Shudder

I've been reading in the news the story about a 17-year-old girl who was abducted and killed by a transient. You hear these sad stories every day. What made this one more noticeable was that it took place three blocks from my office. We are located on an incredibly busy street that's jam packed with pedestrians and cars and construction workers. How this happened just before rush hour and no on saw anything odd has got me thinking.

I read a news report this morning and the girl was actually standing next to someone at the Bank of America ATM, where her abducter ordered her to withdraw cash, yet she didn't try to break away or signal that something was wrong. Conversely, no one noticed the odd coupling or thought anything was amiss.

The girl also called her parents from the ATM to ask them if she could withdraw cash with a credit card. They explained that she couldn't. A few hours later her body was found in her Volvo.

I realized I have walked past that ATM numerous times but never noticed it in a significant way. This incident hasn't caused me to be fearful, only made me aware that something dreadful could be happening to the person next to you and through a confluence of factors - distraction, indifference or fate - you will never know.

I Fear the Reaper

No matter that I have a loving husband, a beautiful son, a good job and wonderful friends and family. I seem to be thinking about death. A lot.

I don't think about death in the sense of how I am going to die, or when. The thing that causes me the most distress is not being able to see how things turn out. I won't ever know Magnus's grandchildren (probably) and what happens in their own lives. I won't be around to see people take annual vacations to the Moon or drive around in space cars, like the Jetsons. That burns me to no end. I hate being left behind!! It feels like I'm watching a movie and I have to leave before the ending and the credits.

I did some research to try and account for this fear of death. There are actually four types. One of them, the fear of non-existence, seems to sum up the anxiety I feel over dying. Why can't it just be like before I was conceived; I had no issue with not existing THEN! It also makes me think that death is just like the space before we were born. No air, no noise, no memories. It's as if you come full circle.

...Screw that. I still want to live forever!

The Perils of Condo Living

I love most everything about our condominum building. We have lush tropical plants, waterfalls, coy fish and if you are lucky, you may see a duck or two. It's tranquil and quiet and you rarely ever hear noises, be it from the TV, radio or even the residents.

But what lies beneath is a nefarious subplot. There are several families with babies and small kids and anytime we take our children to the swimming pool, that's when you hear the loud, roaring noise of the shit hitting the fan.

The HOA recently posted a sign in front of the two pools that guests are welcome (between the hours of 9 AM and 11 p.m.), please know how to swim, don't smoke, BUT....if you are an incontinent individual, either young or old, take your sorry ass elsewhere.

According to the many sources that J researched, the pool is a public facility that we all pay to use. So legally they cannot discriminate against people who want to use it. We haven't been privvy to this but some of the families told us they've been yelled at by a certain bunch of individuals (an older crowd who goes to bed early and never make any noise - kind of reminds me of the old folks from the movie "Cocoon") about how they are endangering everyone's health by having babies peeing in the water. Isn't baby urine less disgusting than the urine of adults, who like to cannonball while concurrently relieving themselves?

Yesterday a woman was talking to our upstairs neighbor (standing in front of our patio so we couldn't help but hear her) boasting about how she called the Department of Health and was told that all the families with kids are in the wrong, even if our children are wearing swim diapers, we are still posing a health risk. This woman, of course, never actually uses the pool. She was carrying a camera and yelling at the woman upstairs that she was going to start filming everyone who violates the incontinence policy as "evidence."

For what? I guess I missed the memo about a trial. J heard her, opened our sliding door and she started going off on how he and all the other thoughtless residents were causing harm to innocent, childless people. "I talked to the inspector herself!" she kept yelling. "Who is the inspector? What department? What is she in charge of?" J demanded. She started backing away and said, well, I don't have her name handy, but she said you are putting us at risk for e-coli.

More neighbors started peering out and the quiet, peaceful facade of our building started to crumble. One woman started yelling at another woman about the pool issue and others came out of the woodwork to hear the commotion.

Never trust the serene exterior, folks. It's like the plot to a David Lynch film.

The Miracle of (Other People's) Births

Last night I decided to watch a Discovery Health program on weirdo births. That wasn't the actual title but it should have been. The program focused on three women. One lived on a remote coffee farm in Hawaii 40 miles away from a hospital. She was going au natural: no drugs, a midwife and a makeshift birthing tent. The second woman had a baby in breech presentation but insisted on birthing vaginally, and preferably with a midwife. (Which is actually illegal in California.) The third woman worked in technology but was going to use Egyptian practices and rituals from 5,000 years ago, including accepting colored feathers from her wise teacher, to ease into her labor. Whatever works, folks.

All three women were fairly righteous and irritating but the woman who was hell-bent on delivering vaginally with her baby in the wrong position just blew my mind. She insisted c-sections were evil and caused trauma to the baby. Seems like your baby coming feet first, backwards, with little room to breathe and the chance of getting stuck might cause more trauma. But back to our story.

