The History Of Thanksgiving, Part I

The History Of Thanksgiving, Part I

1980 to 1993- Watching my father rant and rave around the house demanding that we serve nothing but toast because he hated the smell of gravy in the house

1988- Drinking copious amounts of liquor with all my girlfriends my first weekend home freshman year of college, followed by drunk walking over to my boyfriend’s parents house and passing out in their foyer

1993 - My sister taking a swing at my mother in front of my new in-laws because she did not want to get up off the couch after a pot smoking binge

1994 to Present - Realizing that spending the holidays with people not related to me by blood would be much healthier emotionally and physically

Thank You For...

My boys - Otto, David, Brody and Joey

The crazy Coelho's 3000 miles away

The beach weekend with my oldest and dearest, Liza and family

Sneak eating glazed donuts between slices of salami and cheese

Health at the ripe age of fo-fo-forty (ouch)

My motley crew of pals

This

Answer: Ha Ha

Question: Is there any chance I will have any time to write during this insane Turkey weekend?

Give Thanks

• Pioneer Woman's porkrific contribution to society
• Cosmocello and champagne cocktails while cooking
• Not hosting turkey dinner here
• Tom Tom
• Not having to see my Mother-in-Law tomorrow
• Squanto
• Trash day
• Quiche
• Excellent health all around
• Chocolate covered mint Oreos. Ask Dave, he'll back me up.
• Gravy
• Supermarket employees. And you think your day was a giant pain in the ass?
• Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Inexplicably excited.
• Absolutely nothing to do on Friday
• Aveda Control Paste
• Gagee
• Amazing friends
• My beautiful kids
• My wonderful husband

Can't I Just Use a Rotary Phone?

Okay, Interweb, today’s writing will be short and sweet. Instead of rambling on about things that do not matter or moments in my life that prove I am completely off my rocker, I will be sitting down at my dining room table with my new Blackberry and the accompanying instruction manual to learn how to communicate with space aliens. My old phone was a pink, Razor hand me down. Do not judge me, please. I hate the color pink with every fiber of my being but I cannot say no to anything that is free. That and my super generous and kind friend Ash gave it to me and I grew to like the pink of it all. It balanced out the fact that I am overdue on dying my roots and getting a pedicure and updating my pathetic collection of outer wear.

I am impatient, stubborn and I detest instructions from anyone or anything. This will be a very unpleasant afternoon unless I master the device quickly or I incorporate hot chocolate into my training session. Yes, that is exactly what I will do. I will make some delicious H.C. and quietly swear to myself as I input every number and get to know my new little friend. The sad thing is I really do not have any reason to have a Blackberry. I have no job, no do or die meetings and no assistant. I call a small handful of people on my cell, maybe ten, and text pals regarding play dates and potential class schedules for the squirt. Even Otto does not need to call me. He just groans or yells and I come running.

Talking on the phone while driving is a skill I will never master or enjoy. And the Blue Tooth headset is like an annoying asshole sitting behind you at the movies, endlessly talking about film theory or his stock portfolio. This was a necessary purchase with my new phone because California has outlawed the use of cell phones while driving. Maybe I’ll just return the Crackberry for a camp fire pit and a large Hopi blanket. That way I can send smoke signals and save all the aggravation I am about to experience while learning all the new technical crap that goes along with being part of the twenty-first century. Or maybe I’ll add marshmallows to my cup of cocoa.

Pink Margaritas, Naked Ken Dolls, and Three AA Batteries Required

You know what is one of the best things about having nieces and nephews? Buying them the crappy shit that they crave and their parents hate. You are a hero and you get the thrill of completely pissing off your siblings at the same time. I just returned from a journey to Target to purchase my niece Ellie the "Barbie Party Bus and Hot Tub". A huge monstrosity that weighs enough that it requires the box to have it's own handle. I shake it and hear the trillions of pieces rattling around. I envision my brother-in-law sweating and sitting on the floor two days after Christmas in a sea of pink plastic, two empty beer bottles, and wishing a certain and swift death upon us.

A few years ago we bought Carter the Barbie Airplane. I can remember easing it out of it's box at 11:00pm on Christmas eve. With a hefty champagne buzz we painstakingly assembled this beast into the early morning hours. Jamie still talks about the minuscule ice cubes that we placed gingerly into the ice bucket. Our big clumsy fingers dropping them everywhere. I wanted that plane to look like an interrupted human moment straight out of Toy Story. Barbies were frozen in mid-game play throughout the plane. One was pushing a cart filled with drinks, one was piloting, the other was in the bathroom snorting lines as she withered under the anxiety attack of meeting her future in-laws for the first time. It took us hours but by the time we were done it was a masterpiece. The next morning Carter woke up and squealed with absolute delight over her gift. We sat on the couch doped up on Advil for the excruciating back pain and the horrific hangover. We watched her spill ice cubes all over the floor as she stripped the dolls naked.

I now hand that delightful feeling over to my sister and her husband. Merry Christmas as you get the hot tub lights blinking the way that they should. Make that Party Bus THE place to hang out in Ellie's bedroom. Affix the brightly colored stickers to the plastic wall carefully so that Barbie's friends can find their way to the tiny bathroom to throw up after they eat. American Girl dolls look on in horror clutching their pearls. Fear not, Dora The Explorer will pray for their pink-tainted souls at the iglesia.

I am Counting The Minutes Until, "Shaken, Not Stirred."

Our date night is not a night but a day, filled with a matinees, hot dogs, popcorn and at least two great movies, one of which we'll sneak into. That is a teenage thrill I cannot give up. We'll kiss right before the previews start and hold hands like horny teenagers. It is the most awesome thing ever and the only thing I miss about being a parent is the ability to drop everything and walk into a theater in the daylight to see a really good/bad movie and come out at night, satisfied and hungry.

I am now waiting for the babysitter to arrive. She, whom we'll call Mary Poppins, is wildly expensive and only comes when we have truly hit the wall or one of us has received a check for work we forgot we did. She will wait for Otto to wake up, play with him, feed him his dinner, give him his bath and put him to bed while Dave and I sit in the dark at a local mall and watch 007 kill people, grope women and look British. The we'll wander into a gross out comedy where I hope to hear the word "fuck" at least 30 times to justify my foul mouth and my new moratorium on swearing. Ah, motherhood. But for now, I have to sit here and wait for Otto to fall asleep for his afternoon nap, after reading him two books and singing him 5 songs. I am practically tone deaf and he still insists on the tunes. That is true love.

This is what I hear on the monitor - "waaaaaa waaaaaaa waaaaa aaaaaaa waaaaaaa waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa waaaaa waaa wa!"

I think he just might be jealous.

Otto, don't be. We won't have too much fun without you and knowing us, we'll talk about you the entire time and say how much we love your toothy laugh and your ability to hit the ceiling with a chunky tomato sauce and leave a stain that looks menstrual.

Sleep well, sleep long, sleep safe and sleep healthy. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Dummy

Friend Or Enemy?

Would a true friend send this in the mail five days before a major holiday that consists of eating yourself into a carbo coma three days in a row and rubbing gravy on your genitals after polishing off six bottles of great California Cabernet?

Large bag of Dove Silky Smooth Dark Chocolate Promises – what do they really promise? A fat ass…
Snyder’s Hot Buffalo Wing Pieces – Pieces of what, I ask? I am frightened and turned on.
Cheetos Crunchy – Otto’s holiday snack, now.
Chex Mix Bars in Turtle Flavor – Never ate turtle before.
Nature Valley Sweet and Salty Peanut Bars – Always a winner on the go.
A Box of Milk Chocolate Covered Mint Oreo Cookies – What the f@*K? Are you crazy, woman?

Would she send it with a note to your healing husband and his new ant eating nose that read the following?

A big box of crap for you to eat and reminisce about your days of popping Vicodin and wearing a maxi-pad on your face. Good times, man. We (heart) you. Glad you are feeling better and kicking ass.
Jamie, Chrissy, Carter and Max

Let’s just say frenemy and call it a day.

Love you, blog dog!

9 degrees with the windchill?

What the hell? Why are we suddenly plunged into the midst of January? Last year for Christmas Jamie bought me a fabulous Tory Burch matching hat and gloves set. I know, I know. I hear your shrieks of mockery for me wearing the big TB label. Yet another tragic ex-girlfriend of the uno-nutted Lance. Please take a moment to recognize that I live smack dab in the midst of uptight Boston suburbs where TB's big bronze discs on ballet flats are as plentiful as squirrels. I do not own the ballet flats. I look stupid and fat in ballet flats. I do have a pair of her wedges that are the most comfortable heels I own. I love them long time. Jamie searched high and low for my hat and glove set. He called stores throughout NY and Boston at the peak of the holiday frenzy last year trying to find the matching set. I think I love the accessories all the more for his valiant effort. Honestly, the hat makes me look like an idiot. But who doesn't look like an idiot in a winter hat? It stops being cute after the age of 9. The gloves fell victim to the moths in my closet. Perhaps the moths were doing me a favor as they porked out on the cashmere? Saving another fashion victim of the east coast. I bought new gloves the other day and threw out the TB's with a heavy heart.

