Stardate: 2015, the beginning #WhootWhoot

Stardate: 2015

Ring ding dong, Ring a ding ding dong! Its the mother fucking new year! It always sounds so much more exciting than the actual event, which is me in an outdated velour jogging suit laying under a down comforter with a laptop giving me warmth. My boozy friends (Im probably part of the sect) always classify New Years Eve as "Amateur Night" and don't like to go out because they don't want to witness all the pansy ass fucks out embarrassing themselves since they are drinking more than they have consumed since the last New Years. This is a good holiday for me because I can blend in with the masses without having to send out "Im sorry" text messages the next day. It is my get out of jail free card.
Alas, I am home in sweats. Actually, an outdated velour jogging suit. People have not been wearing juicy ass sweat clothes for a while, which is likely why they shut down their brick and mortar and started selling their shit at Kohl's. It wasn't too long before people started wising up to the fact that a $200 jogging suit was likely made for $10.
Back to the New Year. What a fucking year 2014 was! I have to say, cocky ass bitch, it was the best year yet! My babies are my heart, and George surpassed the wretched milestone of baby to toddler. My only advice to new parents: Don't panic, a baby gets much cooler after they hit 16 months and it just gets better from there. Sure, he is still unbearable at restaurants, but at least he is slightly responsive to the mechanisms used in these situations to shut him the fuck up: iPhones.
Life is good now, and I am a happy camper. I carve in my running time, my daughter has her preschool and George, well he is a maniac who gives me endless happiness even though he laughs like a monkey as he shouts, "NO!" to me whenever I ask him anything.
My mom always told me, "baby phase is my favorite because they just sleep on top of your belly while you watch TV." That made sense, but the problem is that period wears off after 3 months, so it is all downhill from there. How do you tell your child, "You were such a good 2 month old, and I doubt you could ever top it?" Self realization: my mom has viewed my entire existence, and considered the first three months to be the most enjoyable for her. Wow, my middle child syndrome is really taking me on a ride right now. I have a non-diagnosed case of middle chid syndrome as I am the middle of 5 children, all born within 6 years. Fucking disturbing to any modern life, but it was very fun as young children, outlook does shift a bit into adult life, although it is nice to never have to make "friends" since I already have 4 besties no mater how awful we are to each other.
So my outlook on babies is much different from my mom's. My first kid was one of those ones that cried non stop for 3 months. I didn't sleep, was practically institutionalized, and then all of a sudden before I leapt off of a bridge, she started sleeping. Except when she was 10 months old, she relapsed and I think I slept 10 hours the entire month of August 2012. I left her with my mom and drank a red bull, which gave me the energy to pass out for 5 hours solid, the most amazing feeling I have yet experienced.

She has a knowing look

My next kid was an absolute dream. I considered him freakish because he would lay down and fall asleep. I had no idea that babies could behave this way, and after having him realized how my daughter is likely just a person who will always be screeching and hollering, and if all babies were like my second then couples would easily be procreating 10.
With my daughter, every night was pacing the carpet, and her crying was endless. I had to set her down because I felt so much fucking frustration it was freaking me out. At the time there was a big "Don't Shake Your Baby Campaign" because people were shaking their babies to shut them up. I had never thought this would be a good solution for her because it seemed obvious that the repercussions would be devastating, but in a world where people need instructions on how to wipe their butt, we need pamphlets on how to not physically abuse our children.
I was talking with my friend who is a lobbyist and she told me about a campaign that was going on regarding "Don't Shake Your Baby." There was a big hubbub over billboards targeting Latina women where it showed a Latina woman with iPod buds in her ears, and it said, "Shake your booty, not your baby." The reasons why this shit is offensive is about 20 points long, and the ads were pulled, but it seemed to me like they completely hit the wrong demographic. First of all, Latina women are not going to shake their baby, ever. I went to Walmart this afternoon and could clearly classify the subset of society who would be baby shakers, and I doubt they are concerned about earbuds, but rather a different type of bud.
This next year, my kids might offer me a dose of new frustrations. I hope they will eat their $6 kids type meal I buy them at a restaurant rather than throw it on the floor. It is not a nice sight to see me hunched over retrieving french fries off the ground, and THANK GOD high waisted pants are back in style, I'd hate to be plumber cracking it through that. It is always a loosing game in a restaurant; I can buy them the $6 kids meal that they don't eat, or I don't buy the kids meal and they eat my entire plate of food. Given my new years weight loss ambitions, I should just let them eat my plate of food.
Yes, my kids are helping me get thin! I am going to be bathing suit ready by Mexico!
That shit is 2 days away, so I will need to just work-it-girl because I don't think they can get me where I need to be by then. All my 2014 resolutions have been rolled into 2015: get fit as fuck, learn German and publish publish publish!
So ringing in the new year: to all the bloggers, cloggers, loggers, and floggers, we have another 365 days to work our beautiful buttocks off, so try not to shake your baby and shake your booty.

