The Wife - Mrs. Chako's Side of the Story

The No Longer Wife

2011-12-21T12:08:00.000-08:00

Life pulled me inside of it these last few months, and writing took a back seat. Not that there weren't enough things to keep me busy between family, friends, and work. Throw in a challenging new job and life gets really crazy.

Being one to always go above and beyond, we were clearly not satisfied with that level of crazy, and as you may know by now, the good doctor and I are amicably ending 20 years of being a couple, 16 of them as husband and wife.

It's not something we talked about - in fact, we kept our decision to ourselves for nearly 3 months as we worked out details. And then, we only told the fewest people we could, and agreed that the rest of the world would be on a need to know basis. To date, our friends and family have been amazing and respected our wishes that no one "take sides" - we've done our best to make them not regret that, and are doing pretty darn well at being co-parents and old friends.

The WPBT was a relief, in some respects. It was the first time we were out in the same place with that large a crowd of friends in our newly separated lives. And, amazingly, it worked. DrChako described it well, and those of you who first found out in Vegas took the news like champs. Hopefully it's a glimpse into how we do this for the rest of our lives.

It was also a relief because it freed my head up to write and being around friends gave me inspiration. Hopefully, I may revisit this blog more frequently, and have one more way to stay in touch with this amazing collective of people.

DrChako was kind enough to refer to me as the "amazing and increasingly poorly-named 'The Wife'" - I thank him for the compliment, and acknowledge that neither "The Wife" nor "MrsChako" aptly describe me in this current situation.

Taking suggestions - though I'm a little partial to the term he coined . . . "The No Longer Wife" . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The NL Wife

The Answer

2011-09-28T00:19:00.000-07:00

It's buried in the archives, but I'm pretty sure I posted it.

"For the next 365 days, I am the answer"

It was for my 42nd birthday. Any Douglas Adams fan (or other person mildly aware of pop culture) will get the reference. The Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything - 42.

My 43rd birthday is only a couple months away and so many things are different than they were last year - things I couldn't even begin to imagine. I often quote W.E. Deming to my staff - "It is not necessary to change; survival is not mandatory." Didn't realize how much it could apply to me. Tonight, as another wave of change hit me, I pondered the statement I made last November (however tongue-in-cheek it may have been): "For the next 365 days, I am the answer."

Realized tonight that I am the answer. To everything. Not just for the 365 days that I existed as a 42 year old woman. For every day before, and every day to come.

When I ask myself:

How did I manage to accomplish these things - I am the answer.

Who gets credit for my successes - I am the answer.

How did I get lucky enough to have one thing or another - I am the answer.

What failed - I am the answer.

How do I make the best of it - I am the answer.

Where do I find my happiness - I am the answer.

Where do I find my peace - I am the answer.

Hard thing about this is . . . well, that I am the answer. Easy part is that it doesn't matter what the questions are . . . I know what the answer is. Can't fear a pop quiz when you already know the answer, right?

You still may need to remind me, now and then . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife.

A Wedding a Month and Other Things

2011-06-28T16:09:00.000-07:00

Seems like when push comes to shove in the time department, this blog takes a back seat more often than not.

Given that I'm transitioning to my new promotional role (VP of Internal Audit and Chief Audit Executive, thanks much), and STILL doing my old job until the new guy or gal gets here, the time thing isn't surprising. Disappointing, but not surprising. So here's a recap of life in my world:

Promotion: It's a blessing and a curse. A steep learning curve, drinking from the fire hose, and a lot of responsibility. But the paychecks are bigger, the visibility is bigger, and its one more step on a ladder I feel like climbing. Now to just do a good job. :)

Motherhood: My oldest will be a high schooler. I am not old enough in spirit to be the mother of a high schooler. But he's excited about it, and got admitted to a special team program where they have an expanded curriculum and a team study environment. He's going to summer camp, and broke up with his first girlfriend, and danced his first slow dance with his mom at a recent wedding. And is almost as tall as me. He's got a dirt-stache and 10 long armpit hairs under each arm. Might not be ready for this.

My youngest is his sweet self, still on the verge of being a little boy and growing up. Maybe I can keep him young and innocent. Highly unlikely. He's struggling to be his own guy in the shadow of his brother. Which means a lot of mimicking (even the stuff we don't want him to mimic) , and a lot of frustration when big brother pulls rank or treats him like a kid. But in the good moments, I find him doing sweet things like building towers out of wedding favors and petting the dog sweetly, and giving me hugs. And once in a while he pulls out a few break dance moves on the dance floor at a wedding, throws up his milk, and proclaims "You know how they say sometimes you can have too much of a good thing? Well, milk is a good thing, and I think I had too much."

Friends: Missing a couple of my best girls. CA April is in Maine with her grandmother, while her grandmother recovers. BettyUnderground is on her great London adventure in the world of retail for the computer company that shall not be named in my office. Miss having them around. On the bright side, CountessMo has stepped in to her new role as best girl friend in California, and TX April is now trying to be CA April #2, so all is not lost. Plus I also gained the Countess' darling brother Sean in the circle of friends, and my other new best friend in the area, Bill, goes back all the way to my hometown and grade school with me - and still likes me. Now if only I had more time for them all . . .

Health: Blood pressure is still my enemy, though with the lowest does of a diuretic, it has come down, and we're still monitoring. Wish me luck, since I'll have to control it through other means - a low stress job is not on the horizon. :) Had a small scare with an abnormal pap, though a couple follow ups later, the Dr. isn't worried about cancer, or even anything less benign. Again, we're on wait and see. otherwise all seems to be in working order, and at my age, it's starting to be a blessing each day.

Weddings: After marrying off my former au pair, this month we did it again - DrChako gave away his youngest sister to the man of her dreams. DrChako looked handsome and played his role well - his dad would have been proud. I was a bridesmaid, trying to look fabulous for the special occasion. Only downside was I was nearly 9 inches taller than the tallest of the other girls - bride or bridesmaids, so I looked a little like the amazon woman they invited to the party for contrast. On the plus side, my groomsman counterpart was 6'4 and probably weighed 220 or better - so even in my Jimmy Choos I looked small, as long as you didn't glance at the women.

It was a fantastic wedding, and made all kinds of new friends from the bridal party, even if half of them were barely 30 (yes, folks, the Sister of DrChako robbed the cradle). Fortunately, being young at heart, I kept up with the best of them, even during the dance version of Florida's "Low", in which I did get as low as the people who already started out with a 9 inch advantage. It was a beautiful bunch of bridesmaids, bested only by the beautiful bride.

I'm sure there are hundreds of other things I should get out of my head. But I'm sure my limited readership is still getting over the shock that something appeared here so unexpectedly, so I'll let them digest.

Miss you all - but still love you.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Family Pride

2011-05-24T00:32:00.000-07:00

I thought about being all wordy about this one, but I thought I'd do it in pictures, instead. Really proud of my "extended family" . . . hopefully you can see the love . . .

Our third au pair - Cheisi - a beautiful bride with her American "mother"!

Cheisi with our current au pair, Lisa, and all of our boys, including my "de facto" son Roberto - Son #1's best friend.

The beautiful bride being escorted by her "father" for her big day - isn't he handsome?

True to her "mother"'s spirit, she picked some awesome shoes for her special day!

Love to see all of the connections we've created in life come together.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Change - The New Norm

2011-05-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

It's been in process long enough, and I've tried to keep in under wraps. Mostly because I'm a pessimistic optimist - anything is possible, just don't count your chickens out loud until they hatch and are running around under the heat lamps chirping.

Friday was a relief, then, in some respects - a new opportunity I'd been asked to apply for at work came full circle. Though I was hopeful after a quick cross-country flight last week for one last interview with our audit committee chairman, it wasn't until late Friday afternoon when the CFO called me into her office to offer me the position that I celebrated internally.

It's come with interesting reactions. Those who know and love me best are proud. My husband, kids, close friends, my mom - all know how important my career is and how this is one opportunity that just widens the path ahead of me. Opens new doors to new people and new places. Fluffs up the bank account a bit more. Same title, but bigger font this time.

Those who know me less well are still processing my motivations. One reaction was "why would she want a different job"? The words of someone who derives their satisfaction out of a task, not a career journey. Someone who finds satisfaction out of being skilled at one thing, rather than having the skill to try anything.

I pondered that question myself as I interviewed for the job. I still liked my old job; still had things I could do. Why take something with more learning, more risk, more uncertainty? The answer came almost as soon as the question did - because I'm a person who wants to demonstrate to the world that there isn't much I can't do.

The shoes fit a little lose right now, but I'm not worried. I'll wear the fat socks and walk carefully for a while, until the shoes look and feel like my own.

Until then, I've got family and friends who have confidence in me. And more importantly, I've got confidence in myself.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Once a Mom . . .

2011-05-09T00:12:00.000-07:00

Always a mom.

Although some days I want to send them away to boarding school or sell them to gypsies, the best gift DrChako ever gave me was these two boys. Watching them grow has been one of the most rewarding experiences and one of the most challenging at the same time.

Mother's Day was pretty low key, but the two reasons I got to celebrate were with me, and that was all that mattered. Hugging a teenager who's almost as tall as me; kissing the top of the head of my 8 year old who's teetering on the brink of little boy and big boy.

My little guy was up with the sun- his handwritten note on the empty kitchen island. When I went back into the bedroom to take a shower this morning, he added to the pile of "gifts", including a potted petunia and a card with a flower pop-up inside and the following poem:

My mom
Nice
Helpful
Sweet
Wishes for me to clean up my room
Wonders how I do in school
Dreams of peace
Is good at cooking
Likes shoes
Loves Jared, my dad and I

My mom is the best mom ever.

Love, Jason

I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry.

Here's to all the mothers, past and present - may you always find a few words to tell them how much they mean. We treasure them all.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

My Breasts Look Great

2011-04-07T01:16:00.000-07:00

And if my humble opinion is not enough, you can ask my mammographer and my radiologist. That's right folks - after two years of total procrastination, I got my first mammogram. Results were normal. See, I told you there was nothing to worry about . . . Respectfully submitted, The Wife

Happy Birthday Dr Chako!

2011-04-05T01:20:00.001-07:00

If you haven't already done so, don't forget to wish Dr Chako a happy birthday. For those of you who follow him on Twitter or Facebook, you may have seen that he's managed to roll back 10 years just by getting rid of the facial hair. I think I have to pay big money to be able to roll back 10 years!

He looked like a baby when I started dating him; now he looks like a baby-faced guy with a slight sprinkling of gray (which somehow, on men, looks distinguished).

He got new golf clubs from me; I'm sure the rest of you can probably just get by with a few good wishes and a drink in his general direction.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

The Health Edition

2011-04-03T15:28:00.001-07:00

Funny how busy periods in life come and go, and the one thing that seems to get back-burnered when it gets really tough is the blog. But on a quiet day where my big boy is up surfing the net with his best friend, my little guy is on a playdate with a new friend, and my husband is napping away last night's casino bender, I have stolen a moment of quiet to return to this space.

I traveled to NY a few weeks ago - work trip, combined with a blitz of seeing friends and family. Midway through the trip, I started feeling a little "meh". Not emotionally "meh", but physically "meh". Chalked it up to jet-lag for a while, until a planned after lunch walk turned into a "hey, I need to head back to the hotel and crash for a bit". A few Ibuprofen and other OTC meds later, with a little rest, the energy level returned, and thankfully that was all that was needed to sustain me through a quiet game of Scrabble and Chinese takeout dinner with my extended family later that evening.

By the time I got back to California, though, I was getting a variety of different viral symptoms, ranging from sniffles to coughs to aches to headaches to . . . well, name a symptom, I probably had it. It peaked a week and a half later with crushing headaches and body aches that resulted in two days down and out from work, and a variety of meds, including a Valium when I got desperate because I hurt so bad I couldn't sleep. Each day that I woke and felt better (excepting the two days down and out) I kept going back into the office, thinking I was on the road to recovery, and each afternoon, my body told me otherwise.

Now, there are a lot of viruses going around, and this one may have overlooked getting a flu shot this year (these things happen). But with the amount of work I have to do in my life, taking care of a family, and the many other stressors of life, period (not to mention taxes), I'm probably a prime target for bad health right now. I also chose last weekend to do my best "battered wife" impersonation and walked straight into an armoire door at full speed, resulting in a small cut near my brow that decided to bleed out into my eyelid like the worst Boy George makeup job you can remember from the 80's. I'm sure Cover Girl makes a "Crushed Grape and Blueberry" eyeshadow if I just looked hard enough that I could have used to offset the ugliness on the other side and just call it a "look".

After a particularly restless sleep Sunday night, an increasingly ugly shiner over my left eye, a headache from the pain of meeting a solid wooden door, and an impending east coast trip again (this time, just a quick over and back in two days, including a red-eye on the front end), I realized that maybe it was time to get my house of health in order. I've got good genes on my side, in general; but I'm a chronic procrastinator. However, on Monday, I took the proverbial bull by the horns, and started myself down a better path:

I took advantage of the fact that my company just put a clinic in our office on site, and scheduled my annual exam (over 2 years after my last one). I had to endure a bazillion questions about domestic abuse, given my wicked shiner, but got all the necessities under my belt, including a tetanus shot.

I have a mammogram scheduled for next week. I have been an embarrassment of a wife to my radiologist husband, as I am over 2 years past my recommended first mammogram. Though my breast exam was uneventful, this will put everyone's mind at ease (provided it shows the same uneventfulness the manual exam did).

I am on a regular regimen of multi-vitamins specifically geared at women's health and immunity . . . although my diet isn't terrible, it never hurts to make sure that I'm not deficient in anything. Plus it makes my pee a really pretty flourescent yellow-orange color.

My doctor's visit recorded some startling blood pressures, and while I have had BP flirting in the 130/90 range from time to time, one of the readings of 170/110 alarmed both myself and the Dr. Of course, she couldn't decide if it was high blood pressure, all the cold medicine I took, caffeine from the Excedrin I took, or the head injury I sustained, so I'm on a two week trial of low-dose diuretics. Although it still fluctuates more than I want it to, I've already had readings as low as 125/81, so we can get this under control.

I'm sporadic in my exercising, so I am going to try to be better about it, and started this weekend with a nice brisk walk with two doggies. California was a sunny 65 this morning, and it felt really good.

On all other fronts, I'm healthy as a horse. But knowing the full complement of things out there that could stress me in the upcoming months, I figured "risk of premature death" didn't have to be one of them.

Now if only I could find time to get my California driver's license . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder?

2011-03-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

Well, at least she’s hoping so. I saw her face light up a bit when she got a message from Lightning to see if she was still around celebrating her Packer win. Not that she got off her ass to blog or anything like that. Good news is she still let’s me out to play occasionally, and when I chided her about her lack of blogging, she said “if you have so much time on your hands, Jayne, then you blog!”

How could I resist? She needed to spice things up a bit anyway. I mean, seriously, when is the last time she put up a panty post? Or anything raunchy, for that matter? At least she lets me out once in a while. So here’s what your dear friend and alter ego Jayne has been up to since the Cheeseheads had their day . . .

Shoes. Thank God the woman still likes fun shoes and takes me shopping with her. Between her budget consciousness and my eye for shoes that make our feet look hot, she managed to pick up 3 new pair of lovelies for our collection for less than $80! The little floral sling-backs just SCREAM spring, and the blue Guess heels with the metallic trim are classy enough for her and sassy enough for me. I did have to work to convince her to buy the little black platform booties with all the chains and zippers, but they look SO hot (in that “I’m not REALLY a dominatrix kind of way), and she already got those red “F-me” platform things she wore to Vegas – what’s one more pair of shoes you can’t wear to church?
Katkin. He was visiting from Vegas a few weeks ago, and the Chako’s kindly structured a whole weekend around fun with Katkin. Katkin at the house Friday night. Golf with Katkin on Saturday in the rain (rain sucked, Katkin didn’t). Poker at the house with friends and Katkin. Got to kiss Katkin. More than once. May have performed a repeat of the live straddle (solely for illustrative purposes, of course). Might have been helped by the generous amounts of Gentleman Jack and Coke I discovered I liked (maybe made a little too strong). May have a video of me laughing hysterically at drunk friend singing bad Ozzie/Lita Ford song that was filmed by Katkin. Still love him and get warm fuzzies every time I see Steven Spielberg on TV.
Napa. Private wine tastings. A day at the salon where they did my nails, my hair, and sprayed my bare back with sparkles so I’d look hot in my dress. Hot silver dress with low back. Escorted by Dr. Chako looking dapper in a tux (even if he forgot his cufflinks and had to detour to get new ones before the dinner). Ogled by rich business men and wine connoisseurs and felt up by THE Francis Ford Coppola. Hot tub in my bra and panties because I forgot a suit. More wine tasting on Sunday. If Mrs. Chako hadn’t gotten a migraine, I could have done some serious damage.
New York. Ok, she didn’t really let me go all Jayne, but she did let me just enjoy a weekend with no responsibilities, including a Broadway play, lunch and dinner with friends and family, shopping around NYC and lounging in a penthouse floor hotel room ‘til almost noon after the time change. And she probably wouldn’t have done that if Dr Chako hadn’t been a nice hubby and let her weekend there between work stints – thanks Dr. C. Oh, and frozen yogurt at Red Mango with fresh strawberries and blueberries - lordy we could be fat if that stuff were as accessible as it was in NYC. She wouldn’t, however, let me buy the sassy red formal mermaid-shaped dress that was 50% off at Lord & Taylors – something about not fitting in her carryon. TSA, SCMEE-SA.

Seems like there isn’t quite enough kissing in this recap – may have to remedy that in the future. Until then, know that Mrs. Chako is fine – buried in her work and pursuing new avenues in the company; trying to be wife, mom, friend, and business woman; contemplating filing her taxes; keeping Excedrin a market leader in migraine relief.

And know that Jayne is still alive and kicking . . . long live Jayne!

Smooches!

Jayne C. (lover, fighter, alter-ego extraordinaire)

Lombardi Trophy

2011-02-05T19:37:00.000-08:00

Is it here yet?

I've heard brevity is the soul of wit, so . . .

GO PACK GO!!!

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

WINNERS!!!!!

2011-01-23T18:43:00.000-08:00

See you in the SuperBowl, suckers!

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Any Given Sunday

2011-01-22T23:59:00.000-08:00

Except that its not.

Today (yes, when this posts, it will be today) is a remarkable Sunday.

My Packers have yet one more chance to be in the big dance . . . its NFC playoff time!!!!

I'll be hosting a small crew at the house who are gracious enough to share my Green and Gold enthusiasm. And I know that I can count on the cross-country support of special people like Bam Bam, Grange, and others who may have changed their affinity once they realized the true Packer greatness would hold through the season (like my husband).

I realize this puts me at natural odds with the Poker Princess, Lightning, and Shelly - hopefully it will be a friendly rivalry that will end well when my Packers crush the Bears in their own house. You guys are welcome to cheer the Pack in the Bowl - Drizz has some Packer attire you can borrow.

I'd love to say something pithy . . . but all I got is "GO PACK GO!!!!!"

Respectfully submitted,

The (Cheesehead) Wife

Answered Prayers

2011-01-10T12:57:00.000-08:00

It looks as though the football gods heard my prayers with that final interception that stopped the Eagles with 30+ seconds to go. It was an interesting game and a nail biter . . . after a heated start by the Packers, who seemed to play pretty steady over the course of the game, the Eagles game back and gave them a few scares here and there.

The Packers game felt steady, and while I admit to being biased, I feel like Aaron Rodgers and team (Driver is a machine) played like a playoff team. The Eagles were their own worst enemy; they would have spectacular plays (like converting for another first down after starting 1 and 25 due to TWO penalties!), followed by spectacular disappointments, like two missed field goals, a missed two-point conversion, and that last minute interception. After watching Adam Vinatieri make a clutch 50+ yard field goal for the Colts and looking like he could have done it from another 10-15 yards back (which was almost their saving grace), Akers must be holed up in the cave of shame for his two misses, one from easy range.*

The last minute was excruciating, knowing that one well-placed pass from Michael Vick could have ended it all. The interception was my saving grace and our small group of revelers celebrated while the last seconds ran out as Aaron Rodgers took a knee.

While all is well in our household, as well as in Lambeau for another week, I know of one poor lost soul who is probably still licking her wounds. Whatever can I do to make my friend feel better?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* Easy if your job is being a kicker for the NFL - I clearly acknowledge I do not have the skills to hardly throw it through the uprights, much less kick it, even if you promised me a new pair of Choos.

Lambeau Prayer **

2011-01-09T01:15:00.001-08:00

Aaron Rodgers,
who art in Lambeau,
Hallowed be thine arm.

Thy bowl will come,
it will be won,
in Dallas as it was in Lambeau.

Give us this Sunday
our weekly win
and forgive the less-passers
as you will not let them pass against us.

Lead us not into frustration,
but deliver us from Eagles.

For thine is the MVP,
the best of the NFC,
and...... the glory of the Cheeseheads,
now and forever.

Go get 'em!!

Amen

The Wife

** Editors note: Blatantly stolen from my sister

Man-sized

2011-01-08T09:32:00.000-08:00

Last night I came home from work to find my little guy laying on the floor whining. I was in a hurry as I had to drive to Stockton to pick up the hubby, who was carless after dropping off a car for safe-keeping. I was not in the mood for whining (and my eight-year-old has a penchant for whining), and had wanted to walk straight out the door, but my mother instinct kicked in and I stopped to see what was bothering him.

"My tooth hurts," he whined. I tried to look in his mouth, but the lights in the family room were not meant for dentistry. I could see two faint small dark spots on two other teeth (cavities!), but nothing on the tooth he was complaining about. I dragged him in the bathroom where the lights were better.

"Give me your best tiger mouth," and he tried to open wide, but kept trying to stick his finger in there. I pulled it out of his mouth and tried tilting his head at various angles. Finally, I could get a visual on the sharp edges of one of his final molars breaking through the back of his gumline.

"You're getting another one of your big-boy teeth!" I exclaimed, hoping to stir up a little excitement from my sad-sack of a son. He shrugged his shoulders, his mouth still turned down in a sad frown.

I suggested we put some Orajel on it. "Does it sting?" he asked, and I told him it wouldn't sting, but would make his mouth feel a little fat and fuzzy. I dabbed some on a cotton swab, and rubbed it liberally over his incoming molar.

There is a moment, as a mother, when you watch your child's face and realize a very bad reaction is coming. At this point, you can't stop it, and your brain races to think about ways to head off the impending badness. As the Orajel took effect, I could tell that the numbing and the terrible taste that accompanies the local anesthetic were not being as well received as it could be. His face crumpled and the giant tears started rolling out of his eyes as he let out a low, continuous keening sound that could break hearts of stone. Sadly, as an experienced mother, I was torn between feeling terrible and being amused at this ridiculous reaction, a combination I had not quite seen in my 13 years of mothering.

I grabbed a wash cloth, and wet it with cold water, telling him to stick it in his mouth and bite down. It was my two-fold attack: cloth absorbs the Orajel, cold and pressure helps the tooth feel better, much like you do for teething babies. I packed him in the car with his wet wash cloth, and away we went.

When we got to Stockton, and were heading into the restaurant, I asked him how it felt. "Better," he said. I rubbed him on the head and said "I know it hurts when those big teeth come in . . . but that's what happens when you get your man-sized teeth."

"Man-sized?" he asked, cocking one eyebrow under his knit beanie.

"Yep. That tooth is a permanent tooth - it is the same size as it will be when you're all grown up. It's the same size as Daddy's tooth. Man-sized."

I think I caught him swaggering a bit as he strode toward the restaurant saying low under his breath "Man-sized."

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Coping Skills

2011-01-06T12:53:00.000-08:00

Each of us handles things in our own way, and that uniqueness probably makes the world a better place. No point in being a bunch of Stepford robots. I feel pretty lucky in that I think I have pretty good coping skills. I don't use drugs or lethal amounts of alcohol to cope; never feel depressed or suicidal; and never seriously harm others in my own frustration. Usually a good cry, a good rant, maybe a margarita to take off the edge, and a good night's sleep is enough to reset my perspective. Now and then I verbally abuse DrChako's financial and/or logistical planning skills (such as remembering to pack pants), which also makes me feel better in a strange way, although usually requires me to perform some level of "make up" activities and/or perform appropriate domestic duties as pennance.

But a couple stories in the last few days have really saddened me, thinking about how some people's lack of coping skills, or choice of coping mechanisms, can be so detrimental to us all.

Oh Captain tweeted a sad story about someone without coping skills. An suicide threat on Facebook was ignored, and a woman overdosed on meds. Sadly, the article diverges into things like trying to blame Facebook for her death. Facebook is a forum, people; not a hospital or police station or some other organization with responsibility for your health and well being. What's sad is that for someone who had over 1,000 Facebook friends (I have a quarter of that, many of whom I'm related to and feel obligated to be friends with me), she didn't have the coping skills or a strong enough real network to deal with whatever life dealt her.

In even sadder news this week, a young man in Omaha went to his school armed, shooting the principal and assistant principal, before leaving the school grounds and killing himself. What makes this story more haunting for me is that one of my staff members has a daughter that attends school there; he didn't attend teleconferences yesterday while he waited for the police to sort things out and send his child home (physically unharmed). While the news reports are fuzzy, apparently the teenager had recently moved to Omaha, his father had recently gotten custody of him, and he had just been expelled for causing significant property damage at the school. After being expelled from school, he posted a Facebook warning and went to the school armed with his father's weapons with the intent of taking lives, including his own. Now an entire community is reeling from his apparent lack of ability to deal with life.

For those of us who have children (and I'm sure it was the same for your parents), we have dreams of our children being the best they can be. But we fall into the trap of thinking about it in terms of social expectations . . . we want them to be doctors and lawyers and accountants and nurses and teachers and journalists and firefighters; we want them to marry well and raise families and contribute to their community; we want them to invent things and change things and do everything we didn't do.

After reading these stories, I think I just want my kids to learn coping skills. I want them to learn how to handle frustration and disappointment and and change and loss in ways that don't involve hurting others, and certainly don't involve taking their own lives. I want them to learn that no matter what happens, the solution isn't in a bottle of pills or the barrel of a gun. I want them to learn that tomorrow, or the next day, or the next month, it will be ok and life can go on, maybe even better than before.

I'm going to give them another hug today, just to make sure they remember there's one place that will always be there, no matter what happens - mom's arms.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Who Needs a Comedian - I Have Kids - Part III

2011-01-04T23:03:00.000-08:00

We recently had a parent teacher conference for Son #2. He's a great student, and a model citizen, and she wishes she had a class full of him. Her only recommendation was that he continue to work on his reading and writing. He was good, just not fast, and needed more practice.

I was encouraged that soon after the conference, Son #2 was walking around with a notepad scribbling furiously. Every so often he'd ask us to spell something, but for the most part, he wrote copiously without our help, but never wanting to share much.

The first evidence I found of his budding interest in journalism was his personal daily journal. It consisted of entries such as:

I went upstares.
I said hi Ryder.
Ryder got skard and barked.
I laffed.

A few days later I happened to find his "secret journal" laying wide open on the couch. "Brother is stuped. I thenc Dad is stuped. Mom cind of." Clearly this was where his deepest, darkest emotions were captured during his periods of eight-year-old angst. I know I should have put it down, but curiosity (and my general copyrights to all materials created by my offspring and fruit of my loins until they are self supporting) got the better of me and I couldn't resist turning the page. Our next entry was an experiment in scatological and other rhetoric related to bathroom functions, bodily parts used in reproductive and bathroom functions, etc.

poophed
butthed
weener
buttfase
poopfase
farthead

I don't catch him using those words that often in the house; perhaps this was his outlet. And I'm trying to weigh the pros and cons of the whole situation. I mean, I want to encourage the writing habit. I want to give him some independence. He's having to exercise phonics skills, and creative alternative word choices, and journaling . . . that's all good, right? At the same time, as a mother, I would like my son's topics and word choices to expand beyond the horizons of his groin and the bathroom (though being the male of the species, this may be some high expectations for him to meet).

