move on

Can we please finish up all this World Cup nonsense? I understand there are 2 billion fans of soccer, but it's possible there are 2 billion delusional people on this planet. How can anyone sit and watch a team kick a ball back and forth across a massive field for over an hour, with nothing significant happening? The goal is also huge yet it takes hundreds of attempts for someone to penetrate it. And can we talk injuries and overall clumsiness? People fall over like flies in this game. In basketball, players collide head-on but they instantly get back up. Soccer players trip over their feet and immediately get hauled off on stretchers. What the hell?

I won't even get into the strange noisemakers fans like to use.

Yes, I'm definitely over it.

The Bird of Peace Shit All Over My Apartment

I don't like to talk much about my first marriage or the extreme a-hole that I chose to be my husband. I am just thankful that our relationship ended and I went on to have the family that I have today. But I have no problem sharing amusing marital stories. So here goes.

Shortly after our wedding, my mother-in-law called from England and told my husband that we needed to buy doves and keep them in our apartment. Doves are good luck in Pakistan, apparently. I thought this was a nice idea and we set off to purchase three white birdies.

What the chap didn't tell me was that the doves should not be kept in a cage, according to this bizarre tradition, but allowed to fly free.

"Free?" I exclaimed. "They're going to shit everywhere!"

He insisted that if we lock them up in a cage it would be "bad." He never specified what bad meant. Fearing that if we caged the doves we'd unleash some sinister Pakistani curse, I agreed to let them fly around our house, unrestricted.

The first day, I came home from work and nothing seemed amiss. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and everything was in order. I breathed a sigh of relief and headed to the bedroom. I opened the door and almost died on the spot.

Two birds were flapping into each other, their feathers flying in the air. My desk was speckled with dozens of bird turds. The books in my bookcase were dripping in bird feces. The third bird was perched in a corner. I peered over him and he stepped to the side, revealing a fresh mound of shit.

"You see?" I yelled at the husband, who was working on the computer. "There's shit everywhere! I told you! What kind of tribal ritual is this?! Oh my GOD!"

"Hey, I'll clean it up," he assured me in his clipped British accent. "It's so nice that they can just fly and not be held prisoner."

"We're going to spend every waking hour cleaning this up!" I wailed, running to the kitchen to retrieve a towel and some 409.

He told me not to worry and went over to stick one of the doves on his finger. It released a turd into his open palm. He just smiled. Why this wasn't my first clue that there was something wrong with him is beyond me.

We argued for several days over the uncaged birds and spent nights wiping down the furniture and laying newspaper on the floor. I wish I had more muscle, but part of me felt bad that he'd left his whole family in the UK and didn't know anyone here. I wanted to please him and make him feel like I understood his culture. "A" for effort.

After a week of incessant scrubbing and vacuuming, he finally agreed to buy a cage for the birds. But something happened in that transaction. He no longer took an interest in them. He forgot to feed them and stopped speaking to them. Eventually he left the front door open and two flew out while I was cleaning the cage. Did he do it on purpose? I was never sure. About a week later, concerned that the lone bird would miss its mates, he walked with it outside and gently released it into the air.

And thus went our fist experience with owning pets. Lots of shit and eventually abandonment.

Just like our marriage.

I'm No BP fan...

But we all share the blame for the impact of the oil spill. Everyone, myself included, wants to hold the company, Transocean, Halliburton or someone responsible. But really, what do we expect? The population of planet earth is growing, so is our consumption, and the days of easy-to-get-oil are drawing to a close.

Don't get me wrong, BP absolutely needs an intense ass kicking. But so do we for our dependence on oil.

summer

I am done with this June gloom. In a sign of things to (hopefully) come, the sun came out, and stayed out, for three days this week. Thank gawd. I'm tired of the chill and my hair frizzing up whenever I go outside. It's time for grilling, fruity cocktails and lazy days at the beach. Who's coming?

So very glad...

