I'm More "Evolution" Than "Resolution"

Waiting until the beginning of a new year to motivate oneself is akin to your beloved waiting until Valentine's day to make you feel like "the only girl in the world."*

Girlfriend, if your man isn't rockin' your socks off** every night of the year then you need a new man. Just sayin'.

As I was saying, a new beginning can come at any time. You decide. Not the calendar. I do hereby reserve the right to "begin again" at any point. Life doesn't necessarily have a re-set button but the conscious decision to make change is not a privilege, it is a right. A right which you may exercise at any time my friend.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

You're right.

I'm busted.

The above is my way of weaseling out of the annoying custom of declaring a new year's resolution. Truth be told, I think resolutions are a good way to set yourself up for failure. I fail plenty, without the extra help, thank you very much.

Screw resolutions! A new year will not bring me to creating a list of all the useless, non-working, undesirable habits I need to slay. I just don't have that kind of time people. Nor will the new year force me to make a list of all the shit I hoped to achieve last year and still haven't started, much less completed. I am a work in progress a-hole. Rome wasn't built in a day and that little jiggle just under both ass cheeks didn't happen overnight either. It's gonna take some time. I am practicing patience. See how patiently I wait for that jiggle to pack up and move out? In the mean time I'm making Pop Tarts, sweetheart.

All smart-assedness*** aside...

I am more "evolution" than "resolution" and I consistently strive to eradicate the useless on a daily basis. Why not be all you can be? I mean, it's all you can be, right? Self improvement is a journey that once embarked upon doesn't have an ending. Is it not our hope to be be constantly evolving? Becoming a more fully realized version of that which we already are?

Go ahead and admit it, I have a good point. I'll wait...

Now that we are in agreement and while I'm chewing gum and walking my talk through 2011 I will also be:

- Launching my new project and thanking you for accepting the invitation to participation. ****

- Finishing my non-fiction narrative and making friends with an agent who believes there is room on a shelf at Border's for one more self-indulgent story about a compelling anti-hero who overcomes the rabbit's hole and morphs into a soccer mom extraordinaire. I'd read it. Totally.

- Downdog-ging***

- Uploading more pictures of my feet to all my social networking sites and adding another volume to Ode To My Toes. http://danilamb.blogspot.com/2010/08/ode-to-my-toes.html

- Listening to Dave Matthews Band and wishing he was touring this summer. If you need me I'll be "Under the table and dreaming."

- Making love. Making memories.

- Declaring Eminem a lyrical genius and pickin' up what he's putting down.

- Ballroom dancing with a broomstick in my kitchen. Gotsta be ready when "Dancing With the Stars" calls ya'll.

- Chasing rainbows and butterflies and if I am lucky I will stand in the midst of a dragonfly swarm with my first born son on a hot summer evening and wish with my whole heart that I could stop time for a moment. Just long enough to memorize, in detail, the look of wonder and delight on his sun-kissed, cherubic face.

-Reading bedtime stories to my sweet baby Jake as his eyelids get heavy and breathing slows to it's most natural rhythm. Smelling his hair while I sing him to sleep, breathing in his divinity and residing in the shock and awe that I made him.

- Banishing that jiggle and working on my wiggle with a giggle.

- Manifesting that which moves me, inspires and soothes me.

- Counting my blessings and days until Spring. Until then it's snow angels and boots with the fur. Doesn't sound so bad when I put it that way.

- Planting things (flowers and food and ideas too) just to watch them grow.

- Dreaming with my eyes open, willingness at my side and a chocolate lab sleeping at my feet.


*Rihanna. Oh Rihanna, how I love thee.
** You can still get "rocked" with your socks on if it's really cold outside. Just sayin'
*** I resolve to make up new words when I cannot think of an existing one that will do.
**** It's coming. Wait for it...wait for it. Almost. But not quite yet. ;)

"What If's" for 2011

I keep looking at my Christmas tree.

I'm thinking about taking it down.

Three days post Christmas wouldn't constitute Grinchy in my book. I know some folks who've already packed the season up. Traditionally, I leave the needle dropping thing up till after the new year has begun. We get a real tree so I figure a six week display is a nice obituary for the pine whom gave his life for our yuletide pleasure.

Now, before I start getting the hairy eyeball and hate mail from the tree huggers let me assure them of this: Pine trees grow at an alarmingly fast rate. We have been cutting at the same Christmas tree farm for a decade now. I am always amazed by how quickly the trees come back. What was a "Charlie Brown tree" two years ago is a nice sized and well shaped tree-ette this year. Plus, the family which owns the centennial farm has been growing there for generations.  I feel good about supporting them and their contagious love for all things evergreen. That's my disclaimer.

I think my haste in dismantling the tree this year has to do with ushering in the new year with clean floors and a house back in order. I can be a wee bit neurotic about the tidiness of my environment and we put the tree in the dining room this year. That means the dining room table had to be swung around the other way. This in turn created a path from one side of the room to the other. Negotiating the narrow passageway with a basket of laundry amongst a couple of rambunctious boys, a cat that weaves her way around my ankles and an eighty-five pound chocolate lab has had me breathing deep and seeking peace. I was willing in the name of St.Nick but he's been and gone and so has my patience with the unusual chaos in my undersized home.

That's it. The tree must go.

Tomorrow.

Plenty of time to reorganize the house and ring in 2011 with a calming sense of all being right in my world.

Okay, the house will be right.

2011. Wow! Time flies when you're making babies and love and memories. Time flies when you're raising those babies and raising a little hell along the way too. The undisciplined daydreamer in me cannot help but ponder what the new year will bring...

Unexpected (but deeply appreciated) blessings, unwanted (but soul-strengthening) hardships and heartbreaks are undoubtedly on my destiny's agenda for me. I am willing, and welcome both. Not because I necessarily want them both but because I know that though I steer this ship I am but the navigator. Not the creator of the journey. I beseech the powers that be that tenderness and grace be mine as well. I know I will need both.

At some point in the past year a friend posted as her facebook status: "What if? What if the very best day of my life is yet to happen? What if I haven't met the person who will become my very best friend? What if?"

Yeah, what if?

On the days I contemplate that it could be the most bat shit awesome day of my life then realize it's just grocery shopping day it's really just me being an ass. A smart ass. The truth is I hope it truly is a bat shit awesome day. (Whatever that is. I just like the way it sounds.) I am a romantic idealist at heart and though I have plenty of days that the twins called "gloom" and "doom" come riding their creepy tricycles down the halls of my mind, for the most part my glass is always half full. So...what if?

What if? I...cut my hair? Grow it longer? color it purple? Learn to play the guitar my daddy gave me? Vacation by the ocean and let the waves lap at my feet? Finish my book and land an agent to rep it? Launch my new project and it's a smashing success? Learn to knit, with my toes? Grow Lavender and get a miniature goat? Say no to things that make me unhappy or compromise my integrity? Say yes to something completely frivolous? Wear white after Labor Day? What if? What if I make a new friend? What if I become a better friend? What if I finish the "unfinished business" I have hanging out there? What if  I partner up the skeletons in my closet and teach them to Tango? What if someone, somewhere is writing a song that will change my perspective on life? What if while I have my head in the clouds I run smack dab into one with a sliver lining?

The "what if's" are infinite. "Whatever." is a good response to those who just don't get it.