I closed the secret journal back up, and left it lie.

He hasn't been carrying it around much these last couple of weeks, and I thought maybe he'd outgrown the phase. Then last week, while I was in my office cleaning phase, I found a lovely picture of a snow man he'd made in school and brought home right before the holiday break, that said "To mom and dad". I was admiring it proudly when I noticed some pencil scribbles on the bottom, clearly an aftermarket item.

"Poopyhead. Farter. Buttfase."

Tell me it gets better than this?*

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* In my foolish hope that it will get better, I continue to let him draw and write as he wishes. At our last family dinner at a teppanyaki place, he was finishing the picture of the teppanyaki chef on his kid's menu. His finished picture included the chef saying "Die!" to the food and "He's ded." to a piece of chopped meat. It also included some wavy lines by the chef's butt which my 8-year-old indicated was "the chef farting."

Another One Bites the Dust

2011-01-01T11:46:00.000-08:00

I have never been one to make formal resolutions at New Years. I could blame it on being a sort of procrastinator at heart (though a highly productive one that always meets deadlines, eventually). I could blame it on the fact that being Jewish, we already celebrated the new year a few months ago, and we're in the 3rd month of the year 5771. Mostly its because I don't use dates to spur me to do the things I need to do - I'm a little more outcomes based.

I do, however, use it to look back and say "did I appreciate what I had, when I had it?"

Last night, after we loaded the second of three loads in the dishwasher before going to bed, so that we didn't have to be greeted by piles of nonsense this morning, I reflected on 2010. We had a couple upsets and few major changes, like still adjusting to my new job, Dr Chako getting a new job, losing an uncle to suicide. But as I reflected on 2010, I realized that right at that moment:

We had a house full last night - our whole family, an extra kid who's my son's best friend and like a second son, good friends from the Bay Area. Today we were scheduled to meet up with old friends that have since moved away but are back on a visit. Friends and family - check.
We had a full out spaghetti dinner, followed by dessert, complete with a variety of wine and spirits (or less spirited drinks), as well as some assorted cheese nosh and such after dinner while we wound down the new year. Dishes from the day totaled 2 1/2 loads. Food and drink - check.
We have two paychecks in the bank from two great jobs - even though both are a change from what we had a couple years ago (and for Dr Chako, even less than a year). Not only is the pay beyond just tolerable, we each like our jobs and the opportunities for each of us go well beyond what we're doing now. Employment - check.
We're holed up in our rental house in Palo Alto, which isn't shabby by any means. But the best part is there is comfortable space for us all, plus a little extra for two dogs, friends and family when we want, and a few extra amenities to make like a little more pleasant. Plus this year we invested a little extra in real estate in a modest house out in the Central Valley - good for now, good for later. Shelter - check.
Last night, we exchanged tweets, text messages, emails and calls with friends from all over the US and beyond. Not only was I surrounded by the love of my family, but the bonds of friendship were strong and long. Love and friendship - check.
Last night, when I put everyone to bed, other than one case of some manageable sniffles and one loose tooth, everyone was healthy as a horse. Health - check.

Could I use an extra massage now and then, or squeeze in another couple pair of cute bargain rack shoes? Sure. Does the Doc still want a bigger, better car? If you don't know the answer to that, you certainly don't know us very well. Is there always something we won't have that someone else does? Of course.

But I ended 2010 with everything a girl could need, and all that a girl should want. Which makes 2010 a good year in my book, and gives me a great start to 2011.

Paint the inside of your clouds with whatever silver paint you have in your possession right now, folks, and let the light of a new year reflect off of it for the next 365 days. This girl is going to consider herself off to a good start.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Number One

2010-12-31T08:28:00.000-08:00

I got a Facebook message today that made me laugh out loud - a true story that is hysterical and cringe-worthy in many respects. Sitcom material, even. It would be funny in many contexts (well, at least from an outsider's perspective), but its even funnier with the back story.

The Backstory

I had been working on a specific client when "Mel" showed up to the team for his first day of work. "Mel" was a brand new staff, and though quiet, was a polite, hardworking, and handsome fellow, reminiscent of Mel Gibson (pre-crazy, handsome Mel Gibson).

I went home that night to regale Dr Chako of my work day, and happened to mention my new staff looked a little like Mel Gibson. At that time (years ago, again, pre-crazy), Mel Gibson was on my "list" (if you have to ask, you'll never understand). Dr Chako bristled a bit and grumbled about not being happy that I was working with someone who was going to make me think of the list every day. I laughed, and said reassuringly "Don't worry honey - he's a kid. I have no interest in 20-something year old kids."

The next day over lunch, our team was talking. Turns out "Mel" had a whole life before he became a public accountant, and had been a skier and professional ski instructor for the Candian women's Olympic ski team. I relayed this interesting tidbit to Dr Chako and said "Yeah, turns out that even though he's multiple levels BELOW me, he's actually my age!" Dr Chako was not amused. "You just told me the reason you could never be interested in him was because he was too young; now you're telling me he's your AGE?!"

It became a running joke, fueled by a discussion late one night at work about age-appropriate dating. I told the team I was at a point where should I ever start dating, that dating anyone below age 28 just felt creepy. One of our team members was an exchange auditor from the Netherlands who was 31 and a good sport, so I said "like Sander - he's totally in my sweet spot as far as ages go - I could totally choose Sander." The team laughed, but Mel piped up. "What about me? I'm totally in your sweet spot." I turned and looked at him and said "Oh, well you're my number one choice. That was a given." It became his new adopted nickname - Number 1. And up until the day he left public accounting (to go back to working for the Winter Olympic committee in Canada), I continued to tease him about being my Number 1.

Fast Forward

He's now living in Canada and got married last year. I keep in touch now and then through email or Facebook, but other than that, our contact is infrequent. Today, however, I got this message - he'd apparently taken his wife back to Hawaii for their anniversary . . .

So, I thought it would be a good idea to have the hotel (same one that we got married at) recreate the top tier of our wedding cake for our first anniversary.

So, I gave them a picture of the cake, told them what I wanted.....

I invite Kim's parents for the dinner as well....

They bring out the cake and it says "Happy Anniversary Mel and Mrs Chako"

Kind of ruined the moment...

I told him he could blame the hotel, but maybe the universe still remembers he was my Number 1. I'm guessing his wife Kim probably didn't find it as funny as I did.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Conversations With Boys - Part II

2010-12-22T23:06:00.000-08:00

Every day brings a new something, and usually an annoying something.

We went to the gym as a family tonight. Worked out for two hours, between the gym and the pool - spent a lot of time playing with the boys in the pool. By the time we'd finished over an hour of swimming, the boys were spent and starving.

My oldest son suggested McDonald's fries, and given how much energy they'd just expended, I was willing to give in. My little guy wanted a chocolate shake, but when we got to the drive through, my oldest son convinced him to get a mini-McFlurry with peanut butter cups in it. My little guy hesitated, having set his heart on a shake, but finally agreed.

I reassured him. "It's just like a really thick milkshake, with Reese's peanut butter cups in it."

"It's like your mother," spouted off my oldest son. He's really into this "your mother" phase, where he likes to throw that out as a response to everything his brother says.

I looked over my shoulder at my oldest son. "You're saying your mother, meaning me, is like a really thick vanilla shake with Reese's peanut butter cups in it?"

He smiled. "I'd be so totally into you." He paused for effect. "If you were a thick vanilla shake with Reese's peanut butter cups in you."

I don't even have a response for this one.

Except, maybe, "Your mother."

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Holiday Spirit

2010-12-22T22:51:00.000-08:00

You know the old saying "It's not the size that matters, it's what you do with it"?

Never more true than today. And before you guys get all off the ranch on me, keep it clean - I'm sleeping alone tonight.

I love gifts. Not big things like diamonds (and Ferraris). I like small thoughtful things. One of the girls who works for me got me a scarf this year - she knows I wear them frequently, and she wanted to say thanks for her raise this year. When we moved, my friend Katy offered me a "photo session" with my family - she's been working on doing photography for more than a hobby and we got some amazing candid and posed family shots I'll treasure forever. Years ago my husband would stop by the roadside flower vendors in Germany and bring me this huge mixed bouquet that just brightened my day.

I'm a simple girl, and am pleased with simple things. Which is why I felt all warm and fuzzy after my workout - not because I was sweating like a pig, but because when I got back to my locker, and checked my phone, I had an unexpected email telling me I had a special e-book gift from an unexpected source.

You know who you are - a thousand thanks for thinking of me and sharing a special read you think I might enjoy!

I will do my best to spread the holiday spirit.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

WPBT Part 6: Fond Memories and Moments

2010-12-22T10:34:00.000-08:00

Posting WPBT trip reports in chronological order for me just wasn't going to happen. Maybe because I'm getting old and forgetful. Maybe because the trip never feels linear to me. It feels more like one big event for me, marked by small and large pockets of interesting people, events, and experiences. Like some monster scattergraph with a time dimension and an intensity dimension, where all the experiences are varying size bubbles plotted out in no specific pattern.

So I figure after the old, the new, the poker and the hot (oh, and the x's and o's), it was time for a recap of some of my favorite bubbles (small and large):

Barely making the plane on time, and not freaking out. Dr Chako and I got out of the house later than we planned, ran into a little traffic, then the lady in the security line sent me back to check my bag (with only 2 minutes to spare). Funny thing is the plane we took down was so small, everyone had to gate check anyway . . . but we made it, and the rest is history.
Betty standing in MacCarran at the luggage carousel saying to Dr Chako "Can you pull my jeans down over my calves?" Skinny jeans have a way of working up on women gifted with shapely calves (myself, primarily). Dr Chako took the task too seriously and probably raised some eyebrows when he proclaimed "I'll pull down your pants any time!"
Betty and I flanking Dr Chako on our way into the MGM, and then to the IP. He could not have been surrounded by finer accessories in finer heels. I think he got some of those "what has that dude got" looks from passersby. He's got a fine wife with fine friends, is what he's got.
OK, not gonna lie. Flopping quads and getting paid for them was awesome. Especially with my husband's money in the pot.
Standing between F-Train and Falstaff (who was on his 6th PITCHER of beer) while F-Train asked him questions, Falstaff answered other totally unrelated questions, and I served as a translator. Example? F-Train: "Have you seen Pauly lately?" Falstaff: "I think that's a hooker and this is my sixth pitcher of beer." Me (to F-Train): "He was just talking to Pauly who's at the slots by the Geisha Bar." If we ever make a blogger sitcom, we need to use this set up.
Breakfast with Drizz, Kat, and Dr Chako at the MGM Buffet. Not the best buffet, but absolutely the best company.
Best comment by Otis, on walking past our NL table in the MGM Friday afternoon, and seeing myself, Pablo, Shelly, and CA April all seated in a row: "Four prettiest ladies in the casino, right there." In his defense, Pablo does have the best hair.
Moon rocks from Gracie - so sweet, and way to help us continue to try to further our geek-genes in our offspring!
Dinner conversation with Betty on Friday night. If I told you, I'd have to kill you . . . but suffice it to say it involved lots of our favorite topics (which may or may not have included shoes and mens).
My MGM table Friday night. May have to be its own post - it was just entertaining on many fronts.
Successfully pulling off one bluff per day (my limit) each day I played. Whew - might have to jack that up to two per day next time!
Watching CA April reach the point of alcohol consumption where she becomes this EXTREMELY huggy girl . . . her inner extrovert comes out!
Seeing that Waffle's focus on his health is paying off - I can see the difference! Keep it up!
Seeing everyone gathered for the tourney - amazing how many of us an event like this can manage to gather in one place . We even managed to get nearly the entire group together for a picture (a feat of organization that may never be accomplished again).
Mixed games with just myself, Katkin, Dr Chako and Grange. More fun when the guy with the bad dye job decided to join our table and got a little rattled by the action.
Grange's comment on a passerby in the IP - "Gay, Euro, or D-Bag?"
Drizz's wife, snowed in up in Minnesota, who was drinking and sending him pornography during the WPBT tourney. He shared one of her treats, and I got a laugh out of BrainMC when I was trying to figure out the pose and told Drizz it looked like the Heisman of pornography.
Dinner with CK, Grange, and Dr Chako - thanks for the comp and the fabulous conversation. Not to mention the fact that my dinner companions were pretty easy on the eyes. Yummmm!
Saturday night poker at the IP with bloggers and DC - some random local who was a clear case of adult ADHD and some combination of caffeine, nicotine, "supplements" and various other potential pharmaceutical enhancements. He couldn't stop talking and I think poor Mary had to take the brunt of it; I learned how to engage him and make him friendly - got to know his poker play pretty well - wish I would have had more opportunity to take advantage of it.
Demonstrating my version of a "live straddle" for Grange in the IP poker room which involved a fully-clothed cowgirl position on his lap while I got my cowgirl groove on to "Achy-Breaky Heart". Not gonna lie and pretend it wasn't a little hot, particularly with this hunk of Nebraska-born beef. Ah, alas, I'm married, and he's in a different league (lawyers, that is). If he ever changes his mind . . .
Drizz meeting his full end of the bet and wearing Packer attire to LaGasse's stadium on Sunday, complete with Packer ankle socks!
Snuggling with CK watching the Pats game.
Talking with the other CK - Special K about our jobs and career choices, and such. Makes me wish I lived closer to him and his Dr.
Pretending to be Rosen's "theoretical mistress" while helping him find jewelry for his wife. After getting the saleswoman (a middle-aged, proper Asian woman) to buy the mistress joke, we got her to cough up one of her own stories about her husband tape recording her conversations with a male friend in the car because he was suspicious and jealous! "Tennis partners" - likely story, lady! Is that what they called it in those days? "Hey honey, Bob and I are going to play some tennis!"
Having Grange be there to see the Doc and I off!
Having a great time with all of my friends, but most importantly, my best friend - Dr Chako.

I'm sure I'm missing other small notable moments . . . can't wait to do it all again. Only thing missing this time was some Steel Panther and "skillets" . . . but you can't always have everything, can you?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

WPBT Part 5: Yes, I Did Play Poker

2010-12-20T19:48:00.000-08:00

I know, I know, you're thinking "when did that happen"? You're thinking "How can she possibly have had time between all the kissing and hugging and talking and kissing and shoes and hugging and fashion and kissing and mooning all over Grange and laying on the bed with Kat and hugging and kissing . . . "

But I got in poker. Quite a bit, in fact.

I started much earlier than normal . . . after getting a few hugs and kisses in at the IP, and showing off my smokin' hot red shoes, I sat down with a table full of bloggers to play a little $1/$2 NL. It was typical blogger play, which means there was always a button straddle, or some other live straddle, and it meant my husband and CK were betting in prime numbers bigger than five (don't ask me). I played my typical game, which meant "call if your hand is strong, raise if it's stronger, bet when you hit it, fold when you don't."

I was in the blind when my first big hand hit. Of course, there was some straddle somewhere, so I was obliged to come in for the full $4, and then I think my husband made it some prime number (might have been 7). I had A7 suited, and decided to call. I was left in the hand with CaityCaity and my husband.

The flop came 7-7-7. I tried to turn down the volume on the choir of poker angels that were singing "Quaaaaaads!" in my head. My whole goal was to try to get my husband to stay in. Being the blind made the first move easy - I checked. My good fortune to watch CaityCaity bet it first - $15 - and my husband smooth call. CaityCaity, regardless of her cards, did the right thing - I showed weak, and if she didn't bet at it, DrChako certainly would have, regardless of his cards. I did my best brow furrow, and called as well. The turn brought a J. I checked again, and again, CaityCaity led the betting for $35, with my husband smooth calling again. I've now decided that both of them likely have something; although I totally gave my husband credit for holding overcards, still hoping to pounce. But I needed to make some money here. I raised, which put me all in - I only had about $33 behind. CaityCaity called, and my husband, wisely suspecting his small pocket pair had put him behind one of us (and likely his uber-conservative wife who was raising), laid down. I turned over my 7 and raked the pot - which managed to put me up to around $200, which was double my original buy in. Woot!

I wasted a few more chips over the next couple hours on a few straddles or hands that didn't pay off, and finally decided to step away with a $20 profit.

On Friday I hit it again in the early afternoon at the MGM, this time with the intent of joining CA April, Pablo, and Shelly in an easy $.50/$1 NL game. Great way to spend a little time with friends without blowing the evening's bankroll. But there wasn't a seat open.

"If you'd like to sit down in the $1/$2 NL game, we can call you when a spot opens at your friends' table." I took my Ben Franklin to the nearest open table and sat down to wait my chips. I agreed to let the button pass and play in behind it, ordering a drink while I waited. No cards hit the table and I was already down $1 for the tip! I tossed the next couple deals in the muck, and then was dealt pocket aces. Raise! Got two callers, and we see a completely random flop. Early position bets, about a 2/3 pot, and I raise. Button folds, and EP guy pauses, stares me down, and grudgingly folds his hand. I won't be here long, so I flip up my aces and rake my chips. Two hands later, they call me and I walk over to the $.50/$1 NL table with a 50% profit on my buy in.

Which, as it turns out, was all I could bring to the $.50/$1 game - $50. I cashed out the rest of my chips, and tried to get myself situated while chatting with the blogger crew. Turns out the rest of the table was friendly enough, too, and we had a lovely afternoon together. Well, other than Pablo and I were totally banned from chopping at that table partly because that's their rules, but probably because we took too much rake time debating about whether or not to chop when we finally decided against it (I had pocket 8s - I needed his other $.50!). The best hand of the table had to be when my 98 hold cards saw a flop of 7-6-5 rainbow. My good fortune that one of the other players wanted to play, and Pablo had flopped a set of sixes. I bet, other player called, Pablo raises. I min-raise him, and the other guy folds. Pablo re-raises, and I make a final raise to put him all in. I sweated the board pairing a bit, but my straight held, and I scooped a monster pot. I only had a few minutes to play before I had to leave to take a conference call, so I managed to walk away for the whole day up $150!

That evening I hit it again at the MGM, after a fabulous dinner with Betty, and after being a little up at the $1/$2 NL table, I went back to the $.50/$1 table, to protect the downside (while my husband was out playing with the boys). This table is a story in itself, highlighted by CK and I bringing all action to a halt a couple times, and my table mates were some top notch characters. I held on quite a while, but ended up losing a $40 buy-in to the guy who drew to his Q9 straight on the river, against my flopped two pairs (J-10). I bought in for another $40, just to pass time, and held on another couple hours, but lost a race of JJ against a guy drawing to the straight flush who just managed to complete the regular straight on the river. I'd call 'em river rats (which they may in fact be) . . . I guess after showing down only good hands they were hoping to catch me off-guard and managed to get there. Like I said, protecting my downside, and still left the poker room up for the day.

The blogger tourney was my next run at it, and I played long and hard, finishing 29th. Far ahead of my hubby and teammate who finished 84th, and not too far behind my other teammate who finished 22nd. Nothing huge and memorable - generally it was "get good cards, play and win with them," "get good cards, don't hit, fold them" or "fold the crap." No magic, and a table that was playing pretty tight and conservative . . . after a table change, I was all but out when my JJ went up against CK's KK. The rest is history.

I played mixed games with DrChako, Katkin and Grange at the MGM while the final table was being decided and managed to part with another $20. Cards were crap and fortunately the flops were even crappier . . . Grange couldn't get another bet out of me after he turned quads. After a dinner break, we headed to the IP to join the gang and play a little more. This one is another story unto itself, so I'll save the details for later. Suffice it to say, even with all the crazy goings on, by the time I finished Saturday night (Sunday morning?) I was only down a net $10 for the whole trip, which was probably in large part due to tips for the weekends table drinks.

Missed my favorite NL partner, but all in all, was happy enough with my play, and best of all, had lots of time to play with friends, laugh and talk and do all the people watching and player watching a girl could get in Vegas.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

WPBT Part 4: X's and O's

2010-12-19T21:27:00.000-08:00

For better or worse, I am an affectionate person. I have a small personal space, and don't mind inviting people into it.

It takes very little to establish that level of intimacy with me - be engaging, be open, be friendly, be honest, be willing to share a little of your space with me. I'm pretty easy to figure out, and except in the rare cases when I've consciously decided to be my alter ego Jayne Chako, what you see is what you get.

One of my best memories of the first WPBT that I participated in (while Dr Chako was in the sandbox) was how little it took to establish that level of intimacy with people - like Instant Tragedy and Bam Bam - before I even got to Las Vegas. Hugs and kisses just seemed natural. Still, each one was treasured.

Everyone has a different level of comfort with personal space, much less hugging and kissing. Some of it has to be rooted in our upbringing. Some in our culture. Some might be buried in our DNA. I'll chalk mine up to at least two. I can't take credit for culture (I'm some combination of German/British/Scandinavian heritage that might not be top of mind in the world of outwardly affectionate peoples), though based on my preferences, I'm certain I'd make a great Latin American or Italian woman. But I grew up in a huge extended family, with little space and little money, but lots of affection. I kissed and hugged my parents goodnight every night. Still kiss and hug them every time I see them. I kiss and hug all my relatives - I even have those mouth-kissing older aunts. We're just full of affection.

I also think it's just who I am. I love kissing and hugging babies and little kids, and smother my two boys with affection, both of whom are very affectionate themselves. Loved my husband and his family who are big huggers and kissers. Tend to touch people when I talk to them. And I always have a hug (and/or a kiss) for any friend who needs one.

This WPBT didn't disappoint in that respect - I love that I have a whole gaggle of friends who take full advantage of the ability to engage in a little (semi-appropriate) PDA. Makes the weekend complete.

Some notable PDA at the WPBT this year included:

My fair share of smooches with one of my gal pals, CK. She's one of the most bendable, huggable, kissable people ever - partly 'cause she's beautiful, and partly because she's just a cool chick. If I ever decide to permanently* bat for the other side, I'm gonna pray to the "other side" gods that she be among a few to convert as well. She greeted me with smooches and hugs, we managed to bring the MGM poker room to a halt a couple times on Friday night (although we had to turn down requests from my NL table for on-demand performances), and she still had smooches, hugs, and a lot of snuggle left to share at Lagasse's on Sunday. HIGHLY smoochable. Did I mention highly?
Kisses and hugs with Kat. This woman embodies grown-up sex appeal and exudes love. I always feel refreshed and renewed when I have a chance to hug her, and don't mind that she's always willing to lay a smooch on me (when she's not smooching my hubby).
Otis. Something about knowing those words on his blog come out of that brain is an amazing amount of sexy. When I get a hug and a kiss, I feel like he's gifting me with some of that magic. Plus he looked pretty hot in that vintage cream tuxedo jacket. The best was when I was walking through the IP with Drizz and my hubby - Otis was walking towards us from the other direction. I was holding hands with the Dr., and as Otis passed, he leaned in and kissed me full on the mouth before cruising by . . . the look on the dazed and confused passers-by was priceless. It's Vegas people!
Special K. I have to kiss him chastely (mostly), 'cause I know and respect his wife, and she can probably kick my ass, or at least run me down. But he's always good for an extra hug or two, as well.
Falstaff is like a giant, funny, sarcastic, sexy teddy bear, and I can't wait until I get my hugs and kisses from him. If he's not kissing my husband or sticking his tongue in someone's ear. He also told me I had the softest lips. He totally can retest that theory ANYTIME.
Katkin. One of the nicest guys ever, and like a good Jew, he's always got hugs and kisses for a sister. His beard kinda tickles, too, in a good way.
Dr Jeff. Of course, it took forever before I laid eyes on this guy, as the husband and others were monopolizing his time and he didn't make it to the MGM poker room until late. However, he had delicious hugs and kisses for me, and held me tight while we watched Dr Chako get a massage at the poker table. He stopped only long enough to show me the latest picture of his little one, like a good dad.
OhCaptain laid a little of his midwestern love on me, but nothing his wife wouldn't approve of (if she's reading).
I lost my kiss virginity to Grange . . . full of hugs, and treated me to the sweetest kiss right before I left Vegas. I know I already talked about it, but totally worth talking about twice.
Drizz always has a hug for me, even when he's wearing Packer attire (complete with Packer socks).
Maigrey, the Poker Princess, laid some love on me too - complete with her braces-free smile. I guess that's what you get when you share a little crack** together.
F-Train showed up at the IP Thursday night and was there to give me the requisite hugs and kisses, after he ogled my shoes.
I got hugs from everyone's favorite bloggers . . . Pauly and Iggy, Al, Gracie and Pablo, Bad Blood, Mary, Dawn Summers, Joe Speaker, Waffles . . . I'm sure I left some out.

Throw in a sufficient amount of marital "affection" (that's what we're going to call the package deal, and spare you further detail) and I'm gonna call it good. My X's and O'x meter redlined for the weekend, and I came home a happy girl.

If you know me, you'll know that I always have more for you. If you don't feel like you got enough, I'll get you on the next round. And if you ever feel like you need someone to wrap your arms around, or lay lips on, look me up.

XO (or if you're CK . . . XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOOOXXXXXXXOOOOOOXXXXXOXOXO***)

The Wife

* Discuss amongst yourself if my use of the word "permanently" (I chose to not self-edit) was a Freudian slip or not.

** Not that kind. Ew. Not that kind either. It's an alcoholic coffee drink, people.

*** Thinking of charging admission in the MGM next time.

In Which I Feel Small

2010-12-19T16:49:00.000-08:00

He was confident. Used terms I didn't know about a subject I know little about besides "when it works, it's good." Talked permits and earthquake mounts and gas lines and other things that interest me little.

Except when I enter the garage to find the hot water heater spraying all over the place.

You never feel as small as when something big is going bad and you have no idea what to do. My knowledge of plumbing with respect to water consists of "turn on the faucet, turn off the faucet". I'm a little handier with the toilet functions, but other aspects of water intake/outlet is a general mystery to me.

The estimates don't make me feel any better. I am getting three estimates, all of which are for something I'm not even paying for (thank you, Mr. Landlord) and I still feel like they're all in cahoots and playing the shell game with me. Why do you make $200 per hour?

The guy is here now so I'm going to go watch myself get violated.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

WPBT Part 3: In Which Mrs Chako Contemplates New Connections

2010-12-18T10:41:00.000-08:00

So the great thing about the WPBT is that no two are ever exactly alike, you can never imagine in advance how they turn out, and they are filled with good surprises every year. My favorite part of the new surprises is the people . . . either meeting new people I've never met, or connecting with old acquaintances in a different way. So this post is a tribute to all of the "new" connections from this year's trip for me.

Let's start with my favorite. Every year, it seems like there is one little sparkling moment where I realize I've fallen into deep like with a special new blogger friend. This year it was Grange. The Dr. and I were hanging around with Katkin (one of my favorite new peoples from WPBT's ago) and Grange . . . I'd never met the guy, but he was well-known in the internet circles. He was pleasant and appropriately sarcastic, and a bit of a hunk, too. He's a midwest lawyer, but grew up a Nebraska farm boy, so he's got that tall, broad-shouldered frame that you can picture stacking hay in a mow, or throwing you down in the hay . . . (farm-boy fantasy break) . . . you get the picture. When CK's sweetheart bailed on her, we had an extra spot, and I suggested we invite Grange. My instincts were spot on - he is a great conversationalist, sarcastic and funny, and we had some really good serious conversations. Many good moments of the weekend involved him, either directly or peripherally. I'll save the "live straddle" moment for a favorite moments post, but a close second was the sweet goodbye kiss I got right before we hopped in a cab for the airport. I think my lips are still tingling a little.

