Keep The Madness Off The Car

Recently I traveled, by car, to St. George, Utah and the Grand Canyon.  And while I was driving these mind numbing roads, suppressing coughs and basic breathing (so the baby would continue to nap in the car) I began to notice some very interesting personalized license plate frames.  You know the ones I'm talking about.  The ones that read: I Would Rather Be Driving a Golf Ball. Get it?  Not driving a car but a golf ball?  Genius.  Now these kind of cheesy frames don't bother me because usually it's just some retired man's attempt to spruce up his Cadillac. It's all good Grandpa - drive on.

The ones that bother me fall under three categories:

1. The Princess License Frames

We've all seen these.  They are usually bedazzled with some rhinestones, colored in pink, and most likely placed on the car by some father or mother who was trying to passive aggressively tell their daughter how annoying they feel they've become.  While driving I saw one that read on the top: But, But, But...and on the bottom it read...I'm the Princess. And as I passed the car to give the obligatory stare of disgust, I saw a morbidly obese girl texting on her cell phone while driving with her knee.  Cinderella and Snow White eat your heart out.  Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not jealous of these self-proclaimed Princesses.  I just wish that they would respect real royalty and be honest about themselves.  Maybe instead of saying, "Beware Here's Comes The Princess" they could be truthful and say, "Beware here comes a woman in her thirties, who still lives in a fantasy world where she thinks she should be treated like the most important person in the room."  I'm sure there's a website that could handle this order.

2. The Exaggerated Declarations

I get it.  You think you are a great Grandma or Aunt or whatever, but I don't need to see it on your car.  Because really #1 Grandma?  Really?  Who voted? I didn't vote.  How do I know you don't secretly lace your home cooked cookies with Vicodin?  Do you even have grandchildren?  And lastly, I just passed your car and there's a man driving it!  Now what? Does this license frame mean anything?  How can a man be the #1 Grandma??!

3. Are You Trying To Get Pulled Over

I'm not kidding when I say I saw these two license frames: 1. Drunk Guy Coming Through  and 2. The top had three Marijuana leafs on it and on the bottom it said I'm High.  Yep, an actual statement of "I'm High."  What's the end game here?  Are you promoting drunk driving?  Do you hate MADD?  Were you actually high when you placed this on your car?

So, people please give me a second.  I get it - it's tempting to place something on your car in order to distinguish yourself from all the other cars out there, but let's think about it first.  Sure you'll always find the car that reads: Do Not Disturb...I'm disturbed enough Already - but do you really want to be associated with the "crazy car" at work?  Well, actually you are probably just an unemployed blogger...never mind - bad example.

That's My Dad

If you are just starting to read this blog, one, thank you for accidentally stumbling upon this, and staying on it, while you were searching for some inappropriate site about Hicks and California, and two, there's something you should know about me: I was either abducted by the FBI one night and implanted with a facial recognition software, or I was born with a super human power of recognizing the most random people.  Either way, if you have recently lost a loved one and can't seem to find them, or if you are curious if anyone at the grocery store was ever in a commercial - I'm your girl.  Am I exaggerating?  Hmm, let's see.  Yesterday at My Gym (see below entry) I recognized a couple, who lived in Santa Monica four years ago and who attended the restaurant I worked at ONCE.  ONCE!  I took one look at them, shuffled through my bionic facial database and asked, "Did you guys live in Santa Monica?"  Boom goes the dynamite.  Three years ago the actor, who played a high school meat head in the 1980s flick, Can't Buy Me Love, came into restaurant and after serving him coffee, I asked, "Where you in Can't Buy Me Love?"  He was so blown away by my recognition, he brought his wife into the restaurant the following day to introduce me as the "one who actually recognized me."

And then on Sunday, my super human powers showed they are getting even stronger.  Each Sunday morning the husband and I watch "Sunday Morning" on CBS.  (With great shame I'll admit I watch a show on CBS.)  During a segment on hamburgers, some footage from the 1950s was shown of two guys barbecuing outside.  The footage couldn't have been longer than 4 seconds, but immediately I grabbed the remote, rewound the channel, and declared, "That's my Dad."  Sure enough somehow CBS had gotten hold of some old footage my grandfather took for the Union Pacific that showed my Dad and his friend barbecuing outside.  I know, impressive right?  Now, I just need to figure out one, if I can make any money off this gift, and two, if the FBI has been using me this whole time. Check out the video at the 19 second mark. The good looking guy in the apron is my Dad.

