...musings of a Scribbling Mother Trucker...

The other day, I found myself doing something I SWORE I would never do: I reached over and scrubbed something off the kid’s cheek using just my finger and my spit. Like other parental units before me, I now believe my saliva can defeat any food remnant/dried mucus that dare mar my child’s face.

And I’m a bit of a germaphobe.

That’s when realized… I’ve officially become a mom.

I’m not talking about being a parent — which, to me, is more about the day to day minutiae of child rearing — I’m talking about becoming a MOM. More specifically, one of THOSE MOMS.

You know the type - the type I promised I wouldn’t become back when I was single. Nope, I thought, when I’m fortunate enough to become a mother: I wouldn’t let my kid become the center of my universe, I wouldn’t forget that I was a wife as well as a mom (the hubs and I would have date night once a week!) and I wouldn’t abandon my friends/social life just because I had a child.

Stop laughing.

It could’ve happened. Could have. But, alas…

- Do I bring up my child, no matter the conversation?
“Speaking of the season finale of ‘The Killing,’ did I mention that the kid can blow bubbles using snot?”

- Do I email photos of my offspring to people whether or not they’ve asked for them?
“Dear Person I just met at the supermarket, did I show you these pictures of the kid blowing bubbles with snot?”

- Do I have date night with the hubs once a week? Okay, now I’m laughing.

- And when we do finally go out on said date night, what’s the topic of conversation?
Hubs (re: photo on my phone): Are those snot bubbles?
Me (nodding; proud): Clearly the kid’s a genius.

- Do I think my progeny is the most brilliant thing to ever walk the planet? See above.

As for keeping up with my friends and maintaining a social life…
Does texting count?

The final clue of my transformation:

me, pre-wedding, pre-kid

Yep. I got the Mom haircut. Gone are the long, luxurious locks the hubs prefers. In its stead, a do that hopefully won’t get yanked, jerked or pulled out by the kid’s deft/nimble/surprisingly strong fingers.

So, yeah, I admit it. I may have gone over to the dark side, but I draw the line at Mom jeans (although, I hear they’re rather comfy, and if it means not having to worry about having plumber’s crack…)

This Sunday marks the hubs’ first Father’s Day. While the kid and I work on his present, I can guarantee what he won’t be getting: a home cooked meal.

Trust me, it’s better this way.

My lack of culinary skills wouldn’t be so embarrassing if
a) I hadn’t worked in the food industry for ten years and
b) two of those places weren’t restaurants OWNED by my family (shout out to my Uncle Gin & Gin Chinese Restaurant www.ginrestaurant.com — order the green beans while you’re there, or the dumplings… ooh, or the beef soup!)

The hubs, on the other hand, can navigate his way around a stove quite well. He cooks breakfast for us every day. No exaggeration. I’m pretty sure he does it because if I had my druthers, we’d eat nothing but doughnuts, pancakes or french toast. The irony? I’m actually pretty good at making breakfast stuffs, it’s the other parts of the day that befuddle me.

This doesn’t mean I haven’t tried.

When we first dated, I decided to impress him by making an easy summer turkey chili that could be whipped up in thirty minutes (they lied). I even dolloped sour cream and sprinkled shredded cheese on the finished product. That’s right. I GARNISHED.

I then nervously presented my finished masterpiece. We both took our bites, and after carefully chewing, discovered that it was…

…surprisingly tasty!

Not bad, I thought, patting myself on the back. And that’s when I noticed them: beads of perspiration. Forming at his temple. Multiplying with his every bite.

“Oh, my god,” I gasped,”are you sweating?!!”
I grabbed a towel and apologized as I dabbed, “It’s too spicy, isn’t it?”
“No, no,” he said, even as he continued to DRIP, “it’s good. Delicious.” (see why I married him?)

Unlike my friend, Cheryl (check out her mouth-watering food memoir here: http://amzn.to/eHjkzD), a tiger in the kitchen, I’m not.

The crazy thing is, I still make turkey chili (minus, the, uh, heat). It’s actually one of our favorites. And, yet, somehow, after all these years, it has NEVER tasted the same way twice.

I’m talented like that.

So, I guess my not-cooking on Sunday is really a gift in itself. In which case, Hubs, if you’re reading this… you’re welcome.

Happy Father’s Day

Meet the truck that started it all… No, not the one that launched the current explosion of gourmet specialty food trucks, but the one that triggered the craze for me:

Because of my boba addiction, I’ve tried boba milk teas all over the LA area, and had resigned myself to having to make the 45 minute drive to the San Gabriel Valley in order to get the real deal.

No more.

