Seeing that today is my father’s seventy-first birthday, I thought I would share one of my favorite stories about him.
A few years back when I still had aspirations to be an actress of the well-known variety, I auditioned for one of the supporting leads in a clunker called “Pushing Tin”, directed by Mike Newell. It was not famous for its quirky plot cleverly revolving around air traffic controllers who loved to banter back and forth or its ability to once again, showcase John Cusack wearing black jeans and a long coat. It happened to be the infamous film where Angelina Jolie and Billy Bob Thorton first met and fell in hot, gothic, bloody love with one another, eventually marrying and molesting each other on every red carpet from here to Istanbul.
I had read for a part of the sassy yet masculine female air traffic controller, a part that any out of work lesbian with work boots would have killed for. I had driven to Santa Monica to read for the director himself and had, what could be called, the audition of a lifetime. Dressed like a female security guard, I hit it out of the park with my realistic portrayal of a woman sitting in a chair watching blips on a screen that represented airplanes and delivering quips while talking imaginary tin birds out of the sky.
The moment I finished reading, Mike Newell, the famous director of such classics as Four Weddings and a Funeral and a bunch of other shit no one knows turned to me and asked where I had been hiding and then proceeded to compliment my skill at landing a plane. All the sub par acting classes, horrendous theatre productions and People magazine reading had clearly prepared me for this moment of thespian perfection. If I could convincingly portray a woman who knows the difference between longitude and latitude while wearing work pants, the world would be my oyster!
My agent got the call the next day that Mike (we were now on a first name basis) had loved me and I had put me on hold. This stroke of good luck proceeded to started a weeklong, nail biting, stomach aching, insomnia inducing wait for, what would invariably be, great news. In my mind, I had already become best friends with Angelina, John Cusack and I were now casual lovers, I had leased a new convertible BMW and had just purchased four new handbags made of baby alligator skin and solid gold bullion.
The fateful day finally came but instead of being given a golden ticket to a coke addiction and fifteen minutes of fame, my agent informed me that Mike had decided to go in another direction, a common bullshit Hollywood term for “you did not suck my dick, so you did not get the job” or "I don't remember her". I lost the part to the red headed chick who played Vicki on News Radio and who also ended up living with Nick Nolte for ten years. Yes, she was sassy, funny and painfully inept when it came to choosing sexual companions but she also resembled a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest two hours after hatching and was seven years my senior.
After hanging up the phone, I immediately dialed my parent’s number, hoping to unload all my devastation and drama onto my mother, as I had done since the day I was born. My father, surprisingly, answered the phone, an act so out of character that it actually stopped the flow of my tears for a moment. He hates talking to people so much that years earlier, he had invented a signal ring reserved for immediate family members only. This stealth ring sequence would ensure that he would NEVER have to speak to any colleagues, neighbors, phone solicitors or relatives other than the motley crew that lived under his crumbling, listing roof.
My father knew instantly that something was terrible wrong. Being the drama queen that he was, he assumed I had either been kidnapped and was calling from the back of a van or had lost the ability to see after looking into the sun for too long. I tearfully explained to him that something much worse had just occurred. A relatively unknown actress who had an ankle for a face but a much better agent had just passed me over for my big break. After a few “I’m sorry’s” and “don’t cry’s”, my father said to me in a Brazilian accent as thick as paste, “At least you’re not a prostitute. You could be doing the hooky hooky on the boulevard.”
And with that, he laughed his maniacal laugh and hung up the phone, making me realize how lucky I was to not be a professional dick sucker, just a recreational one and relieved that my father aimed so low.
Happy Birthday, Papai!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Happy Birthday To Me
Before I became a mother I would often snottily say that I would never spend any weekend time watching small, dirty runts run around in circles with each other, covered in cake crumbs and deli mustard on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. From my perch of elitism and stupidity, I told myself that our family time would be spent reading The New York Times or watching a golf tournament. Better yet, after my angelic child came into this world, I would stroll the neighborhood clutching a four dollar coffee and window shop as he sat peacefully in a fancy stroller sipping on what ever those small people sip on, never uttering a sound.
Over this past weekend we attended two children’s birthday parties and it was sadly, the highlight of the 2008-2009 season. The Saturday party was over the top in wonderful with pony rides, a bouncy house, a music class and the best kids catered food I’ve eaten. We arrived at 11 a.m. and ended up overstaying our welcome by six hours. As Otto played with the host and birthday boy, a wondrous kid that had become as important to him as his Matchbox 1968 Mustang GT and every bulldozer, Dave and I sat around eating turkey chili dogs and having real, old fashioned adult conversation, complete with cold beer, crude references and bitter irony.
The hours ticked by and the two of us felt like we were back in our twenties, swilling our drinks and laughing at things that did not involve oddly shaped turds in Otto’s diaper or monosyllabic grunts that substituted for a sentence. Otto is now old enough to walk up and down stairs, run at full speed while holding a kitchen and sit in a chair and feed himself while mommy and daddy catch a buzz. He is an independent, resourceful and a total dude, and we are thrilled.
As the party wound down, the guests began appropriately leaving but Dave and I remained like two homeless house guests without a shopping cart. The sun had set, a second meal was served and the boys were bathed and exhausted and we were still there, two discarded shoes looking for a closet. It was a perfect storm of awesome. The eight hours we spent at this party killed an entire day of meals, activities, cleaning and napping in one fell swoop, making me a newly converted fan of the toddler birthday bash and bloated beyond recognition.
The following afternoon we were at it again. Only this time, the party took place at an indoor playground. This little fact made it impossible for us to bring our overnight bags, an Aerobed or pajamas without looking creepy as well as needy. Otto was still wired from the day before and we arrived to find a table covered in tiny bite sized slices of pizza, a huge fruit platter, bottled water and a eighty pound chocolate cake made in heaven by small, green ferries who wanted nothing more than to give every child a sugar rush as potent as black tar heroine on a hot summer day. It was a modern Mecca of cool with a huge vat of plastic balls for the kids to sink into, a slide, a rope ladder and tunnel and a disco floor that lit up when you were doing your best Stayin’ Alive. Everything was closed off insuring that Otto could not weasel his way out to the street to try and catch a city bus or spark up a conversation with a parked car, a dream I know he has had on many a night. We let him run wild like the wildebeest, playing with his pals and screaming with delight as we continued our mature speak, discussing politics and gossiping like cheerleaders.
Again, we killed so many birds with the dinner, the playing in the balls, the dancing and grown up sentences that I felt the party had been thrown for me and me alone. It was my weekend at a spa, my peaceful me time, save for the massage from a large man named Hans and a fruity drink that made me see triple. For the price of a few gifts and a ten minute drive, I got a weekend chock full of fun with my friends while Otto spent time with all his favorite peeps and ate his way through a cornucopia of bite sized fun foods. Not wanting to be labeled the asshole mom with the “NO SUGAR” fixation, I also allowed Otto a small piece of cake at each party. It not only made him as wired as a crack whore but he slept like a rock and that, was the real icing.
Over this past weekend we attended two children’s birthday parties and it was sadly, the highlight of the 2008-2009 season. The Saturday party was over the top in wonderful with pony rides, a bouncy house, a music class and the best kids catered food I’ve eaten. We arrived at 11 a.m. and ended up overstaying our welcome by six hours. As Otto played with the host and birthday boy, a wondrous kid that had become as important to him as his Matchbox 1968 Mustang GT and every bulldozer, Dave and I sat around eating turkey chili dogs and having real, old fashioned adult conversation, complete with cold beer, crude references and bitter irony.
The hours ticked by and the two of us felt like we were back in our twenties, swilling our drinks and laughing at things that did not involve oddly shaped turds in Otto’s diaper or monosyllabic grunts that substituted for a sentence. Otto is now old enough to walk up and down stairs, run at full speed while holding a kitchen and sit in a chair and feed himself while mommy and daddy catch a buzz. He is an independent, resourceful and a total dude, and we are thrilled.
As the party wound down, the guests began appropriately leaving but Dave and I remained like two homeless house guests without a shopping cart. The sun had set, a second meal was served and the boys were bathed and exhausted and we were still there, two discarded shoes looking for a closet. It was a perfect storm of awesome. The eight hours we spent at this party killed an entire day of meals, activities, cleaning and napping in one fell swoop, making me a newly converted fan of the toddler birthday bash and bloated beyond recognition.
The following afternoon we were at it again. Only this time, the party took place at an indoor playground. This little fact made it impossible for us to bring our overnight bags, an Aerobed or pajamas without looking creepy as well as needy. Otto was still wired from the day before and we arrived to find a table covered in tiny bite sized slices of pizza, a huge fruit platter, bottled water and a eighty pound chocolate cake made in heaven by small, green ferries who wanted nothing more than to give every child a sugar rush as potent as black tar heroine on a hot summer day. It was a modern Mecca of cool with a huge vat of plastic balls for the kids to sink into, a slide, a rope ladder and tunnel and a disco floor that lit up when you were doing your best Stayin’ Alive. Everything was closed off insuring that Otto could not weasel his way out to the street to try and catch a city bus or spark up a conversation with a parked car, a dream I know he has had on many a night. We let him run wild like the wildebeest, playing with his pals and screaming with delight as we continued our mature speak, discussing politics and gossiping like cheerleaders.
Again, we killed so many birds with the dinner, the playing in the balls, the dancing and grown up sentences that I felt the party had been thrown for me and me alone. It was my weekend at a spa, my peaceful me time, save for the massage from a large man named Hans and a fruity drink that made me see triple. For the price of a few gifts and a ten minute drive, I got a weekend chock full of fun with my friends while Otto spent time with all his favorite peeps and ate his way through a cornucopia of bite sized fun foods. Not wanting to be labeled the asshole mom with the “NO SUGAR” fixation, I also allowed Otto a small piece of cake at each party. It not only made him as wired as a crack whore but he slept like a rock and that, was the real icing.
Monday, February 23, 2009
"If you're gonna spew, spew into this."
We spoke of vomit today. A phone call from the west coast and we decided to highlight vomiting. It's either that or we discuss our outrageous menstrual flow. Today we decided to go with the other end. The last memorable vomiting episode for me was at Disney World. I got very drunk at the California Grill and it culminated in me barfing in our happy theme ravaged Disney room. Surprisingly good sushi, excellent wine. My kids were snuggled up with their Mickey and Bambi animals watching America's Funniest Home Videos and the MOTY was hugging the toilet. Nice. Magical fairies and pixie dust, all yaked up in a sea of rice and red.
