No Experience Needed

Faithful readers, I was surprised to get messages from so many of you wondering why I hadn't posted  in nearly a month.

Well, the one message, at least.

Which was more an offhand comment than a message. Potato, potah-to.

I have actually been busy considering my future, if you must know. I have taken long thoughtful walks and hosted deep inner conversations with myself to figure out...what the heck now?

The eldest bubba is in kindergarten and it appears all his neurons are firing, as he is doing almost second-grade work. The babies are big and healthy and thriving. They love books and walks around the neighborhood. They throw stuff at each other and occasionally a punch but overall are pretty damn sweet.

So how do I take care of these kiddos in a meaningful way beyond making their food from scratch and playing peek-a-boo? Specifically, how do I help build their college funds, set aside money for braces and their first cars, give them more opportunity? I get to freelance occasionally but work has slowed down, almost to the point where the money I earn buys one ticket to the movies (matinee).

I scouted some online sites for opportunities today. I want flexibility in my schedule and I don't want to return to the nonstop stress and headache of my previous job. Here is what was available, and what I am semi-qualify for:

- School crossing guard
- Pizza delivery driver
- Pilates instructor

Let's face it, the nail technician position is out of my league. And I am too dainty to clean up old people messes at the assisted living facility that is presently hiring. So I find myself here, longing for part-time work and horribly overqualified.

So what to do? Put in a few more hours at Magnus's school, where a fellow classmate routinely insults me, continue to look for opportunities to write and get paid, fold some shirts, read some books and trust the universe that it will all work out.

And blog, of course. I know you guys are counting on me.

Request - Please Read

Could all gays and lesbians please come out? I need to jump in the closet and hide from my children.

Kirk Cameron is freaking awesome

No, you don't need your eyes checked. Yes, I am posting after weeks of hectic schedules and vacation. And yes, I think Kirk Cameron is the bomb.

Now don't go to someone else's blog and forget about me. Let me 'splain. I like Kirk Cameron, and I check him out on Facebook, because of the sheer comedy that comes out of his Jesus-worshipping mouth. He tells gays they are going to hell. He stated that he doesn't think Stephen Hawking is that smart. Recently he defended Senator Akin, another Jesus-loving moron who attempted to differentiate between rape and "legitimate" rape.

The thing about Kirk Cameron is that he is convinced he is right despite tons of scientific evidence to the contrary. To me this makes him the ultimate court jester. He's almost arrogant if he weren't so freaking funny. Remember when he debated god and evolution? That the banana was an example of god's handiwork? Only Sarah Palin is funnier but by a hair.

Check him out on Facebook, crack open a beer and have yourself a good chuckle. Lord knows you deserve it. (Get it?)

Heed these words:

If one more short, self-entitled person steps on my foot or gives me attitude, there will be hell to pay.

I'm talking to you, offspring.

Knock knock jokes: epic fail

Magnus: "Knock knock!"
Me: "Who's there?"
Magnus: "Me! Ha ha!"

Magnus: "Knock knock!"
Me: "Who's there?"
Magnus: "Banana!"
Me: "Banana who?"
Magnus: "Banana banana banana banana! Ha ha! Banana banana! Knock knock!"

Magnus: "Knock knock!"
(Pause) Me: "Who's there?"
Magnus: "Magnus."
Me: "Magnus who?"
Magnus: "Open the door, it's me Magnus! Let me tell you another knock knock joke!"

Damn you offspring

I thought Magnus opening the bathroom door while I was in the shower was maddening. But he managed to top it. Last night after a long day I was finally able to drift into a blissful sleep. Which turned into dreamy sleep. Which turned into a dream of me and Ryan Gosling. And then me and Ryan Gosling going at it, Boogie Nights style. I had auburn hair and was about five pounds lighter in the dream. And he was really into me (no pun intended). We made deep eye contact and said amazing things to each other. It was life-altering.

And then....

"Mommy? It's MORNING TIME!"

I opened my eyes and instead of Ryan in bed next to me there was a five-year-old with bed head and a sweaty blanket sitting there. Sheesh, first-born! Have you no clue? I rarely get good night's sleep, and good sex sleep? With Ryan effing Gosling? And you woke me up and expect me to feed you??

I am officially protesting these working conditions.

It is starting already

Magnus: "Mommy I think I need to stay home from school today."
Me: "Why Magnus?"
Magnus: "My arm is really sick."

