Mommy with a Penis

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 The poor creatures were obliterated by hunters in the 1880's, and replaced with prefab homes, out of date strip malls, alfalfa fields and the second largest Borax pit mine.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 users...

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...