Showing posts from 2009

Christmas Demons

A happy and safe, and perhaps naughty, holiday season to you and yours.
Now, you little demons, back, back I say. Back to the filthy stinking lair from which you came! And I don't want to see you out of your beds until the sun is in the sky!!!

Nuts & Chews

Gay marriage again? Didn't I just go on about this two posts ago when the state of Texas unintentionally nullified each and every marriage in the state by accepting into law bad grammar? I guess gay marriage is just one of those issues that we're going to be hearing a lot about for a long time to come. Sort of the Brangelina of civil rights issues.
What finally got me off my keister to write this was the explosion of gayness in the news a couple of weeks back. The most recent was on my television when Portia de Rossi visited the ladies on The View. (Yes, I am almost loathe to report, that on occasion I watch the fem fest known as The View. But it's not a religion or anything.) And as one might expect in an interview with Ellen Degeneres's wife, gay marriage was brought up, to which Ms. de Rossi explained, "It's not a religious issue, or a moral issue. It's just simply a civil rights issue." Then Righty McTighty View hostess, Elisabeth Hasselbeck, pushe…

Scotch Tape Wars

I'm thankful I didn't leave them alone with razor blades and Drano!

Texas Ball and Chain Massacre

Marriage in this state shall consist only of the union of one man and one woman.
These are the exact words the grand ol' state of Texas chose to add to it's constitution four years ago to prohibit gay marriage. But those Texan lawmakers are cagey. They knew they couldn't leave the language simple. Some smart-ass sissy boy might find a loophole by procuring a civil union, let's say, and then backdoor his way down the aisle with a welder named Clyde wearing Vera Wang, no less. Oh, the horror! So, to put a stop to the whole magilla, gay marriage, civil union and it's incestuous cousin domestic partnership, the following sentence was added...
This state or a political subdivision of this state may not create or recognize any legal status identical or similar to marriage.
These changes were voted on, and not surprisingly, passed into law. That's right, it's in the books.
No gay marriage here. We're a football state, and we barbecue. So, take that, you pansies!

I Married a Satyr

SEBASTIAN: My daddy's a satyr.
SEBASTIAN: My daddy is a satyr.
ANY STRANGER WHO WILL LISTEN: Your daddy eats Seder?
SEBASTIAN: (With increasing fury.) No. He's a satyr.
ANY STRANGER WHO WILL LISTEN: A senior? A sadist? A sitarist?
SEBASTIAN: No. You are not listening to me. MY DADDY IS A SATYR!!!
As a parent, I never expected to hear that uttered from my child's lips. The problem is twofold. No one expects a little kid to announce that his father is a mythological creature, and many folks don't know what the dickens a satyr really is.
So, let's start by demystifying. In Greek mythology, a satyr is a follower of Dionysus, and on vase paintings is portrayed with with a swinging horse tail and perpetual erection. It wasn't until Roman times when the upper body of a man was attached to the lower body of …

Happy Birthday Mommy

One hundred sounds really old, doesn't it? Come to think, I don't think I've ever met anyone who was one hundred. But this isn't about anyone, and we're certainly not celebrating anything that has achieved one hundred status. I've not made a replica of the Hollywood sign with one hundred sugar cubes, for example, or swallowed one hundred fireflies. This isn't even my hundredth blog entry, it's my seventy-eighth for those of you who are counting. But this is a monumental anniversary, nonetheless. It's Mommy's birthday. And by Mommy, I don't mean Sally, my biological mommy, her birthday is Income Tax Day. No, today Mommy With a Penis is a spry one year old.
Birthdays are usually a time for self reflection, for looking back at the previous year and weighing achievements vs. missteps. It's a good time to create lists for the upcoming year, to meditate on future blog entries. For instance, do I reexplore the train wreck that is Carrie Prejean,…

Tom Cruise is a Raging...Scientologist: Addendum

After I wrote the previous post, Tom Cruise is a Raging...Scientologist, a friend of mine found this very pertinent footage and I had to share.

For all of you Top Gun fans out there, don't blame me for this clip. Quentin Tarantino started it.

Tom Cruise is a Raging...Scientologist

Tuesday, I was killing time on Hollywood Blvd. while Sebastian was at speech therapy. And scattered amongst tranny wig supplies and bong accessory stores were numerous buildings all labeled with the same name. And in the middle of a Pinkberry-induced false sense of security, I had a disturbing thought. When will LA be renamed L. Ron? In Hollywoodland the words L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology are emblazoned everywhere.
My first brush with Scientology was in Brighton, England some twenty odd years ago. A guy on the street was offering free movie tickets. I didn't have the money to see Angel Heart at the real cineplex, so I thought what the heck. Little did I know it was a Dianetics promotional flick. I don't remember anything about it, except at the movie's end there was an explosion of some sort. Although an engaging special effect, I chose not to partake of the Scientology bundt cake.
In LA I've known many friends, including my husband, who have studied acting at the Bev…

