Vintage Thirty

Please Hold While We Transfer this Blog

2012-01-11T23:50:00.000-08:00

Yep! I'm moving over here ...it's fresh, it's new, it's lean, it's...whatever, I'm dropping the Vintage Thirty (although everything here is staying here) and keeping the Tootsie. Please come visit, update your readers (do people still do that?) and whatever else needs updating! See you in the new place!

Dear Indiana Jones: You're not the Only One that Hates Snakes

2011-05-05T10:01:00.001-07:00

Five days ago a neighbor on my street and who also happens to be a friend on Facebook, updated her status that her immediate next door neighbor had found a rattlesnake in their garage. E-freakin'-gads! It's not the first time we've had rattlesnakes on our street. In the last almost 14 years that we've lived here there are two neighbors whose dogs have been bitten, one neighbor who both surprised the snake lying beneath and himself when wheeling out his trash container, and my own husband who found one curled up behind the wheel of our car in our own driveway.

And those are just the occasions that I know about. I sat my children down the evening after reading the status update to remind them to keep an eye out when retrieving their bikes, skateboards, and toys from the garage...to stay out of the gated access to the hills behind our homes, and to just overall be mindful of their surroundings. And to run in the absolute opposite direction if they see anything resembling a snake and to let the first adult they see know.

Last night at dusk my daughter came tearing through the front door in borderline hysterics to let me know she just saw a snake. She was talking in that voice where you could tell she was doing everything in her power not to completely lose her shit. And where her eyes were as big as saucers because she didn't want to blink, lest the tears escape from her eyeballs.

I talked calmly to her to get her to, you know, relax a little bit and asked her to show me the snake. It was located across the street next door to the neighbor who'd updated her status only a few days prior, half on the front lawn and the face half on the sidewalk. My daughter had rode by it on her scooter. *shiver* The home belongs to a fortysomthing divorced dad who looks like he's in the kind of shape that he can take care of himself. And now that I've seen the snake, me, a responsible adult shut up you stop laughing I have to do something about it. I mean, have you any idea how many children live and play on our street? It's like an elementary school playground on that cul-de-sac.

I can't just leave it there and I'm not confident nor coordinated enough to trust myself to go toe to toe with a snake. I know myself and I would end up bitten and losing my foot from the ankle down. I figure, since the neighbor is a man - a man with ample tools in his garage - I will let him wrangle the rattlesnake. I knock on his door and he is so surprised to see me standing there.

See, I'm not super friendly with my neighbors. I mean, I wave hello and will have a brief chat if I'm outside, but I prefer to keep to myself. It is my belief that it can be all kinds of crappy to be too chummy with the neighbors. Your home is your place of peace, privacy, and a little anonymity. I don't need to be stuck next door to people knowing all my business. I have seen friends of mine live to regret the nightly beer or glass of wine in the garage or backyard with the people on their street. When those people are suddenly privy to much too personal family matters and, you know, everyone knows your business. No. Thank. You.

So I tell him "there's a rattlesnake in your yard". And plead with my eyes "kill it now please Jesus god". I have no problem with assigning gender roles between men and women. If women have to bear the pain of childbirth then the men can be in charge of killing the bugs and wrangling the wildlife. Only. Seems. Fair.

He grabbed the nearest shovel, took aim, and chopped its head off in one quick motion.

The End. of the snake

A Rose by any Other Name is...Something Completely Different

2011-04-27T12:44:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine and I were discussing recently the names of our children and what their names would have been had they been the opposite sex and also, what would we name them if they were born today. The answer to the latter part of that discussion was: no, we wouldn't. [Note to Editor: edit before you post, Nimrod, because the latter part of that discussion should ask would they use the same names if their children were born today] Not that there's anything wrong with the names that were chosen and because the names are theirs they, of course, suit them. They're a part of who they are...what makes them, them.

But let's just play the game for funsies and stuff. For instance, had Boy-Child#1 been born a she, he would have been named Hailey. By the time Girl-Child came along "Hailey" didn't even make the list of possibilities. Not only had it become one of the more popular names by then but also we were already bored to death with it. There was much debate over boys names with Boy-Child#1. I wanted "Ethan". Mr. Farklepants did not. Let's just say we agreed on a name that was close enough to "Ethan" to please me and unique enough to satisfy Mr. Farklepants. If we could go back in time, or, if he were born today, we would most likely go with the name "Shane". It is/was a name that both Mr. Farklepants and I like(d) very much but we had that common dilemma that many new parents encounter: we had close friends who'd already used the name for their own child. And as life also often goes, we haven't socialized with those close friends IN YEARS. Lesson here? Go with your gut. Go with your choice. Make it yours...own it... because who cares?

When it comes to Boy-Child#2 it's not so much that I wouldn't choose the same name. Because I would. Except that I would switch his first and middle names if he were born today. It's that simple. First because I like the way it sounds, and second because his first name is very common. As evidenced by the fact that his elementary school is just dripping and absolutely lousy with boys by that name. To answer the opposite sex question: if Boy-Child#2 had been a "she", his name would have been "Claire". And again, by the time Girl-Child made ~~her way down the vaginal canal~~ her way into the world we once again found ourselves bored with the name and it also did not make the list of possibilities.

Girl-Child. Oh holy hell. The list of names, she was long. It included but was not limited too: Caroline, Madeline, Charlotte, Abigail, Samantha, Susan, and more. The first three on that list were my absolute first choices and all were quickly shot right down by Mr. Farklepants. I loved the name Charlotte because I wanted to call her "Charlie" which I just think is super cute. I also love the name "Scarlett" but let's just say that with the names of some other family members it would have been like a cast of Gone With The Wind characters in this house and that's just dumb. There were no boy name alternatives for Girl-Child because, unlike with the first two, we found out the sex during pregnancy. So since we knew she was a girl, that was that. If Girl-Child were born today I'd want to name her Vivienne. I love that name. I love it so much I kinda almost want to have another child just to use the name. Almost.

Maybe the next dog.

I've Lived with it for Years (And Other Things that You See that I Probably Stopped Seeing a Long Time Ago)

2011-03-31T09:52:00.001-07:00

I admit it. I'm addicted to House Hunters. You know that show on HGTV where prospective home buyers look at three different houses and choose one by the end of the show? And during the course of their search they see all that stuff in your home that you have long since become accustomed to and no longer see? What this show has done, and much to my husband's chagrin, is highlight all the imperfections that have just become part of the house, for better or worse, over the almost 14 years we've owned this home. Let's list a few of the things that prospective buyers spy and see how far we get before I have a stroke:

The carpet. We had new carpet installed throughout the house...at least 10 years ago. Did I mention this carpet is a very pale shade of...white? Of course, it didn't appear SO white in the store where the swatch was laid out amongst all the other swatches of WHITE CARPET OH GOD ...We're idiots, that's a fact. This carpet has lived long passed its intended lifespan where lifespan includes 3 kids and 2 dogs, rain, mud, vomit AND WORSE, and dozens of visits from the carpet cleaners. It's time to take this carpet out to pasture and shoot it in the head.
Kitchen cabinets. Our cabinets are a lovely 1997 honey oak. In other words, dated. So are the tile countertops and backsplash.
The master bath shower. The door needs replacing because it doesn't really want to, you know, close. It takes a good amount of just the right slamming before it will and it's just a matter of time before the whole song and dance just breaks off in my hand. That would also be messy. And also see: emergency room visit.
Our backyard. Oh it has grass. It has a patio. Well, and that's it. It needs a little, how do you say?...professional landscaping.
The master bedroom. We never did anything to it besides paint it and stick some furniture in there. It SCREAMS boring. Or maybe it whispers it.
The window coverings. We were a young couple with a new baby when we bought this house and had a very limited budget to cover the 19 or so windows in this house. Those limited budget window coverings hang to this day. And I hate them. So much.

We did, however, ~~slowly~~ replace all of our appliances with the stainless steel variety. Which I've learned from watching House Hunters is a very important aspect on the wishlist when one is purchasing a home. I'm amazed at how many people on this show poo-poo a house simply because they find the appliances lacking and lament about how much it will cost to replace them. Frankly, in my opinion, if you can't afford to buy kitchen appliances then perhaps you aren't really financially ready to, you know, BUY A HOUSE.

My New Years Eve Going to Hell Moment

2011-01-03T23:39:00.000-08:00

...Otherwise known as "Too Long to Tweet but Really Kinda too Short for a Blog Post"

We spent New Years Eve with good friends, enjoying decent food and several rounds of overpriced drinks. At one point during the evening my girlfriend informs me that a former coworker from eons ago recently passed away. I was shocked, as anyone would be when presented with such horrible news, and considering the person was only in their 50's and way too young to be dying. When I asked if she knew what had claimed our acquaintance, she replied that she wasn't sure but that maybe it had something to do with the liver because of the "yellow eyes". And I am not even kidding when I tell you that the first thing that the evil bastard who lives in my head did was repeat the lines from A Christmas Story...when the adult voice-over Ralphie is describing Scut Farkus and cries "He had yellow eyes! So, help me, God! Yellow eyes".

It seemed an inappropriate time for laughter. And this is just one of the many reasons I will blow the gates to hell wide open upon arrival.

Happy New Year...Now Let's See if We can Keep this Thing Regular

2011-01-02T18:40:00.001-08:00

I'm not even going to apologize for not updating because, whatever. I've been busy. I'm just going to start off the new year with a good ol' WHAT THE HELL??? Because we've lived in this house since 1997 and the following has never ever happened in all that time...

When you live in a suburb of Los Angeles, snow is a rare sighting.

Lies, Lies, Everywhere are Lies

2010-10-13T22:01:00.000-07:00

I've been lying to my children since before they could understand words. Case in point: Santa, Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny. Many parents do not indulge in this practice and Mr. Farklepants is one such person who did not want to perpetuate these tall tales to our own children. But he indulged me and let me have my fun. I have led my children to believe that the aforementioned mythical characters do exist. And it's been a fun ride. My boys are a little older and wiser and certainly wise to their mother. Boy-Child#1 told me point blank while we were out doing some last minute Christmas shopping when he was about eleven, and I quote, "Mom, I don't believe in Santa Claus". End quote. Which, I wasn't surprised. I mean, he was eleven and I assumed he didn't really buy the whole charade anymore but neither of us had brought it up, because, why bother? He had enjoyed it and was excited to help keep up pretenses for his younger brother and sister.

Boy-Child#2 came to me just before Easter the year he was about eight and straight up confessed that the whole Easter Bunny thing just made zero sense. A bunny? Comes into your house and hides eggs? What? He quickly put two and two together and realized that the Tooth Fairy didn't exist either but he wasn't exactly kicking his dollar he received for each tooth out of bed either. With those two figured out he came to the next logical conclusion about Santa. That doesn't stop him from expecting a gift from that big, fat lie, mind you. He enjoys the tradition.

Girl-Child, however, is still a firm believer in all of the above. She's seven and still innocent, and believe you me, once she fell in love with Justin Bieber, I was worried that it was all over. (side note: DAMN YOU JUSTIN BIEBER!!!) But I fear that the magic that is Santa Claus will soon come to an end. Because? CARPOOL. (side note: DAMN YOU CARPOOL!!!). One little girl took it upon herself today to ask Girl-Child if she believed in Santa. I understand kids are kids and if they're hip to a secret then they want to share what they know. This knowledge of the psychology of children did not stop me from becoming instantly hot and sweaty and all eyes-darty, trying to read my daughter's face and simultaneously turn up the Kids Bop 18 and try desperately to change the subject because the next words that were coming out of that little girl's mouth were that A) She didn't believe, and B) something about parents. Honestly, I don't know exactly because I was too busy trying to start a conversation with Girl-Child about who is it that is singing the song currently playing PLEASE PAY ATTENTION ONLY TO MEEEEEEE!!!

I don't know what in the Sam hill I'm going to do tomorrow if the subject is revisited.

Blink

2010-09-10T21:57:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a while since I've written anything in my little space on the web. It's just... I've been in this funk and it's taken me a while to realize what my fricken deal is, and it's this: I feel like I'm missing it. And "it" is not my blog. "It" is my children. See, Boy-Child#1 started high school this year, HIGH EFFING SCHOOL! I mean, MY GOD! How is this possible? No, seriously, where has the time gone? It seems like just yesterday I was building a tower of blocks on one side of the living room floor just to entice him to crawl to me and knock it down. Over and over we would play this game and it was a never ending source of entertainment for the both of us.

I can barely remember Boy-Child#2 learning to walk and now he's old enough to walk home from school. And honest to God, people? I don't remember my daughter as a baby. I clearly remember her at 3 years old, but an infant? I have to really concentrate to capture that memory. I've reached the point where I have to consult their respective baby books to familiarize myself with their first words, when they cut their first tooth, how long they were at birth and how much they weighed. Well, except for Boy-Child#1 who weighed in at 9 pounds 7 ounces and you just don't forget passing a Mac truck through your vagina. You're welcome. When a child that large is ripped from your loins-literally and figuratively-, it tattoos the number on the left side of your cerebrum in neon colors.

I'm only 38 years old. How can my memory be that shot to hell? And I'm super freakin' lucky to be a full time stay at home mom. I have been present for every. single. thing. How can time still be whipping by so fast that I'm forgetting so many details that I thought could never be forgotten? I blinked. And time betrayed me. I stop and think of the time that has gone by and the future that still lay ahead and realize that what has already passed is such a relatively short amount of time in the grand scheme of things. If I am, in fact, middle aged, and God willing I live to reach eighty, then I still have a whole 'nother lifetime ahead.

And I've had this realization: the time you're allotted with your children, as children? Simply isn't long enough. I'm already starting to miss them because I know... I'll blink again and at their wedding or the birth of another grandchild, I won't be able to remember them at seven, ten, and thirteen.

Dear LAX, Tear Down this Wall!

2010-08-05T10:21:00.000-07:00

Usually when I'm picking someone up from the airport, I will park and meet them at baggage claim. Yesterday, however, I was running a bit late. See, my niece is getting married this weekend and since she lives three hours north of me, she asked if I could do her a solid and pick up her best friend and former college roommate from LAX since her plane was landing midday and my niece wouldn't even be getting off work until 5pm. I'm a giver...all about helping the family out, especially a bride to be. I was armed with her friend's cell phone number and flight information and I mean, really - HOW HARD CAN THIS BE? Right? Uhhh...

I've only met the friend one time and I could vaguely remember what she looks like BUT! She had texted me that she had landed and was waiting outside her terminal on the sidewalk and I texted her back that I was at the airport but still working my way through OMG SO MUCH TRAFFIC GAH!!! ...and gave her the description of my car and that I would be pulling up shortly.

Easier said than done.

Picking someone up curbside at LAX is a little like trying to plow through the security gates of the Berlin Wall -in rush hour traffic. There are hundreds of travelers milling about and rushing both to AND fro. While you're craning your neck and searching for your passenger that is somewhere on that sidewalk you're also trying to avoid getting plowed by an airport shuttle, taxi, or fellow vehicle as they recklessly dart away from the curb and also staying vigilant to grab the next opening to pull up to the curb before someone else grabs it. It's hectic and stressful and sucks all kinds of ass.

As luck (for lack of a better word and believe me, there are better) would have it, just as I reached the location where the friend claimed she was, a taxi pulled out and I grabbed his spot [Note to taxi drivers at LAX: What's with all the honking? Calm down.]

Now here is where I made my first mistake: Because I was so distracted with trying to spot the friend in the crowd and simultaneously find an opening to pull up, and avoid getting in any kind of fender bender, and avoid nailing a pedestrian...I inadvertently pulled up BEHIND THE TAXI ONLY LINE. Oh. My. Hell. This was bad, people. This was a major no-no and I was about to be schooled on the proper procedure for navigating one's self through LAX.

I no sooner pulled into that spot when an airport policeman appeared out of no-effing-where -perhaps he repelled down from the ceiling all Mission Impossible like - writing my (I assume) license plate number down and was shining his flashlight in my car and in my face and then IMMEDIATELY DEMANDING MY UNDIVIDED ATTENTION. I know this is what he wanted because he was SCREAMING a steady flow of questions and rules in my face while I was still in mid-roll down window mode. It went something like this "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU PARKED HERE? YOU CAN'T PARK HERE! TAXI ONLY!" Me...stammer, friend, pick up, stutter, here, sputter, trying to find, stammer, sorry, didn't realize, sorrrryyy... Him: "IF YOU DON'T SEE YOUR PERSON YOU KEEP DRIVING AND COME AROUND AGAIN!! YOU DON'T STOP! NOT HERE!! TAXI ONLY! YOU GO THERE!" And he gestures to pull forward.

Or so I thought. Now here's where I made my second mistake: I pulled forward. And stopped. And he struck down upon ~~thee~~ me and my vehicle with great vengeance and furious anger [Pulp Fiction, anyone?]. Turns out he wasn't gesturing for me to pull forward. He gestured for me to get the feck out of there. And pronto. Like, yesterday, pronto. And, boy howdy. Was he ever pissed off.

It's been a very long time since I've been yelled at by someone. And never have I been completely screamed at by a police officer. It went something like, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?? I JUST TOLD YOU!!! I WILL GIVE YOU A TICKET!! YOU NEED TO PAY ATTENTION!! GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!!"

And of course I'm all kinds of stuck because I'm blocked in from front and behind and there are cars all piled up one behind the other to my left. And he won't stop screaming at me to get out of there and reminds me several times that he WILL GIVE ME A TICKET! I have all three of my kids in the car and I'm this close to crying and it's obvious by my cracking voice, and I'm hollering back at him that I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I misunderstood, I'm sorry, I'm trying to go, stuck, can't, sorry, going, sorry, I'M SO SORRY!!!

Yeah, I finally got out of there. And yeah, I finally found the friend. And yeah, there was a fire just south of my house on the way home that resulted in us getting stuck on the freeway when THEY CLOSED IT!

Then I died. The end.

Hey Kids, it's that Time of the Month Again!

2010-07-15T09:24:00.000-07:00

I have a bad habit of ending up at the grocery store just about every. damn. day. And I try really hard not to do this. I make a list like a normal person, buy everything on it, and inevitably I'll end up at the store the next day because of one fricken thing I totally forgot about. And it'll be something that is really needed like an important ingredient for whatever it is I'm making for dinner that night or my husband's deodorant, or dog food. Yesterday wasn't any different. While I was there I wisely figured, hey, why don't I get everything for tomorrow night's dinner too so that I'm not right back here doing exactly this same thing. Tacos sounded like a good idea and the kids love them, so that's all made of win! And the husband tolerates them, so that's...whatever, his dinner is ready and served to him when he gets home.

I chose my white corn tortillas very carefully because, I don't know what the hell it is about tortillas, but those bad boys are super delicate. If you're not mindful you'll come home with a package full of broken, useless discs. After disregarding at least three packages I found one whose contents were in perfect condition. This was not the case when I unpacked my groceries at home. There they were, in the bag that contained...eggs of all things...the entire all ten of them broken completely in half. How in the world...?

Somewhere between placing them lovingly on the conveyor belt at the checkout to my house, they met their untimely demise. And what did I do when I found the mutilated lot of them? I acted like any other sane, rational person and hurled them across the kitchen so that they crashed against the sliding glass door. And then I cried.

You don't think that has anything to do with PMS, do you? DO YOU? I warn you that you shouldn't answer that with anything other than "no" unless you're armed with a tranquilizer gun. I'm feeling very "bear in a tree in your backyard-ish".

Sand, Surf, and All Out Brawling

2010-07-14T10:25:00.000-07:00

We've reached that point in summer vacation where the kids are getting on each others' nerves. Where the mere sight of one another causes the other to SPEAK IN ALL CAPS at the injustice that they SHARE THE SAME DWELLING AND OHMYGOD WHY ARE YOU BREATHING SO LOUD!! Consequently, I've reached the point where I have to talk myself down from dealing out backhands across their heads like an old school Italian grandmother. In this house the eye-rolling, heavy sighing, and physical combat has reached a crisis. Where crisis equals mommy is going to lose her everloving mind. I've tried sending them to neutral corners, giving them chores and tasks to complete, and getting them out of the house with family fun adventures. The latter contradicts my responsible parenting belief: never reward negative behavior. Taking them to the beach when they were foaming at the mouth with each other just moments before loading up the car hardly gives them reason to behave properly. I mean, they get the golden ticket either way.

My goal isn't to encourage repeated negative behavior, but rather, to redirect their attention. You know, like with a TODDLER. Except in this case it lead to more fights and bickering with the lovely Pacific ocean as a backdrop. I've never experienced a less relaxing day at the beach. It's also hard to elicit some sympathy from your husband, who's been at work all that day, about your stress-filled day at the beach because, you know, at least YOU WERE AT THE BEACH!

If this keeps up I'll have to threaten them with back to school shopping. At least I'll be shopping.

Great Trip Despite Traveling Woes

2010-06-29T21:14:00.000-07:00

During our one hour layover in Cleveland on our way to Richmond from Los Angeles [we flew back through Houston so get your map of the United States out now to pinpoint our hopscotch across this great nation] I texted my sister to sing the praises of Continental Airlines. Check in was a snap and we left on time. We each had our own television screens with Direct TV and at least fifty channels to choose from for only a six dollar swipe of the debit card per seat that made the four hour flight seem like two, I told her. Before I knew it, it was time to board our flight for the quick jaunt to Richmond. My brother and family were waiting for us and after a joyful and tearful reunion, we headed to baggage claim.

And there is where the feeling of dread washed over me. The baggage carriage was at a stand still. Beside it, a few token unclaimed suitcases; none of which were mine. And a uniformed airport official. In his southern drawl he informed me, if it ain't here it ain't makin' it tonight.

Well, damn. I've only had my luggage lost one prior occasion and that was my infamous trip from hell. Where hell equals Florida. It was the trip that whatever could go wrong, did. And at the tail end of that particular trip, I made it home to Los Angeles but my luggage went to Dallas.

Back to our current trip, only this time I'm not alone but with three children. And no luggage. Which apparently didn't make it on the plane back in Los Angeles. [Side note: Dear LAX, I was there two hours early, so, wtf? -end side note] Everything we needed was in our suitcases. The only thing we had in our possession was the backpack we brought on the plane and there wasn't anything in there that was going to help us unless we needed a box of crayons and some Nintendo DSs to brush our teeth with, or wear.

Fortunately, we were staying with family so it wasn't the biggest inconvenience ever. And Continental KNEW where my luggage was and was preparing to deliver it to us the following day. Except that I was wearing jeans. Big whoop, right? Here's the problem. It was about sixty degrees when I left Los Angeles at 7am. And I'm always chilled on the plane.

It was ninety degrees in Richmond, Virginia with about seventy percent humidity. So basically I was in a sauna. Wearing jeans. For two days. And me without my deodorant.

Our first flight back home on Monday was delayed nearly an hour due to thunderstorms in Houston, Texas. I understand that these things cannot be helped. When we finally landed, it was at exactly the precise moment that our connecting flight was to be leaving. Fortunately, the flight was being held, but none of us making that connecting flight to Los Angeles learned this until we'd pulled into the gate. And the gate where our plane awaited was at the furthest point possible from where we presently sat.

The looks from the seated passengers on our connecting flight that had to wait for us said that they were certain I'd flown the plane from Richmond to Houston myself and decided to stop for lunch along the way JUST TO RUIN THEIR DAY.

Oy! My Aching Back

2010-06-16T14:09:00.000-07:00

When the lower part of my back first started acting up a few months ago I thought it was menstruation related (men? you're welcome) but that doesn't seem to be the case. Because it comes and goes. Or more like spasms and releases. Heavy on the spasm. I sneezed while driving the kids to school a few weeks ago and threw my back out, pretty much permanently, it seems, because apparently I'm 87 years old. And my back was all, let's see if you can move your foot to the brake? You can do it. Will it to happen. Move your leg and you better hurry because there's a red light at the bottom of this hill. I mean, I already hate sneezing while driving because it is physically impossible to sneeze with ones eyes open (try it some time and let me know how it goes) so you're temporarily blind. And driving. So now you're basically a deadly weapon...and who's in for carpool? But throw a lower back spasm into the mix and now it's: sneeze - close eyes- SCREAM! - navigate vehicle. There's a recipe for disaster [and there's a much overused metaphor that I hate but am blanking for a more suitable substitute].

