Just "Q" me now...

It's official. I'm in a funk. In her appriopriately named blog "funky funk," my friend, coworker (and most of all fellow cynic) Jamie says that any day now I'll be sporting a nice little sign around my neck that reads "Don't get too close to the animal, she bites." I think she means that as a compliment- like I'm so thoughtful I warn people before I behead them with my canines... right???

Today, my Little Barrel of Love gave me her first official "you are pathetic please stop being you" sigh and roll of her eyes. She's TWO! I wanted to say, "Hey Kid, What the H??!!, I've got frozen meatballs older than you there Snowflake." But something tells me that's not Mother of the Year material so I refrained with a mere mock, "that really hurt my feelings" face. That never actually works so why was I surprised when she ran away laughing and singing "Daddy! I want Daddy!"

Let's see, then there's that place where I spend my days, aka work. You know, the place where I slam my laptop shut on my brain over and over. When that fails to accomplish anything other than loosening my "Q" key I dump my Big Gulp into my nearby electrical socket, hoping for at least a little spark. Again nothing and then I have an empty Big Gulp and an underfed caffeine headache. Then sometimes I take a lunch break where I try to off myself in a crazy "I'm gonna O.D. on chalupas, seriously, I think it will work this time" scheme. It doesn't and I return to work with the burden of "resolution" guilt. I then wrap my phone cord around my neck and begin to pull it tight. But then it rings and I can see that it's the boss on the other line. I decide to answer it, attempting to sound totally normal, but my windpipe is a little constricted and the mouthpiece is actually dangling down by my shoulder so I'm sure I sound a little awkward. Maybe even like an animal. Crap.

Then, I finished off my day today with a nice little workout. By workout I mean bopping around in front of the TV on my new exercise trampoline. I thought it was decent. I mean sure, I had to put on two sports bras-- thank you child birth for that. And sure, my husband came running upstairs panicked asking "what is going on up here? The whole house feels like it's shaking and my Dr. Pepper is inching itself off the desk." But, let's see... other than that, oh and the fact that my two year old bogarted the thing and played "Circus baby" while I sat on the couch eating a muffin, I think my day went pretty well.

Check out footage of said exercise contraprion. The instructions don't ever talk about how to use it with 2-year olds... weird.

Let's talk about produce

There are some necessary evils in this world. War, colonoscopies, chicken pox and perhaps worst of all… the one atrocity so evil that it can make grown men weep and can turn otherwise sane, successful women into bumbling, fumbling, coupon-clipping maniacs… the grocery store.

First of all there are the judgers. You know who I mean, those people that eye the high carb, highly processed, additive-laced foods residing in my cart. Since when did chicken nuggets and spaghettios become so taboo anyway? My kid can spot a diced, minced, meticulously shredded hunk of vegetable in any dish causing a “That’s yuck” and refusal to eat another bite of anything. So don't you and your spreadable hummus judge me! That's right, you with your organic milk, wheat pasta and oodles of produce. You see my convenient little dinners- boxes of frozen goodness, boxes of sugary cereal and my personal favorite, boxes of dried up what-nots and powder- just add some water, microwave and Bon Appetite! I feel your judging eyes each time we pass one another. (PS- quit stalking me... you soy cheese eater)

Then you have the lingerers. Ohhhhhh… the lingerers. Those unfortunate souls that have the misfortune of blocking the entire isle as they painstakingly look over the shelves… in search of I don’t know what, the Hope Diamond? Don’t they get it? The grocery isle is like driving a car. You have your side, I have mine. I wouldn’t drive my momma-jomma minivan into the path of your Chrysler 300, so don’t park that hunk of rattlin’ metal in my way. Boy, nothing gets the anger flowin’ like the lingerer. I’ve found that a snarky, sarcastic little “Don’t worry, I’ll go around!” or “Hey, that’s OK, I’ve got nowhere to be!” usually does the trick. Of course, to the standerby it sounds like I’m actually muttering clumsily, “Um, excuse me…. Excuse me… I just need to… sorry… I just need to.. oh, oh…ok, sure, I can wait.” But I’m sure it comes off tougher than it sounds…

OK, I could continue with my complaining here, talking about the squeaky cart that always find it’s way to me and causes me to veer into the tampon pyramid end cap (I’m not confirming that actually happened…and who thinks that is a good marketing ploy anyway? Stackable hygiene... please!), the dag nab price checks and the insanely horrible self-check out system, but I’d like to finish in the parking lot.

