Valley Girl

Bad Girl Mom

2011-07-25T21:15:00.000-07:00

I attended a toddler-friendly event recently that was centered around crafts and attended by other stay-at-home moms. This particular friend that hosted the event is a lovely woman with a husband, small child, huge dog AND an immaculate house, which kind of already makes me feel like a fish out of water. The couch – so fresh and spotless! The bathroom – so shiny and free of errant pee! The mirrors – so gleaming and fingerprintless! I found myself distracted by the sheer wonderment of it. How is this possible? Two penis people and a dog in the house, and you could eat off the kitchen floor? No. It just doesn’t compute.

But I felt even more alien in this company when the conversation turned to grown-up things. It was brought to my attention that the hostess of the event sells Mary Kay now, a fact which I was completely unaware since, as she put it, “You don’t do parties like that.” It’s true, I don’t. Tupperware, Pampered Chef, crystal stuff, jewelry, whatever – I hate that shit like I hate chain e-mails and will not participate. “Really?” exclaimed one of the moms incredulously. “I love those parties! How can you not like those?” I felt others stop and look at me. “Uh…. I just don’t. I love parties, but I have zero interest in talking about kitchenware and all that stuff and would rather spend that time at a girls night out or book club meeting or going dancing or something instead.” Oh, she reads books too, and rattled off some titles I hadn’t heard of. Until she mentioned The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo – my very favorite book of like, the last ten years. “Hated it!” she proclaimed. “Thought it was supposed to be so great and instead it was just so graphic and weird and dark.”

But I like graphic and weird and… wait a minute. And then it dawned on me: I had stumbled into a Nice Moms Party. I didn’t have anything in common with these moms other than motherhood. I am a Bad Girl Mom.

What is a Bad Girl Mom? I know there are a lot of us out there, but somehow we don’t really congregate in places like the playground, Mommy & Me, or Baby Gap. We are not sanitized, and not celebrated in mainstream media. We love our children more than life itself, feed them good food, take care of them with zealous and tireless attention, but haven’t quite gotten the hang of the squeaky-clean thing. And don’t really want to.

It’s easier to explain what a Bad Girl Mom is by illustration and you can draw your own conclusion if you are a Bad Girl Mom or not. And if you are, Dear Little One, please know that you are not alone.

Bad Girl Moms don’t watch their language or the language in music like a hawk. My child learned to say the word “douche” before “please” or “thank you” and knows all the words to plenty of non-Radio-Edit songs by the likes of Black-Eyed Peas and Sir Mix-A-Lot. I just think there are a lot more important things to be upset or concerned about. McLean spouting out “I got that visual spit, next level visual shit” is just not high on the list.

My child also learned to say “I ripped one!” and laugh hysterically rather than “Excuse me, I tooted.”

Bad Girl Moms don’t apologize for being randy. At least one of my children was conceived on the back patio. I refuse, REFUSE to not see myself as sexy anymore just because I have scrambled egg shrapnel in my hair and don’t really get to wear my cute shoes anymore. They are still in my closet and their very presence affirms that I was once a desired creature and will be again someday.

A Bad Girl Mom will not buy a nursing bra unless it is pretty and makes the rack look good.

And I cannot, cannot, CANNOT get behind Crocs. I don’t care how practical they are – they are butt-ugly on grown-ups and children.

Bad Girl Moms have particular tastes in entertainment that do not extend to the likes of the Twilight saga or Real Housewives of Whatever Some Such Bullshit “reality” type shows. If I have the time to sit in front of the TV and lack sufficient energy to go out and have girl time, I’m going to watch True Blood, not Glee.

My person and hair have been polluted all at once with drool, spit-up, poop, baby food and breast milk so much that I felt like the star of some freaky Japanese fetish video, and still I opted to lie down for a nap rather than have a shower. That is a Bad Girl Mom move right there.

Speaking of housekeeping and nudity, Bad Girl Moms are not particularly concerned and have better things to do. During the week of potty training, my son teabagged every conceivable surface of the living room, dining room, and some parts of the office. He even did headstands on the couch for guests, allowing them to see directly into his colon. I encouraged this behavior, and even mutually applauded it with his father. Potty training is hard enough without getting all uppity about it.

So, in conclusion, I would just like to say, motherhood is a very intense journey, and sometimes mind-blowingly difficult. Getting uptight over the little things just doesn’t feel right to me, so I let them go and laugh about it. And hope you do, too. Bad Girl Moms, unite!

Aren't They Adorable?

2010-11-18T15:49:00.000-08:00

Post-partum Woes

2010-11-18T15:25:00.000-08:00

I’m thinking of writing a children’s book. I would call it “The Saggy Baggy Ass.”

What, you don’t think that will sell?

Some of the 60 pounds are coming off, which is super. But what of the stretched out skin left behind? I would tell the tale of the skin on my neck and belly, and its wiggles and waggles, how much the baby loves to grab the skin and yank with all his five-month-old might (which feels especially invigorating if his nails haven’t been cut in awhile). But loose skin on my butt? Really? Can’t I just keep the nice round badonkadonk I was cultivating while pregnant and lose the still-pregnant-looking belly instead? It’s not fair.

But that’s not what drove me to sit and rant today. What is on my mind, Dear Reader? Post-partum hair shedding. People, I have lost so damn much hair in the last two months, it’s a wonder I am not as bald as Mr. Clean. Which got me to thinking of a whole list of things you could do with the hair I have lost. Why waste it? I will commence with said list now:

1. You could clean up the oil spill in the Gulf. And still have hair leftover to clog about a dozen shower drains.

2. You could make a whole other Valley Girl with a bangin’ hairdo. Just add some Forever21 sweatpants, Reeboks, and a nursing bra -- Done!

3. You could glue a big stick on the hair and have an eco-friendly mop. Your floors never looked so shiny!

4. You could glue the hair all over your body – voila! Blond gorilla suit for next Halloween!

5. You could prop up the hair on a chair, put sunglasses on it, and set it by the front door like Cousin It to frighten off door-to-door salespeople or those that might want to share their religious material with you.

6. If you’re looking for a good excuse for being late to work, or just really want some attention, slam the hair into the trunk door of your car and get pulled over. And you’ll have a great story to tell your friends!

7. Bake the hair into a pie and give it to someone you really hate. Like Meg did on Family Guy.

You see, the possibilities are endless! I could come up with a dozen more, but I have to go haul the latest load of hair to the trash before the kids wake up.

(Thank you, Kimo, for the nudge. This one’s for you!)

The Mama Rules

2010-09-19T21:36:00.000-07:00

So here I am, the mother of two boys. How do you do it? That was the question I asked a lot of mothers who have more than one kid while I was pregnant with Noah. I never really got any concise answers. I read a book on having a second baby and it was all pretty much common sense. No tricks, no real tips. I want tricks, dammit! So I have been winging it. But I keep getting told by people while I’m winging it that I “seem so calm.” Even my chiropractor tells me I am so very calm and have an aura of serenity whilst she is adjusting the hips that are still jacked up from having to accommodate my 9+ pounder and the 50+ pounds it put on my person. I personally believe it’s because I was just so darn happy when the little bugger was finally born and I didn’t have to be pregnant anymore.

But upon reflection, it dawned on me that I do have certain rules in my job of being mom to my two boys. And that perhaps I should share these rules with others in my position, or about to be, who are not finding the helpful tips they seek. They are meant to be helpful and nothing more. And they likely will not apply to people with special needs kids, colicky babies, single moms, etc. There is a special place in heaven for you, and however you get by day-to-day is a damn miracle. But you can read these and have a chuckle nonetheless, and see if any apply to your situation.

1. Sleep when the baby sleeps. I know, I know. There is so much I have to do and that’s the only time I can do it, blah blah blah. You know what? Bullshit. You can let the dishes sit. You don’t HAVE to check your e-mail and guess what? The laundry will wait. Turn off your phone, lay the hell down and get some sleep, or at least close your eyes and be still. I have a small window of time during the day that both boys are asleep, and that’s the time I forced myself to lie down. Your emotions and mental functioning will be light years better if you do yourself this one huge favor.

2. See your girlfriends. No, not text your girlfriends, not e-mail or even phone your girlfriends (though this is helpful in a pinch) -- get your ass out of the house and SEE your girlfriends. You can have the kid(s) with you or not (though the break from them is nice and this gives them a chance to bond with Daddy), but you need to see and hug and be in the physical presence of those core women in your life who are supportive and love you. Yes, after you have kids, this takes a Herculean effort to coordinate. Everyone is busy and you are really busy, and especially if she has kids too, she is busy! But figure it out. It’s important.

3. Do not stress over how your body looks right now. Are you Heidi Klum? Do you have a Victoria’s Secret runway show coming up or a cover shoot for Cosmo? No? I didn’t think so. Then give your body a break. Your body did some amazing-ass things to bring your beloved children into the world, so why don’t you cut it a slackburger with cheese? Or even a turkey burger with cheese? It will get back to normal in its own time, especially if you are breastfeeding. But the really important thing I have learned after all these years of self-body-loathing is to marvel at the awesome power my body has demonstrated through having kids. We moms are absolutely mind-blowing in our strength when you really think about it. So think about that, and not about how much longer it’s taking you to lose the weight than some ass-clown on the cover of Us magazine who has a personal army of hired help and probably doesn’t even change diapers and “got her body back” in like six weeks. She is perpetuating an image that is just not realistic for 99.9% of the mothers out there, and you need to realize that.

4. Do some cardio. No, not because you need to be concerned about how your body looks right now (see #3 above). But because you are emotionally still in a very fragile state, and you need to get high on all the endorphins you possibly can. Put one kid in the stroller and the other in the Baby Bjorn, and go for a walk, get some fresh air, every day if you can. If you’re breastfeeding the World’s Hungriest Baby like I am, and are a little nervous about straying too far from the house, do your cardio at home. “But I don’t have an elliptical,” you may whine (like I did). “And I can’t afford a gym membership,” you may also whine (also like I did). And just then, my eyeballs settled on the brick step down that leads to my back patio. I’ve taken enough step classes in my day to remember the basics, so with the baby strapped to my torso and McLean running around the backyard doing his “workout,” I am able to work up some decent cardio. It is just as great of a workout now as it was in the early 90’s! The baby sleeps the whole time (even with the Black Eyed Peas blasting away) and I don’t have to be in public with my dirty hair in a bun and mangy sweats. To cool down, I pick up dog poo in the yard. Hey bitches, it’s squats with weights when you have a 14-pound baby attached to you! I’m just sayin’! Work with whatever you have.

5. Honor Thy Date Night (or Day), And Keep It Holy. This is where Grandma and Grandpa come in especially handy for me. When they offer to babysit, I jump on it and calendar them on the spot. They get to have quality time with the grandkids, and Derek and I get to be a normal couple for a couple of hours and talk about something besides nursing, diapers, bathtimes, food choices, etc. – all the business of running a family that takes up all our normal conversation time. I can wash the spit-up out of my hair and put on make-up and wear cute shoes and feel something resembling sexy again. And I can appreciate my husband in a whole new way. Yes, he is a great dad, and that is sexy, but he’s also a great date, and we have fun together. Date Night can also be Date Day if that’s when your babysitter is available. As long as you leave the house together and do something you both enjoy, who cares when it happens?

6. Sit Down To Eat. Three times a day. Yes, you read that right. We get so caught up, running around taking care of the needs of others, we too often forget about ourselves. Even if it’s only a few minutes to sit and shove a few bites in my mouth, this is a little care-taking gesture I give myself, and also a good example to set for my kids. I want them to see that you should respect your body and the food you are putting into your body by paying attention to it. I also want them to know that I am a person who needs to be cared for, too. There is a fine line between taking care of kids and becoming their servant. I find it is easier to keep that boundary clear when you demonstrate for them how you treat yourself. The intake of food is only one small part of this concept.

7. Sometimes You Just Have To Cry. There will be times, in spite of the best-laid plans and adherence to the rules that all hell just breaks loose. This is just how it is with young children – you can never predict the next milestone or meltdown, and sometimes they happen simultaneously. All. Day. Long. Sometimes you have to step into another room for a few minutes and just cry. Sometimes you have to call someone and cry to them. Sometimes you have to call someone to come over and watch your kids so you can leave the house and cry. You’ll know which option is the right one, but choose one and save your sanity. Don’t hold it in. Being a mom is a very hard job -- the hardest job I’ve ever had (and I’ve had several), and also the lowest paying and least appreciated. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, so it’s up to me to take care of myself when the going gets tough.

So I guess that is the main rule here when you boil it all down – TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, MAMA! You have to be good to yourself before you can be your best for others. You are kicking ass every single day and don’t you forget it.

My Stay-At-Home-Momness: A Freakin' Manifesto

2010-02-10T20:25:00.000-08:00

It’s a “rock and a hard place” location to be. I can’t stand how blogs are so self-obsessive and really want to move this blog away from that, but sometimes I will have to relay things from my point of view. I tend to want to see things from all sides and many points of view, but my own experience is the one that is most clear and most telling to me, the one that shouts out “Write about this, beotch!” So here goes.

I am in a weird limbo place between heaven and hell (both of which I believe we create right here on earth). I am a Stay At Home Mom. A lot of people proclaim this makes me “lucky.” Actually, it was a planned occupation, and a lot of sacrifices were made to achieve said occupation. What’s funny though, is that for most of my life, the life I live now was what I considered to be a living hell. Constant responsibility for a small child and pregnant with a second, the vast majority of my time is spent cooking, doing dishes, laundry, changing diapers, wiping a little tiny snotty nose and poopy butt, brushing little tiny teeth, changing little tiny clothes, feeding and caring for a dog and cat, repeatedly reading the same cycle of 20 children’s books with animation and enthusiasm, exerting multitudes of patience during teething and growth spurts and power struggles and the near-constant spills and bumps and falls that happen when dealing with a person whose efforts at coordination and speech resemble a tiny little drunk person.

Whenever there is the smallest gap of time in these duties, I am able to cram some much-needed exercise in there for me or a shower. Forays out of the house more likely than anything involve walking to the park for some playground action or going grocery shopping for my little bottomless pit and the two adults in the house.

None of it really takes any intellectual thought or talent. I am discovering now that that was probably the biggest sacrifice I made in giving up my day job. I suppose the argument could be made that it requires creativity, especially where cooking is concerned, but even that hobby I once reveled in has taken on a rote feeling. What is odd though is how little time I have now compared to before. I was always a very efficient worker with a strong work ethic. For those legal secretaries of you out there, the last desk I worked on before leaving the business was five-on-one. And they were a prolific five in Intellectual Property. This, in a firm where two-on-one was the norm. I still got everything done every single day that was put before me, had time to sit down to a decent lunch, spend time with friends, check e-mail, view every dumb video on YouTube and read every stupid chain letter sent me. Those days are gone. And though my tasks are menial, I still feel like a slacker if the vacuuming doesn’t get done or I didn’t run that errand I was supposed to do today, or haven’t checked my e-mail in four days. How could I not have time for these things? It's a whole other universe of time management skills.

But what bothers me more is that what I now do for a living is, by nature, a lot of the time, intensely boring. I suppose that’s what happens when you slow life down to accommodate a life starting out – the lack of stimulation can be incredibly crushing when you are used to a controlled fast pace. There is also the isolated nature of the job – it is not a group endeavor. The bulk of my time is spent with someone not yet skilled in conversation, and two mute animals. I am not alone, yet still feel intensely lonely a lot of the time. This, from a person who used to treasure and crave alone time on a daily basis!

So why on earth, you may ask, would a person choose this life when it is clearly not the Sleeping-In-Going-To-Yoga- Eating-Bon-Bons-On-The-Couch-Mommy-And-Me-Bliss that a lot of people imagine it is? The answer is simple: Even before my son was born, I simply could not imagine it any other way. Once I had finally found my Mr. Right and we decided we wanted to have kids, I knew that myself and my husband were going to be the only caretakers of those kids, with occasional babysitting here and there. And I knew that certain sacrifices would have to be made in order to achieve such a goal, not the least of which was financial.

Though my income as a legal secretary was pretty outstanding, it’s not like I had any degree of career satisfaction, and so it was relatively easy for me to leave the job behind. Not bringing home the paycheck, however, was really going to hurt, and we have had to learn to go without certain things in our lifestyle that we used to take for granted. But it’s like my dear friend Tommie told me long ago when she told me about when her daughter Shannon was born: This incredible creature came into her life, and she was in love, and she turned to her husband and said there was no way she was going back to work. He said “We’ll be poor!” and she replied, “Then I guess we’ll have to be poor.” And that was exactly how I felt, and still feel. There simply was no other choice to be had, and it’s not like we’re indigent or anything. We’re fine.

This is not to say I condemn or judge in any way those moms who do return to work – FAR from it. This job is not for everybody, and I think it is a very wise woman who recognizes that she will be a better mother if she does focus on her career rather than stay at home and go insane. Even some of my single mom friends, who HAVE to work to survive, have confided that even if they could stay at home, they just don’t see how they could do it from a psychological perspective. Also in going to work, she is setting a great example of the work ethic for her kids, which is something I really admire.

It is a highly personal choice (like whether or not to breast-feed) with a lot of factors going into the decision, but whatever path a woman decides, I would hope it is not with the intention of “doing it all”. Nobody, man or woman, can give 100% to motherhood and 100% to a career, and to expect to be able to do so, I believe, is delusional, and setting oneself up for failure. I think it’s a load of crap that women put on themselves a lot of the time to believe that they can handle the full-time job of motherhood along with the full-time job of a full-time job, live on three hours of sleep per night, no social life, no time for hobbies or fun or taking care of herself. I just don’t think that is living, and sooner or later, you’re going to burn yourself out completely or have a psychotic break. Neither is good for you or your kid.

So why do I stay at home when it obviously doesn’t really suit my personality? Because I need to. I never miss a second involving my son’s growing up, and it would break my heart beyond repair if I did. The times he falls and needs a hug, I am there to give it to him. The times he takes his first steps, I am there to see it and applaud him. Every bite of food or sip of liquid he takes, I know exactly what it is because I bought it and prepared it for his specific needs and taught him how to eat it. The times his mental engines are firing and he needs the stimulation of all those books (or Legos or coloring or play group or whatever), I am there to read the books again and explain things to him with all the time in the world. After all, the dishes can wait, but a demanding boss or nine-to-five or actual career cannot. This is why, in spite of the hardship of a lot of my job, I still love it and am beyond grateful to have it.

Now I have to get back to that poopy butt I mentioned earlier. Otherwise known in our house as an “assex” (short for ass explosion). Peace and love and joy to all my sister mamas out there, stay-at-home or otherwise. I have much love for you amazing women.

Toddler Makeover

2010-01-25T21:02:00.001-08:00

Today was a milestone: The First Haircut.

We weren't going to cut his hair at all until forced to do so by his hair becoming a fire hazard, but it became clear that it was really bugging him, being in his eyes all the time, so I decided to just cut it enough so the poor little bugger could see. That ended up being about an inch all the way around, and still left it pretty long.

I strapped him into his high chair outside and did it myself with a cheap-ass pair of Vidal Sassoon scissors, distracting him with a "cookie" (kid's Z-Bar, honey graham flavor). He looks like such a little boy now! And I had forgotten how cute his little eyebrows are!

Here is the "Before" shot, perched on Daddy's shoulders at the creek in San Luis Obispo last weekend:

And here is the "After", in which he seems quite pleased with his new 'do, and hopeful that those bitches at the grocery store will stop thinking he's a chick:

Baby Noah Says Hi!

2010-01-21T15:55:00.000-08:00

I went in for a gyno appointment yesterday, and turned out I was due for an ultrasound. Which was kind of a bummer since Derek likes to be there for those, but alas, I flew it solo. I find it funny this time around how much less unnerving the whole thing is. First pregnancy, you are hanging on every word the ultrasound technician says, every inflection his voice has that might be a hidden meaning of something regarding the health of your unborn baby. It is nerve-wracking, to say the least. And then with the doctor -- am I eating the right things? Am I gaining too much weight? Am I gaining enough weight? Why does my leg feel like it's being sliced open with a dull butcher knife in the middle of the night? WTF?

This time, I have just kind of relaxed about everything. Brain stem looks great? Grrrrreat. Spinal cord fluid at normal levels? Super. Oh look, he's grabbing onto the placenta! That's so cute! M'kay, see you next time!

Then it became all about food as I was way late for lunch after a longer-than-expected appointment. I didn't even have questions for my doctor other than "Am I clear to fly in March for our Hawaii trip?" (I am.) Yes, I will be playing the part of "Beached Whale" at the luau, but what a beautiful place to be a whale, right?

Back From Hiatus

2010-01-19T17:26:00.000-08:00

The World’s Slackingest Blogger has some news: I’m pregnant!

This is how much I’ve been slacking: I’m already five months, i.e., halfway through the pregnancy. It was a bit of a surprise. Okay, it was a total surprise, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit bitter about the timing -- that I finally felt cute again for my 40^th birthday, was back down to my wedding day weight after nearly a year and a half post-partum, and was successfully navigating the challenges of full-time mothering. There was a feeling of not being in control of the whole thing that was pretty disconcerting, but I have since kicked those weak feelings in the ass and embraced the whole experience for what it is: a tremendous blessing.

It has gone by so fast this time, I guess because I have been so occupied with other things to obsess over rather than what size fruit my fetus most resembles this week and whether or not I should be eating peanuts and what position is best to sleep in and what can I do about the damn stretch marks from coming?

