Plush...Plush, Sweet Charlotte

Hush little baby don’t say a word, grandma’s gonna buy you another stuffed bird. Then 4 stuffed kittens, 3 Hello Kittys, a moose who sings Jingle Bells and a unicorn that doubles as a nightlight. And that’s just on an average week. You sensing a pattern here? Do you know a place that counsels old ladies with an addiction to plush creatures? I think I heard my mom was a bit randy in the ‘70s. I’m absolutely shocked she never joined a band of furries! Glad she didn’t of course. But shocked nevertheless. (Wait, did they even have furries yet?) You see, I’m running out of room to house all the stuffed animals in my daughter’s assortment. I’m using clothesbaskets now. Not only that, I turn into a furry freak myself while trying to arrange them because I hate for one to be completely covered by another one, as though it won’t be able to breathe. It’s bad, people. Bad. And as anyone who has a mother who is a grandmother can attest, you can’t stop them. They are unstoppable. “Oh it was just so sweet Meredith. I knew she’d love it. And it was only $5.” (You’re killing me Kohl’s. You and your rotating collection of $5 character charity plushes are killing me. My family is suffocating in acrylic fiber!)

ET could be hiding in my daughter’s closet, and I’d never know. My mom always reminded me of actress Dee Wallace who played ET’s unwitting Earth mom. But actually she’s me. I mean I’m her. My kids (who are of similar ages and genders of ET’s earth friends) could be those kids. OMG – I see my future and it has a phone that plugs into a wall in it! Sorry, I go off on a side and can’t get back. Phone home Meredith, phone home. Where was I? Oh yes, trashing Kohl’s. No, I love Kohl’s. They have a sale. Every day. Wait, I was done trashing Kohl’s. I brought up ET because my point really is…if my children did befriend a wobbly candy eating alien and needed a place to hide it from Peter Coyote, then I’ve got the best closet anyone has ever hidden in. Oooh – I really need to rethink that sentence. But I’d rather move on.

My daughter typically sleeps with one special faux critter a night. Many a night she’ll wake up and prance her way into my bedroom with special critter in tow. My husband and I share a queen-sized bed currently and unfortunately. A few weeks ago my darling child chose to sleep with her Toothless stuffed animal. You know Toothless? He is the protagonist dragon from How to Train Your Dragon. And this plush version of him is not small. Middle of that night:…thump thump thump thump thump thump jump! Right into my bed with Toothless. It was 2:00 am, and lying in my bed was a grown man on the right, a grown woman on the left, and a 5 year old with her Doberman pinscher sized dragon in the middle! Luckily for me I had about a balance beam sized portion of the bed to stretch my ummm…toes. When that night was over, my husband and I both looked as though we’d had a fight with a dragon in our sleep. It was really rather ridiculous. If I were a more capable parent, I’d stop her mid creep, and walk her back to her own bed. But that would make the kind of sense I don’t have when I’m sleeping. The following night, I was ever so grateful when she chose Pepper to sleep with her. (Pepper is a cat the size of a mouse.)

So today, I picked my mother up to look after my youngest so that I could work from home. My older boys can entertain themselves. Littlest one wants attention. She wants to play puppet show, and big box store and lots of things that involve plush creatures. Well who better to play with than little old grandma herself?! As I was sitting in her driveway and watched her emerge from her house, I noticed a pair of large eyes peering out of a plastic bag. Grandma had gone and done it again. What was it this time? A pink octopus? A dog wearing a fireman’s hat? A snow leopard? No. It was another Hello Kitty. This one dances to Jingle Bells. (Because a moose singing Jingle Bells is never quite enough Jingle Bells.) Then I heard about the Dory and the Mike and the Firetruck they currently have at Kohl’s. Which means I need to free up another laundry basket…real soon.

I jest about my mom, but it must be said, the patience and pure love that emanates from her in regard to my children through each and every interaction is something to behold. It makes telling that silly old bat to stop buying stuffed animals for my daughter that much more difficult. So I don’t and I won’t. Besides, I think I have a soft spot for all that plush.

Ding Dongs Merrily on High

PART I

As I sit at my computer the last evening of the holiday season, I reflect on the highs and lows of the past two weeks. My 3 children have one extra day before school starts again. Which means, they aren’t as depressed as I am yet. Tomorrow the sulking will begin for them.  And I will be annoyed because I’m always annoyed with behavior my kids learn from me. (Geesh, I must be terribly annoying then.) Anyway, tomorrow is coming (along with below freezing temperatures and commuters who have forgotten the rules of driving in inclement weather.) I tell myself I will embrace it. I get through the post holiday blues every single year, right? What could be different about this year? I won’t answer that or my blog will delve into territory better suited for a psychiatrist than an innocent reader. Okay – so the future starts tomorrow morning and I will talk about all of that after it happens. Right now, I’d rather take a few steps back and look into the very recent past. The holidays.

It all began on a Friday. My children had parties at school. Except for my 7^th grader. I have no idea what he did on that throwaway school day. Truthfully, I already don’t remember anything else that happened that day, or the rest of the weekend so I’m going to skip to Monday. I remember Monday. I begrudgingly worked from home while my children entertained themselves with TVs, iPads, Xboxes and sugar. Work ended up being a nightmare – and lasted into the evening. In the meantime, my child who tends to cough from October to April of every year was coughing more, and I suspected it was turning into illness. Why wouldn’t it? Everybody on my Facebook friends list was sharing their viral misery with everyone on their Facebook friends list. That kind of sharing puts me in a panic and makes me assured I will catch something through the computer screen. I was getting nervous with my daughter’s cough because she started sounding like a werewolf smoker lounge singer. Not something that sounds as though it should come out of the larynx of a 5 year old girl. More worrisome though was the fact that we had tickets to our city’s annual Yuletide celebration the next afternoon. Not a cheap excursion. And I wanted my children to get into the spirit of the holidays by giving them a fun experience. So I put little werewolf Tom Waits to bed at a reasonable hour hoping she’d wake up in good health and spirits.

This is the part where I fib and tell you she did not wake up with a slight fever. Nope. Bad thermometer. We were going to Yuletide dammit. No one was going to babysit a sick child the day before Christmas Eve, and by the looks of my sprightly one, she was not ill at all. (Thank you Tylenol). Just a wee little cough. (cough cough) Let’s face it, I was a nervous wreck. Taking a hacking 5 year old to an orchestral event the day before Christmas Eve was sure to get me a few hateful glares.  But it would be loud right? Who would hear her? The answer is I. I would hear her. Every forty seconds I would hear her. Muffled with her coat and a hand towel I stuffed into my purse just for the muffling, I would hear her. When the 4 of us sat down in our seats – at the very top of the auditorium and on the end of an aisle thank goodness, I made a preemptive apology to the women in front of me about my coughing child. Told them she’d been coughing for months (which is true) but that I was an expert about stifling the sound. They were very gracious but the older woman in the duo kept insisting I take one of her mints for my daughter. Even though I clearly had my own stash of mints, (clearly because I had them in the palm of my hand), she wanted me to take one of her childnapper lollies. (Think Chitty Chitty Bang Bang…because I was.) This was not going to happen. I don’t know whose hands had been in that tin. I mean I know at least one person who had her hand in that tin. (This is how my defective brain works. I had the sickie with me yet I was worried about the germs of a stranger with a tin of mints.) But, I was always told to never take candy from strangers. That parental advice stuck with me. (If we leave college and my early twenties out of the equation.)

The show started. It was loud as fuck. YES! I figured out my daughter’s cough tempo and was there with the hand towel in time to smother the sound. I noticed too that about one-eighth of the theater was hacking anyway. Suddenly I felt as though we belonged. My boys were enjoying the show, I was successfully blocking locomotive sounding sputters and coughs, and my little girl was dancing in between hacks. Happy times! Then, then it all went to shit. Why you ask? Because whoever created this show decided to have a group of men sing Elsa’s signature song from the movie Frozen. The second we heard the first lyrics of Let It Go come out of a male singer’s mouth, my daughter went into thumbs down mode. Coughing was no longer the issue. Let It Go was. She was pissed. PISSED. How dare these professionals ruin her show? I personally thought it was terrific, but I no longer have the mind of a 5 year old girl (for the most part).  Unfortunately this was the beginning of the second half so I had to try to hang on until the end. I made up my mind I was not leaving early unless public shaming of my family for bringing a sick little person happened. Now she was restless and whispering to me every sixty seconds, “I’m ready to go home mommy.” No easy way to muffle that, so I put in my internal mommy earplugs, (they seem to work much better on whining than coughing) and made her stick it out to the end. When it was over, we Usain Bolted our way out of the theater to beat the crowd. A talent I learned from my father at an early age I’m proud to say. This entailed me having to carry my forty pound child, but I fortunately had it in me.

