First and foremost I'd like to thank whatever all powerful Being that is overseeing requests from mortals. Thank you for listening to my irrational crazed babble the past few days. Remember me? I was begging for a good medical report for my husband. He got the news today. All is well, two thumbs up. I promise not to clutter your desk with silly shit for the next few months. I may ask you to be sure my kids don't get colds or anything vomit inducing prior to our trip to Disney World. However that is not until January. Until then, please attend to others in need. Muchas gracias. Have a swell summer.
I will miss Manny Ramirez. I hope he kicks some major ass in LA. I loved him and his crazy diva attitude. The Red Sox just topped out on the bore factor. Screw them. Football wins out over baseball any day in my world. Dust off Belichick's camera, fall is right around the corner. Embrace the hate in '08. Go Pats!
My son told me today that he would like to be a scientist. I was thrilled. He specifically requested to mix things in the sink. He told me that "scientists mix juice and water over the kitchen sink". On the way home from camp he happily chatted about when we got home and he could get his stool and be a scientist at the sink. This is coming from a five year old who told us a few months ago he wanted to be a policeman. I asked him if he wanted to be a policeman so he could be just like his uncle. "No Mommy, I just want to shoot a gun. A real gun." I turned a funny shade of white and silently reminded myself he was five. I am going to push the scientist thing, heavily. I gave him every condiment I had in the pantry. He had a blast and I have a nasty mess I need to go attend to.
My daughter told me yesterday that she overheard boys at camp saying that she was hot. She was very proud of this, and extremely excited to share this information with me. I was very positive about it, listened to her story, and laughed along with her. I then had to do the big crappy required Mom thing and remind her being hot is not what it is all about. I cited intelligence, creativity, self-awareness and pride. I sounded like a American Girl catalog. She looked at me exasperated and said, "Geez Mom, don't you remember the first time someone said you were hot? Let me enjoy the moment."
I need a drink. It's been a long week and it is not even over yet. Cheers.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Insomnimaniac
I just got home from a hike at one of the nearby canyons with Brody and Otto. It was cloudy and cool until we began our ascent. The sun popped out as did all the over bronzed L.A. fashion victims. Now I am writing and Brody is cooked like a turkey, panting and sleeping and hating me. He did fall in love with a small Boston Terrier Cocker Spaniel mix. So much so that he firmly planted his nose in the dog’s ass and humped her repeatedly. He’s such a grouch lately that any love he shows anyone or anything is a huge deal. I actually followed the woman out of the park and walked her to her car so Brody could get as much ass action love as possible.
As I’m writing this, Otto is refusing to sleep, jumping up and down and laugh/crying in his crib. I’ve gone up there twice and given him water and rearranged his animal blankets, a menagerie of cuddly pals he CANNOT sleep without. The elephant was his first member of this gang, a gift from some friends when he was first born. It quickly became his sidekick and sleeping pal. He would suck on the elephant’s trunk and fall asleep with it in his mouth. He never used a pacifier or sucked his thumb so this was clearly his oral fixation preference. Afraid it would be lost or over taken by a fast growing fungus because we couldn’t get it away from him long enough to wash it, we bought an emergency replacement lion. Otto got wise immediately, recognizing that it was a fake from Target, hardly as soft, cool or fancy as the original. We finally found the brand, Angel Heart, on Amazon and ordered another elephant and a monkey as back up.
He was suspicious of the monkey at first, eyeing it with contempt but still holding it in his arms, a boy who wanted a casual relationship without a commitment. One day, he suddenly had a change of heart and the elephant took the back seat to the monkey. I actually felt bad for the elephant knowing he had really put himself out there for Otto, since the beginning, allowing him to defile him on a daily basis. His trunk was now a funky yellowish color instead of its original baby blue, hardly an improvement.
The fake lion, meanwhile, has always been the ugly step child. He is allowed in the crib, even allowed to be piled up with his pals but he never, ever gets the full make out treatment. A few days ago Otto started insisting that I hang this motley crew over the edge of the crib before his nap and now the lion has a prime spot, front and center. He still doesn’t get the top notch cuddles and never any suckling or kissing, but he has moved up the chain a bit and I feel like he’s finally getting the respect her deserves.
As I was finishing up this post, the cacophony coming from Otto’s room suddenly stopped. I just snuck up there to see what was going on and Otto was finally asleep with his three buddies. From what I could tell, the monkey was in his arms, the elephant was under his head and the lion? I couldn’t see from my angle so I began to creep into his room and he suddenly moved. As much as I want to finish this piece with a specific location of the lion, possibly discovering that indeed, he has finally welcomed him into the inner sanctum and has him half way down his throat or in his diaper, I refuse to risk it. It took him over an hour to go down and this member of Otto’s posse wants to take a shower.
As I’m writing this, Otto is refusing to sleep, jumping up and down and laugh/crying in his crib. I’ve gone up there twice and given him water and rearranged his animal blankets, a menagerie of cuddly pals he CANNOT sleep without. The elephant was his first member of this gang, a gift from some friends when he was first born. It quickly became his sidekick and sleeping pal. He would suck on the elephant’s trunk and fall asleep with it in his mouth. He never used a pacifier or sucked his thumb so this was clearly his oral fixation preference. Afraid it would be lost or over taken by a fast growing fungus because we couldn’t get it away from him long enough to wash it, we bought an emergency replacement lion. Otto got wise immediately, recognizing that it was a fake from Target, hardly as soft, cool or fancy as the original. We finally found the brand, Angel Heart, on Amazon and ordered another elephant and a monkey as back up.
He was suspicious of the monkey at first, eyeing it with contempt but still holding it in his arms, a boy who wanted a casual relationship without a commitment. One day, he suddenly had a change of heart and the elephant took the back seat to the monkey. I actually felt bad for the elephant knowing he had really put himself out there for Otto, since the beginning, allowing him to defile him on a daily basis. His trunk was now a funky yellowish color instead of its original baby blue, hardly an improvement.
The fake lion, meanwhile, has always been the ugly step child. He is allowed in the crib, even allowed to be piled up with his pals but he never, ever gets the full make out treatment. A few days ago Otto started insisting that I hang this motley crew over the edge of the crib before his nap and now the lion has a prime spot, front and center. He still doesn’t get the top notch cuddles and never any suckling or kissing, but he has moved up the chain a bit and I feel like he’s finally getting the respect her deserves.
As I was finishing up this post, the cacophony coming from Otto’s room suddenly stopped. I just snuck up there to see what was going on and Otto was finally asleep with his three buddies. From what I could tell, the monkey was in his arms, the elephant was under his head and the lion? I couldn’t see from my angle so I began to creep into his room and he suddenly moved. As much as I want to finish this piece with a specific location of the lion, possibly discovering that indeed, he has finally welcomed him into the inner sanctum and has him half way down his throat or in his diaper, I refuse to risk it. It took him over an hour to go down and this member of Otto’s posse wants to take a shower.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
4 Things Or Lazy Updates
HOT WATER
The hot water is back and so is the smile on my face and my desire to live.
SHARK, AGAIN?
My husband Dave is lying on the living room couch watching Jaws II while I write. Jaws I can understand, but Jaws II? That is a pile of dog shit you find on the beach after its squished between your sunburned toes and stains your new pedicure, making the pink a sudden dark red you never wanted. It is one of the worst sequels of all time, up there with “Grease II” and “I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.”
QUAKE ’08
We survived the big quake of’08. We were sitting at the dining room table when it hit and Otto woke up confused and crying. He refused to go back to sleep. Can you blame him? He probably thought someone was stealing his crib or making him water ski in his pajamas. He stayed up for the rest of the day with a skip in his step and a new lease on life.
SOFTBALL
I finally pitched on my pal Kate’s work softball team. I’ve missed most of the games due to Otto and exhaustion. It was a blast. I channeled Tatum O’Neil and smelled victory. We lost but I struck out two people and it tasted as good as the first time I wore lip gloss or sucked down my first beer bong. Yummy!
SHE IS SO SCARY
My cleaning lady intimidates the shit out of me. She has three kids and is constantly telling me how to do things as a mother. She only comes a few times a month but every time she’s here, I know she thinks I suck at this or that or the other. I feel so shitty when someone cleans my house. But then they leave and I feel great. I have serious hang ups.
The hot water is back and so is the smile on my face and my desire to live.
SHARK, AGAIN?
My husband Dave is lying on the living room couch watching Jaws II while I write. Jaws I can understand, but Jaws II? That is a pile of dog shit you find on the beach after its squished between your sunburned toes and stains your new pedicure, making the pink a sudden dark red you never wanted. It is one of the worst sequels of all time, up there with “Grease II” and “I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.”
QUAKE ’08
We survived the big quake of’08. We were sitting at the dining room table when it hit and Otto woke up confused and crying. He refused to go back to sleep. Can you blame him? He probably thought someone was stealing his crib or making him water ski in his pajamas. He stayed up for the rest of the day with a skip in his step and a new lease on life.
SOFTBALL
I finally pitched on my pal Kate’s work softball team. I’ve missed most of the games due to Otto and exhaustion. It was a blast. I channeled Tatum O’Neil and smelled victory. We lost but I struck out two people and it tasted as good as the first time I wore lip gloss or sucked down my first beer bong. Yummy!
SHE IS SO SCARY
My cleaning lady intimidates the shit out of me. She has three kids and is constantly telling me how to do things as a mother. She only comes a few times a month but every time she’s here, I know she thinks I suck at this or that or the other. I feel so shitty when someone cleans my house. But then they leave and I feel great. I have serious hang ups.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Shiny, bright and new
Here in my town we were seriously lacking in a 'normal' supermarket. There are currently three within close proximity to my house. Trader Joe's is great, but sometimes I need a bit more than "Blimey! These Are Limey." British frozen fruit bars. There are two other supermarkets to choose from. One is enormously scary to me. It is a smaller chain that has been in existence for years. I am sure they have money for a face lift, but the regular shoppers would flip out if they changed anything around. It has standard offerings peppered with strange bizarro foods that I just cannot comprehend. The blue-hairs come in droves to buy 10 cans of salmon pesto for 10 dollars. Or they are there with their scrawny chicken arms attempting to lift huge containers of Dreft detergent into their carts because they are on sale for $1.99 each. I go there once in awhile for milk and for the mystery smell. It changes daily and identifying it has turned into a sport for me.
We have two Whole Foods close by but I tend to just shop there for meats, fish and produce. My two kids take a lunch to camp and/or school everyday and they need snacks. They are older and jaded. Health food snacks receive the big thumbs down. I have tried and failed a million times over. I'd rather not chance the $6.99 box of Very Vegan Veggie Vittles that will sit lonely on my shelf with the unsweetened baking chocolate. My kids are not going to eat them no matter how much I scream and yell. You pick and choose your battles with kids. I let them win the crappy snack battle. That way I can win the don't smoke weed in my garage battle in a few years. I ate gross shit growing up, and I have not killed anyone yet. They aren't oinking out on tubs of cream filled cheesecake puffs, but they can have an Oreo now and then. I control the dinners with a heavier hand which can be a good and a bad thing. Now they have little snotty taste buds when it comes to main courses. "But Mom, this Bolognese doesn't have as much flavor. You should stick with the porcini to highlight the taste of the veal."
The other supermarket of a more tolerable nature just opened it's doors after a month of renovations. I can't begin to describe how excited I was to go check this out. I love new supermarkets. Everything about them makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. They shut it down a few weeks ago. I drove by the morning after the forced closing. There were trucks and wooden palettes littering the parking lot. I saw some of the cashiers outside taking a cigarette break. They were not in their regulation green short sleeved polo shirts. Completely out of their normal element. I wanted to pull into the parking lot and talk about what was going on behind the papered windows. Get the skinny on the reveal before everyone else.
When the new Whole Foods near us opened I went two days after to scope out the new property. They had a burrito bar! I ran to the car with my ridiculously overpriced coffee beans slapping against my leg to call my husband and tell him. He feigned interest. "And they will make them with brown rice!" I yelled as he excused himself off the the phone citing an incoming call.
I worked out this morning and took a shower. I put on a proper outfit rather than my normal cropped Lycra yoga pants and a tank top. I shaved my legs and applied mascara with care. I wore a chunky artsy ring that is reserved for dinner dates. I was going to the *new* store. I walked in and it was so bright I winced. The new larger aisles burned with the illumination of a thousand suns. There were greeters, upper echelon management types. I was handed a map and thanked for my patience while they underwent renovations. No, no...thank you.
We have two Whole Foods close by but I tend to just shop there for meats, fish and produce. My two kids take a lunch to camp and/or school everyday and they need snacks. They are older and jaded. Health food snacks receive the big thumbs down. I have tried and failed a million times over. I'd rather not chance the $6.99 box of Very Vegan Veggie Vittles that will sit lonely on my shelf with the unsweetened baking chocolate. My kids are not going to eat them no matter how much I scream and yell. You pick and choose your battles with kids. I let them win the crappy snack battle. That way I can win the don't smoke weed in my garage battle in a few years. I ate gross shit growing up, and I have not killed anyone yet. They aren't oinking out on tubs of cream filled cheesecake puffs, but they can have an Oreo now and then. I control the dinners with a heavier hand which can be a good and a bad thing. Now they have little snotty taste buds when it comes to main courses. "But Mom, this Bolognese doesn't have as much flavor. You should stick with the porcini to highlight the taste of the veal."
The other supermarket of a more tolerable nature just opened it's doors after a month of renovations. I can't begin to describe how excited I was to go check this out. I love new supermarkets. Everything about them makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. They shut it down a few weeks ago. I drove by the morning after the forced closing. There were trucks and wooden palettes littering the parking lot. I saw some of the cashiers outside taking a cigarette break. They were not in their regulation green short sleeved polo shirts. Completely out of their normal element. I wanted to pull into the parking lot and talk about what was going on behind the papered windows. Get the skinny on the reveal before everyone else.
When the new Whole Foods near us opened I went two days after to scope out the new property. They had a burrito bar! I ran to the car with my ridiculously overpriced coffee beans slapping against my leg to call my husband and tell him. He feigned interest. "And they will make them with brown rice!" I yelled as he excused himself off the the phone citing an incoming call.
I worked out this morning and took a shower. I put on a proper outfit rather than my normal cropped Lycra yoga pants and a tank top. I shaved my legs and applied mascara with care. I wore a chunky artsy ring that is reserved for dinner dates. I was going to the *new* store. I walked in and it was so bright I winced. The new larger aisles burned with the illumination of a thousand suns. There were greeters, upper echelon management types. I was handed a map and thanked for my patience while they underwent renovations. No, no...thank you.
Calgon, Take Me Away
Okay, this bullshit I spewed yesterday about being so cool and calm about not having hot water? It’s all over. I woke up this morning to discover that we will not have any hot water until at least tomorrow. That means late tomorrow because it takes hours, HOURS for a tank to heat up, which translates to Wednesday morning in renter’s terms. It would be bearable if it were just the two of us and we didn’t have a child that LOVES to stick his hands on his ball sack when mommy is changing his diaper and his said package is covered in feces. I’ve said it before. I have serious issues with poop on hands, bacteria spreading through poop and poop in general. I can talk about poop, joke about poop, even look at poop. I laughed my ass off when our sick and lovely friends Kate and Matt showed us the Internet sensation that was “Two Girls And A Cup”. If you haven’t seen it, find it. It is THE most disgusting, bizarre, and riveting spectacle I have ever witnessed. And I thought it was hilarious when all said and done.
What I do not find amusing is having to carry a shit covered child downstairs to the kitchen, pour hot water from a huge pasta pot from the stove into a small Pyrex bowl and wash his little stinky fingers with the fear that I might burn either one of us beyond recognition. I am a city girl at heart and hate carrying water on my head or shoulders or anywhere else on my body. I LOVE my appliances. I love the modern convenience of water that comes form a faucet and gives you the choice of what temperature you desire at that particular time. I love that my food stays fresh in a huge, cold cupboard known as a refrigerator and that if that isn’t doing it for me I can pick up a small device known as a phone and call any number of restaurants to come bring me food. I even love the fact that I do not have to drag my living room rug outside once a week, hang it over a line, and beat it to death to get the dust and dirt off of it. My small, canister vacuum cleaner does all that work for me and all I have to do is turn it on and push it around.
