Vindication 13 Years Later

I recently read that the military is dropping its pull-up requirements for women because the majority of recruits were unable to perform the minimum requirement of three.  Listen, I'm all about strong women and equal opportunities, blah, blah, but I got to be honest, I was pretty excited to read this piece of news.  Actually, I felt deeply vindicated.  Why?  Well, to be honest, I have had a very successful athletic career, but something has always weighed heavily on me as an athlete.  Each year I was in middle school we had to participate in the President's Challenge, which was a fitness test administered during gym class.  In order to win the award, one had to score at or above the 85th percentile on flexibility, running and strength.  Each year I would find myself in the running for the award and then the test of strength would kill me.  Was I a weak child?  Um, no, I was the size of a grown woman by 12.  No, my problem was that the strength portion of the test consisted of how many pull-ups you could do in a minute.  Freaking pull-ups.

I can still remember the demoralizing walk into the back wrestling room, where the lone bar hung on the wall.  Each year my gym teacher would give me the thumbs up and then say, "Okay, Kate, your time starts now."  And then the humiliation would begin.  With a little help I would be placed on the bar and then for 60 seconds I would just hang there.  For the first few seconds I would grunt and wiggle around, hoping momentum would somehow swing me up. Then, I would go into cursing my genetic pool of weak armed ancestors, who might have had the fortitude to walk across the United States for a better home, but in my book were really just a bunch of people with weak and useless appendages.  From there I would go into denial.  Sure my deltoid muscles were about to tear, and my arms were losing blood by the second, but I just knew this year was going to be different.  It had to be different.  And then, my gym teacher would say quietly, "Time.  Sorry Kate.  At least you'll get a 'Participating Award.'"  A "participating award?"  That was the worst because you know who else got the "Participating Award?"  Yep, the fat kids, the handicap kids...and me.

So, listen up gym teacher, who's name I can't remember right now, but I'm sure you were slightly creepy, and THE PRESIDENT, pull ups are stupid.  Even women, who most likely could kill me with their bare arms, even THEY can't do pull-ups!  So, here's what we are going to do. I'm going to need three certificates awarding me the Presidential Challenge. I'm going to need a written apology and I would like the bar in the wrestling room ripped off the wall and burned.  Maybe then, we can call it even.

Incredible

Today, while I was riding my bike through the back bay of Newport, I came across a very large group of people, who were standing near the waters edge, with binocular and cameras, just staring at some birds floating in the water.  As I passed the group, I heard someone say, right before their giant camera fired off 14 consecutive shots of the swimming birds, "This is incredible."  Really?  Incredible?  I think we all need to stop a moment and clarify what definition we are using for "incredible" because I'm not sure we are all on the same page.  Incredible is: surviving a plane crash.  Incredible are: heart transplants, the amount of poo at 16 month old baby can generate, or the fact that Justin Bieber hasn't been shot.  Now, those things are incredible.  A plain looking bird floating in a feces filled bay, I got to say, is not exactly incredible.

So, I got to ask, and not the obvious question of, "Why are birds remotely interesting?" but, "How does one become an avid bird watcher?  Or what does it take to become a bird watcher?"  Seriously, I want to know.  Must you hate exciting things?  For example, if I enjoy speeding down a hill on my bike, would I be a bad candidate for bird watching?  Would it be better if I found enjoyment in sitting at the post office and watching customers buy stamps?  Am I getting in the bird running?

Secondly, is there a weekly newsletter, website or Facebook page of where one can post the thousands of pictures taken of the bird sitting in its nest?  Maybe I'm reaching here, but if I'm going to walk twenty yards into a forest, hold my breath, so as to not disturb my adoring subject, and manage (fingers crossed) to take 135 pictures of him, where and how can I share this gift with the world?  If nowhere, then bird friends, I'm not sure this gig is for me.

And lastly, to become a bird watcher, must you focus all energies just on birds?  For example, is it taboo to the hobby to become a fish watcher or a lover of different tree branches?  What if you explain that while falling in love with the birds, the branches just seemed to, unexpectedly, sneak up on you?  And you can't explain it, but there's just something you and the branches understand about one another that the birds just don't seem to get, or to be frank, try to get?

I know, I know, a lot of questions.  Maybe one day I'll get the courage to stop and interrupt the incredible magic going on in the back bay.

