A bitchy moment

I am days away from my monthly bill, so please forgive this super-catty observation/gripe.

Why does Jessica Simpson get media coverage? She has as much charm and grace as a water buffalo. She dresses like she just won the lottery and her first stop was Chicos (after hitting up In n Out.) She can barely string a sentence together and she is only slightly more attractive than Chris Farley.

Someone tell me why, why?

I lied.

Kind of.

Remember that post that said I had nothing meaningful to say about the school shooting in Connecticut? Okay. I have one more thing to say, thanks to the NRA's recent press "conference" on what can be done to combat gun violence. (In case you missed it, the organization said we should have armed guards at schools).

I think the NRA missed an opportunity. Clearly there are many places where people can take a weapon and fire it at someone who is already shooting. These include:

Movie theaters
Parks
Indoor play facilities
Swap meets
Grocery stores
Farmers markets
Target
Dry cleaners
Chuck E Cheese
Arcades
Churches, temples and other houses of worship
Theme parks
Post offices
Restaurants, including chain and ethnic establishments
Bars
Home improvement chains
Hair salons
Spas and massage parlors
Acupuncture and wellness clinics
Pet stores
DMV
Libraries
Baskin Robbins

We can't leave these places off to fend for themselves.

I am definitely leaving a bunch of organizations off the list - Facebook me if you can think of more.

Life with the babies

I should have started this documentation a long time ago, but these days I suck at creativity and planning.

Observation #1: one male baby discovering his penis: humorous. Two male babies discovering their penises (in synch): disturbing.

Just a few words

About the shooting in Connecticut. Twenty six people killed, the majority of them children. The event defies logic and definition. I decided not to write anything about it, mostly because it makes me beyond sad, but I do want to address one group of people who feel the need to use the event to further an agenda I perceive as highly warped.

The shooting did not take place because there is no prayer in public school. It was not the act of an angry god trying to get people back in line with Christ. I am, and have been, an atheist for many years. If I was even remotely considering joining a religion, statements like the aforementioned would steer me towards Judaism or even the Hare Krishnas.

My next classified ad

Wanted: high-energy, almost annoyingly cheerful individual to assist with a myriad of household duties including:

Mopping up multiple puddles of spilled milk, almost always in the same location, up to four times a day;

Devising entertaining, morally uplifting stories to distract while also educating impressionable four-year-old, occasionally while mopping up a milk puddle; can also occur while trying to dress two feisy infants;

Lifting 22-25 lbs, often concurrently; carrying weight through multiple locations and in and out of vehicle;

Assuring aforementioned four-year-old that the sun still rises and sets on him, despite the presence and demands of aforementioned feisty infants;

Emptying dryer of multiple loads of laundry and folding clothes that belong to the female head of the house; male head and male children can suck it;

Wiping siding doors, refrigerator and other areas of baby fingerprints; initially an endearing phenomenon, now an out-of-control nuisance;

Planning a somewhat healthy, preferably edible, evening meal for male head of household and four-year-old;

Locating perpetually missing socks for male head of the household;

Watering organic veggie garden and cactus plants; talking in soothing tones to indoor orchids;

Bathing four-year-old and keeping it interesting; bathing twin infants and keeping it safe

Unflexible hours, often hostile work environment. Not a paid position but great learning experience.

Facebook is dead

I don't know about you, faithful readers, but it seems to me Facebook is as interesting these days as a nail clipper convention. (Odd analogy, I know. Do they even have nail clipper conventions? I only have 15 minutes to type something before the bubbas wake up and start their James Brown-style shrieking, and the Creativity/Witty Muse is often elusive at these hours. That bitch).

Facebook sucked pre-November election. It was predictable. I was predictable. I am liberal, I voted for Obama twice, so my politically-oriented posts were unimaginative and obvious. What the hell was I trying to accomplish anyway? Sway my friends who might be swing voters? Anyway, the election didn't save us from additional, more subversive FB shit.  Log on now, right now, and chances are you will see a slew of Commercialism 101 posts: guess what?? Your friend claimed an offer from X brand or retailer! They are now the proud and very public owner of a toaster, or some product to get rid of unwanted hair. Do I congratulate them? No, tell me, what do I do? Am a bit lost about the decorum.

I would love this rant to end here, but, like a bad case of stomach flu, there is more crap. Have you seen those sappy, SNL/ Deep Thoughts with Jack Handy-style posts that everyone seems to be posting, sharing, commenting on? "Be the person you want to be, not the person people want you to be."  "Sometimes you have to get lost to find yourself." OMG. Who are you? You probably have a row of overly-sentimental motivational prints in your office, right?

I like efficiency and concise-writing, so it might be a better approach if they start combining all of this content so you see a post that reads "The unimagined life is not worth living," complete with an image of one of your friends who just claimed an offer from Outback Steakhouse. At least the artwork would be better.

