Downsizing My Hoop

Today was a momentous occasion: I hooped with my ten year-old daughter's hula hoop.

For those of you who aren't hoopers, you may say, "Big Whoop!". But, trust me. It IS a big friggin' whoop. I started out hula hooping over two years ago with a ginormous, heavy-as-hell hoop that was almost as tall as I was. When I first began, I couldn't keep that thing rotating around my larger-than-average girth to save my life. However, after swaying, shimmying, swearing, circling, and slamming for two long years, I am now able to hoop for an hour with a teeny, tiny, light-as-a-feather dance hoop that is suitable for a petite elementary schooler.

I LOVE LOVE LOVE it!!! The lighter hoop makes it easier to do crazy tricks like over-the-head tosses, around-the-body spins, and fun finger-hooping. (Yes, finger hooping.) I can't wait to practice it again tomorrow, as I know it will only get easier (as everything does when we just keep at it.)

I am eternally grateful to my darling daughter for lending me her sparkly dance hoop, and if she wants to get it back, she'll have to pry it from my cold, dead hoopy hands.

Sex Ed 101

I am always shocked at what I'll write to elicit a good laugh. It's time once again for my monthly "Sex and the Suburbs" column in Creative Loafing. Let the embarrassment commence! Enjoy.

Snakes, Snakes, Go Away

A disturbing story in today's news has prompted me to write another RoseRant. According to Ron Magill of the Miami MetroZoo, the state of Florida is now known as the "Club Med" for pythons. Apparently, there are up to 175,000 of the highly-lethal serpents roaming around the Everglades, reproducing like mad and eating everything in their path, including alligators. None of these critters live naturally in this part of the world, so the infestation can be blamed entirely on careless pet owners who got in over their heads and eventually released them into the wild. Since the snakes have no natural predators in Florida, researchers are predicting that they will further multiply and eventually slither northward into Georgia, the Carolinas, and Louisiana. Sadly, just the other day, a "pet" python escaped his seemingly inescapable glass box and killed a toddler in her own bed.

The problem of python infestation could have been avoided if just one critical element was used: COMMON F@#KING SENSE. Why the hell are people buying pythons for pets? That is just about the dumbest friggin' thing I've ever heard. What kind of numbnut buys a deadly creature that should never, ever, ever be kept in a box? Is it a penis thing? Does keeping a python under glass somehow add a few extra inches to one less endowed? Note to Zeke, the owner of the now 15-foot python being kept in the back of his double-wide: Dude, your dick is just fine. You don't need to prove anything to anybody. I can only imagine that fateful moment when Zeke realizes he can't handle his reptilian roommate anymore. He puts his snake in the back of his pickup truck, hauls ass down Alligator Alley while listening to some testosterone-laced country & western song, stops by the side of the road, and opens the door of the cage. Real manly, Zeke. You are such a total stud. Yee-ha!

Please forgive my sarcasm, but I just can't help it! I am a Florida resident (at least for the next two weeks) and more importantly, I am a mother of a third-grader who weighs fifty pounds soaking wet. The thought of some gargantuan yellow python wrapping itself around my little girl (or any other child for that matter) and literally squeezing the life out of her, terrifies me. And for what? All because some idiot has unresolved penis issues.

The state government has now gotten involved, officially approving snake hunting in order to hopefully reduce the number of predatory pythons basking in sunny Florida. We'll have to see how that goes. Maybe we should also crack down on those businesses who are selling these creatures and put a modicum of ethics and responsibility on their shoulders as well. If you need to have a permit to own a gun, then you should have to get a permit to own a deadly creature. In order to acquire one, you should be able to prove you can appropriately care for the animal, even when it grows past the cute little cuddly stage. You should be able to show that no one will be in danger of putting the animal in captivity. In short, you should be able to prove that you aren't a total moron.

How many more dead children will it take before we start doing something about it?

I Swear, It's True!

A recent study conducted at Britain's Keele University has proven what we all have known for ages to be true: Swearing is good for us. No shit, Sherlock.

The study showed that the use of profanity when experiencing pain can make one feel better and increase pain tolerance. The brainy Brits who conducted the research had 64 blokes stick their hands in tubs of ice water for as long as possible while repeating the swear word of their choice (my option would probably have been "motherf@#ker!"). The control group was then asked to do the same exercise, except to repeat a benign word that would describe a table ("planar!"). Lo and behold, the vulgarians were able to keep their hands submerged in the icy waters longer than their G-rated counterparts.

The act of swearing, while often inappropriate, impolite, and downright fucking unladylike, simply makes us feel better when bad stuff happens. I don't know how it happens, but there is something magical that takes place when the word "fuck!" is uttered. It makes everything just a little bit easier to deal with. While it's occasional use might make me sound like a trucker, I certainly prefer it to downing a couple of Percocets or Vicodins. Everybody has his or her own way of getting through the pain; mine is using a well-placed F-bomb every once in a while.

At the risk of being labeled a Bad Mommy, I know my potty-mouth is potentially setting a poor example for my eight-year old daughter. However, in my defense, my off-color declarations rarely take place in the presence of Emma. Yet, when I slam my finger in the car door or stub my toe on the bed post, there is nothing that's gonna stop a naughty from escaping my lips, no matter who is in the vicinity. If the wee one is within earshot, I do my best to mutter the dirty word so as to be as camouflaged and unintelligible as possible. But, to be honest, I know I'd feel a helluva lot better if I could just blurt it out at the top of my lungs. I suggest to the Brits that they do a second study that measures the direct proportion of volume to profanity in relation to pain threshold. No doubt they would find that the louder you scream it, the better it feels.

