Well folks, I’m on the move again so you know what that means; travel travails. 

I have a strict policy against going barefoot in public places, especially airport security. It’s simply not sanitary. Should I be traveling and happen to be wearing a shoe that doesn’t require a sock, I always keep a pair handy to slip on as I go through security. After today, I now realize a simple cotton sock is no measure against the foot filth at the X-ray machine. Expect to see me on Shark Tank soon with a haz-mat travel sock. 

The man in front of me (MIFOM) at security today was too well dressed and too old to be a travel rookie and yet he was a total disaster as we prepared our personal items for the conveyer belt. 

First, a few common sense etiquette rules. 

You simply do not fill the bins while they are still stacked. Take your required number of bins, place them on the table and begin to fill and slide as the line progresses. Fill and slide. Got it?

Next, the human TSA recording telling you to place any electronic items larger than a phone in a separate bin is actually speaking to you. 

MIFOM had already filled the two bins on the top of the two stacks and was finally moving forward but I could see he was having a hard time processing this information. He looked back and forth between his two bins already piled high with items and glanced at the piles of empty bins. No way, buddy. This is a one way street. 

My mother’s instinct kicked in. I grabbed an empty bin from behind me and not so gently tossed it next to him. He did not take the suggestion and went back and grabbed another bin. The TSA agent and I shared a moment, simultaneously rolling our eyes as I restacked the extra bin. 

MIFOM entered the X-ray machine, assumed the position and exited… leaving his sweaty footprints. I entered the cancer chamber and had no choice but to place my delicate, clean-socked feet in the moist murder outline. My feet will receive a Silkwood-esque shower upon check-in. 

I waited and watched the screen for my “OK” so I could be discharged by security. Instead, a yellow rectangle popped up on the occipital lob of the display person. 

A few words about my travel hairstyle today; it is stick straight. For starters, my hair requires planning. Like days in advance. Seriously. 

We’re skiing tomorrow. That means if I leave it curly, it will whip around in the wind, rub up against the collar of my jacket and knot itself into a ball so tight that I may need to borrow Britney’s clippers to extricate it. 

Also, I believe you should travel just a little bit dressed up. It’s a vestigial trait I inherited from my grandparents.  So in an effort to look a little more presentable, I am not sporting my natural ‘fro. That means unless I have a removable plate in my head, absolutely nothing could be occupying the alarming yellow rectangle. 

The female TSA asked if she could pat my head. In my mind I was screaming “nooooooo” in that deep, slow motiony voice as her blue gloved hand descended on my pristine hair. 

PTSD is real. Anyone who knows me well knows that you do not touch my hair. Not even the people I love the most are allowed to. 

Family folklore has it that not only did I speak in complete sentences at a relatively young age, but that my first complete sentence was “Don’t touch my hair”.  

Let me explain; people have no fucking boundaries. And apparently upon seeing a tiny creature in a stroller with hair somewhere between pink and orange, they were compelled to comment and pet. 

I did not like this and expressed my discontent. Can you even imagine me uttering a sharp and biting comment to repel people? Whatever. I am who I’ve always been. You know what you’re getting and I think you like it. 

So I would have rather consented to a full body cavity search than submit to the TSA examination. It’s been almost three hours since the assault and my head is still burning from her touch. 

I was clearly confused after security and stood a full minute at the gate listings next to a man that turned out not to be my husband. I was dangerously close to uttering something about how long it was taking him to find our flight.

We’ve landed safely and my bourbon has an ETA of less than hour. 

I’m sure I’ll be checking in from the slopes. 

xo, K

With Riley headed off to college, I felt compelled to plan a last family hurrah. We thought about exotic locales or another European vacation but at the end of the day, we settled on Hawaii.

Settled is hardly the right word but I wanted to mix things up a bit so we exchanged our typical Big Island lounging for an urban experience on Oahu. There will be lounging for the second part of the trip but I panicked that my children haven’t seen Pearl Harbor and that felt like a parenting fail with Riley exiting the nest. 

The trip started off with my name being called as we waited to board the plane. At 8am in an obscenely crowded LAX terminal, I was in no mood. 

Ken was a particularly perky United representative that wanted to confirm that I was in fact Kimberly. Since there was no official arresting police personnel visible, I confirmed. 

Well now I got to spin some prize wheel! And 10,000 United miles are mine! Thank you very much, Ken!