Eat your fucking kids meal! Well, ok don't. You're doing me a solid

Fish Death

Waiting to get home...

When we came home from a five night trip to Southern Califirnia I was sad to find our betta fish died. Our trip was supposed to be 2 nights shorter and it wasn't till the last night that I remembered about our fish.

I woke up at 3 am in a hotel room that was probably 100 degrees. During this trip I had been catching up with people and this involved, as it usually does, frequent meetings to drink beer and eat food. When I woke up hot and sweaty I felt glutinous, and it didn't help I was in just a bra and underwear. Having an 18 month old in the pack and play makes rummaging through the suitcase for pajamas a "high risk" activity that could disrupt hours of much needed sleep.

It was the fear that he would wake up crying from the heat, uncomfortable since his fleece pajama suit is hardly a breathable fabric, that motivated me to risk poking around the hotel to turn the thermostat down.

When I tiptoed back into bed it dawned on me, our fish Betta (creative name points) might be floating in her fishbowl. I guzzled the bottle of water next to me and after cooling down, fell back asleep.

The nice thing about being dehydrated on a road trip is that there is no need to stop frequently to pee. We made the 5 hour drive in 6.5 hours, which is very good for us. Sure enough, Betta was dead. She wasn't floating on top of the bowl though, she was laying on the rocks at the bottom.

Fish Bowl for rent: Must be nice looking red Betta costing less than $10

I flushed her down the toilet. I had to keep scooping the rocks off her because when I'd tip the bowl the rocks would cover her up. It was weird and gross. When my daughter asked where is Betta, I told her I dropped Betta off at her uncle's and he is watching her. Finally all the Investigation Discovery and Women Who Kill has paid off. I disposed of the body and thought up the perfect cover up within minutes, calm and collected under pressure.

We play a game called fishbowl where my kids and I hide under a blanket and we scream at an imaginary diver who is coming toward the bowl. If seen from outside the bowl, three heads are under a blanket shouting, "Leave us alone diver. We need personal time. Go away diver!" 

When in our fishbowl tonight, my daughter said something about fish heaven. I gave a side eye look, thinking, "you're on to me!" But she quickly moved on to some other topic. Maybe I am going to go through some Hamlet shit now, but it seems as if all the next day she has been mentioning the fish. If there is anything I have learned from years of watching Law and Order it is this, NEVER confess, thats the only way they can ever get you. 

I think the boy is on to me

Homeward Bound

My look of longing is due to staying just one day too long on my trip to see friends and family for Christmas. I feel like  listening to Simon and Garfunkel while crying because I can't bare being away from home a minute longer.

Had we just left yesterday I would probably have felt a trip back would be a priority, but presently I feel like never returning again.

My kids had the urge to return home after the first day of the trip. The trip peaked for them after the first night when we went swimming. Watching me shriek from the chilly pool temperature and even more chilly air was pretty funny for them. They are part polar bear because even with chattering teeth they were crying as I pulled them from the water to go to our room before they became hypothermic. If they'd just sit in the hot tub with mommy we could have stayed longer.

From that point on they became unhinged, to put it nicely. My daughter's behavior at breakfast was an indication of how things would be. Saturday she started screaming how she hates eggs but was insistent on ordering an omelette. The following day she crumbled when I told her French Toast was not an option. During these scenes I avoid looking around because I don't want to see sympathetic looks or, even worse, looks of annoyance. I see how they burnt out much faster than me since every holiday party we went to they were honed in on by every other patron and by the time they recovered from some relative yapping one inch from their nose, another one swoops in to blow their tongue in their face, inadvertently spitting in their face and mine as well (although that part was likely intended). 