One of the bubbas is squawking, so let me leave you with this deep thought: wherever you are, you are there.

Brought to you by Google Earth Maps.

Magnusism #4

Me: "Magnus, why are you holding that gummy worm? Gummy worms are for eating."
Magnus: "Mommy, I don't want to hurt him!"

A year!

The twins are a year old! Can you believe it? I see you getting misty-eyed. I know how you feel. I am nostalgic but mostly confused: Logan looks like he is two, so I have to remind myself that the lad only has a single year under his belt.

You remember a year ago, right? I was dehydrated, whiny, exhausted and generally not fun to be around. Now I am just not fun to be around. Thanks for disagreeing, I love you. Anyway, we took the babies to their annual check-up and I kept crossing and uncrossing my legs in the exam room, convinced that the doctor would find something wrong with one of them. How could I have carried and delivered two perfectly healthy babies? When I meet people and introduce Logan and Cyrus, many seem baffled that I pulled it off.

Well, they are fine. They are thriving. They will probably design buildings one day or write books. I know, why can I be such a killjoy sometimes? You see? I am still not fun to be around.

A royal pain in the ass

The media have gone ballistic with the news that the Duke and Duchess of whatever are expecting. The woman is barely in her first trimester and I have already seen 15+ articles about morning sickness, the probability of her carrying twins, the royal ascension to the throne and predictions on whether the child will be male or female.

This is possibly the most boring couple ever and now we have eight plus months of speculation and maternity watch stories to look forward to. And after the royal offspring is born, who knows how many articles will be written about Kate Middleton reverting back to her per-baby weight. It almost  makes Honey Boo Boo look like serious documentary subject matter.

News outlets: stop! All these stories about a royal female having a baby. Whaaaaaat? Are we back in the 1950s? Another privileged white monarch enters the stratosphere. So what? Stop your ridiculous coverage right now, especially if you are American. We are not part of the British empire any more, remember??

Bloody hell.

Magnusism #3

"Mommy, you know what? Dad is the best Christmas tree-getter ever."

Giving thanks

The mister and I pulled it off: cooking a decent turkey day meal for four people over the age of five. Nothing got burned or broken and the only injury was yours truly slicing open a finger (the mister recently sharpened our knives, you see).

So what am I thankful for?

I am thankful that I have three beautiful and healthy children and a spouse who knows how to grill and stop a gashing wound at the same time.

Happy turkey day to all!

Now a word about irrational fears

Last week, while sitting in a theater waiting for a musical performance to start, I found myself checking and double-checking to make sure Mags and I were in the right seats. While I hadn't sought help from the usher, I figured our chances of walking down the aisle and matching the seat number to the tickets would be fairly high. The theater only seats 125 people.

After a few minutes a flustered woman and her son approached our aisle, stopped and looked at us in a perplexed fashion. The woman checked her ticket, looked at us, then folded her lips tightly. "Albert," she announced after a minute, "our seats are next to them."

I am not sure why this woman's protracted approach to finding her seat unleashed my anxiety, but the confidence I had that we were in the right seats quickly eroded. As soon as the woman plunked in the seat next to me, I dug into my purse, re-read our seat numbers, then jammed my head halfway under the seat to make sure the seat number was correct. But I wasn't entirely convinced. I put hands in my lap to distinguish the left from the right (we were designated the left side of the theater) and then for good measure, I turned halfway around in my chair to see if anyone else was on their way to eject us.

Ever boarded a plane and then had that weird moment when another passenger stands just ahead of your aisle, staring you down like you are a child molester? And then the awkward cough followed by, "You are in my SEAT."  Years ago on a business trip to Miami, a passenger stood in front of me, cleared his throat and pointed to his ticket. I pulled my ticket out and we were surprised to find we both had been issued the same seat number. I figured since I was in the seat first, and a girl, that he would do the chivalrous thing and find another location. But no, he had to be close to the bathroom, he protested to the stewardess. Something to do with irritable bowel syndrome. I gave in.

The house lights eventually dimmed and then after ten minutes into the performance I relaxed. Nobody could make us budge now without a fight. I just hoped Mags didn't have to pee, which would force me to get up and go through the whole ordeal again.

Think he obliged? HA!

Don't ask Alice

Hey, so guess what? I am officially weaning off my postpartum meds. I know, you probably want to mail me a card and take me to lunch. There is kind of a long waiting list right now so please be patient.

I went to visit my physician last week to discuss reducing the frequency of Prozac and then stopping the meds entirely. In my head I imagined an elaborate withdrawal scene: J applying a moist towel to my feverish forehead and my mother pacing the floor while a group of pain management specialists strummed harps near my bedside.

I was sorely disappointed. My physician reminded me that I was on the lowest dose possible. Which meant that he normally weaned patients down to my dosage and then they stopped taking the pills altogether.

