About fifteen minutes before this breathtaking sunset, I stood next to three people at the bottom of a small hill in Laguna Beach. It was an older couple–same age as my parents, about sixty-five–and their adult daughter. The daughter was explaining to them how far the walk would be to get to the beach. “Just up this little hill and to the right,” she urged them. “There are benches up there where you can relax and watch the sunset,” she suggested as she polished the lens of her camera with her sweatshirt.

The older woman clutched her cardigan sweater at the neck and looked toward the beach through squinting eyes. She was thinking about the walk–weighing the effort made to the reward. The man didn’t look up at all and he quickly said, “I think we should go wait in the car.” The older woman looked down at the ground and nodded in agreement.

“Just up this small hill. It’s not even a hill really,” said the daughter, pointing toward it again in an attempt to get her dad to look at it. “No, just give us the keys and we’ll wait in the car–you go,” he said, as he helped his wife put her arms through the sleeves of her sweater.

The daughter, who seemed accustomed to this decision, dug around in her purse and handed him her car keys. She didn’t say anything to them after that, just turned quickly toward the darkening horizon and started up the hill with a gait full of reproach. I watched the couple walk slowly toward the parking lot. It was an effort for them to walk, even at a slow pace. Yes, it was an effort.

As they walked they didn’t say a word to each other. He opened up the door to the mini van and helped his wife in the back seat. Then he settled into the passenger side and there they sat until the sky was completely dark and their daughter returned. I told my husband the story later in the car home.

I wondered how many times in their life they decided not to try–not even make an attempt up the small hill. Is that why they were so frail at such a young age? I don’t know them, maybe some medical tragedy has come on them both. But, I got the feeling as I stood there observing the scene–their unwillingness to even consider walking, their daughter’s quick surrender, their solemn cloud–that theirs was a lifetime of deciding to sit in the car.

While my husband and I talked about the couple in the car on the way home, he broke away and said to the kids in the back seat who weren’t paying a lick of attention to our conversation, “You know how Mommy and Daddy are always making you guys try something new? That’s really important.” Our daughter nodded while she continued coloring and our son stopped playing with the shells in his hands, looked up and said, “Are we going to do something new right now?”

This was printed in the October, 2011 issue of OC Family and IE Family Magazines.

I’m the last child. The only girl. The little sister to two older brothers. Growing up, I didn’t give much thought to my allotted place in the family–I was fine with it, except every once in a while I’d wondered what it would be like to have a sister. I can shoot a three-pointer and change my oen tire on my bike, but I’m a tangled mess if you ask me to French braid your hair and I still, for the life of me, can’t figure out the difference between a wedge and a platform heel. Sisterhood seemed like an exclusive club with secrets and skills that couldn’t be shared with me.

I wasn’t a tomboy. I liked being a girl and according to my brothers played my role as the little sister well, incorporating tantrums, tears and tattling into my weapons of defense against two older siblings. My brothers were mostly kind and loving to me and tried to fill in the gender gap between us with insider advice. “Always remember to brush the back of your hair,” my brother Randall told me when I was in sixth grade. He had noticed some girls gave all their attention to feathering their bangs, and he didn’t want me to fall into that trap.

My eldest brother Rob taught me more important things–mostly about boys–he was the truth-teller: “The only boys you can trust are me and Randy, that’s it.” Naturally I didn’t believe him and was always met with smirks and eye-rolling when I told him about a “sweet and nice” boy that I liked. No boyfriend was ever good enough and was always, always referred to, not by name, but by the year and make of their car, “1962 Mustang called. He is going to pick you up at 8:00.” It was their job and I respected them for it.

They had their moments of obligatory “brotherness.” Once coming home to find my Hollie Hobbie doll hanging by her neck from my bedroom light. A formidable retaliation for a rash of narcing on them. If I close my eyes and really think about it, I can still see her hanging there in the afternoon sun, my brothers’ snickers coming from behind me. I got the message. I understood the language of brothers and I stopped telling on them–almost entirely.

Going to my friend’s house who had all sisters gave me the feeling as if I had stepped into another dimension. In a speed that was dizzying they would leap from screaming matches quickly to helpful outfit consultations and then to cuddling on the couch to watch TV. The sisterhood thing was alluring, fascinating. It was at once both familiar and strange–like listening to Musak. A house full of sisters had a tempo I couldn’t keep.

