My First Submission

Okay, so it's not a submission yet. It's an article that needs a query to certain magazines. And the cuss words have to be taken out (not mine, the authors) depending on what publication I submit it to, but it's done. It's been checked off my to-do list and sent to the author for editing. After a week of fighting a cold, scurrying Sophie to Kaiser for a ripped eye cornea, dealing with busted cars, rain and a surprise job orders (long story) , it's a blessing to have this off my mind. And I'm proud of it. I can now sleep in coughy, achy, sneezy peace. My remaining goal: The pilot. I didn't make this Friday's mark, but I'll hit the Thanksgiving draft mark, and then I can get my Girl Scout Badge. And stuff myself silly with turkey. And sleep like the dead. (Oh wait, I have kids. I'll be too busy feeding them turkey to eat it myself. And with my luck, those rugrats won't sleep, which mean I won't either. But I'll still be thankful, because that's how dorky I am.)

Please let me know if this article would make you consider reading this book. Or not. I'm open to suggestions (If you hate it, save it for Monday so I can finish my pilot in a delusional state of accomplishment. Grassy ass)

The article:

Marrit Ingman’s musical tastes range from The Telephone Company (popular among the toilet training crowd) to Nine Inch Nails. She’s an advocate of breast feeding and organic foods. She swills coffee and is a self-proclaimed pie junkie. She’s a devoted wife and mother. Yet when her son was 15 months, she considered driving her car off Highway 183 to get away from the pressures of family life.

Such is the duality of 33-year old author, Marrit Ingman. In her first book, Inconsolable, published by Seal Press, Ingman portrays a dark, disturbing, and real version of her experience with post pardum depression. If Brooke Shields is the Hollywood PPD cover girl, Ingman is the anti-Hollywood mug shot. Raw, raging, and always poignant, one isn’t sure to wash her mouth out with soap or hug her.

Academically educated and schooled by life, Ingman’s writing is at once intimidating and approachable. It’s intense and casual. Not many people can use the words ‘platitudinous’ and ‘bad-ass mama’ in the same sentence, but Ingman rocks it. If Ingman were a baker, her cakes would be fluffy, but the frosting would be black. It’s this darkness, and eventual journey into light, that makes Ingman’s book so compelling.

Inconsolable isn’t a book that sugar coats the post-pardum. There’s no black and white portrait of Ingman on the front cover, looking wistfully away from the camera in classic Herb Ritt’s contemplation. Instead, Ingman shines a glaring spotlight on her mental deterioration. Part Girl scout leader, part crime scene investigator, this author is a no nonsense mama when it comes to telling it like it is – detail by gory detail. Take page 4 as an example: “With PPD, you might feel as if you caused a person to exist and every moment of his or her life is misery. You have made life’s biggest and most irrevocable mistake. You need to get the fuck out of here, and you’ll do whatever you can-you’ll put a gun in your mouth, you’ll cut yourself – to stop the racing thoughts in your head… you are a piece of shit. Killing yourself would be a blessing to your child.”

While the faint of heart might initially cross Inconsolable off their book club list, they might also reconsider switching their coffee to whiskey and giving it another go. What Ingman’s book lack’s in platitudes it gains in reality. And like truth of any kind, this book is real, and one needn’t be afraid. Ingman would be the first to agree that if Woman #1 in the book club never had an ounce of post pardum depression, good for her. She can use this book as a “Thank God that was never me” example. But say Woman #2 had some thoughts about hating herself and her child, but all she had was Woman #1 to talk to? Inconsolable would do a fabulous job of making her not feel so alone.

Of all the insights Ingman has into womens’ many expectations of motherhood, it’s this theme of isolation that seems to rise again and again. In her chapter “The United States of Generica” she states, “I saw all these mothers walking around with their babies in Pope-globe hermetic strollers. I had no idea there were so many other people with children in my town. I’d flag them down, but there’s no place for us to stop and stand, to talk to one another… it concerns me that for so many post-pardum women walking around the mall with the baby is their way to ‘go out.’ Go out and what? Be isolated in public?”

On several occasions, Ingman delves into the concept that while mothers go to places where other mothers are, everyone works so hard to pretend that they aren’t mothers. When she first discovered she was pregnant, she admits she had unrealistic fantasies herself: the Ikea rocker, the baby sling, the cool haircut, and her baby in retro tee shirts. She’d be so cool, no one would even know she was a mom! But life changes, sometimes for the good, sometimes for the bad. And her message is loud and clear: It’s okay. She smirks, “I sure wish I could be sexy or political, though. I wish depressive mothers could have alt.fan Usenet groups. I wish people would write graphic novels about depressive maternal superheroes who mange to get out of bed and floss and resist suicide.”

While much of Ingman’s novel focuses on dire facts of post pardum depression, it’s her personal anecdotes that keep the reader from feeling like they’re being preached at. There’s laugh out loud passages of play group drinking games. There’s the Leapfrog caterpillar her husband, Jim, programmed to say a certain F word. There’s three pages devoted to categorizing different kinds of mothers, from “The Sunday School Mom: Wears floral-print smock dress. Tends flock; likes ovine metaphors.” There’s the “Free-Market Mom: Wears Nikes and American flag t-shirts made in Pakistan by ‘terrorists’.” And of course, “The Crazy Mother: Wears stained maternity panties and the tiara from her kid’s toybox…My score: HIGH. ‘Nuff said.”

She goes on to conclude that all these categories are for crap. It’s this sectioning off of parents that make motherhood so hard. Instead of tearing each other down to make each other feel better, Ingman encourages women to support each other. Her message: If you want to wear your kid in a sling and eat Vegan, good for you. If you want to shop at Walmart and wear white Keds, go for it. Ingman, who admits she’s critical, is also first to admit that we need to stop being so judgemental and just get on with doing the best we can.

Once in a while, despite the darkness, and despite the rage, Ingman sneaks gentler feelings of motherhood into her memoir. She’s mentally healthy now, and in a passage of rare vulnerability, writes,“In spite of everything, I have fallen in love with my child. When he nurses, he runs his fingers along my other arm and threads them through mine. His hand feels spidery. I tell him, ‘Nose to nose,’ and he leans into my face and presses his nose to mine. We sit like that for several seconds.’

It’s these moments of softness that make Ingman such a forceful writer. Like that feral cat you just can’t trap, she’s wild and unpredictable. You’ll never catch her standing still. But then there’s the rare moments when she eat out of your hand. And you smile at the warmth of it all. But don’t get too close… she might bite ya.

Inconsolable can be found at major book stores, as well as Amazon.com. It is distributed by Seal Press.

Women Are Crazy III

Not an hour after I finished my last post, Nick interrupted my bath with terrified screams of caterpillars in his bed. I should have been annoyed, but I got out of the tub, threw on my tye dyed shorts and tank, and joined him in his little star bed nestled in the alcove. We sat there with our arms wrapped around each other and chit chatted about his friends at school, him in his little sing-songy voice. "Deeeecalin hit me, and I said NOOOOOOO... you don't hit Dominic!" and he goes on to add "I love Deeeeecalin, tooooooooo." Despite it being 11:15 pM, we sat up on the pillows, clapped our hands on our laps like in circle time, and sang "Good morning, good morning, good morning to you! Good morning, good morning, good morning, good morning to you! The day is beginning, there's so much to do!" (At 'so much to do' the palms go up - very important, apparently). I took the opportunity to adjust the lyrics a bit "The Day is now ending, it's time to go snooooze..." and improvised snores, which didn't exactly calm him down as he proceeded to have a five minute snort session. But eventually I did what I do to James when James starts in on his half hour motor talk... I ignored him. And five minutes later, he was asleep in my arms. I don't know the last time I had this little man breathing into my neck, the smell of him so close I could eat him.

As if the two of my kids had conspired together, Sophie woke up moments later. I went to her, too. Within seconds she was asleep, her little arms wrapped around like a noose. She now takes over my whole upper body, and the warmth of her rocked me to dreamland as quicker than the financial report on CNN. In those moments between waking and sleeping, I forgot about the dishes, and the laundry, and all my unfulfilled career ambitions. It was just me and this little lifeforce, clinging onto what she considered the most important person in the world. She could care less about my paycheck, or my figure, or my domestic skills: Mama, couch, tired... that's it.

I woke to a start at 2am with no Sophie on me. The little munchkin managed to roll off the couch and was sound asleep on the linoleum. I shook her gently to be sure she was okay from the two foot drop. Then I kissed her, set her in the crib, and slept until 7am.

