And then, she finally got tired of living responsibly.

Hey, there, other drivers in my city.

You don't think I see you, but I do. I see you.

I see your frightened little faces in my rearview mirror as you stare at me, open-mouthed, while I drive over railroad tracks or a strangely enormous speed bump. I'm watching you, looking in horror at the bike bouncing around on the bike rack that appears to be attached to my trunk, although, it doesn't really look like it's attached to anything.

Guess what?

It isn't.

Can you see the 7,000 straps attached to the bike rack that are currently flying in the breeze? That's right. I can't figure out where they go. There are some black nubby things with some velcro straps on them that look like they would be helpful in holding the bike down, but seriously, I've tried securing that velcro three times, and it just doesn't stick to anything.

You think this bike rack came with a certification, or a class or something? Honey, I don't even know if it came with instructions. I certainly didn't read any. And that's why, as you drive behind me clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles, I'm giggling softly to myself, because I know something you don't know.

You couldn't pay me to drive behind me. I know just how incompetent I am. I also know that as we near this next speedbump, I'm sending a text message with my thumb and singing along with "Baby Got Back", and yet there you are, driving behind me for FREE, and you have the nerve to look at me funny.

Dummy.

WHEE!!!!!!!

You're not the boss of me.

Tonight, the kid and I had dinner at Zona Fresca, and I spontaneously decided to head over to the park for a quick walk before they closed. The park closes their main road an hour before closing for exercising, which is great. I think the loop is 1.7 miles. It's really pretty, and there were a bunch of people rollerblading, running, and bike riding. I pushed Malena in her stroller as she chatted away.

It was a beautiful night, just around twilight, but I was totally wearing the wrong shoes. My new and hastily-purchased flip flops started ripping the skin off of my feet about 1/4 mile into our walk. And so I did the rest of the walk barefoot. The asphalt felt much better than the hellshoes, but my feet started to sting by the time we got back to the car.

I must have winced while tiptoeing around and opening car doors, because Malena looked at me and sternly admonished, "You can't just walk in your feet. You have to put shoes on. Look at me, I have shoes on." Then she turned and began climbing up into her carseat in a serious manner.

Two guys leaning against a car and drinking water after a long run looked at her with one raised eyebrow, and laughed at me in sympathy.

Whose kid is this?

Those aren't my feet in the photo, by the way. They're Ramses I, and are about 3,298 years old. They look like mine, though.

I Just Can't Get Enough

Today was beautiful. I was driving around town on errands, it was 84F/29C, and the sky was a bright, clean blue. On the radio, the song above began playing -- I suddenly opened the sunroof and all the windows, and cranked up the music of my wayward teenaged years.

First of all, you have to check out the video. It's so horrible, it's wonderful. This song was released in the UK in 1981, and you can just FEEL the 80's exploding in this video. Just look at Dave Gahan. He looks like a 19-year old that just had angry revenge sex for the first time in his life, like, 5 minutes before they began shooting. God bless 'im.

I think I went to my first Depeche Mode concert in 1984. My boyfriend's dad (or was he my best friend's boyfriend at the time, I don't remember) sent three or four of us his limo for the evening. We opened the sunroof as we headed into Manhattan, had the driver put in our CASSETTE (you heard me) and crank it up as we stuck our obnoxious juvenile little heads out the roof of the car and yelled at pedestrians. The seating in Radio City was covered in red velvet, and giant waves of pot smoke wafted into us as we screamed our stupid faces off. I wandered out at one point, looking for the bathroom, and collided with an incredibly wobbly boy with soft, curly brown hair. I asked him if he was ok, and he gently grabbed my shoulders and whispered "I smoked too much". It was my first life encounter with someone of the opposite sex who was out of control and yearned for my help and guidance, even if it was only me who knew it.

(Guffaw).

The boy with the chocolate-brown eyes usually reserved for baby calves and dying war heroes's name was Ben, and at that very moment, I decided that if I ever had a son, his name would be Ben. For the stupid little stoned boy I met at a Depeche Mode concert in 1984.

Let's not question my cosmically moronic decisions right now, the point of this blog, and yes, I do have one, is about the music.

