Christmas Rides, Away We Go

When I was little Christmas was magic. We'd bundle into the car for the ride to Grandma and Grandpa's, singing Christmas carols all the way and gabbing non-stop as the car went along on it's merry way.

This year my sweet sister, adorable manly nephew, and I climbed into our red Christmas mobile laden down with presents for the folks. Then, off to Grandma and Grandpa's we rode singing cheesy Christmas carols all the way.

Tradition is important to me. Christmas jammies opened with tired eyes on Christmas Eve. The all important morning feast, eaten after every last present has been opened and oohed and ahhed over. Goopy salad (the ultimate ambrosia) made with blood-sweat-and-marshmallows. Some things never change and I pray they never do.

I hope you all had the merriest of days.

Duran Duran Forever!!

I got my first Duran Duran tape for Christmas when I was ten. It was Rio, and it was awesome. The magic of Duran Duran made that Christmas sparkly. I was in love.

Along with Duran Duran came a shiny new Sony Walkman. There couldn't have been anything better for me under that tree. That Walkman gave me the ability to have the lyrics of Simon Lebon in my head and that poetry was as intoxicating as it was sassy.

I remember wearing my best Duranie outfit, as I danced all over creation. The Walkman gave my generation the innate ability to tune out the rest of the world like nothing else before it ever had. And that Christmas, as I shimmied and shook my booty singing along with those British New Romantics I had my first taste of bratty independence.

I was hooked, and like most of the eighties' population I couldn't get enough Duran Duran. There were videos to stay up all night watching and movies to rent at blockbuster. Duran Duran in all their groupy euphoria. Hey, I wanted a "wristband" and anything else they wanted to sell me.

Of course we all had our favorites, but I loved Simon. Rodger was my second choice. Everyone was in love with John, and rightly so, he happens to be one of the prettiest faces to ever kill a bass. Nick was always too aloof for me, and Andy looked like he could be my brother. Nope, it was Simon of the pouty snarl and emotional vocal that won me over.

To this day I am still a die-hard Duranie. They are everything musical one could ask for, killer lyrics, catchy tunes, and the ballad that can still make a girl cry. 

So even now, all I want for Christmas is Duran Duran. They've been the best for 30 Christmases of my life and they aren't fading. If anything they are still just as bright and shiny as the day I first played them on my Sony Walkman. Duran Duran  forever!!!

You Are Not Alone

When I was five I was driving around with my dad in his horrible green Studebaker truck, when one of the tires came off and went rolling down the hill.

"Is that a fucking thing?" I asked him.

"Yes, Sarah, it sure is!"

There are lots of fucking things in life. I think we can all relay a memory or two or three of stubbing our toes in the dark of night or waking up the morning of "the big presentation you've been working on for months" with a fever of 104. 

Life isn't always rainbows and unicorns; it is mostly made up of flat tires, cold lattes, and forgetting that important something at the grocery store. 

I've been having a lot of these moments lately. A few weeks ago a glass of milk was lovingly spilled on my laptop, completely ruining it (whoever said you can't cry over spilt milk was an idiot), and then the automatic window on my car decided that it was an excellent time to completely stop working. 

And then...last night...this happened...

It began innocently enough: my child came in after school with a friend, setting his precious science homework on the table. This was no ordinary homework; this was weeks of leaf gathering and sorting and labeling. Hours spent pressing these little carefully itemized leaves into a special little binder. 

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed some coffee, leaving one of my sweet infant wards (I run a daycare) quietly playing with a squishy toy. In ten seconds flat that stealthy little baby had grabbed that damn binder!

I yelled the only thing that comes to mind in a moment like this "Oh fuck!" and ran for the binder, but it was too late. Science had been massacred!

What to do now? Send the binder anyway with a note saying, "Sorry, a baby ate my homework?"

My child was cool though.

"Mom, I'll take responsibility for leaving it where it could be attacked," he consoled me. 

I love that kid.

So when you're crying over that stubbed toe in the middle of the night, remember you are not alone. You share that ouchie appendage with the likes of Albert Einstein, Pocahontas, Marilyn Manson, and Oprah! 

I would love to hear about some of your less than stellar memories, please take a moment and share with me!

I Believe In Santa Claus

I love Santa Claus. I know that most people really do love Santa, but I'm gaga.

I love the idea that he represents. You see Santa is real, very real! Santa is the spirit of giving without getting anything in return.

There is nothing like seeing a child's magical wonder as they spy the half eaten cookies and milk that were lovingly left for the red suited man, or the delight as they check-out their overflowing stockings. Santa brings mystery and excitement to us all. I think I even love him more as an adult!

I have compiled a list of my absolute favorite Santa Claus movies. The ones I try to catch year after year because they are so special to me. They are in no particular ranking because I love them all...here we go!

1. One Magic Christmas - Will Ginny discover the spirit of Christmas before it's too late?

2. Santa Claus The Movie - Can Dudley Moore let go of his envy and save the day?

3. The Santa Clause - Becoming Santa isn't all it's cracked up to be, or is it?

4. Santa Claus Is Coming To Town - A classic treat. Great to watch while you're stringing popcorn.

5. This was my mom's favorite and so it reminds me of watching it with her for the very first time.

6. How The Grinch Stole Christmas - I can't even say how many times I've seen this. I love narration and I think this movie is the reason why.

