i am saucy

Bloggers come in all shapes and sizes and varieties. Like water bottles. (Huh? That was random . . . or was it?) Some writers use Blogger. Others prefer WordPress. And still others use TypePad. Some bloggers write about children. Some write about work. Some write about recipes, crafts, politics, travel, books, films, or art. Some bloggers blog about blogging. Some bloggers cover a wide range of topics. Some post daily. Others post occasionally. Some like to post photos, and some do not. Some bloggers use their real names. Some take on a nom de plume. One thing’s for sure, there are some very talented writers out in the Blogosphere.

It seems that a great many bloggers use the first-person narrative style. First-person narratives sometimes have a stream-of-consciousness quality, and that can be appealing to readers who might relate to the writer’s free-flowing feelings. Readers enjoy the “connectedness” that style inspires and an interactive process develops in which readers and writers share posts and comments. Still other very talented bloggers write in the third-person narrative style. The reader of a well-written third-person narrative style post gets the sense that he or she is observing a slice of the writer’s life along with the writer, almost like both reader and writer are in it together, all cozy, like kindred spirits. Mrs. G., the lady of Derfwad Manor, is a genius at sharing her stories in a warm and comfortable third-person style. Her genius is evident by her large following. Sometimes she has more than a hundred comments on a single post. Mrs. G. put the “G” in genius. And gifted. And gracious. And gentle. And gutsy. And groovy. Oh, how easy it is to gush about Mrs. G. The Minnesota Matron is another example of a writer who uses a third-person voice that is often charming, poignant, insightful, and a lot of the time simply fall-down funny. And then there is Bossy of i am bossy. Bossy is very funny and has excellent hair. Bossy is a whiz with her camera and she creates clever captions for photos. Bossy is such a rock star that she even goes on tour. Once, Bossy left a comment on this blog, and it caused someone around here to have an orgasm a smile that lasted for three days.

So the style of this post is flagrantly copy-catter dirty-ratter ripped-off from inspired by i am bossy, and so, for purposes of this post . . .

i am saucy



One day last week, Saucy went to a shi shi urban upscale grocer filled with bustling people suffering from entitlement complexes local market to buy overpriced, marinated stuffed chicken breasts for dinner because it was the last minute and she was too uninspired to come up with something less expensive and more creative, and she was too lazy to drive the extra mile to Trader Joe's. As Saucy walked through the produce section passing up a 6 oz. package of fresh peas for $9.99 looking for green leafy veggies to go with the chicken, she felt a disturbance in the Force, tried to fight it with her imaginary lightsaber, but the dark side temporarily prevailed and she looked up and saw Fred.

This is Fred:



Saucy seemed to be inexplicably seduced intrigued by Fred, but Saucy did not know why she was so attracted to intrigued by Fred at the time. Under Fred’s name, it said “Natural Spring Water.” Saucy did not want to take out her have her reading glasses and could not see anything else on Fred but that. Still, Saucy decided to bring Fred home with her. Immediately, Saucy noticed that Fred did not fit in the cup holder in her car. What was up with that?



When Saucy got home, she brandished her granny reading glasses, grabbed Fred by the neck, and read his back. The back of Fred said, “Born beneath the Catskill Mountains, Fred is velvety smooth spring water with exceptional virginity and a balanced PH . . . wait! Did Saucy read that correctly? Fred is a virgin? An exceptional virgin? Saucy has never had a virgin no idea what makes spring water into exceptional virgin water. Saucy isn’t even Catholic, but she knows that holy water becomes holy when it is blessed by a priest. But in this case, although Saucy was in fact a virgin for a short while until she got married, she does not know how water can become exceptionally virginal. Saucy may never get to wrap her legs around a virgin the bottom of the whole virgin water thing, but Saucy decided instead to try and wrap her head around why Fred is shaped the way he is. Sure, Saucy could Google “Fred” or “Fred Spring Water” or “Fred the Virgin Water,” but Saucy doesn’t want to find out the answer and have nothing to post about loves to obsess think things over. So she did. And then Saucy had an epiphany. Saucy had seen someone shaped like Fred before. Fred's shape reminded Saucy of another guy's shape, and Saucy has sworn off this other guy because he makes Saucy want to stand in her pantry sneaking peanuts and Goldfish crackers, and besides that, if you think that Saucy got the name “Saucy” only because it rhymes with “Bossy” think again thinks that Fred's shape was inspired by this other guy's shape:



