Cause Ya Gotta Have Faith

Wednesday, pre-Walk to Arco time, post-kids-in-bed-or-I-will-beat-my-head-senseless-with a sippy cup-hour, I got a hurried call from my agent. "I am sending you to a production house in need of new material. Can you send me a few lines on your last few pilots?" I of course said yes, half joking that I thought it was the "I'm dumping you, you worthless client who spends all her time blogging and not making real tv money" call.

Okay, it wasn't a joke.

But she swore she loved my blogs, has hope for me, bla bla bla. This woman also lives next door to Dr. Phil and down the street from Tom Cruise, so it's possible she has stars in her eyes. But I bought it. (Kiss, kiss Susan... I know you're reading.)

Ironic that this phone call came on a day that I was feeling relatively peaceful - a rare occasion for me. A lot of praying, talking and a good dose of whining to the man upstairs is getting me closer and closer to acceptance in a higher power.

And then, just when I heard absolute silence upstairs and sprinted up the steps quicker than a photographer at a Baby Suri shoot, I found Stink reading an Eric Carlisle book to Pip: Stink: "And da little cicket flapped his wings together but what came out? Not a sound." Pip: "Not a SOUND!"

What do all three of the things above have in common? Like a song from my first boyfriend days, George Michael said it best: "You gotta have faith."

What keeps all of your faith? And when you don't have it, what brings it back? (I am ending the next seven posts with questions, so go to town. Will you answer the call? I have faith.)

* When all your stand-bys fail, comfort food always works. In this case, bottles. Who doesn't need to hit one sometimes?

If You Don't Like the Food...

... Get out of the kitchen. The problem is, I've always been a pretty bad cook, so I can't blame anyone for wanting to bitch about it.

But I'm on a roll these days. Once/week I'm reorganizing something so I can actually find it. Or it's edible. In some cases, both. Such as today's big feat? A 3 tiered hanging fruit basket. Of course after I adjusted the screws and hung it from our cabinets it resembled some sort of leaning Italian architecture, but it keeps my fruit from bruising.

For the big purchase, I spent about two hours in the kitchen store, Pip and Stink jumping on the fake beds much to the irritation of the cashiers, deciding on chrome vs. cream. Then I thought of Rex who would remind me that our kitchen is such a piece of ca-ca that anything is better than what we have "which is a big fat ZERO" so just plunk down the 9.99 and call it a day.

And so I did.

And so I hung it.

And in the process I inherited a brand new cooking surface when the moldy ceramic dish (the previous home for fruit) was cleaned up and put in the dining room cabinet for its intended use as a mexican casserole dish. I'll need to buy some beans to go with my three billion cans of chile. I also discovered, as part of my inventory sweep, that I own 28 cans of tuna but no mayonaise... 30 cans of sauce but no noodles... a whole box of pancake mix but no syrup... And why exactly do I have two blenders but only one lid? And are you supposed to have to clean your pots every time you want to use them, making you never want to use them?

Armed with the spiritual approach that I'm going to feed my soul, as well as the practical approach that my once a week Taco Tuesdays does not constitute as satisfying meal fare, I am using one pan, one boiler and one chopping block. With Stink at my side (who usually separates the frozen veggies while standing on the metal folding chair) I will dice, I will slice, I will boil and bake.

Tonite's meal? Lasagna, recipe courtesy of Topanga T (will use all of yours from previous posts, too... thanks. Of course, more are welcome!) I thought Rex would do a double flip after eagerly asking for seconds. But truthfully, he's probably so thrilled I followed a recipe rather than my usual crank on high, burn a bit, dust off and serve, that he'd ask for thirds if it encouraged me.

I am going to meal plan more.

I am going to shop more.

I am going to listen to music as I cook.

But tomorrow, I'm going out for dinner.

I'm starting slow.

Stink's Stinks

So Stink just came into my office, half dressed. He proceeds to hand me a wad of Scooby Doo underware and shorts.

Stink: These are a little wet.

Me: Oh, you had an accident? (Rare for him these days.) It happens.

Stink: Yeah.

He hugs me. I am touched and bury my head into his blond curls, still peppered with sand from our day the park.

Me: Oh, Stink, out of all the mommies in the whole world, and all the little boys, God put you and me together. Isn't that so wonderful?

Stink: (smiling) Yeah. (Then) Now wipe my butt.

Getting Up..

...on the wrong side of the bed. We've all done it.

I slept horribly last night.
I'm supposed to be at the park at 11.
I hear thumping upstairs.

I'm scared.

Let's hope it hasn't turned into the great butt paste fiasco of last week... (pic above)

Correspondence

I am noting with sad irony that the difference between "correspondence" and "despondence" is but a few little letters. So, after going back and forth with a major editor about 10 times (and sending a final revision to her this morning) my fate is in the hands of her editor and chief. All I can do now is let go, let God as they say. Hopefully God, in addition to being a carpenter and saving the universe, also knew the perilous journey of the pen and will take pity.

This editor has been incredibly generous with her responses to me, telling me why a particular story idea has, or has not, worked. On Friday told me that the Chief did indeed like my background, but found the angle "unfresh." Ha! I love the honesty. So, I sent her about 4 new angles today (that I reworked while sitting in a broken massage chair at my favorite carwash, Cruisers.)

Thank heavens for my sitcom experience - having to turn around stories in less than an hour, which leads me to my next 2 points (oh yes, there's more...)

1. All experiences in our lives help us in future endeavors (not just the experiences that were positive... we can twist any negative to our advantage and reap new benefits.)

2. Play the game to show you know the rules (in my case, send a formal query) but then be yourself, because hell, what else do you have? Might take longer to get your goal, but when you're there, you have solid footing. (Of course, we might have to fast forward to my first national magazine break when I'm 86, getting the sidebar story on bed sores in the AARP.)

I leave you with an example of staying true to myself - a quick note I just jotted off to my editor contact:

"Regardless of this essay's outcome, you ROCK! If ever I get to New York (which will be in about 15 years after both kids disappoint me by not going to college and instead selling hemp blankets in Venice - positive thinking) I owe you a coffee. (I'd say a martini, but despite being 6'1, one glass of alcohol and I'm passed out in the SUV, drooling on the steering wheel. It's fun to be me.)

THANKS!!!!!!!!!!

