Bad Girls
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I Had a Very Dramatizing Childhood
Friday, January 23, 2009
1. Got the computer herps, husband had to completely reformat very badly wonkified harddrive, so bad actual reformatting took two days.
2. Very busy listening to husband chastise me for broken computer. "Would you stop downloading music already." Uh, sorry it was porn.
3.Was busy thanking husband for said cleaned up computer in a myriad of ways and now am very tired(and a little sore).
4. We got a dog and now have four members of our family who shit at will.
5. Have new business project with husband so have been very busy telling him what to do and how he's doing it wrong.
Those mean girls dramatized me. -eight year old's best guy friend recounting when a girl classmate was bullying him. You mean traumatized honey. Well, they're girls so I guess you probably were dramatized.
Man, she did it again, you were supposed to be watching her. (new puppy, that I practically begged for that hubs wanted to delay a year, peed on the floor for like the 5th time)Me, with a completely straight face, honey, you were the one that wanted a dog.
Five Year old daughter: And it was a lobster, a real lobster, no really, it was really real, you know, lobster. Eight year old son, (said in complete seriousness) Well, I hope you didn't touch it, you could get rabies. Uh honey, lobsters don't get rabies. Son: Thank god.
Pigtail Bloodlust
Friday, January 16, 2009
Is it me, or is she just a little too excited about that sandwich?
One minute in photoshop and you could turn this into a zombie picture. Add some sallowness below her eyes, a little drip of blood off her toothy smile and replace the sandwich with human brains.
Bebe Nerdlette
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
My husband really shouldn't be around the kids too much, I think the bebe is becoming a full-blown trekkie.
My Little Von Trapps
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Nothing you can see that isn't shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy --The Beatles- All You Need Is Love
Tonight, as is the case most nights, I took my 15 month bebe to my bed about a half an hour before all our kids go to bed. I do this as wind down time for her and well, frankly, it's kind of meditative time for me. Tonight we snuggled in and she did the litany of things she does most nights. She sang and garbled as I waited for her to use up the last bits of stored up frenetic bebe energy. Then we went through all of her words a few times, me saying them first and then her repeating them.
Then I sang her a few songs, tonight it was the Beatle's Blackbird and All You Need is Love and California by Joni Mitchell. We had spent a few hours at the beach and she still smelled like salt and sun. I kissed her sweaty little head while she looked at me holding both sides of my head she whispered hi, drawn out like a secret code only we knew. Then she kissed me, first almost ferociously, slamming her face into mine and clapping. Gentle, gentle I told her and then she laid the softest one on me, doing the mmmmmm, for emphasis, something she's only just started doing. I pulled her in closer, and told her it was time to go to sleep. She struggled out of my embrace to grab at the cat who laid near us a few times before she relented and curved into my body, her head resting in my neck, my chin on her head. She lay there, her hand fidgeting at the seam of my sweater until her breathing became heavy and even.
I held her thinking about how serendipitous my life is. How the things I worry about are minutiae, the big picture, the real stuff is this, a sweaty little baby with her wispy filaments of hair tickling my face, my four almost five year old who asked tonight in an excited hush if she could go play in the dark, so you know she could like see the stars and stuff, and my eight year old who tried out several times for advanced band with no pressure or even push from my husband and I(he just started band in October) and he made it today so that he can trudge his trombone with him one more day a week just because that boy loves band.
And my husband who took me to the beach today, and we made up a super secret cool ass handshake just between the two of us(I won't give it away but it includes a simulated explosion!), and we introduced the bebe to the ocean and hubs carried her when her wet diaper weighed about sixteen pounds and her legs and fingers were all gritty with sand and he fished the shells out of her mouth. And when he got some disappointing news on a job he was interested in, I sang him the lyrics of Chumbawumba's I Get Knocked Out, all hammy until he laughed and he told me what I could do to make him feel better(same thing he's always asking for).
All the Buddhist stuff I've read and butted my head against the wall trying to go with the flow and be in the moment, I am finally getting it and I don't purport that a setback won't make me sulk or pout or pull a woe is me or why can't something just be easy but right now I am in this moment and this moment is so much better than anything I could have dreamed for myself.
Dear Formerly Fun : Angels Butts, Clogged Pores, Pro-active & Bat Boy
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Hey There, Beautiful!
I keep meaning to send this along, as I'm kind of at a loss of what to do. If anyone could answer this question, I think it would be you. My younger son (16), who once had the skin of an angel butt is now facing that whole teenager blemish thing. I've bought him ProActive, which might work if he used it on a semi-regular basis. Lots of blackheads on his nose and chin that I am doing everything in my power to avoid "helping" with. So, here's the query: Is it worthwhile to take him to an esthetician to get some extraction-esque facials? Is this done for teenaged boys?I'm just wondering if this could potentially help out, if it were done on a regular basis, or is it just a short-term solution? Inquiring minds want to know. While you're at it, maybe you know what happened to Bat Boy? He's been out of the news lately & I think they're grooming him for heading up Security for the Inauguration.
Thanks in advance for any advice you might be able to provide!
Hugs,
Shelley
Dear Shelley,
First, let me assure you that Bat Boy is alive and well and much to my 
surprise residing here in Southern California. He has just finished his first screenplay and has been seen several times in a public lip lock with a certain Hilton girl heiress.
As to your oily offspring. First, a little Acne 101. Blackheads, also known as open comedones, are follicles filled with plugs of sebum and sloughed-off skin cells. The oxidation of melanin gives the material in the follicle the typical black color. Blackheads will not magically go away on their own if left alone and acne can result from infection of the oil gland due to the blockage by the blackhead. Therefore, preventing and removing blackheads helps control acne.
You could certainly take your son in for a mini-facial. You could also attempt a basic facial yourself. Perhaps getting squeezed a little will motivate your son to stick to a routine. I frequently do facials on teenagers, though I omit the shoulder and decollete massage because with a teenage boy you never know what might pop up.
