What I Did For Love

There are things a girl will do for her father that no one else could get her to do.  No one.  My dad had knee replacement surgery last week and is happy to be home and recovering.  Before he went into the hospital he left his wallet and other valuables at home for safekeeping.  My mom noticed that his credit card was not in his wallet.  The search began.  We looked in pants pockets, dresser drawers, on his desk, by the computer, all over.  No card.  "Call the credit card company," I suggested.  "Tell them what the last few charges were and if there are no others you'll know it has been misplaced and hasn't fallen into the wrong hands."  No extra charges.  The search continued.  No card.  This morning, which just happens to be garbage pick-up day at their house, my dad appeared to be resting when I checked on him.  His eyes popped open.  "I think I might have left my credit card in a Walgreen's bag," he said.  "Tell your kids I'll pay them $10 each to go through the garbage and look for it."  Since the little darlings were still sleeping, and you never know when the garbage collectors will decide to come early--I headed outside, my hands encased in protective plastic  bags.  Several moldy ears of corn and one almost-battle with a chipmunk later, let me just say that I looked through every bit of garbage generated by this house in the last week....and the card was not there.  I think the time has come to admit defeat and cancel the card.  That's the only way we'll find it anyway.  Happy Knee Rehab, Dad!!

Something Special in The Air

Dear American,

I was on your flight 2074 last night from LA to Chicago.  Actually, this flight was supposed to take off at 12:55 PM but was delayed til around 2 PM.  Not that I'm complaining--all your flights seem to be delayed these days.  If it's not weather it's mechanical.  Too bad we never seem to know about the delays til we get to the airport.  Oh, well.  Anyway.  The flight took off and should have landed around 8 PM.  The unsmiling flight attendants served us tiny little cups of soda and sold frighteningly large and unhealthy snack items.  We were told several times that because of weather we wouldn't be able to land in Chicago just yet.  The delays continued.  I put my headphones on around 8:30 or 9 and could barely hear the next announcement.  I took them off.  "Did he just say St. Louis?" I asked my seatmate.  "Yes," she said.  "It's a refueling stop."  I watched as a parade of people walked by to get to the bathroom or to request a drink from the flight attendants who were chatting each other up in the back.  I heard one woman ask for coffee.  The screaming babies made it hard to hear but, "No, we have no more water," said the flight attendant.  

We finally landed in Chicago around 11.  And then we sat on the runway in the plane for an hour watching sheets of rain hit the ground and lightning dance in the sky.  Several times the pilot announced that the "ramp" was closed and we were just gonna sit.  I asked one of the flight attendants what that meant.  "We lost a ground crew guy to lightning last year.  It's not safe for them to be out there right now."  Oh, OK, I understand that.  Why couldn't the pilot just speak English?  Oh, and the pilot kept thanking us for "our patience."  Ha ha.  Is it really "patience" when you have no choice?  I might have used another word, but that's just me.

Weather happens, American.  We all understand that.  I don't blame you for this big thunderstorm at all.  But don't you think someone who works on that plane should have had the brains and sensitivity to pull the beverage cart out a second time?  In 9 hours?  It's just common courtesy.  Just good manners.  And maybe you could have some teeny little pretzel packets available just in case a flight is.....let's say.....more than double its original flying time?  I don't know....I'm just asking.  And I guess the chance of getting the extra miles to St. Louis is out of the question.

9 hours on your plane, screaming babies, circling, delays, a refueling stop in St. Louis, unsmiling flight attendants, one round of the beverage cart.  What a night.  I could almost have gotten to London in that amount of time.  Next time I'm driving.

Sincerely,

 

