Pass the Vegas

Lest any of you wondered if I fell off the face of the earth, the truth is, I needed this week to recover from Vegas.

Not everyone travels to the city of sin with their 86 year old grandmother-in-law, but let me say, it was worth it. I learned so much about myself and others during this trip (including Texas Lizzy, Texas Dottie and their wonderful family and friends.) A few of my insights are:

1. If Vegas were a person, it would need a prescription for Zoloft pronto. I've never seen more ups, more downs, and more in-betweens than this city of winning, losing, high lites and misery.

2. No one has drunk alcohol until Stella makes a martini in a smokey hotel room from vodka stored in her milk of magnesium vitamin bottle.

3. No one knows "flirt" until they see their grandmother kiss Blue Men, grab handle the models at Abercrombie and Fitch and corral a 19 year old to lift her up to the Fountain Di Trevi in Caesar's Palace.

4. Being away from your family makes you realize how much you miss them.

5. Seeing naked girls as a single person was one thing. Seeing them as a mother makes me sad. Every topless dancer was Pipsqueak. Every ad for sensual massage featuring young oiled men made me think of Stink. Innocence is so short. Which leads me back to #4.

6. There is officially such thing as too much stimulation. A billboard of Louie Anderson bigger than the state of Texas is enough to send even an Indian Guru into a fetal position, chanting senselessly for Diet Coke and Valium.

7. It's amazing how even in a town brimming with commercialism exquisite beauty can be found. Just check out the Wynn's flower garden or the Fall foliage at the Belliago. Vegas, like life, is all about the choices in what you want to walk away with. Beauty or destruction, boundaries or temptation. It's a fine line always.

8. Even when you think you can't build anything good out of nothing, you have Vegas as a model. A desert full of mobsters became the most successful enterprise of our times. Where else can you eat more than Delta Burke at a Chili Cook Off for less money than it takes to park at the beach in Malibu?

9. Everyone is hot in Vegas. If you can't get laid at the Excalibur, then you're either dead or not looking for it. I fall into the second category, but I did have a man outside the Flamingo shout "You are fiiiiiine, giiiirl." He was probably drunk, married and possibly paid to entice harried mommies into the casino to spend their grocery money on dollar slots, but that's not the point.

10. I am officially old, because unless I stay at a 500.00 room/hotel where I can lounge at the pool and eat pork all day, I don't care to go to Vegas any time soon. And with that criteria, I might as well go to Florida and shop at Walmart like every other middle aged woman in this country.

In conclusion, the best part of this trip was 3 fold: spending time with my rock star teenage grandma, seeing Liz and her family, and coming home to my babies who acted like brats for the rest of week as if to say "you left us, you are now going to pay for it." And gladly, I did.

Eat Pray Love

I'm almost done reading Eat Pray Love, a lively and humorous biography about a woman's journey for love and spirituality across Italy, India and Indonesia.

I've spoken to quite a few people about this book, from the agnostic to the atheist, and most of us are in wild agreement about this rare find. Gilbert is able to share with us her unpredictable path toward enlightenment without being pedantic or alienating. She's very honest, very open, and always real. I highly recommend it.

A big theme throughout the book is Yoga. While I can sit still about as easily as thirty year old groupies at an In Sync Reunion tour, I can see the benefit of this practice. Gilbert, like myself and so many of you, has a mind in constant motion. At one point, after forcing herself to sit still for over two hours, despite being bitten by mosquitoes and enduring itching and mass discomfort (also like an In Sync Reunion tour analogy) she was able to transcend the pain and find a place of rest. To just be.

Gilbert admits that she wouldn't do this sort of experiment again, but forcing herself to sitting still helped drive home the point that sometimes one needs quiet to dig deep. Silence is underrated and, when practiced consciously, can help us experience some universal truths that are often missed when we gab and joke our way through life. (I don't know anyone like that.) As her guru told her, you can't find your reflection in running rivers. You can only find it in still water.

I don't know about ya'll, but I could barely sit still at the car wash for the less than 20 minutes it took to read that chapter, let alone sit cross legged in my backyard for 3 hours praying I don't die of the West Nile virus while I transcend my children turning my best linen into a tee pee island dubbed Fort Bean Fart. But I can attempt to find some stillness in my life.

To listen to my children's needs above my own.

To quietly hold Rex's hand at the end of the day when he needs to vent about work.

To silently wash the dishes and contemplate my blessings.

To deep breathe the hum of the crickets at sun down.

Yes, I'm going to be a six-one guru of serenity. People from all over the world, or at least my cull de sac, will flock to bathe in the aura of my Yuban Coffee... err... new found enlightenment. They will refer to me as the Dahli Mama.

There is no time like the present to begin this journey of transformation, but alas, I will start on Monday, for tomorrow I will be road tripping with Stella to the Anti-India.

If I don't make it back alive, I hope I'm reincarnated as a dove.

Or a golden retriever.

Or a Diet Coke.

Whatever works.

Linky Lovey Dovey

Thanks to this kick butt Maui goddess I now know how to link. Thanks to this red headed spice mama I will soon know how to blog roll. Add in my favorite cape and tight artists, spiritual atheists and ex husbands and you'll have enough reading material befitting a princess.

While I'm hardly on the verge of one-time-Morman-richer-than-JohnSmith-Blogging-Mommy-fame, I can now point you to every rabbit loving, daddy of four , homeschooling Christian and Yoga Southern Belle parent this side of the web.

I can't forget http://onetallmomma.blogspot.com/ or my favorite You Tube Fanatic. While some of you are busy raising three girls or simply being supportive and funny as heck , all of you have kept my writing fires alive.

If I've forgotten any of you, rest assured, you will be added to my blog role quicker than I can make fun of any celebrity that ever graces the web pages of this newsworthy site.

Got Change?

Tonight, on our way home from a last minute dinner, I noticed that an old hair salon had been transformed to an insurance agency. My immediate reaction was sadness.

It's odd, because I'd only been to that beauty shop a number of times. But that wasn't the point. It was familiar. I knew, when I was rushing around my familar town doing errands, I could look at its logo and remind myself I was due for a pedicure, knowing full well I wouldn't be in there for the next ten years. But when that ten years came around, damnit, I knew exactly where their parking lot, where the back door was, and just how many windows faced south!

And of course, it's never just the place I miss. I start to replace the hair salon with friends who might move, family members that might pass, my children that will inevitably leave my household as empty as the once booming style spa.

I tell myself the old adage that nothing is constant but change. But then change leads me to think of pennies and nickels. Which leads me to think of homeless people bumming for change. Which leads me to think about stock markets crashing and job cuts and what if my family were put out on the street and had to stand on street corners begging for change as the light changed.

I know I must change my thinking, but I think I'll just change my clothes and sleep. While I'm dozing, my body will go on, changing and reproducing cells, causing me to age slowly but surely. Holy cow - one day my face will change!

Man, I really need to change my attitude. But I won't. I'll just keep busy and drink Diet Coke and try not to get stuck on the small things of life until, one day, I drive past the Ebay Store and see it's been transformed into a chicken n' waffle joint and I have a panic attack all over again.

I guess some things never change.

Mmm... Messes... Good

It seems the more my kids enjoy the food, the more it ends up on the floor.

I was thinking about this tonight as I pulled out the 'ol broom for the umteemth time that day. It really does seem that in order to fully enjoy something, one must not be afraid to dive right in. This might mean breakage, spillage and the occasional kick in the lower intestine, but isn't it worth it?

