Who's The Boss?

I'm a (sub)Urban Mom

One thing was certain at the end of our trip to Arkansas:  I am not a Country Mom.  While I loved the rural sprawl of the country, I'm not cut out for that type of living.

Having to drive 15 minutes to get to the grocery store? Not for me.

Having to wear OFF or other bug repellent just to sit in your own backyard? Not for me.

Having to mow eight acres of land every week?  Even on one of the cool John Deere thingamabobs? Not for me.

We spent the Fourth of July at my Aunt's lake house on Lake Ouachita (I think that's how it's spelled).  The whole time we were there I was grossed out to the core.  Swimming in lake water?  Yeah, its disgusting.  It's even more disgusting when you know everyone has peed in the lake.  And you know they've peed in the lake because they never get out of the damn lake all the while drinking beer after beer since noon.  G to the R to O to the double S.  Gross.  I don't know how you people buy boats and go on lakes when really you are just swimming in a man-made toilet.  

My Arkansas family got so sick of me saying "eww" or "yuck" or "I think I just got bit by something."  At one point my cousin Michael, a country boy to the core, asked me "Don't you have any bugs in California?" To which I had to explain that in California I have to go looking for bugs.  And no, in California I've never seen the sheer volume or size of the insects that I've seen in Arkansas.  You might find pesty ants, annoying gnats, and persistent fruit flies.  But I've never been one with nature just by being outside. 

I've known for years that I'm not a City Mom either.  I'm not cut out to lugging groceries three blocks because that was the nearest parking spot.  I don't want to have to step over hobos to get to my front door. 

So that leaves only choice. I am a Suburban Mom.  I like my two-car garage.  I like tending to my teeny backyard.  I like my neighborhood grocery store to actually be in my neighborhood.  I guess I'm too old for the city and not old enough for the country.

All I need now is a minivan.

Arkansas

Darius and I just returned from a week-long trip to visit my 89 year old Grandmother in Arkansas.  Going there was total culture shock for me and complete bliss for Darius.  My Grandmother lives in what would be considered a big city by Arkansas standards but a rural town by California standards.  When the average person's home comes with acres of land, you know you aren't in a big city.  Here where we live in the Bay Area, any lot over 6000 square feet is considered big. 

Before Darius was born, my Grandmother moved out of the house that her husband had built with his own hands and into a small cottage built just for her on her daughter's property.  My Grandmother had lived alone since my Grandfather died in 1989.  I know it was hard for her to give up her independence.  She no longer drives and is reliant on my Aunt to drive her to the store.  I can't imagine how hard it must be to have to ask someone to take you to Walmart to buy eggs.  

My Aunt lives in a posh gated community up on a hill.  The satellite TV and internet are spotty (it worked only 1 day that we were there), but the home and its surrounding eight acres of land are gorgeous.  While I practically started having seizures from the stress of not having  internet, Darius was thrilled to have land to explore, bugs to catch, and adventures lurking behind every tree.  He was in seventh heaven. 

And surprisingly only has two mosquito bites to show for it.  Those country bugs wanted nothing to do with his suburban blood.

After

 

11 inches and four hours later... Not to mention about 300 bucks

I'm still getting used to it.  I keep seeing myself in the mirror and thinking "Who's that girl?"

Darius loves it.  Neville hates it.  As for me? I can't stop staring at my old hair.

 

This pony is nearly three inches wide.  I hope that whomever gets my hair will love it as much as I have.

Before

Guess what I'm doing today?  Here's a clue... it involves 12 inches and small fortune.

I'm donating my hair to Locks of Love today.  About 12 inches will be cut from my auburn locks.  You have to give a minimum of 10 inches, but considering the amount of split ends I have, I figured I should throw in a couple more inches for good measure.

I'm going to a fancy salon and paying through the nose to have my hair cut and getting a few highlights.

This will be my first haircut in over 15 months.  

I wasn't planning on growing my hair this long.  It's only about two inches from my butt crack.  I thought of taking a picture of that, but (pun intended) thought I would spare my darling readers of that scene.   Some things are better left to the imagination, don't you think? 

I can't wait to cut off my long locks.  Although, I am TERRIFIED of having short hair.  My hair has always been a defining feature for me.  I'm known for my great hair. 

I'm hoping that the cut will hit the top of my shoulders.  I'll share photos tonite when I'm back from the salon. 

Wish me luck.

Sorry for the grainy photo, but you should try taking a photo of yourself from the back and see how well you do. 

Birthday gift

My birthday was on Sunday.  No big deal, really.  When Darius was born five days before my 26th birthday, I was relieved that all of the focus of birthdays would shift to my darlingly dear son.  Besides, once you have a baby as a birthday gift nothing else really compares. 