The World May Be Ending

My dad is an awesome guy. He is fun, interesting, and interested in everything--cooking, sports, cards, golf, reading, theater, and so much more. He loves surfing on his circa 1990 computer, which until this weekend, has been sort of a joke. "Dad--GET a new computer--what is the problem? Mom has a brand-new Mac--you NEED a new computer. This is ridiculous!" He usually had no answer other than a sigh and a distracted "Yes, ok"--which we both knew meant, "Go away and leave me alone." This is a man who has a conflicted relationship with technology. He has a brand-new car with all the most up-to-the-minute bells and whistles. He has, and knows how to use, at least 5 remotes which control his TV and various recorders and devices. He usually has his cell phone with him and always answers it when he does.  Yet I sent him a text message several months ago, and I was the one who retrieved it for him TWO MONTHS later!! And then there is this boxy, white computer which he clings to. So I was very pleased to hear that one of my brothers was hooking up my mom's former Mac for him. "You're gonna love it Dad!" I told him. And then my inbox chimed. An email from my dad entitled: "I am now on iChat." "My name is xxxxxxxx. Please feel free to IM me at any moment. Pop" What is going on here? Who is this man and why is he sending me emails? So I IMed him. And he actually answered! And here's the crazy thing. My dad was iChatting. Not only that, he was using abbreviations like "u" instead of "you" and when I told him "gotta fly--bye" he responded "bibi." We've created a monster.  My almost 80-year old dad is IMing and using IM lingo correctly.  Next he'll be texting me from the golf course.  Fill up some water bottles and head for the basement.  Clearly, the world is ending soon.   

I Feel The Earth Move......

Where I come from if the whole house starts shaking you look outside to see how windy it is. You usually see the trees and bushes being blown by the strong wind. Not here. Today when the whole house started shaking and I heard dishes clattering and trembling in the china cabinet I looked outside to check out the wind. Nothing. Oh....I get it.....THIS is what an earthquake feels like. It was all over in seconds. 5.8, they said. Epicenter east of L.A. Now the local news is filled with people telling where they were and what they felt. The usual after-storm stories. One friend of mine in Chicago--a fellow news junkie like me--called me minutes after the quake to check on me. Thank you Trixie!!! I called Mr. Minivan at work and told him..."time to move." "Stop," he told me. He thinks I'm kidding. That's the funny part. Why would I want to live somewhere where, if the earthquakes don't get you, the fires and mudslides will? It's been a couple of years. We gave it a shot. We did the Disneyland thing, we've done the celebrity-spotting thing, now we've done the earthquake thing. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe it's time to get out. While we still have all of our dishes and mirrors.

The Happiest Place on Earth

It's been a tough year. A few months ago I realized something that no one should ever have to face. I never really had a first birthday. My brother stole it. Let me explain. I was born January 1. That same year my brother was born December 30. So do you really think anyone was celebrating my birthday just two days later? I don't think so either. I was probably lucky if someone remembered to change my diaper at that point. I'm sure all the attention was on the new little squalling bundle of joy. That whole thing was tough enough to come to terms with but I've worked through it and I was on my way to a full recovery. Until tonight. I was at a friend's house for dinner and had brought my dad along. My mom is out of town and my dad's Poker After Dark wasn't on til later so he had a free night. We were sitting around the dinner table and I mentioned that I had never been to any Disney park til several years ago when my dad let the cat out of the bag. "No that's not true--we went to Disneyworld and maybe to Epcot too." "No, Dad, I've never been to Disneyworld or Epcot and I've never been to Florida with you." "Yes, we went," he confessed. I mean--he went on, "I remember because I had to go on the Hammer and Thunder Mountain with the boys." "Wait a minute," said one of the guys at the table, "that must have been when you were at college because that was around the time Epcot opened." Suddenly it was all clear. They packed me off to college with my hot pot and a few quarters for the pay phone and immediately headed south. And the fact that it was apparently a family conspiracy of silence was just the icing on the cake of their betrayal. I've quizzed my brothers and they claim I knew at the time and just don't remember. Of course that's what they'd say. I've seen 24 and Total Recall. I know what's going on. What's next? Will I find out that I was found on my parents' doorstep? That I have an evil twin? I don't know how much more of this I can take.
UPDATE: My mother claims that they were very disappointed that I didn't go with them as I wanted to spend Spring Break with my friends in Miami. It's all very suspicious to me. I DID go to Miami with my friends during one Spring Break in college but I just don't remember the rest of my family going to Disney. Could my own mother possibly be in on the conspiracy? Is my whole family trying to alter history or my memory? The plot thickens.........