I love a good surprise and nothing is more surprising than what the future could possibly hold. Can't say, don't know, won't even venture a guess about what it will be. I am certain however that I'm ready. Eyes wide open, dreaming the whole way though it.

Happy new year folks. May your days and nights be blessed with abundance in all the ways you need it and may the spirit of "What if" fill your soul.







 

Too School For Cool

Every Friday I have lunch and then chaperone recess with my first born son and his fifth grade class.

It is a highlight of my week.

Every week.

Bearing witness to the growing and learning and learning and growing of these kids is so cool. The pre-pubescent mini-culture they have co-created is wildly chaotic yet still more democracy than "Lord of the Flies."

I have known most of the children, in each of the three fifth grade classrooms, since they began kindergarten together. Several of them I knew in preschool and a small handful have been together since pre-pre-school. Many of them remember when my oldest son was an only child and when his baby brother was born.
 
I'd say we know each other pretty well.

I know who throws away their vegetables and who eats them. I know who trades Doritos for Oreos. I know who picks the pepperoni off their pizza and who is most likely to send a packet of ketchup flying across the room. I know who eats like a beast and see who is taught table manners at home. Personal hygiene too. I know not to judge.

I know who chronically has recess detention for missing assignments. I know who's head of the class and the class clown too.

I know who likes to swing and who hangs out on the monkey bars.  I know who sidewalk chalks and who jump ropes and who is outgrowing all of the above. I know who has the most Silly Bandz and who's Team Edward and who's Team Jacob. I know who loves Justin Bieber and who is totally over Miss Hannah Montana. They all love Miley.

I know the boys to keep a hairy eyeball on so touch football doesn't get carried away. I know who is most likely to end up having to sit on the fence and who will tell on them first. I know who has cooties and who can sink a basketball.

I know who watches Kendra and listens to Snoop and who watched Dancing With the Stars. I know who has a cell phone and who texts my kid after his eight o'clock curfew.  I know that hasn't happened in a while. I know all the fifth grade bullies and beauties and who the girls think are turning into cuties. I know the puppy love romances and the mean girl dramas. I know the past and current wars and alliances. I know better than to comment on any of it.

I know it's not always rainbows and butterflies for some of these kids. Sometimes it's the hard times that move them along. I know it when I see it because I was it too.

I know who misses a father whose never been a daddy. I know who misses a man who was both and he went to heaven. I know whose dad, in front of her best friend, said she was his biggest mistake.

I know how blessed I am my official job description includes this Friday afternoon ritual. I know I am privileged. I know how much I truly dig these kids and though I don't know, I hope I make a small difference. I know a hug or a high five can't heal it all but I know how wishing for one feels. I know I am just a small part of the village I believe it takes to raise them. I know enough to ask myself, "What if it does make a difference?"

I know time flies when you're having fun and these kiddos go to the middle school wing next year. I know the day will come when my boy says, "Mom, you're not coming for lunch today are you?"

I know it will be too soon.

Big Ideas...

I considered beginning this post with an apology for my prolonged absence but then thought, nah. The fact of the matter is I have been working on something really big. Perhaps the single best idea I have ever had. That's saying a lot, or not much, dependent upon which of my "big ideas" one might reference.

Like the time I had a big idea about piercing my tongue. Uh, big idea alright. One big, fat, slobbering, slurring, swollen tongue later I almost choked (literally) as I verbally admitted that maybe, just maybe I'd gone too far. Not one of my brightest ideas but still qualifies as big  if for no other reason than the impressive size my tongue swelled to. Gene Simmons would have been envious.

Then there was the time I gave up my amazing flat in SF and left the country bound for three money making months in Japan with two huge, fucking suitcases.  The suitcases each had a leash they could be pulled by but I had to drag mine. I've never been known for being a light packer. Combine the weight and losing a wheel off one of them and I very quickly began hating them both. Someone in my entourage not so affectionatly refered to them as "my dogs" and I took it one step further and just called 'em bitches. This is only the first thing in a chain of events which makes giving up an amazing flat in the Haight one of the least  big and bright ideas I have ever had.

Now that I think about it this could make for an entire post all on it's own so maybe I shouldn't say more. I'm sure your dying to know. Right? Okay, picture this... seven American women with twenty-one pieces of luggage trying to sneak out of an apartment building (overlooking a pig farm) in the countryside of Japan because we believed we'd been sold to the Yakuza. Wanna hear more? Of course you do. You're gonna have to buy the book, when I finish writing it.

Point is, I have had an indeterminable number of big ideas that, in hindsight, turned out not so well. The latest incarnation of my genius is destined to fare much, much better and the great news is you can be a part of it. Audience participation time. Who wants to be first?

Settle down. No fighting. Everyone will get a turn with me. There's plenty of my genius to go around and it won't even have to be spread thin. I'm just not quite ready for the big reveal so hang tight and let the blog pot simmer a little longer.

Lay Off the Leopards!

Some say, "a leopard doesn't change it's spots."

Why? Tigers don't change their stripes and neither do zebras. So, why pick on the leopard?

As my random thought process would have it I was contemplating this discrimination, on the lepoard's behalf, just this morning and the following is where I arrived...

Even if the leopard wanted to change her spots and be say, a tiger for the day, she couldn't. Despite her willingness and her desire to be something different she could not. Feel me?

Okay, I suppose an insanely crafty leopard could fancy herself something else during dress up time on the savannah but at the end of the day...a leopard cannot change her spots. Which brings me to my point, why don't we lay off the leopard bitches?  I hear if you antagonize any pussycat long enough it will bite. I am taking a stand on the leopard's behalf. 

You go pussycat! I say you should dress up like Lady Gaga in a meat dress and announce to the jungle and the rest of us that you are beautiful, God made you like that! Then feel free to eat that dress and ROARRRRR! 

There is a Perfect Gift for Everyone

With the season of gift giving right around the corner I'm making my list and checking it twice. I know who's been naughty (the longer list) and who's been nice.

I've said it before but it bears repeating, I'm a giver. I'm generous. What can I say?

I'd give you the shirt off my back as long as I'm not wearing my super soft, baby blue "I'm not a housewife. I like profanity." (I am a stay at home BABE, a-hole!) hoodie with the thumb holes on the sleeve cuff. That, I would fight you for. And win. Go get your own at http://www.stayathomebabe.com/. Actually, I don't have that hoodie yet. It's on the way. Oh how I wish I had it right now. I'd wear it to my scheduled parent/teacher conference tonight. Really.

Still giggling.

As much as I love giving there are a certain few folks on my list which always present a problem in the present area. Surely I'm not the only one with this dilemma. I hope this helps.

For that person on your list who is constantly scratching their arse I suggest...

Ideal for butt busting activities such as motorcycling, bicycling, horseback riding. Anti-friction plus sweat absorber powder. May be used daily. For the temporary relief from pain and itching associated with chaffing and rashes. Specially formulated to absorb excess sweat and reduce frictional skin irritation. Not just for the boys either...

As long as we're on the subject of arses...

Can't read the small print? "Squeaky clean enema pin."
Need I say more?

For the gourmet chef in your life or the person who chews up your dreams and spits them out...

Have someone on your list you've told to go to hell? Make them a reservation that guarantees them a spot.

