Blog Posts by samantha f

Maybe it was over-the-top, or maybe I'm just from a bit of a different generation that my kids, but my childhood was filled with a mix of wild fun and play dotted by perfecting manners and etiquette from the age of 8. I spent endless weekends learning to pour tea (pour from the right, eldest/most senior woman served first) to working on my punch-drinking skills (take white gloves off, lay in lap, keep your head up). In retrospect, it seems a little intense, but I gots me some Emily Post skilz. I want to teach my kids manners that will help them navigate conversation and environment, and demonstrate grace when not nailing each other with Nerf darts.

Four tips I learned in finishing school (HA! DID I JUST TYPE THAT?!), that I'd like to pass along to my kidlets:

1. Ballroom Dancing: The Ode to Commander Unander. Every Friday night my brother and I would go to a hall with other kids in my neighborhood in our dressy clothes. I'd say it was itchy and uncomfortable, but actually, I

Maybe it was over-the-top, or maybe I'm just from a bit of a different generation that my kids, but my childhood was filled with a mix of wild fun and play dotted by perfecting manners and etiquette from the age of 8. I spent endless weekends learning to pour tea (pour from the right, eldest/most senior woman served first) to working on my punch-drinking skills (take white gloves off, lay in lap, keep your head up). In retrospect, it seems a little intense, but I gots me some Emily Post skilz. I want to teach my kids manners that will help them navigate conversation and environment, and demonstrate grace when not nailing each other with Nerf darts.

Four tips I learned in finishing school (HA! DID I JUST TYPE THAT?!), that I'd like to pass along to my kidlets:

1. Ballroom Dancing: The Ode to Commander Unander. Every Friday night my brother and I would go to a hall with other kids in my neighborhood in our dressy clothes. I'd say it was itchy and uncomfortable, but actually, I

I remember rambling along in a long yellow bus filled with 60 second and third graders heading to the La Brea Tar Pits. Another month, another trip to see and touch the history, social science and life we'd been learning about in school. I saw tide pools, art exhibits at LACMA,Olvera Street and more. Learning used to include a vital tactile element. Today, my kids learn to test, not learn to learn. And certainly with the sad, sorry state of California schools, we are not teaching or learning for the benefit of building a whole child.

I refuse to allow my children's education to be reduced to filling in bubble exams. Call me truant. I'm not going to stand for a lesser education for my kids because the California economy has held our schools hostage, reducing their education to test taking frenzies.

So. I'm a truant mom, taking my kids' education into my own hands and taking advantage monthly to support their public school education with what used to be best practices: Shark

It's not political craziness that makes someone kill; it's craziness that makes crazies kill.

I've been watching the unfolding of the shooting spree in Arizona -- including the head-shot of United States Congresswoman Gabby Giffords -- in horror for hours on-end. I've listened as one expert after the next releases statements about the "wakeup call for America," to conduct politics without violence. I've watched politician after politician speaking on-air about how the media needs to stop positioning polarizing politics. I even watched the Tea Party Express defend themselves as victims before blame had ever been cast. All of what they are saying about the scary state of politics and unbecoming banter is true, but it's not what caused 19 people to be shot today.

Mental illness is to blame today. Mental distress is to blame today; not politics, not guns, not even Sarah Palin's stupid chart.

If it was cancer, Jared Lee Loughner would have gotten help. If he had blindess he'd

I'm a bag lady. I am the one, the obnoxious one who doesn't take plastic bags from any store, ever. I'm proudest in 2010 to be able to say that I've been bagless for one year and two days.

It started as a problem: My kids were learning all kinds of ways to help the environment at school and would call me out, "That's recycling mom!," or "Oh, that is mal for the mundo, mama." Dude, a guilt trip from two first graders is hard core. But the issue was that I'd never really been into understanding how to be green. Since Ed Begley, Jr. never came knocking on my door to compost my banana peels and fill my car with rancid vegetable oil, I sort of have missed the boat on how to start being environmentally aware. I was not green, not even that lightest hue of Silver Sage green they sell at Restoration Hardware.

I tried to be a quick study - composting is not for me. Say 'maggot' and I say run-like-a-motha and call Orkin. I tried turning down the hot water heater in our house but I

Oh man. Here it comes the month when every fricking thing is pink or perfectly normal with a little pink ribbon on it. Blah. Ick. Puke. Here comes the pink ribbon month. Marketing blah blah. Pink ribbons mean nothing to me. Green dollars mean something to me.

I've seen the debate on the Facebook 'like' promotion for Breast Cancer Awareness. I've heard the breast cancer fighters pushing back. I've watched friends recover from breast cancer surgeries ranging from proud little tiny scars to wonking radical mastectomies. My paternal grandmother did not survive breast cancer; my aunt has barely scathed by. That said, this is not my pet project, my "I'm going to wear an unflattering t-shirt" level of passion (leave that for the Myelin Repair Foundation and ProMujer). To be honest, pink ribbons turn me off - it seems so marketing-y. The only way I knew it was Breast Cancer Awareness Month this year was when I saw hardcore NFL defenseman Jared Allen, wearing a pink sweatband, tackling a

We sat quietly in the corner of the parking lot - inconspicuous as we could be, staking out the Rotten Robbie gas station. We watched people come and go, and waited patiently to pounce. Who was the next target of the day going to be? We wanted unsuspecting citizens - unaware of our stealth plan.

Inside the car, the four of us whispered, sitting low in our seats and diverting our eyes from suspecting passersby. How we'd pull-off the job was thoroughly discussed. And then, our opportunity arrived: a white Ford Explorer, driven by a 50-something woman. As we gave the O-K sign, I crouched down low and ran from our car into the gas station and shoved $20 into the attendant's hand:

"HER!," I whispered, "We want to pay for her gas! Now! Pump 4! Go! Go!"

I put my cap down and walked unsuspectingly back to our car, quietly closed the door and started the car. Next it was time for LaGringa's part of the job. The woman walked into the station to pay for her gas and we peeled out of

I'm a family girl. For all the good and bad of it, that's who I am in a nutshell. This means that every tradition, every person, every meal prepared has meaning to me. I crave Irish Nachos from Rosie McCann's pub on May 6 each year to celebrate a romantic meal La Gringa and I had years and years ago. I play Barbara Streisand's Christmas album all the way through because it reminds me of my parents dancing in the livingroom when I was a child spying on them playing Santa. I make tamales around this time of year too because it reminds me of my cousins and grandmother and her tiny kitchen with the vinyl seats and fake wood. I love tradition, and, until one fated night in Rome ten years ago, I still do.

I was traveling in an Eastern direction around the world in 2010, hitting nearly 30 countries and loving every single minute of my travel. My mom met me in Rome for a magical week in early October. It was set to be the last time I'd see her before Christmas eve. We decided to have