We don't get out much. We tend to have people over to our house, and after today's field trip, I now understand why. A guy that Matt did his residency with is now practicing medicine in our town. We went to his wedding in San Diego- and they are a really fun couple. They recently bought a house with a pool, and invited my brood over for some splashing and barbecue.
It's important to know that this couple does not have kids. As we pulled up to their house, and saw their immaculately landscaped front yard and Leave It To Beaver street- Matt and I began to feel a little self conscious about all of the stuff we had to bring. (overflowing diaper bag with change of clothes for everyone, extra sunscreen, four beach towels, a bottle of wine, housewarming plant, a sippy cup, snack and DVD for later etc. etc. etc.) Matt fiercely whispers to me "Leave the floatie in the car. I'll come back for it later- but let's not bring that in with us now."
The floatie was the least of our worries. Upon entering, my Annie proceeds to inspect their whole house (uninvited, mind you) and announce to everyone that she was going to go poop in their bathroom. While she did her business, the hosts started serving drinks-- orange margaritas. Unbeknownst to me, they put 3 SHOTS OF TEQUILA in my husband's drink. This is where the party takes a nasty turn. We all trotted outside for some splashing time in the pool, and my husband, after his second drink, decided to take "a little nap" on the patio floor. It was 106 today folks, so fearing sunstroke, I convinced him to ahem, "nap" inside- and he laid down on their air conditioned, mudroom brick floor- next to their washing machine. FOR THREE HOURS.
What did we do in these three hours? The kids ate dinner, made mud pies in their rose garden, and stood diligently while I cleaned them off with the garden hose. We finally got Matt to join the land of the living, and were drinking coffee- when we noticed our hosts snickering to themselves. We couldn't figure out what was funny- so finally one of them pointed out to us that our older daughter was no longer wearing any pants. Or underwear. And she was sitting on their living room couch, with the beautiful white silk drapes and chic shag rug. They thought that was funny, but what struck them as even funnier was that Matt and I didn't even notice. (She's naked most of the time at home, so it's pretty much second nature by now).
Somehow, I don't think we'll be invited back anytime soon.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Late Night Cheese
Holy cow. Have you guys seen Bravo's new show Flipping Out? I was up late last night, and since I'm a Top Chef-a-holic, I was hoping to find a re-run, but stumbled across this trainwreck instead. It's basically about this gay guy in Los Angeles, who has a serious obsessive-compulsive disorder and buys fixer uppers, remodels them and then sells them. It looks like he's a serious freak, and his only friends are the gaggle of "assistants" (wanna-be actors) he pays to work for him.
On last night's episode, he makes one of his passive aggressive assistants take his cat to the vet for acupuncture. The cat gets pissed off (who wouldn't?) and you realize Los Angeles is filled with money grubbing jerks that will inflict pain on an animal in the name of making a buck. (Ah, brings back my fond college days at UCLA....) Seriously, this is television at its cheesiest, and I personally cannot wait to find the next episode.
The insensitivity of this show is mind boggling. They feature Jeff (the OCD boss-man) throwing a birthday party for his Mexican live-in maid. There she is, blindfolded, in full maid regalia, hitting a pinata with a stick. The camera then flashes to the demolition of a house, showing guys crashing a shower door in, with the former owner glumly looking on. Capitalism at its finest!
In other news, I'm hosting playgroup this afternoon. Please, please, please pray that my house makes it through this afternoon in one piece.
On last night's episode, he makes one of his passive aggressive assistants take his cat to the vet for acupuncture. The cat gets pissed off (who wouldn't?) and you realize Los Angeles is filled with money grubbing jerks that will inflict pain on an animal in the name of making a buck. (Ah, brings back my fond college days at UCLA....) Seriously, this is television at its cheesiest, and I personally cannot wait to find the next episode.
The insensitivity of this show is mind boggling. They feature Jeff (the OCD boss-man) throwing a birthday party for his Mexican live-in maid. There she is, blindfolded, in full maid regalia, hitting a pinata with a stick. The camera then flashes to the demolition of a house, showing guys crashing a shower door in, with the former owner glumly looking on. Capitalism at its finest!
In other news, I'm hosting playgroup this afternoon. Please, please, please pray that my house makes it through this afternoon in one piece.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
I Believe....
Life is quirky. I'll plan a stupendous day of fun--- Disneyland, or the beach, or silly games at the park- and unexpectedly--tantrums, back talking or a bad case of the grumpies will make everything go south. Then, there are the days that have no expectations- the days that kind of unfold and surprise you with their pleasantness.
