ONE GOOD LIFE

Hello, Teagan Jayne :: Part I

2009-09-12T22:00:06Z

This one's for Teagan. To remember the day she was born.

If I told you that 5:45 Sunday morning, September 6, 2009, arrived in an eyeblink, quicker than thought, quicker even than acceptance of eight-plus months of denial could evaporate - you probably wouldn't be surprised. There will be only one day in my life where I wake up and say, "I'm having a baby today."

Grunting and skootching out of bed, lugging my belly, I push off with my arms to regain homo erectus status, trying not to wake Makenna, sleeping soundly by my side. There are definitely things I won't miss about being pregnant. And perhaps more surprisingly, more that I will - utterly unexplicable things, sensations, unformed primal thoughts that tether us back to the wild and to the baby inside. I feel calm where I'd felt nerves the night before.

(No food, no coffee, no water for 8 hours) + (Pregnant lady) = Look Out, World

We spent the week in a feverish sprint to the finish line, with work, chores, baby preparations. Disinfecting this. Stocking up on that. I felt like we were stocking our fallout shelter, and only just managed to finish packing before placing our bags so tidily at the front door. "We look like we're leaving for vacation," I smirk to myself.

We're running late, so mom swoops in to pick up Makenna. Uncle John and cousins Livia and Kaio await. Kenna has hours of mayhem ahead of her; she's not the only one.

The Varmint and I arrive at the hospital and are ushered into a labor room, where I'm stripped by Pam our peppy British nurse and IV'd and drowned in paperwork for the first hour. We joke with Dr. Dunn, our chatty, upbeat, funky-glasses-wearing OB/GYN.

"Ha ha ha, isn't funny that you're going to be elbow-deep in my guts within the next couple of hours?" I hear myself yammer nervously. He provides a smiling, but more solemn response: "I prefer to think that I'll be presenting you with your baby." Yeeeaaaah.

I'd argue that laughs go further in the anxiety-squelching department, but I suppose when it comes to surgeons, I'll take focus over rubber chickens.

Good Hair, Bad Juju
Anyway, as they start to load me up with IV fluids, I joke with the nurses. This time around, it being a planned birth and all, I'd had my hair washed and blown-out - since post-ceasarean it's not the easiest thing to manage. The 'do hadn't looked this good in weeks.

Later, we are informed (drip-drip-drip) we will be delayed (drip-drip) as some lady with twins is delivering in the operating room, "Safety first!" says Dr. Dunn. Everyone seems worried about me worrying about the delay. Frankly, I couldn't care less. She's got twice the trouble; she can take my operating room. The trick for me with dealing with stress is to give myself over to it; there's nothing I can do to change anything. Why muck things up with a crappy attitude?

As is the usual deal, they start to load me up with fluids, but not the good kind. Coffee IV, anyone? Nooo, instead I get Pitocin, the nasty hormone that fakes the body out that it's birth-time. My body's natural reaction is DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, but resigns itself to the situation. Within two hours, Shannon will be dressed in his Hazmat suit and I'll be on the table, numb from the chest down, hurling uncontrollably - but hey, we don't know that yet.

Uncomfortably Numb
It's a creepy feeling, getting that spinal, all alone in the O.R. with the anesthesiologist doing the whole "talk to keep them calm" thing. Let's face it, lady - nothing masks that sinking, claustrophobic, crushing feeling of the needle sliding in between your vertebrae. There is an indescribable wrongness to it. I thought that would be the worst of things, and said so to the doc. She laughingly agreed with me.

We'd be wrong.

Part II is next...

Mak + Trajan: Cool Cousins

2009-09-03T16:00:00Z

With one week left until the baby is due, we've been keeping Makenna busy. On this particular day, we had some extra-special help from her cousin Trajan.

Time Ticks Down

2009-08-20T02:05:05Z

Three weeks to go. And who'd have thought two pregnancies could be so different?

It's weird enough having something wiggling around on the inside of your body, shoving itty bitty extremeties into the nooks and crannies of your hip bones, rib cage, bladder floor and belly button. Things this time around have never ceased to make me go "Hmmmmph?!" - from the barfous first three months, to the substantially smaller belly, to the wonky knee-cracking ligaments and breathlessness. The biggest changes are not with body, but attitude.

It's so much quieter internally this time around. Less fear. There's none of the trying to control things. No classes, birth plans, room decorating or baby showers. The hoopla's been eliminated.

