Is all she wrote

The voice inside my head says -

“Mommy, mommmmmmmy mommmmmy, daddin, daddin, daddin baby baboo ball hehhhhhhhh, baby baboo ball, daddin, daddin daddin, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”. The voice inside the monitor says ditto.

Reality soundtrack -

" I will not nap today and give you any special watchy Oprah, nappy, stop the throbbing noise mommy time. Where's Daddy? Chop chop and get your ass in here, pick up Monkey and hand him to me and them get me out of this designer prison you call my crib, talk about babies who play basketball and entertain me without pause until the sun has set, I have played nine holes of golf, shot forty basketballs, where is Daddy, my belly is full, you have wiped my ass, where is daddy, made me laugh, daddy, bathed my body and worshiped my very existence. Do it NOWWWWWWWW! Juice? Heh.

Fantasy soundtrack -

"Splash, splash, splash. Would you like another fresh lime Margarita and a guacamole foot massage, Senorita? You look muy caliente para a forty one year old lady. Mi nombre as Juan Carlos Rodrego Jesus Cesar Chavez El Pollo Loco Martinez and I will be su cabana boy for muchos dias. No costs dinero. Shhhhhhhh.

Clean out the fridge and bon appetite!

There are a few reasons why I am not a cookbook writer. It takes a special person to patiently describe in detail each step of the cooking process without sounding like an ogre or a know it all. That and you have to be patient, a quality I greatly and famously lack. Just ask my husband who has been living with Little Miss Right Now for nineteen years, poor thing. You would thing I was a card carrying member of Generation Y Not Me, a group that was raised on cell phones, reality TV and Hot Pockets. I am too old for that membership but I do have the personality to be an unofficial chaperon at the Impatience Dance-Off.

Below is a recipe I was asked to write down for a few friends of mine who love to eat and are always looking for fast, easy recipes to make for their children who need to eat quickly and without incident. The frittata is a combo of my mother's famous Tortilla (Spanish frittata with potatoes) and Dave's breakfast frittata. One morning he threw nine things into a cast iron skillet and changed my life! One of which was left over spaghetti Bolognese and that in eggs is like sex without consequences, dirty and delicious!

I made a variation of this for our last girls night at my friend Georgia's house and even though I used too few eggs and it was a bit skinny, I think it was a hit. Or the bitches lied to me and still asked for the recipe just to fill my void of loneliness and insecurity.

As written, this recipe resembles one of my book reports in middle school, haphazard thoughts crammed to together in run on sentences with little focus but good intentions. And if it is not clear enough, everyone should own a great omelet pan and a cast iron skillet. Good luck!

A Dotty Frittata

3-4 X-large eggs
¼ cup shredded cheese of your liking (cheddar, mozzarella, Gruyere)
¼ chopped onion
Cooked, cold pasta (penne, bow tie, spaghetti)
Steamed veggie such as broccoli, asparagus, peas (whatever you have on hand)
Turkey sausage, ham of other meet you desire
Butter
Salt
Pepper

In a metal or cast iron omelet pan 9” (no plastic handles as it will go in the broiler later)
melt butter on medium heat. Throw in onions and cook until golden brown. Add meat and cooked until done.

In a bowl whisk together eggs, veggie, and cold pasta, salt, pepper and half the cheese.

Pour into hot skillet and cook until bottom of frittata is golden brown, about five minutes. Sprinkle the remaining cheese on top and put under broiler at 500 degrees until cheese had turned crusty and golden, about 3-4 minutes.

Serve hot in slices that look like pizza. Can also be served cold as leftovers and reheated in the toaster oven. Travels well in Tupperware for kids on the go.

You can add or subtract any ingredient other than the eggs, salt and pepper.

For a larger frittata add more eggs and ingredients accordingly and use larger pan.

Variations:

I take whatever I have in the fridge and throw it in.

Example:

I sauté cooked broccoli, ham, red bell peppers in the pan. When heated through I add a tablespoon of pesto to the egg mixture, stir and pour it in the pan and finish it off with Parmesan cheese and chopped basil, Arugula or Italian parsley.

Reasons This Saturday Is Good A Good One

• The sun is shining
• Pancakes were on the breakfast menu this morning
• Dave just planted a new garden
• Dave put up a new bathroom shelf
• We have a great friend babysitting so we can go out tonight and pretend we’re adults
• My nephew found a great lawyer
• My belly is full of my favorite meal, a Cobb salad and French fries
• Otto got to hang with his bud, Joshy
• Otto ate a well rounded lunch
• Otto is napping
• Otto loves to pee pee on the potty
• I slept like a teenager last night
• Just found a great new blog with mini mixes on it
• My legs are shaved
• I love my apartment right now
• I got to talk to Chrissy today
• I have two girl's nights in one week
• No bad mail
• No gardeners right now

To be continued…

Fear Of Failing Upward

Last night I woke up at four in the morning terrorized by thoughts of failure, poverty and unanswered emails. We have to send in our deposit for Otto’s preschool by Monday and all I could think about was how much I had just spent at Ikea and how irresponsible and frivolous it was. What the hell do I do with a Folvecam once I have gotten it home? I tossed and turned and cursed the Gods for not steering my stork toward a family with multiple residences, old fashioned names, a higher percentage of genetic insanity than I already had and a filthy, platinum dripping trust find. This lump of money with ropes and chains attached would be sitting in an off shore account waiting for me to extract it for Otto’s education while forcing me to engage in weird conversations with the crazy uncle who was the executor or better yet, write long, syrupy letters to a grandparent who despised people and had one leg made out of gold bullion.

