Preschool Math

Please complete the following equation for extra credit:


a mommy
+
a sandbox
+
a plastic toy house
+
balding paint brushes
+
an ankle high toilet
+
adorably used European wooden blocks
+
a whimsical miniature, vintage kitchenette set
+
tiny, teeny things strategically strewn about
+
a name that elicits soft, fuzzy feeling in groin area
=
$10,000/year + headache + responsibility – sleep x comedy
=
a long fucking time until he graduates from college

My Day Today, But Who Really Cares?

I woke up after 10 hours of sleep. Hello Xanax!

Took Otto to the park where I had to listen to two mom's gossip about private school admissions and then rag on their third friend who wasn't there and mock her unmercifully (BTW - they both had terrible outfits on and sported permanent scowls on their jowls)

Otto stole some Cheddar Goldfish from one of them and she was a cold bitch about it

Came home, passed O off to Dad, begrudgingly blow dried my hair and went to an audition for a cell phone company where we were all described as "real looking mom's" - A.K.A ugly ladies in their late 30's (that's being generous)

Sneaked off to In-N-Out Burger by myself to stuff my face and listen to N.P.R. in peace

Saw a dirty, tired and beaten down Barney actor walking down Sunset Blvd. with the purple Barney head under his sweaty arm pit looking as thou the world took a huge, loose bowel movement right on his head

Went to Trader Joe's where three different people either bumped into me or ran over one of my feet while grabbing for some organic item with an annoying name and a huge fat content (Ha! who has the last laugh?)

Cursed at the world all the way home in the car and loved every minute of it

Got home, went on a long walk with Dave and Otto and gazed at all The Peeping Tom signs we've plastered all over the neighborhood

Fed Otto while he threw his food across the room with the skill of a New York Yankee

Put him to bed with relief and glee, all rolled up in one

Ate a killer salad Dave made and watched good, old fashioned crap T.V., i.e, Two and A Half Men, a show I love and am not afraid to admit it

Good night!

Knuckle-breaker

I have this good friend that drifts in and out of my life. We have know one another for years and still manage to check in now and then even though our lives have both taken very different paths. He frightens me a bit so it is nice that our relationship is not one that I have to work very hard at maintaining. He can slink off for a year or so, but always checks back in. I can call him up at any point and leave a message and he is back in touch in a few days. I think we help each other out. He tends to do silly things like say... gamble all his money away. He calls me the next day and I admonish him to go get a legit job for a few months. He agrees and sulks his way back into mainstream society with a promise not to injure the 30-something Manager named Josh who makes the schedule. The relationship works for me because I have someone close by that can break knees if knees need to be broken.

Last year we were in Stowe, VT on a family vacation. There is a gourmet food store up there that is run by Cabot cheese. In the middle of the store there is an enormous long wooden table filled with vats of cheese cubes and toothpicks. Everyone comes in, snacks on free cheese samples and admires the quaint Christmas ornaments and antique snowshoes. I was at the table this year spearing a sample of Mango Bacon Monterey Jack for my cheese loving son. He still needs to be closely monitored around toothpicks. They are easily smuggled weapons for Lego mini-figs. My phone started to ring. I eased past the throngs of stoner snow borders wearing their smelly woolen Nomad hats tasting a Horseradish Cranberry Cheddar.

It was my friend and he had just heard some troubling news and needed to call me. According to his source I had just returned from Italy. Italy had not been kind to me, the story he was told was one of ruffees and rapes. Bad Italian men making the naive pushing-40 American drink tainted Limoncello. I waved at my daughter who was showing me an elf hat she was trying on through the store window. Mommy is just dispelling international rumors, be right in sweetie!

My initial reaction was to ask him who the hell had told him such a ridiculous thing. He said in a quiet gruff voice that he had to apologize but there was no way he could reveal his source. Of course. How completely Soprano-like. I had a vision of him sitting at a desk filled with receipts and a 1/2 an eaten eggplant parm sandwich. He unfolded the sordid tale to me as he cleaned out under his fingernails with a paper clip. I assured him that I had not been in Europe since the late 90's and the last time an Italian stranger bought me a drink was so long ago that I did not even want to attempt the math. I told him I was intrigued and a bit horrified however his source was dead wrong. He was relieved. I encouraged him to tell me where he had heard this bizarre tale, but he would not give it up. I stood there in the parking lot surrounded by Audi wagons, Range Rovers and Ugg wearers as he told me how enraged he became when he heard this tale of misfortune. He reminded me that he was a phone call away and would be on the next shuttle if I needed him here and those involved would pay dearly. I ducked behind a tree when I saw the couple glancing over at me as I said, "no no, there was no date rape drug, there is no need to come to Boston." with a bit too much fervor. I was stuck in the midst of this mountain resort with little to no cell service as I walked around the lot desperately checking my phone for bars. Yelling into the phone was no longer an option. "Listen carefully," I stood perched on a bench trying to get the best signal. "Nothing had taken place, there was no concern. Please stay where you are and do not come near me or my family.

It will make me crazy forever to know who it was that delivered such a ridiculous story. He will never tell me. In true gangster fashion he protected his source. The only satisfaction I get is that after expressed my horror over the sheer insanity of it all, he most likely slapped the source around for spreading filth about his friends. I hope he left a mark.

Eau de Tween

Tonight is the first dance of the school year. 6th, 7th, and 8th graders only. No tank tops, no offensive t-shirts, and no belly shirts. Hey, if you threw a tricked out Subaru and a bad tattoo into that list of no's you'd have all the ingredients to build another Nashua, NH. Gather the no's, sprinkle them on the ground, water with a Smirnoff Ice and a strip mall with an IParty will immediately grow.

I bought Carter her ticket last week. Filled out the permission slip and paid the $7. She stood beside me rocking back and forth on her heels, giddy with excitement. They handed me a super-friendly little note that reminded me in big black bold underlined letters that I was to come and collect my little overstimulated sweaty friend at 9:45 when they will be ushered out of the gym. Remember at dances when they would turn on all the lights to let everyone know that the last song had been played. To avoid temporary blindness and the fear of the boys seeing you with your eyeliner smudged, the well-informed would take leave when the DJ put on Kool and The Gang's, "Celebration."

Two of her friends came over after school where they spent 1/2 the afternoon holed up in her bedroom. They emerged to eat a staggering amount of pizza. They then agreed to play Twister with Max to burn off the sugar high they had from Code Red. Bless their little hearts. They ran back upstairs at 5:00 to get ready for the dance that started at 7:00. Clouds of bad perfume filled my hallway. I grimaced as I saw them rifling through the linen closet looking for my flatiron. Break Mommy's Chi and I will cut you.

I announced the car was leaving at 6:45. They piled in, smoothing down their overpriced Free People t-shirts that they HAD to have for the first dance. Because ohmigawd they are so awesome and retro. (hold me) Here are some snippets of the ten minute conversation between the three before drop off:

"Your eyeliner totally goes with your shoes."
"My stomach hurts."
"I hate Miley Cyrus almost as much as I hate math."
"No, math is way worse."
"way"
"Yeah, but what about investment math"
Inside my head: Investment math, they are learning about investing?
"Oh I like the investment part of math, Miley is worse that that."
"Yeah"
"Yeah I like that stock market stuff."
Inside my head: Hilarious. Yes! Go girls. Inner fist pump
"Do you think the circle time helped?"
"Totally, I know it totally will work"
"totally"

Now I have to speak. "What is this 'circle time' you guys are talking about?" Silence. I can see them in the rear view looking at one another. I start taking long sniffs. Maybe the perfume is to mask the smell of the beer they were siphoning out of my fridge. Was Twister with the five year old a ruse to make me feel relaxed and trusting!? Finally my daughter speaks up:

"Well it sounds crazy but we turned off all the lights."
"except for the palm tree"
"yeah"
"and we held hands and stood in a circle"
Inside my head: Heathers! Cool.
"and we took Alyssa's cell phone"
"'cause she has the best picture"
"and we opened the phone to show the picture of Curtis (giggles) he's like, the cutest in the class. And we made a pact to only dance with cute boys like Curtis. Not just Curtis, but boys that may look like Curtis, or almost as good as Curtis (giggles erupt into hysterical laughter.)."