Fuckin' A!

It's the Little Things

My hubby recently discovered this little gem from last Christmas, hidden in the abyss of our digital photo albums. Based on Emma's enthusiastic response, you'd think she had just won a private sleepover with Miley. Wanna know what precious package earned this coveted hug from The Bean? A pair of black, sparkly high heels. The young lass has already learned the value of a perfect pair of shoes.

Loosening the Apron Ties

I just finished putting my seven-year old daughter on a bus to Bemidji, Minnesota for a week-long stay at Spanish Immersion camp. I can't stop crying.

When I woke up this morning at 3:00am, I knew the departure was going to be rough. I kept mindf#@king the supply list, mentally going over it one last time (ha!) to make sure that Em has everything she needs. I thought it ironic that the parent handbook stressed the importance of the children packing lightly, yet they put 75 things on the friggin' list, including sleeping bag, pillow, a set of sheets, three towels, backpack, laundry bag, clothes appropriate for any weather, rain gear, four kinds of shoes, water bottle, sunscreen, industrial-strength mosquito spray, stationery, Spanish books, toiletries, and other assorted camp fare. When all was said and done, my kid looked like a mini-version of a Tibetan sherpa.

Beaner and I had breakfast at Caribou Coffee, and we discussed some of the new experiences she would be having over mochas and scones. We talked about cabins, bunk beds, group showers (Eeeeek!), counselors, campfires and deer ticks. Whereas Emma was totally calm, I was rapidly becoming a screaming mimi. I was reassuring her left and right, telling her how much fun she was going to have in North Country. I stressed the added benny of having a whole week without parental supervision. Needless to say, she was thrilled.

After breakfast, we headed to the Brookdale Mall, the location of the bus pickup. Given my anal-retentive personality, we naturally arrived forty-five minutes early. There were already dozens of older kids loitering with their luggage, waiting to get on their assigned bus. I didn't see any parents accompanying the kids, so I figured they've all done the dealio before. In a moment of parenting inspiration, I opted to refrain from dragging my child over to the congregation, thus sparing her the nauseating humility of having her mother doting after her, fixing her hair, quadruple checking her backpack, and giving her a spit bath. Instead, we spent the next thirty minutes talking, laughing, and cuddling in the front seat. As I looked into her beautiful green eyes, I started to get choked up at the thought of my little girl leaving. The only words she kept repeating were "Just don't cry. Just don't cry. Just don't cry." The more she said it, the closer the tears came.

Once the other kids started to board the buses, I felt it was safe to exit the vehicle. A Minnesota Nice camp counselor approached the car ("Hey there! How ya doin' today? Where'ya headed to, young lady?") and checked her in. He pointed us to Bus #2 and instructed her on how to stow her luggage. We walked to the bus together and another Nice welcomed her and took her bag ("Spanish Bemidji, eh? Sounds good!"). Before we knew it, it was time for THE MOMENT: the final hug goodbye. Emma was self-conscious about the other kids witnessing her mother have a potential emotional meltdown, so she made the hug and kiss brief but meaningful. Right before she stepped onto the bus, she turned around, gave me one of her priceless toothless grins, and gave me the "I love you" sign. Lower lip quivering, I returned the gesture and watched my only child disappear into the darkness of the luxury coach.

For the next ten minutes, I sat in my car and cried. It just didn't seem possible that EmmaBean was already old enough to be parent-free! Even though she has been away from us several times before, there wasn't the comfort of Mim, Nana Jean, Auntie Suz, Jackie or Shellie to soothe my nervous tendencies. I am now being forced to trust strangers with my precious angel. As any parent can attest, it's harder than it sounds.

After realizing that I actually needed to drive my car, I wiped my face and tried to exit the mall to go to my next destination. It literally took me another fifteen minutes to decipher Google maps, my iPhone GPS system, the labyrinthine side streets, the parking medians, and the Sears Tire Shop. I finally finally finally got out of the damn mall parking lot with tears still streaming down my face.

My rational side knows that Emma will be fine. Actually, she'll be more than fine. She'll be fantastic. She is a naturally adventurous, open person who welcomes new people and activities in her world. I know she'll be talking non-stop on Saturday about how totally cool camp was and how excited she is to return. But my rational side isn't in charge right now. The crazy, nervous-nellie, emotional, sentimental, basket-case mommy side is in control and she doesn't like it one little bit that her little girl is on a bus to Bemidji right now.

Wow. I can't even fathom what I'm gonna be like when she goes on her first date.

Flying Into the Fear

In two days, I am getting on an airplane with my seven-year old daughter, and I'm scared shitless.

Every time I step onto one of those marvels of modern technology, I have frightening visions of dropped oxygen masks, emergency lighting, twisted metal, burning flesh, and phone calls to loved ones dancing in my head. For years I wouldn't wear stockings on an airplane because I heard they can melt to your skin in the event of a crash. I admit it; I am a certifiable ninny when it comes to air travel. It certainly doesn't help that nearly every time I take a flight, there is a recent plane crash somewhere that grabs the headlines. (I don't know what kind of karmic nightmare I am destined to relive, but I feel I've paid it many times over.) Today while news surfing, I found not one, not two, not three, but FOUR stories of unfortunate flying "incidents": The tragic Air France 447 crash, an emergency landing of a Spanish jet, a missing helicopter in New Mexico, and the congressional hearings on the Miracle on the Hudson crash landing. OK, God. Enough already. I'm officially pissing in my drawers.

