While on vacation we were sitting around having a few glasses of wine with my mother and my aunt. My aunt got up to grab something to eat out of the refrigerator. She came back with a lovely plate of fresh fruit. She pushed it toward the center of the table and motioned for everyone to enjoy themselves. I said a polite thank you but passed on the fruit snack. Jamie grabbed a few pieces and popped them in his mouth. My mother was watching me as everyone helped themselves to a piece. I could see her regarding me with interest. "No way", I am thinking, "No way is she going to ask the golden question yet again for the millionth time in my life."
Mom: "Chrissy, why aren't you having any fruit?"
Jamie: (very quietly) "Awesome."
Chrissy: "Because Mom, I am allergic to fruit."
Mom: "All fruit?!"
Jamie is red-faced and is trying his absolute best to suppress the building hysterical laughter.
Chrissy: "Just about all fruit, Mom. I can eat bananas and some citrus fruit."
Mom: "What is it in the fruit that makes you allergic to it?"
Chrissy: "Cyanide. Natural Cyanide within the skin and seeds. It makes my mouth swell up."
Jamie is openly laughing now. He is absolutely delighted to be an actual witness to yet another conversation about my fruit allergy. It is the stuff that legends and lore are made of. Years from now he will sit and tell our grandchildren how hilarious it was that my mother and the rest of my immediate family had this unexplainable mental block when it comes to my fruit allergy. It is mind-boggling how many times I have had this very conversation with the woman that pushed me out of her uterus. I can assure you if my children had an allergy to a certain food, I'd remember it. Not that she should commit it to her memory in such a steadfast way that she'd see a still life at the MFA of pears and think to herself, "Poor Chrissy." However, there is no recollection whatsoever. Absolutely no retention of this integral fact about her daughter. Fruit is a pretty large genre of food. I could understand if I was allergic to Kiwi's. That is fairly allusive and something that could slip through the cracks. However my allergy covers just about every kind of fruit. But for some absolutely bizarre reason my mother cannot seem to apply this into her brain.
I think that I may know why she forgets. She was so angry about the allergy when I was younger. My mother was a horrific cook. Awful. My sister and I would smell microwave popcorn wafting from the kitchen and we'd know it was time to sit down to dinner. Thanks Mr. Redenbacher, for providing the fiber of my youth. Her answer to a balanced nutritional meal was to hand us each a piece of fruit at meal's end. I can remember sitting there crying as I ate my apple telling her that it hurt my mouth. She'd yell at me, telling me I was not being healthy. My allergy undermined the nutrion plan. It was my fault the steady diet of tunafish with a side of Cheese-It's was unable to be supplemented with her fruit policy. Essentially she force-fed me Cyanide. I think the guilt of that combined with the guilt of her lame-ass meals has given her the coping mechanism of having amnesia about my allergy. I feel like Bill Murray in 'Groundhog Day' each time someone in the family trots out a piece of fruit. I have to be the one that pretends it's all perfectly normal to get asked about it continuously. I have to nod along as they express shock and apologize for offering me fresh strawberries.
Last night Jamie was telling my father this story. My parents have been divorced since '78. He is only here in Boston two months out of the year. We were sitting in my backyard having a few drinks and Jamie was telling him how hilarious it is that nobody remembers that I am allergic to fruit. My father laughed along with this fact and then quietly took out his iphone and logged the information in next to my birthday. Chrissy- no fruit Thanks, dad.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Solitary Confinement
SOLITARY CONFINEMENT: A COMEDY IN ONE ACT
Earlier this week, my mother told me that my father accidentally locked himself in the bathroom with the broken doorknob. He sat there yelling for two hours as my nephew walked around the house oblivious, with his IPod on and my mother was at work. Clearly, neither one could help him escape. I got three different versions of this story from the three players in this drama. Just for the record, I believe the doorknob has been broken since I went away to college.
1) My mother: “He got locked in the upstairs bathroom for quite a while and was so upset that I had to drive him into the country to calm him down.”
2) My nephew: “Dude, he was locked in there for so long and he fucked up the ceiling. It’s like destroyed with tons of holes in it. “
Me: “Did he do it with the broom she keeps in there and how fucked up is the ceiling, really?”
Nephew : “Actually, I don’t know what he used but its not that bad I guess. He did smash the door with a brick.” It’s all fucked up and shit.”
Me: “Why was there a broom and a brick in the bathroom?”
Nephew: “ I don’t know. You tell me.”
3) My father: “It was awful! I went to leave the bathroom and the doorknob wouldn’t turn. You know how I wrote arrows on the door with pen which way to turn the knob and you have to jiggle it and use the rope I stuck through the hole?”
Me: “Oh yeah, I know.”
Father: “Well, I turned in the right direction and nothing happened and then the doorknob on the other side fell off and I couldn’t get out. I could hear Tyson walking around upstairs in his room so I started banging with the broom handle. He couldn’t hear me because he had his IPod on. I was so pissed. I couldn’t climb out the window because I didn’t have the right shoes on so I grabbed the brick. You know the brick that we keep in the bathroom?
Me: “Yup.”
Father: I wrapped the brick in a towel and banged and banged but he never heard me. I didn’t have my cell phone. Who would bring a cell phone to the bathroom with them, anyway? I hadn’t eaten since 8 a.m. and it was 1 p.m. Can you imagine? I started to get weak after banging and my shoulder froze. I felt dizzy and had been yelling so much I lost my voice so I made myself a pillow with a few towels and lay down. I knew if I had to I could drink tap water and I’ve read somewhere that you can eat soap to survive. I didn’t even have my Tic Tac’s. I could have used them to make a minty refreshing drink (he actually sad this).”
Me: Hysterical laughter.
Father: “I even tried to get the neighbor’s attention. I threw things at their house and all three cars were in their driveway but no one heard me. Turns out they were at the Cape!
I then heard Tyson come down the stairs and he heard me yelling again. He pushed the door open and I was free. But let me tell you. If he hadn’t been wearing his IPod I would have killed him for not hearing me. But first, I would have cut off his balls to humble him. Then I would have shaved his head and gone downstairs to the kitchen and gotten the biggest knife I could find and called 911 and told them that that I’ve lost my mind!”
Me: Wiping away tears I’m laughing so hard and almost peeing in my pants.
Father: “I now carry my cell phone, my keys and my I.D. with me all over the house, just in case. I want them to identify me as soon as possible when they find me dead. When I called your mother at work to tell her what happened she says that any time this happens to her, she just uses the screwdriver she keeps in one of the drawers just for the broken doorknob. What screwdriver? What drawer? What is she talking about? This house!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
THE END
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Playground Politics
This is what it is like to be a mom at a playground in L.A. You arrive at the cool, politically correct play area with its Braille lettering and color scheme representing all nationalities. You look around and see an equal number of uniformed nannies, hipsters mothers, and doughy stay at home fathers all doing their best to keep their children safe, happy, and as generous and likable as possible. You encourage your precious muffin to share sand toys but he ends up stealing another child’s ball with no regret and no shame. You give your child his snack of healthy crackers and organic apple juice but he only wants what the snot nosed, drooling kid is eating. Great. Pirates Booty with boogers, yummy!
You take him to the slide but he only wants to crawl under the jungle gym, hit his head a few times, and eat old Cheerios he finds in the sand. Please God, I hope they are Cheerios and not flesh colored turds that a homeless squirrel left behind. You sweetly tell (beg) him to play with the nice, well adjusted tyke whose dad is a Backstreet Boy (I am an old school star fucker). But, he only wants to hang with the creepy older boy named Omar who is mean and has terrible fashion sense. You spend the remainder of your time trying to avoid political conversations with angry parents and random violent acts from toddlers with an obsession of throwing heavy objects at other people’s heads.
Your child begins to show signs of cracking and you quickly gather his toys that boldly have his name written on them with a Sharpie. In other words, you run around in the sand ruining your pedicure and mercilessly grabbing shovels and cups from small children who think that you are the opposite of Santa on this lovely California morning. You are the devil in blue jeans, stealing their innocence along with day glow Chinese beach toys that do not belong to them. Nap time is ten minutes and counting, so you really don’t give a shit what Chloe, Jax, Fabian and Luca think. They can get their own fucking toys. If your perfect, wonderful, loving child doesn’t get to bed pronto, he will quickly become a shorter, angrier version of Colonial Kurtz and you’ll be up the Da Nang river without a paddle.
You take him to the slide but he only wants to crawl under the jungle gym, hit his head a few times, and eat old Cheerios he finds in the sand. Please God, I hope they are Cheerios and not flesh colored turds that a homeless squirrel left behind. You sweetly tell (beg) him to play with the nice, well adjusted tyke whose dad is a Backstreet Boy (I am an old school star fucker). But, he only wants to hang with the creepy older boy named Omar who is mean and has terrible fashion sense. You spend the remainder of your time trying to avoid political conversations with angry parents and random violent acts from toddlers with an obsession of throwing heavy objects at other people’s heads.
Your child begins to show signs of cracking and you quickly gather his toys that boldly have his name written on them with a Sharpie. In other words, you run around in the sand ruining your pedicure and mercilessly grabbing shovels and cups from small children who think that you are the opposite of Santa on this lovely California morning. You are the devil in blue jeans, stealing their innocence along with day glow Chinese beach toys that do not belong to them. Nap time is ten minutes and counting, so you really don’t give a shit what Chloe, Jax, Fabian and Luca think. They can get their own fucking toys. If your perfect, wonderful, loving child doesn’t get to bed pronto, he will quickly become a shorter, angrier version of Colonial Kurtz and you’ll be up the Da Nang river without a paddle.
Holding pattern
I hate this week. I feel like I am in limbo with all of the unbaptized babies. Vacation has ended, the kids are off being entertained, and my husband has returned to work with fervor. I am officially in a slump. I have a million things to do with absolutely no desire to tackle any of them.
