“Are you secretly in love with Ellen?” my friend asked me over email. Well, actually, my friend’s very concerned mother - who reads my blog - asked her to ask me.

“It’s no secret that I love Ellen,” I wrote back. “But, no, not in a romantic way.”

In truth, I’ve never met Ellen. I’ve danced with her – rubbed elbows, even – but a formal introduction? Not yet.

So what’s the big attraction? Ne’er has there been a more dignified woman in tennis shoes, in my opinion.

Now, I realize that “dignified” probably isn’t the first word that pops out while free-associating (I love that game) with “Ellen,” but think about it. Here’s a woman who makes us laugh about asparagus and toothpaste, all while she’s changing how the world thinks about love. She’s made a trade with us. She gives us a place to go escape, and, in return, we give her a place to simply be. We need Ellen – I need Ellen – as a role model for how to row my proverbial boat. Steadily, honestly and with an open heart.

Plus, I love tennis shoes and wear them every day, too. Except in the summer I wear thongs. But not the underwear kind because those would give me blisters on my feet. See there? That was very Ellen. Which means that whatever you like or don’t like (God forbid!) about Ellen is precisely what you do or don’t like (God permits) about me.

Parenting OC Magazine is up for a gaggle of awards this weekend – for design, writing, humor (for which yours truly is under consideration)…etc. My publisher is already en route to Omaha, Nebraska for the ceremony. Evidently, Omaha doles out more than steaks? Anyway, I asked him to text me with the results on Saturday as I will be OUT. On a DATE. With MY HUSBAND.

My husband asked what the occasion was and I told him I wanted to be distracted by wine, salmon and maybe…champagne?

“Is the award really important to you?” he asked.

“Yes. No….well, yes.” I told him.

“Let’s dress up, then, and go somewhere fancy.”

“But what if I don’t win?”

“Then we’ll break into a rotary club, or something, and steal one of their plaques.”

Now that’s a fan. And a hot date.

 I’ll keep you posted on the results. Perhaps from jail?

This is officially my 100^th blog entry, which means that - if I were a TV show - I’ve reached the highest threshold – a chance for syndication, royalty checks, fame…

Alas, I’m merely a writer but sometimes my life feels like a TV show. The canned laughter from my husband whenever I tell a joke, the inability to finish a sentence before I’m interrupted by someone trying to sell something, and the silly conflicts that seem so important one week, only to be forgotten or ignored the following week. But here’s how my series differs from TV. No one edits my “life” script. I map out my life, my day, my grocery list…without a red pen. Without a network advising me on hair length, butt size or cuss-word no-no’s.

It’s funny, I’m the star of my own show that no one watches. Or, at least, one I that thought no one watched. But after 100 entries, I’ve cultivated an impressive audience I get to call my own. (I realize that half of you reading this are related to me, and the other half simply want to go to the Ellen Show, but I’ll take it.)

And I hope to dazzle you all with my mundane life for at least 100 more episodes.

Thanks for reading. A hundred times over.

Sugar Mama

It’s Tuesday! Get used to saying that each week because I have found the most insightful/funny/gorgeous parenting blogger (ok, she was also my roommate in boarding school, and, yes, I went to boarding school, and, no, it wasn’t because I was incredibly talented) who writes only on Tuesdays. She says it’s because nothing happens on Tuesdays, making it the perfect day to reflect on the rest of the week.

Funny, I used to get dumped on Tuesdays. She said her dump day was always on a Sunday. Evidently, she was the weekend-date worthy one…?

Check it out. Every Tuesday.

www.helloitstuesday.blogspot.com

   Please watch and hang on to every. last. word.  http://video.stumbleupon.com/#p=ithct48cqw 

I have some fantastic news and then, sadly, some devastating news.

Fantastic First:  There is now a DELIVERY service for all the (fresh, organic, yummy) ingredients needed for your meal tonight. That’s right – you want to make Roasted Chicken with Dried Plums? Vegetarian Mexican lasagna? Well, you’re just a ding-dong! away from having all the fixin’s (as well as recipe) delivered to your doorstep while you sip on your glass of wine and take pleasure in the fact your family/company/mother-in-law will think you’re a direct descendent of Julia Child’s (well, without all the cholesterol.)

Now the devastating news: This service is only available in Salt Lake City! Am I evil, or what? But I have an agenda, as always. I actually know the mastermind behind this service and I think she should move it on out to Orange County. Or wherever all of YOU are. Are you with me?

If so, write a comment. I know you have to sign up and register, etc, but what’s a coupla minutes here when you can shave a coupla HOURS off dinner prep?

Check it out: www.justcookit.net 

Having just returned from my week in Texas, I feel compelled to bring home some of its southern hospitality (as well as a few pounds.) There’s just something about the twangs and the ‘ma’am’s I can’t seem to shake. Or, at least, California-ize for my sons. But re-training them to speak with a drawl would probably take weeks, and then to make them call me “ma’am?” Disaster. Simply because it rhymes with “ham” which ‘ma’am’ would undoubtedly morph into. And then they’d probably make it into “ham sandwich”…and all respect for me would be lost. Forever.

But let’s be honest, shall we? How much respect for me, at ages three and five, do my sons have for me, anyway? As an example, I told them they’d better sit tight, behave, keep their hands to themselves on this morning’s plane ride home, or else.

“Or else, what?” my oldest challenged me.

“Or else you won’t get anything from the food cart when the flight attendant comes by.”

“Well, I don’t want anything from the cart. They just said they were having ham sandwiches and I HATE ham.”

See? I can’t make them call me ‘ma’am’ now.

Oh, why couldn’t “chocolate milkshake” have been a popular term of respect in Texas? Or “Sure, I’ll read you another bedtime story.”

Yessiree, they’d surely be mindin’ me then.

My kids are off on “ski week” this week. But I’ve just cut my hair off and ski hats look terrible on me, so I’ve decided to take them to Texas instead. I know that - as a Californian - I’m supposed to hate Texas, but I don’t. The “hiya’s” and the “y’all’s”? I’m just a sucker for a good slur, evidently. (Because they combine words, get it?) Actually, they combine a lot of great things: Good manners with good hair; big casseroles with big wine glasses…Or is it good casseroles with big hair? And is the slurring because of the big wine glasses? Oh, who cares.

As long as no one makes me wear a hat.

While I rarely get jewelry for Valentines Day, I do receive another kind of gem from my husband. For ten years, he has woken up (even) early(ier) to decorate our kitchen with pink balloons and heart stickers before I get up. Hearts on the coffee pot, the fridge, the cereal…it’s become a tradition I cherish. My mother was here visiting this year, however, so I’d assumed he’d hold off until next year.

Nope.

Some traditions are too sacred to break. No matter how embarrassing.

With two sons, I feel completely relieved of robbed of the doily valentines with puffy pen accoutrements. But my guys need to do them just the same – however fridge-worthy they may not seem. My oldest opted for a card/sticker ensemble this year – blank cards with random message stickies, like “Hey! You’re terrific!”

My youngest opted for…Dora. In Spanish. We’re supposed to hand them out today at school. Fingers crossed we don’t offend anyone. My language of love is limited to inglais, Dora. And candy.