Two Wittle Monkeys

Evening Commute in Traffic #california #losangeles #route66

2012-02-12T15:13:00.001-08:00

Daily Commute #california #losangeles #route66

2012-02-11T18:13:00.001-08:00

Under the table...

2012-02-06T19:17:00.001-08:00

Ladies who lunch strange #risotto #food #california #beverlyhills

2012-01-30T16:11:00.001-08:00

Saucy Bloom in the Yard

2012-01-29T16:49:00.001-08:00

Friday Night @ The Counter

2012-01-27T20:48:00.001-08:00

Amidst the chaos (Morning Scenes) #coffee #lego #intelligentsia

2012-01-27T08:15:00.001-08:00

View from the 2nd Hole

2012-01-18T15:47:00.001-08:00

Taken at Marty Tregnan Golf Academy

Scenes from Morning Commute

2012-01-18T08:50:00.001-08:00

Long Beach

2011-11-11T18:40:00.001-08:00

Window Seat

2011-11-06T21:17:00.001-08:00

Quality Time

2011-08-29T21:11:00.001-07:00

See the full gallery on Posterous

Once in a while, you have to grab some quality time. After Hurricane Irene cut into a long planned trip, we decided to take an impromptu vacation.

Five hours in the car, some flashback Grunge on XM, a quint-shot Vanilla Latte and voila. Vacationing with kids and a puppy isn't necessarily about relaxing. It's more a case of a change of venue and reacquainting ourselves. We explore, eat and try to keep the dog from pooping in the hotel.

Even if it's just a few days, it definitely does a lot of good. Here's to Primus, Starbucks drive-thru and satellite radio.

Untitled

2011-07-31T00:01:00.001-07:00

Untitled

2011-07-31T00:00:00.001-07:00

Monkeys on the Move

2011-04-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

Two Wittle Monkeys has moved to its own stand-alone site. Please come visit at www.twowittlemonkeys.com

Baby did a bad, bad thing... (Chris Isaak)

2011-02-28T21:13:00.000-08:00

The head nurse spoke up,
and she said leave this one alone
She could tell right away,
that I was bad to the bone.

- George Thorogood & The Destroyers

Children are not inherently good. This does not mean they are inherently evil. It does mean that they are animals. Animals are wily, territorial, vindictive and unpredictable. They may be cute, cuddly and endearing, but don’t be fooled, they are feral beasts capable of acts so unthinkable, so unfathomable as to inspire true “Shock and Awe.”

Our children are the apples of our eyes, the electric blankets warming the cockles of our hearts. They are all that is wonderful, charming and innocent. They are also the bane of our existence, the embodiment of all our idiosyncratic foibles and the only people who can make us consider Hari Kari. Most of all, they are funhouse mirrors throwing back images of ourselves often distorted and misshapen, but sometimes so crystalline in their clarity as to make us cringe in horror and disgust with ourselves or roll around on the floor in a state of self-congratulatory bliss.

The Participants...
Our youngest child is a girl child. She is hearts, flowers, pinks and butterflies. She has a gentle soul, a delightful giggle and eyes as big as a llama. She is also an in-training operative for The Company. She logs, files and registers every injustice visited upon her by her brother. At the tender age of 19 months, her memory banks are building a case so iron-clad that the Supreme Court would reach a unanimous verdict. However, she is also filled with such love and adulation for said defendant that she has begun holding her own clandestine kangaroo court rather than turn him out to the higher powers. We applaud her for her forgiving heart, which wins out in most cases. However, his actions have at times been deemed so egregious, so foul and offending that she has had to take matters into her own hands.

MeMe vs. Mawek
(The names have been altered to protect all parties.)

It was a typical weekday morning. Adults rushing around half-dressed clutching coffee mugs and electric toothbrushes. Children rushing around half-dressed clutching sippy cups and half-eaten freezer waffles.

Upon completion of half-hearted tooth brushing, MeMe (complainant) was having a heartfelt “moment” with her singing puppy. Enter Mawek the Tewwible (offender). Mawek spies the aforementioned puppy, snatches it and begins beating its head on the floor with gleeful squeals and gutteral grunts. After a thirty second abuse session, Mawek tosses the puppy into the air and runs from the room. MeMe is devastated. She has been rendered powerless and filled with impotent rage. She begins silently plotting her revenge.

Sidebar: I told Mawek to stop. I warned him of the consequences. I intervened by chasing him off from his assault. However, MeMe did not consider my efforts adequate. I was deemed an accomplice. I too would suffer in judgment...collateral damage.

Hours later, after fighting the mind-bending purgatory of morning traffic, MeMe and I returned home from taking Mawek to preschool in time for her late-morning nap. MeMe showed no signs of anger or distress. I later learned this was part of her tactic. She was no amateur.

MeMe woke from her nap in time for lunch. She put in her “sketti” request. Whilst her unsuspecting mother put a pot of water on to boil, the plan was put into action.

MeMe removed her shorts and her diaper stealthily. She ran into her brother’s room. She sat on his octopus bean bag chair and defecated. She stood and urinated on his favorite book. She wiped her filthy tushie across his bed and ran squealing down the hallway with delighted fervor.

The scene was so shocking, so unexpected and so premeditated that I could not muster anger. I was stunned by the perfection of her plan and the stunning execution. I realized I was in the presence of burgeoning genius. I recognized that her brother was in trouble. I instantly pitied her future boyfriends. I was jealous of her brazenness. I immediately called her father.

“You won’t believe what just happened...”

Let's do the Time Warp again...

2010-04-25T21:57:00.000-07:00

Time Warp
noun
(esp. in science fiction) an imaginary distortion of space in relation to time whereby people or objects of one period can be moved to another

It has been a while since I read Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle in Time,” but I often feel a bit like Charles Wallace... wandering around spouting the regurgitated wants of my two “ITs.” “I need to watch Cody.” “I want to get down.” “I want a star cracker.” Fairly often, I find myself rebounding off the kitchen walls like a pinball with a child hanging off my leg as I attempt to conduct a conference call without sounding like a blithering idiot. Even more often, I wonder, “What the heck is going on around here?”

I recently had brunch with my cousin. She is a wonderful, lovely and talented actress, wife and mother of two. She also was just on the backside of a near nervous breakdown. It had taken her nearly two hours to bundle up her youngest, pack up her car and drive to our rendez-vous. She was breathless and apologetic to such an extreme that her anxiety was palpable. Of course, I didn’t mind that she was an hour late. I took the opportunity to try on hats in effort to disguise a misguided and ill-advised haircut. I did know where she was coming from and I had nothing but sympathy, empathy and compassion, which incidentally are not the same thing for those of you who haven’t spent ample time on a psychotherapist’s couch.

