Sorry, She's Too Busy To Take Your Call

My mother’s retirement began last week and I am having trouble, as I am sure she is, of wrapping my mind around it. Retirement is not something she was ready for. But alas, the asshole Gods at her former place of employment, a gathering of brilliant and narrow minds that shall remain nameless, took it upon themselves to force the issue. In these economic hard times every one seems to show their most unattractive side, including the people who perpetuated this fiscal spiral into oblivion and the cronies that followed their every command. No, I am not bitter and angry for my mother. I am not appalled that a senior staffer with thirty-five years of brilliant dedication and stellar work ethic, who can speak a handful of languages fluently and has a working knowledge of Latin that makes her able to accurately define any word you throw at her and crush any sucker at Scrabble, has been pushed aside due to inept investing strategies of a massive institution that is suppose to supply only the best and brightest to the world. This is the same group of dim light bulbs that have perpetuated mass consumerism by child labor, family time via prepackaged food and television and instilled the desire for private jet travel as the brass ring in an environmentally unfriendly culture of must-haves.

Do you smell the irony dripping from this once coveted perfectly gorgeous, frozen Popsicle that everyone craved at recess when the ice cream truck drove by and clanged a creepy version of Jail House Rock? Every little kid wanted that frozen treat but only one percent of the group was rich enough, smart enough or cunning enough to receive it. Now, Little Johnny always gets what he wants is standing there alone with a melting stub of artificially flavored and colored juice washing over his manicured, under worked hands as the sugary, sticky mess drips down his arm and onto the cuff of his very white, very starched, J. Press hand tailored, oxford cloth, buttoned down shirt.

Word up, Mr. Johnny. She will no longer be there to hand you or anyone else a paper towel or to spot clean the stains left by the years of carnage incurred by a very manipulative and sneaky sugar pushing ice cream truck driver and his loyal customers. No, she will be too busy. This, after all, is a woman who is frighteningly familiar with every other word in Webster’s Dictionary except for idle, lazy and bored. This is a woman who built three bookshelves and a king size bed for herself and her husband back in the 70’s just so she could know how to do it in case of a furniture shortage. These wooden monoliths still reside in my parents house due to their disco platform design and no nonsense, first timer workmanship. This is the same lady who, after deciding to go back to school to get her master's degree, threw herself into it like a manic-depressive off the Golden Gate Bridge, inviting her entire biology class over for drinks and performing an autopsy on a shark atop our dining room table while her children looked on in horror and awe.

When my father sprung a surprise dinner guest on her she would casually present a Baked Alaska after a three-course meal any French chef would give his left testicle to nibble on. Once, during a particularly heated argument with my father, she stuck to her guns and continued sewing matching Little House On The Prairie dresses for my sister and me as my father shouted incoherently in three different languages, gesticulating like a Martha Graham dancer on Crank. After returning to work full time she taught herself to knit because she had just reread the classics and needed a new hobby that did not involve death, despair and twenty-five cent words. She edited book after book my father wrote, putting up with his crazy hours, constant interruptions and unending hypochondria. When it came to passing on her extensive knowledge of all things handy she took on the role of master and taught me how to iron a shirt, sew on a button, baked cookies before I knew how to read, write a paper with personality even if the subject matter involved tadpoles, the extinction of the Saber Tooth Tiger or Jane Austen's malaise, paint a bedroom, install carpeting, use a Swiss Army knife at a picnic or for self- defense, dive off the high dive, drive a stick shift up up the hills of San Francisco, hammer a nail and play poker to win. She passed down to me the gift of thrift store shopping, bargain hunting, hand washing instead of dry cleaning, brown bagging a lunch, left overs for breakfast, a love of top shelf liquor and always carrying everything I could possibly need for any emergency in my purse. Look in my bag and you will always find a tampon, a safety pin, dental floss, a Band-Aid, a bobby pin, tweezers, Q-Tips, a sewing kit, a snack of some sort, water, gum, double stick tape and a spray can of whoop ass.

The list goes on and on and will continue to do so as this woman will now have more time to contribute to the world by writing a series of dog thrillers, retiling her local subway station, teacher herself, the disadvantaged and the disfigured competitive Bridge, finding a cure for selfishness and Republicanism and inventing a hands free Cuisinart instead of working full time for the man. Their loss is our gain. And one more thing. She also taught me how to make homemade Popsicles back when it was not chic or cool. And no, Johnny, just in case you were wondering, you most definitely cannot have one .

Monkey See, Monkey Do

It’s Wednesday and I finally feel like we might just get through the week. After a long, puke filled weekend peppered with little sleep and grouchy half conversations, midweek has arrived without any major calamities. Otto is most definitely on the mend save for the rash he has developed all over his face and chest due to a slight allergy to Amoxicillin. Don’t worry, the interweb and the pediatrician both say that that is fine as long as it remains, simply a terrible eyesore and not a full-blown allergic spaz attack.

So, for the remainder of the week he is not allowed to swim, skydive, eat shellfish he finds on the bottom of a stagnant tide pool or wander too far from home without his mother explaining why he looks like Edward James Almos after a bender. Which also means that I must fill his days with mellow activities that do not involve water, bacteria or showing his face to strangers who have skin condition phobias. That leaves a lot of playing in the yard with the same three trucks, walking to get ice cream, watching Elmo and hours upon hours of Curious George.

