Between garage sales, a few writing gigs, school meetings, soaking up last minute summer time with the kids and spending our life savings on organic fruit, I'm looking forward to the routine of Fall.
Happy Weekend.
PS: No, those aren't my real boobs. Doesn't Rex wish? But he did take the photo.
The guilt over going non-processed, no refined sugar, and wheat free has finally forced me to crack. It's only Monday and tonight I was propelled into the abyss of the unthinkable: Driving at mad-cap speed to our local Target, instructing that my children pick out a toy from the dollar section only to emerge, breathless, with 30.00 worth of "rewards" for going along with the program.
My self-imposed "Elimination Diet" is akin to the Bourne Identity for Toddlers. Should my subjects choose to accept their mission, tics, hyperactivity and general focus mirroring a see-saw on crack might be eliminated.
Then again, given the general of this invasion (that would be me... are you with me, people?) has no idea about the territory she is invading, my subjects might just be eating gluten free, sugar free, tastes like the recycled tree paper used for Barack Obama's campaign signs (but hey, no chemicals) - for a big fat NADA.
Well, it's not for nothing. They'll have a new Dora toy and Hot Wheels racer to fight over while I'm jonesing for additives, having gone bust on organics and living with only a guilty conscious for shopping retail for items probably made in China and ultimately the real source of my family's allergies.
Woooheeeee! Who has some good recipes for me? If they look appetizing, I don't want 'em. Like my background as a tv writer, shiny photos shall only prove to be a set up for failure. I need reality, wrapped up in brown, mustard and phlegm green. I am Mama P, Earth Mama. I pee in recycled toilet paper and drink Hansens soda. Not necessarily in that order.
Kill me now.
But don't bury me.
Ground me up into compost so that I can grow organic marijuana for all those other poor bastards who are going broke figuring out exactly which item in this cornucopia of toxic crap our country is serving our kids in bright! and shiny! packaging is making them tic.
Today we enjoyed our our weekly Sunday Siesta tradition. All phones go off, and a big ugly sign goes on the door reading "NO KNOCKING!" We're so serious about it, unless there's mass destruction, or a box of free almond cookies, we don't ever want to be disturbed. Unlike my mood on any given day, Sunday Siestas are down to a science: Rex grabs the couch, Pip sleeps in the Pack N Play in our room, I sleep in the living room or in my bed, and Stink sleeps in his and Pip's room.
Except today.
While Pip and Papa snored contentedly, I was forever being aroused from slumber by the sound of books being dropped by Stink, feet shuffling across the floors for imaginary pee pee expeditions and a fiasco involving butt cream and firetrucks.
To say my patience was tested more than Lindsay Lohan's urine is an under statement.
Luckily we had a super morning at Costco together. So rarely do all four of us stroll through a store with no agenda. "Want to dream about the 4000 bedroom set? Let's do it. And no, the corner unit wouldn't be too large, but the 300 bottle wine storage? Overkill!" (Except for today. After dealing with Stink, I could have gone through about 299 of them no problem.)
Walking through warehouse discount stores on a Sunday morning is not exactly church, but we held hands, sang a few songs and passed around the plate... of organic cheese samples. The togetherness was just what I needed.
To add more icing to the Betty Crocker scumpti-licious-ness of this weekend, last night Mrs. V. treated us to box seats at the Hollywood Bowl. The Big Bad Voo Doo Daddies were playing. Usually that sort of venue consists of me taking a shuttle, a box of greasy KFC and huffing it to the cheap seats. To be driven in a clean car, ushered to seats ten rows from the stage, share some great wine and conversation with some lovely people, and be surrounded by beautiful nature and weather? It doesn't get much better than that. And thanks, Mom, for watching the rug rats.
I had such a great weekend that I literally forgot, until a few hours ago, that today was my anniversary. 7 years! Funny how, when I get what I need emotionally, as well as some much needed fun, I don't get all stuck on the flowers or the gift. Not that I didn't get a gift. Rex came home from Loew's a few hours ago with bright blue daisies picked out by Stink. Then he made burgers and put the kids to bed. Who needs Tiffany's when a gal gets that?
The song here is "It's Your Love" sung by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. We danced to it on our wedding day. The words are wonderful, but the video? I can't help but wonder what Tim's doing in that dramatic venue with a face mirroring constipation and an oversized hat. I keep expecting it to pop off, forcing Bull Winkle horns to flop over his bolo tie. And what's up with Faith's outfit? She looks like a knocked up Oscar Award.
It's easy to get so caught up in life that you forget the details. Details, like... I live close to one of the most beautiful beaches in the world.
Today the kids and I, along with Grandma N, set out for paradise. I was elated to find that my secret passage - a gate off a side street on the "nice" side of Malibu - was still there. We parked the car, headed down some steps, and boom: private beach for anyone who can afford to live there. As well as nosy families from the Valley.
I wish all of you a wonderful weekend full of salt air, nice views and no sand up your crack.
PS: Note to self: Do this more often. Life is too short to not stretch your hands toward the sky in Liv-like yoga posture and take a deep breath of sea air.