This new ailment of mine vexes me because I've always been an able-bodied kind of person and not a "back problems" kind o' gal. Except for that one time when I gained 70 pounds during pregnancy and was carrying a 10 pound baby. Yeah, then. But I was fine once all that was off me. And you know what really seems to aggravate it? Bending over, even ever so slightly, like say...putting on my underpants. Or sitting in an upright position, like say, when driving or in a movie theater. Or like on an airplane which I'm about to do tomorrow. I fear when I disembark I will require wheelchair assistance.

Yeah, Um, Good Luck With That

2010-06-11T23:04:00.000-07:00

I'm used to getting the email from some con-artist in Zimbabwe or whateverthefook wanting my help in handing over my financial information or...who knows? Whatever. Like this brief message from a few days ago:

I am Shung Hin Hui, I have a business of $15.5 million for you contact me for details.

Whaaa??? For lil' ol' me? Seriously, people who fall for this? Two words: Charles Darwin.

So, I got this in my email today and we're just gonna go ahead and file it under most random wtf email ever, mmmkay?:

Hey dear!
How are you? I hope that all nice for you.
I write to you, because I want to find man from Europe.
My name is Liudmila and I am 29 years old.
I from city Zelenodolsk
And I very beautiful and friendly woman and to search for serious attitudes.
In June I wish to visit the Europe.
But I have no friends in the Europe.
Also it would be fine, if we could have a meeting in your country.
I yet have not decided what country to visit, but it would be fine if you will tell to me more about the country.
In what country you now live? Tell to me more about the country?
It will be great if you will answer to me, so we can to have communication together.
If you will reply to me I will writing to you more about me and send photo of myself.
I want only serious and long relations, I hope you support me in it.
It will be interesting to me to learn that you think of it.

Seriously, I can't make this shit up, people.

I Wonder if I can Order a Clone with One-Click Shopping on Amazon?

2010-06-06T20:28:00.000-07:00

All of the end of the school year activities are piling up on each other and when you have more than one child it is inevitable that some of these events will happen on the same day. At the same time. And there is only one you. Boy-Child#1 had his last day of school this past Thursday and all I can say is, thank GAWD. Because, as much fun as these events are, and the frustration stems from logistics, it's frustration nonetheless. I won't bore you with all of the conflicting occasions because, there are and were many, but instead we'll just focus on Tuesday, June 2nd. In the course of this day the following were scheduled:

4th Grade Gold Rush Days. An all day affair in which I was scheduled to serve hot dogs from noon to 1pm to four (five?) 4th grade classrooms with about 30 children per class.
Get Boy-Child#1 to a mandatory dress rehearsal for the entertainment portion of his junior high school team bbq/awards ceremony happening later that evening (originally scheduled sometime the last week of May). This mandatory meeting began at 1pm and ended at 2pm. I didn't get home until 1:30pm.
Have Boy-Child#2 back at his elementary school by 4:30pm to perform in his class play starting at 4:45pm. Which didn't start until 5pm.
Have Boy-Child#1 and family at the junior high team bbq/awards ceremony... at 5pm. Also deliver 2 cases of water in an ice chest by 4:45pm.

And because it is a physical impossibility to be in two places at once, here is how the situation unfolded: Boy-Child#1 missed his mandatory rehearsal. Period. We didn't get to the bbq/awards ceremony until 6pm; fifteen minutes before Boy-Child#1 was to take the stage and play The Star Spangled Banner -all Jimmi Hendrix/Slash style on his guitar- for approximately 400 students and their families. This included frantic texting from his friends saying things like, "Dude! Where are you! The teachers are FREAKING OUT!" and "Mrs. So-n-So is mad! Where are you?!?!" -written in text speak, obvs. So I got us there with fifteen minutes to spare and now all I had to do was find a nice strong and willing Dad to give me a hand with the amp -aka The Behemoth- because I would have a stroke if I tried to carry that thing from the car to the stage. I mean, I could do it, but it would take some time. What with all the stopping and resting.

The problem is, I'm quite shy. So I had to find a dad I knew. But I know relatively few dads because of the aforementioned shyness. So I had to find a fellow mom and ask if her husband would be a doll and do me a solid. He did. And for that I thank him.

I was on my own to get it back to the car at the end of the night. And we totally had to pick up dinner AT NINE O'CLOCK because we missed the bbq altogether.

The end.

Dear Jon Favreau, You'll be Happy to Know that Iron Man 2 is Still Playing to Sold Out Theaters

2010-05-31T16:08:00.000-07:00

I've been waiting three weeks to see Iron Man 2. I admit that, as a grown woman, I have been a little bit too excited about its release. It was becoming obvious that trying to coordinate everyone's schedule so that we can all go together as a group just wasn't going to come to fruition, so today it was just the kids and I. I just spent $36.50 on the price of movie theater admission and $32.00 on snacks. That is nearly SEVENTY DOLLARS to watch Iron Man 2, only to have it interrupted repeatedly by the preschool aged children that are apparently immersed in some kind of social stunting program. You know the one where the parents don't set boundaries and let their little darlings do whatever the hell they want, no matter how much it might be bothering other people? Those parents give the rest of us a bad name. If your child doesn't have the attention span to sit through a movie in silence LIKE MY CELL PHONE IS REQUIRED TO DO, then escort them to the nearest play area and let them get the wiggles out. Rent it when it becomes available on DVD. Download that shit with video on demand. I don't care how you end up seeing it. What you should be doing is teaching your children that the world is not their oyster when it comes at the expense of other people.

It is parents like that that are raising a generation of self entitled insufferable members of society. It is parents like that that cause any adult boarding a plane with children in tow to be on the business end of the glowering, scowly, frowny-faced looks from other passengers; because the general public doesn't decipher the well-meaning parents from the lackadaisical. We're all guilty until we touchdown on that runway without incident.

When I pay to sit in a sold out theater just three rows from the screen, I didn't do it to watch your daughter dance, or sing, or swing from the hand rail, or explore in general, or talk to the other child or you. I'm sure she's a doll and a sweetheart but she is not at all interested in watching Iron Man 2. I missed key elements of the movie. I had my own children use the bathroom before we took our seats so that I wouldn't have to miss any of the movie by leaving the theater. Nor do I think I should have to by fetching an employee to tell you what the rules of the theater are. And they are this SILENCE IS GOLDEN! So stfu.

It's the End of the School Year. Will that be Debit or Credit?

2010-05-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you guys but the end of the school year is killing me. I always forget all the little things that add up to about one car payment. I have approximately, let's see...1, 2, 5, 7...you know what? I've lost count of the stuff that already has been or still needs to be purchased or donated in the next two weeks so let's make us a list right now, shall we? It's gonna be all kinds of super fun I JUST KNOW IT!

8th grade class panorama picture $20.00
8th grade Disneyland graduation trip $80.00
8th grade awards/bbq $24bottles of water to donate$
4th grade Gold Rush Days $An afternoon of my time plus 20 bags of popcorn$
4th grade school play $cowboy hat and vest and maybe a mustache$
1st grade Wizard of Oz play $pink tights and leotard that of course we don't already possess and pink ballet slippers that of course no longer fit my daughter because she's been taking hip hop and hasn't taken a ballet class since last June$
Totally not related to the school in any way but the end of softball season is also upon us so $donate cash for team party and also for coach's gift$
Girl-Child's dance recital, also not related to school but had to purchase $tickets so that we can attend you know$
Plus $her costume$
And of course she needs black shoes for it. DAMMIT.
Klsjfojdosfosfbw.........

Tootsie apologizes for cutting it short but she realized she'll probably have to get a job to cover all of the above since she can't offer her next born as payment since that well was capped years ago.

How Social Networking is Ruining Plotlines and, btw, Who did Shoot JR? I Forget.

2010-05-23T21:40:00.000-07:00

I'm not a Lost watcher. In fact, the only television/cable show that I follow regularly nowadays is True Blood. I've never watched an episode of Nip/Tuck, Gossip Girl, Nurse Jackie, Grey's Anatomy or even Dexter which I hear is truly fabulous. And once George Clooney left ER, I mean, what's the point, right? I pretty much checked out of dedicated show watching after The Sopranos and Sex and the City almost simultaneously ended, nearly killing me. I gave it another go with Deadwood and had a stroke when it came to a screeching halt after season three. I mean, kudos to them for ending at their peak and not jumping the shark, but I was in love with it and had to put David Milch straight to the "dead to me" column. I'm still mad with him YOU BASTARD! I was also watching The Office for a few seasons but, in my opinion (spoiler alert if you've never seen it), the magic ended once Pam and Jim finally became a couple. I mean, the anticipation should have been extended a season or two longer. After that it was just a series of super awkward Michael Scott moments.

Way back in the day when we were watching programs like Dallas, Falcon Crest, and Knott's Landing, hell, even Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place THE ORIGINALS PEOPLE! You watched it live unless you taped it on your VCR for your convenient viewing pleasure. There wasn't such a thing as Tivo or DVR and there certainly wasn't the giant big mouths the likes of Twitter or Facebook. God help you if you miss a program during its original air time or if you're on the west coast and have a momentary lapse in judgment and go online. You will know the details and the end before you've had a chance to witness one frame of running time or one line of dialogue. Sure, back in the old days, you might have unintenionally overheard the details over some water cooler talk, but usually if you encountered a friend or co-worker and they say to you "did you watch Melrose Place last night?" you could be all "DON'T SAY A WORD I HAVEN'T SEEN IT YET!!!" and you could still look forward to a good story.

But the Tweeters and Facebookers today...what the hell, guys? Why this need to let everyone know that you're in the know and prove it by LIVE TWEETING/STATUS UPDATING the plotline? There's no reason for me to ever rent the series of Lost. It would be like buying a book after someone has already spilled the delicious ending for me. Why. Bother. Even Yahoo News couldn't wait to tell me who won The Celebrity Apprentice.

Dear Internet: SHUT UP!

Now I Just Need to Buy a Tan because I Hate to Sweat

2010-05-12T12:45:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in another life, one where I had a job outside the home, no children, and had things like co-workers...I had one such co-worker who really admired my sense of style, which is complimentary [Dear Tootsie: two words - shorter sentences]. The downside to that was we would often have the same clothes. Worse, she really liked the perfumes I wore and would buy them. Then take a bath in Coco Chanel, Estee Lauder's Beautiful and White Linen, Clinique's Happy, and dozens of others. To the point I could barely stand the scent of them at all, switch to something new, only to encounter the same predicament over and over. I never said anything because, whatever, I don't own the perfume market and people are free to wear what they want. But it bugged the ever-lovin' out of me nonetheless. Because of that experience I try very hard not to mimic anyone's style sense too closely. At least not in their presence. Heh.

Cut to yesterday, bathing suit shopping at the local Target with Sisters Number One and Number Two. Sister Number Two was lamenting how she'd found a suit there that she REALLY LIKED LIKE A WHOLE LOT but the bottoms were a little too, you know, big (i.e. mommish) for her taste. Once I saw the suit I knew what she meant. And I could see why she REALLY LIKED IT LIKE A WHOLE LOT because it was super cute. I could also see why she wasn't a fan of the bottoms because she's more of a string bikini kind of gal and when you're eighteen and built with an ass you can serve tea on - all perky, high, and tight - you don't want to cover all that up. Unlike yours truly whose ass has lost its tone and has evolved into a lot of loose skin that has pulled away from the muscle DAMN YOUS A SEXY BETCH!

She encourages me to try it on because, hell, someone might as well have it! So I take it and one additional suit into the dressing room right behind Sister Number One who has about twelve bathing suits in her rotation -because when you're twenty one and all slim and perfect a body that isn't covered in the potholes from pregnancy EVERY bathing suit looks good on you and it just becomes a matter of which one to spend your hard earned money on especially when they only charge you for the bottoms, riiiiightt Sister Number One? WIN!! - I don't need to tell any of you what a royal pain in the ass it is to find a suit that works for you and you usually just end up settling for the one that looks the least worst. Just ask my bottom dresser drawer...it is lousy with them. But turn me upside down and paint me blue! BOTH bathing suits that I tried on were totally perfect! Except that they're both halter top style that tie around the neck and will probably give me rope burns on my super prominent collar bones, btw, thanks mom for that and while I'm at it the little pocket of fat above my elbows I. am. you.

The bathing suit that Sister Number Two may borrow anytime she wants because I totally stole it from her:

And the back-up:

April Showers Bring BOSSY

2010-04-23T08:53:00.000-07:00

Bossy was in town for her (No)Book Tour to promote the book she didn't write. And thanks be to Bossy for driving cross country to bring people together! Several bloggers, of the mommy variety and otherwise, gathered at a little restaurant in Encino to get to know each other outside of our respective blogs. Due to babysitting snafus and a softball practice we did not attend, I arrived about an hour late with Girl-Child in tow, and happy to see many familiar faces from Bossy's Excellent Road Trip two years ago.

(And here would be the picture to, you know, represent (**pounds fist to chest and gives peace sign to the sky**), if someone had bothered to pull her camera out of her bag even just once during the evening, but she didn't because she figured Bossy would take plenty and then someone could just link to Bossy because her pictures are better anyway)

Once we all had our fill of appetizers, Bossy had us go around the table and tell a little something about what makes us, us. Or perhaps tell something surprising about ourselves that we wouldn't know about the other just from reading blogs. PRESSURE!

Aunt Snow from Doves Today took the lead and holymotherofgod she was a hard act to follow. I mean, it's not like I'd ever up and joined the circus -and no I'm not kidding THAT is what we had to follow and WHO LET HER GO FIRST? That's no opening act! That's the main attraction! And since I was so busy being engrossed in her anecdote, and that of Smacksy who was next, I didn't have anything prepared to say about myself. Now, of course, with several days to think about it, I've come up with ...well I still haven't. I tripped over my words and wondered if I got even half of a story out. I started off talking about how I grew up in a small town suburb of Los Angeles and then somehow ended up telling about how I met my husband and then I felt like I'd been talking for too long and then just kind of brought the whole thing to a screeching halt. Then the next guest started speaking and I'm sitting there going, wtf, Tootsie? Did you say ANYTHING? Certainly not anything surprising about myself or anything anyone who reads my blog wouldn't already know. I think it's safe to say that I can scratch "writing my memoirs" off my list of things to accomplish before I bite the dust.

Gonna Need a Price Check on that, Herb

2010-04-20T19:43:00.000-07:00

When I am shopping, I have this amazingly annoying ability to grab the one item that does not contain a price tag. I can pick up two of one item, compare, decide which one I want and put the one WITH THE PRICE back on the shelf. Depending on where I shop, this can be a problem. Some retailers know their merchandise and it's absolutely not an inconvenience to the people standing in line behind me because the clerk does not miss a beat in ringing me up. Then there are those other stores where the cashier expects the customer to know exactly how much each item in their shopping cart costs.

For instance today. I had a handful of stuffs and the ten items or less aisle was clear. The scanning of said items was moving along quite nicely, albeit slowly, until the plastic container used to transport liquids made it into the cashiers hot little hands. That's when everything came to a screeching halt. "There's no price", she says - out loud. But the look on her face indicated that this was a problem with which I was to deal.

I know it's hard to determine from this blog but I'm normally an easy going kinda gal. But this was the ten items or less lane and I had ten minutes to finish up this bullpucky and pick up my kid from school. -And I was already mad about the fact that it was raining on my car the one I just got washed yesterday and that the hem of my pants and up to my ankles were soaked I do not like to be wet. Put Tootsie in wet clothes and you get one cranky Tootsie- So I says to the lady, okay well it's like a dollar-sixty-seven or something. Because believe it or not I did not memorize the exact price of everything I decided to buy, shocker, I know right?

Perhaps I should have stated the price with some authority...It's A DOLLAR SIXTY SEVEN! and left out the "like" and the "or something" because then she was all, we're going to have to check. Really? REALLY? It's not like I was trying to make off with a Blu Ray player for a buck sixty seven! It was a little plastic container, not quite Rubbermaid but graduated from Ziplock. For this she was going to hold up the express lane as long as I was willing to play along. And who was this "we" to which she refers? I don't work there. Does she think I'm going to run to the back of the store for a buck sixty seven? ohmygod-no.

You know what? She didn't want me to either. She was willing to lose that sale than have to find out the price...or BELIEVE THE WORDS THAT WERE COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH. I know this because the rest of my items weren't allowed to be rung up until I blinked in this stare off. She stood there. Staring at me. Holding the item up for my review. Daring me.

Forget it, I don't want it. I tell her. I think I saw a slow small smile creep across her face. And I swear to GAWD I heard someone in line behind me heave a sigh of relief. And to that dude, you're welcome because I totally could have been that customer.

I've Got a Fat Secret

2010-04-02T22:15:00.000-07:00

In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving I shed a few pounds to get some room to play around with. You know, play, fun games like eating several helpings of juicy turkey and sucking the gravy from your mashed potato volcano, and extra marshmallows on your yams, and a generous serving of cranberry sauce in the shape of the can from which it came...and pumpkin pie for dessert- then again before you go to bed - then for breakfast. What? It so does go with coffee.

Before you know it it's March and you're still on the field, in the zone, and the coach hasn't benched you in months. When you look in the mirror you exclaim "Holy Muffin Top, Batman!" and you can't exactly use "the holidays" as an excuse anymore. You pull yourself aside and have a meeting about overindulgence and how it's time to knock it off and design a plan to get it together WOMAN! You're not twenty anymore, Ms. Farklepants! You can't just skip a couple of dinners and lose five pounds and be fabulous in those pants. Not. At. All.

I'm a late afternoon snacker. I adore the salty snacks during those pre-dinner hours. And this just will not do. So I decided to start documenting everything I eat and to help keep track I joined Fat Secret. I enter all the foods I've eaten for the day; breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks and ~~wine, gin, vodka, rum~~ other. When you have to enter your intake it really makes you think twice about what you put in your mouth. Stop it. Stop it right now. Yes, you too.

I've been trying to keep my daily calorie total between 1200 and 1400, and I've been doing a pretty good job of sticking to that number except for the recent trip to Las Vegas this past weekend to celebrate my sister's twenty-first birthday which I'm not going to elaborate on but suffice it to say that the night included me doing this:

And that's all I'm going to say about that because: self explanatory. Needless to say, about 3000 calories were consumed in one evening and when I got on the scale Monday morning, after two weeks of due diligence I lost a whopping....ONE POUND. Clearly, what happens in Vegas...stays on your ass.

It's Spring and a Break is Needed

2010-03-19T19:43:00.000-07:00

I come off looking like a disorganized dolt in this little tale so I'm going to start by saying this: My elementary school children and my junior high schooler do not have the same spring break (should that be capitalized? Google is torn). Boy-Child#2 and Girl-Child have two weeks off and Boy-Child#1 has one week, which is the second week of Boy-Child#2 and Girl-Child's break. So they eventually merge. And even though it makes it so that I can't plan anything that isn't local until they're all out at the same time, it's not a horrible arrangement.

This year the elementary school break starts the last week of March; the week that ties into April. And for whatever reason, even though it's written on the calendar clear as day, I had it in my head that this was the last week of March. All this past week, whenever there was whining over getting out of bed in the morning, or grumbling about homework, and OHMYFREAKENLORD the science fair project that needed completing...I would appease the chi-drens with "this is your last week and then it's SPRING BREAK!!!" YAYWOOTWOOTREJOICING! I sent them off to school this morning with a this is your last day yayyy!!

I set off to the grocery store to gather the necessary items one would stock their shelves with when having the kids at home all day. And it was here that I ran into two of my girlfriends. One was there shopping for a camping trip.

"For spring break?" I ask.

"No, just the weekend." she says.

It took me like three days to load my basket onto the conveyor belt and I was all, I bought a ton of stuff. And they note how it's mostly kiddie snacks and I'm like, yeah...getting ready for spring break and the kids being home this week.

What. Are. You. Talking. About?

Today is the last day and then it's spring break <---this was said with a lot less confidence and enthusiasm than when the conversation started. Because our kids go to the same school.

Ummm...yeah...that's next week.

After the three of us and the cashier collected ourselves from fits of laughter I was finally able to say: Man. Are my kids gonna be bummed.

And they were. Not to mention both of them told me I was wrong the second I picked them up from school.

The end.

This Will Hurt Me More than it Hurts You...Or Will it?

2010-03-14T21:53:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those days when I felt like a big, steaming pile of poo. You know those moments, as a parent, when you have to do something because it's the right thing...nay...the responsible parent thing? But it kills you to do it?

Quick side note to bring you up to speed: Our neighbors down the street are moving, out of state, and are taking their ten year old son with them...the gall! And this boy and Boy-Child#2 are like *this*. They play outside together almost daily. And fight and piss each other off about once every other month. But they always eventually make up and are back to daily outside adventures. So these neighbors are moving. Tomorrow. Meaning, this was the boys' very last weekend to play together. And they'll probably never see each other again.

Well, except maybe on Facebook.

Okay, well, this past Friday afternoon, Boy-Child#2 found himself grounded. I'm not going to go into detail as to why, but believe me the punishment was dealt swiftly and justly. And that punishment includes but is not limited to: no video games, no computer, and no playing outside.

I am a stick to my guns kind of parent, people. I don't cave. I don't make deals. Otherwise kids will know that there are no real consequences to their behavior - and that their parents are pussies. Not this mama.

Boy-Child#2 spent the weekend working on his science fair project and enjoyed reading a book; not an altogether horrible experience. Until the boy down the street came to the door today to see if Boy-Child#2 could "play out" - that's what the kids call it these days. I hear them murmur to each other through the screen door and my son comes to me to ask if he can play. I tell him that he is grounded and the answer is no. And I say it loud enough so that Neighbor Boy can hear so that Boy-Child#2 won't have to explain it himself. He's got his street cred to protect.

There's more conversation between the screen in hushed voices and Boy-Child#2 pleads again...Mommy PLLLEEEAAAAAAAAAAAASSSEE it's his last day to plaaaayyyyy. And again I tell him no. And with that he closed the door.

And my heart broke for him. But I was sticking to my guns [Editor's Note: that sound you just heard was Tootsie, writing, using past tense]. I started an argument in my own head... this is their last day to play together how can you be sooo mean?! ... He should have thought about that before he got himself grounded ... he's eleven and hasn't mastered the art of abstract thought ... please, the kids a genius, he knows what's up .... even still... I can't back down ... he will blame you for this forever ... you're so dramatic ... and you're being harsh. The voices in my head told me to consult with Mr. Farklepants.

Dear Husband, what's a mom to do?

Mr. Farklepants: let him go out and explain that this is a special circumstance and he's still grounded. You're making too big a deal out of this.

Hmmph.

It was already 6pm. Boy-Child#2 was allowed to play outside one last time until dinner at 7pm.

Good thing we turned the clocks forward or it would have been too dark and too late.

I am curious though, what would you have done?

Fighting the Signs of Aging and Losing the Battle

2010-03-11T21:30:00.000-08:00

The thing about me is this...I'm vain. I'm very concerned with how I look and the depth of that concern varies from situation to situation. If I have a new outfit, fresh haircut and color, or something as simple as a manicure or a brow wax; it makes it that much easier to get out of bed in the morning. I'm working on this illness. Sort of. Not really. Whatever. I've kind of always been this way. Like the time in my early twenties when I broke down and bought myself a new car -then promptly went to the mall and put myself in debt buying new clothes to go with it. I mean, wtf? Who does that?

Unless I'm going to work out, I rarely leave the house without putting myself together. The problem I'm finding lately is: my face. It is aging. And the progression seems to speed up with each passing month. I'm pretty sure my youthful appearance peaked in 2006. And I've been on a downward spiral ever since. It has got to the point, no matter how much of any age defying product I slather on my face, that this practice is becoming a costly exercise in fail. It does nothing except give me hope that eventually something might work. And I've come to the realization that I've reached a crossroads. Where crossroads equals I'm going to have to start paying dearly to get my face back. I've been thinking...drumroll....Botox. Now before you all lose your freaking minds at that last statement, let's weigh the pros and cons.

Pro: one of my close girlfriends recently invested in a Botox/Resylane combo. She looked amazing! It was like someone turned her clock back five years and unless she told you; you'd never know. So I high-fived her and then followed it up with a secret hand shake-fist-chest bump combo. Then she told me...