May all of you have a wonderful Sunday. Go ahead. Break some of that shell that's keeping you from feeling passionate. Want to ride a Harley? Go to mass? Take a hike? Cut your hair? Grow your hair? Try a new perfume? Or something super dooper nutty, like shop retail? Get crazy. It'll make for some fun stories when you're old.

(And they also make for fun stories now, so don't forget to let me know!)

PS: Fellow blogger, Gretchen, bestowed a smile award on me today. She says, "I'd like to honor Mama P. @ Pass the Zoloft. Her irreverent humor causes milk, diet coke, or wine (whatever my poision d'jour) to spurt out of my nostrils and gives me a much needed laugh nearly every day. I'm either laughing because i can so totally relate to her, or because she's a magnificent writer. Or, usually, both."

Ahhh, Gretchen! Was that such an unnecessary compliment?

DUH! I'll take it.

Thanks for looking beyond the mess and enjoying the spicy crazy taco that makes up moi. I love ya for it.

Lovely Gretchen can be found pulling out her hair while her husband is in China and she's homeschooling handsome History Boy but secretly plotting to get drunk on Two Buck Chuck at http://gretchen-quantumleap.blogspot.com/

I took creative license with the last statement about Gretchen. But she's a Christian, so not only will she forgive me, but she'll stand by me. The truth must be told.

Um... yeah... blog roll list. How many times have I typed that? About as many times as I've cleaned up that damn floor. Gotta do something about that.

Under a Bad Spell...Check

How lovely that so many of you commented on my last post in the positive, but no one pointed out that I can't spell. Apparently "Hipocrite" is spelled with a "y", unless you're doing the urban form.

Um.

Which I was.

It was on purpose.

Yeah.

Just like I spilled almost a whole gallon of expensive milk on purpose.

Or dropped a glass all over the floor.

Or forgot to be on time to my son's parents teacher conference on Monday.

Or haven't paid my Visa bill yet this month.

Or have drank too many Diet Cokes this week.

All on purpose.

I have a purposeful driven life. And that makes me very happy.

How about you?

Ten Reasons I'm a Hipocrite

1. I'll do anything to get in better shape. Except diet and exercise.

2. I have been talking about free time forever. But now that the kids are in school, I sometimes miss them more than Lindsay Lohan pines for a working liver.

3. I write in one post that it's not cool to make fun of people with disabilities, but then I take pop shots at celebrities. I mean, if Angelina Jolie wants to have a fifth child, let her. Of course, she's so busy saving the nation and starving herself, I wonder how she manages to fit Brad Pitt in to get pregnant in the first place. (Here we go again. Bad Mama P!)

4. I have wanted to get back to work forever. I swore that I wouldn't be one of those moms who felt guilt. But now that things are starting to roll for me, I am worrying that I'm the reason for the behavior issues I'm dealing with this week. Which is dumb. Because I haven't started work yet. But perhaps the kids sense it and are intentionally not sleeping to make me feel crappy. Hypocrite AND neurotic. Ain't that fun?

5. I tell my kids they must eat healthy to grow strong. Then I order a jumbo Diet Coke and downsize enough Almond cookies to feed a small nation. Or Delta Burke.

6. Sometimes, to save $1.25, I'll re-use the same cup from McDonalds that I got the week before, telling myself that I'm really saving the environment by reusing the plastic. Not only am I hipcrite for stealing, but I get double hipcrite points for the non-healthy eating again.

7. I often tell Rex that we don't spend enough time together, and the time we do spend together is the time I use to tell him that we don't spend enough time together. And the time we could spend together is the time I spend typing.

8. I worry that I shouldn't put photos of my kids up on the internet for fear of stalkers and perverts. But my pride gets in the way since I'm so friggin' in love with them so HERE THEY ARE!!!! Hey, perverts, you don't want them. All they do is talk about farting and pooping these days! (Sorry, Mom. You hate talk of poop. I say I'll stop, but do it anyway. HIPOCRITE!)

9. I teach Sunday school during the Fall to give my kids a sense of spirituality, but we haven't been to church all summer. My favorite curse word is Jesus Christ, followed closely by a God Damnit, followed again by FRACK! Any Battlestar fans out there will get that last curse. Which reminds me, I live in the self-proclaimed "I hate Sci Fi" camp. But when I watch Battlestar, it's like footage from Liza Minella's fourth marriage to David Gest: Hideous, and yet, I can't stop looking.

10. I have been going on and on about going organic around here. Which is why on Friday I lost my mind and bought two Happy Meals followed by a big ass slice of home made lemon cake.

I'm going to bed now. Right after I put it off by drinking a cup of coffee and eating something horrific, putting the final nail in tonight's hipocrite coffin.

Night night.

Mommy's First Steps

There were tons of firsts today.

1. Pipsqueak was an official student at preschool. She marched right in, stuck her "it's a Barbie... it's a BARBIE...my MOMMY gave it to me" lunchbox on a hook, plopped down with some blocks and never looked back at me. I know that secretly, beneath her kitty cat tee shirt, bell bottom flared leopard jeans and patin leather leopard mary janes, that she really missed me (while planning her fashion empire).

2. Stink went to bed without his usual negotiations of stories, songs and his favorite "who gave me that" game. Also known as the "let's stall and make Mama crazy even though I know the answer already" charade. Sometimes it's "Who gave me the star blanket" or "who gave me the Snoopy pillow?" My favorite thus far is "Who gave me that dust on top of the fan that you haven't cleaned yet, Mommy?"

3. I had 4 hours to myself. Alone. In the house.

I had to pinch myself to be sure it was really happening. At some point I stumbled to my SUV and headed south. I was convinced an alien had taken over my body and landed me in a foreign planet full of dusty, yet welcoming, landscape.

Then I realized I was in a thrift store.

And I'd scored this beautiful table and chairs for 25.00.

Then I knew it was me!

I had a nostalgic moment when I realized I usually have the kids jumping up and down on the plaid shaped sectionals or hiding under rounders threatening to get tetunus from a 1960's step stool haphazardly thrusting a nail at them, beckoning, "Suck me, child! Ingest into thy veins my rusty goodness!"

Predictably, however, realization tears soon fell. My babies are no longer babies. They pee on their own. They wash their own hands. They wear size 9 and 12 shoe. They tell me they love me and fall asleep looking like little angels.

Then I had a huge mug of Diet Coke. I didn't have to chop up the remaining ice for tiny mouths and visualize scenes of choking, the whole time thinking "what will I do if their airways get blocked because, really, I haven't had a real CPR class since I was 12 so I'm thinking that my emergency babysitting license is expired".

Bottom line: I got buzzed on caffeine and watched CMT. Heeee haaaw!

Congrats to everyone who made it through the first day. That includes you homeschoolers out there! Stories, please!

Uncle "anything to make a" Buck

I had an interesting Ebay experience today. On looking up "Tourettes", I found a few shirts like the one you see above.

I suppose it's funny in its own way, and Lord knows I make jokes all the time, but making fun of people with disabilites? That's where I draw the line.

So I wrote the person. I told them their stickers suck. And then I told them that, and I quote you, "Less than 15% of Tourettes sufferers curse like that. That particular condition is called Corporlalia. Educate yourself. But most of all, go and make money. That’s way more important than leaving something decent in the world, isn’t it?"

Here's what they had to say back.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I think you should be focusing on helping your child adjust rather than focusing on sending me emails!