Neville and I never put a lot of focus on celebrating each other's brithdays.  When we met, we were poor college students.  I was practically putting myself through school.  My parents helped as much as they could, but it wasn't enough.  I was an RA in the on-campus dormitories and worked part-time in the Housing Office.  Most of my money went to school; whatever was left over was spent on my rather pathetic social life.  Neville was trying to finish college in as little time as possible.  Going to a tier 2 university and paying over $30K in a year in tuition, he was motivated to take extra classes every semester to try to graduate early and reduce his college loans as much as he possibly could. 

Birthdays and Christmas and anniversaries and any and all other holidays were deemed to be gift-free.  That's how I liked it, that's how I wanted to keep it.  That's how it's been for the last nine years.

Until yesterday.

Are you passionate about your job?

I am a Project Manager.  Well, my official title is "Senior Initiative Manager" because instead of managing projects I manage large cross-organizational initiatives that are designed to improve the company's back-office operations.

Are you totally lost yet?  Because that sentence is the sentence I practically read verbatim whenever anyone asks me what I do for a living.  And somewhere between "Initiative Manager" and "cross-organizational," I can see a person's eyes gloss over and a look of confusion start to build. 

Explaining my job is difficult.  There aren't a lot of people that run the type of projects I run.  My job is equal parts Sales Ops, IT Systems, and Process Improvement.  In a nutshell, I find gaps in a process that make booking a sale or renewing a contract more difficult than it should be and then I rally the right people to make changes.

One part cheerleader, one part mother hen, one part squeaky wheel.

That's my job.  Seriously.  I just wrote the same on my resume.

And while I appreciate my job and find it rewarding when we finally make progress, this isn't a job I am passionate about. There is no passion in Project Management. 

Getting to know... me

One of my dearest friends, Sissy, sent me one of those getting to know you forwards where you're supposed to fill it out and then send it to all your friends.  On the question of who you sent this to but would never to do it themselves, she wrote my name. 

Ouch.  But totally true.  I never respond to those crazy "send this in 2 minutes to thirty people or something bad will happen" emails.  In fact, I kinda resent folks that send them to me.  Now I'm repsonsible for the well-being of the world if I don't send that damn email to everyone I know.  So instead I ignore and choose to see that junk as spam by friends.

But then I realized that with this blog, I could totally prove Sissy wrong.  And one thing I always love being is RIGHT.  So take that Sissy!

1. What is your occupation right now?  Senior Initiative Manager

2. What color are your socks right now?  Socks are for the weak. Wearing flip flops!

Planning a Trip to Disneyland (trust me, it's easier than you think)

When I decided, nearly three years ago, to invite our entire extended family to celebrate Darius' fifth birthday, I knew that planning the trip would be the hardest part.  Hotels, tickets, deciding what to do in the park.   But with the help of Disney themselves, the planning turned out to be the easiest part.  The lessons I've learned work whether you are planning a trip for your family of four just as well as they work for my trip of twenty. 

Planning  the trip starts easy enough with answering three simple questions: When, Where, How?  You need to know when you want to go, where you want to stay, and how long you want to stay there.  You'll obviously find better deals in the off-season, but in the peak season nearly everything at Disneyland will be operational.  I don't like going in the heat of summer (90 degrees in Los Angeles feels like 100 degrees in the streets of Disneyland) but honestly, the kids don't notice if it is hot or cold - the magic of Disney is so powerful that you'll find yourself willingly standing in a 2-hour line for a 90-second ride.  Personally, I think three or four days at Disneyland is ideal.  That way, you aren't rushed and have the time to really enjoy the entire park. 

herding cats

It started with another frustrating morning for me.  Once again, Neville's family is running late.  And I don't mean a little late.  We all agreed to leave at 8:30 to drive to Monterey. It was already 9:15 and only two of the ten of us were dressed.  Nearly every morning has been this way.  And I'm up to my ears in frustration.

Is it really that difficult to get up on time, get ready on time and leave on time???  Yes, apparently it is so.  And I've sat here and silently tap my toes and rolled my eyes and said not-so-nice things under my breath.  Because I hate being late.

And yes, I see the cruel irony because half the time I'm the one running late.  But still, I'm not used to this blatant disregard for time.  Tell them you want to leave at 10:00 and they get in the shower at 9:56. 

this is what happens when you ask Neville to take a picture of you

First he took photos of the toilet...

