Secrets of a Suburban Soccer Mom

What Would Emily Post Do?

2012-01-11T16:09:00.000-08:00

It is common knowledge that there's a lag time between technology and the law. I believe there is one between technology and etiquette, too. It used to be that when faced with a question about etiquette all one had to do was consult Emily Post. She had all the answers: wait until 3 people have been served before starting to eat, send a gift within twelve months of a wedding, and a thank you note for gifts received within one month. Where is the Emily Post equivalent for the questions brought on by modern day technology?

For example, what is an reasonable timeframe in which to respond to a text message? Anybody? When I text someone, I expect them to text me back. Not the instant they get it, but within a day or so. If thereis a question within a text, I believe a recipient should answer it. If it’s just a random text like, “This funny thingjust happened!” Then maybe it doesn't warrant a reply, but when someone sends me something like that, atthe very least I send a “J”or "LOL". That way, the sender knows that I got their message, and that I am indeed alive, and not dead in a ditch somewhere. But that's just me. And I am considerate. Unfortunately, I am also sensitive. OK...I am overly sensitive. That's why when someone doesn't return one of my texts, I can't help but think that they must not like me very much. Or they don't care about my feelings. Or worse, they know it hurts my feelings and that's why they are not answering me! It's a long, dark rabbit hole, and I have a very hard time not going down it whenever someone doesn't text me back.

And what about Facebook? It used to be that if someone was going to have a party, they mailed invitations to the people they wanted to include. These invited people then knew better than to go around broadcastingthe fact that they were invited, because it was commonly understood that it wouldbe rude to those who were NOT invited. That common courtesy has gone out the window with the invention of Facebook. Now everybody knows about the party,knows ahead of time when it’s going to happen, who all is going, and that theywere not invited. Then during theevent they have to see all the pictures that the invited people post of themselvesenjoying the party, as the event is played out in real time. Of course I know that I could just notlog onto Facebook in order to save my feelings, but there are so many otherthings I’d miss knowing about if I do that. For example, I wouldn’t know what kind of sandwiches myfriends ate for lunch, who had a cold, who got a new kitten, etc.

I'm not saying that I'm perfect. I'm sure there have been a few times that I forgot to respond to a text message, or posted pictures of some soiree I'm having (or attending), without thinking about how that might make people who were not invited feel. I just wish there was some rule that we could all agree to and abide by. Until there is, when faced with a high-tech etiquette dilemma, maybe we ought to ask ourselves, "What would Emily Post do?"

A Holiday Break Reminder for Kids and Moms

2011-12-27T14:39:00.000-08:00

A Note to My Children:

Just because YOU are on holiday break does not mean that I am on holiday break.
As much as I wish I could drop everything and go to the bouncy place or the go kart place the instant you decide you don't want to play video games anymore...or when you get tired of watching stupid videos on You Tube, I simply CAN'T! You need to give me some notice!
Please don't decline when I offer to take you out to lunch only to whine "I'm HUNGRY," the second I return. The reason I wanted to go out was because I did not want to cook/clean up dishes.
Please don't look at me like I'm the worst mom on the planet because I am not providing you Disneyland level entertainment at all times.

A Note to Myself:

You are not the worst mom on the planet.
You are doing your best.
School will resume in January.

How Kids are Like Dogs and Vice-Versa

2011-12-21T08:07:00.000-08:00

Now before you get all upset with me and think I'm calling my children dogs...I'm not. That would be way too insulting to the dogs. KIDDING!All jokes aside though, I can't help but notice some similarities between my kids and their chosen pups. We have five dogs, two are older and we've had them for years. But, the kids wanted a puppy and so a year ago, I agreed (caved) and took them to a rescue. Big mistake. Each child proceeded to fall in love with a different pup and we ended up taking 3 home. I guess I'm just a really nice (whimpy) mom who loves to say yes (can't say no). I'm not this easy going about everthing, but when it comes to animals, what can I say? I'm a big softie (sucker).

Back to how my kids are like their dogs. Shortly after we got these puppies it became evident that each child had picked a canine version of themselves. Can a dog have a personality? Wouldn't they have Doginalities? Either way, the similarities between dog and owner are uncanny.

My oldest, a daughter, is a leader (bossy). Even when the kids were very small, she would always be the one to choose the game, assign roles, and if anybody dared to contest her rule, she didn't mind enforcing it. Don't get me wrong, I love her and wouldn't changed a single hair on her gorgeous red head. The bossiness she exhibited early on has settled into an eager confidence and clear intelligence. She is a leader. No enforcement necessary. Parker, Kayla's dog, is also a leader. He thinks he should decide who gets to eat first (him), who gets the best dog bed (him), who gets their pick of toys, or most of the time, all of the toys (him), and who gets the rawhide chews (that's right, him). The other two don't want to concede, but if they don't...they fight. Parker is, in spite of being a litter mate of his brother and a half sibling/cousin (don't ask) to his sister, twice their size. When people ask me why he's so much bigger than the other two I explain that we originally had 4 puppies, but Parker ate the other one. Again, kidding! I don't know why he's is bigger, but he certainly takes full advantage of it. Just like Kayla. Now in Kayla's case, it's temporary. My middle child, Rory is gaining on her, and fast. He's probably only 3/4 of an inch shorter now. It's hard to know because Kayla has stopped letting him measure back-to-back or even stand next to her if they are both barefoot. I think she knows her days of being the biggest are coming to an end. But, since her brothers have had years of training (by Kayla of course), I don't think it will make a bit of difference. They will most likely always defer to her wishes. They are going to make wonderful husbands one day, my boys.

Our middle child, the one who is closing in on the "tallest kid" title is extremely good natured. He is easy going, and eager to lend a hand. He is also very smart like his sister, and he likes music, and art and is good at both. He doesn't seem like the kind of kid who would be into anything extreme, but for some reason, he is fascinated by anything you might find at the X Games. He loves to skateboard and longboard (don't ask me what the difference is), bike, scooter, etc. He can do flips on the trampoline, ollies on his skateboard, and is always looking to learn new tricks. But to meet him, you wouldn't guess that about him. And his dog Maggie is just the same. She is the smallest of the three, in that regard she's different than Rory. But she is super sweet and happy to play with any of the other dogs. She has those eyes that you can't say no to--if you've seen Puss in Boots from the movie Shrek, you know the face. You would never suspect that she is a ninja. We call her Puppy Ninja or Parkour Puppy because she can get out of almost anything. Our yard is fenced. How she gets out I do not know. She won't do it when anyone is looking but, the second you turn your back she's escaped. Thank goodness she doesn't seem to want to go anywhere. So far she's never gone further than the next door neighbor's. We had to put a chain link dog run inside of the wrought iron dog run in order to contain her but, I'm afraid it's only a matter of time before she makes like Hound-ini and escapes that, too. She can jump higher than one would think gravity would allow. And she uses this power to leap up and over sofas, chairs, other dogs, small children, etc. But to see her, you'd never expect that.

Our youngest child is a sassafras. He is funny and has his own ideas about what he wants to do and how to go about doing it. He is also very bright (I swear--all three of my children are geniuses--I am not at all biased!), and sometimes this gets him into trouble. His dog Dillon, is the same way. He's a darling dog, a smaller, stockier version of Parker. The kids call him The Low Rider. They also call him Mad Scientist, because sometimes he looks like he's deep in thought and then, an instant later he's running around seemingly caught up in some game that only he understands. The other two dogs look at him like he's a little bit crazy sometimes. Just like Aidan. I'm sure the dog is not crazy, and I'm sure Aidan isn't either. They just have their own quirky ideas sometimes, and it's best to simply let them do their thing.

You may have seen those pictures of people who look just like their dogs. Well, kids don't look like theirs physically, but they sure as heck act like them. Good thing they are all so cute (the kids and the dogs), because when they are chewing up my antique dresser (dogs) or peeing on my newly reupholstered sofa (dogs), I swear I think about getting rid of them (dogs...not the kids...well...). If I recall correctly the kids used to do all those same things, and I kept them around.

Tweeting for Twits (Like Me)

2011-12-15T18:12:00.000-08:00

I have gone and done it now. I joined Twitter. Why, you might ask, would I do something like that? Especially when I'm so technologically challenged? Here are my top five reasons.

All the cool kids are doing it (and I really want to be a cool kid).
Once in a rare while I have something really insightful to say and I want to make sure that the next time that happens, someone in the world knows about it.
I'm trying to keep up with the Kardashians and I don't think I can pull off a sex tape.
I am hoping it will help me learn to be more succinct. How many characters was that? I think it's working!
I want to know what's trending right this minute. No. Now. No. NOW!

Actually, I'm tweeting because I am promoting my upcoming book (40 by 40: List it, Live it, Love Your Life), and other interesting things. I only have 20 followers at this moment in time, so I am not sure how well it's working to that end. Unexpected bonus, it's a brand new way for me to embarrass my teenagers. That's something to tweet about!

By TwitterButtons.com

Keep It Simple Stupid! (KISS)

2011-12-11T19:17:00.001-08:00

This year I have decided to do my best to practice the KISS method of holiday preparations.

If you don't know, KISS stands for Keep It Simple Stupid. One of my very nice cousins says, Keep It Simple Sweetheart. I'm not that nice, so I'll keep the Stupid.

Christmas is only a couple of weeks away and I have done absolutely NOTHING to get ready for it. There are no decorations in my yard, no tree in my living room, and no wreath on my door. And as for presents, well...I haven't started shopping for those either. Needless to say I am feeling more than a little bit overwhelmed. Feeling overwhelmed is not the way I want to be feeling. I want to be feeling MERRY!

That's why I'm going to try that KISS thing. Here's what I have in mind.

Tree Shopping. In years past I have spent hours and hours searching multiple lots for exactly the "right" tree. But in hindsight, there is no such thing. If I want a perfect tree then I'd have to get an artificial one, and that maybe my next step, but until then, no real tree is going to be perfect. It's impossible. Therefore, I shall spend no more than 5 minutes at ONE tree lot. I will pick out the first 7 foot noble fir I come across that looks reasonably fresh. If it has a few holes, so be it. That's why God invented large ornaments.

Gift Buying. Usually I will really think about what might be the one certain something that each and every single certain someone on my Christmas list might love to receive. It takes quite a lot of time and energy and since I don't have much of either, I'm going to think of something that is something that I would like to receive, something gender neutral, and I'm going to make that THE gift that I give to everyone. Well, will you look at that! I'm practically done shopping right now.

Gift Wrapping. Can we say gift bags? Whomever invented the gift bag should be be sent a medal. And it should come in a gift bag. I think they sell those in bulk online, no? I'll wrap a few for my own kids to open. I mean Santa will. Or his elves. But for everyone who will be receiving whatever that gender neutral something-or-other is that I myself would be happy to receive, you'll be receiving it in a gift bag. I won't write your name on it so you can reuse it. Recycling is a gift that keeps on giving.

Cooking. I am going to really do something different here. I think I am going to NOT cook. Well, maybe I'll make a few sides and a salad. But as for the main course? That's gonna be whatever already to serve meat looks decent and affordable that they have on the day I make it to Costco. If it's rotisserie chicken, so be it. I'm a vegetarian anyway, so it's not going to effect me. If anyone else has something to say about it, they can cook some dead animal themselves.

Cards. This is one tradition I'm going to keep. It is somewhat time consuming, addressing all those cards by hand. BUT...I am going to be smart this year and enter all the names and addresses into my address book on my computer after I hand write them on the cards. That way next year, PRESTO! Labels.

Decorations. Right now my garage is in a bit of a state of disarray. I will set a timer for 15 minutes and whatever boxes I can get to that are marked "X-Mas" are the only ones that I will bring into the house and open. If some of them have ornaments, we can put them on our imperfect tree. If some of them have lights, then I'll tack some around the door. I'm not getting on the roof. I'm not paying through the nose to have someone else get on my roof. It's dangerous, it's expensive, and I'd rather make a donation to charity instead.

Cookies. Every year we bake and decorate sugar cookies. We have a million and one cookie cutters. The most time consuming part of this is making the dough and waiting for it to chill in the fridge. I think I am going to buy pre-made dough. Frosting is very easy to make. If I put homemade frosting on store bought dough, can I just say they're homemade cookies? YES I CAN!

I hope you don't think I am being too Grinch-like. It's just that I want to enjoy the season and stop feeling so stressed out by it. That's why I am going to make these changes and try keeping it simple (stupid). You know what? I feel less overwhelmed already!

Happy Holidays EVERYONE! And if you are feeling overwhelmed with all the trimmings and trappings, let me give you a little KISS! It's gender neutral, and it's something I myself was happy to receive.

A KISS from me to you!

Benched at the Theater

2011-11-26T08:10:00.001-08:00

Last night I went out with a couple of girlfriends of mine to see a play that yet another girlfriend was in. This was at a small community theater, although not in our own community. We went to dinner first at a darling little restaurant called Sage.

I am not big into using my blog to advertise, but I must say that this restaurant was really great. The service was good, the food was excellent, it was just the right amount of casual and elegant. It felt like we were having dinner at someone's house if that someone was wealthy, but did not need to flaunt it, had an amazing cook, and who decided at the last minute not to join us, leaving us guests to feel like we had the place to ourselves (along with the 50 0r so other people who were there). We had a delicious bottle of wine, followed by another delicious bottle of wine (friends of ours were at another table and sent it over--what wonderful friends to have!).

We were having such a wonderful time eating, drinking, and catching up on all the goings on in each other's lives that we hardly noticed the time. The show was going to start at 8:00 and when I finally thought to check, it was 7:52. Our amazingly attentive wait staff was suddenly not so attentive, which often is the case when they realize you won't be ordering anything else and they don't have anyone waiting to occupy your table. Maybe they thought that if they left us long enough we might decide to order dessert. The clock was ticking and so one of my friends got up and started searching for our waiter so we could get the check.

Thank goodness the theater was just down the street. We parked, dashed in, collected our playbills with the official "tickets" we had purchased online attached. They were Post-its. This is local theater. But, no mind, they had our seat numbers hand written on them (the seats I had selected online), and the show had not yet started. We breathed a sigh of relief that we had not missed anything, and that we were not going to be blocking anyone's view of anything as we took our seats. That whole, "Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, pardon me," bit can be pretty awkward after a show has begun. But, like I said, this one hadn't.

Oddly, nobody seemed in a rush to seat us. As we stood there in the back of the theater I glanced around trying to determine where our seats were so we might seat ourselves. It is a tiny venue, and it should have been no trouble to find our three empty seats in a row. Only, there weren't any empty seats. Not in a row, and not anywhere else. They were not seating us, because they had sold our seats. I guess I should say REsold them.

Now if we had not arrived and the show had started, I can see that perhaps they might have let someone else sit down in our places. But, the show had not started. Regardless, they decided to gamble that we would be no-shows, and sold our seats again. Another girlfriend of ours who is also part of this little theater company, but who was not in this particular show, approached. She seemed flustered and with no explanation of what the heck had happened, she led us to the only place available to sit. A hard bench that was placed against a back wall directly next to the band, way to the right. The seats we had purchased in advance were more center and in the second row. They were also occupied by three elderly people who we did not dare ask to trade us at intermission.

As there was not really room for three on that hard bench, a low chair was dragged over and placed next to it. Now, we aren't as old as the people they'd double sold our seats to, but two of us have had back surgery (me being one of the two). So sitting on a hard bench for any length of time was not going to be much fun at all. especially when the bench was pulled up to a wall, forcing us to sit at a 90 degree angle. To make matters worse, the bench was rather high. I don't think it was intended to be a bench actually. It may have been a console table of some kind come to think of it. Regardless, my feet were dangling which only added to the strain on my back.

We are good humored gals, and we are also supportive friends. So we sat through the first half in discomfort and watched as the person we'd come to see did her small part. She is a good actress and an even better singer, but this was not exactly a showcase of her talent. She had I believe, two lines. Had I known that ahead of time, I might have waited to come see her in something where she had a bigger part. Especially if I was going to have to sit on a hard console/bench with my feet dangling in order to do it.