7. The Year Without A Santa Claus - Nostalgia at its best. This one is awesome to watch while stringing those cranberries.

8. Elf - Well because it is wonderful!

9. All I Want For Christmas - A little jaunt about the meaning of Christmas.

10. The Polar Express - Visually stunning, a sleepy tale that warms my heart.

So these are my picks. Did any of yours make my list? What Santa Claus movies do you love?

Frozen Turkey, It's What's For Dinner

One Thanksgiving, long ago, in a galaxy far far away...I cooked a frozen turkey.

Hey, I totally thought it would work. 48 hours later the family was still nestled around the dinner table, starving and snacking on anything they could find! 

This was the year that the stuffing was burnt, the pies were runny, and the mashed potatoes extra lumpy. This was the year that we had the best thanksgiving ever!

We laughed until our tummies were so sore from laughing that we didn't care that we might have missed that crazy food fest or that dinner was plain ruined. 

Nope, not us. We banded together and played board game after board game. Hasbro would have been proud.

Hope you all have a fantastic dinner with your loved ones and if the turkey sucks, forget about it and break out the old Clue game!

Inconceivable...A Dream Come True

Do you have a favorite book? A story that has stayed with you since childhood perhaps? Maybe a book that made you sob until you didn't have a single tear left, or laugh until your tummy ached.

My favorite book for many years was The Princess Bride by William Goldman. I read it in high school and then I read it again in my twenties. I've probably read that wonderful book about six or seven times now and I don't even want to tell you just how many times I've seen the movie. 

The tale is as classic as they come and as sentimental as it is funny. I hear they are turning it into a stage show! Yippee!!!

There was a failed attempt to make it a musical in 2007, but let's not dwell on the negative. I for one intend to be as happy as a Buttercup and a Wesley about the news.

Now on with the show....to bad we have to wait. :)

It's The Climb

It's getting colder. The ground has begun to freeze and all the leaves have almost fallen. It reminds me of being human, of being imperfect, yet still hopeful.

We age every year, living, trying to attain something special with our time here. We all have different ideas, new ways of doing things....old ways that have been lovingly handed down to us. Our years are made up of everyday.

Some of us walk a hard road, or maybe we just think the road is harder because somewhere along the way we forgot to put on our shoes, we forgot to climb. 

When you climb you have no choice but to move up and moving up is truly what life is about.

Take each step along the way, one at a time, and don't forget to look back from time to time. It is the past that moves us forward.

Enjoy the journey......

10 Ways You Know You're Older Than Miley

1. You saw Beetlejuice before Miley was born


2. You thought twerking was something having to do with Twitter


3. You’d rather twerk with Alan Thicke than Robin Thicke


4. You remember watching Madonna roll on the ground performing “Like A Virgin” and you now consider it to be totally classy compared to Miley’s twerking


5. You worry more about Miley passing Thrush to general public than you do about “the weird tongue thing”


6. Miley and you have both ridden a wrecking ball naked, only you divorced yours


7. There is a part of you that wishes you looked that good riding a wrecking ball


8. You’ve licked a few hammers in your day that you wished you could take back too


9. Through all the controversy you still love Miley


10. You actually think that Miley reminds you a little of that girl you once were and you can’t wait to see who she becomes

Be A Meany For Halloweenie :)

Halloween has always been a magical time for me. As a child, it meant dressing up and becoming my dearest heart's desire. My sister and I always had the best Halloween costumes. Whatever I wanted to be was within my grasp. Every year we’d load into the car and take the winding roaded trek to our local Sprouse Ritz.

Once there, we would comb through fabrics until we found just the right ones. Pink laces and silky satins to make the perfect princess dress, or the right color blue stretch cotton that would transform my sister into the beautiful Smurfette.

The hours my mother spent huddled over her sewing machine, turning ordinary materials into puffed sleeves and hooped skirts. It was pure magic.

This is a tradition I’ve tried very hard to pass down to my own child, but alas, no matter what, the boy seems to only want to be one thing. That one thing turns out to be anything wearing a sweatsuit.

It started out quite perfectly. At age zero, I toted him around in an adorable Superman outfit that I had created out of a sleeper set, and I fashioned a cape and superman stenciled bib over the top. It was genius and he was warmly content as I carried him around trick-or-treating (hey you have to start early).

The next year, coincidentally, Aydin wore an army sweatsuit with dog tags and went as a little soldier like his dad. That sweatsuit was the beginning and the end of my Halloween fantasies.

Finally, Aydin was old enough to decide his own Halloween costume. He wanted to be Dark Heart from the Carebear Movie, which may sound cool, but Dark Heart is really a mean kid who wears a red, you guessed it, sweatsuit. I was doomed. I then decided to jazz it up by making a big car costume to wear on top. I spent hours creating this carific masterpiece. In the end it lasted three minutes before the car was discarded and Aydin went happily on his way in his red sweats.

Aydin the little store-bought army guy

For some reason I thought I’d be smart the next time around; we broke family tradition, which slightly broke my heart, and we bought a soldier costume. This was the year he almost froze to death and trick-or treating ended with a stop at Safeway to buy candy that I snuck into his pumpkin bucket.

