Downtown... Everything's Waiting for You

After a two hour drive, the two rug rats and I descended upon Mickey's version of Citywalk - Downtown Disney. We met my cousin and her hubby, Macy and Fry, for lunch. It was my third time there, and I have to say, it's fun. Commercialism be damn, the weather was perfect, the music was catchy, the plants were blooming and things were spotless. That's more than I can say for my house. Even the parking, if you're there less than 3 hours, is free.

Not to say we didn't spend money. I of course bought the kids lunch. And Aunt Macy, who has no children, was kind enough to take Stink to Build a Bear where he could design his own stuffed animal. We joke that I buy his food, she buys his love. It's a sweet relationship.

Lucky me - I got to ride home to an overstuffed dog singing Happy Birthday in velcro surf shoes. (I shouldn't complain... Stink actually fell asleep ten minutes into the drive.)

If the kids like Downtown Disney this much, imagine what they're going to do when I actually break down and take them into the theme park? I have two words for you: toddler leash.

I conclude with a note on Cecelia who, true to her impeccably organized self, always manages to stop by for a chat when the kids have just fallen asleep. (Though I am grinning internally, and now externally, on her grand concept to keep her baby socks together: every time she takes off a pair, she plans on saftey pinning them together before they go in the wash. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! If she pulls this off for more than a month, I vow to show my most unflattering pregnancy picture to the world via this blog.)

My point about Cecelia: just when I think her belly can't drop any further she manages to surprise me as her unborn child nosedives further and further south. I have this bizarre desire to wrap my arms around her and guide her to the car, less this kid drops out on my geraniums.

It's been a good week full of Ebaying, McDonald's play areas, visiting with moms-to-be, hanging out with grandmas in Oxnard and setting up Rex's associate with an old acquaintance of mine I ran into at Costco near the hot dog stands. I hope all of you are having an equally nice one.

I just heard a tsunami size splash. Thought Cecelia had stopped by for a visit, but it turns out my sprinklers just went on.

Border Issues

Like our President's speech this evening, I am here to discuss some issues with Borders - as in the Mexican chain restaurant, On the Border. The fact is that I may, or may not, have ingested a certain bubbly beverage of choice. Perhaps Bush can send a few of his 6000 National Guard to guard my willpower. If this became the case, in the future, I would, or would not, consume approximately 2.3 glasses of gaseous liquid, preventing certain toxic explosions. There would also be less energy issues, more financial security (as water is cheaper) and no fear of non-U.S. citizens clearing my table.

Speaking of tables, I may, or may not have, paid a babysitter under the table last night so I could dine out with Rex. As it turns out, she took these photos that I just found while downloading ebay shots. I love you, Alien! (Babysitter's code name: Alien - since not only does it go with the migrant worker theme of this blog, but she's the spitting image of Jennifer Garner.)

In closing... because I know you wacky women out there are wondering... am I worried about my husband having an affair with the hot babysitter? Not for a sci-fi second. People that look like Jennifer Garner have no need for my computer saavy husband who, again with the theme, actually is an alien from outer space. It's just groovy groovy on our little cul de sac of star trek geek love.

Beam the post up, Blogger.

10 Reasons Mothers Day Is Better Than Christmas

1. I slept in until 9:00.
2. All holiday cards were written for me (in this case, individual cards from Pip, Stink and Rex).
3. I was given the gift of time: Rex made the kids breakfast while I went for a long walk to the mall.
4. Instead of snow or rain we had the most beautiful sunny weather a mama could ask for.
5. I did not cook dinner but instead ate a doughnut and drank cappucino (Sorry Dr. Oz - see post below)
6. I did not fall asleep at 6 in an exhausted frenzy, but instead waved goodbye to a babysitter while Rex and I headed to dinner in Burbank (Here's a plug for Market City Cafe in Burbank's media district. Despite their title, there was no marketing to be had... just lots of eating under heat lamps followed by a plesant walk through an old bookstore). It was sad to not buy groceries, milk or toilet paper, but I got through the night.
7. I did not hear Rudolph the Red Nosed reindeer 12 times in five minutes but instead listened to whatever dumb country station I pleased (Not that there's going to be world peace thanks to lyrics like "Those panty hose ain't gonna last too long, when the dj puts Bon Jovi on... She might come home in a table cloth, yeah tequila makes her clothes fall off."
8. I did not clean my house as I was too busy running from it.
9. Pipsqueak climbed on top of me and said "I love you" - all unprompted. Thank you, little love bug. You make me glad to be alive. You too, Stinker. Now go to sleep! I hear you Scooby Dooey Doooing all the way from the office!
10. Rex obliged me with geeky photo booth photos (above). Thank you Rex. See? A girl doesn't need much to keep her happy. Just a few hours, some validating cards and some food. If you could only wait on me hand and foot for the rest of your life, all would be so good!

And 11. (Because I'm in the Christmas... err... Mother's Day spirit... we had great parking, no wait thanks to reservations and I refrained from Diet Coke and alcohol which means I am currently typing, not vomiting)

If this isn't the most wonderful time of the year, I don't know what is.

My Mom is the Best!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Today I had a wonderful time
Hanging out with that Mom of mine
She not only thinks my kids are the best
But takes them from me so I can rest
She thinks all of their poo poos are cuter than gold
And has spunk and a spirit that defies being old
She'll probably kill me for showing her pic
So look while you can (I might take it down quick)

I know many of you have moms that you love
But mine is most definitely sent from above
And at almost six feet, I do mean "above"
With white hair and long legs she looks kick ass and tough
But despite stoic features she's really a softie
(Just don't try to talk to her before she's had coffee)

The reason I love hanging out with my mama
Is she's a true modern thinker (who rolls with my drama)
If I'm in blue jeans, no makeup, unshaven and smelly
She'll still split a bagel with me in a deli
She reads all my blogs (and even my scripts)
And even the bad ones she calls fabulous
I only hope that when my kids move away
They'll dig me like I dig my mom to this day

PS: Okay, so this poem was shot from the hip
But I have just two moments so please deal with it
The kids are now bathing, I hear water dripping
(And something that sounds mysteriously like licking)
The point that I'm making, like it or not
Is we can't choose our moms so let's love what we've got
And if your mom's passed away (like me - lost my dad)
Than be a mom to another - trust me you'll be glad
For we might have at birth been cut from the cord
But we never stop wanting to be loved and adored
And now that this PS is longer than life
I thank you for reading and wish you good night!
Oh and of course, the last thing I want to say
Is all of you Happy Mothers Day!

Team Mates

I have a friend who desperately wants to learn Ebay. As it turns out, she's a published magazine writer. We've been spending Wednesdays helping each other fine tune our crafts while our kids run wild in each other's backyards. I'd like to say that I've had this kind of focused support from the men in my life, but it seems to be a woman trait: this getting down to business while wiping butts, feeding cats and making sure we don't forget to send in the taxes. I'm not gay, but if I were, I would be a lot richer thanks to the power of female organization.

A big internet hug out to Cecelia who about to go into labor any day now. Her belly has dropped more than the stock market and she is in that fun stage of "Am I having labor pains and is that my water breaking" or "Are they just Braxton hicks and I'm peeing on myself?" Let's all wish her lots of luck. Labor isn't easy, but it's also do-able with the right attitude. And she better know I'm here for her when she needs a break. (That 'ol women partnership again.)

Speaking of breaks, thanks to all my girlfriends who took turns sleeping over while Rex was in Indianapolis. There was Anna Banana, a neonatal nurse who regalled me with stories of 1 pound bambinos and reminded me how lucky I was to have these two healthy munchkins. There was Topanga T who left her pit bull at home to come to my place, paint my hallway, rearrange my furniture and clean my floors. And of course, there was Cecelia, who I refrained from repeating Anna Banana's horror stories. Then again, Cecelia is about as big as a watermelon now, so there's little chance her swollen belly is carrying a one pounder!

Today I'm taking my mom for a walk and then lunch for mothers' day. I was going to do it tomorrow and then I realized I'm a mom, too, so I'm being selfish and taking myself, and my computer, out to breakfast tomorrow while Rex is on rugrat patrol. I've got to rethink how I'm writing these queries and get down to brass tax. It's hard to rearrange my thought process, but if my three year old can be taught that throwing clothes down the stairs is very counter productive, I suppose I can learn something new, too. (It's so hard, though, and I have this creeping feeling that it would be easier to pound my hands and feet on the floor, prostrate and scream "Nooooo! I can't do it! I can't I can't I caaaaaaaaan't!"

* Pictured: Pipsqueak at 22 months. Like how her dress matches my blog background? That was planned - I'm just that organized.

The Wizard of Oz

After watching a tv interview with reknown surgeon, Dr. Oz, Rex and I are attempting to eat better. This means sticking with wholesome foods such as raw almonds, spinach, garlic, tomatoes, olive oil and salmon. It means avoiding meats that come from four legged animals, hydrogenated oils, enriched flours and sugar. It means listening to your body tell you what it needs.

Yesterday I listened to myself and ate a steak and a bag of Mother's Pink and White Animal Cookies.

Stinker Belle

My Stink and belle have been really good the past few days – so helpful given that Rex is out of town. (Of course, now they're throwing tuna, but I'm going to make them clean it up, giving me an additional 5 minutes on the computer. I’m banking on my Yankee Candle Vanilla out scenting the Kirkland Low Sodium Fishy smell. But I wouldn’t put money down.)

