These Photos...

The photos to the right are as follows. One is the result of Dave's carving genius and the other is of Otto's first official candy haul after a night of trick or treating dressed as a wolf hunter who supports McCain-Palin. Remember, ironically. We just watched the original Halloween and I think I just shit myself. Happy Halloween!

Halloween At Our House

Today is Halloween and I have given into the pressure society has thrust upon me and made plans to take Otto trick or treating with a large group of enthusiastic, older kids. I have said this before. I hate Halloween. I love the candy and I love pumpkins but I hate the holiday. I never understood the over zealous adult who would decorate his lawn with a cemetery theme, bad fake cob webs, a oddly small mummy with missing hands and then dress up ALL DAY at work as an ironic cartoon character waiting until dark when he could run home to hand out candy to frightened children. It seems to boarder on a pedophiles dream.

Yet, I cannot deny my son the pleasure that all other children, save for the ones whose parents feel Halloween is a Pagan celebration of the devil on earth, will experience this evening. Since the moment fall arrived with its blistering Southern California temperatures and lack of foliage, pumpkin patches have sprouted up all around us. We have visited three so far but had to leave within minutes because of the oppressive heat and inevitable Otto meltdown owing to lack of sleep or over stimulation. You see, Otto is obsessed with objects that are spherical. Balls, lemons, tires, the moon, planets, sprinkler heads, hanging Chinese paper lanterns and most of all, pumpkins. He moans with pleasure every time he sees a large, orange squash like object sitting on some neighbor’s front porch just waiting to be accosted. He truly feels that every pumpkin is his and should come home with him. This has made for an interesting few weeks and a substantial collection in our house. As of now, we have five pumpkins. One large, one medium and three very small goads, if you will.

Today at lunch, Dave decided to carve the pumpkin at the dining room table while Otto ate his pesto pasta salad with zucchini and left over pizza. At first we were both very nervous that Otto would flip out. He doesn’t like things to have marks or scratches on them and is not a proponent for change. Sorry Barack. He is a fan of yours but not of your slogan. I took a baby wipe and cleaned off the pumpkin so Dave could get a perfect surface on which to create his spooky art but Otto was not having it. He noticed the baby wipe left a shiny residue and objected immediately with an “arghhh” and an “ahhh”.

But with only a few hours until trick or treating began, Dave didn’t want a plain, boring pumpkin sitting on the porch welcoming no one, not even the neighborhood homeless dude who drinks warm beer from his shoe and speaks in a fake, Italian accent (I am NOT making that up). Our front porch is already a sad collection of empty flower pots, a few vintage garden chairs and a lot of fallen leaves, none of which look cozy and autumnal in the least. Fall in L.A. is like mediocre sex without the finish. You lie there patiently and wait, thinking something grand is coming down the pipeline any minute (no pun intended), only to discover that your partner is not only selfish but stingy AND lazy. He never gives you what you really want or need. You don’t even get post coital cuddles and you never get to experience the thrill of a turtleneck sweater.

Dave began by drawing evil, triangular eyes and a jagged, toothy mouth. Otto squealed with pleasure and they were off. He drew the entire face in a few minutes and Otto continued to applaud his efforts. I then handed Dave our collection of T.V. knives purchased at a New Jersey Bradlees’ in 1996, the single best purchase under ten dollars we ever made. They were having a free holiday demo in the casual wear department and when we saw the homely, gray colored woman in a Santa sweater cutting a can in half with what looked like an autopsy tool, we knew we were in love. These are the single most unattractive yet dangerous cutting implements known to man. We’ve used them to do everything from customizing our front doormat, shredding mail, shortening leather belts and thinly slicing tomatoes and three holed paper.

Dave held his breath, looked at Otto and stabbed the pumpkin like he had a grudge against it. Otto was thrilled and a true Halloween wacko was born. He wasn’t scared in the least and with every plunge of the knife, his smile grew larger and his Halloween future became clearer. He will be Dave’s Halloween buddy, dressing up the lawn with rotting corpses ( fake, I hope) and rubber spiders, watching scary movies and gorging himself on mini Hershey bars and Tootsie Rolls while Mommy hides upstairs with a good book and cocktail. The costumes will become more elaborate and offensive as the years go by.

Dave has a real knack for coming up with something to offend everyone. He is an equal opportunity offender. His most famous offense being the year he wore a dirty trench coat and carried a wire hanger with coagulated pizza and cheese dripping off the end. He called himself a back alley abortionist and marveled at how quickly and easily the costume came together. I told myself, and anyone who would listen, that it was a bold, pro choice political statement but Dave simply saw it as hilarious and depraved.

The worst thing I ever did was dress up in an old coat of my father’s, rub dirt on my 11 year old face and stumble around my living room, babbling incoherently. Minutes before my sister and I we were suppose to leave to trick or treat, my mother innocently asked me what I was suppose to be. In my best alcoholic slur, I looked at her crossed eyed and shouted, “ A wino!”

Not surprisingly, my very liberal, very caring, very politically correct mother refused to allow me to leave the house and a Halloween hum bug was born. And you wonder why I hate this holiday so much. Now, if only Otto would too.

My First Joke

What did one hot dog say to the other hot dog?

Hi, Frank.


Sometimes you just need to go back to the beginning to remember who you really are...

It Pays To Plan

I read on CNN today that in NY there is another instance of a man who claimed to have a missing wife only to later be revealed that he is the murderer. We seem to get a few of these each year. Each time I look at the TV screen and I think to myself, "You did it, fucker." I realize that it is innocent until proven guilty in this country. For once I'd like to be wrong about these hambones. I'd like to not scowl when I see them crying on national TV begging for public's assistance. I have become so jaded about this scenario that I have implemented an action plan if a situation was to arise in our household.

My husband has been instructed that if he freaks out and loses his shit then he needs to have his complete mental breakdown away from our home. I told him that I would understand and I would not ask questions or hamper his evacuation. We have developed a code phrase if necessary. If he walks up to me and says, "Chrissy, I'd like a pickle and mushroom sandwich." Then I will know it is time to drag out his suitcase. He hates pickles and mushrooms so I figure this is a good sentence in case the children are present. It beats the hell out of, "It is time for me to slaughter all of you with this rusty screwdriver. Then I will go to my mother's house and pretend I was at the mall."

The way I see it, if we have this predetermined phrase and course of action it will be far less traumatic for the kids. I want to make this transition as easy as possible for them. I may even make a nice meal for him before he hits the road in a manic rage. He loves my chicken pot pie so I figure I could pull one of those together in a fair amount of time. I can give him some old magazines and he can cut out the "angry" words and the kids can help him glue them onto his computer monitor while dinner cooks. We will all sit at the table and discuss the days events. I will probably have to bang my glass on the table a few times to take his attention away from the knife. Better yet, no knives! Chicken pot pie really doesn't need knives if you think about it. We will laugh when Max tells us a funny story about what he drew in Art. Carter usually has a great pre-teen drama unfolding that she will share. I'll give her some useful suggestions on how to deal with it. Jamie may start screaming uncontrollably at that point. A quick clearing of the table should remedy that. I will let him take his dessert in the car with him. I will shoo the kids off to the playroom and begin cleaning dishes while he packs.

He may make strange demands, but I have been quite clear with him in prior drills that I will listen but do not have to comply. If he wants to set all purple items he finds in the house on fire, he must take them with him and then burn them . He cannot take the cats with him. He may plead with me that they have been conversing with one another for days in Latin and the cats are the only ones in the house that "get him". I don't care, the cats stay. Before he leaves he will have to sign Carter's museum field trip permission form. It needs both parent's signature nowadays. He may try to sign it in blood, that is fine with me as long as it is his and not ours. We will wave from the front window as he drives off drooling and swearing.

I figure this plan works best for us all. It's a win win situation. We get to live, and he is saved from the embarrassment of fake-weeping on television in an unbecoming sweater.

Say Anything

We have now been on the second of three consultations with new pediatricians to replace the one that gave us service equal to that of a proctologist with no hands. I am still recovering and am having trouble sitting for long periods of time. Every time I think about it I get more angry at this alarmist jerk, wishing for one moment that he could actually morph into a proctologist with no hands and feel as helpless he made us feel that day he dropped that shit bomb on us.

So far, we have liked the new doctors very much with their nice demeanor and attentiveness to Otto. It is odd, though, sitting in a stranger’s office having him watch our son and hoping that he not only likes him but feels that he is healthy and normal and that we are good parents. As one of the men was observing Otto running around his office playing with toys and demanding lap time from us, I actually felt like we were being tested for some bad parenting disorder and would be prescribed copious amounts of therapy and drugs. To my relief, at the end of both meetings, each doctor announced that Otto by no means had Autism, not that that was a major concern after all our research and tearful conversations with friends and that he might need speech therapy if he continues to gesticulate and theatrically say “da” while avoiding using his words.