For one thing, taking care of McLean these days is more than a full-time job that requires every ounce of my thought and energy. He’s just so busy! He’s into everything, wants to read everything several times a day, is eating like he’s training for a hot dog eating competition. Then, as with last pregnancy, I immediately became deathly ill with a couple of colds back to back, which turned into bronchitis. Always fun to be hacking your brains out while pregnant. Combine being sick with the usual severe fatigue of the first trimo, throw in a dash of the holidays, and you have one pathetic whiney person, i.e., me. Keeping a halfway clean house and being sociable were out of the question, much less getting on the computer to write.

But as is always the case when you’re too consumed to write, these seem to be the most fertile times that I want to write. There is so much to talk about. I’m kinda tired of talking about myself (downright bored with it, actually), but there are a lot of topics I want to cover in the future in this forum: Being a stay-at-home mom, environmental and health issues, and some more before and after’s around the house. We will be converting our office to a play room, so that transformation should be interesting to those of you who dug my last makeovers.

So more to come, dear readers, now that my health has returned and Little Man is learning to entertain himself a bit more. I have missed talking to you and sharing with you.

Oh, and guess what? It’s another boy.

Boo Boo Monkey The Kitty: A Story In Pictures

2009-10-07T14:14:00.000-07:00

So we went and got ourselves a kitty. Boo Boo because she is a lovey . . .

And Monkey because she has the craziest, longest, skinniest little monkey tail. Here she is admiring McLean's flexibility:
Here she is letting McLean test her collar for durability:
Here she is letting McLean rearrange her hair:
And here she is sniffing McLean's fragrant diaper:
Here she is getting ready to give me the old Head Bonk:
And here she is watching football. Bad kitty!
Again with the fragrant diapers:
And here she is checking out her monkey-ass in the mirror:
It is pretty apparent thus far that she is McLean's cat. She definitely prefers him, perhaps because of his short stature, or perhaps because she was the nurturer of her litter.

Sammy has been extremely good around her, though Boo Boo's tail still puffs up a bit when he comes into the room.

She has already dropped a couple of deuces into her little catbox and has made herself thusly at home. We are thrilled with our new family member.

For more sweet, socialized animals in need of homes, go visit Sante D'or in Los Feliz -- they were awesome!

Julie and Julia

2009-09-17T23:45:00.001-07:00

I don’t exactly know what this post is about, except to say that I think I am leveling out after the trauma of the past two weeks.

I had my mommy book club meeting tonight, and we were reviewing Julie and Julia. Somehow the conversation always turns back to our babies and I find myself wondering what on earth these beautiful, thoughtful, considerate, brainy women could have possibly been like before procreating. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I go back and forth. Wouldn’t so-and-so have been SO much fun to go out to the clubs with? Oh, and this one has SO been through the ringer with family shit. And then there’s the other one, who had this amazing career as an ….. well, it doesn’t really matter.

I know for me, I was a completely differently animal – never gave two shits about vaccines, pesticides, whole organic foods, chicken stock versus chicken bouillon, breastfeeding versus formula,.

But something happens to you when you have a child that is so unsettling in the way you look at every single little interaction you have with the world around you. I’m not saying that people who don’t have children don’t understand – far from it. I just think that when you have crossed the threshold into the area of having someone else be the center of your universe, be that your career, relationship, your pets, whatever, you consider all the consequences so very more delicately. And that is such a precarious way to live. But I share it with so many. There are so many people on the earth now, and every single one of them has a mother.

One of the topics that came up a few times tonight was the lack of tolerance me and my ilk now have for violent or horror movies. I think it comes down to now seeing every person being killed on the screen as somebody’s baby – some woman out there duked it out with her hormones and her uterus and her vagina and her relationship and her gag reflex and her job and her health care situation and her sleep cycle and her very sanity for ten months (nine months is some kind of effed up urban legend, bitches!) to pop out that human being that she loved and cherished and would die for, and here it is being blown up to smithereens for our entertainment. That’s just so screwed up, y’all. Can’t do it anymore. Not even a little.

And while I always tell them that I am not a joiner, the truth is I came to this mommy group because I was isolated and needed companionship with my own kind, and we all know when we are together that there is something more at work here. We are a community of people who understand each other in profound ways, even if we are only very recently acquainted.

I came home tonight to a quiet house. Sammy, sitting in his bed, looked at me like “Well, where you been, beotch?” and we had a little snuggle. I felt comfort knowing that he had been alert and keeping an eye on things in my absence. I did my usual thing of going to McLean’s room and looking in on him, listening to hear his breathing, putting my hand on his back. And then wanting to just give thanks that things have worked out the way they have. They haven’t always been necessarily to my liking, but they fit my life perfectly. And that’s fine for now. I have to put my trust in a Higher Power and know that things are being taken care of, whether I control it or not. And that no matter what happens, I will be given the strength to handle it.

Sammy

2009-09-14T21:52:00.001-07:00

Well, I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. Or sooner.

We have another dog.

I was all fine for waiting. It didn’t seem appropriate to run out and get another dog after everything we have been through in the last couple of weeks. But the stark, cold absence of any furry creatures in the house became too much to take. The grieving process of our loss became too much to take, and at some point, you have to stop crying. You can’t keep telling the same sad story anymore, and you can’t keep living in receipt of sympathy, no matter how depressed you are. And ultimately, we decided that the best way to honor what an awesome, special, one-of-a-kind dog Rufus was (and Babe was, as well) – was to give another rescue dog a home. So that’s what we did.

We got the info through a friend, who got it from another friend. A dog had been found on the street and the owners no longer cared for him and kept him chained up in the backyard. Fed him hot dogs as his main source of food. Yeah, stupid shit like that. Derek and I sat down and discussed it. Was it too soon? Or was this a good way to help us recover and move on? We chose the latter.

I explained to Larry, the guy who found the dog, that we would take him in, but after our recent run-in with a two-faced rottweiler and subsequent heartbreak over losing Rufus, if this dog shows any signs of aggression whatsoever, especially toward our son, he’s out. Understood.

We’ve had him five days now. Aside from being ridiculously cute, this dog is doing everything in his power to not blow it with us. He is smart, and has learned the rules fast, and is nervous about breaking them. He’s still young and puppy-ish, so he really wants to play. But his main joy comes just from being able to BE IN THE HOUSE WITH US. Just being in the bathroom while McLean has his bath (he dropped his Kong in the tub tonight, trying to get McLean to play with it), or watching me put laundry away or do dishes – huge major fun stuff for him. He just wants to be involved. He’s doing great on walks and quickly learned to not pull on the leash. Now he walks through the neighborhood like we are in a dog show. He loves when I pet him, especially his face, muzzle and ears, and of course, loves the leg-shaking belly rub.

He knows what “no” means, and I’m teaching him some commands already. When he gets the command right, and I tell him “good boy, he’s a GOOD BOY” he wags his tail furiously.

He is still on probation until we can really trust him around the baby, but it’s pretty apparent we are in love with this dog already, and that the feeling is mutual. And he is helping us heal.

We had to change his name. The previous owners called him “Hennessy”. Um, douchey to say the least. I wanted to name him Larry, after the guy who found him, but Derek vetoed it, and instead opted for Samuel L. Hound Dog.

I told him fine, as long as the “L” stands for “Larry”.

Thank you, Larry, for bringing us Sammy. You are now our friend for life. And thank you, Lise, for sending us the e-mail about our newly adopted special friend. If not for you, we probably never would have known about him.

R.I.P. Big Brown Dog, ???? - 2009

2009-09-06T16:04:00.000-07:00

God, I don’t want to write this post. I would rather be doing anything other than writing this post. But I have to get it out of me and move past this horrible Stage 1 of grief for the sake of my sanity, my sleep, my little boy I need to be present for.

Our Big Brown Dog is gone. I have had pets before, loved them intensely, and lost them for various reasons, usually old age. The loss of this one goes so far beyond the pain of the others, for various reasons. But mostly we just weren’t ready for the shock of him leaving us so soon.

A few weeks or so ago, I noticed he just wasn’t that enthusiastic about his food anymore and was losing a bit of weight. He was still eating every day, so I didn’t think much about it. He was still very active, going on hikes and long walks with me, and of course, always engaged in his favorite activity of squirrel-chasing. But he seemed a bit down, and I chalked it up to his being lonely without another dog in the house. We adopted a second dog, and within the first two days, it was apparent she was not a good fit. Rufus watched her like a hawk, especially around McLean, and seemed to be extremely territorial with her when he has never been like that with other dog visitors in our house. The other dog lunged at McLean threateningly when he crawled too close to a toy she had claimed as hers. Then she full-on attacked Rufus over another tennis ball toy in the backyard and a horrible fight ensued. Derek managed to break it up with the garden hose on full blast, but she got Rufus pretty good. His ear and cheek were torn up and bleeding profusely, and I took him to the emergency room vet, planning to take the new dog back to the rescue guy when I returned that night.

Over three hours later, the vet told me my dog’s wounds were going to be fine, but that he was in kidney failure, and had been for some time. He would have to stay overnight to get fluids into his system and flush out the waste products from his bloodstream. He ended up having to spend three nights and four days in the hospital, hooked up to an IV. I visited him every day and walked him, promising him I would return for him when it was okay to bring him home, but he didn’t understand. The staff told me he cried inconsolably for hours after McLean and I left.

When we brought him home, antibiotics, antacids, special dog food, etc. in tow, he was ecstatic, and we had hope that after some much-needed rest and ridding him of the kidney infection, he could lead a normal life and we would monitor his kidney levels. But it wasn’t to be.

The first few days, he slept a lot, ate a little, and was just generally happy to be home, following me from room to room. Then a few days later, he refused to eat anything. I tried every food imaginable. He never peed in the house. He never cried or complained. McLean kept going into Rufus’ bed and laying his head on Rufus’ head in sympathy. He didn’t understand why Uncle Rufus seemed so sad.

The unbearable heat and smoke in the valley were taking its toll on our cabin fever, so I took McLean to the mall to play in the little kid play area. We came home an hour or so later, and Rufus was curled up in his bed, and he was gone. I think he waited for us to leave so I wouldn’t have to see him die. Because that’s the kind of dog he was.

Rufus was so much more than a dog to us. He came into our lives so serendipitously. You know how everything happens for a reason? The only reason I moved into that tiny little apartment in the middle of Crack Den, Venice, was to pick up Rufus. He was the first big thing that Derek and I did together. We shared and loved and adored Rufus before we even shared living space.

The day we moved out of that place before taking possession of our new home in Encino, Rufus had been in the backyard while our stuff was being moved out of the apartment. When I brought him in so the landlord could inspect the place, Rufus sniffed every corner of the empty place and cried hysterically. He knew we were leaving, but he thought we were leaving HIM there, too. He cried and howled and stayed glued to my side until I finally loaded him and Babe into the car to make the trip over the hill to our new house. He was so excited in the new place, he could hardly contain himself. He loved his new house and yard so much, but mostly he just loved that he was with us. As long as he had us nearby and knew we were okay, he was okay. But if I cried, Rufus cried with me and it killed him if he couldn’t fix what was wrong.

One day while walking him and Babe in our new neighborhood, this older man in a nice car stared at us as we walked down the street, turned his car around and stared at us again. I was getting creeped out when he finally pulled over and asked what kind of dog Rufus was. “I don’t know,” I answered. “He’s a rescue.” The guy looked wistful and sad. “I had a dog looked exactly like your dog,” he said. “Bull mastiff. Had that dog fifteen years, and it was the best dog I have ever had in my life. Broke my heart when he died. I hope you know what you’ve got there.” I reassured him I did, that he was an awesome dog and we loved him very much. But I had no idea how little I appreciated him.

It sucks how guilt plays such a huge part in the grieving process. When I was pregnant with McLean, Rufus figured it out when I was a couple months along, and frequently would sniff my belly area and then look at me and whine excitedly. In the beginning it was cute, but as my pregnancy (and hormones) progressed, Rufus became more protective and anxious, following me not just to every room, but to every part of the room I was in. I couldn’t take a pee without him supervising, and as everyone knows, you pee about ten thousand times a day when you are pregnant. I became so annoyed with him. I was hanging around the house more than I was used to, very sedentary, taking up so much more space than I was used to, and here was this big dog constantly underfoot. It was like he couldn’t wait for that offspring to pop out of me so he could play with it, but my god it drove me nuts! I remember that still, very small rational voice in my head telling me “Someday you are not going to have this dog anymore, and you are really going to feel like shit for being impatient with him.” But I didn’t listen. And it’s things like that that I think about now that he is gone.

Coming back to the house is a dreadful experience now. It’s like my own home seems an unfriendly place now that there is no Rufus on the other side of the front door, butt wriggling, happily whining that I am home safe and sound, making me feel like the biggest, most important person in the universe.

It sucks having visitors come to the door now, too. He would growl and bark with suspicion, until it was determined that the person was a loved one, and then he couldn’t wait to shower that person with the warmest, most loving welcome imaginable. He was overflowing with happiness and love for friends and family, but all intimidating “Don’t Even THINK About Effing With My People, Jacko, You Just Keep Steppin’” to all others – salespeople, gardeners, UPS guy, etc. He had the absolute best radar of a person’s or another dog’s intentions I have ever seen. And if you were planning on hurting one of his loved ones, well, you would have to go through him first, bitch. I no longer feel safe. And my house doesn’t feel like a home.

I feel like vomiting a lot and I don’t sleep well at night. I can’t stop thinking about him and how he probably was suffering toward the end, but was being brave and still proudly doing his job. It kills me that he died alone, and that I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye, rub his beautiful, soft ears one last time and tell him that though I didn’t tell him nearly often enough, I have always loved him and always will. It kills me that when we buried him, I had to cover up his sweet, handsome face that even in death looked sweet, like he was only sleeping. I can’t imagine the pain of this ever becoming less, much less going away. I have moments where my higher self reminds me that we were so lucky to have him for the time we did, because he has changed us for the better. McLean got to have him for his first dog, a big meaty hunk of a hound who was so excited to welcome him into the world, would have died for him and never got jealous of him, though he had every right to.

It’s hard for Derek and I to comfort each other right now, because neither of us can be strong for the other. We are struggling with the same painful loss.

There’s some quote that goes something like this: “Every day I strive to become the person my dog thinks I am.” That’s what I’m taking from all this. I’m sure we will have other dogs in the future, and they will be wonderful, and I am going to strive to be that amazing person that Rufus saw in me. And somehow go on and accept that our pets are not meant to out-live us. It sure hurts when they go, but it is inevitable.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Before/After

2009-07-14T18:30:00.000-07:00

I love a Before and After. How I love thee, let me count the ways. . .

Recently I was on a girly-girl trip with Rhonda and Bunnie involving much liquor, sun and smut mags (Us, People, Life & Style, etc., you know the ones at your hair salon, bitches!) I love when they show celebs before plastic surgery and then after and critique the work that was done (it's usually BAD). Call me shallow, but it is an in-your-face reminder (pun intended) that money can't always buy you beauty. And that, along with several beers, snack foods, and a pool equals fun, my friends.

I love the Before and After of a good makeover. It always reminds me of the transformative powers a woman has; how all she need do is flick a little makeup here and there to emphasize the good and downplay the bad, and this can make her go out in public and feel like a new person and thus, have a fantastic day. Every little step, every little transaction, every little exchange becomes magic. I don't know how, it just does.

I really love the Before and After of weight loss photos. Even though most of them are ads for herbal supplements that will turn you into a mouth-chewing, jittery insomniac with an attitude and fake orange tan and shoulders up to your earlobes and weird dried out hair and shot-to-hell adrenal glands, I still get a little inspired to step up my exercise program and shed some extra poundage because MAN it feels good to slide into those old jeans you haven't worn in forever, even if you can no longer wear them because the acid wash is no longer au currant, who cares? It feels awesome. Which reminds me, I will do my own personal physical before and after when I feel I have gotten to my "after" post-baby body. Hasn't quite happened yet, but I'm working on it. And man, that ain't easy in the valley heat. I'm far more inclined to lie around the house than run around the house if you know what I mean.

Which brings me to another beloved Before and After: Furniture. I have always far favored used, worn in, beat up furniture much more than anything I could get new at Ikea or BB&B or whatever. I'm the same way with jewelry. I want the piece to have had a past life before me or I'm just not interested. And since I am now the mother of a small chil'ren, I don't really have the time or energy to scour the flea markets and antique spots that I once did, so I kind of let the pieces find me. It's sort of a hobby, sort of an eco-passion, sort of a thing I do to keep from going completely mental.

So here are my latest transformations, and unless you are a Decor Whore (I totally ripped that off from Rhonda and fully intend to use it as the title of a used furniture decorative blog one day) you may find the below quite boring. But if you are intrigued, do continue.

I recently ran out of bra storage space. No, srsly. When you get pregs, your boobs change size. Then when your milk comes in, they change size, then when you have the baby, they change size again, then when you lose weight, but your boobs don't, they change size again. Obviously, you don't want to throw all these freaking bras out since hi, they cost money, but you can't hang them on the walls as some sort of feminist art statement either (well, I guess you CAN, but they are usually nude or white color, which is just sort of not very aesthetically appealing or conducive to any kind of relevant artistic statement), so.... You need to store them for future use. So. . .

I went into our garage and found this. This used to live in my grandfather's bathroom (before he passed, may he rest in peace). I had some sort of sentimental attachment to it because it was my grandfather's and thought, hey, it could come in useful someday. To store. Nuclear waste. In it. Or something.

You can tell it lived in a bathroom because A) It is shit brown; and B) It has this crazy orangey/red linoleum top to resist moisture, I guess.

So I took the thing, gave it a good cleaning, slapped a couple coats of girly lavender paint on it, and threw a very light sprinkling of glitter (it doesn't show up in the photo -- I wanted it very slight). I glued some adhesive mirror tiles purchased from Michael's on the front, and slapped new drawer pulls on it that are dark purple crystal. And here you go --

I wanted to do some more mirrors on the top part, or maybe decoupage, but decided I kinda like the way the goofy orange/red linoleum surface plays off the little necklace hanger I have above it. So I left it alone.

Then, there was this drunk/batshit crazy/overmedicated/weird woman who lived down the street. One day, she advertised (via spray painted words on her garage door) that she was moving and having a garage sale. Man, I wanted to be at that garage sale. Mostly out of curiosity. Why was she moving? What kind of weird shit did she own? But I was busy that day and never made it, and the next day, this poor, sad chair was in front of her house.

I dragged it home, like some forgotten, abandoned, weather-beaten beast. I hosed it, sanitized it, spray-painted it, and put a cute pillow from Tuesday Mornings on it.

A couple days later whilst stroller-pushin', I spied the chair's sad, forlorn loveseat relative also kicked to the curb.

That too got dragged home by its ass and sanitized, sprayed, and decorated with pillows from Ross. Now, it is my favorite cushy place on the whole patio.

Then we come to this little funky item. This is a milk can that Derek pinched off Grammy's estate on one of our trips there a year or so ago. It definitely has an adorable, old school quality, but you can't quite shake the feeling that the can spent a bad weekend on the street corner of Crackville and Ghetto, so. . .

. . . after a good hosing, I spray painted it purple. Why purple, you ask? It coordinates with the morning glories that have taken over our yard, and just kinda sits there and looks cute.

So there you have it. My Before and After's. Be sure and tune in for the next episode of Not-So-Queer-Woman's Eye For the Effed Up Furniture.

Having A Bat Moment

2009-04-24T17:14:00.000-07:00

Okay guys. My boredom was reaching critical levels. Not so surprising, being a stay-at-home mom. It is a very noble pursuit and not an easy job by any stretch, but srsly, has to be the most. Boring. Job. EVAR. There are so many surprises in any given day as far as your little one changing and developing and growing. But at the same time, there are no surprises in any given day. You get up early, go hiking, prepare, administer and clean up after three meals, change a bunch of diapers, vacuum up dog hair, unload the dishwasher, rinse and repeat the next day. There’s just not much room for variables, and certainly no real brain activity. When you are used to a much faster daily pace, the lack of stimulation can be jarring. And the monotony of it was really starting to threaten my sanity.

Until today. Which shall henceforth be known as Bat Day.

Daddy is home today, so I left the wee one in his charge while I trotted off to Hollywood to meet up with Shannon for a hike. I had always wanted to do that bitchin’ Hollywood sign hike, so that is what we did. Not such a great day for views as it was pretty overcast, but the actual space really is special and kinda magical, and it was nice just to do it and get caught up with Shannon.

On the way up the hill, she motions to the Bat Cave off in the distance. “The Bat Cave?” I ask, “like from the TV show?” Yes, THE Bat Cave. She said she could show it to me if I want, it was just a short drive from there. Of course I agreed. If you grew up in the 70s, you loved that show too, right? We headed back down and drove over to the site, parked and walked up.

There was the mouth of the cave in all its ominous glory, a tunnel actually. But this is not how it looked on TV. There were a couple of crappy tables set up with a bunch of crap sitting on them. Nearby sat a handmade sign that said “GARAGE SALE – BAT CAVE.” There were a couple of little cameras set up. Oh neat, somebody’s doing a student film, I thought. That’s cute.