Other favorite "new" people:

Had a chance to chat with Lightning. After teasing the Dr. and I about Ferrari's and au pairs, we spent some time talking fiscal responsibility. He and I share a lot of the same philosophies about money - I swear if we were married, we'd be like two squirrels hoarding nuts.
Met BrainMC. Played poker with him a few times, chatted a few times more. He teased me about playing tight . . . when they asked for my players card at the MGM, he laughed and said "Don't you mean your folder's card?" He's an easy going sort, and I kept having the urge to run my hand up the back of his nicely clipped head . . . love the way short hair feels. Seems like the kind of guy who would be great to hang out with.
Met Dave Rosen (Sox Lover?). He was at my starting table in the tournament, and while I'm gonna call bullshit on him for the donkey 2-7 all in play (not against me) that won when his 2 of diamonds completed the 4-card flush on the board, but I had a great time with him Sunday at LaGasse's. He was so excited that a couple bets he'd placed had hit; I had a fantastic time helping him shop for jewelry for his wife. We were looking for something that said "Thanks for letting me go have fun in Vegas", but nothing that reached the "Please don't divorce me for what I did in Vegas" level. With my bargain shopping, I got him a beautiful set of earrings and a pendant that looked like it said "Thanks for letting me go have fun in Vegas" but only cost "Thanks for letting me go to the derivatives convention in Cleveland" dollars.
Met 23Skiddoo on Thursday night (a night he may not wish to remember, much like the several buyins he left at the table). He was sweet to me, and we agreed that most bloggers marry up - can't wait to meet his wife. :) Although the tables were not so good to him, he was still full of hugs.
Two "new" ladies faces to me (one new to the group, one an experienced WPBT'er) this time were Josie and Shelly. Josie is a sweet and bubbly sort and was a joy. Shelly was really down to earth and was fun to have at my $.50/$1 NL table, and our conversation on fashion and knuckle hair (two unrelated conversations, I should say) helped fill out the tapestry of the weekend.
Met others briefly . . . Poker Grump and Numbono and . . . well, I'd need to go through the blog rolls of everyone to make sure I caught them all.

For those of you who have never done a WPBT, or do them infrequently, the next time you get the time and the money, make it a priority. Not only will you get to have some quality time (and irresponsibility) with some of your favorite old friends, but you meet a couple new ones every time!

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

WPBT Part 2: In Which Mrs Chako Contemplates Looking Hot

2010-12-17T18:34:00.000-08:00

Still not the kissing blog. Though peripherally will relate to the kissing blog.

Vegas is one of those great places. You can choose to dress up and go all out. You can choose to wear the clothes you wore last night. You can choose to wear the same clothes all weekend long. You can mismatch your clothing and go completely unnoticed in the land of "everything goes, as long as you're ok being laughed at occasionally, but it's ok 'cause you'll never see them again."

Let's discuss some of our notably "looking hot" moments.

I give myself first dibs because, after all, it is MY blog and I can write about whatever I damn well please. But my first dibs to go me for my Thursday night IP footwear. I bought this rockin' awesome pair of red patent leather Guess stilettos with a ton of straps, a cork platform, and 5+ inches of stiletto. Now because of the relatively frighteningly hotness of the shoe (I mean, come on, they were like "F-me hot"), I did pair them with a more low key pair of dark skinny jeans, t-shirt and jacket, so as to balance the hot factor. Matching red pedicure and the look was complete. I felt bitchin' hot. Yep - bitchin' hot.
I wanted to give myself second dibs, but I'm gonna give that to the lovely CK. Friday night was dress up night, and I was totally in the running, but then she showed up dressed up too. She had this awesomely elegant, yet sexy black dress. Sleeveless, fitted (without being too tight), longer skirt with this awesome slit up the front side. Laid gracefully across her lean body, leaving her looking positively classy, yet edible at the same time. Completely added to her kissability (which I took full advantage of), and has given me dress envy - must have dress. Complete the look with hair and makeup and she was a show stopper. Even without the kissing stuff.
Ok, now I give myself another set of props. Friday night, I let out my inner Jayne and dressed up to join my partner in many crimes, Betty Underground. She lives right down the road from me, but we've established a long-standing (twice) tradition of eating shi-shi food together in Vegas and sharing girl talk. She said "I'm dressing up" so I was obligated to pull out the stops. Indigo slinky halter dress, smoke-colored chunky glass earrings and necklace, black snake skin Jimmy Choos, and a red faux pashmina, just for a spot of color. Given the reaction of my NL table in the MGM later, I was certain it was in the running for a "looking hot" nomination.
Speaking of my partner in many crimes, Betty was looking fine and fabulous as well. She rocked out some crazy stilettos on Thursday night at the IP too, nudged out only by the sheer red hotness of mine (talk to your friend Scott, who was a fair and impartial judge). But Friday night, it was a tasteful black short dress that showed just a hint of her ink, black leggings, and fabulous black heels. Classy, sexy, and definitely hot.
Kat showed up Thursday night at the IP looking biker chick hot. New Joan Jett cut, black dress showing off some curves and her ink, and some kick ass boots that gave the whole look an edgy sort of sexy. My husband will let you leave those boots on his side of the bed anytime.
Gotta give a nod to Very Josie. Having met this bubbly bit of lusciousness for the first time, she didn't disappoint. First of all, she's cuter than her picture on her blog - the kind of cheeks you want to take a bite out of. She was decked out in the MGM poker room in this bedazzled black shirt with this cute little asymmetrical neck that demonstrated her curves. Her personality is even more bedazzling.
Astin gets the hot man nod . . . he showed up from dinner with Carol decked out in this natty suit and looking fine. Well played, sir.
Drizz and Otis get nods for jacket hot. Drizz sported a classic blazer, making him look like the most respectable of our crew in the IP (which technically might not be that difficult). Otis sported a classic cream colored blazer with chocolate brown trim that fit his lean frame like a glove. Yum!

Lest you feel slighted, remember this is only about "looking" hot . . . if I were making a post about BEING hot . . . well, it could be a significantly longer post . . .

Posts yet to come . . . new people I met and loved, old people I kissed and hugged, football . . . oh, and poker.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Hot red shoes . . . note the blogger signatures on the guitar in the background

WPBT Part 1: In Which Mrs Chako Contemplates Her Virtual Neighborhood

2010-12-17T17:38:00.000-08:00

I know you were hoping this was the kissing post. Wait for it, people.

I know you may also favor the chronology part of WPBT trip reports. I can't do chronology this year, as it's all swirling in my head and what is time anyway, in Vegas?

So I'm going to do it by segments of feeling and activity. Today's post contemplates the odd little virtual neighborhood we've created.

Falstaff and I had a great conversation at LaGasse's Sunday morning. It could have been because he's such a lovable guy. Or because he came to the event with some sort of bizarre Nacho Libre mask (maybe it was S&M). Or because he told me I have the softest lips ever (I do - you should try kissing them sometime). Or because he was totally hopped up on cold medicine. Or some combination thereof.

We were discussing how in the 50's, couples in the neighborhood got together all the time to socialize and play bridge and card games and such, drinking and smoking and whatever the Mad Men of that day did. He speculated that, in some ways, we were replicating that kind of environment, just having to do it in Vegas. Friends who show up each year (and randomly at smaller gatherings throughout the year) just for the sole purpose of socializing and playing a few cards together.

It got me thinking of our little (large) posse as kind of a virtual neighborhood. And leaving Las Vegas made me a little sad, because it is always like temporarily moving away from the neighborhood. You have to say your goodbyes, without the certainty that the next bridge or poker night is only a week away.

These are people that could easily be my real neighbors (like CA April, and Bayne and Betty). I could totally see leaving the kids for a night and gathering with the Falstaffs, and the Special K's, and the Otises, and the Drizzes, and the OhCaptains, and the Bloods, and the Katitudes, and the . . . you catch my drift . . . swigging back some drinks, trading stories and kisses, and throwing cards around the table. Hell, I could even see dragging the kids along to the Otises or the Drizzes or the OhCaptains. We could go to Falstaff's book nights, or watch Dr. K kick Special K's ass in the next run, or participate in OhCaptain's Bourbonator nights. And when I think about getting on the plane, knowing that it may likely be a year before I see them again . . . well, it makes me a little sad.

Every year I find I have new conversations with someone, even long time blogger friends, and it makes me happy to live in this virtual neighborhood.

Special K and I had a long chat about our jobs, and motivation, the definition of success, and living with your life choices.
Falstaff and I could have pondered the neighbor question a little longer except my kids decided to interrupt at that moment to discuss their progress in the latest video game.
Betty lives less than 15 miles from me, but we still took a moment out of the hustle of Vegas to have a lovely dinner at Nob Hill while we discussed topics of mutual girl interest (mostly 'mens').
Iggy and I had a conversation about whether it would be better to have a year or two off between high school and college where kids could learn real life skills like building houses and teaching and budgeting and stuff.
Kat and I laid on my bed in the MGM (imagine away, people) discussing life choices and education and other weighty subjects while we digested our buffet breakfast.
OhCaptain and I talked of loose plans to have a trip through America's heartland this summer to catch some Minnesota bloggers on the way to visit my parents

These are good people. Proud to have them in my virtual neighborhood; welcome in my real neighborhood any time.

When is our next block party? I'm already starting to get the itch . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

The Big Hurt

2010-12-17T12:00:00.000-08:00

I'm sure that is some sports hero's name, but for the life of me I can't recall and I'm too damn lazy to go google it. How bad is it when you don't have the energy to click over to a new web page and do a word search?

Today, there is a new owner of the name.

I had a massage scheduled with Heather today. Oh she of the magic hands Heather. Perky cute girl with an amazing touch and ability to ferret out my knots like a French pig ferrets out truffles. I was looking forward to my massage with Heather. Then the call came. Heather has an emergency - can I reschedule?

I couldn't reschedule, so they gave me other therapist options, men and women. "Who can do 'firm' pressure best?" I asked.

"Oh, that would be David," she purred. No, she really purred. Never having had David, I agreed. I mean, she was purring, for heavens sake! How could I say "no"?

Enter "Big Hurt"

"I'm David," came the voice, shaking me out of the reverie of looking through the jewelry catalog. I looked up to see this hulk of a young thing. Easily 6'2" . . . young man, maybe black, maybe Polynesian. Certainly seen his fair share of dinners . . . and a gym.

I followed him to the room - he was at least handsome, so I could drift off to the massage zone with a pleasant picture in my mind. That is until his massive hands pressed down on my back. with his 200+ lb. frame behind them. I felt the air rush out of my lungs as my rib cage collapsed on itself (who knew ribs were so bendy?), the crack of vertebrae the only sound in the room. Then after a quick sweep down my back (where his hands covered the entire width of my body with ease), he came back up to attack the last three weeks worth of travel and stress knots that had turned my neck and shoulders into a pain minefield. I took deep breaths. Tried to let go into his pressure. Tried to make myself jello. All while he tried pry the knots out from under my skin with his bare hands.

He managed to trigger a piriformis spasm in my rear, and then had to spend time smoothing that thing down. Did leg stretches that made me wonder if my legs were meant to bend like that other than in the back of someone's car in college. Found sore spots in my head and on my hand and other places that don't get massaged so often. It was this glorious, sick dance between pain and relaxation, and by the time he was done and was tugging my hair back one last time, stretching my neck to the ceiling, I almost felt compelled to simultaneously yell "Yes!" and "Uncle!" The Big Hurt had had his way with me.

When he finished his torture - wait, ministrations - strike that, torture - he whispered calmly to me.

"Ok, Mrs Chako, we're all done for today."

As I prepare to slip into bed tonight, my muscles are reminding me that we might be all done for a while, Big Hurt.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Missing Man

2010-12-16T22:33:00.000-08:00

Ever watch the Blue Angels do an air show? One of my favorite ones is when they do a missing man formation . . . they fly up in perfect pattern, perfect unison, except there is an obvious gap in the line up. I have military men in my family and specifically military pilots. Each time they do it, it sends chills up my spine.

I have so many good things to report about our last Vegas trip. It's like this weird homecoming where you meet new friends, old acquaintances that become new friends, make better friends of your old friends, and have an amazing time doing everything, nothing, and all things in between (which generally involves some significant amounts of kissing and hugging and lots of Carmex).

But before I report, I want to give a shout out to the "missing man" - those bloggers who for one reason or another couldn't be with us this year. While there were probably too many to name, the few that top my list and who were most missed include:

Instant Tragedy. He was the one who encouraged me to come in the first place back while Dr Chako was still playing in the sandbox. He offered to be my chaperon and welcomed me to the tourney. Called to check on me the night I had the migraine. Organized a signed guitar for my husband that still sits on a guitar rack next to our bed. He's now married and I've yet to meet his lovely better half, but we're still hoping for the day. Dr Chako is storing up a great big man-hug for the guy he's never met but who was one of his fiercest supporters during the war.

Bam Bam and Pebbles. They were missed on a couple fronts. First, they are just an overall great couple. Pebs is a fierce poker competitor, but lover at heart. Bam is the most generous loving man I know (short of the Doc). Bam Bam's first words to me included "beautiful (in reference to myself, just in case you were wondering)" and I haven't forgotten the phrase yet. But just in case, he uses it now and then to refresh me. He's like a brother to my husband, and a dear heart to me. He also looks super-hot in a retro Packer's jersey. Me-ow!

Peaker. *sigh* I start this with a sigh because I kind of have a little crush on him. Not like that forever unrequited farm-boy crush I've developed on that big hunk of a midwest lawyer Grange, or that murky, inappropriate, yet satisfying Otis/Dr. Jeff fantasy vision I drag out on long nights when the Doc is in our other house (I'm sure I've mentioned that to you honey, right?). It's that innocent 13-year old girl crush, when she's like "so he sat that the $1/$2 NL table with me for 8 hours - and he even said 'nice hand'! OMG - do you think he likes me?" He's adorable, he's got a good heart, and he's a lean, mean, running machine. He can bring a tear to my eye, whether its with a personal interest story in Greeley, or because I'm laughing so hard about his kids and poop that I'm crying. *sigh* Did I mention he wasn't there? (Insert frowny-face).

Other poker degenerate friends were missed - from our northwestern poker pals, to the lovely Kirks (Spaceman and Rachel), Bracelet and his lovely sidekick, Riggstad, Schaubs, and so many more that have filled in a variety of WPBT events and are part of the bizarre tapestry of friendship, poker, blogging, and general debauchery that we cloak ourselves in when we need to feel warm and cozy. It's like Joseph's Technicolor Dreamcoat . . . but with a mixed up fashion sense, lack of actual color coordination, worse singing, and smells a little like alcohol and cigarettes. But damn, it sure fits well . . .

I had so much fun. But you, my friends, were missed.

Up soon . . . hot stilettos, hot girls, mediocre poker, and the definition of a "live straddle" in Mrs Chako's book. Sure to "raise the stakes", if you catch my drift.*

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* For those of you who didn't, it was a phallic** reference.
** For those of you who don't know what phallic means because your brain is too fried from the WPBT weekend, free vocabulary lessons at my house. Next Tuesday. When Doc is in Stockton.

Dear Santa . . .

2010-12-04T10:56:00.000-08:00

Much like attending an interesting play with live actors in a theater, I am going to suspend my disbelief for a while and call upon your good nature and apparently magical abilities to fulfill wishes at this time of the year. I realize you may have hesitation around fulfilling my wishes for some very obvious reasons, but hear me out:

Yes, we are currently celebrating Hanukkah and there may be some social stigma against double-dipping when it comes to major religious holidays. However, I would hope that you will be lenient, given the secular nature of your character, and consider the benefits of spreading holiday goodwill toward all, even those of us lighting candles as we speak
I realize you have that whole "naughty-nice" thing, and I am hoping you will take a broad view and consider the "spectrum" of things "naughty". Clearly, in the "spectrum" of things naughty, my faults and foibles rank well below things like, say, bank robbery, mass-murder, corporate embezzlement, or world terrorism. And the only thing I've coveted lately is someone's shoes.
I know I was the kid who went around telling other kids that Santa didn't exist, it was really their parents buying gifts. But you know how kids are - who didn't try to challenge the status quo in their youth?

With that in mind, Santa, here is a brief list of my holiday wishes this year:

A sufficient amount of hugs and smooches in the very near future from some of the people I love the most and see the least: Otis, Drizz, Kat, CK, Falstaff, F-Train, BadBlood, Oh Captain, Dr. Jeff, . . . did I mention Otis? Please remember this has to last me for a long time . . . maybe even another whole year. Make them good. Hard. Long.
A hug from Iggy, and multiple touches of his hair. Make sure he wears it down at least once.
Time to see all of my other IIF (can they still be IIF if I know them by face and name and have seen them at least once?) like Waffles and TX April and Pauly and Change and Al and Gracie and Pablo and Luckbox and . . . OMG . . . list is too long . . . you know who I'm talking about.
Extra time with my Bay Area friends . . . Betty and CA April and Bayne.
For my Friday conference call to fly by . . . who has 4 pm conference calls on Friday anyway?
For my husband to lose himself in the fun, the games, the friends, and the love without completing losing the contents of his wallet.
Kissably fresh breath and the opportunity to have it be noticed.
For a perfect balance between having enough to drink so as not to be the only responsible one in the bunch, but not so much so as to become the female Spotis.
Enough pictures to remember the people and the fun; few enough pictures of some parts of the fun such that I do not ruin any latent career hopes of becoming a highly-visible elected official or CEO of my company
Enough stories and laughs and good times to last me until the next time I can see this crazy wonderful bunch of folks again.

I will put out milk and cookies every night for the next 6 nights . . . just make me a happy woman come Thursday!

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Hail to the Chief

2010-11-14T23:17:00.000-08:00

If you're good at interpreting dreams, read on. I could use your advice.

If you're not, but you'd like to know what goes on in my head during REM stage, feel free to stick around.

* * * * *

I don't know where the husband was. I was still me. Still my age. Still had two boys. But I either wasn't married, or he wasn't relevant to the dream.

I sat on the bed next to the red-headed 20-something year old. He kind of had that lean, athletic, but not filled in kind of body that 20-somethings are prone to have with sky-high metabolisms. That flop of red hair fell over his forehead while he read the letter; I absentmindedly stroked the freckles on his bare shoulders, kissing the nape of his neck.

"I guess I was just elected president," he said, letting the letter drop. I could see the official seal. For some reason, I was neither surprised nor did I find it odd that they'd waived the usual age requirement for the leader of the free world. So what if the next president of the United States looked like a cross between Ron Weasley and Eric Stoltz, was dating a 40+ year old woman with two kids, and was technically young enough to be my son?

He stood up, walking to the window, running his hand through his hair. His face was a mask of concentration, but I couldn't help but notice how the fine hairs on his stomach caught the sunlight. "Well this is going to make your resume interesting," I laughed. "Fast food worker; Spanish tutor; laboratory assistant; . . . President of the United Sates." I got up and walked around to kiss him, but he reached down to pick up the letter, avoiding my kiss.

I felt myself panicking: Was it the kids? My age?

* * * * *

Before I could heap anymore insecurities on the list, I found myself awake in the dim light of morning, my bed occupied by one age-appropriate Dr Chako, who was currently still employed as a doctor.

So what is it? A deep down desire to date a red-headed 2o-something? Or date the POTUS? Or a deep-seated fear of another upcoming birthday?

*Sigh*

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

I Want to Be a Vet

2010-11-10T17:37:00.001-08:00

If one of my kids said that to me today, I would assume it meant that their love of animals, particularly dogs, had inspired a career choice in the veterinary sciences.

With Veteran's Day right around the corner, why wouldn't I think they meant a "vet" in the military sense? Because no one "wants" to be a vet. Some people want to be soldiers. Some people want a military career. Heck, some people just want a job and the military is a good place to get one - 3 squares a day, a roof over your head, a uniform , and all the on-the-job training you can handle.

To be a vet, in the truest sense of the word, you need to have been in active military service and have involvement in and direct exposure to acts of military conflict. No one wakes up and says "hey, I feel like being in a military conflict today". Well, no sane person does. But thousands of people still sign up for a career that could thrust them into conflict at any time, and ask for the ultimate sacrifice - their life.

It's a little crazy. I mean, if my employer said "Hey, we want you to come analyze the financial results of our mega-sized global IT company, and, oh by the way, if we feel like it, we could send you off to Brazil to fight IBM." I think I'd be opting for underemployed CPA or hausfrau.

Regardless of the insanity, I'm glad someone does it. I don't want to get all political about what conflicts we should be in or not - sure it was easier when the Japanese were bombing the crap out of Hawaii and were a mere hours from our continental coastline or the Germans were off gassing Jews by the millions. But we choose to have a military in this country, and we have brave people who line up to put their lives on the line at a moment's notice when our elected officials determine we need to be involved in a conflict.

So as we approach this Veteran's Day, without commentary on the politics behind which conflicts we get involved in, here's to:

My dad, for building bridges in Korea in 1950
My uncle, for his time in Vietnam
My husband, for his medical talents in Iraq
My sister in law, stationed in Afghanistan as we speak
My countless friends who have served or are serving
Many more friends who could easily be tapped any day to do the same

Hat's off to your sacrifice, and may you find your way back safely to your friends and family when your service is done.

May we remember the few who did not make it back.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Worth a Response?

2010-11-09T20:59:00.000-08:00

I post on Facebook occasionally. More if something exciting is happening; less if I'm busy and it's life as usual. It's a place where I make small notes about life or how I'm feeling at the moment. Not somewhere for me to push an agenda. Or make large political statements. Or philosophize beyond whether you can ever have too many cute shoes.

So I found myself in an odd situation - one that spawned an actual debate in our house about how (or whether) I should respond. I posted a flippant comment on Facebook about surviving a day without my au pair's help - she has gone on vacation and we've had to rearrange our work schedules to be able to work and still get the kids to and from school, etc. It was one of life's little musings, filled with truth - I will be happy when she returns to help, as it's tricky to balance two careers around two school age boys.

My cousin's hubby chose to comment - he rarely comments on anything or anyone. Without speculating about why he wrote or what his intent was, I'll give it to you verbatim:

"Mrs Chako, love you and the Dr., but be very grateful on what you have. Instead of being 1 day without an au pair, there are many people losing thier houses and jobs...please be sensitive to that."

Again, given that I use Facebook solely as a casual way to keep in touch with an extended network, rather than broader political and social commentary, I was surprised at this. I was more surprised because he knows my background, and I am surprised that he would think, for a moment, that I am not grateful for what I have.

For those of you who haven't heard my story, I'm your classic rags to riches (well, rags to solidly-suburban-middle-class-two-income-not-living-paycheck-to-paycheck-but-still-can't-retire-to-Hawaii-yet) story. Born below the poverty line, worked on the farm, ate government cheese (yes, actual cheese distributed by the government), got free lunch in school, wore hand-me-down clothes, and babysat for $1 per hour to save money for school events. I put myself through college on a combination of scholarships and working, including a dual shift as the night clerk at a local motel, followed by morning at the McDonald's drive-in. Crappy uniform and all - would you like fries with that?

I earned my degrees - both of them. I took the CPA exam and passed it the first time (because I couldn't afford to pay a second sitting fee). I got a good job because I was a good student and CPA qualified and did a damn fine interview. Sue me. I found a great guy to marry who happened to have a good career opportunity, helped support him through finishing medical school and dragged my ass all over the country supporting his military career while trying to keep my own. I tended the home fires while he went to Iraq. And as if to keep me humble, just a short year and a half ago, my employer of 14 years handed me a 3 month notice and wished me luck finding a job in the worst economy in decades. Don't cry; I found a better job, and other than completely having to uproot my whole family, I would have to say we've landed ok.

While I think I have earned every thing I have, there is NEVER a day where I am not grateful for everything. Don't let my petty Facebook posting ever give you a different impression. But if we've turned Facebook into something other than a place where we can occasionally lament that our home team lost (or kicked your home team's butt), that our favorite nail color is no longer in the store, that the font on the new Facebook sucks, or that our au pair has a day off, just let me know and I'll sign up along with the rest of the world and only post deep, meaningful missives or thoughtful social and political commentary.

It spawned a debate in our house. Dr. Chako, totally offended, suggested I delete the comment, so as to avoid other friends and family members commenting and starting a Facebook fight (yes, sis, that means you). I suggested we ignore it - why give credence to someone who has missed the general intent of the post in the first place?

My only consolation that was less than 30 minutes after the comment was posted, the one person who the good Dr. was most worried about starting a Facebook fight, sent me a message, explaining her attempt to avoid getting in a Facebook fight. I give you the relevant bits, excerpted as I see fit:

"The eat-all-your-brussels-sprouts-because-there-are-children-starving-in-Africa bit is logic-less and tired. Just as anyone would, you have grown to love, enjoy and respect what you earned. . . . Ya know what? Fuck that person. . . . I have spoken. . . . I love you."

Yeah. What she said.

For those of you hoping to find deep social and political commentary here, move along. I love social debate as much the next intellectual nerd, but I'm a lover, not a fighter - I've seen what happens when I post my personal thoughts about my au pair having the day off. Heaven knows what kind of social unrest I could spawn if I actually took a stand on something meaningful.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

PS The spelling mistake in his post was left there. Intentionally. Call me petty. Maybe right after you call me insensitive.

Dear Mr. Intercontinental Bank Plc . . .

2010-11-07T11:59:00.001-08:00

Dear Mr. Colin H. Martin, staff, Intercontinental Bank Plc:

As a former auditor, I was extremely skeptical and when I read your email, as I was certain this was another one of those bank scams. Imagine my pleasant surprise when I realized this wasn't some phony deal with same fake Nigerian diplomat trying to move his fake money out of Nigeria without political intervention. I mean, really . . . why would the Nigerian government pick me?

Clearly your responsibility for handling Mr. Ken Lay and Mr. Jeffrey Skilling's money through unnamed company accounts is a respectable and legitimate endeavor that your bank has entrusted to you, unlike that Nigerian money laundering stuff. It is unfortunate that their present circumstances (death and incarceration), combined with their lack of a named beneficiary on these accounts means their legitimate heirs won't benefit. However, as you must certainly feel, knowing their role in the Enron debacle, perhaps it seems just and fitting that for men who orchestrated one of the worst financial shams in the world, their personal fortunes could now be able to be so easily co-opted by the man who helped them shelter their ill-gotten gains in the first place.

Certainly you are entitled to use this money for your own personal benefit; after all, think of the burdens you must have had to bear during the highly-publicized downfall of Enron, knowing that you helped these men of questionable ethics drowning in their own sea of financial amorality, shelter the very money they effectively stole from thousands of employees, retirees, and pension-holders. No amount of money can compensate you for having to compromise your own ethics and personal beliefs to help them gain from the financial ruin of others.

As such, I am more than happy to help you claim your portion of the $25 million now sitting in your bank with no official claim. I do realize how it may look like a conflict of interest if you were to go directly to the bank and claim this money yourself, so feel free to use me as the appropriate beneficiary. Although I have no personal or business relationship to Mr. Lay or Mr. Skilling, and have never had any investment in Enron, I am certain you chose me for my personal financial acumen and demonstrated fiscal responsibility. Certainly the bank officials will understand that rationale. I am also confident that your assurances that this will be handled in accordance with International Monetary Guidelines will not raise any undue attention around the transfer. Given the significant amount of documentation you've already done to enable that transfer, I believe your request of a commission of 60% of the funds is certainly fair and reasonable.

Attached please find the information on my personal accounts and data you require to effect the transfer. Look forward to seeing the money in my accounts soon. I am hopeful you can complete this transaction prior to Hanukkah; between this and the distribution I am still expecting from my investments with a Mr. Bernie Madoff, I may be able to buy my husband the new Ferrari he wants, and maybe pick up the tab for my friends in Vegas in December.

Fiscally yours,

The Wife

PS - I also included my social security number - I figured you might need it to complete the transfer to my bank accounts.

PPS - Just in case anyone asks, my first pet was named "Queenie"

The Smell of an Indian Summer

2010-09-28T23:34:00.000-07:00

Having spent a week in Texas under the sweltering humidity that only a Houston morning can present - the 8:00 a.m. full sweat in the 200 feet it takes to walk from the hotel lobby to the car - you'd think that the thought of a 90+ degree day would have me dreading a step outside of the air-conditioned sanctuary of Cubeville.

But it wasn't just any 90+ degree day. It was an Indian summer day in the climate-utopia we know as the Bay Area. Here, where humidity is as rare as the California Condor, and is a bare whisper of moisture on the few days where it creeps above the 0% mark, a 90 degree day is a treat, even when it comes at the far end of our real summer.