Buzzed adults love getting a baby's face. Their drink sloshes around and ice cubes clink as they move into the kids. The kids reaction involves them screaming in terror and then trying to climb up my body like a bear climbing a tree, which involves a lot of fingernail gripping. The buzzed adult is unfazed by my kids' rude reaction, and it's likely because they couldn't understand my kids were saying, "go away, ahhhh, scary, help me mommy!!!" Regardless I apologize.

My favorite morning was taking the kids to Santa Monica. We parked, loaded up the double stroller and started toward the beach. After a stop at Jamba Juice (my daughters brand recognition is starting to slow us down as I was unclued in on her passion for Jamba Juice) and my plowing the stroller through the sand like Boxer from Animal Farm. The sand stretched at least a half mile, but it was worth the work because the kids ran to the water like we were in the Bahamas.

I thought they'd surely halt when their little toes felt the cold Pacific, but they are polar bears, and they let the water cover their feet as I kicked off my shoes and chased them before they walked out deep enough to be swept up. 

Of course, a wave came and soaked us, and forgetful mommy didn't bring a change of clothes so they went pants free as we walked the pier and rode the Ferris wheel. 

The Ferris wheel was a leap of faith since either one of them could have pulled a reckless move which led to them diving off the side. We survived although I had to keep my son in a vice grip and constantly tell my daughter to stay seated on her butt.

After Santa Monica there was still THREE days to go. So we endured people spitting in our faces. Last night I woke up at 3 am and had the realization that we left our fish at home, and she might be dead, since she hasn't eaten in a week. Hopefully she is much more resilient than us, who cry and complain frequently. After our final breakfast at the hotel buffet, we packed up the car, and I vowed to eat salad for the rest of the week. We are going to Mexico on Friday, and we won't know anyone. It's going to be great.

Here is my daughter excited to be heading home and pretending to captain the ship. As I Tetris in our luggage and thousands of presents, she orders me around. For people who don't speak 3-year-old, it loosely translates as, "Mommy, get me the fuck out of here!"

Christmas Shopping

This morning I went shopping with my mom, sister, and the two kids. Going shopping with an 18 month old is about as enjoyable as going to the dentist, which I have been putting off for three years. My kids and I went to Starbucks as my mom and sister went to pay for their merchandise. My mom and sister went at the sales lady like two piranha fish, and I knew to leave the register and go to the food court to get the kids cake pops and have an iced tea. The frustration from watching them talk to a cashier is enough to give me a heart attack, so I have to leave. 

With a line of five people behind them they begin explaining simultaneously to this poor woman, who never stood a chance of understanding, that they wanted to pay part of the total with a gift card and the rest on a credit card to get an additional 20% off, and use a $25 off coupon. All the while they maintained a sideline conversation amongst each other where my mom told my sister she pays for it all, and then she will give her cash later.

Watch Frozen for the 40th time, or go shopping?

When my mom and sister walk up to me having my tea and watching the kids run in circles they were beaming from the rush of achieving a killer shopping deal. They confused the sales lady so much that she ended up overriding the price of a $250 jacket, and she sold it to them for $47. My mom and sister were giving each other a jumping high five as they walked out of the store.

After the mall we went to Del Taco to feed the kids some lunch. I ordered baby George a quesadilla, I had nachos, and my daughter ate a chicken taco. My mom and sister both ordered $1 menu burritos, and then after looking at the receipt lectured me on ordering too expensive of food (my food with the kids totaled $5). My mom was explaining to us how great the new Property Brothers show is on HGTV and an older couple came up to the table and complimented us on how cute the kids are. My mom thought they came up agreeing with her, that they found the Property Brothers to be cute also. They went cross eyed in confusion as my mom replied to their compliment with a 3 minute analysis on the latest episode of the renovation show. Then my sister and I started laughing and had to tell my mom, “They are talking about the kids, not the Property Brothers!” As they walked away, my sister looked at my mom, and said, “Why would you think they were talking about the Property Brothers? How would they have known we were talking about that unless they were sitting in on our conversation?” I told my mom to ramp up the Omega 3’s and my mom said, “What do Omega 3’s have to do with hearing?” Then my sister looked at my mom, and said, “Mom, I don’t think that had anything to do with hearing.”