Max had the stomach bug a few weeks ago. His belly hurt and he was complaining about the pain in thaat special groany voice that you know you are in for it. His lethargy and palor led me to believe that a episode of vomiting was in his future. We set up the bench next to his bed. It is a bench that is normally used for coloring and Lego modification. Tonight it was to be used as a table for the vomit bowl. I placed it next to his bed with the high hopes that is aim would be good and true. He would wake from his troubled slumber, his tummy would rumble and he would be sick in the annoited bowl. I heard him moaning at 2 am. I sprinted into the room knowing that my orchestrated plan would go awry. Sure enough I walked into a child that had thrown up all over himself. It was on his neck, down his shirt, and covering the bed.
There is a certain age that children figure out that you are not supposed to throw up on yourself. I cannot recall when that age hits. Carter will now get up and head into the bathroom. I love you, Carter. I wish I could recall when she made the big switch from when puking down your neck is okay and makes you scream for Mommy, and puking down your neck is vile and one must do all that they can to make their way to the proper receptacle. I had high hopes that night that 6 was the age that kids propel themselves into a bathroom when they are ready to get sick. It's not. Max lay there in a pool of his stomach contents, crying. I screamed in my head. Kid puking at 3am is such a major investment of time. It's cold here on the east coast in January. If you vomit as a child you garner a clean up with less than ideal water temperature. Everyone is in a blur of sleep and scantily clad. It's like the Playboy Mansion minus David Spade. Vomit covered kid, mom and dad in their underwear banging into one another. Run a load of laundry? Sure, sounds good from the onset, only to realize you have previously washed a load of hang to dry only. So there you are at 3am stringing up bra's to make room for the chicken and pasta loaded blankets that smell like the third circle of hell. You attempt to wipe down the vomit covered child with the aid of Huggies wipes and a Batman nightlight. I was ready to throw the smelly little scrub out into the snow in the hopes a neighbor would take pity on him and hose him off in the backyard. All the child wants is to go back to bed, all you want is a hot shower and a Xanax. I just want him to make that leap. That human instinct that tells you all you abhor is about to land into this nice warm nest of slumber. I want him to spew into this.
Max had the stomach bug a few weeks ago. His belly hurt and he was complaining about the pain in thaat special groany voice that you know you are in for it. His lethargy and palor led me to believe that a episode of vomiting was in his future. We set up the bench next to his bed. It is a bench that is normally used for coloring and Lego modification. Tonight it was to be used as a table for the vomit bowl. I placed it next to his bed with the high hopes that is aim would be good and true. He would wake from his troubled slumber, his tummy would rumble and he would be sick in the annoited bowl. I heard him moaning at 2 am. I sprinted into the room knowing that my orchestrated plan would go awry. Sure enough I walked into a child that had thrown up all over himself. It was on his neck, down his shirt, and covering the bed.
There is a certain age that children figure out that you are not supposed to throw up on yourself. I cannot recall when that age hits. Carter will now get up and head into the bathroom. I love you, Carter. I wish I could recall when she made the big switch from when puking down your neck is okay and makes you scream for Mommy, and puking down your neck is vile and one must do all that they can to make their way to the proper receptacle. I had high hopes that night that 6 was the age that kids propel themselves into a bathroom when they are ready to get sick. It's not. Max lay there in a pool of his stomach contents, crying. I screamed in my head. Kid puking at 3am is such a major investment of time. It's cold here on the east coast in January. If you vomit as a child you garner a clean up with less than ideal water temperature. Everyone is in a blur of sleep and scantily clad. It's like the Playboy Mansion minus David Spade. Vomit covered kid, mom and dad in their underwear banging into one another. Run a load of laundry? Sure, sounds good from the onset, only to realize you have previously washed a load of hang to dry only. So there you are at 3am stringing up bra's to make room for the chicken and pasta loaded blankets that smell like the third circle of hell. You attempt to wipe down the vomit covered child with the aid of Huggies wipes and a Batman nightlight. I was ready to throw the smelly little scrub out into the snow in the hopes a neighbor would take pity on him and hose him off in the backyard. All the child wants is to go back to bed, all you want is a hot shower and a Xanax. I just want him to make that leap. That human instinct that tells you all you abhor is about to land into this nice warm nest of slumber. I want him to spew into this.
Time to make the doughnuts
With motherhood comes a certain lack of dignity. You go from caring about your appearance, spending time, money and energy on what jeans to wear, picking out the perfect polish color for your twice monthly pedicure, taking a luxuriously long time to blow out your hair and shave certain areas of a body that get numerous workouts to simply being satisfied to leave the house dressed like a mental patient. I actually went to an audition today wearing what I had worn to bed the previous night. My ensemble included bright blue pajamas with multicolored flowers, an old gray t-shirt and a thick, fuzzy pink robe that screams, “I give up!” Excluding the dribble of beer on the front of my shirt and chocolate crumbs in my hair from the kid’s birthday party we attended with Otto yesterday, I was the exact replica of myself fifteen hours previously. Lounging on our milk stained sofa watching the Oscars, I looked and felt the same way as I did entering the casting office.
All the women waiting with me were not only recognizable from their stints as The Swiffer Sweeper mom, the home economics teacher in Superbad and the Verizon lady but also completely committed to the bathrobe oeuvre we were all going for. Yet, even with a team of ugly surrounding me I still felt embarrassed and dumpy. After the audition was over, I tried to embrace my bedridden appearance but I could not let go of the fact that I was in a public place and had to walk outside and back to my car looking like Mrs. Ferry, the crazy cat lady neighbor I had growing up who never met a stained nightie she didn’t like.
How many mornings have begun with me wishing I could remain dressed in my favorite sleep wear all day, not caring what I do or who sees me? Today was that perfect opportunity I always thought I wanted. I had a hall pass to drive across town looking as if I just stumbled out of a 3 a.m. house fire to try and fight for a chance to be the next Dunkin Doughnuts mom. What I did not realize was that wearing sleepy time duds in front of strangers is a thousand times worse than I thought it would be. I felt unkept, ugly and downright depressed, telling anyone who would listen that I was doing it for a part. Nothing says stable like a lady in old bedclothes talking to everyone and anything around her. I am bad enough with my old sweat pant collection from college and throngs of long sleeved shirts that barely survived Otto’s infancy. The milk stains, the late night tears, the grilled cheese marathons that these separates endured makes me wonder how these clothes have not evaporated before my eyes and why I still wear them at all.
It also made me think that I need to get myself to the mall and purchase some cute, clingy casual wear that might actually entice my husband to look at me not as a unrecognizable, foreign object floating in a sea of indifference but a sparkly, majestic yacht sailing into sexy waters off the coast of I Want Some of That Land.
Just when I felt a burst of motivation and urgency and a plan forming in my head to change my life and update my wardrobe, I arrived home to a husband who made me lunch and then attacked me despite the fact that I was dressed for a middle aged, lonely hearts sleepover. While Otto slept upstairs, Dave took one look at my faded, pilling p.j.’s and my bed head and had his way with me anyway. Afternoon delight! Maybe I’ll just take that money I almost spent on some new jammies and a bra that says anything other than “ugh” and buy something I really need, like a crock-pot. Nothing says sexy like stewed, hot beef.
All the women waiting with me were not only recognizable from their stints as The Swiffer Sweeper mom, the home economics teacher in Superbad and the Verizon lady but also completely committed to the bathrobe oeuvre we were all going for. Yet, even with a team of ugly surrounding me I still felt embarrassed and dumpy. After the audition was over, I tried to embrace my bedridden appearance but I could not let go of the fact that I was in a public place and had to walk outside and back to my car looking like Mrs. Ferry, the crazy cat lady neighbor I had growing up who never met a stained nightie she didn’t like.
How many mornings have begun with me wishing I could remain dressed in my favorite sleep wear all day, not caring what I do or who sees me? Today was that perfect opportunity I always thought I wanted. I had a hall pass to drive across town looking as if I just stumbled out of a 3 a.m. house fire to try and fight for a chance to be the next Dunkin Doughnuts mom. What I did not realize was that wearing sleepy time duds in front of strangers is a thousand times worse than I thought it would be. I felt unkept, ugly and downright depressed, telling anyone who would listen that I was doing it for a part. Nothing says stable like a lady in old bedclothes talking to everyone and anything around her. I am bad enough with my old sweat pant collection from college and throngs of long sleeved shirts that barely survived Otto’s infancy. The milk stains, the late night tears, the grilled cheese marathons that these separates endured makes me wonder how these clothes have not evaporated before my eyes and why I still wear them at all.
It also made me think that I need to get myself to the mall and purchase some cute, clingy casual wear that might actually entice my husband to look at me not as a unrecognizable, foreign object floating in a sea of indifference but a sparkly, majestic yacht sailing into sexy waters off the coast of I Want Some of That Land.
Just when I felt a burst of motivation and urgency and a plan forming in my head to change my life and update my wardrobe, I arrived home to a husband who made me lunch and then attacked me despite the fact that I was dressed for a middle aged, lonely hearts sleepover. While Otto slept upstairs, Dave took one look at my faded, pilling p.j.’s and my bed head and had his way with me anyway. Afternoon delight! Maybe I’ll just take that money I almost spent on some new jammies and a bra that says anything other than “ugh” and buy something I really need, like a crock-pot. Nothing says sexy like stewed, hot beef.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Mommy's New Botox
The burst of joy and energy that filled me this morning felt as if my heart had stopped and someone plunged a hypodermic needle straight into my chest, dosing me with pure adrenaline and bringing me back to life. Was it the green tea, a great Sunday Times, cloudy weather in a city of sunshine or my hair suddenly morphing into a collection of gorgeous instead of the handful of hay that it imitates as of late? None of the above.
My happy surge was the result of watching my 23 month-old son hit a golf ball for the first time across my living room with the form and accuracy of a very small, much cuter Jim Furyk. I am holding off on the Tiger Woods comparison so as not to appear like a psychotic stage/sports mother who wants nothing more that to take Otto to the range at 5:30 a.m. every morning to hit balls and perfect his swing. Oh, but I do. And oh, what a swing.
He loves his basketball, as a small M.J. should, he can throw a ball overhand and hurt his target, he swings, batter, swings. But, to have him stand on our shag rug holding a red, plastic driver and then swing like he was at Augusta on a lovely spring morn fills me with the kind of happiness I have not experienced since Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf both won the French Open in 1999 and then fell in love.
Baby steps, I know. But those steps will be taken with the best cleats, clubs, bats and balls money can buy and with great, sideline enthusiasm from his peanut gallery. I just hope his skill set does not suddenly change and lead him into a career in rhythmic gymnastics, log rolling or skeet shooting. He will then have to take the bus to practice sans mere and leave me wondering where my little Tiger has gone.