Whaaaat? No soap opera-style melodrama?  No scenes of writhing and shrieking as my body adjusted to life without a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor? What the hell was this whole odyssey for?

Oh. The weight loss. Riiiiight.

I contemplated huddling in the bathroom and faking a night of withdrawal just so J could put all three kids to bed, but I had a moment of conscience.

Goddamn.

Magnus being theatrical

Over the weekend I took Mags to see "Seussical," the musical featuring Dr. Seuss. I loathe musicals, so sitting in a theater with no alcohol and listening to a slew of overly made-up actors shrieking song after song was nothing less than a heroic act of love and sacrifice.

The best part came during intermission. After the house lights went up, Magnus picked up his coat and declared, "Time to go."

I explained it was actually not time to go, it was intermission, the point in a theatrical production when one can use the restroom, chat with other attendees or go on a manic hunt for alcohol.

"But MOM," Mags protested in his best protesting voice, "the show is all OVER!"

I tried, faithful readers, I really did try to coax the stubborn little ingrate back into his seat. But he was having none of it. After a fruitless back-and-forth exchange in which I pointed out that we had paid to see an entire show, not the first half, that we had paid for lemonade that he could finish during the second half, and that damn it, couldn't I just sit with my eyes closed and pretend to be paying attention while I tried to recover my energy, he stepped over the people next to us and started to hightail it out of the theater.

I didn't chase after him.

Okay, I did. I wasn't going to risk jail for community theater.

On the way home, smugly sipping his theater lemonade, Magnus commented, "Mommy, that was
really fun! We should go see a show again. Okay?"

Slamming on the brakes and reaching back to (lightly) strangle him was probably not a good idea, so I let it go. After all, we were 20 minutes away from a refreshing glass of wine.

In honor of my height

Making short ribs for dinner.

Nothing is sacred anymore

The Catholic church, college football, the Boy Scouts and the CIA. All have been rocked by sex scandals and cover-ups. I thought the CIA was the penultimate of betrayal, but a new, more egregious scandal has emerged.

Elmo.

Sigh. The red furry monster with the high-pitched voice is now embroiled in a sex scandal of his own. How this will play out we don't yet know but what is clear is that we can never watch him ride his tricycle or shriek the ABCs without thinking that he knows more about the male anatomy than he is letting on.

Our uteruses can now go forward

The best part of Obama winning? No more political ads.

I hope.

Damn all the trolls

I was reminded this week about that famous saying that opinions are like a-holes, ie, everybody has one.

You were probably astonished, as I was, about the story out of New York in which a nanny slaughtered two young children in her care and then tried to kill herself. I cannot imagine a more horrific nightmare for the mother than coming home to find her son and daughter murdered by the very person entrusted to care for them. It didn't take any time at all for the trolls to start commenting online about how nobody can be trusted to watch children but their own mother. (Do they not remember Andrea Yates? Susan Smith?) There were also nasty comments about the race of the nanny, and if the parents had paid more for a white nanny, this never would have happened. The slightly tamer comments posited that a wealthy, stay-at-home mother shouldn't even need a nanny.

I must have thrown up in my mouth at least seven times before I decided to stop reading the news coverage. First, it was almost too awful to bear, and second, can't anyone stop for a minute and grieve for this poor family? The mother hired a nanny to help her manage the schedules of three children. She was returning from taking her middle child to a swim lesson when the tragedy struck. She deserves sympathy not condemnation. Who said that having kids means you give up accepting help and shoulder the burden entirely by yourself? Like this mother, I have three kids. I cherish the days that my mother is here to watch them while I take a shower, go for a walk or eat a meal sitting down. I applaud anyone who can afford the extra help. Nobody benefits from a tired, harried, overwhelmed mom.

This story, plus the ridiculous political debates about women and abortion, prove we have a long way to go when it comes to social expectations of women. Women may occupy higher positions in government and the work force but when you consider the backlash against this poor mom and the right-wing campaign to enforce an antiquated moral code, we need to burn some bras, or aprons at the very least.

WTF?

Me: "Magnus, should we go to Legoland for our vacation?"
Magnus: "I think we should go to Dookie Land."

Um....

Unrequited love, part two

Me: "Magnus, would you like to get ice cream after school? Just you and me. Nana will be home to watch the babies."
Magnus: "Mommy, I am reading. Stop bothering me."

Oh god

My polling place is a church. Jesus, the irony.

I'm transcending, ya'll

Tonight yours truly starts her first transcendental meditation course. Wheeee, I am transcending! I have been trying to have "me" moments here and there throughout the day but I finally accepted the fact that the only way to decompress and regain my focus was to get the hell out of the house and leave the offspring in the capable hands of the mister. Let him deal with all of them crawling on him at the same time and jamming their fingers in his mouth.

