Details May Be Sketchy, But The Memory Never Fades

Just found in a long forgotten folder in my email to my then publisher at The Pinnacle to be published for the February 24, 2007 ediition. 
What timing....(sigh)


Between Us

By KELLY SINON

“What was my first word?” The Boy asked a few weeks ago, while we were talking about The Kids’ babyhoods after opening his birthday presents on birthday number nine.

I thought about it, but I honestly couldn’t remember. I could remember The Girl’s valiant attempts at “banana” coming out “blahblah” and her favorite show, Barney, was “Boway”. She also loved the movie, “Pocofauntus.” That would be Pocahontas, to you and me.

I could also remember exactly what she wore on her first day of school and how adorable she looked in her red coat with the black faux fur trim that matched her black snow pants for recesses in the frozen Alaskan north. I can remember when she played Squanto in the Thanksgiving play she and her 2nd grade class put on and how I teared up at our budding actress’ perfectly recited line.

The things that I can remember about The Boy are different but no less endearing to me. I can remember when he was three and I would pick him up from daycare. That first smile after he hadn’t seen me all day would stop me in my tracks. When he would take me by the hand and introduce me to his friend’s parents, “This is my mom,” and I could hear the pride in his voice. Pride I wasn’t sure I’d earned.

I thought about the mandatory baby books moms are issued at our baby showers to document all the cute things that they do; the milestones. I’d heard jaded moms of more than one child often lament the fact that they weren’t as diligent as they thought they should have been with each of their children.

Looking at The Girl’s book, I was embarrassed by a very detailed account of her day:

7:00 a.m.- wake up, Sunshine!

7:10 a.m.- time to eat! Gerber oatmeal and applesauce

7:25 am. - clean up applesauce/oatmeal from floor, kitchen cabinets, my face and entire baby

7:30 a.m.- dress baby

7:45 a.m. -diaper blowout. Re-dress baby

8:05 am.- playtime with baby. Stuffed cow, stuffed kitty, soft blocks, soft books

8:20 a.m.- baby seems to have me in a game of fetch as she throws cow and kitty. Mommy retrieves

8:45a.m.- Mommy bored with fetch.

9:00 a.m.- sippy cup introduction

9:05 a.m.- screaming baby appeased with bottle

9:30 am. -“Boway’s” on. Mommy can clean living room

10:00 a.m.- living room was clean. Baby hauled out stuffed cow, stuffed kitty, soft blocks, soft books

10:15 a.m. -get baby ready to go to Dr. Throw Cheerios, sippy cup (bottle), stuffed cow into diaper bag. Put in car with other essentials

11:15 a.m.- bring baby to car and we’re off

12:40 p.m.- home from Dr. Baby had shots, and is in perfect health, but demanded stuffed kitty. Mommy has a headache

1:00 p.m. to 2:00 p.m. - Nap time

2:15 p.m.- baby wakes Mommy up from nap

2:20 p.m.- snack time. Cheerios, fruit, and milk for baby, left over fruit and stray Cheerios for Mommy.(And a chocolate bar. My blood sugar’s low)

3:00 p.m. - same “Boway” show that was on this morning is on again. Baby doesn’t know difference. Mommy can clean kitchen.

The Boy’s was not quite as detailed, but it said the only thing that every child should know:

2/4/1998- Brought baby home from hospital. One of the happiest days of my life.

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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com.She lives in Gilroy with her family.

Thirty Years Later, Women Will Be Girls

By Kelly Sinon

  Recently, four girls, now women, sat down for the first time, all together, in over 12 years. The group has been friends for over 30 years, drifting in and out of each other's lives as time and life brings each of them on different, yet similar paths.
  Each of the women has been married. One, divorced and happily remarried (X2), One, now happily single, and two, in it for the long haul, enjoying the journey. They have 50+ years of marital experience to draw upon for solicited and friendly, unsolicited advice and collectively, between them, there are 8 children. The kids range in age from 2 to 22.
   As you can imagine, anything touted as "Girls' Weekend" will have it's share of squealing with delight, somber moments, realizations and copious amounts of delicious ...and some not so delicious, (sorry about that wine, guys) alcohol.
  What we were most unprepared for, was the amount of adult (no, not that kind...well, a lot of that kind, too) conversation and debates about such grown up things as infant car seat laws, drug testing for welfare recipients, real estate and immigration. I was impressed that as we grew up and formed our own opinions, none of us were so set in our way of the world, that we were unable to see another point of view. Each one of us brought to the table, our own experiences and opinions based upon them. We are friends for lots of reasons. Not the least of which is respect and interest in why/how the others think of things.
  I cherish my friend who is adores anything Victoriana or WWII Land Girl and makes her own gorgeous, authentic costumes for events, and frequently has starring roles in things like the Renaissance Faire and Dickens Faire during Christmas (side note: You must mark your calendars to make a day of it in The City to go to the Cow Palace to see it transformed into Dickensean wonder, complete with snow and spiced beverages....and maybe a cheeky show, that includes beautiful girls in full costume. And by that, I mean corsets, galore. And, oh! Her son has the leading role as Oliver, this year! ).
   My well-traveled friend, who has been so lucky to get to live in two European countries for years, is an amazing dessert specialist (no, seriously... she makes everything from scratch and it's all cookbook/magazine-worthy and says things like, "So, we were in Spain..." and then giggles at how pretentious she thinks it makes her sound, as a prelude to another funny or entertaining tale, while she stuffs her mouth full of nachos.
   My fantastic friend, who has the motherly patience of a saint, inherited from her own mother; the kind of patience I wish I had. She has sacrificed her beautiful dining room with the stately fireplace, to act as a huge sewing room in order to make countless dresses, complete with themes, mind you, by hand for her daughter's Rainbow Girl events, and she never shies away from chaperoning the many giggling, screaming girls to out of town venues. In fact, she revels in it. She is chauffer, wife and Mom extraordinaire.
  We were astonished to realize that each of us had at least one representative from our group at each of our weddings over the years, no matter where it took place. We have been present in each other's lives for major milestones; births and deaths. Sadness, confusion, joy, anger; you name it, we've been there.
  Spending a weekend with friendships like that, renews my soul and reminds me that I'm not alone. These three people know me, and have known me since before I got married and had kids, a job and a mortgage. When I aced a history test, or completely failed a math class; giggled into the night and compared notes on first kisses, commiserated over bad boyfriends, snuck clove cigarettes and wine coolers, and played practical jokes on each other, our parents, and our neighborhoods.
  Our Girl's Weekends can become more frequent, now that we are all (lower 48, even) stateside, finally. I think our neighborhoods should prepare themselves. The Triangle is back!

___________________________________________________________________________________
Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com You can find her at Bev Mo, searching for better wine.

There's Laziness Behind All That Hard Work

By Kelly Sinon

  I'm trying to make it a habit to get one household chore done every evening, after work. I like a clean house and a tidy yard. I also like doing nothing on weekends.
  For instance, yesterday, I mowed the front and back yards, and used the leaf blower to annoy my neighbors, right before the dinner hour ...I mean, clear newly fallen autumn leaves from the driveway.
   I only felt slightly guilty about picking up Take & Bake pizzas for dinner on my way home. No, there wasn't enough time in my evening to do yard work, make a balanced meal and flop into the patio chair of my choice, while reading Real Simple (Okay, fine. Cosmopolitan.) magazine on my tablet.
   Tonight, it's laundry, as I make baked Panko crusted pork chops and stuffing (as I finish reading Real Simple magazine (Cosmopolitan) on my tablet.
  We're all products of our upbringing, and this apparently, was my take away.
   I'm going to quote my father, who might sound like he's channeling 1955 when he asked my mother what she did around the house all day.
  "It's not like you have to watch the clothes go around and around."
(My husband had better start running after a line delivered like that.)
   In Dad's defense, he couldn't understand why one load of laundry seemed to require strict supervision as it made the journey from the bottom of the dryer, to the top, to the bottom, to the top...you get the idea.
  It's the best of both worlds; I can multi-task. I'm not great at a lot of things, but that is one thing at which I am very adept. Especially, when it includes reading at the same time I'm doing anything.
  "But Kelly," you may ask, "Why are you mowing the lawn, when you have such an amazing husband?"
  Frankly, my answer depends on the day you ask me.
  One day, I may say, "Because I really like being outside in the early evenings to unwind, and sometimes, I have a hard time being still, so I get to be productive and be outside. Win/Win."
  Another day, I may say," I don't need no man to do my work." (with snapping of fingers for emphasis.)
  Of course, the next time the question is posed, it may go like this, "That's a very good question, but If I waited for him to mow the @!%&-ing lawn...(insert diatribe here)."
  The beauty of this, is that all of those reasons are true.
  He's probably thoroughly confused.
  So tonight, as my hands... and pork chops are crusted in Panko, and I'm skimming Real Cosmo, I'll take multi-taking to Olympian levels, by thinking of what I can do Monday night. Did I mention that Friday night is the start of my Weekend of Nothing?______________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com. 
You may also find her in her favorite patio chair, mowing lawns, binge cleaning bathrooms, and basically just waiting for Friday.

