Easy Rider

War on Feminism: Lost. Stop. Send reinforcements. Stop. And Betty White. Stop.

2012-01-17T12:37:00.000-08:00

Face it, ladies. There has been a war waged on feminism since long before Newt Gingrich suggested that you couldn't (or was it shouldn't) change a tampon in a foxhole. It was completely lost on July 22, 2010 when a judge in St Louis said that if you are drunk and have stupid friends, you can legally slip and fall into a nationally advertised soft-core porn video and you don't even have to sign the consent form. Yeah, I think we always knew that the fatal blow to feminism would be dealt by those scum slurpers over at Girls Gone Wild, but who knew a judge and jury would assist them?

So, when sexist stuff happens, I'm not surprised. I'm pissed, but not surprised. When asked by the NY Times why there aren't more female comedians on The David Letterman show, Letterman booker, Eddie Brill, said, “There are a lot less female comics who are authentic. I see a lot of female comics who, to please an audience, will act like men.” Hilarious. Even funnier is in the comments section of the Mirth Magazine article about it , Eddie, in trying to defend himself by calling comedian Amy Schumer "that comedian's girlfriend." Ha ha ha! He can't even stop being a sexist dick to explain that he isn't a sexist dick. His apology is even funnier...but not funny enough to quote here.

Nope, instead I think I'll just say Happy Birthday to a woman who is a thousand times funnier that Eddie Brill could ever be. Proof:

And now a word from our sponsor...

2011-11-08T09:04:00.000-08:00

Hey my four fans! Looking good, Mom! So, I'm real busy doing this crazy Novel in a Month thing, and I just don't have time to blog right now, so instead, I decided to make a little cash (.004 cents to be exact) by renting out space to advertisers. First up, the good folks over at Hooker Toothbrush. Take it away!

Hey Kids!

Did your parents give you a lollipop infected with Chicken Pox and other stuff (possibly Hep C, definitely Cooties)? Are you in a never-ending hell of calamine lotion and oatmeal baths? Do you have thousands of itchy red bumps covering your entire body, even your tushie and wing wing, but you parents have the nerve to tell you not to scratch?! Did you spike a fever so high, it melted part of your brain, and now you've changed your dream school from Harvard to "something with air-conditioning or air-conditioning repair"? Well get back at them South Park style with the new, improved

Hooker Toothbrush!

Just send a tweet that says "I'm itchy as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore" (be sure to add the hashtag #hookertoothbrush), and we will send you your very own toothbrush infected with all kinds of nasty stuff (possibly Hep C, definitely Hep B). All you have to do is replace your parents real toothbrush with our skankified one.

Oh, and no, don't feel bad. Did you know that the CDC says that between 100 and 150 people die as a result of Chicken Pox every year? Not a big risk, but your dumbass parents happily took it just so they could look cool at their All-Natural Holistic Mommy Group. Oh, you didn't think they did it for you, did you? You're covered head to toe in calamine lotion, bits of oatmeal and scabs. You look like pink Swamp Thing. Come on, get real kid!

*Actual toothbrushes probably do not come from an adorable old-timey prostitute like the one pictured. In reality, they most likely brushed the nubs in this gal's nob hole:

Eight Parenting Styles More Annoying Than Attachment Parenting

2011-08-30T12:51:00.000-07:00

Is this you?

Oh yeah. Ha ha ha! Yuk it up. Everyone loves to make fun of attachment parents since Maggie Gyllenhaal's brilliantly succinct one-sentence anti-stroller rant in Away We Go, but the truth is that all parents (myself included) are annoying. Deal with it, breeders. All of us fall into at least one of the following parenting styles, and they're all annoying.

Helicopter Parents

Yes. I know the fire is hot.

Everyone calls them Helicopter Parents, but I call them Navi Parents after that little fairy in the video game, Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, who follows Link around everywhere he goes and says, "hey listen!". I hear you people at the playground all the time saying, "Hey listen! That slide is wet!" or "Hey listen! I need you to put on a sweater!" or "Hey Listen! Don't play in the sand. It's dirty" and I want to say, "Hey listen! The kid is going down a freaking slide, it's not like she's fighting Ganon. Back off a little." Your exact opposite is....

Predator Parents

No one expects Predator Mom!

No one knows whose kid that is until you suddenly emerge from the foliage just as the little bugger is about to fall off the monkey bars. I know this style is annoying because I am a Predator Mom, and I've startled a few nannies in my time by emerging from the dark corners of the playground. Sorry, unsuspecting nannies! Similar to this style is....

Mick from Rocky Parents

A little Bactine will take care of that.

So what you fell off your bike and opened up a gash from your eyebrow to your elbow. So what you just got pushed off a baby swing by a two-year old on steroids...GET BACK IN THERE, ROCK! Your exact opposite is....

Kid in a Bubble Parents

You know who you are. You don't let the kid leave the house unless wrapped in bubble wrap--preferably spf 100 non-toxic, carcinogen-free plastic. Although I have morphed into a Mick mom, I must admit that before the age of 12 months, I was a Kid in a Bubble parent. Here is a shot of my 11 month going on a walk for the first time with someone who was not me or my husband: her grandpas.

Please note: There is a stocked diaper bag, a blanket and a wind screen on the stroller on what appears to be beautiful day. Also, I somehow felt that she needed both of them--like just one would surely screw things up. Also, right after I took this picture, I instructed both of these seemingly grown men on how to cross the street. I'm not proud of it.

Tiger Parents

If you fail, I will claw your furry little ass.

If your kid has soccer practice on Mondays, violin lessons on Wednesdays and hates soccer and the violin...you are a Tiger Parent. Deal with it. Your exact opposite is....

Hippie Parents

Sure they're having fun. But none of these purple flower children are going to Harvard.

They've never gone to a real school, or worn socks, or eaten refined sugar or met a puppet that wasn't homemade or arty. And vaccinations? Forget about it. Is this the right way to raise kids? Who knows, but one thing for sure: all these kids are going to grow up absolutely hating carob. And then there are...

Bad Seed Parents

I have the prettiest mother. Everyone thinks so. Huh? What dead handyman?

Oh no! Not your precious little darling. Sure he just roundhouse-kicked a toddler off the merry-go-round, but you're sure that that baby provoked your perfect little angel. Your child will probably end up murdering someone with a pair of tap shoes. Deal with it. Your exact opposite is....

Parent Dearests

How many times do I have to tell you! No Hello Kitty dresses in the toilet!

If someone else's kid kicks yours off the merry-go-round, you wonder what your little bastard did to deserve it. You somehow find a way to blame all your problems on the fact that your kid can't stop putting her Hello Kitty dresses on wire hangers. You should just chill and be glad she doesn't toss them on the floor, or in the toilet, or out the window.

What's your style? If you're like me, you're a little bit of all eight, which is good because, when it comes to parenting, if you're not annoying somebody, you're not doing it right. Deal with it, non-breeders.

Ophiuchus July Horoscope

2011-06-30T10:24:00.000-07:00

Hey Zombie Slayers,

Whew. July is going to be one crazy month. The moon is moving voraciously into Uranus so, needless to say, money will be a bit tight. To save cash, you will stop spending money on expensive salon treatments. Your hair will frizz and your mustache will grow back. Hipsters will throw improvised gangish signs at you and ask you if Spoon is still touring. Tourists will stop you on the street to take pictures with you because they think you are 70s folk singer, Jim Croce.

At this point you will lose it and start yelling that Jim Croce has been dead for years and don't you stupid tourists know anything? The hipsters start yelling "Yo Crotch-ey" at you. Then they take the dimes out of their penny loafers (because quarters would be too ironic and pennies wouldn't be ironic enough, like duh) and start throwing them at your eyes and neck. The tourists hold up real money and ask you to sing Operator (That's Not the Way it Feels). You do a quick count and see that there's just enough folding cash for a blow-out and a lip wax—tip too if you can turn in those dimes.

You decide to go for it. One of the hipsters offers to back you up on guitar and sing harmonies on the chorus because he was totally in a so-ironic-it-is-not-ironic Jim Croce cover band for about a week. You give it your all, but the tourists keep interrupting you to ask where they can find a good place to buy cheap t-shirts. Then the hipsters keep asking stupid questions because they were all born in the 80s, even your guitar player. You have to stop every few lines and say stuff like, “an operator is a lady who worked for the phone company” and “yes, it was always a lady” and “the phone company is too hard to explain” and “a match-book is something we used before iPhones to write numbers on with this thing called a pen” and “a pen is too hard to explain” and “I don’t know who Ray is and yes he is a total punk ass” and “see there used to be this thing called a phone booth and phone calls cost one dime” and “dimes are those round things that you tried to blind me with earlier” .

Somehow, even though this is an improbable future situation dictated by a bunch of stars that look like Bruce Campbell, the whole thing was impossibly caught on tape (with your comments edited out for time and profanity). Enjoy:

Your lucky numbers are 5, 7 and bored face emoticon.

Happy Father's Day, You Big Softies.

2011-06-19T10:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, my five-year old spent part of the afternoon in Clock Town, a fictional village in Nintendo's classic game Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask. She mostly just ran around and hit stuff with her sword: doors, trees, villagers. It made me realize two things. One, I should have taken her to the playground. Two, I made the right decision in naming her Zelda. We had been nervous about the name, as it outed us as the giant video-game dorks that we really are (and is there really anything wrong with being outed as who you are?), but it soon proved to be a crowd pleaser. Immediately, really. When we first took her to the NICU, her nurse was waiting for us, excited to meet her first Zelda.

We had told the nurse, as we tell everyone, that when we saw her tiny Betty-Boop chin, we just had to give her a 20s-style name. And for 20s-style names, we could only think of Daisy and Zelda. Being gamers we, of course, could never give our beautiful daughter the name Daisy. (It's hard to explain.) So we owned our dorkitude and gave her the name that connotes at once a beloved video game franchise and a flapper who died in the crazy house. With no regrets.

However, after learning that her cleft-palate and small chin and short tongue were all part of a birth *blergh* defect called Pierre Robin Sequence (pronounced Pee-air Roh-ban. It's French, bitches.), I was slightly bummed to know that her vintage look was not handed down from me, or even my husband, but was due to the fact that her embryonic self had gotten all comfy in the womb, with her chin tucked onto her chest and her tongue on the roof of her mouth. But only slightly. I had enough to worry about what with finding a cleft-palate bottle that would keep the baby fed and happy, not cause gas and could not be used as a formula squirt gun by said baby (as Meatloaf once eloquently, and possibly drunkenly, said, two out of three ain't bad).

And it seemed like as soon as she had graduated from formula to pizza, we had a whole other problem to worry about: speech. Since before she began to speak, she's had speech therapists. (She had more speech therapists than she had bottles, and she had a lot of bottles.) None of them, not even the cranio-facial team that managed to keep her fed and breathing (with the help of an oxygen tank that looked more like it belonged between Slim Picken's legs than next to the crib), had any idea why her speech was so *blergh* BAD. And now we need to worry about how long into the grammar school experience kids will be pointing at her and saying, "She sounds like she speaks Japanese."

We're hoping before second grade (or the age when all our adorable little sweeties turn into tortuous little monsters), but at our last visit to the Cranio-Facial clinic (after yet another head X-Ray, that Zelda decided to color pink because she must have pink bones) our hopes were tempered when they told us that the problem would either be solved with therapy or surgery, but they didn't know which and we should "hang in there". And like the proverbial kitten in the tree, that's what we've been doing.

The next day I came home from pre-k drop off to find my husband weepy and emotional. Big, manly tears of masculinity, I'm sure. I immediately blamed Facebook. Rightly so. He informed me that he had been crying for ten minutes straight about this video:

Yep. Big manly tears. I even shed a couple myself. A stupid video game commercial, yes but one that shows that Robin's (pronounced Raw-bin, it's American byatches) little baby Zelda (and proof of his own dorkitude) has grown into a beautiful young woman and even more beautifully into her name.

"Well this will cheer you up," I said. "Zelda took the pictures of her cleft and her head X-Ray to pre-school today. She asked her new speech therapist to help her tell everyone about how she was born with a cleft palate and how she couldn't suck when she was a baby and how her tongue was on the roof of her mouth when she was in my tummy."

"She's owning it," He gasped. More manly tears.

This morning, for Father's Day, even though she can't really pronounce "daddy", Zelda will be making her daddy pancakes and showing him how to play her new game: Link to the Past. There might be more manly tears.

The Problem with Kitty Cat Heaven

2011-06-13T17:07:00.000-07:00

When Snappy was a baby, I used to carry her around in a Baby Bjorn. She slept soundly, nestled between my boobs in a brazen, SIDS-defying face-down position. I took her everywhere. I even took her with me when I did my comedy walking tours--which had us trekking from Union Square to North Beach to Chinatown and back. She always returned home from those tours well-rested and with bright, red lip prints on her head from the old women who could not resist smooching the newborn who was helping to lead the tour.

Snappy and her kissable head.

Now the conventional mom-tip wisdom at the time would have me smacking the Clinique Parisian Red right off their presumptuous mouths lest they spread their deadly germs to my fragile baby. Thankfully for them, and for the tour company I worked for, I chose to follow my own instincts instead of the “wisdom” of the tiposphere. This attitude served me well when, at seven months, Snappy started to treat the Bjorn like her own personal bouncy house, jumping like a grasshopper from the moment she got in to the moment I kicked her happy little butt out due to the massive strain she was putting on my upper back. The poor thing, life was just too exciting to experience sitting still.

If I’d been a devotee of the Attachment School of parenting, I would’ve had to get on the message boards and ask everyone how to stop my baby from jumping in the Bjorn, and everyone would tell me that their baby never jumped in the Bjorn and was I sure I breastfed in public places enough? And then I would end up staying in the Family Bed until the kid was old enough to walk on a leash. But because I was a devotee only to my own instincts, I was able to quickly and confidently banish my little jumping bean from my bazooms and let her experience the world from the stroller. Sure, we got a wee bit of tude from the other Bjorn moms (which is my excuse for the snarky tone of this paragraph), but I solved our problem the best way I could in a way that made sense for my back and Snappy’s sense of adventure.

Still, parenting by the seat of your pants is not always easy. Recently, my nearly five-year old baby girl laid across my lap and looked up at me with big, fat tears in her sweet, blue eyes and said, “Do kids die, mom?” I was on my own. Although there were, I’m sure, volumes of clinically researched advice on how to talk to kids about death, none of these sage tomes could help me. I told her that yes, kids do die, but most of the time they didn’t because grown-ups worked so hard to keep them safe and healthy.

I would’ve immediately jumped up and run around the room, singing the Rocky Theme had she not followed up with a mournful “Am I going to die, mom?”

“Well…” Yeah? Well, Miss I-Don’t-Need-No-Parenting-Advice…well what?

“I don’t want to die, mom.”

Well there it was. She had just conjured up my own personal boogey man. She had uttered the fear that I had lived with since she was still breaking my back from the inside. The fear so painful and persistent that I would gladly give my right arm for a pill that could leave me with all my capacities intact, but would stop my brain from worrying about the ever growing, Gorey-esque list of all the things in the world that could kill my baby: everything from aluminum poisoning to old-lady germs to zoo-animal attacks.

“Well of course you are not going to die. Death is for suckers, not you.”

(SFX.)

Okay, I knew that was the wrong thing to say, but I also knew that this topic would be revisited at another time—hopefully when I was better prepared. And the next time I was. When my little crazy-cat-lady-in-training realized that the fact that some cats went to kitty cat heaven meant that all cats went to kitty cat heaven, even *sob* Ralph, her beloved big, fat fifteen-year-old tabby, I was ready. “I’ve got an idea, let’s take really good care of Ralph, so that he can be with us for a very, very long time.” I said, successfully getting the mournful wail down to a pensive whimper.

Not RALPH!

The next time, I was not prepared. It came out of nowhere. We were having our usual argument about who loves who more, when she suddenly started to cry. “Don’t die, mom. You can’t die!” I knew how she felt, I’d felt the same way, every time I was faced with how awesome it was to have a Snappy, I was immediately cold-cocked with how impossible life would be without her. I wanted to break down with her and cry about how painful it was to have something to lose, but I didn’t. Instead, I told her the same thing I needed to tell myself.

“Hey Snaps, I’ve got an idea. Let’s take care of each other so we can both be old ladies together. Won’t that be great? What shall we do when we’re old ladies? Shall we go on cruises and out for lunch? Shall we take a walking tour? I know! Let’s walk very slowly through intersections and drive people crazy. That’ll be fun.”