The perfect, moisture-less heat bakes the smells of the summer into the air itself. The air is light, and you can breath a lung full of the warmth, taking in the hints of pine and native flowers and juniper and eucalyptus topped with citrus like you're smelling the bouquet of a fine wine before you drink it. I found myself grateful that my car was at the far end of the corporate lot - more opportunities to sniff the air, waiting to catch another scent. Freshly sawed wood, heating in the sun, from a construction project abandoned when the clock hit dinner time. Bark mulch around freshly bedded plants. The last blossoms on the hedge surrounding the lot. Warm notes of some Baja cuisine drifting over from a nearby neighborhood. The warm air slips around you like a silky robe, encouraging you to shed some clothing and let it touch your skin.

I hopped in the car and did something completely out of my routine. I turned off the air conditioner in 90 degree heat, and rolled down the window. For the next two miles, until I pulled in my driveway, I paused at every stoplight to smell the Indian summer, smiling the whole way home.

When I walked in the door, I hugged my boys and couldn't resist taking a sniff of their hair, warmed by the last of the afternoon sun.

The smell of an Indian summer.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Bad Mom

2010-09-04T15:16:00.000-07:00

I was cleaning up after a quick lunch with the kids. My littlest guy came over with the empty "Catchphrase" box, with his hand stuck up inside.

"Look mom, look what I found," he exclaimed, with the excitement of a 7-year old who thought he was being really clever, "it's the hand game!"

I looked over my shoulder and said, with the requisite fake-mom-interest "Oooh, I wonder how you play the hand game?"

Then the Bad Mom in my head said "He's a boy, and his father's son. He'll learn how to play the hand game soon enough."

Bad mom, bad mom.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Some of My People

2010-08-27T23:15:00.001-07:00

I come from good people. This summer, I got to go back and see them. For all their quirks and foibles, it reminds me how lucky I am to have good people. I captured a few of them in digital:

My mom . . .

Like most mothers, this woman probably deserves a medal. I wouldn't be here if not for her unfortunate, yet fortuitous (IMHO), mistake. Yes, sometimes she's insane. Sometimes she forgets she's told me the same story twenty three times. But she gave up life alternatives to raise me and my siblings on a farm in Wisconsin, with no real material comforts other than the most basic forms of shelter (a generous description for the ramshackle farmhouse they live in). She raised us all, and is now helping raise her youngest grandchildren. She'll happily wear the daisy crown the kids make for her, and coo over the sparkly rocks they shower her with as gifts. She is beauty.

My dad . . .

He's really my step dad, but what's in a description? He's the only father-figure I've known since I was a year and a half old. He has nothing more than an 8th grade education. But at age 79, he's still getting up twice a day to milk cows, harvest crops, and fix machinery. If "salt of the earth" had a face, it has to be him. He's meat and potatoes. He's bread and butter. He's . . . well, he's dad.

My sister . . .

She deserves a nap. She's a single mother of two teenagers, works hard, gets little vacation, and never asks for anything. Sleep well, sister!

My brother . . .

He's uneducated, unmotivated, and unapologetic. But he'll throw the kids on the tractor or the wagon and drive them around the farm to their heart's content. Take the boys shining deer. Help them set up a baseball diamond in the pasture. And heck, he's my brother.

My nephew Mathew . . .

He's the spitting image of his father at that age. Which means he probably has no chance of keeping his hair past age 18. But that big smile and those wicked blue eyes just glow when his big cousins visit and include him in the fun.

My niece, Lindsay . . .

It was so tough to get her to smile and get her to warm up . . . she doesn't see us that often. I finally got her chocolate eyes to sparkle as she posed for me. I tried to butter her up by calling her Peanut . . . now she tells everyone she's my Peanut. When you ask her how she is, she says "I'm a peanut." I told her she was a big girl. She responded "No, I'm a peanut."

My husband . . .

He can be a pain in the ass. He can't cook. His hobbies are too expensive. And I can't trust him with a shopping list of more than 3 items unless it engraved on his hand. But he's patient, and tolerant, and is always a "glass-half-full" kind of guy. And he's been keeping my bed warm and putting up with my stuff for more than 15 years. That's gotta count for something. Oh, and he gave me these . . .

My boys . . .
Son #1 is now a teenager. With all the teenager problems. Like how to keep your hair perfectly styled (but looking like it just falls that way). Like how to handle a girlfriend, as well as several girl friends. Like how to be witty and charming on Facebook. But he's a sweet kid who still hugs his mom. He's got his daddy's eyes. And while I know he'll break lots of hearts in his future, I know I'll always be the first girl who loved him.

Son #2 is my sweetheart. He's got a heart of gold, and easily falls in love with anyone who loves him back. He worries about doing what's right. Some girl is going to walk all over his sweetness someday. But until then, he's my boy, and when I look at that sweet face, I have a hard time saying "no" to anything. I could just eat him up.

* * * * *

They are beautiful people . . . not in the traditional sense of catwalks and photo shoots and modeling contracts. But they are beautiful people, real people . . . they are my people.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Conversations With Boys

2010-07-10T23:30:00.000-07:00

Boys of a certain age (read, almost any age), have certain favorite subjects. Body parts and bodily functions. Son #2 is 7; his filter is not well-developed. Son #1 has a more developed filter, but has found what he thinks is a way around the system: Science. See, apparently, in his 12-year old mind, if you are discussing body parts or bodily functions in the context of something scientific then it's ok. He's recently been attending a marine biology class during the summer, which gives him additional scientific fodder.

Now put the two of them together. At the dinner table. In a public place.

Son #1: Did you know that the (insert some random name) clam has an extremely long anus?
Mrs. Chako: Son, is this an appropriate conversation for the dinner table?
Son #2: An extremely long penis?!?!?!?
Son #1: I said 'anus' not 'penis' . . .
Mrs. Chako: #1! I said not at dinner!
Son #1: But he thought I said 'penis' not 'anus'.
Son #2: Yeah, I thought he said penis (laughs at the simple mix up).
Mrs. Chako: Boys!
Son #2: But he said 'anus'.
Son #1: Do you even know what an anus is, #2?
Mrs Chako: Guys!
Son #1: Its where your poop comes out.
Son #2: (Chuckles and shakes his head) Oh. (Looks at me) I though he said penis.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Uberpimping

2010-07-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

Ok, I'm not going to buy this book written by this guy, because SOMEONE in my house has already ordered it.

But you should probably buy it. Who knows, you might be in it.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Overheard in the Office

2010-06-30T12:51:00.000-07:00

"If I wasn't me, I'd be intimidated by you."

A Letter to the Sock Monster

2010-06-30T00:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Sock Monster:

I write this letter, appealing to your compassionate side. I am sure an all-powerful being like yourself must have a compassionate side, given that you have no need to prove your superiority against mortal beings such as ourselves.

I believe I have made all requisite sacrifices. My favorite pink polka-dotted sock from 1986. That argyle in the early 90's that matched my sweater perfectly. Several of my favorite textured trouser socks in the late 90's. My ski sock in 2004. Oh, and let's not forget the last 12 years of little tiny socks I have contributed along the way.

Which brings me to my appeal. I appreciate your need for sacrifice. Much like the sacrificial lamb offered up to God in days past, the unblemished partner of a pair of fresh socks is our obligation to your omnipresent greatness. Oh, sometimes you let us get a wear or two out of them before we sacrifice, but we sacrifice, nonetheless.

However, you have approached a level of ridiculousness that is reaching plague proportions. Case in point: My seven year old has only two white pair of socks out of the last six-pack we purchased . . . and all of the little black socks have disappeared into your smelly otherworld.

Fortunately, we are square into the lovely California summer months, and flip flops tend to be his choice in footwear. However, in a few months, the chill will come creeping back, and I, as a mother, will be obligated to force him to wear socks again.

I will be purchasing replacement socks in the near future. I have given up hope on you ever returning the mate to one of my favorite pair of Adidas ankle socks and, as such, plan to sacrifice the remaining sock, pristine as it may be. In return, I ask that you spare Son #2's new socks, at least until he has the chance to wear some permanent stains and/or holes in the bottoms.

Respectfully and humbly yours,

The Wife

Reward in the New Economy

2010-06-29T16:11:00.000-07:00

"Last time I checked, 'Thank You' was still free."

I used it in one of my weekly "messages to the people" at work.

We're besieged by cost cutting/cost containment efforts on a weekly, almost daily basis - the "discretionary 401k match", off-shoring, travel restrictions, and our forced move to "self-help" in the IT and HR space. While it's instilled a financial discipline that on some levels is healthy and good for the long term success of our organization, anecdotally, it tries the soul of even the most patient and optimistic people.

Was reminded of it again today, when HR asked me to share some success stories. To be honest, the most positive feedback I've gotten on anything we've done broadly in our organization was around my weekly messages. Surprisingly, while people like paychecks and bonuses and 401k's you can still incent them to work with the occasional verbal appreciation and encouragement.

Made me think about how many other things we could do, at work, or in life, that make other people happy, productive, and more likely to give you 110%, but that cost us nothing, except for a little time, energy, and attention to detail.

Like taking time to acknowledge someone's hard work. Smiling at the person in the checkout line across from you. Letting someone cut in front of you, in a line, or in traffic. Holding a door for someone. Telling an anonymous stranger in the dressing room that the dress they've chosen looks great on them.

Oh, and saying "thank you." Because the last time I checked, that was still free.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm . . .

2010-06-28T23:46:00.000-07:00

I want to be creative. I want to blog about life. But then the intertubes suck me in with something like this . . .

Awkward Family Pet Photos

WARNING: Do not view this link if you are easily sucked into the disbelief around humanity in general. It's not quite as absurdly and disturbingly captivating in that "5 car accident with potential decapitation" way, but it clearly rivals "People of Walmart".

Not like I don't have photos that I look at, 20 years later, and think "what was I thinking." And I even have one picture when I'd done my hair really wavy and I took at picture with my springer spaniel and we looked remarkably similar. However, I was 17, and it was a candid shot . . . these people actually took time to pose and paid a professional to photograph them and their pets.

For those of you who choose to review, here is my unfettered commentary:

Photo 1 of 12 - This guy might be attractive. But I can't tell with that horrendous hair and the scary black cat. And who is he looking at? His mom/witch?
Photo 2 of 12 - So many things individually wrong with this. A baby AND a monkey? The beret? The porn-stache? But together? This man has to be in a database somewhere . . .
Photo 3 of 12 - Am I more nervous about how excited this guy looks? Or how excited his dogs look to be in the picture with him?
Photo 4 of 12 - Our love is only complete with Mr. Pig. In his favorite yellow t-shirt.
Photo 5 of 12 - "No Mom, I don't want one of those stupid senior pictures with a guitar, or standing by the fence - those look so posed. I want something more natural - just me and Mr. Feathers. Oh, and can I borrow your lip tint? I don't want to look washed out."
Photo 6 of 12 - "We're so lucky to have this last picture - right before Mr. Slithers had a seizure and constricted little Johnny by accident."
Photo 7 of 12 - "Great idea, Mom - I think this is gonna look great on Match.com. I especially like the contrast with the suit and the nature background. And the background trees really bring out the yellow in Patches feathers."
Photo 8 of 12 - "Rub him under his chin, kids - kitties love when you rub under their chins. Just stay away from the teeth."
Photo 9 of 12 - As if a "pocket kitty" is just slightly more cool than a pocket protector.
Photo 10 of 12 - Missy swore one day when she moved away from home, she'd have all her professional photos done with a black pit bull.
Photo 11 of 12 - And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And he will be called Fido, the son of God. I mean, Dog.
Photo 12 of 12 - Not sure if its scarier that she dyed her poodle blue, or the tips of her own hair black. Or consciously chose the background color.

Hah! Made you look.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

PS After writing my own commentary, I noted the pictures had captions. I'm publishing anyway.

Canadians are HOT!

2010-05-31T08:00:00.000-07:00

I'm sure some of you (I'd tag all you other Canadian lovelies but it's late where I am and the bed is calling) are like "duh" . . . or maybe "duh, eh?" . . .

Tonight (ok, well, it's the proverbial tonight, because it's actually the night before my 15th wedding anniversary when I'm writing this, but I thought it sounded tacky to post this the night before my anniversary, so I'm using post options to delay posting, which looks like it was written tonight . . . I mean today . . . but it's actually past tense . . . never mind) . . .

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Tonight I was trying to finish some things for work tomorrow and I was flipping channels. After watching the end of National Treasure on cable, I flipped to the Hallmark Channel to watch "Mail Order Bride". It featured Daphne Zuninga (remember her) and some other guy I'd never heard of, and was about to flip the channel until Mr. No-Name came on.

Cameron Bancroft.

Canadian hotness, dressed up in Little House on the Prairie gear, homesteading it out West. Reminiscent of other cowboy hotness, but even better. Almost made up for the lame, completely predictable nature of the Hallmark storyline. I watched until the end. Kept hoping that Hallmark would throw off the family veneer and show me how they really kept warm down on the prairie . . .

I knew you all were huggable. And smoochable. Who knew you could be hot enough to stop my remote finger?

Respectfully submitted (after my anniversary),

The Wife

15 Years . . . Celebrated

2010-05-30T22:31:00.000-07:00

I briefly mentioned that we should get away. But we're classic procrastinators, and work and life are busy, so I didn't think anything more about it.

He did.

Of course, he had a little help from a friend who might be good at classy, romantic getaways.

Nonetheless, it was a weekend to be remembered. 24 hours of a getaway not far from home, but far from real life. The Ritz-Carlton at Half Moon Bay - if you're in the mood too shell out some bucks, this is the place to do it - they understand the type of customer service that it takes to make you say "Oh, THAT's what we're paying for." From the moment we rolled up in the Ferrari, to the moment we roared out, it felt like one of those movie scenes . . . "Nice to have you Dr. and Mrs. Chako"

They had made note of it being our anniversary, so every place we went - the spa, the restaurant, the club level lounge . . . everything was "Happy anniversary, Dr. and Mrs. Chako" . . . they had a little anniversary present for me at the spa, and at the restaurant, and at turndown . . . the smallest details that made me feel pampered. If you are going to spend the money - get the club level rooms. You have access to an all-day eating and drinking binge . . . heck, you wouldn't technically need to actually go BUY food if you just made time to visit the continental breakfast, midday "snack" (read, light lunch), evening drinks and appetizers . . . we missed the night time chocolates.

Best part was it was only semi-scheduled, and completely relaxing . . . even the Dr. forgetting that our dinner reservation was at 7:00 and not 7:30 didn't set us back. I got massaged, and spent time in the spa, got all dressed up for dinner, got back to find the bed covered in rose petals, managed to knock all the rose petals off the bed . . . and even got up with enough time for continental breakfast, a workout, a lazy shower, and a light lunch before heading home. Oh, and I guess the best, best part was doing it with my partner of all these years!

Nice planning, baby.

Here's the photo review.

Gotta go in the Ferrari - though the traffic was brutal and crawling along at turtle speed with the midday sun beating down on you in a black Ferrari can be BRUTAL.

The view from our room.

The view of our hotel from the path down to the beach.

Us.

A view of the beach from the patio.

Me, dressed for a night of romance.

15 years!

Cheers!

My honey reviews the first course of wine.

As if the pre-dessert and dessert were not enough, we got a box of chocolates as a little present for our anniversary.

These adorned our linens when we returned from dinner . . .

The morning dawned as beautiful as the rest of the weekend - this was the view from our room!

And this was the view in the side view mirror on our way home!

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

15 Years Ago . . . (Part II)

2010-05-28T01:31:00.001-07:00

'Nuff said.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

15 Years Ago . . .

2010-05-28T01:09:00.000-07:00

I'm sure I was still sewing something. I had to have been.

By this time 15 years ago, the guests would all be tucked in their beds after the rehearsal dinner. I think the Dr. would have been polishing off a bottle of Southern Comfort or something goofy with his best man at the hotel, prepping for one last night of drunken memories as a single man, and the next morning's round of golf before the official duties called.

But I'm sure I was home sewing. Sure, my mom had helped me with identifying the bustle points on my train before the dinner. But I know I wouldn't have been able to sleep and I'm sure, given my procrastination about the rest of the major focal point of such a monumental occasion - the dress - I'm sure that it still needed some buttons, or some sequins, or some hooks somewhere . . . all I remember is my wedding dress wasn't finished until I walked down the aisle.

15 years ago, I wasn't The Wife. I was still The Fiancee. 15 years ago, I was headed to bed, hours from officially becoming Mrs Chako. 15 years ago, I was a nervous bride-to-bed, heading to bed by myself for one last time as a single woman.

Tonight I'm heading to bed by myself again, with almost 15 years of experience under my belt as The Wife.

No fancy lingerie or ridiculous up-dos or frothy white veils await me in the morning. Instead of girls in matching satin dresses tomorrow, I'll have two floppy-haired, lanky boys that look so much like their daddy to greet me and kiss me and hug me before they run off to school. And instead of white satin and lace, I'll don something more fitting for the cubicles, and head into the office for another day in corporate America.

And tomorrow night I'll go to bed with the first and only man I've ever said "I do" to.

What a long, strange trip it's been.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Overhead Parenting . . .

2010-05-20T00:33:00.001-07:00

My kids are little fonts of wisdom and reflection. When I'm not trying to keep from strangling them, they make me laugh, make me ponder . . . and make me proud.

*****

Son #1 has a girlfriend. He announced the other day. Lizzy. She's Asian (husband is giving thumbs up). She's smart. She's taller than him. He showed me her Facebook. She has pictures of herself that are natural. Real. Silly. His favorite? One where she's blowing her cheeks up like a puffer fish. Forget botox and plastic surgery girls, the guys like you the way you are.

*****

She put a friend quiz post on Facebook. "If you saw Lizzy and she moved to kiss you, would you kiss back?" He responded with a winking smiley face. Sheesh.

*****

I asked him if he was going to change his Facebook status to "In a relationship with Lizzy." He looked at me very seriously and said "I don't need Facebook to tell me I'm in a relationship." Duly noted.

*****

Son #2 is no less deep. We were watching TV today - nothing special, but he spoke up during part of the show, and having been busy with some work, I turned to him and asked him to repeat himself.

He looked at me with his big brown eyes and crooked 7 year old teeth growing in to fill the spots the baby teeth vacated. "Zeyda was funny. And nice. And he was stronger than daddy. He also wore glasses, 'cause he was blind. I liked Zeyda."

"Zeyda" died 2 years ago, when Son #2 was only 5. He got to spend only a couple weeks each year with his grandfather. He had seen him last about 3 weeks before he died. I don't know what made him think of Zeyda tonight. We weren't looking at pictures, and the TV wasn't talking about grandfathers. Maybe he just felt he needed to share a memory.

I looked over at him and rubbed his little 7-year old pot belly. "Zeyda loved you - he was always so proud of his grandsons."

He smiled at me. "I know, mom."

*****

Always a different perspective. Zeyda would have been proud.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Perspectives

2010-05-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

I got a Facebook friend request today that surprised me. It was one of my cousins that I haven't been in touch with for ages. Let's call him K.

He was younger than me - my sister's age - and lived about 3 hours away from us. For my parents, 3 hours might have been an ocean away, and given that we lived on a farm with cows that needed to be milked every 12 hours, we didn't travel much. Once I moved away from home, I had few occasions to run into him.

Someone once told me that just based on statistics, every family has someone who is gay. I grew up in the north midwest on a farm, with a very conservative extended family. I didn't know anyone who was gay, growing up. Well, maybe that calculus teacher in high school that mysteriously didn't come back the next year. I wondered about my cousin L, but that was just because she had a moustache. Then I learned that many German women, including a few of my aunts, have mustaches.

I accepted his friend request right away and checked out his profile.

I'd found my statistic. Which was neither here nor there, for the moment. After all, I'm a woman of the world. I live in California. 35 miles from San Francisco. The only thing more common around here than a gay man is a house I can't afford and a state budget that isn't balanced.

I was more interested in the evidence of his life lived. Pictures with friends, men and women, who seemed to genuinely love being around him. A handsome man I quickly associated with his relationship. Scenes from cities and the mountains, from the Sydney Opera House to the Argentinian Glacier. He is currently living in South America.

I sent him a quick note to say I was sorry I hadn't known to look him up when I was down there two months ago. He quickly popped on to Facebook chat and we chatted briefly, catching up on the why's and how's of his world travels.

He's living a simple life now with his friend. Apparently neither our immigration policies nor our gay policies have made it easy for them to make a life here in the US, so South America is home for now. I told him to come visit in CA - told him it was probably tougher to be an immigrant here than to be gay, which made him laugh.

I was taught, from a young age, that homosexuality was wrong, was a sin, was a sickness. As an adult, I feel a sense of pride (or maybe relief) that I could have come from that conservative of a background and still hold my "live and let live" attitude that I have about the subject. But today it struck a more personal note. Thinking of how hard things might have been for him, growing up where we did. In the family we did. In the time we did. Thinking about how nonsensical it is that if it were a nice South American woman he was in a relationship with, he could marry her and jump through immigration hoops easier than he can because there are two penises in the relationship.

I'm not trying to make a religious or political comment, though I am sure this may rile one or two of you up one way or the other. You're not going to find me draped in rainbow flags in the middle of a rally in Sacramento; but neither are you going to find me with the marriage bumper sticker with the man and woman stick figure. Just puzzling over how inconsistent life can be depending on your choices.

Right now, he's happy. And he's living life experiences he can't get in Wisconsin. And maybe, at the end of the day, that will be good enough.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Back in the Olden Days . . .

2010-05-15T21:33:00.000-07:00

I happened to be singing the other day. Don't ask me why, but I happened to be singing Queen's "We Are The Champions."

My little guy says "How do you know the Crazy Frog football song?" Crazy Frog is this weird little animated frog . . . well, I think frog, except it looks mutant and has questionable exposed genitalia . . . who appears in various YouTube or other video sites singing many popular songs that have been put to some techno music, including the Queen classic.

I told him that "We Are The Champions" is an old song that existed before Crazy Frog. He looked at me like I was kidding. Then I told him that when I was a kid, YouTube didn't exist. He looked at me in disbelief. Then I told him that when I was a kid, we didn't have the internet. This time, he looked at me like I had two heads.

* * * * *

I don't feel old. And except for some gray hairs (which can be addressed with a good colorist), I don't think I look old (or at least not THAT old). But unlike me, my children will never live in a world where:

8 tracks were the "old" technology, being replaced by cassette recorders . . . and if you were really cool, you had a dual cassette recorder so you could make a "mix" cassette
"Beta" was still an option, even though my family couldn't afford the $800 Beta or VHS machine (which could now be had for $30 brand new)
Phones still had dials . . . touch tone was high tech
You only carried a phone with you if you had just purchased a new one to plug into your wall outlet in your house
You didn't have GPS - you either used an atlas, a fold-up AAA map, the county plat book . . . or you relied on your dad's instructions that went something like "go north at the corner, until you pass Eric Ament's house, turn west and cross the old bridge until you come to the old Parker place that Bubba G. bought and turn north onto the gravel road (make sure you slow down cause Bubba G.'s got a busted fence and his heifers get out) . . . "
If your parents were rich, you might have had a Commodore 64 that cost nearly $600. Now in addition to an 80-gig laptop that costs about the same, our kids have iPods that cost 1/4 of that and have like . . . well, after rounding . . . 8,000,000 x the memory.
WWW did not exist when we were kids . . . if you wanted to know something you had to look it up in an encyclopedia in the library. If you wanted to watch a video of people doing stupid things, you had to go to your aunt's house and watch a bad reel to reel of their family vacation. If you wanted to see porn, you had to find some kid who found and stole a 5 year old edition of Playboy from his dad's hidden stash.
We didn't have Facebook, MySpace or any social networking (other than hanging out with your friends after school). If you wanted to form relationships with people you'd never met, you got yourself a pen pal and wrote letters.

Maybe I am old.

Or maybe I'm perfect and time's just on fast forward.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

We Now Return to Your Regularly Scheduled Program

2010-05-15T21:24:00.000-07:00

I checked my blog the other day. I think there must have been a writer's strike or something. Not sure. All I know is I kept coming back to my blog and finding an episode I'd already seen.

Granted the only time I checked it was in the 2 minutes between 12:58 and 1:00 a.m. right before I fell into a small coma and had to go to work again. I kept thinking the words would magically appear.

I guess they don't. I guess I have to write them myself.

Wish me luck.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Understanding Your Stats

2010-04-05T23:32:00.000-07:00

So I'm too busy to really play any money poker these days. Online. At the casino. Anywhere. But I'm a big believer that you get better, gain information, gain experience by seeing more hands.

So I stick to play money tourneys to practice when I find time. Mostly to test out my patience skills. When I've had the time lately, I've been trying out the Facebook poker tourneys.

It's just like the play money tourney's on Stars and such . . . you usually have to wait out the first round of dorks who shove all-in with whatever hand they have. But after a while, people play straight.

The interesting thing about Facebook poker is that it tracks your stats. Basic ones. Hands played. Hands won. Tourneys won (1st place finish is the only one that counts as a win).

I was monitoring my stats against the other players. My # of hands played is 3,320. My # of hands won is 1,019. That's 30.7% - I do math good. My sit-n-go's won? 28%. That's a first place finish nearly 3 out of 10 times.

What's the right number to compare myself against? I tried to review stats of other players, and only looked at people who'd played at least 3,000 hands. If I compare my % of hands won, it seems good . . . but there are people who had a higher % of hands won. One guy had 39.3% hands won. That seems statistically better than me. But his SNGs won % was only 13%. So does that mean he wins more than me, hand for hand, but I make bigger wins and finish better? Does that mean I get involved in more hands, but get out before I bust out?

On the other side of the table was a guy with a 33% win rate at the SNGs . . . but his hands won ratio was lower than mine.

So what do you want, if you're playing tourney's? Is the ratio of hands won going to drive the ultimate win %? Or is it a combination of other factors? How you wait out the stacks? Which hands you play big and which ones you play conservatively? How well you can get away from a hand when you're behind?

I was tempted to say in a cash game, number of hands won should equate to overall win . . . but even that doesn't tell you anything about size of pots won, etc. I guess it's all relative . . .

Doesn't need an answer necessarily . . . just interested to hear what you all focus on when you focus on improving your game. What stat is it that you want to master?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Some Things I'll Never Understand

2010-03-28T21:16:00.000-07:00

I don't understand why hot dogs come in packages of 10 and buns in packages of 8. I don't understand where lost socks go. I don't understand why it only rains when I wash my car or wear suede shoes.

I don't understand supernatural phenomena. Unlike my husband, I've never seen a UFO or a ghost. I've never had a premonition. Sometimes, I have eerie coincidences, but that's about as close as I get to anything that requires eerie music in the soundtrack of my life.

I don't understand diseases I can't see, touch, or that medical professionals cannot extract or show me on a scan. Which means I don't understand most psychological disorders.

I don't understand addiction - I like a good buzz now and then too, but how can you not walk away from alcohol, cigarettes, or other destructive substances that you can't seem to control consuming in large quantities, regardless of the outcome to your job, your relationships, or your life. It doesn't seem logical.

I don't understand panic attacks and anxiety disorders. Have my knees ever gotten a little shaky during a speech in front of a big audience? Sure. Have I ever been unable to leave my house to go the grocery store? No.

I don't understand depression. I do know what it's like to want to pull the covers back up over my head some mornings. I don't know what its like to have that feeling every day for months on end with no light at the end of the tunnel.

Don't get me wrong. I'm sympathetic. I try to keep an open mind, realizing that just because I cannot conceive of anxiety, multiple personalities, chronic fatigue, depression, or any other "ism" involving the brain doesn't mean it's not real, shouldn't be treated, or can't be as debilitating as traditional corporeal illnesses.

But my lack of understanding has gotten me shaking my head again. I learned Friday that I lost an uncle - to suicide. No obvious signs of depression or problems. He'd recently been laid off from work - but these days, who hasn't? No note. No messages for anyone - not his wife, his kids, his grandkids, his friends. A single call to 911 telling them where to find him.

