Spare a Nickel?

It’s very clear to me that I’m a little testy lately. I’ve spared y’all my peevishness, and have opted to remain in hiding for a bit. You’re welcome. I try to reserve my passive-aggressive charms for the junk mail people. Since, generally, I’m a huge wussy and hate confrontation. Which is bad for a mouthy bitch. Ya. I’m a complex woman. Don’t judge me.

So last week it was the medical “diagnostic screening” place, sending my Granny a personal invite for a free diagnosis. I sent the RSVP card back. Because I ALWAYS RSVP. And under the line that said, “Come in for a free health diagnosis,” I wrote a note back:

“I can probably handle Granny’s health diagnostics from here. Given that we buried her 18 months ago, my own diagnosis would indicate death. I could be wrong. Let me know if you’d still like me to bring her in.”

I haven’t heard back from them. So my guess is that, even though I’m not a doctor, they concur with my diagnosis. I’m just good like that.

And today I got this beautifully thought out mailing from the Sierra Club. The envelope said, “Just a few nickels a day can help save wolves from being brutally hunted,” with a nickel peeking out through the cellophane window.sierraclub

WTH? Why are they sending me a fucking nickel if they need those to save wolves? With the image of the dead(?) wolf on the envelope, and the fact that they’re giving all their nickels away… and supposedly just a few of them saves wolves…  I can only think they want wolves to be brutally hunted. Assholes.

But still sensing that nickels were somehow important to them, I taped a dozen of them to their card and sent it back in their postage-paid donation envelope. They only had check boxes for $25, $50, and $100. Which is weird, since they’re asking for nickels. So I wrote them a note.

“I’m enclosing four days worth of wolf-saving nickels. I included the one you sent me by mistake. You’re welcome.”


• • •


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I would like to eat your dogs

I often forget, living in the suburbs, that we’re still very close to quite a bit of wildlife. I’m accustomed to walking outside to meet up with an occasional skunk, raccoon or possum. And my dog, Lily, is fond of a good squirrel chase. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the time that she cornered a skunk in the yard. I was certain a stink shower was eminent. But he just stood there, grinning his evil skunk grin, until I slowly inched over, just a few feet from Pepe lePew, to retrieve my terrible terrier. And then he turned and ambled through the fence, as if we’d just shared a relaxed conversation over a few beers.

wilecoyoteBut it’s days like today, when a coyote pokes his head through our back fence, like he’s checking out the goods at the deli counter, that I remember there are friends out there who want make a snack out of my dog.

Fortunately super-hubby, armed with a rock arsenal, chased the very large coyote away from our fence, as well as our neighbor’s fence, where their two small coyote-bait yappers were sounding the dinner barks. I sent my son next door to warn them that they may want to bring their little coyote treats inside where it’s safe. But my son, armed only with his high school French skills, failed miserably with my neighbor’s sweet little Cuban parents, who were the only ones home at that moment. He did his best, but they thought he’d lost a ball in the backyard, and he couldn’t get them to bring the dogs inside. He was upset that the coyote might come back, and we needed to get the dogs in where it was safe.

I decided that I should go over and see what I could do. I mean, I did have Spanish in high school… how hard could it be? This is where someone points out that high school was 30+ years ago. And the only Spanish I’ve used since then has been, “dos cervesas, por favor,” and “donde esta el baño?”  I have my priorities, people.

But nonetheless, armed with my limited español, maybe I could help. It’s got to be like riding a bike… it’ll come back. Right? But super-hubster was done chasing away the big-bad coyote, and he offered to go talk to them. He’d had college Spanish, which apparently trumps high school Spanish. I told him what I was going to say, and he explained that perhaps telling them that I’d like to eat their dogs with a big coyote, was possibly not the most neighborly thing to say. He had a good point.

So he handled it. And the coyote snacks lived to see another day.

Who says my Spanish skills have gone to waste? I can still be a totally gracious guest at a dog roast. Especially if they’re serving beer, and I need to use the bathroom.

• • •

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PTSD and Minty-fresh Panties

My husband’s favorite old shirt still bears the battle wounds of the Great Crayon Incident of 2003. The scarred-for-life mark of the laundry near-casualty is however, not a deterrent—my man will wear the most cherished Reyn Spooner to the death. The story of the stowaway crayon is one of family lore. And the tale, replayed with fish-story accuracy each time the battle-weary shirt emerges from the closet, is the reason that not a single crayon has made its way into a pocket in many. many. years. Just as the shirt is scarred, so too are the crayon-toting psyches of my kids. Emotional scars, people—it’s the shit we moms LIVE for. *curtsy*….. My work here is done.

