The A B C and Dees of It

Before I sound too much like a hot shot cowgirl in the post below, blaring my pistols and telling MXC to take a hike, let me insert a quick adendum that goes as follows...

Throat clear: Despite all my fabulous girlfriends telling me to take this gig, my cousin Dee listened to me with unwavering patience, took a breath for good measure, then remarked "Are you insane?" She has known me forever. She knows I'm a grass is always greener kind of gal. She knows I want to be out in the work force, but six days a week? That's not for me.

Of course she's right. And it helped me make a hard decision. (Insert the fact that I'm a whiny bitch that with everything going on in the world I should be so lucky to agonize over something that feeds my soul, not feeds my kids.)

In conclusion, I figured I had better post a nod to Dee here - for the world to see (aka: 20 faithful readers) before my cell phone rings off the hook with her on the other end screaming "I'M the one who told you not to take that crazy proposition. If you'd listened to me about marrying your first husband look at how much heartache I would have saved you then, too!" (No offense to J who may or may not read this blog. He was a great guy. I was just in a young, dumb way that makes Brittany Spears look mature. Spelling on Brit? Too exhausted to find out. I'm sure if she can live with that pitch black witch cut she has, you can live with the misspelled name.)

To conclude, Dee is now laughing her ass off, not because this post is particularly funny, but because it's true.

Now she's trying to figure out how to comment.

Now she's going to call her computer tech husband and have him do it for her.

Most Extreme Elimination

This was the show I was originally offered 14 weeks of work for.

http://www.tv.com/most-extreme-elimination-challenge/show/19800/summary.html

After an agonizing 24 hours of deciding whether the pay was worth the hours away from my family, I did, indeed decide the chance to be in a writers' room was a risk worth taking. As one girlfriend noted, "A 14 week experiment... what do you have to lose?" Well, my mind. But what the hell.

And speaking of girlfriends, thanks to all of you who cheered me on. Cecelia: "You have given up 3 years of your life for your husband and kids! Get back in!" Mrs. V: "I'll pick up Stink from school for you!" Rex's least favorite (though second runner up for me) Topanga T: "This isn't about the money. This is about you following your dreams and not giving up."

Although Rex was skeptical about my ability to don the superhero cap and make this happen, I had it all planned out:

* Week 1: Big cheers! Big excitement! Run on adrenaline and be on time for work every day! Lots of italics! Lots of CAPITAL LETTERS. Loads of exclamations!!!!!!!!

* Week 2: The trip to Studio City is a bit of a drive, but I can listen to books on tape. What exactly is so pressing in the Middle East that a good cup of coffee and a bagel can't fix? NPR will fill me in. I'm commuting, but learning. I even start to learn a bit of Hebrew. Oy!

* Week 3: Monday morning is a bitch, but Rex can take the kids to my moms for me. Insert: Huge fight when he says he has a business meeting and can't drive them. Me: "But I'm there for you when you travel. Be there for me." Rex: "My job pays for our mortgage. Yours is barely going to break us even for a lot of running around and arguing." Me: "Who's arguing, asshole?!"

Oh.....

Week 4: My mom is sick. Time to for plan B: the Jewish Daycare my sister used to take her kids to. They're off for some holiday. How to say Fuck in yiddish? Topanga T takes the kids, but I'm late for work due to traffic on PCH, as well as a naked sit-in from Pepperdine students.

Week 5: The boys at the job are resentful about me being late, but don't say anything because I type 100 words/minute. I'm resentful of the men because they don't balance work and motherhood but instead scratch their nuts and get paid to joke about it. I don't say anthing becaues their nut scratch jokes pay my checks each week - the checks that I'm barely breaking even on but I'll be damned if I concede to Rex about this. I get a call mid week that Topanga T's pit bull almost ate Stink's foot. My mom takes the kids again, but her car is busted, giving me fears that Stink will swallow a Depends and by the time the ambulance arrives it'll be too late. Dark? Yes. But I'm sleep deprived, and that's what moms concoct.

Week 6: I hate Rex. He hates me. We are never having sex again. But I have an excuse: there is now overtime at this job and I am never home to have sex.

Week 7/8/9/10: It's Halloween and Thanksgiving. My kids are going trick o treating as miserable orphans. I arrive at my in-laws for turkey and have nothing to be grateful for. They wonder why I'm upset. I remark that I can't tell the difference between Rex's or the bird's butthole.

Week 11: Hiatus! I can sleep in! I'm ready for a vacation! Time to mend fences with Rex. But he has business in Europe. On his way out to the airport in his clean GTO (while my SUV stinks of copy paper, McDonald's fries and soy milk), he reminds me that I'm not really making profit on this gig as "it's not about the money" so we can't afford a real break anyway.

Week 12/13: My mom sells her house and I must figure out where to place my children. Social services doesn't do drop-ins.

Week 14: It's the last week. I show up on time. I have sex with Rex for good measure and pretend everything's okay. He goes for it because he's horny as hell. I call him on that. We fight. I tell him we're never having sex again. He then asks me if it's because I signed up for another season on MXC.

I started to rethink my decision to take this gig, but Mama P Light reinforced me, adding Week 15 to the mix: "You will be so proud of yourself. It's all I hear you talking about. DOOOO it. You got my Ebay started. You took care of your family 3 years. This is time for YOU."

I called the producer, only to find out that it's not a 10 - 6 gig after all. It's possibly longer, very probably Saturdays, and Sundays could be involved.

I then called up my ex-writing partner and responded as graciously as possible: "HELL NO."

People, I just don't know. I wanted it. I did. But the truth? Writing TV is all or nothing. Great for men. Great for single people. But mamas with babies? It's fine if your heart is made of stone. I, unfortunately, have a heart of playdough that hardens when it's left outside a bit too long, but in general? Mushy as poo poo.

So I'm back to the original plan of flipping Ebay items (rather than flipping out.) I'm going to write movies so I can stay at home and watch movies with my kids. I'm going to keep blogging and update this sight so I can maybe make some money off my dumb ramblings. I can plan on going here next year: http://blogher.org/about-blogher-conference-06

I also hope to hear from my queries at some point.

On a final note, on our way home from dinner (which I could not have done had I been selling my soul to the tv devil and avoiding sex with Rex) I saw a sign outside a boutique window that read "Home is where the stories begin."

One can only hope.

And Then God Rested

Today I took Stink to preschool, helped out a friend who is prego with #3 and sick as a dog, picked Stink up, took my mom to the store, re-wrote a letter for my sister, watched Cecelia's baby for a few hours while Rex hung up a 42 inch flat screen and was offered a job on a television show for a 14 week gig.

I'm not comparing myself to God, as God seemed to create the world effortlessly while I am currently running around the house with arm pit sweat obsessing over Stink's new Scooby sheets that smell like cat urine, how we have a television set larger than the big Man himself but haven't taken a vacation in 3 years, and if I accept this 14 week gig and do the manic dance of figuring out child care and back up plans for sick kid days and the inevitable screw up that comes with balancing career with family will my children end up in 14 years of therapy rejecting God and peeing on my five dollar JC Penny close-out sheets and vegged out in front our new television?

All in all, a busy day.

I Need Air Part II

My original post may or may not have been deleted, so forgive me if I'm repeating this to you again. If I am, just pretend I'm a toddler and be grateful it's only the second time you're hearing it and not the 25th auto-repeat of "Wonder Pets Wonder Pets We're on Our Way, To Help the Baby Cow and Save It From the Meat Grinder". That last part was my addition. Cranky at losing my first post. If a baby farm animal has to die on account of this crabbiness, so be it.

Photo above just one more example of how a busy mother thinks she's buying a magazine put out by the Oxygen network, where she has contacts from her tv writing days (yeah!) only to discover that the tan chick on the first advertisement is not an example of female inner strength but a mofo body builder named Vixen advertising some sort of pro-muscle body powder in a muscle rag called Oxygen. (boo!)

Such a mistake could explain why either A) I'm not yet writing professionally or B) Why the cashier didn't have an eyelash in her eye but was actually winking at me.

I am so ready to get something published that I actually considered pitching to this publication. My top five ideas?

1. How to Bench Press that Man into your Heart
2. I Saw Mommy Arm Wrestling Santa Clause
3. When the School Bully is Yo Mama
4. When Lap Dances Can Kill
5. Fake Tan, Fake Hair, Real Steroids

Lucky for their editor I had to turn on The Wonder Pets Save the Body Builder and by the time I got back to the computer I changed my mind.

On other notes, despite my brain having the odd ability to remember that Amber Frey got married last week and me having no idea what is happening in Israel at this moment, I appreciate the support of all you lovely readers who think I'm half way intelligent and encourage me to continue writing. I did, indeed, send out five queries today - my favorite being a pot luck piece to Rachael Ray's magazine. And while it just might take a little pot and a lot of luck to get through this painful submission process, I have faith that it will happen for me.

As will an Ebay biz of some sort. No more thrifting - as much as I love it. It's time set my sites higher and buy/flip a wholesale lot of some sort. If I fail after raising the bar, I can just hit a bar and start over.

At that point, I will consider delving into some new areas of life that have been put on the back burner: cooking, dancing, more regular church attendance.

As far as body building goes, though? Unless it's a three pound bag of Mother's Animal Cookies followed by a sixteen liter of Diet Coke, I'm gonna leave the hard bodied stuff to Vixen.

On the Radio

At a ladies lunch at my aunt's house, I met a woman who DJs a morning news radio show. One thing led to another, the upshot being that she's giving me a tour of her studio to show me that side of the business. I figure it's one more pie in the sky thing for me to eventually get turned down at.

