Just Write The Email

The other day I received an email from someone's work email address and attached at the bottom of the email was this quote: "An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind" by Mahatma Gandi.  Now, I'll admit, this is a rather thought provoking quote, and I guess, I agree with it...unless we are talking about the idiot at the gym last night, who I'm pretty sure farted while walking by me - I might be okay with a truck hitting him today...and I'm pretty sure I'll be seeing just fine if that happens. 

No, but in all seriousness, I don't understand people who attach these types of quotes to their emails?  Is this suppose to be the one statement that just sums you up?  Are you just so sick of people retaliating against you, when you have clearly done something stupid, that you think this quote will stop your house from being egged?  Are you trying to sound intelligent after you misspelled "their" with "there" and forgot the little apostrophe between you(')re and instead wrote "your?"  Do you think people are going to read, "So, we are all set for our conference call at 9:00 am....an eye for an eye...world blind...that's brilliant...screw that conference call...I've got to rush home and let out the mailman I've had locked in my basement for a year because he forgot to deliver my ESPN magazine for two weeks.  Well, in that case I hope something stops that crazy...but, hey, you know what I mean.  (So, I'm a little bitter that my ESPN magazine just miraculously found its way to my mailbox after I left a note last week...hmmmm...)

So, unless your quote is: "Stop reading this part - the email is over," I'm asking you to stop.  I promise you the work day will continue without Walt Disney reminding me dreams can come true.

8.5

A few months back the husband instituted (on his own) a rating system of my disposition for the day.  (I know, this doesn't sound crazy at all.)  If I was really wound up and funny I would be told, while brushing our teeth at night, "Wow, you really were an 8.5 today."  (Translation: I was fun.)  Or if I was in "mom mode" and maybe snapped at him to stop making noise while the baby was sleeping, I would be given a disapproving look and told I was being a "5 right now."  (Translation: I suck.) 

I know what you are thinking - how come the 8.5?  What does a girl got to do to get a 10?  (Assuming his deranged rating system is out of 10.)  Oh wait, is that not what you were thinking?  Were you thinking I should pack up the kid and leave this mentally abusive relationship?  Well, you are just being a 4 right now.  Honestly, everyone, (Mom and my faithful reader in VA) calm down.  Sure I hate this "fun game" the husband has, apparently, decided to play for the rest of our lives, but he could be on to something.  Imagine what this rating system could do for first dates?  Walk the girl up to the door, and instead of saying, "Wow, that was fun, I'll call you," he could just say, or hold up his fingers, "You were a 6 - I'm sorry."  Case closed.  All parties walk away.  Or how about when you are stuck in an annoying conversation and don't know what to do?  What if you could just say, "Hey everyone, great effort, really great, but you are all playing at a 4.8 right now, so I'm going to leave."  Again, clean getaway.

So, yes, I hate this mentally warped version of "feedback," and yes, at some point in my married life I hope I can attain a 10, but until then...I'll keep trying to entertain the husband through my sad feelings of inadequacy, and you all out there in cyberworld, find a better way to be honest.

My Strategy

Last night, while I was at the gym, I started watching Jeopardy.  After getting three answers correct I decided something then and there:

If I ever get on Jeopardy, instead of studying pointless facts, I'm going to train myself to master the buzzer.  That way, when I go on the show, I can win every buzz, and therefore, not allow my opponents to answer any questions.  Sure, I'll be in the hole a few thousand, but can you imagine how frustrated those nerds would get, if when they finally made it onto the quintessential test of brain power game show, and were unable to even attempt to answer a question?  It would be hilarious.  At the end Alex would have to say, "Well, Michael, looks your PhD didn't really help you today, and Linda, I'm so sorry we were never able to hear from you.  Best of luck on that cure of cancer you were finishing.  Now, Kate.  Very impressive on the buzzer...unfortunately, you have no money to wager in Final Jeopardy.  So, I guess that's the show."

Yep, it's official I'm becoming a stay at home moron.

Misfit Meet Ups

So, I've officially been living in suburbia with no visitors for a week and a half and it's going...it's going...well, let's not dwell on the details right now.  Baby is alive, I'm showered 50% of the time, and no sign of ants.  Life is how do you say...good?

So, last night I decided to go the magical internet for some friends.  (Don't worry this won't be about my weird encounters in chat rooms...some things must remain private.)  No instead, I found myself on a meetup.com.  For those of you, who have actual friends, meetup.com is a place where misfits can find each other.  Plain and simple. I'm not sure if this is their mission statement, but I'm thinking of suggesting it.

Anyway, while I was browsing through mother misfit meetups, I came across a couple of interesting groups.  For example, there was one entitled "OC New Natural Mamas", which consists of:  "...moms interested in making connections and friends with other moms who practice or want to practice attachment parenting (co-sleeping, breastfeeding, babywearing, etc.) and other natural living methods for their family." 

I had a lot of reactions to this group, but basically, all I wanted to do was meet up with them and say, while leaving the baby in the car, "Oh hey, I'm Kate..I...oh crap, I did it again.  I left the baby at home.  I sometimes just forget I have one.  You know what I mean?" 

Another group that seemed interesting was the "Orange County Asian Moms," which consists of:  "...a meet-up group for Asian Moms, non-Asian moms who have multiracial kids..."  I don't know why, but I just want to bring my blue-eyed, blonde daughter to this group and see how long it would take someone to ask, "Why are you here?"  And then, when the question finally comes, give the questioner a playful nudge and say, "Us Asian moms have got to stick together.  Now let's go eat some rice." 

So, I'm probably going to be staying lonely for a little bit longer.

