Me And My Homies Hangin' In Our Crib

Rigel left last night for his much-anticipated Mammoth ski trip. Anticipated only by him, as the rest of us were in a state of collective dread all day; the girls because they were going to miss their daddy, and me because, well I was gonna miss their daddy, too, and REALLY miss waking up to the smell of bacon frying on Sunday morning, my lazy ass hunkered down under the covers trying to squeeze in those last few precious minutes of sleep. He went with Kurt, his best friend from high school and they are going to be gone a whole two nights, which to the girls of course is an eternity. My job as mother, aside from making sure they get their own cereal in the morning so I can sleep in, is to make that eternity seem a little shorter and to somehow fill the void left by his absence.

And that means only one thing - sleep over! (Not to be confused with Slumber Party - not goin' there again so soon, people) In our house, this is when the girls get to sleep in our bed, with me. The original idea was the four of us enjoying a cozy night together, but Rigel took one look at us three threatening broads settling in, the girls with their masses of stuffed animals and assorted blankets and pillows and me, well me with my usual flailing arms and hogging of the covers and he fled to the other bedroom to the safety of the sofa bed, that coward. So now, shouts for 'sleep over!' are usually a signal for him to gather his things, get the hell out of the way and retreat to the calm and quiet of his man-cave.

Last night, with Rigel gone I threw caution to the wind and added 'Movie!' into the mix, so we agreed we would watch a few minutes of The Incredibles in bed before lights out. After pajamas were donned and teeth brushed I gave them five minutes to set up house and this is what they came up with:

It's a good thing Rigel isn't here to witness this frightening invasion of our sacred sleeping quarters by hulking stuffed bunnies and other menacing plush toys. I've heard that the mere sight of a large, fluffy Pikachu in a man's bed is enough to make him impotent.

I couldn't convince Kiyomi to banish any of her 'friends' back to her bed or even to the floor next to her, as she insisted they would "get lonely." As you can see there is hardly any room left for me - I was smushed in between the two of them in that eight inch wide swath down the middle, my night spent pushing the stray stuffed animal out of my face and defending myself against the whirling and powerful elbows of Kira and the possessed donkey feet of Kiyomi that seemed to keep making hard contact with my ribs. See that innocent looking creature in the middle with the flying pink ears? I woke up with that smashed into the side of my head and now I have the permanent imprint of his mug carved into my cheek.

As I was laying there between them last night before falling asleep I was listening to their quiet breathing and the occasional sniffle and it reminded me of when they were babies and having them in our bed was a regular occurrence, either because I was breastfeeding or, when they were a little older because they had found their way to our bed in the middle of night after a bad dream. I remembered how much I loved those times and I fell asleep happy, snuggled between them with their small, warm feet pressed up against mine.

Archive File: Family | Offspring | This Life

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Just A Day In The Life

Monday was the start of a whole two week vacation for Rigel - yipeeee! Of course, people ask us, "Are you going on a trip?" and we get those incredulous stares from everyone when we say "No, mostly we're just hanging around home." Everyone, that is, except other people with small children who can fully realize the orgasmic glory in being in the heavenly silence that is your home when your kids are away at school for a WHOLE SIX HOURS, or being able to go out to lunch together to a restaurant whose menu boasts not a single CHICKEN NUGGET.

Yesterday we decided to have our sitter, who usually picks the girls up on Wednesdays, stay an extra few hours so we could get out and get crazy and not only have lunch but schedule in a couple of other adult activities, none of which involved peep shows or illegal parking on secluded roads so Get. Your Minds. Out of The Gutter.

Okay, it did involve massages, but the legal kind, given by strong, strapping Japanese women from the old country. We had decided to book sessions for the two of us at our favorite place in Little Tokyo, preceded by lunch and then some shopping. By the time we were making these plans it was already close to 12:30, so I booked our massages for 4:30 in the hopes that we could grab a quick bite and get to the real business at hand, finding some nice new crop jeans and a cute top for me. Rigel had more ambitious plans in mind, however, that involved a relaxed, lingering lunch at the Getty and then shopping, which seemed a little narcissistic of him, I mean, what about MY PANTS, but hey, since he was paying, I went along.

Lunch at the Getty proved to be a good idea as it was a gorgeous day. We were having a great time just hanging out and being together and, of course, talking about the kids which is what parents mostly do when they go out even though they like to pretend they talk about books, politics and other lofty subjects. After lunch we sat outside in the sun and I was trying not to think about the dwindling day and the dimming prospects of any new clothes acquisitions and at around three o'clock Rigel says, "So, let's head on over to the mall and do some shopping and then get our massages." This is when I started looking around for my little time travel pod, since, how were we supposed to get from the Westside to downtown in an hour and a half, AND fit in a shopping trip? He assured me with his usual, "Oh ye of little faith" speech which I countered with my "Oh ye of little time sense" speech and which escalated to him trying to emphasize his point by some erratic driving and then me punching him in the arm.

Well I guess HE SHOWED ME cause he got us into Westwood by 3:15 and we started looking for a place to dump his hard-earned money. I wanted some unique, one-of-a-kind items not crafted by minors in Malaysia, so I stopped a couple of Gen-X UCLA students and asked them where I could find the nearest Gap and they answered tersely, "There isn't one in the village. ANYMORE." I think I heard them mutter "Die Yuppie Scum" under their breaths, but we were running late so we didn't have time to run them over with our VW station wagon or give them a lecture on the merits of finding a good accountant. We pulled into a parking spot right in front of Urban Outfitters around 3:20 and I was off, knowing that I had a scant 20 minutes to fulfill my mission.

Finding the crop jeans of my dreams turned out to be harder than I thought, as I was soon to discover that finding any pants whose waist band actually came up past my butt crack was nearly impossible - really, why bother with the upper six inches of fabric anyway, why not just sell the damn pant legs with a garter belt? (The earth is shaking right now, set in motion by the heads of billions of men, nodding vigorously in agreement) Realizing that righting the world's wrongs was going to take more than five minutes and could not be accomplished by a housewife standing in her panties in a dressing room, we left the store, my only purchase a belt that I could use to hold up my old-fashioned pants that came up almost to my navel.

We made it to our massages only ten minutes late and being pummeled by an overzealous Japanese woman with the fists the size of small boulders turned out to be the perfect ending to our day. Driving home we were happy - Rigel aglow with the prospect of eight more days off and me contemplating the millions I was going to make with my garter-belt jeans.