Bad Timing

I haven't written much lately. And what I have written is less than noteworthy (Not that my posts about James screaming about my burning butt is so memorable... just saying...) Chalk it up to a timing thing: When Nick is napping, Sophie is clinging to my leg like a jelly fish screaming "More! More" and throwing Elmo books at my face. When Sophie is sleeping, Nick is watching Thomas the Train and I'm furiously Ebaying, only to exit my office to find him on top of the kitchen counter, microwaving Kosher salt. When the kids are together, Nick is poking Sophie in the eye with back yard sticks, or throwing leaves in her hair, or hugging her so hard she can't even scream (a first for Sophie). More often than not she is screaming so loud I can't even hear the phone ring. I'm so mentally drained from giving Nick Time Outs that today I just pretended not to see him swipe Sophie's bottle then proceed to suck it down under the wicker outdoor couch. When my angels are playing together nicely so I can cook dinner, I look out the kitchen window to find them throwing Legos in our three legged turtle's tank. (At least if they get salmonella I can blame the tortoise and not my chicken). I know that motherhood is about giving up time. And I know that unless I have the funds for a nanny or maid, this is just how it is. But the past few days, it's been rough. I want to finish my writing without explaining that dogs don't need to eat raisins. I want to have normal conversations with adults that doesn't end with "And do you need to go poo poo?" Just today I was talking to Nick about strangers. I said "What do you do if someone you don't know comes up to you and wants to take you away?" He responded, "I'd say 'Take Me!' ". I am keenly aware that these years are all too brief. I cry at least once a month about the kids growing up and leaving me. When Sophie runs full steam ahead with her toothy grin and shrieks "Mama! Mama!" I wouldn't trade it for a fancy sitcom or all the Elmos in K-Mart. But right now I feel a bit hazy. Beaten up. Like my life consists of these tiny little threads of conversation and activities. If you put all the threads together, sure, there's a blanket. But the squares are all a bit uneven. And it smells suspiciously of sour milk. How do we find balance in our lives? How do we not live a life of excuses, but give ourselves credit for doing the best we can, even when the writing isn't done? Even when we ate sugar past 7PM, and our arm strengthening routine consists of hoisting a wriggling Sophie up and down in reps of 12, Pipsqueak squealing delightedly“Gen! Gen!” Even when the house is less than Oprah's designer, Nate Berkus-perfect? Because does Nate Berkus have it so good? He might be gorgeous with a glorious dimple, but his flashing eyes watched his lover drown in the Tsunami, and he now has to explain to his posh gay friends from art school that he's the official spokes model for Linen 'N Things. I know I'm doing the best I can. I look fine. I have accomplished more than some moms with one kid. And if I lived in a crap pile, that would be fine, too. I'm just tired. And I need to sleep. But sleep won't clean my house and get the writing done. Nor will it buy the new quilt I bought from my Ebay earnings. An insightful person would tell me that my list is too long. "Just focus on what you can do and that's good enough." And yeah, the logical side is nodding her head. She's brushing her teeth and going to close her eyes next to the piling laundry But her irrational side wants to forego Zoloft pills for magic pills that transform those two blissful hours after the kids are asleep into 10 hours, giving her time with James, time with her computer (well, James is a computer, so it’s kind of the same thing), time to work out, time to read, time to watch tv... the list of what I'd do is actually longer than my to-do list. On my way to Kaiser yesterday, for Zoloft refills no less, I asked my mom why so many women these days go through what I'm going through... this trying to do it all, even though we know it's impossible. She admits that in her days of mothering, there was no complaining about not having a maid. She just did it. While I happen to think she was a saint, I wonder, too, if all this sacrifice denied her from being something greater. But what is greater than having the love of your kids and family? For all my friends, and my, education and choices, we’re less contented then she was/is. And when I do manage to have a successful day, is it because I’m a really well rounded person, or is it really the self-delusion of the Zoloft, putting a happy spin on the mundane crap of the world – crap that women of older generations not only did, but didn’t complain about. I don’t want to be this mother who spends so much time worrying about her place in the world that she forgets to treasure her childrens’ fleeting childhood. At the same time, I can’t help that inside I have this raging spirit that wants to sometimes paint walls, not clean crayons off them. I want to talk on the phone to San Diego A., not keep Nick from jamming Sophie on the head with an Elmo phone. I want to go out for wine and pasta dinners with James, not deal with whining and macaroni and cheese. Somehow it will all work out. But it’s not going to happen overnight. And if you’ll excuse me, I have ten minutes to list 10 Ebay items, finish Act 2, and begin a query letter. And final note: Because my last few posts put me at risk of sounding like a whiny bastard, I really do want to find a balance in my life, as I’m sure everyone else does. It’s not about being rich, or wildly successful. We have one life to live, and I hope to live mine surrounded by the family and friends I cherish most. If can make some money off my writing to buy cappuccinos and maid service as well, that would be great, too. That’s all I’m saying.

Coking it Up

This just in from Texas Lizzy. I am disturbed. Now do I not only have to feel guilty for indulging in a terrible habit, but I can add 'you're going to die you lame coke addict' to the list.

Enjoy the light read.
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WATER OR COKE? This is really an eye opener... Water or Coke? We all know that water is important but I've never seen it written down like this before.

WATER 1. 75% of Americans are chronically dehydrated. 2. In 37% of Americans, the thirst mechanism is so weak that it is often mistaken for hunger. 3. Even MILD dehydration will slow down one's metabolism as much as 3%. 4. One glass of water will shut down midnight hunger pangs for almost 100% of the dieters studied in a University of Washington study. 5. Lack of water, the #1 trigger of daytime fatigue. 6. Preliminary research indicates that 8-10 glasses of water a day could significantly ease back and joint pain for up to 80% of sufferers. 7. A mere 2% drop in body water can trigger fuzzy short-term memory, trouble with basic math, and difficulty focusing on the computer screen or on a printed page. 8. Drinking 5 glasses of water daily decreases the risk of colon cancer by 45%, plus it can slash the risk of breast cancer by 79%, and one is 50% less likely to develop bladder cancer. And now for the properties of COKE: 1. In many states (in the USA) the highway patrol carries two gallons of coke in the truck to remove blood from the highway after a car accident. 2. You can put a T-bone steak in a bowl of coke and it will be gone in two days. 3. To clean a toilet: Pour a can of Coca-Cola in! to the toilet bowl and let the "real thing" sit for one hour, then flush clean. The citric acid in Coke removes stains from vitreous China. 4. To remove rust spots from chrome car bumpers: Rub the bumper with a rumpled-up piece of Reynolds Wrap aluminum foil dipped in Coca-Cola. 5. To clean corrosion from car battery terminals: Pour a can of Coca-Cola over the terminals to bubble away the corrosion. 6. To loosen a rusted bolt: Applying a cloth soaked in Coca-Cola to the rusted bolt for several minutes. 7. To bake a moist ham: Empty a can of Coca-Cola into the baking pan, wrap the ham in aluminum foil, and bake. Thirty minutes before the ham is finished, remove the foil, allowing the drippings to mix with the Coke for a sumptuous brown gravy. 8. To remove grease from clothes: Empty a can of coke into a load of greasy clothes, add detergent, and run through a regular cycle. The Coca-Cola will help loosen grease stains. 9. It will also clean road haze from your windshield. For Your Info: 1. The active ingredient in Coke is phosphoric acid. Its pH is 2.8. It will dissolve a nail in about 4days. Phosphoric acid also leaches calcium from bones and is a major contributor to the rising increase in osteoporosis. 2. To carry Coca-Cola syrup (the concentrate) the commercial truck must use the Hazardous material place cards reserved for Highly corrosive materials. 3. The distributors of coke have been using it to clean the engines of their trucks for about 20 years! Now the question is, would you like a coke or a glass of water?

I've Been Maid Crazy

So that last obnoxious post re: a maid? I take it back. Not that I didn't feel that at the time, but it's pretty rude to tell people what to get you... especially since I don't really do gifts anyway. Please see it as the altered state of too many nights without James, too many days with kids. James took over a bit more this weekend, the office is almost cleaned out, I'm about to drink a beer and finish off the bedroom paint... life is better.

And James is getting me two days of maid service for Xmas, so everyone can tell me to shut up now about cleaning. Bring on the cheese logs. Bring on the Bed Bath and Beyond soap. You're all going to get something special from one of my favorite class act thrift stores: Super Thrift, Out of the Closet or Salvation Army on Fifty Percent Off Thursdays.

Or a fabulous pair of green velvet fag overalls.

(No offense to any gay readership out there who might enjoy parading around in elf inspired holiday duds... you're fabulous, too. Unless you have no kids, a clean house and a maid. Then I hate you.)

$1.99 and Counting

...That is the price of the going, going...not quite gone green velvet kick my ass Xmas suspender set shown a few blogs below.

Did I mention I love Ebay?

All I Want For Xmas is a Maid

I know it's only November 2, but with all the holiday hype going on, I thought I'd put my two cents in now. Listen up: People, friends, family, neighbors... bums on the corners with two teeth that use their pan handling money for Starbucks and Kinkos internet access to check into this whiny blog... I don't want gift certificates for bookstores, coffee or Macy's. I don't want fancy Bed Bath and Beyond gift packages, because how can I relax in a tub covered in rings, plastic boats, and those bad curly hairs. James, I don't want any more ass warmers for my car, stereo speakers, or anything that needs a wire, plug or batteries.

I need help.

In the form of someone to clean my house so I can take a breather and do what I want to do: be it Ebay, play with the kids, or drink a cup of coffee and soak up my beautiful stained linoleum... I mean, nice house.

As a mom, time is more needed than any gadget. Personal sanity takes presidence over lip liner and gift baskets. I love you all, but if someone gives me one more sweater for my already too small midget closets, it's going back on Ebay.

It's probably tacky to tell the world what you want for Xmas, but I'm having a desperate day. And I'm sending out an S.O.S... as in my house has Sxxx on Sxxx... and I need a maid to clean it up.

Now that I've complained for the day, I'm off to do what women for centuries have been doing and not had the luxury of complaining about: clean my kitchen. Then, I will put at least 10 more things up for Ebay. And write tonite (almost done with Act 1... thank you very much, Susan!)

And on a good note, I know how lucky I am. I have the best friends and family in the world. I don't need presents from you this holiday season - just your presence is enough. But if you came over and cleaned my house for me, I'd love you even more.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Ebay

Inspired by an ebay post sent to me by K, I have taken to spicing up my own holiday listings. My favorite so far is this one, which I will share with you.

With this auction, you will win 3 fabulous things:

1) The opportunity to have some great Xmas photos taken with your son looking more dashing than Rudolf
2) The "oooohs" and "awws" of all your family members as they compliment your darling elf on his classic and old school Christmas duds
3) The perfect black mail photo potential to show his friends when he won't listen to you. Because nothing will embarrass your son more than a photo of his cute little chubby knees sticking out of this designer velour shorts outfit.
And it really is cute. Just check out the photo!

Happy bidding. May all your holiday memories be happy ones.

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James went on to add: "The outfit alone screams 'I'm a nerd'. The bowtie adds an additional 'And don't forget to kick my ass.' "

Funny, James. You very very funny.

My Kid's Costume Was Cuter Than Yours

Do ya think he had any fun on Halloween?

Happy Birthday Texas Dottie

Since I am feeling a bit sorry for my abrupt job termination, I would like to turn happy thoughts to Texas Lizzy's mother-in-law, who I will refer to as Dottie T. Dottie, while I'm thrilled you had a surprise birthday party this weekend, I'm not tickled that my name was used as the decoy. Especially because I was not on some tractor with my munchkins, downing Corona. Instead, I was wallowing in the self-pity of not having a job I thought I had. But all is well. I will get to Texas one of these days anyway, and I hope your day was fabulous. I feel as if I know you through Lizzy, and I can't thank you enough for taking such good care of my good buddy.

I'd thank you even more if you'd say a prayer to the writing god that I finish my g-dxxxx pilot.