Cut and Then Paste

The other night the husband and I decided to watch Taken 2 for our hot Saturday night date.  (And when I say "hot," I really mean handcuffed to our house for the next ten years until our child decides that restaurants can become "our thing" again.)  Anyway, for those of you who haven't seen this movie I need you to focus...readers, you need to focus on what I'm about to tell you!  Honestly, this had to have been the easiest movie to write.  Step one: highlight entire script from first Taken, press copy and then press paste.  Step two: erase daughter being taken, add wife...hmmm....add more demands for people to focus.  Step three: make gobs of money. 

Okay, I'll admit I enjoy watching hunched over Liam Neeson kick the crap out of hundreds of bad guys (Honestly, there were hundreds of dudes he killed.  After a while, the husband turned to me and said, "I got to be honest, if I just saw this guy kill six of my friends, all while dodging point blank bullets, I would probably run.  Just saying.")  I do love the absolute absurdity of these action movies.  One, why do seven guys wait for the hero to kill one guy before they attack?  Seriously, think about it Adidas wearing, European mercenary, while your friend is having his neck snapped, pull the trigger.  Bam, the guy is down.  It's that easy.  Stop waiting for Jackie Chan to finish flipping off the wall before you decide to pick up your knife and lunge at him.

Second of all, people, no matter how tough you think you are, can not get up after falling three stories ON YOUR BACK and then continue fighting.  It's impossible.  Truly impossible.  You are now paralyzed and if you aren't, I guarantee the log of wood, your nemesis just picked up and nailed you in the back with, has just finished the last piece of spine you did have.  And don't even get me started on the lack of blood.  You just got hit in the face with a vase, three fists and then round housed kicked.  I'm no UFC specialist, but I'm guessing one should have at least a slight amount of blood protruding from their face.

Lastly, Taken 2, we really could have used a better title.  I know, I know, the writer just copied the top title from the last script and threw a 2 on there so he remembered to grab the right one on the day of shooting, but come on.  2.  That's it?  At least give me a semicolon.  I love me some semicolon.  Oh, the possibilities of semicolon.  Taken 2 SEMICOLON Where focusing gets Found.  Taken 2 SEMICOLON Give it back.  Taken 2: Lay off Albania.  Something...

Wrong

The other day the husband spoke to a friend of ours, who's wife is expecting any day now, about what to expect when the baby comes.  According to the husband, this was the number one piece of advice/warning:

You will never be able to do anything right again.

You want to know my reaction to that admonition was?

Well it sure as heck, wasn't a cookie for being so insightful. 

Crap, did I just confirm his conclusion? 

Ashamed

Alright, I know I promised to not make this blog about the child, but lately she's been doing some funny things.  For example, the other day she stood up on both legs and winked at me. Yep, winked.  Four months and she can already stand and wink.  Just kidding.  I just wanted some lonely parent out there to feel the panic of their child not measuring up.  Parents are funny...and desperately insecure.

No, in all seriousness, my baby loves to put an entire blanket over her head when she sleeps.  It's hilarious.  It even works to calm her down.  Honestly, if she starts to cry we just throw a blanket over her face and she stops.  That sounded bad.  We don't tie her up also...and she does get fed...anyway... The other day I went into her room to check on her while she was napping and all I saw where these two little hands gripping the blanket over her face.  As I tried to remove the blanket from her death grip, she immediately woke and started to cry.

Should I be worried?  Is my baby ashamed of herself?  Has she been understanding me when I say, "We need to get her ears fixed when she gets older."  Have I given my sweet daughter a complex?  I think I'm going to go lay down with a blanket over my face.

One Time, my bad, Two Times, I'm an Idiot

I haven't been officially diagnosed but I'm pretty sure I'm a moron.  No, I didn't leave my baby in a store, or leave the back door of my new car open while I closed the garage on it...oh wait...well, that is not the idiotic thing I would like to discuss...which by the way, was probably quite a scene for our new neighbors - picture this: one blonde (just got my hair done, so I can say I'm a blonde for at least three more weeks) stomping back and forth in her husband's Uggs, that are six sizes too big, wearing some semblance of pajamas (if an old Duke t-shirt and some ratty sweatpants count) with no bra, (that's for my male readers) muttering "sh*t" over and over again, while my husband, dressed to the nines for work, tries to console me.  Welcome to the neighborhood - I'm crazzzy.

No, if you can believe it, and you faithful readers out there, I know, are already shaking your heads, there is something I've done equally (?), okay close to, as dumb now TWO times. What is it?  (Crap, now I've done so much build up...I hate when I do that.)  Anyway, as some of you lucky people might know, a few years back, the husband decided that I, someone who has never attended a beauty school class, would take on the job of cutting his hair.  After a few minor mistakes, I got to admit, I was sort of getting the hang of it.  And then we had a baby, and my brain slowly started to deteriorate.  Now, I'm incapable of reading and determining the correct blade numbers, which has caused me to TWICE cut his hair like he's entering the military the following day.  And the worst part about it is - while I'm running the razor over his head I'm thinking, "Hmmm...his hair must have been really long because a lot is coming off...oh well...oh...shhhh..."  It never occurs to me until I've just made the "never going back" run of across his head from ear to ear, that I stop and realize, I'm going to have to inform my sweet husband that I have, once again, committed a brain fart and destroyed his haircut.

And then the very worst part occurs...I actually tell the husband what I've done, and then I have to watch him slowly put his head down into his hands and stay like that for what seems like 10 minutes.  I cannot even begin to describe to you what is like to watch your shirtless husband, covered in hair, sit on a kitchen chair contemplating your death.  I guess the only way I can describe it is it's like a #4 razor to the heart when all you wanted was a #8.  You feel me? 

So, husband, sweet, sweet husband, please accept my public apology.  I will figure out the difference between a 4 and an 8 one day.  I promise. 