Then I heard the voice. That voice. If you watch Family Guy, you know that voice well. I looked at the guy standing behind the shitty garage sale table from whence the voice came, and in an instant knew that this was a cosmic moment whose magnitude would not likely be realized until much later. I turned to Shannon. “Holy shit, dude. That’s Adam West. Standing there. At the mouth of the friggin’ Bat Cave.” We stood there in giggly silence for a minute, looking at each other, looking at him. Was this really happening? Did we stumble on some peyote spores in the air and were having like a spiritual bat-hallucination of some kind? It was all too enormous to contemplate. Like visiting Buckingham Palace and bumping into Prince Charles. WTF? You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack. And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. You may find yourself at the Bat Cave standing next to Bat Man. And you may say to yourself, Well, how did I get here?

Shannon asked one of the guys nearby if we could walk into the tunnel without getting in the way of their shot. The guy said they were finished shooting, so we walked toward the tunnel.

Mr. West was looking at us. Now, for having lived here my whole life, I haven’t had that many celebrity encounters, and the ones I have had, I really didn’t want to be that douche who runs up and is all like “Hey man, I really love your work, is Brad Pitt really cool to work with?” blah blah blah. But it was SO hard not to run up to him and throw my arms around his neck and tell him how much I love him on Family Guy. How much I loved him as Bat Man. Just how generally friggin’ AWESOME he is.

And just then, in that sweet, half-whispery, semi-unhinged Adam West voice of his, he asked us, “Can I interest you in a little vial of bat dirt?” Shannon and I were giddy. Are you kidding me?

We stood at the garage sale table and chatted with him about the various junk items that were present. Shannon told him she hikes there all the time, "But you're never here!" she says. She asked about the little black box with the big red button on it. “Is this how you got in and out of the Bat Cave?” He smiled and replied, “No, this is the ejector button I used to eject King Tut from the Batmobile.” I noted a box of used socks on the table. “Are these genuine Bat Socks?” I asked. “I wasn’t aware that Batman wore Hanes. That’s nice to know.” He chuckled.

Holy shit. We were chit-chatting with Batman about Bat Junk at the mouth of the Bat Cave. How did I go from flat-lining valley mommy to this moment? It's as if the House Maven gods took pity on my sorry domestic ass and threw me a friggin' bone.

We ambled along into the tunnel for a look around. I asked Shannon if I should go ahead and gush and tell Mr. West that he is my favorite part of Family Guy. She said yes, I should. So we headed back out to do just that, but he was gone. Vanished. Into thin air. We hadn’t even had the presence of mind to take a picture of him.

But the memory of my Bat Day, well, I will have that forever. It reminded me that there are still fun surprises in life, and for that, I need to remember to be grateful.

We got back to the car and I picked up the phone to call Derek. “Dude. You are not gonna believe what just happened. Are you ready to be SOOOOOO super jealous?.......”

Poor Big Brown Dog

2009-03-25T16:40:00.000-07:00

He’s the only dog in the house now, and thus, the only object of McLean’s tight little grabby fist. Feel for him, people. He is showing so much tolerance and patience. It’s not easy being constantly squealed at and tugged at by a tiny little person with Larry David hair.

I call this one the "Chuck Norris thigh-choke-you" maneuver:

R.I.P.

2009-02-11T18:16:00.000-08:00

I don’t think it’s really dawned on me yet. One day she was here. Today she is not.

It happened pretty fast. She was a little clingy last night, but nothing really out of the ordinary. Then this morning at 7:30, she came into our room and was foaming at the mouth and breathing weird. I called the vet and said I was coming over with my pug. By the time I brushed my teeth and wrapped her in a towel and got to the car, she was starting to go. She died in my arms before I could even start the car. She had been trying to tell me goodbye, and it didn’t occur to me that she was dying.

Babe has always been there. She was a tough little monkey and nothing wrong ever happened with her physically, at least until two weeks ago when I took her to the vet for her arthritis. Since giving her the anti-inflammatory meds, she’s been a lot more mobile and was even going for walks again. But I realized this morning after I stopped crying, after Derek buried her in the backyard in her favorite lurking spot, after I changed my clothes where her bladder had emptied out once I got out of the car – she has been dying steadily since she lost her hearing about six months ago. See, Babe always had to be part of the action. She loved to be involved. Put goofy outfits on her, take her picture, let children tug on her ears and loose funny skin – she was in heaven as long as she got to be close to you. Losing her hearing took her away from all that and really confused her. It depressed her. Turned her into a ghost. She really hasn’t been the same since. So in a way, I’m kind of relieved. She wasn’t physically suffering, but her larger-than-life personality was suffering, and that’s just as bad if you ask me.

She had a really good life. A woman from Little Angels Pug Rescue happened by her one day, tied to a stake in some asshole’s backyard. She was skin and bones and had been flea-bitten so badly, her skin was infected all over her body. The woman offered the guy $50 to take Babe off his hands and nursed her back to health, in spite of her own small children and three other dogs in the house.

When I saw Babe at the adoption fair that day, she was my dog. I took her home and put some meat on her little pug bones and walked her constantly – her big joy in life. She squealed and screamed when she was happy, which was often. She moved with me five times one year after my divorce and was always a trooper. Back before old age caught up with her, she could hike just as long and hard as the big dogs as long as the weather wasn’t too hot.

She loved me. Even when I wasn’t so nice to her. Even when she took a backseat after the baby was born and she was no longer The Baby. She never resented him for it. She loved to walk up to him on his little play mat and sit next to him so he could reach out and grab her dog tag and not let go. She was such a good dog, and I don’t think I will realize how great she was for awhile after she’s been gone. It doesn’t seem real yet.

I had grand plans today of washing her bed, but it still sits there and I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. Maybe tomorrow.

Things I Never Imagined I Would Hear Myself Say...

2009-01-20T14:01:00.000-08:00

...until I became a mother:

1. “No honey, we don’t want your foot in the poop.”

2. “Oh my god, is it 9:30 already? Cripes, I have to go to bed.”

3. “Okay, go ahead and give your junk a good grab before I put your diaper back on.”

4. “I took a shower today AND bought groceries. By God, I am freaking WONDER WOMAN!”

5. “Honey, please let go of Mommy’s skin. She needs it on her face.”

6. “Okay! Let’s go drop off the poop in the toilet!”

7. “Oh man! I got poop in my hair!”

8. “Another poop? It’s only 10 a.m.!”

Things I never imagined I would hear myself say in the last eight years:

“Baby, take a good look at that man on the TV. Listen to how smart and confident and wonderful he is. He is our President now. You're an American, honey. Be so proud."

Happy New Year!

2009-01-03T20:43:00.000-08:00

Ah, Christmas/New Year's visiting Grammy was so nice. And because we always have to have one goofy photo to end the serious family photo session, and someone had the poor judgment to let that goofy photo be procured on our camera, I thought it would be fun to post it here. Yep, my in-laws are a very serious bunch, but I love 'em.

And yes, that charming lady in the middle picking her nose is our famous 104-year-old Grammy, Elsie McLean. If you don't know why she's famous, google her ass and get wise, I'm sure. Cripes, she's even on Wikipedia!

So while in the Burbank airport on the way to Chico, I bought a few magazines to help kill time and among them was this most horrid of rags, Star Magazine. But the cover advertising the best AND WORST beach bodies gave me hope at making me feel better about the sorry current state of my own sugar-overloaded gelatinousness, and so I purchased it and brought it to Chico. Now, Grammy is a smart cookie and a total lady, and reads (no exaggeration) about a book a day, does crosswords, plays Bridge, golfs three times a week and still has time to make persimmon cookies, chocolate cake, and then waffles for everyone's breakfast.

So it came as kind of a shock while we were all playing Mexican Trainwreck one night to look over and see that Grammy had very quietly finished her novel, and with ancient ninja-like stealth, had picked right past the Glamour, the Sunset, the Allure, and gone straight for the much smuttier reading fare. And read it cover to cover.

Recipe for a long life: Tons of golf, lots of salt and black coffee, not listening to doctors, and, as it turns out, Tara Reid's cheesy butt cheeks and the latest on The Hills' dipshits. Who knew?

A Christmas Wrapping Story

2008-12-24T23:04:00.000-08:00

It’s not even Christmas yet and I find myself getting all emotional about Baby’s First Christmas -- an event McLean is not old enough to even appreciate or remember. It’s way too late for me to be up and I’m sitting on the floor of the office, wrapping the toys and books and toy keys we got for him (he always goes after mine so I figured he should have his own set, like a mini-janitor). Why I bother wrapping them, I have no idea, but it seems anti-climactic not to do so, and hey, the little guy can grab and rip, so why not add an element of mystery?

The Christmas Story marathon is on, a movie I so love. It seems like the last couple of times I’ve caught it on TV in the background of my life, it always lands on that part when Ralphie is kicking the crap out of the bully kid, and his mama shows up to break it up and she pulls Ralphie off the kid and turns him to face her and he just looks up at her and starts crying. Something about seeing his mama just turns the rage into tears, and then she takes him home and splashes water on his face and the back of his neck to cool him off even though it’s snowing outside and tells him to go lie down and calm down, and damn if that whole exchange doesn’t just kill me EVERY SINGLE TIME I see it. It’s just so tender and an honest little moment of life and how a mother and son would interact in a situation like that. It makes me wonder if the director or writer of the film had just such a moment as a little kid because the scene is handled with such sensitivity and beauty.

It made me think about my little boy, how there will be similar times in his life when it just gets to be too much, and the anger will turn to tears. And I will have to hold it together for him and calm him down so that he can learn to one day calm himself down and regain control of his emotions. How do mothers do this? Is there a book on how to do it? I’m sure the mother’s first instinct would be to get in there and pound on the bully kid yourself because he dared to attack your baby. But that’s not the right thing to do. And I need to be an example of the right thing to do, difficult as that may be.

So I sit, wrapping his presents with cheap paper and tears, anticipating the good, the bad, and the ugly of parenthood that is yet to come.

Happy Holidays, dear ones. I hope your holidays are filled with peace and love and the Air Rider Range Rifle you always wanted.

An Open Letter To Trader Joe's

2008-12-15T17:11:00.001-08:00

Please stop putting crack in the chocolate chunk cookies for the love of non-elastic-waistband jeans. A girl has a hard enough time losing the post-preggo gut. Geez.

Listen To Your Valley Girl, M'kay?

2008-11-14T16:23:00.000-08:00

This is going to be a weird post. On the one hand, I’m going to tell you to be cautious, and on the other hand, I’m going to tell you not to give in to the fear.

Some of you longtime Valley Girl readers might remember the vicious, nasty, cuss-laden post I wrote to the person who burglarized our house nearly two years ago while Derek and I were at work. Unless you’ve gone through a similar experience yourself, nobody can adequately convey the feeling of violation and rage that accompanies such an event. It is nothing short of devastating.

Though we have since gotten an activated alarm system and a doggie door so Big Brown Dog can satisfactorily patrol the entire premises, and though the police who investigated the crime assured us that “these people” who do these sorts of things almost never return to the scene of the crime for a repeat offense, the feeling of being unsafe never really goes away. Most people end up selling the house and moving after being robbed for that very reason, but for others, that’s not really an option.

One of my dearest friends of all time had such an experience last night, I’m sad to report. Everyone was home and asleep and oblivious to what was happening in their home – even their mean, protective pit bull who would scare the bejebus out of anyone. Some asshole got in, rifled through their most personal and expensive objects, picking and choosing what to take, and slipped out without being noticed. All while their two kids slept in the next room.

People, going through it myself was bad enough, but knowing someone you love is now going through these feelings is awful, and since you are likely someone I love if you are reading this, or even if I have never even met you, you are someone I care about, and I am begging you, BEGGING YOU—

Step up the home security right now. Today. I don’t care if your dog is Cujo and you sleep beside an insomniac Special Forces mercenary with Bionic hearing and a bad attitude. KEEP YOUR DOORS AND WINDOWS LOCKED UP. Put motion detector lights on your roof or by the front door. Don’t leave out valuable stuff that can be seen from the street. If you are home and someone comes to your door selling shit, let them know you are home, but don’t open the door. Tell them (as I do) that you have a really mean dog that will bite them on the balls. And as the cops who took our burglary report told us to do, put wooden dowels in your windows like this…

… so that windows cannot be forced open. Every single window, even ones you think nobody would ever know about. You can get these at any hardware store for cheap and cut them down to size to fit your windows, or have the dudes in the store do it for you. And you know those plastic thingies that lock onto the window sash? Do you have those? Forget them – they don’t work and can easily be forced off. That’s how Assholio got into our house. Basically do everything to make your beloved pad say “Move along, Mother-Effer.” These are hard times economically, and people will get more brazen about trying to steal your shit. And while I sympathize with anyone having money probs, stealing what belongs to another and violating their sacred space is never the answer.

Which brings me to my next point I really want to make. Don’t give in to the fear. There is a lot of panic and paranoia in the air right now that only gets worse when people start feeling threatened. They perpetuate a vibe of hostility. I’m guilty of this – after our house was hit, a neighbor of mine cast suspicion on a guy down the street since he is kinda street-looking and drives a douchey car. Other than being annoyed with his noisy douchey car, I never thought twice about the guy, but now I was looking at him with suspicion and hostility as well. This is not good. In times like these, we need to be reaching out to our neighbors with love and a helping hand more than ever, and thinking of ways we can help one another. Being afraid of our current circumstances doesn’t help anything. Our beautiful country has been through way worse and it will get through this.

But in the meantime, there’s nothing wrong with being a little extra cautious. I’m just sayin’….

Be safe.

Love,

Jennie

Baby, Interrupted

2008-10-24T16:27:00.000-07:00

I feel like teething has taken over my life. The first two bottom chompers are busting their way into the world, and poor little feller has been pretty miserable. He gets fevers, drools a lot, and his booger production has launched into overdrive. This makes it hard for him to nap, and the only thing that comforts him is nursing. So needless to say, I pretty much nurse all day. And he doesn't just pacify -- he consumes. The boy is becoming a little tank. My biceps are ripped from hoisting his sturdy little butt up.

The thing that kills me is that he is in pain, and all the goofy little remedies I try don't really do much. He still looks at me pleadingly with big, fat tears coming out of his eyes -- Make it stop, Mama! -- chomping down mercilessly on his own fingers. When I take him out in public and people come up to admire him and fawn over his cuteness, even though he is tired from lack of nappage and his gums are on fire, he will still smile at them like they just made his little day.

I remarked the other day that the teething would be much easier on me if he would just act like an asshole once in awhile. But so far, he is just being his usual Golden Child self.

The Return of Shaft

2008-09-17T16:06:00.000-07:00

Exciting news, people. Shaft is back in the hizouse. After a long and pregnant hiatus from my stripper pole, Shaft was lovingly returned to me by his foster mother, Heddie, who took excellent care of him and did lots of twirls on him so he did not have to sit sadly and idly in the garage whilst I gestated.

Why am I posting a picture of myself with both a tiara and g-string on my head? That was the last great Shaft night -- my surprise bachelorette party where several girls took their turn with Shaft and much debauchery ensued and much liquor was consumed and lap dances were performed and, well, those pictures are just too dirty to post. This is a family blog, bitches.

And also because I miss that girl with the thong on her head. It's been awhile since I've seen her. But I feel like she is making her way back....

Heaven

2008-09-09T12:52:00.000-07:00

Dear McLean,

Some days you are just hungrier than others. About once a week or so, there is a 48-hour period during which you must eat every hour and a half and you let it be known with your newfound strong lungs if the grace period for the current feeding has expired. I suppose it takes a lot of food to maintain the title of Longest Baby In The World, which is why I don’t complain about it. Somebody’s got to empty these giant milk jugs and it might as well be you.

But something sounded different when I put you down for your nap today. You had already eaten and been changed. You made this pleading cry that I hadn’t really heard before, and it wasn’t just naptime fussing. You had just eaten, so it couldn’t be that. I had just changed your diaper due to a huge assex (that would be ass explosion for those of you not familiar with my vernacular), so it couldn’t be that. You were so very tired from being up half the night eating, but you just couldn’t sleep. You can’t talk yet, but you kept repeating “ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma. . . “ I went in and picked you up and held you against my chest and sat in the easy chair. You wrapped your long little arms around my neck and lay your head on my breast and promptly fell asleep. You just wanted Mama, and that was all.

A few silent minutes went by and then suddenly Uncle Rufus came running in from the living room, whining anxiously like he always does when you cry. Only this time he wasn’t whining at you. He was whining at me. “WHAT IS WRONG????” his wrinkled up brow and concerned eyes pleaded. Your mama was crying like a baby.

I have long believed that we create our own heaven or hell right here on earth. A shift in attitude can bring the greatest joy into the most hellish of circumstances. And likewise, all the money and fame and accomplishment in the world cannot bring true happiness to anyone. It’s an inside job. This is something I want to teach you as you grow up. You are not responsible for my happiness, but in that moment that you slept on me, I felt heaven on earth in the very depths of my soul. The only other moment that came close was the day I married your father. And as I sat there with you, I thought how incredibly fortunate I am. I am the richest woman in the world. I’ve been through some heavy times in my life and had terrible moments of despair. But they were all like cobblestones paving the way for me to have you enter my life.

When we made the decision to have a baby, I didn’t know at the time that I needed you, specifically you, one in a billion you. But here you are. To say “I love you” just seems so very inadequate, but it’s all I have. I love you.

Of course, I couldn’t very well explain this to Uncle Rufus, so I just told him it was okay and, believing me, he curled up on the monkey rug and the three of us stayed that way for at least an hour until you woke up, ready to eat again. Ready to hang out in our little slice of heaven.

Love,

Mama

Postpartum Woe #658

2008-08-12T16:24:00.000-07:00

So not only do I have the big giant gelatinous belly to deal with which cannot be stuffed into anything resembling normal clothing, but now this.

I was warned this would happen. I read it in the pregs websites. I was told by friends who have been there and had it happen. And hormones are hormones, after all; they don’t discriminate. But I thought that by some little miracle, like, maybe because I am special, this side effect was going to skip my hairy ass.

No such luck.

And no, my ass is not hairy. But my head is. For now, anyway. While I was pregnant, it was a rare day that a hair fell out of my head. Srsly. Even after washing and conditioning it, blow drying it, teasing it, whatever. The preggo hormones stop the normal hair-shedding process, and my hair just got thicker and thicker and it was awesome and I never had that annoying thing happen, you know where you can feel a fallen hair on the back of your arm somewhere and it bugs you but you can’t quite reach it until you pissedly have to turn your whole outfit around to the front so you can pick the hair off and drop it on the floor in disgust? Yeah, that didn’t happen for nine months.

Until last week. And it happened all of the sudden, in the shower one day, and hasn’t stopped since. Enough friggin’ hair falls out of my head per day to make a whole other Jennie. It sucks. I try to be gentle with it, not tug it, not even blow dry it or futz with it. I still take my prenates every damn day. How long is this going to continue? It’s hard not to panic when I am clogging up the drain catcher completely TWICE PER SHOWER. And I have to pull off of there something resembling a brown doily.

Ugh. Do you think I would look cute bald?

Well You Took My Heart, And You Stomped That Sucker Flat

2008-08-05T12:25:00.000-07:00

This is a line from an old country song my dad always used to sing. And I am convinced it was originally written by a mother.

I know you’re not supposed to run to rescue your kid after every little peep he makes, but it is SO HARD not to sometimes. Our little guy doesn’t cry much, so when he does, it just kills me. And when he does cry, it’s not the annoying, bitchy sound you would expect. Imagine a little puppy who is heart-liquifyingly adorable, who never pees on anything he’s not supposed to, doesn’t chew your shoes, and loves to cuddle and make you happy. Now imagine that puppy, singing the blues. It’s kind of a sad, howling, heartbreaking kind of sound. How long could you stand it? And then to see his face while he’s making that sound, with these sad, pleading eyes. I can’t take it. If he makes that face while he is supposed to be napping, I have to hold him and make that face go away or I will die.

It is breaking my heart enough that he is growing up so fast already. This past Sunday while I was sleeping in and Daddy was manning Tummy Time, McLean rolled over for the first time on his own. I heard about it later, and was sad I missed it, but happy that Daddy got to have the first big milestone since he doesn’t get to spend much time with the little guy during the week.

But then relaying the event to Jen on the phone the next day reduced me to sputtering tears. It’s like, you want your baby to grow big and strong and develop and gain independence, but why does it hurt so much when it happens?

WAAAAHHHHH!!!!

The Agony And The Ecstacy

2008-07-27T23:16:00.000-07:00

So I took Little Man to his 2-month check-up at the pediatrician the other day. The agony over whether or not to vaccinate, and when and which ones to use, rages on. I had hoped by now I would have a much clearer opinion on the subject, but basically have narrowed it down to this: I know there are a few nasty things out there that my child could actually still contract and I am okay with giving him vaccines for those specific diseases, in two-month intervals, and in mercury-free, single-dose injections. I just don’t want him injected with anything just yet. He is so young, and the first two years are when so much brain development takes place. I’m just not okay with it. Add to that the thought of someone taking a needle to my precious little baby’s skin and the thought just makes me want to fly into a Mama-Bear hysterical fit.

But my pediatrician, God bless her, has been really helpful in grappling with the indecision. Not one to take the “I am Doctor and know best” approach, something I really hate, she explains the risks and benefits of everything thoroughly without the hard sell and adds a good dose of sympathy: she, too, is a mother, and has had to wrestle with the same issue and feels my pain. She also relays the information in a mother-to-mother respectful way, which I reciprocate to her. I am quick to tell her I am not some shithead who reads a few things on the internet and suddenly thinks they have a medical degree. I take my opinions from several sources, keep an open mind, and settle on whatever makes the most sense for me. But this issue is really making me nuts and I would appreciate any feedback from others who have also struggled with this.

