Monthly Archives: May 2013

Points of View

Today is a hodgepodge, but since it’s the last day in May I felt it was okay.  Out with the old, in with new.  Exorcise my brain.  Feel the wind….whooooosh.

My sister-in-law sent me this blog.  Funny, honest, tender, and shockingly truthful:  To Parents of a Small Child and These Are the Lines of a Story

Whoosh, here comes the wind again.

Prancercise.  I don’t know if it’s the tight nether-region or the wig or the trolloping itself, but this is amazing.  Trust me…forget Tai Bo, forget Pilates.  It’s all about Prancercise.  From NY to Los Angeles – watch for it.  The first sign will be the blinding tight, white, see-through tights.  Then, the dancing/walking/on-land swimming will captivate you until like Michael Jackson’s Thriller, you will find yourself following along in a zombie haze.  It’s going to be awesome.

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The Case of the Striped Sneakers

My daughter has requested a pair of striped sneakers for her next birthday.  She mentioned it about 2 days after her birthday last summer and it’s come up about once an hour ever since.  So, being the amazingly stupendous mother/zoo-wrangler that I am, I have been searching for a pair of striped toddler sneakers.  And searching.  And searching.  And searching.  Apparently, I’ve got the only toddler in the world who wants striped sneakers.

My daughter is very clear…she needs:

  • striped sneakers
  • with velcro
  • that are pink
  • and she doesn’t want to trip in them

If I were a lawyer who billed hourly, I’d be able to retire after this case.  But I’m not and after about 4 hours of searching through hundreds of ugly sneakers last night I gave up.  The requirements had defeated me.  So I bought these Pumas.Whirlwind V (Infant/Toddler/Youth) - Limestone Gray/White/Azalea Pink  I’m just praying Gucci doesn’t come out with a pink sneaker in the meantime because in terms of stripes, they’ve got the market sneakers

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&@*#^% Motherhood (by Jason Good)

In the vein of yesterday I’d like to post the writings of comedian, Jason Good:

The G-Rated Phraseology of Motherhood

After feeding, comforting, dressing, teaching, entertaining, and loving our children, the remaining 30% of parenting is trying not to say the f-word in front of them. When they’re babies, it’s fine, blast away if you want. But as anyone knows, when they get older, children have a knack for repeating things, and when given the choice between “Oh my Golly” and “Holy Fu*king Sh*t”, they’ll always choose to yell the latter in front of the new neighbors.

I’ve always been a big cusser — it runs in my family, and I’m not one to buck tradition — but luckily I’m able to keep it in my head, or at least mumble it. Even when I do say something audible, I’m conscious enough to go with “Oh for goodness sake”, “Geez Louise”, Holy crappola”, or something else utterly predictable.

My wife, on the other hand, after being subjected to 5 straight years of sleep deprivation, needs to let things fly out. Being a good mom, she’s unwittingly created her own organic, and unique g-rated language of anger, frustration and pain, which has evolved so much that it’s nearly impossible to discern its NC-17 roots.

She has the most difficulty containing herself when she pinches her finger on a Lego, misplaces Arlo’s water, can’t untwist the car seat harness, or any number of other things for which a foul-mouthed exclamation is the only quick cure. My recent favorite is,


“Mother Fruit” comes in three colorful variations:




and when she’s really mad,


Clearly, “fruit” appears to stem from the Latin word “fu*k”, but for “Fruit on a Fruit Stick” and “Holy Mother of Fruit”, replacing “fruit” with”fu*k”, doesn’t result in a phrase that makes any sense, even to the most experienced artists of expletives. These are words of a flustered and desperate woman, with a brain so bent on not cussing, that it blurts out random ridiculous things.

For instance, what is a fruit stick? I’ve heard of fruit skin, fruit strip and even fruit stripe (like the gum), but fruit stick sounds like part of a package air-dropped by the Red Cross — “Two servings of rice, one cup of water, and a fruit stick to avoid scurvy.”

And “Holy Mother of Fruit”? Is this mysterious mother a character in some kind of Gaia Bible? I think technically, the mother of fruit would be a tree, but I doubt that’s what she means. When you’re angry, frustrated or injured, yelling “TREE” wouldn’t really provide any relief. If you are a parent who yells, “TREE” when you’re frustrated, how do you enjoy living in Berkeley? I hear it’s very nice.

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Cry Babies

Those of you who have been insane enough to procreate know the dark and unspoken truth about parenting – there is a lot of crying.  Babies cry and whine and fuss and throw completely irrational fits about every seven minutes ALL DAY LONG.  It’s like being stuck in a cell with 100 schizophrenic bedlamites.  Locked.  Caged.  Trapped.  And I chose this?  Why didn’t I read the small print?

