The Miser Sisters

Sibling rivalry is nothing new, and my family is no exception. On the other hand, aside from my daughter, my sister is easily my best friend. Her opinion is the one that matters most to me, even when I don't want it to. We do nearly every fad diet and fad skin care phenomenon together...often. She was even in the delivery room when I had my daughter (so was my brother, but that is an entirely different story).

So mostly we are able to put our differences aside and live peaceably with one another - despite never having resolved who stole who's Benetton logo rugby shirt, or who stole who's mother.

But one area we will never be able to reconcile is over temperature. My sister can never be warm enough. In 105 degree weather she can still wear pants and a thermal and be perfectly content. She is a volcano and despises nothing more that to be tempered. Which is not really a problem anymore until we find ourselves back at our childhood home visiting for the summer. It is here where old battle lines are redrawn. Scars of yore resurface. Treaties and pacts fall to the wayside.

Last night, after a day of nearly melting in the east coast wave of humidity I took it as a personal affront when I crawled to bedroom only to find the air conditioning had been turned off - not lowered, but entirely removed - and we were expected to sleep in our own heated filth and sweat.

My sister scoffed at my inability to handle "a little warm" as I negotiated an evening temperature of 78 (down from 85). But at 4:00am, as I crept into the pitch black hallway and over to the LED thermostat, I felt no guilt...

75...this was war after all!
72...I was on the side of the right!
70...She has blankets!
68...Dare I?! Yes I do!

But as I smugly made my way back to bed, assured in my victory in this battle, my daughter, in long sleeves and pant pajamas, nestled inside flannel sheets and a down comforter looked up at me and groggily said "Momma, I'm cold." It was then, I feared my sister had somehow won this war.

Muffin Tops, Warrior Dashs and Pamela Ribon

Sometimes in my life as a rarely working TV producer I get to develop shows with really great writers.  Mostly I'm with writers who have never actually written anything before and are also exterminators during business hours.  But every once in a while I do get the good ones.

There is one in particular whom I have worked with on and off for years, Pam Ribon (http://pamie.com/).  As I've never actually gotten anything of hers on air I have to judge her a little for letting me keep doing it but she's just that kind of mench. She's in the dictionary for having coined the term muffin top (she also incidentally, came up with Soufleg, for when your calf spills over the top of your boot, which I think doesn't get enough use).  She always has a book in her bag, and it's a good one like about the science of brains and not just the kindle version of The Duke's Secret Bride, like some other people (ahem). 

The last project we developed was about the world of Roller Derby - a world she was cool enough to occupy.  It was fantastic (suck it networks!) and one of the key factors she wanted to capture in our series was that this was about a world we haven't seen on television yet.  This wasn't Sex and the City's fabulous New York or Entourage's glossy Los Angeles.  This series took place in old meat packing factories and legitimate but seedy Korean massage parlors. This was HER world!

Pam: I want them to do Warrior Dash's on the weekend!
Me: Great, great.  I'm loving all of this and I think it's really what they want.  But what is a Warrior Dash?
Pam: http://www.warriordash.com/
Me: You and I are very different people...

When we went into HBO to pitch the show we had to spend a considerable amount of time in the waiting area.  It's a wide open space with several seating choices the largest of which is occupied by two giant blue leather couches.  The couches are themselves occupied by 1,436 blue leather pillows.  If you attempt to sit on a couch you'll find there are so many pillows you are forced to the very edge of the couch and that the leather is so well maintained that your butt can find no grip on the material.  You will almost immediately be ejected from the couch to the floor in a slow but consistent slide.  It was in this state that I last saw my friend Pam.

On July 3rd at Skylight Books in Los Angeles she'll be doing a reading of her new book You Take it from Here.

And here is a direct quote from Amazon: "In the spirit of Beaches and Steel Magnolias, You Take It from Here is an honest, hilarious, and heartbreaking novel that ultimately asks: How much should we sacrifice for the ones we love the most?"  So seriously, you know you want to read it!  

Also, look how sassy she is in her publisher's photo:

She had a picture of the blue leather couch and it's myriad cushions on her twitter but I couldn't find it anywhere to post the link.  Maybe if we all clap really loud for her she'll post it for your viewing pleasure (and preparation, should you be planning on visiting HBO soon).  Maybe she'll even reenact the event at her reading!

Regrets, I've had a few

Collateral damage is a phrase that doesn't come up in my day to day very often. I produce TV shows, not save lives, so the collateral damage of my work life includes things like "I ate all the cookies at craft services before the cast got there and now they're bitching that there aren't any sweet treats to the poor caterer." Or "If we make this cut the guy who made the butter sculpture of the monkey scene won't get to see his work on screen."

In my personal life any collateral damage seems to land squarely on my long suffering husband: "She was screaming, we both were crying, I just couldn't face it, so we stopped for pizza and now you're on your own for dinner." and "There was poop everywhere! And it just kept coming like a battlefield - I thought I was in Beruit! So now you have to take my car in to be detailed tomorrow."