I had to give Ken my email. Because it has “tx” in the address we started talking about Texas. Turns out Ken’s husband graduated from UT a year after me from the school of Architecture. They haven’t been back for a football game in a couple of years but are planning on it this season. Ken is now my BFF. 

And here’s the picture they made us take.

You can see how thrilled I am to be having my photo taken. I’ll be mortified if we’re on some United promotional site. I prostituted my likeness for 10,000 miles. It was worth it. 

I used to be a very nervous flyer, even as a kid. My mom would often put me on a PSA flight alone to San Francisco to visit my grandparents. I had a whole OCD routine that involved carefully studying the emergency card and scanning the flight for infants. Because if there was a baby on board, it couldn’t crash. I had a peaceful, carefree childhood. 

I have completely rehabbed myself when it comes to my fear of flying and only had one morbid thought as I boarded the massive 777, “Will I be stuck at some sort of death check-in with all these uninteresting looking people?”

Thankfully we landed safely and checked into the uber fancy Ritz Carlton. (Thank you Marriot points). We are not beachside. It’s sort of like Miami Beach meets New York meets Tokyo; a cultural experience for sure. We may also be subject to Yen exchange rates because lunch was $150. 

Only one room was ready so while we were waiting all together, the day’s travel took a toll on all of us, if you know what I’m saying. 

In catering to the Asian clientele, our bathroom is outfitted with a state of the art Toto bidet toilet. I’m up first and fascinated by this amenity. The remote seemed detailed but self explanatory.

I activated the stream, heard the motor, but nothing. I figure I need to up the water pressure. 

As you know, I’m not a patient person. It never occurred to me that there may be a delay. 

So now the water is going full blast and I’m pushing a button that says “on/off” but that must have been mis-translated from Japanese because it’s not turning off. And I can’t get up because the water will go everywhere all over the bathroom. So I’m laughing and screaming at the same time until I find a button on top labeled STOP. 

Let’s just say everything can be made better with a warm dryer feature. 

Riley was up next. I think he summed it up best when he exited the restroom. 

“I’m starting to question who won the war. I just let a Japanese toilet shoot water up my ass.”

Signing off from Day 1. 

Xo, Kimby

I’m Looking At You Barack

You’re so fucking predictable, America. You’ll fall for any story of redemption. I get it. We are all starved for any feel good news. Even I’m watching cat videos. And I hate cats. My Facebook feed is crammed with feline follies entitled, “Because You’ve Interacted With Videos Like This”. It makes me feel dirty and shameful.

Speaking of dirty and shameful, Tiger Woods was fucking prostitutes and groupies. Remember???????

Do you recall his darling wife, mother of his two beautiful children, moved to rage and teeing off at him and his car. Literally. She grabbed the nearest iron and tried to make his head and fender a dog leg left.

As Tiger’s shameful infidelities were exposed, stories started to surface that Tiger wasn’t the man we thought we married either. Long protected as golf’s savior, the Tiger facade started to crack. This initial fissure gave rise to tales of rude and entitled behavior. Rather than being the golden boy of the tour, people thought he was a dick.

Oh and then he was suspected of using performance enhancing drugs to manage knee and back problems. He sought the assistance of disgraced Canadian doctor, Mark Lindsay whose other notable client was A Rod. Side note: hoping for J Lo’s sake Alex has ditched the peepee shrinkers.

Lest we not forget the DUI? Toxicology reports uncovered a sundae of Vicodin, Dilaudid, Xanax, Ambien and good old-fashioned pot as the cherry on top.

But last weekend Tiger Woods won the most prestigious golf tournament on the PGA Tour, The Masters. It’s a feat to win it once, let alone a 5th time…after a THIRTEEN years hiatus.

But does he deserve a congratulatory tweet from Barack Obama, devoted husband, father and humble public servant? Come back, Barack. We miss you.

Does he deserve a Medal of Freedom? Consider the decision maker on that one…

Let’s give credit where credit is due. Tiger Woods, The Athlete, is the greatest golfer of our generation. Now that he is back playing to his full athletic potential, he may be capable of breaking all records of the greats that went before him. For that, I’m willing to acknowledge and congratulate his athletic prowess and achievements.

But in my book, Tiger Woods, The Man, is a lying, cheating, weak and dishonorable cad. We need to stop celebrating an athletic trophy as proof of a moral redemption. To me, a tiger can’t change his stripes.

