Post-partum Woes

I’m thinking of writing a children’s book. I would call it “The Saggy Baggy Ass.”

What, you don’t think that will sell?

Some of the 60 pounds are coming off, which is super. But what of the stretched out skin left behind? I would tell the tale of the skin on my neck and belly, and its wiggles and waggles, how much the baby loves to grab the skin and yank with all his five-month-old might (which feels especially invigorating if his nails haven’t been cut in awhile). But loose skin on my butt? Really? Can’t I just keep the nice round badonkadonk I was cultivating while pregnant and lose the still-pregnant-looking belly instead? It’s not fair.

But that’s not what drove me to sit and rant today. What is on my mind, Dear Reader? Post-partum hair shedding. People, I have lost so damn much hair in the last two months, it’s a wonder I am not as bald as Mr. Clean. Which got me to thinking of a whole list of things you could do with the hair I have lost. Why waste it? I will commence with said list now:

1. You could clean up the oil spill in the Gulf. And still have hair leftover to clog about a dozen shower drains.

2. You could make a whole other Valley Girl with a bangin’ hairdo. Just add some Forever21 sweatpants, Reeboks, and a nursing bra -- Done!

3. You could glue a big stick on the hair and have an eco-friendly mop. Your floors never looked so shiny!

4. You could glue the hair all over your body – voila! Blond gorilla suit for next Halloween!

5. You could prop up the hair on a chair, put sunglasses on it, and set it by the front door like Cousin It to frighten off door-to-door salespeople or those that might want to share their religious material with you.

6. If you’re looking for a good excuse for being late to work, or just really want some attention, slam the hair into the trunk door of your car and get pulled over. And you’ll have a great story to tell your friends!

7. Bake the hair into a pie and give it to someone you really hate. Like Meg did on Family Guy.

You see, the possibilities are endless! I could come up with a dozen more, but I have to go haul the latest load of hair to the trash before the kids wake up.

(Thank you, Kimo, for the nudge. This one’s for you!)

Having A Bat Moment

Okay guys.  My boredom was reaching critical levels.  Not so surprising, being a stay-at-home mom.  It is a very noble pursuit and not an easy job by any stretch, but srsly, has to be the most. Boring. Job. EVAR.  There are so many surprises in any given day as far as your little one changing and developing and growing.  But at the same time, there are no surprises in any given day.  You get up early, go hiking, prepare, administer and clean up after three meals, change a bunch of diapers, vacuum up dog hair, unload the dishwasher, rinse and repeat the next day.  There’s just not much room for variables, and certainly no real brain activity.  When you are used to a much faster daily pace, the lack of stimulation can be jarring.  And the monotony of it was really starting to threaten my sanity.

Until today.  Which shall henceforth be known as Bat Day.

Daddy is home today, so I left the wee one in his charge while I trotted off to Hollywood to meet up with Shannon for a hike.  I had always wanted to do that bitchin’ Hollywood sign hike, so that is what we did.  Not such a great day for views as it was pretty overcast, but the actual space really is special and kinda magical, and it was nice just to do it and get caught up with Shannon. 

On the way up the hill, she motions to the Bat Cave off in the distance.  “The Bat Cave?” I ask, “like from the TV show?”  Yes, THE Bat Cave.  She said she could show it to me if I want, it was just a short drive from there.  Of course I agreed.  If you grew up in the 70s, you loved that show too, right?  We headed back down and drove over to the site, parked and walked up. 

There was the mouth of the cave in all its ominous glory, a tunnel actually.  But this is not how it looked on TV.  There were a couple of crappy tables set up with a bunch of crap sitting on them.  Nearby sat a handmade sign that said “GARAGE SALE – BAT CAVE.”  There were a couple of little cameras set up.  Oh neat, somebody’s doing a student film, I thought.  That’s cute.