Youth is Wasted on The Young

I am so depressed. I am minutes away from Botox or bangs. Today I dropped by my aunt's house and she showed me a DVD she had just picked up from the photoshop. She had had some VHS movies transferred to DVD---- note to self-- do the same--and we sat down and watched for a few minutes. First her kids popped up--adorable toddlers and children--now 27 and 30--and the best part was that although there were a few birthday parties and other "events", the most interesting part of the video (DVD???) was seeing the ordinary, everyday things her kids were doing back then. Riding the Big Wheel, learning to roller skate, the 3 year old pushing the baby in his swing, etc. Note to self--take more videos of the kids--FAST!! Then we saw a few family parties-my brothers and I sticking our tongues out every time we saw the camera. Grandparents as we knew them as kids--not how we remember them when they died--and other older relatives who at the time of the filming were younger than I am now. And then back to some everyday moments. I saw myself at about age 20 or so coming into my aunt's house and playing with her kids. And guess what--I was so cute--yes, I was--beautiful hair, beautiful smile, a few less pounds--OK, OK--a few few less pounds, no wrinkles, etc. But I know at the time I didn't think I was as cute as I was. I thought--"if I could only lose 7 pounds....", "if only my hair were different.....", "if only......" And now I look back at this cute girl on the DVD and I think--"Wow--you wasted some of that pretty because you didn't realize you had it." Why can't we be happy with ourselves as we are? If in 10 years I am going to look back at a photo of myself today and think--"Wow--what a babe!"--why can't I do that today when I look in the mirror?

A Phone Call From Camp and A Letter From Camp

When your kids are at camp, the LAST phone number you want to see on your phone is the camp's number. Camps don't call to say "hi" or to tell you about a great sale they ran into at the mall. They don't call to ask you to meet them for lunch or to take a walk. No, calls from camp are usually bad news. The last time I got a call from camp it was Boy #1's first summer there and it was the day before Visiting Weekend. He was going for 4 weeks and we were going up for Visiting Weekend and then bringing him home. I was coming back from a girls' trip with some of my peeps and my cell phone rang. I saw the caller ID and my heart started to pound. "Hi, it's Jane the camp director," she said, "Everything's fine.......but.....Boy #1 fell and we think he broke his wrist." Um, so then everything's NOT fine is it? Boy #1 HAD broken his wrist. Luckily, or unluckily, he had broken the same wrist a year or two before, so I was somewhat familiar with broken bone protocol.

Anyway, today, strangely enough--the day before Visiting Weekend-- my cell phone rang, and the camp's name popped up on the screen. Uh-oh. Pounding heart. A man's voice--one I barely recognized--said, "Hi Mom." OK, at least I know he's alive. "Hi, Boy #1," I said. "Nothing's wrong, Mom, I'm OK. Everything's fine." Clearly, he had been coached. "Are you sure?" I asked. "Well, maybe something's a little wrong," he said. "What happened?" I asked. "I did something stupid and let one of my cabinmates cut my hair and one of my sideburns is all cut off," he said, "so I want to know if they can take me into town and get a haircut or a buzz cut." I don't think I have ever been so relieved. If he had asked me if he could shave his head at that moment I would probably have said yes. "Sure," I said, "but don't get a buzz cut unless you really want one--remember--you have 4 weeks of camp left and it will have grown back by then and there will be something to work with. You can just have them even it out. And if you want to wait til tomorrow we can go and get your hair cut then." "No, I want to go today," he said. "And, Boy #1," I added. "Yes, Mom?" he asked. "Don't let anyone near your head with scissors, razors, or shavers, OK?"

Letter from Boy #2 which arrived today:

Dear Mom, Camp is awesome! We have started the Spectacular (competition). I am a Dayton Flyer (team). Boy #1 got a haircut and it looks bad. I can't wait to see you! Love, Boy #2

Letters From Camp

Boys #1 and 2 are in the middle of Wisconsin at camp. They are having a great time. So far, two and a half weeks since they arrived, I have received 4 letters from Boy #2 and one from Boy #1. I have been writing them every 2 days or so, but apparently that isn't enough. Writing and sending packages--mostly Archie comics--is becoming a full-time job. What about MY summer vacation??

