My funny Valentine

There is one person on this earth to whom I can give full credit for restoring my faith in Valentine's Day: my wonderful hubby, Glen.

I know that, for many of you, Valentine's Day seems to be only commercial enterprise, geared specifically to tug at the emotional heartstrings of women and to induce gut-wrenching guilt in men. And, in many respects, I'd agree with you completely. Valentine's Day, like most of the other major holidays observed across the nation, has indeed become enormously profitable for Hallmark, FTD, and national jewelry store chains.

But I am an incredibly lucky woman to be married to a man who takes Valentine's Day to heart - not just for us as a couple, but for our whole family.

Let me give you a bit of background. Glen is, by all measures, incredibly romantic. I am one of the lucky few women who can attest to having a romantic spouse without pause or hesitation. This guy is a pro. He's kind, thoughtful, and just plain nice. He has a track record of giving me flowers once a month - WITHOUT FAIL - since January 1995. That's 16 years, and counting. I attribute much of this to the additional fact that he's a bit stubborn, but that's okay. His stubbornness has also found him sustaining a track record of exercising, in one way or another, each day for over two years now.

But one of the many reasons I am so grateful for my wonderful Glen - and believe me, there are lots and lots of reasons for my marital gratitude - is that he is the one person who successfully restored my faith in both Valentine's Day and in the larger concept of romance.

Many of you know that I attended Scripps College, a small liberal arts women's college here in Claremont. I lived in the residence halls all four years. Valentine's Day proved to be enormously stressful for so many people in the dorms. There was an unspoken competition to see whose names would be on the cards affixed to the multiple floral bouquets delivered to the residence hall's front desk each year. Women would tentatively peer into the arrangements, holding their breath in the hope that their name would be on one of the small enclosure cards. The lucky ones would whoop in triumph and take their blossoms to their rooms. The others would sigh, and hope that more flower deliveries would be coming soon.

I freely admit to being one of those women who'd hold out hope that one of the bouquets was for me. My dating history prior to Glen was extremely limited, but I did date a bit during my college years. Each Valentine's Day, my stomach would be in complete knots with the uncertainty of whether or not the holiday would be fun and yield me bragging rights among my dorm-mates, or whether it'd turn out to be a bust.

With the exception of one year, it was always a complete and utter bust. And on the one year when flowers arrived with my name on them, the relationship ended two days later ... before the flowers had even wilted.

Then, Glen came along. Glen and I met in a class at Scripps - Intro to Law - and were study buddies throughout the semester. I was struck by his Harvey Mudd smarts; he was apparently impressed by the detailed notes I took in class. He claims he sat down next to me because he thought I was cute; it was also the case that the chair he chose was the only empty one in the room.

By the time Glen and I became smitten with each other, I'd long graduated from Scripps and was living on my own in San Diego. He came into town to visit high school friends, and to also get off campus to avoid running into the new beau of his former girlfriend. I offered to let him stay with me in my two-bedroom apartment. We ended up chatting and smooching (and nothing else!) until about 2:00 a.m. in the morning. So, when he accompanied me to a law school class the next day, he (understandably) fell fast asleep. I can't say that the Torts lecture was particularly engaging that day, but I got cranky at him for dozing off, and we ended the visit on a sour note.

Fast forward five days, and he called me. I was elated and slightly relieved to know that he didn't think I was as cranky as I thought I'd been. He asked to see me again, and when he came to call a couple of weeks later, the first thing he did was hand me a rose. I was weak at the knees.

Soon after, I'd withdrawn from law school (yeah!) and was figuring out my next move. Glen invited me up to the Harvey Mudd campus for their Valentine's Day party and dance which, conveniently enough, took place on February 14. We mooned at each other pretty much the whole night. It was official: the relationship was on!

Glen began his flower-giving streak to coincide with New Year's Eve 1994/New Year's Day 1995. By this time, we were engaged. He didn't need to give me another reason to fall and stay madly in love with him, but this was just another example of what a tender, sweet and truly thoughtful person he is. When Glen and my mom and I began exploring florists to do the flowers for our wedding, he'd contact potential vendors and have them send me a dozen roses to my apartment so that 1) we could see their work, and 2) I could swoon, again. The most incredible arrangement came from David Mark at Designs by David, and it was David who ended up doing the amazing flowers for our beautiful wedding.