The folks at The Mighty Boba Truck (or TMBT) had me at the first sip. Their teas are brewed — not from a powder like you find at some chains — and the boba? I had no idea they could be so soft and yummy. It’s because TMBT makes a fresh batch for each shift. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE.

People seem to either love boba or hate it. The hubs isn’t a fan, and luckily for him, the Mighty Boba folks make drinks without boba all the time. In fact, they pride themselves in allowing you to “TASTE-omize” your beverage.

And it’s not just their teas we’re fond of… they have food! Taiwanese street style. Check out their full menu here: www.mightyboba.com/boba/?page_id=5

Most items are $4 a la carte, but if you get the hungry man meal, like we do, you get 2 entree (aka “mighty hero”) choices along with rice and veggies for $8.

While I’m a huge fan of their tofu (and its sweet, soy sauce savoriness) there’s a reason the popcorn chicken is their most popular dish: crunchy, tasty, fiery. Don’t worry, you get to choose the spice level (1-10). I find “3” gives me a dash of heat without overpowering the flavor. I’ve been told there are some brave souls who go for “10” and have lived to tell the tale… barely.

PROS
Real, brewed teas.
Fresh boba.
Delicious buttermilk popcorn chicken.
Accepts credit cards.

CONS
Drinks pricier than those you find in San Gabriel Valley.
.50 surcharge when using credit card

WILL I GO BACK?
I do. Almost weekly.

*For a limited time, when you purchase a drink from TMBT and say, “the kid sent me,” they’ll give you an extra stamp on your frequency card.

You know how fathers jokingly threaten to sit on the porch with a shotgun to ward off any teenage boys their daughters bring home? That was my Dad, except he actually had guns (military cop) and I’m pretty certain he wasn’t joking. His copies of Guns & Ammo and Soldier of Fortune magazines, which had adorned our coffee table for years, gave him away. That and the fact that starting from when I was in elementary school, he would let me know his solemn, yet, creepy, vow… one that had started out rather sweet:

“I just want you to know that I love you.” My Dad was kind of quiet, so for my twelve year-old self, this was huge, “And if anyone ever, EVER, hurt you…” He trailed off.

Um, WHAT? Who wants to hurt me? What’s he talking about?

He composed himself, then continued, “You won’t know when, you won’t know how, but you’ll know I was there.” Off my blank expression, he asked, “Understood?” I nodded. Great, my Dad’s some crazy assassin.

Fortunately for me, he never had the opportunity to scare away any potential suitors, because by the time I entered high school, my Dad was stationed in Germany, while my Mom and I lived back in the States. Apparently, distance had no effect on his ability to take out, maim, or destroy the creature that dares harm my person.

During one of his visits, he told me, “Just because I’m overseas, doesn’t change anything. I have eyes and ears around here, don’t you forget it.”
“Okay,” I shrugged.
He looked me straight in the eyes, “I’m serious. I have my ways. And if anyone ever, EVER does anything to you, just know I’ll take care of it… You won’t know when, you won’t know how—”

Right. Got it the first time.

While I appreciated having a personal hit man at my beck and call, I’d have preferred having a Dad who understood me. During our rare phone conversations over the years, he would try to be my buddy — the understanding, cool, hip, Dad. What he didn’t realize was he had a non-cool, non-hip daughter.

“Remember, don’t get too wasted at your Hollywood parties.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” I assured him.
“I’m not saying don’t party, I’m just saying stay out of the hard stuff, okay? It could really mess you up. TRUST me.”
“Don’t worry, I believe you, Dad.”
“I mean it. I know what guys are thinking.” Then he asked, “Do you have a gun?
“Of course, not!”
“Hey, don’t knock it. You can never be too careful. I don’t want to have to come out there…”

Uh, oh. Here come the threats again.

A few years later, just as my Dad and I started to reconnect, he passed away. Bittersweet doesn’t even begin to describe.

Not long after — and looking for the silver lining from losing both parents — I bought a small abode. As I was getting the place in shape for the big move, I discovered something hidden in the compartment above the bedroom closet. Upon further investigation, I realized what it was… the butt of a gun.

No. Way.

Couldn’t be. But it was. I tugged on the end, and, with the help of a friend, managed to pull the rest of it out. I say “rest,” because it wasn’t a regular, personal firearm. Nope. What my friend and I found ourselves holding was a bona fide, big ol’ shotgun.

A. Shotgun.

Then I remembered what my Dad had said. I couldn’t believe it. He was right. I didn’t know how, I didn’t know when, but I knew he had been there.

(Footnote: Now that I’m a parent, I finally understand how my Dad felt. And when my kids are teenagers and bringing home prospective dates, don’t doubt for a second I won’t be on that porch brandishing my shotgun. Thanks, Dad.)

