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The Young One, Prince of silliness and high jinx, is not the only jokester in our house.

He has me to contend with.

The other night, we had a laugh-off. How this works in simple terms is that we try to out-funny each other.

I was on a roll.

I’m not sure if it was the delirium from the sweltering ninety degree weather or the sweet intoxication from the Zinfandel, but I delivered a line of sarcastic assaults that got the kid cackling. And snorting. And hyper-ventilating. Then coughing. And choking. Until suddenly- he barfed.

The Young One threw up into my tropical garden.

Which, of course, got me laughing.

After he finished wiping his mouth, he scolded, “Izzy! You just kept going and going. You wouldn’t stop!”

I smiled victoriously. “How does it feel, Young One? How does it feel?”

He had no comeback. He knew I’d won.

Moral of the story: You don’t enter a laugh-off lightly in our house. Someone’s going down– right into the Mexican feather grass.

Where in the world is that Izzy Rose?

Ladies, I am currently on location in Sonoma County, CA doing some TV work… and touring the lovely countryside, naturally.

But, soon I will be back in Texas– Land of steak and beans.

While I’ve been gone, I’ve been super pleased to discover so many new entries in the Stepmother’s Milk forum. If you haven’t been lately, check it out and weigh in with your advice. Some interesting discussions going on.

ADnD - Руководство по Вооружению и Снаряжению ADnD - Оружие И Броня ADnD - Новое Оружие ADnD - Новые Типы Брони ADnD - Броня И Технологии ADnD - Материалы Оружия развитие детей детские занятия ADnD

My favorite musical RENT, will be closing this year after nearly twelve years on Broadway.

I stumbled upon this beautiful and heart-breaking performance several years ago in San Francisco’s Orpheum Theater and for a long time after that, I kept the double CD in my car and passionately sang along with frequent repetition. It so so moved me- often to tears- and I never tired of the goose-bump feeling it gave me.

Remember the Love!

When The Husband and I were planning our Memphis wedding, I suggested one of the title songs, SEASONS OF LOVE, to replace the traditional wedding march because I felt that it captured more honestly and eloquently, the sentiment of our stepfamily union. We hired a gospel ensemble to perform it and in twinkly chandelier light with the accompaniment of a grand piano, they belted it out as our families walked through the doors of the Peabody Hotel’s Venetian Room. Nearly one year after our engagement.

If you have a minute to listen to this song, I’m confidant it will give you a warm hot cocoa feeling in your heart. Enjoy.

SEASONS OF LOVE…

525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?

How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love.
Seasons of love.

525,600 minutes! 525,000 journeys to plan. 525,600 minutes - how can you measure the life of a woman or man?

In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried.

It’s time now to sing out, though the story never ends- let’s celebrate- remember a year in the life of friends.

Remember the love! Remember the love! Remember the love! Measure in love. Seasons of love! Seasons of love.

See related NY Times story. Photo courtesy of The New York Times.

More related SMM wedding stories…

I take it back. I am no longer charmed with San Francisco and my (working) vacation. I miss The Husband and the stepsons I left at home in Austin. It’s only been a week and I’m officially over it. And when I say it, I’m not referring to the work; I’m talking about this city.

I’m going to present you with a controversial (or bitchy) opinion that I reserve the right to retract should I offend the wrong person (colleagues who get me work in town, primarily). But for now, I’ve just got to spill it because these ugly feelings have been brewing for some time.

San Francisco is stuck up.

That’s right. She’s rude. And while I believe this over generalization can be applied to the entire metro area on any given day, I will narrow my accusation to a very specific spot: Chestnut Street in the Marina District on a Saturday afternoon is an ass.

Well, of course, you groan. The Marina has a reputation for being snooty and cliquey and high on its boutique self. And while that statement holds some truth, it doesn’t let the rest of the city off the hook. Because what I witnessed today, I’ve experienced in Noe Valley, North Beach, Russian Hill, the Haight-Ashbury, Portrero Hill, the Outer Sunset and the Mission.

San Francisco is stuck up.

It’s an attitude. Aloof. Self centered. Impolite. And I’ve had enough of it. San Francisco, you should be ashamed of yourself! Where are your manners?

Nearly every time I mention the Bay Area to someone who lives in another part of the country, they gush with enthusiasm and envy that I’m from “such a fantastic city. How lucky!” People LOVE this town, but think about this; San Francisco is esteemed for its arresting scenery, its spectacular architecture, memorable cuisine (see photo left YUM) and art, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say, “Ahhhh… San Francisco. The people are so warm and wonderful there.”

No. I’m pretty sure I have no memory of this sentiment. Could it be because it’s populated with millions of people who, in my opinion, are cold and unfriendly?

At least on the surface. The term brotherly love does not apply out on the streets of San Francisco.