The Elusive Color Yellow

Last night the husband and I went exotic and ordered Chinese food.  Hmmm...MSG.  After the meal, we both cracked open our future cookies only to find we both had received the same fortune.  Pray tell, what are the chances you crazy Chinese fortune tellers?

Anyway, the fortune read: "Focus in on the color yellow tomorrow for good luck!"  Focus on the color "yellow."  Huh? So, today is tomorrow and I have to admit, no good luck yet.  For example, last night, due to the copious amounts of salt that was undoubtedly placed in our food for flavor, I drank a lot of water.  What does that mean?  Well, my urine was not so yellow.  Heck, it was basically water.  So, great little China man, no good luck there.  Then I encountered some yellow snot coming out of my baby's nose...followed by a million dollars?  Nope, just more snot.  0 for 2.

Were my dying yellow lemon trees outside, that need probably all the water I drank last night, sprouting cures to cancer, free babysitters, secrets to how to remove my back love handles?  Nope.  Do I own any yellow clothes?  No!  Is the sun even out today? No it's cloudy!  Damn you color yellow and all the good luck you promise!

Dear wise and prophetic future tellers, who work in the fortune cookie factories in San Francisco, you have got to be more specific!  We, I mean, humankind, depend on these small strips of paper for guidance and direction.  You've got to give us more...and you've got to think a little harder than offering the same fortune.  My husband has a job.  A real job.  Do you know how much legal yellow paper he's surrounded by?  He's an absolute mess today.

The Battle Cry of No

Holy sweet Moses it's been a while since I even opened this blog. I would like to state that my absence was not due to the overwhelming hate mail I received due to my last entry in regards to Michael Buble.  Sure, you haters are going to hate, but it was the Christmas season and I heard music from an angel.  'Twas the season you haters of soulful jazz and butter voices.  So, yes, I took a break...and I liked it.  But, you know what a large break means for me?  A lot of freaking sarcasm and judgmental feelings that must be expressed.  So, bring on the new year...the new day...because I'm feeling...gooood.  (I'll stop with the Michael Buble.)

So, where do we begin?  Well, let's begin in my new little world.  Lately, my child has decided to start doing some strange things.  One, she has no idea what "no" really means, and yet, that seems to be the answer for everything.  And it's not just one time saying "no," but actually hundreds of times, while vigorously shaking her head.  The husband and I, naturally, have resorted to mocking her by shaking our heads up and down like Metallica, while saying, "yes" over and over again, and my personal favorite of asking her questions like, "Does global warming really exist?"  "Did the world start with a big bang?"  "Do people really watch the show The Big Bang Theory?"  "Should I get bangs?"  "Will Obamacare ever work?"  And...out of the mouth of babes...

The other strange occurrence, and probably the MOST annoying thing in this new world of mine, is my child has decided to start waking up in the middle of the night by standing and then violently screaming.  This usually happens about twice a night and then ends with us relenting, like some beaten prisoners, at around 5:30 in the morning.  The other morning when this happened, I laid on down on the couch with my now consoled daughter, and started to reflect on the absurdity of this new practice.  First, how does one go from a soft slumber to a siren of panic? Can you imagine doing that now as an adult?  One minute you are spooning your partner and the next you are standing on your mattress screaming like you've been stabbed.  The first time it happened, I honestly expected her to be in the act of falling from her crib or being abducted.  (Got to stop watching 48 Hour Mysteries.)  And when I found her standing there, trying to hand me some forsaken stuffed animal, I got to admit, I was a little disappointed.

So, this is my new world.  Mr. Buble sing me out.

I Saw it, And I Liked it

This weekend I had the opportunity to see Michael Buble in concert.  Initially I was a little hesitant on going.  I mean, this isn't exactly a concert, someone my age, can or should be bragging about on Facebook or Instagram.  (Facebook status:  "Just got back from Michael Buble...so proud to be white, middle aged and rocking the Sinatra classics!")  Yeah, that wouldn't have worked.  (Okay Facebook status:  "Just rocked out with Imagine Dragons...so high from the residual pot...:)"  Totally cool.  

Anyway, outside of being slightly embarrassed from a social media point of view, Michael Buble was actually...well, was actually pretty awesome.  His voice was butter, the band was spot on, the stage graphics were pretty ridiculous, the crowd 99.9% white and our seats were perfect.  

Now for the negatives....well, actually there's only one and this really only goes out to the gentleman sitting next to me.