October Summer's End....Friend or Foe?

By Kelly Sinon

Do they ever really leave home, nowadays?
 Just when you think it's safe to take your pants off as soon as you come home from work, or pee with the bathroom door open, The Kid moves back in for the summer.
  You've gotten spoiled, eating pizza rolls for dinner, and walking from the bedroom to the laundry room in your bra, in search of clothes you'd forgotten to remove from the dryer.  Your second Teen'hood comes to an end. You have to put clothes on, close doors and eat normal meals, again. What a drag. And then you realize you have no business being a teenager when you say things like, "what a drag."
  Not that The Kid is any more excited about this than you are. They suddenly have to keep the room they are occupying (I refuse to call it insert Kid's name here room), which is now a home theater, clean enough to see the floor, eat normal meals, and go to bed at a decent time. Not because you are worried about the amount of sleep they are (or not) getting, but because you are envisioning your electric bill doubled because the house never shuts down. The Kid wakes up at 1:00 P.M., and goes to sleep, if unchecked, at 2:30 A.M., lights and TV left on.
 On the bright side, you now know that it's not really you leaving those (sticky? Good God, why are they sticky?) fingerprints all over the refrigerator.
 No one talks about this. Everyone is so happy that Jr. is coming home for a few months, but let me tell you, I've noticed that college classes are starting later and later. Did you know that some schools start in mid-October? October! Sorry, I just really want to take my pants off.
 I think by the time school rolls around, they are just as happy to speed away; back to the Land of Perpetual Party. Scene of Sporadic Study. You get the idea.
  They've got their own system for doing laundry (don't), getting a meal (hopefully, free), and going to bed (whenever they damn well feel like it).
 As much as it pains us, they are adults. As we are trying to walk to the line between keeping the household, and our sanity running as smoothly with them as without them, they are retraining themselves to (maybe) attempt to do things the way we do, and raised them to do.
 A heated discussion with The Kid, about not leaving the dishes in the sink when she's been up for hours, and the dishwasher is a mere 8 inches from said sink, went something like this:
 The Kid: I just don't understand your priorities. 
 Me: You don't have to. While you're here, my priorities are your priorities. 
 This was in August. Early August.
 Okay, so I will miss The Kid's turn to cook, because she's a much better cook than I am, but I won't miss the mess that sauteed mushrooms, steak, twice baked potatoes and kale chips make. It's like she pulls out every pot and spatula we own, and some I don't even remember that we own. Not to mention that I never go though as much olive oil or minced garlic as when The Kid mans the kitchen.
  I will miss seeing her when she puts her hair in adorable thick French braids so that when she takes them out, her hair is soft, blonde ripples, that she lets me brush with my fingers.
 I will miss seeing her, if only for a second, as she dashes out the door for her part time job.  I will miss looking over at her any time I want to, as she sits on the couch, smiling surreptitiously while texting her boyfriend.
  I will miss seeing her bright smile and hearing her laugh when we are gathered around the kitchen island at the end of the day.
  I will miss that couple of hours at night when all the lights are out, TVs off, and electronics put away, and you can hear the sound of a family all under one roof, at rest. For just a little while.
 I hope she never really leaves home.

__________________________________________________________________________________
Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com

(Mostly) 80's Musical Montage Sets Tone For Car Romance

By: Kelly Sinon

 Recently, when it was time to part with my sweet "Carmela Soprano" a.k.a my old Cadillac Escalade, with the sketchy electrical system, and sporadically stuck gear box, I was at a loss. (Cue U2's "With or Without You") I mean, I knew what it took to get that behemoth of a vehicle to run every morning. It was as easy as brushing my teeth.
 (Cue Neil Diamond's "Love on the Rocks") Carm was beautiful and classy and had all the bling imaginable. I bought her in 2004, when she was a mere four years old, and HBO's The Sopranos was still going strong. But 10 years later, she was an aging actress. A few dings on the outside, and like a good manager, (Cue Journey's "Don't Stop Believin' ") I was in denial of the real issues underneath. It wasn't for lack of trying; no "doctors" could diagnose her ailments. Her illnesses were as mysterious as she.
 Even under the best of circumstances, my work day might start lke this:

Normal Driving Conditions:
Step one: Unlock door using key fob with fading battery and range.
Step two: Use key to (really) unlock and open door.
Step three: Jump up on running board, while making seizure-esque twisting motion to fall into driver's seat.
Step four: Insert key in ignition, apply brake, turn ignition to "Acc".
Step five: Put car in Neutral.
Step six: Start car.
Step seven: Put car in Reverse.
Step eight: Look for cat with death wish in rear view and (Cue Bon Jovi's "Livin' On a Prayer") back out of driveway.

Winter Driving in Rain: See above steps, and add:
Faulty electrical makes for an interesting gambling situation. (Cue Phil Collins' "Against All Odds") Will the windshield wipers stay on just long enough for me to get to work? If they do shut off, will I be close enough to the office to get there without needing to pull over and swipe my windshield with my hand?

Summer Driving in 104 Degrees: See above steps, and add: 
Faulty electrical makes for an interesting gambling situation. (Cue The Boss'  "I'm On Fire") Will the A/C work, or will I have to roll the widows down? Will the widows roll down? Will I be cruising down the highway in a very pretty Silver Sand hot box? I would be also be doing it in total silence, because when all of that happens, the radio also shuts off. So, I have more time to quietly contemplate my impending heatstroke.

I was okay with all of this until I pulled into work, tried to open the door (It was a good day...all systems were a go, and I might have even been singing along to the radio), and the door handle; a very pretty chrome one, I might add, came off in my hand. I stared stupidly at it. Wait... this isn't electrical. It has to work.
 I opened the window, stuck my hand out and opened it from the outside, while visions of channeling Bo and/or Luke Duke in paunchy, middle-aged woman guise in case I had to (Cue Duke's of Hazzard theme) shimmy out the opened widow, danced in my head. With the door now open, I pressed the button to close the widow back up. You know...because it's electric.
 A couple of weeks of this, and even a time or two having to climb over the huge center console to get out on the passenger side, because Carm (really Stephen King's "Christine"?) didn't want to let me out, thrown in for good measure, and (Cue The Greg Kihn Band's "Breakup Song") I was was done. It was time to move on, as much as I loved her.
 So, I began shopping for a new Partner in Cruising Crime. I wanted something smaller now, since there were no more field hockey tournaments, family vacations were not as frequent, with the kids growing up and it might be nice to drive away from the gas station for less than $90.00. Plus, the added bonus of an open roof for coastal drives at sunset might help ease the pain.(Cue Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U") I still wanted beauty and bling.
  It took some research, but I'm happy with my choice of something safe, sleek and sparkly.  After seeing it in the lot, a work friend asked what I'd named her. I had't yet, and I felt bad, for Carm had her name almost immediately.
 That Sunday, I drove her up to San Jose to meet The Husband for a date, work schedules be damned.
 Her first mini-road trip. I smiled at how fast she moved, I basked in the open roof, shades on, and didn't think of getting lost, since she told me where to go. It was time. The Name.
  I thought for a split-second, she might be a he; Don Draper, in homage to AMC's Mad Men's protagonist. Sharp...sexy. But then it hit me. This is no man's car. This is Betty Draper-Francis. Don's ex-wife; beautiful, full of attitude and not afraid to tell you where to go. And she'll even look behind her for the cat with a death wish.

(...and fade with Smokey Robinson's "Cruisin' ")
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Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com...if she's not out cruising the open road.

Chicken Curry and Flip-Flop Obsticles Yield Pine Cone Rewards at Triathlon

By Kelly Sinon


 It's 98 degrees in the shade.

 I'm on my hands and knees negotiating the end of a trail on a steep incline. Not in the shade. I'm flailing at dead branches and exposed root systems on my way by for balance and I've burned my left hand on a flat, hot rock. I also may be whimpering.

 The Husband is seemingly everywhere; in front of me, behind me, holding out his hand and encouraging me to go on. He is not whimpering. Yet. Because when we get down from here...