I love to do laundry. Folding clean warm clothes makes me tremble. The piles of dirty underwear are starting to frighten the cats. I did not make the beds today. That is a huge red flag. Unmade beds make me feel exposed and dirty. My neurotic Windex wipe down of the bathroom mirror has ceased. I have no desire to try out the three new recipes I found on vacation and squirreled away in between the pages of Stephen Colbert. The ingredients that are needed sit in my refrigerator confused. "But why?" ponders the broccoli sprouts. "Why me, left to sit here and get funky? I could be in Cambridge adorning a salad at a Harvard event."
I am not depressed, I just feel blah. End of the summer blues I suppose. I need the rigor and structure of the school year. I like feeling like a well-oiled machine. I want to line up in-between Leisl and Friedrich when Captain Von Trapp blows his whistle. Classes start next week and life picks back up to that normal pace that the summer blurs around the edges. I'll long for the warmth of August when January blows in. Until then, bring on the fall. Mamma wants to wear her new boots.
I love to do laundry. Folding clean warm clothes makes me tremble. The piles of dirty underwear are starting to frighten the cats. I did not make the beds today. That is a huge red flag. Unmade beds make me feel exposed and dirty. My neurotic Windex wipe down of the bathroom mirror has ceased. I have no desire to try out the three new recipes I found on vacation and squirreled away in between the pages of Stephen Colbert. The ingredients that are needed sit in my refrigerator confused. "But why?" ponders the broccoli sprouts. "Why me, left to sit here and get funky? I could be in Cambridge adorning a salad at a Harvard event."
I am not depressed, I just feel blah. End of the summer blues I suppose. I need the rigor and structure of the school year. I like feeling like a well-oiled machine. I want to line up in-between Leisl and Friedrich when Captain Von Trapp blows his whistle. Classes start next week and life picks back up to that normal pace that the summer blurs around the edges. I'll long for the warmth of August when January blows in. Until then, bring on the fall. Mamma wants to wear her new boots.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Give Me Some Ikea
Armed with Cheerios, Kashi crackers, Maria biscuits and apple juice, I got in the car with Otto this morning and we headed to the Burbank Ikea with our reusable shopping bags and a dream. The temperatures were said to be nearing 100 degrees but we didn’t care. After a pleasant drive through the valley of soot covered strip malls and grungy auto parts stores, we drove up to the yellow and blue behemoth ready to change our lives.
I always get this odd feeling that whatever I buy at Ikea, the Swedish trash factory, will be life altering at a bargain price. And, I am usually correct. Over the years the Ikea items that I still have and LOVE are a red cheese slicer, a tiny wooden table in the bathroom I use to stack magazines, a stainless steel storage bin that holds Q-Tips, hair bands and cotton balls, a plastic cutting board and everything in Otto’s room.
I try not to think of my super paranoid plastic hating friends who must judge me for my cheap purchases and support of an evil conglomerate that serves up toxic household accessories and microwaveable Swedish meat balls. These are the same people who blindly buy things online and hope against all hope that they were not made in a small, third world country that supports the practice of employing people with hands the size of post it notes and dipping all baby toys in a bath of lead paint and nuclear waste.
The only reason I forged my way through L.A. traffic with a toddler closing in on nap time was simple. I had a play date last week with a neighbor who had tons of age appropriate toys for Otto that I felt I needed to buy immediately. Looking at his huge toy chest in our living room I hadn’t realized Otto had outgrown the “baby” stuff. Who was I to say he couldn’t enjoy his wooden Busy Box, his Little Tykes Piano and his Lakeshore puff shapes? No one told me that 17 months was building blocks and train set time. I did not get the memo that the soft read and drool books were yesterday’s news in baby land at that Otto was secretly hating on mom for being so last year.
When we arrived in the kids section there was a group of very energetic, borderline obnoxious children playing on and around all the mini furniture. Otto jumped right in and almost got knocked over by a big, hyper kid who’s dad just stood there and shook his head in disgust as he knocked over his sister instead. She began shrieking and the mom came running from the cafeteria where she had been huddled with a group of mom’s eating eggs and sausage and gossiping in Japanese. Apparently, Ikea is a great play date location where you can let you rug rats run wild as you eat plastic food that tastes and looks like the storage bins and lamps found in the home section.
I didn’t waste my time trying to have Otto play safely with this crowd of hooligan midgets so I let him pick out a two dollar stuffed toy and put him back in the cart. Bribery is the best weapon when in a pinch. I then chose the smallest and cheapest table and chair set they had and wheeled Otto away. When we got onto the elevator to get to the house wares section, an advertisement for the Swedish meat ball platter jumped out at us. The photo of the meatballs made them appear to be the size of a set of car tires, tires dripping with grey brown gravy and accompanied by a soggy vegetable medley the width of a refrigerator. Otto, my little carnivore, shrieked with delight and I knew I was in trouble. I only had fifteen minutes left until DEFCON 5 when Otto would hit the wall. Do I complete my shopping list or take him back to the cafeteria where he would most likely not eat but fling the meatballs across the room at the big kids who played too rough. He has a great pitching arm and a dead perfect aim that only a group of Japanese tourists could fully appreciate. But I stood my ground and knew it was better to get him into the car with some snacks and some NPR than have him cause a major food fight in Ikea’s 5 star restaurant.
It is safe to say my son is a rock star. He remained cheerful the entire ride home, chirping in the back seat as I listened to gas bags pontificate about Michelle Obama’s speech at the DNC and weather or not she came across as a radical leftist. Muckraker’s and shit stirrers. It was a speech of speeches and that’s all I’m saying right now. And Otto thought she looked hot!
As Otto sleeps upstairs I will put together all our Ikea purchases and have them ready when he wakes up. What small child could ever live without a Svala, Lillabo and Firsiktig. Personally, the Legitim is my favorite but who cares what mom thinks anyway?
I always get this odd feeling that whatever I buy at Ikea, the Swedish trash factory, will be life altering at a bargain price. And, I am usually correct. Over the years the Ikea items that I still have and LOVE are a red cheese slicer, a tiny wooden table in the bathroom I use to stack magazines, a stainless steel storage bin that holds Q-Tips, hair bands and cotton balls, a plastic cutting board and everything in Otto’s room.
I try not to think of my super paranoid plastic hating friends who must judge me for my cheap purchases and support of an evil conglomerate that serves up toxic household accessories and microwaveable Swedish meat balls. These are the same people who blindly buy things online and hope against all hope that they were not made in a small, third world country that supports the practice of employing people with hands the size of post it notes and dipping all baby toys in a bath of lead paint and nuclear waste.
The only reason I forged my way through L.A. traffic with a toddler closing in on nap time was simple. I had a play date last week with a neighbor who had tons of age appropriate toys for Otto that I felt I needed to buy immediately. Looking at his huge toy chest in our living room I hadn’t realized Otto had outgrown the “baby” stuff. Who was I to say he couldn’t enjoy his wooden Busy Box, his Little Tykes Piano and his Lakeshore puff shapes? No one told me that 17 months was building blocks and train set time. I did not get the memo that the soft read and drool books were yesterday’s news in baby land at that Otto was secretly hating on mom for being so last year.
When we arrived in the kids section there was a group of very energetic, borderline obnoxious children playing on and around all the mini furniture. Otto jumped right in and almost got knocked over by a big, hyper kid who’s dad just stood there and shook his head in disgust as he knocked over his sister instead. She began shrieking and the mom came running from the cafeteria where she had been huddled with a group of mom’s eating eggs and sausage and gossiping in Japanese. Apparently, Ikea is a great play date location where you can let you rug rats run wild as you eat plastic food that tastes and looks like the storage bins and lamps found in the home section.
I didn’t waste my time trying to have Otto play safely with this crowd of hooligan midgets so I let him pick out a two dollar stuffed toy and put him back in the cart. Bribery is the best weapon when in a pinch. I then chose the smallest and cheapest table and chair set they had and wheeled Otto away. When we got onto the elevator to get to the house wares section, an advertisement for the Swedish meat ball platter jumped out at us. The photo of the meatballs made them appear to be the size of a set of car tires, tires dripping with grey brown gravy and accompanied by a soggy vegetable medley the width of a refrigerator. Otto, my little carnivore, shrieked with delight and I knew I was in trouble. I only had fifteen minutes left until DEFCON 5 when Otto would hit the wall. Do I complete my shopping list or take him back to the cafeteria where he would most likely not eat but fling the meatballs across the room at the big kids who played too rough. He has a great pitching arm and a dead perfect aim that only a group of Japanese tourists could fully appreciate. But I stood my ground and knew it was better to get him into the car with some snacks and some NPR than have him cause a major food fight in Ikea’s 5 star restaurant.
It is safe to say my son is a rock star. He remained cheerful the entire ride home, chirping in the back seat as I listened to gas bags pontificate about Michelle Obama’s speech at the DNC and weather or not she came across as a radical leftist. Muckraker’s and shit stirrers. It was a speech of speeches and that’s all I’m saying right now. And Otto thought she looked hot!
As Otto sleeps upstairs I will put together all our Ikea purchases and have them ready when he wakes up. What small child could ever live without a Svala, Lillabo and Firsiktig. Personally, the Legitim is my favorite but who cares what mom thinks anyway?
Monday, August 25, 2008
Tom Foolery
Dave caught the local peeping tom the other night. We’ve heard rumblings that a guy has been seen in various windows by various women and Dave came up on him as he was smoking a cigarette and hocking a loogie standing next to an apartment building around the corner. Weird looking guy, smoking, spitting at midnight on a Sunday? Dave didn’t jump him or karate kick him, thank God. He is, after all, a father now and has responsibilities NOT to get stabbed or flashed by a freaky sex maniac. He did call 911 right away and hide in the bushes across the street and watch this creep leering in someone’s window. He called 911 again and he and the dog waited in the bushes while Tom most likely played slap the salami to the beat of all the NBC Olympic theme music.
I suppose that Dave was technically a peeping Tom who’s peeping at Tom. I would have loved it if he got caught by a neighbor and than everyone around our hood would think that the Jewish writer dude with a dog and a kid and an aggressive, forty year old wife who just got bangs to look younger and hipper is a serious perv and should be on the sex offenders website. Well, maybe I wouldn’t think that’s so funny. It was before I read it out loud.