My sweatsuit masterpiece Knuckles

The next year I created what I think is hands down my best sweatsuit masterpiece. The boy wanted to be Knuckles from Sonic The Hedgehog, and I was stoked! This was something I could work with. Yay!

I made gloves, and cartoony hair, I stenciled and sewed to my heart's content, and the kid was happy. He loved it. However, we lived in Alaska. Trick-or-treating meant drive the car...get out...run to a house...run back to the car before you freeze...drive ten feet...and repeat. It sucked, but man, the costume rocked.

The next year, when asked what he wanted to be, he said, “A jail guy.” What is a jail guy, you may wonder..or maybe you don’t? Well, I wasn’t sure if a jail guy meant an orange jumpsuit or a police officer. Off we went to the fabric store. We came back with all the crap to make a lovely striped inmate costume. Wonderful. The materials cost me about forty-five bucks. A week later, I found an almost identical thing to the costume I had just slaved over at Walmart for $6.99. Sometimes being creative bites.

A tribute to the years of the black sweatsuit

The next three years pass in a blur for me as the "black sweatsuit years." There was the secret agent (meaning boy in black sweats), the ninja warrior (a.k.a. boy in black sweats with a vesty thing), and the sullen mean boy who looked like a burglar in black sweats and a ski mask, until the mask was too itchy, and then he was just the boy in black sweats.

Percy Jackson

Finally, the year before last, Aydin actually was gung-ho for Halloween, and I thank his love of reading whole-heartedly for it. He wanted to be nothing less than Percy Jackson, and marvelously Percy does not wear a sweat suit. Nope, Percy wears a pair of jeans, and a t-shirt, but he carries a sword. At least, I got to draw on the orange T with Sharpee and we dyed his naturally blonde locks brown. Here’s to semi-creativeness.

My little witch, I mean wizard

Last year, we were once again back in a black sweatsuit..well dammit, I'd had it!!!!! The kid was ruining my Halloween. He was twelve, perhaps my last year of trick-or-treating with my baby. What is a mom to do? Well this mom threw a hissy fit. This mom cried (I was probably premenstrual). This mom, forced her son to wear a little witch outfit and lied and told him that he looked like a cool wizard. But hey, the boy was in a costume and this mom was happy.

Now, in 2013, Aydin has decided he wants to do his own costume. He’s planning to be a very original zombie, or of course as he would tell me he is NOT a zombie, he’s a WALKER. I had better get this straight.

I was never allowed to be anything evil for Halloween. My sister was once lucky enough to go as a she-devil while I was the angel. My mom didn’t believe in wearing “Evil” costumes. She liked happy princesses and cute smurfs. My mother obviously did not have a boy. Boys want to be boys. They want swords, and Halloween isn’t really about Halloween for my boy. It’s really about getting that sword for future play. The important part of Halloween for him is the fun, and the candy.

So, I guess I have to leave my motherly fantasies of princess costumes and fairy wings. I can still dress up the cat, or myself. But hey, a thought just occurred to me. An exciting thought, a hopeful thought, a marvelous thought....I just might be lucky enough to have grandchildren one day...and one of them might be a little girl or two, complete with the desire for princess attire. One can dream.

Happy Halloween, everybody. Have a great time. Oh, and this year I'm wearing a sweatsuit....

Pet-Peeves, You Gotta Love Em'

I recently did a poll asking my friends what their pet peeves were. Researching via friends is fun and a can be quite educational. For instance, if I hadn’t polled I never would have found myself reliving an OCD nightmare.

It started out innocently enough, the gang and I headed out to one of our favorite haunts, Red Robin. They make an excellent gluten free burger if anyone is interested. After my poll, however, the lovely clean restaurant was hiding my darkest nightmare. One of my fellow pet peevers had told me about her own peeve.

“I am totally grossed out by people who lick their fingers while eating. Especially if they sat down to eat without washing their hands. My stomach will flip if they double dip or pass condiments around. Eeeeeeew!”

After that, the innocent ketchup bottle was suspect. I looked over at my fellow patrons and watched and waited. Which one of them was going to lick their fingers? It destroyed my whole dining experience, I needed a Xanax!

I now realize just how susceptible I am to the power of suggestion. I have gone from one big pet-peeve, the toilet paper must face out, to lots of big pet-peeves. I am officially a classic pet-peeve adopter.

“Mine is peeling the label off product when you brought it home to use. I get a bit crazy when I see label on other folks cups or dishes, planters or pots, or even clothing that kids do these days ;{“

Don’t be surprised if when I come to your home for a dinner party, I’m checking for labels now that I am entirely aware of this peeve.

“lol. So sick of seeing that as the universal response to everything. Are they really laughing out loud? I doubt it.”

I’m not sure if I’ve quite adopted this pet-peeve, since I am the queen of its over-use, but I am now entirely over aware of it, lol.

“Also people who don't wash their hands after going to the bathroom. Just nasty.”

That one should just be general human decency, but since we all seem to have a difference of opinion on decency there are plenty of offenders out in the world.

“People chewing with their mouth open! Especially in a restaurant! Come out of your cave and join the rest of civilized humanity.”

