Today On The Other Blog:

Disneyland Hotel: I Remember It Well. Not.

Here's my review of the Disneyland Hotel, where I talk about The Monkees and Leave It To Beaver. What?

Read the whole darn thing here.

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Happy Valentine's Day! Here's some awful-tasting candy for you

Remember those conversation hearts you used to pass out to your friends when you were a kid? Why did they taste so bad? Why did they taste like chalk? Why do I know what chalk tastes like?

Here's a better idea: Make your own virtual conversation heart here:

http://www.acme.com/heartmaker/

You can use up to four characters per line, on one or two lines. Now's your chance to use all those romantic cuss words on your sweetie. Have fun!

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That's the ticket!

I wrote this post over two years ago for the LA Moms Blog, back when Kira was in the throes of her Ting-Tings mania. Now she says she can barely listen to any of their songs without cringing because it reminds her of what an "obsessed fan-girl" she was. I know how she feels - 'Muskrat Love' just makes my skin crawl now.

A few weeks ago my daughter let out a scream while sitting in front of her computer.  It wasn’t exactly a scream, more of that thing twelve-year olds do to convey excitement:  a yelp followed by a couple of ‘omigods’ and punctuated by frenetic hand clapping. I figured she had just seen a cute boy on YouTube  so I ignored the commotion until she came running into my office, breathless, to announce that The Ting Tings were going to be in concert! She had a crazy look in her eyes,  kind of how my husband says I look whenever chicken breasts go on sale  for half-price at Costco.

The Ting Tings are the latest band she discovered through the amazing marketing machine known as the iPod Commercial.  I know this makes me sound old, but I remember the days when we used to discover new music by listening to the radio, or watching Soul Train or stealing our brother’s 45’s.  I’d kick back, relax and listen to my new tunes after I had finished washing my clothes down by the river and churning my own butter.

She immediately sent me a link to the website, and sure enough  there they were, IN CONCERT LIVE OMIGOD. And best of all the tickets  were a mere $16, which we all know is dirt cheap for a live show these  days since that pittance can barely buy you a movie ticket, or a cd, or  even a small coffee at Starbucks.

But as usual I procrastinated about buying those tickets, even though  she diligently asked me about them every single day.  Something always  seemed to come up that made me put it off, important things like that  extra nap I was trying to fit in, or rearranging my blogroll.  So when  the big moment came around and my husband pulled out his credit card to  place our order everyone was pretty excited, almost as much as the time I  finally broke down and ordered that tub of OxyClean I’d promised  myself.

And then we saw that the concert was sold out.

You’ve heard of "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"? How about  "hell hath no sorrow like a tween whose parents waited to long to buy  Ting Tings tickets"?  She burst into tears almost immediately after  seeing the ‘SOLD OUT’ banner appear, and continued crying as my husband  furiously searched various websites trying to score some tickets.  He  did find some on Craigslist for $95 each, and another pair on Ebay for  almost $200, but there was no way we were going to pay those prices.  It wasn’t a total bust, though, since I did find a nice set of wine  glasses and some ‘Like New!’ ski pants.

We felt awful and I could have kicked myself for not snatching up  those tickets earlier.  I tried to make her feel better by promising she  could play the CD extra loud on the night of the show and we’d all wave  our cell phones in the air, but surprisingly this didn’t cheer her up  one bit and she went to bed sniffling and sadder than ever.

After she had gone to sleep I talked my husband into making one last  effort.  It was a long shot, but how about emailing the club directly  and asking if they had any plans to add another show, or maybe even some extra tickets lying around?  Surely there was an undeserving stagehand whose tickets they’d revoke after hearing our sad story about our tween  daughter's ruined life. I even contemplated embedding an mp3 of her  muffled sobs coming from the other room but my husband said it would be  overkill, and besides it would clash with the picture of the sad-eyed  kittens he was attaching.

And we waited.  And when an email finally came in from the club the  next day, I was wary and decided to read it before calling my daughter  in. There was no need for her to see an automated response that said,  “thank you for your interest in our venue try bud light it tastes great  and is less filling.”