Once we made it to our vehicle in the parking garage, I let out a colossal sigh of relief. I did it. It wasn’t a great success, but not a complete failure either. My middle child was meh about the show. My oldest and most favorite child during this blog, liked the show, and my dear sweet exasperating youngest child said, “That was the most terrible-est thing I have ever seen in my whole life. I wish I just stayed home!!” It did not take long for her to realize her blunder with that declaration. Something dreadful washed over my face and I turned into well, is it cliché to bring up Faye Dunaway’s impersonation of Joan Crawford? Because although I don’t remember what came out of my mouth since I buried it deep inside the 5 percent of my heart that is cold and unforgiving, it may be tell-all worthy to my babies one future day. Needless to say, baby child buckled her seat belt faster than she had ever shown she had skills to do, and she didn’t complain or say a word the rest of the ride home. She did cough though. A lot.

To be continued…  

Mom Fails Again

The first moment you realize you’re going to become a mother, you think of all the things you are going to do and not do in order to make your children perfect citizens and human beings. It’s so funny how quickly it all changes when reality sets in and you are one exhausted mommy. Mommy failures happen all the time and we are probably a bit hard on ourselves about them. Because truthfully, what is a perfect mother? We’re all just one Dr. Phil episode away from at least one of our children writing a scathing tell-all about their childhood, with an entire chapter devoted to that particularly tough moment when you took your 8 year old to see that rated R movie, and your sweet little 8 year old asked out loud in the audience of adults –“What’s a condom mom?” (more on that in a moment)…

One of the first declarations I made when my number 1 was born was, “There is no way my kids, at least until they are 16 years old, will ever have a TV in their bedrooms. No way. Not conducive to sleeping and sleep is so important for children.” (Gave in at 10 years old for the first child and 7 years old for the second child) – Well, can you blame me? Parenting at bedtime is hard and some of us suck at it, so we sometimes have to take the easy way out to the detriment of our children’s sleep health. I’ll say to myself, “Screw it, they’ll be all right. I used to stay up late and watch Morton Downey Jr. scream at people and I kinda sorta turned out okay.” Truthfully though, my boys fight me less at bedtime AND actually fall asleep faster now that there are TVs in their bedrooms. So I’m actually kind of okay with this failure. Don’t care what the parenting experts say on this one, because my boys quoting Seinfeld makes me laugh. And if they weren’t put on this Earth to entertain me a little considering all the grief they’ve put me through in their short lives, then I don’t want to live on this stuffy Earth anymore. Besides, I hear the Martian parents are far less judgmental than us Earthlings.

We are some judgmental little fucks aren’t we? Jeez, mind your own business. If I want to be a short order cook and make Bobby, Bubby and Sue 3 different breakfasts, than what’s it to you? Unless I ask you to make the 3 stack pancakes while I heat up the waffle iron and plug in the toaster, you judgies need to shut the fuck up. So what, they are spoiled. That’s because I’m lazy. Duh. But in the end, I  discuss with them how spoiled and fortunate they are and how their actions affect others, and all of that warm fuzzy good citizen crap too. I have my failures, but I try to balance them with my successes. (I could go on and on about the successes but just don’t feel like bragging right now…)

My most recent mommy failure happened this past weekend when I had the dumb idea to take my 2 boys to see the movie The Heat. I had already seen it with another adult and we laughed quite a bit. It’s a funny movie. In my opinion it’s not worse than Family Guy, and since I lost the Family Guy battle a few years ago thanks to daddy’s parenting failures, I thought – the boys will love this movie! They’ll just skip over the dirty parts they don’t understand and laugh with the rest of the audience. Besides, their father just let them watch the rated R movie Identity Thief the weekend before. It too had Melissa McCarthy so surely this couldn’t be any more inappropriate than that one.

For my 11 year old? It was no problem. He told me once after I made him turn Family Guy off thanks to a particularly inappropriate scene – “Mom, just ignore the naughty stuff like I do.” That little shit…what could I say to that? I did not give in, but I still lost the battle.

For my sensitive 8 year old? After probably the 200^th utterance of the F-word, he had had enough. Glad he’s better at policing himself than I am, but damn, I wanted to watch the rest of the movie again! What really did him in though was first, noticing he was the youngest person in the theater and second, when Sandra Bullock pokes at a squishy thing in the fire alarm, and Melissa McCarthy points out it’s a condom, and he shouted, “What’s a condom mom!?” Thank goodness it was dark enough so I couldn’t see the horrid glares and loud enough so I could not hear the horrified whispers.

Oh c’mon… most of those adults had to be laughing when he shouted that. I just shushed him and whispered, “I’ll tell you about it when we leave.” That was a signal to him that it was not for his eyes and ears and he was ready to go. So I took him out of the theater and let my 11 year old stay. 8 year old said maturely, “Mom, I just felt like everyone knew I wasn’t supposed to be there.” So I said, “Grow up kid, it’s just a movie!!” Just kidding. What I really did was pat him on the head and admit to my mistake. So we agreed – no more rated R movies for him until he’s 13 or so. My memory must be terrible because there were so many scenes I forgot about my 11 year old so generously reminded me of including the tracheotomy scene. Yikes, I can’t believe I ever thought this kid could come to this movie. Where was my brain? Apparently in hibernation with the brains of all the moms who let their 4 year olds go to the drive-in to see The Omen back in 1976. I am in no way referring to my own mother and her numerous failures, why would you think that? Just because I will never let my children play with a kid named Damien, does not mean I am referencing a bit of my past. Nope. But seriously, why would you ever name your child Damien? Fuck that. That’s just dumb. Such child naming failure.

Okay back to my sensitive little man. So we sat in the lobby to wait for the movie to end, and I was grateful he forgot about the question he asked in the theater loud enough for the projectionist to hear. Until he remembered that question and asked it again. “Mom, what was that one thing you told me you’d tell me about? What was that thing?” I was thankfully saved by the exiting Pacific Rim movie goers and said, “I can’t tell you now…I’ll tell you in the car.” But little 8 year old put it together. “It’s not appropriate for me to know is it?” He said. “Well nevermind then.” Wow –where did this child come from? I hope he’s this self policing in high school!

So the movie let out and 11 year old loved it. He also felt the need to remind me about how wrong I was to think I could ever have brought 8 year old to this kind of movie. He said, “Mom, did you just not remember the movie you saw? I mean how could you forget she cuts someone’s throat open? Or that a guy gets shot in the balls at the end? There is no way he (8 year old) could have handled that mom. I just don’t know what you were thinking.”

After my 11 year old finished lecturing me about my pathetic parenting skills, we went to Culvers and had a sandwich. And it was delicious. And we all lived happily ever after until 8 year old stubbed his toe on the kitchen table leg…but that story is for another time…

So – I screwed up. I will screw up again, BUT it’s okay. I am a human mother. And I will continue to do things a human mother will do. Which includes love these kids to pieces. That will trump the mom failures any day of the week.

Lawless

My attempt at a movie review will look nothing like the reviews from the Roger Eberts of the world. But I’m doing it anyway because I love movies and I got shit to say about them (operative word = shit).

So I went to see “Lawless” this morning with my niece (who is a 27 year old adult) after much pleading with my children to let me out of the house. Little Normy Bates doesn’t always like his mother to see movies without him. But since I need to keep any kid with the nickname Normy Bates as far away from violence as possible, he was forced to stay home.

Lots of fun previews including one for a movie called “Looper” where Joseph Gordon-Levitt wears colored contacts to make him look like a young Bruce Willis and nothing like a Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Looks interesting and fun. That Joseph sure is hot and a hot commodity these days.

I did not get to see a preview for my most anticipated movie of this year, “Argo”. Ben Affleck’s next film. Thought I was going to get lucky when the last preview opened in a middle eastern city. Nope – turned out to be Liam Neeson playing John McClain or Jason Bourne or someone who kicks a lot of bad guy ass.

Back to “Lawless” - the great thing about seeing this movie was I had no idea what to expect. I saw a trailer for it a long time ago but didn’t remember it at all by the time the movie opened this weekend. The most I knew was it was about moonshiners and starred greats like Gary Oldman and Tom Hardy as well as the very much under-appreciated Guy Pearce.

The movie opens with a little boy freezing up when it’s time to shoot a pig. His older tougher brother takes the gun and does the shooting for him. This scene sets up the brotherly dynamic that will be displayed throughout the rest of the film. The older brothers are no nonsense badasses while little Sam Witwicky can’t do shit with a gun when Optimus Prime isn’t around to babysit him. Turns out these band of brothers are the Bondurant boys who have a reputation for being invincible and making the best moonshine in Franklin, Virginia circa 1931.

