Merry Christmas!

Bob convinced me to pick three names from the last two posts, so thanks to my good husband, he and Jack drew three names for the book and tea drawing.

He had so much fun with this (and so did I) that look forward to a new Get in the Car launch for 2008 that includes a lot more give-aways. Giving is fun!

Without Further ado, will the following people contact me with their addresses?

Wheels on the Bus

I'm Being Held Hostage

Kathryn

Merry Christmas, all!

Sasquatch Lives

So I was visiting a blog I really enjoy reading yesterday and she extolled the virtues of her new Telly Sevalis 'do.

(and like this blogger I will now take a moment to please ask any male members of my family to go away and not visit my blog. Thank you.)

You know what I'm talking about, no? She got herself a Brazilian in anticipation of reuniting with her husband. A Brazilian renders you completely hairless down there. You must employ someone other than your obgyn to smear hot wax anywhere there may be hair. And you can't just lay there. You have to lift your legs and contort. And stuff.

See, I guess I'm old. And too attached to being a mammal.

For example, we have hair on our heads to protect our brain and keep us warm. The same can be said for men's nether regions. The day I see Bob pour molten wax on his 'nads to be pretty for me is maybe the day I take a lady Schick to the rain forest in my underwear. Maybe.

Maybe I'm intimidated by the task at hand. It is said that your clothes actually fit better. At first I guffawed, because come on. How much hair do you have that your clothes would fit differently if it were suddenly waxed off?

Oh.

I just can't imagine what kind of power tool would do the job.

So for those of you who are young and smooth and wear thongs as a regular way of life: hat's off. But only for a moment, because aren't you cold?

Does anyone wear Hanes for Her cotton underwear anymore or am I living in the dark ages?

p.s. Don't forget to stop by for your chance to win some books (yes, I have two: one funny and one really good one) and tea. Just come out and say hi by Sunday.

Philanthropy Thursday

This month is such a hectic month. Full of joy, but also full of stress. December marks the holidays, and also the half-way point in school for us moms.

We've been busy.

Driving, planning, shopping, cooking, feeding, cleaning, working, mailing, helping, yelling and just trying to get it all done.

So moms, today's Philanthropy Thursday is for you.

Just drop by the blog and say hi sometime this week and by Sunday I'll draw one of your names and send you a book and some tea so YOU can unwind. I would add a fifth of vodka in there, but the mailing laws get a little sticky (Lawyer Mama am I right?).

Stay sane and enjoy the holiday break.

Coookies and An Announcement

Light posting today.

I'm hosting a neighborhood/book club cookie exchange tonight and I'm still baking. I hope everyone's Wednesday is wonderful.

AND...

Even though I probably shouldn't have posted the last post because I wrote in in frustration and after a glass of wine (a big glass) I wanted to THANK all of you for making me feel supported and understood.

Being understood is great.

AND

Announcement time: I have been a contracted writer for these people for a while now, but they kept delaying their site re-launch...but now that the check is on the way I'd like to point you parents over to the Nickelodeon website, Parents Connect. I'm writing for them in their preteen department, under the "spills." It's a great site for parents of kids of all ages...

Misunderstood and Miserable

I HATE being misunderstood. Hell, who doesn't?

But I think I have an actual phobia.

It goes back to fourth grade. This girl, Jamie, (her real name, and if I could remember her last name, I would write it here - I would put the little snot's social security here if I had it) accused me of taking a pair of her earrings from her house during a sleepover.

I didn't take the earrings.

The entire fourth grade, egged on by Jamie, thought I did. She wrote me nasty notes. My parents found the notes in my backpack and although I denied it as vehemently as I could, I was never convinced in my fourth grade head that they believed me. It ate me alive. The same girl, with some of her sycophants, later made prank telephone calls and told the people they were calling that they were me. My parents confronted me, and I remember being too shocked to say much. I remember thinking, why would I tell the person I pranked who I was? What am I, stupid?

So, I have a real achilles heal with things like this.

Today, one of my close friends, P., called me from her art gallery. We were chatting, and she said, "Guess who's here with me today?"

I couldn't guess, and she said it was S., a mutual friend of ours. I shrieked in my non-subtle way and joked about how jealous I was that I couldn't work at her gallery, too, with Jack on my back. I joked that Jack was my "seeing eye toddler" and she laughed. We talked about other things, then hung up.

Later, S. called me. (she doesn't read this website, but I want to be careful regardless)

"Hey, girl! What's up?"

"Why aren't you happy for me that I'm working at P.'s gallery?"

"Ha, hah! Really, what's up?"

***crickets***

"S., are you kidding?"

"Do I sound like I'm laughing?"

To make a story short and less pathetic, she thought that I was unhappy she was working with P. She thought I was angry that she had "my job" and that I wasn't happy for her. She was pissed. She hung up on me.

Oh. My. Gah.