1st letter from Boy #2

Dear Mom, Camp is great. It rains everyday here. Write me more letters. I am the only one who doesn't get letters. I love you. Love, Boy #2

2nd letter from Boy #2

Dear Mom, We had a camping trip. It was really fun. We slept in tents and we had s'mores. We built a fire and told scary stories. I didn't get scared. I just wanted to tell you. Love, Boy #2

3rd letter from Boy #2

Dear Mom, Sorry for sending this letter. It is letter writing day and I have nothing to say. I love you. Love, Boy #2

4th letter from Boy #2

Dear Mom. I am appaled (appalled) ! Not just appaled, scared (scarred) for life!! Today Boy #1 got a package of Archies and letters. AND No, he has NOT GOTTEN the package from Grandma yet. Why don't I get packages from Grandma. I am very angry. I took biking club and have excursions today. I am going bowling.

A very Angry, scared for life, not accepted,

Boy #2

So of course, after receiving letter #4 from Boy #2, I immediately ran to the bookstore and mailed him out some Archies and a Simpsons comic book. And how's your summer going?

My Aching Back

For the past few weeks, I've been miserable. And for the last week I've been REALLY miserable. In pain, crying, depressed, Lifetime TV-movie watching miserable. I have had acupuncture, x-rays, chiropractic stuff, ice packs, Advil, Aleve, and chocolate. Somehow, I felt much better when I just had lower back pain than when it became "a possible herniated disc." My galpal from Chicago had to talk me down. "It's like the deviated septum of backs," she told me. I've received referrals for back specialists, orthopedic doctors, sports medicine doctors, etc. I've scared the crap out of myself by searching the Internet. A friend told me to ask a fellow baseball mom if she knew of anyone who could help me and she told me she had recently had the same problem with even worse symptoms. She said that she had never even been to a chiropractor before and that she had always been very "Western medicine centric." She's not originally from California, that is. She told me that she had been given the name of this osteopath by someone she knew and trusted and that he solved her problem in 4 sessions. And, that her worst symptoms had been resolved after one session. Well, as you may know, I am from the midwest and, thus, am a bit cynical, but I was desperate. I was intrigued. I was curious. I was open-minded. I could be a believer. Even though she couldn't really tell me what he actually DID to her--with her?--I figured it was worth a shot. So I called Dr. Osteopath and went to see him yesterday. He spent an hour and a half with me--said he didn't need to see x-rays--that the body just "spoke" to him. "You're like the Body Whisperer," I said. The funny thing is that I was on my back on his table for an hour and a half--fully clothed, Mom!!--and I'm STILL not sure what he did--but all I know is that my back and leg pain are pretty much gone. Yep, the leg that had ached for days, and all the way on the drive over to his office--that same leg didn't hurt from the moment I got off of his table. I can get up out of bed with no pain. I'm so much better than I was just a few days ago I can't really believe it. Not 100%--but much better. I tried to get him to say that I shouldn't cook or do laundry for a few weeks, but he just smiled. Thank you thank you baseball mom/my NBF!! Thank you thank you Dr. O! I'm going back to see him next week. In the meantime, my back, my chakra, and my chi are enjoying a bit of peace.

Ancient Chinese Secret

Twice during the last 6 months I have had a couple of days of horrible back pain. Horrible, terrible, hurts to get out of bed back pain. I've used ice, heat, Aleve, and both times, after a couple of days, my back felt better and I was pretty much back to normal.
This week it came back. Strange. Wednesday I was fine and went for a long, long walk, and Thursday it was painful just getting out of bed. Desperate, I decided to listen to several people who recommended acupuncture. I tried acupuncture once, about 10 years ago, when I had terrible shoulder pain. I blamed it at the time on chubby little baby Boy #2 combined with a heavy tote bag. I didn't love it, I have to admit. Something about needles being jammed into me gave me the creeps. And then I had to be still for a while WITH the needles jammed into me. Hard for me to do. Anyway, today I went to the local acupuncturist. Immediately after making the appointment my back felt better. I guess it's kind of like how right after you call for a haircut you love how your hair looks. She asked me a few questions, and then started with the needles. A bunch in my back, one in my hand, and one on the top of my head, in my hair. Then she rubbed a little oil on my back and placed a heat lamp over my back and told me to relax and meditate for half an hour. As I tried to relax, in this sweltering room, with needles all over me and the oil heating up on my back I realized I really don't like needles jammed into me. Half an hour later, she returned to remove the needles. She gave me some herbal oil to use during the day and some patches to use at night for any pain. Hope it works. She told me I should come back next week. Of course I should. As I wrote the check for $175 I realized what real pain was. My back feels better already.