I’d head home where I felt I belonged, among my brothers. I’d lay down in my bed and listen to the sound of their music coming from the garage as they worked on their cars or the rhythmic tap of the basketball on the driveway followed by the shake of the ball hitting the rim. It was what I knew. Being a little sister to two older brothers has played a big role in my life, shaping the person I am today. I know it will do the same for my kids–one boy, one girl–in a way that is different than my own experience. I just hope they will continue to have a good relationship into adulthood, like my brothers and me.

Me and Debbie

After my daughter was born, all I wanted was to be a stay-at-home mom. I imagined I’d spend my days pushing my daughter in a stroller through the park in the mornings, scrapbooking our family memories when I could sneak in some “me time,” as she napped in the afternoon, and then I’d prepare a pictorial-worthy family meal every night.

It didn’t exactly happen that way; I did eventually leave my full-time job when we decided we could make it on one income, but by then, my daughter was four and my son was one.

I was ready. Bring on the stay-at-home momminess! But what happened the next six months shocked me–I was miserable. The reality of spending most days snail hunting, waiting for a child to either fall asleep or wake up, and the stark loneliness of staying at home with two small kids wasn’t what I imagined, but I didn’t dare tell a soul. Are you kidding? After all the dreaming, planning and sacrifice I couldn’t admit I was two “Dora The Explorers” shy of a total meltdown. Even if Elmo himself came and knocked on my door for a little heart to heart–I wasn’t going to admit I was going a little crazy.

That’s about when I came across this thing called a blog and decided I would start one of my own. I was a journalism major in college and always loved to write and tell stories. I had my own personal blog up and running within a week and a few weeks after that was picked up by the Orange County Register to blog before joining the team here at OC Family. At night after the kids were in bed I’d stay up late writing, making videos and connecting with other moms online. Blogging was just the spark I needed to keep me from leaping into the waiting arms of a deep depression.

I love my kids. It wasn’t being a mom that was causing me to spiral, it was the lack of connection to the “pre-mom me” and to other people. I’m a social person and I needed to spend time being creative and then share that part of me. I discovered that being a mom was just like anything else, I couldn’t rely on other people to flip that “happy” switch. Once I took it on myself to find what made me feel balanced and content–ta da! I was happy.

Blogging is undeniably denominated by women–mostly moms–and here’s why: Our blog is all ours. Moms rightly spend most of their days pouring their energy into everyone else’s needs; the kids, the boss, the husband. But a blog is our own space and we can make it look, say and be anything *we* want, and that’s empowering.

I believe the internet and its cohorts–etsy, blogs, message boards, Twitter–have been revolutionary to women, especially to moms. Through online networks a stay-at-home mom in Iowa can sell her handmade scarves internationally or a working mom can take night classes online to help grow her career or a stay-at-home mom in Orange County can write on her blog late at night and become a columnist, writer and local TV host all while her kids are asleep or in school.

This month’s cover story for OC Family is all about Digital Moms. I proudly wear that title. In fact, the writer, Debbie Lavdas, and I are tight friends and we met through an online OC mom’s networking site years ago. If I remember right she described herself as a mom and writer in her bio. I think I replied with “I’m a mom and a writer too!” That was it. We quickly arranged an IRL (In Real Life) meeting and have worked together blogging and now on OC Family TV.

I hear the comment often that online connections are “superficial” and “unhealthy,” but that’s not my experience. Try having a deeply felt conversation with your daughter’s Pollie Pockets about the weather after being home with a sick kid for two days and then let’s talk “superficial” and “unhealthy” relationships. Moms need to connect and the online world offers us a conduit to find customers for our products, like-minded moms in our community and healthy friendships. Embrace it!

I knew it was coming. “What sports do your kids play?”

I had just met a few new parents at our neighborhood park and I was prepared and waiting for the question. It’s like the “what’s your sign” of the new-parent hookup. I don’t know when sports became the definitive activity in our kids’ lives, but I can say for certain—they have.

What your kids are “in” seems to define who they are in most parenting circles, so when I tell other parents we don’t have our kids in any sports, they look at me like I told them I fed them shards of glass for lunch. Not believing it, most will continue, “Well what, music lessons then?” I shake my head “no.” Now desperate they ask: “Chess club? Foreign languages?” Sorry, no. We don’t have our kids—ages 7 and 9–enrolled in anything during the school year.