Glen has never ceased to amaze me. Unlike many guys, he doesn't consider Valentine's Day to be a stressful exercise in futility. Now, years ago, he and I made a pact to not exchange flowers on Valentine's Day: it's too expensive and, as such, really not worth it. But it's Glen who has helped me to become and stay so happy and content and secure; being able to let go of that particular expectation has enabled me to enjoy and cherish this holiday even more. And Glen is masterful at making Valentine's Day special for all of us: he always makes plans - grand or small - for a family celebration that is special and meaningful. This year, he took us to the fabulous House of Big Fish and Ice Cold Beer in Laguna Beach, and our table was perched perfectly next to a wall of windows that overlooked a magnificent sunset. The kids played happily with their new Lego sets (sent from Meme and Pepe), and Glen and I took tons of photos to capture our family silliness. Tonight we will attempt to make fried chicken using a recipe kit sold by Williams-Sonoma and inspired by Thomas Keller's restaurant, Ad Hoc. We'll end the evening with some molten chocolate cake; David will get a new Lego set, and Elizabeth will get a new Barbie doll (Skipper, to be precise).

Life is good, my friends. Love the ones you're with. Cherish every moment. I do ... and I have one helluva guy to thank. He makes my life amazing, he has my back, and he's my hero.

Internet marketing

Today, I am going to use my blog/bully pulpit for something I've really never done before: promote something.

Those of you who may also have been tracking my Facebook postings know that during the past week, I've posted several links to a new on-line seminar that has been developed by Chuck Goetschel, a good friend to Glen and me, and husband to my long-time buddy and former Job's Daughter's sister, Wendy.

Chuck is truly an inspiring person. When Glen and I first met him, I asked him about his line of work, what his background was, and so on. I was so impressed with his reply: "At heart, I'm really a purpose-driven entrepreneur."

The program that he's compiled consists of 25 individuals from around the globe who are experts in such matters as internet marketing, personal branding, life coaching, and such. This on-line seminar (or academy, if you will) is designed to get people thinking about what they are passionate about, and how they might turn their passions into a lucrative career.

The videos that have been previewed on the website for this program are absolutely, truly wonderful. I'm pretty sure you know me well enough to know that I wouldn't be saying this if I were not truly impressed.

Therefore, I've agreed to help Chuck and Wendy market this new adventure that they are pursuing.

While I don't expect anyone who reads my blog to instantly go out and invest in this course, I would be grateful if you'd pass this information along to others whom you think might be interested. Do you have friends or neighbors who are seeking employment, trying to identify their next career move, or are looking for inspiration to do something new and different with their lives? How about recent or soon-to-be college graduates?

Personally, I am making the investment to complete this program. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I'd love to have friends join me so that we can compare notes, discuss the materials off line, and bounce ideas off each other.

Anyhoo ... if you are curious, here is the link to the Personal Passion Formula Academy (yes, the URL is strange looking, but just go with it ...)

http://bit.ly/personalpassion_2011

   

Thanks for reading, everyone! If you have ideas for leads, do let me know!

Let them eat Chicken

I think I have officially scarred my children for life. Or, at the very least, momentarily traumatized them.

Let me rewind my story to our trip to Target this evening, to pick up a few essentials for the house. I asked David and Elizabeth if they'd be up for some homemade chicken drumsticks for dinner.

"Drum sticks?" David asked. "They're too soft to play the drums with!"

"Oh, no sweetie. That's just an expression used when referring to the chicken legs."

"MMMM!! CHICKEN LEGS!!" he said breathlessly.

Elizabeth inserted protest #1: "NOOOOOO."

Once in the store, we walked toward the back in search of poultry and, well, laundry detergent (not, of course, intended to be used simultaneously).

David noticed the hybrid Superbowl/Valentine's decorations hanging from the store's ceiling.

"Why do they still have that?" he asked me.

"Have what?"

"The football stuff! The Superbowl's over!"

"Well, I think they're trying to advertise both football and Valentine's Day. But I'm not sure why."

"What does Valentine's Day mean?" he asked sweetly.

"Love! Hearts! Hugs!" I replied.

"What does football mean?" he continued.

"Well ... um ... sports," I stammered.

"And money!" he said wisely. (I just had to throw that gem into this story!).