Saying I had an off-kilter week is like saying Hilary Clinton is a tiny bit opinionated. Without getting into details right now, let's just say we had a few health concerns around here dealing with Stink. He's perfectly fine, rest assured (and thank God.) Here he is with one of his favorite buddies - Italian of course. Out of 125 kids in his school, all ethnicities, he gravitated to four kids with names befitting pizzarias just like his. If that doesn't make Stella proud, nothing will.
Now that I'm coming up for air, I have two things to say:
1) Science, while amazing for its advances in treating people, is also a huge scare factor. Yes, I'm glad there are tests to rule out the 1% chance that a collection of symptoms is actually a life threatening disease in disguise.
At the same time, no mother is going to hear about the 1% factor and not go to dark places. It is a test of faith and staying grounded to say the least.
2) While I might not have blogged much about my experience last week, I did talk to several mothers about it. (Because asking me to stay quiet during crisis is like asking John Travolta to not cry on a talk show. Ain't gonna happen.)
If I didn't know this before (which I thought I did, but didn't really) now I can say with undeniable certainty that EVERYONE HAS SOMETHING. I've un earthed information from mothers dealing with everything from neurological issues, muscular issues, learning disabilities, birth defects and growth concerns.
Am I saying that these are not legitimate causes of worry for parents? Absolutely, and my heart goes out to everyone dealing with their "different" child.
But that's where my beef comes in. Being "different" is really the norm. And what defines different anyway? A small facial quirk? Being a dwarf? Not pronouncing your 's'? How much of these are individual characteristics of unique people as opposed to flaws?
Science has gotten so far up our ass that we can diagnose everything these days. In the past, the kid with the huge head eventually evened out with the rest of his body. Later in life people had a laugh about how lady-killer Johnny was once lovingly referred to as Pumpkin Head. If Johnny was born today, there'd be genetic testing up the ying yang and the fear of God put in Mom that there's a 1% chance Johnny could be dying from a tumor, so let's just do monthly ultra sounds for five years so parents can die of anxiety before they are 40.
Somewhere there is a balance between medical science and scaring the shit out of everyone.
As for you mothers out there that are mourning the loss of your "perfect" child, let me stand in the camp of parents that shout that the people who think they've dodged a bullet with their perfect child are smoking the wacky weed.
My mom's arthritus was in warp speed Friday, making it difficult to use her hands. The following comments best describe the differences between my two little rugrats.
Stink: (Tenderly grabbing her knotted fingers and pressing his lips to them) "Kisses always help."
Pip: (Not looking up from her book) "Try some butt cream."
I was flipping through You Tube just now and came across a video made by two 14 year old girls. They were doing a spoof of a tourette sufferer.
I don't know what I was more offended by: The fact that they sat in their clean home, with Daddy's expensive video camera and used their time to make fun of people with real disabilities, or their horrific acting jobs. Oh, and how about the fact that women have it hard enough in this business without intentionally making themselves look bad.
I could have left a comment asking them calmly to consider taking their "film" down. Instead, I told them I hope they get super fat with tons of cellulite and land men who treat them like whores.
I'm a bit ashamed of myself, to be honest. I mean, I forgot to dish on their peroxide and poor grammar.
I don't understand this childish need people have to make fun of other people. Are they so unloved at home? Do they really have that little of a spirituality, or guidance, to teach them the difference between good humor and causing personal pain to someone?
I know I can't control my children's ultimate personalities, but I'll teach them empathy, kindness and respect if it's the last thing I do.
And the ability to get a great deal at a thrift store. Sensitivity, and the 50% off sales at GoodWill, don't happen over time. They're both learned gifts.
There is a sad paradox that exists when I get excited over a $3.97 profit margin on a brand name blouse I flipped on Ebay, and Jerry Garcia's scratched metal sink has been bid up to $17,000.
Perhaps the losers of the auction will take Mama P's 1968 iron stained toilet for $17.00. As the winner of Jerry Garcia's auction might say, "I'd be soooooooo stoked." (Talk about a lot of pot for the money... in both cases.)
I'm attempting to find a balance in the whole toddlers and tv/computer deal, but so far I'm simply coming up with black and whites.
On one hand, sedentary technology causes everything from obseity, ADD, lethargy and tics. It makes me want to throw my tv into the local Costco trash bin quicker than Angela Jolie will adopt another baby and Brad Pitt will reunite with Jennifer Aniston. (Yes, I've always seen Brad and Jen together again. Why I even have an opinion I don't know. Too much tv, right?!)
But the other extreme alternative is freakville. I don't want my kid sticking out like a hemp wearing, organic growing, mama wears a sling and never shaves her armpits, never heard of Paris Hilton or the Sopranos, head of the non-online chess club and am best friends with the librarian" outcast.
Not that never hearing about kill driven shows or surface level trump fund girls is so awful. Which leads me back to my first thought on tv.
I've had a super busy week that resulted in some very happy news, but the most thrilling nugget of all? Alert the media, I had a sex dream!