How about you contact all the people who tell blonde jokes ~ arent they offensive to half the population! People with blonde hair cant help it ~ they are the butt of jokes constantly ~ go save them.

I have a child with autism ~ please dont presume to know me or understand who I am or my family situation or the people I know! My son who is nearly 15 is quite well adjusted to his ability & is able to laugh at himself ~ we could ALL learn from that! Everyone has a disability of some description ~ & we all need to understand who we are & what is important. If you are able to laugh at yourself first ~ it makes life so much easier ~ I know this from experience. so please take care of your child & stop trying to protect him from a world that s/he is going to have to live in ~ the more you wrap him/her in cotton wool the less prepared s/he will be & the less able to cope with the world.

You've had your say ~ now move on

----------------------------------------------------------------

So what did I do? Leave it alone? Ummmm.... no.

I wrote them a thank you note.

I told them that I now have two national columns online (more to come on this later) and that if they wanted to have an interesting dialogue where millions of people could read it, then I could get the word out on what Tourettes really is, and they could get some cash for their stupid tee shirts.

That just might rock their world. Damnfuckin'shitassteeshirtidiots.

How's that for Tourettes?

PS: Who uses the word "cotton wool"? That just sounds hot. And sticky. I might like this person better if they told me not to wrap my child in 100% cotton.

US Magazine

I picked up a copy of US magazine today. I figure I'm worth 1.99, and though I hate to admit it, I just love seeing what's going on with celebrities. After a terribly hot week with disappointing yard sale profits, balancing school shopping with some writing work I got, worrying about healthy meals and doctor appointments... scheduling babysitting trades and playdates and post office runs but making sure we only do one of these things a day to not overdue it and bla bla bla... it's just fun to read something mindless.

But here's what I want to know.

Is Brad and Jen checking in on Meno's bed and breakfast trip and wondering if she's doing okay with her impending empty nest?

Is Owen Wilson recovering by seeing the beautiful life reflected in Grace over at Suzie Q's place?

Is Hillary Clinton taking a break from her busy touring schedule to see if James', Ham's, Liv's kids and Gretchen's kids had a good first day of school in the education system she's trying to reform?

The answer is no.

Which is why I'm so glad I'm not famous. I love each and every one of you, mentioned and not.

But... just in case Orlando Bloom is reading this (who I just fell in love with last night after watching 45 minutes of Troy... Brad Pitt? Um, no.) here is my little mark on the world, taken this morning on the way to Papa's work to "feed da fish!"

Happy Labor Day, peeps. Now get off the computer and go make some memories! I plan to anyway. (That, and figure out how to blog roll and insert links once and for all. Ham sent me the info, now I have to actually read it.)

Mmmmm... Eda-Mommy

This week, in addition to organic eating, we've done the no sugar, no wheat deal. The verdict is still in on its affects on toddlers, but lets just say I'm keeping a food log longer than a line around Barnes N' Noble for JK Rowlings highly anticipated Harry Potter 14 - Gryffindor and the Penis of Fire: Hogwart's gotten boring, Harry's gone whoring.

As a mom, I take solace that I'm doing everything in my power to keep my kids healthy and find out what makes them tic - literally. It's a slow process of wait and see, but hopefully we'll get some results.

It goes without saying that our processed, food dyed, hurry hurry hurry supersized go Go GOOOO! environment can't be good for the human condition - especially for the growing bodies of children. But when you add a sensitive rug rat like Stink into the mix, the point is driven home even harder.

Slow.

Down.

So we are.

Today was about the yard sale. Rex put up the tent last night and got me buzzed on bad two buck Chuck, making my 5am wake-up oooooh so pleasant. I survived though. For most of the morning I kicked it in an old fold up chair and cleaned out my garage. When even Ebayer Mama P can't handle storing the vintage Strawberry Shortcake wrist watches any longer, it's time to clean house. But the Justin Timberlake "In Sync in Japan" fro tee? That's staying. Either it's being sold on Ebay for 12.99 or I'll save it for Mrs. V's son for 4th Grade's "Free Dress Day." I know he'll appreciate it.

I don't know about you peeps, but today it was a sweltering 110 degrees. Lucky for the kids they spent most of the day in their underwear inside the house. Lucky for the flies, the kids still managed to leave the doors open for them. I'm currently typing and screaming "Die winged bug of evil, DIE!"

Tonight after stories I sang my "Song of Music" medley. I figure if Stink isn't going to be athletic (and who really knows at this point) he'll never get his ass kicked if he can hit that high note in "Climb Every Mountain" or tell some punk ass kid that white flowers are really "Adel Veis".

When the song was over, he looked at me with doe eyes and asked, "Mama, why did the kids’ mom die?"

Me: "She was sick." (Then, sensing his distress) "But don't worry. I'm healthy as a horse."

Stink: (Smiling) "And I'm healthy as a unicorn!"

Later, after yelling at both kids to settle down for the night (for the tenth time) I tried my guilt tactic, "Wow, with all this running around you're doing while I'm downstairs, you must think I'm stupid." Stink responded, "Oh, no, Mommy. You are so very loveable."

At that, my heart melted. I gave him a huge kiss and a hug. I thanked him for eating edamame for breakfast. For smiling over gluten free waffles with squeezed watermelon juice for syrup. For not batting an eye at blueberry bars with filling rivaling Preparation H.

Then I told him to get his ass to sleep.

* Photo: Breakfast at the Mama P household. They say the early bird gets the worm. In our case, the early bird gets the runs. Mmmmm, healthy goodness!

Fresh Fruit Anyone?

Still here.

Between garage sales, a few writing gigs, school meetings, soaking up last minute summer time with the kids and spending our life savings on organic fruit, I'm looking forward to the routine of Fall.

Happy Weekend.

PS: No, those aren't my real boobs. Doesn't Rex wish? But he did take the photo.

Diets, Dye Its, Slowly Dying

The guilt over going non-processed, no refined sugar, and wheat free has finally forced me to crack. It's only Monday and tonight I was propelled into the abyss of the unthinkable: Driving at mad-cap speed to our local Target, instructing that my children pick out a toy from the dollar section only to emerge, breathless, with 30.00 worth of "rewards" for going along with the program.

My self-imposed "Elimination Diet" is akin to the Bourne Identity for Toddlers. Should my subjects choose to accept their mission, tics, hyperactivity and general focus mirroring a see-saw on crack might be eliminated.

Then again, given the general of this invasion (that would be me... are you with me, people?) has no idea about the territory she is invading, my subjects might just be eating gluten free, sugar free, tastes like the recycled tree paper used for Barack Obama's campaign signs (but hey, no chemicals) - for a big fat NADA.

Well, it's not for nothing. They'll have a new Dora toy and Hot Wheels racer to fight over while I'm jonesing for additives, having gone bust on organics and living with only a guilty conscious for shopping retail for items probably made in China and ultimately the real source of my family's allergies.

Woooheeeee! Who has some good recipes for me? If they look appetizing, I don't want 'em. Like my background as a tv writer, shiny photos shall only prove to be a set up for failure. I need reality, wrapped up in brown, mustard and phlegm green. I am Mama P, Earth Mama. I pee in recycled toilet paper and drink Hansens soda. Not necessarily in that order.

Kill me now.

But don't bury me.

Ground me up into compost so that I can grow organic marijuana for all those other poor bastards who are going broke figuring out exactly which item in this cornucopia of toxic crap our country is serving our kids in bright! and shiny! packaging is making them tic.