I am now trolling the makeupalley.com reviews in the hopes of finding a reasonably priced facial moisturizer for the winter. I want ever so badly to march confidently into my esthetician's store and buy the hideously over-priced Italian line that I love so much. It ain't happening. Given the economic climate, the Season of Giving nipping at our heels, and the impending trip to the Mouse, I am all about the skin care shelves at Walgreens. I want Natasha to wrap my creams and serums in sheets of whisper soft tissue paper, place them in the eco-friendly bag and tie it up with the signature silver ribbon at the handles. Instead I get Cyndi who smells like cooked hamburgers, Britney's perfume from 4 years ago, and Marlboro lights. She'll push aside her People and ring up my purchases with her painfully ripped cuticles and labored breathing. I don't mock her for reading People. I am a US Weekly junkie. People annoys me. I will be heavily invested in Madge and Guy's battle over Rocco and suddenly they toss in the story of the single mother whose eyes were eaten by the family's Golden Retriever while she slept. Despite his sorrow of having to put down his beloved pet, her 11 year old autistic son reads to her from the bible every night as she used to for him. I like keeping it fluffy and People always fucks it up for me.

I'll stand there at the Walgreen's register and listen to my change come whizzing down the metal chute. I try to avoid making physical contact with the man with sleep cheese in his eyes buying 17 cans of Vienna Sausage. Personal space my fetid friend, please respect it. I'll decline the plastic bag and she'll give me that over-plucked eyebrow glance where she wonders if I shave my armpits. Instead of passing the antique table laden with freshly brewed herbal tea and imported dark chocolates that sits in the foyer of my Spa, I will slink past the tower of antifreeze and KidzBop CD display into the parking lot. I'll drive home listening to NPR speak about the next group of assholes ponying up for a stab at some TARP funds and weep for my skin.

WORD-UP DOPE TIGHT WICKED

The above words were the main ingredient in my recent phone conversation with my twenty- one year old nephew. He is a junior in college back east and although he has a heart of gold, his vocabulary is that of a Boston pick pocket. I have no worries discussing him on my blog, as I have tried multiple times to get him to read it but he always makes a strange gurgling sound when I ask. Clearly, the thought of reading his forty year old aunt’s blog horrifies him and would be as lame as having no cell phone and riding to class on a unicycle.

I was recently contacted by an old friend I traveled through Europe with in 1989. It was one of the fondest and fattest times in my life. Thinking back, my nephew is the exact age I was when I drank my way through eight different countries with my girls Val and Fran. Val is the hilarious bitch that posted me on Facebook at my chubbiest and Fran is still M.I.A. We hope we track her down so we can reminisce about how much cheese we consumed while barely managing to escape serious trouble. My favorite memory is the time when Italian man #1, his roommate, Italian man #2 and his creepy German girlfriend, sat down and started chatting us up at a restaurant we found in “Let’s Go Europe”. Can you say easy targets? The only people who eat at such places are lazy Americans and mass murderers.

After getting juiced like lemons, we got kicked out by the old proprietor who had four brown teeth and a vicious hatred for American women with large breasts and alcoholic tendencies. Man #1 then insisted we accompany them all back to his apartment. The red flag went up not because Man #1 kept pawing at Fran and looking at her like she was a Rib Eye steak. It was the fact that German girlfriend, who until now hadn’t uttered more than a Hile Hitler, wanted us to come with them more than anyone. And no, it was not a lesbian thing. She was much more aggressive and business like in her approach, trying her best to get us there as quickly as possible without making a scene.

Well, the moment Eva Braun got involved in the conversation I sobered up from a combination of adrenaline and bad mojo and suggested we go get a gelato instead. Something was clearly amiss and being raised to fear kidnappings and pedophiles above all else, I knew this could only end badly with a bottle of Chlorophorm and a five year stint in a white slavery ring.

After leaving the restaurant, we walked down a quaint, cobble stone street where I tried my best to take in the sights and not freak out and kick Heidi in her Leiderhosen. Fran and Val kept laughing and talking in broken Italian with these three smugglers while I scanned their persons for a hidden stash of antique weaponry and masking tape. As soon as we got to the gelatoria, Man #1 took Fran by her very lovely, drunk hand and began leading her away. I grabbed her other drunk and equally lovely hand and again, I told #1 that we would not go back to his place but that we appreciated the free desert and the lively one sided conversation. That is when #1, the Rapist From Rome, hauled off and punched me in my very round, very innocent face. At the top of my lungs, in my best Beverly Sills impersonation, I scream, “You fucked with the wrong girl! I am American!”

This was a time when screaming such words would not put you in more danger. It was when being an American could get you out of the shit and into an embassy with gold leaf furniture and a written apology from a state official. Times, they are a changing. Italian Man #1, Italian Man #2 and Helga the Whore Wrangler then ran for their lives, disappearing into the creepy Rome night as my friends tried to figure out why I was such a buzz kill and where we could buy some more cheap table wine.

I always like to think that thanks to my unbridled hysteria and uncommon paranoia, the three of us are not being forced to suck off a room full of very short, dirty men while wearing sequined tops and broken high heels somewhere in the former Soviet Union. Maybe my nephew will be as lucky as I to travel the world and see just how wonderful it can really be. I wonder how to say “word up” in Italian? Oh, Parola su. Thanks, interweb!

By the way, Val, this one's for you.

Gobble Gobble

I have a few food events on the horizon this weekend. I was up at 5:30 this morning with my coffee and an intent to make lists and surf the web in the search of the perfect recipes to shine like a star at all gatherings. I get the biggest high of my life from compliments I receive from cooking. No drug can recreate that swell for me. I grabbed my dog-eared envelope filled with lame coupons that I will never use. I have tried to be good lately about coupon cutting. Attempts at saving money is the equivalent of Ugg boots around here. Everyone is doing it, but a large majority are failing miserably. As I thumb through the Sunday paper circulars with my scissors held aloft I wonder exactly who it is that buys three packages of Bratwurst to get a fourth for free. Obviously people with freezers the size of coffins. Even if I had an extra freezer I would not buy copious amounts of Bratwurst. This all can be traced back to my fear of sausage products. I don't like surprises in meat and sausage harbors one of the highest probabilities of this occurring.

One of the recipes that I will be making for Thanksgiving is Green Bean Casserole. I know what you are thinking. She won't eat sausage but she will eat that gelatinous slop? Or, you get it and you are licking your lips in the anticipation of ripping open that can of Durkee onions. The smell of chemically fried deliciousness assaults your nose as your marvel over the many shapes the onion clumps can take. Before you get all judgy and pious over my use of cream of mushroom soup let me assure you that the recipe I am using is made entirely from scratch. I will not be searching the canned vegetable aisle of the supermarket looking for the oily cardboard Durkee can. Instead I will be making my own onions with a buttermilk panko crumb mixture, using fresh green beans, and mixing a delicious roux in place of the Campbell's grayness.

I am also hosting a chili party at my house for some visiting relatives. I don't necessarily want to do this but I feel compelled to do so. A large chunk of my extended family has decided that it would be a marvelous idea to breeze into town and plunk themselves down for a few nights with a confused, frail 97 year old. Everyone who lives in the immediate area that interacts with the 97 year old on a regular basis knows what a horrible scenario this is. Alas, nobody has the stones to tell the large disruptive family that their plan sucks donkey balls. Because I am one generation removed from the decision makers I keep my mouth shut. I have made my feelings pretty clear as has my sister, but nobody seems to give a great big shit what we think. Perhaps they will figure it out by night number two when my elderly grandmother sets the table for 23, when there are only 7 actually eating. Or maybe it will be when she complains about the unruly teenagers that are occupying her third floor. She yells at them from the bottom of the stairs, angry that they will not heed her pleas to come down to dinner. They were up there at a time, but that was 1966. She thinks they are still up there...today. In fact she has probably already yelled up the stairs twice this morning fearing that they will be late for school. I figured I'd have the well-intentioned but horribly mistaken out of town visitors over for chili to eliminate at least one night that my grandmother painstakingly arranges her good crystal goblets on a table set with plates for people that have been dead for 15 years. I'd like to inherit the Limoges china that she will undoubtedly drop, so I feel that I benefit in this deal. Pour the wine, the holidays are here. A toast to those that Gagee thinks are still with us. At least they get to eat off the good plates in the afterlife.

Always Illuminating At The Farmer's Market

It’s official, I have a toddling, almost two year old and it hurts so good. Happy 20 months, Otto! After Dave (Daddy) gave me the morning to sleep off the insult he innocently lobbed at me before bed and the Theraflu I had to take last night, legal heroine it should be called, I rose up and got ready to occupy Otto until his afternoon nap. The insult was as follows. While trying to understand why Otto is being so much sassier with me that his father, Dave said that his parenting style is very different than mine (oh be careful here, Dave) and that that he is more esoteric (his word, not mine) and that he is more of a go with the flow kind of parent. I stopped him right there with a mouth full of toothpaste and potential venom and told him that the conversation would be better, um, never. I went to bed high off cold medicine and cranky.

As I said, Otto is acting up lately, but mostly with me. He is testing my boundaries by throwing things at my head and hitting when he gets frustrated. Not really hard, just a warning slap, I would say. Uh oh, that is the kind of thing an abused wife chirps in defense of her violent, drunky husband who chug-a-lugs motor oil and cheap whiskey after playing a round of golf on her face. Of course, I am bummed by his behavior and strict, sitting him down each and every time to explain that that is not acceptable and using the words "no", "boo boo" and "sad". This is where my idea of what to do next collapses. Feel free to comment with any suggestions, jokes or stories of your own to make me feel like less of a freak.