I have three kids, and five dogs, and a father-in-law visiting. I had left them all behind. Earlier in the day I had run to Petsmart to buy dog food. With five dogs we go through it pretty quickly. I had forgotten to ask the family to make sure the dogs were fed, and since there really wasn't enough to go around in the bottom of the old bag at breakfast time, I wanted to make sure they got dinner. I had sent a text message to each member of my family before we left the restaurant, hoping that at least one of them would get it so the pups wouldn't go hungry and eat my desk or something. If you read my last post you know they already ate the sofa. The sound on my phone was off, and I peeked at it to make sure that somebody text me back.

Sure enough, after intermission when we were once again "benched" someone came up to lecture me about texting during the show. I hadn't actually text anyone, I was making sure that someone had text me. But regardless, there was nothing behind me but a hard wall. I highly doubt that the wall was bothered by my peeking at my phone. I'm not sure who it was that complained, but they would have had to have been behind me. And the only people who had that vantage point were the ones who worked at the theater. I cannot believe that they would have the audacity to say anything at all to me or my friends after having collected $34 dollars apiece for seats that they then sold to someone else before the show had even started, and with no explanation, refund, or apology, put us on a bench and one low chair.

I suppose it's good that they take their shows seriously even though it is local community theater. But I think perhaps they are taking things a bit too seriously when they start lecturing people for what in comparison to what they did to us, could not really be considered remotely rude. Normally I would not have peeked at my phone in a theater, wall behind me or not. But, I could have had five dogs starving, and I couldn't let that happen. When the man was trying to chastise me for my cell phone usage one of my friends asked him, "What happened with our seats?"

He tried to defend what they had done by saying we had been late. I reminded him that the show had not started when we'd arrived. He said that regardless, at exactly 8 PM they resell the seats. I considered sending him a bill for the chiropractor that I will no doubt need to visit after being stuck on a hard bench for so long. Needless to say, I won't be going to that theater again. If one of my friends does a show there in the future, I may send someone in to video the whole performance with their cell phone, and then text it to me. Hopefully they will do so from a front row center seat that had been paid for twice, preferably with bad checks.

The Pups Ate My Sofa

2011-11-08T17:50:00.000-08:00

Today my pups topped themselves. You might remember that I wrote a post a while back called The Dog Ate My Screenplay. I should have titled that one The DogS (plural) Ate My Screenplay since it was no doubt all three of them. These are the puppies I'm talking about, not the other two dogs. The older two don't do those things any more. They do other things. One snores like crazy and refuses to go out when it's cold or rainy. The other one gets upset if I'm gone for any length of time and demonstrates this by peeing and pooping all over the house upon my return. She's an angel for whoever is watching her. She saves up the bad behavior just for me. But, at least she doesn't chomp on things she shouldn't. Like my sofa.

Yes, my sofa, my brand new sofa, that is the latest in a long line of innocent victims to the puppies favorite pastime. It happened this morning while I was taking one of the kids to school. I wasn't even gone a half an hour. I was so upset when I saw what they'd done that I ran directly to the computer to try and Google "dog trainers", and put a plea out to my Facebook friends for advice.

I didn't get very far though. I had forgotten that the dogs also ate my Internet. Well, they ate the wires for the Internet modem more accurately. A friend managed to MacGyver it back together (and yes, I did just use MacGyver as a verb), but today it was on strike. I tried turning everything off, then on, then restarting the computer, over and over and over again. After the 50th failed attempt to resuscitate the Internet I gave up and called my provider. I convinced them to come out here tomorrow to rewire the dang thing. Of course it started working again right after I hung up the phone.

I'm keeping the appointment anyway. If I don't then it will for sure stop working again. No matter what, I need to have the modem moved to a safer location. A puppy-proof location. Perhaps on the top shelf of a rarely used closet. Too bad I didn't think to put my sofa up there.

RIP NEW GRAY SLIP COVERED SOFA

Oct. 2011 - Nov. 2011

An L.A. Mom's New York Adventure

2011-10-31T21:42:00.000-07:00

I just spent a week in NYC, and I’m still alive. Just kidding! It was fabulous. I find my fun not matter where I am, and this trip was no different. I met a lot of truly amazing people. What you hear about New York is true. It’s a very different energy there than anywhere else in the world.

However…for the sake of full disclosure, there are some other things about this city that are unlike anywhere else in the world, too. And because I live in L.A., which is sort of the polar opposite of NY, I might have been hyper-aware of them.

Take transportation. Granted, we in L.A. don’t rely on anybody else to get us where we want to go. We drive ourselves. Sometimes we drive ourselves across the strip mall parking lot just to avoid walking. We walk for exercise only, and when we do we mean business. But, otherwise, we drive. In New York everybody seems to have a very skewed perception of distance, because no matter who I asked, every place was a “short walk” from everyplace else. Maybe for smart people in flats and tennis shoes this is true. But, I am from L.A. and my footwear of choice usually has no less than a four-inch heel. Remember, we don’t walk anywhere.

“No problem, you can always catch a cab,” was the response I got whenever I’d point out my shoes. Only thing is, I don’t know how. It is completely against my nature to shout at someone in the street, or wave at strangers in moving cars. Telling someone like me to hail a taxi is the equivalent of telling Richard Simmons to start a bar fight. It’s just not in my nature. I might have stood a chance if I knew ahead of time what that little light thing on top of the cab meant. Time after time I would try to get the attention of a cabbie that was apparently off duty (I should say apparently to everybody else, but me).

When I did manage to get a cab it was usually with help from a hotel doorman who would take pity on me and help me out even though I wasn’t staying at their hotel. I think doormen are the nicest people in New York. Of course, this could have something to do with the fact that they work for tips.

But, since the cab drivers also work for tips, one would think they’d make an effort to be nice to their passengers, or at least learn their way around their own city. I would say that 95% of the time I got into a cab and gave the driver the address he’d ask me where it was and how to get there. At this time I’d like to give a special shout out to Google Maps without whom I would have missed every important meeting I had this week.

Another thing we don’t have much of in L.A. that I had to deal with in N.Y. was weather. I brought an umbrella so when it started to rain I thought I was prepared. I opened up my umbrella as I walked toward the building where I was to have my next meeting (yes, in my 4 inch heels). The problem is, I forgot to close it. Note to self, open umbrellas and revolving doors are a potentially deadly combination. There should be a warning sign about this on both the doors and the umbrellas. I don’t think I have ever felt so blonde in my life as I did wrestling that thing while trapped in my spinning fish bowl. At least I might have provided some entertainment to the onlookers who did absolutely nothing to help free me. Eventually I managed to murder the umbrella, although I’m sure if I were to go to trial for it I’d get off on self-defense. Or at least get the sentence reduced to manslaughter. Obviously it wasn’t premeditated, hence the open umbrella.

After that meeting I had another one. And guess what? It was only a “short walk” from where I was. Yes, just a short walk, through the rain, in four-inch heels, and without an umbrella. Did I mention I was wearing a silk shirt and no coat?

I set off on foot with my trusty iPhone open to Google Maps trying to figure out which color dot I was and which way I should turn. I was determined find, and remain on, my route, so I kept my eyes glued to that little screen (which was covered in raindrops due to my lack of umbrella). Funny thing about Google Maps, they don’t show stairs. I managed not to fall completely on my ass, but I did stumble with such ungainly flailing of arms and legs, that I nearly dropped my purse, laptop case, and phone, and no doubt must have appeared not only blonde, but drunk as well. Again, if I provided some mid-morning entertainment to onlookers, you’re welcome! A hand would have been appreciated, or even a simple, “Are you ok?” but since I didn’t get either of those, I will just pretend to myself that your laughter was with me and not at me. Right.

I managed to get to my next meeting, albeit 20 minutes late. As I had done at every other meeting I had to sign in at a desk in the lobby of the building where they called upstairs to announce my arrival, and presented me with a visitors badge. What they should have presented me with was instructions for the elevators. They would have come in handy since these were elevators the likes of which I had never seen. I stepped inside and turned to face the doors and push the button for my floor. Only there was no button. Not just for my floor, but for any floor. None. “Fifteen!” I said three or four times emphatically thinking that perhaps, this elevator was voice activated. But the elevator stayed put and the doors remained open. Finally I stepped outside the elevator and noticed a large keypad with no sign on it to indicate that it was in fact, where I should have entered the floor number before getting in. Again, free entertainment for business people standing around witnessing the blonde girl shouting out “fifteen” as if she had Tourettes.

Thankfully that meeting went very well (and my previous one had, too thank God!) and I was off again in search of a cab. The rain had really started in earnest at this point. I walked back and forth on the sidewalk trying to get the attention of taxi drivers that either were off duty, already had fares, or just didn’t want to stop. After about 30 minutes of this I broke down and called the man I had just met with and pretty much destroyed an good impression I might have made by practically crying on the phone begging for help in catching a cab. He was kind, did not laugh at me, and stayed on the phone he instructed me to walk through Grand Central and over to 42^nd street where I might have better luck. I did. By that time I was no less wet than I would have been if I’d jumped into a pool with my clothes on. I had no choice but to go back to my hotel and dry off before heading to my next meeting. Outside I asked the doorman at my own hotel if he could hail a cab for me, and he did so easily. I thought, perhaps my luck is changing here, but as soon as I gave the driver the address he turned around and asked me, “Where is that exactly?”

Seriously? OK…I looked at the email I’d been sent from the assistant of the person I was supposed to meet. She had thankfully mentioned a cross street. “Should I take the FDR”? The cabbie asked. How am I supposed to know? I once again searched on Google Maps and handed over my iPhone. Thank God for modern technology.

That meeting also went amazingly well, in spite of the fact that I had mistakenly signed the Fire Warden book instead of the Visitor Book at the front desk. I’ll bet it took every ounce of restraint the security guy could muster in order to say, “You are the fire warden?” with a straight face. I suppose that if I had to have some bad luck in NY it was good that it was just with security guards, weather, and taxis, and not with the meetings I was there for.

I wish I could say that by the end of the stay I had learned my way around a bit, or that I’d gotten really good at hailing taxis, but I can’t. I’d be lying. I am however, the proud owner of a brand new umbrella, courtesy of one of those amazing people I met with. I will bring it with me when I return and try really hard not to forget to close it before getting into a revolving door.

Drunk Woman Crashes Audition

2011-10-19T13:46:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted anything for awhile. I guess it's true what they say about life getting in the way. Or is that life is what happens when you're making other plans? Either way, I've been busy! We are doing a big remodeling project right now (still in the "What the F@#K was I thinking?" phase) and I was on a committee for an amazing charity event for ACT Today! (Autism Care and Treatment Today!). That event deserves a blog post of it's own so I won't go on about it now.

So, I haven't had a lot of time for writing, and I also haven't been going out on many auditions. If you follow this blog you might remember that I occasionally book the odd commercial job. Of course in order to do that one actually has to audition for the odd commercial job, and lately I have been declining auditions more often than I would like due to my life getting in the way. That's the saying I was thinking of!

The other day I got a text saying to check my email because I had an audition. And sure enough I did. It was for a cat litter commercial. Easy enough, right? I decided to go. I mean what else did I have to do that day? Oh...right...I had to take kids to school, work my butt out with a trainer, meet with my daughter's college counselor...OH...did I forget to mention that I had been awake all night shooting two episodes of a really funny online show? I did, didn't I? Yes--I was a waitress in a show that takes place in a diner called After Hours. It's on Cracked.com if you want to check it out. When the episodes I am in air I'll post another link.

When I said I was up all night, I really meant it. We didn't wrap until 5:30 AM and by the time I got home it was time to make the donuts. Or make breakfast and pack the kids' lunches. You get it. So I was not only busy, I was exhausted, and still wearing the makeup from the shoot. That's a lot of make up. I have no idea what my daughter's college counselor thought of that. Oh well!

I managed to get through that meeting and on the road to my audition. I would have been on time, too, except I live in L.A. and had to drive on the 405 freeway. Traffic. Sucks. In. L.A. Yes it does. And you know what else sucks? Parking. At least in Santa Monica which is where I had to go. I finally found a spot and jogged the block and a half back to the casting office. I went in, picked up the sides (lines), and signed in. Just as about 15 other women had done. And that was within range of my call time. The one I had missed by about 20 minutes. I looked around at the competition. Interesting pool of women they had in there. Some were older, some had red hair, some brown, some tall, some short. I wondered if they knew what they were looking for. Then, in comes a woman who looked...how shall I put it...drunk. Well, I guess she smelled drunk more than she looked it, but you get the picture.

"Where do I sign in?" She slurred. One of the other women pointed at the sign in sheet and the gal signed in and wheeled around to announce to us that she was NOT an actor.

"If you're not an actor, do you mind my asking what you are doing at an audition?" Someone asked. We were all thinking it.

"I dunno. I mean, I like money, I guess." Maybe someone hadn't told her that there is very little of that to be made doing non-union cat litter commercials. "My business manager said, 'F@#k it! Go for it!" And I mean...why not? If I can make $40,000 a day doing this--" and with that she waved the paper with the few lines on it around for emphasis. She rambled on after that, but I wasn't paying attention any more. $40,000 a day? Maybe she wasn't just drunk, but crazy, too? Or on crack? Lord knows. But she plopped down to wait like the rest of us. For awhile.

After a few minutes she suddenly stood up and said (to nobody in particular), "What am I doing? They aren't gonna pick me!" And with that she left. A few minutes later she was back. "Do you think they're gonna be mad at me if I just leave?" Right. I highly doubted they were going to notice let alone be mad about it. We all assured her that they wouldn't mind at all and promised her that if they asked we'd tell them she'd had an emergency. "Say it was something serious. Like with a kid or something. Yeah. Tell them I had a kid emergency." Then she really left.

Or so I thought. Right before it was my turn to audition, Miss Sloshed returned. This time she brought friends. Seriously. Now if you don't go out on auditions you might not know that this is not something commonly done. She brought two women with her who were giggly and loud and perhaps also drunk? I don't know. But their ring leader, the non-actor, instructed them, "Here's where you sign in ladies, and here are your sides," And she handed them each a copy of the lines.

I was flabbergasted. What was this gal up to? I didn't have a chance to find out because the door opened and a man called me in to audition. When he saw the ruckus going on in the waiting room he said, "Hold on there a minute Susan, I'll be right with you." I walked over to the audition room and waited outside. I could hear him very clearly.

"What is going on in here?" He asked. "You can't just show up at an audition you know. I'm serious. If you aren't on the list then you have to leave."

"I am though!" Said the non-actor.

"Really?" The casting director asked. "Who sent you here?"

"My business manager," drunk girl replied.

"And what's your business manager's name?"

Another man who was already in the audition room saw me hovering by the door and called me inside. "Why don't you come on in and set your stuff down. I'm sure it will just be a minute." So I did. But I left the door open and could still hear the goings on down the hall.

"Fine then," The man's voice said. "You want to audition, I'll let you audition. After that woman that I just took back. But not you two." I didn't hear any giggling anymore. "And I'm telling you right now," The man continued, "You'd better know your lines."

After all that I was worried that maybe I wouldn't know the lines! But somehow I got through it. By the two guys' reactions I think I must have done pretty well. Yeah. Follow that you drunk girl, and good luck, 'cause I am an actor. OK, maybe just a commercial actor, but still.

I passed her in the hallway as I walked out. She looked a little less drunk and a whole lot more nervous. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. It's hard to feel badly for someone who has basically said that what you do is so easy a monkey, or a drunk girl (who isn't even an actor), could do it. To be honest, it isn't all that hard. Nerves are the biggest obstacle in these auditions. But, I still cannot believe she just up and decided to go out and audition for something even though she is not an actor. That's like me strolling into a hospital and saying, "Hey, I'm not a doctor, but I'm gonna do some surgeries today. Oh, and by the way, I've only had 3 drinks or so. Now hand me a scalpel." I wouldn't do that. Because I'm not a surgeon. I'm an actor. I'm not gonna pretend to be somebody I'm not. Oh. Wait a second...Could it be that the drunk girl, while drunk, still had it right? She was acting like an actor. Which is acting. God I hope she doesn't book that cat litter spot.

