I should really title this post A Really Cool Thing That Happened At Christmas, but it just doesn’t have the same zip. This actually happened to me last year so, I reiterate, clearly not a miracle–or at least not one I felt compelled to proclaim from a snowy roof top. (In my case just a roof top, maybe with a couple of leaves.)

I tore off the burgundy fabric I had around the tree.  Its deafening 1990s cries were driving me bonkers; I felt Ricky Martin was going to jump out from behind the tree at any moment and start singing Living La Vida Loca.  Besides, we normally place the tree between two very large picture windows and, in the past, the fabric helped give the tree some much needed girth in that large area.  Now that we’ve moved it next to the fireplace, there is no need to make it appear bigger.  (<—Not the really cool thing that happened on Christmas but, in regards to the fabric, certainly a good thing.)

My mantel is looking better.  I found the garland on the mantel at Michael’s for 70% off, so if you are in the market for some plastic greenery at a discounted price, hop in your sled and mush your way over to your nearest strip mall. (<—Also not the really cool thing that happened one Christmas.)

I think removing the fabric and adding the garland highlights the Christmas angel I have on the mantel, which is where I have the Christ candle.  (<—256 words later, she reaches the point of this post.)  For those who don’t know, the Christ candle is always white, usually in the center of the Advent wreath, and lit on Christmas day.  Last year I was on a mission to find the perfect Christ candle.  My wreath, unfortunately, wasn’t large enough to house in its center any of the candles I found.  So, figuring an all forgiving God wouldn’t mind, I decided I would find a special candle holder (on a $20 budget) and burn the candle on Christmas alongside the wreath.

Seven stores later (you’d be surprised how hard it is to find religious items during Christmas), I found the angel at a Christian bookstore.  This angel is not anything I would normally be drawn to, but I thought she was just beautiful.  I still do.  She’s about 12 inches tall, carved from wood, and weighs a ton.  I picked her up, looking for a price.  $50.  More than double my $20 budget.

I had been to every single store in and around town, so I knew I was going to have to find something at the store I was at or forget the Christ candle.  I wasn’t about to do that, so I asked the woman behind the counter if she had anything that would work.  She said she had the perfect thing, and for the next few minutes I followed her all around the store.

Nothing.  Whatever the perfect thing was, she couldn’t find it.

She decided to look in the back one last time so we walked towards the register, past the angel I admired earlier.  Wouldn’t you know it?  The $50 angel was what the store employee had been searching for the entire time.

“OH!  Here she is!  This is what I was talking about.  I think she would be perfect for a Christ candle!”

I agreed, but in the spirit of Christmas, I was also honest.  “I know, I saw this earlier and it is perfect, but it costs more than I budgeted to pay.”  {blushing}  I thanked her for her time, and told her I would keep looking.

The shop owner turned the angel over, looked at the price and said, “Well, I can sell it to you for $20.  Is that closer to what your budget allows?  I think she is perfect for you.”

I said, yes, I think that would fit my budget nicely.

And that is the story of my Christmas angel.  Certainly not a miracle, but definitely a really cool thing to happen at Christmas.  I wish for you and your families the same; that your holidays, no matter what or how you celebrate, be filled with the peace, love, and, if not miracles, more than a few really cool things.

Until today, I had no idea an olive oil cruet could hold such meaning.

This is my favorite corner in my kitchen, and it came around by accident.  It started with the vintage pictures of Buenos Aires I received two weeks ago.  Then, last week, I brought out this old basket (8 years?) I had collecting dust in a cupboard and used it to corral Mikey’s cold medicine.  I have the boys’ vitamins in there now.  The flowers are from the garden, and the container is one of Nicholas’ glass baby bottles because I needed something tall and thin and free of charge.  And then, there is the olive oil cruet.

I’d been admiring my happenstance corner of lovely all week, but it looked even more charming when we came home last night from an early showing of Where The Wild Things Are.  When I pulled into the driveway, I could see through the kitchen window my favorite corner bathed in the soft light from our porch.  It all looked so warm and inviting and picturesque that I immediately thanked God for blessing me as He does daily.

And then I thought it was a shame the olive oil cruet was so circa 1999.