Potty Talk

Did you ever have something happen to you that was so embarrassing that you couldn't help but laugh as it was happening to you? Yesterday Boy #2 had a baseball game at a local park. I was sitting at the top of the bleachers, with my two best friends--my tote bag and my cup of Diet Cherry Coke. My tote bag was filled with all sorts of stuff--magazines, sunscreen, a book,my camera, my phone, my datebook, the school directory, my purse, some gum, well, you get the idea. I'm the kind of person people love to make fun of but they love having me around when they need some dental floss, a tweezer, or someone's phone number. I also have this plastic Big Gulp cup from a long-ago visit to 7-11 that I use for my 4:00 pick-me-up can of Diet Cherry Coke. Some people have their blankies, some have their Starbucks, and I have my grungy old 7-11 cup. And my tote bag. And a few other things. Anyway, I was at the game and I had finished about half of my DCC, my toes in their flip-flops were getting a little cold, and to be honest, I really had to pee. So I gathered my cup and my bag and carefully manuevered down from the top of the bleachers. I thought I would make a pitstop in the bathroom and then go see if I had another pair of shoes in my car or at least a blanket. I thought maybe I would sit in my car for a few minutes and then go back to the game.

I went into the bathroom and entered the stall. I was annoyed to see that there was no hook anywhere in the stall. I've noticed this lately. It seems to be a disturbing trend. And you don't want to put your purse on the floor....so it becomes a balancing act. I perched my Big Gulp cup on the giant round toilet paper dispenser and adjusted my tote bag on my shoulder. I grabbed a seat protector and put it on the seat. As I started to sit down, I turned my head and noticed that the seat cover had fallen into the toilet. I didn't want to have to readjust my tote bag and get another one, so I decided to.....squat. Yes, my dear readers, squat. This is actually something I am usually pretty good at, but I don't have a lot of experience WITH a tote bag on my shoulder. Let me tell you, it's not easy. I'm going to say right now that the tote bag surely affected my balance because.....I can barely get the words out.....stay with me here....I'm trying to figure out how to say this delicately. OK, there's no ladylike way to say it. I peed all over my underwear and the back of my jeans. Yes, I did. And don't act like this has never happened to you. We all know it has. So as it's happening I can't do anything, because to salvage the situation, and my jeans, just a bit, I'd have to toss my tote bag on the floor and I don't want to do that. I can at least wash the jeans. I stand up and in the process knock my cherished 7-11 cup on the floor and spill Diet Coke everywhere. And here's the clincher. The giant toilet paper dispenser...? Empty. Of course it was. Icing on the cake. Luckily, seat covers have multiple uses.

I exited the scene of the crime, and raced to my car, hoping I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. I had my cover story ready--about how I had spilled a bottle of water all over myself and was running home to change clothes. Luckily the coast was clear and I hurried home, changed clothes, and came back to watch Boy #2's team win their game.

There are so many lessons to be learned from this story I don't even know where to begin...

1. Always carry an extra pair of underwear with you.
2. And some toilet paper.
3. And maybe an extra pair of jeans.
4. Don't drink Diet Cherry Coke.
5. Don't bring your cup with you to the bathroom.
6. Leave your tote bag in the car.
7. Thank God for leather car seats.
8. Any more? Your thoughts?

More Lunatic Parents

Boy #2 was invited to a sleepover birthday party over the weekend. (I made the mistake of saying it was a slumber party and was quickly corrected.) The party was to start at 2 PM with the 6 guests meeting at the birthday boy's apartment. Then they were going to go to a movie, then back to the apartment for dinner and birthday festivities. We were asked to bring a sleeping bag if we had one. It seemed clear to me that the boys were going to actually sleep. After all, it was a SLEEPover. But I never counted on these lunatic parents. When Mr. Minivan got back at 11 the next morning with a zombie-like Boy #2 and told me the boys hadn't slept all night I couldn't believe my ears. The kids apparently took a vote and decided to stay up all night. And these moronic parents let them. More idiots. Or is it moronic idiots? No, that's redundant. So I cancelled my plans for the day and Boy # 2 dragged himself upstairs and slept for 5 hours til I woke him. I guess it could have been worse. The boys could have taken a vote and decided to jump out of the windows to see if they could fly.

Brrr....It's Cold Out Here!!!!