They want to know if I think it will work. The little circle of force that they made. Hoping for a good night peppered with dancing with the chosen ones. Fueled by anxious nerves and great expectations they had for these precious 3 hours of their lives. I told them that I thought the chant had great potential. I told them to be nice to the dorky guys too, and they promised they would. The car doors whooshed open and off they ran towards the youth center squealing and dodging the rain.

Mack Davies Mobasser - 6lbs 15 ozs, 20" long.

There are those people in my life that I have a hard time imagining not being there. Family, of course, is a constant for me, as much as I dread the holidays at times or complain that they are all crazy. I am related to this band of gypsies and miscreants so I am as crazy as they will ever be. I actually have one relative that had a compulsion to remove his clothes in public. Not sure what the technical term for that condition is other than "fucking lunatic". Then there was the other dude who had a nervous breakdown and was convinced that all UPS trucks were out to get him. I get that. Those awful brown shorts and boxy looking vehicles seem other worldly, like a nightmare on wheels, out a a science fiction novel. The drivers always look angry and sweaty, especially around Christmas and they never bring me anything.

But friends are people you choose to be involved with, solely based on their emotional merit. Are they happy, do they make you laugh, are they smart, are they cool, are they good looking( 8 or above) and do they make you feel all of the above? I am one of the luckiest ladies in the land when it comes to friends. Living in Los Angeles, I have come across a lot of Fruit Loops and liars, soul suckers and whack jobs but those people are not my friends. Those are the people that passed through and were not invited to dinner. My friends are always invited to dinner.

Two of the people that make me feel cool, funny, smart and good looking, save for the time they had to watch as I flipped out on mushrooms, tore all my clothes off and hurled insults at a Gypsy Kings c.d. in the mountains, while on mushrooms, just had their third baby.

Welcome to the jungle, little Mack Davies Mobasser. You are always welcome for dinner.

I love you K, F, C and R (and now M)


Dotty

Fishy, Fishy, Fishy

We went out to our favorite sushi restaurant tonight and Otto ate deep fried shrimp heads while I looked on in horror. I saw my son with a smile on his face and an antennae sticking out of his little mouth. He looked like a lobster trap Christmas ornament in a Cape Cod gift shop. He threw the eye ball on the floor but the rest he ate like a hungry pirate. I gagged and then I beamed. I am so proud he eats like a vulture, just like his daddy. I think I just threw up in my mouth.

Cookies

A few days ago the front bell rang. I peered out the window like a crazed shut-in. I hate the door bell. The only people that should be ringing your bell are those that are expected, or neighborhood children selling bad smelling candles and shitty chocolate. "Hi Mrs L. We are selling these candles to raise money so we can go to Science camp." Sure I will buy one! I love buying stuff from little kids. Candy Corn scented candles? Mmmmm, my favorite. I'll light it when my Mother-in-law is here to mask the scent of drama and ignorance she emits.

I will not force the children to tell me what I owe them, or what the change should be. I loathed people like that when I was a Girl Scout. Pulling my red wagon filled with minty cookies down the street, my mind was not ready to calculate change. Inevitably I would walk up to some house where the person thought it would be nifty to make me figure out what monies they were owed. Usually they were very elderly and wanted me to come into their house. That was when it was okay to actually walk around the street alone at age 9, enter houses, and have a stale piece of candy. Nobody threw a blanket over your head and dragged you down into a basement lair. Just a blue shag carpeted living room, heavy drapes, and listening to the deafening tick tick of some old clock. I'd watching Mrs. Simpson rifle through a change purse for my cookie money. Her house smelled like Noxema and toast, and it was about 200 degrees. "Here's a half dollar. Do you know how many dimes are in a half dollar, Chrissy?" I would shift my badge sash nervously and stare down at the tops of my shoes. Trick question! Nobody called it a half dollar, except for other old people. Ask me how many dimes are in 50 cents. Let's talk like everyone else does in 1976, Nanabitch.

Toys-R-Us Is the New Crack

I went to Toys R Us with Otto yesterday to get him his first set of Lego's because he seems to be attracted to building tall structures and clapping upon their completion. Within minutes, a piercing pain crept through my head, a monstrous headache like I hadn’t had in years was upon me and I knew at once that this had been a very bad idea. Rows and rows of plastic toys with heads and faces were laughing at me from behind their clear, plastic covers. The smell of Play-Doh and baby powder permeated the entire building while screaming kids argued with their parents over how many, how much and what color whatever they wanted had to be.

Meanwhile, Otto sat patiently in the cart with a shit eating grin on his little, cookie covered face (yes, I give my child tea biscuits – do not judge) while looking around him like he had fallen into a Christmas stocking with no way out. His eyes jumped from one crappy toy to the next but sweetly, he never demanded or whined about any of them. This, of course, was brilliant manipulation on his part because the more he smiled, the more I wanted to buy every color-splashed, cardboard box filled with toxic molded plastic that his heart desired. It’s as if I was on crack and he was my dealer, pointing me in the right direction to get that next hit and taking my money, one dirty bill at a time.

Finally, I found at “the building aisle” and I handed him a box of starter Duplo Lego’s with a little car inside. He laughed and pointed as if he had just seen someone trip and fall on a banana. That is always my knee jerk reaction when I see someone eat shit and I assume he is the apple that lies not far from his mother, a very mean tree, a child that will laugh and kick a kid when he’s down. Did he think Lego’s were lame, a simpleton’s object or was he thrilled beyond belief, imagining all the skyscrapers and castles he would soon build and then knock down like the Jolly Green Giant when he’s in an angry and dangerous mood? Within seconds, it was clear that the Lego’s were a hit, with Otto hugging and tapping the box and giggling uncontrollably. These little square pieces were not for failures and losers after all. They were perfect!

As we continued on our journey, moving through the overcrowded aisles riddled with princess dresses, bright purple kitchenettes and hideous commercially made Halloween costumes, I looked for more educational toys to purchase, something that would make me feel like a cool, smart and responsible parent. I craved the same feeling I had had when, 7 months pregnant, I registered for a $900 stroller. That feeling, of course, was much what I think a hit of crack might have been like. The high, amazing at first and then suddenly, fleeting and disappointing, quickly dissipated into a headache and the spins when the stroller arrived and I realized that it was a colossal waste of money and a direct reflection of the lemming mentality I was so desperate to avoid.

I finally found the educational section, a grouping of mass produced wooden objects that were twice the price as anything Fisher Price put out and still made in China. Ironic and depressing. I pointed Otto in the direction of the whimsical, oak puzzles and quaint, pine music boxes but he spotted some pastel foam blocks in a clear carrying case and I was done for. I actually thought to myself how big the carbon footprint was on this item, a large collection of squishy, geometric shapes, each sucking the life out of this planet, one trapezoid and rectangle at a time. I looked at Otto with pleading eyes but his decision was final. We would be leaving with his bag of unethical sponge-like blocks and I would feel like shit about myself and my contribution to global warming and selfishness. I did a final lap around the infant section, grabbing shampoo, tiny toothbrushes and squishy, furniture guards, in case Otto wanted to be the guy he mocked and trip and fall onto a pointy corner. When we got to the register, I paid with my head low and still throbbing, while Otto flirted with the cashier and fondled his new booty.

We arrived home and Otto dumped the contents of both the box and the bag all over the living room, stacked a few foamy shapes on top of one other, knocked them over as anticipated and then played basketball with his Lego’s until dinner, After all that agonizing, all that purposeful decision making, all that guilt-riddled spending, I just wanted to see some sort of a structure, a building or a tower, something vertical in nature. He, meanwhile, just wanted to dunk and swish, which he did, throwing the blocks from across the room into the non-biodegradable plastic box and getting it in almost every time. Ultimately, my irresponsible purchases were bad for the environment, bad for my ears and wildly messy but his aim was brilliant and who am I to stunt the growth of a budding NBA star or a kid who one day might just pitch a no hitter. Or maybe, just maybe, I witnessed the beginnings of a rock throwing, environmental protester in the making. Now that would be ironic.