NO Freaking Iranian Standard

Ahhh cleanliness.  What's your version of it?   Be honest.  Do you clean your bathroom at least once a week, or just wipe off the seat if guests come over?  Do you wash your clothes with an actual washer and dryer, or do you pick off the stain with your fingernail?  Do you wash dishes or throw them away after each meal?  Come on, be honest.

You are probably wondering why I'm asking.  Well, I ask because I think the person, who lived in my home before us, had no standard.  Yep, you read that right NO standard.  I honestly think she took an entire pot of soup and threw it into her refrigerator.  And when I say "threw" I actually believe, with my beating heart, that she took a step back and launched a pot of soup into the refrigerator.  And then...shut the door and her mind to the possibility that one, it might become caked onto the refrigerator surface for time and all eternity, and two, that someone, other than her IRANIAN self, might move into her palace of filth.

I think so far I'm doing a pretty good job as a parent, but I think Avery's first sentence is going to be "Son of a..." after she watched me cleaned all day yesterday.  Darn you Iranians and your soup throwing.

1 Box of Ants To Go

As you can see from the picture we've been having a slight problem with ants in the new place.  (And when I say "slight" I actually mean I feel like they are crawling all over me as I write this.)  When I called our landlord about the problem she told me two things:  1. When her mother lived there they never had a problem with ants.  Really?  Never?  No ants whatsoever?  Hmmmm.  Strange how when I went to drop off some hideous window cornices at her mother's house and asked, while doing my worst miming of an ant, (Sweet Mary has most likely lived in this country close to twenty years and still doesn't speak English - because that makes sense...) she responded, immediately, might I add, with a vigorous shake of her head, "Oh, namla."  ("Ant" in Arabic...oh I'm sorry, I meant Persian.) AND then she said, as clear as day, "Orkin."  (Oh, you mean Orkin the PEST control company!?)  So, let's just review...according to the landlord ants never existed in my home, but Mary, who doesn't speak English, was able to immediately confirm the ants existence through me walking my fingers across my hand and making a grimace.  Rigghttt.

And the second thing my landlord said was, and this is my favorite, "You might have brought the ants with you from LA because one time we moved from LA and then our place had ants."  I honestly don't even know where to begin to make fun of this statement. Again, the statement: I brought ants with me from LA.  Oh that's right...I do remember packing up my glassware and plates and then saying, "Hey husband do we have a box big enough for all these guys?"  And the husband asked, "What guys?"  And then I said, while pointing to 400 million ants, "Silly, these guys!"  Oh, how we laughed as we watched the ants march into the box, give us the thumbs up sign, close the box, tape it up and mark it "Special Friends."  What a great day!

Listen landlord I might not come from some land that was conquered around 600 A.D., but I'm not an idiot.

Ten Seconds

A few weeks ago the husband and I went to go see the new James Bond movie.  I got to admit I wasn't wowed by the movie, but I was shocked to find out that our matinee was actually a secret meeting for men with prostate troubles.  Honestly, I think the husband was the only one who didn't get up to use the bathroom - numerous times - throughout the movie.  So, to all of you who were at the 1:30 Saturday showing of Skyfall, in Salt Lake City, my heart goes out to you and my prayers that you will one day be able to control your urination. 

Anyway, before the movie started I dropped the husband off to get tickets and then I attempted to find a parking space.  As I was driving around, I spotted a nice couple enter their Subaru wagon and begin to leave.  So, like all normal drivers, I put on my turning signal and began to wait for them to pull out.  However, they didn't immediately turn the car on.  So, I tapped my horn and gave them the universal, "Are you leaving?" gesture, to which, they responded by nodding their heads, but nothing happened.  So, I continued to wait.  Finally, the very normal looking guy, who had a car seat in the back of the car and a Greenpeace sticker on the bumper, pulled up a breathalyser tube and proceeded to blow into it.  And then, which was my favorite part, looked at me and mouthed, "Ten seconds" while pointing to the tube.  Ten seconds?  That's all you got?  No head down and ashamed look of, "Um, I'm a drunk." No, just, hey pretty lady (that's me) I just enjoy the juice so much I decided to install this tubey thing in my car so I can be positive I drank just enough to not completely impair my driving.  So, hold on a little second and I'll be out in a jiffy.  

I wanted to stick around and see if he passed, but I was late for my movie.  So, DUI Subaru Man if you are out there, keep fighting the fight and hold your head high...sure, some of us just insert keys to turn cars on, but not you...not you...you my friend are special.

I'm thinking of getting one of those tubes myself...I think suburbia would love it.  Imagine all the moms at Target...it's gonna be awesome. 

The ? Family

I know, two entries about holiday cards?  I'm sorry this one is awesome.

So, for the past couple of years my parents have been receiving a holiday card from a family they do not know.  Which is even funnier is the fact that the card is always signed AND is probably the most elaborate and ridiculous card I've ever seen.  This year's card consisted of a three folded double sided card that...wait for it...played this Hawaiian luau music when you opened it.  On the front was the entire family sitting in a Hawaiian canoe, on the second page was them all standing in front of a beach scene, the third page was some stupid holiday greeting AND the back....oh, the back...showed HOW THEY MADE THE CANOE AND BEACH SCENE FOR THE PHOTO SHOOT.  Yes, they made a giant canoe for 20 people and beach scene - for the FREAKING Christmas card!

So, as you can imagine, I'm torn:  One, I want to find these people so I can solve the mystery of how they know my parents and two, I want these people to be slapped...hard...YOU MADE A BOAT for a picture.  A WHOLE BOAT. 