I’m elated that 7 Tinkerbelle bags sold with additional interest about extras. Unfortunately, no one is biting on the Spongebob totes. I think they’re darling. A good friend of mine claims that they’re scary, however, and no kid of hers will be “toting that bag around.” Odd how different people see things so uniquely. I find them funky and hip and not at all threatening. Then again, I find Dora’s freakishly large head more terrifying than the national budget. It’s all relevant.

I won’t be posting later this evening as my presence is required to collect my bad parenting award. My prize: First Place Slacker for Ditching Preschool and Taking the Rugrats to a Malibu Play Park Instead. I couldn’t help myself. The weather was so balmy. And with the responsible Rex gone, even the good angel on my shoulder was taking off her wings and putting on her g-string bikini.

We had a fabulous time with our friend’s kids on the swings, the monkey bars and eating icecream. Afterwards, we perused the shops that line the sand lot. It’s always a kick to check out the price tags. "Oooh... 800.00 silver stilettos that look like Robotic hooker gear... I HAVE to have those to clean my toilets!" It's a complete different world from the Valley where it’s more Warhol than Walmart and half the men look prettier than the women. (Ironically, I live with a robotic male who looks prettier than I do most days, but he's truly an enigma. Like a Cadbury egg, he's a J-Crew model on the outside, geeky tech on the inside. And like those chocolate eggs, too much in one sitting can make me a bit queasy... so it's good for us to have our little work induced breaks.)

On that note, I just saw an Oprah where Dr. Robin discussed her marriage that ended at age 28. Another guest was Lance Armstrong's ex-wife. The third was a 32 year old professional with cold feet about her upcoming 60,000 dollar wedding. The theme: Women lose themselves in marriage. (Sidenote: Of course marriage talk is a serious subject, but what I was really hoping Oprah would ask Lance's wife was "How was the sex after he lost his testicles?" Is that just totally rude and low of me? Am I an insensitive freak? Just wondering. No offense to any one-nut male readers out there.)

The ladies spoke about how wives are conditioned to please others to the point where their shopping list reflects their husband's shaving cream, their kids’ diapers, their mother's hairspray, their neighbor's dog food, but not their personal needs. Oprah claimed that she didn't get married for that reason.

At first I got dramatically sad. My head began spinning more than usual as I panicked,"Oh my God.. I totally take care of my family. I have no time to write anymore. I'm not that funky redhead who goes to Santa Monica for eyebrow waxes! I lost all my fabulous gay friends who would take me on whims to Santa Barbara in Ann Margaret’s Buick Regal. (Actually, that was my ex-boyfriend. Never mind that one.)

Have I become a mere shadow dancer while my husband is the power player?" Then I calmed down and rationally thought: "Hey, someone's gotta raise these kids while someone makes the money. So I'm not getting the 200.00 haircuts. I still have time to myself here and there. Why? Because I frigging demand it, that's why. I’d rather step out than be a stepford wife."

It was a big epiphany for me - this thing that so many women don't fight for their needs due to putting on this perfect wife and mother front. And the enlightenment came not because I put up a perfect front, but because I don't. I never had the energy to not be truthful to Rex. If I think he's acting like an ass, I tell him. If he thinks I'm being an irresponsible financial mess, he tells me. It's not always pretty - it's downright depressing sometimes - but on those lazy Sundays where he's firing up the bbq... kids running around the backyard in their birthday suits... a nice beer in our hands... and he looks at me and says, "I really do love you".. I have the good fortune to not doubt it for a second. Turns out are relationship, despite our differences, is super healthy.

Who'd a thunk?

Now it’s back to my to-do list. Looks like I need to pick up Rex’s dry-cleaning, go food shopping, pay for some kids’ clothes with my E-bay earnings and figure out when I’ll get time to get my beauty sleep in between cooking and cleaning. I’m barefoot and making dinner, but I’m not pregnant. I’ve still got my toes (unpedicured and dry as as they are) in that independent woman well!

Hey - just got 10 bids on the spongebob bags. If I keep this up I'll be born to ride! (The bus... I'm only selling them for 2.25/each. Still, that times 1 million and I'm riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiich!)

E-Gay

I adore Ebay. You never know when you're going to come home from a playdate and find that someone in Wisconscin bid fifty cents for your Tiajuana monkey lawn ornament.

I have also learned so much about the human psyche. A brand new non-name brand leather bag might get zero bids. But a plastic 25 cent tote with a slapped on Disney logo? That can go for five bucks. Our society is so obsessed with name brands that we don't even know who we are without our steamy cup of Starbucks, our Nike shoes and our Cingular cell phones. Consumerism is so out of control and dehumanzing and so... brilliant. How else is this little housewife gonna make some ducets? (Until my queries land me something... I'm still working on that.)

High on my Starbucks, and entreprenuerial spirit, this weekend I hit my favorite 98cent store and slapped down 100.00 on some kids totes, hoping to double or triple my profit. Any irritation I had over the Indian cashier recounting my bags right after I tallied them in front of him were over shadowed by Disney style glee. Turns out that not an hour after posting someone bid on 7 of my Tinkerbell bags. (See above... they really are cute.)

While these green girls will most likely will get used as party favors for some little princess's birthday party, I love the idea that seven queens are using these little fairies for make-up. Or electric razors.

The ten dollars I'll make off of shipping and price doubling? Nice. The value I'll get from the buyer's backgrounds that I concoct? (Or in this case, con-cock?) Priceless.

Trading Places

Now that preschool is almost over for the year, I'm considering starting up a six week trade with 3 other mamas of two kids each. It would go like this: Two moms take 6 kids for two weeks - two times/week while third mom gets exciting day off to grocery shop, go to cleaners and enjoy relaxing gynecological procedures without screaming, "I don't care that it can grab your sister's boogers... A speculum is NOT a toy!" . That means for every 4 weeks "worked" moms get two weeks off. Sounds reasonable, right?

Here's the positive:

* Moms get to talk to people that don't grunt, wobble or deficate on themselves
* Kids get to socialize and get germs over other kids toys
* This village style kids raising builds community and links that kids can take with them for the rest of their lives and utilize to become doctors, lawyers, President of the United States, or freelance party planners slash kettle korn kiosk owners.

Here's the negative:

* One mom can't do it one week due to sick kids, so the perfect schedule is thrown off
* One kid is more difficult than the other 5 kids, leading to all sorts of complaints from other moms: Tommy's Mom: "We should get one and a half hours for every hour we watch Johnny." Johnny's Mom: "My son is just spirited." Tommy's Mom: "Your son put my son's head in a lawnmower." Johnny's Mom: "Perhaps he was subconsciously telling you to mow your lawn." Tommy's Mom: "Well excuse me for not marrying into money and having a gardner. At least I love my husband for who he is, not his wallet." Johnny's Mom: "Good, because I certainly couldn't love a fat, anti-social bastard. (beat) Pass the Evian!"

Just not sure.

The Other Tom

Today we made the trek to Fillmore for the once a year Thomas the Train Fiesta (with Grandma Stella riding in the main coach). Unlike the famous Scientologist, Tom, this train didn't care that we made a bunch a of noise. Longer post later, but for now let's just say that we rode trains, ate icecream, walked through mazes of hay, jumped in jumpers, played with model engines, and even particpated in a parade. Highlites pictured above.

PS: After a big steam whistle start, the train got very quiet. Then I noticed a huge passifyer sticking out of its caboose. Perhaps I was too quick to point out differences between the two power houses.

Kids Say The Darndest Things...

...Usually because they repeat whatever they hear from us.

Top 10 Things My Kids have said lately

Code Key

*** = not one of my prouder moments.

((( = "Excuse me while I wash my mouth out with soap"

+++ =Something I taught them to say for my own benefit.

1. Me to Stink (as I rub cream on his dry back): "Your skin is so happy to have this baby lotion." Stink: "That's not baby lotion - it's BIIIIIG boy lotion."

2. Pip dropping her bottle on her foot. "Jezzzis Crys!" *** (((

(She had just heard me say that when I dropped a coffee cup on my foot. Luckily she hasn't repeated it since. I'm so going to hell. Or going to have to take the kids out of Catholic preschool.)

3. Me: "Oooh, I made a mistake" Nick: "No, you're perfect." Me: "Oh stop." Stink: "It's true!" +++

4. Stink, first thing in the morning, after he shows up in my office with a stolen lollypop from the cookie jar. Stink: "Can I have this? (Hopeful grin) Of course I can?" How could I say no?

5. Pip, after excitedly seeing Rex home from work. Pip: "Paaaapa! Bottle! Milk in der! On couch!" So sweet that Papa is instant comfort.

6. Stink, as we say goodnight "Te Amo, Mommy. Bunas Noches! Uno mas? Uno mas?" (Love you Mommy / Good night / One more? One more? ) Meaning - one more word? Me: "Are you just wanting to learn a new word to stay up later?" Stink: "Yes, mommy!" At least he tells the verdad.

