the rim of the bay you can see spectacular displays from all over the County including Huntington Harbor, Disneyland, Anaheim Stadium and Big Canyon.

Over the past year, we curiously watched as this lot was landscaped with a cement walkway and hardy California natives and named an official public “park.” We were disappointed as this cliff is an ideal spot to watch the sunset and we had been hoping for a few trees, a couple of benches and grass. But nevertheless it was nice that the land became a city park. This year when we arrived at the unofficial but well known fire works gazing corner, our family and others were greeted by chain link fence and “park closed” signs. Apparently the City of Newport Beach must have been concerned that the couple of hundred fireworks watchers would stray from the cement path and trample the hardy plant material. The actual only practical use for this public park (viewing of annual fireworks) was effectively prevented.

Only in the O.C. would a public park be closed for the 4th of July.

Drop off

2006-06-26T19:05:00.000-07:00

Everything I find frustrating about Newport Beach is epitomized in elementary school drop off every morning. Drop off is from 8AM to 8:15AM--the fifteen minutes that mothers typically have to drop off their children in one of 4 designated drop off lanes. At 8 AM a teacher or two is scheduled to be at the front of these 4 lanes guiding traffic. Every year at the beginning of school the principal sends home a note reviewing drop off rules. Drop off begins at 8AM. Please use designated lanes to drop off. Please do not leave your car unattended in the designated lanes during this time period. Do not drop off before 8AM as there is no teacher present and no supervision of children.

I am always anxious to get to work and strive to hit drop off with the Kid as close to 8 as possible. Which frquently causes us to be there at 7:55 AM. I duitifully park the car in a spot near drop off and wait till 8AM watching the proceedings in my rear view mirror. My kid turns in his seat to watch and provides the blow by blow commentarry. 7:55AM "There's Chandler being dropped off." 7:55AM and 15 seconds, "Amy is being dropped off." "7:55AM and 30 seconds "Drew is going into school." And so on. I watch the parade of vehicles with a half sneer on my lips. Wouldn't the husbands supporting these Newport Beach mothers' lifestyles be surprised that these moms can't be bothered to wait four minutes to drop their children off when the school officially takes over their care?

Just to amuse myself I count the hummers, the escalades, the mercedes and the BMWs that pass during the next 4 minutes. Nearly all the moms are chattering away on their cellphones as they slow their vehicles down to a crawl and push their kids out the side through the school gate. Who are they talking to at 7:56 in the morning? I begin to imagine the conversations..."Jen, I'll be just a little late to the gym today." "Ally, see ya in 10 at Starbucks." "Hon, I gotta push my facial back 10 minutes, the kids just wouldn't get up."

I check the clock, 7:59AM. I back up the car and get in the line in the 4th lane over from the curb. The curb is the coveted drop off spot because your little ones can jump out and race into school without the benefit of a teacher leading them safely across the treachorous line of cars. I avoid this lane because everyone wants to drop off in it and it increases your odds of getting behind a dumb ass. One morning I realized the red Esclade I had been waiting behind in Lane 1 at 8:03AM was unmanned. I honked one polite warning. In my rearview I saw the traffic backing up into the street. People began dodging out of Lane 1 into Lanes 2, 3, and 4. The teacher wasn't out to guide the traffic and the driving was erratic. Between the caffined out moms and ritalin pumped kids, the whole thing was getting explosive. I let my kid out and prepared to somehow extract myself from the situation. I had trapped myself in with the Escalade immediately in front of me and a white Suburban behind me. Just then a tan blonde in a pink Juicy Couture velour jump suit and pink and black Pumas came trotting out the gates and hopped into the Escalade, cell phone in hand. Her errand was clearly much more important than anything the 20 parents at drop off had to do that day.

This particular morning I pulled into the 4th lane. 8:01 and no teacher yet. At least once a week at 8AM, there is no teacher. My son is worried. How will he get across three lanes of traffic with no teacher to stop the cars and guide him across? I know the drill. I put our white Mercedes in park, get out and walk around to his side of the car, open it and implore him to move quickly. I am dressed head to toe in business chic black. My hair is coiffed, my makeup is on and my black Kate Spade sunglasses glint in the early morning light. I take my child's hand and step carefully across the uneven asphalt in my black Ferragamo kitten heel pumps. I walk deliberatly looking straight ahead knowing that I have brought all 4 lanes of traffic to a halt. In front of Lane 1, I lean down and kiss my child goodbye, push him toward the gate, give an icy good morning to the teacher just showing up for her drop off duties at 8:03, turn on my heel and walk in quick mincing steps back to my vehicle. I have shown them all my complete and total distrust for their multitasking dropping off cellphoning not-showing-up-on-time lack of capabilities.

It should really all be down hill from here on today.

Coach Nasty

2006-05-15T20:03:00.000-07:00

Anybody can coach AYSO soccer. This spring soccer season was proof.

My husband decided to sign the Kid up for Spring Soccer again. My husband (being a European immigrant) thinks that baseball is boring and anyone can just pick it up if they want to. Real men play soccer. As usual, my husband put down on the signup form that he would coach. Instead of coach, he was assistant coach to someone I eventually began calling “Coach Nasty.”

First sign that things would go badly: Coach Nasty didn’t contact anybody or respond to emails about practice or games, including requests from the AYSO coordinators to contact them. So, my husband went and picked up all the uniforms and team information to get it to the coach (when he surfaced). The Coach surfaced within 24 hours and left a strongly worded voice mail requesting that my husband stop interfering and demanding that my husband bring all the uniforms and information over to his home immediately.

My husband immediately returned all items back to the AYSO coordinator. Nice one.

Coach Nasty's practice time of choice was 5:30 pm on Fridays. Very convenient for him. Great way to start the weekend.

At the first game, the tall, over weight balding coach shouted confusing calls to the 7-year-old kids from the sidelines. In the middle of the first quarter he called my Kid to the sidelines and berated him for not listening and said he was out of the game until he could listen. Complete violation of AYSO on so many levels including no substituting of players mid-quarter. Of course, the Kid burst into tears. My husband was out on the field refereeing and didn’t get to witnes this. I walked up to the Coach and my Kid and led the Kid away, trying to get him under control as he sobbed “I hate the Coach.” The Coach was pretty startled. I guess he assumed since he had never met me, there wasn’t anyone on the sidelines to observe his actions intimidating a little kid.

At the end of this game, a parent asked the Coach if he could please email practice changes and cancellations and also respond to emails. Coach Nasty said he gets hundreds of emails a day, and he couldn’t be bothered. The parent then asked for a phone number where he could call the Coach for information. The Coach refused. Coach Nasty followed up that request later the same evening with an email to the parent (with a copy to the AYSO coordinator) asking that this parent’s kid be removed from the team because the parent was belligerent (not true, the entire time the parent was extremely polite). Email below:

“I think it in the best interest for all that you find another team for your son. I thought about your actions today and do not deserve your harassment or embarrassing behavior in front of the players and their parents. You came up to me before the game, during the game and after the game to complain and harass me. I will not tolerate this behavior from either a parent or a player. I had to nip this in the bud right away.”

The entire season went like this. The kids, although pretty good individually never jelled as a team. The coach sent curt emails calling out kids who weren’t at practice. He repeatedly argued with any referee (typically my husband who is also an AYSO referee) and took incredible exception to standard AYSO rules designed to promote learning and teamwork like rotating players every quarter to different positions. He emphasized winning above everything and showed unusual favoritism to his son (an aggresive player whose nasty tactic is to draw fouls).

After the email below, I took action and sent a formal complaint letter to the AYSO Coordinator and assorted muckity mucks. AYSO called me for more information and came to observe practices therefter:

“Hello All,
For those who braved the Rain on Saturday to play the game, Congratulations for your dedication to your teammates. For those who weren't there, you missed a fun time. This week’s practice is Friday at 5:15 pm due to rain forecast for the next 2 days. You owe it to your team mates to show up to practice and the games.
Coach
Players MIA from last Saturday's game were: Tim, Bob, Billy and John.”

As I told the AYSO people, we could deal with the rest of the season, but this guy should never be allowed to field a soccer team of young children ever again. Other parents joined me with “on the record” complaints. We also began an internet search on the Coach and learned lots about his education (USC … it figures) and his business ventures including funding film investment in Germany (again ... it figures).