Eleventh Commandment: Thou Shall Not Solicit

"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"I am here to tell you about the Bible and god's word, ma'am."
"I am home schooling my son right now."
"When would be a good time to come back and share some passages with you, ma'am?"
"Probably never."
"Did you know god helps those who forsake him?"
"No. But I have to get back to science instruction with my five-year-old."
"Okay but I can see that you are lost and god can touch your life."
"Can you bring champagne with you next time and I will think about it?"
" I brought some with me, ma'am. The neighbors said it might make you more receptive to the good book. I actually am carrying a chilled bottle in this backpack."
"Well for Christ's sake, come IN!"

Confused

As a Facebook user, am I obligated to start using Twitter hash tags in my posts now? for several months I have observed said Twitter hash tags  in several of my friends' postings. Am I outdated or dumb because I can't figure out something short and witty to include? I freaking hate Twitter. Why are you doing this to me, social media deities?

Well, HA HA HA, guess what? I am not that outdated or dumb, faithful readers. When I put my mind to something, anything is possible, plus housework. Here is my FB post:

When did FB become Twitter? #cutthatshitout #now.

You like? It's brilliant. Please like.

tribute

To Seamus Heaney, transcendent, award-winning, beloved poet who died this week. Excerpt from "Sunlight":

Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails

and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.

And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.

What is sexy?

The mister breaking out the Dyson and vacuuming the kitchen floor after one of the bubbas tossed a handful of Cheerios at his brother.

So hot.

This week's obsession: serial killers

I can feel you stomping your foot in protest, faithful readers. Roya get a clue and lighten up, you shout. Stop obsessing about your existence and serial killers. Why are you such a downer?

I live in the sticks, do you not REMEMBER? I can't just dust and fold shirts ALL DAY! I am stomping my foot now, right back at you. Like these shoes? They hurt.

A loooong time ago I wrote a piece about motherhood equaling irrational fears. I was proud Magnus had the courage to go down a big slide at age two but silently held my breath each time, convinced he would hurtle his tiny body into a lump on the ground and never stand again.

So it should not surprise anyone that I have been wondering about serial killers and if bad parenting trumped the genetics card for some of the people sitting on death row. Not that I would be as bad as Charles Manson's mother, who gave birth to him and then did everything she could to never see him again. I saw an interview with Charles M and he said he attempted to return times to his mother numerous times after living with various relatives or staying in juvenile centers. She thwarted every attempt. Your own mother saying I am good on my own, thanks. That has got to fuck with you.

Okay, so I am not that bad. But do I leave Magnus on his own too much while I perform important tasks like write copy for clients? Or like right now, when I am blogging about how not being with him might increase his risk for anti-social behavior and perhaps homicide? And he's in his room quietly building a dull sword out of Lego?

A fellow mom friend shares my concern. Her two boys are older and lock themselves in their rooms for hours on end. She can only get them to come out if she yells "IN N' OUT!!" They are also surly at
dinner and want to be left alone right after. She says they have not harmed the family cat but she checks on it every night before she goes to bed.

Because I am cerebral and drawn to research and bad TV, I have been watching documentaries on You Tube about serial killers, paying close attention to their formative years. So far I have covered Richard Ramirez, Charles M, the Green River killer, Ed Gein and John Wayne Gacy. And there are some messed up childhoods there, friends. In most cases, there was probably also something awry with the individual's hard-wiring...Ramirez said from a young age he felt different, and after seeing terrible violence in his family, he became drawn to it. Did his mom maybe leave him alone too much while going to church or the grocery store? It's a toss up.

I see this post is running long so I will sign off and go see where that strange chainsaw sound is coming from. Hopefully the gardener.

School daze

Hey, did you miss me? A little? Ah, I love you. Here is a treat.

Today was the first day of school for Mags. I was mildly panicked given his peanut allergy. However, after a great meeting with the school principal, nurse and Mags' teacher I think we have reason to be cautiously hopeful that he will be safe. I almost did the happy dance when we arrived to school and were met with disclaimer signs indicating peanut free zones in his play area. Woot!

But that happiness was brutally destroyed because after fetching my firstborn from school he announced that he has a girlfriend. He felt the need to be reassuring, pointing out that he LIKES her but he LOVES me. It's like cheating in a weird kindergarten way. I felt used. I need a shower.

So we survived day one and next week the boy will undergo an academic assessment. I am fairly confident he will do well, as his new word this week is imperative. It is imperative that I wear those shoes. No, Mom, the other shoes. I said imperative.