Having Father Time backhand you is not a pleasant feeling. Nor is the suspicion that the State may step in and determine that you are only fit to raise gerbils. I now have Multiplicity on my Netflix queue and I know it will take at least three viewing sessions to watch it fully. This is because there literally is not enough time in the day. The “To Do” list has items that like Tribbles, multiply with abandon. Your dry cleaning is four weeks past pick-up. You forgot to buy toilet paper for the fourth day in the row and you are moving on from kleenex to paper towel. The complex calculations of fitting in your children, spouse, traffic and roasting a free-range, organic chicken all by 6pm raises hives and causes near anaphylaxis. Been there, done that.

I have concluded that it will take three of me to complete all of the things I think need to be accomplished on a daily basis. My one and only professional foray into the corporate purgatory of cable television left me so exhausted, stressed and anxious that my gastrointestinal tract took nearly eight months to recover. Ironically, they discovered they needed three me’s after I quit. Har-har-har. That’s another entry at another time on another blog with a signed legal release and pseudonyms.

Chances are that this disco ball hurtling through space will not stop rotating because you pop fish sticks in the microwave and bust out the tater tots. If you’re reasonably competent at your job you’ll get it done on time regardless of whether you work yourself into a lather or not.

Here’s my advice. Download “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley, brew a cup of tea, grab a sheet of paper towel and chillax. Everything will be right where you left it and shockingly every thing is gonna be alright.

It's not you, it's me...

2010-04-14T16:45:00.001-07:00

Dear John,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits...

When you’re dating, you run into all different types. You experiment. You try on different hats, so to speak...and you see which one fits. Sometimes, the fit is transient. Other times it’s merely a trend you find doesn’t suit you. In the end, the relationship passes into the archives, often a footnote in our personal history. Best case scenario, it’s a no harm, no foul. Worst case, it is a rattling skeleton at the edge of your closet, waiting like an extra from Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice.

Now, you have children and you’re dating again. I don’t mean you literally, but in a way, yes. Your children are forging relationships with other miniature humans. They are bonding, fighting, breaking up, jockeying for power. It’s an emotional roller-coaster that can give you the bends. You become attached to some of these friends. You begin planning imaginary parties, excursions, vacations. Then it all goes bust, because they didn’t share their Matchbox cars. Perhaps one decided that dinosaurs were cooler than Monster trucks. Often, they just grow apart. It can be a heart-rending experience for the taller set, us.

More confounding is when you meet another parent or couple and you think, “We click!” You think, finally you’ve found someone who is on your wavelength. You think you can coffee klatsch while your rugrats roll on the shag. You start looking forward to seeing them at pick-up or drop off. You put on a nicer aka cleaner shirt for the school shindig in anticipation of seeing them. You drop a casual invite for play-dates.

Then like a balding set of radials, no traction. I mean, cue crickets...nothing. A lack of reciprocity. Relationship doldrums. But, why? How can this be? You’re perfect for each other. You like the same jokes. You’ve both watched Finding Nemo a skillion, bazillion times and quote lines from the movie.

Omigosh...

It’s just like the boy you thought loved your purple sweater with the green, glow in the dark stars that your Aunt Rita bought you for Christmas, only to find out he was really interested in your best friend. Aargh! It can’t be happening again! It’s like Junior High déjà vu all over again! But, but, but... I’m cool! My kid is cool! I don’t get it.

Don’t worry...

As one who has been on both sides of the equation, I can honestly say that it can be a square peg, round hole situation. More often than not, it is simply fatigue, hectic schedules and mass confusion. It can also be insecurity or shyness. So ladies and gents, if you see that special someone across a crowded playground, go get ‘em. Don’t be easily deterred. Don’t be a psycho stalker either.

I’m not saying you need to channel your inner pep squad, pom-pom shaking, Mitzy. I’m just saying, don’t give up too easily. Go ahead and plan that pool party, that picnic, that trip to the indoor playground, also known as carpeted petri dish full of transmittable microbes that kids love to lick and sneeze on.

If at first you don’t succeed and all that. But also, take stock. This is a teaching/learning moment. Some shoes don’t fit. Those glorious stacked heel, tasseled, open toed marvels may look spectacular, but that doesn’t mean they suit you. If you’re a funky, split-toed, Ninja sneaker wearer like myself, that doesn’t mean you can’t have a great relationship with a Sperry Topsider. And sometimes, you can bust out those super zexy Choos. I’ve completely digressed.

In other words, in some cases, it truly can be a case of... “It’s not you, it’s me.” But it can also be an instance of “It’s not me, it’s you.” Something to ponder in the frozen food section.

A Case of the Blahs

2010-03-27T00:21:00.000-07:00

How a MINI saved my life.

Over the past several months, I have suffered a severe case of the blahs. You know the feeling. You don't really want to get up in the morning. Days melt into one another filled with repetitive tasks that seem to cycle themselves endlessly until you don't know what day of the week it is and the months have evaporated into the ether. Yes, those bland, beige days that end in HGTV or traveling to the end of the internet and back. Carpal tunnel sets in and you wonder where the time went. Suddenly, you realize that you have succumb to a major, deadening, soul-sapping case of the blahs. And so, we come to February 2010.

I woke up one Sunday last month and realized that not only did I hate my car, but it was killing my entire groove. Now, I know... a car. That's the epiphany? It wasn't just the car. It was everything the car stood for. It was the ultimate compromise. It was the physical manifestation of me throwing in the towel, giving up my dreams, dulling my mind and abandoning all hope of ever realizing my true potential. In short, I was driving a Pale Green, Beige Leather, Toyota Prius. I never wanted a Prius. I never even wanted a Toyota. It was the sensible choice. Myriad nights inputting data in Excel spreadsheets and calculating true cost of ownership ratios had led me to this...death by fuel efficiency.

Where was the fun? Where was the excitement? Where was the forgotten triad of me, myself and I? It was buried under 46.7 miles per gallon of totally snoozeriffic, craptastic, ugliness. Some of you out there are offended. Some of you out there think I'm shallow. Some of you out there know exactly what I'm talking about. Here I was, a thirty-something...ugh, shudder...flashbacks of that awful television program, driving a sensible, mid-size sedan.

For crying out loud, I am part of the MTV generation. Okay, the original MTV generation. Not the reality MTV that doesn't play music videos, but the real MTV generation. I am a Gen-Y or Z or some alphabetical classifaction that denotes something slightly cooler than milquetoast, anemic acceleration in the bastard child of a Pontiac Aztek's drunken interlude with a GM EV-1.