I finally got back to sleep after convincing myself I was better off as an independent contractor, a person who must rely on herself for food, shelter and a clothing allowance any teen would pity. A few more hours of sleep only made me feel worse as I stumbled out of bed to the sounds of Otto talking to his animals. I had not gotten the amount of sleep that makes me feel whole, an amount that has changed dramatically since giving birth. Before, I slept like any run of the mill narcoleptic, averaging ten hours a night with a few naps in between. Now, I get up and look straight ahead as if a long, winding twenty-six mile, marathon road stretches in front of me. By the end of the day, covered in dirty bath water, spaghetti sauce, chewed up apples and teardrop stains, I cross the finish line as I crawl into bed, my legs aching beyond repair.

Dave told me he would take Otto while I showered and tried my best to wake up and shake off the night of inadequacy. When I finished dressing, I walked downstairs to find Otto and Dave sitting side by side, watching Matt Lauer, a morning ritual that cracks me up to no end. Will Otto be scarred for life by images of a very good looking man fighting the inevitability of public balding while wearing $4000 suits? Or will he think that Matt Lauer is the only hairless Muppet waiting for his chance to break into song?

Either way, the vision of these two guys perched on the sofa mano e mano made me realize that all my fretting was a colossal waist of precious sleepy time. Nothing will ever prevent Dave or myself from working our asses off to provide whatever is necessary for a kid that has a perfect golf swing, is potty training himself with the enthusiasm and focus of an Olympic gymnast and gets the dirty joke every time. I can make small amounts of money anytime I want. I could pay for some new school clothes and a used lunch box with my arms tied over my head.

I have had every part time job you could imagine and less. Telemarketing to the weak and disenfranchised as the boss does rails in the employee bathroom, restaurant managing at an Al Qaeda strong hold as I was being followed by a private investigator who came to the misguided conclusion that I was sleeping with the Bin Laden of pizza parlor owners, celebrity personal assistant in charge of buying sub-par 70’s TV star $400 brassieres and lemon cakes without health insurance and catering movie premieres dressed as a lesbian penguin. With a resume any schizophrenic could pass off as their own, it is a wonder that sucking dick on the boulevard of broken dreams was not listed in my special skills section.

Dave, on the other hand, has had the more serious, full time employment and was never bogged down by an unrealistic and annoying dream of being the next Melissa Gilbert or having an unhealthy attachment to the twenty-hour workweek. He has always been a writer at heart and has busted his hump for his family. Although this fills me with tremendous guilt because I chose the road less likely to succeed, it also makes me proud that he has made it on his own without the aid of a hefty stimulus package or a bailout.

Without fail, it has always worked out for the better and this chapter is no different. The stakes are higher, of course seeing we now have a small, hilarious person who loves basketball and sleeping with a stuffed monkey, depending on us for his ultimate survival. He actually expects us to feed him and tell him funny stories no matter how bad the economy gets or who is voted off American Idol. And as bad as a day can be or as much as I cannot sleep at night for fear that someone will mock me for wearing Alice and Olivia skinny jeans thirty days in a row, Otto will always get everything he will ever need from two parents who know how to furnish a room for under $50.

Ikea - A One Act

There are no windows and no clocks, much alike a Vegas casino and the air smells of cleaning solution and fried food. You put random objects with names that sound like seventeenth century diseases into your gargantuan cart and you feel really good about yourself for being so thrifty and hip. Then you wind your way through miles of tiled floors aided by bright arrows and finally find the row of cash registers surrounded by impulse buys and Scandinavian tea cookies. A perfectly, lovely young man in a blue and yellow golf shirt that reminds you of a male cheerleader uniform totals up your cheapo, must have, ever useful purchases without ever looking you in the eye and the amount dances around $200. How the fuck did that just happen?

You look in the cart and scratch your head as your small child eats crackers and holds on to the rubber step stool you just bought for him to better reach his Elmo potty that he has used FIVE TIMES this week. You sign the credit card slip and bag your own items, a transaction that makes you feel as if you have just been raped by a Swedish designer who will never called you back. With your head hung low in shame, you wheel away toward the exit, relieved to escape the gulag at last. Suddenly, you see the large, lighted pictures of various unhealthy foods directly in front of you at the snack bar, forcing you to make an executive decision on lunch. Do you buy a questionable hot dog and a pizza pocket for your beautiful, healthy, broccoli loving son or do you hold off, feed him more crackers in the car, get him home and miss his nap and his lunch and be stuck having to entertain him for the rest of the day?

No, you buy the lunch and the total comes to $3.50 and suddenly everything is bright and sunny in your cloudy brain. You might have coughed up a couple bills on various household items that will most likely not change your life one iota but, to get a whole meal, iced tea included, for less than four dollars makes the entire experience as pleasant as a field of daisies on a summer day. Your son then fucks with you as only he knows how and refuses to eat anything, leaving you to nibble on a sauce covered hockey puck and a hot dog that is really a sad collection of scraps found on the floor at a meat packing plant.