While out killing time today, we ventured to the local outdoor mall to see the fountain, a favorite pass time for overweight tourists and tired nanny’s. This fountain on steroids has water spouts dancing in sync to oldies by Frank Sinatra and Donna Summer. Unlucky for us, the entire fountain was covered up by a stage for the special Christmas tree ceremony this coming weekend featuring Jon Lovitz and Natalie Cole. What? My kid is way too young to know who the hell those two fifty-somethings are and why we don’t care about them. He needs the water ballet, STAT! Hell, I need it. I do love the Master Thespian, though. But Natalie, I never got her.

To my overjoyed surprise, Otto was happy and unfussy as long as I didn’t pick him up, try to force him to walk in a specific direction or put him in his stroller. He barely noticed the lack of fountain fun. He walked along the shops and smudged all the clean windows with his sticky fingers, at one point demanding that we go into the MAC store and play. Sure, great idea! “Hello, do you have an extra iPod I can show my small son? He will stick it in his mouth, push all the buttons simultaneously with his dirty paws and then throw it across the store at that security guard who looks bored and angry.”

I won that battle and we did not enter geeks paradise but he was pissed and only forgave me when I showed him Santa’s workshop a few stores away. Forgive me, my Jewish in-laws for I have sinned and shown my child the wicked ways of the Christians. I even pointed out Rudolph and his nose so bright. But I could not remember the rest of the reindeer’s names or their specific placement. Bad Christian. The workshop was covered in fake candies the size of car tires while a possessed teddy bear spun in circles on the roof. This creepy, Christmas mobile home used up a whole 20 minutes of our day. Hurrah!

After a stop at Barnes and Noble with a few small crying fits and two little kids stealing Otto’s books, we ended up at eating at the Farmer’s Market where Otto proceeded to smear a whole bowl of beans all over his face, drawing smiles and jeers from the surrounding patrons. He made the homeless man to his left look really, really good. As he was on his last mouth full, looking like more like a dog poop than a human boy person, I noticed a woman two tables over flossing her teeth. To be more specific, flossing as if she had a foot stuck between her teeth. Her urgency, focus and lack of self consciousness was appalling and I found myself staring at her for far too long with my jaw between my breasts. She was totally unaware and never looked in my direction, which was more disappointing that I thought. I felt someone should explain to her that flossing is on the list of personal hygiene activities that should never be done outside of the home. No, make that the bathroom. It is #3 on the list. I wanted to type up the list and hand it to her wearing rubber gloves and a paper mask like those over made up hygienists at my dentist’s office.

THINGS NOT TO DO WHILE SITTING AT A RESTAURANT

1) Brush your hair
2) Blow your nose
3) Floss
4) Pick your teeth
5) Pop a zit
6) Clip your nails
7) Wash your hair
8) Shave your legs
9) Change your tampon
10) Douche

The woman was freaking me out and I wanted to get out of there immediately. I turned back to Otto, cleaned up the table, wiped off his face with three diaper wipes and put him in the stroller. As I turned back around to grab the diaper bag, I looked down and saw regurgitated beans and rice, a few stray tortilla chips, a glob of guacamole and two half dead pigeons eating what would most likely be their last meal. The busboy came over and after apologizing profusely for the mess, Otto and I ran away, leaving the destruction in our wake. I knew at that moment that I was no better that Flossy, the tooth fairy at table #12. I told myself that I tried my best to clean up by wiping down the table and stacking the plates. Good, right? Then I rationalized that there were fifteen minutes left on my nap clock to get Otto home and in bed. If I missed my window I was screwed like a Thai hooker on a Bangkok New Year’s Eve. Also, very valid reasoning.

Most days this is not a concern but Otto Pilot is on his third day of not taking his afternoon nap. Remember yesterday, when I joked about him sleeping until 4 P.M.? Well, the joke was on me. He cried, screamed and snotted on his crib rails for two plus hours, with a few breaks when Mommy came upstairs to ask him what the f*@k he was doing. Each time he would do a nose dive onto his blanket collection the moment I walked in and then lie on his stomach ignoring me. Then, I would get up and leave and the one man show would start all over again. He never did sleep and I cried inside.

After leaving the scene of the crime, I got him in the car, strapped in his car seat and wheels moving in less than five minutes flat. Yet, as I was pulling up to our apartment with time to spare, I felt bad about the mess and about myself. It dawned on me that not only did I leave a pile of half digested Mexican food for some poor slob to clean up but that I have not been flossing nearly as much I should.

A Great Meal In Your Pajamas

The recipe below is what my good friend Hilary made for our perfect girls movie night last Monday. After burning the page and smudging it with bean juice she emailed it to me (see photo in right hand column). It was delicious and perfect for a cozy get together. Enjoy!

Hilsby's Turkey and Bean Chili

Yield

6 servings (serving size: about 1 cup chili and 1 lime wedge)

Ingredients

• 1 cup prechopped red onion
• 1/3 cup chopped seeded poblano pepper (about 1)
• 1 teaspoon bottled minced garlic
• 1 1/4 pounds ground turkey
• 1 tablespoon chili powder
• 2 tablespoons tomato paste
• 2 teaspoons dried oregano
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• 1 (19-ounce) can cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
• 1 (14.5-ounce) can diced tomatoes, undrained
• 1 (14-ounce) can fat-free, less-sodium chicken broth
• 1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro
• 6 lime wedges

Preparation

Heat a large saucepan over medium heat. Add first 4 ingredients; cook for 6 minutes or until turkey is done, stirring frequently to crumble. Stir in chili powder and next 8 ingredients (through broth); bring to a boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 10 minutes. Stir in cilantro. Serve with lime wedges.

Nutritional Information

Calories:

211 (28% from fat)

Fat:

6.5g (sat 1.7g,mono 1.9g,poly 1.6g)

Protein:

22.5g

Carbohydrate:

16.4g

Fiber:

4.7g

Cholesterol:

54mg

Iron:

3.4mg

Sodium:

474mg

Calcium:

52mg

Next Time, No Thanks

There are certain reasons that doctors tell you not to take other people’s prescription medication. Overdose and death are certain to be two but another is unadulterated mania caused by the ingestion of an allergy pill meant for an asthmatic and a person who is severely pollen challenged . The recent fires here in Southern California produced an artificial snowfall of ash that made our neighborhood a virtual Christmas village. We are miles and miles from the fires but thanks to those pesky Santa Ana winds and the shear size of the fire line, the entire region is not breathing easy, including yours truly.

I do not have allergies or breathing issues, save for the few times my nose might have accidentally bumped into a line of cocaine in the late 80’s and early 90’s or the horrible chest cold I had when first pregnant with Otto. Yes, I just used the words cocaine, pregnant and Otto in the same sentence. I am not only a terrible mother but a child of the 1970’s who graduated from high school in 1986 and worshiped the Brat Pack, shoulder pads and inane conversations created by an inflated sense of self that came with stimulants popular with rich girls and hookers. I have never had the desire or the ability to run for public office and vetting was never a concern when applying for the pathetic list of jobs I have had since high school.

Luckily, drugs in general have never gotten along with my body or my mind so the only addiction I have ever had has been with massive amounts of sleep and spaghetti. Since having Otto, sleep is no longer a luxury I am afforded. Step one - remove temptation from your everyday life. Spaghetti, on the other hand, is easily accessible and a frequent friend to me. If I had my way, I would eat fistfuls of long, stringy noodles every night, slathered in a good Bolognese sauce, a guaranteed road to a heart blockage and an ass the size of a front loading dryer.

Major Side Note Here: Mom, since you are my most loyal reader, I do not want you to freak out about the drug references. “Just say No” didn’t really work but neither did the “Heroine is Hip” campaign bandied about by those crazy punk rockers and Democrats in 1983. I can barely function after a glass of white wine and my last liaison with the ganja ended with me begging David to protect me from the toilet bowl outside our bedroom window. What toilet bowl, you ask? Exactly. I could never be a drug addict or even a casual drug abuser. My fantasy night involves a great meal with Dave, Otto sleeping soundly, an imported beer, TiVo and my head hitting the pillow before 10 P.M.

As for my breathing, it had been labored and annoying and after a few days of sneezing and itchy eyes, I took an Allegra that a friend gave me illegally. Who needs the cocaine or Meth ? (No, never, not on my worst day and I have never even seen it or smelled it and I hate trailer parks). This little white pill kept me awake and alarmed for two days. My eyes were the size of large tether balls and I felt as if someone had shoved a fire nose straight up both nostrils. That was the good part, as was the desire to clean out all the closets, wash the kitchen floor with my tongue and bleach all my white towels that Dave destroyed during Nose Watch '08.

The bad part came next. I finally came down from my high this morning and experienced what most drug addicts on cable intervention shows always complain about, withdrawal and the comedown. The only thing missing, thank God, was my entire family sitting in a poorly lit conference room at the local Howard Johnson’s while a raspy voiced councilor told me that he used to live in a discarded refrigerator and shoot speed into his spine. But, I would have gladly taken a free airplane ride to a rehab in Arizona that catered to my desire to catch up on my New Yorker articles and sleep off the last nineteen months.

