The Comedians Wife

The Comedians Wife
If it's good luck when it rains on your wedding day, what does it mean if a hurricane blows through?

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Dinosaurus Delight! I'm Back!

Forgive me for not having written in a while, I was temporarily taken down by a few forces beyond my control! (Thank you Mother Nature...You bitch!) First there was the man cold, which I talked about in my last blog! Leaving me like a drowning woman clutching for a straw. Followed by the baby cold.  Which lets face it, is just about as bad as a gigantic pimple arriving on the tip of your nose the day of your wedding. You have nightmares about it,  the very thought of it keeps you up all night.  You try and plan ahead for it. You do everything in your power to prevent it!  But ...when it shows up, all red and pussy, like it's proud to be there.  It's a disaster.

The baby cold is the equivalent to this kind of chaos! That first sign of cloudy, thick, sticky and glue like mucus running from your babies nose, immediately throws all new mothers into a state of panic. This clear drippy mucus slowly running out your child's nose like a broken faucet, has the ability to render new moms helpless and confused,  sort of like a really bad date. Useless, is all advice on how to treat this monster that's  thrashing around in your child's system.   Infuriating phrases like, "Let nature take it's course", "It's just a cold, nothing you can do." Seem to take over your brain, and makes you want to punch someone hard. We've practically cured aids, but yet nothing for the damn cold. Had god given me a better sense of science than shoes, I might be coming up with a cure right now. Oh and while I was at it, a cure for ear infections, so that no child shall ever get one again! Now there's a shot I bet parents would be lining up for!

Anyway, my point behind my man/baby cold rant, is that you can keep knocking mother nature, but you can't knock me down. I have bigger battles to fight! Bigger fish to fry! Bigger undertakings to take!  Bigger bitches than you!  Bigger as in...The planning of the 2nd Birthday Party for my favorite boy big! Far more scary than the cold! It's on!

Anyone who knows me, knows I am a big fan of birthdays and an even bigger fan of birthday parties. I love me a good "theme" party, and will settle for nothing less than fireworks and donut trucks! Last year I nearly broke the bank trying to create the most perfect, "Under the Sea", first birthday party, where I literally had the party thrown in a room which was basically a giant shark tank!  Brilliant if you ask me! I had my husband dress up as DJ Lance Rock from Yo Gabba Gabba, and although terrifying to my child, and quite possibly emotionally damaging, it made for a great party memory! Lessons you learn on the first child!

 As my party planner self began to emerge, my husband turned to me and said, "Oh that's just great, lets just go overboard again for a party he will never remember! Why must we put all this time and effort into something he will never even get?"

 I swiftly punched him in the nuts and said, "You play a game that requires you put all your  time and effort,  pretending you are a general manager of a pseudo-football team, that doesn't even exist, and has the word fantasy in it's title! A game in which you stress out frequently, waste numerous amounts of brain cells on,  and for no other reason than to say, "Hey I Won NOTHING! It's not real!"

He looked at me and said ...,"So what's your point?"

I looked at him and said," My point!" "MY POINT is, we are having a very DINOSAURUS second birthday for our son! You will be Stegosaurus Steve and like it. You will not complain. You will  wear any and all costumes I give to you to wear. You will roar like the best dinosaur you have ever heard when asked, (you're an actor after all right?)  You will not look at the credit card statement for at least a month after the party, and you will most definitely never ask  ever again why I am having this party! That is my point."

His answer..."Fair Enough!"

At least he's learning!

So for now my virtual world of blogger friends and family, I will be concentrating on throwing the most excellent Dinosaurus 2nd birthday party ever!

 I plan on attempting my very first fondant cake! (No doubt I will blog about that later) Making thousands of cookies shaped liked Dinosaurs. Purchasing everything that has a dinosaur on it, in it, or near it! Catering a delicious menu of dinorific treats. Oh and if anyone out there knows Dino Dan, that would be really helpful. Trying to rent that kid is a bitch!  I usually demand the help of my BFF Kim, (she'll dress up as anything), plus she's tiny like a kid, and fits into everything, last year I made her be a fish, and flap around, but the girl is buried under  the 42 feet of snow NY graced us with, and apparently has better things to do than give  out dinosaur rides. What's up with that?

So even with all the craziness and chaos surrounding our everyday lives, I wouldn't change a thing, and look forward to the stress an agony this birthday party will  surly cause me!

Thanks for reading! Don't be shy...REPLY!



Thursday, November 11, 2010

Warning, the "Man Cold" is going around!

As if having a toddler to keep healthy during cold and flu season isn't hard enough.  I now have to worry about helping my grown up child, (other wise known as my husband), stay alive through this growing epidemic of a disease called the "man cold." You've heard of this deadly disease right?

After all it is the most debilitating disease a man can get.  Almost all men will die of this "man cold" if they do not have large, and I'm talking LARGE amounts of attention paid to them.  They must be told at least every half an hour just how hard it must be to struggle through such an awful disease.  They must feel how brave, we as women think they are. You as the care taker must be available at a moments notice to refresh glasses of orange juice, ice tea, and diet Ginger Ale. Failure to do so will lead to an absolute death sentence.  Women of course could never catch the  "man cold", therefore we will never know the agony they are put through when they contract this near fatal disease.

Many many boxes of tissues are required. The soft kind with aloe.  You must get the right tissues or their sensitive man nose could be compromised of smelling forever.  You mine as well just take stock in DayQuil now, because you're going to need endless amounts of those little red gel caps.

Note to my readers: If you run out of DAYQuil, DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT give your husband a NyQuil pill instead... Innocently thinking it's probably all the same thing. It's not! That will only end with you having to drag what feels like a 4,000lb bull across the living room floor, into the bedroom, to stop the snoring beast you have created, you are sure the neighbors can here, and is scaring your son! Take my word on this one.

Also, several runs to fast food joints and bakeries will be required at this time. It seems the only real remedy to this "man cold" is McDonald's or a box of  Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies, followed by a marathon of the Housewives of Beverly Hills.

There is a good chance your man will not be able to lift a single finger around the house for many many days, but will be required to play in his basketball leagues Tuesday night game.  He might have to drag himself out the door like soldier going to war, but...what kind of man would he be, if he let his team down.

This "man cold" is going around ladies, and if yours happens to catch it,  I wish you a speedy recovery, with no major fatalities.  I say that because this "man cold" is just as likely to kill the person taking care of the man with the cold, then he himself.  May god grant you the patience of a saint in these tough times, and the heart of a warrior.  You will need it to survive.


Thursday, October 14, 2010

Sucker or Saint?

Today I was faced with a conundrum.

I had to interpret a situation based solely on the physical in front me.  No facts. No other opinions. No back up (AKA, The Husband). Just me.  Just one mother, staring at another mother, sitting on the ground in front of our local grocery store, with her very young daughter in her lap, dirty and thin, with a sign that said, "I can't feed my children.  Please help."  I was alone with my son, and I had nothing to rely on, except my moral compass.

So I began to dig.  And dig I did for a while.  To be honest, I think I shoved that moral compass so far down in my purse, I had forgotten about it entirely.

In a large city, such as Los Angeles, where I'm pretty sure they demand you leave your morals at the bus stop before entering Hollywood,  it's not that unusual for one to maybe become jaded or blind to someone else's misfortunes.  It's also not that unusual to see someone asking for money.

