Special Agent

The C.I.A. should be recruiting me any day now. My interrogation skills are supreme. Not bragging here...it's just a fact.

I walked into the kitchen this morning to find Evan in a puddle of spilled cereal. His pajamas looked like Swiss Cheese because of the holes freshly cut in them.

Me: Evan? What happened to your pajamas? Why are there holes in them?

Evan: There's no holes. ( With a tone that implied "you silly, silly woman)

Me: Evan, I see the holes and I see the scissors on the floor. Don't lie to Mom.

Evan: There's no holes.

Oh to be young again and not even flinch at a bald face lie.

Me: What color were the scissors you used to cut your pajamas?

Evan: (starting to squirm now) Um.....um....the sharp ones.

Me: That's what I thought.

Tajma Super Fance

I'm in a good mood this morning. I'm purely tickled with my lot. The kids have bed heads and milk moustaches and are chasing each other around with uncooked spaghetti noodle swords. Jemma is warm and floppy fresh out of her crib. Her cheeks are pink and I love the sound of her nursing to beat the band first thing in the morning. When I nurse this baby I feel like I could take down 50 rabid tigers in a field of broken glass with bare feet...the mothering urge is so strong. Is that weird? I want to absorb her!

I went in my room to answer the phone. That's not interesting, but this is: Earlier this week I was bummed that I had no paint or furniture to decorate this big room with. I saw it as an empty place. Today though, I walked in and the covers were pulled back and a sun beam had landed on my blue snowman flannel sheets. The pillows were askew, the room was every bit as empty as before with nothing more than outdated night stands and a lamp with no shade. But something about the sun warming that little spot on my bed... and the tiny particles of dust even glowed with contentment...that room looked like the presidential Taj MaSuper Fancy suite of the universe. I was grateful for it and didn't want anything else.

I was feeding Jemma in her highchair and a feather from an upstairs comforter somehow floated down stairs, around the corner, into the kitchen and right above Jemma's sticky face. She reached for it and bounced in her chair. It was like a scene out of Forrest Gump.

The vacuum-like draw of my bed beckoned us back and the kids and I lounged around like lazy island natives with not a care. Afton stroked the bit of my calf that peeked out of my terry cloth p.j. bottoms. How perfectly satisfied I was. Then Afton said, "You need to shave your whiskers mom. You must have like 2000 whiskers." I wonder if there really are 2000? I'm too stupidly happy to care.

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 piney 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 (Cruella 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.