Meet Louie

Here he is, our new beagle. I knew this day would come, and when it finally did it was with mixed emotions. I still miss Roxie desperately, but life is too short to not have a dog in your life to love. See how happy he is with Stevie? Hi Louie, I'm thinking about plucking your eyes out just like I did to this dandelion.

Louie came to be a Jameson after a casual Friday night over cocktails. His owner was a jackass who didn't deserve him. I didn't really tell him that, but after finding out Louie was headed to Death Row, there was no other choice but to bring him home to live with us. What kind of nut believes that dogs are disposable?

We've been Louie's lucky new family for about 6 weeks now. He's been pruned and zapped a few times to keep him in the yard, but he loves us nonetheless. And we love him. You'll be hearing a lot about Louie...just wanted you to meet face-to-face.

History Repeats

And was there ever a doubt that it wouldn't?

This morning I dropped my daughter off for her first day of 7th grade. SEVENTH GRADE. I have to repeat it to myself as if it will lessen the huge lump I've had in my throat all morning.

I would like to say it started at 6:15 this morning, but it started the day I watched Lainie walk into Desert Hills Elementary for the first day of Kindergarten. She wore a blue dress with black shoes. Her pale blonde hair was below her shoulders, and her innocent blue eyes were fixed on Room 5, where she would be a student in Mrs. Hand's class. I bent down to hug and kiss her and quickly cupped my hands over my sunglasses, making sure they were on and they were hiding the tears that were about to spill down my cheeks.

That was seven years ago.

This morning at 6:15 I craned my head from my bathroom doorway and peeked down the hall, making sure Lainie was up and was getting dressed. To my surprise, ther was someone else in her bathroom. It was not Lainie; it couldn't be her - this girl was much older than my daughter. She was standing in front of the mirror fixing her hair and tugging at her new clothes. No, this was not my little girl; it was a tall, beautiful young lady with pink glossy lips and long, blackened eyelashes. She had on a white t-shirt that said "Famous" across the front with Hollister jeans and black and white plaid tennis shoes. She leaned forward towards the mirror again and checked her braces for remnants of breakfast. Satisfied, she flipped the lightswitch off and started towards my room.

"Mom, hurry, I told my friends I would meet them in front of the gym."

Good Lord, this is my daughter.

But where did all the time go? Where was my little girl in the blue dress? Tomorrow she'll likely be someone else again, wearing a cap and gown. Or worse - a wedding dress. Did it all go this fast for my parents? Am I the only Mom who feels like her babies are growing up in fast-forward mode? When can I push the "pause" button?

We drove to school listening to the music of Lainie's choice, as we do every school day. She stopped on a station we rarely listen to when Lainie is in the car. I'd heard this song so many times before, but today it hit me like a train:

My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to. Your dreams stay big, and your worries stay small, you never need to carry more than you can hold. And while you're out there getting where you're getting to, I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too. Yeah this... is my wish.

I turned into the school, just as my mother did 24 years ago at the same school. It was the first day of 7th grade, 1984. Unlike my daughter, I was terrified to get out of the car and tackle this new day, this uncertain path ahead of me where there were new schedules, new teachers, new friends and new enemies.

My daughter doesn't have time for my sentimental heart, or my memories. I tell her I love her and ask if she's too cool to kiss her mom. She softens. "No, Mom," she grins. "It's because I'm so cool that I'll still kiss you goodbye." She pecks her pink glossy lips against mine and hops out of the car. Walking towards the gym, she slings her backpack over her shoulder, flips her long blonde hair behind her and catches up with her friends. I cup my hands over my sunglasses, make sure they're on and let the tears flow down my cheeks.

I guess there's nothing you can do to keep history from repeating itself. Over and over again.

She Sleeps...

Dear Roxanna,

It's now two days since I last kissed your sweet face, and while I think it might actually be getting better today, my heart still aches because you are gone.

The doctor said the reason you couldn't go on anymore was because you had an enlarged heart, and it just couldn't keep up with you anymore. Of course, we already knew that you had a really big heart; you loved us more than we could ever have asked for, and in return we tried to make your life that of a princess.

