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.

The best of 300 pictures

Rainy Day Play Time

Tomorrow I will stand in rain for easy hair wash

The rain has come and it seems like it is staying for a while. I am not going to complain since California is as dry as… uh, well think of something really dry. Did you say overworked starts-with-p-ends-in-y? Sucio fuck! You totally did. Well, fuck it. You said it, an overworked pussy. So California is finally getting the lube job its been needing for sometime. Thank you to all those people doing the lube dance.

I went to the mall today in order to beat the stir crazies. That was a huge mistake because the real crazies were at the mall since it is much drier than the freeway underpass they usually reside under. After my kids and I sat down next to the play area with our Hot Dog On A Stick lemonade and French fries some total fucking nut started pacing the kids play area. He was without children, and looked like he was off his much needed meds, so we decided to skedaddle before he whipped out an AK-47 and started gunning everyone down.

We went to the Nordstrom ladies “Lounge,” which is a bathroom, with a huge adjoining room that has soft velvet couches and mirrors. So nice, especially since the food court bathroom usually has poo smeared on the wall. Nords bathroom is insider info for mall rats. The only challenge is making it through the store without being lured into to buying something. They got me this time! Ahhh!

After we came home, I looked at the clock and it was only 11am. Don’t judge, but yes, we were eating fries at 9:30am. So, I had a moment of, “oh fuck, we ate fast food for a midmorning snack,” as well as, “what the hell are we going to do for the next 8 hours?” The rats go to bed at 7pm, with the youngest taking a nice 2 hour nap midday, but still, that is a lot of hours to sit and read, clean up spills, try to convince them that swan diving off the sofa

Fucking Weirdo, doing guns, as hippie
Carmen Sandiego

is a bad idea, and constantly shush the inner voice seductively whispering to me, “Turn on Doc McStuffins, then you can surf the web and relax.”

We ended up killing a lot of time playing in my room. I was pulling out clothes from my closet and seeing what kooky outfits I could come up with. My daughter, as usual, was being very demanding and ordering me around. She wants me to drape her in every article of clothing I have with glitter, sparkles or sequins. Then she walks around dragging them across the dirty floor leading to unnecessary laundry and stretching the seams beyond their intended strength. She also comments on everything I put on. Usually she says, “Take that off,” to any piece of clothing that is not a dress, skirt, pink, purple, or sparkles in some way (I am not too sure how I over girled-the-girl, but it really has me questioning nature vs. nurture.) The baby wandered around collecting things and putting them in handbags, then stacking toilet paper rolls.

Now it is after 7, and the kids are fast asleep, and I am looking at a house that is destroyed. Luckily it is going to rain all day tomorrow because we are waking up and cleaning!

Abridged Brain Exercises

I found my baby’s monitor yesterday. It was under the sofa, even though I am pretty sure I looked under there a couple times before finding it. I think my brain is mushy lately. It could be temporary damage from too many libations during the Turkey Day festivities, or because I forgot to take my fish oil when I went out of town. Most likely, it is because I have not been reading before bed because I forgot my book when I went out of town and since being home I have been catching up on all my DVR shows that mainly consists of House Hunters International.

I have been double dosing on fish oil to catch up. My daughter calls them my brain meds. We usually play out a dramatic scene as I take my vitamins. I am feigning illness, and she shouts for me to hurry up and take my medication. Unless I use my brain for a bit more than watching TV shows where people complain about the paint on the wall, or reading kids’ books then I guess this fish oil is a fruitless endeavor. Even though it is quite a brain exercise practicing how to pronounce Quetzalcoatlus from the baby book on dinosaurs.

Concentrating

During 5^th grade my sister’s teacher stood in front of the class and asked the students if they have heard of a book called Moby Dick. My sister’s hand shot in the air and she announced, “Of course! I have read Moby Dick like 5 times already!” Her teacher likely shot her an excuse moi look, and then carried on with what she was talking about. By 5^th grade my sister had read the equivalent of a college English major, the only difference is her books were called, The Great Illustrated Classics. The Great Illustrated Classics are adapted versions of classic novels. My mom frequently bought us these books. They are a font size 16 and have a picture on every other page, so it takes an hour to read a novel that in reality would take a couple weeks. If you are ever looking for some bragging rights, go around and tell people that you read Gulliver’s Travels in 45 minutes.

I have The Confederacy of Dunces on my bedside, again. I think I have started this book and put it down at least 5 times. When I go through my books in the garage I always pull it out because I want to finish it. I think Neon Bible is a great book, and people only have rave reviews for COD, but for one reason or another I put it down midway through, and then have to start at the beginning when I start it again. I can perfectly call to memory when Ignatius’s mom drunk drives their car into the balcony after they have watered down drinks and pastries at a dive bar. It is as if the book and I have a negative attraction working against us. I don’t even set it down because I am bored. I usually get a new book that I have been looking forward to reading, and it gets first priority.

After I finish the book I am reading now, I am back on COD! This time I am not going to put the book down until I finish it. I already looked it up, and it is not available in The Great Illustrated Classics. Whan whan whan.