I would lose “Survivor” within hours of the first tearful testimonial and I am not ashamed to admit it. I can go months without a hair dryer, makeup or a television. I am not some psycho princess that has to primp and shop and have shit done for her. I hate the mall. I haven’t bought any new clothes in at least 5 months and I can’t stand the modern shoe addicted female whose choice of literature teeters between IN STYLE and Oprah’s Book Club Pick Of The Month. I just want my clothes washed, my dishes sterilized and my son not to spread Salmonella to his friends and family. I want to soak in a hot bath and wash away the last three days of aggravated sponge bathing, tearful cold showers and dirty urban camping. Wednesday can’t come fast enough.
What I do not find amusing is having to carry a shit covered child downstairs to the kitchen, pour hot water from a huge pasta pot from the stove into a small Pyrex bowl and wash his little stinky fingers with the fear that I might burn either one of us beyond recognition. I am a city girl at heart and hate carrying water on my head or shoulders or anywhere else on my body. I LOVE my appliances. I love the modern convenience of water that comes form a faucet and gives you the choice of what temperature you desire at that particular time. I love that my food stays fresh in a huge, cold cupboard known as a refrigerator and that if that isn’t doing it for me I can pick up a small device known as a phone and call any number of restaurants to come bring me food. I even love the fact that I do not have to drag my living room rug outside once a week, hang it over a line, and beat it to death to get the dust and dirt off of it. My small, canister vacuum cleaner does all that work for me and all I have to do is turn it on and push it around.
I would lose “Survivor” within hours of the first tearful testimonial and I am not ashamed to admit it. I can go months without a hair dryer, makeup or a television. I am not some psycho princess that has to primp and shop and have shit done for her. I hate the mall. I haven’t bought any new clothes in at least 5 months and I can’t stand the modern shoe addicted female whose choice of literature teeters between IN STYLE and Oprah’s Book Club Pick Of The Month. I just want my clothes washed, my dishes sterilized and my son not to spread Salmonella to his friends and family. I want to soak in a hot bath and wash away the last three days of aggravated sponge bathing, tearful cold showers and dirty urban camping. Wednesday can’t come fast enough.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Zoos suck
We went to the zoo on Saturday. I should say quasi-zoo. We have this local place that is an hour from here that is about the closest thing we have to a zoo. When I was a kid my dad would never take us to the zoo. He said they were wrong and they upset him. For one of those rare times in my life I am having a moment where I can understand where my father was coming from. We had free passes to this place so we packed up the kids and off we went.
Either the animals were highly agitated and pacing madly, or they were sacked out on their sides waiting for their death. I saw this one porcupine that paced with fervor right by the entrance of it's cage. It knew the entrance was the magic portal to the outside. The repetition of food delivery or cage hose down had taught it that. Unfortunately that one section of the fence is where all the kids congregated. So this porcupine spends it's entire existence thinking that it's frenzied waltz would somehow release him from his hell. I was getting sick watching it. Back and forth and back and forth. Of course the kids think this is hilarious so they gather at the door to watch it, and the porcupine thinks they will open the door, and so it goes.
The only animal that I saw standing were some Rhinos. Can they lie down? Aren't they one of those animals that are always upright? Everything else was on it's side sleeping. Lying there in their faux cage thing, legs twitching, dreaming about the plains of Africa. Or they were fantasizing how they would like to remove the spleen of the 3 year old brat screaming hysterically for cotton candy.
I saw a grown man taunt a lion. Growling at it as he stood by the gate. The lion slept on ignoring him, I stood by paying rapt attention to this dink. I figured when the lion jumped the fence and chewed this fool's face off, I'd have an excellent story to tell the reporters. I stood there for quite awhile watching him until I finally gave up. I looked back 5 minutes later and he was still standing there. Obviously his quest for the lion's attention was one I would never understand.
I hated it so much. The fake habitats, the depressed animals, and the apathetic employees. The shitforbrains visitors that were feeding the animals food they had bought at the concession stands. "Do monkeys like french fries, Daddy?" "I don't know Jimmy, let's find out." Despite the large signs pleading with them not to. Blatant rule breakers make me irate. Especially when another's well-being is at stake. I was pissed and depressed when we left. I suppressed the urge to release the porcupine as we passed by. If he was not covered with all those prickly things I would have brought him home.
Either the animals were highly agitated and pacing madly, or they were sacked out on their sides waiting for their death. I saw this one porcupine that paced with fervor right by the entrance of it's cage. It knew the entrance was the magic portal to the outside. The repetition of food delivery or cage hose down had taught it that. Unfortunately that one section of the fence is where all the kids congregated. So this porcupine spends it's entire existence thinking that it's frenzied waltz would somehow release him from his hell. I was getting sick watching it. Back and forth and back and forth. Of course the kids think this is hilarious so they gather at the door to watch it, and the porcupine thinks they will open the door, and so it goes.
The only animal that I saw standing were some Rhinos. Can they lie down? Aren't they one of those animals that are always upright? Everything else was on it's side sleeping. Lying there in their faux cage thing, legs twitching, dreaming about the plains of Africa. Or they were fantasizing how they would like to remove the spleen of the 3 year old brat screaming hysterically for cotton candy.
I saw a grown man taunt a lion. Growling at it as he stood by the gate. The lion slept on ignoring him, I stood by paying rapt attention to this dink. I figured when the lion jumped the fence and chewed this fool's face off, I'd have an excellent story to tell the reporters. I stood there for quite awhile watching him until I finally gave up. I looked back 5 minutes later and he was still standing there. Obviously his quest for the lion's attention was one I would never understand.
I hated it so much. The fake habitats, the depressed animals, and the apathetic employees. The shitforbrains visitors that were feeding the animals food they had bought at the concession stands. "Do monkeys like french fries, Daddy?" "I don't know Jimmy, let's find out." Despite the large signs pleading with them not to. Blatant rule breakers make me irate. Especially when another's well-being is at stake. I was pissed and depressed when we left. I suppressed the urge to release the porcupine as we passed by. If he was not covered with all those prickly things I would have brought him home.
Hey There, Phyllis
With no hot water since last night we are living like pioneers, boiling water for the dishes and taking showers that make us scream. Our hot water heater broke early yesterday and macho Dave, dude who can do all things handy, went down to the basement three times to light the pilot light, to no avail. He had to call the absentee landlord and being Sunday, we are out of luck for a repair guy until at least tomorrow. The good news is burgers and pizzas until the problem can be fixed and how can that be bad?
I was standing at our porcelain, two sided sink that was installed most likely in 1934, washing dishes in hot water from the stove. I could feel my Grandmother Phyllis, looking down at me and laughing while I complained about not being able to use the dishwasher. This is the same woman who hand picked berries for pies, saved old tin foil and Saran Wrap and made her own stationary from The New Yorker magazines that filled her house. Her bread made with bacon fat and butter was the best I’ve ever eaten and before she died she gave me all her bread pans, the most cherished possessions I own. She could just as easily live without water or electricity and could survive in the wild by reading poetry to rabid animals and nibbling on tree bark. She was a stud.
Suddenly there are tears in my eyes and my heart is heavy. Nothing seems funny about a woman that died far too young with so much more to do. I’ll wash the dishes today and instead of being irritated, I’ll think of Phyllis, standing at the sink at Camp, the cabin in the Maine woods that she and Grandpa helped build and see her washing dishes with boiled river water and making jokes about the mouse poop in the soap can.
I might even make a zucchini bread later in her pans.
Who am I kidding? That would make a huge mess and I’d be washing away for hours to come and complaining incessantly. I’ll just wait until the hot water has returned and my dishwasher can spring into action. Then I’ll toast her with a drink at sundown. She’d like that just as much. As long as it is Wild Turkey on the rocks and someone else cleans up.
I was standing at our porcelain, two sided sink that was installed most likely in 1934, washing dishes in hot water from the stove. I could feel my Grandmother Phyllis, looking down at me and laughing while I complained about not being able to use the dishwasher. This is the same woman who hand picked berries for pies, saved old tin foil and Saran Wrap and made her own stationary from The New Yorker magazines that filled her house. Her bread made with bacon fat and butter was the best I’ve ever eaten and before she died she gave me all her bread pans, the most cherished possessions I own. She could just as easily live without water or electricity and could survive in the wild by reading poetry to rabid animals and nibbling on tree bark. She was a stud.
Suddenly there are tears in my eyes and my heart is heavy. Nothing seems funny about a woman that died far too young with so much more to do. I’ll wash the dishes today and instead of being irritated, I’ll think of Phyllis, standing at the sink at Camp, the cabin in the Maine woods that she and Grandpa helped build and see her washing dishes with boiled river water and making jokes about the mouse poop in the soap can.
I might even make a zucchini bread later in her pans.
Who am I kidding? That would make a huge mess and I’d be washing away for hours to come and complaining incessantly. I’ll just wait until the hot water has returned and my dishwasher can spring into action. Then I’ll toast her with a drink at sundown. She’d like that just as much. As long as it is Wild Turkey on the rocks and someone else cleans up.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Day At The Museum
Museums have always been a constant in my life, just like hating milk and mocking others. As long as I can remember, my parents took my sister and me kicking and screaming to museums to become cultured and well rounded. We were taught to be very polite, very quiet and always hold our hands behind our backs like two little members of the English gentry, strolling the gardens of our vast, lush country estate. Who were we fooling? We could not have looked any better than a couple of kids on a field trip who were rode on the short bus and wanted nothing more than to be released to run amok, tipping over statues and rubbing peanut butter and snot on the benches. That was just a childhood fantasy and as far as I recall I am not wanted by any major art institution for vandalism or possession of any illegal condiments or boogers within fifty feet of a Renoir.
Yesterday, I got mine in spades. My what, you ask? My ever loving parental payback. I took Otto, all twenty-six pounds and sixteen months of him to The Los Angeles County Museum of Art. There is a program there called NexGen to encourage young people to come with their parents to enjoy art, free of charge. Free? I’m there. Seeing that every time I turn around I’ve drop any where from $9 to $210 on some sort of activity for Otto, I will gladly take the free stuff. There’s a children’s museum and art program and for the tiny ones, there is a section of wooden blocks and padded gym shapes for them to play on. Did say it was free and made me feel like a cool, active and hip mom? And free?
I arrived there with snacks, juice, water and a lot of enthusiasm. My friend Allison and her daughter Sage met us there and waved us over to the kiddy section. Immediately, Otto’s face lit up when he saw other kids and lots of wooden objects. I lifted him out of the stroller and was quickly overtaken by the smell of feces and Cheerios. Otto was furious with me as I ran to the bathroom with him in my arms. Much to my surprise he was almost manageable on the grungy, germ-coated changing table so lovingly provided by the museum. I always picture the fecal matter that has been smeared all over the table before my perfect child’s ass arrives and then I quickly go to my happy place and cover the plastic with paper towel and denial. This is one of my major mom phobias, a subject I will tackle some other time. Let’s just say I cannot stand changing a shitty diaper in public. This is a serious problem when you have a small child.
After returning from the bathroom, I released Otto to do what he does best, get into massive amounts of trouble. He no sooner had his little monkey paws on the ground then he was hurling large wooden cylinders and rectangles across the room in any and all directions. These were the old school, plain wood blocks that all parents want because they remind them of their childhood and foster the imagination. All the blogs and websites discuss them and say they are a must for any smart, well educated and indulged modern child. They are also crazy expensive and can be used for severe violence and accidental maiming.
He grabbed a long, thick cylinder the length of a paper towel roll and as thick as a baseball bat and ran toward the summer art class section. This was where the bigger kids were expressing their artistic talents and young struggling artists were pretending to enjoy teaching the children of rich, affected assholes whose nannies were too busy on the phone to participate. I was right on Otto’s heels and had him by the back of the shirt when he hurled this weapon of mass destruction into the art area where it landed with a bang and rolled over a huge painting that was drying on the floor. Poor little Jett, the only child of an uber trendy Hollywood couple who dress him in all black even in a heat wave, has just had his finger-painted masterpiece, a representation of his tortured trendy soul ruined by my child. I immediately picked Otto up and walked the messy block over to a teacher, skulking away with an embarrassed apology trailing behind me. Within minutes, Allison and I knew that getting the rug rats outside to run around was a much better idea and I knew that all the mellow, pregnant mommy’s whose children were calmly playing were more than happy to see me go. Just for the record, Allison’s daughter was a saint and kept looking at Otto with an expression of awe and confusion trying no doubt to understand why Otto had to buzz kill the indoor play time.
Once outside, Otto picked up every pebble and piece of dirty and proudly grunted his approval. My little hunting, gathering caveman. I think I’m in love. We walked along a path where they were setting up for a Friday night jazz concert and again, I felt like a cool parent who is exposing my energetic jungle cat to all things cultured. I was so proud and buoyant discussing what schools I wanted him to go to and if I wanted a second child. It was a modern mommy moment and I was eating it up and must have sounded like a complete asshole. No, the asshole part was about to happen.
We walked back into a main building to get through to the other side and that’s when my perfect moment was shattered by the cacophony of Otto’s vocal chords. As we entered this huge hallway with a forty foot sculpture and eighty foot ceilings, Otto looked up and let out a shout, thus discovering the beauty of the echo. He began yelling, singing and chirping and every person there turned around to look at this horrible child and his selfish, permissive mother. I put my hand over his mouth but that only made him laugh maniacally which sounded frightening when amplified by such great acoustics as marble, bronze and a huge open space.
The more I tried to stifle him the louder he laughed and the more he yelled. This continued up the elevator, through the upstairs walkway, into the main courtyard, into the café and again, in the main seating area where lots of well dressed art lovers sipped their espressos and glared at me and my wacktastic offspring. We made matters worse by laughing because honestly, it was fucking hilarious! Allison and I actually tried to have a normal conversation over our $4 iced teas but for reasons of courtesy and safety we quickly high tailed it out of there, ending up under a tree next to one the stinky, gurgling La Brea Tar Pits.
As sweaty and embarrassed and exhausted as this entire event made me, I was so amused and entertained by my beautiful child. He might not have discover his love of art, culture or silence as of yet but he did find his outer monologue and proudly share it with anyone who would listen. And for that I love him even more. But please Otto, for the love of God, please don’t become an actor.
Yesterday, I got mine in spades. My what, you ask? My ever loving parental payback. I took Otto, all twenty-six pounds and sixteen months of him to The Los Angeles County Museum of Art. There is a program there called NexGen to encourage young people to come with their parents to enjoy art, free of charge. Free? I’m there. Seeing that every time I turn around I’ve drop any where from $9 to $210 on some sort of activity for Otto, I will gladly take the free stuff. There’s a children’s museum and art program and for the tiny ones, there is a section of wooden blocks and padded gym shapes for them to play on. Did say it was free and made me feel like a cool, active and hip mom? And free?
I arrived there with snacks, juice, water and a lot of enthusiasm. My friend Allison and her daughter Sage met us there and waved us over to the kiddy section. Immediately, Otto’s face lit up when he saw other kids and lots of wooden objects. I lifted him out of the stroller and was quickly overtaken by the smell of feces and Cheerios. Otto was furious with me as I ran to the bathroom with him in my arms. Much to my surprise he was almost manageable on the grungy, germ-coated changing table so lovingly provided by the museum. I always picture the fecal matter that has been smeared all over the table before my perfect child’s ass arrives and then I quickly go to my happy place and cover the plastic with paper towel and denial. This is one of my major mom phobias, a subject I will tackle some other time. Let’s just say I cannot stand changing a shitty diaper in public. This is a serious problem when you have a small child.
After returning from the bathroom, I released Otto to do what he does best, get into massive amounts of trouble. He no sooner had his little monkey paws on the ground then he was hurling large wooden cylinders and rectangles across the room in any and all directions. These were the old school, plain wood blocks that all parents want because they remind them of their childhood and foster the imagination. All the blogs and websites discuss them and say they are a must for any smart, well educated and indulged modern child. They are also crazy expensive and can be used for severe violence and accidental maiming.
