Craig's Schtick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random

Random Acts of Blindness

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

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

However, NOW? I gotta go.

Clink? Fine.

Clank? Fine.

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

That’s trouble.

Best Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Doctor in the House

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

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

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

And the 4th Martini Goes to...

...Topanga T!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweetness Abounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quick Add On

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

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

Conflicting Messages

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

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

Happy Easter / Happy Passover

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

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

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

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

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

Ave Maria

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

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

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

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

Blue Woman Group

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy spring to you.

The Cup Half Full...

...Of caffeine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheesy Bread

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

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

Stink: "I want some cheesy bread!"

Me: "I want my cheesy bread!"

Stink: "I want my cheesy bread!"

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

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

Big bridge...

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

Shut the microwave door hard...

Wait for it to beep....

And do not worry about the carbs because...

You need the cheesy bread..."

Stink: "I need the cheesy bread"

Me: "You need the cheesy bread"

Stink: "I need the cheesy bread"

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

Nothing but nutrition and mayhem in the Mama P establishment.

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

7 Days

...Without a Diet Coke.

4 days without coffee.

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

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

Some Weekend Highlites

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

Well almost.

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

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

The Cowboy In Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess that's just the cowboy in me.

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

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

Happy trails to you, my friends.

Overloaded

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

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

I Think I Can

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's One Bitchin' Kitchen

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

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

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

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


Or I'm just a shallow control freak.

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

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

Chatsworth Steve

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

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

Except today.

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

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

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

Chatsworth Steve, wherever you are, take care.

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

Ebony and Ivory...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Am Alive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strolling Through Life

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

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

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

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

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

Giving Us the Finger

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flooring It

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

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

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

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

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

I'll keep you posted.

Literally.

And Now, the Weekend News

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

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

Gonna Getty Me Some

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

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

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

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

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

http://www.getty.edu/

That's Cold, Man

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

Cloning

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

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

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

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

Never Stop Trying

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

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

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

Never stop trying.

Board to Death

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Friday Night Martini Time

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

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

Mtn Meg!

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

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

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

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

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

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

A New "Microsoft" Outlook On Life

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

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

I am allotting myself time to make phone calls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Special K Serial

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

K! My fabulous sister in law.

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

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

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

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

Or McDonalds.

Whatever has an indoor play area.

Clearing Stuff Up

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

Then I realized I had just cleaned my windows.

Seeing Red

I took two minutes out this morning to email a picture of my new hair color to Rex (so narcissistic, but a mama's got to get her funk on sometimes). No sooner do I hit "send" when I find my hallway looking like an Issac Mizrahi scrap bin.

Moms and non-moms alike: let this be proof that even if you watch your kids (or anything in your lives) like hawks, crap happens. I suppose it's the way you handle it.

A: Beat yourself (or them) senseless with a rolled up copy of "E-Pregnancy"
B: Take two minutes and quickly clean it up - it's less painful than reading headlines about Angela Jolie picking out baby names (My vote is for Celebritia Irritata)
C: Make the stinker clean it up - even if it takes them an hour (the same amount of time it will take Angela Jolie to lose her baby weight. In fact, it is very probable she's lost it already and she's only 7 months along - she's that robotic).

I choose C (of course, this is on days when I'm not PMSing and less inclined to scream 'Holy Fxxxx Sxxxx you crazy kiiiiiid!' which, I'm not saying I have ever done, but I'm not saying I haven't. And if I have ever done that, which would be very rarely, I guess it goes to show that even moms who try to take the high road hit low points. Weird. Aren't we all supposed to be Madonna goddesses? How did humanity enter the picture?)

Of course, there is also a D and E that I add, but this is optional.

D: Put on Stink's favorite Scooby Doo episode so that putting away clothes is as irritating for him as it is for me to supervise.

