Friday, The Varmint and I packed up our wagon and trekked to the LA Convention Center to help one of our favorite clients promote herself at the Dwell On Design conference (and frankly, to do a little of the same).

I expected a sea of wire-rimmed glasses types, dressed all in black, butt-rods firmly in place, shilling their ultra-swanky products.

Instead, it was a cozier affair with a decidedly environmental bent. The people were smiling and approachable, the products super interesting (solar-powered car ports, sleek vertical canvas sack wall-gardens, converted shipping containers as stylish, glass-walled offices) and I saw only one charmingly overdone designer-type person the whole day: Leopard-spotted head, I'm-so-smart glasses, pegged pants, too-groovy-for-you shirt... I'm pretty sure he was an agency owner attendee collecting cards and chatting people up, just like us.

We saw loads of delicious lifestyle and interior design products but everything was pretty much scaled back to a more realistic level. Sure there were the mouthwatering stainless-steel and glass upscale European doors that retail for $10,000 and kitchens that would cost ten times that much on display - but not very many. The electric Tesla Roadster Sport for $100K was pretty sweet.

But really? Most of the stuff represented was on a much more "upscale everyman" level.

It was refreshing. At least 75% of the stuff was being sold as environmentally friendly, green, reclaimed, organic or recycled. I was surprised the bathrooms weren't decked out with rocketship toilets that would turn your BMs into mulch, right before your eyes.

The key that made all of this stuff work so well was that the product design, while green, was not compromised aesthetically. It's that combo of smart and pretty that's so coveted by people - whether with organizing solutions, energy-efficient lamps, cars or - ahem - spouses.

So often in environmental design, the killer solution or innovation is basically functional, but visually unappealing. That seems to be changing - and I think that will make a big difference in the popularity and acceptance of green designed products overall.

I know I am willing to pay extra for an environmentally conscious product - to a point. 

As an example, we saw these amazing coffee tables made from salvaged bowling alley lanes. They were super expensive, due to the hand-craftsmanship and time involved in their making, but if my budget were different, I might have thought of buying one. The point being that I'd buy it because it was unique and beautiful - not so much because it was reclaimed wood. That's a nice thing and a good story. But it wouldn't make me plunk down five grand for a table if it weren't stunning. You can get all pious on me, if you want, with the wouldas and shouldas. But I firmly believe that's how most people feel.

Buying green for the majority of people is a bonus - not the primary motivation for buying. It'd better work just as well as the normal product, be beautiful, have a good story - something.

Another great example is green laundry detergent. Have you tried it? I've tried many types; my seriously environmentally-obsessed friends have done so too, and every single one of us has switched back to regular detergent despite the impact to the environment because our clothes just don't get clean. It doesn't work! When someone makes one that does, we're in.

That's what made this Dwell show such a pleasure... So many beautiful, functional, smart, green products that really work. Somewhere, we crossed the line and function and form are both stand-alone advantages within these offerings.

What's not to love? From bamboo sheets to outdoor pillows made from recycled water bottles to beautiful furniture and lighting, we left feeling incredibly optimistic about the future. 

Sitting still is good for the mind. So says meditators, intellectuals, Buddhists and other deeply contemplative types. I, however, suck at it. I'm a mover; restless, easily bored, driven to distraction, usually over-energized. As Deb says, "You're the kind of person that needs to be walked everyday." Um, while distinctly un-thrilled with the thinly-veiled doggy reference, yes. She's right.

And yet, there are those times where sitting still isn't a choice. Like for health reasons, or having a baby, or because someone in your family needs you. You curtail the wanderlust, take the road frequently traveled, and park your fat ass on the sofa, waiting for the shackles to come off.

I've been sitting still since October of last year. And hating every minute.

There are those who love to travel, and those who don't. I do. For me, it's like breathing. It doesn't have to be far, or fancy, or even overnight. I just need to hit the road regularly and often, hike, bike, shop, swim or eat somewhere away from San Diego, preferably with family or friends, breathing new air. Seeing new stuff. Trying new things. It keeps the brain elastic, the soul inspired.

So this little pictorial of the quick trip to Julian with Deb and the Dziewit offspring represents the de-schackling of the Tuttle-McGlathery clan, and our renewed status as members of the living.