The homeless have become as common as the palm tree's here in LA.  And lets be honest, even being homeless in Los Angeles has become competitive.  You'd better have a creative sign with you, or you can forget any donations.   Entrance's to the freeways are like a good read of the National Enquirer.   Hollywood Blvd, is filled with your homeless comedians.  Just yesterday I saw a man with a sign that read," I slept with Lindsay Lohan, Please Help!" Not but a half a mile from there, another man with a sign that read, "Time Traveler, need a $$$  for a new flux capacitor."  Creative right?  Then of course we have the very mecca of homeless peddlers, Venice Beach!  Where some of the most interesting con artists/homeless people you will ever meet reside.   Not only can you get a toe ring, but for a buck ,you can take a picture with a homeless person and bring it home as a souvenir . People asking you for money, is sometimes like people asking you for the time.

As a native New Yorker, I am no stranger to the homeless begging for money.  I am also no stranger to being called a sucker, and falling for every sob story out there. When I was younger, I found it incredibly difficult to walk away from anyone asking for money.  My heart bled for each person I passed, and there were days where I think I handed out more than I made.

However... I am no saint.  My overwhelming sense of compassion for terrible situations sometimes get the best of me, and I act before I think. I once got sucked into watching one of those Sally Field feed the children specials in college, and immediately called up to sponsor a child.  A child myself, I had no business offering money I didn't have, and felt so bad when the picture of the child was sent to me I couldn't look at it.   My now husband, then boyfriend, put the picture in the freezer until we could muster up enough money to send a check back.   The picture lay in the freezer for 4 months. Awful I know.

Luckily, as I got older, I got wiser. Realized the situations for what they were, and now dish out my dollars a little more selectively.  

This brings me to today.

Where a woman, who couldn't have been any older than me.  Sat on the ground, in front of the grocery store, dirty and hot, her young daughter in her lap. With a sign that read, "I can't feed my children, please help."   All while I plopped my $400 bag down in my grocery cart.  Pulled out my kids seat protector that lays over the grocery wagon, so my son doesn't dare touch anything he's not suppose to,or get dirty,  and pulled out my list of 100 things I needed to buy, to feed MY child.

As I whipped the cart around, noticed the child sitting in this woman's lap, and read her sign. I stood there for a moment. Silent.  My initial reaction..."Is this for real?" I felt awful.  I felt awful though for one huge reason. I didn't know if I believed her. In fact I was pretty sure I didn't.  It's a scam, it has to be, I thought. To quiet the Jimini Cricket in my head, I dug through my purse found a $5 bill and gave it to her. She thanked me kindly, and into the grocery store I went.

BUT...I couldn't stop thinking about it. I just couldn't. Even ripping through a bag of double stuffed Oreo cookies "to keep my son occupied" (I ate 6) didn't help.    So I pondered the situation.   Even if this was a scam, this poor kid didn't deserve to be involved, right?  And oh god what if it wasn't a scam, and this mother is desperate to do anything to feed her children? Was I an awful person for thinking she was lying? I was an awful person. No, I am just a sucker. This was a scam, right? Why was no one else helping her?   At this point my brain was on overdrive, my heart strings pulled, and if this were a movie Elton Jon's,  "Sorry seems to be the hardest word," would be playing.

Just when I was about to ignore the situation completely, and just keep on moving, wouldn't ya know, I found my moral compass.

I have no idea if what I did was Sucker or Saint, but I'd like to believe if nothing else, maybe that kid had a little something extra tonight.

I would love to hear all your thoughts on this one. I know it's not really funny, and there's no humorous outcome, except for it you think I am a sucker, and that kid is really like 24 and just looks like a kid and they are drinking beer with my $20 and eating Peanut Butter and Banana sandwich's.

What would you have done?

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

The Thunder From Down Under

When it comes to bachelorette parties... Let's face it, there's the stereo typical drunk bride, with her flashing "warning" lights, covering what very little dress she is wearing, clad in a hot pink boa, huge laminated button that says "last night of freedom".  And if that's not enough, it's all accompanied by a lovely veil with dicks coming out of the top.  When you utter the words, " There is a bachelorette party coming in tonight." Generally the response is uhhhhhhh!

However the bachelor party,well that's something entirely different. The bachelor party is a long standing tradition.   A rite of passage as much as a right to party. Where men are marking the transition from a single independent lifestyle, into the the commitments of married life.

Right, Right.  I wonder what kind of symbolic meaning, strippers and cigars hold in this beautiful rite of passage?

Lets just say what it really is. One last night to see one more pair of tits and ass, or in the ladies case, one last laugh at a pair of balls, before you enter into a contract that says, you are not aloud to sleep with anyone else, for the rest of your life.   Us girls just got around to it a little later, with a few more accessories.

It wasn't until the sexual revolution of the 60's, that women decided they wanted a piece as well. They traded in the stuffy night before sleep over,  for naked men, booze, and a lot of laughs!  It was their turn   to have the rite of passage night, the men had been celebrating for so many years before.  So thank you my fine feminist friends. Not only did you burn your bra's, and give us The Pill.  But you gave us the right to objectify men.  (All hail the male stripper)

In the past year I have received the honor, of becoming a Maid of Honor, and I am taking my job very seriously.  This past weekend, we celebrated the one last night of freedom,  Vegas Style.  We attended one of Vegas's finest contributions to it's female tourists,  "THE THUNDER FROM DOWN UNDER!"

Ladies, if you haven't had the great pleasure of attending this fine theatrical masterpiece, I highly recommend you do!   All that sexual evolving, and demanding of  equal rights, and we get one  night with greased up juice heads, pumping their packages to Salt N Peppa's "Push It".  What else could be better.

Straight from the beaches of Western Australia, come some of the most beefy, glistening guys you have ever seen.  They are part fire man, boy band, and leather clad rock star, gyrating on stage while women off all ages squeal with delight!

I can honestly say it is one of the funniest  things I have ever seen in my life.  Not only do they have perfectly pretty packages to shake around on stage, but there pirouettes are on point, as well as the latest dance moves from the clubs!

We all enjoyed ourselves immensely with only a few minor altercations.  One, when a man that looked like Fabio, whipped his hair around and we were all soaked with an obscene amount of baby oil, and two, when one very large Asian lady came over to me and tried to throw me out for taking pictures.

In her defense, they tell you a million times you are not aloud flash photography, and video taping is prohibited!

In my defense I didn't use a flash, and the nearly naked Australian MC told us at the beginning of the show, "Tonight ladies, there are NO RULES."  He was very convincing and I believed him! Besides how could I not share with the world a little slice of this show! It would  be unfair and untrue to all the feminists before me. It is my duty to put it out there.  Come and find me Asian lady!

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Blue Balls

I once read a theory that men prefer strident noises and firm hand shakes. That they are better at solving technical problems than women, and like the color red.

I would like to take a moment to prove this theory wrong! My basis for proving it's falsehood.  Just a simple day in the life of a wife and mommy.

Here goes:

 If men were better at solving "technical" problems. Why oh why can't they figure out how to put the damn roll of toilet paper on the holder?  Do you think if I left a "technical" manual, of how to do it , it would help?  Also, and forgive me for going here ladies, but I feel I must.  Why is it impossible to get everything that is suppose to be in the toilet...In the toilet?  This is technical.  A technical act.  In fact not getting it in is a "TECHNICAL FOUL" if you ask me.