I started to ask myself why, and forced myself to stop. Without an obvious clearly articulated essay by the victim, I'll never get to a satisfactory "why" by myself because . . . well, I don't understand it. And probably never will. It's just not something I can ever conceive of, even in the worst of circumstances.

I've spoken to my mother multiple times this weekend, trying to help her plan and think and sort it out. I caught her doing the same thing . . . "I just don't understand 'why' . . ." And I stopped her.

"You can't keep asking yourself that question, Mom, or you'll be asking it forever. We'll never understand."

What I really meant was "I'll never understand."

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Who Needs a Comedian - I Have Kids - Part II

2010-03-26T23:53:00.000-07:00

We left dinner and were walking down the street and into a downtown parking garage. As we walked to the car, the garage was busy with cars looking for parking, their inhabitants anxious to kick off a Friday evening at the pub or a late night dinner.

The two boys were running and wrestling. Son #1 was the aggressor, and continued to push and pull his brother, running in spurts, even as we were crossing busy lanes of cars.

"Boys!" I commanded. "Stop running and pay attention - there are lots of cars." No response. "Boys! Stop running and pay attention - there are lots of cars!"

They continued to wrestle and run, oblivious to the ton and a half of metal rolling toward them in search of the perfect spot.

I targeted Son #1 - figuring he needed to set the example.

"Did you hear me?!?!?!?!"

He stopped, and looked at me, his face dead-pan.

"Yes mom." He smirked. "You said 'Boys! Stop running and pay attention - there are lots of cars. Boys! Stop running and pay attention - there are lots of cars!'" He used his best mom voice.

Damn literalist.

It reminded me of a snippet from an old Smothers Brothers' routine - "I understand why some animals eat their young . . . "

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Who Needs a Comedian - I Have Kids - Part I

2010-03-26T23:33:00.000-07:00

When I came home from work today, my youngest son came running over with a book he'd brought home from the library. It was turned to the page about babies and their development. It depicted photos of a woman in various stages of pregnancy, her shirt continuing to stretch over her ever-enlarging belly, next to drawings of the fetus in utero.

"Look, look, Mom . . . when I was in your belly, I was growing like this! And your belly was all big like this!" We took the opportunity to look back at some pregnancy pictures and he marveled that he was "in my belly."

* * * * *

Later in the evening, as I stole a piece of his macaroni and cheese, I asked him if he wanted more.

"No, Mom, my belly is fully."

I lifted his shirt, his little 7-year old belly curving out like they do. He puffed it out a little harder, as if to emphasize his point. I laughed - "Do you have a baby in your tummy?" I asked.

"No!" he laughed, and reached over to rub my belly. "You don't have a baby in your tummy anymore."

I laughed and said "No, Mommy's belly is flat now."

There was a pause. "Well, not really," he said matter-of-factly.

I stopped, unsure of how to interpret that or what an appropriate response to a 7-year old might be, short of a slap upside the head.

Like men tend to like to do, he continued, trying to dig himself out of the hole. "I'm not saying you're fat, Mom. I'm just saying your tummy is kind of bumpy and stuff. Like mine." He patted his belly proudly, extending it as far as he could.

I stared him down. He looked up and gave me his cheesiest smile. I thought about reminding him I was wearing a belt with a heavy buckle.

As I contemplated an appropriate punishment, I realized the best punishment would be to let it rest. In a few years, he'll be able to learn the hard way.

The same way we taught the rest of you when you tripped over your own lack of social filters.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Poker Conversations

2010-03-11T16:10:00.000-08:00

So I’m playing online poker the other night to rid my brain of the day’s minutiae. I sit down in a SNG and in the chat box, one of the players has typed “Blow me.”

For some reason, I just couldn’t resist commenting. “Wow – did I just walk into the wrong room?”

The offending guy, who’s screen name was Eduardo or something equally of the macho, Rico Suave genre, types in “Do you give head?” I think I heard his pinky rink clink.

I still couldn’t resist. “Do you?”

There was a pause. I could almost hear him try to adjust his strategy.

“I got head from a hot blonde last night.”

It was like he was setting me up with softballs. No, maybe t-balls. I swung.

“Your dog doesn’t count.”

There was a prolonged pause. I thought maybe I’d silenced him. One of the other players commented. “I think you scared him.”

He wasn’t completely undeterred. “You have big tits?”

Neither was I. “Big enough.”

I managed to get a “lol” from the room.

He made his next move. “I bet you’d be fun to have sex with.”

Little does he know. “You’re probably right, E. But unfortunately, I took a vow of chastity with respect to men who felt compelled to ask me how big my tits were.”

This time the silence was more prolonged. No one else chatted. I could hear crickets chirping. Then he went on auto fold. Then he was gone altogether. Someone in the room expressed their appreciation.

I apologized for the dog comment. It was a little over the top.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

PS – I won.

Priorities

2010-03-06T18:12:00.000-08:00

I took the kids to see Alice in Wonderland in 3-D today. The spaces in the parking lot were tight, so I pull M (my lovely red Lexus) into an end spot, next to a gray Yaris-looking hatchback. Not a lot of space, but enough for a skinny 7 year old and his not-quite-as-skinny mother to squeeze in and out.

We walked out of the movie and to the car. Knowing the spaces were tight, I opened the door first for my 7-year old, and then for myself. I opened it until it gently rested against the car next to me, and then stood behind the door so the little guy didn't push too hard against the other car.

Kids will be kids and they take their time. As I'm waiting patiently for him to get situated, I hear the pathetic whining of some 20-something. "Hey, that's my car guys!"

I'm thinking seriously he can't be talking to us. But he's talking to us. Me. The mom who graciously opened her doors for her children so that the little ones who don't understand the value of a car payment wouldn't damage the neighbor. At this point I'm thinking I should have just let the kid give it a good fling.

"Come on!" he whined again.

At this point, he's pissing me off. I mean, for crying out loud, he's driving a gray Yaris. Oh, sure, he paid someone to put some black flame stripe on the side . . . hate to tell him he's still driving a Yaris. And while I'm not one to pull economic rank, I'm driving a Lexus. If anyone should be offended, its me, that my beautiful red driving machine has to touch his gray piece of crap.*

"Look buddy," I said in my "I may be wearing high heels and toting two kids, but I'm not above taking your skinny ass to task" voice, "its barely touching. Why do you think I opened the doors for the kid myself? So they wouldn't cause any damage! Not a mark!"

He stood there, still staring at the microscopic contact point between our cars. His girlfriend came up to him and touched his arm. He didn't look at her. Continued to stare at his car. As we drove away, my son said she was still trying to talk to him, and he was still staring at his car.

Seriously, if at age 20 something, you're going to worry about door dings in the parking lot, you're going to have ulcers by the time you're 30 and dead by the time you're 40 from stress.

Maybe you ought to worry more about pissing off moms who are still jet-lagged, bordering on a migraine, and didn't get to go to Mastodon weekend. That's taking your life in your hands.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* Other than not liking the way they drive, I have nothing personal against you if you drive a Yaris for economic reasons. If you could afford a Lexus and drive a Yaris because you like it, we need to have a talk.

Secure

2010-03-06T08:31:00.000-08:00

The first one met us at the airport. Hector. A pleasant, soft-spoken Hispanic man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. It didn't surprise me; after all, we were travelling with the company's top financial executive. I assumed it was a country courtesy to have someone meet us and take us through the administrative processes.

As we went through the airport, he would nod occasionally at a dark-suited man, here or there, and they would fall in step. When we got to the cars, they held doors, loaded luggage, etc. Drivers, I thought. We filed into the van, and Hector joined us in the van. The others filed into dark cars with dark tinted windows. The dark cars sandwiched our van on the highway for the entire ride, maneuvering through busy city traffic. At a toll, our driver rolled down the window to pay, his arm resting on the glass: thick, tinted - bulletproof.

We met in the hotel lobby after a quick refresh, to head over to a meeting. I recognized one of the gentlemen and said a quick hello. When my colleague approached, he motioned for us to follow, and I expected him to lead us to a car. We strolled out a side entrance to the hotel, across an expansive plaza, and into another building. Then to an elevator. Then in the elevator. Then to the lobby of our office building in the city. He stood in the lobby, waved us on, and we went to our meeting. When we finished, he was standing there, waiting.

Dinner was a repeat, though with our entire crew of almost 20, the crowd had grown, and several dark-suited, quiet men, some with thick necks and small scars on their faces, and suspicious bulges in their jackets, stood spaced around the lobby, hands crossed, waiting for us. No cars - just an escorted walk through a few blocks of the city. In the elevators, two or three of them would space themselves out into the corners, and fade into the background, the rest of us continuing our conversation about work, life, anything. Always in view until we'd boarded the elevators to our rooms to retire for the evening.

As we moved between countries, only Hector stayed with us, his focus always on our leader. He was gracious and kind, but a man of few words. He directed the others quietly, efficiently, and with a seriousness I've only seen afforded to heads of state.

When we finished our last meal in a private room of a beautiful old hotel, I stepped out into the foyer and didn't see any security detail. But as I walked down the stairs, there stood Hector, waiting, with his crew behind him, ready with multiple armored cars. As if he'd stood at the ready the entire time. I wasn't sure when he ate. When he slept. When he went to the bathroom. He was always just there.

I was never exposed to anything really dangerous, save for some rush hour traffic in Sao Paulo. Never saw anything or anyone suspicious. But maybe that's because it was hard to see around the quiet, dark-suited men stationed conspicuously every few meters, where ever I went.

*****

I sat snuggled on the sectional with my 7 year old resting his head on my shoulder, my 12-year old stretched out on the long part of the sectional alternately watching the movie with us and playing an online video game. The doors were locked, but not impenetrable. The windows were not tinted or bulletproofed. There were no men in dark suits standing guard at the entrances. Just a yellow dog curled up on a dog bed at the base of the stairs, her ears twitching occasionally as she dreamed her dog dreams.

I felt more secure than I had the entire week.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Did I Really Work That Much?

2010-03-06T00:08:00.000-08:00

OMG . . . it's March 6th.

I've got a Visa, some card from the Argentinian customs agent, a bunch of stamps in my passport, a suitcase that isn't unpacked, an email inbox (personal and work) that are overflowing, and a serious case of jet-lag.

Ah, the stories . . . ah, the tired.

Oh, and #notMastodonweekend for me.

Respectfully (and tiredly, and sadly) submitted,

The Wife

"Snow" Day

2010-02-20T23:18:00.000-08:00

It had an inauspicious beginning, as days went. Alarm went off, I did my traditional 37 snoozes (greatest invention of the 20th century? Snooze alarm - for those of us who like to feel like we're stealing time), and jumped up to get in the shower.

I was rinsing the last of the conditioner out of my hair when I heard a pop, and the bathroom went dark and the bathroom fan went silent. The splash of water against the tile was magnified, and I quickly finished rinsing and stepped out to wrap up in a towel.

The kids had already eaten and were off to school. I made what I thought was a logical move, and flipped open the laptop; it hit me as the screen came on, dim from being on battery. No electricity, no internet. I grabbed my phone, to call the power company. And my cell phone didn't have signal. Hmmmm . . . Home phone. Then I remembered the home phone is through the cable - no cable, no internet, no phone. I had a moment of genius - I had an AT&T mobile card - I could get internet through the phone! But AT&T was apparently trying to demonstrate support for T-Mobile and wasn't giving me signal either.

I made the decision I was going to brave the humiliation of going to work with my hair wet, tucked behind my ears, so I jumped in the car. Fifteen minutes later (less than 1/2 a mile from my house) there was enough cell signal to receive text messages - one came from the office that said the power was out all over the building. At the rate traffic was going, I realized it would take me another 45 minutes to get to an office where I'd still be without technology.

I made a U-turn and went back home . . . found enough signal to text my assistant, my boss, and a couple others. I learned a small plane had crashed near our home, and taken out the entire city power grid. They were uncertain of when power would be returned, and our office was sending all home except people with time-sensitive roles, who were being herded to our offices in the South Bay.

I had that moment of frustration when you realize how much of your life these days is wrapped up in technology. I couldn't do my job, couldn't contact my office. I couldn't contact family or friends. I had that moment where I felt helpless - and then I stopped. Would it matter if I didn't work today?

I took a nap. A long nap. I did a sudoku puzzle. I sorted my bills (couldn't pay them on line, but I could sort them). I cleaned off the orphan counter top where all the junk mail goes. Ate a peanut butter sandwich. And when my kids got home from school, we walked to the park with a dog and a Frisbee in the 70 degree spring afternoon. It was the best "snow" day I'd had in a long time.

The power rejoined us at 6:30, just after the sun had set. We were sitting in the family room, the candles burning, my youngest sitting cross-legged practicing his "meditation". I knew I'd have a lot of catching up to do, so I plugged in the lap top and started catching up on the day's emails. But not before I loaded up the evidence of a day away, well-spent.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Not The Answer

2010-02-19T21:42:00.000-08:00

After the plane crash that took out power in the entire little city we call home in the Bay Area, I was surprised to hear of the plane crash in Austin the next day. Even more surprised to learn of the story behind it.

Let me start by saying, Mr. Dead Pilot (hereafter referred to as D.P.), this was not the answer.

I will preface the rest of my rant by saying that I firmly believe suicide is never the answer. Unless you're a mass murderer and you're just saving us the holding costs and trouble of an execution. You only have to deal with suicide once (and I have) to know that its the worst form of escape from a person's troubles - its permanent, and it only makes more grief and troubles for those you leave behind.

I read his "manifesto" and spent most of it shaking my head. He wraps it in a lot of words, but in the end, I've concluded he's a moron. A cowardly, maladjusted moron. Why?

He killed and injured others. Others who had neither wronged him, nor wronged the world. Shame on you, D.P.
He risked the life of his family after burning his house.
He caused costly property damage that other people, including the insurance companies and the government, with our tax dollars, will pay for; the emotional and psychological damage he caused his family, his friends, and innocent people affected by the events is immeasurable.
He took no responsibility for his own part in his misfortunes, and took no responsibility for fixing the system he felt was so unfair to the common man.
He leaves this world. Not better. Not more educated. Not more fair, or just, or right. Just down one body, and with a few more broken pieces. Way to go, D.P.

But MrsChako, he was wronged. The government took what was his. Gave him nothing in return. Made his life hard. Took away his security. Taxation without representation. Blah, blah, blah. I'd write something more pithy but I need both my hands to pull out my soapbox and make sure it rests on level ground before I step up on it. Let's evaluate how much of a victim you were, D.P.:

You had a $236,000 house in Austin. I've lived near there. $236,000 buys you a very well appointed home in many parts of Austin, where the average home price is around $180,000. In contrast, for example, my parents live on a 150 acre farm with a POS 78-year old house that is held together with the proverbial lick and a promise (and some fiberboard, here and there). Together, with all the property and outbuildings, it would be a miracle if they could get that much in a sale.
You had retirement savings that you lost. My sister is a single mom raising two kids on a $30,000+ salary in Illinois sleeping on a pull out couch so her kids can have bedrooms. I don't know if she has enough money in her checking account to pay all her bills each month, much less build her retirement savings.
You spent $5,000 of your "pocket change" trying to fight against the government. Bravo for you. You forget the average American probably doesn't have $5,000 laying around as optional money to spend fighting the corrupt government. The rest of us pay our taxes, wait for the next election, and hope our elected officials do something to fix the wrongs of their predecessors.
You had a piano. As a business asset. For most, this is a luxury. Don't forget that.
You owned a plane. Most Americans are happy to have a functioning car. You had a plane. Had being the operative word. Because you were an idiot and crashed it.
I'm sorry you were impacted by the recession, by the .COM bust, by 9-11, by base closures, by tough job markets. You must be right - clearly the government's fault. Funny how the rest of us who fought for jobs in the first recession you mention, toughed it out during the .COM bust, lost friends, family, freedoms and financial security as a result of 9-11 (or sent loved ones across an ocean to do something to regain those things), got relocated as a result of base closures, lost our jobs in this last recession, or are still looking for jobs because their wives had to relocate to replace her 15+ year career still seem to be managing without jumping in our private planes and taking out our frustrations on the side of a public building.
Taxes are hard. I know. I had tax courses in college. Only "B" I ever earned in my Masters program - ruined my perfect gradepoint. Those laws don't always make a lot of sense to the average person. But let me tell you something about taxes, in this country, or any country: There is no free lunch. So if you thought something seemed like a really good deduction, you should have thought twice. And $12,000 of unreported income is a little bigger than the normal "oh, I forgot to report that $1,000 I won at the local poker tournament" (which, for those of you reading, is ALWAYS taxable income). And if you build a business model aimed at allowing companies to avoid new tax laws that result in increased revenue for the government, don't be surprised when someone scrutinizes that a little harder than they do my W-2s and maybe concludes you're trying to avoid paying taxes. I'll tell you how to avoid paying taxes . . . make less money. Talk to my brother - he doesn't have a job. Doesn't make any money. Doesn't pay any taxes. It's simple. He doesn't have a house. Doesn't have cash. Doesn't have a plane. But he's definitely got no tax ambiguities.

Do I think the complexity of the tax structure and the resulting administration of it sometimes outweigh the benefits of the revenue to our system? Yes. Do I think that our government often uses our tax dollars inefficiently? Yes. Do I think that sometimes our corporate and government officials forget their fiduciary responsibility to the shareholders, citizens, and other constituents? Yes. Truthfully, it frightens me that you and I could ever share any similar concerns, given your recent display of stupidity and disrespect for your fellow man and life in general.

If you're reading this from hell or the afterlife or wherever stupid people go when they die foolish deaths at their own hands, ask yourself this - what have you changed?

The IRS does not care that you are dead. ". . . take my pound of flesh and sleep well . . ." I'm sure they'll get right on that. Right after they squeegee the last of you off the side of their building and go right back to collecting money from the rest of us. Maybe a little extra from the rest of us to pay for damages.
Your CPA doesn't care that you are dead. He doesn't have to risk his professional license anymore to try to find you loopholes, and your estate will pay him for his time and trouble thus far. Case closed. Circular file in about 7 years when the statute of limitations runs on your last return.
Your elected representatives do not care that you are dead. They are likely relieved that there is one less fly buzzing, one less voice to oppose their re-election next year.
The corporate fat cats don't care that you are dead. When they need another engineer, they'll go get one for a lot less money, who whines a lot less, and who appreciates having a job in this tough economy.
You didn't change the system, fix corruption, or make any one's life easier, better, or more complete. Ergo, this was not the answer.

Your only positive contribution D.P.? I won't have to read any more of your self-serving manifesto whine-fests.

My sympathies to your family and friends . . . the ones who are left to make sense of your senseless act.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Show Me The Plan

2010-02-19T20:59:00.000-08:00

So yesterday, I ended the day with a meeting with Brad. I'm not even going to use a fake name. Brad. Imagine me saying it while I wrinkle my nose and roll my eyes. Braaaddd.

Brad's working on something that's been outstanding since 2008. Now before I go bash him, in his defense, prior to being in his new group within my team, and prior to me being here, he has been supervised by our weakest manager/director. A guy who works hard, but is terrible at project management, communicating status, and prioritizing. A guy who is no longer a manager/director in our group. Even I have to admit that it might be hard to rise above your environment.

That aside, let me start bashing. Not only has he had responsibility for a project that's been outstanding since 2008, but he's managed to piss off the Europeans during the process. And they're complaining to me. So we call a meeting. To give Brad a chance to explain the situation.

"So Brad, help me understand what we need to get this done."

Seemed like a simple question. And he gave me a simple answer. "Well, I gotta do this thing."

"Great, Brad. So how long will it take to do this thing?"

"Well, about 3-4 days." Ok, I'm thinking . . . 3-4 dedicated days . . . we'll transfer his responsibilities to so-and-so for a week, let a few of his partners know . . .

"Really? 3-4 days, Brad? We can do that. So that's it - you do the thing and then we're done?"

"Well, we're done with that part. Then we gotta do the other thing. Then a different thing. Then we have to wait a long time, 'cause that country's finance team operates on 'island time'. Then we gotta give the thing to the other guys and then they prepare another thing and we gotta sign the thing . . . "

Fortunately he was on the other end of a phone instead of in the room with me where I would have disintegrated him with my eye lasers.

"Did we give them deadlines to get back to us Brad (hint, your answer should have been 'yes')? Did we follow up on the deliverables (come on, you know what the answer should be . . . )?"

"Well, I mean, we gave them stuff, but then the merger happened, and you know how that went . . . " Eye lasers activated and waiting, while he hemmed and hawed.

"Project management, Brad. We need to track this stuff, item by item, and put a timeline on it, and then hold everyone to it. Including yourself."

-----

Today, I got an email from him. A random list of stuff. No dates, no assignment of responsibility, no nothing. Just like a big pile of past due poo. I walked over to his new direct supervisor.

"Did you see the e-mail?" I asked, tapping one high-heel leather boot that was itching to kick something(one).

Poor M smiled and held up a hand. "Let me deal with Brad."

I bit my tongue and strode back to my desk, maintaining a well-practiced executive calm.

But I've got two hands that feel the serious need to wrap themselves around a windpipe and squeeze. I'd stay out of range until Brad gets me a timeline.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Writer's Stau

2010-02-19T00:25:00.001-08:00

Writer's block is when the words won't come.

I've got writer's stau. Say it with me. "Schtow" - rhymes with "cow".

"Stau" is a German word meaning, effectively, traffic jam. It's a derivative of "staugefahr" which means "delays likely" or "risk of congestion". It's one of my favorite German words. Concise. To the point. Sounds like it is, if traffic jams had a sound.

Imagine vehicles traveling unlimited speeds on the autobahn, and having to come to a slow down because of road construction, accident, etc. We're talking 100 mph is normal cruising speed (trust me, I know . . . what other speed would you take the A3 to Frankfurt at?). Now imagine the after affects of that - a stau in Germany can be crippling and can last for kilometers.

I feel like that with writing. All the words are there, ready, they just have to get through the congestion. I have so many thoughts in my head right now that are total blog-fodder (as opposed to blog-father - Iggy). My "snow" day where the plane took down an entire city power grid for a full day. The moron who took out his aggression on the IRS by crashing his plane (cry me a river) into a building in Austin (yeah, that and the people you injured really showed those guys and are going to drive meaningful change). My dependence upon technology. My husband's search for a job. The excitement of the Olympics (and the hotness of Shaun White and his lovely ginger locks). Morons at work. Nice people at work. Shoes.

But it's like they're all racing down the highway at 100 mph and there is a tight curve up ahead with construction cones, a fender bender, and a dead deer or two. And until one of these "vehicles" makes it way around all the obstacles and out onto the open freeway, I'm looking at a blank screen or tidbits of half-finished blog posts scattered about "My Documents."

I want to be witty. Pithy. Sarcastic. Romantic.

But all I got is a thousand words struggling to get out. Total verbal stau.

Oh, and a bed, calling me, saying "put your head here, sweet thing . . . no staus in dreamland."

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Logic in there Somewhere

2010-02-16T09:00:00.000-08:00

By the time you read this, I'll be in the thick of some pretty heavy meetings with our CEO, CFO, and our audit committee. Wednesday, we'll release earnings and this is our big lead up to the final thumbs up from everyone designated to have a last say.

Last night, I was getting ready. Checking the calendar, sending a few emails out, organizing some things for the week, knowing my calendar would be too heavy this morning to really accomplish anything (like blogging, which was actually done in the wee hours of the morning and scheduled for release . . . . NOW).

I was going through my checklist: power suit - check; pantyhose with no runs - check; cute girly shoes to balance the power suit - check; manicure - holding steady; pedicure - impeccable.

"What else have I not thought of?" I asked myself, and one of my other inner voices piped up immediately. "Shave your legs." I ran to the bathroom and started a hot bath, while I gathered a razor and shaving gel.

In the middle of my preparations, I stopped myself. "Why am I shaving my legs?" It was another one of those inner voices. The lazy one. "My husband just flew home tonight and won't be back until Friday - what's the point?"

Then another voice piped up. "You have some very important meetings tomorrow with the CEO and CFO." The previous voices all went "Ah," and nodded their heads knowingly, and I went about my business.

I was two full legs into it, finished with the delicate bikini lines, and giving those pesky ankles another once-over (ankle bones were not designed with the flat planes of a triple blade disposable in mind) when the lazy voice started pondering.

What did the CEO/CFO meeting have to do with shaved legs? Was I going to lose my skirt and pantyhose in the middle of the meeting, exposing some stubble? And even if something that ridiculous did happen, is that the kind of thing that would make the CEO or CFO say "Gosh, you seem to know a lot about financial statements, but now that I see the extraneous leg hair . . . I'm not so sure . . . "

It made me think back to my mother who used to warn us that we always had to make sure we had on clean underwear with no holes in them, just in case we were in an accident. As if EMTs don't provide emergency medical assistance to people who aren't wearing clean underwear.

But just in case, I'm wearing clean underwear. With no holes in them.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

A Walk to Remember

2010-02-15T21:53:00.000-08:00

While the rest of the world was planning candlelight dinners and roses and chocolates and sparkly things galore, we had a more mellow approach to Valentine's Day. Lest you think the Dr. is completely unromantic, I did get a dozen roses and a box of lovely Swiss chocolates. But our au pair had the weekend off, and my husband had the weekend "on" with us . . . so we celebrated by spending time as a family in the fantastic California sunshine.

We drove up into the foothills outside of Palo Alto on Sunday, and enjoyed the park and the trails so much, we did it again today, as we all had the day off. As I downloaded my pictures, and flexed my calves tonight, trying to release some of the day's tension, I reflected on the walk.

Here are some of the worthwhile lessons from my walk to remember:

When you see a bridge, cross it - you might love what's on the other side.

Sometimes the trail ahead looks tough . . . keep your best buddies beside you.

Even when the trail looks tough, sometimes the view from the top is amazing.

Never look back . . . unless it's with someone you care about, and it's just to reflect on how far you've come.

Don't forget that there are things out there bigger than yourself . . .

But beauty in even the smallest of things . . .

And entire worlds beneath our feet.

When you find another bridge, don't be afraid to cross this one too . . .

Particularly when you've got someone right by your side . . .

Or a couple of lovelies waiting for you on the other side.

Don't be afraid to pause and feel the sunshine warm on your face, and in your hair.

Remember you can never go wrong in accessorizing with a touch of red . . .

Or that a little yellow always says "spring".

Remember that some classic red beads are always in season . . .

And that something sparkly looks good with practically anything.

And you can call it a good day, regardless of what happens, as long as everyone is still smiling.

And that "tired" is just fine, as long as its a good tired.

The best part? We did it as a family.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

In the Blink of an Eye

2010-02-15T21:10:00.000-08:00

I had just convinced my little guy to go brush his teeth. Just watched the coverage of the men's downhill, where I watched Bode Miller's first place run, whittled down to second, and then third, by just 2 hundredths, and 9 hundredths, of a second, respectively. Not that a bronze medal is anything to sniff at with the world's best amateur athletes. But .11 seconds separating 1st and 3rd. Only 2 seconds separating 2nd and 3rd. They say close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades - close in the Olympics takes on a whole new meaning.

I was drafting a quick email to a friend, and I said as much. I believe I even said "Yikes". Don't know that I could live with that kind of small margin of success or failure on a day to day basis.

About 15 minutes later, the NBC Olympic coverage had a segment on how close the men's downhill was: how only a few seconds separated you from the gold and the bronze, from medaling or not.

I laughed. That was so .11 seconds ago, NBC.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Editor's note: Thanks, baby . . . forgot some decimals. All better!

Fiction Alert

2010-02-10T07:24:00.000-08:00

So lately I have been having these odd,compelling snippets of dreams that haunt me until I write them out into something. Below is a short one that I turned into a mini-story. Any resemblances to fact are, well, completely fictional. Oh, and its a little girly.

I checked one last time in the mirror before I went down to the café. I should have been tired, but the energy and the anticipation was canceling the exhaustion that comes with hours of travel and a sleepless night. I checked the messages on my phone one more time, though by this time I’d memorized them, having dissected them thoroughly with Graham on the flight over the night before.