Just to backtrack, I have many friends who drive Priuses, Prii, whatever. I love them... the people, not the car. My father drives one. I respect the fuel-efficiency and the aerodynamic, co-efficient drag studied, lightweight technological achievements that gave birth to this egg shaped fuel sipper. I however like speed. I like torque. I like get-up-and-go. I like to rev the engine. I like to feel the tires tear the pavement away as I race to the grocery store with two screaming toddlers in the backseat. That is me and I have come to accept me. Thus, my beloved husband and I got up one February Sunday, piled those aforementioned runny-nosed, over-energized bundles of progeny into the back of that battery charged, glorified go-cart and headed directly to the nearest MINI dealership.

Our three-year-old was delighted with every test drive. Our 1-year-old dismantled most of the dealership waiting room. My husband's eyes lit up as he threw open the door of the CooperWorks edition after a fifteen minute test drive that could have landed him in jail for excessive speeding. As we signed the paperwork on the Chili red MINI Clubman S, six-speed, dual exhaust rocket our smiles broadened. We unceremoniously emptied the Prius, crammed our double jogger stroller into the MINIscule trunk (yes, it fit!) and tore off into the distance.

I must admit, I exhaled. I got my groove back. I shook off the blahs. In fact, I've logged so many miles on that maniacal speed-demon that I haven't had time to blog. So, whatever represents your blah, shake it off, trade it in, dump it. Life is too short and there is too much fun to be had. As our three-year-old says, "Wanna go for a ride in sportscar, Mommy?"

"Yes, I do!"

_________________________________________________

Post-Script: Yes, I had brake problems, but this was right before the global Toyota debacle unfolded. I had to have all pads replaced and rotors machined. I also had a squealing passenger seat that had to be held in place when unoccupied. I had a phantom, mafia kidnap victim banging around in the trunk loudly enough to freak my husband out. I had body panels that popped off unprovoked. I had tires that could not remain inflated. There was also the duck incident. Now, I'm not saying I had a lemon, but it was certainly at a minimum a lime.

Why Can't We Be Friends?

2009-12-19T08:33:00.001-08:00

"Good Morning Angels..."

When I was a little girl, Charlie's Angels was at the peak of it's hair-tossing, flared-jeans, gun-toting fabulosity. My little gal pals and I would determine which of us was Jill, Sabrina or Kelly. There was just one problem. There were only three of them, but there were five of us. At one point, we had multiple Kellys and Jills, sorry Sabrina. But it got confusing during shootouts and covert ops. The two replicants or doppelgängers then got into complex negotiations about who would be Kelly 1 vs. Kelly 2.

Later, it was determined that the first girls to the handball court were automatically the Angels and the tardy party would have to wait until they either grew wings, didn't have to pee before recess or could wrestle someone to the ground on their mad dash to Bosley's office near the basketball hoop. It was all becoming too much. Feelings got hurt. Sleepovers were tense. Lunch was becoming a political minefield.

Thankfully, Cheryl Ladd, Tanya Roberts and Shelly Hack made their transitions onto the show after Farrah's departure and three more Angels were available. Unfortunately, the damage was done. Our little group couldn't survive the Angels era. Ronit, wherever you are...it wasn't me who said you couldn't be Jill. I was Sabrina for crying out loud! Every time I see Jaclyn Smith, I still get a twinge in my stomach. How I wanted to be Kelly, but frankly sprinting wasn't my forte.

Fast forward to college. There were the "hair" girls. A gaggle of gals with long, lustrous, curly hair who were tight like Gorilla Glue. They moved herd-esque from one place to the next. They seemed impenetrable, as though they shared one brain. It might not have been the most evolved, sophisticated brain, but they migrated as conjoined quintuplets. Or so it seemed until I sat with them during lunch. You see, I was a bartender and manager at the only campus bar. That was the closest thing to a demigod in our Upstate Attic Community. This career path afforded me a certain amount of social currency and fluidity. I would interlope sampling the myriad cliques angst-free.

On this day it was colder than a well digger's rear in the Klondike, as my Grandfather liked to say. I caught up with one of the hair girls heading into the dining hall. She invited me to join them. I couldn't resist. As we sat by the window watching snow blanket the barren lawn and trees, I had an intense sense of déjà vu. It was Charlie's Angels all over again. There was jockeying, negotiating, bickering, hurt feelings, simmering resentment and more. It made my Stroganoff curdle. I offered up a lame excuse and hurried back into the wicked cold. Regrettably, I had opened Pandora's box and the lid did not want back on. I began getting earfuls about this one from that one and so forth until I finally had to pull the plug entirely to stop the cycle.

I find myself years later embroiled in the same old struggles. Whispers, back-pedaling, hurt feelings, mendacity and prevarication. What's the deal? Can't we all just get along? I thought we would all grow out of all this nonsense. Then I turn on the television, read a newspaper or listen to the radio and realize that it's just human nature. At the extreme end, my father-in-law once offered this observation, "Put two people in a room and one of them will try to kill the other." Or as one professor offered, "Get used to it, we're all just a bunch of animals."

In the immortal words of the band WAR, I still want to know... "Why can't we be friends?"

What's Grosser than Gross?

2009-11-06T08:31:00.000-08:00

sca⋅tol⋅o⋅gy (pronounced: ska-ˈtä-lə-jē)
Function: noun
Etymology: Greek skat-, skōr excrement; akin to Old English scearn dung, Latin muscerdae mouse droppings
Date: 1876
1 : interest in or treatment of obscene matters especially in literature
2 : the biologically oriented study of excrement (as for taxonomic purposes or for the determination of diet)

If you're feint of heart, this isn't the post for you. If your stomach is weak, your gag reflex over-developed, your psyche tender or your memory too vivid, this is not the post for you. I will not think less of you if you click off now. You have been warned.

We must now turn our attention to scat. Not doo-woopity-doo, but the other kind of scat. The smelly, icky, refuse that is jettisoned from your posterior in varied forms and velocities. Yes, I am referring to poo, two, crapola. We all do it, but we'd all rather not think about it. We certainly don't want to discuss it, unless we are in the presence of a skilled physician or the company of like-minded juveniles...or me.

Why is this topic coming up? Because since having pets and children, I am surrounded by scat. My world has become scaterifically, scatologically, scatastic. I once believed that I could face any adversity. I could meet any challenge. I was a rock. I was wrong. My husband and I have been confronted with a Shock and Awe campaign so effective, so raw, so gnarly as to defy our wildest imaginings.

Any dog owner knows the misery of scooping up poop after Fido has ingested some unsanctioned grub. It's not nice. Any cat owner knows the shame of pulling yarn or thread from their feline's "chocolate starfish" as it yowls in discontent. That is all horrible. That is all just a primer.