I remember so well the day we brought you home. It was exactly six weeks after your birthday, June 14th, which was Father's Day. You were the sweetest thing! You had the blondest hair I'd ever seen, and you loved to snuggle on my shoulder. Your dad and I took you on many trips to California in the Peterbilt, and you were always such a good co-pilot. Do you remember how I used to put your ears on top of your head with a hair tie to keep them from dragging in your food? I think sometimes you liked getting your ears all crusted with food...it was like saving snacks for later.

Some of the best memories I have are the ones when we went camping. Knowing how prissy you were, I know being outdoors was not always your favorite thing, but you would never want to be where your family wasn't, so when the suitcases came out, you waited patiently by the door until it was your turn to be loaded in the truck, sitting on your blanket right next to me. You slept so soundly on the road, but knew instinctively when we were passing McDonald's, because plain cheeseburgers were your absolute favorite.

I also remember the time you caught a bird on the way home from meeting Lainie at the bus stop. You were so proud! I was ridden with guilt after having to "dispose" of it after you dumped it on the doorstep, its wounded little body twitching in pain. Until that moment, I had never had to put another living animal out of its misery (bugs and creepy-crawlers excluded).

Then Wednesday came. I knew you hurt badly, but you tried not to show it. You slept like a baby that last night, even though your big, precious heart fought for space against your struggling lungs. The trip to the vet's office was a quiet one, as you slept some more with your head on Lainie's lap, just like so many times before. Taking you there that morning was the most gut-wrenching decision I had to make, but I knew we had reached the end of our time together. You went to sleep peacefully in my arms, and I will forever remember how sweet and fuzzy your little forehead was where I always kissed you.

There must be a heaven for you, my Pretty Princess. You weren't human, yet you brought out my own humanity. You never worried about fame or fortune; your only wish was to bring my heart nearer to the joy of simple things: a wagging tail, a loyal greeter at the door, a warm body to sleep next to. Each day you taught me lessons in steadfast affection - love is not selfish, love is not cruel, love is everlasting and unconditional.

I love you so very much, Baby Girl. Wait for me in heaven. I'll bring you a plain cheeseburger.

Love,

Your Mom

"And now, to all the good dogs - the special ones you loved best, and those of ours we still miss. Goodbye, until on some brighter day in some fairer place, they run out again to greet us again." --George Papashvily

Loving Lainie

I have a confession to make. I used to believe that mothers couldn't possibly have enough love for more than one child. When I was pregnant with the twins, I worried that my focus would be on them, and I would miss all of the wonderful things my oldest daughter would be doing, experiencing, and learning.

Lainie turned 12 on Wednesday and I can say with confidence that my three children have proven that mothers not only have more than enough love for all their children; their love grows every day, every minute, every hour for each of them. Watching my soon-to-be teen grow as a person and a sister has been a driving force in that.

This week, Lainie was inducted into the National Honor Society. Two years ago I would never have dreamed that day would come. I was proud of the fact that Lainie was just fine where she was at; she was neither an accelerated student, nor a delayed learner. She was thriving right where God planted her - in the middle. This year she proved me wrong; she's not in the middle at all. She's at the top, and still climbing.

I know now what my parents always talked about when they said they were "busting buttons". I do that everyday with all my children, but with my oldest, it's different. Something about her just connects with me. It's probably due in part to the fact that she can communicate with me where the other two are still learning how to communicate at all. It probably also lies in the fact that my oldest daughter is just like me. Not in the way that makes you cringe and want to change her, in the way that you just want to say, "Yeah, she's like me and I couldn't ask for more."

Isn't that what every parent wishes for?

So this is what it looks like?

Maybe not. It's only about 70 degrees, so this can't be hell. But all signs are pointing that way.

Today is Thursday, and since Monday things have been in complete turmoil. My "career" seems to be spinning out of control, through no fault of my own, and there is no solace to escape to at home. Both Stevie and McKenna are fighting some kind of stomach bug (on top of allergies) and fevers are spiking to 102. Everything in the house has vomit on it, and my washing machine is on perpetual cycle. Kenny and I have tickets to see Merle Haggard tonight and I can't help but think I should be staying home. If only I could bolt the doors closed and disconnect the phone! Hmm....