I grabbed my bag with the few things I’d need for work – it would be a short day, and I would have the rest of the day to spend with Devin. And based on the texts, I’d need the whole rest of the day. That thought made my heart skip as I stepped off the elevator and headed for the café. As I approached, I saw Graham standing in the courtyard, talking with Devin, their heads together, Graham gesticulating forcefully. They both saw me approach out of the corner of their eye and turned; something in their face slowed my approach. Then I heard the voice behind me.

“Devin!”

I could feel my forehead wrinkle for lack of understanding and I looked at Graham to get some perspective. Then I felt her rush past me, this little blur of blonde and cashmere and freesia and breath mints. “Devin,” she purred, as she threw herself at him, and he caught her, looking sheepishly over her head at me. I was processing, slowly, still confused, until she paused long enough in her embrace to lean back in Devin’s arms. “I took the train up here this morning . . . and don’t have to be back until tomorrow afternoon!” This time, when she hugged him, he looked down and away, refusing to catch my eye. I looked helplessly at the two of them, and then at Graham. His eyes were sympathetic: too sympathetic. I felt a wave of nausea, like I’d been punched hard in the stomach.

I could feel a thin film of tears form over my eyes, casting a translucent curtain over the whole bizarre scene, and I could hear Graham’s voice, slightly muted by the buzzing in my head. Her name didn’t register with me; I felt only Graham’s hand on my elbow, turning me and escorting me out of the hotel café. I followed without thinking, not sure if I’d taken a breath since I’d seen the guilt in Devin’s face. It wasn’t until I sat with the cup of coffee in front of me that I could even say anything to Graham, and then all I could manage was a curt “I don’t want to talk about it.”

* * * * *

I lay there sobbing, curled in a ball in Graham’s lap while he stroked my hair as we sat on the bed, two empty wine bottles on the nightstand. “I should have known, G, I really should have,” I blubbered, blowing my nose. “God, I feel so stupid.” I rested my head against his chest, realizing I could still smell his laundry soap through my stuffy nose. He continued to stroke my hair, talking against my head. I closed my eyes, listening to the vibrations in his chest.

“It’s not you Soph, really, it’s not you. It’s him. He’s just like that. I told him not to mess with you. I told him he should tell you.”

“What, you mean like this morning when she showed up?” I asked, blowing my nose, and laying against him.

“Then,” he said. “And before.”

“What do you mean ‘and before’? Don’t tell me you knew, G.” I sat up, looking at him like he’d just grown another head.

He met my eyes, then hung his head. “I suspected before, Soph. I didn’t really know. Until like a month ago. He was asking about that night we all went out – if I thought you had a thing for him. Admitted he had this on again, off again thing. But was looking to be ‘off’. I thought he was off. Until she showed up this morning.”

“God, G, I can’t believe you could know something like that and sit there listening to me go on and on about some stupid text messages and not stop me at some point and say ‘Hey, he might have a girl!’ God, how can you let me be so stupid? How is that being my friend?” I slurred the first couple words, but the rest flowed smoothly as my indignation rose. Graham reached out to gather me up in his arms again, and I tried to hit his chest.

He grabbed my wrists, holding my arms tight. “What am I supposed to say, Soph? Would you have believed me? Would it have mattered? I wasn’t the person who could tell you Soph.”

“What is that supposed to mean, G? You’re my best friend – if you can’t tell me, who can?” I groaned in frustration.

“I don’t know Soph. Maybe someone who was an impartial observer.” He fidgeted. “When I tried to tell Devin, he just accused me of having a vested interest.”

I laughed, snorting. “Vested interest? What does that mean, G? That sounds like some ridiculous way of saying it was like some competition or something. How ridiculous, G, you’re my friend.”

He dropped my wrists, and said “I know Soph. I’m your friend. Just your friend, Soph, I know.” He flopped backward on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and the silence brought me out of my wine-soaked haze.

“Graham, I . . .” I lay down beside him, my head by his shoulder, looking up at him. I rolled on my side a bit, reaching up to brush his hair away, finally making him look at me. So obvious to me now, it still surprised me when he leaned over and kissed me, tentative at first, then hard, crushing my lips into my teeth. When my phone buzzed with an incoming text, I was past hearing it, or caring.

* * * * *

I was giggling as I went to pull the door shut, and we ran down the hall to the elevator. It was late – maybe too late for Sunday brunch. Graham was still tucking his shirt in, and bent to tie his shoe, letting the other passengers off first. I stepped off the elevator, and right into Devin, who was pacing in the elevator lobby.

“Sophia, I need to apologize,” he started, not letting me speak. “She and I – we’re done. Through. I didn’t invite her. She keeps doing that to me. It’s complicated, Sophia – you need to understand . . .” I saw his jaw snap shut, and felt hands on my waist. I could see it processing in Devin’s eyes. The possessive touch. The messy hair. The clothes from yesterday, including the sweater of Graham’s I was wearing. “Sophia, I . . . um . . .”

I couldn’t resist, wondering if he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. I put my hands on Graham’s now tight around my waist. I suppressed the urge to giggle. “It’s complicated, Devin. It’s complicated.”

Any Given Sunday

2010-02-07T22:11:00.000-08:00

Any given Sunday is usually a day of rest. A day of laying in bed late, or maybe getting up to make a pancake breakfast. Deciding whether to take part in a family activity, go to open houses, or see if our favorite team was playing.

Today had a different buzz. For football fans, today was the big dance. The Superbowl. The ultimate showdown between the NFC and AFC. The biggest shows. The most expensive ticket prices. The most expensive commercials. Some of the best commercials ("You're playing like Betty White out there" . . . "Oh yeah (says Betty White)? That's not what your girlfriend says . . . ").

Although my team is out (and my friends' teams were out), it still had a buzz for me. The buzz of friends coming over, and the preparation that goes with it. A nice variety of food, drink, seating for all . . . those things I throw together from the store, and those things I create lovingly from scratch (guacamole . . . and chocolate chip cookies . . . yum). The cleaning, the tidying, . . . and the last minute electronic frenzy as we hooked up our kids new TV (so they could be entertained while the adults watched the big game).

A great collection of work pals, and some of our best Bay Area buddies joined us. We watched the teams battle back and forth. Watched Betty White take a hit in the Snickers commercial. Watched the E-Trade baby two-time his baby girlfriend. Watched two 65 year old guys try to rock their hits, and while not even coming close to their former glory, probably did better than the average grandfather would. Watched the Saints battle their way ahead of the pack. And then watched them pick off a Peyton Manning pass for a second score that sealed the fate of the game. We ended the game sitting around the kitchen table, picking at the last pieces of the food, draining the last drops of wine from the bottle, and sharing just a few more stories.

We had to say goodbye to the husband, as he headed back to Seattle again, which seemed about as anticlimactic (probably in more ways than one) as the official end of football season could be. After the guests left, it was just a table full of food, a sink full of dishes, and two kids who needed to be shuffled off to bed. I tackled them all, one by one, and sat down to watch the rest of the Sound of Music.

It wasn't just any given Sunday. It was Superbowl Sunday.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Dear Frustrated User . . .

2010-02-05T00:03:00.001-08:00

The setting: Our company has a very complex but necessary internal control function whereby managers are periodically asked to review the user access privileges of all their direct reports to determine if user access is appropriate. This includes access rights for all 300,000+ employees and various applications. The database to review your direct reports is, by default, ENORMOUS. However, my team provides specific filtering guidelines to help you quickly narrow your search to the desired population for review . . .

This email appeared in my inbox late one night. It has been excerpted, for brevity, and the names changed to protect the innocent, though I have kept the bad grammar intact. My response, save for the boring details, is verbatim.

Dear Mrs Chako's Team:

I have received the semi-annual email requesting me to perform a validation task. I took on the task hopping that it would go smoother than last time. As you may recall, I complained to you last time (04/14/09 email attached) about how tedious this recurring process was and my hope was quite high that this process had been improved. Well, at least I can say that it was quite a laughable experience for me and my cube neighbor. It took me again much longer (30 minutes) than what such task should take (5 minutes max) to validate 4 users.

30 minutes and 4028 mouse clicks to validate the access for 4 users ! Actually, after 200 clicks, I found a short cut in the address bar to bypass the ‘next page’ button at the bottom of the screen. Otherwise, 4028 clicks at 6 seconds per sequence (screen refresh + scroll down to find the next page button) represent about 6 hours of work to do the task. 30 minutes @ $70 USD per hour * nber of managers who received this email represent a lot of money for the MEGACORPORATION that could be spent in a wiser way. I know that other managers around me have faced similar issues and wonder why can’t we get more efficient system.

[EXCERPTED FOR BREVITY]

I am sure there must be a good explanations to this. However, the fact that 2 managers at least from two different cultures have faced the same experience shows that whatever current solution you have put in place is not obvious to us and ultimately does not reflect well on HP’s ability to thrive for efficiency. I took time to write to you a second time. I hope that this time I will be heard.

Bestregards,

Frustrated User, Could Klearly Use Patience (hereafter referred to as FUCKUP)

I replied immediately, having just performed the task myself.

Dear FUCKUP:

I’m sorry your experience was very disappointing and I’m sure that was frustrating. We, too, encounter some anomalies . . . and I’ll see if our team can provide any insight on how . . . to prevent that in the future.

"Smart person on my team" did provide some good instructions, though, on how to sort and minimize your direct reports. Using the filter function, you can quickly get down to your selected reports in a pretty concise, easy format with one or two clicks, not forcing you to go through page by page.

I’m including the section of the instructions highlighted, explaining how to filter, as per the email:
Required Actions:

[Do easy step 1]

[Click on the link on the right of the first letter of your last name]

Hover over the manager column, use the drop down (click on the “X” sign) right of the manger’s column to reveal managers names. (text was bold in the original email)

Click on your name.

I think if you follow that procedure in the future, you’ll find this process can actually be pretty quick.

Sincerely,

Mrs Chako, VP

He responded later:

Dear Mrs Chako:

Thanks for your timely answer.

Yes it is easier and much quicker to perform the action when you force yourself to follow the recommended actions. . .

TGIF,

FUCKUP

I couldn't help myself . . .

Well put, FUCKUP – TGIF (Thank God Idiots can be Fired) . . .

I do agree that we have had many HR and other administrative necessities that do take much of our time, when we’d rather be focused on our business. But like the owner’s manuals that my husband refuses to read: even good user instructions are only helpful when we users actually have the patience and time to read them!

Mrs. Chako, VP

PWNED!

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Oh Time, How I've Missed Thee . . .

2010-02-04T23:23:00.000-08:00

My lack of blogging is not for lack of want, or words, for that matter. It's really for lack of time, a precious commodity these days.

A got a message from a friend. One of those friend that you might not hear from for weeks, and then you exchange 23 emails on some random topic for three straight days, only to go silent for another month, never knowing if the next topic was going to be your respective spouses, kids, work, or something more exciting like sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. I expected it to start a string of emails, but so far, its just been this one lone email. Nothing more, nothing less.

I wish I had three additional hours to my day that only I knew about and no one else.

I imagine work and family and life has him as busy as it does me, so I'll wait until he has more time to write or I have more time to respond. But I hear you buddy. Boy, do I hear you.

I'm in the middle of an extremely busy time at work these last few weeks, as we rush to finalize our first quarter results and show the Street which foot we're going to hit the fiscal 2010 street with. I'm an HR machine right now, getting ready to interview a host of candidates for one of my key director roles, as well as facilitate various other transfers, promotions, and other rotational opportunities to give our teams some career development and fresh air. It's rewarding, but painful at the same time, to go through the transitions as you lose all the knowledge and new talent goes through the learning curve. I even managed to get a pay increase for one of our top guys who was being tempted to leave. And this is on top of my normal job which is - GET THE NUMBERS RIGHT. You'd be surprised at how hard that can be sometimes.

Not like family life is slower. We're still a commuter family and it's wearing on the Doc. The other day he used "f***ing" three times in the same sentence in a conversation with me about his apartment situation. I keep thinking "what man wouldn't love four days away from an assertive, stubborn, driven, type-A wife in a bachelor pad with TV, internet poker and porn, and no children duties each week" but apparently even that loses its edge after a while. And I'm down here trying to manage two kids, a household, the bills, our taxes, his business taxes, and whatever other life duties manage to assert themselves now and then (like calling to check on Mom recovering from knee-surgery).

I'm not complaining . . . I've actually been pretty calm and positive this week, despite some sinus virus that is helping me try to keep the facial tissue markets afloat. In fact, as I look back, I've managed to work late multiple nights, meet a friend for a quick drink, see a Sharks game with colleagues and one of our vendors, sing songs to my sons, make spaghetti dinner one night for the boys and my Betty, who joined us for some food and a little girl conversation, and have a long conversation with my son about how hard it is to transition to a new place, a new school, and new friends. I've started multiple stories, blog posts, and other written snippets (not finished a damn one), caught up on a few emails, read your blogs . . . oh, and book my husband to the Mastodon weekend . . . which I'll miss . . . because I'll have jet-lag. "Corporate jet" lag, that is. Like I said, I am a machine.

But it's come at the cost of a few hours of sleep here and there. And the realization that no matter how much you cram in, there never seems to be enough time for my friends. For those two little boys. For my hubby in his part time world here in California.

Yes, my friend, I wish I had three additional hours to my day that only I knew about and no one else.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Take a Number, Please

2010-01-25T00:29:00.000-08:00

I took "4".

It's not totally against all rational thought. I've always had a hierarchy. Packers first. If not the Packers, then the NFC North. Unless the NFC North win negates the Packer's playoff chances. If not the NFC North, then anyone playing against the Cowboys within the NFC. If its NFC vs. AFC, always go NFC.

So today, in keeping with the spirit, I backed the Vikings. The fact that one of the greatest quarterbacks of ALL TIME is now their quarterback (and was MY quarterback for YEARS) was really secondary, but didn't hurt the passion level.

I was cautious. I didn't want to be a cooler. But after a text from my favorite Vikings fan, I had to step up the support. I pulled out the stops. Or the tops (and bottoms), as it may be:

I even enlisted the family, who went a little old school, but supported the Vikes and Number 4 all the way to the end.

We had to catch the end of the game on AM radio, as we drove DrC to the airport, supplemented by Drizz's text commentary along the way. I can't remember ever being so tense. Or so disappointed by an interception. Or feeling so helpless in Sudden Death, just because of the outcome of a coin flip - he didn't even get another turn.

Apparently, there wasn't enough magic in the purple panties. This time.

Good effort, Old Man. You got them damn close.

Out of tradition, I'll watch the Superbowl. But my heart isn't in it anymore.

Guess my heart is still a little with Number 4.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Funny Things My Friends Say

2010-01-20T21:24:00.000-08:00

I realize some of my friends and acquaintances (past and present) are pretty funny, and I look forward to reading Facebook and blogs and emails just to see how funny they can be. Here is my collection of recent faves (to protect the stupid and/or innocent, I have removed names, but you know who you are - if you even read this blog):

He totally gives good text.

I missed the memo that stated it was 'state the blatantly obvious' week.

Hope springs eternal so that it may be crushed repeatedly.

Yeah, but what is she learning on the clutch? . . . Hopefully how to get married so I do not have to pay alimony.

WHOA DUDE . . . this is NOT how you have a covert affair.

I don't care who you invite - just don't let it turn into a goat rodeo.

Today, less penis.

Keep them coming people - my happiness depends on your wit.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Astro-logical?

2010-01-16T22:58:00.001-08:00

I find horoscopes and astrology a curious amusement. Like much religion and other mystical stuff, there is enough stuff in it that sounds believable at times you think "hmmm . . . I could believe that". But then once in a while you hit something really wacky, much like in religion (tie strings to your garments . . . don't eat shellfish . . . eat this cracker and pretend it some dead guys body . . . ), and you go "huh?"

I'm a Scorpio. I find that descriptions of Scorpio women are eerily accurate with respect to me. Even the crazy lady who really says a Scorpio woman's deepest regret is we weren't born a man. Except for that little blurb, she was pretty spot on. I think even my hubby would probably agree - she did say I'd make a good spouse for an Army man.

An excerpt from another one? "The sexuality, the secrets, the magnetism; it all sounds like so much to deal with! So why bother? It's worth dealing with a Scorpio beauty because of her great capacity for kindness. This may sound strange, but Scorpios, despite their tendency for walking on the wild side of life, truly want to do good in the world. In fact, a Scorpio woman may actually be the nicest, kindest, most good-natured person you've ever met; she connects that well with those who are suffering or are in pain. The other reason is one you've probably already guessed. Despite the drama, once a Scorpio woman loves you she'll love you for life. If she really believes in you, she will look past your flaws (but she will comment on them!) and risk life and limb to keep you safe from harm. If it's a passionate, long-lasting commitment you are after, look no further than a Scorpio beauty."

Then again, my friend Sheila, in high school, was born 5 days earlier than me and was NOTHING like that. Go figure.

So I have this funny thing with horoscopes. I like to read them. Sometimes, I like to write them. But I'm a big believer in the self-fulfilling prophecy, and like I feel about when religious fanatics believe prophecies are fulfilled, I think you tend to see what you want. So if you read your horoscope before the day starts, and you want to believe them, OF COURSE you will subconsciously alter your behavior or interpret everything to match the horoscope.

So I read mine in arrears - after the fact, to see how accurate they can be. Some days they are very general and could be interpreted any way you want. Some days, there is a little "hmmm . . . interesting how that correlates." I have had times, though, when I read them, and was significantly disturbed by how accurately they aligned with the previous day's events already in the history books. As if someone had been scripting my life. Particularly when the events of the day held some kind of heavy significance. At times, its eerie enough that I make myself stop reading for a few days, because I hate the thought that something besides me is controlling the outcomes.

Today was a monumentally good day. I slept late. Really late. Past lunch late. Got up and chatted with my aunt. Showered. Talked decorating, and walked through her house, planning the finishing touches on this expansive space that she's now left to make a home by herself. Ate a long, lazy late lunch/early dinner. Talked endlessly, mostly about relationships. Shed a few tears for my uncle who had passed - she still grieves and is trying to find her way without him.

We went shopping. Looked for area rugs. Tried on girly shoes and skirts and sweaters. Bought girly shoes and skirts and sweaters. Came home and talked for hours. Paused to tell my hubby and kids that I loved them. Ended the night sharing fond remembrances of when Brett Favre played for our team. Grudgingly admitted we'll be cheering for the Vikings, now that our team was out. Went online to review all the football records Favre holds. Determined that his next closest competitors in those long-haul career records were Fran Tarkington, Dan Marino, and John Elway, and realized we'd be able to rest easy for a good portion of our lifetime knowing our guy was pretty safe. Agreed that Peyton Manning currently has the best chance of potentially catching up to any of them.

It was such a perfect day, I couldn't help reading my horoscope, to see how good the stars were at seeing this kind of perfection coming. This is what I got:

You are annoyed at someone who doesn't respect your boundaries today and it may be necessary to take a stand. For example, a roommate or neighbor might be overly noisy and inconsiderate of your needs. Even if you decide to take an adaptable approach and patiently anticipate a quieter time, your irritation could build to antagonism. Don't wait until it's too late; it's best to express your feelings now before you lose your temper.

Is it just me, or is astrology just crap sometimes?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

I'm In!

2010-01-13T14:16:00.000-08:00

Boss just invited me to the first "executive" poker game.

Play it cool, and lose gracefully to my boss?

Or play it hard, regardless of the outcome?

Oh, and I'm guessing we go with "no cleavage" for this game?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Anger Management

2010-01-12T00:12:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty laid back, for the most part. Our house has a few rules which are sacred. No TV during mealtime except for special occassions. If you cook, you don't HAVE to clean. Everyone wears shirts at the dinner table. No Ferrari's appear in the driveway that have not been previously approved. Simple.

With our au pairs, I've been pretty lenient as well. Children's well-being is priority #1. Other things we handle as they come. We handled our car being totaled by one. Including a follow up "garage-scraping" which she rectified by paying for the bodywork. We've handled too much perfume. Too much talking on the phone. Too many burned utensils. Too much impatience. Too many clothes put in the wrong drawers. Too many laundry items turned pink by lack of appropriate sorting. Today, my limits were tested.

We've been "practicing" leaving Son #1 at home alone. 30 minutes while I go pick up dinner. 45 minutes while I do a more thorough shopping. Hour while I get my haircut. He knows the rules - don't answer the door; no friends; answer the phone, but say your mom just can't come to the phone; no fires; never tell creepy guys online you're home alone. For the most part, he's fine - watches TV, plays Wii, chats with his buddies via text, drinks juice bags and eats me out of house and home.

Our au pairs know that he can be alone some, and often use the time to go grocery shopping or run small errands with the little guy. Can't blame them. He's much less moody than the pre-teen, and hasn't developed the same shopping aversion.

Today was different. I sent a text to our current au pair to tell her I'd be home for dinner, and that maybe we could go to Chuck E Cheese's. I hate the place, but the kids love it. I didn't hear from her for 20 minutes, so I called home. My son answered. "How are you doing, buddy?" I asked.

"Well, ok, I guess." He sounded bothered, and I probed further. "Well, AP (au pair) is not home and I don't know where she is."

My first thought was that he'd gone to a friends after school and just beat her home. Not a surprise. "How long has she been gone?"

"Well, since I came home from school" - which was over 2 1/2 hours earlier.

First, I was sane and logical. "Did she leave a note? A text? A message?" He was negative on all counts. "I tried to call her mom, but she's not answering her phone."

She is good about not talking while driving, and I gave her a little benefit of the doubt. I sent her another text to let her know Son #1 was worried and that I would appreciate a response. Nothing. I got a text a few minutes later - Son #1 found that she'd left her phone (the one I pay for) home. He was frustrated. I was frustrated.

I called again 15 minutes later, to let him know I was packing up my work and leaving the office - I didn't want him to worry. By this time she'd arrived, and I asked to speak to her. I explained how critical it was for him to know where she was, and for me to know where she was. She countered, explaining that he never wants to participate in after-school things anyway. I told her I still needed to know where she was going to be, particularly if she was going to leave him alone without a point of contact that long. Also reminded her I needed her to remember the phone so that I could always get in touch with her.

I got off the phone and found myself shaking. Maybe it was the relief of knowing nothing bad had come - that weird fight or flight reaction you get as a parent that let's you stay logical in a crisis until its all over, and the emotions hit you all at once. Maybe it was all the unanswered questions I hadn't let myself ask - was she and Son #2 missing? Hurt? Worse? Maybe it was the sheer frustration of not being able to be in control of the situation, when it was my kids on the line. Maybe it was just that awful feeling when I heard the little waver of uncertainty in Son #1's voice.

Knowing I was about to blow, I called DrChako and replayed it for him. He told me I probably wasn't in a good state to go have a logical conversation with her about the importance of communication. I could still feel myself shaking, near tears. And so he convinced me to do a little anger management session using one of my favorite therapies.

$50 and and hour later, with a bag full of new walking shoes and these bad boys, I was much more cool and collected. The kids were safe, and tomorrow I can remind her that when it comes to my boys, you can NEVER be to careful.

Who says 4 1/2 inches of platform cork stilettos and leather can't make it all better, especially when they are on sale?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Obsessed with my Breasts

2010-01-10T17:46:00.000-08:00

I am, a bit. But not for the reasons you all might think. Or the reasons you might be obsessed with them.

See, I hit a critical point a little over a year ago with respect to these bad boys. Well, bad girls.

I turned 40. It's the year all women who don't have other risk factors are supposed to get their first screening mammogram. I'm fortunate enough that I don't have other risk factors, to be sure. But there is something a little nerve-racking, even about something that should be routine. The likelihood that they find something is small. But what if they do?

Breast cancer is a scary thing. Your lifetime chances of developing it are about 1 in 8. And while chances increase with age, it's not just a disease of old women. Unlike, say, prostate cancer. I'm not sure on the exact statistics, but if you guys are fortunate enough to live to the average male lifespan or beyond, there is a pretty good chance your prostrate cells go haywire and give it up to the big C. But breasts are funny things. You can have 90 year old breasts that (save for gravity) are as good as new; but you can lose them at 35 to an aggressive cancer in the blink of an eye.

And its not just about statistics. Its about real people. Like my roommate/suitemate from college who's already been through it, the treatments, the lost hair, the lost breasts. All before the age of 42.

Seems like an easy fix, and eventually, it just is something I have to do. But there always seems to be one good excuse or another. First it was that we switched from being a military family to a civilian family, and I didn't have free dependant health care and had to find a new provider. Then it was we moved, and I have to find a new provider. And the excuses are supplemented by things like the fact that I haphazardly check myself and haven't found anything. And the fact that my husband is a doctor and periodically checks (though between you and me, I think somewhere in the process he gets distracted and it loses its medical efficacy).

The excuses will eventually run out, and I'll eventually go to the doctor, but it will likely be because I need my migraine prescription refilled and not because I'm so diligent about my preventative care.

I take my kids to get their shots and their teeth cleaned. I take my car to get it tuned up. I budget. I just need to make that call - be willing to give up an hour in my day to let some machine give me a squeeze and spit out the images for someone like my husband to read.

Piece of cake, right?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Sports Suck

2010-01-10T17:42:00.000-08:00

Kurt Warner sucks.

Sudden death overtime sucks.

Turnovers suck.

Having to wear purple next week because I hate the Cowboys even worse than the Vikings . . . sucks.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Random Observations

2010-01-06T00:44:00.000-08:00

Did we really need to see the pictures of Tiger bare chested on Vanity Fair? I don't care of Annie Leibovitz took them or not. He's not that cute bare chested, and looks a little gangsta, 'cept without all the tough stuff.
Anyone ever seen Rock Star with Marky-Mark (I'm sorry, Mark Wahlberg)? The 80's hair band get-ups are AWESOME . . . the hair, the leather pants, the mascara. And Marky-Mark is pretty ripped. But the nipple-piercing scene might just be too much.
Anyone ever seen Will Ferrell do his George Bush show? HBO is playing it. I miss having Bush in office, if nothing else, for the comedy. Obama is not nearly as funny. Although he probably looks as good as, if not better than, Tiger with his shirt off.
Speaking of the Obamas, am I the only one jealous of Michelle Obama's upper arms?
When is the next Vegas trip? I'm ready to go . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Subconscious

2010-01-05T23:36:00.000-08:00

This is your mini-fiction break. Any resemblance to actual characters is purely coincidental. Unless you'd feel better about yourself by believing its about you. Then have at it.

It started with an email from an old friend. How long had it been since she'd heard from him? She felt warm and fuzzy just reading it. Until her mind skipped to him. Not him, the author; but HIM. How little it took for her mind to draw those loose connections that took her back to HIM.

She furrowed her brow and shook her head, as if that would clear the thought. It seemed to work for a period of time. Until she got in the car later that evening and found herself saying his name out loud. At that moment, the radio station changed songs. To HIS favorite song. She was certain she said the name before the song started, and not the other way around. She shivered, even though the car was warm with the lingering heat of the summer night. She drove on, trying to shake the weird feeling, her eyes on the empty street in front of her. The pool of light immediately ahead of her disappeared into a void of blackness a second later, as her car passed under the streetlight. She startled, then laughed at herself; no one had proven there was any psychic connection to street-light interference.

It was a long, dark drive, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of loneliness. She'd been doing this job for a long time, away from the comforts of home. She needed a connection. She needed HIM. Knowing that somehow he would ground her, she started a conversation with him in her head. She found herself crying, stupidly, and then wiped the tears away with a leftover napkin from the last fast food place she'd visited. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she whispered his name in her head one more time.

She stepped inside the corporate apartment, laying her things on the counter, and slipping into the bathroom, without turning on the lights. She stepped back out into the darkness, noticing her phone flashing at her: a message. She flipped her phone open; it was from HIM. She looked around, and turned the lights on quickly. No one was watching her; no cameras were on. She read it carefully. "Don't forget to check your email."