You finally get back to your car and plop your small child into the car seat, ignoring the fact that his diaper is a fluffy storm cloud filled with rain. He eats some old raisins you find in the bottom of the diaper bag and you both drift into a hazy silence as “In The Air Tonight” comes on the radio and you try to explain that Phil Collins is really cool, even though most people associate him with bad, adult contemporary remixes heard in dentists offices and elevators.

You arrive home at long last and pile out with bags of shit that now clog the front door area and look lame in your old, tattered apartment. Regret and indecision fill your heart as you peruse through the trash you just spent two hard earned Benjamin’s collecting at the Ikea City Dump. No, yes, no, yes, yes and maybe I should not have bought that, but what does it really matter? Ikea is 18 miles of valley roadways and bad traffic and you will not return again until your void needs filling and your towels start to shred. But you should be really happy with your new Knuff. All your bathroom reading materials are now corralled into this upright, wooden box and that makes it all worth it in the end.

This Just In - "After exhausting birthday weekend..."

Dave woke up Saturday morning with another cold/fluette and powered through the weekend of over planning. We had Otto’s birthday party as planned, even though we awoke Sunday morning to rain, and clouds. I freaked out, head grabbing, pouting, sweating and general misery, until 11 a.m. when the sun peaked through and we went ahead with our fingers crossed. Then the skies turned dark and the cold came back, not a common occurrence in Southern California, where all of us freaks dress for Spring Break ’87. It was chilly but chill. The doughnuts were a huge hit in lieu of a cake. Parents out there, fantastic idea. Fuck the cake and get homemade, old school doughnuts. Everybody eats them and there are no plates, no cutting of large baked mass of frosting mound and no forks involved, making you seem hip and in touch with nostalgic snack foods. Otto had a glazed for dinner and crashed like the Hindenburg. I am bad mommy.

The gifts were perfect and bountiful, turning him a bit upside down at the end of the day. A few tears and some snotty looks make a birthday boy shit crazy. I over purchased bottled water and juice boxes, which is annoying, as I have NO storage space but am too cheap to give them away. I also have a ridiculous amount of Play-Doh left smelling up my dining room. The odor is a combo of an old starched dress shirt in the back of the closet and the inside of an old purse. Oh wait, that’s Goodwill on a hot Tuesday afternoon, not that I would know that.

The peeping Tom is back and all the dudes in the hood are on high alert. Doesn’t he have Internet service in his cardboard box? It’s so much less work, Louis. Get with it, man. Discovered that a blog I love is a fake, run by an actress trying to get work who can't cry realistically. That was the her tell. Boo hoo. Lame. Otto is talking up a storm. So... his old pediatrician can stick it in his blowhole and suck it like a Hoover. The thick envelope arrived on Otto’s actual birthday. He was accepted at an amazing school and will now be serving his sentence starting in September of 2009. Matinee, anyone?Dave is still feeling crappy and wearing his best McMurphy garb around the house. “That’s hot!” The only thing culturally relevant that Paris Hilton has given us is that quote. And, we cannot forget her red carpet pose. That was a real addiction to the list of great accomplishments in the twenty-first century. Two days until Idol returns because Barack is all prime time tomorrow evening. In-N-Out for lunch, ice cream for dinner.

Seacrest Out

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OTTO!

Here's to two years of limited sleep and unlimited joy!
I love you, man.

Mommy

Don' B a H8er

Prepping for Otto’s birthday weekend I snuck in a hike in the canyon solo today and really got to unclog my brain and take in the sites and sounds of the locals walking up a mountain road. I noticed there were more tattoos today than usual even though, here in Los Angeles, if you throw a wool cap you would hit someone sporting body ink.

There was a chick with half sleeves of flowers and vines that looked like leg warmers on her biceps, feminine but itchy. The dude with her that had a tramp stamp, a semen saver, a lower back bulls eye or whatever you want to call it on his lower back. These are usually reserved for the clubbing ladies but he owned it like a home. But the best one of the day was the shirtless, ripped, rocker dude who had scrawled across his clavicle, where a Flashdance sweatshirt might gingerly lay, AGAINST THE GRAIN in old English font.

If you say you are against the grain, does that make it not so? Are you stating the obvious or are you obviously not against the grain? What kind of grain? Were you trying to be ironic and if so, how? I can’t stop thinking about you and the tat, Grainy. There is, however, no way you are thinking about me, the married lady with the floppy, dirty sun hat wearing old pregnancy yoga pants with holes in the bum and a faded, stretched out Target t-shirt that I lived in during all three trimesters. Oh, maybe you did notice me. I was the one who refused to take off this Target shirt for fear I would get more sunspots on my arms. Yes, that was I; the broad with pit stains the size of volleyballs. It’s nice to see you again. What does your tattoo mean and have you ever spent time in a correctional facility? Just wondering.

