A Place To Put My Feet Up

I do not see my blog as place where I complain about how horrible my life is. It is not a basement apartment where I leave my garbage piled up for everyone to smell. I do not view it as an oversized tote bag filled with half eaten grumpy bars and Ziploc bags of anger. Last I checked it in most definitely not a poop bag bursting with a crap covered moments. I am pretty sure it is not a waste receptacle that I use to store scraps of hatred and loathing. And in no way is it a shoebox of pot shots or a Tupperware of trouble.

 

It is a place where I can put my two-week old manicured feet up and realize that they desperately need a new coat of polish before wearing flip-flops in public. It is a corner of my world where I share my crazy thoughts, tilted experiences and demented daily musings about motherhood, wifedom, friendships, neighborly love and chronic hate, Nazi noise makers, rusty resentment, my hourly fashion faux pas and moments that make me laugh like a third grader, snot and all.

 

Today, in fact, it very well may be about how my car would not start this morning and how I had to drive Dave’s Monster Truck to Otto’s school, petrified that one of the other mothers might mistake me for a four wheelin’ Meth dealer with a love of tires the size of a hot tub and a closet addiction to The Harley-Davidson Catalogue clothing line. Then I could continue talking about how, after finding a parking space large enough to accommodate the small cruise ship I was forced to drive, I got a call that my Jeep needs a new battery, hydraulic hood lifts, rear breaks, an oil change and a serious washing. Luckily, this fun expense comes just in time for the commencement of my official birthday week. Looks like rubber is the new black handbag.

 

I could also rattle on about the joy I am feeling toward my amazing kid who sat patiently in a moving car for six hours while driving home from a wondrous Thanksgiving vacation. Observations he made while cruising south on the 101 were as varied as, “Look Daddy, flat bed tow truck”, “Mommy, I want to run away with my penis for five minutes”, and “This rainbow French fry is goooood.” Otto is the sun, the moon and the stars to us. But best of all, he gets the joke. And it’s always dirty.

 

Then, there is always the go-to asshole heiress neighbor who has just been evicted from her apartment for getting yet another puppy. This dog, the one she purchased from a puppy mill using a platinum Amex that has seen as much action as her Frette bed linens, is one big ass pup. And, by the size of its paws, it will soon grow into a Wooly Mammoth with turds to match. Yes, this is the same girl whose car alarm sharts at me at all hours of the day and night, making me cry into an old Target nursing top that now doubles as my workout shirt and a nursery school pick up blouse. She is, indeed, the same girl I have mentioned before who refuses to move her Range Rover for street cleaning and has amassed a collection of parking tickets that, if taped together, could easily asphyxiate a Cristo installation. 

 

This morning is her last day on my block and, of course, she refused to rise and shine before sunset, much like her trendy, vampire brethren. Sure enough, her windshield was, once again, decorated with a pink and white invitation asking for yet another $65 donation to her favorite charity, the City of Los Angeles Parking Enforcement Bureau. Little victories…

 

So, this is what this is, my attempt to describe the view from my window with humor and honestly and light. It may be blurry and God knows the glass needs scrubbing and the cracks are more than slightly noticeable, possibly even hazardous on a really windy day. But they are mine and I want to share them with you. And it goes without saying, I hope you like reading them as much as I like writing them, snot and all.