Con: It cost FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS and only lasts THREE TO FOUR MONTHS.

And that was the end for me. It's simply not in the budget for me to drop five hundred bones every three months into my face. I'd rather have new floors in the house. Or a new stove. Or a trip to France. Perhaps I'll try to work in a more affordable bi-weekly facial so that I can have flawless non-existent pores like a certain blogger who shall remain Bossy.

Tootsie's Academy Awards Pre-Cap. Reporting to You Live From the Red Carpet

2010-03-05T22:10:00.000-08:00

Get your game face on, folks, cuz it's Oscar weekend and time to discuss the time honored tradition that will take place this Sunday. In order to do this, Vintage Thirty takes you live to the red carpet.

Why yes, the red carpet is covered in a thick sheet of plastic that sounds like bubble wrap when walked on, but red carpet nonetheless.

Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes:"Tootsie, who are you wearing?"
Tootsie: "I'm wearing my Hudson jeans and a black sweater that I got for 80% off from Kohl's, the boots are from someone whose name escapes me at the moment, but trust me, they were a steal"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "What a major coups! But forgetting the designer's name is a major red carpet faux pas"
Tootsie: "Faux pas? Isn't that one of the Jolie-Pitt kids' names?"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "No, that's Pax, Knox, and Maddox."
Tootsie: "So you understand my confusion"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "Certainly"
Tootsie: "They're probably saving 'Faux Pas' for the next child"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "Most likely"

The crew is working hard making all the necessary preparations for Hollywood's elite to stay warm and dry. Including Oscar himself.

In case anyone is confused why Hollywood Boulevard and the surrounding streets are shut down, there are plenty of clues to let you know why.

Vintage Thirty takes it to the street to get the people's opinion. Let's ask this gentleman hanging upside down from the streetlight; he looks like a local.

Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "What do you say Spiderman?"
Spiderman: "Am I allowed to climb the Oscar statue? And will you give me a tip if I do?"
Vintage Thirty Correspondent in Blue & White Stripes: "Shooo...you crazy. Back to you Tootsie."

Let's check in with one of our own correspondents from the Vintage Thirty team.

Tootsie: "What is your opinion of all these preparations, DorothyZ, and do you think George Clooney would be willing to leave his hot Italian girlfriend at home and bring me as his date instead?"
DorothyZ: "Dream on, sister. And I'm just here to take pictures, strike a pose Tootsie."

Tootsie: "Hey, you're aces, DorothyZ. Is there anything else you'd like to add?"
DorothyZ: "Yeah, what does a bitch have to do to get some lunch up in this joint?"
Tootsie: "Excellent question, DorothyZ. Let's scour the premises to find Salmon Farfalle."

Tootsie: "Well done. Good work, team. Any closing thoughts you'd like to share with our audience?"
DorothyZ: "Yeah, ladies is pimps too."

Word, DorothyZ. Word. See you at the Oscars.

*pictures by Dorothy Z. No actual pictures of Dorothy Z.

You Carly, iCarly, iWatch iCarly

2010-02-25T21:39:00.000-08:00

When it comes to television, Girl-Child has always been a little bit ahead of her age range. For instance, she was enjoying Spongebob Squarepants and Fairly Odd Parents long before she discovered the crack magic of the Teletubbies and Blue's Clues. So it was no surprise when she got hooked on the shows Drake and Josh and Ned's Declassified, part of the Teen Nick lineup on Nickelodeon. She's been an avid iCarly watcher since it debuted in 2007. In case you're not familiar, iCarly is about two junior high school girls, Carly and Sam, and their friend Freddy who shoot a webcam show from Carly's apartment that she shares with her adult brother, Spencer. Cute show. Funny moments. All innocent enough.

This season, however, the kids seem to have been shot out of the puberty cannon and there seems to be a lot of like-liking going on. And kissing. And Girl-Child's favorite episodes are those with the kissing. My daughter may only be six years old but she's six going on twelve. Physically, she looks eight. And at the rate she's growing she'll hit puberty herself in about two and a half years. Mentally she just needs to knock it off. Her brain and its mature thoughts are going to be the end of me.

Let me throw a for instance into the middle of this post: Halloween. 2009. The Party City catalog arrives filled with page after colorful page of mostly slutty costumes. Many worn by holymotherofGAH! children. Girl-Child points to a tween ladybug getup and I'm all, ummm...no. I redirect her to the more age appropriate ladybug and add that she will also wear a long sleeved leotard and black tights to cover all the necessary areas. No six year old daughter of mine is going to walk around with a skirt up to there and all her business hanging out. Neither will my sixteen year old daughter if I have anything to say about it -which I might not but let me have my fantasy moment where I believe I actually have control. Ahem. Anyway, the ladybug. So I sit her down and have a little chat about children and maturity and what is acceptable and what isn't. That's when she points to the photo of the sexy policewoman and the sexy bunny and tells me that she wants to be that, you know, when she grows up. Naturally.

faints. dies.

Just days before the costume incident, Mr. Farklepants and I were discussing successful parenting and we came to the conclusion that if we can get all three kids to graduate high school, keep them out of jail, hopefully encourage them to go to college, and keep Girl-Child from getting pregnant before finishing school, then we've done a decent enough job. I mean, right?

Back to the evening of the costume incident: Later that evening, after I was revived from fainting and dying, Girl-Child is talking about the future and telling us that when she's a grownup Mr. Farklepants and I will be Grandma and Grandpa. I look at Mr. Farklepants and say, "judging by her costume selection that day will probably come much sooner than we'd hoped".

The Office will Become Boy-Child#2's Bedroom...Again

2010-02-24T18:14:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, the room featured above belonged to an infant Boy-Child#2. Which would explain the yellow walls and the Winnie the Pooh light switch plate still in place. And I will tell you, he was never a fan of his own living space. He rarely slept there, especially once the night terrors set in around a few months after his first birthday. And any parent who has had to deal with night terrors feels my pain -a word of encouragement, however, after nine years those wretched nights are just a vague memory. We often resorted to bringing him to bed with us just so we COULD GET SOME SLEEP which started a vicious cycle. He pretty much never slept a full night in his own room after that. We tried letting him cry it out. While that worked for Boy-Child#1 when he was old enough to no longer require night time feedings, and took about three full nights for him to become an all night sleeper...Boy-Child#2 had stamina. He never gave in. And we had a toddler in our bed for quite some time. Even when he inherited the super cool race car toddler bed from Boy-Child#1, he couldn't be convinced that it was the best place for sleep. I think he slept in it ONCE. yay.

It was clear that the boy did not like to sleep in a room alone.

We finally came up with the brilliant idea to have the boys share a room. When we handed down the super cool race car bed to Boy-Child#2 we had already purchased bunk beds for Boy-Child#1. The thinking behind that was there would be a bed handy for any future sleepovers. So really no preparations were needed to make the sharing of the room happen. Except to convince the toddler that he would be sleeping there. It took a few nights - I think, the memory, it's fuzzy - but we had success.

Then I got pregnant with Girl-Child. We decided that since the boys were going to be sharing a room we would turn the loft into a bedroom because the living space was significantly larger. Then we would give Girl-Child the boys' old bedroom and turn Boy-Child#2's abandoned bedroom into the office.

Confused yet? Yes, there was a lot of scrambling around and some construction ~~that remains incomplete to this day don't get me started~~ but bingbamboom! The transformation was complete ~~mostly~~.

Now the boys are 13 and 10 years old, respectively, and the office has become a giant storage slash catchall slash waste of space. And the boys want their own rooms. The time has come to get rid of some crap, make some space, transition all the stuff.

Stay tuned.

If I Don't Write it Down, it Ain't Happenin'

2010-02-19T22:04:00.000-08:00

The older I get, the more forgetful I become. Especially once one has children and those children each have several schedules and agendas, and places they need to be, and things that need to be done, well, if I don't write it down on my trusty kitchen calendar; it most likely won't happen. Not everything, of course, because some things are an ongoing activity that happens at the same time every time. But those random projects or ventures can throw us for a loop. Because this mom forgets.

For instance, just last month, we completely and totally missed a GATE meeting for Boy-Child#2. A meeting where the students were going to present the movies of which they'd worked so hard to create. They were put into groups and among themselves they selected who would write the script, the art director, the director, and so forth. All of the information for the program was sent home at the beginning of the year and in that information was a list of meetings, details, and corresponding dates. I immediately wrote down all of which needed writing down on my calendar. A note from the principal was sent home just before winter break to remind us of this particular special meeting. Knowing that I had already written the date down and circled it on the calendar, I didn't bother double checking. And it didn't register as I read it that the note mentioned the date as THE DAY BEFORE the one I already had written down. In other words, they had changed the date. But they didn't say Hey, the date has been changed so please make a note to self. No. Nor did it register that the date had been changed to Wednesday instead of Thursday when I read the January school schedule of events. All I saw was "4th grade GATE 5:30pm" and was all confident that it was already noted on my calendar.

Enter that Wednesday evening. 6:15pm. Boy-Child#2 looks right at me while I'm checking the chicken that has already been in the oven for half an hour and was twenty minutes away from being done.

"Aren't we going to my thing tonight?" he asks.
"What thing?" I say, somewhat distracted.
"To see my movie".
"That's tomorrow night" I say with confidence.
"Hmmm", and he screws up his face, "My teacher said it was tonight that's why we were getting everything ready today".
"Nooooo....it's tomorrow night, see?" and I point at the circle on the calendar. "The fifth graders are doing theirs tonight."

Yes, that's right. I'm arguing with him. Because, dammit! I wrote it down!

And round and round we went until I remembered the additional note sent home and the January school calendar...and I started to get nervous. Because I knew I hadn't double checked the dates. I fished them out of my pile of important school papers that I keep nearby and THERE IT IS! MOTHER EFFER!!! I start barking out orders to Boy-Child#2 to throw on some shoes and a jacket and dinner orders to Boy-Child#1 to turn the oven off when the timer rings and to keep an eye on his sister because GO GO GO IT'S GO TIME MOVE!!! In the car, driving like a mad woman thank god the school is close by.

We RUN to the multi-purpose room and? Empty. Lights are on but chairs are empty. And in walks one lone fourth grade teacher. I'm sure I was a sight. Usually I'm very put together when I'm going to be out there in public but I had left the house in a frenzy of panic and I hadn't planned on being anywhere but home cooking dinner. And there I am, breathless, confused, and waving my papers with conflicting dates in front of me....and mostly, feeling like a giant pile of shit because I'd let my son down. He was so excited to have me see his movie. He talked of nothing else the whole month of November when they worked on it. And we missed it.

And there I am trying to explain that really I'm not a bad mother here look...conflicting dates! And I'm sure not all of the information that was in my head was making its way clearly out of my mouth. You know how it is when YOU know something because it's right there in YOUR brain and you kind of just assume that the person you're talking to has all the same information you have so they're only getting bits and pieces of the whole story? No? Well, that's me.

So, yeah. We missed it. And that lone fourth grade teacher felt REALLY BAD. And judging by the sign in sheets still neatly placed on the table; I was the only parent not to notice the discrepancy. That's me, people. It's just how I do.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because a couple of weeks ago I posted about some baking that I did, and a lovely reader named Lisa came out of lurkdom to specifically request the recipe for the Cheese Crowns. And, you guys? I didn't write it down. So here you go, Lisa. This one's for you:

(click picture to enlarge)

**as a side note regarding the baking time, we found that the 15 minutes was long enough and didn't bother with the whole reducing the temperature to 375* and baking for another 5 to 7 minutes. The pastry was already golden brown as seen below. Enjoy!

Leave Tootsie Allooooonnee...

2010-02-17T16:23:00.000-08:00

How unprofessional is it when a major corporation calls your house to solicit your business and refers to you by your first name only? Like we're old friends? Like we're FAMILIAR? What's worse is that ~~AT&T~~ this company has called my house at least six times in the last two weeks [an estimate, I wish I'd documented it] and half of those calls began with, "Hello, Tootsie?" [not really "Tootsie" but my real name, of course, but for blogging purposes we'll keep it anonymous] and the other half of those calls were, "Hello, Ms. Ranch?" which is not at all my last name anonymously or in real life. With the first phone call I didn't listen to enough of their spiel to learn what it is that they wanted me to "save money" on, but I do know enough about life to know that they're not saving my money they want MORE of my money by selling me services that I may or may not already aquire from another source. So that initial call ended with my "no thank you, not interested". Apparently this causes your name to be tossed back into the list of calls to be made in the near future. Kind of like lalalalala...we can't hear you...lalalala...The next few calls were met with a simple, "no thanks". The second to the last call was met with "Yes this is Tootsie but Ranch is not my last name and I've already told you guys the last few times you've called that I'm not interested", which prompted the stooge on the other end of the line to quip "you're not INTERESTED in SAVING MONEY?!?!" which prompted me to promplty hang up on them.

The last call was today. This time the woman on the other end not only referred to me by my first name only, but wholly butchered its pronounciation. I immediately knew who ~~AT&T~~ it was. Now I was just mad because, wtf? Are they just going to keep calling until I say yes? Tootsie doesn't play that game. I finally had to be super rude which I don't like doing at all, and said "look, you ~~AT&T~~ people have called me at least six times in the last two weeks and I'm not interested! Would you please take me off of whatever list it is of whatever you're trying to sell?" And hung up. I'm sure they'll call back tomorrow asking for Tootsie Ranch. People are always trying to sell you shit.

It's bad enough that you're not safe in your own house, but out there in life beyond your four walls, you can barely make it from point A to point B without being asked to sign a petition, support a cause, make a monetary contribution to fight a disease, buy cookies....or worse...KIOSKS! Those mother effing kiosks in the mall with their salesmen and their fake French accents. Like that one dude working the hand/facial cream kiosk and he's all, "Excuse me Miss? Have you ever heard of the Dead Sea? oh-hoh-hoh, oui, crepe suzette!!" and I just want to slap his accent right out of his mouth! Of course I've heard of the Dead Sea, Asshole. Do you think I've been locked in a box my whole life and some fake Frenchie working the kiosk in the mall is going to ENLIGHTEN me? Puhleeaze. Get out of my way, chocolate souffle.

Ohmygod, and that woman working the herbal microwavable heating pads! I made the mistake once of stopping when she said, excuse me Miss? And that bitch slapped one of those heated herbal things on my shoulders without asking [like the good old days of department store perfume departments and their stealthy-ninja-like spray attacks]...and I swear to GOD I smelled like hot lilac for the rest of the day and I just wanted to peel off my skin.

And the hair extension kiosk. Have you seen my hair? Do I LOOK like I need MORE? I could sell them my hair to sell to other folks. Their tactic is to inquire, "Excuse me, Miss? Can I ask you a question?". I may be the biggest bitch to stroll through the mall but trust me when I say that there are only two ways to answer that and either are just as effective as the other. And they are:

No you can't. [then continue on your merry way]
You just did. [then continue on your merry way]

The end.

The Adventures of Phoebe Farklepants

2010-02-16T09:08:00.001-08:00

When Mr. Farklepants surprised the family in April of 2009 with a black lab ~~mix~~ puppy, I expected for her to provide enough fodder to create volumes of blog posts. Well, she's sorta failed me in that regard. Where fail equals I can sum up in one post her shenanigans. I have documented a couple of events here and there but she hasn't done much else. For instance the picture below is of Phoebe resting after having her lady parts removed. And that spot on the couch? Became her permanent territory during her recuperation and continues to belong to her to this day. The pillow featured behind her in the picture?

That pillow became a casualty of puppydom. She killed it. She tore open its chest and ripped out its heart in the time it took me to unload and reload the clothes dryer. In fact, every single throw pillow in this house met the same fate. She is quick and precise. The same can be said for three books, all in the time it took for me to make the beds.

She is learning that not everything belongs to her and she's getting better about stealing and chewing items that are not hers. Oh, she still makes a habit of eating guitar picks for snacks, and if she gets a hold of a shoe or a toy you better hope you catch her the moment it happens. And it happens at least every other day. And you're probably saying to yourself, how can Tootsie say that Phoebe is getting better if it is happening that frequently? Well, I'll tell you why. This dog? Is smart. And fast. And she learned early on that humans cannot catch her. She also learned that if she ran around the dining room table there was no way that humans were fast enough to be on the same side of table at the same time with her. And if you were the only human at home and couldn't form a formidable block utilizing the other humans in the residence, she could have you chasing her around that table in an endless game of chase making a complete ass out of you. Have you ever chased a dog around a table and at about the fifth or sixth round you thought to yourself, what if someone were watching me right now; would they take bets on how many laps you would round before you realize I'M CHASING A FRICKEN DOG AROUND A TABLE?

So, yeah. Now she will more often than not drop said item if you simply bark, DROP IT! Unless she manages to get into the backyard with it then you can just forget about ever seeing it alive again because wide open spaces still belong to The Phoebe.

Complaining: It's what's for Dinner

2010-02-15T19:39:00.000-08:00

All three of my children are picky eaters. This doesn't completely surprise me considering both my Mr. Farklepants and I were picky eaters when we were children. Mr. Farklepants still has food issues. So clearly it is some kind of gene that is passed on and I imagine upon close inspection beneath a microscope this gene closely resembles that of a mother's head exploding. I recall looking on in envy when my girlfriend's toddlers would readily and eagerly devour anything that was placed before them, sometimes asking for seconds. While I fished a stale Ritz cracker out of the bottom of the diaper bag because the grilled cheese sandwich I'd ordered for them in the restaurant was met with UNCONTROLLABLE CROCODILE TEARS. This is why Boy-Child#1 ate jarred baby food until he was three and a half years old in addition to the waffles and buttered toast that he wanted for every meal because it was the only way I could get a vegetable passed his pursed lips -which prompted a distant relative to pooh-pooh my technique and try to school me on the importance of introducing grown-up food to my child; which, duh. Of course I was doing but he had a thing about textures and frankly she didn't have to see me turn into General Patton FOR EVERY FREAKIN MEAL on a daily basis.

But as they've gotten older, they've grown more bold in their food adventure. They will pretty much eat anything I serve them and if they really don't like it, they'll at least try it. My boys do, that is. Boy-Child#1 will even suggest I add something new to the repertoire. Girl-Child? Not so much. That girl would live on buttered noodles, mac and cheese, cereal, bananas, apples, peanut butter sandwiches, and yogurt if I let her. I regularly serve her whatever it is I've made for dinner and she regularly pushes it around on her plate. We've reached a point where I'm all, dude, you're six years old and if you're hungry you'll eat. If you don't? You go to bed hungry because the kitchen is closed. She is learning that her mom? Isn't even joking about that.

Are We the Only Couple Waiting for Their Tax Returns to Pay Off Christmas?

2010-02-11T21:44:00.000-08:00

Why does every holiday have to be some grand, gift-giving extravaganza? It seems like they all revolve around buying a present for your loved ones. When I was a kid, Easter meant coloring eggs the day before and leaving them for the Easter Bunny to hide for the hunt. He'd leave us a basket filled with a skewed candy to plastic shredded grass ratio. Heavy on the grass. Nowadays, many (most?) kids that I know get presents for Easter. EASTER! It's like the year's first quarter Christmas.

Don't even get me started on the Tooth Fairy. Someone needs to reel that bitch in. When my kids find out from their friends and classmates that the Tooth Fairy is leaving books, toys, stuffed animals, and significant amounts of cash under their pillows? I'm met with the look of utter disappointment when my children find the four quarters that were placed lovingly beneath theirs. Tooth Fairies of the world? You all need to have a summit and come to some kind of standard agreement and chisel it in stone. Pronto.

Valentine's Day used to mean flowers, chocolate, and romantic dinners. Now it's the gift of... cellphone service? It was bad enough when retailer's marketing departments implied that you were a slouch of a husband or boyfriend if you didn't lavish your wife or girlfriend in overpriced flowers and tacky matching earring/necklace/ring combinations, but now if you A) don't buy her cell phone for her, and B) provide an inferior range of service - she will leave your ass.

And frankly, I've never really "got" Valentine's Day. I don't even know what the original premise of the holiday is nor do I care enough to exhaust Wikipedia to find out; whatever it was it got lost along the way and became a stress factor. If you're in a new relationship, you freak out over what to get the other person because you don't want to come on too strong, or too light, or outdo the other person, or scare the other person away, or appear too desperate, or cheap, or trying too hard, or too blasé. If you're married you don't want to live with the silent treatment if you screw it up. I think flowers are a big fat waste of money and I'd rather have a new article of clothing. Or shoes. Or a purse. And the last thing I want to do is go out to eat in a crowded restaurant charging inflated prices for moderate food in the name of ...romance? Eff that noise.

You want to know what one of the most romantic things Mr. Farklepants ever did? Honestly, it was one of those scenarios where I was genuinely touched and flattered. Are you ready? Okay, here it is: he made babysitting arrangements so he could take me out. That's it right there - CONSIDERATION. If we were to go out we would need someone to look after the kids and he knew I would have to start making the phone calls and he took it upon himself to save me that stress. And it is random acts such as these that I find romantic and make me want to take off my clothes and roll around on him.

*photo by DorothyZ.

Tootsie Farkle-Crocker

2010-02-09T10:04:00.000-08:00

I got the bug to try out some recipes and bake the other day. I very much enjoy cooking except when it's on a daily basis because then it's just another thing I have to do. But if I've got time on the weekend or if it's for entertaining purposes (i.e. Thanksgiving), I dive right in and lose myself in it. My dilemma is that my oven? Is the worst. It was brand new when it came with the house but you know those developers; bottom of the line appliances are how they roll. My oven has always been a piece of la merde. Especially for baking. If a cookie recipe calls for them to bake for 9 to 11 minutes, the cookies are burned on the bottom and around the edges at 5 minutes, but raw in the middle. When it comes to baking in my oven, I have to adjust the temperature, minimize the cooking time, and generally babysit. It can handle cakes and brownies but anything delicate is just wasting my time.

So, I called my sisters to enlist their help and company to make a day of baking; I gathered up my supplies, any ingredients I already had on hand, made a quick stop at the market for those I didn't, and went to my mommy's house. Because her oven is far superior. Our first order of business was familiarizing ourselves with the recipe...

And prep work...

If you're old and wise you've mastered the art of having your younger siblings do the hard labor - like peeling potatoes, grating cheese that sort of thing but eventually they're on to you and are all chop your own veggies. My sister thought coring the apples was fun, so, yeah go for it. But she's hip to my jive and she was all, you peel. I did have her slice them because she ~~likes to play with knives~~ wanted to. She was last seen running with scissors. Now we could have used canned apple pie filling but that's for punks. We wanted to create. We wanted the risk factor that comes with working with fruit. It's either delicious awesome or an absolute tasteless failure. And we like to gamble. Into the pan the apples, brown sugar, cornstarch, and other ingredients like heaven and nirvana, went. It took a bit longer than was called for to thicken up... and we also skipped the step where they wanted us to soak the sliced apples in water and lemon juice to keep them from turning brown because, brown sugar equals brown apples ANYWAY I mean, what's the point.

Then we had to sit around for a few minutes to wait for the pastry dough to finish thawing out...but not too thawed. Now I know we should have made our own pastry dough but the recipe specifically called for the frozen variety, so, there. Once the apple turnovers were in the oven we got to work on the cheese crowns...

Which was supposed to yield 12 individual pastries but this jerk misread the part that called for one and a HALF packages of pastry dough and only bought ONE. So we only made 8 and considering there were 9 people total that were going to partake? Well, you can see the math conundrum. The bottom of these are lined with brown sugar, cinnamon, butter, and pecans. The rest is filled with a mixture of cream cheese, sugar, eggs, and vanilla. And once these things have had a chance to chill overnight? There are no words. And the glaze that finished off the turnovers was out of this world.

*photos by DorothyZ.