Then I heard the voice.  That voice.  If you watch Family Guy, you know that voice well.  I looked at the guy standing behind the shitty garage sale table from whence the voice came, and in an instant knew that this was a cosmic moment whose magnitude would not likely be realized until much later.  I turned to Shannon.  “Holy shit, dude.  That’s Adam West.  Standing there.  At the mouth of the friggin’ Bat Cave.”  We stood there in giggly silence for a minute, looking at each other, looking at him.  Was this really happening?  Did we stumble on some peyote spores in the air and were having like a spiritual bat-hallucination of some kind?  It was all too enormous to contemplate.  Like visiting Buckingham Palace and bumping into Prince Charles.  WTF?  You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack.  And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile.  You may find yourself at the Bat Cave standing next to Bat Man.  And you may say to yourself, Well, how did I get here?

Shannon asked one of the guys nearby if we could walk into the tunnel without getting in the way of their shot.  The guy said they were finished shooting, so we walked toward the tunnel.  

Mr. West was looking at us.  Now, for having lived here my whole life, I haven’t had that many celebrity encounters, and the ones I have had, I really didn’t want to be that douche who runs up and is all like “Hey man, I really love your work, is Brad Pitt really cool to work with?” blah blah blah.  But it was SO hard not to run up to him and throw my arms around his neck and tell him how much I love him on Family Guy.  How much I loved him as Bat Man.  Just how generally friggin’ AWESOME he is. 

And just then, in that sweet, half-whispery, semi-unhinged Adam West voice of his, he asked us, “Can I interest you in a little vial of bat dirt?”  Shannon and I were giddy.  Are you kidding me?  

We stood at the garage sale table and chatted with him about the various junk items that were present.  Shannon told him she hikes there all the time, "But you're never here!" she says.  She asked about the little black box with the big red button on it.  “Is this how you got in and out of the Bat Cave?”  He smiled and replied, “No, this is the ejector button I used to eject King Tut from the Batmobile.”  I noted a box of used socks on the table.  “Are these genuine Bat Socks?” I asked.  “I wasn’t aware that Batman wore Hanes.  That’s nice to know.”  He chuckled.

Holy shit.  We were chit-chatting with Batman about Bat Junk at the mouth of the Bat Cave.  How did I go from flat-lining valley mommy to this moment?  It's as if the House Maven gods took pity on my sorry domestic ass and threw me a friggin' bone.

We ambled along into the tunnel for a look around.  I asked Shannon if I should go ahead and gush and tell Mr. West that he is my favorite part of Family Guy.  She said yes, I should.  So we headed back out to do just that, but he was gone.  Vanished.  Into thin air.  We hadn’t even had the presence of mind to take a picture of him.

But the memory of my Bat Day, well, I will have that forever.  It reminded me that there are still fun surprises in life, and for that, I need to remember to be grateful.

We got back to the car and I picked up the phone to call Derek.  “Dude.  You are not gonna believe what just happened.  Are you ready to be SOOOOOO super jealous?.......”

Chained Heat

There is a boredom that sets in toward the end of pregnancy that has a certain powerless restlessness to it that is really disconcerting.

I’m too exhausted and huge to do anything physically productive, be on my feet for any length of time or run errands, not to mention the heat in the valley right now is preventing my doing any of that anyway. It has become abundantly clear in recent months that I am just not cut out for a sedentary lifestyle. I am starting to go nuts and it is strictly due to lack of physical activity.

My brain doesn’t work so great due to being hyperfocused on the impending arrival in the weeks to come, so getting any kind of meaningful work done is out of the question.

I am sick of reading about baby stuff. There is just too much information out there, much of it conflicting, and it starts to get annoying after awhile. My usual pleasure of reading and researching something I care about is squashed because it has just gotten to be too much, dammit! I have decided I will be largely relying on motherly instinct and that will have to suffice since you just cannot possibly know everything there is to know about parenting.

I can’t even take that much pleasure in pigging out anymore since there is not much room in my stomach for anything, so any would-be oinkfest is over before it even begins.

Add to this the fact that I am SICK TO DEATH of everything on TV. Even movies. Even indie movies. I have seen them all (some repeatedly) or tried to see them and determined they were unwatchable.

Enter Chained Heat.