Sure it ain't pretty but no one's lost a limb.

I don't talk much here about the Photo Album anymore - mostly because the FBI has asked me not to - but it seems that while no one suffered major collateral damage - no one who shouldn't have lost their job, no one who shouldn't have lost friends or relationships, no one who shouldn't have had to buy themselves a new phone - there were definitely some feelings hurt. And that is a true regret.

I can't change what happened. I'm not sure that I would want to because in the long run a lot of good came out of it - not just for me, but many, many other people. But if I could change anything it would be to go back and minimize the collateral damage to the people who were not at fault.

Handling things with inappropriate humor is a long suffering Irish tradition and just as long there have been people who's feelings have gotten hurt because of it. For that, me and my people are sorry. Really.

But we did give you an annual world-wide drinking day so hopefully that makes up for some of it.

Detachment Parenting

With last month's now infamous Time Magazine article (http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,2114427,00.html) the term and philosophy behind Attachment Parenting has reached the main stream, but it has been one lobbied about parenting circles for years. 

The 8 principals of attachment parenting are:

1. Preparation for Pregnancy, Birth and Parenting
2. Feed with Love and Respect
3. Respond with Sensitivity
4. Use Nurturing Touch
5. Ensure Safe Sleep, Physically and Emotionally
6. Provide Consistent Loving Care
7. Practice Positive Discipline
8. Strive for Balance in Personal and Family Life

A friend of mine recently found herself spending most of the summer solo parenting while her husband is out of town working a production. As babies, she wore her truly lovely kids around, nursed 'em, no drugs birthed them, co slept, and organic fed them.  She is one of those moms that would be nice to not like because she's doing it better than you, but you do anyway because she's a smart ass.  This was one of her recent status updates:

So for her, and all you other amazing parents who are ready to have the kids like you a little less, the 8 principals of detachment parenting are:

1. Prepare them for LIFE.  Let them know at every opportunity just what the future holds for them like the sure demise of social security, the lack of jobs (let alone dream jobs) out there, mortgages.  I like to show my kid her birth video.
2. If the kid can reach a snack on their own, they don't need you to get up from Pinterest to get it for them.  (*Key to this is to make sure they can also open it on their own, no thanks to you Trader Joe's Crushers)
3. Be vaguely disinterested in everything they discuss.  Ask "what?" a lot like you're only half listening or you just have bad hearing.  They'll lose interest soon enough. The opposite should be used if your child is over 13.
4. Insist they wash their hands before touching you or other things in the house.  No child willingly washes their hands and definitely not with soap.  The side benefit to this is they'll mostly want to play outside and that's actually good parenting.
5. If a child insists on sleeping in your bed tell them bed time for your bed is actually an hour earlier than bed time in their bed.  Then prove it by going to sleep earlier and earlier every night.  Win Win.
6. Get a great babysitter that lets them eat jelly with no peanut butter and no bread - "bowl style" is how we call it here.
7. In my experience practicing any kind of discipline will turn them off.  I do like to ramp it up by threatening to throw pretty much everything in the garbage if it's not picked up.  I do this so often other parents threaten their kids with me coming over and throwing away their toys too.  I'm like the anti tooth fairy.
8. Offer to watch TV with them, but then insist on it being grownup sports or HGTV because "it's not a school day for you either!"  Again, this gets them to play outside so you really are being an excellent parent.

Did I miss any?  Let me know, if you have any other excellent ways to get these kids ready to leave the nest, even if they're only 4...

"Say bye bye to G.G."

Tomorrow I'm traveling with the kid to see some family.  I'm not great at traveling with my kid by myself unless it's a red eye and she's unconscious, or I'm not pregnant and have had three Bloody Marys...and I'm unconscious.

But I generally like to get back to see my family and old friends, compare crows feet and stretch marks, see who's husband has totally become an alcoholic, etc.  Plus you got to check in with family, you know, just in case wills are still being made out.

My grandmother is getting on in years and what she lacks in youth she makes up for in nasty remarks.  She's like a living lady Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets.  For example?  When I told her I was pregnant on Christmas Day she responded with "Oh no!  But you're too old!"

But there was a lot of time in my 20s when she was just hilarious!  She always had all the gossip (probably where my daughter gets that gene) and she's always saying how awesome my mom is, especially in front of my uncle, which cracks me up.  So, in that memory, I feel obligated to call her and make my daughter share in the pain FUN.

There is no better time than while we're in the car on our way to school because it doesn't take time away from other things we want to do and gives us a hard-out.  Unfortunately, however, sometimes that hard-out blurs and we can still be finishing up the call when the car pool parent opens the car door.  On these fine occasions they're gifted with "...so I don't even know what your mother sees in that man!" or "I meant to mention you should try exercising more so you don't stay so big."  My daughter then says "Bye Bye G.G.!" and I'm left exchanging an awkward and, hopefully, sympathetic stare with the other parent.