Sunday Siestas, Love & Costco

Today we enjoyed our our weekly Sunday Siesta tradition. All phones go off, and a big ugly sign goes on the door reading "NO KNOCKING!" We're so serious about it, unless there's mass destruction, or a box of free almond cookies, we don't ever want to be disturbed. Unlike my mood on any given day, Sunday Siestas are down to a science: Rex grabs the couch, Pip sleeps in the Pack N Play in our room, I sleep in the living room or in my bed, and Stink sleeps in his and Pip's room.

Except today.

While Pip and Papa snored contentedly, I was forever being aroused from slumber by the sound of books being dropped by Stink, feet shuffling across the floors for imaginary pee pee expeditions and a fiasco involving butt cream and firetrucks.

To say my patience was tested more than Lindsay Lohan's urine is an under statement.

Luckily we had a super morning at Costco together. So rarely do all four of us stroll through a store with no agenda. "Want to dream about the 4000 bedroom set? Let's do it. And no, the corner unit wouldn't be too large, but the 300 bottle wine storage? Overkill!" (Except for today. After dealing with Stink, I could have gone through about 299 of them no problem.)

Walking through warehouse discount stores on a Sunday morning is not exactly church, but we held hands, sang a few songs and passed around the plate... of organic cheese samples. The togetherness was just what I needed.

To add more icing to the Betty Crocker scumpti-licious-ness of this weekend, last night Mrs. V. treated us to box seats at the Hollywood Bowl. The Big Bad Voo Doo Daddies were playing. Usually that sort of venue consists of me taking a shuttle, a box of greasy KFC and huffing it to the cheap seats. To be driven in a clean car, ushered to seats ten rows from the stage, share some great wine and conversation with some lovely people, and be surrounded by beautiful nature and weather? It doesn't get much better than that. And thanks, Mom, for watching the rug rats.

I had such a great weekend that I literally forgot, until a few hours ago, that today was my anniversary. 7 years! Funny how, when I get what I need emotionally, as well as some much needed fun, I don't get all stuck on the flowers or the gift. Not that I didn't get a gift. Rex came home from Loew's a few hours ago with bright blue daisies picked out by Stink. Then he made burgers and put the kids to bed. Who needs Tiffany's when a gal gets that?

The song here is "It's Your Love" sung by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. We danced to it on our wedding day. The words are wonderful, but the video? I can't help but wonder what Tim's doing in that dramatic venue with a face mirroring constipation and an oversized hat. I keep expecting it to pop off, forcing Bull Winkle horns to flop over his bolo tie. And what's up with Faith's outfit? She looks like a knocked up Oscar Award.

But the song? Love it. Love you, Rex.

Just Another Day in Paradise

It's easy to get so caught up in life that you forget the details. Details, like... I live close to one of the most beautiful beaches in the world.

Today the kids and I, along with Grandma N, set out for paradise. I was elated to find that my secret passage - a gate off a side street on the "nice" side of Malibu - was still there. We parked the car, headed down some steps, and boom: private beach for anyone who can afford to live there. As well as nosy families from the Valley.

I wish all of you a wonderful weekend full of salt air, nice views and no sand up your crack.

PS: Note to self: Do this more often. Life is too short to not stretch your hands toward the sky in Liv-like yoga posture and take a deep breath of sea air.

PS #2: Shave armpits next go around.

The Science of Neurosis

Saying I had an off-kilter week is like saying Hilary Clinton is a tiny bit opinionated. Without getting into details right now, let's just say we had a few health concerns around here dealing with Stink. He's perfectly fine, rest assured (and thank God.) Here he is with one of his favorite buddies - Italian of course. Out of 125 kids in his school, all ethnicities, he gravitated to four kids with names befitting pizzarias just like his. If that doesn't make Stella proud, nothing will.

Now that I'm coming up for air, I have two things to say:

1) Science, while amazing for its advances in treating people, is also a huge scare factor. Yes, I'm glad there are tests to rule out the 1% chance that a collection of symptoms is actually a life threatening disease in disguise.

At the same time, no mother is going to hear about the 1% factor and not go to dark places. It is a test of faith and staying grounded to say the least.

2) While I might not have blogged much about my experience last week, I did talk to several mothers about it. (Because asking me to stay quiet during crisis is like asking John Travolta to not cry on a talk show. Ain't gonna happen.)

If I didn't know this before (which I thought I did, but didn't really) now I can say with undeniable certainty that EVERYONE HAS SOMETHING. I've un earthed information from mothers dealing with everything from neurological issues, muscular issues, learning disabilities, birth defects and growth concerns.

Am I saying that these are not legitimate causes of worry for parents? Absolutely, and my heart goes out to everyone dealing with their "different" child.

But that's where my beef comes in. Being "different" is really the norm. And what defines different anyway? A small facial quirk? Being a dwarf? Not pronouncing your 's'? How much of these are individual characteristics of unique people as opposed to flaws?

Science has gotten so far up our ass that we can diagnose everything these days. In the past, the kid with the huge head eventually evened out with the rest of his body. Later in life people had a laugh about how lady-killer Johnny was once lovingly referred to as Pumpkin Head. If Johnny was born today, there'd be genetic testing up the ying yang and the fear of God put in Mom that there's a 1% chance Johnny could be dying from a tumor, so let's just do monthly ultra sounds for five years so parents can die of anxiety before they are 40.

Somewhere there is a balance between medical science and scaring the shit out of everyone.

As for you mothers out there that are mourning the loss of your "perfect" child, let me stand in the camp of parents that shout that the people who think they've dodged a bullet with their perfect child are smoking the wacky weed.

No one escapes life.

No one.

Dr. Pip / Dr. Stink

My mom's arthritus was in warp speed Friday, making it difficult to use her hands. The following comments best describe the differences between my two little rugrats.

Stink: (Tenderly grabbing her knotted fingers and pressing his lips to them) "Kisses always help."

Pip: (Not looking up from her book) "Try some butt cream."

The Perfect Wife

This is all I can muster right now.

Tic'd Off

I was flipping through You Tube just now and came across a video made by two 14 year old girls. They were doing a spoof of a tourette sufferer.

I don't know what I was more offended by: The fact that they sat in their clean home, with Daddy's expensive video camera and used their time to make fun of people with real disabilities, or their horrific acting jobs. Oh, and how about the fact that women have it hard enough in this business without intentionally making themselves look bad.

I could have left a comment asking them calmly to consider taking their "film" down. Instead, I told them I hope they get super fat with tons of cellulite and land men who treat them like whores.

I'm a bit ashamed of myself, to be honest. I mean, I forgot to dish on their peroxide and poor grammar.

I don't understand this childish need people have to make fun of other people. Are they so unloved at home? Do they really have that little of a spirituality, or guidance, to teach them the difference between good humor and causing personal pain to someone?

I know I can't control my children's ultimate personalities, but I'll teach them empathy, kindness and respect if it's the last thing I do.

And the ability to get a great deal at a thrift store. Sensitivity, and the 50% off sales at GoodWill, don't happen over time. They're both learned gifts.

Grateful for 17 Bucks

http://cgi.ebay.com/Kitchen-Sink-Jerry-Garcia-House_W0QQitemZ290143668963QQihZ019QQcategoryZ447QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem

There is a sad paradox that exists when I get excited over a $3.97 profit margin on a brand name blouse I flipped on Ebay, and Jerry Garcia's scratched metal sink has been bid up to $17,000.