Now he's gone a step too far.

this full house

Neville's family from India arrived yesterday afternoon.  I'm not quite convinced that they didn't send a whole separate plane just for their luggage. Neville's Aunt Moti must've packed her entire apartment into her three giant pieces of luggage.  Seriously, I've never seen such large bags (or heavier ones) before in my life. 

In one of those giant bags of goodies will be my favorite Indian snack.  Moti's servant is makes it special just for me. I have no idea what's in it other than some peppers, peanuts, and coconut but the stuff is so ridiculously tasty.  I once offered to give the servant $20 for making me the special treat and was met with absolute shock.  Twenty dollars to a servant who lives in the slums of Mumbai?  Apparently that's unheard of.

toxic

What's better than having to pack up all your shit for a 4-night stay at your dad's house while your home is being filled with deadly gasses?

How about coming back to the house and having to unpack all that shit you packed less than a week ago?

If I ever have to tent this house again, I'll seriously consider just torching the thing and everything in it.  It will save me a boat load of time... And considering the number of WARNING: DEADLY CHEMICALS signs that were on our house, burning it would probably be better for the environment too.

much to your chagrin

It's December of 2000.  You are fresh out of college and have landed your first job as an Administrative Assistant making twenty dollars an hour.  You feel like you have a six-figure salary and shop with your housemate, Gemma, who has more credit card debt than you have student loans.  On the Sunday before Christmas the two of you head out to the Stanford Shopping Mall, a gorgeous outdoor mall in affluent Palo Alto, to buy stuff not for your family like every other last-minute Christmas shopper but to take advantage of the sale prices to buy stuff for yourself.  Hey, everyone should make sure that they have at least one gift they know'll they'll love under the tree, right?

After shopping for hours, Gemma wants to stop and grab some much needed caffeine.  She orders you both a nonfat mocha.  You regret not telling her that you're lactose intolerant but don't want to hurt her feelings or feel like she's wasted her money.  So you drink it figuring that a little stomach pain and some gas tonight is a small price to pay for a budding friendship.

(sort of) homeless

Imagine having to pack up all of your food, personal items, pillows, and blankets.  You are technically not moving but it sure feels like it.  Every shelf in the pantry is empty, every spice in your endless spice rack is gone.  The fridge is empty.  Your bed has been stripped of all linens.  Your clothes are boxed up.

And you are homeless. 

For five days.

Thanks to a teeny little bug called a termite.

Damn those termites.

Our house is being "tented" this weekend.

And it is one giant pain in the ass.

I know you're thinking "When is she gonna stop with the one sentence paragraphs?"

my competition is a 73 year old woman named Arlene

One of the benefits of working from home is finally finding the time to exercise.  It's scary when your almost five year old can run faster than you.  Not to say that I am totally out of shape, but dude that kid can run.  For me it's just about being healthy no matter the size.  And now that I'm over 30 and have heard rumors that your metabolism all but stops, I certainly don't need those 30 pounds that have haunted me since Darius' birth to be turning into 40. 

So I've been making it into the YMCA three to four times a week. I love the YMCA.  First, it's cheap.  Second, the pool is always heated.  Third, in the mornings they offer a class nearly every hour which makes finding the time to workout a breeze. 

Last week, my meeting schedule allowed for me to take the Dance Aerobics class with Sherry.  Before the class started, Sherry told me a dozen times that most people don't get all the steps until they've been there awhile.  I was thinking that this was gonna be more intense then I thought.

Until the rest of the class walked in. 

The one closest in age to me was older than my mother.  I'm not making this up.

All super friendly, one even asked if I was in my twenties.  Those old hags sure do know how to make a newcomer feel welcome.

All I can say is thank god I can run faster than those gals.  It's one thing to lose to your speedy five year old. It's another to lose to a lady as old as my Grandma.

you like me, you really like me

I just found out that I was named as one of the Top 50 Mommy Blogs. 

I'm still waiting for my Oscar-esque statue to arrive. 

Wait?  There's no statue?  No red-carpet?  No Rachel Zoe stylist? No Wolfgang Puck catered Governor's Ball?

I knew this blogging was a sham.

Kidding.  Only kidding. 

Sort of.

technically, there's 1 degree of separation between me and J-lo

A couple of weeks back, I had the most extraordinary Mom's Night Out with with the designer of Yummie Tummie(there were other people there too).   For someone whose designed clothes for P-Diddy (does he still go by that name?), Jennifer Lopez, and Beyonce, Heather was the most down to earth I-work-with-celebrities person I've ever met. 

Seriously, she's my new best friend.  Or maybe just maybe you'll see me in the news after I break into her apartment and stalk her (and those awesome Yummie Tummies). 