Today was that kind of day. I was knee deep in IRS muck- collecting random bits of information from California and Texas- while trying to decipher my absentminded husband's deductions, a discombobulated move across country and a snafoo with an IRA into some reasonable cohesiveness- and my girls? They were hilarious.
We spent all day in our jammies. Unwashed and stinky- my girls transformed their pajama party into a pretend world of make believe. A current obsession with Peter Pan meant "Wendy" and not Mommy cursed at miniscule bank statements today. "Captain Hook" called in from the hospital a few times and Tinkerbell took a blessed three hour nap to never-neverland this afternoon. And Peter? My 3.5 year old, aggressively stubborn Peter Pan? She was so scrumptious- so filled with bubbled over delight that I wish I could bottle one tiny ounce of today- to uncork and savor in 11 years when she thinks I'm persona non grata.
I watched a rerun of "No Reservations" tonight- and Anthony Bourdain goes to a remote village in China. I realized that I will probably never eat a dumpling with a straw, or hold a falcon on my arm or catch fish with trained birds instead of rods. That used to depress me- to realize there was so much of the world unfolding that I would never see. But now, I realize it is not so much what you see, but how you see it. And my day? My day spent doing taxes and bullshit paperwork? My day transformed into one of those rare occasions where you stop and savor the blessings at hand. I've got a curly haired Peter Pan and a very bald Tinkerbell to thank for that one.
Today was that kind of day. I was knee deep in IRS muck- collecting random bits of information from California and Texas- while trying to decipher my absentminded husband's deductions, a discombobulated move across country and a snafoo with an IRA into some reasonable cohesiveness- and my girls? They were hilarious.
We spent all day in our jammies. Unwashed and stinky- my girls transformed their pajama party into a pretend world of make believe. A current obsession with Peter Pan meant "Wendy" and not Mommy cursed at miniscule bank statements today. "Captain Hook" called in from the hospital a few times and Tinkerbell took a blessed three hour nap to never-neverland this afternoon. And Peter? My 3.5 year old, aggressively stubborn Peter Pan? She was so scrumptious- so filled with bubbled over delight that I wish I could bottle one tiny ounce of today- to uncork and savor in 11 years when she thinks I'm persona non grata.
I watched a rerun of "No Reservations" tonight- and Anthony Bourdain goes to a remote village in China. I realized that I will probably never eat a dumpling with a straw, or hold a falcon on my arm or catch fish with trained birds instead of rods. That used to depress me- to realize there was so much of the world unfolding that I would never see. But now, I realize it is not so much what you see, but how you see it. And my day? My day spent doing taxes and bullshit paperwork? My day transformed into one of those rare occasions where you stop and savor the blessings at hand. I've got a curly haired Peter Pan and a very bald Tinkerbell to thank for that one.
Holy Stat Counter, Batman!
Wow. If I knew that by posting a picture of Colin Firth dressed as Fitzwilliam Darcy would increase the traffic on my blog by a gazillion- I would have done it a long time ago. I have this little stat counter that lets me see how much traffic I get (don't worry, I can't actually see YOU, just your city and state- but what a cool idea! Nice jammies) and it's always a cool thing when I see folks from other countries.
After the Colin Firth post- Lollyblogger's passport got some action (mine, sadly to date, has only been to Canada and Mexico). A few folks in London (eat some Cadburys for me and do you guys still watch East Enders?), Australia, Romania, Russia, Italy, Canada, Mexico, Turkey (I think that was you, Katie?) and my honeymooning friends in Thailand. Also, I'm embarrassed to say, I had to look up where the Republic of Moldova was--- hello landlocked country in between the Ukraine and Romania!
In the event anyone not from the US is actually reading this, and not looking for pictures of Colin Firth or Anthony Bourdain, I feel the need to set the record straight on a few things.
Not all American women are overly endowed in the posterior, with muscular armpits and ankles. (Quite a few of us are, but I hate to stereotype).
Not everyone goes six months without acquiring the services of a babysitter. Just American mommies that are clinically insane and need some lithium and a vacation in an institution.
Not all American playdates result in the complete destruction of your humble abode- but I do recommend hiding your contraceptives in a better hiding place than a nightstand drawer. Otherwise, you'll be trying to make some very silly balloon animals.
In any event, thank you to each and every lurker that has somehow stumbled their way here, even if it was only by a google-accident. I'm having a blast with my blog- and I can't wait to get in touch with my new Texas friends from the Dallas/Ft. Worth area that graciously sent me messages--- I'm having trouble finding your email!