What I have gleaned from all this is that not only is good parenting about reacting well in crisis but it is also about trusting your gut and standing up for yourself and your child when you feel like you have been wronged, dismissed or ignored. That, and feeding the beast when he wants some grub and making sure he doesn’t drink all your booze and propel himself down the stairs when you are on the toilet.

I have also discovered from my mother that I refused to speak until I was three, not having shut up since (that’s a direct quote) and did not learn to read until the age of seven. The not reading trick that I performed on my teachers and classmates was successful because I memorized all the books that were being read in our class and fooled everyone, including myself. I am lazy and sloth like by nature so to have all that extra work of spinning a web of strange, exhausting lies must have been a lot to have resting on my tiny, manipulative little shoulders. My mother told me this. of course, to ease my worries about Otto and his refusal to speak. My real worry is not that he will be a late talker but that he will make poor choices like his mother, choices that involve deception, ridiculous logic and a tremendous amounts of work for little to no gain.

So Otto, this is what I want. Just be honest, be thoughtful and above all else be yourself. We love you as big as the sky and the moon and the huge pumpkin at the pumpkin patch. We can’t wait for you to really start talking and to never shut up but we understand that you need to go at your own pace. Take your time, really. I mean it. We won’t be mad or anything. Seriously, though. Whenever you are ready, we are ready. Your first words can be anything you want. I swear. Okay, I am only going to say this once. You have our permission to say anything to Mommy and Daddy. Right now. Anything. Really. Even fuck, shit, cocksucker or McCain. Okay, not McCain. Don’t say that. Nope. No sir. Now go wash our your mouth with soap and think about what you just thought about saying. We’ll have a one sided conversation about this later.

Pretend friends

Last night after I had put Max to bed I could hear him talking to someone. At first I thought it may be the introduction of the Frankenstein hand towel to Blanky, and Blanky's Friend. My aunt came by the other day and dropped off some Halloween treats for the kids. A pumpkin decorated headband for Carter, which she shockingly wore to school today. I thought she had passed into the age group where wearing holiday hair accessories was an assured kick to the social kneecap. Apparently not, mark one on the board for the retention of innocence. I revel in moments like this.

Max received a Frankenstein festooned hand towel and some stickers. I placed the hand towel in the bathroom despite the fact that it did not go with my current decor. (eye twitch) I noticed it was missing last night. He had taken it into bed with him. We fought, I relented. I folded clothes in my bedroom willing my brain not to think about the germs that were dancing around on his pillow as a result. That is when I heard the chatter drifting out of his room.

Blanky has been around since birth. Max sleeps with it every night draped about his neck like a mink stole. Blanky's Friend was purchased 3 1/2 years ago when we thought we had lost Blanky. He looks just like Blanky but there is a different feel to the material. Thus began seven nights of hysterical crying and us pleading with Max to please accept this new Blanky into his sleep pattern. On the eighth day I found alpha Blanky crammed into an old Wizard Of Oz lunchbox that belonged to Carter. The little screwball had shoved him in there one day. This signified the beginning the new 'Blanky remains in your bed' policy. He insisted on keeping Blanky's Friend as well. Perhaps he felt badly about the hate he exhibited towards it. Misplaced anger, we have all been there. Blanky's Friend does not receive neck drape privileges. He sits at the end of the bed, woefully out of place but welcome. Just like cousin Oliver on The Brady Bunch.

I figured the murmuring was the introduction of the hand towel to the Blanky duo. I yelled in to him to quiet down. Silence for about 15 minutes but then he started up again. I marched into his room using my best 'Mom is pissed' gait.

Me: "Max, what are you doing? It is late and time for bed."

Max: "I am not doing nothing!"

Me: "Who are you talking to?"

Max: "Mom, I am just talking to my invisible mice friends!"

Me: "Well.....tell them you need to go to bed and to come back tomorrow."

Max: "Okay."

I shouldn't be surprised. I had invisible friends. They lived in my hands and their names were Jim Jim and See Wee. I can remember standing at the bathroom sink with the plug in the drain letting them swim. Laugh if you will, at least they were physically fit. I also was absolutely entranced with the idea that inanimate objects would come to life for me. I would sit in front of the cabinets in my grandmothers kitchen willing all the adults to stay out. I knew if I sat still enough and there were no witnesses the Chuck Wagon would come barrelling out and scamper across the kitchen floor. Mmmmm...rich meat broth. Look at that floor. Awesome.

I would sit stuffing pancakes into my mouth pleading with Aunt Jemima to talk to me. Why not me? She spoke to the other kids that ate her syrup. I just wanted her to waggle an amber colored finger at me. Not talk, just a slight recognition that I was special too. A nod, a wink, anything. She stood there staring at me smiling. 'Go outside and play you weird little white kid. What the hell is wrong with you sitting here in your kitchen waiting for your breakfast to say hello?' I looked for the Tidy Bowl man. I can remember howling for my mother because my pinkie got stuck under the toilet bowl cover. She was furious and demanded to know why I had lifted it. I couldn't tell her what I was really doing. She'd think I was crazy. So I chose playing in the toilet as a better scenario. I was not overly concerned about the germs. I knew I had Jim Jim and See Wee's bath to look forward to that night.

Looking For Mrs. Goodbar

I’d like to take a moment and tell you a little about myself. I am a 19 month old, male, with blond hair, blue eyes and trouble written all over me. No tattoos yet but the day is young.

My hobbies include:
Jumping on the ottoman and scarring the hell out of my mom
Throwing my large plastic CAT bulldozer across the living room to see if it breaks
Chasing the dog who hates me and could eat me at any moment
Lying on top of the cat who is 118 years old and pilling like a sweater
Throwing only food that is sticky and hard to clean up directly at mom’s computer screen
Picking out shirts that must have skulls, rock band names or dinosaurs on them
Not napping when mommy really needs me to
Pooping in my diaper when mommy really needs me NOT to
Only speaking to the babysitter i.e., “huge”, “thank you” and “don’t tell mom”
Matchbox cars
Pumpkins
Helicopters that are chasing bad guys through the alleys in our “hood”

I do not like:
Taking off my shoes
People with bad fashion sense, dirty hair or right wing political agendas
Blades of grass on the sidewalk
Josh Grobin
Macaroni and Cheese
Any beige food, for that matter
Brushing my teeth
Having my diaper changed without a good book to read
Hats
The music teacher who NEVER remembers my name, ever! One week I’m Otis, the next Leo, I mean honestly, Otto is not hard. It is unique, easy to spell and a palindrome, for Christ’s sake. What is your problem, lady?


I hope to one day own a motorcycle, a dump truck and a chocolate shake maker. I see myself as generous, kind, funny and tall with a special skill of looking down a woman’s shirt whenever the opportunity presents itself. If you are interested in meeting over a apple juice or some Pirates Booty, give me a shout out.
otto.otto@otto.com

Our Two Upcoming Events

First, Halloween is taking shape in our house as Otto brings home a new pumpkin every few days and we plan the big night as if it were a birthday. This is a first for us not because Otto is old enough to walk and beg, a prerequisite I feel needs to be met before trick or treating, but because this is not a loved holiday in our house. Dave and I both HATE Halloween because of tragic childhood memories involving bad costumes and cold weather. But since we are trying to be the “cool” parents, listening to Zeppelin with Otto, taking him to the park anytime he wants and buying him beer on the weekends, we are taking him trick or treating with a large group of professionals. I assume there will be a princess, a Stars Wars character and lots of bargaining in this gang of older and wiser chicklets.

We have decided to dress Otto up in a homespun do-it-yourself costume that not only will utilize things he already has but will not support the hideous store bought ones that litter every aisle of every store this time of year. He will be a wolf hunter in head to toe camouflage gear sporting a toy gun and a helicopter, ironically of course. Bad taste maybe, but I find it hilarious and satisfying all at once.

Brody will not be forced to don a costume and walk the streets with screaming children who want to pet him and then throw Skittles at his head. He has now retired on all fronts and gets to lie around anywhere he likes and do anything he likes. He’s earned it for God’s sake and he is milking it for everything its worth. He will most likely get a Tootsie roll and a hug at the end of the evening if Otto is feeling generous and kind.

The second event involves election night grub. Dave and I have been discussing what the menu should be for election night and I have to admit it is becoming an obsession with me. We thought we’d have two options, first an Obama menu and then second a McCain menu. Obama could be anything from Nigerian inspired food to good old fashioned hot dogs and slaw while McCain would have to be something that your grandmother would make and no one would eat. Possibly an artificially colored Jell-O salad or a coagulated Ambrosia that sits on the table for hours and hardens into a weapon of mass destruction.