Have you ever seen this movie? With Linda Blair? How this gem of a confection missed my Awesome Bad Movie Radar is anyone’s guess. It was on one of the movie channels on a recent quiet evening at home (WTF am I talking about – every evening is a quiet evening at home) and was enough to jolt me out of my jaded I Hate TV But Am Too Tired To Do Anything Else stupor.

Imagine chicks in prison, in the early 80s, none of whom has any acting skill whatsoever. Imagine this prison being corrupt, where the warden has a hot tub in his office and videotapes himself having sex with prisoners. Imagine that in this prison, a can of Aqua Net, rattail comb and buckets of purple eyeshadow are standard issue upon entry. Imagine the shower scenes in this prison involving full-frontal shots of not only boobies that are subject to the laws of gravity, but massive amazon jungle bush action. Imagine Linda Blair being all pouty and pissy and complaining to the warden about the way she is treated in the prison. Now imagine all this with horribly choreographed fight scenes amongst the chicks thrown in. You guys, it is friggin’ AWESOME. YOU CANNOT LOOK AWAY.

Remember that episode of Charlie’s Angels, where the girls go into prison to investigate the murder of one of the inmates? Where Kelly (aka Jaclyn Smith) utters the best line EVAR after the prisoners get hosed down with the nasty anti-lice spray or whatever it is, and she turns to the prison guard all snotty and goes “When was the last time YOU were sprayed?” and the guard gives her this sneery bitchy look in return and I think billy-clubs her ass but I don’t remember. But I digress. Remember how the girls get dressed up and taken outside of the prison to be hookers to wealthy businessmen? Oh yeah, that happens in Chained Heat, too. It’s just one big giant ball of awesome. Please, if you are severely pregnant or just incredibly sick of everything on TV lately, look for it in your movie channels and tivo that bitch. You will be so glad you did.

The Bummer About Being Pregnant

So yeah, I’ve been tired and yeah, I have to go pee all the damn time and yeah, I am a pickle-eating freak (thanks to thee, O Pregnancy Gods, for the advent of the kosher dill), and yeah, none of my jeans fit anymore, but you know what? I am really happy about having a baby and thus don’t like to complain too much about these little annoyances. But do you know what the worst part about being pregnant is?

No swinging on the pole, y’all. I miss Shaft. Terribly. Shaft has been carefully unscrewed from the ceiling hook on which he usually resides and is currently collecting dust in the garage. It’s so sad.

I spent so many fun-filled nights with Shaft and some loud angry stripper music as my only entertainment, and it was good. Shaft could keep me entertained for HOURS with nary a break. I would navigate that pole with seven-inch clear heels on like it ain’t no thang, all the while getting a good workout (and some bruises here and there but that’s why God invented knee pads) and feeling like I had my own private adult-version of monkey bars in my house. I owe a lot to Shaft. Shaft made me feel like a million bucks. Shaft sneakily developed my core strength under the guise of fun, something VERY difficult to pull off. Shaft was the life of my bachelorette party and unselfishly shared his gifts with many of my friends that night and on subsequent nights. And Shaft probably helped conceive my child. Talk about a fertility specialist!

And now Shaft leans against a wall of the garage, surrounded by hordes of macho tools and discarded lumber who are likely threatened by Shaft’s impressive size and luster, and more than a little jealous that, unlike themselves, Shaft had, until now, enjoyed a comfortable place in our living room for many months. Let’s have a listen:

Hammer: Oh, well will you look at the ladies’ man all sad and pathetic now that he’s not living the cushy life. Hey fellas, what say we give Mr. Shiny there a garage welcome, eh?

Cordless Drill: Being that shiny obviously means he’s overcompensating for something. What could that thing possibly be good for? Can he hang a picture? Can he assemble something from Ikea?

Screwdrivers: Hey Pretty Boy, you miss having your mommy rub you down with alcohol every day? Wah wah! Sissy!

(Shaft leans and takes it all in, then quietly turns to one of the nearby lavender dryer sheets.)

Shaft: Psst, hey, Beautiful. Your luscious scent is absolutely intoxicating, you little dryer minx, you. Why don’t you come over here and slide ever so slowly down my shiny self and wrap yourself around my girth. You will feel so sexy and alive, I promise you.