We experienced The Most Goody-Goody Afternoon of Family Entertainment Ever Known, courtesy of the Smith Ranch. We rode a little 18-gauge mining train on a mini-history tour, all flavored with sprinkles of Mormon wholesomeness. The kids raised a flag at a half-completed "Daniel Boone Fort", panned for gold, donned mining hats and explored a mine, pointed out horse poop. The proprietors were so nice as to be otherworldly, completely attentive to the kids, and wore head-to-toe pioneer gear - or perhaps that was their everyday attire. It, um, was sort of hard to tell.

The kids had a blast. The adults fought off the urge to drink heavily and swear while playing poker and thinking naked thoughts - you know, just to maintain our karmic balance.

Later, we cooked burgers. We ate pie. We stopped and took pictures of an abandoned house and hiked around town. We drank good coffee, read and listened to the wind in the trees.

It was nothing special, really, and yet - as I awoke in the middle of the night in the cabin with soft snores all around me and a windstorm howling outside - it was. 

I can't wait for the next trip, wherever it may lead. Thanks Deb. Thanks Varmint. Thanks for keeping me laughing, Shorties. You guys make terrific travel buddies.

With the delivery of our patio furniture and all of the cushions, comes the delivery of another kind of treasure: Giant cardboard boxes.

After grabbing some supplies and spending a few minutes setting them up and stripping Mak down, we got busy.

Slick, gooey paint, bright beautiful colors, a warm day. I'm not sure who had the better time, my 2 year old, or me.

My favorite part was watching her get inspiration and then just going for it. It is less about the colors than it is about the feel of everything.

Which is a great reminder for us adults, who spend so much time clamping down on those sorts of things that sometimes they start to atrophe.

So why not grab some paint, get messy and get back in touch with your inner two year old? I'm glad I did.

Last week was surgery week - me, with more skin cancer removals, and The Varmint with a much more serious sinus surgery involving anesthesia, nose splints, and the dreaded Schnozz Hammock. 

This would not have been a fun week, regardless of the bloody boog bandages, strange facial masks and wound dressings. But then, because it's written somewhere that it is 'The Way of Things,' the kid got sent home from preschool sick. Then both grandmas went down for the count. With everybody under the weather and no childcare? Yeah, I bet you wish you could come over for a nice long visit, huh? 

Me neither.

But since I live here, and renting a hotel room was not an option (though admittedly a fantasy at certain points during the week), I sacked up, duct taped on my big girl panties, and dealt. What else could I do? Vegas was just not an option.

And while I was neither Florence Nightengale nor a sweetly smiling Julie Andrews through the week - because let's face it, I'm Tam - I managed. And since being Tam means that snarkasm and kindness are delivered in pretty much equal doses (even in the best of times), The Varmint was appreciative - which went far to keeping his pieces and the peace intact.

So, we live. And The Varmint brought a lovely bunch of cheery flowers as thank you for single-parenting / CEO-ing / chefing / cleaning / nursing all week. Which was super sweet. (He's getting much better with the spousal strategies these days, I've noticed. I guess 5 years of marriage can teach a man a thing or two, after all.)

Which brings us to tomorrow, the official date of celebration for our 5th year married. It was helpfully pointed out to me by Christy that this milestone means we've made it to our "wood" anniversary, which, let's face it, has all sorts of snickery adolescent connotations that I'm forcing myself not to voice (way too easy).

In consideration of this big event, we're skipping gifts - as I expect to do most every year - and getting something that will give us both years of enjoyment instead:

That's right. A fence.

Marriage metaphors aside, a "fence" for us essentially means "kid corral." Shoo the little whippersnappers outside - and no more worries about car squashings or step tumblings. Sweet! Add to that the new patio furniture we splurged on (all in an effort to expand our living space in anticipation of daughter numero 2 - without buying a new house) - and we just gained nearly 400 square feet of living space for less than $5K. Yah to the hoo!

And for all those purists out there, obsessed with all things romantical and traditional, I say, "Hey, look! It's wood!" And I think I'll get a lot more use and happiness out of our 5-year anniversary gift to one another than I would from a necklace and a box of truffles.

Happy Anniversary, babe.

Sitting in my big red chair, I watch the most un-morningest-person on the planet, otherwise known as Zombie Daddy, stumble out to the kitchen in his big black bathrobe and matching undereye circles, pour himself a bowl of raisin flax seed cereal and drag-ass to the sofa.