It Depends on Your Definition of Leisure Time

2010-02-04T06:00:00.000-08:00

The oh-so-fabulous Undomestic Diva posted on her blog yesterday about a study that concludes that stay at home and working mothers alike have thirty or more hours of leisure time per week. She also included a link to the study and I urge you to visit her blog and follow the link (I could do it here but she did all the leg work and I don't want to steal her thunder, as it were). Now that all of my children are in school full time, with the earliest of the dismissals at 2:15pm, I do have a great deal more time that is JUST MINE than when they were preschool aged and younger. But THIRTY HOURS? That sounded like an awful lot of leisure time to me so today I decided to document my time. My life is not crazy, out of control hectic and my schedule is mostly on my terms. I'm a stay at home mom and I can ignore many of the chores on my to-do list to create more "me time", but all that will do is create more work for myself because eventually, this crap needs to get done. Kind of like when you call in sick to work and all you do is shoot yourself in the foot because no one was there to pick up your slack. My documented time went as follows and please make yourself a cup of coffee to stay awake because it's just all kinds of exciting!

6:25am - Up and out of bed go downstairs, let the dog out, pour coffee (Dear Lord, I would like to give thanks for programmable coffee makers, amen), make the kids' lunches and pack them in their backpacks.
6:45am - wake up oldest son and get him in the shower, go back downstairs and make breakfast.
7:00am - wake up other two children and have them eat their breakfast, make husband's protein shake and pack his lunch.
7:05am - go rap on bathroom door to get oldest son out of the shower, go back downstairs and finish packing husband's lunch, and plate oldest son's breakfast
7:15am - get youngest children dressed, brushed, cleaned, shoed, ready for school.
7:25am - brush my teeth, put on pants.
7:30am - drive two youngest children to school to avoid school drop off congestion.
7:40am - make husband's breakfast, bus money for oldest son for ride home, double check he has everything packed that he needs for classes.
7:45am - take sheets off master bed and put in the washing machine.
7:50am - drive oldest son and neighbor child from across the street to school.
8:25am - finally home, drink 2nd cup of coffee, check email, let dog out, Twitter, check Facebook, let dog in.
8:45am - remove previous days laundry from dryer, put sheets in dryer, collect towels from bathrooms and put in the washer, fold previous days laundry and put away, gather husband's clothes to be dry cleaned, make kids' beds, pick up clothes from bedroom floors.
9:00am - straighten up downstairs, load and start dishwasher, let dog out, feed dog, do light dusting with the Swiffer, run vacuum around downstairs, clean downstairs bathroom, clean kids' bathroom, make mental note to clean bathroom floors tomorrow because this jerk forgot to get more Lysol, take sheets out of dryer, transfer towels to dryer, put sheets on and make my bed, vacuum dog hair off the comforter of my bed because yours truly has a very spoiled and sheddy dog.
11:30am - make a sandwich before I pass out from hunger, check email, Twitter, Facebook, watch an episode of "Roseanne", return a phone call that I missed while vacuuming.
12:10pm - empty all trash cans, empty vacuum canister, take out trash, vacuum stairs, break a thumb nail and curse loudly.
12:30pm - let dog out, take a shower, skip hair washing because there's not enough time to dry and style it AND make it to the grocery store and back before picking up daughter, groom, put hair in a #%$!$# ponytail, remove and fold towels from dryer.
1:15pm - make grocery list, grab dry cleaning, go to the grocery store and dry cleaners.
2:05pm - unload groceries and put away frozen and perishable items
2:15pm - pick up daughter from school.
2:30 - finish putting groceries away, make daughter a snack.
2:50pm - check email, Twitter, and Facebook, make witty comments.
3:05pm - pick up youngest son and friend from school, take friend home first, make youngest son a snack, oldest son arrives home, make him a snack, let dog out, let dog in, eat 3 chocolate covered graham crackers, experience guilt over eating aforementioned chocolate covered graham crackers.
4:00pm - kids play outside, check email, Twitter, and Facebook, and SnapGrades then remind oldest son of homework assignments.
5:00pm - youngest kids start homework, help daughter with her homework, make a pot of coffee, return my mom's phone call, redirect youngest son's attention to his homework
6:00pm - get the mail out of the mailbox, sort mail, go through pile of papers on the island in the kitchen, check on oldest son to see how homework is coming along, watch tv with two youngest children.
6:40pm - check email, Facebook, and Tweet that it's time to make dinner.
6:45pm - make dinner
7:15pm - feed kids dinner, I skip dinner on a count of the guilt from the chocolate covered graham crackers.
7:35pm - clean up after dinner, fix a plate for Mr. Farklepants and set aside.
7:45pm - start this blog post.

It is now 7:45pm and I still have to feed Mr. Farklepants when he comes home, get the two youngest in the bath/shower, watch a little television with them, bedtime, finish cleaning up the kitchen, straighten up any messes, get backpacks ready for tomorrow, prep coffee maker and anything else that can be squeezed in before 10:00pm. From 10:00pm to 11:00pm is my time to chill with my husband, surf the net, finish this blog post, and generally relax. Bedtime is between 11:00 and 11:30pm.

I consider leisure time something that I WANT to do, a luxury, if you will, and not something I HAVE to do. I've italicized what I would consider leisure time during my day and I count about 3 hours. Multiplied by 5 weekdays that's 15 hours. Obviously weekends wouldn't include the school schedule but it is simply replaced by other activities so I will count the generous 3 hours per day for the weekends as well which brings us to a grand total of 21 hours of leisure time per week.

I want my other 9+ hours. And we haven't even discussed the projects ~~closet organization, window cleaning, window blinds, ceiling fans, moving and cleaning under furniture, the horror under the stove and refrigerator, ohmygod the catch all office~~ that have been neglected just to get the 21 accounted leisure hours.

And if I had to throw going to work in there I would burst into flames.

The Title of this Post is.................Coming Up After These Messages!

2010-02-02T21:22:00.000-08:00

There's a trend in television game shows... And reality television shows, which, in my opinion, are just game shows themselves with LOTS OF DRAMA and the same characters every week, eliminated one by one. I mean, come on...Survivor? Contestants. Boom! Game show. Like Who Wants to be a Millionaire only with swim suits, hairy armpits, man-boobs, exercise, bugs, poor hygiene, malnutrition, and brightly colored bandanas. The Bachelor? Contestants. BAM! Game show. Biggest Loser, Big Brother, American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, The Amazing Race, America's Next Top Model, The Apprentice = gameshowgameshowgameshow very long, drawn out, drama filled, game shows. And all of these hour long programs? Could easily fill a half hour time slot if it weren't for the DRAMATIC PAUSE before each reveal of information, no matter how insignificant aforementioned information is, like, Tyra Banks' resume - fierce as it may be.

My research -where research equals, not a Google search, but my recollection which, you know grain of salt- indicates that this DRAMATIC PAUSE that is everywhere started with Regis Philbin and his Who Wants to be a Millionaire? and his "is that your final answer?" and then long DRAMATIC PAUSE and finally, "after this commercial!". And now that is the standard for every single game show. Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? ..."your answer is.....coming up when we come back!" (Jeff Foxworthy). Biggest Loser? "You've lost a total of .....BAM cut to commercial but not before the tease of shocked reactions from the contestants! DUHM DUUUHHHH DUUUMMMMMM!!! GASP SHOCK HORROR TEARS!

OMG, producers. Thirty minutes. This program can be accomplished in thirty minutes. Just ask Bob Barker. Can you imagine pausing before each reveal of the actual cost of the item on The Price is Right? Bob would lose his shit and start beating the audience with his super seventies long skinny microphone just before throwing himself into the nearest prize oven or under the brand new motorhooooommme complete with kitchenette and popout windooooows.

She Didn't Inherit Her Mother's Adrenaline Junkie Gene, That is for Certain

2010-02-01T15:40:00.000-08:00

Over the winter break we took a family trip to Six Flags Magic Mountain. What with it being a stones throw from our house and about a third of the total cost as that of Disneyland, it is fun and affordable way to spend an adrenaline filled day with the family. [Editor's note and cost saving tip: If you don't already have a season pass which is only $54.99 dollars or don't plan to go often enough for that to pay for itself, buy your admission tickets online for only $29.99 instead of the $54.99 that they would charge at the park. Also? Disneyland doesn't offer an online deal for single park-one day passes NOR do they offer an option to buy one PERIOD online. You would have to wait in line at the park to purchase your tickets].

While our boys love the rush that roller coasters can bring; Girl-Child is not much for the things that create the illusion of danger. Or one for speed. Or for anything that moves, really, for that matter. She was at least five years old before she would let me put a quarter in one of those little wonky rides at the mall. And even then she would grip the contraption for dear life with an expression of total fear plastered across her face. It wasn't until she was six before she went anywhere near the merry-go-round. So imagine our surprise when we were able to talk her into riding The Gold Rusher [one of the more seemingly harmless rides and an excellent choice for one's first roller coaster] with Mr. Farklepants. And it wasn't until it was our turn to board the train that she worked up the courage to take a ride with dad. Would you like to see how that went? A girl's first roller coaster ride: A pictorial:

"I can do this! I'm here with my daddy...he said it doesn't go really fast. I trust my daddy. My daddy will save me!"

"Wait a minute...WTF?!?"

"Daddy, YOU lied to me"

This is more her speed.

Clearly, nothing like her mother (an oldie but a goodie from last summer):

**photos from Mr. Farklepants and his bitchen mistress, the Canon 5D Mark II

Reason Number One and Counting Why I Will Never Have a Yard Sale

2010-01-29T19:03:00.000-08:00

Oh my God, you guys. I can't believe I haven't told this story already - and just when I was starting to think I'd run out of stories to tell. Okay, well, so today I went to the bank which I almost never have to do thanks to that beautiful invention - direct deposit. But I had a handful of checks the kids had received for Christmas and I figured it was high time to cash those suckers. That is all really here nor there except that it explains where I was and why I was parked in a spot that had a lot of cross traffic happening behind me; besides which, it is a better set up than today I was backing out of a parking space. Maybe. I dunno, whatever. Welcome to my stream of consciousness.

Anyway, so I'm backing out -real slow like- because it's busy and the black Toyota Sequoia parked next to me has the blackest tinted windows on earth and I quite literally could not see through them to determine if a car was coming. Or pedestrians. I get just far out enough to see a woman with a shopping cart waiting for me. So I halt to let her go what with that whole pedestrians have the right of way thingy and we do that whole she waves me on and I'm all no, no, after you wave to her and she's like, no really just go so I start to go at the same time she decides to stop waiting for me and we both do that immediate halt thing and she is all PISSED. And by this time I really do have to wait because there is a car speeding by but she thinks I'm still waiting for her and her teeth are all clenched but she still mouths the words just go lady or something because whatever she was muttering under her breath it was said with plenty of seething. So I just GO and I'm kind of hoping I take out her cart with my SUV on the way because I hate her a little bit at that moment and -what the hell? I was just trying to be nice and all law abiding. Screw that chick. And she reminds me of this lady who came to my door once.

Is she finally getting to the story? Yes, I believe she is. And you know what? I think she's realizing it's not really that great of a story. I hope she tells it anyway because I've gone this far. Oh, look...we're taking a trip in the way-back machine! Yay the way-back machine! I LOVE the way-back machine.

It's early summer of 1997, and Mr. Farklepants, a nine month old Boy-Child#1, and I are about thirty days away from our escrow closing on the house in which we currently live. During that time we lived in his mother's house and paid her mortgage and property tax while she lived in another location. We had a great deal with her and it was a perfect arrangement. Except that it was her house and it was always her house and that part was a little hard for a new wife to live with but...hence, the waiting for the closing of escrow on the current house.

Before moving we had a giant three day estate sale. I say "estate sale" because we pretty much sold anything that wasn't nailed down. That included a car. Much of the stuff belonged to my mother in law but the rest of it was what happens when two single people come to live together: a mash up of two separate dwellings, mismatched, mishmash, much of it second hand, most of it HATED. And none of that was coming into our brand new house, save for Boy-Child#1's nursery furniture and our bedroom furniture. Everything else went. And if that meant we had to live with a metal picnic table and folding lawn chairs in the dining room, so be it -but that is what happened- and totally a story for another day.

The estate sale was a success, except for not selling the car, haggling with some woman over a quarter for the dress I was selling FOR A DOLLAR, and getting conned out of ninety dollars. [Editor's note: That was the most authentic looking counterfeit one hundred dollar bill I have ever seen. Lesson learned, no bills over twenty dollars will be accepted, that is if there was ever going to be another yard sale, which there isn't] The following Friday the relatives are all gone, Mr. Farklepants is at work and it is just Boy-Child#1 and I at home when there is a knock at my front door. I answer, and on the other side is a pleasant looking woman...there for the estate sale. I explain that it was the previous weekend thinking maybe she had seen the ad my mother in law had placed and got the dates confused. And she? Was PISSED. Her pleasant demeanor fell away quicker than a drunk cheerleader's underpants at a frat party. "I READ YOUR SIGN" she yelled at me. My sign? "THE SIGN OVER ON THE CORNER OF BLAH BLAH AND BLAH BLAH BLAH". Oh, I'm sorry. My mother in law and her friends took the signs down but I'm guessing they missed one. Well, it was last weekend. "I DROVE ALL THE WAY OVER HERE AND TOOK TIME OUT OF MY DAY BECAUSE OF YOUR SIGN".

By now you'd think I'd be a little afraid and worried about this obviously crazy person on my front porch but the whole time I'm starting to get mad and I'm thinking, I've got a good twenty pounds and four inches on this bitch. I can take her.

BRING IT. I was kind of done being nice and all soft spoken and she actually flinched when I finally lost my shit "SO WHAT EXACTLY DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT LADY" screaming with flecks of spittle flying over my threshold. And she just looked at me. So I continued "THIS IS MY HOME NOT A STORE I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO SELL TO YOU WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME".

She looks right at me and screams "I WANT YOU TO TAKE YOUR SIGN DOWN SO NO ONE ELSE WASTES THEIR TIME".

And I finish with: SO FAR YOU'RE THE ONLY IDIOT WHO THINKS IT'S THIS WEEKEND SO GO TO HELL. And with that? I slammed the door in her face.

The end.

Speaking of My Facebook Addiction...

2010-01-28T11:39:00.000-08:00

This week there is a Facebook meme making the rounds asking you to post a profile picture of the celebrity you've been told you resemble or have been mistaken for. Marcy over at The Glamorous Life discovered that she looks like Faith Prince. I wish I could post the pictures of my friends who look like Phoebe Cates [omg, uncanny, so much so], Jennifer Aniston [yep, totally], and Ron Jeremy [I don't know exactly what it is he is trying to suggest but more importantly, I don't want to know]...but since I don't have their permission, I won't. But I will show you mine:

I get Jennie Garth. A lot. I've even been mistaken for her, and living here in Los Angeles, it would make sense that she would be in a Starbucks, or Coffee Bean, or wherever the hell I was when it happened.

Who's your celebrity twin-ish?

Twitter the Gateway Drug and its Hardcore Addiction Cousin: Facebook

2010-01-25T21:23:00.000-08:00

Quite some time ago I, like Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher, and Discopickles** created a Twitter account. There was a time, you know, when I used to actually write on my blog regularly, when I would think in terms of blog posts. It wasn't long after signing up with Twitter that I found myself thinking in 140 characters or less and by the power invested in me so help me God I will use "its" for "it's" if I'm one character over the limit. At first I would try to limit my tweets and discern what might be tweet-worthy. Because I didn't want to answer Twitter's "What's Happening?" and be all: Just took out the trash or first load of laundry for the day complete zzzzzzzzzzzzz....It didn't take much time to decide that things like: "When did James Cameron turn into Bea Arthur?" or "When my dog leaps onto the couch, she farts. Audibly and impressively. You're welcome." - were important updates for the world to know. Because I'm helpful with information like that.

About a year ago my college aged sister talked me into joining Facebook. And I was all, I already have a blog, I have a Twitter, I'll sign up but don't expect me to frequent that little corner of the internet - much. And she was all, yeah, we'll see about that ~~sucker~~. Most of our family, adults and children alike, and our friends are there. It's a great way for us to ~~keep an eye on our teenage son and his friends~~ share photos, family updates, plan a get together, and communicate with those closest to us. But then there is the political aspect to contend with. If you want to keep something one on one or between a chosen few, you take your conversation to the inbox...away from prying eyes. And when I say prying eyes I'm talking about that person who's on your friends list simply because you went to the same high school. And then you start to realize that the politics of Facebook are very similar to that of planning a wedding.

If you invite Auntie Gertie then you have to invite her offspring, your cousin, the one who used to pour sand in your hair and stole your boyfriend when you were in sixth grade and you don't really like her, in fact, you kind of hate her guts and don't want her anywhere near you on the happiest day of your life, because wtf? It's YOUR wedding. This is Facebook. You get a friend request from someone you genuienly adore or did once and would like to reconnect. Then because of that connection it turns out someone from their friend list remembers you or went to the same school as you or maybe worked with you briefly at some point, or likes your profile picture and would like to see more of you. Whatever the case may be, now you've got a dilemma on your hands in the form of a friend request pending on your homepage. And you sit on it for a spell. Because you don't want to be rude or hurt their feelings by hitting that "ignore" button. But then you don't really want them keeping up with the witty banter on your wall and the pictures of your friends, family, and your kids in your albums. In other words: I want my Facebook to be a private, intimate affair and I don't want them at my wedding.

And I try to limit my status updates on Facebook because I'm hiding my addiction from the people closest to me. I don't need to come home to some kind of Facebook intervention with far flung relatives from around the globe. Because I've got it under control. Really. Really I do. No, really.

**In fact, not a Twitter name I checked. It's yours if you want it.

Tootsie Takes a Long Hard Look in the Mirror and Faces the Facts

2010-01-15T22:30:00.000-08:00

I find myself, lately, uttering the phrase Oh my God I'm getting so old! I mean, it's true, I am. That is the way life goes. You get older. Fortunately, it's a gradual process. But sometimes events arise that smack that fact right straight across your face like a bitch. And certain events include but are not limited to the following:

Tootsie's youngest sister graduated from high school last June and is in her first year of college. And when Tootsie says youngest sister she means the sister who is twenty years younger. What. Ever.
Tootsie's other younger sister is turning 21 in just two months. It seems like yesterday Tootsie was changing her cloth diapers and ramming herself in the thumb with those fooking diaper pins. Hello, Mom? One word: Pampers.
Tootsie's oldest son is 13 - A TEENAGER - and it dawned on Tootsie that hiring a 15 year old babysitter to watch the kids when she has her very own teenager right there in her own home seemed like a waste of five dollars an hour (who is Tootsie kidding? See following gripe)
Babysitters in 2010 are at least ten dollars an hour. Tootsie used to make two dollars an hour babysitting. But that's okay because Tootsie didn't really like your kids anyway she just needed cigarette money.
Tootsie's twenty year high school reunion was LAST YEAR.
Tootsie's niece became engaged to be married over winter break**
Tootsie's oldest son ~~shaves~~ will start high school in the fall.
Tootsie can't remember the last time she went to a bridal or baby shower but does remember the last funeral she went to.
Tootsie's flower girl from her own wedding just turned twenty-two.
Tootsie knows when it's humid before setting foot outside because she is unable to remove the rings from her fingers.
ETC...

**Congratulations to my niece on her engagement. And for becoming engaged and not being pregnant - way to break the cycle.

P.s. No one likes a showoff.

The Family that Parties Together Travels Back in Time Together

2010-01-03T08:34:00.000-08:00

Tootsie and family attended a 1970's themed New Years Eve party to ring in 2010. With the movie Boogie Nights in mind, they hit the thrift store on Ventura Blvd to secure their vintage clothing. They left with two shirts and a dress. The dress is the only thing Tootsie had to purchase for herself. This means that Tootsie already had blue eyeshadow, gold strappy shoes with cork heels, a hair comb, a gold sequined purse, suntan pantyhose, and sundry costume jewelry at her disposal: which means that Tootsie either has some really cool treasures in her closet or some really tacky shit. Tootsie's oldest son looks like he fell right out of 1975 on a daily basis so not much effort was needed to achieve his look. Even Mr. Farklepants is wearing Tootsie's own belt. He IS wearing a wig but the douchestache and mutton chops are all his - which made it all the sweeter when it wasn't until AFTER he'd made a trip OUT IN PUBLIC to replace the flat tire on his car that he realized he still hadn't shaved. That, dear friends, is made of AWESOME.

LAX is not Even Kidding About Being There Two Hours Before Your Flight

2009-12-16T15:48:00.000-08:00

The airport. I almost always try to fly out of Burbank airport whenever possible [side note: I know it's Bob Hope Airport, or "Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena Airport" but no one ever EVER calls it that...just "Burbank", because? It's in Burbank]. I do this because it is small, and quaint, and you kind of don't mind being there. I mean, there's only one baggage claim! You can't get lost. You don't get tired walking from your car to the building. Or from the ticket counter to your gate. You get what I'm saying. But! Airfare being what it is (or was), my recent trip to visit family back east meant if I could afford to fly, I was flying out of LAX. And I hate just about everything there is to hate about LAX.

Exhibit A) American Airlines is located in the international terminal and I couldn't believe my luck when I found a parking spot at the mouth of the bridge that would take me exactly where I needed to be! Except that it wasn't until I reached the other side that I learned the ticket counters and baggage check were DOWNSTAIRS. The only elevator in sight was equipped with a keyhole and not a single button. There were escalators! Except I had to go down a mid sized flight of stairs to reach them. With my very heavy and equally awkward suitcase.

Exhibit B) At the ticket counter there is First Class check in, Priority, some special "I paid too much for my ticket" club, and self-check. The self-checkers make up about 90% of the travelers and not all of them can operate a credit card swipey machine at the grocery store let alone a "print your own ticket" kiosk. So this involves a lot of patience and waiting, and wanting to rip their itinerary out of their hands and JUST DO IT FOR THEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET ME OUT OF HERE AND TO THE SECURITY CHECK POINT.

Exhibit C) It is the international terminal so I understand that in many cases there is going to be a language barrier. But I imagine that a line looks like a line in just about every country and if you see one that you are pretty sure you need to be in? You go to the end. Not wander to the front and try to be next....I'm looking at you little old Asian woman. And if you weren't about one hundred and twelve years old and look as if you might turn into dust right on the spot from the wind streaming from my lungs as I spoke to you, I might have said something. And because I'd been standing in line for a half an hour and only moved fifteen feet, I was cranky and anxious with nothing but time to think of reasons why you don't recognize a line when you see it and I decided that you use your age an frailty to your advantage and you're just a manipulative old lady. And I don't want to think like that...SEE WHAT LAX DOES TO PEOPLE?

Exhibit D) Finding your gate. Mine was gate 47A. I follow the sign for gates 40 through 49. And I'm walking....Gate 40. And walking...Gate 41...42...43. And walking...Gate 44...45. And walking...Gate 46...and then? Gate 49. W. T. F? Which stopped me dead in my tracks. How could I have fucked this up? Oh. I didn't. There was 47A, tucked away in the far right of the cul de sac at the end of the terminal...like an afterthought.

Exhibit E) People who insist on standing in line to board the plane even if their group number hasn't been called. They stand at the ready. In the line. Except they don't move. Waiting for their number to be announced. And it's a full flight.

Exhibit F) There is always that one person on the plane...or in my case: that one couple. Their seats were not together and none of y'all will mind IF WE JUST SHOUT TO EACH OTHER DO YOU? UNTIL ONE OF Y'ALL CAN'T STAND IT AND GIVE US SOME SEATS TOGETHER? Obnoxious and obvious and the wife even louder than her thundering yeehaw husband. He was enormous and she was a twig. A twig with a beak like nose and exactly zero lips. And dressed in red jeans and a turtle neck, long sleeve t-shirt covered in a pattern of little reindeer. And I would bet my very last dollar that an identical outfit exists in the girls department in a size 6x.

Drinking Game: When You Hear the Word "Vagina" Take a Shot. P.s. You Will be Drunk by the End of this Post

2009-11-29T21:56:00.000-08:00

So, I'm getting Girl-Child out of the bath tonight and she asks, how do babies get out of the mommy? It's not the first time she's asked this question but my pat answer of "they come out of the mommy's tummy" was no longer a sufficient explanation. Because she was all, yeah I know THAT but HOWWW? Well, feck. I mean, she's six, so do I struggle with trying to figure out something age appropriate? Or do I just get fer realz on her ass? Frankly, I've just gone through hosting a Thanksgiving dinner-slash-day to fourteen people, not in bed until midnight-ish, up at 4am and at the mall by 5am, movie at the El Capitan in Hollywood at 7pm - followed by a next day dinner and 7pm movie chaser; not to mention the grocery shopping because the leftovers WILL eventually run out, and that mountain of laundry tackled. In other words: my ability to formulate a creative answer was clouded by my extreme exhaustion. I blurt out:

Babies come out of the mommy's vagina.

