Sunday, March 30, 2008


Suddenly my feedburner feed is invalid! I can't even get it myself through feeds. If any of you are getting this could you please recommend someone, an actual live person, who can advise me on how to re-validate my feed. I made a few changes this weekend (trying to provide links to Digg, StumbleUpon, etc.) and suddenly my feeds are not working. I've crawled through various feedburner help groups but this is too complex and they really don't offer much in the way of help.

Can anyone be my blogger knight in shining armor???


Many thanks.

Thursday, March 27, 2008


I LOVE where I live.
Not much to complain about.
Sunny California.
Walks to the beach, park, school.
Tight-knit community with our own local newspaper.
Sounds like heaven, no?

There's just one thing...


Seems I'm not the only one who thinks this is paradise.
For the past year, I have been sandwiched in by dirt lots like this one:

which became homes for fragrant porta-potties and temporary fences like this one ( Fridays are potty clean-out day):which became mammoth wooden structures on postage-stamp sized lots like this one:and within a year or two a house like this:becomes a house like this:
I am the corned beef currently wedged between these two slices of rye:
Lest I forget, this is the house behind me which has been under exceptionally noisy construction for over two years now:

Until this point, I have been very zen.
I dismissed my neighbors' worry, concern, joy that it wasn't their home pity for me.
I dismissed the countless mornings (Saturdays, too) I awakened at 6:59am to hear heavy metal pipes hitting the ground, loud music blasting from tinny, portable radios, the roach coach horns blaring "chow time".
I dismissed sawdust blanketing my car, my patio furniture, my dog's food bowl.
I dismissed chunks of wood and metal landing like errant pieces of satellite onto my rear deck.
I dismissed hearing jackhammers and inhaling second hand smoke during dinner.
I dismissed seeing one of the brand new houses get sold, breathing a sigh of relief, and days later watching more construction workers park in the driveway for 3 MORE months of noisy "renovations".
I dismissed the loss of my beautiful bedroom mountain view for this:


When a loud music playing, cigarette smoking, jack-hammer toting worker stood on the same second floor balcony that blocks my beautiful mountain view (and creates a clear visual runway from their master bedroom to our master BED) and blew out three loud, wet, thick, germ-laden sneezes only to then turn 180 degrees toward my house, collect whatever did not come out in the previous snot-ridden rainstorm, and hock a huge slimy, loogy into my backyard.


I heard and saw the whole gross episode from behind this window down here:

He didn't know I was there.
Though he might have heard me gagging.

I've tried to remain calm. I've tried to see the glass half full. I'm all for raising the home value in my neighborhood ... but does that mean my yard has to be used as a freakin' spittoon?!?!

Wednesday, March 26, 2008


It seems everyone is admitting to infidelity these days. The onslaught of public confessions has brought my subconscious insecurities to the surface causing me recurrent nightmares. Two mornings in a row I woke my husband with a swift punch in the arm punishing him for his overnight betrayal.

I'm intelligent, I'm in touch with my feelings, I knew my dreams were not reality so I apologized, we laughed, and went on with our day.


circumstances led us to a situation with another woman. I know this woman, know she and my husband are close friends. I didn't question it...until others did.

Like poison seeping into the well through imperceptible cracks, I couldn't keep their words from entering my head. My gut and my brain went to war. My gut telling me that I know my husband and I would sense if something was different. My brain asking me, reiterating what others inferred, "How do you REALLY know? Does anyone REALLY know another person?"

The nightmares flooded back. Stories of Spitzer, Paterson, and countless others, public figures and personal acquaintances, betraying their loved ones rang in my head.

The insecurities morphed into anger. I was distant, curt. My anger made him impatient and we fed off of each other until a perfectly pleasant morning turned into a chilly and isolated afternoon. When I finally explained the root of my wrath he did not react with affirmations of love or nurturing murmurs of no need to worry. He got mad. It didn't occur to me that he would be upset at my distrust. I hadn't thought about it that way. I hadn't thought about him. At first I was defensive. Angry at me? I was angry at him. He had no right. But you know what? He did. After 15 years of infidelity-free marriage, didn't he (didn't we) deserve better from each other?