He grabbed a long, thick cylinder the length of a paper towel roll and as thick as a baseball bat and ran toward the summer art class section. This was where the bigger kids were expressing their artistic talents and young struggling artists were pretending to enjoy teaching the children of rich, affected assholes whose nannies were too busy on the phone to participate. I was right on Otto’s heels and had him by the back of the shirt when he hurled this weapon of mass destruction into the art area where it landed with a bang and rolled over a huge painting that was drying on the floor. Poor little Jett, the only child of an uber trendy Hollywood couple who dress him in all black even in a heat wave, has just had his finger-painted masterpiece, a representation of his tortured trendy soul ruined by my child. I immediately picked Otto up and walked the messy block over to a teacher, skulking away with an embarrassed apology trailing behind me. Within minutes, Allison and I knew that getting the rug rats outside to run around was a much better idea and I knew that all the mellow, pregnant mommy’s whose children were calmly playing were more than happy to see me go. Just for the record, Allison’s daughter was a saint and kept looking at Otto with an expression of awe and confusion trying no doubt to understand why Otto had to buzz kill the indoor play time.
Once outside, Otto picked up every pebble and piece of dirty and proudly grunted his approval. My little hunting, gathering caveman. I think I’m in love. We walked along a path where they were setting up for a Friday night jazz concert and again, I felt like a cool parent who is exposing my energetic jungle cat to all things cultured. I was so proud and buoyant discussing what schools I wanted him to go to and if I wanted a second child. It was a modern mommy moment and I was eating it up and must have sounded like a complete asshole. No, the asshole part was about to happen.
We walked back into a main building to get through to the other side and that’s when my perfect moment was shattered by the cacophony of Otto’s vocal chords. As we entered this huge hallway with a forty foot sculpture and eighty foot ceilings, Otto looked up and let out a shout, thus discovering the beauty of the echo. He began yelling, singing and chirping and every person there turned around to look at this horrible child and his selfish, permissive mother. I put my hand over his mouth but that only made him laugh maniacally which sounded frightening when amplified by such great acoustics as marble, bronze and a huge open space.
The more I tried to stifle him the louder he laughed and the more he yelled. This continued up the elevator, through the upstairs walkway, into the main courtyard, into the café and again, in the main seating area where lots of well dressed art lovers sipped their espressos and glared at me and my wacktastic offspring. We made matters worse by laughing because honestly, it was fucking hilarious! Allison and I actually tried to have a normal conversation over our $4 iced teas but for reasons of courtesy and safety we quickly high tailed it out of there, ending up under a tree next to one the stinky, gurgling La Brea Tar Pits.
As sweaty and embarrassed and exhausted as this entire event made me, I was so amused and entertained by my beautiful child. He might not have discover his love of art, culture or silence as of yet but he did find his outer monologue and proudly share it with anyone who would listen. And for that I love him even more. But please Otto, for the love of God, please don’t become an actor.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Shop Target for better bargains.
Let me take you back a week or two ago. My daughter approached me and told me that she needed a new bathing suit. She had bathing suits but they were getting small on her. I was more than happy to accept this task. When you are the mother of a developing tween and they come to you to tell you something they are wearing is too small you spring into action. Take this advice and store it for later. Moments like these are far and few between. She is in summer camp right now, but in a few weeks we head for vacation. Not an emergency need, but a need that had to be addressed. She happened to tell me while I was cruising around eBay. I was leaving feedback for the Mickey Mouse autograph book I bought my son. We are headed to Disney World for a week in January. (Much more bitching about that in future postings, I promise.) I have bought and sold a few things on eBay but I am not an avid user. Here and there for specific needs, otherwise my account is fairly dormant.
My daughter loves Juicy Couture. Not shocking considering she falls smack dab into their target audience. I figured I would poke around on eBay to see if a Juicy bathing suit fell off the back of a truck. They all had Juicy splayed across the ass. Not for my 12 year old. I could write paragraph after paragraph on how I feel about that sort of crap. As I was searching I came across a bathing suit from another store she likes. It was cheap, auction was just about to end, and in her size. It met all the criteria. I check out the seller. They seem normal by ebay standards. 100% positive feedback, bought and sold loads of things. They were listing the item as NWOT. That's New Without Tags for you eBay clueless. I have sold kids stuff NWOT. Christmas gifts of horrendous clothing that were nonreturnable. I looked over the listing, reviewed past feedback and saw that they were legitimate. I bought it.
It arrived today, wrapped very nicely. The label had been printed out via computer as was the postage. This was a true eBay operation. Slick gray plastic envelope. Nothing on the outside that would give me any indication of what I was about to open up. The suit slid out. I starting checking it out. It looked great. Bright color, appeared to never have been washed. No discernible defects. I then grabbed the bottoms to do the standard crotch check. I screamed and dropped the bottoms to the floor. My stomach gave a lurch. I used my toe to flip them over to see if I was wrong. I HAD to be wrong. Nope there it was. Right in the crotch. A dried ribbon of yellow, crinkled, crunchy, unspeakable gunk lined the strip. It was so yellow and crunchy I expected to see a miniature Dorothy and Toto skipping down it. I was completely repulsed and horrified.
The stain was so obvious it was screwing with my head. I immediately looked out the window so that I could get a good view of the van that was surely parked outside my house. The rusted out van with the guy sitting in it, batting at his crotch feverishly while he watched me open his little present. I was convinced I had stumbled upon some illicit black market of eBay that sold soiled bathing suit bottoms. At this moment there was a 60 year old man that lives in his parent's dark paneled basement that was terribly disappointed at what he had just received in the mail. "Where is my dirty bathing suit!?" he'd bellow at the ceramic Elmo figurine he painted in art therapy. He'd then smash it to the ground, grab a shard and go take his anger out on his mother's new Toile drapes. Someone had to have set me up. Nobody in their right mind would pack up a suit with a stain that looked like a tablespoon of old mayonnaise and send it off to another person. Yeah, I said tablespoon. It was huge, offensive, and crispy.
I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands with bleach mixed with the tears of my lost innocence. Headed downstairs and grabbed my laptop. I quickly reviewed the seller and the item again seeing if I had missed something. Maybe a small banner that continually ran on the bottom of the listing. You have found the number one seller for soiled bathing suit bottoms, tell your friends and take 10% off your combined order! I wanted to see something, anything that would put my head back on correctly. Nothing, just normal eBay sales lingo and feedback. 100% positive rating on over 300 sales. It said she lived in Macungie, PA. Macungie only fed into my irrational thoughts of the eBay scam I had unraveled. I briefly saw myself on the local news showing the crusty suit to the world. They'd interview the lead investigator who would tell everyone there is no such place as Macungie. In fact it is the Serbian slang for labia and without my help they would have never caught these horrible people.
I Googled Macungie and it does indeed exist. Harrumph. I sent a polite but terse email to the seller telling them that not only was the suit stained but they were obviously the grossest freak in the entire universe and they need to funnel a Lithium shake. Okay, not really. I just said it was really offensive and that I was shocked they would have knowingly sent it to me in that state. She emailed me back about an hour later telling me that she had bought the suit off of eBay herself and never checked it. Her daughter never wore it, she swears. It was not her fault, she would refund my money. Blah, blah, blah. Shut your pie-hole you vile beast and never email me again. She is probably at home right now rabidly checking her feedback waiting on my mayonnaise hate.
My daughter loves Juicy Couture. Not shocking considering she falls smack dab into their target audience. I figured I would poke around on eBay to see if a Juicy bathing suit fell off the back of a truck. They all had Juicy splayed across the ass. Not for my 12 year old. I could write paragraph after paragraph on how I feel about that sort of crap. As I was searching I came across a bathing suit from another store she likes. It was cheap, auction was just about to end, and in her size. It met all the criteria. I check out the seller. They seem normal by ebay standards. 100% positive feedback, bought and sold loads of things. They were listing the item as NWOT. That's New Without Tags for you eBay clueless. I have sold kids stuff NWOT. Christmas gifts of horrendous clothing that were nonreturnable. I looked over the listing, reviewed past feedback and saw that they were legitimate. I bought it.
It arrived today, wrapped very nicely. The label had been printed out via computer as was the postage. This was a true eBay operation. Slick gray plastic envelope. Nothing on the outside that would give me any indication of what I was about to open up. The suit slid out. I starting checking it out. It looked great. Bright color, appeared to never have been washed. No discernible defects. I then grabbed the bottoms to do the standard crotch check. I screamed and dropped the bottoms to the floor. My stomach gave a lurch. I used my toe to flip them over to see if I was wrong. I HAD to be wrong. Nope there it was. Right in the crotch. A dried ribbon of yellow, crinkled, crunchy, unspeakable gunk lined the strip. It was so yellow and crunchy I expected to see a miniature Dorothy and Toto skipping down it. I was completely repulsed and horrified.
The stain was so obvious it was screwing with my head. I immediately looked out the window so that I could get a good view of the van that was surely parked outside my house. The rusted out van with the guy sitting in it, batting at his crotch feverishly while he watched me open his little present. I was convinced I had stumbled upon some illicit black market of eBay that sold soiled bathing suit bottoms. At this moment there was a 60 year old man that lives in his parent's dark paneled basement that was terribly disappointed at what he had just received in the mail. "Where is my dirty bathing suit!?" he'd bellow at the ceramic Elmo figurine he painted in art therapy. He'd then smash it to the ground, grab a shard and go take his anger out on his mother's new Toile drapes. Someone had to have set me up. Nobody in their right mind would pack up a suit with a stain that looked like a tablespoon of old mayonnaise and send it off to another person. Yeah, I said tablespoon. It was huge, offensive, and crispy.
I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands with bleach mixed with the tears of my lost innocence. Headed downstairs and grabbed my laptop. I quickly reviewed the seller and the item again seeing if I had missed something. Maybe a small banner that continually ran on the bottom of the listing. You have found the number one seller for soiled bathing suit bottoms, tell your friends and take 10% off your combined order! I wanted to see something, anything that would put my head back on correctly. Nothing, just normal eBay sales lingo and feedback. 100% positive rating on over 300 sales. It said she lived in Macungie, PA. Macungie only fed into my irrational thoughts of the eBay scam I had unraveled. I briefly saw myself on the local news showing the crusty suit to the world. They'd interview the lead investigator who would tell everyone there is no such place as Macungie. In fact it is the Serbian slang for labia and without my help they would have never caught these horrible people.
I Googled Macungie and it does indeed exist. Harrumph. I sent a polite but terse email to the seller telling them that not only was the suit stained but they were obviously the grossest freak in the entire universe and they need to funnel a Lithium shake. Okay, not really. I just said it was really offensive and that I was shocked they would have knowingly sent it to me in that state. She emailed me back about an hour later telling me that she had bought the suit off of eBay herself and never checked it. Her daughter never wore it, she swears. It was not her fault, she would refund my money. Blah, blah, blah. Shut your pie-hole you vile beast and never email me again. She is probably at home right now rabidly checking her feedback waiting on my mayonnaise hate.
Love Thy Neighbor
What do you say when a person you barely know catches you off guard and asks you and your husband over for dinner? I can usually respond quickly with a white lie and a smile. I am so afraid of confrontation and hurting people’s feelings that I automatically go to the fib. My husband is a solid truth teller and is better for it. He just puffs his chest out, looks them square in the eyes and says, “No thanks”. Of course, his entire body is saying, “No way loser. Never in a million years douche juice. Um, yeah, no fucking way!” But do they notice this or even care? No. No one ever gets mad at Dave while I suffer with a world full of hurt feelings and grudge matches in my imagination. That or I am convinced this person was last seen on America’s Most Wanted and it’s my job to turn them in.
This morning, while on a family stroll with Otto and Brody, the inevitable happened. I was stopped a few blocks from home watching Brody take a colossal, Olympic sized shit when a guy who lives around the corner and is super nice with a new dog and a cool car whose name absolutely escapes me, threw me a curve ball and invited us to a little get together next week. Let me be very clear. I do not know his name. I only started speaking to him a few months ago because I liked his vintage ride and I needed human contact with someone taller that my knee caps. Within days of meeting him, he was telling me how bad his landlords were and I have never passed up an opportunity to shit on the low life specimen known as the landlord. Since meeting him, he’s gotten a dog, walked by a few times to say hello and confused both my husband and me because he wasn’t in his car, the only reason we ever recognized him in the first place.
I don’t know him at all and though he is extremely nice and out going I have a tendency to be suspicious of everything that moves, breaths or grows. I’ll talk to anyone and everyone but in the back of my mind I try to picture what their living room looks like and if they eat canned goods cold and drink warm beer, sure signs of danger in my book. Here is how are exchange went, in and out of my head.
Nameless Neighbor: Hey, I want to invite you and your husband over for a dinner party next week. (Hey, I want you top come over so I can serial kill you).
Dingbat Dotty: Oh, yeah, um, I’m leaving town but not for another week and a half. What night? (Let me tell you everything about my schedule so you can conveniently serial kill me).
NN: Wednesday? (Is that a good day for you to be chopped up?)
DD: Dave is swamped but is usually done with work by five or so. Sure, that sounds great! Can we bring the baby? I need to get your info. (I would love for you to put me and my entire family in a Cuisinart and blend us up into a serial killer smoothie. What’s your email)?
NN: Of course. I’ll talk to you later then. Great. ( I’ll make it quick and tasty and leave my number in your mailbox next time I’m skulking near your front door).
He cheerfully walked off with his dog leaving me to question everything I stand for. Serial killer watch 101 is do not engage and never give out details and of course, never say yes to a dinner party invitation. I have no idea what I was thinking and now I have no idea how the hell to get out of it. Wait. I’ll just have Dave tell him the truth, that we are too busy with the kid and can’t make it. Okay, I feel much better. I have to go now and cry into my pillow while peering out the blinds and praying that he’s not in my bushes planning his menu. I wish I could start this day over again with a tall iced tea and the ability to be invisible.
This morning, while on a family stroll with Otto and Brody, the inevitable happened. I was stopped a few blocks from home watching Brody take a colossal, Olympic sized shit when a guy who lives around the corner and is super nice with a new dog and a cool car whose name absolutely escapes me, threw me a curve ball and invited us to a little get together next week. Let me be very clear. I do not know his name. I only started speaking to him a few months ago because I liked his vintage ride and I needed human contact with someone taller that my knee caps. Within days of meeting him, he was telling me how bad his landlords were and I have never passed up an opportunity to shit on the low life specimen known as the landlord. Since meeting him, he’s gotten a dog, walked by a few times to say hello and confused both my husband and me because he wasn’t in his car, the only reason we ever recognized him in the first place.
I don’t know him at all and though he is extremely nice and out going I have a tendency to be suspicious of everything that moves, breaths or grows. I’ll talk to anyone and everyone but in the back of my mind I try to picture what their living room looks like and if they eat canned goods cold and drink warm beer, sure signs of danger in my book. Here is how are exchange went, in and out of my head.
Nameless Neighbor: Hey, I want to invite you and your husband over for a dinner party next week. (Hey, I want you top come over so I can serial kill you).
Dingbat Dotty: Oh, yeah, um, I’m leaving town but not for another week and a half. What night? (Let me tell you everything about my schedule so you can conveniently serial kill me).
NN: Wednesday? (Is that a good day for you to be chopped up?)
DD: Dave is swamped but is usually done with work by five or so. Sure, that sounds great! Can we bring the baby? I need to get your info. (I would love for you to put me and my entire family in a Cuisinart and blend us up into a serial killer smoothie. What’s your email)?
NN: Of course. I’ll talk to you later then. Great. ( I’ll make it quick and tasty and leave my number in your mailbox next time I’m skulking near your front door).
He cheerfully walked off with his dog leaving me to question everything I stand for. Serial killer watch 101 is do not engage and never give out details and of course, never say yes to a dinner party invitation. I have no idea what I was thinking and now I have no idea how the hell to get out of it. Wait. I’ll just have Dave tell him the truth, that we are too busy with the kid and can’t make it. Okay, I feel much better. I have to go now and cry into my pillow while peering out the blinds and praying that he’s not in my bushes planning his menu. I wish I could start this day over again with a tall iced tea and the ability to be invisible.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Reality Bites
All I wanted to do last night was sit down by myself, drink a beer and watch something interesting on TV. Too much to ask, I guess as it took me fifteen minutes to find the remote. I was sure Otto had put it someplace “safe” and I tore the living room apart. Eventually I discovered it under the couch cushions after looking there twice before. That is so me and something my husband will get pleasure from reading. Dotty has no patience and no sense of rational thought when looking for a lost item. It’s true and I said it. When I finally settled in, my viewing options were limited at best. There was a choice between a shitty reality show and an even shittier reality show. And the winners are, “Big Brother 10” and “America’s Got Talent”, both the equivalent of dumpster diving in today’s television wasteland. I had to resort to cable surfing.