But I couldn’t help but let out a scream of my own when I read that,  as a matter of fact, they had a front row balcony table that they hadn’t  released to the public. That seated four people and would end up  costing us a little more than the original price but nowhere near what  they were asking on Craigslist and EBay.  I don’t think I’ve seen my  daughter so happy – it reminded me of the time I promised her I would  never wear my bathrobe again when picking her up at school.

So that’s where we’ll be going in a couple of weeks, and she’s  counting down the days.  She’s already made a sign to wave at the  concert, and her and my 10-year-old have already picked out their  outfits for that night.  And of course there’s a moral to this story:

Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today, and if you do  you’d better pray there’s a kind person working in the box office who’s  got a soft spot for sobbing twelve-year olds and kittens.

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My Gang Of New York, Part III: Meeting Jimmy Fallon & MetroDad On The Same Day!

One of the great things about traveling to far-flung, exotic locales is you might come face-to-face with mythical lifeforms. Here of course I'm talking about New York, and getting to meet the infamous MetroDad. Oh, and Jimmy Fallon, too.

I've been reading MetroDad for years so I was looking forward to meeting him in person. And talk about mythical lifeforms - an Asian blogger! Although it did cross my mind that maybe Pierre (aka MetroDad) didn't actually exist. Let's face it, this is the internet and he could actually be some really prolific, French 14-year-old.

But as you can see, he wasn't! Here's a picture I took of Pierre and his friend Jim, who is a producer on the show. Kiyomi is eating a red velvet cupcake she stole from a table in the hallway. That cupcake probably cost the show $45.

Pierre took time out of his busy schedule to meet us at Rockefeller Center, where his friend Jim most generously took us on a tour of Jimmy Fallon's studio. This was the moment Kiyomi put "Be an intern for Jimmy Fallon" at the top of her bucket list. Which, if you've ever seen a 12-year-old's bucket list, is pretty impressive since it beat out things like, 'Get txt mssg from Daniel Radcliffe' and 'Buy pony.'

Ashton Kutcher was a guest on the show that night, and here are the girls outside of his dressing room plotting to rush in and steal his underwear. Next door was where The Roots were rehearsing and Rigel was plotting to rush in and join the band.

We not only met Jimmy, but he invited us onto the set to take some pictures. Kira and Kiyomi have had a huge crush on Jimmy for awhile, so this was pretty mind-blowing for them. Kiyomi was a little bitter that she didn't get to sit in the seat closest to him, but she made up for it when, as we were leaving and Jimmy went to shake her hand she said, "Hey, no HUG?" and went in for a big embrace. Sure, they called for security but it was a moment to remember.

Here's where Jimmy told us to, "Look serious" and "Now laugh like crazy" which is what we're doing in these photos in case you couldn't tell. Hey, no one said we were actors.

A big THANK YOU to Pierre, Jim and Jimmy Fallon for putting up this family of tourists from L.A. and making our day. Sorry if we said 'like' way too much and kept complaining about the weather.

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Next Up: My Gang Of New York, Part IV: We Ate Stuff

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Day 14 of the sickness and boy is my sjövik tired

For the past fourteen days neither of my girls have been at school on the same day because of this cursed, hideous cold that's been going around. As a result, I'm pretty exhausted and bleary-eyed and only have the energy for the most vital of tasks, like looking at videos on the internet.

Here's one called Can't Get It Up, about the horrors of trying to assemble a piece of furniture from Ikea. If you've ever wanted to throw yourself off a building because you spent five days putting together an Anjůk toothbrush holder, I think you'll relate. Although you have to admit all is forgiven once you've had their meatballs.



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Like A (50-Year-Old) Virgin

As a few of you know, last month I turned fifty. Notice how I spelled that out, because it's a little less painful than seeing the numbers. I hate the look of that five and especially that zero, like a mouth gaping at how old and ancient I am. Stupid fifty.

But I'm taking it really well!