Marriage is hard. We make life-long vows to one person. We're human and vows are bound to be tested. Over the course of a marriage, both people will have opportunities to stray emotionally and physically. It takes commitment to the vows, to your spouse, and a serious consideration of the consequences, to not go outside the marriage. By protecting yourself, assuming the worst, it won't lessen the pain if your spouse is unfaithful. So why bother? It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. To project the worst onto someone, always assume they are capable of bad behavior, is to eat away at the trust and the reasons for good behavior become less clear.

On the other hand, if you trust your gut, assume the other person is the person they say they are, the person you believe they are, there still is that risk of a breech, of human failing. Others may deem you a fool, you may deem you a fool, but ultimately it's not about anyone else. It's about you, your spouse and your faith in each other.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008


Sarcastic Mom has mommy bloggers out there writing about their birth experiences in her Birth-Story Carnival. I've never written on paper about the birth of my daughter (I am a writer who is terrible at keeping journals), but I've written it in my head no less than fifty times.

It was a warm September morning and the walk from the Fox Studios employee parking structure to my office in the executive building felt like the last mile in a marathon. Before this day, my pregnancy had not stopped me from doing much of anything in my daily life, although it did create a constant need to have Tums on hand. I continued working, doing yoga, walking my dogs, going out on weekends. But in my 38th week, walking the quarter mile to my office, in 90 degree heat, I sensed a definite shift.

When I arrived in my office, sweating and desperate for a glass of water, I announced to my boss that today would be my last day. Mother's intuition. I began some serious nesting. I organized four years worth of Bon Appetit recipes into a large, three-ring binder. I bought, washed and folded hundreds of pieces of Carter's onesies, bath towels, and diaper cloths. I bought a plastic doll wrapped it in Pampers and attempted to introduce it to my two chocolate labradors. That quickly went south when I found them jumping on the kitchen counter trying to play with it. I got serious about finding a nanny since I was returning to work after my maternity leave.

A few days after leaving my office, I awoke at 2am to cramping sensations. By 9am, the pains were consistent enough for me to call my doctor but not strong enough to be sure I was in labor. I saw the doctor at 12pm for my regular appointment. I was a bit dilated but not enough to guarantee imminent delivery. He sent me home predicting it could be today or it could be a few days. I tried to squeeze in a haircut appointment but the woman refused to take me fearful I might break water in her chair. I set up a meeting with a promising nanny at 4pm. I gave my husband the head's up so he would come home early. He had a meeting until 5:30 but would come home afterward. Everything was in order.

Already mocking my illusion of efficiency, the baby decided to kick things up a notch minutes before the nanny candidate knocked at my door. By the time I sat down with her we had to frame our conversation between escalating contractions during which I would excuse myself to my bedroom to hunch down on all fours and breathe through the intensifying pain. I called my husband but he was unreachable. By the time he showed up at 7:30 my bags were at the door and my fury was firmly in his face.

At the hospital I assumed my husband would tell them to call our doctor but I probably forgot to put that in his instructions and I was a slightly distracted. It was a busy night for birthing babies and in triage I was deemed low priority.

"Are you a nullipara?" asked a young woman wearing hospital scrubs and a clipboard from which she never raised her eyes.
"What?" I asked.

She repeated herself despite the obvious inconvenience.

"Is this your first baby?" she said.
"Yes," I said proudly as if she was one of the those people who'd thrust their hand onto my belly to share in God's miracle.

Uninterested, she walked away muttering more to herself than to me, "You'll be awhile. We'll get you when we have a room."

I thought about asking how long it would be but I could already imagine her answer, "Young lady," she would say, "this is a hospital not a restaurant. We do not accept reservations."

I heard moans and screams coming from behind closed doors. Doctors and residents moving, reviewing. Helpless husbands peeking out looking for nurses. After an hour or so of sitting on a hard plastic chair, filling out paperwork between contractions, taking myself to some inner place, I began to envy the screaming women. At least they could scream from the comfort of a warm bed, from behind walls in anonymity. I had to shift to keep my blood circulating and stifle my groans for fear of public humiliation.

I was eventually assigned a room and a resident - both were cold and sterile. I'd been through my share of unpleasant sexual experiences before but having a total stranger shove his fist up my hole and tool around was by far the worst. By 11:30 that evening I was experiencing horrible back labor with contractions every 3 minutes. My husband stayed close massaging me with a tennis ball which at this point had the potency of a Raisinet. The nurse watched the fetal monitor and after a particular painful contraction she flatly remarked, "That was a strong one."