And that worked. Mostly. The other night, she handed me a kitten book she had when she was a baby and, with a glance at the Cat Heaven book she had bravely insisted on taking out of the library, said “let’s read a happy book tonight.”

Later, she came out of her room, sniffing back what was threatening to be a torrent of tears and told me, “we can’t be old together, mom.”

I looked at her and said, with conviction, “yes we can.”

“Ralph too?” She asked.

“Yes, Ralph, too.” I said with less conviction. “Now go back to bed.”

A girl and her beast.

She did, but I could tell that she didn’t believe that thing about “Ralph too”. Which was fine with me because I could tell she believed that thing about us being old together, which helped me to believe it. As long as we were stuck facing that stinky old boogeyman, it was kind of nice that we were facing him together.

Up yours, Boogeyman!

Memes for Moms

2011-06-08T18:42:00.000-07:00

We've all seen them. They're all over Facebook and Twitter. Snarkily captioned pop culture pics that are only marginal funny to anyone, but even less so to moms. (With the exception of this site dedicated to our favorite new princess, Kate) We just aren't the target audience. Until now. Now, because these were made in about five seconds, while my kid jumped on the couch...they are, admittedly, craptacular. I promise to make the next batch in a program other than paint.

Pink in Thinkin'

2011-02-01T13:43:00.000-08:00

My parental motto is basically my life motto, is borrowed from the movie Smokey and the Bandit and is as follows: eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin', we're gonna do what they say can't be done. In other words: keep on truckin', don't dawdle at the truck stops, join a convoy when you can and above all else: watch out for smokies. So far, this has served me well in keeping my head above the dark, immense waters of BS that come with having a kid in this day an age. (Another thing that helps is having a special needs child; you never see a special needs parent worrying about the sugar content of dried apricots or the political implications of the length of Dora's shorts, but that's for another blog.) But the other day, I saw something in the corner of my rear-view that caused me to pause, one foot lingered above the brake.

Cinderella met my daughter

The thing was a book called Cinderella Ate my Daughter by Peggy Orenstein. Now, admittedly, my expertise of this book is strictly limited to the quarter page review I read of it in the People Magazine I found at the gym, but that is not going to stop me from telling you exactly what I think of it and anyone who has jumped on its anti-pink bandwagon (have we learned nothing from Purpalicious?).

The pause I felt was due to three things: 1.) Feminism was condemning our girly culture, 2.) my daughter, on any given day, could be seen dressed head to toe in pink sparkles and tulle, rainbow painted fingernails embellished with flower decals, carrying a pink purse containing at least one lip gloss and one princess doll, and 3.) I am a feminist: a militant one (which basically means that I wear a watch that signals me it is time to suit-up and go throw a grenade at a frathouse/Girls Gone Wild offices/Fox News set by playing a midi version of I am Woman by Helen Reddy.)

Pinkalicious faces anti-pink discrimination

Supposedly the problem with Snappy's mountainous pile of Princess/mermaid/fairy/pink-for-the-sake-of-being-pink crap is that it all leads to Miley Cyrus fandom which, as we all know, leads directly to pole dancing on an ice cream wagon at the Teen Choice Awards and "forgetting" to wear underpants with mini-skirts. There might also have been something in there about it leading to anorexia as well, but considering that fact that exactly half of everything you could ever say, give to or put near your child will lead directly to anorexia and the other half leads to obesity, I think they just cancel each other out and can be ignored.

I decided, ultimately, (with the exception of writing this blog) to just ignore the whole thing for two main reasons: one because I remembered my long-standing endeavor to trust my own instincts and two because I did not want to spend every single Thanksgiving for the rest of my life apologizing to my grown daughter for throwing away her Aurora dolls when she was four.

Now it will be a long time until I can know if I'm doing the right thing, but I feel like trusting myself not to turn my daughter into a skanky ho as well as trusting my daughter not to let me turn her into a skanky ho has just got to be better than falling in line with the latest parental scare making the blog rounds. Still, that doesn't mean that I don't get brief glimpses of my impending success.

The other day, my mother-in-law sent my daughter a nightlight in the shape of a buxom, bootylicious pink and red-clad fairy. Snappy loved it, named her Rose Fairy and asked me to find a place to plug her in. I had to pull out a basket full of tutus, princess dresses and fairy wings, but I found the perfect corner outlet for Ms. Fairy. As she blazed forth in glittery glory, Snappy curled herself into a comfortable little ball on a perfectly child-sized patch of carpet (sullied only by a few minuscule scraps of tulle, feathers and rhinestones that had fallen from the basket) and stared lovingly at her newest decorative addition. I stood just outside of her diminutive domain and listened to her tell a story about the fairy that began, "a long time ago in a far, far away land...".

Hey, who knows? Maybe she'll be a famous writer, maybe she'll be a nail technician who specializes in rainbow nails but there is one thing that I know for sure: somewhere, out in the ephemeral reaches of a little girl's imagination lives a pleasantly plump fairy named Rose with a back story that the anti-pink patrol hasn't even considered and who will one day blow the Miley Cyruses of the world out of the water. And all I can say is "Go Rose! Go!"

You tell 'em, Pink!

Ophiuchus Daily Horoscope

2011-01-18T12:12:00.000-08:00

Well last week, my favorite astrological sign, mine, was hijacked. Some jerk sent out a link, a bunch of other jerks (myself included) forwarded that link and suddenly every Sagittarius born between November 29th and December 17th was this new sign, Ophiucus: the snake handler. Snake handler? How the heck do we go from The Archer, a guy who carries around a bow and arrow and, I assume, shoots other constellations, to a guy who touches icky things. Is that what happened? Did The Archer get busted for popping an arrow in Capricorn's ass? Fricking goat had it coming, I'm sure, and yet still we are the ones who are punished.

Yes, true or not, I consider even the implication that my sign might have possibly changed to be a punishment. Why? Because no one is writing a daily horoscope for Ophiucus (supposedly pronounced Oh-fee-you-kiss). What am I supposed to forget to read for months on end? How am I supposed to know what lottery numbers I should play in the unlikely event that I actually buy a lottery ticket? How am I supposed to know which days are good days to let my aura shine through for everyone to see? Am I supposed to guess? Screw that.

That's why I decided to take matters in my own hands and create my own Daily Horoscope for Ophiucus. First, though, I need to change the stupid symbol. Since the symbol for Ophiucus is supposedly a guy holding two snakes (Um...ew! What is he? Hill people?), I figure we can extrapolate that to be a guy with snakes for hands. Much cooler, huh? Yes, but I think it could be even cooler, while I'm calling the shots, how about we just turn our symbol into Bruce Campbell from Army of Darkness. Here, isn't this better:

Daily Horoscope for Ophiucus

After a week of feeling like you've been kicked in the tender parts, Ophiucus, things are starting to look up. Today you found a hilarious blog post that makes you feel better about your miserable life. Today would be a good day to let your aura shine, but for Christ's sake, don't let anyone see it. Today is also a good day to shoot zombies in the face, but come on, Ophiucus, isn't it always a good day for you to shoot zombies in the face? It is. Your lucky numbers are 5, 2 and a schwa with an umlaut.

There Ought to be a Law

2011-01-02T17:13:00.000-08:00

The other day, after a massive puddle jump in the parking lot, I led my soaking-wet kid into my Y and sheepishly explained to the young man at the desk that Snappy has always loved water and it was damn near impossible to keep her away from it. Uh. I don't know why I felt the need to explain myself to a 22 year old Y-employee. Maybe it's because we parents are used to so much constant scrutiny, judgmental comments and backhanded compliments that we end up automatically apologizing for everything that we do.

But the kid just smiled and said, "Actually, there's a law here in San Francisco that you can't stop a child from jumping in a puddle."

"Cool! So next time someone tells me that I'm an idiot for letting her get soaking wet in the middle of winter, I can threaten to call the cops?" I replied joyously. (It's not often that parents are told that they've done something right, so we tend to celebrate those moments a bit excessively. )

Back at home, a quick Google search proved that he was right. I found that particular strange law listed on a website called, aptly enough, Strange Laws, and while all the laws listed there were, in fact, strange, many of them make a strange kind of sense. For example: it's against the law in Massachusetts to put tomatoes in clam chowder. Well, duh! Massachusetts is no place for Manhattan clam chowder. In San Francisco it is illegal to pick up confetti on the ground and throw it back in the air. Yeah, that's just unsanitary. In Iowa, kisses may not last longer than five minutes. Good! After five minutes of making out, it's time to move on to something else--or take a cold shower. In Memphis, a woman may only drive a car if a man walks in front of her to warn other pedestrians and drivers. Brilliant! What better place for a male chauvinist pig than in front of the car of the very woman he is denigrating?

I've got an idea for a law that seems strange, but actually makes a lot of sense. It should be illegal to be self-righteous about your parenting skills. I would recommend a light punishment of course. I mean we all do it. We all say things like: "I would never do that!" Or the more obnoxious: "I'm glad we don't do that in our house." If they started hauling us all away, the prisons would be jammed!

I got this idea from a Babble blog called "In Our House There's No Santa Claus" by Krista Pfeiffer that was causing quite a bit of controversy for adding"lying" to your kid about Santa Claus to the latest in a long list of Parental No-Nos. Whatever. If you want to tell your kid that magical fairies fly out of their butt to deliver their waste to a poop-eating dragon that lives in the potty, that's your decision. If you want to read your toddler Grey's Anatomy every night, that's up to you. But Pfeiffer actually admitted to feeling self-righteous because she didn't use an Elf on the Shelf to control her kids at Christmas time.

I'm not saying she should be hauled off or that guys should be sent to her house, but she should get a hefty fine: 300 dollars or so. Self-righteousness does not belong in parenting! You know where it does belong? Olympic sports. Arm wrestling tournaments. How can you possibly be self-righteous about a job that has not been done yet? Unless you raised a president, what makes you think you have all the answers? Even if you did: shut up! George Washington's mom probably gave him hourly beatings and treated all his boo-boos with leeches, so who in the heck does she think she is? Until your children are grown (and not murderers), you should not be allowed to judge anyone.

Hmm. I think we might have to make an addendum that grandparents are not allowed to be self-righteous with the advice they give to their kids--no matter how well they turned out. Face it, Grandma, it's all the dumb mistakes you made that have led to your children doing stupid things like ruining Christmas for their kids by telling them there is no such thing as Santa Claus.

Oops. Good thing it's not a law. I'd be out 300 bucks.

Go to Karaokathon for Camp

2010-10-25T12:37:00.000-07:00

For her fourth birthday, my mother gave Snappy a plethora of Berenstain Bears books where the Bears Go places like the dentist, the doctor, school and in one particularly self-serving entry: Grandma's House. Snappy immediately gravitated towards Go to the Doctor, and used the skills that Sister used to brave the dreaded SHOT to get through her own set of ouchie stingies without so much as a tear.

It was a while before I even made it to Go to Camp, and at first, Snappy found the idea of a sleep-out at Skull Rock scary (scarier than Doctor Bear with a giant needle), so she would often ask me to stop half-way through. To help her get over her fear, I told her that her aunt and I had also gone to a camp similar to Grizzly Bob's when we were kids. I told her the story of our sleep-out night and how I had seen an owl in one of the trees on my way back to my cabin. After that, Snappy was brave again, and Go to Camp moved ahead of Go to the Doctor on the "Snappy's Favorite Bedtime Books" list.

So when Andrew from the Stonestown Y approached me and asked me to help raise some money for some of the various community programs the Y provides, such as the free senior center, as well as programs for underprivileged kids including Back-to-School backpacks and, yep, summer camp, I jumped at the chance. He started to explain the importance of these programs, but I stopped him with, "Oh I know how important the Y is, I went to Y Camp."

Although I know we did not always have very much, monetarily speaking, when I was a kid, there were times when I felt like I had everything, like those warm, summer mornings, sitting on a big yellow bus with my sister, a fluffernutter in a paper bag and whole day of rowing lessons and acorn-collecting ahead of me. And now, blahdiblah years later, when I get to do things like chase away my four-year-old's fears with a story about seeing an owl, chilling on a tree branch at a YMCA camp in Merrimack New Hampshire, I know that I had everything.

So that is why I'll be asking everyone to come out to the Dirty Trix Saloon at 408 Clement St in San Francisco on Tuesday, November 2nd at 8 pm for A Karaokathon for Camp!* All proceeds go to the Stonestown Y, who will be using it to give some local kids everything. If you can't make it out to sing with us, send me a line and I'll tell you how you can donate: easyriderblog@gmail.com Keep tabs on this event here.
*Thanks to my KJ Eileen and Lee at Dirty Trix for also jumping at the chance to help out the Y.

Letters to Toys I Hate: Part 1 Play Foam.

2010-10-21T11:36:00.000-07:00

Die, Play Foam! You suck. Look at you! With all your bright colors and irresistible squishy, sticky texture. You deserve to rot in a hellish corner of my closet, suffocating in the mounds of dust, hair and crumbs that you attracted to your sad excuse for a surface five seconds after I took you out of the package. But instead, I'm just going to throw you in the garbage while the kid is at preschool. Good-bye, Play Foam. Say hello to yesterday's coffee grounds and today's cat litter. You deserve each other.

Everything you've always wanted to know about the previous decade but forgot to ask.

2010-10-01T14:52:00.000-07:00

Has anyone noticed how many people are still writing 2009 instead of 2010? It seems excessive considering it's October. My theory is that we just can't believe that the decade is over, but it is, oh children, it is.

If the trajectory of my freelance career continues as is (and I sincerely hope it does not), I will one day be hired to write The Entire History of The Whole Fucking Universe for less than 10 bucks an hour. In honor of finally realizing that another decade has come and gone, here is what I will say about the Oughts!

On the decade called the Oughts, or The Naughty Oughts (to be truthful, no one called them the Oughts or the Naughty Oughts, but they didn’t really call them much of anything, so I’ll just call them the nasty, dirty, filthy naughty Oughts, or just The Oughts for short.)

In actuality, The Oughts (specifically the late Oughts) weren’t as much naughty as haughty! (Well, I guess that’s not really true, they weren’t so much haughty as narcissistically self-aware and self-promoting, but that doesn’t rhyme with anything.) At the beginning of the decade, America was the all about spending and showing. The most popular items or services were those that not only cost a lot of money, but also had the appearance of costing a lot of money. Early-oughters loved to shop, which wasn’t much different from previous (or future, for that matter) decades, but instead of trying to get the most from their money, buying the best bargain, early-oughters tried for the worst deal, the least for the most. They never bought anything on sale, if they did, it was purely by accident, and they hoped none of their friends would ever catch them doing that. Who cared if you spent 10,000 bucks on a toe ring, if no one saw you do it. It was like that whole tree in the forest thingie. Only in the oughts, it was more like: if you spend money and no one knows about it, is it really gone?

For example, nanny’s salaries were pretty consistent. There was pretty much a standard pay scale that most of them got, but the savvy Oughty parent would choose the nanny that looked the most expensive, the one that said, “I like to spend money.” So when given the choice between two nannies with the exact same experience and pay scale: one is Mexican, speaks fluent Spanish, English and a fair amount French, but is ten pounds overweight and often wears an old Madonna Truth or Dare Tour t-shirt to work while the other is French, speaks fluent French and a bit of English, is ten pounds underweight and willing to wear a uniform, the early to mid Ought parent would choose the French nanny because back then, in order of ostentation, France beat Mexico. (France, in this case, beat Spain as well because if you had a Spanish-speaking nanny, your neighbors would assume she was from Mexico, even if she had just gotten off a plane from Barcelona.)
The early Oughter wanted the other nannies at the playground to think, " Uniformed nannies? How retro! And French? Ooh la la! Tres cher!" The other nannies never thought this, of course, but were more likely to wonder where the foxy Latina got her genuine Truth or Dare tour t-shirt: those things were worth a fortune!

In 2007 two things happened that made everyone stop spending so much money: one, a democrat was elected president, and no one liked spending a lot of money in front of democrats, it just didn’t seem polite. And two, we ran out of money. It was bound to happen sooner or later. A lot of the people spending money during the oughts money weren’t spending actual money, they were spending credit. Credit has a weird habit of appearing smaller as it gets bigger. When you get your first credit card bill and it’s say, 45 dollars, you think, oh I should pay that forty-five bucks, I’ll pay it in the middle of the month when the rent isn’t due. Then, a few years and a few thousand dollar toe rings later, that number becomes more like forty-five thousand dollars. And you happen to make 13 dollars an hour as a receptionist at a company that exclusively makes expensive boxer shorts, and your rent is fourteen hundred dollars a month, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that no matter how long you lived, you would not be paying back that forty-five thousand bucks, so why even worry about it? Why not just throw another ten thousand dollar toe ring on the pile and while your at it, a thousand dollar cheeseburger? Eventually the credit card companies realized that they were ones footing the bill for all that stuff and no one had offered them so much as a French fry.

