Here's A Story...

Can you picture the Brady's living room in your mind? See Alice bustling around in her blue smock, holding a tray of ice tea (heavy on the sugar) for one of Carol Brady's Woman’s League meetings? Perhaps you have a favorite Brady, or you can quote lines verbatim?

“Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!”

Maybe you once imagined that you were one of the pretty girls at Marcia's slumber party, or that your baby doll's name was Kitty-Carry-All too?

The Brady clan is an anomaly. Cool enough to have updated spoof movies made, dorky enough to pretend you haven't seen every episode, and comfortable enough to be cozy and safe.

I've never spent a night tossing and turning wondering if Bobby was going to get over his fear of heights, or if Greg was ever going to find that perfect groovy girl. No way, those Bradys survive everything including high-school angst. They always meet their celebrity icons. Joe Namath doesn't just come to everyone's house, does he? Davy Jones, the teen dream of Miss Marcia, or a kiss from Desi Arnez Jr.!

“I'll never wash this cheek again.”

Marcia was certainly the lucky cheerleader of the family. The Marcia-Jan dilemma can't even be questioned. Surely the writers were playing favorites. Marcia got the good clothes, the good hair, and the good storylines. Jan got plots were she looked just like her homely aunt, horrid curly-cues, and glasses.

“Glasses! Oh, no, mom! They'll make me look absolutely positively goofy!”

Little Cindy just got to be cute with her pig tails and lispy quips.

“I'm not a snitcher; I just tell it like it is.”

Then there are the boys. We all remember Johnny Bravo, and Greg's move to the attic. Greg is the awkward guy who thinks he's cool.

“Hey there, groovy chicks. You're all hip in far out ways.”

I have always loved Peter. Peter is the “thinking” Brady. He's the friend you want by your side in a bad situation. He stood up to bullies.

Peter: “Let's reason about it.”

Buddy the Bully: “Shut up and fight!”

Peter: “Don't you want to talk about it?”

Bobby, was the funny guy, the stand up comic of the family. In any given situation Bobby almost always got the jokes.

Mike: "Jan's allergic to Tiger...and I'm afraid, boys, that they cannot live together in the same house."

Peter: "Aww Dad."

Greg: "That's terrible."

Bobby: "Where's Jan gonna live?"

Carol Brady, the ever doting wife and mother. Carol's hairstyles alone are episodes in themselves. Carol kept the plot rolling. She informed us viewers what was going on. Whether she was working alongside Alice in the kitchen or having a talk with her husband in his study, she always gave us the rundown.

“Tiger, Tiger? Whatever happened to that dog?”

Then there's Mike. Father and architect extraordinaire. Mike seemed like he could do everything except design some more bedrooms for all those kids. He was a wise wise man.

Greg: “Why didn't you stop me Dad?”

Mike: “Because I think you just proved you're smart enough to stop yourself.”

Then, of course, ever helpful Alice. I wonder how much they paid her? Hmmmm? Minimum wage? The lovable maid. Was Alice the maid? Housekeeper? Quick with a one-liner, willing to do laundry and cook for a family of eight and she still had time to date. I don't know how she did it.

“If there's anything I can't stand, it's a perfect kid. And six of 'em, yecch!”

There was once a time that I wanted to be a Brady or, at least, a friend of a Brady. Blended families are hard. Live-in help isn't cheap. We don't all go to bed in negligees with coiffed hair. Life is not the Brady Bunch, but it's fun to pretend that everything always works out in the end.

If there is something that I've learned from them over the years of watching, it's that you can't take yourself too seriously. Balls sometimes hurt noses, all kids are insecure, and meatloaf is its own food group.

Long live the Bradys!

Short Bitches Rule!!

“Good things come in small packages,” my mother always told me.

I always feel so “big” inside that I forget just how darn short I am until I see a pic of myself standing next to someone that I assume is about my height.

Everyone has outgrown me my entire life. My younger sister, all my cousins, my friends, everyone. I, however, never really realize it until I see that trusty pic.

Being as short as I am tends to bring out my inner bitch. I mean you have to stand up for yourself on a regular basis when you're only five feet. I look up at those tall people, wag my finger, and stomp my foot.

So you can imagine my surprise when my thirteen year old son, was suddenly towering over me. It seems like it happened over night, but of course there were years of growing involved.

He has started patting me on the head, a treasonous act if ever there was one! The worst part is that.....well, I love it!

I love that he is growing up! My baby is no longer the small kid in his class. He doesn't have “play dates” he “hangs out.” He can hold his own in an intellectual conversation!

Now, back to my shortness.....I love being short. I even love that I have to climb on a stool to grab the cereal. Capri pants are full length for me, could anything be better (unless they go out of style)?

I've been short all my life. I was born short, two months premature and a little fighter from the beginning. I'm told that I never stopped moving as a tiny infant and that when all the other babies were soundly sleeping, I was wiggling away in my incubator.

Four days shy of my second birthday my mom and dad had another baby, my wonderful sister Shannon Renee'. When Shan was born, two weeks after her due date, we were just about the same size. As little girls people often assumed we were twins, which made me very very mad.

Thirty something years later, I secretly love it when they think she is older, although it's probably my maturity level and not my stature that sway them into thinking this. 

