Owned By The White Man

Is it too late to post about Thanksgiving?  No?  Fantastic.  More than a week ago...what, this post just came to me...I attended an amazing spread at the Mission Viejo Country Club.  Honestly, I think Thanksgiving should always be enjoyed in two ways: 1. Buffet Style - because just plain ol' turkey doesn't cut it.  I want shrimp, prime rib and pumpkin raviolis in my mouth and I want a ridiculous amount.  I also prefer the buffet because, let's be honest, a little exercise while you eat is always a good thing.  (And when I say exercise, I mean walking to and from the buffet tables.)  And two, someone should always make Thanksgiving...someone other than me.  I can NOT express my terror of being in charge of Thanksgiving one day. Can we all say Boston Market?!  

So, needless to say, the food was great at my Thanksgiving, but what really brought the holiday home for me was the authentic "entertainers" the country club hired.  Once you finished your meal you were invited to go outside and learn how to throw a tomahawk or pull a bow and arrow from...how do I describe our "teachers"...men, who just got off the Trail of Tears.  Yeah, that will do.  I have never encountered someone so committed to their job.  As I was screaming, "Take that white man," while I threw tomahawks into a stump of wood, my instructor stopped me and informed me that his Cherokee friends would be proud of my technique.  Technique?  Of mocking Indians killing pioneers or how I stepped just right into killing my opponent with a steel axe?  I just like to know what I'm being complimented on.  He then began to inform me about how Indians would use these to kill "white people," in sort of a proud way...I might add.  Yeah, it just got real up in here. 

Then as if that wasn't awkward enough, my brother in law, a comic genius, came over to us with a raccoon pellet around his chest and said, "Man, I'm getting hot with this thing on."  (If you refer to the picture you'll notice the pellet wasn't that large.)  Again, our instructor wasn't getting the sarcasm and informed us that the pellet was warm, but a coyote hat he usually wears with his Iroquois friends was really hot.  (I'm not sure if he changed the tribe of his friends, but aren't they all the same...and there goes my Native American readers.  Kidding about the tribe joke.)  Yeah, he said coyote hat.  Who wears a coyote?  On your head?  Definitely pants, but a hat?  Ridiculous. 

So, how was your Thanksgiving?  Probably not as cool as mine.  Did you get owned twice by a non-Native American?  Didn't think so.

DTR

So, the daughter has found her hands...and man, has she found her hands.  All day long she has them in her mouth just sucking away.  This morning the making out with the hands took on a new level - now she's making all sorts of noises while sucking.  I just think the daughter and her hands need to have a DTR.  (For normal people, who didn't go to school in Provo, Utah - a DTR is relationship term entitled Define The Relationship.)  Anyway, I just think a good talk would be good...I just fear her hands don't feel the same way.

Unfinished Business

So, I need some advice.  I'm moving in two weeks, but I feel like I'm leaving Santa Monica with some unfinished business.  No, there's not some special homeless person I have neglected to feed, or have I forgotten to spend a day at the beach.  No, people, this is way more serious...for the past three months, while living in this apartment, I have not once, not once, said or done anything to communicate my disdain for the trombone, trumpet and violin playing from my downstairs neighbor.  Sure, I've tried to do an occasional workout tape with lots of jumping, and I've literally carried my daughter to the window so she could belt out a little crying, but let's be honest, have these fleeting attempts said anything? No, is the answer we are looking for.

So, here I am, 11 days to go and wondering what should I do?  Sure, I could just tell them it's been great living above them and walk away, but what about the future tenants?  Do I just let this musical torture continue?  I guess, I could write a small note and leave it at their doorstep, but again, how do you properly phrase, "I have wanted to kill you over these past three months."Hallmark can't cover that!  So, I need your advice.  Below are three options...which is perfect because I'm pretty sure three people read this blog...please vote for the best choice.

1. I sit down my 13 year old trumpet player and show her a video of me playing the trumpet in middle school. This will ultimately intimidate her to such a point that she'll have no choice, but to not only give up the trumpet, but destroy every instrument in her house so she won't be reminded of her inferior talent.

2. I will sneak into her room late at night, dress in a hazard suit and place a Walkman* onto her ears.  Then while playing Eddie Van Halen I will tell her that I'm from the future and she is to stop playing the trumpet because her playing will cause an outbreak of mass hysteria that will lead to the utter destruction of our planet.  (Ten points if you know the reference.)