Since I am lazy by nature, the thought of researching Sub Saharan African nibblies is off the table. I am voting for American cook out fare complete with a gingham table cloth and a drunk uncle. All week I have been mulling around the idea of making homemade chili and creating the best God damned chili dog this side of the Mississippi. Notice the twang and the fervor? I am red stating the shit out of this hoping to encourage as much Obama support and hot dog love as possible.

I even jumped the culinary shark today in the name of chili dog cravings. While shopping at Trader Joe’s, that liberal sesspool of quirky food stuffs and whimsical chalk drawings, I bought a can of vegetarian chili and a nitrate free package of Niman Ranch hot dogs. My intention was to feed them to Otto on a lazy and harried evening when I couldn’t get my shit together to reheat some gourmet dish Dave had prepared for him. But on the drive home my cravings took over. Otto would be having lentils and peas with turkey for lunch and I would wait patiently until his nap to fix my lunch.

As soon as he was down I heated up the hot dog in a skillet and poured what looked like cat puke into a small sauce pan and heating it until it bubbled. Interestingly, the bubbly effect made the chili look more pukey but the smell was divine. I then toasted a piece of white bread, put in the dog, spooned the chili on top, sprinkled it with chopped onions and shredded cheddar cheese and mustard and embraced my inner white trash roots. The only thing missing was a warm can of beer, a house with wheels and an abusive relationship.

With the first bite I knew what our election night would be like. We will sit in front of the television like suburban animals eating chili dogs on real buns with homemade turkey chili and all the fixings. Fresh, homemade oven baked fries, an arugula salad and ice cold beer served in chilled pint glasses. Desert will be chocolate chip cookies and ice cream and an Obama victory. From my lips to God’s ears…

Dorothea's Weekly Entertainment Review

This week I am starting a new column of reviews based on my opinions of the past week in entertainment. This might just save you money and time or waste both.

SNL was great as they continued their spot on imitations of the politicians and their Best Of moments from the past week. Biden, keep your pie hole shut and march quietly toward the finish line. Seriously dude, put a sock in it and bite down. Coldplay performed in weather worn military inspired costumes they purchased when Michael Jackson sold off the contents of his storage facility in Barstow. Creepy unidentified stains, anyone? Chris Martin bounced around the stage with his tiny piano at his side and weird arm colored bands and I thought I was watching a movie where Ben Affleck was unconvincingly playing a rock star.

Real Time With Bill Maher had Tim Robbins looking scared and focused when discussing Obama and the election. He’s right. We are not there yet. Don’t take it for granted. VOTE! And he’s now a silver fox, still doing Susan “Fun Bags” Sarandon and directing local LA theatre that no one sees.

Little Britain USA should have stayed across the pond with their off colored afternoon tea parties and jolly British references that no American will ever get because reading and paying attention is too damn difficult. IT WAS MY FAVORITE SHOW IN ITS ORIGINAL FORM. Oh, Vicky Pollard, you are not half the women you once were.

The film Rachel Getting Married is a tour de force of discomfort. I loved it simply for the reason that it made me realize my family is perfectly sublime and I am happy NOT to have a drug addiction or residual anger from a terrible divorce or tragic accident in a pond in my upscale Connecticut neighborhood. Anne Hathaway really channeled the scum bag ex-boyfriend who went to prison. Method acting at its best. Though, I did feel that the violent slaps she traded with Debra Winger had some reality to it. Shirley MacLean, anyone?

I saw the end of Adrien Grenier’s documentary Shot in the Dark and I can’t have those 20 minutes back, EVER! He not only sucks on Entourage but his foray into directing is a trip to the dentist with no Novocain or hope of survival. You don’t even get a free toothbrush or bubble gum flavored toothpaste. God help us if this guy makes anything else besides reservations at the trendy and terrible restaurants in Los Angeles that only his characters would frequent.

Jeremy Piven has a great publicist who clearly is sleeping with an intern at The New York Times Arts and Leisure section. We get it, J. You are finally getting the accolades you think you deserve. Now go play that Hollywood guy on Broadway that you never play and stop harboring a grudge with John Cusack for being famous years before you were and tossing you small, sad little bones so you could play his various sidekicks while he got all the love and you just made scale + 10 and sulked in your trailer.
NOTE: Next time you are interviewed in a major publication, don’t drink a foamy Chai Tea while the reporter showers you with questions about your childhood. That’s like ordering a chardonnay on a first date.

Hey Rachel Maddow of The Rachel Maddow Show on MSNBC. Good for you for beating all the WASPY, golf playing, dudes in your time slot including the douche bags at Fox. I just wish you had a better hair cut and a higher voice. Who’s kidding who? I would kill for your job… But the wardrobe?

Ellen, please stop dancing.

Now Playing (But Shouldn't Be)

Nights in Rodanthe
Filth and Wisdom (Director- Madonna)



Movies you should NOT Netflix or Pay Per View:

The Love Guru
What Happens In Vegas
Leatherheads
Saw I through IV
Any Recent Film with Nicolas Cage, John Travolta or Period Costumes



T.V. Shows To Avoid Like The Plague

The Mentalist
True Blood
Paris Hilton’s B.F.F.
Anything on FOX News
Anything With Rachael Ray
Anything With Mario Lopez

Carpeting, a tale of woe

I hate carpets. With every bone in my body I hate carpets. I have never had a positive experience with them. It has always turned to shit no matter what the circumstances of the carpet was. I am all done. I am eradicating them from my life. It's all about the hardwood and area rugs.

When we bought this house the previous owners had carpeting in the kitchen. This theory violates all I abhor about carpeting so badly it was incomprehensible to me when I saw it. I have seen milk splatters just about everywhere in my kitchen. Children drink a great deal of milk, or at least mine do. Cereal bowls alone are one of the biggest table hazards know to man. I have cleaned milk off of my floors more times than I can count. The thought of years of spilled dairy seeped into a rug made my stomach flip over. Think of all the times that you cook and the smell stays with your kitchen forever. Porktastic, crispy bacon scents seep into every crevice. They go away after awhile. Not with a rug. It is there forever to remind you that you are a fat-ass every time you see the grease splatters surrounding the floor near the stove. It's like the Great Molasses Flood of 1919 in the north end. On hot sunny days rumor is that you can still smell molasses. I don't really want to smell the chicken cutlets I had in January on a humid August morning. Carpeting in the kitchen is like one big petri dish of hell.

In our family room there was a deathly dark cranberry red carpet. It was scratchy and stiff. No fun was ever had in this room. People sat down and did not move. Wrestling children were shot. It had dark knotty pine paneling everywhere and small windows. I felt like I was in a Fiona Apple video, minus the malnourished bi-curious white boys.

When we finally decided to buy this house two immediate changes had to be made. Carpet in the kitchen, Adios. Family room, your red tide is gone and you are getting new walls. So you know all those crappy carpet/flooring ads that all over the TV? The cheesy couple in their turtlenecks and disproportionate furniture serves drinks to friends and family. We called those clowns. They were cheap, and we had just poured our life savings into a new house. It was a match made in heaven. The sleaziest salesman in the world came and showed us the samples. It wouldn't have been right if he was slick. I needed him to be bumbling and wear bad shoes, it was part of the experience. We had fakey linoleum granite-like substance put in the kitchen because it was a temporary fix. Down in the family room we went with rug. I still don't know why I ever thought it was a good thing. My husband fought for hardwood, but I really wanted rug. I felt with all the paneling it would seem cold without a rug. I wanted cozy but what I got was a dirty muppet pelt. It looked great at first. But this is a family room and it gets tons of traffic. The cats scratch at the stairs (carpeted stairs? was I high?) so that they are fuzzed and pilly. I vacuum it with neurotic fervor every night. Chasing down carpet stains with the Folex like a madwoman. Visitors see it as clean, but I have the memory of the Shrimp Korma spill of '07.

We plan to rip it out soon. So much for that painful check we wrote to Jimmy with the JC Penney pants. We have decided to admit to our error. We will wait until the economy comes around before doing it. We may need it to snuggle up with it at night when we are sleeping under a bridge.

The Recipe Below...

... is awesome! I cut the sugar by 1/3 to be "healthy mom" and chopped up the walnuts so as not to choke Otto. Easy and full proof. And G came over just to taste it. She said it was terrific and then reminded me that her Ginger Bread cookies are a religious experience. We'll shall see.


Enjoy!