This should be fun, right?

No?

Give me that treat back.

Goals

I am going to work hard to accomplish the following this month, faithful reader(s):

1.  Sleep in until 6:30 am
2.  Plant the poor wilting impatients that hate me for leaving them high and dry in the furthest corner of the backyard
3.  Halt, or at the very least reduce, what has become a weekly slamming of the heads by L and C (now referred to as the rams)
4.  Accept the fact that Mags starts kindergarten in two weeks, I will actually volunteer to sit in tiny school chairs at his school once a week, and that I am slowly inching my way towards irrelevance, at least in the eyes of my first offspring
5.  Meditate at a consistent time each day instead of squeezing in a session between laundry loads or after red wine, at which point it is much easier
6.  Research the new Dyson mop. $330 but who is counting? I don't earn a regular income, after all.
7.  Liking tofu. The mister, who has lost an estimated 21 pounds by changing his eating times and going low-fat, thinks this would add variety to our diet. Gag me with a slimy, blocky mess.

Will report back on successes and failures soonest. Having a glass of white and then meditating.

Don't lecture me.

Bloody heck

A new British monarch has been born. Why all the hoopla in these United States? This is not David Beckham's kid. He may grow up and completely suck at soccer. He may have Prince Charles's ears and take up the banjo. I mean no disrespect to the Windsors (or not a ton). But aren't there more substantive stories, or at least better looking celeb babies, to hype?

Why other people's kids suck

1.  They are know-it-alls. And loud mouths, to boot.
2.  They cough and don't cover their mouth.
3.  They watch TV and convince your kid he should be doing the same.
4.  They have no food allergies and can eat whatever they want.
5.  They cough and don't cover their mouth.
6.  They poop in your bathroom and leave you to find it.
7.  They eat all the snacks in your house. Even the infant rice cereal. And they want more.
8.  They love McDonald's and think your kid should, too.
9.  They cough and don't cover their mouth.
10.  They weigh less than your twins but are twice as old.
11.  They are an only child but have five times as many toys as your kids. And their toys are cool.
12.  They are slightly older than your eldest child but feel too superior to play with him or acknowledge that he exists.
13.  They wear Burberry. 'Nuff said.
14.  They eat only organic food.
15.  They eat only non-organic food.
16.  They cough and....see above.

Living in a low-fat world

The problems of people who live in the suburbs are alternately amusing and pathetic.

Yours truly is depressed because I live in the suburbs and don't earn a real income despite a tremendous workload and pissy clients. (Out of privacy concerns I will forego using their real names...which begin with the letters M, L and C.)

Now the mister has been diagnosed with gallstones after a late-night trip to the ER. There is nothing like seeing your spouse doubled over from abdominal pain to instill fear in the heart and make you agree to some immediate lifestyle changes.

Which are as follows:

Eating low-fat. Like low-fat everything. I don't need to eat this way but am doing so because I am the bomb wife and I don't want to be a widow.
Taking more walks. This doesn't go over well with Magnus but he has no say in the matter, effective immediately. Put your shoes on and walk your ass outside if you know what's good for you.
Letting go of stress. A work in progress, my friends. Who would I be if I didn't stress? What would happen to this poor blog? It is too awful to even consider.
Meditating. Getting over the idea that you look stupid doing it. Also a work in progress.

My cooking is at a standstill since the mister has some restrictions about what he can ingest now. And most of the cheese in the house will need to be disposed of, tout de suite.

Oh, the plight of the suburbs. Somebody start a fund to save us.

We need to whack Caillou

If you are someone who has yet to encounter the sniveling, whiny children's character that is Caillou, consider yourself extremely lucky.

I am not sure there has ever been a more irksome kid or family for that matter. Caillou, who is supposed to be about four but acts like a two-year-old, is endlessly perplexed or flummoxed because things don't go his way. No kid is this annoying, trust me. After watching a few episodes on TV and reading Calliou books to the bubbas, it is clear to me that Caillou's mom is on drugs. She never raises her voice, loses patience or gives time-outs. Caillou's dad is also perpetually patient, wise, loving and hands-on. Is he really the father? Nobody could deal with this kid and not want to strangle him in his bath tub.

We need more authentic children's characters. We need mommies who look haggard and pissed off. We need daddies who mess up and yell. And we need to take out Caillou. Like right now. His name is confusing to spell and pronounce, but more importantly, he is training legions of kids how to be a total turd. I don't want to live in a country where that is allowed, do you?