My happy surge was the result of watching my 23 month-old son hit a golf ball for the first time across my living room with the form and accuracy of a very small, much cuter Jim Furyk. I am holding off on the Tiger Woods comparison so as not to appear like a psychotic stage/sports mother who wants nothing more that to take Otto to the range at 5:30 a.m. every morning to hit balls and perfect his swing. Oh, but I do. And oh, what a swing.
He loves his basketball, as a small M.J. should, he can throw a ball overhand and hurt his target, he swings, batter, swings. But, to have him stand on our shag rug holding a red, plastic driver and then swing like he was at Augusta on a lovely spring morn fills me with the kind of happiness I have not experienced since Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf both won the French Open in 1999 and then fell in love.
Baby steps, I know. But those steps will be taken with the best cleats, clubs, bats and balls money can buy and with great, sideline enthusiasm from his peanut gallery. I just hope his skill set does not suddenly change and lead him into a career in rhythmic gymnastics, log rolling or skeet shooting. He will then have to take the bus to practice sans mere and leave me wondering where my little Tiger has gone.
Things That Make Me Laugh
- Men wearing necklaces.
- This American Life.
- People tripping or falling.
- Alec Baldwin.
- Keri's laugh.
- Cat nuts.
- Cars with large decals.
- My inability to operate the TV remote.
- Steven Colbert.
- How much money I spend at the supermarket each week.
- Carter, and her friends, and their drama.
- The fact that my cat gets her nails done more than I do.
- Religious fanatics.
- Lisa's asshole lips.
- Max's absolute addiction to Storm Chasers and Dirty Jobs.
- Rhode Island.
- Dotty's hate for landscapers.
- St. Agnes School's NorthFace obsession.
- MST 3000.
- Sawyer's nicknames.
- Jamie.
- This American Life.
- People tripping or falling.
- Alec Baldwin.
- Keri's laugh.
- Cat nuts.
- Cars with large decals.
- My inability to operate the TV remote.
- Steven Colbert.
- How much money I spend at the supermarket each week.
- Carter, and her friends, and their drama.
- The fact that my cat gets her nails done more than I do.
- Religious fanatics.
- Lisa's asshole lips.
- Max's absolute addiction to Storm Chasers and Dirty Jobs.
- Rhode Island.
- Dotty's hate for landscapers.
- St. Agnes School's NorthFace obsession.
- MST 3000.
- Sawyer's nicknames.
- Jamie.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Why I Don’t Write In Public Places
No outlets
What?
I just had a filling put in so when I asked someone why there we no outlets to plug in my computer, drool spilled out of my mouth and half my face refused to march along with the words, making me look like Lisa Rinna after a Botox implosion and a severe stroke (see above photo)
A deaf couple sitting next to me having a conversation that is as visually distracting as being on acid at a laser light show. Will you please shut up, already?
A homeless man gargling his own spit at a table directly in my eye line, making noises like a car wash while reading Muscle Car Magazine and doodling with an unsharpened pencil
A guy working the coffee counter so hopped up on his own product that he aggressively engages every customer with a “Howdy do! What can I getcha ya?”
A depressed, confused looking office worker half-heartedly dressed for managerial success who is on her third cup of “java” and reading trashy magazines like they were the Talmud
The bathroom
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
"Jungle Love, Oh Ee Oh Ee Oh, I Think I Want To Know You."
I now have a brand new reason to fear my neighbors. I have had general reservations regarding them since we moved into this house, however the ball game has completely changed. They are outwardly friendly, kind and polite. Their hair, their clothes, and their house is trapped in 1978. It's like we moved in next to Larry from Three's Company and the empty headed wisp of a woman that finally agreed to marry him. At the Regal Beagle, of course. Mrs. Roper officiated over a lovely ceremony amidst the ferns and brass rails. Glasses of White Zinfandel were raised in unison.
They have a monkey. A small Capuchin named Sophie. We met her two days after we moved in. The diaper is what did it for me. The diaper and the hands, moving constantly, picking at everything. She is obsessed with her hangnails. She picks at them constantly and looks at you sideways. I have had all of that I could handle in third grade, so no thanks. The kids love her, my nieces and nephews love her, others enjoy seeing her. I stand back far enough so that I may sprint into the door when she breaks free from her paper thin leash.
I have never liked monkeys. I don't find them funny. I find them scary and overly obsessed with asses. Any creature that is that invested in drilling around in each other's stink is way down on my cuddle list. My ex had a monkey as a pet for awhile. He said it would shit in the cabinets constantly. His mother would reach for a can of Spaghetti O's and come back with a handful of monkey feces. I don't really know what more to say here, so let's move on to another reasons why monkeys suck. America's Funniest Home Videos have shown me that street monkeys are something to avoid. First, check out the handler. Why one would progress further after that is observed escapes me. Dirty, small men handle monkeys. Most animals shy away from you. Monkeys want to touch you. That right there is the numero uno deal breaker for me. We were on vacation in Mexico last year and we saw a monkey. They had it right at the entrance to the buffet. So kids and their gaggles of families were stopping to touch the monkey and pose for pictures. Max burst into tears because I wouldn't let him touch it. Monkey handling before dinner? Sure, I'll touch the monkey! Meet you at the pool bar for urine shots tomorrow!
Then I read about Travis. The Xanax popping, wine swilling Chimp. Charla came over that morning for a lemon poppy seed muffin. Nobody told her the moody aging primate had a prescription drug chaser with his Lobster tail. Imagine having that fucking thing coming at you? Jesus.
The monkey next door is a Helping Hands monkey. Sophie is trained to assist the disabled. She is well versed in opening doors, turning on lights, retrieving items, and loosening jars. Which in turn makes her perfectly capable of running over my lawn and knocking on my front door. I plan to mock her ragged cuticles before she rips my eyes out.
They have a monkey. A small Capuchin named Sophie. We met her two days after we moved in. The diaper is what did it for me. The diaper and the hands, moving constantly, picking at everything. She is obsessed with her hangnails. She picks at them constantly and looks at you sideways. I have had all of that I could handle in third grade, so no thanks. The kids love her, my nieces and nephews love her, others enjoy seeing her. I stand back far enough so that I may sprint into the door when she breaks free from her paper thin leash.
I have never liked monkeys. I don't find them funny. I find them scary and overly obsessed with asses. Any creature that is that invested in drilling around in each other's stink is way down on my cuddle list. My ex had a monkey as a pet for awhile. He said it would shit in the cabinets constantly. His mother would reach for a can of Spaghetti O's and come back with a handful of monkey feces. I don't really know what more to say here, so let's move on to another reasons why monkeys suck. America's Funniest Home Videos have shown me that street monkeys are something to avoid. First, check out the handler. Why one would progress further after that is observed escapes me. Dirty, small men handle monkeys. Most animals shy away from you. Monkeys want to touch you. That right there is the numero uno deal breaker for me. We were on vacation in Mexico last year and we saw a monkey. They had it right at the entrance to the buffet. So kids and their gaggles of families were stopping to touch the monkey and pose for pictures. Max burst into tears because I wouldn't let him touch it. Monkey handling before dinner? Sure, I'll touch the monkey! Meet you at the pool bar for urine shots tomorrow!
Then I read about Travis. The Xanax popping, wine swilling Chimp. Charla came over that morning for a lemon poppy seed muffin. Nobody told her the moody aging primate had a prescription drug chaser with his Lobster tail. Imagine having that fucking thing coming at you? Jesus.
The monkey next door is a Helping Hands monkey. Sophie is trained to assist the disabled. She is well versed in opening doors, turning on lights, retrieving items, and loosening jars. Which in turn makes her perfectly capable of running over my lawn and knocking on my front door. I plan to mock her ragged cuticles before she rips my eyes out.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
It's Looking Up, Kid!
It really is amazing when you wake up and think the day might just be a can of dog shit because your legs hairs are so long that they hurt, your hair looks like a mug shot from America’s Most Wanted Top Ten’s Worst Female Criminals and your head feels like you used a steel toe boot as a pillow the night before. Then, it takes a sudden turn when you let go and give in to the fact that you cannot get anything worthwhile done and might as well act like your nearly two-year-old son. When in Rome, shit in your pants and play with trucks until you fall asleep crying into a soft, monkey shaped pillow. I only wish it were that easy.
But, since I hadn’t had a chance to shower and Dave was gone to a meeting where he would be tightly gripping a red pen and trying desperately NOT to plunge the tip into the jugular vein of the other writer in the room, I knew I had to wash off the day before and get moving. I stuck Otto in the bathroom with me, undressed and took a quickie whore’s bath while he played with his Thomas The Train set and gazed at my breasts longingly, relishing the day they provided him with a full Turkey dinner without having to chew or swallow.
We then gathered up our belongings and went over to The Grove, our local outdoor mall complete with rabid, poorly dressed tourists returning from The Price Is Right taping next door and a fountain that plays the oldies while spraying water into the air in forty foot streams. Otto and I then ran around jumping in every puddle we could find and laughing as Frank Sinatra sang “Come Fly With Me” over the loud speakers. It was awesome. I actually did not give a shit if he got wet or if we made it home in time for a nap. The only thing that came close to killing my buzz were the throngs of grown women with their glass eyed, tween daughters who clutched American Girl dolls as if they were rescuing orphaned children in the Kalahari and sad looking vendors who stood at their fancy pushcarts trying their best to stay warm and employed in this economy.
We then followed a path back to the Farmer’s Market area where all the food stalls were and I fed Otto a slice of pepperoni pizza while a new mother sat beside us with her sleeping newborn and her mother. With her tired eyes, huge milky boobs and an ass that was desperately fighting for space inside her baby blue Juicy Couture sweats, she ate her burrito and complained to Grandma about loud Sunday morning neighbors, sleepless nights and maternal memory loss. The motherly complaints really do not vary all that much from the first few months to the toddler years.
But instead of feeling her pain and siding with her mental state, I knew in my heart that we were nothing alike. I would never have purchased anything in baby blue for myself, especially over priced, matching, Juicy Couture cougar wear when Old Navy has the same sweats for a quarter of the price in much cooler colors, even if it disintegrates after twenty washings. If you plan on leaving the house dressed for a soup kitchen giveaway, why would you shell out that kind of money? No matter what you do, you will be covered in breast milk, regurgitated food, tears, feces, spit up, semen, urine and filial disgust at some point in your new motherly day. Slovenly is slovenly, any way you cut it. Spend the money on great porn for your husband and a new Margarita maker.
