Man Vs. Suburbs

After we completely decimated our front door yesterday, we sat down to watch Man vs. Wild . Where our lameness became glaringly apparent.

If you're not familiar with this show, I'll fill you in. In each episode Bear Grylls , the show's adventurer, strands himself in some remote area of the world (Moab desert, Costa Rican jungle, Alps, etc.) where he must fend for himself until he finds civilization.

Very awesome show. And a little sexy. Go set the Tivo.

Chris also has a bit of a crush on Bear. Or as he calls it, "man love". At any point during an episode, I can look over at Chris and he will be grinning with the sheer joy of all this testosterone in our living room. The climbing, the swimming, the running, the endless nature knowledge. Chris feels Bear is exactly the man that Chris could be if he didn't have a j-o-b and a m-o-r-t-g-a-g-e. Also, hangers-on like Savannah and myself.

In last night's episode he's dropped into the Pacific Ocean, swims five miles to a remote island where he climbs fifty foot palms, crafts a spear, creates a sand oven, builds a raft, weaves a sail and swims from sharks. All before dark.

I turn to Chris and cry, "We can't even paint a door! What kind of losers are we?".

To which he responds without taking his eyes off the TV, "Yep.".

Then Bear jumps into the ocean with his newly carved spear and swims thirty feet down into the depths of the sea to hand spear some fish. He's surrounded by massive sea creatures and a few large tiger sharks swim by in the dark water. He's wearing khakis.

I burst out laughing.

I can barely get the words out. "You wouldn't even get my hat out of the ocean because you saw a shadow swim by".

"It was a large shadow."

"You were on a jet ski."

Chris won't look away from Bear.

He simply says "I need his haircut".

Yes, dear. That's the only thing missing.

I imagine this is how Chris feels when I jump up after watching Dancing With The Stars and start leaping around the house going "Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a dancer? Do you see how high I can kick?".

Or during ANTM when I stare at myself in the mirror sucking in my cheeks and ask "Don't you think I'm prettier?".

Or when I watch The Bachelor and say "Don't you think he'd pick me?".

So, for the record: If we weren't holding one another back, I'd be a dancing model and Chris would be a spear throwing shark wrestler. Just so you know.

HomeStaying Queen

I was never the popular girl in school.

I was never asked to dances, was one of the last picked in basketball, was ignored (at BEST) by the cool girls and relentlessly teased at worst. I spent the majority of my adolescence believing I must be horribly unattractive and uninteresting.

This gave way to, as it often does, an adulthood where I have experienced hot dates, great friendships, and frequent promotions. True I owe this transformation in large part to my discovery of tweezers. But, it also seems to be the natural progression. People tend to peak either in high school or adulthood.

When I visit my hometown in Northern California familiar faces often catch my eye. And I see justice:

The captain of my high school football team who never gave me the time of day flirting with me at the grocery store.

The prom queen 50 pounds overweight with bratty kids at Wal-mart.

The nasty girl who spread rumors about me waiting at the bus stop in her Wendy's uniform.

And I come home to my full life here where I have spent the 10 years since high school working on my personality and my relationships and my career and my looks. And I realize that high school gave me the best life lesson. You have to work for what you want in life.

So, I have mixed feelings when the teacher says "Savannah is SO POPULAR."

One part of me feels tremendous relief that she may never have to experience the horror of being bullied by her peers.

But, the other half feels scared that she may never learn the life lessons that being on the outside teaches.

Re-Gifting? How About Un-Gifting?

Holy moses do we have some ugly gifts to get rid of.

Seriously. Oversized dresses covered with sheep? A pleather Disney jacket? Bratz dolls? Some sort of horse giraffe?

I don't mean to sound ungrateful - and believe me, the thank you cards are already in the mail - but there's no way that these gifts are hanging around. Herein lies the dilemma.

The gift givers are either neighbors or relatives that are planning on visiting soon. One cousin has already requested a photo of Savannah in said sheep dress.

Should I take my chances and put them up on Ebay? Should I lie about it? I certainly can't be honest. "I'm sorry. But, your gift makes grown men cry."

Should I make up a story about things being too big/broken/having an accident?

I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings and the quickest way to do that is for Grandma to see her thoughtful gift going for $2.50 in an online auction.

So. How much steak sauce do you think it would take for a dog to eat a pleather jacket? Hypothetically.

Hi, Can I Go Now?

I'm only slightly annoyed that my babysitter cancelled today.

And I'm only barely fuming that my new dishwasher flooded my kitchen (which is made even more awesome by the fact that we're listing our house in SEVEN DAYS).

And I'm even mildly amused by the five pounds I've gained even though I'm working out with a trainer (don't try to tell me it's muscle. just don't.).

What I'm over the moon about is THIS.

No matter how many rules, threats, and pleading that goes on my daughter's room continues to be a complete nightmare.