My least favorite last thing he did was at the final practice when he told the kids if they didn’t win, they wouldn’t get their medals. There are so many things wrong with that statement from a child development perspective, it is hard to know where to begin, including the fact the team almost never won. A senior AYSO staff member came and watched the last game. He commented to a parent that this guy had been trouble for a long time as a parent and as a prior coach. That shocked me. AYSO is a group of volunteers. Why do they have to put up with bad behavior from anybody? And why hadn’t any other parents in the past complained strongly enough to get this guy removed? At least this group of parents did something and no other children or parents will have to ever experience Coach Nasty.

His AYSO soccer days are over.

Family Contributions

2006-04-24T21:51:00.000-07:00

7-year-old Kid's homework assignment:
What have your ancestors passed on to you?

"I got my eye from my DaD"
"I got my smil from my DaD"
"I got my haer from my mom"

C'est fini

2006-04-20T19:23:00.000-07:00

I am proud to say I finally became Catholic Saturday evening, April 15, 2006. The whole week leading up to this momentous occasion was filled with all types of religious stuff. Suffice it to say that, ya really had to want it in the end. And I really did.

Somewhere along the way, I started to buy in. All the studying and reading and thinking paid off. The big day itself was exciting, carrying almost the electrical charge of a graduation or a wedding. The ceremony on Holy Saturday was long, complicated and official (we had practiced it on three separate evenings). It started with a fire in a pit outside with the congregation forming a big procession with candles into the church. My Kid was enthralled (all boys are truly arsonists at heart). The big stars that evening were really the people getting baptized. White robes, incense, choirs of angels, fountain, small wading pool, tiny Bishop with a pitcher of water, and candles. All the elements of just a really good show.

Confirmation was pretty anticlimactic compared to the dunkings. A few short words and a blessing with scented oil on your forehead. Badda bing, badda bang. It's done! My sponsor, luckily, was with me every step of the way. "After the oil say Amen." "After peace be with you, say and also with you." "Bow!" Stuff like that. She had to introduce me to the Bishop by my Patron Saint's name which is also my Confirmation name. I had chosen Saint Lucy. Lucy lived in the 4th Century AD and had a troubled life, to say the least. She died a martyr. For various complicated reasons she is known as the patron saint of authors, the blind, eye trouble and writers.

My cousin called on Good Friday to wish me a Happy Confirmation. This cousin is a particularly good friend of mine. The death of her mother inspired my Catholic conversion. Her mother was my Godmother at my Catholic baptism. At her funeral the Priest gave an inspiring homily about the kind of life she lead and how she had contributed to the community and the church. In my Aunt's family, her husband, the doctor, was the one you typically heard about. My Aunt's exploits were relatively unknown. I also was selected to do the "First Reading" at the funeral. I really had no idea what was going on at all. So, sitting in a church pew in the Midwest in early June, I pretty much decided that: a) my Kid needed some kind of moral compass to survive the O.C.; b) my aunt would like him to be Catholic; and c) how can I expect him to do what I am unwilling to do. So, 4 days after my aunt's coffin was lowered into the ground, I found myself in Catholic RCIA class at a church in Newport Beach.

Anyway, to make a short story long, my cousin was congratulating me for the hard work I had put in. She knew that my initial step in this process was partially in honor of her mother.

"Now, when do you get confirmed?"
I told her Saturday.
"Saturday, April 15th?"
Yeah, Saturday.
"That's mom's birthday. She was actually born on Holy Saturday on April 15th."
We were both quiet.
I fittingly hummed the theme song to the Twilight Zone (respectfully, of course).

After the service Saturday night, there was a nice reception for the newly confirmed. Everyone was in a SUPER festive mood. We all congratulated each other, hugged, etc. Finally, when I had enough of the PDAs, I told my husband, sponsor and Kid "Let's get out of here." We had driven separately because my sponsor and I had to be an hour early.

Leaving the parking lot, my sponsor noticed I turned the wrong way. "Where are we going?" she asked. Apparently she had forgotten what I had given up for Lent. "To a bar," I replied. Let's get this party started.

That's because we're special

2006-04-13T22:11:00.000-07:00

The young, enthusiastic and altruistic Korean Priest was the speaker at our RCIA group last Sunday (RCIA stands for Rite of Christian Initiation). It was one of our final meetings before our Catholic Confirmation to be held at the Easter Vigil Service on Holy Saturday. Half of our group of fifty would also get baptized as well. I was looking forward to this final meeting because this Priest was going to walk us through all the meaning, ceremony and symbolism behind the Eucharist. As I have mentioned before, beliefs regarding Communion are probably one of THE single biggest differences between Catholicism and Protestantism.

To get started, the Priest began by saying the Eucharist service at our church had recently been evaluated by some type of official liturgist. My Catholic church got an "A" on most everything including adhering to the scripture, executing the ceremony and service correctly as well as other things associated with the Priest's and Deacon's activities and responsibilities.

But guess who got an "F"? I won't keep you in suspense ... the congregation! Yes, Newport Beach got an "F". The evaluator's comments were "never before had he seen a congregation where so many people came late and left early" in all his years with the Catholic church. And, never had he seen such disrespectful attire (e.g. torn up jeans, revealing clothing, flip flops).

The Priest lecturing our group that day clearly expected us to be shocked. Well, big fat surprise. After having held and attended dozens of children's birthday parties in Newport Beach, it goes without saying that you can always expect a few guests to bring their kid 30 to 45 minutes late in spite of invitations or requests to bring the children at a certain time due to a special (and typically expensive) activity planned for a specific hour. And, it is absolutely normal that you will see WAYYYYY too much of mom A, B, or C's red thong underwear or enormous surgically enhanced breasts.

And, why would any of this behavior change in deference to the Catholic church? I noticed some of the RCIA initiates shifting uncomfortably in their chairs during this school teacher style scolding. I am sure a few of them didn't realize that attending church has a specific dress code (glitter tank tops and spike heals not being appropriate) and that the Priest actually expects you to be seated BEFORE the service begins. He ended with a stern warning "I hope your group takes this to heart." I solemnly nodded as I hiked my Paige jeans up and tugged my black Tahari sequins shrug down.

Capital fact

2006-04-09T18:36:00.000-07:00

Overheard on the way to Wahoo's for a traditional Sunday night dinner:

Kid proclaims, "Columbus is the capital of Idaho!"

Husband corrects, "O-HI-O."

Priorities

2006-04-09T15:42:00.000-07:00

Saturdays can be a little crazy in our house, even with only one Kid. I often wonder "How exactly do parents manage Saturday schedules when they have two, three or four children?" I assume, to get their young ones where they need to on time and also accomplish the plethora of Saturday errands, they rely on neighbors, older children and just simple juggling. This particular Saturday was no exception. Our Kid needed to go to a Spring Soccer game at 9:30AM, clean up, have lunch and then attend a noon birthday party (parent accompanied) at Build-A-Bear in Fashion Island.

In the 45 minutes between both activities, I decided to squeeze in a visit to the dry cleaner which is conveniently located next to one of the MANY Vietnamese owned nail shops in Newport Beach. I was (in my opinion) long overdue for an acrylic nail fill and pedicure and wanted to fit in this urgent personal errand before being subjected to the scrutiny of 10 Newport Beach women at the birthday party. I had the Kid with me which is not the norm for beauty treatment errands but as I said, we were multi-tasking. I sat him down in the waiting area with a book about Pirates (favorite topic this month), some apple juice and a carton of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish and I asked for a chair near the front. I was seated and had two very efficient Vietnamese women working on my hands and feet within about 3 minutes. You have to love good old fashioned American entrepreneurship and ingenuity. Why the Vietnamese chose to corner the acrylic nail and pedicure market is anyone's guess but their entry into this once high end beauty shop treatment in the 1990's changed the whole industry. They immediately cut prices in HALF on this indulgence once reserved for the very rich making well groomed hands and feet a requirement for all women in Newport Beach.

Near the end of my treatment, a thirty-something woman, smartly turned out in a sequins tank top, rhinestone sandals, $175 jeans and a 2 caret diamond ring approached the reception desk and requested a nail fill and a pedicure as well. Before she was seated she went outside to the strip mall parking lot sidewalk and said a couple of words to an 8-year-old boy dressed in soccer clothes (presumably her son) who had the handle of a baby stroller. Ah, I thought, one of my own, another multi-tasking mother. She came inside and was seated quickly, deep in the heart of the salon, about 10 chairs down from me. As I sat there, the boy pushed the baby (who I could now see was an infant) back and forth in front of the window, sometimes disappearing from view momentarily. I glanced over at the mother who was deep in conversation with her Vietnamese salon professionals.

