Because Charles Barkley is Always Right

I love Sir Charles. And I don’t mean I love him like I love my kids or I love him like I love red gummy Swedish fish. I mean…I LOVE CHARLES BARKLEY!

Yeah, it’s a scream-it-from-the-rooftops kind of love.

Back when I was young and spry (because I’m convinced I am now old and flabby- no really-you should see the stretch marks) I played basketball and adored Chuck. Between Rick Mahorn and Charles Barkley I really needed no other men in my life.

In fact, one of the greatest lessons I ever learned just might have been from Sir Charles.

In 1993, back when I was graduating High School and idolizing a then First Lady Rodham Clinton, Charles Barkley declared sports figures should not be considered role models. There was more, and there was a lot of discussion about turning celebrities or public figures into icons.

I made a mental note, and went about my life.

It’s now 2008 and I can unabashedly say Barkley was right about the role model thing. He’s been right about a few other things since then, but I am now CERTAIN that public figures as role models are a BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD idea.

Where in the hell is Erin going with this…

I am now completely and totally disappointed, to the point of heartbreak, in Senator Hilary Clinton and Gloria Steinem.

Disgusted, actually.

Two women who I spent many of my young years idolizing and championing have turned into establishment game-playing, fear mongering, surrogate talking-point spouting hacks.

They are so far into the system they can’t even see the rest of us, die hard feminist fans, out here gaping at them.

Mouth wide open when we watch this:

Mouth wide open when we read this.Gaping.Wondering where the women I knew have gone. Wondering if they will find their “voice” or their conscience. Wondering if they even realize what is happening to them. Congresswoman Stephanie Tubbs Jones I’m looking at you too.

However, in the end it is my fault. I held them up. I obviously turned them into something they are not, all those years.

Lesson learned.

Thanks Chuck.

***updated** apparently Clinton is now running FAKE NEWS to trick voters.

Doggie Doo Doo

My daughter woke up screaming today yelling “THERE IS DOG POOP IN MY BED! GET IT OUT!”

We don’t have a dog.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I rolled over to find my husband walking into the room, “it’s cat puke. And it’s on the floor.” And then he proceeded to go about his morning routine.

Apparently it’s just assumed I’m the cat puke cleaner-but whatever.

Despite 10 minutes of telling our little peanut this was cat sick and not dog poop-she still insisted it was dog poop and insisted it was in her bed. Again, whatever.

I cleaned, she cried, and then she told me how her stuffed dog poops.

Oh goodie. More beings to clean up after.

I’ve never really worried about my daughter’s animal fetish until now. She wants a horse, and since that’s totally out of the question it never really spent much time in my mind-but this new puppy fetish is getting out of hand.

She asked her DAD for a puppy the other day and I swore he couldn’t even LOOK at her when he said “no.”

Yeah, Daddy’s cracking.

But more importantly-she’s carrying a puppy everywhere. School, wherever. And while I’m thrilled it’s replaced the horse-head on a stick she was RIDING everywhere-I’m not liking the idea of being cat sick cleaner-upper and dog poop cleaner-upper.

Or am I?

Friends with animals-how old were your kids when they started REALLY taking care of them-or let me rephrase that-how old were they when you MADE them do it?

Don’t get me wrong, I highly doubt any new animals are entering this home anytime soon. But if I’m cleaning up stuffed dog shit from the carpet, anything is possible.

Lyrics for PreSchoolers

“Mommy why can’t he have a screw?”

Turning down A/C in car to hear the 4-year old…

“What honey?”

“Why can’t he get a screw, that guy?”

“What guy?”

“The guy on the song. He needs a screw. And he can’t find one.”

…thinking…thinking…listening closer to music on after day…I get angry…and I will say…OH.MY.GOD.

“So the guy singing the song???? You think he needs a screw???”

“Yeah. That’s what he said. I’m sure Daddy can get him a screw out of his tool box. Then we can give it to him and he will have a screw.”

“Suuuuurrre. We can do that…”

“OH WAIT! Its ok Mommy-he FOUND it!”

“Oh…did he?”

“Yes, he found the screw in his PANTS!”

“Good for him.”

“Why would he keep a screw in his pants? Now THAT is JUST HILARIOUS Mommy!”


Striking Fear in the Hearts of Men

Up until about 4-6 weeks ago, my daughter was nothing like me. She was sweet and quiet and shy. She picked flowers and sang to blue birds perched on her finger. Yes, the bluebirds harmonized with her.

I was confident she was going to be one of those sweet, nice, sunshine smile kind of girls. The kind and gentle voice of reason to her slutty, stupid girlfriends. Studious. Polite to a fault. Teachers pet. You’re getting the picture here, right?

Well, apparently at 2 1/2 years old she’s just NOW decided that halo-polishing baby I knew was just an act. We’ve entered classic terrible two territory with the “NO!” and “I DO IT MYSELF” but with a Princess Peanut Punk as Fuck TWIST-she’s got a hair flip, eyelash bat, head cock thing going on that scares the bejeeezus out of me.

She is going to CRUSH men. CRUSH them.

In the meantime, she’s crushing me. I tell her “no” and I get an “I want DADDY!” in response. I say “stop that right now” and I get a “NO Mommy” then she grabs my cheeks and kisses me on the lips. As if to say, “I’m not going to do what you say, but I’m cute and loving and I will at least give you a nice kiss before defying you, silly woman.”
I’m fucked.

Time outs are not working. Taking away toys seems to only fuel her evil. I took away a beloved baby and she said (and I’m not kidding here) “pffffffffffffft.” She pfffffft’d my punishment and walked away.