I am not a fan of George and this is bound to become a problem. The cartoon is supremely annoying not to mention the book is abhorrent. The man in the yellow hat casually shows up in Africa, traps George in a sack, puts him on a boat and tells him he’ll like living in a zoo in New York City much more than being free in his native jungle. Then Yellow Hat actually tells him that he knows he’s sad but to get over it and enjoy his new home.

But this monkey is Otto’s favorite and has now become our go to guy, making Otto snort, spit check and guffaw like an old drunk trucker. Every time George hides from the man in the yellow hat, Otto busts up as if I had just told him this dirty limerick my father taught me when I was a wee lass.

There once was a man from Kent
Whose penis was so long that is bent.
To save him some trouble,
he stuck it in double
And instead of coming he went.

While some people spent quality time with their parents during their formative years singing Christmas carols or playing Candyland or telling one another about their constructive and wonderful accomplishments, I memorize filth and tried to not fight with my sister at the dining room table.

When Otto laughs at George he has the same tonal quality as I do when someone tells me a disgusting, raunchy joke or I see a stranger eat shit in public, something I enjoy far more than the average person. Maybe Otto knows something about George and his yellow hat-wearing pal that I don’t. Maybe they have a more complex and fulfilling relationship that the book lets on. Maybe Africa sucked and George needed a change of pace and a larger variety of sugared cereal to choose from at his local supermarket. Whatever it is I have a feeling Otto may have my dirty sense of humor and my love of the inappropriate. I just hope he uses it to his advantage.

My Wild Weekends Have Surely Changed

Calling all cars, calling all cars! Not only is the Cambridge Police Department excited about a possible book deal and a guest appearance on the next Oprah’s Favorite Things episode, my small child has developed his first ear infection. It only took a weekend of high fevers, vomiting by two out of the three of us, a margarita gone badly, a cough and a lot of crying and worrying to discover this little tidbit of germ infested gold. Sleeping in the dark with little, sick Otto was like cuddling with a hot pocket fresh out of the microwave just after the first bite forces the insides to ooze out all over your favorite pajamas again and again and again. This leaves you having to wear old raggedy sweatpants from college that scream things at you that only you can hear, like, “fatty”, “slut”, and “lush.”

He is a cheese, bean and potato covered sack of love and the only positive thing about having a sick child is experiencing the moment when you find out he will be just fine. That and those long hours of him clinging to you like a barnacle on the hull of the Titanic, bumpy and beautiful in its tenacity. The quality of the sleep is horrendous but the long lasting hug he gives you as he quietly breaths under your chin is like cotton candy on a school day, sweet, sticky and breathtakingly unexpected.

No Need to Gift Wrap

When someone gives you a gift it is usually a 50/50 chance that you will like it. A poorly made blouse in chartreuse = bad, a cheap piece of jewelry Barbie would reject = insultingly bad, a wonderful painting found in a dumpster = wonderfully germ-filled and good, healthy, no sugar, over baked cookies = depressingly bad while trying to be good, a really cool ring that you would never buy for yourself = tremendous, a re-gifted bottle of shitty champagne = obvious and in poor taste = uber bad, A great handbag that no one in Hollywood has = impossibly good, hand-me-down designer clothing in perfectly worn-in condition = so awesome, a gorgeous hand knit accessory that itches as badly as a bad, Tijuana bikini wax = sweet but bad and sad. You get the idea.

All gifts have a rating system unless they involve childcare. When a friend, not family member, takes your toddler for 26 hours, which represents the first break you have had in two years and includes, feeding them three meals, bathing them, entertaining them, putting them to bed AND having them wake up in their house so the parents, (us) can sleep in until 10 a.m.? And during that 26 hour period you cram in three matinees, two meals out in public without a high chair, consume overpriced drinks on two different hip, outdoor patios, have some epic afternoon delight with no worry of being interrupted by small, needy childlike figure in dinosaur pajamas, a hot shower and a hair washing and leg shaving without the whir of a monitor, a leisurely reading of The New Yorker in the living room followed by a 20 minute, uninterrupted nap, which is proceeded by a peruse of various cable stations looking for a good movie and ending with a night’s sleep they should bottle and sell over the counter as the newest fashionable drug known as Heaven Can’t Wait, that is a gift. That =great!

And to top it all off, these people who gave the gift of “get a life” are unfathomably attractive and young, filled with youthful vim and vigor and an enthusiasm for life I have not seen since Molly Ringwald’s career shit the bed like a newborn in cloth diapers. It is disgusting, depressing and unfair and only serves to remind me of my age, my aching bones and my lack of fashion sense.

Thank you, Amanda, Jonathan and Jude for letting us recharge, reset the dials and reinstate our mental health and for dressing Otto like the cool dude we know he is. What are you doing on Sundays until 2026?

Movie Magic

The hardest adjustment I had to make to motherhood was the inability to drop EVERYTHING and go see a discounted movie while the sun was still shining. I spent my entire childhood at the movies, going with a huge gaggle of pals to see as many as three in an afternoon. Armed with a box of Hot Tamales and a newly minted iron on t-shirt purchased at the nearby kiosk at The Old Mill Six theater, I would plop down in a plush red seat and gaze up at the screen as Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta sang ballads of high school lust and longing while looking old enough to have grandchildren of their own.

