TWERDS UNITE! (again)

Click on the invitation to see full size...
Okay ladies! We've waited, we've obsessed, we've combed the internet for pictures and news, we've sniffed our jar of La Push beach sand before bed each night (wait, maybe that's just me), and now the time is actually here! New Moon will be in theaters November 19th! Come celebrate at a dinner party at my new house! I hope to see all of my old cronies and my new ones too! Email me for directions @ cecchiniang@yahoo.com or just call.

I loved seeing you all last year at the Twilight party and hope to see even more of you this time! Come Come Come!!
Love, Ang.

Take Me Home

I went home for the first time in a long while. I didn't realize how much I missed it. One of my favorite parts of going home is when we finally pass the city limits of Las Vegas and the houses, signs and city smells go away. It feels like unbuttoning your pants after a big meal.

On my way home my mom and I pulled into the town I was born. I passed the hospital, small enough that I could walk around the entire thing by the time you are done tying your shoes. I wondered which window was the room entered the world in.

Main street was so quaint. I recalled the old post office with its dozen steps, the towering stone and wrought iron on the top window. I remember the smell of paper and floor wax. My grandma used to take me there. Go in, to the left, half way down her box was hollow and tinny sounding.

The bank had painted the front display window with the hometown mascot - The Mucker. He was moustached and poised for battle with his boots and pick axe. And since when did banks stop having a display window?

Shop after shop of odds and ends. Books, crafts, hardware. How do they stay in business? A salon in an old house on stilts with a view of main street traffic and a viney plant in the window.

We continued on to my old home. When we hit the dirt the vibration of the washboard road was familiar. I've done it a thousand times, but pulling into the drive, stopping the car and getting out surprises me every time. The silence! The impenetrable darkness! The smell of clean and hay and wet earth. The stars innumerable, white, pressing down so close I forget there even existed so many with Vegas's scant handful that burn through the glow of the city sky. The same thought comes to me every time. "Why don't I live here?"

I pull sleeping kids from sweaty car seats and cover them with blankets before their damp temples and backs get a chill. The smell of my parent's house is delicious and for a sec I feel seventeen and carefree. I put the babies in my old bed and go in my old bathroom for a long awaited pit stop. I flip on the light and the bathroom looks too clean! Where is the tangle of curling iron cords and the sticky hair-sprayed counter tops? Where is the litter of make up and globs of toothpaste in the sink? The knee pads and tennis shoes on the floor? And who the heck is that 31 year old girl in the mirror? I was surprised to see her in deed!

I tip toe into my old room, open the shades like I used to so I could see the mountain while I lay in bed. The waterbed is gone. The walls are now pink. Tasteful pictures are on the wall and a rocking chair for my babies is in the corner. Time warp. Strange and sweet.

The next morning I couldn't resist stopping and smelling the stacked wood, warm and sweet in the sun.

We had a beautiful time wiling away the hours on the western porch. Swinging, talking, looking through grandma's cook book from 1943 and watching the mountains.

Jemma chewing (Corella De'Ville style) on a good clean stick. To my mom's horror of course.

We are gathered near the orchard for a good ol' fashioned apple pickin'.

Kids so excited on the walk to the orchard.

Afton in heaven with her first apple.

Dad testing the spoils. Juicy, crunchy, tart, delicious.

Crew can't decide. He ate one bite of lots.

As the sun went down, I had a silly quiet moment looking up at the canyon. There used to be a tire swing by the corral that I would come to when I had a broken heart or was just plain bored. I've looked at these rocks and shared my soul's complaint with God many a time!

Tina was feeling ambitious and picked the orchard clean with only falling out of a tree once. I hope I get a jar of apple butter or a pie out of the deal. It was a great weekend except for Nic was in Vegas and I missed him. Oh it's good to go home!

Crumb-y

When I was little I ate my peas in pairs. I imagined that if one went down the hatch he or she would be lonely and afraid, but if it had a buddy it wouldn't be so bad.

At age four I probably should have seen a counselor after watching "Dumbo". The scene where he is outside his mother's cage, in the rain while she swings him in the bend of her trunk...warped my soul irrevocably. Sometimes, randomly I think about how Buzz and Woody will eventually be sold in a garage sale. I have always had a bleeding heart for things that don't really deserve it.