This is the ultimate Hell getaway package and includes everything needed to get to hell plus a limited edition VIP pass. No trip is complete without experiencing all of the off limits and top secret areas that Hell has to offer. Includes: - Demonic issued certificate of reservation, officially registered in Satan’s log and prepared on flame-proof material.  A one way, free-fall ticket to Hell. What better way to get there then a non-stop, direct drop? The Official Hell Identification Card so they can get around without getting hassled. Hell 101 mini informational guide, outlining things you need to know to survive the nightmare.  All access VIP pass. This pass will grant them access to “VIP exclusive areas” including the Frozen Wasteland, the Lake of Fire and the Bridge of the Dead, where all the hotties get together and kick it.
I'm ordering several and negotiating for a group rate.

For the martyr in your life or those just holier than thou...

Tub of flying nuns. An alternative to the classic gift of a cross and some rusty nails.

Lastly, for your feline loving friends...

You go to their house and leave covered in cat hair. Not anymore, now the fluffy furballs will clean up before you arrive. Obviously you’ll have to ignore the fact that they lick their anus then inevitably lick their paws, thus spreading cat ass all over. Other than that it’s genius, right.

Five Things Getting My "I'm Not a Celebrity" Endorsement

1. Indy filmmakers who have their finger on the pulse of the nation.

http://www.protestnation.org/

The film.

A nation born in protest of tyranny.

A constitution carefully designed to protect the citizenry’s right to protest.

A populist revolution to secure free speech, civil rights and all the blessings of liberty.

A rich tapestry of music, community, art, activism and hope.
So what happened?

Starring: Musicians, Activists, Veterans, and other Patriots
Screenplay By: Efraim Wyeth*
Directed By: Efraim Wyeth
Produced By: Cory Lyons*, Ef Wyeth

These filmmakers began their storytelling journey during the Obama vs. McCain smack down known as the presidential election of 2008. They're in D.C. preparing to document Jon Stewart's Rally To Restore Sanity. Find them on Facebook and Myspace.

*Two of the smartest, funniest, most charming and handsome eligible bachelors I know. Therefore, I also give them my "I'm not a celebrity" endorsement. Ladies, please submit all requests for a meet and greet through me.

2. She's not a housewife. She likes profanity. She's the Stay At Home Babe.
http://www.stayathomebabe.com/
She's smart, funny and sexy as hell with her faux hawk. Read her, love her, buy her t-shirt (coming soon to an Etsy shop near you) then send me a thank you note.


3. Taylor Mali. Poet. Because his words move me. Visit his site for the full version of the poem below.
http://www.taylormali.com/

Silver Lined Heart
I’m for reckless abandon 

and spontaneous celebrations of nothing at all,
like the twin flutes I kept in the trunk of my car
in a box labeled Emergency Champagne Glasses!
Raise an unexpected glass to long, cold winters
and sweet hot summers and the beautiful confusion of the times in between...

...But as far as what soothes me, what inspires and moves me,
honesty behooves me to tell you your rage doesn’t move me.
See, like the darkest of clouds my heart has a silver lining,
which does not harken to the loudest whining,
but beats and stirs and grows ever more
when I learn of the things you’re actually for...

...That’s why I’m for best friends, long drives, and smiles,
nothing but the sound of thinking for miles...

...For therapy when you need it,
and poetry when you need it.
And the wisdom to know the difference...

...I’m for crushes not acted upon, for admiration from afar,
for the delicate and the resilient and the fragile human heart,
may it always heal stronger than it was before...

...For walks in the woods, and for the woods themselves,
by which I mean the trees. Definitely for the trees
I’m for all of these...

...I’m for evolution more than revolution
unless you’re offering some kind of solution
I’m for the courage it takes to volunteer, to say “yes,” “I believe,” and “I will.”
For the bright side, the glass half full, the silver lining,
and the optimists who consider darkness just a different kind of shining...

...So don’t waste my time and your curses on verses
about what you are against, despise, and abhor.
Tell me what inspires you, what fulfills and fires you,
put your precious pen to paper and tell me what you’re for!


4. The Black Keys.
Two guys, a guitar and a drum kit. They've got a soulful, earthy funkiness that reminds me partly of the drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin and mostly of filthy, don't get outta bed, all day sex.



5. These monkeys. A quarter and a twist buys you one outside my grocery store. They're silly. They make me smile.
 

A Not So Wordless Wednesday

The above photo is a picture of my dad at work, taken probably in 1989 or 90. The patch below it was on the coat he wore in the -55 average winter (August through April) temperature. I found both things in a box  I have stored in the attic of my garage since he died. My mother packed their material lives into carboard boxes and dropped them in my driveway. This box was identified as "Dad's stuff" and was situated such that I looked at it everyday for three and a half years before asking my husband to get it down. It was day nine of BP's oil gushing by the tens of thousands of gallons into the gulf. The irony was not lost on me.

Happy Birthday to My Boobies. This is Their Story.

A couple of weeks after I was married my barely two-year-old baby Dylan saved my life. Okay, that's a wee bit dramatic. But it makes for exciting storytelling doesn't it? All kidding aside from here on out kids.  This is far too serious a subject for making light of it. So here's what happened... 

I was awakened by the most horrific pain I have ever felt. Dylan retrieved the phone and I called my parents. As my mother arrived I was in so much pain I was dry heaving. We went to the hospital and a couple of hours later I was having emergency surgery. A cyst had adhered to my ovary and was causing the thing to twist. Yeah, hurt like a bitch. Modern medicine is amazing. I ended up with a tiny little scar in my belly button where they'd entered my abdomen to remove the evil, ovary twisting cyst. (I know I said no kidding but I just had a vision of an evil superhero who's super power is twisting girl guts. He's a bastard.)

I went home the next day and addressed the forced weaning that was a by-product of being heavily medicated on morphine pre-surgery and then Vicodin post. Dylan was almost two and I'd been thinking it was high time to get him completely off the boob anyway.

If someone had told me I'd breastfeed as long as I had I would have said, "No way. Two years with a kid suctioned to my tits? Uh uh, don't think so. Never say never people. My original itty, bitty B cups swelled to an obscene size and I could have nursed a whole village full of hungry babies from them. Impressive, I know.

Dylan adapted much easier than I did as I missed the specific and exclusive bond nursing gave us. Cuddling him as he wheezed his milky from a big boy sippy cup made him age in my mind's eye well beyond what I was ready for.

A week or so later as I was soaping up in the shower I felt something unusual in my right breast. A lump. Wait, a fucking lump. I called my doctor and went right in. She was confident the fucking lump was a side effect of such a quick weaning, a clogged milk duct, and attempted a needle aspiration. Fail. Try again. Fail. Try again. Fail. Next we moved to an ultrasound. Uh, not a clogged duct, a solid mass. Hey doc, couldn't we have done the ultrasound first and avoided you digging around in my breast with a freaking NEEDLE? 

I was scheduled for surgery (again) the next morning. My breath was coming rapidly and I felt like I would vomit if I allowed my undisciplined mind go there. "What do you think it is?" I asked.

"I don't know and I cannot try to guess Danielle. We will see in the morning." My doctor replied as she peeled off her latex gloves.

I spent the rest of the day imagining the worst case scenarios and wondering how I would explain to my brown-eyed boy that even when my hair fell out from the chemo I was still going to be the same mommy. Just bald. After he went to sleep that night I wrote letters to him in my head. One for his sixteenth birthday, one about how to treat girls, one for graduation day, one for his wedding day, one for the day his first child was born.