I have begun to notice a pet-peeve theme here. Restaurants, cleanliness, and manners. I knew I had these friends for a reason! Chewing with the mouth open, snapping gum, slurping soup. These activities should be reserved for lazy evenings watching late night TV and never should be done in public.

“I really love when I'm bartending/serving and my customers wipe their nose, or bloody cut and then leave the napkin for me to clean up.”

Ugh, can you even imagine?? I work with tiny little children who know better than to wipe their snotty little noses without throwing away their used tissues. Hospitals have special bins for contamination. What are these drunk people thinking???

“People in the 10 items or less line with MORE than 10 items...people who park in a spot right in front of the grocery store even though it's not a spot, like they're so important...not wanting to cuddle after sex OR wanting to cuddle after sex (depending on mood/time) *just kidding*...when a cop pulls someone over and the cop stays entirely IN THE LANE blocking traffic...people who don't understand the personal bubble...men who leave the seat up after they pee in a coed bathroom...men who leave the seat down in a coed bathroom and pee all over the seat...”

Who can’t agree with those? I believe she covered all bases there. :)

“people on airplanes who don't put their seat in the upright position or put on their seat belts until the flight attendant has to personally tell them. And the people who talk through the safety briefing. And people who cant wait for their row to be called and have to be the first on and the first off”

The dreaded hideous airplane flight. Your legs are swollen, you just paid $75 dollars for peanuts, and the guy behind you is trying to run you over with his forty pound carry on. Remember the days when flying was glamorous?

“Pet peeves: none of the above. But how about simply no soap in bathrooms. U serious? Do i now have to touch the door handle? I wear cotton with no sleeves usually! Perpetually grossed out.”

I totally hear that one. Soap, that wonderful bubbly stuff that makes all the nasty go down the drain.

Pet-peeves, we all have them. Sometimes they can make us want to commit murder. They are our own special hell. Isn’t that fun? It seems that peeves really just come down to manners or some sticky labels.

Hope your day is peeve free, but I bet it won't be. :)

Thanks to all my guys and gals for the great pet-peeves. 

(Tiny writing? Is this anyone else's pet peeve, lol?)

10 Signs You're A MOM

1. You’ve made sure that everyone else brushed there teeth before you headed out the door, but you realized a half a mile down the road that you forgot to brush yours.
2. Your car stereo now plays Kid Bop on a regular basis.

3. You threatened to remove all xboxes, play stations, and Nintendo DS’ from the house and give them all to charity at least five times last week. 

4. Your Calgon-Take-Me-Away-Bath was interrupted 700 times with “Mom, are you done yet.” 

5. Going Pee by yourself is a luxury comparable with the European vacation you’ve been dreaming of. 

6. Your purse contains an unlimited supply of bandaids, kleenex, and snacks. 

7. You are capable of simultaneously cooking dinner, changing a diaper, mopping the floor, and checking facebook. 

8. You’ve made sure that the kids have a wonderful home-cooked meal and you then eat a bowl of cereal for dinner when no one is looking. 

9. You are the only one in your house who knows where to find a cereal bowl and spoon, even though they’ve been in the same place for years. 

10. You look forward to the precious 10 minutes a day before bed when you get to pretend that your not a superhero.

My Dad

My Dad

My Dad. Faster than a locomotive, able to air-condition tall buildings in a single bound, and shorter than your average bear. My Dad or Daddy as I so often call him is a crotchety old fart, and yet there is just so much to love in all that stink.

Something that you should know right of the bat is that my Dad looks like one of Santa’s elves. He stands just a tad over five feet, with a round little belly, and a snowy white beard. In fact not to long ago my father appeared at my preschool wearing a Santa hat to fulfill his fatherly duties of putting a little something in my Christmas stocking. The Stocking stuffing happened during nap-time so one of the little cherubs, who was about three at the time, awoke and dreamily said “Sarah’s Dad is Santa Claus.” That little tale fills me with heart-bursting love. My Dad although crabby really is Santa Claus. He is one of the most honest and giving people I know.

Many a times the “perfect” birthday or Christmas card has appeared in my greedy little hands. Those cards are always special. He’ll spend hours searching for the ideal card. Combing Rite-Aid or Hallmark in his journey until he spies the one for you! Most people see cards as a semi-garbagable material meant to proclaim who gave you that gift. With my dad the card truly is your gift.

Over the years my Daddy has had many a hobby! Archery, car racing, car building, pool, pinball machines, libraries, record collections, computers, and believe it or not that isn’t the half of it and that Poppy of mine, Cliffy Pooh to those who love him best, gives his all to everything!

He taught me how to drive. Some of the most horrible moments of his life I’m sure. He even pulled the keys out of the ignition once while I was driving and told me, and I quote, “Get the hell out of this car. You are scaring the shit out of me!” end quote.

With my sister, who of course always drove like a pro and had no trouble, he praised her driving prowess. I was the rebelious daughter. The daughter who threw loaves of bread at him in the middle of Safeway and once even told him to “fuck off." Not my proudest moment, but I have to say he’s never grounded me in my entire life and all in all I was a good kid. The soft spoken, neat freak who did her best to keep the house clean and only cut school once.