It was around that time that we saw the advent of the hipster (see also: Hipster, history and eradication of). Where the early oughter (also called The Spendster) liked to ostentatiously spend money, the hipster would ostentatiously not spend money.

Hipster exchanges often went like this:

“I found a bar last night that served 5 dollar pitchers of PBR.”

“Big deal. I found one that sold PBR on tap for 25cents.”

“Epic! After a couple of pitchers, the Taco Lady came in, and it was the end of the night, so all her tacos were cold and congealed, and she was selling them half off.”

“So? I stopped at the bacon-wrapped hot dog salesman at the corner of Mission and 22nd, and the dude dropped my hot dog on the sidewalk.”

“Gross. I puke on that sidewalk.”

“Yeah, but he gave me the hot dog for free as long as I promised not to tell anyone.”

“But you’re telling me.”

“I’m telling everyone, dude. I got drunk and fed for a buck seventy-five!”

“FTW!”

FTW is internet speak for “For the win” and someone who spoke it out loud in initial-form, with or without irony, was either a hipster or a douchebag or both. (People who were either a hipster or a douchebag did not know which one they were. It was kind of like how no one knows if they pronounce the first vowel sound of either and neither with a long I sound or a long E sound, and you can’t just listen to yourself speak because then you will be self-conscious and you might start talking with a British accent or something.) Internet Speak (made popular by websites that featured lol catz: pictures of cats so funny, they cause anyone who sees them to laugh out loud.) was very popular. So popular, it seemed like everyone was using it, and therefore that made it okay.

The late Oughts made it okay to not spend money, more impressively, it made it okay to not have money (even rich people didn’t have money). Just as importantly, they also made it okay to laugh out loud at cats, especially funny cats. It was as if we’d finally clued in to this whole Free to be You and Me thing 30 odd years later. This might have just been a passing I’m okay, you’re okay fad, if it were not for a Harvard drop-out by the name of Mark Zukerberg, a scrawny sandy-haired young man whose only interesting feature was a strange penchant for wearing shower shoes to the office (which does not seem strange at all when you realize that among other things, wearing shower shoes to places other than the shower was also deemed okay in the late-oughts).

In 2004 (when it was still not quite okay to wear shower shoes in public) Zuckerberg decided that it was also okay to tell everyone what you were doing at the exact time you were doing it. We’d been trying to do that for years, take the example of the ostentatious nanny or ostentatious sidewalk hot dog. But we couldn’t really tell EVERYONE about it. Until Facebook came along and suddenly, a generation that was in need of more warm fuzzies and fewer cold pricklies could suddenly brag about the fact that their Nanny needed the day off for Bastille Day or they've contracted tetanus from free street meat to everyone they knew at the same time. It left a lot of free time for doing things like eating food off the sidewalk, and fucking around on Facebook.

Soon after, Twitter came along and we could tell everyone, absolutely everyone everything. And because everything we did or thought was okay, we felt no qualms about revealing ourselves in 140 characters or less. We twittered EVERYTHING. Diarrhea? We tweeted it. Yelled at an old woman on the bus? Twatted. Found a funny picture of a cat? Spread it around so everyone can laugh out loud at it. Of course by now we are all painfully aware that all this tweeting and ostentatious meat-eating eventually led to the downfall of civilization, but at the time it was hilarious.

The Rainy Day Cardboard Princess Fairy Rocketship

2010-09-08T17:28:00.000-07:00

This is an oldie but a goodie. A few years ago I tackled a rainy day playdate with one cardboard box, some tissue paper, markers, curly ribbon, and glitter and fairy dust and what not, and this is what the little darlings created:

A Flyboat!

Happy Homemaking Tips for the Angry American

2010-04-01T10:04:00.000-07:00

Today, Easy Rider has a guest blogger: Fern Fergleson. I owe her money based on a bad bet I made back when I was positive that Bush would be a one-termer just like his dad. Fern is wanted in a few states, so she would only let me publish is this one photo of her cat, Limbaugh. Fern Fans can catch her in Road Trip to Pluto the SF Fringe Fest on Sept. 16th. She might be doing something with people, or pod people...I'm not sure which.

Hello America! How are ya? It’s me, your faithful patriot Fern Fergleson. Big news, Fern fans, I had to change the name of my podcast, “Tea Party” because me and the rest of my Tea Partiers just couldn’t get along. For one thing, they made their ham salad with light mayonnaise (and we all know light mayonnaise is a communist plot to lower the cost of health care by prematurely unclogging America’s arteries). For another, they are all strict anti-abortionists, while I firmly believe that abortions should be mandatory for all communist fetuses. Now, old Fernie is no dummy. I know that you can’t tell by a sonogram if a baby is going to be born a communist, but I know for a fact that an amniocentesis will show that kind of thing right away. You can’t hide pinko, not even in the womb. Sigh. Gosh, now the only members of my branch of the Tea Party are myself and my cat, Limbaugh (who is also pro-pinko-abortion and anti-light mayo). I call our new show, wait for it, dun duh daaaa!!! Tea for Two! How lol is that, Americans?

For now, the good folks here at Easy Rider have let me piggy-back on their weird little blog. Okay, it’s time for some happy homemaking tips! The other day, I received this troubling question:

Dear Fern,

I recently orchestrated a heinous, vicious, cold-hearted terrorist plot against our totalitarian government. How do I break the rap?

Sincerely,

Maligned in Michigan

Oh gosh, Maligned, I don’t know if I can help you. Ever since our presidency was stolen by an Arabian pinko-commie from Kenya with a forged birth certificate from a fake state (Hawaii? I don’t think so. American states have snow, Americans!), decent people who want to break the law to fight totalitarianism are suddenly treated like common criminals. It is so darned unfair. Those poopy-head pinkos will use any excuse to throw us real Americans in jail. I ask you, real America, what is worse: totalitarianism or killing totalitarians? Totalitarianism, by gosh! Now, I’m not sure what totalitarianism is, but I’m sure by-golly that it is killing our once great country just as surely as Ellen is going to kill American Idol!

Now this next question is one that Fern can actually answer because it’s about housekeeping: my specialty.

Dear Fern,

Spring cleaning time has rolled around again, but I’ve been too terrified to even start polishing my silver gravy service set. This whole thing started when those commie liberals passed their Armageddon-and-pork-ridden health care bill. How can I focus on cleaning when the world is going to end soon? Help!!!

Signed,

Messy in Massachusetts

Jeepers, Messy, I can tell by the three exclamation points that this spring cleaning fiasco has got you in quite a tizzy! Here’s a little happy homemaking hint: just throw your fine silver in the dishwasher with an open jar of Tarn X and wait. It comes out a different color every time: like a gumball machine. What fun!

Now I’m going to need you all you little Fernatics to just cool your jets about this health care bill. Here is what I know for sure about it:

1.    It is full of pork, and not the good kind like ham salad, but the bad kind like ham salad made with light mayo.
2.    It kills old people.
3.    It legally requires all American citizens to get an abortion, a gay marriage and a Toyota.

Here is what I don’t know for sure, but I can pretty much guess:

1.    It will cause milk to sour and wheat fields to wilt in fields across this great land.
2.    Its reflection can’t be seen in a mirror.
3.    It legally mandates fire, brimstone and frogs to fall from the sky and for a cloud of locusts to cover the earth.

So you see, Messy, there is plenty to be just scared spitless of, but if you’re going to die, wouldn’t you rather face your maker with sparkling silver? It’s like I always say, behind every filthy house is a hell-bound housekeeper.

Okay, I have time for one more letter. This next one is from my own home state of Minnesota! Go Vikings!

Hey Fern,

Was that you who broke into my house and left a needlepoint sampler, stitched with the words “Die, Baby Killer”, in my foyer? I’m sure it was. I just want you to know that I’m pressing charges.

Al Franken
U.S. Senator, Minnesota

Dear Commie in the Capitol,

First of all, that was not me, but if it was, I would be able to send all Fern fans who send me an email with the words “baby killer” in the subject line with their very own Die, Baby Killer needlepoint pattern (please include hoop size and name and address of the baby killer you would like to terrorize).

Second of all, I can see someone hasn’t been paying attention to America’s own blue-eyed messiah, Glenn Beck. Oh gosh, he just gets cuter and cuter the crazier you liberals make him. I mean, my, my! I’d let him lift my red white and blue apron anytime. Sigh. Where was I? Oh that’s right, if you would listen to Glenn hunky Beck you would know that you pinko commie liberals deserve everything that is coming to you because you are using totalitarian tactics and anyone who uses totalitarian tactics deserves a mailbox full of anthrax…and squirrels…radioactive squirrels with Swine flu. (Want to do it yourself, Fernatics? Gosh, just send me an email with the subject line “mailbox of death” and I’ll give you your own radioactive/flu-ridden squirrel recipe: high-altitude instructions included for all you mountain folk.)

Oh, and third of all, you have some nerve calling me a thief, Mr. Senate seat stealer, we are still waiting for our third re-count. Besides, if you didn’t want me to break into your house, why did you leave your windows breakable? Hmm?

Well, that’s all for Fern! I’ll leave you with this: a great American once said, when they crammed a health care bill down the throat of my neighbors, I said nothing because I really didn’t know them all that well and also because they leave their Christmas lights up past New Years. When they crammed a health care bill down the throat of my friend, I still said nothing because I was kind of tired from my gardening aerobics class. But when they crammed a health care bill down my own throat, I still didn’t say anything because I couldn’t talk with all that paper in my mouth.

What are you complaining about, drunky?

2010-02-23T14:25:00.001-08:00

I usually avoid going out on weekends and Monday holidays like Britney Spears avoids underpants*, but I decided to go to a playground in Noe Valley on President's Day. First of all, I really wanted to meet some out-of-town friends for a rare playdate and, second, I figured everyone would be busy celebrating at their local Toyota dealer, as is tradition in this country. I must have misjudged the economic repercussions of the whole gas-pedal-of-death thing because the playground was quite full. It wasn't so full that the girls couldn't have a good time, but it was full of people who don't normally go the playground.

At first, I was kind of glad to be surrounded by non-regulars because Snappy has developed quite the little rep as "The Kid Who Thinks Other People's Babies are Her Personal Baby Dolls and Will Not Hesitate to Undress and Redress Them" (I'll take this opportunity to apologize to the nannies and moms and dads of babies that my child has hurt/violated), but then Something Happened. The other moms and I were standing around, chatting about stuff that moms usually talk about like...I don't know...pop tarts and hot water bottles? Anyways, we were all chatting like we were on the Group W bench, when we heard a loud, aggro, slightly hung-over male voice say:

"Will the mom of the little boy banging on that pole please tell him to stop!"

It was at that point that we noticed that a little boy was banging on a pole...it wasn't like it wasn't loud, it was just that it melted into the noises that one expects (or should expect) at a busy playground on Gas Pedal of Death day. I looked from the little boy to the source of the complaint, a middle-aged man playing tennis (TENNIS!) on the adjacent court. I stared at him, befuddled beyond belief. It defied logic. Here was this guy, making a rhythmic, loud sound in a public place, complaining about someone else making a rhythmic, loud sound. Thankfully, one of the moms immediately told this guy that 1. he was crazy and 2. he could forget about it and 3. he was also really, really crazy. And then of course the mom of the little boy told him to stop because moms don't like it when their kids bother people, even stupid people who don't see that there is no difference between Thwap Thwap Thumpty Thwap and Bang Bang Bang.

I never really recovered from my shock and befuddlement to ask that tennis playing dude where the hell he got off--which is too bad because I'm still wondering--, but I it did make me think about all of the many other jerks who really have no business complaining:

Anyone who has ever walked drunkenly down a residential street at 3 am, loudly talking and/or complaining about "That One Ho at the Bar" should never, ever be allowed to complain about the crying baby at the restaurant/mall/wine bar. Sorry, but you did the crime, now do the time.
Anyone who has ever gotten on an airplane and then put their seat back so that they are, essentially, sitting in the lap of the person behind them and then leaving it like that for the duration of the flight is not allowed to complain about the kid kicking the back of their seat. Really? You don't like my daughter's Dora sneakers hitting your lower back? Well I don't like your dandruff falling onto my pretzels...so deal with it.
Anyone who has ever asked a women to show her tits at Mardis Gras in Nola, or at a motorcycle weekend or in a restaurant/mall/wine bar (or has ordered anything from the cretins over at Girls Gone Wild) has no business complaining about public breastfeeding. This is non-negotiable.
Anyone who has ever, during a night of drinking** and/or sushi bingeing, left bodily fluids (or good forbid solids) on a public sidewalk has no business complaining about parents who change diapers in public. Okay, yeah, I'm sure it's gross but so is stepping in chunks on your way to the bus stop in the morning.

I'm sure there's more...please leave them in the comments.

*For those of you expecting a balloon drop, this was actually only the 99th joke this blog has made about the fact that Britney Spears occasionally goes out sans poonani shield, but thanks for playing.

**Yes, I know there are two of these based on drunks, but, just like babies are just like little stoners (look at this pretty thing! No, don't eat it, just look at it!), little kids are like drunks...and we have to put up with them because, come on, we've all been there.

Maim Your TV: Or How Barbie's Little Sister Betrayed Me.

2010-01-19T10:32:00.000-08:00

I know a lot of people say that TV is bad for kids, and even worse for toddlers (because they think Elmo is real and that Dora really hears them when they yell back at her, and they are too young to get how really funny that is...ha, stupid toddlers), but you know what is worse? Living in a filthy house with a crazy mom, so I've always used the magic of TV to distract my little thunderball of energy from pulling all her clothes out of her bureau and throwing them around her room for the 5th time in one particular day. As she got older, its repetitive nature helped her with her speech and language issues, its inclusive fun-for-all entertainment created an even tighter bond with Pixie, her BFF, and its mind-numbing qualities distracted her from her everyday new-person-in-a-new-world fears.

The only problem with it is that one of her fears (besides public bathrooms and vacuum cleaners) could be random stuff that happens in cartoons. Now, I think most rational, self-preserving adults are afraid of public bathrooms, and anyone who's seen the Jaws bit from Mr Mom can relate to being scared spitless of vacuums, but the things in her cartoons that frighten her seem strange and arbitrary. There's the flying V in Sesame Street, a firefighter episode of Wow Wow Wubzy, the opening scene of Toot and Puddle, a rocket ship going up, up, up and then down, down, down in Yo Gabba Gabba, a bathtub scene in little bear and about half the crap that goes on in Dora and Diego. I didn't know why, but every time an offending episode came on, she would either cry or run out of her room and hide under her blanket. We kept a running mental list of the scary badness and used the power of Tivo to avoid them. For awhile, that worked perfectly, Snappy got to watch TV, and we all got to live in a fairly neat and sane house.

Then, IT happened. We were in Tahoe on vacation. Snappy was a little off her game, in a new place, experiencing a new season and was in bad need of distraction. Our first morning there, we had planned on going out to play in the snow right after an in-room breakfast of yogurt and Cheerios, and Snappy was anxious and wanted to skip the breakfast altogether. Then, joy of joys, I found an episode of her new favorite show, Little Einsteins (a show designed to embarrass us all by making preschoolers smarter than their parents) on the hotel TV, we were both stoked beyond stoked at this development and settled in for a wonderful, relaxing start to our busy day. I busted out the laptop and logged onto Facebook while Snappy ate her cereal and watched Quincy play Swan Lake on a bunch of floating instruments.

Now sure, a small child with a giant harp flying around his head combined with the melancholy key of E minor (I guess...who knows, they didn't have Little Einsteins when I was a kid), can be a bit creepy, but Snappy found it down-right traumatizing, so much so that I actually grabbed for my cellphone, thinking that her piercing "help me" scream was surely a sign of internal bleeding or a brain tumor. But no, it was just freaking Quincy and his freaking flying harp. Snappy clawed at the door, I shut the TV cabinet and we finished getting dressed in the elevator. For the rest of the weekend there was no TV. No distractions for any of us, and at the end of a long day in Tahoe, sometimes distractions are pretty darn nice.

