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

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.

Sand, Surf, and All Out Brawling

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.

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

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:

You Carly, iCarly, iWatch iCarly

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".

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

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

The Family that Parties Together Travels Back in Time Together

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.

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

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!

At Least They Built a Tram to Get You There

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.

ACME Kite Kit Not Included

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

The Power of Suggestion

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.

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

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.

Drink Two of These and Call Me in the Morning

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.

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.

Her Name Was Baby...

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

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?

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.

Keeping With the Christmas Theme

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

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.

All We Can Do Now is Call a Priest and Make Sure it's Comfortable

The television in the boys' bedroom is dying. It started with a few wavy lines like when you tried to watch porn through the scrambled channel when you were younger. Yes way you did, don't lie. [of course, it doesn't work that way anymore because now when you encounter a channel that you don't pay for it's just blank with the words "you must subscribe to view this channel contact your local provider, etc", so our children are saved from jumbled yet discernible sex-having, viewing. Now they have the internet. Fastidious parents need apply] And about that, they really should have done something about the audio while they were busy making sure you couldn't see almost some of everything. I learned so much from hearing what I wasn't allowed to watch. Sorry for the digression through Smut-ville...

The tv. The wavy lines grew heavier and then the color became ultra saturated. And now if something too bright (i.e. outdoor shots) airs, it makes this god awful humming/buzzing sound. And the brightness blows out the color and it's like looking into the sun. Yet still, they watch. Heh. After fiddling with the wires, outputs, and inputs, I've diagnosed that the television is suffering and it is stage four. And it's not even that old. Poor thing. To go so young.

My mother in law purchased the tv not long after we moved into our current home because she couldn't sleep in the guest bedroom without one. And we didn't have a spare [nor do we have a guest bedroom any longer because that was several children ago]. It is only eleven years old. Which I guess in technology years makes it Rip Van Winkle. But get this bit: it's not the oldest one in the house either. The one in the master bedroom is a holdover from my single one bedroom apartment days and won't become obsolete until next year when everything goes HD. And the one in the living room that the kids use to watch their DVD's and play various video games was a gift from my parents on my sixteenth birthday. Do you even KNOW how old that is? I can't count that high! That one? Is older than each of my younger sisters.

And the only reason we replaced the one in the family room with a wide screen was because the one that was there? The one that belonged to Mr. Farklepants before I even knew he existed? Finally slit its own throat.

Mr. Farklepants and I are what you could call STR. Slow To Replace. When it comes to certain technology and household appliances we will wear them into the ground before shelling out the cash for something shiny and new. Take my oven for example. It's a disaster. Baking is considered an extreme sport around here. If the instructions on the box of brownies says bake for 40 minutes; you'd better check them at 20 because chances are, they're starting to burn around the edges. Cookies? Five minutes. If you can smell cookies it's too late.

I have a feeling it will be never quite some time before the boys have a functioning television in their room again. See, Mr. Farklepants wants to do a computer monitor/tv all in one type deal in there. Except it won't be done until he finishes taping, spackling, and plastering the wall he built that turned the loft into a bedroom. Five years ago. The home improvement project that I like to call: ohmyhell that's a bottle of vodka and a story for another day...

It's All Fun and Games Except for That One Kid

Today is Grandparents / VIP Day at the elementary school. It's really Grandparents Day and/or Whoever The Hell Else is Available to Show Up Day; which doesn't seem all that important to clarify but actually, is. See, way back in the beginning of the millennium and I was hanging onto my twenties by my fingernails and really that's not important I just wanted to say I was in my twenties, and it became necessary for Boy-Child#1 to obtain an education through the public school system; it was just plain old "Grandparents Day". Except that they discovered that quite often A) Not all children have living grandparents, B) Not all children have grandparents that live locally, and C) More often than not it was the parents themselves that attended. And people were walking around going, there sure are a lot of NOT grandparents here today.

Here is where I pull up my curmudgeon pants: I'm not much of a fan of this particular school function. Oh I can see that the PTA's hearts are in the right place and I can get behind the feel goodness and donated baked goods of it; but there's a heartbreaking component in this. And that is that because about 95% of the parents or family or the village that are raising these little people are able to get involved and attend, there is always that one, sometimes two, but always one child in the classroom who has no one available to be there. And it's obvious. And while the teacher and other parents make sure to include the child so that they don't feel left out, you know that they know that their VIP isn't there.

*sniffle*

And then there is always that one mom. The one who's a little clueless. The one who is a little self-absorbed. The one who is a bit naive or purposely obtuse who I will overhear utter, I can't believe no one could be here for him. Perhaps she isn't aware that people have to earn a paycheck. And maybe she doesn't know what it's like to already have to request time off or leave work early for school plays, parent-teacher conferences, back to school nights, open houses, not to mention other non-school related events and some people just don't have the luxury of taking the morning off to spend 45 minutes making macaroni and glitter picture frames and enjoying bite size muffins with their child.

This morning I am Boy-Child#2 and Girl-Child's VIP. And because their classes scheduled times coincide; I will vacillate from one room to another and for ten minutes here and there my children will be that VIPless child.

Thank you Elementary School, for seeing to my dose of guilt for the day. The two dozen berry muffins with the burnt bottoms were my contribution to the considerable spread. You're welcome.

~number of times the thesaurus was consulted for this entry? Three. And still too many uses of the same words. I'm failing writing.