Golden Boy

Being a woman who used to be a girl who has never been a boy, to my knowledge and has never had a penis or the ability to stand up while urinating, I find it very interesting that I am now obsessed with male bathroom habits, particularly Otto’s. Yesterday was a major leap in Otto’s race toward man hood, a race that I now wish would slow down to a pathetic crawl. After having a wonderful play date with his pal Joshy, a boy one month older who can speak as well, if not better, than most world leaders and loves to hug Otto and share his toys with him, these boys did what they always do and bathed together. Last week, after a particularly successful bath date in which all manner of body parts were cleaned without incident, Otto decided to pee on Joshy’s head while his mother, Natalya, changed his diaper on the bedroom floor. Otto is known for his accuracy and physical endowments, so by the time his bladder was empty, Joshy’s head was as wet as if he had just swam the English Channel. Another bath immediately followed.

This was the third time in two weeks that Otto would do a number one right after getting out of the bath, clearly his little yellow window. Last night, Natalya had the forethought and focus to suggest that Otto try to pee pee in the potty after being dried off but before the diaper and jammies were put on. She received her business degree from Harvard and runs a successful consulting business. I graduated from a small, over priced liberal arts college that frowned on academics but encouraged its students to wear berets and dabble in bi-sexual relations on Tuesdays and every other Friday. Who do you think is smarter?

I, of course, agreed with smarty pants and led Otto back to the bathroom where a blue and red Elmo potty sat on the commode awaiting his little, delicious bunda (Portuguese, for butt). He has the same potty at home and has tried numerous times to do his business but to no avail. It always starts with him putting Elmo on the toilet seat by himself and enthusiastically climbing aboard. Within seconds he is holding his arms up in the air, pointing to the floor and asking for his basketball with no interest in relieving himself.

So, when I sat him on top of Elmo, the friendly neighborhood potty pal, I really didn’t think anything would happen. But, I seemed to forget that when people who are not related to him are in close range, especially Joshy, who Otto tries to impress on a daily basis by jumping off tall buildings and throwing boulders across the room, the rules of the game change dramatically. He looked up, saw Joshy, Natalya, Mark (Joshy’s dad who so kindly bathed Otto moments earlier allowing me to take a breather and Kristen, their B.F.F. God mommy) Otto knew he had the floor. He looked down, pushed his Willy Wonka into the toilet and tinkled sweet music to my ears. An applause worthy of a Metallica concert erupted and Otto looked up and smiled a mile as all of us, led by his cheerleader Joshy, gave him a standing ovation.

Tears filled my eyes as I hugged Otto sitting there naked with his dick in his hand and Kristen and Mark snapped photos for posterity’s sake. With all the pride and happiness I felt over this amazing milestone in Otto’s life, it did not occur to me until this very moment that maybe, just maybe, he might not have wanted his overbearing mother to bear hug him during his first successful trip to the john while his friends did high kicks and cartwheels on the sidelines.

What if having naked photos of him taking his maiden tinkle would be reason enough for Otto to demand emancipation at the age of fifteen after stumbling on these photos while showing a new girlfriend the attic? And, this girl, who Otto has loved from afar all these years, takes one look at Otto naked on the toilet with his mommy on her knees and suddenly decides she just wants to be friends and Otto blames me for the sudden break up and anything else he can think of? Does this mean that this photo op should not be my new screen saver? What does this mean?

A Birthday Giveaway

This is Otto’s birthday week and everyday we have been giving him one gift so he will not be overwhelmed on the actual day of his birth. No meltdown does the mommy good. The gifts have been from friends and family, making our jobs as parents a thousand times easier. Each time a package arrives UPS we make a big deal out of it and explain that we are the most kind a generous parents ever, giving no credit to the sender. Not true but I wish. I am cheap at heart and a girl who still gets a thrill when she actually remembers to use a coupon or when I find money on the ground.

After my mother, the eager beaver, sent some Brio train bridges to match the set she sent him for Christmas and DVD’s of all the Sesame Street episodes from the 1970’s, I called her to have Otto thank her personally but got my dad on the phone instead, who knew nothing of the gift and wanted to discuss the remake of Prom Night. As for the Sesame Street DVD's, those are really for Otto’s old lady and old man, a trip down memory lane in platform shoes and bell bottoms. Without Elmo, I’m not sure he will care. But I am all over the old school. I haven’t watched them yet but my finger is itching to push play as soon as we have some down time and some good, homemade LSD.

As far as getting him gifts from us for the big day, we decided not to go out and actually purchase anything for him because my closet has four wrapped presents that were intended for Christmas morning. But, after looking at the tree on Christmas Eve overflowing with parental over compensation and desperation, we stashed the extras to avoid a complete and total holiday freak out. Now, in the recessive times, I will pull out a huge box that I carefully and thoughtfully purchased in December and fake it ‘til I make it. Not once in my life have I planned ahead, so I feel like I am turning over a new leaf, becoming that weirdo with a gift closet that doesn’t need to shop before attending a birthday celebration. For the record, I think those folks suck a little but at the same time I worship their organizational skills. Clearly, the jury’s still out on that one unless I receive a great gift from the gift closet giver and then I am on their team for life! I am as easy as a truck stop waitress on the graveyard shift. Easier, really.