The Friendly Insert

Last night I finally went out to the mailbox and collected our mail from the holidays.  What?  And, I guess you are going to judge me for FINALLY bringing in my trashcans from last week as well?!

Anyway, as I was going through the holiday cards, I was struck by two things.  One, how come all the "fringe" people in your life think you are closer than you really are, and that your one week at summer basketball camp in middle school warrants a holiday card?  Listen you people on the fringe stop sending me cards and making me consider (for a minute - mind you) about sending out a "late New Year's Card" to make up for the fact that I ONCE AGAIN left you off my list!  Stop it!  And two, people, people, people let's be honest about the insert some of you like to include in the card.  Are you 100% positive that any of us, one of us, are actually going to open your card and think, "An entire page of their past year!?  One page.  That's it?  Come on, I need more.  I need so much more.  You can't possibly tell me everything in one page.  I won't accept it or believe it!"....and then actually read it.  It doesn't happen.  Trust me.  I see that page and think, "Hmmm...that's a lot of words together...I should...hey, another Bed, Bath & Beyond coupon..."

So, here are my thoughts if you are going to be put an insert in...at least be honest, or at least be interesting.

1. So, if the hubby got a new job - tell us how much he's making or the pay cut he took.
2. If Billy is playing baseball this year let's be honest - is he any good or are you slightly hoping he breaks his leg so you don't have to watch him ride the pine for another year.
3. And if you, as the dutiful homemaker and card giver, feels completely unfulfilled, don't give us some lame statement about how this year you are really going to get into yoga and mastering that cupcake recipe.  We are sad reading it and I bet, you were sad writing it.  Just be honest. Say this instead - "So, I'm still waking up a minute before the kids have to leave for school and then I medicate myself with Diet Coke and Judge Judy until they return."  

Guess what?  If you are this honest, I promise everyone and I mean everyone will read your insert for years to come. 

No More Buzzer Please

Last night I attended a high school girls basketball game, where I was able to see a fantastic thrashing of Syracuse High School.  Past State Champs?  Yeah, right. Try more like, past crappy champs.  (That sounded funnier in my head.)

Anyway, as I was mocking 16 and 17 year-olds for missing free throws, the sound of the buzzer began to ignite some PTSD from my past high school basketball career.  With a slight cold shiver I remembered the time I attempted to drive on a rather large girl in the paint, hoping to draw a foul, when all that occurred was me slamming into her and then slamming my head against the floor.  After a few moments of lying on the ground, I got back up, continued playing, got a pass from my teammate and shot the ball directly into the stands.  As the ball landed in the lap of an innocent spectator the buzzer rang and so did my head.  Apparently, I was, how do you say, suffering from a brain concussion....so that was pretty awesome.

And then there was the time as a freshman, when the buzzer signified the end of my personal humiliation.  What do I mean?  Well, as a freshman I made varsity - which, before you get all impressed, actually meant I scored myself a prime seat at the end of the bench.  So, there I sat, watching our team, who happened to be one of the best in the state, destroy opposing schools again and again.  At first I used to love the smack down we, sorry I meant, they, would inflict on other teams, but then I started to dread the fourth quarter because inevitably it would go like this:  We would be up by twenty of thirty points and my coach would start to sub.  EVERYONE would be given some scrub time to run up the score and cause some meaningless fouls.  And then, just when there was about 14 or 9 seconds left on the clock, my coach, Mr. White, who is actually a black man, would finally lean down the bench and grunt, "Soulier get in."  Get in?  And do what exactly?  Stretch the refs and make sure they don't have any pulled muscles?  Sweep the floor?  Oh, wait, I know...inbound the freaking ball.  I swear, it was like the guy waited for just the right moment to ensure I was going to be completely humiliated.  And my poor parents.   What were they supposed to do? Clap for their daughter, who's greatest contribution to the game was throwing the ball into play?  You know a monkey could do the same thing?

So, there I would go - kneel next to the scorer's table, wait for the buzzer, point to some other idiot, who had to feel like a complete moron for getting taken out by the "inbounding girl," carelessly take the ball from the waiting ref, and just like a mindless zombie, throw the ball to another sad teammate.  And then it would come...just as I was walking up the court...the buzzer...ringing like a shout of freedom from the rafters.  Sometimes it would take 6 seconds for it to ring and other times my misery would be slightly prolonged, but when it came, oh how sweet the release of my humiliation it was.

So, beware friends.  If you find me with my head between my legs during a basketball game, just know, I'm carrying some baggage.

A Stand Against The Pagan Holiday

As you can see...beautiful Christmas...unhappy child.

I haven't been able to put my finger on it, but I'm pretty sure after several observations my daughter was not, I repeat, not a fan of Christmas.  How do I know this?  One, the kid slept in on Christmas morning.  What child under the age of ten sleeps in on Christmas morning?  And when I did wake her to go downstairs, a rather large tooting sound radiated from her bottom.  Come on people, you don't have to be a genius to understand my daughter was literally pooping on Christmas.  And lastly, my thoughtful mom purchased a very innocuous onesie entitled "Santa's Helper" that my daughter proceeded to spit up on, throw up on and again, as a common response for her dismay, poop on.  And I'm not talking about something happening after a couple of hours of wearing - no, I'm talking about ten minutes after the onesie being snapped shut did the bodily functions come out to play.

So, what am I to do?  My daughter isn't a fan of Christmas.  Do we try Hanukkah next year?

The Hoot Of Car Buying

For the past few weekends the husband and I have been shopping for a new car.  For those of who are still driving the car your parents gave to you when you turned 16, let me tell you a few fun things about visiting car dealerships.