Even after breakfast and some tea, my head was still fuzzy and my patience level was at an all time low. Otto was precocious as ever but his refusal to let me change his diaper and the throwing of the cars at mommy’s head actually made me cry. Dave and his new nose scooped him up, got him changed and took him to the park while I cleaned the kitchen, walked the dog, triumphantly shaved my legs, washed my hair and ran out of the house with my laptop and no specific destination.

Now, here I sit at my local Starbucks, one of three in a two mile radius of my house, writing about why people should adhere to the warning labels on prescription bottles and how I finally recognize that Otto is running full speed toward his terrible two’s. Help me! I would rather sneeze loudly, blow my red nose into rough, generic brand tissue and scratch my eyes with a salad fork than ingest another pill that is speed ball worthy of Richard Pryor at a birthday party.

I will now return home, relieve Dave from his Otto shift so he can continue to write his opus and wait for Otto to wake up. I miss the little bugger but if he wanted to sleep a full three hours I would totally understand and actually get to those closets after all.

Party like it's 1999

Max will be six on December 12th. This year has brought us to to the inevitable horror of planning a large children's birthday party. Somehow we have managed to evade this nightmare for the past few years. We did have the obligatory big 1st birthday party planned at a local Chinese restaurant. We had decided upon Dim Sum much to the chagrin of my in-laws. "Dim Sum? What the hell is that? Chinese food for Brunch?! Do they have Chicken Fingers? Your father likes Lo Mein, you know." We had ordered the cake that cost more than a good pair of heels and everything was ready to go. Of course with a December birthday in New England you are at the mercy of the weather. A huge snowstorm forced us to cancel. We gleefully ate overpriced cake sitting on the floor of our living room and toasted our son's first birthday with a bottle of champagne while he slept blissfully unaware.

We have managed to escape all other parties with a small family gathering. Tasty food and a few bottles of wine and a relaxed atmosphere. With the start of Kindergarten one of the first things Max asked for was "a party at a cool place with all of my friends". Kill me now. I cannot stand kid's birthday parties. Screaming unruly brats running amok. Carter has had a few and each one has left me exhausted and angry. I spend the hours after the party crapping on stupid parents and discovering that I have little to no tolerance for other people's children. I like a child that I can control in an environment that I am familiar with. I'd have the party here at the house, but the thought all of those kids running around my home makes me want to drink heavily and get violent.

The rule that has been introduced to Carter works very well. Kid party every other year. She is at the wonderful age now where she just wants to go out to dinner with a few of her friends. Fantastic! You can even have your own table. Jamie and I will sit in the corner quietly and pretend that we don't know you, just like you want us to. I love that game! Teenage alienation of the parents can at times be a really great thing. Max too will fall under the rule of kid party ever other year. But as of right now, his kid party is on and it looms heavily on my horizon like a trip to the RMV.

We are hosting this 6 year old blow out at a place called Jump On In. A large warehouse filled with moonbounces and inflatable climbing structures. Communicable diseases lurking in every crevice. I never let my kids go to indoor playgrounds save for the few birthday parties that they are invited to throughout the year. The bad weather comes and we are trapped like rats in the house. Jamie will look at me and say, "We could go to..." I hold up my hand and won't even let him finish. My children hate me for the fact that I refuse to let them run free in the plastic rat tunnels and dive in the ball pits that smell like hooker's feet. I will never forget the day a few years ago at some dreadful party when Carter emerged from a purple chute with a strange look on her face. She pointed up to a cloudy tube filled with toddlers army crawling their way through a mist of sweat and Tuberculosis. "Something was wet up there and I put my hands in it and it got on my pants." I almost passed out but had enough in me to pull it together and bum rush her into the ladies room to run scalding water on her little hands. "Mommy knows it burns, honey. Shhhh..." I threw the pants out when I got home. I will let my kids eat Apple Jacks and Little Debbie snack cakes, but to see them roll around in neon plastic tubing like overgrown hamsters makes me want to vomit.

At Max's party I will spend the majority of my time holding the fire extinguisher I have filled with hand sanitizer, and any free moments will be devoted to my vigilant search for predators. A few years ago there was an incident at a local Chuck E. Cheese where a child was assaulted. People were shocked and spoke of it in hushed whispers. I would stand there incredulous. Are you kidding me? How could this possibly shock anyone? If you wanted to molest a child where would you go? You'd head over to a place that is teeming with unattended children. Out of the 55 kids running around that place, at least 30 of them have a parent that has no idea where they are until they come back for more money or a slice of pizza. They have a customer service kiosk for predators in there. "Hello Mr. Johnson, welcome back. Here's your name tag and a laminated map of the easily accessible dark corners and hiding spots. Be sure to join us in the back room later for our presentation 'Game Tokens: Happiness Comes In Small Packages'. Ned, our guest speaker has been out on parole for about 7 months. He has some great techniques on getting the kids to fish tokens out of your front pockets.

I sit and fill out the Darth Vader invitations with dread thinking of what lies ahead. Max can barely contain his excitement so I need to be positive for him. I will watch each parent arrive, sign the waiver form, and then run like the wind out to the parking lot to make the most of their 2 hours of freedom. I will monitor the beasts as they leap around on the inflated monstrosities and keep my eye out for the Ned's of this world. I look forward to next year where I can control things once again and won't need to add bleach to my son's bathwater that night.

The Moody Blues

Through the weekend of hell I have been sleeping on the sofa in the living room while Dave coughs and whimpers upstairs in our bed. I slept well the first two nights, thanks to a big dinner of spaghetti Bolognese, a Stella Artois and half a Xanax. Yes, I did use mommy’s little helper to assist in getting some shut eye on our somewhat uncomfortable sofa. I will never again buy a sofa with only two cushions and a cavern right in the middle where my hip gets lodged like a small child in a backyard Texas well. A fitful night’s sleep on a nubby couch really makes you feel your age and sport a cotton/poly blend rash. That’s what I get for being suckered into buying a Crate and Barrel faux modern sofa on sale right before Christmas three years ago. Damn you, CB!

As embarrassing as this is, I have to explain why it is so damn hard for me to fall asleep like a normal human being. I am not normal. I have serious issues. My bedtime rituals are now bordering on the ridiculous. I have to pee, shower or wash my feet (don’t even ask), slather on the old lady go bye bye cream, tuck in my undershirt so it doesn’t ride up and expose my back (summer and winter), put in earplugs, turn on the sound machine, stack my favorite pillow combination in a perfect tower of puffy goodness, wrap an old black t-shirt of Dave’s around my head, turn off the light and sleep on my right side. Then, after two to seven turns, I eventually fall into a hazy daze until either Otto chirps or Dave snores and I punch him in the esophagus and start all over again. That is why I forced my husband to endure the worse torture of all time. I am selfish, controlling and needy and I love me some sleepy times. He is practically dancing around the house today, still a bit high on the Vicodin but being super helpful and wildly adorable. Ooh, and he showered!

Otto, on the other hand, has had a rough day. He was as moody and colorful as Sally Field’s Emmy award winning Sybil. He woke up in a spectacular state, talking to his blankets and smiling like a fool. Daddy was well enough to hang and play while I made him an awesome breakfast of French toast and a pesto cheese omelet (see recipe below). Then we sped off to music class with very few incidents. When we arrived he wanted nothing more than to play on the playground outside and not go into a small, brightly lit room with a bunch of kids he seems to disdain.

He stood between my legs moaning as we entered the room and would not walk any further, causing a toddler traffic jam in the doorway. I picked him up and plopped him on the kitty pillow provided and thought to myself, “I am a horrible mother and a bitch for making him play with tambourines in the shapes of maple leaves and froggy castanets.” Come to think of it, that does sound like hell and I suck. The music started and he crawled into my lap so forcefully that it seemed he was trying to scoot back into my vagina and up into his first bedroom. Since I did have C-section he has never met my vagina and by the way, never will.

Otto is not a shy kid, but as of late, he is very clingy and reserved in front of strangers . In this music class, it always takes him a good twenty minutes to warm up to the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and high pitched renditions of the old classics “La Bamba” and “All Night Long”. Today was different, though. He seemed angry and aggravated from the start, at one point turning his back to all the kids marching with drums and groaning at me until his face was the color of a desert sunset. A few mothers looked over but since they had their nanny’s with them I just told them to fuck off in my head and that I was a better person for raising my own child. Harsh and unfair as that sounds, it made me feel better inside and cope with Otto’s mini meltdown. Plus, I was wearing the same jeans I’ve worn for the past month and I knew they must have been as disgusted with me as I was with myself.

Then Otto threw a drum stick at my face and ran to the corner to get his sippy cup, which is against the rules. I followed him and held him as he drank his water and asked him quietly why he hit mommy and what was wrong. He said nothing, of course, because he can’t talk yet and this is when the late talker thing really started to get me down. I had no concerns about it until that fateful day when our former pediatrician made me freak out about his late development in the speech department. But after all the other doctors evaluated him and told us he was fine, I felt great.

Yet, in class, all my worries came flooding back. He seemed so frustrated with everything, especially the annoying hand held lollipop drum and the fall themed pom-poms and couldn’t tell me what he wanted. Maybe, he too, is repulsed by the juniors Levi’s from three season ago that I refuse to take off. Maybe he looks around at all the other mommy’s and sees nice, pleated dress pants, perfect pedicures and stylish outer wear and wants mommy to turn it up a notch and make an effort. Even the nanny’s seemed confident in their wash and wear stretch pants, pastel colored t-shirts and excessive gold jewelry.