And for the record, your neighbors will NEVER shut up, the gardeners will continually ruin your piece of mind with leaf blowers and terrible timing, the helicopters will fly right over head chasing a carjacker that never finished middle school whenever you really need a break and a slew of trans-gendered homeless folk will continue to keep your child from napping for months to come with psychotic arguments involving alcohol and old Barbie dolls. So strap on your bag of exhaustion, pull up a chair to bitterness and start shopping for all your matching sportswear at Target. At least there you’ll be able to restock the diaper drawer, purchase overpriced eye cream that will never eradicate those new wrinkles and score a dress made for a teenager that makes you feel just a little bit better than the day before you bought it.
And with that long thought a faint memory, I politely wished the new mother cougar good luck and I walked straight over to Bob’s Donuts, bought Otto a plain doughnut hole and myself a glazed and drove home elated that I had survived the first two years without dying of sleep deprivation or dressing up like one of the ladies from Desperate Housewives. After a quick ride home and a sugar rush, Otto went straight down for his nap and I changed into my ugly, stained, blue gray Old Navy sweatshirt and ate my delicious, shiny, lovely glazed doughnut for lunch. Beat that, Eva Longoria-Parker!
But, since I hadn’t had a chance to shower and Dave was gone to a meeting where he would be tightly gripping a red pen and trying desperately NOT to plunge the tip into the jugular vein of the other writer in the room, I knew I had to wash off the day before and get moving. I stuck Otto in the bathroom with me, undressed and took a quickie whore’s bath while he played with his Thomas The Train set and gazed at my breasts longingly, relishing the day they provided him with a full Turkey dinner without having to chew or swallow.
We then gathered up our belongings and went over to The Grove, our local outdoor mall complete with rabid, poorly dressed tourists returning from The Price Is Right taping next door and a fountain that plays the oldies while spraying water into the air in forty foot streams. Otto and I then ran around jumping in every puddle we could find and laughing as Frank Sinatra sang “Come Fly With Me” over the loud speakers. It was awesome. I actually did not give a shit if he got wet or if we made it home in time for a nap. The only thing that came close to killing my buzz were the throngs of grown women with their glass eyed, tween daughters who clutched American Girl dolls as if they were rescuing orphaned children in the Kalahari and sad looking vendors who stood at their fancy pushcarts trying their best to stay warm and employed in this economy.
We then followed a path back to the Farmer’s Market area where all the food stalls were and I fed Otto a slice of pepperoni pizza while a new mother sat beside us with her sleeping newborn and her mother. With her tired eyes, huge milky boobs and an ass that was desperately fighting for space inside her baby blue Juicy Couture sweats, she ate her burrito and complained to Grandma about loud Sunday morning neighbors, sleepless nights and maternal memory loss. The motherly complaints really do not vary all that much from the first few months to the toddler years.
But instead of feeling her pain and siding with her mental state, I knew in my heart that we were nothing alike. I would never have purchased anything in baby blue for myself, especially over priced, matching, Juicy Couture cougar wear when Old Navy has the same sweats for a quarter of the price in much cooler colors, even if it disintegrates after twenty washings. If you plan on leaving the house dressed for a soup kitchen giveaway, why would you shell out that kind of money? No matter what you do, you will be covered in breast milk, regurgitated food, tears, feces, spit up, semen, urine and filial disgust at some point in your new motherly day. Slovenly is slovenly, any way you cut it. Spend the money on great porn for your husband and a new Margarita maker.
And for the record, your neighbors will NEVER shut up, the gardeners will continually ruin your piece of mind with leaf blowers and terrible timing, the helicopters will fly right over head chasing a carjacker that never finished middle school whenever you really need a break and a slew of trans-gendered homeless folk will continue to keep your child from napping for months to come with psychotic arguments involving alcohol and old Barbie dolls. So strap on your bag of exhaustion, pull up a chair to bitterness and start shopping for all your matching sportswear at Target. At least there you’ll be able to restock the diaper drawer, purchase overpriced eye cream that will never eradicate those new wrinkles and score a dress made for a teenager that makes you feel just a little bit better than the day before you bought it.
And with that long thought a faint memory, I politely wished the new mother cougar good luck and I walked straight over to Bob’s Donuts, bought Otto a plain doughnut hole and myself a glazed and drove home elated that I had survived the first two years without dying of sleep deprivation or dressing up like one of the ladies from Desperate Housewives. After a quick ride home and a sugar rush, Otto went straight down for his nap and I changed into my ugly, stained, blue gray Old Navy sweatshirt and ate my delicious, shiny, lovely glazed doughnut for lunch. Beat that, Eva Longoria-Parker!
I dreamt of Vegas today
As I was folding up clothes and making my bed. I dreamt of me in a pool Cabana sipping a Bloody Mary, adequately covered with sunscreen. A pile of crappy magazines, a new book and the afternoon stretched out in front of me. My husband inside playing a mean game of Caribbean Stud winning enough money take me out for a huge steak dinner and let me pick out a slamming pair of shoes on the way through. Reality is there is a sick 6 year old on my couch and a cluttered basement that is screaming out for attention. No dinner is planned, and if I eat Smoked Chicken Chowder one more night in a row I will weep. Excellent recipe but the repetitive nature of it is starting to wear on my soul. I have not had the chance to go shopping yet this week, I need to sit down and meal plan before doing this or I will go and spent asinine amounts of money on stupid food. Meal planning stresses me out. I love to cook, but to sit and come up with a great variety of dishes for everyone makes me insane. It would help if my kids ate meals with us. I feel like lately they hate everything. This conversation plays out nightly in my house:
child: "What's for dinner?"
me: "Smoked Chicken Chowder"
child: "Eew. I do NOT like that."
me: "You had it a month ago and loved it. What are you talking about?"
child: "What's in it?" (peering into pot)
me: "Potatoes, corn, chicken, tomatoes, cheese."
While I am stirring I am trying to push the green chilies down with the spoon. I am hoping the child won't notice them which is damn near impossible given the fact that they are diced.
child: "What are the green things?
This is the question that signifies the end is near. Green things are never welcome in any sort of a mixture of things. Soups, stews, casseroles, stir fry, Mexican food, and stuffing. If there is more than four ingredients in the dish, and one happens to be green, it will not be eaten.
me: "The green things are diced chilies, they are mild."
child: "Oh, no. No, Mom. I do not like chilies. No way."
They have to agree to try a bite. They do and that erupts into a completely disgusted face and a wild shaking of the head. At times there is the dramatic garbage can spit-out. That is Max. He will throw his hand over his face and do a Karen Carpenter sprint through the kitchen to get rid of the offensive bite. Carter will often relent. With her age comes a much better tolerance of trying new things. A slew of other negative shit, but at least the kid will mix it up a bit with the food.
I reorganized the basement today. Tore it apart. Threw out toys that will take the kids years in therapy to get over. Re-arranged all the dishes and servingware that won't fit into my antiquated kitchen. I am in the mood to eat green things. Take-out salads for dinner. Maybe one will have a celery stalk, like my Bloody Mary from this morning.
child: "What's for dinner?"
me: "Smoked Chicken Chowder"
child: "Eew. I do NOT like that."
me: "You had it a month ago and loved it. What are you talking about?"
child: "What's in it?" (peering into pot)
me: "Potatoes, corn, chicken, tomatoes, cheese."
While I am stirring I am trying to push the green chilies down with the spoon. I am hoping the child won't notice them which is damn near impossible given the fact that they are diced.
child: "What are the green things?
This is the question that signifies the end is near. Green things are never welcome in any sort of a mixture of things. Soups, stews, casseroles, stir fry, Mexican food, and stuffing. If there is more than four ingredients in the dish, and one happens to be green, it will not be eaten.
me: "The green things are diced chilies, they are mild."
child: "Oh, no. No, Mom. I do not like chilies. No way."
They have to agree to try a bite. They do and that erupts into a completely disgusted face and a wild shaking of the head. At times there is the dramatic garbage can spit-out. That is Max. He will throw his hand over his face and do a Karen Carpenter sprint through the kitchen to get rid of the offensive bite. Carter will often relent. With her age comes a much better tolerance of trying new things. A slew of other negative shit, but at least the kid will mix it up a bit with the food.
I reorganized the basement today. Tore it apart. Threw out toys that will take the kids years in therapy to get over. Re-arranged all the dishes and servingware that won't fit into my antiquated kitchen. I am in the mood to eat green things. Take-out salads for dinner. Maybe one will have a celery stalk, like my Bloody Mary from this morning.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Tell me why, I don't like Mondays, tell me why, I don't like Mondays, tell me why...
(Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh) My hair has gone all “raised by wolves” on me, I tweaked my back yesterday mopping the floor in a rage equal to a Christian Bale Christmas morning, Otto spent the weekend barfing on every hand towel and absorbent surface in my house, my husband hates my hair in a bun and I love to wear it that way even though it makes me look like Ruth Buzzy, my parents are in jeopardy of losing their jobs at a top tier university that they have given their hearts and souls to because the top one percent fucked us all over with their mortgage crisis and illegal skull fucking of the economy, SNL has hit the skids again as the election is over and the funny has gone out of the room, I have no idea how to create a really cool website for this blog because my technical acumen rivals that of Andy Rooney’s ability to use an electric can opener, we should be hearing any time now if Otto got into a toddler program and then we’ll celebrate with a sobering conversation on how best to sell a body part to pay for the first year or if we can offer half hearted sexual favors in exchange for tuition fees and Otto’s second birthday is coming up and all I want to do is drink away these troubles under a tree at the playground as I enthusiastically consume a bottle of tequila and a store bought Elmo cupcake next to the homeless transsexual who lives four feet from the sandbox that no one seems to worry about (fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk).
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Valentine's Day is sooooo romantic...
when your small child spends the weekend projectile vomiting on you and sleeping on your soiled chest while you catch up on the TiVo list of programs you cannot live without. Makes for a really sexy, champagne and chocolate drenched weekend. Another Hallmark holiday ignored in the Cohen house thanks to the stomach flu and a severe hatred of manufactured calendar holidays. My real gift? The moment Otto's fever broke and he asked for some Cheerios that did not come rushing back at me in a hot, chunky torrent of bile and 14 vitamins and minerals loaded with toasted wholesome goodness. Put that in a box and send it!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Joaquim Phoenix 0 Letterman 3
Watch this and weep! It might be long but worth every brilliant insult!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1xK6xz8d9Q
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1xK6xz8d9Q
Yesterday's Waterworks
- I cried when I could not find Otto's camouflage socks
- I cried when I found myself standing in the kitchen frozen with confusion as to what I was doing or looking for or wanting from the refrigerator and life
- I cried because I had to put on a red vest and ask nobody if I could help them find aisle 7
- I cried when I missed my mom's call
- I cried during American Idol eliminations
- I cried when I read Chrissy's list about me living too far away and I am still crying about that one. I feel the same way. I miss you, Funny Lady...