Does the normally upbeat Mama P sound a bit jaded? If so, it's because the ego who lives in the writer side of me is being faced with the realist who lives in her pragmatic side. I had the good fortune to bask in L.A. fantasy land for a long time, but now that I have kids, and my creativity isn't paying for my cappucinos I'm ready for something.

Anything.

I don't want to be that 40 year old at a cocktail party who recalls the glory days of being yelled at by Roseanne Barr and being locked in a bathroom stall with Brett Butler only to have the 22 year old Yale Graduate, head of the magazine I want to write for, inquire, "Who's Roseanne Barr?"

On the drive home, I spoke to Mama P Light who is raking in the dough on her plus size Ebay biz - a biz that I set up for her step by step (thank you very much.) She's normally pretty reserved, but given she's puking her guts up due to pregnancy #3, she laid it on the line. "Mama P, you need to put the writing dream on the back burner, buy a wholesale lot of something, and make some cash."

This is going along the lines of K's idea: to start a biz.

I'd like to tell these beautiful women that they're both nuts, but it has been a few years since anything remotely encouraging has happened. I might have to suck it up and get successful.

But this is boring talk. Let's get on to something exciting and overly dramatic and helpless.

I have ants.

My house stinks like a rodent died in a possum's belly button.

It has hit 114 degrees in the beautiful San Fernando Valley.

My $175.00 haircut and color transformed me into the mirror image of an Armenian disco singer.

I can't find my bras, Stink has lost every single pair of underware, I'm wearing my husband's shorts since I'm too lazy to break down and buy myself something decent and my kids are still awake at 9pm.

Oh yeah, it's exciting.

Man That's Cold

Yesterday, despite it being 105 degrees outside, Stink and I watched Polar Express for the first time. I forgot how cozy snow, light and sweet music mixed together can be.

It also cemented my feelings about moms who blog. Anyone who finds our ramblings to be self-centered only need to turn on this animated film and watch Tom Hanks act in every role but the elf who does a flip flop and farts before Santa's big entrance.

The fart could have been reindeer hooves scraping ice. That's debatable. But moms who want to share their experiences about raising kids and keeping some sort of life going for themselves is not.

Body of Work

Here's an interesting site out there for those moms who are dealing with post partum weight - and those of you living in fantasy land about how your bodies are never going to change. http://shapeofamother.blogspot.com/

I stole it from this site http://www.suite102.com/baldo/

While I can't lie and say "I love my body more than I ever did before I had my babies", I can say that I, like these women here, am extremely proud that my six one frame was the oxygen/growth tank for the most precious people on the planet.

That all said, I would watch a Full House marathon before I uploaded my naked body to anybody's blog.

I Love Women

And I'm not ashamed to admit it. Let me name the top 10 gals this week who caused this post to exist:

1. My sister-in-law, K: She has an idea to actually take our talents, stop bitching, and start an internet idea. Wow, and stop being rejected by queries and entertainment execs? I'm not sure if I could deal.

2. My cousin, D, who turns 36 today. Not only does this 4'9 diva make me laugh on a regular basis, she sends my kids maps of Disneyland, reminds me that she's old, too (references to PSA airline), and makes references to my deceased father that remind me of his generous and jovial spirit: "It is indeed a beautiful sauce... Are you having relations with that man? Now, pass me a dietetic soda." (You had to know my father.)

3. Mama P Light: She keeps me going on the queries, reminding me I'm gonna make it happen soon. She also took my Ebay advice and opened up her own rocking' plus size store. She's only 95 pounds, which makes this not only ironic, but inspiring that business happens when you make it happen, regardless of the product.

4. Mrs. V: She not only is going to volunteer with me this summer and next year at my kids' church school just for the hell of it, but she lets me use her pool, doesn't make cracks about my white ass legs and brought little Pipsqueak a doll, a bottle and a stroller today.

5. My mom: I had a rough week without Rex, and she showed up three days in a row just to have coffee and talk about things other than poo poo, Scooby Snacks and why ice is a solid and water is a liquid. Stink: "But when you lick ice it gets wet. That's liquid, right?" Ah, yeah. And so is tequila. My mom keeps me off it.

6. My sister, L: Even last week when she was going through a rough break up with her boyfriend, she sat on my couch and reminded me what a great mom I am, how nice I looked, and delicious my tacos were. I think she even believed the first two, God bless her.

7. My sister, R: She takes my kids for two hours each Saturday so I can slurp down a coffee, do some story research, or get half a hair cut. She has kids close in age to mine, so she's always game for a McDonald's play area, a jaunt through Costco or a last minute Diet Coke over chips and salsa.

8. Topanga T: Even though she got hit by a mac truck last month (no joke) she still had time to pick up the Muppets on DVD for my rug rats.

9. Texas Lizzie: Even though she's two thousand miles away, she never forgets a birthday, to ask about my kids or just call to chat about the mood in her house when the Longhorns lose.

10. Cecelia: She's got a six week old and she still makes time to read this damn blog and set times to hang out.

There's countless other gals who come up to the plate to make my life not just livable, but downright enjoyable (Like Kar, who is watching my kids Saturday night - thanks again.) And of course, Kate, Teri M, anyone who reads this daily rambling - thanks.

Man, just one day and I don't hate everybody anymore. Maybe if I were a cynic I'd be more successful. But then I wouldn't have time for all these fabulous gals in my life.

I Am Old

You might be old if you have When Harry Met Sally, Bull Durham and Moonstruck on VHS.

You might be a mother if it takes you five hours to watch them, spread out over five days.

You might be cheap if each tape cost you $1.99 at Goodwill, and even then you were debating if you could have gotten it for less at the Salvation Army half-price Thursdays.

And if you fall into all three categories, you just might be my soul mate.

I Hate Everything

I hate that I have heard nothing from my queries in the past week.

I hate that a stupid local paper turned me down for a column I proposed when they normally are scrapping last minute for stories about flies and how they feel about eating crap for a living.

Speaking of, I hate the millions of flies in my house.

I hate the San Fernando Valley heat.

I hate that I'm 36 years old and I have three zits on my chin.

I hate that no one is buying my Ebay stuff and I'm still too scared to get a real business going because what I really want to do is write but no one is writing me back - see my first cranky statement.

I feel compelled, now, to write something positive about all the good things in my life. Something about how at least I'm not living in the Middle East and how I can afford to sit here and be bitchy.

But I'm tired tonite. I have my period. I am bloated. And I have no perspective.

I hate that the most.

2 for the Road

Today Pipsqueak turned two. She dipped in the elephant pool (in her birthday suit, no less). She dined on Cheerios in front of Dora. She took in a three hour siesta and woke to hugs from Auntie H and Grandma (who brought her pirate toys and a frog chalk board respectively, resplete with colored chalk).

Dinner consisted of Papa coming home from work early to accompany us to McDonalds. Much to her delight, she was greeted by her two cousins and Auntie R. After sliding and climbing it was, indeed, a Happy Meal as the rest of the patrons in the playgym crooned birthday wishes to a runny nosed toddler, frantically licking up her icecream cone as it melted all over her # 2 candle (which Stink had guarded like a groomsmen with the ring, his little mitts patting his chest pocket for good measure to keep it safe until the big song).

After all that commotion, I figured she'd sleep like a baby.

But she's not a baby any longer. She's a firecracking toddler - Pipsqueak to her core. And if the sounds from the Pack N' Play are any indication, her birthday is far from over.

PS: A big thanks to Texas Lizzie for the fabulous dress up kit, resplete with 2 princess costumes, a brides veil, a rabbit hat, two cowboy hats, a tiara taller than she is, a purple genie outfit a la J-Lo, sunglasses, a belly dancing skirt and crop top, a Hawaiin lei, a cel phone, a fairy wand and an engineer's cap. All it was missing was her personal microphone. Again, from the noise coming from her dining room crib, she doesn't need one.

A Good Whine

Whenever Stinker whines for not getting his way, he finishes my sentence for me.

Me: "I am sorry you can't have your way, little man. I want a maid, a cook and a--"

Stink: "--Nanny!"

Yesterday, while waiting for our order at the drivethrough window, Stink asked for his favorite greasy pleasure. I told him no. A moment later he looked through the McDonald's window pensively, then shouted, "If they don't have fries, maybe they have a cook and a nanny in there!"

Being of Service

I had a boss once who was a Scientologist - so much so that she eventually left television to pursue it full time. Right before my leap from writers' assistant to writer she told me "Mama P, we have a term for people who have a dream. They must 'be of service'." I of course made some crack about how her people also think their leader is going to rise from the dead in a volcano. She continued on, quite serious, "What I mean by 'being of service' is to show up ten minutes early, stay an hour over... put in 110% when you're dog tired. Be. Of. Service."

I shrugged it off with the guffaw of a girl in her twenties who was too busy getting her hair done to listen to some 40 year old boob job cult member. I wasn't paid enough for that kind of servitude. But I was desperate enough to try anything.

And it worked. I became a produced writer in three months.

I have used this advice over and over to learn things in my life.

Take yesterday when I volunteered time to paint banners at my kids' church. Do I have room in my schedule for this? No. But my mom watched the kids and I was of service anyway. In return, I learned a super easy way to paint a mural using an overhead projector and a stencil. (Yes, Texas Lizzie, you've been telling me this for years.) But I never would have learned unless I had to do it myself. For free.

So much of motherhood could be considered dull since I'm not getting paid. And I won't lie. Sometimes I think I'll go brain dead if I have to listen to Scooby Doo theme music one more time. But when I put on my enlightened hat and am of service to my kids, the pay off is pretty huge.

And now, I'm going to work on my queries. While I want to be of service to the internet community, I want to be of service to myself, so I can get a job and pay for full time maid service.