Class finally ended with Otto crying as I ripped a bag of Pirates Booty from his little fingers, trying to adhere to the no food rule. As soon as we left the building I gave him back his salty treat and put him in the car where he happily sat, shoving the booty into his mouth and looking more like John Belushi after a bender than a toddler with hopes and dreams of fire truck sightings and cookies.

As soon as we got home I put him to bed and wept uncontrollably. I was never worried about his language skills until that fucking doctor threw around the word Autism like it was a Nerf football and said he would need to be tested at twenty one months. By the way, dick wad, you never told us what you wanted him to be tested for or what the test consisted of? Thanks for the 411! I want to go back a month and not freak out when Otto grunts instead of saying “Please pass the soy sauce” or “ Get these gay pants off of me immediately before someone sees me” or “You have to be joking with that hairdo!” But until that day comes, when he judges me as harshly as the world does, I will have to train myself to enjoy all the sounds and unintelligible consonant combinations that come out of my beautiful, wonderful, music class hating little monkey.

Bad Monday

And it is only 8:33 am. I want to dump it all here so I can get off my ass and make the remainder of the day better. At my nephew's birthday party last night a little loser decided to make Max his target. He made fun of his bowling skills. I am thinking that it may have bothered me more than it should because I bowl, and this antagonizing little bastard clearly sucked. Alright, he was 7 years old. I have to give him that. But to mock my kid and then to get up there yourself and throw three gutter balls makes you a supreme asshole, Skippy. My sister spoke to him, I spoke to him. We were kind but let him know that teasing would not be tolerated. He sat there with absolutely no fear staring back at us without blinking. Serial killer. I see a few years of torturing cats and poking the eyes out of his sister's dolls. As a teen he will set small fires throughout the neighborhood and celebrate the destruction masturbating while wearing his mother's bathrobe. In college he will break into the girl's dormitory, collect wet hair out of the shower drain, run back to his darkened room and chew on it crying hysterically. Look for him on the news.

That incident coming on the heels of the bullying in the playground at school last week is making me crazy. He is the sweetest little guy in the world and seems none the wiser that these little bastards are bugging him. I love that he remains blissfully unaware that there are such beasts in this world, but it is killing me.

I'd like Christmas to go away. It pains me to say this because it is a holiday that I normally love. This year it fills me with stress and angst. I hate the fact of spending money that I am convinced we should be burying in soup cans in the back yard. The target of my hatred this holiday season is my mother-in-law. I'd like to cover her with honey and tie her to an ant hill. She is a delusional psychopath in desperate need of medication and employment. It would take me 18 pages of tears and rancor to get into that story. I can talk about it here with confidence because she is still under the impression that email is delivered by magic pixies. Christmas Eve is her favorite day of the year, and we host it here at our house. In turn I'd like to do all I can to make sure that Christmas Eve absolutely sucks for her. I want to serve shitty food and turn off the heat. She loves my fireplace, and always begs us to light it. She hates heavy drinkers, so I am going to hire a naked Santa Claus to sit inside of it and drink large amounts of Vodka. I will then seal off the opening with chicken wire and tell her we have no idea how he got there. The Christmas music she loves will be replaced by sea shantys and dirty limericks. Meeting new people and doing things outside of her comfort zone makes her a bundle of nerves. I am going to go down to the Harvard Square T station and hand out Christmas Eve open house invitations to the freakiest of freaks. $50 Dunkin Donuts card to the toothless Tranny that makes her cry first.

I have had the period from hell for the entire weekend. My hormones are all over the map, and the cramps have made me miserable. I have completely dropped the ball with blogging. Each time I open my laptop I look at this page with dread. I have nothing funny to say, just bitchy angry spew. A thousand apologies to super awesome Dorothea who comes in here every day despite Dave's face getting ripped off. I promise to be better this week. I am going to go for a walk to rid my ass of the cake my sister sent home with me last night, and to hopefully get a grip on the miserable mood that I am in.

He's Halfway Back

Oh Lord Almighty, thank you for Vicodin. It has saved my husband and in turn, my marriage. Dave actually slept for a bit last night with the Playtex tampon still affixed to his upper lip. His tongue has gotten a wee bit smaller and he can actually talk like Dirty Harry and walk down the stairs on his own. He has not changed his shirt, pajama bottoms or washed even an inch of his wretched self but I can see the old Dave start to shine through the grime and grief.

He was well enough so Otto and I could escape the cave and go to Noah’s 1st birthday party. Balloons, a plethora of balls, a music class, bran muffins, pineapple and chocolate cake made Otto a very happy boy. But he just couldn’t be satisfied with all those things and had to add sex to the equation. Dirty monkey. He ran around hugging the older, hot girls and then molested the chocolate cake when I had my back turned. I do not give him sugar, or I try not to but the little stinker saw an opening and took it like a true junkie. After ingesting Mommy Georgia’s stupendous, homemade, two layer chocolate cake, he lasted twenty minutes. The party was over and we left with a load of booty including a yellow soccer ball, a Tonka truck, a purple balloon and a loopy sugar high.

We returned to the den of drainage and Dave was lying on the sofa watching The Godfather and reading The New York Times. He’s back. My baby has returned. New nose or not, I am thrilled that he is somewhat functioning. Otto is still concerned his father will forever look like Porky Pig after a car accident but I know it will all work out. If that is his permanent look, however, I am fully prepared to be married to an out of work character actor who freelances as a security guard. Since I can’t seem to wear anything else besides a sad collection of Old Navy cast-offs, wife beaters and ratty cardigans, we will make a perfect couple. Now, I just need to pick up smoking unfiltered Pall Mall’s, master the art of popping my chewing gum and commit to acrylic nail tips painted in painfully bright colors. And then we’ll renew our vows.

Love you, Honey Bunny!

What Does The Blue One Do?

Leaving my house today was like walking into huge, confetti filled bong hit. The fires are burning up southern California and our air quality is that of prepackaged cake frosting. I only have the ability to feel slightly sorry for the hundreds of residents who lost there homes because I am a renter. It is impossible for me to imagine owning, much less losing my own toilet to an out of control brush fire. I wish I owned some brush. My thoughts and prayers go out to you who understand what a mortgage is and relish in the term re-fi.

The windows have been sealed all day to keep out the soot and I have been stuck in the house with a grown man in agony and a small child messing with my mind and body, as if I were a disciple in his cult. I will drink the Kool-Aid, Oh Great One if only you would shut the fuck up and tell me what you want. So far today you have been given eleven food options and rejected seven of them. I am not a cafeteria with tits. I am all alone in this battle of wills and I am so very weak. My kitchen bitch is laid up in bed looking like Karl Malden after a drinking binge. He can build things, drill things, hurt things, lift things, drink things and smoke things really, really well. But tell him to have some surgery and go to bed and the man crumbles like an stale Oreo.

Dave is a wreck, like I have never seen him and Otto is a close second. The two are so worried about one another and missing their man time that I finally know what it feels like to be Mrs. Cleaver with no wardrobe budget. Cooking, cleaning, bathing and bitching and still I am not permitted to wear petticoats and pearls. If you gave me a bottle of pills and sent me to bed for four days I would Valley Of the Dolls like you have never seen. Women are much better at letting go and accepting their pain, healing or prescription drugs.

Feel better Dave and look on the sunny side of this shitty street. Most junkies and mid-western high school students would sell their hypothalamus for some primo, legal heroine like Vicodin and Darvocet. I know I would. Unfortunately, I cannot swallow a few of mother’s little helpers because I have to get up early with Otto, beg him to allow me to change his crappy, urine soaked diaper, wrestle him into a pair of pants as he tries to stab me with a toy helicopter and then fix him a selection of breakfast items most often associated with an all you can eat Hawaiian buffet and heart attacks. He will then throw most of the food at my head and I will cry inside.

I've got nothing.

My brain is dead I have written and deleted a thousand things. I have cramps, a slight cold, and I feel like shit. Time for random thoughts:

• Not sure what this horrible movie is that my son is watching. Something about amusement parks and ninjas. Loni Anderson is in it and her hair is fabulously teased and blond. Her lip liner and lipstick is so horrifying and distracting that I have had to pee for 15 minutes and I can't bring myself to move.
• I watched a drunk get subdued and cuffed at the Patriot's game the other night. Five cops had him down on the ground and he was putting up a hell of a fight. It was awesome.
• Max came home on Friday and told us that three first graders promised to be his friend and played with him at recess. Then before recess was over that told them that they had their fingers crossed behind their back when they made the promise. They hit him in the stomach and told him they were not friends. I want them dead. I look forward to Monday to get the ball rolling on their downfall.
• The pain meds my gynecologist prescribed for my cramps do not work. Must call her again.
• I miss open-toed shoes and sandals.
• Moths ate holes in my absolute favorite pair of gloves. Fuckers.
• I want more gory details on Dave's surgery. A diagram would be nice.
• Did Kathy-Lee pounce into a Ninja move when she was introduced to the Asian esthetician who was going to give her a facial on Friday's show? Was I imagining that? Could she possibly be that stupid?
• My neighbors across the street are quite possibly the nosiest people I have ever met. A future blog on that is coming.