Really. I hadn't noticed. Fuckface.

But the real fuckface made his way back into my room and once again jabbed his fist up my crotch only to state to the nurse as if we weren't even there, "I can't feel the head." When my husband and I pressed, "You can't feel the head? What does that mean?" he removed his gloves, headed toward the door and said, "It's probably breech. I'll be back later."

I cried and pleaded for my husband to request a new resident. This guy was rough and we were baby-birthing newbies in need of a soft touch. It was a stressful time with no room for added strife. But the resident didn't agree. Rather than acquiescing and moving on to his next victim he confronted us.

"I hear you want a new resident," he said bursting into the room. "What is it exactly that you don't like about me?"

Fuck. I'm a nullipara, my spine is threatening to split every 3 minutes and you're a complete douchebag - isn't it obvious?

We held our ground and told him what we thought of his treatment but that only made things worse because he refused to go. He was SNL's obnoxious guest that wouldn't leave.

Eventually I got an epidural and we sank into a rhythm while waiting for labor to progress. My husband fell into a sound sleep on the couch unperturbed by the periodic ringing of my blood pressure cuff which summoned the nurses and prevented me from getting any rest. The resident came by on occasion and I remained silent and detached as he foraged inside my swollen privates.

About 6:30am my beloved doctor entered the room. I believe there was a golden halo on his head but that could have been the drugs. It turns out the hospital never called him. Because I was in his office the day before he called my home to check on me and getting no answer he called the hospital. I'd heard all about transference with shrinks and OB-GYN's and it didn't hurt that mine was handsome, young, and sweet, but right now, with my husband asleep on the couch and the evil resident lurking about, he was my knight in shining armor.

Within minutes the resident did not intrude again. His prediction of a breech baby was dismissed with a wave of my doctor's glowing hand and the most soothing words I'd ever heard, "You're baby is just fine. Everything is going to be just fine."

Labor did not move as quickly as anyone would have liked and by late that morning I was still in what my doctor called unproductive labor. He gave me Oxytocin and a little while later it was time to push.

I'd heard horror stories from friends about pushing for hours and then going in for emergency C-sections. That was not going to be me. I was going to push that baby out as fast as humanly possible and end this misery once and for all.

Doctor at one end, hubby at the other (a bit squeamish is he) I was told to push. By the second push I realized I'd forgotten to have them hold a mirror so we could see but it was too late. The labor may have taken forever but this baby was coming.

I had waited for this moment for 10 months and 20 some odd years ever since the "I LOVE LUCY" episode when the doctor enters the waiting room and tells an anxious Ricky that he is proud father of a beautiful baby boy. I wanted that moment. I fantasized about that moment while chewing my Tums. "Mr. and Mrs. so and so, you are the proud parents of a beautiful, baby ---."

But right before the third push the doctor gave me one final motivation," One more she comes."

Despite the fact that I'd been in labor for over 30 hours, despite the fact that I was numb on drugs, despite the fact that I loved my doctor, I still managed to scream, "Oh my god! You told me. You gave it away! And out slipped my beautiful, pasty, gooey, crinkled-up baby girl.

Who could stay mad at a time like this? Baby in my arms, husband by my side, there was no time to be mad. I was scared shitless.

P.S. The moral of the story is NOT to have your babies in September or, if you are, do NOT have them in a hospital. The residents are brand spanking new and have no clue what they're doing. My second came in June at the same hospital and I was a very happy puppy.

Monday, March 24, 2008


Is it not enough that my skin stretched and pulled to previously unfathomable distances while she grew and sucked all the nutrients from my body?

Is it not enough that I endured 32 hours of back-breaking labor before pushing her out of my vagina unwittingly creating a life with donut pillows and Preparation-H?

Is it not enough that pushing her out of said, once taut, once sexually appealing orifice brought new meaning to the term “loose lips sink ships”?

Is it not enough that while she sucked and squeezed on my raw, cracked nipples, I white-knuckled the glider and stifled my screams in order to provide her with a tranquil, nurturing environment.

Is it not enough that I willingly placed my hands into human excrement to keep her clean and rash free?

Is it not enough that I lost countless hours of precious sleep to feed, burp, and comfort her and that those hours were directly related to the now permanent appearance of bags and dark circles under my eyes?