The Fall Preview Of Things To Come

Today Dave and I had our third orientation and tour of our third Los Angeles area preschool for Otto. Let me paint a quick portrait. The most enthusiastic and competitive of parents gather in a sparkling multi-purpose room wearing their best fashions and stare one another down as they fight for a few coveted spots for their child to take the following Fall. Yes, I am interviewing for my 18 month old a year in advance with the likely hood that he will not be admitted, as there are 250 rabid parents mind wrestling for 30 spots. There is a famous child star and his wife to my left while a super hero and his lady are to our right and I feel like I am on a reality show that I not only have no chance of winning, but won’t enjoy watching either.

We are all awed by the shiny new facilities, thousands of dollars worth of musical instruments and bottled water, articulate and gracious teachers and the tiny little toilets in all the restrooms. If that’s all it takes to really impress, then I will change out my standard white porcelain crapper immediately. Now all my future dinner guests, whose homes mostly rival small football stadiums, can squat down low when they pee and fall in love with our old, ramshackle rental apartment.

This is not, I gather, what my parents went through in the 70’s when they dropped us off in front of the local public school with little more that a bagged lunch, a house key, and a faint hope that some dude in a van would follow us home and teach us to play doctor until dark and then hire him to baby sit on Saturday nights. School was free, there were no security check-ins at the entrance and gun violence only happened on television or to the very rich who popped pills and wanted to end it all with high drama and low self esteem. Ah, those were simpler times.

I remember my first day of kindergarten so vividly it’s as if I hoped it happened to someone else and I read about it. I wore the Froggy dress my mom made me from a Simplicity pattern, a dark blue number with green frogs and flowers all over it. She spent the entire summer sewing it, a labor of love not forgotten and a skill I will never have or understand. When the big day arrived, we woke up early and got ready in the cold, dark living room so as not to wake the sleeping giant, my father who is famous for having a toddler’s temper. My mom ironed the dress while my sister was most likely being an asshole about her hair or her new binder or not having enough bud in her stash box. She was four years older literally and five years younger emotionally with a mean streak that rivaled Joan Crawford. I actually couldn’t think of a younger or hipper person to use as an example. How pathetic.

When we arrived at school, my clearest memory was my mother specifically telling me to be cool and calm and not jump all over the chalkboard. What? Who says that and how can you actually jump on one? Well, it turned out my classroom was a carousel shaped building with four grades in one large room with chalkboards that were stationary on one end and had wheels on the others so they could pivot back and forth to divide up the space. Just because my mother said that I shouldn’t and I am weak when it comes to peer pressure and the power of suggestion, I did actually jump all over the chalkboard like a unloved lab monkey destined for unspeakable experiments. I am not proud of my behavior but the truth is that my formal education began by me inadvertently flashing all the kids my brand new, white JC Penney fabulous undies while I molested an innocent black board and most likely made my teachers regret ever entering their chosen profession.

As we finished today’s tour of the school, I tried to picture Otto enjoying this beautiful, overpriced amusement park and what he would be like on his first day if he were to be selected among the very few to attend this Harvard for half pints. I clearly set the bar low with my bar room antics all those years ago so I can say only this. Otto, rape the chalkboard with your mind, not your body.

How do you tell your kid her Halloween costume sucks?

I know. You can't. You have to smile that big wide smile, the same one you give to the guy bagging your groceries in the supermarket. The one that cracks jokes about the weather, smells like bacon, and has a drift eye.

She is right at the age where she really needs to shelve the garb and put the begging for treats to rest. Not too old, but could be relegated to passing out sugary snacks instead. She is wise enough to figure out that we pilfer through her candy at night while she sleeps. We need to pull her from that prior to her telling her brother. She'll ruin the next 7 or so years for us.

At first she wanted to go as a Patriot's fan. That was prior to Tom Brady knee turning into Silly Putty a few weeks ago. Now the Patriots are about as risky as the Stock Market. Too much of a gamble to bank Halloween on it. You could be the laughing stock of the gang of hooligans that you roam the neighborhood with that night. It happened to me one year. I decided that I wanted to be a bag of Jellybeans. I took a see-through plastic bag and filled it with tiny colorful balloons. I waddled out of the house with a big red ribbon tied around my neck. One step at a time, each movement making a farty plastic noise

I remember rounding the corner with my friend Kristen. She went as a flapper. A far better choice. She slunk through the night shimmering with every step. I clobbered along after her trying to keep the small balloons from falling out of my leg hole. Jimmy Hollis saw us from down the street and started charging towards us. He was the street bully. He claimed to be our age, but I swear he was older. His voice was the same as the guy on the Carvel ice cream commercial. "Let Cookie O'Puss dance his way onto your family's table this St. Patrick's Day."

He ran up with a huge gleaming pin. As fate would have it Jimmy was dressed as an old lady and his dove gray fedora with silk roses had a hat pin the size of a harpoon. I made a move to run, but felt the balloons shift as one mass and realized my attempt at escape was futile. He popped every one of them and left me for trick or treating wearing my street clothes. That was the last time I dressed up.

Carter now wants to be a Jonas Brother fan. She wants to wear a "Mrs. Nick Jonas" t-shirt, a Jonas brother baseball hat, and a Jonas brother dog tag necklace. I can't stand those Disneyfied dinks with their canned music, dressed like Mike Damone as he scalps tickets down at the mall. Their squinty smiles are plastered all over her wall. Those kids are a date rape away from the cover of US Weekly.

She points out the items she wants to get to complete the ultimate Jonas brother's fan look. I smile and nod and tell her how cool it will look. Inside I cringe, because I know the pack of smart-assed 12 year old boys will give her crap at the school's Halloween party. Their bruised egos hidden under their costumes as they tease her about her crush they don't stand a chance against. If Brady would just make a miraculous recovery, we'd all be much better off.

Weird late night snacks I like

-Circus Peanuts, the orange squishy kind
-Ritz crackers with peanut butter and pickle slices
-Brown sugar in a bowl eaten with a spoon
-Can of tuna mixed with soy sauce and vinegar
-Fancy jellies and jams eaten with a spoon.

My Pastimes Include Barfing and Boyfriends

Our night out was officially cancelled all around. No babysitter, no dinner with our pals Kate and Francois, no escaping the confines of our petrie dish apartment, no way. With a slight fever and tired eyes, Otto went to bed at 7 o’clock with his new footsie pajamas with planets and rocket ships on them, complete with fire balls. They were hand me downs from his God brother Wyatt and I love me the hand-me-downs. They are already soft and broken in and best of all, they are free!

Maybe it was the constellation on his little legs or the Children's Tylenol, but Otto was in a great mood right before going down, crawling all over the pull out bed in his room. We’d set it up in case he decided that projectile vomiting on mom and dad for a second night in a row would be a grand idea, up there with parachute pants and black light posters. What could be more fun than holding Otto in our arms as he regurgitates cheese raviolis with sun dried tomato pesto and bits of chicken while we lounge on the sleeper sofa praying that his asshole doesn’t get jealous and crash the party? Lucky for us, there were no unwanted guests and he slept through the night being the super monkey that he is.

Meanwhile, back in the living room, Dave and I both looked like we’d gotten the shit kicked out of us by a pack of wild street urchins. A sick child fills you with so much worry and tension that you age at warp speed, finding grey hairs and wrinkles in places as unlikely as your feet and your knee caps. I just got a great pedicure with a gorgeous color I’ve never used but all I can think of when I gaze down at my feet is Don Rickles. This is Otto’s third time being really sick and it not only makes us love him more but continues to reinforce our dread of having another child. His vomit, bile and excrement is adorable but we really don’t want to add another ingredient to this perfect cake we call our family.

To try and recover from our long, painful weekend, Dave cooked a mean chicken fried rice and we watched the last hour of The Big Lebowski . Nothing makes you feel better about yourself than watching a fat, unemployed, hapless, pot head stumble through a movie while you inhale carbs in the form of food and alcohol. It also makes you feel skinny as you consume large amounts of tasty calories. Thanks Jeff Bridges and John Goodman for making me feel malnourished in your presence.

To digest this filling dinner, we then watched Across The Universe, starring my new movie boyfriend Jim Sturgess. He’s this hot, British actor who sings like a rock star and looks like a delicious pint of ale. There is not specific criteria to become my movie star boyfriend other than just doing it for me in some cool role. I am fickle by nature, incredibly impatient and unforgiving when it comes to stupidity and bad hair. But when I love, I love truly, madly and deeply. That being said, judge for yourself. Here is my list of past movie boyfriends and the reasons for our failed relationships.