7. Stink, re: the difference between boys and girls. "I have a peanut. Pipsqueak has a boogina"

8. Pip: "I waaaaant dat, Mama!" (On one hand I find the constant demands irritating, but on the other, I am so proud of her for using sentences rather than pushing, shoving and throwing herself on the floor in the freezer aisle"

9. Pip, grabbing my drink from my hand, "Give it baaaaack, Mommy"

10. Me to Stink. Me: "You're the best!" Stink: "You're the best , too, Mommy! And Pip's the best!" Pip: "I the best! I the best!"

And finally, to complete the list, let me say that I love these kids so much I can't... Stink, finish it for me... Stink: "You can't stand it." Then, as he always adds, "You can stand it, Mommy. You caaaan stand it."

Sometimes, after a long day, I really can't stand.

Period.

Then again, my vertical challenge is how I ended up with Pip and Stink.

Lack of Period.

It's all very circular.

* Pictured: Pipsqueak last week, screaming "Surprise!" over and over.

Good Grandmas

I don't get moms who have issues with grandmas. I've heard everything from, "I don't like the way she baby talks my child" to "Can you believe she gave my toddler fruit snacks? Corn syrup is the devil!" My favorite, "She tells my daughter 'good girl.' My daughter is good because she's human... I only want her saying 'you do good things' but not refer to her spirit."

And I thought my kids' diapers had a lot of shit in them.

Now I know I'm gonna get internet slapped for this one, but while moms these days are entitled to bitch about being exhausted and sometimes depressed, then they have no right to complain if they have some old lady relatives willing to help out.

Maybe I'm too slack. I wasn't the type that interviewed pediatricians. I don't care if my kid goes to school Tuesday and Thursdays or Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I'm happy with the grey city paint of an HMO reception office as opposed to a faux painted waiting room littered with chic parenting magazines. I don't freak out if Stink wears his shoes on opposite feet or if Pipsqueak puts a barette on backwards. I treat my kids with respect on a daily basis. If someone wants to compliment them by telling them how good they are, so be it. (I draw the line at "you bad bad dwarf")

And most of all, I certainly don't care if my mom wants to let my kid "nap" at her house (translation: watch tv, eat cookies and read 10 books in her bed) while I get a much needed break (so I'm not the depressed, exhausted mom mentioned above).

Mom, Rex's mom, or Stel: if you're reading this, thanks for spoiling my kids rotten. You're good women. (And I do mean "good" in terms of spirit. I hope I'm not going to send you screaming into therapy. Now turn off this blog, eat cookies and go back to your t.v. coma.)

* Pictured: Stink, wide awake after his long snooze in grandmas bed. Ha!

Tube Ties

Top 10 Tubal issues I've dealt with since having kids:

1. The toothpaste tube... or shall I say.. the sticky goo all over the counter (and sometimes the bed).

2. The tube shaped slides at the park (Stink seen above - he couldn't be more elated if he fell into a vat of Scooby Snacks)

3. The vaginal tube (yes, that's right, I just used the word vaginal). I don't know about you moms, but for my kids, they had no issues with fetal claustrophobia. They were like "oooh.. it's tight, cramped, I can't breathe and I might just poop on myself... Coooooool.. I'll just chill right here, because some lady out there doesn't sound so happy"

4. One word: macaroni

5. Tires, wheels... anything round that can be pumped with air - my kids love it.

6. Can we say, "Vasectomy for 500?"

7. More Mac lipsticks have been destroyed thanks to Stink than animals have been tested on (Yes, I know Mac doesn't test on animals... just go with the literary simile, even if it's a bad one)

8. America's famous babysitter: the boob tube

9. Toilet paper rolls - lots of 'em - often times stuck on toothpaste which was just released from the tube all over my counter (refer to example 1)

10. McDonald hamster trails - plastic tunnels, spit, vomit and greasy hands. Code name for kids: Paradise

Reading over my blogs, I either have a good sense of humor when it comes to letting kids be kids, or I'm just a delinquent watcher.

Is it just me, or does it seem like no matter how much you pay attention, they will just do what they want to do? Like the day Stink was at my mom's and walked into her room with a net and some flipping goldfish from her tank, exclaiming "Grandma, I go fishing!"

Humorous stories welcome - Preferably related to tubes to keep the theme - but I'll stop being a control freak in the hopes for a good laugh.

Nuts

If I were an animal these days I'd be a squirrel - Running around frantically, searching for nuts, chasing my tail, climbing trees, diving from bird poop and ducking cars. Just can't seem to find the right branch to lay my home, so I keep hopping from place to place. Anyone else have days like that?

Attempting to put this energy into something productive - hence 63 things up for Ebay, waiting on a few queries (one seemed positive, but then no word yet...), spring cleaning, ironing, bla bla bla. The only thing that could make this week more exciting is an extra load of laundry and some chicken pox.

Here's a shout out for the Mommy Wars - a great new book with 22 essays from the perspective of stay at home and working moms. Personally, this original concept of moms being mean is nothing new to me - it's a never-ending theme in ye old blog. I will say, however, this book is helping me define how I feel about working and motherhood, and here's my opinion for the record: Happy kids have happy moms. If that means working, hiring a nanny ten times cuter than you or an abuela grande from Guatemala that will teach your kids to roll tortillas and read Spanish, do it. If that means staying at home, growing vegetables and weaving your own diapers as your kid co-sleeps in the family hammock, fantastic. If it means working a minimum wage job to pay rent, getting up early and taking the bus, then getting a support group together so you don't go loco on your kids when your boyfriend promises money and then bails, do it. We all have different lots in life and there's no time to judge, cast sidewise glances or be envious.
I am sticking to my goal of working part time by September. I plan on volunteering one day to give single moms a break (and maybe help some moms get an education so they have their own wheels and aren't so deperate). And maybe, just maybe, I might even grow my own sunflowers.

As far as the family bed, I would rather watch a Barney marathon than have two toddlers between my husband and me. It's hard enough having sex with them next door, let alone in the sack with us.

All opinions are welcome. Just don't be judgemental or mean or I'll make fun of you on this blog. (I might not believe in being bitchy to other moms, but I can defend myself like a kick-ass karate instructor on zoloft - ka poooooow!)

Craig's Schtick

This town is so full of crap it’s not even funny. Check out this gig I found on Craigslist.com – one of the leading sources of part time work in L.A.

“A filmmaker, I'd like to develop some short film projects with a taletned female screenwriter. I've shot two, have two more I'm tinkering with; now this may grate you, but, ideally, I'd like to date this writer. It's not a requirement, of course, but it would be nice to share my passion with someone. Pic for pic. Please live in LA"

This guy doesn’t have decent grammar and is looking to screw his writer. How much do you want to bet that some girl with stars in her eyes meets this guy, then posts to her site on Myspace “I’m dating a Hollywood producer!”

While it’s hard to be in your mid-30’s, mother and try to write tv in this town, I’d take my qualifications any day of the week.

Speaking of, my first magazine query is out the door. Wish me luck.

If it turns out I’m writing to the guy above, it’s all over.

(Since the time it has taken to post this, I got a positive response from an editor at a major parenting magazine asking me to revise some thoughts and re-send it again... not bad! But no chickens hatching yet. I've been down this path before.)

Final note: Craigslist.com is a pretty valuable website if you're looking to sell or buy things (furniture, random jobs). They have listings for every major U.S. city. Of course, it's also an asset for people in the porn biz, the sexy massage seekers and the part-time nanny/maid/actor/macrame artist. Bottom line: It's my version of an online garage sale - you gotta enjoy sifting through the crap to find the treasures.

Random

Random Acts of Blindness

As a mother, sometimes you have to pretend not to see stuff in order to keep your sanity. I’m not talking major issues involving knives, fire and cell phones dangling over bubble baths. But after telling your child 20,000 times in one day “Do not splash the water on the floor” or “Don’t throw clothes down the stairs” or “Don’t feed the dog your lollypop then lick it yourself” it comes down to being a star disciplinarian or maintaining your mental faculties.

Now, in truth, 99% of the time I’m on it. I don’t want spoiled brats. I don’t want my kids not invited for play dates because they spit in the cat dish. But tonite? I just want to bask in the afterglow of a nice in-law dinner. I want to feel the pleasant sugar high of one too many Mothers pink and white animal cookies running their course through my system. (Damn those things are taaaasty…and how can anything so pastel and crunchy and happy be bad for you?) I hear what may be a toilet lid clanging… or puzzle pieces being thrown… or worse case puzzles being thrown in the toilet… but I don’t see Rex jumping up from his “fix the stereo receiver project” to make a show of parental concern.

However, NOW? I gotta go.

Clink? Fine.

Clank? Fine.

Clink clink clank clank bonk bonk look at the mooooooooonsters go over the stairwell CRAAAAAASH?

That’s trouble.

Best Friends

With the Valley so pleasant in the spring, combined with an attempt to stay healthy, wealthy and wise (we've succeeded on the healthy front, so far) Stink, Pip and I have established evening walks. Sometimes I push them in the double stroller (which always results in a stop at Arcos for a free lollypop from Albert). Sometimes Stink pushes Pip in the umbrella stroller, feeling like a little big man as he points out "the baaaaaad cars on Plumo" (a busy street) and the "agua suicia" (dirty water in the L.A. River that runs through our intersection) or "the yellow ball some little boy lost in the water... he's sad... but his mommy is going to buy him a new one!" (moss infested volleyball that will remain a fixture in the basin until the next big rain finds it a new home).

