Mommy with a Penis

I recently experienced two firsts... On Saturday, I took the kids on a " Faery Hunt." This basically means I forked over my shekels to tromp around Griffith Park for an hour plus in search of actors dressed in tights. We were met by a fairy docent, who spoke in an alarmingly high-pitched voice. She wore khakis, as if going on safari, however, instead of a pith helmet, an incongruous purple church hat perched on her head. Before the hunt, she convinced the children in an over-rehearsed tea and crumpet accent to collect leaves and twigs and pine cones as offerings for the fairies. She kept referring to pine cones as fairy condos . (Try explaining that to your six year old.) Then we were off, in search of wee folk with wee plot lines. Here's what I understood. The quirky, sidekick fairy led us to the incredibly attractive blond fairy, who taught us to bow before the grand queen. (So far, a typical night in West Hollywood.) The queen, who helps us humans with our slumber, ha...

There has been concern. Where are you MommyWife? Are you alive? Have the kids finally dragged you under? Fear not, my lovelies. I am still afloat...barely. I was preparing for a performance, which took place this last Friday night. I reworked my first blog entry, Orts, and made it stage worthy. Thought you might enjoy how it turned out. Bon Appetit!! My morning routine... I bounce out of bed at six-thirty. I make some coffee, start breakfast. Sebastian, my good-natured six year old, hears me clanking about, gets up around seven. At seven-ten I call out to my devoted husband, who’s impervious to clanking about, "Michael, breakfast is ready." He gets our adorable, two year old Maxie, and the four of us sit down to a nutritious breakfast. Then, Michael 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 how it's supposed to...

Unlike what the title might imply, this is not about goat fucking. I do not visit rural areas to scratch an itch or loiter menacingly around petting zoos. Rest assured livestock owners, my pecker is not going anywhere near your peckers. That's just fowl. In my wildest dreams, I cannot imagine writing about goat fucking. I'll leave that to Edward Albee, who in my humble opinion, is the best goat fucking writer there is. My friend says children are either goats or bunnies. The goats being demanding, non trusting, cranky and rude; the bunnies, cuddly, gentle, agreeable and easy-going. Our six year old, Sebastian, was a bunny baby. Loved people, traveled well, ready to offer an easy smile. Our two year old daughter, Maxwell Pearl, is a goat through and through. She whines, moans, cries and screams seventy-five percent of her wakeful day. "No" explodes from her mouth like artillery much more frequently than "yes," only to be outnumbered by "Idonwanna!" ...

The place: Alton, Illinois. The time: Christmas week. The purpose: in-laws. I am still decompressing from my foray to the Midwest. I have to be careful. I do not want to offend. But I feel extremely uncomfortable when I'm in the middle of our country. In the early eighties, I spent some time in Topeka. I'm not sure which was more depressing, the flat flatness of Kansas, or the mental hospital in which I was ensconced. But I'm not willing to divulge those skeletons just yet, except to say, chalk up those years to teenage angst and an overindulgence in pharmaceuticals. So, quite possibly any trip to the Midwest summons up latent feelings of depression and inadequacy. Whatever the reason for my discomfort, I'd much rather fly over that part of the country in a tranquilized haze than kick off my shoes and set a spell. To those of you unfamiliar with Alton, it is a river town in the Southern part of the state, across the Mississippi from St. Louis. There is an active steel m...

On my son's sixth birthday he unwrapped his first gun and then the family sat down to a breakfast of pain au chocolat . Now, let it be known that chocolate croissants and armaments are not a mainstay of our household, but rather a special treat. Let it also be known, when I say armament, I mean cap gun. Immediately, we went outside and shot off a round. And anyone who's ever owned a cap gun knows, only one in seven caps really work. You got to jiggle the paper and release the mechanism, realign the caps, really one of the most frustrating toys ever made. Sebastian was thrilled. I realize guns are a tetchy subject in today's mothering world. As a matter of fact, even I have been part of the parenting faction that openly chided gun play between children. "I am raising my boy to be a sensitive, caring individual and that means no guns, no weaponry of any kind, and while I'm at it, no McDonald's." But let me say as a previous gun owner, squirt not .45, I neve...