Matt Damon - I have always been so turned on my his authentic Boston accent, a throw back to my time in high school when I spent some school nights in the back of Ben Welsh's mom's minivan. Thus, Matt Damon is still on my list. Yet, I still have a bit of a problem with him because years ago because someone told me that he had a tiny penis and subsequently, penis enlargement surgery. I know, it is ridiculous reason but what if it’s true? I just can’t get past it. I am shallow and spoiled. I can't even remember who told me. I suck.

Billy Crudup - I loved, loved, LOVED, Billy Crudup in the early years of Without Limits and Almost Famous but then he had to go and dump his long time, super actress girlfriend Mary Louise Parker for Claire Danes when Mary was 8 months pregnant. Seriously? What’s up with that Billy Cad-up? Very disappointed, even though you are so good looking! Are you really 45? Might just be too old for the list.

Mark Wahlberg - I loved Mark Wahlberg for a very long time. Again, the Boston accent leaves my Guess? jeans around my ankles but then the love dried up. I met him in 2003 and after I stupidly said nothing more than, “I’m from Boston” with a look on my face like I just shit myself, he simply walked away without being funny or cool. I gave him a lay up and he put the ball down and walked off the court. Bench warmer! That and the fact that I recently read in an article that he is super, wacko Catholic, the kind that collects 20 foot statues of The Virgin Mary and goes to church as frequently as he urinates. Yeah, I dated Catholic boys in high school for the challenge and the jewelery, but now, it’s just annoying and archaic. Please forgive Father, for I have sinned.

John Cusack - John Cusack and I broke up because he keeps wearing long coats in his movies like he did in the 80’s and trying to channel Floyd. Now he'll only play roles of the wanna be cool dad or bereaved husband thinking the long trench is really working for his character. It just doesn’t work for me. It makes him look like an unemployed pedophile who needs a tan and a fashion intervention. I miss the John with hang ups and a sense of irony.

Alec Baldwin - Let’s be clear here. Current fat Alec, not skinny 80’s Married To The Mob and Kim Basinger, Alec) - Fat Alec is now my current flame. He’s hilarious, political and tortured. I’m in love.

Tonight, we’ll do it all again, crossing our fingers that Otto eats a good dinner, doesn’t barf it up, sleeps peacefully and poop free and we can watch the Emmy’s uninterrupted. Alec Baldwin is up for an Emmy but if he loses, I can’t promise our relationship will last night.

Birth Control – 101

1) Get babysitter for Saturday night and get excited
2) Plan your whole week around your night off – nice restaurant, sex, etc…
3) Get pedicure and a blow out to look cute and sassy
4) Get a good night’s sleep 3 days in a row
5) Notice your child is fussy and getting a molar
6) Act accordingly with remedies and love
7) Continue to think Saturday is on
8) One day before date night take baby’s temperature and begin to panic
9) Spend the next 12 hours with a thermometer at high, Tylenol in hand and vomit on everything you own and love
10) Do copious amounts of laundry
11) Have husband spend the night holding baby in his arms while you try and sleep and feel guilty and worried
12) Cancel babysitter and observe a comatose husband watch a really bad movie on cable starring John Cusack as “cool dad” character
13) In total defeat, climb stairs and crawl into bed as barf bucket naps and hope that next Saturday will come quickly and the bile pile will immediately stop

Clean kitty

I have been preparing for my journey to Target. In light of our struggling economy I have been trying to be better and focus on purchasing toilet paper rather than lime green bud vases that will look oh so charming in my family room. Hard thing to accomplish at Target, the land of inexpensive impulse buys.

On my list I included cat litter. Cat litter is purchased almost as frequently as milk in this house. I am in charge of litter box maintenance. Every other day I sit on my haunches like a Korean grandmother and scoop out yesterday's shredded duck and chicken in savory sauce. Jamie is in charge of feeding the cats. When I was pregnant 6 years ago the smell of the food made me gag so he took over as feeder. The cats like him better. They rub his legs and stare at him with large soulful eyes. He talks to them and their tails twitch like rattlesnakes. I am convinced if I left for a few days they would service him in a very creepy internet enter only if you are 18 sort of way. For me, they crap and spray piss on the sides of the box. Here you go bitch, get your filthy plastic trowel and start digging to unearth the treasures we have left you. Oh... furless man-love has gone to the gym? Scratch my head or I will bite your knuckles. When he returns, we will ignore your sad attempts to get our attention. Hag.

One of the cats has failed miserably in personal cleansing 101. Mogwai seems completely uninterested in the maintenance of her ass. Our other cat Gussie is ridiculously clean. She lives for the upkeep of her naughty bits. Her leg high over her head, working it for a good five minutes. She meets our looks with heavy lidded eyes and a slightly agape mouth. She stares me down. "Jealous, shit digger? Hmmm?" She is so rattled by Mogwai's indifference to the dirty state of her bum that she is compelled to assist. Gussie is drawn to Mogwai's dirty anus like an O'Neal to street candy. We get to witness this Lesbian porno scene playing out on my off-white carpet on a daily basis. The only thing missing is a strap-on and beefy labias.

The Rain In Spain Is Confusing To McCain

Here’s the thing. When a presidential candidate doesn’t know what he’s talking about or whom he’s referring to in an interview about international relations or the fiscal crisis we are currently being strangled by, that should be a red flag, not a red, white and blue flag for the voters. But in America right now, a post 9/11 fear mongering atmosphere that supports racial profiling, torture, the war and The Pussy Cat Dolls as viable entertainment, we have a screw loose and blinders on. The Dolls should be a perfect reason to make sure all women have the right to choose whether they want to bring a child into the world who dresses like a Tijuana hooker at half price. If McCain has his way, no American will ever have the opportunity to cross the border and buy that hooker. All of Latin America could be the enemy and Spain could be, uh, where is Spain again? Just think of Fatima and her rubber thigh highs south of the border and think again when supporting McCain-Palin.

McCain’s campaign notes from this week:

BAD COLUMN/ GOOD COLUMN
Spain/ U.S.A.
Latin America / I'm confused
Bad guys / Us
Zapatero?/Who is ... cobler in Spanish?
Teen pregnancy / Teen pregnancy for our team
SEC president / My ability to fire him as president
Shit, wrong RE: SEC and... / My war record and my short, sad arms
I think I'm in love with Sarah / Kill Todd

40

Hello new friend, be gentle with me.

Three Is The New Hummer

Otto and I went to one of our local L.A. playgrounds this morning where I was outnumbered by nannies 6 to 1. Finneus, Harper, Landon, Ethan, Train Wreck and Calgon all ran around trying to find their “truth” while the nanny’s looked at me with pity.

Nanny To Herself: Poor lady in the black tank top and ugly, floppy, hat. She no have help. She look tired and sweaty and old and oh my, is that only one child I see?

To Me: “Is this your first and only child?”

Me: “Yes.”

To Me : “You have to have another one. You need girl.”

Me: “Nope, we’re done, I think.”

To Herself: Oh, she must be infertile AND lazy.

All my friends are having three kids and why do I feel like a freak for wanting only one? Why does every single person I meet ask me if we’re having more? I love our triangle, our trapezoid, our sandwich. We just came through the dark tunnel of sleep deprivation, hormonal hell and the toxic plastic bottle scare of ‘08. Otto will be in preschool next year and all will be glorious with rainbows and unicorns and matinees. I just want to see a movie in the light of day like I did all through my teens, 20’s and thirties. I even want to sneak into a double feature and make out when the lights go down. Can you say hand job on aisle four?

Otto just became a dude this past weekend, hanging out with a five year old at a dinner party and completely ignoring us. It was awesome to watch this independent, funny, brave little monkey play soccer with the big kid in the house and eat an entire bowl of pretzel sticks without throwing up or even looking at his parents. He was trying to play it cool, laughing only when the older kid’s jokes were funny and not trying too hard to look into it. At the end of the night the five year old actually asked if he could see Otto again and have a play date. The kid’s mother said he never does that. Otto is 17 months old. That is insane! I am so proud and so happy to have Otto, just perfect, hilarious, cheerful, golden haired Otto. He is enough for us and more than we could ever have hoped for.