I had cancer. I knew it. I was going to die. I knew it. I made promises to the powers that be that if I could be sparred I'd...well, that's between me and the maker. I didn't sleep much that night.

Upon waking from surgery the next morning my doctor told me she was fairly confident the tumor she removed was NOT cancer but we'd have to wait for the pathology report for confirmation. I exhaled.

"Just to be safe though I took the surrounding breast tissue as well." The doctor's thick glasses magnified her eyes to just this side of bug-like and distracted me from what she was trying to convey.

"Okay." I replied, still in a somewhat a groggy haze. Twenty four hours later as I carefully peeled away the surgical tape to reveal the incision I gasped in horror at what had become of my breast. It literally looked as though she'd lopped off the bottom half of my boob. I tried to summon up an attitude of gratitude, at least I didn't have cancer. She thinks. Then, I cried.

A few days later the phone rang with the pathology report on the other end of the line. NOT cancer. My hands shook with the revelation that I had been sparred. Thank you, thank you, thank you. The voice on the phone then became the same voice as the teacher from Charlie Brown.

"Wa-wa-wa-wa. Wa-wa-wa."

IT WAS NOT CANCER.

But... it could have been. And it could happen to any of us. Early detection is your best defense. Check your boobies girls and tell others too. Seriously cupcakes, feel 'em up, down and all around.

My second son was born three and a half years later and was nursed from the boob and a half for fifteen months.

This week me and my reconstructed boobies celebrate our second anniversary together. Happy birthday boobies. I love you both. When I am fifty you girls will only be fifteen. May we live a long and saline filled life together.

She's a Rock Star. I Like Her Rock Moves

She calls herself Pink.  

I call her bad ass and this rose by any other name would still rock my world.

I Know Your Dirty Little Secret

Ever had a Peeping Tom?

I married one. Literally. His name is Tom.

Now I have a whole slew of them. Maybe not so literally...

I don't know your name. I don't know your game. You must like what you see because you're coming back to see more. So, I leave the curtains open, blinds up and continue to put on this little show/blog. I can't see your faces but you leave your footprints outside my window and my "analytics program" tracks you down all the way to which window you peeked in last. I'm not the only one being watched, ya know.

I love the anonymity of the internet. I love the multipurposefulness (Not a word. I know. Shut up.) of the world wide web. We all have our dirty little secrets. (Midget porn) I get it. But I cannot help wondering who's out there, reading me. Uh oh, watch out Dani, curiosity killed the cat. Um hmm, know that too. Not worried. This pussycat has only lived six lives thus far and I have found that each and every incarnation brings a more evolved feline outta me. Meow. Anyone have any catnip? Purrr...

I write. You read. I know you do. Remember, I can see you. Sorta. It's like being on stage and being blinded by the spot light and unable to see my audience. Been there, done that. The difference is when the blog song ends there isn't any applause. Been there, done that too. Check it out, you don't have to clap, unless you really want to. But how about throwing a couple of dollars? I mean, how about leaving a comment? Yeah, that's what I meant.

Us writers can be a sensitive bunch and the emotional risk of putting our words out there can be likened to stripping down to pasties and panties. Actually, I think that's easier. Go figure. I suppose it's all about confidence in ability but that's another topic for another time.

Come on kids. Knick knack, paddy whack throw this kitty cat a bone. Leave a comment. I double-dog-dare you to.  

What Would My Daddy Say?

"I am a work in progress." - Dani Lamb

I want to believe I am among "the children in whom the Father (whom by any other name would smell just as sweet) is well pleased." My earthly father departed his being leaving me knowing he was.

The last day he spent in I.C.U., before hospice nurses brought him home, I spent one of the most difficult days of my life curled around him in his hospital bed. I laid my head on his chest and cried wet, silent tears as he pet my head. I can't say how long I was there.

We'd spent years knowing this day would come and trying to just live in the moment with one another. He was my daddy and I was his girl and we never said goodbye, just see ya later, that's the way it would always be, forever and ever, Amen. However, we had an acute awareness that we knew not how many grains of sand would fall through the hourglass. We'd co-signed an unspoken, yet understood, agreement to make time spent, words exchanged, stories told, moments shared, count.

I memorized how his voice sounded in my ear. I cataloged his scent and traced the webs of time lines on the backs of his hands. By the time this day came we both knew there was nothing left to say. 

I'd held his gaze and dammed my liquid love long enough to get out, "I don't want to cry dad. I'm just going to miss you so much." On this day, as I laid there listening to his heart beat I gave thanks to the powers that be that I knew, all the way through my being that he was proud of me. The daughter, sister, wife, mother and woman I had become. What blessed girl I am to know that.

It is with a painful awareness I know not all girls, who are just as deserving and many who are far more, don't know this about themselves now and many, too many, never will. The powerful by-product of this knowledge is my soulful hope that if he can see me now...that he's still proud.

Vern had a good sense of humor, a forgiving heart, a tendency to root for the underdog and a mischievous streak a mile wide (see, it's hereditary) so at worst I imagine he'd shake his head and say, "She said she was a work in progress."

Wordless Wednesday

Photo by Dani Lamb

If I Were a Hunter I'd Mount Her Head

In a turn of events Sarah Palin found herself being the hunted one...by the paparazzi. Shots were fired but they failed to take down the beast and she's expected to appear in the audience of tonight's episode of Dancing With the Stars.

Bristol's performance last week was admirable given she's not a performer of any kind, though I think Levi would beg to differ. I found myself hoping the audience vote will keep her around for a while, if for no other reason than to piss her Moose huntin' momma off. I want to see her costumes get much smaller for the same reason.

Here's my take on the rest of the first week in competition...

Brooke Burke's dress is worthy of mention but second only to the body in it. Good grief, she's making the rest of us moms look bad. How about lowering the bar a bit so the rest of us can still look in the mirror? You can bet your sweet ass that if I had her trainer, personal chef and nanny I'd have that body too. Now that I think about it, she should have that body. I'd think less of her if she didn't.

Audrina is a natural dancer, she just needs to trust herself. Slamming body. She can suck it, she's like what, twenty two? Yeah, whatever. I'd think less of her too if she couldn't bring a body like that to the dance floor.

If the mirror ball trophy doesn't pan out for Rick Fox I predict he'll have a huge future in tooth paste commercials, man has a terrific smile. Partnering him up with Cheryl seemed like a mismatch in size, he's SO big. Though it's pretty much all the same when you're doing the horizontal mambo (I'm five one, I should know) dancing upright with a man that size would be a challenge. I immediately thought of Sookie standing chest to chest with the strapping, blonde, bloodsucking, viking, sheriff, Eric Northman. It's about the same size difference and they are electric hot so it may work for Mr. Fox and his pint-sized firecracker. I wanna see him throw her around. Think about it, you do too.

Mrs. Brady swears like a sailor. I like that. But, she has zero sex appeal so I'm hoping she goes soon. For the record, it's not her age. Helen Mirren gives me a boner.

Poor Chelsie. She has to dance with Michael Bolton. I'm feeling nothing more needs to be said. You feel me?

The situation with The Situation is this, he needs to situate.

Poor Kim. The Hoff was sweating Big Macs and Bourbon. Their routine to "Sex Bomb" bombed. I'd pray for a bomb to land on me if I had to watch him shake it one more week. Eewww! What a surprise though that he was the one to go. The Hoff is off, there IS a God. Nuff said.