One, apparently half of the car salesmen you encounter will absolutely hate their jobs.  I mean hate their jobs.  Take for example, (some foreign name I didn't catch because he mumbled it.) at Hyundai.  First of all, you would have thought we were asking this guy for a look at his femur bone when we asked to see a car.  He literally looked up from his virtually empty desk and said, "You want to see a car outside?"  No, (foreign employee of the month) I would like to see a car you draw from your imagination...you have 1 minute...go!  When we finally got this charismatic salesman outside and into the car for a test drive, I thought we were transporting a hungover college freshman back to his dorm.  He sat in the back seat, put his sunglasses on and mumbled incoherent phrases like, "Horse power," and "gas mileage."  When we tried to make small talk by asking, "You must get tired of this test drive route," he replied with no hesitation, "Yes."  At least we had run into a honest car salesman - isn't that like finding a four leaf clover?

Two, playing the game of,  "What do you think of (insert competitor car)?" is a hoot with car salesmen.  Last night, while test driving a Toyota I asked the salesman what he thought of the Nissan Pathfinder.  As the word "Pathfinder" fell from my lips, he started to grip the console in rage and make hissing noises under his breath.  When I followed up with, "No, really what do you think?"  He replied, with all the restraint of a raging bull, "Um, Nissan is a terrible car."  Terrible huh?  Really?  So, I decided to poke the hornet's nest one more time and said, "So, you think Nissan is a bad choice?"  You would have thought I was asking what he thought about packing a car with puppies and lighting it on fire.  Like I said, it was a hoot.

And three, test driving is fun, so please, if you get the chance, go for it.  Slam on the brakes, take it from 0 to 60, and swerve onto oncoming traffic.  How are you going to know if this is the car unless you drive like a complete madwoman?  Because let's be honest, this is a free ride, and two, your salesperson wants to kill themselves anyway, so just help speed up the process.

You Like?

So, I've really been enjoying our new pad.  One, it's completely silent here.  I mean silent.  I sleep like I'm in a coma each night.  Two, we have a garage.  I know, for those of you, who have always lived in a normal house, this might not seem like a big deal, but after my past parking situations (elevators and 40 point turns were involved) I'm very excited for the enclosure.  And three - WE HAVE A WASHER AND DRYER.  I sometimes just dump jars of salsa on myself so I can go and wash my clothes and then leave them in the dryer for days....and days...I love a world where you can leave clothes in dryers.  I really think dryers should replace closets and drawers.

But, as great as all these things are there is one thing I hate - no loathe - in my new place.  Some people would call it a "light fixture."  Others would call it a "chandelier."  I call it the "Golf Ball Crystal Eye Sore of the Universe" or G.B.C.E.S.O.T.U for short.  As you can see from the picture above, this thing is massive and I hate it.  When I walked into our place for the first time I said, "This could be the place..." and then this monstrosity literally stopped in my tracks, and while its glittering debauchery of style began to suck the very soul from my body, I whispered in almost a trance..."What the hell is this...?"  And just then, when I felt the last moments of my life coming to a close, I heard a heavily thick accent break through my visual nausea, and ask, "You like?"  Friends, that voice still haunts me at night.  "You like?"  "You like?"  I don't think Edgar Allan Poe could compose a scarier phrase.

After a few moments of fighting to regain my composure, I was able to rip my eyes from this abhorrence and say, "Um, is this included with the place?"  Again, that voice..."You like?" No, I wanted to scream.  No!  What had I done?  I was trying to be a good mother.  I needed to lose some weight, but overall, I thought I was leading an admirable life, and now this.  Again, after fighting the urge to grab a crucifix and whisper some witchcraft chants to rid the house of this evil, I said, "Um, it just doesn't go with what I already own.  Would we be able to replace it?"  Again, my plea was responded with, "You like?  Yes, you like?"  Damn you monster!  How could I fight her?  She had me cornered.

So, here it hangs.  Mocking me each morning as the light catches its golf balls and sprays my tiny kitchen table with prisms of rainbows.  Oh, how I hate you G.B.C.E.S.O.T.U.  One day you will be destroyed...and I cannot wait to see you crumble.

Boss Lady

So, last week we moved from Santa Monica to good ol' Irvine to put some roots down and embrace the suburban life.  Can I just say how much I dislike moving?  Honestly, it's the cruelest thing to have to take part in TWICE in four months!  Seriously, I hate moving.  Why you ask?  Why all the anger?  Well, stop asking questions and I'll tell you.

The following are the reasons I hate moving:

1. The utter delusion involved in moving.  You know what I'm talking about. A week before you move you think, "Gee, this will take a few hours to move everything because I barely own anything."  And then the day of the move comes, and you find yourself staring at piles of clothes, wedding gifts, books, towels and other pieces of crap, and you begin to consider lighting a match and just burning everything so you won't have to pack anything else.

2. The odds and ends.  Oh. my. gosh.  Again you know what I'm talking about.  For the first few hours of packing you are being all organized, labeling the boxes with things like, "clothes," "towels" etc. and then after all that stuff is packed away you are left with a box of staples, two wooden spoons, a plunger, some razors and a lifetime supply of napkins from various take out restaurants in the area.  What do you do with this crap?  I must have had four boxes labeled "Misc. Crap."

3. Other people moving your stuff.  Now you would think I would enjoy this part, but come on, we all know you don't handle people's stuff the way you handle your own.  Do you really care if your friend's coffee table gets destroyed?  Not really.  Do you care if your coffee table gets destroyed?  Definitely.  So, introduce a professional "I don't care because it's not my crap" company (Moving Company) and what do you get?  A bunch of guys grabbing the most expensive stuff you own, wondering if they could jam the door with it, so they don't have to keep opening it while they move your middle school yearbooks.

