Sunday, February 28, 2010

Smacksy Sunday Link: Hipster Puppies

Hipster Puppies is a sort of genius. Some of the jokes are so deeply inside the hipster scene that I have to ask my husband to explain a reference for me. But sometimes I don't and then I feel cool for a second. Either way, this stuff is funny. And there are puppies. I like puppies.

Happy Sunday.

Friday, February 26, 2010

I am SO the boss of you

Contemplating how I can help the world, one know-it-all post at a time.
Photo Credit - Bob Rosenberg

Acknowledging my certainty that everyone would be so much better off if they would simply do as I say, I am doling out advice today over at Mouthy Housewives. These wise and deeply funny advice-giving women were kind enough to ask me over for the day and I was delighted to say yes.

My qualifications to answer the world’s big questions?
Mouthy - Check.
Housewife - Also check.
So there you go.

I give a lot of advice everyday: unsolicited, often ignored, and always to the same three year-old, Bob Rosenberg.

“Take your hand out of your underpants, please.”

“Do you have to tinkle? No? Then let go of it, please.”

“Take your waffle out of your underpants.”

“Tuck your package back into your p.j.’s”

“No, it will not fly away if you don’t hold it.”

“I just know, that’s how I know.”

“Please take R2-D2 out of your underpants.”

Obviously, I have a lot of experience to share. To get a little more smacksy in your Friday, please go here.

Subscribe to the Mouthy Housewives. It's like having a life coach, if your life coach had a wicked sense of humor, soft golden highlights and cute shoes.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Wednesday Night Sleepover

Bob tucked in his Slumber party guests tonight:
Death Star Droid (Bob thinks this droid is C-3PO. Please don't tell him the truth.)
Darth Vader
Pack of Trident White peppermint gum

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Twitter, Guilt, and Chef Bayless

I love Chef Rick Bayless. I fell for the Chef/Owner of Chicago’s Frontera Grill when he competed on Food Network’s Top Chef Masters. He is talented, his food looks amazing and he was able to be kind even when kicking the ass of the slimy Michael Chiarello. I don’t follow many celebrities on Twitter but I enjoy following Mr. Bayless.

On Twitter he posts gorgeous photos of the new specials on the menus at his restaurants.
He live tweets reviews of other restaurants while dining. He gives encouragement when his followers tweet photos of their home made meals made with his recipes and he answers questions about Mexican cuisine. (“Hey Chef, Can you freeze Queso Fresco?” “Yes, but it affects texture a little.”) How nice is that?

Last week, my favorite tweeting chef posted this message with a link to a photo:

"Topolo menu tasting: classic Michoacan-style carnitas w pork belly, tomatillo avoc salsa, tortilla shards, lime air"

After clicking on this photo, I shot off a tweet to Rick Bayless that read:

"I adore you and I'm sure that carnitas tastes amazing but it looks a little um... pornographic"

You guys see this picture. Come on, it’s all parts and fluids. Even still, I was hit with instant Twitter remorse. I’m not sure if I was expecting him to tweet back, “Whoa! Astute observation! It totally looks like a wang!” but I guess I was expecting something. Instead, I got back nothing. (And this is a man that answers questions about frozen cheese.)

I immediately assumed that I had offended Rick Bayless. Rick Bayless who has a bunch of restaurants and three cookbooks and his own show on PBS and has nothing better to do than give a flying churro about my comment. Not likely. Perhaps my remorse is unfounded.


I’m sorry Rick Bayless.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Cabin Fever: A One Act

Today was day five of Bob's bronchitis. Jeff was away for the weekend so other than a trip to the pediatrician, Bob and I have been in the house for 128 hours straight. We are getting a little punchy. Every conversation is starting to feel like the kind you have in a booth at Canter's Deli at 4:00am.

I am laying on the couch. BOB is hopping up and down in front of me.

Thorax. Thooooooorrrrrax. Thorax.

Do you have a thorax, Bobby?

No. Only insects have a thorax. I just have this body with my own bottom.

(BOB turns around and drops his pajama pants to show me his behind.)

Wow. Okay. I get it. Nice.

(BOB turns around and pulls his pants up.)

I am also magic.


Monday, February 22, 2010

The Little Nutcracker

Jeff and I are in the kitchen putting away groceries. Bob runs in, arms stretched in front of him, his fists clenched tightly.

