Alright. It’s playtime.

Everyone’s going back to school already!?
It’s like this every August. I have envy… knowing I’ve still got two more weeks to hear about my children’s boredom, in painful droning tones. It’s been an ok summer so far. But, aside from a great week of surf camp, some painful fun golf with my son, and my daughter’s performance in the community theater production of Hairspray, it’s been nothing to write home about.

I don’t have too many more summer breaks with these little people, before they fly the nest. *sigh* So I’m going to take the next couple of weeks off and enjoy these little fuckers, if it kills me. It’s time for us to make this summer a memorable one. I promise to return after Labor Day with some kickass stories.

Until then…
(((humping you furiously)))

…and if you don’t get the above humping reference, and think I’m nuts, go here….
You’ll thank me. This girlfriend is HILARIOUS.

• • •

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Why is “vagina” not in my Italian phrase book?

So ya, today was a pretty damn good day. My son and I did a horseback tour of Rome. Cool, huh? We climbed to the top of the Castel Sant’Angelo and repelled through the dome of the Pantheon. Ya, it’s totally like that… I’m badass—like the Indiana Jones kind of badass. And, as if the day couldn’t be awesomer, ya I totally said awesomer, we won the lottery. I swear to god, people. It doesn’t get better than this.

Ok… well, so, I feel compelled to point out that we were actually only on the Xbox, playing Assassin’s Creed. But that totally counts as being in Italy, in my book. I’m not in a big hurry to go back to Rome. The last time I was there, I experienced the welcome-to-Rome ass grab. Which was less like having my butt fondled, and more like the old guy trying to pull a fucking rabbit out of my vagina through my pants. He was charming like that. And if you’re wondering, I totally kidney-punched the geezer, which alarmed his wife—who was walking with him, holding his non-vagina-groping hand. Rome is super quaint like that. So limiting it to a virtual visit for today was just fine by me.

I also learned the last time I was there, that the street children, with their big, beautiful eyes are darling, until they try to steal your shit from under your nose. I would assume the lady on the bus with the fake arm, and the baby in the infant sling taught the street kids all they know. Fortunately I felt the zipper on my purse open, and caught that one in the act. I made the biggest fucking scene that a Rome bus had ever witnessed. Which is totally saying something… because ya, we’re talking about Rome here. After screaming at fake arm lady, and yelling out of the bus window at the police at the curb, the ho dropped my wallet. I’d gone such total ape shit on her ass, she wasn’t even able to pull the cash out of it. Uh huh. Take that, bitch.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Rome. In fact, it’s been so long since I’ve been, that the fake arm lady’s baby is probably old enough to have bred some little pickpocketing douche nuggets of his own by now. But it still hasn’t been long enough, that riding through virtual-Rome, shoving street people into piles of hay, and shooting the overly aggressive ones with my crossbow wasn’t massively therapeutic. Come to think of it, that crossbow would have really come in handy in our real-life travels. Although I’m thinking that would set off a TSA red flag. And I prefer to limit being felt up by a stranger in public, to once in a lifetime.

I guess aside from being able to shoot people who annoy you with a crossbow, the coolest part about Assassin’s Creed is that my son is picking up some Italian here and there. He can totally say, “Rest in peace,” in Italian. Which if I’m able to get my crossbow through customs, could be useful some day. Although I’d probably need to learn the Italian for, “I’d like to call Amanda Knox’s attorney, please.” And while I’m at it, I’ll also see about learning the phrase, Excuse me, y’old geezer, but you won’t find a rabbit in there today.”

I could imagine a day like that being just as satisfying as today was—with all the Indiana Jones badassness and lottery winning and stuff.

I’m not sure what we’re going to do with all of our lottery profits. Don’t worry, it wasn’t enough that I can retire and move to a reclusive house in Big Sur. We only matched four out of six numbers. Which in my opinion should be worth way more than 96 bucks. But it’s not. *sigh* And ya, IRS, if you’re listening, we’ll totally declare every cent of it on our tax return. Unless I start proselytizing to the kids down the block, and have myself declared a church. In which case… fuck you IRS. The lottery totally donated to my church—the church of self-serving bullshit. Is it just me, or is anyone else shocked that name isn’t already taken?

So it wasn’t a $7 million payout. But it still was a nice end to a nice day. I don’t think it was as satisfying as skewering virtual street thieves with a crossbow. But I think the $96 would cover the extra luggage fee to get a crossbow into checked luggage for my next actual visit to Rome. That’s me… always thinking ahead.