He flops down with a huff and commences to blearily shovel cereal into his face, as his polar opposite, Mak, flits about him like a fairy satellite chatting incessantly and asking questions, a hyper white light to his slothy grumbles.

Spotting his huge bowl of cereal, Mak stops chattering mid-sentence, runs out to the kitchen and flings open a drawer with a clatter. 

"I think my cereal's about to get hijacked," mumbles Zombie Daddy.

In races the kid, spoons in hand. She leaps onto the sofa, grabs his bowl of cereal shouting, "YAYO!" (her word for cereal) and proceeds to hunt down every raisin morsel in the bowl. Her face is coated with milk and flax detritus. Daddy's still gamely shoveling in the now-raisinless remnants as well, though Mak's a bit territorial and making it difficult. It's rather like watching a couple of puppies scramble for an open teat.

Finally, Mak takes a huge bite and, making a scrunchy face, spits it (there are no more raisins, after all) - in all it's half-chewed glory - back into the bowl. They stare at one another, heavy lidded Daddy and the glinty-eyed sprite.

Slowly, he dips his spoon into the bowl, hauling out a big scoop of the now-special cereal, never losing eye contact, never blinking. He shovels it in. Chews. Swallows.

Which Makenna finds hilarious.

And ok, I admit it: Me, too. But to my credit, there is still a large part of me that wants to gag. Think I'll wait for the post-toothbrushing phase of the morning before getting too close.

It's just 20 days shy of The Varmint and I being hitched for five years. If you'd have told me, as I was walking down that grassy aisle, that it'd go by in the blink of an eye, that we'd each be 15 pounds and two kids heavier - I'd have rolled my eyes at you and snorted. Five. Short. Years. Riiiight.

Five short years. We had traveling plans, The Varmint and I. Ideas of living and working abroad for a year. Ideas about businesses and houses and other stuff, I now realize, you generally have very little control over.

The other thing we didn't count on was that biological clock nonsense, so fine for other people, but not for us. We were travelers! We were young and driven! Woo! But then Justin, The Varmint's brother, goes and has a kid and suddenly some reproductive form of sibling rivalry takes over and *bling!* there's this little gleam in The Varmint's one unsquinting eye - and BAM! the next thing I know, I'm guzzling fertility pills.

Nine months later, our minds are blown and we sort of count that day as the first day we feel like we do now - like a real family. It's a different feeling from when you're a couple, married or no, and there's no way to explain it other than it's a root connection, primal, your genetics and your purpose are tangibly mixed and very present - and you get to stare at that mixture, interact with her, every day. She's more important than you, it's bigger than you and suddenly you understand something you didn't understand, even the day before she was born, that's hard to put into words: You are all something more now.

Last night I had a nightmare about losing The Varmint; it was one of those dreams where you wake up with that icy pit in your stomach and it won't go away. I skooched over and curled myself around his superheated back (those extra 15 pounds do come in handy late at night), wake him up (annoyingly for him, I'm sure) to squeeze him and tell him I love him. He mumbles "I love you too" and immediately begins snoring again.

It got me thinking about how, in the thrum and beat of daily life it's easy to lose focus, to coast along in the comfort and shared complacency, to take your eyes off the prize right in front of you, to let little things peeve, to ignore the greatness and the mystery and the simple friendship there and just task through life without taking the time for a good wallow with the one you love.

With the one you loved first - that made all of the rest of this overwhelming, soul tearing, crashing, thrashing, screaming, jumping, dancing, aching, laughing love possible. So here's to you, my Varmint. Happy Birthday.

Let's wallow. 

Makenna: "DADDY! WHERE AAAAARE YOU? GO GET ICE CREAM!!! ICE CREAM!!! YAAAY!"

The Varmint: (echoing from inside the bathroom) "Yes, Makenna. We'll go get ice cream as soon as Daddy's finished."

Makenna: (2.5 seconds later) "DADDY! COME ON! COME ON, DADDY!"

The Varmint: "In a minute Sweetie, Daddy's busy."

Makenna: "NO! NO DUMP, DADDY! NO DUMP! ICE CREAM!!!"

This is an amazing photographic art project and a heart-wrenching video created by JR, a French photographer who has used his artistry to uplift and turn our collective eye to a region known primarily for being one of the largest slums in the world.