Susan, if you're reading this... I have committed myself to my rough draft being done by next week. You will have a polish end of November...

It's not like I have a fancy career as a garage editor ahead of me.

Boo hoo hooo.

See how self-centered I am? Going from Dottie's big day to my own pain? (It's quite shocking I'm not a Hollywood diva yet.)

In The (Disaster) Zone

In a act that can only be described as PMS induced insanity, I spent Saturday night disassembling a daybed with the assistance of two toddlers while James was off internet gaming in Thousand Oaks. Sophie was gratefully locked into her highchair, gnawing off a Whole Foods Fruit Bar like a rat on a rope. Dominic took it upon himself to unearth vintage treasures under Papa’s desk, one of them being a dusty Atari gameset from 1981. After convincing him that the quicker he turned the nobs the faster I would finish unscrewing the daybed, I managed to get the entire set disassembled in under an hour. Like my dream of publishing for a living, these screws held tight, regardless of logic, pushing and unrequited effort. I finally held one side of the screw with a clench type doo-hicky and turned the other side of it with a "flat head" driver (so proud of myself for knowing the name of it). As I finally fell into the groove, the little screws falling like American Idol contestants, I felt very technical and clever. If it were a television show, my yoga-like manuevers, coupled with a few choice expletives, would best be described as This Old House meets I Love Lucy... better titled This Old House Frau.

A normally boring task was rendered entertaining as Nick gave the commentary. "Oh, Mommy, I feel sad that the bed is broken. Nick feel better when it's put back together by Papa." I asked him, "Don’t you think Mommy can put it back together?" And he’d reply, "Mommy, that's silly! Here you go!" At which point he handed me the "Age of Mythology Collectors" disk, found next to the collectors edition of "Star Trek: Judgment Rites."

When I finally had all the screws safely stored in my desk (for Sophie to later find and swallow, stay tuned), Nick took to jumping up and down on the mattress in the hallway. When he tired of that, he actually lassoed an end of it and helped me move it behind the living room couch, accompanying his heaving and pushing with a feigned, exhausted "Oy!"... "Ooooooooooy!". As soon as another item was moved, he added to his repertoire, "Gracias Mommy for helping me move this. Graaaaaacias!"

As is always the case with any home improvement project, one little fix-it caused my entire house to look like the "Hey, Let's Make a Bunch of Crap" bomb exploded. To move the bed, I had to move James' old server near the door. Which got James thinking the next day, "Hey, I really need a new computer". Which got him thinking, "I'll just use the office closet to store the servers". Which led to me taking every box of To Be Sold Ebay items, birthday and holiday gifts, wrapping paper, craft items out of the closet. This included displacing a very content cochroach named Cochran who had been living fat an happy on my upper closet shelf since last November. I finally relocated him to a friendly pile of wood in the backyard.

All closet crapoloa, sans Cochran, is now beautifully displayed in various piles where the bed used to be. My new little mountains de ca ca led me to pondering,"I might as well get rid of the remnants of my ill-fated baby product in the garage and stick them in the Ebay bonfire pile to make room for more failed ventures. Then James cleaned out his desk, and put his"To Be Ebayed Stuff" on my desk.

What we have now, my friends, is an office that looks like a U-Haul storage unit.

And a living room that's housing a daybed.

Which is going to go upstairs where Sophie's crib is for use when she's older.

But before we put the daybed upstairs, we need to break down her crib and store it in the garage. But where in the garage?

Ah, I know... on my work bench, where my ill-fated business used to be!

Of course, during all this chaos, my good friend Topanga T stopped by my house with her brother, Turbo Jo, for an unannounced tour. And based on my post earlier, I swallowed my pride about having things in disarray and showed them around anyway, welcoming them the best I could admist the chaos.

As I outwardly pointed out the dining room, explaining that the Pack N Play is only there because Sophie has no crib, or daybed, I inwardly promised myself that with my new writing gig I would put aside 100/month toward Ikea shelves with nice doors that hid ebay stuff. And smoothe surfaces to display books and pretty coffee cups. There would be lovely nooks for scripts I've written... cute baskets for crisp white paper... inviting cubbies for fabulous family photos... cork boards for WGA invitations and social events. White boards to remind me about my meeting with Oprah. And Elmo. I made a small agreement with myself that my new job wasn't the L.A. Times, but it was something that would get me somewhere.

It was mine.

Whoops, no it's not.

As it turns out, I showed up for work today only to be given the third excuse this week. “Everyone has the flu… maybe you can come back another day?”

Right then and there, I bit my tongue from telling them to “Fxxx off you flaky P.O.S. third rate garage publication” and calmly told them that, for what they’re paying me (or not paying me, as I had of yet not worked a moment), it clearly wasn't worth the time it takes to organize a babysitter and pay her half my salary. I stoicly announced that I would not be their assistant anymore. It was at this moment that the managers fat, pony tailed salesman husband defended that they had just had a string of bad luck - they weren't being flaky! As I looked around at their many piles of mail unopened (no doubt bills and unpaid writers' checks) I reminded them that the day of my interview, they forgot about it and then showed me around in their socks. The first day of work last week they had to cancel, after I arrived, due to a sick computer. And now today they are under the weather. I joked that maybe they caught their cold from the computer, but they didn’t smile.

And neither did I. Why?

Because now I’m home with nothing to show for my time. I’m typing in a U-Haul unit. My phones are busted. My article for Marrit isn’t done. My pilot isn’t done. I have no place to put things to get my life looking more organized and no money at this moment to buy something to do it.

Listen up, people. I am going to ebay every goddamn baby shoe, lamp shade, baby box and Age of Geek Mythology box in my house. If Nick and Sophie get in my way, I will Ebay them, too. With this money, I am buying some new shelves for my office. I am going to repaint. I am starting over.

Like my former bosses fat husband, I swear I am not a flake.

I swear that this writing is going to happen.

But right now, the bad luck fairy is having a fun ride on the “Hey, Let’s Make a Lot of Crap” bomb.

If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

And there’s no room for tears in this office. Later, when I have my new organizational units, I’ll get a lovely Pottery Barn Memory Frame for my sorrows. For now, I’ve got to go. I have pictures to take of my Ebay windfall.

If only I could find my camera.

Maybe it's with my sanity.

If you find it, please email.

I'm An Antique

I spent part of today walking up and down the Sherman Way Antique District with the kids, as well as three cousins visiting from the East coast. I hadn't seen my two female cousins since I was in my teens, so it was an interesting dichomoty - sorting through old nicknacks as we pieced together bits of our own varied histories. While most of our visit was spent in small talk, I felt a certain pride that our lives may be varied, but our blood shares similar makeups. We both knew a Nana (my mom's mom, their dad's mom) who cooked for us in her tiny Boston suburb home and hid candy in the top drawer of her "don't touch" dresser near the living room window. They shared stories of driving their van across the country with our 80 year old Aunt J (their dad's, and my mom's, sister) My favorite story was the one about Aunt J. at 3am, peeing on the side of a deserted highway. Women after my own heart, they took a photo her in case a wild boar came along along and swept her away. They also took a picture of the ground she christened for posterity sake. I can see the scrapbook title now: "The Day My Aunt Whizzed Like a Race Horse".

Tonite we had a little farewell dessert at my mom's house for my cousins and Aunt J. My dad's sister came to meet my cousins, as well as one of my sisters and her boyfriend. As James raced around after the kids and I took photos, I was struck with a bit of sadness that they were leaving so soon. I see my mom's eyes in my aunts eyes. I see a bond that comes from a lifetime of sharing stories and just hanging out. And I know that in a few hours, my aunt is making the long journey back home. Who knows when these two will just hang out and drink coffee again.

The subject led to family being there for each other... And how much society has changed these days: in particular the idea of making appointments to see people. My dad's sister and I have a different view on that topic, and both of us defended our points strongly. While I was mad at first that her view was of the "don't come without calling", I have to say that she's more in line with how society feels than I am. Even my best friend, Cecelia, has told me to not come without notice. I suppose that I forget most people don't publish their innermost thoughts on the internet, and that's okay.

But it's not me to be so private. And isolated. And I want all my friends reading to hear this: If you're having a bad day, come over. I might have laundry, or the dog might be sick, but my coffee is your coffee. My demons are your demons. I am a real person living a real life, and sometimes kids throw up. And sometimes James and I fight. And I might say "Now's not the best time, what's up?" And if you say "I just wanted to hang out" I'll be honest and say that another day is better. But if you're sad over something catastrophic, like Starbuck's ran out of coffee, then by all means, sit down and use my tissues. Just move the bills out of the way. And the vacuum. And the red sock I was looking for since last Wednesday.

To give my aunt and Cecelia their due (because I always see both sides of the situation, making me both a very understanding person and also a major wimp) I probably wouldn't be talking to my friends and family if we didn't have these unwrittten rules of behavior. Good fences make good neighbors. But sometimes I'm sad when I see my aunt and mom getting older and I think about where I'll be in ten years and wish everyone's fences didn't need a code to get in.

Maybe I can sell myself on Sherman Way. I'm kind of wacky, in fairly decent condition, and my thinking about social visits is definitely antique.

PS: Part of my cantakerous mood is due to major PMS, so if you are thinking of stopping by, while you're welcome, it's not advised. In fact, I'd not only put up a fence around me, I'd get some cement blocks. And barbed wire. It's just not pretty.

Girlfriends Part Deux

In a quick addendum to my post below, a big plus to having girlfriends of many years is seeing them have babies. Who will be my babies' friends. Girlfriends in this case of Baby B and Toddler J above, Texas L's kids. I have not yet met Baby B, so I can't really comment on personality. But Toddler J? Opinionated, spirited, more pep than the Energizer Bunny on crack and never stops talking. Takes after her godmama, clearly (that would be me!) Thank you Texas Liz for breeding such a firecracker - we need more of them.

Girlfriends

It's such an obvious statement, but I don't know what I'd do without my girlfriends. I say that about my addiction to Diet Coke, too, but girlfriends never make me want to crap in the toilet. Of course, some of them have made me laugh so hard I have peed my pants, but that's soiling yourself in the positive way.