Now, does anyone know how to say “rabbit” and “vagina” in Italian?

• • •

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All cultured up. For now.

bowers-smMy kids have brazenly set off museum no-touchy alarms from Salzburg to San Francisco. I imagine their mug shots are on some international watch-list database, for museum docents who need to keep track of the touchy ones. Probably finger prints too—obviously they’ve put down plenty of those for database collection.

But now as more seasoned museum-goers, I worry less about fast fingers. They actually seem to enjoy the visits more, and are more observant of the rules. Ok. Somewhat. Even if it’s only because they know there’s usually food in it for them afterward, I’m down with the bribe. Whatever it takes, people. I’m writing the book on realistic parenting as I go. I’m going to get these kids cultured up, even if it kills us all.

I’m pretty sure my son still recalls the Picasso exhibit at the Albertina in Vienna. Or not. I most certainly do. I still suffer from PTSD. I’m a liberal mom. I don’t hide the fact that the human body, in its naked, and in some cases… ehum… very impressive form… *coughstatueofDavidcough* is front and center museum fodder. The kids have progressed beyond the giggle fits, to the point that an overly prolonged and intensive examination prompts me to throw my phone at their heads as a distraction technique. (I lie. I would never throw my phone. I’d totally throw my husband’s phone however.) Anyway, I digress. They appreciate the beauty of the art, if not just the fact that it’s adult-sanctioned leering at the boobies. And the franks and beans.


One of Picasso’s more tame works.

Despite my liberal lean in regard to art and the human form, the Picasso exhibit in Vienna tested even my limits. This was several years ago, and we were dragging a then 10- and a 7-year old through Vienna. My daughter preferred looking at sparkly things. So the Habsburg crown jewels overshadowed everything for that entire day. However, a 10-year old boy takes particular note of things. And Picasso’s things in this particular exhibit happened to be porn with a capital-P-icasso. Fortunately Picasso’s style being more abstract, my son caught on to just a sliver of the subject matter. Though I did know it was time to hit the cobble stones when I heard him giggling with his sister and pointing,

“Look at that painting. He’s peeing on her.”

Yes, children, that’s called a golden shower. Thank yooooou, Mr. Picasso. And, yup, I’m the mother of the year. My kids now know about the odd subculture that is golden showers. Yay me. Though seriously, that’s nothing. The year after that, we visited Amsterdam. Now if you want a place to really screw a kid up, Amsterdam can be there for you….

“I’m sorry kids, though they look delicious, you may not eat the brownies.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know why they’re blowing bubbles in the water in that vase.”

“Yes, I know. It’s sad that those ladies in the window can’t afford more than just underwear.”

“Come back here! Those people on the grass aren’t wrestling. And, they do not want you to play with them.”

But Amsterdam is another story for another time. We’re working on screwing up our kids, one vacation at a time. At any rate, yesterday’s trip to the Bowers Museum was fairly innocuous. Though if they were younger, I probably would have had more of an issue explaining the art of the Pacific Island headhunters’ exhibit, than Picasso’s erotic paintings. It’s all about heads, people. Some give ’em, some take ’em. *snort* But seriously, I’m bothered more by the violence than the sex. Call me crazy. Trust me, it wouldn’t be the first time.

So whether it was for the food, or for the promise of some parent-sponsored lewd sightings, the kids willingly left behind the Xbox for a morning of culture. I think they liked it mostly because it’s a smallish museum—translation, we’re in and out in a couple of hours. I don’t think my son would have rated it as highly on the titty scale as most European museums. With very few bare breasts, the juvenile giggles were mostly found with the impressive tools on the New Guinea totems. Based upon all that, The Bowers Museum rated seven happy-faces on the teen-rating scale.

Culture for the month, check. Feel free to go back to the Xbox, kids. For now.

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Thoughts on cannibalism, sacrifice and drugs


Me:           I’m a little concerned about your gummy bear vignette. Are you…
My son:   I don’t do drugs, mom.
Me:           It’s still a little disturbing. I prefer sacrifice and cannibalism.
My son:   Mom, seriously, I don’t do drugs.
Me:           But you understand why this sort of thing is a little disturbing, right?
My Son:   Ya. But I don’t do drugs.
Me:            I mean, at least I’m pretty sure with the sacrifice and cannibalism, I have nothing to worry about.
My Son:   Ok. You got me. I’m totally doing drugs, mom.
Me:            Shut up. Don’t be a douche nugget.
My Son:   Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you’re not a great mom.