And if Rex thinks he's going to get some service Saturday night after being gone for 5 days he'd better bring me some room service Saturday morning.

Crafty Service

The good news? Nickelodeon is going to use my house.

The bad news? Not for shooting. They are using it to feed the extras in my backyard.

Once again, the house with the perfect red door on the corner was chosen for the actual shooting. I am torn between happiness at getting a little cash for doing nothing, and bitterness. Like a scorn woman, I am feeling defensive for my sweet abode. If it could talk, it would say "What about me? So I'm not in perfect shape. But I'm presentable, charming, and full of life. I'm tired of being overlooked!"

Only in L.A. could I even have this conversation with myself.

I lead a very bizarre existence.

And on that note, I shall sleep like the dead.

Getting the Bird

As we headed out for our morning dunk in the elephant pool I saw a small lump covered with ants. My immediate thought? Dog poop. But my dog is at my mom's. Upon closer inspection a baby bird was revealed. I quickly buried it in the dirt under the bbq, trying not make jokes about how some birds end up under the grill, some on it.

I suppose I use humor to diffuse the sad truth of how life sometimes works out. How many of us want to follow our passions but, like the baby bird, we're afraid our flying will land us on the ground with a resounding thud?

I encourage all of you to take a chance and leave the comfort of your nest. Sure, the outcome could turn out lousy, but the thrill of flight is worth it.

And speaking of being airborne, and death, my husband is flying out to Utah today. Before boarding, he got the call from the CIO that his first boss, Ed, died in his sleep. Rex had just spoken to Ed last night as they planned where they would meet for dinner tonight. Ed was a partier, a drinker, with an ex-wife in L.A., conquests in London, and a girlfriend in Costa Rica. He left behind boats, real estate and family. He was 40.

I don't know what to think sometimes. That's why, like the little bird, I close my eyes and jump. Or get pushed out there by family and friends.

Whatever works.

Happy Tuesday.

Weighing In - A Poem

Dieting for me is like earthquake erosions
Too little carbs and it's poo poo explosions
I don't mean to be sick, but I have to be honest
Too little calories make me want to vomit
There must be a balance for one and for all
Between Rosie O'Donnell and Kate Beckinsal
I want my kids raised by a woman who's healthy
Whose earnings are small but whose spirit is wealthy
So I aim to find peace with this body of mine
Because it's strong and it's healthy and I'm doing just fine
So screw all the starving - I'll work out (I'm a rookie)
And balance the sweating with some Animal Cookies

PS: Thank you to K, for being so cool
Even with those dumb photos near the elephant pool
And thanks to Kate Dana for still checking in
And making me laugh in my pursuit to be thin
The truth is we never worked side by side in a cube
We talked way too much and our boss made us move!
And finally to Sue, say what you will
But you live in a mansion next to the great Dr. Phil
You're the envy of all of us whacked L.A. mommies
So I'm coming over to swim - look out for tsunamis!!!!!!!!!!!

The Stretch Factor

I am back with many new and exciting things to report. Well, they're new and exciting to me anyway.
* I did indeed hear from a major publication who is interested in my query. Of course, when I was single, I was interested in having an affair with Liam Neeson and it didn't happen. Let's pray my writing has a better outcome.
* I finished painting the bathroom today. One might describe it as the color of M& M chocolate. Or crap. Depends on their mood.
* I have hit my goal of doing one nice thing/week for myself. Granted, this week was the first week I started, but let's go with it, shall we? Today's pleasure: eyebrow wax. And I can't really call it pleasure. My lid hair was akin to going at an overgrown shurb with a pick saw. Ow. And let's just say the elation was overshadowed by Ming Lee asking me "Ooooh, you want mustache plucked, too?" I did not know I had lip hair going on. With all my introspective writing, one would think I'd be aware of fuzz between my mouth and my nostrils, but maybe it's like a child who hits, curses and screams but you're so in love with him you don't notice and insist he be given the part of the lead angel in the Xmas play, even if he insists on shoving a candy cane up the plaster lamb's ass. At least I can stop obsessing over my belly weight and move onto something new. (Thank you very much, K, for the worst 4th of July pictures in the history of time. I look like a beached firecracker.)

Side note: If I am talking about my weight a bit more in these posts, let me clarify that I by no means have any desire to be an L.A. lollypop - huge head, all stick. It's more that, like my lip hair, I've been living in a bit of denial about where the last ten pounds have settled. But thanks to my sister-in-law's camera skills, it's clear that, despite my penchant for thrifting, I don't like the extra junk in my trunk. I don't care if when I stand I look fabulous. I want to be able to sprawl out in a drunken housewife vegetation and still look lean and chic. So, good bye carbs after 2PM. Hello 50 situps/day and walking. But I'm keeping the animal cookies on Saturday. Until next month anyway when K takes photos of me sprawled in my hammock at some random family bbq and I have to track her down and kill her, throwing her remains in a Mother's Animal Cookie bag. And believe me, this girl is small. They would fit.

* I made an appointment to get my hair done. I'm thinking stripes of some sort. I'm aiming for sexy and fun. With my luck, it'll turn out Valley Girl zebra.

* I am writing one hour/day.

* I am Ebaying 3 items / day.

* Rex was gone last week and he's leaving again next week, but we're managing to have some fun.

* I am exhausted beyond belief and a bit down the past few days. But, being the neurotic woman I am, I took an online depression screening and, as it turns out, I am not clinically down. Instead, I am merely a hyper over-achiever.

Um.... Duh.

So now... I'm off to check my lip hair in my new shit colored bathroom, followed by 50 sit-ups and dreams of being alone all week without my husband.

Aren't you glad I'm back?

PS: In my neurotic state, I freaked out over maybe getting a major writing gig and then having writers' block. Clearly I don't need to worry. In fact, I think a little blockage might do everyone some good, but alas, the pipes are open with the floodgate of my freakishness.

PSS: Picture of my last ten pounds at pool, courtesy of K, and me running at park, courtesy of Rex. I show them not to be a complete narcissist, but to show how one might be fooled with how good one thinks they look. The stretch factor is to blame. And I'm mad at the evil, evil deception. Die, stretch factor. DIE!!!

Rescue Hero

A friend came to the rescue today by generously giving up a joint playdate with her child in favor of watching my two rugrats while I take an hour to myself.

I then, in turn, was a rescue hero of sorts myself as I joyfully sorted through fabulous bargains at the Sherman Oaks Goodwill, giving new life to fifty dollars worth of brand name kid clothes to flip and sell. I even picked up a beautiful pair of Gap corduroys for my 3T terror (On that note, he should be sleeping. But is he? Oh, no. No one ever mentioned that the "pitter patter of little feet" is not so cute when they should be resting but the floors above your head are reverberating with thrown sippy cups and dropped trains.)

I am a bit ashamed of myself that instead of rescuing my career with more queries I am spending my time on onesie twosie Ebay items. What do I think I'm going to accomplish (other than a few hundred bucks/month and some fun going through the racks... I really do LOVE it.) My time would be so better served cutting out Ebay and focusing on getting those queries done, because that's tons more cash to then be able to shop or build a better biz for myself.

I am s0metimes no better than my 3 year old: going from thing to thing with sticky fingers and the attention span of a gnat. It's time to focus.

So, on that note, I am taking a blog holiday. I will be writing in one week to let you know of all my fabulous accomplishments writing wise, which will one day get me a fabulous freelance business, which will make me a happier mom with more financial freedom which will give me happier kids (Not that they're not happy. They might not have the latest gadgets on the planet, but they're pretty content little kids.)

Perhaps my lack of posts will inspire some of you readers out there to stop futzing around on the computer and attack your own "to-do" lists.

Of course, if you decide to cheat, go ahead and check me mid-week. I intend to be brave, but like my penchant for Diet Coke, I am a bit of a wimp and will most likely succomb to the blogging machine. Especially if something earth shattering happens, like I get a surprise vacation, some publisher writes me back, or I win a lifetime supply of Pink and White Animal Cookies.

* Pictured: Queen Sophie. I'd call her a princess, but she's such the ultra diva, and so bossy, I don't dare to de-rank her. Yet, despite her assertive disposition, what makes this girl so irresistable is that she's also a major cuddle bug (With her parents. With other people, she won't even look at you. Unless you're wearing sparkly shoes. Then she'll take them off your feet with a reminder "Those are miiiine!") Just last night, as she fell asleep in my arms, I reminded her "Baby, you are the sweetest, smartest kid in the world. I love you so much." I then kissed her. She then looked at me through sleepy eyes, put down her bottle, and remarked, "I love you, too, Mommy....Don't touch me." Like I said, All Hail the Queen.

I Have Gas

I get it at Arco.

In fact, I think everyone should befriend an Israeli gas station owner at an Arco near you. If you have children, he'll stuff their pockets with free chocolate and hold them near the register while you fill up on sixty four ounce Diet Cokes which he'll then give to you for free. If you're single, he'll curse in Hebrew at any thugs that check out your ass near the Beef Jerky cases. If you're old, he'll help you to the car and tell you stories about his 3 sons and marriage to his wife - she was a 15 year old bride via good old fashioned match making, no less! (And if you're nosy and desperate for interaction, like me, you're privy to all three scenarios.)

Most of all, good old fashioned Israeli Arco managers make you feel like a person when it's 101 in the Valley and you think you're nothing but a mother with no make-up and post-pardum softness that you just can't get rid of (despite walking to Arco). But the Arco manager will smile and remark,"Ooooh, you lost weight?" And when you say "Yes" (thrilled for the compliment) they will add, with 3 clicks of the tongue,"... Too much lost. Not good. Not good at all."