OK, it's January here and I've had it!!! The coldest it has gotten here during the day is about 55 degrees and I seriously think I could snap at any moment. People I know talk about how "freeeezing" it is. Let me explain to you what freezing is. Freezing is when you are so cold that you can't feel your legs. Or your hands. When it hurts to take a breath. Freezing is when the frigid air on your face is so painful it hurts. Hurts so much that when you come inside you wonder why you look sunburned. THAT is freezing. 55 is a beautiful spring day. Kite flying weather.... sweater weather.... long-sleeved tee-shirt under a sweatshirt weather. But here, now, the Uggs are out. In full force. Sometimes paired with a ski jacket and a miniskirt. Sometimes over leggings. Usually with jeans. Scarves, too, are plentiful. People here wear them inside, though, artfully draped over a shirt--lovely, a wool scarf as indoor wear....who would have thought? I see parkas, shearling coats, North Face jackets, occasionally...gloves or mittens. It's winter after all. In the interest of full disclosure I will tell you that a few weeks ago I went to pick up Boy #2 at a friend's house at about 6 PM. It was about 55 or 60 degrees out. I put on my Uggs, my North Face, and an artfully arranged scarf and......it felt right. I was a bit panicked at that moment because the Midwesterner in me realized how insane that sounded. Yet, the emerging Californian in me felt quite comfortable. What a frightening moment. I still haven't totally crossed over, though. I find myself irritated at all the smiling faces in the 60 degree sunshine. "What the hell are they so happy about?" I think. Last week it rained ALL week and I was SO happy. Today at the grocery store I took the photo above. And nobody here thinks it's strange at all. After all, it is "freeeeezing" here. Stay strong, my fabulous Cali friends, spring is close at hand.

Could I Possibly Be a Freak Magnet??

There is something so comforting about the fact that, no matter where you live, you will eventually come into contact with the lunatics of the neighborhood. We all know them. They think they are better than all of us "regular" parents. They are the parents who don't let their kids watch TV, the ones who don't let their kids eat sugar, the ones who plan activities that exclude certain kids, the ones whose kids are so scheduled they don't have time for playdates, the ones who hold kids to adult standards and don't give second chances, the kind of parents who believe in tit for tat and pay back every real or imagined slight in kind. We've all met people like that. A mom here, a dad there. Just not necessarily all in a perfectly matched his and hers set. I myself had never met one person who had ALL those characteristics and more. Until today. I can't speak too freely. It might not be safe. Here's one universal truth, though. Remember this. Crazy people don't know they're crazy.

Just Another Starry Saturday Night

Last night we went to a Christmas party given by the brother and wife of a friend of Mr. Minivan. I told Mr. Minivan I was bringing a book. "Oh no you're not!" he said. "What if I get bored?" I asked. We drove up to the guard house of this gated community and once the list was checked, got clearance to go to the house. The massive massive house in a neighborhood of massive massive houses. We deposited the car with the valet and walked toward the front door. The first people I saw when I walked in were Dr. Phil and Robin, and their son and his beautiful blond triplet wife. Oh, and Barry Bonds. But I didn't actually know it was Barry Bonds until someone told me. At that point, one minute into the party, I admitted to Mr. Minivan that I was glad I had left my book at home. The house was huge and beautiful, decorated with Christmas decorations and family photos. Entertainment consisted of a psychic, a DJ, an ice skater--yes, on the ice rink that had been constructed on the lawn next to the pool, and, strangely enough, a group of Medievally-dressed singers that were like the low talker on Seinfeld--low singers, maybe? I assume they were singing Christmas carols but I couldn't really hear them. They looked great, though. Security men in suits all over. I kept watching them to see if they were speaking into their wrists, but they weren't. I also kept seeing guys that looked familiar--maybe I went to college or high school with them--no, I've seen them on TV, that's it. Many of the doctors from Dr. 90210 were there, too. Rumor was that Britney would be there later. I thought it would be the perfect time for an intervention with Dr. Phil but Brit-Brit never showed. I met Joe Pesci (without Angie Everhart--heard later they are no longer together) and yes, every other word out of his mouth IS "f-ing"--WITHOUT the dash. Also met Barry Bonds, Wesley Snipes, Gloria Allred (victims' rights attorney--was Amber Frey's lawyer), Robert Shapiro (was OJ's lawyer), Linda Thompson Jenner (was Elvis' girlfriend, was Bruce Jenner's wife, is mom of Brody Jenner, Hills star and tabloid darling)--everybody was very nice and very friendly. Oh, I forgot to mention I also met Paris Hilton. She was there with Britney's cousin Allie and Sam Lutfi. Yes, that Paris Hilton. She is very pretty, was dripping in diamonds, and was lovely to talk to. She is smart, very charismatic, and is a master manipulator. Oh, and my new best friend. She asked me if her lipstick was OK--it was bright red and she felt it was too red but it was the only one she had. "It's fine," I said, "it's the holidays..,,you can wear red." Yep, one day I am giving makeup advice to Paris Hilton and the next day I am folding laundry. Happy Holidays everyone!!