 It all started out friendly enough. A nice drive in the hills, after a jaunt into San Jose, where completely uncharacteristically, I'd decided that I simply must have chicken curry for lunch; which is exactly what you want in your stomach, still cooking, as you fight heat exhaustion and open hostility. 

  We had found ourselves at Uvas Reservoir, which is only a few miles from our house, but felt like the middle of the most rugged, off-the-grid kind of wilderness as I was scrambling to maintain footing and debating if I should just take off my clothes and be done with it; I don't care who is 100 yards away, fishing in the puddle below. You know it's hot when you don't even care that these are the the last set of frayed granny panties in the drawer because you were just too lazy to do one load of laundry. Yes, I'm wearing clean underwear, Mom. For now.

 We had started out meandering down the boat launch, marveling at the water line so high above our heads now, as the drought wears on in Silicon Valley summer, and sheer size of the gargantuan pine cones. I'd made a note that I would grab one prickly prize on my way back to the car. We'd only be out here for a bit, because its so hot, and no one in their right mind would be out in this heat for...well, any reason, really. 

 "You're doing so great, Honey!" He exclaims with all the enthusiasm of a camp counselor to the fat kid, making futile attempts at the rock wall. Wait... I am that fat kid.

If he clapped his hands, it would have been so easy. Just one push. 

 "Lets just walk around it," He said. "It won't take too long, " He said.

Sweating in amounts almost enough to fill the reservoir, he is also gingerly trying to make his way down the trail, concentration etched on his face. I know he is hoping I don't see that.

 In the back of my mind, I'm imaging us at the bottom of the parched bowl, broken; Family Guy-style. You know, when Peter falls down in a drunken stupor and his leg is kicked backward at an angle no leg should ever be, his arm hyper-extended at the elbow and x's for eyes.

 I'm amazed at how he can practically pick me up and set me on the new trail above us. I begin to fret about his bad ankles and how easily he can twist and break one or maybe even both. Do I have enough battery charge on my phone if something happens and they have to haul us out of here? An hour before, I was happily snapping pictures of cracked earth and imagining composing the perfect  Facebook post that would caution everyone to save water. Now, I just wanted to save our lives.

 Just as we get acclimated to one trail, it drops off, and there is another above or below that we have to make our way to. It requires problem-solving skills that abandoned me a few trails back.

  I'm also getting that really gross white film on my lips from exertion and no water. Yes, next time, there will be water. I can't believe I'm thinking there could be a next time, as I less than gracefully, slide down one of the last remaining hills on my ass. Did I mention that my flip-flops (Yes...I was wearing flip flops on this misadventure) alternately come off or fill with leaves and rocks. Keith is flinging his legs around, trying to empty his sandals as well.

 I'm now almost violently refusing his helpful extended hands. Not because I'm angry; because I wasn't anymore, but because it's so hot. I can't stand any more contact. No doubt he is envisioning that he will look like Broken Peter... after we get out of here.

 He's still encouraging me. "Look, Honey... see our car over there?" It looked like it was 5 miles away. A dot. 

 I must have begun walking very quickly. 

 "Sweetie, slow down! It's not a race."

 Like Hell. But I wasn't in a race against him. I was in a race against the reservoir, against myself. I could suddenly see that what I used to think was just weird mentality of marathoners and triathletes. Yes, I actually imagined I was a triathlete. Never mind that my last Jumping Jack may very well have been in my sophomore year in high school. It was hot, I was tired. And probably beginning to hallucinate. Don't judge.

 That last 5 miles (okay, maybe 1/4 mile) was a blur as the shirt I'd been wearing over a tank top and Keith had placed on my head to keep the direct sun off, was flung away. My mind laser sharp; my body, a well-crafted (stop laughing) machine focused on that one goal. The car (okay, maybe two goals) and air conditioning.

 No one was more happy and surprised than I, when we finally made it back to the car, with me in the lead position. I won! Okay, so I might have been competing a little against Keith. In retrospect, I'm sure he was hanging back to make sure I didn't kill myself the last 50 yards. 

 In what looked like one motion, he unlocked, and opened the doors and turned the air conditioner up as high as it would go, and told me he would be right back. I assumed he had to file some paperwork at one of the nearby porta-potties.

  I melted into the passenger seat and finally began to breathe with my mouth closed. I rested and waited, and just as I wondered if he might have passed out in a most undignified place, in a most undignified way, I saw him emerge up the boat launch from which this whole ordeal had begun. With not just one huge pine cone, but three. Gold, Silver and Bronze.

________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com. She is in training for her next triathlon; power sitting in the morning, power sitting in the afternoon and power sitting in the evening.

So Many Moms to Choose From. Snorting, Optional

By Kelly Sinon

     Driving the long stretch of I-5 north, toward home from Riverside where we dumped...I mean...dropped off our oldest for college that first year, I realized that at some point, she would probably be bringing someone home for her father and me to meet.
     It's happening now. There is a young man that we will meet in about 24 hours, which doesn't leave me much time to perfect my persona. I can be anyone I want, which is exciting, but it's fraught with danger that if I choose to be No-Nonsense Mom, I will have to adopt... and keep that as my persona. Perhaps, even for the rest of my life, if things go well between them.
     No-Nonsense Mom is a force to be reckoned with. She may be a little gruff (think Colleen Dewhurst in Anne of Green Gables, for my fellow "Anne" nerdists out there), and appear to size you up after each sentence you utter in her presence. She doesn't smile much. She most certainly doesn't snort if she laughs too hard.
     So, that one's off the table.
     Moving on, we have Happy Mom. She is happy no matter how many glasses (sans coaster) are left on the coffee table.
      "No, no... please. Let me pick these up for you. I know you've had a rough day, with your tongue down my daughter's throat when you thought I was busy sliding those freshly baked cookies onto a plate for you. But trust me. I see everything."
     Wait, how did Happy Mom morph into Angry Get Your Hands Off My Kid Mom? That was startling. I didn't even know she was there until I was in the middle of that sentence. That's troubling.
     Anyway, back to Happy Mom. I like her. She is nice, smiles a lot, cooks, cleans and laughs; also without snorting. She is interested in the youngsters without being intrusive.           Okay, fine; that one's off the table, too. Katie wouldn't buy it for a second anyway, and I know for a fact that at some point, there will be snorting. And intrusiveness.
     There has to be a happy medium. I mean, I want to instill a good dose of fear, because....well, I just think it might be fun, while still being able to laugh. Hmmm. That is also a tactic. Crazy, maniacal laughter. So many choices!
      I guess I could wait and see which course of action her dad takes. We could be Good Cop/Bad Cop; but that's not fair because I know he'll pick Bad Cop and then I'm left with boring Good Cop.
      We should mix it up. In "Meet The Parents", could you picture De Niro as Good Cop to Blythe Danner's Bad Cop?
      As you can see, this has turned into a thing.
      Seriously, as long as there is someone who makes my daughter happy, I may not have to take the fear route. But I can't guarantee that there won't be intrusive snorting.

_________________________________________________________________________________Kelly Sinon lives in Gilroy with her family, and is enjoying the ride on her next parenting adventure. She can be reached at sksinon@aol.com

The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side of the Dead Red Machine

  By: Kelly Sinon

  I'm not one to look a Karmic gift horse in the mouth, but I really have to ask; what market did we accidentally tap into that wanted Keith's old red Suburban?
    I ask because this car (read: albatross) has been sitting - actually now listing to its left side, with two very flat tires, in one of our shared parking spaces in our neighborhood. I've been practically running into the house, trying to avoid neighbor contact upon arriving home from the grocery store. I imagine the screaming, finger-pointing stare ala Donald Southerland in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
    The Husband has an attachment to this car. This...reject from the Island of Misfit Toys, with its dented rear passenger door from a forklift mishap at work (not his doing), in a stunning shade of pink from when he paid a homeless guy to spray paint it red; so filthy you would actually have to use a knife to carve your name into the 6 month old dirt and dust.
    I'd gently...at first...suggest that he donate it. And what spectacular timing, Val-Pac! The veteran's will take it, "Running or not(!) I could barely contain my excitement.
    "Look, you don't even have to whip out the Yellow Pages to find them!"

     The Boy: "What are Yellow Pages?" 

 But I digress.