P.S. This conversation actually makes more sense if you read this post and this post.


So my son read my post earlier today. And he was all like,
“Mom, you never really made a point.”

And I was all like,
“Duh, I couldn’t hear myself think. And there really wasn’t one.
Except that you were bugging me.
That, and I didn’t kill you. Even though you make me crazy.
And you should never be a douche canoe.
Oh ya, and I love you.”

And then he was like, “Oh.”

Some people really need to be more grateful when you don’t kill them.
I wonder where that box of Hot Wheel track is.

On parenting and alternative uses for Hot Wheel track

My son before turning into a scary teenager.

Honestly, I love my kids more than free shoes and Midori margaritas. If you’re not familiar with my arbitrary scale, that’s a lot. But I swear to you, no matter how much I love them, I still really, really want to whack them in the head sometimes.

No need to call Child Protective Services. I’m not the punchy, kicky type. And I don’t hit my kids. Maybe that’s why there are times that the thought of smacking my son in the forehead with a piece of Hot Wheel track brings such joy to me. I find myself unconsciously giggling and wringing my hands. People gaze at me with that look. You know that look right? Ok, maybe it’s just me. But when I see that look on people’s’ faces, I realize I’m doing the cackling evil genius thing out loud. And then I tell them to mind their own cheese eating business. Jeez. Can’t a girl have a fantasy moment? Cut me some slack. Kids can make you really crazy, you know?

Like today, for instance, my son is home with me. Have you ever tried to do anything productive with an ADD teen in the house? Holy fuck in a fart taco, you guys. It’s harder than trying to maintain composure with an angry mongoose up your pant leg. And only just slightly less painful. There is NO concentrating on anything here. ANYthing. If I haven’t made any sense at all so far, that’s why.

Raising kids is a bitch. And it most certainly has the potential to turn a girl into a raging one. And if you run across a parent who says otherwise, ask them for a hit of their medical marijuana. Because they’ve obviously got the good stuff. I’ve known people who, pre-kids, were the coolest, more fun people ever. Then after a couple of weeks/months/years as parents—it takes some longer than others—they turn into preachy, judgmental douche canoes.

The worst ones look around and see that nothing anyone else is doing is deemed as acceptable, or responsible parenting. I, personally don’t think that generalizations have a place in parenting. Every kid is different. And those parents who want to judge other parents on their choices, need to be tied up and stuffed into a time machine. Because (in my opinion), everyone should be forced to see how their own kids turn out, before being allowed to judge others. Not every child turns out to be the President. And thank (name your deity) for that. I can’t think of a more awful job. So, ya, douche canoes, your kids can be the President, (Yay you!), if they don’t crumble under your pressure to be perfect, and turn into crack heads. Which, by the way, is probably slightly ahead of the President as suckiest life aspiration. But that’s just my opinion, of course.

Parenting involves a whole lot of planning, and then even more stomping your feet, yelling, “Shit shit SHIT,” and then changing your plans. Or maybe that’s just me. But no matter what you decide for your kids, they are their own little people. And eventually will make their own choices. And if you’re a total dickweed about things now, chances are they’ll just go ahead and do what they choose, and choose to not talk to you about it along the way.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not referring to basic morality. You can instill, brainwash, whatever you want to call it. I’m all about that. Basic morality is society’s cornerstone. Right? Have at it. But if you’re going to preach it, you’d damn well better practice it. Because kids see so much more than you think. And they’re more likely to follow what you do, rather than what you say. If that scares you… well… I’m just sayin.’

I think the most important thing for kids to know is that they have loving, caring parents, who demonstrate good values and are willing to listen to them, and accept them. When they’re willing to talk. (If you have teens, you totally get this.) Sometimes they need to retreat into themselves. This is ok with me. I mean, hell, it gives me a nice break. In fact, I wish my son would do a little of that retreating thing right now.

I just hope my kids are able to follow their passion. I try to give them enough (I think) non-judgemental leeway to figure out what that is.  I hope they can do something in life that makes them excited to get out of bed every morning. Yes kids, I will make your asses go to college. But you decide what floats your boat. It doesn’t matter what it is. Somehow you can find a way to make a living doing something related to your passion. The worst thing you can do is wake up when you’re forty and figure out that you hate what you’ve become, and realize the road back is a long, and sometimes impossible one. There’s not much worse than that. Not even an angry mongoose up your pant leg. Or a mom with a piece of Hot Wheel track.