After trying in vain to turn the baby head down through acupuncture, she ran all over LA to find a doctor who would deliver the baby vaginally. She found a nice elderly pushover who cautioned her that a vaginal birth could run the risk of the baby not breathing, as the head can get trapped. By all means, have a vaginal delivery, you soy eating idiot. She also didn't want an epidural but the doctor was adamant in case they had to rush her off for a c-section. She actually wept. Give me a break! An epidural is perhaps the greatest medical invention ever. So her labor intensifies, she starts to push, people are yelling encouraging things and the baby comes out... but is quiet. She asks that the baby be placed on her chest. Hmm, why don't we make sure its breathing first? One of the attending docs started massaging the baby's chest and it finally let out a wail (as did I, in utter relief.) Then the program cuts to her holding the baby a few weeks later, all sanctimonious about her objectives with delivery. What if it hadn't gone so well? Is it really worth the risk?

The birthing tent mama, living so far from other human beings, went into labor fast and furious and the midwife didn't get there in time. Her husband (who looked like a young Charles Manson) yelled that he had the head, honey, just push! And woosh, out came the screaming youngster. The other two kids were perched on chairs watching the whole thing, then went outside to play.

I tried to be respectful of the ancient traditions enthusiast, but at a certain point it seemed pat. She went past her due date and her teacher brought her in for some stretches, meditation and smelly tea. They sat cross legged on mats and then the teacher starting grunting. "Ooooomph. Oooomph. Ooooooooomph." Three days later her labor struck with ancient vengeance. She was bent over a small pool screaming bloody murder. There was a midwife, her husband, a friend and some dude playing bongo drums. Are you freaking kidding me? When I gave birth I wanted no light, no noise and only J there. Somebody drumming would be grounds for murder.

Labor and delivery are such personal things. Everyone has preferences and different motivations. I try to be open-minded and not judge, but ultimately I can't understand how women try and deal with the worst pain they will ever know, with no relief, or worse, put their baby at risk by pursuing a path that experts say is dangerous for their child. You deserve a real ass kicking (after you heal from your delivery, of course).

Is there anything more holy...

Than a lemon drop martini?

No, there isn't.

Adventures of the Anti-Social Mommy

So I broke down and signed Magnus up for a play and learn class at our local Gymboree. There are several reasons for this. One, there are not many toddlers his age in our condo complex with whom he interacts. Two, I am terrible about arranging play dates with the few people I know who have kids close to his age. (I think its the phrase "play date." Sounds too contrived and forced.) And three...well, there isn't really a third reason.

J thought the class was a good idea and said it may help build Mags' confidence. He isn't a shy child but he can be reserved when he comes into contact with other children. I just chalk this up to him being super-smart and easily bored by others. The rub is that I have to go to this class and participate along with all the other kids and their mommas. There is nothing I dread more than meeting new people. I have my family and my friends and I don't need any more, thank you. Now, once a week, I have to put on socks, stand on a brightly colored mat and make small talk with a bunch of other mothers. Holy hell, what have I done to deserve this?

Last week at the pool, a couple with a one-year-old came up to us and started chatting. I felt my throat constrict. I was doing just fine playing with my kid, why do you have to come over and ruin it? Small talk is like a slow, painful death. Especially when the topic is nap time and diaper issues. Let me babble with my child, it's more interesting.

So does Mags really need the class to improve his interaction skills, or do I?

Gimps Need Love, Too

One of the best parts of living in Playa del Rey is the view of the Marina harbor. Every 4th of July, people in our community walk down Falmouth Avenue and gather along the edge of the fenced-off cliff to watch the fireworks. This year, J and I decided to drive and take in the festivities from the car. Mags was snoring in the back but as always, the slightest noise awakened him and it was as if he consumed 10 cans of Jolt cola - awake, awake, awake!

We arrived at 8:00 p.m. and secured a freaking awesome spot, directly opposite the harbor. There were a few other cars and some groups of people setting up their chairs. J was watching the crowd through their rearview mirror. All of a sudden he did a double-take, furrowed his brow and said, "Hmmm."

"What?" I said, delicately removing Magnus's finger from my eyelid.

"Behind us," he said. "That chick has a fake leg."

"That's not that unusual," I said.

"Well, she's on top of some dude."

"Nooooooo!" My head spun around like the kid from "The Exorcist." I had to see this freakiness firsthand. And I didn't have to turn around that far. Directly behind our vehicle was a long-haired woman, heavy-set, wearing a fringed black leather jacket, cowboy boots and a peach-colored prosthetic leg. If you looked hard enough, you could make out the figure of a man underneath her. Her real leg was wrapped around his waist and she was heaving up against him. No matter that dozens of people were standing around waiting for the annual fireworks display. This couple was dry humping fast and furious. It was only a matter of time. Once the sky darkened, it would be full-force screwing in the portable chair.

Never was I so ready for a patriotic fireworks display to begin.