My plane paranoia started back in Chicago when I was a little older than Emma. Back in 1979, there was an American Airlines crash just outside of O'Hare that was captured by several amateur photographers. Unfortunately, the seedling of morbid media was planted; the pics were shown on the front page of the Chicago Tribune and replayed on our local TV news broadcasts ad infinitum. As an impressionable ten-year old, the recurring image of that plane going down in my hometown seared into my permanent memory bank. Over the next thirty years, my aviation fears intensified with each new disaster. The disturbing videos from one fateful day in September of 2001 were the final blow.

While I am fortunate enough not to have actually been in a crash, I have experienced a handful of white-knuckle flights where I was totally convinced that the plane was going to plunge into the ground like a well-thrown bar dart. I recall one particularly harrowing flight to Colorado Springs about fifteen years ago where we circled the airport for over an hour while bouncing around like a friggin' cork on the ocean, wishing, waiting, hoping for the wind shears to die down so we could land. Finally, the exasperated pilot announced, "We're gonna go for it. Tighten your seat belts and say a prayer." Oh joy. That was comforting. Passengers were embracing each other, crying, praying, clutching crosses and rosaries, throwing up, strangling armrests, and generally having total, full-on emotional meltdowns. I was basically an amalgamation of my flying compadres, vacillating from crying, praying, puking, and pleading. I shit you negative, the descent was more intense than any hardcore thrill ride at a Six Flags amusement park. After finally finally FINALLY landing safely on the runway of the Colorado Springs Municipal Airport, I didn't know which activity I wanted to do first: have a cocktail, go to church, or sleep with the businessman who sat next to me on the plane. All three sounded very inviting after enduring that God-awful Plane Ride From Hell. (I ended up doing only one.)

Flash forward fifteen years and a hubby and child later. In forty-eight hours, I am going to get on another silver bullet, but this time I'll be toting an impressionable third-grader with me. A good mommy would realize that the chances of dying in a plane crash are infinitesimal, regardless of what the newspapers portray. A good mommy would gracefully accept that if it is our time to go, then it is our time to go. A good mommy would rise to the occasion, making sure her daughter feels safe, comfy, and happy. A good mommy wouldn't drink three screwdrivers at the airport bar before stepping on the jetway.

Hmmm...I wonder if Good Mommy will show up on Friday.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

How do you feeling about flying?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

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Decisions, Decisions

Last weekend, my husband and I took our seven-year old to her first musical concert. Based on her behavior, it's likely she will become a professional groupie someday.

Instead of breaking Emma's concert cherry on the Jonas Brothers or Miley Cyrus, hubby and I opted for something a little more palatable to the adult ear. We chose Snatam Kaur (pronounced 'sah-nah-tum car'), a singer of the Sikh tradition who sings about God, peace, love, beauty, and everything else that is righteous in the world. Emma has grown up with Snatam's music, often choosing to listen to her angelic voice before she nods off at the end of the night. When we told Emma that we were taking her to see Snatam live in concert, she practically peed her Curious George undies.

Like all dedicated concertgoers, we went early so as to get good seats. Emma used her significant persuasive abilities to get us into the hall early, and we were able to grab seats in the first seated row. Since I had attended a Snatam Kaur concert previously, I knew that there would be several people that would sit on the floor in front of us. Regardless, I thought that snagging front-row seats was not too shabby.

Apparently, Emma disagreed.

Right before Snatam and her band took the stage, Emma noticed that a handful of kids had sat down at the bottom of the steps in front of the stage. The little peanut worked through her social fear of interacting with strange kids and plopped herself next to an older girl at the end of the stairs. I could easily recognize the discomfort in my daughter's face as she so desperately wanted to talk to the girl but was afraid of possible rejection. (Oops...I wonder where she learned that little trick?)

No matter; when Snatam appeared onstage, Emma instantly lost interest in all others. She was captivated by the sight and sound of this beautiful creature performing in front of her. Like a moth to the flame, Emma ever-so-subtly inched her way around all of the kids and got closer, closer, closer to Snatam over the next several songs. Before I knew it, my daughter was thisclose to jumping right on top of Snatam's harmonium and giving her a big, fat hug.



This is where my parental dilemma kicked in. It was obvious -- at least to me -- that my daughter was committing a major social faux-pas with her stage squirming. My ego was fearing that the entire audience was tsk-tsk-tsking the unruly little urchin in white (and her rotten parents) for so blatantly breaking through the fourth wall. I kept thinking that I "should" go get Emma and bring her back to the fold where all of the other semi-well-behaved children sat. Yet, there was another voice inside me yelling, "You rock on, girl! Get your booty as close as possible! You've only got one chance!" (I was reminded of myself at the ripe young age of 21 performing superhuman efforts to get thisclose to Bono at a U2 concert. To have no other human being between my musical god and me was one of the most intoxicating, delicious moments of my youth. Those leather pants...his glistening body...the serpentine way he moves...what was I talking about again? Oh yeah. My daughter.)

In the end, I opted to support my daughter's groupie tendency. I let her sit within feet of her musical heroine, reigning her in only once with a stern look and my pointer finger when she threatened to literally lay on the stage. Who knows? Maybe there were a few tsk-tsk-tskers in the audience that night. I can't say for sure. But what I can say for sure is that there is an ecstatic little seven-year old who has an amazing memory of her first concert ever.