Besides the obvious statements about how girlfriends keep you up when you're feeling down and "that's what friends are for" bla bla bla, I find that my truest gal pals are those that have never forced me to be anyone who I wasn't. They have allowed me to grow and change, and not held stupid decisions against me. Prime example: Cecelia drove with me from Texas to California. I did not check my tires and they blew up on me outside Arizona. While waiting for a tow truck on a deserted highway, I took in a stray dog, much to the dismay of my current dog in the back seat. That night, while Cecelia, Boo and I stayed at Holiday Inn outside a truck stop, I allowed the stray to sleep in my car. Which he proceeded to deficate all over. I then had to delay the final leg of our journey while my water cooler overheated and I took Boo to the vet for a tranquilizer, given his need to vomit and hump the crap stained Saturn seats. Granted, we didn't talk for a few weeks after we arrived home, but we have taken several vacations since. Sans dogs. And we always check our tires. That's friendship!

I find friends are my reality check against insecurities that sometimes crop up. Example 2: Recently I met a mom who cold turkey stopped talking to me and moved to Orange County. That's fine, and I wasn't devasted, but when you have someone to your home and they suddenly don't return your phone calls, you wonder if perhaps you really did need that extra swipe of Ban. My friends (many of whom I've known for over 20 years, like Texas Liz and Mountain Meg above) console my hurt ego, assuring me that they wouldn't like me if I stunk. And even if I did emit odious fumes, they'd tell me. They'd promise me that my instincts are usually on about people, and if someone doesn't like me, it's that person's fault, and move on - not without a new bottle of antiperspirant for good measure.

The truth is that while I may have no solid financial success in my life (yet) I have the ability to get everyone in the universe talking to me. This ranges from high society Republican judges to Democratic lesbian Chinese street urchins. Everyone has a story, and I'm not afraid to segway the conversation from "Excuse me sir, what's the time?" to "Wow, nice watch." If they respond, "Thanks, I got it in Poland," I can then offer, "Oh, my dad's family was Polish" and whalllllaaa, what we have, my friends, is a conversation. Before long, I learn that they are actually Dutch who have relatives living in Westchester and they're here for final testing to be a kidney donor for their step uncle's fourth wife. And that they love tofu. But not Garden Burgers. It's pure magic. They're invited over for Christmas dinner, end of story.

James recently told me that my ability to chat up every hostess, busboy and patron dining next to us on date night used to bug the crap out of him. It's also what made him fall in love with me. That's one of those half compliments, like my aunt saying my daughter looks exactly like me, only she's much prettier. But I'll take it anyway.

In closing, I would like to thank all my girlfriends, new and old, who are in my life. If I've known you more than 20 years, I can't thank you enough for sticking by my many name, job and address changes. If I've known you less than 20 years and you want to move to Orange county and not return my phone calls, there's always some one-eyed bum on Topanga looking for somene to send a Xmas card to. (But hopefully you'll stick around for some kicks and giggles.)

Pictured: Mtn Meg on left, Mama P me and Texas Liz on right at my 2000 wedding. I love them for convincing me that my choice of a pastel bridesmaid dress really didn't look like the Easter bunny vomited pink Peeps all over me. They lie! They lie! And I adore them for it.)

A Cup of Earl... I Mean, Jen... Gray

Randomly searching blogs and found this... the best blog I have seen yet. The photos are incredible, and the poetry, and the writing. I won't be posting for a month and a half since I have so much catching up to do on hers.

http://www.jengray.com/archives.html

Ode to Pipsqueak

Ode to Pipsqueak

Even when my job is caving in
And I'm saddened by my double chin
When it's cold and dreary in the Valley
And my fat butt's screaming "Go join Bally's!"
When I'm feeling less than on my game
And suddenly it starts to rain
It's nice to know with all the drama
Pipsqueak clearly loves her mama

Baby girl, I adore you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My First Day - a Vacation Day!

Since my boss told me to come at 12, not 10, I took advantage of the time and rewrote my opening pilot scenes at the Corner Bakery. It's amazing what can get done in one hour without the kids. Of course, a mom's group came and sat next to me, forcing me to move over a table, but no big deal. They apologized for the noise and I was like "Noise? What noise. Not my kids, so go ahead and wipe their ass on the table... I'm tuning you out."

I stopped at a pay phone at 11:45 to check my messages (no cell phone these days in an attempt to save money. I also figure when I'm in the car, I can actually talk to my kids rather than about them, strange as that concept is.) Anyway, no message from the boss. So I headed over. She opens the door and lo and behold... the computer is not fixed, so no work for me.

That's fine. I went thrift shopping and bougth Stella a quilt for her birthday. Fifty dollars in the hole and no money from working, I arrived home at 2.

Am I dissapointed? Yes. Terribly so? No. Surprised? No. Like I said a few posts earlier, you don't get handed a job that pays you under the table with flexible hours, working out of someone's garage, without a price. I mean, it's a legit paper with 70,000 copies printed bi-monthly, but it's a mom and pop shop. Part of me wants to say forget it and not go back. Part of me feels like "what the hell... I'll do it a few times and make some Christmas money. Plus if this woman can make a living being this disorganized, can you imagine how I could run a paper from my house with what I learn from her?" But it's discouraging.

Which leads me to drinking too much coffee.

Which gets me hyper.

Which gets my mind a whirling, leading me to this thought:

Every area of my life, from my relationships to finances, have improved when I've set boundaries. I refuse to live anything less than a full, non bullsxxx life. In my heart, I know this gig is pure crap. But there's this side of me that so desperately wants something of her own outside the family. And I can't give of myself 40 hours a week to an agency. Or art house. Or Starbucks (hee hee). So I will hang on a bit longer.

And this thought leads me to the next thought:

When I look at the big picture, I can't help but notice that I'm not shopping at Nordstroms. I'm thrifting. I'm not hiring babysitters regularly. I'm trading time. I'm not getting haircuts for myself. I'm spending money on the kids. How much of this is me being practical, and how much of it is me not setting the bar high enough?

Which leads me to my final thought of the blog:

I will stick to my plan of staying debt free, meanwhile filling up my soul with the things I love. I am determined not to finance my persona. As much as I hate to quote Dr. Phil, I like his attitude about "getting real" - stop whining about being a victim (because I'm really the luckiest person alive) and make the best of everything I have (which is a ton) At some point, the big job will come. The great pay, real deal where you actually bust your ass but bosses show up and you have a working computer and your job's address is in a business park, not a cul de sac. Then I'll get the monthly hair highlite, my Pottery Barn office. My daily lunches out at establishments that don't boast plastic toddler Habit Trails (these structures made by their recycled nuggets). By 40, I will be in the best mental/physical shape of my life and have that "it girl" house, job and social life.

Then I'm making James get a reversal so I can have another baby.

Again I will say it: Women are Crazy.

Starting my Job at 10... no 12

After dressing 2 kids, dressing myself, preparing breakfast, lunch, sippy cups, bottles and beds (to make Great Grandma Stella's babysitting gig a smoothe adventure) I got a call from my boss. "Computers are down and yours isn't fixed yet. Can you start at 12 instead?" Sure, what the hell. The old Andrea would have been upset. Like my ex boyfriend, Big B, I did all this prep work only to have a switch pulled on me. Of course, this was only an hour of prep and the time was swapped, not 4 years of prep to have his sexual preference swapped... but still! The old me would have been irked. The newer Mama P me? "Ah, hell... I have a sitter. This is just two hours of extra time for me to write that damn pilot at Starbucks. Besides, I'm not working this newspaper gig to pay my bills. Let's just see where it takes me."

People, I can't guarantee Valley Scene is going to land me a column for Daily News, or some tv show. But I do promise lots of fun stories. And James, if you're reading this, YES IT IS WORTH THE EFFORT FOR NOW... I'M GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE.

Good bye. I'm off to spend 5.00 of money I haven't made yet on a Starbucks cappucino. Hmm... maybe I should work there? But not the one on Nordhoff. The one in Studio City on the corner of Coldwater and Ventura. Then I can charm my way into being "friends" with some writer from Radford Studios and then get a job. Of course, before this fantasy happens, I will spend more on gas than my paycheck. Which will piss James off. Which would cause lots of fun blogs.

See how fxxxed up my thinking is?

Thomas the Pain

After an entire month of pushing the commercialization of Halloween on my young son, Nick wanted nothing to do with his Thomas the Train costume today. It made little difference that Toddler B was gesticulating and kick boxing his Buzz Light Year costume like a kung foo cartoon on sugar. Sophie's baby kitty costume, resplete with painted whiskers and nose (thanks to Mommy's Mac black eye liner) made as much of an impact as Anita Shrive's "Light on Snow" made on me. He was not having any Trick or Treat, gawk at pumpkins, isn't Fall wonderful kind of action. I finally said "When all your friends are in costume, what are you going to be on October 31st?" He replied, "I go as Dominic."

Fair enough.

Goodbye James, Part 4

Our fourth goodbye in one month. Godspeed, God bless, and get your butt home soon. I miss your help putting the kids to bed at night... I mean, I miss your smile.

Other updates:

* Mrs. V had her baby on Friday - Vincent Edward - 7 pounds, 7 oz. Congratulations Mrs. V! I can't wait to find out the details. All I know is she went into the hospital in the morning and he was born at 1:30 Pm, so that was one fast delivery.

* My first day of work is Monday. The kids' great grandma, Stella, is coming over to watch the kids for a few hours while I do my thing. More later on this 84 year old dynamo. All I can say is she lives in a trailer park, drinks martinis that can start a car each day at four, and is going to her park Halloween party as a pregnant ballerina. She's a pistol, and sometimes a pain in the ass, but so am I, hence our friendship.

* Got my SUV back from the shop. I am starting to regain strength in my lower spine after hunching in the oompa loompa mobile.

* Almost done with my article on Marrit. Any of you out there in cyberspace who have article ideas or businesses you're trying to get off the ground (and you live in the Valley) please email me with suggestions. I'll plug you as much as I can.

* Looking forward to seeing Cecelia and Slim tonite. Slim is working 7 days a week finishing up a movie (he's a special effects/graphic guy). Cecelia and I laugh that I wanted Hollywood and married Computer Guy, and she wanted low key and married Hollywood. Life.

* My 83 year old aunt from Conneticut is arriving via car on Monday with her two nieces. She's coming equipped with vegetarian recipes and oxygen. Should be awesome.