My husband, will not leave a pick up game of basketball, against 8th graders at the park, until every basket has been made, and every shot has been hit.  Getting the same, point, aim and shoot determination into our toilet...Never.  Not once.    He has yet to make his business land in the toilet with no extra parting gifts left around the rim for yours truly, in 10 plus years.

You'd think I would be use to it, or at least know it's coming when I lift that porcelain SOB to clean.  Nope! Shocks me every time!   I still have the same "UHHHH" body jerking backwards reaction, like I just saw an alien pop out of the toilet,  followed by gagging sounds, then curse words, then sheer wonderment of how the hell "It" got "There" and how it's all even physically possible.

Today while cleaning the bitch, I had a vision of all wives, moms of boys, and anyone else who has the great pleasure of cleaning the bowl.  Clad in there ginormous yellow rubber gloves, (I mean whose hands are that big Rubbermaid?) Toilet bowl cleaner wands in hand,  marching up the steps of the White House, protesting poops and penis's!   News papers would read, today in history women decided they deal with enough shit already!

After my day dream, and a long shower,  I drifted back into my proving this men theory wrong, and thought about the strident noise part.

If men like strident noises so much, how it is that no matter how hard or loud the baby cries in the middle of the night, they don't seem to hear it?  They can sleep right though it. Not even a one eyed peek.

If they like loud noises so much, how come when I yell out real loud for help with the groceries, I still get nothing? No movement, no response. As a matter of fact, I usually have to follow it up with another, louder request, and then maybe I get  a "Oh, sorry I didn't hear you."

So far this theory is for shit.

Lastly, I would like to touch upon the color theory. Truly the real reason I started to write this blog today.

While having a seemingly innocent conversation with my son, at a place called, "The Playhouse". Which is exactly that, a giant play house for kids.  My son was frolicking through the ball pit, delighted to be throwing his body across the balls instead of watching mommy clean the toilet.   I decided it was a perfect opportunity to continue with our practicing of colors lesson.  The ball pit was filled with red and blue balls. You see where I am going?

There I was, ever so sweet, enjoying my doting mom moment. Thinking how brilliant I was to turn fun time into learning time. When I started to explain, slow and loud  "This is a BLUE BALL...Blue balls, these are BUUU-HUU-LUUE BALLS." "Can you say, BLUE BALLS?"   "Try it with mommy." "Buuu-luuue Baaaa-hhaaallllll-sssss."

My son repeated, "Bew Bawls!" "Bew Bawls" over and over and over again! YAAAAAYYYYY" In my high pitch ecstatic mommy voice, I started to cheer and reply, "Very Good Jack." "Blue Balls!" Clapping and jumping the entire time.

It never even dawned on me, that besides the fact it truly was a BLUE BALL, this conversation had any other meaning.  That was until the man, who was sitting across the ball pit with his daughter, started laughing and grunting under his breath, (which I clearly heard) "..Heh Heh ...Blue Balls" like he was Bevis or But head or something. Clearly amused by my little fopar.

For a split second I thought maybe he was laughing at the way I said balls.  No matter how hard I try to lose my NY accent, balls is still a tough one. Then I realized there was no laughter upon my "RED BALLS" lesson.   Just blue!!!

Yet again, helping me prove just how wrong that stupid guy theory is.  Clearly the color "BLUE" had more of an impact on this man then red.

I rest my case, and my dignity today.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

The Dreamer.

I'm a big advocate for believing in your dreams.  I think the magic of risking everything for a dream that nobody else see's but you, is fearless.  Quite honestly I think it's  a major turn on as well, and one of the biggest things I admire about my husband.  

 I've also accepted the fact, that life makes no guarantees as to what you'll have, and standing by your choices, and your dreams, can sometimes be a pretty daunting task.  

We've all read quote after quote, and listened to speech after speech, about just how easy it is to follow your dreams. The fact is, it's not always as simple as, "Never say never",  and "Always have a dream in your heart."  Life seems to like the curve balls a lot more than the poets. It's no wonder people have lost sight of what it is that truly makes them happy.      

I'm not sure when the dreaming started to drift out of my own life, and definition settled in, but somewhere in between I got a little lost.   

Ironically as a new mommy, the path I see into my sons future has never been more clear.  With every fiber in my being, I truly believe he can be whatever it is he wants to be.  I've never been  more sure about anything in my life.  I tell him so every day.

This got me thinking.  When did I lose that certainty in my own self? I truly hate the land of beige and predictable and certainly never want to return there ever again.  

Yesterday I had the opportunity to dust off the old "dream" cape, and hang up the  "mommy" cape, ( if only for a moment) and what I learned, surprised the hell out of me.  

I don't have to choose.  I don't have to be defined with just one title. I can still dream my little heart out, and believe in every single one of those dreams.  My back has got room for many capes, and like the true fashionista that I am, I can wear the hell out of all of them!

Even if at the end of the day nobody else see's what I see, you can be sure I will be strutting down the runway in my mind, like god damn Cindy Crawford, to the sound track of Glee, Season 1. 

(Insert the cast of Glee singing..."Don't Stop Believing right about now. )

Side Bar- Have you noticed blogging is really just a big old diary entry we let everyone read. How bizarre is that? 

I promise more bitching and funny to come.  The dreamer in me, had to purge. 

Thank you thank you! 

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Assembly is Required!

Fear is not a word I use often.  By nature, I am not a "frightened easily" kind of gal.  I don't check the back seat of my car for strangers lurking inside, and I never owned a whistle or a can of pepper spray in college.   That being said, there are three words that strike fear in my heart.  Three words that render me silent.  Three words that send a cold shiver down my spine, and a sick twitch straight to my eye.

Those words:  "Assembly is required"

Damn you Assembly...damn you!

Is it not enough I pay a fortune for you, and you still want me to put you together! Uhhhhhhhh!

Growing up, we had it easy.  My dad, was the "put-er together guy." You could give that man a screw driver and some crazy glue and it would be up, working, and in fine shape in no time.   Neighbors would bring there Christmas toys over days in advance for my dad to put them together, because obviously they had the same fear as I do.

I always just assumed my dad new exactly what he was doing and enjoyed doing it. I thought it was a god given skill, something he loved.  Now, as a parent, I know the truth.  The ugly, sad, infuriating truth.

Those scars on his knuckles, they are not from falling off his bike as a kid...OH NO.  They are from putting endless screws into endless doll houses for 20 years.  Tires on tricycles then bicycles then cars! Allen wrenching the most ridiculously made screws into holes that just aren't big enough.  All just to get my easy bake oven up and ready for yet another crazy birthday.  Those knuckle scars, they are scars of a real man, a real dad, and I say to all you dads out there. Wear em proud!!!

This new epiphany I am having has put me in some what of a pickle.  You see, I have married a man who has no real tangible man skills what so ever.  He considers holding the flash light a tough job!  I've seen him take water breaks after holding the flash light for my brother in law who was busting his ass installing a boiler, (which by the way, who the hell knows how to do that?) It's the truth. He would tell you so himself.  It's not to say he doesn't have a million other dad skills that will serve him well, just scars on the knuckles won't be one of them.  "Assembly is required" means we are going to have to hire someone.