Paddle Boarding for Dummies (and Cameron Diaz Wanna-bes)

2011-08-04T13:45:00.000-07:00

The other day I tried something new. Paddle boarding. I'd seen photos in People Magazine of Cameron Diaz doing it with what looked like expert technique. Apparently I am not Cameron Diaz.

My muse, Cameron

I have all the ingredients to be a great paddle boarder. I have very strong legs, a strong core, good balance and a low center of gravity (one of the very few advantages of being petite or, as some people like to call it, short). Of course, these ingredients are only "active" when I'm on dry land. Not so much when you add water.

I was anxious to try this sport. It's great exercise that works a lot of different parts of your body as exemplified by, you guessed it, Cameron Diaz. But when I got out there and managed to stand up I looked a lot less like Cameron Diaz and a whole lot more like Shaky the Clown. At least from the waist down.

The board was wobbling. It had to have been the board. I mean it couldn't possibly have been me personally what with my strong legs and core, and my incredibly low center of gravity. I looked down to see what was going on. The more I looked down the more shaky I got. Then I looked up to see where I was heading and something miraculous happened. The shaking stopped! Hmmm. Maybe it was me after all. I paddled for a bit on the left, and then a bit on the right, and managed to propel myself around the cove (what, you thought I'd start out in the ocean?).

Look Ma! Just like Cameron Diaz (minus the rock hard abs and enviable biceps)

I had gone on this outing with my mom and her girlfriend who is an excellent paddle boarder. So excellent that she can snap photos while she's out there. I thought I might like to have a picture of myself looking just like Cameron Diaz. Well guess what? The second I turned around to strike my best Cameron Diaz-like, confident athlete pose Shaky the Clown came back and down I went. It was not pretty. It was not graceful. But it was funnier than hell. Of course I climbed back on immediately and stood up again. I wasn't going to let one little fall define my paddle boarding debut.

My mom's friend got to shore before me (completely bone dry of course) and I heard her shout out as I drifted in shivering and drenched, "Did you see her fall?!!!?"

I wanted to get mad and scream, "I only fell once, and just for a second...What about all the minutes I was up and paddling?" But, I let it go. I was there for fun and relaxation. And anyway, WWCDD? What would Cameron Diaz do? Probably laugh at herself and just brush it off.

So...here I am in all my glory.

Down for the count.

Soaked but still smiling.

Comings and Goings: Previewing my Future Empty Nest

2011-07-30T08:40:00.000-07:00

Today my youngest comes home from a month away at overnight camp. He's only 12, and I did not plan to send him for such a long stint. However, we are doing an extensive remodeling project here at Chez Cross and when the camp called to say that Aidan wanted to stay and a space had opened up in their coveted third session (the one all his friends were attending and that there wasn't room in when I signed him up originally), I reluctantly conceded. I knew if he was gone I would miss him, but if he were home and complaining nonstop about the construction noise, dust, lack of privacy, etc. that I would wish that he were gone.

I will have my work cut out for me, washing a month's worth of dirty (I'm talking FILTHY) clothes and inspecting Aidan from head to toe for all camp related maladies, ie. head lice, impetigo, staff infected mosquito bites, before I pack him back up and leave for San Diego. Yes, he and his brother Rory start another camp on Monday. It's at my old alma mater, UCSD. The boys did not want to go as over nighters (thank goodness, because I don't think I could take more time away from them--Rory has also been gone for part of the summer) and so I signed them up for the day camp program and we will stay at my mom's house.

My daughter Kayla is not going to be home for another two weeks. In total she will have been away for six. She is at Penn taking a biology class with college students and a handful of other super smart high school students like herself. I am intensely proud of her, but I am also intensely aware that this is a preview of what I have to look forward to in about a year when she leaves for college for real. This was kind of a dry run, although with the tears (mine, not hers) it was hardly dry.

It is difficult to let go of my children, to realize that they are their own people and will have their own separate lives. They will have experiences and interactions that I will know nothing about. Well, I guess they already do, but somehow when they are all under my roof I feel like I'm still a part of things. It's ironic that when they are small there are a lot of days when you feel like they just can't grow up fast enough, and then you blink, and there they are, big. Then you wish they'd stop growing up immediately and even go backwards for a bit, just so you can smell their hair again and have them shove their sticky hand in yours in parking lots.

You know that whole roots and wings expression? Well, I hope their roots run deep and that they use those incredible wings to fly back to the nest once in awhile. It's gonna feel awfully empty when they are gone. I am grateful that I have this last year with Kayla before she goes to college. I know she's probably going to go somewhere back east. I can't even complain about that since I grew up back east and had to go somewhere out west. It was a good call for me, and I know it's a good call for her as well. The other two, my boys, they'll be here for awhile yet, although I know that "while" will swish past in a blur, just like the last decade or so has.

Until then, I plan to savor every moment, create a lot of memories, and every once in awhile when they aren't looking, smell their hair.

My Dog Ate My Screenplay

2011-07-17T07:45:00.000-07:00

I should have named them Ripper, Chomper, and Shredder.

Very recently I posted about how my puppies--yes, I said puppies, as in plural--have been eating my mail and pretty much anything else that I forget to put out of reach. Their reach by the way, is shockingly vast. I could put them on the talk show circuit that is how amazing they are at getting to things.

They got into a very sturdy (or so I thought) faux-leather bound file box that contained a half written screenplay that I hadn't worked on in ages. It was one of those projects that I was very passionate about for a heartbeat before the ADD side of me kicked in and I abandoned it. Well, I didn't really abandon it. Let's just say I paused work on it. For years. I've been busy, what can I say? I had put it in that file box with the intention of picking it back up one day. It was a printed copy of what I hope I have stored on my old laptop. Thank God I kept that clunker!

Anyway...the dogs devoured the whole thing, faux leather bound box and all. It was in such tiny pieces that it took me a minute to figure out just what it was. It was like trying to identify a victim of an explosion or plane crash, only instead of body parts I found shredded bits of dialogue and character backstories. There was one complete word here or there, but mostly just mangled letters in groups of two or three and the occasional soggy piece of faux leather. Gruesome.

How did they do this? Why did they do this? Was the screenplay really bad or something? I mean if the dogs ripped it to shreds what would an agent do? I am not sure I want to find out. One thing I am sure of though, I am going to have to move everything I own into titanium file boxes.

I Am Not Super Woman: Turning in My Cape

2011-07-12T10:59:00.000-07:00

To Whom it May Concern:

I know I might have at one time called myself something along the lines of “Super Mom” or “Super Woman”, but today is a new day and I would like to turn in my cape.

It seems that under the delusion of possessing super human abilities I have bitten off more than I can chew. It's not that I have reached my saturation point, it's that I have long ago passed it. I can't handle more than everybody else. If I were "Super" I would have figured this out a long time ago.

I should have known that adopting three new puppies (even if they were rescue puppies and even if they are extra cute) was going to be a lot of work. If I were "Super" I would have those pups housebroken already. And guess what? They aren't! So while my heart may have been in the right place when I agreed to take those puppies in, my brain was somewhere else entirely. It just was not smart. Especially right before starting a giant remodeling project.

Speaking of that remodeling project…I should have known that it was pure insanity to think that we could live in the house during it. I mean hello.—they were going to be ripping out most of the floors and refinishing those they did not rip out. Where exactly did I think we were going to walk? On the ceiling? Well, I suppose if I did have super powers, that I might have been able to do that. But guess what? I DON’T! If I had super powers I would not be having asthma attacks from the mass quantities of dust I am breathing. I would be impervious to dust.

When I said I was "super" I did not count on regular every day life things coming at me in hyper-speed. For example…I was trying to get a bunch of errands run before leaving town and of course, that’s when some teenager drove into the side of my car. So now I have to deal with the insurance and the body shop, not to mention a sore neck and various scrapes and bruises. I know it could have been worse, but you know what??? Just this once, I feel like saying, “IT COULD HAVE BEEN A LOT BETTER, TOO!” As in…it could have not happened in the first place!

And guess what just came in the mail? I mean aside from the mountains of bills that I don’t have time to open and pay. A summons for jury duty, that’s what.! And of course the day I’m supposed to report is the first day that the boys were to start a summer camp in San Diego. I had planned to take them down there and stay at my mom’s. I don’t think I can commute to an L.A. courthouse from San Diego and then make it back to pick up the boys from camp in time. And I don’t want to just ship them down to my mother and stay in L.A., because that’s when the flooring guys were going to put on the polyurethane so in order for me to be in L.A. I would have to stay at a hotel.

So Universe, God, Fate, Karma, or whomever this concerns—if you are listening (and it seems you always are)—for the record, I am sorry I declared myself “super”. I am hereby taking that back. I would like to have thrown at me just the normal amount of stuff that a normal woman can handle. So my life can be normal, and I can feel like a normal person again instead of a stressed out harpie who is tired all the time and starting to break out. There is nothing “super” about that.

Sincerely,

(No Longer Super) Susan

My Dog Ate My “To Do” List

2011-06-30T19:05:00.000-07:00

True story. I am not sure which one of them did it, or if it was a team effort, but I had a three page single-spaced to do list a half an hour ago and now I don’t. Those dogs did what I have been fantasizing about doing all day. They took that list and ripped it into tiny shreds.

I would say that it was significant except for the fact that they also tore up several bills, a credit card privacy policy change notice, and my daughter’s SAT scores (and they were really good scores!). I can order another set, so no problem there, but, what about the bills? I highly doubt that the good folks at Chase Visa are going to buy the “dog ate my statement” excuse. I’ll bet they’ve heard that one before.

So I guess I’ll just have to try to pick up the pieces, both literally and figuratively, and tape them back together. Or maybe I’ll just sweep them up, throw them out, and pour myself a glass of wine.

Another "BLONDE" Mom Moment

2011-05-31T12:47:00.000-07:00

Today I did something that I'm hoping all mothers have done at least once. OK...maybe just the blonde moms. Yes. I FORGOT to pick up my son at the bus. Completely. And of course, my phone was on vibrate so I didn't see his call. By the time I saw that he was trying to reach me, and had my "Holy S#*T!" of an aha moment he had already gotten a ride from a friend. A friend whose mom is not blonde.

I was remiss in picking my son up at the bus for a number of reasons. Here they are in no particular order.

I haven't been getting enough sleep.
I'm fighting off a late spring/early summer cold.
I am preoccupied because of the houseful of workers that show up every morning at 7 AM (remodeling).
I have three kids--I can't possibly be expected to remember to pick all of them up all of the time!
I have five dogs--Sometimes I forget about the kids because the dogs are distracting.

These are pretty lame actually. How about these excuses instead? See if any of them fly.

The son in question got out early due to finals--so normally he would not have been arriving at the bus stop at 11:20 in the morning.
I wanted to test his survival skills--seriously--I meant to leave him stranded at the bus and not answer his calls.
I was running late, but was on my way (I wasn't).

Not buying any of those? Yeah, I wouldn't either if I were you. So here it is. The real reason I forgot to pick up my son today at the bus.

I am blonde.

Yes. That's it. The truth. In fact--I was in Malibu having my hair highlighted when the transgression occurred. Actually--since I'm not truly much of a blonde without the highlights, maybe I forgot him because I'm NOT blonde. If I had been blonde (or blonde enough by L.A. standards) then I wouldn't have had to go down to Malibu for highlights in the first place, and most likely would not have forgotten about my son.

So it's because I'm a wanna-be-blonde(er). Yes. That's it right there entirely. These darn highlights made me forget my son. Blame it on the blonde. Or on the peroxide that is no doubt seeping through my pores while I'm being highlighted.

Either way--I am definitely "blonde" mom today. I just hope I'm not the only one. Ditziness loves company.

Little Black Dress (Vegas Special!)

2011-05-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

A few ladies have asked me about the LBD's (or should I say CLBD's (cheap little black dresses) that we were wearing in Las Vegas. Well, I did a little searching and found one that is basically identical to the one my friend Lisa was wearing.

I think I may have to get one of these myself for our next Girls' Night Out.

Enjoy!

Susan

Very, Very Vegas

2011-05-24T16:57:00.000-07:00

If you haven’t had a getaway in awhile (and I mean a getAWAY—not a trip where you bring all the things and people you need to get away from with you!) I highly recommend it. I just enjoyed a little overnight jaunt with a few of my best gal pals to Las Vegas!

Now you may think that you can’t swing that right now, that in this economy a vacation is just a luxury you can’t afford. I’m here to tell you that it’s not impossible to have a caviar time on a beer budget.

Accommodations: First of all, there is something for every budget in the way of accommodations in Vegas. We went middle of the road and stayed at “The Hotel”. We got a decent rate on a suite, which we all crammed into. There were two beds, and a sofa and we slept two to a bed and one on the sofa. The downside: We had to take turns showering. The upside: A whole lotta sorority-esque fun getting ready to tunes blasted from the iPod, doing each other’s hair/make up, sharing clothes, etc. The other upside? The more people splitting the room, the cheaper it was for each of us. We got to enjoy a very nice suite for less than $90 bucks apiece.

Dinner: Vegas is definitely a place of excess. And the meals are no exception. I say buy an apple at the Starbucks in the hotel lobby (they are everywhere aren’t they?) and drink a big glass of water before going to dinner. You wont be as hungry and since the portions are generous, split the food. It works! You won’t over eat, and you will save money.

Outfits: I must admit that when my friends first told me their plan of all wearing cheap LBDs (that’s Little Black Dresses to those who don’t know) I was a bit concerned. I thought the club we were going to try to get into was upscale and was worried we’d not only look too old, that we’d also look too trampy. Turns out in Vegas, there is no such thing! We rocked our $30 dresses and caused a fair amount of whiplash if I do say so myself. We had people asking if they could have their picture taken with us even! This may have been because we looked so hot, or, it may have been because we let it be known that we were the “Real Housewives of Calabasas”. The show does not exist. Yet. Check out the little fun video we shot leaving The Hotel.

Drinks: Okay on this one unless you are either willing to accept drinks from random strange men in clubs (believe me, this is NOT a good idea—can anyone say ROOFIE?) or if you like to gamble (free drinks served on the casino floor if you are gambling) then you might be stuck with three options. One is to bring your own alcohol and have a little mini cocktail party in your room before going out. Another is to just not drink, or not drink more than one or two cocktails, the third is to just pay the money and enjoy the splurge. We opted for #3. Didn’t want any bottles breaking inside suitcases and ruining the $30 dresses, and we did want to have fun without being roofied. So we just sucked it up and splurged. We went to the Marquee Lounge and were fortunate enough to have made a connection and gotten comped a $4,000 table for the night (well most of the night, Reggie Bush showed up and actually paid the $4,000 and took over the table--but it was already 3:30 AM and we were leaving anyway, thank you very much!). We got a big break on the table, but we paid for our own drinks. And that added up quickly. That's because each one cost a small fortune and not because we drank so many of them that we got stinking drunk. We left that to the hard core party animals like the random guy we encountered in the parking lot at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. He had a thing for my friend Nancy. It was more than hysterical—see video below!

Before our big night out we had some down time at the pool. The Mandalay has several pools, each slightly more gross than the last. The most disgusting however was a tie between the wave pool, and the topless pool. I mean “topoptional”. Sorry. Both seemed to be a liquid Petri dish for all kinds of bacteria and viruses, not the least of which, herpes. Actually, I don’t know whether STDs can be transmitted through tainted pool water, but I didn’t really want to find out. We found lounge chairs at one of the quieter pools. Still, we had waves of men ranging from the silent steroid type who flexed and puffed out their chests, but never actually attempted to talk to us, to a pack of 24-year-old frat brothers who were in town for a bachelor party. One of these guys was particularly obnoxious, and one seemed to be a genuinely nice guy, albeit drunk. They were parked at the feet of our lounge chairs standing waist high in the pool, chain drinking from a bucket o’ beers. Attractive. In between we had visits from the only man confident enough to fly solo (as in no wing men). He would come sit by us for 10 or 15-minute stretches and then get up and walk away only to return again after the next wave of less independent guys had departed (and by departed I mean given up).