If I took a picture and posted it on the blog, I reasoned, I would have to style it nicely, the way other bloggers do.  The piece of paper detailing how I should dispense the boys’ vitamins would have to go, and I should probably find a third flower, since things look better in groups of three.  The cruet, though approaching ten years of age, is in mint condition.  It would be a terrible waste to buy something new or “I’m trying too hard” vintage just to avoid a shot of faux-Tuscan kitchen accessories.  Maybe I’ll just take it out and replace it with something else for the picture.  Le sigh.  Being disingenuous is hard work.

I took the picture this morning, deciding against all the changes that would make my favorite corner perfectly vanilla.  (Quirky and vintage can be vanilla, too, you know.)  The whole idea bothered me.  It took me a while to figure out why, because I don’t like that olive oil cruet.  It doesn’t match my house and as an actual Italian, the grapes bug me. But, in trying to figure out why I refused to style the picture I realized I also love that silly thing.

I remember buying it.  The Mister and I were newly married and in our first home.  We had invited to dinner his brother, John, our sister in law, Stephanie, and their 9 month old daughter, Brayden.  (You can see all 9 years of our niece in this picture, here.)  They would be our first dinner guests, ever.  I was very nervous and wanted everything perfect.  I rushed out to House to Home (remember that store?) on the day of the dinner and bought that olive oil cruet to hold the chimichurri.  I also bought the matching bowls, appetizer plates, and platter. And steak knives.  I bought steak knives, too.

That night, at our first ever dinner party(ish) we had rib eye steaks with chimichurri, mashed potatoes, roasted bell peppers two ways (stuffed with brie and drizzled with honey or mozzarella and basil drizzled with olive oil) and a mixed green salad.  For dessert I made brownies from scratch, vanilla ice cream, and drizzled that with ducle de leche, also made from scratch. (Do you remember that night, Stephanie?)

At the time, Brayden didn’t like mashed potatoes.  Potatoes at all, really.  But she ate mine, and I had a smile a mile wide for days because my potatoes were good enough to please the palette of a 9 month old who didn’t like potatoes.

Since then, that trendy, trite, and out of style cruet has drizzled more olive oil than seems healthy.  I’ve tossed and sauteed and marinated countless meals over 9 years for family and friends, each time reaching for an olive oil cruet I purchased as a young bride from an ordinary home store in the middle of suburbia.  If our last nine years could waft out of that bottle like jeanie smoke, out would come two homes, a law degree, a layoff, a new job, a few vacations, many celebrations, just as many arguments, a couple of businesses, new friends, old friends, two boys, two dogs, and one happy family.

And that is why the olive oil cruet stayed in the shot.

I know I have many readers who don’t have children.  I can only assume my adventures as a less than perfect stay at home mom provide some sort of birth control, wherein I promptly shrivel ovaries quivering in anticipation after reading, say, Amanda Soule.  Well, allow me to be of service once again by dolling out little pointers here and there that other moms may neglect to dispense.

There is a proper way to get on and off an escalator with a stroller.  Actually, there are two proper ways to get on and off an escalator with a stroller, one better than the other.  Not only are there two ways, the technique also varies with the type of stroller in use.

But first, the rules.  There is really only one rule, and that is that you should not do this if the escalator is even a bit crowded.  As you will see, the process is fraught potential for disaster.

Technique No. 1 {For use with heavy and light strollers}

The Heavy Stroller

If you have a large, heavy stroller you can approach the escalator head on.  The choice to pop a wheelie as you get on is your choice, but definitely do so once you and the stroller are securely on the escalator.  As you approach the bottom of the escalator, keep the front wheels up.  Drop the front wheels onto the floor once the back wheels hit the escalator return (I have no idea if that’s what it’s called, but I’m talking about the part where the escalator disappears into that little tunnel thing) and start walking.  Sometimes the back wheels will get caught in the return (enough–that’s what I’ve decided to call that thing) and if they do, your stroller should be heavy enough that you can plow your way forward.  If not, lift the back wheels slightly and move forward on the front wheels.  Easy.

The Umbrella Stroller

An umbrella stroller is the cheap, hammock like device your parents stuffed you in as a child.  They are ugly, cost less than $20, and frequently used for travel.  A rookie mom would never touch an umbrella stroller because they are, again, cheap, ugly, and cheap.  Then, one day, rookie mom goes on vacation or Disneyland or someplace similar.  Loath to take her $400 behemoth, she buys an umbrella stroller to use, “just this one time.”  Uh-huh.  Whatever you say, Lindsey Lohan.  Because once you do the one-handed fold and toss in 2.3 cubic feet of space, you’re done.