I'm now off to supervise a play date where we have a Playdough war erupting. Will victory be to Stink who is wearing only his Scooby shorts (backwards no less)? To Pip? (Who shines in a fabulous Gap jean dress from one of my favorite thrift stores. She also dons a red chenille hat and Buzz Lightyear pull-ups.) Or will the final medal go to Kinder Tine - a five year old kindergarten upstart (who radiates in a black and white striped happy face dress - a recent purchase yesterday at yet another "resale boutique" ... Her mom is the one who gave Pip 14 pairs of shoes - proving a little Goodwill on my part goes a long way. Pun intended.)

Stay tuned...

My Anxie-tee

So along with the other one million and forty three items I have in mind to create (and make my fortune), I think it would be fabulous to create a black tee shirt with the writing "My Anxie-tee".

I have no idea how I came up with that. Must have been divine desperation...er... inspiration.

People, I really am a normal person, but sometimes my brain gets going so fast that I can't see the forest for the trees. Like now... I'm typing 96 words/minute. My husband is sick on the couch. I just put the kids to sleep and fired off a letter to an editor. Why am I not in a bath tub, beer in hand, dreaming of sleep?

It's great to have ambition. It really is. But sometimes one needs to stop and smell the flowers. My problem? While I'm smelling the flowers I'm imagining a front porch. I'm then wondering how many Ebay items I'd need to sell to get that porch. And if I did make all that cash, is a porch really the best alternative? It's not like I'd ever sit still long enough to enjoy it.

I really am going to work on this. When my mind goes to negative places, I'm going to do what I tell Stink when someone is mean to him. "Don't sit and take it! Yell back!" So here I go: "No! Go away! Be quiet!"

Maybe a few thousand more times and I'll sleep.

The Six Year Reflection

Today is my sixth year anniversary. We are celebrating it in true Mama P/Rex fashion: he's working on a computer for Stink while I'm hauling rugrats out to Thousand Oaks to hang with Stella at a "big boy McDonalds" (Burger King).

We are, however, doing a two hour dinner tonite. Our tradition? 3 fold perfection:

1. I drop off the kids at my sisters.
2. He orders way too much Chinese take-out
3. We meet in our driveway, plop down on 2 lawnchairs (that we got from Stella for our wedding) and see where the next two hours take us. (Sometimes it's neighbors, sometimes it's a stray dog trying to negotiate a wan ton. Most times it's just us, wondering how in six years we ended up with two kids, a mortgage and the ability to enjoy a good meal in a safe place.)

I will end this post with an email exchange I had with Rex on Thursday. Sometimes he surprises me by sending non work related quotes - known by his company as "Reflections". I am quick to compliment him in my responses.

From Rex: “Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself.”
-- Harvey Fierstein

From Me: "Never be bullied into a life of toddlers 24 hours a day. Surprise your wife with a weekend cruise."
-- Your Ball and Chain

Unplanned Parenthood

This was a bizarre day that started with Stink projectile vomiting in a parking structure (luckily he did it in his car seat so I can be reminded of it for months to come.) I'd like to say that I intentionally packed the white shirt I was able to change him into for just such occurences, but I only had it because Mrs. V returned it to me yesterday from the day I kicked Stink out of Bible Camp. Praise God for small acts of fortune.

Post vomit was followed with a trip to McDonalds, the Santa Monica Pier, dropping off a friend at Planned Parenthood and then watching old Disney movies in Topanga T's cabin while I slept like the dead in her 200 thread count comforter.

I don't know much in life, but I know if a ride on a carosel can be combined with a good friend having a hoo-hoo tune up, anything in life is possible. (Especially fun was watching the looks on people's faces as my big double stroller rolled past all these freaked out women, most who were there to avoid exactly what I was pushing past them.)

Like I said, life is bizarre.

Houston, We've Made Contact

I've decided I have nothing to lose by following through on a national magazine who showed some interest in one of my pitches a few months ago. Like that cute guy in highschool, I could sit home and dream about him, or grow some balls and ask him to the Christmas dance. Of course, the guy I asked out had barely any idea who I was and proceeded to show up with the most popular girl in the school while Texas Lizy, Mtn. Meg and myself dressed up as elves and took tickets. However, I KNEW he wasn't interested, so I could put that dream to rest.

So, I fired off a very casual email to the editor today. Not five minutes later, I got a very lovely response. Quite lengthy, too. She told me that there was indeed some interest in my background, but the editor in chief found my pitch to be pretty unexciting. However, they are going to revisit it on Monday, so she asked me to send her some new angles. In a second email, she asked what the ages of my kids were. The main editor wanted to know.

My point: this could lead to nothing. But it could be my big break. And you know what, people? With my days mostly full of changing diapers, cooking, cleaning and shoving Ebay in between naps, queries and phone calls, I'm pretty damn excited. It really is about the trip, not the destination. (Though that's scary, because everyone knows that trips of any kind freak me out and I haven't had a vacation in years.)

Let's just all go with the metaphor, wish me luck, and be generous with the internet condolences when everything goes to shit. That's the spirit, right?

And people, I am so darn impressed with all of you. New friends, old ones... you give me inspiration and encouragement. May all of you find your dreams, too. Like I just told Teri M, my goal is to be rejected by someone big at LEAST once a month. I wish the same for you.

(And don't forget me when you're more famous than Dooce. http://dooce.com/Dooce... I love that website, but could there be any more hype about it? Sorry Heather B. I think you are actually a great writer, but so are a lot of amazing women I've met lately. (Check out Erin and Menoblog, One Tall Mama and more -their comments below this post). Of course I have no idea how to blog roll them, but give me time. We'll take over Blogher quicker than Tom Cruise at a Scientology rally.

Racing Toward the Green

In my ever sneaky pursuits to get my kids to eat their veggies, I've introduced the very popular "Who's Winning" game. It goes like this:

Me: Stink, your sister has eaten more veggies than you.

Stink: No, I have! I'm winning!

Me: Let's count.

Now comes the educational part of dinner where we are grateful to have washed our hands as we touch each and every pea on the plate. "One...two....three..."

When it's clear that indeed Pip is winning, Stink begins to shovel the veggies in, making Pip (who does everything her big brother do) follow in suit.

Whalaaaaa! All greens eaten.

While it's true that I have finally gotten my children to eat vegetables, I have also introduced the human classic: sibling rivalry.

The final upshot? I will have healthy kids who hate each other.

My job is done.