There I found the least shitty of the bunch, “Jon and Kate Makes 8.” It is a reality show on TLC about these exhausted, angry and unfashionable people who have two sets of multiples. One set are twins and the second, sextuplets. Yes, I said it. These crazy fuckers have eight children and don’t look a day over thirty-five. I didn’t watch the whole show but I did get the distinct feeling that these two overwhelmed parents wanted to kill one another most of the time. They sat in a love seat and spoke to a faceless person off camera retelling their most embarrassing moments from the show’s first few seasons, fighting about the past and blaming one another for everything. I didn’t even know this show existed but apparently they have been gracing the world with their heroism for at least sixty episodes.
This is it in a nutshell. What the hell is wrong with having just one kid? Granted this group of kiddies are oddly attractive with their half Korean genes and their charming dispositions. They are stunning, okay. But still, my life feels overwhelming when I’m trying to get all the shit done. Clean the house, do the laundry and feed the little meatball and make play dates and workout and wax and, you get the idea here. I just cannot imagine. Plus, I truly feel sorry for her vagina and all it’s neighbors. All that racket! There goes the neighborhood.
When I could take no more of the bickering and sniping, I finally found the mother load, on the network that has single-handedly brought down the national I.Q. level. There for my pure, mindless enjoyment on E! was an interview on “Chelsea Lately” with Christopher Ciccone, Madonna’s Judasesque brother. This was juicy fruit, it was so juicy! He actually went on camera to sell his tell-all book and not only rolled his sister under the bus but threw her in front of a speeding train and then kicked her in the face with a Bruno Magli loafer. He said that he wanted to tell the truth about who she was and was thankful that the A-Rod scandal was helping him sell his book. He then ended the interview by telling America that Guy Richie is a homophobe and, in fact, Madonna has had a facelift but that the doctor clearly pulled a bit too tight. Wow! Oh my God! Seriously? What a psycho traitor, wacky pack!
This is the same guy whom she has gainfully employed for the last fifteen years and has ridden the Madonna Wagon of Wealth Ride over and over. Is there no such thing as celebrity, I mean sibling loyalty? Can’t he hate her in private and tell a high paid therapist that he has dreams of chopping off her over priced, ever changing hair in her sleep and then leaving her unconscious in the hot sun to finally get a sunburn? If he hated her so much, couldn’t stand to see that chalk white, rippled thin body telling him to get her a macrobiotic enema bag pronto then why did he work for her for so long and suck on the teat of fabulousness and fun? He is going down in the ages for being one of the most foul D-listers of all time, right there with Princess Diana’s butler and any member of The Hilton family. I can’t wait until “30 Rock” is back on the air and Christopher Ciccone is getting me my Cheeseburger animal style with grilled and raw onions, french fries and an iced tea. “Oh, can I get some extra ketchup with that order? Thanks, uh, what does that name tag say? Yeah, Chris. Thanks, Chris.”
There I found the least shitty of the bunch, “Jon and Kate Makes 8.” It is a reality show on TLC about these exhausted, angry and unfashionable people who have two sets of multiples. One set are twins and the second, sextuplets. Yes, I said it. These crazy fuckers have eight children and don’t look a day over thirty-five. I didn’t watch the whole show but I did get the distinct feeling that these two overwhelmed parents wanted to kill one another most of the time. They sat in a love seat and spoke to a faceless person off camera retelling their most embarrassing moments from the show’s first few seasons, fighting about the past and blaming one another for everything. I didn’t even know this show existed but apparently they have been gracing the world with their heroism for at least sixty episodes.
This is it in a nutshell. What the hell is wrong with having just one kid? Granted this group of kiddies are oddly attractive with their half Korean genes and their charming dispositions. They are stunning, okay. But still, my life feels overwhelming when I’m trying to get all the shit done. Clean the house, do the laundry and feed the little meatball and make play dates and workout and wax and, you get the idea here. I just cannot imagine. Plus, I truly feel sorry for her vagina and all it’s neighbors. All that racket! There goes the neighborhood.
When I could take no more of the bickering and sniping, I finally found the mother load, on the network that has single-handedly brought down the national I.Q. level. There for my pure, mindless enjoyment on E! was an interview on “Chelsea Lately” with Christopher Ciccone, Madonna’s Judasesque brother. This was juicy fruit, it was so juicy! He actually went on camera to sell his tell-all book and not only rolled his sister under the bus but threw her in front of a speeding train and then kicked her in the face with a Bruno Magli loafer. He said that he wanted to tell the truth about who she was and was thankful that the A-Rod scandal was helping him sell his book. He then ended the interview by telling America that Guy Richie is a homophobe and, in fact, Madonna has had a facelift but that the doctor clearly pulled a bit too tight. Wow! Oh my God! Seriously? What a psycho traitor, wacky pack!
This is the same guy whom she has gainfully employed for the last fifteen years and has ridden the Madonna Wagon of Wealth Ride over and over. Is there no such thing as celebrity, I mean sibling loyalty? Can’t he hate her in private and tell a high paid therapist that he has dreams of chopping off her over priced, ever changing hair in her sleep and then leaving her unconscious in the hot sun to finally get a sunburn? If he hated her so much, couldn’t stand to see that chalk white, rippled thin body telling him to get her a macrobiotic enema bag pronto then why did he work for her for so long and suck on the teat of fabulousness and fun? He is going down in the ages for being one of the most foul D-listers of all time, right there with Princess Diana’s butler and any member of The Hilton family. I can’t wait until “30 Rock” is back on the air and Christopher Ciccone is getting me my Cheeseburger animal style with grilled and raw onions, french fries and an iced tea. “Oh, can I get some extra ketchup with that order? Thanks, uh, what does that name tag say? Yeah, Chris. Thanks, Chris.”
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Take cover, Brandine.
I want a hurricane. I see Dolly cut her evil path across Youprettymuchliveinmexico, USA and I am outrageously jealous. We have nasty weather here right now. Severe thunderstorms, black skies, downpours. Nervous cats and children are running in circles around the inside of my house. They just cut in with a Tornado warning. My ears perked up. This is what I am looking for. Something cool and destructive. I am very disappointed to hear that it is taking place in another part of the state. I scan the radar feed on my laptop to see if there is any chance in it brushing by here. My disappointment is alarming.
I know Tornadoes suck. I've seen the footage. You lost your double-wide. The only thing that remains is the mildewed tiki torch and a broken picnic table. Pretty much the same crap that was in your yard before the storm hit. Someone is missing. They are either under the age of 7 or over the age of 77. That's sad. But, oh! They found them...alive! Hanging in a tree by the nape of their Winnie The Pooh sweatshirt screaming for someone to throw them up a box of smokes. "We lost everything, but we still have our health." Camera focuses in on a upended St. Theresa statue. Back to Brian Williams.
I know they can cause death and despair. I don't want one of those Tornadoes. Just a small crazy one that zips through the neighborhood. A micro burst, if you will. 5 minutes of "Holy Shit." That's all. Just something to perk up the day.
I know Tornadoes suck. I've seen the footage. You lost your double-wide. The only thing that remains is the mildewed tiki torch and a broken picnic table. Pretty much the same crap that was in your yard before the storm hit. Someone is missing. They are either under the age of 7 or over the age of 77. That's sad. But, oh! They found them...alive! Hanging in a tree by the nape of their Winnie The Pooh sweatshirt screaming for someone to throw them up a box of smokes. "We lost everything, but we still have our health." Camera focuses in on a upended St. Theresa statue. Back to Brian Williams.
I know they can cause death and despair. I don't want one of those Tornadoes. Just a small crazy one that zips through the neighborhood. A micro burst, if you will. 5 minutes of "Holy Shit." That's all. Just something to perk up the day.
Trash Day
Elizabeth Hasselback is wasting our air. Katherine Heigl is lucky she has a job. Both these self-involved cheerleaders should have a sleepover and both smother each other with over priced down pillows and high thread count pillow shams. Maybe then we can have a normal day without the mention of either their repulsive behavior or their over-processed hair extensions.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
But Mommy Wants It
My last post was a mystery to me. I was hungry and scattered and unfunny. But I did manage to cook Otto’s salad, make myself some lunch and get him to eat when he woke up. Hugely successful on my part. Did I tell you that the laundry is still sitting unfolded on the dining room table and the living room looks like a Chinese toy factory had a terrible case of projectile diarrhea all over the rug and ottoman.? (YES, I HAVE PURCHASED TOYS MADE IN CHINA. I am changing the subject back to Otto and food stuffs). Don’t get me wrong. He eats like a piggy but sometimes he only eats like a piglet and his father and I are insulted and then worried. We much prefer the piggy appetite.
After lunch and an Olympic diaper change, we went for a long neighborhood walk, ending up at the local bike store to get the tire fixed on Otto’s hiking stroller. It needed a new inner tube so Otto, Brody and I decided to kill time the old fashioned way, pretend to purchase large ticket items. Brody trotted off to try to ply dog treats from the young, Daisy Duke wearing cashier while one of the cool bike guys tried to sell me on the new BOB Jogging Stroller. Let me be clear about one thing. I am a terrible shopper, only for the simple reason that I HATE to spend money. Actually I hate to spend money on myself. I do not hate spending money on Otto which is a good thing his tuition for nursery school may start at $10,000 a year. There is a waterfall of cash that flows freely and unencumbered from my wallet every time I see something that he needs. Now, I am still frugal with his purchases but if I can somehow convince myself that we as a family unit cannot live without it, than the shit is mine or his.
Back to the stroller. We were there to repair fairly new and functional jogger that I happen to love. It was not expensive, it serves me well all the time and Otto loves having his own cup holders. What this mean? Will he be an avid white trash beer drinker or a latte asshole that litters his body with sugary drinks and litters the world with plastic cups and lids? Only time will tell. But that new, shiny BOB stroller in it’s new compact version with chrome wheels and a lounge like vibe for the seat? It called to me. The salesman was throwing his best pitch at me and my eyes glassed over. I put Otto in the seat and he sat there as quiet as a mouse for what felt like hours and I calmly caressed the handle bars and played with breaks, the sun shade and the safety harness. Oh, the harness was so long…
We had registered for the BOB a year and a half earlier but we returned that one. It was too big, too orange and not a Bugaboo. Yes, we went off the parental deep end and traded up to a $900 jack off stroller, the one every L.A. asshole has. It screams of mediocrity and stupidity. We used it a lot in the beginning, when Otto was the size of a raisin and I was not. Now it just sits in the corner of our living room mocking us for being so predictable and bourgeois. The cat sleeps in the bottom basket periodically, leaving behind a wig’s worth of dirty fur and a few drool spots. We keep saying we’ll sell it on EBay. It’s practically new. But we haven’t and we won’t. Dave and I are notorious for saying we’ll do something and then getting around to it the following decade. I still owe my acting teacher $250 from 1994 and Dave hasn’t had an anal exam since Bush took office. Wait, is that me?
The BOB did not come home with me but surprisingly enough, Brody did. He fell in love with the entire staff of the bike shop and gave me a look of disgust when I forced him to finally leave. The new inner tube cost me $10.40. The scantily clad cashier forgot to give me my change and blamed it on Brody’s gorgeous face. He is that good looking but she was an a classic case of body over brains. Even dogs know a good thing when they see it. The short shorts really do tell a story. And Otto? He didn’t protest when I wheeled him away from the BOB. He didn’t even wave goodbye. But I did.
After lunch and an Olympic diaper change, we went for a long neighborhood walk, ending up at the local bike store to get the tire fixed on Otto’s hiking stroller. It needed a new inner tube so Otto, Brody and I decided to kill time the old fashioned way, pretend to purchase large ticket items. Brody trotted off to try to ply dog treats from the young, Daisy Duke wearing cashier while one of the cool bike guys tried to sell me on the new BOB Jogging Stroller. Let me be clear about one thing. I am a terrible shopper, only for the simple reason that I HATE to spend money. Actually I hate to spend money on myself. I do not hate spending money on Otto which is a good thing his tuition for nursery school may start at $10,000 a year. There is a waterfall of cash that flows freely and unencumbered from my wallet every time I see something that he needs. Now, I am still frugal with his purchases but if I can somehow convince myself that we as a family unit cannot live without it, than the shit is mine or his.
Back to the stroller. We were there to repair fairly new and functional jogger that I happen to love. It was not expensive, it serves me well all the time and Otto loves having his own cup holders. What this mean? Will he be an avid white trash beer drinker or a latte asshole that litters his body with sugary drinks and litters the world with plastic cups and lids? Only time will tell. But that new, shiny BOB stroller in it’s new compact version with chrome wheels and a lounge like vibe for the seat? It called to me. The salesman was throwing his best pitch at me and my eyes glassed over. I put Otto in the seat and he sat there as quiet as a mouse for what felt like hours and I calmly caressed the handle bars and played with breaks, the sun shade and the safety harness. Oh, the harness was so long…
We had registered for the BOB a year and a half earlier but we returned that one. It was too big, too orange and not a Bugaboo. Yes, we went off the parental deep end and traded up to a $900 jack off stroller, the one every L.A. asshole has. It screams of mediocrity and stupidity. We used it a lot in the beginning, when Otto was the size of a raisin and I was not. Now it just sits in the corner of our living room mocking us for being so predictable and bourgeois. The cat sleeps in the bottom basket periodically, leaving behind a wig’s worth of dirty fur and a few drool spots. We keep saying we’ll sell it on EBay. It’s practically new. But we haven’t and we won’t. Dave and I are notorious for saying we’ll do something and then getting around to it the following decade. I still owe my acting teacher $250 from 1994 and Dave hasn’t had an anal exam since Bush took office. Wait, is that me?
The BOB did not come home with me but surprisingly enough, Brody did. He fell in love with the entire staff of the bike shop and gave me a look of disgust when I forced him to finally leave. The new inner tube cost me $10.40. The scantily clad cashier forgot to give me my change and blamed it on Brody’s gorgeous face. He is that good looking but she was an a classic case of body over brains. Even dogs know a good thing when they see it. The short shorts really do tell a story. And Otto? He didn’t protest when I wheeled him away from the BOB. He didn’t even wave goodbye. But I did.
The dryer is spinning, four ears of corn are boiling, the baby is finally sleeping and my head is throbbing. There is no reason for the headache other than I want to write for at least an hour AND make two new dishes for Otto to eat for lunch. If I don’t write I get tense, crabby and generally wacko. A copy of The Elements of Style sit next to my computer today. I must clean up the grammar and embrace the correct usage of quotations, punctuations and adjectives. The run on sentence? That is an old friend from writings past that needs to be fazed out. The 25 cent word? Just awful and unnecessary. The incomplete sentence? I obviously still use it. And the adverb? Stephen King swears it will ruin you as a writer but I love the sound of a cutesy “ly”.
I am super solo today, save for Otto, Brody and Joey. Dave is off to Anaheim to see Ray Davies with one of his best friends Francois, the biggest and most committed Kinks fans of all time. Cois called Dave last week to say he just got Dave his birthday present. His birthday is on October and it is, of course, only July. They are front row seats and just to make sure they do not get stuck in traffic for the hour and fifteen minute drive, they are leaving at 1 p.m. for an 8 p.m. show. Tell me that isn’t die hard. It brought tears to my eyes when Dave told me what Cois had done. No, not that he would be gone for 18 hours and Otto was all mine to feed, change, wrestle with and read to. The concert part. He even named one of his daughters after Ray Davies. Music is life, I suppose.