We're riding this one out low-key and mellow. The anticipation is there, tempered by a bittersweet melancholy: The internal connection to my wee new girl is not as fierce as it was with Makenna; in the face of the recognized enormous powerlessness of the gestating and birth process, I've retreated into myself and my relationship with my walking daughter. I'm treasuring every remaining moment of just-the-two-of-us time together.

I've got a bad case of the "been there, done that"s with this pregnancy, despite the fact that things are so different this time around. Perhaps the early scare of catastrophic issues with this pregnancy skeeved me. Or perhaps I'm deeper in denial - or more aware and wary - of the life-changing wrecking ball swinging our way.

Don't misread me; I'm thrilled we're having another wee girl. I know it's going to be brilliant for the whole family - and especially for Kenna, whose best friend I hope to be giving birth to shortly.

But honesty requires truth: There's a mourning for the joy of our current threesome, the deep blue relationship with my beautiful first daughter, the budding bits of freedom we're all enjoying with her growing independence. Soon, it will be back to double-digit diaper changes, hyper-vigilance and the brave new world of sibling dynamics. Fun!

They say you've got to let go before you can embrace something (or someone) new - but the good news is, in this case, it's ultimately a group hug.

In the meantime, if I'm feeling a little blue and need a pick-me-up, I just walk into the girls' room and look at all of the brand new teeny-tiny onesies sitting in her drawer. If that doesn't put a smile on your face, nothing will.

Top 10 Splurges (That Make Daily Life Worth Living)

2009-07-12T17:40:02Z

My good friend Christy just wrote a terrific story titled "Five Dollar Croutons" about the 10 simple things in her daily life on which she refuses to skimp. Interestingly, at least 4 of her 10 were on my list, too. She asked for everyone to do the same, because she finds it so fascinating to see people's answers.

Me too. So share the love, everybody. It's an interesting personal exercise, too.

TAM's TOP 10 SPLURGES

1. Good Coffee. You can buy the cheap stuff, but it's just not the same. Once you've made the mistake of acquiring a taste for strong, black, French Roast / espresso-style java that fries the tastebuds and sends your nerves a-jangle, watered-down diner joe just doesn't cut it anymore. I don't even look at what it costs me, because frankly, I don't give a damn.

2. Good Bedding. You spend 1/3 of your life sleeping. I prefer not to spend it wrapped in a scratchy 100-thread count cocoon, atop a collapsing college student mattress. I've been in relationships *coff-coff - still am* with those who are less choosy, making arguments such as "after you sleep on them and wash them enough, the cheap sheets get soft anyway" and "mattresses are just too expensive for what you get." Then again, I've noticed that as soon as certain individuals have experienced the good stuff, tunes change drastically.

3. Quality Kitchen Knives. You use them every day, and a sharp, well-balanced knife makes the chore of chopping a pleasure. Of course, you run into problems when you've got a roommate who, say, takes your treasured 7" $150 Henkel masterpiece of a knife and uses it, unbeknownst to you, for stuff like pruning their rose garden because they misplaced their shears... But even that level abuse is an endurable offense. Once. It can be a pricey splurge, but wiith proper care, a good knife set lasts a lifetime.

4. A Trusted Housekeeper. I'd forgo everything else on my list to keep my housekeeper. As Christy mentioned, I'm a fanatic about this subject. She's cheaper than a marriage counselor, and the peace of mind that comes from a deeply clean, uncluttered space - our sanctuary from the bustling outside world - is incalculable. Worth. Every. Penny.

5. Timeless Furniture. Not a priority for everyone. There are people who make a hobby of interior design and rotate their household furnishings regularly. I'm a keep-and-hold sort of gal, who appreciates vintage and modern Danish design and comfort. The day the last piece of IKEA leaves my house, I'm celebrating. Until then, I will save until I can afford the classic piece I want and then spend good money on it - if that's what it takes. A smooth-lined table, hand-hewn with wood and stone, or a glowing Italian lamp, or a multi-functional piece that ignites the inner fires of home, hearth and good design? For me, worth it. A recent purchase of comfortable outdoor furniture has literally changed the way we live.