Instead I stick to a thorough cleansing with steam to soften the blackheads. I like to use a slightly oilier cleanser because in this instance, like dissolves like. I use a light scrub if there is no active, angry acne(scrub will only further irritate this condition) or a light chemical peel. I then cover my fingertips with folded 
tissue and gently squeeze to push out the blackhead. Never use fingernails or the metal implements designed for blackhead removal. Fingernails leave small cuts in the skin and with a comedone extractor, it is too easy to use excessive pressure and injure the skin. Plus, they are not very effective. Anything that doesn't come out relatively easy isn't ready yet and should be left alone. Excessive squeezing can damage the skin surround the pore and can actually increase the size of the pore leading to more blackheads in the future.
As far as care goes, your son can keep it very basic and doable. Put the ProActive cleanser in the shower and tell him to lather his face up and let the cleanser sit softening the oil and debris while he "does other things." Have him use the treatment lotion before bed, it's okay if he doesn't wash his face first, not ideal but if he's sixteen let's keep it simple. Then use the toner when possible. Do what I do with my husband, soak a cotton pad with it, find your son somewhere on the computer and swipe it on his face. If he could wash in the am, lotion in the pm, this would go a long way toward keeping his skin the very picture of cherubic heiny it once was.
Postscript: When looking for images, it is advisable not to type in 'angel butt', oy vey, the internet is a begrimed and squalid place.
Labels: beauty, Dirty Jobs, estheticians, Momma's got to do everything.
We Have Ways of Making You Talk
Friday, January 9, 2009
One of the best parts of having more than one child is seeing your kids interact together. My oldest son is eight and our middle daughter nearly five. Watching them laugh together, playfully tease each other and even negotiate disagreements seems like a microcosm of my own relationship with my husband.
A few weeks ago, the kids were playing outside on their scooters when my four year old daughter started crying. Try as we might, we couldn't determine what happened through their angry sobs and accusatory shouts.
"Fine", my husband said nonplussed, "you guys can go sit on the bench and work it out yourselves and when you can agree on what happened, come and let us know."
I wasn't sure I agreed with encouraging them to potentially conspire but hubs was right. When they're married some day(not to each other hopefully) or have roommates, colleagues, whatever, it's not like they can call us to decide the outcome of these small spats.
So they sat on the bench that sits right outside our office window where they could not see us, but we could watch them. Sometimes being a parent is so fun. This is what we witnessed. They were both on either side of the bench as far away from each other as they could possibly be. They sat ignoring each other for a few minutes but eventually boredom set in. My daughter started hurling invectives my son's way. First, just like woman, it started with the matter at hand,
“You hurt my foot, you rolled you're scooter over it and you dint even care that you hurted me.”
Then just like a woman, the dam opened, and out came every thing she has ever been mad at him for, uh, like the last four years.
“And you, yooouu," she said through choked back angry sobs, "you never, never let me play with your drums, and you, you lost my favorite legos and when we play puff you never let me be the leader and that day I wanted to play and you dint wanna and you told me to get out of your room and you always go first and, and,...”
There sat out eight year old with his hands over his ears making her even angrier.
My husband and I tried to quiet our laughter so they wouldn't hear us. I wonder if marriage therapists ever have to bite the inside of their mouth to keep from laughing at the ridiculousness of some arguments? Finally after about ten minutes of this they started talking. I heard a few terse 'fines' and then their voices returned to the friendly tones they normally reserve for each other. They came inside to tell us what happened.
"I rolled over her foot with my scooter," he said.
"And it was a accicent," she said.
"Can we go play now?"
Just last night my eight year old was finishing some chores and my four year old was who knows where. The hubs and I were talking on the couch while the bebe played at our feet. Suddenly in the middle of all of this familial bliss, our seven year jumps the baby gate and stomps past us seething,
"I just thought you'd like to know that she just locked me in the garage."
"Okay honey, thanks for letting us know," my husband said lackadaisically.
"Okay," I muttered.
I looked over at the hubs, "I'm bored, you want to have some fun?"
"Yeah," hubs said, probably thinking I meant we were going to make out.
"Let's interrogate the kids."
"Okay." he said noticeably disappointed that my idea of fun wasn't going to include taking our clothes off.
"Boy, girl," the hubs yelled from the couch, come here.
They staggered in and stood before us.
"Did you lock your brother in the garage?"
Her lip jut out quivering, eyes well up, "but he is being mean to me."
Now, although our kids get along really well, when they are snarky to each other, they get pretty diabolical about it, and it's generally the boy. My daughter? She is the most caring and easygoing of all of our kids, rarely has she been the instigator.
Hubs looks at the boy, "what were you doing to your sister?"
He starts to cry, "I wasn't doing anything."
"Why are you crying," I say,"no one's in trouble yet, we're trying to figure out what happened."
"I didn't do anything, I was just doing my chores when she locked me in the garage. "
"You didn't do anything?" I asked skeptically, my eyes boring into him, looking for the tell.
"Nothing," he whined.
Clearly he was sticking to his guns.
So I look at the girl, what was your brother doing to you when you locked him in the garage?
Her eyes spill over and big fat tears roll down her cheeks but she isn't saying anything.
Hubs asks, "what were you upset with your brother about?"
We wait, finally.
"He wasn't listening to me. I was trying to tell him about something and he wouldn't listen, he was just ignorin' me," she said sobbing and angry.
Now the boy cries, "I was just trying to get my chores done, doing what I'm supposed to."
Uhm, I don't know about you're relationships but my husband and I never argue about him just trying to get work done and me not getting listened to. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Naked Women Everywhere
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Many of friends and fellow bloggers and really, probably something like 70% of females between 15-80 are trying to diet, lose a few pounds, get in shape, and the like. Many of these directives come from a place of new starts and a desire to feel good, go for walks, live longer for our families, for ourselves.