I tried all the little things in little containers. (ha) Then I tried everything in one container. (HA!) Then I tried labels. (BWAHAHAHA!)

And the bestest part? You've never heard a child complain more that there is nothing to do. Seriously.WTH?

So, now I have decided that I will not spend yet another afternoon cleaning that room. I am packing all the toys up and putting them in the garage. I'm leaving a pencil, a chair, and a pad of paper.

And maybe a corn cob doll. If Laura Ingalls could do it, so can we.

So, You Think You Can Parent

I completely lost my cool this morning. Not that I even had it.

I told my daughter that she could bring my ring to "show and tell" today since the letter was R. It's a big fake cocktail ring and it looks awesome on. (You know for all those cocktail parties I go to as a stay-at-home mom. Yeah, no.)

So, Savannah sleeps with this ring on her bookshelf last night and then is wearing it this morning. After I extracted a promise from her that she would make sure not to lose it, I got in the shower.

You see where this is going, no?

Not ten minutes after I get in the shower she shows up at the glass door crying. "I can't find the ring mommy."

Of course I'm not pleased and we proceed to spend the next twenty minutes searching for the damn thing. Savannah is crying the entire time. I'm telling her to stop standing there and look!

The entire time my internal dialogue is saying "This is exactly how your father would've handled it. She's only five. Tell her it's just a thing and that it was a mistake and that it's okay."

After a few more minutes of being angry and yelling and trying my best to ignore my intuition, I finally got on my knees and hugged her. "It's okay Savannah. I know you didn't mean to lose it."

She falls apart in my arms and apologizes. I immediately feel like a heel. What kind of mother makes their daughter hysterical looking for a damn ten dollar ring?

After I soothed her and we went with "racecar" instead, we were downstairs making lunch. She started sucking her thumb and whimpering and asked again if I was angry.

I sighed. "No honey. I'm not angry. We all make mistakes."

I'm thinking to myself at this point, how can I undo this? How can I fix her morning? I don't want to send her off to school like this.

"Mommy has lost things many times before" I add.

She perks up a little. "Like when?" she asks.

I thought a moment. "Well, one time before we had you I lost daddy's wallet."

This delighted her.

"Then another time I was supposed to watch someone's purse at work and it got stolen."

She started bouncing up and down. "Tell me another one!"

And with every story of my ineptitude that I told, her smile grew wider. Until she was squealing with joy. Sheer joy.

And it occurred to me that all she wanted was to know she wasn't alone. To know I fail too. To know it's okay. And without even knowing it, I gave her this gift.

Because Apparently I Am One Child Away From Being A Complete Loser Teenager

My mom took Savannah this weekend. This was thrilling for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that I am trying to get this house ready to sell and that's about as exciting to an energetic 5-year-old as, well, watching paint dry.

So last night I put together a long list of things to do today (excerpt: "Identify that SMELL coming from the pantry and BE RID OF IT").

So excited was I to have an entire day of uninterrupted time to declutter and delouse this place that I promptly went to sleep last night clutching my list and dreaming of productivity at its finest only to awaken TWELVE hours later. At NINE O'CLOCK this morning. With my husband peering over me poking me with sticks.

An hour later and here I am sitting on the couch still in my PJ's on the laptop being decidedly unproductive. Unless you count the fact that I've given the 12 of you reading this something to soothe yourselves with today ("Yes, I may be sitting here eating Cheez-Its out of the box, but at least I have clean underwear on...unlike that blogger girl. Loser."). So, you're welcome. Merry Christmas.

So, my new resolve for today is to just get three things done that I could not do otherwise. (I can't help but notice that laying on the floor eating cookies fits that criteria.) Perhaps some laundry. And then the cats: they need petting.

Also, what is that smell coming from the kitchen?

**Oh! I almost forgot to tell you! I will totally be blogging more often now! (The crowd roars) I tend to be easily overwhelmed and I had like six whole things to get done over the last month. But now? Totally free. And totally wearing yesterday's underwear.

Apple, Tree, Yada Yada

I don’t think I’ve matured much in the last twenty years. Sad, but true. As evidence I present you with,

Things My Toddler and I Have In Common


Me at five years old. What a joy I was.

Savannah at the same age.


1. When we’re told that there’s no money for toys, we don’t believe it. After all, money keeps coming out of that machine.

2. We consider cake a decent breakfast. (I mean, hello? Eggs? Milk?)

3. At a certain point we have both become terrified of Elmo. I mean, seriously. Check this scary crap out. I don't think I can sleep tonight.

4. We both favor elastic pants.

5. We both are attracted to Drake. But, deny it.

6. We CANNOT NOT talk through the entire movie.

7. We both eat fruit and vegetables as a means to the cookies and chips.

8. We live by the motto, “When in doubt, cry.”

I figure at this rate by the time she's a teenager, she'll be giving me timeouts.