But no, she wouldn't have it. The show had scared her so much, she was afraid of the television itself. If it weren't for that cabinet, I would've had to wheel the damn thing out into the hall like they did at the end of Poltergeist. When we got home, Snappy was done with all of it. Sesame Street, Blues Clues and Ni Hao Kai -Lan were dead to her. There was no more Yo Gabba Gabba, no more Little Bear, no Wonder Pets or Wow Wubzy, her Backyardigan DVDs sat, collecting dust and the season pass of Pinky Dinky Doo continued to record and delete, unwatched. Little Einsteins was not even discussed, except occasionally in furtive, trembling whispers and even then it was referred to as The Abomination.

Luckily, this was around Christmas and she was soon to receive the greatest distraction ever made by man or nature: a three-story dollhouse with a porch and an elevator. It was an even better distraction than television. She could spend hours in her room, listening to the pop radio station and whirling her princesses and Pink Girl among the floors, re-enacting scenes from Disney movies she used to watch and the Knuffle Bunny books she still read. Joy of joys! I was able to clean again, and not just clean, but organize. One day, while I was cleaning out the DVD cabinet, I found an old dvd someone had given me when Snappy was a baby. It had come free with something or another. I remember thinking I would probably end up throwing the darned thing out before Snappy would watch something called "Kelly Dream Club". It just looked so stupid. Look at it:

But then Pixie came by for a rainy day visit. The dollhouse was not easily shared, and craft projects seemed to only last a matter of seconds. I was desperate. I popped Kelly Dream Club into the PS2 and the girls were zombified in an instant. It was about little girls who had lockets that granted wishes, and being little girls, they wished for two things: 1. to find out what it is like to be fairies and 2. to find out what it is like to be princesses. What else is there besides fairies and princesses? Nothing, according to Pixie and the Snaps, they watched it twice in a row without flinching. It had no conflict, no creepy music and (joy of freaking joys) no flying harps.

The next time Pixie came over, they didn't even watch Kelly Dream Club, they played Kelly Dream Club. Which sounds complicated, but consisted solely of dressing up in little princess and/or fairy outfits and running around until Snappy would yell, "Keeya!" in a voice that clearly said "I am Kelly and I am having an adventure with my best friend, Keeya". Then Pixie would reply "Yes!" in a voice that clearly said "I am Keeya and I am having an adventure with my best friend, Kelly". Considering that my childhood games of Charlie's Angels was just a bunch of little girls running down the driveway, falling and yelling "Bosley!", it was impressively complex and nuanced by comparison.

After listening to the impassioned shouts of "Keeya!" and "Yes!" for over an hour, I realized that this Kelly Dream Club thing was a bone fide phenomenon. I Googled it and immediately found out the WORST NEWS EVER. First of all, Kelly is Barbie's little sister, which is not the worst news ever, but it's still pretty bad. I mean, what happened to Skipper? Did they give her up for adoption? Who knows, but the Worst Thing Ever is that Kelly has gone the way of Skipper. Yep. She's gone to the great Malibu Dream House in the sky. Curse you Mattel! Now I can not spend too much money for Kelly Dream Club dolls or bed sheets or dress-up clothes or even a new Kelly Dream Club DVD. I should have seen it coming. Stupid Mattel. You blew your wad on the first DVD. Where else do you go after fairies and princesses? Nowhere. I was mad. I wanted to burn all of their factories down.

But perhaps, just perhaps, I was over-reacting. Because yesterday, while Snappy was playing "one princess gets caught in a cage and then another princess saves her" in her dollhouse, I re-organized her room, re-arranging the clothes in her drawers and re-purposing her changing table as a bookshelf. An hour later, I walked in to find that she had thrown said clothes and books around her room. I called her in, "sorry, Mum!" she chirped. I gave her a stern talking to and made her help me pick up everything and put it back. While we were working, her favorite Weezer song came on the radio and she sang along, dancing while she threw the clothes back in her drawers. Okay, Mattel. You just got lucky.

Hate on Haters...Wherever You Are.

2010-01-04T18:22:00.000-08:00

It's a riddle that has confounded philosophers for ages: if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to see it, does it make a sound? Maybe. But a better question might be, if a hater never leaves the confines of the World Wide Web, should we really give a flying fark about him and his hate? This is the conundrum I faced recently when a mom friend of mine sent me a purportedly enraging link to a Salon.com article by Lynne Harris called "Everybody Hates Mommy." Get it, like Everybody Loves Raymond only...well, I'm sure you get it.

But I kid, I kid. The article made some valid points about whether or not modern day moms are unfairly maligned and stereo-typed. I agree that moms deserve tons of respect. Heck, I think everyone should call their mom daily, and send bi-weekly muffin baskets, to thank her just for taking the time to push your selfish, giant head out of her lady bits. (I also think it's high time Hallmark came out with a card specific to that sort of thing.) However, the evidence of this hate was gleaned mostly from online comments. And that's where I have a problem with the article. Sure, I'm all for sticking up for moms (and dads), but do we really need it? I mean, aside from a few random crazies and whackos, do any of these online mom-haters ever take their hate offline?

I, personally, in real-life, have never been called a selfish, entitled, stroller-nazi, breeder scum. And I've been one...um...a mom that is...for 3 1/2 years now. I've never been yelled at on an airplane, I've never been given attitude at a coffee shop and I've never gotten a tongue lashing at a diner. Nope, my daughter and I are allowed to roam freely, without reproach wherever we choose to go. So...my question is, why should we care about online jerks? I mean if we walked by a pack of surly teens, loitering outside the 7-11, we wouldn't expect them to stop what they're not doing to come and hold the door for us, would we? No, we would expect them to mumble (and possibly even yell) something dirty and derogatory about us or our body parts. So why, when those very same surly teens take the time to get a screen name and click on the "comment" link, do we give them more power?

Ha Ha! Made you self-conscious!

I have no idea, but we do. A short time after the mommy-hating article came out, a friend of mine admitted that, after some online backlash had gotten particular nasty, he had actually been afraid to leave the house with his toddler for a few days. At first, I was surprised. I told him he shouldn't give a sweet crap what a bunch of online jerks and, if he had gone out, he would have found that people would smile and wave at him and his result of his selfish breeding...heck, some nice person would probably even hold the door open for them at the 7-11. But then I remembered a time when I decided to take Snappy to be studied for science in the hippiest place on earth, Berkeley.

I was scared. I had a baby who was unable to breast feed, but also needed to be fed every two hours, and that would mean bottles...of formula...in public...in Berkeley. Because of the hate I saw online, I was afraid that lactivistas would scream things like "breast hater" and "baby killer" every time I whipped out the bottle. I practiced my calm yet snarky explanations of cleft palate and how hard it is to suck through a straw with a hole in it, as well as a running count of the time, in hours, minutes and seconds, that I had chained my stupid self to a hospital-grade pump in a vain attempt to get my milk to come in. I was prepared for the onslaught. And, guess what? No onslaught. Not only did no one scream at me for bottle feeding in Berkeley, they didn't do it in San Francisco or New Hampshire or anywhere else I gave my precious little angel ounces upon ounces of Devil's Teat Juice (aka Safeway O Organics brand formula).**

It's time we took back the day (stroller-nazis don't go out at night). Fair is fair. Eye of the tiger and all that. It's time all us stinky, entitled, selfish breeders stopped caring about what a bunch of Jimbos and Nelsons think about us, and go out into the real world (the place, not the reality show) and live our lives as if no one is watching. Because no one is, and if they are...F them.

*i love this picture. I found it on the web. I will gladly give credit to the creator.

**yep. I know the whack-job lactivistas are going come out of the woodwork to comment on this post of this usually un-commented upon blog, but I promise to only publish those comments from whack-jobs who have clearly read this post. Show your work, whackos.

Salmonella Punch: Another in the "Blogs About Blog Comments" Theme.

2009-11-13T17:35:00.000-08:00

It seems strange to be blogging about a comment left in a blog (Easy Rider or another one), but as I've mentioned, I enrolled in National Novel Writing Month, and I'm trying to save myself, and my word count, for that. Besides, I've blogged about comments I've left in The Poop before. I like to consider them my sister blog...my much more popular and professional sister (the bitch). Also, what The Poop did today was pretty epic, and I think someone should say something about it. And since Updike is sadly no longer with us, I nominate myself.

See, The Poop is not your momma's parenting blog. It's a bit different in that, despite its large comment count (ahem), it tries to act as a non-judgmental, non controversial place for parents to weigh in on The Lighter Side of parenting. Every once in awhile, the trolls come in and spoil the party and the very next post is designated a Sunshine and Rainbows blog...usually (usually) about a topic so uncontroversial that the trolls have no choice but to stay away. Ah...it's like a big cyber breath of fresh air.

Well, I guess the trolls have been getting a bit rowdy lately because Poop Poobah, Peter Hartlaub, announced Troll Appreciation Day, secretly (the little minx) through Facebook, with the following status update:

The Troll Appreciation Day code of conduct is on the discussion board. In short, Troll Appreciation Day is tomorrow (Friday) morning. The troll post will be the one that goes up in the 7 a.m. range. Please comment as if you were a troll. Don't write anything that will get you banned for life or attack anyone who's not in on the joke. Be creative (not a problem on this blog) and have fun! -Peter

He then wrote a blog about puppies and balloons and how great it is to raise kids in the Bay Area...you know, stuff that is sure to get the trolls riled up. I had to run out to the playground, but I quickly channeled my inner troll (I have quite the cantankerous side) and wrote this:

First of all, will you please stop calling it the Bay Area, no one actually from the Bay Area calls it the Bay area. Gawd! You make me want to find you, and punch you in the back of the head...and then run. I'm sure I will escape because I can tell by the way you write that you are not very fast.

That said I can find many problems with your "supposed" top 4. (Also, why 4? The magic number is 3. Next time, be succinct.)

1. Puppies and balloons? Are you crazy? Do you not know what puppies and balloons carry? Salmonella. Especially balloons. Jeez.

2. Oh for the love of Krishna, do NOT take your kids to the Farmer's Market. Everyone knows that the first thing a child will do when faced with a large amount of produce is to start throwing stuff. Especially the melons and pumpkins. --And all that smashed melon and pumpkin pulp on the sidewalk is a breeding ground for salmonella.

3. Are you serious? You really want to put your kids in a CAR? A CAR? Oh my GAAAWWWD! Are you really that stupid? The first thing kids do when they get into a car is they start throwing things. And god help you if you've actually had the unbelievable DUMBNESS to drive your kid to the pumpkin patch. There is NO WAY you will be able to see out your window with pumpkin pulp all over it. You think that S-Curve is tricky now? Just try it while trying to peek out through a hole in the pumpkin guts. You can't. You will cause a 12 car pile-up on the Bay Bridge. Oh and I know you are such a bleeding-bleeping-heart liberal that you will actually get out of your car and try to HELP the victims. Well guess what...that victim? He's got salmonella. And now, so do you. Congratulations, moron.

4. (I still can't believe you need 4! You are so verbose, you should be shot.) TV!?! Oh for the love of Glen-Beck-splayed-on-a-cross!!!!! Did it not occur to your tiny, Jim Beam-pickled brain that the FIRST, the absolute, very FIRST thing kids do when they watch TV is throw things!!!????!!!! And what is the first thing they are going to grab? Go ahead, guess...I'll wait. What's that? A remote? Sure, maybe, but isn't there something else...even closer? An old shoe? Of course, I should've figured you for a bad housekeeper, no...guess again. Popcorn! Brava, princess! Popcorn. And where do we get popcorn from, Agatha Christie? C-c-c-c-....Corn. That's right, Nancy Drew. Corn. And who likes to eat corn, Trixie Belden? No. No. No. No!!!! You'll never get it, female Bobsey Twin, so I'll just tell you: Chickens. And what disease do chickens spread? Claw and beak disease, very good Scarecrow and Mrs King! And what else, yes, Miss Marple, that's right...SALMONELLA!!! But you never even thought of that, did you you bald Charlie's Angel? No. Moron.

Oh that is it. I'm coming down there. Prepare the back of your head to be punched. Better yet, no, don't prepare, I want it to be a surprise. You know what, before I punch you, I'm going to treat my hand with Purell. And by Purell, I mean salmonella! Surprise!!!

After 192 comments, some from people in on the gag (all of them hilarious, Poop fans are straight-up funny mf-ers!), some not, and quite a few actual trolls, Peter declared Troll Appreciation Day a success! And I agree. I couldn't be more pleased...and I'll say, I was even more pleased to see that Mr Hartlaub had the decency to post the following picture:

You are on notice, Trolls! Be good or beware the Salmonella punch!

Hey, New York Times...where's your comment?

2009-11-09T17:16:00.000-08:00

Oh my holy Jeebus, you guys! Easy Rider finally got a comment from someone that was not one of my friends (you all know who you are. Shout out!). All I had to do was throw out a bunch of wild accusations and unfair criticisms against people I don't know, while listing their full names in my last post.

I'm shocked. I wasn't expecting this. I'd like to thank my parents for my snarky sense of humor, Google, of course, The New York Times writer, Hilary Stout for writing the ridiculously bad article in the first place, and oh...I can't forget to thank Devra Renner, co-author of Mommy Guilt, and innocent by-stander in the indignant rage bomb the fore-mentioned article set off.

Devra commented because in my post "An Open Letter to the New York Times", I called out her co-author, Aviva Pflock (come on, Aviva...no comment from you? I made fun of your name, fer gawds sake...what am I three?) for being quoted as saying, about parental yelling, "“What blew us away about that is that the one thing you really have ultimate control over is the tone of your voice.” Devra claims that the tone of Times article was not in line with her "tough-titty" Brooklyn-stlye of parenting, but she seemed a bit miffed that I called her Mommy Guilt a "stupid parenting book" or something like that. Poor Devra isn't familiar with my twisted sense of humor, and I hope she knows that I was trying to poke fun of myself and my lazy journalistic style by calling a book I had admittedly never read "stupid".

What is not stupid is their Parentopia blog post in response to being "featured" in the New York Times. It contains actual solutions, without condemnation, to the problems that cause the yelling in the first place--something you will not find in Stout's article. It also contains (I'm assuming) well-researched assertions, and dignified journalistic integrity--things you will NOT find here.

Well, I'm knee-deep in the weeds with this stupid (just kidding) National Novel Writing Month thing, so I won't be writing much more this month, but I want to just quickly thank Devra for her comment, and for offering me a copy of her book, even though she probably suspects I won't read it.

I'd also like to say that I assume that Kathy Griffin is secretly married to Perez Hilton. And that once a month or so, Oprah Winfrey chooses one Harpo employee to publicly flog. And that Bill Gates is the one who gave Ellen DeGeneres the swine flu. Poor Ellen, and just weeks after she got over that broken clavicle she got in that bar fight with Johnny Depp.

An Open Letter to the NY Times

2009-10-24T11:42:00.000-07:00

Dear NY Times,

In the immortal words of Michael and his sister Janet, "you make me want to scream." First you publish an article telling parents that we are not allowed to give our kids time-outs, and your reasoning for this seems to be as follows: because kids don't like them. Okay, fine. I'll let that slide. Maybe you've never been upclose to a misbehaving child before. Or maybe you are unfamiliar with the term "tough noogies". It happens, especially to people who can afford live-in nannies. But then you have the nerve (the nerve!) to publish an article called "For Some Parents, Shouting is the New Spanking," written by one Hilary Stout.

When I first saw the title of Stout's article, I was proud, proud of you, NY Times. I thought you were actually running a mea culpa piece, apologizing for taking away the last weapon in parents' arsenals, leaving us no choice but to become banshees, howling impotently while our ghostly hands flail pathetically, unable to connect with earthly butts. The first paragraph seemed to back this up, as it chronicled Jackie, a child-development-book reading mom who's idea of discipline is saying things like "You're making bad choices." Occasionally, and the end of a long day, Jackie yells things like, "“This is ridiculous! I’ve been doing things all day for you!” And then the Catholic Church decided to canonize her prehomously.

So far so good, Stout goes on to remind us that even dear old Dr. Spock admits that occasional shouting is "inevitable". So it seems that St Jackie is Spock approved. But soon, the tone of the article gets dark. First, she quotes Aviva Pflock (I'm assuming either the "P" or the "F" is silent), the writer of a stupid (I'm also assuming) child-development book that supposedly reduces "mommy guilt" as saying, “What blew us away about that is that the one thing you really have ultimate control over is the tone of your voice.” I have no idea if Pflock has kids, but if she does, I'm sure none of them has ever walked up to her and pinched her boob. Because if they had, she would know that "ultimate" and "control" are words you should not throw around willy-nilly when talking about parenting small children.