4. The "caring" beat down.  What do I mean by this?  Well, at nine o'clock am you wrap every piece of utensil for fear it will get scratched.  By nine o'clock pm - you are throwing your wedding china into a box with the iron and a toilet brush...and before you even make a motion to throw in some bubble wrap, you find yourself telling yourself, "Listen the china is high quality it will stay solid...and the iron needs to go anyway.  So, if it makes it - it was meant to be...if not..."

5. Unpacking.  Because inevitably the one screw to the crib, that holds it all together, is lost and somehow the only clothes you can immediately find, were actually the ones that were supposed to go to Goodwill.

As a side note this move was actually a lot better than the one four months ago. 1. My husband and his brother didn't have to move our couch and 2. Our moving company called me "Boss Lady" the whole time. I sort of miss those guys.  For a few hours I really felt like a Southern Plantation owner.

Gorillas in the Mist

On Sunday the baby started to laugh. It was one of the coolest things I've ever heard. However, what was even funnier, was when the husband stopped me from going near her, fearing that any noise would stop the laughter. After a few minutes, of standing silently still, I turned to my husband and said I felt like we were watching gorillas in their natural environment. Dian Fossey gots nothing on these two scientists.

Above is a video we were able to catch once the specimen welcomed us into her habitat and felt we posed no danger.

My Bewitching Hour

Again, why, why don't people tell/warn you of things that are going to happen and that you are going to do once you have a child?  Honestly, no one told me I was going to be excited to see my child go number two, or that I was going to become obsessed with getting the lint out of my child's hand.  NO ONE.  Also, no one told me about the deadly time between putting your child to bed for the night and the time you should be going to sleep yourself.  I cannot tell you how many times I've said to myself, "Once this baby goes to sleep, I'm marching to my room, brushing my teeth and going straight to bed."  (Yes, I talk to myself in quotations.)  And then all of the sudden, the baby is all nestled in her bed and everything around me becomes fascinating.  All of the sudden I start staring at my bookshelf wondering if I should finally bite the bullet and read something mildly more intelligent than my usual smut...for only twenty minutes, of course...and then, before I know it, I've pulled out my old Mongolian dictionary and spent a mystifying 89 minutes reading words out loud in a horrible Mongolian accent.  How does this happen? 

Last night was probably the worst...yes, worse than reading Mongolian out loud.  I had about fifteen minutes before I really needed to sleep, when I stumbled upon Extreme Cougar Wives on TLC.  Oh.  My.  Gosh.  This show is captivating, mesmerizing and fantastic all at the same time.  What's the premise you ask?  Um, just women in their late 60s and 70s having relations (that's for you Mom) with men 35+ years their junior.  Fantastic.  Right?  How did they meet, you ask?  Um, one young man was dating the 54 year old woman's daughter until he turned 20 and then...well...then love happened.  I actually watched 30 minutes of this show standing up with the remote in my hand because I was so fascinated by these people. 

Next week Stephanie, a 68 year old woman, goes to the beach with her 28 year old boyfriend, and has to endure the mocking from his friends as they play volleyball.  Will I watch?  Um, I sure as heck didn't put my baby to sleep to knit something if that is what you are wondering.

Please help me.  I didn't go to bed until 11:45 last night.  11:45. I spent 72 minutes of my life watching this show.  There's got to be a better way.

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?

Sandy Doesn't Even Cover It

Yesterday morning, while I was feeding the little one, I was watching myself a little GMA (not sure what that is?  Well, become a stay at home mom and you will be very aware of all the hits in the morning.)  Anyway, on GMA they were showing numerous images of devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy on the east coast.  As I saw fires in Brooklyn, waves crashing over the Atlantic City Boardwalk, trees down on homes and roads covered in water I started thinking - should all this mayhem really just be called "Sandy?"  I know, I know the World Meteorological Organization uses six lists of 21 names (Q, U, X, Y and Z names are not used) that it cycles through every six years, with the gender of the season’s first storm alternating year to year, and genders alternating through the rest of the hurricane season to name each storm, but come on, we really need to come up with a better system.  (You didn't know all that?)  My east coast readers - you are locked in your homes - try to learn something!

Anyway, this naming process is cute and all but let's be honest - is a name like "Sandy" really covering all the craziness that is going on right now?  I mean, to me, "Sandy" sounds more like the east coast is experiencing a wet kiss and loveable cuddle by some blonde Labrador, than 60mph winds and devastating rainfalls.  Therefore, I think from now on all major storms should be named after former WWE wrestlers.  Seriously, think about it - wouldn't you me more inclined to board up your house and run out for batteries if you heard the "Abdullah the Butcher" was about to hit your hometown?  Or what if it was being reported that "Gorilla Monsoon" was moving from a tropical storm to a massive hurricane?  Gorilla Monsoon?  Heck, I would move if I heard that bad boy coming.  And lastly, if "Sgt. Slaughter" came to my hometown it wouldn't just be forgotten once the debris was cleaned, but the day the storm hit would be remembered for years to come.  Children would become freakishly quiet if the word "slaughter" was ever used.  Adults would shudder as they recalled the time they first heard the meteorologist say, "'Sgt. Slaughter' is coming our way."

Think about it - these storms are reeking havoc.  The least we can do is they give them the respect they deserve.