Is it not enough that despite no longer being able to wear short tops for fear that she will once again compare me to a Sharpei puppy, I still finish off her grilled cheese sandwiches so she won’t experience guilt thinking about the starving children in India?

Is it not enough that I gave up driving a zippy little sports car so I could schlep she and her friends to Pinkberry for what I believe to be a completely foul-tasting, artificial, and non-nutritive treat?

Is it not enough that I bury my deep hatred of the claustrophic, carbon-copy, monotony of shopping malls so I can waste spend my time miming a coat hanger while she tries on clothes.


Apparently I still have not given everything I have to give because even though every shirt in my closet now resides in hers, and even though my shoes keep finding their way onto her feet, she still comes to my closet to BORROW whatever the hell I’ve got left!

And apparently, though she is highly intelligent, she is somehow not smart enough to conceal her tracks. Lights left on, her clothing abandoned and twisted into painful contortions on my floor, a tell-tale trail of hairbands, socks, ribbons. More likely she just doesn’t care - which is worse.

I could let my closet inventory continue to shrink until there's nothing left for her pre-adolescent clepto fingers to grab but that means I'll be carpooling the kids to Pinkberry bare-ass naked. (Just writing that gave me the shivers.)

I'd love to see the glass half-full on this one. To go out and use this opportunity to buy myself some pretty new things. But I know if I do she'll be back in my closet, like a roach, feeding off delicious new treats.

I could try to hide my new loot but who am I kidding? She sees all. I can't get away with a small clump of mascara on my lashes.

Some of you are probably thinking, "Just buy her her own clothes and shoes and she'll leave you alone." To you I answer, "You must not have a pre-pubescent daughter." Been there, done that. As much as I attempt to reason, threaten, and demand "enough is enough" those words are not in her middle-school level vocabulary. She just smiles her pretty smile and talks her sweet talk and before I know it I'm down another pair of sandals.

I love my daughter, truly I do. She's a kind person, sensitive, and strong, and I have faith she will continue on that path. But as far as my closet goes, I want her outta there!

Tomorrow I'm calling a locksmith.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008


I do love sunny Los Angeles, it's temperate weather, it's proximity to the beaches of the Pacific...

But I must say, the Wasatch mountains possess their own version of majestic beauty...

Monday, March 17, 2008


I will be posting less this week because I'm on Spring Break. I'm choosing to actually spend time with my family rather than just write about them.

We had a great day skiing today, minimal whining and fighting (and the kids were great,too...)

I guess this is what vacations are for?

Be back soon.

Sunday, March 16, 2008


It has been brought to my attention by a new blog friend, Andi, that a piece I posted in my blog two Fridays ago and credited to George Carlin was not actually written by the comedian. I checked it out and, in fact, or, at least I think in fact, it wasn't! Here is the link to the origins of the essay entitled, "The Paradox of Our Time".

It is very interesting in the days of never-ending Elliot Spitzer discussion and analysis that this keenly written, observational, and inspirational essay was written by a pastor who was later accused and found guilty of multiple sexual abuse offenses. A year later he was relieved of his duties.

Life/Man truly is a paradox.

Note to self/Lesson of the day: Do some fact-checking next time you steal borrow showcase other people's great works on your blog.

Thank you, new blog friend.

Friday, March 14, 2008


First some bloggy biz:
I'm curious to know if you're liking or not liking the Friday Funnies material I post from other sources. Please, please comment (even you lurkers who read but don't speak). Do you find them:

1) unfunny
2) old/recycled
3) funny/you like them

After all, I'm here to please, no?

And for today's funnies...drum roll please...

I totally relate to this one, except for me it would be from carbs:

And I'm sure this video will give you wives and girlfriends a good laugh... (unless, of course, you've already seen it - in which case COMMENT PLEASE)!

Have a great weekend...

Wednesday, March 12, 2008


Elliot Spitzer is living a true Shakespearean tragedy. As in Hamlet, he has been hoist by his own petard.