Within five minutes, the little boy parked the baby outside on the sidewalk, in the window of the salon, and came in and sat down in one of the chairs. I assumed he was chilly as a strong breeze comes into this nail shop from the Back Bay, and the outside air temperature couldn't have been more than 65 degrees. My Kid glanced up from his book, noticing one of his own sitting there in the soccer attire. The mother never looked up to see her son facing the interior of the salon, and the baby sitting out on the sidewalk, squirming and fussing in the carrier totally unattended. I could see clearly now that the baby was tiny, less than 15 pounds. In my head, I was screaming "DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!" The thought of a baby sitting alone on a sidewalk was just too much for a mother to bear. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized the stupidity of entrusting a baby to an 8-year-old boy. My 7-year-old son, I am sorry to say, has trouble executing three instructions in a row due to his easily distractable nature. For example: "Put on your shoes, put your homework in your backpack and get your jacket" rarely gets accomplished without one of the instructions being repeated. We are working on it.

The din in the shop went up a notch as the Vietnamese women loudly began discussing the situation. I assumed that was what they were gossiping about because they would steal glances outside the window at the stroller. I was starting to go crazy. Should I phone child services? The boy continued to sit and stare at his mother while she continued to chat with the nail ladies.

My pedicure and manicure were completed and I walked to the back of the shop to finish up at the drying station. On my way, I stopped by the woman's chair and said "Shall I ask your son to bring the baby inside?" She glanced up at her son. "No," she said. "The smell." She wrinkled her pretty little powdered nose. She was referring to the chemical smell of acrylic that permeates any nail salon. "And my son is watching him." "Yes," I icily replied. "And he is doing a very good job." I sharply turned on my heal, found a seat at a fan and sat down to glare at the mother.

She had turned her head to the woman directly to the right of her, who, I imagined, couldn't have helped but overhear my strong, precisely worded sentence. I only could make out "... the smell" which indicated to me she was defending against my comments (and perhaps discussing the fine points of not minding one's own business). I glanced over at the patron immediately to the left of this mother. Validating my opinion, this woman looked meaningful at me and then shuddered and rolled her eyes while mouthing "ohmygawd." I nodded agreement. Nails only half dry, I couldn't take much more of this.

I got up, deliberately passing quite near the woman as I went to gather up my Kid at the front of the shop who was still sitting next to the soccer playing, non-babysitting son of the Newport Beach multi-tasking mother. Outside the salon, I leaned over the baby and cooed while holding the handle of the stroller and gently moving it back and forth. The baby was still squirming and whimpering. It was too cold outside for a baby to be all alone. This little baby had better get used to it.

Reconciliation

2006-04-02T21:45:00.000-07:00

As a Methodist converting to Catholicism, there are a few things that take some getting used to. Early on in my studies I learned that not only was Jesus born of a virgin, but Mary (his mother) was immaculately conceived as well (e.g. Mary's mom got pregnant with Mary without a man involved). AND, Mary remained a virgin throughout her marriage to Joseph so Jesus had no brothers and sisters. I remember the day this was patiently explained to me by a fallen away nun (e.g. left the nunnery for a husband) who was teaching our lesson that day. "I have never heard this before,” I exclaimed. She reassured me, “It’s absolutely true.” Later I learned that it isn’t biblically true but it is considered “dogma.” Outside of the Catholic religion the term “dogma” usually has fairly negative connotations, “a point of view or tenet put forth as authoritative without adequate grounds” according to Meriam-Webster. However, in the Catholic church , dogma “is understood to be a truth appertaining to faith or morals, revealed by God, transmitted from the Apostles in the Scriptures or by tradition, and proposed by the Church for the acceptance of the faithful.” http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/05089a.htm Kind of like a legend but far more serious.

By the way, a movie worth checking out that TOTALLY plays with nearly every element of Catholic dogma is the 1999 movie cleverly titled “Dogma” produced by Kevin Smith (Silent Bob) http://www.dogma-movie.com/main.html . Given my journey, I absolutely loved it. I am sure the church must have hated it (the 13th apostle, abortion, renegade angels, and other things I can’t reveal in order to not give away the punchline). It is a deeply theological movie that pokes fun at many aspects of the Catholic Church. Catholic dogma is why the Catholics are also not big fans of Dan Brown's 2003 book, “The Da Vinci Code” whose plot hangs together by the premise that Jesus and Mary Magdalene had a kid (sorry, if you haven't heard this by now, you must live in a cave). Not Catholic friendly stuff at all.

And, as a soon to be former Methodist, I have always resented the fact that Catholics wouldn’t allow me to participate in their communion. As a kid, when visiting a Catholic church with relatives, I mistakenly went up for Communion and was quickly corrected. It has bugged me forever and probably is the one big reason why I am converting. Come on, what is the hurdle I need to jump to get this handled? Imagine my shock when I learn that Catholics believe in transubstantiation (the Roman Catholic doctrine that the whole substance of the bread and the wine changes into the substance of the body and blood of Christ when consecrated in the Eucharist). “Isn’t this just symbolic," I asked my husband after that particular Sunday lesson. Nope, not symbolic. Essentially, because of the Catholic Priests’ direct lineage from the 12 Apostles, at every Mass they perform the miracle of transubstantiation with bread and wine. And, that instead of speaking metaphorically, at The Last Supper with the bread “Take eat, this is my body,” Jesus was speaking literally. I have had ten months to work on this one and learn that transubstantiation “happens during the Eucharistic prayer of the Mass. At that time, the bread and wine are changed into the Body and Blood of Christ; as the church has always taught. Although they still look like bread and wine they have - by divine power - actually changed into his body and blood.” http://www.catholiclubbock.org/eucharist.htm

The biggest hurdle of them all on my road to Catholocism and the most absolutely foreign concept to me by any stretch of the imagination is Confession more formally known as the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Exactly why do I have to confess my sins to a Priest and why can a Priest forgive me? I had always been taught that only God could forgive me. Again, I learn, it has to do with Jesus and the 12 Apostles. This is not a question of dogma for Catholics but is rooted in the bible.

“Since the power to forgive sins was given to the apostles by the risen Christ (Cf. John 20:21-23) the the bishops of today's Church also are entrusted with the ministry of reconciliation (2 Cor. 5:18-20) as successors to the apostles. The bishops and their collaborators, the priests, by virtue of the sacrament of Holy Orders do not forgive sins in and of themselves, but "in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," as it is written in 2 Cor.” http://www.aboutcatholics.com/worship/penance_reconciliation/

I was instructed that as a baptized Christian, I needed to go to confession before my first communion and confirmation. I found out the rule was Catholics need to go to confession at least once a year and absolutely during Lent. Since the time was drawing near for my confirmation (April 15), I knew I had to belly up to the bar and get it over with. Where to start? How does one confess the sins of 44 years in an orderly and succinct manner? After all, I did go to high school in Southern California during the 1970’s. Again, I turned to my esteemed sponsor for her wise advice. “Just confess the big ones,” she recommended. Hmmm. I asked my husband what he thought I should do. “Make a list before you go so you can get through it quick.” Write them down? I don’t think so. I asked my RCIA Leaders how they would handle it. “Make a private appointment with a Priest and go over things that are really holding you back on your journey.” Scariest of all.

I decided to show up to a church scheduled Saturday Sacrament of Reconciliation three weeks before Easter. I got there 15 minutes early. So did 15 other people. When the Priest showed up and slipped into his Confessional, the 15 people scattered around the church made a beeline for the pews near his door. I was a little slow on the uptake and ended up in a spot nearly at the back of the line. Each person that went into the booth took about 3-5 minutes. I quickly realized it would be an hour before my turn. And two or three people arrived every five minutes or so after confessions began. Within 30 minutes we had quite a crowd. We quickly deteriorated from silent contemplation to chit chat amongst ourselves. It is the human condition (sin and chit chat). I was trying to appear seasoned and made a comment about the length of the line.