Anyway, 25 minutes later, two lazy, clueless rookies showed up long after Tom had taken off with his bag of used Kleenex and his pristine mental image of an unemployed actress watching The Olympics half naked on a cheap Ikea sofa bed. They did nothing but agree with Dave and take his statement and my husband walked home dejected, wanting nothing more than to kick this freak’s ass. He might be angry because he is a great neighbor and friend, a real dude and an honest Abe. He might be furious because he hates losing and loves to be a hero but I know he’s not pissed because this guy might spy on his wife. That will never happen and this is why.
All my girlfriends have been groped, peeped on, flashed at and masturbated at, some of them multiple times and some in moving vehicles And me? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I haven’t even been sexually harassed in the work place. No one has asked me to look in their direction and then whip out their half hard Johnson. Not one person has ever told me to turn around while his cock was in one hand and an ice cream cone was in the other. I have never driven up along side a small compact car on the highway and seen a below average man with no pants on, point to his member and laugh manically. Not once in all my years has a janitor, a bus driver or a dude in a white van asked me for directions, if I liked candy or if I would help them unzip their fly.
I don’t know what it says about me but I don’t think Dave has much to worry about with the peeping Tom. The only contact I’ll have with this scum sack is when I catch him licking some chicks window pane and I wrestle him to the ground powered by forty years of rejection and anger. Payback’s a bitch.
I suppose that Dave was technically a peeping Tom who’s peeping at Tom. I would have loved it if he got caught by a neighbor and than everyone around our hood would think that the Jewish writer dude with a dog and a kid and an aggressive, forty year old wife who just got bangs to look younger and hipper is a serious perv and should be on the sex offenders website. Well, maybe I wouldn’t think that’s so funny. It was before I read it out loud.
Anyway, 25 minutes later, two lazy, clueless rookies showed up long after Tom had taken off with his bag of used Kleenex and his pristine mental image of an unemployed actress watching The Olympics half naked on a cheap Ikea sofa bed. They did nothing but agree with Dave and take his statement and my husband walked home dejected, wanting nothing more than to kick this freak’s ass. He might be angry because he is a great neighbor and friend, a real dude and an honest Abe. He might be furious because he hates losing and loves to be a hero but I know he’s not pissed because this guy might spy on his wife. That will never happen and this is why.
All my girlfriends have been groped, peeped on, flashed at and masturbated at, some of them multiple times and some in moving vehicles And me? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I haven’t even been sexually harassed in the work place. No one has asked me to look in their direction and then whip out their half hard Johnson. Not one person has ever told me to turn around while his cock was in one hand and an ice cream cone was in the other. I have never driven up along side a small compact car on the highway and seen a below average man with no pants on, point to his member and laugh manically. Not once in all my years has a janitor, a bus driver or a dude in a white van asked me for directions, if I liked candy or if I would help them unzip their fly.
I don’t know what it says about me but I don’t think Dave has much to worry about with the peeping Tom. The only contact I’ll have with this scum sack is when I catch him licking some chicks window pane and I wrestle him to the ground powered by forty years of rejection and anger. Payback’s a bitch.
Hair
I am thinking about cutting my hair. Right around the eve of my 40th birthday. So of course every ass-face will come up to me and say, "Ohhhh, so you turned 40 and decided to cut your hair?" and throw me a smirk. And I will have to suppress the urge to spit in their eye. It does have a bit to do with my age. My hair is thinner than it used to be.
I was mystified over the whole extension thing when I'd hear about it. Now I get it. Kathie Lee took out her extensions on the Today show the other day and I was awestruck. I don't think I have ever seen one removed. She popped it out and popped it in. Delightfully versatile, it was like putting on dangly earrings. Her hair is a mass of poofed out curls. I don't want that mane. I just want more fullness around that hollow looking ear/neck space. A few more chunks to pull forward. I am not going out to get extensions. I can barely get through the day without slapping it into a ponytail or clip. Never mind trying to adjust little pelts on my scalp all day.
Then I realized the cheaper solution was to cut my hair. I need to take the non-fullness of my 40 year old hair seriously. It will just get sadder and older looking. The time to act is now. I was at that family party from this weekend and I noticed my mother standing close to her two sisters as they shit-talked about their cousins. They all had thin hair, except for my mom who has hers in a short sassy cut that flatters her non-fullness. The other two live in central New Hampshire. Need I say more? I saw a small glimpse of 25 years from now as I watched them all blather on in hushed whispers "I don't think it was ever completely removed, that's why he still limps."
If that is the hair I am inheriting, it's time to act. It is genetic and I must deal with it. I am now compiling clipping of celebrities I'd like to look like but never will. My chin is pointy and fierce, I am all jaw. I will cut my hair and be a dead ringer for Darren on Bewitched. I will walk around shaking my fist at the ceiling muttering, "Endora!" cursing my 40th year mistake.
I was mystified over the whole extension thing when I'd hear about it. Now I get it. Kathie Lee took out her extensions on the Today show the other day and I was awestruck. I don't think I have ever seen one removed. She popped it out and popped it in. Delightfully versatile, it was like putting on dangly earrings. Her hair is a mass of poofed out curls. I don't want that mane. I just want more fullness around that hollow looking ear/neck space. A few more chunks to pull forward. I am not going out to get extensions. I can barely get through the day without slapping it into a ponytail or clip. Never mind trying to adjust little pelts on my scalp all day.
Then I realized the cheaper solution was to cut my hair. I need to take the non-fullness of my 40 year old hair seriously. It will just get sadder and older looking. The time to act is now. I was at that family party from this weekend and I noticed my mother standing close to her two sisters as they shit-talked about their cousins. They all had thin hair, except for my mom who has hers in a short sassy cut that flatters her non-fullness. The other two live in central New Hampshire. Need I say more? I saw a small glimpse of 25 years from now as I watched them all blather on in hushed whispers "I don't think it was ever completely removed, that's why he still limps."
If that is the hair I am inheriting, it's time to act. It is genetic and I must deal with it. I am now compiling clipping of celebrities I'd like to look like but never will. My chin is pointy and fierce, I am all jaw. I will cut my hair and be a dead ringer for Darren on Bewitched. I will walk around shaking my fist at the ceiling muttering, "Endora!" cursing my 40th year mistake.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Godzilla
I went to a family party today. It was up in New Hampshire at a cousin's house. It was on my mother's side of the family. It was awkward and fairly boring but the food was quite good. When we arrived I looked at the coolers that were lined up and labeled. Juice, soda, water, and nectar of ennui. No alcohol whatsoever. They were right on the front entrance porch. Sort of like a narrow billboard from hell. "Bet you thought we'd have an ice cold beer in here! Nope, now go in and give awkward hugs and make small talk. Grab an apple juice and reconnect, Sucka!"
They had a nice beach across the street so I took the kids over for a swim. There at the water's edge was the wife of one of my 4th cousin's once removed. She was keeping watch over her oldest child. A three year old. Back at the house my son was told of his new friend that was waiting for him at the beach. "Oh, you are right about the same age!" "You can be buddies at the beach!" "He's waiting for you!" My five year old was giddy over the fact he'd have a pal after 2 hours in a car fighting with his sister. Anticipation was high as we trekked over.
On first approach he seemed a great playmate. Jaunty baseball hat, expressive eyes, extremely articulate for his age. He hid behind his mother shyly. He too had been briefed on the arrival of a new pal. Everyone had pumped him up about Max's attendance at the family party. The problem is, Desmond was not on the same page anymore. At first they played nicely together in the water, digging in the sand, sharing the one pail. After about 20 minutes Desmond morphed into a complete shitbag.
The first infraction was throwing a shovel at Max's head. It missed Max by a hair, but Max knew he had done it and I knew he had thrown it. So did my mother who was standing near me. She shifted slightly. That shift translated into: Please don't react, Chrissy. I understood her tension. I accepted her silent plea. Family was around us everywhere, people we had not seen in years. Let it go. So the dink threw a shovel, no biggie. Worse things have transpired. My radar was up though. I waited quietly while the kid registered that he had got away clean. He shifted his expressive eyes towards me and I saw the flicker of a thought process fly past his pupils. He knew that I knew he was a shitbag, and he was far from done. Max looked at me and realized I was not going to say anything. He calmly picked up the shovel and walked over to where Desmond was sitting and deposited it on the sand next to him. He walked away quietly and resumed his activity. That's right baby, plant that bait. Jelly donut for you tomorrow morning, my munchie-boo.
Sure enough Desmond flung the shovel again and it bounced off Max's swim trunks. This time the mother noticed before I could say anything. "Desmond!" he was ushered away to another section of the beach and admonished. Desmond had identical twin sisters back at the house. They were 18 months old and just walking. He was here from San Francisco visiting his grandparents at their beach house. They had been here for about a week prior to today's party. For the first time in 18 months he was being lavished with tons of attention from his entire extended family. He was fucking King, and he was loving every second of it. They thought he'd be all happy about his new playmate but they were dead wrong. Max was a direct threat, and a slightly older one. Desmond was pissed and wanted Max to go back to the genetic hole he had crawled out of.
To keep Max occupied during Desmond's scolding I helped him to build a few small huts out of sand. Max decided to re-create our neighborhood. He named the mounds telling me that they represented our neighbor's homes. "Here is where Roger and Barbara live., this is the yellow house with the flag." I played along helping him put sticks in for chimney's. We popped in a few leaves to represent trees. We even put in a swimming pool with ample rock support in the hopes that dad would walk by and get the subtle hint. I was pleased with how clever my son was, wanting to make a miniature version of his street. How smart and cute as he named all the neighbors carefully and labeled each home with unique markings. I should have listened to what he was really telling me as he shaped the small huts. "Take me home, Mom. To this happy place that I love. Where Desmond the shitbag won't throw pointy shovels at my head."