Should be a fun trip!

The Iron lady herself.  It's okay to think she's hot.

Me @ the Zoo

A new "Where the Hell is Matt?" video came out recently.

I love these videos.  They give me a warm and fuzzy about the intrinsic good nature of people and how we're all really the same inside.  That is, we all love to be internet famous!

When Matt started these videos it was just him.  Then lots of people got the warm and fuzzies for him and so a company paid him to do it again.  And then a company paid him again to do it with lots and lots of people around the world!

Maybe I'm seeing the Matt phenomenon all wrong.  Maybe we can choose to see something more profound going on.  We can choose to believe that while yes we are a people fueled by the number of "likes" we get on a status update or the number of comments we get on a post, that the reason we are powered by those things goes deeper than pride or hubris.  Perhaps it is that we as a people are looking for a way to connect with all the other people out there.  Yes, a "like" validates what you're thinking/feeling/judging, but it also says there are people out there like you whom you could talk to and become close to.

Tomorrow HBO is airing what looks to be an amazing documentary about one of the pioneering breakout viral internet celebrities, Chris Crocker (http://meatthezoo.tv/#).  1/8000th of the number of people who followed his story tuned in to mine and I know my life was irrevocabley changed (for the better, please keep reading!) but I can only imagine how completely his world was turned around. 

Maybe Chris will have all the answers for us.  Why do we love the attention?  Why do we creave the connection? If he does, I really will leave Britney alone, but I make no promises about Drew - who has still remained quite elusive at the Doctor's office.  I'm going to have to try and sneak a peak at the booking screen.  I wonder if she uses an alias to book, like Charlie Firestarter or Ivy Awesome.

Let them eat cake

What does one wear to a Marie Antionette themed one year old's birthday party?

I had to ask myself this question as a most divine little girl celebrated her birthday this past weekend and was kind enough to invite us rabble to her festivities.

The party was spectacular.  A wash of pink and fluff and and sparkle. 

This was the "smash" cake.  If I could make something that looked this nice it would not only not be a smash cake it would be protected from being eaten and enshrined someway as a monument to my awesomeness.

I need to learn how to take better food-porn photos as my iPhone pictures aren't doing this justice.  How did Nelson get such beautiful shots?!

This is a rainbow sherbert pink punch that I had four glasses of - two of which I had to sneak because I am terrible at being diabetic.

The party would have done Marie proud - right before she ordered the beheading of an older brother and his friend who threw sand!  Quel dommage!

Parties of this nature are baffling to me.  I have never thrown my daughter a proper party as since the day she was born I have been perpetually and utterly exhausted (except for those brief times when I spend a long weekend in Chicago for Lolla Palooza, then I seem to rally like a drunken sorority girl).  For my daughter's first birthday she had six kids over at around 11:00am, a box of cupcakes, and I vacuumed.  For her second it was five kids and I didn't vacuum.  For her third, I didn't even buy the cupcakes, I tortured her with a homemade lopsided melted frosting cake.  She's a good sport and since there's always some sort of princess present in the ranks she doesn't seem to mind the rest of the affair being completely underwhelming.

We also make up for it by taking her away for the weekend.  We've done Legoland and Disneyland so far and they've gone over pretty well.  Unfortunately this year the addition of a new baby within mere days of her own birthday will impede our ability to travel and certainly compound my exhaustion.

So now I'm faced with the eternal birthday party struggle: When?  Where?  Who?

I'd love to throw something casual in my house but she's been invited to 26 parties already this year.  My house is not going to accommodate those 26 children and their parents, plus I plan to let my house deteriorate into a Hoarders-like existence in the days (/weeks and months) after birthing.  Of course, the piles of laundry might be able to double as the bouncy house.

There's always a party venue like a My Gym or The Playroom but where she really wants to go is Lollipop Dreams - which is essentially like having a party in a princess' closet.  It has rows and rows of dresses and princess accessories, but it's not exactly boy-friendly...well there are a few boys we know who would love it (and they are secretly my favorite friends of hers).

There's the park option but I'd have to plan food and the activities and -- Jesus it's already annoying me.

So I'm wondering if I can just skip it?  Like, just not tell her it's her birthday.  I mean she can't read a calendar and doesn't even remember her birth date all the time.  I'll take her for ice cream or something and generally try and be nice to her all day, but nothing says "New Big Sister" like "My Mom Forgot my Birthday" right?!

That guy at Ralphs is totally getting fired!

One of the world's great pastimes is people watching.  A restaurant with a mediocre menu and crappy parking can go up three points in popularity if it provides a good venue for spying on other people.

And let's face it, that's what we're doing.  It's not polite glancing at passerbys, it's full on gossip gathering.  Sure it's great to see what insanity other people get into but it's even more awesome if you can HEAR their insanity.  Who doesn't listen in on the couple fighting at the table next to them?  Or the ridiculous teenagers in line for popcorn at the movies - though she was totally right, Xander was being a complete ass-face.