But let's be honest, a lot of these impulses also come from a place of self-loathing, slanted views of perfection, a sense that that size 6 pair of Seven jeans will somehow make our lives better. Maybe we won't feel like the chubby mom at the PTA meetings clad in a big sweater to belie her discomfort with her body. Or the skinny woman at the community pool reticent to get into the water because of the cellulite dimpling the backs of her thighs. Or maybe the girl caked in makeup to hide angry, red pimples, scars from old ones; her closet a mix of things that cover up her back and chest.
I have to say as a group, women are very hard on how we view our own bodies. How many of us have used words like ugly, fat, gross, ginormous, just wrong, or my personal favorite too. As in my thighs are too big, my boobs are too saggy, my legs too big, my stomach too squishy. We're too this, too that. Not to say I'm not affected by these same impulses but I want to offer you a gift of some perspective.
My work at the spa has put me into contact with hundreds of naked women. During the average brazilian wax I get to see bellies, butts, thighs, legs and of course, vaginas in bright light exposed, sometimes under a magnified lamp to tweeze the last few stragglers. Seeing such a wide cross section of women has led me to a greater acceptance of my own body. We are exposed to so many airbrushed and retouched images that we forget what women’s bodies really look like.
With the sole exception of the local university girl’s swim team(those women truly had the most beautiful bodies I have ever seen, an amazing combination of strength and shape), every woman I’ve worked on has cellulite. In fact, skinny girls who don't work out seem to get it the worst. Every naked body that has rested on my table has veins mapping the circulatory system. I have seen scarred knees and stretch marks, some from children born, some from weight lost, others from growth spurts. I have seen scary dark wiry hairs that shoot from all manner of seemingly unfair places like the back of our legs or even our nipples. I have seen navels stretched from childbirth, scars from ingrown hairs, dimpled knees and pimpled butts. I've witnessed mastectomy scars, broken noses healed over in the aftermath of an abusive spouse and more c-section scars than I can recall. I've noticed strangely taut skin from too big of breast implants put into too small a woman. I've seen scars from attacks, surgeries, I've seen tattoos, some cherished others reviled by their owners.
My point? These are the bodies of real women. They are not airbrushed for my viewing or artfully arranged. They are laid bare on a white sheet-covered slab for my scrutiny. We shouldn't compare at all but if we do, because we will, can it at least be to something real. I don't like my legs, they are what I call sturdy. Since the realization as a young girl that my body was frequently appraised by others, these calves of mine have cause consternation, a desire to be long and lithe rather than the mass of roundness and curves I am. My husband teases me about my leg loathing, yeah, you have sturdy legs he says, sturdy to hold up my big babies. And when I complain about my ample behind, he reminds me that in his very humble opinion all these round fleshy parts of my body were designed for the singular purpose of lovemaking.
Let's make a pact to be easier on our selves. Let's try to see our bodies more from the perspective of those who use and love them, our lovers, our husbands, our children, and less through the eyes of an unsympathetic critic. Let's acknowledge all that these bodies have done: housed humans, run races, comforted lovers, warmed babies, fought diseases, given and received pleasure, ushered in the living, held the hands of the dying, cooked things, created things.
Of course I say all these things stuck squarely in the middle of the beauty myth. I don't want wrinkles, I will probably never stop wishing or working for a flatter stomach. I don't ever expect that I'll be free of these kind of longings. My goal is only to be kinder and gentler--resting most of the time, in a place of gratitude for my body that is strong and healthy.
The Vocabulary of Parenthood
Friday, January 2, 2009
Contest still open folks and the odds are good. Thank you to all of the people who have participated thus far in helping me pick my best of. This was one of my first blog posts and is still, today, one of my favorites. If you read the litany, I think it has a certain beauty in the cadence that bellies the rote of the actual phrases.
Much like you look to Zagat's for dinner ideas or grab a copy of Fodor's for a trip to a new city, I think this list laminated should be handed to would-be parents. Are you willing to say these things no fewer than one-hundred times a day? No? You might want to get a dog instead.
If you spend much time around our household you would get the impression that my husband and I operate with a pre-programmed, limited vocabulary that recycles itself, like a talking doll, over and over again, at least when it comes to the hours spent with our children.
Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you.
Get that out of your mouth.
Eat over your plate.
Put the cat down.
Pick that up.
Get your finger out of there.
Leave the poop alone(we said that at least five times yesterday at the park, in all fairness to the kids, there was both cat poop in the sand and dog poop on the grass that they were entertained by).
Get your hands off the walls.
Use your napkin not your shirt.
Use a tissue not your sleeve.
What's on your finger?
Use the hand towel not your pants.
Did you wipe?
Knock it off.
Go cry in your room.
Go to bed.
I didn’t make the mess, I’m not cleaning it up.
If you cheat, I'm not going to play anymore.
Is that where that goes?
You’re hungry?
Hi hungry, nice to meet you, I’m Daddy.
Not until you finish your dinner.
Not until your room’s clean.
If I told you that you could have candy for breakfast, I bet you’d be able to remember that.
Be nice to your brother.
Be nice to your sister.
Go apologize to your father.
Go say you’re sorry to your mother.
Don’t even think about it.
If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything.
Do you want to rephrase that?
I can’t understand you when you’re whining.
How do you ask for something?
What did I say?
What did you say?
I said no.
How many times do I have to tell you?
I'm only going to tell you once.
I would advise you to remember who you are speaking to.
I will not tolerate lying.
No one likes a tattler.
We don’t talk like that at the dinner table.
Please just stop talking.
Catch us at our respective jobs or after the kids go to bed and really, we can be interesting people who can carry on real conversation and not just grunt commands and recriminations. Just make sure you don’t sniffle or we’ll tell you to go blow your nose first.Of course there is the other phrase, the one that all the others stem from, the one we hope they always know, the one they ultimately remember long after they’ve mastered wiping and don’t cheat at Monopoly anymore, I love you.