Desmond came tromping over with a fresh stream of thick yellow antibiotic needing snot running down his upper lip. Fantastic, nobody told me the kid was sick. He stood over Max's streetscape breathing heavily and staring down. I saw him looking at the trees and the rock pool with demon eyes. Don't you dare do it, you little menace. I will break off your foot and beat you with it. The mother came fluttering over nervously and prompted Desmond to apologize for the shovel. Lady, we are soooo beyond the shovel here. Desmond was silent, and after 3 agonizing minutes of her prompting she apologized for Desmond's shitbagginess. Great, thanks, no problem, we have all been there, polite smile. Desmond was shuffled over to another area.
Jamie took Max in for a swim, I went off to talk to others. It's pretty obvious what happened during the next 10 minutes. The shitbag destroyed Max's mini-street. Stomped all over it. I did not see him doing it, neither did Max. My daughter did. She told me after Max began sobbing when he came out of the water. He was all done, the 5 year old patience level was tapped. Desmond was a loser and his mother was blind. He destroyed Max's happy place. The kicker was that he was sitting down at the other end of the beach with his mother building an exact replica of what he had previously crushed. The bitch even used my leaf idea. I hope his mini swimming pool gives him Legionnaire's Disease.
They had a nice beach across the street so I took the kids over for a swim. There at the water's edge was the wife of one of my 4th cousin's once removed. She was keeping watch over her oldest child. A three year old. Back at the house my son was told of his new friend that was waiting for him at the beach. "Oh, you are right about the same age!" "You can be buddies at the beach!" "He's waiting for you!" My five year old was giddy over the fact he'd have a pal after 2 hours in a car fighting with his sister. Anticipation was high as we trekked over.
On first approach he seemed a great playmate. Jaunty baseball hat, expressive eyes, extremely articulate for his age. He hid behind his mother shyly. He too had been briefed on the arrival of a new pal. Everyone had pumped him up about Max's attendance at the family party. The problem is, Desmond was not on the same page anymore. At first they played nicely together in the water, digging in the sand, sharing the one pail. After about 20 minutes Desmond morphed into a complete shitbag.
The first infraction was throwing a shovel at Max's head. It missed Max by a hair, but Max knew he had done it and I knew he had thrown it. So did my mother who was standing near me. She shifted slightly. That shift translated into: Please don't react, Chrissy. I understood her tension. I accepted her silent plea. Family was around us everywhere, people we had not seen in years. Let it go. So the dink threw a shovel, no biggie. Worse things have transpired. My radar was up though. I waited quietly while the kid registered that he had got away clean. He shifted his expressive eyes towards me and I saw the flicker of a thought process fly past his pupils. He knew that I knew he was a shitbag, and he was far from done. Max looked at me and realized I was not going to say anything. He calmly picked up the shovel and walked over to where Desmond was sitting and deposited it on the sand next to him. He walked away quietly and resumed his activity. That's right baby, plant that bait. Jelly donut for you tomorrow morning, my munchie-boo.
Sure enough Desmond flung the shovel again and it bounced off Max's swim trunks. This time the mother noticed before I could say anything. "Desmond!" he was ushered away to another section of the beach and admonished. Desmond had identical twin sisters back at the house. They were 18 months old and just walking. He was here from San Francisco visiting his grandparents at their beach house. They had been here for about a week prior to today's party. For the first time in 18 months he was being lavished with tons of attention from his entire extended family. He was fucking King, and he was loving every second of it. They thought he'd be all happy about his new playmate but they were dead wrong. Max was a direct threat, and a slightly older one. Desmond was pissed and wanted Max to go back to the genetic hole he had crawled out of.
To keep Max occupied during Desmond's scolding I helped him to build a few small huts out of sand. Max decided to re-create our neighborhood. He named the mounds telling me that they represented our neighbor's homes. "Here is where Roger and Barbara live., this is the yellow house with the flag." I played along helping him put sticks in for chimney's. We popped in a few leaves to represent trees. We even put in a swimming pool with ample rock support in the hopes that dad would walk by and get the subtle hint. I was pleased with how clever my son was, wanting to make a miniature version of his street. How smart and cute as he named all the neighbors carefully and labeled each home with unique markings. I should have listened to what he was really telling me as he shaped the small huts. "Take me home, Mom. To this happy place that I love. Where Desmond the shitbag won't throw pointy shovels at my head."
Desmond came tromping over with a fresh stream of thick yellow antibiotic needing snot running down his upper lip. Fantastic, nobody told me the kid was sick. He stood over Max's streetscape breathing heavily and staring down. I saw him looking at the trees and the rock pool with demon eyes. Don't you dare do it, you little menace. I will break off your foot and beat you with it. The mother came fluttering over nervously and prompted Desmond to apologize for the shovel. Lady, we are soooo beyond the shovel here. Desmond was silent, and after 3 agonizing minutes of her prompting she apologized for Desmond's shitbagginess. Great, thanks, no problem, we have all been there, polite smile. Desmond was shuffled over to another area.
Jamie took Max in for a swim, I went off to talk to others. It's pretty obvious what happened during the next 10 minutes. The shitbag destroyed Max's mini-street. Stomped all over it. I did not see him doing it, neither did Max. My daughter did. She told me after Max began sobbing when he came out of the water. He was all done, the 5 year old patience level was tapped. Desmond was a loser and his mother was blind. He destroyed Max's happy place. The kicker was that he was sitting down at the other end of the beach with his mother building an exact replica of what he had previously crushed. The bitch even used my leaf idea. I hope his mini swimming pool gives him Legionnaire's Disease.
Friday, August 22, 2008
For Shame, Bob Costas
I’ll say it if no one else will. The Americans choked on some serious bile this Olympics. The track and field peeps were beyond bad, the softball gals, ate shit and the divers, what was that? The gymnasts were gagging and I am exhausted from caring.
I was so psyched when the beach volleyball girls won the gold but then Kerri Walsh, the tall drink of water had to thank President Bush for his support and the great job he’s doing. What?! Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell do you know? You spend all your time in a bikini on the beach busting serves and diving for balls. Bush sucks and everyone thinks so. Don’t take that red, white and blue bullshit that far. Be patriotic, be proud but please do not be blind, deaf and dumb.
And NBC? You should be ashamed of your slanted (no pun intended), biased coverage, ignoring event after event to cover blasé human interest stories and spending all your time shooting the American gymnasts taping their legs and doing stretches instead of showing all the other gymnasts doing their ROUTINES at the Olympics. Oh, where do I begin with your crappy “live” coverage and blathering reporters who interrupt athletes who have trained all their lives for one glorious moment that no one will ever see.
I used to have a crush on Bob Costas but now all I see is a very short, lathered, middle age man desperately holding onto forty nine with manicured hands, reading from an antiseptic teleprompter script and spewing lies about how certain events can only air at midnight because they are live. For shame Bob, you and your Grecian Formula For Men hair dye should get down and dirty like Jim McKay back in the day and embrace the real spirit of the Olympic games. Everyone is equal, everyone has a chance and everyone is exciting and Olympic just for making it that far.
I was so psyched when the beach volleyball girls won the gold but then Kerri Walsh, the tall drink of water had to thank President Bush for his support and the great job he’s doing. What?! Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell do you know? You spend all your time in a bikini on the beach busting serves and diving for balls. Bush sucks and everyone thinks so. Don’t take that red, white and blue bullshit that far. Be patriotic, be proud but please do not be blind, deaf and dumb.
And NBC? You should be ashamed of your slanted (no pun intended), biased coverage, ignoring event after event to cover blasé human interest stories and spending all your time shooting the American gymnasts taping their legs and doing stretches instead of showing all the other gymnasts doing their ROUTINES at the Olympics. Oh, where do I begin with your crappy “live” coverage and blathering reporters who interrupt athletes who have trained all their lives for one glorious moment that no one will ever see.
I used to have a crush on Bob Costas but now all I see is a very short, lathered, middle age man desperately holding onto forty nine with manicured hands, reading from an antiseptic teleprompter script and spewing lies about how certain events can only air at midnight because they are live. For shame Bob, you and your Grecian Formula For Men hair dye should get down and dirty like Jim McKay back in the day and embrace the real spirit of the Olympic games. Everyone is equal, everyone has a chance and everyone is exciting and Olympic just for making it that far.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Always Know Your ABC's
This is why I love my husband. I got into the shower last night after a hot, sweaty, dirt covered day with Otto. I could hear Dave through the heating vent talking to him as he put him down. On the shower wall was a carefully arranged group of foam letters that stick to tile when they get wet. We usually keep them in the bathtub for Otto to chew on, spell with, and throw but I had put a few in the shower to be rinsed off and forgotten all about them. There were only nine of them but somehow Dave managed to use his Scrabble skills and find a few words. Spelled out in bright, primary colors with cute little puffy letters were the following words:
JIS
FLEM
DQ (a sexual reference of disgusting proportions)
That says it all. He’s awesome.
JIS
FLEM
DQ (a sexual reference of disgusting proportions)
That says it all. He’s awesome.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Good Vibrations
I have a group of friends who will talk about it and then another group of friends who will not. Masturbation is a subject so common, so comfortable with men but somehow has not reached the daily vernacular with ladies who lunch and ladies in general. Blow jobs and hand jobs trip easily off the tongue but the five finger walk or the dildo dance does not. I bring this up simply because yesterday my neighbor K. J. was skulking outside of our apartment when we got home, looking a bit nervous. Before I could ask her what was wrong she blurted out, “I’m hiding from my cleaning lady who’s in my apartment right now. Last time she came to clean she found my vibrator in my bed and left it propped up on the dresser on low when she left. I can’t face her.” She is clearly in the group that WILL talk about it.
My question was, “Do you think she used gloves?” while my husband’s question was, “Do you think she used the vibrator?” Both valid and both disgusting. K.J. seems to think Irma, the said cleaning lady, was leaving her a very strong message by displaying the device front and center, begging her to NEVER leave it in the sheets again. I would have written a note but maybe Irma can’t write or she has trouble expressing herself. Perhaps sh's unsatisfied by her penmanship or can only write with a quill and ink and K.J. only had ball point pens in the house.