E: Fantasize about the beer you'll be drinking later (In my case, this really is a fantasy because I'd end up puking more than Pipsqueak has this week. )

Translation: Delude yourself that both your home done dye job, and your social life, is red hot (so that your attitude toward your kids isn't).

The 10 Commandments

Was talking to Topanga T this afternoon, and we had some divine inspiration about men needing lists. We happened across it due to a conversation regarding resumes, dieting, speed boats and the divine inspiration of BC's big player - Moses. Here's a guy who had to drag immense stone tablets down a hill admist desert heat and bad hair. Yet, despite the sweat, muscle, and quite a few rumors about a toe stubbing incident (prompting him to scream like a little pharoh girl "son of a b---!") these tablets contained 10 directions that are widely revered to this day.

If followed implicitly, there would be no war, no adultery, no jealousy, and - leading to my final point - no marital strife.

If Moses had a list and all mankind benefited, does it not make sense for our husbands to follow one, too? Lest you need more proof, just look more closely at the word "commandment" - take out the "t" - and what you end up with is "Command Men."

As far as Moses' toe stubbing incident, the jury is still out.

No Expectations

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Yesterday it was my birthday. The best part about it? All of my friends and family calling, writing, stopping by with little home made cakes and dinners, dinner out with Rex where I stuffed myself silly (it was back to walking and low calories today). I couldn't have asked for anything more.

Well....... one thing.

It would have been super if my husband didn't have to work through my family birthday dinner. It would have been super if his suprise 2 days off to spend with me didn't entail a server blowing up at an office remote location. However, he does the best he can being a young exec on the rise, and I do the best I can to support him. Of course, I give him language any true project manager will understand and it goes like this:

Operation Happy Wifey. Log these five dates into your calendar and you will be promoted to Operation Happy Hubby well into retirement. Stock options? Understanding, smiles, and the occasional reprieve on events you have no control over, like technology going to hell. Fringe benefits? what do you think?

Ladies, it would be fabulous if we all had perfect husbands who would never forget the card on the pillow first thing in the morning, breakfast in bed, and a whole day off while they handle the kids and we get massages. But since those of you who read this blog probably live in the real world, like I do, I suggest you get off Fantasy Island and join me in Reality TV where I made Rex program the following into his Outlook Calendar (along with the reminder: card first thing - gift optional, but full enthusiasm non negotiable)

1. My birthday
2. Valentines Day
3. Mothers Day
4. Christmas
5. Anniversary

A clause exists in our contract where Rex gets extra points for the hollow chocolate rabbit on Easter and an extra helping of stuffing on Thanksgiving, but it's not a deal breaker.

Once again, to quote K, "Life is not an episode of Friends". But with a healthy dose of pragmatism, clear set guidelines, and open communication from all, this society wouldn't have quite so many "Divorce Court" re-runs either.

I thank you, Rex, for working so hard to put a roof over my head. And for doing your best to live with me under it. I really do know how much you love me, but when you are bit remiss in showing it, you always take my subtle hints (ex: "WHAT THE FXXXX?') and make it better year after year. I really do love you.

* Pictured: Due to a very ill Pipsqueak, and a last minute date (on a Tuesday no less) we did the unthinkable and, Microsoft Outlook calander be damned, slid Taco Tuesday to the Wacky Wednesday slot. We had to make some allowances, such as paper plates and no guac, but Rex and I still stomached all contents and, to date, the rugrats show no signs of scurvy. Afterwards, we stuffed ourselves silly with Mrs. V and Toddler J J's cake - which was dropped off as a surprise to me today. Love ya, you wacky mom you!

Final note: With great expectations, I tend to experience a few lows. But today, with no expectations, my husband accompanied me to Beverly Hills and we laughed and laughed over our silly messy dinner table and fabulous family. Go figure.

Or don't.

I say keep those expectations low and have a fabulous evening!