Chrissy, former mommy biter, sent Otto a huge box containing some clothes and an awesome Lego’s train set with animals, trucks, tracks and enough plastic to choke a landfill. But seeing it was a hand me down from a friend of hers to her son Max and then now to Otto, we are being beyond green and environmental, passing the plastic instead of throwing it away. I feel responsible, cool and psyched that I don’t have to drive to ToysRUs, get stuck in angry, aggressive traffic and than be overwhelmed when I walk in and see rows upon rows of bright, plastic objects that are screaming at me in Spanish, English and Mandarin.

I have also received emails from friends who are invited to Otto’s party asking what Otto wants. Instead of saying a silly thing like, “Please do not bring gifts”, I am telling them he needs books and sports equipment. I will not lie. He loves to read and can hit a golf ball across the living room and hit me square in the nose. And, I love getting gifts whether they are for me, for David or for Otto. The smell of wrapping paper and scotch tape do it for me almost as much as tequila and a Mexican beach. It might be considered rude or un-P.C. but they way I look at it, Otto rather have something he wants than nothing at all. Greed is good, right? Isn’t that what all Americans have been saying since Gordon Gekko spewed those words in Wall Street? Isn’t that why we’re in the mess we’re in? Shouldn’t I just shut up before I talk myself into sending out a mass email insisting that Otto needs nothing but good company and some good fun? That maybe we should all donate something to a worthy cause and not have a party at all? I think I’ll stop now. Oh, he also loves anything Elmo related, Converse sneakers and The Birkin Bag.

Goodbye Miss Thing

So this is a goodbye post, a changing of the guard post, a switch in the order, a fond farewell. This week I learned that Chrissy, my partner in crime and all things mommy bitten, will be saying so long to the blog world. For those of you loyal readers who love to hear us vent and criticize and postulate and humiliate from both coasts, I will now be the only one doing all these terrible things to myself and others from this day forward. Was it her fear of retaliation by splinter Boston mommy and me groups who banded together and vowed to cut down her hedges as she slept? Could it be their plan of covering her car with unused and pathetic non-collectible McCain-Palin bumper stickers when she ran into Star Market to get Funions? Were they planning an assault on her fashion sense by kidnapping her and tying her to a rack of stone washed, high pocket mom jeans at T.J. Maxx in Watertown and then force her to walk home in white pumps, singing New Edition’s greatest hits?

Are her fingers now just bony, bloody stumps from typing all day and then hand jobbing all night as she longed to be the Norma Rae of the blogisphere and the bedroom, trying to satisfy her husband and her fans as best as she could? A wretched case of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, perhaps? Fear of the past participle? Another blog partner whom she thought was funnier? A Internet porn addiction that has taken over her life and created a half naked monster that sits in front of her computer all night pretending to write but really looking at photos of horny amputees and dudes who love to get it on with house plants? My heart races with jealously and revulsion at that thought.

No one will ever know for sure. But like the beautiful and psychotic Greta Garbo or the chubby and really lucky to have had sex with Farrah Fawcett, Lee Majors, she has chosen to exit the spotlight quietly and without incident. Will she pop up again from time to time to dish on the happenings in her mommy world? Will she post some kick ass recipes for finger foods that only a great cook like herself can make but that others will attempt, regardless? Will she finish her book and get it published, making all those around her bow to her genius and fortitude? A simple “fuck yeah” will do.

I will not lie. I am sad about her moving on. But, I understand that I now need to be spiteful, snarky, bitter, pathetic, misguided and judgmental all alone, hoping that she will keep reading my posts and knowing that I will miss her and that I would not have been able to do this without her. I hope she will always know that she is one of the most important people in my life and an anchor in my very rocky and sometimes ridiculous journey of “Did that really just happen to me?” She has to know that she is almost as important as Fly, the local homeless dude with two teeth and a really dirty dog and Louis, our neighborhood peeping Tom that keeps me grounded and angry at all times as he masturbates in people’s windows as they watch E! News Live with Ryan Seacrest.

Out of respect and something else I cannot think of, I will soon change the name and format of this blog. But until then, I will keep on trucking solo as Chrissy sits back somewhere doing what she does best, being brilliantly funny and being a great mom to two super genius kids and a wife to one of the funniest, most down to earth mother fuckers I have ever known.
C, I Love you!

