Eat, Pray, Move

It was a miracle. I was able to align the planets Thursday night and make it out to the movies. Does that not seem miraculous to you? Then you musn’t have children. Because once you do procreate, your visits to the cinema will become so infrequent, once you actually make it to a theater you will be old enough to bitch about the price of tickets and popcorn, and complain about your back hurting half way through the movie.

Planning a movie date is like planning a military expedition. The sitter must be booked and show times must be selected. This is why H and I never get to the movies. Who thought up “dinner and a movie” as a date? The timing makes no sense. At least in theaters in the tri-state area, the only evening showings are typically in the neighborhood of seven and nine o’clock for movies that aren’t playing in multiple theaters, and none of the movies I want to see, with the exception of The Expendables, are in high enough demand by fourteen year-old boys to warrant hourly showings. So choosing between those two movie times you wind up with two scenarios. Seeing the movie at seven requires either eating with the ninety year-olds at five o’clock, or waiting to eat after the show, which really translates into eating yourself into a fake-butter-Twizzler coma which really sets the stage for some date night bedroom action. Alternately, one can see the nine o’clock show, which allows for a leisurely dinner, but it also means getting home close to midnight, which unless it’s a Saturday night, is way past my bedtime. Next door to my bar, I plan on opening an adults-only (non-porn) theater that has an eight o’clock showing . Instead of theater seats, there will be tables for two and dinner will be served. And of course, wine.*

One way to decrease some of the difficulty of the whole movie process is to catch the early show on a weeknight with my girlfriends. Of course, it adds the annoying factor of husbands missing trains or being called into late meetings, forcing emergency babysitting to be procured (I’m looking at you, H), but it can be done. And that’s how this week, I managed to see Eat, Pray, Love.

I went to the movie with pretty much no expectations other than enjoying some Julia Roberts (how can you help but love her?), food porn** and pretty scenery. Having read the book upon which the movie was based, I was not surprised to be annoyed by watching a financially stable, well-educated woman travel around the world in order to find happiness, with all the self-indulgent navel-gazing associated with that process. I just could barely keep myself in my seat for wanting to jump up shouting, “Get over yourself, lady!” And this wasn’t just because I sort of don’t like Elizabeth Gilbert. It just made me think, we all have too much damn time on our hands to determine if we are “happy”.

The movie got me thinking, all of the existential nonsense we all go through is only possible because we are not working from sun up to sun down trying to scrape together sustenance for ourselves and our families, before falling into an exhausted sleep as soon as it got dark. Instead, we find ourselves up at night, agitated into alertness from too much visual stimulation via TV and computer, wondering, “What am I doing with my life?” Part of Gilbert’s trip is visiting an ashram in India to reconnect with her spirit. As part of the process at there Gilbert performs an act of selfless devotion each day. Her assignment was to scrub floors. I nearly laughed out loud. She is paying thousands of dollars to do what I do every Tuesday. I’m sure paying to scrub floors guarantees you don’t have to do it with a toddler hanging off your back trying to play “horsey”. Maybe we’re all the wrong kind of busy – the kind where we are racing to make trains, constantly checking our Blackberries and running to the store to buy birthday party favors. Maybe being more physical and less cerebral is the answer. Which, I know, is so possible for the average American. So what do we do? Get comfortable with our misery?

Sure, some people meditate and do yoga. I personally, can not sit still for that long and if I’m going to spend time working out, I’d better be able to wear skinny jeans as a result. Yes, I know Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow are yogis and they are thin, although Madonna has made the wrong ass-face decision***, but I think there is something in the DNA of those people and lucky you if you are one of them. But what if we thought of our lives like living on an ashram like Gilbert? Viewed in that light, we all perform acts of selfless devotion, whether it be going to work everyday or taking care of our children (can you think of a better, more accurate description of parenthood?), and our lives can take on a deeper meaning other than driving us mad. What we do each day can be a contribution instead of a drain.

As usual, I have no answers, and, yes, I do feel kind of ridiculous that this movie made me think about anything other than eating pizza. I just don’t think we need to run away from our lives to feel connected to them or to see how we fit into the bigger picture. And if I’m going to be scrubbing anyone’s floor it’s damn sure going to be my own.

*And, yes, I snuggled a bottle of wine into the theater. Shut up.
**I hate movies that try to be enlightened by pointing out how ridiculous it is American women suffer from food issues by having thin women pretend to eat lots of food, happily accept they have gained some weight while enjoying such pleasure, and run out to buy new “big lady pants”, which they show us in a montage of size four body models struggling to button up size two pants.
***There comes an age, according to Coco Chanel, when every woman must choose between a good-looking ass and a young-looking face. I, myself, plan on using this as an excuse to start binge-eating donuts when I turn forty-five. Sorry, H.