* Nick just ran in very upset. James is about to leave and Nick's screaming "I want to go on the airplane toooooooooooooooo".

* Texas Liz is doing well with Baby B and toddler J. No problems with B at all despite a down syndrome scare.

* My sister in law is going to be husbandless for 4 - 6 weeks while he's on business. Without two kids, her alone time can actually be alone time, and I applaud her. You go, K!

* Sophie says about 15 words now: "Up!" "Da (down)" "Boo!" (our dog) "Pa Pa" "Ma Ma" "Dace!" (for dance) " Ba ba" (bottle) "Ma!" (more) "Gain" (Again) "Bye" "Hi". If I ask where her nose, ears, toes or belly is, she points. She gives head bonks on command and kisses. I adore her.

* Nick is now taking apart my 8.00 sewing basket that's supposed to be for my ebay stuff. So much for "me space".

* James and I spent 100 last night on a babysitter, food out, martinis and icecream. We're bloated more than Britney Spears.

* I finished Anita Shrieve's "Light on Snow" and was not impressed. I'm now reading "Good in Bed" about a heavy girl in her thirties living in the east coast missing her boyfriend. It's writing is good, but kind of like every other novel about a girl on the east coast looking for love. Very oh so clever and witty. A bit overwritten. Then again, so are my blogs, so maybe I have hope. I finished last month "Hypocrite in a White Pouffy Dress" - now that was FUNNY. (I'm reading this and thinking 'how do I have time to read all this but have no time?' Again, women are crazy. )

* Speaking of, must finish pilot for Susan. Almost done Susan.

This post is not very insightful today. I leave you with a quote from the Oprah Magazine, who quotes Eleanor Rooosevelt, "We have to face the fact that either all of us are going to die together or we are going to learn to live together, and if we are to live together, we have to talk." Eleanor, talking is not an issue for me.

Side note: My father had a friend named Leonard who was our plumber (my dad was always befriending the plumber, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker) Leonard heard Eleanor Roosevelt was coming to the Valley and wrote her, inviting her for coffee. She responded in the positive. So, one fine day in 1970 something, the plumber and the First Lady had a hot beverage in his newly retiled kitchen in Canoga Park. I love that.

Working Girl

I am now the assistant editor our local paper, Valley Scene. I can come in jeans, work 12 hours a week (whatever hours I want) and even brought Sophia to the interview. They are looking for my creative vision for story ideas. I get my own desk. They are very kick back. This is either a very good thing I deserve, or like many good things, in about two weeks I am about to get my butt kicked into next Tuesday.

Some Times You Feel Like a Nut...

Those of you over 30 will know the response to that fun little ditty. Those of you under 30 are most likely not reading this blog, which leads me to my entry of the eve. I happened to find myself with two tired toddlers at a Thousand Oaks Mazda dealership this morning. Giving a good name to female drivers everywhere, I promptly told the technician that I needed the doo- hickey fixed on my engine light-ma-bob. After a quick smirk, I was shuttled over to Enterprise where I would be given the smallest car in the history of time. I'm telling you, Dudley Moore would have to slouch. (Side note: For those of you under 30, you probably wouldn't know who Dudley Moore is either. And, I know a woman who had sex with him back in the 70's. Hi JJ if you're reading this.)

When I first walked in the rent-a-car bungalow, a twenty something girl with acrylic nails and fake tan perused my paperwork, then shrieked, "Oh my God, your name is Andrea? My roommate's name is Andrea!" Wow, the odds. Then Dominic overflooded the Sparklett's water cooler and peed on the floor. On my way to the bathroom, I heard her gush to her fellow Friend's cast members, "Her kids are like, sooooo cute... doesn't she look just like Andrea... I mean, if Andrea were a lot older?"

All humor I was using to diffuse the urnine on the linoleum left my body quicker than a straight man at an Erasure concert. How old do I look? I'm 35, not 75 (sorry, Mom). And not just that, but I thought I looked cute today. I had on my flared sweats, purple tank, chunky black beads (that I got this weekend in Santa Monica, thank you very much for lunch, Megz) and a denim head scarf. Sort of a J.Lo meets Aunt Jemima. It was working. Or so I thought.

When are we officially old? Am I going to be one of those women who my girlfriends and I used to pity when we were single, thinner and full of the ego only the freshness of youth supplies? It seems like yesterday Cecelia and I were having leisurely lunches in the NBC cafeteria. "Oh, look, there's Jay Leno. And oh, shit, there's that VP in the BeBe jeans. Should someone tell her that the drop down waist only works if its accompanied by stripes on your tank top, not stripes from stretch marks - big red arrows screaming to the world, 'Goodbye J Crew... Hello JC Penny!' " (We really had no room to criticize. Our polyester zoot suits were not exactly the epitomy of French couture. And the rainbow peacock on our lapels did nothing to dispell the image that we were girlfriends, not girlfriends. Not that there's anything wrong with that, bla bla bla... )

I know that youth is how you view life, not your age. But sometimes, my ego needs a tune up. Too bad women don't come equipped with warning signs, like in my SUV. Instead of "Check Engine Light" it could say "Wooo, two words sistah: Camel Toe". Like my car at its yearly physical, we could check into a "Keeping it Real" clinic where women of all ages can support us in our endeavors to feel hip, but slap the crap out of us when our delusion gets in the way of good taste.

On a positive note, guess who has a meeting for an assistant editor at the paper she already writes for? 12 hours/week, lots o' perks... Is it fate that just last week I made a plan to start making money and this fell into my lap? I think not.

Gotta run. My "Spend Time With James" light just buzzed.

The Happiest Place on Earth

The joy of having two kids a year and a half apart is that just when you are sad about your older one leaving a precious milestone behind, his younger rugrat is there to take its place, often adding to the preciousness (is that a word?) Ex: Not only does Sophie dance on command like Nick used to, but she also shrieks "dace! dace!" and does this half "Staying Alive" half "Alleluia, Amen" move to boot.

The negative about having two kids so close in age is that when one one has a bad day, this usually transfers onto the other in the form of hitting, pushing or screaming no about as many times I've tried to tell Diet Coke to buzz off. Today is one of those days. Nothing is settling Nick down, nothing is making Sophie sleep. It reminds me of something my sister-in-law said to me this weekend regarding her still child-less status. Something like "everyone I know has kids, and while they wouldn't change it for the world, they're still super frustrated. I'm not ready to join that crowd quite yet." And why should she? She's just 32. When she's ready, she's ready, and she'll be phenomenal. I'll never forget last Christmas. She came over December 22 to give me a well needed rest. In the two hours I was gone, she cooked a lasagna from scratch, Sophie on her hip and Nick begging for Cheerios (at that time they were 'Cheeri-o-nonon-no-nonnny os' , morphing him from a young toddler into a bad impersonation of a Chinese hot dog vendor.

Getting back to her comment about people loving their kids, but always trying to get rid of them... I can't deny that. At least one entry a week is dedicated to my efforts to find balance between being being homebound with munchkins and needing alone time for other essentials like thrifting, Starbuck stalking, and exercizing (exercizing translating into me sitting on the couch watching Oprah reruns about diet and fitness while I down 40 Twin Dragon Almond Cookies and commit to sign a Bob Green Diet contract that very evening, before I fall asleep, head first, drooling in a butter and lard coma).

Despite this reality, I can't say how much I do really adore my kids. For every 1 moment of wanting to go Andrea Yates on someone's Huggies, there's 20 moments of pure joy and equally as many of medium happiness (This being where I wonder if there's not a way to make money for myself while mothering, but I'm mostly settled into my role as Felicity Huffman's character on Desperate Housewives.)

For those 1 in 50 moments, rather than wish I never had kids, and rather than hitting, screaming or calling James in a tear ridden panic with desperation filled pleas of "Come home or I'm leaving you forever with these hellions! But not before I take a picture of you freaking out over the 30th dish you've done so I have some memories to make me smile as I go to sleep in my Arkansas double wide" I do something very motherly: I lock my kids in the garage. (Now this last statement qualifies me as either worthy of jail time, or winning an award for "The Officially Longest Run-On Statement Blogger Has Yet to Publish")

Now before all you non-parents out there turn me into Social Services, let me explain that my garage is attached to my house. I shut the garage door where any perverts, gardeners or mere looky loos can steal my kids (because 2 howling toddlers is so appealing). I then grab my lap top and sit on the step outside the garage and type (like now... under an umbrella... in the rain... it's all I ever dreamed a writing career would be). The beauty of this technique? The kids automatically calm down because they think they're going on a trip. I don't lie to them and tell them "we're going to the beach!" but I usually tell them a story about Disneyland a few minutes earlier. If they want to project that they're going to the Magic Kingdom, so be it.

This gives me about 15 mintues of blessed quiet time. Then for another 5 minutes they start to pip and squeak, but they can't go anywhere, becaues they're in their car seats. And then when they really get upset, I turn off the laptop and we drive somewhere, calming them down once again. Our destination? Not as magical as Disneyland, but the kids simmer down once again, rendering our funfilled journey to the cleaners and post office a peaceful, happy affair. Chillin kids means relaxed mommy which, when we get home, equates our home to "The Happiest Place on Earth" once again.

I'm telling you, two kids, two car garage, you, too, can find solace.

The Zoloft on the Bus Goes "Chill Out Mama... "

As any of my friends and posse know, I love my son even more than Diet Coke. That's ALOT. But if there was ever a day to bitch slap a todddler, today was it.

I'd talk more, but it's either slack off and read some more "Light on Snow" or drive head first into the McDonald's on Nordhoff and not stop the SUV until the soda machine is permanently lodged in my esophagus

Happy Birthday Papa

Happy birthday James -

Something for you to ponder as you enter a new year: You are quickly moving up the corporate ladder, you have the mind of a super computer and are better looking than JFK Jr. These attributes might make you feel smarter than God. You are also, however, thick headed, rigid at times and not exactly Gumby in the flexibility department. At 34, you are also older than God.

My point? You are an angel when it comes to our kids and put up with a devil of a wife.

Maybe you are God after all?

No way. Jesus might have made long journeys into Galilee, but he was no trekky.

I love you, you grumpy old man you!