We have sat on boxes for weeks as we stared at our perfectly perfect new furniture that was delivered but needed to be put together.  When we first arrived in Los Angeles I asked my husband, my then boyfriend, and knight in shining armor,  to help me put together the dresser I had lugged all the way across the country.  After we laid out all the pieces he started crying and handed be a hundred dollar bill and begged me never to ask him to put anything together again. There went my knight, and my dresser!

This being the reality of my life, and a character trait I was well aware of when I married this man.  I took a stand today and decided to take matters into my own hands.  I was going to stare "Assembly is required" right in the face, and shut her down!

 I wanted to purchase my son his own little table and chairs for drawing.  He has taken quite well to his new crayons, and while I was at it I thought a nice easel would go fetchingly with his table and chairs.   You never know, he might be the next Picasso and it is my job to nurture that brilliant mind.

I asked around and was boldly instructed by my sister, who I refer to as my mommy guru, to go straight to Ikea, and they will have everything I need.  Obviously she doesn't know me as well as she thinks she does.  The first words out of my mouth were," Uh, NO, I will have to put it together." She replied with a quick, "Oh no, it's so easy, you just screw in the legs."  Okay, okay, how hard could this be right?  Anyone can screw on legs.  WRONG!!!

As I walked through the giant blue doors of the Ikea, I started to sweat. Everything looked so nice and easy in the display rooms, but I had a funny feeling about what lay inside those card board boxes I was lugging out to my car.

How could one kids table and chairs weigh so much?   If no tools are required why do I hear things rumbling and jingling around in this box?  Oh well, I'm in it now so I mine as well face the demon.

As I lay out all the pieces across my living room, my first thought was, "What the hell?", and then, "Oh forget this, I am going to hire someone." Then as if the parenting fairies were looking out above me, ( I think I have been watching to much Sesame Street, forgive my analogies.) I began to translate the damn German directions to English and put my project together.

Waaaaallllaaahhh...would you believe it, a perfectly stable, perfectly put together, table and chairs AND art easel. Look out Picasso, I bet your mother never put together some German engineered truly impossible to figure out, art easel!

It only took 5 hours, 2 knuckle scars, a shit ton of curse words, and one call to my brother in law before I bashed a screw that did not need bashing.  Apparently there is this apparatus called a wrench.  Who knew?!!!

Oh and does Ikea tend to give you extra screws just in case you mess up? I was left with a few extra after?  Weird?

I fear you no more, "Assembly is Required"...Bring on the Christmas Toys!

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Murphy's Law

Have you ever noticed the chances of a piece of bread falling grape jelly side down, or right onto the blouse your wearing, is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet, or the day you decide to wear white.

It's like the miraculous recovery my son has as soon as we step foot into the pediatricians office.

 Or how the chances of being seen by someone you know, dramatically increases when you go out sans make-up and no bra.

As parents, (new parents especially), we are always planning ahead.  Filling the diaper bag with all sorts of tricks and treasures to avoid any kind of disaster that may occur. Extra clothes, extra snacks, anti bacterial everything. Water, band aids, Neosporin.   God for bid I was ever stuck in some sort of natural disaster I would be covered.

Actually wait... I wouldn't.  You want to know why?  Because without fail, it would be the one day I decided not to take the diaper bag.  I would be stuck right in the middle of a natural disaster, such as a diaper explosion with #2, sans make-up, no bra and zero supplies to help me through.

As my journey through parenthood moves from bottles and binky's, onto tantrums and terrible two's.  Toddler hood seems to be providing me with enough Murphy's Law moments to last a life time.

I have recently noticed what seems to be two sets of moms out there.  The one's that say, " Oh not my child." and the one's that say " Why is it always my kid?."  I fall into the second category.

Why oh why is it always my kid?  He is on a mission to dump, turn over, smash, pour, throw, and lick, everything he is curious about. There is no child proof spot unturned.  No glass left full, no fragile item not broken, and no hidden gadget not found in the toilet.

What amazes me about the whole thing, is I can't get my curious kid to try a french fry let alone a vegetable, but out an about walking our dog, he will surely find the one snail slinking along his slime trailed path, and put it in his mouth. "WHY MY KID!"

After a recent trip to the east coast to visit family and friends, we left a few parting favors behind I would like to apologize for.

 My mothers beige rug is now pink from all the water melon juice my son spilled on it, over and over again. My fathers already impaired vision might just be a little worse today, after my son picked up a fist full of mulch and wailed it at him like he was pitching a fast ball for the New York Yankees.

Oh and the reason the remote doesn't work anymore dad...MY BAD.  I found it in the toilet two days after it went missing.

When my in laws try to open the blinds this week in the family room, to let in some beautiful sunshine and have a moment of peace...Not gonna happen!  The damage my son caused by Tarzan swinging from one set up blinds to the other, has rendered them unworkable.  Sorry about that nanny and poppy.  I know a great blind guy!

Lastly to our dear friends who just had a brand new baby girl, who on arrival my son immediately tried to throw out of her vibrating chair, I am very sorry!  It won't happen again.

I'm sure one day a very valuable lesson will come from all of this mayhem, but until then, I think I will hand out warning labels with my son, and possibly some helmets.  You can never be to safe.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Sweet August

After everything that has happened in the past few weeks, "I.e", packing, traveling alone with a monster, airport disasters, bridal showers, and of course staying with my parents.  I barely even noticed it was August!  My most favorite month of the year.

August has been a pretty historic month, if you ask me.  In August of 1959, Hawaii became the 50th state.  I love Hawaii.  In August of 69...Woodstock commenced. I love Woodstock.

In August of  seventy bleep I was born.  I loved being born.

Being born means one very important thing, BIRTHDAY PARTIES, I love birthday parties!

Anyone who knows me, knows I love everything about birthday's.  I love the parties, the cake, the presents, the balloon's, the attention! The bigger the better.  I love theme birthday's, party dresses, cakes with my name on them, making wishes after blowing out  the candles, and of course goody bags.

 Who doesn't love themselves some good old fashioned goody bags. You know the kind.  The kind with the good candy.  The large sized snickers bar and the string candy necklaces.   They are awesome.

To be honest, if it was up to me,  I would still have a super hero themed birthday party, where I get to dress up as Wonder Woman, or Princess Leia.  My friends would be required to wear their favorite super hero costumes. While capes with every one's initials would be handed out upon arrival.    McDonald's french fries and Margareta's would be passed around.  Instead of pin the tail on the donkey, straight up BEER PONG would be the game of choice. Superman Vs. Batman in beer pong.  I could die.

I really think as adults we somehow lose the sense of awesomeness surrounding birthday's.  Remember when you were a kid, and someone asked, "What do you want for your birthday this year?" You answered right?  You made a list of everything you wanted and let every family member you could find know what it was you were wishing for.  Now as adults, we're asked the same question, and generally respond with, "Oh no, I don't need anything."

 "I'm too old for birthday's."

Ya know what I say.....HELL TO THE NO! I want me some presents, and I want me some cake!!!  I want to party, and I will never be to old for a kick ass birthday bash.  I will forever wake up excited the day has arrived, and sleep like the dead when the day is over.