On this particular adventure, the kids held hands as we traversed up and down our little cul de sac and adjoining block. We moved slow, to say the least, but I was filled with peace (remarkable for me) as I inhaled the jasmine and marveled at my fortune to live in such a 1950's charmer neighborhood. I know all my neighbors. I even like them. I've had dinners dropped off at my door. My regular babysitter is a CPR trained honor student that lives directly across the street. As moms go, I hit the motherload.

Throughout our stroll, Stink reminded Pip that we don't walk in the street. They counted stepping stones (jumped over different neighbors' pebbled walk ways) and talked about the people they love - in Stink's case, his friend Toddler B. When I asked him "Is Toddler B your best friend?" he looked quite shocked and replied "Nooooo... Pipsqueak!"

Then today at the post office, a random man approached me in the parking lot as I was loading up the kids. I dug in my heels for the inevitable insult as he started in. Man: "I saw that pile of pretzels your kid dropped near the stamp machine." Me: "Yeah, I know..." Man: "Making your kid pick them up? Brilliant. It's not easy molding savages into little humans that we can tolerate, and I had to tell you how nicely you're doing."

I am rarely speechless, but between Stink's comment about his love for his sister, and this random geezer giving me props, all I could muster on both fronts was a meek "thank you."

Sometimes it's just all so worth it. (I'll find something tomorrow to bitch about)

A Doctor in the House

In my attempt to read the news each day (including using Google News as my home page), I found Reuters to be an interesting source of entertainment. Some wacky dude named Chad Ruble reports off beat stories that happen throughout the world: 9 year old matadors, pig olympics in Moscow, rare pennies worth thousands of dollars released in New York city to drum up collecting interest... but perhaps most interesting (both in a laughable, and freaky, sense) is the article posted below.

I have just one question to pose before you read: If an old dude carrying a black bag came to your door, claiming to be a doctor, would you let him in for a "free breast exam?" Living in a town that boasts, "There's no such thing as a free lunch", my answer would be, "Negatory."

Happy Thursday, people.
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MIAMI (Reuters) - A 76-year-old man claiming to be a doctor went door-to-door in a Florida neighborhood offering free breast exams, and was charged with sexually assaulting two women who accepted the offer, police said on Thursday.
One woman became suspicious after the man asked her to remove all her clothes and began conducting a purported genital exam without donning rubber gloves, investigators said.
The woman then phoned the Broward County Sheriff's Office and the suspect fled. He was arrested at another woman's apartment in the same Lauderdale Lakes neighborhood on Wednesday, a sheriff's spokesman said.
The white-haired suspect, Philip Winikoff, carried a black bag and claimed to be visiting on behalf of a local hospital.
"He told the woman that he was in the neighborhood offering free breast exams," sheriff's spokesman Hugh Graf said in a statement.
At least two women, both in their 30s, let him into their homes and he fondled and sexually assaulted them, the investigators said.
Winikoff was not a doctor, Graf said. He worked as a shuttle driver for an auto dealership.

And the 4th Martini Goes to...

...Topanga T!

I have spent the past two days with Topanga T, perfecting the art of hanging out and chilling - a well needed change. T is single, living the artist's lifestyle, and job searching. We're not sure if she's going to be a teacher, a project manager for an art history museum, or a jewelry entreprenuer who moonlites as a kids story writer. Whatever she decides on will make the world more colorful.

Standing five foot 2 and owning more stilettos than I own Dora the Explorer bandaids, this brassy blond and I couldn't be more different. And yet, this is a girl who I met on the kindergarten steps at 4. We repeated kindergarten together, in fact (could be the source of all my wackiness). Our fathers were best friends. Our moms still walk and do coffee runs. While my father was overweight and rarely left the comfort of his telephone, he would gladly meet her pop at Burger King and enthusiastically listen to his stories about boat engines, RV fix-ups and the grueling job of working for the IRS (while our mothers chatted about soccer, school and Xmas cookies.)

T and I have different mediums, but our processes constantly overlap. If she's perfecting her painting style, I'm working on my writing tone. If she's painting her Topanga cabin light purple, I'm re-doing my office in a similar hue.

She is so great with my kids, giving me a glimpse of a break as she explains to a fascinated Stink the difference between an acrylic and a crayon, how to make a card house, and the fine points of Scooby Doo. I add consistency to her fluctuating life by providing more than a few home cooked dinners, walks to Arco for lollypops and the occasional bath (which I run for her, leaving lemon cake and geraniums on the side).

Friends don't have to be the same. They just need to be supportive. Thanks, T, for that. (T pictured in Princess Leah gear)

And now, an email story that speaks to me. Hope it speaks to you.
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Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.

Every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.

As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it. In his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words. Days and weeks passed.

One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone. Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the real world outside. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall.

The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall. She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you." Epilogue: There is tremendous happiness in making others happy, despite our own situations. Shared grief is half the sorrow, but happiness when shared, is doubled. If you want to feel rich, just count all the things you have that money can't buy.

"Today is a gift, that's why it is called the present."

Sweetness Abounds

Thanks to the Easter bunny (who we left carrots for the night before) my chillins woke up to pink and blue basket extravaganzas. Let's just say breakfast consisted of lots of greens... in the form of jelly beans and Starburst.

I'm thinking that once in a while if a kid can't go loco on sugar, then why bother being a kid? Who doesn't remember going trick or treating (before the razor blade scares) with pillow cases? My friend, Topanga T, and I would spend hours on her yellow shag carpet, sweating out the details of the fair chocolate trade (you think the exchange rate for England is rough, try Halloween in the Valley, 1976): 2 Musketeers for 2 Milkey Ways. Almond Joy favored much worse due to coconut content, but for a few good years we were able to scam her younger brother: "Ooooh, Jo Jo, you can get TEN Almond Joys for only 5 of your Snickers".

We got our asses kicked a few seasons later when he realized that crappy Brachs butterscoth suckers were not equivalent to Reeses Pieces, especially during the E.T. years.

Perhaps I'm kidding myself. Maybe my kids will grow up with sugar addictions worse than my battle with Diet Coke. But I'm hanging my hat on the theory that, unlike so many American kids, they won't have food phobias and become anorexic since I'm not attaching emotional responses to either candy or vegetables. Brocalli is not a "good" food while taffy is a "sometimes" food. I won't be feeding them Frosted Flakes for breakfast every morning, but on Saturdays, we get waffles with syrup. Bring on the icecream on rainy days. And at a fancy restaurant, we will clink glasses filled to the brim with Shirley Temples and red cherries.

Worse case I'm wrong, thank God for dental insurance.

* Pictured: my kids during Easter basket coma, and post crashing.

Quick Add On

Pipsqueak's latest thing to do, right after we take off all her clothes for her nightly bath in the sink, is to run around the kitchen shrieking "I'm Naaaaaaked!"

Yesterday, I asked Stinker to put away some blocks. He looked at me and shrugged in true Mommy form "I just don't have the energy."

Conflicting Messages

Today we went to passover dinner where the kids dined on matza and noodle kugel. Earlier today, we had a very un-kosher experience at Chuck E. Cheese where we mixed meat and cheese for a delicious pepperoni pizza. Tomorrow, for Easter, we eat ham, hunt for eggs, give thanks to Jesus and hug rabbits.

Either my kids will grow up very confused or very well-rounded. I'm hoping for the second.

Happy Easter / Happy Passover

For those of you who celebrate Easter, have a wonderful one, full of new beginnings and new life. For those who pass around the matza, Happy Pesach! For you, God, if you're listening, I'm going to cover my butt in both religions and ask you to help my baby magazine writing career to hatch... may I not be Pass-ed-Over!

It's a rainy day today. Rex is making eggs. The kids are negotiating who gets the blue blocks for the big castle being erected in the tv room. As for me... I'm happily sipping my morning Yuban, as well as enjoying the prospect of quite a few Ebay sales from my deluge of posts yesterday.

It's amazing what can get done when you don't have the blues. Any of you mamas out there with very low ambition or will to get anything done... it doesn't have to be like that. Go talk to someone. If you had a bad back, you'd go to a chiropractor. Same for your brain. Not saying to go pop pills any time you have a small cry... but if it's consistent... it wouldn't hurt to get a little something something to get you through. Some of us are blessed with high brain happy cells... some of us low... For the ones with the low, there's no shame in getting a little help. Like Brittny Spears and Kevin Federline... think of how much happier she'd be if she'd look at someone squarely in the eye and get some advice. (Though depression is a bit easier... no pill can erase that dumb man from the planet)

Looking over my posts, it's clear to me I have no political references or anything brilliant to say about our culture in general. I live in a mama bubble and it's time to change that.

Give me a week or so and let me dwell in my caffeine induced, zoloft high before I turn on the news and get depressed again.

Ave Maria

For those of you who live in the San Fernando Valley, let it be known that Maria's Italian Pizza Kitchen has Kids Eat Free night. While Stink and Pipsqueak were very good rugrats, neither of them ate their huge portion of corkscrew noodles, chicken and "little trees" (brocalli). Score for me because that's lunch tomorrow.