Before the night, I had never even heard of Yummie Tummie.  In fact, even after I received the invite I didn't bother to do any research.  The opportunity to hang out with Lia and Cat was really the only reason I was putting on my false eyelashes (hello, we were in the swanky W hotel in San Francisco).  But to meet Heatherand her fabulous staff was icing on the cake.  Heather was so genuinely awesome that I pulled her assistant aside and asked her to tell me honestly if this was all a front and if Heather was really like Devil Wears Prada of bosses.  Her assistant laughed and assured me that Heather is the real deal.

And so is her product.

my new office

My boss called me the other day to talk about "my office."  I've been put on a delinquent list at the office.  The company has acquired some new company and the employees from the new company are going to be moving into the building where I work. 

You know that building that I see less than once a week.

Facilities ran a report on all the existing worker-bees in the office and I'm behaving badly.  As in, you really shouldn't have a dedicated work-space when you don't make it in to see that work space.  Like ever.

I was given an ultimatum: start going to office on a regular basis or work from home full-time.  It was a no-brainer.  I will be moving out of my office in another month or so. 

blah blah blah

I literally blinked and last week was gone.  I don't know where it went and I have little to show for it.  Just gone.  Poof.

Or maybe my weeks just all start feeling exactly the same that it's hard to know when one week stops and another one starts.

Wake Up.  Work.  Cook dinner.  Sleep.  Every day. 

There's not much excitement in my life.  I'm not going out on Friday nights - no those are spent with a G-rated movie and my darling little boy.  In college Thursday night was THE night to be out and about.  Now, if I'm lucky I'll get to watch Grey's Anatomy. 

Seriously, when did watching a TV drama become the highlight of the week?

And so excuse me while I try to shake this funk.  My mother says to spend more time in the backyard soaking up some vitamin D.  She's says the sun will be good for my spirit. 

I have lots to write about.  Posts all jumbled in my head, sitting and stewing with little hope of making it onto a page. 

blah, blah, blah, blah, blah

it started with a pancake breakfast

Neville reminded me last night that Darius' preschool is closed today.  I have the closure on the home calendar, my work calendar, my blackberry calendar... and still it didn't even register until Neville said that he had a ton of meetings on Friday and wouldn't be able to watch Darius... and wanted to know if I was planning on watching him or if we need to call in for reinforcements (aka his semi-retired father).

How could the school possibly be closing for Staff Development Day?  How could I possibly be so together to frickin write the date down on every calendar I manage and still forget about it until the night before? 

husbands, if you ever want to get laid then read this

Don't ask your wife "What's for dinner?" before you give her a kiss hello.

Do empty and load the dishwasher without having to be asked.

Don't casually say "It's just an old girlfriend from high school" when she asks who are are talking to on the phone.

Do hold her hand when you take an evening walk around the neighborhood.

Don't watch your wife tidy up while you sit on the couch watching re-runs of Judge Judy.

Do fix the dryer on the same day that your wife notices the heating element is broken.

Don't ever under any circumstances say "Wanna do it?" and expect her to actually want to do it.

wake-up

When I wake up, I look like this...

 

Puffy eyes. Yesterday's mascara making me look like a raccoon.  Hair frizzy and wild (usually pulled back and slept on funny all night).  Yes, I am wearing a sweater since Neville turns the heater completely off at night and we have so much tile in this house that it easily drops to below 50 degrees inside.

This?  This is what I looked like for all those months before I kicked my own ass to get ready to work from home. 

At least I don't have wrinkles, right? 

good morning

 

Fresh cut flowers and a home-brewed cuppa joe.  Almost makes me happy that it's Monday morning. 

the luck of the irish

It's St Patrick's Day today.  I made sure to send Darius to school with a green shirt.  That's about it for my participation in today's holiday.

I still remember when I first met Neville and he asked me where I was "from."  I looked at him funny and said "I'm American."  I later learned to realize that he was asking about my ethnicity.  If you didn't already know it being a white girl with raw-chicken-skin colored legs isn't an option to check on the US Census.   You can't make a culture for "people who sun-burn even wearing SPF 50."

like the boy scouts always say: be prepared

A little advice: Before you come out with your blog to all your friends and family, you may want to make sure that you are *really* okay with them reading your blog. 

Most new readers won't go back to the very beginning of your blog and read every post you've written.  But your family?  Oh, your family will.  And then they'll call you on it.  And you'll won't even have a recollection of writing it until suddenly your Aunt sends you an email promising she won't print it out and show it to Grandma.

double standard

About a year ago, I gave up my weekly housekeeper.  For one, she wasn't the most reliable person and there always seemed to be something that she missed.  But the biggest reason I said adios to the paid help was that I was sick of hearing Neville complain about the waste of money.  He's a firm believer in not paying someone else to do something he can do.