Sure, I might wake up with a few unexpected presents in each passing year.  Thank you grey hair, and new wrinkle on my forehead. But that will never stop me.  I will still dust off my tiara,  pull out my party dress,  grab my super hero cape and go celebrate the joyous occasion!

That being said, if anyone speaks to my husband can you tell him that I have been a pretty awesome girl this year, and deserve many many fine things for my birthday! I have registered at Bloomingdale's and he can find my "wish list" under BEST WIFE EVER, WHOSE BIRTHDAY IS IN 13 DAYS!

Thank you kindly.

Just a lazy day in August 197..bleep
After a Birthday Bash!

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Common Courtesy Forgotten.

"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers"....NOT in this lifetime Blanche DuBois.   Even Tennessee Williams couldn't make the kind of day up, I had yesterday.

Apparently the TSA, and the rest of the world for that matter, doesn't remember anything about being kind to strangers and  helping your fellow man out. Common Courtesy is no longer a lesson learned or a moral followed. People just don't give a shit.   I say, when you go to check in for a flight, not only should you have to show your 17 forms of ID, but you must be handed a very specific, very clear, list of airplane etiquette rules, which you must then read and sign, before getting on the plane.   If you do not comply with this list of rules, for example, taking your disgusting bare foot out, and putting it on the arm rest of the persons chair in front of you.  Your plane neighbor should IMMEDIATELY be able to smack you!  No questions asked.

Obviously anyone who has traveled in the past few years knows the airlines suck, and the process of getting through the airport is just one great big pain in the ass. But we deal with it.  So what  if we pay hundreds of dollars to be treated like poop and told, "Sorry lady, we don't know where your luggage is." Or my personal favorite, when the airline handed me back my very expensive stroller with no wheels on it, NO WHEELS, a ripped off hood, and the steel bars of the base bent in half.   "Sorry mam, we are not responsible for fragile items."

 Right right...of course. My bad, I didn't realize you were transporting elephants under the plane who were shifted around during the course of landing and sat on my stroller.  I will try and find a stronger material than steel next time when buying a stroller. Fragile item my ass!!! I've seen my husband drive over my stroller  a dozen times with the car and nothing happened!

Believe it or not, as infuriating as all of this is I can handle the lack of courtesy the airlines give me.  They just hate their lives and have to deal with the horribleness of people every day.   It's expected. I understand they are going to be of no service to me and they don't care at all.  It is what it is.  What shocks the ever living day lights out of me, is the lack of common courtesy people have towards one another.

Yesterday, while going through security, my son began to loose his shit, literally, and BARF the fresh farm organic yogurt he had for lunch, all over the place. (Why is it always the day they have yogurt?) He barfed all over himself, all over me, all over the floor, all over my soul!   There I was, ALONE, freaked out, and barefoot, because obviously I have concealed some sort of weapon in my flip flops.  I lay there on the floor trying to catch the puke in one hand, rip through the diaper bag for some wipes in the other, all while everything I own is laid out above me on the security line, and not a single solitary person offered to help me.  NOT ONE! Not the security people, not another passenger, not even the freaking janitor!  To make matters worse, when I finally got back on my feet, my poor son stripped naked wrapped in his blankie, puke dripping from my hair,  I went to grab all of my belongings that were just left up on the  security counter and someone stole my watch.  The watch I got for my first mothers day non the less. How's that for a kick in the ass.

When I alerted security, obviously frantic, naked baby in tow, covered in puke.   An obviously annoyed employee, sauntered over to me slowly, and said, "What's the problem mam?" Then rolled her eyes.

"My watch was stolen!"

"Sorry mam, not our problem!" That's exactly what she said.

Defeated, stinky, and completely broken, I wandered off to the first gift shop I could find, bought my son and myself  entire outfits that said, "I'm Crabby, welcome to Baltimore!" Then we headed to our gate.


Of course.

Dressed entirely in gift shop apparel we patiently waited for our plane.

As I sat there exhausted and mentally beat down, I watched, as one by one people cut each other off, rolled suitcases over peoples toes without so much as an "excuse me. " Watched as they blatantly bitched about the children making noise at the gate and how they "PRAYED" those kids weren't on the same flight!

I kept going over and over it in my head.  Not a single person thought to even offer me a napkin when my son was hurling all over me.

I don't know.  Maybe I'm tired of traveling, or just bitter after being puked on. But what I do know is people suck, and common courtesy is gone.

Maybe instead of playing one of those stupid videos that no one watches, on where the airline flies to and how they are the # 1 airline to fly with.  Maybe just maybe they should play a common courtesy video on how to treat your fellow plane mate.

It would go a little something like this.

1. Brush your damn teeth before you get on a plane and bring mouth wash or a freaking pack of gum!  News Flash...your bad breath is as offensive to me, as my baby crying is to you!

2. Keep your feet in your seat! Don't even think of taking your socks off!  The next GNARLY toe I see creep around the corner on my arm rest is gonna get a pencil stab right to the nail! I mean WHO ARE YOU!

3. DEODORANT people. PLEASE. Why is this even an issue. Take a shower before you get on the plane and for the love of god don't wear a shit ton of perfume or cologne to cover your stink!  It's awful!

4. Your seat is not a lazy boy, don't push it into my knees when it won't move anymore.

5. Yes, kids can drive you crazy, but have a little patience for crying out loud.   The poor parents are being tortured and doing everything short of taping their children's  mouths shut to keep them quiet. You were in deed a child yourself once, and I'm sure you can find it in your Grinch heart to understand.

Okay...I feel better.

Oh and if anyone happens to see a White Michel Kors watch on the wrist of someone who is obviously not fashion worthy, rip it off their arm and let me know.


Sunday, August 1, 2010

Mommy Deal!

Lets face it, in the early parts of our lives, we spend most of our days blaming our mothers for not letting us do something we wanted to do.   Then we spend the later parts of our lives, blaming them for everything that went wrong.    At the ripe old age of thirty- whatever, I am still pissed my mother wouldn't let me wear my high top converse sneakers to girl scouts , instead  forcing me  to wear "lady" sandals, forever setting in motion an unhealthy obsession with shoes...(and girl scout cookies) I still bring it up, every chance I get.  

    As kids, my sister and I were particularly good at  plotting the demise of our mothers plans for dinner. Over and over again we bitched about what it was she was cooking.  We  plotted everything from training the dog to attack when she entered the kitchen, to just plain stealing all of her pots and pans. We rarely made it down the hallway before we were defeated.   Billowing smoke and curse words involving some recipe that had gone wrong would fly out of that kitchen like an Andy Petite pitch.  It was a war zone for a skinny 9 year old with no ammunition, and I never stood a chance.   Something was always on fire.  One of us kids was always assigned the job of wind maker under the smoke alarm, flapping our arms with a dish rag feverishly, making sure it didn't go off a million times and worry the neighbors.  

The smell of some poor cow who had given it's life, wafted around the dinner table ,all for some hamburger that looked like a meatball. Thank god for the hamburger buns as a KEY, or else some nights we weren't sure if we were waiting for spaghetti or ketchup.   It's probably why I am a vegetarian today  and my sister a perfectionist in the kitchen.  