Ohh, baby, baby

This is a lame attempt at distracting you from my pitiful lack of writing by showing you photos. I am sitting at security at the San Francisco airport, nauseous from the two In and Out "animal style" burgers and large fries I just ate, waiting to board the flight that will get me home at one in the morning EST, on the way back from my sister's bachelorette party.

An awesome time was had by all. We started out at an incredible tranny restaurant (the terrible picture left - damn camera phone)where the queens danced on the bar, followed by karaoke at a place in the Castro. The Sisters Cowan rocked it to Salt N Pepa's "Push It", complete with choreography. The Running Man may, or may not, have been involved.

I am planning on sleeping or writing on the plane. I'm pretty sure sleeping, or at least a marathon of Flipping Out on the planes direct TV will win, but you never know. What I do know is I will need some time to decompress from all the fabulosity and return to my regular life of shorts and flip flops, dealing with poop, after a long weekend surrounded by flamboyant gays, wearing what were dubbed this weekend my "Ruby Slippers" (pictured, barely, above).

Sigh.

(And no matter what I do with the layout, the format of this post comes out screwed up. Whatevs.)

Here we go again...

Can you guess what this is? Let me give you a hint, I have an almost-three-year-old wearing no pants running around my house in an attempt to potty train. So, yes, this is yet another picture of crap and, yet again, my life is revolving around waste products. The only difference is the poo is surrounded by train tracks, instead of Polly Pockets, when it winds up on the floor.

Some of you might recall the trials and tribulations of potty training #2, starting when she was three and finally, finally, reaching successful completion at the ripe old age of four and a half. After eighteen months of hell, including becoming way too familiarwith laxatives, I learned my lesson and am taking a very relaxed and light-hearted approach to teaching Little Man to use the facilities and letting him decide when, and obviously where, he is ready to go. And while some of the lessons I learned with the girls are coming in handy, potty training a boy is an entirely new and, I have to say, a more challenging experience.

First of all, the sheer physics of male urination provide a set of obstacles I did not foresee. When I bought our potty years back, I blithely chucked the little plastic guard thing that came with it, sure I would have no use for it. Yeah, because I had girls. That little guard thing is to make up for the fact that a three year-old's equipment is small and generally points straight up when he sits in the potty, creating a fire hose situation. Who would have thought, seeing a man pee easily in the woods on the side of the road without soakng himself, that this is how it all begins? Even with the guard, I have had to teach Little Man to use a finger to point his business in the right direction, which then lead to a startling discovery when touching his junk that made me extremely uncomfortable. "Look, I make it big Mommy!" Oh God. H mocks me for being embarrassed at this, but when asked how he would deal with it if the girls had such a physical reaction and he just left the room stammering.

Potty training is, by nature, a multi-step process - first teaching them to pee, to poop, how to pull underwear up and down - but I am realizing with boys, as with men, everything is more complicated. With my girls, the pants-free, beginning stages of training were modestly handled by wearing dresses. Little Man is wearing a variety of his larger T-shirts, but his junk is still flapping all over the place and is distracting him in his efforts to go (see above). You just teach girls to sit and let the waste products fall out of them into a vessel - done and done. With Little Man, after I complete that step, I will then have to teach him to pee standing up without soaking himself and the bathroom. Then I have to teach him to wrangle his business out of that little flap in the front of the underwear, since after the age of four, being spotted bare-assed in front of the urinal sets you up for a tortuous elementary school identity as Droopy Drawers. And how to maneuver his johnson through a jeans zipper without inflicting a serious flesh wound is a lesson, I think, best taught by Daddy.

So wish me luck, dear readers. I am praying I do not have a long road a ahead of me. But even if I do, I can see the light at the end of the Pee and Shit Tunnel. My days of spending ridiculous amounts of money on diapers are almost behind me. Soon I can spend those funds freeely on purses and shoes. Which will be a comfort when I am wiping the piss from two men with no aim off the toilet bowl each day.

No, really, you go ahead....

"I want it...I want it...I want it..."

No, dear readers, this was not what I was chanting to myself when faced with the world's most beautiful statement necklace, while at the Kate Spade store this weekend (apparently, I need to just live there), this was Little Man chanting to himself in a low grade whine while a friend played with his dump truck. It went on for a full fifteen minutes and only ended when I had had enough and put him on the Stairs of Shame. I refuse to call it the Naughty Step, even though I do enjoy Supernanny. Now this was not his most prized possession. In fact, this dump truck had not seen the light of day in many months, until it was unearthed from the depths of the toy box by a visitor. But upon sight, it became my son's obsession and an otherwise lovely morning was nearly spoiled and caused me to have a revelation. Sharing sucks.