To be honest, it is going better than I'd expected. My teeth haven't all fallen out and neither of my hips seem like they'll need replacing soon. Although I did find my first gray hair on the morning of my birthday (I'm not kidding - that sucker just bounced out of my head like one of those pop-up turkey timers. Like it was saying, "Hello! You're ready! FOR OLDNESS.)

For the longest time I was reluctant to put my age out into the blogosphere. Let's face it – the blogging world is a young one. I mean, when you read people's posts and they're saying things like, "My mom said phones used to have dials on them" and "OMG Miley Cyrus takes me back to my youth" - well, you know you're one of the more vintage bottles in the cellar.

It was especially annoying when people would talk about the sixties like it was ancient history, wondering if there was electricity back then and what did people use to hunt their food. I mean, they really deserved to have comments left by 'Anonymous' on their blog that said, "Go change your diaper" and "I oughta tan your hide you whippersnapper." Not that I know who was responsible for that.

I admit I don't look fifty. At least, that's what people say. (When they've had a few. And been paid.) And I certainly don't feel fifty. As my most hip, stylish friend Natalie says, who is going to be hitting the five-oh soon herself, "Who knew fifty would feel this good?" And I have to agree - I have no desire to put on a pair of mom jeans or a polyester blazer. I haven't put my hair up in a bun with a hairnet, and I'm not going to bed at 8pm with my teeth in a glass next to me. Although I did catch my self saying, "What I wouldn't give for an afghan and a glass of fiber" the other day.

But here's my secret weapon, the one thing that I constantly say to make myself feel better. No, it's not, "Age is just a number" or "You're only as old as you feel" or any of that other touchy-feely mumbo jumbo. It's this:

I'M STILL YOUNGER THAN MADONNA.

That's right - the Material Girl is going to be fifty-three this year, and she's making music, directing movies and dressing like a hooker. I'm not saying she's my role model, or that I'm going to be putting on a bullet bra and parading around in ass-less chaps anytime soon (at least not in public) but it's good to see that life doesn't end when you hit the half-century mark, that you can still be a productive, vital, creative force who gets to put on a leather bustier and prance around with Justin Timberlake.

So I've decided that I'm going to embrace fifty, and the fact that I'm still standing, have a great marriage and raising two bright, beautiful girls. That I'm on my second career and my last minivan. That I can still wear stilettos even if I complain bitterly about them the entire time. That I'm older than most of you out there but still younger than Madonna. I'm even going to get used to writing those gawd-awful numbers.

GO 50!

That last cheer totally threw my back out.

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My Gang Of New York, Part II: Really Touristy Photos With Clever Captions

As threatened, more on my trip to New York! Here are some random photos, accompanied by my banal commentary. I have lots of time on my hands, as the girls have taken turns being sick since we got back. It's like NYC is punishing us for visiting. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked that man on the subway if there were any drive-thrus where I could get a half-caf, organic chai latte with a sprout infusion.
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This is one of my favorite photos, taken at Strawberry Fields, the John Lennon memorial in Central Park. Kiyomi's a rabid Beatles fan, so for her this was one of the highlights of our visit. Also one of the only times during our freezing, snowy trip that she put on her coat.

 

 Ever wonder who shells out $80 for those carriage rides? 

On the High Line, one of those places that we wish we had in L.A. Although if I might add, could be made that much better with the addition of a coffee cart. (See? It's saying things like that that's going to get my ass kicked the next time I visit.)

Rigel and I walking through a snowy Central Park. Hardly romantic, as this was taken by the girls who were walking behind and heckling us with things like, "Awww, aren't they CUTE?" and "LOOKIT THE LITTLE SCHMOOPIES." You can't tell by the picture, but we were thinking of all sorts of ways to torture them when they start dating.

 

At Bouchon Bakery at Time Warner Center, and in our room at the Empire Hotel in their beloved hats. Kira looks extra happy because on that day we "had lunch at a normal time like normal people." And for the record Rigel and I hardly think that waiting until 10pm to eat dinner is "so weird and unhealthy and, like, child abuse." Kids these days.

The famed cultural and historical New York landmark that Kira and Kiyomi couldn't wait to visit: the 4-story, Forever 21 store in Times Square.