I didn't think so.

Here to stay

Dangnabbit. We are officially still in our house in Camarillo for another year.

Like I need another reason to drink, right?

Shush.

Hear ye, hear ye

Faithful readers, the most egregious disorder has befallen yours truly.

It appears that within the last month I have become mute. I engage in conversation, I ask questions, I even shout down the hallway, and somehow, incredibly, nobody can hear anything I say.

For example, this morning, I asked the eldest bubba what he would like to eat for breakfast. He did not look up or respond. I repeated the question. Then again. Louder. I looked at J, concerned and helpless. Finally the lad turned to his father and declared he would consume yogurt and fruit, thank you. I was baffled. Was the child deaf? Did I die recently and was just a ghostly apparition, yet because of the extraordinary amount of laundry I have to do, I didn't realize I had crossed over?

Later in the day, I asked J about purchasing extra chairs for the patio table. We have some entertaining planned and I can't ask people to stand on the grass for an entire meal. He did not respond. He was looking at his iPad. I cleared my throat and posed the question again. I think he may have heard some inkling of vocabulary because he did look up and make eye contact. I yelled my question and he nodded. Why couldn't he hear me? Was he reading my lips? When did he start reading lips? Really? Huh.

I don't fault the babies too much. They are not quite 18 months old so any instruction I give them is going to be met with indifference. It is weird that when I say no they don't appear to hear me, though.

Anyway, I probably need to see a doctor. This is a serious disorder - my husband and kids' inability to listen to me - that could accelerate into adolescence and even young adulthood. It is disturbing and highly inconvenient, having to holler to get someone to look my way and acknowledge me. But medicine is moving at an incredible rate, I have no doubt that sooner or later, a cure will be found for this horrible mother's predicament.

Kids are cruel

How many times have you heard the phrase that kids are cruel? My mother used to tell me that, wiping the tears from my eyes because someone in class called me a name or stole another doll from my bedroom. (Why did I hang with such hooligans?)

Kids are cruel to one another but also cruel to their parents. Here is just a small list of things that were said to me this week:

Me: "Hi Cyrus!"

Cyrus: "Bye."

Me: "I like to eat, eat, eat apples and bananas. I like to - "

Magnus: "Mommy, please don't sing."
Me: "Don't sing this song?"
Magnus: "Don't sing ever."

Me: "Hi Logan!"

Logan: "Nooooo! Da da." (Child runs down the hall to the safety of his father.)

Me: "Magnus, want to come outside and play cars with me?"

Magnus: "I would rather be in my room."

Magnus: "I love Daddy and Nana so much."

Me: "Who wants to sit next to me at dinner?"

Magnus: "Not me!"

You looked distressed so I won't list any of the other barbs that are routinely tossed my way. Of course I am being overly dramatic. (Oh, you are a new reader? You will get used to it. And you will love me in like, no time).

Apparently one day when they are grown, I will miss that my kiddos were needy. mean-spirited self-centered youngins. Until then I have to put up with their crap. So I'll just keep biting my tongue, cursing the fish and reaching for (my omnipresent) bottle of wine.

Mother's Day 2013

Dear J and children,

I love each of you dearly. Every day you bring joy to my heart. So in the vein of love and happiness, this Mother's Day, keep it down. Let me be more direct. Shut the hell up. All of you. Don't ask me to find Lego pieces that are under your bed. Don't scream at me if I take away a toy because you were going to maim your little brother with it. Don't tell me we are over budget on something. I have been working my ass off for over a year with no pay. What I would do to have a budget, a small one.

Don't tell me a word and then ask me repeatedly what it means. Especially if I respond to you several times.

Don't point at me, all excited and then yell "Dada." You keep that up and I will go back to work next week.

Don't hit your brother and then try to shift the guilt by crying louder than him. I may leave the room occasionally but I have x-ray vision and I know who throws the first punch.

Don't sing songs that I can hear when I am outside, down the street.

Don't say "why" a hundred times in a row. That shit is wrong and annoying.

Don't pitch a really loud fit when I refuse to give you more banana. The banana was mine to start with. I haven't eaten breakfast in six months and I am freaking starving.

Don't turn on all the toys that make noises at once. Are you deaf? Hey! I am talking to you.

So this Mother's Day, as the lucky mom of three beautiful, healthy children, I ask that you help me maintain peace and mental health. Do mommy a favor. I don't need a card or jewelry or chocolate.

I need you to zip it.

I love you.