Parents, Ladies, and Celebrities Who Lunch

My parents came to visit for Thanksgiving and it was great! We cooked, ate, brined, talked, ping-ponged, Rummikubed, shopped, and just hung out. My dad is a big pizza aficionado and the newest, most-talked about restaurant in L.A. is Pizzeria Mozza, so we went. I made a lunch reservation--this is one of those places where you have to make a dinner reservation a month in advance unless you want to "dine" at 4:30 or 10:45. When we got there I realized why reservations are so tough to come by. I had thought it would be one of those big "sceney" places, but it was tiny. There were maybe 13 tables and about 20 seats total at the pizza bar and regular bar. We were seated--the three of us--at what I would consider a table for 2. My mom and I were on one side and my dad on the other. But it was fine. The service was excellent and the food divine. Things not to miss if you dine at Mozza: the brussels sprouts antipasto, any bruschetta, the chopped salad, and the fennel sausage pizza. The much talked-about fried squash blossoms were quite forgettable. All three of us said we would definitely go back. A few minutes after we had been seated I noticed 2 men approaching the table next to us. "That guy looks a lot like Ray Romano," I thought to myself. Of course, it WAS Ray Romano--being seated at the next table right next to my dad. Ray and his friend also ordered the brussels sprouts although Ray didn't want to because he said he didn't like them. I restrained myself from joining the conversation and raving about the sprouts. The tables there are so close together that I could have reached over and salted his food. But, of course, being jaded about all the celebrities here, why would I? I discreetly whispered to my mom that he was at the next table. But I couldn't lean over and tell my dad because his hearing is not what it used to be and I knew he would say loudly, "WHO? Ray Who?" So I had to wait til we left the restaurant to tell him of his celebrity non-sighting. Maybe it was a celebrity seating?

Is There Such a Thing as a Desperate Househusband?

As I was scrubbing the liquified cookie crumbs out of Boy #1's lunchbox yesterday afternoon, I had another one of those "I went to college for this?" moments. We have successful lawyers, bankers, doctors, businesspeople. How come nobody says, "She is a successful housewife?" You can come over to my house any time and I will always have a clean towel for you if needed. I will whip you up a snack or a meal that will bring a tear to your eye. I will wrap a present for you, sew a button on, do your laundry while you are enjoying that snack. I will let you sit on my couch and relax while I bring you a selection of magazines. I will even help you with your homework if you want. If that's not successful I don't know what is. Let's not even bring up the fact that in my line of work there are no annual reviews, raises, or expense accounts. I don't even like the term "housewife." It is so 50's, so retro, so June Cleaver. I was talking about this with a friend and she brought up the fact that so many other occupations are genderless, like actor, doctor, banker. But not housewife. So what would a genderless title be, "houser?" "house manager?" Any ideas? On forms that ask for my occupation I usually put "mom," which I guess is more important than "housewife." Jackie Kennedy once said something to the effect of "If you mess up raising your children, whatever else you do in life doesn't matter much." No matter how clean your towels are.

Don't They Have People to Shop for Them?