Saucy thinks Fred’s shape was inspired by bottles shaped like Mr. Boston, much like Saucy’s third-person narrative post today was inspired by Bossy. So then Saucy returned her obsessive thoughts to what makes spring water virginal. But then Saucy’s mind began to wander again and she couldn’t help but wonder why she bought a single bottle of virgin spring water that cost $1.99 for 20 ounces (ten cents per ounce) when she can buy an entire case of .5 liter bottles of spring water at Vons for $3.99 (.01 cents per ounce). Then Saucy decided that she just doesn’t care about the shape of the bottle anymore because it's what's inside is that counts. Moreover, Saucy never thought virginity was all it’s cracked up to be, so that part isn't important to Saucy either. Now Saucy can happily save over nine cents per ounce by drinking this water, which will fit in her cup holder, by the way:



Later tonight, after Saucy is finished fooling around with photos and captions and strikethroughs and hyperlinks, she’s going to crack open that bottle of Fred and just this once have herself a virgin taste of some ten-cents-per-ounce exceptionally virginal spring water from the Catskill Mountains.



Saucy cannot help but wonder if in the morning she will have exceptionally virginal pee.

Cast Your Pearls Here

San Diego Momma assigned the following exercise for PROMPTuesday #6:

For this PROMPTuesday, I’d like us to experiment with being someone else for awhile.

Write in another voice — someone completely opposite from you (i.e. an oil tycoon, a four-year-old kid, a drunk dog) and argue in favor or opposition to something outlandish which should be legalized or outlawed (i.e. the oil tycoon might argue that all environmental groups be declared unconstitutional, the four-year-old may advocate mandatory dessert after dinner, etc.).

This could be fun, no?

All right. Here are the rules:

You must write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kicks in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.

Keep to 250 words or less.

So . . . comes now my PROMPTuesday #6 . . .

Cast Your Pearls Here

I’m always the piggy that has to go to the market. I never get to stay home, have roast beef or not, or even say “wee wee wee” all the way home. All I ever do is go to the market.

Because I’m the biggest and have to foot (no pun intended) the bill at the market, I ought to have a little authority along with the responsibility. For example, I should decide what color I will be painted. And because the other piggies never leave my sight, they have to match me. I say no French tips for us. French tips are for fingers, not toes. And it’s high time that someone had the gumption to speak up and say so. Also, personally, I don’t like pink. Pink piggies are so clichéd. I want to be fire-engine red. Or a sparkly, sassy shade of purple. No exceptions.

Since we are on the subject of what I like and don’t like, no more Crocs. They make me sweat. And I once saw a picture of Dubya wearing Crocs. ‘Nuff said. Since I’m a California piggy born and raised, I prefer UGG boots in winter and flip-flops in summer.

Finally, would a pedicure now and then be too much to ask? I like being soaked, massaged, and my nail trimmed short, filed smooth, and jam free. Do this for me or as Dr. Scholl is my witness, my nail will become ingrown and I’ll never go to the market again.

Rocky Road

When I was in elementary school, I walked to and from school every day. In Los Angeles. By myself. Ten miles. Uphill. Both ways. In the snow. Like all parents had to do. And if we parents survived walking to school under such under such conditions, surely our children could survive walking much shorter distances in lovely spring weather. I only mention this because for quite some time, Laura has been jonesing for me to walk with her to or from school, citing all manner of reasons from “reducing our carbon footprint” to “getting more exercise.” And I quote. I decided she’s right. It would do us both some good to walk now and then, particularly for me since I’m on hiatus from running with my shoulder being all hurty and stuff. So, one day last week, I showed up at Laura’s school sans automobile. It is a four-mile roundtrip trek, and I walked to school to get her. By myself. Ten Miles. Uphill. All the way. In the snow. The one-way trip home meant that Laura would only have to walk two miles. Downhill. In lovely spring weather. I figured this was totally doable for an eight-year-old kid. And it was doable. For her. For me? Not so much. It did not hurt my feet. It hurt my brain. I had to take a lot of deep breaths. Not from the cardio, but from the mental strain.