Pumkin Walnut Bread Was My Writing Today And My Revenge

There are two reasons I took my writing time today to bake instead of write. First of all, I needed a mental break from racing around after Otto, putting him down and trying to get some writing accomplished before he woke up from his nap. I have been running myself ragged mentally and nothing fixes that quite like sifting flour, wearing an apron and playing with a rubber spatula.

The second reason is not quite so Zen and enlightened. My BFF, G, you know who you are, has always been a baker. When I met her, and this is coming from the horse's mouth, she was quite confident in her baking skills and in particular, her chocolate chips cookies. That is, until I came along. I made a batch of my cookies that I have been making since 4th grade and suddenly, both she and her husband B felt that I had surpassed her. Remember, this is how SHE tells the story and in no way am I bragging. Well, maybe just a little.

We spent the last few summers at the beach at her husband's family's home living commune style and all pitching in and cooking and baking. I would make the cookies and gloat over the fact that she thought mine were better than hers. Gloat, seriously, like a Puffer fish. It was disgusting. I loved it. I would watch as our friends popped the hot, yummy chocolate disks of love into their mouths and showered me with crumb covered compliments. I am needy and am the first to admit it.

G had a dinner party a few weeks ago and sitting on the counter without a mere mention or introduction were her chocolate chips cookies, little beasts I had not seen since the first time we met. They were light, fluffy, perfectly round without being creepy and Toll House. They resembled something a food stylist would use in a photo shoot. They were Chocolate Chip cookies models, the kind that always look great in skinny jeans and an old t-shirt. You know the kind that make you feel fat and frumpy and uncool. Before I could take a bite of the one G forced into my unsteady and nervous hand, my husband shoved one in his mouth and his face said it all. He wanted to break up with my cookie. The cookie that had fed him, cuddled with him and kept him happy all these years but who had now been left in the dust by this fashionable party cookie, the kind that drinks Red Bull vodkas and give hipster dudes B.J.s in the bathroom without regrets or consequences.

Sometimes, you can't judge a book by its cover but sometimes you can and should. And this book was great and so good looking. The Great Gatsby with small, chocolate lumps of goodness. It had the perfect texture, size and density and just the right amount of sweetness. Maybe there were too many chocolate chips but that would be like saying F. Scott Fitzgerald used too many adverbs. I knew my reign was over. My cookie had crumbled.

So as I sit here this lovely afternoon, seemingly defeated, feel not sorry for me. For I have a plan and a pumpkin bread in the oven. She might have me in the cookie department but the holidays are here and I am all over the spiced quick breads. Below is the recipe I am working with right now. If it tastes as good as it smells, than I have nothing more to say than, bring it on, bitch! That and G, can you at least give me your cookie recipe so I can try it? I mean, we are friends in love and war, right?


Pumpkin Walnut Bread

• 2 cups (10 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour
• 3/4 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon allspice
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
• 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 large eggs, at room temperature
• 1/3 cup (2 3/4 ounces) water
• 1 1/2 cups (10 1/2 ounces) sugar
• 1 cup (9 ounces) canned pumpkin puree
• 1/2 cup neutral-flavor vegetable oil (such as canola)
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
• 1 cup (4 ounces) chopped toasted walnuts

• Equipment

  9 by 5-inch Loaf Pan, Parchment Paper, Large Bowl, Whisk, Medium Bowl, SIlicone or Rubber Spatula, Cooling Rack, Serrated Knife

• Preheat the oven to 350°F and position an oven rack in the center. Lightly coat the loaf pan with melted butter or high-heat canola-oil spray and line it with a piece of parchment paper that extends 1 inch beyond the edge of both sides of the pan. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, allspice, cloves, ginger, and salt until thoroughly blended. In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs and water. Add the sugar and blend well. Add the pumpkin puree, vegetable oil, and vanilla extract and blend well.
• Add the pumpkin mixture to the dry ingredients and whisk until blended and smooth. Add the walnuts and stir until they are evenly distributed. Use a spatula to scrape the batter into the prepared loaf pan and level the top.
• Bake for 55 to 65 minutes, until the bread is firm to the touch and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Transfer to a rack to cool completely. To serve, cut into 1/2-inch thick slices by sawing gently with a serrated knife. Any leftovers should be wrapped in plastic and stored at room temperature for up to 2 days or in the refrigerator for up to 4 days.

Getting ahead Pumpkin Walnut Bread freezes beautifully for up to 8 weeks when double-wrapped in plastic and placed inside a resealable plastic freezer bag. Defrost, still wrapped in plastic to avoid condensation on the cake, for at least 2 hours before serving.

Here Comes Peter Cottontail

While taking a walk this morning Jamie told me that Max has decided to ask Santa for a bunny for Christmas. I hope this phase passes because there is absolutely no way that he is getting one. I think that bunnies are sweet and wonderful creatures. But they smell and they expel an extraordinary number of little shit balls. I cleaned two children's nasty diapers for a combined 5 years of my life. I clean up after two cats right now. Proper ass-wiping techniques are not really honed until the age of 5. Elderly incontinence will most likely squeeze it's way into my life whether I am changing someones Depends or wearing them myself. I do not see the reason to add any more of other mammal's poop into my life.

We started talking about the cats and their reaction to a rabbit if one were to come into our house. We have had one mouse and they killed it. I came downstairs bleary eyed one morning. It was a Sunday. I shuffled over to the coffee pot and got myself a cup, grabbed the paper outside and began to head downstairs to watch TV. In front of me on the carpet, laying peacefully on it's side was a dead mouse. Gross. Not spider gross, mice don't frighten me that much. Just sort of a sad gross. As I was looking at it attempting to train my focus on whether it was breathing or not one of the cats slunk over to it. She looked up at me, bent down to pick up the mouse with her mouth and with one toss of her head she flung it like a wet tampon across the room. That is when I screamed. Her languid, smug, "look what I did, now go get it" sent me over the edge. So I knew if a rabbit was in this house those two Huntresses of Torture and Death would set up camp outside Max's bedroom door. They'd sit like hens waiting for that fateful day that the small loud big-footed one we flee from left his bedroom door open.

When I was little my sister and I talked my father into getting us a rabbit. We had gone to visit a friend of his that bred rabbits. There in his garage was a sea of white bunnies. We squealed,clapped and pleaded with my father to get us one. We had his number. We were weekend visitors and he had just enough guilt in his divorced dad bones to milk out a cool new pet. Trouble was that we had two adult Siamese cats and a litter of four fairly new kittens. Apparently the four new kittens were not good enough for us, and dad was just that dumb enough to go along with our pleas.

I remember on the ride home sitting with the rabbit in a cardboard box. We were chattering away excitedly discussing the names for our new pet. I wanted Bugs Bunny and Amy wanted Snow White. My dad suggested a compromise and Bugs White was born. He then launched into great detail how wonderful it was that we were going to bring home this rabbit and let it be raised by the cats. He said that since the mother cat had just given birth a few months ago her maternal instincts would kick in and she would welcome this new addition with love and devotion. Amy and I sat in the backseat listening to Marlin Perkins as he went on about his magical apartment that bunnies and kittens would live together as one. Weekends at dad's had just taken on an entire new outlook.

We took the rabbit out and let the cats sniff at it. The rabbit hopped around the apartment lazily sniffing and exploring. It was oblivious to the cats. The cats were completely tuned into to it's every nose twitch. They moved in a large pack slowly behind it, watching it creep around the rooms. They were not chasing it, just merely stalking it's every move. We were delighted, "Look they like it! They are friends!" Amy and I followed the cats mesmerized by this new wonderful family. Dad was in the kitchen making dinner unaware that the scent of the hunt hung heavily in the air. I remember going to bed that night. We sat up late watching the cats follow the rabbit around the house for a few hours, and then we finally went to sleep. When we woke up the next morning the cats were spread out through out the house sunning themselves. No more large pack, it has dispersed. Amy and I peered under furniture making noises that we thought a rabbit may respond to. "Where is Bugs White? We can't find the bunny, dad!" , as we ran into the kitchen. He sat there with a worried look on his face. He explained to us that Bugs White had died from shock, probably a heart attack. He had found him when he woke up. We couldn't understand why. He said the cats had scared the bunny. But they were friends! How could that have happened?! What about the kitten and rabbit utopia that we had been promised? He shook his head and admitted that his plan had gone horribly wrong. We ate our Cheerios in silence and regarded the cats with disdain.

One Is The Loveliest Number

Why is it that society, in this day and age, puts so much pressure on women to have more than one child? There is a sense that if you do not procreate multiple times you are a failure and a bad parent. Somehow an only child is suffering an injustice so massive if they are forced to have, God forbid, THEIR OWN ROOM. They will be seen by their peers and the world at large as a victim of such severe child abuse if they cannot have the blissful experience of sibling companionship or as I experienced it, violent sibling rivalry.