Mommy

The proof is in the numbers

I am not a big fan of consumer surveys but one that just came out happened to catch my attention. The title: "Moms With Three Kids More Stressed."

Ah, now you believe me!

I sent the news story round to a few fellow moms of three. Who didnt have time to read it because they were overwhelmed and stressed parenting their three children.

Had they read it, they would have found that moms with four kids are less stressed than mothers with three children. Huh? Who is crunching that data? The survey also revealed mothers with only two kids seemed to fare the best. It makes sense; they aren't perpetually outnumbered or deaf in one ear from endless rounds of screaming.

I sometimes joke to J that we should have four tots, to make it a nice round number. I hate uneven numbers. Plus we already have the (obnoxious) minivan that would accommodate them. His response is to squint his eyes at me, all Clint Eastwood like, and shake his head in the negative. And he is right. Who am I kidding that I can handle another child? Face it. I am all mothered out. Three is just fine and dandy, thank you. Three is enough stress for a lifetime.

Just a casual, not so important observation

Why do so many European countries still have monarchs? As far as I can tell, royal families don't do very much. Lots of photo ops, weddings, pageantry sort of things. But they don't appear to govern, legislate or do much else besides ski.

Maybe it is hard to break up tradition and the cottage industries of selling mugs, plates and calendars with pictures of a royal family. Perhaps the citizens of Denmark, Sweden, the UK and other countries like having monarchs because it makes them feel distinguished and less like, well, us.

How great would it be if the US had a royal family comprised entirely of red necks? A lineage of Honey Boo Boos to dazzle us with beauty pageants, Fourth of July cook offs and cow tipping?

I see you agree with me.

Damn, you D

So I haven't been feeling all that well in the last week. I feel sluggish and sad. Aunt Flo is not around the corner so I cannot chock it up to my misfortune of still having a period. Damn.

Because I am delicate and whiny and hate feeling out of sorts for more than 30 minutes, I saw my doctor today. He listened and then gently said I have situational depression.

What? WTH?

"Situational depression, which is not clinical depression," he explained. "And given what you have just told me, that you had twins, stopped working and moved, all within a relatively short period of time, it is not surprising."

"So I have depression AGAIN?" I squawked. Why was I squawking at him? It wasn't his fault.

He assured me this too shall pass, gave me some instructions and made an appointment for a physical. I drove back home in semi-shock and rage. Depression? I never had depression in my life, minus the postpartum episode with the bubbas. This crap happens to other people. Not me! Not happy, sunshiny me! (Just nod in agreement please).

So here I am, depressed and feeling like a colossal loser. What is the universe trying to tell me? Do I need to get my eating in order, ingest more flaxseed, meditate? (The answer would be yes). Do I need to make peace with the fact that I miss working and who I was? (Uh huh). Could I stand to lose a few pounds?

Stop nodding your head, damn you.

We are moving!

Faithful readers, guess what? We are being evicted. Ha! I guess technically we are. The gentleman that we are renting our house from defaulted on his loan and the property is now in foreclosure. Good thing I didn't finish hanging all of the paintings in the living room.

I hate packing, unpacking and moving almost as much as genocide. It is a close second. So this girl is supremely unhappy about breaking out the bubble wrap and tape and marking up boxes in felt tip pen, yet again.

However, as you know because you LOVE and ADORE this blog, I don't care for Camarillo. So this rather inconvenient situation means we have a chance to look at other suburban areas in the 805 and sashay towards the one we like.

There you have the silver lining. What do you want to bet we end up in Thousand Oaks, much to the mister's chagrin?

Twins do the weirdest things

Took Logan's temperature rectally this morning. He sat perfectly still while Cyrus, unpenetrated, stood nearby and wailed at the top of his lungs.

I quit! Oh, but I can't

It has been one of those weeks. It started with the snot. Lots and lots of snot. And fever. Magnus was the first to come down with a cold. He was warm, clingy and snotty. Then Logan got it. Logan is always whiny so it wasn't a huge adjustment. And then Cyrus, the World's Most Perfect baby, was the last to contract the cold. He was hot and unhappy and not his usual adorable self. I suppose, in retrospect, I should have been grateful that they didn't come down with it at the same time.  I guess they spared me. But the mister was traveling, my mother didn't show up because she was unwell, and I woke up one day, exhausted and spent and just said it aloud. I QUIT.

