Seen in NYC, August 2010.

So, Maria has started school.
The First Grade.
Oh, what a big, big girl…

I realized this week, as I dropped her off, that in the three years she has been in school, my New Year’s Resolutions kick in.

I don’t wait until January.

My constant list:

• I will finally finish the scrapbooks
• I will go to the gym more
• I will clean out the closets
• I will find more freelance work

And on and on.

And yet, there’s never enough time.
Or is it that I need a resolution to make more time?

What I can look like when I work it.

What I usually look like when I don't work it. Too-busy-to-try-look.

Ponytails daily!

What I do when I get tired of not working it. Cropped!

I have been told it takes guts to cut off your hair. I guess it does. Honestly, for me, it takes more guts to walk around in a ponytail all the time. I have felt dragged down by the pelo, so off it came. I feel lighter, happier, hipper…and when you’ve just turned 43, hip is a good feeling to work toward.

Only my husband and daughter have turned their noses up about it. They are getting used to it though.

Sometimes, you gotta knock it all off and start all over again…it’s a cycle-of-life, re-growth thing…And, I have been feeling in the mood to knock things over, get rid of things, purge, lighten up, since the floods hit in May. For some reason, my movements toward change always begin with a shearing…this is the fourth time in my adult life that it all has come off.

Something good always comes out of it…I am waiting to see what this cycle brings.

Have you ever chopped off all your hair? Ever felt the need to knock it all down and start again? (And I am not talking hair…)

Go ahead, make up your own story...

If there was a trend at my high school reunion it was Spanx and Shaved Heads. Oh, and a lot of Lime played by the DJ. It was an uproariously good time.

I will spare you details, because what do you care, right? But, I have to say, there is something extra cool about looking at a grown-up you knew at 16 and still seeing the young kid they were…even with wrinkles or paunch, that kid is still in there.

OK, so when I saw this photo, taken by my talented photographer friend, I could not stop laughing.

The woman on the left is my best friend from high school. At 16, she taught me how to use the Path to get to NYC, she navigated New York City streets — at 18 — better than any Yellow Cab driver, she introduced me to the joys of Hoboken before it was clean and gentrified. Today, she’s a hospital exec with 6-year-old twin boys.

The man, who went to grade school with my friend, is a high school crush of mine. I was happy to see he still had his hair and good looks. Today, my two friends are in-laws. He’s married to her sister and they have two beautiful children.

The woman in the background? Well, how about we leave that a mystery? I’ve had a damned good time making up stories for whom she could be: Prom Queen, Head Cheerleader, Drunk Waitress, Reunion Spouse?

Now, see what you miss out on when you skip reunions?

And some  highlights…

The Pee Pee Stop Tour of 2010. Kid, with Dog in crate.

Which Way Should I Go?

A "Male Wrap'' so we don't get kicked out of our hosts' homes.

Yes, I bought my Yearbook...I know, smells of geek.

Jersey Shore, baby! And no one got into a bar fight....

When we went on vacation last month, the neighbor girl took care of the cat, the guineas and the garden. As I handed her instructions and the keys, I told her that in 25 years it will be her telling the just-graduated-from-high-school-kid how to feed the cat and water the ferns. She laughed. My wheels rolled backwards and yet again, I realized that just a few days ago, I was 17 too.

So, my 25th high school reunion is this month. I am headed to New Jersey with the kid and the dog. I think this is where I thought I’d end up. Maybe not this exact “this,” but pretty close.

I truly wanted to take my neighbor kid —  who leaves for college next month — by the hand, sit her down, and tell her some stuff. Tell her stuff that I’ve learned, stuff that helped me grow, stuff to avoid — I have a long list of that kind of stuff. I wanted to tell her there is no such thing as failure, no such thing as fear. “Jump in!” I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her that brokenness is a good thing, for it strengthens; that people don’t really suck; and that she should under no circumstance wear rompers or shoulder pads.

Thinking a lot about it, I realize I am basically the same kid I was then, but with less fear. I still stack too much, still put things off until the last minute, still talk too much when I am nervous. But, the cool thing about this current space is that I know myself more. Doubts are few, self-acceptance is for real. (I wouldn’t put my crazy on YouTube if I was less than confident, or too worried about others.) Yes, I’d like to work on that stacking thing, but there’s time.

