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.

The September issue of Elle and drugstore happiness ($2.99)

I just finished looking at the September issue of Elle, all 562 pages of "must-have dresses, jeans, jackets, and heels plus the jewelry that goes with everything." I dog-eared the cover article featuring Julia Roberts talking about Eat, Pray, Love for another time, reminded myself I want to read that book, scratch and sniffed Gucci's new fragrance "Guilty" and did a double take on the pictorial of Justin Bieber and Kim Kardashian frolicking in the Bahamas. Their foray was titled "The Graduate" and I immediately wondered if it had been an under aged girl and a well endowed somewhere, twenty-nine year old man and the pictorial was titled "Lolita" if anyone would have a problem with it. Probably not, it's what we've come to as a society. I, for one was a little disgusted and a whole lot looking at every picture. Lord, please help heal my "Bieber Fever" I'm too old for it. After I flipped the last page I quickly decided there wasn't one "must have" that I couldn't live without.

Okay, on page 260 there is an Alexander McQueen, embroidered resin platform heel with a set of angel wings across the top of the foot (price upon request) that I would come close to selling a kidney on the black market for. A guarantee to seal the deal would be if they threw in the Corto Moltedo black satin and feather clutch on the same page, $1,105. Hell yeah! I could live without a kidney, that's why they come in pairs. But, I can and will also live without... the shoes.

Once upon another fabulous, five-inch heel I was a bright lights, big city, little woman-child livin' the life of Riley. Single and on the mingle, no mortgage, no car payment, no preschool tuition, no budget and a fistful of dollars to blow. On a regular basis I was all dressed up and had everywhere to go. And go I did. Been there, done that, all the way to the point of no return, asked for directions and found my way back. Spanx was something that happened to me when I was really good at being bad, not something I wore. I filled my God-hole and lots of other orifices with all the things that money can buy and just-the-right-look-in-your-eye can have handed to you. Sound fabulous? I thought it was. The hindsight reality is...I wasn't very happy.

Fast forward a decade or so and here I sit, corn fields on the left of me and on the right too. I would bet my left tit there's not a chick within a ten mile radius that could apply false lashes, let alone in the back of a San Francisco taxicab. I have a husband, two sons, a mortgage, property taxes, and contribute to a college fund times deux. Spanx still fall into their original category, just sayin'. Last week I was at Walgreens picking up my four-year old's nasal spray and some canned cat food. As I was digging for exact change in my knock-off (Don't judge) handbag I saw a scrap of paper where I'd scrawled "Ivory Fairytale." No, not a fantasy destination, a nail color. Sally Hansen, diamond strength, no chip nail color. I high tailed my tail right back to the cosmetics section. After acquiring the said polish I also made an impulse purchase of a $2.99 lip gloss by Wet n Wild. Turns out that not only is it the absolute perfect summertime-shine-meets-shimmer but it tastes like toffee. Bonus. I applied it in the rear view mirror of my Yukon, licked my lips and smiled. Sometimes, it's the little things.

I will be the first to admit that there's nothing that can suck the hot right out of you quicker than having children. But winter will find me rockin apple-bottom jeans and boots with the fur in my kid's school parking lot. Against my will, in part, it gets really fricken cold here. If function and fashion just happen to collide then I'm gonna call it physics at it's finest and roll with it. I opted for fringy bangs instead of Botox because saving by siphoning off the grocery budget by clipping coupons was just taking too long. Those lines on my forehead are from all the deep thoughts I have a-hole, what's your excuse? Occasionally after a particularly long day I will look into my bathroom mirror and pull the skin around my eyes taut imagining what a little nip/tuck could do. Then I smile as I think about how my first born tells everyone who asks that I am still thirty-two and they believe him. I slide my feet out of their Target flip flops ($9.99) and admire my Sally Hansen home pedicure. It hasn't chipped and I mopped my floors on my hands and knees cause I left my cleaning lady in Cali and she said it's the only way to get them really clean.

Sound fabulous? Maybe not so much if you can afford to not take this trip and therefore haven't arrived. It's not as glamorous as my "hot child in the city" phase but it's also not the maniacal extremes of highs and lows that I called my twenties. I don't need a pair of shoes and a handbag to make me feel whole, anymore. I don't need anything more than I have and the September issue of Elle will not convince me otherwise. If this fact makes me sound like a broke, self righteous bitch then so be it. At least I am a happy bitch.

Who do you think you are?