The parking lot has it’s own special share of ills. My store has a brilliant little parking spot that says, “reserved for new and expecting mothers.” Look, they need to can the expecting part ok. I know, I know, you have a headache, you’re nauseas, you have hearttburn, your shoes don’t match because you can no longer see your feet. Yawn. Let me just say, you have no idea. That spot should be saved for mothers of 2-year olds. Yes, 2-year olds. Offspring of this variety are special. Only the greatest of warriors can even handle a 2-year old, let along take them out in public. I mean, it’s a miracle you can even make it to the store looking presentable and by presentable I mean hair that has been combed at least once in the past 3 days and no more than 2 gummy fruits stuck to your jacket. There’s the “Mommy! I did poop” in the frozen food section. There’s the “surprise items” you find in your cart at checkout, which no matter how lame, (aka, lint roller) are tantrum inducing when returned to the rack. There’s the adorable chatter. “Mommy effin’ naughty!!” (That translates as “elephant is naughty” but next thing you know I’m getting calls from the cool moms canceling our play dates because my kid is a bad influence. She likes pachyderms OK!) I could go on, but I feel that to do so would take away from the importance of my “toddler parking” argument. I digress…

Bribery... is it really so wrong?

Scenario #1

Me: “C’mon Sweetheart, you can do it, just sit down and try.”

2-year old: “No.” (translation: oh, you can do better than that)

Me: “C’mon Peanut, potties are for big girls. You’re a big girl aren’t you?”

2-year old: “No.” (translation: I hear ya cluckin' Big Chicken but your pleas are like white noise. Puhh-lease. Enough with the psycho-babble, let’s start talking cold hard rewards here.)

Me: “Angelbaby, If you tinkle in the potty you’ll get a sticker.”

2-year old: “Gimme sticker!” (translation: now we’re talking…)

Me: “You have to go potty first CurlyQ!”

2-year old: “Gimme canny.” (translation: Interesting…I’ll see your sticker and raise you some M&M’s)

Me: “OK, you go potty and you will get a sticker AND some M&M’s!”

2-year old: “Me potty!” (translation: Score! This is way too easy old lady. Your weakness embarrasses me.)

Scenario #2

Me: “Time to go to bed Little Squirt!”

2-year old: “No.” (translation: That’s laughable. Come back when you are ready to bargain)

Me: “I mean it you Crazy Bean, turn off the TV, let’s go.”

2-year old: “Wiz Oz!” (translation: If you think I am going to turn this movie off before we get to the Emerald City, you’re even crazier than I thought)

Me: “C’mon, let’s go Buttercup. I'm turning it off now."

2-year old: "No! I need mook" (translation: If you take one more step toward that TV, you WILL be sorry chica. Don't make me bring the tears. We both know I have the goods to bring you to your knees. Yawn.)

Me: "No, we're going."

2-year old: “Mook!” (translation: Ok Captain Obvious, you’re gonna have to give me something in exchange. Do I need to spell it out for you Slick? Show me the milk and we'll talk.)

Me: “Oh, you need a drink Babe? Ok, then let’s go.”

2-year old: “Emems.” (translation: If I asked you to stand on your head and whistle, would you do that too?)

Me: “No, no candy SugarMunchkin. If you are hungry we will have one cracker then it’s bedtime Muffin.”

2-year old: “Cracker.” (translation: Could you be any more pliable? You are a pawn in my game. I own you.)

So, yes, judge me dear readers. I bribe. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. My kid can tinkle and poo-poo with the best of ‘em and goes to bed without crying. OK, so maybe somewhere across the pond a Supernanny with a way cooler accent than me is cringing. Maybe a teeny-tiny gym-shorts clad, very glistening Richard Simmons suddenly has the urge to scream “Haven’t you ever heard of childhood obesity. FYI, it’s an epidemic Genius!” But in my little part of the world we’re happy. Welcome to parenthood, don’t knock it till you try it!

In the name of all things holy!

Just when I thought we were making progress, just when I thought the days of Flavor of Love - a SUPER entertaining show where women with LOTS of personality and self esteem vie for the attention of the hottest guy around with gold teeth…(disclaimer: this post may drip with sarcasm)…, My Super Sweet 16 – the cautionary tale of spoiled 16-year olds showcasing what will happen if you give in to watching The Wiggles Live DVD just “one more time” with your two year old, and Britney and Kevin: Chaotic - an autobiographical documentary on the courting of America’s Sweethearts – wait…. I just threw up in my mouth a little bit…. OK…. I’m back. Who watches that anyway? Shaving your head, flashing your womanly bits and pieces and neglecting your kids is soooo 2007. But just when I thought reality TV was fading away, to be locked away in time capsules for the people of 2080 to later open and say, “What the hell…?” the establishment of entertainment goes on strike forcing otherwise sane people to endure the utter torture of an expanded reality TV lineup.

I don’t ask for much. For the past 3 years I have been toiling away 2 nights a week torturing myself in evening classes, while the rest of the world enjoyed prime time TV. While everyone else ogled McDreamy or McSteamy or Mc-I have a life and you don’t-y, I was learning to run top down regressions. Now that I am finally done, what do I get? Rerun marathons of America’s Next Top Model (remind me to go on some kind of cabbage diet and starve myself for the next 3 months).