Archive File: Married | This Life

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One Bad Apple Don't Spoil The Whole Bunch, Girl

I'm happy to say the slumber party was a resounding success, the house filled with the approving shrieks of little girls drunk on lemonade and birthday cake. The police were never called and to my knowledge no small animals were sacrificed during the festivities. My favorite moment was watching all seven cuties jumping around in the sleeping mosh pit we had created in the living room, theme song from 'Teen Titans' blaring at a deafening decibel and all of them singing along at the top of their lungs. My second favorite moment is seeing Rigel's face at this very same instant, contorted in pain and looking as if he wanted to slip out the back door, hop onto the nearest freight train and ride the rails off into the sunset.

Almost everyone was on their best behavior, and I say almost because as we know there is always one bad apple that stands out in a bushel and in this case it is one ornery little bossie I’ll call the Demon Seed. No reason – just thought the name was, uhmm...kind of appropriate.

Unfortunately the Demon Seed is one of Kira’s best friends, so I hesitate to rag on her too much, although it’s one of those relationships I would definitely like to put asunder. She’s one of those bullying types that preys on all the kids around her and grates heavily on the nerves of most adults (I see you, all you moms out there, nodding in knowing approval) and has no problem taking over your house as if it were her own, establishing territory by tossing her belongings about in numerous piles throughout the room and asking for food at alarmingly frequent intervals, never with a "please" of course but with a loud bark, as if she were in McDonalds and you were the slacker counter boy. I know I'm not alone; the mother of one of the other girls asked me repeatedly, "Keep an eye out for the Demon Seed. Make sure she doesn't torment my daughter" to which I assured her, "Yes, I've got a mirror and a cross ready, but please pray for all of us."

And although she has a big, smart mouth she proved to be no match for Rigel, as demonstrated by the following exchange:

Devil Seed: HEY!! DO WE GET TO STAY UP ALL NIGHT?! HUH?!
DO WE?! DO WE?!! (I'm typing in all caps here, because that's how she talks, VERY LOUDLY. ALL THE TIME.)

Rigel: No, you can stay up really late, but not all night.

DS: CRUD!! WHAT A RIP OFF!! WHAT A RIP OFF!! THIS PARTY IS A RIP OFF!! (Said as her head spun around and a projectile of green goo gushed from her mouth.)

Rigel: (Showing great restraint but still getting his point across with a menacing glare and a low scary voice) Oh really? Well, what about we
call your dad and have him pick you up NOW?! And give you your money back?!

I made him stay in our bedroom for the rest of the night. At one point, very late and way, way past their bedtimes while we were sill hearing loud talking and giggling, he asked me if he should go out and restore order. "Only if you can be nice," I replied, to which he responded by looking up, arching an eyebrow and then resuming his reading. Taking this as a 'no' I headed out myself, armed with my 'Parent Report' threat, as in, "If you'd like me to give your parents a good report, you will obey my command to cease and desist and go to sleep now" and as expected, this worked remarkably well on all of them except for the Devil Seed, since, knowing her parents, anything less than the severing of another child's limbs or setting the cat on fire would constitute a 'good report.' I refused her request for a tenth midnight snack and she eventually ran out of fuel and fell asleep, her spiked tail curled around her.

Would we do it again? Absolutely, since Kira said it was "The best birthday party ever!" and more importantly, because we have no choice, since Kiyomi has decided she wants a slumber party for her birthday which is coming up in three short months. Let the countdown begin.

Archive File: Offspring

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You'll Hate Yourself In The Morning

Someone sent me this link to a website awhile ago, and before you click on it I have to warn you, you will be fascinated and repulsed and unable to look away.

Keep in mind this is being recommended to you by someone who reads People magazine from cover to cover and who has sat through three consecutive episodes of 'The Ashlee Simpson Show.' You know where this is going.

I guarantee many wasted minutes of scrolling and clicking and loud cursings of my name, but remember you have no one to blame but yourself if you click on this link, do you hear me? Are you ready? Okay then click here.

I apologize.

P/S Make sure to look at the 'Articles' in the right-hand column. That should waste enough time so that you don't get any work done today, possibly resulting in your firing. Again, I apologize, but wasn't it worth it?

Archive File: Random

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The Cranky Lady Declares It Was Worth It

Because this:



and this:



Goodnight.

Archive File: Offspring

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Slumber Party Countdown: T-1 Day

Today I returned to the Mothership - uh, I mean, went to Target and picked up all the last minute essential items for Slumber Party Conclave 2005 Exodus From Innocence Volume 1. There was, you know, the Picking Of The Final Goody Bag Item (Body Jewelry Stickers - cause I know all the parents want their daughters coming home looking like itty bitty pole dancers) and the Choosing Of The Cereals, not to mention the Procuring Of The Outdoor Activity (badmitton/volleyball kit with net - on sale for $17! Asked if this came with optional playleader for hire, WHICH IT DID NOT. I take back what I said about Target having everything.)


Am compelled to repeat Rigel's suggestion here, only because it's endearing in a 'why-guys-don't-have-slumber-parties' kind of way:

"So, why don't we all go out to breakfast on Saturday?" (Mothers, hold your laughter.)

"Uh, you mean, the morning after the slumber party, with all the little girls that have been up all night?"

"Yeah, let's just take them out to breakfast. It'll be easier than having to feed them breakfast here."

"Hmmm, let's think this out. All seven girls. We'll need to take two separate cars and find seating for nine, including you and I, for breakfast on a Saturday morning. Scientific odds say that at least thirty percent of them will spill their orange juice - that means 2.33 spilled glasses of juice, not to mention the bathroom trips resulting from all that juice, let's see, the space time continuum chart says 1.5 trips per female which adds up to a possible 10.5 back and forths to the crapper. This doesn't take into account mixed up orders or those guests who may take this opportunity to order all those things that they aren't allowed to when they're around their own parents, which could ratchet up the bill an additional 45% of what it would be with seven average little girls, not seven sleep deprived hyped-up little sassies after a slumber party."

"Waffles and cereal at home sounds great."

Moral: Fear and science, even bad, lame-ass science, are essential components in bending man to your will.


Will be up late tonight designing and ironing on 'TokyoMewMew' t-shirt transfers which means that by six o'clock tomorrow evening, when all seven little beauties are here with their shining, eager faces ready to party and celebrate the Birth That Was Kira's, I should be in full-blown Mother of Hellfire mode, batting at the air with my claws and ready to carve out my frontal lobe with a set of cake serving utensils.

