Monthly Archives: February 2012

Being Elmo

About a year ago a dear friend of mine gave my child an Elmo doll.  Now I had no idea who Elmo was.  Didn’t even know that this red, furry creature was Elmo.  Had she gifted our household with Prada, Gucci, Yves St. Laurent – something leather, something feathered, something shiny and gold – those I would recognize.  But instead, in comes Elmo and our lives have never been the same.

Elmo, known as MoMo in our household, is from Sesame Street.  I didn’t know this.  He is red, has an orange nose, and speaks in the third person.  Most importantly however, Elmo has a very distinctive high-pitched voice that he uses to express his desire to hug and kiss and love on you.  All news to me.

To this day, I still haven’t seen Elmo in action as we don’t watch TV in our household, but we do supply room and board for several Elmo dolls in various sizes.  There is the miniature Elmo who rides in the car.  The large Elmo who sleeps in the crib.  The talking, walking Elmo who scares the bajeezus out of me.  The Elmo who laughs and makes jokes every time you jiggle him and his mouth flops open.  And last, but not least, the holiday Elmo who sings Jingle Bells when you press his foot.  We also have an Elmo fork, an Elmo spoon, an Elmo bowl, and an Elmo plate.  Oh and many items of Elmo clothing and reading literature.  If I’ve forgotten anything, I apologize to Elmo.

So needless to say, when I heard about the documentary, Being Elmo, I was intrigued.

Last night I finally watched it and all I can say is…even if I still had no idea who Elmo was (and sometimes, trust me, I wish I didn’t) I would have loved this film.  It touched me and made me feel so proud of this man’s accomplishments.  It’s a Rocky Balboa story minus the fighting plus some google eyes, some fake fur, and some prosthetic noses.  Best part yet, this marvelous story begins in Baltimore.  Yay, Baltimore!  And not to give anything away, but I had just had to share this: Make A Wish Foundation + Elmo = Big, huge tears on my part.

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Amazon Mom…Ye of the Bait and Switch

As a busy CEO, supermodel, and world-renowned surgeon, I don’t have as much time as I used to.  This mean cutting corners where I can…hence, my addiction to Amazon.  About a year ago, Amazon offered me a membership to its Amazon Mom’s Club.  (why this club and not the supermodel surgeon club, I have no idea)  The benefits included free 2 day shipping, discounts off of certain “mom” related items like say, diapers and baby wipes, and the opportunity to accrue more months of membership with each purchase.

Cut to…One year later and I’m surfing Amazon for everything.  Cameras, underwear, razor blades, carseats – if it can save me a trip to the market, I’m buying it online.  And then, poof!  It’s all gone.  I called Amazon and was told that they had temporarily discontinued the program to “encourage” members to sign up for their prime membership.  Why?  Because prime membership costs us users $79 a year.

So now I’m totally addicted to the ease of Amazon plus I’m digging the 30% off I get on all my “mom” stuff.  It’s a terrible fix.  Do I spite Amazon and shop elsewhere, thus paying more for the items I want?  Or do I give in to their evil empire, pay $79, and get my lower rates free of tax and driving?

Oh Amazon! <insert fist shaking here>  You have foiled me!

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Preschool Madness

Why don’t I live in a small town where there is one preschool, one little red schoolhouse, three teachers, no hairy warts, and a bake sale every other month to raise money for art supplies?

Instead, I find myself slowly sinking into the quagmire of what is known as “Preschool Panic.”  Panic is a far cry from what I am feeling…I’d say I’m more on the “you gotta be kidding me” scale.  First of all, admission into the majority of these places is about $14k for parochial and $17k for private.  The ones I like of course, the shiny schools with dancing and Bert the Bug Guy and tickets to see the Philharmonic after naptime, those are the schools that we’d have to sell our children to afford.  Which, would make the whole thing much easier because then we wouldn’t need preschool in the first place.  But I’d miss them so…

Secondly, there is the get in factor.  Said establishments are harder to hurdle than Harvard.  You need letters, and donations, and blood samples, and celebrity.  Oh how celebrity greases those iron doors.  Sadly, my career as a Nobel laureate isn’t where it should be.  I’ve tried saying I’m an oil heiress, Jim Morrison’s prodigy (I changed my name for anonymity), Van Morrison’s prodigy (different school, same incredulity), and a retired porn star (how many head-of-schools watch porn, right? – more than you would figure I found out).  Anyone attached to the “star” connotation was fair game for my purposes.  To date however, my child is still not enrolled in preschool.