I Am An Asshole

My nerves were out of whack and I had no way of reigning them in. As yesterday came to a close I was acting like Dave had stabbed me in the leg with his Japanese chef’s knife. Grouchy, short and bitchy was I, as I finished getting the house ready for Dave’s recovery. I made carrot ginger soup, a huge pot of Bolognese sauce and obsessively cleaned the kitchen but it did no good. He finally called my shit out, asking me what was wrong and I told him what all pre-op patients DO NOT want to hear.

Me: “I’m nervous about tomorrow.”

He looked at me like I was the biggest, smelliest, offensive asshole he has ever smelled. Like a stranger's balloon knot standing directly in front of you, naked, at a rock concert or in a very crowded elevator.

Dave: “Can you relax? I need you to not be nervous. I’m the one who’s having my face pulled open and reshaped into a stick straight wind tunnel.”

Then I lied and said I was simply nervous because I wanted to make sure everything was set and he had everything he needed to be comfortable. That was a little true but no, I was really nervous because he was going under a general anesthetic and what if he didn’t wake up. Otto would eat me alive if I was on my own. I couldn’t fight the good fight solo. I will say this in my own defense, though. I never thought about that until his best friend called yesterday, insisting that he had to see Dave before he went in. The urgency in his voice made me think he knew something I did not. He made me promise I would call him the moment he was out of surgery.

Was he watching too many morning television programs with all those chirpy hosts discussing worse case scenarios? Had Meredith Viera talked about a woman in Ypsilanti, Michigan who went in for bunion surgery and came out a rutabaga? Or how about the man whose left testicle needed to be reattached after an unfortunate accident that involved a nose hair clipper, a shish kabob skewer and a case of Bud ice Light Dry in cans, after being put under, never woke up to discover that they removed both nuts and called it a day?

I apologized to Dave, watched some television, took half a Xanax and went to bed trying not to think bad thoughts. Example of some of those thoughts: Taylor Swift looks like Big Bird - Madonna will bounce back with an unhealthy relationship and more yoga– Obama really did win – I love Otto’s new pediatrician – I should have given Dave a B.J. last night to help him relax – I suck or didn’t, as they case may be. Why am I going negative again? I didn’t eat sugar today, yeah! – You are an asshole for showing your nerves to Dave – I feel less bloated than I did yesterday – That means nothing, you idiot! Your wardrobe sucks – The new Bond movie just open – I heard 007 is really gay – He would have given Dave a B.J. - There I go again – Oh, I think I’m asleep – Awesome…

Dave woke up very early this morning, took a cab to the doctor’s office and I spent my morning feeding and talking to Otto and praying, something I hardly ever do and when I do, I do not do it well. A wonderful friend offered to stay with Otto while I picked Dave up and as I was doing my last minute clean up, the clinic called twenty minutes early and told me he was fine but could I hurray over as soon as possible. I raced over to the office where I valet parked my car (I am unusually much too cheap but this was an emergency) and walked into the shiniest doctor’s office I have ever been in. The double frosted doors and the long mahogany counter screamed 1980’s excess and success. I almost expected Gordon Gecko to pop his head out and yell at me for being too close to his aura. Even the elevator was top of the line, with plush wall panels, like a fancy sweater I would have killed for in high school. I would wear it the first day back after Christmas vacation and that afternoon, I would allow my boyfriend to feel me up in the back of his dad’s Audi, no doubt commenting about how luxurious my new cowl neck felt and how perky it made my boobs.

When I told the chorus line of receptionists I was there to pick up my husband, they all looked up at me in unison. They were all silky smooth Fembots with dead eyes and perfect hair and must have thought for sure I was there to have some work done. Collectively, there must have been 347 pounds of artificial ingredients between the four of them, but damn they looked as delicious as a box of Twinkies and just as well preserved.

I could hear their leader thinking, “Oh, look at this poor, little scab. Is she wearing Levi’s and no make up? Are those sun spots? That was so last decade.”

I was so intimidated by this varnish coated cheerleading squad that after they told me I was in the wrong place, I blurted out, “You are all so attractive.” The leader told me to go up to the next floor and then dismissed me with a flip of the hair and a dirty look. I scurried away, ashamed and feeling like an unwanted cockroach.

Up on the third floor I entered a room full of moaning, miserable post-op casualties who all seemd like extras from M*A*S*H without the humor or revelry. In the very back corner behind a white curtain I found Dave, lying with tubes in his arms and a maxi pad across the bottom of his nose, not his best look. He appeared to be asleep but as I approached his bedside he reached out for me and in a very hoarse, raspy voice said, “Fuck you. This is all your fault.”

Okay, he didn’t say that but I bet he was thinking it. I am the one who insisted he get this Septoplasty done so we could both get a better night’s sleep. Now, as he lay there with blood dripping from his swollen pantiliner face and, I might add as high on pharmaceutical drugs as he was back in 1989 on Dead tour, I felt terrible. He did this all for me so I didn’t have to insert wax earplugs in my ears and cry myself to sleep each night. The nurse came over and gave me a long list of instructions and then proceeded to change his dressing, something I would need to do every few hours for the remainder of the weekend.

She then removed an I.V. from his arm and suddenly, the room got really bright, as if I were living inside an open refrigerator. My knees were shaking and I thought for sure that a large torrent of vomit would land on Dave’s lap at any moment. I smiled politely and told the nurse I needed a minute and sat down in a nearby modern designer chair with my head between my legs. Dave looked at me with eyes that said I would never make it through medical school and, "You are such a loser." Poor Dave, he just lay there quietly as Mindy, Maggie or Muffy pulled medical tape and a large collection of arm hair from his forearm while his asshole wife stole his thunder. I had to get a grip or he might just run off with Muffy and become addicted to fake boobs and mundane conversation. Breath, breath, breath asshole!

Within a few minutes I was feeling human again and got Dave dressed and out of there before I either fainted or stopped for a quick face lift and nostril reduction. We arrived home and Otto, being thoroughly entertained by our friend Katie, took one look at Franken daddy and hugged his leg. It was one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen, save for the time last week that he decided to start calling me “Dummy” instead of “Mama”. That was fucking adorable. I put Dave to bed with eight pillows and a salad of pills and spent the rest of the day making sure Otto’s diaper was not filled with brown nuggets and Dave’s gauze dressing was not ruining my white duvet cover. Note: When having a patient recover in your home from any major operation, use the old, ugly patterned bedding you’ve had since college that you care less about than the homeless dude who lives in your alley and speaks to the dumpster as if it were a spouse.

Now that Dave is home and Otto is sleeping, I can breath a sigh of “hell yeah” and watch some really bad Friday night television and drink a sad, little beer. But first, I have to put away all of Otto’s toys, a collection so vast and messy it seems as though we live in a small lead covered Chinese toy factory that just imploded. Then I need to wash the dishes, walk the dog, make up the couch, my new bed for the weekend, with the linens I really wish Dave was using and shower off the grime of the day. Then I’ll slather some fancy night cream I was given as a gift all over my forty year old mug, leer at myself in the mirror and make a list of all the procedures I intend on having done as soon as Dave is back in the saddle. The big question is this. Should I get the Jennifer Aniston or the Amy Winehouse? Hmmm…

The Grossest Grocery List

One day away from Dave’s shnoz surgery and I am actually nervous for him. He is calm and cool but I am cleaning and cooking and shopping as if preparing for a presidential visit or yet another war. Otto and I went off this morning to our local Ralph’s grocery store, a place we rarely go. It is the processed food capitol of Los Angeles, where they take double coupons and most everything contains preservatives, high fructose corn syrup or Maladextrose.

For a few days I’ve been asking Dave to give me a list of feel good recovery foods that he’ll want to have in the house. Every time he blows me off and insists that we have what he needs or that he needs nothing. Dudes are so different. If I was getting my nose butchered and reshaped I would be making lists, gathering take out menus and whining uncontrollably, preparing for the drama that was about to happen. I am a huge baby and have a threshold for pain as low as Britney’s self esteem.

He finally relented and we made a list together this morning. It reads like a diabetic’s Christmas list:

Jell-O Pudding
Good Humor bars
Popsicles
Coke
Ginger Ale
Top Ramen
Canned chicken noodle soup
Soft white bread
Soft wheat bread
Haagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream
Ben and Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie ice cream

I spent more than fifteen minutes in the frozen food section confused and overwhelmed by the choices, the colors and the names of all the crap one can buy. Dave really wanted Fudgsicles but apparently they don’t make the old fashioned kind any more. They only have sugar free loaded with artificial sweeteners, something I am more afraid of than spiders and pedophiles.

The array of popsicle choices were so abundant it was as if I were at Ikea and I was looking for a whimsical pillow sham or a cheap looking coffee table. There were thousands of shapes and sizes and flavors but I just wanted the old school ones you break in half and suck on when you have a sore throat. They now come in blue, if any one is interested and apparently it is a mystery flavor, possibly blueberry, boysenberry or black berry, your guess is as good as mine. It looked like a cheap rental car to me, the kind that is the last one left at the airport and because you are desperate and cheap, you drive away in it both ashamed and thrilled at the same time.