We got home, and David proceeded to begin his evening reading, and Elizabeth, as usual, was pretty much his happy and captive audience. I prepped the chicken in my usual manner: I dredged it in flour, and browned it on the stove for about 5 minutes before cooking it through via basting in a warm bath of shallow water.

Mac and cheese and carrots soon went onto the stove, and in about 20 minutes, we had ourselves a meal. And, man! My chicken was yummy. Finger-licking good, I might add. As Dora the Explorer's Backpack would say, "Yum! Yum! Yum! Yum! Yum! İDelicioso!"

David licked his lips. Elizabeth inserted protest #2: "NOOO!"

"Elizabeth, you need to try just one small bite, and that's it."

"Mommy?" she asked, eyes wide. "May I have a cookie?"

"Yes you may. AFTER you try the chicken."

"NOOO!!"

The conversation went on and on like this for about five minutes until I decided to drop the subject and finish my own food. David, wary of eating the chicken straight from the bone, relented and let me cut the meat off. He dug right in.

"Oh! This chicken is soooo good! I want to marry this chicken!" he declared, channeling the character "Sam" from "iCarly."

"Thanks, sweetie!" I was delighted.

Elizabeth was adamant. She was not touching that stinking piece of chicken, no how, no way.

David, having polished off his food so well, asked for a popsicle for dessert. I agreed and proceeded to the freezer.

"WHAAA! I wanna popsicle like David!" Elizabeth protested.

"Well, you may have one, but you know what you need to do first."

I grabbed her plate and reluctantly went to the stove to get her a bit more mac and cheese. Hey, a girl's gotta eat, so it may as well be something that part of the main meal.

"I hate chicken!" she said. And then began rattling off a list of other things she hates, culminating, of course, in "I hate you!"

And there it was.

Now, I'm a bit amazed that I took that critique with as much calmness as I did. There is no way on earth that Elizabeth has a full grasp of the concept "hate." Yes, it appears to be her most popular word of choice lately, but that doesn't mean that she really understand its context. That said, I had just heard the words "I hate you" from the lips of one of my kids for the very first time. I stared at the pots and pans at the stove, and just stood there a minute, taking it all in.

David jumped right in. "I don't hate you, Mommy! I love you!"

"Oh, thanks, sweetie," I replied. "Elizabeth, I'm really sorry you hate me, sweetie. I don't hate you. I don't think you quite know what that means though," I said, trying to use my most tranquil voice.

"I wanna go home!" she proclaimed (yet another one of her favorite sayings when things are not going her way. I reminded her that we were already home. Then, I made the following offer:

"Would you guys like for me to get you a new mommy? It's not a problem. It will just take a minute."

And, with that, I started walking to the front door. At first, their protests were relatively mild. "Oh, no, Mommy. We don't want a new one. Mommy? We don't want a new mommy!" And finally, it all culminated in ear-piercing, heart wrenching screams the second I opened the front door (and stepped out for two seconds to grab a box that had been delivered).

"MOOOMMYYYY!!!!"

I turned around and saw the faces of two innocent, frantic and frightened children. David was crying. Elizabeth was crying. I felt like a heel.

I turned around and went back in to join them. David was sobbing his little heart out, his red, white, and blue popsicle melting slowly in his little hand. I wrapped my arms around him and said, "it's okay ... it's okay ... I'm not going anywhere."

"I was so ... so ... so scared!" he said, making me feel even more horrible than I already did.

Elizabeth piled on, but still protesting about two issues: my attempted exit and my unwillingness to procure a popsicle for her.

Everyone calmed down after a minute, and we finished the nightly routine with teeth brushing, baths, and jammies. Both little ones are now tucked safely in their beds. I snuggled for a few extra minutes with David to make sure he was okay, and to assure him that I was going to stick around for the long haul.

"I'm sorry I messed with you there, buddy," I said.

"That's okay," he sighed.

"I promise to always be here for you."

He brought his hand out from under his blanket and stuck out his pinkie. We engaged in a mutual pinkie swear.

Tomorrow is another day.

Silliness

My initial objective in creating this blog was to chronicle the cute, witty, and inspiring things that my kids do and say. Pretty much every day, either David or Elizabeth say something that is profoundly funny, and I make a mental note remember it, write it down, and share it on my blog later. I always - ALWAYS - forget.