Meanwhile, our little boy is doing great. He is now up to 11.1 lbs and 24.5 inches long. He is a tall boy! He still breastfeeds with gusto and is having more awake time during the day where he smiles and kinda does this little giggle thing. It kills me, it’s so cute. He sleeps about 12 hours per night, except for two feedings, after which he conks right out again. So I get a good deal of sleep, it’s just broken up into three and four hour sessions.

And now for the hard stuff. It’s hard for me to even talk about it because I will break down into tears like some deranged mushmonger (yes, I did just invent that term). I love him so much, it nearly breaks my heart, every minute of every day. There is no respite from the pain of loving him – it is always there. I remember reading a quote from Erma Bombeck that said something like deciding to have children was like deciding to have your heart go permanently walking around outside of your body. And now I understand what that means. And he is so sweet and loving and trusting that the rare occasions he actually cries feel devastating to me. This part of motherhood is something I never could have prepared for, and is something I struggle with every day. I’m not used to that weight on my heart yet, and don’t imagine I ever will be.

It is also heartbreaking how fast it all goes. When friends who have children see my son, they remark how tiny he is and how it seems like just yesterday that their son/daughter was that little, while I am thinking holy crap! He is two months old already and is HUGE compared to when he was born and has changed so much in so many big and little ways. My days are full of nothing but feeding him, feeding myself, and getting a shower and maybe a walk in there, but they seem to be rocketing toward unpacking his college dorm room with lightning speed. Every morning when we get up, it seems he has grown taller, has a new facial expression, makes a new cooing sound, has more hair on his head, has a different color eyes. It just happens so fast and you want to have the presence of mind to savor every single minute.

Uncle Rufus also loves the baby, and as I expected, has not demonstrated an ounce of jealousy over being unseated as the #1 baby of the house. He whines painfully whenever McLean cries, he gives him a good sniffing-over every time I set him down between boobs during feedings, he parks himself in McLean’s room for most of the day and considers himself to be a vital part of the McLean Care Team. It’s really cute.

The pug, on the other hand, just can’t be bothered. But she’s old, and is far more concerned with the timely delivery of her chicken leg in the morning.

I would have to say that all around, we are one happy little family, and I thank God profusely every day for all that I have. I have finally found an occupation that I really and truly love. Mommy. It suits me.

Baby Boy Arrives!

2008-06-14T18:06:00.000-07:00

Finally! I know, this post is SO three weeks late, but to say I have been busy would be such a ridiculous understatement. First, the details:

Our boy McLean, a whole ten days late, finally decided to vacate the McLean Condo in his own sweet time without being induced. It was the classic scenario: Got up to pee at 2:30 in the morning and my water broke and contractions started almost immediately after. I got to have the “Honey, it’s time!” moment, and in retrospect, I am SO HAPPY we waited for him to come out when he was ready. Even my doctor at my post-partum check-up said that he was happy I listened to my body and we didn’t induce. He said he now brags about me to his other patients and how it has taught him to step back a bit in certain circumstances, rather than intervene – something that is “scary and humbling” – his words -- for a doctor to do. It was cool knowing I had some influence on this man’s 25+ years of doing this job. Anyhoo….

Turns out the boy wasn’t as big as had been predicted. He was 8 lbs., 3 oz. – WAY smaller than we had been told, but my va-jay-jay was not complaining. He was 21 ¾ inches long, didn’t cry much when he came out, and bravely tolerated all the poking and prodding a newborn endures when they first come on the scene.

The days that followed at home are now a blur. I was one of the lucky 1 in 100 women who suffers severe headaches from the epidural. I’m talking such intense throbbing, not even Motrin makes a dent. The only thing that helped even slightly was lying down with a cold compress to the head, but that was not possible to do most of the time with breastfeeding every two hours. And the headaches lasted for the first week. It was like the pain I didn’t have to suffer from contractions showed up to torment me later in a different part of my body. Plus my back and neck were killing me from the pushing, so being comfortable was not happening. So while my baby was sleeping, well, like a baby, I was not. I had to wake him for feedings to keep up my milk supply. He is VERY much my boy – he sleeps like he is in a coma, and waking him would just break my heart because I know how he feels. Waking up sucks.

On top of this going on, there was the crying. Not him – me. He never cries unless he has a poopy diaper or is too hot in his snuggy-wrap. But his mama on the other hand, oh boy. I would stare at him and start crying because he is so beautiful. I would be overcome with love that is so intense and excruciating, I would burst into tears over dinner (mid-forkful – I’m serious!) I would start thinking about his delivery and that last push right before he came through my body and into the world, how light and relieved I suddenly became physically, but how emotionally flipped out I was that this little person I have been so connected to and close to and safeguarding all these nine months is now out of my body and loose in the world. It is a moment I will never, ever get over as long as I live. And they wiped him off and put him on my stomach and he was looking at me all quiet and I was looking at him and saying through my tears, “Hi. Hi. I’m your mommy.” And I would think of the way he looked at me and start crying all over again. I would look at myself in the mirror, dirty hair, dark circles, bloodshot eyes. But because my baby looks like me, this has made me see myself as beautiful, and this makes me cry too.

Eventually, the crying settled down (until now, writing about it) just in time for me to get the awful cold that everybody and their dog has had, which turned into bronchitis, so I’ve been sick and gross for the past week and a half. Again, sleeping doesn’t happen when you’re breastfeeding and then coughing while trying to sleep, so getting well is a slow-going process. But I’m feeling better now and cough less every day, just in time for Father’s Day, which brings me to….

Friggin’ Dad and Husband of the Year. I don’t know how I would have survived any of it without him. He took care of me and handled everything that I couldn’t cope with (and I couldn’t cope with anything, people), he held me when I cried and didn’t make me feel stupid, he changed a bajillion diapers and just clicked into fatherhood so easily and with such a good attitude. It has made all the difference in the world. I am a very lucky woman. A family woman. And I couldn’t possibly be happier. In spite of the bumps and challenges along the way with everything that has happened, we have this incredible little son who is part of our family now. I love spending my day with him and caring for him. He is such good company. Such a sweet little fella who smiles at me with his whole face and just makes me glow inside.

Coming up in future installments: Uncle Rufus and his reaction to the new family addition. Here is a visual teaser for you: Imagine a Big Brown Dog trying to inhale a baby through his nose and you have a pretty good idea.

The Vadge Update

2008-05-19T14:34:00.000-07:00

41 weeks and counting. I am really hoping this is my last post as a pregnant person. For the last few weeks, there has been this constant tantalizing knowledge that it could (and should) happen any second. You never know when your body is going to decide to go into labor, so you just make as many preparations as you can and try to limit your exposure to the public to avoid the risk of having your water break all over the produce section of Trader Joe’s. I have done every project imaginable that involves sitting with my feet up – even finally constructed my wedding album AND baby shower album. A piece of advice to other moms-to-be: save up all that crap you’ve been procrastinating doing for the last two weeks of pregnancy. You want busy work, but nothing you have to focus too heavily on since you are brain-damaged at that point.

So we went to the doctor today for the third time post-due date to confirm that yes, the wee babe is still fine in there, yes, he still has enough fluid to wriggle around in, yes, the placenta is still functioning properly, etc. But today (our one-year anniversary, BTW) is when it starts getting dicey. I am not dilating or really having any labor signs other than some irregular contractions, and you have to weigh the risks of waiting against the benefits of letting the little feller cook on his own schedule. In my case, according to the doc, it is becoming clear that waiting much longer means adding more bulk and heft to an already larger-than-average baby. This would raise the likelihood that he could get stuck in the birth canal and necessitate an emergency C-section, something I REALLY do not want. All this sitting around being incapacitated and 50 lbs overweight is making me crazy enough without adding the prospect of six weeks of recovering from major abdominal surgery. Not to mention the benefits of the vaginal birth: The fluid gets squeezed out of the lungs on his way through the birth canal; the milk production hormones get released, etc. It’s just the way I feel the birthing process should go for me.

So . . . we come home and wait some more. But we decided to only wait two more days if my body hasn’t started the labor process on its own by then, and then we'll go in to induce. It’s not as exciting as just letting nature take its course and having the fun surprise of “Honey, it’s time!” but there is some relief in knowing the grand prize is in sight. I know a lot of women in my position would, at this point, be losing their minds and screaming for the baby to be taken out by any means necessary, but I really haven’t gotten to that point. Yes, I am huge and really uncomfortable. My feet are so puffy and swollen, they look like little hams with sausage toes. My low back hurts if I stand for any length of time. When I do have contractions, they aren’t necessarily painful, but the way the baby is positioned makes it feel like there is a lead weight squishing my bladder for about a minute. This doesn’t feel good. I would love to walk, but the nearly 100-degree heat is making that prospect really unattractive. As it is, I sweat like a pig just by sitting in the easy chair and doing this.

So physically, I think I’m handling it fine. It’s my mental state that is getting icky. I think it’s a combination of things. The waiting around does get to be excruciating. The hormones are kicking the emotions into overdrive. The lack of sleep and the constant interruptions to sleep due to my enormous size and frequent bathroom visits are enough to make anyone batty since I have had no REM sleep for months now. And yes, I am WELL AWARE due to constant reminders from about a bajillion people that there will be sleep shortages after the baby arrives, but dammit, at least I will get to sleep fairly comfortably whenever he sleeps (which is often for newborns) and feel some measure of energy from having a ton of baby and fluid lifted off my person. Besides, I started sleeping through the night my first night home from the hospital and Derek did at two weeks old. I can’t help but think some of that might rub off on our offspring, maybe? I don’t know, call me crazy. Because I am starting to feel that way.

But at least the time is drawing close and of course I take a lot of comfort in the knowledge that my little boy is still kicking ass in there and is coming out soon into a world full of such incredibly loving family and friends that already love him and can’t wait to meet him. That is the prize I have to keep my eye on. Meanwhile, I wait. And wait. And wait.

Tourettes Guy

2008-05-11T16:10:00.000-07:00

This is how bored I am while waiting to go into labor:

There was a South Park episode not long ago where there was no more internet, and Kyle's father was having withdrawals from his daily dose of Brazilian Fart Porn.

So. You guessed it. Today I googled Brazilian Fart Porn. What? Aren't you the least bit curious to know if it really exists? I will let you solve that little mystery on your own, but in my quest for the South American flatulence fetish, I came across quite possibly the funniest thing I have ever seen on video in my life: Tourettes Guy. I CRIED from laughing so hard, and then promptly watched the thing again and laughed even harder. I would love to have this man over for some wine and cheese.

Obviously, don't watch if you are offended by coarse language.

Tourettes Guy

Finally!

2008-05-10T14:04:00.000-07:00

The nursery is finally complete. And it looks darn cute, I must say. Again, artistic credit goes to Bunnie and Erin for creating the adorable vines over the crib.

The McLean Library:

I just love this painting that Derek's mom dug up out of storage. It is a jungle safari scene featuring Derek, his bro and his sis from when they were little. It is magical, and I love that we get to have it in our kid's room:

The ceiling. The stars glow in the dark:

Baby's First Hat Rack, conveniently located above the Poop Deck:

Another Shitbiscuit

2008-05-10T13:26:00.000-07:00

So now we wait. It’s only a matter of days now and could happen any minute. I’m not having any real signs of labor aside from more intense Braxton-Hicks contractions and have taken to doing as many activities as possible that involve sitting with my feet up: Eating Lucky Charms; eating a Chipwich; messing around on the computer; watching the TV; eating a Chipwich; fielding a jillion phone calls (“Are you STILL pregnant?”); and of course, eating a Chipwich.

And just so the Universe is sure I am kept on my toes, I get a call from my gyno’s office Thursday afternoon, four days before I am due to pump a chil’ren out into the world: Their office had been robbed that day. A nurse’s purse and checkbook were taken, along with 18 medical charts that were sitting out for the next day’s appointments. Mine was one of them. So not only does some nameless, faceless, chicken-shit asshole have my entire vaginal and reproductive history, but my address, social security number, date of birth, insurance info, you name it.

To say I did not react well would be kind of an understatement. Pregnancy is a very vulnerable time for even the most bad-ass of us women. I’m a pretty tough L.A. chick who does not adopt a victim stance in any situation. I consider myself to be pretty street-wise and I don’t put myself into compromising situations.

But this is a strange time in a woman’s life. Not only are you in a hyper-vigilant state because of the life you are nurturing inside you, but you are physically weaker, unbelievably tired, and waaaaaay more emotional than usual due to hormones and feeling out of control of your own body and mind.

Add to this the fact that there are a lot of sick puppies out there who do terrible things to children and to pregnant women, the knowledge of which is difficult to escape when the stories are all over the news and even entire shows are dedicated to such crimes on the crime and court TV channels and such. You can only filter out so much of reality, but some of it still seeps in and keeps you up at night. Because of this vulnerability, home security takes on a whole new meaning in a pregnant woman’s life. And when that security is messed with, it’s not difficult to completely lose it.

A couple of weeks ago, our alarm system was set off by accident and neither Derek nor I received a call from Protection One asking if they should send the police. When I called them to ask why, they informed me that we had changed the primary contact numbers several months ago. They rattled off two phone numbers I have never had nor even heard of in my life. As the maddening conversation with this “customer service” person went on, it became clear that Protection One had made some sort of clerical error with our account, and it was rectified and our correct contact numbers placed back on the account. I’m always saying it is extremely rare to find someone who does their job meticulously well anymore. I’m like Mr. Hand from Fast Times: “Are you people all on dope?” I am convinced that everyone in customer service is medicated, mentally-challenged, just doesn’t give a crap, or all three. Rare is the person you can get on the phone who comprehends the problem and knows what they’re doing, and can execute an efficient resolution. And this point was proven even in the security business, where being extremely detail-oriented is of extreme importance. So it was a stupid clerical error -- it's really no surprise.

But I was hysterical. What if the alarm hadn’t been set off by accident, but by another thieving asshole? As some of you may remember from a year and a half ago, we only have this alarm system in the first place because we have had our house broken into before and several important items stolen, not the least of which was our computer with a ton of irreplaceable personal photos and information on it. At the time, my only solace was to remind myself that they had not harmed my dogs, who were locked in the backyard and thus, unable to defend their house. You dickheads can take whatever stupid material things you like, just don’t touch my loved ones.

But the sense of being raped and blatantly pirated was devastating. Some stranger of God-knows-what origin had seen fit to invade our home, take whatever they wanted, look at our faces and those of our family and friends in our pictures, see where we sleep, what we ate for breakfast, what kind of toothpaste we use. The outrage you feel in that situation is indescribable. And it had all happened in broad daylight while we were at our jobs, trying to earn a living.

And here I was, faced with that icky, powerless feeling again. Somebody has stormed in and taken what is rightfully mine on the eve of the most important event in my life – bringing my first child into the world. Seriously, WTF?? Who the hell does this to people? What happens to them in life that this is an acceptable solution to a money shortage?

Of course I placed the fraud alert with the credit reporting agencies and with my health insurance and so forth. Had a good “Why Me?” cry on Derek and my girls. But where is the lesson in all this? I used to enjoy being the person who would walk the dogs and leave all the doors and windows unlocked. I never looked over my shoulder at the gardener or worker on the street I didn’t recognize. I freely gave out my social security number when I visited a health practitioner and didn’t think twice about it. Is the lesson here that I am too trusting? That trust is bad? I hardly think so, but it’s hard not to feel that way with all these security breaches happening.

Anyhoo, I post this not just to bitch, although I do feel better having released it into the internet ether, but to warn you all: Don’t give out your social to anybody. ANYBODY. Most people who ask for it on forms and stuff don’t really need it anyway. Leave it blank, and tell them to have the insurance company contact you personally if there is some problem verifying your identity. Run your credit report periodically to be sure there are no strange items on there that you did not sign up for. When I worked doing massage at the chiropractor’s office, patients’ charts with all their most personal information were left out on the front counter every single day in front of God and everybody, and nobody ever complained. I’m begging you – please complain. According to the police who handled the theft from my doctor’s office, this is becoming more common: Identity thieves will hire some petty pissant to specifically take medical files because they are a goldmine of information. And there are always people in and out of a doctor’s office. It is impossible to keep track between specimen-drop-offs, patients, lab workers, etc., not to mention medical care workers who are shits and will sell your information to the highest bidder. They will harvest your information and use it whenever they want. And that is just a hassle you don’t need, whether you’re about to have a baby or not.

So do me that favor, m’kay? I think I just figured out what my lesson in all this was….

Chained Heat

2008-04-28T14:00:00.000-07:00

There is a boredom that sets in toward the end of pregnancy that has a certain powerless restlessness to it that is really disconcerting.

I’m too exhausted and huge to do anything physically productive, be on my feet for any length of time or run errands, not to mention the heat in the valley right now is preventing my doing any of that anyway. It has become abundantly clear in recent months that I am just not cut out for a sedentary lifestyle. I am starting to go nuts and it is strictly due to lack of physical activity.

My brain doesn’t work so great due to being hyperfocused on the impending arrival in the weeks to come, so getting any kind of meaningful work done is out of the question.

I am sick of reading about baby stuff. There is just too much information out there, much of it conflicting, and it starts to get annoying after awhile. My usual pleasure of reading and researching something I care about is squashed because it has just gotten to be too much, dammit! I have decided I will be largely relying on motherly instinct and that will have to suffice since you just cannot possibly know everything there is to know about parenting.

I can’t even take that much pleasure in pigging out anymore since there is not much room in my stomach for anything, so any would-be oinkfest is over before it even begins.

Add to this the fact that I am SICK TO DEATH of everything on TV. Even movies. Even indie movies. I have seen them all (some repeatedly) or tried to see them and determined they were unwatchable.

Enter Chained Heat.

Have you ever seen this movie? With Linda Blair? How this gem of a confection missed my Awesome Bad Movie Radar is anyone’s guess. It was on one of the movie channels on a recent quiet evening at home (WTF am I talking about – every evening is a quiet evening at home) and was enough to jolt me out of my jaded I Hate TV But Am Too Tired To Do Anything Else stupor.

Imagine chicks in prison, in the early 80s, none of whom has any acting skill whatsoever. Imagine this prison being corrupt, where the warden has a hot tub in his office and videotapes himself having sex with prisoners. Imagine that in this prison, a can of Aqua Net, rattail comb and buckets of purple eyeshadow are standard issue upon entry. Imagine the shower scenes in this prison involving full-frontal shots of not only boobies that are subject to the laws of gravity, but massive amazon jungle bush action. Imagine Linda Blair being all pouty and pissy and complaining to the warden about the way she is treated in the prison. Now imagine all this with horribly choreographed fight scenes amongst the chicks thrown in. You guys, it is friggin’ AWESOME. YOU CANNOT LOOK AWAY.

Remember that episode of Charlie’s Angels, where the girls go into prison to investigate the murder of one of the inmates? Where Kelly (aka Jaclyn Smith) utters the best line EVAR after the prisoners get hosed down with the nasty anti-lice spray or whatever it is, and she turns to the prison guard all snotty and goes “When was the last time YOU were sprayed?” and the guard gives her this sneery bitchy look in return and I think billy-clubs her ass but I don’t remember. But I digress. Remember how the girls get dressed up and taken outside of the prison to be hookers to wealthy businessmen? Oh yeah, that happens in Chained Heat, too. It’s just one big giant ball of awesome. Please, if you are severely pregnant or just incredibly sick of everything on TV lately, look for it in your movie channels and tivo that bitch. You will be so glad you did.

Oh So Tired

2008-04-24T12:59:00.000-07:00

I know, I have been so absent lately. It’s not for lack of wanting to write, trust me. There are a bajillion thoughts and feelings coursing through my pea brain these days as I wrap up my tour of pregnancy duty. I mean just my crazy-ass dreams alone would have me coming up with volumes of raw and freaky Freudian material to analyze. But the tiredness. Oh, the tiredness. It’s all I can do to simply get my huge ass in the shower some days.

As Jen has warned me in the past, the ninth month is ass. And she was right. I recently read Belly Laughs by Jenny McCarthy (my new personal hero after I saw her rip that doctor a new bunghole on Larry King about the childhood vaccine issue), and she mentions in the book something that I have tried but failed to articulate in my whining about the tiredness of pregnancy: “Imagine staying up all night, then running a marathon, then doing three hundred loads of laundry and raking leaves off a football field all in one day. How tired would you be?” That is exactly how I feel, every day. Sometimes more than others.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I don’t sleep more than two hours at a time at night because I either have to get up and pee three times or more (sometimes within a half-hour of the last time!) or have to roll over and change positions to relieve the pain in my hips – an acrobatic feat that is at once time-consuming and uncomfortable to accomplish because so much of my personal real estate is occupied by Baby.

Or if it is just the exhaustion brought on by lugging an extra 45 pounds around throughout the day. That is some serious weight, people! And by the end of the day, it feels more like 100 pounds!

I remember less than a year ago when we were in Italy and schlepping luggage around from one town to the next. We purposely packed very light, but just getting that little carry-on suitcase and my tote bag from train to taxi to hotel or whatever was SUPER exhausting. And that thing was on wheels! And that was after having had blissful nights of pure, uninterrupted sleep! And I could set those things down and rest! You can never set down a big giant baby surrounded by a crapload of amniotic fluid! You’re stuck with it until he decides to bust out!