Even if you think this person is delusional, you'll love him for having an opinion other than "Mommmmmmmy... this chocolate is melting!.... Mommmmmy... I want a sip of your soda!" ... "Mooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmy... Pip is touching my spooooooooooooooooon!"

Speaking of loving Arco, I also love Kate. Thank you, sweet Kate, for the retro post card and vintage Arco patch! If I were a true fifties housewife, I'd not only know how to sew it onto a jean shirt, but I'd actually never stop to talk to a 50 year old Jewish dude who chuckles at my kids and wishes me Happy Pesach.

Thank God I'm me, thank God my husband is my husband who laughs at my Arco stories, thank God you're a wacky blond living in San Fran and remembering Valley housewives like me, and to all of you out there reading, thank God you're you! Now, as Albert would say, "Shalom!"

Supernatural

It's amazing what two hours of sleep can do for a gal. Especially when it's the cranky toddler that sleeps and you just get time to yourself.

I've calmed down.

Stink has calmed down.

On his way down the stairs just now, he informed me with a smile, "Mom, you're a supernatural."

I might be drinking Diet Coke. I might be feeding my kids push-ups, dangling carrots in front of them in the form of a 99 Cent store run for "one toy each"... I may be hitting the Play button on the VCR one too many times and knocking the AC one notch lower. I might be a complete unshaven crank with that last ten pounds of baby jiggle daring anyone who sees me in a bathing suit on my front lawn with the elephant pool to stare at my extra belly roll or zoftig legs. I might be a complete zombie who is in desperate need of an 11 hour time-out in a Ritz Carlton bed with the shades drawn.

But my kid thinks I'm a natural.

At the end of the day? That's pretty super.

Larger Familes Suck

I don't care what people say about having more than 2 kids. Unless you are mentally insane or just plain stupid, you're out of your mind. If you're not out of your mind, you'll be there soon.

My experience with 4 kids has resulted in me about to kill my 3 year old. Call it what you will: jealousy, territory anxiety, or perhaps the psychological term "pissing contest", my normally mellow, easy going three year old has turned into the child from hell. Or more accurate, he's turning his normally mellow mother into the mom from hell. A few examples that happened in the course of 24 hours. (All had consesquences in the form of time-outs, early bed times or the good ol' fashion "Let mommy hold you on her lap against your will for five minutes until you calm your butt down".)

* He put the stick in the back door, causing Pip and my two wards to burn up in the L.A. heat
* When I said "put the towel on the fence" he threw the towel and walked away
* When I said "sit down at the table for macaroni" he'd advise me that he was "going to the couch to eat hot dogs and watch Scooby"
* When I said he could have a glass of juice, he took Pip's bottle and threw it across the lawn
* When I said "here, play with some bubbles!" he quickly dumped them out on the side walk
* When I said "go to sleep" he promptly arose from his bed, kicked the door and woke his sleeping sister
* When I said "go inside" he went in the house and turned the lock

Maddening is beyond my feeling right now. When the time outs don't work, and you're not about to smack your kid, but Lord knows you want to, what is a mom to do? If I feel this way and I have a supportive husband, financially and emotionally, how is a single mom on welfare supposed to take the higher road?

I encourage everyone out there, struggling with discipline issues, to give consistent consequences, but give yourself a break, too, before you do something you'll regret. And yes, I'm speaking to myself this very moment.

My two neighbor kids and Pipsqueak are now watching Cinderella. I am sure they won't mind me screaming at the screen "Good luck you fake blond, you! Enjoy the prince now, because once you start cleaning the castle and watching Scooby Doo thirty times in a row you'll start to have new appreciation for that sinister step-mom, the bitch."

Four Play

As in 4 kids. As in I am watching 4 kids this week (two of my own, two neighbor kids). Yes, I am officially that mom. Hard as I try to nail those magazine articles (just sent out my 4th query yesterday, thank you very much) I still reign as the SUV, overloaded beach bag slingin' cul de sac mama who's available for childcare while other moms go to work. Call me Alexander the Grape Juice Box carrier - conquering all parks in my quest for toddler satisfaction.

And I am not complaining. (Well, I am, but I'm trying not to, because I know I have it good. And this brother/sister duo? They're like the Power Rangers of good behavior. Either this is what I have to look forward to when my kids are 4 and 7, or their mom drugs them with Tylenol before she drops them off.) I know that one day I'll be back at a desk, or freelancing furiously like my bud, Toni, and then I'll be bitching about lack of time with my rugrats and having to turn down friends who need help. Life is just whacked that way.

Meanwhile, however, I'm making the most of summer. Lots of swimming, lots of playing in the sprinklers, using our arms as faux bats for toddler t-ball, hitting the library, walks, random museums... and let's not forget the excitement of ironing, laundry and floor sweeping. It never ceases to amaze me how kids love to help out in chores like this. Ask Stink to put his shoes away? Nothing doing. But "Can you press the dryer button?" and you'd think he won a truckload of Scooby snacks.

As for my daughter, well... she's helpful... but she might be taking after me in the domestic department. (See photos).

How Weird

Thanks to Teri at Velvet-Vox, I now know I am 70% weird. I wish I could be 100% surprised. Take the test yourselves if you want to..... You Are 70% Weird

You're so weird, you think you're *totally* normal. Right?But you wig out even the biggest of circus freaks!

How Weird Are You?

Gardening the Green

Today on our way to Walmart for pool rafts, I prepped Stink for the inevitable downfall that there probably wouldn't be any Scooby Doo life rings. I told him he could pick out another kind, but be aware that things cost money. And while we could have one kind of pool toy, the real expensive 100.00 cleans, spins and sings the margarena kind of preserver was out of the question. By the end of the conversation, I added the final nail to the coffin, "Money does not grow on trees."

He looked at me very somberly, so I asked him, "Do you understand?"

At which he replied. "Yes. Money does not grow on trees. It grows on floaties."

Fun in the Sun

...and cool in the pool. Cliche but true.

Summer was officially marked as we went to my sister's apartment complex pool on Friday and a college friend's pool on Saturday. (Pictures above.)

I forget that while things change (I'm no longer the kid splashing around my folk's pool) things stay the same: from the smell of the sunscreen, the determined shouts to "get out of the pool NOW", to chips and dip, sqeamishes over wet bathing suits ("well, you should have hung it outside yesterday like I asked you to") to cold beer ("one sip... ONE sip, Stink... that's a Papa beverage"), belly flops, warm towels on lounge chairs, and motherly warnings ("NO RUNNING NEAR THE WATER!")

While the kids nap and we await our final swim outing of the weekend (a local friend's bbq slash pool extravaganza) Rex is planting vines while I am scrubbing the downstairs bathroom walls to prep the new color. It's official: I am sick of not having a working bathroom. However, (because there's always a "however" when you have kids and home repair issues - translating into time issues) before the toilet can go in I need to finish painting, Rex needs to put in the baseboards and beadboards and, finally, we need new doors.

Not pictured (lucky for you) are the many cockroaches that scurried out the open toilet pipe this afternoon as I started the scrubbing. It went something like this:

Me: "Ahhhhh! Roach!"

Rex scurries in, covered in dirt, throwing his hoe and brandishing a fly swatter. Bam! Bam! "Die roach Die!"

Rex walks away to garden. I tentatively move a box of painting supplies to scrub and another roach brazonly slithers over the roll brush.

Me: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Rex, running in again, towel swatting the walls like a cowboy rodeo clown. "Just smash it, you wuss!"

Me: "Hey! I resemble that remark! You smash it! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Rex: Bam! "You gave birth to..." Bam! "Two kids. How..." Bam! "Fxxxxin' A - God-daxxxx those suckers are crafty... How hard can it be to kill a bug?"

But I was barely listening. I was in a fetal position in the kitchen, sipping coffee, praying for an Oprah special on Roaches in the Suburbs - How to Face Your Fears.

Painting and childbirth are my forte'. Cock roach assasination is not.

In a final note, a prayer to Jesus: "Dear Jesus. I know I'm a waffling Catholic. I know I don't attend church as much as I should, even though I am a Sunday School Teacher, which makes me not only a waffling Catholic, but a hypocrite. But please, send the locus and floods and blood to Moses. Keep the roaches away from me. I want, like my inner-life, a clean house. Thank you... Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! Bam! Bam! Jesus Christ!"

Amen.

Doing 2 Push-ups

Yesterday, as I sat in the hot sun under our "gazebo" (our 199.00 K-mart overhang) I was happily flipping through the Pottery Barn catalog (where, lo and behold, the same "gazebo" cost 499.00). My kids sat in their swim clothes, contently slurping on Scooby Doo push-ups. Stink touched the beach towel page with a sticky finger and inquired, "Mommy, you love us a lot, huh?" At which I set the magazine down and answered, "Stink, I love you so much, my heart could break." At which point he put down his push-up and said "Don't worry, Mommy... I won't let your heart get broken."

Luckily I had my sunglasses on so he couldn't realize that it was far too late for that.

Dradle Dradle Dradle

Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to lead the life I do. To have this wonderful husband and children. To have my health. To have a house. I get so wrapped up in "This one said that" or "Rex did this" or "I forgot to do that..." and I start to spin more than a little dradle at Hannuka. (I might be a waffling Christian, but I know my Hebrew references, too. Stay tuned for a nod to the Persians.)

My generation of moms are an interesting cross of people. We're educated enough to want the best for ourselves , but naive enough to think we're always gonna get it. Which leads to us crying that Prince Charming didn't ask us about our day watching the changing of the guard (and changing of the diapers) twenty three times. And does he even care that his horse took a dump on the palace driveway... guess who gets to clean it while the Prince looks for his remote control?) And the funny thing is, most of us are most upset not over what the reality is, but the fact that our lives don't live up to the fantasy. Which is dumb, because fantasies don't exist. We know that because, bringing us back to my original point, we're educated.

