…not really, of course. Just in the writing sense, Mr. Nice Secret Service Men and Women whom I know will burst through my front doors any moment now.
I want Tony Snow’s head on a platter is up at Huffington Post. Go leave your two cents. You too Dana…;)
In other news, my 18-month old will BE President one day, because she’s already pooping in the potty. And this time I had witnesses. So take THAT Tony Freaking Snow. Oh, and she’s cuter than you too.
When a large and heavily accented woman calls you “old” and tells you it’s time to begin using eye cream, you have no choice but to fall to your knees and accept your fate.
“No more just soap and moisture…now you must tone, hydrate, exfoliate, and NIGHT cream…don’t forget NIGHT cream.” You’re half expecting her to advise vodka as well…
Night cream? My grandmother used Night cream…there is no way I’m…..
When she hints that the “young ladies” in your husband’s office have skin like angels and you “are not young any longer, and must take measures now,” you graciously accept her stinging, burning, magical peel and praise her Eastern European ways. All while some annoying Yanni pings in the background.
She will slap a gob of a wet, thick, gel like substance on your wrinkles and use words like “anti-aging” while she, in broken english, talks of hiding those “hideous” bags and “build up” from years of interrupted sleep and Hot Wheels to the face.
She’ll scrub, scuff, buff, puff, steam, smack, extract, hydrate, and pull. She will show you no mercy, despite your timid mention of being here to “relax.” The Yanni. Make it stop. Am I in hell?
In your mind you will curse her, the entire time re-running Rocky IV in your head and it’s scenes with the freak that got all nasty with Flavor Flav and Drago. The Hun is now demanding you begin microdermasomethingoranother as soon as possible, it is, after all, your only real shot at any hope of keeping a fresh and dewy face.
She asks you something about a tinted sunscreen and lip gloss and you’re nodding your head just to get the hell out of there. Lady you can make me look like a Russian mail order bride, just let me the fuck off this table.
FINALLY the pain has ended and you spring up to dress, only to find your dominatrix shoving a mirror in front of you and coaxing you to “see now, you see how you now look young and beautiful, not like a middle aged mother.”
You grab the mirror while clutching the front of your spa gown, only to find she has already taken the robe off the back of the door, opened it like a Southern gentleman, and reaches to tug your gown off while putting an arm through the terry cloth.
But nearly naked and somewhat slippery you no longer care…
“Holy…no…wait…hey…but…”
“Yes, I say…you beautiful now, no wrinkle…see?”
“Yes, I do see….that is AMAZING!”
Beaming and glowing you arrive home with your bag of night cream, eye cream, lip gloss, eye gel, tinted sunscreen, and a promise to start microdermawhatever-that she told you was “like a sandpaper fast on your skin” -very soon.
I wonder if she babysits too.
***updated with photo goodness…make fun of me and I’ll deck you.
Please, come see me over at the Huffington Post this weekend.
We’re going to go watch Safe Side Super Chick one more time. This time, I’ll add “Congressman” to the “Kinda Know” Safe Side list, and pre-order their new Safe Side Internet Video…in time for the November Elections.
This mom purchased Chutes and Ladders today. Chutes and Motherfucking Ladders.
I’m 0-5 against the 3-year-old. Which wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t spinning to give me a “pity chute” and send himself back several spaces. I’d accuse him of cheating, but every so often he mistakes six for nine and two for five, so I’m guessing pulling a fast one on me might be beyond him.
The game was brought home from the store today because we are once again blanketed by smoke and stuck inside. That big fire you see on CNN? Yeah, that’s near here. Not near here in “holy shit we need to get the hell out of here” but near here in the “the smoke has been coming and going for weeks this is getting really annoying, not to mention the buzzing planes and helicopters freaking out the kids” here.
We’ve made homemade playdoh, watched movies, cooked, read a million books, and now we’re forced to play Chutes and Motherfucking Ladders.
I can only count so much.
Someone save me.
I love California. It means sunshine, hippies,
and fresh seafood.
…and by fresh, I mean Houseboy handed me a box of blinking, pinching, wiggling crabs yesterday. For dinner. For me, to kill. For dinner.
I had to kill dinner.
Is this suddenly 1802? Why am I killing the night’s meal?
I like my dinners prepackaged and eye-less. I really like them when they don’t move. But the whole looking at me AND moving thing made me uncomfortable enough to consider pizza.
But, being the carnivore that I am, I knew what had to be done. The crabs had to die.
I had hid them from the children so they didn’t end up named. 6lbs of crab is easier to kill than Pinchy, Reddy, and Pinchy 2.
I should probably take the time to tell you that fresh crab is perhaps my most favorite food on earth. I actually moan when I eat crab. The Kaiser will skillfully crack large portions, hand them to me and say “…because I love you so much.” The man gives ME his big pieces. That is love, people.