Sir, when you attend a concert of Michael Buble, who sings like an angel in a tux, please don't sing along.  If you want to sound like a patient, who recently awoke from a coma of 15 years, and who is learning to speak again by making droning noises, then please sing away at your next concert of Korn, Metallica or Nine Inch Nails.  However, if you are attending a "voice centered" concert, let's keep the moaning singing to a minimum or none at all.  Great.  

How Do You Really Feel?

On November 15, a news station out of Detroit reported on a man, who erected a 12-foot high middle finger statue outside his home, which is next door to his ex-wife and her new lover, whom she reportedly had an affair with while being married.  After reading this article I had a few thoughts:

1.  Slow clap.  This is brilliant.  The man even has lights that illuminate the massive finger at night.  Listen you cheat - you suck.  Do you deserve a middle finger looming over your house?  Absolutely.  Do you also deserve to be beaten an inch from your life?  Absolutely again.

2.  Why a statue?  Would a billboard sign on the freeway been too fleeting?  Were the "Shame On You" employees too busy picketing Laguna Fitness and Bank of America to plop down across the street?  Were radio spots too expensive?  Why?  I mean, according to the report, the man is a strip club mongol in Detroit.  You would think a true entrepreneur could think of something better.

3.  And lastly, I wondered how hard it would be to erect and place my own middle finger statues?  Say, I wanted to place one next to the fruit inspection stop outside of Baker, California?  Would that be something someone would be able to do for me?  Or on the hood of every parking meter maid in Santa Monica, who is systematically stealing every hard earned dime out of those residents.  Or lastly how about at the White House?  Yeah, NSA, I said that.  Outside the White House.  Because really this Obamacare deserves a large #1 shout out.

People I Don't Understand

A few days ago the baby and I flew home from Utah.  As I sat there, wishing a Kindle Fairy existed so the Kindle, that I forgot to recharge, could entertain my baby, I looked around and realized the two guys in my row and the people across from me were just sitting in their chairs doing nothing.  Not reading, not listening to music, not watching TV, not sleeping, but just sitting there.  For a moment I wanted to shake them and plead with them to do something - anything.  What I wouldn't have given to drink a soda in peace without a little hand grabbing my ice cubes, or the amount of money I would have paid to read a magazine - even SKY MAGAZINE!  These people were totally wasting this experience!  So, as I sat there, watching these flying zombies, and wrestling with a surprisingly strong 14 month old, I thought of this entry: "People I Just Don't Understand."  The following is what I came up with as I wished for our plane to somehow slip into Time Warp Speed.

1.  People that don't do anything on planes.  It's weird.  What do you do on Sunday afternoons?  Sit by the window and just stare out it?

2.  People that watch NASCAR.  I think they go in circles 500 times.  I think someone wins?  Be honest, do most people DVR the races and just fast forward to the last three laps?

3.  People that train, enter and win eating contests of hot dogs, and other things that shouldn't be consumed in large quantities.  Did hobbies like golf and running seem too mundane?  Was food scarce in your home and now you are making up for all those missed meals?

4.  People that let dogs lick their mouth.  I know I'll get heat for this comment, but I just wanted to point out, that 9 times out of 10, that tongue was just licking another dog's butt.  Just saying.

5.  People who break down in tears when they see famous people.  You know the idiots who go hysterical if Robert Pattinson touches their hand at a Twilight Premier, or the ridiculous Bielivers, who would kill their own parents for five minutes with Justin Bieber.  All of these people need to just calm down.  You heard me.  Calm down.  In ten years, Justin Bieber is going to be a bloated, heroin addict, and Robert Pattinson will still look like an unwashed vampire.  I speak the truth.

I was going to list more...but I'm afraid to offend.  I think #4 is going to get me in enough trouble.

The Real Story of the Zoo

Recently, the baby and I visited the zoo for the first time.  I got to say going to the zoo as an adult is a completely different experience than when I used to go as a kid.  For example, when you are a kid all you see are the animals.  Real life Elephants?!  What?  Giraffes walking around like they got no where to be?  Kill me!  A baby seal with its momma?  Just tell me where to drop down and cry myself to sleep!  It's amazing.

However, when you are adult the scene dramatically changes.  All of the sudden the only things you see are depressing looking animals, who are confined to ridiculous small spaces, surrounded by their own feces, and who probably offer daily animal prayers that the zoo will one day blow up, or at least one child will get too close to the fence so they can feel like an animal once in their lives.  Honestly, the zoo bummed me out.  At one point, Avery and I watched two rhinos eat their breakfast from some zoo workers. As I watched these "wild" animals chomp down on apples, I thought I could hear the fainest conversation coming from them.  It went something like this:

Rhino #1 (Fred): Oh, awesome, not only do these stupid humans watch me sleep, walk in my five by ten space, but now they are filming me eat these stupid apples.