Today I was delighted with a full on soap opera in multiple part splendiphary.  It all started at Ralph's grocery store during the early morning shift.  I go around 8:45 in the morning sacrificing a fully stocked shelf for a relatively quiet and old-lady-who-wants-to-pet-my-belly-and-tell-me-about-the-depression free shopping environment. 

In the very first aisle while looking for the 18 pounds of fruit my daughter will consume this week I overheard two employees complain that John has gotten to take a bunch of days off already this month!  This is a common complaint to hear and ultimately I chalked it up to everyone hates their job and moved on.  In aisle two, however, I heard one of those employees talking to the manager about John.  It seems John had gotten Father's day off when he wasn't even a father!  Manager: "What do you mean?  He's got a sixteen year old son." Employee: "That's his wife's kid and he only married her six months ago."

Well that was a fun development.  It seems John has been working the system!  Aisles 3-6 included the rallying of other employees to the John lynch-mob.  Aisle 7 was awesome because John was there and was hearing about Raquel's (the tattling employee) campaign against him.  Apparently she is a real "weight on [his] balls."  Aisle 7 is also the frozen food section so I couldn't linger as I was without a sweater or need to buy frozen food.  Though at this point, I was completely hooked.  Aisle 8 and 9, much to my dismay, were story free.  I think factions were forming back in the frozen pizza section.

It wasn't until check out that I got wind of the story's development.  As another manager was ringing up my items, the first manager (apparently Tuesday is manager day) had to come over and tell her the whole story.  The bag checker was completely absorbed (as was I) and had to rebag everything once he realized I had brought my own and didn't need either paper or plastic.  Apparently John had been making up tons of reason he couldn't work - faking paternity was only the tip of the iceberg - and one of them included a nut allergy.  I don't know the details there but I imagine it went something like they made him restock the snacks aisle and mid way through he informed them he had to go home because he came in contact with the salted Planters and now needed an epi-pen.   


This will officially be my grocery store of use from now on just in case there are more John stories.  I will definitely keep you in the loop as things develop.  Maybe next time I'll get pictures from behind the price checker.

Optimus Prime

I, like ever person on the planet, listen to Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know" every 45 minutes.  It's a cycle of that, "Rumor Has it", and something from Fergie and/or her Peas.  The radio station I regularly listen to is not quite easy listening but certainly easier than it used to be, before my kid heard a Rhianna song and asked me what "sexy" was.

Of course every once in a while, when I'm alone in the car, I like to try new things, experiment.  See what's playing on the cool stations.  But then they mess it up and play the dance version.  You've heard these, they're sorta like the song you like but they've changed the tempo and Kanye West has a solo in the middle.

the original

  the remix

Oh and there's always a siren of some kind so that if you're listening in the car you start to look in all your mirrors and slow down. 

This is annoying.  I like to hear a song the way I like it, which is why I don't really like to go to concerts (thank you Dave Matthews for that twenty minute horn solo).  But of course they do it to milk every last dime out of the song that they possibly can.  There's probably a classical version, a muzak version and even a baby lullaby version done with a xylophone and an alto triangle. It's optimizing an entity to it's prime and we do it with everything.

Case in point:

I've seen ways to optimize your infant's mind, a car's MPG, hair color, and even my dog - although those who know him will admit his already pretty fucking awesome.

And most of the time none of the offspring are better than the original.  Not every song needs a dance version.  Not every meal needs to be happied or supered.  Not everything needs to be optimized to its full potential.  That would be like having your phone stolen and trying to turn it into free Disneyland tickets/a blog/TV musical.

By the way, I tried to dictate today's blog to Siri and this is what she came up with:

Not every what every time we get a bacon chicken neck everything I cannot get it at the catch-up Bella be like your phone still let Jenny AHH I get free tickets to help you apply and that's typical.  

That is an iPhone optimized.

God Hates Deserters

One of the great benefits of having family live near by is the free babysitting and utmost comfort in leaving your child with that person.   I know not all family is babysitting material.  I've known people with family who have left children untended at crowded hotel pools, in car seats while they drive away in another car, elevators, escalators, etc.  (And I'm not saying that all those things happened to me as a baby.  I'm not not saying it either.)

But I've got the kind of family nearby that honestly may even do a better job with my kid then I do.  And I'm only too happy to reciprocate when given the opportunity.  But the care and feeding of other people's kids is tricky business.  No two parents are alike, just ask my husband who simply refuses to raise our daughter to my exact specifications - even though I'm completely right...all the time.  So even your most trusted and loved family and friends may do things differently.  Serving them balanced meals, never yelling in frustration, letting them pick the extra long bedtime book even when a new episode of "True Blood" is just sitting there on the TiVo waiting to be watched!  These kinds of things can seriously alter the expectations and schedule of your child when they get home. 