But then it gets worse, remember those studies they did to prove that spanking is bad...oh-so bad....bad like Arnold Schwarzenagger as Mr. Freeze bad? Bad as Arnold Schwarzenagger as Governor of California ba-aaaaaaa-d? And now, anyone who spanks their kid is no better than a pedophile or the hamburglar? Well, apparently some over-educated jerk named Murray A. Straus has decided to do a similar study on yelling and says this of yelling, "...it affects a child. If someone yelled at you at work, you’d find that pretty jarring. We don’t apply that standard to children.” What? Jarred? We can't jar our children? Scar...sure, I understand that...but jar? What's wrong with that? Hey NY Times, maybe the idea of getting yelled at at work wouldn't be quite so jarring if we had been yelled at at home.

This quote made me realize two things, 1. Straus has never worked in a restaurant and 2. That according to you, NY Times, we were not supposed to be impressed with Jackie, we are not even supposed to feel sorry for her, we are supposed to tsk tsk her for the horrible crime of yelling at a child. Uck Ooh, NY Times. The reason we are yelling is because we have nothing left to do. You, NY Times, and your child-development-book writing friends have stripped us of all weapons and armor right before the big cage match. We are left with two choices, pull a Kanobi and bow to Darth Vader's light saber...or scream.

Now we're not allowed to yell at our kids? Really? Well-played NY Times. Well played. I suppose you think you've left us with the Kanobi option, right? Wrong. I used to scream at my daughter. I figured that I would one day just slip it in to our "you're becoming a woman" talk. As in: "And that's why mommy yells at you once a month." But now, I really do have control over the tone of my voice because I have control over my kid. Not total control, of course, my kid would never allow that to happen, but I don't feel like the only one in the Thunderdome without a mace and a motorcycle. That's because I stopped listening to you idiots and started taking control of my own child. Whoa, put down that phone, NY Times. I didn't say spank. No, I don't spank, but I say "No", I give her time outs, I raise my voice, I take away treats, I take away toys, I remind her often that I am the parent and she is the kid. In other words, I parent. It seems weird, right? To use that word as a verb...when according to you, NY Times, we are supposed to do nothing but read all your condescending articles and all the completely useless books and feel guilty.

I have just one more thing to say to you, NY Times, on behalf of every parent that has ever yelled at their kid: Don't just stand there, staring, NY Times! Help us!

Time-out from Parenting Tips

2009-09-21T11:10:00.000-07:00

When I was first knocked-up, I felt as though I'd just gotten a job after lying on my resume. I was horribly under-qualified, and I couldn't tell anyone. So, my husband and I took a baby care class or three. I learned that babies cry a lot and should not sit around in a dirty diaper. A lovely couple taking the class told everyone about this great series of books and dvds they were studying called The Happiest Baby on the Block . Apparently it was quite eye-opening. I remember thinking, "Series? DVDs? That sounds like an expensive purchase for an expectant couple. What if their baby turns out to actually be the happiest baby on the block? They just blew a bunch of time and money for nothing." This from the girl who just blew 150 bucks so she could find out which end of the baby to put the diaper on, but still, it made me think about how necessary this whole Parenting Advice business really was.

Now what?

Not that I went cold turkey on the tips, or even cut back, really. I read all the magazines, blogs, books and joined all the boards and three mom's groups. I filled my Tivo with parenting shows from TLC and Discovery Health. One of them was so dumbed-down, that when my mother saw the title in my show list she said, "Surviving Motherhood? What the hell?" Um...yeah, I guess I don't really need a half-hour weekly show to tell me how to survive motherhood....right?

Right. But still, I kept right on watching and reading and joining. Then one day, when Snappy was about a year old, I read an article in one of the parenting magazines (it might have even been Parenting) that talked about creating memories. The author suggested that after going on a trip to the zoo, you should talk to your kids about the experience, asking questions like "what was your favorite animal?" and so forth. Something in me snapped. These jokers had gone too far. Now they were telling me how to talk to my kid about our trip to the freaking zoo? First of all, what did she think I was going to do: get into the car and say, "okay Snappy, our trip to the zoo is over. Let's never speak of it again."? And secondly, did I really need someone to tell me how to talk to my kid?

Who are you calling an idiot? Oh, and can I get even quicker and easier ways to bond with my newborn? I'm short on time.

I saw two problems with all this advice: one, it undermined the greatest tool in a parent's arsenal: our own intuition. Parents were not encouraged to be confident, but instead encouraged to ignore that little voice inside of them and do whatever Dr. Sears told them to do. My own "little voice" had been able to get me through having a baby with Pierre Robin (a condition my pediatrician hadn't even heard of) who the F did I think I was, doubting it on subjects like "To Rock or Not to Rock? How to Put Your Baby to Sleep with Only a Few Hours of Horrific Crying" and "Pacifiers: Mother's Little Helpers or Devil's Playthings?"?

Two: it left no room for individualism, creativity, following-the-beat-of-your-own-drum and other bastions of a well-rounded society. I worried that we were becoming an overly-advised, under-empowered country of follower parents. What would the next generation be like if they were all fed and disciplined the same way; if their parents all said the same things; if they made them all the same sugar-free, gluten-free caterpillar cupcake sculptures for their second birthdays? I imagined something out of a Sci-Fi movie: mind-control, pod people and short-circuiting housewives.

In the future, we will all have hair like this.

I went cold turkey. I got rid of all the magazines, quit all the boards, stopped buying books and quit the moms groups. Somehow, without the constant barrage of advice, I managed to keep my kid happy and healthy for two years. Not that I don't have help. I have my mom, my aunts, my dad, a few friends back east who beat me to the baby train and I kept one mom's group. (Even the most confident mom needs a mom's group, right?.) Speaking of the mom's group, I noticed the change in them, as well. They stopped saying things like "I heard..." and "I read..." and started saying things like "I do this..." and "I think that..." with all the confidence of a parent who truly believes that they are the only person who knows what is best for their own kid. Maybe there was hope for humankind after all!

And then I read this ridiculously condescending article in the NY Times. Oh, I have much to say about that, but let's save that for the next blog.

To be continued...

First Haircut for a Budding Glamour-puss

2009-08-25T11:13:00.000-07:00

Okay. I'm going to admit that I used to assume that all those 5 Star reviews on Yelp for Rick's and Dick's Barber Shops and Financial District types shelling out a whole 13 bucks for a cut and a shave was yet another way for the yups to overly-romanticize a working class institution. I mean, yes, we all rooted for Ice Cube in Barbershop. (And who wouldn't root for Ice Cube...with his therefore beauty mark? It's like his face just made a sound argument....for being good-looking!) It's the little twinkle these Ivy Leaguers get in their eyes when they wax on and wax off a little too poetically about the swearing and Playboys and domino games and baseball...it just smacks of safari to me. I've learned, however, that while it is true that rich people do, in fact, enjoy slumming it, barbershops, like tidy whities and The Three Stooges, is a Dude Thing that I will never understand.

The only barbershop I can get behind.

I also realized that beauty salons, and all the primping, curling and shimmery opalescence that goes with them is a Girl Thing. And Girl Things begin at an early age.

Even less happy than she looks.

See, my haircutting skills aren't stellar, or even decent. So when Snappy turned 3, I gave in and brought my long-haired stranger-hater to Kids Kuts. She sat in an Elmo-sticker covered car and squirmed and cried most of the way through the ordeal. Then, at the end, the stylist offered glitter and clips. Snappy picked out red glitter and white clips and sat, primly, expectantly, like a little princess while these implements of glamour were applied. I saw, in that moment, many trips to the mani-pedi place in our future...I hope we'll still go to Mitchell's for gummi bear sundaes after.

How about the Funky Funky Freak-outs?

2009-08-25T10:58:00.000-07:00

I'll admit when I first saw the now ubiquitous commercial for The Jump-a-Rounds on Nickelodeon, I had many questions, "What fresh hell is this? Has our culture not advanced one millimeter since Kids Incorporated? And why the hell is the WHITE GUY rapping?"

Check it. Kiki is playing a barre chord! I'll bet Miley can't do that.

As Nick began its Orwellian bombardment of the mid-day airwaves over the last 3 months or so, I noticed that Snappy was paying attention. This kid who just a few weeks ago was obsessed with all things Baby Jaguar and Max and Ruby, suddenly knew all the names of this mystery band. She continued to call them The Jump-Arounds even after Nick clunkily and, clearly under legal obligation, changed the name to the Fresh Beat Band. She excitedly announced that "Aw, Kiki looks just like me!" and then decided Marina looked just like her bff, an adorable 3 year-old who looks nothing like Marina. I was...hmm...I think "joyous" is the word. Here was my kid, steeped in youthful optimism, identifying with a singing/dancing/guitar-playing pop princess. The whole thing just screamed Fun with a capitol F.

That's when I began to soften on this whole Jump-Arounds/Fresh Beat Band. Yeah, yeah. I know, I should be railing at this whole Tweenization of America thing, and I do, every time I see Billy Ray smiling with parental pride while his 16 year-old grinds her under-aged goods on a stripper pole on national television. Maybe I've been brainwashed, but I think The Fresh Beats are really kind of funky and not bad and, come on, those songs are beyond ridiculously catchy. Right? And really, Twist isn't a horrible rapper, no worse than Vanilla Ice. Besides, Shout has a kind of Ben Vareen, Broadway style that doesn't lend itself to rapping. Additionally, although Snappy thinks I'm a genius guitar player, I'm not and I can't play the violin, making Kiki a much better musical role model for my little budding rock star.

Okay, so definitely I have been brainwashed, but if I can possibly use Snap's love of the dance breaks in this show to get her to agree to attend the Little Twirlers dance class at the Y (while I zone out to my Ipod on the eliptical in the next room), then I hope the brainwashing never ends. Or gets canceled. But come on...The Fresh Beats? Could we come up with something less lame? How about Tweenation? Or The Sugar Pops? You know...something that might be bad for you, but who cares because it tastes so damn good?

The Business of Baby Naming

2009-05-09T10:13:00.000-07:00

I really do think I missed my calling. I should've been a professional baby namer. I'd show up at the expectant couple's home, light some candles, burn some incense, spread maple syrup on the prego belly, while chanting some nonsense words I got from a Steve Martin movie. All that voodoo uhuhmulmahey crap would just be for show, of course, because I've got this whole baby-naming business down to a science.

When I was pregnant, my husband and I made a list of possible baby names that adhered to a strict set of rules:

1. No cross-gender names.
That meant names like Chris, Bobby and Billy Jo were right out.

2. No hard to spell or pronounce names.
I didn't want my daughter correcting people for the rest of her life, I'm sure she will have better things to do on her way to becoming the first Olympic-medal-winning doctor turned rock-star to be elected President.

3. No names in the Top 50 Baby Names.
My kid was not going to be Emma #6 or Izzy #12 in her kindergarten class.

When it came time to actually give birth to this politically-blessed medical and musical genius, we brought the list to the hospital. We looked at our gorgeous girl. She had big cheeks, a small chin and a perfect bow of a mouth. "She looks like a 1920's beauty queen!" I exclaimed. Sadly, none of the names on our list fit that description. I quickly added Betty, Daisy and Alma to the list. But...did they fit my rules? I wasn't sure. I was still in an epidural haze, and a bit shell shocked from the whole perfectly-healthy-baby with a cleft palate thing.

There was pressure. The people down at City Hall were calling. What was her name? We still didn't know. I told my sister, "I need a 1920's name." She blurted out, "Like Zelda." Yes, just like that...only that was a name that had been left off the list because it was too close to the name of a popular video game that her father and I liked to play. Namely, Nintendo's The Legend of Zelda. Still, it fit. It fit the rules and my brand new little flapper's amazingly beautiful face. (Beautiful, but not perfect...she was born with little red stork bites, one of them right above her lip that looked oddly like a little red Hitler mustache.)

So, on the day we were leaving, breast-pumps were being brought in. The scare of jaundice, and our week long NICU stay and subsequent Pierre Robin diagnosis (the small Betty-Boop chin would be part of THAT) was hanging there...just in the distance, like a cloud of dust kicked up by a rival motorcycle gang. So, there we were, in the cramped, cluttered hospital room...hoping to go home...not sure if we could...and City Hall called. Had we come up with a name? I glanced at my husband, who was on his cell phone with my mother. "Yes," I said. "We're naming her Zelda."

"What?!" My husband said. (I don't know what he was complaining about. He's lucky she wasn't a boy. I might have said, Adolf.)

And the rest is history. So. Maybe it isn't a science. And maybe my rules aren't all that. How did you come up with your favorite baby name?

Pinhead is Hilarious

2009-01-09T10:30:00.000-08:00

Many of you who know me, know that one of my comedic obsessions is Pinhead. Specifically, how funny it would be if he wasn't immortal, and we could see him age because I think Pinhead with a comb-over could possibly be the best visual gag based on a horror movie ever! I almost did it when I was writing animated shorts for comedy world (dot com), but they went under before it could see the light of day (or light of over-produced Flash animation is more like it). Well, I finally used this obsession for good, with this comment I left on SFGate's parenting blog, The Poop:

Whoa! Hold on. I'm sorry, but there are no drinks that are better than Jack Daniels on the rocks, it is a cold, golden splash of heaven bourboning with bourbony goodness. If you really feel that way you should stop ordering it just to look cool in front of your namby-pamby writer friends. My god man, save some for those of us who appreciate it! (I assume there is a great shortage of Jack Daniels because of all the San Francisco bars that pour Jim into empty Jack bottles...Hockey Haven, I'm looking at you!)

Also, Motley Crue did not just drink Jack Daniels, they shot it up, mostly because they were so drunk, they didn't realize how stupid it is to shoot up Jack Daniels when you could just drink it.

Thirdly, although Cocktail has a seriously ridiculous tagline, is it really more ridiculous than Hellraiser 2: He will tear your soul apart...again! (It's the "dot dot dot again" that gets me.)

Additionally, might I just restate how evil it is to serve Jim to someone who has ordered a Jack? If I ask for Jack, I not only know the difference between Jack and Jim, but I also do not like Jim. Yeesh.

I need a drink.

Oh and PS: my mother's drink of choice is way cooler than a Jack on the rocks: She always orders a boilermaker usually a shot of Jack with a beer back. I can't really keep up with her.
Posted By: snappyssidekick December 16 2008 at 11:53 PM

Seems that my innocent assertion about the hilarity of the Hellraiser tagline inspired this hilarious article by Peter Hartlaub about sublime, stupid and ridiculous taglines as well as this equally funny Poop post. You'll not that Hartlaub graciously, facetiously admits to "stealing" my idea. Not true...unless he decides to write an expose on bars that pour Jim into Jack bottles or a slice of life vignette detailing the life of a grandma with taste boilermakers, but as a semi-retired writer, I always appreciate a credit, no matter how obviously undeserved.

Watch this blog for the adventures of Super Snappy (someone got a cape for xmas), and watch the next Bitter Show for a shame-faced Dave or Spiegs shoved into a badly-made old man Pinhead costume. Hee hee.

Snappy Math

2008-12-19T14:04:00.000-08:00

I debated telling this rather embarrassing (em-BARE-ASS-ing!) story, but then I figured...what the heck! It's Christmas. The other morning, I opened up my bathroom cabinet, and, it being crammed tighter that a N Judah at the Powell Stop at 5:30, a bunch of crap fell out, spilling onto the floor. It was as I bent over to pick it up that felt I felt two little hands: one on each cheek. "That's Mommy's bum!" I exclaimed.

Snappy was overjoyed. "Mommy's bum! Mommy's bum!" She squealed as she paddled my butt with the same fervor that I often do to her cute little tushie. Too be fair, I'm not often naked...even in front of myself, so this might have been the first time she realized Mommy even had a bum. I glanced over at her as I was returning to my naturally clothed state. The look on her face confirmed my suspicions...she working out a very complicated mathmatical equation in her head. Mommy + Bum =... She almost had it. Suddenly, eyes gleeful in her Eureeka moment, she blurted out, "Mommy poops!"

Merry Christmas. Don't say I never gave you anything.

Mini Phases

2008-12-18T19:27:00.000-08:00

Everyone always says, "It's just a phase", but Snappy has many adorable phases that I hope never go away. Like her complete obsession with her 13 month old cousin, her 2 year old BFF and her fat cat. (I admit I took advantage of her stalkerish love for that silly cat this morning, yelling "Ralphie, come watch. Snappy is going to poopie in the big girl potty!" It nearly worked.)

I feel I must start chronicling these phases because it occurs to me that they aren't going to last forever. For example, the "animal" phase where she had to sleep with, be with and carry an armload of stuffed animals at all times, is petering out. I can't say that I'll really miss that phase all that much because it was hard to get her out of the house since she couldn't hold all her treasures and walk down the stairs at the same time. Still, it made me laugh and I got some cute pictures.