After we finished eating my sister insisted we go to Old Navy so she can look at flannel shirts. I figured we would be able to go to the store and get the kids home to nap at a decent time. As we pull out of the Del Taco parking lot there are cars lined up behind me waiting for the drive thru and I needed to focus in order to maneuver out of the lot. My mom and sister were loudly harassing me for having a dirty car, and giving me the unnecessary advice to not back into a car. I lost my cool and shouted for them to chill the fuck out so I can back the car out. Before they both started in on me, “Uh oh, Alicia is grouchy,” or “Jeez, Alicia, were only trying to help,” or a favorite of theirs, “Alicia, you’re still hungry that’s why you’re grouchy. You didn’t eat enough,” I had to apologize for being rude.

I drove over the curb and we made it out of the parking lot without having to wait for the drive thru to clear out, and we were off to Old Navy. When we entered the store, as if my sister knew the store by memory, she looked to the left and throwing her arms up she shouted, “They are sold out! I knew it!” I was relieved, “OK, well let’s go home then.” But my mom was already off. She was deep into the store, lost in a shopping daze, and I knew this short in-and-out shopping trip was going to take much longer than they led me to believe.

George really like shopping, deep deep down

I found two shirts on the clearance rack that were 97 cents each and then headed to the register. I bought them as my kids were falling apart from exhaustion. My daughter started crying because I told her I wouldn’t buy her a princess wand displayed along the check out line. We were in line for 30 minutes, and I knew all the glitter and glowing plastic shit lining the wall were going to make her go goggle eyed and cry. Of course my sister said she would buy it for her. I could see all the tough no-nonsense-live-off-the-land Nevadans shaking their head in disbelief at how my kid was spoiled to the core while my son was rolling around on the ground when they knew just as much as me that he needed to be at home napping in his crib.

Instead of acting like a bitch and complaining that we should have never gone to Old Navy, I projected my frustration on the long check out line. “That line was ridiculous. They should get more cashiers. I just waited 30 minutes to buy two dollars worth of clothes.” My mom looks at me as she is buckling in my daughter and says, “Mom and pop shops are having a really hard time these days.”

I yelled, “Mom! Old Navy is not mom and pop!” They can teach me how to be a bargain hunter, eat off the dollar menu, and how to be a better driver, but I have to take my opportunity to teach her on the difference between Mom and Pop shops and a chain of stores owned by one of the largest retailers in the US. Finally, I am able to give her a useful bit of information.

Here we are, relaxing after a tiring day of shopping that was much more fun than watching Frozen, again.

Beer Budget, Woody Allen Snobbery and Life Lessons

I just finished the latest Woody Allen movie and it was pretty blah. As usual it was a bunch of rich, smart (meaning well read and even better at regurgitating) and entitled people blurting out overtly philosophical jargon, which further induces nausea.  This is what bugs me about Woody Allen movies; he is such a fucking snob, and all his movies make this clear. There is also the recent revelation that he is a child molester, which makes him a snob and a child molester, the absolute worst kind of snob to be.

Acting like a know it all snotty bitch might be Woody’s forte, but he has the courtesy of making his characters act natural, by having skirting eyes, or seem to act overly nervous, as if this awkward behavior makes the ridiculous snobbery more palatable. This is what Woody has contributed to modern comedy, the fucking nervous and sarcastic schlub who is too smart and enlightened for his tiny body. Watch an episode of new girl, and notice how many time they say "awkward" and the Woody Allen rippling effect will become crystal clear.

I recently went to Napa and ate at The French Laundry. Eating a thousand dollar meal was exciting. I felt a bit peculiar when being seated, which is nothing a couple $30 glasses of wine can’t fix. After relaxing and really soaking in the lifestyle of the rich and famous, I was pretty sure I’d fit in nicely in these upper circles. I’d quote the shit out of Nietzsche and McLuhan if it meant I’d being living the high life full time. The snobbery was intoxicating and I drank it up while eating plate after plate of tiny meticulously designed edible art.