But worse yet, is when she's gone my husband and I do the same thing to ourselves.  Childles for the evening we convince ourselves we're freewheeling adults, able to eat dinner whenever we want, watch whatever we want, drink how much we want, and stay up as late as we want.  

For weeks we've been trying to figure out when to watch the miniseries "The Hatfields & The McCoys."  Between restructuring our entertainment system, my need to sleep at 9:00pm, and a kid who always wants to know what we're watching - even if she's just fallen out of bed onto her face and is screaming like a banshee, which is the only reason she's awake - we just haven't been able to get it done.  But last night, as two wild and crazy grown ups, we were determined to climb this mountain.  We would watch this SIX HOUR miniseries!

But the thing you never think about on your child-free evenings is that you are not also getting a child-free morning.  Being hungover, or tired, or still super-pregnant does not go away just because someone else tucked our little bundle of joy in for the night. No, she still expects you to parent her, and be interested in her, and...talk to her, even if you just need, like, two more hours of sleep.

Yes the mission was to watch that show.  And yes, we accomplished that mission.  But at what cost?  At what cost I ask you?

The Hatfield clan.  Who wouldn't want to spend six hours with these guys?

!

Father's Day, the musical

I was contacted this week about possibly turning my iPhone story into a TV Movie musical.  Of course I was.

I told my sister and she laughed and laughed.

I told my mother and she sighed.

I told my husband and he said "Good.  Maybe it'll make as much money as High School Musical and I can get a new HDTV."

I thought about telling my dad and then remembered the time when I was in 7th grade after a choir performance of the middle school.  It was the Season's Greetings performance (not the Christmas performance as I grew up in Brooklyn and went to a hippy no-grades school and we were as diverse as shit there).  And afterwards my mother and father walked me home.  My mother lavished compliments on me that were well thought out and eloquent, much like her.

My father also had high praise.  He said "Out of all those children I couldn't believe how much we could hear just you."  But he said it with such adulation that I didn't get the joke until the next morning.

Let's see who's laughing when his character is written as the overweight bafoon always losing his speedo in the boat's kiddie pool.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!

I'd also love to hear any casting suggestions.  I know you have them, so let loose!

Innapropriate Touching

We here at If You Must Know like to have a good time and joke around but there are two things we don't think are funny at all: 1. Erectile Dysfunction (actually we think that's hilarious) and 2. inappropriate touching. 

If you see a pregnant woman and you don't know her, very well, don't touch her. 

I had an entire other blog planned for today (not exactly written per se...but planned) and it was all together poignant, politically insightful, and knee-slappingly funny.  This was BlogHER award winning.  But you don't get to see it because it has become clear to me that everyone needs a refresher course on expecting-a-baby etiquette.

Three nights ago while on a romantic anniversary dinner with my husband, a table of octegenarian bitches pulled me aside to tell me how cute my baby was.  How cute the baby inside my stomach, invisible to all without hospital grade medical equipment or a very long and languid microscope, was.

Being the closeted bitch I am I politely thanked all of them and made myself available for the inevitable rapid fire question session - as only the never-called back great grandparents of the world can compile.  Is it your first? Are you giving him a family name?  Is your mother so excited? When are you due ----  "WHAT?  Not until the END of August?!  Are you sure you don't have twins in there?!"  At which the table of dusty deserted uterae cackles.

At the Coffee Bean this morning (large decaf english breakfast latte, no sugar added, in case you're wondering) the register lady calls to me through the crowded room "Shaniqua --" (don't ever give baristas your real name, it adds spice to your life) "Shaniqua, when are you due? End of August! Ooooh, really?!"  And now the entire place is staring at my "cute baby."

Go F yourselves.

Whether you're as overt as the sabertooth-tiger-wish-they-were-young-enough-to-be-cougars or as subtle as the the not-even-close-to-being-subtle-can-barely-understand-barista lady, what you're really saying, without saying, is "your gigantic." 

We all know it's not cool to tell people they're fat unless you're on a reality show.  It's not even cool to imply it.  When you say "oh you're just such a small person" what you're obviously not saying is "and that's why you look like bloated gorilla."  When you say "I bet he'll come early" what you're not saying is "because otherwise there's no way the enormity that is your unborn child will be able to fit through your baby hole."  When you say "Oh it's not that bad" what you're not saying is "Wow, it is really bad." 

What you CAN say to a pregnant lady is "___."  Nothing, that's right.  Make as much conversation with her as you do any other stranger waiting in line at the pharmacy with Tucks medicated hemorrhoid pads and a Mars Bar.  My having had unprotected vaginal intercourse was really not meant to be a conversation starter. 

Fine, I'll tolerate a gentle supportive smile or even the occasional "I know how you feel" from a mother of ten waiting in line at the Fro Yo.  But if you come at me with some fantastically funny quip or your meaty little fingers looking to cop a feel, I am going to pregnancy crop dust your table and let my husband play his favorite game where he gently caresses your cheek and then says "What?  I thought we were playing the inappropriate touching game."

Class dismissed.