It's easy to spit on Spitzer (sorry), after all, as Governor of NY, he was arrogant, self-righteous, puritanical and tenacious. He made a lot of enemies who literally clapped their hands at his downfall. His resignation is just. He is an easy target to be sure. But as he stands in public these last few days with dutiful wife, Silda, by his side, I wonder about Elliot Spitzer. Not the fallen politician - the man, the husband, the father. I heard in some of the hundreds of recent interviews that in spite of being despised in his governance, to those who know him personally, he is a good man. One who truly loves his wife and daughters. I heard one interviewee say, "They had a real marriage, a real family. Not one for the cameras." Somehow, I believe this to be true. I don't know why, my gut just tells me so. Furthermore, by the looks of Silda she seems to be in such great emotional pain that I assume this came as a great shock to her. A real shock, not one for the cameras.

Spitzer said today in his resignation speech that the measure of a human being, "is not in never falling but in rising every time we fall". I realize many will see his focus on his personal failings as a deflection from the political damage he has caused. Could be. Nevertheless, the personal is what I keep coming back to as I digest this debacle. I agree he is destroyed as a politician. That his mission for cleaning up government remains valid though no longer attainable by him. He is marked, branded with his own scarlet letter. No one will heed him again on matters of morality. Ever.

But the real question is will his family? That's what sticks with me. Like Angelo in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, Spitzer fought doggedly and publicly against demons that haunted him privately. No one can debate that he knew he was committing crimes when transferring money and hiring prostitutes. It's easy to criticize and say he felt entitled and superior, but isn't human nature more complex than that?

I'm sure that in years to come, with clarifying distance, there will be an autobiography on this trying time to inform us further about his inner turmoil. And I'm sure I'm in the minority when I say I hope Silda sticks by her husband at least long enough to take the psychological journey with him. After the sediment lands, she can assess whether her college sweetheart truly is the man she fell for. I'd like to believe that when you've shared a life with someone that it has not been for naught. That all the good you thought was there, that you fell in love with, is still there, just temporarily buried under the weight of human frailty.

I may get slammed for this post. Criticized for seeing life through rose-colored glasses. Believe me, in the past and still on occasion, I am a huge skeptic. But lately, I've been developing my compassion (thanks Oprah), opening up to the gray shades of life. I may be right, I may be wrong. I may be hoist on my own petard, but I'm truly interested to see how this all pans out for Elliot Spitzer, the human being, and his family.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008


Words to remember on those days when you are feeling like a particularly bitchy maternal figure...

Someday when my children are old enough to understand the logic that motivates a parent, I will tell them, as my Mean Mom told me:

I loved you enough to ask where you were going, with whom, and what time you would be home.

I loved you enough to be silent and let you discover that your new best friend was a creep.

I loved you enough to stand over you for two hours while you cleaned your room, a job that should have taken 15 minutes.

I loved you enough to let you see anger, disappointment, and tears in my eyes. Children must learn that their parents aren't perfect.

I loved you enough to let you assume the responsibility for your actions even when the penalties were so harsh they almost broke my heart.

But most of all, I loved you enough to say NO when I knew you would hate me for it.

Those were the most difficult battles of all. I'm glad I won them, because in the end you won, too.

And someday when your children are old enough to understand the logic that motivates parents, you will tell them.
Was your Mom mean? I know mine was. We had the meanest mother in the whole world!

While other kids ate candy for breakfast, we had to have cereal, eggs, and toast.
When others had a Pepsi and a Twinkie for lunch, we had to eat sandwiches. And you can guess our mother fixed us a dinner that was different from what other kids had, too.

Mother insisted on knowing where we were at all times.
You'd think we were convicts in a prison.

She had to know who our friends were and what we were doing with them.
She insisted that if we said we would be gone for an hour, we would be gone for an hour, or less.

We were ashamed to admit it, but she had the nerve to break the Child Labor Laws by making us work.
We had to wash the dishes, make the beds, learn to cook, vacuum the floor, do laundry, empty the trash, and all sorts of cruel jobs. I think she would lie awake at night thinking of more things for us to do.

She always insisted on us telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

By the time we were teenagers, she could read our minds and had eyes in the back of her head.
Then life was really tough!

Mother wouldn't let our friends just honk the horn when they drove up,
They had to come up to the door so she could meet them.

While everyone else could date when they were 12 or 13, we had to wait until we were 16.

Because of our mother we missed out on lots of things other kids experienced.

None of us have ever been caught shoplifting, vandalizing other's property or arrested for any crime.

