Mommy with a Penis

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 kn...

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 surve...

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...

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...

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