Back Without a Bang

I'm fresh off of a week in New Hampshire ALONE (without the kids and moms-sibilities) and two weeks off of blogging. A (wicked) cold turkey break from blogging, checking email and being accountable to anyone for a few nano seconds was MARVELOUS but DEPRESSING.

While a gazillion feet above the Grand Canyon with no one to take care of, I was you're forced to wonder who the Hell I am without the kids, the Hubster and the house to hold down.

Staying the Antibiotic Course

Not much news to report on the swollen cesspool wound front today. The Hubster still looks like he tried to feed a tiger by strapping a raw T-bone steak to his left ankle.

The kids are wild, crazy and surprisingly positive, with only one exception: The Lawyer asked me last night if a Staph infection "could kill Daddy?" I suppose a question like that could be considered more curious and suspicious than negative. After tucking The Lawyer's outer space comforter around his (healthy) feet, I answered: "No. Dad's going to be just fine. He just needs a lot of love, rest and medicine."

What I was thinking: "Technically speaking, well ... Oh, and he could lose a limb ... " and a number of other worst case scenarios that reflexively burp to the surface in my perpetually negative thinking mind.

Think positive (whatever that is), think positive.

I forgot to give an update on The Lawyer's health yesterday. His pediatrician looked him over on Tuesday. Other than minor road rash on his back, shoulders and knees, he's fine. Since the appointment was also his regularly scheduled six-year appointed (uh, super late, though ... he turned six Feb. 15), the doctor sized up his height and weight. He's a bit underweight like I was at that lanky age and he's average height. I'm still surprised at how small and average in size my children are. I'm 5' 8" and my husband's 6' 2", so what gives (and why do I care)? Does anyone else out there take those irritating growth charts and stats as (unnecessarily) seriously as I do?

Well, I'm off to do my Thursday two-school shuffle ... First I pick up Cheeks from preschool, next I zip downtown while shoving a random form of crunchy carbs in my face (and tossing some backwards to Pigtails in her car seat) to grab The Lawyer. He'll be "stoked," as he would say, to see his wounded Papa alive and mostly well. Oh, I forgot I'm stopping at a third school to pick up a friend whose kindly pitching in with the kids and chores this weekend.

Tomorrow I wrangle mean bitchface cat, Trixie, and her litter trio, into a kitty carrier I scooped up from a yard sale today. I hope I don't sustain any open wounds from strong arm-ing her furry feline ass. I don't want to catch The Hubster's nasty infection.

Oozing Pus Like a Slow-Drip Coffee Pot

Sometimes it's so hard not to say "I told you so." But in this case, I think I'm a gazillion times justified, just as long as I leave the juvenile "nanner, nanner" bit out of it. I feel the need to state this before informing you that my too-stubborn-to-go-to-the-doc-sooner Hubster has a friggin' Staph infection.

I predicted that he developed Staph in his biggest (gaping-est) ATV accident wound, the shark bite looking chunk of skin on his ankle that continually drips/oozes pus like a slow-drip coffee pot.

As I joked with a bunch of moms outside the gate at the Lawyer's school this morning (a place I'm getting cozy with being now that I'm on morning drive-in duty), the Hubster's left foot smacks of James Caan's inflate-o-matic feet in Stephen King's Misery movie. I'm bummed Google image search wasn't able to turn up a single image scrap of stomach churning Caan's Hollywood effects enhanced clod hoppers. You'll just have to imagine swimming in feet sick on your own.


Another image that also comes to mind when I look at the Hubster's Staphylococcus bacteria factory of an ankle are the Flintstone feet of Mike Myers' "Fat Bastard" character. Keep all this on the DL, please. The Hubster thinks his inner tube sized ankle "looks just great, honey."

On a serious note, the good doc ordered a full blood count work-up, a thorough excavating (cleansing) of the wound, a double strong antibiotic cocktail to cut the narcotic painkillers with and a Staph culture to confirm what he says he "already knows for sure."