Now, as handy as these strollers are, they are light and flimsy.  They don’t have the weight behind them to plow through a crowd, let alone an escalator return.  So, for that reason, you should get on the escalator backwards.  You get on the escalator first, umbrella stroller second.  You will naturally pop a wheelie in order to do this.  When you reach the bottom of the escalator, you disembark first and pull the stroller (with both hands) behind you, wheelie style.  Only when you and the stroller are both completely off the escalator do you put the front wheels on the ground.  Easy.

You don’t ever want to try going down an escalator with an umbrella stroller ahead of you, at least not with a 27 pound toddler in the hammock.  You’re just asking for trouble, which is why I muttered an expletive when I found myself doing exactly that a couple of weeks ago.

A complete and total rookie mistake made while I was trying to kill time before I could pick Mikey up from school.  I watched the return approach and appraised the situation.  Thirty pounds of Nicholas, a 3 year old umbrella stroller, and an escalator from the 70s.  I was screwed.

I did the best I could.  I popped a high wheelie and pushed.  Hard.

A reader once asked me how I could admit to so many embarrassing stories on my blog; how I could confess doing things she wouldn’t admit to anyone.  Well, I have three reasons.  Number one, I think most of the stories are pretty darn funny, and if you can’t laugh at yourself, you can’t laugh at anything.  Number two, I’m not perfect, and I wouldn’t want to give the impression that my life is a pile of love notes and freshly baked bread.  Number three, there is no way on God’s green earth that you can convince me that I am the only mom who has done something really stupid like take an umbrella stroller down an escalator.  So, knowing this, I know that you know exactly what happened when I popped a high wheelie and pushed the stroller hard.

That is, absolutely nothing.

It didn’t move.

Maybe the front wheels  moved.  In opposite directions.

So I activated the emergency landing sequence.  I kicked the ever living heck out of the undercarriage in an attempt to lift all four wheels off the floor.  And, like most emergency sequences, it worked to a certain degree.  One half of the stroller moved forward, meaning I then had to repeat the sequence for the half that remained behind.  Unfortunately, I was out of time and I had to hop a bit to avoid the stroller.  So I hopped.  Or, rather, I did the famous dog leg.  You know.  I’ve seen other moms do it.  The dog leg is when  you have to kind of hop/step over your stroller so that you are alongside the stroller.  It’s not unique to escalators.  I’ve seen it used in public restrooms, restaurants, and Gymboree stores nationwide during Gym-Buck time.

It was my last chance at getting off the escalator with any sort of dignity.

It was an epic fail.

Things were looking good until the toe of my right sneaker got caught on my enormous hobo bag hanging off the stroller.  Stupid hobo bag.  There I am, at the bottom of the escalator, hopping up and down on the landing pad with the toe of my shoe caught in the strap of my purse.  The purse was like quicksand, by the way.  The more I moved my foot, the more I sank into its leathery depths.  And!  Remember!  (Not you, rookie mom.  You, the one with the umbrella stroller.)  Think about where those stroller handles hit.  Exactly.  Now I am hopping on an escalator landing with my foot in a bag and my “particulars” practically straddling the right stroller handle.

This all happened in the course of 10 seconds, as disasters often do.  The only thing happening faster than my eminent demise was the rate at which my brain fired neurons.  I activated Emergency Sequence 3.5A, which as any seasoned mom knows, this means it’s all about to hit the fan.  I knew I had to propel the stroller off the landing or Nicholas would, once again, find himself nose to the ground and strapped in a stroller.  With the strength of 40 Dr. Kegels I hopped, pushed, and propelled myself off the landing.  Of course, it wasn’t pretty.  I had one foot in my bag, you see.  So, like a boat with a broken rudder, I moved forward in circles, donut-ing my way onto the store floor.  Starksy and Hutch would have been proud.

Now on the open floor, I had enough room to easily extricate my foot from the bag.  But, first, I looked up to see my score.  I was expecting to see employees holding numbered cards (all 10s, please!), perhaps a few managers laughing in their coffees.  But, no.  The store was deserted and no one witnessed my ingenuity.  Thank goodness.

Technique No. 2 {For use with heavy and light strollers}

Take the elevator.

