Important Information about Google Buzz Class Action Settlement

Google rarely contacts Gmail users via email, but we are making an
exception to let you know that we've reached a settlement in a lawsuit
regarding Google Buzz (http://buzz.google.com), a service we launched
within Gmail in February of this year.

Shortly after its launch, we heard from a number of people who were
concerned about privacy. In addition, we were sued by a group of Buzz users
and recently reached a settlement in this case.

The settlement acknowledges that we quickly changed the service to address
users' concerns. In addition, Google has committed $8.5 million to an
independent fund, most of which will support organizations promoting
privacy education and policy on the web. We will also do more to educate
people about privacy controls specific to Buzz. The more people know about
privacy online, the better their online experience will be.

Just to be clear, this is not a settlement in which people who use Gmail
can file to receive compensation. Everyone in the U.S. who uses Gmail is
included in the settlement, unless you personally decide to opt out before
December 6, 2010. The Court will consider final approval of the agreement
on January 31, 2011. This email is a summary of the settlement, and more
detailed information and instructions approved by the court, including
instructions about how to opt out, object, or comment, are available at
http://www.BuzzClassAction.com.

--------------------------------------------------------------------
This mandatory announcement was sent to all Gmail users in the United
States as part of a legal settlement and was authorized by the United
States District Court for the Northern District of California.

Google Inc. | 1600 Amphitheatre Parkway | Mountain View, CA 94043

Anastasia Suen at Frisco Reads 2010

While Facebooking on Monday when I should have been writing, I caught a little blurb from Anastasia Suen about Frisco Reads 2010, where she would be in attendance signing books and emanating greatness. My words, not hers, although that would have been pretty funny. I quickly concluded that I simply had to be there. Broken toe or non, how many chances does one get to meet Anastasia Suen frente a frente? I recently completed Part 1 of her Intensive Picture Book Writing Workshop, and will be starting Part 2 on the third of November. I wanted to meet my teacher in person.

Granted, I was a bit nervous. I wasn't sure if I should be subjecting my poor little toe to so much walking, and harbored a fear that my three year old son Joe would spot something shiny and irresistible, take off across the parking lot to fetch it, and that I wouldn't be able to chase him. History has also taught me that I'd probably babble to Anastasia about hairless monkeys and toddler poop, and that she'd be justified in barring me from future workshops.

Thankfully, everything turned out fine. Anastasia recalled that I'd mentioned my gimpy toe once or twice or thrice, and I rewarded her attentiveness to detail by wriggling a stinky foot in her face. Then, my usually ebullient Joe got down on all fours and scurried under her table. Even that didn't phase her. I probably should have allowed him a minute to adjust to the crowded, noisy cafeteria before approaching Anastasia, but I didn't want to chance missing her book signing. Joe recovered in time to wave her a proper bye-bye, and was back his normal cheerful self within minutes, thanks to the golden belly of Rosie the Therapy Dog.

Cover of Hamster Chase (Easy-to-Read, Puffin)

Anastasia was great. She didn't even whack me over the head for hovering when she spoke to a fan and her two adorable near-tween sons, who obviously hold Anastasia in Rock Star status (as they should). Seems in my intentness to coaxing Joe from under her table, I neglected to ask Anastasia to sign HAMSTER CHASE for Lily as well. When I finally did, she was kind enough to comply.

Below is a picture of the lot of us. Anastasia is the normal one standing on her own two feet. For some reason, I thought it would be a better idea to kneel and keep my hands on Joe in case he got any notions about scooting under the table again.

Cover of Red Light, Green Light

That night at bedtime, I was sifting through Joe's library books, asking him which he wanted to read, when he announced: "RED LIGHT, GREEN LIGHT!" I attempted to explain that it was a very special book, written and signed by Ms. Anastasia Suen herself, and that it was resting in a place of honor on my bookshelf and therefore not touchable by live people without kidskin gloves. But he made the puppy face, so I unshelved the object of his desire and we enjoyed it together. Joe's favorite part was the robot towards the end. "He's telling the cars where to go!" And then, "How did he get there?"

Ahh, good times. :D Thanks, Anastasia!

Lily – Galveston, TX

What is happening here?

Good Morning,Toilet!

My husband Dennis left me a sweet note this morning on his way to work.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, sunshine and flowers and toilets and mittens, these are a few of my favorite things!