Oh no Cho! You did not. Yeah, she did. I think she has some glimmer of raw talent but it'll be like forcing coal into it's diamond form.

Jennifer Grey. I want her to put her old nose back on. You with me?  More importantly, she can dance. She did Patrick proud. The media's revisiting of the fatal crash she and Matthew Broderick were involved in the week before dirty Dancing's release has to intense for her. Top it all off with her overcoming thyroid cancer and she deserves a break. She's dancing with Derek that's something.

My favorite performance of the night was the little piece of chocolate love, Kyle Massey. My kiddos watch reruns of Cory in the House all the time. I didn't expect him to move like that. I'm with Carrie Ann on this one, completely crushed out on the kid. He keeps dancing like that and he'll reel in more cougars than red meat. I am cougar. You hearing me roar?

This Bitch Is No Friend Of Mine

It's that happy little time of the month again. My "friend" has arrived.

Check it out... this crampy, bloated, carb craving, sobbing one moment, raging the next, make me wanna live in my sweatpants for the next three days, bloody bitch is NO friend of mine!

What kind of friend tells you that you look like a peg-legged pirate in your capris? Or that your thighs are as big as you think they are and for that matter so is your gut?

An honest friend?

Wrong answer a-hole! Wanna try again? Yeah, that's what I thought. I'll be asking the questions and giving the answers today. Take notes because there might be a test at the end and if you don't have the right answers I'm going to call you a failure. You'll suck. Like my period.

For several days leading up to the arrival of my least favorite Aunt ("Aunt Flow," you know) my body starts telling me the most obnoxious lies I've ever heard. Trust me, I've heard some doozies.

Let's start with... "Hey fat ass, just because it zips doesn't mean it fits."
Uh, it fit last week, what the hell happened? Oh yeah, Aunt Flow forgot a real present and re-gifted her bloat. Fine. I'll wear something else. Just because my size 2 jeans don't wanna button doesn't mean I'm a fat ass. It means I am a woman on the edge...of her cycle. Besides, my tits are huge right now and that's what they see first. They can kiss this fat ass as I walk away.

Let's move on to the next lie. "Your worst fear is going to come true. The genetic, emotional, and psychological disorders in your family tree did NOT skip your branch and the voices in your head are real."
If they are, and they aren't (right?) I'm going to start walking around whispering to myself, "Hey, you guys in there, shut the eff up or I'm going to stab you with a q-tip." Nuff said?

Then there's the lie only us writers hear. "Everything you write is crap. No one is reading it. No one wants to read it. Stick a pen in your eye, then wear a patch and talk like a pirate. That would be far more interesting than this shit."
I actually contemplated this one longer than I'd like but only because I dressed up like a pirate for Halloween a few years ago and, hold onto your buccan-ears, I was one hot piece of pirate booty. The rest of the lie is, well, just a lie. My "analytics" (a traffic counter thingy-ma-bobber I attached to this here little blog) tells me people ARE reading, even when there's nothing new to read. They may not be commenting but they're coming back for more. I don't leave comments at the McDonald's drive thru but I keep going back for more french fries. French fries are good. I like french fries and you like me or you wouldn't be here. Bonus: I'm better for you than a french fry.

Lastly, (Not because I'm out of lies my body tells me but because I am almost out of ranting time, lucky you.)
"That cramping and clawing sensation in your lower abdomen has nothing to do with your cycle. You were kidnapped by aliens and they had their way with you. You're growing an army of aliens in you right now." Really? Fine. Bring it. While on my period, I'm a badder bitch than Sigourney Weaver ever was and I don't even have to shave my head. But just in case, I'm armed with Midol and a loaded bong*. Just kidding about the bong, haven't actually owned one in years. Everyone knows vaporizing is the way to go. Yeah, I'll vaporize the aliens, that sounds better anyway, no mess to clean up.

*Dani Lamb does not advocate the use of illegal drugs, only medicinal.

Beautiful Word Art

If I had an alter where I placed dreams for me, this is what one might see...

Random word placement compliments of http://www.wordle.net/

Things I Miss About My Life, B.C. (Before Children)

Before anyone gets their knickers in a wad because they think I don't love my children enough let's get one thing straight...I love them. Madly. Even when they drive me mad and leave me teetering on top of the "Crazy-lady Mountain." I usually relent when I hear them yelling up from the bottom, "Mommmm, when you comin' down? We're hungry." They're boys. They're always hungry. I would fight a Grizzly bear for the little monsters and I would win too. 

Motherhood has been good for me. It settled me down, got my life organized, taught me what is really important and gave me something to love, more than myself. My children are my greatest contribution to this planet. Combine my efforts in raising them with my efforts in recycling paper, plastic, glass, and aluminum and I'd say I've banked some good-ass karma. Not that I'm keeping track. But, (there is always a but, even if it's my own butt, which in this case it is not) there are a few things I miss about Dani Before Children (B.C.) and I'll own them. Hell, I'm going to write 'em down...

1. A clean car. If you crawl around the backseat of my Yukon you are guaranteed to collect all the components of a Happy Meal with a myriad of "Made in China" toys to choose from. In my own defense of their eating habits might I add you could also find some peanuts and a shriveled up pickle. Kidding. About the peanuts.

2. Forget the car, I miss a clean house. B.C. I could clean it and revel for days in all the neat and tidy glory of a job well done. Now I'm happy if I clean the bathroom and go back five minutes later to NOT find pee on the seat they have been taught to lift. They're continued failure to comply may result in an installation of a "shock seat" similar to the training collars some use on dogs. Shut up, you're just mad you didn't think of it first. While I am on the bathroom shtick I may as well mention how much I miss the Playboys in the basket by the potty. I read all the articles. After I looked at all of the pictures.

3. Unedited music. There's nothing like hearing your four-year old Beastie Boy, in his booster seat singing, "The sheriff's after me for what I did to his daughter. I did it like this, I did it like that, I did it with a whiffle-ball bat." Yeah, that's what I want him singing on the playground. Even better, "You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down down." Damn Alvin and the Chipmunks and damn the guy who had the furry little eff'ers sing it for the soundtrack too. It's not so cute from a ten year old boy with one lone armpit hair. By the way, I do not swear in front of my children which is probably why I do so freely here. It kinda feels like I'm being bad and that feels kinda good. Screw the radio edit versions. I like the naughty bits just not out of the mouths of my babes.

4. Expendable cash. Having kids will suck the cash right out of you. It's my own fault, in part. I know I really have no one to blame but myself. I spoil them rotten because their happiness is a powerful drug and I am hooked on it like a monkey on meth.

5. Uninterrupted showers. I thought once they could be entertained by a half hour of The Disney Channel I could shampoo, condition, exfoliate, shave, rinse, dry and moisturize (20 minutes) without one of them knocking on the door. That is, when and if they they knock. A perfectly good leg shave goes down the drain with one good blast of cold hallway air. This body that bore them is a temple and even temples need maintenance.

6. Uninterrupted phone conversations. This complaint is lodged on behalf of my non-child bearing sisters and brothers. It hasn't been so long ago that I have forgotten what it is like to be asked, as if you have a choice, to hold on while the parent deals with whatever "crisis" is at hand. Funny the way it is, these "crises" never happen until the parent is fully engaged in a conversation that does not include them. B.C I ended many a phone call in frustration that the parent wouldn't just stuff a sock in the blabbering kid's mouth. I was an a-hole. You CANNOT shut them up. It's impossible. Duct tape works but is frowned upon.