Apologies in advance to all my veggie/vegan/swine-loving/grammarian friends but…

I loves me some bacon.

If I could start every day with it, I would. Let me rephrase, if I could have bacon with every meal, I would. The way it sizzles in the frying pan, the way it smells (and how it wafts through the house), the way it crunches…I love it. All of it. Even the fat.

When I was younger, my Mom and I would fight over who got the fatty bits my Dad would cut off his meal, whether it be from bacon, steak, pork chop, etc. My Mom usually won. While I used to envy her devouring her spoils, I should’ve envied her metabolism. The woman ate PURE FAT, for goodness sakes, and, yet, still wore a size zero.

I did not get those genes.

Which is why I have turkey bacon in my fridge — I have to parcel out my smokey, fatty, crunchy goodness. When I eat out, however, I let my bacon freak flag fly.

“Sausage or Bacon with your eggs?” Bacon. Always bacon.

“Would you like to add some to your burger?” Why, yes, yes, I would.

“How about topping your sundae with it?” Absolutely — Sidenote: whoever genius came up with that combination, I’d like to marry him/her (no offense to the hubs).

Now when you’re pregnant, there are tons of things you shouldn’t consume. Alcohol: not a problem. Sushi: since the only raw sushi I eat are spicy tuna rolls (I’m a wuss, I know), while I’d miss it, also no biggie. And nitrates. Ni-what? Nitrates. I believe they’re preservatives that once in your body can become nitrites which is a big bummer because blah, blah, blah. Just know, it’s not good. So where are these possibly carcinogenic (?!) nitrates/nitrites found? In processed and cured meats such as cold cuts, ham, hotdogs, pepperoni and… bacon. Um, what?

No bacon? For nine months? Morning sickness I could handle; a tiny thing dancing on my bladder, bring it; but this? THIS?

But I did it. I abstained. Considering I had been pregnant over the summer where so-called friends were throwing barbeques and cooking up bacon all willy-nilly… you feel my pain. Of course, after eight months of successfully navigating my way through a pancetta-free life, it was only then that I discovered there exists such a thing as UNCURED, NITRATE-FREE bacon.

Shut the front door.

My head still hurts knowing I could’ve been delighting in bacon yumminess from the get-go. But, being the stubborn person I was, I decided since I had already gone that long without the good stuff, what was another few weeks? I’m a masochist like that.

So in the future, when the kid’s mad at me and questions the depth of my love, I have my answer.

While it’s pretty safe to say I’m a fan of Mother Nature… Change over to CFL bulbs? Done. Recycle? Every chance I get. Hybrid vehicles? Can’t wait to get one… I wouldn’t necessarily describe myself as being “one with nature.”

Words the hubs never has to worry about me uttering (because if I did he’d know we were, indeed, in the midst of an alien invasion and I’d been the first victim):

“Let’s go camping.”

My lack of affection for swatting away nasty bugs, sleeping under flimsy tents and relieving myself in questionable bushes goes way back:

So I’m as shocked as anyone to realize that I’ve now become a devoted breast-feeding, cloth-diapering, midwife-having, unmedicated-hypno-birthing, baby-wearing, crunchy mama.

Me.

I. KNOW. I hadn’t even heard of half this stuff a few years ago.

But after doing an insane amount of research online (my affinity for electricity ranks up there with functioning toilets), I, along with the hubs, realized these philosophies fit our parenting style. The other thing we discovered?

It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.

It’s this realization that has saved us (read: me) from going crazy when things don’t go as planned. This means not sweating about occasionally using disposable diapers — although, you gotta admit, they’re not nearly as cute as cloth ones:

— or not getting upset about supplementing with formula when my milk supply’s low, or understanding that just because we wear the kid a majority of the time, it doesn’t mean we can’t also adore our jogging stroller (seriously, the ride is THAT smooth).

Which leads me to think maybe I’ve been looking at this whole camping scenario the wrong way. Who says to experience Mother Nature, you have to rough it? Like everything else, this, too, doesn’t have to be all or nothing.

I’m sure there are campgrounds that match my comfort level… ones with soft beds and working facilities tucked nicely inside warm cabins… ones that get cell phone reception (what? I’m thinking for safety reasons)… ones where I can finally appreciate an outdoor adventure without having to flash someone a “you-want-me-to-wipe-my-what-with-what?” stink-eye. I know they’re out there.

And I’m going to find them.

So when, one day, the kid inevitably comes home and excitedly exclaims, “Let’s go camping!” I can flash the biggest smile — and mean it — when I say, “Absolutely!… And if Daddy mumbles something about Martians landing, ignore him.”