3. I sit the family down and explain walls.  I tell them walls hold up buildings and make rooms.  I then show them wood, plaster and installation and tell them this can be a wall.  Once they understand the concept of a wall, I put them next to the wall and ask them if they can hear anything.  I'm guessing the smart 13 year old will exclaim, "We can't hear anything!" and I'll say, "You are right!"  Then I'll go on the other side of the wall and start a jackhammer.  Once the jackhammer is warmed up I'll ask the family again, "Do you hear anything?"  and they'll say, "We hear a jackhammer!"  "Good," I'll say, "You now understand the last trait of a wall:  it doesn't stop sound."  And everyone will laugh and the dad will say, "Kate, thanks for explaining walls to us.  We now know that you can hear our trumpet and trombone each afternoon.  Thanks for helping us learn something!" 

I need your votes by the end of today...or whenever you three get around to reading this blog.




*If you don't know what a Walkman is please stop reading my blog.  You are way too cool to be reading this.

Yeah Right, Clifford

Now that I've had a child, I've realized that there are so many things people neglected to tell me before I embarked on this journey.  For example, I heard people tell me many times that the baby weight will just fallll off after I start breast feeding.  LIE.  You know what falls off?  Your self-esteem because that weight ain't going nowhere.  Second thing I was never told - Facebook will be the death of you as a mother.  Did you buy a pumpkin outfit for your two month old so they could be photographed in it for three seconds?  No?  What?  No, Thanksgiving onesie?  How will your 11 week know it's a holiday?  Are you trying to torture your child?  You know what I should have been told/warned - you will begin to loathe your high school and current friends after you see their endless baby holiday pictures.

And, the last thing I was never told, and something I would like to publicly warn future mothers of, is the utter ridiculousness of children's books.  I'm not saying reading to your child is bad, I'm just saying the books you read to them make NO SENSE.  None. Take for example, Clifford the Big Red Dog.  First of all, there is not a government on the planet that would allow this ginormous dog to run around. It would be put down and sent to a lab for testing before Will Smith could even think about becoming some hero and flying an alien spaceship into its brain.  Second of all, what parent thinks a dog the size of a house is a good playmate for a girl named Elizabeth.  Are they hoping that Clifford by accident eats Elizabeth so they can stop paying for cheer camp?  And when the authorities come questioning her whereabouts they can just shrug their shoulders and say, "I think our dog ate her."  This is okay for homework, but to get out of parenting is just unacceptable.  And lastly, let's be honest, this dog is huge.  According to the book, which I'm taking as fact, Clifford bathes in a pool, eats large amounts of food and sleeps in a house equally as large as Elizabeth's house.  So, let me ask you this: 1. What family in their right mind would spend millions of dollars to house, feed and care for an animal that could at any point sit on them and instantly kill them?  2. And you know you are all wondering this...who cleans up this dog's poo?  I mean seriously.  His dumps would cover neighborhoods. 

I just want some realistic books.  None of these stories of a grown man hanging out with a talking monkey, some bird asking everyone if its his mother (don't get me started on this depressing story) or about a genetically mutant dog.  Is that too much to ask?

Lock Me Up

   Lately, I've been feeling guilty with my recent parenting.  No, I'm not hitting my child, or locking her in the car while I run errands...no, it's something far worse.  Today my child is officially 11 weeks old and you know what I've completely neglected to do, and which will most likely scar her for the rest of her life?  I never once...how do I say this...I never...please forgive me...put a snow cap on her, took off her diaper, wrapped her in a blanket, placed her in a tin bucket in the middle of the forest and took her picture.  There I said it.  I never did it.  I know, I should be calling protective services on myself, but you must understand.  One, I just couldn't find the right snow cap that said, "I was born in September and will be a pure delight for the rest of my life," and two, I don't have a forest to use.  I live at the beach people...the beach!  So, until I find the right bucket and hat, please forgive me.  And Avery, please don't hold it against me when all your friends have their bucket pictures.

How Cheap Do You Want to Be?

Listen folks I'm not ashamed to admit it - I love massages.  I love the anticipation of it beginning, and I even don't mind when they allow me to sit there at the end and bask in the relaxation of my newly massaged muscles.  I love the cheesy music they play, the soft sound of oil squirting from their "oil belt" and even when they cause me to whimper in pain while they massage my legs.  Honestly, it could be a man, woman, or even a little child - it doesn't matter - I love it all.