When I got married he gave me away and gave me my most prize possession, my mother’s ring. A ring I wore that day in her memory and I now hold dear like no other. You see my Dad did his best to raise two girls. He may not have been perfect and Lord knows I surely wasn’t perfect, but he tried and I think we turned out pretty darn good the two of us.

He is a man who knows everyone's name at the local Wendy’s that he haunts or does free jobs for the guy at the local hardware store just to keep busy. You see my Dad has rarely sat down in his entire life and if you do happen to find him sitting you can guarantee that he is going to have a big fat paperback in his hands. The man reads nonstop and he has passed that love of reading down to his daughters. You see a book doesn’t have to be the best book ever written to be good, it just needs to have words and a story and thank God most books do and so does my Dad.

Christmas 1975

Christmas 2004

F*** You Days, A Universal Pastime

I don't really look like this

Why is it that some days you wake up and the world looks bright, chipper even? Everything seems to be going your way. The sun is shining, your hair looks amazing, you have plenty of gas in the car, and your bank account is in the black.

Then there are the less than stellar days. The shining sun woke you up with a glaring migraine, your perfect hair is sporting an Alfalfa cowlick, your tank is on E, and your account is overdrawn.

Why do the good and the bad seem to come in giant waves together? I find that when I’m at my brokest, that is the moment that I get a flat tire. And, that flat tire will usually occur on a Sunday when Les Schwab is closed. Yay, life just sent me a little message.

The message is very clearly a big old “F*** you.” Why does the universe conspire against us in such stressful ways? That is the age old Tootsie-Pop question, and the answer is always the same my dear, “The world will never know.”

A few months ago, my cat drank rubbing alcohol out of the tiny cup I was disinfecting my nose-ring in. I had no idea that this was even possible. This, of course occurred at 1am on a Saturday/Sunday-vet-office-totally-closed-time. While he was vomiting and drunkenly trying to walk around and falling down, I was obsessively googling finding horror after horror. Things like, “If he lives through the night he should be okay,” and “Brain damage may occur.” Brain damage seemed almost worse than death for my already mentally challenged kitty!!! This is the cat that runs for the car because he’s so excited to see you and, as you’re screaming for him to move, decides that the tire of the moving car would be a lovely place to sharpen his claws......OOH....DUMB-CAT/FLAT-TIRE, COULD THERE BE A CONNECTION???

Anyway, thankfully kitty woke up the next morning seeming no more stupid and thankfully alive, so all was good, but I was a wreck! No one wants to kill their cat while cleaning jewelry.

Suffice it to say bad stuff happens, your day could be awesome on the same day your neighbor's house burns to the ground. The universe is tricky that way. So please enjoy all the great moments and remember that no matter what everything always works out in the end and Les Schwab will be open on Monday. :)

Kitty really does look like this

:) Have a nice Day!

"Deals" I learned From My Grandma, Queen Irene

Queen Irene B. Lesh

My Grandmother was an amazing lady. She raised five children, she was a spy for the government during the depression, and she could rock a pantsuit like nobody's business. She also rarely used the word "thing,"  hence my title. My Queen B Grandma, instead, used the word "deal" for virtually everything. "Sarah, can you you hand me that "deal" over there?" or "What was that "deal" on the news about?"

She spoke her own language, and created a rather hysterical way to go about life while still maintaining her lady-like grace. Here are a few of the funny little "deals" she taught me. :)



1. Chocolate is a basic food group. Always hide Mars bars close at hand.

2. Lipstick is the only cosmetic a girl really needs. But she must own 700 tubes of the same color.
3. A lady doesn’t yell, a lady whistles. Never raise your voice, simply learn to whistle loudly. 

4. There is never a mess unless you see it. So stuff those closets and hide everything with a dust ruffle. 

5. French kisses are for sluts. If one must DO them, one must never be seen DOING them.
6. A good dinner should always be followed with pie! 

7. Wear a bra at all times, you will be able to brag that you have 30 year old boobs when you are 75. 

8. If you are going to say you are collector, you should own it. Fill every room with scary dolls and be proud. 

9. When a visitor comes to stay the night, stick them in the guest room full of scary dolls so they never return again. 

10. A refrigerator is never full until you can no longer shut the door. When this happens always have a spare refrigerator available, and pickles last for at least 40 years.









*

SEX And Mens Funny Looking Parts

I was never having sex! No way, no way, not ever! Sex was loud, and sweaty, and gross. I’d seen The Blue Lagoon!

I was certain that no one I knew had sex. My Grandmother certainly never had sex. She may have bourne eight children, but no hanky panky had been involved, and my parents would never even dream of it, ewwww.

At this age I didn’t even know what sex was. I watched a PBS documentary that showed a man and woman rolling around in the sheets as it described the ins and outs (no pun intended) of creating life. The sheets were blue and that was about all I took away from the documentary. So I guessed that when you had sex you just rolled around in sheets, but they had to be blue to make a baby. Seven year old logic is always spot on.

When I got to school the next day I, of course, told my extremely interested friends all about those yucky-blue-sheeted-sex-people. They all squealed in disgust between games of horses and princess fairies. All, except one little girl Kristin who, being the proud big sister of a new baby, was sure that she knew better than me about the birds and the bees.