Rhino #2 (Martha): Honestly!  Hey, fat kid, how would you like me coming up to your table and point as juice runs down your mouth?!

Fred: What are you going to do today?

Martha: Test that fence over there again...and maybe sniff that rock.  How about y....come on zoo worker...master of zoology....let's get the food where I can reach it.  Atta girl...freaking genius.

Fred: I'm gonna kill that elephant over there.  All night long...it's, "Hey, did you see my face on the new banner?  Hey did you see I'm the face of the zoo?"  If I was back home I would shove this sharp thing on my nose up his big, fat, as...Honestly, stop with the cameras!  I'm doing it...

Martha: What?

Fred: I'm doing it. I'm starving myself. I'm getting out of here.  I can't take it.

Martha: I'm going to go sniff that rock.

Okay, maybe they weren't talking, but those eyes were saying a lot.

Random Thought: Adult Announcements of Pooping

If you have a child you've had the following conversation:

All of the sudden your child stops playing, stands very still, makes a little grunt noise or goes a little red, maybe throws in a little squat, and then immediately, goes back to playing.  As you observe this, you find yourself asking the child, "Are you pooping?" and then you say to someone close by, "Ahh, she's pooping."

The other day I did this and then thought, what if we still did this as adults?  Picture this:

You are in a meeting with fifteen people.  All of the sudden the CEO at the head of the table goes from talking about the new project, to completely quiet and focused on something else.  As you all wait, watching him, someone says to the group, "Ahh, it's okay Tom is pooping.  Are you pooping?"

I just think a lot of cool practices get dropped once we become adults.

"Shame On You" For Hire

The other day, while riding my bike, I passed three people holding a giant sign that read "Shame on" and then had the name of a fitness company that was located across the street.  This wasn't the first time I've seen a sign like this, but as I continued to ride, I started to have some questions about this shameful strategy and I wanted to discuss them.

First of all, what's the point of the sign?  Sure it names the company, but is it really getting the point across  What about a mechanical or a giant inflated finger wagging back and forth?  Or a group of fifty people continually pointing at the building while shaking their heads?  Or a big fart machine that makes loud noises every time someone enters or leaves the building?  Now, something like that would make me stop and ask, "Hey, why the fart noises?  Oh wait, are you saying that company treats their employees like pieces of poo?  Shame on them!"  See what I'm saying?

Second of all, the slogan is awful.  "Shame on You?"  That's the best you got?  Oh, sorry Mom for lying about stealing that gum.  You are right....shame on me.  Come on, we can do better. How about: "You suck!?" "Or (Insert Company) Are A Bunch of Jack Asses?!"  Or "(Insert Company)'s Mamma is so fat/stupid that she....(Insert punchline.)"  Again, what's the goal here?  To mildly protest or make a statement?

Lastly, how should I say this?  What's with the people who are holding these signs because, I'll be honest, a lot of credibility for these bizarre protests are lost because of the "warriors" behind the signs.  For example, the other day I saw a guy asleep in a lawn chair behind the sign, another one was most likely asleep while standing against the sign, and a woman, who was actually holding onto the edge, was completely immersed in her phone. (Probably checking for more "Shame On You" gigs for next week.)  Not one of them looked like they were employees of the targeted company, and most importantly, not one looked like they gave one piece of crap on how this whole ordeal got resolved.

So, here's my final question?  Who created this "Shame On You" company and how do I hire them for my personal gigs?  For example, how much would it cost for me to get some "strong like ox" people to stand valiantly outside Costco and hold a sign that reads: "Shame On You Costco for Switching to Pepsi Products At Your Food Court?"  Or how about a group of traveling sign holders that I could use periodically for people on the road that says, "Shame On You (Insert make of car) for braking before the light turned yellow?"  I'll even take the guy asleep as long as every once in a while he jumps up, runs in front of the sign, points to my preferred target and screams, in a banshee voice, "Yeah, Shame On YOU."  Three times an hour should do it.

Too Late For Halloween? Of course NOT!