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I think I need a Tetanus shot.
Today has been like a rusty old knife sitting in the drawer upside down and when you open the drawer to pull out the melon baller you never use, the knife cuts your finger right on the tip and makes you scream like a horror movie actress and cry for the second time in twenty minutes. At this point, you don’t even want little circular pieces of Honeydew or Cantaloupe. You will settle for a stiff drink and a waterproof band-aid.
I had an audition today that screwed up my schedule of a little writing time or a cool hang with Otto outside of my cluttered, toy strewn living room where I feel suffocated by the shag carpet and the smell of wet dog. I had to put on camera make-up while Otto cried from the hallway because he wanted to hug the toilet as I applied eye liner and cover up to hide the circles of this eighty year old I saw before me. I have serious germ issues when it comes to the bathroom and I am sure Otto could sense my fear as he slowly crept toward the john where his father so lovingly urinates in the middle of the night, sometimes missing and leaving a little yellow friend for me to clean up. That friend is my worst enemy but someone I have been forced to cohabitate with, like a kleptomaniac roommate you are assigned in the college dorms and can do nothing about as she pilfers through your underwear drawer stealing your emergency Twinkie supply and the panties you reserve for first dates and frat parties.
I then had to think nine steps ahead and grab a purse for myself, make a list for Target, fill Otto’s diaper bag with stuff, stuff, stuff, walk the dog, find Otto’s socks, change his poopy diaper, not weep and drop him off with his dad for an hour in front of the library where Dave is feverishly trying to finish a rewrite in two days. Then I bitterly drove to a casting office in Hollywood that is run like a Turkish bizarre and has never hired me. Knowing this was a complete waste of my time but hoping against hope that I might have a chance to pay for Otto’s first year of Platinum coated pre-school I entered a dingy, depressing casting room similar to the great palaces of Van Nuys, California that birth many a fledgling, underage porn actress who wants nothing more than to be filmed eating more wieners than the Japanese dude who won the 2008 Hot Dog Eating Contest.
As I angrily stood next to my competition, two MIDDLE AGED ladies who wore front pleated cardigans and longingly spoke about the sixties, the casting douche handed all three of us authentic, bright red ACE Hardware employee vests and instructed us to put them on and greet him in a friendly and polite manner. He then rolled camera, pointed to me and asked me where the batteries were. In my best ACE Hardware way, I explained to him that the batteries were really hard to find so maybe he should follow me and I would show him.
For those of you who are not actors, have never taking an acting or improv lesson or have never worn a name tag in pursuit of mediocrity, implying that something is hard to find and could not be done without the help of an underpaid monkey who was dressed like a prisoner on the side of the highway removing trash with a pointy stick, is a bad acting choice. Seeing that ACE Hardware is the parent company producing the spot, it would be advisable not to imply that their stores are confusing, cluttered spaces that customers could not possibly navigate on their own and might just get lost in, wandering around aimlessly until they are found lying unconscious next to an open can of paint thinner.
I already had a strike against me as I had to convince the powers that be that I was indeed in my fifties and still in love with Buddy Holly, as were my compatriots standing to my left. Knowing I would not be named ACE employee of the month and would not be receiving a plaque or a better parking space, I knew I had only seconds to charm the casting guy as we were removing our uniforms. With his and paunchy middle, his swishy walk, his lovingly tight polyester shirt that showed nipples and ripples and his black, skinny jeans I knew immediately how to woo this Hollywood causality into giving me a call back. I handed him my vest and coquettishly asked him, “How great was American Idol last night?”
It was almost too easy, like taking candy from a large, star struck, gay baby. We laughed like girlfriends at a sleepover, compared American Idol trivia and then I pulled out the big guns and told them all that I had been to four live tapings in eight years. Casting dude wanted to know how lil’ old me could have gotten tickets so many times but all Bette Davis and Joan Crawford could do was hang their gray heads in shame for never having seen the best TV show ever. They left looking their age and I told the casting guy that he might just get lucky this year and see the show live. “If you think positively anything, could happen,” I said as I sauntered out of the room and back to my car, parked near a pile of trash and an abandoned shopping cart filled with feces and an old sleeping bag. Hollywood, where dreams really can come true and a rusty knife can cut both ways.
I had an audition today that screwed up my schedule of a little writing time or a cool hang with Otto outside of my cluttered, toy strewn living room where I feel suffocated by the shag carpet and the smell of wet dog. I had to put on camera make-up while Otto cried from the hallway because he wanted to hug the toilet as I applied eye liner and cover up to hide the circles of this eighty year old I saw before me. I have serious germ issues when it comes to the bathroom and I am sure Otto could sense my fear as he slowly crept toward the john where his father so lovingly urinates in the middle of the night, sometimes missing and leaving a little yellow friend for me to clean up. That friend is my worst enemy but someone I have been forced to cohabitate with, like a kleptomaniac roommate you are assigned in the college dorms and can do nothing about as she pilfers through your underwear drawer stealing your emergency Twinkie supply and the panties you reserve for first dates and frat parties.
I then had to think nine steps ahead and grab a purse for myself, make a list for Target, fill Otto’s diaper bag with stuff, stuff, stuff, walk the dog, find Otto’s socks, change his poopy diaper, not weep and drop him off with his dad for an hour in front of the library where Dave is feverishly trying to finish a rewrite in two days. Then I bitterly drove to a casting office in Hollywood that is run like a Turkish bizarre and has never hired me. Knowing this was a complete waste of my time but hoping against hope that I might have a chance to pay for Otto’s first year of Platinum coated pre-school I entered a dingy, depressing casting room similar to the great palaces of Van Nuys, California that birth many a fledgling, underage porn actress who wants nothing more than to be filmed eating more wieners than the Japanese dude who won the 2008 Hot Dog Eating Contest.
As I angrily stood next to my competition, two MIDDLE AGED ladies who wore front pleated cardigans and longingly spoke about the sixties, the casting douche handed all three of us authentic, bright red ACE Hardware employee vests and instructed us to put them on and greet him in a friendly and polite manner. He then rolled camera, pointed to me and asked me where the batteries were. In my best ACE Hardware way, I explained to him that the batteries were really hard to find so maybe he should follow me and I would show him.
For those of you who are not actors, have never taking an acting or improv lesson or have never worn a name tag in pursuit of mediocrity, implying that something is hard to find and could not be done without the help of an underpaid monkey who was dressed like a prisoner on the side of the highway removing trash with a pointy stick, is a bad acting choice. Seeing that ACE Hardware is the parent company producing the spot, it would be advisable not to imply that their stores are confusing, cluttered spaces that customers could not possibly navigate on their own and might just get lost in, wandering around aimlessly until they are found lying unconscious next to an open can of paint thinner.
I already had a strike against me as I had to convince the powers that be that I was indeed in my fifties and still in love with Buddy Holly, as were my compatriots standing to my left. Knowing I would not be named ACE employee of the month and would not be receiving a plaque or a better parking space, I knew I had only seconds to charm the casting guy as we were removing our uniforms. With his and paunchy middle, his swishy walk, his lovingly tight polyester shirt that showed nipples and ripples and his black, skinny jeans I knew immediately how to woo this Hollywood causality into giving me a call back. I handed him my vest and coquettishly asked him, “How great was American Idol last night?”
It was almost too easy, like taking candy from a large, star struck, gay baby. We laughed like girlfriends at a sleepover, compared American Idol trivia and then I pulled out the big guns and told them all that I had been to four live tapings in eight years. Casting dude wanted to know how lil’ old me could have gotten tickets so many times but all Bette Davis and Joan Crawford could do was hang their gray heads in shame for never having seen the best TV show ever. They left looking their age and I told the casting guy that he might just get lucky this year and see the show live. “If you think positively anything, could happen,” I said as I sauntered out of the room and back to my car, parked near a pile of trash and an abandoned shopping cart filled with feces and an old sleeping bag. Hollywood, where dreams really can come true and a rusty knife can cut both ways.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Random, because it is all that life allows me at this point.
-Getting old sucks.
-Watching those you love age, sucks harder.
-You just cannot get good Chinese food anymore.
-I need to get back into Yoga. Must. Do. This.
-Diane intimidates me.
-I need to up my water intake, my skin is wretched as of late.
-Despite A-Rod's steriod use and overall douchebag personality, I still find him sexy.
-My grandmother is hilarious, fiesty, spiritual, smart and one of the kindest people I know. I wish to be half the woman she is when I am 97.
-I'm on a boat!
-I want an iphone, badly.
-Dorothea lives too far away.
-If I could, I would eat ice cream everday.
-I hate making my kid's lunches, thinking about what I need to put in my kid's lunches, and buying things specifically to put into my kid's lunches.
-Long nails on men are creepy and wrong.
-I love texting as much as my 13 year old does.
-I miss my dad this week.
-Watching those you love age, sucks harder.
-You just cannot get good Chinese food anymore.
-I need to get back into Yoga. Must. Do. This.
-Diane intimidates me.
-I need to up my water intake, my skin is wretched as of late.
-Despite A-Rod's steriod use and overall douchebag personality, I still find him sexy.
-My grandmother is hilarious, fiesty, spiritual, smart and one of the kindest people I know. I wish to be half the woman she is when I am 97.
-I'm on a boat!
-I want an iphone, badly.
-Dorothea lives too far away.
-If I could, I would eat ice cream everday.
-I hate making my kid's lunches, thinking about what I need to put in my kid's lunches, and buying things specifically to put into my kid's lunches.
-Long nails on men are creepy and wrong.
-I love texting as much as my 13 year old does.
-I miss my dad this week.
We just cannot look away, can we?
After putting Otto to bed and failing to write even a grocery list, I actually spent thirty minutes of my sleepy time last night watching a man drive thirty miles per hour in a white Bentley along the freeways of Southern California. I am just as bad as every chump who rubber necked and shouted at this dude who had threatened his girlfriend with a gun and then took the police on a car chase as exciting and death defying as The Pirates of The Caribbean ride at Disneyland.
The news coverage was disgusting as usual and bored losers came out of their houses and lined up on freeway over passes to cheer this guy on. The paparazzi got involved because they assumed only a celebrity could be driving a Bentley, a car that three different news anchors claimed were three different prices. One insisted it cost $100,000, another $150,000 and finally, some glorified weatherman reported it was, in fact, a $250,000 car and rumored to be a certain famous somebody that he could not name for legal purposes. They actually discussed at great length what make, model and price this car could be, and trying their HD TV best to not seem envious or star struck.