     At the last HOA meeting, I thought (as President, no less) that I should address the elephant in the driveway, so to speak.
     "I think that whoever owns that big red behemoth, should consider getting rid of it. Or a flame thrower. I'm not picky."
     I basked in the laughter of our neighbors. See? I'm one of you, the people. I see your struggle. I will make this a better place. Until my gaze settled on my beloved. He was somewhat less amused.
 Just that morning, he'd confided to me that he was having a hard time parting with his loyal friend. It didn't matter that there was no A/C anymore. the windows rolled down perfectly. It also didn't matter that the the driver's side door handle came off in his hand. He would just reach in through that conveniently open window to open the door.
     He reminded me of how we bottomed out when we went to the nursery to pick up the sod for our new house and we loaded it all into the Big Red Suburban. And also how we over bought and were finding rolls of sod for 2 weeks, and had to give them to our gardener. How it ...and he...was so strong, that they pulled out all of the ugly builder plantings to make room for our new sod. Good times, good times.
      I was sympathetic. I thought it was touching and sweet. Until I'd gone out later that afternoon to see that the front driver's tire was as flat as the rear. He was convinced someone sliced it. I wasn't sure I could disagree. But I had an alibi.
     So, I'd begun to make progress. He was willing to talk about it, as long as I held his hand. The Val-Pac flier was in plain view next to where he keeps his car keys. Ready. Anytime.            But then something amazing happened; a thing I never thought possible. A thing I never dared dream. One of our neighbors emailed me that she has a friend interested in, to quote her subject line, "The Dead Red Machine."
     I was glad The Husband hadn't come home from work yet, so he couldn't make fun of me for gaping at my tablet with my mouth open in shock and awe.
     Not only interested... but "as-is" interested. The best kind of interested. And for money!
     It might have occurred to me that our neighbors all pooled money from the HOA coffers to rid themselves of the monstrosity in the interest of removing blight from our city neighborhoods. As President, I say, "Capital idea!" As slightly embarrassed co-owner, I just hope we finally got the last of the sod out of there.



_________________________________________________________________________________________Kelly lives in Gilroy with her family, and wants you to know that there are other fine offerings in the Sinon household that you might be interested in.
As-is, of course...
She can be reached at Sksinon@aol.com.

Slippers in Public and Benefiber Shots. Sign Me Up!

By : Kelly Sinon

After reading a great article in The NewYork Times about what we learn in our 40's, I felt compelled to share my very vast knowledge. Stop laughing.
It struck home because well, I'm 40...ish and it's happening.
In our 40's, we're stuck in the chasm between "40 is the new 30" and magic "age-defying wrinkle cream" elixirs. I imagine I'm like a lot of 40-somethings- alternately whining about getting older and embracing wearing slippers to the store and not caring who notices.
 Also, like a lot of 40-somethings, I am finding myself an almost empty-nester, with one more left to fly the coop in a couple of years.
 Being so young when we started our family, my husband and I are rediscovering our youth. Impromptu trips to The City, sleeping late, breakfast out together, antiquing (I know...that sounds like something I'm supposed to do in the next decade or so, but when your spouse is from Connecticut, you learn to appreciate good history.)
  I imagine us growing old together in separate bathtubs, on a bluff overlooking the ocean and holding hands at sunset (minus any uncomfortable discussion of little blue pills, of course).
  I'm almost certain that it's not okay to wear slippers out in public, and in my 20's, it never would have happened, but looking down at my Ugg-slippered feet as I got out of the car on a chilly winter evening to grab dinner, I didn't care. It wasn't a conscious choice to not care. You know, like, "Oh, no. I have slippers on. Well, I just won't care about what people say." I'm saying that this barely registered on my radar. I looked down, I saw the slippers, shrugged and kept walking. Better still, I had to skip a bit to catch up to my husband. Who was also wearing slippers. This is what happens to us.
  Don't get me wrong. There are still firm boundaries. I won't leave the house without make-up on. It's not even for me. It's for you. Trust me. But I do foresee that my color palette will change as I get older. For some reason, in our youth, red lipstick, blue eye-shadow and even blue hair is a no-no, but I suspect I'll be sporting an amazing shade of periwinkle on my eyelids and tresses. I won't fight it. It's just going to happen. I am prepared for this.
 Not only that, suddenly that topic of laxatives and fiber will become commonplace game material with your friends. And it's a card game now, not a drinking game. Unless you're doing Benefiber shots.
 Obviously, I'm getting ahead of myself, but I am just so excited! Age is a hall pass to do things you wouldn't in your 20's.
  I like that my 40's have become "The Decade of So What?" I'm more comfortable with myself than I was in my 20's. I'm open to learning more and not sweating the small stuff. It seems that's the magic elixir.

__________________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon.com

Forty Pounds of Footloose, and Not a Video Was Spilled...

By Kelly Sinon

 As kids morph into adults, sometimes, both the kids and the parents miss it, it happens so fast. Just ask my dad. Or me, for that matter.
 Standing in my garage with Dad, as he tells me the proper way to operate our water softener that never came with directions and sat unused for 8 years, I realize that I am completely engrossed in his instruction; listening intently, and committing his words to memory for later "download."
 Twenty-five years ago, I might have been listening, but something else would have been in my head playing at the same time so it would have sounded like, " Fill the water softener with Footloose, set the clock on the panel so it will cycle through one Kevin Bacon. Don't fill it with more than one bag or it will MTV all over the floor and then you'll have a lot of videos to mop up."
 You can see why Dad asked me what the hell I was doing a lot when I tried to follow instructions. Didn't he know that I was either dancing or singing or even writing in my head at any given moment? I got the finer points. You know...Don't stick a fork into the toaster to retrieve the stuck English muffin. Don't bring the radio into the shower with you, no matter how long the extension cord is; important stuff like that, that I was able to pass down to my kids who I know were only half listening, when I told them to collect all the trash from the house, and then bring it from the garage to the curb for garbage day. It made it as far as the garage. Where the water softener lived.
 As I absorbed all of the information Dad was giving me, I thought to myself, "He is still teaching me. I'm 43 years old and he is still teaching me." I was grateful that he was. I was grateful that he has the life experience to teach me something that turned out to to be very simple, but I didn't know. What I was really grateful for was that he still wanted to teach me, even when sometimes, I know I must have seemed almost unteachable 25 years ago. Parents don't give up, thankfully, or my water softener would still be unplugged, unused and mocking me every time I chucked something into the recycling.
 It makes me fast-forward to my kids' future when they are 46 and 40. I hope I can teach them something then. How to change the oil on the hover car...how not to over-cook the steaks on the hover B.B.Q. (Hopefully, all of our possessions won't be of the "hover" variety but you get the idea. It's the future.)
 Anyway, after The Husband dumped a 40 pound bag of salt into the softener and I plugged it in and set the clock, I was rewarded with the gurgling sounds of success. And not a single video to mop up. _________________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon lives in gilroy with her family...and 8 year-old, newly functioning water softener. She can be reached at kellysinon@gmail.com

Parental Advice that Lives On...And On

By Kelly Sinon

Parental Wisdom and Advice; we've all been the recipient of it at one time or several. My parents were full of Parental Wisdom and Advice. Now, as a parent, myself, I can look back and say, "What??"

Mom-isms from back in the day, were plentiful. A sampling would be something like this:

"No, go fix your hair. Girls who wear side ponytails are sluts." Okay, this was the late 70’s and early '80's and side ponytails were as big as...leg warmers, Dove shorts and Pac-Man. And I was the only girl who still had to wear braids or sport a Dorothy Hamil 'do. Yet, we were allowed the occasional tube top. Go figure.

"Don't play with Terry down the street, he'll pull your pants down." (What??) Keep in mind that Terry was a seven year-old boy who did in fact run around naked in his front yard, but that's another story. Mom must've gotten some sort vibe from him, because six months later, I was sitting in my bathroom with a washcloth over my right eye, because Terry had scratched me, and Mom chastising me that she told me so. I was also seven. I still have the reminder of it to this day. Never mind that he could've pulled my tube top down.

Dad-isms were also constructive and firm.

"If you two don't knock it off, I'm going to make you put your seat belts on," While glaring at us in the rearview mirror and traveling 85 miles an hour up I-5, as my sister and I played the "Stop Touching Me" game, on the six hour drive to Hayfork. Again, in all fairness, this might have been in the mid to late 70's and the crash test dummies had yet to drive (or crash) their point home.

Frustrated dads say things like, “I told you not to be stupid, you moron,” but then ten minutes later, tell you how smart he thinks you are. Just don’t let him catch you rolling your eyes. Or worse.

It caused me to wonder what my kids will giggle about when they are my age. What pearls of Wisdom (and Advice)  is  so ludicrous that they simply demand to be put down in print. I'd like to think that everything I impart is good and needlepoint pillow-worthy. Like this gem when my oldest was seven and making me crazy with...Oh, who even listens, I don't know.