Employed People Are Funny

I know my last entry was all about questioning peoples' professions, and since I didn't get a single comment or piece of hate mail...I'm at it again.  (Yes, the irony of my unemployed self making fun of people, who are actually employed, is not lost on me.)

So, where are we going to mock today?  A little place called My Gym.  Now, before you get all excited, let me first say, My Gym, which is basically a large indoor gymnastics playground for little ones, is the coolest thing I've ever seen since becoming a mom. (That would also include the past two episodes of Real Housewives of New Jersey - which technically I watched as a mom.)  No, I'm not going to mock the place that causes my child to nap for hours afterwards, I'm going to mock the grown men, who are the instructors at My Gym.  First of all, raise of hands of who is wondering what websites these guys are registered on.  Seriously, I love the songs, the puppet shows and the tumbling, but there's just something about a guy my age doing this as a profession.  What does he say his job is to his friends?  A Developer of Children Coordination and Stimulation.  (Still sounds creepy)  Child Entertainment Specialist.  (I'm gulping some water to swallow that.)  Does he even talk about his work to his peers? (Scene at a bar after work.)  "Oh yeah, today was rough.  If I have to teach one more kid on how to do a head stand I think my head is going to explode.  Am I right?"  Silence from his doctor and lawyer friends.  And lastly, how does one, being a grown man in his thirties, fall into this profession?  Was it a dare?  Did Chuck E. Cheese reject his application for skee ball operator?  Honestly, how did it happen?

Again, I ask these questions, but really I don't care.  My baby is sound asleep, I'm blogging my afternoon away, and nothing inappropriate happened today at class. I would say My Gym is A. O. K.

Pipe Springs Dream

Yesterday, I returned from a week long road trip to St. George and the Grand Canyon.  On the way to the Grand Canyon my parents and I stopped off at Pipe Springs.  You know, the National Monument? You know, how the water of Pipe Spring made it possible for plants, animals and people to live in a dry and desert region.  Pueblo and Kaibab Paiute Indians?  Mormons?  Nothing? 

Well, if you are ever headed to the lame Grand Canyon make sure you stop off here.  Or stop here and turn back to where you came from.  It's your choice.

So, anyway, while we stopped at this national treasure we were fortunate enough to catch the 1 o'clock tour of the fort, given by Rebekah, a real National Monument Ranger!  (Apparently, the spring needed to be guarded from the Indians.)  As I listened to Rebekah tell us about the old floors and how they all slept in the same room, I thought, "Rebekah, may I call you Rebekah or would you prefer Ranger Rebekah?  How did you get here? No, seriously, was this the plan?  Are you actually running from the law and figured no one in their right mind would check Pipe Springs because really, let's be honest, it's sort of an "interesting" bathroom break.  Or, did you somehow stumble on the "The Most Boring Jobs On Earth" book one day in the library, and decided right then and there, that if you couldn't work as a toll booth collector, you would become a Park Ranger in Arizona? And not a cool park like, um, oh yeah, the Grand Canyon, but at Pipe Springs??  Or lastly, do you just dig the outfit?  Is that it?  Are the polyester forest green pants just too hard to pass up that you would go anywhere, and I mean, anywhere, to just wear them in 110 degree weather?  Huh? Rebekah?"

Unfortunately, I never really got the chance to ask all my questions. I did, however learn that, after Rebekah asked us if we liked cheese, because we were standing next to a giant cheese maker from the 1890s, a kid in the tour group doesn't like cheese because it makes him constipated.  So, that was interesting.  

Ground Zero of Baby Throw Up

In the past week my baby has decided to throw up twice.  The whole experience of a baby throwing up is totally weird.  For example, in one moment your baby goes from this adorable, fun loving little person to a monster experiencing an exorcism.  Honestly, this morning she was in a mid-laugh, when all of the sudden, she stopped, looked at me and then enough liquid to fill a bathtub came out. As it was going on I just kept screaming, "Bad spirit be gone...be gone!"

Secondly, when a baby throws up it's like being at ground zero of a bomb explosion.  First, I assess if there are any survivors.  Did the vomit actually get my entire outfit from head to toe, or is that right sock still wearable?  Should I just throw away the baby's onesie, or do I care enough to actually scrap off the vomit and wash it?  Secondly, I check for causalities.  Is the carpet underneath me ever going to smell normal again?  Should we move and just forfeit our deposit now?  And lastly, I call for help.