Whatever the reason, Irma’s odd choice of communication baffles me. K.J. did tell us the vibrator was shaped like a boomerang. Maybe Irma thought it was a novelty telephone from The Sharper Image or possibly a new fangled mouse for her IMAC Pro. Other items that come to mind are a small desk lamp, an electric dog groomer or one half of a very cool looking Walkie Talkie.
Whatever the reason, I have a feeling Irma went home and ordered one on line. I know I did. I just have to figure out how to use it and whom to discuss it with.
My question was, “Do you think she used gloves?” while my husband’s question was, “Do you think she used the vibrator?” Both valid and both disgusting. K.J. seems to think Irma, the said cleaning lady, was leaving her a very strong message by displaying the device front and center, begging her to NEVER leave it in the sheets again. I would have written a note but maybe Irma can’t write or she has trouble expressing herself. Perhaps sh's unsatisfied by her penmanship or can only write with a quill and ink and K.J. only had ball point pens in the house.
Whatever the reason, Irma’s odd choice of communication baffles me. K.J. did tell us the vibrator was shaped like a boomerang. Maybe Irma thought it was a novelty telephone from The Sharper Image or possibly a new fangled mouse for her IMAC Pro. Other items that come to mind are a small desk lamp, an electric dog groomer or one half of a very cool looking Walkie Talkie.
Whatever the reason, I have a feeling Irma went home and ordered one on line. I know I did. I just have to figure out how to use it and whom to discuss it with.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Ban de Soleil
When here on vacation the majority of our days are spent at the beach. I am in a household that consists of 5 adults, 1 preteen and 4 children under the age of 6. We are here for two weeks so the object of the game is to find something all encompassing that makes everyone happy. The beach used to make me gloriously happy. But along with the millennium came wrinkles, skin cancer, and liver spots. Now I dread the beach. I wake up in the morning and see my age spots lining my jaw and lambaste myself continually for what I did in my youth. I think of all the time I sat outside like a chunk of sirloin basting myself in something that sounds like a Jimmy Buffet song. Smelling like a rotten coconut and sizzling my skin with no regard to what I was doing. I wish a hologram had appeared before me. Future Chrissy. Hovering above me, wagging the finger of doom, telling me what was to come. "Foundation will only mask your pain", she'd moan. "Don't date Brad in college. The convertible Saab is the only redeeming quality he possesses."
I sit on the beach now, slathered in 70 plus sunscreen hiding under an umbrella. I leaf through US Weekly to see what Suri Cruise is wearing to the playground this week. She is so hot in her Burberry leggings. My 5 year old would do her. If it works out I told him to get more info on Katie pegging her jeans. I am convinced she is doing it to fuck with us all. She and Tom laugh about it and give each other Grape Nut enemas.
As I sat there today I noticed a woman in front of us whose skin was the color of the shit streaks in my son's underwear. There was the freakish topography of moles that covered her back. They were everywhere. Flat ones, thick ones, chewy ones mixed with raised crunchy bits clinging to her bacon-like exterior. If I had shaved them off I could have made myself a lovely quiche. It was sick. Why was she not concerned? She laid there on her side snoozing away. I could smell her skin as it cooked. It was repulsive. I neurotically reapply sunscreen and she has a hibachi party going on all summer.
For my 40th birthday I have decided to gift myself with a insanely expensive skin treatment in the hopes of negating the damage that has been done. Zip, zap, zing. Make the little milk chocolate colored spots go away. Rid my skin of the reminder of too many days spent on my back in the sun listening to Def Leppard and eating Cool Ranch Doritos. I just fear when I go for my first treatment that I will be late because I can't remember out how to peg my jeans correctly.
I sit on the beach now, slathered in 70 plus sunscreen hiding under an umbrella. I leaf through US Weekly to see what Suri Cruise is wearing to the playground this week. She is so hot in her Burberry leggings. My 5 year old would do her. If it works out I told him to get more info on Katie pegging her jeans. I am convinced she is doing it to fuck with us all. She and Tom laugh about it and give each other Grape Nut enemas.
As I sat there today I noticed a woman in front of us whose skin was the color of the shit streaks in my son's underwear. There was the freakish topography of moles that covered her back. They were everywhere. Flat ones, thick ones, chewy ones mixed with raised crunchy bits clinging to her bacon-like exterior. If I had shaved them off I could have made myself a lovely quiche. It was sick. Why was she not concerned? She laid there on her side snoozing away. I could smell her skin as it cooked. It was repulsive. I neurotically reapply sunscreen and she has a hibachi party going on all summer.
For my 40th birthday I have decided to gift myself with a insanely expensive skin treatment in the hopes of negating the damage that has been done. Zip, zap, zing. Make the little milk chocolate colored spots go away. Rid my skin of the reminder of too many days spent on my back in the sun listening to Def Leppard and eating Cool Ranch Doritos. I just fear when I go for my first treatment that I will be late because I can't remember out how to peg my jeans correctly.
Good Eatin'
We have recovered from our jetlag and exhaustion and are now on a normal schedule for the time being. Otto is thrilled to be home and have two parents doting on him and giving him all our scattered and crazy attention. He was actually acting entitled and snotty this morning as he stuffed his gourmet broccoli and cheese omelet into his little mouth with an attitude chaser. Instead of eating the organic blueberries I so lovingly washed for him he flung them at Brody and laughed manically. I wouldn’t let him throw away the omelet, as Dave spent a good chunk of his wake up time sautéing in the kitchen for the monkey man.
Dave spares no expense when feeding this family. He actually made homemade mayo for his burgers last night. I sat in front of the television white trash style and stuffed my face with a chopped sirloin, cheddar and arugula burger, homemade oven fries and a tricolore salad, accompanied by a Duvel beer. Desert consisted of the Olympic women’s floor routine and dark chocolate but the gymnastics were a let down AGAIN as the American women just couldn’t deliver the Gold medal night I so desperately needed. Is it too much to ask for the crazy routine that scores a perfect 10 and makes me have night sweats? Where is Mary Lou, Kerri or Nadia? What happened to the small, prepubescent perfection that I so badly want?
Oh, he’s sleeping upstairs and I have to get his lunch ready soon. He to will have the burger for lunch but no gymnastics for him. He’s a ball player. Unless he loves stretch pants and bad haircuts and in that case, rock on!
Dave spares no expense when feeding this family. He actually made homemade mayo for his burgers last night. I sat in front of the television white trash style and stuffed my face with a chopped sirloin, cheddar and arugula burger, homemade oven fries and a tricolore salad, accompanied by a Duvel beer. Desert consisted of the Olympic women’s floor routine and dark chocolate but the gymnastics were a let down AGAIN as the American women just couldn’t deliver the Gold medal night I so desperately needed. Is it too much to ask for the crazy routine that scores a perfect 10 and makes me have night sweats? Where is Mary Lou, Kerri or Nadia? What happened to the small, prepubescent perfection that I so badly want?
Oh, he’s sleeping upstairs and I have to get his lunch ready soon. He to will have the burger for lunch but no gymnastics for him. He’s a ball player. Unless he loves stretch pants and bad haircuts and in that case, rock on!
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Head Banger
Right before I left for my east coast adventure I did something very risky. I had my hairdresser cut bangs. When you go from having long hair, all relatively the same length with an unruly natural curl, bangs are not always a great idea. I was nervous but initially felt good about the decision. I felt like I needed a change. That is a statement one makes before a disastrous impulsive decision is made. Divorce, quitting a high paying job or getting sexual reassignment surgery are three examples that come to mind. Mine was a simple chop near my ears and the change was complete. A little edgier than the look I had going on before but nothing extreme, I thought. The bangs took more work in the morning and tickled my skin sometimes. Yet, I felt cool, like an indie actress who smokes unfiltered cigarettes or a girl whose tattoos are a road map of her sexual conquests and fickle artistic fazes. I am clearly neither.
Otto and I boarded our plane to Boston and the new bangs made me think less of my fear of flying and midair diaper changes and more about whether I looked a cast member from The Hills or John Paul Jones from Song Remains The Same, a foppish mop top waiting to be sheared off by the nearest pair of scissors. Within minutes of the flight my hair was a past memory as Otto talked and ate and yelled while I tried my best to shut him up and not fall asleep.
The reason for the trip was a large family reunion taking place on the Maine coast. All my relatives would be there on my mother’s side and Otto would get his first taste of crazy family gatherings and bean hole beans. Once in Boston, it rained almost the entire time, and the drive to Maine was a damp, hairy excursion with my mother’s dog shedding and cowering on the floor of the car, praying that Otto would stop his kicking and start sleeping. No such luck. Otto remained awake almost the entire way to Bangor.
We finally got there as the sun was setting and as my mother checked into The Holiday Inn, our one night layover until the rental house was available. I sat in the car with Otto and dog Bonnie, people watching as the Maine locals got on with their small town lives. As I sat there tired and hungry I spotted a person of questionable gender parked across the street listening to loud thrasher metal. While this person threw his or her head back and forth to the beat of devils music I became obsessed with finding out the sex of this specimen. This person could have been anywhere form 23 to 48 and the ragged skin and midsized 90’s Firebird did nothing to help me along in my quest. Without looking too conspicuous, I sat and stared hoping that a twist of the head or a pause in the song would give me my answer.
Suddenly the music stopped and the mystery person looked straight at me. To my horror I realized two things. One, I could no better tell the sex of this miscreant than the brand of cigarettes it was smoking. And two, this ravaged, pocked marked local hand bangs. My stomach immediately tightened and regret filled my body. In my attempt to look younger, hipper and different I ended up resembling an androgynous Maine townie who knew every word on Slayers third album and whose diet consisted of Pop Tarts, Meth, and generic beer.
For the rest of the vacation, my bangs were pinned back with bobby pins and never mentioned by me or anyone in my family. They probably didn’t know better but bangs are a huge fashion risk usually undertaken by only the very young or the very edgy. I am now back in L.A. having barely recovered from a very long trip with a very small child and a very risky hair cut. My bangs now take turns from up in a bobby pin to down around my eyes depending on my mood. The jury’s till out in my mind but my husband loves them. That doesn’t say much, though. He loves Slayer too.