Sadness, Part 1

My other addiction is shellac manicures.  I'm pretty sure one can't be hospitalized for it so I have no regrets.  For the uninitiated, shellac stays on twice as long and is literally impossible for the average Joe to take off at home.  So to remove it I have to go to the manicure place anyway and what, I'm not going to get another manicure while I'm there?  I'm only human damn it! 

You can even do something like this

I do not.

In any event, today at the nail salon they decided to favor me with the entirety of 1990 worldwide smash hit album MCMXC A.D. by Enigma.  Some of you may not remember this enigmatic album but it featured Gregorian-type chanting and what sounded like people having sex, or at least a lady having sex...

According to Wikipedia the guy who made the album claims it was about unsolved crimes and life after death but anyone who's ever listened to it knows it's about sex and how to have it in a seven song length.  It's practically a step by step guide.  Or at least that's how I used to think of it.

Early in my relationship with hubby (and if my mother is reading, this would be well after we were married), I tried to employ the use of this CD in an evening of extraordinarily over-plotted seduction.  I had listened to it several times and it seemed to me, from foreplay to post-coital cuddle, every element of a perfect rendez-vous could be timed and had with the use of this magical musical escort.

The opening song is 2:21 seconds.  This I timed to the lighting of candles about the room.  It does not take 2:21 seconds to light candles in the bedroom of a small one bedroom apartment in Hollywood.  Things were not off to a great start.

There was a lot of filler then.  Things said that didn't need to be said, like "Oh, did you hear that Jake and Sam broke up?  or "Oh hey, I'm out of milk.  Just so you know for the morning."  The second song then comes on you out of nowhere - it just happens!  And I'm already under or completely over on timing.  Who can tell anymore?  My head is doing math to figure out where I need to be by the time the BIG song comes on but it's complicated by the fact that song two actually has three parts - great, math with fractions.

Song three point two (or two point three) is a blur of elbows and cramps due to lack of stretching.

Song four is titled "Mea Culpa" and honestly is what I should've offered.  The event has gone completely off the rails.  There's heavy breathing and sensual whispers but believe me it's all from the CD and not any actual person in the room as this has turned into third-cousins-in-the-back-of-the-family-barn awkward.

Song five, "The Voice and the Snake" - we skipped that one.

Song six is titled "Knocking on Forbidden Doors" - we definitely skipped that one.

Song seven, or ten depending on if you count sub songs, and I'm still not sure if you should, is called "Back to the Rivers of Belief" and it is also divided into three parts.  It's the last song and three parts is probably good for people who have effectively utilized this CD and are exhausted by the most intense and poetic love-making of their lives.  For the other people, like say me and my unwitting boyfr - er, married to husband - however, a 10:32 running time just lends itself to unfilled silences and uncomfortable glances.  

It wasn't my best work, but hell he married me so maybe I'm just THAT good.  I don't take MCMXC A.D. out of the CD holder all that often anymore.  Planned seduction now comes in the form of dabbing behind each ear with bacon and mentioning I heard the cliff's notes audio version of 50 Shades of Grey that day.


Then I lay back and cue the music

The Peanut Butter Postulate

My husband recently joined me at doctor's visit.  Whilst undergoing a fairly uncomfortable pre-exam of my lady parts my husband mentioned to the nurse that this was sort of like a threesome.

She politely ignored him, for all our sakes. 

Later in that same exam the doctor asked me if I was from New York City.  My husband asked him if he could tell that just by looking at my vagina.  At this, the nurse laughed. 

My husband is not one to leave a tender, or awkward, moment alone. He is a man who says what he's thinking and even more so, says anything to avoid things getting a little too serious.  Often times these two get mixed up. 

And not everyone gets him.  Police officers, school admissions personnel, parents of other children our child is friends with are often confused and politely bemused by what he says.

Take school lunches.  When my husband was a boy he had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich every day for lunch.  EV. ER. Y. DAY.  It's his equivalent to walking to school uphill both ways in the snow.  And it infuriates him that just because some other kid might have a peanut allergy that he can't send our kid to school with any (never mind that she hates peanut butter).  This is a platform he will run on should a school board membership ever open up because it is something he feels strongly about and will incorporate into any conversation he can.  For example, a child's four year old birthday party where the conversation of how hard it is to get children to eat their packed lunches has arisen.  This venue elicits my husband's opinion on peanut butter and their kin at school which, apparently, can be linked to Darwinism and survival of the fittest.  That's right, at this point my man will make a joke about allowing peanut allergies to die out of our society by letting the nature of peanut allergies take their course.  At a children's birthday party.  With other parents.  The other parents always laugh, but they're not letting their kids come over for a playdate either.

So what do I see in him?  Well consider how hard it is to find a seat at these parties.  One cue to my husband and with this peanut butter anecdote he can clear a path of parents almost immediately.  And I get the comfy chair near the chips table! 

He is a provider.  He's a comedian.  He's my man.