We were eased into complacency by the cute little poopies of our first-born. Little, tiny skids on his adorably minuscule diaper. Then it graduated to milled mustard - the deli-style stuff. Still okay, not too smelly and somewhat scientifically interesting. As you move into solid food the odor begins. Then the digestive system matures and wham! All of a sudden your little treasure is pushing out poops that reek of sewers and refuse. Little babies make big poops. Seventy-three year-old-man-style stuff. It astounds. It horrifies. It smells.

We have barehanded flying turds. We have scraped smear from our fingernails. We have scooped it from tubs. We have rinsed it from clothing. We have gone from fearful, recoiling rookies to poopmasters. We developed Jedi poop senses... knowing if poop was imminent while not in the presence of the pooper. We have applauded poopie. We have chucked grapefruit sized softballs into our unsuspecting drains only to spend thirty minutes with a plunger and a screaming child incensed that his most prized accomplishment is being defiled.

Now, we are unfazed. We are professionals. After all, sh*t happens.

Lions, Tigers and NASCAR... Oh, my!

2009-11-03T21:45:00.000-08:00

Holidaze are here again...

We've hit the high season. It's crunch time. The holiday craze has begun.

It starts with a smattering of annoying school closures. Remember when we thought it was cool that school closed? Now, every observed holiday is a potential pretzel twist of balancing work, kids and staving off any potentially therapy-inducing mishaps. Nevertheless, we made it to Halloween. As a kid this was one of my favorites. It still is, but by proxy. Our kids are young enough that we can dress them up however we want and we get to eat all the candy in a hypocritical sugar bender.

This year we sent out a Cowboy and a Bunny. I learned that eyeliner is great for faux moustaches. Lip liner is terrific for bunny noses and brow pencil is fantastic for whiskers. We also discovered the machiavellian brilliance of branding.

As our Wee Cowboy stood at a doorstep alongside a Tiny Toddling Doctor, a NASCAR Driver sporting Lightning McQueen Target Brand Crocs, a Pint-Sized Dorothy and a Pink Princess we witnessed Madison Avenue's most insidious, marketing tactics unravel our Little Westerner into a fit of tears, screeches and flailing limbs. "I want race car!" Huh?

I assured our Frontier Buckaroo that no one got race cars. He shrieked and threw down his goody bag of treats. I dragged him screaming from our neighbor's doorstep whilst recriminating glances bathed our backs and hushed parental voices tut-tutted as they ushered their children away, lest the outburst be contagious. Again, I reassured him that no one had been given any four-wheeled vehicles, transport units or autos of any kind. This merely caused our three-year-old to enter a higher decibel wail-fest that began liquefying the stucco facades of the buildings.

After our soothing reassurances descended into pleading and finally threats, he finally sucked it up and pulled himself together to rejoin the gaggle. My husband and I were exasperated. We had saved our Halloween, but what in creation was this race car nonsense? It was only while trudging home after gathering enough candy to negate three weeks of dieting that my husband had a Eureka!

Our son is a racin' fanatic. Anyone who watches NASCAR knows why it's called racin'. For the same reason that Mater shouts, "Get 'er done!" in Pixar's Cars. Just because... So, our little guy loves him some Stock Cars. One such vehicle bears the logo of M&Ms. That lovely automobile is currently driven by a gentleman named Kyle Busch. Our son doesn't know who Kyle Busch is, nor does he know what an M&M is. I'm proud to say that he has lived a nearly candy-free existence. However, Monsieur Petit Screech Monkey does know that an M&M means a race car. Like Will Ferrell's Ricky Bobby, our boy likes to go fast.

In an ill-timed coincidence of confluent circumstance, our Wrangler was standing next to a NASCAR driver sporting shoes in the image of his most favorite cartoon character of all time in the known universe as our unsuspecting neighbor handed said driver a bag of M&Ms. She then handed our little cowpoke a Twix.

Sweet Baby Borne of Immaculate Means!

Oy Vey and other good Yiddish phrases...

2009-10-24T00:05:00.000-07:00

Normally, I use this space to talk, vent, poke fun at all things kid and family related. At the fundamental base of this is love. I love my children, my husband, my outrageous family and my dubiously honorary family. It is these people who provide the most support, love, guidance, frustration, irritation, sleepless nights, euphoric joy and hilarity of all the beings in the universe.

Over the past few months, my family has been confronted with challenges so heartbreaking as to defy description. My beloved Grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. My dear Mother-in-Law is facing her third bought with the insidiousness of Cancer. We are all bending under the weight of the financial turmoil of the Boy Wonders of Wall Street, Main Street, Back Alleys, etc. In short, we are just like you and everyone else. In spite of this incredible difficulty, we are managing to keep moving forward. Some days it feels like trudging through the thickest, stickiest muck. Some days it feels like the path is so treacherous, so unknown, so long and so infinite that we will never reach its end.

I am not an inherently religious or spiritual person. As of late, I have been praying to anyone in general and no one in particular. I have asked for patience, guidance, kindness, sanity, strength, support and more. I have cried in the shower, in the car, in the kitchen, in the supermarket, on the street corner, in front of strangers and at a mattress store. I have discovered that there is compassion in the most unlikely places and people. I have discovered avarice and greed in the most surprising circumstances and people. Mostly, I have discovered that I am still here and still putting one foot in front of the other. If only in millimeters, it is still progress.

So, this post is just a note to anyone else out there dealing with hardships that seem insurmountable. You are not alone.

Which of these things is not like the other one?

2009-09-06T12:02:00.000-07:00

"I'm gonna wave my freak flag high..."

- The Jimi Hendrix Experience, If 6 Was 9

Here we are, living in a conformist, J. Crew, mega-mall society and you're feeling very square-peg-round-hole. Now, you've got a miniature, feral version of yourself and your mate to accentuate the dissimilitude. You don't feel quite like your old self. You aren't getting enough z's. You're "child-free" friends are partying while you're cajoling an inconsolable person who is bearing an uncomfortable resemblance to your father-in-law.

The old joys aren't accessible. You've tried taking Junior McFull O' Fuss to your regular haunts and you've narrowly escaped being tossed out on your rump. Your fashion sense has faltered, you find strange sticky-ickys on the back of your "fat" jeans. Your hair needs attention and you're not quite sure you brushed your teeth within the past 36 hours. You feel like you are all alone... a satellite floating in the outer-atmosphere of your former life. You are untethered and slightly displaced.