She seems generally unfazed...and now I know why: What's a vagina? ...she asks.

Oh my god, you guys. I have totally failed this girl. I mean, I know I've done my most bestiest bestest to shield her from all things inappropriate and keep her innocent as long as possible - which is like fighting a losing battle because you can't even watch an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond without the subject of sex coming up and Girl-Child is all, what's sex? And I'm like fuuuuuck you Everybody Loves Raymond, I mean, WTH? Work with me Ray Romano! - but, but, but, my poor daughter doesn't even know what a vagina is or that she has come equipped with one and that some day a baby may come out of it! Mom=fail.

So I do what any mother in my situation would do when her naked daughter fresh out of the bathtub asks what a vagina is. I point at it. [Right?] This seemed to cause some confusion on her part. Because, HOW does it come out of THAT? There's a hole there, I tell her. Still confusing because HOW BIG IS THAT HOLE, which is exactly what she asked.

"It stretches", I say. "So the baby can fit through."

She wonders if that hurts.

Oh God.

The conversation is beginning to spiral out of control and into a territory that I do not believe she is ready to receive. I mean, let's recap: Not even knowing that she has a vagina - to - what, exactly? Giving her THE TALK? That just seems like a lot of information to throw at her all at once, ya know?

So, I lie to her and tell her it only hurts a little bit. Because, what am I supposed to say? That it hurts so bad that at some point during labor you kind of just wish for sweet death? And that some women take that opportunity to tell their husbands exactly what they think of them? [An aside: Not me. I didn't mind that my husband was watching the ...hmmm... Hawks? Steelers? Raiders? Whatever they were wearing black on Monday night football while I was busy with the miracle of life]...I mean, do I even GO into the whole episiotomy thing? No, of course not.

But, "it hurts a little bit" was all she needed to hear. Mommy I don't think I'm gonna get married, she decides. And I ask her why. Because when you get married you have babies and I don't want it to hurt.

Now if she can just hold onto that until she's at least twenty five.

Warning: Does not Work Well With Small Children

2009-11-02T16:28:00.000-08:00

This morning, a matter got my dander up. I know I'm a bitcher and moaner from way back. It doesn't take much to get me going. It is what I do. [Ohmygod you should hear me in the car. Everyone in the world is a bad driver except for me. And I will tell you exactly what you're doing wrong ~~from the comfort, safety, and where you can't hear me inside my car~~.] But when it involves my children -well then- GET OUT OF MY WAY.

My daughter approached me while I was packing up lunches into backpacks. "I want to buy my lunch today", she says. Which is fine, of course, and I say so. But she's anxiously tapping her fingers on one hand against the fingers on the other. And she looks concerned. So I ask her what ever is the matter, dear daughter.

"I forgot my number", she states in a tone as if she'd just told me that she lost a family heirloom that I'd cautioned her not to touch.

You see, I make my kids' lunches everyday, and every once in a while they like to buy cafeteria food. The system at the school is such that each child is assigned a number (almost like a barcode, that is given to them by the cashier, no less) for buying lunch. They get in line, give the cashier their money, state their number, the cashier punches it into a computer and they're free to buy one main entree and various sides and a drink for $2.75.

Apparently this number is very VERY important.

"If you forgot it just tell the lady", I tell her.

Girl-Child looks nervous. Her eyes get a little well-y-uppy. And I get very suspicious. What is vexing my child so? [and why am I speaking as if it is 1865?]

"She told me that if I forgot my number again I would have to go to the end of the line and be the last one to buy lunch".

WTF? I'm sorry. She told you WHAT? Mind you that this is a child who has MAYBE bought her lunch FOUR TIMES EVER IN HER LIFE. And another "mind you"? It took everything I had in me to not drive helter skelter up to the school and have words with said woman.

How hard is this job? Seriously? You sit at a register in an elementary school and collect money from children. That's it. I get that it's boring, and monotonous, and repetitious. But to tell a little six year old girl, who doesn't buy her lunch often enough to have her stupid fucking number memorized, that she will have to wait until ALL THE OTHER CHILDREN buy their lunch before she can. To THREATEN MY CHILD? Because, why? Why? I don't understand how you could be having such a bad day doing this job that you have to intimidate a little girl.

There are many things my child will have to worry about in her adolescent years; like fitting in with her peers, and temptations, and bullies, and cliques, and studying hard enough for and doing well on a test, and if that boy likes her or like-likes her and does she like-like him back, and how I don't know what I'm talking about when I tell her that none of it matters, all of the angsty angst, because after you graduate high school you're likely to never see any of those people ever again and they won't be the most important people in your lives, and how she'll tell me that it's different for her and how I just don't understand because my life is not her life and how she won't listen when I tell her that it's ALL THE SAME SHIT that has been happening for generations but with new improved technology - because that's what kids and teens do. They believe the world revolves around them and that what is happening to them is unique and has never happened before, and...

She shouldn't be standing here in the kitchen freaking out over forgetting the godforsaken magical lunch-buying number. This is not something that should be causing my child any stress whatsoever.

I may just have to join my daughter for lunch.

Obligatory Post-Halloween Mash Up

2009-11-01T22:22:00.000-08:00

(Is it just me or does the above pumpkin look a little like a worried and fatigued Charlie Brown?)

(The pumpkins prepare for their night of housing candles and fire. They're not happy)

(Sassy ladybug complete with black tights and leotard to get rid of that hoochie mama look)

(Thirteen year olds wear a tiny Elvis on their head)

(Zombie skeleton...pretty much speaks for itself)

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

Maybe He's Still Searching for a Heart of Gold. And He's Gettin' Old.

2009-10-29T15:40:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember my mother has wanted to see Neil Young in concert. Not Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. Just Young. There was always one issue or another why that didn't happen. In 2008, Neil Young set off on his tour. Finally! And better yet, he'd be playing in Los Angeles within a week of my mother's birthday! My sisters and I smelled a birthday present made of WIN! I wrote a check and my sister took care of everything.

Then, a day or so before the concert - it happened. In a panicked phone call, my sister explained that she recieved an email informing her that her credit card would be refunded for the tickets. That's it. No explanation. Why the refund? Did she mess up the transaction somehow? WTF, Ticketmaster? Why? Don't you know it's our mother's birthday? Do you KNOW how long she's waited for this? What was the deal? Also - why do you hate my mom?

"Give me five minutes", I told her. Insert Google frenzy here.

And there it was. Oh. No. The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE) union, Local 33, planned to picket Neil Young's show at the Forum.

And Neil? Canceled.

I can appreciate your principles Mr. Young - but - way to harsh my mom's mellow, man. But since you said that you'd reschedule, then we'll see you at the show. Oh, except you never did, so, ya know - kiss my ass, Neil Young.

My mother was looking forward to the possibility of seeing the upcoming Michael Jackson concert. Then. Well. You know...

In 1984, my mother's co-worker had extra tickets to the Michael Jackson Victory Tour at Dodger's Stadium. Best. Concert. Ever. Taking her to see This Is It is the closest to getting Michael Jackson concert tickets for her birthday that I can do. And judging from the movie we saw last night - that concert would have been AM-AZ-ZA-ZING!

Meanwhile Back at the Cake

2009-10-06T22:26:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those moms that doesn't let her kids do many things that will get them messy. Because I'm one of those moms that doesn't want to clean it up. If it's sticky or dirty or muddy or soaking wet then it's probably not gonna happen kids, sorry. I loathe hose play, ice cream cones, puddles, muddy mud with mud, and whomever it is that invented cotton candy. Inside the house food and drink are not allowed outside the kitchen. Period. If we're taking a trip to the snow I spend a half an hour prior placing several towels lovingly ALL OVER the inside to prevent disaster; and still wet snow boots are prohibited from entering the vehicle - which means we must all take turns hovering our legs out the car door whilst removing the aforementioned offensive boot. Sometimes the socks too.

Ice cream cones GAH! But because I'm not a complete wretched hag, I allow the occasional cone.

(photographic evidence of my bending of the rules)

There are hard and fast guidelines, however. The ice cream must be vanilla in flavor or some other similar non-staining color. Chocolate is right out! And it has to be eaten immediately in the shop. Cones are not "to go". I prefer the kids eat a scoop in a cup with a spoon OR BETTER? A shake. Oh those glorious shakes with their magnificent containment - the lid that fits beautifully on top - and oh the straw!

So today when I entered our local Baskin Robbins and told the young woman behind the counter that I needed to order a cake for Boy-Child#1's birthday that is coming up this week; we both looked in the direction of The Book. The several inches thick book archiving cake after cake, theme upon theme, decisions decisions decisions - that crazy making how do I ever choose just one -book. And parked in a chair just in front of it like it were a library was a nine-ish year old, pushing 120 pounds or more, fist full of giant waffle cone double scooped ice cream kid thumbing through - browsing, if you will. The chocolate dripping down his arm, all over his shirt, lap, and face AND BOOK WITH EACH TURN OF THE PAGE.

I shuddered a bit.

The shudder did not go undetected by the young woman behind the counter.

She took one look at me and made the correct assumption that I was not the kind of woman that was going to want to FOLLOW THAT PERFORMANCE. She probably wished at that moment that there was a second book. Or gloves.

STICKY! GAH! GAHHHH!!

The young woman behind the counter and I both look to the adults associated with the child like, hellllooooo we're standing here discussing cake ordering and how a cake needs choosing and, like, how we'll just wait a sec while junior over here finishes because hey maybe he's got a birthday coming up and he's picking the winner but oh wait it's obvious now the book is just entertainment to pass the time COULD YOU PLEASE ASK YOUR CHILD TO BACK AWAY FROM THE BOOK FOR LIKE FOUR MINUTES?!

Of course not.

Young woman behind the counter would probably like to simply grab the book and hand it to me except for the fact that it's SCREWED into the stand that holds it on account of all the cake ordering book theft and all. Or something.

So she asks him to please, ya know, git. But real nice-like. Cuz she's not me.

And the parents? *crickets*

Remember My Name?

2009-09-25T22:01:00.000-07:00

One of my earliest memories is of me, at four years old, putting on a dance show in the kitchen of the little home I lived in with my parents just before their divorce. I would finish one "routine", change my dress, and transition into the next one. My paternal grandmother once reprimanded my preschool aged self for getting jiggy with it in the aisle at church. But there was singing and music and when that happened, I would dance. Didn't matter where I was or who was there. WWJD? He would bust a move, yo.

In May of 1980 I saw a movie that changed my eight year old life. Fame. I watched in wonder and marveled at those dancers. Envied the voices of the singers. I shook with excitement. I quite literally danced in my seat. It's okay, it was a drive-in [gawd I miss drive-ins!]. That's what I wanted to do! I wanted to act. I wanted to sing. Play the cello? Eh, not so much. But more than anything I wanted to dance! I wanted to go to THAT school! I wanted to wake up everyday and live, eat, and breath DANCE! Soon after the movie's release my mother brought home a book of ballet positions from the second hand store. I practiced them endlessly in the bedroom I shared with my brother. I forced my limbs into submission until I could do a perfect split. You could often find me doing cartwheels in the courtyard of our apartment complex and leaping of the steps in a grand jeté. And trying to teach myself how to spot so that I wouldn't get the dizzy spins.

But if I really wanted to do this. If I REALLY wanted to BE a dancer. I was going to need lessons.

Growing up we didn't have a lot of money. Make that, no money. My mother was single and raising us on her own from the time I started kindergarten. She worked long hours for not very much money and struggled just to put food in our mouths, clothes on our backs, and a roof over our head. We often had to scrape together our last dimes just to walk down to the corner market to buy milk. We had to walk because there was only enough gas in the car to get us to school and her to work before the next paycheck. She drove the same Ford Pinto [that's right, the barbecue that seats four car] until she remarried in 1986. She often owed our babysitters money and, subsequently, we spent many summers in the stock room of the small local pharmacy where she was employed; until I was old enough to stay home without supervision and in charge of my younger brother. In hind sight probably not the wisest scenario but she was left with little to no options. She was a survivor. She did what she had to do. WE did what we had to do.

And that meant there was no money for dance lessons. I know it killed her that she couldn't provide that; couldn't afford to foster my dreams. I know this because whenever she COULD manage it, she would sign me up for lessons at the small dance studio up the street. But few and far between intermittent instruction does not a dancer make. And as the other girls my age progressed, it became obvious, that even though I loved it with all my heart, we were throwing good money after bad. I was jealous of those other girls. I wondered if I wanted it more than them but simply couldn't have it.

It didn't keep me from performing. I was in every school play. I sang in chorus through my freshman year [ninth grade, y'all, not college] and duuuuudes, I cannot sing - I mean, for reals. But I wore those robes, and climbed up on those risers making sure my knees didn't lock, and gave it my all for every school function. Even taking the show on the road performing for retirement homes. I recruited other children in our apartment complex and put on plays, making props out of anything we could find in our collective bedrooms, for anyone willing to watch.

I sometimes wonder if circumstances had been different, if lessons could have been easily afforded, if I still would have had the love, the drive, the determination, the PASSION to MAKE IT. Or would I have taken it for granted only to eventually lose interest? I'll never know for sure since circumstances are what they were.

But, Readers? Whenever I HEAR the theme song, or see a trailer, for the re-make of the move, Fame? I get all verklempt. My insides quiver. My eyes well up. I get all tense and jerky. My heart RACES. And, Readers? I don't think my drive and determination would have petered out one tiny bit.

This weekend I will take my own children to see the movie. And I hope? Wonder? If it will inspire them to tap into their creative being and want to give it ALL THEY'VE GOT!

Argument Reason #43 in Favor of Hiring a Housekeeper

2009-09-24T09:30:00.000-07:00

Now that Girl-Child is in first grade and no longer done with class by noon, I've got about six hours five days a week to get those household chores that I've put off, for quite literally YEARS, done. No more excuses [like, I'd love to get started on that but I have to shower by 11am, so no time] to avoid collecting the hair away from my face in a messy ponytail-headband combo, rolling up the sleeves and tackling some filthy, dirty shit. The cleanliness of my home is an optical illusion. The surface areas are dusted, swept, vacuumed, washed. Bathrooms are ~~usually~~ sanitary... but for all that is holy and for your own piece of mind DO NOT LOOK behind the entertainment unit, or up at my ceiling fans, or too closely at the window blinds, or under the fridge. And sometimes the brownies contain a hint of the baked chicken from ~~three days ago~~ the night before. And unless you've taken a moment to visit your special place of courage DO NOT LOOK UNDER MY STOVE. The kitchen is tiled and I swear to GAWD there is a layer of carpet under there and it's probably violating some kind of fire code.

Then there is the grout on the tiled kitchen counter tops.

And because this task is the most visible and IN MY FACE and ON MY MIND every time I'm in there; I chose this as job numero uno. I hosed them down with a heavy dose of Dawn Power Dissolver cuz it works like a champ on the stovetop. And I let it sit. Permeate. Penetrate. Do what it does. I know, I know. Right now some of you are all, BLEACH beesh! I considered it and was immediately met with visions of an unfortunate over-inhalation of fumes followed by passing out and subsequent smacking of the back of the head on the island behind me and ending with a cracking of the skull when my head bounced off the ceramic tile floor. Then I was like, who will pick the kids up from school? What with my being dead and all. And my husband would be all, huh, maybe I should have let her hire that cleaning service afterall because I don't even know the kids classroom numbers or their teachers names and then he'd have to remarry too soon to someone he probably didn't even love but just needed to pick up my slack.

But maybe I should have risked it. It took two hours to scrub and make mostly clean about twelve square feet of surface area. And about halfway into it I was like:

I HAVE GOT TO BE DOING THIS WRONG!

Giving myself pep talks to JUST GET IT DONE all the while sweat is dripping from my brow and down my nose. My arm is fatigued and just can't go on. And you would think that with all that work those counter tops would sparkle like the goddam Hope Diamond! But NO! There are spots that I CANNOT get clean!

I give up. I suck at labor intensive housework. The fire hazard beneath the stove is just going to have to live on. No seriously, there probably is shit living under there. At the moment I DO NOT CARE.

Boring the World with My Boring Boredomness

2009-09-16T15:01:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I finally got with the program and purchased several reusable grocery bags to take to the market and use in lieu of the plastic variety that are clogging up landfills and clinging for dear life along the highways. Half the time I remember to bring them INTO the store with me. The other half of the time I remember mid-checkout. At least they're in the car! Except for those times I clear out the rear of the vehicle to make room for beach going items or putting the back seats down to accommodate extra bodies. Then they sit on a shelf in my garage [the bags, not the bodies].

Mr. Farklepants commended me on my new found environmentally friendly habits until one day, while helping unload the groceries, he noticed that most of the items were in the reusable bags, however, there were also a few plastic bags in use.

Mr. F: You finally buy reusable bags but you didn't get enough.

Tootsie: Yes I did.

Mr. F: Then why are these plastic ones here?

Tootsie: Because I didn't remember to give them to the box-boy until he'd already started bagging the groceries.

Mr F: ......

Tootsie: See, I didn't want to have him transfer the stuff since it was already bagged.

Mr F: .............

Tootsie: Because I didn't want to hold up the line by being THAT PERSON.

Mr. F: .................

Tootsie: Are you even listening to me?

Mr. F: Oh. Wait....what?

Tootsie: I know it's not very interesting but I'm a full time housewife and mother and these are the stories I have to tell. ...This is THE MOST EXCITING THING that's happened to me today.... AND STOP SMILING AT ME LIKE THAT.

Vintage Thirty would like to ask you...do you know how many times Tootsie has told this story? Oh gah someone stop her. And also, is "box-boy" still politically correct, Vintage Thirty forgets.

It's Not Like I'm Telling People We KNOW

2009-09-04T23:30:00.000-07:00

We always knew that Boy-Child#2 was smart. He was born with the gift of abstract thought which is something that is usually learned over time; one reason why critical thinking courses are usually saved for the college years. He's a problem-solver, which clashes severely with his alter ego: the troublemaker. He made first place in his category in the school science fair with his project...in kindergarten. The pictures he draws look as if they could be created by someone with years of experience. He also has this way of speaking that forces those on the receiving end to ask questions. Like, he figured out how to ENGAGE someone in conversation, totally. Early on. I just happened to volunteer in the classroom this past school year when his class was given a math packet, several pages thick, in preparation for state testing and he completed it that first morning - then spent the next two days reading a book while the rest of his peers soldiered on. And I was like, huh, musta got that from his dad cuz me and math? Not so much...we are not close friends.

When he brought home a form, in Spring of 2009, that asked for permission to participate in the OLSAT test for entrance into the GATE program [and I'm just gonna say it, the Gifted and Talented Education program]; I figured it was a flyer that everyone brought home. Turned out that his teacher had recommended him for the program bless her heart. Then I had to Google GATE to find out what it's all about - and to be quite honest, I'm still not sure something about extra classes before school and groupings and cluster groupings and planned and organized as integrated differentiated learning experiences within the regular school day and may be augmented or supplemented with other differentiated activities related to the core curriculum and so on and STUFF.

I will be one of those parents at the meeting later this month going, that's right my kid is smarter than me and I don't even know what is going on and GEE I hope I understand what they are saying here tonight.

And because everyone just LOVES hearing about how someone's child is gifted, Mr. Farklepants and I agreed that we should just keep it between us. I mean, it's not like we HAVE to tell anyone [says she with the blog]. And if that kid wants to go to Harvard or MIT, he better get a job, like, right now. Cuz we just put a mouth full of braces on Boy-Child#1 and we're tapped out.

College Fund? You're Wearing it

2009-08-21T22:17:00.000-07:00

"If someone can't afford to put braces on their kids teeth then they shouldn't be having kids". That was part of a conversation between two teenagers in an English writing course I took at the local college eight-ish years ago. At the time I was in my late twenties [perhaps, thirty], a mother of two, and the oldest person in the class. The student body consisted mostly of those fresh out of high school, many of whom where there at their parent's insistence and dime. And a handful of those were the irresponsible type that wanted to borrow your notes from the previous class because they, once again, skipped out during the break, because they were the type that were used to charming their way into getting what they need. And I was the type that had no qualms about teaching them a lesson in consequences for irresponsible behavior and was like, um no.

I remember the conversation because we were sitting around reading each other's writing assignments. The assignment was to write three descriptive paragraphs about your favorite restaurant. As I sat there and read about Chi-Chi's Pizza, The Olive Garden, and Cousin's Burgers; I wondered if my summarization of Mon Grenier in Encino would invite the children to introduce a whole new world to their taste buds. Even though I detailed how the waiter in this French restaurant would wheel an apron wearing dressmaker's dummy to your table and read the menu aloud in English thick with French and you're all SALMON! I'll have the salmon! Because it's the ONLY THING THAT CAME OUT OF HIS MOUTH THAT YOU UNDERSTOOD. Although, you did understand crispy salad but you weren't sure why it was crispy and you weren't feeling risky. And you may not have understood but you soon realized that the chocolate covered strawberries injected with liquor were going to knock. you. out.

But I écartez-vous ... "If someone can't afford to put braces on their kids teeth then they shouldn't be having kids" - she stated smugly and matter of fact. I don't know (nor did I then) what kind of pampered priveledged bubble this young lady sprang from, but a mouth full of perfect teeth isn't a basic need. Oh, it's nice, sure. But not part of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Getting FOOD past those teeth, yes. Getting food past STRAIGHT teeth? No. Many new parents are busy providing immediate needs, and if they're fortunate, planning for college and maybe a car. It's really a crap shoot if braces are going to be necessary at all...not everyone's teeth are jacked. And many new parents also dream of the day that they will own furniture that hasn't been vomited on, peed on, or worse. And by worse I mean, a blow out diaper full of poop soup that shoots straight up the baby's back and out his or her collar. You're welcome.

All of this to tell you that Boy-Child#1 is now sporting braces. And little Miss High and Mighty would be happy to know that I met her threshold for decent parenting.

Someone Needs to Pay Attention to What She's Doing

2009-08-10T21:13:00.000-07:00

School starts here mid week. I did all of our back to school shopping in ONE day a couple of weeks ago to avoid the rush since we live in a valley where it is apparently the law that in order to own a home you must have at least two children. Where every elementary school is at MAX CAPACITY and where max capacity equals ONE THOUSAND kids. And, in our experience, if you want A) clothes that still work for heat and not fall because hello, still summer in Southern California and B) a decent lunch box and backpack combo to avoid moderate to severe mocking, you'd better jump on things toot sweet. And jump I did. We hit the local Target and got. it. all. I'm talkin' everything from pencils, erasers, folders to several outfits each. The only thing that wasn't purchased on that particular trip were Levi's skinny jeans for Boy-Child#1 which we snatched up later that day at Tilly's. And shoes followed last week.

Since elementary school starts on Wednesday, today I was going through all of the paraphernalia - loading backpacks, sharpening pencils, writing the kids names on their lunch boxes. I'm not a fan of trying clothes on the kids in the store because OHMYGAWD it takes so long. And I'm not ashamed to admit that patience is not my strong suit. But I did have the foresight to at least have them try them on when we got home to make sure everything was good to go. And it was. Is.

But somewhere along the way I severely fecked up the underwear selection. I mean, oh hell, how dumb do you have to be to muck this up? I bought bikini underpants for Girl-Child instead of briefs. This does not work. Not only does Girl-Child have a prominent bootay but she's six. And, in my humble opinion, six year old girls need as much coverage as possible. Swings and slides in skirts and dresses reveal much. Let's cover that shit up. So, there's that. Then! I bought, what I thought, were two packages of boxer briefs for Boy-Child#1. What I actually purchased were ONE pack of boxer briefs and ONE pack of briefs - aka "tightie whities". I don't know if you've ever been an eighth grade boy, but tightie whities [even though they're black and grey in color] will buy you several atomic wedgies in the gym locker room and a raging case of insult hurls at oneself from one's peers. Stinking, pimply faced, in the throes of hormone induced crackly-voiced puberty - peers - that can brand you with a much unwanted nickname for the remainer of your school years.