Hence the spinning.

I'm dizzy. And some horse is trying to hump my SUV. Talk about horse power.

The Librarian Mouse

If today were a fruit, it would be a tangelo: some funky cross between two kinds of goodness. What began with a suprise jaunt to Chuck E. Cheese ended with Stink sitting next to Grandma Harriet (an elderly donor) at our local library, listening in rapt attention to two Curious George adventures. Of course, the little Pipsqueak monkey was too busy running around emptying shelves to listen to any story, but it was satisfying none the less. Mechanical mouses, elderly volunteers, a few sippy cups and some air conditioning... that's all you need to survive the Valley in summertime. Or motherhood for that matter.

Papas & Beer

Such is the name of a frequently patronized Tiajuana bar for the under age crowd. I used to go when I was 19... when one beer would knock me on my ass. (Obviously not much has changed.) Papas and beer was also the theme of this afternoon's Father Day extravaganza.

Like a vulture wrenching its rabbit dinner out of its mouth, I reluctantly (one might say heroically) let go of a three day grudge I was harboring against Rex for various infractions (the minor being not putting his plate away after dinner, the major being forgetting to entertain me on a 24 hour basis and sending me a singing telegram from Josh Grodin with the hand written words, You are my favorite kind of nut, you wipe all my childrens' butts, I want you on the Oprah show, next to Nate Berkus all aglow....)

Rex is an amazing father, so along with his dad, mom, sister, sister's husband, Stink and Pip, we clinked sippy cups and margaritas, beer bottles and baby bottles, a few martini glasses (Oh yeah, Stella came, too) and fired up the ol' bbq.

It was summer.

It was breezy.

There were grass stained kids and a blow-up elephant pool.

There was country music blasting through strategically placed speakers on the back porch (My husband's doing, of course. We don't have curtains, but we have aqarium size speakers that could take out a small dog. Or an unsuspecting squirrel.) The music was loud enough that even if Josh Grodin did make a visit to my cul de sac, I wouldn't have been able to hear him over the classic... I got blamed at your wedding reception, for your best man's embarassing speech, and also for those naked pictures of you at the beach...

It was heaven - which, as a waffling Christian, I am more and more considering as a viable residence some day. I mean, if it is about location, location, location, I know where I'd want to be, and it looked like this evening.

In closing, an amazing discovery was made in my backyard. No, you won't hear on the news that an ancient bison skull was found in the San Fernando Valley, but it's close. As it turns out, the elephant pool has the capacity to be hooked onto a hose, causing an Old Faithful type spout to rise like a phoenix out of its plastic trunk - proving once again that cheap, not chic, is not only fun and fabulous, but ever the surprise.... kind of like Rex (who decided yesterday to attempt not to nag so much and instead give me daily compliments, such as (Cue robotic tape recording) "You are a very beautiful woman." It was so sweet to hear him tell me this in the moon light, next to the dirty dishes, him smelling of yard and garden work, but so hard not to laugh.)

Happy Father's Day, Papa.

A Toddler Ran Through It

My kids had a blast yesterday, so let me just say that Coldwater Canyon Park rocks. Literally. Lots of cool stones in this man-made river made my kids very happy campers. Of course, since this was Beverly Hills, the water was luke warm and running just ever so gently to give the illusion of rapids.

http://www.beverlyhills.org/presence/connect/CoBH/Homepage/Local+Government/Departments+and+Offices/Community+Services+-+Recreation+and+Parks/LG-RP-Coldwater_Canyon_Park

My ex-writing partner's wife joined me, with her two kids, and we spent the whole time talking business - such a treat. On her end, she created this amazing Mommy/Yoga DVD www.downdogproductions.com. It's like Baby Einstein meets Kathy Smith where the instructor on the screen shows moms how to exercize with their babies, but there's a little cut out at the bottom of the screen with pretty ocean life scenes for the kids to focus on and not get bored. She's already got a distributor and has it on Amazon. Even a famous movie star emailed her about how much she loved the DVD. (No, not Angela Jolie. Or Julia Roberts. A new mom-to-be.)

I am always inspired when I see other moms creating niches for themselves while taking care of the kids. And the beautiful landscape doesn't hurt either.

After Heidi left, I ended up talking to a Spanish nanny. She was surprised I spoke Espanol, but even more shocked that I wasn't the babysitter. (Lots of kids/caretaker combos at this particular place. No judgement, just saying.)

Bottom line, I was infused with a new spirit on life and purpose. Then later that night, Rex and I had a fight on our way to dinner which resulted in me being dropped off at a restuarant by myself.

I would have been happier with the fight had it taken place in front of a man-made creek. But such is life in the San Fernando Valley.

Hugs hugs, kiss kiss

No, I'm not talking about my meeting earliar today. I'm referring to the fact that I just put the rugrats down. Stink is snoring. Pip is pipping. As long as I'm typing, all is good.

But speaking of the meeting, it went well. Of course it took me an hour to get there, and then I went to the wrong building (leaving my mother on the curb with Stink screaming "Mommy, have fun at the haunted factory!") but I made it. The development person (who I will call Chatty - since that is what we did for the twenty minutes I was there) asked me to send him some of my material. So I will.

Chatty might also check into my blog - so if you're reading, thanks for a nice meeting. I really can contribute to your shows as long as I supress the urge to cut up other writer's food for them, comb their hair or ask them if they need to go pee-pee

In conclusion, my readership now includes housewives, grandmas, one single dad in Montana, a therapist, an agent and a Hollywood producer.

Hugs! Hugs! Kiss! Kiss!

Strange Times

Today I will attend my very first Hollywood meeting without my writing partner. It's kind of like going to a bar for the first time as a single woman: you know the culture, you understand the language, but everything feels a bit fuzzy (even before you've had the first drink).

Of course, what makes this particular "meet and greet" a bit different from those of my past is that while I schmooze about life at NBC, my kids will be waiting for me in the SUV - right downstairs. (Yes, thanks Grandma. You're not so over the hill that you can't drive over the hill with me.)

Even more odd, tomorrow I go to Beverly Hills again (a place I rarely travel to, especially with gas prices) to meet my ex-writing partner's wife and her kids for a play date. And who will be joining us? My agent and her child. No fancy gigs to discuss or contracts to sign - just a whole lot of diapers and sippy cups.

Like I said, strange times.

Food for Thought

Because I'm PMSing too badly to think about anything new, I am simply cutting and pasting an email that I sent to Rex. It's where I am at these days, and perhaps some of you are, too. Happy Monday.

Hi babe -

I might be at the post office/cleaners when you come home (My Ebay sales hit the roof at a show stopping 12.75! Whoo hoooo! Let's get the new kitchen now!)

Speaking of, I will be back by 6 the latest. We’re doing Taco Tuesday tonite since I’m having a Manic Monday. Hopefully this switch in schedule won’t send everyone rioting in the streets. And if you are going to riot, please make sure the kids look both ways first before crossing.

Here’s the menu for the rest of the week:

Tuesday: Pea soup
Wednesday: Enchildas
Thursday: Pasta
Friday: Meatloaf
Saturday: Who the fxx knows.
Sunday: Some kind of bbq for Father’s Day or food out.

I have made a decision that we are going to continue eating healthy, so that means preparing a bit in advance. Lest you think I have turned into Holly Homemaker, lets be clear that I will probably burn the soup, overcook the pasta, and if the pan gets black, it’ll sit for three days in the sink while you bitch that one more William Sonoma skillet has hit the dust. And if you have a meal request, write it on the to-do list on the fridge so I can ignore it.

God forbid you get excited about my culinary attempts, right?

Love you.

----------------------------------------------------------
PS: For you readers out there, if you loved me, you would send me a quick and easy recipe either via the comments or email. Texas Dottie, Texas Lizzie, Mrs. V., Toni, Velvet Vox, Knock knock... you all know who you are. And if I don't know you, let me learn to love you through your posts. (Or not.)

That Wild and Crazy Chicken

Being a mother, and a writer, is akin to running around like a chicken with your head cut off. You know you walked into one room to finish an outline, but your head is still in the other room thinking about if Stink's cough is an allergy, a random throat clearing, or birds' flu. (Birds' flu is no joking matter for a chicken, so I should restrain from such fowl jokes. Ha! I can't contain myself. Don't clip my wings! Should I go on? Okay, stopping.)

My point: Sundays are my day to slow down while Rooster Rex guards the henhouse. So, in my last half hour, I take a leisurely drive to the local El Pollo Loco. As I dream of my chicken legs and Lemonaide Lite, I reassure myself that even though Nickelodeon promised to come for a second look at the house, then bailed, there was a promising meeting at another production house for my tv writing. I reminded myself that although I miss the hustle and bustle of a movie set, I'm blessed for the time I have building train sets with Stinker. And though I long for coffee that doesn't always give me Yuban breath, I have the joy of delicious Pipsqueak's breath.

But despite how grateful I am, when I'm alone in the SUV, and the radio's blaring, and I get that ol' Mama P artist spirit that only comes from a few hours of silence and thrifting and blessed solitude, I feel a bit meloncholy for the ol' "Roll tape" of yore.

Then I snap out of it. Who needs those long hours! Who wants to write about tv familes when I have a family of my own! And, like Prince Charming on a white horse, El Pollo Loco comes in to save the day!

Then I pull into the stripmall to find the drive-thru blocked. The doors are closed and the parking lot is jammed with huge trucks. As I search around frantically for an open space, a kid in a headset approaches me. "Sorry, mam. We're closed for filming. Here's a buck off your next visit."

What could I do but smile back and reply, "Break a chicken leg."

Like my favorite chicken joint, life is loco.