Laura: “Where’s the car?”

Mom: “Home. We’re going to walk today.”

Laura: “Cool, I’ve been wanting to walk home.”

Mom: “I know. So here we go.”

Laura: “How far is it?”

Mom: “Two miles.”

Laura: “How many yards are in two miles? I know the answer. Divide the number of feet by three. How many feet are in one mile? I know the answer. It is 5,280. What is 5,280 times two divided by three?”

Mom: “I don’t have any paper or a pencil.”

Laura: “Why do you need paper? Why didn’t you bring your purse? Why do you need . . . how far have we gone now? Is it much farther? Have we gone two miles yet? Have we gone even one mile? Have we? Have we gone one mile or two miles? Mom, are you listening? Have we gone a mile? Mom? Mom? Mo-oooommm?”

Mom: “We’re still in front of your school.”

Laura: “Will we have to cross the street? I don’t really like crossing streets. Will we come to a sidewalk? I don’t really like walking on dirt. Why isn’t there a sidewalk? Why are we walking on a dirt road? Ahhhhh! I see mole holes. I don’t like mole holes. Are there snakes in those mole holes? What if one comes out? Will I see a snake? What if I see a snake? Have you ever seen a snake? What if I see a mole? Will a mole peak out? Why, oh, why are we walking in the dirt? If we don’t walk on the dirt, we’ll have to walk in the bike lane. Don’t walk in the bike lane. Mommy, you’ll get run over. Stay on the dirt. Watch out for snakes and moles, okay? What if I get a rock in my shoe? I think I feel a rock in my shoe. I don’t want to stop to take it out because there might be a snake in one of those mole holes. Ahhhhhhhh! Did you hear that? I heard something in the bushes. I don’t like sounds in bushes. I wish we weren’t walking. How much longer until we get home? Mom? I asked how long it would take to get home. Do we have much farther? How far have we gone? Mom? Mom? Mo-oooommm?”

Mom: “I’d guess we have gone 1/10th of the way.”

Laura: “That’s aaaallllll? Reeeeaaaallllyyyy? It’s hot. It’s sunny. Are you wearing sunscreen? Too bad about the ozone layer. If we had a better ozone layer, would we still have to wear sunscreen? Probably we would not have to wear it, or at least as much of it. I wish we had a better ozone layer. I wish we were in the car and the car didn’t mess up the ozone layer. We should have an electric car that doesn’t damage the ozone layer. I don’t like walking this much. I wish the road wasn’t this long. How long does it take to walk two miles? Are we there yet? It seems so much closer when we are in the car. I wish we were in the car. Then my feet wouldn’t hurt. My feet are starting to hurt. Soon my legs will hurt too. This makes me tired. Why does exercise have to make you tired? Can you call Daddy to come and pick me up? I don’t like walking on this path. Why isn’t there a sidewalk? What if the dirt path runs out and there’s no place to walk? Ahhhhhhh. I see horse poop! Why, oh, why is there horse poop on this path? Is this a horse trail? Why is there horse poop? Why are we walking on a horse trail? I don’t like horse poop. How far have we walked? Mom? Mom? Mo-oooommm?”

Mom: “I’m guessing we’ve walked a half of a mile. That’s one-quarter of the way home. Just don’t look at the horse poop. Look at the pretty flowers instead. Look, there are yellow flowers over there and red ones across the street.”