Can I drink before hand? Just a sip of red wine, to chill the nerves? I haven't been out in public for years. Well, maybe a week or so. I think I will have my eyes closed for a good deal of the course and not have to speak to anyone, but what about the before and after, when everyone arrives, mills around and pretends to check their cell phone to avoid speaking to one another? I actually, funny, wouldn't mind conversing with another adult, but part of me worries I will inadvertently slip into mama role, reach across and touch their wrist and delicately inquire, "do you have to go pee pee?"

Wish me luck, y'all!

Just wondering

Did the Pakistani government ever arrest any suspects in the 2007 assasination of Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto? I didn't agree with all her views, specifically her pro-life stance, but always found it interesting that a "radical, third world country" (and Muslim, natch) had a female leader,  while the U.S., comparatively a longtime champion of women's equality, has yet to achieve that milestone.

I like them squishy

Is it me or does it seem every time you turn around another celebrity has dropped a ridiculous amount of weight? You too? And do you find it curious that when they are asked, most stars say they just started "eating right" and "working out?" They never talk about the obvious, which is undergoing lapband surgery. Poor lapband surgery. The secret celebrities won't cop to, like abortion.

While the bubbas napped today, I trolled the Net for pictures of celebs who were large and then much thinner. Some stars looked okay following the lapband procedure, like Sharon Osbourne. But many folks looked bizarre, mishapen, or even sickly. So what's worse? Being overweight or being surgically reduced, with layers of wrinkly skin, a proportionally oversized head, plus unable to eat real food?

After careful review of the evidence, I believe the following celebrities looked better fatter:

1.  Al Roker
2.  Star Jones
3.  Jonah Hill
4.  Randy Jackson
5.  Brian Dennehy
6.  Roseanne Barr (what is fun about a thin Roseanne?)

This list seems incomplete, however. There have to be many more celebrities with drastically reduced waistlines that I have overlooked.  Who am I missing? I'd like this to be a top 10 list (my love of even numbers, remember?)

Double the fun? Please.

Logan and Cyrus, otherwise known as the blonde babies, are awesome.

In recent weeks, Logan has demonstrated some WWE tendencies. He will wait for Cyrus to be distracted, pounce on his back, flip him over and then gnaw on his calf. It is alternately hysterical and distressing to watch.

Despite the infinite cuteness of the bubbas, one indisputable, lingering fact remains: raising twins is HARD. I am tired. Scratch that. I am beyond tired. I feel like I am perpetually under anesthesia. I exist in a small, hermetically sealed cocoon of drool, diapers, interrupted REM sleep, short naps, no naps, hair pulling, biting, yelling, crying, shrieking and the occasional baby belly laugh. (The latter is freaking awesome, btw.)

People without twins often make the following comments:

1.  "Two babies. Double the fun!"
2.  "I always wanted twins. It seems so exhausting, but you get to dress them alike."
3.  "I started out in the womb as a twin. Unfortunately, I absorbed my fraternal brother. If you look closely at my back, you can see his shape through my primordial tail."

There has so far been only one accurate quote to describe the journey that is caring for two bubbas. Which was stated by a fellow mother of twins. As she relayed to me: "It is not double the fun until they are about four years old."

Okay, people? So stop being so smug with your comments, which we both know betray thinly veiled pity, and pass the wine.

Now for something completely mean

I am not certain if I have ever watched a movie featuring Kristen Stewart, of the infamous "trampire" media scandal. So don't take this as a knock against her craft but.....

If I have to look at one more photo of her pinched, snively face, I may scream.

A radical idea....or not

What if, instead of Jehovah Witnesses and other religious folks, scientists went door to door to explain the big bang theory and how humankind came to be? I can think of many people who would prefer that option.

Extreme Makeover idea

I don't watch much TV. Want proof? I didn't know the Emmys happened until I read it in the LA Times. Okay? But I am not here to to malign TV, I want to throw out an idea that I think would make non-habitual TV watchers like me into more regular watchers.

The mister and I love Discovery Science and especially "Through the Wormhole" with Morgan Freeman. The scientists who comment for this program have illustrious careers, enviable pedigrees from top-flight academic institutions and publish seriously thought-provoking research on things like the string theory, black holes and my favorite, time-travel. Back to the Future be damned.

Here is my beef, though.

Could these scientific visionaries make the effort to wear contacts? I'm serious. Pretty much any scientist you have seen on a science program dons super-ugly, outdated glasses. Initially I thought it was so they could wiggle the frames while they spoke, or appear more erudite. Now I don't think so. I think they can't be bothered, or perhaps they have never heard of that fabled institution that is Lens Crafters. Think about how awesome it be would to be a world-class scientist with three Ph.D.s, research labs across the globe AND look cool? I honestly would TiVo their commentary, maybe even watch it twice.

I proposed this idea to the mister who considered it vain and irrelevant to the pursuit of science. Whatever. Science is about opening frontiers. I propose that with a little effort, these presently unattractive, outdated looking think tanks could capture a wider audience, endear science to more people and make us a better civilization overall. That's opening some goddamn frontiers.