Turn that frown upside down and buck up. You're on the path to freedom. The road to hell is paved with Brazilian Bikini Waxes and Michael Kors handbags. You've been liberated. You've gotten off the gerbil-wheel of consumerist, propaganda-ingesting, materialistic craziness. Why don't you feel free? Why do you feel like you're in baby prison with a bipolar cellmate?

Honestly, because you are in baby prison with a bipolar cellmate. But, yes there is a but, this will pass. Your sleep deprivation will allow the old concerns to melt away. You will be able to reprioritze and simplify your life. You will distill your life to its essential necessities. You will begin to see yourself as a whole. You are no longer unplucked eyebrows and two pinchable inches of omigod how did this happen to me. You are on the verge of becoming a better you. Like the nine months it took to cook up this little bun of nuttiness, it will likely take that long or longer to gain equilibrium. You may never be the person you were, but really is that such a bad thing?

Those who don't evolve die. Or at least, become very boring. Who wants to be the 40-something sitting in the cocktail lounge laughing too loudly in their Forever XXI that makes them look Suspiciously LII? There is something wonderful about a person who has accepted themselves. That doesn't mean you walk around with soup on your Mom Jeans and oatmeal on your chin sporting three day old knickers.

As you emerge from the fog you will discover exciting new things about yourself. You will have moments of extreme clarity. You may forget them, but they will continue in frequency until you find you've evolved into a better you. A more human you. A more accepting you. A more you you than you were before.

You will wave your Freak Flag high and you will be unflappable in the face of scowling, judgmental stares while your untamed wildcat throws down in the middle of Kinko's. You will become a Zen-Warrior-Confucian-Love Harbinger of Self-Acceptance and Compassion. Or, you might not. As Jimi sang, "I got my own world to live through..." It's really up to you.

Exiled in YoVille...

2009-09-03T17:34:00.000-07:00

"The future's made of Virtual Insanity..." - Jamiroquoi

I used to love the notion of Virtual Reality. It was a novel, liberating, William Gibson-esque, quasi-romantic, far-off notion. It was a place where I could have an alternate persona, life and adventures. As a work-from-home mother, it seemed perfect. I could "get out" without getting out. The reality of Virtual Reality is somewhat different. VR, as some who breathe deeply of the rarefied air within the Geekosphere, refer to it is not as I imagined.

I joined Twitter and coined an alliteration that sums up my feelings about that bird-brained space. "Twittering Twits Tweet Tiresomely." I know, you get your "news" on Twitter. You stay in touch with your long-lost, third-grade, bestie on Twitter. Yeah, sure. You are a voyeur, peeking into the publicized musings of a person who perhaps should have remained in your past.

Do you really care that they are standing behind an odor-challenged misanthrope at the local Big Box store? Is the celebretard du jour really so intriguing that you need to breathe simultaneously as they expound on the mysteries of that other celebretard's unfortunate demise? And what about those random unknowns following you around? What do they want? Why are they there? What are they doing?

I joined FaceBook. I loved seeing the photos of friends I'd lost touch with...you know, since the Third Grade. I actually saw a few of them in person. It was great! Then something happened. I discovered games. It started out innocently. A few rounds of that Scrabble rip-off after dinner. I'd pop on and TextTwist for a little while waiting for the chicken to come out of the oven. Then, I found YoVille and my life took a definite hairpin turn.

What is YoVille? It is golden handcuffs wrapped up in a seemingly benign package. What could be more innocent than a small town in Cyberspace? You create an Avatar. That's fun! You pick your hair, clothes, accessories. You're given a small apartment that's decorated much like a dorm room. Still fun, right?

Then you set out to explore this new world. Low and behold, that person has a tricked out pad with a hot tub, flashy clothes a dog and a bouncer! Wait a minute! I want all that stuff! How do I get it? You get it by going to work. What? Yes, you have to work in YoVille at the...brace yourselves...here it comes...The Widget Factory.

Yes, my friends, even in VR you have to have a job! To earn supplemental income you can visit friends, send notes, give gifts, tell jokes, play games and more. Every few weeks the game designers release new stuff for you to covet, new clothes to buy, new crap to horde. Pretty soon, you're logging on every six hours to make Widgets, visit people you'll never meet and figure out ways to cheat the system.

It's just like real life, but worse. In real life, you can't get away with sending a message with the letters "CR" and expect to keep friends. That stands for "coin run" for all you uninitiated. In real life, you can't levitate or eat nothing but hot dogs, Chinese Take-Out, fried clams, "Sky Juice", coffee and the like. At least, not without having a stroke or becoming morbidly obese and over-caffeinated. In real life, you would never horde a room full of Jack-in-the-Boxes or Mafia Coffee Machines. Okay, maybe. In real life you would never buy a double-wide trailer and willingly decorate it with dead trees, a disco ball, Tiki torches and an Easter Island head. Well, some might, but I digress.

I became a YoVille junkie. An unnamed friend went so far as to spend "Real World" money to buy "VR" money so he/she could decorate his/her Yopartment. I started getting gifts from people I didn't know...shoes, jeans, fried clams. It was becoming bizarre. On top of everything, the Widget Factory was nothing but a Ponzi scheme! Recruit people to work under you on your "crew" and earn more coins during your shift.

The whole business was becoming time consuming, stressful and exhausting. I simply couldn't keep up with the YoJoneses. I had to unplug. I took a forced 36 hour sabbatical, maybe it was 32 hours. Trust me, for a YoVillian, that is a loooong time! I missed 6 shifts at the Widget Factory, my relationship thermometers plunged and my fish nearly starved. It was a detox. It was a self-induced intervention.

I won't climb up on a high horse. I still visit YoVille from time to time. Mostly to feed my fish. Even in VR, I can't handle the guilt of Pescanticide (that isn't a word by the way).

Chaos

2009-08-04T08:05:00.000-07:00

I once believed there were things within my control. Chaos was a foe I could guard against if I held fast the notion that with planning, diligence and dedication I could craft a reality in which events would unfold seamlessly and all involved parties would share in the responsibilities and reap the rewards. I must have been very, very young and naive.

Later, I thought that I could have controlled chaos similar to detonating charges in a building to bring it down into a controlled pile of rubble. Clearly, I was watching too much television and giving myself too much credit. I have recently come to embrace chaos. I have no choice. Chaos is everywhere. It is on the road driving next to me jockeying a triple-shot-non-fat-sugar-free-grande-vanilla-soy-latte while holding a blackberry and adjusting the satellite radio. It is standing in the middle of the grocery aisle blocking the path, rear end up in the air examining canned cuttlefish yelling into a cell phone. It is shrieking in its crib, "Mommy get down?"