A very elegant older lady (about 70ish) with neatly coiffed grey/blonde hair, perfect makeup and wearing a beautiful cream colored cashmere coat sitting right next to me agreed that indeed this was a large crowd. And, she said, normally there were two priests on Saturdays so this was going really slowly. She hoped we made it through the line before the priest had to stop taking confession. She mentioned she hadn’t been to confession for six months because she had been sick. I smiled and commented that if she was sick, she certainly must not have accumulated many sins to discuss. She said quickly with a wink “It’s always the same old sins.” I laughed out loud and then was silent for a minute thinking about that. It is ALWAYS the same old sins. I told her I had a secret. She looked worried. What was she about to hear in the confession line? I reassured her quickly “It’s my first confession.” She immediately understood “Are you converting?” I told her I was and that I was converting in order to raise my Kid in the Catholic faith according to my husband’s religion and my baptismal religion.

She put her arm around my shoulders and gave it a quick squeeze. “You have been given such a gift.” It was her turn to go into the booth. I was getting really nervous now that my time was almost here. She had been gone nearly 4 minutes. I quickly reviewed my notes (I finally wrote down just the big sins that would help me on my journey—combining all the advice I had received). The door to the booth began to slowly creak open and I grabbed the metal door handle to hold it for the woman. She patted my arm as she walked by.

I went in, not knowing what to expect. A young Korean Priest was sitting in a chair. There was a table with a lit lamp and another chair underneath a portrait of Jesus. I really had butterflies. The Priest gestured toward the chair. I sat down with my little sheet of paper. He nodded expectantly. I felt my voice shaking “This is my first confession.” He gave me a warm smile and said how pleased he was that I came today. He nodded again. I just looked blankly at him. He said “Go ahead.”

So I did. I rattled through my sins from the past 44 years. Nothing too terribly shocking. The usual and the predictable (respect for parents and gluttony, for example). Of course, I can’t enumerate them all here, should my mother ever stumble over this posting. My parents have always wisely had the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in our family. I ended my sins list with my very real struggle over malicious gossip (bearing false witness) with a heavy dose of pride and anger. You can see how anonymous blogging is quite theraputic. “Those are the big ones,” I said in conclusion. The Priest was quiet for just a moment. “I would like you to meditate on the attributes of our Blessed Virgin Mary and consider her responses in situations that would cause you to be angry, prideful or to malign another’s reputation.” And then he requested the Act of Contrition.

So I read from my paper, “O, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins because of your just punishments; but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly intend, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, do penance and to amend my life. Amen.”

The priest replied "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

I answered “Amen.”
The Priest said "How's the line?"
"Long," I replied.

As I left the confesional, I felt truly lighter, freer and strangely giddy. I stopped near the alter at the shrine on the right of the Blessed Mother and knealt down and prayed. Mary was a good woman and a good mother. And, she played a significant role not only in being the Mother of God, but in directly participating and assisting with Jesus’ work. An ancient career girl of sorts.
When you think about it, she was the only witness to many of the famous Jesus incidents including the conception and the birth in the manger. The apostles who wrote about it later certainly weren't there, Jesus was too young, so she must have been the source for the nativity story as we know it. Much to meditate on, I discovered.

When I got home my husband asked me how it had gone. I told him that thirty minutes had passed since my last confession and I was still sin free. So far so good.

Overheard

2006-03-19T14:05:00.000-08:00

The comedy never stops.

"Between the maid and my nanny, I just can't find a thing in my house." How inconvenient for you.

"I've had an awful week! My Range Rover got broken into and they stole my Birken bag." I'm fine, thanks for asking.

The color of money

2006-03-13T22:18:00.000-08:00

As you can imagine, in the city of Newport Beach raising money for the local schools takes on a whole new dimension. Where on earth have you ever heard of a public school raising over $250,000 annually in support of additional teachers, equipment and computers? Nearly half of those funds are garnered in one shot, at the quintessential Newport Beach fund raising activity … the annual parent’s party with requisite silent and live auctions.

Last Friday night, our local elementary school had its annual event, “Tropical Nights,” at a nearby Newport Beach Hotel. $42,000 was collected before the party even started in pure cash donations through “underwriting.” $64,000 was laid down in the Silent and Live Actions that night. Keep in mind, this is a public school. This is not “Jerry’s Kids” or “The Cystic Fibrosis Foundation” or “Multiple Sclerosis.” This is simply parents raising money for their child’s elementary school. It’s like selling candy bars, or wrapping paper, or cookie dough. Except with 3 cash bars, a live band, steak entree, and dancing.

I answered a call for 4 parent volunteers to work the auction desk under the direction of the consultant hired to run the auction. I don’t have much time to volunteer for the school outside of my child’s classroom (where the rubber meets the road) so I figured working at this event would be a good way to meet people and to also help out (in a non-committee participating way). I was told to be at the event by 4:45 and ask for the Auction Consultant.

Two of us showed up a 4:45. The other two were nowhere to be seen. Three high school student volunteers were assigned to work with “the moms” (our official title) since our co-workers were no shows. It appeared that the high school had donated about 25 kids to assiste specifically with the auction (dressed snappily in white shirts and black pants). I later learned these kids were working in order to get community service credits. Is it just me or is working a silent auction to benefit the needy children of Newport Beach at a high end hotel really on par with more traditional community service activities such as serving in a soup kitchen in Santa Ana? I was quickly informed that “the moms” would check guests off the list, issue “fish” tags if guests ordered fish, hand out leis to appropriate “status” guests as noted on the guest list and issue auction bid numbers. The students would enter information into the computer and swipe credit cards. The Auction Consultant felt the students would be better suited to the computer work. I was a little insulted. I later learned my student partner was into art, music and theatre which explained her computer skills. I have a computer and finance background which explained my bad handwriting on the bid number signs. Isn’t that the way of life?

After our check-in training was complete, the Auction Consultant went off to train the other 22 student volunteers on the silent auction procedures. I am sure they were taught things I later learned are particularly important like “pick up the auction sheets promptly at auction close or there will be trouble” and “ensure bids are incremented in the amount at the top of the sheet or a drunken parent is liable to get nasty.” At 5:30 the other two parent volunteers showed up for the 4:45 training. I told them where they could find the Auction Consultant. I never saw them again that evening.

At 6PM the five of us (two moms and three kids) were at the registration desk waiting for guests to arrive. At 6:55 we finally had a rush of arrivals. We got a pretty good rhythm going right away. “Hello and welcome to Tropical Nights. Here is your auction book with all the exciting items you can bid on this evening. Your lucky winning bid number is written on the back. We would like to pre-authorize your credit card number to make checking out quicker at the end of the evening.”

I did not anticipate one horribly embarrassing personal problem I would suffer working the registration desk. Our Kid has been going to this school for 2.5 years. We have lived in the same house for 8 years. I have met a lot of people during this time between the neighborhood, volunteering in the classroom, birthday parties and soccer. It would have been nice if I had bothered to remember anybody’s name. I was finally totally screwed by my complete lack of memory and social finesse. People would walk up, say hello, chit chat about our mutual kids and then look at me expectantly. I would finally be forced to say “I’m sorry, what is your last name.” The truth was I didn’t remember their first name either. After a few of these exchanges, my teenage partner figured out how lame I was and started rescuing.

I haven’t been around teenage kids since I was a teenager. I had only vague ideas of what they are like. These kids seemed especially sophisticated to me. They dressed well and were good looking kids. They knew a lot of the adults and interacted very politely (and seemed to know most names). When things were quiet, they reverted to their native tongue (generally ignoring me and the other mom).

“The dads look all that and the moms seem old.”
“Do you think that a lot of the moms have fake boobs?” “Flash!”
“Insert name of female or male singer/actor I have never heard of is insane.”
“Do you still model?”
“Look at this picture on my phone of my biology lab partner. He is hot.”
“I like your insert jewelry, hair, nails, clothing, body part. Very glam.”

Later in the evening, a dad who I thought looked especially young and handsome (well the teenagers brought it up first) came to the registration desk and chatted with his teenage daughter. He was holding a glass of red wine. They exchanged a few pleasant sentences. Nothing appeared unusual to me. He paused. She said “Did you need me to drive you home tonight Dad?” He said “Yes” and walked off. Nice family moment.