I kind of look forward to the exchange really, but I’m like that, always up for some harmless mixing of the suburban mom pot. My husband and I didn’t start off as parental renegades. From the time our daughter was four until she was seven we had her in them all; soccer, dance, music, tae kwon do, art. Most of them chosen by the cuteness of uniform, but after about three years of shuttling, eating dinner in the car and fights that always ended with, “We paid for it because you said you wanted to do it, so you’re going!” we decided to take some time off from extra activities. We didn’t have a big plan other than, let’s just not do anything other than school for a while.

It has been fantastic. We spend our Saturdays hiking through the bountiful open areas of Orange County, kickin’ it at the beach or just hanging out at our pool. We’ve taken up games like LIFE, Mexican Train and Uno. Our kids finish their homework on weekdays and then go outside and play with their friends—hanging from trees, scootering and writing plays. It’s just like olden’ times, or as I like to affectionately call them—the ‘70s.

It’s been two years and just this last month my daughter just starting to ask for surfing and swim lessons. My son would rather play with his LEGOs than kick a soccer ball, so he’s jazzed to attend a LEGO camp this summer. He will also starts Cub Scouts this year. I finally feel like we are ready to re-enter the world of sports and classes again. But it took the time away for us to focus on what they could do, what they were good at doing, and not what they couldn’t or didn’t want to do, for us to get a better idea of what areas they should pursue.

For some kids it’s a no-brainer. I know boys who would explode from their excess energy if they didn’t get out on the hockey rink three or four times a week and girls who are passionate about their dance class or gymnastic. Every kid is different and I think every youth coach would agree, not all belong in sports at five, six or seven years old.

If you feel pressured and overwhelmed by your kids’ hectic sports or activities schedule–take a knee. Give your family a break from the activities and spend some time together. Let your kids discover what they are good at; what they want to pursue. If your kid’s the one who chases butterflies in the outfield, collects dandelions on the soccer field and breaks into the robot during ballet lessons (So been there), don’t stress. They just need some time.

Sports are a wonderful way for kids to get some exercise, learn team work and build confidence and skill–and I promise all those benefits will be there for you when your kids are ready. Parenting is a marathon, not a sprint. Pace yourself.

After spending a week at my mom and dad’s house with my family I was overcome with one, albeit  immature, feeling: NO FAIR!

The first morning my mom had already prepared the breakfast table with every sweet delight that was banned from my house growing up — Fruit Loops, Frosted Flakes, enough sugar cereal to fuel a 7- and 10-year-old through more than a morning’s worth of tantrums and meltdowns.

I know the topics of  “Grandparents spoil their grandkids” and “Why do my kids get the foods I never got as a kid?” have been done to death, but this is a little different, because in this instance, frankly, it’s happening to me.

In my family growing up, my mom filled the kitchen with the healthiest food the ’70s had to offer: Roman Meal bread (instead of Wonder Bread), grape juice from concentrate (instead of soda), Red “Delicious” Apples (instead of fruit cups), Triskets (instead of chips), and, the worst travesty of all, Laura Scudder’s Peanut Butter (instead of, you know, peanut butter).  Laura Scudder’s is the kind that has the oil sitting on the top that you have to stir in like some kind of cruel science experiment.  It’s thick and pasty and there is zero chance of not ripping your bread to pieces when spreading it.

My mom has even admitted that she used to put wheat germ in our brownies as a “fiber booster.” What kind of twisted …  All this was done in the name of eating healthy, and to this day I think I have pretty good eating habits because of it. I’m grateful to her for her efforts, and even though as a kid it seemed like my friends were eating Pop Tarts, Pop Rocks and Sugar Pops for breakfast, I knew she did it because she loved us.

So, I just want to know, who is this woman pushing the Pringles on my kids and what has she done with my mom?   My mom has taken on legendary spoiling status among our friends.  We get requests to tell the same stories over and over again. Like once, after seeing Disney on Ice at The Honda Center my mom bought Emily, my daughter, cotton candy on the way out the door after a whole parade of special treats during the show.  When I protested, my mom shrugged it off and justified it saying cotton candy was “mostly air.” Mostly Air!  She’s a legend.

This is the sort of thing only a grandmother who is completely head over heels in love with her grandchild would say.