And I began to wonder (here we go) to myself, if it's just the memories of the emotions from my youth that cause me to wing open the sunroof and turn up the music until the back speakers are booming? Am I hanging on to a feeling from a time in my life when I was completely free, with at least TEN solid years ahead of me where I could safely do nothing but fuck up and still come out ok in the end? (Ok, debatable, but roll with it.)

NO, I decided, as Daughtry came on and I stepped on the gas pedal with a big mental "Woo hoo!" and started racing the kid next to me in a blue Mustang. I'm still living.

:)

If you could just smell my blog.

I haven't been cooking lately.

It's hot out, I've been working a lot, I'm going to die alone.... somewhere along there, I kind of lost my mojo. I've been meaning to. The fridge is stuffed with slowly wilting good intentions. I just haven't felt the inspiration.

Tonight, however, I realized that when I'm not completely mindful of the choices I'm making for myself, big or small, I'm probably not taking the best care of myself that I could be. So the kid and I went to the market, and I bought a cartful of vegetables and a gigantic watermelon.

I had watermelon for dinner. I won't lie, I still wasn't inspired. I put her to bed, I watched a movie, and decided I still wasn't tired. I went into the kitchen and started peeling and chopping and trimming and I made a gigantic pot of vegetable soup. Not a big deal. Except it's midnight. And I'm playing my Nina Simone and chopping up a leek and I realized that I love food. Not just eating it, although that's up there, but I like rinsing it off and cutting it up and making it into something. Leeks are sexy. The white part of them can be such a satiny, bright white, but the green parts are such a deep green, and they have such an amazing texture. I like how they look in my hands when I toss them into the pot. I am now in love with the leek.

So I'm sitting here, reading a book that a friend wrote about food, and enjoying my new romance with the Allium porrum. The house smells fantastic. And tomorrow, when I peel myself away from my computer for lunch, it will be like the soup fairies were here.

Seriously. I wish my blog had scratch-n-sniff. You have no idea what you're missing.

Experience Boredom.

A couple of years ago, my friend Claudine drove out to see me at my then-boyfriend's house in a somewhat rural part of the universe. She called me from her car and said, "My GPS is saying 'YOU ARE HERE', but I'm in the middle of a field. Where the hell are you?"

I laughed. "You're here".

The boyfriend turned out to be a total douchebag, but I loved the idea of his house being surrounded by nothing but fields.

I don't get a lot of downtime as a single mom. My daughter recently started going to her dad's once a week and staying over, and instead of going out with friends or hitting the docks and trolling for my next husband, I have been spending these days in a coma. I surrounded myself with books and movies this weekend, and got so wrapped up in chick flicks and napping, that I actually woke up at some point today and took about 3 minutes trying to figure out if it was today or tomorrow.

It's so fantastic.

There are days when, after spending hours talking to other people for work, I just want to unplug and do nothing, but mini-me requires macaroni and cheese, or wants me to make her a meatball with her play-doh, or needs a bath, and it's not that I don't love my child more than oxygen, I just get cranky when forced to interact with people for several weeks in a row with no time to myself. I love the idea of living in a house surrounded by nothing. Drop kid off at daycare, silence. Kid goes to bed, silence. Wake up in the middle of the night, wander out into the backyard, scream my head off, silence.

I watched a documentary this afternoon on a Zen monastery in Austria, and it just looked so relaxing. You wake up, stretch, sit and face a wall, and think about nothing. You knead some bread and think about the energy that your knuckles are putting into a food that is going to nourish others. You sit outside and watch a leaf blow around.

I realized that the one thing that has really been missing from my life is the regular experience of conciously doing nothing. No phone calls, no lists, no plans whatsoever. I now live for Saturdays.

I'm going back to bed.

:)

It's Fr... Frida.... Frid (whump).

Oh, dear lord, it's Friday. I didn't think this day would ever come, and I feel like I crawled to the finish line on my hands and knees.

Three-day weekend. (weak squeak of jubilation).

If smoking didn't cause a long, drawn-out death and my neighbors weren't crackheads who stole everything that wasn't nailed down, I would totally be lighting a cigarette right now and falling back into my pretty blue Ikea hammock (that's still in the packaging, because my neighbors are crackheads who steal everything that isn't nailed down). So maybe I'll just pour myself a drink and fall back into the sofa. Or maybe I'll just fall over.

Oh, Friday.

I love you.

I will always love you.

No one's sexier than you, Friday.

You're the - (snore).

It's a beautiful night.

