5 Wacky Things About Me

1. I worked on Roseanne the last season as a writers' assistant. I had to cancel a date with my then gay boyfriend (well, didn't KNOW he was gay then) because Roseanne was too busy smoking pot with her construction worker husband. Pages, one by one, would slide under the door. "Change 'the' to an 'A'"... Okay. Periodically she'd yell "Tall Girl! Order me a salad! With oranges in it."

2. I didn't have a first kiss until I was almost 19. (Of course I then got knocked up at 21... had to make up for lost time)

3. I am fairly spiritual, but if Jesus, the Holy Mary or my mother ever appeared to me in a vision I would squeeze out a log the size of the vatican, then die.

4. I believe there's a pin-up girl living inside of my suburban mother exterior. I plan on bringing her out a bit more as 2007 unfolds.

5. I hate politics. I hate myself for hating them, but unless the world was coming to an end (and I'd probably only know because I'd stop breathing) I have to force myself to read the Sunday times. (For someone who thinks alot, it bothers me to no end that I'm not interested more. Perhaps that's why I have Cecelia in my life - my Miss Knows EVERYTHING friend. Or maybe I'm just scared of the real world so I hide? Who knows. Not proud of it, just saying.)

#6 - the bonus everything you didn't want to know about me insert - I was once waiting for a producer at her house. I had to pee so bad that I squatted in her bushes. I didn't think anyone saw it, until the maid looked down from her window and rolled her eyes. Whoops. How do you say "Guilty By Urination" en espanol?


The end.

Fireside Chats

 










I finished my Child essay rewrite just now. I'm blessed to be working with an editor who not only encourages me as she hands out the changes, but on more than one occasion has mentioned that she's excited to have my voice in the magazine. That rewrites are normal. That she hopes the extra work isn't too grueling.

I know this isn't the normal m.o. for magazine writing. So in an effort to keep this relationship going, once the article is approved, I want to do something nice for her. Suggestions are welcome. Here's some of my own.

1. A Fed Ex styrafoam cooler filled with Stella's meatballs (Downside: she might think she's being delivered a kidney and never open it.)

2. Something very Los Angeles, like a gift certificate for a funky restaurant that she can use when she visits. (And hopefully take me to lunch with her... I'm not that giving.)

3. A forty dollar book on natural substances to ease childrens' ticks. (Um... wait... that's on my to-do list...)

While you ponder on how to make Mama P the queen of magazine writing, please add a prayer that the editor isn't flogging herself in her hip NY office, screaming, 'What kind of crack was I smoking taking a chance on this six foot whack job?"

Finally, I leave you with a photo of my living room. Staying true to our efforts to catch up at night, Rex has taken to starting fires after work. Of course he's currently in the toy strewn tv room watching "Modern Marvels - the History of the Cheese Wheel" and I'm blogging and editing, but it's there. Ready for us to connect when we disconnect.

PS: I wish all of you were here right now. We'd be enjoying some in person fireside chats over food you all brought. (Hey, I put together a cute house. But cooking? It's gonna be pot luck, baby!) 

If Housework Were Elmo

The photo below is Pipsqueak learning letters on Sesamestreet.com

If only I viewed housework the way she views Elmo.

It's easy to lose our childlike exhuberence for stuff. Like my goal to do nice things for myself this next year, I also plan on rekindling my passion for the little perks... Be it nice cups of coffee with girlfriends in porceline mugs, the smell of vanilla cake baking in the oven (funny... I immediately wrote the word "burning"... that shows where my cooking skills are at), the smell of fire places on crisp winter nights, or furry red monsters.

Dennis Prager, a national radio host, and all out pragmatist, says he never lived life until he had scheduled in fun... just 20 minutes/day. It gives people hope, stress relief, and an openness to try new things.

Maybe this year I'll become a professional baker? An off duty police officer? Maybe I'll combine both and become an amateur pancake flipper at a police association breakfast housed by the Elk's Lodge? Perhaps I'd meet Betty Sue or Verna who would teach me how to crochet poodles, or Burt who'd regale me with stories of how he lost his left thumb hunting duck in Vermont that fateful winter of '58 (and how tragedy turned to elation when he met Verna in the first aid camp). Maybe I'll just write a novel to get these wacky characters out my brain once and for all.