The moment Otto came out of my womb, I was inundated by questions as to when the next one was coming. It was as if I had carried twins but one decided to hang back until he or she was good and ready to leave mommy’s war room. The pressure began to increase when people discovered that I was 39 years old when Otto was born. Today, that makes me two months shy of 41 with only one child. In other words, I am a freak of nature, a selfish old woman who thinks of no one but herself. It never occurs to anyone that an only child has advantages that one member of a large litter does not.

I have already mentioned the “own room” scenario but what about never wearing hand me downs with blood stains from a back yard fight in which your younger sibling was excused of any blame simply on the basis of age while your older sibling is off getting high with the sluttish babysitter next door? Or the fact that this only child will never have to fight over a doll in the living room and have their biological best friend decapitate it in retaliation and scar him or her for life. If you are solo in the kiddo department you never have to share the crappy car that Mom and Dad let you drive, thus making every weekend a make out in the car weekend.

When asked when we are having a second, I tell people that I do not think Dave and I will have another but they try and argue their point as if we were in a courtroom and my life, literally, depended on it. I can see myself in shackles and an orange jumpsuit pleading my case to the under-educated, fashion crippled jury, begging them to see it from my point of view. I tell them "I love sleeping", "breast feeding sucked (no pun intended)" and "I'm back to my skinny jeans" but to no avail. The prosecution comes at me like a toddler at a Cheerio. My favorite pitches from various people on why I should have more than one child are the following.

“Have another. They take care of each other.”
“Once you have one you don’t even notice another.”
“Don’t you want your child to have someone to play with that has the same germs?”
“You don’t have to buy all the baby stuff again. You’ll already have it.”

This last one is my favorite for the simple reason that it is so ridiculous in its logic, missing the whole point that having a second child is expensive whether or not you have used baby crap sitting in bins in the garage or not. How much money will that really save you in comparison to the hospital bills, food bills and education costs that the second will incur no matter if its wearing an old, faded bib and a onesie decorated with shit stains from its older brother.

Having one child is not only fine for the child, it is more than fine for the parents who can focus all their attention on their single muskrat and enjoy each stage of their development without knowing that another hell year of no sleep, breast pumping, irrational bouts of tears and no sexual desire is coming down the pipeline. You can travel to Europe, go on long car trips, have sex in the afternoon without falling asleep and prepare for the bunny to scoot off to preschool and give you those few precious hours a day back that you so longingly miss.

Lastly, why no one thinks about the environmental impact of a larger family is shocking. The diapers, the gas used to come and go to various activities and appointments for the bean sprouts, the food, the plastic Chinese made toys and all the detritus that goes along with having multiple offspring is polluting the environment. Discarded sippy cups and lost pacifiers overflow landfills along side their best buddy, the poop filled disposable diaper, better known as the cockroach of modern waste management. Those funky envelopes of excrement refuse to break down in the dirt and are amassing an army that will one day take over the earth. They do not know the word biodegradable and have never met a seagull they did not like or choke to death with their Velcro closures and absorbent urine sacks.

If you want to have a large brood that will always resemble one another in Christmas photos and will be easier to find in a crowd at a large state fair than be my guest. I am not telling you all the reasons you should not. Yet, you are telling me all the reasons I should give Otto a brother or sister and that that is what he wants and needs more than anything else. No one, including Otto, really knows what he wants. But I do know what I want. I want a happy, healthy family, quality time to spend with them and a clean, healthy planet to leave for my child. That, and low tuition costs as I jet around the world with my husband when junior is cramming for the finals of his LSATs or banging hot chicks while he house sits for us.

Braces

I always knew Carter would need braces on her teeth. I also know that Max will need them. They tell you fairly early into their dental appointments. It's that big ugly looming additional expense that you don' t think much about for the next few years until you are actually at the Orthodontist's office for the consultation. He sits across from you in his big leather chair and shows you little models of teeth and uses orthodontic terms that only he knows. He shows us the headgear and tells her how important it is for her to wear it every night. I run my tongue subconsciously across my teeth thinking about the times I would rip mine off in the middle of the night and toss them onto the floor. Not much has changed about those ugly contraptions, they are still the goofiest looking things you will ever see. He then took us on the tour of his slick office with computers at every tooth straightening station. "This is where I will enter your child's teeth measurements.", "This is where I will be able to download all xrays of your child's teeth", "And this is where I will plan my three week Mediterranean cruise where my wife and I will bask in the sun and toast the thumb suckers of the world."

I did not think she'd need a back brace. That one shocked me a bit. We have had her monitored for years as they watched her spine grow. It has always had a slight curvature to it, but they thought it was headed on a path that it would grow itself out. I saw it as soon as the doctor popped the xrays into the light. The curve had gotten more pronounced in the past six months. Usually the change was slight, but this time it was significant. I love this guy because he is crazy smart and has eaten children's spines for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the past 35 years. He looked at me over his glasses and said, "I am afraid it's time for a brace fitting." The vision of Joan Cusack in Sixteen Candles trying to get a drink out of the fountain pops into my head. Carter was sitting next to me. I glanced over at her expecting to see frustration or tears. I'd be crying as well if I knew that my first date was going to be with The Donger. I snapped out of my 80's flashback as she started peppering him with questions. She asked all the right questions, she was very matter of fact and deliberate in her inquiries. The only thing left for me to ask was if insurance would cover it. We walked out and I asked her how she was feeling. She shrugged her shoulders and said she was fine. I asked if she was upset about having to wear a brace. She said, "Whatever, I already have them on my teeth. What's one more?" Proving once again that a twelve year old's bitchy indifference can be oddly comforting when you need it.

It Takes A Village

Thank you:

Emile - the best party Dave's ever had, the pig, the hospitality and the Rock Band and being Dave's BFF and my brother in arms
Lisa - your gracious hostessing, your sublime clean up, your love for Emile and your overall gorgeousness
M.J. - for flying in, for helping, for cheese platter blow out and for Wyatt and for 20 plus years
Tom - for taking the time to fly here, party like its 1999, rock out with your cock out and Wyatt and winning the game
Ashley - for being my super wing man and helping set up and wearing a really tight shirt and getting drunk and corn salad love
Bobby - driving Dave, helping, drinking and always being there , placing second in the game and eating the shit out of that meal
Georgia - for wearing sequins so perfectly, for representing and for Glamour modeling like a pro, bringing back my 80's, a killer salad (cookies...)
Breck - for trying to win the game but not, for eating plantains with such enthusiasm, letting your wife run amok, for being hilarious always
Scott - for being so bossy, acting cool, not having other plans later, for being family and for bringing Gwen
Gwen - For having model behavior, for rocking it hard, for putting up with Scott and for being so damn beautiful
Seth - for bringing crudites, for being handsome, hilarious and enjoying your end seat
Michelle - for bringing the magical bean dip, rallying when you felt shitty, for loving Seth despite his myriad of flaws (no body odor), for playing the game
Carolyn - for coming early, looking smashing, bringing 2 bottles of vino and for being there despite the fact you had other plans (huge solid) and for being you
Nick - for bringing your wife, for trying to convince Dotty to watch the Red Sox, for being hilarious, looking great in a jacket
Jack - for bringing enough tortilla chips to cover Mexico, for drinking like we were in our 20's and for a great toast to ring in Dave's middle age
Kate Benay - for coming with crustini's, for having a baby girl in your belly, for rallying in the cold and late hours, for being HI-larious
Matt - for the shoes you wore, the hair you sported, the girls you brought and being so damn nice and for an early Crate and Barrel Christmas
Kate Angelo - for rallying when you have 12 children at home, for wearing sweatpants , for your yummy contribution and for coming 3rd in the game
and finally...
Francois - for the peanut butter vagina story, for being such a great friend and for spearheading one of the greatest moments in Dave's life when you handed him an electric guitar and ruined my life of quiet that I'll never have again

The New Otto and the Old Me

I don’t know about other kids but Otto has never been a cuddly monkey. He has always been the spider monkey type, wiggling and crazy and standing up and looking around. His fierce independence has always been not only charming but satisfying. Knowing that we have a strong and secure child who likes to do things on his own is a great feeling. We’ve never had him sleep in our bed and he’s never slept in our arms other than the few times the barf ferry has visited and he was up all night with the stomach flu and green bile flowing freely from his pie hole. On cross country flights he practices his operatic scales instead of sleeping, entertaining the entire plane and exhausting me beyond belief. He refuses to even shut his eyes for a moment. He is his own dude.