I shouldn't say that. I suppose what I really mean is teaching someone to share sucks. When you think about it, sharing goes against our most basic instincts of self-preservation. Instead of keeping all of what you have such as food, water - or in this case, Tonka trucks - you give some to another person with no tangible benefit to yourself. Yes, there is the emotional benefit of altruism, but altruism doesn't fill your belly. So how do you teach someone, who is basically a walking id, that the good feeling you get from letting someone else play with your favorite toy is worth the suckage of not being able to play with that toy yourself? The teaching of taking turns softens the blow, knowing you will eventually get to experience the nirvana of holding this coveted piece of plastic in your hot little hand (only to discard it seconds later), but delayed gratification is not a soon-to-be-three-year-old's strongest suit.

Speaking of delayed gratification, another not-so-fun concept to teach a child is waiting in line. Or not, as the case may be, with all the kids who felt free to cut in front of Little Man in line for the slides at Land of Make Believe. I even saw some parents watch their kid jump the line and do nothing about it, I assume they thought it some kind of Darwinian exercise in survival of the water-park fittest and that, perhaps, fostering a strong go-for-it mentality would serve their child later in life. Personally, I think these are the same people who cause concert tramplings. It is hard, unpleasant work, creating a functional member of a society, especially when not everybody is on board. All the passive-aggressive his-Mommy-isn't making-him-follow-the rules,-but-it-doesn't-mean-it's-OKs in the world don't make up for the fact that the kid in the Sponge Bob trunks gets to go down the pirate slide again.*

Parenting may seem like an impossible task at times, especially when you are fighting millions of years of evolution, trying to get your kid to give his sister half of the last granola bar. But like not defecating indoors**, these rules are what separate us from the animals. Then again, if you've ever been to a New Jersey waterpark on a 90-degree August day, perhaps we aren't so separate at all.

*Or until your mother gives him such a nasty stink eye he runs over to his mother. Your mother then gives her the stink eye, frightening her from saying anything at all.

** I have begun potty-training Little Man. Post to come. Sigh.

I'm sure the Red Roof Inn was booked...

It's not summer unless my Michelle is causing a stir of some sort, or at least, some shit-stirrer is causing a stink about something about which a stink need not be made.

Last year, it was The Shorts of Shame, with their revealing cut and slutty fabric. This year? The Spanish Vacation.

For those of you living under a rock, Michelle took her youngest daughter, Sasha, on a privately-funded family vacation to Spain to spend time with some of her girlfriends and their daughters. On the surface, I understand the problem some might have with her trip, firstly, that in these hard financial times, it was not the best choice for The First lady to take a lavish vacation, secondly, that this trip would surely cost American taxpayers some money with all the security required for such a trip. And yet...

Sure these times are hard financially, but if the Obama's can swing it, why shouldn't Michelle take a much-earned break at a posh resort? H and I were in NYC this weekend and from the looks of the crowded luxury shops on Fifth Avenue (where I had to talk H out of buying me the sickest pair of Kate Spade heels* since they cost as much as a week of camp), there are still Americans making money and spending it is only going to help the global economy. Or maybe they were German. And I know many out there will claim the Obamas are not truly paying for the trip and a lot of favors were extended to the First Family. Well, duh. If you are the wife of the leader of the free world and your life is open for all to examine (like where you chose to vacation), then hand-in-glove with all that pain-in-the-ass-ness, comes the ability to stay at fancy places for a much reduced rate.

As for the cost to the American people for all the security, again I agree. But if we are going to ask a family to give up their ability to walk the streets freely, by being related to the President, then we can not expect them to limit their trips to the continental United States. I'm sure setting up a playdate for Sasha at The White House is like aligning the planets, so why not let the kid take an awesome vacation? Opponents also say that the choice of resort was unwise since security also needed to stay in fancy digs. thus costing taxpayers more. I think if Michelle had stayed at the local Beaches resort, I'm sure the average Tom Dick and Harrys who were prevented from using certain stretches of beach or the swim up bar**, would have caused a stink about The First Lady pushing out The Little Guy and all hell would've broken loose. The muckety-mucks who stay at places such as this posh resort are quite used to royalty, and celebrities showing up with security and barely raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

My last point is really quite a vain one, but, as The First Lady of the United States, I feel Michelle is a representative of our people and how would it look to the global community for her to stay at some low-budget place? Can't you just imagine the French? "Look at zis. She stays at a Motel Seeeks!" I'm not saying Michelle should be all "Let them eat cake" about her life, but if she's got the coin, give the lady a break. She works hard and she should be allowed to play hard.