The chase then took a bizarre turn when the man stopped and refused to get out of the car for an exceedingly long time, confusing police and annoying the talking heads at the news desk who were speaking in circles about street names, police uniforms and the paparazzo’s common aggressive behavior toward Paris Hilton types. They seemed to have no idea that she is yesterday’s news. Read your own news stream, idiots! The anchors then tried to talk their way out of awkward dead air time by pointing out the irony that a Bentley would stop in from of a Toyota dealership and what significance that had in the case. Maybe he wanted to downgrade to a more environmentally friendly car or get better gas mileage as you so brilliantly pointed out at mile marker 17. Or maybe, just maybe you are the most frighteningly stupid bushel of rotten apples I have ever seen.
The absurdity of the scene sent me to bed hoping that the man would be all right and that the local news stations would somehow implode while I slept. When I got up this morning, I could not get the man out of my head, wondering what could have happened to the chump that bought that car. I am sure the news stations felt that this story was a huge ratings disappointment on every level, as the man turned out to be a nobody, the car was only valued at $100, 580.56 and rather than conveniently exiting the white, four door, Bentley Continental GT so the rabid on lookers could all get a better look, the driver killed himself inside the car, rather than stepping out for his fifteen minutes and doing a solid for this media hungry, violence obsessed, celebrity stalking world we all call home. Shame on us!
I want more for Otto, more respect, more kindness and more fuel injected R.P.M.’s with a 6.0-litre V12 powered engine. I want him to drive an Aston Martin DBS. Is that really so wrong?
The news coverage was disgusting as usual and bored losers came out of their houses and lined up on freeway over passes to cheer this guy on. The paparazzi got involved because they assumed only a celebrity could be driving a Bentley, a car that three different news anchors claimed were three different prices. One insisted it cost $100,000, another $150,000 and finally, some glorified weatherman reported it was, in fact, a $250,000 car and rumored to be a certain famous somebody that he could not name for legal purposes. They actually discussed at great length what make, model and price this car could be, and trying their HD TV best to not seem envious or star struck.
The chase then took a bizarre turn when the man stopped and refused to get out of the car for an exceedingly long time, confusing police and annoying the talking heads at the news desk who were speaking in circles about street names, police uniforms and the paparazzo’s common aggressive behavior toward Paris Hilton types. They seemed to have no idea that she is yesterday’s news. Read your own news stream, idiots! The anchors then tried to talk their way out of awkward dead air time by pointing out the irony that a Bentley would stop in from of a Toyota dealership and what significance that had in the case. Maybe he wanted to downgrade to a more environmentally friendly car or get better gas mileage as you so brilliantly pointed out at mile marker 17. Or maybe, just maybe you are the most frighteningly stupid bushel of rotten apples I have ever seen.
The absurdity of the scene sent me to bed hoping that the man would be all right and that the local news stations would somehow implode while I slept. When I got up this morning, I could not get the man out of my head, wondering what could have happened to the chump that bought that car. I am sure the news stations felt that this story was a huge ratings disappointment on every level, as the man turned out to be a nobody, the car was only valued at $100, 580.56 and rather than conveniently exiting the white, four door, Bentley Continental GT so the rabid on lookers could all get a better look, the driver killed himself inside the car, rather than stepping out for his fifteen minutes and doing a solid for this media hungry, violence obsessed, celebrity stalking world we all call home. Shame on us!
I want more for Otto, more respect, more kindness and more fuel injected R.P.M.’s with a 6.0-litre V12 powered engine. I want him to drive an Aston Martin DBS. Is that really so wrong?
Monday, February 9, 2009
We'll Always Have Holiday...
All you need is a bathrobe and reality show.
Madonna, you really are the female Hugh Hefner. What happened to my young, bedraggled virgin of yesteryear? I miss you...
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Why I Was Not A Teenage Mother
So many women have lifelong dreams of becoming mothers but I never really saw myself holding a baby, cooing in its ear or happily bathing myself in its bodily excretions. I had friends who obsessed about their baby dolls and wanted nothing more that to experience the miracle of motherhood at the ripe age of seven, just as the regurgitating Baby Alive had promised. With its life like diarrhea realistically oozing for its tiny, pea sized anus, a hole that a #2 pencil eraser so conveniently fit into, smelling of rotten apple sauce and toxic rubber, throngs of affection starved youngsters in the 1970’s would gather around to witness first hand what motherhood would really be like.
Funny how Hasbro never designed a doll that could keep you awake for three days at a time, screaming and vomiting in 15 minute intervals, throw wooden objects at your face, cry uncontrollably anytime you tried to make a phone call or avert your eyes from its evil gaze for more than three seconds. They missed the boat when they nixed a doll that refused the seven different menu options you worked so hard to perfect in the 10 minutes you had to cook, a doll whose diet of fresh, healthy and organic foods would end up on the ceiling instead of inside its artificial belly. They should have created a plastic enfant terrible that squirms and kicks you in the face when having a diaper changed or automatically grabs his testicles when they are conveniently covered in his own personal brand of fecal matter and then rubs it on the wall and in your hair.
While these baby obsessed third graders were given the Barbie Penthouse for Christmas, a Barbie Camper Set for Easter and a new stuffed animal every time they did a pirouette like the ballerina on their satin-lined, jewelry boxes, I was forced to use my imagination and a collection of old shoe boxes. The Florsheim dress shoe box turned into a sexy sports car, the Famolari wedge slip on box morphed into an express elevator and The Kinney’s sneaker box found new life as an modern kitchenette, complete with dishwasher, trash compactor and man servant. When the shoeboxes were no more, due to budgetary constraints and fashion infighting, I was forced to use one of my mother’s discarded clogs as Skipper’s Surf and Sand Speed Boat, which smelled of feet but floated nicely. I even used an avocado green step stool my mother bought at Sears as a beautiful wall unit to adorn Barbie’s new open plan living room inside the piano bench.
I could fake my way around cardboard and random household items but the dolls, themselves, were another story. Our Barbie doll collection was a sad chorus line of discolored nine-inch mutants with burn marks, penned on clown make up and haircuts reserved for mental patients and female prisoner guards. No matter how hard I tried to make Ken really want to dry hump Barbie, he never really seemed to have his heart in it, with Barbie looking more like a heroine addicted manicurist then America’s sweetheart. They were most commonly purchased at garage sales or Goodwill, but in the rare instance that they were given to us brand new by unsuspecting friends or family members, they would immediately fall victim to their horrible transformations at the hands of my older sister, Anita.
With a straight edged razor and a broken crayon she had the skill set and acumen to transform the most beautiful doll into a piece of ravaged drift wood, making Barbie seem like a Skipper’s long lost cousin who had been living in an oil drum. While the wealthy Danish neighbor girls, Bettina and Babette, had a treasure trove of pristine Barbie’s that they viciously flaunted, I would try and act like my team of colorful call girls were all I could ever desire. Finally, when my sister graduated to updating her own appearance with the same techniques which often resulted in her often leaving the house looking like promiscuous marionette, I had moved on to stuffed animals, rainbow stickers and a life long decision that the longer I waited to wear powder blue eye shadow or change a diaper, the better.
Funny how Hasbro never designed a doll that could keep you awake for three days at a time, screaming and vomiting in 15 minute intervals, throw wooden objects at your face, cry uncontrollably anytime you tried to make a phone call or avert your eyes from its evil gaze for more than three seconds. They missed the boat when they nixed a doll that refused the seven different menu options you worked so hard to perfect in the 10 minutes you had to cook, a doll whose diet of fresh, healthy and organic foods would end up on the ceiling instead of inside its artificial belly. They should have created a plastic enfant terrible that squirms and kicks you in the face when having a diaper changed or automatically grabs his testicles when they are conveniently covered in his own personal brand of fecal matter and then rubs it on the wall and in your hair.
While these baby obsessed third graders were given the Barbie Penthouse for Christmas, a Barbie Camper Set for Easter and a new stuffed animal every time they did a pirouette like the ballerina on their satin-lined, jewelry boxes, I was forced to use my imagination and a collection of old shoe boxes. The Florsheim dress shoe box turned into a sexy sports car, the Famolari wedge slip on box morphed into an express elevator and The Kinney’s sneaker box found new life as an modern kitchenette, complete with dishwasher, trash compactor and man servant. When the shoeboxes were no more, due to budgetary constraints and fashion infighting, I was forced to use one of my mother’s discarded clogs as Skipper’s Surf and Sand Speed Boat, which smelled of feet but floated nicely. I even used an avocado green step stool my mother bought at Sears as a beautiful wall unit to adorn Barbie’s new open plan living room inside the piano bench.
I could fake my way around cardboard and random household items but the dolls, themselves, were another story. Our Barbie doll collection was a sad chorus line of discolored nine-inch mutants with burn marks, penned on clown make up and haircuts reserved for mental patients and female prisoner guards. No matter how hard I tried to make Ken really want to dry hump Barbie, he never really seemed to have his heart in it, with Barbie looking more like a heroine addicted manicurist then America’s sweetheart. They were most commonly purchased at garage sales or Goodwill, but in the rare instance that they were given to us brand new by unsuspecting friends or family members, they would immediately fall victim to their horrible transformations at the hands of my older sister, Anita.
With a straight edged razor and a broken crayon she had the skill set and acumen to transform the most beautiful doll into a piece of ravaged drift wood, making Barbie seem like a Skipper’s long lost cousin who had been living in an oil drum. While the wealthy Danish neighbor girls, Bettina and Babette, had a treasure trove of pristine Barbie’s that they viciously flaunted, I would try and act like my team of colorful call girls were all I could ever desire. Finally, when my sister graduated to updating her own appearance with the same techniques which often resulted in her often leaving the house looking like promiscuous marionette, I had moved on to stuffed animals, rainbow stickers and a life long decision that the longer I waited to wear powder blue eye shadow or change a diaper, the better.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Opposites Attract
Through all my frustration and tears over the last few weeks I have come to realize just how different men and women are and how we see, feel and experience the world around us. Dave and I took our sack of troubles and hushed it out, talked it out, drank it out and then humped it out, the latter being my preference. Hours were spent trying to figure out how better to talk to each other when referring to jobs to do or chores done. We are a great team, two slicked down synchronized swimmers with waterproof glitter and nose plugs. But Dave is the one who would insist that he is the hottest swimmer, the one all the boys want to feel up after practice. I, on the other hand, would take that comment personally. Did he just call me fat? Do any of the boys even know I am alive? I bet he thinks I cannot do a half water twist with an Arabian leg lift as well as he does. I would stew over it for weeks and weeks, ending up in a tearful near drowning accident during the all important free swim competition.
