HIYA!

I am a dreamer.

Some would call me a romantic.  Many would call me misguided.  The way I see things happening versus the way they end up playing out are never remotely similar.
I'm all about that moment.  The fairytale.  The end of the movie when everything works out perfectly.  Where the guy professes his love because he can't live without you.  That moment you dance to a Motown song in your underwear alongside your family using hairbrushes as microphones.  I seek out these moments.  I crave these moments.  I genuinely believe they exist. For me, these moments always end badly.

Like the time I took the boys to Disneyland.  We were going to have the time of our lives at the Magic Kingdom.  We would wear mouse ears and take pictures with Goofy. (Fantasy)    The boys got the flu and puked on It's a Small World. (Reality) 

Or the time I took them down to La Jolla for the weekend.  We were going to run in the ocean mist building sand castles and digging to China. (Fantasy)  They both got the flu and puked on me in the hotel bed.(Reality) 

Or the time I road-tripped with them to San Fransisco.  We were going to sing songs from musicals and create inside jokes that we'd later repeat in front of their father and say, "You wouldn't get it. It's an inside joke." (Fantasy)  They both got the flu and puked for five hours solid in the car.  (Reality)

Or that time  I married a nice Greek boy who I met at church camp. We were going to be together forever.  We know how that one ends.

I am a dreamer. 

I'm also a huge Muppet fan.  This is not a fantasy.  This is a fact.  I love me a Muppet. My inner Muppet is Miss Piggy.  Obviously.  Though unlike Piggy, I have managed to contain my anger issues and have never karate chopped anyone in a fit of rage.  (Fantasy)

You can imagine my delight and excitement when it was announced that the Muppets were making a comeback. A new film to dazzle the dreamer in us all. I prepared my boys for months on end singing them The Rainbow Connection 100 to 150 times a day.   I love the sound of my own voice. (Reality)  I am an amazing singer. (Fantasy) We watched, daily, a bootlegged copy of the original  Muppet Movie off YouTube shot by a child watching it on his TV with minimal audio. It was free so I enjoyed it 10 times more. (Reality) I needed my boys invested in the Muppets.   A new generation loving those same foppish characters.  The ironic teachers of my time.  The Lovers.  The Dreamers.  Back on the big screen.  Watching my sons watch the Muppets would be a highlight in my life.  A moment unlike any other. 

THE FANTASY:
We arrive at the Grove.  It's a Winter Wonderland.  I am wearing skinny jeans and  high-heeled boots.  My hair is perfectly coiffed and I'm in flawless makeup.  The boys are in cords and Christmas sweaters with matching hats.  No need for a stroller.  The three of us walk, almost glide, hand in hand from the valet to the theater.  People stop to look at this darling family.  They sense I'm "doing it alone" but don't pity me because I look so good doing it.  Single, age-appropriate men without the baggage of ex-wives and mentally disturbed children try and stop to get my number.  I can't be bothered.  Today is about the boys...the boys and the Muppets.  We get popcorn.  Van and Leo look up at me with their big brown eyes and  thank me for being the best mom in the world. They speak with British accents as all classy people do.  We watch the movie.  It's brilliant.  During the final scene, the boys snuggle up to me and we sing Rainbow Connection in perfect harmony.  Our voices are angelic and the people sitting in front of us thank us for making the world a happier place.   I tear up.  Life is wonderful and I am blessed.  Yes, we've had a rough go at it,  but we are in a far better place.   Years later, when my boys have figured out that they love me more than their father, we will all sit back and relive that day at The Grove watching the Muppets.   The boys will be wearing ascots.

THE REALITY:
We arrive at the Grove.  It's a Winter Wonderland.  I am wearing ill-fitting skinny jeans and low-heeled boots making me look like a lesbian. My hair is high atop my head in a knot with a large clump of peanut butter caked in at my temple. No makeup.  The boys are in sweats and look homeless.  I walk from the valet to the theater with two, crying, 40 pound toddlers on my hips.  People stop to stare at us.  They sense I'm "doing it alone" and pity me because I look so stressed out doing it.  Single, age-appropriate men without the baggage of ex-wives and mentally disturbed children avoid me. 