There is a thin veneer applied to reality to make you believe that control is attainable. I say, "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" The only control I have is over whether I wet my pants or not and even then perhaps not. I do not control when I eat, sleep, bathe, wash my hair, work. That doesn't mean someone is the boss of me. There is no boss. Balls are tossed into the air. I try to catch them as they fall, but some defy gravity hovering overhead. Some go up, up, up into the ether never to be seen again. Some roll away skittering down the street and become someone else's ball. In the end, it's all okay. It is because it is. I am no yogi, no nihilist (The Dude Abides) and certainly no philosopher. I just know what it feels like to bang my head against a brick wall repeatedly. Eventually, you get a headache and the wall is still there. So, rather than concuss I am grateful for clean underwear and a toothbrush that hasn't been used on the dog. As above, so below. Chaos is and so am I.

Now What?

2009-07-10T08:55:00.000-07:00

The baby has arrived!

You've survived the preceding months of hormonal bi-polarism, emotional teeter-totter, self-doubt, thoughts of spousal/partner/in-law/parent/best-friend homicide. You made it through labor.

Sidebar: A pox on all of those "drive-thru" delivering women who proclaimed with mock horror, "It was the hardest three hours ever!" You are what I term, "one of those." You are the women who look like they stepped out of a Pottery Barn catalog...clean house, gorgeous skin, shell pink manicures intact and husbands who tote six packs around on their mid-sections. Of course, we all want to be you. Until we achieve demi-goddess status my pox stands.

Back to the matter at hand, you have this little tiny baby staring up at you with earnest sincerity and you're thinking, "They're going to let me take this thing home?" All of your books, training, classes, online research suddenly evaporate into the ether and you are petrified...joyously, wondrously, lovingly, excitedly petrified. "Please God, don't let me accidently X the baby." Insert whatever pet fear you have for X...drop, forget, smother, emotionally damage, etc.

To allay your fears, unless you have had previous run-ins with the law, have been confirmed as a complete moron or lack the common sense of a house cat, it is unlikely the major X incidents will occur. However, the minor x's are inevitable. It is your job/destiny as a parent to emotionally wreak havoc on your young. Less than was wrought on you, but just enough that your child will want to move out. This is part of the grand design. If the minor x's didn't happen, your child would be perfect...you would be perfect. No one is perfect. In fact, it is all the imperfections that make us lovable, interesting, infuriating, intriguing, goofy and ultimately human.

So, strap that little human experiment into the five-point harnessed, rear-facing, side-impact resistant, canopied, government approved infant car seat and ride off into the sunset. And if there is a prehistoric screeching noise trailing behind you and the face in your visor mirror has a blank look of terror, know you are not alone. Even those Pottery Barn moms feel that way...

Pickles and ice cream...

2009-07-03T18:14:00.000-07:00

Pregnancy is hard. Basically, it sucks. You swell up, you're taken over by an alien life form, your feet grow, your brain deteriorates and your emotional IQ dips to pubescent hysteria levels. If you're like me, you also develop peculiarities...pica was mine.

What is pica?

The desire to eat non-food items. Gross you say? I salivated at the sight of a bag of rubber bands. I coveted them like caviar. I passed the tire section of Costco and became faint with desire. I tried everything to deny the burning hunger that scorched me during every visit to Staples, Office Depot or OfficeMax. I consulted my OB, whose stellar advice was, "Don't eat rubber bands." Really? That's so helpful. Eventually, I succumb. I crunched and munched their rubbery goodness like badly prepared calamari. I became a connoisseur of brands, types, thicknesses, consistencies. My mother couldn't stand the sound. My husband was moderately tolerant, if not somewhat suspicious. I could barely hear the television set during a good chew session. Their squeaky delight was so overpowering that I had to hide them from myself. I was driven to distraction. No pickles and ice cream for me.

I also wanted to eat dirt. The medical professionals claimed that was due to an iron deficiency. Whatever... I saw rich potting soil and salivated. Just to be clear, no dirt was consumed. Not ever. My fear of filth kicked in and I left the dirt in the garden where it belonged. The other craving? Snails! I wanted escargot like nobodies' business. I was snail crazy. This ironically, I did not indulge. Nope. I would rip the elastics off produce, but no escargot. Ridiculous and without reasonable explanation. The only "food" item on the coo-coo list and I didn't eat it.

Go figure.

Superpharmacologisticletsseehowsitgoesit...

2009-07-02T05:23:00.000-07:00

Sidebar:

Forgive me for I have sinned. It has been several weeks since my last post. After several parent-child conferences, I'm the child, numerous bouts of good long cries in the shower and one visit to my primary-care physician, I have returned to the keyboard.

Where to begin? Hmmm... Here's a better question. If your plate is already full at the start of the buffet line, what do you do? Here's a reasonable answer. Leave the trough. Ahh, reasonable, logical and if all the bulging waist-lines haven't already demonstrated...rarely heeded.

So, is life like the buffet in Vegas? Why yes. Yes it is. How so? Let's see. I will translate this into real terms as relates to yours truly. I have two small children at very "challenging" ages. I have a full-time, consuming job. I have a spouse with whom I'd like to remain civil, if not friendly and possibly amorous. I have a dog well into his golden years who requires walks, supplements and spa visits. I have a few close friends I'd like to see before they don't remember me and I try to have some personal time. That would seem to be quite a lot and certainly enough for one person. But wait! There's more!

I also sit as an Advisor on the Board of my HOA. I started a local Parents Club that hosts four annual events, which generally fall entirely on me and one other over-extended mommy of two. I write a monthly article for our local newspaper. I have a beloved family whose "issues" often bleed into my sphere of responsibilty. No elaboration necessary. Anyone with boundary-challenged loved ones knows I could not possibly post anything further for fear of fire-bombing. I volunteer for our Neighborhood Association and I try to attend every school event for my oldest child. Add on to that the daily tasks, home-making duties, outside obligations, birthday parties, vet visits, dentist appointments, car servicing, FaceBook visits and attempts to keep up with current affairs. Suddenly, your plate is bulging and indigestion is imminent. If one wheel wobbles the whole apple cart comes smashing down and you find yourself up to your eyeballs in rotten fruit with skinned knees, a bruised psyche and an overwhelming sense of co-dependent guilt.

What to do? Well, there's certainly the option of taking a cue from Jefferson Airplane and choosing to follow Alice down the rabbit hole. Or, for you younger people out there...choose the red pill or the blue pill. I am not a big advocate for GlaxoSmithWellbutrinBarney, but some say it helps. It mostly gives me an upset stomach, headaches and general wooziness. The other option is to exercise. Hit the gym, hit the pool, hit a bag. I'm a walker. A big time walker. I like to hit the pavement for a minimum of three hours at a stretch. It clears my head, reduces my posterior and frees me from all things that require electrical recharging.