Throughout the course of my formative teenage years my mother's favorite question was, "Who the hell do you think you are?" How exactly is one meant to respond to that?  Furthermore, was I really supposed to know? Failed attempts at answering resulted in a variety of responses. Among them: my being sent to my room (or running for cover, it's all about perspective), being grounded, her telling my dad, my phone privileges being revoked and once ended with a vintage, ten pound iron sticking out of the wall. My cat-like reflexes prevented bodily harm. I was a smart ass. Through the eyes of the mother I now am, I see how I could have single-handedly driven her to the brink of insanity. Genetics, a chemical imbalance, substance abuse and  poor planning helped her complete the trip after I left home.

As a grown woman I am far more sure of myself. I think I have a pretty firm grip on who I am, what's important to me, what makes me tick. She doesn't ask anymore but if she did this is what I would say,
"I don't know it all, like you said I thought I did, but these twenty-five things I know to be true. They may not define me as a whole but being a sum of all of my parts, it's a good start."

(In no particular order)


1. I don't believe in coincidences, everything happens for a reason.

2. I have a lifelong secret crush on Kenny Rogers. I can sing "The Gambler" by heart. "You never count yer money when yer sittin' at the table...they'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done..." Okay, stop laughing. I also know "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and "Sweet Home Alabama."

3. There is a good reason I was a dancer and not a singer.

4. The last birthday present my Daddy bought me was a guitar. I promised him I'd learn to play it.

5. If I were a doll my accessories would be: a yoga mat, a pair of fairy wings and a can of "kick ass."

6. My sweet-souled sister has been my best friend our whole lives. Jaime is an inspiration and all round quality human being. I adore her and miss her beyond words.

7. I have unfinished business with a few people in my life, amends to be made, truths to be told, responsibility to be taken. I am a work in progress.

8. Being a good mother is an enormous responsibility I take very seriously. My children inspire and humble me every day. I would fight a Grizzly bear for them...and win.

9. Nine is my lucky number.

10. I don't own a cat, she owns me. She sleeps with my sweet baby Jake every night. I have a dog that owns me too. I didn't really even like dogs with the exception of my snorting, wheezing, farting, dearly departed Pomeranian, "Emily." (May she rest in peace.) but somehow Coco, my chocolate lab has endeared her eighty five pound ass to me to the extent that I no longer find myself threatening a rehoming. I can't imagine not tripping over her while trying to cook dinner. She's a crafty one, that Coco.

11. I'd rather be Velma than Daphne.

12. I am not short. I am not petite. I am "fun sized" dammit. In a parallel universe I am 5'10" and built like Wonder Woman. I had a roommate like that once upon a time. I miss her.

13. I am writing a book about a really crazy time in my life and hoping the proceeds will spring me from the middle of this corn field.

14. I left my heart in San Francisco and will always call "the city" my home.

15. The first time I ate Wasabi I thought it was avocado and being with a kitchen full of people I thought were WAY cooler than I was I choked it down rather than look like an ass. I was going on "better to just appear like a dork than open my mouth and prove it." Eventually, they all knew me for what I was, takes one to know one...you may have been there.

16. I taught myself to crochet. Now I'm working on peeing standing up. JUST kidding.

17. Sometimes people tell me I'm funny. That's good, right?

18. I am married to a man who really knows me...and still loves me. I had the word "Angel" inscribed inside his wedding band because I truly believe he saved me, more than once.

19. I'm a joker, a stroker and a midnight toker.

20. If I ever run away I'm going to become a lavender farmer who raises miniature goats.

21. When I am lucky enough to catch the opening of "Ellen" I ALWAYS dance with her.

22. I have seen a full rainbow over Mt. Fugi from the bullet train.

23. I know what pride tastes like.

24. I make a mean meatloaf, drink the juice left in the pickle jar and recycle everything I possibly can.

25. I am well rounded. If you need proof just look at my ass.

From my Toes to Yo's...

Disclaimer: This is a recycled post.

So.

So, so, suck my toe, all the way to Mexico!

I gave it to ya once and it was so good I'm gonna give it to ya again. I'm calling it "re-gifted." Feel free to pass it along, re-wrapped, of course. Here goes...



It was recently brought to my attention that I post an unusual amount of photos of my feet on Facebook.

Yeah, what about it? You judging me? I'll own it.

It was then brought to my attention there are certain websites that cater to this sort of fetish.
"You should look into cashing in on those tootsies."
I actually thought about it, for an exorbitantly long amount of time too. I even tried to talk them  (My feet, that is. Come on now, keep up.) into it with the promise of new shoes. Pretty shoes. Sparkly ones. Heck, I woulda thrown in a spa pedi too. It was a no go.

"Ix-na on the oot-fa etish-fa imping-pa itch-ba!"

Yeah, they speak Pig Latin when they're really pissed. I hung my head with the shame no real pimp could ever feel. Guess I'm not that kinda playa, anymore. So, to make it up to them (Yes, my feet. You gotta stay with me, I can't drag you along.) I channeled my love into an ode and this is how it goes...