You know I am right.

Love Bites

Me: "I love you, Magnus. I don't think I could live without you."
Magnus: "I can't live without Transformers, Mom."

Let's work on those official statements

This has been something I have wanted to address for a while.

Official statements from studios, actors, industry folk when someone dies unexpectedly. We all read them, and they all read about the same regardless of the person who died or the circumstances. I mean, obviously you are saddened and your thoughts go out to the family of the deceased. Is that all? Aren't you actually devastated and you want to punch something, or take Valium? Especially for actors, who are supposed to be about portraying human emotion. You can't convey something more convincing than saying you are shocked?

I can recall only one genuine press statement that was released soon after Heath Ledger died. It was from the mother of his daughter, and she didn't try to sugar coat how anguished she was. If memory serves, she actually used the word heart broken in the beginning. You could feel her grief. Serious stuff. She will probably win an Oscar one day.

I say we start a new movement. Hollywood, join with me. Let's start a cause of no b.s. press statements. Let's endeavor to express sadness in the truest terms and not undermine the intelligence of the public. We have all lost people, and we know it sucks. So get on board and tell your publicist to shine, you want to put out a statement that is meaningful and not hollow and fake. After all, and you guys know this best, there is nothing worse for actors than bad acting. 

The importance of decent pajamas

Since becoming a mummy and resigning myself to a less-than-chic existence, I have strengthened my resolve in one specific area. Well, two. The first is to always use a good moisturizer (early 40s and no Botox yet, y'all!) and the second, and most important, is to ALWAYS go to bed wearing my nighttime finest.

I know what you are thinking. A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste. But you couldn't be more wrong. I am not referring to see-through bras, purple thongs or clear plastic heels. By nighttime finest I mean a set of clean, respectable pjs with a very simple pattern and colors that broadcast well on TV.

Before you get all preachy on me: no, I am not filming some lurid, high-def housewife porn, though the thought has crossed my mind. (Preschool is expensive, and we have three children.) Some people have their earthquake kits for when disaster strikes. I have that, but something even more valuable. I have a nighttime ensemble in the unfortunate case that there is a fire, we have to escape and local news crew shows up wanting to interview survivors. My hair will likely be a disaster, but I will still come off looking fairly pulled together despite having smoke inhalation.

Many years ago, I saw a news clip about an apartment fire in Chicago that struck at two in the morning. Residents were vacated and had to stand in the street, half-asleep, shivering and talking to reporters. Most of them were wearing hideous overnight garb: stained wife beaters, boxer shorts with holes, ill-fitting sweats. Baaaaad stuff. I resolved at that moment never to be one of those overnight fire survivors. If I had to lose my house to a fire, there was no way in hell I was going to look crappy on the evening news too.

The mister is much more practical and routinely checks that the smoke and carbon monoxide poisoning alarms are in working order to avoid disaster in the first place. Good for him. I am doing my part, ensuring the Alt family name is respected and that I don't embarrass anyone by going on TV and looking like a refugee.

I think they call it shared sacrifice.

What did I learn this summer?

Faithful readers, you will be pleased to know that I didn't waste an entire summer shopping online or reading trashy beach novels. I in fact have acquired some new skills and knowledge! They include:

1.  How to julienne a zucchini. Properly.
2.  How to change a diaper with an upside down infant. Harder than it looks.
3.  How to drive past trucks with Mitt Romney stickers and chuckle. Not too loudly.
4.  How to prepare shopping lists and write a press release. At the same time. This is also harder than it looks.
5.  How to stick three screaming children in a car without drawing too much attention to myself.
6.  How to be neighborly. Big one! I went to a new neighbor's house and introduced myself. By, like, myself.
7.  How to prep a Slip N Slide.
8.  How to wipe runny noses, take temperatures and dispense Tylenol. For three people. All of them under five.
9.  How to disguise boxes so the Mister doesn't think I am spending too much shopping online.
10. How to love the suburbs.

Ha ha, that last one is a crock of shit. But I am working on it.

Catch 22

I would like to shed two more pounds, although everyone is buzzing in my ear that I am thin enough. I think maybe I have a form of OCD. Do I absolutely have to lose the weight? No, not absolutely. But I like even numbers, so 120 sounds better than 122. Try saying it aloud, you'll see.

If I stopped sipping bubbly three times a week (okay, four), the two pounds would likely just melt off. But mamma likes her bubbly, particularly after a long, arduous day of diapering, bathing, changing, soothing, driving and more diapering. Champagne adds instant festivity to uneventful, poop-filled days.

So here I am, mired in a conundrum of my own doing. Give up the bubbly, or drastically reduce it, and realize the glory of weighing an even 120?

Nah, I didn't think so.

Is there a bandwidth on love?