If the infection doesn't improve within two days (that is if it goes beyond the permanent marker outline the doctor scrawled around the red swollen areas in question), the Hubster will call the hospital home until otherwise ordered by that same good doc. I can't get over how pissed I am that this never had to escalate to a Staph infection and a dangerous flirtation with Toxic Shock Syndrome (something I know of only from tampon packages).

If only the Hubster were half the hypochondriac I am, he would've had this thing in the can a few days ago, when I first told him the Hell hole wound was a pus making station that required something other than NOTHING, for Christ's sake!

So, here's my day in gore, with a little pre-crash bonus pic at the end. Notice the Hubster's imaginary protective gear. Oh, I'm such a bitch sometimes. At least I know it. I could use a quick lesson in sympathetic nursing, but for right now I'm still worried and miffed.


Yadda, yadda, yadda. Repeat to self: He's going to be just fine. He won't land up in the hospital. Staph ain't nothin' but a chicken wang' dang. Calm the heck down.

Flipped Over and Spit Out

The hype about the dangers of four-wheeling might not be hype after all. Just ask my husband and 6-year-old son, who together accidentally yanked a full revolution in the air on one over the weekend.

Lucky. Relieved. Pissed. Annoyed. Guiltfully validated that "quads" are as trashy and unsafe as I always thought.

My son walked away, literally, from the quad-totalling wipe-out with scratched up knees and road rash all over his back and shoulders. He didn't even cry. My husband was knocked unconscious (our friend tried to kick him awake -- I don't think they teach that move at the Red Cross) and is now the owner of a bruised hip bone, a sprained ankle, at least a dozen road rash scrapes and a laceration on his ankle that you could fit an apricot pit into (I tried to stuff one in there to stop the blood -- and I don't think they teach that at the Red Cross either ... Just kidding). I'm pleased to report that Bounty paper towels are the "quicker picker upper" of blood, that is. Masking tape works too.

So on Mother's Day I spent the day doing what mother's do (hopefully) best, nursing my wounded pups back to health. I have some bizarre ER stories to tell when I'm not busy shuttling kids out the door to school (my husband usually drives The Lawyer to kindergarten in the a.m.) and "Itsy Bitsy" preschooler basketball practice (Cheeks' Jordan training).

For now, the Hubster seems perfectly sedate and pain free on his codeine that I scratched up ... from one of four pharmacies I hunted down after midnight last night. What happened to all the 24-hour pharmacies around here? So I can get a greasy burger after midnight in the city but not a handful of legal narcotics?

Also, wonder cat Trixie, who has now morphed in my opinion to holy high Hell bitch face cat, mauled Pigtails' face again and just missed her eye. I moved her and her litter of four kitties into the garage. Ousted. Exhiled. Kicked the Hell out. Right now she's stalking our playroom sliding glass door, meowing like a wild feline banshee. I keep on singing, "Keep on knocking but you CAN'T come in." Her fate as a member of this household is up in the air, just like a quad that unexpectedly dropped a bolt and my two biggest boys.

More later ... No time to spell check ...

Because 'Life Tastes a Little Too Good' to Some Party People

Warning: I’m going to get downright raw in this post. If you don’t want to read about drugs, sex and, more specifically, gay sex, I won’t be offended if you click elsewhere.

First off, I’m not that cool. I’m a big dork mom of three who drives a crumb-filled minivan. Perhaps you think simply because of my proximity to Hollywood, I’m connected to the “industry” scene or have had my lips plumped with botox. For the record, my boobs are real, even if they are real deflated, and my lips are naturally plumped. Truth be told, I’ve always liked my pout-y mouth, especially the bow tie top that looks extra Ferg-i-licious when I wear stoplight red lipstick. As far as the entertainment "industry" goes, I'm good friends with a successful CGI artist-art director couple and that's about it. I'm so not plugged in. (Where was I and I how did I lose track of all the sordid bits of salacious, first-hand content I’m suppose to bring to your eyes?)