Which leads me to my husband and my stance on the whole subject — my own personal feeling of injustice aside — we think it’s wonderful.  Our kids are lucky to have a grandma and gramps who love them and spoil them rotten. So many of my friends have lost one or both of their parents already, or their kids’ grandparents can’t be bothered with them, or they live too far away to see them.

It’s not like they have no control at all. My parents require our kids treat them and each other with respect.  They make them say “please” and “thank you” and they look after them like hawks, but they just can’t help but be spoiled by them — and that’s OK.

That our kids have grandparents that fill them with sugar, let them jump up and down on the couch, and hold frequent shopper cards at every toy in town is all counted as a blessing in our minds. All we ask is for at least one day of “Grandma-detox” before having to take them to school, piano lessons, or basically having to bring our kids out in public

I broke my back riding a blue-eyed horse named Nevada in the desert of Arizona and I’d do it all again in a second. I know. It sounds like the first line in a country song and has enough optimism to make an Oprah studio audience stand up and cheer, but it’s true.

I was out for a ride with my girlfriends and a wrangler from my favorite dude ranch when I was thrown from Nevada’s back and on to my own, fracturing my L-1 vertebrae. It’s important when you tell this story to your friends, please clarify I was “thrown” and didn’t fall off the horse. It’s also acceptable to say I was bucked off, but to say I fell off a horse, like we were just walking along and oops! I fell off, is far too lame for me to bare. Besides, being thrown off (or bucked) gives me cowgirl cred.

You should have seen us in our Old Navy cowgirl-style shirts, loping our horses, the cold desert wind through our hair, laughing wildly and shouting our “yee-ha’s!” through the canyon. It was truly a monumental moment. Then it happened. All the horses started bucking–spooked by a mountain lion, the wrangler told us later.  I would have stayed on, really, but Nevada suddenly stopped and I flew through the air and landed just under his huffing nose, gasping to catch my breath, staring at my hands planted in the rocks and sand of the Arizona desert. I knew I was hurt.

After I was able to get to my feet and walked a little, I mounted Nevada again and made the hour trip back to the guest ranch slouched in the saddle and fighting back tears. Concerned I might have blown my cowgirl image I asked my friend, Jill, how I looked.  ”Humbled,” she said with a smile.

Humbled indeed, it’s been two weeks since I was thrown from Nevada and I can honestly say that having to rely on other people for everything has been a life changing experience, in a good way. I’ve seen my kids grow and stretch themselves in an effort to help. Who knew a 6-year old could do the dishes or my 9-nine-year old knew how to cook? To see them prepare my bath or fetch me a Diet Coke has changed the way I look at them–I’ve seen peeks of the adults they will be  brimming in them.

The best way I can describe my reaction when the ER doctor told me I would be laid up for about  four weeks is to picture one of those robots from a ’50s TV show when it has received bad information. My mind was repeating, “Does not compute. Does not compute.” Then steam poured from my ears and my head exploded. I’m a working mom with two kids, two dogs and a busy husband, how can I be out of commission for that long? That night I cried my husband, Larry, “My life doesn’t work unless I’m functioning at 100 percent.”

But, two weeks into my recovery and I found my life does work without my foot on the accelerator at every moment. Larry has been phenomenal–doing the dishes, the laundry, making dinner and going to the market. He’s done it all graciously and with a cheer that is, in all honesty…how do I put this? Alluring.

“I think me breaking my back has been the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to us,” I said to him as he Comet-ed out the sink. Accepting my accompanying hug and understandably skeptical, he asked, “Exactly how many Vicodin have you taken today?” But,the old stereo-type rings true:  Nothing puts hearts in the eyes of a gal more than watching her husband do housework.

Some of our best moments as a family have happened since my accident. Not big orchestrated events meant to bring us together, but simple moments that wouldn’t have ever made it on the calendar in our normal, bustling life–like all of us huddled in bed watching a movie or sitting on the porch with a cup of cocoa watching the rain.