Lavender Dryer Sheet: Tee-hee! I don’t know. I might hurt myself.

Shaft: My Pretty. I will catch you if you fall. I just want to be close to you, my little divine herbaceous satchel of love. Please come to me.

Hammer: Hey uh lady, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It ain’t safe. You don’t know where he’s been.

Screwdrivers: Yeah, he’s a poser, don’t listen to him. You’re more safe with us Tools.

Lavender Dryer Sheet (to the Tools): What the hell do you guys know? You’re a bunch of f@cking tools!

Lavender Dryer Sheet pops out of her box and onto Shaft, sliding and twirling down his welcoming shaft. (Okay, yeah, that sounds really dirty, but come on, it just flowed so well.) She lets out a huge happy sigh at the end of her twirl, gives the finger to the Tools, and curls up to sleep at Shaft’s feet.

The Tools, shamed into silence, sulk back off to the toolbox to plot Shaft’s demise. Obviously this threat to their masculinity will never do.

Shaft leans with a little grin on his face, a nice lavender dryer sheet now keeping his feet warm.

I Am My Own Worst Nightmare

Don’t get me wrong: I have the ultimate respect for homemakers everywhere. There is no more noble or thankless profession. I just never thought it would be me.

As long as I can remember, it has been my worst nightmare: the image of the woman, in the house, in the house dress, barefoot, pregnant, cleaning, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, cleaning, writing thank you notes, running boring-ass errands like getting water from the water store. Heyall naw, give me human interaction, give me Happy Hours, give me intellectual stimulation, give me LIFE. As long as I can remember, this has been my mantra.

But since the “career change” that is no longer the case. The “career change” has given me ample time to embrace my inner Martha since my massage appointments are sporadic and on some days, non-existent. The house maven duties naturally fall on me. And guess what? It’s not so bad. Turns out I am a pretty good and creative cook, and can organize a household and tend to furry children quite well and with enthusiasm.

I have to admit though, it gave me total glee to go out last night. The walls of the house were starting to close in on me and I needed to get the hell outta Dodge and put my hands on the steering wheel rather than on a person’s back. I put on some make-up and a cute outfit, shit, I even blow-dried my hair, people! I met up with Trish and Shannon for a screening in the Hollywood Cemetery of a new upcoming show called “Pushing Daisies”. Shannon’s friend is the creator of the show. People, O. M. G. It was so good. I can’t wait to see more episodes. It will be airing on ABC soon, so watch for it. I am not a TV show person, but I will make time for this one, it’s that unique and delicious.

Just like my casserole.

Crunk Juice

Ulcifer let up long enough for me to get into the Halloween spirit again this year. And boy, did I ever. I even dragged another innocent soul into my depraved masquerade: the adorable and innocent Jodi. We were quite a pair, lemme tell ya:

Lil’ Jon and Lil’ Kim, wreaking havoc on our poor officemates. If you look real close at my mouth, you can see my grillz. Seriously. I don't know where the idea came from, but I would be remiss if I didn't share my main inspiration for this costume since it is so damn funny and I can't stop watching it. Of course I won the office contest again (swear, people are going to start thinking it’s fixed -- I ALWAYS win) and me, Jodi and Bunnie did the whole West Hollywood freak-fest that night. Everywhere we went, it was "OOOOKAAAAAYYY!!!" and "SKEET SKEET SKEET!!" It was pretty awesome. More photos to come as they arrive since my camera was not cooperating that day.

Who Brought The Cat?

I'm posting this just because I can't stop laughing at it.

Life Is So Good

People, all my dreams are coming true. My heart is about to explode with joy and love. Let’s review:

1) I’m engaged to marry the greatest guy on the planet. Not only did he make and pack me breakfast, lunch and dinner the other morning because he knew I wouldn’t be home until late that night, but he included an “I Love You” note written on a piece of note paper that Bunnie gave me that features Stewie from Family Guy screaming his head off “Damn it to the bloody bowels of HELL!” There is just so much good stuff in that one little detail, where would I even begin?