If you haven’t guessed, the youngest Bondurant brother (Jack) is played by Shia Labeouf whose character is a little too cocky for his level of hardness. But he is a good actor and you do root for him to get mad and beat the shit out of someone. That someone preferably to be Guy Pearce in a smarmy role of a sadist named Charlie Rakes who has the law behind him, and who is hell bent on getting a piece of the Bondurant pie. His appearance in this film can best be described as The Little Rascal’s Alfalfa mixed with the demented charm of Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s rotten left pinky toe. He’s gross and terrifying, plain and simple. And let’s face it; it looks as if that middle part in his hair was made by Tom Thumb’s tiny little lawn mower. Dude needed a shovel to the face and it took way too long for him to receive it. 

I will probably have to watch Pricilla Queen of the Desert to like Guy Pearce again. (Well, and to see those ping pong balls popping out of that woman’s cooch again. That’s always fun.)

Moving on. The oldest and the leader of the Bondurant brothers is played by Tom Hardy who is a bit of a chameleon as an actor, and whose resume has grown quite a bit over the last few years. He plays Forrest, respected and feared in Franklin. His legend calls him immortal. Apparently he cannot be killed but it’s not for lack of trying. Tom Hardy who is English, was praised and criticized for his voice work in The Dark Knight Rises. In this film, he also has strange sounds coming from his vocal chords. I’m not saying they don’t work. I am saying they make him sound as though he is the offspring of a Foghorn Leghorn/Sgt. Barnes from Platoon sexual union.

But those lips, oh those sweet sugary balloon animal lips make me forgive any and all of the grunts and mumbles. Although Tom Hardy is a chameleon, it’s those beautiful lips that give him away.

The middle brother, Howard, is a played by an Aussie actor named Jason Clarke. He is the most untamed of the Bondurant brothers. But a good man to have on your side of the fight.

One of the subplots involves Gary Oldman as gangster Floyd Banner who makes the boys major bucks by being a good customer. Here Gary really doesn’t have much to do. However, he does get to have a least one psycho Gary Oldman moment. And that’s all we ever really ask of him, right? Worth the cost of my gourmet pretzel for sure.

The other subplots involve love for two of the Bondurant brothers. Jessica Chastain, looking as radiant and damaged as ever, plays Maggie Beauford, an ex-dancer from Chicago looking for a quieter life in the boonies. She starts working at the Bondurant’s bar and falls for Forrest in the process. The woman has the most angelic face, and I just can’t get enough of looking at it. I honestly think the world would be a better place if we could all cuddle a blanket of her hair nightly.

The other love story revolves around young Jack and the very religious yet rebellious Bertha Minnix, played by Mia Wasikowska. Go on and pronounce that one. It was hard enough to spell it. No one knows how to say her name, which will unfairly hurt her future Oscar chances. She is sweet, and her face is so innocent in this film she is like a Precious Moments doll come to life. Bertha’s dad despises the lawless Bondurants, so it’s not an easy road to her heart for Jack.

The movie is very violent. Look away kind of violence actually. Especially a hotel room scene with a pretty package sent to Charlie Rakes. Oh lawd. I wish I could Eternal Sunshine the Spotless Mind that one from my memory banks.

In the end I’m glad I saw Lawless because it was entertaining, well acted and beautifully filmed. Sure there are flaws but I don’t expect all of my dollars to go to flawless entertainment. I am happy I gave two hours of my life to this film. Oh and if I can mention those Tom Hardy lips one last time. It was easy to pay to look at those. Easy.

There's a Weirdo Raising My Children

My family has told me from the day I was born that I was a little strange. Possibly not even from the planet Earth. I never really understood why they thought that. I just did what I did, liked what I liked and said what I said.

I did come out of the womb rocking my head back and forth and never stopped. I’m sure that looked a bit strange to grown ups. Head back and forth…that is how I put myself to sleep until my self conscious pre-teen years when I feared rocking my head back and forth on a pillow would give me a bald spot. These days if you rock your head back and forth someone somewhere thinks you need medication. No medication for me and no bald spot thankfully, but still considered a little weird by polite and normal society’s standards. However, I have always been pretty good at hiding my brand of odd. (Until Facebook that is. The cat is out of the bag but only just a little). I mean, I can interview for a job, I can put someone at ease, I don’t mouth breathe unless I have a cold and I can hold a conversation with a doctor, a lawyer, a butcher, a baker and/or a candlestick maker. So I may be a Martian, but I damn well have taught myself how to fit into Earthling society.

What makes me a weirdo? Hell I don’t know. It’s just a stupid label I’ve been given because I occasionally voice an odd thought that entered my brain. My brain either is missing a chip or has an extra one embedded in it from my birth planet. What’s the big deal that I have a mental ritual I have to perform in order to keep people who’ve left my house from getting into a car accident? It only takes 30 seconds out of my day. Not such a big deal to me. So what that I wish there was a computer that could calculate how many times I’ve said the word, “the” in my lifetime. You have to admit that would be pretty cool. And I don’t think it’s so odd that I’ve spent time wondering what it’s like to a be an ant on a tortilla chip trying to figure out how exactly to start chomping into that sucker.

Some weirdos prefer to be called “eccentric”. As if that is the high class superior version of weird. Not me. Apparently I’m just a good old fashioned weirdo. And that’s cool with me. Besides, you have to be British to be eccentric. And you usually have to have a hairdo out of the Helena Bonham Carter catalogue of hairstyles as well as a set of teeth out of a rusty old tool shed. And you must own a lot of purple-ish fringy scarves. Not to mention you typically emanate an odor that can only be described as ‘lavender fields of chocolate curry covered patchouli mothballs’. It’s an odd smell and fitting for the best of the eccentrics out there. Oh, and let’s not forget the disproportionate amount of cat hair covered clothing whether there’s a cat (or 15) in the picture or not.

So, eccentric in my book is too specific. That label won’t work for me. Not a big fan of strange either because I think of the word stranger, and I don’t know a movie with the word stranger in it that turned out well. Strangers on a Train. Not a happy ending for Farley Granger but he did ask for that so my sympathy is limited. When a Stranger Calls. Yeah. Ruined the lives of every babysitter that watched it in the late 70’s. Not a scarier opening to a movie is in existence. Gives me the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.  More recently, The Strangers. Don’t have to see that one to know the outcome is not good. The movie poster art tells me all I need to know.

Freak. I can take or leave freak. I tend to think of Circus oddballs with unusual body shapes and circumstances when I think of freaks, but I can sometimes find it endearing.

Bizarre. Bizarre goes a little beyond eccentric, strange, freakish, odd and weird to me. If you’re bizarre, you’re usually doing things that even aliens would find bizarre. Joaquin Phoenix on David Letterman a few years back. Bizarre. I don’t care how he explains it now, he made Andy Kaufman antics seem like a chat with Morley Safer. Fellini’s Satyricon. Classic foreign film and bizarre as hell. Even after taking a film theory class where we discussed it, I still don’t get it. So if I’m being called bizarre, I fear I’m beyond making sense anymore.  

People can call me names, but I personally don’t think I’m all that odd. My head just drifts into the clouds quite a bit. But I come back to Earth just as often as I leave it. So I think what my family should really be labeling me as is “balanced.” That’s’ a nice and appropriate term. And my balanced ass likes to march to my own tune. It may be a tune with the word “poop balls” in it. But it’s mine and I’ll take it over marching to no tune at all.

What Knockers! My History of Breastfeeding

So I’ve just hit a huge, MAJOR milestone in my life as a mother, and my life period. I’ve put the boobies away for good and weaned my last child. Oh it was not easy. Not easy at all. My 3 year old daughter was not giving up the mommy milk (mimmies in her words) without a vicious fight. A scratching clawing fight. More on that later.

This end to an era is bittersweet no doubt. On the one hand, I have longed for my freedom at home. It’s been years since I’ve been able to sit on the couch without a babe climbing into my lap to catch a comforting sip. On the other hand, I will never do this again. I feel I am letting go of my baby and pushing her to grow up. I mean she really is just a baby. 3 year olds have the maturity level of 3 year olds. Which is still quite baby-ish.

During my early twenties, when my breasts were far more popular than I was, I only saw them as a source of attention from men and a source of income from men who liked to tip bartenders with comely young bouncy flesh orbs.  I never met a tight fitting low cut t-shirt I didn’t like. Well wait. I take that back. Yes I have. It was white and inside a dark bar with bar lighting, and my white bra glowed in the dark. Talk about getting the hell out of Dodge fast! But for the most part, if it was cotton, tight and wide open at the neck, I was a fan.Which is one of the reasons I threw a colossal fit when one of the bars where I worked changed the dress code so that all employees had to wear ugly, unflattering, beige and green baggy ass, man cut t-shirts with crew neck collars. I put in my two weeks notice in record time.