Test... this is only a test

How the hell do I post a damn photo of myself for my profile? I'd have better luck hitting my head against my desk.

Ow.

Flying High

I was flipping through the blog of one of my commenters just now and found this post, along with a photo of her parachuting. (http://watchthethinker.blogspot.com/)

"I want that feeling all the time - in everything I do. That is life and that is living. Being present, dancing on the razor's edge, unafraid, confident...fully trusting. Giving in to the unknowing and soaring without fear, adding a touch of humor, (a stylish jumpsuit, of course) and a feeling of complete certainty in every present moment - that is indeed LIVING. Having a funny, trusting sidekick ready to deploy a parachute and guide you in your landing doesn't hurt either!"

It's odd how perfectly this describes my goal. In fact, I was just talking to my cousin about it. As open as I am emotionally, I'm a chickenshixxx when it comes to traveling too far from my home. Go to the local library, read about the world, get the life history of the librarian and then blog to millions of strangers about it? That's me. But take a one hour trip to Disneyland and have to force myself to relax my rushing thoughts? That's me, too. ("No, the Matterhorn won't break down mid-turn, catapulting me onto the furry Yeti and forcing my son to be the only child in the history of time made into an orphan at the happiest place on earth.")

I want to go last minute to San Diego to enjoy Old Town, the Gas Lamp District and walks along the warm sands of La Jolla, stopping for coffee in the Living Room near the caves. I am proud of myself that I'm too spirited to allow nerves to stop me, but worrying about having a panic attack on the 5 while fretting over illegal alien children who might be stuck in a pipe along the ocean? That gets tiring.

Though probably not as tiring as this post is. Or my husband, who went to bed at 10pm while I'm about to drink coffee, avoid exercise and list a few 4 buck items on Ebay which will only make me more tired, frustrated and anxious in the future.

Oh, it's fun to be me.

A Good Time Anaheim!

And now... the Top 10 reasons we spent 400 bucks and loved every damn second of it.

1. Stink arriving in the parking structure, eyeballing the escalator and shouting "Let's go on that ride!" (pic of him in oversized Goofy shirt holding my hand)

2. Stink viewing the Pirate boats with the wonder of a Morman drinking soda for the first time. (Downside: he was a little freaked out by the explosions. "Ooooh... this is too pooooooooky!" Upside: At least his night terrors will be more legitimate than 'that caterpillar scared me'.)

3. Rex and I treating ourselves to an overpriced meal at the Blue Bayou. The twinkle lights, fireflies, sounds of water and laughter from the passengers on the pirate boats exceeded all my childhood fantasies of dining on that romantic porch. Especially unforgettable: dining alone while my cousin took Stink to Toon Town (We actually extinguished the candle ourselves because it was too bright, not because a toddler insisted on singing a round of 'Happy Birthday to You' and blowing it out with spit.

4. Seeing my husband go from Mr. Cranky Guy ("Great, we spent 180.00 to stand in a ticket and a tram line for 1 hour") to Mr. Kiddie himself "We have to take Stink on the Jungle Cruise and Tiki Room right after I hit Splash Mountain...Oh, Pip would have loooooved this!".

5. Chatting about nothing in line for half hour stretches while Stink happily looked around or sat on Papa's shoulders - not one complaint (shocking, but like the fabled intoxicating atmosphere at this place ? All true. Picture above - one of a few family shots we own, actually.)

6. Seeing Stink's big eyed look of wonder on his first flight to Neverland, as well as some classic confused grimaces (like seen above.) You gotta wonder: these kids go from pushing their way out of a birth canal to three years later being stuck on a giant honey pot and twirled through a "story book" dream while fat bears spin amonst animitronic flies. Ya think it's a bit confusing?

7. Hearing blue jazz play in New Orleans Square while Rex and I reminisced about our childhood at the park.

8. Riding on the carousel while hearing Julie Andrew's voice announce the princess procession (I half expected to see Pip herself coming out in full regalia, but alas, she was safe at home with grandma, pulling sticks, watching Elmo, and refusing to eat.)

9. Eating Mickey Mouse shaped pretzles on Main Street after viewing the parade - the lights twinkling in the trees, the souvenier shops lit up like a Christmas tree, big band sounds pouring through invisible speakers at the the Carnation Shop.

10. Stink pouting (for the first time that day) "I'm sad... I don't want to go" only to be surprised by Rex who, on a rare act of whimsy, presented him with a plastic rope light for his neck (even bought one for Pip who stayed home with Grandma). This trinket kept our little man occupied for ten minutes in the car (which he ran to, with Rex... you think Disneyland is insane? Nothing compares to toddlers' energy.) Not even a mile out of Anaheim he had fallen asleep, head first, drooling in his carseat- little lights twirling around his neck like a dog collar.

I don't care what anyone says about Disney consumerism. I love it and hope to go year after year - spending too much money, eating too much, buying dumb tee shirts and black mailing my kids with photos. In a great gesture of optimism, I even hope to stay at the Hotel California which I hear has an amazing Craftsman style flair.

Today it's back to reality as we clean house, prepare for our final baseboard paint, food shop and cook. In reality I'm wiping down my 1950's cracked counters. But in my head I'm at the Blue Bayou, holding my husband's hand and sipping on soda with a lemon.

Magic indeed.

A Shot For Everyone

"A mother who radiates self-love and self-acceptance actually vaccinates her daughter from low self-esteem." Naomi Wolf.

Something to think about - especially if we're raising girls. Do we all want to be thinner or more beautiful? Sure. But this standard of beauty (especially in Los Angeles) is so unattainable, and leaves so many girls feeling inadequate.

Let's all stop starving ourselves and use our bodies for strength, shall we? I'm not saying to use our kids' shovels for spoons, but carbs are not the devil. Some of my happiest memories are sitting down with my mom at a local coffee shop, smelling her coffee and keeping a fixed eye on the waitress who was due out with some dutch apple pie. I never once heard my mom say "Oh, my God, the calories." We laughed and indulged and went home to boring veggies for the rest of the week. I grew up a normal size, never barfed up my food, and managed to find a man who loves me for the size 14 I am. (I actually found quite a few, but family reads this, so let's just say I married and loved a guy who loved me at a size 14. Oh, shit... I married two men in my boring life. Shutting up now.)