Got a ton of Ebaying done today, as well as finished the bookshelves, including hauling them upstairs myself (not advised with two toddlers underfoot. About as dumb as giving up caffeine, but alas, they're upstairs). I like the dressers, but they aren't a perfect match with the white ones I already have. I guess you can't have it all (but I'm sure going to try and make it better by repainting the walls and re-doing the borders... I'm on a kick)

The air was balmy and breezy - so much so that Rex and I, in addition to dinner (followed by fruit from Vons) took the kids for an extended walk. Everyone was so chipper and happy and full of good food. I almost felt like the cover of those Morman booklets where families skip and scream "gee, whiz, ain't life grand". Except I tend to use the F word. And Stink kept asking, courtesy of extended Scooby Doo viewings, if "we were going to Pompei to fight gladiators."

Off to put Pipsqueak to sleep in the dining room pack n' play. Who says that just because my kids technically share a room that she doesn't get her own space?

Blue Woman Group

So I did my first query yesterday. I need to tweak it and have a few pros review it (thanks Toni and Mama P Light), but it's done. Of course the rethinking and editing go on and on. I suppose I'm a bit hesitant on this because you only get one shot to make a good impression. TV? Done that. Magazines? Argggi grewooeooww oooooyh. Don't know what the hell I'm doing. I suppose if in 21 months Pipsqueak can go from helpless blobby thing to walking, talking and shrieking "No kisses, Mommy! Push... OVER!" I can learn a new skill.

Speaking of new skills, I finally bought shelving and a toy chest for the kids' room. Since I couldn't find exactly what I wanted already painted (well, I found it, but I wasn't willing to shell out $1500.00 to the Pottery Barn), I optioned for the natural wood and painting it myself - a bright, royal, maritime blue. Thanks to Stink's help (who did the back) I not only ran out of paint, but it appears as if a smurf did a suicide bomb in my garage. For the $625.00 I spent, fingers crossed my project turns out more shabby chic and less tacky wacky.

10 days and still no Diet Coke. I'm considering putting an Osha-like sign on my front lawn, right next to our ADT warnning. You could drive to my house and see "This home is armed" and "10 Days Without a Diet Coke". As the days tick on, I will slash out the # with a black marker and add another.

It's not all gloom and doom without the soda. I've managed to enjoy to 3 cups of coffee a day. In fact, three seems to be the magic number for me. As in my religion (Father, Son, Holy Spirit). As in I wrote 3 shows my first season as a staff writer. As in I'm in the third phase of my writing career (two partners, now on my own). As in I've always wanted 3 kids. As in this furniture is going to need 3 coats of paint.

If three's the charm, then my dinners (being the third meal of the day) should be tasting fabulous any day now. Or night.

I have nothing else to say, except that my fixings are ready for Taco Tuesday. Hopefully the rugrats will still eat, since currently they are supposed to be making Easter crafts (thanks to Crafty K) and instead are ingesting Spree candy like a white bunny on speed.

Happy spring to you.

The Cup Half Full...

...Of caffeine.

I fought the caffeine battle and the caffeine won. It was a valiant attempt by Mama P against the largest free narcotic in the land. But alas, like a gnat going full force against a New York City taxi cab, I didn't last long. After 8 days of no Diet Coke and 5 days sans coffee, the result was a gooey, blobby, and utterly defeated me.

As I type this, I happily sip my Yuban and will rationalize my losses, which go something like this: I have learned that I can go caffeine free, but I can also walk head first into a bus -- it's just not something I want to do.

On the flip side, it is possible to use some moderation and not drink a pool size version of java per day. As much as my husband likes the bodily aromas that occur from such excess, I have limited myself to one cup of coffee in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one at night. No Diet Coke.

Now that I'm not going through depression, anxiety, hopelessness (and running myself into Kaiser Urgent Care thinking I am going through menopause), my life is feeling normal again. Which means the 'ol ambition is coming back. Which means time to start querying... (How many times have you heard that? But... like my caffeine addiction, I think I can beat my self-defeat on that, too, and score me a magazine article. What else am I going to do with all my free time away from running out for Diet Coke?)

On a home note, our TV room is almost done! Tonite we hang some curtains. Next week we Chem Dry. It's going to be about as shiny and happy around here as I feel right now thanks to my coffee.

It's so sad to say that I am addicted to how content a few little things make me feel. But perhaps in this crazy life, a cup of joe ain't so bad.

Cheesy Bread

When you're caffeine deprived and your kids need lunch, it's time to break out into song. Here's a sampling of what happened in our household today. Don't expect the Pantages to run this production any time soon.

Me: (gesticulating wildly) Everyone sing "I want some cheesy bread!"

Stink: "I want some cheesy bread!"

Me: "I want my cheesy bread!"

Stink: "I want my cheesy bread!"

Me: "Cause if I don't get my cheesy bread I'm gonna get the cheesy bread bluuuuuuuuues...."

Repeat for toddler stimulation and goofy reminder to self that you are, indeed, not being paid for such artisitic endeavors...

Big bridge...

Me: "Slap the cheese on sour dough....

Shut the microwave door hard...

Wait for it to beep....

And do not worry about the carbs because...

You need the cheesy bread..."

Stink: "I need the cheesy bread"

Me: "You need the cheesy bread"

Stink: "I need the cheesy bread"

Me: "And if you don't get that hot-pipin'-gooey-I-likey-likey-doughy-morsel-calories-can kiss my mama's-bootie-you're gonna get the cheesy bread bluuuuuuuueeees"

Nothing but nutrition and mayhem in the Mama P establishment.

Did I mention it's time I start looking for part-time work?

7 Days

...Without a Diet Coke.

4 days without coffee.

After dealing with withdrawl, nasuea, achniness, headaches and more fatigue than a sleep center, I liken going off caffeine cold turkey to having a baby without an epidural.

Except at least after you push out the kid you can drink a cappucino.

Some Weekend Highlites

1. We don't yet have shelving for toys, but we have a life sized painting light that could double as #5's stand-in for Short Circuit 3
2. Pipsqueak has taken to wearing hats. And phones. She can now be officially referred to as 'Yo, Peep squeak'
3. Stinker is officially over his week long cold. I am sad to see the whining, midnight wake-ups and snot fiesta go away, but I'll live with it
4. Our tv room is tipping toward less construction zone, more toward livable area. The dust is dissipating. Rumor has it that it ran away to Mexico with Stinker's phlem and is very happy in a one room hut.
5. Perhaps most shocking: I am 3 days Diet Coke free. At some point I expect to see the Virgin Mary appear in my coffee. If she's drinking a Diet Coke, I'm switching to Pepsi. And becoming a Hindu.
6. I have been successful at not only cooking healthy meals, but not causing harm to my intestines in the process. Turns out my corner Arco is closing for "upgrades" but personally, I think they've experienced a profits slump due to my abstinence from caffeinated beverages.
7. I found out that my old boss's new pilot was picked up, starring Wayne Brady. I am once again plagued with feelings of wanting to write TV again, but not wanting to leave my kids for 70 hour weeks... but wanting to be fulfilled... but not wanting a nanny running my home... I am determined to find my niche with writing... one that works for my life, not my ego. (I think I even believe this. I'll let you know when I run into other moms at my preschool that are going to the best doctors thanks to their Sag and WGA insurance and I'm picking prescriptions at Kaiser... which is a great place... so why do I even care? Ego. Like Tim said "I guess that's just the cowboy in me")
8. I have found relaxing not as difficult as I thought it would be. I can actually sit still without redecorating, reorganizing or re-anythinging. But after 2 minutes, I gotta get up and stretch.
9. I have discovered that having a maid is not a cure-all for any persisting neruosis that are flipping through my whacked out brain. Still, like an issue of Real Simple, it makes the clutter look so much prettier thanks to the neat packaging. Note to self: Pitch story idea to home decorating magazines: Panic attacks are so much cuter in polka dots!
10. I am realizing, through silence, that I really love my life. That all my pushing and striving and over thinking might get me some perks, but if I just had what I have this very moment, it's just fine with me.

Well almost.

If it were perfect there'd be nothing to write about, now would there?

Rex, if you're reading... I love you! Thanks for this life you help me build. Now stop reading and finish the damn living room.

The Cowboy In Me

I have decided to take Fridays for myself and my kids. Here's the rules: no cleaning. No errands. No fulfilling any guilt ridden obligations to friends' friends' cousins' uncle's step kids I met once in a park last Tuesday who invited me to their shaker style condo to play Yahtzee. I am staying in my pajamas all day and being a couch potato.

And let me add: not only will I be a couch potato, but I will be one with low fat melted cheese, brocalli, and a dollop of protein on top. Yes, Mom, it turns out that Rex, too, is of your opinion that 'noodles' don't constitute dinner. And yes, Stella, I heard you loud and clear when you raised your martini glass and said "Here's to Mama P! A fabulous mother but a shitty shitty cook." While I'm huge on filling the heart, I'm low on filling the belly and it's got to change. So...

I've also decided to start dinner each night at 5:00. I suppose there's something to that "well balanced meal". The way I understand it, veggies and fruit are in, super sizing is out. Maybe the pre-dinner hour doesn't have to be as traumatic as an underwriting job at a mortuary. Perhaps I can put on my happy hat, roll up my sleeves, put on some music and attempt not to kill my kids with raw chicken juice drippings.