Well, I got rid of my dog Raisin last week because he pees on everything. He was permanently banished to the backyard. It will be getting chilly soon and that was a problem because Hitler's moustache had more hair than Raisin. But I put my foot down. Raisin was not coming back in the house. He lived in the downstairs shower on really hot days as it was. Not the greatest life for a dog. So we found him a new home. Trouble is, everything feels crumb-y now.

Apparently Raisin ate every morsel of everything that even thought about falling on the floor. Now every time a cheerio crunches under my un-pedicured heel, or every time a shard of a Dorito stabs my foot, I think of Raisin. That thought of him leads to more thoughts. Does he feel rejected? Does he miss us? Is he wandering the streets looking for our house?

I watched "Marley and Me" last weekend with my husband, who by the way thinks my heart is made of the most vile, poisonous , icy stone imaginable for what I've insisted on. Let's just say that is NOT the movie to watch after you give your dog the shaft. There was a scene in which the mom had had it with her dog's shenanigans and told the husband to take him to a naughty dog farm. After a couple of days, she apologized and and rescinded her threat. Then at the end of the movie, there was a heart warming montage of pictures and music depicting the long and fulfilling life they shared with their dog. I almost drowned in the tidal wave of "I told you so" that silently poured off of my huz.

I wanted to post a sort of memorial, good -bye raisin photo, but the only photo I could find off hand was one where my husband was standing in the bedroom and Raisin was on the bed (oh my gosh Nic is going to kill me) and somehow the way Raisin's head was with his long nose and huge bat ears superimposed the perfect dog head speedo on my husband. It was the most amazing random photo, but I can't very well post it here.

So, I'm still not sure I did the right thing. The facts: Raisin peed on everything. He's too naked to live outside. I gave away my little doggy. Sigh. I just don't know. Good bye Raisy-boy. I miss you. Sort of..

Rare Leathers

My husband is a big fan of AXE products. He thinks they can do no wrong. I privately wonder if it is because each container has a picture of a confident dude flanked by two curvaceous beauties? That image so reminds me of the mudflaps on an 18 wheeler...you know the ones with the voluptuous chick who is writhing in her own attractiveness? Yeah, I think that's why he buys these products. He loves to find non-serious ways to be piggy. Let me share with you what his latest bottle of body wash says:

"AXE instinct shower gel. The masculine scent of rare leathers in AXE Instinct arouses your animal magnetism. Use Axe and instinctively act as nature intended...How Dirty Boys Get Clean."

Yeah, if the devil made body wash, this would be it and my husband would buy it.

So this morning I stopped him and said, "Who wants to smell like rare leather anyway?"

And what constitutes "rare leather?" So we commenced a show down on who could come up with the rarest leather.
Me: Ostrich Skin?
Him: Lizard Belly.
Me: Rat Pelt.
Him: Moose armpit.
Me: Chicken feet.
Him: Ant shoulder.
Me: That's not a leather!

I love my husband. I love his indestructible male confidence. When he comes in sweaty and I tell him to go shower, he says: "I know it's hard for you to resist my natural musk". So I guess it's a win win for me in the smell department. I can enjoy his "natural musk" or try my luck at beating off the women when he cleans himself with "rare leathers". I'm a lucky lady.

Dry Shoulders

Remember spur of the moment trips? I remember when Nic was up at BYU for the summer and I jumped in the car wearing Victoria's secret pajama bottoms and a Hane's white T-shirt. No bag, no toothbrush...just me and wrinkled p.j's. Things are different now that we have kids. We can't be as spurry of the momenty. But on Tuesday, my sister-in-law masterminded a beach trip and we were happy to oblige her whim. This was Jemma's first trip to the ocean and she underwent the traditional rite of passage of Dad putting little baby toes in the water and taking a picture with her name and age carved in the sand. Hmm...maybe I should have posted THAT picture!

Afton was a boogie boardin' mamasita! She couldn't get enough of it! So much more daring than I was at that age. Or um...at my current age. I was so proud of her.

Jemma was a total beach bum. She gazed at the waves and caught dorrito crumbs with the brim of her hat as I ate them above her. She nursed and napped under the umbrella. She got sand in her ears and didn't care. She is the most chill baby.