And let’s talk about what all that tiredness does to the ol’ noggin. You guys, it’s embarrassing. I can’t even watch an episode of Law & Order anymore without asking Derek dumb questions every 10 minutes. “Wait… why are they at that guy’s house now? I thought the other guy was the one where they found you know, the forensics and stuff and the note with the thing on it…. Wha??? And who is this guy again?” I can’t keep the names of the characters straight or remember what evidence was found in the last scene that led to this scene. I might as well have watched the last scene last year for my amount of comprehension. And watching TV is like, one of the few things I can do well anymore these days besides putting away Trader Joe’s ice cream sandwiches.

The other day on 30 Rock, they were all enraptured with this fictional reality show called MILF Island. I swear if that show existed, I would be watching it right now. It sounds like exactly the level of intelligence I would be able to keep up with.

The good news is, my Obsessive Pregnant Brain seems to have gone away for now. There is just not enough brain juice to obsess on anything or even focus on a semi-intelligent TV show, and so instead I find myself thinking constantly about how soon it will be that I get to meet the little guy living inside me. That thought is distracting enough. I’m just so darn excited. No, excited doesn’t really cover it. Anxious doesn’t really do it either. I’m so looking forward to getting to know him and take care of him that sometimes I just can’t think about anything else. There are so many things I want to tell him, so many miraculous things about being pregnant with him that I want to share, so many wonderful moments that I want to tell him about his family and his aunties and uncles who are all excited to meet him too.

But I’m just too tired and need to go lie down.

Preggo Watch '08

2008-03-31T16:39:00.000-07:00

I’m in the home stretch, as it were. Only about six weeks to go. I’m doing pretty good. Baby Mac continues to kick the crap out of me on a daily basis. He usually gives a few kicks and squirms right after I eat, but he doesn’t really get going until around 5:00 p.m. I have taken to calling it “Junior’s Happy Hour” although really it lasts about five hours. He starts up with the grooving and doesn’t stop, especially when Daddy comes home and he hears his voice.

I started a prenatal yoga class in Sherman Oaks at Black Dog Yoga and love it. It has helped calm down my obsessive psychotic pregnant brain a LOT. Not to mention all the stretching really helps my poor overstressed joints and muscles. I have gained over 40 lbs., people! Heaving all that weight around is not easy! I have to do things a lot more slowly and carefully than I am used to, and that has made me much more patient.

Bending over or getting up off the couch or turning over in bed are still a world of suck, but now it’s just part of daily life. Speaking of daily life, here are a few of my favorite things that I will get to have back again before too long:

Things I miss about NOT being pregnant and am really looking forward to:

Shaft. I miss my pole, y’all. I miss blasting Korn and spinning around on that thing at mach 10 with my hair on fire (yes, that was a lame Top Gun reference, but it kinda works, no?)
Going running and hiking. Rollerblading, riding my pink bike. Just being active in general.
Dirty martinis. Mojitos. A cold Hefeweizen with lemon on the Venice boardwalk.
Sushi.
Sleeping on my back.
Sleeping through the night without having to get up and pee four times.
Sleeping without waking myself up snoring, snorting, drooling, or with an excruciating charlie horse in my leg. Ever had your calf sliced open with a dull butcher knife? That’s what it feels like.
Not having to ask my poor husband to fetch me water or a glass of milk or a chipwich (the ice cream sandwiches from Trader Joe’s, OMG you have not LIVED until you have had one) because dammit, it is just too friggin’ hard to get up off the couch once I am there.
Not having to go to the doctor’s office every stinking month – ugh! And now that I’m in the third trimester, it’s every two weeks! I would SO not made a good hypochondriac. I love my OB and his nurse, but me and the medical establishment simply do not mix.
Sex without needing a forklift. Need I say more?

That being said, here are a few of the things I will really miss about being pregnant:

How nice and helpful total strangers are to me, especially the Trader Joe’s guys. Sometimes they will even pull me out of line and open up a cash register just because they see my giant pregnant ass standing there looking non-plussed. It’s super nice to be a VIP.
Cutting myself a slackburger with cheese about stuffing my face. This is the only time in my life I can really let myself be such a pig and not feel guilty, and lordy, am I embracing it!
Not having to hold in my stomach. My belly is large and in charge and is just out there, bitches – deal with it!
Having a valid excuse to lie down every day.
Thick, luxuriant hair and glowy skin. Those preggo hormones really rock when it comes to that.
Feeling my little baby kick and move. I get kinda teared up when I think about it. There will come a time very soon when he will be outside of me, and I won’t have that motherly luxury of feeling him close, so close to me, knowing all the time that he is safe and warm and protected in this quiet bubble of love inside my body. Yeah. I’m really going to miss that.

[Photo of me courtesy of Jen. Yes, I know, she is brilliant, but try telling her that. We took a bunch of nekkid photos over the weekend and they are amazing, but you don't get to see them.]

I'm Sad

2008-03-20T12:31:00.000-07:00

I had to take out my belly button ring the other day. I had been hoping against all hope that I could leave it in for the whole pregnancy because, well, I'm attached to it now after six years. And I had read that unless it was causing me any discomfort, I could leave it in. I only have two months left to go, so I figured I was home free.

Well, suddenly it started feeling stretched and tight and kinda itchy one day, and Derek agreed that it was looking kind of wonky and should probably come out. I took it out, and now have the saddest-looking belly button. Since my belly button is an "innie" in the process of popping out from my bulging belly, I now look like I have a small cat's butt on my belly with a weird slit above it where the piercing is. It is bizarre.

And if you think that's a funny visual, you should see me trying to put lotion on my lower legs after a shower. Since my belly is so big, I can't really bend over properly, or even put my legs up on something to bend over and lotion them. So I have to spread my legs really far apart to lotion up both legs at the same time, and assume a position that can only be described as "Sumo Wrestler Doubled Over Trying to Look Up His Own Butt." And then I start laughing at how goofy I must look and almost fall over.

Yeah, I amuse myself.

Oh, and the Lucky Charms feedings? Back in full effect. In fact, I think I'll go hook up a bowl right now.

Another Thing That Pisses Me Off

2008-03-18T10:49:00.000-07:00

How the flu shot is pushed onto people at every turn, especially children and the elderly.

I have never had a flu shot in my life, mainly because it never made sense to me that I be vaccinated for one or two particular strains of flu when there are so many strains out there, not to mention those strains mutating and becoming something else -- the very nature of what a virus does. Add to that getting some of the symptoms of the flu after you get the shot because your body doesn't like the crap you just injected it with and reacts. And there's no guarantee I won't come down with the flu after getting the shot? And I pay $20-30 for the privilege? No thanks.

This article addresses the money-making sham of the flu shot, and talks about how the recent death of a little girl in Minnesota is being used to hype the shot even more. Back to the children and the elderly part -- the flu shot contains tons of mercury, in levels that are extremely toxic for anyone who weighs less than 550 lbs. Why, why, why would you want to put that into the body of a little person or older person who has low immunity to begin with???

I'm pissed! When does it stop?

This Just Boils My Blood

2008-03-13T11:44:00.000-07:00

Pun intended.

I am currently reading this book, The Sanctity of Human Blood: Vaccination Is Not Immunization, by Tim O’Shea, which was loaned to me by the chiropractor I was doing massage for when I asked him why he didn't have his kids vaccinated. To say it is incredibly disturbing, well-referenced and researched common sense and hard to put down would be an understatement. Just ask my husband – I would not shut up about it the other night over dinner for at least an hour.

This article is in the same vein, concerning the Hep-B vaccine that is routinely administered to every infant born in this country, and something that most people just don’t know about or think to investigate. Ya know, I have to say, as a parent-to-be, you have enough shit to worry about without also throwing in what our own government deems safe to inject into your baby’s body so that Big Pharma can make billions.

And if you think the government gives a rat’s ass about your health or that of your child’s, think again. Can you say Massive Meat Recall?

Movie Minute

2008-03-03T18:55:00.000-08:00

Yes, there is preggo news, but I am so bored talking about it and it doesn’t amount to much more than the following:

1) I am friggin’ ginormous. So much so that I had to get new maternity clothes so as not to be forced to run around nekkid in the remaining 2.5 months and possibly frighten passersby who happen past the house. It’s true that boys sit lower in your midsection, so now am I not only pregnant in my belly, but also in my hips and am now sporting Jabba The Hut-like jowls. Yay! I saw a recent photo of myself and just about barfed.

2) Getting up from a sitting position just blows. The grunting, the groaning. It’s like being 90 years old all the sudden. Even Grammy doesn’t complain this much when she stands up from her easy chair, and she’s a hundred and freakin’ two!

3) Still as tired as ever – with a new and exciting crabby twist! My worst enemies: “Customer Service” phone personnel and medicated/stoned drivers on the road. I think they all just need to die. Before I kill them myself.

But this post is not about pregnancy gripes. In my limited mobility, waking hours, and lack of tolerance for the public at large, it has been a great opportunity to get caught up on movies. Here are my latest critiques in case you are wondering what a psychotic pregnant person would have you put in your Netflix qeue:

1) The Last King of Scotland. Oh my god. This one blew me away. Not like I’ve ever been that up on the history of Ugandan leadership, but Forest Whitaker scared the SHIT out of me in his portrayal of Idi Amin, the brutal dictator who ruled Uganda in the 70s. This movie is not for the squeamish, though. There were two visuals in particular that will haunt my nightmares forever (if you’ve seen it, you know which ones they are), but I am so glad I saw this thrilling rendering of the story and learned a bit about this important time in African history.

2) Lucky Number Slevin. My new favorite gangster movie, hands friggin’ down. Or at least it’s now up there in the top three along with Goodfellas and The Departed. Not only a taut and slick mystery, but hello, you get Morgan Freeman and Ben Kingsley as two colossal baddies each intent on screwing each other over so bad, you could cut the tension with a butter knife. Not to mention a beautiful love story that allows you to fall in love with Lucy Liu all over again.

3) Sleeping Dogs Lie. This poor girl admits to her fiancé the most disgusting thing she ever did. If you can get past the first five minutes of the movie where that thing is revealed (don’t worry – they don’t show it), you will find a tender and heartbreaking little story about honesty in relationships, and laugh your ass off at the meth-head brother.

4) Notes On A Scandal. I have always marveled at Cate Blanchett’s range, and this movie is no exception. And of course, Judi Dench just rocks the friggin’ house no matter what she does. There were a couple of scenes in this movie where a look from her shot violent chills down my whole body. She is THAT good.

5) Spanking The Monkey. Yes, yet another movie involving a main character doing something really pervy, in this case, sliding down a slippery slope into Oedipal tendencies. But a sweet and relatable coming-of-age story for anyone who has ever felt put upon and unable to break out of a toxic cycle. I love how good indie films will take a microcosm situation and really examine it and explore it, and this movie does just that.

6) Just Friends. Okay, this is not a movie I have just recently seen for the first time, but rather, seen many times for its neverending ability to make me laugh my ass off (Kristi, you know what I’m talking about – one night when we all shared a motel room after a wedding and this came on, she and I cracked up over it even though we had both seen it many times). Not only does it have the funniest sibling rivalry scenes I have ever seen, but has permanently cemented Anna Faris in my mind as the best comedienne of our time. Oh, and adorable love story, for those of you who are into that crap.

That’s it for now, until I remember more and feel the need to share my thumb position with you. Meanwhile, I leave you with this quote from Jeff Spicoli of Fast Times At Ridgemont High: “People on ludes should not drive!”

Never Say "I Can't"

2008-02-11T12:28:00.000-08:00

Because guess what? If I can, you can.

The dilemma was this: I wanted to add more greenery on the walls of the nursery work in progress. Specifically, I wanted palm leaves, big ones, to go with the existing décor that my adorable decorating team had come up with last week. The problem: I can’t draw. Or so I told myself. In the past, even stick figures have presented an exotic challenge. And all those pretty leaves I put on last week were stencils applied with a sponge. How hard is that to do? There were no stencils big enough for what I wanted.

I sat down and humored myself by drawing a few on paper. Then figured, hey, if I draw them on the wall with pencil and it sucks, I can always erase it. So I drew it, outlined it with some paint, and decided it didn’t suck that bad. I filled it in with paint, and holy shit, I am an artist, people! I really love the result, and especially love that I showed my negative self how to get bent.

Bonus: I even drew and painted this with both hands, which was really weird since I write exclusively with my left hand, but do everything else with my right. I don't know if that makes me ambidextrionical or what.

And here's Daddy, painting the ceiling blue so that I can add on little clouds and glow-in-the-dark stars.

This photo would have been really hot if he had been wearing his tool belt, but I still find it hot nonetheless.

Friend Quotes

2008-02-06T11:53:00.000-08:00

Similar to Man Quotes, this feature will be funny shit that my friends say that I have to broadcast to the world:

"Well you're busy building a whole human being. I'm just trying to make a lizard talk."

-- My friend Shannon, Visual Effects Editor, who works 80-hour weeks, while discussing why we are both so tired.

The Nursery -- Work In Progress

2008-02-06T11:19:00.000-08:00

Amidst the hell that is reviewing and shopping for baby stuff, what is safe, what is not, what causes SIDS, what is not going to be toxic for the baby to inhale, etc., etc., ad nauseum, there has been a break to do something fun -- turn what used to be the guest room into a cute, happy, McLean-worthy nursery.

As I have stated before many times, I have the most awesome girlfriends in the world, and they also have the most awesome girlfriends in the world, and two of these beautiful and generous creatures volunteered to spend their precious Saturday helping me with the transformation.

Since it took us the first few hours simply to determine furniture arrangement, account for an absentee crib placement, and devise a paint scheme, the following pictures only represent the partially-completed project, but you will get the idea.

Here are the before's that I took before my Angels of Decorating came over:

Here is the mural that will be hanging on one wall and represents the theme on which what the rest of the decor is loosely based:

After some toiling with stencils and paint and catching up on the latest celebrity gossip, here is what we came up with:

Bunnie and Erin, you guys so totally rule. Thank you so much. I love peeking my head into this room and just looking at it. It will always remind me of both of you.

Still Undecided, But...

2008-02-01T17:17:00.000-08:00

I am loving the CRAP out of this quote:

"It took a Clinton to clean up after the first Bush and I think it might take another one to clean up after the second Bush."

- Hillary Clinton at the Democratic presidential debate in Los Angeles on Thursday.

Man Quotes

2008-01-30T12:17:00.000-08:00

"Reminds me of the best name for a rock band I ever heard: Carnage Asada."

-- Said in response to my comment about all the desperate meat that would soon be appearing at the local watering hole in Calabasas while we were on our way home from visiting Babies R' Us.

Top 6 Reasons I Can’t Sleep For Shit

2008-01-28T11:49:00.000-08:00

6. Baby McLean routinely holds Uterus-Kicking Contests in the McLean Condo between the hours of midnight and 6:00 a.m. Have you ever tried to sleep while a tiny little person stomped your insides? Try it sometime.

5. I have never snored in my life, but am now so damn congested every time I lie down that when I do actually fall asleep, I routinely wake myself up with a loud snort that sounds something like a wild boar shouting “SSSGNAAACK!” directly into my ear.

4. With nasal congestion comes mouth-breathing, also a novelty to me. If I do not first wake myself with a wild boar snort, I will inevitably wake because my mouth is hanging open and an ambitious stream of drool is making a break for it, causing me to jump up in alarm and disgust, furiously wiping my face and then attempting to settle back to sleep atop the nice clammy wet spot on my pillow. Ewwwwwww!!!!

3. I have never been a nighttime eater, with the exception of those times in my past life when I would go out partying until the wee hours and then need the requisite 3:00 a.m. Reuben from Canter’s on Fairfax or Monster Tacos from Jack In The Crack. Not so anymore. Not only is there no partying going on, but I will even have a very satisfying dinner only to actually be awakened at 3:00 a.m. by the ravenous beast that is my stomach! WTF? I just fed you, bitch!

2. I have only two stinking positions I can sleep in: A) On my right side; or B) On my left side. Once I settle in all nice and cozy with my giant pregnancy pillow (aka Humpty) all wedged just so, within an hour or so, the arm and/or hip I am lying on will start to hurt, forcing me to flip like a giant incubating omelette, along with Humpty, to attempt to fall back asleep as fast as possible and cook the other side before that side gets sore and wakes me up. This goes on approximately 8 to 10 flips per night. It’s really neat.

1. Sometimes I just wake up and can’t believe how exciting it all is, this little guy living inside me, and the thoughts just start coming: Am I going to be a good mother? What is his personality going to be like? Will he look like a Mini-Derek and melt my heart every time I look at him? How could I ever discipline him if that is the case? When the hell is he going to come out? How bad is it really going to hurt when he does? Will I ever be able to sleep again once he is out? Or will it be like the times my Godbaby has spent the night, and I lay awake obsessing about the sound of her breathing and if it sounded normal and mentally reviewing every article I have ever read about SIDS and my God that wasn’t even my kid and I barely slept a wink!

I know I need to just relax and enjoy being pregnant now. But it’s so hard sometimes. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help.

The Wisdom of the Rooms

2008-01-24T11:34:00.000-08:00

So apparently I didn’t get the memo, but there was an Ultimate Fighting Championship in the McLean Condo last night, so please forgive if my thoughts are a wee discombobulated this morning. And I’m still kind of reeling over the death of Heath Ledger, star of one of my all-time favorite movies, Brokeback Mountain. I just can’t believe it.

It occurred to me that it has been all baby-baby-baby-pregs-baby-sick-baby-pregs-baby-sick-kosher dills on this blog all the time, and I realized I have not updated you on my career and the massive shiftage thereof.

I had to quit doing massage, people. I had been thinking about quitting and doing something else for awhile since it was really bothering me that there was not a lot of brain activity on the job. Don’t get me wrong – I am not saying people who do it are dummies. They are doing a huge, selfless service to humankind, especially the ones who do it well, and a nice pregnancy massage recently saved my ass when I was really hurting from carrying around the McLean Condo and these giant bazooms.

But once you have been through massage school, the job itself is all intuitive -- feeling where someone hurts, a lot of quiet, then changing the sheets and doing it again. About the time I was having these feelings, I started to get a lot of, shall we say, hygienically-challenged individuals on my table. People who would come in for a massage, covered in sweat, straight from a full workout at the gym next door. People with active outbreaks of infectious skin diseases. People who had never heard of the concept of washing one’s feet after a day of flip-flop wearing. Now, aside from the fact that a pregnant person has an overdeveloped sense of smell, visions of staph infections and contracting God-knows-what from these people while in a state of compromised immunity started to tear at my psyche continually. It’s bad enough feeling like a sitting duck for every random cold and flu cootie out on the playground, but the stress of not knowing what I was exposing myself and my baby to became too much, and I had to quit.

So what’s a pregnant person to do with nearly four months of working ability left before squeezing out the wee bairn? I started looking at part time job listings and came across this man who wrote this book and needed some help with the marketing of this book and the editing of his next one. I started reading the book last night for research purposes, and OMG you guys, I was so blown away.

How is it that no one thought of this idea before? He has taken years of quotes and wisdom learned in 12-step meetings, and put them into a book. But the beauty of it is, you don’t need to be involved in a 12-step program to appreciate the profound nature of what is contained in the pages. Anyone struggling with ANY kind of addiction, or anyone who loves someone who is, needs this book. Anyone who has ever repeatedly banged their head against the wall and fallen into the same patterns in life over and over needs this book. Anyone who refuses to define God in limited, dogma-laden terms and seeks a relationship with God on their own spiritual path, needs this book. Anyone who needs to be reminded of universal truths told from a highly personal perspective needs this book.

Have you ever heard someone speak or read something in a book and felt like what you were hearing/reading was meant just for you? Like that person was speaking directly to you? That’s what every page of this book so far was like for me. I can’t wait to read the rest of it and explore the thought-provoking questions asked with each section. And no matter what happens with getting the job or not, I am grateful I came across the information in this book, and simply had to share it with you.

I’ll keep you posted.

Letters To Baby: Four Freaking A.M. Edition

2008-01-15T04:54:00.000-08:00

Dear Baby McLean,

I realize you are pissed that Mommy ate the spicy noodles for dinner, but did you really need to get me out of bed at 3:00 a.m. to watch Tom Selleck and his ginormous pornstache in Her Alibi? The ‘stache is quite frightful when peered at through delirious, nauseated, sleep-deprived eyes, but I had never before noticed how it also looks as though his eyebrows are taking over much of the real estate of his face. I guess they didn’t do much facial hair grooming in the 80s, but still. The man has some serious outcroppage going on. So I gave you some Barbara’s Oat Squares cereal, do you think you can chill and let Mama have some sleep now? It would be really super considering it was kind of a long and stressful day, and I’m pretty exhausted.

We got to see you on TV again today. The doctor was concerned that my belly (aka The McLean Condo) was too big for where I am in the pregnancy and ordered an ultrasound to check out what’s going on in there. He said it could be my uterine fibroids crowding you, could be a couple of scary things that are hard to tell without peering in on your little butt like some kind of techno-voyeurs and checking it out. I was worried all weekend that the doc would tell me I would need to be put on bed rest, a very real possibility. I realize the prospect of bed rest would be a dream-come-true for many people, but not your mama. Mama needs action, Mama needs to have experiences, especially now that the evil bronchitis is over. Mama needs to get the hell out of the house and do some stuff and things. When you fly the condo in May and start seeing how fun things are out here, you’ll understand.