As I prepared my veggie meatloaf with side salad yesterday (yes, Call me "Rachel Ray-on" - as in "Mom, you'll need sunglasses because you won't believe your eyes") I played an old Tim McGraw CD. And what do I hear, but a song that has my inner soul written into its very fiber. (Parts transposed below)

Maybe some of you feel this way, too. Maybe some of you are so scared of country music that you'll want to vomit more than you would after eating my food. But, like my mom's advice about my diet, it speaks to me. I'm so busy running I miss the sites. I'm so busy talking I miss the listening. My kids are only young once. And so am I. Thanks, Tim, for helping me to remember it.

I don't know why I act the way I do
Like I ain't got a single thing to lose
Sometimes I'm my own worst enemy
I guess that's just the cowboy in me

I got a life that most would love to have
But sometimes I still wake up fighting mad
'Bout where this road I'm heading down might lead
I guess that's just the cowboy in me

The urge to run, the emptiness
The heart of stone I sometimes get
The things I've done for foolish pride
The me that's never satisfied
The face that's in the mirror when I don't like what I see....

I guess that's just the cowboy in me.

Being a mom and a career girl is kind of like being a cowboy. You're constantly saddling up, saddling down. Exploring new territory. Fighting off enemies. Worrying about food. Looking for signs of danger. Reeling in the herd. And yet with all that...

You gotta get off the horse and enjoy the campfire sometimes.

Happy trails to you, my friends.

Overloaded

There's a little glitch to my "shove all the groceries in the stroller and push them into the house" technique. Like a house of cards, it looks beautiful until one extra heavy can of peaches falls off the top, stubbing your toe and sending the baby tomatoes sprawling under the couch.

My life has been like this the past few weeks. Time to fold up the stroller and downsize.

I Think I Can

...and just when I'm ready to go mad with the rain and the sick kids and no tv, a rainbow shines through. As in...

Stinker got half his clothes back upstairs before collapsing on my bed.

Even more exciting, I got that intimidating contraption known as the VCR hooked up to the tv and wahlahhhh... programming! For the first time in 3 weeks, the kids can chill out while I put the house back in order. (All moms out there.. if our kids can go from knowing nothing to learning their A B C's, we can master the V C R)

Like Stink's favorite litte engine... am I going to make it through this day? "I think I can!!!!"

Side note: Another great reason for a double stroller - lugging that 100 pound TV from the garage to the house, in the rain, without dropping it on your feet. Unpedicured, no less.

And finally, in an unexpected spirit of gratitude, God bless you other blogging mamas out there. I don't care what people say about technology ruining people's intimacy... it's connected me to more wonderful people than I can count over grown eyebrow hairs. It's given me tips and support and laughter... And more than a little bit of wrist trouble, but I'll live with it.

That's One Bitchin' Kitchen

Are you looking at that black and white fantastic kitchen? That's my kitchen! Well, not mine in reality... the one in my head. It belongs to http://velvet-vox.blogspot.com/. This cool mama (or papa, but with the name teri m, I'm thinking gal) has been following my blog and recently started her own. And what is one of her first posts? My dream set-up. She is so like me with her references to movie sets "The kitchen in 'As Good As It Gets?'... my shangrila'.

What is it about aqua and sherbert, black and white, stainless steel and industrial that gets me hotter than Liam Neeson? I don't know. A throw back to old times when things seemed easier? (But in truth, the fifties would have spit me out quicker than I toss out jokes).

All I know is that I adore my new floor (seen above, sans molding and paint) but I'm a tad disappointed that it doesn't scream 'retro funk!' like Teri's. Still, my floors should be easier to clean, and I'm hoping to accessorize with my burgandy, stainless steel shelves and funk anyway.

In the big scheme of things, does all this decor matter? I mean, there's poverty in the world, and hate and crime... I know I'm being a bit obsessive. But perhaps because of the freaky big marble we live in, it's comforting to direct our own little universe.


Or I'm just a shallow control freak.

PS: I am so tired today. Stink had pink eye last week. This week he's running a fever and was up all night. I awoke to more clothes on the stairs - ALL his clothes. YES I should supervise more. YES I should not get so angry when it's my fault for not stopping it. But God forbid I sleep. ARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGG... It is so easy to start screaming and yelling and you know what? It does no good. When I'm ready to blow it's time to go in my office, check emails and think about trivial matters like my dream kitchen... one more point for home decor: to keep moms from going off the edge.

(Any crazed moms out there reading? You'll be okay. Take a deep breath. Chill out. Grab a Diet Coke and call a friend. Like those big warehouses they advertise on tv, motherhood isn't a vortex you should adventure through alone.)

Chatsworth Steve

Today was an interesting mix of events: Toddler birthday party / trying to get Stink to sleep but failing miserably / running to post offices with Ebay only to find them closed / running to UPS with Ebay only to find them closed / dealing with a bad case of frozen vocal chords and finally, blessedly, date night. (Thanks Cecelia and Slim for a great time!)

One errand not mentioned above was my Saturday run to the drycleaners for Rex. It's always very predictable and uneventful.

Except today.

Stink finally decided to stop complaining about the car seat, the cold, the heat, being with Pipsqueak, being without her, wanting a juice, wanting a milk, wanting to pee, not wanting to pee... and he collapsed. The upshot?There was no begging for cleaner candy (Braachs striped hard drops inside a plastic bowl near the cash register.) Rex tagged along, so he stayed in the car (This meant him being serenaded by Pipsqueak to 25 verses of E I E I OOOOOO)

For the first time in the history of my motherhood, I was privy to a solo cleaners run. Lucky for me, I got to witness a very amusing altercation between the very young cashier, Shayna, and a 50 something drunk patron. Scruffy, wobbling and stinking like kerosene, Mister Booze would methodically place his shirts in one pile, his pants in another, his shorts in another. I stifled the urge to both laugh as well as tell him he could get better shirts at some thrift stores for half the cost of the drycleaning. Then empathy would kick in, as well as the realization that he was so smashed, he wouldn't remember to pick them up anyway.

Between coughs and beard rubs, he'd mention to the ever patient Shayna, "This one has holes in it... kind of like my life.... Do you go to school?" Shayna would start to reply and he'd add "Hope so. Don't be stupid like me and not finish..." Then he'd point out some burn marks on a particularly dirty Walmart number and add, "I like to smoke when I sleep. When people ask about the holes, I tell them I'm a welder." He went on to give his last name... "Priestly... it's the only thing I like about myself." Then he quickly inserted "That old Asian lady? Nina? She still work here?" When Shayna nodded, he said "I like her. She calls me Chatsworth Steve."

Chatsworth Steve, wherever you are, take care.

And I take back what I said about saving money on your clothes by not drycleaning. If you're going to have to live with the shirt on your back, it might as well be a nice one.

Ebony and Ivory...

"...Live together in perfect harmony... side by side with a fridge in the livingroom... oh, lord, why can't we?"

So I am taking liberty with a very famous 1980's something song to bring you fabulous updates on my writing/kitchen floor re-model life (If you're too young to know this song, you can come to my home, stand in front of what used to be a pretty nice livingroom but now resembles a K.O.A. camping site sans bbq, and kiss my lilly white Mama P ass... I'm just that resentful)

Black and white is the theme of this post? Why? Let me share...

... I finished my Desperate Housewives spec. It is printed in full black and white glory. And unlike my pre-mama days of editing til the cows come home, I am done. As in 'no gray' 'no changes' 'this is it black and white DONE.'

...Photos of my construction zone home are being taken in black and white so that some time in the future I can remember heating up chicken via the microwave (10 nights in a row) and brewing coffee in the garage for myself and the Armenian flooring mob as 'the good 'ol days' (Thank you, Armenian flooring mob... you are too fabulous. Thanks, Cecelia for the recommendation)

... I am so tired I can't think straight... but even after long days of dropping off scripts to my agent while the kids zone in the back seat (me praying they don't wake up until I've at least cruised past Sunset... "Oh... did I pack the bottles? Check. Diapers? Check. Cell phone? Check. Porta potty for 405 traffic? Check. Wallet? Check. Sanity? Whooops....)... the sun always shines in full color for my little assistants who have a ball at a Beverly Hills park on the way home.

Let's hope that my Desperate Housewives opens up some doors for this here desperate housewife (who, in truth, is feeling not so desperate these days and more like grateful mama. But that kind of sentimentality will get me no where in this town. Shhh... don't let it out that Mama P is going soft.)

I Am Alive

But very tired. It's been a long week of living out of my livingroom. I shouldn't bitch... it's Easter season...and I'm so very grateful for my little ducklings. But when I think of pastels, I can't say 'pink eye' qualifies. And yet, it has hatched in little Stink's eye, keeping us up all hours of the night. Little Pipsqueak - Peepsqueak for keeping with the Easter theme - got in on the action last night screaming "Mama! Maaaama" and when I picked her up I was informed "Baaaa-tle (bottle)... jews in der (juice in there)...mama... couch... taaaay (stay)". Impressive vocabulary for 20 months? Yes. Impressive timing at 2am? Big bad buzzer sound.

On many positive notes, my script is done, so Susan, if you're reading this, turn it off and read my spec!

Our tile is so pretty that all my hyper perfectionist self can say is "Wow... now our walls realllly need to be repainted"...