Yep. I made the right decision.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What was your first concert experience? What was your most memorable one?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside Opening the Kimono!

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Beaner Medicine

I had a TERRIBLE day yesterday. It was one of those horrible, icky, I-want-to-crawl-in-front-of-a-bus-because-that-would-undoubtedly-feel-better sort of days.

It all started in the morning when I bid a tearful adieu to a very dear friend of mine. The heartache I felt permeated my body, layer after layer. My colon reacted to my emotional upset by deciding it would eliminate everything contained within it, courtesy of a dozen or more unpleasant trips to the loo. Soon thereafter, the nausea began. The sight, smell, and thought of food made me want to hurl. My stomach felt like I had just stepped off the Top Thrill Dragster. At mid-day, the bone-numbing fatigue set in. I could barely keep my eyes open as I crumpled into bed for an afternoon nap. Around 7:00pm, the fever started. My temperature inched up up up, peaking at 101.5 before I fell into a fitful night of shivers, cramps, and moans.

Not surprisingly, my seven-year old daughter was the key to my healing. Right before my fever spike, Emma did something totally out of character: she fell out of bed and slammed her right rib onto her bed frame. This was a highly unusual event for Emma Rose. As a martial artist, she is sure on her feet and aware of her surroundings. Ever since Emma was a baby, she has been IN her body and in control of it. Blessedly, I have been spared trips to the Emergency Room and calls from the school nurse.

But that wasn't the case last night.

Around 6:00pm, Michael and I heard a loud THUD! with a follow-on heart-wrenching cry coming from the wee one's room. As I ran to her, I saw her on the floor grabbing her right side in obvious pain. She tearfully explained how she fell out of bed and onto the metal bed-rail. The bruise was huge, nasty, and already starting to turn purple. I was afraid she hit it so hard that maybe she could have caused some internal damage.

That's all it took for me to let go of my own pain. It was time to heal my child.

I spent the next several hours giving her Reiki. For the first hour, Emma's body greedily sucked up the energy, making my hands raging hot from the transfer of healing energy. Eventually, I could feel the injured place soften and become more balanced. Once I felt the energy flowing gently, I stopped fearing that she had poked a hole in her liver or punctured her lung (I have a flair for the dramatic when it comes to the safety of my kid). I knew she would be OK.

Just to be safe, I fell asleep giving her Reiki. While my focus was on healing my daughter, I knew the energy that flowed through me would help me too. Flash forward eight hours, and I woke up feeling like a million bucks. The fever was gone, the skittish tummy was calm once again, and my vitality had returned. I felt like myself again! Just as importantly, Emma felt great too; her bruise was significantly smaller and less painful than it had been the night before.

I don't believe it was an accident that my daughter had an accident yesterday. EmmaBean and I are connected on a deep level, and I wouldn't put it past her Higher Self to orchestrate the unusual bed-dive to give me a mechanism for my healing. That's just the way that li'l squirt works. She knows what Mama needs when she needs it.

Thanks, Beaner, for the medicine.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Have you ever found yourself healing yourself because of another?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to take a peek inside the award-winning Opening the Kimono!

My Mother's Day Card

Here is the card my lovely daughter made me for Mother's Day. I love when my second grader uses a benign Hallmark holiday to further her anti-war, feminist agenda. Young Skywalker has learned her lessons well. :)



For those of you who can't decipher the message of a seven year-old who writes in yellow Crayola marker, here is a transcript:

Our moms should be the Presidents of the U.S.A.

Reasons Why.

1. Moms are specail (special)
2. Moms rock the world
3. Moms rule the world
4. Moms would run the world well
5. It would be peaceful
6. Moms would make it a better world
7. Moms would stop war!

The Importance of U and I

Kids never miss anything their parents say. Just ask my trucker-mouth hubby.

Ever since the birth of our daughter seven years ago, Michael and I have been very careful about the language we use around her. The only 'bad words' we sometimes used in her presence were hate, idiot, and stupid. In fact, my daughter was unable to recognize true dirty words for years because she never heard them. I recall one occasion in the car when someone cut me off and almost caused an accident. I yelled, "I fucking HATE when people do that shit!" My daughter gasped in her car seat and cried, "Mama! You said a bad word! You said HATE!" Whew! That was a close one. Despite that terrible (yet totally forgivable) slip-up, our word choices around the wee one have been decidedly PG rated.

However, after seven years, our attitude on semantics has gotten a little lax, and shit happens. So does fuck.

Those two popular expletives are the favorites of both my husband and I when the appropriate situation arises. Whereas in the past we have been cautious about dropping the F-bomb around the child, we have been caught blurting it out more often than we care to admit. Recently, my husband let a few of them rip when he discovered a large scratch on his precious Passat and when his computer crashed just as he desperately needed it for a big work project. My outbursts are usually related to spills on clothes, computer mishaps, and traffic dramas.

Imagine my husband's embarrassment yesterday when our cherub asked him in her sweetest Cindy-Lou Who voice, "Daddy, why have you been saying fuck and shit lately?"

To his credit, Daddy fessed up to his crimes without giving some weak-ass excuse like "Because I'm the adult, that's why!" He simply apologized for his poor choices and thanked Emma for lovingly bringing it to his attention. When he relayed the story to me later, we both agreed that part of Emma's desire to ask her daddy about his slips of the tongue was to be given the opportunity to say fuck and shit without getting into trouble. Smart kid. I don't blame her; I would have done the same thing when I was her age.