Last night I watched a news program called "The Last Lecture". It was a moving story of a college professor who was asked to give his students "The Last Lecture" at the end of the semester. I learned it was a common request; instructors - having contemplated their demise - are asked to profess to their class on the values of life, and what legacy they would hope to pass on if they were to walk out the classroom door for the last time. Instead, this professor really was giving his last lecture. Diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just a month earlier, Dr. Randy Pausch quickly penned a lecture titled "Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams". Ironically, it wasn't about dying; it was about overcoming obstacles in life and learning that it's better to fail spectacularly than to just exist in life monotonously. Now isn't that a cannon of a statement? I thought about my own situation: at the helm of a company in dire financial distress. I've chosen to stay the course and see my boss' plans to the very end. If we fail, at least I will have failed along with him...spectacularly.

After the program was over, I quickly logged on to my laptop and swiped up a copy of Dr. Pausch's book (also titled The Last Lecture). The most moving part of his story is that as he spends every day dying, he is trying to leave behind "safety nets" for his three small children and his wife, because "if I am not here to catch them, who will? I can either stay busy worrying that I won't be here to help, or I can get started sewing nets to catch them in my absence."

That's a lot of nets, Dr. Pausch.

So what will I spend my valuable time on? After all, this man is DYING. Realistically, we are all dying, but we haven't been dealt the "cancer card" in the poker hand of life. Dr. Pausch has chosen to not waste valuable time worrying about dying. Instead, he has maximized his life daily in more ways than I have done in a decade. From that show, I learned so many things: 1. I cannot change the circumstances of my company; it is not my ship to save. 2. I am the only one in control of my own destiny; I can choose to stay, or I can make plans to save myself. Hell, the survivors of the Titanic only lived to tell about it because they chose to save themselves. 3. My family is the only constant in my life; jobs come and go, people and friends come and go. At the end of the day, my children are my legacy and what I pass on to them is the greatest contribution to the world I can give.

Need proof? My daughter told me last night she had been accepted into the National Honor Society. What better contribution to the world could I possibly make?

Apparently The Cameras Turned on Them

The first thing I heard this morning when I woke up was the sound of a familiar voice. It was Michelle Valles, on the radio with the morning crew at KLAQ.

When I was at KTSM NewsChannel 9, Michelle "Vata" Valles walked in the door one afternoon as a deer-in-the-headlights graduate of UT Austin, looking for a TV gig. She found it, made her way to the main anchor desk and eventually spread her wings back towards Austin, where she is the primetime news anchor for their NBC affiliate, KXAN. This morning she was talking about the South By Southwest tour, an annual event in Austin that is as much to music lovers as a Baptist revival is to Billy Graham. But somewhere the conversation turned, and the topic focused on the "poor judgment" of two local television news stations. Covering the story of a traffic death (in TV we called this a "fatal") that had happened the night before near a legal drag strip, the two news crews - one from the CBS affiliate KDBC Channel 4, the other KVIA Channel 7 - caved to the urging of the crowd to race down the strip themselves. To see it for yourself, click here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ioHh4a5C-9g

Now really...this is some funny shit. Having spent some time in TV myself, I can tell you that stuff like this goes on ALL THE TIME in news rooms, and those involved certainly don't have any intention - or wish - of seeing it in the headlines. This, unfortunately, is on the lips of Anderson Cooper, CNN, and - as the above link can attest - You Tube. Did they make a bad decision? Hell yeah, they did. Those live trucks cost a fortune - probably in the neighborhood of half a million bucks. News Directors in El Paso reluctantly hand over the keys to operators that are often not even of legal drinking age, but they are trusted. Now there's a word you haven't read or heard in any news story related to this sad but funny incident.

So that's the story: This situation is really not about a poor judgment call by two news crews to haul ass down a short strip of pavement; this is about a violation of trust that can never be replaced. According to the newspaper this morning, the guy driving the KDBC truck has been fired, so he REALLY won't ever have the chance to redeem himself. Rick Cabrera, the guy in the Channel 7 live truck, was the heir-apparent for outgoing local news legend Gary Warner. Now both KDBC and KVIA managment are on full-time damage control, and each station will now have the unfortunate task of earning back their reputation among viewers (and their fellow media colleagues) as being the leader in covering the news, instead of being the story that's covered.

Gee, I wonder where KTSM was that night? To me, the video posted all over the web looked too good to have come from a cell phone. No, it looked professional. Hmmmm....

How I Missed the Boat

Oh hell, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt are having twins. Does she have to do everything I do?

I decided today that I missed my calling. I should be sitting outside my larger-than-life Malibu home with my larger-than-life bank account sipping a larger-than-life margarita. Yum...I can see it now.