Now that Halloween is over I thought I would take a moment and review the best and worst costumes I've seen on this holiday.  (None will be included from this last Halloween because we didn't get a single trick or treater!  Not one knock on the door and not a single piece taken.  To be honest, I'm torn with the lack of festivities at our house.  Sure, I really didn't want to be handing candy out all night, but no one?  What's next?  No flags hung on Flag Day?)

Anyway, like I was saying, though I didn't see any tiny humans dressed as ghosts and superheroes the other night, I have had some good and bad Halloweens.  The following are the best and worst:

Best:

1. In college, I saw a guy take white athletic tape and wrap his entire body to be a mummy.  I think what made it so memorable was the fact that he had covered his entire body, face even, with the tape AND the fact that he wasn't really wearing much underneath the tape.  I remember someone asking him how he planned on taking it off, and then after a few moments of silence, you could tell he was realizing he was going to be ripping off a lot of arm and leg hair that night. 

Sidebar: When getting ready for Halloween remain sober.

2. I got to admit I'm a huge fan of the ironic.  One year two friends of mine dressed up as pregnant nuns.  I know as a religious folk I should have been offended, but it was funny.

Sidebar: I think for laughing at that I was sent to Mongolia for a mission. I'm not entirely sure there's a connection, but I'm also not ruling it out.

3. This year my brother-in-law went as the character "Mugatu" from Zoolander.  Was I jealous that he actually went out on Halloween and celebrated the holiday?  Yes.  Did I watch me some Scandal and feel better?  Yes.

And now for the Worst:
1. Any man dressed as a woman, I got to say, gets a red flag out of me.  I mean, I get it, you've always wanted to play with boobs all night without being swatted away by some terrified woman, but that doesn't make it the go to costume.  Sure it can be funny to see a hideous woman, but then, it gets a little weird pretty fast.

2. ALL WOMEN DRESSED AS SLUTTY/ _________(Fill in some random job...nurse, teacher, angel, ninja, princess, grocery checkout employee etc.)  I don't know who in their right mind decided that after the age of 18, all women had to dress like prostitutes, but I've had enough of it.  If you are looking for something other than candy, then fine, if not, let's class it up ladies!

3. Me from ages 6-15.  My mom, bless her sweet heart, didn't really believe in making or buying costumes.  Therefore, every Halloween sort of went down like this:
Night before Halloween Parade:
Me: Mom, I don't have a costume.
Mom: Hmmmm....Here's a plunger...why don't you be a plumber?
Me: Was that last year.
Mom: How about this Hawaiian shirt and camera.  You are a TOURIST!!
Me: Elisa, my sister, did that last year.
Mom: Okay, here's a robe and some pajamas....you are someone going to sleep.
Me: Is that even a costume?  Someone going to sleep?  Should I just carrying a fork and spoon around and say, "Don't you get it?  I'm someone about to eat."

What was the worst and best you saw?

The True Spirit of Halloween

Well, it's Halloween, and if you were wondering, I'm dressed up as a guilty mother.  Yep, no costume for my 14 month old baby.  No pumpkin.  No plans of trick or treating.  And no Halloween decorations of any kind.  I hate to admit it, but if you entered our home right now, the only terrifying thing you would see is a half eaten bag of candy, that hopefully will suffice for the "Take one" bowl I'm planning on setting outside.  Yep, you heard me, I'm going with the "Take One" bowl.  Why?  For two reasons: 1. My baby goes to bed at 7:30, and if that doorbell even goes off once, I might find myself with some Halloween decorations after all.  (I'm implying a slain body of a child and their caregiver.)  And 2. After years and years of not taking just one, but actually dumping the entire bowl - yes, the bowl too, into my bag, I feel it's my duty to give back. 

So, tonight I'm not only prepared to lose all my candy in one visit, but the bowl I will use to set it out.  Does this make me a better person?  If that's what you want to call it.  Am I righting the universe of all my childhood theft?  Again, if you are going there I'm not going to stop you.  Will I miss the bowl?  Probably, but again, I've been "given" so many bowls in the past - am I really losing anything?  And isn't the death of a bowl really the spirit of Halloween?  I mean wouldn't you say my fellow celebrators of Dia de Muertos, or Day of The Dead, for my non-Spanish readers?  (Yeah, I took some Spanish in middle school.)  Don't know what that means?  Hmmm...it's so sad to see when the original origins of holidays get lost.  Pagans.

Attention: Tori Spelling Can't Buy Another Purse!

