Sam and I hauled the kids up to Big Bear on Sunday for a little spring sledding. My poor children have never seen snow (ah, life of a child from Southern California). Ridden with guilt over their deprived upbringings, we packed up the snow clothes and set on our way. For $100, Snow Valley resort will put you on a chairlift, carry you to the top of a bunny run, lend you a sled, and….weeeeee! It was awesome. The kids were shell-shocked. That is what sledding is?! Who knew?
But then after the third time down, my daughter wanted to know when we could stop sledding and get on to the skiing part. Talk about transient pleasure. We explained that skiing involved rentals and a different lift ticket. She explaining that sledding was fun and all, but next time, she wanted to ski.
After an arduous (and I mean arduous) drive home, we had Sunday Night Movie Night and went to bed. This morning I asked my daughter if she was excited to tell her friends at school about her adventure. She looked at me and cocked her head, “What adventure, Mama?” The sledding adventure, I told her, surprised that she had forgotten. “Oh yeah, sure.” she agreed in a tone that sounded like, whatever. I couldn’t believe it. After all that work to get them to see some snow. To be in the outdoors. To wear snow clothes and whiz down a mountain. My city kids were showing their true colors.
Spring Sledding – a lasting impression.for all.
Valentine’s came and went this year with all the usual fanfare. The kids showed great enthusiasm for ye old day o’ love, which was sweet. Sam treated me royally, which was also sweet. And I didn’t get another ticket from Officer Friendly, which was super sweet. Oh…did I not tell you about that?
Earlier last week, my 1.5 year-old caught his sister’s cold. When Master Princeling catches a cold, sailors beware. I drove to school on Monday morning amidst high decibel whining and shouting. And by shouting, I mean the repeated screaming of a single word until I lose my mind. Examples include, “Down!” (he wants the window down), “Aqua!” (he’s dropped his water and wants me to climb back and get it for him while I’m driving), and “Mine” (usually refers to an object that he was holding, but has now lost to his sister). It’s exhausting.
Quickly I pulled up to school in the yellow zone and handed off my daughter to some hapless parent who was walking in at the same time. My darling older child gave me a hug and a kiss and marched in for all the world a woman of her own. Yes, I nodded to myself, that one’s going to be just fine. And then like a whirling dervish, I was off again. The backseat was noisy. Master Princeling wanted home. I drove like the wind. My one coherent thought in the insane chaos was simple: get baby to bed, get baby to bed. And then Officer Friendly joined the circus.
Of course, the flashing lights and strobe party quieted the Princeling right down. Please, Officer Friendly, I begged – a warning will suffice. The Princeling has me losing my mind and I need to get home to take my tonic. Two shots of wart hog makes the medicine go down, Guinness is brown, put that gun on the ground…
Officer Friendly was not swayed by the crazy in my eyes nor my melodious singing voice. I am now the proud owner of my very own traffic citation. Whoo Hoo!
It’s hard out there for a pimp.
My family has begun to explore the city in a new way – house hunting. There are so many neighborhoods in Los Angeles, and while it’s tempting to stay somewhere I know and love…what about all the places I could get to know and love?
Upon beginning our exploration, we drew on the advice of friends. Where is the best place to love? The answer was Malibu. No, the Venice Canals. No, Mt. Washington, Bronson Canyon, Beverly Glen, Mullholland, Cheviot Hills, Topanga, Santa Monica, Los Feliz, Silverlake…
It seems that everyone we know has a different opinion on LA’s best. But that’s good. Instead of choosing between 10 terrible places to live, we get to choose amongst a slew of great ones.
And so now the tough part comes – Sam and I agreeing. I’m open, but think it sure would be nice to have a chicken coop to call my own. Sam thinks my chicken coop phase is about as likely to happen as snow on Wilshire. Either way, bright new changes await us.
Yesterday my family piled into the truck and hit the road for Moorpark, California home of the pumpkin capital of nowhere. Really though, there are pumpkins there that are bigger than small cars. See exhibit A and notice the size of the boy sitting on top for comparison:
Despite my children’s pleas, we did not get the mamma jamma pumpkin, but instead a merely mamma one, which a nice young man helped us move. As no one else at Underwood Farms seemed
stupid festive enough to choose such an unmanageable large pumpkin, we did create quite a fuss walking out.