I keep reminding myself we went through this with Count Waffles, and he’s now a model citizen. I keep telling myself its just another phase and it will pass.

In all honesty, I’m not sure. The hair flip, head cock, eyelash bat thing-is beyond “phase.” Its possible I inadvertently taught her how to work a man. She’s using it against me. She’s using it against her father. She’s using it against the world.

I blame myself of course. I obviously showed her my wily ways. I didn’t realize she was soaking it in, but…there it is. OR, maybe its just in the DNA? She’s got some female Queen-gene that helps her pout her lips and lean her head on her father’s shoulder at JUST the right, somewhat evil, moment.

What I need to remember here is that I’M the Queen. I’m the ALPHA female in THIS house. I will not fear her. I will not give in to her. I’m not going to fold at a mere eyelash bat, sulk episode in my kitchen.

She can’t make me.


So, the other day I posted a video clip of Mocha Momma, aka Kelly, reading at LA Angst. She was unhappy with me. She swore her revenge and said she would post me in an “unflattering” light and that I deserved it.

Ladies and gentlebloggers, Kelly’s revenge (CLICK TO SEE)

Yes, that was edited. But you’ve seen enough of my tits.

Dear TSA

Dear Transportation Security Agency,

Do you have any idea the fear I had boarding a JetBlue flight from NYC’s JFK airport to Burbank, land of Jay Leno, California???

You see, as you know (because I called you 6 times)I lost my California Driver’s License somewhere around Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building. I had no intention of losing my only photo ID. It was not some sort of ploy to make your life harder. It was not some sort of trick to keep you on the phone with me, a frantic mother of two, while you should be out tracking terrorists and hijacking people’s toothpaste and water bottles and, oh yeah-as I learned, jelly sandwiches. We all know how terribly explosive those Smucker’s people are. Smucker’s just sounds evil, I agree.

Anyway, i admit I was a bit of a pain in your ass. You see, I wanted to make sure I could, say, get home from New York. I had gotten to New York so, silly me, I wanted to get home from that great city.

Your nice agents assured me it was possible to return home, as planned. All I needed was two non-photo forms of ID. That’s it. They didn’t have to be originals. They could just be faxed to the hotel. But, I was told by your really well informed agents, there must be TWO pieces of faxed paper, and they both must contain the copies of two government issued documents. I was told this could be my social security card, my birth certificate, my marriage license, my divorce decree (not that I have one), or something like that. This, I was told, was the ONLY way I was getting on that plane home. The ONLY way I would ever see my wonderful husband and darling children again.

It’s not like I could rent a car without a driver’s license. Its not like I could use my credit card for a train ticket without a photo ID. No, I needed those two forms of ID, and my adoring Kaiser went through closet after closet, box after box and came away victorious.With two children tugging at his pants, he faxed the documents to the hotel. I waiting in a long line at the front desk and, eventually, walked away with the holy grail of paper.

I held the envelope tightly in my hand while I went up 10 floors to my room. I tucked the envelope away in a safe spot, awaiting the time and date of my return flight. I called your agents again and again…and maybe again. I needed to be sure these documents, tucked between my panties and my pj’s…would be my ticket home.

Yes, the agents told me…over and over. The documents would be fine, but they would be scrutinized. I would go through a more formal search, and I would be allowed to board the flight if my documents were in order.

Finally, the time came. With documents in hand I approached security…shaking. The Kaiser was on standby, waiting to hear if I made it through. Friends were on standby, waiting to come get me if they needed to, and my mother was on standby, convinced this was all a ploy to stay on vacation longer.

Security looked at my boarding pass, asked for my ID. I explained the situation and handed them my envelope of precious documents.

They didn’t even look at them.

Not a glance. Not a…hmmm…let me see what we have here.


I kept trying to hand security types my papers…someone needed to see these. SOMEONE needed to LOOK at my PROOF that I was NOT a terrorist.


NO takers.

Not one.

Just thought you should know.

Way to keep us safe, asshats,

Queen of Spain

Go to Jail, Go directly to Jail

My son really, really, really does not want me to go to jail. Or die.

Which is good, because I really don’t have any desire to go to jail. Or die.

He seems to think both are real possibilities and both could happen at any moment. I mean, he’s right about one of those…but still. I wrote about this over at DotMoms, but I need to post it again here, because I honestly don’t know how to answer him anymore. I think explaining to him only bad people go to jail helped relieve some fears. But the death thing? He flusters me daily. I just can’t bring myself to tell him anyone of us could be gone tomorrow.

My son is asking about death.

He wants to know if he will die. He wants to known when he will die. He wants to know how he will die. He wants to know what will happen after he dies. He wants to know if Mommy will die. He wants to know if Daddy will die.

When I was asked these deep questions by a not-quite 4-year-old, I paused. This was one of those moments when I needed to have my Mom act together. I was not going to get away with a, “Oh, just because…” answer.

It was during my pause that my son threw me for a loop. It seems he wasn’t so concerned about dying, but actually more concerned about being “alone” and “away from everybody.”

He wasn’t really worried about dying, he was worried about not being able to hug his mom when he needed it most.

Did anyone else’s heart just jump into their throats?

I, of course, assured my tiny worry wart that he would always have someone. I was vague. I was very non specific, and I choked back tears the entire time, knowing it wasn’t true.

I lied.

I wasn’t as concerned with the lie as I was the truth. One day he may be alone. One day I won’t be here. One day…

I think I liked it better when I thought he was obsessed with death.

Wild Weather in Los Angeles

Dear God,

You are scaring me. Please Stop. Thanks. QofS

First they blow up my city on 24. Now we have hail and snow.