Nash-itee Ville Horror

I love my husband. I really do. And I don't want to discourage him from thinking of me on business trips. But it sort of disturbs me that the tokens of his affection come from strip malls, airport giftstores, and involve tacky embroidered shirts or books about depression written by t.v. stars.
Perhaps I should change my blog to Passthediamonds. Then on his way home from El Paso he could buy me a bullshead bolo tie with cubic zirconias in place of the eyes.

* Pictured: My fabulous shirt. It says "Music City U.S.A." but is covered by macaroni smudge. Screw the diamonds. As they say in Nashville, Pass the Zoloft, ya'll.

Pound Foolish

Seeing that Rex was gone and I might need some more action, Pip decided to hurl herself off a couch onto a coffee table last night. One renegade trip to the hospital with her on my lap shotgun, followed by 4 hours in ER, left us in stitches - and not the laughing kind.

Pip was so wild with the nurses, they had to put her on a board and bind her limbs to apply the surgical glue and gauze. In fact, she sweated so much the final bandaid kept falling off. "She's a fighter," Nurse Alberta muttered while readjusting the stethoscope Pip had grabbed pre-tie up. "Ah... Duh," was about all I could muster. Pip was howling so loud I could have said, "No shit, fat ass" and no one would have been the wiser.

They couldn't even weigh her without me standing on the scale solo, then putting her on it with me.

Which leads me to the highlite of the evening: I weigh only 181 pounds, not 189. I can't wait until next month when Stink breaks an arm climbing the VCR cabinet to kiss Scooby. Maybe by then I'll hit my goal weight of 175.

They say beauty is painful, I just never thought I'd learn this through my children.

* Pictured: Sophie post stitches

The Early Bird Gets the Worm

In my case, this means sitting down at the computer and working on my queries while the kids watch their morning tv. I am finding that getting a jump start kicks off the guilt that usually settles on me mid-day and motivates me to put in some extra time. Like a first draft of a scene, something on paper is better than nothing and a great starting point for rewrites.

That said, Mrs. V. popped by today with JJ and Baby V. She also brought her Super Nanny with her, allowing us to sit and chat relatively uninterrupted. I do believe this is good karma finding its way to my door after giving my time with Cecelia yesterday. I decided to be equally good to my body and eat a healthy Chinese Chicken salad, no bread, decaf coffee.

Then I ran an errand and bought a Carls Jr. #1 Value Meal, came home and brewed myself a nice cup of regular joe.

This could be why I'm typing 1000 words per minute and my stomach feels more bloated than William Shatner.

It's like a reverse childbirth: The "it was worth it" comes first, the pain comes second. Who cares. I just revised a great query. I'm going to make a fortune writing magazines. I'll get a personal trainer (preferably named Carl, Jr.) and go from 189 to 188.5 pounds. (I'm realistic, anyway.)

And now, it's time to pass out in a food coma. (I mean, in a "Yeah, I did it!" coma.)

The Checklist

Laundry? Check.
Cook dinner? Check.
Change the diapers? Check.
Do a food run? Check.
Do the dishes? Check.
Sterilize the bottles? Check.
Feed the munchkin? Check.
Change the bedding? Check.
Put rugrat to sleep? Check.

Do this for my kids? Ah... no.

I spent today doing this for Cecelia. And I write it not to get validated for being a good friend, but to kick all of you out there to do the same. Being a new mom is rough. I know this is true, because not only have I been through it twice, but the normally modest Cecelia was walking around all day in her underware with a right engorged nipple screaming, "Get me an ice pack! Make me a sandwich! Why is this hungry child now passed out on my boobie?" I got to witness this completely together Masters' Degreed professional beseech me with, "Okay... the baby is in her carrier. She's just looking around. Now what do I do?"

Another friend of mine, a PhD psychologist, recently told me, "Everything has always been so easy for me. Then I became a mother. And it kicked. My. Ass."

Of course, to watch Finn, my mom babysat Pipqueak this morning. And then Cecelia paid my babysitter to watch Pip N Stink for an additional five hours in the afternoon. It kind of reminded me of "Hands Across America" (remember that, people, or am I dating myself?) Except instead of holding hands, all these women were in this big, swollen nipple, sleep deprived back scratch circle. While we rubbed each others' shoulders on the outer ring, the kids stayed on the inner ring, learning to share, practicing their ABC's, and lodging Cheerios in each others' nostrils.

I'm now off to get my back scratched by Rex.

Oh, wait, I can't. He's gone. AGAIN. This time to Nashville.

Ironically, the Country Music Awards are happening this weekend. If he ends up going, I will be the most bitter mother in the history of the universe. But if he comes home in a pair of stetsons and cowboy hat (making him officially 6 foot 8) I will laugh my ass off. And promptly forgive him.

Now for THAT you can validate me.

PS: I wish laughing my ass off could actually make my buttocks smaller. As I recently told Mrs. V., I'd do anything to get in better shape. Except diet and exercise.

Rabid Poodle Attacks the Elderly

Did that grab your attention? It's one of the many things I am learning in my new query book about how to add racy titles to magazine proposals. Since I've heard nothing re: my holiday article (which you need to send 6 months in advance - that I know), I can only assume that my title Fa-la-la-Laugh is too boring. Here are some titles I can try next year to grab some attention:

* Red Ornaments/Blue Balls
* Mrs. Clause & The Clap
* Santa's Big Feet: Don't Be Misled
* Rudolph Gets Spade: A North Pole Vet Exclusive
* Fifty Ways to Dump that Elf
* All I Want for Xmas is a Magazine Gig

Aren't you feeling the spirit?

Shave & A Haircut...

...Sixty bucks.

That's how much it costs to groom a dog. Of course, this includes a shampoo and a nail trim, so I shouldn't complain. But until I get a new hairdo and a pedicure, I'm gonna be resentful.

On a lighter note, I visited the three-day old Finn today. Since Cecelia is about the most private person on the planet, here is a picture of Pipsqueak at Finn's exact age: dark hair, teeny eyes, olive skin, rosebud mouth. Horses and newborns - they all look the same to me. But let me add: the baby is stunning and healthy and I couldn't be happier for the lucky parents. Every time I hold a newborn my ovaries do twisty flips and I have this urge to eat them. I wonder how many points Weight Watchers would give for a 7 pound infant? Just one little bite? I don't deny I have a problem. But so does my online mama blogger buddy, Toni, who refers to her friend's new baby as "Snack."

Some not so great notes:

I am so behind in queries, that if my writing were my period, I'd be about seven months prego. Perhaps if I went after my samples with the same reckless abandon as the pink and white animal cookies I just ate I'd be a freelancing writer now. (Sidenote: half a bag of Mother's Circus animals is equivalent to 500 calories. But if it saves me from rushing back to the hospital and consuming Cecelia's infant, it's for the best.)

My Ebay has hit an all time slump. I'm trying to make the best of my $1.99 sale last week, but you know what? It sucks.

In conclusion, Cousin H and M are coming by for a few hours tonight to play with Pip & Stink. Yes, Rex and I have become those people: the ones who stay home on Saturday nights while the kids make forts out of our couch pillows and dig for worms in our patio.

Oh, and in an effort to teach my daughter colors, I am putting food dye in her milk bottles. I hope she doesn't have a C-section one day only to have her doctor scream, "Good Lord, woman, your uterus is magenta!" This, of course, would followed by Pip's, "That's nothing. My breast milk is periwinkle."

Here's a shot of our Scooby Doo bluuuuuuuuu milk, courtesy of Stink. I may, or may not, have told him that the little plastic food dye bottle we used was really a vile of vampire blood that Mommy snatched from the haunted castle while he was taking his nap. "Mommy is very brave," I relayed to him. At which he responded, "And she made a biiiiig fart, too, which scared the vampire away."

Good day. As much as I'd like to type, I have queries to write, Ebay photos to take, and yogurt to dye rustic red.

The War and Arak

I found some sad irony in the fact that while much of the world is at war, I enjoyed a beautiful awards dinner with Rex this evening. As we basked in calm of a Valley sundown and waited for the hall doors to be open, we talked to a fellow Sunday school teacher about the commonalities between her Lebonese culture and Rex's Italian one. And yes, you guessed it, alcohol came up. While Rex's family brings in Xmas eve with more after dinner drinks than Bush has excuses, Edwina's family celebrates with a drink called Arak (pronouced A-Raq.) It's a combo of water, ice, and anise flavored alcohol that is sweet and deadly all at once - much like my addiction to Diet Coke.

The conversation soon led to cartoons, public vs. private education, religion and the ever comfortable subject of weather. No one touched politics. I for a reason was relieved. Maybe it's because I'm just now becoming more cognizant of world politics - like a virgin, I need some experience before I can maneuver around comfortably. Maybe I enjoyed the small talk because I really am a vapid woman who won't do anything more with her life than raise kids, sell forty bucks/month on Ebay and watch Desperate Housewives. Perhaps I reveled in it because I didn't have to worry about Rex (not much of a talker) struggling to keep up a friendly banter with people he just met.

But the closest reasoning I can think of for my relief at chit chat was that the world itself is becoming so damn scary that it was a welcome relief to the daily thoughts of "Why are Americans shooting at pregant Iraqi civilians?"... "What if my kids ever walk into a busy street?"... "What will happen once my childhood home is sold?"... "What if I never get a real job again?" "What if something happened to Rex?"

Thinking about this stuff can get anyone nuts. It's so much easier to laugh and tell jokes about farts. Or drink beer. Which often makes you fart. A win win for everyone (especially those with colds who have the benefit of plugged noses.)

Yes, yes, gas passing is very juvenile. Perhaps I enjoy it so much because I am so vapid. But it's probably because the world is so intimidating and I enjoy the laughter induced by something so silly. But we already went through this, didn't we?