Otto and I boarded our plane to Boston and the new bangs made me think less of my fear of flying and midair diaper changes and more about whether I looked a cast member from The Hills or John Paul Jones from Song Remains The Same, a foppish mop top waiting to be sheared off by the nearest pair of scissors. Within minutes of the flight my hair was a past memory as Otto talked and ate and yelled while I tried my best to shut him up and not fall asleep.
The reason for the trip was a large family reunion taking place on the Maine coast. All my relatives would be there on my mother’s side and Otto would get his first taste of crazy family gatherings and bean hole beans. Once in Boston, it rained almost the entire time, and the drive to Maine was a damp, hairy excursion with my mother’s dog shedding and cowering on the floor of the car, praying that Otto would stop his kicking and start sleeping. No such luck. Otto remained awake almost the entire way to Bangor.
We finally got there as the sun was setting and as my mother checked into The Holiday Inn, our one night layover until the rental house was available. I sat in the car with Otto and dog Bonnie, people watching as the Maine locals got on with their small town lives. As I sat there tired and hungry I spotted a person of questionable gender parked across the street listening to loud thrasher metal. While this person threw his or her head back and forth to the beat of devils music I became obsessed with finding out the sex of this specimen. This person could have been anywhere form 23 to 48 and the ragged skin and midsized 90’s Firebird did nothing to help me along in my quest. Without looking too conspicuous, I sat and stared hoping that a twist of the head or a pause in the song would give me my answer.
Suddenly the music stopped and the mystery person looked straight at me. To my horror I realized two things. One, I could no better tell the sex of this miscreant than the brand of cigarettes it was smoking. And two, this ravaged, pocked marked local hand bangs. My stomach immediately tightened and regret filled my body. In my attempt to look younger, hipper and different I ended up resembling an androgynous Maine townie who knew every word on Slayers third album and whose diet consisted of Pop Tarts, Meth, and generic beer.
For the rest of the vacation, my bangs were pinned back with bobby pins and never mentioned by me or anyone in my family. They probably didn’t know better but bangs are a huge fashion risk usually undertaken by only the very young or the very edgy. I am now back in L.A. having barely recovered from a very long trip with a very small child and a very risky hair cut. My bangs now take turns from up in a bobby pin to down around my eyes depending on my mood. The jury’s till out in my mind but my husband loves them. That doesn’t say much, though. He loves Slayer too.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Insomnia and fried seafood
We are vacationing in this foofy little resort town that sits on the elbow of Cape Cod. Large sprawling estates that look out onto the coastline. Kennedy-esque lawns that stretch on forever peppered with weathered Adirondak chairs. Uptight Brahmin wannabees sporting their green and pink polo shirts and Chiclet sized teeth. East coast socialites roam the antiquated streets looking for the boutique selling the "it" flip-flops of the season. So much work for so little shoe, what a travesty.
I am not sleeping well. I hate to be away from home in a foreign bed. The mattress has the depth of a Triscuit. I am in a room with my husband and two kids. He snores. I can usually handle it but it seems smaller, cramped and louder in this room. My 5 year old who has obviously inherited my issues is up once a night with an insane request or dilemma. Last night he couldn't find his bee. His bee is a small glass animal that is the size of a quarter. He brought it from home and has been obsessive about it since we got here. Let me tell you, searching for a glass bee the size of currency at 3am is no easy task. This results in my exhaustion and irritability. Throw the fact that my entire extended family is here on vacation with me. I am wound extra tight. I have meds but I never take them. I am too anxiety ridden about taking my anti-anxiety meds to actually try one. I am convinced all the horrific side effects will hit me at once. I just know I will be faced with a scenario where I am forced to operate heavy machinery. "Chrissy, hop up into this forklift and help us remove the concrete slab from your daughter!" I will be drowsy and ineffective at a time I am needed most. My only solace is that I will probably remain calm throughout the entire ordeal.
I am not sleeping well. I hate to be away from home in a foreign bed. The mattress has the depth of a Triscuit. I am in a room with my husband and two kids. He snores. I can usually handle it but it seems smaller, cramped and louder in this room. My 5 year old who has obviously inherited my issues is up once a night with an insane request or dilemma. Last night he couldn't find his bee. His bee is a small glass animal that is the size of a quarter. He brought it from home and has been obsessive about it since we got here. Let me tell you, searching for a glass bee the size of currency at 3am is no easy task. This results in my exhaustion and irritability. Throw the fact that my entire extended family is here on vacation with me. I am wound extra tight. I have meds but I never take them. I am too anxiety ridden about taking my anti-anxiety meds to actually try one. I am convinced all the horrific side effects will hit me at once. I just know I will be faced with a scenario where I am forced to operate heavy machinery. "Chrissy, hop up into this forklift and help us remove the concrete slab from your daughter!" I will be drowsy and ineffective at a time I am needed most. My only solace is that I will probably remain calm throughout the entire ordeal.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Two weeks vacation
Just arrived this afternoon. Kids are in bed. I actually was able to read something today. Imagine that! Reading. It was blissful. I already downed my first T & T. I'd have another but I took a mild muscle relaxer because it feels like my uterus is going to fall out. Menstruation in your 40's is a whole new ball game. Insert the cotton pony and ride it out with drugs and an attitude. Torres swims and LeBlanc gins. Bottoms up!
Thursday, August 7, 2008
A spoonful of sugar
My dream job is to be an employee at Charm City Cakes. For those of you that may not watch the Food Channel, Charm City Cakes is the bakery where the show "Ace Of Cakes" is shot. One of my favorite shows on television. I have a total crush on the owner, Duff. He has a great laugh, wears funky skull hats, and he is Jewish. I always wanted a Jewish boyfriend. I also imagine that he smells like frosting. Bonus points.
Everyone that works there is artsy and talented. They all have multiple piercings, tattoos and wear edgy t-shirts. The men rarely shave, I am guessing a few of the women don't either. They make the most amazing cakes and creations. I am always in awe watching them take a lump of fondant and create these intricate figurines and landscapes. All the while playful banter sails over the large flour filled tables. They chip away at layers of cake with large knives, and voila! It's a '57 Chevy! The transformations boggle my mind. They made an MRI machine the other day. How cool is that? All the nerdly radiologists squealed and clapped when they staggered in with the final product.
I want to be part of their funky crew. To laugh loudly when my secret boyfriend cracks a joke. But he wouldn't be my secret boyfriend anymore. I'd be sure to let everyone know he was mine by wearing one of his favorite skull caps perched jauntily on my head. That's right bitches, take your batter-filled fingernails elsewhere. I'd sit on a stool right by Mary Alice's desk and we'd think of tattoos to get that nobody else has thought of yet. Because we are super-best friends, and very unique about those sorts of things. At some point I'd have to let on that I don't bake. But I'd be so accepted by the Charm City Cakes gang that they'd ignore that small issue.
Everyone that works there is artsy and talented. They all have multiple piercings, tattoos and wear edgy t-shirts. The men rarely shave, I am guessing a few of the women don't either. They make the most amazing cakes and creations. I am always in awe watching them take a lump of fondant and create these intricate figurines and landscapes. All the while playful banter sails over the large flour filled tables. They chip away at layers of cake with large knives, and voila! It's a '57 Chevy! The transformations boggle my mind. They made an MRI machine the other day. How cool is that? All the nerdly radiologists squealed and clapped when they staggered in with the final product.
I want to be part of their funky crew. To laugh loudly when my secret boyfriend cracks a joke. But he wouldn't be my secret boyfriend anymore. I'd be sure to let everyone know he was mine by wearing one of his favorite skull caps perched jauntily on my head. That's right bitches, take your batter-filled fingernails elsewhere. I'd sit on a stool right by Mary Alice's desk and we'd think of tattoos to get that nobody else has thought of yet. Because we are super-best friends, and very unique about those sorts of things. At some point I'd have to let on that I don't bake. But I'd be so accepted by the Charm City Cakes gang that they'd ignore that small issue.
Batteries Not Included
This will be short and sweet. I only have 15 minutes on my battery and apparently, the room I’m staying at in my parents house has no outlet that can take a three prong plug. Oh, but it does have a gaping two foot hole in the ceiling covered with Michael Jordan wrapping paper from the 1980’s.You have no idea…
My trip with Otto was quite the adventure. We had a two hour delay in Long Beach before the plane took off and after I sent Dave on his merry way. These were four long hours spent entertaining Otto and hoping I could make it to Boston in one piece. To his credit, Otto was a super star without ever napping before the flight and only sleeping for an hour and fifteen minutes on the flight. He was sweet, hilarious, loud, and flirtatious and overall the greatest person in the world. He did yell quite a bit as he did in the museum a few weeks ago but would stop as soon as I distracted him with food, a book or a fart noise. Aside form some dirty looks form a bitch in front of me who actually let her ten year old watch autopsy shows on Direct TV, Otto didn’t seem to bother any one.
As mentioned before, I packed enough food for a week and it served us both well. He never had a poop, much less diarrhea, so my biggest fear was never realized. We didn’t get home until 2 a.m. east coast time and Otto went down like a stone.
Tonight he is not doing so well, fighting sleep like a true bed ridden warrior. I am writing as quickly as I can. I will then put in my ear plugs and pick up my trashy US Weekly to find out why Lauren Conrad is actually famous. Times up and all I can say is I think she has a career because today's world represents the official decline of western civilization as we know it. “The Hills” is hell and we are all its little devils feeding the machine.
My trip with Otto was quite the adventure. We had a two hour delay in Long Beach before the plane took off and after I sent Dave on his merry way. These were four long hours spent entertaining Otto and hoping I could make it to Boston in one piece. To his credit, Otto was a super star without ever napping before the flight and only sleeping for an hour and fifteen minutes on the flight. He was sweet, hilarious, loud, and flirtatious and overall the greatest person in the world. He did yell quite a bit as he did in the museum a few weeks ago but would stop as soon as I distracted him with food, a book or a fart noise. Aside form some dirty looks form a bitch in front of me who actually let her ten year old watch autopsy shows on Direct TV, Otto didn’t seem to bother any one.