It would appear that one got so distracted by selecting the right size that she outright ignored the description. And that person, who was so smug about her organizational and planning skills, was at JC Penny today. Two days before school starts. Buying underpants.

No One Wants to be Seen Getting the Saliva Sucked out of their Mouth

2009-07-27T18:37:00.000-07:00

Imagine, if you will, a pediatric dentist office. If you pictured a waiting room with Disney type posters on the wall, collector memorabilia in the form of life sized Pirates of the Caribbean and Nightmare Before Christmas characters and a replica of Disneyland's Haunted Mansion encased in plexiglass, you're on the right track. If you have visions of 1980's video game consoles that include but are not limited to Donkey Kong and Space Invaders, you'd be correct. The office, quite frankly, rocks your socks. Once you've left the waiting room and entered the relaxed, friendly environment of the patient's area, you've entered one open room with a sea of dental chairs each equipped with their own television where your child can view a kid appropriate movie while one of the many dental technicians takes a crack at cleaning your kid's teeth; reminding them of the value of a good daily flossing. And leave you feeling a little guilty that the only flossing they get comes in six month intervals. Ahem.

The room. One open room. Not private areas or stalls. Wide open. Chair after chair after chair. Doesn't seem all bad that you don't have a room to yourself because, hey, you're a kid and kids aren't all hung up on things like privacy when it comes to their mouth. Except that a pediatric dentist office see's patients up to sixteen years of age. And the eleven to sixteen age range might have an opinion about how they're seen by their peers.

For instance, like today, when my twelve year old son leaves the xray room only to encounter one of his schoolmates. Not just any schoolmate, but a peer of the opposite sex. And there she is laid flat with her head in the lap of a technician and a mouth full of dentist. I mean, if you were her would you not just die?! Would you not just want the ground to open up and swallow you, the dentist, the chair, and while we're at it -hell, the tv because you're certainly going to need some entertainment on your current trip to utter humiliation?

Wouldn't it be similar to -and ladies, we've all had days like this- when you make that fateful decision to swing by the market on your way home from the gym. Only to run into your ex-boyfriend from 1992 and there you are sans makeup bearing ass crack and anterior boob sweat with the scent of a fresh workout seeping from your pores and wearing your yoga pants that shrunk two inches in the length and your Frankie Says Relax tshirt? And a box of super absorbent tampons and two packages of double stuffed Oreo's on the conveyor belt?

p.s. The boyfriend from 1992 is interchangeable with that bitch from high school who made your life a living hell. Or the prom queen.

Dear GAP Kids....Call Me

2009-07-25T08:47:00.001-07:00

Last Saturday's big princess and pirate birthday bash for Girl-Child's 6th!

Or, a United Colors of Benetton ad.

*photo by Dorothy Z.

Open Letter to Retailers

2009-07-21T20:31:00.000-07:00

Dear Retail Establishments,

Back to school shopping is upon us and I've made some observations about the clothes you sell for small children. First of all, this is southern California in a district where school will commence mid August. Helpful tip: more summer clothes and less SWEATERS and long sleeved shirts. These will not be worn on someone's person until November. And speaking of pants, which we weren't, but they fall in the category of fall clothing - what's the deal with the double buttons and ohmyhell attached belts? You do realize that these sizes also include those for the four to six year age range. Have you met a child that age, in the midst of a pee pee dance, that can wrestle themselves out of multiple buttons, a zipper, and a belt - at least in time to prevent utter humiliation resulting [I swear to GAWD I cannot type "result" without typing "reslut" first] in a necessary trip for the parent to the school armed with a fresh set of clothes when he or she gets that call from the school nurse that they have so-n-so in the office and (s)he's had an accident?

No? Well, please consider your target market. While we're on the subject of buttons [and we totally are this time] make the hole bigger. If me and my big meaty paws have to struggle getting the button through the hole then you can bet your sweet bippy that a child's fingers do not have the muscle for such a feat.

Skirts. Make them LONGER. These are girls. Children. Not hooers. And if you're going to insist on that length; make them skorts. If I have to pair every skirt with leggings, you're just adding an unnecessary cost to my back to school shopping bill. Plus, it's hot. Leggings in the summer are sweaty.

Also, less glitter on shit.

That's all for now.

Begrudgingly yours,
Tootsie

p.s. Target, wth? It's July in southern California so why are your bathing suits shoved in a clearance area and severely lacking in any variety? Someone should take note that people in this area purchase bathing suits year round, but most especially, during SUMMER!

It's Her Sweet Six...And Her First Set of Wheels

2009-07-16T21:33:00.000-07:00

Today is Girl Child's sixth birthday. Unfriggenbelievable. It seems like yesterday I was giving birth and subsequently scheduling that tubal ligation. She was born on a Wednesday at 12:55pm. She weighed 7 pounds, 15 ounces and was 20 and one half inches long. Her hair was brown and soppy. Her eyes were newborn blue. The day started with a heart rate monitor strapped to my belly and an IV stuck in an arm vein. Her birth was induced. Her original due date was July 24th, but by July 14th-ish during a routine check up [the kind of check up where the doctor shoves his arm elbow deep into your hoo-haw in what is laughably called: checking your progression] the doctor determined that the cervix was 2-ish centimeters dilated and if we wanted to get this party started [a DJ with his own mix table and kickass tunes optional], the 16th was doable for him. And I was all, snaps for the doctor!

As I labored on July 16th, and enjoyed episodes of I Love Lucy already in progress, the nurse would appear occasionally to verify that I was, in fact, declining the epidural and all its numby goodness. And also to remark, you're at 5 centimeters why are you smiling? To say that the labor and delivery for Girl Child was a piece of cake is an understatement. At least until I reached 7 centimeters. Then the nurse was all, it's too late for the epidural but howz 'bout I hook you up with some Fentanyl in your IV? And I was all: Pusher, pleaze. She was like: it's a short lived drug but it'll take the edge off. And I was all, did I stutter? Hook. Me. Up.

My cervix dilated from 7 to 10 centimeters in a hot second and when it felt like a melon had dropped between my knees, previous experience told me that I could reach down and touch the top of the baby's head if that was something I wanted to do. I sent Mr. Farklepants to fetch the necessary staff. Once everyone was situated in the room and wearing the appropriate gear and I was like, can we do this because I don't think I can hold this back any longer...ten minutes later and sans an episiotomy [for the men who aren't familiar, Google that. It's fun. I may or may not be lying], Girl Child's head emerged. I was told to pant. I obliged. There was some silent commotion going on "down there" and it wasn't until Girl Child was safely delivered and heaving a healthy cry that I was informed that the umbilical cord was twisted around her neck. Which would explain the stream of (blood? fluid?) sticky goo that nailed the nurse square in the chest when the cord was cut and I was all, did I get ya? That's right. Even with a human head hanging out of my vagina I'm making with the funny.

Happy 6th Birthday Girl Child!

*photos by Mr. Farklepants of Girl Child and her very first bike!

At Least They Built a Tram to Get You There

2009-07-09T09:42:00.000-07:00

I love the lackadaisical days of summer. I'm not one to put my kids into summer camps or sign them up for activities that require keeping a schedule. We're a fly by the seat of our pants summertime family. We kick it at the beach, lounge by ~~my parents~~ the pool, see a movie, hit an amusement park, and even get ~~some exercise~~ cultured at the museum.

Have you ever been to the Getty? It is an enormous structure situated at the top of the mountain off the 405 freeway and overlooks the all of Los Angeles and on a clear day the ocean is visible. When the conceptual designs were drawn and mock ups made; I envision it being something like the Kohler commercial. Where that uber dirty stinking rich couple walks into a design firm and the wife whips out a bathroom sink faucet from her designer bag - the kind that only she and Oprah can obtain - and says to the architect, "design our house around this". And the architect puts his palms together and rests his chin in a thoughtful pose atop his fingertips and is like, it will be minimalist and fierce because I'm so fabulous. He didn't have to say it out loud - I read it in his eyes.

Only in the case of the Getty, the chairman in charge of building stuff whipped out a flight of stairs and said, give the people something to climb, pull a hamstring, and that puts them closer to God.

Just getting started

It was either go down these stairs or walk my kids past a wall of full frontal nudity photos and I wasn't in the mood to explain excessive bush growth to my 5 year old, you understand.

Weren't we already here? I think we're going in circles.

Not to feel left out -even the garden features boast steps.

We pause on this bench to rest and strike a pose.

And hydrate and giggle.

*photos by Dorothy Z.

Doesn't it Seem Like Just a Year Ago We Celebrated Our Anniversary? ...Oh, Right.

2009-07-02T18:42:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow Mr. Farklepants and I will celebrate thirteen years of marriage!

Vintage Thirty will pause for ~~condolences~~ kudos.

I know it's been, um, weeks since I updated my blog. And for that, I am truly sorry. I blame it on Twitter and Facebook status updates sucking up my writing mojo. Since I've neglected it this long it seems only fitting that I regurgitate a past post. An oldie but a goodie. Please to enjoy my writingzzz:

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"The only time I would ever tell a woman that I love her is when I plan to marry her"~ Mr. Farklepants circa 1994

On June 29th, 1996 a young Mr. Farklepants and his very pregnant girlfriend, Tootsie, had already been in Hawaii one week where they shared a rented estate ~~paid for by very generous employers~~ with ~~their best friends~~ two other couples. And on June 29th, just after brunch where Tootsie ate the entire buffet because she couldn't drink or smoke, enjoy the jacuzzi or do anything fun or reckless because of her delicate condition -and by the way gained twelve of her seventy pregnancy pounds on this trip alone and right now you're like, ONLY twelve?- ahem, after brunch young Mr. Farklepants declared to their friends that he would like to spend the day with just Tootsie taking a scenic drive around the big island of Hawaii.

So off they went in the little rental car that was straining heavily on the passenger side under Tootsie's considerable girth. Young Mr. Farklepants wasn't even kidding when he said drive AROUND the big island of Hawaii. Because they did exactly that. The entire perimeter. They stopped numerous times to get out and see the beauty to behold, but young Mr. Farklepants would quickly shove Tootsie back to the car and drive to the next place. When they finally made it to the deserted Kilauea visitors center, it started to rain. They parked and young Mr. Farklepants asked Tootsie to remain seated and dry while he determined if the view was worth getting wet for. He took the video camera that they had borrowed from their friends with him in the rain and all Tootsie could think was, "That is going to get all wet and then we'll have to buy them a new camera", because she is what we like to refer too as a worrywart. When young Mr. Farklepants returned he was very animated and excited and told Tootsie to go with him right now! And all Tootsie noticed was that he wasn't holding the borrowed video camera and was mentally chastising young Mr. Farklepants for leaving it unattended on a trail. See? Worrywart.

Young Mr. Farklepants guides his pregnant girlfriend to the rail that lines [what? Sorry. Was rail mentioned? Because there was no rail. Just certain death if you lost your balance] the rim of part of Kilauea. They both ooh and ahh. There is rain. There are NO OTHER tourists or anyone for that matter on the trail. They are completely alone. Tootsie turns to tell young Mr. Farklepants how ~~she's concerned about the lack of a rail~~ awe inspiring the view is and he impulsively takes her hands. "There is something I should have told you a long time ago" he says. Instantly Tootsie thinks oh my god he has children that he's never told me about and he's going to tell me right here. Worrywart.

But he didn't. Young Mr. Farklepants then dropped to one knee and said, "I love you" and then he proposed marriage to Tootsie who ~~then cried like a big baby~~ replied with an enthusiastic YES! As it turned out, young Mr. Farklepants had hidden the video camera so that he could record this event on tape (yes tape, 1996) but it didn't work. They finished their day driving the remainder of the perimeter of the island until they made it back to their rented estate. Tootsie had wanted to stop and call their friends to let them know they were going to be terribly late but young Mr. Farklepants insisted that it wasn't necessary. It turned out that everyone, their mother, and the kitchen sink were in on the days events. One of the friends had gone with him to buy the engagement and wedding rings. Rings which young Mr. Farklepants brought with him (in the body of a flashlight, no less) on their vacation.

At sunset on July 3rd, 1996, young Mr. Farklepants and his fiancee, Tootsie, eloped and were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Farklepants by a very old local reverend who spoke with a thick local accent and who Tootsie wanted to put in her pocket and take home with her.

It wasn't until ~~yesterday while composing this entry~~ years later, when Tootsie was a little older and [she thinks] a little wiser that she realized the symbolism of Mr. Farklepants proposing marriage to her at the edge of a cliff. A cliff that overlooked a volcanic crater that was at that very moment creating new pieces of the Earth. There they were at the edge, a proposal and a promise, to start a new life together. Although, it is possible that Mr. Farklepants may have already mentioned the symbolism in some way to her and she just forgot. Because she does that.

I love you Schmoopy! Here's to the days I want to wring your neck, the days I can't keep my hands off of you, and all those in between...Happy 12th Anniversary!

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Replace the 12th anniversary with 13th and the story remains the same. Happy 4th of July!!

Because Everyone Loves Hearing About Other People's Dreams

2009-06-11T17:13:00.000-07:00

So the other night I have this dream. Scratch that. I have this nightmare. One in which I am pregnant and about a month shy of delivery. To a son. Do you have any idea how difficult it was to agree on a name for our last son? Honest to God, in an entire book dedicated to baby names we could agree on ONE. There weren't even any remote possibilities. Thank Haysus our last pregnancy was a girl because had it not been, that child would go around nameless for the rest of his life. Then, of course, we had to come up with a middle name and that didn't happen until 24 hours AFTER I'd given birth and the lady from the administration office came in the room and was all, so are you going to finish filling out this birth certificate or what? And I was all, or what - come back tomorrow don't mess with me the Vicodin is wearing off. As if the nine months leading up to the event just wasn't enough time and some kind of special magic was going to happen in a day.

Meanwhile back at the REM sleep... Pregnant. With a son. And pissed off. Even in sleep I was able to agrue points and deconstruct the situation. Didn't I have a tubal ligation? Didn't I have that tubal ligation so that I wouldn't find myself surprised by a pregnancy so close to forty years of age? Do you even realize how old I'll be at this child's high school graduation? His friends would be all, oh it's so nice that your grandmother could make it, and he'd be all, that's my mom speak into her good ear and also sometimes she forgets where she is - if she pulls down her pants and pees in a flower pot ignore this. I mean, isn't this why I didn't just get my tubes TIED or clamped, I got them CAUTERIZED! I was not even kidding around about this. I was as serious as a heart attack.

It was one of those dreams that was so real and vivid. The kind where emotions run high. And when I woke up, I gave Mr. Farklepants a vacectomy. With my eyebrow tweezers and stitched him up with Glide dental floss.

Badassery

2009-06-01T00:08:00.001-07:00

*what you can't see is that Boy-Child#2 is directly on the other side of the child in this picture. And the object of the tiger's ~~voracious appetite~~ affection.

Do you ever have one of those moments where you're like, ohmygod this is like the coolest thing I've ever seen! And, hey! Look at the size of that animals paws, they're like, bigger than my son's head! Conflicted with...

...wait...

Perhaps I ought to get my children the hell out of here! And - just how strong IS that safety glass? And - who could I save first? And - how fast can a tiger eat my head? And - sandals aren't the best running away from ferocious animal shoes.

No one? Just me?

The Rest of Her Ear Lay Somwhere in the Dog's Lower Intestine

2009-05-22T09:46:00.000-07:00

The puppy is a chewer.

Let the record show that Vintage Thirty states the obvious.

Fortunately, so long as we're diligent in keeping an eye on her, we can thwart any potential chewing casualties and, also fortunately, she is easily distracted by her own plush, squeaky toys. And my kitchen rug - which is now hers. Whatever, I don't care - she can have it. The few incidences where we let our guard down, weren't on our toes, had our backs turned; the AC adapter cord for the Nintendo DS was severed, one Nerf gun bullet became smithereens, one adult male dress sock lost a heel, and one flip-flop strap was mutilated and the footwear rendered useless.

Not too terrible considering a friend of mine lost one WHOLE HALF of her COUCH to an unsupervised pup. And my sister in law - several hundred dollars worth of shoes.

Enter Wednesday. And Skunky:

Skunky is Girl-Child's most beloved toy. It is from the Littlest Pet Shop collection and Girl-Child is a collector of teeny tiny toys. I retrieved Skunky from Phoebe's mouth - now with Kung Fu grip action! - Wednesday night. It began with a cute woodgie woodgie, what do you have in your mouth? And ended with SCREAMING!!! ~~and a morphine drip~~ when I realized what I'd pulled out.

I was then faced with a dilemma. A) Do I dispose of the evidence and feign ignorance of its whereabouts? Only to be met with the trauma of a lost Skunky? B) Do I present Skunky, in her mutilated state, to Girl-Child - do it quick like ripping off a band-aid and endure the massive FREAKOUT!!! that would surely present itself and also the possible new found hatred of the puppy? Or C) do I leave it, inconspicuously, among her other smallish belongings to be discovered at a later date? Brave Mom goes with C.

Enter Thursday. And Girl-Child's discovery of Skunky - now with holes and half of an ear!!! A very distraught young lady made her way down the stairs from her room - now with more sobbing!!! She was met with my, it's okay Honey I can Crazy Glue Skunky good as new.

Hello, have you met my irrational fear of Crazy Glue? Where "irrational fear" equals - that time I glued four fingers from my right hand together that had to be separated by a can of acetone from the garage by a laughing, mocking husband? Shut up, Mr. Farklepants. Just stop it.

Vintage Thirty is happy to report that Girl-Child is mostly pleased with the magical healing powers of the glue. And, according to Girl-Child, henceforth known as - Wild Glue.

**Vintage Thirty wishes someone had had the foresight to take before-repair pictures of Skunky considering a certain someone has a blog and said certain someone should have know better.

In This Hand I Hold a Grenade

2009-05-14T23:01:00.000-07:00

Remember when I told you that our local McDonalds was being remodeled? And what they mean by remodel is - tear that sucker down to the ground with a bulldozer.

I'm happy to report that they lived up to their claim that they would re-open in spring of 2009.

Ever since my children caught wind of the grand opening; they've wanted to ~~check out the indoor play area possibilities~~ eat there. While you may be surprised to learn that I'm not a fan of A) most fast food, and B) eating inside said establishments, you should be happy to know that I sometimes oblige my children. So I promised that after Boy-Child#2's softball game we would go to the new McDonalds for dinner - because we're fancy like that.

The new McDonalds also boasts a new staff. I mean, like brand new. Like, are still learning the register, new. Which equals - slow service. Which puts a fast food establishment at a disadvantage. And where fast food becomes - how hard is it to put together a Big Mac meal and two happy meals? Apparently, pretty damn hard. Inside I was all, wth people? On the outside I was all, hey no problem take your time. I didn't bother ordering anything for myself because about the only thing I like from McDonalds is their fries. And years of experience has taught me something: when there is playground equipment within view children will not finish their fries and leaves plenty for mom to help herself. This theory, once again, proved true.

While the new play area was somewhat disappointing, with lackluster slides, and resembled a mesh three story building that had been stripped bare and lacked much of anything to do; this didn't stop the kids from enjoying it. Another thing that experience has taught me is that it does not matter how boring a play area is or how long you stay; when it is time to go, it is too soon. Girl-Child burst into tears upon my request to get her shoes. An event that was met with my immediate anger. Which led me to inform her that if she was going to cry then it would be a very long time before she was allowed to come back. Which? Didn't seem to faze her. Which? Pissed me off. Which? Led me to tell her that she'd just sealed the deal.

I'm not a fan of spoiled children and I wasn't about to have my own child act a fool. I don't know what her deal was but she clearly had done lost her mind. This behavior was not beneficial to my mood. Especially since I still had to order a meal to go for Mr. Farklepants - And don't make me revisit the new employee issue.

Once back home, and with my dander up about all of the above, I share the events of the evening with Mr. Farklepants. To which he replied, so have you started your period yet or what?

Then I pulled the pin.

ACME Kite Kit Not Included

2009-05-07T13:22:00.000-07:00

Sunday evening Mr. Farklepants pipes up out of nowhere and asks, "So, do you wanna go for a walk"? And I was all, who are you and what have you done with my husband and p.s. do you do dishes? My shock is in reference to the fact that Mr. Farklepants rarely parts with his laptop. It's how he spends his downtime and I'm not complaining ~~now~~ - he could prefer to spend it elsewhere like golf, sporting events, poker, bars, or anything else that get's him away from the house. At least he's home. For those who prefer visual aides - Mr. Farklepants seen here with three laptops and a Starbucks Grande full of temporary energy... with whip:

So I was all, shhhhhuuuurrre, yeah! I suggest bringing Phoebe along [because, although she knows where her leash is located and knows that in order for that leash to be attached to her collar she needs to sit; walking on her leash is a whole other matter. There's much dragging of and giving in and carrying of the puppy. It's a work in progress - you understand]. And then I add: since we're just going around the neighborhood? Indeed, stated as a questionable fact.

Mr. Farklepants says, no I was thinking of going to Towsley Canyon. This would make it necessary for me to change out of my skirt and flip flops.

Mr. Farklepants and I differ in our definition of walk. If I have to strap on some shoes with traction then walk equals hike. Tomato/Toe-mah-toe? More like, Tomato/Willdabeast.

"Then we should leave Phoebe at home", I say. I didn't want to get a mile into treacherous terrain and have her lay down like, that's all the walking I'm about to do - carry me?

(Forgive me while I use the term "treacherous terrain" loosely. Exaggerate, who?)

The other reason for insisting that Phoebe stay home is that the vet specifically instructed that, since she isn't finished with her vaccinations, she should avoid any areas where other dogs congregate and, more importantly, coyotes roam. Parasite infested coyotes.

At the tail end of our hike, Mr. Farklepants goes into stealth mode and signals to me, "There's something in the grass". He takes aim with his camera and shoots:

Later seen failing at firing a bow and arrow with ACME dynamite strapped to it then painting a realistic tunnel onto the rock face only to be hit by the train that emerged. He was remarkably unscathed.

**photos of trail and coyote by Mr. Farklepants and his super badass camera

Now a Word from Their Sponsors

2009-05-06T22:54:00.000-07:00

We watch a moderate amount of sports in the Farklepants house; namely ~~Tom Brady~~ football, ~~Luke Walton~~ basketball, baseball ? and ~~Tiger Woods~~ golf. And advertisers know their target audience; those who want to get laid and the obstacles that surround them. The winner of the middle aged to older men who suffer from either erectile dysfunction or manhood size impairment demographic goes to the golf camp. It would appear that televised golf is merely a vehicle for ED prescription drugs that you should ask your doctor about, and male enhancement which, if you suffer consult your local herbal nutritional supplement supplier and put a creepy smile on your wife's face.

Advertisers who purchase airtime during basketball broadcasts veer towards those with no problem whatsoever with getting the deed done and have no problem with the operation of their downtown business thankyouverymuch and, in fact, are riddled with sexually transmitted disease - I'm lookin' at you genital herpes. You know the one where the wife is all ~~I banged so many dudes~~ I have herpes, and the husband is all ~~my wife is a big ol' slut~~ and I don't! And the wife is like, I take once daily Valtrex to decrease the chance of infecting my partner. And the husband goes ~~ppffff I still use a condom~~ I'll just smile adoringly at you and your cute herpes.

Then they all frolic in the ocean or give each other that knowing look when their college bound kids make a surprise visit home and secretly curse them for their shitty timing. The part we don't see is where the dad takes the kid aside and is like, dude, next time call. Seriously. I was about to tap that.

The Power of Suggestion

2009-05-04T17:47:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to claim to have the smartest puppy ever but, HELLA SMART! I expected to have never ending tales to weave when we welcomed Phoebe Farklepants into the family, cuz, puppies are messy. But so far the only chewing casualties have been one flip flop and a Nerf gun bullet. I've found that as long as I keep an eye on her she isn't given much chance to get into trouble. It's the luxury I have being home full time.