Since relocating to the sticks (no joke...there are many trees here), I have had the good fortune of becoming reacquainted with long-lost friends and some family members who also live in said sticks. We spent some time getting caught up, eating good food and being nostalgic. At the end of almost every visit, I was told by someone, "I love you." Or, "te quiero."

Which made me happy because I don't always think I am the most lovable thing (I see you vehemently shaking your head in disagreement. I love you.) But being all analytical and also having more time now to think real thoughts beyond press releases and company org charts, I pondered the notion of love. At one time I may have loved these friends who I was lucky to find again. And my extended family, too. But is it really love or just some amped up version of like, since I haven't seen most of them in over a decade?

What happens to love once you have it for someone but they move away, or you lose touch, or life just happens? Does it get stored away? Do we have the capacity to dredge it back out when we see that person again? Is it like riding a bicycle or roller skating, wherein if you haven't done it for a long time it just comes back naturally?

I see you shaking your head, thinking damn it, woman who lives in the sticks, can't you just accept a loving gesture and not dissect it?

Come now. How long have you been reading this blog? I know you expect nothing less of me.

So this notion of love past and resurrected will occupy my thoughts this week.

Gotta love it.

The upside of not working

1. I can start drinking at 5 pm. I could never start before 7 pm, in my previous life.
2. Frequent costume changes. This being due to spit up, or other bodily fluids, thrust upon me courtesy of the babies.
3. Mornings in the garden. Is there nothing sweeter than early morning dew, blue jays and hummingbirds greeting you? (see #1)
4. NO MEETINGS
5. Visiting Target in the middle of the day. Perhaps only a trip to Walmart is better.
6. Drinking at 5 pm

American Independence

Three reasons I am glad we won our liberty from the Brits:

1. British food
2. The monarchy
3. Rick Astley

Suburban Lawns

Remember them? They were a spacy New Wave band, if memory serves. And if memory serves, I have yet to update you, faithful readers, on the latest goings ons with yours truly.

So I resigned the day job. Yep. Ten years is a long time. They were sad, or pretended to be, and threw me the requisite farewell breakfast with stale muffins and day-old fruit. I gave a nice speech, invoking word for word the verbiage Joe Pesci used when winning the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor (for Good Fellas): "it was my privilege, tanks." (Yes, I actually said tanks. Fucking cool.)

But back to Suburban Lawns. Well, we have one. Two actually. Two lawns in suburbia. Yep, the mister and I hightailed it to - cue spooky music - Camarillo. There are many suburban lawns here. Why, you ask? Oh, so he can be closer to his job and we don't spend our nest egg on gas driving from the Marina to the 805.

It has been a week and you will be pleased to know that I haven't had any meltdowns or public outbursts. Keep in mind it has been a week, though. There is the looming crisis about my identity and how the hell did I go from an independent career professional with a regular dry cleaning bill to a house frau with a minivan and three kids, but I see that this post is running long and really, I wanted to talk to you about my lawn.

The two suburban lawns.

Magnusism, #1

"Mommy, can you delete my underwear?"

Pause. Come again?

"I want you to delete my underwear."

"Magnus, do you mean you want me to remove your underwear?"

"Yes."

"So you want me to take off your underwear?"

"MOMMY! I said for you to DELETE my underwear!"

And so it goes. And goes.

single salvadoran female

Get a load of this.

Our nanny's sister recently had her first child, a boy. Half Salvadoran, half Mexican, and all hair. Guess what she named him?

Logan.

How funny, you say, isn't that the name of one of your twins?

Well, yes, in fact, it is.

So did she have Logan picked out before she gave birth?

No, actually. She never heard the name in her life. She asked our nanny what we named the babies and then declared, "I like Logan." Or, more accurately, "Me gusta el nombre, Logan." And she proceeded to give our name to her hairy baby.

The sister then asked the nanny what baby bag I used. And the funniest thing happened. She purchased the same one. Lo mismo.

How weird, you say, it's starting to sound like the plot to that movie "Single White Female."

Uh huh. I casually asked our nanny what bakery she used for her sister's baby shower. "The one you used for Magnus's birthday party," she replied.

(Cue Psycho soundtrack here).

Think I'll be cutting my hair now.

i don't make the cut

Over the weekend I visited a friend who, upon my arrival, served me a glass of wine in a lightweight, very basic wine glass. I know this girl has some Rogaska and Vera Wang in her trove, so I assumed I'd be upgraded once dinner was served.

Dinner was served, we ate said dinner, yet she continued to pour pinot noir into my sad, lackluster glass. And I'm not talking the Williams-Sonoma everyday-use stemware. I mean the buy 200 glasses for $3, Ikea-brand special. The kind of glass you run the risk of cracking if you clutch the stem too tightly.

Was I not sophisticated or regal enough for my pal's high-end crystal? When did I fall off the nice stemware list? I know I'm a stay at home mom now and nowhere as interesting as my friend, who does PR for major brands and travels and wears Miu Miu around the house. But surely history has to count for something, right? And the fact that we've known each other for years?