Meanwhile, he has forgotten about it within seconds of the comment leaving his lips. It would never occur to him to censor himself or feel bad for being so arrogant and possibly hurting someone else’s feelings. Just because he knows unequivocally that he is the hottest synchronized swimmer, it never occurs to him that he might make someone feel bad if he boasts about his amazing calf muscles or his lovely body position in the pool. It is as if men have no radar or memory for feelings and emotions other than great physical pain and immense physical pleasure. Two people can fight like cats and dogs or simply have a small argument and the woman will most likely sit with her feelings and replay the moment in her brain over and over again until she feels like an aged prostitute with a broken high heel and no john.
Then, there is the visual element to the equation. I can walk into the living room at any given moment and see a pile of toys that need to be put back in their basket or storage bin before I settle in. Dave would see a collection of small, colorful objects that have created a road hazard and a more exciting serpentine route to the sofa, where he will sit down, read a comic book or turn on an old episode of Lost. Where I see a small mound of chewed up food in the corners of Otto’s high chair after he has finished a meal, Dave will see nothing at all and go about his business as if there was not a bio hazard growing in the crevices of Otto’s sacred food station.
I have been going crazy. Fucking coo coo bird, actually, about the little things going unnoticed and undone and the lists, list, lists in my head. Dave does a ton of shit, do not get me wrong and I could list them and impress you but it will only feed his immense ego when he reads this so called list of wonderful. So, I will simply say this. I finally realized that he really does see and hear and feel things in a completely different way as I do. I am not a fan of the Venus Mars comparison. In fact, that book and its title has annoyed me since the mid nineties when the authors did their television book tour with bad double breasted suits and claims that they still had great Tantric sex. If I wanted to projectile vomit at a moments notice I would drink Ipecac, thank you very much.
Let us take today for instance. Today began as a typical stressful day. I was running late and needed to make sure I had everything in his diaper bag in case of nuclear war. Dave can leave the house with a single house key, an apple and Otto wearing nothing but a diaper and a smile and feel good about it. I need four costume changes, six diapers, a sun hat the size of a blimp and enough food for a month.
I then took Otto to exercise class where I watched him shoot hoops like a small, white Michael Jordan and then have a poopy diaper that smelled like a rain soaked cemetery. I was forced to leave class and use a public restroom with only two diaper wipes, causing mild palpitations and profuse sweating on my part. This scenario would not have affected Dave in the least. He would have laughed at the smell, walked into the bathroom, casually thrown Otto on the microbe infested changing table and used his socks to wipe Otto’s perfectly stink covered butt.
After class was over and my armpits had sufficiently dried up, Otto and I had a forty-five minute window to grocery shop. The moment we entered the store Otto began whining in the produce isle, insisting I let him eat every cylindrical object he spotted, as unwashed and unsanitary as a Mexican sidewalk. No way! That will never happen on my watch. While I am sure Dave would simply spit shine a Chilean blueberry or sleeve polish a grape tomato and hand it right over to Otto without a second thought, I could never do that.
When we got home and I lugged all the groceries inside making sure Otto did not run into traffic and lie down, I made him lunch while stressing about the things I could not get at Trader Joe’s. I then texted Dave the remaining Whole Foods items that I could not live without, hoping he would pick them up after finishing up his day. Otto ate really well, only throwing two pieces of food across the room and I got him down for a nap in record time after Dave called to tell me exactly how to exhaust him by making him count before nap time. Hmmm…
I was still cleaning the kitchen, making lists in my crazy head and worrying about finishing the laundry, picking up the toys and writing something before Otto woke up when Dave walked in the front door with my requested groceries in one hand and a small box in the other. He opened the box and plugged some sort of cord into the wall behind the television. With a wicked smile on his face and a skip in his stepped he turned to me and said, “I got this AV cable at the Apple store so I can plug in my IPod to our TV and we can watch porn!”
I rest my case.
Meanwhile, he has forgotten about it within seconds of the comment leaving his lips. It would never occur to him to censor himself or feel bad for being so arrogant and possibly hurting someone else’s feelings. Just because he knows unequivocally that he is the hottest synchronized swimmer, it never occurs to him that he might make someone feel bad if he boasts about his amazing calf muscles or his lovely body position in the pool. It is as if men have no radar or memory for feelings and emotions other than great physical pain and immense physical pleasure. Two people can fight like cats and dogs or simply have a small argument and the woman will most likely sit with her feelings and replay the moment in her brain over and over again until she feels like an aged prostitute with a broken high heel and no john.
Then, there is the visual element to the equation. I can walk into the living room at any given moment and see a pile of toys that need to be put back in their basket or storage bin before I settle in. Dave would see a collection of small, colorful objects that have created a road hazard and a more exciting serpentine route to the sofa, where he will sit down, read a comic book or turn on an old episode of Lost. Where I see a small mound of chewed up food in the corners of Otto’s high chair after he has finished a meal, Dave will see nothing at all and go about his business as if there was not a bio hazard growing in the crevices of Otto’s sacred food station.
I have been going crazy. Fucking coo coo bird, actually, about the little things going unnoticed and undone and the lists, list, lists in my head. Dave does a ton of shit, do not get me wrong and I could list them and impress you but it will only feed his immense ego when he reads this so called list of wonderful. So, I will simply say this. I finally realized that he really does see and hear and feel things in a completely different way as I do. I am not a fan of the Venus Mars comparison. In fact, that book and its title has annoyed me since the mid nineties when the authors did their television book tour with bad double breasted suits and claims that they still had great Tantric sex. If I wanted to projectile vomit at a moments notice I would drink Ipecac, thank you very much.
Let us take today for instance. Today began as a typical stressful day. I was running late and needed to make sure I had everything in his diaper bag in case of nuclear war. Dave can leave the house with a single house key, an apple and Otto wearing nothing but a diaper and a smile and feel good about it. I need four costume changes, six diapers, a sun hat the size of a blimp and enough food for a month.
I then took Otto to exercise class where I watched him shoot hoops like a small, white Michael Jordan and then have a poopy diaper that smelled like a rain soaked cemetery. I was forced to leave class and use a public restroom with only two diaper wipes, causing mild palpitations and profuse sweating on my part. This scenario would not have affected Dave in the least. He would have laughed at the smell, walked into the bathroom, casually thrown Otto on the microbe infested changing table and used his socks to wipe Otto’s perfectly stink covered butt.
After class was over and my armpits had sufficiently dried up, Otto and I had a forty-five minute window to grocery shop. The moment we entered the store Otto began whining in the produce isle, insisting I let him eat every cylindrical object he spotted, as unwashed and unsanitary as a Mexican sidewalk. No way! That will never happen on my watch. While I am sure Dave would simply spit shine a Chilean blueberry or sleeve polish a grape tomato and hand it right over to Otto without a second thought, I could never do that.
When we got home and I lugged all the groceries inside making sure Otto did not run into traffic and lie down, I made him lunch while stressing about the things I could not get at Trader Joe’s. I then texted Dave the remaining Whole Foods items that I could not live without, hoping he would pick them up after finishing up his day. Otto ate really well, only throwing two pieces of food across the room and I got him down for a nap in record time after Dave called to tell me exactly how to exhaust him by making him count before nap time. Hmmm…
I was still cleaning the kitchen, making lists in my crazy head and worrying about finishing the laundry, picking up the toys and writing something before Otto woke up when Dave walked in the front door with my requested groceries in one hand and a small box in the other. He opened the box and plugged some sort of cord into the wall behind the television. With a wicked smile on his face and a skip in his stepped he turned to me and said, “I got this AV cable at the Apple store so I can plug in my IPod to our TV and we can watch porn!”
I rest my case.
Weed
Michael Phelps smoking from a bong. Oh, the horror. I am more turned off by his goofy face and his lumpy nuts on display for all to see. Personally, I find him to be a complete tool. He should be smoking weed, I think it will do his personality a world of good. I was curious if he put Scope in it. That is what we used to do in college. Stoned with minty fresh breath, the only way to attend a keg party with groping boys. Then of course I want to know if it was named. We always named our bongs. There was: Smokestack, Precious, and Little Jimmy. I remember the party when Smokestack took a 20 ft. plunge out of a second story window. He lived. It was miraculous. We spent more time wrangling with the big cosmic mystery of that event then I ever put into a paper on Victorian Literature. A class I would attend stoned out of my mind and passed with an A-. Silas Marner takes on an entire new life when read with the aid of recreational drugs. I'd also get stoned for my Feminist Literature class. That was where the "non-traditional" student told us her story in a raspy voice of how she gave birth to a 5 lb tumor all the time she had been under the assumption it was a baby. "I named it, wouldn't you?!" She'd challenge, pointing at us with nicotine stained fingers poking out from under her wool cloak she wore every day. I nodded along in agreement, fearful of her furry upper lip and onion smell. Two years of college at a state school in the woods of NH will send anyone screaming back to the city.
My father was a big pot smoker when I was a kid. The weird thing is that I never really figured that out until I was in college. I can remember the first time someone said something to me while they were holding in a hit. That strange voice people emit when they are talking while holding in their breath. I made the connection when my roommate's boyfriend asked me if I wanted some pasta after inhaling. I had heard people talk holding in hits all the time in high school, but usually it was some sort of comment on the weed itself. Not a everyday type of question. Hearing someone ask me something that my father would say jolted me into the realization that he had been stoned as well. It all became clear to me. "Chrissy, put on your shoes it's time to go to the museum." he'd squeak out. Ding!
My dad's love for hide and seek became easier to understand. He would always want to play this game with my sister and I when we were little. My mother would go to teach crochet classes at Adult Education and dad would be in charge. I can remember walking through my house terrified because I could not find the man, but I could hear him giggling. He was having the time of his life, and we were having a nervous breakdown. My dad is a tiny Italian guy. He would perch up on top of the radiator in our bathroom. Crouching in the dark like a wee Ninja. Gloriously high, and waiting to scare the absolute shit out of his kids.
Then of course there was my Dad's office. My dad had a massive wooden desk in the sun room that I used to love to sit and play at. He had drawers filled with all sorts of crazy stuff that I would mess with. I would drag all of my Barbies in there and pretend it was a hotel I'd put them to sleep in the many drawers. Here, rest your weary backs in this you poor boob-filled creatures. I had this one thing I had excavated that I thought was a wonderful way to catapult my pretty girls into the pool I had made for them out of my Mom's Tupperwear. Ingenious. My hotel had a pool, and my pool had a great bouncy thing to help the long legged creatures in the water.