Moving on now, and quickly, this weekend a friend of ours helped us out by babysitting the minis three so I could forge ahead on several writing projects (nothing that cool, I assure you, unless you consider school newsletters and corporate conduct handbooks glamorous) and go to a birthday party in Studio City with my husband and our former neighbor/longtime close friend. My babysitting friend also seeded my veggie garden for me while I rapped away on the keyboard and my children stomped the dance steps of Michael Flatley, or tried to, firmly into the parched soil.

My husband was the D.O.D. all weekend, except for when our babysitting friend took over while we ventured north to the birthday shindig. He makes me look like a slacker when he watches the kids. Not only does he play with them like a champ but somehow also balances meals and post-meal-blowout cleanup, mops the floors, dusts better than Merry Maid and folds six loads of laundry into neatly stacked towers (that I haven’t put away yet).

Yes, yes. Onto the sex and drugs already. I don’t have much time to really clue you in on a sundae-sized, hot-fudge greased, cherry-popped scoop, but I can spoon you a taste of bullet points about the posh party:

· I’m willing to estimate that 99 percent of the people at the party were gay. I’m an admitted fag hag, always have been, so why am I pointing this out? Why should it matter? Who cares? Why am I so un-politically correct? I think this is a notable fact even if you don’t. I don’t really have any compelling reasons for that … so scratch your head and call me Mary.
· My husband got hit on by dudes at least half a dozen times. He handled this extremely well, except for when he placed his massive open palm on the chest of a super drunk Abercombie model look-alike 34-year-old named John, I think. Never before had I seen my husband push someone other than my kids when they play wrestle. And, let me tell you, he wasn’t playing. “C’mon, you’re so tall, gorgeous and bald,” John cooed (drunk-slurred). Lemme’ see if you’re a bear or not.” Bear is apparently what hairy guys are called in the “family” community (correct me if I'm wrong because I really don't know for sure). Sorry, John boy, but the Hubster doesn’t swing his door that way, even if his two best male friends are gay. Low-rise, acid-washed jean guy, Mark, a lanky bottle blonde who proudly served his signature “way-too-f-ing-strong, bitch” (that's seriously what he called them) marguerita lime Jell-O shots, closed in on the Hubster. Meanwhile I reminisced about my college days in Boston with a gay attorney couple who met and fell in love in law school at Boston University when I caught the Hubster desperately eyeballing me from across the patio while trying to create a wall of smoke between himself and come-on-strong Mark. (I totally forgot this is supposed to be bullet style. Oops.)
· A jet black haired bone of a stripper arrived late to the party, though thankfully not to strip. Her sole purpose, apparently, was to convince a bunch of wasters to follow her to the bathroom and sniff coke off of an expensive, heavily veined granite counter. She lied to me and told me she was a bartender, but, c’mon, she so isn’t. I was fooled for a while until her roommate, who affectionately called her his “wife,” revealed the truth. I believe she’s his “Mary” or his wife on paper for insurance reasons. Isn’t same-sex marriage insurance legal in California, though? I don’t know. My friend kicked her out of the bathroom for me so I could use it for what it's really meant for. She left a sprinkling "dust" on the counter, which I swabbed away with a wad of toilet paper. I'd never seen that stuff in my life and think I'm all set until the next life. No thanks.
· A swarm of dancing drunken men crowded the huge flat screen TV to watch the De La Jolla-Mayweather match. I’m sure I annoyed Mark to no end with a constant stream of small-talky questions about boxing basics, Mayweather’s hyper cut pectorals and star audience sightings (Leonardo DiCaprio, J-Lo, Tommy Lasorda, etc).
· A cluster of partygoers thought that De La Jolla had gotten “fat and old.” Fat and old? I think I’m the same age as him and I can show you some serious “muffin top” fat. Jeez. Their physique standards are stacked a little too high if you ask me.
· The bartender rented for $45/hour from beautifulbartender.com was BEAUTIFUL. Everyone guessed that he was straight but he confessed that he’s bi-curious. Yeah, I’d say that too if it would fill my tip jar. Smart hottie. Very, very smart hottie.
· I found it extremely culturally insensitive that Mayweather wore the colors of the Mexican flag and had his team don shirts that read, “Mexico loves Mayweather.” What a rude jerk. I suppose the best man wins according to strength and skill, not the contents of his character.
· I think my husband and I were the only parents of young children at the party, except for one perfectly coifed set designer who said he got a girl pregnant a decade ago while he was “trying hard not to be gay.”
· Sex, didn’t I promise some sexy stuff? Well, I think I’ll keep all that to myself for now.
· I had a great time and don’t regret the 50 bucks we laid down for babysitting. Seeing how people party in the Studio City hills was worth every cent.