The Double-Wattled Cassowary in the Room

My husband is leaving me...well, us. He's leaving us. On Sunday, he's getting on a jet plane to San Jose. (No, he does not know the way, Burt Bacharach, but thankfully the pilot does.) And for the next two months he'll be living in Palo Alto. It's work related. He's going to be acting in a Paula Vogel musical called Civil War Christmas. (Uninviting title if you ask me.) And as we draw near I find myself resenting having to accept his departure.
At first, I tried fiercely to ignore the inevitable. I was in such denial that I only asked him this morning, "What day are you leaving?" And when I look back over the last month, I realize that any time he brought up his encroaching exodus, my stomach tightened and my breath became labored.
We had friends over Wednesday night and Michael came into the kitchen having just read about his accommodations. He was visibly excited and had to share with all of us, "You won't believe this place..."

Halloween: A Postmortem

A mom at my daughter's pre school was enthusiastically passing out lollipops for Halloween. She pulled me close and gushed, "These lollipops had to be special ordered. They're organic and sweetened with beet juice!"
Another mom who was eavesdropping leaned in conspiratorially, "Well, that's going to be a blog entry."
Have I become that transparent? Because, yes, when I heard sweetened with beet juice I immediately filed it away. It's a brilliant mommy moment. Probably only intensified by the fact that never in a thousand years would I consider special ordering lollies that weren't chalk full of sugar. To wit: Sebastian's fifth birthday was bug-themed, and each child left with a goody bag which included a lollipop that resembled hardened amber with an honest to goodness grasshopper caught inside. Maybe that speaks to my character: grasshopper/heaps of sugar, yes; organic/beet juice, no.
Maxie's school celebrated Halloween by going Trunk or T…

Paper Roses and Banana Cream Pie

Yesterday afternoon, I was listening to KGIL, LA's self-proclaimed, retro AM radio station. You know, Harry Belafonte, Herb Alpert, Lena Horne. And to announce an upcoming song, the DJ said, "Sit back and enjoy Paper Roses by Anita Baker." What? Soulful, smooth-as-smokey-scotch Anita Baker did a cover of the country tearjerker, Paper Roses? Was this before or after Marie Osmond sang it into the top five with her "I'm a little bit country" vibe? As the music was swelling, even before I heard the vocalist, I knew the DJ had misspoken. And I involuntarily winced.
We all have that place in the back of our brains that stores all sorts of ridiculous trivia. Some of which are at the ready for witty repartee, but the more arcane facts are buried deep behind layers of rat turds and cobwebs. And when those buried facts are dusted off and brought to the surface, I am amazed at the mound of crap I know.
It seems at some point in my life I must have slipped my knowle…

NRA = No Real Answer

The NRA's been calling me. I'm not sure how I got on their list. Aside from squirt, I've never owned a gun, and for the most part am vehemently against gun ownership. Mostly because hot headed gun enthusiasts scare the crap out of me. And if I have to hear one more politician pander to the NRA saying how much they enjoy the wholesome, all-American sport of helicopter wolf sniping, I'm going to puke.
But I digress.
I've turned into one of those people who almost always uses his cell phone. My home phone is becoming a dinosaur. (I'll probably be dropping it off at the Tar Pits by the end of the year.) We'll receive no calls on our home phone all day and then dinner time rolls around and ring! One glance at the caller ID showing me an 800 or 866 number confirms my suspicion: people selling shit. I become smug as I spoon mac and cheese onto plastic plates, letting the call go to voice mail, where a message will never be left. I'm not going to be your survey …

Balloon Boy Fallout

News stories involving small children in peril always seem to make our insides go kerfloppy. Baby Jessica trapped in a well drew our collective attention for days. The international fight over Elian Gonzales tugged at our heart strings. And the high courts of Malawi finally allowing Madonna to adopt little Mercy sparked all kinds of controversy. So, of course we spent a day last week following the peculiar tale of the Jiffy Pop looking, homemade, hot air balloon perilously floating thousands of feet above the environs of Fort Collins, Colorado, carrying, quite possibly but not certainly, the precious cargo of six-year-old Falcon Heene.
On a completely almost-unrelated topic, I recently found out that decades ago Michael Jackson was a student at my son's school. In commemoration of his vast success the school's auditorium was named after him. After his various encounters with male youth and then subsequent court appearances, his name was removed from the building. Now that he&…

Shit Creek

I am up Shit Creek. No exag. I'm doing what everyone else is doing, running around in my little hampster wheel feeling as if I'm making headway, but in reality I'm in the same plastic habitat with wood chips strewn about. I mean, can it really be October?
This week was picture week at my son's school. We always have to pack an extra shirt in his backpack, because invariably his pics are shot after lunch. I get his teeth brushed, my husband combs his hair. (But really, if his shots are after lunch, what's the point?) We tell him once again what to expect and with an air of professionalism he says, "Will they take only one picture or is this a photo shoot?"
Well, excuse me, Miss Desmond. I didn't know you were so particular about your close up.
Living pert near on top of Hollywood has been a concern. I don't want my kids to be Southern Californian cliches, acting as if they just stepped out of the movie Clueless. I don't want them all knowing a…

Slip of the Tongue/Slip Me Some Tongue

It may be years old, but please enjoy the following fifteen seconds of foot in mouth...