Last night, during one of my many bouts of insomnia, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. with lists and chores floating in my brain. After trying unsuccessfully to fall back asleep, I came downstairs at 5:30 a.m. to try to get some sleep on the sofa so as not to continue twirling in bed like a pig on a spit and possibly waking up Dave. Around 6:30 I finally fell asleep, looking like a drunken sailor on a park bench. A few hours later, Otto came downstairs with Dave and ran over and climbed on top of me. Still half asleep, I hugged him tight, expecting to get up any moment and take over the Otto shift.

Much to my surprise and joy, he just lay on top of me stroking my left arms and nuzzling in my neck. I still had my earplugs in and my eye shades on. It was a sensory mind melt as I couldn’t see or hear anything, all the while I had this little urchin stuck to me. The minutes turned to longer minutes and soon, Otto was fast asleep, draped over me like an old, delicious smelling quilt. We had a 10:30 a.m. music class but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move this lovely lump of coal for fear this would never happen again. This was the first official time I would let him play hooky.

I fell back asleep with him for at least and hour or so wanting this to last forever. Maybe we could crash together every morning and I could get that extra hour of sleep I needed instead of feeding him and having him throw sticky French toast at my forehead. This could be our new game. Watch the lazy bums nap right after they have woken up as if they were alcoholic college freshman who pride themselves on never attending a class before noon. I had seen this before.

At 10:45 a.m. he woke up with a sweaty face and rosy cheeks and looked at me like “Who are you and what are you doing here?” The look was all too familiar to me and was a look that I know a lot of girls will see in his future. I actually felt a bit sorry for all of the tramps to come. Poor things. He then got his bearings and smiled his huge, toothy smile and hugged me like I was his first girlfriend ever. It was the cutest thing he’s done since the day he was born and I am not afraid to admit that I loved every minute of it. The sweet, tiny breaths, the little adjustments he’d make to get more comfortable, the snoring, the knowledge that we were supposed to be somewhere but were blowing it off together. It was a great start to the day.

The following are the Cliff Notes of how the remainder of our day went.

While waking the dog with a small window before a doctor’s appointment, Otto slid in a pile of dog vomit on the sidewalk that consisted of whole chicken legs and partially digested leaks. I truly thought that some weirdo had performed witch doctor voodoo on our street. His shoes are still on the porch because I cannot bear to touch them for fear of reliving the experience.

I then stepped on a whole unpeeled orange directly in front of my house while wearing flip flops. What is that all about?

Otto tried to hug a biohazard trash receptacle in the exam room at the doctor’s office. Gross on every level.

Otto refused eat and then refused to nap and screamed bloody murder until I removed him from his crib and took him on a long ass walk, trying not to step in, said vomit, again.

I forgot to eat and realized on our way home that there was little to no food in the house and that Dave would be working late and not feeding us some gourmet spread of delightfulness.

This is when it got REALLY BAD.

I found some left over spaghetti sauce in the fridge and while I prepared Otto’s dinner and he quietly played by himself, I heated it up and there was just enough. Remember, I was starving at this point and hadn’t slept the night before (sympathy strings crescendo here). Everything was just about ready and the pasta was 30 seconds away from perfect when I smelled a poopy diaper in the living room and then dropped the pan of spaghetti sauce on my feet. It splattered all over the kitchen as if a heinous murder has just been perpetrated. Red sauce was everywhere the eye could see and I was trapped in the kitchen surrounded by an ocean of chunky tomato mess. I looked like a serial killer caught in the act knowing that C.S. I. would catch me if I didn’t clean with bleach and an alibi.

Otto then began to cry for his dinner and I had to clean a pathway through the kitchen to be able to get to him and put him in a clean diaper and in his high chair.

I ended up having sticky, lukewarm rotini with olive oil and Parmesan cheese while Otto ate a veggie burger and sautéed zucchini and then insisted I give him my dinner, which I did with hidden resentment and bitterness.

We began by eating in silence as tears collected in my eye sockets and then as the food he left me hit my stomach we discussed pumpkins and their various sizes and colors. Then he pooped again and we went upstairs and bathed, read a book and went to bed with hugs, kisses and much relief.

I know I will find a tomato sauce ball under the stove months from now and laugh about it. But until then, it just wasn’t that funny. I feel 90 years old and put through a blender and am off to bed. By the way, does anyone really care that Marcia Brady just wrote a memoir about being a coke whore and sex fiend? Just making sure.

Special Alone Time

I was just digging around on-line to see what time the Sox were playing tonight. I stumbled upon this gem:

Police arrest Mich. man for car wash vacuum sex
October 18, 2008

THOMAS TOWNSHIP, Mich. --Police say a Michigan man has been arrested after "receiving sexual favors from a vacuum" at a car wash.
The Saginaw News reports the 29-year-old Swan Creek Township man was arrested Thursday in Saginaw County's Thomas Township, about 90 miles northwest of Detroit.
Police Sgt. Gary Breidinger says a resident called to report suspicious activity at the car wash about 6:45 a.m. An officer approached on foot and caught the man in the act.
The suspect, whose name wasn't immediately released, is being held in the Saginaw County Jail.

Immediately the filth comes to mind. The absolute nastiness of sticky residue, weird cling ons, and sandy crust one would find on the edge of a car vacuum hose. I assume he used one of those tanks that you pull up to and feed quarters to for sucking out the crap from your car. Those big gray snaky tubes that travel under the seats to zip up whatever time has cast aside.

There is no way he has children. Anyone with a child that travels in a car knows of the scariness that lies in the drop zone. 1/2 chewed bagel chunks, wet Cheeze-Its, muddy mulchy sandy compound that is found at most playgrounds.

When you pull into one of those car washes anything is game. If it fits in the tube it gets sucked. I am having trouble understanding why he applied that same theory to his penis. A man's groin area should be free from ketchup packets and small bits of dog shit or gum. At what exact point in his brain did it become okay to place the same thing that cleans out your car in his pants. When did he say to himself, " Look at how nicely that sucked up all that dog hair. I think I will put my penis in it." It happened at 6:45 am. Did he stop at Dunkin Donuts on the way? Did he have a coffee roll and an iced coffee prior to his date? Did he ask for 4 quarters in change as they bagged up his breakfast treat?

What Does ThIs Mean About My Life?

Last night I had a dream that I was a freshman in college at The University of Arizona but I was still 40 years old. I was walking across campus wearing a ruffled mini skirt, an old University of Virgina sweatshirt, topsiders that were too small and white tube socks bunched up at my ankles. An acne ridden girl on the basketball team tried to beat me up for bumping into her by accident but when she got a good look at my outfit she let me go without as much as a shove.

I then returned to my dorm room where my roommate was furious because she had to baby sit Otto while I was off at a doctor's appointment. All my friends were waiting on my tiny bed to hang out but I had to leave and take Otto to the doctor's office I had just been to because I had forgotten to bring him in the first place. WHAT?

This was so much worse than my reoccurring naked, unprepared SAT dream or the one where I am attacked by a monster who lives in the toilet when I am peeing.

Random

• I am getting depressed about the local sports teams. I no longer care to watch.
• I need to do some yoga tomorrow. I caught a Kate Hepburn hunch in the mirror this morning.
• 'Joe The Plumber', your 15 minutes are up
• I'd like another Frisee salad with shaved Serrano ham.
• I despise going to Whole Foods and spending $90 on one bag of groceries. I obsess about it on the ride home.
• Jamie is addicted to "Star Wars, The Force Unleashed".
• I miss open-toed shoes already.
• David Duchovny updates have become tiresome.
• I am telling everyone that the scar on my leg from the mole my dermatologist removed is a cranberry tattoo.
• I really like my new job, but I am exhausted by days end.
• I wish my cats reacted better to catnip. I am always very disappointed that they don't get high enough.
• I'd like the candidates running for President to discuss what they would do to address high caloric contents in wine.
• Retin A or eyebrow waxing? Which would you choose?

Today @ The 99 Cent Store I Saw...

- A gypsy who actually asked me if I had a cell phone she could borrow. Like I haven't heard that one before. Sure, call Gypslandia and use all my minutes, why don't you?

- An old woman ramming into another person's cart instead of moving it out of her way so she could rummage through a massive pile of damaged underpants. Like anyone's going to notice if you even wear any.

- The grandparents buying their grandchild horribly written books while insulting the store and its contents. Now, isn't that the pot calling the kettle cheap?

- A creepy looking Hill Billy trying to get Otto's attention with a holler and a squeal. Otto has already seen Deliverance and knows all about you people. So back off, Jethro!