Riley’s school “invites you to participate in this tradition of love by sending us a photograph of your student when he/she was a baby, along with a message.” These fucking Catholics. Don’t they know I’m dying here over the start of his Senior Year?

For some reason I chose today to comb through old photo albums for just the right picture. Here’s the winner:

While I look at baby pictures, I also look at pictures of a fresh young mommy and I know what she’s NOT thinking. She has no idea that she doesn’t get to keep that perfect blue-eyed, drooley baby in her house forever. You may be saying of course. But I’m dead serious. It never fucking dawned on me that he would be leaving me.

I know you’re saying he’s not really leaving and it’s not forever; he’ll be back for vacations and in four years our economy will be a hot mess and he’ll be unemployable and living with us unable to support himself. But it’s different.

Some days I may only have five minutes of conversation with him between school, work and his social calendar. But it’s enough. Because he’s under my roof. In my possession.

And then there are the nights that he blows off friends to stay home and watch Bill Maher or a movie with Dave and me. Or the evenings he lingers at the dinner table long after his brothers have excused themselves to have political conversations with us or bring us up to speed on school and friends and college apps. Or the hugs passing in the hallway or the random sushi dates with just him and me.

But now it’s closing time. He is my horcrux. A part of me is slowly tearing away. It’s time. He’s ready. He should. I probably have about 360 days to live in the present and stop this lamenting.

I have no regrets. For me it was perfect. If it wasn’t for him, too bad. There are no comment cards at checkout. Take it up with your future therapist.

We’re pretty loosey-goosey with curfews and rules for Riley. After all he’s 17½ years old and will be off to college in about a year. He’s proven himself trustworthy and for the most part, seems to be forthright about where he’s going, with whom and what debauchery ensues. My only request is that he check-in when he gets home so that I may avoid waking up in a panic at 3am to make sure he’s in bed.

So when he came into our room on Saturday night, I reflexively said hi, how was your night, I love you. He answered, “I’m sorry to wake you but I’m having an asthma attack and I can’t make it stop.”

I sprang up in full action mode, assessed how much medication he’d already taken, started the steam shower and grabbed the nebulizer. As we got him somewhat stabilized, Riley commented that he hadn’t had an attack like that in more than a decade. He was right. So much for growing out of it.

A wave of anxiety welled up in me. What if this happens while he’s away? I’ll have to send him with a nebulizer and medication. I told him I hope he has an awesome roommate that will stay up with him until he can breathe. If not, he’ll have to go to the hospital/urgent care/student health center. Whatever. Just please don’t take a chance.

And then Dave broke the tension, “I feel like we should put on a Blues Clues or something.” Indeed. How many nights had we been up with him at 4:30am distracting him with a VHS tape? Yes, our Blues Clues collection was on VHS.

I never upgraded the mask for our nebulizer. So our man-child sat upright in our bed with a fishy mask that barely covers his nose and mouth. Bittersweet to say the least.

Finally the steroid and albuterol fully nebulized. He was better with only a slight wheeze now. I asked him if he wanted to go back to sleep with us so I could, you know, monitor his breathing. HE SAID YES! I threw my arms around him and told him I’m terribly sorry he feels like he’s suffocating but this is the happiest night of my life!

So I slept with one ear open and listened for changes in his breathing. Around 6:30am he announced he was going back to his room. I don’t wish him any ill that would again require my comfort, but I did feel a pang as my baby left my bed, maybe for the last time. A parting gift from the universe.

Breathe.

I’m more than a little bugged at the media swooning over Tammy Duckworth bringing her 10-day-old infant to the Senate floor. And the self-congratulatory praise of her colleagues has me wanting to spit up. I think we should get a few things straight about this “historic” occasion.

Children do not belong in the workplace. Period. Nobody can get a fucking thing done with a baby around, whether it’s laundry or the Trans Pacific Partnership.

I actually think this sends a terrible message and sets back Family Leave progress. Those initial months are best spent bonding with a baby. Just because you’re wearing it, doesn’t mean you’re paying attention to it. Senator Duckworth is actually telegraphing to new mothers everywhere that you better get your ass back to work. It’s more important than your child.