Poor Cynthia Izaguirre. You can practically hear the egg oozing down her face. After going to commercial, I imagine her slapping her head in an I could have had a V-8 manner, followed by a big Homer Simpson Doh!
Aside from wondering if she received bushels of hate mail from fags, dykes and physically challenged mountain climbers, I had to ask, What was going on in this distracted newscaster's personal life? I mean, it's a peculiar mistake. Gay does not look like blind on the cue cards. Perhaps she just found out her fiance was gay? Or what if he recently became blind? Or maybe he became both gay and blind? And what if he lost his high paying job as a fashion consultant to boot?
I certainly hope Miss Izaguirre was not forced to make one of those uncomfortable, pseudo heartfelt "I didn't mean to receive a hand job from the hooker" apologies. Hugh Grant set the tone for this highly…


Six weeks ago, my little family drove north on Interstate 5, hung a right at Highway 14 and drove into Antelope Valley. Sounds like a pretty place, doesn't it? Almost mystical. I would bet most of you, if you were to take out your own personal mental snapshot of California you would be looking at Rocky Mountains or the roiling Pacific, majestic redwoods or overpriced amusement parks. I'm sure none of you pictured Antelope Valley. Although it sounds like a lush savanna bounding with chipper quadrupeds, in fact, Antelope Valley has no antelopes. The poor creatures were obliterated by hunters in the 1880's, and replaced with prefab homes, out of date strip malls, alfalfa fields and the second largest Borax pit mine. Antelope Valley also has the distinction of being the crystal meth darling of the Mojave.
This is where my daughter, Maxie, was born. (Interesting to note, the nurse in charge of Maxie's care for the first two days of her life, told us an increase of meth user…

Farewell Summer, Hello Life

It's been awhile, folks, I know. I've allowed myself to sink into the delicious oblivion known as summer. I didn't have to get the kids to school. I didn't have to force my son to do mind numbing homework. (Sebastian's loathing of homework is only surpassed by my loathing of his loathing.) There was no speech therapy, no gymnastics, no car pools. Hell, there was no set schedule of any kind. Oh, sure, a smattering of birthday parties and a luau or two, but besides that, nada.
I woke up late, watched black and white movies, and occasionally sauntered into the kitchen for food. I'd prepare it, eat it, throw some at the kids, and then go back to my room to see what hijinks Cary Grant was up to.
I'm shamed to admit, some mornings I woke late due to an overindulgence in vodka the night before. But what's more natural then watching Bette Davis movies with a glass in hand? I must admit, on those fuzzy mornings, I developed a new found appreciation for the snoo…

It Really Sucks When...

...someone else wears your super hero.

Bad Routine

Looking back, I think it's a bad routine.
Both our kids have the annoying habit of waking up a smidge after sunrise. Doesn't matter what time they went to bed or how blacked out their curtains are, at five forty-six they're wide awake demanding attention.
At one and a half, Sebastian would climb out of his crib and come into our room. Michael and I would invite him into our California king where he'd refall asleep, allowing us to catch that forty-first and perhaps even forty-second wink.
After a while, Bash needed a sippy cup to get back to sleep. I revised the routine. We added a beverage center (fancy schmancy terminology meaning small fridge) in the island when we redid our kitchen. Instead of coming directly to our bedroom, I taught my son to go to the beverage center, where his sippy cup would be waiting, filled with PediaSure the night before, and then come to our bedroom, slurp himself silly, and fall back asleep between the snugly warmth of his two daddies.
And i…

What's in a Name?

I have gone from gamely chortling at the silly applications on Facebook to patently ignoring them. This happened sometime after I took the quiz to see which of the fifty states I was. I remember clicking that I like large bodies of water and living near big cities and somehow with Facebook wizardry the state that is most me is Nebraska. So I haven't indulged further in these random quizzes, and truth be told am fascinated that others seem to take them all the time. Which Lost character am I? Really?
But I'm about to whole hog embrace this craziness in the guise of scientific discovery.
A couple of months back, in a moment of whimsy I decided to find out my Vampire name. The gobbledygook that spewed out was, The Great Archives determine you to have gone by the identity Beno Fey, known in some parts of the world as Incubus of The Lamiae, the offspring of a goddess - beautiful, powerful and ruthless. Beautiful, Powerful, Ruthless and Fey? Sounds like a law firm for drag queens.