Come to the Darkside, We Have Cookies
I am at work today and though I do not have some maniacal New Year's resolution to 'finally get in shape' or 'get back into those jeans', I am trying to get back on the healthy track post holiday. For me on a work day that means no more Thai ordered in for lunch. Not because Thai is unhealthy but because I'm usually too lazy busy to pick it up and there's a fifteen dollar minimum for delivery so I have to get two things and usually end up eating it all. So today I started great, packed myself a lunch. I skipped breakfast because I was running late from packing said lunch, not good.
Still, I packed two things of the Campbell's healthy veg soup, a few Cara-Cara oranges(super delicious by the way), a diet coke for lunch, some trail mix and two homemade Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies for after lunch.
Guess what I've eaten so far(it's 9:45am right now)? I nuked one soup, took two bites of it, stuck it back in the fridge and drank the diet coke and ate the two cookies. Fantastic. Diet coke and chocolate chip cookies, that was my breakfast. I'll have to wait until I'm starving to eat the soup. Maybe if I'm stomach growlingly hungry, it will taste good but right now it just tastes like watered down V-8 juice with some dried basil and limp veggies in it, blech.
Meanwhile I talked to the hubs and he's already taken a forty-five minute walk, fucker. I hope he eats the rest of the chocolate chip cookies I left on the counter. Is that wrong?
Labels: I'm a bad person. He's all mine. Can eating be a hobby?
I've Got a Brand New Pair of Rollerskates
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Oh hi there.
No you're not lost, I've redecorated around here. Like everyone else, formerlyfun has gone green. No more pink, no more Barbie's Boudoir. I don't want to hear any smart comments about Kermit's Korner or something else stupid clever like that. I figured with the new year I'd usher in a new look.
Of course I'm still tweaking things and on that note I'd like to announce my very first contest. I am doing a best of tab to highlight some of my most popular posts. I certainly have my favorites but I'd like to know your favorites. I'm not at all objective and tend to like posts that make me look cool and sexy or really smart and include pictures that make me look 25 and ten pounds thinner.
Just comment here, you can pick as many posts as you like. Really, I won't hold it against you that you like, say nearly every single one. You can nominate in categories. You can comment more than once if you think of something else later. What stood out, made you laugh, made you angry, made you cry? Yes, I'm conceited, so?
Tell me what you liked and I'll give one winner a big shiny present. And yeah, I own a day spa so I won't be sending you a macrame plant holder or Santa oven mitts. I'll give one winner a customized package that can be focused on skin, body or wellness. If your one of my guy readers and you are uninterested in things of the girlie persuasion know that I stock men's skincare too or you can give me the lowdown on one of your lady friends and I will send you something for her. I know that's vague but I really want the winner to have products they'll use just trust me that I'll send you good stuff.
I'll pick an additional winner to get a day off their own blog if they so choose as I will offer a formerlyfun guest post on the topic of their choice(I know, I am very brave, I'm glad you think so too.) Of course you have to have a blog to win this one and uh, actually want a formerlyfun post on your own site.
I invite everyone* to participate, even if you're not a regular commenter here, come into the light and it could be worth your while. I'll pick winners at random by some kind of system where I write everybody's names on slips of paper and let the bebe pick one. I'll announce it here and whomever wins can email their real address and the lowdown on what kind of package they'd like and where I can mail their goodies.
So welcome to the new digs and I hope we'll be seeing lots of each other.
* If you don't have a blogger sign in, you can just select anonymous or name in the comments section. Just be sure to write Sandy in Siberia or Lola in Los Angeles at the end of your comment so I can confirm it's you if you win. Also, if you really live in Siberia, I probably can't afford the postage to send you spa stuff cause you know, the recession and stuff.
Labels: It's okay to suck up.
The Life of the REAL Housewife of Orange County
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Well, thankfully, my husband getting a job is no longer a concern. Today I received a wonderful letter in the email that puts all my fears to rest.
Dear Friend,
This letter may come as a surprise since we have not yet met. I have no intentions of causing you pains so i decide to contact you through this medium .As you read this, I don't want you to feel sorry for me, because, I believe everyone will die someday.
My name is SALAM JAFER, a merchant in Dubai, in the U.A.E. I have been diagnosed with prostate and esophageal Cancer that was discovered very late due to my laxity in caring for my health. It has defiled all form of medicine and right now, I have only about a few WEEKS to live according to medical experts.I have not particularly lived my life so well, as I never really cared for anyone but my business. Though I am very rich, I was never generous, I was hostile to people and only focus on my business.
But now I regret all this as I now know that there is more to life than just wanting to have or make all the money in the world. I believe when God gives me a second chance to come to this world I would live my life a different way from how I have lived it. Now that I know my
time is near, I have willed and given most of my properties and assets to my immediate and extended family members and as well as a few close friends. I am writing this from my laptop computer As my last days alive are drawing closer and closer I have resolved to give my remaining funds to charity organizations as I want this to stand as one of the last deeds I indulge in on earth before I die.
I am contacting you with this as the last of my funds which no one knows of is a cash deposit of Eighteen million U.S Dollars stashed in 2 trunk boxes and declared as Personal effects of high security value which I have with a finance/Security Company in Europe. All I am asking of you is to assist me in making the collection of this deposit and dispatching the funds to any charity of your choice after keeping 20% of the funds for yourself and your family.10% of these funds should be to cover any expenses that might be incurred in the process of making this claims. Please contact me as soon as you get this email if you are capable and sincere to handle this transaction on my behalf so I can forward you with all relevant documents necessary for the claims and the name of the security firm where the funds are deposited. Please respond to me on this email address if you are willing to assist me, sheikhrah2005@netscape.net May God Bless You. Salam Jafer
See, given his infirm condition, I am thinking I could really get in this guy's good graces. If I could help him, he would no doubt reward me with a paltry piece of his fortune, I was thinking something like $3.6 million, 'cause I'm not greedy and in the process I get to give away the rest and feel just like Oprah watching people go all kinds of apeshit. So hubs, you can stop the job search because Easy Street is just ahead.