"Katie, if you don't knock it off, I'm taking away all of your books." Okay, I'll say it for them... "What??"

Or to my youngest:

"Kirk, I really don’t like that kid you insist on playing with. He reminds me a used a used car salesman." Again, this is me, talking to a seven year-old. What's up with seven year-olds?

I love relating my parents' funny bits to my friends, especially friends who knew my parents, and I am vindicated in my "What??”

Those Parent-isms sure have stuck with me. Never once, did I wear a side ponytail (out in public, anyway. I still had to see what the fuss was about), and I knew that my sister and I would always play the “Stop Touching Me” game, so my seatbelt always goes on (Thanks, Dad).

This might explain why Katie has tons of books. Or why Kirk did in fact stop playing with that kid. Kids really do listen.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon lives in Gilroy with her family and can be reached at sksinon@aol.com.

Wine, MacGyver and Triangles. Oh, My! (did I mention wine?)

By Kelly Sinon

With my upcoming …ahem…20-something class reunion slated for next month, I am brought back five years ago to our fist 20-something class reunion (I’m class of ’88, if any of you are inclined to do the math. That’s 1988, not 1888).

I spent months fretting about the perfect dress, not to mention shoes; oh, and the purse to match, of course. I even had the dress altered. Apparently, I’m short-waisted. Is that a somewhat polite way of saying short? This was not a news flash.

This time, our Reunion Guru, Shannon was kind enough to spare us all the agony and booked a nice local place, with a casual dresscode. I could almost hear all of GHS Class of ’88’s collective sigh of relief.

We are free now, in our more… advanced years to focus on the more important things. Seeing old friends, and reliving old times.

Ever wake up to one of those “Winky Blinky” traffic barriers on your front lawn? I have …and so did my Dad, as she shook his head, walking down the sidewalk towards his’86 Firebird on his way to work. That “Winky Blinky” made the rounds to all of our friends and their unsuspecting parents. One of them had the misfortune of finding it in the middle of their living room (Love you, Gil and Sandy!).

Stuntwoman-like driving skills that cost a muffler over the railroad tracks, but a call to a guy friend, had us up and running again with MacGyveresque skills and a wire hanger.

These stories always require wine, and that’s where my house comes in. Just like back in the day (Sorry, Dad). Did someone say more wine?

Having The Triangle over afterwards to dish the dirt and giggle. The Triangle consists of four… yes, that’s right, four girls (Okay, women, now). We were “The only triangle with four sides.” It made perfect sense to us at the time and was uproariously funny. Only this time, we are without one of our “sides” as she lives abroad. You might think that now it’s a perfect triangle. But it’s not. The Triangle has also grown to include spouses, significant others and kids. Not sure what shape that is.

When we all see each other again, we will still be 17. We will still have full heads of hair, all of our own teeth and not a wrinkle among us. Our cars are nicer, though, and we won’t be carded when we hit the bar. Rose colored glasses are nice.

Did someone say more wine?

_____________________________________________________________________ _

Kelly Sinon can be reached at sksinon@aol.com. She lives in Gilroy with her family of four, and sometimes, three, as The Girl is off to school. Yet, another Triangle.

I Got This....Just Watch Out for Rolling Cans of Corn

By: KELLY SINON


 I find that when I say, "I got this", I really don't..."got this."
 Whether it's grocery bags filled with all of the cans of corn purchased on special (Seriously,10 for $7.99 is not a deal to be passed up) and bagged by the I'm Not Hauling This Anywhere, So Suck It Up...Ma'am, teenager, or something more mentally challenging, like say, Sudoku (numbers never have been, and never will be my friends).
 The older I get, the more I'm realizing that it's okay to say, "I don't got this."
 Wine helps. It makes it easier to say, especially at 11:30 P.M., just after everyone else has gone upstairs to bed, and I'm pleasantly nodding out on the couch while debating heading up myself. I'm just not sure it makes it easier for people near me earlier in the evening to understand, depending on how many glasses (okay, that's not entirely true. You'll see why in a minute) I've had in order to be okay with saying, "I don't got this." Therein lies the conundrum.    
 Sober Kelly + "I got this" = probable mess in some fashion.
 Slightly Inebriated Kelly + "I got this" = certain mess in all fashions.
 I'm also not a big drinker, so a glass and half of whatever box (yes, I am in fact, just that classy) is in the fridge is a major deal.
  Luckily, I have two things going for me. 1. I do not actually like the taste of alcohol. At all. Unless it's chocolate flavored. Or frozen and made with fruit. ...And even more importantly, made by someone else. 2. I'm a lightweight. My friends from my ...ehem...younger days, will remember me as the designated driver in all situations, or the as The Girl Most Likely To Be Nursing The Same Drink All Night At The Party. Bet that'll make my Dad happy to read.
 Had I known of "I got this," as a kid, it would have been so handy. If there is a way to complicate something that should be simple, with nine more unnecessary steps, I would (and will still) find it, or better yet, invent it.
 The question most posed to me by my father: "What the Hell are you doing?" which was immediately followed by, "What the Hell are you talking about?" I'm also pretty sure that it's genetic, because my father's voice comes out of my 5 foot, 2 inch body when posing the same (now legitimate) questions to my kids.
 'No, no...I don't want to be a bother," has also been replaced as Jewish Motherspeak with "I got this," for the younger Jewish Mother set. I like it. I feel cool when I use it in this context. The best part is that the kids still know I'm exercising my Right to Guilt.
  In times of trouble though, "I got this," has served me well. It's not always...okay, rarely... been true, but has certainly summoned the needed jolt of (stupidity) confidence, deep from the depths... and I've only dropped a few cans of corn.
_________________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon can be seen at a grocery store near you, balancing boxes of wine and several cans of corn, but don't worry....She's got this.

Being The Good One...at Any Age

By Kelly Sinon


There's a phrase in our family that goes back a ways. Back to Brooklyn in the 50's when my Dad and his brother, Richie were growing up.
 From what my sister and I could tell, It all stemmed from one, or maybe even both of their parents declaring one of their sons the winner of The Good One award, for any good deed. It was the 50's. No one was perfect.
  As a kid, I remember my Dad and Uncle Richie Uncle Richie on the phone together (No, that is not a typo. He is fact called Uncle Richie Uncle Richie, now and forever because two little girls would be so excited to see their uncle, that they would jump up and down, and say, "Uncle Richie, Uncle Richie!" It stuck.), laughing and declaring each held the title of The Good One. I wasn't sure either of them really wanted it.
  Fast forward to those two little girls growing up. We had seemingly put our own spin on The Good One, in our own unwritten and unspoken way. When you did something you hoped was great for the folks or something that made them laugh, you were awarded with the knowledge that you were now in fact... The Good One.
  Being The Good One meant that you had certain Good One privileges until your sibling showed you up next week. The privileges were not given by the folks. Heck, they didn't even know that they had only one Good kid.
 The Good One title is bestowed upon oneself, to the dismay of the Less Good One. Being the Good One, meant you had carte blanche with sticking-out-your-tongue and haughty sneer privileges at the Less Good One, in any given situation, when the folks were admonishing The Less Good one for something, thereby cementing your Good One status and your sibling's demoralizing Less Good One fate. It got to be perplexing when you were sure only one parent liked what you did or said. There was no such thing as Half a Good One. It was all or nothing, Both parents had to approve. So you can see how hard it was to become The Good One.
 In our later years, once in a while, in jest ...(or was it?) one of us would out loud, in front of the parents, declare Good One status. Daring, I know. And just for fun...(or is it?) at any given family get-together, there is the inevitable announcement that someone is The Good One.
  Parents never want to say that they might, at any given moment in time, say that they related better to one of their children and the other just confuses them. But kids know. And so The Good One is born.
  In some ways, it was an equalizer, because you never held the position for long. Each of us got our moment in the sun and then later, that shining moment when you could call your sister and share the glory and declare her the winnner, as she does for you.
 So, at 40-something, we've learned that we are both The Good Ones, but I can't promise that I will renounce my sticking-out-my-tongue privileges.



Kelly Sinon can be reached thesinons@yahoo.com...and she has declared her Good One status, until....

