Cords and Fleece

Now that we have season passes to the Happiest Place on Earth, we go as often as humanly possible. Here’s what we said during our trip this week. Cast Members: Me, Michael, Elizabeth, Samantha, Grandma, and Grandpa. (I’ll let you guess who said what.) “Can you turn off my hat? I want to go to bed.” “Hi, front desk? I think you gave me the sex room...” “I wanna get out of here!” (said in the Tiki Room, the Honey I Shrunk the Audience Theater, the lobby of the Bugs Life Theater, and on a roller coaster) “You’re not allowed to ride any more rides until you PEE!” “We have to get the car washed -- there’s throw-up on top of it.” “Daddy is lonely all by himself,” ...in that nice, big bed. “Where’d Grandpa go?” “I lost my hat on the Matterhorn!” “I want to live at Disneyland.” “I’m banging your vagina!" (Said while standing in a crowded line for the Peter Pan ride) “Disneyland really is a happy place.” You betcha. And finally: “Did you know that some kids in your class have never ev

We scored big-time at Costco, yesterday. We snacked on bagels with cream cheese, fresh fruit, and chocolate brownies with vanilla ice cream on top. Oh, baby. As I carted the girls around, stuffing our faces and dripping ice cream onto the floor, an older gentleman walked up to us, smiling. “Ah, twins?” he asks. “No -- she’s four and she’s two,” I say patting the girls on the head, one at a time. Elizabeth concurs, “Yes, I’m four and she’s two.” “Oh, how nice! Beautiful. You look like twins,” he laughs and walks away. Elizabeth watched him fondly, and then suddenly remembered an important piece of information and shouted, “ I’m in Room 7! ” -- as if everyone knows about Room 7 and what an accomplishment it is to be there. Of course, it is an accomplishment. It’s the culmination of 3 years of daycare and preschool, not all of which was easy on either of us, emotionally. It’s the final room before heading off to the big world of kindergarten. It’s where toddlers become kids and first fri

I’m cooking dinner -- Polish sausage, mashed potatoes and sauerkraut. Samantha comes over to me. “I like your ponytail, Mommy.” “Thank you, sweetie,” I say as I stir the potatoes. “I like your toenails, Mommy.” “You’re so sweet.” “You’re beautiful in your dress.” At that I put down my spoon and bend down to hug her. “Thank you so much, Samantha. What a nice thing to say.” “I make you sooo happy, Mommy,” she says and hugs me extra hard. “Yes, you do,” I agree and hug back.”You’re a wonderful girl.” “And Elizabeth makes you sooo mad! You look like this,” then she purses her lips, bares her teeth, and scowls. Poor Lizzy. We had a rough day. I finally gave her two options: either sit in time out, or draw a picture of her listening to Mommy and Daddy. Hey, you never know. She might be able to pull it off. This is the age of openness and creativity, right? She looked bewildered and chose a time out. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll ask her to draw religion. ------------------ “Mommy, I want to do som

"They might not like you, Mommy." It was beach day. We set up our tent, spread out the beach blankets and emptied the bag of sand toys. Michael boogie-boarded, Elizabeth stayed wet, and Samantha sat outside the waterline, dry as a bone. I supervised and fetched towels as needed. Ahead of us another family established their beach camp and brought several young teenage girls along with them. The girls were beautiful, tall, and thin. They practiced backbends and walkovers in little bikinis. They giggled and covered each other in wet sand. They were fabulous. We watched them -- some of us from behind our magazines, some of us boldly with our mouths agape and heads tilted in silent awe. Woman watched them with wonderment -- is it possible our bodies once occupied such a small space? Boys watched them with budding lust -- would they go out with me? Men watched them with budding lust -- would they go out with me? -- but then felt guilty. A little blonde girl wanted to be their fr