So it turns out that you are simply a little on the big side, and that the amniotic fluid is a little more on the voluminous side, both of which are causing me to stick out a little more than usual. No bed rest. And a huge sigh of relief from your mommy and daddy. Pity the man who has to live with a confined woman. Your dad was probably sweatin’ more bullets than I was. And I’m really glad your doc is on top of things, but I could have gone the whole pregnancy without having to worry about weird things happening with you, like your not swallowing fluid properly, or my fibroids squashing you in the condo.

But the bright side is, we got to see you and your cute little face again. It is probably too premature to say, but I think you got my nose. Here you are, with your peaceful little face.

And here you are yawning.

There are no words in the English language to express your mommy’s relief that you are okay. I guess for now, “I love you” will have to suffice.

And since you know how to yawn now, you must know what it’s like to be sleepy. So, go to sleep, Baby. Please?

Love,
Mommy

Letters To Baby: New Year Edition

2008-01-08T08:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Baby McLean,

So this is what 6:30 in the morning looks like. Dark grey light. Peaceful. Beautiful colors forming in the sky as the sun comes up. And two annoying hounds who want Daddy to get the hell out of the shower and feed them their chicken.

You started kicking around 5:00 a.m. and didn’t let up, so I figured I may as well just get up and get some coffee brewing and check out what Halle Berry has to say about being pregs in this month’s issue of In Style. I can’t say I look a fraction as gorgeous and glowy as she does, but now that the fun holiday bronchitis is finally behind me, I think I’m starting to get that second trimester feel-goodness that everyone talks about. Can you believe we have been together five and a half months? I still can’t. If I really sit and think about it, I get way too tripped out on how so very close and intimate you are to me, yet still such a complete mystery. I had moments where I thought I was done obsessing over you, but turns out I hadn’t even begun to obsess.

My Pregnant Christmas was one of physical misery, which turned into total emotional distress. It’s true for me that pregnancy lowers one’s immunity, and boy did somebody pass on a whopper to me. I came down with the bronchitis on Christmas Eve Day while we were up north visiting your Great Grammy, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. I later found out I am also anemic, worsening my resistance and body’s defenses to fight off the cooties. I may as well have been naked in a snowstorm.

The lack of sleep is one thing, but lack of sleep compounded by constant racking cough accompanied by severe snot faucet effect left me frantic that somehow you must have been suffering. This was supposed to be a super happy family joyous time. I’m so sorry if you felt my anxiety. They say the mother’s state of mind is felt by the baby, but on sleep deprivation and illness, sometimes my state of mind just gets unbelievably out of control.

I’m having to start monitoring what I watch on TV because of you. I love the show 48 Hours: Hard Evidence on Discovery Channel. But can no longer watch the crime episodes involving kidnapping or children being harmed by people we share this world with. These things, aside from your kicking, wake me in the middle of the night and scare the living shit out of me. You’re not even born yet – how could I ever conceive of going through something like that where you are concerned if I am going to flog myself over taking a Tylenol while you live and grow inside me? It’s frightening to me how my pregnant mind works. I don’t have as much control over my thoughts as I am used to. Obsession is a slippery downward slope. And I’m pretty top-heavy right now.

I am working hard, my little son, on getting these thought processes under control. I have always been one to believe strongly in the power of the mind and the direction you can take your life because of it. This is something I really want you to know and understand as you grow up. It is this knowing that makes me not believe in astrology – I simply know innately that I am going to be exactly how I decide to be every day, and I choose to follow that path instead of some code of planetary alignments that tells me how I am supposed to be. I am way too complex for that, and I’m sure you will be too. So why should my Pregnant Mind be any different? It’s still me in here. But now I have you in here too, and I guess that changes the dynamic of things a bit.

Keep kicking, Little Guy. If you start to pick up on my crazazy, go ahead and give me a punch in the uterus. Maybe it will knock me back to my senses and remind me that somehow, some way, everything is going to be okay.

Love,
Mommy

Happy Holidays, Y'all!

2007-12-21T12:01:00.000-08:00

A beautiful and merry and love-stuffed season is what I wish for you.

... And lots of kosher dills.

Man Quotes

2007-12-19T09:18:00.000-08:00

To expand on the title of this post, this is a new feature I here at Valley Girl would like to call "Witty and Wise Statements That My Husband Makes That Made Me Guffaw Out Loud And Simply Must Be Recorded For Posterity."

The Man's latest nugget: "SOME PEOPLE ARE JUST DICKS."

-- (Said in response to my outburst "Why does he have to be such a dick?" referring to Greg Kinnear's character in the movie Little Miss Sunshine, when he is lecturing little Olive about how ice cream will make her fat, and making her think she is a loser. Some people ARE just dicks, people. It's good to know.)

"You Have A Teeny-Tiny Penis Inside You!"

2007-12-18T11:43:00.000-08:00

That's what Derek's sister said when she found out we are having a boy, referring of course to the famous Sex and the City quote when Miranda is pregnant.

Yes it's true, folks. After much speculation on the part of those who would wager a guess (which was a very long list that included family, friends, and even the guy at the water store), when it seemed every last one of them (except for Karin and Heddie) had concluded emphatically that I was having a girl, I really had no feeling about it one way or the other. Until the night a few days before the ultrasound when I had a very vivid, detailed dream about breastfeeding our little boy. I clearly remember what his face looked like, that he was very busy, and that my dad was in the dream as well. I told Derek the next day about the dream and that now I wasn't so sure. Everybody else seemed so convinced I was having a girl -- could I really be having a Penis Person?

The day of the big ultrasound came and we were on pins and needles. The anticipation and not knowing was getting to be maddening. When the ultrasound guy pointed out on the screen where there was a definite penis, I was still dubious. "Are you SURE?" I asked. It is still beyond me how those guys can decipher anything on those images. "Oh yes," he assured me. "I have checked it from three angles now, and your boy is not shy. He is putting it out there."

So my boy is an exhibitionist. Like his mama. Let it all hang out, son. I will support you in this.

Letters To Baby

2007-12-07T16:39:00.000-08:00

Dear Baby,

Wow, hard to imagine you and I have been together for 18 weeks now. You are getting big! I have really popped out in the last couple of weeks or so and there is no denying it now – there is definitely an obvious bun in the oven. I get sweet and sympathetic looks from strangers out in public now, as well as outright questions about when I am due and whether I am having a boy or a girl. You are quite the attention-getter! A lot of what I have been told about pregnancy has actually happened, while a lot of it, alas, has not. Here are my observations about incubating your little butt thus far:

1) I have not, as many formerly pregnant women have complained about, had a complete stranger come up and touch my belly. Only friends and family have attempted to touch such an intimate area, and have all asked permission before doing so, which I always oblige. I LOVE the feeling of the belly rub from loved ones, especially when your father does it. The way he does it is almost as though he is already caressing you or soothing you to sleep. And I have a feeling you can sense this, and this makes me happy. Should a complete stranger actually come up to me and touch me there, I think I would seriously bitch-slap the person. Who does this? No one has attempted it thus far. Perhaps I have a “Don’t eff with my bump” look on my face when out in the public sector. But we still have five months to go. Any range of inappropriate behavior by strangers is likely, I suppose.

2) I have not, as I have been extensively warned, had any radical mood swings or periods of intense hatred of your father. Sure, there have been days when I have been irritable enough (usually from lack of sleep) that even Gandhi himself spoon-feeding me caramel sauce with a chocolate spoon whilst watching Sex and the City episodes in a zero-gravity chair would do something to piss me off. And yet, I still can’t find a reason to be annoyed with your father. It’s like he took a “Help For the Husband of a Pregnant Person” sensitivity course behind my back and has nimbly side-stepped every pregnancy landmine there is. Some days a girl just feels like complete and utter shite, and no amount of lip gloss and Ben & Jerry’s will assuage the situation. Your father, in his infinite wisdom, will look upon my sorry, tired heap on the couch and say “My little Pregnant Princess, would you like me to make you some mac and cheese?” This is the utterance of a smart man. But for me, nothing during pregnancy has compared even remotely to the average symptoms of PMS. Of which I am blessedly free for ten months!

3) I wish I could tell you that I have had some exotic and interesting food cravings or aversions while you have been in utero other than my daily consumption of Trader Joe’s kosher dill pickles. I eat and enjoy pretty much all the same stuff I did before you came along. Of course there was a brief Lucky Charms phase a few weeks ago, the knowledge of which caused your Aunties Jen and Jillie to erupt into fits of laughter. Lucky Charms? WTF? But I don’t think that was so much a craving as it was a desire for comfort when I had that bad cold. Sugar cereal was forbidden when I was growing up, and since I can’t drown my poor sore throat in a hot toddy or even take a hot bath, the next best thing for me was being “bad” and having my favorite sugar cereal. Three times a day.

4) It is true that you receive a lot of unsolicited advice while pregnant, 90% of which is total bullcrap. I have had to repeatedly whip out the glazed-over nod and smile routine I perfected in the office when this or that gossip-monger would corner me in the hall with some such trivial nonsense of which I couldn’t have cared less. I had never imagined it would come in handy at this time in my life, but it sure does. Perhaps one day in the schoolyard, you too will perfect this look with a classmate who only wants to talk about how eating crayons changes the color of his poop while you are trying to get caught up on your MENSA newsletter.

5) I really do have “that pregnancy glow” that everyone talks about. But I think it’s really just a combination of two things: A) A detoxed system from not drinking or being around lawyers, and B) The fact that I mix my daily moisturizer with Sally Hansen Skin Brightener, which has a tiny hint of shimmer and is seriously the pregnant person’s BFF.

6) Dogs really can tell when you are pregnant. Even before our first ultrasound when we heard the heartbeat, The Big Brown Dog was suddenly extremely interested in you, sniffing my belly like he was trying to hoover up my belly button ring and whining at it anxiously. I realized he could hear not only my heartbeat, but yours, which is nearly twice as fast as mine. He probably thinks I am harboring a speed freak. Whenever he does this belly-sniff and whine routine now, I ask him in a hushful tone, “Rufus, do you hear the baby?” to which he pricks up his ears and cocks his head from side to side, brow extremely furrowed and extra-wrinkly in a look of heavy concern. Of course he also makes this face when I ask, “Would you like a tasty delicious biscuit?” So I’m not sure if this reaction is a good thing. But he sure is excited to meet you. Of course The Pug, being completely deaf now, and too diva-like in nature to give much of a crap about anything except where her next chicken leg is coming from, knows nothing of your existence and probably wouldn’t care if she did.

7) Probably one of the most profound things someone told me is that, as a pregnant person, you are never alone for the duration of your pregnancy. I think now that I am starting to temper the constant paranoia of scrutinizing every single little thing I am eating/drinking/smelling/wearing/exercising/touching with a little more calm rationale, that realization that I am never alone while I am carrying you has finally set in. I am being prepared mentally to be hyper-vigilant in caring for every aspect of your little butt, and even when you are living outside of my body, I will never really be alone. I’m sure I will always be thinking about you, worrying about you, admiring you, loving you. You may be a big mystery for now, but I feel connected to you already, like we are speaking some secret language to each other that doesn’t need words or even sight. My Little One. Take all the time you need in there. But Rufus isn’t the only one who is anxious to meet you.

Love,
Mommy

Just Chillaxin' In My Uterus

2007-11-03T19:01:00.003-07:00

The latest photo op of the wee one, all chill with its feet up on my uterus.

Brain Teaser

2007-11-03T11:41:00.001-07:00

Can you spot the pug head in this photo?

The Bummer About Being Pregnant

2007-10-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

So yeah, I’ve been tired and yeah, I have to go pee all the damn time and yeah, I am a pickle-eating freak (thanks to thee, O Pregnancy Gods, for the advent of the kosher dill), and yeah, none of my jeans fit anymore, but you know what? I am really happy about having a baby and thus don’t like to complain too much about these little annoyances. But do you know what the worst part about being pregnant is?

No swinging on the pole, y’all. I miss Shaft. Terribly. Shaft has been carefully unscrewed from the ceiling hook on which he usually resides and is currently collecting dust in the garage. It’s so sad.

I spent so many fun-filled nights with Shaft and some loud angry stripper music as my only entertainment, and it was good. Shaft could keep me entertained for HOURS with nary a break. I would navigate that pole with seven-inch clear heels on like it ain’t no thang, all the while getting a good workout (and some bruises here and there but that’s why God invented knee pads) and feeling like I had my own private adult-version of monkey bars in my house. I owe a lot to Shaft. Shaft made me feel like a million bucks. Shaft sneakily developed my core strength under the guise of fun, something VERY difficult to pull off. Shaft was the life of my bachelorette party and unselfishly shared his gifts with many of my friends that night and on subsequent nights. And Shaft probably helped conceive my child. Talk about a fertility specialist!

And now Shaft leans against a wall of the garage, surrounded by hordes of macho tools and discarded lumber who are likely threatened by Shaft’s impressive size and luster, and more than a little jealous that, unlike themselves, Shaft had, until now, enjoyed a comfortable place in our living room for many months. Let’s have a listen:

Hammer: Oh, well will you look at the ladies’ man all sad and pathetic now that he’s not living the cushy life. Hey fellas, what say we give Mr. Shiny there a garage welcome, eh?

Cordless Drill: Being that shiny obviously means he’s overcompensating for something. What could that thing possibly be good for? Can he hang a picture? Can he assemble something from Ikea?

Screwdrivers: Hey Pretty Boy, you miss having your mommy rub you down with alcohol every day? Wah wah! Sissy!

(Shaft leans and takes it all in, then quietly turns to one of the nearby lavender dryer sheets.)

Shaft: Psst, hey, Beautiful. Your luscious scent is absolutely intoxicating, you little dryer minx, you. Why don’t you come over here and slide ever so slowly down my shiny self and wrap yourself around my girth. You will feel so sexy and alive, I promise you.

Lavender Dryer Sheet: Tee-hee! I don’t know. I might hurt myself.

Shaft: My Pretty. I will catch you if you fall. I just want to be close to you, my little divine herbaceous satchel of love. Please come to me.

Hammer: Hey uh lady, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It ain’t safe. You don’t know where he’s been.

Screwdrivers: Yeah, he’s a poser, don’t listen to him. You’re more safe with us Tools.

Lavender Dryer Sheet (to the Tools): What the hell do you guys know? You’re a bunch of f@cking tools!

Lavender Dryer Sheet pops out of her box and onto Shaft, sliding and twirling down his welcoming shaft. (Okay, yeah, that sounds really dirty, but come on, it just flowed so well.) She lets out a huge happy sigh at the end of her twirl, gives the finger to the Tools, and curls up to sleep at Shaft’s feet.

The Tools, shamed into silence, sulk back off to the toolbox to plot Shaft’s demise. Obviously this threat to their masculinity will never do.

Shaft leans with a little grin on his face, a nice lavender dryer sheet now keeping his feet warm.

Quote of the Day

2007-10-19T10:31:00.000-07:00

I don't do these very often, but I thought this one was just so profound and a really important truth to remember, always.

“The roses bloom so beautifully because they are not trying to become lotuses. Andthe lotuses bloom so beautifully because they have not heard the legends about other flowers. Everything in nature goes so beautifully in accord, because nobody is trying to compete with anybody, nobody is trying to become anybody else. Everything is the way it is. Just see the point! Just be yourself and remember you cannot be anything else, whatsoever you do. All effort is futile. You have to be just yourself……”

--Osho, Indian Mystic

Salvador Dalí

2007-10-18T09:37:00.000-07:00

In the interest of getting my butt out of the house and doing as many interesting things as possible before I am confined to the small world of diapers and nursing, I took it upon myself on a recent Sunday to go with Trish and Miata to the Salvador Dalí exhibit at LACMA.

While there are those who may assert that viewage of such freaky-deakiness while preggers may warp my developing child’s little sensibilities, I decided to take a walk on the wild side and go ahead and take in the freakiness in person. I was not disappointed.

Aside from a voluminous collection of paintings, there were also film clips playing of the artist’s various collaborations with filmmakers of his day -- in particular, an animated film that the artist worked on with Walt Disney. I got teared up watching the thing, it was just so very magnificent and so sad that it was never before released to the public. It was like watching a Dalí painting come to life for fifteen minutes. Afterward, we sat outside and talked about what we had seen. I don’t know about you guys, but after I see something like that, I tend to look at the world a little differently, at people a little differently. Those beautiful paintings existed in that man’s mind before they became reality, that regular guy with the crazy handlebar moustache and crazy eyes. And look what he contributed to the world.

Well, I recommend you see the exhibit fast before it is gone. It will only be there until January 6. So get your freaky on.

Los Angeles County Museum of Art
5905 Wilshire Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90036
(323) 857-6000
www.lacma.org

Bumpwatch '07

2007-10-12T10:52:00.000-07:00

Thought you might like to see the most recent photo of the little munchkin squatting in my bell-ay.

Isn’t it cute? I think it looks like a little teddy bear. When this picture was taken, the little bugger flung its arms up in the air as if to say “Yo ma, how about more pickles up in this here wombizzle?” Oh yeah, can’t get enough of those kosher dills. The lame cliché turns out to be true in my case.

The ultrasound guy told me that the most dramatic period of growth has happened in the last few weeks. Which would explain why I have felt like such complete and utter shite. But I’m starting to feel better now – a little more energetic, a little more productive. Little Pat has been sucking the life right out of me. I’m looking forward to entering the second trimester, aka The Golden Trimester I’ve heard so much about. Then we can find out the sex and I can start referring to it in more human terms. Only a few more weeks!

Da Bump

2007-10-01T18:25:00.000-07:00

In a Valley Girl first, I would like to share a post with you that was written several weeks ago, but for reasons that will become clear, could not share with you until today.

Here is the post from my Past Self:

God, it is so hard for me not to tell you guys this. But you know how it is – you’re supposed to wait until you’re absolutely sure everything is fine until you spread the word. And since my Future Self has decided the time is right to let the cat out of the bag, here is the big news:

I am pregs.
Knocked up.
Totally sperminated.
Smuggling fetus.
In the family way.
Got a bun in the oven.
Expecting.
With child.
Maternally accelerating.
Living la vida preggo.
The object of Bumpwatch ’07.
Packing grandchildren.

Isn’t it great? The man and I think so. Excitement is all around us and it’s so hard to think about anything else. Here are my symptoms thus far:

1. Hungry. No, make that starving. All. The. Time.

2. Tired. No, make that exhausted. All. The. Time.

3. Have to pee. All. The. Well, you get the idea.

It’s been hard not to post much lately, but the fact is, there is just not much to tell. When you are tired all the time, you pretty much have no life or goofy stories to share, so I have been uncharacteristically mum. But all that is about to change.

Okay, back to my present-day self now:

By way of details, I am now eight weeks along or two-thirds of the way through the first trimester. We have had the first ultrasound and seen the little bugger and heard the heartbeat. Wow. Up until that point, I was just “pregnant”. Sitting there hearing the heartbeat, it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks that there is a little person in there, doing its best to kick ass. It was pretty major. There was some leaking of the tear ducts.

We don’t get to know the sex until sometime in the second trimester I think, so in the meantime, we are referring to it as “Pat” a la vintage SNL, since we don’t know what the hell it is.

Today was a good day. I was still tired, sure, but not “feeling like I’m going to die” tired, and that is a definite step up. I do routinely thank the Pregnancy Gods that I have been blessedly free of morning sickness since I cannot imagine being barfy on top of the exhaustion. God, that would suck.

And being the only sober one at a festive occasion? Not so bad after all. I attended a family wedding with the hub over the weekend (with a four-hour open bar!) and felt blessedly free to be a goofy spaz on the dance floor because I didn’t have that paranoid “Oh my god, I’m Drunky Drunkerson, I’m going to do something inappropriate and be mortified with myself tomorrow” feeling the whole time. It was actually quite liberating. And there was the added “heh-heh” bonus of knowing that I would wake up the next morning feeling totally fine, whilst everyone else would be cursing the day alcohol was invented. So we got a late-night pizza that me and my spawn very much enjoyed, and I gave Pat a little rub on the belly and thanked it for keeping Mommy in line tonight.

And the next morning I woke up feeling like a million bucks. I think this pregnancy thing is going to be pretty awesome. I’ll keep you posted.

Spumoni

2007-09-25T10:38:00.000-07:00

I haven’t done one of these in a long time, but I would be sorely remiss if I did not mention this adorable little gem in Sherman Oaks.

The man and I decided on a last-minute date night to go see the latest Bourne movie. We were starving and had to eat first, so on a whim, we popped into this cute little place on the boulevard and had us some Italian food.

Okay, let’s start with the ambience. This is like the great wine cellar room of some old fabulous Italian joint in Little Italy. The wines are lining the walls, and you can sit right next to the open kitchen and watch the action. The guy who took care of us was hands-down the smiliest person I have ever seen. It was like he was on cloud 9 just to bring us their delicious bread (baked on the premises, I saw them pull it out of the oven) and olive tapenade. As I have an ongoing love affair with all things olive-related, and all people who are super-smiley, this place was immediately earning huge points.

Then our food arrived – Salmon Farfalle and Quattro Formaggi pizza. So fresh, so flavorful, so Mama Mia, and huge portions. We ate leftovers for a couple of days after that. Locals started pouring in and seemed to know everyone who worked there, as they were greeted with warm smiles and handshakes. Sadly, we had a movie to catch and had to do the old “Eat and Run” maneuver, but Super Smiley Server Guy was not bitter in the least, and promptly produced our check and doggie bags, and gave us each a warm handshake on the way out.