In my mothers defense, it really wasn't her fault either. I'm sure she would blame her mother for her lack of culinary skills.  You see my mothers mother happened to think KFC was gourmet.  We often found unidentified objects floating in our Thanksgiving dinner, and I'm pretty sure I once saw my dad pull a shoe lace out of his pasta, and just tuck it into his pocket like it was no big deal.  It always made for a hilarious holiday and emergency stop to the drug store for Pepto Bismol on the way home.  

So here I am a mother myself, and although I'm skilled in the kitchen, I'm clueless about so many other things.  Petrified I'm screwing my son up already , desperate to ensure he's a decent human being, and possibly a classically trained musician, I have no idea if I'm doing it right.  This mother gig is pressure. I want a guarantee. I want to know that my son is gonna be amazing, and thank me for it ,in some fabulous speech he will make, while excepting his "best artist of the year" award, for writing a song about his mother.  

So I came up with a plan.  I sat down with my 19 month old today and I made him a deal.  While he splashed around in the bath tub, giddy with excitement over a new body part he had just discovered, I promised to never ever make him wear "lady" shoes he didn't like, IF he promised never to do anything illegal, always stay close to home, thank me in some kind of speech he will give one day, never blog about my mistakes or whatever blogging will become in the future,  and never tell daddy how much we really spend when we go shopping.  We high fived to seal the deal, and nosey nosey nosed! 

I think it's a pretty solid deal!  

Friday, July 30, 2010

My Dear Old Friend...Friendly's

I would like to take a moment to pay homage to my dear old friend Friendly's!  I have not been on the East Coast but 24 hours and she's already come a calling.  Her sweet red sign with the big white letters, shine in the moonlight, like a star leading a ship back home, after a very long journey.  She never changes, she never disappoints, she always encourages you to go big, and she always has exactly what you want.

Today I started with a Reese's Pieces Sundae and oh I went BIG.  Huge in fact.  Of course at first I used the excuse, that I would be sharing it with my son.   It was really for him, not for me, I would just have a little scoop off the top, and take the leftover  home. In my heart, I knew that within minutes of the waitress walking away,you would be able to see the table through the  bottom of the glass sundae cup.  But I said it anyway, like a programed robot.  Then something fantastic happened.   I remembered I wasn't in Los Angeles!!!  Sweet Mother of Jesus... I am aloud to eat again.  It's actually encouraged here.

 Like an animal at the zoo, who has been taken away from her natural environment too long, I was confused at first, and then like any good beast, I snapped  right back into my old self and immediately ordered a plate of half onion rings/half french fries, to go with the sundae I was about to devour.

UHHHHHHHHHH.  God that's good. So f-in good.

As I started to shove the food down my throat I realized, "holy shit," there may be people out there, who have actually never been to a Friendly's! I began to feel sad, and think about all the poor bastards who are less fortunate than myself.  I dipped one last french fry in the ketchup, grabbed the menu out of the convenient side table pocket, and ordered another Sundae.  For all my Friendly's Virgins, this ones for you!

Let me tell you a little bit about what you might be missing.   First off you've got your Reese's Pieces Sundae.  It is 5 scoops of  the most tasty vanilla ice cream you've ever tasted. None of this Breyers home churned no sugar added nonsense.  It's full on high fructose syrup at it's best, and it's worth ever year it  is going to take off my life.  Then comes the, peanut butter, marshmallow, hot fudge, Reese's Pieces candy, and wait for it......the most mouth watering whip cream, that makes the cows proud, perfectly crafted into a tornado Esq whip, right on the top of all that deliciousness.  It's a mind blowing master piece, that dessert connoisseurs like myself, will never get tired of.

You have your Jim Dandy for your fruit and walnut lovers, Forbidden Fudge Brownie, Peanut Butter Cup Sundae and of course the delicious Fribble.  Oh the Fribble.  The milk shake of lovers.  I have shared many a things over the Fribble.  First dates, birthdays, graduations,  mono! All equally memorable.

Dear dear Friendly's, you make me feel so good.  So good in fact I didn't even realize when I left your glorious establishment, that the button on my jeans had burst open, and there was a smudge of chocolate across my cheek. It's like wearing a badge of honor from your restaurant, and I consider it a privilege that you have invited me in!

So in closing, I'd like to say a quick "I'm sorry," to my ass.  You're just not worth it!

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Pain in the ass packaging.

Okay, I have a complaint. A big one! PACKAGING! You know what I'm talking about.  Packaging so frustrating to open, it elicits the most mild mannered of people, to spew profanities so vulgar it would make a filthy sailor blush. Do we really have that many crooks in the world?   If so, shouldn't we be worried about packaging things like TVs or  expensive electronics?  Why does it have to be the every day stuff.  I mean seriously, when was the last time you opened a box of cereal and didn't struggle with the bag inside?  I say if you're a thief who manages to get through the preposterous packaging that's out there now, you deserve whatever it is you stole.

  One of the worst packages to get through...plastic -encased packs of sippy cups? Impossible! Show me the woman who can do this in a jam, with out slicing a finger or smashing the cups up against the kitchen counter, and I will give her an award! The Sippy Cup Opener Champion Of The World Award.  It will include a glittery belt, and lifetime supply of already opened sippy cups.

I mean come on manufacturer's. Don't you realize us mommies are sometimes in a hurry.  Do you know what it is like to have a screaming toddler in the middle of Target while you're trying to buy one measly roll of toilet paper.   You need to do anything in your power to quiet them down, and that usually entails breaking into whatever shiny package you can find that has the words COOKIE or TOY written across it.   Target, can you  do me a favor and make this task just a tad bit easier damn it. Lay off the prison chains around the Oreo's.   I promise we will still pay for the slobbered on cookies when we get to the counter.

Today while packing for a trip back east, and what is sure to be the worst 5 hours of my life.  I was trying to prepare my bag of tricks, that's suppose to help me conquer anything this 5 hour flight and 19 month old monster might have in store for me.  I started with snacks, got those open and put into zip lock bags fairly easy, then DVDs.  I carefully began to unwrap the 14 Sesame Street DVDs I purchased to help keep my son,hence myself sane on our journey, and I nearly killed someone.  I actually had a full on MMA fight with a DVD that had a picture of Elmo on its cover and practically pulled a hamstring in the process. How dare this DVD not open! I was sweating and cursing and stomping on this damn DVD case, all the while Elmo's stupid little red face was staring back at me.  I was not going to let it win.  Finally with one bloody finger and a huge "Mother...BLEEEEEP" I ripped the damn thing open. Utter satisfaction!

So a big F.U to all those packaging people.  I win!  Only 13 more DVDs to go!

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

90's tattoo's I hate you.

Having been a child of the 80's, but a teenager of the early 90's, I have become horribly aware of just how embarrassing this decade was.  I get a little reminder of it every time a mommy bends down to change a diaper in mommy group, and some questionably accurate Chinese symbol on her back, pops right out at me.  You can always spot a good 90's chick by the tattoo on her lower back, bikini line, ankle, or hip.