I’ve been asked if I’m going to ride a horse again and the answer is an enormous, enthusiastic, “Yes! of course!” My kids need to see I’m not afraid and it’s important they know in life you take chances, you get out there, you fail or fall (for the record, remember, I was thrown), but the alternative–living a life of fear and caution–is unacceptable to me. You miss out on all the good stuff and even when things go wrong, they can still end-up pretty alright. Yee-ha! I always wonder how other couple’s relationships work–what they talk about, if they brush their teeth side-by-side in the mirror every morning, how they decide on big-ticket items. It’s the little things couples do in public that make me stare and stand too close, trying to eavesdrop on their conversations.

Like at Trader Joe’s the other day, a couple was standing in front of the boxed fruit. The man was holding a box of Asian Pears and the woman was diligently trying to pry the perfectly square plastic box open (despite the galvanized tape) in order to…touch them, I guess. Calmly, the man used his long (freakishly, btw) index finger to lift the side so she could…yes, yes, she wanted to touch them and when she did, she immediately shook her head and waved them away.

He picked up another box and they began another hushed and passionate conversation about–Asian Pears. I tried to hear what they were saying, pretending I cared deeply about the Clementines sitting next to the pears. But they were enormously secretive and careful not to let the rest of us know what was so flippin’ interesting about–Asian Pears.

Naturally, this made me think about my husband Larry and me. I can’t even imagine having a conversation that long about pears. I remember once having a pretty lengthy conversation about how much we loved cheese, but it was more because we were hungry. We started asking each other outrageous questions like, “If you could make a deal that you never could eat cheese again, but you would then be able to fly, would you?” Seriously, who would make that deal? Like, nobody, but that’s the kind of thing Larry and I talk about.

So you can understand my fascination with this couple at Trader Joe’s. Larry and I had lots of conversations about them. Asian Pears just seems like a very particular and much more sophisticated thing to talk about than cheese. I mean, we would have flown by those pears at breakneck speed and thrown them in our cart (period). No discussion.

It made me wonder if we’re missing out on something. Don’t things like this make you speculate about how different other people’s lives are? Are they happier? Their kids more intelligent? I see couples on weekend mornings who’ve obviously been out with their baby joggers, sipping their lattes, the Times in hand, and I think, “Huh, are we the only ones who wave our children away on weekend mornings, muttering from under our pillows about cartoons and directing them to the special ‘Saturday’ cereal?”

I guess it comes down to perspective–appreciating who I am and what I value. Being able to say to myself, “We’re a couple who sleeps in and gives our children sugary cereal on Saturdays.” And, I suppose, accepting that Larry and I are the type of couple that talks about the couple who talks about the Asian Pears…and being okay with that. Which I most certainly am.

I always wonder how other couple’s relationships work–what they talk about, if they brush their teeth side-by-side in the mirror every morning, how they decide on big-ticket items. It’s the little things couples do in public that make me stare and stand too close, trying to eavesdrop on their conversations.

Like at Trader Joe’s the other day, a couple was standing in front of the boxed fruit. The man was holding a box of Asian Pears and the woman was diligently trying to pry the perfectly square plastic box open (despite the galvanized tape) in order to…touch them, I guess. Calmly, the man used his long (freakishly, btw) index finger to lift the side so she could…yes, yes, she wanted to touch them and when she did, she immediately shook her head and waved them away.

He picked up another box and they began another hushed and passionate conversation about–Asian Pears. I tried to hear what they were saying, pretending I cared deeply about the Clementines sitting next to the pears. But they were enormously secretive and careful not to let the rest of us know what was so flippin’ interesting about–Asian Pears.

Naturally, this made me think about my husband Larry and me. I can’t even imagine having a conversation that long about pears. I remember once having a pretty lengthy conversation about how much we loved cheese, but it was more because we were hungry. We started asking each other outrageous questions like, “If you could make a deal that you never could eat cheese again, but you would then be able to fly, would you?” Seriously, who would make that deal? Like, nobody, but that’s the kind of thing Larry and I talk about.

So you can understand my fascination with this couple at Trader Joe’s. Larry and I had lots of conversations about them. Asian Pears just seems like a very particular and much more sophisticated thing to talk about than cheese. I mean, we would have flown by those pears at breakneck speed and thrown them in our cart (period). No discussion.

It made me wonder if we’re missing out on something. Don’t things like this make you speculate about how different other people’s lives are? Are they happier? Their kids more intelligent? I see couples on weekend mornings who’ve obviously been out with their baby joggers, sipping their lattes, the Times in hand, and I think, “Huh, are we the only ones who wave our children away on weekend mornings, muttering from under our pillows about cartoons and directing them to the special ‘Saturday’ cereal?”