Wisdom had stepped in earlier in the day.  I invited my mother.   Wisdom evaded her.  She invited my 90-year-old grandmother who immediately goes missing.  We find her accosting a young couple on a date.  She is telling them all about her dead husband who leaves her "pennies from heaven" in order to contact her.  They indulge  her because she is 90 and wearing dark sunglasses with one of the glass pieces missing.  She too looks homeless.  The boys are in good company. 

Leo and Van run around the lobby bumping into movie-goers with no apologies.  People stare and silently judge me thinking...Ritalin. Ritalin.   

A Rastafarian man walks by me wreaking of marijuana.  I attempt to suck in the air around him to give me some relief from the day.  Failure. 

I grab popcorn for everyone except my mother who insists she does not  eat nor like popcorn.  

We sit.  After 20 minutes of previews and a 15 minute Pixar mini-film the movie begins.

We run out of popcorn. Mostly because my mother has eaten it all.

My 90-year-old grandmother sits with her hands over her ears.  "It's so loud" she screams.  "Turn it down."  We ignore her.   Who is this crazy, homeless, 90-year-old?

The Movie is darling. I laugh out loud recalling my youth.  The Muppet Show.  I delight in memories of my Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy sheets.  Simpler times.  When I wasn't a single mom with two toddler boys.

I think about Miss Piggy and how I wanted to look just like her when I was young.  How after giving birth to Leo I sort of did. 

My 90-year-old grandmother screams.  "Oh, I saw this on TV the other night." There is no point in arguing with a homeless, 90-year-old woman wearing broken dark-sunglasses while holding her ears in the Muppet Movie...but I do anyway.
That is who I am. 

We are shushed by a humorless couple who take themselves entirely too seriously and obviously have a sexless marriage.

We are five minutes into the film.

Leo gets antsy and lies face-down on the hepatitis-ridden theater floor eating old popcorn and no doubt being pricked by used drug needles infecting himself with full blown AIDS. He sings, at full voice, something unintelligible. Rainbow Connection?  We'll never know.    Van screams, "Where ah ole da dinasoes?"   I explain there are no dinosaurs in this movie.  He crosses his arms and glares at me, furrowing his forehead and looking just like his father.  An overwhelming feeling of nausea envelops me.  It passes.

The sexually repressed couple turn again to shush us. I am tempted to karate chop them. I take a breath. Count to 10. I have calmed the sleeping Piggy inside me.

My mother, in a sainted moment, says she will gladly take Leo for a walk so we can continue to watch the movie.  I think this is a brilliant idea and ask her if she wouldn't mind taking Van and my 90-year-old grandmother as well.  She looks at me as though I'm crazy. "Just kidding," I say. But I am not just kidding. The perverts turn again to shush me. I karate chop their chair. "Sorry." I say. But I'm not sorry. HIYA!

Mother returns three minutes later. A shorter walk than I had anticipated. Leo squeals while Van stands on his seat searching for "dinasoes." The eunuch in front of me turns and says, "Can you please be quiet?"

Suddenly, the theater manager appears.   We are asked to leave.   I want to die. I'm THAT person. I'm the person that brings her screaming children to a movie.  I am white trash. I used to be the person that called the manager. I still am. I look at my sons, my mother and my 90-year-old grandmother who is staring disapprovingly at the screen with her hands covering her ears and her broken spectacles and I think…I want to karate chop every single person in this theater. I want to karate chop the manager. I want to karate chop my ex-husband for leaving me with two kids. I want to karate chop the world.

Time stands still as I'm faced with my rage and my reality.   The fact is, I don't like Disneyland.  I never have.  I hate sand and digging.  Road trips are miserable.  I'm trying to create memories with a two and three year old who I'm pretty sure don't remember five minutes ago.  Moments aren't created.  They happen. I have spent the past ten years trying to make a man who did not love me, love me. Trying to create moments from something that didn't exist. My life. This whole mess. It's all my fault. And suddenly I just want to karate chop myself. In the face.

Van looks a little green. We are but moments away from him puking. 

I leave the theater carrying two, crying, 40 pound toddlers on my hips back to valet. People stop and stare. I am defeated but I am wiser. Oh, I am wiser.

Next time I'll take them to Hawaii, cause I know they're gonna love it.