Last week I got an unexpected treat from a friend who wasn’t feeling up to working and wanted to escape for a few hours. I had gone over to her house so our kids could hang for a while and she suggested we leave the kids with her nanny and sneak off to a matinee. I, of course, jumped at the chance like a white-collar prisoner being given a Bush White House pardon.

We ran off to the closest mall and saw the only movie in our small, desperate window, a clunker called Cheri, starring Michelle Pfeiffer. I knew nothing more than this. It was a chick flick starring the most beautiful actress of the last fifty years, draped in period costumes and lounging around seductively on a chaise lounge covered with a throw made of bald eagle feathers. I was thrilled as the lights went down, the air conditioning whirred and I was actually getting a break from motherly duties for a short time. But as soon as the movie began I knew the bloom was off the rose of my flowery fantasy. Within minutes, Michelle Pfeiffer’s character began what would be a never-ending monologue detailing the ravages of aging, unsightly wrinkles and the inevitability of being replaced by a youthful version of oneself time and time again.

Her character had been the most beautiful and successful Parisian courtesan in early twentieth century, syphilis-riddled Paris. But now, stuck with a middle-aged football face and a pile of money earned by giving hand jobs to viscounts and virgins, she was at a loss as to what to do to fill her days. Of course, being the tragic heroine that we have come to expect when Michelle dons a dress that looks like a duvet coverlet from the Macy’s Liberace Collection, she takes a nineteen year-old lover who is more anemic ballerino than hot, young man about town and teaches him how not spend his own money while making an old lady happy. Then, these two numeric opposites made awkward, lazy love, argued over who got to wear a stunning set of pearls (not kidding) and discussed the state of her crackled mug as compared to his youthful, smooth, pasty, translucent, sickening, vampire-like dermis.

I wanted an escape and a break from reality. I wanted Michelle Pfeiffer to look, act and feel hot and to have sexy time with someone other than an undernourished extra from Twilight. But all I really got was a big bag of age spots, crow’s feet and neck wrinkles as if I had just stumbled into a Florida Denny’s during the early bird special. The camera spared her no indignity as it zoomed in on her paper mache arms and her puffy, under eyes circles, accentuated, no doubt, by old age make up, bad lighting and a lull in her career. This was not our Michelle of yesteryear, strutting around in a Diane Von Furstenberg wrap around dress while doing coke off of Tony’s hairy man-chest. The stunning, corseted, date-raped belle of Dangerous Liaisons was long gone, as was the hot, future Oscar nominated dancing machine that captured our hearts in Grease 2.

I didn’t need a reminder of my own horrible demise. I am well aware that cruel mother nature will take its vicious course, resulting in me looking like a half eaten grilled cheese sandwich when I start to collect Social Security checks and stray cats. If Michelle Pfeiffer looks like shit than that means I REALLY look like shit. And, for just ninety, slow paced, air-conditioned, age defying minutes; I really wanted to look awesome. But after seeing her sashay around bemoaning her aging, new-fangled facial crevices, I felt like a microwavable 7-11 burrito that was just tossed out a 1999 Hyundai Sonata along Highway 5, whose last resting place may or may not be perched between a highway median and soiled mattress once used for mediocre love making by a band of crack heads.

Take A Hike

I snuck away this morning to hike in the canyon not fully realizing how hot it was. I took the hard trail up the steepest part of the mountain we call the Matterhorn, hoping to get a good work out and a little fresh air. Having consumed copious amounts of wine and salty foods over the past weekend, I was surprisingly spry and energized, passing four guys in their twenties who all looked as if they had just been found in the Kalahari after a fraternity theme party that had gone awry.

I felt amazing until the hard part was over. While walking downhill, my body began compensating for my stupidity by sweating like Lindsay Lohan at an AA meeting without cigarettes or Samantha. My face was the red of an expensive French lipstick in the bottom of my purse and the oversized white t-shirt I had stolen from Dave was too long and thick for the heat. Not only was it inappropriate for a triple digit stroll in Hades, it made me look like a dowdy, high school, second string softball player whose only concerns revolved around cleats, glove oil and same sex marriage. My floppy, 50 SPF sunhat and real hiking shoes only added to the misery of my appearance. Having once drawn a few glances from the opposite sex when I confidently wore yoga pants and clingy wife beaters, I now resembled that weird lady who professionally avoids the sun as well as all human contact, channeling all her energies into outdoor activities and amassing the world’s most eclectic collection of potted cacti and dream catchers.

After reaching the halfway point down the canyon I finally began to feel less heat stroke and more exercised and accomplished. As I passed one hipster after the other who looked right through me as if I were an apparition, my breathing regulated and I looked around at all the other whackos who had decided that hiking late morning up a dusty, dry mountain, in a heat wave was not only good for your body but a great way to show off your fashion sense. Compared to my grandma gardening togs I displayed, the pickings were delightful.

There was the girl wearing a sun dress and flip flops as if she were casually strolling along a beach, not realizing that her feet were now caked in dirt and dust making her appear to be a clay mock up of a dehydrated, Bahamian tourist. Then there was the sassy lass who modeled the smallest pair of white, terrycloth shorts with a back pocket just big enough to hold a generic Vicodin. As I passed her by and looked at her front end, I was privy to a sight only a male camel would love and strongly hoped she would give those shorts back to the third grader she stole them from.