Perhaps the losers of the auction will take Mama P's 1968 iron stained toilet for $17.00. As the winner of Jerry Garcia's auction might say, "I'd be soooooooo stoked." (Talk about a lot of pot for the money... in both cases.)

To TV or Not TV

I'm attempting to find a balance in the whole toddlers and tv/computer deal, but so far I'm simply coming up with black and whites.

On one hand, sedentary technology causes everything from obseity, ADD, lethargy and tics. It makes me want to throw my tv into the local Costco trash bin quicker than Angela Jolie will adopt another baby and Brad Pitt will reunite with Jennifer Aniston. (Yes, I've always seen Brad and Jen together again. Why I even have an opinion I don't know. Too much tv, right?!)

But the other extreme alternative is freakville. I don't want my kid sticking out like a hemp wearing, organic growing, mama wears a sling and never shaves her armpits, never heard of Paris Hilton or the Sopranos, head of the non-online chess club and am best friends with the librarian" outcast.

Not that never hearing about kill driven shows or surface level trump fund girls is so awful. Which leads me back to my first thought on tv.

To TV or not TV? That is the question.


That's all I have to say tonight.

A Real Fantasy

I've had a super busy week that resulted in some very happy news, but the most thrilling nugget of all? Alert the media, I had a sex dream!

I'm not one of those yappy women who oooogle over Calvin Klein underwear models, hunky UPS workers, or movie stars. Even last night, while watching The Bourne Identity and all of Matt Damon's six pack charm, all I could think about was "Oooh, yeeeeess... the popcorn and kid-less noise. I'm all wet. With Diet Coke - a super size jug that cost me $7.00 and I'm not even complaining. It's that good."

But a few nights back I had a dream about a real man. He was blonde and young. So was I. Not blonde. Young. Well, younger. (I'm 37 now. I'm hardly Betty White ready to break a hip after she trips on a shelter bound poodle named Calcium Supplment on the way to her tenth Depends commercial shoot.) That raw emotion of a first crush ran rampant through my twilite state. My romeo - tall, lanky and sweet, thought I was just fantastic. I wasn't about to throw him out of bed for eating Twin Dragon Almond Cookies either. Before my good Christian women following hit the "delete" key on their Favorite Blogs list, let me say that this fantasy didn't feel seedy, because I wasn't having an affair. I had entered some pre-Rex-vortex where cellulite, house cleaning, post office runs and the words "I'm not in the mood" didn't exist. It felt so exciting and pure all at once.

The climax of the dream came when I left my beloved's bed and found that he had a room full of brand new baby furniture. He said that previous renters had just left it there and I could have it if I wanted. They had twins, so I could keep one set for me, and I could flip one set on Ebay.

I woke up smiling. And then, like any woman who is terrified of a jealous husband, I did just the opposite of hiding and ran directly to Rex to tell him all about my thrilling encounter. He laughed out loud, "You didn't remember you had a husband, but you remembered you had two kids? What did your lover say?"

I suggested Rex watch the kids while I go back to bed and find out the rest of the story.

Needless to say, my lover's opinion of Rex is still a mystery.

We Have A Winner!

I didn't post much last week due to being overwhelmed in responses for my plastic tiger give away. It was a tough fight between the three of you who practically got declawed scratching for it, but the winner is....

LIV! May the tiger go from consumerism to yoga-ism! She's going to drill holes in the top and burn sage. Or pot. Whatever relaxes people in those crazy stretch classes she teaches. Jet on over to her site in a few days as she promises to have a give-away of her own. The beautiful Liv will not disappoint, I'm sure.

http://madnessmadnessisay.blogspot.com/

And speaking of contests, I have some good news of my own. I'm a finalist in the Broad Humor Film Festival. It's a competition for women who write funny or direct funny. I sent in my script and actually heard back. What I will win, I don't know. Some good karma? Works for me.

http://broadhumor.com/

Last year's festival was in Paris. This year's festival is in Venice.

As in Venice, California. (This location suits me just fine. The last time I went over seas I spent three days in a London hotel room pondering, "Holy crap, I am so far from home! Where are the McDonald's play areas? Why doesn't my "let's talk to strangers" technique work on those uniformed guys at the castle? I'm soooo confused.)

I'm off to thrift. Then get Pipsqueak. Then write while she naps. Then get Stink. Then complain about how I over extend myself even though, like the downfall of the Federline's, I can see it happening well in advance of actually, um, happening.

Congrats, Liv! Email me seperately so I can send you your new pet.

Boo Boo

Anyone who deals with kids knows that there's something magical about a band-aid. For Pipsqueak, they are less for blood wipe up and more fashion accessories. Stink has gotten a bit more discerning, but he still falls prey to the cure-all aspect of them. Last week he mended a rubber chicken's neck at Grandma Stella's. This fall the preschool mascot, a light purple angel, received a Scooby Doo and Shaggy adhesive over it's cracked knee. Yesterday Stink mended a shoe lace by replacing the a missing plastic end with a race car sticky.

I might be grown up, but I've got my band-aids still, too. Call them a cup of coffee, a Diet Coke, or a walk with a good friend, it's nice to have instant fixes.

What are your band-aids?

A Contest!

I keep hearing about these internet giveaways. Well, do I have a surprise for you. It's none other than the $12.00 snowcone cup from the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus Consumerism Under a Tent Fiasco! It has a lid that opens up and down, measures almost one foot tall, but sadly, unlike Mama P at a thrift store where she scores ten "I love You But Jesus Thinks You're An Asshxxx" bumper stickers for a quarter, this baby does not roar.

However, unlike Winona Ryder on a bad hair day shoplifting from a dime store and having a mug shot rivaling her role as pasty girl in Beetle Juice, you can get this overpriced merchandise for FREE.

Well, almost.

Whoever has the best use for this growly, thorn-in-my-side-should-have-beaten-the-clown-over-the-head-with-this-Americana-atrocity wins.

I'll even pay for shipping. (But I'm cheap. So expect parcel post. Or pidgeon carrier. If the bird can crap on the vendors that sold me this junk, so much the better. If the bird happens to be a tap dancing fowl who lands the opening act and gets a book deal before I do, it will be served for Taco Tuesday. Animal rights picketers, you have been warned.)

Now go! What would this contain in your home? Condoms? Coffee? Yarn for a pair of snuggly wuggly slippers that you'll crochet for me in ever lasting thanks? I can't wait to hear....

The Waiting Game

Stink didn't like the swing. No matter how much I tried to get him used to it, he was consistently confused, shocked and ready to vomit. Like asking Rosie O'Donell to kiss a guy, it simply wasn't going to happen.

I'm that way with change. Like right now. I'm trying to pretend I'm fine and healthy, but truth be told, I have a cold that's lodged further in my chest than Hugh Grant in a hooker's knockers. I should be sleeping. And yet...

Here I am.

Ever have those weeks where you just feel out of sorts? That's me.

I'm not depressed. I'm not anxious. I'm just....

Waiting.

For what? I'm not sure. But it's something big. An acceptance of sorts? A surprise trip to Boston? A fifty cent double coupon off Yuban hidden inside a bag of Mother's Animal Cookies? A baby kitten wrapped in a shoebox on my front step with the sign, "Call me Paxil"?