My next move was to a bar where the dress code was “no jeans”. Well hell I could deal with that. A year and a half into that gig, I mistook a Kiwi for an Aussie and ended up married 9 months later. You have to fast forward 3 years to get to the breastfeeding. So 3 years later, I was 40 weeks pregnant, larger than Kevin Federline post Britney and thinking, “When this baby comes out, I’m actually going to give breastfeeding a shot. Why not?” You could not have told me that pre-pregnancy. I mean breastfeeding was for groovy hippies without a care or worry in the world…right? I didn’t mind bouncing the boobs in a form fitting top, but unleashing them on the world to feed a baby? Just couldn’t see that for myself.

But some little mommy voice kept knocking on my conscience’s door saying, “How can it hurt to try? If it doesn’t work, you have back up. If it does work, then presto! Cheap food.” So I got over my inhibitions and fears about it and gave it a try.

My firstborn latched on like one of those creepy leach-lipped fish you see suctioned on the side of a fish tank. Once he got a hold of it he wasn’t letting go. What the hell? It took me awhile to figure out how to unlatch the baby jaws of death. Just poke a little finger in their mouth and wiggle it around until they let go. I guess at least he liked it but damn little man. I’m not going to lie, it was ridiculously uncomfortable at first and I was not convinced anything was coming out.

By day 3 I was sore, had a cracked nipple and wanted to drop kick, bitch slap, and karate chop every member of La Leche League who ever said, “If it hurts, you’re not doing it right.” Bullshit. My tender nipples that have rarely seen the light of day are now the sole life source for a hungry infant with twice the suction of a fucking Dyson. That’s why it hurts! Here’s a sentence you can add to your Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, “Kiss my ass!”

Now before my crunchy friends disown me, please know those thoughts came from me when I was sleep deprived and pissed off at nature for making the natural seem impossible. But I kept giving it a good fight because Boss Hog took a shine to it.

Through all of this I was getting antsy to see some real milk because all I had produced at that point was colostrum and I kept thinking my son was not really getting enough to eat. I wanted to see some real evidence dammit! This is the part where my conscience spoke up again, but this time she said, “Be careful what you wish for because girlfriend, you’ve got no idea what’s about to happen here.”

Man was my conscience ever correct. The books sure don’t prepare you for the milk invasion. It’s like nothing I ever imagined. Men, I’d like you just to envision how your testicles feel on an average day. Now, pretend some nature fairy replaced the testicles you have come to know and love with a couple of medicine balls filled with liquid. After you stop crying, you eventually have to get up and walk. You would need a special apparatus to hold those monsters in place so that you could resume what’s left of your life. Enter exhibit A – The Nursing Bra!

Gotta have a nursing bra when your milk arrives. And it’s absolutely pointless to buy one during your pregnancy. Your boobs double and triple in size…so wait til the babe comes out and the milk comes in! My fitting was a real trip. Oh they had some cute bras with leopard prints but they were in size G…too small for me. Yeah that’s right. I skipped right over G and went straight to J. 36 J. I was like, “Come again?” What the hell does J stand for Jupiter? Jugs? Jeez O’ Pete?

This was the ugliest piece of undergarment clothing I had ever laid my eyes on and I was about to pay fifty bucks for it. Ugh! But I did because I had no choice. Looking at my post partum body with that thing on was depressing. I looked like all the before photos from weight loss supplement ads. And I felt like I belonged on the Benny Hill show as one of the body doubles for the melons! All for the good of the babe…right?

2 weeks into my new role as provider of everything to my baby, I was starting to get the hang of it.  A little shocked the first time my baby quickly unlatched and I realized my breasts were actually garden hoses with 3 sprinkler settings to them. The quick unlatch brought out the jet stream for sure. A nodding off baby, more of a light spray. All of the things I didn’t know about breastfeeding but had to learn on the fly was mesmerizing to me. The whole process was pretty awesome, but the most amazing thing was watching my baby grow strictly from food produced from my body. I was beginning to like Mother Nature again.   

One of the down sides to all of this breastfeeding was a lack of alone time and sleep. Who better to get up in the middle of the night to feed fussy hungry baby than the parent with the food? Oh sure I could pump and let daddy feed, (and I did) but who wants to pump when they don’t have to? Pumping is the biggest, most boring, time consuming pain in the ass. And my breast pump (lovely enduring thing that it was) always spoke to me during pumping sessions. Sometimes it would say, “Aflac! Aflac!” Other times it would say, “RedRum” “RedRum”. As annoying as it is to hear your breast pump do its best Insurance Goose (or is it a duck?) impression, it was much preferable to its creepy kid from The Shining impression.

Sleep deprivation, obnoxious breast pump and ugly bra aside, the breastfeeding children thing became something I was really good at. So I kept doing it. I made a goal of 1 year with my firstborn and exceeded it by 2 months. When my second son was born, breastfeeding was a piece of cake. No cracked nipples thank goodness, but I was still sleep deprived and being stalked by the little boy in the Shining kid’s mouth thanks to my Ameda Purely Yours Breast Pump.

Boy number 2 got the same 14 months of momma’s milk as Boy number 1. Then I took a 4 year break while we decided if we’d have any more children, and while I lent my jabber jaws of a breast pump to my sister-in-law.

When baby number 3 came along, I was practically schooling the lactation consultant the hospital sent to my room. The one who came the second day of my stay took one look at me and said, “Yeah, you’re good. Do you need anything?” Yes, a spare set of nipples would be nice. (I mean, I was experienced but the nipples still get sore when attacked by ravenous newborns.)

This time around I thought I’d let my baby nurse a little longer. I’d just play it by ear but definitely be done by age 2. Over the age of 2 would be beyond my comfort level. At her 18 month check up, I still fed the little thing on demand and asked her pediatrician if she’d ever let up. The doctor explained to me that breastfeeding to her was her lovey. Some babies and toddlers had blankets or Teddy Bears or pacifiers. My daughter’s lovey just happened to be attached to my body. And she told me not to be surprised if she wanted to nurse until she was 2 ½ to 3. Oh Hell no. I was missing my autonomy desperately; there was no way I was getting near the 2 ½ mark let alone 3. That’s just crazy talk!

But 2 came around and sweet baby had zero interest in letting up.  Occasionally I’d say no, and it would turn into a fight to the death. (The death of my freedom.) I just couldn’t say no to her. She’d bawl and cry and I felt horrible. I’d say to my husband, “Okay…she’s clearly not ready, we can continue for a bit longer and I’ll wean her by the time she is 2 ½.” Yeah, dream on sucker. This one ain’t weaning until she is good and ready, and I had the claw marks on my upper chest to prove it.

I always had an excuse why I couldn’t wean. Work stress, baby not feeling well, too tired, etc. But the main reason was it felt cruel to me to wean her when she was still not ready. I personally was ready but stuck it out a bit longer for her. When she turned 3 last month and I still couldn’t see an end in sight, I knew I’d need to make that end come. (I am having a surgical procedure next month and cannot have a big ass 3 year old all over the mimmies!)

So I prepped her verbally one day. Just talked about it all day long. When night came, she didn’t even ask for them. Just went straight to sleep. She has fussed a few times since then and is still asking on occasion, but I’m not going back now.

In the words of all those useless Bachelors and Bachlorettes, “It’s been a long journey but very rewarding.” Only I really mean it. Much easier for me to say that now that I’m done. A few weeks ago you would have gotten the stink eye from me if you made even one innocent little remark about my breastfeeding…I was so over it. I spent 5 ½ years of the last 10 breastfeeding. That’s a lot of work for a 40 year old set of cans. But I gotta say, I’m impressed with their durability. They are not too shabby for all they’ve been through. What knockers indeed!

When Dead Animals Attack!

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a person lying on their bathroom floor in possession of a wretched case of food poisoning, must be in want of a quick death."

November 11, 2011. Many were excited about this date and hoped to give birth or get married. I guess because having 6 number ones in a row brings good luck?? Never heard that before. Sure I suppose it’s kind of cool to write out 11-11-11. But after the 30^th email I sent that day for work with the date 11-11-11, I was over its very minor coolness. I understand 7-7-7 when that day came and went 4 years ago. Because lucky number 7 right? But I’ve never heard of lucky number 11 and for me it’s turning out to be a real shit number. You see, on 11-11-11 my food tried to kill me for the 3^rd time in my life.

Let me take you back to Jr. high school and a very nasty Domino's Pizza my mom had ordered us for dinner. It had sausage on it, it had pepperoni on it, it had green pepper on it. And about 5 hours later so did our living room couch, chair and floor. My 2 older brothers and I all got sick at the same time. I suppose it could have been a stomach virus, but with the way that green pepper was flying through the air, I’m convinced we had a killer pizza. My poor mother. It should have been easier on her considering we were all teens and should have been able to make it to the bathroom in time for some of the chucking, but sometimes when your food attacks you, you don’t have the strength to sprint to another room. Sucks big time. I could not eat pizza for many years after that episode. People thought I was un-American. How do you not eat pizza Meredith? Because even the smell of it brought back memories of wishing for death. So no thanks, I’ll pass. When I did give in and started eating pizza again, I spent another few years pulling all toppings off so I just had the crust and tomato sauce. I got grief for that one too. I don’t know why. Why should anyone else care if I ate naked pizza for a few years?