I had an awesome lunch out with my mom and my kids a few days back. I intend to have many more just because my mom, for a 75 year old broad, is awesome. I'd tell you all where she lived so you could talk to her yourself, but she's already nervous that I'll say something private about her and ruin her mask of obscurity, so sorry. Here's a hint though that could reveal all.... caramel (that's so obscure, even she won't know what it means... maybe she'll reply to the blog and we'll work our way into the darkness)

Got some awesome thrift store deals - including a Ralph Lauren almost- new tote for 10 bucks. Loooove it. I feel so very Jackie O with it. Except I lost my sunglasses. And I'm carrying diapers in it. And I accompany it with muffin top Old Navy jeans. But that aside, I'm very stylish.

I am spending much time with Rex who has just been a doll as of late. Thank you, sweet husband.

I found a new online friend - Teri M - who has similar sensibilites to me. Even more important, she has the coolest kitchen on the planet. Her link to come when I can get my blog roll going... While I don't lack in random observations that could fill the Roman Colliseum (and no, haven't been there... and yes, Macy... even if I did get to Rome, I'd probably spend 4 days in a hotel room, almost miss the bus, get there for 2 minutes, snap a photo and take a kitten home in my purse)... I am lacking in the blog link department. (Wow, do I get an award for the longest run-on, and possibly most uninteresting to anyone but Macy and myself, sentence on the planet? Even my explanation was long. Fuck it all. You hear me? I'm cussing, because it's late and I'm PMSing and sometimes you need to and yes this is a run-on also FUUUUUUUUCK IT ALL)

Oh, my first point... To a lovely new online mama, Teri, thanks for fixing my photo a few weeks back! Now all you have to do is decorate my kitchen via online photo shop and my admission to blogspot (thus far a big fat zero) will be worth it!

Better, more inspiring posts to come later, with topics such as: why do I want a third baby when I'm pushing 40, my husband has had a vasectomy, and I'm so disorganized that my son got 2 days/week next year in school rather than 3 since I couldn't remember his registration? Am I just that nuts? Or am I just that maternal: this motherly saint-like deity of self-less love that exceeds ditzy mama p'ness and even the Diet Coke empire? I'm thinking the first theory, but time will tell.......

Strolling Through Life

I don't know about you other mamas out there, but when I'm not with my offspring, it's a huge thrill to wear cute shoes (the more sparkles the better)and sport a fun clutch purse. I have one hanging on a vintage hook near my door that reminds me of my impending free time. There's a sadistic thrill knowing that even if I wanted to stick a diaper in there, I just couldn't.

However, just because you ditch the rug rats for a few hours there's no need to ditch the stroller. Ex: With Rex on kid patrol today, I belted in my lap top, threw in my bag, and was good to go for a leisurely stroll to Starbucks. Impending rain? No sweat... I nestled Nick's duck umbrella in the basket. Without children clinging to my knees (or running away from me - depends on the day) I managed to take a writing break and buy 8 packs of velvet tab curtains, three sets of curtain rods and a Diet Coke. I panicked for a moment when I realized I had no car to lug it home. Then I piped down, reorganized the stroller, and called it a day.

Here are the top 10 benefits of pushing the four wheeler around (mom or non-mom):

1. Saves you from using a dirty shopping cart
2. Gives you a resting place for a large beverage of choice (I recommend the Diet Coke from any Arco of your choice, but it's your call)
3. Allows you to haul groceries from your car to your home in one trip (suggestion: use a double stroller for post-Costco runs)
4. Works as a transporter of Ebay packages and gives you something to lean against in the post office. Sometimes, but not always, limits altercations with cranky seniors in government parking lots.
5. Gives you a first class ticket to having doors being open for you (living in a busy city, people don't bother to check out your infant, but they have the basic common courtesy to at least hold open large entrances for you when they see a baby cart)
6. Occasionally, like Moses, lines part for you (probably to stay away from the assumed cranky baby inside. Hey, it's possible Moses was pushing a Graco. There's no proof he wasn't.)
7. Interesting (albeit annoying) conversation starter: "Hey, forget the kid?" or my favorite of the day "Oh... what did you name the curtain panels?"
8. Takes the load of heavy appliances (such as laptops) off a mama's tired shoulders
9. Unlike most pedestrian cross walks in the Valley, people attempt not to run over you
10. You don't tend to get truckers or gardeners whistling at you as you stroll the side walk (which can also be a bad thing, depending on how desperate you are for some male attention)
#11 Bonus: If you're a male, you will get more looks of approval than the normal penis sporting human since you took time out of your busy day to walk... oh... a laptop. Well, still, you look sooooo cute pushing it! Hooray for you for doing what most women are expected to do!

Side note: My husband is watching the 1986 block buster Short Circuit on his laptop while I type this. Who wants to wager that Ally Sheedy was on some serious doobage while shooting that movie? Not only does her acting suck, her eyes are glassier than the china department at Macy's. Or was that the robot? Hard to differentiate. All I know is that if someone can make a mint about a movie starring a robot named #5, I'm going to make some cash one day about my experiences dealing with #2. I also think that despite horrible special effects, if watched during my period, I'd shed a tear when the damn robot screams "#5 is alive!"

Giving Us the Finger

Last night, during a St. Patty's Day celebration at my mom's (great cornbeef, Mom!) Sophie kept sticking her finger in her green icecream. She'd then shriek from the pain "Finger! Fiiiiiiinger!" and thrust it in my mom's face for kisses. This would continue over and over again, as her determination for minty goodness consistently overcame the painful outcome.

How many of us do this? In love? In our careers? In our friendships? We know that the consequences of passion might hurt us (probably has many times) but we keep going after the dream over and over and over.

The cynics might say that makes us stupid. I believe it was Freud that definied insanity as doing the same thing over and over, getting the same results, but always expecting them to be different.

I choose to see the flip side: that in doing something over and over with the belief of a positive outcome we are living our lives with hope. And for you negativos out there, here's a quote to battle Freud 'Neither the postive nor the negative person is right, but the positive one is happier.'

Either I came by this view of life through sheer will for joy, or I can blame it on my mother who, despite the odds stacked against her, runs out twice a week for a lottery ticket. Then again, blaming my parent points everything right back to Freud, doesn't it?

It's a twisted, incestuous life we lead. I say we eat icecream and make the best of it.

Flooring It

When you're displaced from your home due to flooring issues, with two toddlers to contend with, you have two choices: 1) Lose your mind 2) Stay busy. I have opted for choice #2, but due to overload, I am eeeeking my way into #1. This combined with rain and a spec script (one week overdue), countless obligations to read others' work, a baby shower and babysitting issues have left me feeling on the verge of panic. The two ways to deal with a slight anxiety disorder is to 1) Lose your mind or 2) Stay busy. See the conundrum?

Thanks to Rex, some awesome girlfriends, family and some prayer time, it's all working out. I should be so lucky to have the money to get a new floor... to have my free moments spent worrying about writing time as opposed to feeding my kids. I have said it before and I'll say it again... the key to happiness is not what you don't have, but what you do. That all said, just look at me funny during PMS and I'll tell you where to stick it. I'm that much of a hypocrite. (But I am trying not to be. Does that count?)

Side note: Now that I'm a mama, I no longer have a membership to an arts society or the gym, but I do belong to the zoo! I love it. There's so much to see. It's so clean. It's twenty minutes from my house on a clear traffic day. There's a huge play park in the center where I meet my other mom friends. I hope Stink and Pip have fond memories of walking past the pink flamingos and screaming "Puuuuu!" or "Look at that monkey... he's eating his own ca-ca!"

The picture above is of Stink and Mrs. V's handsome son, J J. Seeing my son light up in the presence of another rugrat is a site to behold and makes me proud. Can't even be sarcastic about that one.

Final note: It is with great irony that as I drive the 134 to the Zoo exit, I pass all my old haunting grounds: NBC, ABC, Disney and Warner Brothers. Even my dad is buried at the cemetary off Forest Lawn Drive. It's true that life moves on. I am of course saddened by the loss on both fronts (career and my wonderful father) but heartened by the hopes that I'm creating new memories. And maybe some stories that will help me back through those doors at the studios one day.

I'll keep you posted.

Literally.

And Now, the Weekend News

Stormy and rainy in the Valley with lows being a house full of sawdust, highs being a very verbal three year old who cracks my butt up.

After a romantic day of screwing with Rex (floor boards, you pervs) I was reading a bed time story to Stinker. He chose "Jonah and the Whale". When it was over, I reminded him that, after his ordeal, Jonah chose to listen to God for the rest of his life. "Isn't that a good plan?" I prompted him. Stink looked at me very suspiciously and replied. "That man got stuck in a biiiiiig fish. Mommy, that is not a good plan."

Gonna Getty Me Some

Top 10 things Pipsqueak and Stinker loved about our midweek field trip to the Getty Museum:

- Going round and round the tunnel (The parking structure)
- The crocodile lake (The Palace of Versaille inspired fountain on the main plaza)
- The train ride (The tram leading from the parking structure to the main grounds - and to be clear 'there is no crack in the track')
- The pyramids where Cleopatra sleeps (the stone facade buildings)
- The glass aligators (elevators)
- The tomb where you don't want to wake the mummy (the marble bathrooms)
- Scooby snacks in the restaurant and fancy agua (Costco fruit candy and plastic courtesy cups)
- The biiiiig water fountains
- The many signs. In particular: STOP. Spelled S-T-O-P. It is red. It does not mean go. Go is Greeeeeeen. And as Stink says "I am not 3. I am 'S' years old.' Okay buddy.
- The net (big steel art piece structure outside the tram)

For $7.00 parking and home made peanut butter sandwiches, you too can be enlightened by fine art.