“I am very flying at you,” says Bob as he hurls his fists into Jeff’s crotch. Jeff instantly pales. “What’s wrong with Daddy?

“Oh Bob, I think you really hurt Daddy. Jeez. He really got you. Are you okay?”

Jeff’s eyes are closed.

“I’m sorry Daddy. I will kiss it for you.”

“Wait Bob, you can give him a hug in a minute. Let’s just let Daddy…”

Bob leans in and head-butts Jeff’s crotch while making a loud smoochy noise. Jeff doubles over.

“Oh no. That was bad and weird. Bob let’s just go in the other room and give Daddy a minute. We have to be very gentle near other people’s private parts.”

Jeff steadies himself with both hands on the counter. He exhales in rapid Lamaze-style breaths. I lead Bob out of the kitchen.

“Sorry Daddy. Mama did you know that now I only like ice cream if it’s all melted and not cold? Where’s my Spiderman guy? Have you seen him? Does R2-D2 have Valentimes in Star Wars?”

From the kitchen Jeff says, "I'm good. I'm good. I'm okay. Just need a minute. Couple a minutes."

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Smacksy Sunday Link: Nature Boy

Because every Sunday can use a few moments of the sweetest song ever written, sung by that warmest of voices, Nat King Cole... I am fascinated that the man who wrote the song, eden ahbez who chose not to capitalize the first letters of his name, was a self-proclaimed "mystic" who lived in a sleeping bag under the "L" of the Hollywood sign.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Smacksy Saturday Photo: Super Bob

Fueled by children's Ibuprofin, phlegm, and fruit punch juice boxes, not even bronchitis can keep Super Bob down. (I was Batman. Again.)

Friday, February 19, 2010


Circa The Big Hair Years
During my early twenties I had some fabulous jobs. Most of them involved wearing an apron and the memorization of a nightly specials list. In between my waitress gigs, I worked as a TV and movie extra.

Extras are those folks you never watch who are behind the people you always watch. They are walking props, often referred to as “atmosphere.” I atmosphered my way through 103 movies and TV shows between 1984 and 1988.

My first job as an extra was in a 1985 George Kennedy/Karen Black/Lance Henriksen vehicle called Savage Dawn. As I recall, Karen Black was part of a biker gang that was trying to take over a small Arizona town. It was a cold, dusty, night shoot. There was a tank involved. George Kennedy was an Arizona recluse in a wheelchair who had a harem of Asian girls. I was an Asian girl. I wore a cheongsam. I’m not Asian but that’s the magic of Hollywood. Not every job was so glamorous.

A rare gem from my illustrious background actor resume is a movie called The In Crowd, later re-named Dance Party. This film was set in 1965 and starred Jennifer Runyon. Who? Exactly. Donovan Leitch (Ione Skye’s brother) played her boyfriend. In a special supporting role, a young Joe Pantoliano later known as Ralph Cifaretto on the Sopranos, played a Dick Clark-like American Bandstand-ish host. It was a spectacular piece of entertainment.

Through the miracle of YouTube, I present to you one of my more awesome In Crowd scenes. (Skip to 1:04.) I dance off of the bus with my gigantic 80’s hair, wearing a red and black plaid skirt and white bobby sox. I return moments later with a stunning display of my awesome dance skills. (She can really clap!) I’m pretty sure it was seeing my work that inspired the producers to change the name of the film. Watch through to 1:22 so as not to miss any of my moves. There are at least two moves. Maybe it's just one move. It happens fast.

Donovan, or as he was nicknamed on set, “Madonnavan,” and I would soon be re-united on the set of Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo but that’s another story, for another time.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Oh Right, Then That Happened

Like this, but dark.

I realize that last night when I reported the events of our neighborhood dog chase, I forgot one minor detail. Forgot or perhaps I was just swept away by the blinding awesome of the Olympic men’s figure skating competitor wearing the hillbilly-faux-overalls-unitard with the “dirt” on the knees. Perhaps.

This morning though, I remembered.

After driving the dark streets searching for our dog-on the-run, I noticed her darting in and out of a nearby street. I quickly pulled the station wagon into a “T” perpendicular formation blocking the street from oncoming traffic to protect the dog. I got out of the car and called to her and she wagged her tail and continued running between the manicured yards.

In a move that never fails to bring her running to me when we are at home, I lay on the ground and called her name. She ignored me. I raised my arms and legs, waving them in the air, calling her name. Nothing. I tried again. Again. Bob called to me from his car seat, “Mama, what are you doing?”