But, you know what?  As much as I love the actual massage experience, I loathe the encounter that takes place afterwards.  You all know what I'm talking about.  You come out and your best friend in the whole world (the masseuse) hands you a little cup of water, and says, in the most caring voice, "Now, make sure you drink lots of water today because we've released a lot of toxins into your body."  Can you believe that?  Not only has this strangely strong woman rubbed you down, but she's also expressing concern for the rest of your day.  Thank you.  So, there you are, feeling relaxed, cared for and now it's time to pay.  This is the part I hate.  Inevitably it goes like this:  Stupid receptionist asks in the loudest voice possible, "Did you have a good massage?"  To which I always reply, "Oh, yes." And then, in an even louder voice, which goes against all the signs in the place to stay quiet, she asks, "And how much gratuity would you like to add?"  I loathe this moment.  Did every massage place get together and decide, instead of allowing the customer to write in the gratuity, they would shame the person into saying out loud how cheap or generous they wanted to be?  I just don't get it.

And then to make matters worse, the masseuse will stand there, pretending to check their other appointments, while you mutter, "Um, let's see.  It was a really good massage.  Man, I hate math....um, let's put ten on."  And there it is.  You just committed the cardinal sin of the massage world - tipping 20%.  Immediately, the receptionist puts her head down, the masseuse curses himself for not suffocating you while he had the chance, and the people waiting gasp in disbelief that someone could be so cheap.  I hate, hate, hate this moment.  Honestly, riddle me this:  1. Why does 20% not apply in the massage world?  How come you are suppose to tip more in the 30-80% range?  Are they curing future cancer I don't know about?  2. Who stands there to await their tip?  Guess what, in my three years of being a server I never once stood there and asked, "And how much gratuity do you want to give me?"  You know why?  Because that's weird.

So, listen massage world, I going to keep coming and 20% is all you are getting.  Tell me my future after the massage and I'll start thinking about 25%,

Show Me The Money

So, I'm sad to report that our time in Santa Monica is coming to a close. The husband got a new job in Newport so we are moving down to Orange County.  Which is awesome, because you know how many wild and crazy things are going to happen in the O.C.?  I mean, I thought I saw my fair share of characters in Santa Monica, but the O.C....I mean, there's moms who drive nice cars to soccer practice, and then there's freeways, and toll roads, and shopping centers...it's going to blow my blog UP.  Stay tuned. That's all I can say is stay tuned.

Anyway, since we are moving I've been in the process of showing my apartment to prospective renters...and oh, how I love being on the other side.  Last night I showed the apartment to five people and you know what five people did?  They all completely kissed my buttocks.  It was hilarious.  Mind you I have no say in who gets my apartment, but there's no need to share that information.  So, bring on the high pitch laughs, the ridiculous comments on how adorable my baby is (Which is actually true and should be noted any time someone sees her.) and of course, don't leave out your financial history.  Honestly, I had to restrain myself from laughing out loud as people would look around the apartment and then say casually, but not so casually, "So, I have great credit.  A great job and a steady pay check."  Fantastic, I wanted to say, I have no job, no say in you getting this apartment, but well done on having a stable life. 

I was telling the husband about the rear kissing and he thought we should start to milk this a little more.  Can anyone say kickbacks?  Under the table?  Winks?  Alleys and paper bags of money?  Come on people, how bad do you want my 3 bedroom 3 bath?

Pop Quiz

Pop Quiz: You know the movie Speed with Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock?  Remember the bizarre premise of the movie was how they all were going to die if the bus they were on went below 55 miles per hour?  Did you find that movie slightly improbable?  Did you miss the drama and fear of death this bus was supposed to inflict on you as a viewer?  Well, if you feel like you missed the "bus" on Speed let me take you for a drive.  My baby, love her, is actually a living and breathing replica of the movie Speed.  What do I mean?  Well, go below 55 miles per hour and find out.  I'm not kidding.  Travel at 55 mph and everything is great and everyone is happy.  Drop to a dangerous 52, and well, things get uglier than a mangled handed, disgruntled, retired bomb squad police officer.  Honestly, this kid just knows.  I'll admit I've thought about blowing a hole underneath the car, getting everyone out and letting the car just drive on.  Too much?