After leaving the restaurant I needed a cigarette. It was a nice smoke, one that eased the cost of the bill as much as the food and drinks. The entire experience was elating, but as time passed it was obvious just how out of the norm it had been. I have champagne tastes on a beer budget, and this led me to making reckless decisions while dining. I started with beer, then I had some chardonnay, followed by another beer, and then dessert wine; which led me to barf a couple hours after I left the restaurant. I barfed up a thousand dollars worth of food and drink, what a fucking tragedy, and absolutely pitiful to a snob. Luckily, I don’t give a fuck about what the snobs think, especially pretentious ass, child-molesting snobs.

The experience highlighted a personal realization that I am the most god awful wine drinker because I like to guzzle. I even had to lay off of IPA for a while because I am such an enthusiastic drinker. During this time, the only drink I could sustain a long night of drinking was Coors because it is 4% and keeps me hydrated as well as sane. When I have wine it needs to be in a very controlled environment, like there is just one or two bottles and after its done I can call it a night, and turn on shark tank while I annoy everyone as I explain what shark is going to take the product.

I am a thirsty person. During the day I have multiple beverages going simultaneously. I have a water with a coffee, next a coke, followed by a tea. It’s ongoing, all day long. I pee like every 20 minutes. So wine has always been against me because I am not someone who can leisurely sip a tiny glass that is intended to last 45 minutes because it is not humanly possible. Initially I play into the part of a fancy pants wine drinker, and take my glass and sip it like a person who has remarkable self control, but by the third glass, my mouthfuls of wine are on par with Henry the eighth while holding a turkey leg in his other hand. 

I stick to beer, and presently I can have IPA, it is the holidays for fucks sake! So I guess I am beer budget on beer taste after all. What a relief to figure that shit out, the most expensive lesson thus far. Awkward!

Not So Crafty

Today I did my first craft fair. I was nervous because I didn't have much merchandise. I had placemats with sequins sewed on saying "eat me," friendship bracelets, t-shirts with more sequins and some cute vintage clothes.

I started out optimistic, but as the day progressed it became clear no one was in the market for Eat Me placemats. 

Today was also an exceptionally cold day and I forgot a chair. Surprisingly 5 hours of standing in the freezing cold flew by. In the end I came out in the red, I made negative eight dollars after my booth fee and a hot chocolate. The market is really not my demographic, which I'd say is 8 to 11 year old girls, who seemed to be nowhere to be found. The majority of people at the fair seemed to be rich hippie types, who would call themselves bohemians, but are the upper crust of the 99%. They like to cruise the market with a soy latte in hand and buy beaded jewelry. A fringe shirt with "meow" embroidered on it will clash with their Patagonia jacket and bizarrely functional pants that were created for someone to wear while climbing Mount Everest equipped with pockets for food, toilet paper, and a compact sleeing bag.

I am going to find a more youthful fair for my next go, and if I end up in the red yet again, I will have to retire as a crafty bee. Loose money one time, shame on me. Loose money a second time shame shame shame on me. All I really wanted was to support my hair bleaching so now my "cigarette ash" hair color will grow out a little longer. Luckily the outgrown look is in style now, it's called an hombre, a cigarette ash and yellow hombre. 

Note From Teacher

She asks, "Why is the moon folded in half?"
... already has a good idea moon phases!!

A couple days ago my daughter’s teacher sent me an email stating that she zones out, repeats herself and her sentences trail off. At first I was confused, like what is the fucking problem, she is 3 years old, and in a room packed with 20 kids, there is a lot going on to distract her. After asking the teacher a couple questions, I came to the conclusion that the teacher is a fucking moron (Breath, right now I am in the anger phase). No, I couldn’t conclude she is a moron, it would be dismissive of her expertise, which is overseeing little kids and entrusting my daughter to her. My daughter is the first baby I have been around in my adult life, so I don’t really have a benchmark and rely on people who have lived experience for advice.

At first I was thinking, I must be doing something wrong. I must not be reading her enough books, or practicing flash cards, and teaching her math. I spend way too much time thinking up brilliant ideas for Shark Tank (The latest: a line of juices made specifically for cats, it’s called “Pussy Juice”) and I let her watch TV for almost an hour in the middle of the day when she is winding down. After fueling myself with loads of doubt I pulled up my fucking big girl pants and confidently claimed that I provide my daughter an enriching environment, and this email is grounded in misunderstanding.