I turned away as quickly as I could only to spot a reed shaped girl in a metallic silver bra and minute, black, spandex briefs, a swatch of fabric barely covering her Almond Joy, much less her Mounds bar. Her skin was the color of a well worn Sperry Topsider and her hair was clearly bleached a hot, Madonna white blond in order to better reflect the rays of the sun away from her skull and onto her future mate she was hoping to find under a shrub somewhere along the trail. Her ad reads,

“Must love applying large quantities of cocoa butter lotion to sweat covered, leathery skin, the smell of bottled hair bleach and clothes shopping in the children’s section of Frederick’s of Hollywood.”

Just as I was nearing the end of the hike I passed the perfect specimen of Los Angeleno male, a shirtless dude with a spare tire that screamed, “I drink Guinness Stout, play in a band, head butt my pets and work at Staples.” Pierced through his chin was a metal rod with two balls on each end, making the lower half of his face appear to be a pull up bar for a small mouse. His arms were covered with tattoos of the requisite vines, barbed wire, Japanese writing and a poorly drawn woman with a face that resembled a melted Hershey’s bar found under the seat of a hot car. But the real gem was a collection of curvy letters inked across his flabby stomach that spelled out the word, “Villain.”

It was a dark and stormy night and the frumpy, hiking lady (think Sally Kellerman) is being followed by the bad guy (think a chubby version of Bruce Willis, The Moonlighting years).

Cue manically laughter and dastardly deed chuckle.

High jinks ensue.

Smile Pretty

Yesterday, after Otto so charmingly refused to nap again and I had a heat wave and a mountain of time to kill, I plopped him in his stroller and walked to our local outdoor mall, dragging along a neighbor who is also a mother to a menacing muskrat. We both strolled along our streets hoping the clock would tick away quickly with no meltdowns and poopy diapers for any of us. Our sons are becoming great pals, as they are next-door neighbors and both love aboveground, white trash kiddy pools and pushing one another until one falls over crying. Match made in heaven.

After arriving at the manufactured Shangri-La, they both got soaked in a fountain, walked over a bridge, looked for a train and waved at some balloons before willingly getting back into their prison on wheels and sitting still like angels while the moms had a basket of French fries and a pint of really cold, really delicious imported beer. We then began our slow, hot walk home chatting about exhaustion, plastic trucks and cheap on-line stroller accessories and unwanted sexual advances. We passed our local Baskin-Robbins and surprisingly resisted the urge to slather the boys in sticky sugary residue. As we walked by the entrance I noticed a large group of men in a side doorway, all dressed the same, mostly the same age with expensive cameras around their necks or cupped in their chubby, little hands. Immediately, I realized we had stumbled onto a horribly dressed posse of paparazzi who were lying in wait for someone that they clearly deemed special (lucrative).

Having had a beer and no break from a tyrannical toddler, I was feeling sassy and stopped and asked the man closest to me whom they were waiting for. With what he wrongly thought was a great sense of humor and a charming smirk, he laughed and said, “Michael Jackson.” I would have been on my merry way had he not attempted to be the funny asshole in front of this group of Ed Hardy wearing, overweight, slimy, sweat-covered cockroaches. But now I was in. I turned back to him, told him that that joke was as dead as M.J. himself and demanded, cajoled, insisted someone tell me what celebrity was in the Baskin-Robbins that they so desperately wanted to snap a photo of.

At first no one would give it up. Some guys stared at me as if I had axe murdered their club rat girlfriends who have sex with them just because they chase famous people around the city, hoping for a shot of a drunk, angry star giving them the finger. Another guy just laughed under his breath and spoke in an unfamiliar language to his pal next to him, most likely mocking me for not being on television in my underwear or birthing a litter of test tube babies all named Denise. It actually felt great knowing I was annoying them as much as they annoyed people every day. These turds cause accidents, they shout obscenities and stand around spitting on the sidewalks until Lindsey, Jessica or Heidi come around the corner wearing yesterday’s sex stained mini skirt and a $3000 handbag filled with self tanner, Grey goose nips and tattered pages of the autobiography they are trying to write in long hand.

There was no way I was moving until I got some answers and they all knew they had been cornered by a tipsy, nobody mom who was filled with anger and deep fried food who knew nothing of having a publicist, a reality show or a major pill addiction. I stood my ground like Norma Ray on a cotton gin until finally, the jokester of the bunch spoke up, disappointing me to no end. Kimberly Stewart, the balding celebutante, best known for her famous sperm chugging father, Rod and her former buddy Paris “Hide The Salami” Hilton, was eating a double scoop of Gold Medal Ribbon and Rocky Road Hard and Put Away Wet.

Thinking I would move on and stop drawing attention to their stealth location in a grungy doorway four feet from the soft serve machine, I then asked them what photo they all wanted more than anything. The answer is as surprising as the fact that Kimberly Stewart eats anything but Certs with Retsin. They all agreed that the money shot would be either Kate Hudson sitting on A-Rod’s A-rod or any picture of Sylvester Stallone. I’m just glad to see the universe is not as out of whack as I had originally thought, still giving Rocky his just desserts after all these years.