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Next Up: My Gang Of New York, Part III: We Met Jimmy Fallon & MetroDad, All On The Same Day!

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Where on earth did this come from?

Tonight, as she has for the past few weeks Kira is rehearsing for her school's production of Moulin Rouge. Soon she'll spend weekends rehearsing, seven hours a day up until the show's premiere in late February. In between she still seeks out and performs at open mic nights, singing and playing guitar. She has one singular dream, to be a pop star and as she puts it "There is no Plan B because that means you have no faith in your dreams." Cue applause and a Z-snap.

Meanwhile, Kiyomi is preparing to begin rehearsals for her school's production of Tommy. On Tuesdays she takes a dance-intensive class to learn steps for the numbers and just to hone her dancing skills for future shows. She's in love with performing and wants to be on Broadway one day, and already has her monologue ready for when she's a guest on Jimmy Fallon. You know, after she wins the Tony.

As for me, I freak out and break out in a cold sweat if I have to address a audience of more than two people. My most vivid memory of taking piano as a child are the intense, week-long stomach aches I used to get before every recital. In middle school or high school, the idea of performing in public was as absurd as walking naked across the senior lawn, although I do remember a few of us egging on a classmate to do just that during finals week. And just our luck – since he was in drama club he accepted the challenge willingly and got all of us in trouble when he started taking off his clothes as the 5th period bell rang.

People always assume that the girls get their performing bug from me or Rigel, but nothing could be further from the truth. Sure Rigel's in a band, but that was something he started as an adult, and his experiences with any type of organized performing as a child are as non-existent as mine. He does remember playing at some parties in high school, but that wasn't so much for the love of the greasepaint as it was for the love of the unlimited access to the kegger being offered in the backyard patio. 

So where do the girls get their career aspirations? I'm thinking there was a mixup at the hospital - I did give birth at a hospital frequented by celebrities, so perhaps some singer/actresses somewhere are actually raising my camera-shy daughters who hate being in front of an audience. Their moms are throwing up their hands because their kids won't perform the duet with them from Miss Saigon, or refuse to enter the talent contest at the local community center. There are tiny sequined gowns going to waste in closets, and their moms go to sleep at night drying their tears with unused pageant applications.

But whatever the case, and as long as my girls want to pursue these pop-star-Broadway-diva dreams, I'm going to support them in any way I can. Even though I might not understand the desire to put yourself on a stage in front of a bunch of strangers for your art, I can understand wanting to follow your dreams and I'm betting I'll be watching them walk up on a stage sometime in the future to accept an award.

Although, I'm getting a stomach ache just thinking about it.

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This post was written as part of my involvement with the Yahoo! Motherboard. Read what other writers have to say about their kids following in their footsteps on the Yahoo! Motherboard page on Shine.


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My Gang Of New York, Part I: It's On

So, in case you missed my Facebook posts, or my Twitter feed or that airplane I rented pulling a banner, I just back from a trip to New York with Rigel and the girls. And, since I'm into this newfangled blogging fad, I'm going to write about here in painstaking detail. Remember a few years ago when I went to Japan and I wrote about it forever and it seemed like the posts would never end, like you were in some bad dream where you couldn't escape someone's neverending vacation slide show? Yeah, like that.

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A couple of weeks before Christmas I was offered a trip to New York for the launch of the Nintendo 3DS, and I came up with the brilliant idea of turning it into a family vacation. We hadn't taken a trip for awhile, and I was eager to visit New York again since the last time I was there was when I was in my twenties. (I said 'In my twenties' not 'during the 1920's' all you smartasses. Although, come to think of it I was driving through Central Park in a Model-T while wearing a flapper hat.)

The hardest part about preapring for the trip was getting everyone clothed. How do you get a family of Angelenos, who are used to 80° weather in the dead of winter, to make a trek into a land where people wear strange things called 'scarves' and 'coats'? I tried to tell Kira and Kiyomi that they would have to pack some warm clothes, and I swear one of them said, "Does that mean anything with sleeves?" Kiyomi was convinced she'd be running around in her usual getup of shorts and tank top except the difference was she'd be wearing socks with her sneakers.