And the last part that is the strangest about a baby throwing up is your mandatory reaction as a parent.  In any other normal situation, when someone throws up on you, you would, like any normal person, either scream and run, gag and run or gag, scream and then run.  I remember one time in college my drunken roommate asked me to hold her hair as she threw up.  As she started to spew into the toilet, I not only let go of her hair, but somehow in the process I managed to push her head down directly into the bowl as I quickly backed away.  (Fortunately, she was so drunk I just told her she fell from the car on the way to the dorm.)  But, again - She didn't even throw up on me and I was trying to get away. But as a parent, these are not your options.  Instead, you just have to take it.  You have to let the vomit wash over you, AND THEN, not worry that this foul smell will seep into your pores, but that this little one is okay.  The other night, when I was covered in two hour ingested sweet potatoes, I wanted to wash myself in gas and fire, but I didn't.  I couldn't.  I'm a mom, and let's be honest, third degree burns is never fun to recover from.

The Do's and Don'ts of Stalking

So, it probably won't come as any surprise to you - you faceless readers of this here blog, but I have some pretty cool and famous friends.  Yeah, and I'm not even including my first name basis friendship with the star of Rookie Blue.  Yeah, Rookie Blue.

Anyway, I was just messaging one of my famous friends, who recently had to change her name on Facebook because of some scary incidents of being stalked...again, you read that right:  I, Real Housewife of Irvine, have such a famous friend, that she, not only had to change her name on Facebook, BUT is being stalked. (Cue Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You."  What?  Probably the greatest movie of stalking EVer.)

So, they we were joking back and forth about stalking, when I suddenly remembered that I too have been stalked!  Good times, right?  No seriously, it was during my first semester at college.  Each morning I would wake up and find flowers, poems, and I think food one time, outside my door. With each gift, a note would be left expressing his love for me and then a description of some time "this admirer" saw me on campus.  At first I was sort of creeped out, and then when it continued, I continued to be creeped out.  At night, my roommate and I would try to stay up and wait for my stalker to drop off his tokens of adoration, but we always seemed to miss him.  Finally, one night, I and some friends, were headed back to our dorms on the campus bus, when this guy, who was obviously very drunk, got on and sat down close to us.  After a few stops, he turned around and said, while pointing to me, "I know where you live."  I would like to take a moment and stop here to point out, if any of you are thinking of getting into stalking or stalking me, please remember the number one rule of stalking: DON'T TELL THE PERSON, WHO YOU ARE STALKING, THAT YOU KNOW WHERE THEY LIVE.  It sort of takes the mystery out of the game.

And while I'm dispensing some guidelines for stalking let's talk about rule number two: WHEN STALKING MANIFESTS ITSELF IN GIFTS AND POEMS - MAKE THEM COOL.  I can still remember my stalker leaving some sonnet at my door about "Sweet Katherine." Really a sonnet?  You think a sonnet is going to get me to fall in love with you?  On the other side of the sonnet is there a check for a million dollars - because now I'm feeling a lot more love out of this gesture.

And lastly number three: IF THE GUY IS HOT IT'S NOT STALKING, BUT ROMANTIC.  IF HE LOOKED LIKE MY 1997 ADMIRER THEN HE IS DEFINITELY CLASSIFIED AS A STALKER.  Remember - hot = ok.  not hot = restraining order.

I'm happy to report that once all my friends and I screamed at the same time, "YOU ARE THE STALKER!" and ran off the bus screaming like a man with a chainsaw was chasing us, I stopped getting my morning surprises.  Unfortunately, during my senior year my lacrosse team hired a new manager...yep, Shakespeare himself was now being paid to watch me.

Oh, stalking...

All My Dreams Coming True

Last night I dreamed that I was standing in a very long line at Target when this woman tried to butt in front of me.  At first I was really angry because all I had was one item, but then I decided to let her in front of me because she was old and seemed a little crazy.  Once she got in line I realized Avery needed to eat and I needed to get home...and then the dream ended.  (I know, this entry has already rewarded you for the two minutes you've wasted reading it.)

As I sat there in bed reflecting on my riveting dream I had two thoughts: 1. Seriously?  Not only do I visit Target twice a week, but NOW I'm dreaming about it?  And 2. If I'm dreaming about Target what does Jay-Z dream about?  Diving in money like Uncle Scrooge on Duck Tales?

If I dream tonight about thousands of red shirts and khaki pants I'm never going to sleep again.