I guess it comes down to perspective–appreciating who I am and what I value. Being able to say to myself, “We’re a couple who sleeps in and gives our children sugary cereal on Saturdays.” And, I suppose, accepting that Larry and I are the type of couple that talks about the couple who talks about the Asian Pears…and being okay with that. Which I most certainly am.

My six-year-old son, Ben, wildly tore off the wrapping paper of his gift. He knew what it would be, the only thing he asked for: “A real magic kit.” He pumped his fist to his side “Yes” when he saw the little boy wearing a black top hat on the box. It was the gift. The only gift he really wanted and now he had it.

Not waiting to show it to us he ripped off the top and perused the entrails of his magic kit piece by piece and with each one his face became more perplexed: a card deck with secret flaps, a top hat with velcro hiding place, a two-topped vase. He waved the wand in the air a few times, hit it on the table in hopes of jump stating it and then set it down. When he got to the directions he held them up with his back to me, “What is this for?” He then quickly turned to me and said with wet eyes, “This isn’t a real magic kit.”

My heart broke a little. You know how it does as a parent when you realize a little bit of innocence just escaped through their footie jammies out into space, never to be seen again. When he circled the Magic Kit in the catalogue he thought he would be getting–magic, naturally. {Forehead slap.} Of course he thought he was getting the ability to be magic. It had never occurred to me that in his mind Magic was for sale for $35.99 plus shipping and handling.

Now comes the tough stuff in parenting. Can I frame his disappointment so it will hurt less? How can I tell him? I’ve always been a firm believer in promoting the sprites of childhood imagination. Invisible friends? Bring them on! Santa? Yes, sir! The Tooth Fairy? She always leaves her fairy dust on their pillows. But, I promised myself when the time came I would take the Johnny Cash approach to parenting: ” The best way to say something is to say it.” You have to come clean.

I told him the truth, mostly, that the magic he sees is really sleight of hand or illusion. It’s a skill like playing music or dancing I explained. Then I showed him the first card trick and he performed it for his dad, he was hooked again. He christened himself “Bengee The Wonder-Full” and his sister made him business cards. We pulled out a cape from his vampire costume and his dad gave him an old briefcase to hold all of his tricks. Bengee the Wonder-Full’s adopted the catch phrase: “You wanna see some magic?

After a week he had 10 solid tricks in his repertoire and had received several standing ovations from friends and family. After a big show he and I sat on the edge of his bed talking about it. I asked him how he felt about magic being different than he had expected. He said he liked his magic kit and performing then his eyes turned watery again and he sat quietly staring at his powerless wand.

Walt Disney had a phrase he used to describe the little place of wonder, magic and belief that never entirely disappears in a person no matter how old they get, he called it, “that fine, clean, unspoiled spot down deep in every one of us.” I thought about that as we put away Bengee The Wonder-Full’s tricks and illusions. I want him to stay forever that little boy who believed in real magic , but I believe he will always have a spot for him inside his heart, I hope, an “unspoiled spot.”

“You know to your audience you are magic. You get to bring that to them just like you had hoped,” I encouraged him by lifting his chin with my finger. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he tried. “Just think about how amazed they all were with your tricks, shaking their heads and clapping,” I said. “I’m sorry this sort of magic isn’t what you wanted it to be.” He started to perk up. “Yeah, but I still have Santa, So-So (his invisible friend), and the ToothFairy…you know, all those guys.”

Designer dog: $2,500, check … “Juicy” dog sweater: $45, check … Leather collar with matching leash from Muttropolis: $130, check … Dog tag to identify your dog in case she gets lost: $5, but wait…ummm, can’t find it.

I was shopping with my family at The Irvine Spectrum one night and we eyed this adorable teacup Yorkie sniffing a potted palm. She was dragging her designer leash as she walked stiff and slow due to the thick pink hoodie ”Juicy” sweater she was wearing. She was all by her lonesome. “Where is her mommy?” asked my dog-crazed daughter.

Everyone passing by the fancy dog looked at her, then we all looked at one another . I went over and picked up the two-pound pooch—while my daughter begged me to let her hold her–and fumbled around for her tag. Yes, of course, I wanted to find her “mommy,” too, but truthfully, I secretly couldn’t WAIT to find out what her name was: Frenchy? Muffin buns? Couture?