As I drove past a "For Sale" sign yesterday, I saw this beaten down house. But on realtor's post was a bright red sign that read "I'm beautiful inside!" Shouldn't we all try to get past our exteriors and value what we all have within? It's a lofty concept, but if each of us start, one by one, perhaps we can be a revolution for our kids.

So on that note, I pledge to vent on this blog (hey, a gal's got to bitch) but to never, EVER, say in front of my daughter "I feel fat" or "Man, I look old."
My daughter looks at me with absolute love and adoration no matter how I'm feeling. How awesome would it be if she always looks at herself the same way?

On that note, I'm off to the Happiest Place on Earth tomorrow. Perhaps I shall wear some Minnie Mouse ears and strut the Magic Kingdom at a whopping 6'4. (Ooooh, that was a diss on my height. However, since Pip can't read yet, it doesn't matter. Besides, I'll make sure to show up at her sixth grade dance with them on my head to show off my confidence. I think she'll appreciate that.)

Mothers and More

As fate would have it, a local paper assigned me the task of a 750 word article on the organization Mothers & More. With 7500 members in the U.S. and beyond, this is a monthly membership group (fee very small) that emphasizes the mom as a woman, not just a mother. There are playdates throughout the month and tons of community service, too. My favorite part about the group is the idea of "sequencing": that women will go in and out of the work force to justify the needs of her family - and this is okay.

The woman I interviewed also emphasized "non-judgemental" parenting. Here's the group for those of you who might be interested in finding out more in a location near you.http://www.mothersandmore.org/index.html) The Conejo Valley chapter is offering a Moms Night Out at Maggianos one night - an Italian restaurant with old world charm and new world carbs. I'll be the giant at the new members table screaming "Mangi mangi! Pass the vino!"

In another act of serendipity, it turns out that the meeting I was invited to attend takes place in Westlake - close to my inlaws, who we visited today. Beginning with fruit and bagels on their porch, followed by a trip to the largest library in the universe (resplete with fountains, Pottery Barn style patio tables in an outside garden, an aquarium and kids section the size of Manhattan.) We finished our day with lunch at El Pollo Loco where the kids not only ate their chicken, but did not get loco.

Toddler J (Texas Lizzy's little girl) started Catholic pre-K today. Go Toddler J! Looking like she does, I'd stick that kid in a convent by Tuesday.

With peace in the house, I have the options now of editing, gardening, doing a load of laundry or starting dinner.

I'm thinking coffee, peanut butter toast, CMT and a nap work, too.

Pictured: Toddler J ready to learn her ABC's, arithmetic and break hearts. Also pictured, Mtn Meg at a volleyball tournament where her group of ladies were entitled "Got Milk?" Meg, Texas Lizzy and I were a tight knit trio from our all girls highschool days.

Given that Lizzie and I constantly barage Meg (a single career gal) with photos of our kids, I think she intentionally only sends us photos of herself tan and flat bellied. She might not like me publishing her photo on the web, but since she's too busy flying to Paris, dating exciting men, climbing Mt. Whitney, participating in tri-athalons and volleyball tournaments (and sometimes hanging out with us - she is my Pipsqueak's Godmother and no better peson could have been chosen) she has no time to read this boring mommy blog. So she'll never know what I really want to say to her at this moment: "FUCK. OFF." (With love, of course.)

Now I'm Cooking

I've never professed to be a Cordon Bleu chef, but I manage to get basic healthy meals on the table, especially at dinner. I find it especially sad, however, that when I actually steam the vegetables (translations: press the START button 2 times on the microwave, cover with plate, then serve) my toddler spits them out, stating, "I can't eat these. They're wet."

Me: "They're not wet. They're cooked."

Stink: "Oh." (Pause) "I like them better the way you used to make them."

Me: "You mean raw, right out of the bag, slapped on a paper plate?"

Stink: "Oh, yes, Mommy! Like that! Like that!"

I can't win.

Picture People

Cecelia and I met at 11:00 to get our children photographed. After debating between JC Penny, Sears, Walmart, Target, Babies R Us, or our digital photos of toddlers and newborns screaming, defacating or sticking their fingers in various crevices (bodily and otherwise), we settled on the Picture People (my condolences, Bride that Was - the price was right. Especially for what ensued which entailed:)

* Finn's face turning into a beet in between every other shot, making this newborn session the longest shoot in the history of time
* Pipsqueak and Stink doing belly dives on the "surfy blue" roll out paper (used as a backdrop)
* Stink agreeing to hold Pip's hand, but only when his face was turned away from the photographer
* Many motherly tactics I normally don't utilize (My kids won't be bribed... riiiight.) "You smile this minute or we aren't getting candy afterwards! One! Two! Three!" (aside to photographer) "Take it! TAAAAKE the shot!" Photographer: "But the bottoms of their feet are showing." Me: "Oh my god, my toddlers have feet? The horror! Pip, Stink - stop climbing the hatboxes!"

Despite chaos, condrums, crying (anything that begins with a 'c') both Cecelia and I ended up with some reasonable photos. The one shown here? It's not going out in Christmas cards (As much as I love Pip's strained neck and Stink looking as if his head got stuck in a wind tunnel.) But since I made the kids call the mousy cashier "pretty lady" she slipped one to me for free. (It's true, Cecelia... while you were deciding on shots, I got an extra 8x10. I win! I win! Oh, wait... you have a beautiful photo of yourself with your child, while I looked like the poster child for Andrea Yate's fan club. I lose! I lose!)

Happy Monday people. May it be as pretty as a picture.

Hitting My Target

Today was my day to write. Instead, I went to Target and bought bathroom accessories. I'm super productive that way.

I did, however, accomplish quite a bit of writing last week, so I don't feel that bad for my 300.00 shopping spree, or my lame excuse at attention deficit disorder. Of course, the queries I wrote have yet to pay off, and I suppose toilet paper holders, bathroom caddies and car seats don't exactly qualify as a "shopping spree", but I had fun, so let's just go with that.

Thanks to Rex, I can now brag that I have molding in my bathroom. I don't know what it is about carved wood that makes everything feel so elegant, but my philosophy is that poop surrounded by shabby chic white particle board somehow would be funky in a good way.

I have a new toilet.

Even more exciting, it works. Come over, sit, pee... see for yourself. It even flushes.

I have a new sink.

In a few days I will have those cute little faucets that say "hot" and "cold" (Preferably the temperature will be written in French. It might translate to LEFT HANDLE "fuck off" RIGHT HANDLE "dumb housewife" but, like my philosophy on molding, it still works).