On a final and positive note, after grueling labor and an emergency C-section, Cecelia had a beautiful baby girl! I will refer to this child here on out as "Finn" - because she's finn-ally here. And after Cecelia's graphic birthing details, she may indeed be finn-ished.

Everyone, let's pour ourselves a glass of Arak and toast this new life! And let's toast our soldiers in Iraq who are guarding ours. And finally, if you know a great fart joke, I'd love to hear it. Pun intended.

* Pictured: Bottles of Arak. Rex already has plans to buy some next week. I'll keep you posted on the taste.

The Heat Is On

It's turning into an L.A. blazing summer. Time to drag out the elephant pool (a blow up wading pool courtesy of Rex's parents). Time to re-organize the dresser drawers: shorts and tanks in front / jeans and long shirts in back. As far as sweaters go... what the heck are those?

I suppose Cecelia's baby decided it was time to play in the sunshine, because as I type this my good friend is laboring at a local hospital. At least I think she is. She spent one night there a few days ago with contractions very small, and rather than opting for a water breakage she took off to try and speed up the process in the comfort of her own home. However, word on the street is that she opted today to be induced, so I'm wishing her lots of luck.

I'm hoping she's relaxing with an epidural. Like my elephant pool, it's something I couldn't do without. In fact, if I ever have a third, I'm going to have a Mama P style water birth consisting of pain numbing meds and my wading pool. Rex could bbq, my mom could bring me coffee and Pip and Stink could spend their time between watching Scooby Doo and taking a quick dip.

It's all about the multi-tasking in birth and summer.

My Future's So Bright...

... I gotta wear shades.

My kids constantly remind me that coolness is perception. It's not about whether things are perfect (my fingerprinted fridge.) It's not about status symbol shoes (gotta love the dirty socks.) Hell, it's definitely not about designer jeans (though personally I think Stink rocks his off-to-the-side Osh Kosh cargos - it's a new toddler trend called the Wedgie Twist.)

Every day these goofballs remind me to stop and have some fun.

And these pictures remind me to stop and clean - hence the short post.

The Game of Life

Rex is playing computers games with the boys tonite. Yes, it really is as sexy as it sounds. In more lurid detail (this is your chance to be saved from the nerd virus that might attack your computer from this post) he and three guys are meeting in someone's office, hooking up their servers and getting high on Coca Cola and nachos, all the while screaming, "You bastard! You killed my wonder!"

It never ceases to amaze me that this man, who is not much of a talker, has made his living networking (c0mputers, that is.) Small talk? Not my husband. But ask him about his GTO and you'll get way more than an ABC answer. Someone have a baby? He'll ask about the delivery, but not the kind that involves labor. He's more concerned in how the child was delivered home. (In my case, after birthing Stink, I drove us home in a 1994 Saturn coupe, stopping first at the Canoga Park McDonalds for a Fish Filet and Diet Coke - a highly recommended treat to anyone who's just pushed an 8 pounder out their hoo hoo.)

What makes Rex such a character is just when I think he has the mind of a computer, he sends me flowers on a whim (Okay, not that often. But it's been known to happen.) This is someone who, at 6'3, still gets down on his hands and knees and plays "drop the baby" or "push over Papa" or tells me how much he loves me for all my wackiness. The other night, as we were drifting to sleep, he whispered, "Can you believe how far we've come in just seven years?" Then he added "... And just look at all the cars on the road. Isn't all this techonological advancement amazing?"

The last part kind of killed the mood, but it did help put me to sleep.

In concluding this rather goopy post, let me be the first to state that there are weeks when I'm ready to kill Rex, and him me. (If I didn't admit this, Stella would, or anybody that knows me. Facade and me don't exactly go hand in hand.) But then I have weekends like this past one, full of family and friends and walks, and I'm once again reminded how lucky I am. To quote K, "Life is not an episode of Friends." Life is last minute trips to Kaiser, vowing to lose that last five pounds then downing an entire bag of pink and white Mother's Circus Animal Cookies, over-spending the house budget then bitching about lack of Ebay sales, looking forward to a trout dinner than realizing you instead bought tripe, over sleeping, over caffeining, canceling bbqs, putting them on again last minute, watching Scooby Doo twelve million times, vowing to walk, sitting on your duff, and yes, putting the kids to bed yourself so your husband can geek out over Age of Empires.

We all have a turn at the Game of Life. Sure, most of us hope we'll spin that dial and end up self-made millionaires. But the truth is, at the end of the game, many of us end up with small homes (that look just like our neighbors) and regular cars. And after popping out all those kids, how realistic is it that we'll keep those stick figures forever? I won't anyway. Not with my penchant for Candy Land. I'm thinking I can deal with this Game of Life as long as I still have Trival Pursuits.

* Pictured: Rex this morning with Pipsqueak. Just another example of a man who won't let you touch his toothpaste. You take one piece of his perfectly stacked gum from his car dashboard and you'll hear about it for weeks. Last minute trips to Costco for a hotdog. Are you insane????? But a little girl comes up to him begging for his breakfast? It's all over.

The Longs Road Home

Today I took a two mile hike to Longs Drug Store with my sister, L. I felt so economical and camper-like as I bought only what I could stuff in two plastic bags for the walk home: Macaroni, coffee, roll-on, hairspray and detangler.

To be truthful, until I met Rex, my outdoors adventures consisted mostly of walking from the parking lot to a hotel room. From my few hikes with my husband, however, I retained a few bits of key knowledge. 1. Don't pee over a cactus. 2. Wave at fellow passerbyers. I always found that one odd. They could be buck naked eating granola and carrying a chimp, but you'd still shine that good ol' pal smile and nod a, "how's it going, man?" (Of course, inside you're like "I'll tell you how it's going... it's time you get some pants on, monkey boy.")

My point: we walked past an older lady and said, yes, you guessed it, "how's it going?" at which she gave us a half-hour of details, including an offer to come in for coffee. We declined, but hung around a while anyway outfront near her geraniums.

I suppose I should have been irritated, but there's something in me that could have stood in that hot sun, groceries in hand, and chatted with her for three more hours about her life in Canada, her trek to Houston, her years as a widow in Westlake, and how she raised a boy who grew up to be a neurosurgeon. As it turns out, she even worked in her son's office for a while as a secretary. I threw in, "Oh, so if someone asked you about how tough your job was, did you answer 'It isn't brain surgery'... Oh, wait, it actually is..." At which my sister burst out laughing but Sarah didn't crack a smile. Having a doctor in the family is apparently serious business. I used to joke that we had an M.D. in the family, too. But my father being Manic Depressive wasn't the kind of PhD you bragged to the neighbors about. Although if anyone talked about it, it was my dad himself, with his cheery, off handed way.

In fact, if Melvin had met Sarah, I'm sure he would have taken her up on the offer to enter the house, found out the name of her Temple, told some rabbi joke and planned an Elder Hostile trip with her community center group.

Later today I went grocery shopping at Costco, first stopping at the crowded snack stand ($1.50 for a hotdog and soda... how can you beat it? Now I'm not saying I did, but I'm not saying I didn't have a Diet Coke.) I shared a table with an older man who I apparently made nervous, because although he said I could sit there, he was holding onto his cane for dear life and making furtive glances to the diaper aisle.

Tonite we had people over for hamburgers while my kids ran around like fools, reminding me of those long summer nights of staying too late in the pool and curling up in a warm towel on my mom's lap while she talked to Esther and David.

Maybe this is why I stop and talk to the Sarah's of the world. Why I force my way into old people's tables at busy warehouse food chains. Why I love bbqs and get togethers and traditions. For all the madness in the world, there's value in connection. It's the warm towel on a cool night that assures us that it's okay to sit still, and feel someone else's heart, and listen to someone else's dreams.

Good night, and in the name of memories, Happy Memorial Day everyone.

I Got Plenty of Nothing

And nothing's plenty for me... Well, not really, but it has to be.

Here's the skinny on the many irons in the fire ("iron" being "ironic" as I hardly ever iron my clothes. In fact, when I think "iron", I think "ic".)

My point? Ah... waiting to hear from:

* Nickelodeon re: using our house for some kids' tv show. We're in the running, so fingers crossed

* A few magazines I have queried. They are big nationals, so my chances are low. I need to move onto some shelter magazines, apparently. Whatever those are. More time and research to come.

* Ebay... what the hell! I have had so few bids the past two weeks. And I'm so disappointed. My Tinkerbell bags sold so well, but now I can't find them wholesale for a decent price or I'd sell those.

* Any scripts out there... is anyone reading me, Susan? Why has Desperate Housewives not responded to my Desperate Housewives from this desperate housewife. Do they not see the perfect union they are missing?

Here's my philosophy on it all (and this will probably change tomorrow.) But for anything to get done, I must do it myself. I must get this damn blog on a search site so that people can find me other than you fine folk (thanks for reading, by the way. And great suggestion, Cecelia.) I need to get my own product on Ebay that isn't reliant on some 98cent store in Chatsworth to supply me. Some boutique product of some sort. Perhaps some painted Elmo overalls or Scooby Doo patched jeans. (Of course I can't sew or paint, but what the hell.) And I need to write a new movie of some sort and then really push it. (Of course, time is needed in all this equation, and I am a mama first and foremost.)

So perhaps I need patience.

Any of you out there going through that? I say we plug away and do the best we can but keep going. Yes?

Life could be so much worse. I look at the news and see the genocide happening around the world. The poverty. The loneliness. And I sit here and type that I don't have enough feedback? I should be so lucky.

Don't have much more to say except it's Saturday Night. Rex and I are going to pay bills and watch Modern Marvels, The History of the Cheeseball. (Okay, can I complain about that?)