Me: Happy Anniversary.
Husband: Happy eight year anniversary, honey.  Here's to five more.

Hubby and I on our wedding day eight years ago

Hubby watching TV from inside my pregnancy pillow last week

Nub.

What dessert goes best with rumor?

At the end of last week I had to seek professional medical intervention for my sugar addiction.  I was literally hospitalized!  My addiction is so deep seeded that while I was in the hospital I still asked the nutrition staff if I could have one of the warm cookies that the other patients were getting.  They refused, the A-holes. 

This is what they offered me instead.  I promptly punched each of them in the mouth.

The recovery time lasted a couple of days, during which there were several ups and downs.  Of course ultimately everything is fine and I'm able to blog again to my heart's content. 

The hardest part (obviously not including cookie-gate) had to be being away from my daughter.  I didn't get to snuggle her at night, help her pick out a dress and do her hair, or hear any of the gossip from school - who pushed who on the playground, who was up in who's grill, who has the same shoes as her but it's okay because now they're friends and have agreed to wear those shoes everyday for the rest of their lives, etc.

Her stories about the good stuff are as compelling as her stories about the bad stuff.  She is a gossip of the highest order and I mean that with the greatest affection.  And I guess I just really like to know what's going on with her.  So we both were at a loss when we didn't get our daily coffee talk.  Sure she could tell Daddy, and he could text it to me but it's seriously not the same.  He can't do the voices like she does.  So to preserve the sanctity of our special time I vow to reduce the aforementioned sugar addiction.  And it is in her name that I now face this:

Then again, when my mom found out about my misadventures she replied  "Oh my God that is just awful.  I'm so glad I didn't know any of that while it was happening."  And she gets to eat whatever she wants.

iPhone boomerang effect (or what lady cop am I?)

This woman is a friend of my husband's.  She also recently sleuthed her stolen iPhone. 

http://www.nypost.com/p/pagesix/tv_sleuth_rescues_iphone_HvkBv5jHqbcI4YBTqM3BcN?utm_medium=rss&utm_content=Page%20Six

I wonder if she and I should get together and become the Cagney and Lacy of mobile phone retrieval.

The only problem is she'd totally be the Cagney and that leaves me as the Lacy.  Yes I'm a suburban working mother of Irish descent, but I've never really seen myself as a Lacy per se. 

I'm definitely not a Stacey Sheridan

Or a Lilly Rush

I would find the hair trend-setting obligations too much pressure.

Olivia Benson takes her job too seriously.  We get it!  They're "special" victims.
Anita Van Buren has way too much street cred for us to be confused.
If I were either Rizzoli or Isles I'd have to kill myself.

If it's a question of tempermant; meets style; meets dedication level; meets looks, I'm gonna have to go with a Honey Vicarro

Meets a Jessica Fletcher

A response to "An open letter to all parents from a non-parent."

http://tryingtobegood.com/2012/06/02/an-open-letter-to-all-parents-from-a-non-parent-10/

 

I'm back from my night out.  Thank you for babysitting but, don't worry, this isn't going to come up again. 

After more than a decade of being husbanded and homed, I've forgotten what it's like out there.

Yes, I'm normally so exhausted by children that I don't even stay awake for all of prime time television.  But being in my gigantic down covered memory foam bed every night by 10:00 pm completely blocked out how painful and cold one night of "fun" adulthood can really be.

My feet hurt in a way I can only liken to my vagina the last time I gave birth to someone.

Making small talk with strangers is awful and I don't want to see their last five tweets or where they're mayor of in four square.  Whatever the hell that is.

My hair, which I actually bothered to do for two hours - rather than my standard "Meh, who do I have to impress?" style - now smells like some bitch's Mango Martini.

My thighs are aching from hovering over pee speckled toilets all night.

I will no longer sit on my couch with a glass of Malbec on a Saturday night and tell my husband that I just don't understand what's wrong with you - you're nice and pretty, if you just put yourself out there you could find a good man.  I won't do that anymore because I've seen the good men available to you.

I'm looking forward to a time when we can hang out together again as well.  And I know you're going to be a great parent, or not, because what you will learn to be at peace with is that everyone will judge your parenting, now matter how great or dedicated you are.

Photo Credit: Martin Schoeller/Time Magazine

And no one will be a bigger critic than yourself.

But I will remind you that you are amazing.

That loving your kids is all you really need to get right.

That your spouse will love you no matter your size because "Where the hell is he going to go?  You own half his house. Go ahead and have the pie."

And when all is said and done, and the kids are in college or married or living in the studio above your garage, it will be about us again.

We will plan trips to Vineyards.

We will spend our retirement money frivolously.

We will give our men Cialis and cackle about it afterwards.

This will be the time when no apologies will be necessary.

Our time.

Anatomy of a Stalker

So back in February I considered changing doctors.  Mine doesn't take my insurance and she's due to have a baby any day now leaving me to worry that she would be on maternity leave when I need her most.  I have subsequently learned she's only taking a three week maternity leave - that's how much she cares about babies, er other people's babies.