I wish I could say that it's more important to write - cooking and home details be damn. But I get so excited about paint and beadboard that my left leg goes into a permanent tic.

To conclude, Pipsqueak turned to me this evening, after spending time at a friend's, and asked, "Mommy, we please stay five more minutes?" I am sure she was repeating Stink, who is given to five minute plea bargain tactics, but given she just turned two, it still freaks me out. Kinda like that two legged dog on Oprah the other day that could walk from place to place on its hind legs like a human: it's possible, but kind of eerie.

People tell me that "it's a girl thing". (Translation: Stop bragging - she ain't that brilliant.) Maybe so,but this aside, I fully expect her to turn to me on her third birthday and exclaim, "Mother, I find Dora so droll these days. I shall have a Motzart themed party next year."

My response? As long as it takes place in my beautiful new bathroom, let the symphony begin.

PS: Photo of Pip taken a month ago at a friend's party. She clearly has confidence issues.

Room With a Poo

Pipsqueak is making the transition from her current bedroom digs (the pack n play in the dining room) to her brother's room.

We had a false start when she excitedly fell asleep in her Dora bed once last week (Her actual bed is the trundle on the right - mine from when I was 12 during my Laura Ingalls Wilder phase. We put the mattress on the floor to eliminate rolls onto the hardwood. It also makes it easier for her to use it as a trampoline and land face first onto the yellow pillows. We're lucky that way.)

Since her first introduction to Stink's lair, there's been quite a bit of brotherly sister bonding. Quite a bit of giggling, talk about poo poo, and midnight trips to the bathroom. But no sleeping.

That's not true. Elmo's sleeping.

Hitting the Books

Today Rex was home working on the bathroom. Not wanting to chance my kids' fingers getting chopped off from a skillsaw the size of Madonna's ego, we had the rare treat of a Happy Meal in the car. Of course my kids whined all the way up to the drive through window ensuing a lecture about how,"This is not called a Bad Manners meal. It is called a Happy Meal. And if you want to stuff your bodies with fried food you better slap on a smile or we're going home to eat fruit!"

Needless to say, we found ourselves moments later under a shady tree in the library parking lot. For some reason, this place is like the holy grail for my children. Stink: "Oooh... look at the bluuuuue mail box (the after hours drop-off bin). Does the fairy come at night and put all the books back that good boys and girls leave in there for me?" Me: "Yes, and we will do the same. Isn't that good?" Stink: "No, that is not good. Not good at all. I want ALL the books."

Once inside, they made a dart for the children's section. Why that is not sealed floor to ceiling in sound proofed plastic I will never know. They have this mini-stage full of stuffed animals, and before I could stop her, Pip had doved head first (like her mama into a vat of Diet Coke) screeching, "It's Dora! It's Dooooooooora!" She only stopped swinging the lifesize doll around to pick up a beaten down cheetah and scream, "And Baby Jaguar! It's Baby Jaguar!"

Stink had no time for toys. He was right to work staking out his books like an old Pioneer claiming land. After a few minutes, we started in on a Spongebob, drawing a crowd of three more little dudes. "I'm not scared of that shark," one would say. "I'm very brave when it comes to sea monsters," a second would say, meanwhile hugging my kneecap like I've known him since infancy.

15 books later, we made it home to Rex blasting a U2 concert on a tv larger than Bono's stadium. All the noise on the surround sound was not enough to keep the kids awake. They were gone by 2:30, giving me some much needed time to myself.

A walk with Stink to Arco later, followed by some family time with all of us and some friends, made for a lovely day.

I'm too peaceful to think of anything sarcastic. Think of this as your lucky day off. Tomorrow I start in again.

It's a Small World

For those of you that are living in a mama bubble like I was the past few years, Newsflash: the Al Qaeda want to blow us up more than an inflatable pool with Liz Taylor belly flopping down the slide. http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-081006terror,0,6150277.story?coll=la-home-headlines

I find all this talk about bombs and death and hate so depressing. It makes me so bummed out that all I want to do is take a vacation far far away. But that would mean traveling. Which means going to LAX. Which means lines upon lines and more frustration than even thinking about Al Qaeda in the first place.

Such woes were the lighthearted topic of Cecelia and my "play date" today. While Pipqueak demanded ice and deigned to play with 3 of 15 stimulating toys my friend graciously placed out for her, my dear pal rocked her three month old Finn and enlightened me on her moderate take on the Democratic party.

I of course sat slack jawed as I realized, as usual, that despite agreeing with many comments made earlier on a right winged talk radio show, Cecelia's pragmatic views of world events made a ton of sense. This only proves once again that I am neither Democrat nor Republican. Nary a fish or a fowl. In the end, I will most likely morph into a Libertarian with webbed feet and gills.

My question for all you people, regardless of race and political party: How does one raise a child in America anymore? It's the land of the free and the brave, and yet it feels like our freedom shrinks more and more with every news story. And I don't know about you, but I'm not feeling so brave. That woman laying fetal position in front of a big screen tv? Drooling while The Golden Girls runs back to back with Charles in Charge and Alice (The one where Alice gets the 'fake' ring and runs a circle on the glass and it makes a perfect hole and shatters in Mel's kitchen)? That's me.

Cecelia had a great analogy about terrorists. She likened them to bullies on the playground. They have charisma, all the cool gadgets and clothes. People flock to them and are afraid to stand up for fear of a wedgie the size of Texas. But when one kid throws a stone, and then another, and then another, suddenly the bully is overthrown. That’s what we need to do to collectively fight for our freedom.

Fair enough. But I don't want my kid the one in the front lines fifteen years from now, throwing stones at an invisible enemy and coming home in a body bag.

Such an uplifting thought process is why I never used to watch the news. But now I'm sucked into this vortex of self-awareness. I'll never miss a boring election again. I'll turn into one of those women who show up at preschool with a button on my vintage Don Henley tee shouting in bright red bubble letters, "I Voted for Elmo!" I hate that. (And I don’t even have a vintage Don Henley tee shirt yet, though I hope to get one some day. That’s just how screwed up I am feeling right now.)