Each morning as I watch my GMA I realize two things: 1. I think George Stephanopoulos hates his job and his co-workers.  Honestly, I love watching him after they get discussing the results of Dancing with The Stars.  Yesterday, I could literally see him suppressing every ounce of rage in his 4"11 body as they were mourning the recent voting off of Snookie.

And 2. There's a lot of crap that gets reported as "news."  For example, this morning right after reporting about a murder case of a woman, who drowned in a bath tub, GMA did a groundbreaking report on the show The Walking Dead.  I assume this random piece was a lame attempt at reporting some Halloween-ish, but in the end all that was said was:  A lot of people are liking this show about zombies.  Hmmm.  What else GMA?  Are a lot of people eating dinner too?  Do Asian people enjoy rice?  Does the sun warm the earth?  Tell me more!

However, I can forgive the thirty second salute to The Walking Dead, but what I can't  forgive is the piece they ran, after a few teasers and promos at the beginning of the show, about Tori Spelling's new financial woes.  According to GMA, and forgive me if I'm reporting old news to you savvy readers, but Tori Spelling, of 90210, Lifetime Channel greats' like "Mind Over Murder" and "Way Downtown," is being forced to financially cut back.  No more new purses, which apparently, she hasn't purchased in 3 years, no more extravagant birthday parties and...and...and this was the most shocking reveal of all - no vasectomy for her husband.  What?!  What?  Geez Obamacare!  Thanks Afghanistan!  Way to go housing market and your inflated loans. What have you done!?  I can't believe a man, who has been on TV, had his own show and married a TV heiress, can't medically protect himself from having more children!  What do you expect him to do?  Buy....I can't even say the word. 

Thank you GMA for highlighting the real face of our tightening economy and country.  I just wish at the end of the piece they had indicated on where to make donations, a help line I could call, a pledge I could make...something.

And to you Tori Spelling.  I know high school was tough. I mean you almost didn't graduate because of that drunken night, but I want you to know I stood with your fellow students and chanted, "Donna Martin Graduate, Donna Martin Graduate," until I couldn't say it any longer and I will keep being your champion until another channel gives you another reality show, or you make another terrible TV movie or when your mom dies and leaves you some more millions to blow.  Chin up T...another purse is around the corner.

Character Assassination Carousel: Clifford The Big, Dumb, Red Dog

Friends, family, stalkers...I'm pleased to announce that I have found other mothers like myself, who have realized 99.9% of children's books are full of gross inaccuracies, mind numbing plots and leave most of us asking the heavens, "Did someone really get paid to write this shit?!"  After some soul searching and cyber-stalking, I came across an ingenious woman, named Nicole Leigh Shaw, who has created the Character Assassination Carousel, which invites bloggers to express their disgust over books we are forced to read, not once and definitely not twice, but over and over again to our children.




A few weeks ago Jennifer at Beyond The Crib threw off the gloves and took down, no eloquently destroyed, Olivia...and the Missing Toy by Ian Falconer.  Today we are going to take a little ride with Clifford, the big, dumb, red dog and in a few weeks check out Tracy at Crazy as Normal.

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?

Random Thought Friday

I'll admit I have a few superstitions...(yes, this is my token Halloween post).

1. Never flash a car that doesn't have its headlights on because they are members of a gang and by flashing them you are inviting them to follow you home and beat you to death.  (If you are shouting in your head WTF - hold on.  I either read this or saw it on the news, but gangs were doing this.  Seriously.  On the East Coast...or maybe they weren't.  Either way, I'm not testing the Irvine Gang system.)

2. In college I always shaved my legs on game day.  Even if it was raining and snowing - legs had to be shaved.  And I had to pee right before they announced the starting line-ups.  Have I continued this superstition?  Um, now I always shave my legs once a week.  Not for a particular game, but for another game time.*  What?  Boo-Yeah.  I won't comment on the peeing.

3. I believe, no, I testify, that flu shots ensure you get the flu.  Every year I've been conned into getting a flu shot - I got sick.  Every year I maintained my regiment of eating copious amounts of cereal and drinking next to zero water - I was fine.

What are your superstitions?


*sex

Persistence

For the past six trips, no exaggeration, to the grocery store I've been stopped at the entrance by an annoying Alberston's employee offering free samples of some type of alcohol.  (Which, before I continue, I must say I find a little strange. I get we all love free samples, but it was ten in the morning, and I'm not sure most of the moms in the store were looking for a nice shot to chase their coffee...or were they?  Ahh...Albertson's...)