As mentioned before, I packed enough food for a week and it served us both well. He never had a poop, much less diarrhea, so my biggest fear was never realized. We didn’t get home until 2 a.m. east coast time and Otto went down like a stone.
Tonight he is not doing so well, fighting sleep like a true bed ridden warrior. I am writing as quickly as I can. I will then put in my ear plugs and pick up my trashy US Weekly to find out why Lauren Conrad is actually famous. Times up and all I can say is I think she has a career because today's world represents the official decline of western civilization as we know it. “The Hills” is hell and we are all its little devils feeding the machine.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Neneh Cherry
I don't even know if that is how you spell the name of the band. I am so overtired I did not even bother to Google it. "No moneyman can win my love, It's sweetness that I'm thinking of...Gigolo, huh? Sucka!" I was drunk enough last night to convince myself that the group on the stage was going to end their set with a rousing "Buffalo Stance" to get the crowd going before Coldplay came out. They did not sing it. Probably because it was not Neneh Cherry.
Drunkenly I texted poor Dotty. (Sorry about that, my friend.) Neneh Cherryi, Im old, Guiness, chrIs Martin Veggies. free trade apple gwenith oxfam/buffalo stance. Some sort of random note I clumsily hit send to whisk it away to LA and litter her phone with my blathering stupidity. Coldplay was good, Martin is a showman and puts on a great performance. They only did one song off on X & Y which was a disappointment. We were spoiled with a show they did a few years ago in a small venue that was superb. I bought Carter a t-shirt. That cost me $40 and my self-esteem. The harried vendor raised an eyebrow when I asked for an extra small. It's not for me, you fuck.
It worked out well, we were home early which has become the sad benchmark of a good social event in our adult lives. It is all measured by the quality of food and how early we get to bed. Last night our dinner out was sucky, but we went to a concert. Completely out of the normal date night realm for us. The music spiked the social aspect, then we were home at a reasonable hour. That's just gravy.
Too much drinking for a Monday night. I woke up with a dry mouth and and a craving for a giant breakfast. My vision of eggs and bacon at the quirky diner was marred by Kellogg's, coffee and kids to camp. I reviewed my path to intoxication this morning. I had enjoyed two glasses of prosecco with dinner. When I got up during the show to use the bathroom I had a full Guinness at my seat, I bought another one for the walk back to my seat. A move I have not made in years. That means two big fat Guinnis, add in the dinner drinks. Are you following me you former lead paint eaters? That is a total of 4 drinks. Not good for me or for the defunct Swedish female song-writer/rappers of the late 80's.
Drunkenly I texted poor Dotty. (Sorry about that, my friend.) Neneh Cherryi, Im old, Guiness, chrIs Martin Veggies. free trade apple gwenith oxfam/buffalo stance. Some sort of random note I clumsily hit send to whisk it away to LA and litter her phone with my blathering stupidity. Coldplay was good, Martin is a showman and puts on a great performance. They only did one song off on X & Y which was a disappointment. We were spoiled with a show they did a few years ago in a small venue that was superb. I bought Carter a t-shirt. That cost me $40 and my self-esteem. The harried vendor raised an eyebrow when I asked for an extra small. It's not for me, you fuck.
It worked out well, we were home early which has become the sad benchmark of a good social event in our adult lives. It is all measured by the quality of food and how early we get to bed. Last night our dinner out was sucky, but we went to a concert. Completely out of the normal date night realm for us. The music spiked the social aspect, then we were home at a reasonable hour. That's just gravy.
Too much drinking for a Monday night. I woke up with a dry mouth and and a craving for a giant breakfast. My vision of eggs and bacon at the quirky diner was marred by Kellogg's, coffee and kids to camp. I reviewed my path to intoxication this morning. I had enjoyed two glasses of prosecco with dinner. When I got up during the show to use the bathroom I had a full Guinness at my seat, I bought another one for the walk back to my seat. A move I have not made in years. That means two big fat Guinnis, add in the dinner drinks. Are you following me you former lead paint eaters? That is a total of 4 drinks. Not good for me or for the defunct Swedish female song-writer/rappers of the late 80's.
Dear Otto,
I have Ho-Ho's and Yogo's in my pantry right now. Look at all those oooo's! Anything with that many vowels in it's name is a fun food. I will sneak you shitty treats whenever you visit and feign ignorance when confronted. Because I love you, and that is what cool aunts do.
Kisses,
Chrissy
Kisses,
Chrissy
Just One More Thing
I have officially lost my mind. I just got my teeth cleaned, went to the grocery store, drove by the bagel store and came home to cook four different dishes for Otto to eat on the plane. This obsession always takes me over. I feel like he will run out of food on a five hour flight and we’ll both wither away to nothing. Why can’t he subsist on Coca Cola and bad crackers like all the other kids in America? Why do I have to make him feel as thou he’s eating overpriced deli salads from Jones On Third, our equivalent of Dean and DeLuca’s? This is ridiculous. I have to carry all this stuff on the plane like a hunter-gatherer or a drug smuggler. I have to try to get through security with two bottles of milk, two bottles of organic juices and enough diapers and snacks to satisfy an entire school district.
This is my psycho menu and list below:
Black bean, garbanzo bean, sautéed yellow squash and arugula salad
Bowtie pasta with tomato pesto, basil and feta cheese
Grape, apple and blueberry fruit salad
Steamed carrots
Turkey and cheddar sandwiches
Pirates Booty
Annie’s Goldfish
Maria Biscuits
Bagels for Otto to hold and caress - don’t ask
Dark chocolate - for mommy to survive
Organic pear and apple juice -really? Organic? Loser!
Milk - Not mine anymore, thank God!
Dramamine
Xanax - Oh yeah!
These are my extras:
3 books
3 toys
Animal blankets
Tennis ball - his favorite thing
Notepad/pen - if inspiration arrives
Laptop - Why, when a pad and pen work just fine?
Camera – I will never use it. I promise.
Elmo videos a friend just lent me - Help me God, I just turned into that lady!
Portable DVD Player -I don’t even have one yet
Bib - Useful when I spit up on myself after Otto’s crapped all over his chair
Diapers – shit receptacles
Desatin Cream – duh!
Diaper wipes – a Godsend!
Ziploc bags – the traveler’s best friends, A.K.A. shit receptacles
Change of clothes for the monkey - past experience on plane included massive baby diarrhea and mommy crying in the bathroom the size of a Tic-Tac box
Kleenex - for weeping into when the diarrhea happens upon me again
Purell - mankind’s false hope
Not sufficiently prepared?
Overboard?
Just right?
You be the judge. Vote on the poll above and tell it like it is Dr. Phil!
This is my psycho menu and list below:
Black bean, garbanzo bean, sautéed yellow squash and arugula salad
Bowtie pasta with tomato pesto, basil and feta cheese
Grape, apple and blueberry fruit salad
Steamed carrots
Turkey and cheddar sandwiches
Pirates Booty
Annie’s Goldfish
Maria Biscuits
Bagels for Otto to hold and caress - don’t ask
Dark chocolate - for mommy to survive
Organic pear and apple juice -really? Organic? Loser!
Milk - Not mine anymore, thank God!
Dramamine
Xanax - Oh yeah!
These are my extras:
3 books
3 toys
Animal blankets
Tennis ball - his favorite thing
Notepad/pen - if inspiration arrives
Laptop - Why, when a pad and pen work just fine?
Camera – I will never use it. I promise.
Elmo videos a friend just lent me - Help me God, I just turned into that lady!
Portable DVD Player -I don’t even have one yet
Bib - Useful when I spit up on myself after Otto’s crapped all over his chair
Diapers – shit receptacles
Desatin Cream – duh!
Diaper wipes – a Godsend!
Ziploc bags – the traveler’s best friends, A.K.A. shit receptacles
Change of clothes for the monkey - past experience on plane included massive baby diarrhea and mommy crying in the bathroom the size of a Tic-Tac box
Kleenex - for weeping into when the diarrhea happens upon me again
Purell - mankind’s false hope
Not sufficiently prepared?
Overboard?
Just right?
You be the judge. Vote on the poll above and tell it like it is Dr. Phil!
Monday, August 4, 2008
Could You Refill My Glass, Please?
I will be leaving for Boston in a day and a half. Otto and I will be traveling on a plane together and suffice to say, I am praying that all goes well. Before I had a child, my biggest fear of flying was the plane crashing, terrible air sickness and an empty bottle of Xanax. Now my only fear is that Otto gets diarrhea and refuses to sleep and I can’t get his car seat to fit on the airplane and Otto screams all the way to Boston and everyone hates me. The list could go on but I won’t bore you with my unrealistic fears.
To make my trip more bearable I purchased an $89 piece of plastic called The GoGo Kidz. It is a device that attaches to Otto’s car seat and turns it into a stroller for the airport. That way he has a real car seat on the plane and in my mother's car when we arrive. It seems fine now but when a herd of angry traveling buffalo are behind me at security staring me down with dirty looks for holding up the line because I dismantle the piece of shit at a snail’s pace, all will seem much more different. My living room is a far more serene environment to practice dismantling this contraption than a security line at an airport, a place where only the angriest and most hostile folks seem to gather. I suspect it is also the fattest and most selfish group that hang out there as well but don't hold me to that. It's just my experience at this point in my life. I know, I know. The glass is half full.
I was patient and calm and actually learned how to put the GoGo Kidz on and take it off. For the record, I hate when a company uses a "Z" in place of an "S" in a word to look cutesy or clever. It is so ztupid! Anyway, Dave was so proud that I didn’t yell, cry or pout once. I am pathetic but feeling pretty good about my chances. I will report back with a product review and a quick synopsis of how my child was perfect, sleeping like an angel for five hours straight and I barely noticed he was next to me. Glass is half full, glass is half full...