The stories have instilled quite a productive terror within our clan. Crayons now remain at home. And only at home. I learned a similar lesson when I was a kid. It’s amazing how poorly crayons fare in the back seat of a car. I swear, people, Southern California summer heat is pure magic. It turns crayons into rainbow unicorn vomit. And as impressive as it is, dads are surprisingly unimpressed by unicorn vomit. And consequently, dads become very screamy at the sight of it. I’ll bet if they had been glitter crayons, he’d have been more impressed. Because everyone knows unicorn vomit has sparkles. That’s probably why he wasn’t impressed—no sparkles.

Over the years, I’ve applied the crayon exemplar to all things laundry. The litmus works with anything I consider putting into my pockets. “Should I forget to take this out of my pocket, what would it do to a load of laundry?” From that question forward, I proceed with ample caution. I found however, after I washed my phone, that my litmus required amendment. “Should I forget to take this out of my pocket, how yelly would my husband get?” That was a scene I don’t care to replay. Although, oddly I still get more grief for the phone that accidentally bumped into the bedroom wall. In my defense, it was totally the phone’s fault for being in my hand when I was really pissed. It should have known better. That phone was really stupid. It deserved to die. You’d think I’d get a little support for ridding the world of stupid phones. Jeez. My husband can be so short-sighted and judgy.

I’ve told him that he too should learn from the crayon incident. Over the years I’ve had to rewash laundry fouled by a wide range of pocket goodies, including Chap Stick, chalk, pens and an impressive array of candy. My husband pockets candy like a squirrel hoards nuts. We’ve even had gum in the laundry, which fortunately stayed within its wrapper. Because unwrapped gum in the wash makes an impressive mess. By mess, I mean shit everywhere… think hard boiling an egg in the microwave. If the microwave was a washer and dryer. And the egg was six sticks of warm gum, tossed like a cluster fuck salad. We had been very lucky not to have a mess like that.

Until last night.

Yup. That’s what I said. The nightmare of laundry-doers everywhere descended upon us. I hadn’t noticed until after the load was ready to come out of the dryer. There, on the edge when I opened the door… four balled up sticks of gum within their wrappers, perched there, as if to tattle on the rest for not having remained sheathed.

Shit shit shit. Please God, let this be all of it. *pffft* As if a deity of any kind would be concerned with the well-being of my load of shorts. My momentary religious experience had no affect. Because as I pulled them out of the warm dryer, I could see the evidence. It was the Great Crayon Incident of 2003, all over again. Except this time, it was gum rather than red crayons. But of course not merciful gum that would blend into khaki shorts. Black gum. My husband left a handful of sticks of black gum in his pocket.

At that moment I grabbed the fireplace poker and whacked him over the head with it. Ok, that was just in my mind. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even hit him. I’m not the murdery type. I really wanted to go all dad-not-amused-by-unicorn-vomit on him. But I just didn’t have the heart. He felt really bad, jumping into action, cleaning out both the washer and dryer… spotless and free of gum. It took him over an hour. He was deadass tired, and it was midnight before he was done. He was like Superman. I married Superman, people. Except ridding the world of nasty, black gum rather than super villains. And not the world. Just our washer and dryer. But he’s still totally Superman in my book. If Superman washed his gum.

There were signs of casualty amongst the load of shorts. Me and my badass skillz with an ice-cube and a knife managed to get most of the gum off of everything. However the black gum did leave permanent reminders scattered all over his shorts. Now he has something perfectly matched to wear with his red, crayon-stained Reyn Spooner. Lucky for him I only had one pair of shorts that suffered permanent damage. The stains will probably fade over time—unlike the memory of the Great Gum Incident of 2013. I’m hoping my family suffers from PTSD from this for years to come. There’s nothing more useful than a painful I-fucking-told-you-so incident to forever rid the laundry of gum. And crayons. Then again, maybe not. But a girl can hope.

I suppose at some point in the future we’ll find some humor in this. We may even rerun the story of the Great Gum Incident of 2013 every time one of the battle-scarred shorts emerge. Probably no laughs for a while though. It’s difficult to recall gum in the laundry with warm fondness. There’s really nothing good about it. Except perhaps that my last load of freshly dried underwear smelled minty fresh.

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Happy Neighbor Feces Day!