What was I doing? I rolled onto my side and saw three cars stopped in the street, the drivers watching me closely. So this wasn’t good. I got up quickly and smiled and waved to the people I had trapped with my impromptu roadblock and confused with my impression of a desperate turtle on its back. I ran back to the car, put it in drive, made an awkward six point turn, and continued the search.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Change of Schedule

Things that did not happen at our house tonight:
1. Dinner.
2. Viewing of American Idol Vegas to Hollywood results show part one.

Things that happened instead:
1. When Jeff arrived home, Daisy bolted out of the front door and down the street.
2. Jeff ran after Daisy
3. Jeff did not catch Daisy.
4. Jeff ran back in the house, grabbed his keys and took off in his car, following Daisy.
5. Bob wailed his disappointment that we were staying home instead of going on an "adventure" to find his "best dog friend."
6. Bob and I get in the other car, driving slowly through our dark neighborhood, calling Daisy's name out the windows.
7. Communicate cell to cell with Jeff as we circle the streets, closing in on Daisy.
8. Alternately run after, drive behind, and plead with Daisy to abandon this excellent game and get in the car.
9. Repeat above items numbered 6 - 9 for 85 minutes.
10. Corner Daisy in a small gated yard and carry her back to the car.
11. Return home.
12. Put Bob and Daisy to bed.
13. Discover that during Bob's bedtime, Daisy has eaten the novel that Jeff has been reading.
14. Realized that we had made it back in time to view Olympic men's figure skating and accompanying awesome outfits.

Tonight gets a big thumbs up.

That Guy

During dinner, Bob asked to be excused from the table and ran to the bathroom. He shut the door behind him. Jeff and I continued our conversation and then stopped when we noticed strange noises coming from the restroom. Bob was moaning and wheezing.

As his mother, I believe my first thought should have been, “Is my son hurt?” Followed quickly by, “Does he need help?"

Instead, my first (run-on) thought was, “Jesus. He’s already the kid with his hand down his pants all the time, now he’s going to be the moaning guy in the bathroom stall? He’s Grunting Guy? How old do you have to be to lose that nickname? Isn’t that something that goes on your permanent record?” My glorious exercise in not staying in the moment was interrupted.

“Buddy, are you OK in there?” said Jeff.

“I am trying to breathe out fire!”


“I’m a dragon. I’m practicing for dragon school.”

Fine. We still need to work on the hand down the pants thing.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Smacksy President's Day Link

This link has nothing to do with President's Day other than today is President's Day and I am posting this link. I am posting it because I love it. (I love the link. President's Day is fine but I would never choose the word love to describe my feelings about it.)

I am posting this link because it is crazy weird yet oddly compelling. I recognized the weird part right away. I didn't realize the compelling aspect until after I'd watched it five times and then, obviously.

In 1972, Italian musician Adriano Celetano wrote the song, "Prisencolinensinainciusol" in gibberish to imitate what English sounds like to foreigners. It is astonishing in its fantastic-ness.

Happy three day weekend. Oll Raight!

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Happy Valentine's Day

My little Valentine and I made cookies yesterday. I left the kitchen for a moment and when I returned, Bob informed me that he had made a "big surprise" and pointed to the floor. Half of the kitchen linoleum was covered with red cookie decorating sparkles. Bob told me that he had "spread them around extra" with his feet. I spent the next 10 minutes vacuuming up my surprise.

This morning I noticed tiny red dots covering the bottoms of my feet. For a few moments I tried not to panic as I planned WebMd search terms in my head. (feet/soles/rash/red) Then I realized that walking on that carpet of tiny red dye #40 sparkles had tattooed me. Bob had not oversold it. This really was a big surprise.

Valentine's Day is often viewed as merely a Hallmark holiday but I am completely on board with any day that involves special snacks and reminding folks that I love them. And I believe this all the way down to my polka-dot toes.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Smacksy Saturday Photo: A Privacy

When my son closes the bathroom door behind him and tells us that he "needs a privacy," roughly 30% of the time he is accomplishing what you see in the above photo. It does not matter where we hide it, he will find the floss.

Friday, February 12, 2010

More Ways To Impress the Junior High Girls By Bob Rosenberg

1. Notice that the junior high girls on our block are on their bikes riding around through the big rain puddle in front of the house.