Only I could nearly maim my child on a walk.  Although, in my defense, it was a walk with Nicholas.  The child is accident prone, plain and simple.  In the same week I almost killed him, he also bumped his head twice, split his lip, got his foot caught in a jar, and–wait for it–fell off the sofa.  He wasn’t jumping or running on the cushions or standing on his head.  One minute he was marveling at a triceratops, and the next he was on the ground, feet in the air with a confused look on his face.  My face wore the same expression.

The day before we went on our fateful walk, The Mister remarked that Nicholas reminded him of his youth spent in and out of emergency rooms.  See?  Clearly not my fault.

Back to the walk.  I decided a couple of weeks ago that I was spending too much time in front of the computer, replying to emails, writing posts, etc.  I needed more fresh air in my diet.  I also wanted to try out a new camera technique I read online.  For all these reasons and more, I decided I should take the dogs and Nicholas on a walk and, while we were out, practice my new camera trick.  See how I am killing twenty million birds with one stone?  Twenty millions stones and a toddler.

So there I am, rushing everyone out the door.  Leashes, check.  Dogs, check.  Toddler, check.  Stroller?  Hmmm.  I debated letting Nicholas walk alongside me and the dogs.  Nah, better let him ride in the jogger; it’s safer. <—– Foreshadowing.

And off we went.  I was walking in a flat neighborhood.  The kind of flat where you are not exactly sure if the street has a pitch, so every time we stopped for me to take a picture I would let go of the stroller to see if it would roll.  If it moved even just a little bit, I applied the emergency break. <—–Warm.

A young couple just snatched up this house as a foreclosure, changed the facing to stone, and repainted. I don’t love the minty green color, but to each their own. It certainly looks better than before. {click.} {click.}

Did I pass my favorite house? The one with all the hanging plants and the black garage door? I guess I did. Oh well, I will just take the long way on my walk, circle back, and then take the picture at the very end. Look at me! I’m so active! <——Getting warmer.

I love traditional houses with red doors and kick plates. Consequently, I love this house. Street check: flat. No movement, no brake. {click.} {click.} <—–Getting hot.

Oh, look.  This house still has the original rock roof.  I wonder what it looks like inside?  I should research the rock roof.  It would be interesting to know the idea behind the style.  Street check:  still flat.  Hmmm.  I think this entire street is flat!  How nice. {click.} {click.} <——-Almost burning.

Another red door. I wonder how much the landscaping costs? Street check: flat. {click.} <—-Burning!

Buddy! Buster! Stop pulling on the leases! Now my picture is all blurry. Let me try again.  Maybe this time I can get a bit of the landscaping in the shot… {click.} <—-Seriously, RING OF FIRE.

{click.} Blargh! Quit pulling on the leashes! What is the matter with you two?!

The soft crash is what snapped me out of my reverie. That, and Buddy and Buster pulling the leashes like a team of wild horses. I looked ahead to see what made the noise and saw a jogger not 20 feet away from me on its side. I did two things.

First, I thought it was very rude of someone to toss their stroller out in the street like that. How hard is it to go to Goodwill?

Second, I reached down to touch Nicholas’s head, because the sight of the stroller on its side made me nervous. You know how sometimes you see something awful happen to someone’s child and you immediately check on your own?   Like, say you are at the park and a child hits their head badly on the jungle gym. Have you ever then reached over and touched your own child’s head in the same spot like a talisman, just to assure yourself they are okay and thank God it wasn’t their head that hurt? That’s what I did, except when I reached down I touched air.

I feel like it took me several minutes to piece together that it was Nicholas in the stroller I thought someone had so carelessly tossed to the side. In reality, it was maybe less than a second before I was off and running with the dogs in the lead. The best I can figure out is that one of the dogs nudged the stroller just enough to get it moving, and even that doesn’t make sense to me. Nicholas rolled down the street, hit the curb and, still strapped in the stroller, fell over sideways.

When I got to him he was crying.  He was bleeding from his nose, which was swelling up like a melon.  A wave of guilt washed away the panic.  Did I break his nose?  Why didn’t I set the brake, even if the road was flat?  How did this even happen?

It turns out I can run when I am not being chased.  I rushed home (remember I decided to take the long route?), stopping every now and then to console a crying, but otherwise fine, Nicholas.  His nose had stopped bleeding (barely bled, actually) but I was worried he hit his head something fierce on the street.  I kept running.

