Sawdust Jewels

I was brushing my teeth when my five year old informed me, “Mommy, that toothbrush is not recommended by dentists everywhere.” I inquired as to her information source. “The television.”

Later that afternoon at the grocery store, she pointed to a box of sugar disguised as a breakfast cereal and said, “This cereal contains all the minerals and vitamins necessary for a balanced diet. We need to buy this.”

And finally, I had a dream that my hair looked fabulous—thick layers cascading down my back like Niagara Falls. Upon waking, I realized my hair looked exactly like a woman’s hair I had seen on TV the night before. As much as I love fantasizing about a great hair day, I decided it was time for a late summer switcheroo. We needed to trade in our television remote for some Laguna culture.

I announced my plan to attend the Sawdust Festival to the family. “I’m not going,” my husband responded. “I’m feeling anti-social.”

“It’s an art festival, not a cocktail party. You won’t have to talk to anyone, just see some art, have some fun.”

“Alright,” he sighed as he hopped into the passenger seat of the mini-van. Not the best beginning for a family excursion, but I remained optimistic.

After walking through the front door, we made a beeline for Star Shields, the rock star of the Sawdust Festival. Star is an airbrush artist who has painted for George Harrison, Paul McCartney and Led Zeppelin. There is usually a long line of kids waiting to see him and get their faces painted, but this time we lucked out. We stepped right up and picked out our designs.

“Why don’t you get my name done on your arm,” my husband suggested. I knew that one would get a howl from Lisa and Renata (which it did!), but what’s a girl supposed to do when Grumpy Husband turns to Romantic Husband? I had Star paint his name above the Chinese letter for love.

After everyone got their shells, butterflies and love tattoos, we headed down to see my friend Laurel Meister who paints wonderful, whimsical pictures that bring a smile to your face. My four year old picked out a print of a dog panting and I mulled over the monkey prints. Do I need one monkey or six smiling at me? This was a difficult decision for my feeble brain. Or perhaps, I couldn’t decide because my daughter was pulling at my pant leg screaming, “Let’s get something to eat.”

After a walk past the gnome garden and waterfalls, we landed at the food court where we purchased an old-fashioned sno-cone. I sat back in my chair and took a deep breath. We were actually having fun. No one was crying or whining and I felt relaxed on a family outing. Even my husband seemed to be having a good time.

Of course, at that very moment, my youngest daughter had to invert herself on my husband’s lap into some strange yoga position that immediately signaled, ‘Countdown to meltdown. Time to go home.’

As we were leaving, we passed by David Kluver’s beautiful photographs of Tahiti and Easter Island. As we stood staring at them, I could hear the ocean waves lap on the beach.

“We need a vacation,” I whined to my husband.

“We live at the beach,” he reminded me.

Oh yes, the beach, I noted. That would be our next successful family outing.

We headed home for afternoon naps and a TV-free evening. We didn’t need the remote; we had our own entertainment—my arm. Every time my girls looked at the Chinese love tattoo, they giggled uncontrollably.

“I want to get a tattoo that says Mommy,” my five year old told me. I’ll take that over cascading hair any day of the week.

The Sawdust Festival is located at 935 Laguna Canyon Road tel. 949.494.3030. The hours are 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. every day until September 3, 2006.

Dirty Little Secrets

A year ago, I sent the following essay to editors Stu Saffer and Andrea Adelson with the idea of writing a bi-weekly column called “Mothering Heights.” In a stroke of genius, they decided to publish my musings on life as a mother, wife and if I’m lucky, sex object. Since I have written about subjects such as my post-partum pooch, rats in our garage, and ruining my husband’s surprise party, I thought it would be appropriate to share one more secret with you:

It started innocently last year as we were preparing to move from Los Angeles to Laguna Beach. After my two-year old disassembled my husband’s coin collection and my three-year old shredded my senior prom photo, I decided in a meltdown moment that there had to be a better way to move our lives. Dumpster was the first solution that came to mind, but my hubby, a solid saver, vetoed that option. My answer came to me loud and clear one day while shopping at that divine place -- Target.

While buying a barrel full of diapers, I turned the corner and there they were. All shapes and sizes of plastic storage containers just waiting for me to take them home. I tested the locking lids, measured the inside spaces and prepared temporary stacks of boxes. I felt exhilarated. My life would begin anew. I would now have time to brush my teeth. Make a phone call. And should I even dare to hope--read a book.

In my former life as an independent film producer, reading books and making phone calls were the bane of my existence. Now they are a guilty pleasure that I covet like a fresh box of Teuscher truffles. Cocktails with Harrison and coffee with Demi have been replaced with SpongeBob Mac ‘n Cheese, Princess Sing Alongs and piles and piles of stuff.

So with my plastic boxes before me, I began organizing with the fervor of a junkie. Before long, I was no longer satisfied. I combed the internet for more boxes and this is where the problem began.

Plastic storage containers started showing up daily on our front door step. My husband began questioning me. I acted as if I barely understood what he was talking about, adding a few buzz words like “organize” and “moving necessities.” But the cat was out of the bag. And the boxes were really starting to stack up.