Gender Conspiracy

After 30 minutes of searching on the internet for clothes for my child I have determined, that makers of baby clothes and moms around the nation, need to come together and come up with some kind of compromise.  I get it, for generations of time we have all believed that girls must be dressed in pink and boys be dressed in blue, but who then decided that girl outfits must also include ridiculous amounts of ruffles, lace, embroidered hearts and any other kind of bedazzling that screams, "No, seriously, my bald child is a girl.  A girl, I say!"  Why can't girl clothes come in blue?  Would this cause a great darkness to come over Asia and parts of Australia?  What if a girl's outfit had a car on it?  Would that mean sudden deaths would occur to people in Rhode Island, while they drive to work?  Honestly.  What is the big deal?  Do people really think babies look down at their outfits to determine their gender identity?  If so, the Dallas Cowboy football jersey, cut off jeans and Converse shoes I wore every single day, really should have caused me massive confusion, but it didn't.  And sure, there was a time when a sales clerk told my older brother he had a really cute younger brother, and I had to inform the dumb lady that I was a girl, but hey, it all got straightened out...oh wait...

Alright, alright, let's just lay off the pink.  I swear my girl will wear dresses occasionally, choose the correct bathroom at school and marry a man - can I now buy some blue clothes?

Evidence

 

Above are pictures of an actual house in my neighborhood...and the reason I wrote my last entry.  These pictures don't even show the half of it.

I felt this one deserved mentioning because of the pathetic effort.  (I also judge "mailed in" decorations.)  A leg caught in the window? That doesn't even make sense.

Points awarded for an actual pumpkin, but major deductions for the overuse of cobwebs and creepy children coming out of the ground.

I've included this picture because my child and I were questioned for our picture taking in the neighborhood by this woman with the dog.  I replied that I have a blog that gives advice on decorations, and that I was taking pictures for my readers.  So, I'm posting this picture to show that lady I wasn't lying.  My advice - don't do this.

I would like to apologize for ant typos - I wrote this entire blog with one hand while a baby sleeps in my lap.  Apparently, Elton John and blogging knocks her out.

 

Where Did All The Pumpkins Go?

I don't know what the equivalent of a Christmas "Bah, Humbug" would be for Halloween, but I think I've got it.  Don't worry it's not about the gluttonous amounts of candy that will be consumed, or the fact, that grown men will finally be able to fulfill their secret, and somewhat bizarre, desire to dress as a woman (Is it the fact that they get fake boobs for three hours?) but this year my complaint is about the ridiculous decorations I'm witnessing in the neighborhoods around my apartment.  Listen, where I grew up, Halloween decorations consisted of a carved pumpkin, maybe two if the family was going crazy, and maybe a fall themed wreath.  That was it.  Out here, in Santa Monica, I see barely any pumpkins (which makes me feel like the Communists are winning) and absolutely no wreaths.  But you know what I do see?  Homes covered in fake spider webs, skeletons left on the ground, fake grave sites, blown up pumpkins (this is definitely a Communist plot) and ghosts hanging from the trees.  IT'S TOO MUCH! 

First of all, why all the crap?  Did the store Michael's blow up and all this crap just accidentally landed on people's property?  Because if that's the case - then fine, all is forgiven.  However, if this crap was purposely purchased and then took an entire Saturday to put up - then no, nothing is forgiven. 

Second of all, Christmas decorations = pretty, festive, inviting.  Halloween decorations = tacky, doesn't look good in direct light or at night.  Oh, and come on, real gravestones don't say "Trick or Treat!"  GEEZZ.

Lastly, what are we celebrating here?  A man, who was burned and then put knives on his hands and scared the crap out of kids through their dreams?  Or is it the guy in the hockey goalie mask?  No, wait it must be that guy with the chainsaw...ahhh, I love that guy.

Okay, I take it all back.  Celebrate away...I hear Michael's still has some crap.

I'll be taking some pictures on my walk tomorrow. 

My Review of P90x

For the past few days I've been attempting to do P90X.  (Which has been awesome because I'm fulfilling two objectives: 1. Trying to get back in shape.  2. And continuing my plan of retaliation for the trombone and trumpet playing, that occurs everyday at 3:45, from my downstairs neighbors.  I've been going with the tried and true practice of holding my screaming baby up to the window, but I think this pounding of the feet will make some waves.) 

Anyway, can we talk about these videos?  First of all, I AM NOT GOOD at following a tape.  And this one isn't even that hard, but heck if I ever have the right foot forward or even remotely synchronized with these freaks of natures.  I swear, sometimes I feel like turning off the tape and for 30 minutes just kicking around the room, while my hands make flailing motions...it would be just about the same workout. 

Second of all, I hate the people on this tape.  Why?  Because they'll be like, "Hey Tony, I just did thirty reps of squats, but now I'm going to jump in the air and squeal with joy after each rep because this is the easiest and best workout!!"  Really, you paid actors?  I wish the tape had people like me on it.  Honestly, how funny would it be to see some fat guy dressed in sweatpants, (I love fat guys in sweatpants) panting through the tire jumps, or see some clueless woman in the back just stop and stare as she tries to figure out the jab, swing, hook and uppercut combination.  Now this is a workout I would do.  One, because it would be highly entertaining, and two because it would make me feel slightly more coordinated...slightly.

And lastly, I've got to stop having the audio on while doing this tape - it drives me nuts. Honestly, if I'm going to do your stupid tape, Tony, at least have the decency to be funny and not so awkward.  Some of his comments really should have made some intern in the back scream, "Um, can we do that again because Tony is making me feel weird again."  Seriously.  He'll walk up to his sweaty volunteers and say, "Are you breathing hard?  Are you?  I'm going to put my microphone up to your mouth so I can tell."  Hey Tony, I can see she's sweating, I don't need to hear her labored breaths every time I do the tape. 

So, what am I going to do with P90X?  Continue it, master it, make my own tape with the uncoordinated people in the background, market it as a blooper reel and work out video, and lastly, find Tony, get a microphone and tape his breathing to use as an additional feature on my DVD.  It's going to be fantastic.

Last Lesson

I think this sums it up.

