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.