(Pictures: Black and white in front of our house when Sophie was 5 months, Nick a bit over two. Sophie is happy despite having a bad mama bowl haircut I tried to hide with pigtails. The piicture of the 3 of us was taken immeidately after Nick was born. James was crying over the miracle of life, and maybe a server he just found out was blown. I was crying from exhaustion and thinking that Dominic resembled Cartman from Southpark. Other photo is of Papa with Sophie screaming right after she was born. She hasn't stopped since. How did a quiet guy like James end up with two crazy women? Lucky guy...)

Pilots Are Sexy

TV Pilots that is. Especially when you have a break in your story and it starts to flow.

I actually got work done today because, weirdly enough, I'm putting time in my calendar to write. I realized if there's room in October for doctor appointments, preschool, trips to the cleaners, Sunday School teaching, birthday parties and car tune ups, there's room for my needs, too.

What a revelation.

Of course, I still got in some prime Mom Time as evidenced in the pictures above - a surprise for James' 34th birthday tomorrow. (And no, I'm not worried about him seeing it before the party because he doesn't check my blog on a consistent basis. Why? Because he has the whole "taking care of what James needs to do first" thing down. And I don't mean that in a bad way. I simply mean that, as a man, it's obvious that free time is spent attending to his needs first, and it's time I get on that train.)

As soon as I put on Thomas the Train for Nick.

And clean Sophie's toy train off so it doesn't mess the floors.

Which have serious tracks of dirt on them which I need to clean.

All before I finish my scheduled writing.

Other random notes:

I hope you feel better, Ceceila.

Bride To Be, congrats on your wedding last week. I wish you a wonderful honeymoon and years of wedded bliss. And when you get out of la la bride land, get your butt over here and take my pictures!

K - way to go on writing that book. I can't wait to edit it with you.

I am so sick of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt I could scream if I weren't already tired from screaming at my kids from runnining into everyone elses' photo sessions at the mall today.

I can't wait to see how Tom Cruise handles Katie Holmes' post pardum depression. I can see her now "I'm fat for the first time in my life! The father of my baby is a couch jumping cult member. I want to drown myself in Dawson's Creek but my huband says it's just hormones and to meditate. Okay... I'm meditating... about how screwed up I am. Where can I get one of those 'Free Katie' tee shirts? I'd scream, but we had a silent birth. Damn scientologists."

My Ex-Husband's Wife

Some of you might know that I was married for about two seconds in college. Leading up to my twenty thousand dollar Calabasas wedding was an unplanned pregnancy, an unplanned miscarriage, and lots of time spent thinking "I'm only 21. What am I going to do with 12 Waterford crystal champagne glasses? I just became legal two days ago and as of last week, I couldn't even drink due to being knocked up." It was truly romantic.

I suppose I was in a bit of denial regarding my readiness to marry when I was so unexpectedly faint I needed a fold-up chair to say my vows – making this the first Catholic wedding of its kind where everyone except the couple stood, sat and kneeled. I also have the grand distinction of being the only bride in Woodland Hills to stroll into Jerry’s Famous Deli, then called Solley’s, in full bridal gear and hurl in the toilet. My whirlwind marriage lasted nine months – with most of that time spent at home with my parents, in denial that I had a person across the state that wanted me at his side. It really was a crappy situation, not just for me, but for him: he was, and is, a truly nice guy who is currently a film teacher in Austin Texas. Luckily I figured out I was hopelessly immature and cut free early, but not without a lot of misery.

Despite being the most depressed I’d ever been in my life, and not quite knowing how a nice girl like myself could end up hurting not just me but another person in the process, this “bad” situation would be a bad memory if I didn’t learn from it. And I did. I vowed to never drag somebody's heart to the altar unless I was ready, never to get pregant before I'm 30, and definitely be as gracious to my kids’ pitfalls as my folks were to me when I told them the marriage wasn't working. I still remember my father's opinion as we sat in the very same deli I vomited in nine months earlier. We were eating corn beef on pumpernickel, a sandwich he never failed to mention was overpriced, when I broke the news about the Big D. "Well", he said, slurping up some 2 cents plain, "I really liked that Swede." (My husband was from Newport Beach, but he had a Swedish last name. My dad had a way of categorizing everyone. If you were married fifty years, he'd still refer to you as the bride. If you were a third generation American with roots in Hong Kong, you were forever the China man.) He continued with "Your little shin dig cost me twenty grand. But what the hell, it was a great party, and it forced me to make a business deal that I wouldn't have made without it.... And you're buying lunch."

My father is now deceased, and I owe him such a better tribute than this tiny blog entry, but there is a point to this story. My dad taught me to see the positive of a situation and not dwell on the negative. And he should know. He was manic depressive, and did the best he could to deal with this disabling condition through medication, humor and, of course, food.

Using my father's take on the world, I am led back to my ex-husband once again. Or his wife, actually. They had been married already about seven years, and about three years ago he emailed me to tell me she had a blog. I had never heard of a blog at that time, and thought it odd that someone would put their innermost secrets on display like a naked mannequin at a Macy's window. Shocking to me was that her display was not only naked, it was raw. And littering the floor of her display case were prescriptions for severe post pardum depression, as well as every potion under the sun for her rash prone toddler. Most noteworthy: This mannequin had a sound card and could shriek enough blue language to scare a pirate off its booty.

Along with her juicy material was an intensity I hadn’t seen in a female writer in quite some time. As one of her reviewers described it, just when I was ready to delete her blog for its darkness, she’d suck me back in with its desire for a better tomorrow where women would share motherly secrets. And frustrations. And suicidal thoughts. But always, like a rainbow after a storm, hope.

Although I found her writing to be impeccable, her witty referrals to literature and movies sometimes annoyed me. The fact that I was voyeristically peeping in to my ex-husband's life left me with a tinge of shame, too. But, like my addiction to Diet Coke, and the fact that I sometimes keep my McDonald's cup and refill it three days later, I just couldn't help myself and read daily.

A few months back I was complaining about it to my husband. I mentioned I liked her blog, but wondered if it wasn’t just a bit too self-involved. Too pretentious. Too ever so clever.

Jame’s response: “Maybe its not that at all. Maybe you’re frustration lies in the fact that you fear she’s a better writer than you.”

Well, there’s that.

And he was right.

And so, I started my own blog. And I still read hers. And like my dad’s way of turning a situation on its head, I decided to give praise where it was due and keep working on my own voice, for what that is worth.

As it turns out, a publisher just released a book about her journey through post pardum and back. Brooke Shields might have beat her to the punch on this topic, but Brooke doesn’t have the wit, the bite and the real life what-it’s-like-to-not-be-a-movie star going through p.p.d. experience. Here’s a review of it, as well as an excerpt. It belongs on your shelf.

http://www.austinchronicle.com/issues/dispatch/2005-09-30/books_feature.html

As for me, I’m not completely without my own agenda. I’ve already contacted Marrit and am going to do a write up in our local paper for her (a paper that I’m a staff writer on. (www.valleyscenemagazine.com) This paper is fairly homogenous, boring family style stuff, but it will be a jump start for me to then submit more flavorful versions to other magazines to get my freelance career started. September isn’t too far away.

The moral of this boy meets girl, boy knocks up girl, girl loses baby, girl gets married, girl gets divorced, both boy and girl remarry and have kids and are relatively stable story is that it’s never to late to make something good out of something that was at one time, well, not so good. At the end of this wacky journey I am hoping we can all say “And we lived happily ever after.”

Or I’ll just lose my entire readership for being a voyeuristic freak.

Whatever works.

Marrit's blog, definitely worth checking out: http://suite102.com/baldo/

McDrama

Although I did refrain from eating a Big Mac, a lot of other fine folk had some huge helpings of McCranky Nuggets, dipped in Pissy sauce. Can parents please not pick fights with other parents at the Ronald McDonald play area? Is it such a big deal that one person's kid is half a centimeter taller than the Grimace sign? Would it be so difficult for the manager to just find a key, or a screwdriver, to open the enclosed plastic bubble bin and rescue my newphew's lost Thomas train? And why does the mother of the teen who rescued Sophie from the big scary overhead netting (the kind that looks like those grates on farm roads that catch cows by locking their hoofs in their openings) have to scream at her daughter "Nooooooooo! Don't do that!", causing her to almost drop my Pipsqueak. And then, when I tell the mother I said it was okay, why does Mom have to then say "No, it's not okay. It's a liability!"

Maybe the mom was right. Perhaps her Abercrombie and Fitch prep school daughter was really a fifty year old child molester and she's saving me years of emotional damage. Perhaps the man who yelled at the young mom to get her tall boy out of the slide area was dying of testicular cancer. Maybe the manager just couldn't deal with fishing out a train that probaby cost more than she makes in an hour.

All I know is that everyone is cranky today. And, sadly, I still have to make dinner. And, less sadly, but a time concern anyway, I need to write.

And bathe my kids.

And clean my floor before the only things not cranky are the cockroaches.

Here's to a better tomorrow with less McDrama and more Happy Meals.

Cranky Pants Is the Theme of the Day

Cranky: Everywhere I have been so far has involved cranky people. Every place I look, there is contstruction going on. When Nick sees the big cranes, he yells "Cranky!" (the name of the big crane in the "Thomas" series who happens to not only have a large hook, but be, what do you know about this... cranky!

Pants: I am irritated that my one good pair of sweat pants now has paint stains. Nick is now in underwear full time, causing me to change his pants at least twice a day. And Sophie got about a million compliments today for her leopard skin stretchies, which Nick refers to as her "Baby Jaguar pants".

Despite running into several Valley snobs who looked at my kids like they were about to vomit in their latte, I managed to have a decent day. My morning started out with Pipsqueak remarkably sitting in her highchair for 45 minutes, babbling to Sesame Street with Nick (reminder to self: Those dumb Replay TV people need to fix our signal so that my son can actually watch Nickelodeon again. For some reason, all we get is choppy blocks worth of animation due to the signal and our Chatsworth winds. Either they need to do something to accomdate this, or send me a child psychologist to explain to my son why Dora's head is always getting chopped off mid show.) While the kids happily slipped into a TV coma, I was able to sip my coffee and actually read. The book of the month: Anita Shreve's "Light on Snow". A friend loaned it to me on Monday. I had no idea what it was about, except that I told the universe that I needed to start reading again, and lo and behold, this book appeared in my lap. So far, I'm not overly impressed with Shreve's writing, but the story about a baby found in the woods is none the less sucking me in.