Shutting up now.

The Bounty Hunter

Thanks to my mom, I have a new favorite show, The Bounty Hunter. It's on A&E and stars Dog, his wife, Beth, and an eclectic posse of family and sidekicks. If Dog himself doesn't bring down the bad guy, his wife's huge kahunga's will. If you haven't already done so, check them out. (Not her kahunga's... the show.)
http://www.aetv.com/dog_the_bounty_hunter/index.jsp

I had a showdown of my own today with the downstairs tv room. No stain, fuzz ball or random Cheerio was safe. Of course, I hunted with Bounty paper towels, but you get the point.

On other notes, poor Pipsqueak has this terrible hick-up cough dealy doo that I took her to Kaiser for. Not exactly how I wanted to begin my Friday night, but she just didn't sound right. Thank God she's okay, but miserable. Even an hour on papa didn't calm her down, so we finally stuck her in bed with a bottle. Hopefully her teeth won't rot and she'll wake up more rested.

On my way home from urgent care I got a panicked call from Cecelia's husband..."She's not answering the phone! Can you go over there? You have permission to kick in the door if she doesn't answer!"

Cue action music as I blaze over there quicker than I can down two dozen Twin Dragon cookies. There was her car in the driveway - all house lights blaring. Sweet relief turned to dread when, after ringing the bell, I got no answer. I had the urge to take Slim up on his offer and kick in the entry way. After all, that's what we bounty hunters do, right? We pound, scream, and when there's no answer, ka-baaaaam!

Then I realized my glove compartment stored a key.

After a quick scan of the joint, I let myself in, and what did I find? Blood? Glass shattered? Cryptic foot prints?

Just a nine month pregnant woman taking a shower. (Well, heard her, not saw her. And she sounded pretty annoyed. Rightly so. I scared the living placenta outta her.) I took off and headed home for my night time ritual.

While sticking Stink in bed, we started talking about living things. I informed him that we are all human beings, at which he chimed in, "I'm not a human being. I'm a human nut."

And so is Dog and Beth. And so am I. And if any of you out there are human nuts, I applaud you.

Though the Human Nut Award of the day goes to Cecelia who, despite being ready to drop her own human nut any second, still managed to come by with flowers for me this evening. Very unnecessary but so appreciated! I shined up my old tarnished tea pot and there they sit. Right next to the wedding picture of Dog and Beth.

Travel-Saurous-Rex

This dinosaur has long legs, is equpped with a cell phone, blackberry, laptop and a GPS system. He made a brief appearance at the home of Mama-P-A-Cranky but then took off for another last minute meeting. After a long business trip he is probably hoping to visit the Land of the Lucky tonite, but he'll most likely find his mate's desires extinct.

The downside of being married to a T-Rex is that he's often out roaming for a living. The upside is I have a comfortable cave to raise our brood and send out my queries (which I did tonite while Pip-A-Lot-A-Squeaks and Stink-A-Scooby-Doo went to bed early). Let's just hope some magazine responds before the next Ice Age. Otherwise it's nothing but B.C. themed blogs from here on out.

Don't think I won't do it. It worked for the Flintstones.

Slumber Potty

Stink had his first sleepover tonite: Translation: No "sleep", I'm "over" it.

It's safe to put me down as verifiably insane to let him have his cousin crash in his room (for the first time) while Rex is out of town.

To be fair to my adorable niece (seen above), she was a perfect angel. The oddest thing happened, too: she actually did what I asked her to. It was amazing. Let's go over the difference between a 3 year old boy and 4 year old female, shall we?

Example #1

Me: Stinker, brush your teeth.
Stink: But I have to go pee pee.
Me: Then go pee pee.
Stink: But I have to put on my pants.
Me: Put them on after you go pee pee.
Stink: But I have to brush my teeth.

Versus

Me: H, brush your teeth.
H: I already did. I'm in bed reading my book quietly. (And so she was)

Example #2

Me: Stink, it's time to go to sleep.
Stink: Just one more story.
Me: Go to sleep.
Stink: But I'm thirsty.
Me: Fine, here's your drink.
Stink: (shriiiiiekkk) I spilled it.
Me: Try sitting up next time. (Arrrrrrggggg. Drawer open. Drawer close. Shirt toss to Stink in the dark.) Here's a shirt.
Stink: Don't throw Mommy. Time out.
Me: Just put it on.
Stink: I can't see. Turn on the light.
Me: I'll do it for you then.
I hastily put on his shirt.
Stink: I don't like the truck one! I want the Scooby one!
Me: Oooh, suddenly you have night vision?
Stink: I'm not a knight on television. I'm Stiiiiiiinker! One more story?
Me: No.
Stink: Two more?
Me: (Deep breath) Do I need to send H home?
Stink: Yes, send H home.
Me: I'm not gonna send her home, G.D.!
Stink: Because you're gonna tell one more story?

Versus

Me: H, go to sleep.
H: Okay, I'm tired. But can you stop talking?

Desperado

It's official. I love Desperate Housewives. So much so that I am staying up late to finish watching the two hour season finale. With Rex gone, I might just break into the coffee and watch Oprah's Legend Ball or Crossroad's Bon Jovi/Sugarland jam session.

I am such a chick I scare myself.

Puff Daddy... Err... Mommy

On our drive home from the McDonald's play area, I commented on the beautiful blue sky - a nice alternative to our rain of late. Stink quickly chimed in, "And look at the biiiiig white fluffy clouds. I want to touch them. But to get there, I need to fly. I'm going to need a Super Hero Mommy."

Then later today he kept busy setting the table while I made a fancy meal of boiled chicken and applesauce. He kept nudging Pipsqueak ,"Come on... we have sooooo much hard work to do." Then he made a huge "train track" with his puffy letters. (Puffy is a big word in our household.)

And just thinking about the clean-up is making my eyes puffy.

In closing I'm not a joint smoker, but if I were, perhaps now would be a good time to take a puff. But since the only grass tended around here is our front lawn, I'll just wait for Super Hero Papa to come home from work and lend me a hand.

Wait, he's gone to Detroit.

I will wait for my fairy godmother to arrive in a puff of smoke. (But for that to happen I guess I better jump on the joint train.)

In closing, I can't really complain. My kids have been great today. I'm gonna drink some extra coffee tonite, put the kids bed, stay up late and organize videos. I miss Rex, but to be geeky and stinky feels nice.

I hope all of you, puff free or not, have an equally relaxing evening.

And puff... Mama P is outta here.

Velvet Vox Error

This is the correct link to a cool mom blogger. She has some good links listed on her blog roll, too.

http://velvet-vox.blogspot.com/

I Made a Huge Log

Not that kind of log, you potty mouth freaks. A query log. Thanks to columns and tables via Microsoft word, I am logging in every query I send: To Which Publication, Article Name, Date, Fax or Email or Hard Copy, Notes. I'm hoping it will kick me in the head to keep filling up one per week. Also, it will assist me in remembering the tiny details that sometimes, with two kids, can slip my mind. "Does an editor called Naybor need stories about unique play gyms, or does my neighbor have an interesting story about what happened at a play gym?" Shocking that it can get muddled.

Bottom line: I figure with keeping all my ducks in a row, I'm bound to land an article at some point. Or if I don't, I can use it as a huge reminder that "I suck! I suck! I suck! Look at all those places you applied and you got a big fat NAAAADA!"

Then again, if that happened, I would use all my "no's" to write a fabulous book about keeping positive in spite of rejections. I would keep a big fat log of Who, What, When, Where and the Date I sent the book proposal. And then the process will keep repeating forever and ever until some poor sucker takes my ideas and the rest, my friends, is history.

Either I'm very tenacious or insane.

No comments, please.

Running on Steam

Neither of my kids napped today. I have had very little coffee. My car is at empty and I'm about to embark on yet another three days without Rex. Needless to say we're running on steam around here. In fact, any more of it and I could open a sauna. Not a bad idea: I could be cranky but have excellent pores.

Star Trek

Today, while waiting to pay next year's tuition, I struck up a conversation with a mom at Stink's preschool. (As many of you know, this is not a hard feat for me. It goes something like this "Nice sweats... you got them at Disneyland... I just went to Downtown Disney...") Before long, I know their family history, what they like on their burgers, and how many times a week they fornicate. It's a gift.

Turns out she had sex at least twice in seven years (2 kids... I'm quite the sleuth to deduce this). More notably, she was the make-up coordinator for all the Star Trek series and movies for the past 12 years.

After dinner tonite, I came into the office to watch Rex downloading the behind-the-scenes footage of Deep Space Nine.

Later we took a walk to Arcos for lollypops under a star filled sky.

And let's not forgot I had a small brush with Hollywood earliar today as I quickly folded the kids constellation themed bedding so the location scout could take "set pictures."

Perhaps it's a forced connection, but I am sensing a shift in the big dipper formation. Yes, I am seeing a giant, twinkling, M.P. - as in Mama P - in all it's glory sparkling in the sky for me as a beacon of salvation from the routine of the Valley heat.

Then again, M. P. could stand for "More Poop."


I'll take that, too.

Hooray for Hollywood

I just had my first legit tinsel town meeting in almost a year. It was with Nickelodeon. They are going to get back to me next week regarding hiring me for a new kids project.

Oh, wait. They're not interested in me. They're interested in my house for a location shoot.

The scout was here for less than ten minutes. I'm thinking it didn't go so well.

But who cares. It beats fighting with Rex over money or doing the same dishes over and over and over.

Maybe I'll get my kids an agent. Some people might talk and wonder if I'm trying to sell off my cute rugrats to fulfill my dreams of limelight windfalls. What's their point?