Poll Up My Ass

The Yahoo poll I just took says McCain is ahead 52% to 43% over Obama out of 71,752 votes tallied. What the hell is wrong with these dill wads? Wake up America! We are in the SHIT just like McCain was in Vietnam and Palin was in social studies when she didn’t pay attention and passed notes to Brenda, her B.F.F. She then flunked the final exam when asked to write her essay question on foreign policy in the Reagan administration and The Reagan Doctrine’s stance on The Soviet Union. All she wrote was, “I touched Todd Palin’s little moose in my mom’s minivan”, and “I can see Russia from the bleachers.”

Help!

Fringe Sucks As Much As Palin Swallows

Alright all you Lost fans. The new one sucks the big booty! Fringe is so bad, so boring and so implausible it makes Gilligan’s Island seem like a documentary. Ginger did have 84 costume changes on her three hour tour and Gilligan never boned any of them. Sure. I never caught Lost fever. I was too busy voting on American Idol for mediocre talent whores and cleaning the kitchen after Dave’s nightly cooking explosion. Amazing chef, best food ever but his messes are what nightmares are made of.

Now Fringe will give you nightmares if you waste your time during the most important election of this century and watch this drivel. The motley crew of thespians in this cast are the angry, un-movie star dude from Dawson’s Creek, some new chick with a terrible profile and a worse last name and an old guy whose voice sounds like Orson Welles after the Ernest and Julio Gallo took affect or Vincent Price's asshole could talk. These poor slobs, who are just trying to make car payments on their new luxury sedans and pay off their publicists cocaine debts, are forced to say line like this.

CHICK WITH BAD PROFILE

The killer drugs them with a muscle paralyzer, makes an incision here along their gums, pulls their mouths open up to their eyes. He’d go through their nasal cavity and would remove a piece of their brain.

DUDE FROM DAWSON'S CREEK

You can stop right there.

Yes, you CAN stop right there. Watch the debates, watch Suzanne Somers prostitute herself for the love of heinous jewelry and ill-fitting leisure wear on Home Shopping Network, her second home, but please DO NO NOT give J.J. Abrams another chunk of money to purchase expensive eye wear from the Sally Jesse Raphael collection and laugh all the way to the bank. Someone has to stop the madness. Nothing personal, J.J. I just can’t back the hour of my life that you stole from me.

Sis Boom Ba, Baby

For those of you who don't want to bother to click on this link, I get it. Let me give you my brief overview of the following news story. But, seriously? Read it for your own entertainment and feeling of superiority. It's a feel good moment for sure...

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/odd_cheerleading_mom

A girl gets pregnant in high school, has the baby, misses the prom, can't raise the child and gives it to her mother to raise, yearns for those lost years. Cut to seventeen years later, at the ripe old age of 33, she steals her daughter's ID, poses as a teenager at the local high school, registers for classes and joins the cheerleader squad, fulfilling her lifelong dream of dancing around at a pep rally while boys try to get a glance of her fuzzy taco. The cheerleading coach gets suspicious when she stops attending classes after the first day and bounces a check for a cheerleading uniform in the amount of $135.00, give or take a nickel. She is arrested, fined, embarrassed and ultimately labelled by yours truly THE biggest loser this side of Tara Reid's career.

Bristol Palin, we warned.

Meet the biggest morons of Galveston

"Among the coastal Texas residents who found themselves in trouble after Ike hit were Paul and Kathi Norton. They overslept as Ike closed in on their home, so they decided to tough it out because their evacuation route was already flooded.
Though their Crystal Beach, Texas, home, about 20 miles northeast of Galveston, was on 14-foot stilts, the couple was concerned, they told CNN affiliate KHOU-TV in Houston, Texas.
"My husband made me wear a life jacket inside our house," Kathi Norton said. "Thank God for that, or I couldn't be here."
Early Saturday, about two hours before Ike officially made landfall, high winds and rising floodwaters began battering their home. The house began collapsing, and "if the flagpole wouldn't have stopped the house, the house would've crushed us," Kathi Norton said.
"It took the floor up, buckled down and took it right off the piling. And we dove out the door and grabbed the staircase, and we floated off," Kathi Norton told KHOU on Sunday after the couple was delivered in a National Guard helicopter to an evacuation point in Texas City, Texas." -CNN

Are you shitting me? You are such a sack of crap that you overslept an evacuation? Did you roll over and hit snooze? Or did you forget to set the alarm? I can understand oversleeping. I have been there a few times. However the 24/7 coverage of this monster hurricane bearing down on your ocean surrounded town for the past few days did not spark that extra little panic in you? I was stressed out and I live in Boston, you dick. Not once in your semi-sleep state did something small flicker in you that said today may be a day that you want to haul your messy self out of bed? You better get on your fat knees and thank the National Guard from the bottom of your seawater drenched heart that they came and got you out. Dumbass.

What is The Bush Doctrine, Really?

Please choose one of the following statements that you feel best represents what the Bush Doctrine means to George Walker Bush


I declare I will vacation more than I work

I will only wear Wranglers in Crawford, around Crawford or when I’m thinking about Crawford

I will NEVER wear Levi’s in Crawford because they are the jeans of the leftist Pinko Commy bastard tree hugging hippies party, the Democrats

I will smirk when referring to anything Democratic or fair or I don’t know what someone is asking me

I will view my God as the only God, Dick Cheney with a side of Carl Rove

I will implement a set of several related foreign policy principles on ending terrorism, spreading democracy, increased unilateralism in foreign policy and an expanded view of American national security interests and then use it to go to war against a country that does not have weapons of mass destruction but whose leader was really, really mean to my daddy

A bunch of words that Sarah Palin doesn't know and I don't know either

Look Away!

Hurricane coverage is like the housewife’s crack. Well, not the dirty blond, rock shaped, life ruining kind. But the kind that makes one ignore the toys strewn all around the house, neglect to empty the dishwasher and pretend the dog doesn’t really need to pee that badly. Did I just call myself a housewife? Let me clarify. Unemployed, overwhelmed mother of a toddler that has aspirations of one day surviving a hurricane called Otto and having a career. Did I just say I am ignoring my dog in order to ogle footage of wave battered coastline I will never be able to afford? All I’m saying here is surviving the first year with a small person that depends on you for everything from emotional to nutritional kindness all the while you battle a weight gain and memory loss is, by definition, a hurricane. That, and the dog is faking it just to go outside and eat the dog biscuit the mail man left for him.

Is my personal experience with a human hurricane the reason that I cannot, no matter how hard I try, turn off CNN where Anderson Cooper is reporting from Houston in a oddly tight t-shirt while all the other reporters are in unisexual ponchos and heavy rain gear waiting for Hurricane Ike to crush the gulf coast of Texas? Am I strangely attracted to imminent danger from the safety of my baby proofed living room? Nothing would be better than to have all the large breasted weather girls be very, very wrong about Ike and have it dissipate in the Gulf and do little to no damage. But why, in God’s name, did anyone name a hurricane Ike? All I can think of is Tina Turner getting her assed kicked, her face punched and her dignity pissed on by a maniacal, coke addicted asshole named Ike.

The only thing that makes me feel better is that Dear Tina had one of the great comebacks in music history. So let’s hope when all the news footage is in, when all the pontificating from afar is over, that everyone is safe and sound and the clean up is minimal. That and that they don’t name the next one Judas.

Animal Control. Day 23.

I have become obsessed with the local Animal Officer. I see the van frequently around my neighborhood. It's large and white with big blue letters spelling out it's purpose. He drives slowly. He is either being a cautious driver, or scanning his trained eyes for the cloven footed beasts that skulk in my hydrangeas. My obsession is to find out if the Animal Officer lives in this area, or if there is a problem that I am unaware of.

When we moved here two years ago I was shocked at how woodsy it seemed. The third night we were here I heard coyotes. Hearing a coyote howl for the first time is an absolutely creepy. I sat up in bed with my heart pounding, begging Jamie to wake up. Real animals, here in the boring ass suburbs. Night prowlers. My experience has been limited to raccoons and squirrels any place I have lived prior to this house. Nothing anything more exotic than that. We had two fat raccoons that lived right by my mother's garage. They be out waddling around now and then, and they'd nail the trash cans once a month. One night I was coming home and my headlights trained on them as they frantically humped each other in the gutter. I was okay with it, it soothed me to know their feelings for one another extended beyond rutting through my used tampons together.