2) I heard on the Kevin & Bean show this morning that ASIA IS BACK TOGETHER. ALL THE ORIGINAL MEMBERS. AND THEY ARE TOURING. I know, I’m sorry about the all-caps thing, but it’s freaking ASIA, BITCHES!!!! I know, I know -- dork, dork, dork. I’m a huge dork. But I love me some Asia. Even back in high school in ’87, when Asia was no longer cool, my big huge fantasy was one day getting to do a dance routine (I was on the dance team) for an assembly in front of the whole school where I would do a very performance art type jazz dance to the lesser known but still great Asia song “Time Again” where I would use those sticks-with-streamers thingies and angrily shake my hips from side to side on the drum parts, and the whole school would be amazed at my ferocity and see me for the hot babe that I was and henceforth, drama nerds like myself from all schools would be seen with more love and respect because of my Asia Dance of Extreme Bitchin’ness.

That never happened. And I hated high school. But that was my dream.

And they (Asia) were so cool in the interview this morning.

And they loved that they had a part in The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

And their show at the Canyon Club is sold out. How can a poor, Asia-loving cracker like myself get a hold of tickets? One can only dream.

3) Showgirls, the greatest god-awful movie of all time that we all know I love to bits, is coming out as a musical. Yes, it’s true. Can you handle the sheer joy of this? Can you believe how much God is smiling upon me? Can you just imagine being there, in Vegas, when such a miraculous spectacle unveils? I, for one, am stoked beyond all reason. Life is good. Oh, life is so good.

Surge Returns!

I am beyond super-duper pleased to report that a new and improved Surge arrived on our naked doorstep yesterday. And much glorious rejoicing was had by all. The new Surge does not spew, sputter or spank in any way and is even brighter and shinier and cuter than the former Surge. I guess they upgraded us a model. I had my green lemonade this morning, and it was perfection.

And now all is right in my world.

The Return of Surge Is Imminent

About a month ago, I bought a juicer. Specifically, this juicer. Now I know you all think I’m mental to begin with, but now you’re really going to think my porch light’s not on.

I named the juicer. Seriously. I named it Surge. I did this for a few reasons:

1) Surge sounded so much nicer than JE95;

2) I used to have this really bitchin’ awesome cat named Serge, and just saying the name brings back warm fuzzy memories of a warm fuzzy kitty who was the spawn of a cat I adopted when I was 19 and moved into this shithole house in Simi Valley with five other girls and the girl who lived in my room before me abandoned this cat who it turns out was pregs, and then during the week of the summer solstice shortly after she gave birth to her kittens, she was abducted by Satan worshippers along with all the other dogs and cats on our block so I had to painstakingly bottle-feed four screaming-clawing-with-razor-sharp-claws-on-bare-legs-in-summer kittens six times a day and kept the little baby long-haired grey and white girl who later it turned out was really a boy whose little gonads hadn’t yet dropped but I was already treating him like a girl and using my high-pitched girly-pet voice and imagined he must have been gay because of how I treated him all girly, so the only name that seemed to fit was that of the dude from Beverly Hills Cop (“Vould you like a little lemon tvist?..... Nah, it's no trouble, dun’t be stewpit.”) and later in his adult life when I lived in Redondo Beach, Serge would go up and down the driveways of all my neighbors’ homes and chat with them individually each day, and they all knew Serge (by his name tag), but didn’t even know me, that’s how cool of a cat he was -- I would be in front of my house and people I didn't even know would walk past and go "Hey Serge" and Serge would go "Hey, 'sup dawg?". He lived to a very ripe old age. And nobody could ever replace Serge. That’s why I spell the juicer’s name Surge. But it still makes me happy to say Surge. Or Serge.