It was all her fault. Now that we have left home, we are all educated, honest adults. We are doing our best to be mean parents just like Mom was. I think that is what's wrong with the world today. It just doesn't have enough mean moms...

Or maybe not bitchy enough...

Monday, March 10, 2008


I know for some of you this past weekend was just another indicator of old man winter's icy, arthritic fingers grabbing on for dear life. But for those of us in California it was a glorious sign of days to come. Southern California is often criticized for many things, including it's lack of seasons. Not true. Admittedly, our seasons are mild, but we do experience and appreciate changes. Summer is similar to the season elsewhere minus the humidity. Fall, while not brilliant as in other northern locations, does turn our leaves to subtle shades of orange and red before their death descent. Winter, though we don't usually have snow (Malibu 2007), the air does get chilled and warm coats are necessary. And Spring, ahh Spring. Even in a locale famous for it's comfortable climate, Spring still awakens the senses from hibernation.

I walk the same route 4-5 times a week. Saturday I followed my usual path but right away, it was clear, this day was different. And not just clear to me; everyone I passed shared with me an unspoken enthusiasm. As fresh breaths of wind blew the last of the dead leaves off the trees making room for new, neighbors tended to their gardens watering, mulching, and planting. Dogs greeted each other frisky and flirtatious. A cantankerous, old neighbor who regularly gestures and yells at cars as they speed by, laughs and chats as he hoses down the spot where my dog peed on his lawn. Birds sing, flowers bloom, even the music emanating from the home sites under construction blends rather than intrudes. Kids erect rickety lemonade stands with homemade signs and advertise, "LEMONADE! 25 CENTS! LEMONADE!"

So to those of you who spurn those of us living in Southern California because, "Sure the weather's nice but you have no seasons," I say, "Take your snow, your ice, your wind and your rain. Enjoy. I'll be here in sunny California basking in our own variation on the theme. I'll be standing still, breathing it all in, while you wait for old man winter to loosen his craggy, gray digits from your neighborhood."

Okay, seriously, I hope it warms up soon for all of you in the Midwest and the Northeast but I had to defend Los Angeles. (And me! I'm a New Yawkah!) We get so much crap about our slick, patina of perfection but in reality, most of us, are just neighbors, appreciating the beauty in a glorious, Spring day.

Friday, March 7, 2008


A funny quote from Charles M. Schulz:

Sometimes I lie awake at night and I ask, "Where have I gone wrong?" Then a voice says to me, "This is going to take more than one night."

An illuminating and inspirational message from George Carlin, the same man who wrote and performed, "Seven Words You Can't Say on Television" - written after the death of his wife.

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways , but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build mo re computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete...

Remember; spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever.

Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent

Remember, to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again.

Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.


Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

If you don't send this to at least 8 people....Who cares?

George Carlin

courtesy of Fun (and occasionally inspirational) Friday

Thursday, March 6, 2008


I read somewhere in blogland that today is "Love Thursday". This fits right in with what I wanted to write about and that is...I can't believe I'm going to say this out loud, to other people... I LOVE MY HUSBAND. Hubby, are you sitting down? Ugh, that's even hard for me to write. That may not seem like a big deal to any of you, but that was BIG.

I am not one to publicly, or even privately, profess my love for anyone, other than my kids and dog (they're SAFE don't you know) but after this past week's blogs I figure he deserves it. Don't get me wrong, he still acts like a petulant child, gets on my nerves, pisses me off, oh wait, I was saying why I loved him. Right. Despite all his husband-ly behavior, he's a damn good guy with a damn big heart. And G-d knows he takes my shit, and, trust me, that makes him a good man because I am excellent at slinging the shit. That doesn't mean you shouldn't want to strangle him when he does the next idiotic, insensitive thing (check back tomorrow), I just wanted to go on the record.

I'm sure hubby is alternately blushing, confused, and basking in this right now. We are not the type for PDA's, we rarely treat each other to romantic gifts or cards, we often bicker. But as I watch many of our seemingly compatible peers split up, I realize that whatever we are, it works for us.