I said nothing to the neighbor kid about any of that though. I know she probably thinks I am old, doesn’t know that I remember 17, that if I close my eyes, I can practically touch it. She has a path she must walk and any warning or “wisdom” from me is basically irrelevant. Time has taught me that.

Anyway, lots of people have told me lately they never go to their reunions. I enjoy mine. I liked high school.

And, hell, this may be the last one I attend without the help of hair dye or botox, so I am sure as hell going.

Do you go to your reunions? What the hell have you learned since high school?

By the way, notice my “Carrie” name necklace? I was so ahead of that Bradshaw chick.

Flashback: Some 1985 Music!

1985 was the year of Phil Collins. Easy Lover, Sussudio, and One More Night, which was our Prom Theme. Eh. But, here are a few of videos that transport me. And, while I am not embedding it, check out Howard Jones’ hair in Things Can Only Get Better. It would have been a better prom theme!

I took a lot of pictures for the senior yearbook. My own camera was used for this one taken in English class. I still talk in class.

But, in truth, I had another agenda as my prime focus.

To ask women who are focusing on making money online Just How in The Ever Living Hell they balance the constant pull the of computer with kids, husbands and toilet cleanings.

I am here admitting I am woefully lacking in setting strong limits on computer time.  My kid has told me I don’t play with her enough. She has told me I am on the computer ALL.THE.TIME.

And, I am.

Now, I have taken steps to remove myself from the computer more, and my obvious lack of regular of posts here is evidence that I am making strides. However, I still work over at the Tiki Tiki and I have private PR and copy writing clients and all that requires I sit on my culo a lot. And, of course, I am the production, office, shipping and customer service departments of Los Pollitos Dicen.

There’s always one more e-mail to write, one more post to edit, one more Tweet to send. But, if  I died tomorrow, you, dear reader, may leave a comment here,  or if you know me for reals post a link on your Facebook status. My demise may end up as a Tweet, even. But, my husband and only child would not be giving too much of a crap about whether I posted enough.

So, I have been struggling to make it all work.

How to I continue to build something for myself, something I love and adore, without sucking as a mother and a wife?

Turns out few of us who are blogging full-time have got it all together. At least that is the feedback I got from the women I hung with at Blissdom. They wanted more on the topic, they wanted the speakers with successful, money-making blogs to tell them exactly how in the hell they manage to produce content, make a living, nourish their families and themselves. One panelist said she realized there were days she didn’t look into her small child’s eyes because she was online and Tweeting. WTF? Sadly, too many of us would have to nod in agreement.

For the record, I know if I was working for someone else, I also would be complaining and whining about lack of time…but, in my fantasy land, the fact I work for myself should translate into clean closets and time for mani-pedis.

OK, OK, blah blah blah on my part.

Are you online too much? Not sure? Read the wonderful Angelica Perez’s post Is Your Time on the Internet Impacting Your Children? Powerful Ways to Find Out and What to Do.

Now, I’m going to go play with my puppy.

Screw the tweeting.

xo

She asked me  not to go into her room until she said it was OK.

I waited.

She said: “You may enter now.”

She was sitting on her pink chair, a pink-jeweled crown atop her head. Long, brown hair flowing at her shoulders.

“Hulll-ooh, I am the Queen,” she said, smiling.

“And, I am your humble servant,” I said, bowing.

She is 6.

And this is the throne of her own making.

Ha! What the hell do experts know? And, certainly, those shoulder-pad, big-hair wearing experts of 1989 did not know about the Internet, where the Mean can be Queen. (They also didn’t foresee greedy, bailed-out Wall Streeters).

I have been reading the round-ups for the decade that was the 2000s, and predictions for the 2010s. I am doubtful of predictions beyond the ones that say we’re going to be more and more and more wired. (I add that we’ll also be more and more and more exhausted).

And, while I too got scabs in the 2000s, and suffered the collective sadness brought on by everything from 9-11 to the darkness of the recession, I took my own inventory and it wasn’t so damned bad. Gracias a Dios.

The 2000s were the decade of my Putting on My Big Girl Panties — the decade I had to put into practice what I learned in the Therapy of the 1990s.