Breaking Up Is Hard...Especially When You Haven't Met

I think this is a new low for me.

Saturday we were at a little princess party around the corner. It was thrown by an acquaintance of mine who does not have kids, so she had invited alot of other moms that I didn't know.

Well, one of those moms was her sister-in-law and she looked sort of like this. I'm not even kidding. And her name was like Gia or Eva. And she spoke with an accent.

Well, Gia-Eva decided that she wanted me. Hard core. She was eyeing me across the room. She was laughing at my jokes. Every time I caught her eye, she was all grins. She eventually made her way over to me and started a conversation. This woman was striking. Olive skin, blue eyes, dark curly hair, tall, thin, big smile.

She was also flashing a cheesy red thong, but let's not be catty.

This beautiful creature zeroed in on me and was now trying to strike up a friendship. She pulled out all the tricks: she complimented my daughter, she asked where I got my shoes, she admired my bag. Girl was working it.

Normally, this would be a non-issue. I can hold my own and have even been known to (gasp!) consider myself attractive. But, anyone who has read my other blog for five minutes knows about my current neuroses. I'm not thrilled with my appearance. The fact that I weigh more now than I did two months after my daughter was born (Where are those breastfeeding kids when you need them? The calories! Burned! Breastfeeding! Were fabulous!) displeases me greatly.

I haven't been to the gym regularly this year, I've been eating crap (McDonalds bakes syrup right into the pancakes! I wish I never knew this!), and frankly things are taking a turn for the worse in all areas physical. And have I mentioned the new wrinkles? Let's not. I'll save that for Self-Hatred Tuesday.

So, the thought of having Miss America around gave me a huge internal sigh. It's hard enough to be comfortable with myself with the beautiful friends I have now. I just don't think my ego could take another one in the mix. Gia-Eva was getting the 'ol brush off. I was polite, but every time I looked at her I wanted to laugh maniacally and then cry. I wanted to just interrupt her as she hinted at what her free weekdays were and say "You know what. You're nice and all. Any girl would be lucky to have you. But, I'm just not ready for this. It's not you.... It's me. ".

This can't be normal behavior, can it?

What Indeed

Wherever you are in the world you can look at the clock at 9:30am PST and you can think of me because you will know exactly what it is I am doing. I am fielding the following question: "What are we doing for kids today?".



Am I wrong or is this the question that makes you bury your head in the laundry you're folding and scream? Or in my case, duck behind your laptop screen with your mocha. Savannah is in preschool two half days a week - just enough time for me to grocery shop...or lay on the floor eating cookies.

But, that leaves me the other 90 hours a week to fill.

We do the library, the bookstore, the park. I've purchased books of activities. I've arranged playdates with people whose inane conversation made me want to claw my eyes out. I've even driven my happy ass down to San Diego to visit the science museum and get chased by homeless people in the park.

But, whatever activities I have planned, whatever fun Savannah has enjoyed, does not change the fact that the next day needs to be filled as well. And she's totally picked up on the fact that the grocery store is not "the sticker place" just because after an hour of shopping with mom they give her a string of flourescent orange "Meals in Minutes" stickers.

Don't get the wrong idea - I'm not at her beck and call. I'm way too lazy to produce an overindulged child. What I am is a mother who lets her child watch way too much Noggin and Nick Jr. by default. I know the shows are educational, but what bothers me is not the content, its the fact that she's sitting there like a glazed donut.

The short answer is to quick! reproduce! and give the child a sibling. Well, I'm working on it.

Until then, any suggestions of how you fill your little hobbit's day would be much appreciated.

The Mouths of Babes

Savannah had dance class this morning. Not just any ol' dance class, but Princess dance class. Quite cute. Every week they're a different Princess. (When will they get to Diana, that's what I want to know.)



Anyway, today they were Cinderella "pre-prince". They wore handkerchiefs on their heads and aprons over their leotard. The dance moves mimed cleaning activities, like sweeping and dusting, etc. So, after class Savannah and I are walking to our car with the other moms and she asks loudly, "Mom, what's a mop?".

Not even kidding.

Then we go to the store, an upscale discount home store, and when we're checking out the saleslady asks my phone number. I give it to her.

Savannah pipes up, "Mom, that's not your phone number."

"Yes, it is. Shhh." I hiss.

The saleslady's eyes dart over to me as she punches it in the computer. "You know," she says briskly, "We only ask you your phone number to track where our customers live. We don't use it for any other reason."

I smile and take my receipt.

"It would be nice if it were accurate" she adds as she hands me my bag.

And I come up with this winner, "Yeah, well...". Amazing comeback, I know.

So, the moral of the story is resist the urge to ever teach your children to speak. It'll backfire.