I have learned that we have fisher cats up in this neighborhood. Horrifying creatures that have odd sized feces that they leave near the side of my house. I have never actually seen one walking around, but my neighbor told me they crap in my flower beds. We have random fox sightings as well, plus the creepy coyotes. But it's the Fisher Cats that have me concerned. I have nothing to go on but the urban myth and the size of their shit. Why crap on the side of my house? Are you marking me, is it a warning to the bitchy Siamese peering out my window?

I walk this neighborhood just about everyday. Three miles everyday if weather allows it. Some of the areas I walk in are fairly remote, quiet and very residential. Patches of suburbia woodsiness peppers the area. Large leafy trees and bushes occupying a chunk of land that will surely be a grotesque faux center entrance colonial eye sore in a few months. The type of house the Vaginatarian works on. Until then they are the perfect hiding grounds for smelly Fisher Cats with territorial issues.

That is why I have begun to clock the Animal Control officer. I want to know why he is up here so often. What pelted creature is he trying to get before it gets me? I want him to win. If he lives near by I want to stop and say hello. Be sure he has adequate protein and sleep before canvasing our deadly streets. I have the number listed on my refrigerator ready to call the 1-800-elderlyshutinboredhousewife hot line at the town hall. Give me the reason to pick up the phone, you furry little bastard.

Wis. court: Cops illegally taped nursing home sex - Boston.com

Wis. court: Cops illegally taped nursing home sex - Boston.com

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Playground Politics

The sun was shining, I woke up somewhat rested and didn’t feel like a baked potato under a reheat bulb and Otto was in a great mood, his usual state of mind. We ate breakfast, got the house clean for the cleaning lady (ridiculous) and scooted out for some much needed errand time and play time. First stop was Bed, Bath and Beyond and no matter how many times I go there I will NEVER get sick of the 20% coupon that really makes me feel like I’m fucking the man. What man, I don’t know but I always get the sense that I have won a hotly contested battle without ever having to argue with a sales clerk or ask for a manager. I can return anything without a receipt and I save an average of $8 on my purchase. Life can be really great sometimes.

Then we moved on to the playground where a slew of nanny’s and mom’s in summer pants and tank tops, some hip and cool and some so God awful you’d think that they coordinated their outfits from mismatched flood donations, sat around proudly as their little ones ate sand, drooled profusely and stole toys from one another. It was a good, long play day with Otto running me ragged and a few near accidents that kept my blood pressure up and my ass firm and tight. As Otto bossed around other kids and I softly explained that he should share the toys, while being secretly thrilled that he is so independent and confident, I had some time today to really look around at the crowd at one of these artificial fun factories. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are certain unwritten rules when first arriving at a Los Angeles play ground and here they are.

You have to stake your claim to an area and really own it. Put your Skip Hop diaper bag down with confidence, take off your Haviana flip flops, dump out all the Chinese made beach toys that have your child’s name written in Sharpie pen and act like you own the fucking place. Really get into it. Stand there with your hands on your hips and your sun glasses on so the other mothers don’t know what your are really thinking. Be very attentive to your child but give him enough space to show off his talents like sliding face first into the sand, throwing sand into another child’s eyes or running straight toward the swings where some plump kid is swinging at such a rate that he could decapitate anyone in his wake.

If you have a wingman, even better. There is strength in numbers as you hang out with your pals and gossip about bad parents, discuss your house in escrow or better yet, exchange recipes. This will freak out the average mother whose idea of cooking is microwaving leftover take out or telling the nanny to fix something “authentic”. Then drop the nap bomb and make sure everyone knows that your little angel sleeps so much you are tired of nap time and need more face time with junior. Watch the exhausted mothers secretly weep into their Tupperware and curse the day you ever conceived.

Last but not least, discuss applying to schools and how your perfect pet has been accepted into so many that you have no idea where to go. Your dominance will be felt through all the grains of sand and beyond.

Aches and Pains?

For a few weeks now I have been feeling so physically depleted. I thought I was coming down with an end of summer flu or simply recovering from Postfamilyitis, the common ailment that inflicts one that has just returned form an extended visit with family. Alcohol can’t cure it and Xanax is powerless against it. Dave gave me Labor Day weekend to myself and took Otto to Malibu for a few days while I slept and slept and watched movies and read a great book. They returned and I felt rejuvenated for a few days but the aches and pains returned.

Then yesterday after I took Otto and Brody for their post breakfast walk, I became so over heated I thought my head was a Jiffy Pop. It’s hot here but not that hot. I had to wrap a cold towel around my neck and cool down after walking around the neighborhood for 30 minutes. This walk was at a leisurely pace, I might add. Totally ridiculous reaction for someone who exercises regularly and lives in tank tops, sunscreen and anger.

Then this morning after our breakfast and a story, I began getting hot again, as if someone thrust me in a steam shower or lit my ass on fire. I felt like Sally Field in Norma Rae. She glistened with sweat and exhaustion all the while trying to hold together her family and form a union at the local textile plant. No, I have none of that stress. My daily concerns are petty in comparison and I never have balls of cotton stuck to my upper lip and skin tight high-waisted jeans painted on to my body. I just felt like I had the same pit stains on my t-shirt and the same relationship with a hot stove and a pot of boiled cabbage.

All these thoughts began to swirl in my head and what does any confused, lost woman of today do to solves these mysteries? I went on the internet and typed in “Signs of Early Menopause.” The good part is that menopause does not usually begin until 50. The bad part, out of 35 symptoms on the website, I have 30. To name just a few : hot flashes, irritability, insomnia, exhaustion, night sweats, and panic attacks. Just when I thought all was lost, I realized that these symptoms began last week during the Republican National Convention. After listening to Palin’s right wing, fluff speech peppered with cheerleader snarkiness and no details on her policies, I couldn’t sleep. When I was sleeping I had nightmares that our country was being run by Alfred and Bat Girl and Batman and that our country just wasn’t ready for Batman to be president.

Then McCain took the stage and the nausea set in. When I went to CNN.com yesterday morning to catch the latest news and track hurricanes, the polls said that Obama and McCain were in a dead heat. This morning while Otto was peacefully drinking his bottle of milk, I had to see a clip of Elizabeth Hasselback of The View spews inane insults about Michelle Obama and her diva behavior before her appearance on The View. Soon after, I became overwhelmed with the feeling that someone had just shoved my head in an oven.

Maybe I am more like Norma Rae than I first gave myself credit for. I am fighting the good fight, experiencing seething discomfort and doing my best to spread the word that no, ladies of America, it is not old age you need to worry about but a White House that promises to keep troops in Iraq for 100 years if necessary and a White House that promises no new taxes for the middle class while the rich are getting richer and the poor actually don’t even have the jobs to fight the good Norma Rae fight. Above all else, a White House that will have the power to vote in judges who will have the power to take away your right to go through menopause. We all deserve to be soaking in our own sweat, a lack of sexual drive and a slow crawl toward death with the dignity and respect that we deserve. Don’t let the bastards win.

Kindergarten, crying, and Cuba.

Max is having anxiety issues over Kindergarten drop-off. Every morning he has a meltdown while we are in the parking lot waiting for the bell to ring. All the little school children line up ready to trot into the building. He gets into line along with the rest of them. Seemingly ready to go in. A bit shaky on the emotional scale, but willing to go forward. Then James throws back his head and begins to shriek. James is really fucking things up for us.

Max did well in pre-school. He had a few days of mommy clinging but otherwise would head off to catch communicable diseases with a spring in his step. There was one kid that cried just about every day of pre-school. I'd see his parents every morning pleading with him, begging him to go into the classroom to play.They'd offer him the moon and he'd sob clinging to their legs. A good little kid, but an emotional basket case when it came to parental separation and change. That kid was James.

This past spring James' mom came up to me very excited to share the news about James attending the same school that Max was. They'd be in kindergarten together. This was great news at that point. Max was not going to public school so here was one more familiar face to take with him. James had chilled over the Christmas break and was a bit more enthusiastic about pre-school. He and Max were hardcore Star Wars buddies and had bonded over their boy-crush on Jango Fett.