I’ve been a little busy doing some P.I. work. One of my neighbors made a deposit in my front planter. Well, not her personally. That would have provided far more humorous footage. Actually, she dumped her dog’s biz-in-a-bag in my planter. And after review of our security footage, I came up with images of the missing owner of the forsaken crap bag. I love security cameras.


Left: Cone of shame dog emerges from behind the planter. Right: Two seconds later, we see the shitbag flinger, a split second after bag release. Seconds prior, she was visible at the top of the frame, carrying the bag o’ crap. Did I say I love security cameras?

The caught-brown-handed photos had to be put to good use. Otherwise, why have the cameras, right? So I put this sweet little yard art together. I think it beats the hell out of garden gnomes, don’t you?



I’m thinking I need to get her a cone of shame of her own. So she and her pooch can match. Maybe I’ll put one on her porch for her to wear. Gucci, of course. I’ll write on it for her:  “I’m a bad, bad girl. I left bags of my dog’s shit in my neighbors’ planter. I should be punished. Please point and laugh at me.”

I’ve had fantasies. Seriously. Not those kind, you sicko. My fantasy involves knocking on her door and handing her the shit bag, while squirting her in the face with one of those puppy training squirt guns. Then sternly pointing at her, and in a firm voice saying, “No, BAD girl.” I can see my mug shots in the newspaper under the headline, “Neighbor assaults Asian lady with squirt gun and bag of feces.” Second thought… perhaps it’s a bad plan.

I also like the idea of gathering up every piece of dog doo I can find in my yard, and on the green belt and delivering it to her personally, in a gift bag with a card. I can write on the card:
Good neighbor, I had no idea until you left me the kind gift on my yard; that a bag of dog feces is a gesture of neighborliness in your culture. I apologize for my ignorance. And I promise to uphold your cultural practice with strict regularity. I will even inform all of our neighbors that we have been terribly remiss. And we should all shower you with the feces of your cultural practices, as a show of good neighborliness. Thank you so much for providing me with this education. Happy Neighbor Feces Day!


The actual bag of crap is attached to the sign.

I’m pretty sure that would be fun.

I don’t know what my next move will actually be. I’m enjoying the fact that my neighbor’s photo is on a sign in my front yard with a bag of dog shit attached. I’m all about shame as punishment, in a case like this. However the crap bag is getting a little ripe in the sun. I may have to return it to her soon. I’m pretty sure my neighbor doesn’t like the sign. Though she’s walked by it twice since I put it up. I may need it translated into Chinese for full effect. I’m not sure she can read it as is. She doesn’t speak English… at least not to any of her neighbors. My other neighbors can read it, however. And that, my friends is the important part.

There are worse things than doing something stupid in full view of security cameras. But doing something stupid in full view of a blogger-nerd’s security cams gets you instant douche nugget status on the interwebs, baby.

Happy Neighbor Feces Day, y’all!

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Training Mom


I used to think my dog was as dumb as a head of cabbage. Seriously, I’m not so sure any more. We had an understanding. I put down disposable pads for her. And only if, after unsuccessfully attempting to alert me that she needed to do some business, I happily reluctantly accepted that she’d use the pad. I assumed this would last only as long as it took for me to bribe her into making sure she does her business outside. But we’ve been doing this so long, that the pads, which have now been named Lily pads, are purchased by the case. I’m telling you, hope is slipping.

I have to cut her some slack. Lily is a rescue. If you were passed around like a bong backstage at a Stones concert, you’d be a little fucked up too. After almost a year, she’s finally settled in, and seems plenty comfortable with us. But I’m still waiting for her to unpack her brain, and stop being such a dick.

Calling Lily timid would be like calling the Pope just a little religious. I found out right away that yelling at the kids with her in the same room makes her piss herself in fear. And when I say herself, I mean, not so much herself as much as the rug. Charming, right? The one time I yelled at her, she pissed herself and hid under the bed for an hour. I thought she did this out of fear and stupidity. But now I’m convinced she’s eight pounds of master manipulation. I swear to you, she’s in cahoots with the kids. I think they’ve paid her off in salmon biscuits. I can no longer scream at the kids with reckless abandon without the dog fouling the rug. Clearly I need to step up my game here. Because I’m not winning.