Gratuitous shots of Joe and Lily:

The other night at bedtime, like most kids, Joe wanted me to read him a book about tooth decay . There I was acting it out and really getting into it, "Meet your guests! Weeee're called Bac Tee Reee ah! YOUR mouth is our Cah Feh Teeeer e ah!" when...

Joe: Mommy!!!!! *points to bloated lavender blue-haired pucker-faced fat Elvis if-he-were-a-warlock bacteria*

Me:

Me: Where's Mommy??

Joe: ...

  

Me:  Are you sure you didn't mean here? *I point to a jovial, more comely-faced bacteria*

Joe: ...

I swear off red lipstick and vow to get a chin tuck.

The next day I emerge from my closet ready to paint the supermarket red. Joe smiles and points and says, "Beach!"

Apparently my ensemble brings to mind a giant beach ball, a two-dollar beach towel, or a giant beach ball resting upon a two-dollar beach towel.

I vow to stop clothes shopping at Wal-Mart.

It's just that sometimes when I'm there to pick up a mop or some other perfectly socially-justifiable Wal-Mart prospective purchase, I pass a really cute shirt and think to myself, "Seven bucks? That's madness! Who wouldn't buy this for that price? Nobody will know." I look around to see if anyone's glowering, then shove the offending item under a 250 pound bag of Pedigree hoity-toity small dog niblets and skulk away.

I'm so glad I ended up in this family, with these children. I spend my days laughing. Even situations sparked from irritation, frustration, and massive food cravings are likely to be chuckled at for their ridiculousness before the last flame sputters to a puff.

Last night my husband and I were debating the exact date of purchase of a now-absent small plastic container of dark chocolate-covered almonds. He swore up and down it was three days ago, Friday. I insisted that it had been at least week and a half, certainly enough time for each and every last one of them to have been eaten, that I would know because I did all the shopping. He let it be known that I was wrong, very wrong, and that I purchased them on Friday. When I admitted I thought maybe he didn't like them so it seemed right and natural to dispose of them by manner of consumption, his eyes widened and he said without speaking, "Chocolate? Almonds?"

Without giving an inch, he snatched something from behind the tub of I Can't Believe it's Not Butter Light, and proceeded to huff and puff his way down the hallway on crutches in the most theatrical and self-righteous manner possible. Tink, tink, growl, tink, tink.

After he disappeared around the corner, I opened the fridge to procure a bottle of water. He had left the last mini Snickers bar for me.

Skidmarks and Stupidity

I woke up late today and stumbled my way to the kitchen on a coffee beeline that looked and felt like a yellow brick road, to discover my husband Dennis fully dressed for work and passed out on the couch. I thought it best to gently rouse him and let him know that he was supposed to be at work. As it turned out, he'd aggravated his sprained ankle buzzing around the house yesterday preparing for his return to work and had no plans to get up from the couch any time soon. It was sad and cute at the same time.

Not much later in the day the post-vacation, injured husband clutter got to me and I decided to make short work of it.

First stop on the tidy train: stinky laundry.

Dennis as Lily our one year old: Are those "browns"?

Me: Those are whites. Some of our whites have brown on them.

Dennis to Lily: Mom has little to no bowel control. If she had bowel control she wouldn't use it anyway. What would be the fun in that?

He says this as I tenderly fold his underwear and turn his socks inside themselves to form conveniently paired bundles.

Later yet, after an extended grocery shopping sojourn consisting of peach sniffing, cucumber thumping, and beer procuring, (the ancient checker actually eyed me suspiciously and asked my birth date causing me to choke on my 40 year old tongue wrinkle),  I returned home to the news that Dennis' doctor had called in his prescription not five minutes prior.

On the way to the pharmacy I turned on the radio, (yes, the radio... we old bats like old things), and was met with what sounded like static. I flicked the lever on my steering wheel to move it to the next station. The static grew louder. I flicked more vehemently. Flick flick FLICK flickflickflick. Suddenly I'm being blasted by Ozzy Osbourne's "Bark at the Moon".

Who knew that that "Bark at the Moon" sounds like "Bazzrrxxxskkkzzxzz" in the lower volume ranges?

I would have happily Barked at the Moon in the first place so I did just that. I kept on barking even after my minivan ground to a halt at a stoplight. I envisioned a giant hair bow in the shape of a bat and checked myself out in the mirror. It wasn't there of course, but I was pleased with the look of it and continued to headbang my way into the hospital parking lot.