As I sit here at the dining room table, our new office as of Otto’s birth, I keep feeling like I am tethered. I am not tied down and trapped but literally connected to the monitor and the stairs and the crib and Otto. I write as much as, I can as fast as I can and then wait for the squeaking to start and for my engines to get going again. The menu planning is already in progress. I have a compulsion to have everything as ready as possible so he doesn’t whine in his high chair. When I get hungry it is unpleasant at best. He is me in a nutshell.
Corn and black bean salad with red onion, Arugula and white wine and lemon vinaigrette. That’s what I need to make in the next fifteen minutes. Then I’ll cook up a cheddar cheese melt on fig bread and serve up some diced grape tomatoes and finally, strawberries. Just writing down the menu has calmed my nerves. What if he throws it all on the floor and decides that air is all he wants? What if the dog, once again, fills himself up with Otto’s food and Otto only wants hugs and books? I will feel guilty, frustrated and amused. Little Lord Cohen and his advanced palette. He eats everything but that’s not always a good thing. He has to have something different and exciting everyday. It’s his father’s fault. This is a man who bought a solid, wood dining table so he could roll out his own pasta and spend years watching the scratches and nicks in the wood get seasoned.
I have to cook now. Will he even eat it or won’t he?
I am super solo today, save for Otto, Brody and Joey. Dave is off to Anaheim to see Ray Davies with one of his best friends Francois, the biggest and most committed Kinks fans of all time. Cois called Dave last week to say he just got Dave his birthday present. His birthday is on October and it is, of course, only July. They are front row seats and just to make sure they do not get stuck in traffic for the hour and fifteen minute drive, they are leaving at 1 p.m. for an 8 p.m. show. Tell me that isn’t die hard. It brought tears to my eyes when Dave told me what Cois had done. No, not that he would be gone for 18 hours and Otto was all mine to feed, change, wrestle with and read to. The concert part. He even named one of his daughters after Ray Davies. Music is life, I suppose.
As I sit here at the dining room table, our new office as of Otto’s birth, I keep feeling like I am tethered. I am not tied down and trapped but literally connected to the monitor and the stairs and the crib and Otto. I write as much as, I can as fast as I can and then wait for the squeaking to start and for my engines to get going again. The menu planning is already in progress. I have a compulsion to have everything as ready as possible so he doesn’t whine in his high chair. When I get hungry it is unpleasant at best. He is me in a nutshell.
Corn and black bean salad with red onion, Arugula and white wine and lemon vinaigrette. That’s what I need to make in the next fifteen minutes. Then I’ll cook up a cheddar cheese melt on fig bread and serve up some diced grape tomatoes and finally, strawberries. Just writing down the menu has calmed my nerves. What if he throws it all on the floor and decides that air is all he wants? What if the dog, once again, fills himself up with Otto’s food and Otto only wants hugs and books? I will feel guilty, frustrated and amused. Little Lord Cohen and his advanced palette. He eats everything but that’s not always a good thing. He has to have something different and exciting everyday. It’s his father’s fault. This is a man who bought a solid, wood dining table so he could roll out his own pasta and spend years watching the scratches and nicks in the wood get seasoned.
I have to cook now. Will he even eat it or won’t he?
Lock up your daughters
Dotty's post about day laborers struck a chord with me today. It is nice to see how closely our thoughts mimic one another. More proof that we should continue feverishly with this brilliant collaboration.
I saw a bumper sticker today that said: Vaginatarian. Isn't that clever? Apparently he likes to eat vaginas. It was on a pick-up truck with extra large wheels. Big tit crushing wheels. I bet you were thinking it was a Prius. Nope, A Ford. A big old white one. "Grrrrrahhhh! I drive a truck and I love me some vaginas! My wheels will crush your scrawny liberal head, get out of my way!" I know it was a he, because I saw him. He was large, extraordinarily dumpy and stupid. Of course I don't know that he was stupid but I think it is a pretty fair assessment. He was wearing knee pads and installing plaster at a house around the corner from us. Did he want to eat my vagina? I doubt it. A sweaty 39 year old panting on her 3 mile loop is not his target audience. Plus my husband was with me. He is a big cock blocker for anyone that may want to practice their Vaginatarian ways with me. I am assuming that the only action this moron gets is a bunch of laughs from other large assclowns who think his vagina eating sticker is just hilarious. There they all are, gathered in front of Jimmy's garage at 7:00 pm. Sure she called you at 4 to remind you she was making beef stew. Your favorite. F her! I can heat that stuff up. She sucks. So does her vagina. I want to hang out with the boys and put back a few. Fighting off mosquitoes, listening to Staind, and dumping Coor's lights into their caveman maws. Wearing jorts and construction boots covered with the essence of their labor. Absentmindedly picking at scabs with one hand, shifting their nuts around with the other. "Come see what Sully put on his truck! Dude, you are so funny!" Pounds.
I saw a bumper sticker today that said: Vaginatarian. Isn't that clever? Apparently he likes to eat vaginas. It was on a pick-up truck with extra large wheels. Big tit crushing wheels. I bet you were thinking it was a Prius. Nope, A Ford. A big old white one. "Grrrrrahhhh! I drive a truck and I love me some vaginas! My wheels will crush your scrawny liberal head, get out of my way!" I know it was a he, because I saw him. He was large, extraordinarily dumpy and stupid. Of course I don't know that he was stupid but I think it is a pretty fair assessment. He was wearing knee pads and installing plaster at a house around the corner from us. Did he want to eat my vagina? I doubt it. A sweaty 39 year old panting on her 3 mile loop is not his target audience. Plus my husband was with me. He is a big cock blocker for anyone that may want to practice their Vaginatarian ways with me. I am assuming that the only action this moron gets is a bunch of laughs from other large assclowns who think his vagina eating sticker is just hilarious. There they all are, gathered in front of Jimmy's garage at 7:00 pm. Sure she called you at 4 to remind you she was making beef stew. Your favorite. F her! I can heat that stuff up. She sucks. So does her vagina. I want to hang out with the boys and put back a few. Fighting off mosquitoes, listening to Staind, and dumping Coor's lights into their caveman maws. Wearing jorts and construction boots covered with the essence of their labor. Absentmindedly picking at scabs with one hand, shifting their nuts around with the other. "Come see what Sully put on his truck! Dude, you are so funny!" Pounds.
Monday, July 21, 2008
The Fast and The Furious
Otto turned 16 months yesterday and he is a certified person with an agenda and a full calendar. I swore when I was pregnant I would never use the time measurement of months when describing my child. Look at me now. Hypocrite. There really is no other option. I can’t keep saying he’s almost a year and a half for a half a year. That would just be weird. He is growing so fast, doing things today that seemed all but impossible just minutes earlier. Cliché as it is, the entire process is going by like a freight train, just like the one in the book with the red caboose and the black steam engine and the green cattle car. Yes, we read a lot and yes, trains are fast. That is my whole point.
I’m doing things I would never have done before and seeing things in a whole new, unfiltered and rosy hue. I now stop when a horribly loud tractor is dismantling yet another tiny house in our once idyllic neighborhood to show Otto how much dirt and destruction a little yellow bulldozer can muster up. A few days later the house is gone and a crew of disgruntled construction workers are putting up a Spanish inspired McMansion. Again, I stop and point out the raw 2x4’s and the pile of cement dust. We both love it. He, of course loves it because he can and should and I do just for the mere sake that he does. That light in his eyes and smile on his face when he sees the last remnants of a once beloved home being pulverized really does it for me. Or when he points to an angry man standing on a ladder leering at mommy’s boobs. It’s those moments together that I will always cherish.
A mere 12 months earlier I would have become psychotic, hating the noise, the urban sprawl and the unwanted sexual advances from a scary looking bunch of crotch grabbers. You know the ones that best express themselves when adjusting their nuts and bolts. Try walking by a group of sweaty hard hats while lactating and sleep deprived. Not pretty. But now I see the beauty in poorly build condos, deafening truck sounds and any attention I can get from day laborers, dirty or otherwise.
Otto stares at all the commotion and I try to get inside his head to figure out what he really likes about watching these buildings getting built. He might love the colors of the trucks or the beeping of the machines backing up or even the random Subway and McDonald’s wrappers strewn all over the construction site. Who wouldn’t love that collection of trash? I really have no idea but I wish I did. I then think about the things I do know he loves and then, being the bizarre mother I know I am, I begin writing his dating profile in my head, just in case he might need one in the next few days.
Maybe tomorrow as we wind our way around the block, preparing for another morning of construction zone madness, some 16 month old hottie named Clementine or Lilac will be standing in front of the building site, gazing at all the equipment and drooling on her pink Crocs. What if a love to dwarf all loves suddenly sparks between Otto and this truck loving nymphet. With his dating profile at hand, I can see if his love for her is real or if it will it pass as quickly as a freight train.
I’m doing things I would never have done before and seeing things in a whole new, unfiltered and rosy hue. I now stop when a horribly loud tractor is dismantling yet another tiny house in our once idyllic neighborhood to show Otto how much dirt and destruction a little yellow bulldozer can muster up. A few days later the house is gone and a crew of disgruntled construction workers are putting up a Spanish inspired McMansion. Again, I stop and point out the raw 2x4’s and the pile of cement dust. We both love it. He, of course loves it because he can and should and I do just for the mere sake that he does. That light in his eyes and smile on his face when he sees the last remnants of a once beloved home being pulverized really does it for me. Or when he points to an angry man standing on a ladder leering at mommy’s boobs. It’s those moments together that I will always cherish.
A mere 12 months earlier I would have become psychotic, hating the noise, the urban sprawl and the unwanted sexual advances from a scary looking bunch of crotch grabbers. You know the ones that best express themselves when adjusting their nuts and bolts. Try walking by a group of sweaty hard hats while lactating and sleep deprived. Not pretty. But now I see the beauty in poorly build condos, deafening truck sounds and any attention I can get from day laborers, dirty or otherwise.
Otto stares at all the commotion and I try to get inside his head to figure out what he really likes about watching these buildings getting built. He might love the colors of the trucks or the beeping of the machines backing up or even the random Subway and McDonald’s wrappers strewn all over the construction site. Who wouldn’t love that collection of trash? I really have no idea but I wish I did. I then think about the things I do know he loves and then, being the bizarre mother I know I am, I begin writing his dating profile in my head, just in case he might need one in the next few days.
“Otto loves rocks, leaves and walking on sidewalks. An avid reader of books right side up and upside down, he will sometimes share his toys with others and has never met a ball he didn’t adore. Looking for a cute, smart and funny sidekick who will share his love of all things round and noisy. Dislikes band-aids and carpet fuzz. Willing to move. Must have a love of all moving vehicles and airborne objects. Hates picky eaters and cheap shoes.”
Maybe tomorrow as we wind our way around the block, preparing for another morning of construction zone madness, some 16 month old hottie named Clementine or Lilac will be standing in front of the building site, gazing at all the equipment and drooling on her pink Crocs. What if a love to dwarf all loves suddenly sparks between Otto and this truck loving nymphet. With his dating profile at hand, I can see if his love for her is real or if it will it pass as quickly as a freight train.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
"I've just met a girl named Maria"
I hate chit chat. Small talk of any kind with strangers makes me uncomfortable. My husband on the other hand will talk to anyone. Literally. I get crabby just thinking about entering a store with him to purchase an appliance or some sort of electrical equipment. Radio Shack is what my nightmares are made of. He will talk at length about some wire or tube that he needs. The nerdly cashier then offers his story of the same wire and how it helped him connect with his 18 internet friends from Korea. My husband will then have yet another riveting tale about that wire used in a very unconventional way by his friend's uncle who happens to have a store specializing in wires of that kind. The clerk wants to know how he could do that, in detail. Paper and pens are brought out, a diagram begins to appear. I stand off to the side and plan my death. I know any moment I will collapse there among the cheap MP3 players and heavily discounted Furby's. Anything to free me of this cycle of tech-talk. Make it stop.
He always has an explanation for the pan-handler. "Sorry pal, I cannot give you a dollar and here is why...." Fellow passenger sitting waiting for public transportation? "Hey there! Why no shoes today?" Heavily medicated check-out clerk at Whole Foods? "Mmmmm, I love me some red meat. How about you?" I tease him about it, but it is part of who he is. It is charming and people love it because he has a great way of getting a person to talk about themselves which they inherently love to do. I sit there quietly and let him go. He has a vast t-shirt collection that I supply him with. I need to cut back on that because normally that is the catalyst for conversation. "Hey, I loved that movie!" says the guy wearing the hemp poncho in Starbucks. "Oh my God, I need to get that for my husband. He loves Aquaman." says the leathery-faced woman drinking alone at Chili's. He also loves random sports chat with other guys. This always frightens me because we live in Boston, the land of the rabid fan. I am just afraid he is going to pick the wrong psychopath to high five over a home run.
He also loves to get the crazies going. I just saw on the news today that a guy stripped down to nothing on a flight from Boston to LA and he had to be subdued until the plane made an emergency landing in Oklahoma. Pilot apparently was well-aware that LA had it's fair share of insane naked people with federal offenses under their belt and decided to dump him off in the Midwest. Excellent choice. Kudos to the pilot training at American. A few passengers jumped up to help take down this poor soul while the plane crew hog tied him in a cloud of Calvin Klein scents and stain resistant Dockers. My husband would not help restrain him. Instead he would try to engage crazed naked guy in conversation. "Whoa Buddy! Where's your pants? Is this your coy way of telling us you want more tomato juice?" or "You know what goes great with an exposed penis mid-flight? A song and dance routine! Do something from West Side Story!" Know full well if there was a weapon involved he would choose another way to direct the conversation. But if the guy simply lost his shit and wanted to be naked, my husband would just want to enhance the experience for the rest of us on board.
He always has an explanation for the pan-handler. "Sorry pal, I cannot give you a dollar and here is why...." Fellow passenger sitting waiting for public transportation? "Hey there! Why no shoes today?" Heavily medicated check-out clerk at Whole Foods? "Mmmmm, I love me some red meat. How about you?" I tease him about it, but it is part of who he is. It is charming and people love it because he has a great way of getting a person to talk about themselves which they inherently love to do. I sit there quietly and let him go. He has a vast t-shirt collection that I supply him with. I need to cut back on that because normally that is the catalyst for conversation. "Hey, I loved that movie!" says the guy wearing the hemp poncho in Starbucks. "Oh my God, I need to get that for my husband. He loves Aquaman." says the leathery-faced woman drinking alone at Chili's. He also loves random sports chat with other guys. This always frightens me because we live in Boston, the land of the rabid fan. I am just afraid he is going to pick the wrong psychopath to high five over a home run.
He also loves to get the crazies going. I just saw on the news today that a guy stripped down to nothing on a flight from Boston to LA and he had to be subdued until the plane made an emergency landing in Oklahoma. Pilot apparently was well-aware that LA had it's fair share of insane naked people with federal offenses under their belt and decided to dump him off in the Midwest. Excellent choice. Kudos to the pilot training at American. A few passengers jumped up to help take down this poor soul while the plane crew hog tied him in a cloud of Calvin Klein scents and stain resistant Dockers. My husband would not help restrain him. Instead he would try to engage crazed naked guy in conversation. "Whoa Buddy! Where's your pants? Is this your coy way of telling us you want more tomato juice?" or "You know what goes great with an exposed penis mid-flight? A song and dance routine! Do something from West Side Story!" Know full well if there was a weapon involved he would choose another way to direct the conversation. But if the guy simply lost his shit and wanted to be naked, my husband would just want to enhance the experience for the rest of us on board.
Friday, July 18, 2008
My Bologna Has a First Name
My secret crush list is short but ever changing. There’s really nothing on the list that I’m embarrassed about except one thing. I’ll let you take a guess.
Dotty’s Secret Crush List
Band - Coldplay.
Secret because Chris Martin is the least macho front man that does it for me. He makes love to his piano (lame), is a bit too skinny for me (just like Gwynnie) and all his songs sound the same, an androgynous man child complaining about money and politics. But I LOVE him. Odd. Just for the record, my blog pal Chrissy is as out about her love of Cold Play as a man in tights and heels at the Gay Pride parade. It’s here and it’s queer!