Laura: “I don’t like flowers. Flowers have bees. I don’t like bees. I’m afraid of bees. I don’t like being outside. I don’t like nature. I don’t like anything in nature. I only like snow. Snow is the only nature I like. Are we going to see any more horse poop? Was that all there is? I don’t want to see any more horse poop. I’m not going to look at those flowers either. Look! Look at those flowers! Do you see what I see? That’s why I don’t want to look at flowers! Bees! I. See. Bees. I don’t like bees. I don’t like nature. I only like snow. Why isn’t there any snow? I don’t like walking on dirt. Oh, look the path is changing to hard dirt. Hard dirt is better. Kind of better. But not that much better. When we get home can I have a Newman-O? I really feel like I need it. I need a Newman-O. Vote for Newman-O's! Newman-O's in 2008! Do I have to take a bath when I get home? I don’t want to take a bath. No way am I taking a shower. If it is a choice between a bath and a shower, then bath because I need to sit down. I. Have. To. Sit. Down. My feet hurt. Are we turning the corner? I thought we weren’t crossing any streets? Are we staying on this side of the street? Mom? Can I please have a Newman-O when I get home? I didn’t eat my sandwich for lunch and I can’t eat it now. Have you ever tried walking and eating? It is too hard to walk and eat. I’ll just have to have a Newman-O when I get home. Can I have three? Can I have three Newman-O's? I don’t like walking. I wish I never had to walk. Mom? Am I going to get to have a Newman-O? Can a Newman-O be President? How much farther until we are home? How much? Are we home yet? Is this home? Are we in front of our house? Mom? Mom? Mo-oooommm?”

Mom: “Laura, honey, you tell me, is this home?”

Laura: “Nooooooo. This. Is. Not. Home. When we will be home? How much farther? Mom? Mom? Mo-oooommm?”

Mom: “We have about a quarter of a mile to go.”

Laura: “Will I have to take a bath when we get home? I don’t just want a Newman-O, I need one. Look! Did you see that? More bees! I am sure I saw another bee. I do not think it was a butterfly. It flew! Something flew! It flew the way that a bee flies. That is why I won’t look at the flowers. Except for Rinoculous. Rinoculous do not have bees. I will only look at Rinoculous. I need to sit down. What I wouldn’t give for a chair. Is there a chair someplace? Can I just sit here in the dirt? If I sit down it will take longer to get home. Never mind, I’ll just keep going. I’ll just keep going with a rock in my shoe. Can I skip the bath? I’ll eat my sandwich when I get home if I can have Newman-O's. Well, I’ll eat half of my sandwich. Only half. Or just a bite. I’ll eat a bite of sandwich and Newman-O's. I have to stop. I have to stop walking. What time is it? Is this our street? Do I see our street? Yes! I see it! This is a beautiful street. I love this street. We have sidewalks on this street. I like sidewalks. I love sidewalks. I like being home. Home. Home. Home! My feet hurt. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. Walking is hard work. I thought I’d never get home. I’m glad I’m home. I’m glad I’m at my beautiful home!”

Mom: “I’m glad we’re home too.”

Laura: “Mom?”

Mom: “Yes?”

Laura: “Tomorrow can we walk to school?”

It's All in the Tone

Thanks San Diego Momma for another exercise: PROMPTuesday #5

It's All in the Tone

The telephone rang. She did not recognize the number on caller ID. It was warm and sunny outside, but she suddenly felt an unexplainable chill. Let it go to voicemail, her inner voice whispered. She’d missed the Oprah episode in which Gavin de Becker was a guest. She answered. Silence on the other end. She repeated, “Hello?” Silence. The unexplainable chill she’d felt when the phone rang gave way to slight irritation. “Hello?” “Hey,” replied a male voice. The slight irritation gave way to an explainable chill. Shaken, she did not respond. “I know you’re there,” said the voice. She stayed quiet. She considered hanging up. But she did not want to cower. Still, she wasn’t ready to summon the strong voice she felt was necessary to the task of replying. “I’ve missed you.” Her stomach lurched. She sat down. “How did you get this number?” she asked, barely concealing the lump in her throat and the urge to bellow. “I’ve missed you and I know you miss me too,” he said. “I’m hanging up now. Don’t call again,” she said. She hoped that her pounding heart could not be heard over the wireless connection. Just as she pressed “END” she heard, “I’ll see you soon.”