2. Stand on the back of the couch and yell, "My girls! My girls!" while pounding on the window with your fists.

3. Get frustrated when Mama tells you that it's bad manners to press yourself against the window when you are not wearing your pajama pants or underpants or any pants.

4. Put on pajama pants.

5. Tell Daddy that the girls are turning around in the driveway. Daddy says that's OK.

6. Run onto the front porch and yell, "My girls! My daddy said it's OK to turn around in our driveway! I just don't want you to drive on the worms in the puddle because they will be scared of your tires!"

7. When the girls giggle and say, "Hi Bob!" and wave, know that you have won them over again.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

The Doctor Is In: A One Act

Three and a half year-old Dr. Bob Rosenberg has been giving me a check up a few times a day since mid-November. (Apparently he's aware of when cold and flu season starts.) Our doctor-patient dialogue is always the same.

I sit on DR. BOB'S examination table (big boy bed) waiting. The door to the office (bed room) opens. DR. BOB enters carrying his Sesame Street medical bag.

It's OK now. I'm here. I'm right here. You are going to be OK.

Hello Dr. Bob. Thanks.

First let me feel your head.

(DR. BOB place his hand on my forehead.)

You might have a head ache.

You think so?

No. Not Really. First I need to put this stefrascrope on your heart part and listen with my ears to this sound.

(DR. BOB leans in, concentrating.)

How is it?

It clicks like a seat belt buckle.


That's good. Now I am going to put on this bird pressure cuff on you and pump this part and that thing moves and doctors do this but not to kids so I don't know.

What's that?

This is a shot to make you healthy. It won't hurt. It might hurt. It's just a pinch. It's fast.

(DR. BOB rubs the injection site on my arm.)

Now please put this thertempature into your mouth and I can see how hot you are.

How hot am I?

Not so hot.


It says you are 10-13.

That seems low. Or high.

It is good. Now I will put this scope in your nose... And your eye... Open your mouth... Now I have to look in your ears.

How does that look?

There is nothing in there.

Many have suspected as much. What's this?

It's a Slinky for doing good behavior.

Thanks, Dr. Bob.

OK, I need it back now for other patients.


Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Suspect Behavior

Yeah, I don't know either but I do know it can't be good.
And again with the no pants.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

The Van, Man

In 2004, I bought a minivan for a dollar from the man who would become my husband. If you have not yet read the details of that transaction, you can catch up here.

As promised, following is Jeff’s account of his experience with The Mystic Mechanic:

In 2002, I was living in Los Angeles. The band I was in at that time, Young People, had a green Plymouth Voyager minivan as our touring machine. As the only person in the band with a credit history, I was the one who bought the used van. We had put many miles on it over a period of two years and six U.S. tours. Money was nonexistent as was our maintenance record for the van. Except for gasoline and the white bobble head horse doll that we super-glued to the dashboard, we put no money into The Voyager.

It was the middle of summer and we were leaving in two days for another North American tour. The engine began overheating every time we drove it more than a few blocks. The band was extremely screwed and extremely broke.
Our neighbor Becky, suggested we call a guy she referred to as "The Mystic Mechanic.” She insisted that the mystic mechanic was "the real thing,” although according to her the guy was homeless and she didn't really know if he had ever really fixed anyone's car "for real". She had met him at a donut shop in Silver Lake and he had given her his card. On the card was printed, “John – Mystic Mechanic.” His phone number was scribbled along the bottom in pencil.

Desperation won out over good judgment and I called The Mystic. He told me he would meet me in 20 minutes in the parking lot by the Astro Diner because as he put it, he spent hours every day "holding court" at the place next door.

When I arrived, a man who looked like a hobo-y Crocodile Dundee made of chicken leather, appeared like an apparition from behind the Winchell's Donuts. He veered toward me and asked for my keys and told me not to worry. He had "picked up a vibe" that I was “really stressed out” about the minivan. I tried not to get irritated that this guy was trying to mellow me out. As I explained the car's problems, he opened the hood and gunned the gas and turned knobs and played with switches. He told me not to worry because he had a "few tricks up his sleeve" even though he was wearing a ripped tank top. He would need a little time to brainstorm and he would call me when it was time to come back.

My phone rang just two hours later. When I returned, he showed me that he had rigged a separate wire to the fuse system with one of those booster clamps that you see connected to the end of jumper cables.

“When the car starts overheating," he said, "just do this," and with the car running he grabbed the cable and connected it to the live battery. The fans turned on and the temperature gauge went down, however the duct tape and fuse box rig that he had set up appeared, shall we say, non-standard. He charged me $30.00 total for “expenses and lunch.”