Movie Star Boyfriend - Colin Farrell
I truly hated him until I saw him in IN BRUGES, a small, cool indy film and CASSANDRA’S DREAM, a lame Woody Allen movie no one saw. He was hilarious in both and seemed almost normal for a change. MIAMI VICE, R.I.P. Plus he’s cute in an Irish, drunk, soccer thug kind of way, date rapists who might just call.
T.V. Show – Two and A Half Men
Fuck it. I think it’s hilarious. I love sexual humor and I can’t get enough of Charlie Sheen and his awful bowling shirts/Bermuda shorts combo platter outfits. Also, years ago I did a guest spot on a short lived sitcom with Jon Cryer and I was told NOT to call him Ducky. That’s fucking priceless!
Car of Choice – Gas Guzzling SUV
I love my Jeep Grand Cherokee. There, I said it. It gets 18 MPG city and I still love it. I can fit all my shit in it - my dog, my kid, a jogging stroller, reusable grocery bags (see, I care!), a bag of hideous plastic beach toys and the hybrid I never bought.
Least “Hollywood” Accessory - Bed, Bath and Beyond Coupons
Honestly, nothing gets me off quite as much as saving money. Some people won’t admit that but I am screaming it loud and clear. Standing in line at The Bed (what I call B,B and B) with a stack of 20% coupons, I always seem to look down my nose at the schmuck behind me who forgot hers.
“Oh, too bad. That hideous cotton/poly blend floral duvet cover is going to cost you as is the faux French country crockery set you just had to have for full price. Let me just use 14 coupons here and leave the store with a bag full of kitchen goodies and a total of $4.13. Don’t laugh, Spendaholic. It happens. Or should I say shit happens?”
Favorite Food Item – Mystery Meat
I love bologna and any other rolled mystery meat product I can get my grubby little hands on. Salami, mortadella, hot dogs and best, if not worst of all, a product most parents will recognize and gag when they read it, Gerber Meat Sticks. Those are the tiny little wieners floating in water in glass jars in the baby section of any horrible grocery store chain. Toddler food at it’s most appalling. They actually look like a collection of perfectly formed baby shlongs. Disgusting.
I know these meat products all contain pigs feet, cow ass and probably dog but I just can’t help it. The only item I actually stock in my house is Salami but I fantasize about the others as if they were long lost loves that I can never have again. Like the ex high school boyfriend who’s in prison for continual stupidity, laziness and statutory rape. Or the former flame with a huge facial scar, bad teeth and chicken legs who now is addicted to prescription drugs and falafels. For the record, I am blushing right now as I write this.
So, in there lies your answer. I am fucking mortified I just admitted to loving the bastard child of processed food, a collection of food stuffs that a homeless person wouldn’t eat. Sorry, That was inappropriate. I mean a person of no home.
Dotty’s Secret Crush List
Band - Coldplay.
Secret because Chris Martin is the least macho front man that does it for me. He makes love to his piano (lame), is a bit too skinny for me (just like Gwynnie) and all his songs sound the same, an androgynous man child complaining about money and politics. But I LOVE him. Odd. Just for the record, my blog pal Chrissy is as out about her love of Cold Play as a man in tights and heels at the Gay Pride parade. It’s here and it’s queer!
Movie Star Boyfriend - Colin Farrell
I truly hated him until I saw him in IN BRUGES, a small, cool indy film and CASSANDRA’S DREAM, a lame Woody Allen movie no one saw. He was hilarious in both and seemed almost normal for a change. MIAMI VICE, R.I.P. Plus he’s cute in an Irish, drunk, soccer thug kind of way, date rapists who might just call.
T.V. Show – Two and A Half Men
Fuck it. I think it’s hilarious. I love sexual humor and I can’t get enough of Charlie Sheen and his awful bowling shirts/Bermuda shorts combo platter outfits. Also, years ago I did a guest spot on a short lived sitcom with Jon Cryer and I was told NOT to call him Ducky. That’s fucking priceless!
Car of Choice – Gas Guzzling SUV
I love my Jeep Grand Cherokee. There, I said it. It gets 18 MPG city and I still love it. I can fit all my shit in it - my dog, my kid, a jogging stroller, reusable grocery bags (see, I care!), a bag of hideous plastic beach toys and the hybrid I never bought.
Least “Hollywood” Accessory - Bed, Bath and Beyond Coupons
Honestly, nothing gets me off quite as much as saving money. Some people won’t admit that but I am screaming it loud and clear. Standing in line at The Bed (what I call B,B and B) with a stack of 20% coupons, I always seem to look down my nose at the schmuck behind me who forgot hers.
“Oh, too bad. That hideous cotton/poly blend floral duvet cover is going to cost you as is the faux French country crockery set you just had to have for full price. Let me just use 14 coupons here and leave the store with a bag full of kitchen goodies and a total of $4.13. Don’t laugh, Spendaholic. It happens. Or should I say shit happens?”
Favorite Food Item – Mystery Meat
I love bologna and any other rolled mystery meat product I can get my grubby little hands on. Salami, mortadella, hot dogs and best, if not worst of all, a product most parents will recognize and gag when they read it, Gerber Meat Sticks. Those are the tiny little wieners floating in water in glass jars in the baby section of any horrible grocery store chain. Toddler food at it’s most appalling. They actually look like a collection of perfectly formed baby shlongs. Disgusting.
I know these meat products all contain pigs feet, cow ass and probably dog but I just can’t help it. The only item I actually stock in my house is Salami but I fantasize about the others as if they were long lost loves that I can never have again. Like the ex high school boyfriend who’s in prison for continual stupidity, laziness and statutory rape. Or the former flame with a huge facial scar, bad teeth and chicken legs who now is addicted to prescription drugs and falafels. For the record, I am blushing right now as I write this.
So, in there lies your answer. I am fucking mortified I just admitted to loving the bastard child of processed food, a collection of food stuffs that a homeless person wouldn’t eat. Sorry, That was inappropriate. I mean a person of no home.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Please Release Me, Let Me Go!
This compulsion of constantly touching has always been lost on me. I never understood the need to announce my sexual status with PDA. Leaving it up to the imaginations of strangers is more my style. Get them guessing if you’re doing the blond guy or the red headed chick in a group that you’re walking with. Flirt with everyone and no one. Mess with the looky loo’s.
Recently, I was the third wheel. Hasn’t happened in a while and I actually didn’t even notice really, until the couple I was with began to remind me that yes, they were indeed, a couple. We were going through a museum with hallways, stairs, twists and turns and they never broke the chain of hand holding. Two hours plus and they couldn’t seem to loosen their grip. There were so many awkward moments, as the man would hold the door for me while the woman would hold on to the man like a lifeboat passenger on the Titanic. I would slink up a stairwell while they hovered behind me, whispering sweet nothings to each other. I would gaze at a beautiful painting while they gave one another wrist rubs and finger strokes. Gross!
They didn’t cuddle, nuzzle or lick but the palms of their hands never saw the light of day. Imagine the plethora of germs in that Petri dish. I have nothing else to say except let go and let God already! It’s just creepy and needy and co-dependant. I have to go now and see if anyone has emailed in the last minute since I checked.
Recently, I was the third wheel. Hasn’t happened in a while and I actually didn’t even notice really, until the couple I was with began to remind me that yes, they were indeed, a couple. We were going through a museum with hallways, stairs, twists and turns and they never broke the chain of hand holding. Two hours plus and they couldn’t seem to loosen their grip. There were so many awkward moments, as the man would hold the door for me while the woman would hold on to the man like a lifeboat passenger on the Titanic. I would slink up a stairwell while they hovered behind me, whispering sweet nothings to each other. I would gaze at a beautiful painting while they gave one another wrist rubs and finger strokes. Gross!
They didn’t cuddle, nuzzle or lick but the palms of their hands never saw the light of day. Imagine the plethora of germs in that Petri dish. I have nothing else to say except let go and let God already! It’s just creepy and needy and co-dependant. I have to go now and see if anyone has emailed in the last minute since I checked.
Candlepins to absolve your sins.
Do you remember Cora? The Maxwell House lady? Margaret Hamilton. I can remember the ads vaguely. She played the shop-keeper who had a heart filled with New England charm and crappy coffee. Every Thursday morning starting in the fall I will bowl with a whole wagon-load of Cora's. I am in a bowling league. It is the coffee league and I do not get the pleasure of being on team Maxwell House. I am on Folgers. Says so right on my white cardboard envelope I check off when I pay. I joined it last year at the prompting of one of the Mom's from the kid's school. My kids go to parochial school. But we don't go to church on a regular basis. One of the main reasons I joined the team is because it is made up of all the cool churchy-types at our school. Moms that I can tolerate. They are funny, have cool husbands, and love to drink. I believe these to be the three essentials of any forced socializing done with school parents. They also all go to church every weekend. Not me. So I use bowling as a bonding mechanism. One of my first spiritual memories is my Mom telling me that the noise of thunder and lightening was God bowling. I don't dislike bowling, but I never thought I'd ever see myself doing it regularly. I could say the same thing about church. I pick bowling. Better attitudes, much more interesting people, and a snack bar.
I am a terrible bowler. Pretty bad. I have no desire to tell you what my average was last year. But know this. Over a tepid plate of chicken ziti and broccoli in at The Chateau I pocketed $60 for my coming in second to last place. So we don't suck that bad and I have the money to prove it. Well I no longer have the money, but late last Spring I did. The women who placed first cleaned up. A couple of hundred bucks. Myself and my teammates are the youngest members. More than 1/2 of the bowlers are over 65 and they are bowling powerhouses.
There is one woman in the league and she is amazing. She can barely walk around without the assistance of the cane, but she stands up there and nails the pins with jaw-dropping accuracy. Her name is Marie and she will kick your ass. There are small reminders that she is 78 years old. Like the day she showed up with a gash in the back of her head. I sat there reclining on the laminate bench after warming up waiting for the league to begin. Marie toddled over, dropped her kick-ass Adidas old school bowling bag on the bench and began lacing up. As she bent over I noticed that she had a bunch of dried blood on the back of her head. I said, "Marie, did you fall this morning?" No answer. I shift uncomfortably because I don't really know Marie. Fact is, I am a bit frightened by her. She is in the league but we aren't team mates. In fact, I want to knock her down hard and grab that cool bag. She is a machine. The better she does, the less money I win at year's end. It's all about the game. I was kidding about the bag, but I would like to see Marie sidelined for a few weeks. I say this because Marie wants to knock my ass down as well. I talk too much at bowling and this annoys Marie. She wants to keep the game moving. I yap with my friends and she glances at her watch knowing the bread pudding is waiting for her at Geriatric Meadows where she lives. I bug her, and I know my teammates do. She has snapped at us to move it along a few times. But she is old and we do talk too much so she wins. My friend comes in, sits next to me and I point to the back of Marie's head. She gives the same involuntary wound shiver and also asks Marie about falling. Marie mumbles something into her shoe and gets up to begin practicing. And despite suffering from some form of head trauma, the bitch plods on with her mad bowling skills. When Marie's teammates get there we point out Marie's head. They express the appropriate amount of rabid concern that elderly are supposed to display. They have it together. They are both wearing seasonal appropriate tops for early spring. Janice has birdhouses in a pastel row, Evelyn is sporting pink tulips.
I think you can tell a lot about an elderly person's state of mind by the seasonal shirt they are wearing. I can guarantee you that I will see my sweet grandmother in a cardigan sweatshirt with playfull fall foliage blowing around the neckline at some point this week. The problem is that it is mid-July. She is 96 years old, in case the cardigan sweatshirt in the dead of summer was not your first clue.
Janice and Evelyn determined Marie did not fall, but knocked her head against a kitchen cabinet and did not realize that she drew blood. They cluck and take her off to the bathroom to clean her up.
We bowled on. Marie prevailed. At the end of the season Marie took home $250 at the Chateau. And she had a glass of white wine. I sipped on my ice water hating her because I had to go pick up my kids after we finished our eclairs, so no drinky for me. Marie went home with a buzz and a pocket-full of cash to her bread pudding. And she gets to go to bed right at 10pm. I hated her.
Bowling is over for now but starts up in full swing this fall. I plan to be there with renewed vigor. I will see Marie and my competitive spirit will be re-awakened. I will draw the line at wearing pumpkin earrings, though.
I am a terrible bowler. Pretty bad. I have no desire to tell you what my average was last year. But know this. Over a tepid plate of chicken ziti and broccoli in at The Chateau I pocketed $60 for my coming in second to last place. So we don't suck that bad and I have the money to prove it. Well I no longer have the money, but late last Spring I did. The women who placed first cleaned up. A couple of hundred bucks. Myself and my teammates are the youngest members. More than 1/2 of the bowlers are over 65 and they are bowling powerhouses.
There is one woman in the league and she is amazing. She can barely walk around without the assistance of the cane, but she stands up there and nails the pins with jaw-dropping accuracy. Her name is Marie and she will kick your ass. There are small reminders that she is 78 years old. Like the day she showed up with a gash in the back of her head. I sat there reclining on the laminate bench after warming up waiting for the league to begin. Marie toddled over, dropped her kick-ass Adidas old school bowling bag on the bench and began lacing up. As she bent over I noticed that she had a bunch of dried blood on the back of her head. I said, "Marie, did you fall this morning?" No answer. I shift uncomfortably because I don't really know Marie. Fact is, I am a bit frightened by her. She is in the league but we aren't team mates. In fact, I want to knock her down hard and grab that cool bag. She is a machine. The better she does, the less money I win at year's end. It's all about the game. I was kidding about the bag, but I would like to see Marie sidelined for a few weeks. I say this because Marie wants to knock my ass down as well. I talk too much at bowling and this annoys Marie. She wants to keep the game moving. I yap with my friends and she glances at her watch knowing the bread pudding is waiting for her at Geriatric Meadows where she lives. I bug her, and I know my teammates do. She has snapped at us to move it along a few times. But she is old and we do talk too much so she wins. My friend comes in, sits next to me and I point to the back of Marie's head. She gives the same involuntary wound shiver and also asks Marie about falling. Marie mumbles something into her shoe and gets up to begin practicing. And despite suffering from some form of head trauma, the bitch plods on with her mad bowling skills. When Marie's teammates get there we point out Marie's head. They express the appropriate amount of rabid concern that elderly are supposed to display. They have it together. They are both wearing seasonal appropriate tops for early spring. Janice has birdhouses in a pastel row, Evelyn is sporting pink tulips.
I think you can tell a lot about an elderly person's state of mind by the seasonal shirt they are wearing. I can guarantee you that I will see my sweet grandmother in a cardigan sweatshirt with playfull fall foliage blowing around the neckline at some point this week. The problem is that it is mid-July. She is 96 years old, in case the cardigan sweatshirt in the dead of summer was not your first clue.
Janice and Evelyn determined Marie did not fall, but knocked her head against a kitchen cabinet and did not realize that she drew blood. They cluck and take her off to the bathroom to clean her up.
We bowled on. Marie prevailed. At the end of the season Marie took home $250 at the Chateau. And she had a glass of white wine. I sipped on my ice water hating her because I had to go pick up my kids after we finished our eclairs, so no drinky for me. Marie went home with a buzz and a pocket-full of cash to her bread pudding. And she gets to go to bed right at 10pm. I hated her.
Bowling is over for now but starts up in full swing this fall. I plan to be there with renewed vigor. I will see Marie and my competitive spirit will be re-awakened. I will draw the line at wearing pumpkin earrings, though.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
"Smell like cabbage. Small hands."
The Marinelli boys are making me nutso. They are these two demons that are in Max's camp. They are the absolute cutest little kids. Adorable. They use their looks as a way to lure you into thinking that they are harmless. They are about a year apart, and quite small in stature. Combined they have the energy of a swarm of angry bees. They move like lightening. So fast they are little blurs. Their mother shaves their heads in the summer which makes them appear even smaller. I think she knows that her kids are trouble, so she manipulates their appearance so they appear even tinier. Today they each had on enormous baseball hats. The adjustable velcro back ignored. Flopping around on their pea-sized heads. How cute. They ran circles around Max while we waited for the doors to open. Myself and all the other sweaty mothers. Standing there, mentally willing them to open the magic portals, take our children and exhaust them. Humid and 91 degrees out. Open the door. Please. See you at 3. Mommy loves you. Special kisses. Sprint for the parking lot to squeeze that time slot of freedom for all it is worth.