Oh, and for grins and chuckles- here's Colin Firth one more time:
After the Colin Firth post- Lollyblogger's passport got some action (mine, sadly to date, has only been to Canada and Mexico). A few folks in London (eat some Cadburys for me and do you guys still watch East Enders?), Australia, Romania, Russia, Italy, Canada, Mexico, Turkey (I think that was you, Katie?) and my honeymooning friends in Thailand. Also, I'm embarrassed to say, I had to look up where the Republic of Moldova was--- hello landlocked country in between the Ukraine and Romania!
In the event anyone not from the US is actually reading this, and not looking for pictures of Colin Firth or Anthony Bourdain, I feel the need to set the record straight on a few things.
Not all American women are overly endowed in the posterior, with muscular armpits and ankles. (Quite a few of us are, but I hate to stereotype).
Not everyone goes six months without acquiring the services of a babysitter. Just American mommies that are clinically insane and need some lithium and a vacation in an institution.
Not all American playdates result in the complete destruction of your humble abode- but I do recommend hiding your contraceptives in a better hiding place than a nightstand drawer. Otherwise, you'll be trying to make some very silly balloon animals.
In any event, thank you to each and every lurker that has somehow stumbled their way here, even if it was only by a google-accident. I'm having a blast with my blog- and I can't wait to get in touch with my new Texas friends from the Dallas/Ft. Worth area that graciously sent me messages--- I'm having trouble finding your email!
Oh, and for grins and chuckles- here's Colin Firth one more time:
Monday, August 6, 2007
Busy
Aack. It's Monday, and one of those Mondays that really feels like a Monday. Why?
- I spent 3 hours at the dentist this morning. Three hours of nothing more than xrays, photos of my teeth and consultation. It was the most thorough exam I have ever had in my life. She was so competent, I felt like asking her to do a breast exam while I was there, but then, that might be kind of weird.
- Taxes. Our taxes HAVE to be done this week. Last date for our extension, and yours truly is now the newly appointed CFO. Great job for hiding ebay purchases of gymboree clothes, really stinks when it's time to prepare for the IRS.
- I'm suffering through a sunburn. We are usually so vigilant about sunscreen- but yesterday's trip to the beach occurred as our Coppertone sports spray was on its last legs. We mooched some sunscreen from a family nearby, but now my shoulders and back suffer the consequences. I look like I need to be taken out of a stock pot and drenched with butter.
- Taking personality tests. (I really, really don't want to do the taxes). I'm this:
| You Are An ENFP |
 You love being around people, and you are deeply committed to your friends.You are also unconventional, irreverent, and unimpressed by authority and rules.Incredibly perceptive, you can usually sense if someone has hidden motives.You use lots of colorful language and expressions. You're quite the storyteller! In love, you are quite the charmer. And you are definitely willing to risk your heart.You often don't follow through with your flirting or professed feelings. And you do break a lot of hearts. At work, you are driven but not a workaholic. You just always seem to enjoy what you do.You would make an excellent entrepreneur, politician, or journalist. How you see yourself: compassionate, unselfish, and understanding When other people don't get you, they see you as: gushy, emotional, and unfocused |
Saturday, August 4, 2007
House Calls....
We're home sick today- my little Lucy is nursing a fever and a summer cold. We haven't been to the pediatrician in almost 2 weeks, so I knew something would catch up with us. I'm thinking of asking Santa for doctor co-pays for Christmas- it's getting a bit ridiculous.
Anywhoo.... (what, you're bored with my HMO talk? Really?) last night, my Annie cut her foot on something. Her Daddy discovered her bleeding toe smack dab in the middle of storytime. I've always wondered if Annie understood what Matt does. She loves to go to the hospital and see him--- she asks about his patients all the time, but I've always wondered if she put it all together. Last night, with her bleeding toe- I realize she does.
As Matt started to bandage up her toe and give her a kiss, Annie started calling him "Doctor Daddy." It was hilarious. It was- "Thank you Dr. Daddy." and more of "I love you Dr. Daddy." and of course- "Dr. Daddy- you made my owie all better, and all of the red is gone." Matt has gotten many awards in his career--- he's been published in oodles of medical journals, and written textbook chapters, and saves lives on a regular basis- but somehow, I know that it was the little accolade our 3 year old gave him last night that meant the most.
Anywhoo.... (what, you're bored with my HMO talk? Really?) last night, my Annie cut her foot on something. Her Daddy discovered her bleeding toe smack dab in the middle of storytime. I've always wondered if Annie understood what Matt does. She loves to go to the hospital and see him--- she asks about his patients all the time, but I've always wondered if she put it all together. Last night, with her bleeding toe- I realize she does.