3) Surge got me off coffee. I swear. And we’re talking about a serious coffeehound since the age of ninth grade when cramming for finals became a part of my adolescent repertoire. I love me some coffee, man. But with the green lemonade that Surge gives me in the morning, coffee, eh! Sniff! It has no appeal for me. I am so jazzed up and stoked with vitamins that there is no need for caffeine. Even for a non-morning-person! This I consider the act of a friend. A friend helps you say goodbye to unhealthy habits and embrace healthy new ones. A friend would not be named Model JE95, or “the juicer” (sounds waaaaaay too OJ Simpson for me), or just “that there appliance gizmo thingy there”. No, a friend has a name. And my friend’s name is Surge.

Well, a couple of blissful weeks after getting Surge, and having fresh green lemonade daily or fresh carrot/apple juice (shut up and try it!) or whatever combinations we came up with, there were sunshine and unicorns and flowers in my world, but it became apparent that Surge had a problem. Surge would spit juice out the sides whenever the produce went down the chute. I don’t just mean the “Say it, don’t spray it” kind of juice that comes out when you’re talking to an over-enthusiastic close-face-talker, I’m talking more like the kind of spray that comes out of a broken sprinkler.

This sucks rotten eggs.

I called the company and they said there must be a defect. Surge shouldn’t be doing that. I would have to pack up Surge and gingerly place him in a box with wadded up Old Navy shopping bags and send him back. In other words, I would have to part with Surge for an indefinite period of time. Ooooooh this made me very, very bitter and cold. But I did it with the hopes that soon, there would be a new Surge in his place that didn’t spew out juice in my face in the wee early morning hours.

Days turned into a week. A week turned into a week and a half. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the company again, tense and shaking, and inquired about the whereabouts of my new and improved Surge.

I think I stated my issue quite calmly. In my mind’s version, it went something like this:

Me: “Well hello, jolly good sir, I wonder if you might give me the latest status on the arrival of my new juicer. An ETA, perhaps?”

Juicer Company Guy: “Why yes ma’am, that juicer is en route to you and should arrive tomorrow.”

Me: “Jolly good of you, kind old chap. Cheerio!”

But I’m sure it went more something like this:

Me: (crackhead edgy stuttering) “Look, man. WTF is my new juicer, man???? What’s the holdup, man????? I once had solid hope for like, the concept of like, having to get up and exist in the mornings, man. That hope is gone, man! Gone! Gone daddy gone! Love is gone! You took it away from me, you, you, you, you dickface! Gimme back my juicer, man! Even if it’s still broken! Alrighty??!!!! Then I won’t have to cut you!”

Juicer Company Guy: “Why yes ma’am, that juicer is en route to you and should arrive tomorrow.”

Me: (grateful sobs) Click.

Thank God. Thank you for Surge. I never knew I needed him so bad.

P.S. -- Recipe for Green Lemonade. One try, and you will understand how it can get you off coffee and make you happy to be alive and stuff. (All ingredients organic, of course.)

1 whole head of celery
1 whole lemon (unpeeled)
1 whole apple (Fuji rocks the best in this)
5-6 pieces of kale

Put all in juicer and drink. The lemon cuts out that greenie taste that nobody likes and makes it taste like -surprise!- lemonade. This recipe is from the book The Raw Food Detox Diet by Natalia Rose.

Shoegasm

Because I am a show-offy sort, I just had to boast and brag and generally be obnoxiously self-serving and shallow about my most recent shoe acquisition from my beloved pinupgirlclothing.com. Behold:

Could you just die? Can you believe how flippin' cute? Couldn't you just eat it with a spoon? Damn I loves me some shoes! DAMN!!!

I haven't quite figured out what to wear with them yet, so they have remained cloistered within the uncomfortable confines of my closet, suffering the jealous glares and snipings of my other shoes:

Pink Satin Ballet Flats: "Oh. My. God. Becky, look at the attention whore. Just look at the size of that heel. It is so big. Slut."

Brown Hippie Chunky Pumps: "Hey, what's with Snow White over there? Looks like someone could use a little chilling out, man, talk about uptight. She's harshing my mellow. Hey, who took my bong, man? That's a straight-up party foul, man."

Black Patent Leather Pumps: "Oh please, the ruffle is SO impractical. REAL classic shoes don't have to try so hard. She is obviously insecure and has daddy issues. We should feel sorry for her. She's just going to end up on the shoe repair man's couch."