Two Down, One to Go

Twenty-three years ago, I had a beautiful baby girl and another on the way. But I did not have a college degree. When Kristen was three years and Courtney was eighteen months old, I went back to school. I wanted my daughters to have the best education, the best life possible. Because kids tend to do as they see, not as they're told, I knew that I had to lead them by example. Kristen and Courtney were there when I graduated first from college, and then from law school. And although I went without sleep for the seven-plus years it took me to do it, I became the first member of my family to graduate from college. But I'm not the last . . .

This is a very smart girl.

Following in her big sister's footsteps, but blazing her own trail to be sure, Courtney graduated from college yesterday, and she earned her degree in two majors in four years.

Three chicks with college degrees.

Family photo op

"I am bored. I hope this graduation
is over soon.
I want to go home soon now."

Three "hot" chicks.
(Tucson weather was in the 90s.)

Laura, you're next, and I promise not to whine too loudly when officials at the university of your choice pry you from my Kung Fu grip. Thankfully, we have another decade before you leave me, and I'm going to savor every moment of it.

Way to go Coco!!!

Now I need to go ice my shoulder. It is sore from all this patting myself on the back.

Beauty in the Shadows

Comes now PROMPTuesday, Exercise #4. Click on over to visit Deb at San Diego Momma to read the other entries or, even more fun, create one. Go ahead. It only takes ten minutes.

Beauty in the Shadows

Well he was just seventeen. You know what I mean? His eyes were brilliant blue, his nose was ever so slightly crooked, and his brown hair was perfectly feathered. He sauntered when he walked, and it played out even if he didn’t wear Levis and did wear button down shirts with an understated pinstripe to school. He was new to the school, from Des Moines, Iowa. He was cool because he wasn’t a surfer, or a stoner, or a soc, or a jock, or a nerd. He was cool because he was just a guy from Iowa. With perfectly feathered hair and brilliant blue, staring eyes. He stared at me in Beginning Guitar in first period. He stared at me in U.S. History in sixth period. His staring blue eyes were a pair of bookends in my school day. I wondered whom he stared at in periods two through five. But one day at the end of period six, he told me he liked my gold, heart-shaped Monet earrings. He said they glowed from across the room when we watched films in class. We became high school sweethearts. But I knew one thing that none of the other girls knew. Feathered Hair McBlue Eyes was a mama’s boy. And mama didn’t want her boy to have a girlfriend. Just like my earrings glowed in the darkened classroom when we watched history films, our love glowed like beauty in the shadows of his mother’s watchful eye.

Mother's Day in Review

From Tom

Because he knows his own strengths . . .

. . . and weaknesses,

rather than opt for my PLAN A, he went with his PLAN B, a winning approach:

From Laura

I got this spectacular photo, drawing, and poem:

From Courtney

As if this weren't enough . . .

. . . I also got this in the mail:

From Kristen

And from the child who was the first to turn me into a mother, I got her first post ever on our family blog.

Dear Readers, tell me about your Mother's Day.

I Sure Hope He Didn't Take it Personally

Tom: "Would you like to go out to dinner for Mother's Day?"

Me: "Not really. I think I'd fancy avoiding the crowds."

Tom: "Would you like me to do something special for you for dinner at home?"

Me: "Yes."

Tom: "What?"

Me: "Fly Adam in."

A Trip to Derfwad Manor is a Trip

Dear Mrs. G.,

Thank you for having me over for a visit. I especially love your hawt garden gnome.

Love, Cheri

Battle of the Sexes

Last Saturday night, we played the board game, “Battle of the Sexes” with our friends Katy and Jay. If you haven’t played it before, the name of the game really says it all, kind of Billie Jean King versus Bobby Riggs, but with cards instead of tennis rackets and a game board instead of a clay court. The players divide into two teams, men versus women. Each team must answer gender-based trivia questions – designed so that women are asked questions that men would stereotypically be able to answer and vice versa.