I strap my little love bugs into a double-wide stroller and I walk. The whistling wind often muffling cries of, "Mommy, I get down?" I am such an avid walker that when my trusty jogging stroller went wonky I risked losing a finger and an eye to learn how to work an air compressor. When that didn't resolve the problem, I sought "professional" assistance from my local sports gear megastore. That yielded no results. So, I did what every married woman at the end of her tether does. I called my husband moaning like a wounded animal capable of not only annoying, but also guilting her beloved into a service visit. Rickshaw repaired and back on the streets, I was back on track.

So, my best advice is to have a great team of professionals and a jogging stroller. Step away from the buffet, load "Surrealistic Pillow" on your mp3 player and hit the streets. "Remember what the dormouse said, 'Keep your head.'" - Jefferson Airplane

Breathe in...breathe out...

2009-06-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

Ohmmm....
Or is it Ommmm?
If you can't spell it, can you achieve it?

We enrolled in all the pre-baby classes - Lamaze, which is no longer Lamaze, but something else, "Pain Management", infant care, etc. We filed through the halls of the Mega-Medical-Mecca where several Intergalactically-Famous Pop Singers, Unwed Celebutantes and Studio Execs wives had spawned their prodigal young. The Blackberries and Vuitton bags were plentiful and the expectant mother's were runway thin...for now. It was a flotilla of privileged, concerned parents-to-be and we were temporarily among the herd.

Our instructor was appropriately of a semi-Flower-Power, but not quite Earthy-Crunchy disposition. She had us form a circle and introduce ourselves. Later, this circle would become a source of bemusement, irritation, embarrassment and for some humiliation. My spouse, not being of the touchy-feely variety was less than enthused at this en masse forced sharing and communicating.

My guy is more of a man's man, not the club-wielding, gnawing on slabs of meat, monosyllabic sort. On the contrary, he is a thoughtful, sensitive, intelligent, knowledgeable Renaissance/X-Games/Technocrat sort of man. However, he does not like to sit on industrial Berber carpet with a bunch of people he would normally never share eye-contact with and divulge information he deems not only personal, but also largely irrelevant.

My man was on a mission to extract knowledge in an efficacious manner. Holding an ice-cube to simulate endurance during labor just wasn't cutting the muster. More importantly, we had been given a near definite "C-Section" sentence. I call it that because unlike most people's perception of L.A. inhabitants, I am not fond of surgery of any kind. I also felt it was a personal challenge put forth by the medical profession. It was Me versus Vivisection. I was determined to win.

Back to Bippie-Woo-Woo classes. So, spouse thinks telling stories about talking to the unborn fetus were less than compelling. As a result, he would often be caught playing Break-Out on his Blackberry. Ironically, I was the complete opposite. A natural cynic, I was suddenly buying into every utterance our instructor put forth. I read my handbook religiously. I researched breathing techniques. I watched transfixed with horror and fascination the birthing video that showed a woman, a quite hairy woman, calmly rocking on a gigantic, inflatable ball and groaning like a farm animal until finally emitting an enormous infant covered in hair so thick it looked like a Yeti. My spouse, not so much.

As months passed, one of our classmates was so transformed by binge eating and hormones that she became somewhat of a Violet Beauregard, minus the gum chomping and blue face. With every pound she gained, her husband, a Hollywood Remora-Type (agent, manager, et al.) became more surly and withdrawn. It was sad, but fascinating. During breaks, some of the ladies would gather around to try to cheer her up, certainly drawing perverse pleasure from her obvious misery. Some of the men would look at the guy with pity. Gone was the pert, blond cheerleader and in her place was a rotund woman with swollen feet whose dark brown roots had grown out. It was almost too tragic to bear. I refused to take either side. They both were rather unseemly. Frankly, I had important business to attend to during breaks like peeing.

After receiving our diploma, we graduated to baby maintenance. We were issued "sample" infants. We were then taught to hold, diaper and care for our youngster. My husband, still refusing to play along, put "Sample" on the floor and carried him around by one leg on occasion. Being a competitive, overachiever, I chastised him and told him he'd better shape up or we wouldn't be at the top of our class.

It was in this state of heightened competitiveness that I had the brilliant notion that we should use cloth diapers when the baby was born. It was such a quaint, antiquated practice and it was Eco-Friendly, which surely meant we would win and be crowned Superior Parents of the Year. My dear Dude was of the "whatever" position on most issues. He clearly knew he was dealing with a deranged lunatic who was beyond all reason and rational thought. As an aside, the cloth diapering lasted three months at which point our infant turned to us and said, "Save the planet on somebody else's a**!" We immediately moved to disposables, but bought a Prius soon after and Earth's extinction was thus delayed.

Now, you would think that with all the classes, knowledge, sharing and bonding that we were totally prepared. Absolutely not. I didn't even know I had gone into labor. I thought I was dying. I couldn't remember how to breathe. I couldn't even exhale. I never sat on a gigantic, inflatable ball, although my legs and underarms were shaved. Thankfully, our new baby wasn't a Sasquatch covered in a pelt of dark fur. My husband said the best preparation he had was taking Kung Fu, because I had to be restrained with some Pouncing Animal Kills Large Prey Grip to make it to the actual pushing phase.

I was victorious in my war against Modern Medicine. I pushed that large-craniumed kid out all by myself. It took almost 36 hours, a righteous epidural, 52 cups of ice, three delivery nurses and an OB who could easily be classified as a "Tough Talkin' Broad" from a Bogart film - I say this with love. Best of all, I didn't curse and I didn't low like a cow in a barn. If you're like me, you'd be better off taking up martial arts and joining a knitting circle.

In closing, Former Cheerleader and Hideous Agent Guy got divorced shortly after their baby's first birthday. She gave a karate chop to his bank account. Perhaps he should have been nicer to her when she was pushing two bills. She's lost the weight and she's got all his money. For most men, that's like giving birth every month... Ouch!

What's in a name?

2009-06-08T09:59:00.000-07:00

As most parents-to-be focus their energy on preparing for the stork or keeping Mom's hair out of the toilet as she hurls her guts out praying to the Porcelain Altar of Ralph, they often concentrate on names. It's fun to doodle their initials while waiting to see the OB. It's a great conversation starter and it is often the culmination of many girl's high school journal entries. It's supposed to be fun...right?