The important thing is that I make time for some laughs and enjoy the details.

What are your plans? If you don't have any, perhaps it's time to take 20 minutes, think about it, and get back to me.







  

Drunk With Thanks

 







Thanksgiving went fine. There were only five adults and two kids, with enough fixings for a roving band of Indians, yet we still had room for leftovers.

The biggest memory I am going to have is how much work it is to throw a dinner, and I didn't even cook anything. Rex made the bird, the in-laws brought side dishes (including fabulous William Sonoma Turkey and Gravy), I burned the jalapeno poppers and added too much vodka to the turkey shooters. No one touched my pecan salad, which is fine, because I adore strawberry dressing with candied nuts. It's a veggie combined with a dessert. If you're an all in one shampoo and conditioner kind of gal, this is the greenery for you! If you need a recipe, just ask my garbage disposal.

By the time the inlaws departed, as promptly as they arrived, I was plain pooped from a day's worth of housework, keeping kids in line, and enough dishes to launch me into that song from Beauty and the Beast .... "Be our Guest! Be our Guest! Put our service to the test! If you do not like the salad well than you can screw yourself..." (Disney forgot those last lyrics, but luckily they have me to fill in the gaps.)

To end the day, Topanga T had the good idea to email me 18 photos of people being drunk and stupid. When the one above came on the screen, Stink ran in, pointed to it, and said "Mama, that's ME!"

Sadly, I couldn't laugh. In a few years, it probably will be.

Happy Thanksgiving, Peeps. 

All I Want for Thanksgiving is Time

 
















Forgot the marshmellows.

Rex trimming trees.

Stink wearing Pip's pants.

Pip wearing no pants.

Only food cooked is what you see on the floor.

Inlaws arriving in 4 hours.

Zoloft stuffing anyone? 

I Like It On Top

...of the list.

How many of us are so involved in putting others first that we forget about ourselves?

I know I do.

But like my favorite expression "I'm not a martyr", I don't ever do anything unwillingly or out of obligation. I'm a natural giver. You could say that I'm either incredibly generous or just a glutton for gratitude. Probably a combo of both. But the way I see stuff, it feels good to make someone else feel good.

What results is often a happy receiver who in turn bestows good will on another.

But if said receiver is not able to reciprocate out of unwillingness, inability or just plain lazyness, than I can decide not to give again or simply continue to do so because, really, how sad must their life be? To me it makes sense to just shut up, be generous, and live without being reimbursed. Call me crazy, but nobody ever died from not having their tits tatted. That's past tense for tit for tat.

Mama P Clause: This does not mean boundaries are not in order. This does not mean saying "Sure I'll listen, cute stranger!" to every Bible thumping Church of Elmo caroler who wakes up your sleeping child with knocks that make the sonic boom sound like a whisper.

Even level headed moi has limits, and if I weren't wobbling at "P.M." before, the holidays will bring the final "S" and have me crashing on my ass. Will I find the perfect Scooby Doo Under Roo ensemble? Will Rex score the Lite Brite set on sale? Or am I just getting old? (If not sure about me turning old, I have four words for you from paragraph above: Lite Brite Under & Roo.)

So to take the stress off of thinking about others, I'm going to launch into panic attack mode thinking about me!

1. Fix up that corner nook that is currently housing 8 pairs of red velvet tab curtains and more scrapbooking supplies than Pipsqueak has shoes (for those of you that have been following me, that's A LOT.)

2. Hang curtains in dining room to enjoy as I sip my coffee first thing in the morning and later scream at kids to not wipe their Cheerios laden paws on them.

3. Transform the office from an Ebay U-Haul system into a rolling plastic boutique on wheels / slash writing space. Each item will have a cubby. Each shelf will have a book. It'll be more feng shway than Rex's favorite sushi spot. Note to self: How to spell feng shway? Find dictionary. When you do, put on said shelf. (Shut up Mom, I know I can't spell.)