It felt nice to say it. Cathartic, at least for a few minutes. But reality hit. Babies fussing in their cribs, Magnus needing help with his Batman socks, and a sense of dread took hold. I can't quit. I can't ever quit this job.

I appreciate what an ingrate I must sound like. As my mother tells me all too frequently, I wanted this. (Technically, I wanted another child, a sibling for Mags, but hell, twins sounded cool.) You should be grateful, she tells me as we drive with the kids to a park and pass a field with rows of migrant workers stooped over in the unforgiving heat. You get to stay home and be with them, do you know how many people would kill to be in your position? To stay home and not work?

No, I don't. I want to work, sometimes. At a different job. At a different job that doesn't involve rounds of tush cleaning, breaking up baby fights, pulling tiny objects out of clenched fists, smashing peas into edible mush and fingers pulling at me constantly, fingers creeping under the door to the bathroom when I dash to pee because I've been holding it so long. I want a break. I want to sit on a beach for a week while someone fills my endless margarita glass and applies sunscreen to my face because I slather it on everyone else and don't have the willpower to do it for me.

But I can't quit this job. And ultimately, as hard as it is, it is the best job I will ever have. I get to raise three beautiful, healthy children. Me, I get to do it! And on days when I want to give up and head back to an office building, I look at Logan with his round cheeks, blonde curls, and he smiles at me with milk on his chin.

Can't leave him. Can't do it. I have got to survive this job, one dirty diaper at a time.

Duh

Reading Push (the book that the film "Precious" was based on) days before I am due to get my period = Dumbest Idea Ever.

Downton Altey

Like millions of Americans, I am besotted by the English period drama that is Downton Abbey. I came into it a bit late but technology, bless you!, enabled me to catch up on the life on the landed gentry in the early 20th Century. And I stand corrected on one thing.

I am an unabashed liberal with a soft spot for the working class. However, I realize I would be an unbelievably awesome Countess Crawley. I would excel at having servants bring me breakfast in bed, attend to my hair and make-up, hand deliver my correspondence and set out my wardrobe for weekly social engagements. I would lay my head on an 800-thread count pillow and sleep with an obnoxious smile on my mug every night. I would vacation in Scotland, Paris, America, throw fabulous dinner parties with other well-coiffed snobs, judge the annual spring floral show and during the holidays, ask my maid to coordinate a delivery of goods to the poor. Of course, time allowing, I would set up a foundation to assist those less fortunate, perhaps young women who desired training to land non-domestic jobs or get an occasional manicure. But mostly I would sip champagne, eat low-carb delicacies and be so fucking happy about being a well-heeled aristocrat.

And don't act like you wouldn't do the same, faithful readers. Have you seen the amount of laundry the maids had to do, BY HAND? And they never seemed to take vacations, have sex or read a good book. Forget it, dahlings. Being overly pampered and utterly useless is my new calling in life.

Not another Holocaust movie??

The mister and I were settling in, after a long day of caring for the kiddos, when the mood suddenly hit.

Netflix!

We dusted off the DVD that had been sitting on the dining room table for almost two weeks. While wading through the previews, which we view because we are pathetic individuals who never know what films are coming out anymore, we sat through a trailer for a foreign film about the Holocaust.

I like Holocaust movies. I am fairly certain I have seen just about every Holocaust film ever made, even old ones like The Sorrow and the Pity. I have also watched an array of documentaries and sought out films that chronicle the stories of lesser-known victims, like gay men and people who were deemed mentally or physically unfit.

However, while watching the preview for this latest Holocaust film, all I could think was....really? Another Holocaust movie?

Don't start preaching. I am not saying we should abandon all memory of the Holocaust and never address what happened again in film or art. I simply think it is time there are other stories about genocide that should be told.

For example, the extermination of Native Americans or the Armenian genocide. There have got to be SOME story lines there that people would be riveted by. There is a mass assault taking place right now against Syrian citizens and untold numbers of people have died. Human beings outside Europe
have been put through the worst of human misery but we don't get the opportunity to hear their 
voices.

I am sure there are reasons why other atrocities are not featured as prominently in film or are 
otherwise not made, so I won't drag this out any longer than is necessary. The end result is that I will 
probably bypass this latest Holocaust movie and hope I come across a film with a new story to be experienced.

But not a genocide musical, please please no.

Loving our local crime scene

I happened to pick up a copy of the local newspaper while waiting for Magnus during his weekly art class. I am not someone who relishes checking out the weekly crime blotter nor do I bother to open the community paper that is left each week on our driveway. But this week, with time on my hands and the smell of crazy glue in the air, I found myself sifting through the pages of the Camarillo Acorn, ultimately ending up on the crime page.