I am a big fan of auctions and part of the reason I volunteered was a) to avoid buying anything at the auction as I am on a strict budget left over from a 2005 home remodel gone wild and b) to see how these large school auctions work. I had poured over the auction booklet prior to the evening and knew some really amazing items were up for bid. Some unusual prizes were featured and raised a ton of money that night. A framed Michael Jordan jersey went for $1,200. Lifeguard for a Day went for $750. A Ride in a Newport Beach Patrol Car went for $500. A local mom’s art was featured in the “chance” drawing and raised $1,300. By far, the most popular items were “Dates with the Teachers.” The teachers volunteer to donate their time to take their students somewhere fun like the movies, or on a picnic or to the Balboa Fun Zone. These teacher dates are hotly contended auction items. My husband had strict instructions to win the Duffy Boat Ride with my Kid’s teacher. Fun for the Kid and flattering for the teacher (a two-fer).

During the bidding, my husband and 2 other sets of parents realized they were all just upping the price of the Duffy Boat ride needlessly and since the auction item was for three kids they could simply share the cost. They agreed to bid the boat ride up to $150 and then split it three ways. They actually ended up paying $200 because someone (obviously not from their alliance) jumped in at the last minute and raised it again.

Silent auction tables closed at various times throughout the evening. My job was to data enter the auction item number, the winning bid number and the amount. Simple. Everything was going really well up until about the time that the spindly network of 5 computers crashed. I volunteered to get my husband to help the Auction Consultant fix it but was quickly brushed off (how could I possibly understand serious auction computer problems?). Perhaps my Network Engineer husband would have understood, but by then I was hungry and getting a little bored with my front desk duties.

It was about 8:45 and time for a break. I excused myself politely to go have the dinner that I paid $95 for. Due to my front desk job, I hadn’t seen the Silent Auction and Dining Room. WOW! The decorations were beautiful with flowers everywhere and fake tiki torches lighting up the interior night sky. A band was playing old Jimmy Buffet tunes. People were still buzzing around the remaining open Silent Auction tables. I found my husband and some of his soccer friends at a fairly well situated table in the middle of the room. Things were pretty lively and soccer gossip was flowing freely (it didn’t appear that the cash bar had deterred anyone from enjoying the evening). I wolfed down my steak dinner (something about Fridays and meat…what is it???) and talked a little to my husband and dinner companions. I could only talk to half of the table as the other half was blocked by a three foot wide, four foot tall tropical flower arrangement. By 9:30PM the Live Auction was set to start. This was where the really big ticket items got purchased. Ice skating lessons with a famous Mighty Duck Skater went three times for $2,500 each. A ride in the Good Year Blimp for two people went for $3,000.

At that point duty called and I ran back to the auction desk. All hell was breaking loose. Guests were starting to come and ask to be cashed out, but only one of the five computers was running. All I could do was tear the invoices for the Auction Consultant. Even that wasn’t good enough for her high standards as she implored me to “tear just a half a second faster.” Understandably, she was frantic as the never-ending line wound down the hall of the hotel. Non-winners were demanding to see the original auction sheets to determine who had snaked them out of their daughter’s Roxy Luggage. Deals were being cut on some of the largest items like the private home theatre evening (splitting it amongst several families). Five young girls worked the front counters presenting invoices, taking credit cards and escalating issues. For the most part, the crowd was patient and cheerful and just a little tipsy (not in that order).

Finally, the line died down around 10:30PM. The Auction Consultant excused me officially. “You must want to go dance with your husband.” I really think she preferred ordering the fifteen-year-olds around to the forty-something-year-olds.

“Are you sure? I think I will.” He had left an hour ago to take the babysitter home but I know an exit line when I hear it.

AnonMomOC

2006-03-05T20:50:00.001-08:00

To give credit where credit is due. This blog AnonMomOC http://anonmomoc.blogspot.com/ was inspired by a book titled MY WAR: Killing Time in Iraq written by Colby Buzzell http://cbftw.blogspot.com/ . He and I read the same Time magazine article about blogs in 2003 (I believe). Only, he did something about it. And when he did it, he was a typical soldier in Iraq-- before the army realized there were typical soldiers in Iraq documenting the war in private blogs. More than just a story about Iraq, the book is more interesting for its portrayal of the average nineteen-year-old American male.

I enjoyed the fact that Buzzell was underground and documenting the previously undocumented. His blog and book were my inspiration for these tales from the front in Newport Beach -- "Anonymous Mom: Killing Time in the O.C." In order to have complete freedom of expression, in this neighborhood, it is imperative that I remain anonymous.

Read more about military blogs "Blogs of War" on Army Times web site http://www.armytimes.com/story.php?f=1-292925-700605.php .

Ashes

2006-03-01T23:02:00.001-08:00

Ash Wednesday (ăsh) n. In the Western Church, the first day of Lent, being the seventh Wednesday before Easter. On this day ashes are placed on the foreheads of the faithful to remind them of death, of the sorrow they should feel for their sins, and of the necessity of changing their lives. The practice, which dates from the early Middle Ages, is common among Roman Catholics, Anglicans and Episcopalians, and many Lutherans.

Today I went to my first Ash Wednesday Mass EVER (see February entry On Becoming Catholic for full explanation). I woke up excited this morning for my first big Catholic test. I had made my final determination of what I would give up for Lent. For consideration was going without dessert (read chocolate) or alchohol (certainally not both!). I went with alchohol because, frankly, that is the more painful choice for me. I haven't gone without booze for 1 week (much less 6 weeks) since the day I turned 21. Having a nice glass of chianti every evening (maybe 2) is something I look forward to. A lot. This could be challenging but I felt ready.

During the Mass, my favorite Priest, the young Korean, gave a stirring homily (sermon) regarding the 3 most important things you can do during Lent and Ash Wednesday. I leaned forward in my pew confidant that I was going to get an "A." First he talked about "giving alms" or donating more during Lent. Fine, I pulled out my checkbook and wrote an nice fat check. Then he discussed extra prayers. Easy as well. And he ended with the benefits of fasting. Fasting? Nobody had mentioned this to me. Was I supposed to be fasting? Honestly, there are so many subtle rules to being Catholic, just when I think I have it down, I get thrown a curve ball.

After the service, I got on my cell phone and called my Sponsor. "Are we supposed to be fasting today?" I yelled into the phone, genuinely upset that I was already breaking the rules.

"Yeah. On Ash Wendnesday and Good Friday you fast." Then she muttered some gibberish about you can have one meal but if you have two other meals they can't be as big as the one combined. Or something like that. I looked it up later that evening in a book called "Catholocism for Dummies" and it still doesn't make sense to me.

"You sure are a crappy sponsor." She just laughed at me.

Next I called my husband. "Hey, I didn't know that we were supposed to be fasting on Ash Wednesday. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I can't talk right now, I'm at lunch," he whispered into the phone. I hung up.

Ash Wednesday is also especially significant for me because it kicks off Lent which is the 6 weeks leading up to Holy Saturday (the day before Easter) and the day I become Catholic. We're in crunch time now and my RCIA instructors are carefully monitoring attendance and demeanor -- ascertaining who is worthy and who will have to wait till next year.

I am behaving duitifully and doing everything requested. Right before Ash Wednesday Mass I had a meeting with the Director of the Adult Faith Formation Program at my church. This is the critical meeting where she tells me how I am doing with the program and discusses my readiness for becoming Catholic. Turns out, I had nothing to worry about. She opened the meeting immediatley by stating how reliable and dependable I am and that she has no concerns about me. But did I have any questions as we head into Lent?

Well, just one question. "There is one thing. As the parent of a young boy, the pedophile priests bother me. I have to answer questions from my friends who wonder why I would be getting involved with an organization that has these types of problems. I personally know why I am doing this . . ." I paused and let the sentance hang in the air.

My Director gazed down, lost in thought for a moment. Finally she looked up, drew a deep breath and said "That's a fair question. It was heartbreaking when it happened a few years ago and all the stories started coming out. We had a deep sense of betrayal and of loss. It was a loss of innocence and a loss of trust. We grieved."

"I organized a Town Hall meeting with the parishioners and our Priest. I kept it very controlled because emotions were running so high. I had everyone submit questions in advance and I would read them off and hand them to the Priest to answer. We went through all the questions one by one. Then people were welcome to express any additional thoughts they had. By the time we got to the open mike portion of the agenda, a lot of the anger and emotion had been diffused. The meeting seemed to help. I won't defend the church. But I also know that other organizations have their problems too. But the problem had been ignored or hidden for so long by the Bishops and higher ups, that when it all broke, it was like a volcano erupting. Everything had built up for so long and was a much bigger situation than if the bad Priests had been dealt with properly in the beginning."