I am thankful this year for so many things. It's time to be thankful for me and treat myself.

People, are you with me? Everybody Fung Schwayy tonite. (The spelling keeps getting worse and worse...)

Heiring Dirty Laundry

 








In our ongoing effort to remove ourselves from the television (I'm thinking attacking termites with hand held pliers is less painful) we hiked two mountains today: one near Topanga T's house and one in Mama P's bedroom.

Pip was only too thrilled to "play in the leaves of Papa shirts" while Stink gave me the squinty "Um, I'm not supposed to be doing this" eye. Not a tick this time... great improvements in that area, but only the doctor will completely reassure me. Then again, since I have Kaiser, I might never get into see one. Apparently having to see a PEDIATRIC NEUROLOGIST does not warrant any haste on their part. Understandable. Their commercials are really touching - that takes money and time.

Oh, what's that you say? Capital letters are interpreted by readers as shouting? GOOD!

Side note: I've actually been happy with my HMO/clinic/1980's grey and pink decor of Kaiser so far. Again, that was for uncomplicated procedures, such as pushing an 8 pound human being out a walnut sized hole and dealing with a dying father. Apparently the chink in the "I Love Kaiser" armor happens when you have to see a PEDIATRIC NEUROLOGIST.

Ooooh, shouting again.

On a final note, as we drove home through the canyon, we were stuck in some serious traffic. We passed the time discussing in detail why we could not watch tv when we got home or gorge ourselves on Halloween Candy after dinner.

As we hit the top of the hill, my cell phone bars lit up and started screaming at me to check the voicemail. The radio came in clearer, begging me to buy insurance in case I kill myself with plastic fumes after accidentally cooking the turkey with the bag of entrails still attached.

Then traffic started to flow and I saw the bright orange sign. It was diamond shaped, and while my mind briefly fluttered on the concept of diamond earrings... "I hope Rex buys some for me some day... better yet, I'll buy them for myself with my magazine sales"... it most importantly caught the words within the border - road work being the reason for them: SLOW DOWN UP AHEAD.

Yes, they were in capitals.

Yes, they were screaming at me.

And yes, I listened.

I turned off the cell phone.

I turned off the radio.

I looked at the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of the things that, if I don't slow down, will move right past me quicker than the commercials on our TIVO.

Some people have epiphanies at church. Some at yoga class. Still others over a joint. For me? It's construction.

Whatever works. 

Pass the Elephant Pool

 












Twice the elephant pool of summer has been deflated. Twice I have practically lost consciousness blowing it up for my kids' amusement.

Today, during a particularly relaxing Sunday, I snapped a photo: Partly to remember how nicely my kids share... partly to remember a lovely evening of burgers and close friends... but mostly to rub it into my many cold weather buds that it's the end of November and my kids are SWIMMING.

I hope I don't lose my readership. 

Everyone Loves A Clown

 
  

Today, true to my word, I stayed put at home. Of course, it was still Grand Central Station, between Topanga T hanging out all day (Rex fixed her car, she entertained the kids by turning a cardboard box into the Mystery Machine), Rex's computer friends and their little girl swinging by to check out a van (she's prego with twins), then Cecelia and her brood over for pizza.

The people were good for me after a long week of stress, and the home fires were great for the kids. We even survived with TV in the morning only and minimal sugar.

Call it wishful thinking (like the first day on a diet and you're convinced you've shed ten pounds) but Stink's ticks seemed to subside quite a bit.

And shock of all shocks - Rex and I had a great time just being together. For lack of sounding too lovey dovey, the heart fuzzies are the kind of ticks all families need.

Some good friends, some old wigs, a few dress up costumes and pizza... it doesn't take much.

May you all have a great weekend full of life, love and fabulous refridgerator boxes that you can turn into your castle, your race car, or your local Starbucks - whatever makes you tick.