I watch the Marinelli kids warily. They are shovers and grabbers. I note that they grab with the tips of their little skinny fingers though. I want to call them pinchers. But I will label them PAGs. Precise Aggressive Grabbers. The mother now tries to engage me in small talk as we wait. Another coy move to distract me from her rotten kids while they maul mine. I keep an eye on her and an eye on the chaos at the end of the hall. A cluster of sunscreen dipped children with the Marinelli ring going round and round. Hustling them all to the center while they shriek and circle, swinging out their arms. I gave out a few weak, "hey hey, slow down guys." Emphasizing the plural so it seems as if I am addressing all the children. She asks if I want to set up a play date, at their house. Hell no, woman. Are you on meds? Can I send Max with a butter knife? He will not be crossing into Marinelli borders anytime soon without some proper, "Get off me, bitch!" training. I talk myself in circles about how it will be tough to work out, we are leaving for the cape soon, maybe in the fall? She loves the idea. Wants my cell number. The camp doors swing open and the Marinelli's launch the battle cry as all the kids run yelling into the doorway. The rush for the entryway spreads us apart in the hallway. I see my exit and scurry to the other side of the hall, busy myself with special kisses for Max. I spend the walk to the parking lot thinking up new excuses for the next time.
I watch the Marinelli kids warily. They are shovers and grabbers. I note that they grab with the tips of their little skinny fingers though. I want to call them pinchers. But I will label them PAGs. Precise Aggressive Grabbers. The mother now tries to engage me in small talk as we wait. Another coy move to distract me from her rotten kids while they maul mine. I keep an eye on her and an eye on the chaos at the end of the hall. A cluster of sunscreen dipped children with the Marinelli ring going round and round. Hustling them all to the center while they shriek and circle, swinging out their arms. I gave out a few weak, "hey hey, slow down guys." Emphasizing the plural so it seems as if I am addressing all the children. She asks if I want to set up a play date, at their house. Hell no, woman. Are you on meds? Can I send Max with a butter knife? He will not be crossing into Marinelli borders anytime soon without some proper, "Get off me, bitch!" training. I talk myself in circles about how it will be tough to work out, we are leaving for the cape soon, maybe in the fall? She loves the idea. Wants my cell number. The camp doors swing open and the Marinelli's launch the battle cry as all the kids run yelling into the doorway. The rush for the entryway spreads us apart in the hallway. I see my exit and scurry to the other side of the hall, busy myself with special kisses for Max. I spend the walk to the parking lot thinking up new excuses for the next time.
Celebrity Poke Her
All the town is talking about Madonna and A-Rod, a baseball phenom with a particularly phallic nickname. Is she doing him? Did he leave his baseball wife for the pop diva? Will Guy Richie stand by his man or bail and leave behind that glorious lifestyle and those delicious biceps that have so lovingly cradled him all these years?
She's nearing fifty and looks better than all the thirty five year old guys I know. Her brother just stabbed her in her very muscled back and wrote a scream all about how she fucked him out of all the money he borrowed from her. Barnes and Noble will be selling this masterpiece on the 40% off table by the end of the week, next to Margaret Cho's 4th collection of comedy rants about her Korean mother and Glenn Beck's unsmart and unfunny book, "Fuck you, I AM the Next Rush Limbaugh".
All the Madonna bashing and obsessing aside, I'm pulling for her in whatever direction she chooses to go. Since the young age of 15, I have loved her unconditionally and rooted her on. I still hold a quiet grudge against Sean Penn and Robin Wright Penn and am convinced that Sandra Bernhardt must have done something horrible to her to have been cut out of Madonna's inner circle. Maybe she tried to have sex with one of Madonna's back up singers or never returned a really cute blouse that Madonna loved. All I'm saying is don't shit where you eat.
Years ago when I was a personal cabana boy (assistant, whatever...) to a hand full of popular early nineties celebs, I had a chance to interview to be one of Madonna's assistants. Note the word assistants, plural, many, a lot. Imagine that motley crew. Not for one moment did I even consider it. I knew better. I couldn't possible take the job that would make me ultimately hate one of my heroes. Even if she was a great boss, super cool and generous, I would have learned too much about her life and hated it all. Okay, there is no way she is any of those things.
In a celebrity/slave relationship, the power shift is so great that the low man is at a major disadvantage and has no where to run but out. Did I really want to watch her wash her face with $3000 t-shirts and then throw them onto the floor of her behemoth walk in closet as she rattles off to me a "To Do" list that could kill a Green Beret?
Madonna's List of Tasks for Dotty:
1) braid my toe hair
2) buy toilet paper made out of silk
3) rearrange my shoe closet by heal width, color and vintage
4) chew my food for me
5) don't breath in my presence
Madonna, I hope you understand that I was too busy buying groceries for failed movie stars and sending off autographed exercise equipment to creepy family friends of C list television personalities who's idea of aging gracefully was to have their faces massaged by cattle prods and then sewn into their earlobes. I couldn't make the break and actually work for someone who was so famous and fabulous that my life got sucked into theirs and I completely lost my identity and my will to live. The thought was nice, though and think of it this way. We'll always have 1985.
She's nearing fifty and looks better than all the thirty five year old guys I know. Her brother just stabbed her in her very muscled back and wrote a scream all about how she fucked him out of all the money he borrowed from her. Barnes and Noble will be selling this masterpiece on the 40% off table by the end of the week, next to Margaret Cho's 4th collection of comedy rants about her Korean mother and Glenn Beck's unsmart and unfunny book, "Fuck you, I AM the Next Rush Limbaugh".
All the Madonna bashing and obsessing aside, I'm pulling for her in whatever direction she chooses to go. Since the young age of 15, I have loved her unconditionally and rooted her on. I still hold a quiet grudge against Sean Penn and Robin Wright Penn and am convinced that Sandra Bernhardt must have done something horrible to her to have been cut out of Madonna's inner circle. Maybe she tried to have sex with one of Madonna's back up singers or never returned a really cute blouse that Madonna loved. All I'm saying is don't shit where you eat.
Years ago when I was a personal cabana boy (assistant, whatever...) to a hand full of popular early nineties celebs, I had a chance to interview to be one of Madonna's assistants. Note the word assistants, plural, many, a lot. Imagine that motley crew. Not for one moment did I even consider it. I knew better. I couldn't possible take the job that would make me ultimately hate one of my heroes. Even if she was a great boss, super cool and generous, I would have learned too much about her life and hated it all. Okay, there is no way she is any of those things.
In a celebrity/slave relationship, the power shift is so great that the low man is at a major disadvantage and has no where to run but out. Did I really want to watch her wash her face with $3000 t-shirts and then throw them onto the floor of her behemoth walk in closet as she rattles off to me a "To Do" list that could kill a Green Beret?
Madonna's List of Tasks for Dotty:
1) braid my toe hair
2) buy toilet paper made out of silk
3) rearrange my shoe closet by heal width, color and vintage
4) chew my food for me
5) don't breath in my presence
Madonna, I hope you understand that I was too busy buying groceries for failed movie stars and sending off autographed exercise equipment to creepy family friends of C list television personalities who's idea of aging gracefully was to have their faces massaged by cattle prods and then sewn into their earlobes. I couldn't make the break and actually work for someone who was so famous and fabulous that my life got sucked into theirs and I completely lost my identity and my will to live. The thought was nice, though and think of it this way. We'll always have 1985.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Eternal Question
Question: What tastes better, pizza or interviewing for nursery schools?
Answer: Pizza
Answer: Pizza
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Now You See It, Now You Don't
My husband and I were finishing up dinner tonight, slurping up the amazing red sauce he poured over pasta and out of his pocket he pulled a small book that he had been carrying around for Otto all day. It was a small board book that they gave away free for a Taco Bell promotional campaign a few months back. What they were promoting is a mystery, as there are no discernible facts on the book except a random selection of cute furry animals and numbers to attract the attention of a very young customer who is more than willing to eat a double stuffed burrito or a Chimichonga combo meal at the tender young age of unhealthy.
NO, we didn’t bring him there to eat for his first birthday or blend and then feed him fake Mexican food one night when we were feeling lazy. For the record, Otto is 15 months old and eats everything. He just hasn’t had the pleasure yet. Our adorable twelve year old neighbor Dallas had given it to him and it is now his favorite and every twelve year old has a right to eat at Taco Bell and I am not preaching. I just think kids should be able to say “No” before they are offered processed junk food. That seems reasonable. It is the most profitable Taco Bell in California. At least that what the manager told me the last time I visited there. That was six years ago. I was childless and hung over and the tacos kick ass. Give me a break.
We were both comparing Otto stories of the day when he looked at the book and realized it was really weird. He pointed out the three huge baby chicks and the tiny dinosaur on the cover and the lack of rhyme or reason. It basically looked as though the baby chicks had taken over the planet and were systematically killing the dinosaurs. The floating numbers that surrounded the chicks we clearly their weapons of choice and were used to club the dinosaur to death instead of their beaks. This was meant to captivate and stimulate my child's mind, or so the book said but all it did was make me think of how the earth was before man and taco.
I, of course, insisted that it was made in China, a fact I said with an elitist, derogatory American tone, like all new mothers that are horrified with lead tainted toys, lethal dog food and Kung Pao chicken. I have jumped on the paranoid mommy train and frown at anything plastic and bright that is stamped with those three dirty words. To satisfy my curiosity Dave looked all over the cover of the book for a “Made in China” but said he couldn’t read the fine print. He handed it to me and without missing a beat, I rattled off the fine print, the finest I’ve seen, I must admit. It was tiny, smaller than Kosher salt grains and said nothing of where it was made, only giving credit to the photo agency who took the creepy disproportionate photos of the chicks. I thought nothing of it until Dave made a big deal that I could actually read something so small. He has good vision, a slight near sighted issue but couldn’t see any of the words. I really had no trouble and it freaked him out and made me feel awesome. I am crazy competitive and love it when I am better at something than someone else, even a simple task as seeing itty bitty sentences. Sad really.
He insisted I could go to China and perform in the upcoming Bejing Olympics for reading really little letters. He thought I was that good. Great really. I was flattered. At forty, I have better than 20/15 vision and am fantasizing about doing anything Olympic. I would, of course prefer gymnastics but I didn’t want to push my luck. No one wants to see that tragedy unfold. Leotards and glitter were never my best look and the splits are as foreign to me as warm beer and hunting for my own food. A horrible accident and a fashion faux pas would be inevitable.
Then it dawned on me that that would mean I would have to go to China, the place where the term “Made in China” all began. If I actually won a medal in Fine Print Reading, would the medal I won say “Made in China” or would it bother me that it was? Would it contain lead or be not certified “organic”? Or would the only thing I was truly concerned about be whether I would qualify for the Wheaties box? More than anything, standing tall in my cool track suit my parents never bought me, I want to bend over and have some dude drape me with a gold piece the size of a hubcap and weep as I hear the crowd drowned out by the Stars and Stripes. Some concerned parent I am.
NO, we didn’t bring him there to eat for his first birthday or blend and then feed him fake Mexican food one night when we were feeling lazy. For the record, Otto is 15 months old and eats everything. He just hasn’t had the pleasure yet. Our adorable twelve year old neighbor Dallas had given it to him and it is now his favorite and every twelve year old has a right to eat at Taco Bell and I am not preaching. I just think kids should be able to say “No” before they are offered processed junk food. That seems reasonable. It is the most profitable Taco Bell in California. At least that what the manager told me the last time I visited there. That was six years ago. I was childless and hung over and the tacos kick ass. Give me a break.
We were both comparing Otto stories of the day when he looked at the book and realized it was really weird. He pointed out the three huge baby chicks and the tiny dinosaur on the cover and the lack of rhyme or reason. It basically looked as though the baby chicks had taken over the planet and were systematically killing the dinosaurs. The floating numbers that surrounded the chicks we clearly their weapons of choice and were used to club the dinosaur to death instead of their beaks. This was meant to captivate and stimulate my child's mind, or so the book said but all it did was make me think of how the earth was before man and taco.
I, of course, insisted that it was made in China, a fact I said with an elitist, derogatory American tone, like all new mothers that are horrified with lead tainted toys, lethal dog food and Kung Pao chicken. I have jumped on the paranoid mommy train and frown at anything plastic and bright that is stamped with those three dirty words. To satisfy my curiosity Dave looked all over the cover of the book for a “Made in China” but said he couldn’t read the fine print. He handed it to me and without missing a beat, I rattled off the fine print, the finest I’ve seen, I must admit. It was tiny, smaller than Kosher salt grains and said nothing of where it was made, only giving credit to the photo agency who took the creepy disproportionate photos of the chicks. I thought nothing of it until Dave made a big deal that I could actually read something so small. He has good vision, a slight near sighted issue but couldn’t see any of the words. I really had no trouble and it freaked him out and made me feel awesome. I am crazy competitive and love it when I am better at something than someone else, even a simple task as seeing itty bitty sentences. Sad really.
He insisted I could go to China and perform in the upcoming Bejing Olympics for reading really little letters. He thought I was that good. Great really. I was flattered. At forty, I have better than 20/15 vision and am fantasizing about doing anything Olympic. I would, of course prefer gymnastics but I didn’t want to push my luck. No one wants to see that tragedy unfold. Leotards and glitter were never my best look and the splits are as foreign to me as warm beer and hunting for my own food. A horrible accident and a fashion faux pas would be inevitable.
Then it dawned on me that that would mean I would have to go to China, the place where the term “Made in China” all began. If I actually won a medal in Fine Print Reading, would the medal I won say “Made in China” or would it bother me that it was? Would it contain lead or be not certified “organic”? Or would the only thing I was truly concerned about be whether I would qualify for the Wheaties box? More than anything, standing tall in my cool track suit my parents never bought me, I want to bend over and have some dude drape me with a gold piece the size of a hubcap and weep as I hear the crowd drowned out by the Stars and Stripes. Some concerned parent I am.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Rocky Mountain High
One margarita, one glorious, homemade, fresh and sassy margarita and I was up half the night. I wasn't even buzzed when I went to sleep. The fact that alcohol now keeps me up is one of life's true injustices. Coke addicts would kill for that kind of action. Dave let me sleep in today after Otto decided to wake up early, knowing full well that we had consumed tequila the night before. I slept for two more hours and I feel like going to the zoo today and there's a heatwave. That's some good slumber! The plan is now not to drink at all and see if that helps my insomnia. Not too big a deal, as the most I consume at night is one beer but still, that cold little bottle can make the day's work seem so much more worthwhile.
There was a long stretch of years that I couldn't drink beer. Too filling and too reminiscent of my first drunk experience. In 8th grade, a few days before the first school dance of the year, I stumbled, literally, onto two six packs of warm, dusty Olympia that my father had left in our garage. For those who do not remember that brand, it was a tan colored can with a pull top that had a picture of the Rocky mountains and a bubbly brook on it. Very uncool. The game plan was as follows. If no one noticed the missing hooch, my best friend Carolyn and I would sneak it back to her house, hide it in her closet and prepare to party like it was 1999. How sad, a Prince song that no longer has any significance as we have already passed the millennium and the kids these days have no idea what the hell I'm talking about. In order to test my parents, I stashed the bag farther into the depths of the garage and waited a day to see if anyone noticed them missing. One thing about my parents house is that the collection of shit they have rivals a back woods flea market. I'm surprised I've never found a dude name Dale with a mullet and a waterbed living in the garage. The year's not over yet...
The day came and not a peep came from either one of my parents so the beer was officially ours. The world was our oyster. When the night arrived we got ready by putting on Indian Earth to fake a tan, an early eighties substance with the least P.C. name that was meant to mimic the color of the Navajo people and there land. It actually came in a terracotta pot with a cork stopper and looked like something you'd find at an Indian reservation gift shop. Offensive, insensitive yet, with amazing staying power. The one major drawback was the runoff. If you over applied and began to look particularly mixed race, the powder would eventually rub off on your collar, your sandals and the edges of your Bermuda shorts, making it look like you had either shit yourself, were made of clay or were an extra from a 50's western that portrayed the Indian people as very bad and very tan. I'm sorry, Native American.