All I can say is, this is ridiculous.  Two years old and already competing for an education.

I’m opening my own school.  It’s going to be called “Cool Kids” and we’re only taking dorks, kids with pets, kids with parents I like, and kids who have wine cellars in their basements. (see kids with parents I like)  If you want a free tour, contact me.  (and be sure to include the dimensions of your pet/wine cellar)

 

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LinkedIn

Every other day I get an email from LinkedIn asking me to be friends with someone.  Since I open Facebook about once every 3 months, I figured me joining LinkedIn was about as likely as me running a marathon…naked…tonight…on national television.  But then I changed my mind. (about LinkedIn, not getting naked or running)

Today, I read about a woman in Georgia who won the lottery for the second time in just three months.  First win: $100,000.  Second win: $1,000,000.  I mean come on, right?!

So then my brain got to chewing cud.  If this woman can win the lottery not once, but twice, there there has got to still be hope for me.  And that’s when I got another email from LinkedIn asking me to be friends with Suzie Blah Blah and her brother Joe.

Well Suzie, well Joe, I’m saying yes even though I have absolutely no idea in hell who either one of you are.  And let me frank (just so there’s no confusion come Valentine’s Day 2013) I’m using you.  Plain and simple.

Now please tell your other brother, Frank to contact me.  I hear he works at a publishing house and I’m hard at work on a book of short stories.

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Money Talks…In Hancock Park

On the way to the Rose Bowl Flea Market yesterday, my family bumped, bounced, and ricocheted down Wilshire Boulevard.  Pot holes the size of seat cushions.  Patches of “fix it cheap” asphalt poured so high in places that our car seemed to be on two wheels.  And a feeling of such disrepair that it must have been years and years since this MAJOR thoroughfare has been tended to properly.

Meanwhile, just north, the idyllic streets of Hancock Park boast brand-new, shiny black top.  That’s right.  The neighborhood of Hancock Park whose streets were so bad they used to look like this  was such an eyesore to the residents that the city repaved post-haste.

Wilshire, which carries thousands of drivers a day, is like a motocross course.  But Hancock Park, which houses a few hundred denizens who can afford multi-million dollar homes, drives like a sheet of glass.  This makes perfect sense for a city like Los Angeles.  A city where government employees are being laid-off because we can’t afford their wages, but where the mayor approves a gazillion dollar parade for the Lakers.

Maybe if I just got some Botox and a colon cleanse the world would be right again.

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AP Reports Whitney Houston…Dead?

My husband just told me that the LA Times online had the following headline: Whitney Houston Dead At 48.  I didn’t believe it, but knowing that she had trouble with drugs (crack I think), maybe it’s true.

Poor thing.  Probably another overdose.  So sad.

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The Arnold Palmer Debate

The other day my husband surprised me and took me to lunch in Santa Monica.  It was a real treat and despite our 1.5 year old who was also at the table, I tried to pretend like I was back in the south of France…

…without any wine

…or hand holding

…or conversation that wasn’t interrupted by feeding said 1.5 year old, stopping a silverware percussion or picking up flying blueberries.

But other than that, I was totally in a cafe in Saint Remy.

The waiter came while Sam was in the bathroom and I ordered 2 Arnold Palmers, our favorite non-alcoholic drink.  Made with 1 part lemonade, 1 part ice tea, it’s fairly hard to mess up.  Little did I know however, that my husband has recently become quite fired up regarding the change some restaurants are introducing to this staple.  Instead of regular, unsweetened ice tea, some people are using <gasp, gag, groan> tropical flavored ice teas.

I’m not kidding.  It’s a travesty.

I of course sucked mine down, wiped my mouth, and then proceeded to suck Sam’s down.  Sam on the other hand, turned his nose up at the egregious faux pas and politely requested water.  Behind the waiter’s back though, he ranted…

…and cursed modernity

…and pulled his hair while moaning about the fate of the world.

I even believe contacting Arnold Palmer was mentioned somewhere along the way.

So, for you purists out there, you’re not alone.  My husband is among your members and he is getting radical out here in California.  I saw markers and some poster board out in the garage with “Save the Arnold Palmer” and “Just Say No To Tropical Ice Tea With Your Lemonade” written on them.  Seems somebody is not taking this change lying down.

 

 

*picture taken from: http://lexiphotography.com/blog/

 

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