My New Book

As I told Mrs. V the other day, while I inhaled more bialy bagels than can be humanly possible, I am feeling better about Stink's new condition. I have gone from crying like a "Little Wet Betty Doll" to irritated at the redtape of our HMO. In fact, when this is all said and done, I'm writing a book called "Ticked Off."

I've spent the past few days arming myself with info. As they say, knowledge is power. I'm also the new pitbull patient of Kaiser Permanente... the only difference between me and those ferocious dogs? A pitbull eventually lets go.

I received some very encouraging advice just now from my sister in law who, as a first grade teacher, has seen several ticks on and off throughout her ten years. Often times they are stress related and go away. Of course I'm led to thinking, "What's this kid stressed over?" But she assured me that you can't tell what goes through kids' brains. It could simply be too much stimuli: the in and out of the car constantly... the running around. I'm not exactly a quiet mommy. So, until we get a diagnosis, we're taking it easy. People can come to us. Except for school, we're going to lay low.

I'm also going to give us a more regular steady diet. There's a lot of added hormones in our food. Those organic hemp wearing veggie huggers just might have a point. Though many of them could make their point better with nicer hair-dos. And a shave. Just saying.

Here's a link for any of you that might go through this yourself some day. I'm going to buy this guy's book and then I'll let you know if it's effective.

http://facialtics.org/form.html?gclid=CKWzscTRyogCFSQSOAodryv0_Q

I also want to thank everyone for your nice words. I have the best mom, friends and online buds on the planet (including a few of you who showed up at my doorstep with Blinkies apple fritters and shortbread twisties. Oh yeah.)

I have a good feeling now that Stink's little blinks will end up being nothing. In fact, I can't help but think that God sometimes sends us wacky crap to keep us grounded and realize that a traveling husband, or the wrong size washer for the cabinet, really isn't that big a deal.

And when I hear that everything is fine with my boy, I'm sending the Tourette's Association a big fat check of relief for Christmas.

When the Shit Hits the Fan

I had a shitty day today. I can't lie. Without getting too specific, because I don't know what's going on yet, my boy needs to see a specialist for some facial tics he has going on. Could be something, could be nothing. But it sucks because your mind goes to dark places and I just... worry.

On a lighter note, we were discussing colors in the car. I >told him I wasn't a big fan of yellow. His response. "But the sun is a big fan of yellow."

Then tonite he asked his father, "Papa, do you like big knockers?" Rex indicated in the affirmative. After that, Stink touched his own boobs and stated, "I have tiny knockers."

I figured after that remark I would at least go to bed laughing. But then after prayers tonight, Stink mentioned that when he grew up he wanted to be a daddy like his papa. Then I cried some more.

I'm sick of crying. I think I'll go watch South Park and chuckle at fart jokes with Rex. (And secretly hope that when Stink mentions being like Papa, he's talking about the computer/car fixing aspects as opposed to the gas passing juvenile aspects.)

Big Mama P

A few days back I told Stink "I love you so much. You're my big boy."

At which he responded, "I love you so much, too. You're my biiiiig Mama."

Mary Me

So much for my big plan of posting every day this month. Not that any of your lives have hung in balance, but the perfectionist in me feels compelled to figuratively flog myself for not following through on a goal.

Which leads me to my point today... some might even call it a rant. Needless to say, here I go:

* I hate people who don't follow through
* I dislike chronic lateness
* I detest the "Let's get together soon" thing. Either you want to see me or you don't. I will even go so far to say I'd rather have a friend bitch me out for allowing my nasty foot odor to penetrate their new carpet then just stop inviting me for video night
* I loathe people who say "Gimme a bagel" or "I want the red cookie... THAT one!" The people they are demanding service from make $7.00/hour. Can we just be nice?
* I hate women who dress their kids in designer track suits but don't teach them to say "thank you"
* Consumerism during the holidays drives me nuttier than a William Sonoma $29.95 fruit cake

Most of all, I hate that I used to be this fun, lively gal with red hair who had high hopes for everything and now I'm slipping into this "It is what it is" thing... Either regarding my husband, my career, my finances... everything. It's not like me. It needs to change.