There was a mixed group of men and women nearby who decided to thank us for the entertainment we’d provided—apparently they’d been watching the comings and goings all day and were quite amused by our many and varied suitors. Mr. Confidence seemed to be the only one able to hold a conversation, but while his confidence was attractive, he himself was not. The social observers found the funniest thing to be that the silent muscle bound guys appeared offended by the fact that we paid more attention to this bald and pasty doughy guy than to them. The fact that 4 out of the 5 of us were married and wearing rings to prove it, was no deterrent to any of these guys. I think they figured maybe we’d be up for some of that, “What happens in Vegas…” kind of fun. No such luck (for them).

So there you have it, my very, very Vegas girls’ getaway weekend. A (mostly) low budget but definitely high octane experience.

Chinese "Foot" Massage: The Latest Guilty Pleasure in Suburbia

2011-05-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

Recently I went to one of those Chinese foot massage places that seem to be springing up everywhere. You may have seen these places--storefronts on busy city streets, or even in strip malls in suburbia. In fact, I do believe that Chinese foot massage has become the newest dirty little secret among suburban housewives. Oh yes, it’s right up there with Botox and lip injections. Come on ladies, you did not go from having regular sized lips to having two Ball Park Franks on your face without a needle having been involved. And for the record, while we are on the subject, people’s boobs DO NOT get bigger after having kids. Saggier and droopier maybe, but not bigger and firmer. You know what makes breasts bigger and firmer? Implants. The jig is up.

Back to the guilty pleasure on which nobody can tell you’ve been indulging. No, not that…massage! Now, I have had many a massage at your regular over-priced spa. You know the kind, the ones that have the fluffy robes and slippers, where you wait for your masseuse in a tranquil waiting area with fountains and orchids and relaxing music, the kind that serves “detox tea” (it’s probably Lipton), and puts cucumbers and lemon in the iced spring water (no doubt tap). Well, the place I went the other day was a whole different kind of experience.

Firstly let me say that my friends have been to this particular massage parlor, and had given it rave reviews. Of course this was over cocktails and jokes about how the women who frequent the place affectionately refer to it as “Me Love You Long Time”. I was hoping this had less to do with how intimately I would be massaged and more to do with the fact that you get a whole lot of rub down for 30 bucks. Yes. That’s all it costs for 80 minutes. What did I have to lose (aside from 30 bucks)?

I decided to give it a whirl. First of all, the place was packed. Maybe it’s not such a secret after all. There was a main room, nothing interesting about it if you consider 25 bark-a-loungers lined up five to a row to be boring. I was escorted to a different room, one slightly darker with a wall fountain and fabric screens separating the patrons. This added level of privacy was reserved for the big spenders who had plunked down a whole 30 bucks like I had. Instead of bark-a-loungers there was a single row of narrow cots, each with a little ottoman at one end and a plastic dishpan at the foot of it. I was escorted to one, but given no further instruction. I would have peeked around the curtain to see what position the other patrons were taking, and whether they were clothed or not, but I didn’t want to seem nosy. So I just stood there awkwardly waiting for my masseuse.

I envisioned a petite Asian woman with tiny hands and a gentle touch coming to tenderly release some of the stress I’d been carrying around in my shoulders and lower back. What came around the curtain was entirely different. First of all he was a man. While he was Asian, he was far from petite. He was very large actually. Judging from the smell of garlic on his breath he must have been a good eater, or at least a recent eater. Every now and then he’d burp and I’d get a good whiff of whatever that was he was digesting. Far cry from the lavender and eucalyptus at the spa at the Four Seasons.

He maneuvered me onto the ottoman and put my feet into the dishpan. A quick foot scrubbing later and the “foot massage” portion of the Chinese foot massage was over. Why people insist on referring to these places as “foot massage parlors” I do not know. There were still 78 minutes left on the clock and my feet never saw any more action. The rest of me got quite the rub down. After instructing me to lie down on the cot the real massaging began. This guy was nothing if he wasn’t thorough. He didn’t miss an inch of my body, except for my lady parts of course. Apparently butts are not lady parts by the way. Seriously—I think he rubbed the insides of my sinuses.

So he wasn’t a woman, he wasn’t petite, and he was not at all gentle. If this guy had a license (and I’m saying IF), then it must be from the Marquis de Sade School of Massage. He dug in deep I tell ya. He got under places I didn’t know one could get under. He used every method of massage I’d ever experienced and then some. He went all Swedish and deep tissue on me, and then switched to Thai, pulling my arms and legs out of their sockets practically, and then for the piece de resistance he threw in a little surprise chiropractic move that cracked every vertebrae in my neck. I was completely at his mercy. I couldn’t decide whether I hated it or loved it, but before I knew it my 80 minutes were up and I had to get down off that cot and straighten my tank top and sweat pants (this massage is done fully clothed, another first for me) and stumble out of the soothing darkness into the blinding mid day sunlight and the noise of Ventura Boulevard. I felt like a mop that had been put through the ringer.

I don’t know if I’ll go back. I took one of their punch cards just in case. Yes, they have punch cards just like frozen yogurt shops do. Buy 10 get one free. So if I go there eleven times, the cost per massage is even cheaper. You know what? It is just like the frozen yogurt shop. Only instead of saving money there, I am saving calories—at the rate of 150 per serving I’d say. No, it’s not the same, but it’s a little less guilty of a pleasure than full fat ice cream. So even though it’s not my favorite, I go there. When I have a sweet tooth, it gets the job done. If I wanted to be thrifty, I could apply this philosophy to massage. Maybe I’ll hold on to that punch card after all.

Time Saving Tips of the Soccer Mom Trade: Tip #2

2011-05-16T08:27:00.000-07:00

So it’s been awhile since I posted about time saving tips. I know what you’re thinking. That I probably just didn’t have time. Well, you are right on that one! As a busy mother of three kids and five dogs I often do come up short on time. And that was the whole idea behind this series of posts—that there has got to be a way to counter that at least a little bit! And there is.

I have discovered a few of them, and I promised that I’d share (when I had the time to, of course!). So here I am, finished with the “morning rush” of getting the kids up, fed, packed up and out the door (and joy of joys, nobody left their lunch on the counter today!), the dogs have been out and had their breakfast and are now roughhousing behind me, tearing up the area rug on the office floor as I type. It’s not quite time for me to leave for my workout class and so…I found a few minutes in which to impart another of my time saving tips!

First of all, I am assuming that you make “To Do” lists. I am queen of those lists, and thought I had the best method for making them until I discovered a little modification that saves me a lot of time. I make one section of the list “errands” and then group those errands by location of the places I have to go in order to accomplish them. I found a shopping center for example, that contains a branch of my bank, a UPS store, a dry cleaner (an environmentally friendly one at that!), a pharmacy, and a grocery store. Every week it seems I have to visit each of those types of places at least once in my errand running efforts. So, I started grouping these together on my “To Do” list. I do the same for errands that can be accomplished at the shopping mall. There is a Target at the mall close to here, and an Apple Store, several department stores, etc. The Target has a grocery within it, so that ‘s an added bonus. On a day when I have to buy/return something at Target I make sure to bring along my grocery list and pick up whatever items I can at the same time.

Bottom line, if I think of the things I need to do and then group them by shopping center, I can make fewer trips, save gas, energy, and most importantly, TIME.

If you haven’t tried this out yet, I highly recommend you give it a shot. If it works for you (as I am pretty sure it will), then use the time to do something nice for yourself. You can soak in the tub, have a glass of wine, take a walk, or read a chapter of that book you’ve been meaning to get to. Enjoy!

Mom to Maxim: the Follow Up

2011-05-13T16:36:00.000-07:00

So if you read my last post you know that I was supposed to have to go from a college planning event straight to the Maxim Hot 100 party. As it worked out (luckily for me) my daughter did not go to the college fair because her math teacher decided that the day after a mandatory night time event would be a good time to give a giant test. Since her grade was going to be effected if she did poorly on the test, we decided to let her, and by default US, off the hook.

This was a good thing since post hair and make up I really don't want to think about what I would have looked like with a trench coat over a D& G dress and 6 inch heels.

Since I didn't have to go from Mom to Maxim--just from Maxim to Maxim, I decided to get the most out of the ensemble and go out to a nice dinner first. Not that I could eat much in that dress.

As excited as I was to go to that party I was even more excited to go home afterward. My feet were absolutely killing me (I ended up with two water filled blisters thank you very much Mr. Louboutin). Those are definitely what I like to call "sit down" shoes. As in you can sit down in them, no problem. Just don't try to stand or walk.

So I guess the take away is that I think I had more fun dressing up than I did at the actual party. OK...I know I did. I don't want to stop going to these kind of things when I have the chance to. Nor do I want to start wearing sensible shoes and pants with elastic waists (although believe me, I know life would be a lot more comfortable if I did). Instead I may look into renting Lady Gaga's egg thing--you know--the one she was carried around in before the Grammys. It would definitely save my poor feet. But, I wonder how it'd would look in the car pool lane at school. I guess I could always throw a trench coat over it.

Tonight I Go From Mom to Maxim

2011-05-11T08:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight I am going to Maxim Magazine's Hot 100 Party. I'm not feeling hot, but I am feeling 100. Just kidding. I am however, very much feeling like the mom that I am. First of all, I am 10-20 years older than most of the girls that will be there. I try and tell myself not to care, since I'm also 10-20 years wiser than they are.

Before the Maxim party this evening I will be making an appearance at another hot event; my daughter's mandatory college planning meeting. Due to the timing I will have to go to this first one in full hair and make up and dressed in what seems to be the perennial theme for Maxim's parties, "Less is More" or more simply stated, "Skanky". I assured my very worried teenaged daughter that I will not only tape everything in place so as to avoid any wardrobe malfunctions, but that for the college planning portion of the evening I will also wear over my dress, a giant trench coat. I'm not sure how looking like a flasher is any better than looking like a slut, but at least I'll be covered.

I will be dashing from a group of level headed, college bound, teens to a crowded club teaming with young 20-somethings who most likely will all have a blood alcohol level that matched their high school GPAs. I am glad that my daughter won't become one of them. I'm also glad I never became one of them. That being said, I will be doing my best to blend. I will take off my Mom hat, lose the trench coat, dumb down my vocabulary, give thanks to whomever invented Spanx and double sided wardrobe tape, and blend.

The New Mommy Without Me

2011-04-30T19:18:00.000-07:00

The other day I was with a group of neighborhood friends. They were talking about our local “mommy and me” group and how much it had changed. I say they were talking about it because I was never in it. I had my kids early, and also, I didn’t live in Hidden Hills when they were little. I did some type of Gymboree or My Gym with each of my children, and also a “mommy and me” with two of them at a little preschool near our old house. But I don’t think my experience was anything like what’s going on the modern day Hidden Hills “mommy and me” circle.

That’s mainly because it sounds like it’s more of a “mommy without me” group. They do still meet once a week at one or another of their houses. Each mom (or nanny) brings along their kids for a group play date. But from what I understand, this is not the main purpose for the group. In fact, it sounds almost like it’s become somewhat of a front. What started out as a social outlet for moms with kids, has turned into one for the moms to enjoy without the kids.

Yes, in addition to their weekly “mommy and me” sessions these ladies have a little play date of their own. Only these ones are at night. Usually it involves dinner out and cocktails, although I have seen pictures on Facebook of such outings that included stripper poles. Now in their defense, they could have been at “strippercise”--I know there are a few of these alternative “exercise” classes in the valley. Once in awhile it’s nice to get a break from the suburban staples of pilates, yoga and spinning.

At any rate, my friends all had, or currently have kids in the mommy and me group, and according to them times have changed. The late night antics are new. The latest crop of moms is shaking things up. If I sound like I’m being catty, I’m not! I am however being jealous. I would have LOVED to have had some grown up fun when I was in the throws of the early years of motherhood. A little reminder now and again that I was more than just a mom, I was a woman. A woman with adventurous friends, cute going out clothes, and a penchant for stripper poles. All I remember about my “mommy and me” years was that I was tired. And it was waaaaay more about the “me” than the mommy. And by “me” I mean them. The kids. I know, I know, that is the whole point of the weekly get togethers. But, it would have been nice to have had a few “mommy without me” events, too. This group of gals sure knows how to balance both worlds. Kinda makes me want to have another baby. But not really.

Time Saving Tricks of the Soccer Mom Trade - Tip #1

2011-04-19T17:31:00.000-07:00

I cannot tell you how many times upon hearing that I have three kids and five dogs (yeah…I’m that lady), I get asked how I “do” it. The truth is, I have no clue. Some how or other things get done, although not always as quickly or in the order that I want them to. I’ve learned to let go a little, and lighten up a lot.

Case in point, I am currently writing this during my youngest son’s birthday party. Yes. I have come that far that I can allow the kids to hang out without my careful and constant supervision. They are upstairs and I am downstairs. Let the chips fall where they may. They are, by the way, twelve.

It is not easy to find time, and I realize that not all moms reading this have kids who are old enough to peel their eyes away from, even for a minute or two. So how does one manage to come up with an extra 10, 20, 30 minutes in which to pee, return calls, answer emails, etc.? It’s true that we can’t buy time. But, we can borrow some here and there. You know, cut some out from certain tasks, and add it to others. We can also save time by not spending it in the first place—there are short cuts out there if you know where to find them! Over the years I've come up with quite a few so every once in a while I am going to post one here. Try them out and see what works for you. Or if you have a great time saving technique, please feel free to include it in your comment and I will be sure to add it to my next post and give you credit, of course! So here, without further adieu is tip number 1!

1. Use that DVR!!! Is it me, or are most prime time network shows about 40-50% commercials? Set that DVR and fast forward through them. For every hour-long show you watch, you will gain about 20 minutes or so of useable time. Don’t want to miss out on the show the actual night it airs? Easy. Set the DVR to record it and then tune in half way through. Start the playback from the beginning at this point, and fast forward through those pesky ads. Believe me—you will finish watching at the same time as everyone else, and have saved the first half hour or so for doing something fun or productive.

So that's tip #1. Use it in health. And please don't forget to add in comments some time savers

of your own. I will have tip #2 as soon as I find some more time to post about it. I think I know

what to do with those 30 minutes I'm gonna save while I'm NOT watching all the ads running during

American Idol tonight.

Searching for Silver (Linings that is!)

2011-04-12T11:39:00.000-07:00

I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason. At least that’s what I tell myself when things don’t work out the way I want them to. And this is what I’ve taught the kids as well. I am forever searching for the silver lining, no matter how elusive it may seem in bad circumstances.

Recently it was my son’s birthday. He was turning twelve and my husband and I wanted to throw him a really great party. Aidan is somewhat of a trend setter and always wants to have a party that nobody else in his class has had. It used to make me really proud that I could pull off something truly new for him. Aidan was the first in his grade to have a laser tag party. I know, I know--a billion kids have laser tag parties every day, but in Aidan’s class, he was the first. The first followed by about a half dozen or more that year alone. He was the first to have a party at an indoor go-kart racing track, and the first to have a Game Coach party ( which involves a giant trailer with big screen tvs and every video game you can imagine coming to your house). It does get harder every year though, to think of something that NOBODY else has done.

This year, I really had to put my thinking cap on. What had he not already done, that nobody else had done either? Sky High Sports, that’s what. This is genius actually. It’s a franchise (one of those, why didn’t I think of that firsts?) of warehouses that are basically wall to wall trampoline. The walls themselves are trampolines. Kids and adults bounce themselves silly and have a great time. A great time that nobody in his grade had thought to have as of yet. At least not for a birthday party. I booked his party for a Sunday and sent out the invitations. All but a few RSVP’d yes.