Archive File: Family | Offspring

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Some Words I Would Like To Incorporate Into My Everyday Vocabulary

dawg

Pope-alicious

blogospheric

50 Cent (said 'FiddySen')

behoove

Anything ending in -fied (e.g. funkafied, macn'cheesified, Britneyfied)

Bad MamaJama

hotchacha

Archive File: Random

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Forty Eight Round Blobs Of Happiness

Geez, am I tired! Tonight was Open House at the girls' school, and being one of only six or seven parents who volunteer (yes, in a school of 500 students! WHAT'S UP, OTHER PARENTS?!) we were in a frenzy, selling pizza, drinks, baked goods - dealing with the kids is tiring enough, but then you get the righteous dad who complains that we are selling a cupcake for a whole dollar and you just want to shove an entire bundt cake into his piehole and say, "How's THAT? Would you pay a fricken dollar for THAT?!"

Oh yes. Open House! It was awesome, because there's nothing like seeing your child really EXCITED to show you every essay, math paper and art project that they've worked on, so excited that they're pulling you around the room like a dog with a chew toy. Make that CUTE LITTLE PUPPY with a grizzled, old chew toy. I know that in a few years they will be so mortally embarrassed to even be seen with me, unless I am following them around the mall carrying their bags of course, that I need to soak all these moments in. They are still at the stage where they love school - imagine that, LOVING SCHOOL. And they want to hug their teachers - can you imagine that, HUGGING YOUR TEACHER? (Here's where I would make a crack about Mary Kay LeTourneau, or say "Just another day in college!" but I WILL NOT.)

We needed more items to sell at the bake sale since as of noon today we only had a couple of pans of brownies and a box of Ritz crackers donated (Hello? Bake Sale? Not 'Clean Out Your Pantry' sale, people!) More stuff turned up later but at this point we were in panic mode so I decided to pick up some Krispy Kreme doughnuts since my new creed is No More Baking For Bake Sales Or Classroom Parties Or Other Events That Don't Require Baking. I was feeling so all that cause I had a coupon for a free dozen doughnuts - that is GOLD my friends, a WHOLE DOZEN FREE KRISPY KREMES. Free Doughnuts. Did I mention FREE? That meant that I could get three boxes, and just pay for two. So imagine the thousand levels of joy that permeated my body when I walked into Krispy Kreme with my coupon and the Krispy Gal says, "You can save that coupon, cause you get a free dozen with every dozen you buy today." Good God, woman! You mean - I can get FOUR boxes and only pay for TWO? Twenty-four units of heavenly baked goodness, gratis? Is there no end to the bountiful pleasures you dispense here?

I couldn't help but tell everyone at the school about the Great Doughnut Score of 2005, of course. No prouder could I have been if I was bestowed with powers to lay golden eggs, but not everyone was as excited as I was. Can you even fathom that, not being excited about FREE DOUGHNUTS? Tell me, do we even want to exist in such a cold, empty world? Take me back, back to that place where we love school and hug our teachers, and the words 'Free Dougnuts' brings sweet tears to our eyes.

Archive File: Offspring | This Life | Eating

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Slumber Party Countdown: T-5 Days

Haven't done any more planning or preparing. In fact, am now hiding out in the Papal Conclave until after the party is over, unless they elect a Pope before then in which case I will have to leave. You can only bribe these cardinals for so long with homemade brownie bites, you know.

Oh look, there's Bono. They love Bono, these cardinals. Will ask him if he has any slumber party tips.

Oh, geez, now there's Brad Pitt. How'd he get in? He sure has gotten altruistic all of a sudden. I liked him better when he was married, before he started hanging out with that slut Angelina. Better not mention the slumber party or he'll be all over it, begging to come and all. I hate it when Brad gets needy.

Gotta run. We're not supposed to have any electronic devices in here, and my PowerBook is just screaming, "Hey, look at me!" In fact, I think Mahony just flashed me the bird. How un-Papal of him.

Archive File: Offspring

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Let's Meet After Third Period And Give Her A Wedgie

I attended a workshop yesterday entitled, ‘How To Get Paid To Read Scripts’ which was held at the illustrious educational institution known as The Learning Annex, home to not only ‘How To Get Rich’ seminars by Donald Trump but also classes such as ‘Cardio Striptease’ and ‘Change Your Aura, Change Your Life.’ It was very informative, though, and besides the shock that, should I pursue this, I would make about 1/10,000 of what I make as an art director, it convinced me to explore this as a way to earn some extra Gap spending money (that comes out to two pairs of pants! Every other year!) while still getting in some writing practice.

I've taken a few classes and worshops over the past few months and have noticed that little has changed since I was in grade school – aside from my personal feelings of dread and inadequacy, there is the classroom dynamic among the students; still present are the nerds, the ‘good’ kids and the deservedly mocked and tortured ‘Teacher’s Pet.’ The Teacher’s Pet is distinguished by her/his overzealous nature and eagerness to forge an unnatural bond with the teacher, achieved by much ass-kissing and pandering, all at the expense and time of fellow students. In grade school it may have been little Johnnie who always brought Mrs. Aaron an apple, raised his hand to answer all of her questions, and unlike the rest of us, never made fun of how she did the flag salute, her hand resting completely horizontal atop her huge breasts. In the adult world it’s the student who deifies the instructor, answering all of their questions, laughing a little too loudly at all of their jokes and rushing up front immediately after class is finished to snare a private audience with and kiss the feet of said Imparter Of Knowledge.

This class was no different. The pariah in this case was a woman I will call Sherry Lansing, not because of her resemblance to the powerful, carefully coiffed studio mogul, but because of her repeated declaration that she had “EXTENSIVE EXPERIENCE IN THE ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY” which she would implausibly manage to fit into almost every sentence.

As with all teacher’s pets, Sherry Lansing made sure she was sitting front row center, the better to save the teacher's life should a ten-ton meteor come crashing through the ceiling. She had the annoying habit of flipping her hair and leaning WAY forward (in order to soak up the rays of knowledge emanating from the instructor) whenever she was about to make a point, which was about every two minutes or so, or to ask a question, which was every other minute that she wasn’t MAKING A POINT, because you know she had EXTENSIVE EXPERIENCE IN THE ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY. She would always find a way to bring her "valuable expertise" into play, no matter what the topic we were discussing, as in, “Speaking of story synopsis and it’s bearing on the overall scheme of the universe and all lifeforms that came before us, I gotta tell ya’, people, ROBERT ALTMAN was great to work for.” The rest of us mortals would sit mutely, rolling our eyes as we plotted our own secret revenge fantasies against this name-dropping gasbag. Mine involved Crazy Glue and a toilet seat, but I guess that’s just the eight year old in me getting all riled.