Afton: Airborne and loving it.
Roxy's next cover model.
Evan could do boy stuff and not get in trouble. He could break sticks and throw mud and test the boundaries of speed and splashiness. He could eat Chips ahoy without limit and stab things that washed up on the beach.
Something about beach towns just sets my mind abloom with mystical magic-ness. Everyday things seem interesting. Walking by a dry cleaners and seeing serious faced Asian people press clothes and wipe sweaty tendrils from thier foreheads. Walking by a beauty parlor, (yes it was a beauty parlor not a salon) with pink and turqouise hair dryers and old ladies getting their weekly poodle do. Then walking by a salon, (not a beauty parlor) and noticing men getting pedicures and men waiting to get pedicures (no women). Only in California.

I had my yearly negotiation with the ocean which includes me standing knee deep in the waves and telling the Pacific, "Don't kill me and I won't kill you". Each year I tell myself I will get in over my head and body surf. I will not be afraid of sharks and getting rolled and coughing up salt water and getting stung by jelly fish. I will. I will. I will.

I didn't. As usual, I left the ocean with wet legs and dry shoulders. Someday.

Leaving the beach we drove by this little sushi place. They had a hand written sign in magic marker that said, "Sorry we don't make change for meters". The windows were open and people were sitting on stools breathing sea air and eating slippery noodles. I don't know if it was because we were leaving (over my dead sunburned body) or what, but I wanted to go in there. I wanted it to be my regular haunt. I wanted a usual table and to know the name of the waitress and she would know I'd want water with lemon.
I think Afton knows how I feel because I had to physically pry her from the parking meter. She loves the beach as much as me. I can't wait til next time. I hope I hop on a boogie board with her and come home with wet hair.

Pumps and Pearls

Nic and I legally don't exist. We lost our social security cards and driver's licences. So in order to exist again, I made a trip down to the courthouse to obtain a copy of my marriage licence. While driving down main street I discovered one can buy poker chips with your name on them, wigs, vintage furniture, and other things I won't mention . You can also park your car on the "grass" of a seedy motel if you feel like it. Liberating. It's a different world, down town. The buildings are low and squatty and sprawl. The trees are huge and the windows are small. The cars were heavy and made of only metal and glass. I was wishing I had Nic with me as I checked my door lock for the fifth or sixth time.

After getting lost I finally made it to the Marriage Bureau. Oh the memories hit me like a freight train! I remembered climbing those very steps and waiting in that very line with Nic eight years ago. I wished I could remember what I wore, I remember Nic wearing a button up vacationey shirt with jeans and Vans. I suddenly wished I had on pumps and pearls instead of black sweat shorts and a green v -neck t with a mystery stain and rubber flip flops. People were snuggling, hanging on each other, kissing, staring at one another covered in that thick perfume of infatuation/love.

I made it to the glass window, and made my request to a girl with over plucked eyebrows and several gold chains lying on her busty bust. She sighed at me. " I'm going to have to pull this off of micro fiche." I felt old. She wasn't sure how to resurrect my ancient records from the wormy catacombs of the city, so she recruited help from the most knowledgeable clerk in the room who was intently looking professional while facebooking. I handed skinny eyebrows girl my marriage certificate and she said in an impressed voice, "Wow, those look so plain." She then pulled out a marriage certificate from "this century" and waved it's holographic sticker and cactus watermark next to my simple black and white one. Young newlyweds -to -be thought, "She's old". I know they did.

Meanwhile, while skinny eyebrows girl lit her torch and descended to the catacombs I observed the other couples. A thick Asian girl marrying a beefy black guy with snaky dreads. A very young Asian girl marrying a very old Asian man with a bald head and an island like tuft of bangs. But the most notable was the bride in the orange string bikini poorly covered in a gauzy white lava lava marrying her prince with a 3 day beard with beer breath. They had met about an hour and a half ago and were on an i phone frantically trying to gather guests to attend a wedding at a chapel they couldn't remember the name of..."the pink one". He thrust the phone in my face and asked me to confirm to his friend that he was indeed in the courthouse getting a marriage licence. I did so while bikini girl giggled into his armpit. Sigh.