And the criminals, they did not disappoint. These menaces to society were up to no damn good. For example: on March 1, a 33-year-old man was arrested for public intoxication outside the local CVS.

Wait. It gets worse.

An underage lout was cited FOUR blocks from where we live for driving a car in a cul-de-sac without a permit.

Hang on, I need to make sure I locked the front door.

I am back. An unidentified, godless woman was arrested near the outlet mall for carrying a controlled substance on March 3.

And a homeowner was cited for violating local ordinances by throwing a loud party on March 4. I know! It wasn't even a holiday.

I am as shocked and disgusted as you, faithful readers. How could the mister move his family from Los Angeles, home of televised car chases and home invasion robberies, to a crime-laden community like this one? Partiers and unlicensed drivers lurk among us, trying to blend in, catch us with our guard down. What is next? Pulling the lids off our recycling bins? Riding motorcycles without helmets?

Shudder to think.

Magnusism #5

Magnus: "Mommy, gold teeth are COOL."

No, thank you

I am not interested in watching a C-section via Twitter. I can barely look at pictures of my own operations. Seeing a stranger's blood and pelvic floor is not anywhere on my priority list.

If someone decides to Tweet photos of their hemorrhoid surgery, that may be the end of my forays into social media. And I will move to France.

Okay, so

I am lonely! I see you shaking your head. How is that possible, you ask, with three kiddos in the house? I find myself asking the same question. Also, we have play dates almost every week, at least Magnus does. So I do see other people. And I email friends when I can, and sometimes I actually get to see them in the flesh. But day in and day out, I am beholden to the needs of three human beings who are cute, but don't give a crap about the fact that I am on my own, isolated, and feeling a bit blue about that.

I actually Googled stay-at-home mom and loneliness to see if other moms felt the same or if I had some strange malady not yet discovered by science. A lot of them do feel lonely, even depressed. Yes! Victory! Shouldn't I feel better now that I know there are approximately five million at-home moms and a good chunk of them feel lonesome?

Misery doesn't love company in my case. Maybe if we still lived in LA I wouldn't feel so forlorn, or maybe I would cherish the loneliness as some weird badge of motherhood honor. But, as you know, because you LOVE this blog, we are living in more rural parts now and the quietness of suburbia only reinforces feeling alone.

How did the pioneer women handle motherhood without yoga, blogging or Xanax? They had to raise their broods AND wash clothes by hand, chop wood and even reach for a gun if the homestead was threatened. So much heavy lifting but I am sure the solitary aspect of their work made many of them feel isolated and depressed.

Well, I must end this to help Mags get into the tub. I miss you already. Give me a hug. Harder.

Kids say the darndest shit

While lunching at our favorite sushi joint today, Magnus looked at me thoughtfully and said, "Mommy, I love sushi. But I don't like avalanches."

Giving up my Kosher dreams

Until very recently, I harbored a fantasy of belonging to an insulated, tight-knit community like the Amish or the Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn. They seemed to really safeguard one another and their way of life. I wasn't digging the outfits so much but I thought I could swing the modest female dress code if it meant I lived somewhere that I felt 100% safe and protected every moment of the day.

Well, it turns out that my fantasy was blown up like an old Las Vegas hotel. Bad apples lurk among even the most pure communities. One bad Orthodox apple in New York slaughtered a young Jewish boy who was lost walking home from day camp. Then, once the community banded together to start looking for the missing boy, he cut up the body and tried to dispose of it in garbage cans. Gruesome stuff. How does an Orthodox man, presumably devout and isolated from the violence of TV, films and modern society, murder a 10-year-old and dismember the body?

Then the Amish. A dissident member was recently convicted of cutting off the beards of some men he felt wronged him. Obviously he made a better decision than Mr. Orthodox, but anger clearly runs deep and exacting revenge (presumably outside the code of Amish morals and life) didn't seem too far fetched to this gentleman.

So I have given up my fantasy of living on the fringes of Western society, cloaked in bad clothes but at ease with the knowledge that my neighbors had my back. Upon reflection, I think this strange wish began when Magnus was diagnosed with a peanut allergy and I was convinced he would be put in harms way by thoughtless teachers, school administrators, restaurant chefs and indifferent, uncaring parents. Obviously he still could be, but he could also be kidnapped, tortured or have his hair lopped off by people living among us who hide beneath a veneer of piety and devotion.