"Letting children be harmed is inexcusable," I said, and she nodded agreement. "But it helps me to understand how it was handled here at this church (my new church). Do you think the rule will ever be changed?"

"Which rule?" she asked.

"The rule that says Priests can't get married. If that rule was changed, I think the whole problem would be solved."

"Yes," she shot back quickly. "They could change that rule with a snap of their fingers," she said as she snapped her fingers. "It isn't even Catholic dogma. It hasn't existed forever. I think it will be changed because of the Priest crisis."

"Crisis?" I sensed I was about to get more new information about being Catholic.

"Yes, there aren't enough Priests. Especially in the United States. To get new Priests, this rule has to change. And I believe it will be changed." She paused suddenly, looking a little defeated, "But I don't think we'll see it change in our lifetimes."

"Thank you," I replied quietly, "that was my only question."

Ski week

2006-02-27T23:18:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when you are in the middle of something, you think it is very normal. But when you start talking to others about it, you realize your reality is just that, only your reality. That's the conclusion I came to when I mentioned to a few of the sales reps I work with who live out of state that I was taking off for Ski Week, to go skiing, of course.

"Ski week," they said. "What do you mean ski week?"

"All the kids around here get not only President's Day off but the whole week after that Monday. It's called Ski Week," I explained.

"Oh, so they get that instead of Spring Break?"

"No," I replied, "They get Spring Break too. I think the schools stay open one week longer in June to make up for it."

"Why do they get an extra week of vacation?" asked my sales rep friends.

"Parents were pulling their kids out that week anyway to go skiing so the Newport Mesa School District decided to institutionalize it by declaring this week an official week off. It cuts down on absences and, hence, increases the school's revenue."

"Interesting," they commented.

That's when you realize you live in "The O.C." and things here are just different.

We decided to go to Mammoth Mountain for our ski week http://www.mammothmountain.com/. Actually, my husband decided. When it comes to skiing I have been a nonparticipant in our family going on 8 years. My husband and my Kid took up snowboarding last year, because it was time to purchase equipment for the Kid and stop renting. My husband decided that he, himself, would like to start snowboarding. And so it was decided, the Kid would snowboard. They went up 3 or 4 times to local mountains. It was a struggle to teach the Kid how to snowboard (crying, whining, the usual) but my husband prevailed. By the end of the season, the Kid had stopped talking about skiing and seemed excited about snowboarding.

So my husband set up this trip to Mammoth and invited his sister's son who also likes to snowboard. My husband and Kid had already went once in January with Indian Guides and had a blast (more about Newport Beach Indian guides another time). I was the last one to convince to join the trip. I had a million reasons why I didn't really want to do this including "busy at work," "too cold," "old dog," "too crowded" etc. I had tried snowboarding 2 seasons ago and it seemed too hard to me (hence the "old dog" comment). The real reason: I was afraid of my skis. I had bought them when I knew how to ski 9 years ago. They are Volkl skinny 190s. I knew I would potentially injure or actually kill myself on them. Finally I revealed my fear to my husband. He explained to me that nowadays people ski on short, fat, parabolic skis. He showed me a story online which explained them http://www.getoutdoors.com/go/golearn/477 . Well, heck. Even I could ski on those things. So I agreed to go, and got myself down to Sports Chalet and rented some beat-to-death K2 153s. They came to below my nose. I was thrilled. And also happy to not be left out of something that was rapidly becoming a major family activity between my husband and son.

The 6 hour drive to Mammoth was pretty uneventful. Our nephew and Kid chattered in the back. The nephew is 15 and extremely patient. He listened to all the Kid's stories and laughed at all his jokes. The Kid was in heaven. We stayed at Chamonix Condos right near Canyon Lodge. They were functional and pretty reasonable at a little below $200/night for a one bedroom with pullout sofa. The 70's decor with matching avocado appliances was just about in style again. The weather up at Mammoth was absolutely spectacular. You can see from the picture above that there is no way anyone got cold. The parabolic skis were a joy. I felt completely competent and could keep up with the snowboarders really well. In fact, my fellow boarders started to bore me a little. Skiing with snowboarders can be a drag for skiers. Snowboarders need to clip and unclip in and out of their boards all the time. And, they fall down a lot (even the good ones). Once down they like to sit for awhile and appreciate their surroundings. The scene below of my husband, nephew and Kid was pretty common for me on our trip.

Another funny thing about Ski Week: you constantly see people you think you know or that you really know. I bumped into a friend as well as a lady that goes to my gym that I see frequently in "Spin Class." Both mentioned that they had bumped into a bunch of people too. So "The O.C." truly seems to invade Mammoth during Ski Week.

Not having skied for 8 years, I was shocked by how many snowboarders there were. In the early 90's snowboarders were kind of an oddity. Sort of a rebellious group of surfers who needed something to do during the winter. Skiers liked to put down the snowboarders and talk about how they interfered with the grooming of the slopes, got in the way sitting on their butts across the face, clogging up the chair lift unloading zone with their buckling and how difficult it was to sit on a chair lift with boards jabbing at horizontal rather than vertical angles. All true. But it looks like a funny thing happened. To me, it appears that if anyone is taking up a snow sport, they tend to take up snowboarding more than skiing. There were just more snowboarders, plain and simple. Could be that it's cooler? Or that it's cheaper (2 edges are cheaper than 4)? Or that the boots are more comfortable? Or the clothes are better? Or that it's easier to learn? Who knows, but whenever we ended up at the base in long lines, I would amuse myself by trying to figure out what the ratio of skiers to snowboarders was. Probably about 55% snowboarders to 45% skiers. Meaning just over 50/50.

There have been other big changes at Mammoth while I was gone. The Village area now has a Starbucks, a Gondola, restaurants and shopping! And, Warming Hut 2 is now called Canyon Lodge. Still looks the same. I guess I can commit to skiing at least once a year. If they're gonna make it this easy.

It's good to be the king

2006-02-20T10:27:00.000-08:00

An important part of being the parent of an elementary school child is to go through all papers stuffed in their backpack every single night. Very important things come home photocopied on yellow, pink, blue and white sheets. One night, a few weeks ago, I was rooting around through the backpack at about 8PM, right before the Kid's bedtime and I found a VERY interesting notice. I took it and went and found the Kid brushing his teeth.

"So," I said, "next week is Career Week."
"So," the Kid replied.
"Well," I said, not letting this one go, "it says here that you have selected a career, and that next Monday you need to go to school dressed for your career. What did you pick?"
"A train conductor."
"A train conductor," I unsupportively blurted out, "There are only about 8 train conductors in the United States. And, no one even uses trains anymore. Why did you pick that?"
You can see I am well suited to motherhood.
"ACTUALLY," the Kid shot back (actually being one of his favorite words), "I picked Mayor but the teacher told me that it was inappropriate" (inappropriate being a recent favorite word added into his vocabulary).
"Inappropriate?? What isn't appropriate about being Mayor for a career?" I snapped back.
"She said mayors don't help people and our career day is about people who help people."
“Your teacher said that?” I replied in disbelief? His teacher is so nice and professional, I couldn't imagine her discouraging a kid.
“No, another teacher who was helping.”
"Oh," I said, fairly well shut down.

Incredulous, I stormed around the house to find my husband and complain. "Can you believe that he is going to be a goofy train conductor for career day? How can I dress him as that? And it's stupid besides. What's wrong with being a mayor?" Cleverly the Husband responded only with sympathetic nods and uh huh's, not really commenting at all since there was no possible way of really understanding what my problem with the whole thing was. (My root problem was probably knowing that I couldn't possibly get the Kid dressed up as a train conductor in 4 days, it being months until Halloween. I hate lack of achievement in eduation.)

Additionaly, I knew the Kid's interest in the Mayor role wasn't as altruistic as it might seem. We got him “Sim City” for Christmas (because he begged for it and kids in the O.C. get anything they beg for). Sim City is a computer game where you build your own city and you are the mayor. You get an approval rating, have advisors, and your city earns money if you run it well. It is actually fairly interesting and can be considered, practically, educational. Now if you have heard of “The Sims” this is totally different (more or less). “The Sims” is a computer game where the people in your virtual world seem to engage in all kinds of things, things that are definitely not rated “E” for “Everyone.” The Kid was more or less just extending his playtime for Sim City (currently limited to 30 minutes a day) by picking Mayor for a career at school. Clever.