And so now I am the proud owner of a pumpkin that weighs more than I do. How we are going to gut this thing I have no idea. Stay tuned for more of the Real Housewives of Pumpkin City.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire…Sam and the America’s Cup. Little did you know how synonymous these two two stories were. In Harry Potter, said hero must travel the maze, navigate a quagmire of nasty magic, and win the goblet (aka, the big cup). In Sam and the America’s Cup, Sam must watch the race 24/7 on TV (all the while exclaiming and poking me, I might add), travel to San Francisco, and watch a bunch of boats navigating around the harbor trying to win (you guessed it) a big cup. You see what I mean? Basically the same story.
After a week of nodding unenthusiastically every time Sam wanted to show me these 13 story boats traveling at nearly 50mph (in person I would’ve loved it, but on an iPad, ehhh) I got a great big surprise last night.
Sam got home pretty late. I had put both kids to bed, cleaned up, and was watching Orange is the New Black in a semi-comatose state on Netflix. “Hey.” I said tiredly.
“Hey.” he said back, plopping down next to me on the sofa. “I’m flying to San Francisco tomorrow to see the America’s Cup! I’ll be back around 9.”
I narrowed my gaze. “This is for work?”
“Oh yeah. Totally.” (we both knew this was total bullship*) “I leave at 7 in the morning.”
“Uh-huh. We need toilet paper.”
I won’t bore you with the rest of our high-octane evening, but it’s a little after 7 and Sam is off to watch sailboats. I meanwhile am herding cats today.
Where did I go wrong???
* I’m working on toddler-appropriate cursing
Liberty Bottle Works – 6 Reasons Why This Is the Best Water Bottle Company in The World
- Made in America
- No bizarre chemicals that rhyme with CPA, gromide or barsenic
- EXCELLENT customer service
- No leak bottles just the right size for little hands
- Great artwork
- Super duper affordable!
After an exhausting internet search for a water bottle that wouldn’t leak, wouldn’t cause my daughter cancer, and didn’t look like we were a family who slept in rock crevices (I needed cute) I found Liberty Bottle Works. While other bottles were upwards of a zillion dollars, Liberty had great designs at very reasonable prices. Done – I bought it and it was the best $12 I ever spent. Then I lost the straw. Uh oh. But when I called customer service (wait for it…) they immediately said they’d send me a bag of replacement straws at NO COST. I know right? Amazing.
Liberty Bottle Works. Don’t wait another second. Buy one!
My husband (my dear, wonderful, amazing, stupendous, remarkably kind husband) drove down to San Diego this morning to buy me a new car. My old car, Lucky is still in the prime of her life, but after too many signs from the universe, we knew it was time for us to get something bigger. It’s 9pm at night and after spending his Saturday trading in Lucky and signing paperwork, he’s now on his way back from “Santi-ache-o” as my daughter calls it.
“Will I like it?” I ask him
“You’re going to love it. It’s awesome.” He promises me. “Do you want me to take a picture of Lucky in the parking lot of the Land Rover dealership?”
My heart crumples for just a moment. A) because he’s so sweet to think of it and B) because I never really said goodbye to her. “Yes, please.” I tell him. “Drive home safe.”
I got Lucky in 2009 after a woman T-boned me at full speed in the center of an intersection in West L.A. She never saw the red light. I was in a small Lexus IS, she was in a huge Ford Explorer. My Lexus saved my life. Afterward, somewhat shaky to drive, I upgraded into a full-size Lexus sedan. A grandma car that I only ever saw women over 60 driving, but still she was my Lucky.
And now a new page begins and I haven’t even met my new car. Is she a she? A he? Will I love her/him the way I loved Lucky? I hope so.
I have never been so excited for Sam to get home. It’s like Christmas morning back when I was 10. What will my new car look like? I honestly have no idea. He couldn’t have surprised me more if I had walked outside and seen the car in the driveway with a big, red bow on it.
What an exciting and wonderful gift my husband has given me. Have I mentioned that I can’t WAIT for him to get home!