So where did I go wrong?

It was more than likely that first day of college. As I forced my crusted eyes to open, still in bed nursing a righteous hangover, my mother nagged. "It's the first day of classes...are you even registered?!" Truth be told, I was not registered. I really didn't want to go to college, but I had put up a really good act for the last year. It all seemed so hard. When was I going to get the call that an unknown, incredibly rich uncle had died and left me his fortune?

Since the phone was not, in fact, going to ring with that call, I picked it up instead. I called my best friend. Yep, she was going. Said she had a philosophy class that afternoon. Yuck - that didn't even sound good. A chile cheeseburger from Sonic...now that sounded good.

I made three more phone calls and got three more confirmations that everyone had accepted the invitation to higher education. Everyone except me.

I'll spare you all the gory details of my college career (Oh! that would be so fun to read, wouldn't it?) and just tell you that seven years later, a few Fs, two husbands and a wonderful baby girl later, I graduated with a degree in journalism. Should you be surprised? No. It was the quickest way through what I thought was going to be a painful process. And I didn't have to have a shitload of math classes. The only math I need to know is the ratio of gin to tonic. Now that's my kind of philosophy.

What $750 Will Buy You

My daughter swallowed a marble tonight. You would think a mother of three would have the wits about her to make sure things like marbles don't make it into their child's mouth, but I do, and it did. I was in the middle of dinner (more mac and cheese) when I heard the gag. I reluctantly called my mother, who rushed over to sit with my other two daughters, and in a matter of minutes I was speeding away towards the emergency room.

Why do they call it an "emergency" room anyway?

There seemed to be no real emergencies in this room. At the risk of sounding snobby, it just seemed full of lathargic, pathetic souls looking for either sympathy, attention or a reason to not report to their minimum-wage jobs the next day. Two seats over sat a teen mom with an inconsolable baby. Accompanied by her mother, her mother's mother and a pack of likely illegitimate nieces and nephews, the doe-eyed mother looked around and absent-mindedly patted her baby's bottom. Maybe the nieces and nephews were the young mother's own siblings - who knew? Where I live, anything is possible. In the corner, a group of twenty-something thugs with freshly shaved heads yammered in Spanish about their tia who hadn't been seen because well-insured white people had come in. "Ya basta," they sneered. This was pointed at me; they had had enough. Since noon, they had been waiting with their aunt who was having chest pains. Have they ever heard of an ambulance?

I'm glad it wasn't really an emergency...my kid is close to shitting that marble already.

"Baa, blaaah mwaaa" was all you could hear now over the snippy Spanish mixed with screaming, half-clothed kids. The noise came from a woman well into her 50s. She was with her mother, who patiently sat in the waiting room, rocking her daughter who clearly had the mental capacity of a newborn child. Though indicipherable, other mothers were tuning in to her; she was just as loving and caring over her "baby" as we were over our children. They communicated through a secret language I hadn't heard since The Elephant Man; unknown to everyone around them except each other. The woman's husband sat next to her, disconnected from his daughter whom he had likely never shared a simple conversation with.

McKenna is getting wiggly. I wonder: how long does it take someone to poop a marble, anyway?

New blood walks through the automated sliding doors. It's a construction worker who got a little excited over a circular saw and lost a finger. His limp hand, cradled by his filthy other arm, was wrapped in a bloody Van Halen t-shirt. The finger was in a Blake's Lotaburger bag. "Did you put the finger on ice, Mr. Trujillo?" asks the triage nurse, who is directing traffic, juggling telephones and answering questions from a cop...all the while processing each "emergency" that walks in the door. "Nah, man. I just put it in the bag 'cuz it's all I had." This is not good news. The nurse explains that she'll have to take the severed digit to the back, while the body it once belonged to would have to wait with the rest of us.

The Elephant Woman just peed.

It's 9:00. My daughter and I walked through the door at 7:00, and had already been seen by triage, an x-ray tech, and the admissions people. The Elephant Woman's mother tells me she's been there since 3. I don't ask what they're here for, and I don't have to. A young blonde in maroon scrubs calls my daughter's name through swinging doors. It's my turn.