Okay, I'll settle for Pottery Barn glasses, but don't push me.

Dressing up for dropping off

In thirty minutes I will pack up Bubba and take him to his karate class, a weekly exercise in patience, encouragement and bribery. But first I have to change outfits.

Generally I only have about three minutes to assemble my garb. This entails shedding my t-shirt and jeans and donning another t-shirt and jeans. Sometimes I slip on a bangle, if I'm feeling all feisty-ish, and an uncomfortable but cute pair of shoes. Then I spray on some perfume, put Magnus in his gee and schlep to the karate studio, where I summarily sit by myself for an hour, observed and smelled by absolutely no one.

I see you rolling your eyes, faithful readers, and wondering why I bother changing clothes when all I do is sit in the corner of the studio, next to the fish tank. You mean-spirited readers probably consider me selfish, someone who puts her own needs ahead of those of her three young young children. (Screw you guys, you can hang out at some other blog.)

The truth is, there is no real reason for my compulsion to change. It's just my thing, like other people have their things. Who are we, anyway, to judge each other's things? I pass no judgement on your thing (unless you collect ceramic gnomes, cos that shit is just weird.)

So I'll make you a deal. You don't judge my need for costume changes and just love me for who I am.

And please compliment my shoes, they are freaking killing me.

Notes from the playground

1. If you have a toddler girl, please ensure she wears underwear. No one wants to see baby snatch when she goes up on the see-saw.

2. Carson is the name of a city. It should not be the name of a child.

3. No, thanks. Banana chips are gross.

4. If you have a nanny, check her Facebook account. Odds are she was posting while she was supposed to be watching your offspring.

5. If you can pinch an inch around your waist, why not get off the park bench and assist your kid as he threatens to plummet off the top of the slide? It will do you both good.

Behold, a penis. On the wall.

My dear gay friend D finally got his act together and invited me over for wine and snackies. Which I happily accepted, as it gave me a chance to wear the boots I purchased during the early days of PPD that go with absolutely nothing I own, which means more shopping, natch.

D has a luvely home in Hollywood that he shares with his husband, the well-dressed and slightly hairy David.

And speaking of hair and David, I noticed as we were sipping Chardonnay (!!) that their home boasted more than one photo of a penis. I've been to a few gay men's homes and most of them had penis art in some form: sculptures, photos, paintings. I think someone had a penis paper weight, but I could be fantasizing.

"Why are you so obvious with the schlong?" I finally blurted out. "I think everyone knows your sexual preference before they come in and sit down."

"We love the schlong!" hairy David responded. "Why do straight guys have stickers on their cars of big busted women?"

"How dare you make such generalizations. Plus, only truck drivers have those," I said. "Seriously, how many penis items do you have on display?"

"Nine," D replied. He nodded. "I know, we need more."

D and David enjoy schlong. I like schlong too. Should I put up schlong photos, I wondered to J later that evening, who summarily nixed the idea. (I am paraphrasing for space purposes).

Or should we have photos of straight couples having intercourse, so people who come over, in case they weren't sure, would know we are straight?

So many decorating options...

Am I on the mend?

For the last two weeks, I have been waking up and feeling fine.

This is a big effing deal. A month ago, it took me about thirty minutes to find the will to wake up, get out of bed and function. The rest of the time I sat and stared, wept inexplicably, or purchased things online that I had no need for.

So I am still buying things online that I have no need for, but the terrible sensations are gone. My head has stopped buzzing and I am able to go outside and not feel like the sidewalk is going to devour me.

Am I cured of this horrible postpartum depression? I posed the question to the women in my weekly postpartum support group. I like these women, and feel genuinely sad for many of them. Most are first-time mothers who had no idea what was wrong following their baby's birth. They waited too long to get help. One of them can't even recall the first four months of her daughter's life, she was so depressed. Ouch.

The women thought about my question and looked at each other. They were puzzled, as I was. I am on medication, and will be for a couple of months, so I am probably not 100 percent in the clear. But I don't feel like crap any more.Maybe I am just in Postpartum Limbo, the little resting spot before you catch the train to Wellville.

What a horrible metaphor. Yikes! I am definitely not cured.

I need a better job description

Since I officially entered the realm of stay-at-home mom, I have been spending my free time (that would be the three minutes when I dry off after the shower) pondering the ridiculousness of the phrase stay-at-home mom.

Because I rarely stay at home. Hardly. I shower and sleep here, basically. I push the Snap N Go around the block. Sometimes twice. I drive Magnus to karate and music class. I drive to the grocery store. I take the babies to the pediatrician. I ferry all three kiddies to the park. Once a week I drive to my acupuncturist to have needles inserted into my flesh so I can have more energy to not be at home.