Food poisoning episode number 2 took place in November of 1996 when I was 24 years old. I waited tables at night and shared a rental with my mom and brother during that year. I left my job early because I just wasn’t feeling right. The moment I got home I had the most violent puking I had ever had in my life. Coupled with the “rain” of terror coming out my backside, I thought I was dying. I was wishing for death out loud and became completely bonkers and incoherent. All of this was in only a matter of a few hours. My terrified mom who was probably channeling Ellen Burstyn’s character in the Exorcist didn’t know whether to call a priest or an ambulance. Thankfully she chose ambulance or I would be ashes on top of someone’s fireplace today.  When the head EMT arrived he asked (like they all do), "What seems to be the trouble?" Are you freaking kidding me!? What seems to be the trouble? A volcano just erupted inside my body while lava guts are spewing out of my gob and my ass and you want to know what seems to be the trouble? "Uh Mister, can't you take a guess?" Is what I would have asked, had I been able to speak. There was no 'seems' to be trouble...this was full on trouble! I could not hold my head up or even open my eyes fully. They had to carry me out on a stretcher and hurry me to the hospital. They could not get an IV going because my veins were being difficult due to the extreme dehydration. They kept sticking me and sticking me all over my arms on that bumpy ride.

Finally, once I made it to the hospital, they were able to get the IV going through my hand. Those poor ER nurses and docs that night were in bed pan hell. They opened the door ever so slightly, just enough so that a forearm with an aerosol can attached to its hand could reach in and spray disinfectant. No one wanted to be my caregiver that night. Can’t say I blame them. Not a pretty sight (or smell) in my ER room. My mom peeked her head in to check on me at one point and said, “Meredith, don’t ever let anyone tell you your shit doesn’t stink. Because they’re lying.” True story. I will never forget lying on that cold bed in that cold room whimpering in misery alone while my ever so precious and dear mother practiced her stand up routine. Ba da bum! Good one mom. If I had the strength to lift my middle finger, I would have enthusiastically. A tearful look of desperation from my deathbed had to suffice. No, I wasn’t mad at my mom. She was trying to make me laugh. Something I find impossible to do when my body turns on me and decides to expel every single ingredient that ever entered my mouth. I’m quite sure there was a piece of brussels sprout in my vomit, and I hadn’t eaten a brussels sprout in 11 years. (My 7^th grade Home Economics teacher made me eat one if I was going to get an A in her class. Torture.)

So the fluids and medicines in the IV finally started working and I went into a calm haze for a few hours. Some Dr. talked to me about Salmonella and told my mother she did the right thing by bringing me to hospital when she did because I would have eventually died at home otherwise. Gee whiz – thanks undercooked chicken. Clucking bastard. They cleaned me up and I was sent home. Now I cook my chicken to a nice boingy burnt finish. And pretty much put on a hazmat suit whenever I have to handle the raw stuff. However, thanks to those beautiful already cooked rotisserie chickens they sell everywhere now, I rarely have to handle the raw stuff. I truly can’t believe I ever ate meat again after that nightmare.

But I did. And on 11-11-11, a dead piece of it turned on me again. Of course these days the plants are turning on people too. Spinach, tomatoes, cantaloupe. Maybe I need to just stick with Pop Tarts – nobody gets food poisoning from them. Perhaps a bigger ass and a bad cholesterol reading, but not food poisoning.

I ate an all beef burrito at a little strip mall Mexican restaurant. Mexican food is my absolute favorite. Chips, salsa, guacamole, beans, cheese, non-psychotic beef, queso. The list of deliciousness goes on and on. But the beef burrito was very odd. It was a tortilla filled with beef only. No cheese, no spices, no sauce, no tomatoes, no onions. Nothing but ground up cow parts and a few tasteless toxins (I would find out later).  7:00 pm was the first hint of my near hellish future. You know that feeling. Just a little odd flutter in your gut that makes you put your hand on your stomach, wince a little and start the prayers. Something like this, “Oh no, please God. No. No no no. Don’t let this be what I think it is. Please let this be just a little upset stomach. One round on the potty should get my belly right….right? Oh please oh please oh please.” For me, those prayers fell on deaf holy ears. 

You don’t need details about the next 10 hours. Because there is not a single one of you that doesn’t already know what those details entail. But I will tell you I traveled (usually in crawling style) from my bed, to the bathroom floor, to the hallway floor, back to the bathroom floor, back to my bed, back to the bathroom floor, back to the hallway floor and so on until it was 4:30 in the morning. That is when the retching stopped. But it wasn’t over yet. It’s not the puking that dehydrates you. It’s the other foul stuff that I can’t seem to bring myself to spell out in words. And that bullshit (there you go!) went on throughout the day. By Sunday morning, I was as pitiful as a legless zombie. Moaning rather than talking, crawling rather than walking. My husband had had enough and scooped me up to take me to the hospital. One IV and a magic bag of fluid later, and I was almost not pitiful anymore. If my husband had told my mom’s joke from 15 years ago, I would have chuckled a bit.  

So what I have I learned from all of this havoc that has been wreaked to my insides? Bacon. Bacon is where it’s at. Bacon has never turned on me and it never will. Don’t say “Huh uh, you had sausage and pepperoni on that Domino’s pizza liar!” Because then I will be forced to say, “You’re right. Sausage and pepperoni. Not bacon. I didn’t say pigs, I said BACON! Ya useless wanker.” 

The end.

By the Breaking Dawn's Early Twilight

Oh, say can you see, Breaking Dawn at midnight on November 17, 2011?

Nope, can’t say that I can see it. That’s because I’ll be busy that night. I’ll be washing my hair. But in my family, I am in the minority. A little hair scrub would never get in the way of my Twilight obsessed family members who are of both the male and female persuasion. Oh I tried the obsession for a bit. But things took a turn for the worse when I was in the middle of the 3rd book Eclipse. More on that in a minute. First a bit of a warning for the Twilight lovers in my life:

I will be taking the piss out of Twilight in this blog much like I do in Facebook status updates. But remember, I’m just having fun at the phenomenon’s expense. I mean no real harm. I have my obsessions too cough cough Russell Crowe cough cough. And some might say, “Geez Meredith, Russell hasn’t looked like Maximus in 10 years, so what the hell can you really say about R-Pat and his ironing board face?” To which I might say, “That’s a teeny tiny good point but Russell and his 47 and a ½ year old love handles could squash R-Pat with his big toe on a bad day.”

The pissing match I have created between the vampire du jour and the Gladiator is beside the point. The point is that since this isn’t “my” phenomenon, I am going to poke fun of it until I’m as bored with the poking fun as I was with the first 20 minutes of the movie New Moon (never did finish it.)

Okay – so what do I have against Twilight? Well let me start at the beginning. It was 2008 and I knew nothing about Twilight. Not a thing. The movie came and went, people were talking and I just ignored the noise. I was busy carrying my 3^rd child and dealing with a chronically constipated 4 year old. Anyone who has ever had a chronically constipated child knows how much time that takes out of your life. So I paid no attention. After my daughter was born, Twilight was on DVD. I rented it out of a slight curiosity and was absolutely shocked by how much I enjoyed it. I immediately called my niece who was a fan and asked her all about it. She had all the books. Maybe they were my sister’s books. I can’t remember, but I wanted to read them. I was going to become part of the Twilight culture, and was excited about it.

I read the first book quickly, even read in the dark with flashlight so as not to wake a sleeping infant. Devoured New Moon immediately after. Thought it was a bit slow and Bella started to get on my nerves but I enjoyed it enough to want to keep going. Maybe Bella would develop a personality in the 3^rd book. By the time I got to the middle of Eclipse, my interest really started to wane. I was so over Bella whining about wanting Edward to turn her into a vampire that I kept flipping the book off. I mean really Bella? You want to give up food and drink and live off animal blood for the rest of your life? Which will be a very freaking long time – especially for the already immortal Edward who has to share that very long life with your humorless ass.

So the annoyances in the 3^rd book brought back memories of annoyances from the 2^nd book that I tucked away due to my momentary lapse into Twilight frenzy. Poor pitiful Bella falling apart in the woods in New Moon because her cold dead boyfriend who knows nothing of the meaning of inflection, dumped her so that she could have the life a teenager should have.  I so could not relate to this character at all. Get over it like the rest of us had to when we got dumped as teenagers. Do like we did – date older guys who go to rival schools. Or in your case, younger werewolf guys who are in rival families. Most importantly, get your ass up and live woman! You think Scarlett O’Hara would ever lie in bed and whimper for half a year? Hell no. ‘Cause she knows tomorrow is another day. And she isn’t going to waste her time pining over Rhett (boy did she ever screw that one up.) or Ashley. And certainly not a flat faced dead fucker.