Sherry was sitting next to a French-Canadian woman, and although not nearly as vocal about it, she also had previous experience in the industry, which immediately set her up as Sherry Lansing's arch rival. She sounded just like Celine Dion, and her voice would lull the room into silent attention, all of us charmed by her lilting, perky accent. I thought of asking her to sing the theme from ‘Titanic’ but she was a big gal and I didn’t want to get my ass kicked.

As we were being excused for lunch (whatta ya have? Peanut butter? Wanna trade?) I saw Sherry Lansing stop Celine Dion and ask her, “Are you going out for lunch?” I saw a flash of momentary terror in Celine’s eyes as she answered a meek “Yes,” her precious hour of lunchtime that she was planning to spend rehearsing for her Vegas extravaganza RUINED by the possibility of having to listen to Sherry’s detailed EXPERIENCE IN THE ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY. Then Sherry barked “Can you bring me back a large coffee?” as she shoved a couple of dollar bills into Celine’s palm. Celine looked stunned but managed to answer back, “I am going to DenNees and ju know dey have zee teddible cofFee” which would have been hint enough for most people to back off, but Sherry just pressed on, “Not if you tell them to make a fresh pot.”

Ouch. A silence fell over the room. Everyone knows that, in the hierarchal world of the entertainment industry the symbolic act of asking someone to FETCH you coffee is like the alpha chimpanzee imploring the lesser chimps to eat his poop, and telling them to have a fresh pot made is like, well, asking them to cook that poop into a nice chocolate soufflé first. Those of us that witnesssed the transgression stared at each other and then leaned forward in our seats like we were waiting for the lunchroom spat to turn into a full fledged brawl, anticipating the showdown between powerful studio head and internationally known singing superstar, and ready to chant, "Celine! Celine! Celine!" but our hopes were dashed when she gathered up her things in a huff and left the room, leaving Sherry to preen in her mirror and comb her arms.

I would love to say this story ends triumphantly with Celine storming into the classroom while majestically hoisting a cup of Denny’s coffee above her head, belting out ‘My Heart Will Go On’ and then dumping that cup of java onto the head of Ms. Lansing, thereby rendering her mute and the rest of us able to get a word in edgewise, but it doesn’t. Sadly, there was no Hollywood ending here. We returned from lunch and finished up the class, Celine Dion humiliated into silence and the rest of us forced to endure the blathering of Sherry Lansing and the scent of her chocolate-infused poop.

Archive File: Cranky | This Life

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How To Avoid Having Me Call You A Turd Under My Breath

DO NOT honk at me while waiting for my parking space, when you see that I am trying to safely load my two children into the car. I know what they say about men that drive Hummers and their smalll wangers, but don't prove that your brain is sized accordingly.

DO NOT try to gain my sympathy when you tell me you can't find a dress for under a thousand dollars in LA, when as I am listening to you I am looking down at my twelve dollar Target skirt.

DO NOT invite my child to a bowling party and then proceed to tell me how much it is costing you per child to host this party because not only will I call you a turd, I will write about you on my blog and call you TACKY.

DO NOT give me the evil eye when I say excuse me and try to get a gallon of milk out of the dairy section at Trader Joes when you have been standing there for a freakin eternity talking on your cell phone and you are starting to MELT THE BUTTER.

DO NOT tell me that I cannot cancel my order when you failed to deliver the item at the time you were supposed to after your driver made a mistake. DO NOT tell me this because now I am writing a nasty letter to you, SNOOKIES COOKIES. DO YOU HEAR ME?

Archive File: Cranky

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Slumber Party Countdown: T-7 Days

Called parents of invited children (too lazy to send out invites.) All five are ok for attendance.

Ran into problem with one friend's dad who wanted to drop her off a whole four hours early. When I politely refused he started to get all up in my face, saying he really didn't want to have to pick her up from school, drive all the way home and then all the way back to drop her off at 6:00. Oh, I get it, we're hosting your kid for a whole seventeen hour playdate but you don't want to spend an extra thirty minutes in your car well SORRY TO INCONVENIENCE YOU DUDE. And then he asked me "Is she supposed to bring a gift?"

Kira just handed me the list of fourteen songs she wants on her Custom Birthday CD I'm making for all the girls as a party favor. In addition to custom 'Mew Mew Power' t-shirts and other assorted jewelry, hair accessories and candy. What ever happened to noisemakers and squirt guns?

Planned menu: Pizza, mac n' cheese, apples, chips, juice boxes, cake, hot cocoa, cookies, popcorn, vodka martinis, Advil, earplugs, tequila - oops, sorry, got carried away.

To do a craft, or not to do a craft? That is the question. Or just rent LOTS AND LOTS of videos?

Warned Rigel that under no circumstances is he to plan his ski trip for that weekend if he wants to live to see another slumber party. (Funny, he didn't seem too concerned. Must rethink future threats.)

Archive File: Offspring

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Okay, Now Don't Call Us On Thursday Nights Between Nine And Ten O'Clock, Either

Refer to yesterdays post, 04.14.05

Insert "The Apprentice' in place of 'American Idol' wherever it appears.

Take out any mention of children, replace with 'Rigel' as responsible party and willing participant.

Pray for my eternally damned soul to be saved from the fiery flames of reality-show hell.


On that note, here are more unasked for opinions:

Guy Who Got Fired: It's the first time I've watched the entire show, but I'm glad he got FIRED. And what a crybaby! It's not like he got voted off 'American Idol' or anything!

Dark Haired Woman: You are SO fired.

Blonde Woman: It is dishonest, immoral and shameful to take credit for someone else's work. Unless of course you did it to the chick who deserves to be FIRED.

Guy Who Said 'I Was Taking A Nap' When Asked Why He Botched Presentation: Huh?

Guy With Bowtie: Get Rid Of Bowtie.

Archive File: TV Drone

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Please Don't Call Us On Tuesday Nights Between Eight And Nine O'clock, And If You Do You'll Be Sorry

"Nadia's been voted off!" Now, normally this statement would mean absolutely nothing to me. I would stare blankly at the person delivering this news, my eyes begging for an explanation, and when they answered, "From 'American Idol'" I would snort contemptuously and make them kneel before me, admonishing them for wasting their time on moronic reality shows. Don't they know these shows signal the downfall of civilization, fodder for only the weakest of souls?

All that has changed. Now I've become a woman obsessed, bowing down at the alter of The Idol, praying for my favorites and damning the rest of them to Satan's dressing room. Wednesdays are spent scouring the entertainment sections of CNN and MSNBC, hoping for a glimpse of the previous night's voting results. Who was voted off? Oh, God, please don't let it be Vonzell!