Two months into my freshman year of college we were all sitting around a couch on a Friday night preparing to head out into whatever the evening held for us. My friend, Stash decided it was warm enough that we should walk and smoke a joint along the way. He was attempting to roll it but kept having issues, he told us to hold on a minute he was going out to his van to get something. So typical but yes, he really did have a van. He used it to follow the Dead down the east coast and sell oranges and the homemade bracelets he wove with his feet. He came back with this plastic contraption and set it on the table and began to line it with a rolling paper. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I actually yelled out, "Oh my God! A Barbie trampoline! Where did you get this? I have not seen one of these since I was 8 years old!" Silence..., then laughter. I knew right away. Another glaring chunk of proof that my dad was hardcore. My Barbies swam with weed dust on their feet. I took a hit of the joint and someone sitting next to me asked if I really had played with a joint roller with my dolls. I answered with my intake voice, "Put your shoes on everyone, it's time to go to the party."
My father was a big pot smoker when I was a kid. The weird thing is that I never really figured that out until I was in college. I can remember the first time someone said something to me while they were holding in a hit. That strange voice people emit when they are talking while holding in their breath. I made the connection when my roommate's boyfriend asked me if I wanted some pasta after inhaling. I had heard people talk holding in hits all the time in high school, but usually it was some sort of comment on the weed itself. Not a everyday type of question. Hearing someone ask me something that my father would say jolted me into the realization that he had been stoned as well. It all became clear to me. "Chrissy, put on your shoes it's time to go to the museum." he'd squeak out. Ding!
My dad's love for hide and seek became easier to understand. He would always want to play this game with my sister and I when we were little. My mother would go to teach crochet classes at Adult Education and dad would be in charge. I can remember walking through my house terrified because I could not find the man, but I could hear him giggling. He was having the time of his life, and we were having a nervous breakdown. My dad is a tiny Italian guy. He would perch up on top of the radiator in our bathroom. Crouching in the dark like a wee Ninja. Gloriously high, and waiting to scare the absolute shit out of his kids.
Then of course there was my Dad's office. My dad had a massive wooden desk in the sun room that I used to love to sit and play at. He had drawers filled with all sorts of crazy stuff that I would mess with. I would drag all of my Barbies in there and pretend it was a hotel I'd put them to sleep in the many drawers. Here, rest your weary backs in this you poor boob-filled creatures. I had this one thing I had excavated that I thought was a wonderful way to catapult my pretty girls into the pool I had made for them out of my Mom's Tupperwear. Ingenious. My hotel had a pool, and my pool had a great bouncy thing to help the long legged creatures in the water.
Two months into my freshman year of college we were all sitting around a couch on a Friday night preparing to head out into whatever the evening held for us. My friend, Stash decided it was warm enough that we should walk and smoke a joint along the way. He was attempting to roll it but kept having issues, he told us to hold on a minute he was going out to his van to get something. So typical but yes, he really did have a van. He used it to follow the Dead down the east coast and sell oranges and the homemade bracelets he wove with his feet. He came back with this plastic contraption and set it on the table and began to line it with a rolling paper. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I actually yelled out, "Oh my God! A Barbie trampoline! Where did you get this? I have not seen one of these since I was 8 years old!" Silence..., then laughter. I knew right away. Another glaring chunk of proof that my dad was hardcore. My Barbies swam with weed dust on their feet. I took a hit of the joint and someone sitting next to me asked if I really had played with a joint roller with my dolls. I answered with my intake voice, "Put your shoes on everyone, it's time to go to the party."
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Where we have been
Miss Chrissy is too busy barfing to write and I am too busy running around after monkey pants Otto and auditioning for commercials that involve florescent colored processed foods, sub par candy bars that look and taste like neglected turds and grocery store chains frequented by coupon clippers and melon squeezers.
I am lucky enough to have a new neighbor who is an exact replica of the basement, cross dressing serial killer from Silence of the Lambs. He has moved in with the neighborhood floozy who thinks rubbing her self down with shoe polish is a great substitute for a professional fake tan and giving hands jobs for a line of coke is normal.
Then, by a stroke of dumb luck, I was behind a guy at Ralph's Fresh Fair yesterday who was buying only three things. I looked down on the conveyor belt and saw a copy of the James Patterson novel Run For Your Life, a generic box of red food coloring and a carton of buttermilk. No, he was not the same guy who just moved in next door. Good guess, though. He was either a creepy dude who wanted to pretend to torture someone by reading a step by step instruction manual and then create a fake crime scene in his apartment, not realizing that corn syrup is the preferred fake blood substance, not a gooey, milky substance adored by the Amish. Or, he was a serial killer who was planning on baking a red velvet cake to choke his victims with and then cover their eyes with silver dollar buttermilk pancakes while doing a little light reading in his wheelhouse.
Christian Bale, the same guy who treated me like a Jehovah's Witness at the front door when I interviewed him for a show I was hosting, flipped out on a crew member of Terminator 4 and it was all caught on audio, much to my immense pleasure.
On Monday, I heard the Sham Wow reference five times in one day.
American Idol, Hollywood Week has arrived and I lie on the sofa drinking up the epic failure of others and the tear jerking successes of nobodies.
My hair just quit on me.
I am lucky enough to have a new neighbor who is an exact replica of the basement, cross dressing serial killer from Silence of the Lambs. He has moved in with the neighborhood floozy who thinks rubbing her self down with shoe polish is a great substitute for a professional fake tan and giving hands jobs for a line of coke is normal.
Then, by a stroke of dumb luck, I was behind a guy at Ralph's Fresh Fair yesterday who was buying only three things. I looked down on the conveyor belt and saw a copy of the James Patterson novel Run For Your Life, a generic box of red food coloring and a carton of buttermilk. No, he was not the same guy who just moved in next door. Good guess, though. He was either a creepy dude who wanted to pretend to torture someone by reading a step by step instruction manual and then create a fake crime scene in his apartment, not realizing that corn syrup is the preferred fake blood substance, not a gooey, milky substance adored by the Amish. Or, he was a serial killer who was planning on baking a red velvet cake to choke his victims with and then cover their eyes with silver dollar buttermilk pancakes while doing a little light reading in his wheelhouse.
Christian Bale, the same guy who treated me like a Jehovah's Witness at the front door when I interviewed him for a show I was hosting, flipped out on a crew member of Terminator 4 and it was all caught on audio, much to my immense pleasure.
On Monday, I heard the Sham Wow reference five times in one day.
American Idol, Hollywood Week has arrived and I lie on the sofa drinking up the epic failure of others and the tear jerking successes of nobodies.
My hair just quit on me.
Monday, February 2, 2009
My Super Sunday
Watched Nadal beat Federer and Federer cry uncontrollably as cold, heartless girlfriend/manager watches from the stands
Find stray dog that needs help and kiss goodbye plans of shopping and cooking food all day
Say goodbye to Super Bowl chef as Dave takes dog to numerous shelters to try and find dog's owners
Otto decides napping on Super Bowl Sunday is like, the worst idea ever, like da da
Dave returns with bushels of groceries and cooks homemade chicken wings, Napa slaw and guacamole while I sit on sofa and watch men, balls and men with balls
Miss Bruce at half time due to Otto and a mini tantrum
Psychotic football fan neighbors come over to share chili and wings, football trivia and shrill screams every time Pittsburgh scores
Otto spills epic amounts of red, stinky wings and sauce all over our newly dry cleaned sofa
Steelers win, sofa loses
Bath time and bedtime consist of water, diaper and Otto practicing his passing skills
Day ends with me getting in more sports time than I have in twenty two months.
Find stray dog that needs help and kiss goodbye plans of shopping and cooking food all day
Say goodbye to Super Bowl chef as Dave takes dog to numerous shelters to try and find dog's owners
Otto decides napping on Super Bowl Sunday is like, the worst idea ever, like da da
Dave returns with bushels of groceries and cooks homemade chicken wings, Napa slaw and guacamole while I sit on sofa and watch men, balls and men with balls
Miss Bruce at half time due to Otto and a mini tantrum
Psychotic football fan neighbors come over to share chili and wings, football trivia and shrill screams every time Pittsburgh scores
Otto spills epic amounts of red, stinky wings and sauce all over our newly dry cleaned sofa
Steelers win, sofa loses
Bath time and bedtime consist of water, diaper and Otto practicing his passing skills
Day ends with me getting in more sports time than I have in twenty two months.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Are You Ready For Some Football?
The Superbowl is lackluster for me this year. It just doesn't feel right without the Patriots in it. I was pleased to see in the pre-show festivities they asked Bill Belichik to highlight what sucks about each team that is playing, and then show what he thought may catapult them to success tonight. His hair was so grody and silky. I love him. When I think of all the people I want to get drunk with, he tops my list. Rodney Harrison is there tonight in the booth and speaks of his fateful attempt to bring down Tyree last year, and I get sad for a moment. He says he replays that moment in his head over and over. So do we, Rodney. He is wearing a bad sweater in the taped recap interview, but I still feel for him despite his obvious fashion faux-pas. I think he is very cute and I want to give him a hug. Then they show Eli Manning and I find myself recoil in disgust at the dopey looking man-child. The Mannings are scuzzy, save for Peyton's SNL skit about mentoring children in football. I held him in an Andy Sandberg light for five minutes, but then he went back to being the dickslap he is.
The Steelers are messy. I view them as pipe fitters and miners. Boils on their backs the size of Milk Duds. Fans that enjoy nitrates and saturated fats immensely. The Terrible Towels remind me of ShamWow. That is what holds my interest. I bet they have a booth set up in Tampa at the NFL experience. Again, I miss my chance to meet the ShamWow guy. I know nothing of the other team save for the Kurt Warner fairytale story. He plays arena ball, stops playing, stocks cans of Jolly Green Giant beans and picks up his wife in aisle four. He gets to play again, puts his anger of canned veggies to good use and brings his team to #43. But he is all ferociously Jesusy and that negates any interest I have in him and his tale of triumph. Once you throw religion into the mix of professional sports I am all done.
Maybe next year.
The Steelers are messy. I view them as pipe fitters and miners. Boils on their backs the size of Milk Duds. Fans that enjoy nitrates and saturated fats immensely. The Terrible Towels remind me of ShamWow. That is what holds my interest. I bet they have a booth set up in Tampa at the NFL experience. Again, I miss my chance to meet the ShamWow guy. I know nothing of the other team save for the Kurt Warner fairytale story. He plays arena ball, stops playing, stocks cans of Jolly Green Giant beans and picks up his wife in aisle four. He gets to play again, puts his anger of canned veggies to good use and brings his team to #43. But he is all ferociously Jesusy and that negates any interest I have in him and his tale of triumph. Once you throw religion into the mix of professional sports I am all done.
Maybe next year.
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