Feeling around her neck…no…that’s a necklace. No…that’s her rhinestone charm. Incredible, she wasn’t wearing an ID tag. The whole package –dog and accessories –hovering around the three grand mark and she didn’t have on a five-buck tag? Now I was getting peeved.
This is exactly what’s wrong with the whole couture dog thing. Dogs are looked at as accessories, not wet-nosed, bacon stealers that come with a load of responsibility. Adding to the potential of further feckless behavior, would-be owners can finance their pup purchase, really! Wells Fargo offers financing according to the sign in the window of a near-by pet store. Wonder if they have a fore(paws)closures problem? “Repo-Pet?” Perhaps we’ll see that in the next new reality show?

I felt like putting poor Frenchy (that’s the name I chose) in my pocket and taking her home with me. Yes, I have an“King Charles Spaniel” and she has been known to get dolled-up in a spring dress, but she has her tag, her shots, her daily vitamin and… um, okay, her own stroller. It’s not the pampering that is in question here, it’s the capricious, slave-to-fashion attitude some take when purchasing a trendy dog.

Looking around for her “mommy,” I spotted a gal casually peering from the doorway of a nearby store. Surely this couldn’t be her dog. She looked as concerned as someone who misplaced their used tissue. “Is she yours?” I asked. “Oh, yes. I didn’t see her slip away,” said the not-even-attempting-to-act-concerned owner. She was shoeless and had price tags sticking out of her shirt and pants.

Obviously clever Frenchy saw her chance at freedom while her mom was trying on a new pair of jeans and ran as fast as her four-inch legs would take her. “You might want to get her an ID tag…” I said, oh-so indignantly as I reluctantly handed her over.

No response came. No “thank you” either, now that I think about it. She simply scooped Frenchy up and walked back to her dressing room to continue her business, most likely stuffing the dog into her handbag.
Attention Frenchy!

If you read OC Family (and who doesn’t?), I will be sitting outside The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf at The Spectrum at 4:00 p.m. on Sunday waiting for you. Try to make another run for it…I have bacon….

I feel sorry for my coffee cup. I do. My husband says he can tell how my day fared by the state my morning cup ‘o joe. Here, let’s use this example. Below is a breakdown of a typical day for a mom’s coffee cup.

6:30 a.m. Pull coffee cup from un-run dishwasher and hastily rinse.

6:32 Abandoned cup in sink while I make two breakfasts and pack lunches.

6:40 Pour coffee to brim, but not too high, must leave room for frou-frou creamer.

6:42 Desert coffee cup on kitchen counter due to squirmish that brakes out between kids over the remote control.

6:57 Find cup again, placed it in the microwave for warm-up.

7:00 Sheech! 7:00 already?! Run upstairs to get kids ready for school. No cup in hand.

7:20 Scuttle downstairs to retrieve cup from microwave…Drat! Cold again. Re-zapped.

7:45 Re-zapped, poured into thermos cup to take in the car.

7:50 Hurry out the door as not to be late for drop-off. Forget coffee on counter.

7:55 Return home to find cold coffee sitting on counter, poured back into microwaveable cup. Re-zapped.

8:00 Go upstairs to take shower, make myself presentable. Plum forget the cup in microwave, again.

9:00 Retrieve sorry cup of coffee from microwave. Checked temp. Re-zapped. Scoop off mysterious gooey circular film that now covers top of coffee.

9:05 Finally, first sip of the morning while retuning email Yeah!

9:10 Remember clothes in dryer will relentlessly wrinkle if not folded immediately. Run downstairs to laundry room.

10:00 Grab cup while rushing to put away clothes, but abandon it atop son’s nightstand.

11:00 Official lunch time: Coffee out. Diet Coke in.

8:30 p.m. Put son to bed, he complains of stomachache. “Do you think you are going to throw up?” I asked. “Can I Mommy?” he says. Grab closest receptacle…you guessed it, hapless coffee cup on nightstand.

1:30 a.m. After barf-fest, with every towel, blanket and comforter in the house in the process of being washed, go downstairs to do thorough, Silkwood-type rinse out of coffee cup.

1:40 a.m. Optimistically, place my coffee cup next to the French Press for the next morning.

Better luck tomorrow true and faithful friend.