Someday we'll find it.  The Rainbow Connection.  The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Oprah

There are a few rules to “fitting in” in the cut-throat pre-school mommy world. Always act busier than you are. Always be in workout clothing. Buy organic and finally, volunteer to bring home the class pet on weekends and holidays. Van’s class pet is Dylan the Guinea Pig.

A guinea pig is neither pig nor fat person from the Republic of Guinea. A guinea pig is a giant, lazy rat that does absolutely nothing. Zero. Just lays there. Which sounds like a dream come true to me. In fact, in my next life I want to come back as a guinea pig. Sadly, with my luck I’ll come back as a fat person from the Republic of Guinea.

The other mommies at Van’s school have yet to catch on that I’m a complete mess on the verge of a total nervous breakdown the likes of which Anne Heche could not dream of. They think I’ve ”got my shit together” and am “the strongest woman they know.”

When life hands you lemons, say for example your husband leaves you out of the blue and tells you your whole marriage was a sham, you can do one of several things.

One:
Chop off his penis and be hailed a hero by women around the world only to wind up in jail the rest of your life forced to turn lesbian with a cellmate named Rosie who treats you like a slave and cheats on you with a be-tattooed Latina inmate named Yessica who spits in your cornrows every time you walk past her.

Two:
Commit suicide but first buy a full page ad in Variety for your suicide note which is written to your ex explaining that your blood is on his hands. That your children are motherless because of his selfishness. Outline every embarrassing moment making it impossible for him to ever show his face in public without being ridiculed by the whole of humanity.

Three:
Take life’s shitty lemons and make some lemonade. Pretend that “everything happens for a reason” and “time heals all wounds” and “bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, be the bigger person, bullshit.”

I have chosen option three though contemplate one and two seven to eight times per hour.

Since choosing lemonade, I have a new life philosophy. Say yes to everything. But not really everything because if I said yes to everything I would be holed up in a motel with the skeevy Persian man who leased me my new car.

So, when asked if I would take Dylan the Guinea Pig Rat Monster for a few days I gave my new go-to answer. YES! Because that’s what healthy, well-adjusted, scorned moms do while drinking rancid lemonade.

When I was eight, I needed a bunny. It was all that I wanted in the whole world. I begged. I pleaded. And finally, I got my bunny. His name was Fluffy. Or Furry. Or something ridiculous and we were in love. For three days. Until he started to smell. So I put his cage behind the house and would bring him food and water once a day. For three more days. And then I kinda forgot that I had a bunny living behind the house. And when I remembered, he was gone. Not dead. Just missing. Fluffy, or Boots or What’s His Name was somewhere out in the cold mean world trying to survive. And it was all my fault. And then I realized that the disappearance of Mr. Fuzz was not my fault at all. It was my mom’s fault because I was too young to be responsible for a living creature. I forgave myself. I blamed my mom. As I do most things.

As I placed Dylan the Guinea Pig in my brand new car I cursed the “yes girl” I had become. He wreaked of urine, rat poo, hay and seaweed.

I zipped up my Lululemon uniform. Looked at my watch, which hasn’t worked for four years, and said, “I’m so late. Gotta run to Whole Foods then I have a conference call.” All lies. First clue? I’m too cheap to buy organic. Then I joked, “Say goodbye to Dylan. You know I’m gonna kill him. I’m so not an animal person.”

The mommies laughed. It wasn’t really funny but I find when you are going through a rough patch people laugh at anything you say. It’s the wrong approach with me because the sad, fat girl living inside me believes that I’m actually funny. Is this thing on?

My kids were moderately excited to see Dylan. Van waved at him through the cage then ran off to play with, “a weely verwy cwoss dinosaur in the wiving woom.” I smell speech therapy. Leo, however, jumped at the opportunity to hold Dylan, mostly because Leo thought that Dylan was food as he probably is in his ancestral home of the Republic of Guinea.

I went to bed longing for the controlling arms of Rosie my prison cellmate. When I woke the next morning, Dylan was dead.

And though I’m sure it was natural causes that took this creature out of our world, I felt responsible somehow. Am I so powerful that just me saying something makes it so? I've always suspected. I felt horribly guilty. It was Fluffy all over again. And then I thought about how Fluffy was certainly not my fault. In fact, I’m pretty sure nothing has ever been my fault in my whole life. Ever.