Huge love for this place. Can’t wait to go back.

Oh, and the Bourne Ultimatum kicked major ass, too.

Spumoni
14533 Ventura Blvd. (at Van Nuys)
Sherman Oaks, CA 91403
(818) 981-7218

Career Change '07: Update

2007-08-30T13:34:00.000-07:00

Here is the short version: There are good things and bad things. But the good things far outweigh the bad.

Good thing: The way I earn money now is something I truly enjoy and receive never-ending satisfaction out of performing day after day. I feel like I have made people’s lives better, less painful, less tense, less harried, and this sense of accomplishment is something I have never felt before in a job.

Bad thing: People who don’t tip. It’s not like money was the centrally motivating factor of me making the switch to this job, but the people who re-book me week after week and never tip are starting to become really annoying. And for the record, a tip could be one little dollar, it could be a coupon for Subway, it could be a flower, or it could be $20. One darling soul tipped me a Lindt chocolate bar the other day. I love the crap out of that! It really doesn’t matter what or how much it is as long as it is something that shows an appreciation for the heart and soul I am pouring into every massage. It is a service business, and should be treated as such. Rising above the feeling of being insulted by these people is something I am struggling with.

Good thing: A lot more time to spend at home with the hounds and a lot less time around lawyers.

Bad thing: Sometimes I feel lonely. I can feel the storm and the pulse around me of those commuting and cubicling, and I am no longer part of it. Which is fine, I did my time and feel like I am over that lifestyle, but at times it does feel a bit like being . . . left out. I remedy this by calling up The Hub or the girlfriends and listening to them bitch and moan about office life. This gives me comfort.

Good thing: Every day is different. My schedule changes constantly and new people, clients and referrals are constantly entering my life in interesting ways. I love this. This keeps boredom away and helps me to flex my organizing and time management muscles.

Bad thing: Sometimes I will have an appointment at 9:00 a.m. and then the next one at 2:00 p.m. Since I am not going to dangle around the Northridge Starbucks for four hours (though I am sure there is nothing wrong with that for those who do so), I end up driving home and coming back later. This ends up being a lot of driving back and forth on some days, not only being kind of annoying, but giving me serious enviro-guilt. I remedy this by reminding myself that I am not commuting over the hill every damn day and that my car is very itty-bitty and doesn’t use much gas. This helps somewhat.

Good thing: The nature of my job now is very physical so there is no slouching behind a desk for hours on end. You should see my biceps these days! Because of that physical nature of my work, some days I come home absolutely exhausted. The reason I am not listing this as a bad thing is because it is a good kind of exhausted – like you just went for a long, kick-ass hike and you know your ass will sleep beautifully tonight.

Good thing: Some days (like today), I don’t have any appointments until 6:00, which means I have lots of time to work on my and Bunnie’s brilliant script. Which is what I’m going to do now. Ta ta!

Go Shawtie, It's Ya Birthday

2007-08-23T10:12:00.001-07:00

We gonna party like it's ya birthday
We gonna sip bacardi like it's ya birthday
And you know we don't give a f&*# cuz that's ya birthday!

Since I'm content to let this berfday slide under the radar this year (hence, my broadcasting it across the internet), I am keeping it melloooooooow this year. I'm heading off to Burke Williams to be scrubbed, stroked and caressed, and then having some good champagne with some bad movies.

It's good to be me.

I Am My Own Worst Nightmare

2007-08-17T12:48:00.000-07:00

Don’t get me wrong: I have the ultimate respect for homemakers everywhere. There is no more noble or thankless profession. I just never thought it would be me.

As long as I can remember, it has been my worst nightmare: the image of the woman, in the house, in the house dress, barefoot, pregnant, cleaning, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, cleaning, writing thank you notes, running boring-ass errands like getting water from the water store. Heyall naw, give me human interaction, give me Happy Hours, give me intellectual stimulation, give me LIFE. As long as I can remember, this has been my mantra.

But since the “career change” that is no longer the case. The “career change” has given me ample time to embrace my inner Martha since my massage appointments are sporadic and on some days, non-existent. The house maven duties naturally fall on me. And guess what? It’s not so bad. Turns out I am a pretty good and creative cook, and can organize a household and tend to furry children quite well and with enthusiasm.

I have to admit though, it gave me total glee to go out last night. The walls of the house were starting to close in on me and I needed to get the hell outta Dodge and put my hands on the steering wheel rather than on a person’s back. I put on some make-up and a cute outfit, shit, I even blow-dried my hair, people! I met up with Trish and Shannon for a screening in the Hollywood Cemetery of a new upcoming show called “Pushing Daisies”. Shannon’s friend is the creator of the show. People, O. M. G. It was so good. I can’t wait to see more episodes. It will be airing on ABC soon, so watch for it. I am not a TV show person, but I will make time for this one, it’s that unique and delicious.

Just like my casserole.

To Bang Or Not To Bang

2007-08-11T22:51:00.000-07:00

That was the question.

As you can see, I chose to bang.

I felt like a six-year-old girl for a day, but now I'm kinda diggin' it.

Shake, Rattle and Roll Over

2007-08-09T10:24:00.000-07:00

Earthquakes are just not fun anymore.

There was a time when they used to be. To this day, I love making Valley Mom tell the story about how, during the ’71 San Fernando earthquake, she stumbled into my room in a panic to fetch me from my crib, and in her confusion and haste, grabbed her baby by the ankles and ran to the doorway to wait out the rest of the quake. I slept through the entire episode. It was a 6.6. And it was 6:01 in the dreaded A.M. – no wonder I couldn’t be bothered to wake up.

Later, growing up in the valley, there would be other quakes here and there, but they were fun. I was about eight or so and in the living room when a little one started rolling the house to and fro, and I distinctly remember it felt like ocean waves and so I started to ride them on the hardwood floors. How cool is that? Some stuff fell over, but it was never any big whoop.

Until 1994. The big Northridge quake. 6.7 Every valley person has their story about The Big One. Here is the short version of mine: It scared the shit out of me. It remains to this day, one of the single most frightening experiences of my 37 years on this earth.

There was nothing fun or rolling or nice about it. It was not a little “hello!” handshake from God. It was like God picked up the entire house and shook it angrily like He was losing in Vegas and here was the last of His cosmic pension on the table and all the hot angels had moved on to other tables and he was shaking those dice with the fury of a thousand angry Jesuses in the temple. Whoa! I guess I get Biblical when I’m upset. But seriously…

I have always had a kind of loving respect for nature. I get white-hot angry when someone litters, especially in a nature environment like a park or Lake Tahoe. To me, it is the equivalent of pissing on God’s front lawn or treading on Superman's cape or pulling on the mask of the Lone Ranger: You just don’t do it. I have always loved swimming in the ocean and been repeatedly swallowed whole by waves before and felt the power and known I could be taken out like that in an instant if nature so chose. But I have never felt nature so violently pissed off as I did that day, and I guess that is what was so scary. We were no longer friends. Mother Nature had become a hit man.

It took a long time for me to find my little dog Sophie that morning. She was a yappy dog with a lot of sass and believed she could kick anyone’s ass (I made a rhyme!). She slept upstairs next to the bed, but she wouldn’t come when I called her and I believed she must be dead since she worshipped me and always came when I called. After wading through the detritus and broken glass, I finally found her under the kitchen table, surrounded by her own pee and poo. She was shaking violently and quietly fixed her beady little black eyes on me with a look of utter fear, like I had caused the quake and she didn’t trust me now. Eventually I got her to come out and it strangely gave me comfort to comfort her. Every aftershock, she would look to me anxiously to see how to react, and I had to make myself be calm, make my heart rate go down, or she wouldn’t believe me that it really was okay. I kept holding her and comforting her through those long hours of darkness with no power, no street lights, when it seemed like the sun was never going to come up – what had happened was too terrible and maybe it would just call in sick today. The loneliness and fear in those hours is something that is part of me now. It’s in my blood. I still respect Mother Nature, but trust is something that is not so easy to reclaim.

So as you know, last night, not long after I had gone to sleep, the house was jolted by a 4.5 and I woke up, panicked, ready for action. This mother-effer was not going to take me, dammit! But it was over as soon as it had begun. My heart kept pounding. Would there be aftershocks? Would it set off a larger quake? Nothing. I checked on the dogs. Maybe I could comfort them and that would comfort me. But they were already back to sleep. Apparently they are so L.A., they don’t get out of bed for less than a 5.5.

One day I might shake hands with Mother Nature again and we’ll do lunch or something. But for now, her PMS-y nature is something that still frightens me and I have to just keep her as an acquaintance. You just don’t know what’s going to set her off.

The Neighborhood Douche

2007-08-08T09:14:00.000-07:00

Can somebody please explain something to me? Why, in the name of all that is sweet and holy and good, do some guys feel the overwhelming need to take a perfectly good, nice car and strip it of all its muffling apparatus in order to purposely sound like a herd of Hell’s Angels driving over bubble wrap, erupting with fury from the bowels of hell? Why? Why, bitches, why?

Take this guy who squats on a couch a few doors down from us. I know he squats because of the nature of his doucheness and the fact that he does not get driveway parking privileges. We’ll call him Neighborhood Douche. This is not to be confused with the DBV driver with whom we are all well-acquainted through driving the highways and by-ways of L.A., or by being semi-close to a high school. No, the Neighborhood Douche is a far more sinister creature. He drives a nice, reasonably new Mustang that is kept in good condition. But for some unfathomable reason, he finds it necessary to warn anyone within a five-mile radius of his impending arrival by breaking the sound barrier whenever he is close. And as if that isn’t enough, he also finds it necessary to accelerate up to 60 MPH through the residential streets and squeal around corners, I suppose to highlight his “2 Fast, 2 Furious” prowess.

I say “he” because I know it is a “he” for a couple of reasons. In my lesser inebriated moments, I have had to hear the impending douchousness and suffer the resulting douche annoyance shudders that always accompany the sound, followed by which I am compelled to glare out the window at said Douche and shoot imaginary bubonic plague-dipped darts with my eyes. In my more sauced up moments, however, it goes more something like this: I stick my head out an open window and shout at the top of my lungs, “Shut the hell UP, DOUCHEBAG!!!”

I also know it is a “he” because in my extensive travels of these mean streets, whenever I encounter the Sound of the Douche and whip my head in the direction of the offending party to express my disdain, there is never, ever, ever a female behind the wheel. Well, actually there was one once. But I am convinced that her Civic was in the shop and she was forced to borrow her boyfriend’s car as she was hunched low in the seat and seemed to be fairly mortified.

I guess the real problem I have with the ND is that he brings back bad feelings of a bygone era when we lived in Crackville, Venice. There was a person there whom I referred to as “Ghetto Honking Bitch”. And when I say the “bitch” part of her name, I don’t use it affectionately like I do with you all. Oh no, it was meant to represent all the vilest, meanest, nastiest attributes of the word. She would pull up in front of the house across the street, sometimes at 7 a.m. on a Sunday, sometimes at 3 a.m. on a weekday, but always at the worst, most inappropriate time, and always daily, and honk the horn of her ridiculous SUV like her ass was on fire. Talking to her nicely about it, screaming “SHUT UUUUUUUP” out the window, all had the same effect: It made her do it more. She was one loud, obnoxious voice in a sea of loud, obnoxious voices in that area – people who are noisy and don’t give a shit that there are people living nearby. They want you to hear them and your peaceful enjoyment of your home be damned.

So I have these awful flashbacks of previous unsavory living conditions and I run this imaginary dialogue in my head with the ND. It usually goes something like this:

ME: Hey… Douchenferry McDouchealot? Hey, can I just call you Douche for short? Great. Hey, listen, I was just wondering…. See all these cute little post-WWII houses? The ones with the lawns and flowers and stuff in front? See the kids’ bikes and toys lying around? See the cars parked in the driveways and on the street? Yeah, um…. I know this might sound crazy but um…. People like, live here and stuff. I know, who knew, right? People live here and watch movies here and have children who might be napping here and people talk on the phone here and see, every time you drive by, which is often, you are the equivalent of bad cell phone coverage that causes people to LOSE THE SIGNAL OF THEIR LIFE for a few moments because of you and your douchey ass. The douche shudders of annoyance are seriously cutting into my and everyone around here’s living time and you know what, D-bag? I can’t hang anymore! So you need to take your little douchemobile into the shop, get the standard factory-issued mufflers put back on the shit, and find some other way to scream for attention that doesn’t involve your neighbors, m’kay? Perhaps with loud clothing.

NB: Gosh, ma’am. Thank you for pointing that out to me. I had no idea my douchosity was causing such inconvenience, but now I see the err of my ways. I will get the problem handled immediately. And I thank you for your candor and your feather-light touch.

ME: It is my pleasure, Douchenstein. Have a nice day!

Don’t You Forget About Me

2007-07-29T23:48:00.000-07:00

I so didn’t want to go. I just loathed the thought. There are twenty blissful years separating me from high school – why in the name of all that is holy would I want to return? The reunion people tracked me down with the stealth and tenacity of a bloodhound on crack. Not only have I moved around a lot, I moved FIVE TIMES IN ONE YEAR, PEOPLE. How on earth did they find me?

I scoffed at the invitation. They wanted $106 out of me to revisit some old insecure feelings and eat some crap-ass dinner. Well they weren’t going to get it.

See, I spent junior high and part of high school at a very small private school. It was more like a family than school. It was easy to be involved in everything because there were so few of us. I was a cheerleader (shut up, bitches! Like it’s that hard to imagine!), I was in drama, I was in the glee club, and with the exception of the dreaded math or algebra class, I was pretty much a straight-A student.

Then, a few months into tenth grade, I decided I needed to get away from the tiny incestuous private school environment and explore the big bad world of public school. To spread my wings, as it were. I left my comfy little nest and all my friends and went to this huge public school where not only did I not know a soul, but I was starting when the school year had already started.

It was traumatic to say the least.

I was completely unaware of, and thus, completely unprepared for, the clique system. The way high school politics work. Who was popular and why. It was all very baffling to me, more than a little disconcerting, and I never really got the hang of it. Also frightening was being a kid with no money in a wealthy town who had previously worn a uniform to school every day. I didn’t know how to dress and didn’t have the money to buy the clothes even if I did. I couldn’t be a cheerleader at this school – the uniforms alone were way too expensive. But I didn’t have the confidence to even try out in the first place. It was like being in a foreign country and not speaking the language. I didn’t speak the language of High School.

I turned to the activities that had brought me joy at my old school – being involved in dance and drama. Fortunately these things were free and allowed me to express myself somewhat, but they didn’t do anything for my social status. I was a geek.

My grades began to slide since the private school I had attended did not teach a college-credited curriculum. We were not made to read Lord of the Flies or The Great Gatsby before tenth grade – we had Bible class. I was woefully behind and constantly struggling to catch up, while struggling to fit in somewhere. Even my beloved English class, that I had always aced and adored, became a chore of trying to keep my head above water since all the other kids knew what was going on and I didn’t. I hadn’t even read Hemingway. And forget about the math classes – I had to re-take both Algebra AND Geometry in summer school since my right brain just could not grasp the concept of either. I ran out of Chemistry with tears streaming down my face – it was all based in math and I knew I would fail. I dropped the class after only one day.

Then Terrie called me. We had Spanish II together in eleventh grade and now we live only a few blocks apart. Was I going to the reunion? Heyall naw, was my response.

Then I was contacted by another friend. Her name is Yolanda. She and I were BFFs in eighth grade and she later came to the big bad public high school where we later lost touch. She wanted to go to the reunion. I started to raise my eyebrows and pooch my lips out slightly in a “hmmmmm” expression at the thought.

Then I was contacted by another friend, Michelle. She was coming out from Boston for the reunion and was I going? I told her no. Then she offered to buy my ticket. Hmm. More pooched-out lips. I called Terrie and asked if she would agree to drive me there and give me beer money and let me take a cab home if it sucked (workin’ it, people). She agreed. And so I agreed to go.

So I washed my hair and put on a cute dress and filled my cute leopard print flask with vodka (because I am a bad girl like that), stashed it in my purse and headed to my 20-year friggin’ reunion.

And had the best time.

There were no weird social constructs this time. It was like a giant cocktail party where you vaguely know everyone, but it is a level playing field. I started to remember that there had been really good times in high school. There had been sweet, interesting people that had reached out a hand of friendship to me and I had forgotten them. Not everybody was shallow and concerned with being popular – some people had incredible talents and dreams that they later explored in life and it showed on their faces. There had been boys that liked me for me, not for my status, and I had liked them. I was a different girl back then, but I felt like I got to reconnect with that girl and heal some of her old hurts. And it felt good.

It was also some of the best people watching, like, EVER. It is interesting to see how people behave in such a strange context as a reunion. I had kinda been looking forward to cattily trashing my mental image of the cheerleader who had grown old and fat and had six kids, but it was not to be that night: all the women in my class looked incredible. Stunning, really. Michelle pointed out one woman to me in a beautiful floor length backless cocktail gown with jewels around the edges. I didn’t remember her from high school, but according to Michelle, this same woman had a kid about to go into college. WTF??? Truly beautiful girls were in my class, and they were even more beautiful now.

To add to my enjoyment, I happened to know the DJ from acting class long ago, and got to choose some songs. Lookout Weekend by Debbie Deb, Panama by Van Halen. Oh yeah, it was ON and the dance floor got packed.

We all left that place with smiles on our faces. I’m so glad I went. But still really happy high school is over.

It just wasn’t my thing.

It's Official: I'm Not A Morning Person

2007-07-18T10:27:00.000-07:00

I thought since leaving the office job and becoming a massage therapist, I would test out my natural rhythm to see what it really wants to do. Having grown up as a teenager with small chil’ren in the house who are noisy at all times, and then working the office job from the age of 18 on, I have never known what it is like to sleep until you’re done sleeping except on weekends (when I might be recovering from a particularly stressful week or from partying) and most vacations (when I might be screwed up by jet leg or following a schedule of sight-seeing or on a trip with MPs who get my ass up in the morning). I have always conformed to the schedules of the dreaded MPs who seem to set the clock for the rest of the world.

Until now. See, most massages happen later in the day. Who wants a massage in the morning? It’s just . . . wrong. You want to roll off the table and go take a nap or have some wine or have someone brush your hair while you talk about astrology or whatever. You don’t want to bounce off the table and be a productive spaz. So this leaves my schedule open in the early part of the day to get up whenever my body wakes me, do some yoga, go for a walk, have my coffee, (so spoiled by Italian coffee now), and do things like create shite for this blog. So I don’t set an alarm.

Some nights I am enthralled with a book and won’t get to sleep until 1:00 or later. Some nights, especially if I have had several appointments that day, I am conked out by 10:30. Guess what I found out? For the past three weeks, I will sleep until 9:00 every morning if allowed to do so. No matter what time I went to bed. It’s almost comical. And it’s so precise. It is always between 9:00 and 9:15, no later, no earlier. One recent morning I awoke on my own, turned and looked at the clock which read 8:55, and was like, WTF??? That ain’t right! I went back to sleep for a minute and then got up to start the day.

What I have learned from having this knowledge is the following:

1) Some people are just naturally productive and better able to absorb information in the later part of the day. That’s just me. And that’s fine. It is no reason to feel guilty and doesn’t make me a slacker.

2) Sleeping until your body wants to wake up is goooooood. It automatically builds energy into your day because you are truly rested. I love the crap out of that feeling.

3) I better enjoy it NOW. Since Valley Girl and her hub are already looking to add Valley Baby to the mix, my days of natural slumbering bliss are numbered. Unless of course, Valley Baby gets my late-ass genes and is happier to stay up with me doing breast milk shots and watching Big Love while Daddy goes to bed at 10:00. Then we could get up at 9:00 the next day and get busy eating and pooping and sleeping some more.

Hey, it could happen.

Bitch Totally Stole My Look

2007-07-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

Sad Sack, Party of One? Your Table Is Ready.

2007-07-10T12:12:00.000-07:00

Okay you guys, here it is. I know I have been a bad neglectful parent to this baby blog lately and I want you to know why.

Your girl has been stricken with the worst depression since Sex And The City went off the air. And yes! I am aware of the movie in the works and yes! You better believe my ass will be throwing a huge party for that occasion, complete with cosmopolitans, high heels, and lots of chicks. In fact, ONLY chicks. But that’s down the line, and that is IF this dream miracle of a movie ever actually does come to fruition. You know how Hollywood is.

What’s been happening with me is far more sinister and unexpected. And I think I have it figured out after much parsing out of emotions, dissecting, analyzing and actualizing by some key friends the likes of which would turn a codebreaker for the CIA green with envy. To put it in brief terms, my world has been turned upside down. And I am just now figuring out how to put back in their place the fragments of my psyche that have shaken loose.

See, for nearly twenty years of my life, all I have known is the comfort and predictability of office life. Sitting behind a desk. Though it has gone radically against my natural biological grain, my daily life has involved, as long as I can remember being an adult, getting up early (ick!), hosing off and getting cute fast, jumping in the car, fighting traffic to the office, getting to the office, getting caffeinated and then following instructions all day, interfacing with a large variety of people (some friends, some annoying gossip-mongers, mostly butthole lawyers) – LUNCH BREAK – trudging through the rest of the day until 5:30 when I get to fight traffic for an hour or more, get home, then have a life with my relationship, dogs, family, friends, etc., anticipate Fridays, vacations and holidays and there you have it.