Please, for the sake of all things holy, settle the writers strike already. I need me some of The Office. I need me some Scrubs. Just please, no more dancing, skating, singing, cooking, somebody-is-going-home-this-week-in-a-dramatic-tear-filled-ceremony. Pleeassseee… if it has the words "Simple, real, celebrity, competition or... Nicole Ritchie" in the title... just don't.

Why the title?

The Cynical Optimist. Why give myself such a title you ask? Much like a mussy-haired Ashton and a “she’s how old?” Demi, or pineapple and pizza, movies stars who try to be rock stars (FYI not showering for 4 days, throwing on some Guy-Liner and acting like you hate the world does NOT just make you into a rock star), or Brittney and…offspring of any kind- some things may not sound good together in theory but the forces of the world are going to bring them to fruition anyway. Likewise, I’m a walking contradiction. I can’t even commit to a political party, how am I supposed to sum up my entire personality in 3 words? The other front runners were “Neurotic but Not,” “Indecisive…I Think” and “Crazy, Sexy, Cool” but I think that was the title of a mid-90’s TLC album and I don’t want the crazy ghost of Left-eye Lopez to kick me in the jugular. (may she rest in peace)

I am a cynical optimist- aka- I believe in good but expect the worse. I’m sarcastic and flippant but my feelings can be hurt by a complete stranger. I’m more committed to the brand of toilet paper I use than any adjectives I can use to describe my personality. I can stoically sit through a documentary on 9/11 but I can weep at a KibblesNBits commercial. Half the time I think I am super cool. Like, “hip-momma-funky-lady-with-cool-eyeshadow. Mysterious and fun.” The other half I am “frazzled-bag-lady, where the heck are the keys to my minivan, is this a glob of salsa on my lapel? I haven’t even eaten Mexican in like 3 weeks. Could I possibly look any fatter.” The most mysterious thing I have ever done is wink at a man. I was actually 12 and he was my uncle and if we’re telling the truth it wasn’t a wink at all but a gnat flew into my eye. But he winked back so that counts… I have no willpower for being mad at people, I can shrug off the worst of offenses, but I can hold a grudge against Walmart cashier for refusing my .75 cent off coupon on my $283 dollar bill. And even if they end up administering CPR on me after a tragic gumball accident on the way out and I subsequently forgive them for the coupon incident, they’d still be that clerk that “saved my life” and then a few seconds later under my breath “but totally screwed me over on that coupon deal.”

Anyone know any good psychiatrists?

Stupid Husband Tricks

A lot of little girls dreams about weddings and the ensuing bliss that follows. Ahhhhh marriage- buying a home, taking vacations, having babies. So, imagine my wide-eyed wonder when I discovered that in addition to all of the blissful goings ons, there are some fringe benefits to marriage. Case in point: Stupid Husband Tricks. My husband has more strange talents than anyone I know, so I figured it was about time to devote a blog to him. Now, you may think with my flare for sarcasm and endearing wit that I am exaggerating... rest assured I am NOT.

He can rock some nun chucks like Bruce Lee. I had no idea how to spell nun chuck, but never worry, the FON (Freak of Nature) knew "nunchaku." He must have picked this up at Olympic training camp when he was invited to showcase his wicked black belt skills (remember.... not joking here).

Imagine my awe the first time he showed me that he was Rubiks Cube Hero. This was half the reason I married him right here! You know those annoying brightly colored cubes that taunt you into twisting and turning them until you laugh and decide it's really just a joke, they aren't really solvable at all? Well, my dearest can solve one in about 60 seconds flat. He likes to show off and do it with his eyes closed sometimes. When I am bored, I read celebrity tabloids, eat junk food or download new Itunes. When he is bored, he comes up with new patterns on "The Cube" (i.e. putting an X or S or H shape on each side, etc). I know, I know, someone should get in on this, like NASA or something... or at least Letterman.

Let's see, he was the State Bowling Champ in Iowa when he was 13. I've always had a thing for a man in bowling shoes.

He has the ability to recite mathematical pi to 16 digits, just off the top of his head.

Now, this one you have to see to appreciate, I call it MP3 Magic. I can zip through his library of 7,000 MP3's with my mouse and I can push play on any song and he can identify the song and artist after 1 second of air time. We are talking like ONE note. C'mon, every song sounds the same in the first second, but somehow the FON comes through!