6. Our Future. This is not a "splurge" really, but it's something we're committed to. No matter how crappy the year, even when it was the worst year ever for our then start-up business and we literally had no money and were breaking open change jars for groceries, we put away the maximum possible for our IRAs. This, for us, is daily peace of mind. It may (probably) still not be enough for us to live large in retirement, but it keeps us out of the Xanax bottle in the meantime.

7. A Perfect Handbag & Wallet. At first glance, this may look like it flies in the face of Christy's "Waste of Money" list, where she nominated "Designer Purses" as a wasted investment, but it doesn't. A perfect handbag / wallet is not necessarily a designer item (and in fact, usually isn't). It needs to be well-organized with multiple deep-sectioned pockets, outside storage for quick-grab items (cell phone, wipes, pen), and it needs to work hard for the purpose you intend. It might be for work, overnight, or daily use. My last must is that it be beautiful, with no cheap man-made fabrics, so that it wears well for the long haul and is something I love to hold, touch and carry with me every day. All this said, I've never spent more than $250 on a bag.

8. A Top-Notch Camera. Not only is the weighty feel of it, sound of it (a shutter clicking immediately upon the press of a button is one of the most satisfying sounds there is), flexibility of it a joyful experience - the long-term benefit of beautiful pictures of a life well-lived will pay itself back throughout the history of our family. It also gives me a fascinating passtime, and something to do when I'm not feeling particularly social at gatherings.

9. Personal Upkeep. Ooh, this one inspires debate amongst the girls. So chalk this up to personal preference. But in my case, having professionals manage my personal grooming stuff: Skin and hair especially, and in that order, are necessary pleasures that I look forward to for weeks. Appointments are soothing, quiet, provide me with extended alone time and uninterrupted space to think and daydream, incorporate the potency of human touch, and ensure that things are done right and kept healthy. The fact that I strut out of my hairdresser with the right cut and feeling fab is an absolute bonus. But being prone to skin cancer and all, my esthetician appointments are a part of my general health. She checks for suspicious items in addition to providing her usual services. I'll scale back on frequency if times are tight, but until the apocalypse, you'll never catch me cutting or coloring my own hair or eliminating my skincare rituals entirely.

10. Mac Laptop & TiVo. These two purchases have been the most revolutionary, time-saving buys of the last 10 years. Everyday bliss is well-worth these two hefty pricetags. So much so, I couldn't choose just one.

Dwell On Design '09

2009-06-28T18:36:24Z

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.

Roadtrip to Julian

2009-06-08T16:37:11Z

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.

Colorful World

2009-05-23T16:11:12Z

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.

Fences & Flowers

2009-05-21T18:35:30Z

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.

Yayo Bandit

2009-05-12T16:05:20Z

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.

The Varmint at 42: A Time to Wallow

2009-05-02T16:28:08Z

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.

Overheard: Mak & Daddy

2009-04-22T01:26:06Z

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!!!"

Fine Art & Flying Toilets

2009-04-21T14:40:42Z

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.

Serious Business

2009-04-18T22:09:37Z

A Mouse's Last View

2009-04-18T07:26:46Z

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.

A Shopping Manifesto

2009-04-18T00:03:08Z

Let's face it, in these days of a new frugality and increased consciousness about need vs. want, shopping is deeply uncool.

It's about time. Even the ultra-rich have pared back on blatant consumerism - or at least are hiding it much better. And this is a good thing. Better for the Earth, better for our souls. But what do you do when you have to shop?

The Varmint and I ran into this when he scored a many-months-long on-site consultancy awhile back and realized: He had just 3 Garanimals-like business-outfits. Everything else? Jeans and t-shirts, baby! (Hey, it's one of the bonuses of being your own boss. You can have a concall in your flannels if you want!)

A long, long, loooong time ago, I used to enjoy shopping. My passion has waned - or maybe transferred - since The Kid appeared on the scene. I do still love clothes, but shopping's a necessity rather than a pastime these days.

Loving clothes however is very different from being a fashionista. I dislike that term. Besides being sexist, fashionistas are dimwitted label-freaks, shopaholics that will spend thousands to follow every trend or have the latest, starlet-driven must-have.

I couldn't give a shit who's wearing what. To be frank, I don't shop fancy. I'm happiest in comfy, casual clothes. Old Navy and Target? Fine by me much of the time. I just have adopted some strong rules in general about what to buy, how to shop - stuff I've learned over the years from thrifty friends, designers, editors and my mom. I also learned a lot from the other instructors at FCC (I taught at the fashion college for a few years) who were teaching costuming and fashion history.