My pediatrician’s office was fabulous and had us come right in.  On the way there we passed a fire truck, which pleased Nicholas immensely.  He spent the rest of the ride talking about it and imitating the siren.  I spent it apologizing to a toddler who wasn’t even listening to me.

When we walked into the office, I told the nurses Nicholas needed x-rays and I need a confession with a priest.  The nurses all laughed and tried to cheer me up with stories of how they almost killed their children.  I thanked them, but the only thing that would console me was a clean set of x-rays.

Nicholas, for all his wily ways, is a champ when it comes to following directions.  He sat through his series of x-rays like a patient 42 year executive on a lunch break, only complaining once when the light was too bright in his eyes.  Ten minutes later, we were back in the pediatrician’s office.  Diagnosis:  Boo-Boo.  No broken bones.

I was still moaning with guilt when the doctor and nurses ushered me gently, but firmly, out the door with a few parting consolations.  Accidents happen!  We’ve seen much worse!  I did something similar with my niece!  Every mom has been there, or will be!  And, my favorite, Now you have a funny story to tell!

Yeah, and a rock solid excuse to avoid exercise.

I’m still working on refreshing the boys’ emasculating bathroom. Things have slowed downed considerably because they boys and I have been fighting a terrible cold, and while I do want to use the box cutters to slice off my nose, I don’t want to use them to slice peel-and-stick tiles into the 3,000 quadrangles that make up the perimeter of the bathroom.

Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention The Yellow Paint Debacle of 2009. When I was deciding how I would update the bathroom (until we can afford a remodel) I relied heavily on this picture I saw in Real Simple magazine. I thought it was bright, happy, and something I would like to see every morning. I also thought the yellow would match some cute, boyish accessories I found at Target. I considered it my opportunity to step out of the box and do something fun.

I should never, ever, step out of my box. My box is good. I like my box. My box likes me.

The yellow I chose was more of a green/yellow, similar to what I have in the toy room. BUT! Here is where I went terribly wrong. When I arrived at The Home Depot, green/yellow paint chip firmly in hand, I noticed they were having a sale on Behr paint. Perfect! I decided to get the Behr color matched version. People, never get the color-matched version, Behr or otherwise.

I had my suspicions when I entered the parking lot and took a closer look at the infinitesimally small dot of paint on my can. Weird. It looks a little…brighter than what I picked out. My gut was talking to me, but I ignored it. I thought it was asking for sugar.

I knew by the first roll of paint that the only way I would ever live with this color is if I walked around with a fifth of whiskey in my back pocket. But I persevered and painted all the doors and the cabinet, hoping that BANANA would grow on me. No such luck. Next to the pink sink and tub, the yellow cabinet turned into a circus tent. I would not have been surprised if ten clowns jumped out when I opened one of the drawers. In the distance I heard a Ringmaster call out, You chose the wrong paint….

Not only did it look like the circus had just rolled into town, this bathroom, painted pink and yellow, was unspeakably feminine and happy. My uterus started twitching. I could feel my ovaries producing eggs like popcorn. I suddenly had an urge to sing show tunes, buy cats, and crochet bookmarks.

There is a reason why God gave me a husband, two boys, and two male dogs. I like girly and happy in theory. I like it in the store. I like it in magazines. I even like it in other people’s homes. But in
my house it is an abomination. I dusted the estrogen off my shoulders and headed back to The Home Depot with the can of Happy! Yellow! in hand.

When I arrived, I stated the problem clearly to a portly fellow named Dan.

“Hello. I bought this can of Happy! Yellow! paint and, well, it just won’t work.”

“Oh, no! That’s too bad. Did the color separate? I can remix it if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary. Trust me, the color is all there. That’s the problem! It’s just not me. I bought this can of Happy! Yellow! because I was trying to be different. Bad idea. I’d like something a little more me.”

“Okay, what color were you looking for?”

“Well, do you have any Funeral Dirge?”

“Funeral Dirge? No, sorry. With the economy the way it is, that color has been back ordered for months.”

“Bummer. Okay, let me see your paint book. There has to be something…OH! This one is nice. One gallon of Boring & Safe, please.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. The stay-at-home-mom right before you took our last can.”

“Which mom? Where?”

“That one over there. The one in capri pants.”