How irresponsible of the other mothers to allow Dylan to go home with me.

As Oprah always said, people tell you who they are. You just have to listen. These mommies didn’t listen. I told them all, “I’m going to kill Dylan.”

I forgive myself. I blame the mommies.

God I miss Oprah.

WE ARE BETTER THAN THIS

I've never been cool enough to be a member of a club. I'm not white enough for a beach club, or rich enough for a tennis club. I'm not fit enough for a fitness club or boring enough for a golf club. Not smart enough for math club. I am, however, a member of an elite club that I have always felt worthy of. Today, I ended that affiliation.

For the past ten years I have been a proud card-carrying platinum member of The Costco Club.

When I joined it was an exclusive establishment. It meant something to belong. It boasted, although wealthy enough to shop retail, you were savvy enough to buy bulk.

One of my favorite escapes from the stresses of motherhood is Costco. I love Costco. I love the size of the warehouse. I enjoy the hard-to-open plastic packaging. Costco is chameleon-like, constantly changing its look. One day live lobsters are being sold from a giant tank. The very next day the giant tank…vanished. In its place, a trampoline. The wizardry of Costco amazes as me as only few things do. Namely, David Copperfield and Charo.

I've patronized Costcos all over the states. My favorite Costco is in Honolulu because, a) it's on the water and b) you can buy chocolate-covered macadamia nuts in 10 pound bags. People assume you are purchasing souvenirs for friends on the mainland when in fact you are purchasing a nutritious midday snack for yourself (to be eaten in secret so as not to reveal yourself to your husband as a pig person.)

I like to silently nod at the passersby while shopping at Costco. We may come from different walks of life, I may be wearing Hogan tennis shoes while they are in their Kirkwood-brand ripoffs, but we are all part of the brotherhood of Costco.

Sometimes I bring Van. It’s a treat for him, allowing him into my Zen place. He is always dazzled by Costco's wonderment, sitting high atop the cart pointing and grunting. I don’t bring Van often because I don’t want to spoil him. Costco is a privilege not a right. Like Disneyland, and Sizzler.

I enjoy the fact that Costco only takes American Express. Good for you Costco. Because that premium you pay keeps out the riff raf. Or does it?

Today started badly.

I put Van down for his nap and was given a list of things I “needed” to purchase from my housekeeper. I don’t like to go to Costco with an agenda. I like to see where my cart leads me. Already it felt like a job.

I arrived at noon. I waited 30 minutes for a parking place and even then it was 400 steps away from the entrance door.

I was irritated from the get go.

The lady who stands at the entrance door, whose only task is to look at your membership card, didn’t ask to see mine. Instead, she sat on a stool making personal phone calls. It used to give me a sense of pride to flash my platinum membership card. Not just a plain old regular card. Platinum. This lady took away my pride. I do not know her personally but I think it’s fair to call her a worthless whore.

I was almost trampled over by a Vietnamese family who pushed their way past me. They were not asked for their membership cards. In fact no one was being carded. How is this a club if anyone is allowed in? This was not the Costco I knew and loved.

I entered but could barely navigate my cart around the troves of people hovering around the free samples. It was lunchtime. Every aisle ended with a different dish. Salsa and chips. Pot stickers. Teriyaki chicken. Energy drinks. It was a buffet for the penniless.

There is nothing worse than watching fat people fighting for free samples at Costco. This is not a judgement. This is a fact.

Costco is not a food bank. Costco is a high-end bulk food warehouse for the fiscally savvy. Had I wanted to try a frozen chimichanga, which I did but couldn't allow myself because of my abnormal fear of Hepatitis B, I should have been able to. It is my right as a club member to try a frozen chimichanga. But the lines were obscene and I wait in line for nothing. (except Sprinkles Cupcakes and Pink’s Hot dogs.)

I purchased my requirements. Toilet Paper. Paper Towels. Tide Free. Yuban coffee. And then I made a few impulse buys. Socks in bulk. Wrapping paper. Sensor balls for Van. Nicholas Sparks’ The Lucky One. A greeting card maker. A food saver, and flashlights. I toyed with buying a giant birthday cake and eating it in the car on the way home, but decided against it. I regret that decision.