I Will Not Lie Down

I love anybody who has the strength to be themselves. It gives those of us around them the courage to also be ourselves. And on days when we're not so sure about anything any more - "when the dog bites, and the bees sting" - it's particularly helpful to call up those people we admire, because if they're truly honest, they might just tell you that half the time they don't know shit. And that's when you can turn up Don Henley nice and loud. Sing along with me people "I will not lie down... I will not go quietly."

Since I will be busy this month writing yet another sample - this time a Desperate Housewives (a real stretch for me) I will be handing out virtual awards to those in my life that have the rare gift of making my ass crack up. To earn this fabulous honor, all recipients have had to show strength of character, grace under fire, and of course, the ability to laugh at themselves when things go less than planned. Their awards will be called "Martinis" - after the very lovely pregnant ballerina herself, Stella. And the first Martini goes to........

KATE! You can check her out yourself at her website www.katedana.com

She is pictured above on her wedding day. Here's a sampling of the feature article that was published right after their big vows.

"On a Saturday afternoon in October, Kate and Sean were married outside the Preservation Society in Fells Point in front of about 75 family members and friends. The patio was decorated with Gerber daisies, tiki torches and plastic pink flamingos.

The bride wore a mini dress paired with black shoes and a leopard- print pillbox hat; and the groom donned a '60s-style suit that the couple found at a local thrift shop. The newlyweds left their wedding on their 1964 Vespa scooter (not the one from the raffle) decorated with a "Just Married" sign. Kate and Sean planned and financed their wedding on their own, and said they have no regrets. Why? "Because we did it our way," said Sean."

Oh, and happy birthday to me. I am now 36, making me not old, but not young. If I were an avocado, I'd be on sale, because no one would know what to do with me. Keep me around? Eat me half ripe? Come to think about it, I do resemble that fruit. My body is delicious to Rex, but truth be told, I'm a bit lumpy for some of the population. You either love me to pieces, or want to spit me out. Green fruit fans or not, beware: "I will not lie down... I will not go quietly."

Strippin

Last night we were driving home in the rain. Perhaps it was the dramatic turn in weather that put it in my head to switch from my country station to a top forty one, but I did. And lucky for my kids and I, we were treated to a heart wrenching performance of "I'm in love with a stripper..... she's a rockin' and rollin', slidin' down that pole-in..."

Wow. I can't wait for the elevator muzak version.

I eventually switched back to my regular tunes. Call me a square, but Martina McBride's Valentine is the version of love I want my kids to hear. So we sang. Loud and strong, with the water thump thumping our roof and hitting every red light on DeSoto:

"All of my life, I have been waiting for... all you give to me...
You've opened my mind, and shown me how to love unselfishly...
I've dreamed of this a thousand times before...
In my dreams I couldn't love you more...
I will give you my heart until the end of time...
You're all I need my love, my Valentine."

I explained to Stinker that this is the kind of love I hope he and his sister share with someone one day. Not the bling bling of getting naked in front of strangers, but the true affection of another human being. I told him that he needs to always be nice to Pipsqueak, so that his example helps her accept nothing less than class from a man.

He replied, "Okay Mommy! But first, I want to sell her for three tokens."

I Love Wendy

I am going on the record by stating that Wendy's is the best place on the planet for quick lunches. For $2.99 you can get kid's meal: hamburger, chicken sticks or cheeseburger, a frostie, fries or oranges, and a drink. The kids get the meat and the fruit, I get the Diet Coke and frostie, and everyone wins. Mrs. V. has already been converted. Who's next?

Like our Vice President, I would like to apologize to the American blogging public for taking four days to get in touch with you. After accidentally shooting myself in the foot for setting up a walking date with friends and leaving my double stroller at home, I haven't been in my right mind and needed a few days of alone time while I assessed my personal situation and then went public with my error.

St. Mama P

Have I mentioned how much I love Microsoft Outlook? Please note the latest invitation my husband has received regarding Valentine's Day tomorrow. I also invite all of you gals out there to do the same.