The Music Was My Special Friend

"I want roses in my garden bower, dig?"

Listening to the Doors in my garage surrounded by plumes of clove smoke tonight I thought my life drab and wanting for some deep thoughts.

Maybe I'll coax a some shiny yellow squash and juicy, plump tomatoes from my garden bower this Spring. I'm supposed to plant tomorrow, but, then again, I'm supposed to do so much that I continually fail to do.

Jim Morrison should see the state of the environment now, I thought, sipping my cheap, 7-Eleven bought white zin.

"What have they done to the earth?
What have they done to our fair sister?
Ravaged and plundered and ripped her and bit her
Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn
And tied her with fences and dragged her down."

I'm turning out the light now because the music's over ... and, well, it's 2:20 in the morning and there are children who expect homeade French crepes just after dawn.

When Meddling Moms Attack ... Dads

Sometimes I can't help but interfere when my husband plays D.O.D., the "dad on duty," as he puts it. I'm forcing myself not to right now.

He's in charge of the three B's tonight, Bath, Books and Bed, our usual bed time routine. So far, it's going disastrously. I'm supposed to be diligently working on a paid writing project but I can't go on because there's so much shouting and stomping in the boys' bedroom. If I'm alarmed, what do my neighbors think?

Did I mention how freaking hard it is not to go in there right now and put my pushy size 10 mama foot (ski) down?! My heart rate soars with every defiant "NO!" shouted in my husband's direction. Why are the boys refusing to get dressed?

Walk away. Block it out. Don't go in there and be a bitchy bitch. Don't be a control freak mama. Let Daddy do the job. Block the "wild rumpus" out. Be the master of ignoring, like The Lawyer. Must get into the zone-out Zen zone.

"STOP IT RIGHT NOW! YOU ARE BROTHERS! STOP BEATING ON EACH OTHER!" my husband just boomed in the back end of the house. That's like asking brothers not to trip each other. I feel for the Hubster in the heat of the on-edge parenting moment, enough to rescue him when he doesn't need rescuing.

"I want Mommy to do bedtime," my daughter tearfully protests, whining every so irritatingly through her little nose.

Again, bedtime is for shit tonight. Would it be better if I were in charge? I don't know. Probably not, since I allow all three kids to manipulate the Hell out of me whenever and wherever.

I want to go kiss each and every one of my crying babes goodnight but don't want to spark an hour-long begging-for-mommy fest.

"Don't undermine me in front of the kids," my husband continually tells me. Do I listen? Hell no. Should I? Of course. So, tonight, right now, I'm going to stuff my overgrown talon tipped fingers in my ears, bite my freshly lipsticked for nothing lip and butt the heck out. Burying myself in the work just might work. Or not.

Wait. He's asked me to kiss them goodnight. The white flag has been raised. I'm no longer on deck ...

Maybe I should have stayed at the Internet cafe after all.

*Update -- Per norm, my goodnight kisses threw Daddy bedtime way off kilter for more than an hour. There. I proved myself guilty.

Mind Dump No. 2 (Lip Synch Swearing, All Nighters & Farm Workers' Rights)

I'm too friggin' busy supposedly generating extra cash for the family to create a thoughtful, well fleshed out entry today. That's right. That's how cool I am? Well, okay, not at all. I'm just terrible at managing my time. So, instead of blogging on a specific topic, I offer you yet another uncensored, un-spell-checked mind-dump.

My daughter just woke up from her nap. Yes, her NAP! How thrilling that both of my wee ones crashed out for a full hour while their big brother is at kindergarten. I woke up next to Cheeks on the bottom bunk shellacked to his pillow in my own puddle of drool. You'd think I'd take advantage of a sleeping house and make headway on several writing projects and overdue chores. But no. What do I do? I sleep.