I decided to take action into my own hands and emailed the Kid’s teacher. In a briefly worded, polite email, I asked if the Kid could switch over to Mayor for Career Day. I explained the circumstances of the odd train conductor selection and that I thought Mayor would be more appropriate. A day or so later, I got an email back, saying sure, no problem, he could be Mayor of Newport Beach. As simple as that.

Part of his assignment was to write down what his career choice's responsibilities are. I sat down to help him but must admit, I was completely stumped. Well, good question. What does the Mayor of Newport Beach do? So I went online and found the city of Newport Beach web site. http://www.city.newport-beach.ca.us/index.html After a brief search, I found the Mayor's email address. I sent him a quick note:

To: Mr. Mayor
Do you have a link or a document with the City of Newport Beach Mayor responsibilities? My 7-year-old is going to be the Mayor of Newport Beach for Career Day at his elementary school. He is in 2nd grade. It was his idea, believe it or not. I am trying to teach him what a mayor is. Thank you very much for your kind consideration.
Sincerely, AnonMomOC

A day later, I got a nice email back from the Mayor.

AnonMomOC,
Section 404 of the City’s Municipal Code gives a very brief description of the duties of Mayor. "The Mayor shall have a voice and vote in all its proceedings. The Mayor shall have the primary but not exclusive responsibility for interpreting the policies, programs and needs of the city government to the people, and, as occasion requires, the Mayor may inform the people of any change in such other duties consistent with the office as may be prescribed by this charter or as may be imposed by the City Council."

That does not tell you too much. The Mayor is the City’s official representative at all special events. The Mayor signs all documents approved by the City Council. He runs the City Council meetings. He makes the appointments to all the City Committees. The Mayor works with other City Council Members, the City Staff and the public to make sure that the City is properly run. The Mayor answers questions such as this.

If you and your child would like to meet me at City Hall in the Mayor's office Thursday, Friday or Monday at 4: 30 I would be happy to answer questions and show you around. Let me know which day you can make it.
Mr. Mayor

A few short emails later we had arranged our appointment for Monday at 4:30 PM.

On Monday, the Kid was dressed up in career gear for his day at school being Mayor of Newport Beach. A quick trip over the weekend to The Gap down at Crystal Cove Promenade, which is across the street from beautiful Crystal Cove State Park http://www.crystalcovestatepark.com/ , pretty much solved the problem (nice pants, dress shirt and tie). A run down to the Costa Mesa Target got him appropriate work shoes and dark dress socks. It is good to live 15 minutes away from nearly EVERY major store. We were set.

Monday, after school on Career Day, I picked up the Kid. I asked him how his day as Mayor had gone. He said "good" which is his standard response to almost any type of question about anything. I asked the typical follow-up "What was good about your day." He said the kids all day called him "Mr. Mayor" and asked him to do mayor things which he seemed to think was hilarious. I decided not to ask what mayor things were. Then off we went to meet with the real Mayor of Newport Beach.

We arrived at City Hall down on Lido Island just a little early. The Mayor hadn't quite yet arrived. We were both very excited and waited patiently in the reception area (as directed by the Mayor's pretty assistant). While we were waiting, I got a cellphone call from a VP at my job. The VP needed something urgently. I apologized and said I could email it tonight, but, believe it or not, right now I was waiting with my Kid to meet the Mayor of Newport Beach. The VP answered back, "That is a most excellent excuse." And we said our goodbyes.

Shortly, a sixtyish, tanned, medium height, average weight, grey haired and grey beareded man approached us in a Hawaiian shirt and kahkis. He greeted us very warmly. "You must be the Kid." He sat me and the Kid down in his office. He looked suspiciously like Santa Claus gone Jimmy Buffet. The Mayor started out by asking, "Do you have any questions." Unbeknownst to him, he had fallen right into our trap. Boy did we have questions. I had warned the Kid that the Mayor might ask him if he had "any quesitons" and that we should prepare questions in advance. And we had. The Kid looked over at me significantly, nodded, and reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his list of questions. We could tell the Mayor knew we meant business.

And, we went through every one.

1) How does the city get more money? Answer: Percent of property taxes and other fees
2) Why did you choose to be a mayor? Answer: Volunteer position selected from the 7 City Council members by the City Council. He wanted to be Mayor this year due to the City Centennial Celebration as he had led that committee. The City Council Members are paid $1,000 per month. The Mayor-zippo.
3) What kind of power do you have? Answer: In times of great emergency, the Mayor could give the City Manager an order possibly. He admitted this is mostly a ceremonial position which does things to promote the city.
4) Do you try to get more tourist attractions? Answer: Surprisingly this City Council is not too in favor of additional tourist attractions due to city congestion.
5) Does Newport Beach have a “seaport”? Answer: A long time ago, McFadden Pier was a seaport but something happened with a rail line, some other jealous port, and some bad guy closed it all down. (Long historical story I don't really remember, but clearly the Mayor is a local history buff. The Kid's attention was wandering, I could tell.)
6) Does Newport Beach have medical facilities? What kind? Answer: Not really, the largest facility, Hoag Hospital is private (the Kid was born there, by the way) http://www.hoaghospital.org/. The city's only medical facilities that it owns are EMTs (paramedics run by the fire department).
7) Do you have kids? Answer: Yes 3 and several grandkids too. (A cutie's picture was on the desk along with a picture of the Newport Beach Centennial float in the very wet 2006 Rose Parade. Yes, he got to ride on it.)
8) Do you have to be married to be a mayor? Answer: No. For example there is a female city councilperson who is not married and might be Mayor next year.

Some of these questions were based purely on strategy ideas that The Kid needed for Sim City. I didn't explain this to the Mayor. I am sure he wondered.

I could hear the Mayor's pretty assistant suppressing a chuckle from time to time just outside the door. I was having a little trouble myself but had to take the whole thing as seriously as the Kid and the Mayor were taking it.

During a lull in the conversation, I asked my one question that had been submitted by my husband, "Why isn't City Hall located in Fashion Island rather than out of the way, on Lido Island."

The Mayor carefully replied that in 1972, in fact, there was a vote before the citizens of Newport Beach to raise a bond to fund a city hall, fire station and police department exactly where the current Newport Beach City Library stands today http://www.city.newport-beach.ca.us/nbpl/ . But, the good citizens of Newport Beach voted it down, and the rest is history--Newport Beach without a proper city central. Interesting, indeed.

Next was our first photo opportunity. The Mayor invited the Kid to take a picture with The Mayor in his office at his desk. I had brought my camera, of course (I AM a good mother). More surprisingly, the Mayor had his camera ready to take a picture and print it on the spot for the Kid.

But, the highlight of our visit was yet to come. The Mayor took us into the City Council Chambers and explained what they are used for and how the voting occurs. Buttons and light up panels. The Kid was FASCINATED. And then, the Coup de Gras. The Mayor had actually pre-made a sign with the Kid's name on it and sat him in an actual Council person chair for his picture. The Kid was positively beaming.

We then turned off the lights in the Council and went back to the Mayor's office and printed out the pictures. The Mayor had spent over 30 minutes with us. While the pictures were printing, the Mayor went in search of something. The Mayor's assistant whispered to me as we were waiting for the Mayor to return, "We have a very good Mayor this year." I certainly agreed. The Mayor came back shortly and gave the Kid a cap, a Newport Beach bag and several Newport Beach pins as well as some recently printed pictures of our visit. The Kid was ecstatic.

At the end of the visit the Kid and I shook hands with the Mayor and thanked him for his time and trouble. He said, "My pleasure. Please vote for me in the next City Council election."

I said, "Mr. Mayor, you absolutely have my vote."