Three days ago standing in the playground James intense hate for small brick buildings that housed educational facilities re-emerged. I was talking to Max on the first day of school about all the cool things that he would do in kindergarten, He was nervous but very excited. His hands were trembling a little bit. All of a sudden we heard a inhuman screech come from the front of the building. Max looked me right and the eyes and whispered, 'James". James had become quite the show for his fellow pre-schoolers last year. They gather at the door in a nervous clump watching the drama unfold. Dazed by James' struggle with his parents for ultimate control over the situation. 10 minutes with James in the morning was almost as good as 1/2 a day at the zoo.

He did not disappoint the first day of school crowd. All eyes turned to watch the moment unfold before their eyes. James screaming, teachers comforting, parents fretting, the tension was in the air. Max was standing there mouth agape as James little sticky fingers were pulled one by one off his mother's shirt. He scream heightened as each one was plucked away by the Vice Principal. She was desperately firing off promises of the fun of kindergarten. The same promises I had just told my son. I saw Max's face crumple and I knew he was all done. He began to sob begging me to take him from this place. I felt defeated, sad and my heart was breaking in two. Max went in with tears streaming down his face. I knew he would have made if it were not for the James drama. His teacher assures me that all crying stops in the classroom, but to have my kid dragged off while crying hysterically makes me queasy.

The next morning we were treated with yet another James nuclear meltdown, and so it goes for the past 5 days. Max cries by osmosis and this kid is destroying him. Everyday he runs into the school yard in the greatest mood and everyday James throws a hissy fit. The end result is Max is just as upset as James is. I feel for James as well, and I feel awful for his parents. But at this point I am done with the Elian Gonzales flashback.

Why I Would Hate To Be 20 Today

I would have to get a tramp stamp, a semen saver or a franks and beans bulls eye (lower back tattoo)

I would have to get a tongue and eyebrow piercing

I would have to fuck all my friends on camera and be proud of it

I would have to admire Paris Hilton with no sense of irony

I would vote for Obama but most likely not know why

I would love rap and not know why

I would Youtube, Facebook and Myspace for quality dates and friends

I would have to be so proficient with my blackberry that I could text with my nipples

I would have to have at least three reconstructive surgeries just to fit in

I would have to eat air for breakfast, meth for lunch and Red Bull for dinner

Today's Top Ten Hate List

Today I Hate...

1) The peeping Tom in our neighborhood who we think we caught on Saturday and is now living in our neighborhood and the police can do nothing until they prove he’s the guy
2) People worried about hurting this guy’s feelings if its not him
3) The heat in the last few days which makes me wonder if I am going through early menopause
4) Plans that don’t measure up
5) Palin-McCain, McCain-Palin in any order for so many reasons
6) Women who have had abortions in high school or college but now vote Republican for “fiscal” or “marital” reasons
7) Trader Joe’s on a Monday in Los Angeles when all the unemployed freaks arrive for their Trader Giotti Special Sauce sale and free balloons for the kids. Don’t forget to stock up on sprouted grain bread that resembles an old sidewalk and bring your recycled bags that you also use for cat feces!!!!!
8) Dirty feet
9) Being hungry
10) Coyotes (Skyy, R.I.P.)

Are all hairdressers crazy?

I think the majority of the people that are employed in the personal services business are a wee bit crazy. The thought of servicing other people in intimate personal ways for a living makes me squirmy. Doing it all day long, no way. I think you need to be special to wax pubes with a grin on your face for the majority of the day. I feel the same way about child care givers and teachers. The thought of dealing with other people's children in large numbers for the entire day makes me rock back and forth. The best condos in heaven are filled with pre-school teachers, estheticians, and proctologists. Special people doing special jobs.

All that could explain why almost every hair dresser that I have had is freaky for fruitloops. Paolo was the guy to go to when I was in high school. He had blond kinky hair that he gelled to stand up all over his head and this weird sort of Italian but something else entirely accent going on. Until everyone started to figure out that he was always rubbing himself up against the arms of the chair. He also wore this leather jacket that smelled just like Play-Dough. It was the Fuzzy Pumper Barber Shop in every sense of the word.

Justin was being stalked by this guy that he had dated for a few years. At least from what he'd share with me it seemed like very stalker-like material. He told me that one night the guy had broken into his apartment and laid a dozen or so phallic shaped vegetables on his kitchen table and slithered out. He'd laugh wickedly about all of it, call him crazy but then stare at the receptionist with desperate eyes each time the phone rang. I began to wonder just who was stalking who.

Marisha is my latest hairdresser. She used to work at this super-trendy suburban salon. That was 10 years ago and I was paying her out my anus for a cut and color. She hissed in my ear that she was going out on her own, and was I interested. Interested? You bet your black pant wearing ass I am interested. Anything to cut out the middle man and reap the bargains. I love shady deals! She showed up at my house and our relationship was born. She has been coming here for ten years to cut and color my hair. Cash only, no tip. In the meantime she continues her client base at the OhSoFabulous Newbury Street salon she works for. Her clients pay through the nose, and I get her at Rite Aid prices. This unfortunately means I also get her Rite Aid service and drama from time to time. She was due here at 4:30 and it is now 6:00. She was here today at 11:00 am but she "forgot her scissors". so she asked if she could come back at 4:30. I have seen her through at least 22 breakups and reconciliations with her dogshit boyfriend. The day she sat here cutting my hair telling me she completely bought his explanation for other women's clothing in his closet I felt like Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out of my oven.

Marisha: "So he just met her the other night, she was a stewardess and her plane was sabotaged, can you believe it?"

Me: "No."

Marisha: "And Ray is so good, I mean he has three cats, he is such a gentle person. His soul is so kind. He lives right near the airport, so he offered to let the sabotaged stewardess sleep on his couch."

Me: "Wow, what a guy. You don't think that maybe he slept with her on his therapeutic couch?"

Marisha: "Oh My Gawd! Noooo! (manic laughter) He would never. I asked him but he told me he would never prey on someone like that. A person who had been through sabotage is very vulnerable and he said he was conscious of that. Plus he showed me pictures of her, she is just not his type."

Me: "He had pictures of her, from one night?"

Marisha: "Yup, on his Iphone. She was sort of skanky. He is not into skanks. She is really sad about leaving her clothes behind, so the next time she flies into Boston they are going to get together and exchange clothes."

Me: "You should go, to meet her. She sounds lovely."

Marisha: "I suggested that, but he said new people make her nervous."

Speak Your Peace

McCain - Palin Bumper Stickers On Sale Now!

Donate $100 or more and receive one of these permanent, impossible to remove, bumper sticker that will voice your opinion louder than the sound of the awkward pauses in a McCain Speech.

Donate $1000 or more and you will receive a free bumper sticker PLUS a free Palin make-over complete with real Alaskan wolf hair extensions, fake eye glasses that make you look smart and a copy of Sarah Palin’s new book, Sex: Have It Early and Have it Often.

Women Should Only Choose Drapes – Vote Republican

Cindy McCain says - “I Supported the Surge. I Binge and Purge”

Support Teen Pregnancy – Vote McCain-Palin

Trooper Gate = Fascist State

Fire At Will – I’m the Governor!

Support A Fascist State, Procreate!

No More Middle Class - Vote McCain and the Horse’s Ass

My Body Their Choice. Who Needs A Voice?

Don’t Choose, Drink Booze

More Babies Less Rabies

Bangs and Fangs - Vote McCain- Palin

Pitbulls With Lipstick = Great Leadership Qualities

Pitbulls with Lipstick = Creepy

Sarah Palin - “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m An Idiot”

Let’s Drill and Not Take The Pill

Nuclear Waste Has a Really Great Taste

Nothing Rhymes With Iraq…

*This message was written and approved by Bush’s speech writers

Welcome back students!

Carter and Max started school this week. The chaos has been abundant. To add to the insanity in our house the teachers have been assigning little things the kids need to do or bring from home. Mostly money related items. I had to cough up $18 for Max's nap mat. The school has "already purchased them for the children." It was gleefully announced on bright yellow paper. Each nap mat has a pillow built right in! Glorious. I have not seen Max nap in two years. I hope the pillow is filled with Advil PM laced Snicker bars, because that is about the only thing that is going to get Max to sleep in the middle of the afternoon. Apparently it is a state law. That is $900 if each kindergarten student purchases a nap mat. How about a nice new laptop for the classroom and some educational software? I need to see these kindergarten nappers, show them to me. Kids don't nap at that age, do they? If they wanted to promote quiet time I could have sent in an old blanket and donated a few new books to the classroom library.