To to leave on a lighter note, let me say that I am making progress in my queries. I have made at least $84.11 this month on Ebay with a good plan to flip some products for cash. And most exciting…. I am going to Disneyland next week with Stink and Rex! We’re even going to stay in a fancy Holiday Inn in Anaheim so we can be the first ones in the gate. (Or, as my cousin likes to say, “We’ll be park busters!”) Yes, before the Al Queda blows it up, I'm going to be a tacky American with my Mickey Mouse ears, banana on a stick, princess light up crown and It's a Small World ringing in my ears.

Yeah, it's a small world. Thanks to all of you that make my little spin in it so enriching.

Conversations With Children

Me: Stink, clean up this bed before we go to the park.

Stink: Because you're not my maid?

=======================================
Me: Get down, Pipsqueak.

Pip: No!

Me: Yes.

Pip: No!

Me: Yes.

Pip: No!

Me: YES!

Pause.........

Me: No?

Pip: YESSSSSSSSSSS!

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

Me: Stink, do you want to give any night time thanks to Jesus?

Stink: Okay. Dear Jesus, please help me to drive to McDonalds by myself. Help me to play there and buy me a cookie. Now Mommy, tell me a story about Scooby and Shaggy who come to my house and the ghost who gets stuck on the maple syrup that I put on the floor but not before I asked you if it's okay and you said yes because I asked you.

Mommies Who Write

An interesting article from the L.A. Times (sent by Cecelia) on bored moms. Moms get bored? Huh?

http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/commentary/la-oe-schickel5aug05,0,7794534.story?coll=la-opinion-center

Here's one found on another website about a new book: Mommies Who Drink by Brett Paesel

http://www.calendarlive.com/books/reviews/cl-et-book4aug04,0,5372856.story?coll=cl-books-reviews

Just passing it on. No comment right now. If I had a title, it would be called Mommies Who Sleep.

Nite nite.

The Girl Has Sole

We have not had any tantrums today. I'd like to say my little girl is finally learning that my word stands firm so why bother screaming.

But I'm thinking it's the shoes.

All 14 pair, most of them in their original boxes, came to us courtesy of a family friend yesterday, the same one who introduced me to Rex. One could say Ali is both a soul and sole mate with her fantabulous pairing of parties.

While I personally have never been an accessory gal (I can contain all my cosmetics in one plastic pouch) my daughter likes nothing more than pumps, frills, eye shadow and of course, shoes. Between our new motherload of footware, and her 20 pair upstairs, she is the proud ownder of... drumroll... 34 pair.

I say this not to brag. I have bought her one set of shoes in my lifetime: a suede Hiawatha boots that I scored at thrift store for three bucks. The rest are from grandmothers, cousin hand-me downs, friend pawn offs and preschool hand me downs (oooh... make that 37 pair of shoes... she just got a Strawberry Shortcake sandal set and two pairs of tennis shoes from a little gal who, whenever she outgrows something, turns to her mommy and proclaims "These are for Stink's sister!")

The even scarier thing is that all these shoes are in her size through next year's size. She'd have had over 100 if I hadn't in turn donated or Ebayed the previous gear.

I pride myself on not being a ridiculous consumer. I fill my soul with friendship and love, not money. But I'm gonna have to concede on this one.

At least I'll have bargaining power later: "You practice your alphabet or I'm taking away those rhinestone pumps and matching clutch!"

Black and White

My son was a pretty affable little fellow. I can recall on one hand the amount of tantrums he has thrown in his life. Unfortunately, I can't count on two hands the amount my little two year old girl throws every day.

"She's a firecracker!" everyone says. "You will be so happy to have a strong woman in your family one day!" others mention.

Maybe so, but right now I just want to get out the door without fear of her hurtling out of my arms down the stairs because the shoes I picked out for her are akin to me making her walk on hot coals barefoot.

My strategy thus far has been to explain once, then ignore. "Pipsqueak, I know you want icecream for breakfast, but I am attempting to keep this house scurvy free." Then I just let her scream and scream and scream and scream. The downside is my son cupping his hands like ear muffs screaming "Woman! My ears!" The upside: I just might be raising an opera singer.

The crying jags are harder in stores, because people think you are ignoring your bratty child, when in truth, by not paying attention to the insanity, I'm attempting not to add fuel to the fire. As Rex and I are fond of saying, there's no negotiating with terrorists or toddlers. Like the balloons above, my daughter is very black and white. There's no calming her with "You can't lick the shopping cart right now but how about a fruit leather?" Like a tornado, there's lots of fury and kicking of dust, but in time it passes. And yes, that might be me holding on to dear life on the check stand pole for a better grip while she blows.

Despite her insanely willful nature, I have to say I adore this gal's spunk.

And Pipsqueak, some day if you're reading this, know that I love you more than any tantrum you can ever throw. And no, I don't mean that in any shades of grey. That issue is black and white.

Club Outsider

I was never the in kid at school, but I had a ton of friends. And clearly after scouring the internet the past few years, I am not the in mom either.

For those into great hair, lots of exclamations! and self-congratulatory back pats, you can join ClubMom. http://www.clubmom.com/ Even Elizabeth Shue is a member (her brother founded it with Meredith Viera... I'm thinking it's a possible reason for her involvement. Also, she gets the most comments. Hmmm, who'd a thunk?)

I sometimes wonder if I'm just a bitter person - the gal with deep seated popularity issues from not having enough homecoming dates. But after reading so many articles, and posting to so many Club Mom websites (apparently that's what you have to do to have someone link you so that your website can get more hits) and getting nary a response, I've decided that this mother popularity contest is a dance I don't want to be invited to.

My irritation is at an all time high tonite as I haven't seen my husband much this weekend thanks to the bathroom project from hell which, to save you the gory details, has still not produced a working toilet. Plus my kids have waged an all out "We Ain't Sleeping" war. So imagine my delight when I came across yet another party that I will never be invited to: Alpha Mom (www.alphamom.com) - a website/television channel for mothers that is supposed to make us feel connected and secure in our parenting. (And of course the contributing writers? Many are members of Club Mom... seeing the connection here?) Re: the CEO who wants all us mothers to unite? It is hard to feel sisterly bonds toward her when I look at photos of her in a size sub zero pant suit, nanny on the floor, holding a child with what's supposed to be some artsy fartsy name but sounds more like a deli sandwich.

http://newyorkmetro.com/nymetro/news/features/12026/

While my parenting village consists of my mother, my in-laws, an Israeli Arco manager and the occasional retarded sign-holder on the street that will make my son laugh with his yellow foam finger, Isabel Kallman has a different view (another point for why I'm not in the club.)