- Otto tries to steal a grape from a woman resembling Nancy Reagan's broken pelvis. Hmm, I didn't know they sold food...

- A security guard following me out to my car thinking I would steal the three wheeled, bacteria infested cart. No thank you, Sir Takes His Job Too Seriously, I already have one at home.

- Myself in the rear view mirror having actually gone into this cesspool and spending $25 on "ironical" party favors for Dave's birthday. The place rocks the Casbah, not afraid to admit it. Now, I need to shower Silkwood style.

This Silence Is Deafening

I have a neighbor who has a one year old. That would bring most people to the conclusion that she understands things like noise and yelling and that sidewalk phones calls are bad when directly under a baby's window. Having all her 22 year old male model friends drinking brewskies in front of my door after 8 p.m. and yelling into their Blackberries things like, "dude", "righteous", "fuck, yeah" and "I booked the gig" is not acceptable when I have been chasing a small wolverine around in circles for 12 hours straight and all I want to do is kill my pain with alcohol and the E! channel. Yup, is gets that bad some days.

Just now, I was sitting at my dining room table/desk/workspace/ pig trough writing after trying, for over an hour, to get Otto down for his afternoon nap. Yes, he finally passed out and I was thrilled with the break I was getting. Suddenly, a sound like that of a Lunar space craft landing in my asshole startled me and who do I see outside but my neighbor with her child, who is AWAKE and three of her tattooed party buddies all under the age of 23 and wearing Velvet revolver cast offs.

The lead character in this one act play was a model/actor pal of hers who was revving the engine of a gorgeous, mint, 1966, mocha colored Mustang that I wanted to destroy with a sledge hammer and a blow torch. OTTO is SLEEPING! This is not Chico And The Man, a reference you are far too young and stupid to get, underwear model! Nonetheless, get the fuck out of my circle of sound and drive that souped up, pussy magnet up to Sunset and get your Citizen Of Humanity Jeans wearing ass discovered so you don't have to slum it in my hood any more, DUDE!

I just went outside dressed like Rosie O'Donnel when she isn't making an effort and asked these fuck wads to stop the show of "my penis is bigger than your penis" muscle car sound off. Nothing cooler than an old lady in used gym wear telling the kids to pipe down or else. But guess what? It didn't matter because you might have apologized and cut the engine but your alarm just went off and...

You just woke him up! Thanks trendy! I hope that your career is as short as the list of vocabulary words you know. Try these two out for size.

FUCK–verb (used with object)

1.	to have sexual intercourse with.

2.	Slang. to treat unfairly or harshly.

–verb (used without object)

3.	to have sexual intercourse.

4.	Slang. to meddle (usually fol. by around or with).

–interjection

5.	Slang. (used to express anger, disgust, peremptory rejection, etc., often fol. by a pronoun, as you or it.)

OFF - adverb

1.	so as to be no longer supported or attached: This button is about to come off.

2.	so as to be no longer covering or enclosing: to take a hat off; to take the wrapping off.

3.	away from a place: to run off; to look off toward the west.

4.	away from a path, course, etc.; aside: This road branches off to Grove City.

5.	so as to be away or on one's way: to start off early; to cast off.

"Look Mommy, a drunk!"

We decided to take the kids out to dinner last night. We went to a local Italian place that specializes in "toasted raviolis" and has killer bread on the table. Simple, cheap, and kid friendly were the three requirements and this is the place to accomplish them nicely.

When we got to the restaurant there was a bit of a wait. Carter and I secured two seats that were on either side of a table. This table is known in the restaurant as the mint table. For as long as I can remember the restaurant has had a mint bowl set out on the table for all to enjoy. There is a long silver spoon that rests amidst the mints so that you don't feel threatened by the overwhelming fecal count as you spoon treats into your hand.

The mints are those pastel colored buttery tasting mints. My great aunts used to keep them in a small dish in their front hall. They were two sisters who had never married and just stayed together in an antique row house in South Boston. Ever year for Christmas they'd knit us mittens, but they never made the thumb hole large enough. My Mother would make us wear the useless mittens whenever we went to visit. Going to their house was like going over to Jane and Michael Bank's house and waiting for Mary Poppins to show up. Everything was stiff, rigid and breakable. For half of the afternoon one sister would Lord over a formal luncheon, which we had to sit painfully still for and choke down canned salmon tea sandwiches. For the other half of the day the cool sister would play "Macy's" with us in the butler's party. The pantry had an accordion style folding door. Very elevator like. She'd spend an hour calling out imaginary floors and opening the doors for us to go shop.

I loved to go visit them so I could snarf through mints all afternoon. They were exactly the type of thing my mother would never buy. My aunt's had a huge jar up on the shelf in the hall closet. Once a week one of the frail osteoporosis ridden women would drag over an embroidered foot stool and pull down this massive jar and pour exactly 17 mints into the small paper thin porcelain dish. When I came they would just leave the jar out and let me absolutely pork out on obscene amounts of mints and then give me a little paper bag with 18 mints in it for, "the ride home" . The aunts would hand me the bag and we'd go through that awkward moment when they'd realize I couldn't hold things properly due to my malformed mitten thumb. They'd pat my head and tuck the bag under my arm.

I discovered last night that there are other's out there that feel strongly about their memories of butter mints. As my daughter and I sat, a woman came lurching over to peer into the mint bowl. It happened to be empty. She scowled and looked at me:

Drunk: "Whaaaaaaat? No mints? You kiddin'?"

I smile politely. That smile that says, Yes, you are crazy/drunk/scary but I will continue this conversation with you so you don't stab/puke on/threaten me.

Me: Yes, it seems they are out."

Drunk: That's bullshit!" she stalked off towards the door of the ladies room.

I shook my head and said, "Wow, she is really drunk." My 12 year old perked up at this. She wanted to know how I knew that this woman was drunk. They were ticking off in my head like a grocery list. First and foremost she had just emerged from the lounge at 4pm on a Monday afternoon. However, other indicating items included:

-a Utah claw
-bedazzled white Levi's jacket
-circa '03 lipstick from Wet and Wild
-Daisy Fuentes jeans
(it always goes back to the jeans)

I simply said it was the way she was behaving and I could smell it on her. I looked knowingly at Carter and tapped my nose as if to indicate. "Yeah, watch out. That's right. I can smell it, hotshot."

After she had disappeared into the bathroom a worker came from the back with a large plastic bag filled with the mints and began dumping them into the silver bowl. I wish he had taken the bowl out back. Preserved some of the magic of the ritual. I was disappointed in the bag, no large glass jar on top of Aunt Rose's hall closet. Just a guy in a Red Sox t-shirt dumping mints unceremoniously into the container. I did not get too disenchanted because now I was faced with the delightful scenario of watching Mary Ann McSmashed come out of the restroom and getting her mint. She stumbled out of the bathroom and started walking past us, but reared up short when she saw that the mint bowl had been filled. She staggered over to the bowl and looked at me.

"Mints!" She exclaimed

I nodded as if I had something to do with it, smiling at her. She was so happy and drunk, why not take credit? Mint guy was long gone. She dove her two hands into the bowl like she was looking for her child's sock in one of those vile ball pits filled with mucus and stupidity. She began transporting handfuls of the mints into her pocketbook. I was dumbfounded. I started looking around wondering if any level-headed adults were watching this hilarious social misstep unfold. She dove back in three more times telling me that she wanted some for the road. Just like my paper bags, but way over the 18 mint maximum level. She wandered off, her pocketbook banging against her leg like a kid at Halloween.

"Oh, wow! She is drunk, you were right.", Carter said wide-eyed. "She didn't use the spoon."

Retail Therapy

Otto gets a cold on Friday. How long do you think until I get it? 17 hours to be exact. Then he miraculously recovers and I am left looking like W.C. Field’s on a bender. Cut to: chapped, red nose, puffy eyes and miscellaneous chocolate stains on my clothes. That might just be me. Dave kindly takes the morning shift and allows me to sleep off the head cold blues. We all have breakfast together and Otto and I go out to find him some cozy, winter footsie pajamas because our heating system is confusing and expensive and antiquated and he just had a cold. Trying to be a good mommy.

We go to the mall, a place I disdain on a level reserved only for dirty feet and slow drivers. It is a deep dark place few survive. H&M is our destination because the clothes are hip and cheap. The Euro techno disco music is blaring at 10:30 a.m. and has put me on the defensive immediately. To the beat of someone else’s soundtrack, a person I want nothing to do with, I race to the kids section hoping this will take less time than going to the bathroom. No such luck. Focused, stylish moms with their designer hand bags and pursed lips stand in my way as they wade through the rows of clothes with intimidating authority. I, on the other hand, am lost. I can’t physically get past their high tech strollers and Pashima wraps that they use to cock block me while they grab tiny little pants and jumpers for children who will have mommy issues years down the line. I can't find what I want and feel like I am being swallowed by a huge, cotton whale.