After a stop here and a doctor note grab there, I once again found myself approaching the pharmacy. It was packed and offered only two available seats; one next to a kindly senior citizen and another holding an empty water bottle and a worn copy of Coachella Valley Your Health Monthly. I smiled at the elderly gentleman and said, "Hello. Is this seat taken?"

This man had not one but two lazy eyes, and his face was clearly pointed in my direction, but he afforded me neither acknowledgment of my existence nor any response whatsoever. Upon realizing I couldn't be sure of his ability to hear, or of his sanity, I took a step back and plopped myself right on top of the water bottle.

I'm no fool. It was obvious that the only way to save what I like to think of as my natural aplomb was to snatch that magazine up faster than the speed of light, cross my legs and pretend I'd been sitting there for half an hour. So I did just that.

I flipped to a page about natural skin masks. Do I have dry skin or combination skin? Only one of my many beauty quandaries. I go with dry skin. Bad choice.

In a recipe that is obviously not meant for consumption I take in the words, "(no need to substitute Splenda in this recipe)". I wrote in "OMG", because I said the words out loud, violently flicked the page with my right hand and squinted at the lazy-eyed gentleman in a manner that shrieked, "Can you bah-lieve this?" Mercifully, I spotted Dennis' name on the put-you-out-of-your-misery board and hopped up behind a waiting couple.

After five and a half minutes of, "He said he was going to send down a note"'s, and "He's an idiot, I never liked him"'s it was my turn at bat. Inexplicably, the girl behind the register motions me over to the right. I comply. Again she motions to the right. Again I comply. She says, "You can come to this window too." I hand her my ticket. She heads back off to the left and types into a computer and eyes me nervously. I continue to smile. She goes on about how I could have come to that window, the one she motioned me to before hopping back to the left, until I say, "The 'Pick-up Prescription' sign is over where I was standing." She glares like I'm an idiot and says, "I'm just letting you know. For next time."

I smiled a broader smile. Her lips twitched. I plucked the bag out of her hand and made my way home.

Is it just me?

What was that song called?

Joe's been acting up around dinner time lately. He flat out refuses to dine with us and bounces around the kitchen asking for food items he knows he won't be getting. "Blueberry lollipop" is his new mantra. Do blueberry lollipops even exist?

Tonight one thing led to another and Joe found himself in a two minute time out. After I sprung him, having been unsuccessful in my attempt to procure an apology, I capped things off with a fruitless round of reasoning.

Me: Some things are for sharing, but some things are not for sharing. Mommy's writing things...

Dennis: ...and Mommy's sex drawer.

Me: (Background: Last week Joe found something he was never meant to and ran around the house with it as I stood transfixed and horrified.)

Dennis (casually washing a plate now): Is that what that song is about? Sex Drawer?

Me: Do you mean Sex Dwarf?

Dennis: Yeah. *snicker*

Me: Did you know it was called Sex Dwarf, or did you really think it was called Sex Drawer?

Dennis: It's great when your wife thinks you're so stupid that you think Sex Dwarf is called Sex Drawer. *rolls eyes so far back into his head they never quite returned all the way*

Me: Well, how would you know that song? You weren't a mod. You didn't go out dancing. That song is from my day.

Dennis: No it isn't. It's from the seventies. For a period of time they played it all the time. How does it go?

Me: Something, something, and the dumb chauffeur.

Dennis: Isn't it nice? Luring disco dollies to a life of vice?

Me: Yeah, that's it.

Now I can't get the song out of my head. What was it called again?

Nuts and a Diet Coke

Image via Wikipedia

Saturday, from the master bathroom...
Dennis: It's like I opened the door and stuck my head inside your butt!
Me:
Dennis: Shouldn't it be gone by now? I've been waiting to come in here.
Me: I'm sure it wasn't as bad as...
Dennis: Baby. No, it was worse. Stink molecules are still in my nose.
*****************************
Holding up remnants on a plate...

Me: What's this?
Dennis: It's my breakfast — nuts and a Diet Coke.
Me: You are what you eat!

My Apology to Stay at Home Moms

Originally posted by me at my iVillage Expecting Club shortly after I gave birth to my son Joseph 12/06. I'm keeping it here so I never forget how very wrong I can be about something so very important.

OK I admit it now. Before I had Joseph I used to secretly bemoan all the "whining" moms did. I work full time and I used to get irritated when I heard or read moms complaining about how difficult it is to be a SAHM. I figured - oh sure, many have to work a full 8 hour day, commute, AND do everything you do. I thought they should perhaps consider themselves lucky that they have the choice to stay at home with their babies/kids and quit complaining.