And did I mention she looks friggin' fabulous? You rock those bangles, girl.

*Happy now, V?

**My one experience with an all-inclusive resort was very late in my pregnancy with Little Man where I spent my entire vacation beached on a lounger while H swam over to get himself rum drinks all day every day. I have never hated him more.

New fangled technology....

I'm back from successfully dropping #1 and #2 off at my father's in Florida, ready to embark on my annual stint as a mother-of-one. Unfortunately, unlike in years past, Little Man now has a will of his own and daily napping is not always guaranteed, so I will not be enjoying two straight weeks of running whatever errands I need to, grabbing coffee two or three times a day and napping twice a day myself. I will, however, still be reading. A lot.

I kicked off my reading feast on the flight down to Florida. Thank you, thank you, Jetblue for your individual video screens and live broadcast of both Cartoon Network, so #2 could watch Spongebob Squarepants and #1 could watch a rerun of last season's Project Runway finale*. I had armed myself with three library books, not sure which I would be in the mood to read, and had the sore arms to prove it (it was either from the collective weight of my literature, or from the seventy-five coloring books and gallon-sized Ziploc bag of crayons that the girls, of course, did not use). After the girls were settled and we had reached cruising altitude, I cracked my first book and noticed all the Kindle screens coming to life around me. What did I feel? Envy at the ease with which one can tote one of these lightweight devices without dislocating a shoulder? Awe at the number of titles one can access with just the click of a button? Disgust at the weathered, plastic-covered tome sitting in my own lap? Nope. I sort of felt sad.

Sure, the Kindle has a decided cool factor, it would go much better with one of my many imagined "meeting in the city" outfits, as would a handbag not made of washable fabric and sunglasses not bought at Target, but this piece of technology is missing the tactile experience of reading. For example, having all of these titles to choose from, floating out there, amorphous in cyberspace, is convenient, but by not having to go somewhere, bodily, to acquire your reading material (I'm also looking at your Amazon) one can not be overwhelmed by the physical manifestation of the creativity and fortitude of so many dedicated souls and experience the almost-embarrassment I feel at being giving such access to the dreams, opinions and visions of complete strangers.

If I really want to sound like a Luddite, I will proclaim that libraries are the absolute only place to patronize, but I do understand that sometimes you just can not waste away on the fourteen person waiting list for the newest bestseller, or you love a book so much you want to own it (or if you are my husband, are too damn lazy to request the book online at our library website so your wife, who is at the library three times a week can pick it up for you, and you start clicking away on Amazon, even though it's a book you will never read again). Libraries, however, as opposed to bookstores, are magical. The are the Willy Wonka's Chocolate Room of books. Everything is readable, everything is yours for the asking. The abundant feeling of being able to take as many as you like, sends me into a frenzy of literary gluttony, as I gobble books up, loading new fiction and old classics into my arms until they tremble. Library books have history, unlike their pristine, bookstore cousins. I personally like seeing grains of sand stuck in the plastic cover, or a dog-earred paged with a little spot of grease on it, wondering where this book has been**. One can feel more connected to the world thinking of all the other people who have had the very experience you are having with a book right now. And I smile when I wander into the children's room and wonder how many girls have been inspired to play detective reading the ancient copy of Harriet the Spy I find on the shelves.

Many consider the Kindle the wave of the future, but I think just as many consider the art of the truly printed word to be worth something. Toggling right to first page without physically turning pages, might allow you to miss a truly insightful quote the author has chosen to include, or a heartfelt dedication whose language makes you catch your breath. And what of cover art? The textured paper of a book cover, partnered with work produced by the outstanding illustrators and photographers some authors are lucky enough to select to create their their book jackets, combine to make a piece of art. In the attic bedroom, I have placed on the guest nightstand, a stack of books whose text not only moves me, but also make me happy to look at.

No matter how great my fear though, I do not think printed books will go the way of the eight-track tape. Besides, you should see how annoyed people get when they have to turn these things off during takeoff and landing and somehow I don't think a Kindle, sunscreen and sand play well together. And I don't even want to think about it if Little Man got his hands on one.

*Don't judge me! They read for the hour and a half they had to wait at JFK as a result of their having a compulsively early mother.
** OK, sometimes it is gross. It's called a napkin people and maybe barbecue is not the best choice when reading.