And, high maintenance—jeeeeeeeez. When she first came to us, she wouldn’t eat from her bowl at all. The clank of her dog tag on the side of it would stick her to the ceiling like a cat on acid. I thought if she got hungry enough, she’d get over it. I was going with the tough-love training. But as it turns out, a terrier’s fear is more powerful than her hunger. I’m telling you, there’s not much more pathetic/entertaining than a starving dog sitting in front of a full bowl of food, barking at it. Yes, not kidding—barking at it. I gave up and started feeding her off of a saucer. Some things aren’t worth the effort. That, and the entertainment value wore off pretty quickly. She won. Again.

I brought the bowl out once in a while—partly as a test, partly for giggles. And partly as revenge for being a general pain in the ass. Not really. I’m not that cruel. Well… maybe? But recently she’s decided she can eat from it—very timidly, if the food is all pushed to the front of the bowl. At first she looked like she was walking to the edge of a ten-story building. Lowering her head to grab some food, her tag would clank, and she would tense. Then a momentary hesitation, with statue-like rigidity, as if she was waiting for a motion-sensitive bomb to blow. When nothing exploded, she’d grab a mouthful of kibble and run to the rug and drop it all. Then eat them, one by one. This was the ritual with every mouthful. Approach. Clank. Bomb anxiety. No bomb. And grab and run. I felt guilty laughing at her. But it was comical to watch. It’s been a while, and she and her food bowl have mostly made peace. But she still barks at the last few pieces of food that get pushed to the back of the bowl. Someone has to come and push it all to the front, or she won’t eat it. I just shake my head and follow her orders. I’m fully trained now.

I let my daughter put clothes on her. This seems like a good start on the payback. Right?

I’ve given up on those Lily pads too. They’re here to stay. Asking her if she needs to go out usually results in her dropping down and throwing her head on the floor, in child-like defiance. Of course, five minutes later she’s pissing in the hall on her pad. And if that’s not enough, yesterday she came in and, while looking at me, squeezed out a deuce on the pad. What the hell? Really? Who the fuck takes a dump while looking someone in the eye? I’ll tell you who. An asshole. That’s who. My dog is an asshole.

Don’t get me wrong. I love this stupid dog/asshole. She’s very sweet, and it melts my heart to watch how much she adores my kids. I firmly believe it’s a conspiracy to drive me nuts. And to mold me to their whims. Maybe we’re all just here to teach one another how to be better beings. I think she’s here to work on my patience. I’d like to think so anyway. But what I do know, is my kids and the dog are in it together. And I’m plotting my revenge.


Ok. I had to add this follow up.
This is Lily. Notice her food pushed to the back of the bowl, and the pleading look. And then the resignation when no one will help her get her food from the back of the bowl.

Note: As soon as I stopped recording, my husband (also a trained human) helped her out.
No dogs were harmed in the making of the video.

Confucius say, “He who talk stupid, drink alone.”

I really should send thank you cards to people at times like this. Some of the things I overhear are far more comical than anything anyone could dream up.

This was from a very young couple, behind me at the grocery store, buying beer… I assume with a fake ID.

Boy: (loudly) Check this out. Do you want to read about Angelina’s double masta… masta-cot-omy?
Girl: (quietly) Mastectomy
Boy: Oh ya. That’s some kind of girl surgery, right?
Girl: (again, quietly, and obviously embarrassed) Um….. ya.
Boy: Ya. Ok. Whatever gets you off. Stupid Hollywood chicks.
Girl: Oh my God. You’re an idiot.
Boy: What?
Girl: Moron. She had her boobs removed so she wouldn’t get cancer.
Boy: Fuuuuuuuuuuck. (short silence) I hope they kept those. You could totally sell ’em on ebay.
Girl: (silently walks out of the store, leaving him in line alone)

She really should have curtsied. It was pure awesome. I couldn’t help hoping that she drove off and left him there.

Happy Monday!


I’m ADD, and… what was I saying?

Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes, knows that I am completely and helplessly ADD. My mind is like a bag of fucking squirrels that….. have you ever thought about what that would be like… a knapsack of squirrels? Have you? Like one big, giant squirrel orgy. Whoa… not a pretty sight. And surprisingly loud.

Anyway, hi… some people say reading my rambling is an adventure that usually ends up somewhere completely different from where you bought the ticket to go. But the trip is always by way of the fun route. It’s the same for me. I used to make an attempt to control it. But then I decided that lacked fun and spontaneity. And how boring is that?