But mostly, I learned from having a mother with seamstress-level skill, who taught me the difference between well-tailored, beautifully-made clothes designed for your body - where thought is given to fabric, cut and seam - versus the cheaply-made, highly profitable, slap-stitched crap you'll find on most racks. That doesn't mean buying designer is where it's at, either. Growing up, my best friend Megan and I would spend hours combing the racks of used clothing stores and vintage shops and found amazing treasures that wouldn't break the bank.

I still shop used clothing stores, Ebay, vintage boutiques, low-end department stores and now, the Internet. Once the item is on your back, no one gives a damn where it came from.

Since three friends asked for shopping info in one week, I decided put some notes together; I'm throwing a few ideas out there (and am hoping you'll dish out some of your own). If you have any additional ideas for smart shopping - add them to the comments section, below.

Oh, and for the record? These strategies work for guys as well as gals...

Most of my rules for shopping surround the Cost Per Wear (CPW) of stuff I buy. It works like this:

- Let's say you find a heavy, lined, wool trenchcoat you like. it's just 50 bucks - on sale for 75% off. It's a cold weather item. You're not sure how often you'll wear it in sunny San Diego. But, it's 75% off! Should you buy it? I reason this stuff out by thinking of it in terms of Cost Per Wear. Being as it's San Diego, let's say you'll wear it twice a year and use the coat for an average of 8 years. That means at sixteen wearings, you'll have spent $3.13 each time to wear it. That's pricey.

- By contrast let's say you spend $100 on a pricier, lighter weight cashmere piece and use it as a layering item, wearing it an average of 3 times per month (or 36 times per year) for 8 years. At that rate it costs .17 per wearing. Now that's more like it!

- Buy less stuff of better quality for your basics.

- Remember: More expensive does not mean better. This is my number one rule. LOOK AT HOW IT'S MADE. Then try it on and see if it is flattering. Always use the dressing room, even for sweatpants.

- Designer labels do not necessarily manufacture better quality clothes, either. It just means they're more expensive, LOTS more expensive, especially if the label is showing. Which is why...

- In general, I never wear designer labels - of any kind - that show. Unless you're paying me to advertise, I don't care if there is a Coach or Prada label on my ass or not. Neither should you, when the markup can literally be 600%.

- That said, a designer brand can easily be resold on Ebay, or in a consignment shop, for cash. If there is something that hits all the rules, in form, function and fashion and I adore it - but it's a designer item - I might buy it, if I think I can resell the item easily. Purses, shoes and outerwear are easy resells, if kept in good condition. (I just sold a Prada tote for 3/4 of what I originally paid for it, after using it nearly every day for 4 years. The CPW was less than 15 cents.)

- Check your seams. Is the garment well-made? Is it lined, half-lined? How is it finished? Is there a hem or is it a Serger seam, machine finished and quick-cut? Are the seams pressed flat - or could they be? Are the buttons double-sewn? Is there room for tailoring?

- Special occasion items like dinner dresses are usually super-pricey. I always ask: Why spend big money on a fancy dress, when you will likely only wear it twice, total? I'd much rather put the money toward the accessories, beautiful separates that I'll wear ten times as much, delicious shoes or the right purse. Not only will I use those items more often, but will likely be able to sell them and get at least half my investment back in cash!

- It's a personal preference, but I usually buy only natural fiber blends. If the fabric is 100% manmade, skip it. Just Rayon. Or Polyester. Or shiny, in general... no thanks. Unless you're actress-skinny and nothing jiggles, it can look cheap and universally flatters no one. But throw a little Spandex blend in with a lot of cotton or silk? Or, if it's cashmere? Heaven. I'll pay extra. Good fabric means more comfort, breathability and durability - and it hangs better on your body without highlighting flaws.

- Know your body. There are so many stylish cuts that I would LOVE to wear, but I pass them by, because my big shoulders, non-existent waist and short stature would instantly Oompa Loompa me. Not good. If you're going to buy fewer items of better quality, make sure they are flattering. (We scored The Varmint bought a pair of well-cut dark jeans that narrow at the cuffs and work for work and play - and make his booty SO juicy. He's already worn them 25 times at least.)