I'm not one of those yappy women who oooogle over Calvin Klein underwear models, hunky UPS workers, or movie stars. Even last night, while watching The Bourne Identity and all of Matt Damon's six pack charm, all I could think about was "Oooh, yeeeeess... the popcorn and kid-less noise. I'm all wet. With Diet Coke - a super size jug that cost me $7.00 and I'm not even complaining. It's that good."
But a few nights back I had a dream about a real man. He was blonde and young. So was I. Not blonde. Young. Well, younger. (I'm 37 now. I'm hardly Betty White ready to break a hip after she trips on a shelter bound poodle named Calcium Supplment on the way to her tenth Depends commercial shoot.) That raw emotion of a first crush ran rampant through my twilite state. My romeo - tall, lanky and sweet, thought I was just fantastic. I wasn't about to throw him out of bed for eating Twin Dragon Almond Cookies either. Before my good Christian women following hit the "delete" key on their Favorite Blogs list, let me say that this fantasy didn't feel seedy, because I wasn't having an affair. I had entered some pre-Rex-vortex where cellulite, house cleaning, post office runs and the words "I'm not in the mood" didn't exist. It felt so exciting and pure all at once.
The climax of the dream came when I left my beloved's bed and found that he had a room full of brand new baby furniture. He said that previous renters had just left it there and I could have it if I wanted. They had twins, so I could keep one set for me, and I could flip one set on Ebay.
I woke up smiling. And then, like any woman who is terrified of a jealous husband, I did just the opposite of hiding and ran directly to Rex to tell him all about my thrilling encounter. He laughed out loud, "You didn't remember you had a husband, but you remembered you had two kids? What did your lover say?"
I suggested Rex watch the kids while I go back to bed and find out the rest of the story.
Needless to say, my lover's opinion of Rex is still a mystery.
I didn't post much last week due to being overwhelmed in responses for my plastic tiger give away. It was a tough fight between the three of you who practically got declawed scratching for it, but the winner is....
LIV! May the tiger go from consumerism to yoga-ism! She's going to drill holes in the top and burn sage. Or pot. Whatever relaxes people in those crazy stretch classes she teaches. Jet on over to her site in a few days as she promises to have a give-away of her own. The beautiful Liv will not disappoint, I'm sure.
http://madnessmadnessisay.blogspot.com/
And speaking of contests, I have some good news of my own. I'm a finalist in the Broad Humor Film Festival. It's a competition for women who write funny or direct funny. I sent in my script and actually heard back. What I will win, I don't know. Some good karma? Works for me.
http://broadhumor.com/
Last year's festival was in Paris. This year's festival is in Venice.
As in Venice, California. (This location suits me just fine. The last time I went over seas I spent three days in a London hotel room pondering, "Holy crap, I am so far from home! Where are the McDonald's play areas? Why doesn't my "let's talk to strangers" technique work on those uniformed guys at the castle? I'm soooo confused.)
I'm off to thrift. Then get Pipsqueak. Then write while she naps. Then get Stink. Then complain about how I over extend myself even though, like the downfall of the Federline's, I can see it happening well in advance of actually, um, happening.
Congrats, Liv! Email me seperately so I can send you your new pet.
Anyone who deals with kids knows that there's something magical about a band-aid. For Pipsqueak, they are less for blood wipe up and more fashion accessories. Stink has gotten a bit more discerning, but he still falls prey to the cure-all aspect of them. Last week he mended a rubber chicken's neck at Grandma Stella's. This fall the preschool mascot, a light purple angel, received a Scooby Doo and Shaggy adhesive over it's cracked knee. Yesterday Stink mended a shoe lace by replacing the a missing plastic end with a race car sticky.
I might be grown up, but I've got my band-aids still, too. Call them a cup of coffee, a Diet Coke, or a walk with a good friend, it's nice to have instant fixes.
I keep hearing about these internet giveaways. Well, do I have a surprise for you. It's none other than the $12.00 snowcone cup from the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus Consumerism Under a Tent Fiasco! It has a lid that opens up and down, measures almost one foot tall, but sadly, unlike Mama P at a thrift store where she scores ten "I love You But Jesus Thinks You're An Asshxxx" bumper stickers for a quarter, this baby does not roar.
However, unlike Winona Ryder on a bad hair day shoplifting from a dime store and having a mug shot rivaling her role as pasty girl in Beetle Juice, you can get this overpriced merchandise for FREE.
Well, almost.
Whoever has the best use for this growly, thorn-in-my-side-should-have-beaten-the-clown-over-the-head-with-this-Americana-atrocity wins.
I'll even pay for shipping. (But I'm cheap. So expect parcel post. Or pidgeon carrier. If the bird can crap on the vendors that sold me this junk, so much the better. If the bird happens to be a tap dancing fowl who lands the opening act and gets a book deal before I do, it will be served for Taco Tuesday. Animal rights picketers, you have been warned.)
Now go! What would this contain in your home? Condoms? Coffee? Yarn for a pair of snuggly wuggly slippers that you'll crochet for me in ever lasting thanks? I can't wait to hear....
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