ICYMI: Oprah's Favorite-- AHHHHHHH! @ Yahoo! Video
On a separate note, I really like to write, it rarely feels like work to me and it's the perfect nonsocial social outlet. The difficult thing is getting time to write, time to get into that space where the words flow freely, where they aren't forced or contrived, they just jibe.
Tonight I was in that place, in the office, plunking away at the keyboard, the stuff just flying out of my fingertips, headphones on with new music lighting my way when I feel a tap on my shoulder, I jump slightly and turn around, hubs is standing there.
"Yes?" I ask in a tone that says, I'm in the middle of a creative tsunami, whatdaya want?
"You need to see this Chris" hubs says gravely.
"What?"
"Look what the bebe drew, oh my god, I really need to show you this. Come see."
"Fine," I get up and plod to the family room.
I am expecting maybe some circles since she has only been drawing lines and punchy little dots.
"What do you think she's trying to tell us, should we be worried?" he asks.
Jesus, I'm never gonna get a book published.
On another note, can I just say it is so cold here right now that you could hang heavy winter coats from my tattersons(boobies). It's 45 degrees. Now I know I know, all my friends and family in Wisconsin are probably thinking, fuck you Wimpy McWimperson but here's the thing. My wonderful old stony, heavy leaded double windowed insulated brick duplex nestled in the heart of beautiful Wauwatosa Wisconsin with it's gentle radiator heat and fireplace knew how to keep a girl warm. Yes, it was beastly when you had to go out and shovel but inside it was toasty.
The houses in Southern California on the other hand, are made out of slightly thick paper. I have a headband on right now because the draft is so bad that my hair is whipping in my face and I can't see. This is not a place that was meant to be below sixty. Most people wear flip flops 75% of the time, scarves are for fashion purposes only and most of our stores sell winter coast for about five minutes before they put them away and get out the beach wear.
On yet another note, in light of our precarious financial position, giant inheritance from Salam Jafer not withstanding, I have taken several measures to save us money. We don't eat out very often but we occasionally indulge in Pinkberry. It is so good and the fruit is always perfectly ripe, flavorful and not pretty but tasteless like so many of the berries I buy at the store. The frozen yogurt really tastes like yogurt, not watery ice cream. It's also deceptively low in calories.
It's also kind of pricey. At about three bucks per, as a family of five, we're talking like fifteen bucks here, something we can't spare right now. Still, I don't want the kids to feel deprived so "Pinkberry" a la mom. 
"But Mom, the yogurt's warm and the fruit is frozen."
"Well, they changed their formula," I told them.
It's mommaberry bitches, get used to it.
I also have been shopping at a store called the Grocery Outlet. This is a very good place. It's not crappy melamine filled products from China, it's straight from the manufacturer. It's overruns, old packaging, crooked labels, Awareness campaigns that have come and gone, runs of stuff that never took off. It is not dented botulism riddled cans and past the expiration date goods.
For instance, one product I got for the kids is called Fiber-Filled Health Biscuits. The ingredients are great and all-organic, no high fructose corn syrup, no trans-fat, but the way they are marketed is unappealing which is probably why they languished as bright shiny boxes of cookies flew off the shelves. The health biscuits, they taste great and as far as cookies go, they are healthy.
Another product I got is the off brand version of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish. Those goldfish crackers are good but damn expensive. Here in Southern California, a family size box is like nine dollars. Goldfish-shaped crackers are trademarked so instead we get:
Do these crackers not just scream poor happy?
Labels: I'm never gonna get a book published. Oprah. Complain much?
World's Oldest Spiderweb Found in My Bathroom
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I am not a good sleeper. Hubs on the other hand goes gently into that good night the minute his head hits the pillow. My head is like an old computer trying to shut down, slowly closing each window, getting hung up in things here and there. These are the things that I start thinking about at 11:30pm when I should be sleeping:
1. Oxford University paleobiologist Martin Brasier recently discovered a 140-million-year-old spider web. A real find and further proof that I'm not the only second-rate housekeeper.
2. With regard to women, we talk about having it all a lot. We never talk about men having it all. Do you know why? Because having it all really means doing it all.
3. If I hear one more mom talking about buying lots of presents to make it a good Christmas for her children I might lose my mind. Since when has Christmas been about tonnage? If I think back about cherished childhood Christmas memories, rarely are they about the presents. There are a few standouts when I got something I had really wanted but mostly it's about the feeling and being together and parents being more relaxed due to a few days off work, and mostly, anticipation. When did so many parents priorities go askew?
4. Last night (don't ask me why) I explained the 
euphemism "dropping the kids off at the pool” to my kids. I explained euphemism(teaching moment) and then detailed exactly who the 'kids' were and what the 'pool' referred to(less of a teaching moment). I thought for sure I was introducing new lexicon into the entire third grade class, a swift revenge for some of the things my son has picked up. Turns out, it was a big winner with my four year old daughter who now announces every bm with, “I'm going to drop the kids off at the pool.” Good times, good times.
5.The bebe has her core words, ma, dada, ba(bottle),up, cat, kittie, she is also at that verbal stage where her mumblings are starting to sound like words, even whole phrases. Sure, she doesn't mean it when she says things that sound like, can I have some kimchi, but I swear to god this morning she said what sounded like, mom I need to finish my doctoral thesis, can you get me a double espresso.
6. You know what's at the top of my Christmas list this year? A day with just my husband at the movie plex catching up on all of the holiday Oscar contenders, eating loads of popcorn, Twizzlers and getting sore bums from an eight hour movie marathon. Oh, and a cleaning lady.