Comfortingly, we baby-prisoners are not alone.  Reasons My Son Is Crying (Huff Post Article) is like a key to fresh air and prison-yard walks.  The beginning of the blog is full of other people’s posts and the end is full of creator, Greg Pembroke’s own sons.  Crying because dad wouldn’t allow splashing in the toilet.  Or because he washed the dirt off a pear.  Or because he took the boogers out baby’s nose.  It’s all so sadly true.

And that is why it’s also so darn funny.  What can we do, but laugh at how bananas these babies are?


So in an homage to Greg Pembroke, here is my experience with baby-prison and why one of the wardens (age 1 and age 2) might start crying…

  1. I tried to change a diaper so nobody was sitting in his own feces.
  2. I cleaned up crayons because it was time to go play outside with our friends.
  3. We made him a bottle so he could have some warm milk before bed.
  4. I turned on the computer so she could watch Sesame Street.
  5. Sam put a lock on the knife drawer so nobody could get in there.
  6. We took her to Pompeii on the drive back from Positano.
  7. I gave her her first ice cream cone in Italy.
  8. Kiki barked at them after someone threw a bucket on her.
  9. I took too long washing the raspberries.
  10. I answered the telephone.

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Crazy Like a Fox

I lost it a little bit today.  One minute I was making eggs and the next, my husband had booked tickets to something and I was running for the edge.  I saw the precipice, took a long, last stride….and weeeeee!  I was soaring into crazy-town.

My fight was something about this and a little about that.  I didn’t growl, but I’m pretty sure I snarled a bit.  And I definitely made some faces.  The thing is, I am spent.  After several weeks nursing my entire family back to health…and working…and dealing with the laundry problem we seem to have (it’s multiplying, I’m sure of it)…and emptying the blasted dishwasher every day (I’ve got a love-hate thing going on with that machine)…and chasing naughty children, I feel like an evil version of my old-self.  Bye bye, funny me.  Hello, coo coo me.

The tickets were for a beach club in Santa Monica that one must reserve in advance.  So next week I’m putting on my suit and taking the family swimming whether I feel like it or not.  And I probably will feel like it.  And like that stupid fiddle thing I got dragged to last weekend, I’ll probably have a good time.  I’m just tired.  And crazy.  And definitely not suited for operating large machinery.


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Beautiful Creatures

beautiful creaturesI read the book, Beautiful Creatures quite by accident about 4 months ago and couldn’t put it down.  From there I raced on through the other novels in the series, desperate to learn what happens to poor Ethan Wate and Lena Duchannes.  So you can imagine my pleasure when I learned that there was a movie out.  After Twilight and Harry Potter I expected great things from this adaptation.  Not to mention the writer/dircector, Richard LaGravenese who had done some other movies I knew, and a cast that looked interesting and talented.

Boy, was I disappointed.  Where the books were enchanting, suspenseful, and rich with southern flavor, the movie was…confusing? Awkward?  So different from the books that I could barely even follow?  Half of the characters weren’t there and the other half were so different from who they were on the page I didn’t even recognize them.  What happened to the lovely and fresh story from the book?

For $4.99 on iTunes I’m wishing I’d saved my money to buy chocolate. In short, read the book – it’ll be much more worth your while (and your chocolate money).

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The Day I Bumped My Head (otherwise known as when I agreed to go to a Banjo, Fiddle, and Folk Festival)

On Sunday my dear, beloved husband convinced me to pack up the kids and head out to the annual Topanga Canyon Banjo and Fiddle Contest & Folk Festival.  In theory, a fabulous idea…if we hadn’t driven 3 hours the day before out to Simi Valley or didn’t have 2 children under the age of 3.  But we did and we do.

The park location itself was a lovely surprise.  The old Paramount Ranch is where they used to shoot western movies back in the day and from the Saucy Saloon to the Dirty Bug Motel, it was perfect even if you don’t like westerns.  Dusty, dirty, and full of music – the kids and I followed Sam around the old town from one jam session to the next.  Musicians were aplenty and everywhere we went we saw bassists, mandolinists, guitarists, fiddlists, banjoists, harmonicaists (I’m definitely making up words by this point), violinists, what have you.  Between the music, the ranch, and the fashion – it was very stimulating.

And then we got back in the car.

Dear heavens – what were we thinking?  Crying. Kicking. Yelling. Screaming.  And that was just Sam.  But the kids…yeesh.  I needed a tranq gun and martini.  By the time we got home for dinner, bath, and bed I was ready to jump out of the car and take my chances.  Luckily, that was the exact moment we pulled in the driveway so I didn’t have far to fall.

Here’s what I learned: no more road trips unless we pack an iPad.  Mommy just can’t take it.

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