My husband offered to help out with party arrangements, so I put him in charge of figuring out how we were going to transport 30 twelve-year-olds from our home to Sky High, which is about 45 minutes away. He contacted several party bus and limo services and found one that was only slightly less than leasing a bus for a month, and booked it. Done. All that was left to do was order cupcakes and buy favors and we were golden.

I'm gonna let you in on a secret about me. Aidan is my 3rd child. That's not the secret! The secret is that I only seem like I come up with all the great party ideas first. Don't forget that I have already been through all the birthday parties that my other two kids have been invited to over the years. That’s right. The cat’s out of the bag. I cheat. I steal the really great party ideas from other moms in my older kids’ grades. A boy in Rory's class had a party at Sky High the month before Aidan's birthday, and it was a huge success. This is just another benefit of having three kids close in age, stolen birthday parties. Or as I like to call them, recycled. Sounds less sneaky and a whole lot better for the environment, don’t you think? Our oldest is in 11th grade. She’s seen a lot of birthday party action over the years. Now she’s driving and studying for her SATs. In fact, she had a tutoring session scheduled for the weekend of Aidan’s party. And good thing she did. Here’s the part where I come back to how everything happens for a reason.

My husband mentioned that Kayla would be missing her tutoring session to attend her brother’s party. Or else, maybe we should change the appointment. I had just had my appendix out (never a dull moment) and so he had scheduled the tutor after the previous session. Therefore, I had no idea what time or even what day the tutor was coming. I looked in the calendar and lo and behold, she was down for Saturday. Which was not a conflict at all since the party was Sunday. When I told my husband that, he said, “I know. Saturday. Same day as the party.” Uh oh.
Time to start looking for that silver lining. If I hadn’t had to have my appendix out, he wouldn’t have scheduled the tutoring session, and I wouldn’t have needed to check the calendar to find out when the tutor was coming. If I hadn’t had to do that, we never would have realized that Kevin had been operating under the premise that the party was on Saturday. We would never have caught the mistake in time to call the party bus people and change the reservation. That bus would have shown up at our house a day early, quite possibly leaving us without transportation for the actual party day, and what was supposed to be the cutting edge, never been done before party (at least not that any of Aidan’s classmates knew) would have been a bust. See? Follow my glass half full, Polyanna-ish train of thought? Basically I found a way to turn having to have an appendectomy into a good thing.

Now I wish I could end my story here, with good triumphing over evil, as all good stories end. But, no. Because even though we figured out the mix up in time to change the party bus reservation, we had no clue as to yet another unforseen turn of events. Friday afternoon before the weekend of the party that would have had the entire 6th grade talking, I got a call from the school nurse. Aidan had fallen and fractured his wrist. So instead of a party Aidan got a cast. And since he had a cast, Sky High Sports would not allow him to bounce. So, since Aidan couldn’t bounce, we would have to postpone his party. And the party bus. Poor guy. He cried all the way home from the orthopedic doctor’s office. I tried to cheer him up with my, “Hey, everything for a reason,” speech. But he just looked at me like I was nuts.

“Seriously mom?” He asked. “You are seriously going to try and tell me it was a good thing that I broke my wrist and had to cancel my party?” My brain went into spin mode and I tried to figure out a plausible scenario in which breaking his wrist could be a plus. “Maybe the day that you end up having the party, Sky High will be less crowded and you’ll have the run of the place,” I said hopefully. No sale. “Maybe if you hadn’t broken your wrist, and we’d had the party as planned, something crazy would have happened, like maybe someone would have bounced right into one of your guests. A big giant kid maybe. Someone who could have really caused some damage. But since we won’t be there on that day, that won’t happen. See?” He didn’t see.

I guess sometimes there’s just no way to make lemonade when life gives you lemons. Sometimes you just have to say, “Yep. That sucks. Those sure are lemons alright.” And let the tears fall. Sometimes it’s easy to see the silver lining in a situation. And sometimes, luckily only sometimes, life isn’t fair. We will have the party one month to the day after Aidan’s real birthday. So far all the guests say they will still be able to come. Aidan had a rough evening that Friday before his would-have-been birthday party weekend. But, I know that just as sure as his wrist will heal, his dashed hopes will, too. He’s already looking forward to his party (again). So even though that glass half full, got dumped out temporarily, it’s half full once more. And he did that all by himself, no Mom-spin required. Hey, you know what? I think I may have just found that silver lining.

Back in the Rude Old US of A

2011-04-06T11:18:00.000-07:00

My family just returned from a week long vacation in Barbados. Barbados, if you haven’t been, is a wonderful country. The place is gorgeous, the water is turquoise, the sands are soft and white. We stayed at The Crane, one of those resorts where if you want to buy into it ala timeshare, you can. But, unlike most of these places, there is no hard sell. No soft sell either. In fact, that was one of the things I liked best about it. People in Barbados are pretty laid back in general.

We noticed this especially at restaurants, as it seemed our food always took a super long time to arrive. This might have annoyed the crap out of me here at home, but in Barbados, not at all. We had nowhere in particular to be, and so we just went with it. We learned to enjoy the extra down time we spent as a family, just sitting around. Nobody was rushing us to finish up our meals once they did arrive either. People seemed to be very relaxed. We started to feel downright zen by the end of the week. But, it was short lived.

On our way home we had a layover in Dallas and we were hungry so we made our way to the airport food court. The kids took some cash and headed over to the burger counter while my husband and I opted for a burrito place called 360. We got in the line and waited our turn. There was one lone guy working behind the counter, he was the cashier and the cook, and he couldn’t have been more than 18 or so. We placed our order and waited while the kid rang us up and collected our money. While he was keeping one eye on the grill he was figuring out our change and I was thinking to myself how well he was handling it, being back there all by himself. That’s when I was rudely reminded that I wasn’t in Barbados anymore. A woman with an extremely pinched face came bustling up to the counter, pushed her way between me and the cash register and plunked down her to go container, lid open revealing a burrito that had been hastily unwrapped, contents spewing out.

“My husband didn’t get any 360 sauce!” she practically shouted, glaring at the poor kid who was still trying to figure out my change. No, “Excuse me,” no, “When you’re finished with this order I’d like to have a word please,” no manners whatsoever.

The kid didn’t make eye contact (smart move if you ask me), but continued to pull the change from the register and handed it to me. “I said,” she practically shouted, “My husband should have had 360 sauce. And look at this,” at this point she picked up and dropped the container once again on the counter with a dull thud for what she probably hoped was dramatic effect, “It’s completely dry. No sauce.”

“What type of sauce would you like, M’am?” The kid asked politely. "We have two types of sauce."

“THE 360 SAUCE! THE SAUCE THAT YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO PUT ON IT, BUT DIDN’T!” Now I had never eaten at a 360 Burrito place, and started wondering if perhaps there was meth or crack in the 360 sauce. This would be the only reason I could see anyone becoming so absolutely outraged at the fact that they had been denied some. Could there be an addiction problem here? I wasn’t sure, but the way this woman was carrying on, you would think that she had been sold a car with no steering wheel or something.

The kid stayed calm. “There are two kinds of sauce M’am," he said again, "Which would your husband like?”

“THE 360 SAUCE!!! IT’S THE LIGHTER ONE. THAT’S THE ONE THAT’S CALLED ‘360 SAUCE’!” Then the woman said, to nobody at all, “Jeezus!” and started muttering under her breath. All I could make out was, “Typical,” and, “Idiot,” and various other words that I won’t repeat.

All the while the kid stayed cool. He didn’t flinch at this nut job. He simply added sauce to the burrito, wrapped it back up, closed the container and handed it to her across the counter. I was still standing there with my hand out, holding my change, with a look of shock on my face. I had woken up in a place where people were happy, taking their time, saying, “Good Morning,” and “Please,” and “Thank you,” and making small talk about the weather in a good natured fashion. Vacation was over, that was for sure.

The lady snatched the container out of the kids hands, gave him a stabbing look, turned on her heel and said loud enough for everyone within a 10 foot radius to hear, “Welcome to America!” It was like she’d read my mind.

Is Technology Killing Intimacy?

2011-03-23T08:11:00.000-07:00

With all the social networking sites today, why is it that people seem to be less and less connected? I don’t mean out in cyberspace. I think in cyberspace there is only one degree of Kevin Bacon, if even that. I mean in real life. You remember real life, don’t you?

Before the invention of the telephone, people had to actually go and see someone if they had something to tell them (or write them a letter and don’t get me started on this lost art form). Some people even had “calling cards”. Today’s version of that would be a screen name, and not limited to the name their mama gave them, it can be anything they want—so long as someone else hasn’t beat them to the punch. Back in the day people spoke to one another in person. That’s right, real live face time. Crazy, huh?

Then came the telephone. At first there were party lines, so there was very little privacy. But then, each home had their very own number and people could call someone up and talk with them any time they wanted. Nobody had to commute in order to have a conversation. One step closer to the person you want to talk to in convenience, but one step further away in terms of intimacy. Now instead of seeing the person you were only hearing them. A lot gets lost when one can’t read another’s body language. And sometimes, one might say things to a disembodied voice that one wouldn’t have the nerve to say in person. And the ability to just hang up when one doesn’t like the way the conversation is going, well that probably kept people from working through their arguments until they were truly over and done with.

Cell phones made people reachable and seemingly more accessible, but it also made people more available for more telephone conversation so, less and less of a need for one on one real live interaction. Then there were home computers. E-mail was another way to communicate without even having to see the person, only this took it one step further—they also did not have to hear them! Yes, it was back to the letter (again—lost art form), only in a shortened and informal format, and delivered practically instantaneously. Which brings me to instant messaging, a shorter even more immediate version of the aforementioned e-mail.

Then there was texting. I am guilty of using this mode of communication more than almost any other. It allows me to send a quick message to people without having to hear their reply. They may text me back, but it’s not immediate, and I may or may not get back to them, too. And of course, text messaging comes with it’s own language—shortened words made of letters and numbers and little emoticon faces to convey the emotion that one is feeling since their real life faces are gone from the equasion.

More of this faceless communication happens constantly via Facebook and Twitter. Posting on Facebook and Twitter is like texting to the masses—not knowing who will be reading your message it takes on a certain tone of talking to one’s self out loud. Thoughts that previously used to stay in people’s own mind are now floating around cyberspace for anyone (at least anyone on their friend list) to read and interpret however they like. If talking to one’s self out loud were such a great thing, then how come prior to Facebook only crazy people did it? I feel this way, and yet I am a Facebook junkie. Seriously, Facebook is like crack to me. As Twitter—I haven’t dared go there for fear I’ll never leave my house—plus, I’m rather long winded so I’m not sure even my messages about what I had for breakfast would be translatable in 140 characters or less. Yes, Twitter has taking the brevity of the Facebook post and one-upped it by forcing users to express themselves in 140 character bites.

Somehow without a specific person in mind when putting out messages on Facebook and Twitter the messages are broad and in my opinion most often lean toward the either the grandiose (posts that quote philosophers, poems, songs, or new age-y messages about peace, love, and the power of positive thoughts) or mundane (posts about what one had for breakfast, what one is thinking about doing this afternoon, what movie they just saw, and whether or not it’s raining).

Knowing these little tidbits, juicy and not, may seem like a giant leap toward intimacy, but for me, it’s not. These thoughts were not directed at me solely, so there is not a personal feeling to them, no matter how personal the information is (there have been friends of mine who post when they are having their mammograms for crying out loud!). Also, things that I might have called a friend to discuss in the past are now reduced to a sentence or two and tossed out there for anyone to see. Not exactly an intimate conversation.

With each new method of technology it seems that we are farther away from having basic human interaction. Teenagers used to hang out together—now they all video chat from their own homes. At least they are seeing each other’s faces while listening, but not when they are the speaking. Somehow, looking into a tiny camera lens and not into the eyes of the person to whom you are speaking gives one a feeling of insulation that has kids saying things that I think they might not say to each other if they were in the same room.

I’m not sure all of this technology that is designed to increase and improve our communication is actually working to that end. But, like it or not, technology isn’t going anywhere, and neither are the constant “advances” which require us to buy the next latest and greatest version of everything. Some wise person once said (and I’m pretty sure they didn’t text it or tweet it), “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!” So, I guess I will follow that advice and post this article on my blog, send it out into cyberspace for strangers to read, alert my family by text and email, and then put a link to it on Facebook so that all of my cyber friends (and cyber acquaintances) can read it. I’m not sure what kind of reaction I’ll get, but since it won’t be delivered live or in person, I won’t take it personally.

Making BBQ Quesadillas with Curtis Stone (video link attached)--don't know which was yummier!

2011-03-10T08:48:00.000-08:00

Hard to believe that it was almost one year ago when I got the chance to shoot a cooking webisode for Merillat cabinets with the darling and dynamic Curtis Stone. This was one of the more fun jobs I've worked on and I really wish the finished product reflected what a good time we were genuinely having. The sangria was real. They cut out the part where he showed me how to make it--and if I hadn't had so much of it, I might remember the recipe!

It was one of several segments that they filmed and since they released them one at a time, this one just now is starting to air on the internet.

I know a lot of you probably LOVE Curtis Stone (who doesn't?) so I thought I'd put a link to the segment here. If I weren't so technologically challenged I'd figure out how to get the embed code, or copy it so that you could view it on this site, but unfortunately, I just don't have the know-how.

The cabinetry and all the features really did seem great looking and functional. The bbq chicken quesadillas were delicious and that's saying a lot because I don't eat meat (unless I'm being paid to do it, in which case, bring it on). I liked the sangria (more than I should have) and it went down like fruit punch. All in all it was a great experience--got to meet some very fun people, got to cook with Curtis Stone, got to represent a product I truly like and can endorse, and did I mention I got to cook with Curtis Stone? :)

http://www.merillat.com/entertain

Click link above picture to view video on Merillat's site!

The Snips Heard Round the World (Bieber, Aniston's New Looks)

2011-02-23T18:59:00.000-08:00

As you may or may not have heard (depending on whether you live under a rock), Justin Bieber has done the unthinkable and cut his famous do. Yes. Believe it. I would never joke about something this important.

Neither would I joke about something equally as important, perhaps more-so for me (I’ll explain why in a minute at the risk of seeming even more shallow than I already do, writing a post about hair)--Jennifer Aniston has also undergone the shears (collective gasp).

How will the news of the Biebs’s new cropped cut effect the world? I would imagine that there will be a dramatic increase of appointments made by and for, teen and tween boys who will undoubtedly follow suit. After all, they’ve been hating (copying) him ever since his side swept mop first appeared on the scene. Why stop now? Once the boys make this change, their lives will go on as usual.

But, what about we who have spent the last decade and a half desperately trying to emulate Jennifer Aniston’s golden mane? I for one have been going to her same colorist for the last 8 years (Michael Canale) and a few months ago plunked down an obscene amount of money to have her same stylist cut my hair (Chris McMillan). I did not go so far as to ask for a similar style, although with my own hair being a similar texture, and of course, a very similar color, it did turn out somewhat like her trademark long layered, slightly beachy look. The only thing different was he insisted on giving me side swept bangs. I have never been a big fan. I never know what to do with them and my hair seems to want to grow away from my face, rather than forward, leaving me fighting the "battle of the bangs" every time I style my hair. Plus, Jennifer Aniston did not seem to be sporting them lately, so why should I? But, Chris was pretty determined and it’s hard to argue with an expert.

It made me question why I let someone else determine how my hair should look in the first place. I started thinking about how I’d been wearing the same long layered cut for years and years, just because Jen did. Well, maybe not solely because she did, but it was working for me (as it was for her) and I like that whole "if it ain't broke..." mentality. But, maybe it was time for a change. I started thinking of cutting it shorter. Say collar bone or shoulder length maybe. And more blunt. Still some layers to accommodate my natural wave, but definitely less than I’ve had in the past, and definitely shorter. Kind of a longish bob if you will. Not like Jennifer Aniston at all. At least not until today.