Sigh. Oh well. Thankfully, she still sleeps with them:

Not pictured, but all, somehow also crammed in the crib with her: Peacock, baseball teddy bear, Janice, Big Dora, Little Dora, Sonic, Ming Ming, Other Ming Ming, sheep who wears a jacket, hula Spongebob, Mister Crabs, Gary, Hello Kitty, The Pigeon Book and the trio of multi-culti baby dolls that sleep at the foot of the crib.

Christmas Miracles...Bah Humbug! (Warning: Shmaltz)

2008-12-17T10:40:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about Christmas Miracles lately. Glide ran out of food bags for the first time ever yesterday. Innocent children are getting sick...and staying sick. An old lady died in an apartment fire on Nob Hill the other morning. It seems that if you really, really need a miracle, tough shit, you won't get one. (Unless by "miracle" you mean "dead ticket", then you can get all you need...in 1990.)I don't dare hope for miracles anymore. I've developed a painful, paranoid faux-Buddhist need to live in the moment lest I spend every moment worrying about the possibility of not outliving Snappy. The upside is that I've developed a faux-Buddhist appreciation for "The Moment".

Okay, this is going to sound like something I made up for shmaltz sake, but I didn't. I swear. My favorite Christmas present ever was a hairdryer. I was 12 or 13, and I was just getting into stuff like that. I really wanted a hairdryer, but I didn't say anything. I'm not sure why, but we didn't ask for gifts, but just hoped for the best. When it came to clothes, my mom was sure to by the ugliest thing to ever hang on a sale rack, but with everything else she was spot on...buying lots of fun toys when we were little and make-up for my sister and I and rock magazines for my brother when we were teens. I didn't ask for a hair dryer, but all my friends had them, they made lots of noise and provided big, fluffy hair that was the style at the time. After I had opened my presents, I eyed the beautiful Con-air 3 speed and said, "we got a lot of stuff this year." I don't remember, maybe we did, maybe we didn't, but I got a hairdryer, so, in my mind, I made out. My mother said, "no, I only spent about 25 bucks on each of you." I was floored. I was sure hairdryer alone must be worth at least 50 bucks. I didn't believe her.

Now, of course, I realize that it was our poorest Christmas ever. My mom was single and waiting tables at a Chinese restaurant. She had no money, no husband, a mortgaged house with a failing furnace, 3 kids, a bunch of cats and dogs and then, one 9.99 hairdryer bought at CVS had hit a homerun and became the best Christmas present ever. If that isn't a Christmas miracle, I don't know what is.

More on the Cuteness

2008-11-22T17:00:00.000-08:00

Runner ups:

Whoa, dude!

Oh dear! Oh my!

No cymbal crashes.

Oh mommy.

And, this is not so much a runner-up as it is an alternate number 1, everytime I wash her face or do something else she doesn't want me to do she says, "Help me Spiderman! Sling some webs.".

More Cute Stuff Snaps Does

2008-11-19T17:55:00.000-08:00

Now that she's talking, the top ten cute things Snappy says has been compiled by a crack team of scientists.

10. Don't worry, unicorn.

9. Where's my Grouchy Monster?

8. The puma eats a snack.

7. Hello Jackhammer. I want to talk to you!

6. Weee! Woo hoo!

5. Don't swear.

4. I'm swearing!

3. Silly coffee maker/vacuum cleaner! What are you doing here?
(it must be noted that Snaps is terrified of the vacuum cleaner and the coffee maker.)

2. Don't cry anymore, Hello Kitty.

1. Hello.

Yeah. That's right. Hello. No, you don't understand, see, whenever Snappy is caught doing something she ought not to, she dances over to me and, doing an amazingly accurate imatation of a Monty Python housewife, says "Hellooooooooooo! Hi mum!"

Next up: the runner ups.

Snappy the Sailor Girl

2008-10-28T13:55:00.000-07:00

So, since my last post was so sad...so so so sad...I thought I'd make it up to y'all by telling you this seriously hilarious story:

As you might know, Snappy has been in speech therapy for the past few months. It's been doing wonders for her vocabulary and grammar, but almost nothing for her pronunciation. (Which is why we're pretty darned sure that we're in for a second palate surgery...hence the sadness.) I told the speech therapist early on that I was afraid that when she did start talking, it'd be just a string of swear words, and he said, "yeah. That happens with these kids."

Makes sense, when you think about it. If your toddler isn't talking, then they don't repeat everything you say, if they don't repeat everything you say, you don't watch what you say because, even though you know you should, you don't get any negative reinforcement when you do swear (i.e. a little potty mouth running around the playground, shocking grannies). Parents are a lot like children. They too need positive and negative reinforcement.

And without it...well, let's just say that for a while now, I've suspected that Snappy has been saying F You! Now, I knew she'd been saying shit because she said it five times when I accidently dropped her Goldfish crackers into the cat's water dish. Hey, at least she used it correctly. But she was also, with quite the sneaky little gleam in her eye, saying something that sounded a lot like Uck OO. Hmm. What to do? I can't tell her not to swear if she's not swearing. So I had to tread lightly.

"Snappy, are you saying Achoo?"

"No," She said giggling. "Not achoo!"

"Are you saying Got you?"

That's when she squealed, "Uck you, La-ee!"

Ah ha. Oh yes. I know where she heard that. Many times. All over the city. From her mother, who thinks many ladies need to go uck themselves and has a hard time keeping her mouth shut when she encounters one. Oh boy.

I didn't know what to do then, but a few days later, at the grocery store, in the middle of a tantrum, I told Snappy she couldn't have some candy, and she screamed "Uck Oo! Uck Oo! Uck Oo!" It was strange. I found myself actually being glad that Snappy's 1st palate repair had left her with a palate too short to allow for proper pronunciation of plosives like p, b and good ol' F! Having the tantrumy child in the grocery store is one thing, having a filthy mouthed tantrum thrower is yet another. I hugged her, kissed the top of her head and said, "Oh Snappy, that's really naughty. You can't do that." She stopped.

I guess my days of swearing at ladies are over. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted. Damn b words had it coming.

Baby gets the Blues

2008-10-23T12:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Snappy dug out Sneakers, the Seaside Cat and said, "I want to read kitty cat story." The kitty cat story? But Snappy, that story makes you cry. She just lowered her little eyebrows and said "I want the kitty cat story." A "serious business" face she reserves for asking for ice cream cones...and only for asking for asking for ice cream cones. Hm.

Well, maybe she's matured. After all, the kitty cat story made her cry when she was one and a half. She's nearly two and a half now. She plays intricate imagination games with her dolls and animals, she makes up wild stories about the owl, puma and Moll Moll, she sings Twinkle Twinkle Little star on the potty, she sits on a potty, she talks in full sentences, she answers questions in full sentences, she makes demands in full sentences, she swears! and she has trouble deciding whether to be a witch or a pirate for Halloween...such a grown-up problem. Such a big girl! Surely, she no longer cries when the kitty gets his paw pinched by the crab. Surely she's past that.

Apparently, she is not (and don't call her surely).

I don't pretend to be a child development expert, but I've noticed that at around 18 months or so, babies get the blues. Not all of them, but I've seen other kids her age cry at sad songs (why do baby music teachers ever even go near the key of D minor? Have they learned nothing from Spinal Tap?!). As slap happy and snappy go lucky as she most often was, Snappy was also a bit of a blues master herself. She cried at the sad songs in music class. She also cried when the rocket ship went up up up up and then down down down down in Yo Gabba Gabba, when the V Tarzan-yelled through the Bronx Zoo on Sesame Street, when Swiper got his swiping butt stuck in a bottle on Dora and of course, when a hapless black cat got his paw pinched by a vicious crab in one of her, otherwise, favorite books. And OH the pathos! Capital O capital H the PATHOS! Her mournful sobs once sent an entire playground of 3 year-olds into a chorus of sympathy crying after a big kid refused to let her stomp on his sand castle.

Actually, it was the playground incident that started me thinking. It was the way the whole 46th Avenue playground just stopped. The kids stopped to watch this little 1 1/2 year old cry, the older ones, choking back tears themselves, the younger ones crying right along with her. The parents stopped and watched their own kids. They seemed surprised by the stunning show of empathy. And probably these kids were more sensitive than your average sand sifter, but there was something about that moment...that seemed different...sadder than it should've been. Toddlers got their feeling hurt on that playground everyday. Why did Snappy seem to have a DEE-Vine right to the blues?

She certainly has a gift for it, even more so now that she can talk. Pairing her already heart-string-pulling sobs with lines like "he scared me!" when the cat hisses at her, "I'm sorry." when she thinks someone is mad at her and, the all time soul-smacking tear-tugging "I want to go home!." She waits to bust that little gem out for emergency situations: like clinic visits, doctor's appointments and banks without lolly-pops. "I want to go home". Such a great line! Classic to the human condition, completely knocked-up with emotion, as a song lyric, it rivals "Son, pack your things, I've come to take you home" and makes "I'm serious as cancer when I say rythmn is a dancer" look like a bucket of shit (hm...that's not really hard to do, is it?).

Oh, and now she changes it up and says things like, "He wants to go home". Like when Ruby and Louise are working on their first-aid badge for bunny scouts, and they wrap Max in bandages. Snappy points at him and says, "he wants to go home." I put two and two together. Max looked like he was at the doctor. Snappy thought the doctors office was a torture chamber and behaved as such when placed inside it. Snappy needed to go to the doctors office from time to time. Here, I thought was a perfect opportunity to discuss her feelings and apprehension about people who wear stethoscopes.

"Do you think Max is scared?" I asked, in my best mommy voice. Snappy thought about it and opened her mouth to speak, but what came out was the beginnings of a wail that was sure to be sadder than Sophie's Choice (a movie with a premise so sad, I refuse to watch it), The Things They Carried and every Disney movie ever made...had I not shut it down with a quick, " I meant, do you want a Popsicle? That's what I meant..Max is fine. Everything is fine. Lime or orange? Why not both?"

But yesterday, when she pointed to a picture of Sneakers in the back seat of a car and, on the verge of woeful wailing, said, "he wants to go home," I started to think that maybe, in this case, two and two make five. Snappy is two, she's not an idiot. She knows that cat doesn't want to go to the beach, any more than Max wants to play doctor with his sister and her crazy bunny friend or Swiper wants to get stuffed in a bottle. She knows that some asshole shoved that fox in that bottle...possibly the same one who decided it would be a good idea to take a cat to the ocean. And it makes her cry because she's been down that lonely road. And if she's smart enough to figure that out, she's smart enough to know that something is up when she hears mom and the speech therapist saying things like "second palate surgery" and "recovery time".

And if she is that smart, then she knows that if it were up to me, she'd never have the blues again. She'd have the grouchies, the angries, the tantrums and the just plain sads, but never the blues. But it's not. And she will.

Peek-a-boo!

2008-10-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

Quickie post!

2008-08-27T12:39:00.001-07:00

Look how cute Snappy is getting! Look at her. Just look at her. Cute, huh? I did that. (thanks to Nikki for the professional-looking headshots)

Snappy Ruled the Pool...

2008-07-14T12:28:00.000-07:00

So, we're home now, and we're all glad to be home (Snappy yelled "home" from the moment we started packing up the hotel room to the time she ran in the door, ready to greet the poor fat cat with a barrage of squeals and tickles.) In the Top Ten List of cool shit that we did, Meeting Giant Clams at the aquarium (Snappy is well-schooled in Spongebob Marine Biology and said, "Clam" when she saw them), Coming face to face with a tiger at the Zoo and our Pretty Woman-esque, Paris Hilton-style shopping spree at the ABC Stores would be at the top, Daddy Monster losing his wedding ring in the Pacific would be at the bottom, but the spot at #1 would, for all of us, surely be Snappy learns to swim.

Our first day there, we arrived to find that our room wasn't ready. We were disappointed. We left our stuff with the bell hops...and wandered around..until we wandered outside...and there it was...in the middle of this strange tourist trap...Waikiki Beach. I heard Polynesian rhythms in my head as I watched a group of people row a native-style canoe in the pale blue surf. So this was it. This was Hawaii...not a secluded waterfall in the middle of a rain forest, but one of the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen set straight across a busy city street.

Because the good people who designed the beach were smart enough to put in a wave wall,so that kids could swim without having to fear for their lives (ahem! Ocean Beach!) We were able to take Snappy down to the water, only to discover that Snappy had developed (along with her new stranger anxiety) a fear of water and wanted nothing to do with it and ran around the beach, knowing full well that we would chase after her. Oh yeah...did I tell you it was a record -breaking heat wave? Yeah, people from Hawaii were complaining about the heat. We were accustomed to life in a fog bank...the last thing we wanted to do was chase a two-year old in the mid-morning sun around the beach.

So, I took her to the pool. Still the blazing sun, still the searing heat, but it had something the ocean did not: steps! I sat her down on the first step and told her to splash in the water. She did this for awhile and then I suggested she try the next step. She did it! I decided to push my luck and try for the next step. At first, she seemed game, but then she balked...and bolted. I caught her just before she went sprinting across the slick tile. I started over again. Slower this time.

The whole process repeated itself a few times before I remembered that Snappy's speech therapist said we should make motor boat noises for her. "Snappy, would you like a motor boat ride?" She shook her head. No she did not. I grabbed her by the waist and spun her in the water Bbbbbbbbrrrbbbrrrbbbbb! Snappy's expression turned from fear to anger to surprise to joy!

"Swim! Swim!" She said.

"That's right! Snappy's swimming. Just like the ducks!" We ventured out into the pool.

"Swim! Swim!" Snappy said at the 5 foot mark, pushing at my arms. It was then that I realized that by "swim swim" she meant "Yes, mom, I've got this swimming thing down. You can let go now. Come on. Let go! Oh for Chrissakes mom, you've got to cut the apron strings sometime."

Much to Snappy's mild annoyment, I did not let go, but I did take our little Swim Swim show on the road. Technically...across the road. To Waikiki beach, where we spent many sunscreen-covered hours splashing and saying stuff like "swim! swim!" and "Bbbbbbbbrrrbbbrrrbbbbb!" Oh...and losing wedding rings, but that's no where near as important as the swimming.

Snappy's New Religion

2008-07-11T17:20:00.000-07:00

During a fun visit to the Honolulu Zoo today, Snappy found her new god: this elephant statue:

Snappy goes Native

2008-07-10T10:55:00.000-07:00

I know I owe many blogs about how cute Snappy is, and believe me, those are coming, but I'm going to Blog about our big trip to Hawaii for the next couple days. The first installment I like to call "Getting There" or "The Horror. The Horror.".

We started Wednesday am like gangbusters. We woke up Snappy at 6:30 am. It was about 4 hours too early to be getting up by her clock, but we told her we were going to get on a plane and she sprung into action: ready for adventure.

watching Ratatouille with Dad.

And all was great. We flew Hawaiian Airlines, which precludes the big in-flight entertainment feature presentation (Drillbit Taylor) with lovely, bucolic scenes of Hawaii. Snappy enjoyed this, saying things like "hey fish" and "eat grass" (that last comment came when she saw a horse eating grass...genius!).

A few hours later, it came to pass that I, who had delegated walking-the-high-energy-toddler-up-and-down-the-aisle duty to Dad for the entire flight (there and back, but sh. He doesn't know that, yet.), got the first poopy diaper duty. I changed it in the tiny ass bathroom like the seasoned pro I am. I of course had an extra pair of much-needed pajama bottoms (stupid leaky safeway brand diapers) and plenty of extra wipes to clean up her car seat (while holding a two-year old under my arm like a clutch purse, of course). I resisted the urge to run up and down the aisle, pumping my fist and singing Queen's We are the Champions (with the lyric we are changed to I am.

After a bit of a rough patch (aka full-blown tantrum). I pulled yet another miracle out of my pocket (aka a Big Big World DVD). "Ook!" Snappy exclaimed, And just like that...tantrum over. The miracles continued as Snappy fell asleep just as the words "dangerously low battery" flashed across the screen. Ha! I laugh at danger.

She looks cute, but she's stinking up the entire plane.

Or I did. That is until two agonizing hours before the flight ended, I realized that my sleeping beauty was, yet again, sitting in a puddle of what, for potty-training purposes, we'll call pee-pee. There was also obviously (and not just to me) some poopy. I wasn't going to wake her...oh no...I'd sooner pull on Superman's cape while simultaneously spitting into the wind, pulling the Lone Ranger's mask off and messing around with Jim than to wake a sleeping toddler on an airplane.