We learned a lot more that night than how many lug nuts are on a typical car wheel or what the “Green Monster” is in baseball. You’ve heard of the phenomenon in which the menstrual cycles of women who live or work together tend to synchronize? Well, we found out that a similar phenomenon occurs between men who play together on the same team, but without the maxi pads, of course.

They Point and Read Together

They Brace Themselves Together

They Fold Their Hands and Pray Together

If you think Tom and Jay were fun for us to watch – they were even more amusing to hear. Here are a few snippets from the conversations between Tom and Jay as they would think out loud while trying to answer questions:

“Why do I know so much about Barbra Streisand? I’m scaring myself.”


“Silk comes from a spider.”


“Celion Dion, the bane of all male existence.”


“Who are the other people who've won Best Actress?
“Well . . . there’s one every year.”


“What would you be doing if you were instructed to cast on?”
“It’s got to be climbing, fishing, or sailing.”
“Dude, this is a question from a female card.”
“D’oh!”


“What does a milliner do?”
“I think it’s a drill bit thing.”
“Dude, this is a question from a female card.”
“D’oh!”


“[Expletive. Laughter.]”
“Whoa. There are children in the house.”
“Well, they should be upstairs.”


“What is toile?”
[Beavis & Butthead voice] “Heh, heh, you said toile.”
“Do you have any idea what toile is?”
“If I did, I’d be bummed.”


“Wasn’t she the actress in Jerry’s Maguire’s Diary?”

So, if you are wondering if Katy and I were able to represent and claim victory for the female gender, no. We lost by the narrow margin of one question. But that’s only because in addition to answering harder questions, we did the cooking, took care of the kids, cleaned the house, did the laundry, and earned 69 cents on the dollar compared to our male counterparts in the workplace. You know what I mean? ;-) Even so, the men won . . . so next time we will call in reinforcements! Billie Jean? We need you!

Over the Threshold

I’ve been a dweller on the threshold, like the one in Van Morrison's song. I have a story to tell, and although I haven’t hidden that there is a story, neither have I told it. I didn't go to bed last night planning to wake up and write about it today. So I don’t know if I’m “ready” to tell it, if there even is such a thing as “ready” to tell something like this, but since all of the pieces are in place, are in me, I suppose I can keep sorting and putting them together as I go. Isn’t that how life works anyway? So if you keep reading, you might be tempted to think that it is tragic, but don’t cry for me. The tragedies do not define me, the victories do. And the victories are what I want to share, what I typically focus on, especially the sweetest victories, which are the easiest to find and the most profoundly felt. They are in the everyday joys, laughs, loves, and goodness that are in this world. I see them in the light shining from the eyes of every child. I feel them in the embrace of a friend. I smell them on the scalps of my babies. I treasure them in the soft caresses of my husband’s strong hands. The thing about my story is that it doesn’t just have a happy ending, it is a victory in progress, and I get to share it, and take delight in it. Although I didn’t get to write the first chapter of my story, I am the author of the rest of the narrative. And for each and every one of us who have a story such as this, and there are so very many of us who do, we get to decide what we do with it.

So, dear Deb at San Diego Momma, I didn’t expect PROMPTuesday to lead me to this place today. But today I am going over the threshold.

Behind the Door

The door opens to a neighborhood near LAX. I walk past duplex after duplex until I stop in front of one. The black metal numbers next to the front door read 8433. The screen door is unlocked. The front door is wide open. I step inside and smell stale cigarette smoke. There are glass purple grapes on the coffee table. There is a bed instead of a couch. He sits in a black, vinyl recliner. His arms are hairy and tattooed. He wears an old white t-shirt and blue sweatpants. The little girl sits on the floor, too close to the black and white television set in front of them. He tells her that Daddy wants her to come and sit on his lap. She’s a good girl, she always gets As on her report cards, she memorizes a Bible verse every week, she obeys her parents.