To make my trip more bearable I purchased an $89 piece of plastic called The GoGo Kidz. It is a device that attaches to Otto’s car seat and turns it into a stroller for the airport. That way he has a real car seat on the plane and in my mother's car when we arrive. It seems fine now but when a herd of angry traveling buffalo are behind me at security staring me down with dirty looks for holding up the line because I dismantle the piece of shit at a snail’s pace, all will seem much more different. My living room is a far more serene environment to practice dismantling this contraption than a security line at an airport, a place where only the angriest and most hostile folks seem to gather. I suspect it is also the fattest and most selfish group that hang out there as well but don't hold me to that. It's just my experience at this point in my life. I know, I know. The glass is half full.
I was patient and calm and actually learned how to put the GoGo Kidz on and take it off. For the record, I hate when a company uses a "Z" in place of an "S" in a word to look cutesy or clever. It is so ztupid! Anyway, Dave was so proud that I didn’t yell, cry or pout once. I am pathetic but feeling pretty good about my chances. I will report back with a product review and a quick synopsis of how my child was perfect, sleeping like an angel for five hours straight and I barely noticed he was next to me. Glass is half full, glass is half full...
Saturday, August 2, 2008
East Vs. West
I live in Los Angeles. This we know. I have been a personal assistant, a telemarketer, a waitress, an actress, a bartender, a television host, and a collector of unemployment checks. I am now a mother. This we also know. I do many activities with my son Otto to occupy his time and stimulate his brain and body and overall state of mind. I take him, to indoor gyms, hiking, playgrounds, parks, museums, friend’s houses, music classes and Target, all in the name of his enjoyment and my necessity. I get to see first hand the real L.A. mother and nanny in all their glory. I usually go to a park closest to my house. That is where one can find mostly tired, forlorn nanny’s eating fruit salad from a Tupperware container while the kids they are watching swallow sand and spit up on themselves.
A few moms and dads are scattered about and tend to gravitate toward one another in the hopes that they can have a normal conversation about nursery school, proper teething remedies and how they hate living in Los Angeles. This really is Hotel California where you can check out any time you like but you can never leave.
Their kids are wearing the standard kiddy attire for these parts, which consists of Gap sandals, hip Target fashions, quirky t-shirts, and whimsical dresses. These parents are moderately stylish and friendly but nothing too extreme in either direction. Needless to say, that park is getting a bit drab and monotonous for me. I am easily bored and want something more to chew on.
The other day, I decided to go out of my safety zone and go to a park east of my apartment. I wanted to start living on the edge, maybe even meet a child that attended public school (gasp)! I saw a different animal all together, an animal who liked to live dangerously and take no prisoners. I saw a group of hipster mom’s, not a nanny in the bunch, chatting about their artsy lifestyle and their super cool friends. Their tots were draped in funky vintage shirts, weather worn shorts and beaten up Crocs sandals. This is was the laundry list of cool:
1 nose ring
2 neck tattoos
3 ankle tattoos
1 thrift store cowboy shirt
1 trendy, perfectly fitting sundress
1 short vintage denim skirt that screamed, "Fuck me'cause I'm cool!"
1 great pair of legs to go with above denim skirt
1 canvas satchel that read “I (heart shape) The Planet
2 kids named Cash
1 kid named Zyg
1 girl named Audrey with silver leggings and a 150 I.Q.
1 boy with long, girl hair
0 sense of irony
The mother’s were all extremely attractive, relatively young and incredibly happy. Above all else, they were very nice. I hated them and I hope they call.
A few moms and dads are scattered about and tend to gravitate toward one another in the hopes that they can have a normal conversation about nursery school, proper teething remedies and how they hate living in Los Angeles. This really is Hotel California where you can check out any time you like but you can never leave.
Their kids are wearing the standard kiddy attire for these parts, which consists of Gap sandals, hip Target fashions, quirky t-shirts, and whimsical dresses. These parents are moderately stylish and friendly but nothing too extreme in either direction. Needless to say, that park is getting a bit drab and monotonous for me. I am easily bored and want something more to chew on.
The other day, I decided to go out of my safety zone and go to a park east of my apartment. I wanted to start living on the edge, maybe even meet a child that attended public school (gasp)! I saw a different animal all together, an animal who liked to live dangerously and take no prisoners. I saw a group of hipster mom’s, not a nanny in the bunch, chatting about their artsy lifestyle and their super cool friends. Their tots were draped in funky vintage shirts, weather worn shorts and beaten up Crocs sandals. This is was the laundry list of cool:
1 nose ring
2 neck tattoos
3 ankle tattoos
1 thrift store cowboy shirt
1 trendy, perfectly fitting sundress
1 short vintage denim skirt that screamed, "Fuck me'cause I'm cool!"
1 great pair of legs to go with above denim skirt
1 canvas satchel that read “I (heart shape) The Planet
2 kids named Cash
1 kid named Zyg
1 girl named Audrey with silver leggings and a 150 I.Q.
1 boy with long, girl hair
0 sense of irony
The mother’s were all extremely attractive, relatively young and incredibly happy. Above all else, they were very nice. I hated them and I hope they call.
Courtesy flush
This morning holds an adventure that perfectly illustrates we are indeed homeowners. We have had our house for about two years. In that time we have done a few improvements here and there. We recently replaced our front door, or should I say, "the smile to our home". That is what the guy at Lowe's called it. You could tell it pained him to do so. He had sat in the employee break room during orientation a few months ago while a regional manager introduced him to the magical world of millwork. He roboted the line out and pushed some glossy brochures across the counter.
I gazed at pages of majestic entryways, enormous Craftsman style oak doors embellished with wrought iron fixtures and enhancements. You just knew that you'd push them open to find a golden retriever bounding towards you driven by the smell of freshly baked banana bread. Ambient temperature flowed out from this portal to heaven. "Come in please, leave your shoes in the basket my great-great grandmother wove by candlelight. We are over here in the library conjugating verbs with the children." My realistic mind knew I had a early 60's ranch and to place a door like that upon it would be sad and douchey. We got a nice simple mahogany set that grins at me with sassy confidence each time we pull into the driveway. My hand-woven shoe basket is a rubber boot tray from Target.
We will be heading back to Lowe's today to purchase a toilet. A painful $400 reminder that yes you own a home and you have to replace really boring shit prior to buying the bath towels you have been eyeing. Our toilet constantly clogs, and it clogs mostly after the children use it. Do I produce offspring that create larger than average feces? At least 4 times a month I hear a "MOM!" coming from behind the closed door. That cry used to mean that I would go into the bathroom to find whoever was in there bent over at the waist waiting for me to come and wipe their ass. Oh, how I miss those days. Now they can wipe themselves but they are turning my tile floor into a swamp of fecal soup. There aren't enough anti-bacterial products in this world that are going to help me emerge from these occurrences without counselling. I had to throw out a perfectly good bathmat the other day because I was too horrified to simply throw the sodden mess into a hot water wash.
I reason with the children. Tell them to flush before wiping, wipe and flush again. I quiz them on the amount of toilet paper they use and I sound insane. I can recall growing up with two kids that told me their parents only let them use 2 squares of toilet paper for peeing, and three for pooping. I never wanted to touch their hands. You cannot emerge from the bathroom with those wacked-out restrictions and not bring evidence of your journey. I hate getting angry at my kids for something that they may have absolutely no control over. It's just an old inefficient toilet and it needs to go. They may have larger than average bowel movements but I just don't want to know anymore about it. That is between them and their anus. So today we will go Lowe's to explore the thrill of what the modern toilet offers. Beat that for a fun Saturday.
I gazed at pages of majestic entryways, enormous Craftsman style oak doors embellished with wrought iron fixtures and enhancements. You just knew that you'd push them open to find a golden retriever bounding towards you driven by the smell of freshly baked banana bread. Ambient temperature flowed out from this portal to heaven. "Come in please, leave your shoes in the basket my great-great grandmother wove by candlelight. We are over here in the library conjugating verbs with the children." My realistic mind knew I had a early 60's ranch and to place a door like that upon it would be sad and douchey. We got a nice simple mahogany set that grins at me with sassy confidence each time we pull into the driveway. My hand-woven shoe basket is a rubber boot tray from Target.
We will be heading back to Lowe's today to purchase a toilet. A painful $400 reminder that yes you own a home and you have to replace really boring shit prior to buying the bath towels you have been eyeing. Our toilet constantly clogs, and it clogs mostly after the children use it. Do I produce offspring that create larger than average feces? At least 4 times a month I hear a "MOM!" coming from behind the closed door. That cry used to mean that I would go into the bathroom to find whoever was in there bent over at the waist waiting for me to come and wipe their ass. Oh, how I miss those days. Now they can wipe themselves but they are turning my tile floor into a swamp of fecal soup. There aren't enough anti-bacterial products in this world that are going to help me emerge from these occurrences without counselling. I had to throw out a perfectly good bathmat the other day because I was too horrified to simply throw the sodden mess into a hot water wash.
I reason with the children. Tell them to flush before wiping, wipe and flush again. I quiz them on the amount of toilet paper they use and I sound insane. I can recall growing up with two kids that told me their parents only let them use 2 squares of toilet paper for peeing, and three for pooping. I never wanted to touch their hands. You cannot emerge from the bathroom with those wacked-out restrictions and not bring evidence of your journey. I hate getting angry at my kids for something that they may have absolutely no control over. It's just an old inefficient toilet and it needs to go. They may have larger than average bowel movements but I just don't want to know anymore about it. That is between them and their anus. So today we will go Lowe's to explore the thrill of what the modern toilet offers. Beat that for a fun Saturday.
Friday, August 1, 2008
YUMMY PIGGY
THIS IS HOW MUCH I LOVE BACON – I JUST ATE A PIECE OF PARTIALLY CHEWED BACON OFF OF MY SON’S BIB. HE CLEARLY DIDN’T WANT IT AND I FINISHED IT FOR HIM. I HAVE NO REGRETS. IT WAS DELICIOUS. I CAN'T BELIEVE I DID IT. I AM DISGUSTING.
No Rest For The Wicked
He won’t fucking take a nap. He’s been talking and crying and bouncing for an hour and a half and he’s exhausted but he won’t take a nap. Apple juice, waters, hugs and cuddles to no avail. Poor little monkey and poor little mommy.
No nap + no mommy time = no post
No nap + no mommy time = no post
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