- Know your colors. I can't wear pastels, period. Pink - and I like pink, thankyouverymuch - Barbie-fys me, so it's a no-go. Likewise, I've got to ease up on the black. Too stark, shows all the blotches, ruddiness and freckled skin; with black, you receive no benefit of light reflection and you drop back into anonymity - which can sometimes be a goal. Now that I'm older, jewel colors are becoming more and more my friends. Except certain shades of red. Because as a tomato-faced blonde, an orangey-red turns me into... you guessed it! An Oompa Loompa. Brunettes generally look great in that color, though!

- In general, I spend less (to no) money on trends, and more money on classics. I'll not bat an eyelash at spending $150 on a pair of well-fitting black trousers or jeans that I'll wear hundreds of times, but will freak at spending $75 on a trendy pair of pants. Why? Because trendy means less wears.

- I limit large patterns in general, unless they're neutrals. One, I'm small. (Small people and big bright patterns don't go well together.) Second, people remember patterns, which once again limits the number of wearings you'll get.

- I spend more money on good tailored basics, and on accessories that matter. Like my purse. Or a colorful scarf. Or a belt I know I'll wear the hell out of. Notice I said tailored basics - like jackets, pants - and these days, jeans. But T-shirts? Skip the pricey ones. Head to Target, baby. $9 scores you a winner.

- I shop less than I used to; and am happier, and 100% guilt-free about buying fewer, nicer things.

- Shop by feel. Touch the fabric. Is it soft? Are there scratchy bits? If so, don't buy it! You won't wear it because it'll be uncomfortable. If it's comfortable, flatters, doesn't show my ass-crack? I'm in. (I'm 40. Dressing like a 17 year old is stupid.) Cashmere sweaters never go out of style, and when finally holey and worn out, make fantastic pajama tops on cold nights. Another friend I know sewed her old sweaters into a gorgeous and funky scarf.

- I totally recommend bringing a brutally honest friend (or ask a professional shopper if you've got that kind of dough) when it's time to push past your comfort zone and clean out the closet. If you don't know if it's time, then it's probably time. I ask my friends Megan or Sally every couple of years for an intervention; what's ugly; what works. And they'll tell me. In a soul-withering, nail-studded baseball bat to the ego kind of way. Donate or sell the stuff you don't wear. Never throw it away. (One pair of leather shoes takes 40 years to decompose in the landfill.)

- We all develop blind spots and tend to buy the same stuff over and over in different versions. You've got to pop yourself out of that. Ask a good friend will rip the Band-aid off and tell you what's what; there's no picking at the edges. It hurts, but it saves a lot of time. (Too bad both Megs and Sal live out of town; I think I need to woo one south. I'm overdue for both a closet spanking and a come to Jesus.)

- By all means, if you're busy and can afford it, have your delicate clothes professionally laundered. But never, ever dry clean. The chemicals not only cause cancer and are toxic as hell, they are proven to reduce the life of your clothes. I request gentle laundering, in cold water, even for cashmere. (Also, you can have your sweaters professionally shaved, if they're pilling - extends the CPW and keeps things neat.) Good laundering means more wearings.

- Shop where there is less competition. I've found some of my sweetest finds in boutiques catering to an older demographic. The grannies don't want the stuff I do, and people my age don't shop in the granny section. Cull the herds, kids!

- I still love quality vintage shops for one-of-a-kind pieces. (I can't afford couture, so this is really the closest most of us will ever get to that in terms of quality, cut and uniqueness.) Vintage dresses and separates are great for fancy dress events.

- Use the Internet! I rarely shop department stores. But if I do, it's usually during a sale or for a bigger budget item (like eyewear, totes, shoes). Then I write down the brand and style # of the piece I like - then hit the Internet to compare and shop. I've saved hundreds doing this, and also by taking advantage of www.retailmenot.com. You can even save big money by shopping the same department store you're ONLINE instead of in-store. In person, they're counting on impulse buys and you're nearly guaranteed maximum price and a more limited selection. Online you'll find sales, coupons, incentives, selection - even entire lines of product unavailable in-store. Be patient by a day or two - it pays.

So there it is. Now more than ever, with the economy in the shitter, when you have to shop, it pays to get strategic. We ended up completely updating The Varmint's wardrobe with workable wear for less than $500. And let me tell you, his pelt has NEVER been shinier.

What about you? Have any strategies for shopping on a budget that work? Spill!