No matter what, I'm happy being me. Bitchy, silly, and short...it's just me.

Two Girls, A Car, And A Fiasco

A few years ago my amazing sister and I took a rode trip to drop off her amazing son with our amazing Auntie B. The voyage there was magnificent. We stopped along the interstate, taking pictures of sunflowers basking in the golden sunlight and listening to hilarious mix-tapes from our 90's youth.

“Your own personal Jesus,” we sang at the top of our lungs while the teenager (who'd rather be listening to Duke Ellington) rolled his eyes and glowered at us from the backseat.

The teenager may not have been enjoying himself, but my younger sibling and I were having a blast. Evil me kinda-sorta thinks that there is nothing more fun than annoying a teenager; it's one of the greatest joys in my life.

Of course, there were numerous stops along the way at Starbucks (one must have the right fuel for adventure). Caffeine combined with some Thomas Dolby is just the best. Blinded by science, and peppy as peppy could be we arrived at my auntie's.

Finally there, we enjoyed a brilliant evening fueled by white zin and a crazy variety of the best yummies Costco has to offer. In the glorious garden, we drank and were merry until in the wee hours of the evening when we stumbled off to dreamland.

I awoke to a heatwave the likes that I had never experienced before in the Bay Area. I was already sweating as I loaded the car for the journey home and it was only 10am. I was actually excited by the prospect of getting in the car for the crazy drive back to Oregon. The air-conditioned vehicle beckoned as we hugged our loved ones goodbye. Tears were shed, embraces embraced, for even though teenagers are annoying, you tend to instantly miss them.

My sister cried on and off for the first hour, seriously missing the teenager. “What am I going to do when he goes off to college?” she wailed.

We stopped for gas, and us being from Oregon, it took a few tries to remember exactly how to pump our own gas. The things the mind loses from lack of use are startling, so I am giving myself a tiny bit of slack. When I removed the gas-hose-nozzle-thingy from the car it hadn't turned off all the way and I sprayed a great deal of unleaded all over my feet. Yay!

As I used a nasty little gas station bathroom to clean off my feet, I totally lost it. “I'm going to die...my feet are going to catch fire...there is no point going on..I can't get into the car, if we crash I'm dead...yada yada.”

It was gross, but I now admit to being a tad melodramatic. My patient sister coaxed me into the car with a sweet, “Get in the fucking car right now or I'm leaving you here.” I, of course, got my ass into the fucking car.

It took about two minutes in the sweltering heat to realize that the blissful air-conditioner was not working. We turned it off and turned it back on...nothing but hot air blew from the vent. “It must just be out of freon.” My sister felt certain.

So, we turned around and drove back to the gas station. The mechanic on duty told us that it was definitely out of freon (score one for my sister), but it also had a leak and he wouldn't advise filling it until the leak was fixed. Well crap!

Like the idiots we are, we decided to have it filled anyway. We scraped our money together and prayed for the best. Fifteen minutes later all the freon had escaped and we were broke. Still, we trudged on!

The stretch of I-5 that runs from California on up to Oregon is about the most boring stretch of highway in all of existence. On this day in the sweltering heat it was no different. On the way down we had spoiled ourselves with coffees and goodies to while away the hours, but after throwing all of our moolah away on the damn freon we were too impoverished for coffee, and the carefree mood of the day before had turned into catty bitchiness.

Our mix-tapes, that we had enjoyed just hours before, now sucked. We couldn't agree between “Dave Matthews Band” (which I hate) and "Natalie Merchant” (whom she hates). It was dreadful. The temperature outside the car was around 115F, and inside the car between the stifling heat and our stellar bitchiness was about 400F. (You probably think I'm exaggerating, don't you?)

By the time we hit Redding we thought we were literally dying. I wondered how the pioneers had done this trek? Walking and riding in wagons in this blistering heat sounds hideous to me. We were really happy to hit Redding, Wendy's was in sight and we were fantasizing about giant ice waters and sharing a Biggy Fry.

We ordered at the drive thru, payed at window number one, and then proceeded to window number two for our stuff. We were excited to say the least. At the window, the boy handed us our order. We almost cried, the waters we has salivated over were the size of thimbles and they contained no ice! We were now sad little bitchy girls in a hot car.

I came up with a grand idea! From that point on we would stop at every rest stop along the way and fill our little cups with water. I know, I know...I am a genius! Without my swift mind we might have died out on the barren road.

At the first rest stop we doused ourselves with water from head to toe. It was sheer heaven! Then we saturated every item of clothing that we had in the car with us. The wonderful cold wetness was dry within fifteen minutes, so we just kept repeating and repeating.

When we left my amazing Auntie B's at 10-ish, we had expected to reach home by 6-ish. It was now around 9ish, the sun was just starting to set, and we rejoiced at the almost darkness. The darkness, brought with it some cooler temperatures and a relief to our pale sunburned bodies.

Suddenly, this trip wasn't just a trek of crappy luck. No, this trip was an exploration of human triumph! At least that's what it became for the two of us. We may not be the roughest toughest chicks in existence, but we had conquered the sun, mishap after mishap, gasoline drenching, possible dehydration, and starvation. While, us prissy girls might not have made it back in the pioneer days, we had made it through twelve hours in a hot ass car. We were warriors!

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?