I called Renata to get some “husbands-don’t-understand-us” kind of sympathy. She fully supported Operation Organize via plastic until I revealed my latest plan. I wanted to find larger plastic boxes to contain the vast number of smaller boxes. There was a long silence. “I think we have a problem,” she exclaimed.

I sat down with my kids’ bag of old Halloween candy and had a good think. This wasn’t about the stuff in my life; this was about a need for order. I thought, ‘How can we as moms maintain some sense of control over our life that is no longer our own?’

Renata confessed that when Tommy, her vacuum-loving toddler, has completely destroyed her house, she breaks all Weight Watcher restrictions and inhales a few chocolates from her secret stash. For a brief moment, her house actually appears clean. And every afternoon, Lisa leaves her kids in the car as she runs into Coffee Bean for a vanilla latté with an extra shot. This made me realize that our salvation may lie not in altering the environment around us but in actually altering our brain chemistry.

My girlfriend Ava, a psychologist who always seems in control, confirmed that altered brain chemistry can turn Joan Crawford into June Cleaver. She admitted that she actually develops psychosomatic symptoms so she can then medicate them. Now that’s a professional at work!

So am I to conclude that we should all take up addictive behavior like chocolate binges, shopping therapy and even pill-popping in order to be more happy moms? No, but I do think that we need to cut ourselves a break and accept our dirty little secrets for what they are—coping mechanisms.

While taking care of our kids’ needs, it is hard sometimes to take care of ourselves, so we indulge a little here and there. So, I bought a hundred or so plastic boxes, I have to say we are extremely organized. I only allow myself two plastic boxes a month, an excellent example of controlled controlling behavior.

And besides one day, we won’t need help coping. Because one day, we will be sailing around the world in our fully staffed private yacht that our eldest child bought us to show her gratitude for all that we have done. At that point, I hope that my dirty little secrets will be much more fun than the plastics aisle at Target.

-August 17, 2005

Thank you LB Independent and web readers for your support. If you have a topic or question you would like to see explored in this column, please email me at cfugate@verizon.net.

A Wahoo to Wyland

On a recent Sunday morning, I was watching my boyfriend Tim Russert (don’t worry-my husband knows all about us) on Meet the Press and had a journalistic identity crisis. Tim was interviewing Robert Novak, the Chicago Sun Times columnist who broke the Valerie Plame story, about his recent work. Novak defended himself by saying, “I’m a reporting columnist, as opposed to a thumb-sucking columnist.”

As I sipped my Sunday morning café au coffee mate, I thought to myself, “Am I a thumb-sucking columnist?” I write about little people who suck their thumbs and occasionally I want to suck mine, so I guess the answer would be yes. Enough whining about vomit on my toes and the crowds at Disneyland. It’s time for me to be a Journalist (note the capital “J”) and tackle some real issues that we Laguna moms grapple with daily.

At the top of my list I wrote four letters—H-E-A-T. I tried to get Al Gore on the phone to discuss global warming, but realized that could take me all week. The heat does affect the nutrition of my family though, because I refuse to cook. When I turn on the stove, my house shoots from 83 degrees to an even 90. The only alternative is to head down to my second kitchen, Wahoo’s on the PCH. But Hello! They have not been open for over ten months. I gave Wahoo’s headquarters a little journalistic jingle to find out what the heck is going on down there.

I spoke with Ed Lee, one of the partners, who apologized profusely for the delay. “We are six months behind schedule and every day kills me.”

“Ed, do you know what you are doing to those of us who rely on you for dinnertime?”

I’m not sure he understood the seriousness of the matter, but he did give me a good song and dance about a historic building situation and the need to build in sections. “When will you be open?” I interrupted.

“We will be testing the kitchen in September and opening up for business in October,” he replied. And that is a direct quote, dear readers.

After that journalistic triumph, I felt pumped and gave Renata a call. What did she need to know? “When are we going to get the party started?” she sang, trying to sound like Pink, one of her style icons.

I knew immediately she was referring to Music in the Park. After going to my first concert where Renata and I swayed to some reggae at the swing set, I told her, “That’s it. I belong here.” Internet research revealed that, why yes, Music in the Park started last week. I called Annie, my social director, and scolded her for not letting me know.

“I didn’t even bother. It was country music. This week is She Band, a girlie rock group. We’ll be there.” She added, “If you’re going journalistic, I want to know if Wyland will marry me?”

“You’re already married,” I replied. Stalking a world famous environmental artist was not exactly the type of journalistic assignment I had envisioned.

“I know, but you might have readers who aren’t.” I took note of her point and gave Wyland headquarters a call. Before you can say school of dolphins, I was on the phone with the man himself.

“I’m available, but not planning on getting married,” Wyland confessed. “I just haven’t met the right whale yet.” I don’t know any whales, but I couldn’t end my interview there.

“If there was a whale who was interested in meeting you, where would she go?” I tried to sound intelligent, which I can promise you did not happen.

“I like to eat breakfast on the weekends at the White House,” he graciously replied. So for all you whales out there that like men with mustaches and large art collections, you know where to go this Sunday morning.

I, however, will be hanging out with my husband and kids watching Meet the Press. I think I have a few more things to learn about this journalistic state of mind.