Judge Jessee...Inadvertent Drivers Ed Teacher

From a column printed in The Pinnacle newspaper, July 2007. My Hayfork friends reminded me of it...they will, I know, excuse some very slight creative license.
Between Us

By KELLY SINON

Driving behind Judge Jessee was always an exercise in patience and tolerance. Not that there was really any great hurry, or there was anywhere important to go. Highway 3 through Hayfork, California is maybe four miles long. On the upside, there is no stop light. There is only one light in the entire town actually, and that’s right before the one-lane bridge. It was installed in the early ‘80s amid grumbling about “city slickers” and their big city ways.

Judge Jessee was an old, retired judge who drove around in this huge, early-model behemoth of Detroit-made metal. He would be safe in any collision, not that there was any danger of that, since he only drove 11 miles per hour all though town, anyway. He was a “blinders driver”, never seeing anything to the side or the line of cars in the rear. If there was a parade procession of cars on any given day, you could be assured that the Judge was leading the pack at his standard 11 miles per hour.

My mother, the born and raised Brooklynite, would get upset, getting stuck behind poor old Judge Jessee. She was always in a hurry. Even when going down Highway 3 in Hayfork in the pick-up, on the way to Wiley’s Grocery store, which was the only “big” store in town.

Being a kid, whenever I saw Judge Jessee, I was in awe. He was really old. Maybe 105 (In actuality, he was probably 60). He couldn’t see very well, but he still had this presence of being a powerful man, still wearing his gray fedora wherever he went.

Hayfork has always been a safe place. The kind of place you want to raise your kids. Open fields and thick forests, too. Everyone knows each other and watches out for each other’s kids. That could also be bad, if Mrs.Hoglan from down the road bumps into your mom at the bank and tells her about the time you and your friends nearly plowed over her on the sidewalk (well, dirt sidewalk), while running down the street to the community pool. It was almost like Andy Griffith’s “Mayberry” since my sister Suzie and I were known as “The Mulry Girls” around town.

It was a safe place for kids to learn to drive too, since there were so many country roads, you only had to share them with the occasional piece of farm equipment or horseback rider.

I’m not so lucky to get to live in a place like that, anymore. The edge of Silicon Valley is a scary place for some experienced drivers, too. I’d love to be able to teach The Girl to drive in relative safety.

She’s on the Permit Path and eyeing a certain black VW Beetle in a car lot on Monterey Street . She’s done very well in her online courses that she’s supposed to take, before she hits the open road with an accredited, actual driving instructor. Driving Instructor?

Whatever happened to good old days of your best pal turning you lose in their car in the empty High School parking lot? Or your Dad screaming at you to “Look out for the trash cans!” as you back out of the driveway, narrowly missing an oncoming car, while trying not to drop his unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarette.

In a way, it’s a good thing, having an instructor teach her, but I can’t help wondering, by default, how many Hayfork teenagers were taught how to drive at 11 miles per hour.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon can be reached at thesinons@yahoo.com.

She lives in Gilroy with her family.

Compton's Mayoral Candidate Was Along for the Ride

By Kelly Sinon


  I sat on the front porch with cherry popsicle dripping in red rivulets down my chin and onto my favorite shirt. I was five (and a half, if anyone asked me), and nothing was better on a hot East Bay day than the shade of our Spanish-style tract house's front porch while the smiling face of Jack in the Box spokeskid, Rodney Allen Rippy across my chest, caught errant drips of Safeway popsicle.
  Life was good. I hadn't hadn't had my first pimple on picture day yet, all of my bad dye jobs lay in front of me, far into the future and I hadn't had my heart broken, yet. My hair was often a light brown mess, in a lopsided pony tail that hung down my back, and I had more scrapes and bruises on my legs than I could count from mishaps while learning how to ride a two-wheeler down my neighbors' driveway, or misjudging how far to jump after the jump rope had swung high over my head. I wasn't the most agile kid, but I was willing to try.
 Rodney smiled, and declared,"It's Too Big A'Eat" as I pulled the last of the popsicle off he stick and crammed it into my mouth. Again misjudging. Too much popsicle, not enough room. That's okay. Rodney could have the rest, as the remainder slid out of my mouth, down my chest (I didn't have anything there to stop it from going any farther, yet), and landed with a wet slap in front of me on the entry walk way. Dad's going to be mad,I thought, as I kicked it with a sandaled toe into the planter box which held just dirt and remnants of dead daisies to my left, while wiping my red stained hands on Rodney.
  My Dad was in the house watching football, and had promised like always, to come and get me and my sister when the half time show started. We liked the cheerleaders and the band (Ah, future Band Geek in the making).
  I didn't know where my sister was. Dodging me, probably. At seven, she was much more sophisticated and did not want her younger sister tagging along when she went to Dorla's (what the heck was her last name?) house or to Marcy Van Horn's house a block over.
  I could see my sister cringe when Mom would call down the stairs "Take Kelly with you!" when she would announce that she was going to one of their houses to play. She would heave a sigh, grab me by the wrist and haul me along. "Fine. Come on." Yay! I got to play with the big kids! I didn't care that I wasn't actually invited.
 Once there, we would carefully pick our way through Marcy Van Horn's bedroom floor, as it was littered with toys, laundry, crayons, paper; all of the things that our rooms were not to be littered with. My sister and I gave each other the glance that only sisters can. It said,"You know, Mom would make us clean this room if she knew it looked like this." it was true. Our mother often had us clean the rooms of their friends' children when we would visit them. She had OCD by proxy.
  I only wondered about my sister's whereabouts for so long. I was going to take my "Small Wheel" (a tiny version of every 70's kid's Big Wheel, which I was too small to reach the pedals on) for a spin down the block. I opened the front door to the house and walked down the hallway to the living room, so I could tell Dad where I was going. He never cared, as long as I was where I said I was going, and if I changed my plans, I had to let him know. He was a big believer in freedom, even for a five year-old. And nothing was safer than the suburban streets of the Danville Station subdivision in the spring of 1975.
  Mounting my trusty steed, I felt empowered, cruising down the block, my legs stretching to meet the pedals. Even at five, I knew I could go anywhere with these legs. I could go down the block or even... to the creek! But, I was already at the end of the block. Did I want to turn around again, just to tell dad I was going to go to the creek? Nah, he's watching football. He won't even know.
  I looked back toward the direction of the house one last time, and crossed El Capitan, and onto Zephyr Circle. I was in familiar, yet as of now, forbidden territory. Zephyr Circle was longer than Daylight Place. I wanted to get out of sight fast. Besides, the pollywogs were waiting. At the horseshoe of Zephyr, lies an expanse of lawn, with shade trees lining the far and, and just beyond that, The Creek. Parking my Small Wheel on the muddy bank, I kicked off my once white sandals. Cool clay mud squished stiffly between my toes, as a carefully made my way to the green/brown water alive with pollywogs and tiny water bugs.
  The air was hot and still. The trees didn't move. But I could hear someone coming. I looked up to hear the soft swish that the plastic Big Wheel tires made on grass. Through the reeds that lined the creek, I could see a figure moving toward me. I wasn't scared. Big Wheels weren't driven by scary types. I was more curious. My sister pushed through tall grass.
  "Hey, does Dad know you're here?" asked the authoritative seven year-old.
  I thought about lying. But then she would invariably say at dinner or while I was trapped in the car with Dad, "Hey, remember that you were at the creek that time?" I gambled with what she might do with the information and told her the truth. She might spare me. Then again, she might use it against me as a bargaining tool for chores. Oh, well. This was better than the fear of the unknown.
  We crouched on the bank of the muddy creek, scoping for semi-frog formed pollywogs, The ones with the back legs were the best. I leaned forward and stuck my hand unceremoniously and clumsily in the water. Pollywogs scattered. My sister, being older, was less Bull in a China Shop and managed to sneak up on some and scooped up three or four with a handful of water. We put our heads together and watched them swim in her hand. She lowered her hand and let them go, while I fell back on my butt and hands with a thud. Rodney then got a face full of mud, as my hands smeared across my chest. It was nice here, if not a little hot.
  We played for a while and then didn't realize what time it was. I was five afterall, and don't even remember if I could tell time. Probably not, which was my (our?) undoing.
  Voices. A deep one I recognized and a less deep one that instilled as much fear as the deeper one. My sister and I exchanged a quick fearful glance. Apparently, neither of us were supposed to be there. That's interesting.
  Without saying a word, we grabbed our getaway vehicles and pedaled as fast as we could, but we knew there was no escape. They would see us. I risked turning around in my seat as I nearly stood up from pedaling so hard, that my heart nearly flew out of my chest; my ponytail smacking me in my face, in time to see my father's angry, yet somewhat surprised face. Were those stupid kids actually trying to...run away? My mother looked furious at having to come and look for us.
  My sister, as usual was was way ahead of me, pedaling with all her might. she was too smart to turn around. Plus she had a Big Wheel, and I only had The Small Wheel. I was doomed.
  This is where it gets hazy. Honestly, I do not remember ever making it to the house. Especially, making it before my parents who were on foot. Did we wait on the porch to be let in? Did we try to go around the back and go in through the sliding glass door, run and sit on the couch in the living room, pretending to watch TV like we'd been there the whole time? Never mind that they saw us, and my Dad being a cop, could very easily identify us. Yes, that's right. Two stupid kids on plastic tricycles. One inept, riding the tiny one and one less inept, riding a bigger one.
  What sparked this random memory? The re-appearance of a name that I hadn't heard since form that spring, 38 years later. Jack in the Box was just a stepping stone into Rodney Allen Rippy's burgeoning political carer, as a candidate for the City of Compton Mayoral Seat, according to news accounts. He was always there for me. my portable napkin with the smiling face, my getaway companion.
  Good luck to you, Rodney! I hope Compton's not "Too Big" for ya. _____________________________________________________________________________________________ Kelly Sinon can be reached at thesinons@yahoo.com