“Could you be more specific? Nevermind. Okay, so Funeral Dirge is back ordered and you just sold your last can of Boring & Safe. Do you have anything else that might work?”

“Well, we just got “Trying too Hard” as part of our spring collection. A lot of the artsy folk seem to like it.”

“Hmm. Thanks, but ‘trying too hard’ is what I was doing when I bought Happy! Yellow!”

“How about “White Bread America?”

“Getting there. Maybe something with a little more brown…hey! What’s this?”

“Ah, yes. That’s “Totally Predictable.” A classic. You’ve probably seen it a few times on Trading Spaces.”

“Well, it’s right up my alley. I’ll take a gallon.”

Ten minutes later I was home painting my first coat of “Totally Predictable” on the cabinets. I was very happy, indeed, to get rid of that ridiculously chirpy color. As the yellow disappeared, I could feel my body begin to settle down, my ovaries resting for the first time in hours underneath the warmth of the afternoon sun. As I dipped my brush in for another helping of blandness my paint can smiled and said, “Welcome home, Jules. Welcome home.”

I decided to finally tackle the boys’ pink bathroom with the vast amount of money we made at our garage sale. First on my list was to paint the double sink cabinet. You know the one. It’s a charming shade of dinge and has two pink sinks. Perfect for creatures with testicles!

I sanded, primed, and removed doors and hinges with 50 years worth of layered paint. (More on this unspeakable chore later.) Then, I chose the perfect yellow-green paint color, until I put in on the cabinet. I was back at Home Depot before the paint dried. No, really. Then I returned home and re-primed the cabinets, drawers, and doors and applied one layer of new, less offensive paint to the sink cabinet. All of this took seven hours, including lunch, trips to Home Depot, and sobbing gently into cupped hands.

As you can imagine, I was quite the mess by 4 o’clock when I realized I had to prepare dinner. My sweats, threadbare t-shirt, and hands and arms were all splattered with paint. I knew I should tidy myself up, but I decided if I was going to walk around town with the look of exhaustion, I might as well give people an idea of my day. You know, just in case they don’t read my blog.

I made the rounds at my VONS. Pre-roasted chicken. Check. Brie cheese. Check. Mozzarella. Check. I made my way over to the tomatoes.

I wouldn’t call myself a connoisseur of the juicy fruit, but the other day I tried some “Sugar Plum Roma Tomatoes” from Trader Joe’s. These little gems are so sweet, I truly thought I had accidentally sprinkled sugar on my salad. (I haven’t had sugar in almost a week, so accept my estimation cautiously.) So, there I was, checking out the tomatoes in hopes of finding something similar. I found one that said sweet, and was willing to take a gamble. Suddenly, another mom sidled up next to me and picked up a box and brand of tomato I originally snubbed in my search. Not to be out-tomatoed, I reached out for a box of my own. In slow motion, I saw my paint splatted hand upend a box of grape tomatoes, and out of the corner of my eye, watch it plummet to the ground. Stupid gravity.

But I was not to be waylaid, and continued to read the new, previously overlooked tomatoes. I read ‘Super Sweet,’ and new I had a winner. I heard the other tomatoes crash to the ground, and new I was a loser. The mom next to me looked down at the 92,000 grape tomatoes rolling around the floor like marbles and said, “Ooooh.”

Which I took to mean, sucks to be you.

Today, my feathers remained smooth and unruffled. I never once removed my eyes from the better tomato package and said in her direction, “Eh. Nothing to worry about.” In my head I said something along the lines of, crap.

The woman leaned over conspiratorially. “You know, you’re right. Someone will just clean it up. There’s usually two guys working this department, anyway.”

Except that I, unshackled from the bonds of sugar {ahem} did not wait for the pimply faced teenager to mope along with some broom or mop. Oh, no. Not I of boundless energy! Instead, I crawled along on my hands and knees and picked up every last inferior grape tomato and returned it to its plastic cage. Then I carried them to the register, and confessed to the 22 year old working the register.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Here are your tomatoes.

The 22 year old was remarkably alert. Instead of slowly rolling glazed eyes in my direction as I was expecting, he enthusiastically thanked me for my penance. I stood a little taller, and hoped everyone in line was listening. He went on and on about how regular customers would just let the tomatoes roll about the floor, and perhaps roll their cart over a few when they thought no one was looking.