I myself became a victim of this horrific fad. I have a tattoo, that can only be described as stupid, of a sun with a smiley face on my ankle.  Every morning when I step out of the shower and start to apply my favorite lotion, I curse my younger self.  As the lotion glides over the stupid sun, I usually get more enraged and I give it the finger.  I wish I could remember what the hell I was thinking.  I know I was with my besties, I know "everyone was doing it", but I can't remember anything else.  I wish I could remember how the hell I came to the brilliant conclusion to choose a sun.  How at 18 years of age, I thought a sun would be the right thing to represent who I was for the rest of my life.  This baffles me. I don't even like the sun! It takes me 45 minutes to decide what to wear in the morning,and usually stresses me out, yet putting a sun on my ankle forever, no big deal.  I should have just tattooed a picture of my mothers face on my ankle saying, " You're gonna regret this."

Clearly I never thought it through.  I never thought about being a mom myself one day and what my child might think of it.  Never thought about what it might mean in the future.  I surely never thought about how I would feel 13 years later, with my feet in the air ,strapped to stirrups, giving birth, staring down at that bastard sun.

My only comfort in the matter, is that clearly I am among the millions of young ladies who decided to do this, and we have  become sort of a new generation of mommy's with tattoos. We're no hells angels or bad ass rock stars, just a bunch of mommy's running around in our leggings and t-shirts, sporting some pretty hilarious ink.   You may be a J. Crew wearing, organic food coking, prim and proper mom today, but girl friend, we were all once the same. Prisoners of the 90's.

 Today I saw a mommy bend over ,and a full size Tinkerbell was staring back at me. "Jesus" I thought, She has got to regret that.  NO ONE likes Tinkerbell that much!  Then  I thought, who knows, maybe I have got it all wrong.  Maybe that mommy actually did think ahead and knew how entertaining Tinkerbell on her back would be one day.

Whatever the case may be, you've got to stop and laugh at the silliness of it all, the innocence of being young and stupid, and just how freaking awesome it must have been when that stupid girl tattooed a Chinese symbol, of what she thought was her boyfriends name on her stomach, and then later found out at a Chinese restaurant it actually stands for "TAKE -OUT."

So to all the butterflies, tweedy birds, lady bugs, tribal arm bands, fairy's, wings and Chinese symbols, you suck!

Monday, July 26, 2010

Where my girls at?

In this day and age of scankalicious girls, when it has become easier to earn recognition and success, by screwing someones husband, than actually working for anything that means anything.  I have decided to write a blog about the women in my life who really matter! The women who would rather cut off a pinkie toe than sleep with a married man.  The women who remind their daughters and their sons what it means to be a decent human being.  The women who would actually find humiliation and harrowing grief if ever the cause of breaking up a family.  The women, who are my friends!

I am admittedly a tabloid junky.  I don't want to be, but I am.  I slip the Us Weekly, OK Magazine, and Star, under the pack of diapers,  along side all my other "organic" groceries, thinking to myself just how UN ORGANIC, I am being. Pay the cashier and run out of there.   After reading one of these latest treasures, about all of the home wrecking, soulless, messes I needed to stop.  I needed to take a shower, and check to make sure my lips were still at a normal size, because apparently I have missed the memo that looking like a blow fish is hot this season.

That being said, I have taken the  liberty in this blog to tell you about some of the most fantastic women I know.  My friends.  They are so much more fabulous then those stank pot vagina's, and really should be recognized!

My dad once told me if you can count on one hand the amount of friends you have that really mean something to you, you're lucky.  The kind of friend that you can call in the middle of the night.  The girl who always influences you in a positive way.  Routes for you always.  No matter how many careers or chosen paths you have found that month, and truly knows the difference between when to tell you the truth, and when to lie to you!  (Example: when you're swollen like a tick from pregnancy, and your ass is as wide as the couch, your feet look like two sausages, and they still tell you how fabulous you look in your moo moo, and how no other pregnant woman has ever been as beautiful.  Then hand you the box of oreo's, and actually eat them with you!)

I am lucky enough to have many of these real friends, and they are funny ass women who deserve to be celebrated!

Some of these women have been around my whole life.  Some of these women just a few years.  Some, new rookies, who have influenced me already, and I admire how they choose to live their lives.

The oldies know my secrets and love me anyway.  Never judge, and decorate my life with humor, creativity and the organizational skills I tend to lack. They worry for me when I should be worrying and don't.  They are my doctors, even though they might not have medical degrees.  My lawyers, when  I can't figure a situation out, and my personal cheer leading squad, when I'm just about to quit! Oh and of course the voice of reason when I'm sure I need those $800 dollar shoes to wear while I change diapers!

These women have held my hair in ugly situations, preformed emergency eye surgery on my eye lid when something strange was happening to it, and there was no time for imperfections on the face.

They teach me, when they make difficult choices such as leaving the comfort of a job, or a situation, to start all over again however terrifying and uncomfortable it may be.

Get me to go on adventures and keep me from losing my keys and license without ever complaining.

Inspire me, and show me that just because you're a mom doesn't mean that's all you are.  They never wait for the phone to ring, and don't take no for an answer.

I'm thinking of starting my own magazine, where the cover stories would read more like, "Working mom, survives 14 hour day filming in Las Vegas, then turns back into a pumpkin and cuts the crust off grilled cheese, all while playing princess tea party and never breaks a sweat!" I would buy that magazine  and not hide it under the diapers! I'm just saying!

So to my Dancer, "Doctor", Asian, Artist, Actress, Writer, Childhood 4, the red head, nervous Nelly, and my sisters...Thank you!

Without you...I'd probably be a skankalicious asshole!

Friday, July 23, 2010

The mourning of my breasts!

Whether you know them as boobies, or tits, sweater kittens or milk jugs, breasts are an obsession in the world today .  I would like to take a minute to mourn the passing of mine.  Goodbye old girls, you were always so good to me.  You put me on the map junior year of high school.  You got me into countless clubs with your perky posture.  You kept the most horrific of bridesmaid dresses up, and never let a nip slip on the dance floor.  In your final months you showed your true colors by sacrificing yourselves for the life of my child.  You endured the most horrific pain and ungodly transformations. You changed shapes and colors.  Spewed weird things.  Mystified the most astute of breast men.  Your champions in my eyes girls. You deserve countless pictures of your glory days on the mantle, and you will always be remembered as a great pair of double D's!  

That being said....Hello oatmeal packets! You know what I am referring to right? My new breasts!  The ones that have been left behind after all the sacrificing of the old girls.  Two little measly looking, oatmeal packet like breasts, that just remind me  how unfair fake boobies really are! Sure I should be proud of them and tell them they are beautiful every day, but frankly, I don't want to.  I admire those women who love there breasts no matter what.  They sit in mommy groups praising the gift they gave there child by breast feeding.  They wear those cow utters like a badge of honor!  I wish I had the courage!  Maybe I am just to damn vain! Or maybe I have just lived in the land of fake tits way to long! Thank you Los Angeles. Now not only are you responsible for the demise of my soul, but also my feelings on breasts!

Yesterday as I was folding the laundry, I picked up my new barely a C cup bra, and sighed. Oh well. At least running will be easier now. As I began to fold the rest, my husband walked by and said" I miss your old jugs babe." 


(Insert record screeching sounds, and a face that looks like a deer caught in head lights!)

"Do you know what these FUN BAGS have done for this family!"  As the list went on and my rant became a revival of my breasts, I realized just how silly I was being. I mean my god, they are just a bunch of mammary glands and muscle tissue put together on a chest.  Every second person in the world has a pair and to be honest I have seen just as many men with them these days!  