De-Decorating...It's in the Bag

  Christmas has been crammed (literally) into various artificial tree bags and Rubbermaid bins. I have made my declaration that this is my last year of being the sole decorator.
  After hours alone, pushing  pulling, stretching and packing, The Family Members suddenly make their appearances. One by one, of course... they wouldn't want to be too obvious.  The Boy, as I am literally putting the last ornament into the last box, emerges, asking if I need help.  The Girl, home from college for the holidays, wanders into the kitchen, well past noon for breakfast and deems me a "Grinch" because I made it plain that I am "so over" Christmas. The Husband, older and wiser, makes sure that his entrance is timed perfectly- as I come into the living room from putting (okay, fine... kicking and rolling) the tree into the garage. He makes the proper appreciative noises and appropriate Wonder Woman references on his way to the kitchen for coffee.
  I don't move from my pouty pirch on the couch, where I've over-dramtically flung myself in the hopes that I've bought myself an entire day there. Plus, since they are all in the kitchen, I can only surmise that they have convened around the island are are soundlessly high-fiving each other. 
  This was my morning, as they planned their silent victory:
  Last Saturday, 8: 30 A.M. -  I begin to gather all of the decorations together from the living room, kitchen and dining room and put them on the island as some sort of a staging area. This should be easy, since I neatly stacked the organizer bins in the garage after I'd unpacked them, for ease of repacking. Okay, well... easy after I navigate the obstacle course that is our garage during the holidays. 
  Carrying two clear organizer bins over my head, the handle bars to Kirk's new bike, lying prone on the floor due the absence of a kick stand, still manages to injure me, as I snake past the recycling container, and the old mattress that is leaning against the piano that The Husband had hauled home because it was on the side of the road with a FREE sign on it. He called me and asked if I wanted a free piano. Duh! Who wouldn't? Never mind that it took my Dad and his engine cherry picked to dislodge it out of the back of The Husband's Suburban a few days later. I don't even want to know he managed to stuff it in there in the first place.
  But I digress. Swearing, I unceremoniously dump the organizer bins on the floor next to the island where I begin the wrap things in (recycled, of course) newspaper, and pack them into the bin.  Pick up item, wrap, bend, repeat. Wow, this took  45 minutes? It only took me 20 to put it all out, and that included swagging the plastic holly garland over the dining room window and hiding the bent paper clips used to hook it over the curtain rod.  
  9:45 A.M.- No coffee, and my bathrobe is getting really warm. A repeat visit to the garage to bring in the loaded bins and pick up more empties for the ornaments. Again, hitting my shin the seemingly innocent boy's bike on the floor of the garage.    
  Heaving a sigh, and contemplating my very sad life, I pull ornaments off the tree. First, one by one, because they each have a compartment in the bin. Five minutes later, I am grabbing them by the handfuls, leaving hooks dangling from wire branches and tossing them into the bin. A grinning picture of The Boy wishing us a "Mery Christmas" in the shape of a mitten from 2004 stops me long enough to ponder my growing children. Why is it that the older they get, the more I am doing for the holidays?
  I have also now tipped the tree over completely onto the floor so that I can pull the ornaments from the top of the 9 foot tree. It stretches from the entrance to the living room, to the front of the couch.
   10:20 A.M.- my robe is sticking to me. Ornaments down, its time to unwind the garland, festooned in a vain attempt at hiding the tree's bald spots like a glittery comb-over. The more I pull to unravel it, the more the tree turns in the direction I'm pulling. Seriously? Blowing my bangs out of my face, I give a final yank, and the strand of garland comes loose, slightly shaven from the bottle brush-like limbs.
  10:40 A.M.- Wishing I could guarantee that no one would come down the stairs because this robe needs to go. Light removal. Yes, we have a pre-lit tree. Yes, all of the bulbs are dead. In a very military (and also cheap) fashion, we "over came, improvised and adapted" and strung a couple of single stranded lights around the tree. It looks sweetly understated when lit. Upon closer examination, you will see more dead lights than lit ones. And it just looks sad, halfway illuminating the ornament with all of our names on it, Kirk's misspelled.
  I begin to unwind the lights. This shouldn't be so bad. There are only two strands. I grab an end and pull. The tree rotates like a chicken on a rotisserie.  I wind the lights around my hand as more are released from the prickly clutches of the fake tree. One strand down. Diving into the scratchy tree to retrieve the end of the second, I pull again. A few lights come free, but then suddenly, I'm lifting the tree, itself. I know there are easier ways to do this. Say, with more than one person. But that's not an option. I manage to disentangle the lights, and resume pulling. It gets caught, again.
  Okay, seriously. Where are the scissors? About to stalk off to the kitchen for them, I swear to God, one more pull and it comes loose. All of it. At once. The coffee table is my sudden sitting place, but I have the lights off the tree! I put them aside and go to the garage for the bag for the tree.
  11:10 A.M.- Oblivious to anything else, but getting this *&^#% tree into the bag, and out of my sight. The tree is 9 feet tall. The bag is 6 feet, 1 inch tall. The tree is stretched out on the floor, looking naked, after someone plied it with too much eggnog, but it makes it easier for me dismantle. Right? I pull the stand off the bottom. No problem.  That's the easy part. I try not to think that I just pulled it's panties off.
  Obviously, I should move to the top of the tree and just pull that off. It's smaller, and then work back down. I pull...the tree follows. I yank... It follows faster. This isn't working. I try to locate the joint between the top and the next level, and counter pull. Wow, that's in there good. Why? It's not like it's going to come apart once it's standing. Or lying down, for that matter. I pull each apart, while simultaneously strangling the tree. That did it. It finally yields. I fold the branches down, umbrella-style, and move to the next level. I have to employ the same strangulation tactic on each of the three levels. Apparently, the tree is in fear of losing it's life. Me? Whatever works.  All that's left to do is umbrella all the levels and put them in the bag. With the stand. And the garland. And the lights. And that one ornament that I missed. 
  I grab the lowest and largest level, and put it into the opened bag.  Next, the medium, level. The bag doesn't want it. The umbrella-ing didn't seem to take as well. I do manage with just brutal force of will to get it into the bag. The top level looks like a well-worn thermos brush, but I cram it in, not caring that the umbrella is half-open. I also realize that the velvet tree skirt is a mess from fake needles as well as the carpet. I stuff the skirt into the bag. Lights. Garland. Ornament.
  The bag now weights 350 pounds. The zipper is also broken and there is a hole at one end from last year when I declared it my last year of Christmas decorating and rammed the first level of  tree through the bag.  I make a feeble attempt at dragging the bag backwards through the living room, and into the hallway before the garage. It doesn't even come close to moving. I move to the other end, and try to push.
  I should have eaten breakfast. This is clearly sapping all of my strength. Next, I move to the middle and yank it up by it's open, zipperless bag, like I'm grabbing it by the collar. "Listen, buddy. One way, or another, you are coming with me." style. That seems to jar it loose enough, and I'm able to finally alternately pull, kick, and roll it into the garage. Just past the doorway. It is no longer in my jurisdiction. The Husband can put it up on the shelf.  So, from my couch to yours... I hope you had a very "Mery" Christmas  and may your tree bag still have it's zipper.

My Dad Can Beat Up Your Dad…and Other Tales

By Kelly Sinon

I opened my eyes and felt a new feeling I wasn’t familiar with and I was…smiling. Smiling, first thing in the morning?  I took tally of my “Things to Fret About” file in my head and realized that I must have dragged and dropped it into the recycle bin ( A. because ...well, Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. And B. because I am me, I know it’s probably going to be short-lived. I was proven right, because ten minutes later, while reveling in this new feeling, it was somehow replaced by anxiety that I had nothing to be anxious about.).