My daughter has been able to convers since she was 2, and she knew her alphabet by 18 months. Sometimes I would be embarrassed going to play dates because my 2 year old daughter was talking with adults in the room as they looked wide eyed wondering why their 4 year old is unable to communicate this way. Then, I worried she might be a type of idiot savant, and her very early verbal skills were a possible indication. Worrying that my daughter has some mental disability is so terribly disheartening, but I really truly believe she is fine and she is adjusting to the school environment.

She started preschool early, at 2 and a half, and this class has kids up to 5 years old in it, so she is being compared to her peers almost twice her age. She also went from a stay at home environment to sharing attention with a room full of kids. To say that my daughter was brought up as the rising and setting sun is an understatement. She is the first grandchild on both sides, and has been treated as such. She is a little empress, and has been adored, praised and pampered since birth by her aunts, uncles, grandparents in addition to her own parents. Her teacher’s concern that she is repetitive, to me, seems indicative of my daughter talking over and over until someone gives her complete attention acknowledging what she is saying.

My daughter’s distractedness might be due to an irregular sleep schedule. She is dropping her nap, but she will occasionally take the nap and this throws her schedule out of whack for a couple days. Also, I recently eliminated chocolate milk from her diet. I got in the bad habit of giving her chocolate milk instead of white milk, and we have to go cold turkey to cut it from her diet. She is not taking this lightly and does not drink her regular milk before she goes off to school, so she is heading to class without consuming a proper meal. I think her problems focusing will be solved after I strictly enforce her no napping schedule and find a breakfast option that she will actually eat and is not 30 grams of sugar.

When I was in first grade my teacher had a conference with my parents because she thought there was something wrong with me. I didn’t talk to any of my classmates, and she thought this was indicative of me being stupid. I blew my classmates out of the water after being tested, and it was determined I was actually not stupid at all, I probably just don’t like to talk to people. I still remember how awful that teacher was to me, and I am glad she was wrong (not just because she got egg face). She was just the first of many to misunderstand me, and its good to learn early on that there are going to be people who won’t understand me and some will assume there is something wrong with me. Those are the people with problems; they deal with their ignorance in an even more ignorant manner.
The fact that I spent the last 5 minutes trying find baby poop on my hand might be a sign that my brilliance faded shortly after fifth grade. I know I smell poop, but my hands are clean, and I don’t  see it. I know my daughter is brilliant, and it will be something she needs to deal with. Sometimes her brilliance will be misunderstood, and she will need to resist the pressure to be dim. A great quote from a book I have started to read fifteen times, COD, references this adversary, “When a true genius appears, you can know him (or her) by this sign: that all the dunces are in a confederacy against him.” I can’t protect her from this by drop kicking her teachers for being ignorant, but I need to keep my cool and help her develop into who she is meant to be. First stop, the grocery store for a filling breakfast. Second stop, a doctor who will tell me that we will monitor the situation.

Looking for sharks at trout fishery 

Running Into a Marathon

Santa running a marathon

A little bit into my run I started smelling a burnt plastic smell, and I became a worried I should strap gas masks on the kids, that some people were cooking up a giant vat of crack in their backyard, and its wafting through the air. I soon came up on dead skunk road kill, which was clearly where the smell came from. Aside from having an imagination that always jumps to the most tragic scenario (possibly from too much law and order SVU), there is good reason why one would think this if you live in my little community. There is a term for a population that wanders around our city, “The Carmichael Crackheads.” It is not PC, but it is the only way to classify the lot. They can’t be called “homeless” because they are all clearly drug addicts and so it makes walking or running around a nuisance because I am a crazy person magnet

I stick to neighborhood streets on my runs because I don’t want to have a Carmichael Crackhead confrontation. There is one part of my loop where I have to cross a major crackhead hangout, and I keep my eyes forward and run faster. There are pedestrians on this road, crackheads and non-crackheads, and with the endorphins pumping, I have overzealous hospitality, so I tend to wave hi, or say good morning to people I pass by. Sometimes they smile back, or grunt, or just look at me like I am idiot. Then there are the demonic looking ones, with bright red faces and black eyes who look at me with such penetrating hatred, I can actually envision them pulling out a knife and stabbing me in the throat. Those are the fucking ones to steer clear of, and luckily they leave a memorable impression, so if I see them around a store or the bus stop, I can turn around or start sprinting.