D

Forgive the punctuation and I feel better now

I am sick of not having enough storage space, of a dish rack filled with dry dishes that NEVER get put away, with drawers filled with odds and ends that are swallowing up my brain, with the shittiest, smallest, stupidest closet ever built that is easily the size of an IPod situated directly in the middle of the main living room wall where a TV console or a couch should go but cannot because of Barbie closet in the way, of a joke of a laundry/broom closet/pantry/stool area that will become obsolete if either of us have more than one dessert a week and can no longer fit between our compact dishwasher and the wall to get to this awkward space we call laundry central, the noise, the ever loving noise on our corner that wakes up the baby and the evil spirit that resides in my inner soul, including any gardener, any asshole neighbor with a cell phone and free time, stupid, pure breed dogs who bark at all hours because their bones are fused together from the over breeding before they were sold to a puppy mill pet store where some trendy L.A. asswipe who now lives in my hood walks this pooch who then shits on my lawn daily and the owner “forgets” to clean it up and Otto steps in it or better yet, almost eats it, big, offensive gas guzzling trucks with mufflers as loud as George Bush is dumb, forgetting all the shit that I need before I leave the house, i.e. diapers, extra pair of pants because diapers NEVER work properly, change for the meter that should stay in my car so I do not have to think about the fact I have no quarters, the reusable shopping bags that hang from my front door but my lame eyes and brain cannot connect in order to get them into the car so I do not look like the shitty person who uses plastic shopping bags and is fucking over the planet (you know who you are) the amount of trash that accumulates including the recycling, the few friends I have who continue to put cans and bottles in their regular trash (again, you know who you are and I think that is the trait of an asshole, think about the planet and the future seriously, fuck!), the price of a decent babysitter or an ice tea that costs three cents to make but they charge two bucks for, the douche juice who moved into the new, ugly college dorm styles apartments across the street who drives a Lamborghini and revs the engine when I am trying to watch American Idol or Thirty Rock,Dooce, for trying to be subtle slipping in her promos for her book instead of being cool and just coming out and owning it (and fuck you for never shouting out to the fifteen of us who showed up at that bullshit meet and greet in LA that turned out to be a Lifetime pilot we had to sign away our lives for and you never said thanks, so lame), Bernie Madoff’s family who is complicit in the thievery and not offering to help the families that lost everything after Daddy Bernie Warbucks stole their life savings, Shereen, the cooze, for still haunting my dreams with her foot face and gypsy ways and for the record, you are next to Madoff for a reason, karma, karma, karma, thinking about losing one of my Siggerson Morrison flats somewhere between here and San Clemente, not having any other shoes worth more than fifteen dollars, the people who text while driving, having to remember the passwords for passwords to get into the passwords for different passwords, for the buzz kill celebrity sighting yesterday of Mr. Big at the Bev Center while I was dressed for failure and had to engage him in conversation anyway because I had not spoken to anyone over the age of two all day, for seeing Sarah Silverman in a new cherry red Mercedes coupe instead of a cool, ironic car that she should be driving, for the new hokey rules on American Idol, for that weird chick who tried to mind fuck all the actor's before going into the Postal Service audition, people who whistle in public for more that one bar of a song, those photos, oh those photos that are burned into my brain of the bullet I dodged, the lawn mover that is about to wake up Otto, you said you would come before 1 p.m. ahhhhhhhhhh!!!!! He's now awake and I'm done.

Is that thing vintage or are you happy to see me?

One of the reasons I was first attracted to Dave was most likely his close resemblance to the strong, good looking, caveman from Clan of the Cave bear as well as his flock of Dead Head hair and the mandatory college accessories he wore that I call Mewelry. Man-jewelry, the early nineties fashion statement du jour, included the mecklace, the macelet, and the ming, items that could be defined as a random assortment of wearable folk art procured from various art fairs, Dead shows, ex-girlfriends or a loving mother’s jewelry box, making any young man of that era look like a grunge inspired Christmas tree after January had come and gone.

The centerpiece of this cool collection would invariably be the mecklace, preferably a large silver amulet hung by a leather string and reeking of failure or a beaded number purchased on vacation in a local that encouraged hallucinogenic sex with women who never met a razor they liked. The mearing, the least controversial of the adornments, used to include simply wearing women’s cheap silver in the ear holes. Then these boys had to change it up and make way for the hefty blood diamond in each lobe, which equaled the social equivalent to that of learning to read or not defecating in public.

Dave’s desire to wear as much metal on his body as a severely depressed Beverly Hills housewife has greatly dissipated over the years, dwindling down to a simple wedding band and a roller ball pen he keeps in his front right pants pocket. For a large chunk of the male population, this is, however, not the case. Like people picking their noses in cars, I seem to attract the mewelry wearing man on every corner. I am forced to view all shapes and sizes wearing anything from a shark’s tooth pendant on a braided silver chain to a man with what appears to be a drain pipe on every finger and a bull ring hanging from his nostrils, making it seem like a huge metal booger is precariously dangling and about to abandon ship on or near my actual person.

And then there is the super cool guy who loves to wear a mish mosh of bangles that make me think more of a female middle schooler with a love for rainbows and ponies, than a dude who loves to eat pussy and rock out with his cock out. I support self expression, artistic freedom and body piercing for those who are trying to fill a void of a absent father figure or a first crush that went awry with large metals disks inserted into the bottom lip and solid steel rods jutting out of the very place that crush would never touch. I hear the pain and am all for these folks reliving the pain one excruciating puncture at a time.

I just think it looks dated, like a shoulder pad that still insists on being sewn into a t-shirt or a high waisted pant worn by an army of midwestern housewives who have no sense of fashion or fashion irony. The mewelry must go. Danny Gokey, this year’s American Idol front runner, not only has raided a treasure trove of mewelry found off the coast of 1995, with his collection of leather bands and rope macelets, he also wears fashion eye glasses from the 2001 metro sexual catalogue that Randy Jackson started. His eyes sit behind a rectangular piece of plastic reminiscent of a white Mazda Miata with the top down. He is bringing back da noise and da funk of lame and it must be stopped.