 Despite the bizarre and dangerous nature of this fix, we drove the van just like this for thousands of miles. I used the van to move cross-country to New York, and then back again a few years later to California. Even once I could afford it, I still did not consider actually taking the van to a real mechanic for a more permanent solution, until it broke down again and I had to recount this story to my future wife. She was not surprised and not impressed.

The lore of the van is in the air. Go to Extreme Craft to enjoy a story about our friend Garth's band van.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Dollar Days

After the heroic, yet violent death of my brown Volvo, I rented a car for a few days to get to and from my new job at the outpatient program. I tried to figure out my next automotive move but lacking funds, my choices were limited. Jeff and I had been seeing each other less than two months at this point when he made me an offer I was in no position to refuse. Jeff offered to sell me his mini-van for $1.00. I accepted.

The 1997 Plymouth Grand Voyager had been Jeff’s tour van for his last band. They had driven it back and forth across the country a number of times and it had seen better, cleaner days. It was missing three of its hubcaps and the interior smelled like The Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland. Jeff had been eyeing a new hybrid and decided to buy it a little sooner than he had planned in order to give me some wheels. He’s swell like that.

One of my job duties at the outpatient program would involve driving some of the teenage patients to and from appointments. The van would be perfect. I spent $18.00 at the car wash, ordered some cheap replacement hubcaps off the internet, gassed her up and we were ready to roll.

On my third day behind the wheel of The Voyager, I had made a deal with my two 16 year-old passengers, Tommy and Adam. I would let them pick the radio station and in exchange, they would stop begging me to let them pick the radio station. It was a sweltering afternoon and we had the air conditioner blasting as we crawled along in the Santa Monica Boulevard traffic enjoying the dulcet tones of Three 6 Mafia. Suddenly, the air shut off and the temperature gauge started moving up. We were overheating.

Having driven old, crappy cars almost exclusively in my driving career, I knew that with an overheating car, I needed to first turn the heater on high to try and pull some of the hot air away from the engine. With the 103 degree temp outside and the heater set to 10, the interior of the van felt as if we were driving onto the face of the sun. We rolled down all the car windows and inched along back to the office, treating the nearby motorists to “Pussy Got Ya Hooked” blasting from the van’s crappy speakers. I silently prayed that my boss would not drive by.

When I got back to my desk, I immediately called Jeff and told him what had happened. He explained that he was aware of the van’s compressor problem. Then he said, “I guess I need to take it to a real mechanic.”

“What do you mean? You’ve been taking it to a pretend mechanic?”

“Not exactly, he’s more of a psychic.”

“I want my dollar back.”

Tomorrow… in Jeff’s own words: The story of The Mystic Mechanic.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

Smacksy Sunday Link: Succeed Blog


I’m over all of the “fails” for a while. I am on-board with the thumbs-up beauty that is succeedblog: a self-described collection of the world’s most epic, awesome, mind blowing succeeds.

Like this artwork made in the dirt on the back of a car:

And this Mona Lisa made with cups of coffee:

And my current fave video succeed, The Break Dancing Hand.

It makes me happy. That's a SMACKSY SUCCEED.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Smacksy Saturday Photo: The Effort

"Bob, you're so cute sometimes I can't take it."

"Try harder, Mama. It just takes practice."

Friday, February 5, 2010

The Democrat

On the morning of November 3 2004, I was alone in my apartment getting dressed for my first day at my new job. Two LAPD officers knocked on my door.

"Are you the legal owner of a 1979 Volvo 240 DL?”

“Yeah, that’s my car.”

“Your vehicle has been in an accident...”

It was then I found out The Democrat was dead.

The Democrat was my nickname for the brown box of a car that I had been driving for 6 years. I bought it for $500.00 and then paid another $500.00 to have a re-built engine put in. In my hometown of Santa Cruz, this is the type of car that would have the back end plastered in bumper stickers emblazoned with “You Can’t Feed Children With Nuclear Arms,” “Think Globally, Act Locally,” and a couple of Jerry Bears. Hence the name, The Democrat. In car conscious Los Angeles, you are judged by your vehicle. I was likely judged to be a community college liberal arts teacher who didn’t shave her legs. I was not. I was just cheap.