Tech (No) Phobe

I am not very handy in the world of technology. But I have been trying to reset the blog so some of you or all of you cats can comment if you wish. You should not have to join Blogger or use a code. Just go to the comments button and give it a shot. I would love to hear your thoughts or misgivings about what you are reading. Do try and comment again and if this doesn’t work than I plan on resorting to smoke signals and a bi-plane sky writer named Dennis who lives in Sylmar.

Thanks,


Dotty

Movie Magic

The hardest adjustment I had to make to mother hood was the inability to drop everything and go see a discounted movie while the sun was still shining. I spent my entire childhood at the movies going with a huge gaggle of pals to see as many as three in an afternoon. Armed with a box of Hot Tamales and a newly minted iron on t-shirt purchased at the nearby kiosk at The Old Mill theater, I would plop down in the plush red seat and gaze up at the screen as Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta sang ballads of high school lust and longing while looking old enough to have grandchildren of their own.

Last week I got an unexpected treat from a friend who wasn’t feeling up to working and wanted to escape for a few hours. I had gone over to her house so our kids could hang for a while and she suggested we leave the kids with her nanny and sneak off to a matinee. I, of course, jumped at the chance like a white-collar prisoner being given a Bush White House pardon.

We ran off to the closest mall and saw the only movie in our small, desperate window, a clunker called Cheri, starring Michelle Pfeiffer. I knew nothing more than this. It was a chick flick starring the most beautiful actress of the last fifty years, most likely wearing period costumes and lounging around seductively on a chaise lounge draped with a throw made of bald eagle feathers. I was thrilled as the lights went down, the air conditioning whirred and I was actually getting a break from motherly duties for a short time. But as soon as the movie began I knew the bloom was off the rose of my flowery fantasy. Within minutes, Michelle Pfeiffer’s character began what would be a never-ending monologue detailing the ravages of aging, unsightly wrinkles and the inevitability of being replaced by a youthful version of oneself time and time again.

Her character had been the most beautiful and successful Parisian courtesan in early twentieth century, syphilis-riddled Paris. But now, stuck with a middle-aged football face and a pile of money earned by giving hand jobs to viscounts and virgins, she was at a loss as to what to do to fill her days. Of course, being the tragic heroine that we have come to expect when Michelle dons a dress that looks like a duvet coverlet from the Macy’s Liberace Collection, she takes a nineteen year-old lover who is more anemic ballerino than hot, young man about town and teaches him how to not spend his own money while making an old lady happy. Then, these two numeric opposites made awkward, lazy love, argued over who gets to wear a stunning set of pearls (not kidding) and discussed the state of her crackled mug as compared to his young, smooth, pasty, translucent, sickening, vampire-like dermis.

I wanted an escape and a break from reality. I wanted Michelle Pfeiffer to look, act and feel hot and to have sexy time with someone other than an undernourished extra from Twilight. But all I really got was a big bag of age spots, crow’s feet and neck wrinkles as if I had just stumbled into a Denny’s during the early bird special. The camera spared her no indignity as it zoomed in on her paper mache arms and her puffy, under eyes circles, accentuated, no doubt, by old age make up, bad lighting and a lull in her career. This was not our Michelle of yesteryear, strutting around in a Diane Von Furstenberg wrap around dress while doing coke off of Tony’s hairy man-chest. The stunning, corseted, date-raped belle of Dangerous Liaisons was long gone, as was the hot, future Oscar nominated dancing machine that captured our hearts in Grease 2.

I didn’t need a reminder of my own horrible demise as nature will take its vicious course resulting in me looking like a half eaten grilled cheese sandwich when I start to collect Social Security checks and stray cats. If Michelle Pfeiffer looks like shit than that means I REALLY look like shit. And, for just ninety minutes I really wanted to look awesome.

Speedo Demon

The heat has returned after an unusually mild summer and all I can do is lament the death of the Speedo. Most men and boys nowadays wear long surf shorts as swimming trunks, hiding everything and anything behind colorful patterns that represent Hawaii, Jamaica or what their vomit might look like cascading from their mouths after all day binge drinking by the pool. The day-glow colors making any man worth his salt seem tan and oiled up, ready for a round of bloated pool volleyball or the old summer favorite known as grill-the-burger-until-it-matches-the-riverstones-so-lovingly-lining-the-driveway-that-leads-to-the-above-ground-pool-where-the magic-happens-when-the-kids-go-to-bed.

I love that Dave wears cool, modern swim gear and doesn’t have his ding-a-ling showing for all to see. But that is a change in personality that I have had to accept in myself. Years ago, when children were baby sat by oversized house keys hanging from sunburned necks and sugar was considered a food group, I spent my summers preparing for my many future relationships with the one eyed wonder worm by ogling grown men at the university pool.

Armed with swim goggles, a sea lion’s ability to remain under water for long periods of time and an unhealthy curiosity for the opposite sex, my friends Tristan, Kathleen and I would plant ourselves in the corner of the 30 foot diving pool and watch as one man after the next would dive off the high dive wearing what could only be described as a small, nylon version of an eye patch. The Speedo was considered de rigueur with its ability to make any man look at if his dong could win a wrestling match with Godzilla’s stronger cousin Gorgon, any day of the week.

Being a huge fan of Japanese monster movies and wildly interested in why the opposite sex always seemed to be stowing away a sack of over ripen guavas in their shorts, I wanted to see for myself what was really going on down there. The first time we gathered the courage to go forward with Operation Speedo Drop, we all huddled together with our Dorothy Hamel haircuts and our stifled bag of giggles waiting to finally see a real live Dick Van Dyke.