So no more self wallowing over the new condition of my breasts!  Thanks for the mammary's girls!!!  You are the best! 

Side Note: To all the fake boobied girls in exercise class, running around the bars at night, flaunting your perfectly positioned watermelons!  Okay YES I am jealous.  But ENOUGH! We get it!  Plus you are all cheaters!!! 

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

"Little Bee"-Our Book Club pick of the month!

In an attempt to make myself feel smarter, and improve the quality of my brain, I decided to start a book club.  To be perfectly honest, I really just wanted an excuse to have my friends over and drink wine.  What ended up happening, was a Oprah ah ha moment. Reading is AMAZING!  Who knew!  I have truly been engrossed in the last two books we’ve read and can't wait to keep going. My inner nerd is on it's way out.

Two months ago if you would have told me a book would replace my hour with  “The housewives of New Jersey.”  I would have told you to go take a hike.  (After all, it is the most exciting hour on television, well since the Jersey Shore.) But now,  now I can’t  seem to put my books down.  I plow through them like the September issue of Vogue.  I can’t get enough.  I have been moved to tears, brought to an audible laughter alone in my bed, and in our latest book, “Little Bee”, by Chris Cleave, inspired to actually look up words I do not know the meaning of. Then try and use them in a sentence.    Usually I just skip over the foreign words  I don't understand and make my own  words up  to fit in the unfamiliar spot.

In the past two months I have become a 50 year old black maid in the heart of Jackson, Mississippi, circa 1962, thanks to   “The Help” by Kathryn Stockett.  And now, a 16-year-old Nigerian girl, in what has to be one of the most special books I have ever read, “Little Bee”, by Chris Cleave. 

The phrase “Never judge a book by its cover,” rings true in this book.  It’s pretty book jacket, and sweet title are deceiving to say the least. Without giving too much away, the story revolves around a 16-year-old Nigerian girl, who is both captivating and inspirational. Her name is Little Bee.   Little Bee’s life is entangled, by accident, with the life of another woman, Sarah.  Sarah has just had something terrible happen to her, and is grappling to keep her self together and her head above water.  Sarah and Little Bee knew each other briefly under an unspeakable circumstance that lingers through out the book.  The awareness that something horrific has happened is present, and holds onto you during the book.  This horrific scene doesn’t actually take place till much later in the story, therefore I felt myself reading this book, white knuckled, with one eye open, terrified to find out if what I was thinking happened, happened!  It’s brilliant!  I wish I could remember one of the big words I had to look up right now. Brilliant doesn't do it justice.   

On the softer side of this book, is a character named Charlie, who is Sarah’s three-year-old son.  He refuses to take off his Batman costume and will not respond if you call him Charlie.  He is Batman! Or as Charlie puts it, “I is Batman.”  I loved everything about him.
My own superhero!

To end this blog I would like to say how very aware I am, that this is no New York Times review, and I am certainly no New York Times reviewer.  Let’s face it, I thought, “Confessions of a Shopaholic,” was riveting and the “Twilight” series should win a Pulitzer.  "Little Bee" though, "Little Bee," is captivating and I would highly recommend it to everyone! All 19 of my followers!

Get to reading people. It's awesome.

(If your face is swollen from the severe beatings of life, smile and pretend to me a fat man.----Nigerian proverb)

Oh and the picture posted is what I will be bringing to book club tonight. After each book we all bring something to the group (food or drink related) inspired by the book!

Because I had no idea what Nigerian food really was I went with Batman Cookies!

Monday, July 19, 2010

Kids, and screwing it all up!

As parents we are constantly bombarded with the fear that we will screw up our kids.  It starts from the moment they are conceived.  "How a pregnant woman should sleep"... not to mess up your baby.  "What a pregnant woman should eat"... not to mess up your baby.  There is a never ending list on what you should and shouldn't do when it comes to raising your children and I've pretty much had it.  So what if my kid eats dirt from time to time, is it really gonna kill him?  I watched a grown up man drink a blue colored alcoholic slushy drink, in a cup shaped like the Eiffel tower, that was taller than my son, and undoubtedly going to cause  him alcohol poisoning, and people just cheered him on.
My son had a piece of non organic fruit, non picked by the hands of real farmers on a fairy fruit farm today, and I watched the head of one mom actually spin around in horror and three others run away!   I'm sick of the rules! Yes my son watches TV, and ya know what THANK GOD! If it wasn't for that TV I would have quit this job a long time ago.  How can one little furry red animal that teaches children about numbers and letters be bad?
When as "new parents" does that crazy switch flip?  I know a few mommy's who up until the moment they found out they were pregnant, were smoking cigarettes walking around barefoot on Sunset Blvd, showing people there ass. Now, god for bid there kid sticks a non covered toe in the sandbox, or dare try to show someone a body part, the anti bacterial spray is out and being blow torched onto the child!  This new generation of never get dirty, never get messy is driving me crazy. Who says boys cant wear long hair and play with dolls.  What's wrong with wearing a costume all day even to the grocery store! I say let our kids be kids! Let em get dirty and eat bologna sandwiches with sand in the middle at the beach. Let em eat non organic whatever if the mood strikes. Let em play just a little longer than usual. Even though it breaks the rules.
Childhood is so short, yet so HUGE!  The fact is I will most likely screw up my kid somehow, but god damn it we will have fun during the process.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Deal of the day!

There must be a chemical in the brain that is released when one finds a bargain. At least there is in my brain. For me, there is no better high than seeing the words SALE colorfully splashed across the window of a store.  I can start to feel the excitement building in my body as I approach the racks with the ever so beautiful white cardboard signs that say 50% off!  I am immediately turned on and ready to score.

I take the art of shopping very seriously and that is why I have practiced over and over again for many many years. Like any great artist who excels in their field, controversy is sure to follow.  Some people don’t understand the dedication and heart it takes just to put together the perfect outfit.   By some people I mean my husband, but sometimes a great artist is not recognized until they are dead! 

The skill it takes to maneuver through a shoe sale gracefully is ethereal.  The ability to move ones eyes up and down sales racks taking a mental inventory of what sizes are available, what colors are in stock, which shoe goes with what you have in your closet, all while doing the math of what 30% off of $125.89 is spellbinding.  If you asked me to do a simple math  problem a 6th grader might have I would panic and start to fidget for the first gadget I could find that had a calculator.  If you asked me to grab four size 8, spring inspired d’orsay peep toe heels, calculate the percentage off of each one, and tally up the grand total, I could do it in a heartbeat.  Not only that, but I could do it, trying on a wedge sandal, pushing the girl reaching for my shoe out of the way, rocking the stroller to keep my son asleep, while checking to see if the added inches the wedge gave me in the mirror make me look thinner!

The high that comes with finding the perfect shoe and flipping it over to see that bright red sticker staring back at you that says half/off is intoxicating.  You have beat “The Man” today.   That Miss Sixty brown leather wedge, normally $200 and change, $60 at Macy’s is your gold metal!  Today I wished I had one of those vuvuzelas horns from the world cup, and was able to run up and down the shoe department yelling “GOAL” or in my case “SCORE” that’s how happy I felt.  In respect for the meeker women around me who had no idea what they were doing I refrained myself.