This morning when I came to this part of the road I noticed a blockade, where the street was blocked off to cars. I ran right into a marathon! All the runners were on mile 14 and I came storming on the scene after just running two, so I was running like a fucking race horse around people who looked as if they were ready to trot on over to the glue factory. I was pushing a jogging stroller with the two kids strapped in, so people were really impressed. They were hollering, “Go mama!!” At first I was really loving all the attention, and cheers, but after realizing how much of a fucking poser I was being, I felt bad for relishing in unwarranted cheering, so I decided not to cross the finish line for the half marathon and turned off course the street before.

I am such a freeloader

Running on the main road when cars aren’t allowed is amazing. Usually I run on that street for a short stint because the stroller is so wide and weaving in between telephone poles and bus stop benches is too much of a pain in the ass especially with having to dodge crackheads. I have been pushed out into the street dodging these obstacles and it is really fucking scary since my kids’ chance of being run over by a big rig has significantly increased, which would in turn leave me completely gutted and lifeless, and lead me become a member of the Carmichael Crackhead clan where I would reside until I died of some disease under the awning of an abandoned shopping center. Good God, I need to stay off of this street.

On my usual morning jogs, which are not adjacent to an unexpected marathon, I notice random tagging around the neighborhood that says, “Kooky.” It is such a funny thing for someone to be spending their time going around and writing on billboards and posts. If the crackheads are leaving these kooky “kooky” messages, then I appreciate their sense of humor and am grateful because these signs lift my spirits when I am out on my runs, sort of like cheering sideline from the marathon. They certainly aren't proving themselves to be Banksy, but their fucked out of their heads on drugs, so what more can you expect?

Memories of Holiday Fun Gone Awry

Picture of my Christmas shoes!!

Ho Ho Holiday time is here. Yesterday I took the kids to see Santa at the mall. I was expecting my daughter to bitch slap Santa by screaming at the sight of him, and then insist the only way she would take the picture is if she is clinging to me and we stand 4 feet to the side of him. She definitely surprised me because she walked up to him and gave her list of gifts; purple play dough, and magic clip dolls.

My son, who is perfect; he rarely cries, keeps himself occupied, and walks around singing, is the definition of a freaking ray of sunshine, reacted just as I expected my daughter to. Right as he was being plopped into Santa’s lap his grip tightened, like he expected me to drop him there and then run for the exit. After it became clear the photographers noise makers and my clapping and jumping up and down like a fucking idiot was not going to make the baby smile, we ended up doing the picture where I am holding the baby and my daughter is in Santa’s lap. My daughter remained hesitant but the promise of future toys kept her from freaking out. When George, that is MY little prince’s name, was in my lap he began smiling immediately, and we got great shots where he looks happy.

When I went to select the picture, the options were the cheese dick picture of us smiling with Santa, and the picture of George emulating Elian Gonzalez while my daughter is clutching to hope that I have not put her in the hands of a psycho. The choice was clear.

My grown up daughter and Elian Gonzalez

Tonight I put the kids in the car and we went on a drive to check out Christmas lights in The Fabulous 40’s, a couple blocks of mansions where they basically strung up every light the Grinch stole from Who-ville. First stop, high end hot chocolate from a place where the owners smoked ten joints before deciding how to price their products. I ordered 2, and poured George about 2 tablespoons into an empty cup, and he immediately spilled it down his shirt. Instead of shouting, “that was like $3 worth of beverage, boy! Get it together!” I took a deep breath and loaded us back in the car. When we drove down the first street of the Fab 40’s Kiki, my daughter, shrieked, “It spilt!! I’m all wet!” The hot chocolate was not hot, by the way, we ordered it at “kids temperature” (this was probably an upcharge). She would not stop with the screaming about her wet bottom so we had to head home.

I stopped off at a grocery store, and when I pulled her out of the car, the butt of her pants was wet and brown. It was mortifying going through the store because it likely looked like she had shit her pants and I was dragging her around like some shitty child abuser. We were fast as lightening and I spent the entire time loudly repeating, “That messy hot chocolate really got you dirty!”

The holidays are about loads of QT and doing activities that go tits up. Taking pictures that perfectly capture just how awry things go will give loads of laughs later on. Just don't take pictures where it looks like you shit your shorts. That would just be sad.

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