7. Sleeping naked. Long before there was any awareness of modesty in my children (I still haven't any) it became necessary to sleep with something on. You just never know when a child will wake and scream for you till you arrive just certain that the Boogie Man is about to carry them off. Hell if I am gonna give the Boogie Man a peek at my sweet treats. He's over a decade late for that sort of thing and I heard he was a cheap tipper anyway.

8. Sex with a soundtrack. This one should be pretty self explanatory. Need a visual? Admit you want one. Go ahead, no one will know. Okay, think silent movie with each frame being a picture worth a thousand words. Thank goodness for date nights that include five star hotels because no child should ever hear their parents bumpin' uglies, knockin' boots or knocking the pictures off the walls. Nuff  said?

I had intended for this to be a top ten list but I could make it twenty with a little more thought. At this point I'm going with the dad from that early eighties show and gonna say...Eight Is Enough.

I love my children. I love them madly. I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world.

And I wouldn't give two cents for another pair just like them.

Kid-Schleping Sherpa Seeks Sturdy Yak or a Twin

Yesterday was my sweet Jacob's first day of kindergarten. I didn't cry. Until I was in the hall. This is progress. Dylan started fifth grade which means he has had eight first-days-of-school (two years of preschool). I used to not be able to exit the classroom before my love took it's liquid form and spilled out of my face.

The passage of time is never more evident than when you are looking at your child dressed in his school uniform, at his big boy desk, half resisting the kiss you are trying to plant on his mouth. "Uh mom, don't e-barrass me." he says as he gives me the cheek. I sigh. Okay. But didn't I just push your little peanut body out of my own? Wasn't it just last week that you took those tentative first steps, clinging to the dog for balance? Wasn't it just last week that you mastered wiping your own butt? Oh yeah, that was last week. As for the rest of it...days gone by.

So now that the school year is officially in full swing I am busier than a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. I am a kid-schleping sherpa minus the Yak. I have a YUKon, does that qualify? I know things will settle down into a routine within a couple of weeks so for now I'm just gonna roll with it. Breathe deep, seek peace and let the universe help sort it out. That's my nature, in part.

I have had a lifelong tendency toward just making it up as I go along. Some would say I inherited that quality. My papa was a rolling stone. My momma was a gypsy. Between the both of them, they had about a lick of sense when it came to planning, structure, routine. Up until the time I had my first child I was content to follow suit. No structure. No routine. No plan. I was perfectly content just flying by the seat of my pants. That is if I was wearing pants and I didn't always. Those times needed a plan of an entirely different type and nature but let's not get off track. Children need structure, routine and a consistent bedtime. Seriously, look it up. Interestingly enough, so do I. So, the next couple of weeks will be spent reconstructing the family dynamic to include a screaming alarm clock, two breakfasts (four if you count the dog and the cat) before sunrise, lunch bags, backpacks, soccer stuff, and a twice a day twenty mile commute. Somewhere in there I'll squeeze in housework, bill paying, grocery shopping, leg shaving, eye brow waxing, yard work, dog washing, time with my husband and maybe, just maybe there will still be time to finish writing my book. For the moment I'm feeling like one of those contortionists that bend themselves like a pretzel then spin china plates on their fingertips. Tricky but not impossible.

When my daddy was having a particularly tender moment or if I'd made him exceptionally proud he'd look at me and say, "If I knew then what I know now I would have made you twins." The first thing that occurred to me is that I would have to share clothes with a bitch that looked just like me. No way.

But, it's days like this when the to-do list is as long as my leg that I contemplate how helpful it would be to have another "me." One of us could assume the domestic goddess role cooking like Betty Crocker and cleaning like Martha Stewart. The other could just be a goddess. She'd read and write and go to book stores and fill her pretty little head with knowledge. Maybe she'd learn Italian and then go to Italy. She'd definitely go to yoga and have time to play the guitar and garden and daydream the day away if she pleased. She'd have perfect toenails and post pics of them on facebook and she would never, ever, ever be too tired to rock it like a porn star under the covers. Big sigh. I need a pedicure.

Holy crap, it's time to get the kids. Being late for pick up is like a cardinal sin. Hell hath no fury like that unleashed upon the mother of the last child waiting on the sidewalk. You can bet it won't be me.

She's Crafty, She Gets Around. She's Crafty, She's Always Down

I am a writer.
I love the way that sounds.
You are my reader.
I love the way that sounds too.

I am also a cook, a house cleaner, a daydream believer. A chauffeur, a go-fer, a queen in my dreams and a woman of means, though I really have no idea what that means. I'm a baby-raiser, a roof-raiser and a hell- raiser too. I'm a wife and a lover and sometimes an angel under the covers. I'm a friend in deed, if you're a friend in need. I'm a yogini who makes a mean martini. Okay, that's enough. I could go on all day but I think you get the picture.

I can't be pigeon-holed. Impossible. I'm not a pigeon. I'm not even a bird. I can, however, give the middle finger and call it the bird. I have been known to let that bird fly, high. And for the times that one bird just won't do, I have a pair.

The list of name tags I've worn over the years is as long and diverse (and to some, perverse) as the day is long. As the sum of all of my experiences I would not change a thing and those who know me well really wouldn't have me any other way. Especially those that that end up with my creations after a day in my craft corner. See for yourself...

This is the "diaper cake" I made for my god child. Three tiers of rolled-up diapers held secure by flannel blankets and velvet ribbon. Adorned with two pairs of bunny slippers and one pair of patent leather shoes. Topped with a "My Melody" stuffed bunny that I loved so much I didn't want to give it away. The photo really doesn't do justice to this labor of love and frankly every time I look at it all I can see is the God-awful wallpaper that covered both my kitchen and dining room before we remodeled. Hideous, huh? Moving on...

  This is the wreath I made for my sweet-souled sister last year. I used a marabou boa wrapped around a styro-foam form. I had an idea of what I wanted when I went to the craft store but when I found that red peacock I did a happy dance and realigned my vision to include it. What worked once was worth doing twice. Enter Dani does wreaths version 2.0...

               I gave this one to a girlfriend whom I love more than all the partridges and pear trees, ever.

I don't always give away that which I create. That would suck. Occasionally I keep the magic I create and then I hang it around my neck and wear it out on the town....

Pretty, right? What you can't see in this photo is the dark blue embroidery around the just-past-the-knee hem. The necklace is peppered with vintage glass beads that belonged to my grandmother and whimsical charms I reused from another necklace my sister gave me as a gift. Now that I think about it I did give this away. Actually I left it at my sister's house, in LA. No, don't send it back Jaime, I'll come get it. Soon.







 

I Want That Mirror Ball Trophy!

The official cast list for this season's Dancing With the Stars has been released.

I wasn't on it.

Again.

Hold up, wait a minute, stop the presses! What? Really? I can cut a rug, shake a leg, get low, back that thang up, get down on it, get jiggy wit it and shake what my momma gave me. I can lock and pop and I can drop it like it's mo-fo hot! I've danced a jig, danced my pants off and danced like no one's watching and many times no one was.  I WANT THAT MIRROR BALL TROPHY DAMMIT! As far as I can see the only thing standing between me and that sparkliest and shiniest of all sparkly and shiny things is...I'm not a star. Though once upon a time I made some cash shaking my money maker under that very name. Not so much because I fancied myself a star but because I'd watched Lost Boys too many times and a boy I went to high school with told me I looked like Jami Gertz. I can dance and I could so do this thing.