My Idol Worship began a few weeks ago, and as with most transgressions, I like to blame it on my children. The girls came home from their friends’ house raving about having watched ‘American Idol’ and how they hoped I would find it in my fuddy duddy heart to let them watch it the following week. I gave in, not intending to watch it myself, but by the first ten minutes I was HOOKED, passing my judgment mercilessly on this band of overeager crooners. It’s just us girls watching, since Rigel has his tennis lesson on Tuesday nights, and that's a good thing since this is exactly the kind of show that makes him gag and make mocking comments throughout, thereby ruining it for the rest of us. STOP IT ALREADY. (I know I like to shout out “Live long and prosper” whenever you’re watching your sci-fi programs, but there isn’t a recording contract hanging in the balance in those shows, for God’s sake.)

Now I find myself forgoing baths on Tuesday nights, ordering take-out and stretching the girls' bedtime to 9:15 so that we can watch the show and still have time to vote, cause you know YOU HAVE TO VOTE IF YOU WANT YOUR IDOL TO WIN, as that annoying pixie Ryan Seacrest likes to point out. On that note, here are my unasked for opinions:

Scott: He should have been kicked off the show for beating up his girlfriend, and on top of that he can't sing. And if he does 'Smack My Bitch Up' for one of his selections I will bust into that party and personally kick his rotund ass.

Anwar: He sings pretty good for a middle-school teacher. And he looks pretty good for a middle-school teacher, too.

Constantine: He's got a good voice, but as Kira mentioned, "Stop looking at the camera already." We know you're in love with yourself so knock it off.

Carrie: She's so purdy! And so perky too! Y'all vote fo her, ya hear?

Anthony: He's so awful, there's got to be some sort of Russian Mafia phone-tampering thing going on for him to still be on the show. And anyone that incites Kiyomi to shake her fists and shout "I HATE YOU!" at the TV must be pretty bad.

Vonzelle: We think she should win! Yay! Vote for Vonzelle! If you don't, we will HURT you. (Hey, it's working for Anthony.)

Bo: He's a long haired, rockin' bad boy. And my girls like him. Alot. Enough reason to vote him off the show.

Archive File: Family | TV Drone

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Kira, Finally A Blog Post Mommy Will Let You Read

The birthdays, they're coming fast and furious this month. Today is Kira's ninth birthday - Happy Birthday my love!

It's so hard to believe that it was a whole nine years ago today that you came into this crazy world. Your daddy and I, we didn't know nothin' bout birthin' no babies, so we had lots of false alarms in the couple of weeks before you were born. He would come home from work and I would be waddling my huge body around the living room - I was kind of like a big mommy Shrek, except twice as big and half as charming - and holding onto my back, swearing that I was having contractions and that he'd better get ready cause BABY'S COMIN' THROUGH. This went on for three weeks. It was a bit nerve wracking, I admit, and we were so anxious to bring you home and put you into your nursery that daddy had spent three days painting, into the crib that we took months researching before we bought, take you for rides in the stroller that we drove across three zip codes to buy because it was the right color, and start putting you in the teeny, tiny little clothes that mommy had washed by hand, twice. I hope you will discover for yourself someday the hysteria that comes before the birth of a firstborn child - I truly believe there was less preparation before the first moon landing.

I was going to the doctor constantly, and they were checking you with a special machine to make sure everything was okay, because by now you were a whole two weeks late, early proof that you were going to take after your daddy. All the nurses kept saying, "Lady, you are going to have a BIG baby - over eight pounds." We were not prepared for how right they were then, and how well OVER eight pounds you would actually be. Finally the doctor said, "She's not coming out on her own - we're going in after her!" and we set an appointment for April 13, 1996.

You came into this world at 8:20 in the evening, and the first thing I heard your daddy say was, "Omigod, honey, SHE'S HUGE!" because girl, you were a whole TEN POUNDS of pink, squirming, screaming baby. And you were so amazing - I noticed right away how crazy beautiful your eyes were - you had that same look you have now when you are immersed in your 'Mew Mew Power,' serious and intense and full of curiosity, that look that says, "This is interesting, so so interesting, and I will absorb all the knowledge you have and pack it into my HUGE BRAIN. LOOK OUT." And you have your daddy's dimples!

Those first few days and weeks were such an adventure for all of us. We couldn't believe we were parents, and that you were our little girl. We nicknamed you 'Peanut' and your daddy would call every few hours from work and say, "Peanut Check!" and I would tell him all the stories about all the amazing things you had done; pooped, eaten, burped, slept, pooped, eaten, burped, and slept some more. Can you believe, your daddy and I, we would spend HOURS just watching you sleep. I remember one night when we were all laying on the bed together, and you laughed for the first time, a real laugh that couldn't be mistaken for a burp or a gurgle and we almost fell off the bed, we though it was the most miraculous thing, and it was. We fell in love with you more every day.

You are such a talented artist - you'll be so embarrassed when you grow up and find out that your mommy has saved almost every scrap of paper on which you have put a pencil to, so all I can say is GET READY FOR SCRAPBOOKS. And all the PHOTOS - your daddy makes fun of all the pictures I take of you and your sister but it almost seems like the only way to hold onto these brief, wondrous moments that I know are going by way, way too fast, and I'm begging you, this growing up thing, MAKE IT STOP. I am SERIOUS about the 'No Piercings Until You're Thirteen' rule. And me and your daddy, we've been talking and think that twenty-one is an okay age for you to start dating. Daddy will come along, of course. With his baseball bat.



Kira, I cannot tell you how much you have changed my life, changed me, made me into a better person, made my life so much sweeter and clearer just by being in it. I am so proud of you, what an amazing little girl you are, what an extraordinary person you are growing up to be. I love your honesty, your sense of humor and your big, marsupial hugs. Happy Birthday My Sweet Girl!

I Beezlebub You Always,
Mommy

Archive File: Offspring | Family

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Does This Ever Happen To You? Huh? Does It? Does It?

So it’s Monday, and I’m thinkin’, hey – let’s get cranky! And I start remembering something that happened recently, and about what kind of people get me REALLY CRANKY. For some people it’s bad drivers, for others maybe it’s those people who stand right next to you and talk so loudly into their cell phone headsets that you turn around and go, "What? Are you talking to me?" and maybe for others it's those that BABBLE ON INCESSANTLY IN THEIR BLOGS, and yes, I agree these people are big Causers Of Crankiness and deserve to be flogged, but for me, hands down, it’s PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE PEOPLE.

Now, we all know one of these. There is always one in every group, gathering, class, party, whatever, the one that I call the Passive Aggressive Loser, or PAL for short. Maybe you are the one, in which case look away, look away now.