As I was paying for my purchases, I struck up a conversation with the cashier. She asked me how I was feeling. I told her, “Not great.” I explained that my shopping experience had not been what I had come to expect at Costco. “Well, at least you look beautiful. You’re glowing from the pregnancy.” she said.

And now I'd like to take a moment and praise Mirabelle of check-out lane four. She is a genius.

When she asked me my due date, I lied. I told Mirabelle I was overdue. That I was 10 months pregnant and ready to blow. She couldn’t believe it. Mirabelle went on and on about how great I looked. How petite. She told me that I looked like a million bucks. Which is funny because I suspect I do look like a million bucks, only at times the mirror in my bedrooms betrays me.

I was feeling good. Mirabelle was more than a check-out clerk. She was my friend and a reminder of why I was a platinum member of this exclusive and prestigious food club.

And then a woman in a motorized wheelchair rammed me over. I turned around to give her a chance to apologize. I wasn’t hurt, but she didn’t know it so I dropped to the ground and moaned in agony. " Watch where you're going." She yelled at me. She yelled at ME. The Victim. Laying on the floor like a beached whale. She may have been limbless but I'm pregnant. I'm a frickin miracle maker. She's just a woman with no legs and bad hair. Was she even a member? Had she rolled in by mistake? Today this woman would get none of my clubhouse decorum or niceties. I summoned up the energy and wisdom of my mother who always knows the appropriate passive aggressive thing to say in a situation.

“I'm so sorry. What a fool I am. I didn't realize how much space your little machine took up. It’s hard for me to see anything passed my belly being 10 months pregnant. Does anyone have a Band-Aid? It seems I'm bleeding from this woman's scooter attack.” She scooted off in a huff. She had purchased nothing, but in her mobile-chair were remnants of free samples.

And that sealed the deal. I don't need to come into my club only to be run over by non-members and hungry freaks.

I took my carload of crap home and showed Van my purchases. He enjoyed the balls and flashlight but seemed confused with yet another bag of socks. We turned on our go-to song, Abba’s Super Trouper, and danced the day away.

We are not club people. We are free thinkers. We are better than that.

Music Class and Nazi Children

While pregnant, a dormant judgmental gene takes over my brain. When I see a fat pregnant person I think, "Yikes, what a fatty. Cool it on the carbs." When I see a skinny pregnant person, I think, "How pathetic and vain can you get? Eat something for the child." The only person I know who is totally perfect is me. I do everything right. I always have. By the way, I'm fat.

Today was the most miserable in a series of miserable baby music classes. Our music class is a baby social club set to insufferable tunes of yesteryear. At times I look at Van and think I spy a hint of contempt for his classmates. They whine. They moan. They do not possess Van and my natural singing ability. We relate to no one and are above the class. However we can't stop going because then people would judge me as a bad mother who does not socialize her child.

Music class is run by Miss Alice, a 30-something tone-deaf hippy who eerily resembles Olive Oil and refuses to wear a bra. She has what can only be described as a sexual crush on Van. I don't blame her. Van's hot. But it's a little creepy. Creepier is that Van indulges her fantasies with coy looks and open mouth kisses.

Miss Alice has the kind of sympathetic personality that makes me want to vomit. When she says hello it's with underlying feelings of apology. "Hi" really sounds like, "Hi, I'm so sorry you're fat. That must be hard."

Van's classmates include but are not limited to, Willow, a sexually progressive two year old who dislikes undergarments. Julia, an 18-month-old boy/girl. A fat kid named Lincoln. Bobby, a little African Boy who was recently adopted into a wealthy white family and is brought to class by his nanny. He is three and doesn't understand English. We like him. He thinks music class is ridiculous too.

There is one child that I am fascinated with. His name is Ariel and he is a recent transplant from Germany.

Ariel is always accompanied by his identical twin father. Did I mention Ariel is a boy? Cuz I wouldn't want you to get confused and think he was a red-headed mermaid.