Sent to Rex approximately 3:45, 2/13/06

"You are invited to have a happy evening by remembering me with something small. Or something else will remain small for the rest of the night."

XXxxx's and OOOOsss -

Me

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Isn't Valentines Day romantic?

Home Sweet Home Depot, Part Deux

Like I said, be nice to the hourly workers, you get great service. As in...

This morning, 8:30am. Knock knock knock. I open the door and it's a Fed Ex man. I am thinking it's a computer doo hickey for Rex, but he says "Surprise, it's for you for a change." (Yes, Mr. Fed Ex is friendly with me, too. Ironic, since normally I have major altercations in front of post offices. Hmmm.)

My point: I take it into the kitchen and Stink squeals,"Mama! Mama! A present for me! A present for me!" Then I tell him it's for me, so he shrieks,"Mama! Mama! A present for you! A present for yooooooou! Let's open it!"

And so we do. There on the floorboards. With the trash overflowing and Pipsqueak demanding a bottle from the other room and the phone ringing off the hook.

And he hands me two items, proclaiming, "It's a yellow square! And a brooooown square! Ooooh, amarillo and cafe!"

And then I start to cry. Not because Stink remembered a few palabras espanoles, but because I have not been forgotten this Valentines season - Kelly, who has since lost an extra pound, sent me tile samples, special delivery.

Let's not forget that kindness to people we don't know can often pay off in spades. Or hearts. Or in my particular case, squares. Which will be turned on their sides as diamonds.

Ain't life sparkly?

Home Sweet Home Depot

It's interesting the stories that people have to tell. It is also fascinating that, if you take the time to find out about them, how wonderful your service can be. Even in those big warehouse chain stores. For example, in coordinating an estimate for the big Linoleum vs. Tile Debate, I found out the following:

- Cheryl favors in-store visitor requests over phone requests. "...like I have time for slothful look-y-loos... They can get their ass in the store just like you did sweetie." Just try to piss her off and her pointed acrylic nail will click you off quicker than the Dukes of Hazzard lasted in theatres.
- Venicia (pronounced Ven-E-See-Ya) has been married for over twenty years, but at one point was seperated from her lazy husband and moved to San Diego. During that time, he had a girlfriend and had a baby. Now Venezia and her husband are reunited, but she's raising his baby, who is now 4, along with their biological children, 13 and 17. She is moving back to San Diego this month, her husband is still a lazy ass, but she doesn't want to leave him for fear of losing his/her son.Venezia is Mexican, but doesn't speak Spanish. Apparently the migrant workers out front give her the evil eye but she doesn't care. I informed her that I thought she was a bitch, but didn't care if she could cut me a good deal. She liked that.
- Katie is on a diet, thanks to her mom's nutritionist friend, and lost six pounds this week. She also managed to secure me 2 free 18 x 18 tiles when normally you have to buy the whole case. She's checking on their arrival as I type this.
- There's a lesbian gal named Pat, who is slow to smile. I finally mentioned I liked her hair, and that perked her right up. (I shouldn't say she's gay. I'm just guessing with the husky voice, Doc Martins, and penchant for wearing men's 5.0.1's. While flipping through laminate squares, I also overheard her cell phone conversation "I love you, Jennifer. Can't wait to see you". Could be her mother, but I'm thinking not.)

Who have you met today?

From Diapers to Deadlines

My internet blogger bud, Toni, has a new website - "From Diapers to Deadlines" (All you freelance writers, check it out!) http://diaperstodeadlines.typepad.com/

Meanwhile, I leave you with a quote she posted yesterday. It's by Marianne Williamson, and I whole heartedly agree with it. That, and I'm too groggy this early in the morning to come up with anything profound myself.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

Sale at Macy's

Just wanted to get my cousin's attention.