Rex mentioned a few weeks back, "I miss the old Mama P". Frankly, that pissed me off. Mr. Responsible finally got me to dot the i's and t's on schedule (if not before the due date) and now he's feeling misty over some missing letters? I didn't know whether to be irritated at him for setting me up for the impossible or grateful that he noticed my passion has taken a detour. I was a ball of emotion who didn't know up from down, left from right.

After a lot of thinking, I came to the wise conclusion that it is not in my nature to set up boundaries on my heart. Like May from the Secret Lives of Bees, negativity sits on my soul like a rotting egg. Before long, if I don't find an outlet for my goofiness, things will start smelling like K Fed's rep and I'll be constructing a cement wall around the cul de sac, filling it with little notes of woe to send to the heavens for help. Um, I'm thinking that's a bit excessive.

So, I am setting off on an armchair journey of discovery where I will re-map my soul without leaving my house. I shall play Parisian music and sip Venetian coffee but never have to leave my Spanish speaking city. I will buy plastic shelving for my Ebay business and paint my office red (after I finish the final bathroom paint... I promised the old Mama P - the one who turned into Miss Responsible, that I would not start any fun projects until that was done. )

So many women make mistakes in thinking that men can solve everything. But then the same women make even graver mistakes by isolating their hearts from their partners in an attempt to shield themselves from differences. This coping mechanism can work for a long time, but one day you wake up and realize you don't feel much of anything. Like a B horror flick, you become a zombie of productivity but remain a ghost of passion.

My goal is to find the happy in between. Call me a Where Wolf of Womanhood: I don't know Where that balanced lady lives, but I'll hunt her down like a wolf until I find her.

In the process, I plan to keep my little pack of dogs here at home in one piece. After all, it's because of Rex the hunter that Mama P, the nester, has such a cozy cave to hibernate in. And before I had my little litter, we used to have fun roaming the countryside together. I even did a little hunting myself and would come home at night to nice conversation and a hunk of meat all cooked by a cozy fire. He and I need time to tap into that again. We can look at each others differences forever (and there are many) but there is so much more good.

I will leave you with, once again, a quote from The Secret Lives of Bees. This book reminded me of my once arduous devotion to Mary. And yes, some of you non-Catholics (or non-religious) might find people who pray to virgins to be bizarre. After all, why not just go to the Man himself?

I'm thinking that it's men in the first place that often cause us grief. Sometimes we need an old gal pal to listen to. Especially mothers, who in the process of being so responsible themselves, need a mommy to take care of them.

August said, "Listen to me, Lily. I'm going to tell you something I always want you to remember, all right?" Her face had grown serious. Intent. Her eyes did not blink. "All right," I said, and I felt something eletric slide down my spine. "Our Lady is not some magical being out there somewhere, like a fairy godmother. She's not the statue in the parlor. She's something inside of you. Do you understand what I'm telling you?" Our Lady is inside of me," I repeated, not sure I did. "You have to find a mother inside of yourself. We all do. Even if we already have a mother, we still have to find this part of ourselves inside."

I think August has a point. If you do, also, I welcome them with an open heart. The fence is down and the wolf cave is open again.

What a Zoo

 
 




















Today I took advantage of my annual pass (only the second time in almost a year... I suck) and went to the L.A. zoo with the kids. It was crowded. It was stinky. It was Veterans Day. Um... duh. Maybe I'll go to Disneyland on Christmas and Vegas for New Years. That's some smart thinking.

We did, however, spend 20.00 on a tram ride. Between keeping Stink from hurling himself overboard and Pip screaming "I'm cared! I'm cared!" we saw maybe 2 blurry hippos and a dot of an Ostrich eating it's own ca-ca.

But the play area was a blast.

And it's Friday.

And after a crappy week of feeling sorry for myself, I'm ready to begin the weekend with high hopes of fun.

They just won't include the zoo

Poll results one post below.

. 

Poll Dancing

The result of recent poll dances show that Democrats are back in business again.