Take yesterday, for instance. I was determined to sit my ass down and write… more than my usual blog entry. I’m seriously trying to write a book, people. This is important stuff. (Not really.) So I finished and posted my blog entry and opened the file that has my ramblings, that some day I hope will become a collection of thoughts. Otherwise known as a book. (Ya, right.) This is separate from the novel I’ve been trying to pry out of the shit storm that is my head. The story is in there. I just keep getting in the way of its escape onto paper. Both projects are doomed. Doomed, I tell you. I wish the squirrels in my head would get their nuts out of my way, and just go harass my dog or something.

And, I swear to God, my dog has sleep apnea. She sleeps next to me on the floor. I’m serious. She sounds like she’s having to struggle to breathe. You should hear her right now. Do they make Breathe Right strips for dogs? I’m thinking the hair is probably an issue. Maybe they could make like velcro Breathe Right dog strips? It makes sense, right? I’m a genius, I tell you. Just send me the royalties, Breathe Right people.

So ya, lemme get back to you on what I was going to say. I don’t remember. I think I was talking about squirrels. And my dog. My dog likes squirrels. Actually she likes chasing squirrels. And if she caught one, she’d probably like eating squirrels. But she’s kind of dumb, and I have trouble imaging that she could ever catch a squirrel. They’re all content to sit in the back yard—my dog on the grass, and the squirrels in the trees—and bark at one another. It’s pretty damned funny. My house is like a circus. Or is that my brain? My brain is like a circus. Ya, that’s it.


This is my painting, by the kickass artist, Kelly Reemtsen. Her work is amaaaaazzzzing, and I’m proud to call her a friend. Google her. Swear to God, y’all. You’ll love her work. And apparently she’s kind of a mind reader. That part is a little creepy. Stop that, Kelly.

I have a painting on my circus-house wall. It’s a girl in a beautiful dress, wearing rubber gloves, and bubbles are floating all around her. This is how I feel sometimes. I’m all dressed and ready to go somewhere. But along the way, I remember I’m forgetting to do something. So I throw on the gloves, make a huge mess and forget what the hell I was doing to begin with. And why am I all dressed up? The artist totally got me, without really trying, she captured my essence. Or wait, did she? It’s all kind of like this post. One big non sequitur mystery.

Wait. What? I was saying something about squirrels. Right?

Wanna See my Thing?

drooler_smilieFor the last three mornings, I’ve rolled over and wiped the drool off my face, firmly believing, and even rejoicing that it was Friday. You know what I’m talking about. It’s a great feeling until reality punches you in the head. On the third morning I can’t help wondering if it’s all been a part of some cruel alien abduction experiment. Shit.

Maybe my brain is just telling me what I need to hear, in order to not cry like a little girl at the first sign of daylight. It’s been that kind of week. BUSY. Seriously freaking busy. I’m not going to go all dark and sad on you here. This has actually been a great week. I’m getting really positive feedback on this blog thing. Who knew you people would read my dumbass ramble fests? You guys are awesome for spreading the word. I love you. Not like in a drunken frat guy, slobbering on your shoulder kind of I love you. But in a seriously grateful, I totally appreciate your confidence that I won’t disappoint you and your friends kind of way. Even though I probably will at some point. Eh…. ya can’t win ’em all.

So in addition to attempting to write shit, I run the mommy taxi from hell. 500 miles a week of pure fun. By the time 5pm rolls around, my brain is toast. Fucked up old burned toast. And today is the day I had to pick my daughter up from her weekly class at the South Coast Repertory Theater, at the same time the rest of the world is trying to get home from work. We’ll just say, between regular South Coast Metro area work traffic, and performance traffic, the parking structure there is not an easy place to get in and out of. Think fifty rats trying to escape from a dime-sized hole, all at once. We’re talking the OC Mom kind of rats. Some of them will chew your fucking leg off. I’m not kidding, people. These women have important shit. They have to get to their mani-pedi touch ups before they race home to instruct their chefs how to prepare their egg whites and grilled salmon for dinner. This is some serious goddamned business. You do not want to get in their way.