When I was finally done gathering my items, I skulked up to the check out counter with my head down and Otto fixated on a Slim Jim he managed to snatch from the magazine rack. I wouldn’t let him eat it but since it looked like a red drum stick I was all for some violent percussion on the cart handle. After the two people ahead of me were finished buying 45 cans of Fancy Feast and a gallon of Popov vodka, I unloaded my groceries and tried to look cool. I was horrified by the items I kept putting on the conveyor belt and was convinced that everyone, even the wrinkled alcoholics in front of me were judging me and my parental abilities. I was so embarrassed that I actually told the check out guy all about Dave’s surgery. He in turn told me he’d be getting his tonsils out in two weeks and is very nervous and unhappy about it. We had a moment and I just wanted him to know that I will not be feeding my child a collection of processed foods that have a combined shelf life of one hundred years. No, those things are reserved for his father who has a deviated septum, a swollen soft palette and high cholesterol. Some wife I am.

After the groceries were bagged and I had paid $70 for all this crap, I realized that all my anxiety was caused by the fact that I chose this week of all weeks to give up sugar again and I wanted nothing more than to go home and bath in all this sweet, pre-packaged goodness. I have been eating sugar since Otto’s birth, having given it up before because it made me feel like I had been hit in the face with a wooden oar. I hadn’t felt bad at all until Halloween, the night I chose to rape and pillage a very large and innocent bag of candy. Since then I have been getting headaches, mood swings and low blood sugar attacks, which make me as pleasant as a cornered wolverine. Thus, the sugar train must stop and I have to get back to eating yeast and hating life, one cracker at a time.

So, with a house full of sugar and two dudes who need to be taken care of, wish me luck. But really, wish Dave good luck. Have a safe surgery, love and a quick recovery. And good luck Armando. I hope you too, will stock up on frozen goodies loaded with artificial food coloring and love. Do you get a discount because you work at Ralph’s? That would be sweet.

Here Comes The New Nose

Two days remaining until Dave goes in for his Septoplasty. No, he is not getting a nose job. He is getting his septum fixed and his tongue shaved so I no longer have kick him in the cheek every time he wakes me up snoring. And that is with earplugs. I have actually worn them for almost seven years, bitterly of course. Now he has taken the matter into his own hands and scheduled a horrifying procedure I cannot even discuss.

My husband is a very thorough guy, researching long before he sees it, does it or buys it, whatever it is. This operation is no exception. He even You Tubed a video of the surgery on my computer and left it up for me to look at. I can’t get a shot without a trauma unit staff being alerted and then annoyed. Why he would think that I need or want to see footage of a dude having his inner nostrils scraped and broken and reset is beyond me. I actually feel sick just thinking and writing about it. I might have just thrown up in my throat. And we’re supposed to go to sushi tonight.

With his research he has made sure that the doctor he is going to is THE nose guy and that insurance covers it. If he’s the nose guy than what’s to stop him from doing a little nip and tuck and making Dave look like the new guy on Gossip Girl? These guys are addicts. Just in case Dr. Plastic Man wants to create a master piece out of Dave’s very distinct, very cool, somewhat large nose, he best step off. I have no intention of dropping off the nose I know and love Friday morning and picking up a Beverly Hills housewife who has destroyed all her high school pictures to ensure that people think she has always looked like that slutty Bratz doll Carmen or a small ferret.

Now, if he wants to do some work on me, well then that’s another story. As much as I hate needles, blood and pain, aging and ugliness are two things I detest so much more. I have always thought that the tip of my nose resembles a malformed ball of Play-Doh and the circles under my eyes make me look like I was born before the Emancipation Proclamation. Both my grandmothers had that hung over, smudged eyeliner look and I have inherited those wonderful bags under my narrow, unlashed slits from where I see the world. After a good cry I tend to be mistaken for a an old, angry Mongol after Genghis Khan raped my entire village.

When it comes down to it, though, I couldn’t do it and look at my flawed, tired self in the mirror. If I did ever get work done I would match all the angry moms on the playground who name their children after random household appliances and bitch to any one who will listen that the Range Rover they drive is just too small to have a movie screen installed or that the construction on their new house is killing their ability to orgasm with Paco, the pool guy.

I think I’ll stick to the plan of aging angrily and being secretly jealous and disgusted in the women who surround me in this town they call the City of Angels. Unless insurance covers it. Then you can find me sitting in the sand box while I try and smell Otto’s poopy diaper with a nose the size of a pinky toe and a face as smooth and expressive as a blank piece of binder paper.

15 minutes until bowling league

I have a short amount of time to write before entering the subterranean world of bowling. We start exactly at 9:30 am. The older ladies get bitchy if we are late. Nothing that is quite worse than a 76 year old wearing a turkey and fall leaf applique sweatshirt with an attitude. I missed the last two games. One day was the week from hell that Max's lungs decided to dive a notch or two down in functionality, and the one after that I got some hours at work that I decided to snap up.

I have now crossed over into a different realm of bowling dedication. At first I went to bowl as a fun side thing to do with other moms from school. This year I decided to take my commitment a bit more seriously and I purchased shoes. It seems like a reasonable move. If I am going to bowl regularly every week, why not have my own clean shoes? The shoes at the bowling alley are drastically inconsistent and it was screwing up my game. In the borrowed shoes I would bowl a few strings and and head angrily back to the counter to ask for a better fitting pair. The woman that runs the shoe distribution is a complete hag. Bad hair, bad attitude, and too many Tostino's pizza bites while watching Ghost Whisperer. I bought the shoes to lessen my interaction with her. My game has improved! No more slippery feet and wobbling. My average shot up a bit and I bowl with a different confidence. Confident that I don't have dead skin from a stranger's feet embedded in my socks.

Now I want my own balls, and a nifty bag to carry them in. I saw some cool balls the other day at a sporting goods store and I went over to check them out. $200!? Are you kidding me? I bowl Candlepin so we are talking about the little balls here. I am not ready to invest $200 into balls. So I cherrypick over the ones that come up through the shoot and try to find the ones with less cracks and dents. This of course ties up my game and I start getting the sneers from the Polident crowd. Back off, Gladys. Sit there in your Habband pants, chew on your cherry flavored Halls, and wait your damn turn.

The Breakdown Of My Breakdown

The great thing about auditioning for commercials after having a baby and graduating from my early 30’s mode is just how low the bar really is. I received two appointments last night from my agent and here is the description from one. This is my breakdown of the breakdown.

Woman - Caucasian - "soccer" Real to slight character looking, interesting face. Great actress, good with dialogue, comedy and improv. Down-to-earth and relatable

Soccer – plain and homely but NOT dikey. We can’t have a mom looking like someone in Rosie O’Donnell’s book club.

Caucasian – As white as snow and can sell shit in a red state. At least what’s left of them.

Real to slight character looking, interesting face – A very average to below average, possibly frumpy mom type. Preferably a large ass and droopy breasts who is not afraid to wear a high-waisted chino and a Easter egg colored sweater. Her face must look tired, swollen and possibly desperate but still have good skin and an ability to not intimidate the buyer at home who hasn’t left her carpeted family room in three months.

Or

Not hot AT ALL, “interesting” being the key word. That’s like saying to someone who asks if the person you are setting them up with is pretty and all you say back is, “They have a great personality.”

Great actress – No speech impediments.

Good with dialogue – Not illiterate.

Comedy and improv – Quick on her old feet and laughs at all the director’s jokes,

Down-to-earth – Looks like she might not shave her legs but really does so the director doesn’t gag when he sees her in shorts.

Relatable – Ugly.

Side note:

I took Otto to this audition and in true toddler form he was impossible, grunting and turning bright red in the room when they were giving all the actors directions. He looked like a tomato being squeezed through a sieve. He threw his bottle at the casting director, moaned and squirmed, making me look like an abusive mother. He was a virile baby Orangutan, a creature who always wins. I left thinking I would not have a chance to be the next AFLAC mom and make some dough for Otto’s outrageous tuition bill next year or to finally buy myself some clothes that didn’t make me look homeless.

With tears in my eyes, I went back to the waiting room to gather up all my shit and drag Otto out of there when suddenly, I was surrounded by four of the actresses going up against me. They sat me down, told me what the casting director had said, congratulated me for my bravery in bringing Otto with me and entertained him while I went back in the room to audition. I came out and Otto was playing with a three year old named Levi and didn’t know I had even left.

To those women, I thank you for your patience, your kindness and your collective cardigan sweater look. You saved my ass and I cannot tell you how cool you all were. I hope one of you gets the job, if I don’t, that is. I’m not an idiot. Just an asshole.

Ladie's Lunch

My favorite moments from yesterday's great lunch with my gals -

"She has corn cob teeth."

"I have to find doorstops."

"After I eat this tuna salad I'll be autistic from all the mercury and won't have to be responsible for anything."

New Year's is on!"

"Yeah, I have a minivan..."

"I'll expense this lunch."

Love you guys,


Dotty

Now..where were we?

Oh yes! Normal day to day life. Good to be back here. Max is breathing with ease. Still coughing up nasty hunks of mess, but coughing up stuff is good on Asthma Island. My friend's Mom is home recovering from brain surgery and requesting her favorite comfort foods. I have assimilated myself back into the working world nicely and seemed to have achieved a decent work/life balance. My bathroom floor is a bit scuzzier looking and laundry seems to have taken a big step back in priority but at least I am squirreling away some good spending money. I am looking at you cashmere wrap. Someday, my pet.