She loves to go for a ride in the car. When our previous dog, Baby, was a puppy I worked full time up until Boy-Child#1 was born. So I didn't have heck of a lot of time to spend with her during the day. Hence her lack of car rides. Then when Boy-Child#1 came along, then Boy-Child#2 and being straddled with a toddler and an infant and trying to wrangle the infant seat into the stroller and simultaneously keep the toddler from darting into parking lots and traffic or wandering aimlessly; I didn't have the patience or appropriate amount of appendages to corral the dog too. By the time Girl-Child came along, Baby was eight and passed her formative puppy years. And by this time, she hated car rides and leaving the house in general. Any trip we took her on was riddled with chronic heavy panting, visible shaking, and tucked tail for the entire amount of time we were away from home. To say she hated it is an understatement.

This time is different. Learn from our past, I always say. Phoebe joins me when it is time to pick the boys up from school, softball practices and games. She's learned that if she wants to go bye-bye she needs her leash. She's learned that that leash is located on the dining room table. She knows what "bye-bye" means and also knows that if she wants that leash attached to her collar, she has to sit. So she sits.

She also has learned to scratch at the back door when she needs to relive herself. Mostly. I was all set to tell you that, while she's had some setbacks in peeing on the floor, it has been since Wednesday April 18th since she last crapped on the carpet. An event that included Mr. Farklepants jumping up and grabbing her mid-evacuation in order to usher her outside; an event that activated the launch sequence and Phoebe became one who flung pooh. Which came dangerously close to my beloved couch. Which caused hyperventalating and myocardial infarction.

I was all set to tell you that. But while mentally composing this blog post, Phoebe squatted and lost half a pound on my living room carpet. Fortunately it was a firm one.

When the Picture is Worth More than Bloggy Words

2009-04-15T22:51:00.000-07:00

The title of this book? Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank

Frankly? I can't top that.

*photo by Dorothy Z. taken at the Fountain Bookstore in Richmond, Va

If I'd Stayed an Extra Week I Might Have Come Home to Hardwood Floors Too

2009-04-13T22:26:00.000-07:00

The kids and I spent the week leading up to and including Easter, in Virginia visiting the most awesomest brother ever to have lived in the history of siblings. This left Mr. Farklepants to his own devices - where own devices equals spoiling Tootsie like the pretty pampered princess that she is. When many women describe romance they use words like: flowers, candlelit dinners, strolls on the beach at sunset, jewelry, and spooning. Meh, say I. One word that sums up the true meaning of romance for me is: consideration. So when Mr. Farklepants, in my absence, took it upon himself to replace the tires, windshield (that met the business end of a sandstorm on the drive home from out of town one sunny afternoon and was left with a severe pocking), floor mats, complete detailing inside and out, and any scuffs, dings, and scratches magically removed from my car; well, is it any wonder why I had the sudden urge to throw caution to the wind and want to strip nekkid and roll around on him right there in the Bob Hope airport parking lot? You understand what I'm saying. My car was all: sheeeeen sparkle sparkle!

But wait. There's more. ~~David Copperfield~~ Mr. Farklepants had another trick to pull out of his magic hat. He reached in elbow deep and pulled out one of these:

As many of you may remember, our dog and loving family member for thirteen years, Baby passed away on January 19th. It was many weeks before we were even able to discuss the possibility of adopting another and we finally decided that we would resume the conversation after our vacation, because there was no sense in bringing home a new puppy only to leave her for a week. Did you catch that? Resume conversation. Converse. Talk. Discuss. So imagine our surprise upon returning home to find that little ball of fluff, tumble, and cute sitting in the middle of the living room floor!

It turns out that Mr. Farklepants' coworker knows a guy, who knows this guy, who has an ex-wife, who has this daughter, whose daughter has this grandmother who has this dog that had a litter of black lab puppies. And this daughter of this grandmother happened to be passing through our neighborhood while we were out of town and brought the two remaining puppies with her. And Mr. Farklepants swooped up that bundle of perfection to surprise his family.

Vintage Thirty will pause for this moment of awwwwwwwwwwwe...

Now, put five people together in a room to name one puppy and oh. mah. gah. I'll spare the tales of bloodshed and woe.

You've been introduced to Phoebe Farklepants. AKA, blogfodder for years to come.

Before I Go...

2009-04-03T12:03:00.000-07:00

Tootsie and family are leaving to visit family for the week. Speaking of family, my lovely sister in law sent me the following video from Today's Big Thing. It's funny, yo.

See more funny videos and Funny Videos at Today's Big Thing.

Have a great spring break!!!

Hey Son, Van Halen Called. Want to Know When You Can Tour.

2009-03-27T23:01:00.000-07:00

Hi. I became a stage mother. To a rock star. Please to enjoy my bursting pride:

Drink Two of These and Call Me in the Morning

2009-03-21T16:41:00.000-07:00

Boy-Child#2 begins softball season next week and ~~Tootsie will pretend that it hasn't been two weeks since she last updated her blog~~ the family makes a night of what will be known as Tootsie's Preparedness Awareness Program. First stop, a new restaurant in town. The Farklepants' are very excited about this new discovery because A) it isn't a chain restaurant, and B) they take reservations. Unfortunately? Everyone else in town is also very excited about this. This is the Farklepants' second visit to Sabor, and still smarting from their original visit they made without a reservation and the days long wait for a table, Tootsie called ahead to reserve a dining time of......9pm. Because it was either that or 4:30pm and at 4:30pm, Tootsie is still full from lunch.

Tootsie doesn't waste precious time getting down to business with her ~~prescription~~ comically huge margarita.

Which generates a heightened warm and fuzzy feeling for a certain Mr. Farklepants. She is keen on him. And asks you to ignore his mouth full of chips face.

Tootsie reiterates "comically huge".

Three baskets of chips later.... they bring a fourth - and the Farklepants aren't ones to kick it out of bed.

Dinner that's not only mouth watering delicious; it's also fancy. Tootsie's sister had the Enchiladas de Mariscos that were stuffed with crab, shrimp, and little slices of heaven.

Tootsie had the Chile Relleno stuffed with tender chicken breast. Also known as Mmm-mmm served up with a side of GOOD GOD! And Tootsie is happy to report that since she's not accustomed to eating a large meal past 7pm; the heartburn she endured was pleasurable.

**all photos by Dorothy Z.

Open Letter to Very Important People, Part Deux

2009-03-02T20:29:00.000-08:00

Please to enjoy part one here.

Dear Honda Driver,

I realize that navigating one's way through the mammoth area reserved for parking, adjacent to a strip mall that boasts heavily trafficked stores, including but not limited to, Walmart, Old Navy, and a defunct Circuit City can be a might tricky. Those lanes reserved for actual driving? Ignore those. And while we're on the subject; stop signs are for punks. Please continue to drive through vacant parking spaces and pop out of no fecking where. I like this. It's fun. Makes driving kind of like a game of hide 'n seek. Also? My heart was due for an overdose of adrenaline. It's been too long since my hair stood on end. I now understand the Honda slogan, "the fit is go". The car fits in between parked cars and it goes. And those that follow the rules of the road be damned.

Signed,

The Lady in the Lexus with the Very Surprised Look on Her Face who Screamed Oh Shit

*******************************************

Dear Hundred Plus Junior High School Parents,

Believe me when I say that I know what a pain in the ass it is that whoever the city planner was that decided to place the junior high, high school, and one elementary school across the street from each other with one way in and out, and simultaneous dismissal times, with a combined enrollment of approximately FOUR THOUSAND; thought this was a good idea. I get it. They were stoned. It's a colossal joke. It's crowded. And makes things very trafficky and people very impatient-y. Please continue to park curbside on this heavily congested street while you wait for your child to walk down the hill to your car, partially blocking traffic in one of the three lanes offered. Oh, and those "no stopping at anytime" signs? Merely a suggestion, I'm sure.

Sincerely,

The Lady who got Hung Out to Dry when the Light Turned Red while Waiting for you to Finish Your Illegal Parallel Parking Job and who Wouldn't have Risked it if She'd Known you were Going to Throw that Bitch in Reverse

************************************

Dear Straight Up Bitch,

I was absolutely aware that I had a green arrow to turn left. Funny thing I learned in driving school way back in, ooohhhh, high school - when the driver of a vehicle has the right of way they still have to yield to traffic and/or any obstacles. For instance, like what just happened, when the light turned green and the cars in front of me turned into the circular drive in front of the junior high? Yeah, well, the reason I didn't go? Even though I had a green light? Was because there were at least two cars that were still backed up in the intersection and I had NO WHERE TO GO. Here's a little driver's ed tip for you: you aren't supposed to block the intersection. So, thanks for the honk. Always appreciated. But more especially thank you so much for driving around and pulling in front of me. I have to say I got a more than a little pleasure watching you sit there in the middle of the intersection completely hindering the flow of traffic. I laughed a little when you banged on your steering wheel.

Your Truly,

Smiley

p.s. Your car is ugly.

*******************************************

Dear Chatty Cathy,

A lot of people make the choice to not watch the news. I understand. It's been mostly reduced to sensationalism. But there was a law passed last year that makes it illegal to use your hand held cell phone and/or device here in California. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you didn't know. Or maybe it was an emergency and you just HAD to use it. Judging by your obvious laughter at whatever was said; it was a very funny emergency.

Best Wishes,

Where's a Cop When You Need One

Can You Press the Rewind Me Some of That Button? On Your Remote?

2009-02-17T22:05:00.000-08:00

If you're a parent to a small child you're most likely subjected to the occasional Noggin viewing. One show that Girl-Child is partial to is the Upside Down Show. I'm rather fond of it as well. Not for the educational value. Or the songs. Or the interactive quality which permeates today's preschool television programming. No. It is because of David and Shane...oh Shane:

Which? Truth be told? I find...oh let's see... how do you say? Sexy. They make suffering through Yo Gabba Gabba and Wow Wow Wubbzy tolerable.

And here they are again - in an instant replay.

I know. ~~There's something wrong with me~~ You agree.

*photo Google Images / video YouTube

Mamas Don't Let Their Babies Grow Up to Drink Newcastle

2009-02-16T17:20:00.000-08:00

The weather in southern California has been unusual the past couple of weeks. We're not accustomed to rain in these parts and we know that we need it, but after a few days [where few equals: one] we're all, enough already. Because there are several things that southern Californians are unable to do when there is water falling out of the sky. Some of those things include but are not limited to:

Driving
Scheduled field trips
Walk
Leave the house
Drive
Handle their hydroplaning car on the freeway
Remember their umbrella (if they own one)
Operate an umbrella efficiently
Also, drive

We were to attend my sister in law's fortieth birthday party on Saturday. Two hours away from our house. In between storms. Storms that were dumping several feet of snow at the top of the Grapevine. The Grapevine is the I-5 that will take you to Canada if you head north and Mexico if you choose to venture due south. And when the snow covers the Grapevine the Grapevine comes to a screeching halt. It is closed. Out of order. Cerrado [my limited Spanish vocabulary made possible by Sesame Street and a grant from the W.M. Keck Foundation and other sponsors].

The storms were expected to hit Friday night and again Sunday afternoon. This was to be an overnight trip. If we left too early we'd never make it up there. If we made it up there and left too late, we'd never make it home. I'm happy to report that we scheduled our respective departure times accordingly and accurately. We were able to celebrate her fortieth year with a rousing game of Apples to Apples. And a three hour match of...quarters.

The Unknown Imbiber:

The last of which ended with one member puking in the kitchen sink. Because nothing says forty like ~~high school~~ college drinking games with so many rules, drunkards are bound to fail.

*Photo by Dorothy Z. ...rules made by various thumb masters.

And My Creative Juices got Sucked Right Down the Rabbit Hole

2009-02-10T00:00:00.000-08:00

I know. I know. I've sorely neglected my blog. Not only am I not posting daily like the good old days but now I'm lucky if it's once a week [hold on while I check...yep...once a week]. I've over extended myself in all different directions and by the time I find a moment to write I just don't have the creative energy to put finger to keyboard. I get started and then I run out of juice and have to force myself not to write: and then she passed out on her monitor and drooled on the screen, the end.

When Girl-Child, the last of the flock to leave the nest, started kindergarten in the fall; I imagined three glorious me-time hours five days a week. Someone has an overactive imagination. Those hours are quickly scheduled with various whatnot and some of that involves the volunteering that I do at the elementary school. It's not that I don't enjoy it, it's just that sometimes? I just don't wanna. Like yesterday. It was pouring down rain and the last thing I wanted to do was spend the morning with energetic, three foot tall, clingy, grabby, can't follow multi-step instructions, sticky fingered children...that aren't mine except for one.

[Informational aside: the class is run in rotating "centers". One group is in reading, one in math, another group does "seat work" at their desks, and the other is in art center. As the volunteer, I oversee the art center group and help with the seat work while the two teachers run reading and math...now you're up to speed]

And the more time I spend in the kindergarten class the more it becomes glaringly obvious: I could never be a kindergarten teacher. I shall list the reasons:

1) I lack a certain amount of patience. Where certain amount equals: any at all.

2) I am not able to repeat warnings in a sing-songy voice. I'm more of a it's my way or the highway kind of grown-up.

3) The little girl that has made a career in keeping me informed of who isn't doing their work, and who hasn't written their name on their paper, and who didn't color their paper as instructed, and who forgot their homework folder, and who was absent yesterday, and who just blew their nose and the hue and consistency of what landed in that tissue? That little girl, bugs the everloving crap out of me. And I can barely contain myself from telling her to mind her own damn business and no one ever liked a tattle-tale. [ Hello, have we met? I'm 37 going on 10]

4) The little girl who tells people where they can sit, and who can sit with whom, and who she'll be gracing her presence with to play with that day, and who she won't, and who would like for me to read all the riddles from her yogurt container to her? Is in for a rude awakening. Tootsie is not going to read to the little girl who wouldn't let Tootsie's daughter sit next to her at the art center table. That little girl is lucky Tootsie didn't push her down.

5) The little boy who simply will not do his work but would like to distract the others' from doing theirs? Yeah, he's not ready for kindergarten. If he hasn't got with the program by now, he ain't a gettin'. Send him home and away from me. And also? I'm not motivated to encourage him. In fact, I don't give a fricken frack.

6) That boy who hums CONSTANTLY?!!? Yeah, that needs to stop.

7) My threshold for girls that CRY OVER EVER SINGLE REAL OR IMAGINED THING is excessively low. Man the hell up, Damsel in Distress. There is no sense in crying over glue on your finger. Or the lack of pink handled scissors. Or Monday.

8) Projectile Boy: crayons are not missiles. Nor are pencils. Or whateverthehellelse it is you're throwing across the room.

9) Rainy day schedule. Inside recess - need I say more?

Raise your hand if you're glad that a certain someone is not the parent volunteer in your child's classroom.

She Failed to Mention the Most Important Aspect

2009-02-02T04:00:00.000-08:00

Friday night I joined my best girlfriends for dinner to ~~finally exchange our Christmas gifts~~ try a new Chinese restaurant in town. Not traditional Chinese fare, but that more modern overpriced but still pretty good, kind. Super martinis. And we've reached that age where we discuss, what else? Our health. Things like, I have this new mole I think the doctor should see. And, how long we had to wait for a referral to the dermatologist. And, decent health care coverage. Exciting things like that. I complained about how I've seemed to develop some kind of chronic dry eye and how applying 1-2 drops of Visine Tears as needed was not doing my mascara any favors every 30 minutes or so. So my girlfriend fills us in on her daily vitamin and supplement routine recommended by her doctor; part of which includes the fish and omega-3 fatty acids oil something or other. And how since she's started this, not only has it relieved HER dry eyes, but her skin as well. And I was all, sign me up!

I picked some up during my regular trip to the grocery yesterday [note to self: don't ever visit the grocery store on Super Bowl Sunday one hour before kick off ever again in your life ever because you've made it this far in life without, ya know, murdering someone - let's keep it that way...mmmmkay?] . Plus it was buy one get one free and I was set! The directions state to take one gel capsule with each meal. So after my hearty lunch of, um, Quaker Oatmeal Squares cereal, I took my first capsule.

About 45 minutes later I would have sworn I'd eaten salmon for lunch. And for the next 8 hours, ladies and gentlemen, I belched fish. And probably won't be able to eat salmon again as long as I live.

That 8 hour belch fest was in the comfort of my own home. What about when I'm in public and try to do one of those lady-like discreet, under her breath and no that wasn't me, burpettes? There's no masking that. These things have legs. They have bite.

And those two full bottles of omega-3? They are currently in my father's possession. He's a man. He can pull off a fish burp.

Hair - Not the Love Rock Musical - and With Less Nudity

2009-01-27T20:00:00.000-08:00

Or more accurately; stuff you put on yer hair. I have been a major supporter of Sleek.look smoothing shampoo and conditioner by Matrix for about two years running now.

As is Glamour Magazine, obviously.

It can be found ONLY IN SALONS. At least, that's what they tell you. I don't usually like to point out when one's pants are on fire, but it can also be found in select beauty supply stores. And Target. And Vons. But, ya know, whatevs. I do the beauty supply store route because you can get the economy size for the same price as the heroin chic version found in salons. And Target. And Vons. And it lasts just shy of forever. Especially if you turn it upside down and drain the everloving life out of it. Until you have to accept that it really is empty and has just become a trash item in your shower stall.

But what's a girl to do when she finds herself out of shampoo and doesn't want to drive the three miles to the mall to get more? [It's not really that I don't want to drive; it's more like I can't walk out of the mall with just that. I'm too tempted to pick up a pair of shoes or a bag or a pair of jeans to go with my hair care products. And with the credit and debit card still smarting from Christmas; I don't want to give Mr. Farklepants a stroke. Because I'm thoughtful like that.]

So I tried to find a suitable substitute in the grocery store. Even though it goes against everything I believe in when it comes to hair products. But I did it quick. Like pulling off a band aid. And I went with the Bed Head Moisture Maniac shampoo. Fruity scent aside, I'm really likin' this.

Particularly coupled with the Joico K-PAK conditioner.

And the "silky hair that does just what I want it to with very little effort to beat it into submission" factor allows me to overlook its fruity scent. [Note to manufacturers: Try soap scented. I don't like smelling like a summer melon, thanks.]

Mr. Farklepants is not crazy about the shampoo. In his words it "feels like he never washed his hair by the end of the day". But he doesn't use the conditioner in addition to it so I can't be held responsible for his lack of enthusiasm to get behind this product.

*Matrix photos courtesy of Google Images

Now a Little Something From the Keyword Activity Files

2009-01-25T15:07:00.000-08:00

I haven't checked the search terms in my stat counter that bring people to my blog in quite some time. And frankly, I should do this more often. That's just free entertainment, people. Let's cut right to the chase, shall we? **all typos and improper grammar are intentional**

1. Canadian Girl Doll vs. American Girl Doll

Now I don't know what image this conjures up for you but I picture a boxing ring. The Canadian doll wears a maple leaf on her chest like Superman's "S" and the American Girl doll is wearing the US flag as a cape. The American Girl is taunting, "bring it biatch!" and the Canadian Girl is all, "how did I get here, eh? What's all this aboot?".

2. Do bed bugs come from pee and juice on the couch?

First, ew. And then I'm going to wager - neither. And also? Wouldn't those be couch bugs and what's a bed got to do with it?

3. Fun things to do with your American Girl Doll

You mean besides boxing? Nine times out of ten they probably end up like any other kind of doll: naked and in compromising positions.

4. Do Olympic gymnast wear pads or tampons?

I think the answer fairly obvious but fortheloveofgod why would someone need to know this?

5. Vintage sex animation

Hey. Whatever gets your motor running. Who am I to judge?

6. If your 21 and still don't have facial hair is something wrong?

AND...

7. My daughters have facial hair

These two should talk.

And our winner:

8. Naughty Allie giving sweet whipcream humdinger

Naughty Allie doesn't live here but tell us more about this sweet whipped cream humdinger!

It's January. Dry Much?

2009-01-21T09:05:00.000-08:00

Alternate Title: The Bathroom Cabinet Chronicles: Partie une (That's French for Part One because I'm fancy)

Ahem.

The middle of winter can be really hard on your skin. And here in Southern California the forecast is harsh:

Okay. But it's a brutally dry seventy-five degrees. And my skin has been all, WTF cracked and scaly? And Lubriderm is just not cutting the mustard. So I set about finding something with a little more...huevos. Something that could withstand 10% humidity and 13 MPH winds. Because, Lord knows, with weather like this, who can bend their fingers what with all the dry? Plus? A skirt coupled with ashy legs scares the kids.

Behold the vat of Eucerin! It's 16 ounces but weighs five pounds, just trust me. One tub should get you through the winter. Apply liberally to hands, feet, elbows, and the often neglected chest - because how else to get rid of those unsightly wrinkly betwixt the boob creases from side sleeping - and who knows what I'm talking about? Your eyes are not always the first signs of age; I'm just sayin. It's a known fact that moisturized skin appears younger - because that is what all the beauty magazines tell us.

Speaking of eyes, have you ever ~~scrutinized~~ glimpsed a picture of yourself and thought, what in THE hell has happened to my eyes? That's okay. You don't have to admit it out loud. And did you then think to yourself, it's time to build a weapons arsenal to go all daisy cutter on the offensive surrounding area? Well, so did I. And build it I did. To recap:

To any ancient Spaniards that may still roam the New World: The fountain of youth is not a well in Florida, Juan Ponce de Leon! It's aisle twelve in your local Target.

Another also? This is why it takes 45 minutes for me to get ready for bed - and we haven't even discussed cleansing the face prior to application of all of the above.

Join us tomorrow for our next installment... focus: hair.

Her Name Was Baby...

2009-01-19T18:29:00.001-08:00

The Farklepants family lost a dear friend today. She was a member of our family for thirteen years this month.

She was Boy-Child#1's best friend.

She was my lone companion while the kids were in school and Mr. Farklepants was at work.

She loved underpants and had an ongoing not so secret love affair with the cardboard centers of toilet paper and paper towel rolls.

She frequently raided the pantry.

And the trash.

She enjoyed stashing prepackaged snacks into the corners of the sofa.

She was known to steal a roast or the Thanksgiving turkey carcass right off the counter.

She hated the vet and, in the office, would stand on her hind legs and wrap her arms around my neck whenever she had to go there.

She thought she was a lap dog. She weighed nearly one hundred pounds.

She liked to be in whichever room we were all in.

She slept in our room.

She liked to chase rabbits and birds.

She didn't like to leave the house.

She was often the thorn in my side and the straw that broke this camel's back.

She often slept on our beds when we left the house.

She always greeted us upon our return.

She enjoyed helping me do laundry, fold clothes, take a shower, cook dinner, bring in the groceries.

She did NOT enjoy helping me vacuum or blow dry my hair.

She was not a fan of bodies of water, rain, snow, or wind.

Cell phones drove her mad. So did air compressors. And vacuums. And hair dryers.

She scared the bejesus out of the pizza delivery guy. And the UPS man.

She was as gentle as a lamb even if she looked super ferocious.

Her bed lay empty. Yesterday's food still sits in her dish.

We were all with her in her final moments.

And there is a hole in my heart now that she's gone.

I miss you Baby. We miss you. May you rest in peace you sweet Baby, you.

The Universe Called, There's Been a Change of Plans

2009-01-12T15:45:00.000-08:00

Today started like any other back to school after a long break day. Three weeks is a long winter break; and while the first two weeks were filled with exciting events like Christmas and a trip to Disneyland, this last week brought about a raging case of cabin fever for all three kids [and one mother who had had it up to *here* and who also likes to preach to the choir - can I get an amen?].

The morning was a balmy 75 degrees, clear blue skies, and a breeze coming from the north-east. I dropped two of the children off at the elementary school and then it was off to the junior high. Idling in gridlock traffic because - Note to city planner: Whose idea was it to situate the high school and junior high and one (not ours) elementary school across the street from each other with a combined enrollment of approximately FIVE THOUSAND?!?! With only one way in and one way out? So that it takes 30 minutes round trip to take my son to school only 1.5 miles from my home? - ahem... oh, yes...Idling in gridlock traffic I was silently berating myself for electing to volunteer in Girl-Child's kindergarten class for the morning because it would have been really nice to have the house to myself for the first time in three weeks, even if only for just three hours. Nice and quiet.

I've often noted that with the high volume of traffic I deal with on a daily basis each morning and afternoon just to get my son to and from school, and the number of fender benders I'm witness to; it would only be a matter of time before I was involved in one myself...

And who knows where this is going?