(And get this – they both informed me that they only own ONE PAIR of long pants. I'm not sure how that happened, but I suppose that's what I get for letting teenagers do their own back-to-school shopping. In a related story, I did find nine Lady Gaga t-shirts and sixteen halter tops while I was cleaning their room.)

Then there was my clothing angst. Not only did I have to pick up some warm clothes, but they had to be stylish since I'd be hanging out with some pretty hip client-type-people and blogger chicks, who'd probably frown on my usual cold-weather solution of tucking thermal underwear into a pair of boots and topping it off with a 10-year-old ski parka. Oh, and that Dukes Of Hazzards hat that I got in 1987 probably wouldn't go over very well, either, although if you ask me burlap never goes out of style.

So I did what any normal person would do when faced with a clothing crisis: I bought $40 worth of fashion magazines and dilligently studied their pages for hours trying to find out what the hip 2011 woman was wearing in cold weather. Much like the scientist who might pour over fossils for insight into prehistoric man, I was scrutinizing Vogue for some clues into the correct heel height for the newest winter footwear. Both valid, important endeavors, but I win since my research resulted in a trip to the mall and a cute pair of fur-lined leather boots.

Long story short, after plunging ourselves into debt with numerous trips to Macy's, Forever 21, Tilly's, Urban Outfitters, DSW, Sports Chalet, Victoria's Secret (I needed a warm bra) and Rite Aid (everyone needed new lipgloss) we were finally off to New York! Although, after all of our foraging and scouring and researching in the name of fashion – the items that ended up being the most coveted were these, bought off the street in Times Square for $20:

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Next Up: My Gang Of New York, Part II: Really Touristy Photos With Clever Captions

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Grateful

Here's yet another re-posting of one of my pieces from the LA Moms Blog. Because I wanted the first post of the New Year to be a tired, old retread. Aiming high for 2011!

I was picking up my kids from school the other day, and when they got in the car my 11-year-old launched into a story about a classmate who said that his parents would be really upset that he got a 'B' on his report card. Without thinking I responded, “Well, aren’t you grateful we aren’t like that?” Naturally, I followed this up with a lecture about having to walk fifty miles through a hurricane to get to work and then a short summation of my time as an overworked child in a rug factory in India.

You’ve heard this before -- parents using other people’s misfortune to instill gratitude in their kids. The ones that say, “Hey, eat your peas — there are kids starving in other zip codes,” or “Sure you don’t like those generic jeans, but how’d you like it if all you had to wear was polyester?”

Unfortunately I find myself doing this a lot lately. Parenting is a competitive sport, and I’ve become expert at using my opponents’ “weaknesses” to bolster my standing with my daughters. When my 13-year-old told me about her friend being grounded for not cleaning her room, I wagged my finger and told her how grateful she should be that her dad and I had a high tolerance for filth. Then recently I couldn’t wait to share with both of my girls the rigorous chore schedule I found out a friend had laid out for her two sons. That was of course punctuated with, “Maybe now you won’t complain so much about having to unload the dishwasher.” I made sure to have my hands on my hips for that one.

It’s gotten so bad that I’m thinking of renting a horror film I remember seeing, one where the parents use spells to turn their unruly children into farm animals. I think I’ll get extra satisfaction from announcing over the closing credits, “I hope you now realize that having your allowance withheld is nothing compared to being turned into a goat.” I imagine they’ll put down the pillow they’ve been cowering behind and immediately begin folding that pile of laundry that had been sitting on the couch for two weeks.

But kids being the crafty creatures they are, they’ve managed to turn the tables on me. They were watching a show on TV the other night, “Secret Life of an American Gossip Girl” or something like that, and the 11-year-old yelled out to me, “Well mom, my room might look like a pigsty but at least I’m not pregnant and having an affair with my gym teacher.” As miffed as I was that she had stolen my technique, I had to admit she was right. I was suddenly filled with an immense feeling of gratitude and got to work hanging up the pile of clothes covering her bed.

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