In today's world there a number of ways to get famous and an even greater number of ways to become infamous. I would most likely qualify for the latter sooner than the former and to the casting agents of DWTS it doesn't seem to matter. Finally, something in my favor. See for yourself...From the Hills, Audrina Partridge. Mike, greasy, tanned, eight pack, "The Situation" Sorrentino and Bristol "Levi got in my Levi's" Palin. The list could stop there but for good measure let me mention both Michael Bolton and David Hasselhoff. God help us all, The Hoff has a huge cult following in other countries and I'd double-down on a bet that they will ALL be watching and worse yet, voting. I predict he'll be in the final five. Florence Henderson? Kill me now. She does commercals for Polident, a denture adhesive. There is nothing sexy about this woman and even the fact that she was banging Greg back in her Brady Bunch days is just plain creepy. I just can't hang a cougar nametag on her with a clear conscience. Wanna be's, never gonna be's, has been's, never, ever shoulda been's. Somebody please hand me a pair of dancing shoes and an opportunity. I can't say I know shit-from-shine-o-la about the athletes. None of them are Detroit Pistons. That leaves... Brandy, she can probably dance. Jennifer "no one puts Baby in a corner" Grey and Margaret Cho. Jennifer made a good showing next to Patrick Swayze (Johnny Castle gave me a boner, like everytime, I watched him dance. May he rest in peace.) but that was decades and a different nose ago.

My underdog pick for the season is Margaret Cho. She once poked fun at herself by saying she didn't think she was attractive. She said she had the kind of face and body that should be squatting near an ice fishing hole in a the Museum of Natural History. Her people hunted and fished and ate it all, eyeballs, scales, guts and ass, all of it. I laughed so hard I almost peed myself. I think anyone who can laugh at themselves is beautiful. Plus there's some question about her sexuality and she's all full-sleeved out and she talks dirty. I think she rocks and hope she has even the smallest amount of natural ability. Go CHO! Go Cho-oooo!

Enough about them and back to me. What I need is a plan to get famous or infamous or become some version of the socially agreed upon definition of a star. The possibilities are endless, the plausibility is another thing. Let me know if you think of anything and in the mean time I'm going to set my DVR cause when this seasons DWTS crazy train pulls out of the station I don't want to miss a thing. I know, it's pathetic.

PS. Runner up for my underdog choice is Brisol Palin. I hope she dances like a slut and has a wardrobe malfunction.

I'm Putting Summer in a Jar

The first day of fall is September 22nd. There are twenty three days left of "official" summertime. There are six days left until my children go back to school. (Wait, am I the only one who hears a choir of angels singing?) There are only five days left in which I can wear white without my friend Nica pointing and gasping and just about hyper-freakin' ventilating.  She's my Miss Manners go-to-gal for all things dignified and proper. An infraction of the "no white after the first Monday of every September" would result in my banishment to the "Island of Misfits" for the crime of "fashion faux pas." I'm pretty sure it's a special kind of hell where I'd be surrounded by fanny packs, pants with elastic waistbands and some guy wearing a shirt with picture of two pigs screwing and the slogan, "Makin' Bacon." I ask, who died and left the person in charge with the grand responsibility of making sure no-one-who-knows-anything would ever, ever, dare to wear white after Labor Day? Sorry, I digress. My point? Yes, I have one. Shut up and I'll get there. Summer is almost over. All together now... big sigh...gulp. My anxiety is building even as I type. 

These dates on the calendar don't mean much to others. To me they indicate Old Man Winter will be showing up soon. Last year I hair sprayed my bangs hella high, lined my lips chocolate brown (chola style) and laid in wait for that bastard. Screw Jack Frost. I was gonna shank his cold ass upon arrival, therefore sparing myself the inevitable pain of winter. It was a good plan. A great one really. Apparently the sneaky, slithering shit slipped past me cause winter came. I was cold and depressed and uncomfortable in my own skin. Did I say I was cold? I HATE BEING COLD!!!

I consulted a professional about my "Seasonal Affected Disorder" and was directed to a pharmaceutical that was supposed to help. The irony of my "winter despair" being technically diagnosed as S.A.D. is not lost on me. Being the word nerd I am I tearfully contemplated the cleverness of the acronym for several minutes. Perhaps ten minutes passed that were not completely consumed by how much I detest winter. The minutes were consumed by the contemplation of a an official diagnoses of my hating of winter. Oh well, ten  minutes I could put a big red X through on my way to spring, right? I tried to exercise more and I soaked up the only skin warming sun available, in a tanning booth. I tried on my bikini to make sure it still fit and I went on making big red X's through the days on the calendar. Spring sprung the third week of April. The buds on my big, backyard tree burst open and once again order was restored to both my mind and my sunshine loving (and apparently needing) body.

In an effort to capture some of the sacred essence of summer I started putting it in a jar. Really. No, not the same jar where I keep the kitty whiskers I find while sweeping, or the one butterfly wing I found, or my son's first lost tooth or the completely intact snake skin I retrieved from under a bush by my pool or any of my other "witchy" things. See...

"Summer in a Jar" starring (from top to bottom) Strawberry jam, Peach jam, Brushetta topping (I grew the tomatoes), salsa (so hot and good that your only defense is just to keep eating it. Grew the 'maters and the jalapenos), bread and butter pickles (eaten straight from the jar with my fingers) and peaches.

Oh glorious summer and your beautiful bounty, how I love you so. I'm hoping braking the seal on one of these treasures in the dead of winter will ease the blow of gettin' an oops upside my head by the biting wind and monochromatic, grey days of another Michigan winter. At least my days will taste like summer. It's a well laid plan if you ask me. But so was shanking Old Man Winter so I guess we'll see.
For the moment, the sun is shining and the weather is sweet so Jack Frost can kiss my tan-lined ass. I'm going to the pool.

   

It's Friday and I'm Showing You My Panties

Hey...nice to see you, glad you came back. Now I don't have to come looking for you. Seriously, a huge heart-felt thanks to you, my sweet, sweet reader. This venture into blogger-dom is still a journey without a clear destination for me. Until I get all the coordinates mapped out I appreciate that you will sit in the passenger seat and just enjoy the ride. Now, I don't need a backseat driver telling me to turn left, it wouldn't be right. So sit back, buckle up, hold on and shut up the eff up. Besides, it's my blog and I'll do the talking. It's one, of the many things, I do best.

I know I'm a big blabber mouth. It's one of the many reasons you love me. However with respect for your time, how about we agree that Fridays will be light hearted and considerably more brief than I am becoming known for. More a snack than a meal it took me and my blog pot three days to brew. Fun, frivolous, fabulous, fantastic, frisky and maybe even fruity. Think pink hearts, yellow moons, green clover and blue diamonds. Magically delicious. Like me.

Ready to co-sign? Done.

Hold on, I'm putting the pedal to the metal, the gas is smashed, let's goooooooooooo!

First stop? My underwear. Okay, their not really mine, yet. But given it's late summer and my children are home EVERYday the days are blending together in a "I've been sucked into a sidewalk chalk, cartoon network, freeze pop vortex" kinda way. The only way I can be sure what day it is is to look at the calender. That's not always convenient. I'm getting these so I can sneak a peek at my "sweets shop" and let my panties do the talking. Thank goodness these knickers can't really talk cause after I wear 'em... the tales about my tail they would tell. I'm willing to bet I couldn't get a word in edgewise and this is MY blog, remember?