Um, no. First, it seems like an easy no-brainer. Then, you think, "Wait. I didn't really like that so-and-so at the mall who had that name." Or, "That heifer in my yoga class just named her sticky-fingered, hippie-in-training that name." Best, "Did that sketchy, homeless guy just start chanting, 'My name is (insert soon to be darling child's name here)?'" All of these things actually happened.

Then you rush out and purchase baby name books. You log on to countless websites. You start compiling lists with name origins, meanings, possible nicknames, middle name combinations. Next thing you know, you have an org chart, a spreadsheet and you're no closer than when you began. Only now, your partner's offering up names that make you question whether you should have started breeding with this individual. Your in-laws proffer names that make you question whether you should have joined this insane band of lunatics. Don't even mention what your mother will suggest. Yes, I did actually hang up on her once. Didn't this woman even know who she was speaking to?

This is where I must insert one word - hormones. Yours are raging, but you don't know this. You are knee-deep in a psychosis brought on by procreation. Its grip is so powerful that you cannot discern what is real and what is perceived. It is truly an alternate universe. A worm-hole perhaps to an uncharted location in a far off solar system.

All that aside, unless you sell over 2 million albums a year, you might wish to avoid naming your child after cities, beaches, rides, fruit, vegetables, galaxies and the like. Perhaps you are a Trekkie, but does your child need to be branded with a name so geekospheric as to insure torment and mispronunciation for eternity? How deep does that wound go? Do you really want to find out? And do not forget the damage wrought by a catchy limerick chanted by children circling like witches in a coven during recess. Those are not the childhood images you want fused into your little pride and joy's memory banks...you fool! That doesn't mean you have to go so safe that there are fourteen kids with the same name. There's nothing like having to call a kid by their last name to differentiate them from the herds of other little so-and-so's. This also opens the door to high school potheads, militaristic tendencies and "Heathers"-like "Mean Girl" territory.

So, be smart when you pick a name. Don't be bullied, cajoled or guilted. In the end, you will bear the ire of Inglewood Kiwi Jablowski and no one else.

Dog vs. Kid

2009-06-07T20:54:00.001-07:00

I used to think that having a dog was like having a baby. It was logical. Dogs need care, attention, feeding, walking, medical, dental, babysitting, etc. I treated my dog like a child for years doing both of us a grave disservice. Bad for the dog because he thought he was a baby and bad for me because I thought having baby would be a cinch.

That's not to say the dog wasn't a handful. He went through a period of eating his own ca-ca. Not pretty. We had some resulting episodes that spoiled more than one tourist's vacation and supplied car wash attendants horror stories. In fact, one close friend clearly stated that he never wanted to hear another dog sick story again due to the intense, vivid, unshakable, indelible mark it made on his memory. I'll spare you.

Now, we certainly have had equally rich moments as parents, but there was a critical flaw in my thinking. Dogs are dogs. Children are children. A true "duh" moment perhaps, but when you live in a city full of infantilized canines it can be difficult to discern the difference. Our society has so anthropomorphized pets that people get indignant that they can't claim them on their tax returns. They become enraged that an employer won't give them bereavement leave. They post photos on their virtual water-cooler sites. It is an epidemic that has reached such preposterous proportion that it's no wonder people equate children with pets.

Many times I've wished I could stuff my children in a gazillion-dollar purse, drop them off at "camp" for a week and go have cocktails poolside in Wherever-Exotica-Splendiferous-Resort-I-Cannot-Affordia, Isla du Jour. Malheureusment, that is not the case. If you don't have nearby relatives it becomes even more of an endurance challenge. After months of sleepless nights, short-term memory loss and realizing you have become unrecognizable to yourself in the mirror even the most heinous in-law becomes a savior, genius, Godsend. Believe me. I have dear friends who loathe their whoever-in-law, but tolerates them exclusively for relief. Anyone who will come take that catterwauling bundle of bliss for even an hour to allow you to shower, shave, brush your teeth and possibly sleep is a candidate for Canonization.

So, to all my wonderfully stylish, pulled together with plucked eyebrows friends who arrive on time everywhere stain-free I am telling you...children are not like dogs. Dogs are wonderful, easygoing, reliable, loyal companions. Even the most neurotic "TuTu", as the French like to say, is still a dog. You can stick it in a kennel for a month and it will still love you. Even if it doesn't love you at worst you'll suffer some harassment and property damage. And let's be honest, if the bugger is too much of a hassle you can always send it off to a new home. Dogs come and go, but children are forever.

So, before you lay yourself down for that romantic interlude à deux, think long and hard - no pun intended. Are you in it for the long haul? Are you ready for 25 hour days with no time off? Are you prepared to take on a job that can be both rewarding and frustrating to the point of bipolarism? No? Don't worry, neither was I. Two kids later I wake up some mornings and wonder, "What were we thinking? We could have had dogs!" Most mornings, I wake up with fingers in my nose, feet in my face and a loud sing-song of "Mommy." You know what? No regrets. Though, the dog might say otherwise.

What the blip is a blog?

2009-06-05T11:50:00.000-07:00

It's not that I'm technologically challenged, socially retarded... Wait, that might not be true. Just to clarify, I did not formally know what a blog was until it came up in a comic strip I occasionally read. I'd heard of them, much like one hears of exotic, foreign, potentially harmful things...from my unemployed, child-free, college friends. It wasn't until two cocktails and the surreal epiphany that I was awash in juvenile flotsam that I decided, "Why the blip not." In any event, I decided after two sidecars in a bar filled with teenagers and geriatrics that perhaps I would like to share the misadventures of my life with unsuspecting, unwitting, procrastinators like myself. Thus, a blog was launched.

So, on this maiden voyage I've decided to just jump in unreservedly...

Why should you read this blog?
You shouldn't. It has no direction, purpose or benefit. I have no advice to proffer. I question whether I have enough functioning synapses to even make sense.

Really, why should you read this blog?
Apparently, on occasion I have something relevant to say. The rest of the time, I've been told I am moderately amusing. I leave that to you to decide.

What will I blog about?
In true Generation Whatever fashion this will be all about me. In a universe where near nothing is all about me, this is decidedly going to be all about me and whatever tickles my fancy.

Who am "I" anyway?
I am me, me is myself, we are three in the immortal words of De La Soul. Seriously, I am a college graduate, nearly post-graduate degreed (that's not even a word), wife, mother of two and a dog. I am a work-from-home "entertainment" professional, though it begs debate as to whether anyone in entertainment is professional. I live in Hades/Nirvana otherwise known as Los Angeles, CA.

(By the way, I've burnt two tortillas while writing this...proof that this isn't at all a good idea.)

What's the point?
There isn't one and that's the point.

So, bienvenue, welcome, etc.

We'll just have to see how it goes...