She couldn't get her computer to turn on fast enough. The message contained no words, just an attachment. A picture of him - one she'd taken, years ago. He wore the stupid promotional shirt they'd gotten from the client; he was posing next to the statue, pretending to grope the stone buttocks of the neoclassical piece, staring directly into the camera and smiling, his blue eyes looking straight through the lens into hers. It was the same statue she passed every day now on her way into the office. She remembered taking the pictures that day; how hard it was to look through the lens at him without feeling the warmth start in her face.

Before she had a chance to be overwhelmed from the nostalgia, her instant messenger chirped at her. HIM. She couldn't keep the smile from creeping on to her face, and the apartment didn't seems so empty anymore. They chatted, simple things, until she realized how late it was.

"I have to go," she typed, still feeling the warm glow. "I've got an early meeting tomorrow."

"Grope the big guy for me," he typed, referring to the statue.

"You kill me," she tried to type. But it came out "You kiss me." She erased "kiss" and typed "kill", telling herself it was an honest mistake. In touch-typing, the "s" and the "l" were both under her ring fingers. So what if the "s" was under the ring finger of her non-dominant hand? Anyone could mess them up.

She told him about the mistake. Got back a smiley-face. "Subconscious?" he typed, teasing her.

"In your dreams," she typed, relieved, yet saddened, that he couldn't see the flush creep up in her face.

There was a pause. "Yes," he typed, and she felt her heart skip and thud as it stopped, hard, against her chest.

She waited for him to type more. But the single "yes" hung out there, nothing more, nothing less.

She held her breath. Then bravely typed back a single-word response.

"Yes."

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

The Heart of Attraction

2010-01-04T23:38:00.000-08:00

I'm alone again, watching The Governess, with Tom Wilkinson and Minnie Driver. This is probably a bad idea for several reasons. One, I'll never leave my husband alone with another nanny or au pair again, particularly if he starts buying photography equipment. And two, I get way too into a movie that captures the heart of attraction.

It's a simple story and actually starts off a little slow. He is a frustrated photographer, experimenting with techniques. Minnie is hired as a governess. His wife is stiff and plain; his children can be trying. In addition to taking care of his children, the governess takes time to help him with his photography; over time, you can feel them fighting the attraction, based on a shared interest in photography, which culminates when she poses for a simple portrait for him.

He takes her virginity; they have several more trysts, but all intertwined with photography sessions where they explore capturing human beauty, both of them fascinated with each other and their work together. She falls in love, but he scorns her, eventually; he claims she consumes him, and he can't be consumed.

He seduces her by being himself; in her innocence, she loves him with all she has and knows. He breaks her heart in multiple small ways, causing her to leave, but not before she lashes out, leaving his wife with a nude photo of him she took. Near the end of the movie, after much time has elapsed, he arrives in her portrait studio, presumably for a sitting.

"Are we done?" he asks, as he sits, still, for his photo, his voice almost hopeful.

"Yes," she says, her eyes wavering, a small quiver in her mouth. "Yes, I think so. Quite done."

His disappointment is heavy and obvious, but she turns, and walks away, her resolve stronger than her desire.

Leaving me wanting more.

God I hate romantic stories with heartbreak and passion. I mean, I love them. I mean, I hate them.

When is the next one on?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Purple Humiliation

2010-01-03T18:08:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of being a good sport, I post the following pictures of me conceding defeat publicly in Las Vegas.

I was adequately primed and prepped for the occasion. Complete with undergarments and accessories. I had a purple bra and purple panties, much like these:

(Please note that a butt double was used, due contract term which I am not permitted to disclose. However, pictured panties and tush are remarkably similar to the real thing . . . )

I wore some bitchin' purple platform high heels . . .

And this was the finished product, courtesy of my favorite opponent, Drizz:

I had a moment of nostalgia, passing the jersey on the wall . . .

And while I will never come over to the dark side completely, the only reason to be a Vikings fan would be because of fans like this.

Love you Drizz and OhCaptain! And Drizz, thanks for such a classy jersey . . . what's up if we go head to head in the playoffs?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

The WPBT in Pictures

2010-01-03T17:58:00.000-08:00

I didn't take nearly as many pictures as I intended to, though the camera in my mind is still filled with images I will never forget.

Here are a few I remembered to capture on camera:

Paris, by night, from the Chako room at the Bellagio

Mrs Chako, wedged in between the ever-bendy and smoochable CK and the ever-huggable Pebbles (while BamBam admires the collection of ladies from the camera angle)

Falstaff drinking one of several pitchers of beer

Even at dusk, its a great view

CJ, our very own Luckbox, was lucky enough to have attracted the attention of Otis' Steel Panther alter-ego: SPOtis

The Falstaff's enjoy Steel Panther

Bass player gives new meaning to "Hair Band"

Wooing the ladies

Rockin' out

Lights, camera, action

Hook 'em 'Horns, to some of you

Tourney day, with CA April, Butch, and others preparing for the big day

More tourney warm up

The lounge at Lagasse's Stadium

F-train chats up DrChako's buddies, Dr. Josh and his friend Dan, who was way too well-dressed for the Sunday crew

Sports fans

I couldn't resist taking a picture in the mirrored bathroom

And then I convinced a bunch of you to join me!

DrChako and the Mrs

A self-portrait - two of the loveliest, smoochable ladies I know

Infinity circles outside of the Palazzo . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Definitions are Easy

2010-01-03T12:22:00.001-08:00

My 7-year old was having a conversation with me the other day when he used the word "minion". I don't know that this word was in my vocabulary when I was 7. I asked him what it meant.

"Well, you know, its like a helper. Like for a bad guy. And when the master asks the minions to do stuff, you know, like steal something or something like that, then the minions do what the master wants."

Not bad for 7.

I need some minions.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Resolved

2010-01-02T11:02:00.000-08:00

I never actually make New Year's resolutions. The kinds that you write down and check back on at the end of the year.

I get enough of it at work. I have to do goal setting for every significant job I've ever had. We've always used the SMART model - Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Realistic, Timely. For short term goals in a work setting, its a very good model and something you can measure people and be measured against.

In life, its not a bad model either, for short term goals, like my plan to have cleaned the office over the winter break. To lose those few extra pounds by your next class reunion. To finish your taxes prior to April 15.

But setting these kind of goals only on the first day of a new year seems, well, a little short-sighted. Life changes quickly. Priorities change quickly. New challenges arise, and not just at the beginning of an artificial calendar adopted by the Romans some 2000+ years ago. Sometimes, your goals need to change too.

So I'm not setting any SMART goals for myself this year. Instead, I'm setting some . . . lets call them "life intentions". The kind of things that I should be doing this year, and every year. Things that I can always be trying to do better. Things that shouldn't necessarily have an end state, because there will always be another level to achieve. So here are my "life intentions", as I ponder 2010 and beyond:

Take care of my body. This does not involve some specific weight or size goal or number of exercises, or permanent bans on any food products. It involves making conscious choices to take care of myself in small ways, each day, in moderate ways that aren't impossible to achieve, but have a positive cumulative effect. Drinking more water. Substituting an herbal tea for my diet soda now and then. Choosing to eat my favorite foods, just less of them. Choosing an extra salad, extra vegetable, extra protein, over something fried, breaded, processed, now and then. Take an opportunity to exercise now and then, even if its in the form of vigorous housecleaning or chasing my kids around the beach. Try to get more sleep. Try to engage in relaxation activities. See a physician about my blood pressure. Finally get that first mammogram I've been putting off.
Redefine my personal concept of attractiveness. I'm good at doing this with other people. Seeing their attractive features through physical imperfections. Letting their sparkling personalities paint a glow over top of their crooked noses, under eye circles, love handles. Loving them for their humor, their brains, their drive, their ambition, their attitudes, their accomplishments. But I still stand in front of the mirror every day and pick at myself. Hate the bridge of my nose. Wish my arms had more tone. Wrinkle my nose at the grays that just keep popping up. Poke at the softness that age, children, lack of exercise, or that extra brownie has deposited here and there on my body. Bemoan the effect of childbirth and gravity and time on parts of my body that used to sit higher and tighter. I need to remind myself on a regular basis that being loving is beautiful. That being a good listener is attractive. That being confident and smart and successful and well-rounded is sexy. That most women are too busy worrying about their own flaws to notice or care about mine. And that most men, including my husband, don't register 90% of them, even when you're standing naked in front of them. Especially when you're standing naked in front of them. Because at that moment, there is a naked woman in front of them. Which trumps all personal flaws, it would seem (unless my husband's vision is just getting that bad). And if I need an extra boost, its nothing that can't be fixed by a well-fitting pair of jeans or some sexy high heels and a good pedicure.
Love hard. You can never love your spouse, your children, or your friends too much. You can never say it too many times. Oh, your kids might say "I know, Mom, you tell me that all the time." I never want the most important people in my life to ever wonder how I felt. You will never run out of the word. And if you say it with conviction and meaning, you'll never run out of it either, as it will be reflected back on you tenfold. I will say "I love you" more.
Compliment people and say "thank you" often. I love when people pay me a compliment. Whether its about my shoes, or how I handled a meeting, I know how good it is to have someone take notice of and mention how well I did. Or when someone thanks me for what I've done. As much as I like my paycheck, I still get the most satisfaction from a job well done that benefits someone or something else. I'm going to compliment people more. When they look nice. When they have well-behaved children. When they do something thoughtful for someone else. When they take a beautiful picture. Write a compelling article or poem or blog post. Do their jobs to the best of their ability. I will thank people more for the things they do for me, my family, my friends.
Be open to new experiences. New hobbies. New challenges. New friends. New experiences. When I think back to some of the most rewarding, most memorable, most satisfying experiences of the past year, they all seem to come from being open-minded about new experiences and taking the opportunities that are right their in front of me. Some I can plan - like the "air tunnel" indoor skydiving we plan to try as a family. Some will materialize out of thin air in a moment and I need to see them, and seize them, and . . . well, to borrow a quote from Nike . . . just do it. Whether forced to try new experiences (like finding a new career after 15+ years at my previous one), or being blessed by the serendipity of stumbling upon a new experience at the exact right moment in space and time, I am a more complete person for all of the new things and people I let myself experience in 2009. May I actively look for, recognize, or create the opportunity for more of them in 2010 and beyond.

I hope when I get to the end of 2010, I can say I have moved the needle on all of these "life intentions" and that they will be timeless, for 2011 and beyond.

Of course, I still have some short term goals, including:

Finish my husband's business taxes prior to the deadline and without killing him
Register my cars in my new home state
Buy more well-fitting jeans and sexy high heels
Get a manicure and pedicure . . . ASAP
Subliminally woo Hugh Jackman to some intimate, romantic spot . . .

Wish me luck.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

2010 - Day 1

2010-01-02T00:33:00.000-08:00

I woke up to an accidental alarm . . . but can't complain, because it got me up early enough to catch a New Year's virtual kiss or wish or two from good friends. And I got to go back to sleep until like 10:30.

I finished cleaning my house. I hate cleaning (which is why I vowed to use part of my paycheck for the rest of my life to pay for cleaning services), but I'm very thorough, and I love how clean everything is when I'm done.

I started a turkey in the oven right after noon. Prepared all the fixings. Took a nap in the down time. Finished the last details with a little help from CA April while we noshed on appetizers. Welcomed Betty just before dinner was ready.

Had a great homemade dinner with family and friends until we couldn't eat anymore.

Downloaded pictures from our trip to Disneyland. Watched a family movie with my little guy while he drew pictures.

Got kisses from all my boys. And this, from my littlest guy (including pirhanas!).

The first day of 2010 started off pretty good, I'd say. Not the stuff they make blockbuster movies about. But the kind of days I hope continue to fill up the chapters of life.

Can't wait to see what Day 2 holds . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Hindsight is 20/20

2010-01-01T22:40:00.000-08:00

As we prepared to celebrate New Year's Eve last night in typical "old, married couple with kids" fashion, which generally involves watching the ball drop on your big screen and drinking quietly at home, I did my best to ponder the last decade. Many of you out there, and many of my friends who either chose not to, or are not acquainted with my blog alter ego, have been tweeting, blogging, Facebooking, or otherwise pondering the last decade. Not all of the ponderings have been positive, and I had the overwhelming sense that a fair number of people I know were not disappointed to see this decade come to an end.

I tried to be honest with myself. After all, this decade contained a lot of events that, in and of themselves, not to mention collectively, could have painted my perception of the "aughts" (are we really going to call them that?) with a nasty negative perception. All significant life events that top the list of things that can stress people out:

I turned 40 in this decade
I found out I likely have high blood pressure
We found out the military was moving us to a foreign country. While I was 7 months pregnant. And before I had a job in Germany.
We moved again, courtesy of Uncle Sam, and I got to re-establish myself once more in another location.
We found out the state of Georgia had put a monstrous tax lien on us based on inaccurate information - almost cost us the ability to buy a house in Seattle
My husband got deployed to Iraq, leaving me to be a single mom for 8 months
Our first au pair, hired to help me while he was gone, totaled our car (thankfully, without children in it)
We lost a dear uncle of my husband's while he was in Iraq
We lost my father-in-law, under horrible circumstances, a mere three days before DrChako was returned to us. It was up to me to deliver the news to his two grandsons, my sister-in-laws, and to my husband, as he waited in Kuwait for a transport home, once the Red Cross finally located him.
DrChako's homecoming was a subdued affair in Florida, a day before his father's memorial.
We spent the next few months integrating a husband, a father, and a man back into a life that had continued on without him for some time.
DrChako left the military and we had to learn to live as civilians, where someone doesn't plan your life at each step.
We lost years of savings in our investments in the stock market, due to the economic downturn.
I lost my job of 15+ years for the same firm, due to economic pressures on our partnership structure. I had to deliver the message to my colleagues myself, as the firm took the "we're going to pretend this isn't happening" approach to explaining why all of my clients were being reassigned and why I wouldn't be there after June.
I started a new job. Which required relocating the whole family to California.
My husband still hasn't found a job down here, so he still lives in the Seattle area, and we are learning to live as a commuter family.

Save for maybe turning 40, all were significant events where numerous tears were shed. For those of you who know me well, you know that tears are a normal part of my reaction to significant events and strong emotions - love, anger, fear, joy, frustration. But the sheer emotional energy of these type of events could be crippling, if you let it.

Apparently I didn't let it. But then maybe its all about perspective.

I started the decade out happily married with one bright, inquisitive, and verbal toddler, living in our very first house, surrounded by friends and satisfied in my job. And last night, as we ended the decade, I was sitting on my couch with my husband, who is still my best friend, still takes the time to steal a peek at me naked in the shower, still compliments my cooking, and still looks appropriately stunned when I show up in a slinky formal dress and my Jimmy Choos. My children now numbered two, and they were happily tucked upstairs in our beautiful home, playing with each other and my oldest son's best friend - who we'd adopt in a heartbeat if we could. The bank account was flush, the cars were working well, and we had all of the material things we could need and most of what we could want (save maybe that Ferrari DrChako thinks is imminent in his future).

A little over two weeks ago, I just spent a great time with a bunch of you in Vegas. And I missed a bunch more of you who couldn't make it. And as last evening wound down, I smiled each time the good Dr. and I got a text or message from all of you, wishing us a great new year. And I was still smiling this morning when I found a couple more kisses and good wishes in the inbox.

At midnight, I kissed four of the most important men in my life. For all the tough spots this decade, I like how it started, and I can't complain about how it ended.

For those of you who can look back on the decade and be pleased with the outcome, may you continue to be blessed with good fortune and perpetual optimism. For those of you are hoping that the next decade blesses you more than the past one did, I hope the same for you.

May I end the next decade with family and friends as close I as I did this decade.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

WPBT - Sunday

2009-12-28T00:25:00.001-08:00

This is the day where I am physically and mentally exhausted, and yet not ready to go home. I am overtired, overstimulated, underfed, underhydrated, and yet I want more.

I am awake early, again. Not by alarm, but by that nervous energy, as if I might miss something if I let myself sleep too late. I try sleeping, but between the texts from those on their way to the Lagasse Stadium for the games, the friends who will be leaving early, and my general restlessness, I finally fall out of bed, and prepare myself for the day.

Its a purple day. After such a fantastic record against my pal Drizz and his miserable Vikings, I have succumbed to the ultimate loss - not only did the Packers lose to the Vikings this year (twice), they did it at the hands of their former quarterback - Mr. Favre himself. It's dual humiliation, but I'm a woman of my word and a woman of dignity - I intend to lose properly.

* * * * *

I did it 100%. Purple bra, purple lace panties (the lucky few were permitted to see a sliver of the evidence). Purple camisole, and purple chandelier earrings. Monster purple stilettos with my jeans. I threw on a sweater over top, knowing that Drizz would have the final garment when I got there.

I donned it as gracefully as I could, and even posed for the appropriate pictures, to be posted later. Including one where I stare longingly at the beautiful #4 jersey in green and gold behind the glass. *Sigh*

* * * * *

Sunday was like having your pals over to your house. You're really kick-ass house with the best TV/game room you could imagine. If your house had scantily clad waitresses in pseudo-sports gear serving beer and wings all day and a bathroom with a mirrored ceiling.

But because it felt like home, in a way, it was an easy way to wind down. Catch a few more snippets of conversation with people you don't see often enough. Hug the ones who left early. Catch a nap laying on the hip of your favorite chica. Have a long, emotional girl chat, topped off by a breather on the patio at the Palazzo catching the last of the day's sunshine while you compared this season's "must-haves" lists.

Eventually I had to leave too, and I found myself emotional about going. Thinking Kat and I should really live closer. Thinking that having CK run her fingers through my hair while we lounged around watching football on Sunday would be ok. Thinking that even if I had to wear purple every Sunday, it might be worth the price to hang with Drizz and OhCaptain more frequently (note the "might" . . . ). I squeezed in another few hugs, here and there. Traded a few more kisses. Thanked Waffles for the books, again. Petted Iggy's hair, once more. Took a few more pictures for posterity's sake, and then was in a taxi back to the airport with DrChako.

* * * * *

It took much longer to wind down this year, and to get over the letdown of being with friends. I can't explain. Maybe the events of the year have just taken a higher toll, emotionally, on me, and I needed the break more than ever before. Maybe this time, even though I've always opened my heart to all, maybe this time, I let a few more of you even deeper in there than before.

So when are we doing this again?

Can't wait to see you next time . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

WPBT - Saturday (in which Mrs Chako loses the tournament and her virginity)

2009-12-27T01:33:00.000-08:00

When we last left our heroine, she was busy spreading the love amongst her gal pals, kissing her guy pals, reveling in hair metal covers, and donking off a few chips to her annoyingly chipper husband and a barely awake Drizz at the GVR. Sleep did not come easy to her . . . was she overtired? Overstimulated? Or just too excited about the possibilities of winning the golden hammer on Saturday . . . we rejoin Mrs Chako as she recounts Saturday at the WPBT . . .

Waking up without the assistance of an alarm clock before 9 am in Vegas is breaking a rule, I am sure. Like rule 27a (I think 27b is "being up at 9 am in Vegas is acceptable if you have not yet gone to sleep from the previous night"). DrChako joined me in my early morning waking foolishness and we actually got up and got dressed to head over to the tourney.

Mrs Chako Goes to the Tourney

Given the outcome, I could just shorten this to, I lost. But that's not very literary, so I'll give you the extended recap.

The Dr and I grabbed some quick lunch, and ran into others like PokerPeaker and Falstaff and Stb on their way to the tourney, and they joined us in the food court. I think I ate maybe a quarter of my wrap, as my lack of sleep was doing a number on my stomach. I managed to goose BamBam (paybacks are hell) on the way into the tourney, as well, which was a good start to the day.

I started the tourney off on a good note; Waffles was a peach and brought me two new sci-fi books from a series he thought we'd enjoy. Given that I may grow old and die before George R.R. Martin completes the last book in the Song of Ice and Fire series (which I've had to re-read THREE times to catch myself back up, waiting for book 5), I'm happy to have a new something to read when I get some down time. Thanks, Waffles - I owe you one!

I was actually excited about the possibility of moneying . . . either in the tourney, or the last longer challenge. I'd never final tabled (having only played twice), but I'm slow and steady (like the tortoise) and I figured with some skill, luck, and patience, I could make it deep. I also figured I'd serve our last longer team (I've Kissed One of These Girls) of myself, CK and F-Train well, by helping balance out our total team position. I figured with those two, I had a pretty good chance of taking some money home.

Unfortunately, my history of lasting (and outlasting my hubby and friends) was not to be matched. I had a great starting table with old friends and new, but had to watch both Drizz and Pebbles get busted out early, no thanks to Derek who apparently had pocket aces in his sleeve to play whenever he felt malicious and like the playing field was a little too fat. The man had them no less than 3 times while I was there, which wasn't long.

I couldn't pull it out. I lost most of my chips to LJ . . . once when she did not heed the betting of the most notoriously tight woman on the table . . . with two clubs out there, amidst an A and a K (both of which I had in my hole cards), she hung in with her 93 of clubs to hit the flush on the river, which took about half my remaining stack. (I think CK says "crubs always get there" . . . I should have listened) The blind structure took a stab at me, and with a pretty small "M", I found myself with pocket 7s and went all in. It was LJ, in the blind, who said . . . "Well, ok" and called with her AQ offsuit. If we only played this game to the turn, I would be SO in the money. But there is apparently a fifth card. Most of you call it the river. I'm just going to call it the F-me card. Ace hit the river, and all said their goodbyes to me.

Mrs Chako Loses the Tourney

I stood up to go deliver the bad news to Dr Chako, when I noticed Peaker stand up too. I was torn between being pissed that I hadn't outlasted Peaker (not that he's a bad player, I'm just competitive, even with friends), and being pissed that my husband had outlasted me and had a decent-sized stack! The ego was bruised, and I headed out of the tournament room, unsure of my plans for the rest of the day (I've never had to plan this much down time).

Peaker and I were commiserating, and were joined by Drizz, who'd been consoling himself with some games and some drinks. Pebbles passed by, and we shared the camaraderie of decent players who didn't do as well as we wanted or were capable of doing. We chatted and pondered our next move. Food? Poker? Food? Poker? I kinda wanted to do the MGM and get some food. Drizz was flexible, and Peaker was leaning food. Drizz, after a pondering longer, finally convinced himself he wanted to stay and play Caesar's; I was still disenchanted after losing, and thought maybe food and a little distance from Caesars would make me happier, so Peaker and I decided to make our way in the direction of the MGM, in search of food and potentially a poker game.

We debated about the route and the best way to get where we wanted to go. I was still disenchanted, a little tired, and I suggested cab. Peaker, the athlete he is, subliminally suggested that I was a pussy for wanting to take the cab (I know you didn't SAY those words, but I felt it), so he suggested we take the monorail. That seemed perfectly logical to me, and seemed to involve little effort, particularly given that I was wearing high-heels. Except he insisted on taking stairs through all the casinos instead of escalators, because that is how guys who climb mountains do it. So by the time we reached the monorail, I'd had a full days exercise.

Now here is where, if you don't want your image of me tarnished, you must stop reading. I did something illegal. Peaker used his monorail pass . . . and I just slipped through the turnstile behind him. Yep. Just like that. Criminal. Ah, if you only knew the depths of my depravity . . . monorail turnstile hopping is just a stepping stone to big time criminal activity, I am sure.

We discussed our plans and preferences along the way, and more than once, Peaker suggested I should try a $1/$2 NL game at the MGM. The first time he mentioned it, I figured he was just tossing around ideas. But it continued to come up in the conversation. After much debating about what we wanted to do, we made a plan, which included an early dinner at the MGM buffet, followed by a definitive plan to play poker at MGM when we finished. Again, over the buffet, he brought up the idea again of me playing $1/$2 NL.

Now those of you who know me know I am conservative. And "NL" does not imply conservatism at all. A tournament is different - you've committed your money, and the rest is strategy. But in a NL cash game, every decision has a real cash impact that is unpredictable. Plus, my only experience watching NL of any real consequence has been with my husband. I don't play like my husband, I don't like playing WITH my husband, and I certainly can't stand his level of variability in my bankroll. Had my husband asked me to play, the answer, 99 times out of 100, would be a resounding "NO". We learned our lesson about the wisdom of learning a sport with your husband as a teacher when we experimented with him giving me golf lessons. If you want to solidify the possibility of divorce, have your spouse teach you to golf. 'nuff said.

But here is where either Peaker is very convincing, or I am weak. Or both. We were discussing the logic over dinner, and he pointed out some good things. With the right table, if you played only premium hands, the blind structure allowed you to sit through quite a few hands with no substantial investment, even compared to $2/4 or $3/6 limit. If you got a tight table, there wasn't a lot of raising or craziness, and you could just play good strategy. He convinced me that we had similar playing styles, and that he was comfortable, and he was sure I could be comfortable too. As I sat there picking at my food, watching his lean runner frame eating a pile of mashed potatoes, I tried to think of a good reason not to try it. I was having a tough time coming up with good reasons, and when I looked up, he smiled hopefully at me. It was the smile that did it. Its always the smile.

Mrs Chako Loses Her Virginity

We headed over to the poker room and asked to be seated. He even offered to sit at my table with me, and there happened to be two seats immediately available at a $1/$2 NL table. He has described the table accurately in his recap; it was a pleasant, relatively predictable table, without unwarranted aggression or ridiculousness. Most of the players had been at the table for a while, and by the time we called it a night, there were still a few familiar faces at the table. We had Grandma Poker, with her red hand-embroidered poker sweatshirt (kill me if I ever wear one of those), old conservative guy, Russian/Eastern European guy who liked to put his chips in a specific tower when he went all in, the narcolepsy queen/chatty-Kathy doll who spent the whole time chatting Peaker's ear off, when her meds were working, and then a few rotating characters here and there, including my hubby and Blinders, who managed to stir up some global warming controversy or something which put some folks on political tilt, until he lost a big pot and decided to pack it up.

If I am only results-oriented, I would deem this a failure. I only bought in for $100, but I lost it, plus part of another buy in over the course of the 9 hours I played. But, much like losing your real virginity, if you are only results-oriented, you'll be sadly disappointed and likely decide you're never doing that again because it was painful, awkward, and potentially humiliating. Instead, you should focus on the experience for what it is, take it as learning experience, and be happy you lost it with someone you care about.

So after 9 hours at the table (8 with my pseudo-coach Peaker, until he gave it up and went to bed, and my husband joined the table for another hour before I finally needed sleep), I'm considering adding $1/$2 NL to my regular repertoire of games.

First, it was great to be at a table with a good friend. We spent time chatting with each other, our friendly table mates, and texting back and forth, sharing the potential opportunities that abounded amongst our WPBT brethren. We were also close enough to the edge of the room that we were in a prime place to say hi to other bloggers as they joined us in the poker room or passed through the MGM on the way to some other activity.

Second, it was great to be at a table with someone you're comfortable sharing information with (after the hands were dead, of course) who does have similarities in playing styles. For my own learning, I could watch how he played out certain hands and certain positions, could follow up with him later, or could learn what our opponents would call down with. When I was in a pot with him, I learned to be much more attuned to the range of hands he could have against me, and learned which ones I could push, and which ones I had to get out of. We rarely tangled together, as we'd learned to figure out when we were strong and when we were weak. Peaker is actually pretty good at putting others on hands, and correctly called a couple of folks hands, which is always a fun party trick to watch, but also helps me develop that kind of skill.

Third, I also got the benefit of listening to him deconstruct hands with Chatty Kathy, who'd been at the table even longer than the two of us. He thinks she was just a nice person and a little medicated (true), but I also think she was thinking she scored when the cutest guy at the table sat next to her (I would like to clarify that a. even though he could hold his own at most tables, the competition was a little scarce, and b. I had my eye on you, bitch). So she ended up being a teaching experience in and of herself as she played some of her cards a little more aggressively, knowing the playing styles of the others, and shared that with Peaker. She loved AQ, so when she was raising, I was always assessing whether I was stronger than the AQ after the flop.