7. Though I know there are only a select few who care about the kids stuff on the site, I am going to post another video of my bebe dancing. I just need to document that she is a mambo master, a samba sage, a veritable hip hop savant. She has unparalleled rhythm, she is a genius of beat. This special ability is not present in all my kids. My eight year old has repeatedly attempted break dancing and it looks remarkably like a seizure. My four year old as evidenced in the previous video, has dancing skills reminiscent of Elaine from Seinfeld all flailing and odd off beat jutting kicks.
Labels: Women got the short stick. My kids are going to need a really good therapist.
Girly Girl Sick Day
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
So all the XX's in our house are sick right now, for whatever reason, the goopy fever sore throat stuffiosity has eluded the menfolk. So us girl's are having a group sick day and yes, there are giant pink tutus involved and funk and Motown and lots of books and there might be glitter at some point. We might be contagious but we're not dead.
Labels: My kids are going to need a really good therapist. Girly girl.
You are the Weight of Her World
Friday, December 12, 2008
I never thought I went out into the dating world looking for a father figure, a common thing for girls with absentee fathers. I was drawn to men who made me feel taken care off, protected, beautiful and capable, intelligent and resourceful. Little did I understand that these are all the things your father is supposed to provide for you. I didn't have this, how would I know? What were the feelings I had with my own father?
The biggest one was probably exclusion. When my father remarried and had his own family(see even in the way the words come out, ugh, as if they are other people unconnected to me), I felt pushed to the side, the product of an accidental teen pregnancy rather than the planned family he had now. I felt the weight of his shame, his feelings that his life might have been different, no better, had I not 'happened'.
I found my father figure in other places. Mostly my grandfather Henry, who died of pancreatic cancer this year. He would pick me up from school dances, talk to me about my plans for the future, never wavering in his confidence in me. “Chrissy, you're the one we never worry about,” he'd tell me and just him saying it I believed it. It's also no surprise that I turned to men as a way to fill the deep and unfillable chasm my dad left in his wake. Like I said, I never thought I went out into the dating world looking for a father figure but looking back on it as a thirty five year old, the evidence is there.
At 22 there was Jake, seventeen years my senior. He was recently divorced with a daughter of his own. He was the first man I really loved. He made me laugh, he made me feel beautiful, he praised me for my intelligence, my wit. Jake changed me in a ways that remained long after we were not together, good ways that remain even now. He also broke my heart. Though his intentions were good, his reticence to make me a part of all the parts of his life, after more than a year, once again reminded me that I came in a very distant second to other more important people. I'd played that record before. The other men that came after were less important but more of the same. 
I did a great deal of work cleaning up the mess someone else made. My husband has done his share too. He traverses my whims and perceived slights and insecurities like a pro but these are gaps in me that were there long before him, none of them his making. I remember in the early days of our relationship when my insecurities had gotten the better of me. Fears of abandonment welled up until I broke and let the crazy come flooding out. He reassured me and I apologized for being the way I was being, maybe for being the way I was. This isn't your fault I told him, it's my own insecurities and I do my best to manage them. The truth was, it wasn't my fault either. My husband taught me to trust him, but it was a near Herculean effort. He showed me, through actions and words that even though I am at times difficult, moody, even petulant, he is not going anywhere. 
I am envious of my daughters some days when I see my husband with them. I wish so much that I had had that. How different or easier would I have traversed the world, how much less complicated would my teens and twenties have been, how much sooner would I have made peace with my body and sense of self. How much less of me would I have given away looking for someone to love me? 
I am proud that I found a man who does and will continue to give our daughters what every girl deserves to have in a father but too few of us really had. I watch him with them and it is redemptive, I get to feel for a moment what it would have been like to have that for myself. I have healed many of my own wounds by finding a man whose love for me never wavers, who makes me feel both capable and protected, a man who has taken the time and made the investment in getting to know me inside and out.
My point? I don't know but maybe it's this, fathers be vigilant. Don't ever be fooled into thinking Mom is the only one who really matters. I can't speak for sons but only as a daughter. You are the weight of her world. You are the yardstick by which she will measure men later. You are the mirror that casts how she will in part see herself. You are the soft place to fall. You will be the first man to teach her what men value by the way you love her. You will influence so many parts of her future that it would probably scare you if you added it all up.
Labels: Looking back. Where's my soapbox. Hi, you're my new therapist.
First Look
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Beatles Album, Special K ,Existential Cubes, Oh My
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
In my past I have experimented with drugs. I was never the one who did it with any frequency but I sought a point of reference. I wanted to know first hand what people were talking about. Of course with some drugs like the pipe, heroin and meth, I was smart enough to know that even one time was playing with fire.
Some of my experiences were amazing, some arresting, some were awful but one stands out as being particularly sensational. This wonderful experience was with a very legal but powerful drug, Ketamine. Now, I'm not a proponent of drugs but this was good, so good, it was almost religious.
"I'm starting to feel this."
Moments later I looked pleadingly at the anesthesiologist, "I can feel this, I am feeling pain."
"No pain, just pressure," he said tersely , a small Asian man who had given me three different epidurals the previous 16 hours of labour, none of them mitigating the pain.
No surprise to me the epidural was again proving ineffective.
"No pain, just pressure," he said again, like if he just repeated it then it would become true. I started to cry and hyperventilate. Finally the surgeon stepped in,
"Is she feeling this? She cannot be feeling this.
She better not be feeling this."This is where it gets interesting. First, everything was musical, beautiful, philosophical. Did you know that there was a previously unreleased Beatles album nestled in my consciousness just waiting to be liberated with the benefit of major mind altering chemicals? I don't remember the specifics of the songs but I can tell you it was the Beatles and it was all new material, from several different periods.