So men out there, who get up every morning, shower with Axe shower gel, put Café Mocha in your coffee and zip up $200 jeans that are faded only in the ass area and the front of the upper leg, please note this. When you are trying to complete that “look” you are going for by reaching for that silver bracelet with turquoise stones and intricate Mayan designs you had custom made in Cancun last time you flew there with your buddies to get wasted and have sex with women whose skin resembled an old leather attaché case, think again. The year is 2009 and you, my friend, have a pair of testicles and a choice. Live by the motto made famous by the most iconic fashionista of the twentieth century, Coco Chanel. Before you leave the house, stand in front of the mirror and take off one accessory. In your case, that means everything. Then look at yourself naked and wonder, “Why do I always need to wear jewelry made for a middle aged lesbian with a fascination for southwestern motifs and cable knit sweaters?” And then do something about it, Ron.

Things I have seen, read or heard this past week in regards to the financial face peel

A new VISA commercial telling people to buy groceries and cook at home as an alternative to charging dinners out

The NY Times daily musings about how recessionism is the new black Monday, complete with an article on Miucca Prada and her holding back on the runway this spring out of respect for the minions who cannot afford her felt, prison garb fashions

Martha Stewart condescendingly mentions cost saving tricks on her show while wearing a $600 cashmere sweater the color of a summery Crayola crayon

Oprah has a show about getting back to basics and simplifying your life. On it a woman who moves her two kids out of a five bedroom McMansion, leaving behind a husband, a mountain of luxuries and hired help and into a cabin in the woods with no Internet (the horror). She then discovers who she really is and cries while braiding a necklace, as she’s perched under a tree. Then it cuts back to Oprah wearing diamond earrings that look like two sparkling toilet plungers hanging from her ear lobes and tries to conceal a smirk knowing that she has just returned from her Montecito estate with the highest property value in North America and WiFi in every guesthouse - You go, girl!

Access Hollywood spending less money on a coherent writing staff for Billy Bush, thus making him sound more like a Bush than he ever has, using the word "gross" twice in two minutes for no apparent reason other than to describe his job

Old Navy selling t-shirts for less than a dishrag costs at Bed, Bath and Beyond with only one cashier to ring them up

Did I mention Oprah pandering to the masses? Oh yeah, I did

T.G.I. Friday’s, Applebee’s and Chili’s jumping on the poverty train and offering up all the same deep fried, sauce covered, heart attack inducing, tastes like college, vegetable free entrees for $9.99. Tax and drinks and self loathing not included

The offer of a Hyundai with no money down, three months of car payments included and a final sticker price of $12,200. Daddy, I want a new lawn mower for my sweet sixteen!

What’s the difference between Iceland and Ireland? One letter and six months

Mr. Postman, look and see, if there's a letter in your bag for me. Oh Mr. Po oh oh oh postman..

Three envelopes arrived last week with distinctly different flavors. The first was from my agent’s office and contained a residual check for $15. 72. In this economy what can that really buy you?

1. 30 Huggies Supreme comfort fit diapers (that is ¾ of a pack)
2. 1 gallon O.J. and a six pack of beer at Trader Joe’s
3. 4 Haagen-Daz ice cream bars at my corner convenience store
4. A forgettable bottle of Pinot Noir
   
5. 1/3 a tank of gas in my car, 1/8 tank in Dave’s truck
6. 65 minutes of a 75- minute yoga class
7. All You Can Eat at Souplantation for one, including beverage
8. 2 strokes of a hand job in Korea Town

Beggars can’t be choosers. But I was more annoyed by the money than appreciative, wanting a few zeros attached to the end to make it feel like a real payday, not some scratch off ticket I would never turn in. I used the money to buy a pitcher of beer, some nachos and a few doughnuts at out local farmer’s market that evening. This resulted in Otto, Dave and I sitting blissfully quiet as the carbohydrate overload hit us square in the belly and the money finally felt good.

The second envelope was average in its color, size and feel but really anything but average in its contents. The return address said “The White House” and before opening it my knees went weak with joy. You see, I had sent a New Year’s card addressed to President-Elect Barack Obama, which had a photo of Otto sitting next to The New York Times front page on November 5th. With Otto’s arms triumphantly raised and yelling “yeah”, we felt it reflected not only our feelings about the election results but perhaps, the Obama’s, as well. On the side of the card was printed, “Here’s to a great new year! Love, Dave, Dotty, Otto, Barack, Brody and Joey”.

We sent this out to all our friends and family, including the new President, hoping we would make the White House cork board. The note we received in return was typed and clearly mass produced, thanking us for our support and kind wishes but the signature was in ink and I danced around the living room like a topless reality show contestant after drinking the cheap champagne provided by the production.

The last envelope in the trilogy of mail would inevitably be the hardest to open. After interviewing, going on stilted, over-dressed tours, writing thank you notes, having far too many playground pow-wow’s on the subject and some good, old fashioned nail biting, we were about to find out if our little monkey had gotten into the first of three preschools we had applied to. Dave handed me the envelope, allowing me to be the one to open it, knowing that I was so much more emotionally invested than he was. For a woman who regularly leaves the house dressed for a nap, my appearance would leave anyone guessing that I do not look as if I care about anything. The irony.