I, like many of you I suspect, was shocked to find out that there was, in the wake of the Bieber situation, a second snip heard round the world. Could it be that Jennifer Aniston somehow psychically knew I was seriously contemplating cutting my hair, and in an effort to thwart my small step toward individuality, cut hers first, in the exact style that I was going to have, so that now if I go ahead and do it, I will still be copying her?

I would venture to guess that while her many admirers (myself included) pay lots of attention to the state of her hair, she probably, just like me, was getting bored of having the same style and decided to get a new look. No big deal at all. For her. It took me months to decide to abandon my sheep-like mentality and opt for a NON-Aniston look. And now, on what was probably a whim, she’s gone and beat me to the cut, rendering me, for all my efforts, a sheep once more. UNLESS I don’t cut mine. I could just keep the old style. But just look at Jen’s hair! I can't help it. It's just too perfect. It makes me want to say baa.

Bieber: To Hate, or To Envy?

2011-02-22T11:54:00.000-08:00

My son and all of his friends love to make fun of Justin Bieber. They spend a fair amount of time proclaiming how much they “hate him” and how “lame” they think he is. I guess they must really hate him a lot since they are all sporting Bieber-esque haircuts, plaid flannel button down shirts and skinny jeans. Hmmm. Me thinks they doth protest too much. Last time I checked the saying went, "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery," not, "Imitation is the sincerest form of hatred."

Maybe they don’t so much hate him, as they are jealous of him. This confusion of emotions is not just limited to kids.

I was out walking with a friend of mine who is a grown-up woman in her 50’s, quite intelligent and accomplished. We were talking about how much disdain we have for a certain family in our “hood” who is basically riding the wave of stardom for doing nothing at all. What they lack in talent they more than make up for in the ass department. Well, one of them does at least. But, she has enough junk in her trunk to carry the rest of her family along with her into stardom. Our dissing of them seemed far more valid than what is directed at cute little Justin Bieber. I mean at least he can sing.

The two of us got quite worked up discussing how unfair it is that we, who are brilliant, funny, and talented (even if we are glute-challenged), don't have the clout or the rewards that go along with all that undeserved fame (invites to all the best events, photos in magazines, talk show appearances, books published instantly and probably written by someone else--someone more like us). We decided we hate them.

But, do we really? Or are we, like the wanna-be Biebers, just jealous? I think perhaps we are. I mean, how can we really hate someone for doing nothing? Or even for being famous for doing nothing? Oughtn’t we reserve that emotion for those who do something, as in something terrible, ala Hitler or Bin Ladin? I mean having a big ass is hardly a reason to hate somebody. And while it might make someone famous, it certainly doesn’t make her a monster.

So I guess the only monster I’m worked up about is the green-eyed variety. And now that I’ve recognized it and looked it in the face, it should disappear, right? Wrong. I’m still jealous. Hey, if the young teen boys are all out getting Bieber hair cuts, does that mean it’d be ok for me to pad my backside?

Let Mine be a Cautionary Tale (Please!)

2011-02-18T10:30:00.000-08:00

Last weekend a couple of dear friends of mine were robbed. They had gone running at Balboa Park and had not left their purses at home. They instead locked them in the back of their car, and never thought for a second that someone might break in.

I was so sorry that this happened to them, and not just because one of the bags stolen was a Marc Jacobs (cha-ching) and contained a pair of Chanel sunglasses (cha-ching again). No, I was so sorry this happened to them, because I knew exactly how it felt. You see, it has happened to me, too. Not the running part thank God. That'd be just the kind of deterrent I've been hoping for to justify never exercising again. No--for me it was that just my hands were too full, I was in too much of a rush, and I was, like my friends, sure that something like that could never happen to me.

I had even written a post about it when it happened. And since I am guessing that my friends missed that one (probably kicking themselves right now that they don't hang on my every word!), I have decided to repost it. If it saves one unsuspecting woman from having to go through the violation of a "smash and grab", then it will have been worth it. OK, maybe not worth it for me--I lost a pretty nice purse and wallet, and a whole lot of new make up--but definitely worth it for somebody who reads this and wizens up as a result.

This one's for you Lisa and Nancy!

I've Been Robbed!

I have always been too trusting. I never think anything bad is going to happen to me. When little old ladies in grocery stores come up to me while I'm perusing the produce to tell me that I really shouldn't leave my purse in the cart, I politely thank them, but have always rolled my eyes as I walked away thinking how paranoid they are. I could not imagine anybody actually stealing my purse. That's the kind of thing that happens to tourists in Europe and people who live in New York.

I live my life like Polyanna. I trust complete strangers to do me no harm. I follow the golden rule, and imagine everybody else does, too. Today, not so much. I was running late (I am perpetually late, it should just be a given in every story I tell that I'm running late) to my middle son's soccer game. This was the first game of the season for the 6th grade team and I really wanted to be there. I'm an experienced soccer mom; you know us by our gear. I had a chair slung over my shoulder, a large blanket (in case the other less experienced soccer moms did not bring chairs), a cooler full of snacks (I always like to share so I bring extra), and a bag with three large water bottles in it. It was to say the least, a lot to carry.

At my kids' school, parking is at a premium. Only the freakishly early moms (again, that would not be me) get the spots on campus. The rest of us have to make like a shark and circle the block over and over if we even stand a chance of parking within reasonable proximity of the school. With all I had to carry, I didn't want to park far. The carpool lane was backed up about a block. Even if there had been a spot in the parking lot of the school I would have had to have waited my turn in that line to get to it (which can take anywhere from 15-30 minutes). The game had surely started and I didn't want to be any later than I already was. After hovering by the cars parked along the the street in front of the school for a few minutes somebody pulled out! I felt like the luckiest duck ever to have scored such a coveted spot. I wouldn't have to walk super far, but yet it was still far enough that I debated leaving some things behind. I knew I would need the chair, the blanket, the cooler, the waters...but, did I really need my purse?

Let me just say for the record that while I am often careless about leaving my purse in shopping carts, I am usually better when it comes to the car. Normally if I'm not going to bring my purse, I will at least make an effort to cover it just in case there's a robber visiting from Europe or New York. Yes, it's such a clever plan. I usually use a blanket--the very blanket that I was now bringing to my son's soccer game. I had a sudden flash of an old lady shaking her finger at me disapprovingly, but as always, I pooh poohed her and shoved my purse onto the floor and up against the seat on the passenger side. As I trudged away loaded down with all my necessities I fumbled to press the lock button on my car key. I actually did it twice just to be sure.

When I got to the upper field the game was just getting started. I was feeling really good about myself just then. I wasn't late after all. The other moms seemed not only appreciative that I'd brought my blanket, but impressed. They were all seated around me, chatting and eating the honey mustard pretzel nuggets I'd brought when I saw the school's transportation director approaching. She didn't look happy. I wondered who she was coming to see, maybe somebody's kid had misbehaved on the bus that morning. She passed the pacing dads, the coaches, the other team's parents, and stopped right in front of my little camp. "I'm so sorry to tell you this," she said looking squarely at me, "but, your car window has been broken."

You know what else was broken? The bubble in which I'd been residing my whole entire crime free life! It seems another parent had noticed glass all over the sidewalk as she passed my car, and reported it to the office. I'd only been parked there for 30 minutes. I wondered how somebody would have the nerve to break a window with so many parents and kids milling around. It was prime pick up time at school--there were tons of people on the side walk and in the car pool line. And come to think of it, how come none of those people had noticed someone lurking by my car with what had to have been a hammer or a baseball bat? I knew without even looking that my purse was not there. Oh how I wish I could turn back time and listen to all of those little old ladies.

But alas, for me it's too late. My purse and all its contents are gone. Now instead of celebrating with my son (they'd won in double overtime), I will be spending my evening calling credit card companies and kicking myself. I think I may even put on some steel toed boots for the occasion. To anyone who is reading this and rolling their eyes at my new found paranoia and thinking that this will never happen to them, let mine be a cautionary tale. Europe and New York apparently don't hold a monopoly on theft, and sometimes, little old ladies are right.

Making Luck from Scratch (Recipe Included)

2011-01-22T16:06:00.000-08:00

Some people seem to have all the luck in the world. More than they could ever use up in one life time. Where do they get it? Sometimes they’re born with it—say into a wealthy or well connected family, sometimes they are gifted it by parents who instill in them a sense of confidence and worth right from the get go. Others it seems, have no choice but to make it from scratch.

Here is a recipe I’m working on myself. I’m going to test it out and see if it works. If it does, great. If not…I guess I’ll just keep modifying it until I come up with the right formula.

Luck

In a large bowl mix equal parts of the following:

Courage

Gumption

Nerve (or Chutzpa, the two are interchangeable)

Perseverance

Optimism (comes in a glass, note: if your glass is half empty, then get another glass and try looking at it upside down, a change of perspective sometimes gives you a better view)

Strong work ethic (make sure there is no laziness in the mix as it will ruin the entire batch and you’ll have to start over)

Tenacity

Humor (you can’t add too much of this, the more you add the better)

Timing

Support (you can find this in many different places, and it comes in many different forms)

Wisdom (don’t worry if you don’t have much of this, you will find more of it each time you attempt to make this recipe)

Faith (this last one is sometimes difficult to find, but keep on believing that you have it, and then suddenly, you will)

Mix well, until you are happy with the consistency. Mold the mixture into whatever shape you want it to take, and then bake it for as long as it takes to be done. If it never solidifies, don’t worry. Just try the recipe again, and again, and again, until it’s just right.

Note: the recipe makes a rather large amount of luck, so you will have enough for yourself and plenty left over to share with others.

Bon Appetit!

Resolving NOT to Resolve for 2011

2011-01-08T08:23:00.000-08:00

It’s a whole new year, people! 2011. And here I had just gotten used to writing 2010 on my checks. Oh well!

Why does everybody insist on asking me if I’m either, “Ready for the new year,” or “Made any New Year’s Resolutions?” How is it possible to be ready for a year, new or otherwise? I’d have to prepare for the unknown, and to do that, I’d have to know what was coming. Which is impossible. That’s why it’s called the unknown! And as far as resolutions go, I resolve not to make any. At least not any trivial ones.

Nothing about losing 5 lbs (OK, 10 lbs), going to the gym more often, eating better. No. Those things rarely stick for me, and then I’m just doomed. I refuse to set myself up like that. Instead, I am going to embrace the impracticality of being “ready” for what I can’t be “ready” for and just go with it.

Yes. Little ole’ me, the one-time control freak is going to resolve to not resolve. I guess that counts as one resolution. But it’s my one and only! And that by nature makes me prepared for…well…anything! So I guess I am ready for 2011 after all!

I am open to all the good things that are undoubtedly coming my way and I wish the same to you. Happy New Year! May it bring you nothing but joy.

Clearly I Won't Get an Emmy Nod, but Still...

2010-12-24T08:24:00.000-08:00

I had a great time working on these webisodes for MYPLASH Pre-paid Teen MasterCards. The real stars here are the teens--they did an amazing job I think! I swear I'm not as ditzy as the mom I play here--I may be technologically challenged, but at least I do know that you can't stick $20 bills into the disk drive of a computer! There will be three radio spots for this campaign as well. I'm not sure when those will be running, but here for your viewing pleasure are the three webisodes.

A Holiday Gift Guide for those of us who are not Oprah

2010-12-13T15:07:00.000-08:00

I love Oprah Winfrey. But, that woman has expensive taste! Every year she has her “Favorite Things” episode where she showcases all of her most fabulous finds from the past year. This airs before the holidays and I have no doubt that the sales of those favorite things go way up. Then Oprah might have one of her regular guests on, Suze Ormond to teach us all about financial responsibility.

It got me to thinking…I like nice things as much as the next girl (more so, if you ask my husband). And I like to give nice things to my friends and family as gifts. However, my name is not Oprah and I don’t have a bank account the size of a planet. So, I decided to make a little “Favorite Things” list of my very own.

Home made cookies or breads, recipe included.
A variation on the above—put all the dry ingredients into a jelly jar in layers, then tie with a bow and attach a recipe card with instructions on how to make whatever it is…works great with bean soups and cookies.
Cashmere scarf, in neutral color, no pattern. There’s no chance it won’t fit and stores like TJ Maxx sell them for as little as $10. Not kidding.
A book you have read and loved, that you think I might like, with a personal note from you telling me what you liked about it. I gave my female friends The Red Tent one year.
A really nice umbrella. I don’t know about you, but my umbrellas are always breaking. I often need to replace them, and nothing brightens a rainy day better than a pretty umbrella except maybe a pretty umbrella given by a special friend or family member.
A CD of songs from one or more of the following: The year the recipient was born, the year they graduated from H.S. or College, or just songs for something specific, like working out, ambience music for dinner parties, dance music, break up music, songs to clean the house by, songs to take a bubble bath by (bottle of Mr. Bubbles optional on that last one!).

Well, that’s a start anyway. Have any creative additions? Please feel free to add them in comments. Or make a list in a post of your own and link to mine!

Yes, Something Got Between Me and My Calvins...but it Wasn't My Fault!

2010-12-03T18:45:00.000-08:00

I spent Thanksgiving with my in-laws in Louisiana. I love my in-laws, we get along great. But, this trip was especially challenging. Not because of the fighting, the hair pulling, or the screaming....oops...I did say that we get along, now didn't I? Seriously though, the fighting was between me and my jeans. The stubborn things didn't want to button. That's enough to make anybody pull their hair out, and the screaming? Well...let's just say that I had a thing or two to scream about once I realized that the jeans I was fighting with, won.

But it wasn't my fault! I blame it on the dietary habits of the southern states. There is absolutely nothing healthy to eat in the entire state of Louisiana. That's right. I said it. NOTHING. NADA! They've even found a way to make green beans unhealthy (not kidding).

I'm a pescetarian which, for those of you who don't know, is a vegetarian who cheats. But, only with fish. The last time I checked, turkey was not a fish. With all the food we'd ordered--and yes, we ordered instead of cooked (I'll get to that in a minute)--there would be plenty of side dishes, and there were, just none that I wanted to eat. I can tell you why in three short words. Deep Fat Fried. That's what they did to those poor green beans by the way. Pretty much everything we'd ordered, no matter how healthy it sounded on the menu, turned out to be bad for you. Without the pretty much. What wasn't deep fat fried was covered in ham or bacon, or both. Forget about the cranberry sauce, the meal should have come with a side of defibrillator and a complimentary trip to the cardiologist.

Everyone else shrugged their shoulders and dug in. You might be thinking that if I'm the one with all the dietary restrictions, I should have cooked the meal myself, right? Well, I would have, but my mother-in-law's kitchen is far too, what's the phrase I'm looking for? Stuck in the 1970s. Maybe even the late 60's? At any rate, the oven, while cute in a retro kind of way, doesn't work. My in-laws are planning to replace it one of these days. But until then, they've been making do with a toaster oven, a microwave, and an electric cook top. That's how we heated up all that ordered in food that I couldn't/wouldn't eat. This turned out to be quite labor intensive, because in spite of the fact that we weren't cooking anything, we were still dirtying up every dish and pan we could find. And here I'd thought that by ordering in nobody would have to do dishes. And by nobody, I mean me. It's all about me, but to be fair, this is my blog. In other words, get used to it!

I didn't want to eat turkey, but I also didn't want to eat vegetables covered in ham, or grease. So, I did what any other rational pescetarian fried food avoider would do. I ate pie for dinner. Actually, I ate it for an appetizer, an entree, a side dish, and dessert. I know, I know. It's probably not healthy to eat so much pie. But it was pumpkin pie, and it was Thanksgiving. I am a traditionalist what can I say?

I hope you had a very sweet and delicious Thanksgiving. And if you did...good luck with your Calvins!

xox,
Susan

How to Lead by Following (and help autistic kids reach their potential!)

2010-11-09T06:47:00.000-08:00

One in 110 children is diagnosed with autism (higher statistics for boys than girls). I do not have an autistic child--but one of my best friends, Nancy Alspaugh, does. Her son Wyatt is turning 9 years old today (HAPPY BIRTHDAY WYATT!!!). I can't think of a better gift to give him than making a donation in honor of his birthday, to an organization that has helped bring hope to so many autistic kids and their families.