I wanted to imagine her 60 years from now rocking on some porch with knee highs, a mu- mu, and orthopedic shoes. I wanted to imagine beer breath guy bringing her her pills and a glass of water clouded by metamucil. I wanted to imagine him kissing her forehead and sitting next to her with a gnarled old hand resting on her leg. But instead, I saw only a potato salad melting on a hot summer picnic table, in which said potato salad would have a better shelf life than this impending marriage. I held my mouth shut while I watched them sign on the dotted line. He rested his hand on the counter and I noticed he had a broken pinkie wrapped up in electrical tape. Heaven help them. I hope they are at a party some day and tell the story of how they met and how it was love at first sight and that it really was. I know Nic and I weren't love at first sight, (mostly because for two whole days he thought I was a different girl he had already gone on a date with).

I got in the car and examined our marriage licence. My signature was totally different than I sign it now. It was loopy and embellished and unnecessarily girly. Now when I sign checks for the electric company it's sort of like Ang-squiggly squiggle Lar-wavy line. I wanted to be that girl who had time for a ridiculous signature. I drove home and as I got on the freeway and made it back to the suburbs with big houses, small trees and big windows, I wanted to go to my man. I thought about our family and what we've made and who we are. We are different people. But we mean so much to each other and to our kids. We mean something to so many people because we are a family. We are a family. My marriage licence says so...even if it doesn't have a shiny sticker and cactus water mark!

Pudding that was not pudding.

My friend Sam asked the question the other day, what's happening at your house? The answer? A whole lotta nothin' that adds up to life I suppose. For instance, dress up. Everyday there is some form of "Mom, pretend I'm a mermaid and you heard some singing, oh and you are a prince mom and want to marry a mermaid with a Sleeping Beauty crown and snow white shoes, and a green bow in her hair." Commence innocent glances from behind a lacy fan and singing....and MOM! You are supposed to hear my SINGING and WANT TO MARRY ME. Commence some sort of dialogue (to myself out loud) about the beauty and virtues of said dress up outfit and how I could never marry any other mermaid unless she had a green bow and Snow White shoes.

Here's Ellie and Afton roping Jemma into this charade.
But I must say, Jemma can work a happy meal crown and tu-tu on her head quite well. Uh-huh miss thang (Z snap).
Also, Afton Graduated from the best preschool in town, Aunt Tina's. She felt quite grown up calling her aunt "Catina" all year long like the other kids.

Now, one Saturday my husband came home with a 30.00 bike helmet, a bag of spray paint and a grand vision. I was privately exasperated thinking this idea might resemble the feasibility of the "making real snow fall from the gym ceiling at a ward Christmas party" idea of 2001. Big Thinker my man is. (That's why I love him.) But, when he came home with this bag of goodies I thought, NEVER gonna happen. I was so WRONG! He whipped this baby out in two days! A custom painted SPIDERMAN helmet! Evan was ready to die a very happy boy.

On to the next little thing that is actually a big thing. 50 some years ago, my dad saw my mom skip across the playground with a blond ponytail and snug 501's. (true story) He elbowed his buddy and said, "I'm going to marry that girl." And 2 days after my mom's high school graduation at age 17, she did marry him. Exactly 40 years later they attended the blessing of their 10th grand child Jemma Sage Larkin. Happy 40th anniversary to two people who live only to make each other happy.

Here's to looking forward to many years with my sweetheart. Wait a second, am I toasting or blogging here? It's late. I'm really not sure.
I love this photo of Jemma sitting on my lap in the chapel. The light coming through the windows is as bright and pure as her little spirit. Too bad she is sneering as if she needs a nappy change.
Who needs actual property, yards and pools? I have a cement step, a crispy plant and a dented rubber maid tub with a dead spider in it for my posterity to enjoy.
This photo of Jemma is so Lady Ga Ga.
Kissing the daylights out of Jemma is my favorite little snack.
Speaking of little snacks. This was NOT a little snack. I watched this DARN Oprah about not wasting stuff. Then one day later Afton poured herself some cereal which I will never let her do again. She used half a box in a mixing bowl and used the last 1/3 gallon of milk. Of course it was soggy in the first five minutes and she wouldn't eat the rest. I could not bring myself to throw it out! I ate that stuff all day. This is the bottom of the bowl when I finally cried uncle. It was more like pudding near the end. I may never eat LIFE cereal again. Anyway...that's what's going on.