The moon is so full and so bright, I almost have to squint to look at it.

The Kid had a happy weekend, rolling around town, and spending the afternoon with me at the beach today, while I tried to get some shots of her for an upcoming blog post for work.

This week is going to be a hectic grind, because there is NO WAY I am leaving any work for the weekend. Three days. Hot dogs, outdoor activities, and a handful of Ambien. (Not, like, all at once - scattered over the weekend so I can sleep like a normal person.) Hoooooo, I can't wait.

Ida Corr. The best thing to come out of Denmark since sliced rugbrød.

I finally figured out what this apartment is missing.

A stripper pole!

It's not that I'm not happy dancing around the house in my afro and my heels and my lingerie with the fringe on top, but something has just been missing.

As much as I love this song, I really don't feel I can fully appreciate it without hanging upside down by my ankles with one bent knee.

Somebody please add "stripper pole" to my Christmas Wish List. Thanks.

My only question is, with all of the artsy-fartsy cosseted film students running all over Denmark, why does this video suck so much?

I got to have more cowbell.

Let me think about it. Mm-mm-mm-mmm.

The Road to Mexico is Paved with Dysentery

I am not the outdoorsy type.

In fact, I am very much the indoorsy type.

I like my electricity and jacuzzi spigots as much as the next fella. I don't camp. The closest I've ever come to camping was accidentally falling asleep drunk on a beach in the Caribbean, and I haven't done it since.

My cousin is getting married at the end of this year, and is having a bridal shower in July in Mexico. I've been trying to plan a trip to bring my daughter to spend some time with my family, and thought that the shower would be a great time to see family and extended family.

I have two airline vouchers from work that I've been saving up, but just realized that the airline doesn't go directly to my destination. I've been clicking through their website, trying to figure out the best airport to fly to, and possibly rent a car from that point to get to where I'm going. The fact that I'm traveling with a three-year old weighs heavily against multi-leg trips and long layovers, because who the hell wants to be stuck with a three-year old in the third airport of a 13-hour trip halfway across the country, I ask you.

So I can use my vouchers to fly from Fort Lauderdale to Albuquerque (2 stops), and then drive 4 a rental car hours south to the El Paso area, or fly to San Antonio (1 stop) and drive 7 hours. I was originally thinking about driving from Fort Lauderdale to El Paso, but then I filled my car with gas the other day at $3.79 a gallon and vetoed that idea in my head. I called my aunt today to get the exact dates of when everyone was leaving to drive the 8 hours south into Mexico for the shower, and she mentions that they're taking the bus, which is a lot cheaper than driving. The bus through Mexico is 9 hours, with one stop in Chihuahua.

Let me backtrack a little here to throw in the fact that although I am genetically 100% Mariachi, I was raised on Long Island. Every time I go to Mexico, I get sick. Sick, as in, frequent visits to the bathroom that flushes when you pour water into it from a cup from the rainbarrel outside the door. Sick, as in, they buy soda for me to drink when I get there, but wash out the glass in tap water, which sends me running for el baño like a bat out of hell. Sick, as in, my official name in Mexico is "la gringa", because I can't hang.

And now, after my planes trains and automobiles Journey to Ernie, we're getting on a bus. With a three-year old. Who kicked me all the way to Copenhagen because she couldn't get comfortable on the nice plane in the middle of the night. I told my aunt that I wasn't sure my kid would make it on a 9-hour bus trip -- apparently, all my cousins managed the same trip without a hitch. But they can also sleep 4 to a hammock while a party's going on outside, while I require a Four Seasons bed, a sleep mask, lavender pillow mist, and complete silence.

My aunt softly suggested that maybe it wasn't a bad thing that my kid become accustomed to falling asleep on a bus ride in the middle of the night.

Oh, ho ho honey.

I'm totally surprised they haven't asked for a DNA test on me yet.

This trip has "Benadryl" and "Oxycontin" written all over it.

Get me a vodka on the rocks. And I want my rocks to be made out of pills.

(cough, cough)

Took a sick day today. Spent it in bed, eating chocolate.

(cough).

Hello, Bed.

I love being able to travel for work, but it can be so nice to come home.

