Showing posts from 2008

Damn Tannenbaum

"O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
wie treu sind deine Blätter!"

I was fine with scaling back this Christmas. No flourishes. No expensive gifts between Michael and I. All I’m asking for are ear buds for my iPhone. I somehow lost mine and I continually tempt fate driving around, talking on my cell, one hand off the wheel. This act happens to be newly illegal in our fair state. But a pair of buds, allowing my hands to remain at two and ten o’clock keeps me from breaking the law, and I would be a complete mommywife.

This year, it’s all about the kids. And let me tell you, Santa went crazy at Target. I hate Tar-jay. Especially when there are three floors of it, two days before Christmas. It felt like I was picking through an already picked at carcass. My daughter is two but already wears 3T. I found cute shirts and pants and pajamas in 2T, and then 4T, all the way up to adult practically. But there was a 3T black hole in their inventory. Leaving me the skeletal remains.

We decided on the …

Reality, You Can't Make This Crap Up

My husband was determined to get us on The Amazing Race. That's the show where couples frantically race around the world, doing cockamamie things to win a million dollars. And I seriously thought about it, even with our two little kids, or perhaps because of our two little kids. On the surface searching for clues in the mud flats of the Ukraine, bribing smelly cab drivers, and eating a pound of putrid yak meat seems more glamorous than the monotony of home life. So, yes, truly considered, if only for a moment. Then, reality came smashing down, "Michael, you can’t swim." And this revelation opened the floodgates. You have to fly to the various exotic destinations. Michael has a fear of flying. Challenges include jumping off buildings and mountains suspended only by a cord. He also has fear of heights. Fear of ledges. Fear of bungee. And if anything is near or involves a body of water, well, there's always... Fear of tides. Fear of currents. Fear of boats. Fear of seap…

The V Word

Don't be so cocksure you know what this is about. The title might refer to vermicelli. Although that seems highly unlikely. Or it could be about a vasectomy. Surely the cringe factor alone warrants the coded "V word." Or this could be about Versailles Village or vacuum vibrators or Vince Vaughn or...or...or...

Or your original suspicions are correct. This does pertain to that V word...
Vestal virgin? Vice versa? Vampyre Vodka?
When I was a little boy, Mother told me that I tinkled out of my do-do. (Not pronounced like the extinct bird, but rather like the extinct bird's excrement.) No matter. Either pronunciation when referring to the male phallus seems pretty silly today. Most parents I know label it unapologetically. The penis is the penis is the penis, plain and simple. And the girly stuff is...
Ventricular valve? Viper venom? Video verité?
I don't recall being aware of the word penis until sex ed in junior high. My school separated the girls from the boys. We had…


I'm late. I'm running around the house trying to find Black Doggie. But Black Doggie seems to have gone by the way of Loni Anderson's career. It's disappeared! I plead with my two-year-old daughter, "Pink Poodle? Baby Owl? Spotted Seal?" Maxie shakes her head no. Nothing else will do. Maxie is one of those kids who does better in the car, going to bed, with thing-in-hand, something she can hold tight in her vice-like grip. I'm sure the books will tell you thing-in-hand offers security, gives the child a sense of control. But I'm not a mommy who reads those books. I just know the car ride goes much smoother when thing-in-hand is indeed in hand. Her things-in-hand are small plushy representations of the animal kingdom, usually canine, most of them pink or black, her favorite colors. (Possibly a future career in international fashion? The funeral service industry?)

I'm usually pretty good at finding things-in-hand. While making breakfast, say, I happe…

Jupiter or Venus

Strange set of circumstances... In mid October, Michael asked me if we were going to the Bay Area for Foster Thanksgiving. He was hounding me for a while before I finally relented and called Mother. She seemed flabbergasted that we would even consider spending time with the family. Odd, since I've become the why not? family guy. Here's the skinny... When I was a kid, Aunt Pat cooked the family Thanksgiving dinner, and this year she announced that she is retiring, hanging up her apron. She extended invites to just family: children, nieces, nephews (of which I am one), second husbands, first wives (Mother), steps, halves and offspring, which totals somewhere in the seventies, maybe eighties. This would be my last chance to revisit the Thanksgiving of my youth.

Forty-eight accepted the invite, however Mother turned mine down...without consulting me. Why? There is no satisfactory answer. As she admitted her huge gaffe over the phone, I could practically hear egg ooze down her face.…

Mommy with a Penis

This spring, out of the blue, my stepmother sent me a tropical plant. She's never sent me a plant before. I was suspicious. What if this plant lures me with it's intoxicating scent, and just as I bend close to take a whiff it shoots venomous spoors into my face, causing paralysis, halitosis and death. And then I wondered where did that Batman rerun come from? This happens from time to time. Television plot lines from my childhood zap into my head and for that fraction of a second, reality is completely skewed, my stepmother tries to off me with a deadly plant. But fear not, within milliseconds logical brain kicks back into high gear. Once again a thoughtful gift sent from Maui, and not an evil hybrid developed by Catwoman in her hidden lair.
Attached to a chunk of hardened lava was a small anthurium. You know, those plants with glossy green leaves and a glossy red flower that has...oh, hell, I'll just say it...a long penis sticking out of it. There was one flower on the pla…


Okay. This is how it’s supposed to go. I get up at six forty. I clean the kitchen, start breakfast. Sebastian, my five year old, hears me clanking about, gets up around seven. At seven ten I call out to Michael, who’s impervious to alarm clocks and clanking about, "Breakfast is ready." Barely functioning, he gets our two year old and the four of us sit down to a healthy breakfast. Afterwards, Michael takes over. He gets Sebastian dressed and spruced, while I myself spruce and dress. Then I walk my kindergartner to school, just in time for the eight oh six bell. Which is really more of a blare. That, give or take, is our morning routine.

But this morning was different. Oh, it started the same. Hit the snooze button twice. Up by six forty. Cleaned a couple of martini glasses and a shaker, started beating eggs. Seven o’clock rolls around. No Sebastian. Seven oh five. Seven ten. I open his bedroom door. "Time to get up, sleepyhead." And go back to George Foremaning sau…