Notice I am painting a very specific picture of the fashion stylings of the prepubescent tweener in Northern California in 1982. Add to that some hot opalescent lip gloss and some rockin' polo shirts we got on sale at Macy's and there you had two foxy chicks ready to get date raped! I would have settled for a just one slow dance with Todd Tholke or Dave McLaughlin but that would be close to impossible. They were both too cute, too popular and fancied girls who actually had boobs, hips and some semblance of a modeling future. I, on the other hand, would draw a closer comparison to a small Cambodian boy who loved playing street ball with his face and eating air three meals a day.
Back to the booze. We took the beer from the closet, stuffed it in a back pack and rode off into the sunset looking for a nice wooded area in town which to drink our unfrosty brews. Within minutes the plan changed and the shade of a small poplar tree seemed perfect. Why make such a huge effort when this lovely suburban street would do just fine? So what if the neighbors saw us swilling in the twilight like two little hobos needing a fix. It was a free country and damn it if we couldn't drink my dad's beer anywhere we wanted.
We boldly popped open the beer, chugged it as fast as we could and just to hammer the point home, shook are heads as hard as we could to get a better buzz. I kid you not. A great head rush and minor brain damage, two tastes that taste great together. Dizzy and jubilant, two conditions often related to people in the need of rehab, we hopped on our ten speeds and rode off to the dance with beer muscles and our whole lives ahead of us.
I didn't get to slow dance, I didn't throw up and I didn't get caught, that would be saved for the next school function but I did have the time of my life. Uh oh...
There was a long stretch of years that I couldn't drink beer. Too filling and too reminiscent of my first drunk experience. In 8th grade, a few days before the first school dance of the year, I stumbled, literally, onto two six packs of warm, dusty Olympia that my father had left in our garage. For those who do not remember that brand, it was a tan colored can with a pull top that had a picture of the Rocky mountains and a bubbly brook on it. Very uncool. The game plan was as follows. If no one noticed the missing hooch, my best friend Carolyn and I would sneak it back to her house, hide it in her closet and prepare to party like it was 1999. How sad, a Prince song that no longer has any significance as we have already passed the millennium and the kids these days have no idea what the hell I'm talking about. In order to test my parents, I stashed the bag farther into the depths of the garage and waited a day to see if anyone noticed them missing. One thing about my parents house is that the collection of shit they have rivals a back woods flea market. I'm surprised I've never found a dude name Dale with a mullet and a waterbed living in the garage. The year's not over yet...
The day came and not a peep came from either one of my parents so the beer was officially ours. The world was our oyster. When the night arrived we got ready by putting on Indian Earth to fake a tan, an early eighties substance with the least P.C. name that was meant to mimic the color of the Navajo people and there land. It actually came in a terracotta pot with a cork stopper and looked like something you'd find at an Indian reservation gift shop. Offensive, insensitive yet, with amazing staying power. The one major drawback was the runoff. If you over applied and began to look particularly mixed race, the powder would eventually rub off on your collar, your sandals and the edges of your Bermuda shorts, making it look like you had either shit yourself, were made of clay or were an extra from a 50's western that portrayed the Indian people as very bad and very tan. I'm sorry, Native American.
Notice I am painting a very specific picture of the fashion stylings of the prepubescent tweener in Northern California in 1982. Add to that some hot opalescent lip gloss and some rockin' polo shirts we got on sale at Macy's and there you had two foxy chicks ready to get date raped! I would have settled for a just one slow dance with Todd Tholke or Dave McLaughlin but that would be close to impossible. They were both too cute, too popular and fancied girls who actually had boobs, hips and some semblance of a modeling future. I, on the other hand, would draw a closer comparison to a small Cambodian boy who loved playing street ball with his face and eating air three meals a day.
Back to the booze. We took the beer from the closet, stuffed it in a back pack and rode off into the sunset looking for a nice wooded area in town which to drink our unfrosty brews. Within minutes the plan changed and the shade of a small poplar tree seemed perfect. Why make such a huge effort when this lovely suburban street would do just fine? So what if the neighbors saw us swilling in the twilight like two little hobos needing a fix. It was a free country and damn it if we couldn't drink my dad's beer anywhere we wanted.
We boldly popped open the beer, chugged it as fast as we could and just to hammer the point home, shook are heads as hard as we could to get a better buzz. I kid you not. A great head rush and minor brain damage, two tastes that taste great together. Dizzy and jubilant, two conditions often related to people in the need of rehab, we hopped on our ten speeds and rode off to the dance with beer muscles and our whole lives ahead of us.
I didn't get to slow dance, I didn't throw up and I didn't get caught, that would be saved for the next school function but I did have the time of my life. Uh oh...
Even the dead think light sabers are cool
My son is at the point of his young life where he is grappling with the enigma of mortality. He asks many questions about death. Who is dead that we know? Why did they die? Where are they now? He points out cemeteries and funeral homes as we drive along. I can remember when my daughter who is now 12 went through the process. She had an actual death to grapple with. My grandfather. I explained to her what had happened. I wanted to be as truthful as possible, but not upset her any more than necessary. I can distinctly recall being in the car with her talking about it. Car seat chat is excellent with toddlers and small kids. They are restrained and usually raring to discuss life's complexities. I told her what had happened to Papa, peering at her in the rear view waiting for reaction. She just sat there listening. At the end of my story I asked her if she had any questions. She did. She looked out the window for a minute and then said. "Where's his head?". I told her that we decided that it would be best to let him take it along with him. She nodded and asked me to hand her a pretzel.
We have not had much family tragedy as of late so Max is just sort of cruising along finding out about death on his own free time. He asks about my grandfather, often. I think it is because he is one of the only kids that did not have the chance to meet him before he passed away. He sees pictures and hears stories. A few weeks ago Max was messing around in our living room. A weird place for him to play because we never use the room, we have not purchased furniture for it yet. He heads downstairs after some time and retreats to the playroom. Later that night when we are headed to bed I go in there to turn off the light. There in the corner is this bizarre heap of...stuff. Strings of yarn tied to the chair that are attached to various things on the ground. A few feathers strewn about. A light saber fully extended lying on it's side with beads lined up along the shaft. A small wooden box with a rubber snake wrapped around it like a ribbon lies in the center of it all. I go to dismantle it, but something tells me this would be a bad idea. One that would cause much panic and dismay before pre-school tomorrow. I leave it be. The next morning he runs out of bed and heads directly into the living room. He straightens a few beads and moves on to another room.
C: "Max, what's the deal with all that stuff in the living room?"
M: "It's for Papa."
(creepy)
C: "Really? Um...why, buddy? Why did you make that for Papa?"
M: "Because he will like it, and it is a surprise for him."
C: "A surprise? Is he coming here?" (nononononopleasesayno)
M: Looks up at me, "No Mommy, that's silly, Papa is dead."
DUH. Duuuuuuuuh. He is dead. Geeez. What the hell is wrong with you, Mom? I just stood there for a few moments and gathered my thoughts. All I could think of is the wooden box tied with the rubber snake. I headed upstairs to survey the shrine. Harmless stuff, laid out in a strange pattern. I opened the box. It was filled with two rubber bands, a spider ring, and an old air freshener from the car I had thrown out three days ago. Grubby little kid was trash diving. I went back down and told him he'd have to take down the shrine. He of course pitched a fit yelling and screeching telling me he wanted to leave it up. I told the young Mr. Dreyfuss that he had two days to get his mashed potatoes out of the living room. He agreed two days was workable, and we shook on it. Two days later he moved the things back to where they were. No mention of Papa. My cats hang out in there now, right in the spot where the shrine was. They just sit and stare into the corner, awaiting instructions.
We have not had much family tragedy as of late so Max is just sort of cruising along finding out about death on his own free time. He asks about my grandfather, often. I think it is because he is one of the only kids that did not have the chance to meet him before he passed away. He sees pictures and hears stories. A few weeks ago Max was messing around in our living room. A weird place for him to play because we never use the room, we have not purchased furniture for it yet. He heads downstairs after some time and retreats to the playroom. Later that night when we are headed to bed I go in there to turn off the light. There in the corner is this bizarre heap of...stuff. Strings of yarn tied to the chair that are attached to various things on the ground. A few feathers strewn about. A light saber fully extended lying on it's side with beads lined up along the shaft. A small wooden box with a rubber snake wrapped around it like a ribbon lies in the center of it all. I go to dismantle it, but something tells me this would be a bad idea. One that would cause much panic and dismay before pre-school tomorrow. I leave it be. The next morning he runs out of bed and heads directly into the living room. He straightens a few beads and moves on to another room.
C: "Max, what's the deal with all that stuff in the living room?"
M: "It's for Papa."
(creepy)
C: "Really? Um...why, buddy? Why did you make that for Papa?"
M: "Because he will like it, and it is a surprise for him."
C: "A surprise? Is he coming here?" (nononononopleasesayno)
M: Looks up at me, "No Mommy, that's silly, Papa is dead."
DUH. Duuuuuuuuh. He is dead. Geeez. What the hell is wrong with you, Mom? I just stood there for a few moments and gathered my thoughts. All I could think of is the wooden box tied with the rubber snake. I headed upstairs to survey the shrine. Harmless stuff, laid out in a strange pattern. I opened the box. It was filled with two rubber bands, a spider ring, and an old air freshener from the car I had thrown out three days ago. Grubby little kid was trash diving. I went back down and told him he'd have to take down the shrine. He of course pitched a fit yelling and screeching telling me he wanted to leave it up. I told the young Mr. Dreyfuss that he had two days to get his mashed potatoes out of the living room. He agreed two days was workable, and we shook on it. Two days later he moved the things back to where they were. No mention of Papa. My cats hang out in there now, right in the spot where the shrine was. They just sit and stare into the corner, awaiting instructions.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Sleeveless T-shits on men.
I say nay. Time to rid the world of this fashion travesty. Exactly what benefit is it providing you? I understand. It's hot out and you want to be comfortable, right? Show me one man that has perished from the horror of heat exhaustion due to an extra three inches of material covering his shoulders. If you are a hot, ripped, tall basketball player then you get to wear a sleeveless shirt. Not you. And not you. And you over there leafing through the GQ so you can chub out to Giselle while your wife buys another flowy tunic top in 'clay' at J. Jill. Take it off right here in the store. Take a walk over to Nordstrom and get yourself an Ed Hardy T. Nobody wears those. (snort) You'll be ever so cool and you can assimilate yourself back into the public masses before anyone misses your tangeled dank fur-pits. If you have excessive amounts of hair on the fleshy underbelly of your upper arm? Not for you. If the same hair we just spoke of grows on that small chunk of back fat that tends to pop through the back arm hole of a sleeveless shirt? No. Put the shirt down. Does it have a fun east coast vacation destination emblazoned across the chest? Burn it. Are there airbrushed images of Wolves on it? Burn that one too. In fact, if you have any sleeved ones with wild animals airbrushed onto them they should be destroyed. Immediately. Does it say Lifeguard anywhere on it? Come over here for your giant dope slap, and then go throw it away. White wife-beaters? There is a certain trashy hotness that can look very good in this shirt. I am guessing maybe 3 % of the male population. Probably less. Err on the side of caution. Grow some sleeves and walk away.
Exercise Discretion
Hiking up the canyon today with Otto and Dave, huffing and puffing and breathless while pushing the stroller with all my might, my husband turns to me and says, "You should do lunges while you push that thing." My grip tightened, as did my jaw and thus began a lovely jaunt filled with my frustration and his confusion. Anyone else can tell me to push it, do it, work it but if my husband even suggests I go farther, faster, longer, I become apoplectic. Is it fair? No. Is it right? No. Is it the way it is? Yes. I think there is an unspoken hostility between people who co-habitate when it comes to exercise.
It could be that 13 long years ago my husband actually said that my ass was sagging and I should exercise more. I was still in my twenties. How harsh is that? I could just turn to him and tell him that his balls, though not at the moment, will sag below his knees in a matter of years and that it could be a serious choking hazard for me down the line. Will I be putting myself at risk just because he won't do his testicle exercises? How much love is too much love?
Can I get over it? Sure. Will he start wearing a jock when the time comes? Maybe. Do I want to be his exercise pal, do the lunges and keep my mouth shut? We shall see.
It could be that 13 long years ago my husband actually said that my ass was sagging and I should exercise more. I was still in my twenties. How harsh is that? I could just turn to him and tell him that his balls, though not at the moment, will sag below his knees in a matter of years and that it could be a serious choking hazard for me down the line. Will I be putting myself at risk just because he won't do his testicle exercises? How much love is too much love?
Can I get over it? Sure. Will he start wearing a jock when the time comes? Maybe. Do I want to be his exercise pal, do the lunges and keep my mouth shut? We shall see.
Fortyfuckingforty =fortyeffingforty I'm a mother now...
I am forty, oh fuck! I want to talk about the fact that I am forty and I need to watch Dara Torres, a 41 year old former Olympic swimmer qualify in her 5th Olympics to be motivated to do something with my life. Here is my list of accomplishments thus far:
Survived my parents house (sorry mamae and papai, you know I love you...)
Graduated college
Got married to a former Dead head/ writer/ pessimist/funny as shit dude
Tried telemarketing and then thought about trying suicide
Worked for various celebrities buying their groceries, getting their nice cars washed and hating Myself while doing it
Performed, produced and peddled some seriously bad, painful and embarrassing theater - the bad monologue is the devil
Waited tables with a flair and a tight shirt and smelling like toast at the end of every shift with less than $100 in my jeans
Followed by a P.I. who thought I was fucking the owner of the restaurant. Not in a million years with someone else's vagina
Did stand up comedy because I had nothing else to do and everything to prove and it was cool and then not cool
Bombed in front of the hipster, asshole, cooler than cool crowd one night and had a comedy meltdown
Bartended and saw the darker, hipper drunker side of life
Served Paris Hilton when she was under age and wondered why she was so lucky - low point emotionally?
Hosted a dog show on Animal Planet and thought about telemarketing again
Got fucked over by BFF and learned that life is a large bag of lying lemons so make poisonous lemonade and serve it up, bitch!
Rediscovered old friends and new with true blue roots who actually read and form very funny sentences that make me laugh
Got pregnant... oops, didn't work out
Consumed best margarita ever + Vicodin + broken wrist + futon love = got pregnant again.
Otto arrived with a bang and a boom
In love with a monkey named Otto
Booked some commercials while pumping, leaking and fat - Midwestern mommy has arrived
Now a professional ass wiper looking for something
Well?
I am forty, oh fuck! I want to talk about the fact that I am forty and I need to watch Dara Torres, a 41 year old former Olympic swimmer qualify in her 5th Olympics to be motivated to do something with my life. Here is my list of accomplishments thus far:
Survived my parents house (sorry mamae and papai, you know I love you...)
Graduated college
Got married to a former Dead head/ writer/ pessimist/funny as shit dude
Tried telemarketing and then thought about trying suicide
Worked for various celebrities buying their groceries, getting their nice cars washed and hating Myself while doing it
Performed, produced and peddled some seriously bad, painful and embarrassing theater - the bad monologue is the devil
Waited tables with a flair and a tight shirt and smelling like toast at the end of every shift with less than $100 in my jeans
Followed by a P.I. who thought I was fucking the owner of the restaurant. Not in a million years with someone else's vagina
Did stand up comedy because I had nothing else to do and everything to prove and it was cool and then not cool
Bombed in front of the hipster, asshole, cooler than cool crowd one night and had a comedy meltdown
Bartended and saw the darker, hipper drunker side of life
Served Paris Hilton when she was under age and wondered why she was so lucky - low point emotionally?
Hosted a dog show on Animal Planet and thought about telemarketing again
Got fucked over by BFF and learned that life is a large bag of lying lemons so make poisonous lemonade and serve it up, bitch!
Rediscovered old friends and new with true blue roots who actually read and form very funny sentences that make me laugh
Got pregnant... oops, didn't work out
Consumed best margarita ever + Vicodin + broken wrist + futon love = got pregnant again.
Otto arrived with a bang and a boom
In love with a monkey named Otto
Booked some commercials while pumping, leaking and fat - Midwestern mommy has arrived
Now a professional ass wiper looking for something
Well?
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