“The man puts his stick in the lady and then they wiggle,” she told me. “And they have to do it in the shower to make a baby.”

What was she talking about? I mean I was the one who had seen the video! I had proof on my side.

“I think you should ask my mom,” I rolled my eyes at her. “My mom is older than your mom.”

This secret sex talk became our recess ritual for quite a few weeks of second grade. Everyone had their own ideas, but none of us seemed to agree on any of it. The only thing that we were unanimously convinced of was that sex was entirely nasty and that because of this fact we were all planning to adopt babies when we grew up.

The years rolled on and games of horses turned into hours spent on the telephone. I was lucky enough to have my own mauve phone in my room, how cool was I? The sex talk became more about “Johnny is so cute and when I’m a cheerleader in highschool we’re going to dance like Janey on Jeff did in Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” and I was even planning to wear rolled up sweat pants just like Janey (AKA Sarah Jessica Parker).

I still had no clue whatsoever about sex until I read Flowers In The Attic by VC Andrews. This book was shocking and eye-opening and perhaps my naive twelve year old self was just too young to read it, but read it I did.

Oh My God Kristin was RIGHT! I was flabbergasted. I was shocked. I was appalled and I actually decided that I needed to ask my mom.

“Mom, how do people have sex?”

She didn't seem surprised or grossed out by my question.

I then proceeded to tell her everything. I told her about adoption and sheets and showers and Kristin and babies and Flowers In The Attic. She looked thoughtfully at me, smiled and said, “Honey, men have funny looking parts, but eventually you will learn to like them.”

And, you know what she was right.

The Birthday Girl, Authoress Shannon Celebi

Author of Small Town Ghosts age 4

It is not everyday that one turns (3x12)+1. Today, my beautiful-shiny-sister-Shannon turns a whopping 13,515 days old.

So far, in her illustrious life, she has done some amazing things. At the gentle age of one she said her very first word umbrella, and since then she has learned many more words and even mastered the English language. I am sure that by now you must all be astounded!

Reigning supreme in the land of Shannon’s life story is the famous tale of PUNKY PIE. When she was four Shannon ate quite a few pieces of pumkin pie. Later, in a state of over-eating-awfulness Celebi said the now famous phrase, “me no like punky pie.” Her profoundness, even at an early age, was quite notable.

When Shannon was seven she drove a speed boat at such a tremendous velocity that the boat almost capsized. Luckily, everyone on board was returned to shore safe and sound, however Shannon has never been able to live the horrific incident down.

Shannon began her stellar writing career at the age of birth, perhaps even before birth she might have been dictating graphic scenes of horrific peril from the womb. At age five she was able to put pen to paper for the first time and the world has never been the same.

Happy-happy-happy-happy birthday Shannon Celebi, marvelous mother, stupendous sister, wonderful wife, all around great gal, and awesome authoress. May your day be gluten free and perfect in every way! I love you.




Below is a sample of one of Celebi’s earlier work. It was published in The Poetry Expess in 1984. The poem is a tale of woe, sacrifice, strife, and eventually love. Enjoy.......

The Busy Beetle 

The busy beetle exercised 

To see him there 

I was surprised 

He did jumping jacks 

And leg lifts too 

He worked so hard 

His face turned blue 

He tried and tried 

To do something new 

He wanted to lose weight 

To impress Lulu 

Lulu was the cutest bug 

You ever did see 

She had blonde hair 

And the cutest beetle knees

Out-going authoress center, with her two besties Krissy and Mandy

The 80s And Utter Lack Of Political Correctness

I wasn’t exactly Paris Hilton, thank God! No diamond tiaras adorned my head or hung from the edge of the my dream canopy bed. I didn’t have a horse or one of those fabulous battery powered Barbie cars that kids can ride in, although I did long for all of those things. 

What I did have was an imagination and an amazing mother who let me express it. 

“Mom, can I cut up the Halloween costume you spent hours making so that I can reenact Michael Jackson’s Thriller video?”

My mother's knowing smile. “Sure honey.” 

“Can I rearrange the entire house and put the living room furniture in the dining room?”

My mother’s puzzled look. “Umm, why?”

“I want to pretend to do Barbara-Walters-like videos with my Cabbage Patch dolls and the windows in there have the best light.”

The knowing look again. “Sure, but you have to put everything back.”

There were limitations of course. She was livid the one time that I pushed all the furniture against the computer room door locking her in there with no means of escape. 

My childhood, was always dramatic to say the least. Wether I was pretending to be Olivia Newton-John and making the neighborhood sit through the entire lip-synched concert of Olivia’s Greatest Hits Volume One or choreographing an epic dance number for all the kids to perform during our annual super-bowl party my dreams of putting on an awesome show never ceased.

Naturally, our house was the house to hang at. No one else’s parents would allow complete monopolization of the family home or a double birthday party with my little sister where we all dressed up like characters from the movie Clue and played a murder mystery game, complete with butler and candy cigarettes. Oh, the eighties were fun with their utter lack of political correctness.