A personal synopsis: The decade opened with my marriage on the correction from a skid. We moved from our gentrified, hipster hood smack in the middle of the city to a house in the wooded Boonies.

We then went headlong into infertility treatment — from 2001 to 2003. I cried a lot in 2002.

I was face down on the bed, passed out like a drooling drunk, in March 2003 — my first trimester — when my editor called to give me the next day’s assignment.

“We’ve gone to war,” she said.
“Shit,” I said, and rolled over to sleep some more.

So, in this decade of turmoil, I became a mother. My heart expanded by a million times. As our country has divided and contracted, I have been watching someone grow and bloom. A blessing and a perfect pill for purposely shutting out the cold, hard stuff.

And, for sure, this decade will forever remind me my mettle was tested by early motherhood — long ass labor, bad latch, round-the-clock expelling of breast milk with a very big machine, sleepless teething, hiring of nannies, the guilt, sadness and exhaustion of being a work-outside-the-casa-Mami.

Smack in the middle of the decade, I quit my full-time reporting job, launched a business and began to work at home — everything from freelance to dinner to vacuuming to potty training. (I longed for my downtown cubicle sometimes.)

So, the second half of the decade is a blur of mom’s groups, Pollitos pitching, toddler hell, wondering why I can’t seem to get those baby albums finished. I launched the Boonie blog (2006), sent child to school full-time. Turned 40! Husband survived a few rounds of buy-outs and lay-offs.

In the shadow of recession, started a second business — the PR and copy writing one — wrote freelance again, added Chichi&Flaco, launched a second blog, started and stopped and started and stopped writing a novel — the same one I started and stopped in the 1990s. My metabolism slowed. Chin hair sprouted.

On the family front, my brother fell in love, got married, had two beautiful, healthy babies. My parents both survived cancer. Friends who should not have died, did. Others had babies, moved to new cities, lost their jobs, launched businesses.

In this decade, I also severed ties with some and reconnected with others. Used a big stick when I needed it. Let go when it was time. No regrets. The mantra has been “Next right thing.” In Big Girl Panties, of course.

In the next decade, my daughter will enter puberty and I likely will enter menopause. When the decade is over, she will be 16 and I will be 52. My husband likely will be retired.

While these last ten years have been both invigorating and exhausting, let me tell you, amigo, I can easily predict that the next ten in this Boonie household — full of hormones out of whack and drama-loving Cuban-Americans — will be as scary as riding a roller coaster without a seatbelt.

So, I’m bringing the Big Girl Panties into the next decade. And, getting Maria her own pair.

And how was your decade?

Happy 2010! Now, go mop your house!

A perfect snapshot of Modern Living, I think.

***

Do you read the newspaper? Seriously, you should. Wonderful nuggets.
I cannot stop thinking about the woman who baked more than 4,000 cookies for Christmas. Why?
And, from the obits, I learned of an 83-year-old man named Finis. He was the last of his mother’s 15 births (10 children lived), hence a name that meant “The End.”
I would have liked to have met his mom.

***

I left the door between the guinea house and the enclosed pen open one night. On that night, something — bobcat, fox, wolf, raccoon, who knows — pried open the pen door, got into the coop and walked out with one of the guineas.

The surviving birds were outside the coop, in the rain, making a racket when I woke. It’s how I learned of the kidnapping. I found no remains.

Fast forward a few days. Maria and I, and a 6-year-old friend, went for a walk in our woods. Just off the trail, about a five minute walk from the coop, there’s a spot in the brown leaves that looks as if someone has shaken a down pillow. I let the girls walk ahead of me a bit and go look.

Nothing but feathers.

I am in awe. Amazed by the destruction and the eerie scene. I wish I knew a CSI to help me discover the culprit, a determined beast who has pried open the pen door every night since. Frustrated no doubt, because now I always close the wooden coop door.

***

Christmas morning Maria was pleased to hand me the envelope she decorated with pictures of us both, plus trees and curly lines. Inside was a gift certificate to a skin-care salon, a gift from my husband and my daughter.

“Mommy, it is so you can go get your skin back to your younger days.”
I glance sideways at my husband.
His palms are up in defense.
“I swear I only told her it was for a facial.”

Honestly, I am just glad my 6-year-old daughter realizes I, indeed, had younger days.