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

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:

1. 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.
2. Kitchen cabinets. Our cabinets are a lovely 1997 honey oak. In other words, dated. So are the tile countertops and backsplash.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. 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.

Great Trip Despite Traveling Woes

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.

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

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.

I've Got a Fat Secret

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.

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

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

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".

Leave Tootsie Allooooonnee...

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:

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

The end.

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

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.

Twitter the Gateway Drug and its Hardcore Addiction Cousin: Facebook

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.

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.

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

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.

Meanwhile Back at the Cake

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*

Argument Reason #43 in Favor of Hiring a Housekeeper

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.

College Fund? You're Wearing it

"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

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

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.

Open Letter to Retailers

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!

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.

Badassery

*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?

In This Hand I Hold a Grenade

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.