I, on the other hand, rarely say those foul words. When something swear word-worthy happens, I either do a weird Yosemite Sam rant ("Rassafrassindabnaggitriggidnutter!") or simply say the naughties WITHOUT including vowels. I growl, "Fcckkkkk!" or "Shhhtttttt!" I have convinced myself that my vowel-free profanity is totally acceptable. Without the U and I, I am free and clear to say exactly what I want without being labeled as a foul-mouthed, bad mommy, right?

I mean, there's no WAY my daughter would figure out what I really meant to say.

(Such is the rationalization of a deluded, imperfect, yet totally human mom.)

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Have you ever let a doozie slip in front of the little ones?

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Visit www.TheresaRose.net to read an excerpt from my book, Opening the Kimono!

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Don't Let the Nutters Win

This morning, I did two things that are bad for me: I drank Starbucks and read the newspaper.

Since I am gearing up to take a much-needed spiritual retreat/vacation next week, I am focusing all of my efforts on being as efficient as possible. As such, I thought I would wait in the parking lot of Staples from 7:35am (the time I drop off Beaner at the bus) to 8:00am (the time the store opens) instead of schlepping back home only to leave again to retrieve my copies. After giving smooches, straightening collars, and instructing my urchin to make it a great day, I decided I would enjoy my parking lot lollygagging a little bit more if I had a tasty Tall (notice not a Grande!) Decaf Light Whip Mocha. While in line, I opted to pick up our local newspaper, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. After having the adorable, scruffy barista give me my poison, er, order, I returned to the Mojomobile and drove to Staples to await the opening. I slurped on my delectable bev and cracked open the paper, both of which I rarely do. Here is what I discovered...

THERE ARE A BUNCH OF NUTJOBS OUT THERE.

During my fifteen minutes of idle-time, I read about unauthorized nuclear testing by North Korea, cutbacks in education, and gunrunners traveling across the border into Mexico. However, two flaming nutjobs jumped out at me as particularly odious.

1) Melissa Huckaby of Stockton, California who apparently kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and killed the 8-year old friend of her daughter. After the killing, she stuffed the little girl's body into a suitcase and dumped her into a pond. If I could say something to Melissa it would be this: Melissa, Poor, Deluded, Fucked-up Melissa, you are like a nasty old string of Christmas lights with half of the lights burned out. You are so twisted that the best thing to do with you is throw you away so you don't have to show your ugly mug in society ever again. Shame on you. How dare you! I am sure that when you go to prison, there will be other mommies in there with you who will frown upon your method of chaperoning play dates. Paybacks are a bitch, Bitch, especially when you harm a child. Ouch. It sucks to be you, in this lifetime and beyond.

2) A not-yet-identified man in my own home town of Sarasota, Florida is viciously attacking old ladies. It seems that Dickless Wonder has broken into the homes of nine middle-aged to older women, sneaked up on them from behind, bonked them on the head, robbed them, tied them up with rope, sexually assaulted a few of them (including an 82-year old woman) and killed the last one just last week. Dick, you WILL be found and brought to justice, you fucking coward. Just as Nutjob #1 will have a rocky road in the hoosgow, you too will feel the pain of your fellow inmates' displeasure at your shenanigans. It's not that I'm wishing it, mind you, but I wouldn't be surprised if one of the yard rats bonks your soft melon and gives you a taste of your own wretched medicine. (Insert your own soap-dropping reference here.)

Now, I know that I will be rightly accused of a lack of compassion for my fellow, extremely wounded, human beings. The Higher Self in me knows that these two whackjobs are most likely products of abuse, neglect, and trauma. My enlightened side says, "Show them love". Jesus would say, "Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do." Yeah, JC, God should and will probably forgive them. But I don't need to. I guess I believe that they DID know what they were doing, and those two crackpots are hard to forgive. However, it's possible that my lack of forgiveness stems from my proximity to the crimes.

In the case of the Evil Mommy, I can't help but think about my own almost-eight year old being in that situation. Emma has gone next door for a playdate with her best friend countless times. Ms. Huckaby's actions instilled that same fear in me, even if for only brief flashes of time. Through her unconscionable choices, she has rocked the worlds of mothers and fathers everywhere, not to mention destroyed the lives of the victim's family.

In the case of Dick, he has chosen to attack vulnerable women in neighborhoods where close friends of mine live. I drive by these places several times a week. This isn't some distant story buried in the national news page; it's where my peeps live and work. Clark and Beneva. US41 and Stickney Point. Siesta and Osprey. This deluded shell of a man has put the fear of God into house after house of women in my town, and I for one am pissed about it.

Here lies the challenge and the opportunity. There will always be nutjobs amongst us. Eight years ago, we had a handful of nutjobs get on four airplanes and change our world forever. That same year, a mild-mannered nutjob named Andrea drowned her five kids. Twenty-two years ago, another nutjob was putting poison in Tylenol capsules in my hometown of Chicago. Over sixty years ago, there was a whole country of nutjobs led my the King of the Nutjobs who started exterminating people. How do we live in peace, comfort, and joy, knowing that heinous tragedies, local and global, have happened and will happen again in some form or another?

I'm not sure I know the answer, but here's my humble opinion on how to survive the storm of crazies:

We believe. We are unafraid. We trust in Spirit. We know that everything happens exactly as it should. We don't allow the weakness of others become the weakness in ourselves. We rise to the occasion. We find the gifts buried in the muck. We become shining examples of what it looks like to be conscious, loving, compassionate people.