White Pointy Pumps: "I don't see why we're even having this discussion. I'm the light-colored sexy shoe that gets taken out everywhere. I'm the one who invokes scandal and drama with every click of my stiletto heel. Even psychos bow before me. I have this power--"

Purple Glittery Stripper Shoes: "Bitch, don't even make me come down there and smack the white off your cracker-ass again! We all know who the favorite is and if that new bitch even thinks about going near my baby daddy (Derek's Steve Maddens), I'ma knock the lace off dat face, shooooooo."

Pinky, Aqua and Blackie (Stripper Shoes' illegitimate Old Navy $3.95 flip-flops): "Mama, why you mad, mama? We get taken out more den anybody! Tee hee!!!"


But the shoes will come out soon and be flaunted, oh yes, they will come out soon. It is written.

Bug Killah

One thing about the Valley that distinguishes it from the Wesssside: It is totally bugnacious. Especially in the heat.

Let’s just talk about the flies for a second. Something about the rising mercury is the equivalent of someone shouting like the town crier to all flies within a 10-mile radius: “FREE POOP! COME AND GET YOUR POOP HERE! LOTS OF TASTY MICROSCOPIC DOG FOOD LEFTOVERS ON SHINY BOWLS! COME GET SOME DELICIOUS LIVE FLAPPY DOG EARS FOR NIBBLING! VERY TASTY! SWIM IN OUR LOVELY DOG WATER BOWL POOL! FREE ACCESS TO RAPIDLY DECOMPOSING COMPOST PILE WHILE IT LASTS!"

Yes, it's true. I have totally Martha'd out. I started a compost pile. It's environmentally friendly, bitches! But now the entire insect world of the San Fernando Valley is very friendly with my environment if you know what I mean. It's an unpleasant side effect.

But enough about the flies, can we talk about the water bugs? For those of you who don't know what a water bug is, picture a cockroach. On 'roids. Without the accompanying aggressiveness and bad skin. A water bug is like the roach's bigger, dumber, slower counterpart. He's not after food. He lives mostly outside and won't really scatter when the porch lights come on. Come to think of it, what the hell ARE they after? They just sort of show up and hang around. Rufus, having the official occupation in the household of He Who Chaseth All Smaller Creatures That Moveth, is quite fond of water bugs because they allow him the rare opportunity of playing Water Bug Hockey. And the water bugs don't seem to mind at all. They're like Mongo from Blazing Saddles. "Water Bug only puck in game of dog hockey." They roll and somersault when he paws them about and make very half-assed attempts at a getaway. I think they enjoy the attention. Much like Mongo.

Occasionally, however, they do venture into the house through mysterious means. The other morning, I was unfortunately awake, and dragged my sorry ass into the shower to start the day. I pulled aside the shower curtain and was greeted by The Muthah of all water bugs. He could have used my loofah as a recliner. He could have used my razor as a scooter. He was using my jar of lavender scrub as a podium, and I swear you guys, he looked up at me with his giant antennae flailing around at me and I heard something that sounded like a big dumb ass-crack-bearing plumber's voice:

WB: "Uh yeah uh lady, uh, you might wantuh look inta dat der mildew sitchiation ya got goin' dere on dose tiles back dere by da faucet. I ain't sayin' you're in any dangers now, but ya know, I gotta tell you to play it safe dere. You don't wantuh get yerself any problems down da line dere."

Me: "What are you doing in my tub? Who let you in? There's no hole in the window screen. The tub is too tall for you to crawl in here. WTF?"

WB: "Uh lady, dere's really no reason ta be raisin' yer voice at me dere, I'm just doin' my job here and addressin' the sitchiation you's got goin' on here. Now you's just pay me my fee dere and we'll be square."

I paid him his fee. I flushed his ass down the toilet. It's full of water. He'll be perfectly happy there.