I apologize. I was wrong. I had no idea how difficult the job is.

Don't get me wrong - I've never been happier or more fulfilled. I've never known love so great or strong, nor have I felt the tug of the biological pull that draws me to my son like a magnet and makes me cry so often tears of joy when I see him, hear him, smell him or think of him. My life has been better each and every day since he was born into this world, and I know things will get even better with the passage of time.

But sheeeeeeeeeeeeeyiht! This job never ends! I find myself thinking and saying all of the phrases I've heard and read before and suddenly they make perfect sense. If you haven't been there, you simply can't know. You don't get to step down from "high alert" for one second of the day because your baby might need you. You don't look forward to sleep because you know you won't be getting any. You can't enjoy going out at night and unwinding (aka drinking) because you know you won't be sleeping that night and it will just make things harder on you and your baby. You don't get to schedule your day (or your baby's day) anymore. You TRY. But it doesn't work. You need to learn to do the best you can but leave time and room in your temperament for flexibility. You learn to survive in what feels like a different dimension of an alternate universe due to the complete and total mental and physical exhaustion you feel. Sometimes you sob for 1/2 hour straight because you are trying to take out the trash and wipe the counter because you are expecting company and your baby is crying and it tears at your heart and no matter what you do you can't comfort him. Sometimes you have to just accept that you will not be able to get a darn thing "done" that day besides tend to your baby and see that his needs are met and that he is safe and feels loved.

And then your baby smiles at you. One of those big toothless grins that makes time stop and it feels as though there are sugar-winged butterflies tickling your heart. You sit back with a tear and a smile and hold your baby for a few minutes until you notice another sensation - your stomach is rumbling because you haven't eaten yet today and you don't see that happening any time soon unless you can scrounge up a breakfast bar or a banana.

Moms, if hats didn't make my big fat head look even bigger and fatter I would wear one just so I could tip it to you. Though sometimes you feel inadequate, lonely and unappreciated you put on a smile for your young one(s) and you don't ever give up because you know there isn't anything more important or fulfilling that you could be doing at that moment. You are the essence of the divine.

New Moon Over San Diego

Cover of New Moon (The Twilight Saga, Book 2)

Hi all! We're back from the San Diego area where we spent the better part of the week happily sucking in Eucalyptus fumes and having our bodies caressed by warm air and cool breezes that leave me wondering why we ever hopped into the van and allowed it to drive us back to the angry heat of the Southern California Desert.

We reserved a suite with a separate kid room. I carried in my suitcase visions of putting the kids to bed and having the rest of the night alone with my husband to revel and drink tequila and jump on the bed and make crank calls via the computer to overly-serious hybrid drivers wearing eel-skin Euro sandals. Painting the town red was out of the question, after all. But as soon as I stepped into our suite I realized it was not to be. The kid quarters, as it turned out, were positioned between the master bedroom area and the bathroom. Hel-LO? Who was the rocket scientist who devised this brilliant schematic?

I pitched a mini-fit that ended with me on the bed, hotel phone in hand, interrogating the dial tone as to what good it does anybody to position the kids in such a way, why the upper lip on the headboard was at head height, procluding the possibility of sitting in comfort, let alone nursing without throwing out my back, which carried even more importance given the fact that the only chairs in the room were two uberadorable toddler stools. I wanted a screwdriver to remove the staircase leading up to the second bunk on the bunk bed lest Joe should let his curiosity get the best of him at 3:15 in the morning. No amount of reasoning could make me understand why my husband didn't have a swiss pocket knife as a keychain the way I assumed all men did even though we've been married since 2005 and I know he is not the perky keychain type, so I steadied myself by stacking tiny suitcases and books on it instead.

Don't even get me started on the bathroom and VMS. You know how it is when you're away from home and the different lighting flagrantly highlights all of your flaws, pointing out flaws you didn't know existed and making it clear that you should not go out in public wearing anything less than a mascot costume and an apologetic expression. Yes, I was deep in the throes of Vacation Mirror Syndrome for our entire stay. But I didn't let it get me down. I simply picked out a pair of benign black pants and a t-shirt thick enough to cover my bumps, yet thin enough not to add to their thickness, and painted it to my body.