I nodded my head in understanding, the weight of all the hot air inside making it all the easier to move it gently up and down.

I thought VONS should reward me for being such a very good customer. Perhaps a free bag of groceries? He suggested I run my VONS card and see what happens.

The brie was 20% off. I’ll take it.

I spent Saturday, Sunday, and today watching hours upon hours of bankruptcy practice videos. I need to complete 25 hours in continuing education before I can reactivate my license and purchase malpractice insurance and, thanks to these marathon sessions, I am up to roughly 10.5 hours. Almost half way there, and my eyes and brain are starting to feel it.

Today I was especially lawyerly; I went looking at office space. My friends have nice offices in the Upland-Claremont area, and I thought I might find something similar in my budget. We called around and quickly found some buildings with rooms to sublet. Thank you, economy, for being so piss poor that people are desperate to sublet minuscule rooms to floundering stay-at-home-moms-turned-attorneys. It almost makes up for you turning me into a floundering stay-at-home-moms-turned-attorney. Almost.

The first room for rent was in a cute Greek Revival-inspired one story building on the corner of a charming downtown district. I was excited, especially at the price. My friend, Margerie, and I showed up a bit early, so we took the opportunity to chat up a paralegal situated in a weird area of the building with a pop out. On her messy desk was a book that I read and liked, and it appeared from her equally cluttered office that she collected elephants (my favorite animal), but, really, other than those two redeeming qualities, she was bat-shit crazy. I could elaborate, but you’ll just have to trust me that a person who answers her office door with disheveled hair and striped socks only to tell you about her diabetes, hip replacement, and all the attorneys conspiring to chase her out of town is one taco short of a combo plate.

The crazy person in the striped socks suggested we cut through her office and walk down the hall to meet with the property manager– the only attorney in town without a vendetta against sickly paralegals with a quirky fashion sense. I was hoping the rest of the building would look a bit better than McMurphy’s cell, but nope! ALL OF IT = TURD, CIRCA 1978.

Imagine the interior of cowboy-sailor-English Pub restaurant from the 1970s. You know the one: your parents took you there when you brought home a good report card.

Wagon Wheel? Check.

Anchor with whale rope? Check

Paintings of Beagles on a fox hunt? Check. Check. Check.

Turns out the property manager/only attorney in town without a vendetta against sickly paralegals with a quirky fashion sense forgot our appointment. We almost stuck one of our cards on her name placard in the shape of a captain’s wheel to let her know we stopped by (I can’t make this stuff up, folks!),  but as luck would have it, the door to the available space was wide open.

Remember when Greg Brady turned Mr. Brady’s home office into a lover’s lair? Winner! Winner! Winner! The gold carpet, the faux wood paneling, and the caramel pinch pleat drapes and lace sheers that stopped FOUR FEET FROM THE FLOOR all called out in a sing-song voice, “Far out everybody, a renter!”

Margerie cleared her throat awkwardly and said, “Wow. This is a nice sized space. It looks like you would have plenty of phone jacks.”

I agreed, and eyeballed the large window behind all that fabric. “Well, there is plenty of natural light,” I offered.

We both walked towards the window to look at the view, which happened to be the main street cutting through the downtown district. We pulled apart the lace sheers for a better view, and that’s when we saw them. Piercing the window like a constellation were 5 bullet holes.

Stop. Allow me to repeat that.

Piercing the window like a constellation were 5 bullet holes. Bullet holes! Holes!! Plural!!! I CAN NOT MAKE THIS STUFF UP. And the best part? The part that had Margerie and I clutching our stomaches and wiping the tears from our eyes? The largest bullet hole–the one large enough for THE BREEZE TO BLOW THROUGH–was covered with a meticulously cut 2×2 inch square of clear packing tape. News Flash, property manager/only attorney in town without a vendetta against sickly paralegals with a quirky fashion sense, YOU FORGOT TO COVER THE OTHER FOUR BULLET HOLES.

I’d like to say the next office we visited was better, but it wasn’t.  Oh, sure, it wasn’t RIDDLED WITH BULLETS, but it did smell like the inside of a Wienerschnitzel at closing time.  In the 10 minutes we were there, I swear my arteries hardened.  I left wondering if this was a sign, if I would ever find a place of my own, and if there was a point value for greasy air.

The search for the answers to all of the above continues.