When the plane touched down, like a couple of secret ops on a kill-or-be-killed mission, Dad and I managed to get her out of her car seat and into the broom-closet-sized bathroom before the remove-your-seatbelts ding had fully dinged. I still had plenty of wipes, but no more bottoms, so I threw a pajama top on her legs and hoped no one would notice...and possibly inform the autorities.

Don't let the early-80's-mobster-style limo she's rolling in fool you...she's not REALLY wearing pants.

Enough blogging...I'm in Hawaii, dammit!

Next...Snappy rules the pool.

This is why toddlers shouldn't use Google

2008-05-10T19:06:00.000-07:00

Your search - 0-yn nn nb9hb9nbyhhj[]hg;'[ghn';b.n l;phg jhph0o 09y 9b90t6u/im0 - did not match any documents. Suggestions:
Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
Try different keywords.
Try more general keywords.
Try fewer keywords.

For the love of crullers, people!

2008-03-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

I'm never willingly up at 4am. Even for something fun. Even for something really fun, like whisky sipping or roller skating or puppy patting or any combination of the 3. But last night, for some strange reason, I found myself up at 4am, arguing about coffee with a bunch of online coffee jerks. Is this how it begins? Am I going to be one of those crazy people who stay up all night arguing about nothing with nobodies on the Nowhereweb? Should I just buy the xtra-strength Clearisil now?

But this wasn't nothing. This was West Coast v East Coast, and, in an unprecedented move, a West Coast wimp leveled the first blow. Shocking! I simply had to fire back. My honor as a New Englander (for the first 27 years of my life anyways) was at stake. Now, I know some of you who know me will point out that I not only married a West Coaster, but I gave birth to one. But as the only non-native San Franciscan in the family, I feel I have to represent.

Take my grandmother (still alive, by the way). She's from South Carolina, but lived most of her life in the Boston area, The South Shore mostly. Still, she never lost her accent, never stopped doing weird Southern (I assume)things like putting mint jelly on toast and always made cornbread with her Boston Baked Beans, instead of the traditional brown bread*. She held on so tight to her roots, that I, a true-blue 5th generation New Englander, brought up to believe that everywhere south of Connecticut is exactly like Deliverance, believed (and still do a bit) that South Carolina was the best, prettiest, most refined, and plain old kick-ass (my words not Gram's) state in the whole country.

That is how I hope Snappy will someday feel about New Hampshire...and maybe even the South Shore...hm, that might be asking too much. New Hampshire definitely...and Cape Cod maybe? Who are these Patriots you speak of and why do you expect me to cheer for them?

But I'm getting ahead of myself, back to the Coffee Battle waged mainly by me and some intern at the SF Chronicle. I was checking in on SF Gate, because truth be told, I was up at 3 AM because I was freaking out about preschools and I was going to see if they had any resources. Then I saw this:

Oh really? A blind unbiased taste test for the five spoiled, organic fair-trade farmer hugging West Coast office workers who just happened not to be telecommuting that day? And none of them like Dunkin Donuts coffee? Quel surprise, Ivy League. Dunkins is not for you or for anyone who spells donuts with an "ugh". I maturely responded with this (for some strange, sleep-deprived reason, I mentioned Brains...that's Brains the beer....not the organ.) :

"I find three holes in your supposedly fool proof plan:

Firstly of all, just like, you know, the further from Wales you get...the yuckier the Brains. It's like that with DD coffee the further you get from Boston.

Also, you can't test Dunkin's coffee on spoiled office workers. This is a diner brew that only Truckers, beat cops and gumshoes can test.

And lastly, what did you drink it with a low-fat scone or something pansy-ish like that? No. No. No. You have to drink it with a cruller. A cruller! Eh. Spoiled West Coast office workers don't even know what a cruller is."

Of course, I expected the other New Englanders still awake to put the smackdown on these bean snobs, but no...just someone who likes to eat French crullers (okay, but yuck) a jerk who thinks California has better pizza than NY (yeah, and Noah's makes bagels...not one-holed puffy bread rolls) and a moron who thought that Dunkins default coffee preperation is cream and sugar. Moron. I had to clarify:

"Oh. And Dunkins does NOT autimatically add cream and sugar. It's just that for some strange reason West Coasters order regular coffee. Why? If you don't say regular, do you think you're going to get decaf...against your will??? In New England, regular means "with cream and sugar". We thought it safe to give regular a meaning because we figured no one would be dumb enough to just add extra words all willy-nilly like to their coffee order."

Am I crazy? Or just a New Englander who will never be a Californian but will never ever leave the Sunset district of San Francisco? Sigh. Oh well. Maybe the next time I'm awake at 4am, it'll be to catch the Sox game opener in Japan. Where I'm sure Daisuke will beat the freash-roasted stuffing out of the As.

*Brown Bread is a molasses bread baked in a tin can. It can have raisins or not and it is DELICIOUS.

Daily Cuteness

2008-03-06T14:27:00.000-08:00

Snappy has a new crush: Spongebob Squarepants. Which is cuter than it sounds because Snaps knows 5 words. One of them is meow and the other is yeah. So I can show off her genius by saying things like "Snappy, do you like Spongebob?"

Snaps: Yeah

Me: Who's your favorite character?

Snaps: Meow.

Me: Gary, huh? What about the pirate?

Snappy puts her hand over one eye. (She made that sign up herself. She's made up lots signs, but how often is she really going to need to use a sign for "pirate"? Maybe she's not the genius I thought she was.)

Easy Rider Goes Live!

2008-03-06T14:10:00.000-08:00

Check it! Live Nude Blogs! Wearing Clothes! Especially me! I'll be bringing fun Snappy visual aides and telling dirty stories that I can't really tell in my baby blog...I mean come on. This is a mommy blog, I can't be talking all dirty and stuff, but at Stage Werx...I'll be letting the filth fly.

Luggage Tuesdays presents:
"My Blog Live: Online Onstage"
Live performances from Bay Area blogs Good Crafternoon!, Geek Girl Daily, Easy Rider: Strolling in SF, and Luggage Tuesdays

WHEN: Tuesday, March 25, 2008 @ 8pm

WHERE: Stage Werx 533 Sutter Street, San Francisco

TICKETS: $12 at the door

INFO: Mike Spiegelman, mike@spiegelmania.com

WEBSITE: www.twitter.com/mybloglive

San Francisco, Ca. - "My Blog Live" kicks off an ongoing series of live performances from the people behind the sites. This live show highlights the variety of genres and personal voices found on blogs, with performances of new pieces and previous posts from four Bay Area bloggers:

Erikka Innes, Geek Girl Daily, Geek Blog
Host of "Geek Comedy Night" at Rooster T. Feather's, comedian Erikka Innes is no stranger to geekiness.

Melinda Bailey, Easy Rider: Strolling in SF, Mommy Blog
Professional SF guide with Foot Tours, Melinda Bailey writes about strolling with Snappy throughout the City.

Leslie "Miss Dottie" Van Every, Good Crafternoon, Crafts Blog
Leslie Van Every writes about knitting, sewing, and searching through the Alameda Flea Market.

Mike Spiegelman, Luggage Tuesdays, Humor Blog
Comedian Mike Spiegelman presents readings and sketches about family restaurant menu parodies, phone books send-ups, Superman boners, and jokes about salad.

My Blog Live runs Tuesday, March 25 @ 8pm at Stage Werx 533 Sutter Street, between Powell and Mason, San Francisco.

The Juno Flu

2008-02-27T13:58:00.000-08:00

Remember that scene from Juno, where our title gal is drinking large gulps of Sunny D and staring persistently and meaningfully at The Sex Chair. Well, replace Juno with our girl Snappy, the Sunny D with a sippy cup of milk and the Sex Chair with Ralph's dish and you have what went on in our house for about twenty minutes this morningish. I call it morningish because Snaps didn't get her cute little bum out of bed (mine...of course) until after 11. Those of you that know her, know that she sometimes likes to sleep in all Auntie Mame-like, but it was the Auntie Mame-like world-weary hang-over that gave me pause.

What could be wrong? She seemed so full of angst! Was she wondering why that toddler didn't want to play with her that one time? Or did she finally realize that the cat really doesn't like her? Is she contemplating the existence of Mom? Or...Oh no! Is it some terrible disease that only House can diagnose after about an hours worth of dramatic content?

She decided to take a nap on my shoulder. I continued to worry. Suddenly! She lifted her head. She looked at me with eyes that said "Emergency! Call 9-11! I've done it before, I'll show you how!" Then she puked all over me.

I felt a little dumb for not figuring it out the first time, but I guess that the angsty world-shattering pathos of an unwanted pregnancy during the teen years is probably the same as a bit of an upset tummy during the toddler years.

Here are my treatments for the Juno Flu (patent pending)

Water, kitty, puke sheet, Yo Gabba Gabba

Dry toast, crayons, more water, more Yo Gabba Gabba

Lots and lots of rest

Snappy n Pee Wee Sittin' in a tree!

2008-02-19T13:36:00.000-08:00

So, one of Dadmonster's best friends rented out the Red Vic for her birthday for an 11am pajama party featuring the epic cinematic masterpiece Pee Wee's Big Adventure. Snappy's first movie theater! I was sure she would be naughty, so we tried to show up as late as possible. Since 11 am isn't pajama time for us, we changed into our pajamas before we left. I even wore my bunny slippers.

The Red Vic peeps were kind enough to realize that the crazy lady wearing pajamas and curlers in her hair standing outside with a toddler and a cellphone must be an invited guest and let us in. We were offered an array of breakfast treats including new-to-snappy treats: Pop Tarts and Fruit Loops. She couldn't believe her luck. She thought it was Halloween and Christmas all rolled into one. She calls this new holiday Brunchmasween.

So yes, Snaps is 20 months, not exactly prime movie watching age, but she did AWESOME! Okay, first she tripped in the dark and cried, but hey, who doesn't cry when they fall on their face? After that (and a brief trip to replenish the Fruit Loop supply) she did AWESOME. We sat on the stairs in the back, so she wasn't required to sit. That was key for the awesomeness. And the awesomeness was, indeed, awesome. She laughed when everyone else laughed. Clapped when everyone else clapped. Danced to all the music (even the Big Shoe Dance) and made kissy noises at the big Morgan Fairchild/ PW Herman love scene. Everyone agreed she had great timing (Snappy, not Morgan Fairchild...but she was okay). I think all movie theaters should have a run-around area (or in Snappy's case: twirl around) for toddlers.

Afterwards, me and Dadmonster carried her 12 blocks (it might have been 8, but I was promised 4...so the extra grumbling made it feel longer). Despite the fact that it was The Haight (home of the Red Guy), everyone stared at us. This made me realize we needed to take pictures. Note the sugar crash in this picture...and that Snappy is still clutching an empty bowl that once held her beloved TREASURE (aka Fruit Loops)!

Snap Yoga

2008-02-15T09:46:00.000-08:00

Just a quick update of Snappenings:

Snappy hung out with Grandpa so we could do this weird thing called "going out". We went to a Vietnamese American Diner called...something like...The Americano Cafe. Being Americanos, we ordered the onion rings...not as good as the grilled cheese...and they have Iced Ovaltine!!! How cool is that?

Next, we went to Hocky Haven for a lovely cocktail. I had two sips of my Jack on the rocks and abandoned it because it was Jim Beam. Why do bars put Jim in the Jack bottle? Do they think we won't notice? We ALL notice. Nuts to Hockey Haven.

Then, best of all, We hit The Balboa for Juno. Which would be my favorite movie I've seen in years, even if I actually had seen a movie in years, and even if Bleeker weren't based on my college boyfriend. Thundercats Ho!

In Snapptastic news, Snappy has been relying upon me a little too heavily to label her world, still I must be doing something right because she sniffs all flowers and gives all cats kisses and treats (aaa-umph). She has perfected dance moves: the twirl, the thigh slap, the stompy-stomp, but is still working on the moonwalk. Oh, and just this morning she perfected the assisted hand stand.

Happy Valentines Day

2008-02-14T14:38:00.000-08:00

The Two Faces of Snappy

2008-02-07T10:08:00.000-08:00

The cute side: When the bye-bye song* from It's a Big Big World comes on, she twirls. Cute. If she's in a good mood, she'll do it if you just sing it. Cute! Cute!

Not Cute: At 20 months, she is fully aware of the capabilities of TiVo (come on...she's not 19 months anymore) and demands that I replay the bye-bye song over and over and over and...over and she likes to watch the 4th and 5th viewing upside down. Damn you Snook you giant stoner sloth!

The cute side: When Snappy comes across something she likes or thinks is cute, she reacts to it much the way she reacts to the apex of all things cute and likable: Ralph the big fat growly hissy cat who thinks she is the antichrist. So yeah, she hugs and kisses and offers imaginary treats to all sorts of things; dogs, babies, stuffed animals, her dolly, Cookie Monster, Daddy's tummy, the laptop, Mommy's kitty cat earrings, pictures of cats, babies, doggies and duckies, her pink cowboy boots, her pajamas, and most recently mom's ring. When a baby kisses your ring, it's not just cute...it's hilarious. Everytime she does it, I say "Yes, kiss my ring because I am Pope of the apartment."

Not quite so cute: Last night she was watching The Colbert Report with me and her Auntie...when all of a sudden, she wanted somthing and she wanted it NOW!!!

"What? What? What? What? Oh. Stephen Colbert said the word "Pope" and now you have to kiss mommy's ring? Sure. Here you go." Okay. So it was kind of cute.

The OUTRAGEOUSLY cute side: Snappy in general and all the Snaptastic things she does.

The Not Cute at All Side: She hates to sleep, but gets very grouchy and tantrumy when she is tired. As does mom.

Even Less Cute: She has figured out the stove guard and has used this info to nearly burn the house down See pic.

*The world keeps spinning round and round it's true/We've had our time and now it's through/but you and I forever will be friends/we'll try to touch the sky where clouds never end/and you and I together in a Big Big World/we'll try to touch the sky in a Big Big World/ And we'll look for wonder all around/ and you'll find me hanging upside down/ you have to go I know it it's time/ so give me five/ this whole world is yours and mine

1 & 1/2 and already an inconsistant restaurant critic.

2007-12-17T14:34:00.000-08:00

There's a really great pizza place around the corner on Noriega called The Pizza Place on Noriega. It's owned by some hard core Red Sox fans from Boston...so I'd go there even if the food wasn't really fricking good, which it is. Snappy loves it. Pizza is her favorite solid food, so she really goes to town on a plain cheese slice. The waitress coos at her "How you enjoying that slice" to which she replies "Mmmmmm". Admirers figure she is a cute toddler who likes to eat pizza. I figure she's a culinary genius with a palate worthy of the Cordon Blue.

Last week, we went to Milano's pizza for some post-tree buying grub. Supposedly, they're good. We stupidly ordered the garlic bread...which tasted nothing like something covered in garlic and butter should taste. Retardedly, I ordered the pesto pasta, which tasted much like I imagine the inside of that weird creature that Han Solo put Luke Skywalker in: you know, really gross and totally not worth it even to save your life.

I wanted to just get the check, give a nice tip to the waitress who was super nice, and then run out quickly before the pesto ate a whole through my plate. Snappy wanted to chill out and devour a slice of (passable) pizza and four or five handfuls of TaunTaun-Belly pasta. Mmmmmm. That's good TaunTaun.

5 things you may not know about Snappy.

2007-12-05T23:52:00.000-08:00

1. Her favorite muppets have always been Cookie Monster and Elmo, but lately Cookie has been pulling ahead. Mmm.

2. You know that part in Sneakers the Seaside Cat when the crab pinches Sneakers' paw? That part always makes Snappy cry. Loudly. (I think I'm going to hide that damn book.)

3. Her favorite songs are Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, The Itsy Bitsy Spider and Que Sera Sera, but will occasionally delight and amuse us by dancing to the gay dance station we listen to every morning...or the mid-90s alternametal on Daddy's Ipod.

4. If, for whatever reason, you were to ask her to name your new fashion line...or rock band...or BioTech company, she would most certainly choose the name BirdTrainDrum. Deal.

5. Despite all the books, classes, play dates, and fancy UCSF speech therapy techniques, Zelda has chosen Cat as her main language, followed by Duck. I think she really only plans to use English to talk about Mama or Rowl (aka the cat).

One mommy's trash...

2007-11-16T15:05:00.000-08:00

When I first moved to this apartment a few years ago, I looked out the window and across the street, on the sidewalk, there was the cutest, wildest little muppet-in-real-life toddler banging away on a real, pint-sized drum set. So cute! So rock n roll!