Or should I say, something I can do.

Neville just didn't see the value in it.  Combined with the fact that she wasn't doing that great of a job, I let go the weekly service and started doing to all myself.  Needless to say, the housework wasn't getting done.  Cleaning toilets or showers just isn't a priority for me.  It's never going to be priority.  I'm not one of those people that gets all bent out of shape when the floor is dirty or there's dust on the coffee table.  In fact, I don't even notice it.  Housecleaning doesn't enter my stream of consciousness until the house is a pig sty.  And then its hours and hours of cleaning.  The result: a house that is clean for a day or two before the tornado also known as my son has wrecked havoc on our little house.  In other words, its totally not worth it.

turning over a new leaf

Ever since we made the move to the new office last October and I started a new role, I just haven't wanted to make it into the office.  The commute is too long, the sales guys are too noisy, the bathrooms are too tiny, and the breakroom is all the way on the other side of the building. 

It's not that I'm too lazy to walk over to the other side.  I just don't always have time in my meeting schedule to get there and back (and then walk to other other side to go the bathroom).

Alright, and I'm a little lazy.

So I've been working from home.  A lot.  As in practically every day.  I'll tell you it has its benefits.  I can have dinner on the table when the rest of my brood arrives home.  And I don't have to eat cafeteria food.  I never miss a UPS delivery.  Oh and I can work all day long in my pajamas.

But after a couple of months (yes, months) of being in my pjs all day long realizing at 5pm that I hadn't brushed my teeth or put on a bra for that matter, I was kinda over the whole working from home thing.  It didn't help that on a few of those nights where I still looked like I had rolled out of bed, Neville asked me point blank "What exactly did you do today?"

the lonely road

I'm back up in Rocklin for a few days this week for work.  I know, I know... you don't really care to read about the city with the world's biggest shopping mall every time I make a visit up here.   But come on!  This place has every restaurant ever known to man in a 1-mile stretch.  Its a corporate traveller's dream. 

Lucky me, I'll be making the trek up to Rocklin at least once a month for the next few months.  I'm not joking about the lucky part.  I'm hoping it's a sign that I'll survive lay-offs when I am taking on more work.  Anyone who's worked long enough in the corporate world knows that a sign of pink-slip doom is transitioning your work to other people. 

never say never

Never bake your spouse a birthday cake before you have your first cup of coffee.

Never decide that baking a cake would be a fun project to do with your child on a rainy day when you have back-to-back conference calls.

Never give your child a bowl of frosting and expect any of that frosting to actually make it on to the cake.

Never ever give your child a jar of sprinkles without having the dustbuster at the ready.

Never totally lose your cool when you step in a glob of sprinkle covered frosting.

Never tell your child that they can light the candles just to get them to stop crying after you lost it when stepping in a glob of sprinkle covered frosting.

Never pull the candles out of the hand of your child and tell them they are "doing it all wrong" when it's just a damn candle on a damn birthday cake that you shouldn't have made but just picked one up from the store and what it exactly were you thinking, lady, when you thought it was a f-cking fantastic idea to make a cake between back-to-back conference calls on a rainy day with a kid who has way too much energy and is now on a major sugar high from eating a bowl of frosting.

Never think it's never too early for a drink. Or a lobotomy.

Oh and Happy Birthday, honey. When are you coming home?

I need a life

When I was a a third grader, we spent some time talking about the future in our class.  We decided that one day you would simply tell the oven what to cook and then PRESTO the meal would make itself.  Yeah, I'm still waiting for that technology.

If only life was easy enough that I could simply type "Robyn needs" into Google and wha-la all my needs would be laid out right there in front of me (hopefully with some sort of solution too)! According to Google, these are the top 10 things I need:

1. Robyn needs some love.
2. Robyn needs a home.
3. Robyn needs help.
4. Robyn needs a boyfriend.
5.  Robyn needs another sandwich now.
6. Robyn needs you!
7. Robyn needs some education.
8. Robyn needs zombies.
9. Robyn needs to go home.
10. Robyn needs to be taught a lesson.

Alright, maybe not as useful as I had hoped. 

PS.  Thanks to Kim for letting me kill 15 minutes at work googling Robyn needs.  I heart people who can magically make me procrastinate.

PPS.  You can play along my googling your name and seeing what comes up.  If you are as lucky as me you'll get a home, a boyfriend, and killer zombies with a click of a mouse.