Anyway, the thing that had me most conflicted was this picture:

this photo is from PeopleMagazine.com which I believe is really the only truly reliable star source.  And maybe Us.

That is Drew Barrymore and her then boyfriend holding what appears to be a sonogram photo exiting what also appears to be my doctor's office!  Oh the rumors were rampant: was she?  wasn't she? was it? (my doctor's office that is). 

I had to know because what if, just WHAT IF, that was my doctor's office and she was pregnant and we were seeing the same doctor and she was going to have to sit in the waiting room for thirty minutes minimum every time she went in for a visit, just like I do, and we would strike up a conversation and become best friends and our kids would grow up best friends and get married one day and then Drew and I could be sisters?! 

Well this week it was made clear to me that I simply can NOT leave my doctor.

 Mazel Tov my future sister!

<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/3775351/if-you-must-know?claim=p3q44autt8u">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>

A & R

This is a legitimate song that you can hear on the radio.  This is her 100% serious video to go along with this song.  She is way popular and people ask for her autograph.

And all the while songs like this one my friend Dan wrote get no love.

I'm alone on a boat
Adrift on the sea
Just 3000 people
My girlfriend and me

It's an interesting life
I'm sure you would get it
But minus an iPhone
I can't document it

CHORUS
This is the ballad of Nelson
I’m a high rolling man of the sea
A good timing pirate
Who lives by his wits
And gets his electronics for free

So I’ll find an IPhone
The cure for my blues
In a travelers purse
On this sunny cruise

So thank you Katy
In time you'll understand
I know we agree
Steve Jobs was the man

This is the ballad of Nelson
I’m a high rolling man of the sea
A good timing pirate
Who lives by his wits
And gets his electronics for free

I’ve heard there’s a cloud
Where good files go
Wrapped by wireless Jesus
In a digital bow

But that’s in the future
I live in the now
And tourists aren’t hip
To that jive anyhow

DOUBLE CHORUS
This is the ballad of Nelson
I’m a high rolling man of the sea
A good timing pirate
Who lives by his wits
And gets his electronics for free

So don't let me hear you complain
Cause I'm lord of the bounding main
I'll never do time
For a perfect crime
I'm the way faring traveler’s bane

REPEAT > CODA
Though someday I’ll be gone…
My pictures live on…
I’m Nelson, the king of the sea

Ladies Night and Other Legal Matters

Ladies night was last night.  Drinks, desserts, heartfelt talks of calories vs life happiness ensued.  And after a while, as it always does, the conversation disintegrated into who's husband was recently totally wrong about...well, everything.  Offenses ranged from slacking on housework, to forgetting location of one or more child, to arguing that requiring a new 3D HD TV was male nesting.  So, the usual.

I don't know if it's a Mars/Venus thing, a testosterone/estrogen thing, a moron thing, but the communication gap is certainly alive and kicking - despite Oprah and Dr. Oz's best efforts.

So it seems to be, at this point, the only avenue left available to us is to make this a legal matter.  For the avoidance of doubt (and knock out blow out fights that have to happen in whispers so the kids don't hear and develop conflict resolution problems) all marriages should now require a contract that clearly outlines duties, expectations, compensation, and penalties. 


Partner A and Partner B have agreed to enter into a loving marriage for the term of one (1) lifetime or in the event of of an insurmountable bonehead move, whichever comes sooner, commencing on the date of the wedding (hopefully you can remember when that is, ahem)... 


...Acceptable weight gain of one party and hair loss of the other are in direct relation to one another and neither partner should have expectation beyond what they bring to the table. (Please see Addendum B for hair maintenance, head or otherwise, categorized by age)...

...Should either party indicate or make known indirectly, hint, imply, or in any way suggest that the other party has a friend hotter than the first party than compensation in the form of non necessary technology - such as large TVs, gaming systems, sound systems wired throughout the house - and/or precious metals in the form of gold, platinum and bejeweled will be due in a reasonable and timely manner.  It is further noted these items will not be counted as remuneration if either party tries to combine them with another gift-giving scenario, i.e. Birthday, Anniversary, Mother's day... 

...Both parties agree to seek compensation for works or services performed outside the house.  If such time occurs that one party is not being compensated outside the house while the other one is, it is reasonable for the latter party to expect vacuuming to be done by the former party.

...Addendum to prior point: should at any time third party children be introduced, than expectations of the non compensation party are rendered null and void beyond the rendering of "keeping alive" services.  All vacuum and other home care responsibilities will at this time shift to the latter party or be rendered moot in their entirety...

I don't have all the deal points ironed out yet but you see where I'm going with this.  I believe the final document could make me eligible for the Nobel peace prize.



(Don't forget to subscribe over on the right side of the screen - up just a little, a little more, there!  Then you won't have to search for these delicious morsels of knowledge, they'll be delivered fresh to you directly.)