I understand they are animals. I understand they are dead animals. But I, personally, have never had to kill anything. And it actually crossed my mind as I took the crabs out of the box and into the pot that this might taint my crab eating. I might actually NOT be able to bring myself to eat them after steaming in beer and spices.
I made sure they were asleep (short time in the freezer to get them all coma-like, thank you Alton Brown) before ending their lives. I made sure it was quick and painless. But I watched that pot for a good 5 minutes feeling pretty damn guilty I had just murdered the creatures inside.
…then my husband handed me a big piece of claw…
Crisis over. I killed dinner, and liked it.
But Karma is a bitch and I do have a nice crab-inflicted gash on my left thumb. My penance. I can live with that. And my new found feeling of being Queen of the animal kingdom. I am Queen of Spain. I will murder and EAT you, lowly being. I am QUEEN!
I’m going back to the kitchen to eat my veggie burrito now.
Let’s just say you’ve been invited to hang with the Royal Family. Aside from being awestruck at the chance to hang with such greatness, you are also a little nervous about those small people running around their house.
You know, the kids. Those sticky, loud, pooping things YOU currently don’t have.
Here are a few tips for you, if you should find yourself in the midst of the Chaos in Suburbia that is our happy home.
#1 Should you happen to be employed in a SUPER COOL job, you might want to mention to the Queen and Kaiser that the kids need not know about this super cool job. But since the Queen likes to talk too much, Count Waffles will be VERY excited you are coming and DEMAND you do CIRCUS TRICKS on your day off. So make sure you warm up before ringing the doorbell-those hands can’t walk on themselves and this will be a full scale performance.
#2 It’s best if the children believe you to be MUTE. And a little deaf. If they actually think you will speak to them, they will ask you exactly 344 questions per minute, including:
Why is your belt all spikey
Why is your hair like that
Why do you not live here
Why do you talk that way
Why aren’t you looking at me
Why do you say silly things
Why are you laughing
#3 Expect to be politely corrected for saying “hell.” It’s “heck” in this house. Oh, “fuck” is frowned upon as well, and the Queen will shoot you a dirty look while you, embarrassed, catch yourself and try to gloss over the new word you’ve taught the Count and Princess.
#4 Conversations with any adult in the house will be loud, interrupted frequently, and haphazard. The Queen and Kaiser will continue their story while looking directly at you while the children scream, jump, and throw things for your attention. The Queen and Kaiser carry on as though none of this is going on, leaving you to wonder if you should be looking at the kids, the adults, both, or neither. If you are not used to talking to an adult while also half talking to a child, practice at home before coming.
#5 You will leave confused, exhausted, slightly buzzed, full, and happy. Baby girls will throw their arms around you for a good night hug, small boys will demand you return tomorrow to perform yet another handstand, and two adults will be thrilled to have the best man at their wedding turn up after so many lost years.
#6 Stop on your way back to your tour bus for more condoms.
I got all political (who me?) and wrote at post for the Bush Whacked guys. Go read it and leave me a comment.
We’re having company here today. Childless people. Let’s see how they handle Lego’s to the head and endless viewings of “Safe Side Super Chick.” Maybe that’s what the CIA should use for it’s “alternative” torture.
I actually had to think before I sat down to write this post. I didn’t want to come down hard on another mom. I mean, we’ve all fucked up at this job. We’ve all done some pretty stupid things. We’ve all had some less than spectacular parenting moments.
And then I though about it some more, and realized this needs to be talked about and it needs to be talked about in a blunt manner. It’s not in my nature to beat around the bush. It’s not in my nature to play pattycake when speaking my mind, and I shouldn’t start now simply because I really, really want to give a celebrity Mom the benefit of the doubt.
Cindy Crawford and her husband Rande Gerber have allowed their 5-year-old daughter to pose for some photos. Allegedly she’s modeling swimsuits, though the suits could be easily called “nonexistent” or “age inappropriate.”
God, I know I sound like one hell of a Tipper Gore here, and I really, really don’t want too. But THIS PHOTO MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLE.
Why? Because I can guarantee pedophiles are looking and enjoying.
Because it’s not a family photo, meant for a family photo album, of an innocent moment.
Because it’s posed, premeditated, and meant for mass consumption.
Because a 5-year-old is not only topless, but tattooed in order to seem fashionable and provocative.
Because other moms will think it’s ok to dress their girls like women.
Because other parents will think it’s ok to sexualize their children.
I’m not a prude. I am liberal. I’m ok with naked. I’m ok with art. I’m ok with being free and expressing yourself.
But THIS PHOTO MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLE. I’m not seeing naked. I’m not seeing art. I’m not seeing innocence.
I’m seeing a little girl whored out.
And I want an explanation.
Hat tip to Red Stapler and Celebrity Baby Blog and Outside the Beltway Gone Hollywood.
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