I suppose part of it is that Pip starts preschool in the fall. I can count down the days until both kids will be out of my hair for fifteen hours a week. And sure, I'm thrilled to be able to breathe in the quiet. But I'll miss those buggers. More than I care to admit. They are my soul, my laughter, my worry, my freedom, my everything. I am astounded at how much they love me, too. (I mean, what's not to love, but still...) I smile every time I hear, "Mommy! We missed you!" (When I've only come in from the garage) or their "You got me a surpriseeeeee???!" every time I go to the market without them. (Even more astounding than how much they love me is how much they love their impromptu surprises - often things I randomly pick out of my purse. McDonald's ketchup bags are "Finger paint! WOW! Let's go ruin some of Mommy's walls!")

I can type and type and Ebay and write and clean and cook and organize my way through this entire evening - waking with bags under my eyes - but the truth is, my babies are no longer babies.

Wah wah wah. Now it's my turn to cry. If this continues, late night be damned, I'm hitting the bottle.

I am Cranky

For those of you familiar with Thomas the Tank Engine, you will understand that all of us are different characters, depending on our day. Sometimes I'm Thomas: cheeky, spirited, full of optimism and damn that crack in the track, I'm going to chug chug chug my way through rain, sleet and kids pissing on my geraniums.

Some days I'm the Troublesome Trucks: A Puck-like demon ready to trip you for a laugh. Hey, Rex, you wanted Crest Regular and I bought you Aquafresh Mint to save 3cents! Ha! That's what we Troublesome Trucks do!

Some days I'm Percy: Strong, proud and fast. You need to drop your kids off despite two of them having pink eye, one having the personality of an Ashley twin and one with the look of a possessed possum on crack? I can handle it. Why? Because I'm Percy. That's why.

Some days I'm Claribel: Graceful, sheerful, and totally content in my woman's work. You need a nice ride around Ventura Blvd.? A fresh pie? Perhaps some soothing music in Mama P's SUV freight car while I point out the scenery along our San Fernando Valley Drive? "That's the McDonalds where the kids spent a half hour playing with the air dryer. How's that for a stimulation toy, and it's free!" ... "Oh, that's the number one strip joint in town. Stink still thinks it's name, 'The Wet Spot' is home to a GINORMOUS SLIP N' SLIDE!"

Today, I'm Cranky: Neither train nor truck, I'm simply one tall, mean crane. I've got a growl and nasty hook in me, so don't look at me wrong cuz I'll pick you up and do the meanest thing a Mama P Crank can think of: Drop you off at the nearest strip mall during this 101 degree heat wave and take off, leaving you alone with over sized sunglass waifs and teenage boys with plumber crack deeper than Nicole Richie's frown lines. Don't put it past me.

Man I'm cranky.

I Am Turned Off

I have turned into one of those mothers who limits my children's TV viewing to one half hour show per day. *** (clause at bottom)

I put Stink on a timer when he plays computer games. I've even been known to shriek "It's a beautiful day outside! Go play in the sprinklers! Don't get abducted while I run into the house for coffee!"

It's an odd thing in my household, but when the overall volume is turned down, our personal energy is tuned up.

Take today, for example. Despite watching one friend's child in the morning, then watching another's this evening (I'm no martyr... it's called "Babysitting Trade for 400") there was nary a time out, nary a screaming fest and nary a, "He touched my booger!" melt down.

We even managed to eat some homemade granola bars that I made at my childhood friend's house yesterday while Stink was at school and Pip subconciously wondered why my friend's child had every Bratz doll in the universe and her collection includes, but is not limited to, the "It's Not Cheesey Platform Shoes It's Vintage Shops at A Co-Op" Barbie.

How I went from writing TV to policing it I'll never know. And while one day my kids will buy me a tee shirt (From a strip mall, God forbid) reading "Older Than Dirt", today was a run through the sprinklers, play some Disney music, eat crisp apples and dip our fingers in peanut butter kind of Valley Day. I might not get residuals for it, but hopefully the memories will pay off.

*** PMS Clause: Should I be suffering hormonly, be ill, or just plain want to fall into a coma due to query rejection, behavior issues or plain laziness worthy of bon bons and vats of Diet Coke, I reserve the right to stick my children on DVDs for hours on end, until they pass out, or I get my next article. Could be years. Hey, they'll just have to be film majors in college.

The Greatest Show On Earth

3 free tickets to the Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus this past Saturday turned into $20 to park, $20 in gas and $24 for snow cones.

TWO snow cones.

As in $12 each.

Yes, it's true. Mama P fought the bling-bling of the greatest show on earth and she lost. I might as well have gone in the center ring, the animal tamer directing me with a baton: "You will leave your natural habitat of the thrift store jungle, roll on your back, and cough up cash. Your children, like the audience, will applaud you and love you!

For exactly one minute.

Then move the hell over, because it's time for the great 'Let's spill the snow cone ice act of 2007 and scream our way through the Vietnamese tumbling lotus dancers.' "

Rule #1 of Thrifting: Trust your instinct and don't buy when it doesn't feel right.

Rule #2: Leave before you lose complete control - as in the second half of an event. At least if you miss the "Elephants That Yodel and Fart in time to the Star Spangled Banner" you can exit the Staples Center in peace, despite children screaming that they wish you had bought them cotton candy instead.

Because $10 for sugar on a stick is so much cheaper.

Me: "You will eat what is left of your sugar laden ice rip-off and like it. You will not even brush your teeth. You will get cavities with holes the size of the OJ's excuses and rue the day you begged me for 24 bucks worth of animal abuse ice-cream."

What a circus.

Cabin Fever

My childhood friend, Topanga T, opened up her rustic cabin home for my daughter's third birthday party. With Rex out of town, we kept it very small and intimate - just my mom, sister, sister's friend/boyfriend (I get confused on that one), Topanga T, Drivethru B and Stink. If anyone knows anything about Topanga Canyon, it's very much the other side of Los Angeles. We're talking "painted blue trees people walking around in hemp lots of Shakespeare plays craft festivals artsy fartsy waaaaaay alternative universe" opposite end of Los Angeles. T replaced all her year round Xmas lights with pink (leaving a few blue for Stink.) There were candles, enchiladas, sangria, homemade cake and coffee. The music? "Cinderella" on DVD - but of course. Pipsqueak scored quite cool gifts, from gloves to Barbies to the real show stopper: her own pearl necklace (made by T).

All in all? A magical evening. I shall have one for you all one day. All those wheel chair bound (and you know who you are) it's nothing a rope pulley can't fix. We'll just swing you over the fence and situate you in the tiki hut. Problem solved.

In My Daughter's Eyes

"In my daughter's eyes I can see the future
A reflection of who I am and what will be
Though she'll grow and someday leave
Maybe raise a family
When I'm gone I hope you see how happy
she made me
For I'll be there
In my daughter's eyes"

Happy birthday, Pipsqueak. You might think I'm raising you, but the truth is, you're raising me. Thank you for inspiring me daily to love, honor, be silly and kick some serious booty. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you, you crazy kid.

Anyone Know of a Heroic Animal Story?

I'm looking for a story about an animal that has saved a life somehow. I'm also interested in ones that have done something remarkable. Anybody have a lead for me? I'd be forever grateful and of course give you a cut of my article when it sells.

Stories that I'm interested in:

* Animals with premonitions (sensing seizures, catastrophes, etc.)
* Animals that save people from burning buildings, drowning, explosions, natural disasters, etc.
* Animals that save humans from being attacked (especially if the human has never met the animal)

Stories you can keep for yourself:

* The day your dog farted out your birthday candle
* The hampster swallowing Pop Rocks fiasco of 1979
* The cat that barfed a hairball onto Aunt Lucille's vintage hanky

Think, people!