Today I hit the supermarket after a week of sterile hotel food, and the kid and I dove into a table full of fresh whole pineapple, oranges, mangoes, payapa, strawberries, kiwis, cherries, grapes... It's about 85F/29C degrees outside (at 10pm), and when the temp starts to go up here in May, I don't want to eat anything other than fruit. And lots of it. Right off the freaking trees.

Of course, after a week of conferencing, my immune system is shot to hell, and I woke up with a sore throat and fever this morning, and had a hard time staying awake. I'm not fighting it. I've been curled up in my bed all evening watching Deadliest Catch. I like watching crusty, exhausted, dirty men running all over a fishing boat, getting hit by icy waves and tossing around crab pots while I sip chilled, freshly squeezed orange juice, listen to the palm trees softly rustling outside, and fluff my 32 pillows.

Aaaaahh. :)

What Mother's Day Means to Me

Mother's Day. Man, it's right up there with "Administrative Professionals Day".

I just looked up the history of "Mother's Day" - it was created by a woman in West Virginia, Anna Jarvis, in 1908 after her mother died, and she wanted to honor her.

I'm officially re-titling tomorrow "Anna Jarvis's Mother's Day". Because if my kid doesn't think about how fantastic I am until after I'm dead, I've seriously done something wrong.

What is Mother's Day, anyway? You sleep in, get some french toast made by your kids on a tray in bed, a card, and some guilt jewlery. If you've been trying for years, but haven't been able to get pregnant, it's the day you close the curtains and spend the day in bed. BT, DT. If you've lost your mother, you do whatever you can to distract yourself. If you can't get pregnant and you've lost your mother, girl, come to my house. I have liquor and chocolate, and I will sit with you all day and let you wipe your nose on my sleeve.

You know what I want? A kid who likes to hug me, year-round. Who makes me breakfast because she loves me, felt like making breakfast for herself, and knows how because I taught her. A kid who always shows consideration to others and says "please" and "thank you". A kid with a crazy sense of humor who speaks her mind and believes in herself. A child who gives you a special gift because she wants to make you smile, not because Hallmark says she should.

And not just tomorrow.

Mother's Day, you are officially banned.

Baby girl, you sweet, delicious thing, you are the diamond around my neck. :)

If anyone needs me, I'll be at my mother's. She always has liquor and chocolate, and not just for made-up holidays, either.

Crap. Put "Shanghai" on the list....

Ever since I saw Anthony Bourdain in Shanghai (via the Food Network, not like, in person or anything), I've wanted to find some Xiaolóngbāo, or Shanghai soup dumplings.

They're like a regular steamed bao, but filled with a soup paste that heats and thins out as it steams. To avoid cutting into them and getting an eyeful or lapful of piping hot soup, a straw is inserted in the top of the dumpling when it's brought to the table.

As Homer Simpson once said in appreciation of something truly delicious, "GLAAGHGHHALLLGHLLAGH".

Whenever I go to a large city, I always have to check out the dim sum. It's just a part of my traditional Chinese upbringing. :) (Dude, I'm not kidding. I was an honorary member of the Asian Club in college, based purely on my ability to get a good table on Mott Street on a Saturday.) BOK GWAI!

So when I knew I'd be in Chicago last week, I asked my friend Karen to recommend a good dim sum place. Phoenix Restaurant has a pretty good reputation, and when I checked them out online, I saw that they also had xiaolóngbāo on the menu. Score!

Karen and I took a cab down from the office on Friday for lunch, only to find out they only did a full dim sum (carts, soup dumplings and all) on the weekends, but I was flying out that night.

Yet another life dream unfulfilled. Now I have two things I need to do before I die. Have some Xiaolóngbāo, and learn all the German lyrics to "99 Red Balloons". I'm gonna need some more vacation days.

Hast Du etwas Zeit für mich, dann singe ich ein Lied fuer Dich.... la la la la la.....

Crysanthemum tea. Good for the soul.

Karen totally dropped a spare rib in my water glass.
Don't let her tell you any different.

Can you spot the person who isn't a 3rd-grader in this photo?
I don' t think you can.

Bulk Garbage Day

Ahh,... Bulk Garbage Day. It's my favorite time of the month, when you get to see the crazy crap your neighbors have been hiding in their homes, and you also get to stick the weirder stuff in the parking spaces of the neighbors you don't like before they get home.

How someone once walked into a store muttering, "God, I hope they have an earless wicker creature for the living room" is anyone's guess.