Speaking of flat-faced dead fuckers, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I don’t get it. Forget the actor behind the character. Let’s be nice and leave him out of it. Let’s just talk about the character. Edward. What do Bella and all of those team Edward freaks see in him? So he gets a little sparkly in the sun, big deal. So does Liberace, who also happens to be dead, and you don’t see droves of teenagers fighting over his sheet music. If it’s not the sparkles, maybe it’s the cool skin. Perhaps Bella has a fever and the only prescription is the teenage Snow Miser. Nah, that can’t be it. No one’s attracted to cold hard flesh. Oh wait….

Hmmm. Maybe it’s his obsessive love for her. Do we want the one we love to be obsessed with us? I can’t speak for anyone else, but I have 3 ones that I love who are obsessed with me and I haven’t had a peaceful People magazine reading enhanced bathroom break in years! So I don’t believe that one either. Ahhh. It’s immortality. As miserable as she is for only being on the planet for 18 years, she wants to live forever and make all the other immortals long for the day they could get hit by a car and not get back up. I swear if I had to spend an eternity with Bella, I’d be looking for the nearest stake. As I said in a recent Facebook status update, Bella’s about as much fun as a Laundromat with empty candy machines and only Fingerhut magazines to read. Ehhh - you might as well throw in an “out of order” Ms. Pacman arcade game while you’re at it…to enhance the fun. 

I finished Eclipse feeling very unsatisfied and never even read a page of book 4…Breaking Dawn. Didn’t care anymore. I got nothing out of this love story but bad jokes and boredom drool. Although I do dig the werewolf part of the love triangle. It’s not the abs, (well maybe it’s a little bit of the abs) it’s his sense of fun. Jacob actually wanted to do things other than watch Bella sleep. Of course he needs a good vigorous shake to snap him out of his Bella stupor but I’ll cut him some slack due to immaturity. (And I’ll pretend no one told me he imprints on Bella and Edward’s half fanged baby) Yikes.

In short Twilight, I tried. It didn’t work, no hard feelings. Let’s just go our separate ways and cling to those few memories we had together when I was immersed in book 1 & 2. Those were fun times…right? We just weren’t meant to be. Besides, I have been swept away by your more violent and entertaining cousin The Hunger Games. Now Katniss is a heroine I can get behind. March 2012 – I will be watching.

The Only Thing We Have to Fear is...Well Lots of Things

With fear as my guide how can I know

What it is here that frightens me so

He’s got a grip on my gut with ultimate force

A grip that steers me way off course

I want to scream at him to back away

But his grip on me gets tighter each day

I’ve become a prisoner to this frightening creature

Who has taken my will and become my teacher

But I’m learning nothing

Nothing but more fear

Words from my early twenties when I was in a little darker of a mood. Those words were light compared to some of the other things I jotted down in my lonely, pretentious twenties. But have no fear (hehehe). I’m not about to get deep on ya-all. Fear can be a subject of great depth, no doubt. There are many facets to it. It is the cause of great harm but can also serve a purpose like keeping most people from jumping into Niagra Falls. It’s the subject of endless quotes, anecdotes, books and speeches. But I’m not here to delve into the subject on a great level. Nope. I just want to poke fun of phobias and commiserate with others. Some of which are a real laughing matter. (Well depending on who you ask. My snake-phobic mother would probably not laugh if we hid a rubber snake in her bed. In fact, it might just kill her. So nobody ever do that okay?)

This past weekend we had a 50^th birthday party for my brother-in-law. He has a tremendous fear of dolls and clowns. Since it is so much fun to torture someone with a doll/clown fear, my brother bought him a book titled, “Scary Ass Dolls.” Hard to believe he left that book behind when he flew back home. Did my brother really think he’d ever take a peak at that book? Of course not, it was all about the delivery. We could throw the book away for all anyone cared. Spending the money was all about the expression on his face when he opened his gift. (It was not pretty, but it was pretty funny!)

I get it though…I really do. Dolls can be real freaky. And they have their ardent fans and collectors. I will never understand someone who wants to collect something that constantly looks at you with wide botox eyes and keeps an expression of “What me? Of course I didn’t throw little Timmy down the stairs. It must have been Fido.” Huh uh. Never trust a doll. They will turn on you. Holly Hobbie and Raggedy Ann are okay I guess. They are cloth like. It’s those antique-y little cracked porcelained skinned things that make me want to run for the hills.

In the 1968 Roger Vadim movie Barbarella, Jane Fonda takes on an army of dolls who yap and snap their teeth while drawing blood with their bites. I hated that movie. And I’m not particularly afraid of dolls. But that whole scene was a freaking nightmare. They didn’t really move very fast, but much like zombies, their slow moves added to their creepiness. Never mind that the movie was a complete mind fuck anyway. Add a few psycho snapping dolls and you got a total freakfest.

From The Twilight Zone, to Karen Black being chased by the shark-toothed Zuni Fetish doll to Chucky and that damned Poltergeist clown, dolls have had a bad reputation on the small and large screen. And it’s no wonder, they will, (as we’ve seen time and time again,) turn on you in an instant! As a side, if you are afraid of dolls, you are a “pediophobe.”

It’s only natural to move from dolls to clowns.  Coulrophobia is a fear of clowns. It has got to be one of the most common fears. And is it ever a legitimate fear. Let’s face it, if you are making a living by painting your face beyond recognition, you have GOT to be hiding something. I’ve seen Paul Stanley post the Kiss make-up phase. Yikes. He was definitely hiding something there. I sure wish he’d hide it again. That scalpel happy face looks right at home in one of Jim Henson’s movies and it ain’t pretty. At the very least he should apply the star to his right eye again. No worries Paul, with all that botox you have injected, no chance of that star ever falling. Can I say yikes again?

Back to clowns…I know there are some lovely clowns out there. Red Skelton for instance. He was the right kind of clown. He could sing, dance and make you laugh with general silliness. I loved him when I was a child. Never once did I think Red would kidnap me, turn me into mincemeat and eat me for breakfast. I was even okay with Ronald McDonald. Sure he has been poisoning me since I was old enough to chew a French fry, but I can live in denial on that because I love his large sized fountain diet Cokes. How does he do it!? The Hamburglar is way creepier than Ronald anyway. He spoke gibberish and walked a little Nosferatu-ishly. I could really have done without him. However, I do often wonder what happened to him. Ronald seems to be the only McDonald’s character to have survived the 80’s.

So many poor clowns out there just want to make people, especially children laugh. But all they do is make them cry. And wish they’d never asked for that damned balloon animal in the first place. Then John Wayne Gacy came along and took all the dignity the clowns were clinging to, away completely. So. Not. Fair. Poor Bozo. He was a nice clown. His ratings had to suffer after all the bad clown press. Before Gacy, the clown world had Pagliacci to thank for their bad rep. Pagliacci was one of those Italian clowns with the poofy white holiday decoration collar and the cone hat with the ball on the end. Just kidding. I have no idea what the hell Pagliacci looked like. Truth be told, all I really know about Pagliacci is what I saw in the movie The Untouchables and the Seinfeld epidsode with crazy Joe Davola. Sigh. I’m not as worldly as I’d like to be. The only foreign clown I know, I know from an American movie and an American TV show. I think Kim Jong-il is a clown though. Does that count?

Although I can see why some people have doll and clown phobias, I’m not really worried about Raggedy Ann or Bozo. I have a bigger fear of bears. Oh why is that? Probably has to do with the fact that those carnivore fuckers will maul you in a second. Forget about camping while on your period. You’re just asking for trouble.  You may as well make a sign that says, “Hey Smokey, I dare you to try to put out this cigarette. Go on…coward! People = Number 1. Bears = Number 11. Right behind the Hyenas.” Now nothing pisses a bear off more than being told they are lowly compared to a hyena. I can’t say I blame them. Hyenas are nature’s assholes. They are weasels with a little bit of power. I can’t like them. And thanks to The Lion King, I don’t like Whoopi Goldberg or Cheech anymore either.

But bears freak me out. I think they are just amazingly beautiful creatures. But I have had nightmares about them for over 20 years. As much as I loved Grizzly Adams in his day, I just can’t get on board with the bear whispering. Uh newsflash Grizzly, ummm, you may think the bears are your friends but Werner Herzog will tell you differently. (Or he’ll let you hear the audio he did not share with the rest of us in Grizzly Man.) Wild animals will turn on you as quickly as dolls and clowns. I promise. I will keep my camping in New Zealand where I only have to tend with hedgehogs and Kiwi birds. P.S. a fear of bears is called Melissophobia. Don’t ask me where that name came from.