There was always (except for the locking her in the computer room incident) fairly good parental supervision. A lot of the time these things would take place while my mom was visiting with her best girlfriends. We were just trusted. We weren’t going to give away the family dog or burn down the house, and we cleaned up the mess ourselves. It didn’t hurt that we lived on a really good sized piece of property with large trees for pretending we were on Endor and lots of room for creative playing.

The eighties weren’t the days of Leave It To Beaver where you rose at dawn, left the house and your parents didn’t worry unless you weren’t home by six sharp for dinner. Nor were they like how it is today, where kids have to stay in there own yards and carry their cellphone at all times so a pedophile doesn’t grab them. No, there were plenty of pedophiles around in my day, I just thought they were these super friendly people who really thought kids were cool that your parents told you to stay away from. 

It’s a scary thought to me now, but back then I didn’t have a care. I knew that I needed to always be within shouting distance of the house, which meant I lived in a rather noisy neighborhood, but I was lucky enough to live on a country block with lots of kids and therefore lots of parents looking out for me.

I rode bikes up and down these really steep hills all day with all the neighborhood kids and we took turns roaming each other's yards and houses. One time I convinced everyone to weed our garden by paying them all a penny for their hard work and in the end no one hated me. It was amazing, and our garden looked like a giant pile of dirt. I guess we did too good of a job.

I never did grow up to become Barbara Walters, but the blessing is that when I was little I thought that I could be, the future was limitless and I was fortunate enough to believe that nothing was impossible as long as I used my imagination and moved some furniture around.

I Never Said Goodbye

When I was ten my mother picked me up from school in her little blue Mitsubishi Mirage and told me that she had cancer of the liver. She was wearing a very ugly tee-shirt with turquoise cats on it and as she said those life changing words to me I was fixated on those crazy blue cats.

Liver cancer is a very slow growing cancer as far as cancers go, but she’d had it since I was born. She’d been told that she shouldn’t have anymore children, but she had my sister, who is two years younger than I am, anyway. 

My sister and I fought in our early days like any other sibling team.

“She’s stealing my friend,” either of us could be heard saying whenever we had play-dates, which was usually every weekend.

The cancer news really brought us together though. I could look at my sister and know that as much as I might be pissed that she was wearing my tank top, deep down she got me. We were on the same journey.

No one else I knew had a mother who spent hours a day giving herself holistic treatments like coffee enemas or reading books on reflexology and naturalistic cancer treatments. Macrobiotics became our life. We no longer ate yummy homemade chili and meatloaf. Now we lived on leak soup and barely cooked fruits and vegetables. I began to look forward to the weekends when we would head into the city to go to Kaiser Hospital. The city visits meant McDonalds and Grandma’s good cooking. 

My dad was an eighties commuter. He worked all week in the city at the San Francisco Chronicle/Examiner Building. He was their chief engineer and he worked hard to make his money, but it left very little time to really know each other as a family.

So in part my parents lived very separate lives. My mom stayed home with us kids in our lovely mountain home shooting herself full of interferon to shrink those bad cancer cells and my dad, bless his heart, lived in a tiny camper shell that was meant to fit on the back of a truck that he rented from my grandmother, not ideal to say the least. It couldn’t have been very much fun for either of them, but they did this, for the most part, so that my sister and I could have an amazing education.

My dad created a tiny utopia to come home to on the weekends. He made himself an archery range because he is an avid bowman. He busied himself growing tomato plants over bricks and inventing crazy contraptions. He has a brilliant mind that doesn’t really ever turn off. He builds cars from scratch, and windmills, and has a music library that could be worthy of a museum. In many ways he is amazing, but he was often missing from our daily lives.

I imagine that my mother must have been pretty scared. She was a thirty-four year old woman living alone with two young girls and she was literally dying. I used to get so angry watching her gasping for air as she walked up the stairs into our house. I thought she was faking it, just seconds before she’d been belting out Sweet Baby James in the car and now she didn’t have enough energy to walk up the steps. I didn’t understand the congestive heart failure that came with her cancer was what was really killing her. Slowly creeping up, sucking her life and air out one beat at a time.

My mom had always been a big German woman, strong and competent with a sweet gentle save the world mentality. The cancer was making her tiny. Tiny and yellow and lost. 
When the holistic approach failed to work she threw herself more and more into prayer. Our lives then became about bible studies, and speaking in tongues, and following cars because she felt that God was sending her a sign. Some of it was fun. Some of it was crazy. And some of it was terrifying. Thank God I had my sister with me through all of it, the good and the bad. The weak body and the slipping mind and the grasping at anything you can find to hold onto because the thought of leaving your two babies alone in the world is just too much to bear.

Most of the time I tried to pretend that everything was normal, but there were many times that my panic attacks would send me outside of school to the pay phone to call home just so I could make sure that she was still alive. I didn’t really talk about her dying out loud to anyone, but I always knew that she would and that it wouldn’t be too much longer. I would try to imagine things like prom or my wedding and my brain would never let me imagine her into the scenario. There was always a black void where my mother should have been.

It soon came to a point when my parents realized that two pre-teen girls couldn’t take care of a dying mother and a dying mother couldn’t care for two pre-teen girls so we all moved to a rented house in the city. It was a hard adjustment. I was too used to running the show by this time and my dad was too used to being alone. We butted heads about everything. I was mouthy and creative and opinionated and he didn’t understand anything about me.