Read Jackson, Nancy Alspaugh Jackson and their amazing son Wyatt

I am blessed to serve on the advisory board of a wonderful organization called "ACT Today!" that provides grants to families with autistic children. It is through these grants that they are able to get their kids the therapy they need. They aren't trying to figure out a cure, they aren't doing research, they are simply answering the requests of many parents and grandparents who are desperately trying to do their very best to help their loved ones reach their full potential.

Please become a follower of my site today! With a click of a mouse you can make a difference. Look to the right and scroll down a bit to find a "follow" button, or just click this link to follow. Please "share" this post with your friends, post it on Facebook, Twitter, etc. (button to do that is on the right toward the top of this page). For every new reader who follows this site from now until December 1st, I will donate $1 to ACT Today!

About ACT Today! (Autism Care and Treatment Today!):

ACT Today! is a nonprofit 501 (c)3 organization whose mission is to raise awareness and provide treatment services and support to families to help their children achieve their full potential. For more information, visit www.act-today.org.

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Here's A Funny Face Breakfast Even Moms Will Smile About

2010-11-07T19:56:00.000-08:00

If your kids are like mine, they love those funny face pancakes they have at IHOP. You know, the sugary, high calorie, carb heavy ones that have little to no nutritional content. They taste great, and are fine for a treat once in a while. Well, I found a way to give the kids a happy face breakfast that we can all be happy about. Who could say no to these faces?

Here's how to make them (it's EASY!). Instead of pancakes, make whole grain waffles. You can make them yourself in an old fashioned waffle iron, or to save time, toss a couple of frozen ones in the toaster. You can find them in the frozen foods section of your grocery store (even gluten free ones!).

Then, instead of syrup, try organic almond or peanut butter. A tablespoon or so of that will cover one side of the waffle nicely, add sweetness, and protein!

You can do this next part yourself and surprise the kids, OR, set out bowls with the various ingredients and let your kids get creative. I've found that even picky kids will try a food they've made themselves.

You can use any type of sliced fruit, raisins, cereal, and nuts to make a funny face. I used chocolate chips (but, only a few), and the kids felt like they were getting away with something! A few semi-sweet chocolate chips don't amount to much in the way of calories, sugar, or fat, whereas the heaps of syrup and whipped cream that the restaurants use really add up. If you don't want to use chocolate chips, substitute raisins, or Cheerios.

If you are looking for a good-for-them alternative to an old favorite, give these healthy funny faces a try! Trust me, you and your kids will all be smiling.

Play on: A Story of Sports and Motherhood

2010-11-05T07:18:00.000-07:00

I never played sports as a kid. That is aside from the one time I played for the 3rd grade basketball team. I am not sure how it is I ended up on that team come to think of it. But, it most likely had to do with my wanting to hang with the popular crowd. A lot of my decisions did back then. My parents had divorced the year before, which resulted in my sister and I moving from the house we all lived in on Beechwood Boulevard to a house my mom’s new girlfriend had bought on Northumberland. I’ll give you a minute to digest that.

My mom is gay. I’ve got no problem with that now, but when I was in third grade I was not at all happy about it. Probably this was confounded by the fact that I was not happy my parents had gotten divorced, and I was not happy to have had to move out of the house we’d been living in, the one where I had a room with red carpet that I had picked out myself. Initially I was not specifically unhappy about my mom telling us she was a lesbian because I did not know what a lesbian was. I was eight. My sister explained it to me, which didn’t really clear things up too much. But, I did get that it was not something other people’s mom’s were. Not any moms of the kids I knew anyway. I felt like an odd duck to begin with at my new school. I was coming in as a third grader. Everyone else had already been there for awhile and made friends. This new “situation” at my house made me worried about what the other kids would think of me.

My kids have friends who’s parents are gay and it’s a complete non-issue. We live in California and it’s just a different time. Back when my mom came out to us it was not something that was discussed. The few times someone did figure it out I got tormented at school for it. But that came later, after my one day career as a 3rd grade basketball player. One day is all it took for me to realize I was not cut out for this sport. First of all I was (and still am) vertically challenged. For starters, I was one of the shortest if not the shortest kid in the class. And while it’s true that many, “Good things come in small packages,” basketball players are not among them. I went the entire first half without ever getting one hand on the ball. This was fine by me. I just wanted to be on the team with the other girls. The ones who won at the fifty yard dash. The ones who played double dutch and four square. The ones who ate lunch together instead of alone. After half time I was subbed back in and much to my dismay, somebody passed me the ball. I was stunned that I actually caught it. It was as if everything was happening in slow motion and all the kids’ voices sounded slurred and their words came at half speed. “GGGooooooooo SSSssssssuuuuussaaaan dddddrrrrriiiiiibbbbllleeee!!!!”

I looked around and slow-mo kids were coming at me from all sides. I took off up the court, dribbling the ball and trying my best not to “travel”. The sound of the ball was an echoing thunderclap with every bounce on the wooden court floor. I could hear the parents in the bleachers and the other kids--on both teams even--shouting out my name in their slow-mo slur. I was unstoppable. I dribbled that ball like nobody’s business. I thought I was unstoppable. Probably because nobody from the other team was trying to stop me. I proceeded all the way to the net and took that fateful shot. Swwwoooooossshhhh went the ball as it went through the hoop without touching the rim. The gym fell silent. Suddenly I realized why everyone was screaming and why none of the kids on the other team had tried to stop me. I had remembered the no traveling thing. But I had forgotten the part where they change sides of the court at half time. I had just made a perfect shot, right in the other team’s basket.

I was humiliated. At the end of the game the coach said a few words about good sportsmanship and supporting our teammates no matter how they’d played. I knew he was talking about me. Everyone knew it. And while the kids took heed and did not razz me, I decided it was for the best that I not play basketball again. Or any other sport for that matter. It was the start of my long career of taking myself out of the game to avoid failing.

So I didn’t compete in sports. But, that’s not to say I wasn’t an active kid. The summer after my ill fated two pointer I started ballet lessons. No balls, no baskets, no buzzers. Just ballet. I loved it. There are many lessons to be learned from playing on a team. And I did not learn any of them. At least not first hand. And not as a kid. I learned them as a mom. My husband had played every sport pretty much and was determined to put our kids into them almost as soon as they could walk. I was determined however, to put our oldest, our only daughter, into ballet. I didn’t want her to ever feel the sting of scoring for the wrong team.

Tutus seemed safe. Gentle. But our daughter did not want safe. She didn’t want gentle either. She was a bumble bee in a class full of butterflies. That’s not an analogy. She really was a bumble bee in a class full of butterflies. Her first ballet teacher had danced professionally in England about three hundred years ago. She was very old and very proper and about as thin as a piece of paper (if that piece of paper had been on a strict diet of celery and water since birth). She had instructed the tiny dancers to “flit and float” like a little butterfly around the circle, back to her spot. I watched from the door, anxious to see how my little darling would do. Finally it was her turn to be a butterfly. Only she did not want to be a butterfly. She did not want to flit or float. She wanted to run and dive and dart. And that’s what she did--all while proclaiming at the top of her lungs that she, was indeed not a butterfly. SHE WAS A BUMBLE BEE!!!!!!!!!!!! The other little girls giggled. I myself couldn’t help but smile. The teacher however, was not amused. Probably she was too hungry to be amused. She scolded my little bumble bee and told her to, “Sit down!” Her little face was dejected. She’d looked so happy with herself when she’d decided to break from the pack and be a bumble bee. She was only three years old, I thought. Why couldn’t that teacher just just let her be a bumble bee if she wanted to? And then I realized I should have been asking that question of myself.

I did not bring Kayla back. She has proceeded to become an excellent athlete, as did her brothers after her. All three have at least tried, just about every sport offered. And there have been times when they have scored on their own team, and times when they’ve kept the bench warm, missed a ball, struck out, and finished last. But they’ve finished. Gloves, cleats, helmets, bats, balls, nets, shin guards, mouth pieces...hundreds if not thousands of dollars. Learning not to quit when the going gets tough? Priceless.

It Was Ms. Cross, By the Barn, WITH A ROPE!

2010-10-15T15:35:00.000-07:00

But, I wasn't playing Clue.

Yes, this is me at a recent shoot in Santa Ynez, California. There are times when I really, really love what I do (when I get the chance to do it--it's pretty damn competitive out there), and this was one of them. I booked a job as a principal on a shoot for a resort in Solvang. This involved me golfing, wine tasting, horseback riding, and you guessed it...roping. I had so much fun I seriously forgot I was "working"!

Here are a couple more photos from the shoot. Fun, fun, and fun!!!

Doctor's Professional Courtesy Causes Kleptomania in Patient

2010-09-23T09:28:00.001-07:00

I was at a doctor’s office yesterday, and as is often my experience, I was made to wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. This was an appointment with a specialist and from what I can tell, the more specialized the specialist, the longer the wait. I know that doctors often double, even triple, book their schedules. My appointment was at 3 PM. I figured that getting there twenty minutes ahead of time would ensure that I was going to be the first of the 3 people booked for that same 3 PM appointment. I was wrong.

After I’d waited, and waited, and waited some more, I saw a man come in, professionally dressed, confident as he strode right past me, chatted up the receptionist with a tone of familiarity, and plopped down on a seat in the waiting area with us commoners.

A few minutes later, a medical assistant came through the swinging door and called, “Dr. So and So? Come right this way.” And wouldn't you know it, Mr. Congeniality got up and walked right on back.

I suppose that his getting squeezed in like that was some kind of “professional courtesy” being extended by my doctor. As I continued to wait, and wait, and wait, I started to stew over the fact that I was getting the opposite of professional, and the opposite of courtesy. I most certainly was getting the opposite of respect--as in my doctor clearly had none for my time as I had now been sitting there for one hour (not including the extra 20 minutes of self inflicted waiting I had tacked on in an effort to get seen on time).

Finally the assistant came out and called my name. She ushered me back to an exam room where I was made to wait, and wait, and wait again. I tried to keep myself busy, I had brought some magazines along from home knowing that it was a distinct possibility that I would have to wait awhile, and that doctor’s offices often have a really bad selection to offer their patients. I had been right on both counts. But, by now I’d already read the ones I’d brought. I dug through the overstuffed lucite magazine rack attached to the wall in the exam room. Lots of magazines there, dog eared in spite of their obscure subject matter and boring titles. I mean who the hell wants to read an entire publication dedicated to trailer boats? Then, I hit the jackpot--a relatively untouched copy of “House and Garden” magazine. I am gearing up for some home remodeling soon, and while I do subscribe to several decorating magazines, “House and Garden” is not one of them. But wouldn’t you know it, that the second I opened it the doctor finally decided to grace me with his presence? After I’d spent a total of 125 minutes of waiting for him, he spent approximately 5 minutes examining me. No apology for the wait, no, “Thanks for your patience.”

Since I couldn’t get my time back, I decided to take something of his. I tucked that issue of “House and Garden” between my own “Redbook” and “Marie Claire” and took it home with me. If being frustrated is an illness, I'm not sure kleptomania is the cure. But, it sure did make me feel better.

O Canada!

2010-08-07T15:04:00.000-07:00

I am going to write this post in Canadian, eh? Because I'm in Canada, eh. Bet you figured that out already, eh?

Well, I can already speak the language, but there is something that's got me puzzled about this place. So, at the risk of offending any Canadian readers I might have (or might have had), here it is.

Why are there so many rude people here? I mean what, did a bunch of New Yorkers move here and take jobs in the service industry or something? Of course not everybody is rude, but it's happened enough times now to make it noticeable. First rude Canadian we encountered was at the airport. We had to go through customs in order to enter the country. I was so excited because it meant I got another stamp in my passport. I only got a passport a couple of years ago and I'm kinda easily amused in general so you can bet I was really happy as I strode up to the customs window with my open passport in hand. The woman behind the glass didn't even look at me when she said, "Take off the cover." No "please", no explanation as to what the policy was, just an order. I did what I was told. Then she started asking a bunch of what I assume are standard questions. "Are you in Canada for business or pleasure?" She asked.

"Pleasure," I said with my best Colgate smile.

"Do you have any family or friends you'll be visiting?" Hmmm. That one was tricky. I have no family here, but I do have friends with whom we might be hanging out, but they don't really live in Canada. They're also visiting from where we live. Only, the husband does work in Canada. So does that kinda make him a psuedo resident? Enough of a resident for it to count? I know he has an apartment in Vancouver anyway. How to answer...how to answer...

"DO YOU HAVE ANY FAMILY OR FRIENDS YOU'LL BE VISITING?" This Canadian was not only rude, she was impatient.

"Well, we might see some friends here...but, they don't really live here," I answered. That seemed the best way to describe the situation.

"Are you traveling together?" She asked. I was standing there with my own family, and only my own family.

"No. WE are traveling together," I said waving my hand like a "Price is Right" model indicating my family who was standing right there behind me. I'm just saying we might see some people we know from home."

"So you are traveling together then." OK...now she was a rude, impatient and deaf Canadian.

"NO...we are not traveling together. Just never mind. It's just us. Just my family here, traveling together." She actually rolled her eyes at me, stamped my passport way harder than necessary. You might say with rage even. Later I looked to see my new stamp and was disappointed, but not surprised, to see that she'd put her stamp on a random page, nowhere near my other stamps that I'd collected so far. I was trying to keep them all together, filling up one page at a time so I could remember the order of my trips. I forgot to ask though, in the wake of all that rudeness.

As we walked to the baggage claim my daughter said, "Don't take it personally Mom. If I worked in an airport I'd be rude, too." Sounded like a promising theory, but it was unfortunately and surprisingly disproved at the Vancouver Aquarium. We were checking out of the gift shop and the cashier seemed really annoyed that she had to actually do her job and ring up our items.

"Is this it?" She said increduously, as if the $50 some odd dollars worth of schlocky Canadian themed plastic crap (all made in China no doubt) was some paltry amount not worthy of the time it might take her to punch a few keys on her cash register. I think perhaps Steve Martin said it best when he said, "Well EXCUUUUUUUSE me!"

Being Americans we are no strangers to rudeness. It's just that we thought that perhaps people would be different here in Canada. Maybe these were French Canadians. That would make sense.

Note: The author expresses sincere apologies if any Canadians, French Canadians, Frenchmen, or New Yorkers' feelings were hurt in the reading of this post. You know why? Because the author is not rude!

Burgers with Bobby...Flay that is!

2010-06-30T15:21:00.000-07:00

I now have the embed code for the Bobby Flay segment. So here, for your viewing pleasure...is...a little cooking fun with me and Bobby.

Hope you enjoyed it! The burgers are really easy to make and delicious. I am a vegetarian, but did have to take a bite or two for the shoot and actually thought they were quite tasty.

Burgers, Bobby Flay, and Back Yard BBQ Fun

2010-06-24T16:00:00.000-07:00

I know I wrote a post awhile back about my shoot with Curtis Stone for Merillat Cabinets. That is set to air on the internet July 1st (or so I've heard!). What I never mentioned is that prior to this shoot I did a little cooking with another great chef, Bobby Flay.

Now for this one it was a backyard party setting and we were talking about cooking family friendly fare that is fun and easy to make. We made bacon pimento cheese burgers. And yes, I am a vegetarian. But look how I am enjoying that burger--that's great acting, no?

I also ate meat for the Curtis Stone thing. Chicken quesadillas. Although, to be honest, I would have eaten just about anything if Curtis told me to. He's kinda mesmerizing that way. And after we'd had several glasses (or was that pitchers?) of sangria, lord knows the chicken went down easy.

But, back to Bobby Flay. This was a fun and easy shoot--and my whole family got in on the action. I can't believe how short the end product was. I had imagined they were going to make an entire 30 minute program out of what they shot of us. But, alas no. That's how the cookie crumbles. Or how the film falls onto the editing room floor.