And she’s being terribly unfair to herself and her body. She just spent 9 months growing another human. That depletes every ounce of energy and nutritional stores you’ve got. You are exhausted after delivery and then if she’s breastfeeding, the leeching doesn’t stop. If she delivered Caesarean, she’s recovering from major abdominal surgery. If she delivered vaginally, she’s gushing fluid and blood. “Hey Mitch, what time’s the vote?”

Going right back to work doesn’t prove she’s tough. It doesn’t make her one of the boys. It isn’t some altruistic overture to serve her constituents. It’s selfish and self-serving. A photo opportunity that demeans the enormity of the birthing and mothering experience.

The infant will be in good company, surrounded by crybabies and people shitting themselves. I’m sure they distribute Depends like Academy Award swag up on Capitol Hill.

On second thought, being a United States Senator is the perfect job for bringing your infant to work. You’re not expected to accomplish anything anyway.

*This post was magically completed despite having to wipe an ass mid paragraph, having to feign interest in a toy garbage truck stuffed with Legos and answering questions as to how I think garbage men smell at the end of their shift.

I live in a part of Los Angeles known affectionately as The Valley. Our neighborhoods line the 101 freeway and shot to national prominence as the poster child for 80’s culture with the exaggeration of a stereotypical valley girl through film originally titled, Valley Girl, and song, innovatively named, “Valley Girl”. Like, oh my god, have a unique thought and like picking on us, is like so lame.

The Valley grew in population and housing expansion in the 60’s and 70’s as many of my parent’s generation made a mass exodus from cold locales and city dwellers sought larger property for less money, less traffic and an increase of generally 15 degrees in temperature from “The Westside”.

It used to be a pretty nice place to live. Now all the vampires walkin’ through the valley move west down Ventura Boulevard.

Frankly, it’s a total shithole now. Like way worse than Haiti or El Salvador. I regularly drive past homeless encampments that rival Skid Row, see needles in my Trader Joe’s parking lot and read of car break-ins and robberies of my neighbors daily. But my house still costs a fortune.

Perhaps the only positive result of this decay is the banding together of neighborhoods. Through the use of apps like NextDoor and sharing Ring videos, people have become vigilant in alerting their neighbors of possible threats.

But because people suck, even the best of intentions go awry. Now I get pounded with the stupidest alerts. Look, I’m the first to make a person question the purpose of their existence if they have had the gall to walk through my closed gate, posted with do not enter unless I know you signs and ring my doorbell. But I also realize most of these people are trying to make a living, not casing the joint. But heaven forbid a person of color is soliciting door to door ‘round these parts, we’re going to get an alert. And people do not censor themselves. I repeatedly read the phrase, “doesn’t look like he ‘belongs’ around here”. It’s like my dad must be the group administrator.

Also fun are the limitless coyote alerts. Yes folks, you live in the basin of the Santa Monica Mountains and there are hungry and thirsty animals seeking sustenance. This is not newsworthy. They were here first. Keep Fiffy and Mr. Kitty inside if you are not intending to serve snacks during cocktail hour. Honestly, I favor the demonstration of natural selection. Does the world really need this many Bichon Frises?

However yesterday’s alert takes the cake, “Coyote spotted corner of Woodlake and Erwin just now about 10:30 PM Tue. Called 911 who are worthless…

The side of the LAPD cruiser does not say “To Serve and Protect Your Shitty Little Animal”. While I am disheartened at the deterioration of my community, I am also so hopeful that the tape of that 911 call will be released soon.

Due to the hard work and generosity of my dear husband and the relative absence of my school-aged children, I have the time to schedule my life a bit like a summer camp session. Under the guise of “improving” myself, I spend quite a lot of time in exercise classes and other sundry activities.

I could just go to the gym, jump on a treadmill and figure out some plan for lifting weights, but I need a little more structure than that. So I rely on the expertise and encouragement of instructors to keep motivated. It’s just that some of their catch phrases irk me a bit.

I’m not a huge fan of yoga although I am coming to appreciate it more and more. Part of my issue is that you are supposed to be undergoing something deep and meaningful. These are “experiences” I try to avoid.

Yoga instructors always have a sing-songy quality to their delivery that I find neither relaxing nor calming. I’m particularly put off by the phrase, “If that’s available to you today.” It’s supposed to make you feel better when you can’t wrap your arm through your leg, up around your neck and pick your own nose. How should I know if it’s available? Is there a particular season? Is there a list I have to get on? Was I supposed to sign up? Are you just being a dick and keeping it from me?