Friendly Neighbors

I just finished my second three year old class (I dubbed it TITs - Toddlers in Training) - and can say with full confidence that this is the best thing I've done for myself in a while. Along with eight other women, we've cried, complained, learned new strategies, and downed more carbohydrates than marathon trainers. It's the most simple formula in the world: sit in a circle, listen to the teacher, watch some 1970's video (where daddy's have fro's and sideburns and moms have Dallas mall hair) and share experiences. And yet, with this immense simplicity comes enormous comfort in the truth that none of us are alone.

I come from a big family. We all chatted. We all yelled over each other. And while sometimes someone felt left out, or feelings were bruised, over all, we felt united in togetherness. It seems so natural that motherhood works this way too. We can't do this alone.

As Marrit Ingman's memoir pointed out (better than I am about to) it's not about competition. It's not about who looks better in their Seven Islands of the World jeans after giving birth (or whatever that designer is called). It's not about who co-sleeps, breast feeds, has a nanny, has a maid, lives with their mom, is single or married. All mothers are trying to raise psychologically sound children while keeping themselves sane, too. This cannot be done alone. No matter how cute you decorate the nursery, there's the most comfort in the presence of another human being.

With all this talk about community, there is some irony that the love of my life is the solitary profession of writing. I guess even busy moms need their alone time. But when I emerge from my self-enclosed bubble, let me be the first to smile and say I'm so glad other moms (and non-moms) are part of my life.

Mr. Rogers said it best: "Won't You Be My Neighbor?"

Heart Breaking Kangaroos

Tonite Pipsqueak cried and cried when Papa took her from my arms for their night night routine. "Maaaaaaaam! Maaaaaama!" It was truly pathetic - sort of a "Sophie's Choice" meets "Problem Child".

As Stink looked on in confusion, I uttered "Oh, Pipsqueak, you're breaking my heart." At which point Stink looked at me and shrieked, "No, Mommy... I don't want her to break your heart." Then he pointed to a medallion hanging off my necklace and added..."See, it's right there. It's not broken!"

An hour earlier, as the rug rats were bathing, I did a few lame lunges in an attempt to exercise again. Stink stopped harrassing his sister with the plastic dolphin to comment "Ooooh, Mommy, are you a kangaroo? A boooouncy kangaroo?"

I had no idea he knew what a kangaroom was, nor what it meant to bounce. At least, at this point in his sweet life, he is still in the dark about what it means to "break hearts".

The first time this kid stops hugging me in front of his too cool for school fifth grade punk friends I really am going to get my heart broken. (Then I'm gonna get him back by jumping up and down like a bouncy kangaroo.)

The Ground Floor

The gr0und floor is the theme of the day for several reasons:

- Home Depot came by to measure our third world linoleum/tile/wood floor demolition. I found myself apologizing profusely to Dhardi Rakazizi for my kids in diapers and balled up rag rugs near the bathroom. Then I looked outside and saw his beat up Toyota Corolla and felt like an idiot.
- We must decide between tile / vinyl or pergo and then work our way up to walls and sinks (depending of course on if we need to mortgage the rugrats to lay our marble masterpiece)
- I have not exercised properly in over a month, and it's starting to show, so it's back to the basics... walk the sidewalks each day. No excuses.
- I miss dancing. As in on a beautiful wood dance floor with a strong partner and lovely ball room music. (Or a tacky bar floor with a drunk old leech and my husband laughing in the background. Whatever.)
- I want to put the pedal to the metal and floor it all the way to Vegas. I'm ready to dance, drink, eat and take in a show (Of course this means get to the hotel by 9, have half a glass of Merlot, puke in the toilet, and crash on top of the hotel quilt, ensuring I get some funky illness, but you get the idea.)
- I am dying to go to a floor show of any kind - the type they have in L.A. where the whole convention center is full to the brim with products for any time of lifestyle... The Boat Expo! I don't own a boat, or like water sports of any kind, but it's still fun to check out the cute little compartments inside the yachts. "Oooooh, with checked curtains and a coffee maker, wouldn't this be the cuuuuuuutest writing spot?"....The Baby Expo! "No, we're not having any more kids, but look at this pee pee tee pee... it goes over your little squirt's squirter for quick changes without golden showers. Oh, Rex, we should have another just for that! We can collect them in all colors and display them on a shelf above the crib. Like beer bottles."
- New furniture - as in floor closeouts. And I'm not talking Wickes (though their stuff is underrated and sometimes not bad)... I'm talking close-outs at Macy's where I can get fabulous new bedroom furniture for under a dollar (and yes, I have clearly hit my head on my floorboards and am living in Delusion Land)