Um... not that poll. My poll. Garnering 10 votes, the results are as follows:

1. (0) Thought this hair remained left over from a Halloween costume

2. (1) Thought I was brave enough to chop off my own locks

3. (2) Thought the strands belonged to a dead horse.

4. (1) Thought it was from a Princess Leah costume

5. (6) Thought I inherited it from my grandmother

The correct answer, creepy but true, is #3. The horse that my son road a few months back is now living in pastures of clouds. After Tango died, the vet cut off his tail and gave it to A. as a keepsake. She then took various strands and gave them to people who loved her horse - one of them being Stink.

Some moms keep their kids belly button cords, or their foreskin. We keep dead horse hair. Come on by for a visit anytime... I'll let you pet it. Then we'll eat tacos.

3 Questions, 3 Answers

Tonite at dinner, I asked both Pipsqueak (2 years, 3 months) and Stink, (3 years, 9 months) the exact same questions in the exact same order. Here were their responses (they added their own narrative.) I would always start with joker, then turn to the queen.

1. Me: Would you rather play with a big truck or a big dolly?
Stink: A big blue truck! Pip: A baby dolly! A piiiink dollie!

2. Me: Would you rather play in the mud and splash or dance with sparkles in the air. Stink: I'd want to play in the mud. And puddles. And jump biiiiig. Pip: I like to dance. Like Dora.

3. Me: Would you rather wear jeans and run through a field of grass or put on a faux fur dress and cut your nails. (I'm thinking you can guess the responses. And no, neither of my kids had any idea what faux fur was.)

I can't think of the other two questions, but they were in similar form. Stink always answered like your classic boy (adding haunted houses, smells and noises like farts) while Pip would revise his story in her bossy way, chiding him with, "That's not how it goes! It was a priiiiincess house."

Along those lines, the other day, when I blew out my hair, Pip put down her juice box, brushed some strands with her fingers, and exclaimed "Mama, your hair is beautiful." Such a rare compliment from such an independent little diva. Touching and telling all at once.

I don't raise my kids with intentional stereotypes. If anything, Pip can hold her own with a group of boys better than Stink can (just ask Mrs. V..) But I find it fascinating that somewhere, deep in our guts, despite environment, genetics are genetics. Sure, some girls will chose firetrucks over fire red nail polish. And some days Stink will forego running maniacally through the house for creating his own tea party on the Nemo table, but there's no doubt I have one of each sex. It's a fascinating discovery and I can't wait to learn more.

Now if only men could figure out women and vice versa, the world would be in a lot more harmony. They say it starts in the sand box, but The Secret Lives of Bees has a pretty good analogy for how to maintain peace, and going along with my bug theme of my earlier post, it seems fitting.

Pg. 92. "She reminded me that the world was really one big bee yard, and the same rules worked fine in both places: don't be afraid, as no life-loving bee wants to sting you. Still, don't be an idiot; wear long sleeves and long pants. Don't swat. Don't even think about swatting. If you feel angry, whistle. Anger agitates, while whistling melts a bee's temper. Act like you know what you're doing, even if you don't. Above all, send the bees love. Every little bee wants to be loved."

I know I do. And I wish the same for you.

Pony tail results to be posted tomorrow. It's not too late to find how just how freaky and sick I can be.

Now buzz off and get some sleep.

Buggin' Out

Since I made a commitment to post daily in November, today you get two posts. The reason for not writing yesterday? I finally succumbed to that damn cold that's been going around. Why can't people just catch money, or good luck? Or writing assignments? Why must we catch things that land us flat on our butts, scrambling for sitters and extra toilet paper?

My mom was kind enough to come over at 1:00 and stay until Rex got home. (In a rare gesture of unasked-for help, Rex canceled his dinner meeting and stayed home to put the kids to bed and let me sleep.)

Last week, when Stink was in the throws of diarrhea, I explained how people catch invisible bugs that make us sick. He stared up at me from the toilet, wide eyed and innocent, his Scooby Doo briefs wrapped around his ankles, and with the sweetest voice in the world, whispered "Mommy... I must have swallowed a honey bee."