Another, more sinister side of our bug environs happens in the form of lots of big, scary spiders in the backyard. At first, my attitude toward them was eh, let 'em be -- they're building webs to catch and eat all these effing annoying flies. But then one day when I was winding up the hose after watering, there was this GI-FREAKING-NORMOUS black widow sitting right there on the hose, spinning around as I wound up the hose, sitting there looking at me like I was a giant, tasty bloodsicle and I thought oh heyall naw! I squirted her ass into oblivion. Then the other day, whilst winding up the same hose, there was a big giant brown spider hanging around on it.

Me: "Dude! There is a big brown spider on the hose!"

Derek (across the yard): "Really?"

Me: "Yeah. It's brown with white spots and it's big. I bet you it's a brown recluse. Those things will bore a hole right through your skin and kill a dog easily. It obviously must die." (stomps foot savagely on insectual beast)

Derek: "Do we even have the brown recluse in this part of the country?"

Me: (long pause) "Uhhhhhhh. I dunno. Do we? Oh shoot. Well. I guess better safe than ... you know. Uh. Oh. Well. Crap. Now I feel bad."

I would make a great thug.

Let's Talk About The Weather

Let’s just say I’m not one for small talk. I absolutely LOATHE small talk. If someone starts in with the small talk with me, my eyes totally glaze over and I start running a mental grocery list in my head of things I need to get on my next trip to Trader Joe’s. I friggin’ hate it. Tell me about your DAY. Tell me about your drama. Give me your dirt, your fears, your latest conquest, whatever. And I will happily divulge you mine. Small talk, ew.

But I must begin today’s post with the cliché, worst stereotype of small talk EVAR, which is: “So how about this weather we’ve been having?”

I’m not going to lie. I like it warm and springy and sunshiney. After living in L.A. my whole life, I realize I am quite spoiled. When people come here from other states and they complain that it’s oh-so-predictably boring and nice and sunny here all the time, I want to punch them in the throat. Say what? Exqueeze me??? Are your frigid freezing temperatures you’re accustomed to really something you would like to go back to? No? Then shut the hell up! Boring and sunny, my ass. Sunny rules. I'm so sure.

And we all know that lately it has been unseasonably warm and nice. Just this past weekend, I was delighting not only in being able to eat breakfast on the back patio, but mostly in the return of my little chubby bird friends that I feed, and watch them merrily kick dirt and dead leaves out of our patio awning and set up house. I love waking in the morning (well, I hate waking in the morning, but since I have to WAKE, this is what I love) -- to the sound of my little bird friends in the trees and bushes all around our backyard, singing my praises (they call me She Who Fills Our Bird Feeder With Heavy Hand) and just getting that sweet happy feeling like old friends have returned. Sitting on the patio, I could watch a whole tree-full of birds, twittering at one another about all things bird-centric, and I felt… happy. Every morning, there is a regular occurrence in this one tree that I like to call “Chirp O’Clock”. Sometime around 7:00, completely out of freakin’ NOWHERE, every bird in that tree chirps its head off like it’s going for a world record, like they are trying to totally out-chirp each other, like they’re going for the gold in the Chirp Olympics. I love it! Chirp O’Clock is becoming my favorite time of day!

And then. The e-mails start coming from Mountain High. We’re going to get new snow! Yay! Then the rumblings are heard around the office and at home: Our warm weather front is coming to an end and it’s going to get wintry-ugly. Oh. Ew. Even the birds know something is up. They are pensive, restless, agitated. I woke up this morning and it was fah-reeeeezing. And strangely quiet. I looked outside. The dialogue went something like this:

EXT. VALLEY GIRL’S BACKYARD -- MORNING

A harsh, wintry landscape. Grey skies, clouds gathering, a chilling wind blows through the air. Chubby little birds sit in a mushroom-shaped tree.

BIRD
(bitterly)
Cheep.

BIRD
Cheep?

BIRD
(turns up his beak)
Eh, cheep.

BIRD
(sighs)
Cheeeeeeep. Eh. Yeah. I got nothin'.

CUT TO:

Valley Girl looks out the window. Turns to Derek.

VALLEY GIRL
I speak Bird quite fluently. I think they’re saying they came back from Down South for this shit? Hell naw!

THE END