Email me at AndreaPaventi@Yahoo.com.

What Were We Thinking?

The answer is true to the following statements:

1. When Rex picked me up for our first official date, I wore a pleated skirt, a coat from 1960, vintage cat eye glasses and sported bright red hair (that I maintained to the tune of 100.00/month - ahhhhh, the days of wine and vanity).

2. Rex had his hair parted to the side, a unibrow, tight 501 jeans, a long sleeve shirt buttoned to his wrists and proceeded to wear bright green pants with a red turtleneck to a Xmas eve dinner later on that year. That would be his last time doing that.

3. I went from show to show, always paying rent, but somehow not having a lot left over at the end of the month. I lived in a magical apartment overlooking a nursery school. I used to drink coffee on the porch and throw Hawaiian parties in the driveway where lots of people got "layed".

4. Rex lived at his parent’s house until he was 24 so that he could afford the down payment to his first condo. (One that I bitched about for two years due to the location. I still feel bad about that as it provided us the down payment for a home I love even more than my second floor apartment.)

5. My idea of a day off is sleeping in, eating too much, over scheduling and under accomplishing.

6. Rex's idea of a day off is getting up early, drinking a healthy glass of milk with some fruit, mulching a tree and prepping a 72 page document for some hoity toity CFO doo hicky type person.

If someone asked us if we knew of all these differences before we got married, we could only answer "I do."

This leads me to today's stranger post. It involves a woman we saw at Old Town San Diego last night. We were all seated at a table with family and old friends in an authentic Mexican restaurant. Mariachi music was in perfect harmony with the summer evening and fish bowl margaritas. While Stink was too busy with his new coloring book, Pipsqueak clapped her hands while a white haired lady danced and danced to the horns. I thought she was part of the act, but turns out she was a patron just drunk off her rocker. (One could say "drunk off her rocking chair".)

While Rex chatted up my friend's husband, I stopped the old lady in front of a water fountain and complimented her skills. She looked at me and said, "I'm too old to care what anyone else thinks."

I wonder what she was like at 29 - the year I met Rex. Was she always this free spirited, or was it something that she learned? In any case, it reminded me to find some of my old photos (like the one above, taken in 1999) and get inspired to funk-di-fy myself a bit more. I might not have the cat glasses anymore, but there's a lot of meow left in this ol' tiger. Hell, I need something to embarrass my kids with.

What about you? Got any tricks from yester year that it's time to display again?

Keep Your Voices Down!

Two awards in one week? Ah, shucks, folks. This one hails from Liv at http://madnessmadnessisay.blogspot.com/. She's finding her groove doing yoga, raising two kids and trying not to karate chop hemp wearing foodies during opening stretches. She is great at making me laugh and cry - often in the same post. Thanks, Liv.

Some of you might know that I'm taking an online writing class through Freelancesuccess.com. I highly recommend it if you're interested in magazine writing, but it's not for the faint at heart. For $149, I might have learned to punch up my queries, but I also learned that my voice is really not so necessary in approaching magazines. The less "me" and the more "them", combined with solid references and interviews, is what nails the job. Coming from someone who made a living schmoozing first, then proving my writing second, this is a new phenomenon for me. And kind of an "ouch" moment. But it's some of the best advice I've gotten in a while. It really is about gearing the proposal and editor emails toward the audience, not selling me.

And so, this blog is coming off my signature line. Apparently editors who are being pitched the best organics for baby butt cream don't want to see a website referring to wacky mental health moms.

But as for you readers, you're stuck with my view point for a long time. When I have more moments to myself, I'll turn my voice into a book or a musical or whatever.

How about you all? Have you ever been told something that really sucked to hear, but then in thinking about it, realized that the person was right? That there's a time and place for your voice, but time to shut up and go with the program?

Oh... today's stranger comes to you via the cashier at K-Mart. I met her yesterday while buying gifts from the bottle fairy (another post). Joanna is on her third baby - two boys and a girl. She doesn't have to work, but she's doing it for sanity and for fun money. All her kids are 3 years apart. All gave up the bottle at 18 months. She thinks Stink is super tall for his age. The cashier next to her (didn't catch her name... can you believe it?) gave up working until both her girls were in kindergarten. She's been doing it ever since. All three of us decided that being a working mom can be a great example for young girls.

Now only if I can get past my personal voice and get into magazine mode, I can be a working mama, too.

If it doesn't happen, there's always cashiering at K-mart. But I look terrible in aprons. And while those cashiers liked me a lot for our two minute conversation, they'd be wanting to fire me the minute I held up the line making jokes about the lubricant on sale. "Oooh, gotta love those peanut butter and K-Y jelly sandwiches!" (I didn't say they were good jokes, I just said I'd tell them. Shut up.)

Stairing Me Down

This week Stinker has earned his namesake ten-fold. As far as Princess Pipsqueak, let's just say that Dora had better find a map with an all expense paid spa for Mommy or Mommy's going to sell Boots the Monkey to the circus. (Or at least to a casting director so he can live out his last days as the famous chimp starring in Clint Eastwood's next production of "Every Which Way but The Nursing Home").

With this in mind, I bring you today's "stranger post". While at Costco, explaining to the kids "that bacteria we lick from grocery carts differ from the bacteria in Kirkland yogurt", an old man approached my cart with a smile.

I asked how he was.

He told me the kids were adorable.

I told him that they could be his for a song and a dance. (More expensive than the peanuts, but cheaper than the patio furniture.)

He must have thought I asked him about "dancing" because he launched into a story about the war and cutting a mean two-step. He then chuckled at the kids' poking contest and mumbled something about "been there, done that, never again in hell" and ambled off.

I couldn't help but notice that one eye was sealed shut. He had a limp. Yet he was still friendly, courteous and retained more vigor than me - a person half his age. I made a committment to myself that if this geezer could manage a warehouse at 91, I could manage two kids.

One loooong car ride home (replete with screaming fits over who gets to touch the receipt, an impending fist fight over a month old Skittle, and a rowdy argument about Scooby vs. Cinderella's belching capabilities) I decided that the stairs could do a much better job than I could.

Clearly my kids agreed with me.

Saved From the Hell

Today's "Perfect Stranger Post" comes to you via the childrens play area at my local mall. I saw a silver haired guy that looked super familiar coming out of Chick's Sporting goods. He didn't look like he ever kicked a soccer ball or a football in his life. Perhaps he wielded a mean squash racket or was known as the Evil Emperor of Wiffle Ball. Hard to tell. But his shoes were clean, his Dockers were spotless and he was calling out for his son - one of those "only in L.A." names that would easily double for a vineyard or a small dog.

Who could it be? Lucky for me, I have such tact when I'm in such quandaries.

Me: (Gesticulating wildly toward him) "You.... you....I know you!!!!"

Him: (No smile. He solved the mystery): "Hi, Mama P. It's Betterthanyou."

Me: "WOW! I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN 10 YEARS AT LEAST!" (I am having a capital letter big mouth 'WOW' fest. If I were a rollercoaster, I'd be called "The Exclamation." He is too cool for a rollercoaster. He is too cool for the amusement park even. He is at home, watching the Mama P carnival ride from his leather sectional and flat screen tv. "Flat" like his voice. "Screen" like his calls. As in, if I phoned him tomorrow, he wouldn't take it.

Him: "Last time I saw you was on production for Saved by the Bell."

Me: "WOW!"

Him: "Are you working these days?"