As we get older, it is ever more apparent, that couples are rarely what they seem to the outside world. I have stopped comparing ourselves to the facades, badgering for perfection, and making both of us miserable. Marriage is hard work and it's for freaking ever. Sometimes we're best friends, sometimes we're enemies, and other times, we're strangers asleep in the same bed. But when push comes to shove, we enjoy the same things: wine, travel, wine and travel, good food, wine and travel, honest friendships (remember we live in LA), and, of course, our children and our dog. On those rare weekend getaways, I recall why we got together in the first place (easily forgotten in the hustle and bustle we call home). We laugh.

I don't think I've lowered my expectations, I think I've finally learned the real deal. So, hubby, sorry for being such a bitch lately.

Now can you fix the computer, move the printer, fix the door on the entertainment cabinet, and pick up your own damn underwear?!?

Love, the Wife.

Wednesday, March 5, 2008


Today I was in a good mood. I have zero idea where it came from, why it was here, it just was. These hormones are sneaky little fuckers. Their arrival always catches me (and my family) by surprise and whoops me in the ass. Their departure is always gentle as a lamb, as if the clouds suddenly lift leaving behind a fresh, spring day. I was myself today which makes me realize that the last few days I have been anything but.

This frightens me because in the midst of my estrogen rage, I am convinced my bitchiness is totally justified. The kids not listening, the constantly evolving mess everywhere, the husband being, well, the husband - it's all real, all true. But once the hormones settle and balance, I can see that though all the elements of my life remain the same, they just don't seem as offensive.

So, I ask you, my blog friends, what do you do/take to keep the monsters at bay? I know many of you are younger but to whomever has words of wisdom about remedies (preferably natural supplements or homeopathic) for the emotional roller coaster I am riding, please share. I will be forever grateful. I might even be nice.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008


I'll take a Bitch on rye. Extra cursing. Extra screaming. Hold the malaise.
These are the makings of the hormonal sub sandwich known as merlotmom.

Just look at me funny, just ask me a question, just BREATHE in my presence - and I ignite.
I can't stand myself but I have nowhere to hide.

And to top it all off, while I fall farther behind in my work, my blogging, my child-rearing, "Oops, that would have been a good life lesson. Oh well, maybe next time..." , my son's teacher sends home a week-long book report project with a special note for the parents. It seems we need to teach our kids - get this- time management!

Is she kidding?! I'm still rummaging through last weekend's suitcases to find bras and underwear. And she wants me to teach my kid how to organize his time? At least I got a laugh out of it.

Yesterday was my 50th post. Who knew?! Hooray for me. Now let's see if I can make it to 100.

Monday, March 3, 2008


Riding the airport shuttle to the car park, I watched a boy of about 2 or 3 years cling to his mother on the crowded bus. His dad sat only a few seats away but to the boy it might as well have been an eternity. His mom attempted to soothe his anguished cries by deflecting the boy's attention. She pointed out airplanes waiting on the tarmac, a handsome red sports car in the adjacent lane, and tried playing familiar games. When those strategies failed, she reasoned with him in a comforting, assured tone, "They'd be off the bus soon," she said. "In their own car, just the three of them, going home." The boy finally turned away from his distant father and sunk into the security of his mother's lap. His arms clasped around her neck, his head rested on her heart. To fend off further doubt, the mother laid her head upon the boy's soft, blanket of hair, closing the circle, closing the wound.

I got my period twice in one week. Another sign that a phase of my life is coming to an end. (Or a new phase beginning, depending on my mood.) I felt a pang of envy as I watched this mother and child on the bus. Those moments are few and far between for me now; fewer every day. Most of the time I relish the thought of independence - my children's and my own - but at that moment, I mourned it.

I had a dream last night that I went to my hairstylist for a blow-out. As she stroked her fingers through my thick hair, the force of her hands and the dryer whipped chunks of strands onto the floor, their absence exposing irregular, vulnerable patches of scalp.

Isn't it funny how we spend most of our lives dreading our period? Before we get it, the notion of it is overwhelming and frightening. When we get it, we're curled up in tight, fetal positions wishing for the pain to go away. Only during the child-bearing years does it really sink in just what all the suffering is for, and even then, the arrival of the little red monster is still an unwelcome event. Until it's no longer shows up.

Like the schoolboy who had a crush on you, the one you dismissed, the one who became attractive as soon as he looked at someone else, you begin to desire the monster. Because you realize, suddenly, that the loss of it is the loss of a piece of yourself and maybe, if you'd paid more attention, things would have been different.

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