I had been down this road before, during my senior year of high school waiting for replies from all the universities and colleges I had applied to. The one thing I learned during that period in my life was simply this. When the envelope is thin, the news is invariably bad. And this envelope was anorexic, anemic, Mary-Kate and Ashley, toothpick, beanpole, coke whore, get that thing a chocolate shake and a cheeseburger, thin. Its clothes didn’t fit and I could see the collarbone sticking out from its really expensive blouse that hung off it like an old flag flying half-mast. I actually felt bad for it. Not only would it never know the joy of eating an entire plate of homemade lasagna without feeling conflicted but it would never know my kid. My really cool, fun loving, athletically gifted child who never met a meal he didn’t like and who gave out hugs like a smaller, cleaner Santa.

I will admit it was an ego blow as bruising and painful as Chris Brown’s latest career move without the media attention or the reconciliation. But, after my initial disappointment and frustration, Dave handed me another envelope that had arrived along side the crappy rejection letter. Another residual checked stared me straight in the face but this time, there were a few more zeros, and somehow, that made it all better.

Oh, Gwyneth!

Things that rhyme with Goop:

• loop
• snoop
• coop
• dupe
• poop
  
• soup
• troupe
• group
• hoop

and the winner is:

poop, 1. (noun) fecal matter that strays from the anus of a regular joe, i.e. person or 2. (noun) the new blog/website/ivory tower/never Neverland/ recession proof/ fairy kingdom stream that strays from the anus of Academy Award winning, Madonna B.F.Fer, Coldplay fucking, legume loving, shIT girl known as Gwyneth.

Please give the golden ticket to the perfectly dressed, macrobiotic, yoga toned, cashmere covered gatekeeper, fasten your designer leather belts and enjoy the pixie dust covered ride.

http://www.goop.com/

spend a day away...

Here's to the Prom Queen - 2026

Today my delicious friend Kate gave birth to a brand new little love nut. She and her husband Matt came over for dinner Saturday night where we feasted on the yummy cheeses they brought and Dave's braised short ribs that I am convinced induced early labor. It was the last chance for the four of us to hang without a small beast suckling Kate's magnificent boobies and all we did was talk about the girl we would soon meet.

Before Otto went to bed he kissed Kate's belly and began a fifteen minute monologue of "baby, baby, baby", one of the words that he knows he says perfectly. It killed me to watch him be so gentle and aware and to begin wooing his prom date before she even entered the world.

I am so glad that Kate and Matt are our friends and so happy that you, beautiful girl, have arrived at long last. Welcome!

Sydney Austin Benay
Born March 2, 2009
12:59 p.m. (lunch time)
7 pounds, 19 inches

photo to come as soon as one is sent (hint, hint)

Ha-Chew!

Over the weekend, Dave caught a cold so severe his left eye watered for twenty-four hours as his right eye tried to make a run for it. Sneezing, headache and general misery was his unfortunate state of body and mind. Being a girl who sometimes wants what others have, I began feeling a tickle in my throat but promptly ignored it and went to Target. I never shop there on weekends but I figuring that everyone is flat broke and the economy is teetering on the brink so why not go spend money and feel shitty about myself? I actually thought that the parking garage would be as empty as a frat house keg on a Sunday morn and I would be the lone asshole charging it up.

Not in L.A., anyway. When the financial crisis hits, the fabulous and filthy rich and the poor and petulant flock to the local Target as if it were the only bathroom on an endless highway to hell. Everyone is created equal at Target, filling their carts with cases of Pepsi Max to drown their trendy sorrows in what is now known as the diet cola for dudes. Thousands of eager spenders crowded the aisles rummaging through piles of trendy t-shirts and gallons of laundry detergent priced to sell. Throngs of whiny tweens begged for Hannah Montana dolls while their angry parents threatened them with recession punishments like canceling the cable and never eating fast food again. It was a great way to spend my quiet Sunday

My Target list included the basics, such as landfill unfriendly diapers and toilet paper that I recently read strips forests of the most vulnerable trees. Who knew Quilted Northern was the new Hummer? Not only do I feel like shit every time Otto takes a shit but I now have to either feel horribly guilty when I wipe my ass or, just horrible if I switch to a recycled paper that leaves my nether regions in shambles. I will fight that battle with my conscience another day because today, I desperately need the fluffy soft rolls and boxes of aloe filled tissue that I bought yesterday. I caught this f*&ing cold and it sucks scissors as my mother would say.

After returning from my Target sojourn yesterday, I officially became the proud owner of a nasty, putrid, head crushing cold, stealing Dave’s thunder and his box of Puffs Plus with lotion. We spent last night eating Chinese war wonton soup, chocolate ice cream and Nyquil gel caps. I woke up at 3:30 this morning begging for someone to decapitate me and make the stuffy go away, as well as smelling like Chinatown after a tepid rainfall.

With a toddler in the house and the inevitability that he needs his parents to do shit for him every minute that he is awake I will now attempt to get up and feel better. Dave has had him all day, giving me the luxury and the gift of really staying in bed to fight this bag of germs, while still feeling crappy himself. He is the best and all of you do not have to tell me that, again. I know, I know, I know.

I do miss those days of sleeping until 3 in the afternoon and feeling like I have accomplished absolutely nothing in my life. Those were some good times. I will now try and continue the trip down memory lane and make myself a Top Ramen. Some things never change. If I can finish eating the bowl of MSG and noodles before Otto rises from his nap and sucks the life out of both of us, it will be even better.