Ariel has a mop of blond hair and speaks with a German accent. "Nein" is his favorite word. I instantly disliked Ariel and his father. They're too clean. Too precise. Too stiff when singing "Old Brass Vaw-gon." They do not enjoy the free dance portion of class. When we sing "Edelweiss", they go into a kind of trance. I silently labeled them post WW2 Nazis. Strangely, Ariel will start at the Jewish Community Center for pre-school come fall, but I just assume that's a guilt thing. I am not fooled. I am too savvy.


Today when Ariel's out-of-work Nazi father asked me how I was feeling I gave him my standard answer. "Huge. I'm feeling fat and huge." Now anyone with a brain knows that when a fat person admits to being fat the only thing to say is, "Come on. You look amazing." But the German out-of-work Nazi father looked me up and down and said, "Yes. But you vill lose it." And it was more of a military command than a wishful thought.

I like to make people think I'm nice and genuinely interested in them while silently judging. It's sort of my thing. There is a pregnant mother in class who I glance to occasionally in camaraderie. Like, if it's hot in the room I look over to her, roll my eyes and wave my hands in front of my face to say, "Can you stand the heat?" What I'm really thinking is, "If I'm hot then you must be dying cause you are Shamu fat."

Today after class we got to talking. I learned a lot of things I didn't care about. Her daughter Maddy is exceptionally bright and is being potty trained at 18-months. Maddy is also an early talker and walker. No one can believe how advanced she is.

****And here is where I must remind parents that no one is interested in how smart your child is. We all think that our child is the smartest and the cutest and the best. At the end of the day Van is so much more exceptional than your child. Please don't waste your breath.****

I tried to change the subject and asked when she was due. Ironically we're due on the same day. October 17th. Suddenly, I felt thin and beautiful because I'm huge, but she's bigger. And for a solid five minutes I was lording my body over hers. I needed a cupcake. I pranced around the un-air conditioned music room like a waif.

She then announced she was carrying triplets. I dislike Maddy's mom immensely.

Next week is the final class in our summer session of music class. There's part of me that will miss it. It will be two months before the fall session begins and by then I'll have another incredibly gifted, above-average child. Ariel, along with many others, will be starting pre-school and won't be in our class. Miss Alice is hanging up her maracas and pursuing her solo career. Next term will be me, my exceptional children, our like-minded African friend Bobby and fresh meat to judge and ridicule. I can't wait.

Hobo Ladies, Cholas and Natalie Wood

There is a hobo lady in my neighborhood that fascinates me. Not enough to engage her in conversation. Hobos are scary.

She lives outside the masonic temple on Vermont and without fail looks like a million bucks. She is always in pristine white and has bleached blond hair with a perfect blow out. Never a fly-away. Never a root. And she's a hobo. She makes me feel bad about myself.

Today when I saw her she waved to me with her perfectly manicured red nails. Like we were friends. But we're not friends. I have no hobo friends to speak of. I'm a snob that way. It could have been a pity wave. And hobos shouldn't pity me. That's just pathetic.

In so many ways I'm unfair to my husband but I think the number one way is this. When I married him almost 7 years ago, I was pretty adorable. I was fit and put together. Then I started making babies. It's been three days since I brushed my hair. Also, I posses what is commonly referred to as "the mask of pregnancy." A skin pigmentation problem that makes it look like I have a moustache. Also, I have a moustache. My sweet husband never fails to tell me how beautiful I am but I'm not totally brain dead. Nor am I blind. Hobo ladies take better care of themselves than I. Still, most of the time I look in the mirror and think I look just like Natalie Wood. Which I don't. But I think do. I have warped personal image issues.

I decided today would be the first day of the rest of my life. Yesterday was also the first day of the rest of my life but I was too tired to do anything about it. I would surprise my husband with the new me. The new me is similar to the me of seven years ago; cute, put together and blown out, only verging on morbidly obese.

The problem is this. More than my desire to look good is my desire to save a buck.

And it's just a blow dry and a wax. Surely Fantastic Sam's or Super Cuts would do the trick. Fast, cheap and good enough.

I chose Super Cuts. There is something creepy to me about the name Fantastic Sam's. Who is this Sam? What's so fantastic about him? I like a store that tells you what you are getting up front. A Super Cut. A Whole Foods. A Burger King. Clever names are wasted on me.