I dropped my son off and made my way through the circular drive and waited to pull into traffic. My view was hindered by a city bus depositing an assload of teenagers. I inched forward waiting to see if all was clear. I determined it was and cautiously accelerated only to have to stop abruptly when a car whipped around the bus, darting into my lane. The car behind me? Not so much with the stopping. There was the telltale CRUNCH and I was all...well...it rhymes with DUCK.

We got out to survey the damage and fortunately I only lost a tail light. And also fortunately the driver? My neighbor from across the street - boy did he have egg on his face. So once we knew who each other were, and he knew I wouldn't slap him with a bogus whiplash claim, and I knew where to find him when I needed the bill paid for the light; we were all - see ya on the cul de sac homeslice [or at least I think that's what he said since he speaks very little English. He probably straight up called me a whore in Korean].

Now I was running late to make it to Girl-Child's class on time and I was about as NOT in the mood to deal with 30 kindergarteners fresh back from a three week vacation as I could be. But, I'd made the commitment. I relayed my accident news to Mr. Farklepants and then jumped in the shower. I was in the midst of prettying up when the phone rang.

Oh, what. the. hell. now-uh?

"Mrs. Farklepants? This is the nurse from the junior high. We have your son in here. He took a nasty spill and hit his head on a trash bin in the cafeteria. He's got quite a... (insert my visions of HORROR here...blood? Gash? Spurting? Stitches? Brain matter?) ...nasty bump on his head and you should probably pick him up and have him see a doctor and keep him home for observation".

Oh. Well, of course. Because obviously this day is just a test for how well I'll perform once I get to hell.

Who Needs an American Girl Doll When You've Got These?

2009-01-07T22:29:00.000-08:00

Remember way back in April of 2008 when Tootsie wrote about her Cousin K? Well, trust her - she did. And here is what she said:

Vanilla candles: No matter where I am when I encounter this scent, I'm immediately flooded with memories of spending time at my Cousin K's house, as a child in the 1970's. She's really my mother's cousin and has always been more of an "aunt" to me, but I've always called her "Cousin K" [there's more to her name than "K" but, you know, anonymity being what it is]. There are the copper bracelets she wore, the white four poster bed that I eventually inherited, the little Russian wooden dolls that opened to reveal a smaller doll and so on until the tiniest carved version emerged, the step down den, the fruit trees in the backyard, and the crazy jigsaw coffee table that I could crawl around in like a maze. You know how you can look back on your childhood and there was that ONE adult that stood above the rest? Yeah, it was like that. And, K, if you're reading this please will your copper bracelets to me. If they're still around. I promise to cherish them.

As noted, she is not Tootsie's first cousin, she is her mother's cousin; but Tootsie's family is not one to split hairs. So, way back when Tootsie looked like this:

...and indulged in such things as ~~Magic Mountain~~ African Safaris with declawed, defanged, drugged kings of the ~~extreme petting zoo~~ jungle; she also played with Russian nesting dolls at her cousin K's house.

Flash forward thirty-ish years later.

Cousin K came to visit over New Years:

(Everyone say hello to Tootsie's not first cousin but who is concerning themselves with lineage anyway - Cousin K!)

And Tootsie's not first cousin but who is concerning themselves with lineage anyway - Cousin K brought with her THE Russian nesting dolls. Not "some" but The. Same. Exact. Ones. If you don't know what the hell Tootsie is talking about she will walk you through the explanation step-by-step, ahem:

A little wooden doll with a secret. And that secret is inside.

What the?!?... Surprise!

And that secret has a secret.

But wait! There's more! If you act now, that secret within a secret is harboring a - you guessed it - secret of ITS own. If you're as ~~fascinated~~ confused as Tootsie was then it's helpful to name them.

And finally, Pickles Larue reveals the final secret in this ~~simple~~ complex journey through toys manufactured in the former USSR: Gorky Puddin-Pie.

...You want to know something super special? With all of her fancy baby dolls, and My Little Ponies, and advanced technological toys; Tootsie's Girl-Child is just as in awe of the Russian nesting dolls as Tootsie was herself. Thirty-ish years ago.

It's a Small Cramped World After All

2008-12-31T00:30:00.000-08:00

When my mother in law inquired about gifts to get the kids and I for Christmas I was all: Disneyland! She's the type of person who likes to give THE gift and since the cost of admission for a family equals one arm and a couple of legs; this was something I knew she'd be on board with. That woman came though. With "park hoppers". For those of you who don't live in California or aren't familiar with this term, it means the tickets can be used for Disneyland and its next door neighbor, Disney California Adventure.

So yesterday I threw the kids into the car then swung by my parents house and grabbed my sisters...

(Everyone say hi to Tootsie's sisters)

...by their cute, stylish hair and shoved them in; and off we went to the ~~most crowded~~ happiest place on Earth. Living in southern California, I've been to Disneyland countless times. And I know I've been when it ISN'T jammed with huddled masses. I also have learned the best kept secret to avoid this and I'll share it with you: go on Super Bowl Sunday. But I rarely listen to myself. And yesterday was not February 1st, 2009. Yesterday was apparently the day everyone on the planet went to Disneyland. And two-thirds of those people brought a stroller [and a quarter of them decided to skip deodorant altogether]. Seriously, there should be some kind of park restriction regarding the number of strollers allowed. If I were in charge of Disneyland that rule would be as follows:

Only strollers provided by the park are permitted
Keep the number of strollers on the low side
Once they've been allocated that's all there is
The end.

Utilizing a stroller does not necessarily signify that the person actually has an infant or child to fit the need of having such. It often means that they just have a lot of crap they like to wheel around and keep handy. And muck up the traffic flow.

Did I mention everyone in the world was at Disneyland yesterday?

We had a brief reprieve when half the park lined Main Street for the parade. We took advantage and ate dinner in peace [Editor's note: Mr. Farklepants drove out and bought an admission ticket just to have dinner with us at Disneyland. That's right. You heard me. What you've just witnessed here, people, is a Christmas miracle] But then the parade ended and it was like someone opened another dimention - filled with people - that arrived wearing more people surrounded by walls of people and apparently held mating seminars producing more ~~strollers~~ people.

We spent the majority of our time waiting in line. [for you East coasters: waiting ON line] In line for:

The tram from the parking garage to the park
The security checkpoint
To buy tickets for my sisters because I currently hold the title of Dumbest Person Ever because I didn't buy them online
To enter the park
To eat breakfast
40 minutes for Pirates of the Caribbean
For snacks and drinks
40-60 minutes, respectively, for Peter Pan, Big Thunder Mountain, Alice in Wonderland, Matterhorn, and something else I forget
To eat dinner
For ice cream
75 minutes for Space Mountain that was abruptly aborted about an hour in because, tired.
To catch the tram back to the car

Fun fact: Disneyland has a first aid center that will happily dole out aspirin if you walk in and ask for it. They will inquire if you have a headache and you will have to exercise restraint and refrain from saying, no, I was just wondering.

Know this: Tuesday, December 30th 2008 was the last time Tootsie would ever ride the Teacups. Holy Queasy Batman!

Know this sub-category: If you are in Tomorrowland during the Main Street Parade you are stuck there until it ends.

Not seen: Any of the Disney Princesses. They were probably ~~crushed to death~~ smothered by all those ~~strollers~~ people.

What this post doesn't tell you: A great time was had by all despite the ~~strollers~~ carbon based herd. Because Disneyland equals: Magic.

P.S. We're going back next week for ~~stroller wars~~ Disneyland California Adventure.

Flattery Can Get You a Review

2008-12-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

I've never done a book review on this blog. Or any review of any kind, for that matter, unless it was a product that I already use myself; like tampons, pancake mix, or various beauty products. In other words, stuff you'd find lying around my house. I've never done a review when solicited and I've had my fair share of offers over the last few months. The reason for that is two-fold [and really I just wanted to say two-fold because I like to sound important]:

This just isn't that kind of blog. If you're looking for product reviews, there are literally thousands of blogs already dedicated to that.
What if I accept and am disappointed in whatever it is that was to be reviewed? Do I go ahead and exercise brutal honesty? Am I obligated to write the review regardless? Or do I act as if I never received the product and then stonewall whomever it is that sent it by not answering? Or do I notify the solicitor and say, look, it kinda sucked, should I say that or should we pretend this never happened?
It has to be worth my while: I'm not opposed to doing a review for a Disney Cruise to the Bahamas for a family of five.

As far as number one goes: I use this blog for my entertainment and yours. And who needs the kind of stress that number two offers? I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings and no one wants to be hurt. And number three? A PlayStation 3 would be nice too. So I've declined. Or flat out ignored [which is rude, I know, but again with the hurt feelings thing].

A few of weeks ago I received an email from author and teacher, Phillip Done.

Dear Tootsie,
Congratulations on being chosen for All Top's Mom Bloggers! Three of my mommy blogging friends told me to not even bother e-mailing you because your blog is on the All Top's List. But I decided to write to you anyway. My name is Phil Done. I'm an award-winning elementary school teacher in Palo Alto, CA (www.phillipdone.org) and author of 32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny: Life Lessons from Teaching. Since you are a mother of three, I thought that you might get a kick out of this glimpse into the elementary classroom. The book, which is very popular with parents, is a humorous and poignant collection of essays covering a year in third grade. May I send you a copy? Ideally, I'd love a review on Vintage Thirty. Even if you don't want a book, could you e-mail back so I can tell my three friends they were wrong. :o) Thanks so much! I look forward to hearing from you.
Best,
Phil Done

You see that? That's a triple dog dare! And I am a mother of three, one of whom is a third grader, and? Bonus points for incorporating the smiley face emoticon. So I answered him, he sent me a book, and his friends bought him dinner. Everybody wins.

The book is a collection of observations and experiences in the third grade classroom from a twenty year teaching veteran. I volunteer in Boy-Child#2's third grade classroom every week and this book is pretty spot on. It's 288 pages of everything your child does in class. Or doesn't do. It shows how valuable a good teacher is and how that teacher can make a difference in a child's life. Or visa versa.

The chapter that had me laughing out loud is dedicated to those parents [we all know at least one] and is the main reason I never became a teacher. That and I'm not that crazy about other people's kids which is kind of a drawback if one wishes to teach. Children. I mean, I have to visit my tremendous place of courage just to tolerate my own some days. So moderate amounts of cash thrown in my general direction to spend the day with thirty non-blood related kids does not sweeten the pot.

If you're the parent of a third grader or older, you'll appreciate this book. If your children are still too young or are approaching third grade, use it as a guide and heed the warnings. For instance, did you know that your child's teachers know way too much about you? Kids talk. About everything.

P.s. Disney, call me.

Exhibit A for Argument in Favor of a Cuss Jar

2008-12-26T21:10:00.000-08:00

My dog. Ain't she sweet? Fortunately she's cute. And we love her. Because this dog? Is trying to kill me. She does this thing were she has to be exactly where I am at all times. If I'm bringing the groceries in from the garage, she will lay down about three steps in from where I'd come through the door. So that I don't see her until I've taken one giant step forward and have to do this little side step, jump, hop, skip to keep from stomping her. If I'm unloading the dryer, she will sit directly behind me so that when I open the dryer door, pull out the contents and step back, I will have to pull some pretty impressive maneuvers to keep from squashing her. If I'm in the shower she will lay in front of the door. And I basically have to yell at her to move so I can get out [personally, I think she likes to see me naked because sometimes I catch her and she does this thing like she's pretending she's not looking].

If I'm walking down the stairs she will walk ahead of me. And I'll be going along at a pretty good clip and she will suddenly stop. Just BAM! Stop. And I have to grab onto the wall to keep from going ass over tea kettle over her and down the stairs.

[Speaking of stairs, you know how walking down the stairs is kind of just something you do and not something you have to actually think about; like breathing? Have you ever thought about it while you're descending the staircase? Well, don't. Once you start picturing left foot, right foot, next step; it will jack your shit up. And you look kind of dumb when it becomes obvious you've forgotten how to walk down stairs. Not that I would know anything about that.]

She's a heavy breather and she follows me around doing this hhhhhh hhhhhh hhhhhh thing. Which comes from the pit of her bowels and smells like death. I keep thinking she needs a bath but that odor is from the inside. She's old and apparently rotting. A breath mint won't cut it and I'm pretty sure that even the Tidy Bowl Man isn't brave enough for that adventure.

Sometime during the night on Christmas Eve she was either mad at me, or us, or Jesus, or Santa. Or she wanted coffee in a bad way. And we were met with the contents of our kitchen garbage strewn about the floor. Why don't dogs get in the trash when there aren't coffee grounds in there?

Plus it rained the last two days and I'm pretty sure that she's intentionally going outside just to bring in extra mud followed by more mud. And who's bright idea was it to put cream colored carpet in this house? Oh. Right.

Fricken dog.

Keeping With the Christmas Theme

2008-12-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

The holiday season is about tradition. For some it's religion and others, Santa Claus. For some it's about celebration and spending time with extended family. For others it's the presents. And some are in it for the snacks. And for many it's all of the above. Tradition means different things for different people. So Bill O'Reilly and his war on Christmas can suck it. If I want to celebrate Jesus Christ's birthday by giving my dad an OralB Pulsonic and wish him a happy holidays in the process; well, I think Jesus would be chill with that. But I digress, ridiculous.

Tradition. Note the following:

We are the Farklepants women. And when it comes to Christmas in our family, we run the show. We are ~~dieting~~ large and in charge. [We've also, collectively, produced FOURTEEN CHILDREN -soon to be fifteen - please take a moment to chew on that. The idea, not the children, nom-nomable as they are] Many years ago, let's say twelve-ish, one of my sisters in law and I held the first of many annual Farklepants Christmas parties. Actually, that's a fat lie [do you smell burning pants?]. The first was held by a beloved aunt who has since passed away, but when it became evident that because of - how do I say this? certain complications - my sister in law and I took the reigns. Eventually we ~~threatened with bodily harm~~ recruited the other sisters in law and cousins in host rotation.

It's a beautiful arrangement. As I mentioned in yesterday's post: Mr. Farklepants has a huge family. And hosting this annual event is akin to organizing a large family reunion. The planning involved should not rest on the shoulders of one super terrific lady. Every. Single. Year. See, the last time I had to host was in 2005. It won't be my turn again until ~~I turn forty~~ 2011.

We choose an arbitrary Saturday in December to have the party. This way, the whole family is able to get together and not have to feel guilty about whom they do or don't spend Christmas day with. That's the theory anyway. Guilt often knows no bounds.

What is one of your holiday traditions?

After Twelve Years, I Finally Got My Crap Together

2008-12-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

Every year I say I'm going to scale back on gifts for the kids and every year, I fail. Because I do this thing. I try to make the number of gifts each child receives even. So I put them in their little designated piles [the presents, not the kids - although, I may be on to something there] and start comparing. And inevitably, I'm off. One will have too many amount-wise or one will have the coolest thing that belittles all the others. I try to figure all this out long enough before Christmas so that I'm not out scrambling at the last minute...you know, with all the men.

[Observational aside: Single ladies! If you want to know where to find men, forget the bar and hit the mall on Christmas Eve. Just sayin']

So while I'm failing at being able to count while I'm shopping; the gift piles grow. Too large.

[Observational aside, part deux: I know the economy is FUBAR right now and those out there that are being hit the hardest by it are all, gee I wish I had your problems. And you know what? I wish you did too.]

And every year I stress that I may have screwed it up and every year I apparently forget that Mr. Farklepants has a huge ~~Christmas fund financial hemorrhage~~ family.

(Farklepants annual Christmas party. And this isn't all of them. I know what you're thinking: there are enough children there to start our own school. Believe me, we know. We're a fertile bunch. In fact, there's a bun in a Farklepants oven hidden in that picture. Hint: not me. It's comforting to know that the family has not dropped the ball on our quest for world domination.)

And those people buy gifts for my children. Usually more than one each. And by the time Christmas Eve rolls around the scene around our tree looks like a Macy's window display. A very gaudy, over-indulgent window display. In other words, it looks like Christmas exploded in our house.

This year I remembered and reeled it in. And this still happened:

Ninety percent of those gifts were not bought by us. Not pictured: gifts from MY family. You didn't actually want to enter this room did you? Because there's only one way to do it and that won't happen until Christmas morning.

P.s. This photo does not do the situation any justice whatsoever. I cannot get an angle on it that really captures the essence of extravagance.

Oh, Right. I Have a Blog!

2008-12-16T20:40:00.000-08:00

Well, hi! Why didn't someone tell me that Christmas is next week? Who did I put in charge of that and who is getting fired?

I totally picked the wrong month to take a week off from the living to fall head first into a book. Correction: four books. Which, you already know because that post (the previous) has been up for nearly a week. I finished the final one on Monday, however, it would have been Sunday night except I took some Comtrex PM for this sort of cold that I have. It's not even powerful enough to earn the title of "common cold". It wants to be a cold. It's kind of this post nasal drip thingy coupled with a tickley [not a word but totally acurate description] throat that causes a cough but not a serious cough but enough to make my eyes tear and feels like I need a glass of water to relieve it but that doesn't do anything whatsoever. So, Comtrex PM. That's a powerful elixir and will knock you out. Like a ninja. A very dehydrated, suck all the moisture out of your body, ninja. Makes Nyquil look like cooking sherry. Or Zima.

After my day of mourning over reading the final book and knowing that there isn't another one ready to follow; some things occurred to me. Stuff like, oh yeah, Christmas is next week! And that I need to send out my Christmas cards but, durr, first I have to, ya know, buy them. And if I'd like my nephew, on the other side of the continental US, have a little something to open from his aunt and uncle, then someone had better get herself down to the UPS and make with the shipping. Of course, it needed wrapping first. Naturally.

Speaking of wrapping, we'll be seeing Mr. Farklepants' family this Saturday. All of them. Which means all of their gifts need to be wrapped and ready to go. Did I mention the SIZE of his family? They account for three quarters of ~~our Christmas debt~~ the ~~unwrapped and neglected~~ gifts. The good news there is that once that retail mountain is gone I'll have like eight things to wrap.

And I guess the kids are doing without the Advent Calenders this year. Because someone never bought any. Because someone was selfish and sucks a little bit.

**I apologize for the stellar craptasticness of this post but I'm under self imposed stress and am trying like the dickens not to take it out on my family because it's Christmastime and that requires that I keep my bitch level way down here [for those playing along at home that means I'm keeping it at waist level. Like when someone has had it up to here meaning they can't tolerate a level of stress or aggravation above their forehead as indicated by their pointing to it...same thing only kicking it down a few notches]. You know, for the kids.

Something Bit Me

2008-12-10T21:37:00.001-08:00

I apologize for my severe case of blog neglect. It's just that...well...

Saturday afternoon and Monday night I had a rendezvous with this:

Then Tuesday afternoon, um, until 2:30am and large chunks of Wednesday were spent with my nose in this:

Now we're here:

Soon to be there:

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Trials and Tribulations of Picture Taking

2008-12-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

Anyone who is a parent to more than one child knows how difficult it is to capture that perfect picture. Of all of them. Together. One on their own is hard enough, but when you throw three of them into the mix, well - one will blink, two will smile, one will move, one will crack up, the other two won't smile, one will look in the opposite direction, two will look in separate directions, all three will be looking at anything other than the camera - you get my point. Or need I say more?

First there are the test shots of the test shots. Aaaannd...she's looking at the wrong camera.

(photo by Dorothy Z. and her Nikon D40)

Here Boy-Child#1 cooperates while his brother and sister are too busy watching their crazy mother try to coax an authentic smile from them. [we won't say the mother's name out loud but it rhymes with footsie] All parents know that at some point in your career raising small children you will be required to act a fool IN PUBLIC on more than one occasion. And the antics are limitless. And while Girl-Child thinks her mother is a riot; it's clear that Boy-Child#2 thinks she's ridiculous and should knock it off.

(photo by Dorothy Z.)

Sigh. Girl-Child just can't let it go.

(photo by Dorothy Z.)

Even though I really love how Boy-Child#2 is looking at his sister, he's not - ya know - looking at the camera.

(photo by Dorothy Z.)

Here someone was caught in a blink and someone else wants you all to know that she lost a tooth.

(photo by Dorothy Z.)

Better. A little oddly spaced and a My Little Pony happy meal toy has been smuggled in, but anytime all three sets of eyes are looking in the same direction and everyone is smiling it's a possibility.

(photo by Dorothy Z.)

Clearly they weren't ready. Boy-Child#1 ponders the meaning of life. Girl-Child looks like she just heard a Werewolf howl and might have to pee a little bit, and Boy-Child#2 does look a little constipated. But happy about it.

(photo by Mr. Farklepants)

Boys? You're great! Girl? WTH? And is it just me or has Boy-Child#2 nailed the Sears Catalog pose? Again, too far apart but at this point we'd been at it a while.

(photo by Mr. Farklepants and his Canon EOS 40D)

We have a winner! Smiles? Check. Looking at camera? Check. Proper subject placement? Good enough check. No one fell in the water? Check. [No, seriously, we put them right on the edge. On a downward slope. Cause we're smart like that. And when I say we I mean: Mr. Farklepants]

(photo by Dorothy Z.)

There were over one hundred shots and trust me, although there were a few to choose from, this was the best one. Join us again [date to be determined] for another installment of the Nikon v Canon wars. Where there is always bloodshed. And tears. And hurled insults. And memory card theft.

P.s. Yes, Jason, we were in your neighborhood and you'll be happy to know that it is a very popular location for picture taking. We like totally had to wait our turn. And about the parking...

The Year McDonalds Ruined Christmas

2008-12-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

We have a tradition here in the Farklepants household. Every year when we buy our Christmas tree we pick up McDonalds for dinner. Actually, I hate McDonalds but that's not the point. The Christmas tree lot that we have been frequenting for the last, oh, eight or so years, is adjacent to McDonalds. Or at least, it was. Because this year McDonalds is closed for remodeling. And when they say remodeling they mean tearing the sucker down and digging up the asphalt with ~~a herring~~ a backhoe. Which creates all kinds of safety hazards for Christmas tree shopping. For instance, if the tree lot were actually there, we'd have to scale the Andy Gump chain link fence to get in. Because, all access denied.

This meant having to scout out a new location to shop. And I don't know if you've met my paranoia when it comes to all things: my car? In case you hadn't heard, it is epic. Strapping seven feet of sticks and needles to the top of my SUV causes panic attacks where you'll find me cowering in the passenger seat and covering my ears going lalalalalalalala every time we turn a corner and I can hear movement on the roof. So when finding a new Christmas tree lot it is imperative that it be as close to our home as is possible. Because I would like that thing to spend five minutes or less riding my automobile.

In all our years of Christmas tree purchases, we've yet to lose one on the ride home. But that doesn't stop us from, every year, watching it like a hawk and going is it moving? Is it sliding? Does it seem to be much farther right than it was when we started? Should I open the sunroof and hold on? Can you reach it if you stick your hand out the window? Drive sloooowwwwer. Stop smooooother. Oh shit! Speed bump! It'll bounce! It'll scratch my car! [okay, the last part was just me]

You can see the kind of stress this creates. Hey kids! Isn't Christmas tree shopping just so much fun with mommy and daddy? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. What was that?

Eventually a lot was found. And so was a tree. About that: each year in the Farklepants house you will hear this exchange: I think this is the best tree we've ever had (followed by) I concur. This year? Well, we found a tree that met most of our criteria. Decent height, although a bit shorter that we like. A Noble Fir, but a little too full for practical ornament hanging purposes. And there does seem to be a higher rate of needle loss.

Because it's tradition, a trip to McDonalds was in order. Although, no where near the tree lot. So the tree went home first and then the car was free to pick up dinner.

In the drive-through at McDonalds:

Me: What do you guys want?
Boy-Child#1: Big Mac
Boy-Child#2: Cheeseburger and fries
Girl-Child: A pony.

And wouldn't you freakin' know it? The Happy Meal toy was a My Little Pony figurine. That Girl. She's magic.

**Hat tip to Mr. Farklepants for the title and idea for this blog post when I told him that I didn't know what to write about and he's all, how about how McDonalds ruined Christmas? He's helpful like that.

***Construction Photos by Dorothy Z. and a thank you to the family for allowing to be schlepped over to the construction zone since we were already out taking pictures of the kids for Christmas cards. And also for their patience while we hit up the Starbucks too.