Which brings me to my final phobia of the blog. Ligyrophobia: Fear of loud noises. I can actually condense this fear into a certain type of loud noise. Popping sounds. I hate latex balloons (because they can pop), opening champagne (I have never opened a bottle), those teeny little sperm shaped fireworks that you throw at people’s feet on the 4^th of July, and I hate Pillsbury biscuits. I carefully pull the paper back waiting for the damned can to pop but nothing ever happens. It’s like a Jack-in-the-Box. Then I have to start banging it against the kitchen counter never knowing when the thing is going to make the loud pop. I HATE IT! It is a nerve-wracking experience every single time. I just don’t like sudden loud noises. Never been a fireworks fan, never will be. Never been a skeet shooter, never will be. Never been a storm chaser, never will be. Never been the guy who shoots the pop gun to start a Track and Field race, never will be. I like my loud noise planned. I’ve been to a Metallica concert more than twice. I expect and welcome loud noise there. (And I realize just how badly I’ve dated myself.) My point is, at the target range or the racetrack, I am prepared. But don’t be blowing shit into my eardrums…I can’t take it.

See, I told you I wouldn’t get deep. We all have our phobias. Some are very serious and some are comical. My question is, is FDR correct when he says, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself?” Hell if I know. What I do know though is that whenever I hear the recording that plays his famous speech, I get the heebie jeebies because it sounds all ancient and spooky-like. See – sometimes fears come in the most innocuous places. Speaking of phobias – anyone know the scientific term for fear of Gary Busey’s teeth?

By George, I think He's Screwing With Star Wars Again

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am a die-hard movie fan. I could happily go to the cinema every single weekend. I used to think that I could only ever love another who was as movie crazy as I was. Until I fell in love with a die-hard rugby fan and had his babies. Then I realized, “you know, thank goodness I didn’t marry a movie fan, because who would take care of these children so that I could continue my movie obsession?” So it all worked out.

Anyway, my favorite film going experience in my entire 39 years of film going experiences occurred at the end of May in 1983. Yep, that’s when Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi premiered at this amazing old theater called the “Eastwood” on the East side of our town. The Eastwood Theater was the Margo Channing of movie theaters, it had it all until the scheming Eve Harrington’s of the theater world  (AKA multiplexes) came in and invalidated the one-screen movie houses. But they could not top the original - great sound, an amazing 70mm screen and a projectionist who knew how to frame a film. This was the place to see a movie in our town in the 70’s and early 80’s.

So my dear mother bought us tickets to the midnight premiere of Return of the Jedi even though it was a school night. My memories may be deceiving me a bit, but I’m almost positive it was a Thursday night at the end of the school year. I was a fifth grader. We had to stand in a line that wrapped around the parking lot, but we weren’t worried about getting in because my smart mother bought our tickets in advance. She didn’t want to crush her beyond excited children who would never forgive her if she failed us on this one. A Princess Leia and a Darth Vader stood in line ahead of us, which just added to our anticipation. It was the first time I had ever seen people wear costumes to a movie. (This was 5 years prior to my Rocky Horror Picture Show phase.) Today, the geeks come out in costumed droves for movie premieres! Not unusual at all.

After we took our seats and got through the previews, the famous 20^th Century Fox logo and musical intro appeared on screen, which gave me instant chills. People were already cheering when John Williams’ musical masterpiece filled the theater with its glorious sound. Every seat was filled and every eye was glued to the enormous screen. The beauty of 1983 was that you were not ever going to be interrupted with a telephone ring tone during a movie. Sure you’d hear whispers and whiny children as much as you do now. But no flashing lights or sounds from mobile phones. It was fantastic. A true escape from the outside world. The only noise in that theater that night was cheering every time one of our beloved characters made their Return of the Jedi debut.

Darth Vader was first. He was the ultimate villain that we all loved to hate, and he got a nice round of applause. C3PO and R2D2 were second. Applause. Lando and Chewbacca were next. Applause. Leia freed Han. Applause. Luke performed a Jedi mind trick on that serpent faced Bib Fortuna. Applause. The whole gang was back together. It was like a family reunion only this one would end with the untimely yet not so tragic death of Boba Fett. Didn’t see that one coming. Jabba’s lair segment was as entertaining as a movie could get. From the annoying but comical little runt, Salacious Crumb to the ferocious head heavy monster the Rancor, George Lucas got it right. All of the characters were fun to watch. Even the dumb looking blue Babar on keyboards, a clear sign Lucas was running out of character ideas, was tolerable. Miles more tolerable than some of the creations to come in the future of the series.

The movie had great battle scenes in the beginning, middle and end. The special effects were amazing and there wasn’t one drop of CGI. Nope. Just a lot of talented people from Industrial Light & Magic. And magic they made. The great battle to destroy the almost complete new Death Star is one of the best achievements in special effects I have ever seen, and it stands the test of time in my humble opinion. Lando and that fishfaced guy (who even C3PO and his "6 million forms of communication" cannot understand) in the Millennium Falcon, with help from the great Admiral Ackbar, destroyed the new Death Star and brought the excitement to its peak. Speaking of Admiral Ackbar, I am convinced he is Tori Spelling’s biological father. Look at the photos if you don’t believe me. Candy Spelling isn’t talking, but I have a sneaking suspicion about what she was doing and who she was doing it with during the late summer of 1972.

So Darth Vader turned good, Luke and Leia turned out to be siblings, Han and Leia confessed their love, Chewbacca made some new Ewok friends, and C3PO and R2D2 remained “best friends”. All was well on the Moon Endor when the credits rolled. It was a perfect blast.

BUT, apparently George Lucas can’t stop tinkering with his toys. And because he can’t stop tinkering with his toys, he is adding more crap to the new blue ray edition of Episode VI. In the original, Darth Vader watched as the Emperor tried to destroy Luke with his lightning bolt fingers. You could see the inner struggle within Darth as he turned to look at his son dying, then back at the Emperor, then back at his son and so on until he stood up, reached for the Emperor and tossed him over the rail to his death. Vader did not need to utter a word for the audience to get the power of that scene. But Mr. Lucas doesn’t agree. He has added a couple of “No’s” for Darth Vader to howl before and after he reaches for the Emperor. Sigh. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense and it’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard of.

I understand, George is probably salivating over all of the advances in film technology. So I say, “Create something new George! Leave your Sci-Fi masterpiece trilogy alone!” Sure some of the fight scenes seem a little cheesy when compared to The Matrix style of fighting that populates current films. And poor Luke does look a bit sloppy with that light saber when you compare his moves with the moves of the characters in the prequels. Whereas CGI Yoda in Episode II is flyin around like a little green Jackie Chan, Luke looks like a 9 year old determined to be the kid who splits open the birthday party piñata during his final fight with Darth Vader. But none of that should matter. It doesn’t mean George should replace Mark Hamil with Andy Serkis in front of a green screen. (Although after seeing Rise of the Planet of the Apes, I’m sure George is tempted.)

I can accept (although with a tiny bit of grumbling), the additions of other creatures, and even the musical changes in both Jabba’s palace and during the celebration on Endor. I can accept (with a larger amount of grumbling), the replacement of old Anakin with young Anakin at the end of that same Endor celebration. However, the addition of these “No’s” makes me want to slap George over the head with my giant Rancor doll. I wish he’d just leave well enough alone. Accept that at the time, 1983, this was the best that cinema had to offer in action, adventure and special effects. It is not a 21^st century movie, and it never will be. And that’s okay. Someone tried remaking Psycho once and look how well that turned out. So George, I thank you and appreciate all you have done for the world of movies. Please be satisfied with your accomplishments and please, I implore you, listen to Paul McCartney when he says, "Let. It. Be."  

When Celebrities Had Talent

On the morning of the vulgar Kardashian wedding exhibition that is sure to saturate the news this weekend, I am sitting here longing for the time when the only weddings that made the news were Royal weddings, Kennedy weddings or Elizabeth Taylor weddings. Interest in those weddings made sense to me.  The fascination with these talentless celebrities of the Reality TV age though completely baffles me. I don’t get it. What is so interesting about a spoiled girl with a big bum who garishly flaunts her material possessions and her boyfriends for hungry US Weekly readers while having no claim to fame other than her father was friends with a famous ex football player turned movie star turned wife killer and her mother is married to an Olympic athlete turned crypt keeper look-a-like? (huh eh huh eh huh…that’s me panting. Should have taken a breath while writing that sentence.) Really though, I want to know. Because I think the whole thing is BORING.

Perhaps as I approach middle age, I am turning into one of those out of touch old “bitties”. You know, those old people who yell at you for acting your age or for walking too close to their overly manicured lawns. I don’t think so though. I may be a teeny bit out of touch with some things but I still got some spunk dammit. I just think what passes as entertainment today is as dull as those rusty old toe nail scissors on the top shelf of my bathroom closet that will surely cause my big toe to fall off from gangrene if I try to use them again. Dull and harmful. Harmful to our brain cells that are just trying to cling to this life of “fast, cheap and out of control”!