Otto sits quietly in our hand-me-down light weight stroller that lists to the left and looks like an old, discarded hair brush, one a homeless dude would think twice before using. I ask the sales person for help and she tells me they don’t carry children’s pajamas, all the while giving me a snotty, elitist look. Last time I checked, Missy, you were making $10 an hour selling cotton goods that are all priced well below that of a dinner at Grand Luxor Cafe, the “fancy” dining establishment in the basement of this building. I know you go there after work and get wasted on 2 for 1 Mojitini’s while fantasizing about giving Hector, your floor manager, a rim job in your leased electric blue Corolla after a long day of folding t-shirts and gossiping about Carla from corporate.

No help from the help. Implement exit strategy immediately. Dash to the nearest exit as quickly as possible without making eye contact with any of the bitter sales people, psycho mothers, wealthy yet weather worn grandmothers dragged there by their unappreciative offspring to buy inappropriate amounts of children’s clothing made in Bangladesh to fill the void tat nothing can fill.

Once outside, Otto begins to squirm and yell, wanting freedom from the hair brush on wheels. I make the huge mistake of continuing my quest and taking him to Macy’s, where racks of clothes now become his new Lego Land. He grabs at things and squeals while I try in vain to find suitable sleepwear for his little monkey ass. Plus side. They are having a huge sale because no one is shopping and our economy is that of a mid-century Soviet state. Minus side. All sizes are too small and I have released Otto from his prison. He is now running amok through the carpeted isles pulling baby clothes off their hangers and laughing like Count Chocula. Must get him back in stroller and onto elevator so I can escape this hell. With Otto under one arm, I push the stroller into the lingerie department with him flailing like a fish begging for tap water. As I beg him to cooperate, I suddenly see a glass display case directly in front of us with two naked, headless mannequins wearing bright pink, sexy designer panties and push up bras.

Bingo.

Me: “Otto, look at the naked ladies.”
Otto: “Da!”

With the natural instinct of kitten to a string or a murderous tiger who jumps the wall at the zoo when three drunk assholes taunt him, he knows exactly where to look. His eyes instantly go to the decapitated, life size party girls towering over him. I slide him back into the stroller while he gazes at two sets of perfect, plaster boobs. I tell him to say goodbye to his new girlfriends and as he waves, I quickly wheel him toward the exit talking about the advantages of matching under garments and the sad fact he’ll never see that in our house. I am too lazy, cheap and uncoordinated.

Our little outing could be viewed as a huge bust and I might not have found ugly, fleece jammies for Otto but I did find his inner sex-starved teenager. His father will be so proud.

Two Long Weeks

This last two weeks have been so hard, so dreadful and such an ass kicker that I want to get a vasectomy and have Dave’s tubes tied after I pick off a few select people with an air rifle (to answer some of you you, I was being ironic when I said that I would get a vasectomy and Dave would get his tubes tied). Between Otto’s cold and new found defiance, Dave’s professional bullshit and Dr. Panic and Unprofessional, I am about ready to go Clan Of The Cave Bear. No showering, no shaving, no leaving the cave, no speaking. I will commence my new life with a litany of grunts and howls that deafen the neighborhood and allow me to better express my frustration and exhaustion. Nothing would please me more than leaving the apartment wrapped in the fur of a very dead, yet attractive, animal and club to death whatever or whomever I want in the name of survival, no questions asked and no legal ramifications whatsoever.

After days of tears and worries and lots of educated conversations with friends, I have gathered numerous telephone numbers of new pediatricians and plan to dump ours like a fat, ugly prom date who just blew her date in the bathroom of a downtown Hyatt while wearing a puce colored gown she found at Mervyn’s. He is, at best, an after thought and will no longer be graced with our patience or positive attitude in his down trodden, germ- laden waiting room. In other words, fuck him and his horse.

On the little front, Otto has become a toddler with his unruly demands and temperamental ways, one minute yelling and the next hugging and tricking us into thinking he will be angelic for the remainder of the day. Oh, he is a master of Tom foolery with his big blue eyes and toothy grin. But alas, young prince, I am onto you and your deceptive ways! He is learning to kick Mommy, hit Daddy and harass the animals as if he were a hungry wolf to their innocent and vulnerable livestock. The cat just lies there taking whatever abuse Otto doles out, happy to be touched at all, while Brody is scared and irritated whenever Otto is within arm’s reach, spending most of his time upstairs planning his Escape from Alcatraz, complete with metal file and blow up raft.

Dave is trudging through a mountain of work and stress, his only sign of cracking being his unreasonable desire to watch the same Indiana Jones rape scene from the new South Park over and over again. It is brilliant, hilarious and so insulting that I picture Spielberg and Lucas sitting around their matching villas emailing each other their plans to film their duel suicides. Of course, they cast two unknown look-a-likes to play themselves and kill the unsuspecting actors with much fanfare and special effects, profiting on their deaths with a three picture deal and a pay-per-view special.

I, on the other hand , show my stress is ways related to an unhealthy attachment to Xanax, an obsession with doing laundry 24 hours a day and jumping out of my skin every time the phone rings. I sleep with a old black t-shirt draped over my eyes, earplugs and a pillow over my head and wake up looking like someone carved sloppy yet whimsical etchings into my face with an old pencil. I now have Otto’s cold which makes these etchings look less professional in the light and much less valuable for resale.

Add all that to the fact that the financial world is collapsing all around us and life as we know it is about to come to a screeching, cash poor halt, I think I’m ready for the last two weeks to be over. The question is what will the next few weeks be like? I hope the runny noses clear up and Obama cleans up. That's a start, anyway.

The Soccer Field

Max is in his first official year of soccer. He has played in the past but now they are engaging in actual scrimmages. The dad of one of Max's friends stopped Jamie in the school playground prior to the season start and asked him to help with coaching. Collectively the two had absolutely no idea how to play beyond the no hands rule. Make the kids run and kick the ball? Sure, I can do that. Can I wear a baseball hat and the sweats I slept in? Sign us up and give us a whistle!

Every Saturday we march down to the fields at 9:00 am to meet up with 100 Kindergartners to play soccer. Arlington has imported young men from the UK to add to the authenticisim of the adventure. They look like extras from the set of Trainspotting, minus the Heroin laden indifference to small children. Skinny enthusiastic young men in coordinated soccer garb hold clinics teaching such games as, "Keep The Ball Away From the Spider Web!" (Are you yelling that in your head with a Scottish accent? If not go back and read it again.) They then pass the smaller group off to my husband and the other coach and they traipse off to their cone lined corner of the field to implement the skills.

There are two different types of mother's at the field. I am in the group of people that has never played soccer, but I do enjoy looking at David Beckham now and then. They other group is comprised of fairly hardcore soccer mom's. The requirements are as follows:

-Subaru owner
-Owns two different pairs of Dansko clogs, one pair must be at least 4 years old.
-Artsy earrings
-Wearing fleece, or has fleece item in their trunk
-Food storage bag filled with orange slices
-Jeans with unflattering pockets
-A husband who is often, "putting some time in at the lab"

I bring munchkins in a box and throw them on the sideline. 85% of the kids run over in a sweaty dirty mess and pluck out the orbs of yum with happy abandon. The hardcore's spend the first 1/2 an hour trying to force feed orange slices to their kid. After 40 minutes they toss me an exasperated look and mutter:

"Go ahead Noir, get a donut. Can you say thank you to Mrs. LeBlanc?"

The kid looks at me and with a mouthful of chocolate crumbs and says,"Char Su Bip Na".

I look at the mother confused. She giggles and pushes her Brecktastic long hair behind her ear as her dragonfly earrings twinkle in the sun.

"Oh his dad thought it would be good to teach him some conversational phrases in Mandarin. Noir, I don't think Mrs. LeBlanc knows Mandarin." She looks at me for guidance and I smile and shake my head no. She smiles and says with her eyes "Of course you don't, lip-gloss wearer." She bends down, "Let's use English to say thank you today, Noir."

She then goes on to tell me that after their African Safari honeymoon Klaus spent some time working in Asia. "He has always loved the culture", she says. Turns out Klaus is spending Saturday morning holed up at MIT curing Alzheimer's and collecting his winnings in the Noble Literature Prize Award office pool. All the while I pump his kid full of donut holes. This afternoon they will take Noir to a Shel Silverstein book reading and check out that new raw food restaurant. We'll get some take-out Mandarin and watch "The Suite Life of Zack and Cody."