I often wondered when I lived here full time, why I never felt at home when I’d spent my entire adult life here. And today it hit me. I never felt welcome. It’s like the city is arrogantly walking around with its insides held in tight, protective armor in place. No one gets in from the outside. It’s hard to grow roots when the bedrock is so hard. It’s one of the reasons I finally left.

I’m getting too thoughtful. Let’s get back to my rant…

How San Francisco let me down today or what really irks Izzy:

1) Yesterday was a 13-hour-work day and my feet looked like they belonged to a troll. So, I wandered down to Chestnut Street for a pedicure and moved en masse with conceited sorority sisters who were too hurried or oblivious to make room for anyone else competing for sidewalk space. This is a major pet peeve of mine. It’s an outrage. Who gave you permission to be more important than the rest of the planet and sideswipe me without remorse? I wanted to shove those sluts and injure them.

2) On the way to get my toes done, I was ignored in many stores by sales help who acted like saying hello or making eye contact was not in their “job description.” Are they worried that I might confuse service with caring? I hope they get fired. Before Christmas.

3) After my feet were massaged and prettified, but well before they were dry, I was kicked out onto the street to make room for new customers. The owner of NEW NAILS actually pointed me to the front door and shouted something in Cantonese. I believe it was mean-spirited.

4) I was bullied by a guy at Walgreen’s for using the IN door instead of the OUT. “That’s the wrong side.” So what, F*@#face! Hold the door open for me anyway and shut your cry hole.

5) The woman at Noah’s rolled her eyes when I told her I needed a minute to read the menu (it’s not just bagels anymore). And then she took her sweet ass time making my sandwich. Was she trying to teach me a lesson?

I never thought I’d say the words, but get me back to Texas where Southern hospitality is my new best friend. I turn into an angry, tight-faced woman with a trucker mouth when I’m here for too long.

Photo courtesy of A 16 which is delicious and as long as you have a reservation everyone is perfectly charming.

Ladies, I’ve done it again.

I’ve abandoned my lovely husband and stepsons for a freelance gig a plane ride away. I’m back in San Francisco doing some TV work and it’s really (I have guilt) cutting into my writing time. My intention is to bring you up to speed with gritty details (if not now than very soon) and get back to the business of sorting out my stepmom angst. Especially as we head into the Mother of all holidays.

This is what I can tell you right now: I’m staying in a hotel room that comes with a King bed, a view of Pacific Heights and a maid that brings me fresh towels every morning. She also lines up my cosmetics in a very specific order and fluffs my pillows (there are seven).

I’ve been eating out and alone every night at this cozy little place on Chestnut Street where they bring me red Zin and either a tuna melt, chicken and apple salad or veggie chili. These items might sound like uninspired selections, but they are super tasty and comforting and each night I can’t convince myself to go anywhere else. I’m sure they (the same wait staff I order from every night) are wondering where this perfect stranger came from that they suddenly can’t get rid of. I’ve made a pact with myself not to go there for the next two nights and I’m already fretting about where tomorrow’s dinner will come from.

December is a magical time to be in San Francisco.

December is a magical time to be in San Francisco. The fog and cold feels appropriate and I am dressed accordingly in long white coat and scarf. Every awning and front door is decorated with twinkly lights and winter greens and the mood is predominantly festive and sentimental. The City is beautiful and it’s much easier at this time of year to ignore the underlying cruelty and desperation that slinks around every urban landscape.

If it sounds like a vacation, it is. While I miss The Husband and how he warms up our bed and is the sweetest thing to sleep next to (I’m wearing socks now to compensate for the loss of heat), I get to slip out of the married stepmom role and into a temporary, yet very familiar lifestyle: Single and independent. Spending ten hours a day as a career woman without family commitments or obligations. It’s an unusual opportunity. To go back. To stand in the past and reflect on the present.

If I hadn’t done this before, I’d be wondering which life I like more. I continue to return to Austin, so that should tell you something.

(Still, that doesn’t mean that I’m not looking forward to spreading out on the bed tonight and hogging every inch.)

Az-mouse is safe. Aza, my oldest friend on the planet (we met in first grade and I still have the class picture to prove it) lives in Minneapolis. She lives one mile from the I-35 bridge that collapsed late yesterday. She and her husband often use that very roadway to get themselves home, but yesterday was different. They were already on the right side of the Mississippi. This morning, she and her husband sleep safely. Their new son down the hall, does the same.

Nothing ever prepares us for loss and it’s hard to put a catastrophe in perspective. Unless you’re part of it.

I’ve worked in TV news my whole career. I’ve seen hours upon hours of video of horrible things and devastated people. I’ve edited extensive news coverage of a particular crisis down to a :15 promo. Can 15 seconds really describe the complexity of an event? I hate to admit it, but in the darkness of the edit booth, sometimes these stories become a blur of pictures that don’t really touch me. Not really.

This morning, I’m affected. I’m thankful that my dear friend is on safe ground, and I’m saddened for those who are not.