We had a blast with the kiddos. The San Diego Zoo on Tuesday was a delight for the senses. The boardwalk and beach on Wednesday were fun, but would have been more fun if the barn tent we'd picked up for Lily had actually worked. Mission Bay on Thursday was a joy. We all felt light and free and have plans to return as soon as is possible. We'd like to rent a kayak or two.

I need to take something back from my vacations. Besides the realization that a vacation with small children is not a vacation after all, but rather a chance for more family togetherness and to revel in the looks on the kids' faces while they gaze upon new sights and smell new smells. From the very first realization that I was pregnant with Joe Joe my life has primarily been about them and with this I am quite satisfied. However, I did pack back with me a new resolve. Since we had to go to bed so early so the kids could sleep, I got in a lot of reading and am well on my way through New Moon, the sequel to Twilight. A sentence on page 106 resounded in my head, reminding me of what I had been trying to say in my blog post about Twilight (the movie), And This is the Twilight of my Life.

"It was depressing to realize that I wasn't the heroine anymore, that my story was over."

I've been feeling for quite a while now not like a bit player or even a character actor in my own life, but rather like a set decorator. I've been hiding in the shadows doing my best to lift my children into the light, stuffing my own hopes and desires and anxieties with chips and chocolate. I have never known how to be a healthy heroine. To me pleasure and excitement have always walked hand in hand with living on the razor's edge of good and bad judgment. This is not a side of me I cared to introduce my precious children to. Perhaps I have been doing my best to bury her. I have in fact been successful in morphing into somebody I barely recognize.

My new resolve is to once again become the heroine of my own story, a story that now includes my husband and my beautiful children. A story where I don't have to hide different parts of myself sporadically, exhausting myself by choosing carefully what to reveal of myself and to whom. Where I don't have to pick at wounds to feel alive and punish myself out of misdirected anger at the universe, nor must I deprive myself of love and of loving. A story where I accept the light and dark within myself, and in all that surrounds me as being natural and healthy. A story where my fractured self becomes fully integrated and happy and cranky and above all things gloriously whole and full of life. This is the me I will share with my children.

I am starting a healthy eating plan on Monday. It's going to be a very long and painful road, but a year or two from now I will resemble myself again, inside and out. I will have more energy for my family, and I will be able to express my retro sense of style by actually fitting into clothing designed back when large cheeseburgers were the size of today's kids burger and people were too sensible to sit around and indulge every whim and craving with the easiest possible source.

Here are some photos of our trip. I look forward to catching up with my online friends tonight and over the weekend. Wishing the best of all worlds to you.

Our Angel is Okay

I don't want to get into the details because this is too difficult to talk about right now, so please do not ask, but Dennis and I are so altered by the experience that we are quite literally different people now. As such, we feel we must address it publicly before we are able to resume our somewhat normal daily life.

Our little Lily Rose had a horrible bathtub accent Saturday afternoon and took in some water. Because of this we called 911 and spent Saturday night in the ER at JFK hospital, and Sunday night and Monday in the pediatrics ward. Lily seemed fine and chipper fairly soon after the incident, but the doctors and we wanted to keep a close watch on her to make sure she didn't become a victim of what is called "dry drowning".

Given that it is summer and our children will be spending a lot of time in and around water, it's best that we all familiarize ourselves with the concept of and facts surrounding dry drowning. Here is another source of information about it. Please do not leave your children unattended for even one second in water. We all know this of course, but it bears repeating. Tragedy can happen in one second.

THANK YOU GOD for your infinite mercy in allowing our angel and light of our lives Lily Rose to make it through this incident unscathed that we should have her home alive and well. It could have so easily gone the other way. We are humbled and still a little in shock, but so grateful that things turned out the way that they did.

Memorial Day Carnation Drop

On Memorial Day we went to the carnation drop at the Palm Springs Air Museum. It was a thrilling experience. Carnations were dropped from a B-25 Mitchell bomber that thundered by not far overhead to honor our war veterans. Next time I'll bring a cooler. Ahh, hindsight is 20/20 where common sense fails to thrive.

Joe loves his big brother Dennie, and something about the way Dennie is tenderly holding Joe's hand in this photo just touches me to no end. Joe's other big brother Brian braved the center of the crowd to make sure we could pluck at least one carnation from the batch for our little one. And that is, in fact, what he did.

Thank you to all war veterans and to every man and woman who has served this great country of ours in any capacity, be it military service, as a peace officer, fire fighter or teacher. We owe you a debt that can never fully be re-payed.