A Hairy Situation

 








Many fellow writers have brought it to my attention that it's Nanowrimo month: http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Basically, the challenge is up there for budding novelists to write/post one chapter a day on the next American novel. I love that idea, as buried within my psyche is an Anne Tyler just ready to pop out and write chapters upon chapters on traveling housewives, kids who are adopted into curmudgeon families and Indian exchange students who set fire to their temporary housing in passionate efforts to exploit American technology. But, like a bad kidney stone, I'm gonna have to pass (on) it.

However, I will blog once a day to keep ye old writing fires alive.

Tonite's entry? An idea inspired by Meno. Being the good Catholic student, I can't take credit where it isn't due. Being the bad technology chick, I can't figure out how to blog roll, so here's her site again. (www.menosblog.blogspot.com)

Here's the idea: I am going to post five descriptions about the photo above. Only one of them is true. You guess, and in a few days, I'll give you the results. The great thing about this test? You don't have to fast for 12 hours. You don't have to pee on a stick. And you don't have to worry for three days that you're dying from some horrible disease.

Okay, which one tells the truth?

1. This is left over from a Halloween costume that I wore the same year I met Rex. He went as Laptop Lightfoot, I as Shopping at Thriftstores.

2. In a passionate attempt to keep my husband on his toes, I cut off my hair today and now look like Dorothy Hamil crossed with that botox chick from Dancing with the Stars (Lisa Rena). Photo to come results day.

3. My friend's horse kicked the bucket a few weeks back and, in a gesture of rememberence, she gave me a piece of his tail to tickle my kids with and to genuinely freak people out.

4. It's a wacky clip on from a princess Leah costume that I found at the Salvation Army last Sunday, along with a chipped figurine of those kids with big eyes that reads "Love is Never Looking at the C-OCK" (the "L" intentionally erased by some 1970's teenage comic)

5. It's a lock of my grandmother's hair from when she was 50. She had saved it all those years and cut it off when it started getting grey. I'm a sentimentalist at heart.

I can't wait to hear from you. 

Numbered Daze

 






I remember lying in my rod iron bed in my parents house about ten years ago. (The same bed that made the journey to my office here with Rex, then upstairs to Pip N' Squeak's room. Iron-ic, ain't it? Ah, I amsue myself)

It was January 1, about 3 am, and I was talking to Cecelia on the phone. I had rung in the New Year with my Israeli boyfriend. She was telling me all about this fabulous New Year's Eve party she attended in the Hollywood Hills. Right out of her Nebraska fantasies of L.A. life, this was a sprawling house with a huge balcony that overlooked the twinkling lights of L.A.. She was flush with excitement and hope. She had plans of being a producer, and standing on the high ledge, mingling with the stars, why wouldn't all her dreams come true?

Then she uttered something that has forever been imprinted in my brain: "I wish I could be 28 forever."

This was almost ten years ago.

Shortly after that magical evening she left NBC to become a teacher. I got tired of doing the Gaza Srip and eventually met Rex. We both became wives and then mothers.

So many changes in such a short time. And in no place can you see them more than with the numbers. In our ages. In our weight. In the number of children we have. The number of parents still left. The number of couples still married.

I find it disturbing to look back at photos of myself from my magical year and see the visible changes on my face. But after a few minutes of wistfulness, Mama P kicks in and I get mad.

Why do our best years have to be behind us? Why can't we get better and better as we get older? Sure, I have a few more lines now, but (and this is so cliche) I wouldn't trade the all nighters and perfect skin of youth for the all nighters with babies for all the world.

And so, I am going to pick a new number: 49. My kids will be almost out of the house. And instead of planning on crying hysterically that my life is over, I plan on being in karate kid shape. I will take that full time editing gig in New York. Rex can plan his time around my schedule, not the other way around. I will have money for beautiful clothing and furniture.

And I won't hide the mirrors: because those lines are mine.

This philosophy just might be keeping me out of Hollywood, but that's okay.

And speaking of reflections, check out my mirror image. When I see that, 30 can go kiss Mama P's 36 year old sagging ass.