Now, things are different. Leaving the legal business to become a full-time massage therapist is something I have dreamt about doing for a long time. And things aligned in my life just so to allow me the opportunity to do that. But the ensuing feelings of being lost and starting over kind of swallowed me whole and I was so not ready for that. I had anticipated cartwheels and sunshine and unicorns at this point, not feelings of sadness and loss, sleeping too much but not very well, drinking too much, lack of interest in the usual things that bring me joy, lack of energy to even be around people. It’s been rough. And frustrating. It is in my nature to be happy and joyful, and every morning I would wake up and go “WTF? This shitty feeling is STILL HERE????”

Now don’t get me wrong: the nature of my job now is everything I thought it would be. It is rewarding in a profound way that I have never before known by pushing paper around behind a desk all day. I am helping to relieve people’s pain and suffering and stress, and I have a unique perspective on it since I, like many of them, sat behind a desk for so long and know where that particular brand of stress slithers into the body and sets up residence. But guess what? I am still new at this. Not only are my appointments sporadic and the nature of my job now very physical and tiring, making it difficult to plan my time with any kind of efficiency, but I am no longer the best at what I do. Can you say ego blow?

At my previous jobs, I am used to being the girl who works circles around everybody else and still has room left in my multi-tasking repertoire to solve my girlfriends’ problems, plan dinner for tonight, write a few blog posts, research some obsessive health issue of concern that I must get to the bottom of, make plans for the weekend and then still have time leftover to read Go Fug Yourself.

Now, I am the newbie. I am not the most experienced, efficient therapist in the house. You can’t multi-task while doing a massage – it is a solid hour of pure focus and quiet. Add to this the fact that I am starting at the bottom as far as earnings, which is also a huge blow to the ego. I’m used to being a major contributor to the household, dammit! Not so anymore. It’s like being in my early 20s all over again, that feeling of insecurity, of constantly worrying what other people think of you, if you’re DOING it right. I hated that shit then – I have to re-live it now?

I think there is also some post-wedding-honeymoon-time-of-my-life letdown going on too. You’ve seen the pictures – it really WAS that awesome. But now the anticipation of the whole thing is over and it will never happen again. I will never get married in Italy again, that was IT. And it was so great. What could possibly top that?

And then one recent Saturday night, sometime after my 12th beer or so (I’m exaggerating, but it was up in the high numbers I’m sure), it dawned on my drunk self that I was drinking to get away from feeling like shit. And that is the WRONG reason to drink, my friends. You drink to have fun, to celebrate something, to be with friends, to have a delicious wine with dinner or a funky cocktail in a fun bar. You don’t drink to escape. So I gave myself a break from the alcohol. It’s been eight days, and will likely last awhile since people keep telling me my skin looks fabulous. I can’t help but think it’s because of being off the sauce.

And then the other day whilst facing a mountain of dishes in the kitchen, I blasted “99 Problems” by Jay-Z and started to dance around the kitchen. And like a little kid peeking into a room where he sees Mommy and Daddy are kissing, I giggled sheepishly at myself and realized this is something the normal me would do. Am I coming back? Every day since that moment has told me “yes”.

I wanted to share this with you because I didn’t want you to think I have forgotten about you – I have been wallowing and unsure of how to even tell you this stuff. But I also wanted to share this with you because I want the nature of this blog to be more personal. I love that you are with me on this journey. Now that I have the time and space to focus more, you will be seeing more postings from me, I promise. And I hope you will keep reading. Dealing with problems, especially the ones we can’t see, is part of life, and I do still have a lust for it, even when it’s difficult to feel that lust.

Speaking of lust, The Husband has been so supportive and understanding through all of this and I know my ass has NOT been easy to live with. And for that, I am supremely grateful. To quote Jay-Z, “I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.”

Nail, Meet Head

2007-07-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

My acupuncturist rules. He periodically sends out little newsletters giving free health advice if he sees a pattern of inquiry about a specific subject coming up in his practice. But his most recent newsletter was more introspective and personal, and he had this to say, which basically sums up my viewpoint exactly. Next time you are in Encino or West L.A., give Dr. Randy Martin a shout-out.

"Of course I share with all of you, my prayers for a safer world, where we won't have the constant reminders of war and terrorism, which we have even today. And I pray for less divisiveness among our politicians, rather than the huge polarization we see among Americans who happen to identify more as conservative or liberal. I really feel these artificial labels merely work to isolate and overly dramatize our common issues. In reality, we all have a mixture of values, since we, as human beings are very complex. Wouldn’t it be nice if our talk show hosts, our political commentators and politicians spent as much energy on drawing us closer together, by pointing out commonalities, rather than further polarizing us by overly dramatizing our differences and making the "other" seem wrong or evil."

Wedding Photos

2007-07-03T12:04:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I am SO long overdue about getting these up here. Some of the photos had to be fixed (tiny spot on the lens) and our awesome photographer is re-sending them now. But here are a few of my favorites. You can see for yourself why it was depressing coming back home....

There Is Wisdom In Uncertainty

2007-06-28T22:58:00.001-07:00

OMG you guys. This is so much harder that I thought it would be.

And because it is taking me so much tortuous time to to correct my spelling errors this time... I had better leave it at that.

Change Is Good

2007-06-19T22:39:00.000-07:00

Well guys, today was it. Today was a few things, actually.

1) Today was the first day I posted a blog whilst under the influence.

2) Today was the last day of my legal career. I've been kinda keeping it a secret since I wanted things all nice and clean and done before I broadcast the news to the world, but guess what? After 13 long, long, LONG years in the legal business, I gave my notice two weeks ago, and today was my last day. I will be starting this Friday as a staff massage therapist working for a really great chiropractor in Northridge. And I'm really excited about it. Hence, see #1 above. The wine has been steadily consumed by your Valley Girl since about 5:00 today. And no sign of slowing down.

3) Today was the first time I walked away from a deliciously bad movie. I know!! What is happening to me? I'm sitting in bed, pillows propped all around me just so, rolling around on the tempurpedic in a nice shiraz-induced buzz when, to my total delight and serendipitous (I know, can you believe I can still spell in this condition?) glee, I happened upon a showing of Basic Instinct 2 on HBO. People, this has GOT to be the QUEEN OF BAD MOVIES, right? I mean, don't get me wrong -- I LOVED the first one. I watch it every chance I get, even more than Showgirls. I have it on DVD so it is at my disposal. I loved the character of Catherine Trammel. I loved how Michael Douglas was so her bitch. I loved how somebody actually had the balls to make a movie about a female sociopath who was also beautiful and smart and sexual. And I loved all the drama surrounding the writer of that movie (OMG people, if you ever get the chance, read Hollywood Animal by Joe Eszterhas. Can't. Put. Down. I'm just sayin'. And just because I can spell whilst a bit tipsy, doesn't mean I won't be abusing my usual parentheticals.) And though I was bitter that they actually went ahead and made the whole dumb sequel of one of my fave movies of all time (I have such a love/hate relationship with sequels: I believe they are the movie version of money-grubbing whores, with the exception of Aliens and a scant handful of others that managed to surpass the originals, but like, you idiot producers! Just let the original be the original and let it go for the love of film nerds! But I suppose if they did just let it go all the time, I would not have the supreme gorgeosity that is Aliens, so.... ), Basic Instinct 2. It got so skewered in the press, had a reportedly horrid script and even more horrid acting -- my God! In a shiraz-induced, change-of-career-little-crazy-let's-stay-up-late-and-par-TAY! wonkety-wonk, what's not to love with that mix?

But . . . I just couldn't get into it.

I tried. I tried so hard. I was all sitting up in my Heiress-On-Pills-So-Ready-To-Bash-You pose, wine in hand, sneer on face, nose in a wrinkle. And I just couldn't keep it up for the love of bad film. The story, so lame. The acting, so tired, so not-trashy-inspired. It was like ol' Sharon just went "People, I'm just killing time here until my next cabana boy massage, but sure, I'll text message in Catherine Trammel for you if it makes you randy, baby."

And so I found myself over Basic Instince 2 before it had even begun. I even walked out in the middle of one of the supremely choreographed sex scenes.

And sneaked off into the other room to tell you about it.

Oh, and guess what? We got the wedding photos. And since I am in NO STATE right now to download them, I thought I would give you this one teaser that I love so much:

The Million Dollar $16 Dress

2007-06-15T17:21:00.000-07:00

Remember the dress I told you about that I wore all over Italy? The one from Charlotte Russe I bought for $16?

Dudes!!! I busted that dress out again today for the first time since the trip. It is the magic dress! I stopped counting the compliments after, oh, number 32 that I heard the phrase "Wow, LOVE your dress!" from co-workers, complete strangers, and the long, not-so-subtle stares of two random dudes on the street. [I felt like saying to one of them, "I know, can you believe they're real?" But thought better of it and went on my way.]

Who says quality has to be expensive? Some of the cutest jewelry I have ever owned has come from Target. I'm just sayin'.

Like, Oh My Gawd!

2007-06-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

You absolutely MUST watch this video on YouTube of Moon Unit Zappa performing her hit single "Valley Girl" on Solid Gold, which I used to watch religiously for the Solid Gold Dancers. O. M. G. It is friggin' hilarious. Pay particular attention to the headbands and the leg warmers.

Italy Photos

2007-05-31T16:21:00.000-07:00

Since Blogger kinda blows with the whole downloading photos thing, please go here to view my Italy photos as a slideshow, if you are interested. There are no wedding photos yet, but I promise I will get those up ASAP when I receive them.

From Germany, With Love

2007-05-30T10:28:00.000-07:00

I am finally back, people. Did you miss me and my rantings?

The short version is this: My God I had an incredible time. I am changed. I am inspired. I am rested but exhausted. And I am now officially married to the most wonderful man ever put into existence and that, my friends, makes me ecstaticly, ridiculously happy.

I figured the only way I would be able to cover all this with any sort of coherent meaning would be to do it in shifts, although you will have to wait a couple more weeks for wedding photos since our guy, Domenico, is on Italy time. So in the meantime, we will have to make due with all the rest. Let me start with Germany.

As many of you know, I have a "German Family". Many many years ago, when I was but a wee embryo, my parents, who were living in Germany, got into a car accident. Their Bug collided with another Bug on the train tracks, and thus a beautiful friendship was born. A year after I was born, Rose gave birth to a daughter, Ruth, who was to become my pen pal from the age of 5. Until the trip, we had actually only hung out twice -- once at my pad in Venice when I took her and her then-boyfriend to see the freaks, and once at her pad in Germany, when they took me all over that beautiful place. I haven't seen her in nine years. Derek and I flew into Frankfurt in order to pay them a special visit before the wedding, and I got to meet her super adorable little boy, Tobias. To say I became attached would be an understatement. I mean.... just look at him:

Such happiness! Such inquisitiveness! Such affectionateness! In spite of his parents constantly correcting him as to my name, he insisted on calling me "Frau"-- woman. He cracked my shit up.

This is Schweinfurt, where Ruth and her family live. It is beautiful and charming and you could eat it with a spoon. We bought some Belgian chocolates here, and let's just say I am now completely spoilt by the beauty that is Belgian. I poo-poo on your Ghirardelli's.

Here is Ruth's hub and my hub, discussing manly things as we walk through cobblestone streets.
I'm super fancy with my camera angles sometimes. This is Rothenberg (or if you are German, Rottenberg). It is a medieval town, full of lots of medieval things.

Lots of the buildings have really cool things like a little nekkid man, shouting obscenities down from above an archway. Oh look, here's one now:

This is in front of the Crime and Punishment Museum, where we saw all sorts of medieval torture devices and techniques. So don't eff with me, man. I have been schooled in the ways of putting the hurtin' on people, medieval style.

See this dress? I bought it at Charlotte Russe in the Topanga Mall for like, $16. Get used to looking at it. I wore it all over Italy. Of course it was covered up here because it was kinda cold at the time.

This would be looking down on the town, where you can see the prevalent use of the architectural style known as "Early Super Cute".

This is at a church in Wurzburg, the beautiful little town where I was born.

I. Love. This. Man. And the background? Yes, it is real.

It was hard to leave my friends and little Tobi, but we promised we would get together with them again in the next year or so, hopefully at the Grand Canyon. Meanwhile, we had a plane to catch to Venice.....

Grammy -- The Talk of Talk Shows

2007-05-08T16:38:00.000-07:00

If you missed Grammy on Leno last Friday, be sure to catch her on the Ellen Degeneres Show this Wednesday. She was her adorable, feisty self on Ellen and boy, did they ever give her a surprise. Tune in to see it!

WTF, Over?

2007-05-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

So this morning, at the oh-so-convenient hour of 2:30 a.m., our backyard was swarmed with ghetto birds. For at least an hour. Actually it could have been one ghetto bird, but when it’s in your OWN FRIGGIN’ BACKYARD it sounds more like TWENTY. As I’m lying there in a WTF stupor, I hear a voice over a megaphone hovering over our backyard: “PUT YOUR HANDS UP. PUT YOUR HANDS UP.” I thought they only said that in movies?

Does anybody know what kind of trashiness descended upon our humble neighborhood last night?

Best Quote I Have Seen In A Long, Long Time

2007-04-26T12:55:00.000-07:00

"Religion is something that is mostly outward appearance. Faith is a different thing. Faith doesn't have a name. It doesn't have a category. It's oblique. So it's unspeakable. We degrade faith by talking about religion."

- Bob Dylan, from a recent interview in Rolling Stone

Bee Careful

2007-04-19T16:58:00.000-07:00

So I decided to walk to the bank at lunch to deposit my massage money, and kept noticing this buzzing sound. What the hell is that? I kept stopping and checking my clothes for bugs, looking around to see if there was a Jackrabbit following me or something. I ambled into the Co-Op to get my fave sandwich there (turkey on toasted sourdough with avocado and no sprouts) and went to the ladies’ since I didn’t think I’d be able to hold it all the way back to the office when I looked into the mirror and beheld a bee, trying with all his might to hump the giant fake orange flower I have in my hair today. It was quite a sight. He was really going to town. I suppose my choice of hair accessory could indeed have been construed as bee porno, but I hadn’t thought of that this morning when I shoved my dirty hair into a bun and clipped the obnoxious thing onto it to hide said dirt. My bad hair day = huge bee tease.

But thank heavens that mystery was solved.

Update

2007-04-18T14:45:00.000-07:00

The latest news from Derek's mom: Grammy's in two magazines that we know about: Sports Illustrated, page 17 and Golf World, pages 24 (Briefly column) and 26 (Front Nine column). How about that?

I Knew It All Along

2007-04-18T10:53:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. I am SUCH a slacker. I just feel so in limbo and everything with the trip coming up, I have not been motivated to write at all. Things that happen that are funny that I usually would be like “I can’t wait to pimp this story out!” I’m more like “Eh, pass the chips and let me shift positions on the couch.” Working six days a week makes for a very tired and pathetic Valley Girl, but as of this week I will be getting my Saturdays back, so that’s good.

But I felt I would be remiss if I did not tell you about the huge news in our family lately. You know Derek’s Grammy that I am always blabbing about? The same Grammy we go to visit in Chico who plays a mean game of cards and makes an even meaner peach cobbler? Well, she’s famous now. Unless you have been living under a rock, you’ve heard about the 102-year-old woman who recently made a hole-in-one, making her the oldest person on record to do so on a regulation golf course. Here is one of the many articles (be sure to watch her in the video, she is so cute), or just google "Elsie McLean" and you will see articles about her from all over the world. Now everybody wants her: Leno, Ellen, hordes of fans sending her requests for autographs. Not only did they book her on the above shows, but they moved her to sweeps week -- she is that hot! I don’t know squat about golf, but I do know that this "little old lady" has managed to unwittingly steal the show from the oh-so-elitist frou-frou Master’s Tournament and trumped the record previously held by a man in a male-dominated sport. Can you say "YOU GO, GIRL!" -- ??

But personally, all fanfare aside, the deeper meaning I have taken from the whole thing is this: You are never too old to achieve your dream. That is a lame cliché, of course, but hello? As an avid golfer, that being her dream, and still being out there three days a week swinging away, not giving a rat’s ass that she is 102, how can you not see the obviousness of the universal law at work there?

And a secondary, but also very relevant moral to this story would be knowing that me, you, anybody, can exist and thrive without the daily use of prescription drugs and crappy processed foods and a whole host of other items the big corporate monsters would have us believe we would die without. The secret is to just live positively and seek out your joys. Grammy’s had her share of physical ailments over the years, sure, but doesn’t rely on meds as a way of life and doesn’t complain about whatever aches and pains come up. It should also be noted that I’ve looked through countless photo albums and scrapbooks of hers, and can’t remember a single photo of her where she wasn’t smiling. This is what has kept her young and beautiful all these many years, and I hope in her now high-profile existence, people look beneath the accomplishment of her having managed this incredible feat, and see where it came from: That she has made an ace out of her life.

I am still crazy about her as a person and still ecstatic that I will soon legally be considered a part of her family, though I have felt a kinship with her since I met her. But with all the attention swirling around her, I have to admit I have a smug little voice inside me that amusedly says, “You gapers, I knew she was awesome all along.”

I'm Like, Sew Sewper Hot!

2007-03-23T09:56:00.000-07:00

Here is what you do when you come home from stripper class: Take off the clear shoes, eat a quesadilla, then do two shots of whiskey.

You decide that your Good Hair Day just didn't get enough exposure for the day (thank you, Conair ceramic hot rollers!), and you start taking pictures of yourself.

I am Le Hot, and need not even look into the camera's eye:

"Looking for a man who will be generou$$$. I love to have a good time and am up for anything. Am equally at home in jeans or in cocktail dress and heels."

I call this one Man With Mom Tattoo Sipping From Flask I Gave Him For Valentine's Day:

I totally do my own eyebrows.

My Dumb Ass

2007-03-01T15:05:00.000-08:00

I had been doing SO GOOD. Nary a drop of Jesus Juice since returning from Grammy’s, and loving the effects: Feeling better upon the usual hellishness of waking in the morning, more energy, less bloating, less red-eye, clearer skin, actual motivation to pick up after myself around the house, actual motivation to be productive, etc. It had been a week and a half and I had that cleaned-out, super-happy, I-so-have-my-shizzle-together! feeling.

And then it happened.

The raging baby shower.

Yeah, that sound you hear is the collective laughter of Valley Girl readers from all over the globe laughing their asses off that I would be so weakened to imbibe at a friggin’ BABY SHOWER. ON A SCHOOL NIGHT, EVEN.

But let me explain. Shut up, stop laughing! I’m sure!

The baby shower was held at this totally swank place -- the type of place that hires a team of lighting stylists to get the interior lighting just so perfect that every diner looks perfectly glowy, tan and fabulous. Each course offered a beautifully presented chi-chi serving of delight that melted in your mouth. So when the sommelier recommended and poured a delicate, but jovial syrah for our sipping pleasure, who the hell was I to say no to a sip? And when our server, with the quiet stealthiness of a ninja treading on 500-thread count pillows kept my glass bottomless, how on earth was I supposed to know how much I was consuming?

Until this morning, when I felt how much I had consumed. Even though it was expensive, apparently I consumed a lot, and am not feeling so swift today. And so, Valley Girl hangs her head in dumbassery, and hops back on the wagon. Lesson learned.

Shoe Flatulence

2007-02-26T11:17:00.000-08:00

So I got these flats from Old Navy, and I love love LOVE them. They are super comfy, super cute, and they go with friggin' everything.

But there is one problem. They fart when I walk. Yes, that's right -- the shoes fart. It is really annoying and distracting.

And I guess if I were the type to embarrass more easily, it would prohibit me from wearing the shoes. But the value of a shoe that checks off all three of the above criteria can never be overstated. And so I shall wear the farty shoes, oh yes! I shall wear the farty shoes. And funny looks by passersby be damned!

Weekend At Grammy's

2007-02-23T09:40:00.000-08:00

So we made the schlep to Chico to visit Grammy over the long weekend, which is always an awesome way to spend the weekend. Aside from cramming mass amounts of food into our faces at high speeds, the Weekend at Grammy’s Experience is one that lends itself extensively to relaxation since one is not likely to take a 102-year-old woman out bar-hopping or, I don’t know, spelunking. This provided me ample time to mess with my new-new camera. Oh yes! Valley Mom very generously ponied up the dollars to replace the new camera that Shitbiscuit stole from our house (it was still in its box -- I mean!!!) This meant that every creature within a 500-foot radius was subject to my annoying shutterbugging.

To wit, the many faces of The Pug:

"What is that shiny little thing in your hand?"

"Not a biscuit? Eh! Who gives a crap?"

"Sigh. God! It's exhausting being this stunningly beautiful."

And here she is giving you the ol' stinkeye:

And here's Grammy giving ME the ol' stinkeye:

There are always fun things to do at Grammy's, like roll around on the carpet and proclaim your undying love for said carpet:

"Love you, carpet. You don't mind that I photograph looking like Cujo."

Here we are, chillin' at Grammy's fave joint, the Outback Steakhouse:

"Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

"Heavens above, make the woman STOP already."

"Damn, I'm cute. Get my agent on the phone."

Holy crap, Rufus has groupies! Cute ones!

I recommend everyone have a weekend at their Grammy's (ours is taken though). It does wonders for the soul.