Finally, I paid more attention to my own play and position in this game, because you don't have the luxury of the bet being limited, and was happy with my decision-making, if not the end results. I generally got out before losing a lot when I was beat, and on the few hands where I was strong, I was happy with my play. I had a couple of tough decision points where I ended up laying down: one where I would have ended up losing a lot; one, where I actually would have won a big pot when my flush draw hit, but squeezed between the big blind and the button, who had both hit trip 9s (I correctly assumed at least one of them had, and was assuming based on the other cards on the table, that at least one of them already had the boat, which neither got), I think I made a good decision that even though I had a straight draw and a flush draw, I didn't want to be drawing to a paired board.

Overall, I was really happy that Peaker was convincing and that I ended up trying a new experience. He is a gentleman at the table and a patient, encouraging "coach" who doesn't try to overteach. He plays solid, uses position, makes decent assessments of his opponents' relative strengths, and was fun to watch, especially when he flopped a set against 2 pair and a smaller set on the flop and raked a monster pot. He helped me analyze my own hands and my own play, without judging or discouraging me. And endurance. The man has endurance. Eight hours at the same table, with Chatty Kathy in his right ear. I bow to your endurance, my friend. Oh. And he's adorable. I might have mentioned that, say, last year. Maybe once or twice or 20 times since then. So let's not discount the fact that I got to sit across from him the whole time. Even when the play sucked, the view was good.

I'm not ready to sit in the midst of my husband, F-Train, CK, and Katkin yet. I've developed a comfort level, but I'm not crazy yet. But next time Peaker asks, I'm definitely game to sit at another $1/$2 NL table with him.

Thanks, "coach," for rescuing my Saturday, and introducing me to a new experience - I'll never forget my first time.

(Ok, I know this is LAST year's picture, but I didn't take a new one this year, and this is a really cute one . . . and he's hugging me . . . take that, Chatty-Kathy)

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Poker Content

2009-12-26T23:34:00.001-08:00

Quick tournament question.

You're playing an online tournament - 45 person NLHE SNG. Let's say it for stakes you are comfortable with (for me, that's free money, because I'm trying to do the filing and other tasks at the same time, but pretend the value is still the same as real money). You aren't trying to pay the mortgage with this win.

Prior to the final table (3 or 4 hands prior), guy announces he wants to go to bed. Starts going all in with any two cards. Announces his cards before he plays. "J-9 off". "78 suited". And he's spot on every time.

He manages to knock out a couple guys that way until you're down to the final table of 9, but only 7 places pay. You've been fortunate to have stayed out of most scuffles with him, and you wake up with QQ. You raise an appropriate amount (say 3-4x) which is less than 1/10th of your stack. He has you slightly outchipped, enough to have you covered.

He announces "A5 offsuit" and goes all in.

Knowing that you are ahead pre-flop, assuming he's telling the truth again, do you call for all your chips, and possibly busting out pre-bubble?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Death Considered

2009-12-26T21:04:00.001-08:00

There was a good article in the local paper about death today. Talking about our personal and societal attitudes toward death. It struck a chord specifically with me, as I have been working on a story about my grandfather, prior to his death, some 25 years ago.

The article touched on multiple themes, some of which even I don't have a viewpoint that I can articulate well. Like the death of a child. The paper noted that we don't even have a word to describe it. If you lose your parents, you're orphaned. If you lose your spouse, you are widowed or a widower. If you lose your child? There are no words that can explain, justify, soothe such an unfathomable loss. I know "life expectancy" is an average, but statistics tell me that outliers like that don't make sense. May life be good enough to me to outlive my children.

Other death events are actually very comprehensible to me. The centenarian who passes peacefully in their sleep. My great uncle Caesar, who, after 87 years of independent bachelorhood, dropped in front of his stove making himself lunch when his heart just stopped. No fanfare, no pain, no fuss.

I grew up on a farm, far out in the country, where death in one form or another, is plausible, understandable, even expected. And everything you do revolves around that. When livestock are hurt or injured, you evaluate the options on a cost/benefit basis. If the cost of treatment is less than the value of their well-being and productivity, you call the vet. If you can't meet that measure, you get the shotgun. When a kitten is born, sick and too weak to survive, same answer. It's the same answer mother nature would eventually give in the wild. Survival of the fittest.

Don't worry, I am not talking drastic measures, people. I'm just saying that we are very funny when it comes to our mortality, or the mortality of others. We will spend ridiculous amounts of money in this country, both individually, and collectively, through our government and our insurance companies, trying anything to extend our lives, if only for a fraction of time. I had a client who had a cancer product in development that had a groundswell of grassroots support. It didn't cure cancer. Its claim to fame? It extended the life of terminal prostrate cancer patients who had failed other treatments. By about 4 months. Millions of dollars in research. In the hopes to gain 4 months. On the average life expectancy of the US male (75.6 years), that .33 years is an extra .4% of life.

Again, I can't judge anyone's individual choices or circumstances, but I do question our reluctance to face the inevitable in a more logical way, sometimes. Power to my grandmother, who has her cremation plotted out, paid for, with detailed instructions for when the time comes. No need for planning anyone. Bless your heart if you are someone who has selected the organ donor option on your driver's license, or has a valid DNR (do not resuscitate) order so your loved ones don't have to make difficult logical choices at a highly emotional time.

Theoretically, I'm not close to death. I'm hoping statistics play out in my favor, and I get to enjoy my time with family and friends, as intended. But when my time starts to run out, particularly if I have advance warning, I'm hoping that I, and my family, and my friends, and my medical advisers will help me make logical choices.

I've selected the organ donor option . . . you won't need my dead, useless kidneys to keep my memories alive. At least I hope not. On my list of important things is an executed DNR. Fortunately for my grandfather, my grandmother and his children were logical, and knew when the limits of modern medicine could not gain us back any more of the man we once knew.

Maybe in my lifetime, we'll find a way to make euthanasia a logical option in certain circumstances. When Shep, our family dog could hardly walk, and wouldn't eat or drink because the cancer had taken too much from him, that one little syringe seemed like a blessing, even to my 12-year old self. I don't know why our pet collie should have a better option than people dying of painful, incurable diseases. We ought to better support hospice systems, who do their best to let people ease their way out of life with as little pain and as much support for the remaining family member as they can.

Heck, I'm willing to put aside some of my personal convictions. I've never done a drug in my life that wasn't prescribed by a licensed medical professional for its intended purpose (I have other vices) . . . but if I'm terminal and you tell me a little morphine and some medical marijuana are going to make me slip out with a little less pain and a smile on my face? Light one up! Give me a double shot of SoCo while you're at it and lets make it a party.

Every person is unique, and the circumstances of life and death are unique. But lets face it, people - death, itself, is not unique. Death is inevitable. We spend time and effort going to birth classes and making birth plans for every contingency in labor, and we have parties for babies who aren't even here yet. What if we spent that much time planning and preparing for the only known certainty in life - death (*)?

* * * * *

The saddest part of the article, though, was in a vignette of an older woman facing death. She battled her disease for a long time, but when she came to the realization of the inevitable, she gathered her family around her to tell them she loved them. Hers was not, she recounted, a family that said "I love you" very often, so when she said it to her family members, a common response was "we feel the same". How sad, that in life, they had reservations about saying "I love you" such that, facing death, they could only meet those words with "we feel the same."

Maybe you're not ready to give up your organs, or go draft a DNR or living will, or prepay a funeral. But the best planning for the inevitable you can do, now, is to live your life well, enjoy the time you're given, and remember to say "I love you" to the ones you want to hear it back from.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* I would have gone with the "death and taxes" thing credited to Ben Franklin, but Ben didn't live to see some of the loopholes our government (*cough* conservatives *cough* . . . excuse me, must have a tickle in my throat) has created in the past for some of our wealthiest (non)taxpayers.

Mission (Almost) Accomplished

2009-12-26T00:27:00.000-08:00

It's been nagging at me a while. That last room in the house where everything you didn't need immediately seemed to gravitate. The perpetual promise of "I'll get to it later."

I made a promise to myself that with the forced two weeks off from work I would tackle this project and find everything a home and reclaim my home office.

At 11:55 p.m., Christmas night, I hauled the last of 20 bags out to be recycled, along with several boxes and some random electronics that we no longer need or use.

Here is what the fruits of my labor look like . . .

20 bags and various boxes of shredded tax returns, bills, bank statements, credit card statements, and various other personal paperwork, some from 1998 that has followed us from Texas, to Germany, to Seattle and all the way down here.

It wasn't just the sheer volume of paper . . . shredding for three days left extraneous bits of paper all over the office . . . well, really everywhere. It looked like we held a tickertape parade in this little room . . .

I will be haunted by images of these little bits strewn everywhere!

But at the end of the day, I have usable, clean space, and can file my current paperwork in peace. Next week.

Oh, look and admire . . . I know you're all jealous. The good Dr. will finally have a place where he can work when he's down here, and hopefully permanently soon.

I can be had for a price, if anyone needs their office cleaned too . . . just ask the Dr. the going rate. I believe it involves some compensation package including keeping me massaged, keeping me in shoes, keeping me satisfied (yes, I meant that, and it's not as easy as you might think), and giving me full control of your fat paycheck. Not too much to ask, methinks.

I'm done . . . let the weekend commence.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

More Memories. . .

2009-12-24T16:29:00.001-08:00

It's a scorecard from Lodge of the Four Seasons, in Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri. Circa summer 1994.

You may be noticing my atrocious scores (hey, I'd just started golfing). You may notice the apparent simultaneous "hole in one" score on 13. And then you may notice that I completely stopped golfing after 13th.

Probably because I spent the rest of the round with my golf glove off, admiring a handful of diamonds as they sparkled in the afternoon sun.

Sometimes, it pays to clean house.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Memories in a Box

2009-12-22T13:49:00.000-08:00

I'm on a cleaning project. In order to get the Dr. down here with us permanently, we made need to create a more usable home office. Right now our home office is the "room where the stuff we didn't need immediately, and some random computer equipment" is housed. I have a laptop and we have wireless, so I usually connect from the comfort of my room.

I've been organizing it . . . personal paperwork, media, medical texts, you name it. I bought a shredder and will be shredding any old paperwork with personal information on it prior to 2002. But as I get rid of the old, even the boring paperwork, it's bringing up memory after memory . . . most of a life well lived.

Postcards from when DrChako and I were still dating . . . I think we'd said "I love you" but marriage wasn't even spoken of . . .
My high school diploma
Pictures of my brother at age 7 . . . when he still had a full head of hair
Our first apartment lease together, in Columbus Georgia
The mortgage paperwork from the first home we owned
The sale paperwork from the sale of the first home we owned
The paperwork from the first "luxury" car we bought . . . a used Lexus.
The sale paperwork from when we sold the Lexus to our friends
My high school best friend's wedding program . . . where I was a bridesmaid, 20+ years ago, wearing a pink floral tea length dress with crinolines and a large garden hat
Our high school graduation announcement
Pictures of my cousin Justin as a toddler - he just had his first baby last month.
Pictures of old high school friends, including Maile, who to this day I still think is one of the most beautiful women I'd ever known
Pictures of 3 of the 4 guys I dated while in high school. The only one I don't have a picture of is the only one I am in contact with today. I keep the other three to remind me of why I didn't marry any of them.
A college report card -straight A's
A little bluebird charm bracelet from my grandmother when I was a little girl
A picture of a cake announcing the birth of my first baby

Cleaning is therapeutic in many ways . . . its a fresh start, a way to rid yourself of the burdens of the past. Apparently, its also a way to wander through those life moments and smile, realizing you're pretty happy where you ended up.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Target Audiences

2009-12-20T10:00:00.000-08:00

We needed milk and a few other necessities, so I jumped in the car to do a little shopping. Son #1 isn't quite old enough to babysit, and son #2 is too young to stay by himself, so he gets the honor of the grocery store run.

He does his normal 7-year old chatter, and I'm half listening, half responding as I go through my mental grocery list. We reach the household cleaning goods aisle, and I'm evaluating sponges when I hear him say "oh, these are good."

I turned around to see him near the dishwasher soap display, pointing to some 3-in-1 dishwasher tabs. He looks at me, completely seriously. "These are much easier, Mom."

Since doing the dishes isn't even his chore, I pressed him. "How do you know those are easier?"

"I saw it on T.V."

I tried not to snicker, wondering how Otis' son can be so skeptical of advertising, and my son seems to have absorbed it like a sponge. When I hear him remarking again.

"And Hefty bags. Those are the best." We weren't even buying trash bags, but he continued. "Yeah, you can even put something sharp in them, and it won't poke a hole." The kid doesn't miss anything. I'm starting to wonder if he's on the Good Housekeeping product recommendation committee at this point.

Grabbing the last item we needed from that aisle before we headed to produce, I swung the cart around the corner, but not before I heard him gasp and stop in front of a display basket. "Oooh, Glade motion spray!" I turned around to see him examining the packages. Apparently my disbelief showed on my face, but he took it a little differently.

"No, really, Mom, its got a motion detector and when you walk by it senses you and sprays a good smell. I saw it."

Update your profiles, advertisers. Target audience: women between the ages of 21-45, and 7 year olds who watch too much T.V.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Multi-purpose

2009-12-19T16:39:00.000-08:00

DrChako's back in Seattle working this weekend, so I called him for a normal spousal check-in.

"Whatcha doing?" I asked.

He was planning to play racquetball with MHG and then going to see if he could rustle up some poker or a movie. He asked what was on my agenda.

I recounted my plans and activities of the day. Sleep late. Clean the fridge. Spray for ants. Get a massage. Finish buying holiday presents. Make dinner. Give nanny the night off to go salsa dancing while I stay home and watch cable movies with the boys.

I laughed and said "Wow. Far cry from last weekend. I go from smokin' hot kissing vixen to boring Mom inside of a week."

He laughed and said "You're multi-purpose. You're like the Swiss Army knife of wives."

Take that, bitches.

I'm multi-purpose.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

Budding Talent

2009-12-19T11:47:00.000-08:00

Last night I was writing my blog post, writing some other fiction, and catching up on emails from friends, while watching some TNT movie on late night cable. Son#1 came down with his blanket and a notebook.

"I've got a bunch of the song written, Mom." He plopped the notebook in front of me. "It's got a blues theme, but I don't have the music yet."

A few nights ago, he told me he had words for a song in his head. I told him that writers should keep a journal by their bed, so that they can start writing when stuff like that is in there.

It wasn't finished, but he had a full page of lyrics. It was written to be a song, complete with a chorus (I got that from the "x3" notation he'd put), as well as the "(instrumental)" that broke the page. I smiled. He's my kid. Even the draft has structure.

At first read, I kinda of smiled. Simple, 12-year old drivel, I thought.

"My first day in school
I feel sorta shy
It doesn't feel cool
to be the lonely guy . . .

Then a thought occurred
Are my friends really true
It is absurd
that I'm being used . . . "

But Mrs. Chako, you're thinking . . . you write 12-year old drivel sometimes. My point exactly. I KNOW 12-year old drivel.

But then I remembered being 12. How everything was magnified. Every emotion was raw and new. Every friendship, sucess, heartbreak, and failure the most monumental thing in your life. Certain that no one before you had ever experienced it just like this. Here he was, articulating that. And for a kid who's musical tastes run with Lady Gaga and Owl City . . . to recognize that it might be more appropriate with a blues riff behind it tells me theres hope for him yet.

Maybe when DrChako gets back down here, they can work out the music. Until then, I just smiled at him.

Thought about telling him that Mommy thinks guys who are writers and write well are hot, hot, HOT!!! Then I realized that might creep him out. Regardless of how true it is. (HOT!)

Thought about telling him about the observation DrChako's friend Colin had about guys who write songs and play music and their ability to acquire . . . well, lets just say hot VP wives. But then I realized he'll figure that out sooner than he needs to anyway, particularly given how handsome he is, so we'll just keep that on the down low too.

So instead I just told him how proud I was that he was experimenting with being a writer like his dad and I.

And I covered him up with his blanket on the couch and let him fall asleep there, his notebook beside him. And kissed him on the head.

Because even when he's a famous writer/songwriter, I'll always be his mom.

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife.

WPBT - Friday

2009-12-18T23:45:00.000-08:00

Friday was a day of highs and lows, and one of the longest days I've EVER spent. I packed so many things into Friday, I can't believe it - it was like an entire Vegas trip in one day. And I couldn't have ever predicted what was in store for me. Lets see if I can summarize.

1:30 am time for bed.
Toss and turn all night. Mind racing. Maybe worried that I miss my 6:45 am conference call.
6:45 am conference call. Boss kinda of feels sorry for me, admits he considered giving me a hall pass, then doesn't. On the phone until 7:45 - with a follow up call scheduled later.
Shower, plan to meet Betty for breakfast, and maybe Kat.
Find out Betty has overslept and is out. DrChako joins instead.
Kat makes it over and joins DrChako and I.
DrChako leaves to golf the frozen tundra. We both kiss him goodbye.
Have a lovely chat and breakfast with my favorite Canadian girl. We just get closer and closer - wish the geography cooperated more.
10 am conference call.
10:30 am conference call.
Text from Peaker to say he's on his way to join me for lunch.
Make him wait for conference call that runs long. Lose 45 minutes of time with one of my all-time favorite crushes. First bad beat of the trip.
Lunch score? Quality of chat - touchdown. Quantity of time - technical foul. 45 minute delay of game does not help. No dessert. Bad beat number two. I think he still owes me Ghirardelli ice cream. Or a Krispy Kreme.
Conference call.
Conference call (starting to see the theme?).
Conference call follow up.
DrChako comes home from golf, drunk.
Naps abound.
Shower.
Cab it to MGM with DrChako.
Ditch DrChako. Drinks and munchies with Betty at MGM. Good fondue, and tiny pulled pork sandwiches. Yummy drinks like Mai Tais and something with an excessively sugary rim that went down too smoothly. Twice. 2 1/2 hours of girl chat, punctuated by occasional planning for Steel Panther from friend not allowed in girly-chat.
Betty and I make rounds to poker room and chat.
Steel Panther fans gather.
Table 16 is still entertaining the crowds and each other. The Mark makes devil horns with his massive stacks of chips. Dealers must either love us or hate us.
Hard core grinders stay at MGM.
Hard core rockers go to Steel Panther.
Shane has hooked us up with two booths on the floor. Yayy Shane.
Excitement builds.
Drinks start.
Kissing starts.
Music starts.
Remember that I have not formally gotten permission from husband.
Get permission from husband - kissing resumes.
Kiss Falstaff. Kiss CK. Kiss Katkin. Kiss Otis. (starting to see the theme?)
Kiss Katkin again. Hug lots of people.
Find Dr. Jeff. Explain the kissing permission. He tests it. Reconfirms that I have been given permission. Kisses me again.
Music is fun.
CK crawls in between Otis and CJ.
I step over Peaker to sit between him and Otis.
Kiss Otis again. Kiss CK. Kiss CK again. CK and I kiss Otis. Rooster takes pictures. Rooster later deletes pictures.
Realize I'm actually talking to Otis's less-functional alter-ego, SPOtis (Steel Panther Otis). SPOtis is more adventurous and willing . . . but I think I my heart belongs to real Otis.
Peaker gets up and give his spot to Dr. Jeff. I kiss Dr. Jeff again. He shows me pictures of his new baby. Awwwww.
SPOtis does his best indecent proposal. Without the $1 million (*). Soon after, CJ makes sure he makes it back to the hotel.
Rockin' out ensues.
Rooster finds a way to have himself escorted from the facility.
More rockin' out ensues.
We dance. CK and I dance. Everyone dances.
I take pictures. OhCaptain takes better pictures.
I massage BadBloods beautifully shaved head.
I think I kiss some more people. Can't remember who. Not drunk, just tired and overstimulated. Realize I didn't kiss some people. Speaker. Peaker. OhCaptain. CJ. Drizz. More. So many people to kiss, so little time.
Rockin' out ceases.
Blogger pokering begins at our own personal table in the GVR poker room.
Drizz and DrChako spend all their time building giant mountains out of their multiple racks at a $2/4 hold 'em table.
Drizz's AA sucks the life out of my KK. No other good hands.
Have to tune out my husband's drunken incessant chatter, even though it entertains Peaker. Drizz is on the last hour of his "last longer" no-sleep bet. Even with the new audio equipment, he is unfazed.
Drizz wins his stay awake bet.
We disband and go back to our respective hotels. I've lost money.
F-Train and CK are perfect chauffeurs.
I get to ride in the back between DrChako and Peaker. With no functioning seatbelt. Exciting on multiple levels. I make them both promise to "stop-short" if there is an accident. Hoping for at least a quick brake check. No dice. F-Train is a talented driver. But can't find the MGM driveway on the first shot.
Fall into bed at 4 am with DrChako. Alcohol and sheer exhaustion trumps marital duties. Would consider it bad beat number three, but have a lifetime to recover from the variance.

Now if that isn't a full day, what is?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* Editor's note. I did decline. But I could do a lot with a million. Just sayin'.

WPBT - Thursday

2009-12-17T22:08:00.000-08:00

I need to preface this string of posts by saying this was an unusual year for me. It has always been about meeting as many people as possible, doing as many things as possible, and taking as many pictures as possible.

This year, it was about being with my friends. And this year, it made leaving Las Vegas harder than it ever has been before.

* * * * *

Unfortunately, Thursday was a work day . . . so it started off with a rush to the office for a brief meeting, before we could get on our way to the airport. I finished the meeting and jumped in the car to drive home and pick up the hubby on our way to SFO.

I knew it was going to be a good weekend . . . the radio was playing a little "Pour Some Sugar On Me . . . " and I immediately thought of Peaker (hair metal . . . not some weird sugar fetish . . . ) and smiled . . . Steel Panther rules! I was still smiling as I pulled in the driveway and picked up DrChako and we headed off . . . only to hear a little old school "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" . . . How could they know?

As we pulled off the airport exit, the radio played "Waking Up in Vegas" and I realized how excited I was to know that Friday, that's exactly what I'd be doing! We flew through security, got on standby with the same flight (which ended up being an hour or more delayed), but we were together, on our way to hang out with friends.

We checked into the Bellagio, and then I got my first reality check. I actually had several hours of work to do, and the good Dr. was going to head out to see where he could flush some money down the toilet. I gave the office 3 more good hours, before we decided to get some dinner and then find some friends.

On Thursday night, its always the IP, and this time, it didn't disappoint. The great thing is you never know who you're going to see first. For me it was CA April, and although she lives right down the road from me, its still good to see her in Vegas. Of course, she was only looking for my husband, who had promised her drinks for the weekend, and he filled her up with a cosmo, and I joined her for one (or three).

I turned my attention to the corner of the bar, where my favorite teddy bear, Falstaff, was holding court with Special K. Falstaff's hair was looking beautiful, and he greeted me with a traditional bear hug and kiss on the mouth. We were off to a great start (please note foreshadowing at this point . . . ).

I took some time to talk with Special K . . . he's this lean, lanky, love of a man . . . just a heart of gold and I love how much he loves his wife and his life. He did some time in Iraq like the Dr., and we talked about that for a while. It totally makes me want to do G-Vegas, just to soak in a little more of those sweet southern family men like him. It was a great start to an evening, to know I'd just added a little more personal time with a great guy.

Then they all started rolling in, with hugs and kisses from all. Pauly, Al, Maigrey, TX April, OhCaptain, Betty . . . you name it, they were there. Even Iggy. Is it just me, or does he get better looking each year? In that odd kind of "I think I'm a little fluttery - no, he's just a nice guy - but his hair is looking nice - now he just hugged me - but he's just a nice guy - I wonder if he'll let me pet his hair" kind of way. He must use special conditioners and face lotion, 'cause he just glowed.

I got in my greetings and some chats, and once again, found myself engaged in conversation with the unexpected - Katkin. Met him before, but this time, we spent more time chatting than I ever have, and I got to learn more. And I learned that I like!

But more surprises were waiting. At some point Peaker slipped in, and as if to taunt me, waited FAR to long to come over and say "hi" and give me a long overdue hug. He made it up a little later by spending a good amount of time chatting with me . . . but don't think I wasn't timing you, mister!

I think it was OhCaptain or someone else who loves me who took me over to the Let It Ride Table . . . where one of the great loves of my life (and the great love of his life) were there, having a grand old time! BamBam paused long enough to give me a monster hug that went on forever, punctuated only by a few kisses here and there. Gotta love a man who loves me this much, who loves my hubby this much, and who loves his wife even more. Besides, I was playing catch up from last year, since he was absent from the fun. I eventually made it to the end of the table to bestow the love upon Pebbles too, and got some extra smooches from CK and a girl sandwich to boot.

I stepped back from the table a bit to talk with Peaker and JJOK. Met JJOK for the first time and had a great time talking with him. Even if we did determine that his political leanings are much closer to my husbands . . . don't worry, I won't hold it against you. I still sleep with DrChako, even though I'm pretty sure he voted for one or more of the Bushes somewhere in the 90s or something.

Later I got to thinking about it - ladies, I was really taking a gamble. I mean, lets face it - I'm sitting there talking with two nice, handsome, articulate men . . . which normally wouldn't be a problem for me. In fact, its exactly where I like to find myself. Except these two are both fathers of multiples. Between the two of them, it took them only 4 attempts to produce 7 offspring. I started to worry about osmosis and stuff (*), standing so close to them, so I took it back to the Let It Ride table where the action was heating up.

Drizz had apparently hit quads. DrChako was screaming like a little girl (which had to be awful for Drizz's new audio equipment), and at first I thought he'd won, but he was just excited for the big man, who took the bulk of his Vegas winnings off that one table on that one hand. Now we were all captivated, and everyone gathered to watch. It was fun to watch the table light up with his good fortune.

It was while we stood there, that a silent force slipped in. I was oblivious, standing behind Peaker trying to see the table (I think he got taller), until I heard him say "Here comes your boyfriend". There might have been a little jealousy, or he might have just been practicing his DrChako imitation, which is definitely jealousy, but before I could figure out who he meant, I felt that lean body right up behind me, and I spun around - *sigh*.

Otis. And he was a vision. Clean-shaven, which made him look younger, and smiling, and wearing jeans and this hot, white button down shirt. Boys, nothing a girl likes better than a guy in a white button down shirt and jeans . . . I think I still have the picture of DrChako from college in just that outfit . . . well, except maybe his white button down shirt on you. He gave me a big hug, and a couple kisses. Those sweet ones that hit you right on the corner of the mouth . . . chaste enough to be publicly acceptable . . . close enough to make your heart flip. And other stuff. And it was cute, tipsy Otis . . . not Steel Panther Otis . . . so I was now officially in my blogger heaven. (**)

Or so I thought. Kat slipped in during the festivities and I got to hug one of my favorite girls, who I love even more (and miss even more) now that I'm home. I got a quick smooch before she headed up to the room to drop her stuff and freshen up.

We talked incessantly, hugged and kissed incessantly, drooled at Otis in the hot white shirt (ok, that might have just been me), and made our final rounds so that this old girl could prepare for a busy Friday. I didn't want to leave, but I had to have enough energy for my 6:45 am conference call, breakfast with girls, more conference calls, hot lunch date, more conference calls, Steel Panther, and pokering . . . I was going to need my rest. We said our goodbyes, with hugs and kisses, and Kat topped the night with an extended girl-kiss in the midst of the IP that made my night (and my husband's and Falstaff's, who we found staring in wonder).

* * * * *

It was a night of catching up, and settling in, rehashing old, and learning new. I found myself basking in the glow of being back amongst people who love you and accept you for who you are. People for whom the facade of the hard-driving, high-powered corporate executive is better left behind, and the girl in the jeans, who just wants a hug, and a kiss, and a little time to talk is welcome by all.

I couldn't imagine that Friday could be even better . . .

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

* Editors post script #1 - subsequent confirmation of the effectiveness of traditional birth control methods against potential osmosis. Whew! Take that, super-sperm.

** Editors post script #2 - even after Steel Panther Otis reared his drunken head, I still have Otis on my list of blogger crushes. All I need to do is read the words, and I'm his. Well, in my alternate world. Where I don't have a husband and his wife wouldn't kick my ass.