And we all know the type. The one who can suck all the joy out of the room by their mere entrance, the one who spews toxic spittle in all directions like a broken sprinkler head, the one who gives you the undermining, backhanded 'compliment' and you're like, "Uh, right. THANKS" and then after you've walked away you realize that they were actually trying to drive a ten-inch Ginsu knife into your back. And then the PAL/DR sets in, (PAL/DR being short for Passive Aggressive Loser/Delayed Reaction) which means that not until they are too far away to hear is when you answer back, "You know, for some reason, whenever you open your mouth I'm reminded of my last visit to the zoo, when the baboon wouldn't turn around, and we had to keep looking straight up at his large, gaping butt, and someone remarked, 'Yeah, but that's the better looking side.'
Oh, and when I want your unsolicited, uninformed, uneducated opinion, I will come find your pathetic ass in the Loser aisle of Wal-Mart and ASK FOR IT."

Am I cranky enough yet? Okay then, let's continue.

Then other people, other people who know of this PAL and who have been victim of their PAL barbs, actually convince you to feel sorry for them. and rise above their boorish behavior. And you do start to feel sorry not only for them, but their spouse, and their children who will have to be raised by them and face a lifetime of their PAL comments, and you even start to feel sorry for their house, their car, their clothes that have to enclose such an unhappy human being, and don't forget about their chairs that groan and creak beneath the weight of such an ego. And you consider being nicer to them in the future, maybe even offer to babysit their kids, maybe invite them out to a dinner with you and your friends. And time passes, and you don't see them for awhile and your cold heart thaws just a little and you start to feel compassion for them.

But then they do it again. And you try, you try REAL HARD to call up those warm, fuzzy feelings and make excuses for their cretinous behavior, but you just can't. And now you know that the next time you see them you won’t be able to just smile and take it and you’re going to say what you really feel, something long overdue, something like, “Hey, you know what? I’m sorry you’re so insecure, I’m sorry you’re so intrinsically unhappy with your life, I’m sorry you've got the social grace of a diahrretic dog let loose on a nice, big, clean patch of lawn. But really, don’t take it out on me, because I’m tired of having to wipe your crap out of my hair. So, if you feel some sort of psychopathic need to keep making your comments, BRING IT ON, cause I'm SO going to enjoy watching you attempt to remove the delicate heel of my boot from your big ol' yap, PAL."

Does this ever happen to you or am I just being cranky?

Archive File: Cranky

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Funky Cold Medina

This is a photo of the dinosaur that got stolen along with my Honda. Rigel came across it today, while we were digging through files, preparing to send in our paperwork to our accountant so he could file our extension, and yes, we know we only have five days left, and yes he most definitely hates us and regrets taking on such loony, procrastinating artists as clients. You'd think he'd understand, I mean, HEY I'VE GOT A BLOG TO WRITE. But I will deliver a neat stack of documents to him tomorrow in person and then he will send us a bill for hundreds of dollars, which we will pay and then all will be forgiven. About the dinosaur - he was much cuter and lovable in person. I think they were after him and not the car.

Tonight I was looking around iTunes since I promised Kira I would try and find her a song from her new favorite show, 'Mew Mew Power.' They didn't have it (but lots of Celine Dion, people, lists and lists of CELINE DION, and lots of Green Day. Oh yes, LOTS of Green Day) so then I decided to download a couple of tunes for myself, you know, as sort of a reward for getting started on my taxes, since we procrastinators have lots of sick little tricks we play on ourselves, one of them being rewarding ourselves for things that most normal people would have gotten done months ago.

I'd had 'One Nation Under A Groove' by Parliament Funkadelic stuck in my craw for days now, ever since I heard a sample of it on the radio, so I decided to download it - but they didn't have that either. I plunged into a funk-less funk after finding that 'Atomic Dog' by George Clinton was only available on the soundtrack for 'Garfield The Movie,' yes, they had the soundtrack for GARFIELD THE MOVIE. See what I mean? Okay,I know these songs are old, but they've got Henry Mancini, for God's sake, and the soundtrack from 'Garfield The Movie,' and oh, did I mention all the CELINE DION you could download?

After realizing I wasn't gonna find anything by Parliament, Funkadelic, OR P-Funk All-Stars for that matter (what is up with that? Don't they know that George Clinton is the Granddaddy of Funk and has legions of followers called Funkateers?) I moved on to something else that had been going round and round in my little brain, a song by Ton Loc, and whatta ya know - THEY DIDN'T HAVE THAT EITHER. So I gave up, my credit card spared the whopping $2.97 I would have spent, but SOMEBODY PLEASE GET 'FUNKY COLD MEDINA' OUT OF MY HEAD.

Archive File: This Life

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Happy Birthday From Your Dense Little Matter

It's my husband's birthday. Happy Birthday Rigel! Well, the Pope just had to go and have his funeral on your special day – go figure. I just want you to know that if I was in charge, they would be doing a live video feed of your birthday, complete with the singing of the birthday song, the slicing and serving of the birthday cake and the unabashed consumption of festive alcoholic beverages.

But I'm not, so I will just wish you a happy birthday here, and since you think that I already reveal way too much about our personal lives on this blog thing of mine, I won't embarrass you any further, but just want to post this little story:

Last week we were sitting on the couch watching TV, and Rigel mentioned that he felt like he had eaten too much, and I pointed out that it could possibly be the chocolate pudding he had just consumed. I think we had just watched a show on Nova the night before on string theory (I was lost - science! Hello!) so, knowing that a little physics humor always gets him going, I made a comment on how he probably had just ingested the "densest matter, ever, or whatever it's called," and he gave me one of those incredulous looks, a look that I have seen very often in our relationship, that say, "I am so sad - I am married to a woman with little or no working knowledge of the scientific world."

After he stopped laughing, so doubled over that I thought he would bring that chocolate pudding right up through his nose, he said, "I'm not aware of this DENSEST MATTER. Tell me about it." I tried to explain to him that I had seen it on an episode of Nova, sometime back, this explanation of the DENSEST MATTER EVER, to which he replied, through more chortling laughter, "And were you awake?" By now I was swatting at him, and, I swore, although laughing so hard that I was crying now, that I was going to show him, I was going to Google 'DENSEST MATTERR EVER' and prove my point.

For days now, we have been referring to everything as the DENSEST MATTER EVER. "Do you want a bagel? I heard it's the DENSEST MATTER EVER" or "I'm going to clean the fish tank, because what's stuck in the filter here is the DENSEST MATTER EVER." Sadly, this is the kind of humor that gets us married people off.