Stella McCartney days of the week undies, $195. Just like the ones my momma never bought me at K-Mart.  Silk blend, lace trim and pretty little floral embroidery. They come in a mini-dresser box. The eighth drawer is labeled "bits and bobs" and I am dying to know what's inside.

And to check out my booty in these cuties...

Angel wing mirrors. The website where I found these little pieces of heaven quotes price as 179 pounds. That's $277.77 for us American devils. That's a big pile of corn just to check out the junk in my trunk. And that's okay cause I think my ass is worth it.

Let the music play...I'm listening.

Once a month I find a small sixteen to twenty page newspaper in the little box below the one used for post at my curb. "The Bedford Press" informs me of all the going-ons here in my tiny piece of the cornfield. Last week I thumbed through the quick read and noted the photos of "Bedford's most beautiful garden." For a moment, I let myself imagine the dreamy possibilities held hostage within my own fences and imagination. I turned the page and scanned the obituaries. I'm not from these parts and most people I know have my own last name so I don't recognize anyone. Thank goodness, what a shitter that would be. A couple of pages later I am celebrating local youth and their educational achievements rewarded with scholarships from The Rotary Club, The Kiwanis Club, you get the picture. For a moment, I let myself imagine the yet fully realized potential in my own children and the resulting pride attached to them. Then somewhere in the middle of the free to me, not much more than a flyer, paper my attention is drawn to the "Church Chatter" editorial. Titled, "An Uplifting Moment, The Fiddler" and penned by David J. Claassen from Mayfair-Plymouth Congregational Church.

There, I found a piece of God.

I don't go to church, anymore. For an accurate description of my own religious/spiritual belief system, written with words that didn't come to me, you could take a look at Elizabeth Gilbert's, "Eat, Pray, Love" chapter (or bead number) three. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet and God by any other name is "an adequate and inadequate description of the indescribable." With that said, there on the tree pulp turned to paper, I found a piece of "God."

God is good. God is great. Let me thank him for the spiritual food I am fed. Especially the tender and juicy morsels that melt in my mouth and are left in my mind and even more importantly, in my heart.

Pastor Claassen's editorial drew heavily from an article in The Washington Post originally published on April 8th, 2007. It was Easter Sunday and it was my birthday. The author, Gene Weingarten, won a Pulitzer Prize for his efforts and I can clearly see why. I strongly recommend when you leave here you read the full article for yourself. The gist of it you will find below...

7:51am, Friday, January 12, 2007. A violin player stood near a wall in L'Enfant Plaza, smack dab in the middle of federal Washington's rush hour. His violin case was open at his feet as he fiddled away for forty-three minutes. A total of 1097 humans passed through the plaza as he played six classical pieces. Here, my dears, is where it starts getting very interesting. Seven people stopped, at least for a moment, to listen.

Wait, how many? Yeah, I said seven, that lucky little number tucked between six and eight. Seven fellow humans stopped, for at least a moment, to listen. The musician collected a total of $32 dollars and some change for his efforts. Of that amount a twenty dollar bill came from one generous woman. Her donation almost doesn't count. She recognized the musician as the internationally-famous virtuoso Joshua Bell. She'd attended his free concert at The Library of Congress three weeks earlier.

You see, this was an experiment.

Staged by The Washington Post, Mr. Bell was playing his 397 year old, handcrafted Stradivarius, reportedly purchased for $3.5 million dollars. He was performing six of the most beautiful and difficult pieces one can play on a violin. Bell regularly sells out auditoriums with the "cheap seats" going for a hundred dollars and more.

An experiment. On the condition of the human heart if you ask me.

I read the original small article in The Bedford Press a week ago and I still can't shake the heart aching sadness that overcame me. Does it matter that it was rush hour? Does it matter that he was some famous guy? Does it matter that the whole thing was staged? Would the outcome be different in another city at another time of day? What does matter people? The questions keep coming and I find myself searching the sum of my own experiences for an answer. The sad, sad reality is 1090 people walked by this man without as much as a second glance, if they saw him at all.

Oh good grief Dani, get over it, the world is a cold, self-centered, hustling and bustling place. There are meds available for minds like yours. Not everyone has the luxury of hanging around with their head in the clouds. Some of us have j-o-b-s. To that I reply...Isn't it part of our "jobs" as humans to recognize (even if there isn't time available to honor) art? Beauty? To reward an artist with at least eye contact if not more? Why can't I shake this melancholy? This judgement attached to the 1090 humans I don't even know? I told you...the questions keep coming.

I clearly remember on a day following 9/11 how acutely I felt for the victims, the families, the rescue workers and on a grander scale every American. (It's the same way I felt when that mom drove her kids into the lake and another drowned hers in the bathtub, and the way I felt when Michael Vic was arrested for dog fighting, and the tsunami, and the earthquake, and human trafficking, and honor killings and this list grows with every newscast.) On that particular September day I told my mother-in-law I wished I didn't feel as much, as deeply as I did. I wished I could just shake my head like so many others and leave it with a, "That's a shame." I wished I could go back to channel surfing for another reality show to get sucked into. Because watching some dysfunctional schmucks screwing up their lives makes me feel better about mine. I wished I had rose colored glasses, I would wear them all the time, because the world is prettier that way.

I wished. I wished. I wished.

My God loving and worshipping and praying mother of my husband looked me dead in the eye and said, "I pray those wishes never come true." And then, I did too.

I don't always wallow in such self-indulgent lamenting about the condition of the human race and what our collective behaviors mean. I mean, I do, a lot, sometimes. But I will be the first to admit this world of ours is a beautiful place and in it I am blessed beyond anything I am deserving of. Realizing so, I make it a mission to find the beauty and magic in my days. They may play a game of hide-and-go-seek with me all day but I 'll sniff 'em out before the day is done. I declare victory, daily, again against a world seemingly hell bent on self destruction. My glass is always half full so that empty half leaves plenty of room for shaking. The emotion pulled from me by the violin experiment definitely constitutes shaking.

This shaking inside has magic of it's own, a lesson is the blessin', some bliss within the bitch. After a week of chewing this spiritual food I think I have it figured out and here's where God comes back in...

The deepest, greatest sadness in the violinist being passed by is in a world so full of hurt and hate and ugly that 1090 people passed up an opportunity for a moment of potential pure joy, art and beauty. Free too.

"Ghetto Dani" could string togetha a long list of very descriptive words for this group of people. Okay fine, I'll go there. Wait, let me get my head bobbin. Cheap a**, mf'in, spiritually depleted, soul-broken, a-holes. Oh my, that kinda felt good. In a really wrong kinda way. However, my far more evolved doppelganger knows I shouldn't judge their audacity to opt into mediocrity.

I know I should pray for them. (See, I told you God would make another appearance.)

Surely Pastor Claassen would agree. His final thoughts on this subject were," The world walked by as the musician played. They missed something beautiful hiding in plain sight. Let us heighten our awareness of all that's good around us. The world God has made and sustains is brimming over and bursting forth with so much we should appreciate."

I couldn't agree more and so it shall be.

Now I'm gonna go pray for those assholes.

Word.