Not So Much The Same Parts

Here's the thing - I understand that people work out and sweat.  And because of this sweat they feel the need to shower.  And, because they happen to be at a gym, that offers showers, they feel it makes sense to disrobe and then clean off.  Again, I'm okay with all of this.  But, here's what I'm not okay with - the public display of disrobing.  OH MY GOSH.  People, I don't know if you don't have loved ones if your life, who will speak honestly to you, or if you think sagging body parts are normal, but please, let's do the whole naked thing locked in a bathroom stall, in your car or anywhere, but in the freaking area you have to walk through to get to the bathrooms.

So, I'll be honest, I've been frequenting the locker room at the gym in order to weigh myself and monitor the lack of weight I'm losing after having a baby.  (The weight would be coming off except for the fact that I'm hiding another small child in my boobs.  I'm not sure the due date, but I'm pretty excited, as is the husband, to be having a set of twins in the next few months.)  Anyway, it seems like every time I enter the locker room some creepy woman is just standing there waiting for me to enter...and then it happens.  You know what I'm talking about - the awkward eye contact that is made to say from her end, "Yep, I'm naked from the waist up.  Pretty cool huh?"  And from my end, "I'm making eye contact so I don't have to look down and throw up."

I just don't get it.  I know, I know the first grade answer of, "We all have the same parts," but I got to be honest, my parts might be the same but they don't look the same as these National Geographic escapees.

Please creepy women, do me a favor, and let's cover it up.

Lesson 4

Sorry, sorry I had family in town and was unable to finish my lessons. Here's number 4. It's pretty self-explanatory.

Lesson 3

Listen kiddo, your mom has a lot of good traits...however, speaking in a foreign language is not one of them. Don't believe I have a flaw...well, watch this.

Lesson 2

Ah yes, lesson #2. So, I was in fifth grade and we were going to perform a whimsical musical about clowns. I decided, because no one took it upon themselves to tell me how bad I was, that I would try out for a lead role, which included a solo. The day of the try out for the role, I got a good night's sleep, ate a good breakfast and performed Richard Marx's "Right Here Waiting" with all my heart. To my utter surprise I was given the role...however, the original solo was slightly altered.

Lesson 1

For the past few days I've been going through some old videos of my childhood and college life. As I was looking through my awkward stages and "glory days," I thought, there's a lot of life lessons to be shared with my daughter. Therefore, for this next week I'll be sharing a video/lesson each day. Feel free to enjoy and hopefully you'll learn something too.

My New Schtick

I'm not going to lie, having a baby has not been the easiest transition.  I mean, errands?  Forget it.  Some how she always ends up knowing we are not out for nice walk, but in the middle of Costco.  However, there are times her strange knack for knowing we aren't enjoying a nice stroll can come in handy.  Take for example the other day when we were in Target:  I entered the store, returned an item, got a gift card with the return money and proceeded to do some shopping.  As I was checking out, Avery decided to wake up and started to get fussy. No big deal. However, the gift card, that I had just received, wasn't working and so I was directed back to the returns counter.  Now Avery is flat out angry.  As the Target employee was trying to figure out the problem with the gift card, Avery started to wail.  Finally, I said, "Listen I'll just pay for it for real."  Again, no problem - except their credit card machine was down.  Avery, and now myself, are beside ourselves.  Eventually, the transaction is made and I'm informed I've been given a 10% discount.  "Great," I say, and leave Target.  As soon as I take five steps from the return counter, Avery instantly stops crying.

This could become a great schtick: Go to store, attempt to make a purchase, shake baby, get discount, leave store with happy baby.

Good Idea?

This past weekend, here in LA, was Carmaggedon.  For those of you, who are lucky enough not to live in this convoluted city, Carmaggedon constitutes part of a major freeway being shut down while a bridge is constructed.  Now, I can imagine in most cities this wouldn't cause much of a disturbance, but here in LA it causes virtual mass hysteria.  Honestly, signs go up warning motorists about a month out, TV news anchors warn people to stay home, half of LA's police squads are out "defending" the closed down freeway and side streets, off the freeway, are monitored and watched by parking and traffic officials. 

So, with knowing all this, and having graduated from college, the husband and I decided to stupidly drive right into the epicenter of this madness.  Things were going alright until we decided to exit the freeway about two miles before the real traffic began and take side streets home.  Honestly, (I'm writing this with my head down) it seemed like a good idea...but then...actually before I write what happened let me ask you:  What do you think would be a good idea for LA to do when they shut down a major freeway?

a. Have city officials at corners and stopped lights offering their apologies for the traffic inconvenience through free hot dogs and popsicles? 

b. Place clear and easily understandable signs directing people to alternate routes in order to speed along their travel?

OR

c. CLOSE OFF A MAJOR SIDE STREET WITH A TRIATHLON SO NO ONE CAN GET EITHER NORTH OR SOUTH.

I guess you know what happened.  I have never been so angry in my life. We get off the freeway and are instantly dumped into another cluster of traffic.  No one knows what is going on, cops are sitting there defending the cross street and the idiots on bikes, who are participating in this triathlon sponsored by Satan, and all we are told is, "Get back on the freeway."  Really?  This was the plan?  Close off a major street and push cars back onto a gridlock freeway?

Honestly, if anyone knows who approved a triathlon on Carmaggedon I would pay handsomely for either their hanging, incarceration or the loss of their employment.  I will pay double if you make all three happen.  Come on people, it's Carameggdon - you don't do this kind of stuff.

Just Another Saturday Night

So, this is a great story.  The other night my husband and I went out to this great new restaurant and were given the total VIP treatment. We had this amazing table, our food was given to us for free, there were some celebrities next to us...

Oh wait..no...my baby threw up on me.