By the time we get to the parking attendant, I’m usually consumed by traffic stress and my end-of-the-day brain fog. This week, particularly so. I rolled down my window and handed the attendant my ticket. Realizing his hesitation, I noted that I’d forgotten to also hand him my parking pass. Not really thinking, I asked him if he needed to see my thing. I heard it come out of my mouth, and was as humored as the attendant seemed to be. Because showing my thing has always been so effective for taking care of a myriad of issues in the past. Not really. And getting oneself out of a parking structure doesn’t tend to be one of those times when flashing a “thing” is helpful. Nor appropriate. Especially with a 12-year old in the car. And I’d like to say, there are precious few points in time that this would be deemed appropriate. If ever. Particularly at my age. But somehow my brain-to-mouth disconnect thought differently at that moment. It’s like the universe is one giant glitter-farting unicorn when shit works out like that. Isn’t it?

shades-smilieHe looked up from his cash drawer. Note, this is not something I’ve seen him do. Ever. And he made it a point to give me a wink and a smirk. Then he said, “No thanks, I’m good.” I’d like to say I was mortified, or even embarrassed. But at that point, I was too tired to care. Plus, I gave him something funny to tell his friends later. And isn’t that my point here these days? So I figured I was being productive, even when I wasn’t meaning to be. Yay me.


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Autocorrect Giveth, Autocorrect Taketh Away

There have been plenty of times, I’m certain, that my autocorrect has saved my ass. But lately I’ve only been finding fault in its flaws. I’m pretty sure it was sensing my lack of appreciation and decided to help me see the err of my ways. It probably felt like my mom did the time she emptied my dirty clothes basket onto my bed, and left it there for me to wonder how I was going to have clean clothes for school the next day. Well played, mom. Well played.

Yesterday morning, autocorrect got all judgey on me and decided that my potty mouth was unacceptable. It continually corrected “dickbrain” to “dick rain.” Which, in retrospect has great possibilities in its own merit. But determined it was going to be DICKBRAIN, I had to type it in THREE times, and tap the fucking x-box to make it STOP. changing. my. WORDS. I was frustrated and immediately changed my settings. And at that moment, autocorrect and I broke up.

Later my daughter’s coach sent me a text telling me that they had a game. I promptly replied with, “I’ll bring her vag later.” Having dumped autocorrect earlier, “vag” remained “vag,” rather than being mercifully and silently changed to “bag.” Autocorrect karma. Well played, autocorrect. Well played. I noted the mistake as the send-bar moved in slow motion. I heard myself shouting, “STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOP,” in that monstery-sounding, slow-motion voice. It felt as though it took several minutes for it to send, with me shouting at my phone, trying to will the text from sending. Or hoping for a complete crash of the L.A. Metro area cell service, just to save my ass. And then… it was done. Sent. Unsuccessful in halting the mortifyingly hysterical typo, I sat for a moment, deciding my recovery…

“Um. Never mind. I forgot. She actually keeps that with her. But she needs her bag. I’m bringing it over.”

I immediately turned autocorrect back on.

School Fun in the OC

School drop off is the long-standing bastion of unabashed stupidity. It’s a simple process. Wait in line. Pull up to the curb. Open the doors. Say goodbye. Drive off to enjoy your blissful kid-free day. But there’s always one douchenozzle who can’t grasp the process, and reminds us all that dim-wits walk amongst us.

Every school has one. The mom that everyone has to accommodate, because…. well…. she says so. But in the OC, we like taking the absurd to extremes; the GL450, the fake boobs, the faux tan, and the Disney-princess blonde hair. (Yes, you can specifically request that color in salons here.) All of this in one big plastic package. Her husband must be a lucky man… except for the fact that she has the face of a bull mastiff. She’s like Beauty and the Beast all wrapped up in one.

Now that I’ve painted the picture, every morning Princess Perkytits gets out of her car to open the door for her kid and help her gather her things. Mind you this is something that every other child does solo… because parents are specifically requested to remain in their cars. I’ve convinced myself that she does this in order to reveal her latest shopping and/or surgery acquisitions to the captive audience in the traffic line, who clearly couldn’t give a shit.

But this morning was truly an only in Orange County moment. Ok, perhaps you might see it in parts of Dallas as well. But given the patented OC-princess hair, I’m comfortable with the claim. I was a bit later than usual this morning and the curb traffic was creeping more slowly than normal. Disney princesses are very predictable, and it was of course Wanda Whitestrips prancing her Pradas about. But this morning, in true OC form, our Princess was lint-brushing, yes… using a fucking lint brush on her Jr. Belle’s pinafore; slowly, methodically, and without regard for the traffic holdup.

Now, I’m sure when you lounge about with your heard of Maltepoos, as you poke bonbons in your pie hole, it will make a mess on the dress-blues. Perhaps we could de-lint before leaving the house? Or pull into one of the dozen parking spaces and get out of everyone’s way? Nope. That’s not how Disney Princesses roll in the OC.