Recently I looked out my window and noticed that that little rock star isn't quite so pint sized anymore.

Then. Last week. I looked out the window and spotted the little rocker's mom carrying those drums out to the curb. Huh? Free? Up for grabs! The coolest thing ever! A toddler's drum kit! Now, I know it sounds like a very, very crazy thing to want, but if you know my daughter, Sticks, then you know why I (stomache flu and all) ran down stairs and grabbed my noise-polluting little treasure before Sunset Scavenger carted it of.

I'll be hiding it until Sticks learns the difference between "indoor drumsticks" and "outdoor drumsticks", but she was OVERJOYED when I brought it in the door.

I'm so proud

2007-10-26T00:12:00.001-07:00

Today at the park our Miss Snappy was crawling around at the feet of some older boys (3...maybe 3 and 1/2?) trying to get them to include her in their fun games, when one of them, clearly not interested in an infiltrating baby, kicked her lightly in the bum. Now, I say lightly because I don't want anyone to think that I just let preschoolers kick my baby. If it had been a real kick, Mr. Footsie would've gotten the Tsk-Tsking of his young life...believe me. But it was so soft, I wasn't sure she felt it. That is until she turned around, arms raised in her typical "I am under attack, please pick me up until all danger has passed" pose. I was about to do just that when she spotted the culprit, and, apparently, decided that she could take him and smacked him in the head.

I honestly don't know where she gets it.

Just call us Marina Grrrlz

2007-10-23T16:22:00.000-07:00

Those who know me, know my reputation for hating on Marina Girls. From writing nasty web articles about them and the over-priced bars they frequent, to attending parties and administering drunken tongue lashings to anyone who says the words "Banana" and "Republic" more than once in a five minute conversation. So you can imagine my fear and loathing when I took Snappy to a music class in the Marina (anyone who has seen the "sticks" vid on MySpace knows why I had to do that). After class, we walked to Chrissy Field (god, they even name their public parks Chrissy...what next? Kaitlyn Wetlands and Nature Preserve?).

It was smoking hot weather, and the tide had created the perfect little toddler swim area. So perfect in fact, that while my little snappy was running around in a bathing suit...a lot of the moms were letting their little water addicts go commando. Wow. Skinny dipping toddlers. Pretty awesomely laid back for the Marina! Especially when you compare that experience with the moms who complain when I let Snaps play in the water play area at GG Park's Children's Playground because then their kid will want to do it too(Hey, don't blame me because you're not smart enough to bring a towel and bathing suit) or because she splashes (hey lady, you're standing in a pool of water at a playground...do you think you might....just might... get splashed?) Morons. (Oh. and btw, when your kid is having fun...let the kid have fun...don't keep saying "do you want to do this? Do you want to go there? Do you want to try this?" It makes you look like an idiot. Just let your kids play. Even if they're not doing something that is fun for you.)

Damn those Marina Moms for proving me wrong! I hope the water is just as fine next week.

The most adorable time of the year.

2007-10-20T22:50:00.000-07:00

In just one short ridiculously adorable week, Snappy went to Half Moon Bay to frolic with babies and pumpkins and hop into a wheelbarrow with one of her baby friends, got dressed up as a bumble bee for a 1 year birthday party and dressed up like a wee mauve fairy rose/vert for the baby loves disco...too cute...brain going into cuteness overload...must look at something anti-cute. Quick. Someone email me more pictures of Britney's beave.

Oh and did I mention the fluffy bunnies? Yeah. She played with fluffy bunnies.

The Sister's Shower

2007-10-08T23:23:00.000-07:00

My friends and I just threw my sister a baby shower and it kicked ass. The theme was tea party, but I drank Maker's Mark because it is the color of tea. Smurf and Muppet made fabulous food and Cherry and Dotty did the fabulouso decorations.

For funsies, we painted onesies with little designs like piggies and flowers and teddy bears and pegacorns, but the only shower game we played was the baby quiz because I was supposed to bring the diapers for the "candy bar in the diaper" game which was too bad because Smurf remembered the candy bars. (I'll post the baby quiz later.)

For now, here is a picture of the vegan chocolate dipped cupcakes I made.

Ren Faire

2007-10-05T22:12:00.000-07:00

This blog is also late. But Snappy went to the Ren Faire in Golden Gate park last month and tried to join a guild. Here is a picture of her finding a treasure chest.

I know I know

2007-10-05T22:05:00.000-07:00

This blog is so late. But these are the pictures I took when the red hot mom group took the tour on Miss Ri Ri's birthday. And her mom is right. I don't update this blog enough. I wish I could train the cat to do it. He doesn't seem to have anything to do.

Trust me...we're going to need this diaper genie refill. Maybe we should get two.

2007-10-05T19:25:00.000-07:00

No title can describe it

2007-07-09T13:51:00.000-07:00

This is an actual conversation. I'm using aliases to protect the innocent. You'll see why:

Mrs. X: Oh...there wasn't a poopie in that diaper after all.

Mr. X: Must have just been a stinky fart.

Mrs. X: She gets that from you.

Mr. X: Oh come now! I'm sure there are plenty of people in your family who have stinky farts...especially the one called "Chili Farts"!

Mrs. X: To be fair, I was only related to Chili Farts through marriage!

And scene.

The Science of Snappy

2007-06-29T18:38:00.001-07:00

Snaps went to the UC Berkeley Infant Studies Lab yesterday afternoon on the day before she turned 13 months. This was important because she was participating in a human development study about memory in babies from exactly 12 months old to exactly 13 months old. She'd been studied before in February for a Visual Cliff and Moving Room study. I guess she did okay with the moving room study (all she had to do was sit in a chair and react...piece of frickin' cake...I mean come on. I could do THAT), but not so with the Visual Cliff... It was a crawling study. And in February, Snaps wasn't crawling per se...she was doing this :Hey. She got around. But for the Visual Cliff study they have you stand on the other side of the room, call the baby. If the baby crawls over a cliff* to get to you..then she loves you...or isn't afraid of heights. Whatever. Snappy wasn't having any of it. She just slapped the plexi-glass and giggled. They offered to give her a make-up exam. Pfft! A make-up exam! She was humiliated. (Humiliated...or tired and cranky...I'm not sure, but she cried all the way back to SF).

So yesterday was the day for REDEMPTION. A baby vs. grad student rematch. And the challenge is memory. The test was designed, the 12 year old grad student explained to me (seriously, is it me or are young people getting even younger? Kids today!), to find out if babies who are constantly being told things like "don't go here" and "don't touch that" actually remember what not to touch and where not to go. Great. Of course Snappy remembered "no kitty". No kitty No kitty No kitty! The thing was, that her need for kitty has overwhelmed her need to please her mother. A moral dilemma she often loses. Okay. Always. Still. I'm sure she remembers..because for a split second before she grabs the cat's ass...she hesitates. Unless I'm already coming after her...then she does not hesitate but instead grabs cat ass faster and with more gusto because she knows she won't have time to savor it. I explain this to the researchers but they decide to go ahead with the study anyways.

So in the first part. Snappy sits in a chair and two "toys" are dropped from the ceiling. The researcher points to one toy and talks about how wonderful and fun it is while ignoring the other. Then we take a break...Snappy laughs hysterically while playing with a ball...and it's back to the chair. The toys again descend and the researcher sits perfectly still and hangs her head down (it was eerily reminiscent of that scene in Blair Witch Project...not the oft parodied shnoogie scene but the one where the dude is standing in the corner and you don't know if he's alive or dead). Will Snappy go for the the right toy? She does. And then she goes for the other toy so she'll have one for each hand. And then she decided the researcher was wrong about the first toy and dropped it. Free will having won out...it was on to the next test.

This is a test you might have seen before, it's the one where they put a toy under a piece of cloth and then see if the baby remembers that the toy has gone under the cloth. The baby is supposed to show this memory by picking up the cloth...thus revealing the toy and the baby's own briliance. The problem with this test is a little game called Peek a Boo. Snappy saw the toy. She liked the toy...sure, but when they put it underneath perfect squares of baby-head-sized cloth...she couldn't resist. She picked up the cloth and put it over her face, so that I could say "where's the baby?" Because she knows how I love to say "where's the baby?" Almost as much as I like to say "there she is! Phew. I thought she was stolen by a dingo."

The researcher smiled and said, "a lot of babies do that." Really? Do a lot of babies play peek a boo? This test was unfair! Just before I stomped off to petition the supreme court for a new memory test that doesn't discriminate against babies, the researcher said we should take a break so that Snappy could play with more toys and I could fill out more paper work (they had a list of about a hundred words...I was supposed to say which words Snappy understood. I think she understood about four of them. I claimed that she understood about 65...including hard words like tomorrow and werewithall). While I was lying on her behalf, Snappy refused to play with the toys. She wanted to sit in my lap and beg for my pen. There are only two things I won't let Snappy play with: pens and knives. Because if I do...it will leave a semi-permanent mark to tell the world of my lax parenting.

"Say," I say. "Could you do the test with a pen instead?" A pen? Sure why not? So they set up the test again. This time Snappy was on point. When they put the pen under the cloth she immediatly picked it up and grabbed her prize. They tried to fool her. They put it under a different cloth. Snappy wasn't fooled. They put it under one cloth and then quickly moved it to another, different cloth. Still Snappy was not fooled! If the cap had been offthat pen, she surely would've scribbled WINNER across her forehead. (So it was a good thing it was because that would've been hard to explain.)

She was victorious! In your face, science of human development! Just to show that there were no hard feelings, she waved baye bye to the researchers when she noticed we were leaving. The researchers were pleased...once I pointed out that she was actually waving bye bye because her bye bye wave is pretty subtle. She's a very nonchalant baby. Which is why, on the BART ride home, no one else noticed when she waved bye bye to each and every person who got on or off the train all the way from Berkeley to the Daly City. Then she celebrated her victory by eating cheese crackers and throwing a fit when it was time to go back in her stroller. I guess she thinks strollers are for losers. I said, "Oh no Snappy. Strollers are for closers! Strollers are for closers."

*Don't worry. They put a piece of clear plexi-glass placed over the cliff. Like in that Cars video. Magic.

Who and The What Now

2007-06-11T09:45:00.000-07:00

Those of you who know me know that I've always gone back and forth on whether or not The Who is a good band. Oh no doubt---they rock! Their rockingness has been well documented...and still, there's just always been something really really sucky about them that I couldn't put my finger on...or back up when trying to explain to a Who fan why I know that, yes, they rock...seriously and completely...but I still hate them.

Then...Snappy went on her first BART ride. I looked around and noticed a young white college-age dude sitting quietly and reading a book. Now this wouldn't be odd, except that is the very same BART ride I wrote about earlier...the one with the crazed homophobic Red Sox fan threatening to beat up the scrawny, wimpy A's fan. Exactly! Reading quietly? Does he think he's better than the rest of us? Some drunken red-faced Boston Brawler is screaming things like "Jaaaaahhhhhsh Becket! Jaaaaaaaaahhhhhsh Becket! What ah you? Retahded? Nick Swishah is gay. Gaaaaaay!" and this guy doesn't have the common courtesy to look up and make snide comments under his breath with the rest of us?

Just when I was about to grab him by his shaggy blonde hair, physically turn his head in the direction of the Theatre des BART and say, "What? You think crap this good is going to look at itself?" when I noticed he was reading the Celestine Prophecy. Okay, so yes there was indeed a big drunk idiot who eventually ditched his friends in order to follow a pipsqueakean A's fan off the train in order to "settle this"...but reading Celestine Prophecy in public?! This guy was the biggest tool on the train. Yes. This guy with the shaggy blonde hair...proudly sporting a Who t-shirt.

I rest my case.

Another broken-hearted Red Sox fan is born.

2007-06-09T22:46:00.000-07:00

We took Snappy to her first Red Sox game at Oakland. Poor thing. She just hated seeing Daisuke getting absolutely no run support and Lugo living up to his legacy of always bringing the opposite of the clutch hit...again (and against DiNardo WTF?). But she did great and lasted all nine innings and the BART ride home. The only time she cried was when the crazy homophobic straight-outta-Dorchester Red Sox fan loudly and drunkenly threatened to kick the ass of a wicked retahded As fan. (And, really probably did if the As fans weren't smart and/or sober enough to alert BART police that they had just been followed off the train by a couple of menacing Back Bay types with Yankee Stadium-sized chips on their shoulders). Poor baby.

At least she smiled for the cameraphone.

But that was the last of the badness...except that in my determination to keep the baby happy for all 9 scoreless innings, I let her play her favorite game=baby goes backwards and hangs upside down= waaaaay too much. I had to get grandpa and two (count 'em) Aunties to come and take turns changing a baby's diaper while I was laid out flat on a heating pad in a BenGay haze. Mmm. Minty.

Update

2007-06-01T18:11:00.000-07:00

Daniel is still either the Devil or, more likely, one of the Devils minions...a bitchy snooty little minion, but I called my bank and had them dispute the charges. To do that, I have to close out my debit card. That's not the problem. The problem is that now I'm obsessed with revenge. I can't help it. They're just such schmucks! I wish that I could know for sure that there is a special extra hot and burny spot in hell reserved for business execs who put in place evil customer service policies and the soulless little suckers who blindly carry those policies out. If I knew that they would fry extra crispy for all eternity, then I could sleep better at night.

I wish I were joking. I really do.

Daniel from Crunch Fitness is the Devil

2007-05-21T17:23:00.000-07:00

I don't even have a contract with them anymore and they're still charging me and they won't STOP. And Daniel the twit who answers the phone was such a jackass, I told him that if it was policy to give people the run around to please give me a break because my baby just had surgery (shameless...I admit, but true). He gave me no break. Just attitude. So I screamed as loud as I could. Hung up and then sent an email to a contract lawyer, Danny's superior, every consumer watchdog group I could think of. And I filed a formal complaint with the Better Business Bureau. Don't mess with a tired mom while she's holding a fussy baby...just don't do it.

New Book for Your Friends

2007-05-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

I haven't even read this book. But the title makes me giggle. I just love people who talk about what kind of parent they'll be BEFORE they have kids. And then they have the nerve to judge your parenting style. (Oh..and by love, I mean not love!)

Uh oh. I think I used to be one of those people. Damn it! Oh the shame! The shaaaaaaaame!

Fun with choking hazards

2007-05-16T12:26:00.000-07:00

Bored? Try going here and see how many of your baby's toys made the list. What? The Parent's Mag cellphone? But that's the only thing I can trade for my actual cell phone. How bad of a choking hazard is it? Really? Come on. If I threw out all Snappy's recalled toys, she'd be stuck playing with a cloth teething doll (that she hates) and her feet (which she looooves). Wait...What? They recalled the Laugh & Learn bunny? Nooooo. Sure he's loud and annoying, but that's what calms crying babies. His nose falls off? Pfft. So the did the volume knob on her Sleep Sheep, and I still put that baby-soothing little sucker into her crib every night. Why can't they recall that damn cloth teething doll so I can get my 15 bucks back?

Update

2007-05-15T22:03:00.000-07:00

The website has been updated! Now maybe crocheted sweater vests will come back in style!

Getting Ready to Roll

2007-05-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

Great googly moogly is it ever hard getting a brand new baby-type tour written and semi-memorized while taking care of a baby...especially one getting and recovering from cleft repair surgery (can I just stop for a moment and thank the Universe for supplying baby tyco and the Muppet Show on DVD? Thanks Universe. I owe you one.)

Strange but true, we're finally getting ready to start the Easy Rider stroller tour. Robert Mac (the power to be at Foot!) is doing the promotions. He's also working on a new Foot tour and hiring new guides to give it, and (hopefully) finally updating the website. If he does actually update it...this will be the first time since the 70s. Which is weird since we didn't even have The Internet in the 70s, but yet still....true.

I'm memorizing the script, fine tuning the route and tragically messing up my grand idea of laminating my pics. (don't ask) Also, I've decided that instead of walking alllll the way down to the damn thing; we'll just use the magic of pointing to look at the Zeum carousel. The ramp to get down to it is like something out of Raiders of the Lost Arc. Every time I walk it, I keep looking over my shoulder for the giant, rolling boulder. And if you trip the wrong wire, sharp sticks pop up...some of them with corpses still attached. Besides, you have to walk through the playground...might be too tempting for toddlers.

On the bright side, I've got my Easy Rider playlist pretty much done. I'll be posting it soon. Oh...and Snappy is way ahead of all of us. She has her butterfly toy, kicked off her socks and is ready to go.