There were the fresh, suited idols singing stylistic bubblegum pop. There were Beatles in Nehru jackets opining some vaguely transcendental Krishna psychedelia. There were straggly hippie Beatles shaking their heads at the war. There were also sweaty, raving glitter-speckled Beatles hopping around with glow sticks and pacifiers.
It was the best fucking concert of my life and I had not only a front row seat, I had a 360 degree view, I had close ups. The best part? It was so unbelievably real. It was noisy, full of beat and melody.When I came out later I said to my husband,
"Man I know that doctors sometimes like to listen to music during surgery but it was really, really loud."
I had figured that maybe some background Beatles had gotten this particular stream of consciousness started.
It got even better. The music faded to the background and what appeared behind my eyes was a gigantic cube, like a Rubik's cube but every cube was metallic silvery white and there seemed to be infinite facets covering each side. Now you know how people who have near death experiences later relate how their whole life played before their eyes? Well the cube was like this except I saw everybody's lives.Each facet on the cube seemed to represent another person's life. Though the images seemed to pass quickly like a movie or series of pictures, they started birth to death and all of the moments in between. That shit was heavy. I was out for about a half an hour but it felt like hours, lifetimes. I literally woke to a baby in my arms feeling as if I had been told a secret by the universe.
Perhaps the momentousness of the occasion lent itself to the existential. Maybe knowing I was about to bring forth a new life set my mind up for something magnanimous. The unreal part is I still remember it vividly. It's hard to put the details and specifics into words because it was so heavily auditory and visual.
Petite Bourgeoisie
Monday, December 8, 2008
Yes, I am aware this is the Iphone commercial song but I love it and it's stuck in my head right now like my own personal theme song complete with narration. I'm beginning to feel like Zach Braff's character in Scrubs. Well, I'd probably miss the voices if they were gone right?
I Am The Politeness Police, Pull Over
Wednesday hubs and I attended his employer's holiday party, a kind of last hurrah. Let it be known that they throw the best parties and their Christmas party is one I look forward to all year. They are fun, and interesting and two of the most gracious hosts I know. They also are bona fide foodies, like me, who know their wine, unlike me.
I am not a burger girl or a roast girl, but oh, do I like a prime cut of dry-aged beefy perfection. Hubs on the other hand, is a vegetarian and although he does not make me feel like a pariah when I have to occasionally satisfy my carnivorous cravings, he can't look past the meager vegetarian offerings and accompany me to an upscale steakhouse. Our hosts always pick these kinds of restaurants to my utter and complete delight. The day of the party I walked around the house complaining of blood lust and regaling my husband, with a slightly crazed look in my eye, how much I was going to enjoy my steak. No really, I told him as I made smacking noises with my lips, I'm going to devour it.
The party did not disappoint. I ate my weight in crab claws and shrimp the size of small lobster tails dipped in fresh horseradish so atomically hot it cleared out my sinuses on the first bite. I had a steak that did not disappoint. For dessert I ordered the buttercake recommended by both our hosts and our waiter. Ok, this wasn't a piece of cake, it was a cake. I took a bite and exclaimed out loud, this cake must have at least two sticks of butter in it. I caught the waiter's eye and he held up three fingers to silently indicate that the cake had three, count them, three sticks of butter. Imagine a bunch of butter with a little cakey stuff thrown in, conjure up the richest pound cake ever. I am still recovering from the heady goodness that was the meal, the hosts and the company, well, most of the company.
One of my husband's coworkers brought what I think was his girlfriend though they hardly said two words to each other the whole night. This woman was loud and this is coming from someone who can herself be quite boisterous given the right moment. So if I thought she was over the top, well whoa. She would not shut up. Not only was she loud but she had a voice that had all the lilt and smoothness of a yard blower. She reminded me of a young Sally O'Malley, the character played by Molly Shannon where she runs around kicking up her legs saying, "I'm FIFTY!"
She started out the night loud, overbearing, inappropriately familiar with the boss's wife. She talked about how expensive everything is, she engaged in several conversations where she said things like, let me tell you(the same thing over and over again), oh, you don't know anything yet but you will(regarding raising teenagers), I know exactly what you mean(uh, no and you never will) and girlfriend you and me need to go out(um, that's not ever going to happen). She failed to realize that people were tuning her out on all sides, heads turned away from her though it never stopped her from talking.
She then proceeded to get ripped. She had(yes I counted, I already fessed up to being the founding member of the Politeness Police and honorary member of the Blunt Brigade) eight drinks, not including the wine that poured freely throughout the night. It made the conversation even more interesting(obnoxious) and I'm sure our hosts were totally planning on individual bar tabs exceeding $100.
I know, I know, I am so judgemental. Maybe she was nervous, maybe her boyfriend was being an ass and she was just trying to fit in, be liked but drunk at the office Christmas party, the first time you're meeting these people? If that isn't a rookie mistake, I don't know what is. I think my eyes actually ached from all of the eye rolling I did at my husband as we had our secret marital convo with our eyes.
Can you believe she just said that?See this is where I am a total hypocrite because I love big personalities, even loud voices and embarrassing oversharers, but they have to be funny or witty or very smart. They have to hold your attention. The conversation has to flow, go both ways. Good conversation is like good flirting, everyone feels interesting and smart and witty and fabulous. Her conversation was the equivalent of some drunk girl unzipping your pants in the parking lot and passing out before she gets to the good part.
Did you just see that piece of lobster fly out of her mouth across the table?
Oh no she didn't.
Did she just order another drink? Really?
When is he going to shut her down?