We had a lot of really fun/funny moments in our time together, but somehow it was edited out in favor of a lot of me saying, "OK," and "Yeah." I don't know what to say accept, OK. And Yeah. And here it is for your viewing pleasure (and for your cooking pleasure, because these burgers really went over well with the crowd and were very easy to make).

http://www.hellmanns.us/promotions/therealfoodproject/videos.aspx

My Interview with Teri Hatcher for "Get Hatched"

2010-06-10T11:03:00.000-07:00

Recently I was interviewed by Teri Hatcher for her new site produced by Disney, "Get Hatched". It's a chick's guide to life, full of amazing insight, advice, ideas, and just plain fun!

Here is a link to the interview--I hope you will check it out and join Teri's site.

Get Hatched

Keep an eye out for my upcoming book "40 by 40" which we talk about in the interview (among other things!). I will keep updating the blog about how it's coming and when it will be available.

Cops, Ticks, and Horrific Fake Kids: A Day in the Life of a Working Mom/Actor

2010-06-05T09:05:00.000-07:00

At the end of some days I lie in bed thinking to myself it’s a miracle that I’m not an alcoholic. Or addicted to over the counter pain killers. Or that I haven’t just flat out taken a hammer and whacked myself over the head with it.

Yesterday was one of those kinda days. My youngest had a friend sleep over the night before. He’s a cute kid and we’ve known him since before he was born. His mother and I were pregnant at the same time when our oldest were at preschool together. They were due a month apart, but Jack (that’s my son’s friend) had the good sense to come early so that they could be born on the very same day and share a birthday party, which they love to do every year.

So I was up by one kid making a grand total of 4. Still, I wanted to get a workout in, and my husband (the sweetheart that he is) offered to wait until the housekeeper got there before going to work so that I wouldn’t be worrying about the kids being on their own. Our oldest is almost 16, and our middle son is 13 1/2. But, still, I worry if they are home by themselves. Especially if someone else’s child is in the mix. God forbid something happen and I’m not there!

After my workout I came back to find that the kids had multiplied. This is not a problem for me--I’m happy kids like to hang out at our home. So now it was 8 kids: Aidan (our youngest), Jack (his birthday sharing pal), Ian and Cameron (two more buddies from school), and our middle son Rory, and his friends Chase and Aaron (twins), and our daughter Kayla who, believe me, was none to thrilled to be stuck at home with seven boys. I could see why actually. The boys had been playing all things boy including video games, nerf guns, and were now dressed head to toe in their best attempt at camouflage as they were about to go “air softing”.

I broke down at Christmas and bought my boys airsoft guns. They had given me the “everybody else has them” argument and from the looks of these kids, they were telling the truth. They were armed to the teeth. They had rifles AND “side arms”--smaller weapons tucked into their belts and pants pockets. They all were well protected wearing long pants, long sleeves, jackets, goggles and helmets. Ian was wearing the head of a Star Wars costume--I wish I’d taken a picture of this because it really looked hysterical. These mini soldiers were anxious to get out into Ahmanson Ranch with their gear and shoot eachother with teeny tiny plastic balls. What the appeal of this is I do not know. I’m a girl.

First they wolfed down two jumbo pizzas (where do they put it?) and a couple of six packs of Sprite. Then they were off. I was happy for the peace--I had an audition that afternoon and needed to get ready. I do commercials--not a big deal--and no, you probably wouldn’t have seen me in anything (except maybe a Mr. Coffee commercial). This audition was going to be for a grocery store spot and I would be playing, you guessed it...”Mom”. Such a great job to be able to pretend to be something I’m...oh wait...never mind.

So I am putting on my "uniform", jeans, brightly colored cotton shirt, light make up, when my daughter comes in (the almost 16 year old) wearing a pair of jeans she’s hacked up in an effort to make herself some shorts. At first I was not happy to see that she’d ruined a perfectly good pair of jeans, but according to her she never wears those ones and has no shorts. Really? Not one single pair? What happened to the $140 I gave her last week when she went shopping with her friend at the mall to buy, what was it again? Oh, that’s right. Shorts. I was just trying to figure out what she’d bought with that money when I looked down and saw that the legs of her creation were very crooked.

I pointed this out and she grabbed a pair of scissors and began trying to even them out while wearing them. This definitely falls under the “don’t try this at home” category. Basically she was just making them more uneven and shorter. They were really, really short. I keep my mouth shut plenty. Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson about (and mothers who are getting close to the teen age years with your kids, this is a biggie so please take note) choosing my battles. But, I didn’t realize this was anything that could turn into a battle. Like so many arguments it started out with my trying to help. I had forgotten that teenagers already know everything and subsequently do not need help. At least not from their moms.

I casually mentioned that I have a pair of jean shorts that she could borrow. This set off a tirade of how my shorts won’t fit her in a million years, and that she isn’t going to waste time putting them on, and that it’s all my fault that the ones she was trying to make didn’t turn out right. Somehow she had turned my, “I think they’re a little crooked,” into “You’d better try to even them out while wearing them,” which trust me, I did not say. I would never, never, never tell anyone to use sharp scissors on clothes they are wearing at the time. Teenagers not only have the ability to change your words into different words, they can select what words they want to hear and eliminate other ones. Like these ones for example, “If you take them off first it will be easier,” and these ones, “Would you like me to help you with that?”

So now I’m responsible for her ruined shorts and she doesn’t want to even try one the ones that I have offered to lend her. I should mention that I am on the petite side, and my husband is tall. So the kids will probably all end up somewhere in between. Kayla is about 5’5” and medium build--she has a darling figure, she’s in amazing shape because she plays soccer and they do a ton of running. But, she does wear a couple of sizes bigger than me. A fact that I thank God for every day since she can help reach things for me in the kitchen.

Still, I had a feeling that these shorts would work--they run big and were very loose on me. She came back wearing them, but still insisting they did not fit. Even though she was like I said, wearing them and they looked great on her. She was just starting to lobby for a ride to her friend’s house even though I’d explained to her that I was trying to get to an audition way across town when her cell phone rang. It was her brother (our middle kid) and he wanted a ride for himself and the six other boys. The police had come and told them they weren’t allowed to go home. WHAT???

I jumped into the car and drove down to the entrance of Ahmanson Ranch already regretting that I was already dressed so “mom-like” and had not thought to put on a push up bra and a tank top and some lipstick or something--yes, I know, I know. Bad mom to be demonstrating how to get one’s way with cleavage. But, when your son is being held by the police, one has to pull out every stop. Only he wasn’t. At least not by the time I got there.

The boys were all standing there with their air soft guns and smiles on their faces. This had been a big adventure for them. Three cop cars did show up because apparently somebody had called the police and reported these teenagers were running around with guns. I guess the fact that the guns were clear plastic with neon pink parts and more than half of these wild “teenagers” were eleven. And under 5 feet tall. We live in a gated community in the suburbs. Maybe this person never saw an actual gunman, but seriously. These kids did not look remotely dangerous. Especially not the one in the Star Wars costume.

The police however, knew they were harmless, and told the kids that it was fine for them to be “air softing” in there, it was NOT against the law or anything. But, that they should, just to be safe, play further away from the road and maybe put up a sign that says, “WE ARE PLAYING,” or something to that effect so that the neighbors would not get scared and confused and call them again. Three cop cars. I guess these guys had already eaten lunch and had nothing better to do. The policemen also told the kids that they should not walk around with those weapons out, they should put them in a bag or something, or have their mom drive them there and home again. Which is why they called me. Actually they didn't come to think of it. They called Kayla. And she doesn't drive yet. Hmmm. What did they think she was going to be able to do about this? I do not know. I'm guessing they didn't want to have to be the one to tell me about the cops. Maybe if it was filtered through someone else it would diffuse any potential anger.

I loaded them all in my mom mobile (and their dangerous looking plastic guns, too) and headed home. “Please, please, please,” I told them, “Just stay on our property now. Go swimming, play video games, watch a movie. The housekeeper is here, I have to leave for my audition.” I should have already left. The boys agreed and I had to then tell my daughter that I had no time to drive her anywhere, sorry, but she would have to get a ride or walk or something, I was already going to be late as it was.

I’d just gotten on the freeway and was starting to feel like things were looking up. There was no traffic on the 101 South on a Friday afternoon. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I was lost in my happy thoughts for a nanosecond. Then my cell phone rang. I hit the blue tooth and my daughter’s voice came through. “Um....how do you get a tick off of a person?” And, we’re back.

“Which kid?” I asked. And here I have to admit that I was praying it was one of my own. Bad enough that these boys were going to have to tell their mothers that they’d been stopped by the police while on my watch. What would they think of my parenting skills if we added lyme disease to that? “Rory,” my daughter said. There is a God. What kind of mother am I, being grateful that it was indeed my child who had a tick on him sucking his blood and potentially giving him a serious illness?

I told Kayla the only thing I’d ever heard about removing a tick. That you don’t want to pull it off and leave the head inside the body. I remember hearing that it was a wives tale to do what I told her to do, but I didn’t know what else to tell her and something had to be done and fast. “Take a match, light it, then blow it out and quickly--while it’s still hot--touch it to the tick. Not the boy--just the tick! And it should let go. Use my tweezers then and get it off. But, only if it’s let go. Don’t pull it off if it is still stuck in there.”

“Got it. Break a leg or whatever,” she said. We hung up and I almost turned the car around. I was feeling like this was a sign that maybe I was wrong to think I could pursue a career and have kids. I’d stayed home for their whole lives up until about two years ago. And this “job” that I do, doesn’t involve me being gone for 8 - 10 hours a day. I go out on auditions a few times each week, am gone only for a couple of hours each time, and then, if I book a job, I work a day, two days, tops. Then I’m unemployed again. But, for the most part, I’m around. I was thinking though, that with school being out, and the kids being home, and other people’s kids being over, maybe I should just take the summer off and glue myself to the house.

I managed to get across town, although the good luck traffic disappeared when there was an accident on the 405. Still, I made it in time. I found parking in a lot only two blocks away, and although the ticket machine was broken, the bar was up and the digital display on the box said, “Free Passage”. Don’t mind if I do, I thought.

I jogged to the casting office and signed in. My hair was messed up, my make up a bit wilty and runny, and I was sweating a little. I was tense from the whole, “Three cop cars came,” and “There’s a tick on Rory,” thing, and I’m sure it showed. Perfect. I look just like a mom!

They called me and two kids, who would be playing the parts of my “son” and “daughter”. The little girl was chatty and cute, her name was Jayde. I told her the story of how when I was little I wanted my name to be Jade (different spelling, but same name, can you believe that?) and had told everyone at overnight camp that was indeed my name. She thought that was hysterical and proceeded to call me, “Jade.” "That's so funny JADE. I like your shirt JADE." I thought to myself, one down, one to go, and turned my attention to my “son”.

“So how old are you Blake?” I asked. “Let me guess...12?” The kid was smaller than me, and showed no sign of puberty. Until that is he spoke. “I’m 15.” He said in a low voice. Oops. He may not have looked like a teenager, but he sure did act like one. He had the whole sullen, eye rolling, I can’t be bothered, thing down pat. Uh oh.

We were called into the audition room and given direction. “Mom, you’re at the grocery store see?” The casting guy said. “You and the kids here are walking to the car.” I looked to where he was pointing and sure enough, they’d set up a “car” of sorts. Two plastic chairs with a fake prop steering wheel, and one plastic chair behind them with a giant pillow on the seat. Apparently that was the “car seat” that I was supposed to put my daughter into. Even though she was eight and probably was as mortified that this guy thought she should be in a car seat as her fake brother was when I thought he was 12. Then the guy said I was to ask the kids about their school day, and get them talking. That my “son” would be playing a video game and I should ask him about that. Sounds easy, right?

First take the teenager cut in front of me and the girl and got into the seat that was meant for her. “Um,” I stumbled, “I think you’re in your sister’s seat honey.”

“CUT!!! Son, you’re gonna have to walk around and get in over there. Mom’s gonna put your sister in that one, that’s our car seat,” Jayde rolled her eyes. We set up again. “ACTION!”

“So, here we are kids,” I said smiling and chipper like the mom that I am. On TV. “Wow Jayde...what have you been eating?” I pretended to have a hard time picking her up only I wasn’t really pretending just then.

“I don’t know,” Jayde answered, arms crossed, clearly not interested in making this easy for me.

“Cookies?” I laughed.

“I said I don’t know,” Jayde was in the seat now, but she did not look happy. I looked at Blake hopefully.

“What game are you playing?” I asked.

“Nothing.” They may have wanted him to play younger, but he was not about to willingly be mistaken for a 12 year old again.

“Nothing. Hmmm. I think I’ve played ‘nothing’ before. Jayde have you played that one? It’s fun, right?” Come on kid...give me something here. Anything. Nope. “Sooooo....what did you do at school today honey?”

“It was my teacher’s birthday and I made her a card,” Finally! Something I can work with.

“Wow--that’s great! How old is she, 67?” I laughed at my little joke. I should have said 105 or something, but 67 is what came out.

“I don’t know how old she is. How would I know that mom? You don’t like it when people ask you how old you are mom. That’s rude.” Well alrighty then.

“You’re right honey, I never like to tell my age. So true.” So now I’m rude. I looked up as if into the imaginary rear view mirror. I laughed, a bit too nervously probably, because my sweet little princess just said I was rude.

“Eyes on the road mom.” This again, from the princess. Great. I am rude, and a reckless driver, too.

Good thing these were my “pretend” kids, because I can tell you if one of my own talked to me that way, I’d ground ‘em for life.

Then the casting guy chimed in. “Great. Now look up Mom--you see your neighbor. Wave.” Great? He thinks this is going great? I wave and smile to my imaginary neighbor.

“There’s Mrs. Jones kids,” I say smiling, trying to be the chipper mom I imagine they are looking to hire. I glance to my right. My teenager/12 year old is still playing with his Game Boy, not looking up, not interacting, and not helping me out whatsoever. “WAVE HONEY,” I say through slightly gritted teeth as I elbow the kid in the side, ever so gently. “You don’t want to be rude to our neighbor, Mrs. Jones.” That got his attention. He looked up in the general direction of our made up neighbor and gave a half hearted wave. I was gonna try and tell these two to shape up for the next take. Only there wasn’t one.

“And...CUT! Thanks guys. Can you send the next group in please?” Perfect. Wouldn’t you know that the second the door was shut behind us my “son” started telling me excitedly about the table read he’d been at before coming here and how excited he was about it, and how great the cast was, and do I know who John Schneider is? Yes. I did know who John Schneider was. But who the hell are you, I thought. Where the hell was this kid three minutes ago? And the little girl? “Bye, Jade!” she giggled and waved and disappeared around the corner with her real life mom who looked at her adoringly. Damn it!

I hike back to my car, and realize that because I don’t have a ticket, that I’m not going to be able to get out of the garage. I pull up to the kiosk and explain to the woman about the machine not giving tickets out even though I’d pushed the button, and the arm being open and the sign saying, “Free Passage”. She looked at me like I was making that up. I convinced her to call her manager and when she hung up she said, “She’s gonna let you go this time, but if that ever happens again, you have to find someone and get a manual ticket.” Fine. Whatever lady. Let me outta here. I got a kid at home developing lymes disease. And probably a mob of angry mothers ready to beat me up for allowing their kids to be detained by the police.

I sat in horrific traffic all the way home. Two boys were going to spend the night. Our daughter had opted to spend the night at her friend’s house, which was a relief. That meant I wouldn’t have to drive the hour round trip to pick her up at midnight. Three boys had been picked up while I was gone. My middle son had suggested they not tell their moms about the whole police incident. “We’re not stupid!” They said. Thank God for that. Although, maybe I am because their moms might be reading this right now. Oh well!

My husband brought home a video and the boys were all watching it upstairs. I’m sure it was something inappropriate and that they probably aren’t allowed to watch. But at that point I really, truly did not care.

I went to bed and just lay there thinking to myself...yep...it’s a wonder I don’t drink.