But what do I know? My kids have already made me batshit crazy.

Eat me.

I do my best to be a good mom. I shop the organic produce. And I try not to overload the brussel sprouts with too much bacon. Heh, I said too much bacon. As if. But seriously. How else are you supposed to get those evil little things down? Ok, I confess, they’re not so bad. My son and I have actually taken a liking to them. Or maybe it’s all the bacon and cheese. Not really. Well, maybe a little bit. Ok, a lot. My husband, however is not a fan at all. And no amount of bacon or cheese will change that. But I’ll keep trying. I know he envies the impressive post-brussel sprout pants cannon. I’m sure he’s considered crossing over to the dark leafy green side just for the prospect of the sheer volume of ammo. I mean who wouldn’t, right?

But really, I do what I can. I even bought kale today. Not sure how that’s going to go. I guess if all else fails that shit will be drop-dead gorgeous in a floral arrangement. I’m seeing it with some really nice peonies. Right? So, admittedly we tend to be a little leafy green deficient here. I try to compensate by keeping frozen blueberries for snacks. Now that’s some good stuff. However, as I’m well aware, not a perfect sub for the green farter starters. But we do our best.

Now, I know that all the judgy-mommy types slather the hate on us vitamin-doling moms. But hey, a little multi-vitamin can’t hurt, right?? I figure it’s kind of like a little extra insurance. Not like the kind of insurance that the car rental people try to sell you, even when your credit card insurance will cover damages. (Thank you AMEX. Side view mirrors in some of those old Spanish cities are just doomed anyway.) But we’re talking like the good kind of insurance. Like pet life insurance. Oh wait. Do they have that? OMG they totally should. Genius, I tell you. I’m a fucking genius. Flo, have your people call

So every morning I put out vitamins for everyone. And the good ones too. The gummy bears. Because seriously, good moms put candy out for their kids in the morning. Right? Hell yes. And you know what? My family just doesn’t appreciate my efforts. Half the time those poor gummy bears sit their, so lonely, all day long. There have even been days that they’re still there the next morning. What the hell with that?? I even write whorey notes on behalf of the poor little guys. My humor is lost on these people.

Look. My family is lucky. I’ve not been one of those moms who sneaks spinach into the brownies and pretends it’s just nummy. You moms are sick, by the way. What the hell is wrong with you? Is nothing sacred to you people? Trust me, they can taste it. Just because it works with pot, does not mean it works with spinach. Stop it. You’re making all moms look bad. *pffft* You scoff at me for giving my family vitamins? Well here’s a news flash for you. Your kids are tossing your nastyass Popeye brownies into the dog’s bowl on the way out the door to their friend’s house, where they’re getting the real deal. With no fucking spinach.

At any rate, I’m slowly figuring out the guerilla produce-pusher tactics. I’m actually full of shit. I’ve tried to hide stuff in smoothies. My kids have fucking ninja noses. It’s a no go, people. I’m just envious of some of the hiding techniques you guys have out there. Except the spinach brownies. Stop that. Nuts, people. That’s the only thing remotely healthy that go into brownies. Nuts. Got it? If rabbits like your brownies, there’s something wrong with them. Squirrels are ok.

But honestly, I feel like my priority should be for my kids to know what they’re eating, and to decide they like it, rather than me hiding it. Because when they grow up, no one will be there to trick them into eating their spinach. I’ll make them like it if it kills me. Or not. I’m realistic. If all else fails, put it under a coat of bacon and cheese. Meanwhile I’ll keep pimping the gummy bears and hope for the best.


Conformity is for Dickweeds

Pretty much every day of the week, when I pick my 15 year-old son up from school, he has some sort of comment/critique on my daily blog post. This always makes me stop and think. And wonder what the hell I’m doing. I’d always wanted to write something that my kids could be proud of their mom for. Yup, I know that sentence structure is grammatically abysmal. I used abysmal correctly. I give myself half credit. So bite me.

I didn’t really set out to write a blog full of potty mouth ramble-fests, that would make me the envy of every Stepford Wife in the OC. (I’m not really the envy of anyone.) It just kind of happened that way. (Not really.) Which is pretty much the norm for me. Not much planning, and a whole lot of flying by the seat of my pants. Yes, really.