  Spank Girls, Ukraine Wives, and Sugar Daddies. I’m so proud to be a member of Google AdSense. If you’ve explored the Internet for more than five minutes, you’ve seen them. If you’re reading this on my blog (and not through a reader), then scroll down a little and you’ll see them on the right-hand side. Google ads are everywhere. But don’t be fooled. They didn’t appear magically on their own -- I put them there. That’s because I thought, silly newbie that I am, that placing Google ads on my blog would make me rich -- or at least enable me to eat at a nice sushi restaurant once in a while. And now, after 5 months and 6,000 page views I’ve made a whopping (drum roll): $2.09. Wahoo! I can get the extra large pack of chewing gum! But it’s OK. Really. It was kind of silly of me to expect a huge paycheck for doing so little -- kind of like expecting to win a million dollars just because I bought a Pepsi and lottery ticket at the 7-11. It’s kind of comforting to know that lives are changed o

Each time I take the girls’ to Grandma’s house, I half expect my mother to open the door wearing a miniskirt toga, golden sandals that wrap up to the calves, and a wreath crowning her head. “Good evening, ladies,” she says, presenting a cocktail tray of pacifiers and lollipops. “What’ll you have?” “I’ll have an orange sherbet Push-up with a chocolate milk chaser, please!” “I’ll have a Cotton-Candy Pacifier!” “Of course, right away.” Grandma-slash-Cocktail Waitress turns to fulfill their request and the girls run after her, headlong into the din of toddler sin -- where chocolate milk flows from the faucets, where jelly beans are a suitable side-dish with Mac and Cheese, and where little mirrors with bubble-gum straws and piles of sugar are placed on the coffee table next to ceramic chickens and DAR memorabilia. Because what happens in Vegas -- er, Grandma’s House -- stays at Grandma’s house. If Caesar's Palace is the place where Michael and I enjoy nudie shows, stay up all night,

I have three words for you: Beginning. Tap. Class. OK. Take a moment to compose yourselves... Yes, I signed up for a beginning tap class that meets conservatively once a week for one hour -- a pace that even I may be able to manage. I also considered Beginning Hip-Hop, which is... OK. I’ll wait while you compose yourselves again... Which is even more hilarious. One day I peaked into a Hip-Hop class and saw five cute college girls all popping and turning and head-shifting and looking cool and bored at the same time. Oh how I wanted to join them. But then I had a flash of me, 36 year-old mother of two, standing amongst them with a big goofy smile on my face and I nixed the idea. There’s nothing more un-hip than appearing to enjoy something and I wouldn’t be able to help myself -- it would be too much fun! So I looked further and saw this ad for an exercise class at the Culture Center: Striptease, by Anissa (Please bring button down shirt and knee pads ) No problem there, since I keep a

Samantha is more coordinated in high heels than I am. While most women discard their heels at the front door when they come home from work, Samantha quickly searches for her “princess shoes”. We hear her clicking throughout the house, making her two-year old legs look ever-so elegant in whatever she’s wearing: a pretty dress, her sister’s Spider Man t-shirt, a loaded pair of diapers. She even dances in her heels. In fact, she doesn’t want to dance without them. She’s a true woman. But while she dresses like a woman-to-be, she still hops around like a two-year old. Yesterday, this true woman stomped on my foot while wearing said heels. If you’ve ever been stepped upon by a woman wearing heels, you know it hurts like an SOB -- even when the woman falls short of actual womanhood by 16 years and only weighs 30 pounds. It just didn’t occur to me to protect my feet while I was sitting in the bathroom, uh, “minding my own business” so-to-speak. But as usual, Samantha wanted to join me, and I

  We bought the girls a Barney video -- mostly so we could hear them sing the I Love You song over and over. Hearing it makes us feel good. “ I love you, you love me. We’re a happy family... ” Magically, our doubts dissolve. Our eyes glaze over. We’re a happy family, right? Right?! “ With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you. Won’t you say you love me, too? ” Come on girls, say it. Tell me you love me! Ah, yes. Gotta love the not-so-subtle manipulation to love one’s family without question. It’s very much in line with the current trend of positive thinking. If you think everything is fine, then it will be. Right? Perhaps if we burn this positive family message into their subconscious, they’ll believe it -- even when they hate me someday for not letting them pierce their tongues, or drive motorcycles, or date white rappers. Yes, just as Elizabeth is about to run away with Assmaster J. to be a roady with his band, Fuckasm , she opens the birthday card I gave her with a picture of B