The police walked me down my Korea Town street and across Wilshire Boulevard. As we walked, one of the officers explained that a new Honda had been stolen in Glendale, leading the CHP on a high-speed chase through downtown. The Honda had then exited the 110 and taken the chase onto surface streets, at speeds up to 90 miles per hour. The Honda then struck another vehicle head-on in the intersection near where my car was parked. The Honda then spun around and slammed into The Democrat, dragging it halfway down the street where they both came to rest, straddling a large utility box.

I resisted the urge to ask which route this guy took from downtown during rush hour that was traffic-free enough to get going that fast. It took me 20 minutes to drive six blocks at this time of day. Did he take Venice all the way? Olympic? How do you catch air on Pico? Instead, I asked how the people in the other car that had been hit head-on had fared.

The officers told me that the driver and passenger both had serious injuries but were conscious and seemed like they would make it through. The thief had also been taken to the hospital, and he too was expected to make it. I would be contacted in the next few weeks about having to appear at his arraignment since my car had been involved as a victim of a crime. When we got through the crowd surrounding the blocked off intersection, I saw my car. She was totaled. The twisted hunk of metal was barely recognizable as my Swedish sedan.

As I sat on the curb waiting to have the car towed to the junk yard, I realized that if my car had not been parked where it was, the Honda would have likely made the turn and kept on going, possibly injuring more people, or worse. The Democrat was a not a victim, she was a hero, and I her proud owner, had 40 minutes left to figure out another way to get across town to West LA for my first day of work.

Coming on Monday... the van I bought for a dollar. I said a dollar, everyone.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

The Other Woman

Bob took this holiday photo of his beloved all by himself.

You may recall Ava, Bob’s semi-requited love? Well move over gorgeous girl, you have some serious competition.

Mrs. V. and Mrs. T. are Bob’s pre-school teachers. He adores them both. Mrs. T. however enjoys the distinction of, on many occasions, being Bob's sole reason for attending school. Every school day there is the promise of an art project with Elmer’s Glue (Bob’s favorite substance), an exotic snack (anything made by someone else’s mom is exotic), and bracing three-wheeled rides around the bike yard, but the real magnetic pull into the three-day, three-year-old classroom is the sweet and delightful, Mrs. T.

On those mornings when Bob has alerted me to his decision that he will not be attending, (P.S. SO not his decision to make.) we will then inevitably engage in a conversation that goes something like this:

“Mama? I am staying home with you today. I am not going to do school.”

“I think Mrs. T. might be sad if you’re not there.”

“Will she be lonely for me?”

“It’s likely, yes.”

“She will be very, very sad?”


“Mrs. T. will do crying if I am not in school?”

“I don’t know. That would seem like an extreme reaction.”

“I don’t want her to do sad crying. I have to go!”

“That’s a good idea.”

Upon arrival at school, Bob will announce loudly, “I’m here Mrs T.! I’m here!”

She has no idea the day of tragedy that she has just so narrowly avoided.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

A Mystery

1. I do not know how long the freezer door has been open. (Ice: Sort of melty, Temp: Somewhat tepid.)

2. I do know who opened it. (Clue: His chair.)

3. I have not yet figured out what is missing. (Educated Guess: Strawberry ice cream mochi balls.)

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Pop Quiz

It’s 3:17 AM. My son calls me to his bedroom.

“Mama? I am awake.”

“Me too. Kind of.”

“Will you wait here while I fall asleep?”

“Sure, buddy.”

I pull out the default waiting area from under Bob’s bed: a large floor pillow (OK fine, it’s a dog bed) with a pillow and a couple of quilts. I settle in.

“Good night, Mama.”

“Good night, honey.”

“Mama? Does God want me to be happy?”

“Um... I think God wants us to have a full life which means that sometimes you will be happy and sometimes you will be sad. Most of all I think God wants you to grow and help others and let him handle the big stuff.”

“That sounds OK, Mama.”

“Good night, pal.” I quietly pat myself on the back for coming up with this answer on the fly at 3:30 in the morning.

“Mama? Why is God the only one that doesn’t die?”

“It’s time to go to sleep now. We can talk more in the morning.” My thinker hurts.

“Mama? Can I sleep down there with you?”

“It’s very small down here.”

“It’s OK. I’m very small. You can hold my hand, Mama.”

I do. We fall asleep.

Monday, February 1, 2010

"My" Purse

Note: I must carry my cellphone, sunglasses and keys in my hand in order to assure that I will ever find them again.