My mom cried a lot.

My sister hid from the world in her stories and her music.

I on the other hand, yelled and screamed and fought. I wanted to be heard in all this craziness. I wanted to fix everything. Heal my mother of her cancer, reteach my almost fifty year old father too be present, and mother my thirteen year old sister. The thing I hadn’t quite realized was that I was only fifteen and I hadn’t figured any of those things out for myself yet.

The very last day I saw my mom, she was hardly there, her body was present, but her mind had already left. She lay yellowed and limp in the hospice wing of the hospital and I was preoccupied with planning a shopping trip. I never got a chance to tell her goodbye.

The call came at five o’clock the next morning and sadly my sister answered. My dad had already left for work that morning.

When my sister woke me up to tell me I felt like I already knew. “Mommy is dead,” she said as she crawled into bed with me. “The hospital just called.”

The rest of the day was a daze filled with lots of relatives and Grandma’s house. A day that was crazy with a hectic love and even joy.

It was good to know that she wasn’t in pain anymore, it was good to understand that one small life could effect so many people. My mother was loved, and she is still remembered as the woman who sang crazy songs, and took care of the world in her own special way.

She taught me the true strength of a woman and that every obstacle in life could be met with some anger and fear, but pushed through with a lot of laughter and even more love.

I find that I’m glad that I never got to say goodbye to her, there is no goodbye because she will always be with me.

Katrina Parker, In And Out Of The Dark

I first saw Katrina Parker with the rest of America when she hit “The Voice” stage during the blind auditions in 2012. Her dress was classic and gorgeous, but her voice knocked me out. Those sexy, sultry, and electric vocals brought Joan Osborne’s One Of Us to life. http://youtu.be/gKTXkztmAsY The intelligent and pretty-easy-on-the-eyes Mr. Adam Levine turned his chair and the rest is history. Katrina has been making beautiful music via my iTunes ever since.

Her nothing less than stellar rendition of Jar Of Hearts has made every playlist I’ve ever made since it’s purchase. http://youtu.be/P72haOkymLU

I was extremely excited when Katrina announced the release of her new single In And Out Of The Dark and I ran to iTunes to buy it. http://youtu.be/-iYYUBRYgus I haven't been able to stop listening to it ever since. Again, she knocks the vocal out into the hemisphere. 

Then Ms. Parker wowed me once again, but this time not with her voice, but with her heart and cool-ass moxy when she posted this moving statement on her Tumblr account.

"Anyone uncomfortable with the idea of seeing a plus size woman onstage, in a magazine or on their TV needs to get with the program and look inward to figure out WHY they’re uncomfortable with that (because I can guarantee it’s not about the object of their discomfort). There is an undeniable shift happening right now (it’s slow but steady). Women can be plus sized and wear beautiful things…they can be plus sized and entertain…they can be plus sized and be as glamorous as anyone else…so people need to make peace with that fact and get on the train before it leaves the station."

Katrina's full album In And Out Of The Dark is set to be released on September 10th of this year and it is available for preorder on iTunes. I can't wait, my playlist is so happy to be getting a lot more Katrina Parker!

The Apple Of My i

Last Tuesday something magical happened to me, I fell in love. I’ve been in love before, but this was something different, something unique, something truly special. Around six on Tuesday evening I received a mysterious call. The caller ID read “unknown”. This is always frightening, but I still picked up.

“Hello, this is Sarah.”

Silence, muffled background noise and then...

“Hey Sarita, how ya doin’?”

It was my sister. I guess there’s nothing so mysterious about that, but what she said, those awesome words, made me ever so happy.

“I have your new phone.”

This was joyous news! My old phone, the phone that had jostled around with me for the last two years, was all but dead. It still turned on, I could make or take a call, but the battery life only lasted an hour or so and it liked to freeze at just the most terrible moments. Like when I’m just about to play a sixty-eight point word on my Words-With-Friends game. GEEZ, didn’t my phone realize it was reeking havoc with my life?

The little box she handed me contained some packing material and more importantly my brand new fancy little iphone 5. I named her izzy, and as she stared up at me with that fresh phone glow, I just knew that we would be fast friends.

izzy is awesome, but for some darn reason she thinks her name is Siri. Oh well, maybe someday she’ll agree on izzy. She almost instantly downloaded my entire itunes library and she took it upon herself to know practically everything about me. She knows my name and if I ask her who she belongs too she says, “I believe this iphone belongs to Sarah!” and then a little screen pops up with my picture, name, address, birthdate, and facebook handle. She’s a genius!

Of course, the clan of us have been a little naughty. We’ve asked her things like, “What do you look like naked?” She answered us with a robust ding, “You humans are so preoccupied with external appearance.” We’ve told her that we hate her and she said, “Well...I’m still here for you.” These things make me sad, I truly don’t want to hurt her little ifeelings, When I finally expressed how sorry I was she told me, “You are the wind beneath my wings.” She always answers with either an apologetic voice, a joke, or just the right answer. I love her, she’s so kind and helpful.

If ever there was a phone for me, izzy is it. She’s everything I ever wanted and then some. Thank you Apple.