There is irony in my self-imposed alone time from my babies, only to find myself reading about an infant who desperately needs a mommy. I'm telling you, no matter how much I attempt to establish myself as someone seperate from my kid connection, it's like my breasts emit Mommy radar and any creature or subject matter regarding humans under 3 feet find me. Even before I had kids, I found myself in this midget kick, quite by accident. First there was Armistead Maupin's "Beyond the Moon" about an ex-little person actress and her journey toward love with a six six black man. Wacky, but actually quite good. (If any of you haven't yet read the serial Maupin is famous for, "Tales of the City", run out today and buy it. You won't be sorry.) Then there was "Stones From the River" about a how a little person learns to deal with her condition by helping other unwanted humans (World War II Jews) find shelter in her cellar. And of course, any book about a fat woman with a super personality, a guy with pimples who asks out a determologist, or a teen in a helmet who wants to join the swim team has me crying and rooting for their success.

I suppose something about my six one frame finds solace in other people who manage to move ahead in life despite looking different. Not that being tall is such a big deal now, but as a kid, it sucked. I was always the one in the back row for school pics. The last to be asked for a dance. And as luck would have it, the worst at any sport involving a hoop or a net. The moral: I could have shrunk (figuratively) and stayed this quiet kid. But I figure I'm going to be seen anyway, so I might as well develop a style and a personality. Get some perspective.

Which leads me back to Cranky Pants. I'm tired of people with no perspective. If my kids are being loud, but you see me trying to contain them, can ya not utter the death sigh in my direction? Perhaps your mother didn't adequately care for you, or you were born forty years old fully potty trained, but my kids are real kids and some days they just want to stand on a coffee house chair and spit in the porceline cup. I see it... I'm on them. How about if I'm looking particulary flustered, you smile? Or God forbid, hold the door for me, or even offer to help? I know my children aren't your problem, but if I saw someone in need (particulary a midget, a fat person, a kid with a helmet and most especially, a fat, pimply midget with a helmet dripping wet from her swim team failure), you bet your sweet leopard skin pants I'd pick up the cup they dropped.

It's only 3:15, so maybe I'll meet some happier folk at Part Two of my day: The McDonald's play area. Of course, I have to wake Sophie from her nap to be on time, so perhaps I'll have crankiness in my own family. So far, my house is a sty (since I actually relaxed first thing in the morning rather than do chores like Martha Stewart at a craft sale). I still need to fix dinner, and I have yet to make my writing goals for the month. This, combined with me most likely having to change into my bigger jeans after I indulge in a Big Mac will make yours truly the Cranky Pants.

Life is such a beautiful full circle. One beautiful, fat, cranky circle.

No Excuses

There comes a point in everyone's life when they stop making excuses and decide to make things happen. That hit me at 12:44 am last Tuesday as a shirtless, fever-ridden Sophie lay against me in a hospital bed, sucking up medicated air like a stoner at a frat party. As she dozed into peaceful sleep, I said a silent prayer that everything would be okay. I knew it would be, but one's thoughts start to go to crazy places at the wee hours of the morning. Granted, my thoughts go to weird places at 12PM after a tuna sandwich starts to settle, but you get the point. It hit me loud and clear that there's never going to be a perfect time to find my niche - whatever that niche might be. James will always have some last minute business trip that will force me to tend to the kids. Nick and Sophie will always get some virus from licking one too many foam stairs at the Northridge play area. Some family member will inevitably get ill and need a helping hand. A friend will have a baby. A friend could move across the country. One unsuspecting morning I could wake to find a 3 legged kitten mewing in a basket at my front door. (And then I'd track down Slim and Cecelia and make them take their latest orphaned creature back again -damn bleeding heart cat people!) Whatever the circumstance, there is no point banking my big break on when things settle down, because something's always lurking in the corner to kick my ass, good bad or indifferent.

With this new found enlightenment, I sat down at my computer today, while the kids were sleeping, and made a list of all the things I am dabbling in now that I find personal fulfillment, and potential money, in: TV Writing, Ebay, Freelance Writing, Article Writing. Jack of many trades, master of none? That's me. For every two hundred dollars I make at Ebay each month, could this time be better served querying magazines for thousand buck articles? Or finishing up that damn pilot for Susan? Sure. But that's pie in the sky. How about getting a real job? Or a masters' degree? How about teaching piano or tutoring, or finally writing those childrens' poems I keep talking about? When I put it all on paper, I look like a real dreamer, but the truth is, I do get a lot done in a day. But right now, I'm tired. And 40 is looming closer than 30. And at some point, I want a balance. And it's not going to come from my constant whirlwind of activity. I need less Tazmanian Devil and more Shaggy. And while I'm focusing, I'd some how like to paint the inside of my house, get some new furniture, organize my photos, lose that last ten pounds, read a book, write a book and have quality time with James at the end of the day.

Side note: Hands off to the geniouses that named a woman's nutrition bar "Balance". They know that all women who eat those delicious treats (like me) aren't really thaaaat serious about getting fit and grounded, because if they were, they wouldn't ingest a million calories first thing in the morning and delude themselves that it's healthy for them. Then, they stay that extra 10 pounds over their goal weight, which keeps them chasing their dream, buying more bars, and somehow pretending that the name itself will magically instill balance in their lives. While they are doing this, they can put Baby Einstein in the DVD so that their kids somehow get smart via the VCR (another brilliant name for a product) and drink Diet Coke. Which will make them crap. Which I am off of again as of yesterday.

More exciting goals from me tomorrow. And please, if anyone has any ideas or support, I'd love to hear from you. Of course, this won't help me focus, but I'll focus on focusing tomorrow.

Foc-us all!

Back from the Dead

Let me begin by stating that my lack of posts has been due to all things spooky, sickly and croupy. My son cast a spell over my daughter last week giving her a demon of a cold. I spent several days in and out of Kaiser, including a midnight run to ER for breathing treatments. Then my two day girls trip to San Diego by train took a detour in the form of Dominic coming with me so that Sophie could get full papa treatment. Part of me was very irritated at this turn of events: whose toilet do I have to clean to get a vacation? But the mommy side of me was thrilled to see Dominic's excitement as he boarded the "Thomas Train" like a little man, lugging his train suitcase behind him. In fact, between his suitcase, the diaper bag and the car seat, guess who didn't have her own suitcase? I spent two full days in the same pair of black capris and "I Love Geek" teeshirt. But what the hell. It was fun anyway. As it happens, my girlfriend, Al, from college lives in a fantastic three bedroom town home on the seventeeth floor of a downtown San Diego highrise. It's right across from the train station, so the moment we arrived, I felt like I was in a Richard Scary book - "A Day in the City!" We saw red metro links whizzing by. There were taxis. There was scaffolding over newly erected buildings. There was dump trucks whirring and cruise ships docking. There were helicopters flying and airplanes landing. And, best of all, and closest to my fantasy, there was a door man of sorts in the lobby of Al's building directing us toward the elevator. Once we were inside Al's place, resplete with wood floors, granite counter tops and stainless steel fixtures, I couldn't help but sigh with delight at her expansive ocean view. After putting Nick to bed (who spent all night playing with Al's daughter's toys, as well as their friends' daughter who came over) she and I sat on her cozy white bed, shoulder to shoulder like the old days, and chatted about life as fireworks exploded off the water and reflected on a modern building. To make a perfect moment even better, her darling husband brought us gelato icecream in bed. For those of you who have never had this Italian concoction of pure taste sensation, you must leave this post immediately and wait in line for a cafe' of your choice to open so you don't live a moment longer without this heavenly decadence. And speaking of food, Nick and I were treated like royalty from the moment we arrived. First there was the Quiznos sandwiches that Al bought us from the eatery at the bottom of her building (because in my fantasy, there's a restaurant attached to my highrise also) Later that night, her husband brought home mouth watering Thai food. The next morning, Al's husband made us omelettes and coffee. Everything was so nice, I almost forgot I had a sick baby at home and my girls' weekend was ruined. I was under a spell of all things cooked for me, beautiful home gleaming and the hope of the whole world spread under my feet seventeen stories below.

Like any fairy tale, my vacation ended too soon. I wasn't woken up by a prince, but instead, a drooling toddler who had to use the bathroom. It was reality from there on out as Nick and I soon found ourselves back on "Thomas" headed to the Valley. Four hours of walking the halls, eating at the cafe car and chatting up every toddler on the six coach train, we unceremoniously arrived in Chatsworth. A bolt of joy shot through me as the first thing I saw was Pipsqueak, high on Papa's shoudlers, two pig tails flying. She looked fifty percent better, making my guilt of leaving her (which wasn't much, making me the worst mother on the planet) vanish. James had a mocha frappucino for me as well as a harvest sign he picked up at Walmart. I missed him. He missed me. And Sophie, though feeling better, still couldn't scream due to her enlarged throat.

A happy ending to a fairy tale weekend indeed!

The Welcome Wagon

Adendum to Honesty Blog Below

I would like to add that not only am I grateful that Herb is honest about my writing, but that James is honest about our relationship. Sure, I don't always want to know when I look just like a teenager... because of my zits. Or if my bed head resembles a nice landing spot for a troupe of Canadian geese. But when he is complimentary, I never have to question it.

And he often is.

Complimentary.

Except for this past anniversary when I looked fabulous in my strapless dress and he asked why I was so done up. I was livid. And he's sick of me constantly bringing up. And I know his feelings on this subject because of...

Honesty.

Like Oprah, I can't live without it.

Honesty is So Under Rated

If you're one of those people that say you want honesty from your partner, but you really want them to blow sunshine up your butt - your butt that "of course doesn't look fat - it's perfect" - you wouldn't deal well with James. Once, when we were in the middle stages of dating, we got into an argument, and he started to fume. I asked what he was thinking about, and he responded, "I'm so angry... it makes me question if I still love you." To which my quick response was, "Oh shut up, you soooooo still love me!" At which he chuckled and said "You're right. You call me on my stupidity. It's why I love you. Hey, pass the ketchup."