And truthfully, we all know I would last a day without a dishwasher and wine.

Things I could get used to

1.  Eating lunch (or any meal really) sitting down. It happened today and I seriously blissed out.
2.  Massage. This is obvious.
3.  Cupping. An acupuncture technique I recently tried to fall asleep easier. Who knew you could be an at-home parent and be stressed out with mental to-do lists?
4.   Sleeping in. Until 7 am. I would like to see this stretched out, however.
5.  Writing letters. OMG! I am making time to do this instead of just emailing.
6.  Did I mention massage? Had one last week, sorely needed, and I am in danger of becoming an addict.

Best inventions of all time

The car. The camera. The Internet. Pasteurization.

And Mucinex. Right now my personal savior.

Magnusism #4

Me: "Magnus! Do not lie on the baby!"
Magnus: "But Mommy, I am massaging him!"

I need to win the lottery NOW

I do. You know why? I need to adopt all the beaten and starving animals whose pictures keep getting posted on Facebook, along with appeals for someone, anyone, to take them in. I want to buy a massive farm property and hire five of the nicest, most compassionate animal experts on the planet who will nurse each and every helpless, starving creature I hand them back to life. I want to write a big-ass check to the ASPCA, even if it just pays for their commercials, so these poor dogs, kittens, chickens, gerbils, pot-bellied pigs, bats, whatever, get the hell out of their present situation and into a new and loving home with rolling hills and a view.

I think I may take a FB hiatus. As Black Dynamite said in the film Black Dynamite, "I can't look at this no more!"

It's official

So we have been living in Camarillo (the sticks) for seven months. I promised when we moved to withhold all judgements, misgivings, stereotyping and general snarkiness and try to see the city objectively. Give it a fair shake. Make peace with the chain restaurants and enjoy life with a minivan and shit.

I pretty much loathed the city the first week but I didn't tell anyone. Didn't want to violate my pledge and all. I was at my local Von's hunting for Katsu, a delish Japanese barbecue sauce, and the employee who was helping me scout the various Asian sauce bottles looked at me like I had second, protruding head. "I don't believe we carry that," he said. And then felt the need to add, "We don't have a lot of Koreans living here."

I chalked the incident up to sheer comedy and kept going. I started frequenting parks with the kiddies and striking up conversations with the other moms. They were stay-at-home, like me, but they really loved TV competition shows like The Voice and another show that Simon Cowell was on. I didn't watch those so I had nothing to contribute. Pretty quickly we started limiting our park excursions in favor of the library.

I hated, after a month, that there were so few trees in our neighborhood. If you live in Thousand Oaks or Newbury Park, you are dwarfed by beautiful trees of various colors. We have a pretty nice backyard, and I contemplated digging some of the bushes and trees up and relocating them to the sidewalk.

Then election season arrived and the rednecks came out swinging. Even our neighbors, who I suspected were conspiracy theorists or survivalists, but nice people to talk to, put up the nastiest anti-
Obama signs you have ever seen. (They also had stickers on their trucks that said NOTW, which I
think stands for Not of This World. Space aliens? Marines? What?)

I let six months go by without complaining to the mister, who was facing a demanding job as
president of his company, which is why we moved here in the first place.  He would come home looking almost beat up so I felt bad complaining about the lack of trees, culture and Asian sauces tormenting me.

But now it has been more than six months. I have found silver linings when I can and appreciated things that I could not do in Los Angeles, like pull off the road and buy fruit straight from a farm. I found a friend across the street who comes over on Fridays and we drink super-cheap red wine from
Target, because we are both non-working and have to make do on one income now. These are the bright points that fill the days and make my brain do that happy little ho-hum dance.

Because, faithful readers, I don't like living here, I will never get used to living here, and if Magnus gets accepted to the super-duper magnet school that is nestled among farm properties in nearby Santa Rosa, a very, very good, school, we will be stuck living here even longer. I shit you not when I say
that spooks the ever loving hell out of me. This town is too divided among the elite, who have mansions in the hills, and the workers who toil and pick their food. There is a middle class but there is something very hollow about it, like they are watching a tennis match between the richies and the workers, volleying back and forth. 

But I gave it six months, I did. I told the mister last night I hated living here, I missed LA way more than I anticipated, and what the hell, how will I adjust?

He just patted my hand, in that soothing style of his, and said it will be okay. You know why?
Because we have each other.

Damn him straight to heck.