This is so far from reality it is comical. I love P. but I wouldn't ever work for her while I have a baby. I know that this wouldn't work out. I just love my friends' company and want to be around them. P. knows this. We have an honest rapport, and S. is a little newer to our "group." I think she's really sensitive, but this just kills me. I am fiercely loyal to my friends, and the fact that she even thought I was capable of pettiness with my "peeps" indicated to me that she didn't quite know me well enough to be in my inner circle. I was devastated. I am devastated.

I left long stalker messages on both her machines telling her I was thrilled she decided to go back to work, that she must have some how crossed some wires in her interpretation of my dorky comments, that maybe P. didn't explain to her how much I was kidding, what have you. I was pathetic.

Then I called P. who swears she laughed when she hung up with me and joked with S. She said S. seemed a little miffed, but P. assured her I was teasing, that I wasn't actually jealous of her having the job, just that I wished I could be there with the two of them. I believe her.

So eventually S. called me back. She forgave me. Which of course eats me up even more, since there is NOTHING to forgive.

This whole thing stinks.

Wiggy Wiggy Wha?

My girls are members of a dance company. Chloe is a modern/lyrical dancer and Maddie took a liking to hip hop over a year ago and hasn't looked back.

Her team is actually really good and has traveled to other states, won competitions, and even performed at Disneyland. It's not their talent that makes me giggle.

It's that the team is comprised almost entirely of really white over-privileged girls with names like Maddie, Britney, Kelsey, etc.

They are so gangsta.

They come on stage in their baggy hip hop gear, hair in low pigtails, bangs drawn over one eye, heads cocked in a "don't mess with me, yo" way, and they knock it out to songs like Lean Like a Cholo, or Fuego ("you think you're gangsta cuz you did time...") or anything by Kanye West.

And again, they are really, really good. But I can't help but wonder about the kids who all started the hip hop movement, the ones living on the streets, or the projects. I think about the kids for whom "hood" means the place where they live that may have the occasional drive-by rather than the pale pink Ambercrombie and Fitch hoodie they wear over their private school uniform. Even though that's against uniform policy. Badasses.

The parents in this dance company pay ridiculous sums of money to let their baby girls writhe and shake and they even send them to dance conventions where former Emmy winning choreographers turned C listers teach these adolescents how to give authentic 'tude on the stage.

Can you hear the girls back at the hotel whining to their moms that they thought Beyonce's choreographer was going to be there? The same girls who aren't even in high school yet and who have a Starbucks habit and actually know what Juicy Couture is?

My girls recently made the company this month, after a lot of time taking dance lessons and I am so on the fence. I see the enormous pride in their eyes over having beat other kids out for a spot on the teams, and yet I wonder if by crossing over to the "other side" we won't be able to get back again.

The Chafing of the Nuts - 16 Years of the Nutcracker

Every Christmas since my sophomore year in college has seen us at the Nutcracker.

Every. Christmas.

By the time Bob and I had been married for two years, he had had enough. The last time we saw the Nutcracker as a married couple with no kids (oh, the blessed D.I.N.K. years) he fell asleep before Clara did and was snoring loudly by the time the Sugarplum Fairy made her appearance. I remember being so angry with him, and we had one of those fights that D.I.N.K.s have - you know, stupid fights where you argue in the taxi all the way home to no responsibilities other than your cat and we made up in the morning, after we had slept in and got ready for brunch with friends.

Excuse me while I go sob gently in the corner for a moment and carve out my uterus with a rusty knife. Oh, all the rusty knives are somewhere outside buried 'neath the tree house, you say? Damn kids.

Anyway, when the girls were little, Nutcracker time was really special for me them. I got to pretend they were the type of little girls who regularly donned crinoline and bows and played tea party with me, rather than the Lord of the Flies -esque ruffians who liked to dig shallow graves for neighborhood children who displeased them.

This year, after Christmas shopping for items like night-vision goggles and duct tape, I took the girls out to The Nutcracker as is our custom.

Me: [clapping hands together] Oh, don't you girls look beautiful! Honey, take a picture!

Maddie: I am way overdressed mom. Can I wear jeans?

Chloe: I like wearing my dress mom. In fact, I love it [snarky look at sister].


Later, at the theater...


Me: [attempting to hold their hands, which keep slipping out of mine in between bouts of heavy sighing and hissed whispering of Moooom, not here, okay!] Sniff, this is just so special, girls. I want you to know I treasure these moments, where it's just the three of us, and we're having...

Maddie: Oh my God! It's Hannah and Leah! They will think I am such a dork for wearing this dress! [slinks down in seat and zips up parka over head]

Chloe: Hannah! Leah! Over here!

Me: You look beautiful! No one in this small town dresses up for anything anymore, I say let's set the bar higher, ladies!

Maddie: [muffled, under parka] I am so embarassed. This is so lame.

Chloe: Mom, Maddie has hair in her armpits.