Located in Nairobi in Africa, Kibera is a sprawl of cramped shacks without running water, plumbing or sanitation. Hunger, disease, crime and flooding are common. It is also estimated that 440,000 people living in the slum have HIV, and cannot afford the medical treatment necessary for their disease. That's 1/5 of the total HIV population in Kenya.

Despite the despair and hardship, Kibera is considered an improvement to the living conditions of many of its inhabitants - refugees, survivors of starvation, women and children displaced by war and poverty, rape and murder campaigns. They all make their way to Kibera to find shelter and sanctuary.

The art project collects the stories of a few women of Kibera, then takes simple black-and-white photographs of them smiling. Many of the tales, however, are gruesome nightmares - and create a soul-jarring contrast to the inspiring and touchingly human images.

While the 4-minute video moved me to tears, the corresponding clever installation of those images into giant murals pasted to walls, buses, rooftops (the material selected actually improves the soundness of the shaky structures) is what is truly stunning, all designed to inspire and uplift the people of the region.

The art project was created to celebrate the endurance and strength of the women of Kibera, women who have suffered unimaginable horrors such as being forced to watch the murder of their children and husbands, and who - despite it all - continue to try to knit the fabric of family and society into an ever-tighter weave.

For the longest time, I only thought a slum like Kibera existed in faraway places, on other continents.

Little did I know that you could drive less than hour from my front door and be in the middle of one. There, I met a 17-year-old kid living in a shack with his four younger brothers and sisters using a bucket for a toilet and selling gum on the street to try to make enough money to buy rice for dinner.

My friend Jenny, always a volunteer and activist, had recruited me to help build houses from garage doors in the slums of Tijuana. (That's the place in the amazing picture, above, taken by Vermin87.) My arrival in that place was mind-blowing. Standing there, with the visual, that smell, that experience - well, it was a realization that shook me to the core. It hit me in a real way that "Eat all of your food - there are children starving in Africa," never did.

I finally, really understood that being working class in America is an unbelievably luxurious dream life for most of the rest of the world.

I remember at the end of that long day one family from the slum cooked food for us over an open fire in their cramped 10 x 10' space as a means of thanks. And I truly understood what that meant for them to do that. Giving something away when you have nothing is an unbelievable gift.

That insight is why I will definitely be taking my kids to travel, to volunteer, to see the world first-hand. Experience fosters  a different kind of to-the-bone understanding. Empathy and compassion are hard-earned, like anything else, and must have our full attention in order to grow.

I really need to remember that.

P.S. If you're curious about the term 'flying toilet' (I've received email from people wanting to know), click here.

 

 

The Varmint took this picture today, in our backyard.

Yesterday, we awoke to the cat behaving all sketchy and weird, yowling and stiff-legged, stalking through our backyard planter, and pacing back and forth on our patio.

A few minutes later, we discovered three "Kitty Gifts." Two were inside the garage, in the usual place (right next to his food bowl, as if he were participating in a potluck). One was a mangled, half-eaten rat head that even Hannibal Lecter would have refused, and a pile of blue feathers with nary an entrail or bit of blood upon them. The most impressive offering was displayed on the patio - a whole, fresh-killed gopher. 

We're still trying to figure that one out.

But as I said, that was yesterday's news, and let's face it: We live in a world where it's what you do today that counts. Apparently McLovin understands that, too.

Which is why, when Makenna comes running in after being on the patio this morning and hollers, "MOMMY! MOUSE!!!" my blood ran a little cold. I have a vision of her holding out a half-chewed, bloody rodent as she runs up to me, but I'm wrong. She's mouse-free.

I take a deep breath and brace myself to stay cool, as she takes my hand to show me her discovery on the patio. I have to say, I am immensely relieved when I see the mouse, whole if a little saliva-soaked, still in McLovin's jaws. 

Of course, I was less pleased when it twitches and I realize it is temporarily still alive. "SEE MOMMY? MOUSE!"

"Mmm-hm! Mouse, baby. You're right. And look, kitty and the mouse are playing together now... How about we go inside and watch TV?" I say, herding her inside as she cranes her neck to see the mouse. I shut and lock the door behind me.

Thirty minutes later, there is a neat pile of intestines carefully presented as an offering in the usual place. 

We're so grateful.

And as I write this, I can't help but wonder: What's will we find tomorrow? The cat is on a roll.