In short, we don't let the nutters win.

Some days, like today, it's easier said than done.

Paternal Influence

My seven-year old daughter knows every word to Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water", and I have two men to blame: Michael Rose and Jack Black.

No matter how much classical and New Age music I play in the Rose house (and it's a fair amount), my daughter's penchant for headbanging has not abated. Ever since she saw the movie School of Rock with Jack Black, she has taken it upon herself to thoroughly study the bands described in the rockomedy. The child has watched The Stones' documentary by Martin Scorsese called Shine a Light and enjoyed "She Was Hot" the most. She begged to have "Smoke on the Water" downloaded to her iPod, has memorized all of the lyrics through dozens of repeated listenings, and belts the entire number out in unison with her father on multiple occasions (much to her mother's chagrin). Believe me, there's nothing quite like seeing your second grader sing about Frank Zappa and the Mothers. One of her latest musical fascinations is Aerosmith's "Dream On", courtesy of her father's car satellite radio. Just last night she asked me if we could go on my computer so she could google Robert Plant. Robert Plant, for crimeny's sake! She's SEVEN, folks.



However, it isn't all bad. It makes me laugh to think that my kid knows every word to "Dream On" but doesn't own any Britney, Taylor, or Kelly (However, she does own far too much Miley. When will that chick's 15 minutes expire already??) My husband, beaming with pride at the rock prowess of his spawn, said, "I'll take her listening to Aerosmith over Britney any day of the week."

I gotta admit, it's especially adorable when she belts out the Steven Tyler scream at the end.



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For your consideration and/or comment:

What music did you listen to as a child?

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Finding Bliss at Claire's Boutique

Last night, Emma and I had one of our famous Girls Night Out. The highlight of the evening was our fabulous pilgrimage to the Mecca For Little Girls: Claire's Boutique.

Emma was dressed to the 9s, sporting a tea-length, shimmery, burgundy party dress, a matching burgundy scarf, a Hannah Montana handbag, and black sequined high heels. Her hair was done up in an elegant pony tail, finished off with a pink crystal bobby pin. Her look was killer. (I, on the other hand, wore my comfy jeans, a new white blouse that showed way too much boobie whenever I sat down, and my reliable brown suede kitten heels. Not anything to sneeze at, certainly, but I paled in comparison to my companion.)

First, we went to Selby Library to return Emma's books and get her the next three in The Spiderwick Chronicles series. She reminded me that since we were having a Girls Night, we needed to walk with more sass. This included hip sways, hair tosses, and wrists ever-so-slightly bent in an I'm-too-cool-it-hurts sort of manner. We were definitely the hottest chicks in the library.

We then moved on to dinner. I took my gal-pal to Cafe Americano in downtown Sarasota, opting to dine at the outside veranda. I had a wonderful risotto with a glass of Montepulciano, and she had penne with meat sauce and a glass of Sprite. We both ate far too much bread, prompting the cute server to refill our basket. (Pish posh on the diet!) She and I shared spirited conversations about Italy, our summer plans, and the nutritional content of chicken nuggets.

The pinnacle of the evening came when we made the trek south on US41 to the Sarasota Square Mall. We had only an hour before the mall closed, and I knew that there was only one destination that was befitting two hot tamales like ourselves: Claire's Boutique. Walking the mall with the same sassafrass attitudes, we finally entered the Hallowed Halls of Colorful, Plastic Chinese Stuff. My daughter's face was priceless -- it was a mixture of awe, desire, and a little trepidation. After all, there is so much to choose from and only a finite amount of money to spend! (We previously agreed she could spend the $40 I recently took from her wallet when I needed some emergency cash. Ooops.) Emma resembled Charlie when he entered the Chocolate Factory. Slowly, carefully, she checked out all of the jewelry, baubles, hair accessories, makeup, and every other item that girls 7-13 go crazy for. I watched her navigate the store with that precious, I'm-only-a-little-girl-for-a-little-while look that simultaneously filled and broke my heart. It was pure Mommy bliss.



She chose some excellent items, ideal for the fashionista she is: neon hair extensions, a peace necklace, a pink kaleidoscope heart necklace, and a pack of silver toe rings that she will use as regular rings. I was pleased to see she didn't buy the Jonas Brothers tchotchkes, the Froot Loops lip balm, or the I Heart Boys purse. (Her comment upon seeing the last item was "Who on Earth would want to have this?!" Blessedly, I still have at least a few years left before she will be hearting and doing a little more than hearting boys.)

It was a perfect outing for Ms. and Miss Rose. Upon returning home, Em gave a mini-fashion show to her father who waxed enthusiastic about his daughter's new purchases. I beamed as I watched her relive the Claire's Extravaganza with her daddy and told myself, "Put this moment in the long-term memory bank. You will not want to forget it."

Thanks, Claire's, for the memory.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Did you ever shop at Claire's?

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Fashionista

Below is one of the many fashion ensembles my seven-year old pulled together yesterday while dancing to "Everybody Dance Now" by The C&C Music Factory ad infinitum. Emma is wearing her swimsuit top, a periwinkle pair of capris, a white apron originally acquired for her Laura Ingalls Wilder oral book report, and her Raggedy Ann wig from two Halloween's ago.

The chick certainly has her own style...

A Sad Farewell

My heart is heavy.

When I read about Natasha Richardson's tragic accident on Google News a few days ago, I felt as if someone punched me in the stomach. There are lots of stories on the news about death and loss. So, what was it about Ms. Richardson's' story that affected me so profoundly?