Anyway, the first two times I was offered a sample I just quietly declined and walked by.  The third time this over zealous employee, who I'm pretty sure was severely smashed after three weeks of offering free booze, yelled out three times, "Miss, Miss, Miss..." and when I turned around, I saw him holding a dixie cup of alcohol and offering it to me like it was laced with a date rape drug.  This time, I said back, and to be honest, I'm not sure why I decided to make such a declaration of my alcohol abstinence (probably a throw back to college when I would have to explain to drunken idiots why I have never had alcohol before), I said, "I have never drank and still don't drink because of my religion."  What a role model.

Now you would think that this employee, though probably badly inebriated, would remember the religious testimony I so strongly bore, but a week later, there he was still holding the tempting cup of spirits.  However, his delivery had changed.  This time he said, "I see you have a baby in your cart.  How about a little pick me up."  I'll admit, this stopped me, but only to ask him, "What do you mean by that?"  In his book was a "pick me up" driving drunk with a baby?  Vodka on the breath during a play date at the park?  Passed out before nap time?  I wanted a little clarification.  Unfortunately, all I got, as I made eye contact, was a slurred, "Vodka and Christmas go hand in hand."  Ahh, and now everything is cleared up.

So, I ask, what can I do that I haven't done to fully communicate to this alcoholic that I'm not ever going to be interested in partaking of his free shot bar.  Walk into the store already shouting "No, NO, NOOO!"  Next time give him a pamphlet on AA?  Or take the shot and award him for the being the only person who could officially wear me down to drink?

Any ideas?

Criminal Droppings

Today I read that, "An Oklahoma man was charged with burglary after police allegedly matched his DNA to used toilet paper at the scene of the crime.  Police said that Charles Williams used a home's bathroom while burglarizing it, leaving a mess behind.  Williams was then identified by his droppings."

Um, let me take a moment.  Okay, first what star police officer decided to go above and beyond with his detective skills and test, not only the used toilet paper, BUT the "droppings?"  Why aren't we using this officer for more important issues like: 1. Where's Al Qaeda headquartered?  (Based on their poo, of course.)  2. Who was there that day who decided to relieve themselves right before shooting Kennedy? 3. What's up with Scientology?  (I don't really think he can sniff, (Get it?) this one out, but he seems like a great detective.  I just want someone to explain to me why people follow this religion?

And lastly, Mr. Williams.  Charles.  You broke into a home to steal something.  You have got to plan ahead.  Either you are there to steal something or relieve yourself.  You can't have both.  There's just not time.

Droppings.  My new favorite word.

The Most Important Gift Catalog In the World

Yesterday, in the mail I received, and I'm not making this up, a brochure entitled, "The Most Important Gift Catalog in the World."  (And no, it wasn't the new Victoria's Secret Soft Porn Catalog.)  No folks, somehow, by reasons unknown, I was chosen to receive this gem.  Enough build up?  Basically this catalog, entitled Heifer International, allows you to purchase either an entire animal or a share of an animal for someone in a third world country.  For example, for only $120 I can buy a goat for a woman in India.  $120...that's it.  Or I can go big and buy the "Joy to The World Gift Basket," which contains 2 sheep, four goats, 1 heifer and 2 llamas for...wait for it...$1,500.

So, I'll be honest, because I'm a terrible human being, I thought this catalog was hilarious.  Again, I acknowledge I'm a terrible person, and if you feel like bowing out of this entry, because I'm about to explain why I find all of this so funny, now would be the time.

First of all, because I have terrible reading comprehension skills, and because a 1 year old was trying to desecrate "The Most Important Gift Catalog in the World" by putting it in her mouth, I totally missed the whole - give the animal to someone in a third world country.  So initially, I thought this catalog was for buying livestock for your loved ones here in good ol' USA, which I thought was awesome - And now, I sort of want to find a company, or start my own, that will allow me to send/buy a llama for my mother in law.  Can you imagine that Christmas?

Scene: (Everyone dressed in PJs around the tree)
Mother in Law: Well, I think that's it.  That's all the gifts!
Me: Nope!
(Pull 2 giant Llamas in from the outside backyard)
Me: Merry Lla-MAS!