...It takes a village. Isabel quickly hired one. Her son was just 2 weeks old when she retained a night nurse. When he was 5 months, “I started realizing I needed to get out more,” and she brought on a nanny. Then after about a year, when she started working, “I obviously needed more help,” so she hired a regular babysitter as well—also often employing her father and an Alpha Mom intern.

I might have a different opinion if I lived in New York and could buy expensive clothes that made me look like I really don't give a damn but clearly the price tag says otherwise.

I might have a different opinion if I had gone to Harvard and clinked glasses with Anderson Cooper at some fabulous restaurant outside Chicago.

I might have a different opinion if my career were more successful... where I had the finances to really care if my son got into the top preschool or not because paying for it wouldn't be an option.

....She still has days that she’s incredibly insecure and worries that she’s not doing it right—as when Ryland was rejected from the Harvard of 2-year-old programs, and Isabel wept. In such moments, she turns again to the experts, such as the psychoanalyst Michelle Ascher Dunn, whom Isabel has recruited to host several Alpha Mom programs...

But I am just a suburban mom who lives in an unremarkable town trying to do the best I can. Sometimes I have great hair. Sometimes my car is clean. Sometimes I look so damn cute I can't even believe it's me looking back in the pint-size hand stained mirror. But most days I'm doing the balancing act of shopping, filling the elephant pool and deciding the ever burning question of macaroni and cheese vs. tacos.

Would I love to be friends with Oprah and have a photo shoot with Rachael Ray smiling in my backyard telling me how to use more EVOO on my turkey burgers? Of course. But right now that ain't happening. And the weird thing is, I'm actually pretty secure in knowing that I'm doing a good job with my kids. I can sleep at night in one of two sets of sheets (that I wash myself - heavens!) confident that Pip and Stink certainly aren't going to be stupid because I didn't strap headphones to my belly so my fetus could "hear everything from Mozart to Van Morrison."

As I get older and wiser and see my amazing kids develop into children of empathy, style and wit - despite never having attended a Gymboree class or having a mother who cares enough to wear Prada - I have only one thing to say to this organization.

BITE ME.

1..2..3...4...

5!

For about one hour I had five children in my house, ranging from -1, 1, 2, 3 & 4. Normally by now I'd be ready to throw myself into a vat of Diet Coke and go for the Gold in amount of Animal Cookies consumed in one sitting, but I remain in a glorious mood. And here is why:

* Rex helped with the kids this morning while I cleaned the house
* Then Rex's dad came over to help him put the beadboard in the bathroom
* Then Rex's mom came over to help me with the kids
* Then poor Cecelia, whose husband is gone quite a bit on his film, came over for some well needed attention which I helped her with while the kids slept
* Then, since my kids each took 3 hour naps, I was able to pour some energy into my sister's kids so she could take a break

The theme here, people? Everyone helps each other, everyone is happy. We teach it to our kids in the sandbox, but sometimes forget to use it ourselves. And when we do? Despite little sleep. Despite yukky clothes. Despite one toilet... life feels grand.

And that, my friends, is glorious.

Very cross

Today marked our fifth and final day of Bible camp. I can sum up my state of mind by transposing a quick note I sent off to Kate: "I can't think straight. Let me call you or email you when I'm not ready to bash my kids head in with a crucifix."

Yes, people, "Love is Patient, Love is Kind." However, I don't recall Jesus ever having to open 13 juiceboxes in 100 degree heat.

Not that a crucifixtion is pleasant.

Shutting up now.

Ugg, Heaven.

Third day of camp. Although I haven't lost a child yet, Stink managed to leave his team and find his way to my classroom, by way of a parking lot. He's fine. We're fine. Two days left and I can be back to obsessing over getting a job again. I'd like the say that the religion experience has been worth the volunteer time and hours, but in truth, just hanging out with Mrs. V., seeing scared, quivering kids turn into confident little campers, and watching Pip N Stick hold hands with hot pink and brown suede cowboy hats (resplete with black and brown suede tassle boots) is what makes me smile.

I've realized a few things: I love working with kids, but I hate the fear of losing them. I don't know how teachers do it. I couldn't concentrate teaching them algebra and worrying about them sneaking over to 7/11 for a pack of cloves. Of course, my kids are three years old. But they start so young these days, don't they?

It's cooling off here in the Valley. Rex and I managed a dinner out together, as well as dropped Stink off with Grandma. On the way home, with Pip in her blue ballerina outfit and diva Uggs, the cool air blowing through a clean SUV, a little music running through the stereo, I actually forgot about everything but where I was.

Then I came home to ants and a burnt out bathroom light and remembered.

I'll still take it.

Scrumptious

The theme of this year's Bible Camp was "Love is Patient, Love is Kind". After carting around 13 toddlers and fearing losing them to the street, I am opting to change its theme to "Love is a Kid Leash, Love is a Plastic Gate". In fact, if the 99cent Store can have computer chips imbedded in their carts to keep them from roaming too far out to the parking lot, I don't see why toddlers can't either. Okay, I'm joking. (Okay, no I'm not.)

I am thankful to Rex who heard all of my antics, then kissed me, did the dishes and put Pip to sleep. He was down right delightful tonite. Almost as delightful as...

This delicious site I found courtesy of Teri M': BrocamonteHome. http://brocantehome.typepad.com/brocante_home/ As soon as I get time to myself I will get a damn blogroll and link it to the left of this site, along with Teri's site.

For all my talk about going to Blogher http://blogher.org/about-blogher-conference-06, I've been reading quite a few of the reviews from various attendees. And while it sounds very informative, if I hear or see one more mommy trying to look like they aren't mommies talking about drinking, other people's shoes, make-up or faaaaabulous hair, I am going to barf. Just hurl right here on my computer screen. It all seems a bit highschool with all the self-linking and tight knit "clicks". (Get it? Clicks? As in computer clicks? As in yes, I am just that dorky, probably why I have yet to be added to someone's link list.) Of course when I'm done barfing and wiping the sweat off my brow from herding 13 toddlers through Bible Camp, I'll start thinking of ways to save to go next year. I'll be the one with the "I Love Geeks" shirt in the corner, calling Rex and crying into the phone about how much I miss Pip N Stink. Who doesn't love a party, and I can bullshit with the rest of 'em baby!