"So how did she swallow a marble?" sneers Young Maroon Blonde. Poor thing. She has no idea who I am. "Well, I suppose she just opened her mouth, popped the son of a bitch in there and swallowed." Maybe that wasn't a good idea, I thought to myself. "I understand you're frustrated, Mrs. Jameson, we're all just trying to do our jobs."

While Young Blonde tried to do her job, I thought about Tia, who may very well have had chest pains and still had not been seen by a doctor. Elephant Woman, sitting in her own urine. The dirty Van Halen fan who will never again be able to flip anyone off with his right hand. My daughter swallowed a marble. Was it really an emergency?

After a record 20 minutes in a private triage room, a lovely East Indian pediatrician stops by to see my baby. "I checked her x-rays, and I don't see the marble. Are you sure she swallowed it?"

I thought about this for awhile. I had a terrible day at work. My husband and I last talked over a heated financial argument. I really thought she swallowed a marble, but I couldn't be certain. I surely wouldn't bet money on it - hell, I didn't have any money to bet. I asked my daughter if she swallowed the marble and she said yes. Would a 2 year-old lie to her mother?

I showed the doctor a bag full of specimens much like the one I assumed my child had swallowed. She examined them closely, extracted one from the bag and disappeared to x-ray the marble by itself. Then, comparing it to McKenna's chest and abdomen films, she concluded that if my daughter had in fact swallowed a marble, it would have shown up bright and beautiful on an x-ray. There was nothing bright or beautiful about McKenna's x-rays, other than the fact that they showed a perfectly heatlhy two year-old child who was all mine.

"I guess maybe she didn't swallow it after all," I said. I was all I could offer. The doctor left me alone with my writhing child, now so fed up with "emergency" rooms that she was just about to pop. I wonder if that would certify a true emergency in this place? An exploding toddler in her pajamas?

With my bag of marbles and my daughter who was now certified marble-free, I was sent to the window where you pay for services rendered. "Okay," said the woman, typing feverishly on her keyboard. "Your emergency co-pay is 750 dollars, Mrs. Jameson. How would you like to take care of that?"

Now wasn't that the question of the night? Really, I wondered, what the hell did I get for $750? Peace of mind knowing my child's intestines wouldn't get clogged by a non-existent marble in the middle of the night? A crash course in Emergency Room sociology? Cheap conversation among strangers with whom I had nothing in common with, who were secretly wishing bad things upon me and my daughter because we were white and insured?

I wrote a check. I said nothing. My thoughts spoke volumes. McKenna and I drove home and I walked through my house to the smell of hot dogs. "Here, Sugar, eat a hot dog and relax," my mother said. She meant well, but hot dogs? I really wanted the bottle of gin I walked through the door with four hours earlier. The whole 750-dollar bottle. I plopped my 750-dollar bag of marbles on the table, kissed my mother goodbye, thanked her and put my children to bed. My house was clean, thanks to my 750-dollar mother/maid, and I curled up on the couch with my 750-dollar hot dog. I guess it's true that some of the best things in life don't come free.

When Will the Lambs Stop Screaming?

Oh yes, a line from one of my favorite flicks - although most would be surprised to learn that. I can't watch the previews from that f*cked up "One Missed Call" crap. (No surprise here, I'm still afraid to flush the toilet at night.)

So no blog since October, although I think about it every night. I wish I had captured what I was thinking - what I was pissed about, because I'm pissed about a lot of things right now. I don't hide the fact that I spend a lot of time feeling sorry for myself: sorry that I can't stick to a diet or exercise plan, sorry that Kenny works out of town and I'm left alone with three kids, sorry that my job is so, so, so SO uncertain, sorry that my family just doesn't get it, sorry that my life is not my own.

What the hell did I sign up for, anyway? It's not like I got married to have a constant party pal; I wanted to have a family, children, a dog and a house. I remember wanting so desperately to have my own house so that when everything else in the world fell down, I could hug my walls and know that it's mine.

But it's not - it's the bank's house so there's no fun in hugging walls that could disappear literally in a matter of months. There goes the bottom lip again.

So where does life take an uphill swing? When do things get happy again? I know the answers, I just don't want to type them. If I do, I expose myself. If I write them, they are real; if I never type exactly what I'm feeling no one will ever know. No one will ever know what an incredibly screwed up person I really am. Frasier Crane wouldn't have enough couch space (or time) for this confession of a so, so spotted mind. Hmmm...my BFF Frasier.