For you mama and papas out there, I highly recommend The "Family Room" - an interactive kids venue on the upper plaza where art is reproduced in life size shadow boxes for little hands to play with. The stimulation makes it fun for the kids, and the one-door entry makes it a relief for the parents. While you might not make it into the main art galleries (unless you want a bunch of academic snoodies wondering why your kid is referring to the painting of the 1600 Baroque monk as 'The Creeper', it's certainly worth the trip for the fresh air, gorgeous plazas, incredible fountains and clean bathrooms.

Sadly for Stinker, we never did find "Eddy at the Getty"... but perhaps you will have better luck.

http://www.getty.edu/

That's Cold, Man

Being under the weather with two toddlers is rough. For me anyway. For them? It's a party - nothing but Elmo, Dora, Scooby and a new Nickelodeon show called "Wonder Pets". Combine this tv coma with fruit snacks, cheese crackers and anything sticky, gooey and potentially undigestable in the large intestine and what we have, my friends, is the American child. My children, anyway. Who needs veggies when you got mini couch potatoes.

Cloning

Some you have asked what I look like without a diaper on my head. Others of you have feigned interest in facial features that don't include me sticking out my tongue, drooling with a child on my chest, or sporting sunglasses or an afro.

Some of you don't give a rat's poop, but you get the photo anyway since the angle hid the new double chin that does not show in person, but has mysteriously crept into my photos as of late. I will have to put Scooby Doo on the trail (though I'm thinking it's less mystery, more indulging in one too many Scooby snacks).

And finally, let this be proof that it is possible to clone yourself (though, as my aunt says, ' your daughter looks just like you, only she's much prettier;)
Hey, if you're family can't tell you the truth, who can?

(PS: Does anyone out there volunteer for the job of photo-shopping that damn booger off my daughter's eye? Sorry for using that word, Mom. I know it grosses you out. Booger booger BOOGER!!!!!!!!!!!)

Never Stop Trying

Here's to grand journies
And the those great first date jitters
Here's a cheer for the losers
Who don't remain bitter
Here's to those who see smiles
Despite tears and some lying
And to my Pipsqueak & Stinker
May you NEVER STOP TRYING.

Words we try to live by in the Mama P household. (And when they don't work, Diet Coke and Twin Almond cookies fill the gap until enlightenment strikes again)

Have a fabulous day, people. And do me a favor?

Never stop trying.

Board to Death

As in floor boards. As we are still in the demolition phase of our kitchen/bathroom tile project. It's been a good three months now, and I'm at the point where it's starting to feel normal. Yes, like a wooden leg that at first seems odd, but evolves into just another part of your body to get you around, my five different layers of linoleum, odds and ends of hand me down rag rugs and shattered molding just feels regular. It comes down to perspective. Similar to that wooden leg (which I would make constant jokes about... "Got wood?" or "Rex, I want to to to dinner... Wood you?" ) I have decided to make the best of it and see the upside. Which is...

We have a tile guy thanks to Cecelia. Rex is pulling the final layers this week and I am ordering the porceline - 18 x 18 squares set to a checkerboard pattern. Sooner or later this thing will be done!

Of course, we currently have a toilet on our back lawn (James pulled it get the bathroom floor up) but...with no appliances in the way, it will be so easy for me to paint the walls a lovely shade of burgandy. I will also be getting my long awaited bead board. Between the chandelier above the crapper, the pedestal sink and the orange towels, the end result will be a cross between an elegant salon and a brothel - just what I've always dreamed of.

I suppose I could really get creative and make some extra cash with our bathroom. In its current state of wood boards above dirt, we could rent it out for Indian Sweat House rituals. I could put a sign on the lawn with my Cherokee Name - "Diet-Coke A-Lot. Then again, that would be really going out on a limb, and since I don't really have the wooden leg I speak of above, I'll stick to peeing upstairs and call it a day.

Well, a month. Cause that's when this project is done!

Any of you out there improving your homes? While improving yourselves or your spouses or your kids? (If you're just sitting on your ass eating Fritos, that's okay, too. Just want to hear from ya)

It's Friday Night Martini Time

Internet Martinis, that is. As anyone that knows me can attest, I'm way too much of a geek to actually drink alcohol of any substance without falling on my mama bootie. And believe me, 6 '1 is a long way to fall. But I digress...

The 3rd very prestigious worth nothing -but-all-my-gratitude-and-love-for -your-existence Martini goes to...

Mtn Meg!

She earned her name for her love of all things mountains: skiing, hiking and no hills being too high, emotionally or physically, to climb.

I have known her since I was 14 (Texas Lizy, Mama P & Meg make 3). Out of the 3 of us, she was the first one to go to prom, make a sports team, and get laid - All very big honors for us slow to develop Catholic girl highschoolers. (And if Meg were typing this she'd include "and I'm still waiting for two things to develop... you got me beat on that, Mama P" )

Mtn Meg has lived in Arizona, San Francisco, Chicago, Colorado, France and now she's back in Los Angeles. She's an inch shorter than me, but a good twenty pounds less. If I didn't love her so much I'd hate her. She is heeeeelarious. She can talk the balls off a brass monkey, tell a raunchy joke better than a drunk frat boy (in fact, she has probably told many to a drunk frat boy) but she's also wicked smart and good hearted. In fact, despite our very different lives, she has remained loyal and true. (ex: at one point she was telling me about her extravagant sushi dinner while I was cleaning up after the family dog. I commented "this is the difference between you and me. You're telling me how you bent over backwards in a yoga move to give a guy a kiss --- I'm picking dog shit off my lawn." We still connect)

My favorite story about her is in regards to the photo above. She and her friend (blindfolded to protect the innocent - Meg is on the left) dressed up as sexy UPS workers for Halloween this year. They proceeded to walk up to unsuspecting men and ask "Excuse me, sir... may I inspect your package?"

As fate would have it, she met a lovely man who she is still dating to this day - quite a feat for our lovely marathon runner (who can not only run long distances, but has had her share of running away from not so great men - go go go Meg!) This man goes by the name of Richard.

I had to laugh, because only Meg would go to a Halloween party, inspect packages, and start dating a man named Dick.

A New "Microsoft" Outlook On Life

I can't say enough how Microsoft Outlook has changed my life. When everything is right in front of you, it's so easy to look and say "hmmm... 99 things are on the calendar for the kids... 29 for Rex... and 1 for me." And "gynecology appt." does not count as alone time.

I am eeking toward balance and scheduling myself for one 'WGA' event a month.

I am allotting myself time to make phone calls.

I am inserting blocks of pretty pink 'do your hair' time.

It has been a glorious epiphany for me that cleaning off baby poo with fabulous hair actually makes it more tolerable. Going to the market for last minute milk can be gratifying when some random person says "oooh, cute belt!"

Yes. I am investing in me a bit more which is paying off in two network meetings for show pitches.

This is paying off for my kids because, despite any ruckus that might ensue over 'Pipsqueak touched my shoe!' I can calmly, and rationally, parent my children because I have a little rabbit's foot called 'hope' in my back pocket - those same back pockets that are starting to sit a bit perkier on my booty thanks to my scheduled walking time (Thank you, Mrs. V., for venturing into the mall vortex with me on a regular basis for our pedestrian adventures.) * Side note: Never get in the way of two mamas with double wide strollers chatting vehemently about their husbands. Someone's gonna lose a body part .

As for Rex? He likes the payoff of a happier Mama P. But his overall feeling? "I could still use more sex."

Outlook is going to have to come with extra attachments for that one.

Special K Serial

And the Second Martini Award goes to.......

K! My fabulous sister in law.

Like my scripts, let me comment that my relationship with K has been, from the beginning, a work in progress.

On first glance, K can appear to be very Hollywood: blond, thin, always dressed to perfection. But then if you take two minutes to talk to her, she'll be the first to self-depricate about how she needs a highlite, she has friends ten pounds thinner than her (I am assuming these are cartoon characters, as they don't come much skinnier than K) and that she is "Just wearing old sweats". (Because K is so thin, a dish rag on her looks shabby chic)

K is taking home the internet gold not for her good looks, but because of her whack job actions. To borrow from my earlier post, she collects Asian salt shakers. She helped her husband dress up as Mr. T. She had an engagement dinner at 7 Layers of Beef in downtown. She sends pictures of herself and her 100 pound dog (uncropped no less, shown above) to Society Magazine (as she says, they "represent the greater snobby Westlake area). She uses her time to put on after school theatre performances for her second grade kids and invites Stella in to read to them. She dresses up as story book characters to teach class. So far, she has not been fired.

When I say she and I are a work in progress, I simply mean she's one of those eggs that is colorful on the outside, but solid underneath. And she stays solid by inviting just a few people into her shell at a time. Sure, I visit here and there, but I'm not a permanent roommate. I have decided that rather than approach her egg in normal Mama P fashion (me with a jack hammer and clowns feet) I will simply stand outside with a tiny chisel and peek through the cracks now and then. She knows where I am when it's time for our big sister-in-law lunch at Seven Layers of Beef.

Or McDonalds.

Whatever has an indoor play area.

Clearing Stuff Up

I was driving home yesterday and the world seemed remarkably fresh. And crisp. And clear.

Then I realized I had just cleaned my windows.