But there were a few gems tossed around last night that will be seared in my memory for a long while. Let me explain.

Yesterday, I was in Los Angeles for a good portion of the day, as my mom and I had the pleasure - honor, really - of being invited to attend the memorial service for the legendary Jack LaLanne. My parents and the LaLanness worked together in a number of charity organizations throughout the years, and we've been privileged to have them in our lives for so long. They are a remarkable couple. The celebration of Jack's life was filled with laughter, good memories, wonderful speakers, and a bit of music ... and, of course, audio-visual snippets of his classic television show.

But by the time mom and I pulled out of the parking lot, we'd been at Forest Lawn for four hours. We'd been sitting for quite a while. I craved a diet coke. But we ventured onto the freeway in the hops of beating the rush hour traffic. With the carpool lane to our advantage, we made pretty good time back to Claremont.

I dropped Mom off at her car (which she'd parked at our house) and proceeded immediately to get David from school. I pulled up to Foothill Country Day School, and could see my little seven-year-old through the windows of the library, engaged in a  one-man game of Connect Four.

Back in the car, we scooted over to Elizabeth's day care center, and repeated the pick-up process.

When we got home, I told the kids that they were welcome to go upstairs and play while I cooked dinner, but that they must come down to the kitchen when I tell them to. The response was a resounding, "okay!" and they ran upstairs to dig into their goodies.

About five minutes later, Elizabeth came downstairs, arms filled with stuffed animals. "My sleeping buddies are having dinner, too!" she said!

"Really? Okay, that's sounds good."

She then proceeded to try to station each animal in one of the bar stools that surround the center island in the kitchen. Realizing she was a bit too short to do this task properly, she invoked my assistance.

So, Tiger, Elephant and Piggie all took a seat. As you can see, Tiger looked resplendent in her St. Patrick's Day Princess Cowgirl hat.

By the time dinner was ready and we were prepared to sit down to eat, I realized that there were no empty chairs. David, Elizabeth and cuddly friends had taken up the entire dining area. I asked nicely if Piggy and another friend could share a chair. Elizabeth ultimately agreed.

Fast forward to the end of dinner; the kids and I eat heartily, and ice cream is served. Although she requested a scoop, Elizabeth only picked at her chocolate dessert. David ate it up with delight. Elizabeth returned upstairs, leaving her animals behind.

"David, would you mind taking two of these upstairs for me?" I asked Little Man, pointing in the direction of the menagerie.

"Sure," he said with a small sigh. He slipped off her bar stool and started collecting the animals. I grabbed two of them, as well.

"Give those to me, too!" he said. "I can take them."

"Well, thanks, sweetie! I really appreciate it!"

"But mommy ... just so you know ... I'm not a zookeeper." And, arms full, David proceeded to take the zoo upstairs.

Then, it was time to start getting ready for bed. By the time we finished dinner, it was almost 7:30. I had no idea where the time went. I asked each of them to grab some jammies and meet me in the bathroom.

"Okay!" they replied in unison (and promptly said "JINX!" to each other).

I stepped over to the washing machine to put some more Spray and Wash on the knees of David's school uniform pants, and could not help but notice some severe giggling behind me. I mean, really - it was hard-core laughing. I was not sure I wanted to know what was up.

"Mommy! Mommy! Look!" David said.

I turned around. There stood my son, naked as the day he was born, wearing nothing but my boots and a smile. Elizabeth, in her (almost) matching birthday suit, was licking his butt. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or turn myself into the authorities.

He was jubilant! "Take my picture! Take my picture!" he said! "Take a picture of Elizabeth licking me!"

"Not until you get some underwear on. I'm not taking naked pictures. And I'm not taking licking pictures, either. Eww!!"


A bit of negotiations followed, and he reluctantly put on his Iron Man briefs. "These are my tidy-whities," he proclaimed happily. He stepped back into the boots.

I snapped a few shots, being both slightly horrified but hugely amused at how much these kids thought this whole ordeal was a hoot. David struck pose after pose. He was in his glory, and his biggest fan, his little sister, was cheering from the sidelines.

I'll decline posting any of these photos on this blog, as I'm not too keen on having photos of my kids in their undies being on the World Wide Web. Suffice it to say, however, that my David is photogenic, no matter what he is (or is not) wearing.