Bottom line, I'm ready to break up my routine and have some fun. Mamam P is ready to party. People, clear the floor!

Lost in Love

It's hard to believe that this particular Ebay listing of mine did not sell. What is wrong with people out there! Do they not know what a deal they were passing up?

"Forget psychic readings, paranormal hotlines, love gurus...Before you O.D. on Fukitol, consider getting some straight talking advice from a no-nonsense mom.

Yes, dear, you're thinking "Why spend the money?" Let me tell you:

* I don't know you, so I'm not afraid to tell it like it is.

* I am a real life mom who has had many years of experience in marriage, dating, kids, divorce, career, house and alcohol (actually, I'm a lousy drunk, but I know lots of drunks. And some addicts who are now sober. I'm pretty unhip, but cool enough to give you advice. Come on, I'm a mom... how "out there" do you think I really am?)

* It's cheaper than therapy, less addicting than Prozac, and think about it... for $5 bucks, what do you have to lose? Other than some stupid decision I could guide you away from and possibly getting some sense pounded into you.

I'm not as mean as Doctor Laura, but I'm not as wussy as Carol Brady. I'm kind of a Carolyn Ingalls meets Simon Cowell. How can you go wrong?

This could also be a great gift for a friend who is going through a rough time. For this kind of person, I would send you a certificate and then they could email me directly.

The way it works: You send me a question via email, I send you back my answer within 3 days, 200 words minimum. If this is for a friend, I will mail you a certificate that you can present to them. You will need to add an additional $1.50 onto your ebay fee for shipping and paper. (I'm a mom, so every dollar counts. What did you expect?)

NOTE: This is a general advice column. Serious issues regarding sexual abuse, violence or where to get a good cup of coffee should be directed to other more experienced parties.

Think of me as your internet mommy.

One question.

Five bucks.

I could save you from that dumb ass you you've been obsessing about or get you hitched quicker than you can say "Katie Holmes is Doomed!"
I'd write more, but since my kids are sleeping, I have toilets to clean, bills to pay, pies to bake and more ebaying to do.

Be Safe and Hope to Hear From You Soon!"
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My hard earned knowledge was spit upon, yet my used/stained Star and Moon trash can sold for $17.50. Like men, I just can't figure Ebay out.

Corporate Wife

For the record, Microsoft Outlook is the best calendar / organizer / keep your-mommy-crap-together-without-losing-your-mind device in the history of time. Followed closely by Diet Coke, coffee, Twin Dragon Almond cookies and the all too made fun of "me time."

I don't know why I didn't use it before. As it now stands, I can view my life, my son's life, my daughter's life and my husband's life with the click of a button. I can highlite events in more colors than Mother's Pink and White Animal cookie sprinkles. Purple for Mama time. Red for doc appointments. Green for prep time. There's sections for to do lists. There's sections for recurring events. I can invite, dis-invite, bold, italicize and send reminders. If I keep digging, I might even find a maid.

I have no excuse to ever be late or double book again. I can even send friendly reminders to Rex via the "invite to attend" button. I have already invited my husband to attend a "Home Depot Flooring Estimate" event. It's giga-bite-liciously fun!