The first man to fall victim to our peeping tomboy’s club was a summer regular who always wore an unlined, white Speedo that when wet, showed every curve of his little soldiers helmet. Technically, because of his lack of modesty and free 70’s spirit, we already knew what a penis might look like. But, after his hands hit the water and his suit fell down past his thighs, I finally came face to face with the mysterious creature I had been so curious about. Here, before me, was not the monstrosity I had built up in my mind. This was not a fierce jungle snake. This was not the creature looking for a black lagoon I was so deathly afraid of. What I disappointingly saw before my young, innocent eyes was a deflated flesh colored water balloon, a sausage casing without the meat, a small, cream colored finger puppet sadly missing its active appendage, a piece of water logged sandwich bread looking for some bologna.

Yet, it was thrilling as well as informational. Not only did we realize that all men were not created equal, that cold water and man’s other best friend were indeed enemies but we were also surprised to learn that the penis was often surrounded by mysteriously, dark curly hair, making the entire area look as if a Vienna sausage were being embraced by a toupee. It was disgusting, alarming and shocking all at once. But like the strong, independent girls our parents were so proudly raising, decades before over-parenting, constant chaperoning and unnatural paranoia had become the norm; we decided we should continue with our mission. If not for all womankind, than at least to kill time until the fall when we would be out of the pool, back at school and could finally understand why all the boys were exactly the way they were.

Thank God The Check Cleared

Reality has started to sink in. I have a real kid, a kid who is starting school in less than three months. Dave and I put on our wrinkled dress-up shirts, unwashed jeans, dropped off O with a neighbor (bless her young, fashionable heart) and scooted over to Otto’s new school to eat bagels and fruit salad while wearing nametags with cartoon monkeys on them. We sat around listening to the first orientation, a breakdown of what to expect in the fall. No, they do not have to be potty trained. Yes, they will be given their own cubbyhole and lunch box. Yes, state law requires naptime so if a child is refusing to nap he is technically breaking the law and can be punished accordingly. Ho ho, fantastic! No, peanuts or any peanut product are not allowed on the premises due to an overwhelming increase in societal peanut allergies. Almond and cashew butter, are of course, a reliable and well liked substitute. Tell that to me when I try and trick my taste buds into thinking I am swallowing a peanut butter and jelly on fluffy white bread but am sadly met with cement colored paste that seems more mashed yeast than Skippy Smooth.

All the parents seemed really cool, very funny and truly thrilled that there toddlers would soon be out of the house for at least part of the day. Maybe I am projecting like an out of work hooker on a Detroit street corner but I am so excited to have Otto transition out of the house and into a class room. For a mere bazillion dollars, he will be led by a group of over educated, wildly qualified and kind teachers who can play car crash with him, change his urine flavored diapers with one hand tied behind their backs and casually finger paint without worrying about the clean up, the clock or the crying jags. These are soldiers of sanity, choosing to devote their life’s work to being locked in a room with a large group of baby spider monkeys that want nothing more than to throw wooden blocks at each other and smear food in their hair. These women are my kind of super hero and I have just purchased a year’s worth of their comic book series, HOT FOR TEACHERS!

Of course, I will miss all the little moments Otto and I have together during the day. Such as the bountiful and bank breaking trips to Target where I can refuse him nothing in the toy aisle while I get molested by strange men who shower with Thunder Bird whiskey nips. Then there is the sand box shuffle at the park where I try my best to make Otto NOT steal strange kids’ toys that are most likely covered in toxic fecal matter or unseen Hanta virus molecules. I will really be sad about saying goodbye to the six to eight dirty diaper changes a day and the continuous hand washing that accompanies it. I have turned into an obsessive-compulsive old hag with scaly catcher’s mitts for hands needing to wash every time the wind changes directions. I am a bottle of Method liquid soap away from wearing white gloves in public. It’s bad.

But most of all I will miss the soft, stat-icy hum of the monitor, that tiny, innocent under achieving walkie-talkie that fills the house with a white noise that turns my brain to mush and fills my ears with blurry confusion. With every crack or a pop that comes through the little, saltshaker sized holes, my body reacts wit a tense twitch and an exaggerated slump of the shoulders. Is Otto asleep or is Otto tearing his crib apart and laughing at his own jokes? There I am daily, sitting at the dining room table with the posture of a half hearted question mark, wolfing down a grilled cheese sandwich and staring at the round device that plays on my every fear, every squawk amplified with red lights and a volume button. Its sole job is to ensure I do not shut my eyes or fold some laundry or write some words when I really need to.

Okay, all right. I will miss his pink cheeks and rye smile when he first wakes up from his afternoon nap. The days he takes one, that is. Oh, and the hug and kiss I get when I pick him up. And, yes, the neck nuzzle is the shit, as is his unbridled enthusiasm for leg hugs, foot tickles and back rubs. But the “I love you, Mommy,” with head on shoulder combo? That’s a killer but we’ll just have to do all that after school, which is also after mommy’s gone to the bathroom, exercised, gotten her first pedicure in a calendar year and not wept with her head inside the dishwasher.