Sleep from the fallout of pulling a true all-nighter on Sunday-Monday. I don't suggest staying up all night. I didn't log one wink of sleep, at the age of 31 and three quarters, for the very first time in my life. I felt drunk all the next day, singing random commercial jingles (zoom, zoom, friggin' zoom) and tossing burnt Eggos in the air like a speed freak juggling clown. Caught in a vortex, I sat mesmerized in the glow of my flatscreen monitor, bouncing between writing and Google-ing old friends from high school and long lost flames. I found out that a spurned college crush now owns a successful gourmet ravioli bistro in upstate New York and that several of my old "newsy" articles still exist out there in the cyber-sphere.

I also discovered that I'm still embarrassed of those old over-written articles. Time has changed nothing about my shame of my own published writing. Basically, I wish it were better, not so adjective heavy, without so many lame cliches and metaphors. Can you say TRYING TOO HARD? That's my life in a nutshell -- trying too damn hard. If everyone walked around with their biggest weakness clearly stamped on their foreheads, mine would say "Tries Too Hard to Impress," "Cares Too Much What People Think" and "Can't Make a Decision Without Frantically Consulting a Million People," among way too many other things.

Where am I going with this? Let's see ... Let's blind ...

I tagged along to my son's kindergarten today since my husband wasn't available to bring him to school today. I'm lucky he brings him at all. I see so many mothers of multiple children, including really young children like mine, skulk to the gate with groggy babies on their hips, rushing to make it inside before they're shut out, forced to do the late walk of shame through the front office. Uh, gee, I've never done that. We pulled up, literally onto the curb (whoops), just as the teacher was rolling the chainlink fence shut.

In haste, I parked in a spot that was two seconds away from being brushed clean by the street sweeper. Yup, I made a $40 mistake. One that had me mouthing the word "shit" and raising my fists in futile protest in front of my son's kindergarten classroom. Luckily I didn't say it out loud or I don't think I'd be welcomed back inside to join in for Super Lectoro (Spanish for Super Reader time). I still can't believe I did that. Way to model inappropriate anger management, Kim.

After The Lawyer's homeroom, I followed him with his posse (his two sibs) in tow to his Language Arts class, which is taught mostly in English. We learned about the plight of a fictional farm worker child and discussed ways to help hard working people who don't make enough money to make ends meet. A poster showcasing the kids' ideas was clipped to a whiteboard. It read: "make more money," "Yes, we can!" "more schools," "better education" and "no grapes." I'm still trying to figure out the "no grapes" suggestion. Remember, they're only kindergartners.

The Lawyer's Language Arts class is reading about low-wage farm workers and unions to prepare for their Cesar Chavez assembly and parade on Friday. The Lawyer made a sign for the parade that reads "Yes, we can!" a chant often used by Chavez and his fellow protesters. On it he drew in marker a "no guns" sign, a no hurting animals sign (a real stick figure gem featuring a wound and a pool of blood!), a backwards dollar sign and a backwards cents sign and a picture of my "heart protector," a nickname he uses the bold tribal necklace I'm wearing right now over my dorky Wal-mart bought "Hug a tree" shirt.

When asked to make a sentence using the word "all," my little "no guns" man proudly said to the class, "All the F-22s are lining up on the runway for a bombing mission." A huge smile unzipped across his face. He must have felt accomplished. "What's an F-22?" the teacher's aide asked. "Well, have you heard of the Thunderbirds?" The Lawyer said. "It's a long story. You'll have to go up to the Navy base my uncle works at to see some for real." He went on and on about the historic World War II planes he's been watching with his daddy and brother from our yard. They're in town for a charity event. Our friend, Nick, flew in one the other day for a cool $400. I think it was a B25, if such a plane exists. Of course, you'd have to ask The Lawyer.

"Mama, why do some people have to pick fruit all day when other people are rich and could just share their money?" Tough question. "Are we gonna' have World War III, mommy?" Worse question.

Mind dump complete.