I called ahead. No appointment needed. Blow out. $25. Upper lip wax. $10. Done and done.

The Super Cuts in my neighborhood is on the corner of Sunset and Hillhurst. I assumed that the hobo patronized this salon as it was walking distance from her "home. If it was good enough for her, then it was good enough for me.

I walked in and it seemed cleanish. It did have an odd odor. Pollo Loco and vomit.

I was greeted by Jose, a Latino male that walked the gay line between cowboy and fetish slave. He asked if I was interested in the special hair serum. I said no thank you. Behind him was a sign. "If we don't ask you if you want the special hair serum, your visit is free." I cursed the day he mentioned the special hair serum.

Jose then asked if I wanted a wash. A wash is a given at any salon. At Super Cuts, it's $15 extra. I went with it. I needed a wash and justified the splurge. Jose asked if I wanted conditioner. Not fancy conditioner. Not the SERUM but plain old regular conditioner. Another $5. I did the math. Not easy for me. I realized I was up to $45 for a blow out. And I'm at Super Cuts. I couldn't justify it. I passed.

Jose spent the next hour and a half blow drying my hair. In the end I looked like Selena, the tragically slain Tejana super star known for her crossover hit "I Could Fall in Love With You." He had styled my hair around my face "framing it," he said, to help make me look thinner.

Jose asked me if I liked the new me. Had I been a chola my answer would be simple. But I'm not a chola. I'm a lady who looks eerily similar to Natalie Wood. But not at all.

I decided against the lip wax. The odor was getting to me and I needed to get home to Van.

Jose walked me to the cash register. He is also the cashier. He's multi-talented. He asked for $65. Now, I'm no genius but I'm also not completely inept. It wasn't adding up. He explained. It's $25 for "short hairs." For "long hairs" like mine it's double.

I learned two very important lessons today. 1: When you like someones hairstyle ask them where they go even if they are a hobo lady and you are scared of them. And 2: You get what you pay for. Except at Super Cuts where they rape you slowly, cruelly, making you watch the transformation from shlubby stay at home mom with avocado in your hair to chola.

I came home, rewashed my hair for free and placed it in its "happy place." High atop my head, tangled in a bun with a bobby pin holding back fly-aways. And I swear to God, I look just like Natalie Wood.

Gyming it

I hate a gym. There is nothing I hate more. I hate people who love working out. I despise trainers and people who dedicate their lives to fitness. When someone says they majored in health sciences I judge them. Harshly.

Yes. I'm a bit overweight. Granted, I'm pregnant, again, for the second time in a year , but I think I 'm judgmental enough to call myself fat.

So you can imagine my shock when I found myself in a gym today. Loving it. Wanting more.

As The Beastie Boys blared from the speakers, I thought, somebody finally got it right. Now this is a workout. I felt thinner. I felt healthier. I looked at my workout partner and felt sorry for him. He doesn't have my physical prowess. My strength, my balance.

My work out partner is my 14 month old son Van and today was our first day of Fit For Kids; A Children's Gym.

Also working out with us were Oscar, Walker, Henry, Louis, Adam, Eugene, Samantha, and Steve. Steve is an ass. The rest of the children were tolerable.

Steve is 20 months old. Steve is bald. Red, I learned, is not his color. Steve has a giant head and has yet to master the art of walking. (Van started walking at about 10 months, not to brag.)
When we gathered in the workout circle to do deep knee bends, Steve ran up to me and close-fisted punched me in the face. His father thought that was funny. Steve's father is also an ass.

Steve's father brought along his 50-something year old brother. Steve's uncle, we'll call him Bob, is also an ass. He came dressed in gym shorts, workout tee and bandanna. He sat on the mats gyrating to the Beastie Boys and creeping Van and me out. At first I thought he was doing it to entertain the children. He was not. He was entertaining himself. I'm 80% positive he is a pedophile. ( See earlier post titled: Laying to Rest Michael Jackson. Many similarities.)

Van's favorite machine was the baby zip line. Flying across the room in a little bucket. He couldn't get enough. The other children cried. I suppose my child is just exceptionally brave. Yes he screams and cries when you turn on a hair dryer, but that is completely understandable. Hair dryers are scary.