1) She was acting royalty. Notice I didn't say Hollywood royalty. Her family tree was the Who's Who of Kick@ss Actors, each of whom has an impressive resume of work. (Her mother Vanessa is nothing less than an acting genius.) As a girl who wanted to be a professional actress from the age of three, I looked up to women like Natasha Richardson and her off-the-charts amazing thespian relatives: they were beautiful, talented, successful, and respected. What kind of woman wins a Tony Award for playing Sally Bowles from Cabaret? A fanf#@kingtastic one, that's who.

2) She was only a few years older than I am. Anytime someone my age dies, I can't help but imagine what it would be like if I were in her shoes. What about her children, who are only a few years older than Em? Even though I lost my mother two years ago, I can't even fathom what it must be like to say goodbye to one's mom so early in life. I felt the same sadness when Princess Diana died, leaving her two beautiful boys behind.

3) She died because she was skiing on a bunny hill. Not only that, but she didn't even run into anything. How could something like that happen? I've read countless expert interviews on the cause of her death, but it all boils down to the fact that she fell down and died. The name the doctors bandied about in the media was "Talk and Die Syndrome". What a horrible name for a horrible thing. A freak accident like this reminds us all that we don't have to leave this planet from old age or cancer; we can make our final curtain call skiing down the bunny hill. This life is precious, brief, and fragile, folks.

4) She was hooked up to a ventilator before she died. My mother-in-law died several years ago from complications associated with a heart surgery, and my husband's family had to make the excruciating decision to end life support. I was there as gorgeous, graceful Andree took her last breath, and believe me, it is something that one never, ever forgets. PS: I think using the phrase "pull the plug" should be outlawed. One's transition to the Spirit World isn't something that should be described so cavalierly.

5) Liam. Lovely, lovely Liam. I fell in love with Liam Neeson twenty years ago when he lit the screen on fire in The Good Mother. The first sex scene alone was a mini-pad moment for me. From then on, I devoured All Things Liam. I must admit; I had many a fantasy about wrapping myself around his big, strapping bod. Just a few weeks ago, my husband Michael was teasing me because Liam Neeson was on The Daily Show and I acted all school-girl goofy when he appeared. When I look back on that appearance, I remembered him laughing and being as sweet as can be. He was on the show promoting his film Taken.

Taken. The love of his life has been taken from him, and none of us can imagine the horror he is going through right now. The thought of losing Michael like he lost Natasha is overwhelming to me. Frankly, I don't know how I would survive it without seriously going over the precipice. Yet, I imagine that I would do what Liam is no doubt doing: keep it together for the sake of the kids. I bet that is what Natasha would have wanted. When we have a child, new skills are automatically acquired: seeing from the backs of our heads, doing twenty-three things simultaneously, morphing into a mama bear when our young cubs are threatened, and enduring unconscionable pain to protect our kids. What Liam is going through constitutes unconscionable pain.

I wish I could wrap my arms around him and his children, giving them support and love, yet knowing that nothing I say makes any difference whatsoever. The debilitating pain will be there until it isn't. Each day it will get better. Each year it will get better. That's hard to believe when you're in it, but somehow it happens.

As the world says farewell to this remarkable woman, I for one want to take something positive away from this terrible event. Every time I hear, see, or read the names Natasha Richardson or Liam Neeson, I will remind myself of the preciousness of life. I will express gratitude to my family for being with me on this journey. I will trust in Spirit that everything happens the way it is supposed to, even if I don't understand it at the time.

Farewell, Ms. Richardson. I know that Spirit has a new shining light on the Stage of the Soul.

Inside the Twisted (and Normal) Mind of a 7-year old

This morning I discovered the latest literary tome my cherubic daughter borrowed from her classroom. It's called Oh, Yuck! The Encyclopedia of Everything Nasty. And believe me, it is.



When I asked her why she likes reading about such icky stuff, my daughter rolled her eyes at me, as if to say, "Geez, Mom! Are you really that lame?"

When I pressed her for an explanation, she said, "Boys in my class are telling me these lies about gross stuff, so I decided to look it up myself."

(It was at this point when I became impressed with my little girl's outstanding critical thinking skills.)

"Like what?", I ask.

"Pee. And something you shouldn't write."

(She knew I was gonna blog about it.)

"Come on, just tell me", I say in my most hip-mommy voice.

She pointed to her groin area and said with a sheepish look on her face, "A boy's...".

I responded in a not-so-subtle growl, "They have penises in that book?"

She replied, "Yep. They look like a hot dog with crumply sides. Not like regular hot dogs."

(It was at this point when I called upon the Awesome Power of the Almighty to subdue the massive giggle fit that was dying to escape from my lips.)

After looking for the picture of the aforementioned human hot dog, it turned out that the book didn't have penises in it at all (at least that I know of.) However, the drawing of the girl eating a squooshy, crinkly hot dog was actually on the page describing Animal Testicles. Yes, Animal Testicles.

Em's also studying leeches, because she "wants to learn how they get into people's skin." She continued matter-of-factly, "There's also funny stuff in there about pee that's really, really funny."

After I picked my jaw off the floor, I perused the well-worn book for a quick sampling of other gross topics to which my daughter has been exposed. (Based on the condition of the book, it was apparent that many other second-graders have discovered this little gem as well.) Here are some interesting entries that immediately jumped out at me: Eye Gunk, Farts, Puke, Poop, Snot and a delightful little sidebar called "the Amazing, Exploding Zit". To be fair, Emma can learn about that last topic right in the comfort of her mother's bathroom.