Poetic Justice
Friday, December 5, 2008
Lighten Up
It's common knowledge that many of the studios release their Oscar contenders around the holidays. One, with people on vacation it's big ticket sale time and two, films meet the submission deadline but stay fresh in minds of the members of the Academy. The current crop of Oscar contenders are not necessarily depressing but most of them are heavy. Like Frost/Nixon, the post-Watergate television interviews between British talk-show host David Frost and former president Richard Nixon. Or the Reader, a Post-WWII Germany drama. Or Milk, the biography of Harvey Milk, California's first openly gay elected official who aggressively fought anti-gay initiative(timely)and was later assassinated. They are all heavy. Heavy, this is the perfect word to describe how I'm feeling right now. I don't feel funny, or witty or clever or light. I feel like this plodding, introspective drama alongside the bevy of irreverent comedies and lighthearted romances.
Of course some of this has to do with the husband's job or lack thereof. Maybe part of it is just the season. I am uncharacteristically calm so I am concerned that I'm not more concerned, like worry and anxiety are the sacrifices that make the good juju happen. I worry that I'm not worried, less because I've reached some Zen calm and rather that I'm approaching emotional catatonia. You know you are neurotic when you think too much about your thinking, introspect on your introspection, ruminate on your ruminations and worry about the state of your worriedness.
I falsely attach a great deal of security and safety to money. It is probably because of my background that I worry about money far too much. I spend it carefully, I hoard it but I'm remiss to even giving myself a hard time about that because that insecurity saving has led to things like cars bought with saved cash and leaving a high paying but unfulfilling job to go start a day spa and fuck around waxing chachas and probably living longer because I have less stress.
My Day in Review
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Left the house a few minutes early. +5
Stars Collide, Worlds Divide with a Pretty Piece of Flesh
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Last week I guest posted over at afreeman. Chris(the boy Chris) asked me(the girl Chris) to write about 1995 which made me look back on a difficult, yet pivotal time in my life. It was not an easy post for me since I actually had to reflect, ugh, which made me really tired.
Never one to miss an opportunity to exact a little revenge quid pro quo, I asked Chris(the boy Chris) to guest post over here at la maison du formerlyfun. I thought to myself, what topic can I pick that will equally flummox Chris(the boy Chris)*. Most of us know men are pretty simple straightforward. That old adage that to keep a man happy all you need are blowjobs and pizza isn't really that far off. This being the case, I didn't really need Chris(the boy Chris) to tell us about men. The old line, enough about me why don't you tell me what you think of me came to mind. What better question to ask a somewhat captive male what he thinks about us.
Chris(the boy Chris) shares his little piece of familial heaven with the hard-bargain driving, cutey pie, smarty pants Dr. O'C, boy Z(Chris and I are trying to work out some sort of modernish arranged marriage between his boy and the bebe) and Timmins the dog. Chris would probably pout a little if I was remiss in telling you his lady isn't the only doctor in the family, he is too, but not like a take off your clothes and check you out doctor, more like sit you down and teach you about genomes and shit. So give a warm welcome to Chris
*I briefly dated a Chris(not this Chris), after all it is a very common name and I dated a lot so I was bound to run into a Chris or two. I remember the ensuing confusion. It frequently devolved into a bad he's on first-like sketch. Plus, I could never call out his name during sex, it would have just seemed conceited.
-----------------------------------------------
Christ, would you look at all the pink around here? I feel like I’ve walked into Barbie’s boudoir. This makes my job here even more daunting. You see, Chris asked me to do a little guest post for her discussing “a progressive man’s take on female body image”. When I read that I blanched and murmured a despondent “oh, shit”.
You see, there is absolutely no way that I can write this post without getting in to some kind of trouble – with my partner, with my female readers, with Chris. I am a politically progressive kind of guy, a socialist really. But, when it comes to interpersonal, social and gender issues I’m kind of a traditional guy. Not that I think that a woman’s place is in the kitchen or that I want my beloved barefoot and pregnant or that a woman is nothing more than eye candy. But like any warm blooded man, nothing will stop me in my tracks like a scantily clad pretty piece of flesh.
Here’s the ugly truth, ladies: men are attracted by young, slim blondes with big knockers. Now, of course there are personal deviations. I, for example, am a sucker for a redhead. But in general, men of any political persuasion, social background or education accomplishment* come right to attention when confronted with a pair of long legs in a short skirt. It is just part of being a man.
Now, I think Chris had hoped that I was going to give you some insight into why we are reduced to drooling buffoons when confronted with a heaving bosom. As a geneticist, I always ask myself if the root of any behaviour lies embedded in our DNA. In the case of mate preference, probably not. The young thing, sure. Biologically our only job as men is to spread our seed and a young woman offers a better chance of reproductive success. But beyond that, if anything, we would be genetically drawn to small, hairy, wide-hipped women reminiscent of our Pleistocene ancestors and that certainly isn’t the case here in the early 21st century.
Realistically, the body image that most men drool over is a construct of advertising departments throughout the world. This is something that you already knew. Again, speaking personally, I spent my early teenage scanning for bits of bare skin in James Bond films, the Sears Catalog, the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition and the occasional purloined Playboy. Inevitably, these objects of my curiosity were airbrushed, slim, busty, babes.
I learned as a young man that the ultimate in womanhood was Cheryl Tiegs, Brooke Shields, Alison Doody and Kelly LeBrock. Mmmm, Kelly LeBrock. There are thousands of reasonably untalented actresses and singers that owe their careers to an unholy alliance of advertising executives’ machinations and the fantasies of teenage boys.
I would now like to try and redeem my sex, or at least myself. Yes, we will stare, drool and yearn over any woman on the street that looks like a Bond girl. And yes, a tidy piece of totty will certainly get our attention more than a frumpy frau. If my beloved hadn’t been the hottest thing in the room on the night that I met her, I probably wouldn’t be where I am today. Equally, if the conversation hadn’t rolled like an out of control eighteen wheeler, we wouldn’t have gotten far either. We, of the shallower sex, are attracted by your physical features but what keeps us coming back for more is far deeper.
That being said, a nice pair of… ah, hell, let me quit while I’m ahead.
*Obviously we can exclude sexual predilection.
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