My spinning instructor has a couple of doozeys. My second to least favorite is, “find the mountain you need, not the mountain you want.” Let me be clear, mountains are not on my wish list. And I’m not going to have some magical emotional breakthrough because I turned the dial on the STATIONERY bike so far to the right that my quads snap. Did I mention the bike is standing still?

His other go-to is, ”good morning!” It’s not an initial greeting. He repeats it no less than 5 times during the hour. What he really means is, “Haha, that sequence fucked you up. You cannot moderate your competitiveness and you followed all my instructions. You’re in pain and dangerously close to myocardial infarction. “

It also triggers a Groundhog Day type loop if Groundhog Day had been a horror flick. I imagine his bleach bond pixie punim, accentuated by lash extensions, repeatedly rolling over next to me and waking me up from a deep sleep. I try to scream but my mouth is covered with duct tape.

My horse trainer likes to tell me, “ride the horse to the jump”. This instruction usually follows an instance where my horse has decided to be a total asshole and has refused said jump. Look, I’ve pointed a 1500 pound animal towards a fixed object. My expectations are that I’m going to hang on for dear life and that fucker’s gonna jump. If I’m still on his back, one point for me, I’m riding.

I’ve also been giving meditation a go. I’m not going to deny that there are some noticeable benefits, however sitting quietly while trying to quash the deluge of random thoughts I have at a rate of 10,000 per second is, well, let’s just call it an opportunity for growth. This one guru always begins with, “sit and know that you are sitting.” My ass is touching the ground, what the fuck else would I be doing? Maybe this meditation shit isn’t working.

WARNING:  PLEASE read this with your intellect, not your emotion. I have thoughts. Not answers. But I welcome, no I crave, thoughtful conversation.

POLICY STATEMENT:  I like shooting guns. I would own some if I didn’t have children in the house. I would feel safer. I believe there should be a limit to what guns can be privately owned and by whom.

I believe that a woman has the right to choose what happens to her own body. The legality of abortion was legislated almost 50 years ago. Limiting a woman’s access to care is unlawful.

 

Yesterday, a photo of 7,000 pairs of children’s shoes on the Capitol lawn went viral. The shoes represented the estimated number of children killed by any kind of gun violence since the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary. It was a chilling sight.

I was instantly reminded of the drive I used to make down I-35 from Austin to San Antonio where rows of white crosses were installed to represent aborted fetuses. It was a chilling sight.

Each of these displays is a constitutionally protected expression of political position, highly charged with emotion. When I saw the shoes, I was overcome with grief and fear and disgust that our children are at grave risk: at school, at places of worship, at concerts. When I came upon the crosses, I was enraged and repulsed at the judgmental display thrust in my face.

But is there a difference? I’m worried that maybe there isn’t. Yesterday’s realization was that someone on the opposite side of the political spectrum feels just what I do but in reverse.

Some news articles referred to the architects of the Capitol demonstration as activists. I had FB friends refer to it as “powerful art”. I doubt they would have been as complimentary of the white crosses. But wasn’t the intent of each of these displays to invoke emotion to spur legislative change? Doesn’t each expose a truth?

At the end of the day, the intended purpose of a gun is to kill. You can try to mitigate the end result by saying guns are sport. But when you go to a firing range, you are shooting at targets outlining bodies. If you go hunting, you are there to bring down an animal. I wish gun enthusiasts would acknowledge that truth and that the tools of the trade should be limited and controlled. All you have to do is go to any firing range in any city and you will know by instinct that there are people standing next to you with the capability and intent to leave you with a closet full of empty shoes. They should not own guns.

And here’s the bitter pill that those of you who share my views must swallow. The purpose of an abortion is to end a life. You can argue viability, but when you’ve heard a heart beating at 7 weeks, it’s tough to deny the statistical likelihood that this little fucker will be able to wake you up in the middle of the night 1000 times before his 7^th birthday. I think the argument to protect Roe v Wade and to increase access to abortions would be strengthened if we acknowledge the truth that electing to bring a child into the world is not always emotionally, financially or physically the responsible choice. But it should be a choice.

These issues are certainly bigger than the bullion I’ve concentrated them into. I know this is all rife with slippery slope arguments and as I acknowledged above, I HAVE NO ANSWERS. I discuss these two issues together, not as any kind of moral equivalency, but only because of my personal emotional response to two demonstrations.

I look forward to your thoughts… I think.