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

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

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

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

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.