Second, of all, as I looked closer I realized the animals were being shipped all over the world, which again, I thought was really funny.  Logistically how does all this work?  You go with the "Joy To the World Gift Basket" and then what?  Fed Ex pulls up to a hut somewhere in Ecuador and unloads nine boxes of animals?  Or do they drop them from the sky and hope that some down and out person will actually keep them and not roast them that night for dinner?  How does someone, from a third world country, go about ordering these packaged animals?  Is there some strange request box for third world countries that someone jokingly wrote; "All I really want for Christmas is a goat from America.  Love, Mizeki Rhodewell from Malawi.  P.S. If I can't get a goat - can I get adopted?"  And lastly, how are they packaged?  Is it just a box with some holes punched in them?  Are directions included like: "Please feed them.  I know you are hungry, but please feed them too."

Lastly, I searched this catalog and not once was I informed of how I could receive a picture of my purchased livestock.  You spend a dollar a day and you get a picture of your adorable orphan.  Spend $5,000 for the Gift Ark, yep, two animals of each kind for some lucky community, and nothing!

In the end, do I think this is real? I don't know.  Will I be using this catalog for my loved ones?  Absolutely.  Nothing says I love you like buying a share of a cow.  Come on people pass this good news along.

Hey, What About Stairway to Heaven

Okay, this picture is sort of a gross exaggeration of a church dance, but how could I not choose it? It's awesome.

I know this will come as a shock to you, but a few weeks ago I was asked to chaperone a church sponsored dance.  (I'm not sure if they were desperate or I haven't really allowed people to get to know me here in good ol' Irvine.)  Anyway, for those of you, who didn't grow up with the pleasure of attending a "church sponsored dance," let me tell you a little bit about it.

1. There's no way you can say "no" to any guy, who asks you to dance.  (I mean, the dance is being held in a church and you are supposed to be a Christian...blah, blah.)  Anyway, I hated this rule.  Inevitably, some sweaty handed boy, who was forced to attend the dance by his mom - so she could have one less mouth to feed that night, would find his way to me, and just as the longest song was being cued up, he would mutter those fateful words, "Will you dance with me?"  I will never forget those awkward seven minutes of robotically turning in a circle as the sweat from his hand ran down my arm.  Simply magical.

2. Again, you are in a church, so the chosen music can be interesting.  For some reason "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin was a staple, but I think it's only because the leaders at the time had no idea this wasn't a jazzed up hymn.  And then, there was always my favorite of a song just being stopped midway as the volunteered DJ, who was most likely a parent who knew how to work a tape player, realized the song playing was going down a bad path.  It was pretty awesome to be in the middle of a jamming running man (look it up kids) when all of the sudden the music would come to a screeching halt and "Stairway to Heaven" would begin again.

3.  And lastly, the dancing at these dances was always...well, it wasn't pretty.  Why?  Because again, we were in a church, so there was absolutely no close dancing, which basically translated into a terrible version of the 1950s where no one actually knows how to dance, but just sort of mildly touches each other until "Stairway to Heaven" finishes.  Again, very, very magical.

With all that said, I have to admit I was a little excited to attend my first church dance in 18 years. I mean, now I was on the other side and it was going to be awesome.  I was all excited to nudge awkward boys into asking the pretty girls, who aren't even in their same hemisphere, to dance. I wanted to request "Like a Virgin" by Madonna just so I could hear it shut off.  And I really, really wanted to confuse the kids by yelling, "Hey, you two, yeah you two, let's get a little closer here.  What, is she your sister?!"  It wasn't going to be awesome.  Unfortunately, Fortunately, I got sent home early before I could cause any damage.  Apparently, I was chewing gum.  Major no, no.

Random Thought Friday: Feedbags of War

Like all normal human beings I have a list of questions I would like some answers to once I get up to Heaven.  Wait, you don't have this list?  Come on people, we don't know when our number is going to be called - let's get a little more prepared here!  Curious where dinosaurs really came from?  Yep, I'm going to find out.  Why the dress rehearsal each month when I'm pretty sure I'm more concerned about getting to fifth period on time then having a baby?  There's got to be a good explanation for this.  Why natural disasters, who shot JFK, why do leaves turn beautiful colors right before they fall off trees, why five fingers and not four and are animals up here too?  Etc, etc. etc.

Anyway after these past few days of attempting to wean my 13 month old baby, of the mouth watering goodness that flows from me, I have come up with yet another question:

Couldn't we have installed a switch that just turns this stuff off?  Or at least a drain button of some sort? And lastly, why after we are finished with this whole life sustaining breastfeeding experience, do our feedbags have to resemble deflated life boats, that only float in the water because some sad air has not escaped through all the weathered holes?

Answers? Anyone? Anyone.