I’m not saying that I’m bummed that my son reads my blog. He seems to take some sort of pride in his warped mom. I love him for that. He’s the kind of kid that has a lot of pride in the fact that he’s not a generic, cookie-cutter, conformist, OC kid. And I rejoice in this. Honestly. I’ve always felt like the worst thing I could do was fit in, disappear and fade into the background of conformity. Why? We should be rejoicing in our differences, people. Conformity is for douchnozzles. Boring. ass. douchenozzles.

Timing is everything, my darling son. I’m talking to you. There’s a time and place for everything. That’s what cotillion is all about. They teach you how to act in those times. I had to do it. You have to do it. The most important thing I can teach you, is when it’s ok. And when it’s not. Some people take themselves way too seriously. Skirting the edge of conformity… it’s a balance of timing… a dance of sorts. Or for those of us who get a chuckle from the too too serious folks… a game.

I’ve been trying, for several years now, to hammer out an endearing novel with a sweet message that my kids can live by, and be proud of. I’ll finish it some day. I used to pressure myself to get it done, so they would have some nice little message to live by. Like somehow they needed this message to guide them through life. But as I’m watching my kids turn into the amazing individuals that they are, I realize that no matter what I’m doing here, they’re becoming kickass kids who can think for themselves. They’re growing up quite nicely. In spite of me.

I know we’re inappropriate at times. But we laugh. And, more importantly, we love. I had the most wonderful dinner  last night. We enjoyed some family together-time at the Bluewater Grill in Newport Beach. But it wasn’t lovely because it’s my favorite restaurant, in a quiet little location tucked away on Lido Island. Or because my husband and kids were spoiling me for Mother’s Day. Or because I had the creme brulee almost all to myself. It was wonderful because I laughed til I nearly peed. And yes, it was an inappropriate joke. Something about fish sticks. Has anyone else noticed how fish sticks sounds like fish dicks? Me neither, until I had a teenaged boy.

There’s really nothing better than sharing a side-splitting laugh with your 15 year-old son. I see a lot of teenagers looking at their parents like they’re aliens. Or dickweeds. Or alien dickweeds. There’s nothing better than knowing that, for now, he doesn’t think I’m an alien dickweed. Most of the time. And we all enjoy one another, however inappropriate the conversation may be. All I ask is that my kids don’t hurt anyone else, and they don’t hurt themselves. Laughing is the jelly in the doughnuts, y’all. Suck it up.

I hope everyone else had an epic day yesterday. And I hope you laughed til you almost peed too. It’s ok. Conformity is for alien dickweeds.

My son loves me. He just doesn’t know it yet.

My son:   (takes a piece of bacon and retreats to the other room with his laptop)
Me:   No dude, you have to wash your hands. You don’t want grease on your track pad.
My son:   I use a mouse.
My husband:   You don’t want grease on your mouse either.
Me:   There are a lot of guys who’d disagree.
My son:   (from the other room) You’re sick.

Cotillion Mouth

I feel like it’s my responsibility as a parent to ensure that my children are well-read and have an extensive vocabulary. I owe it to the people with whom they eventually end up on dates. I don’t want to be responsible for them boring the shit out of someone some day. I’ve dated plenty of boringass lunkheads, from whom I could not wait to part company. I refuse to add to the pool of douchebags.

I’ve also made them both endure cotillion classes in order to be able to function in a formal social setting. Call me old fashioned, but I still believe it’s important to know which fork is which. I dated plenty of guys who didn’t know a bread plate from a fucking frisbee. And I always found a lack of table manners to be a turn off. Hell, if a guy was ever able to use those tong thingies to extract escargot gracefully, he totally got laid.

The fun thing about me is, stick around, there will always be a contradiction. Or maybe not. Perhaps swearing like a sailor in front of my kids qualifies as vocabulary training? The one thing I’ve taught them is there is a time and a place for everything. I mean, we might not always cut loose with a fabulous cheek-clapping fart. But, say, at home, when standing between your brother’s face and the TV, it’s not only acceptable, but encouraged. I believe Eddie Murphy called it “The Fart Game.” And we are tough competitors in our house.

But as far as the swearing thing, have you ever been around that guy who doesn’t know how to swear? He comes out with, “Fuck shit goddammit…,” in some telling, English-is-my-fifth-language accent. All the seasoned potty mouths make eye contact and silently agree that he’s a swear-virgin. How awkward is that? I want to be sure that my kids are good at everything they do. Including swearing.

It pains me, what a good mom I am.