The last couple of weeks, I have been Full of Fret (I know I could have said fretful here, but this sounds a lot more significant and dramatic… and really, since no one is editing me).

Dad had undergone shoulder replacement surgery and had had some pretty serious (although, if you ask him, “not that bad”) complications after, which put the near constant anxiety of the final word about our loan modification on hold.

Dad is 67, looks 57 and behaves likes he’s 27, still enjoying car racing and playing with cars. After he came home from surgery, a few days later, he was back in the hospital, thanks to his wife Carolyn not taking no for an answer, with a raging infection, and throat issues from an intubation gone wrong. Not able to eat, drink, or even speak well, he was still able to convey that he “didn’t need any help”, which on one hand was par for the course. He never needs help with anything (is that 8-year old me, bragging that her Dad is the biggest, strongest man in the world and could beat up your Dad? Probably.). On the other hand, my adult (?) self was very qualified to help him now, and it frustrated me that all I could do was walk their dog.

A week later, Dad was discharged almost none the worse for wear and recovering quickly. I teased him that I missed the sound of his voice, but it was really true. It was good to see him eating, drinking, and laughing , standing and looking tall to me again when they came over for dinner last night.

Sometime during all of this, we’d gotten the word that we were approved for our loan modification. It was a long ride, but at the end of it, all I could imagine was a new dishwasher (the bank was not getting my new dishwasher) , new floors (and dare I dream- new kitchen counters?), Katie, bringing home her future husband and Kirk walking down the stairs in a tux, on his way to the Prom. Did you notice that the dishwasher was number one on my list? Yeah, me too.

So, if it’s possible, I am going to embrace this Much Ado About Nothing anxiety. With a 27-year old father, two kids and a pretty self-contained husband, I am sure it will quickly be replaced with Much Ado About Everything in the Entire World anxiety. It’s okay…that feeling, I’m familiar with.

___________________________________________________________________________

Kelly Sinon will continue to live in Gilroy with her family. She can be reached at sksinon@aol.com

If You're an Asshat, Weezer And I Will Let You Know...

By Kelly Sinon

 I'm beginning to fancy myself a gracefully aging Shirley MacLaine, a la Steel Magnolias’  “Weezer.” 

 After telling my co-worker that in no uncertain terms that she seemed to have misplaced her head and put it where her rear end is, it occurred to me that I will be -and I quote from my own Facebook status- there may still be some sort of hope for me, since I am using, and am well-acquainted with, technology that has been invented after 1975- "the old lady who blurts out the uncomfortable truth at family dinners and county fair quilt judgings." Not only that, I am relishing it.

 There is a certain invisibilty that my mother feared as she aged, that I’m  becoming aware of at 41. Not that I am old, necessarily. I am in fact reminded how young I am when one of my friends mentioned a movie that was made fairly recently that I had to Google. But, I am thinking that my Weezerisms are coming more and more frequently in an effort to stave off people not seeing me. Maybe.

  Since I was always a sort of "filter off'ed" type, I can only imagine it's going to get worse. Not for me, but for unsuspecting retail clerks with spinach in their teeth or ill-prepared family members' new significant others. 

 In my scenario, I'm sharp as a tack, and no one suspects that I'm just telling it like it is to ...well, tell it like it is. Rather, they will think, "Oh, poor (insert “Mom”, “Grandma”, “Aunt”, “cute lady with the cats”, “horrible old bat”, here) is slowly losing it. We'll humor her because she really didn't mean anything when she said, (insert acerbic sentence here).

 I have a long history of struggling to keep my filter on, and it seemed the more I  tried to Scotch tape it or Super Glue it in the “on” positon, the faster the fuse blew.

 My sister and her friends were often the recipient of some of my thoughtlessness.

 Weeks earlier, we’d been playing and teasing each other, seeing who could come up with the worst insult to the other.

  Back and forth we went until I spluttered,”You…bloody stump!” it struck us both funny, and we used it often.

Fast forward a couple of months, when while in Canada on a dog showing curcuit, my 14-year old sister had the pleasure meeting a great kid, who began to woo her. He was cute, funny and best of all, nice to her little sister who tagged along. Everywhere.

 Brad was so easy to be with that when we began our ritualistic teasing, he was included. 

 “You...backwards, backwoods jack ass,” he teased me, refering to the tiny, in fact correctly termed “backwoods” hamlet of Hayfork, where we lived.

 “You…bloody stump,” I announced, which would have stopped the game cold, since it seemed to trump everything else and reduced everyone into fits of giggles, usually.  This time, not so much. Suzie was glaring at me so hard, I thought I might turn to stone. I blinked.

  I felt like I’d been slapped in the face, for remembering that Brad was missing a hand and sported a hook that he used deftly to open candy.

 For once, I was speechless, but as always, embarrassed.

 It didn’t last long, and the thoughtlessness that seemed to follow me everywhere as a kid, morphed into something else as an adult.
 It just got too hard to try to keep the switch on, and I often made things worse when trying. So, the result is, if you’re being an Asshat, I’m going to say, “You’re being an Asshat.” I will try to say it nicely. I will even try to discourage you from being an Asshat in the future, but…you will know that I think you’re being an Asshat.

 But I’m pretty sure that’s how “Weezer” got started.

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Happy Birthday, Mom... You Still Make Me Laugh

By Kelly Sinon

 Throughout the day, I reminded myself that it was my mother’s birthday. She would have been 66, today.      One of her deepest wishes was to never age. Not that she was someone who was terrified of losing her looks, really. Not any more than anyone else, but because she didn’t want what happens to people when they age; the invisibility.  Although, anyone who knew my mother, knew that there was absolutely no chance of her ever becoming invisible, with her nasal, perpetually allergy-laced, Brooklyn accent and her contagious Drescher-esque laugh, accompanied by snorts.

 Mom stopped aging at 56 years old, in her happy prime of life. Retired, with her husband and beloved Scottish Terriers, she was free to travel to all the dog shows she wanted in their RV. While driving home from one of their many shows, their RV had a blowout, which caused it to overturn and catch fire. A tragic accident that changed our family forever.

 In the ten years since, I’ve come a long way in the grief process. It was so sudden, that when my husband, who’d gotten the phone call earlier in the day, broke the news to me on my arrival home from a shopping trip, I was appalled that he could lie to me in such a disgusting way.  I wrestled with the guilt that we hadn’t spoken in a few months.  I still do. But I remind myself that she knows, and any wrong between us has been made right by the forgiveness that death can bring for people who truly loved each other beyond condition.

It seemed for a month straight, I cried.

 I cried, as I asked my husband in all sincerity and fear, “Will I ever stop crying?”

 I cried in line in the supermarket, for a reason I still don’t know.

 I cried in the middle of my kitchen with my young children unsure of what to say or do to make it stop.

 I cried the second my eyes opened in the morning.

 But little by little, with encouraging friends and family, the tears stopped and the stories began.

 The time Mom didn’t believe there was a bat in the house, until its whirring wings woke her at 2 a.m. and she and my sister tried to usher it out of every open door we had while I giggled maniacally from my post under the dining room table. 

 Mom’s fearlessness in taking her girls all over the west coast and Canada in a ‘60s era camper without a toilet, which in itself displays amazing courage, to compete in dog shows and introduce us to the land of “colorful money” and metrics none of us could decipher.

 Her quickness to defend her children from harm or mistaken identity, as was the case when my botched haircut at her scissor-wielding hands resulted in the butcher telling my sister to "take care of her little brother."

"How can you think this adorable little girl is a boy?" Grabbing my wrist, she stalked away muttering about how dare he think such a thing. Even though I think in her heart of hearts, she knew it was not a difficult conclusion to jump to. 

 Her talent as a story teller, writer, and painter, her wit and wisdom are remembered still. She was quick to laugh. Usually at me, which infuriated my sister because it seemed I could get out of almost any punishment. But my sister was entrusted with Mom’s respect for her capable nature and brand of fearlessness, herself.

She’s with me when I catch myself snorting when I laugh, or when I’m excited and talking fast, my husband will call me on my “Brooklyn accent.” She’s also with me when I say things like, “Enough a’ready” or standing on a soapbox to get my point across, since she did pass on the gift of gab and her opinionated nature.

Happy birthday, Mom. To me, you will always be forever young, beautiful and unforgettable.