I will leave you with a quote from Brocante Home - much more my speed than Blogher. I wish you a lovely eve full biscuits, cozy blankets, mommies, babies, and of course, a spot of tea.

"Welcome To BrocanteHome. BrocanteHome is about creating a simpler way of life: a life that celebrates simplicity, authenticity and whimsy. If you are a Vintage Girl, with a scrummy house, too much laundry and a child (or two) attached to your ankles, then BrocanteHome is for you. Everyday, you will find the pick of the best Vintage Lifestyle sites, books and all manner of other lovely things. On our journey together, I will help you to create a Vintage Housework ritual designed to give you the peace of mind required to create a life that reflects both who you are and who you want to be. And of course, you will accompany me on my own path to authenticity, from the highest highs to cosy, chocolate fuelled afternoons and sleepless nights, courtesy of the cutest one year old little boy alive.
You hold my hand and I will hold yours."

PS: If these Blogher chicks can self-link, then I can too. And it goes like this. THANK YOU MRS. V! You have suuuuuuch great tennis shoes! I just looooooooved that you showed up and kept me from singing "Our Father, Who Art in Starbucks, Hallowed by Thy Cappucinos!" You have such glossy thick hair! Too bad it was pulled on by a zillion toddlers and one crazed mommy (that would be me.) You ROCK!!!!!!!!!!!

12 Hours

I once read that the key to a happy toddler is a warm bath, good food, a few friends and 12 hours of sleep.

After sleeping from 12 to 12, taking a shower, then eating lunch with Cecelia while Rex watched the kids, I must admit that this advice is true for mommies, too.

While the other factors played a big role in keeping me from driving my Costco cart head long into a cellphone junkie who cut me off at the corner of fax paper and jumbo sized pretzles, the major kudos goes to my long stretch of sleep. And since such lengthy zzs are ususally reserved for the comatosed, Rumplestiltkzin and the occasional drinking binge (in my case, half a glass of white zinfendel) I am going to revel in this once in a blue moon experience. (For you other frazzled mommies, this is also known as a "nah nah nah nah NAHHHHH nah.")

Sad but true, rested mommies are kind of like a solar eclipse: it happens only once every few years. And, like the eclipse, if she never gets this rare stretch of dozing, and you look at her the wrong way, you might be forever blinded by her burning gaze.

Hey, the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world, right? I stand by my astronomy reference. And on that note, good night. May you sleep under a bed of (as my kids would say) tinkle tinkle little tars...

PS: In an effort to show my appreciation for my rest, I am even submitting photo A, taken by Herb Ritz Crackers (my husband). I have turkey neck. I have acne. Those with a discerning eye might even find drool. I bet none of you nosey bodies had as much sleep as me, so I just don't plain care.

PSS: On a final note, is that not the cutest pillow on the planet? I could just lick those stripes right up. I obviously have problems.

Sex in Christ

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Life is a Mystery

But if Scooby could figure it out in thirty minutes or less, I suppose I can do it in the next fifty years.

And when I can't find clues, because clearly there are days when I don't have one, all I have to do is sneak into my Stink's room at 2AM to see what it's all about. Either I love this kid so much I could clearly die of heartbreak, or I'm a clingy stalker mom who will show up at his junior high basketball games with photos of his first bed and comments like "yes, that really is a Scooby Doo shirt he's wearing with the bedding ensemble, as well as Scooby underware... and a little Scooby vitamin in his tummy tum yummy tummy!"

As for Pip, I adore her just as much. But whenever I try to take a picture of her sleeping, she stirs, sits up in bed with her eyes shut, and mutters something very close to "Go Away, Mom". (Actually, that's exactly what she says, but I'm still in denial about how I'm going to raise this headstrong diva. I'm going with strength, humor and the occasional vodka tonic.)

Cheers!

Vacation All I Ever Wanted...

... I dropped the kids off at my moms, then spent 2 hours of free time setting up for Vacation Bible School.

Yes, you heard that right.

My official stance on religion: I believe in God. I want Him in my kids’ life. But dancing and singing to an island themed Jesus fest entitled Treasure of the Son? I’m having some doubts. What happened to us Catholics being reserved boring folk who said the mass in Latin and convinced ourselves that since we weren’t on the pill we weren’t technically having sex?

I proceeded to lose my cell phone for the fifth time since Pip’s been born, empty three bags of crap from the SUV, flog myself for not going to Blogher, flog myself for being vain enough to want to go, flog myself for not having a better direction in my life, flog myself for putting myself so last on the list this week that my SUV is worthy of a FEMA application, my underware is still M.I.A., I’m out of milk for my coffee, I wasted all my free babysitting hours this week forgetting my wallet and messing up my computer, I was late taking Stink to school, my kids have no bottles to be found, and I can’t believe I spent 24 hours worrying about a job that in reality would have been horrific for my sanity.

Now how can I continue to beat myself up in good Catholic guilt if I’m dancing around a palm treed tent singing “God is Patient, God is Kind”? Personally I’m about as patient these days as a paparazzi squatting outside a port-a-potty attempting to snap a picture of baby Suri while Katie walks zombie-like through Colorado mountain regions looking more puffed than a rice cake. And let's not forget she used to be Catholic, so it's guilty rice cake - not a great combination.

Oh, so you're sick of hearing about Katie and Tom? Too bad.

Screw everyone. (But in a "loving" "kind" way.)

The A B C and Dees of It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most Extreme Elimination

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One can only hope.

And Then God Rested

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

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

All in all, a busy day.

I Need Air Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the Radio

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

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

Anything.

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

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

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

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

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

I have ants.

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

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

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

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

Oh yeah, it's exciting.

Man That's Cold

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

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

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

Body of Work

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

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

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

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

I Love Women

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Am Old

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

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

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

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

I Hate Everything

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

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

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

I hate the San Fernando Valley heat.

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

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

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

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

I hate that the most.

2 for the Road

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

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

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

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

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

A Good Whine

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

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

Stink: "--Nanny!"

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

Being of Service

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crafty Service

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

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

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

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

I lead a very bizarre existence.

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

Getting the Bird

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever works.

Happy Tuesday.

Weighing In - A Poem

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

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

The Stretch Factor

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

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

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

* I am writing one hour/day.

* I am Ebaying 3 items / day.

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

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

Um.... Duh.

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

Aren't you glad I'm back?

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

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