Just when I was about to send a scathing email off to the Dean of Emma's school expressing my outrage at their literary offerings, I noticed that Acupuncture was listed in this book of All Things Nasty. I was relieved to see that it actually had a very intelligent, insightful, and open-minded way of describing this ancient healing method that I have personally received. It said, "You know what's the weirdest thing about it? It tingles, but it doesn't hurt and it really works. American doctors didn't believe it at first. But now it's becoming a commonly turned-to medical practice, and many American doctors are learning how to pin the pin in the hurting body part...Cool things, those needles!"

WOW. How righteous is that? I continued to read what I thought would be disgusting entries and found that all of them were written in the same thoughtful, knowledgeable manner. Oh, Yuck! was actually really good at teaching the facts about things that all kids are dying to know. Who'da thunk it?

Ultimately, if reading (and sniggering) about pee, poop, and body lint keeps my daughter learning about the miracle known as the human body, then I'm all for it. I just want her to read it in her room where I can't see the creepy pictures.

By the way, did you know that doctors used to drink a patient's pee to test to see if he or she was diabetic? Ewwwwww!!!!

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For your comment and/or consideration:

Would you have wanted to read a book like this when you were growing up and why?

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She Goes To Extremes

This morning I witnessed a highly-unusual sight in my 7-year old's room: something folded.

As I wrote in my book, my daughter's room often looks like a post-apocalyptic Toys-R-Us. Everything, absolutely EVERYTHING, is strewn about. This is an AFGO for her beleaguered mother (Another F@cking Growth Opportunity). However, I'm getting much better with accepting her slobbiness as-is. At least I've deluded myself into thinking that I've gotten better.

So, imagine my surprise when I saw two (nearly)perfectly folded beach towels with two sets of swim goggles perched atop them. This rare act of organization didn't seem to fit in Emma's room. Then I remembered: She is having a swim date with her new best friend Madison who lives down the street. For the last two weeks, my daughter has been inseparable with this chickadee. My little urchin has yelled the word "Madison!" more than a U of W mascot.



It touched me this morning when I saw how gingerly Em folded her towels for her upcoming liquid soiree. Her careful attention showed me how much she values this new arrival into her life, and for that, I am grateful. Friends are important to a gal...far more important than any made bed or organized shelf.

(Although I may need an extra-large glass of Chianti to deal with the onslaught of "Madison! Watch this!")

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Was your room messy as a kid? Do you still keep it messy?

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Emma Action Shots

I've got so many things to do today and doing my best not to get overwhelmed by The Dreaded List. As such, I thought the perfect way to kick off my day was to share with you some of my favorite recent photos of my darling little EmmaBean. These pics make me smile, laugh, and otherwise fill my heart with joy that this totally cool kid is in my life. I am so grateful to be her mama.


Em and I having a girls' day out


Tiger-girl striking a pose


The Little Imp snuck in to Mom & Dad's room to sleep last night


My Personal Fave: Emma's Self-Portrait titled, "Rock Star"

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For your consideration and/or comment:

Which one is your favorite pic and why?

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Weekend Update

On Friday night, the three Roses attended the downtown Bradenton art walk at the Village of the Arts to support two gorgeous gal-pals.

One was my new friend MC Coolidge, who is the cutest li'l quasi-incendiary blogger I've come across in ages. Her book, Sideways in Sarasota, is a literary gem, and I bought yet another copy of it last Friday at MC's book signing at The Village Bookshop. The other artiste magnifique we had the pleasure of seeing is Michelle Donner, a sassy Club Kimono regular who is an AWESOME photog. (She is a Facebook friend of mine; check out my page to find her.) Emma was particularly taken with Michelle's up-close shots of an owl. (Em not-so-secretly adores anything remotely associated with Harry Potter.) We ended up buying several of Michelle's prints she had for sale at Charisma Cafe. It was delightful to enjoy the crisp night air and see two gutsy and beautiful women expressing their Mojo for the world to see.



Now I bet you're asking yourself, "How did Theresa's detox end up?" (Even if you aren't asking yourself that question, you're gonna get the answer...)

I felt fanf#@kingtastic after it was all over! My body was feeling cleaner, healthier, and dare I say, tinier! In fact, I can almost, almost get into my 'skinny' jeans (I use that term liberally). I'm not quite ready to wear them out of the house, nor do I know how they'd feel if I actually sat down in them -- they may very well cut off the circulation in my torso. While I definitely have some time to go before they are public-friendly, I got into 'em and did a full zip-up! :) YAY ME!

Not only did my bod feel better after the cleanse, my mind (eventually) became much sharper. I received clearer visions on what I want to accomplish in my career, and my priorities became a lot easier to recognize. As a result, great things started to transpire last week. It really feels like The Universe is aligning with my desires. The perfect people are coming into my world, and I am able to recognize the signs that are pointing me in the right direction. YAY ME AGAIN!

Last week's challenge reminded me of the power of focus and determination. It reminded me how precious my body is and how it wants to be cared for. Most importantly, it brought me to a deeper integration with mind, body, and spirit. I feel more PRESENT. I feel more JOYFUL. I feel more GRATEFUL.

(Plus the post-detox bedroom romp with hubby was phenomenal.)

Sometimes I need a five-day digestive cleanse which empties my insides to remind me of how full my life really is.

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For your consideration and/or comment:

What activity helps you get into your body?

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