As Matt started to bandage up her toe and give her a kiss, Annie started calling him "Doctor Daddy." It was hilarious. It was- "Thank you Dr. Daddy." and more of "I love you Dr. Daddy." and of course- "Dr. Daddy- you made my owie all better, and all of the red is gone." Matt has gotten many awards in his career--- he's been published in oodles of medical journals, and written textbook chapters, and saves lives on a regular basis- but somehow, I know that it was the little accolade our 3 year old gave him last night that meant the most.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Swallow This...
Today I tried a new form of torture at the gym- a class called "Chiseled". Not only did this class kick my ass in every way imaginable, but it also made me feel as if I was living out my own personal sitcom.
The teacher, is probably not a day over 65. Seriously- this lady is easily old enough to be my Mom, but that's where the comparisons end. She has a stomach flatter than my fourth grade chest, legs longer than any joke I'll ever tell and hair styled in a perfect long-haired version of senior-citizen-hottie Barbie. She's wearing a black sports bra, black boy shorts, and a sheer black flamenco scarf tied around her hips.... the fringe sways when she moves. This woman is amazing- and immediately, I start to feel like the fat girl at rush. I'm wearing a crumpled pair of yoga pants, and one of Matt's old t-shirts that says "Beer Ambassador" on the front. Trust me, not a sexy look.
This woman spends the next 60 minutes inflicting such agony, that I had to stop at certain moments and just giggle- because, what else can a person do when a 60+ Barbie starts playing French techno music and starts yelling the following:
"Do you know how many calories are in a pound of fat,ladies? 3,500. Think of that the next time you want to eat a muffin."
"Know what I do when I eat a muffin? I take a bite and spit it out- because, ladies.... you know what they always say...."Never swallow!"
Throughout the class, I learned this woman was a flight attendant for Continental, liked Aretha Franklin, and was extolling the virtues of learning to cook- so everyone around you could get fatter and make you look skinnier. (Seriously!) Her sparkly eye makeup never got smudgey, and she would put us through a torturous repetition of some inhumane movement, and start to count us down- 4-3-2- and then start to tell one of her stories involving a hot guy and a Maserati, and somehow forget that we had lost sensation in our right leg, and then resumed counting- but started back at the beginning.
After the class was done, I staggered out of the room to go and get my kids- when out of the corner of my eye, I see her- in all of her golden sparkly glory, dancing in front of the mirror. Her hair was swaying, her fringe was moving and she waved to me and said "See you Tuesday!" Maybe she will, but I'll probably eat a muffin first. And swallow it, damn it.
The teacher, is probably not a day over 65. Seriously- this lady is easily old enough to be my Mom, but that's where the comparisons end. She has a stomach flatter than my fourth grade chest, legs longer than any joke I'll ever tell and hair styled in a perfect long-haired version of senior-citizen-hottie Barbie. She's wearing a black sports bra, black boy shorts, and a sheer black flamenco scarf tied around her hips.... the fringe sways when she moves. This woman is amazing- and immediately, I start to feel like the fat girl at rush. I'm wearing a crumpled pair of yoga pants, and one of Matt's old t-shirts that says "Beer Ambassador" on the front. Trust me, not a sexy look.
This woman spends the next 60 minutes inflicting such agony, that I had to stop at certain moments and just giggle- because, what else can a person do when a 60+ Barbie starts playing French techno music and starts yelling the following:
"Do you know how many calories are in a pound of fat,ladies? 3,500. Think of that the next time you want to eat a muffin."
"Know what I do when I eat a muffin? I take a bite and spit it out- because, ladies.... you know what they always say...."Never swallow!"
Throughout the class, I learned this woman was a flight attendant for Continental, liked Aretha Franklin, and was extolling the virtues of learning to cook- so everyone around you could get fatter and make you look skinnier. (Seriously!) Her sparkly eye makeup never got smudgey, and she would put us through a torturous repetition of some inhumane movement, and start to count us down- 4-3-2- and then start to tell one of her stories involving a hot guy and a Maserati, and somehow forget that we had lost sensation in our right leg, and then resumed counting- but started back at the beginning.
After the class was done, I staggered out of the room to go and get my kids- when out of the corner of my eye, I see her- in all of her golden sparkly glory, dancing in front of the mirror. Her hair was swaying, her fringe was moving and she waved to me and said "See you Tuesday!" Maybe she will, but I'll probably eat a muffin first. And swallow it, damn it.
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