This is our opportunity to crow about how far we've come from the days of bagel runs and fielding lunch orders from fat writers.

Me: "Yes. I'm a writer." (I'm not sure he believed me with my Emmy award winning dialouge of 'WOW'. So I attempted to play it extra cool. "I wrote for a few big shows, like, a looooooooooong time ago. And now I'm writing for magazines. Sometimes. When I'm not running around after toddlers. I love being a mom. And being married. Well, most of the time. Sometimes it sucks more than a day on a teenage sitcom set. Remember when the extra from the basketball scene did a very dirty manuever with the potato from craft service?" (There, that showed him.) "What about you?"

Him: "Fifteen years in the biz." (Of course. It might help if he told me what exactly he did, but since he remained silent, I took it as Hollywood talk for "I'm much more advanced than you, so don't call me, I'll call you.... in about ten million years."

Lucky for him he was indeed saved by the bell when his wife ambled to his side. We made awkward introductions as they stammered about the movie they were en route to see.

Me: "Wait!" I fumbled in my purse for my photo of my little productions. "Four years in the biz." I offered up a lovely scratched up wallet from last year's Picture Place fiasco. A sippy cup had spilled on an insurance check, which then bled onto my photo, so lucky me had outdated kid shots with smeared blue ink around the edge.

Him: "Ah, cute. Well, good seeing you."

Me: "Wow!"

I was glad he was gone. We didn't get along ten years ago and there was no love fest today. I would never think of him again.

Which is precisely why, when I got home, I Googled him immediately. He's a visual effects producer now. I considered emailing him to see if he could graphically enhance my ripped up wallet photo, but of course I am too busy writing blog entries for free to waste my time on being catty.

Moral of this Stranger Story: Sometimes it's best to let strangers stay strangers.

WOW!

PS: I won the award above from Gretchen (http://gretchen-quantumleap.blogspot.com/) I am honored and thank you! Rock on!

Tired of Me

"I'm querying..."

"I'm cooking..."

"I'm carpooling..."

"I'm cleaning..."

"I'm ebaying..."

"I hate my children..."

"I want ten more children..."

"I hope my husband gets smushed by a comet on his way to a Voyager convention..."

"I love my husband so much I wish he could be beamed into my arms right this second. Or in thirty minutes after he gets me a Diet Coke."

"I'm so anxious."

"I'm so relaxed!"

"I need to exercise."

"I'm fine with my cellulite. Jiggles made jello millions. What's to hate?"

Bla.

Bla.

I'm so tired of myself I can't even think Boy George straight. And so, for the next month, I will be posting about strangers. Or in Mama P translation, "People I meet and talk to every day."

As many of you know, it's quite shocking the amount of info I can get out of someone I not only wasn't introduced to, but a person who had no desire to talk to me in the first place.

Their reversations aside, I can get more personal history out of a first generation Asian drycleaner within a 2 minute time period (kids gnawing on metal hangers not withstanding) than many of their offspring can get during an entire Chinese New Year celebration.

Call me nosy. Call me friendly. That's the way I roll. (Or in the case of the drycleaner, that's the way I "egg-roll.") Oh, shut up, people. That was funny.

Today I pitched a national magazine this very concept - a blog with the slant of "learn to build confidence with Mama P's speaking skills!" Oh, but now I'm talking about me again. And I'm so over me. Judy Garland Over the Rainbow OVER IT. And so, I give you...

The dad at preschool today.

Nice looking guy. Pretty confident for someone in a room where about 50% of us were probably menstruating and denying our husbands sex (either because of menstruation or "just because.")

Never saw him in my life. He was chatting with another woman about traveling, babies, and how quickly kids grow out of stuff.

I see my entrance and I take it.

I mention thrifting.

He mentions resale websites.

I mention my Ebay site.

He mentions my favorite words on the planet "Kids grow so fast, why pay retail?"

I leave my fancy-schmancy preschool feeling better about the fact that I'm not the only one who gets a kick out of 85cent Polo shirts on sale at the Salvation Army.

Today's lesson about talking to strangers? Validations for being cheap.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's post. Before long you, too, will be able to saddle up to serial killers and find out their secret casserole recipes.

Jumping Into Monday

It's another week ahead of us, huh? What do you all have going on?

For me this means summer school for Stink, park and rec classes for both rug rats tomorrow night, 4th of July festivities on Wednesday, laundry, laundry and more laundry. Did I mention laundry? I also aim on getting some more queries out the door. I'm so close to a few things, but don't want to jinx anything by talking about it.

Am I doing orgasmic back flips over the dog and pony show of responsibilities ahead? I think not. But for tonight, I'll savor the memories of some well spent family time.

Rex took Friday off, and though he spent a good part of the day working on the lawn (the second love of his life next to cars... and computers and... um... moi), he also spent a lot of time with the kids and me. We went to a local park where water shot out of the ground in sporadic bursts, causing much shrieking from the kids (and Rex who almost lost his blackberry in the flood of agua that drenched his six three frame.) We dried off and went out for Mexican food at a local hole in the wall and enjoyed a margarita while the kids doodled on paper place mats and Pip periodically bled all over her vintage Holly Hobby dress. (Gotta love nose bleed season. At least there was lots of salsa, so it kind of blended into her patch work corduroy.) We survived a spontaneous adventure to Chuck E. Cheese last night with Topanga T and Drive Thru B (Chuck E. Cheese's new slogan? We're birth control for single folk!)

Today we did a pot luck swim party with Rex's alumni from his In and Out Burger days. Burgers, watermelon, no drowning toddlers? A good day indeed. (Though why I spent 400.00 on swim classes to have my kids float around in blow up rafts shaped like lady bugs on botox is beyond me.)

As the 4th of July approaches, I can't help but feel grateful for my country. For Rex's job that provides such a nice life for us. For my ability to use my talents to provide such a nice life for us as well. To be able to dream about the future. To know that I have medical insurance to help me through rough times when the future doesn't look so happy.

To be truthful, it's not like I'm always this optimistic - about my life or our Morman postcard weekend snapshot: Our little family of four holding hands and singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Fart" (Stink is quite the composer) as the kids plow Rex into the ground with kisses and head bonks. There are plenty of times when Rex travels, or he's doing computer work and can't be interrupted. Like any couple, we fall into the trap of running our lives like a corporation: "You take the kids for X hours while I shop and clean floors that the kids will pee on two minutes later, then I'll take them while you geek out over Star Trek DVDs and plant trees that resemble swamp things. Oh, and don't forget to be stupid enough to think that later, when I'm feeling super sexy from the Batman chicken noodle soup that splashed onto my only decent cocktail dress that you're going to get laid..."

Any married couple knows that when that starts, the last thing you want to do is think of the other person's needs.

But lately we are doing a lot less of defensive "I need I need I need" and doing a lot more "what's best for us as a unit."

If I doubted this method would work before, I know it to be true when, as of an hour ago, he offered to vacuum my car while I cleaned off the work bench. Earlier today he bought doughnuts "just because" and took Stink with him on an impromptu Home Depot run.

I am more than elated at this change of scenery in the Mama P household. It did not come without a lot of soul searching and speaking up on both our parts, but it's been so worth it.

In conclusion, I stand by my slogan that Chuck E. Cheese is birth control for single folk. But when your executive husband gets down on his hands and knees to play skee ball with your toddler for the tenth time in a row? That's pretty damn sexy in my book. I'm thinking that someone's going to get a nice little prize later (and it's not even going to cost him a token. What a deal.)