Ode to My Toes

Your feet, your feet, again your feet,

Is it a foot fetish or voyeuristic treat?
What’s your trip? What’s your deal?

Are you some kind of freak?

Or…are you for real?

Tell me, tell me, tell me right now

I’ve got to know, I’ve got the time

Make it fun, entertain me,

In the form of a rhythm…

I tilted my head and I grinned

Gave the smile with the dimple,

Cleared my throat, then I winked

I was ready to begin…

My justification for my fascination

Is really a form of appreciation.

For my feet that you mention, it is my intention

To call out by name

What is worthy of attention.

So sit back and relax let’s have a good time,

Let the clock tick and let the clock tock,

Put your own dogs up I’m gonna walk my talk.

With my head in the clouds and my feet on the ground,

It was time to convey what I wanted to say.

I closed my eyes, bowed my head, took a deep breathe and I prayed,

"This little ditty needs to be quite witty in the most amazing way."

‘Ode To My Toes’ was born on the spot,

I’d thought of it all and it was actually quite a lot.

My feet, my feet, they are so sweet,

I love them more than anyone you’ll ever meet.

They are at their most basic, not so much an inspiration,

But rather just my form of transportation.

It’s the things we have done, the places we have seen,

The people we’ve met and everything in-between,

That warrants my admiration, in consideration, of

All the miles we’ve logged and the road ahead,

Where we want to be barefooted and free.

                                                      

Me and my feet, you’re in for a treat

We’ve….

Kicked a ball, kicked some ass,

Raked the leaves and mowed the grass.

We’ve backslid and we’ve progressed,

Been photographed as evidence.

We’ve tested the waters, skated on thin ice,

Taken a wrong turn once or twice.

We’ve stepped out of the way and been stepped on,

My poor second toe hasn’t been right since.

We’ve tip-toed through the tulips, stepped in shit,

Eased on down the road and balanced a fence.

We’ve taken the high road, the low road,

come to the fork in the road, a crossroads

and chosen the path of least resistance.

We’ve done the right things, taken the easy way out,

Stopped on a dime and wandered about.

We’ve been there, we’ve done that,

Gone to the point of no return and yet… we found our way back

They’ve been soaked and scrubbed and rubbed down,

Painted, polished, filed square or filed round.

We’ve kick boxed and step-classed, cycled and spinned,

Piliated, viyassed, and samadhi’ed within,

But these are just a few of the places we’ve been.

We’ve gotten into trouble, gotten out of a pinch,

Made quick like little bunnies, looked at the stars from a ditch.

My toes, my toes, heaven knows,

We get cold as ice when winter snows.

(And that really fucking blows)

We’ve worn heels, flats, boots and everything in-between,

Some of the most amazing shoes I’ve ever seen.

From the Payless pumps to the Christian Loubotain’s,

From the Ugg’s to the flip flops, this list just began.

The five inch platforms with the mirrored heel,

On the catwalk or the sidewalk, yeah baby, we’re the real deal.

We’ve rocked and we’ve rolled on a dance floor,

Bikini small, heels tall, there are no angels in the centerfold.

We’ve got our groove on, we’ve gotten into the groove,

Music is an aphrodisiac, it makes my feet want to move.

We’ve hop, skipped and wiggled, we’ve shimmied and shaked,

We’ve escaped the Yakuza and survived an earthquake.

You might think this is it but don’t think you’re right,

The list of mischief could go on all night.

You still with me? You want to hear more?

Or should these honored feet of mine take me right out the door?

No? Oh good, I shall go on for sure…

We’ve been buried in sand on four different continents,

Pointed and flexed as I’ve stretched for a kiss.

We’ve walked down the aisle and been up all night,

Paced floors with my children, "Hush sweet prince, it is all alright."

We’ve jumped for joy, knelt in despair, and spun circles in the grass without a care.

We’ve jaywalked and cross-walked, ran like a bat out of hell,

With a prayer on my lips, "Please, please feet don’t fail me now."

We’ve been high class, we’re down home,

These dogs of mine have been all over the globe,

From the mountains of Alaska to the beaches of Jamaica,

"Respect mon, leave more than ya take-a."

From the pig farm in Japan, to the deserts of Saudi,

Me and my feet, one restless soul, one pixie-esque body.

So you see, for me, these aren't "just" my feet,

They are my constant companions for each day we greet.

The same is certain for yours too,

Think about it and you'll find it's true.

Your second verse isn't the same as my first,

It may be better, it may be worse.

You and your feet have a story of your own,

Knick knack, patty whack, give your dogs a bone.

Your feet will always... find their way home.