On becoming Catholic

2006-02-18T11:50:00.000-08:00

Let me cut to the chase. I am becoming a Catholic. My confirmation is scheduled for Holy Saturday (in Catholic language this means the Saturday before Easter or April 15, 2006). Every Sunday I attend, after Mass, RCIA classes. RCIA stands for Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults. It is a complex and time consuming process. Sometimes quite tedious. The people in charge of it at my church are kind of disorganized and a little crazy. My friends question how a mom with a young son could convert to Catholicism--of all religions. The nasty pedophile priests have given the Catholics a pretty bad rap. And, I don't appear to be very religious, and really, in a traditional definition, probably am not. After attending a few of the classes, it became obvious to me that people who go to RCIA fall into three basic categories with very few exceptions:

1) A member of a couple that is getting married and their future spouse wants to have full mass at their wedding with both members of the new couple fully participating,
a) groom being forced to become Catholic because future wife demands it
b) groom or bride were raised Catholic but somehow missed the Confirmation process which would be easy to do since it happens YEARs after First Communion and dragging a surly teenager to Mass and Sunday school wouldn't be fun for anybody
2) Parents of school age or younger children who have a need to raise their children similarly to how they were raised by their parents
3) People who are old and confronting their morality and sinful past lives and have some concern about what happens when they die and are looking for answers.

That is it. Typically, it seems that most Catholics are "cradle Catholics" and were raised Catholic and don't have to go through this weird adult decision and process. Anyone else who wants to join the club, needs to do this. And, as any Catholic knows, to get what you want out of the Catholic church, you must play by their rules. 100%.

Why me? I fall into the category of a mom with a school age child. It is time for the Kid to start his First Communion process as he is in second grade (he is actually 1 year late, but that isn't unusual now a days). My Husband's family is very Catholic. They are Catholics from Spain Catholic. Once-a-week Mass, praying the rosary, baptism, communition & confirmation Catholics. I am sure my Husband's mother and four sisters have been lighting candles for the 9 years of our marriage hoping for just such a miracle. I am positive my mother-in-law has probably worried herself sick over my Kid's religious upbringing and has prayed many, many times about this problem. My husband of course (the of course means this is typical) is a Catholic drop out and seemed to be happy with our lack of faith. To his credit, he tried to get us married in the Catholic church. But after checking into it, he got discouraged by the rules, as he was interested in getting married in the out-of-doors. Turns out, you can only get married outside in Orange County by a Catholic Priest if a Jewish Rabbi is actually presiding over the wedding. The real rule in the Catholic religion is that marriage is a sacrament which can ONLY be performed in a Catholic church (makes sense). However, in THE OC, apparently some rich Catholic was marrying some rich Jew and they got some sort of exception in the OC Diocese for their wedding so they could have a big expensive wedding outside. At that point in the investigation process, my husband became re-disgusted with the Catholic religion. We ended up getting married at noon, at Five Crowns (a Lawrey's owned restaurant in the style of an English pub) in their garden in Corona del Mar. It was, in my opinion, a nice luncheon with a nice jazz band and kegs of beer (donated by our OC brewer friends). A Methodist Minister presided and we had a Christian wedding. I have learned later from the Catholics that our marriage counts in their book as an official sacrament and doesn't have to be re-done in the Catholic church to count because it is in fact a Christian marriage. See, they aren't as tough as they appear after all. However, should we get divorced we wouldn't have to get the marriage annulled because it really isn't in their records, and we would each be free to remarry in the Catholic church. I know, a web of contradictions.

My Catholic roots go way back. My mom is Methodist and married into a strong German Catholic family. My parents were married in the Catholic church (Fort Wayne, IN), but not at the alter. In those days, when you married a non-Catholic you got married in the aisle. My mom had aunts that refused to go to her wedding, due to the fact that she was marrying a Catholic. I guess, in the old days, the Methodists didn't like the Catholics. I was baptized Catholic about 9 months after my birth, and my mom promised to bring me up Catholic. I had godparents, my Aunt and Uncle on my dad's side. My mom told me she had full intentions of raising me Catholic, but since my dad immediately became a Catholic dropout upon marriage, she decided, to heck with this, and started taking me and eventually my sister to Methodist church. We went regularly until I was about 14. I actively participated in Youth Group and Choir.

Why now? Cut to the present. my godmother died over the past Memorial Day weekend (2005). I flew back to Fort Wayne, Indiana to help my cousin attend to the funeral becausemy Aunt's husband (my godfather) had died about 10 years earlier. My cousin is the youngest of 4 and, coincidentally, adopted. She was the caregiver for my Aunt in her later years, managing the household, my aunts hospice care in my aunt's home, and managing the money. She also got to manage the funeral. It is lucky that my aunt and uncle adopted her, or else who would have taken care of all that? At least that is my comment to my cousin. The bottom line is that during the process of preparing for the funeral, my cousin selected me to be the first reader (from the old Testament). I was a little lost during the service as to when to stand and when to kneel and when my reading was. Which is typical for me during the many Catholic services I have gone to over the years. At the viewing, the night before, and during the service, the Priest gave a really good speech about my Aunt and her devotion to the church, and the help she provided him personally in his 10 years that he knew her. They first met when he gave the funeral for my uncle. This little tiny Sri Lankan priest said very touching things about my aunt and spoke to her devotion to the church and her friendship with him. My Aunt lived in the shadow of my uncle, the doctor, her whole life without getting much credit for her accomplishments, even from her own children (except my cousin, the youngest adopted child). I was impressed. When I realized how much the church had meant to my Aunt, and how much it provided her comfort and a way to contribute in her community, I decided right then and there during the service that as a tribute to my Aunt, I would actively raise my kid Catholic, and I would officially convert to Catholicism. I figured she would be very happy.

Immediately when I got back that Thursday from the funeral, I called the local Catholic Church and entered their RCIA program which had just started for the new year. This particular church is EXTREMELY well funded due to its location in Newport Beach central. I am told there are celebrities at the church. Like Kobe Bryant for example. A lot of good it has done him, but apparently he gave a BIG donation during "the trouble."

As part of my RCIA process, I had to select a sponsor. They were going to select one for me but I said no, I would find my own. So I asked my friend if she would be my sponsor. My friend is a former co-worker of mine (5 years ago). She and I attend "spin" classes weekly, and have bagels and coffee afterwards. Her brother is a Priest and she has raised both her kids Catholic. So I figured she was perfect. She has been perfect. Whenever I have questions, she emails them to her brother, The Priest. He is a Priest in Hawaii which I think must be a pretty good gig. He thinks I am a little crazy because I check everything out and question everything.

So far so good. Me and my friend have learned a lot. The Catholic religion, being a very old Christian religion, has a lot of history. Plus it is very rooted in deep tradition with good moral values. It has felt right from the very beginning. I have told my parents, who were cool with this (my mom is in favor of religious upbringing). I haven't told my husband's mother yet. Why get her all excited?

My Kid started his Sunday School classes in September and will go through his First Communion, not this Easter, but the next Easter. They don't confirm kids until the can think for themselves which is ninth grade or so, I think. I will have to remain devout at least until then.
My friend says I shows signs of being a very good Catholic.

This was the First Reading at my Aunt's Mass:

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Hooters

2006-02-12T18:12:00.000-08:00

I was driving the kid home from my mom's house. We were going South on the 405 and got on at Harbor Blvd.
The kid said "There's Hooters" like he seemed quite familiar with the place.
I calmly said "Do you know what Hooters is?"
Kid with great confidence, "They have girls who dress up in owl suits."
Okay, in my head I am LMAO. Dead silence in the car as I attempt to drive and suppress huge giant laugh.
Kid is quiet for a minute then to himself... "I wonder why?"
Finally, I can't stand it anymore, "Who told you about the girls in owl suits?"
Kid replied quickly, "Daddy."

Life in the O.C.

2006-02-12T17:22:00.000-08:00

How did I get my even limited access to this priviledged world behind what is fondly known in Los Angles as "the orange curtain?" Somewhat accidentally as it turns out. When California real estate was at its most affordable, my husband and I got married and bought the worst house in the best neighborhood in Newport Beach, California. Mostly because I, due to some particularly fond but hazy memories of my single life in Newport Beach, insisted on living in the area. The housing tract we purchased into, nestled just above Balboa Island, in those days, was mostly populated with really old people. Made up of mid-century moderns (1950s tract houses), it was a relatively quiet place. In late 1999, the stock market shot through the roof and California real estate started taking off with it. The Dot Com money created unusual amounts of wealth in the Orange County area (even more than normal). As the old people died or moved to retirement communities, "younger" families with kids started taking over the houses. Then the remodeling boom began. We found ourselves living in the middle of a giant construction site, amongst some of the most beautiful homes and richest people in all of California. Game on.