Do The Humpty Hump

We now have living across the street a really, truly, honest to Betsy, Hollywood party girl. Rumor has it she is the daughter of some old school mogul mucky muck who prints his own money and pees in his Bel Air hydrangea bushes while the gardeners watch just because he can. When she first moved in last winter she was doing the nasty dance with the gorgeous actor James *(I cannot reveal his true identity without feeling like a real asshole, even though he was awesome in the Spiderman movies). This frustrated me to no end. I was one year into motherhood and barely able to scrape together a clean pair of sweatpants and a hair tie to hold back the discolored, dirty, neglected mop atop my head. Every time I saw them walking hand in hand, holding their Starbucks Vente Latte Grandes and smoking each others faces off, he would solemnly look at me as if he were confronting death itself, ready to take his young, magical life before he had the time to dip into the pool of remaining starlets who were more than willing to ride his Big Wheel without any underwear.

Party Girl and James are no longer an item according to the mail lady and the classy website TMZ, who smarmily states that James is living in New York and attending NYU while napping during English Literature 220. Party Girl is now chummy with some hipster dude who sports a crooked beret, white framed sunglasses last seen in License To Drive starring Corey Feldman and Corey Haim and skinny jeans so close to his skin that they appear to be black support hose without feet. It is truly difficult for me to picture him in a sexual scenario when I see him prancing down the street like a woodland fairy that dresses like a black Crayola crayon.

PG’s car is a typical gas guzzling luxury vehicle in all black with black customs rims. This, of course, shows how edgy and urbane she must be, having grown up with a high- end zip code and a daddy to the stars. I walked outside today and for the third time in two weeks saw her car sitting alone and dusty with a parking ticket tucked under the windshield wiper, a tiny, insignificant fly in a huge, beautiful, gilded tub of ointment that could care less about little annoyances such as citations and parking permits and street cleaning. I only wish I could not give a shit about any of that for just one hour of my overly concerned and hyper aware life. I rather have a fork stuck into my eye socket than receive three parking tickets in a week, much less in a lifetime. It’s as if this chick threw $150 into the middle of the street and lit it on fire with her Monte Blanc lighter her dad gave her for her thirteenth birthday. You know the one she pulled out when Daniel Baldwin offered her crack for the first time. It’s actually really nice.

Last week, a woman who lives in her building said that they have been notified that someone wants to shoot a reality show starring PG and her posse of pals. I am so tired of caring what the hell goes on in this neighborhood that I thought nothing of it and went on with my business of trying not to fall asleep before sundown or cry while doing shit covered laundry. The woman than tells my husband that she has now become the Dotty (that’s me) of her building and will not allow this fiasco to happen. I will admit it would suck to have The New Hills shot twenty feet from my front door. The parking, the noise, the disturbing scenes of Party Girl and Black Tights canoodling on the front stoop while a crew of angry, underpaid camera guys in cargo shorts and hiking boots film their every word, their every precious anecdote while the director quietly plans his own suicide after the first episode airs.

I have always been the fighter, the organizer, and the motivator in all things neighborhood. I have chased down criminals, gone to court to testify, put up signs and sprinted after STOP sign runners dressed in my pajamas and a sports bra. I sadly seem to know what is going on at all times. Who is sleeping with whom, what window the peeping Tom last jerked off in, who has family money, who is only a paycheck away from swallowing more than just their pride to pay the rent, who shoots soft core porn in their living room while claiming to be simply an “erotic photographer” and who is constantly leaving her vibrator in her sheets for her cleaning lady to find.

But now, I just want to sleep, eat and survive another day to fight off the onslaught of potential tantrums, leaky diapers and maniacal mealtime moments. Last time I gave two shits I, along with a few other neighbors, where wholly ignored by the city and the mayor’s office and any sucker who would listen. We gathered all the signatures on our street in order to get speed humps to stop the drag racing valet drivers and bitter, bloated commuters who flew down the street ignoring our stops signs as if they were former child stars in search of work. So many times most of us have been nearly killing as we crossed the street to gossip to one another about the collection of urine samples in the alley, what apartment building houses the most hookers and where on earth won't our local drug dealer at least shower once a week.

But just today, as I was unloading my bounty from a Target run that involved buying overnight diapers and being felt up by a drunk letch in the toothpaste isle and reporting him to security instead of killing him with my strong, angry peasant hands, I noticed a city truck pull up directly in front of Party Girl’s pad. Sure enough, two guys got out and hammered a new street sign into the ground that said, “15 MPH – HUMPS.” Maybe I will start caring again, at least enough to have a cameo on The New Hills.

License To Parent

When Dave and I decided it was time to get pregnant it did not require either one of us taking a parenting test with a golf pencil or driving through an obstacle course of scattered Lego’s, breast pump accessories or urine soaked swaddle blankets. There would be no waiting in long lines with a stack of paperwork and a nervous twitch hoping to be rewarded a small, laminated identification card with a terrible photograph that could be used as a mug shot most days. It only took two homemade margaritas, an imaginary sunset unseen from our decrepit front yard and a collection of groans and giggles worthy of mischievous hyenas in heat.