But this is what I love about Rigel, about our relationship, that we can have the most absurd, dumbass conversation and get each other laughing so hard that we nearly have dessert substances coming up through our nostrils, and basically carry on like a couple of idiots and we still have fun, and this after being together nearly sixteen years. I feel so lucky that I get to hang out with this man everyday, even though he isn't fully aware of my Googling powers, and that he is the most loving father to our two girls. And just so that he doesn't start to think I'm goin' all soft on him, HERE IS A LINK FOR HIM TO CHECK OUT.

Scientists Report Hottest, Densest Matter Ever Observed

Happy Day Rigel! I hope you have the HOTTEST, DENSEST BIRTHDAY EVER. I love you like my laptop.

Archive File: Married | Family

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I Love Oprah, And You Should, Too

There’s a knock on the door. I’m not expecting anyone. I look through the window and am blinded by the sun but can make out a figure standing on our porch. It’s Oprah! “I wasn’t expecting you,” I say. “Always gotta visit my homegirl when I’m in town!” she says as she hands me her sweater. Oh, Prada! It’s so soft. She sees me admiring it and says “You can have it. I’ve got twelve more at home.” I am so grateful and hang it in the closet, next to the Chanel coat she gave me the last time she was here. She is so generous!

We go into the kitchen, where I put on a pot of coffee. I decide to make some crème brulée, and Oprah says, “Girl, you keep that torch away from my hair – I’ve got too much product all up in it, and I don’t wanna go up in flames like Michael Jackson.” We throw back our heads and laugh and laugh, but then we fall into a reverent silence; Michael is a friend of hers and he’s well, you know, on trial. I start thinking about Macaulay Culkin and that other little guy, Webster, and how Michael used to carry him around like a little ventriloquist dummy. That was creepy. But I keep my thoughts to myself. You know, sometimes I can be so negative!

I tell her I have to go pick up the girls at school. They have a special bond with Oprah, since she is like an aunt to them, a really rich one, and I make sure they stay close with her since she has offered to pay for their college educations and their weddings, too. While I’m driving to the school, I am thinking about how nice it is to have Oprah visit! I wish I’d cleaned up the house a little better.

When I return, she has a surprise waiting; her driver, who is also a chef, has prepared lunch for us. Baked Ziti! I didn't even know I had all the ingredients in my pantry. He’s also made us apple martinis, and I notice that he has used a lemon zester to make delicate apple peels that spell out my name and float on the surface. It’s all delicious! We all sit around and chat and enjoy our feast and before we know it it’s time for Oprah to leave. We’re disappointed, but we understand. “Gotta get back to Chicago – I’ve got a show to do!” she says, hugging me and the girls.

Before she leaves she presses an envelope into my hand – four tickets to her show next month, where she will be giving out brand new minivans to everyone in the audience! I love you Oprah! “We love you Auntie Oprah,” shout the girls! What a good friend Oprah is!

Archive File: Random | This Life

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Come To Think Of It, Maybe It Was O.J.

Eleven years ago, I had my car stolen. It was a Honda Accord, and I LOVED that car. It was parked right in front of our apartment we were renting, and when I came out at one o’clock in the afternoon with a friend, there was an empty space where I had left it a few hours earlier. The thing that made me saddest, though, was losing a small rubber dinosaur that was glued to my dashboard – we had bought it on our honeymoon and it had been with us for the entire three week trip, stealthily watching over us from it’s perch.

Then there was the time, five years ago, when I almost got my car stolen.

I had gone to the Beverly Center to do some Christmas shopping, and pulled on to the fourth floor, which is where I ALWAYS park. I say this with great certainty, because I have a horrible sense of direction and therefore only park where I know I’ll be able to find my car when I return, intoxicated by the rush of all the buying of expensive creams and overpriced pants. So, imagine my sense of deja vu when, after several trips up and down the aisle, lugging my great load of valuable purchases, I couldn’t find my car. A hysterical cell phone call to Rigel followed.

“I’m at the Beverly Center! My car’s been stolen!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’M SURE – I’ve been up and down the aisle five times. It’s gone. You need to come down and get me.”

“Well, okay, but maybe you should alert security first. And maybe take another look around.”

“I told you, IT’S GONE. I WILL NOT TAKE ANOTHER LOOK AROUND FOR A CAR THAT IS NOT HERE! Come and get me. NOW.”

I flagged down a security guard, and after giving him a description of my car, “Champagne Camry” (I always called it Champagne instead of gold. Gold just sounded so gaudy) he told me to hop in his little hotrod cart and we would take a look around. I kept trying to tell him it had been stolen, and weren’t we wasting valuable time, wasn’t he concerned that my car was probably already being disassembled and the parts being picked over by members of a car-thieving street gang? Apparently not, since he just kept driving that damn little cart up and down the aisles, slowly. He was just not getting it – my car was gone and nobody cared.

Then he suggested we drive on up the fifth floor and take a look around, but I told him that I never, EVER had even parked on the fifth floor. It was just impossible, it wasn’t in my territory, it would have been like a monkey just deciding to up and wander off into a whole different jungle. He didn’t get the analogy, but oh well, my car’s been up and stolen is what I was tryin to say! But he convinced me to ride on up with him to the fifth floor, “Just to be absoloootly cer-tayn” is how he put it, I think, so off we went even though I knew it was hopeless and my car was probably already gone, the sad shell of it sitting forlornly in an alley somewhere, and hey, maybe I’ll get one of them snazzy ESS YOU VEES that everyone is talkin’ about. Anyway, while I was checking out the cars on the fifth floor, thinking of which model I might soon be purchasing, I heard him say, “You mean a champagne colored Camry, jest like that one there?” and I looked up to see a car EXACTLY LIKE MINE. Oh, and it had MY LICENSE PLATE ON IT. And after he asked me what I RECKON had happened, I said, with all seriousness, “Well, it’s obvious that someone broke in and drove my car up here.” After he gave me the hard boot out of his little cart, (and really, sir, was all that cussing necessary?) I had the painful task of driving my previously stolen car over to the guard station where Rigel was waiting, now staring suspiciously at my newly recovered, previously stolen car, his enraged eyeballs boring through my windshield.

And I’ll be damned if I STILL don’t know why those practical jokers didn’t just STEAL the thing instead of driving it up to the fifth floor.

Archive File: Married | This Life

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Happy Birthday Big Sistah!

Today is my sister’s birthday. Happy Birthday Eileen! Here is a picture of the two of us – I won’t say when it was taken, although, perhaps it’s not a photo at all but a touched-up cave drawing of us as we get ready to go out and kill our own dinner after having fashioned our cooking pots out of ground-up dinosaur bone. I can’t reveal how old she is, because she would HURT me, but I will tell you that you would think that she is much, much younger than she is (Which isn’t that old! Really!)