I hear he was a Lego Legend, the envy of 11 year-old boys everywhere. Since he no longer admits to playing with them, I can only believe the Legend because I have seen him build some crazy stuff! Like, the day our power went out and he whipped up a homemade lamp with a huge battery, copper wire and lightbulb. Or, how last Christmas made me a digital picture frame by taking thhe screen off an old laptop, wiring up a bunch of spare motherboards and stuff, and presenting it beautifully in a frame. He tried to explain the science behind it but when he goes into techno-logic speak my mind wonders. So, I think the science of it has something to do with puppy dogs grooving to Mr. Roboto, but I might have imagined that part? He rigged up some contraption in the basement recently, where if any water should come in to the house (that happened once), he suddenly gets a text message on his phone. So, water...wire... I think it goes to the computer... and then somehow the phone. I don't get it.

He has the ability to identify any car, plane or gun- including weights, speed, ballistics and year of manufacturing. He's a freaking walking encyclopedia of useless knowledge.

He can remember any number from anytime in his freakish life. Like, "Hey Hon, what's the number to Godfathers?" He knows it. "Hey hon, what's the number to that restaurant we ordered from 2 years ago?" He knows it. Or, "Hey hon, what was the number of your neighbor friend when you were 5?" He knows it. It's great, it's like having your own hairy phonebook wherever you go!

My sister in law once told my husband "You always know how to walk that fine line between nerdy and cool." To my dearest husband, thank you for being such an Uber Nerd. It makes life interesting!

Flip that house

MTV has been calling nonstop to check out our revamped Crib. We're totally not in to the celebrity of it all, so we chose to reveal our Crib online instead.
Let's start in the main entryway, shall we. In this room we ripped out the carpet, tiled, changed the closet doors and painted the front door. We also burned the old curtains.... it was ceremonious... guess you had to be there. My favorite part is the diamond shape we (aka my dad) tiled in the floor. We got this idea from my friend Fifty Cent- he showed us something really similar at his Malibu place.
























































The next room shown is the main living room. In the whole house we replaced the flooring, trim, outlets, curtains and light fixtures. This is where all of our out of control parties take place- like the post-VMA's one last year. Man, Brittney was so wound up she passed out on the couch!



























Next up is the dining room. This is where our private chef serves our 5-course meals. In here we painted and put down new hardwood floors. When we first bought the place we weren't really "feelin" the chandelier, but now we can't imagine this house without it.

























This next room is the family room, or as we call in the fireplace room. At first we weren't feeling the huge gawdy brassy lights by the fireplace... and turns out.... we still hate them. Out latest accomplishment was getting some new lighting in and boy does it make a difference! They say that Tiffany is a girls best friend and if they are referring to the lighting company then I'd have to say I agree! The artwork hung above the couch is by some famous Frenchmen- La Fingre Painte or something?





























































The last room is the bedroom. In true Cribs fashion one might say, "this is where all the magic happens," but we're way above such crudeness. As you can see, these curtains from the 60's were simply FAB! Yes, they got burned too!



















































Thanks for checkin' out our Crib. Swing by next time for a tour of the underground garage with our Hummer, Bentley and vintage Catalina. Now it's time to GO!

Welcome 2008

We're nearly a week in to 2008 and that means the mightiest of my resolutions have fallen into the bucket of "Yeah, that'll never happen" and I am left pursuing just a few hanger-ons. I'd like to say I am lobbying something grand for peace or fighting world hunger but basically I'm just vain and self indulgent.

Remaining resolution #1. Lose some weight already. Yes, we all know I had "just had a baby" but at what point does that no longer become true and just a really lame excuse? Will I be someday shopping at the Gap and the oh-so-sweet saleslady asks me what size. I tell her then add the disclaimer, "But I just had a baby." I then proceed to show off pictures of said "baby" and saleslady says, "Isn't she in my class?" I would then proceed to look befuddled as saleslady explains that is the teacher of my 8th grade daughter. She would then give me the wide eyed "you-must-be-nuts-lady" look. Yes, I think that could be a likely scenario someday. Like the overwhelming number of fuzzy, mysterious items in my refrigerator, I'd say the baby excuse has long since expired. So, 2008, or rather, the first 10 weeks of 2008, will behold me losing the final 12 pounds of "baby weight." Actually, make that 10.4 pounds, week one has been good to me! Maybe, just maybe I am indirectly assisting in fighting world hunger after all- since my food consumption has now been reduced to a sheer formula. Add in equal parts weight and height and divide by my activity level times 3 parts evil torture master and I get 22 "points" per day of actual food.

Remaining resolution #2. As witnessed in my previous blog, my exposure to blockbuster movies was less than impressive in 2007. I mean, Borat made the top of my list folks- cinematic drama at it's finest. So, in 2008 I will have to just force myself to endure more movies. Therefore, at least once/month I will be sitting in a dark theatre, eating popcorn and M&M's..errr... I mean chewing sugar free gum and sipping bottled water... and zoning out of reality for 2-popcorn scented hours. Carmike.... take me away!

Resolutions #3-5: They have long since bit the dust. There's always 2009.