Meal planning is going swimmingly. I am the stooped over frumptastic housefrau at the supermarket peering at coupons and trying to decide if we really need 4 containers of Cascade to save $1.00. I will tell you that I garnered a deal on kid's Yoplait that would have made any bargain hunter proud. It makes them poop green, but when festooned with Madagascar II characters are you surprised? If anyone is interested in seeing it- Jamie reports it was fairly lame. Except for the penguins, of course. He also said he wished there was more of Alec Baldwin's lion in it.

I am also sorting through mail and trying to get paperwork in order. I'd rather put my tongue in a flat iron than do paperwork. I cannot stand it. I have a pile with three forms to be filled out, and umpteen items that need to be put into our household calendar. Yeah, I have a household calendar. Bite me. Bask in your jealousy of my anal organization. Mock if you will, but think of me the next time you swing into the dentist's parking lot 20 minutes late sweating and swearing.

Catalogs have been insane lately. I have received no less than 8 toy catalogs in the past week. I give the kids a pen and a pat on the head and tell them to circle ideas for Christmas. I tell them they can choose what they want, but then need to narrow it down to the three special choices. I encourage them to choose many, and then to begin the elimination process. It buys me a good hour of quiet time. Kid's take this shit very seriously. I then remind them that Santa sees every move they make. He is a stalker minus the late 80's sedan and the penchant for classic rock stations.

My son asks me how Santa knows what he is doing at all times. I just shake my head and make my eyes as wide as possible. I hunch my shoulders a bit and whisper in his ear. "I have no idea, but honestly... (look around to see if anyone is listening)...it even freaks me out a little bit, and I'm a Mom." Again make your eyes wide and give them a knowing nod, as if to say: Yeah man, I am totally serious- I feel I can level with you here. Step back from the child but leave your hand comfortingly on their shoulder to not freak them out too much, but just enough. Trust me, it works. Behavior around here has been spectacular.

Today we received three meat catalogs. Burgers' Smokehouse, Harrington's of Vermont, and Kansas City Steaks. I am not planning on any meat gifts this holiday but if I was I would surely order from Burgers'. The name is great, and all of their products are labeled using log letters. Inside the first page they have a cartoon pig sitting in front of the computer looking hungry and ordering away. "Herb Roasted Turkey, Cheese sampler, and a pound of Bac....Hey!" They also list as one of their November specials: Omelette Meat. The description is simply 'diced up portions of our moist tender and sweet ham packaged in 8oz portions.' How about just calling it diced ham? It got my attention, but not in that positive way that makes me want to add it to my eggs. I like specifics in any meat label, it comforts me.

Entertain Me This Week

I highly suggest that watching a historic presidential election in your living room with a sumptuous dinner, a group of great friends (one being a staunch Republican) and a plate of hot, chocolate chip cookies should be done more often than once in a lifetime. Hopefully, I will get that chance again. If you happened to miss any part of the election or when they called it for Obama or his acceptance speech, then You Tube it and like it! It was the best television experience I have ever had, even surpassing the Half Pint runaway episode of Little House on The Prairie and the 1997 French Open women’s final when Steffi Graf beat Martina Hingis and then went on to marry the men’s winner, Andre Agassi. Well, maybe not.

I was disappointed that SNL was a rerun. Seriously? It was election week and all you could give me was James Franco whoring for Pineapple Express? He has been boning a girl in my neighborhood so I get to see him up close on dog walks and he is so pretty. But I really wanted more on Saturday night. Sorry, Jimmy. Hope to see you when I pick up a big pile of steaming canine waste. You are so attractive that I often forget it smells like death.

Taylor Swift is making the rounds with her new album, most notably on The Ellen DeGeneres Show where she called out Joe Jonas for being a teenage douche and breaking up with her on the phone. I can’t believe how yesterday that is. Has he ever heard of texting? Then, as a surprise, Ellen brought out Justin Timberlake in the flesh to cheer her up and it was a tween dream. I loved it with all my glitter and lip gloss combined. Like, totally.

This is creepy and old timer, but I cried when I listened to the beginning of A Prairie Home Companion this week when Garrison Keeler congratulated the Obama Family and then broke into “America The Beautiful”. To quote the punch line of one of my favorite jokes, “Oh my God, I’m turning into my mother.”

The joke itself, written by the very hilarious, very hairy Sarah Silverman (look closely at her arms) goes something like this:

I was licking jelly off my boyfriend’s penis the other day and
I thought to myself, “Oh my God, I’m turning into my mother.”

Sorry Mom, I know you read this. Just tell everyone I am adopted. It is very hip nowadays.

I have been too busy and tired to watch any reality television this week. Let’s just say I bet Charm School on VH1 was heinous with the skanky sluts and their hair extensions, Tyra Banks talked about herself and her booty while trying to be sympathetic to some mall rat of a guest and Wipe Out had several people air lifted off the set and into wheelchairs and obscurity. That, of course, will never be seen by the viewing public. Let’s just say I know someone who works on the show and the shit hit the fan this week. One woman snapped her leg in half on an untested obstacle coarse, most likely covered in Jell-O or Cool Whip. Only a real asshole would try and win $50,000 by propelling herself across a pond filled with shaving cream, rubber buoys and metal planks wearing nothing but a tricycle helmet and bike shorts. You are what you eat and shit, you ate!

Please do not watch The Mentalist. Simon Baker is the new David Caruso. Can’t you see that? Don’t look into the light. For God’s sake! Yet another procedural cop show will only make our country less intelligent, to the point where citizens in high ranking positions of power will think that Africa is one country surrounded by water. Besides, who does the lighting? It looks like all the actors are sitting in a dentist’s chair getting a thorough cleaning. Simon, you need a teeth whitener, stat!

I have a confession to make. I love the show Two and A Half Men. There, I said it. It’s dirty, depraved, hacky at times and Charlie Sheen wears Bermuda shorts, unnaturally pressed bowling shirts and socks with loafers with no sense of irony. I feel better already.

Can someone please vote Elizabeth Hasselback off the island already? Her team lost, she’s pissed and she’s plotting something sinister. Mark my words. That little bleach blond cowlick is dangerous and dumb. Fox News would be lucky to have her.

My Loser Saturday Night

- I watched Antiques Roadshow with a stupid smile on my face and no apologies.

- I ate Dave's left over Godfather pasta surprise and if heaven came in a flame colored Le Crueset chaffing dish sprinkled with homemade bread crumbs then I have seen the light, my friends.

- I only had one glass of wine and no cookies because I think I am getting fat from beer and large amounts of sugar and pasta and lack of exercise and post election munchies. God damn you, Barack!

- As a surprise to me, his super tired, lazy wife, Dave Pay-Per-Viewed "Baby Mama" with Tina Fey, resulting in a throughly satisfying movie experience and me crying because I think I want another baby...

- Oh shit, what?

- Bedtime before 10:30. I am indeed, a loser but a loser on the winning team.

My Hazy Week

This has been the longest, most exhausting week. I blame the election erection I got on Tuesday which was followed by the post coital come down and a hang over from two drinks. My heavy weight days are long gone. Daylight savings always threw me into a tizzy of confusion and a feeling of jet lag. Then came the worst period I’ve had in my life and a torn ligament in my finger that I got changing a diaper. I can barely type and the misspellings are piling up like unwanted McCain Palin posters. Oh, I forgot the pregnancy scare I had this week. That aged me ten years and kept me in a coma for three days straight.

On the celebrity front, the world as we know it has shifted. Madonna is getting a divorce, Elizabeth Hasselback looks like she swallowed a concoction of John McCain’s sperm and broken glass and Prop 8 passed making gay marriage illegal in California. Not only is that shameful but it has sent Ellen DeGeneres into a tailspin. Rumor has it that she is so upset that she might grow out her hair and stop dancing all together.

Otto is growing so fast that the two t-shirts I bought him this week are already too small for him and make him look like a tiny Incredible Hulk. He played with a few kids at the playground today, fighting with one over his deflated soccer ball and the other boy’s trucks. This boy and Otto worked out their disagreement with a few grunts and stares, as I discussed the selfish stage with his mother. Then she grabbed her son who smelled like a septic system in a shanty town and tried to change his diaper on her lap in the sandbox. I ended up giving her a hand as the poop was sure to get all over her clothes and her son was as cooperative as a freshly incarcerated hooker on PCP. She looked at me with shock and gratitude and said, “It really does take a village.” Sure, I guess. Just don’t ask me to touch the fecal matter. I have my limits.

It made me think that it must be embarrassing on some level to be a toddler and have your mother wipe your ass in front of a bunch of other kids. You can walk, you can kind of talk, you have your own will and personality. Yet, out of the blue, this woman who is always getting in your way, force feeding you broccoli and grains, pulls down your pants in public and scrapes shit off of your very small, very hairless balls. Maybe this kid didn’t want Otto to know he had no pubes and that the only action he was getting came from an older lady with no fashion sense and tired eyes. I noticed he wasn’t circumcised and I wondered when and if that would ever bother him.

I had a boyfriend in college who looked like an ant eater so I am not prejudiced. We called him trunk dick and had a good laugh about it as often as possible. When erect he looked like every other average to below average white guy. I hear he’s married now, proving that the European look can work for you here in the States, as well. But, he did come from a long line of functioning alcoholics and he loved him some pills. Just saying…