Parenting is a bumpy, barf covered journey on an unpaved road to a mysterious somewhere unknown. You are always a highway exit away from living in a trailer with your full- grown offspring and a family of cats who use your comforter as their primary toilet. You have no map, no guidance system in place and a spare tire that may or may not be flat. You go with your gut and you do what is right for you and your child and your partner and your soul. Part of that involves being an enlightened human being, filled with compassion and patience and love and caffeine and the occasional high priced cocktail. Some days are filled with tears, small injuries caused by ill placed Match Box cars or uncoordinated maneuvers do to slack of sleep or middle-aged blindness. Some days are puddles of joy and laughter, the kind most often heard in exclusive sanitariums or country club locker rooms after a once in a lifetime round under par.

Parenting is not a lifetime filled with jealousy, neglect and anger, looking at your offspring as if they were direct competition, a threat or a problem as easily removed as a benign cyst or a water logged Band-Aid. This is not the animal kingdom where the errant lion eats its young because the young cub came out cooler, smarter, more evolved and much better looking, with a coat of fur Big Foot would envy. A parent’s job is to teach and direct and repair and prepare their child for the dangers and joys and hurdles and gifts the world will give them once they are cut off, kicked out and forced to wear a name tag until finding their path. A parent’s soul purpose is to leave a legacy for their family, a box of hand-me-downs filled with teachings and anecdotes and morals and ill-fitting, outdated pantsuits that inspire, encourage and motivate.

Old man, you flunked the written and oral portions. You had the rare opportunity of handing over an overflowing, 1972 cardboard box in mint condition, making amends, of making things right and finally seeing your child for the beautiful, capable, stellar human being he is. He has succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams as an artist, a husband, a friend and most of all, a father. He is everything you could never be. You had your chance but blew it with your pressed, high-waisted pants, your electrical tape that could never repair the holes you caused, the white paint that could not cover the cracks you encouraged, the pool filled with unheated, foreboding water that drowned your potential yet forced him to swim faster, stronger and more gracefully than you ever could.

With all your attempts at clouded destruction, you have ironically built a man made of steal, glass and light who has taken the weapons you gave him and created a human being so evolved, so impressive and so special who will forever be a stranger to you. They both may have your DNA, your fastidiousness, your wavy locks of beautiful hair and your unending love of the American automobile but they do not have your darkness. And for that I am eternally grateful. In your mangled misery and distracted disappointment you have given them something after all, a license to drive away.

Bombs Bursting In Air

Happy Fourth of July! I miss my city dump fireworks and my bicentennial pants suit mom bought me at Sears. Just saying...

Willy Wonka Can Suck My D*@K

I have a chocolate drawer, or really a drawer where I keep the chocolate. That drawer is never empty. With the amount we cook and the amount of times I frequent five different grocery stores a week, I never run out of chocolate. Chocolate, Valrona dark chocolate to be exact is my brown, sugary heroine and it saves me from life’s little nut busters every day. One square in the afternoon after putting King Whines A Lot down for a nap and one or two squares after the king retires for the evening. I eat a lovely, perfectly formed square and then plop my fanny onto the sofa to watch Wimbledon highlights, The Soup or redundant and unsatisfying Michael Jackson coverage on CNN, CNBC or BET.

I hated chocolate while I was pregnant. Otto was probably being territorial and made sure that I did not love anything as much as his little nugget head while he was safely squirreled away in my belly. The nausea was minimal but the thought of chocolate made me gag. But now, as a mother with strict limitations on what can be legally and ethically ingested to induce pleasure, chocolate really is my go to buzz.

The fact that the chocolate ran out today, a day that has been filled with crying, complaining and a full-blown temper tantrum over a duvet in his crib and a football pajama top that no longer does it for Otto, made it a rough day. Breakfast was a blow out of shrieks and weeps before being ironically, devoured, the car ride from the park was tearful at best and the post lunch, mom needs to make your bed with all new linens because it was all urine soaked when you woke up today and then you decided you suddenly hated your hippo duvet that you loved this morning, ended in a battle royal that my Oompa Loompa clearly won. I found two old baby blankets I thought he hated and a pajama top two sized too small and squeezed Otto into it like a unruly, emotional sausage. I stared down into his crib, watching him try his best to not start the cavalcade of sobs again and I suddenly realized that he resembled a tiny, green, Lou Ferrigno running through the forest, chasing a 70’s, bad guy with a mustache the size of canoe. He turned toward the wall and left me standing there with tears welling up in my already puffy eye sockets and a keen desire to take up smoking bubble gum cigarettes.

Speaking softly to myself like the crazy lady who walks around our neighborhood with a straw hat covered in bird poop and a pair of cut off jean shorts small enough to make Britney’s vagina jealous, I walked down the stairs to find relief. I now knew what it would be like if I had just returned from a tour of Vietnam where I was held prisoner and forced to baby sit a slew of Viet Kong toddlers who played with real guns, screamed at me in a language I knew nothing of and threw their own poop at me if I misbehaved. I opened the drawer for a fix but found only a half eaten box of stale Hot Tamales, chewing gum and a sad collection of all natural, unsatisfying fruit roll-ups, nature’s way of saying “Ha, ha! Fuck you!”

Being desperate and shell shocked, I went to the cupboard where I keep the baking ingredients, ripped open a bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips and shoved a handful in my mouth, as if channeling Neely from Valley of the Dolls. Only my pills were tiny little swirls of chocolaty goodness, no bigger than your basic rat turd. They melted in my mouth with the speed of molten lava, making all the pain go bye-bye. Then I scribbled down “chocolate” on the grocery list and prayed that I would find a golden ticket.