(My girls, on the other hand, think that I look OLDER THAN OPRAH – after reading the cover of an O issue from last year that featured her 50th birthday party they asked me, “If she’s 50, why does she look younger than you?” Boy, did they hate being locked in the garage for a week.)

So we’ll be celebrating my sister’s, Rigel’s, and Kira’s birthdays at our house at the end of May, even though they are all in April, this due to the fact that it is incredibly hard to get the 22+ people in my immediate family together, and, we being of the freakish variety that MUST CELEBRATE EVERYTHING are constantly emailing each other, trying to fit yet another event into our oh so busy lives. Also, Kira will be having her birthday sleep-over in a few weeks and we needed a wide berth for that – at least two weeks before for prep and four weeks after for recovery; Rigel says he will need at at least a month to get the screaming to stop in his head.

These get-togethers have a certain format to them, and while most people would find it tortuous to spend five hours in a house with 22 immediate family members, we all have a certain fondness for these gatherings and I’m sure we will be passing some of these rituals on to our children (Right about now is when my 19-year old nieces are text-messaging each other and saying,“Oh, yeah, we sure as hell will NOT be.”)

Take the food, for instance.

If there’s one thing that would absolutely shock an outsider observing our family, for that matter would shock anyone who didn’t have the digestive tract of a swine, it would be the amount of food that is laid out at these family gatherings. There are Tupperwares and casserole dishes and foil pans FILLED WITH FOOD, so much food that we could all eat our fill, feed all the neighbors within a two mile radius, and still have enough leftovers to foist upon an army of homeless people until they begged us to go away. All Costcos in the vicinity of my family members chart our birthdays on calendars and prepare for our hogfests by stocking up on ground beef, cheese, fruit platters and table-sized birthday cakes. And, God forbid we should run out of food, which has NEVER HAPPENED, but I’m sure the ground would swell open and Satan himself would come forth and drag us all into a fiery hell for NOT MAKING THAT SECOND DISH OF PASTA SALAD.

As for gifts, every adult family member always knows exactly what they are getting: a birthday card filled with precisely seventy dollars, ten dollars from each sibling and spouse. We do this without the least bit of decorum and without even the faintest hint of surprise, writing checks or stuffing cash into the cards usually while the birthday recipient is sitting right next to you. You might even ask that person to say, break a twenty for you, or lend you a pen to write them a nice little birthday greeting. Then we usually have a ‘gift opening’ where the birthday celebrant will open their card, feign surprise and thank everyone for the cash, and do a perfunctory glance at the contents just to make sure that the whole seventy dollars is there. So far there have been no discrepancies, but I imagine that one day someone will open up their card and exclaim, “Hey, there’s only fifty dollars here. Which of you cheap bastards is holding out?”

After the ritualistic stuffing of our pieholes and stashing of the birthday loot, we all usually sit around and yammer, while some members, who shall remain nameless, take this opportunity to take a nap. There are lots of pictures of these people, asleep on the couch, eyes shut and mouth agape, because another thing about us is we have a very sophomoric sense of humor and WE THINK PICTURES OF EACH OTHER SLEEPING IS FUNNY. Of those of us who remain awake, you can usually hear the loud ghetto blathering of me, my sister and my sister-in-law Suzy, our voices rising in indignation because “Uh, huh girl, he was gittin all up in my bizness,” dishing away as if channeling the cast of the Jeffersons, proving you can take the girls out the hood but you can't take the hood out of the girls.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EI. You go sistah.

Archive File: Family

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This Whole Time, We Were Sorting W-2s And Tallying Deductions

Yesterday we woke up, and it was one of those beautiful Sundays, the type of day you just have to get out in, much too nice to stay in and do taxes, which is what we had sworn upon a stack of bibles that we would do.

It was, however, a perfect day for the Getty!

And, besides, it's a whole two weeks until April 15th, and really, the girls have been so good, they deserve a nice weekend outing, and if there's one thing Rigel and I are experts at, it's procrastinating and then totally trying to justify it. So, off to the museum we went. (If you are our accountant reading this, please note that Rigel and I, while admiring the stunning landscape of the Getty gardens, did discuss possible home improvements which should be duly noted here as being tax related.)

At seven dollars for parking and no entrance fees, the Getty has got to be one of the best bargains in LA, except for the five dollar peanut butter and jelly sandwich and ten dollar Tandoori Picnic, but, hey, at what other family attraction can you even get a TANDOORI PICNIC? We spent the day strolling the gardens, having lunch overlooking LA, and sipping cappuccinos - call me a crazy broad but I'd say it was slightly more fun than digging through piles of receipts and trying to figure out a way to make "Pants from Target" a business expense .

We forgot the camera, so I took these pictures with The Camera Phone That I Forced Rigel To Buy Me (I TOLD you it would come in handy some day, dangnabit!) I even took a twelve-second movie of the girls gleefully rolling down a grassy hill with The Camera Phone That I Forced Rigel To Buy Me, but unfortunately the only audio you can hear is me saying, "Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!" as Kiyomi veered dangerously close to a steel retaining wall.

Oh, and we didn't do our taxes when we got home, either, as we had sworn upon that other stack of bibles that we would do, because there was this great documentary on tv...

Archive File: Married | Family | This Life

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Am I Normal? Did Anyone Else Get Excited Over The 'Favorite Voice From An Animated Movie' Category?

Tonight the girls were watching the 'Nickelodeon Kids' Choice Awards' and I wasn't payin' it much mind, since I was busy washing dishes, and I didn't have that much interest in what would win for 'Favorite Video Game,' and what could there possibly be for me in a show whos main sponsor was 'Goldfish.'
As in CRACKERS.

That is, until Kira came in to tell me that they were giving out the award for 'Favorite Voice From An Animated Movie' and that the winner was Will Smith.
As in MY STALKER FANTASY.

So I bolted from the kitchen, my hands still covered in dishwater and soap and ran out to the living room just in time to see Will Smith accepting his award, and I grabbed the remote from Kira's hand so I could turn the volume up and hear his acceptance speech. For 'Favorite Voice From An Animated Movie.'

And, as I thought to myself, "All those lucky ten year olds sitting in the front row, sitting this close to Will Smith," I knew my daughters would be telling their friends, "Our mom got SO EXCITED when Will Smith won for 'Favorite Voice From An Animated Movie'."

Tell me, is this normal?

Archive File: TV Drone

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