With all this technology, one must ponder the possibility that we are losing the good ol' days. In my case, this will be the charming memories of forgetting I had to take Stink in for shots and almost losing his preschool place. Or the fun times of telling 3 different people that I could meet them for coffee and then not scheduling a babysitter. Oh, the joys of losing my address book at the park. Or not being on the same page with Rex regarding dinners out. Misplacing party addresses, forgetting about WGA functions or food shopping, resulting in me I'm sitting on the kitchen floor crying that I have no food and no pilot script done.

Well, that ends our unscheduled reminiscing time. Gotta go now and formerly "invite" myself to empty the trash. If you'd like to join the party, please notify me via email. While I will no longer be accepting handwritten invitations, cash and flowers are still welcome.

Secret Aaaagent Mama

Thanks to a Friday sleepover visit from the kids’ great Grandma Stella, I have been enlightened on various subjects:

1. I cannot cook, but luckily she will teach me .

2. I would enjoy food prep more if I started with a glass of wine.

3. My blog is fabulous, but it needs to be taken down due to a news report she saw on internet stalkers.

Over dinner with some old friends at Kate Mantilini, I thought about everything she said. Truth be told, their dinner rolls alone were better than my best home made meal. The more I sipped my white wine, the more I saw the merit of point #2… My floors were no longer third world… they were beautiful layers of linoleum in progress. My old window shades were no longer ratty pieces of ca ca… they were treatments in shabby chic parental design. But comment #3? I couldn’t shake the idea that some stranger could use info about my kids to bad ends. It’s an obvious concern, but until that moment, my biggest fear was that some third grader would use this online journal as fuel to taunt my child with photos of him in diapers (or a dress.). Or maybe some nosy PTA mom would decide my daughter wasn’t fit to be friends with her kid because I used the f-word in post #47. Selfishly, this site is such an outlet for me, and apparently a source of entertainment for a few people. The idea of taking it down broke my little housewife heart.

After downing a cheeseburger and throwing up in the bathroom (clearly I cannot handle alcohol on a Friday night -- Yes, I am that much of a wuss) I am opting for the conservative fix of changing my family’s names to code names. This is going to require a serious amount of editing, since I have 159 posts… good God!

*NOTE TO STALKERS… I won’t have all the names changed until mid week. If your palm pilot has you scheduled to break into my house before then, wear a sweater (it's cold in here), bring a dust pan, and be a thoughtful identity theft and bring a venti cappucino % with one of those rice crispy bars the size of robert downey jr’s liver.*

The realistic side of me knows that I have a small readership, so I’m probably being neurotic and obsessive. The mom side of me is relieved to know I’m protecting my little clan from any ill will. And the ego side of me is enjoying my new identity as Code Mama P Blogger. It’s all very clandestine. So sexy and sneaky. My dashing RX Seven loving husband is now Rex. My son shall forever be referred to as Stinker. My daughter will be Pipsqueak. My best friend’s name is already in code, so Cecelia can continue to live her quiet Encino life in utter privacy. My other friends live too far away to give a crap.

I have to stop typing now. My SUV-Mobile needs to be loaded for my top secret Sunday school mission tomorrow. I’d tell you more about it, but since I know your real names, I’d have to track you down and kill you. Guess I’m not the only one who had better go undercover.

(Pictured: Evidence of Stella’s visit. I swear that woman has a dust cloth and a level permanently lodged in her fingers, because when she leaves, everything is straightened, even and pressed. Is it the martini or her super power grandma skills? Don’t know. As a new super agent, I’m not asking questions or taking names. I’m just basking in the veil of darkness, man.)

She's Making a List....

Most of my day can be summed up from an email to Rex...

"Beware of a wife with a list… of everything we need…. From extra brooms to hooks to corner shelves to sheet sets to bathrugs. I’m talking paint, things to hang, things to take down, things to sell, donate and borrow.

I AM GETTING ORGANIZED.

This place is going to be my palace, come hell or high water!

WATTTTTTTTTTTCH IT BUDDY. YOU COULD BE NEXT ON MY LIST.