Back to sounding like an old fart who complains (while shaking his fist) about “you kids today!” I really miss when a celebrity was a real star. Talent and moxie and interesting looks and did I mention talent? Now anyone (and when I say anyone, I mean a16 year old boy) with a video camera and a Dorothy Hamill haircut can cut a youtube video and become Beatle-esque in his mania.  The kid looks like he needs a babysitter yet is all over the magazines on fancy balconies vacationing with his Disney girlfriend. Not that I read “those” magazines. I just accidentally walk past them when I am visiting my mother’s. And then a light wind blows past so that the page turns again and again. I can’t figure out why my mom’s house is so breezy but before I know it, I’ve gone through the entire magazine…accidentally.

I’m not really sure what started all of this famous for nothing crap. Was it MTV’s 90’s show The Real World? Was it the Bee Girl in the Blind Melon video? Was it Survivor? Was it George Hamilton’s tan? Maybe it was Clara Peller’s “Where’s the Beef?” She was a huge celebrity for that 30 seconds of TV time. She was likable at least. But I only say that because she was a funny old lady. For all I know she was a real bitch. I guess it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Elizabeth Taylors and Paul McCartneys of the world have been replaced by the Kim Kardashians and Justin Biebers. In fairness to Justin, at least he tries to sing. I mean he is singing songs. He’s not just walking around L.A. while a video camera catches his every shallow move.

Speaking of Elizabeth Taylor. Sure the tabloids loved her. Sure she flaunted her jewels and her fancy lifestyle. BUT she still had talent, class and real beauty. Okay, well maybe the cheating with your friend’s husband is classless but Debbie forgave her, we can too. She wasn’t just a pretty face mugging for any camera. She was a true actress. Just watch Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf if you want to see acting at its best. The woman had it and her philanthropy only made her more appealing. So when I read an editor to Life & Style magazine (consider the source Meredith…consider the source) call Kim Kardashian “our people’s princess,” on CNN’s entertainment page that shares space with ads promoting aid for starving children, I can’t help but hope that every camera malfunctions so that we get badly framed and blurry photos for all the celeb rags. Since that won’t happen, I will do the mature thing and take a black pen to all of the magazine photos that will be at my mom’s house and give her and the wedding party gapped snaggle teeth and black eyes, and I’ll place moles in unappealing places. I hold the power with my black pen you Kardashians!!  I used to do that all the time when I was a child. Take black pens to People and Cosmopolitan magazines. Everyone was ugly by the time I got through with them. Occasionally I gave them black eyeliner and red marker lips to try to make them pretty, but mostly I desecrated their Herb Ritts shots. In fairness to me, I did wait until my family was finished reading them before I wielded the black pen of destruction. I’m pretty sure poor Cheryl Tiegs got the worst of it back then. But at least Cheryl was a legitimate model who had every right to be in those magazines.

I’m hard on the Kardashians. They may be lovely people for all I know. But my mother is lovely people too. And if I had to see her at every single grocery store check out aisle, and hear about her every time I turned on the boob tube or read about her every time I opened up my yahoo page, I’d be sick of her too. Kim…oh Kim. You are a pretty girl with a smoking voluptuous figure, but I wish you’d give up the “reality” job and get a “real” job.  And soon....please.

The Greatest Food Group That Ever Lived

If I had to choose a favorite food group, there would be no competition. Breads and cereals all the way. I can’t get enough of the carbs and grains. When the low carb diet was all the rage a few years back, I tried it and lasted 3 days. It was ridiculous that I even tried really. I can’t live in a world without biscuits, pasta and Honey Bunches of Oats. I was going to personally strangle Elsie the bleepin cow if I had to endure another freaking cheese cube. Stupidest diet ever.

Speaking of seer-e-ul. (That apparently is the way I’m supposed to pronounce cereal. I have always pronounced it, “Sir-yull,” and have been given shit for it for the 37 years I have been pronouncing it that way. My brother says, “Ceres, the Roman Goddess of agriculture is not pronounced, sir-eez.” Yeah well kiss my ass. It’s hard to break 37 year old harmless habits.) But again, speaking of cereal, I feel lost if my day does not start off with a giant bowl of it. Screw the small portions bull crap. When it comes to my morning bowl, I go for the gusto. The flakes start jumping out of the top once I start pouring my milk because I’ve already filled it to the rim.

I love the stuff. It’s delicious. There are some crap versions, but I am hard pressed to find a cereal I don’t like. These days though, I stick to the “we pretend we are healthy for you, but c’mon, you must have doubts with how sugary this stuff tastes” brands. Like Kashi GoLean Crunch. Let’s face it, it tastes like a bunch of Super Sugar Crisp was glued together and thrown into a box with an “Organic” label. Good enough for me. I’m not mad. I can pretend I’m eating well. I refuse to read the nutrition label anyway. No need for that nonsense to enter my brain.

Which is why I don’t touch the rainbow trio cereals of my childhood. I accidentally read the nutritional information once. It’s like going to a fast food restaurant where you can actually see the employees making your food. Don’t look for God’s sake. You will never want to eat your food. You have to live in denial in order to enjoy fast food or a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

But I do dream about the rainbow trio to this day. Members of the trio include Trix, Fruit Loops and the Mick Jagger of all cereals, the one, the only…..Lucky Charms! (You know it’s not good for you, it’s not even that pretty, but you can’t turn it down and soon you are another notch on its headboard.) Uh we are talking about Lucky Charms…right? Yeah, well they truly are “Magically delicious!” And they turn your milk gray. Because if you mix a bunch of pastel colored marshmellow pellets together, you get a lovely dull gray. Betcha didn’t know that. I would eat some Lucky Charms every single morning if I could. But I can’t because I have a sweet tooth and to have a sweet for breakfast limits the amount of cookies and brownies I can have the rest of the day. I don’t want to peak at 6:00 am dammit. So I forgo the delectable artificial crap, and eat the “pretend” really good for you crap.

 Of course if you are poor like we were growing up, you have to skip Trix/Fruit Loops/Lucky Charms anyway, and go for their cheaper cousin called, “Kaboom.” Oh yeah Kaboom. It’s like they didn’t even try with that stuff. Even the Kaboom box looked chintzy. As though the guy who won the turtle drawing contest on the back pages of a 1980 copy of the TV Guide got to design the clown on that box. The cereal itself was just slightly colorful and the taste was like a diluted bowl of Fruit Loops. Clearly the makers didn’t want to spend much on the food dye. Which today might make people happy considering all the bad news about food dyes. Back then? Not so much. We wanted color! That’s why Boo-Berry was so in demand. (And hard to find!) What could be better than pretty blue cereal?

It wasn’t all sugar and food coloring when I was a child though. We definitely had our granola-y and bran-y moments. My mother used to buy this tiny box of something called, “Natural Hearth” I think. And we all fought over it because one expensive box netted you about two bowls of cereal. Which didn’t get far in our household of five kids. But damn it tasted good for a “healthful” cereal. Raisin Bran too was a star in our house. Until we developed a cockroach problem right around the same time the movie “Creepshow” came out. Then Raisin Bran was never to be heard from again. And I'm guessing we weren't the only cockroach havers to give up the Raisin Bran in the early 80's. Just not worth the risk. Oh and I can’t forget Grape Nuts. The Chia Pet of cereals. Just add milk and watch it grow. But remember, a spoonful of sugar helps the Grape Nuts go down…in the most delightful way!

Then there are the “Good try but you really aren’t going to cut it,” cereals. Like Kix. What the hell is that crap? The slogan is total bullshit too. “Kids like Kix for what Kix has got. Moms like Kix for what Kix has not.” No they don’t. Nobody likes Kix. That's because Kix sucks. It is only still in existence because there are enough people to go around who have not tried it for the first time. Right up there with Kix is Quisp. I’m fairly certain that if you even find a box of Quisp, it will have an expiration date of December 1982 on it. Because no one buys Quisp. Why would they? The box cover is a thousand times less enticing than a box of Kaboom. Our Kaboom artist is freaking Monet compared with the Quisp artist. I mean what IS that thing on the box? A rabbit? Sea monkey? Alien? Beats me.

So I’ve had my fair share of flavors and flakes over the years, but I tend to go in spurts. A couple of years ago it was Life every single morning. It just turns into the best tasting mush if you let the milk soak it for a bit. I love it. These days it is the Kashi tree bark mixed with the Kashi super sugar crisp. The hint of bland from the bark makes me feel better about the so sweet and crunchy cinnamon brown sugar clusters in their “GoLean Crunch”.  And it is really filling. So I leave for work every morning with a full belly of my favorite food group, and I count the minutes until lunchtime.