My writing partner of seven years is no less direct. Take the email from him below regarding Act One of our pilot. I had revised four of his scenes, as well as added two of my own. I thought it was some of my better work. And mind you, I busted my chops in between James being gone for two weeks, sick kids, and fires threatening to burn down my neighborhood. He starts positive, but like the way I discipline Dominic ("I love you, baby boy, but you CANNOT stick your hand in the dish disposal. BAD BAD BAD") he is more than clear with his disappointment. He writes:

"Way to go!

But I would hold on before moving on with the next two scenes. I'm sorry, but your changes to my scenes have made this script seem completely about sex. I know that's our story line, but the sex jokes are relentless and monotonous and repetitive after a while.

Establishing character in the cold opening was good, but establishing characters not on screen makes it sound like pipe. I don't want Jimmy's wife being a slut in college. In fact, if he did hook up with his wife it's because she wasn't as easy as the other girls.

Crazy Eddie should be about sex sells and not about sex. His goal is to make money and he uses sex to do that. I did like the part about scoring but Jimmy's response, "I'm monogamous sounds written."

The houses don't share a cellar, they have two cellars facing each other.

I liked the belch stuff but you seem to be writing the George character as a guy who delivers a lot of good gags. Which is fine, if he's a funny person, but I thought he was more of a stiff nerd. A straight man in comedy parlance. Just want our characters to be consistant with their character.
I think we should schedule a time to meet and work on this together in a room with a computer. When's a good day for you?"

Was I disappointed he didn't think my stuff was the next "Everybody Loves Raymond?" Sure. But do I agree with him. Sure again. The only way we're going to have a hit show some day is to hit issues dead on, fix them, and keep going.

Comedy writing is so much like marriage. You need constant communication, never ending rewrites, and no matter how hard you try, there are days when you just can't hear the same boring story from your partner.

I just wish my life had an applause track for every time I did the laundry. Or an award once a year. "And the Emmy for being the most fertile myrtle on the block goes to... Andrea P!"

Yeah, that'd be fun.

Scary Stuff

Ode to a Bad Day

When James is gone for the second week
And Nick has pooped on both his cheeks
When darling Sophie won't stop howling
And haggard Mommy can't stop scowling
When Nicky's nostrils can't stop bleeding
And Pipsqueak's toothers can't stop teething
When pilot season is coming fast
And you're not done with your first act
It's time to handle all things spooky
By having fun and acting kooky

* No, this does not count as my one poem / month toward my career as a Shel Silverstein female poet

Reinforcement Denied

I am nothing but resourceful, but today I hit the wall. With Nick's illness, and the house a disaster of cheerios and stick -- laundry up to my eyeballs, I thought I was going to go Andrea Yates on someone's butt. (Okay, not that bad - just super frustrated.) God bless my amazing mom who showed up at 12:00 and gave me 2 hours of peace. In that short amount of time I was able to down a #1 Inn and Out Burger combo (sadly, with a Diet Coke, but only one... I am only cheating with 1/day... I'm in control...and now the definition of addict in denial). I then mailed off 12 Ebay packages, did food shopping at the Whole Foods (grocery store's version of Disneyland) and got my eyebrows waxed. I'm telling you, if I can get this much crap packed into 2 hours, I'd be running the country with a nanny - just kick Geena Davis right out of her oval office role. Got home, the kids were pooped, and both went down for 3 hour naps. With some well needed quiet time, my house was starting to look decent again. I was even able to sleep myself with the delicious excitment of my sister coming by to help with the kids tonite.

Then she canceled due to fires causing horrific gridlock.

Then Nick had a nosebleed .

Then Sophie started screaming.

The answer to all this?

Meat.

Sophie is a regular little carnivore, managing to keep quiet for ten minutes (call the Guiness Book of World Records) as she ingested pre-mommy chewed up non-hygenic steak. With the coveted calm, I tended to Nick's gusher, managing to hold his nose down in one hand as I downed some morsels with the other (thinking it ironic that I'm reinforcing my iron and while he lost his. Also thinking that this is really not that insightful and clearly I need a vacation. On Pluto. Someplace warm and distant. Is Pluto hot? As any of my friends can tell you, I am geographically and astronomically speaking a complete moron). Nick is now ready to sit at the table and eat some himself, giving me another 15 minutes of calm.

Sorry you vegetarians, but I can guarantee, from the bottom of my soul, that cow didn't die in vain.

PS: After a few accidents as of late, Nick just told me his tummy hurt and he needed to sit on the toilet, which he pronounces tooooy-lit (a toy-lit is also what happens when you cross a barbie doll with a joint). My big boy pooped like a trooper!

PSS: In two years, all of you will be dramatically cut off from my cyber space page when Nick comes home in tears because not only can he read, but every kid in kindergarten knows about his documented bowel movements.

Upstairs Downstairs

What have I learned recently?

1) I am very independent and can handle James being gone for TEN FRIGGIN DAYS in a row. (His one night stop-over this weekend does not count. I am only giving him credit for it because he surprised me with a mocha Frappucino).

What have I also learned?

2) All independence and solidarity is shot to shit when your toddler has the croup, combined with toilet training.

Telling your kid "There there now" after he vomits does not couple well with "I know you have your insides on your Elmo shirt, but don't forget to use the potty!"

I thought today was better. I willed it to be so.

It sucked.

The positive thinking: I will bring the kids to Ruby's for a kids eat free night where I will stuff stuff them silly with greasy chicken fingers while I eat a healthy cobb salad.

The reality of the situation: Nick was so cranky he wouldn't sit still or eat. Sophie would only stop screaming if I straw fed her iced tea (not helping her sleeping situation).

The positive thinking: I will take the kids to the play yard to run off their energy so they can crash on the way home in the car.

The reality of the situation: We only made it half way there before Nick peed all over an unsuspecting photo booth. I threw Sophie at my mother to grab Nick, in the process setting my diaper bag in a puddle of urine (officially changing the name from "Petunia Picklebottom" to "Pee-uuuuu-nia Pee Pee Bottom".)

The positive thinking: Nick will learn from this experience that his almighty pink and purple Dora panties won't save him from using the toilet. Maybe he'll think next time before he takes a whiz in a booth designed for teens to make out and hide from their parents. Luckily, I have a pair of 3T jeans and a Huggie with me. I will clean him up and set him loose to play once again.

The reality of the situation: Not five minutes into the play area he shoved Sophie twice and dry heaved, freaking out the perfect Valley moms and all Pottery barn robot children named Madison, Cole or anything else resembling a shoe-line or street.

The positive thinking: Both kids will crash in the car, and at least I ate well.

The reality of the situation: Both rugrats wailed the whole way down Owensmouth. I then downed Nick's left over fries and chicken nuggets quicker than John Travolta cries on Oprah.

I finally got both babies home, silently bemoaning the screams from Sophie that lay ahead of me after I, horror of horrors, lay her in the crib. But to my surprise, despite me talking on the phone to James while I rocked her upstairs, she fell asleep the moment I set her down. Side note: She shares a room with Dominic... Side note 2: Her crib shares a room with Nick. For the past year, she has taken all siestas in the Pack 'N Play which is elegantly located in our dining room. Nothing says warm and cozy dining nook like a howling infant. Side note three/defense/useless info but important to me so just read it and move on: We had her in the dining room because she's such a light sleeper, and since she goes down before Nick, there was no point in waking her up an hour later when Nick went to sleep. However, being the solo parent this week, and fearful of how I'd grab two kids and a coffee pot if a 7.6 quake hit, I resigned myself to my baby sleeping near me on the second story.

The irony of this? Nick was so exhausted from his mall excursion and a big bout of Tylenol (which I man handled into him when he was strapped into the car seat), he crashed on the couch watching "Thomas the Train". Whistles blaring, smoke stack humming... he was blissfully gone.

I couldn't believe it! I was finally able to relax! I could watch tv without a little girl screaming or reading fourteen books about bugs, dump trucks and anything by Eric Carle. I smiled as I flipped on "According to Jim", curiously noting that the only person in the universe with a head bigger than Dora is Jim Bellushi. I settled in for a premiere night of Geena Davis's new show and "Boston Legal".

A half hour later, I heard this little voice next to me: "Mommy, I can't sleep. Turn that off."

Now Sophie is asleep upstairs, Nick is once again sleeping downstairs, which leaves a very confused mommy. Where do I sleep? Maybe the coffee pot and I will make our way into the SUV.

Hitting the Walmart II

Such fun events ensue whenever we go to Walmart, and they always revolve around the toilet. Take yesterday, for example. Nick did not poop up his diaper on any quarter guzzling cartoon animal or pee through his generic Huggies in the curtain rod aisle because..... he was succesfully toilet training! Yes, the little man was undergarment free. That was, until we hit the underware aisle. Then like an oasis in the desert, we were presented with enough underware to clothe an African village. Would it be Spongebob? Spiderman? Scooby Doo? Tonka Trucks? Superman? "I want Dora underpants, Mommy." Me: "Oh. " (Pause, then adding) "I like Dora on tv. She's super cute, even though her head is a bit on the large side. Bigger than her mom's, even, which is odd. And her abuela sounds like she had one to many smokes in her day, but I digress... (picking up a random pair of blue and red pants) What about these fire engines? Look at all the hoses, full to the brim with pee pee... which is going to go in..." Nick: "The TOILET!!!!!" Me: "Great! So let's get those!" I began tossing it in the cart. A big toddler hand blocked my move. Nick: "I want Dora underware, Moooooomy." Me: "The pink ones? With the big flowers?" Nick: "No, not the pink ones." Me (to myself): "Thank God." Nick: "...The puuuurple ones with the butterflies."

Every mother has a moment where they must decide if they are going to block their child's creative choice and force them to adhere to gender expectations, or allow their son to be the only 2 year old in preschool wearing dancing baby girls and rainbows.

The downside: I gave into my liberal thinking and bought the friggin Dora's. For Godsake, he's two. He doesn't know male from female. If he becomes a six foot six transvestite, he can blame me. If he becomes a womanizer, he can blame the fact that I allowed him to wear girls all over his hoo-ha from the time he was two. If I said no and busted his spirit, he could blame me for that time in Walmart that I wouldn't buy him pastel panties. Either way, it's my fault.

The upside: Guess who slept all night long, without making one measley drip, in his girly panties?

My big boy, that's who!!!!!!!!!!!!!!