At Fit for Kids, the trainers don't make you feel unworthy or unfit. In fact, Tiffany, the main trainer, could stand to lose a few.


At one point Tiffany brought out jumpy horses. The kids were encouraged to chose one of the multi-colored horses and ride away.

Steve chose a pink jumpy horse while Van chose a blue one. I looked at Steve's ass of a father and said with a shrug, "Pink's my favorite color too." Ass.

Van was by far the cutest child in the class ...next to Samantha. Samantha is a fox, but a bit of a cry baby and most likely will end promiscuous if her parents continue to dress her in inappropriate mini skirts. She has big blue eyes and short blond hair. She has a round face that could pose a problem in her teen years.

I did find the plank walking a little challenging. Also, I thought it was rude that parents weren't allowed on the jumpy horses. But all in all an enjoyable workout.

I came home and had some chocolate cake because I deserved it.

I will return next week.

In the words of workout guru Jane Fonda, MAKE IT BURN.

Laying to rest Michael Jackson. A proud child lover and an American hero.

What am I watching? Really. What am I watching? They closed down TWO FREEWAYS.

Ten minutes until the The View starts and I swear to God, if Michael Jackson's funeral procession and memorial preempts it, well, I don't know what I'm going to do.

I was raised on Michael's music. Thiller? Come on. The best. Bad? Even better. Man in the mirror? His best work. But that's just music. And the music didn't die from an overdose. A freak did.

Why is the world shocked over Michael's death? This was totally expected. The man had half a face. Weighed 80 pounds. Turned white. Potentially had sex with young boys. I mean, really, this is shocking? Cause it's not. So get over it and let me watch The View.

It's as though everyone forgot about Michael's child molestation trial a few years back. He was accused of pedophilia, for the second time, and was let off. THAT was shocking. THAT was disgusting. THEN, I cried. Not now.

Really, Justin Timerlake? Jennifer Hudson. Brooke Sheilds? Nelson Mandela? Really? All of you?

It's 10 a.m. and big surprise...no The View. Instead Charles Gibson is hosting "Remembering Michael Jackson." Charles Gibson? That's embarrassing. I think he knows it.

Ok, let's do that. Let's remember Michael.

Michael Jackson was a sad, sad African American, black? African American? whatever, boy who was abused by his bully of a father. He made friends with a rat named Ben. He made a few albums as a black man (African American man?) and then he went crazy. He chopped his nose off. He got chin and cheek implants. He bleached his skin white. He moved to Neverland.


He bought a chimp and named him Bubbles. Sometimes he slept in a coffin. Other times, he shared his bed with young boys. Like, really young boys. He served them "Jesus juice." He was accused of making sweet love to these boys. He paid their families off. It never went to trial. He married Elvis Presley's daughter. They made-out on live television. The world took a collective vomit. He continued to share his bed with young boys. He "married" a semi-obese nurse from his dermatology office and proceeded to have two white children with her. He named them Prince Michael and Paris Michael. And they were white. Hmmm? Really? White children? Then he divorced the semi-obese nurse. Michael was accused of making sweet love to more young boys but was found innocent.

He had more plastic surgery, then denied it. He had yet another child with an anonymous woman whom he claimed was black. He named this white child Prince Michael the Second, but called him Blanket. Naturally.

He kinda disappeared for several years, then, this year announced his come back tour.

Now he's dead. The end. Boo Hoo.

For the past week I've watched nothing but Michael Jackson videos and montages. Not because I want to, but because there is nothing else on television and I'm too lazy to not watch television.

So, I guess my rant is more of a question to all of you out there. What are you mourning? The music survived. The dancing lives on. The videos, still there. I dare you to name one song Michael Jackson has written in the past 5 years. You can't do it. His death robs us of nothing.

I've just learned that Barbara Walters is at the memorial service for Michael sitting with Joe Jackson. Are you friggin kidding me? So basically, this rant...all for nothing. The View was never going to be on today.

As a mother of a young boy and another one on the way, I feel like the world is a little safer without Michael. And sure, we still disco-dance to Michael's music. My son gyrates uncontrollably when I play PYT. I still find the word's of Black and White beyond poignant. I remember and honor the music, not the man.

"Heal the world. Make it a better place. For you and for me and the entire human race."