The streets here.....are littered. With celebrities. I'm starting to think they're stalking ME. I can't even do the most mundane task anymore without bumping into one. Today, after a school yearbook meeting and many, many errands....returning library books, picking up dry cleaning, returning the pack of card stock that wasn't used when Boy #1 made campaign buttons for his student council run, making a quick drugstore run, and so much more, I stopped by the grocery store that sells the best grapes. And the best watermelon. And where Sidney Poitier and I like to buy our apples. I was buying a few impulse items when I saw a woman who looked like Reba McEntire. Only smaller. I glanced at her and then away and she disappeared. I finished shopping and got into a checkout line. I couldn't see who was checking out in front of me at first because of the way the checkout station is configured. When I could see the customer ahead of me I saw that it was indeed Reba McEntire. The clerk asked her if she wanted help out to her car and she said "No, that's OK." I saw my opening. "We don't need help there," I said. "We need help at home putting it away. We need help unloading our dishwashers and putting our laundry away." My new friend Reba chuckled, "That's right," she said, "Come and help us at home." We're just two women laughing together about all the stuff we have to do. As if SHE doesn't have people to do that stuff. Maybe she doesn't. After all, she WAS buying her own groceries. And she did return her shopping cart to the cart corral after she loaded the grocery bags into her car. Reba and I have so much in common. We speak the same language. Dishwashers, laundry, groceries. If only my friend Sidney had been there.

Brentwood Stars Come Out at Night

I am on such a roll. Saturday night. Dinner at a diner in Brentwood with the kids. Decided to go across the street to the Halloween store on the corner because, of course, Halloween is in 4 days and if we don't, Boys #1 and 2 will be a Cubs fan and a football player. Again. The store was filled with scary masks and overpriced Halloween stuff and desperate adult shoppers. I decided to step outside while the boys decided which scary masks to buy that they will surely end up taking off in order to actually SEE while trick or treating. I sat on a ledge outside the store and looked toward the street and who did I see? Jake and Reese. Gyllenhaal and Witherspoon. Yep, the Brokeback guy and the Legally Blonde girl. Holding hands. And walking toward the Halloween store. Even celebs get into the Halloween spirit, I guess. As Reese walked toward the store, she adjusted her baseball cap, pulling it lower on her head. Jake had no hat, just a beard and a puffy vest. She is verrrry tiny and very pretty. They were holding hands and leaning into each other. There were no paparazzi in sight, so If they're not REALLY a couple they were doing a great impression of one. Of course I walked back into the store after they did. He picked out a very oversized brown cowboy hat and I didn't see what she got. I was too busy trying not to look like I was staring at them. In the checkout line she leaned back into him as his hand caressed her back and even lower!!! (This is a family blog, you know.) I really need to start carrying my camera with me.

Sidney Poitier, Jake and Reese. My sightings are getting better and better. It's mostly all Oscar winners now. Can Brangelina be far behind?

Guess Who's Coming to the Grocery Store

Sometimes I get a little obsessed with the strangest things. For the last few years, it has been the honey crisp apple. I discovered them several years ago at the grocery store and have been spreading the word ever since. Some people preach religion. I preach the honey crisp. They are sweet, tangy, crisp (of course), and delicious. They have become quite popular recently--in fact, a few weeks ago the Chicago Tribune had an article about them entitled "One Sexy Apple." Over the weekend we went out to dinner at one of my new favorite LA restaurants, and I had my new favorite side dish, roasted brussels sprouts with pancetta and fuji apple. I think it also had some fresh thyme gently sprinkled in. It was fabulous. In fact, I have been thinking about it ever since. Perhaps brussels sprouts are the new honey crisp. I went to the grocery store today to buy the ingredients, because with the temperature here in the 90's and the state burning, somehow my thoughts turned to roasting. It IS October, after all. I was in the produce section, looking for the fujis, when I looked across the aisle and saw Sidney Poitier picking out apples. So of course, I walked over to his apple bin and, conveniently, the sign indicating what kind of apples they were was missing. "They're fujis," he said. (If that's not karma, I don't know what is) "Oh, " I said, gazing into his eyes. I'm not your typical fan, you know--anyone can say, "I really love your work, Mr. Poitier." Not me. "Have you tried the honey crisps? They are fabulous. They're life-changing." "Really?" he asked. "Where are they?" I, having been raised right, was very happy to help the man out. So we walked over to the honey crisp section together. The. Very. Elegant. Mr. Poitier. and I. He picked out a few apples. "You're going to love them," I said. "Next time I see you I'll let you know how they were," he said. Simply charming. We encountered each other in the store a few more times before we checked out at different lanes. I walked out a few feet in front of him and watched as he got into his black Mercedes. Then I got into my minivan and went home to real life.