Carter announced today that she needs pond water by Tuesday. My first reaction was total exasperation at being forced to find a pond and given a deadline to do so. Then I remembered that the high school athletic teams in this town are actually named for a pond. It's huge, has a large residency rate for creepy aggressive waterfowl and smells revolting in the high summer. I need to look at the bright side, now I have a reason to wear my new chocolate brown polka-dot wellies. I'll feel like Jessica Simpson shopping in London. "Rubber boots, ya'll!"

Remember all the weird requests that your teachers had? They made it sound like instant death if you did not produce it the next morning. Now as a parent you know these requests are inane and annoying. But don't try to tell that to your child. Carter went pale when I told her that I thought Ms. Morrissey's request for larger book covers that can only be bought at CVS was insane. We stood in the Target aisle arguing over the size of book covers. She refused to get them at Target."Noooo, I can't get those. I will get in trouble She said the LARGER ones Mom. I have to get the larger ones at CVS. Ms Morrissey hates to see any part pf the original book cover showing. She warned that she better not see any exposed binders tomorrow." What a sadist. Over a book cover? Nutcase. Listen lady, just make sure she can divide fractions. Channel that controlling rage that only a single 63 year old Catholic school teacher can best exemplify. Use it for good. Go sneak down to the kindergarten class and use their new computer to surf Youporn.

Bangs Be Gone

A few days before I left for Massachusetts, I made a bold statement and had my hairdresser cut me bangs. Since it is summer and the heat has been oppressive at times, I pinned them back the whole vacation and didn’t look at a hairdryer. The vacation turned into an excavation of my parents house and there was no need to even think about what my hair looked like and what I had done.

Now that I’ve returned to California, gotten a good rest and am back to trying to look presentable before leaving my house (not like a bag lady who eats cat food with her fingers and quotes Credence Clearwater Revival songs which is how I’ve looked since the birth of my son) I have come to realize I made a terrible mistake. Bangs are not me. In fact, they are so not me and they are so Sarah Palin. She has ruined it for me and my feeble attempt to change it up, be fashion forward, step out of the box. Her hair dates back to 1988 when the shoulder pad was so large you could cry on your own shoulder and bangs stood front and center declaring themselves the point guard of any college girls scull.

Yes, she in wildly under qualified to be vice president, annoyingly fertile and stands on a platform of hypocrisy. This fruit loop is railing for the Neo-Cons that want to turn back ROE VS. WADE while her horny daughter gets knocked up by some poor slob who just had his youth ripped away from him by a band of McCain handlers with war experience and bad tempers, insisting that the two teenagers marry immediately. But the American people have no right to care about Little Palin being as fertile as Mommy Palin because teenage pregnancy is their private business, while Palin makes abortion hers. She earmarked $28 million dollars, a personal pet peeve of McCain’s, when she was mayor of a small, creepy town in Alaska and has only recently gotten herself a passport. Nice foreign policy experience for a woman who is a jolting heart attack or beefy melanoma away form being leader of the free world.

What really matters here is that I now have to spend the next several months of my life growing out these bangs so no one mistakes me for McCain’s right wing man. And by the way, they itch.

Wife Beater

Since 2003, I have had an unhealthy, inexplicable love affair with the wife beater. No, I am not married to a violent man. Dave has never so much as hugged me too tight. If he’s ever hit me it’s because I begged and he still couldn’t do it to my satisfaction, for fear of maiming me. Ah, young love…

The wife beater I refer to is the white, ribbed tank top that is my constant uniform and second skin. Fruit Of The Loom, white men’s tank in medium comes in a five pack for $9.99 at your local Target. It started when I began yoga classes, bartending, hiking and then morphed into sleepwear as well. I hate having my lower back exposed at night and the tank is super long and super clingy, just like I like it. That actually sounds like I love co-dependant men with huge cocks. One out of two.

The point is, I wear them everyday, sometimes changing into a brand, new, clean one mid- afternoon. My friends never say a word. Maybe they don’t notice but that would mean they have serious vision impairment issues or are mentally deficient, both of which I doubt. They all read without aid of dictionaries or monocles, went to very good schools and can form jazzy, witty sentences most of the time. Save for when alcohol or drugs are involves and now that we’re all mothers, that’s all over. Is this “the spinach in the teeth” test? Are they not saying anything because they are embarrassed or have they made a bet amongst themselves as to how long I can go dressed like a retired Greek diner owner from New Jersey?

I buy expensive replacements without the ribbing, kidding myself they are different while wearing them out on date night. Or, as I like to call it, “I can’t believe our babysitter is $20 an hour and a fucking movie will cost us $155 including tickets, popcorn, and sitter pay.” Yet, inevitably, I always return to the third drawer down in my dresser with a shaking hand and a heavy heart and grab the little white shirt I call friend. I can’t help it. They are so comfortable, cute and cheap and nothing anyone says, even my silent friends who refuse to have an intervention, can stop me.

Patience Is A Virtue?

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have very little patience. I don’t like waiting for an Internet connection, I hate red lights and I want food in front of me as soon as I’m hungry. I love short cuts, bottled water and Cliff Notes. If it was not so disgusting a habit and made everyone look like a discarded leather moccasin, I would wholeheartedly support tanning salons and the Oompa Loompas that frequent them. So fast, so easy, so orange. Instead of learning to read in first grade, I actually memorized all the stories we were being taught and tricked my teachers. I finally got caught by my teacher Karen (it was California in the 70’s and we used first names) who noticed my hesitation when asked to read out loud from a brand new book she got called Free To Be You And Me. Marlo Thomas still makes me feel sea sick, angry and oddly bisexual.

Dave and I have our special duties with Otto. They were never assigned specifically but just happened naturally according to our instincts and likes. I always give Otto his bath and Dave always cooks dinner. Anyone who has children and a need for steady nourishment knows that Dave clearly got the shit end of the deal. While Dave feeds him a three course meal worthy of a king, I go upstairs, get his room ready, lay out his pajamas and run his bath. Our bath tub is standard fair for a 1930’s apartment. Good tub, cheap tile and cheap fixtures thanks to our slum lord’s tiny Home Depot budget and a lack of house pride reserved only for serial killers and half way house interior decorators.

To the point, already. I know. Because of our bad bathtub hardware, we have a shower wand in the tub that has no faucet setting. In other words, if I want to run the bath water and not use the wand I have to unscrew the wand hose from an exposed pipe and fill the tub that way. I don’t have the luxury of just turning a shiny chrome dial that says BATH/SHOWER. Yup, we’re rent controlled. Jealous?

Anyway, I am lazy and hate screwing and unscrewing things (don’t say it) so I devised an alternative way of getting water into the tub for Otto’s bath without all the work. I take a floating marina bath toy my mother gave Otto, turn it upside down and wedge the wand in between the dock and the side of the tub. The toy holds the wand in place while the water rises. Then I leave for a few minutes, get his room prepared and return with a full tub and a naked child. Last week, the floating marina did exactly that and floated away once the tub was half full and the wand sprayed water all over the bathroom. Enough water collected on the tile floor to drip through the floor and mark the ceiling in the dining room. I got really mad, used four letter words and five towels to clean it up. Just as in second grade, I didn’t learn my lesson and couldn’t read the writing. I ended up doing the same quick fix the following week, making more of a mess while Dave rightfully scowled at me and Otto looked confused, wondering why mommy couldn’t read.

I have now been forbidden to use the floating marina as a cheat sheet. The fear, of course, is that our bathroom will become the next victim of a major hurricane that hit landfall in our crappy, quaint 1930’s L.A. apartment that has probably seen much worse. That, and Dave will leave his illiterate wife. God only knows how many failed, drug addled actresses, pan faced alcoholics or mean spirited sex maniacs this place has housed. With this trail of tears left by others, only I can claim to be the laziest of all the tenants dating back to when the milk door was used for milk and not for an obese cat who voraciously eats his own anus and termites didn’t boldly have their meetings inside the front door. I want to do it the quick, easy way but I have promised, cross my heart hope to die, that I will take 30 more seconds out of my day to screw and unscrew the hose. And my husband.