Who coined this ludicrous phrase? While driving with Magnus to the pharmacy (see? I am not at home again) I thought about an alternative descriptor. Working mom? But all moms work, whether in or outside the home. Full-time mom? That isnt accurate, either. Moms who go to the office are still moms for those eight hours.

So we don't have a correct job title for one of the most important and allegedly revered jobs on the planet. What the hells?

Sound off, faithful readers. (Or is it just one reader? If I was home and blogging more, I would know this).

Five bad things about depression

1. You are depressed

2. Bad fashion choices. Today, for example, I thought jeans, a green shirt and bright blue socks would be a good look.

3. Everyone seems so happy. REALLY annoying.

4. Everyone seems physically active. Double annoying.

5. You are depressed.

Five cool things about depression

1. Rapid weight loss, due to lack of appetite.

2. Unbridled empathy from friends and family who have never seen you like this.

3. Numerous compliments on your new weight. But please don't lose any more. Kate Moss would look HUGE next to you.

4. Rapid weight loss, due to lack of appetite.

5. Housework, indeed any kind of work, is granted a stay of execution. You can't DUST when all you want to do is jump in front of a moving train. Or at the very least sleep for five years straight.

Did I mention the weight loss?

Well, well

Postpartum depression in the house, y'all!

You read me right. After a month of unrelenting anxiety, guilt, fatigue and sadness, yours truly was diagnosed with a moderate case of postpartum depression. A la Marie Osmond, Brooke Shields and Bryce Dallas Howard. See? I do have connections to the stars.

I am proud that as soon as I started feeling not quite right - as soon as I realized I couldn't draw a deep breath, as soon as I realized I couldn't shake off the lingering sadness, or stop waking up inexplicably at three am every morning - I hauled my ass into the doctor's office. He took good notes, asked a few questions, and wrote me a prescription for Zoloft.

Which I took gratefully, thinking it would restore me to my usual sardonic, bitter self.

Oh no.

Perhaps the dosage was wrong, perhaps it was my system retaliating for being fed an anti-depressant. Whatever the case, I woke up three days after starting the meds and felt as if a train ran over me. A diaper train. It hurt to stand up and plant my feet on the ground. I felt as if I had swallowed ten pills of Valium but didn't die.

So, in the quest for health and sanity, I rehauled my ass back to the doctor's. He didnt care for my side effects, did not care for them one darn bit, and wrote a new prescription for Prozac. Finally! I was part of the mythical Prozac Nation.

I have been on the drug for a week and I have to say, I feel like I am inching closer to my old self. If you have never experienced depression or postpartum anxiety, screw you. I mean, good for you. It is a terrible disorder the likes of which I have never experienced and hope to never experience again. If George Clooney came a-knocking and asked me to bear his only child, I would run screaming in the other direction, citing my love of hormonal balance and good mental health.

You probably want to know how long I will be on the drug, right? Six months. I know, I was a bit shocked. However, it takes at least a month for most anti-depressants to work, and then one has to be weaned off the medication. Kind of like heroin detox, but not as glamorous or reality TV-worthy.

So, ah, that's what's new with me. And the two beautiful babies.

Supply and demand

Hello! Miss me? I have missed you all and spent many a sleepless night wondering if you would welcome me back into your good graces.

So what is new with yours truly? Adjusting to fluctuating hormones, two beautiful ( if slightly demanding) newborns...and the reality that I will not meet my goal of nursing for six months. Oh hells, no.

In addition to the fact that our firstborn twin, Mr. Logan, is almost nine pounds at just four weeks and puts away at least four ounces per feeding, I was spending a HUGE amount of it tethered to the breast pump, or having a baby dangling from my boob. Time away from Magnus. But also, supply seemed to be dwindling after the third week. I was tired, with elevated blood pressure, and slightly dehydrated, for which I had to make an unfortunate trip to the ER for some meds. Upon my return, less milk seemed to be emerging, no matter how much I was pumping or getting a baby to latch on. After a week of frustration and seemingly starving babies, I packed away the pump and drove to Whole Foods to buy organic formula. And that's all she wrote.

Initially I felt guilty over giving up the god-given right to breast feed, and had more than one vision of the babies growing up to be bank robbers, obese and resentful due to being fed an early diet of formula. But as my hormones started to stabilize, I knew this was the best decision for me and ultimately them. I am sure they could sense my frustration and anxiety, and spending days in tears worrying that they might die of starvation wasn't doing me or anyone any good.

So there we are, slightly one month since the babies arrival into this world. Their pediatrician declared them healthy and perfect at their recent check up. I am at peace with my decision, and even able to laugh at irony of the inscription on the Medela baby bottles when I feed them (breast is best!)

On to the next adventure, then.

A thought at 3 am

Just caught a Folgers commercial and it gave me serious pause. Who still drinks Folgers coffee, with so many (and better tasting) options? Who thinks it is really the best part of waking up?