I didn't marry my first serious boyfriend. We were friends in high school and we hooked up in college. (Well, I went to college while he surfed and worked at a computer company. He also cheated on me with a blonde with fake boobs, most likely while I was taking final exams, but I digress).

Last weekend J and I were at our favorite local Mexican restaurant. It was a busy night and we ended up seated next to a party of about 12 people. Suddenly I did a double take. There, at the head of the table, sat the old boyfriend. He was heavier and his hair was thinning. He had on a mismatched outfit and was wearing a red plastic Hawaiian lei.

I thought about it for a second and decided I should not ignore him. He had actually sent me a message on Facebook a month before asking if I was interested in catching up. I wasn't. But clearly, it was only a matter of time before we'd run into eachother.

Over the din of the diners I heard his goofy laugh and all of a sudden he was standing at my elbow talking to someone in his party. He still hadn't noticed me. I called his name and he jumped about ten feet in the area and clutched his chest. Not for dramatic effect, I think I really startled him. I extended my hand and he seriously looked like he was going to faint.

I introduced him to J and Magnus. He made some shop talk and I was instantly reminded what an idiot he was. How was I ever attracted to this person? Why did I ever consider marrying him? My mother warned me that my life would be a misery if we took a trip down the aisle. She said it had to do with the area of Mexico that his family came from. "Mija," she hissed, "They are the worse...los indios!!! If you marry him, you'll have ten kids and be cooking over an open fire every night!"

So as quickly as I initiated the conversation with him, I was keen to end it. While we said our goodbyes, I looked down at his feet. He had on adult Crocs.

I married the right person. Enough said.

The Elusive Pharmacist

Scientists are working hard to unlock the great mysteries of our universe: the origins of life, dark matter, LA traffic. I am hopeful that one day they can address another befuddling phenomenon: the turnaround times at the pharmacy.

One thing I have never understood is why you are given a 30-45 minute window to fill a prescription when all the pharmacist has to do is retrieve your medicine from a cabinet in the back of the room. Seriously. In most cases, the pharmacist isn't mixing the drug. He or she simply confirms the dosage and instructions and then picks up a box of pills to hand to you.

Yesterday I was reminded how insipid this whole process can be. I went to the local Walgreens at 11:45 to drop off a prescription. There was only one other person in line. Two of the staff were just standing around. The pharmacist reviewed my info, confirmed my address and then said, "We are running really behind. Can you wait 30 minutes?"

I decided to stay put and wait it out. I walked up the dish detergent aisle, perused some magazines, compared mascara brands and prices. When my thirty minutes were up, I went back to the pharmacy aisle. There weren't any customers waiting. No one was talking on the phone, fielding orders. I stood on my toes to peer over the counter into the back, and whaddya know? The entire staff were gathered together yukking it up at some picture in People Magazine.

I must have made a lip smacking noise accidentally because the man who took my order smiled and said, "Hi, I'm just getting your stuff now!" Are you kidding me? You deal with sick people who require medication. You aren't the freaking DMV; people don't feel sicker because you are slow to take their driver's license photo.

Clearly this is a mystery that requires thorough investigation. We need our top scientists on this immediately. Who's in??

Body Image & The Food Network

I've been tuning into Everyday Italian and Barefoot Contessa on the Food Network. I get a fair amount of ideas from both shows. I am struck, however, at how radically disparate the hosts are, despite cooking very similar dishes.

Giada De Laurentis, with her model looks and omnipresent cleavage, puts sugar, cheese and bread in almost every dish. She can't weigh more than 95 lbs. Ina, with her haughty accent and monotone shirts, is also heavy on the sugar, cheese and bread. Ina resembles a weather balloon. Both of these women tuck into their dishes (Giada moans and rolls her eyes to show you how freaking good her food is) and clearly like to eat, so what gives with the drastic weight difference?

Post-filming puking by Ms. De Laurentis, perhaps?

For the record:

Diaperless potty training SUCKS!!!!