The Fire Horse

I 8 Your Heart

2012-02-13T21:34:00.000-05:00

Although I'm not in a writing rut right now (try saying that three times fast), I just had to take a break and get away. In other words, my husband turned on AMC's "The Walking Dead" marathon and I could not tear myself away.

What is it about zombies? Out of all the ghouls, they are the least intelligent. Downright retarded if you ask me. Yet, what makes them so appealing? For starters, nobody's tried to make them more, you know, romantic. Unlike vampires, who have become fashionably lame, zombies haven't sold out. Their look hasn't changed, still wearing those same tattered clothing with blood stains that make you wonder if there's enough Tide stick in the world to get them out.

My boys are rather obsessed with zombies, too. How do you kill zombies, mommy?

"Honey, there are no such things as zombies."

"Yeah, but if there were, how would you kill them?"

"Apparently, you have to shoot 'em in the head because if you shoot anything in the head, it dies. Well...except maybe Kevin Brennan."

But Werewolves are my personal favorite. Maybe because I'm raising two myself. They are not affected by the phases of the moon, however, they are half feral almost all the time. This picture speaks for itself.


The Feral Kids

But I am happy with my lovable mosters. Be it zombies, werewolves or toofless sharks, they have a heart of gold. Happy Valentine's day.

Samu's Zombie V-day Card

Ten

2012-02-10T11:13:00.000-05:00

This will be a quickie post in honor of my mother's birthday. So far, ten has been the theme for the day. Work started at 10 am. I began with a meditation session which was ten minutes - when I was done, it was 10:10 am. Before work, I purchased a bottle of sake (rice wine) for a mini celebration this evening. It was ten dollars. Okay, ten-dollars and ninety-five cents - stay with me, here.

Yes, we are planning a small celebration so that she may either A, blow it off or B, attend and say it's lame or C, get ripped and throw up in our living room. There is always the option that she may actually enjoy a quiet little shindig.

My husband and I call her the "Crazy Lady." And she's an Aquarius.

So, that last option is highly improbable. And when my husband and my mother get toasted together, she always starts beating him up. I do nothing to stop her. He deserves it. It's funny how the smallest people cause the biggest injury. Samu did a number on Daddy the other day when Daddy teased him relentlessly. Samu's kicks to Daddy's calves were ineffective, so Samu lifted Daddy's shirt and scratched his back with razor sharp nails.

Little people...don't f*ck with them.

Getting back to my mother, or Baba as my boys call her - if I had to find a saying that describes her - it would have to be, "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog."

Man, does she have a lotta fight. It's what keeps her looking young. I should be taking notes, but she never gives me a chance to take my boxing gloves off.

Ding! Round Ten. Happy Birthday, Baba.

My mom & 2 glasses of champagne

Mission: Impossible

2012-02-07T13:51:00.000-05:00

This is awesome - I've been tagged by a really cool mama, Kim at "The G Is Silent". She was tagged and answered 11 questions and passed on the glory to her dysfunctional group of bloggers. Ah, the price of popularity.

Nobody wants to know this much about me, but Kim does - so, I'll oblige. And because I don't want to break my streak of breaking Chain mails, and yet would feel guiltier than an adopted daughter who forgot to send a Valentine's card to my Jewish mother, again...I'll oblige. With a twist of my own. Instead of eleven questions, I offer eleven prompts as a blog topic - please cover ONE at your convenience. But you hafta cover one and no, I won't hex you for not spreading the disease.

And if you don't have a blog, you do have to submit a two-hundred word essay on canary yellow memo paper that lawyers use. Illegal size is okay.

Kim's Questions:
1. Have you ever played an instrument? If you haven’t, what kind would you like to be able to play? The only one worth mentioning is guitar. I'm bad ass. Or so I've been told. No "easy listening" Jewel or Jack Johnson stuff - I play music that doesn't sell. Apparently.

2. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleeping and why? Thirty-two hours the day I flew to Japan and went out drinking all night with my sister, her husband and my cousins after I got there. Why - because I was a zombie.

3. If you could be a fly on anyone’s wall, whose would it be and what would you hope to learn? I'd like to be a fly on Hugh Jackman's wall, find out once and for all if he's gay.

4. What are 5 items in your home you could not possibly live without? Beer, pretzels, Samu's favorite pizza, beer and Pub Mix.

5. If someone popped by your house unannounced right now, what would you be most embarrassed about? Not answering the door.

6. Honestly now – Do you watch any of the Kardashian circus? No, because I can watch whores that are tricking on Sixth Avenue in person.

7. If you could be famous for anything, what would you want that to be? That I got paid for being stupid.

8. Who is that one person from your past you would most like to connect with but you either don’t remember his/her last name, don’t know her married name or just can’t find on any searches? A good friend I just stopped talking to for no reason. Or a reason I can't remember now anyway. I left him at CBGB'S without saying goodbye. "Goodnight, Fred."

9. Who is at the top of your “list?” You know, the one you’re allowed to stray from the marriage for. If Tim Finn ever showed up at my door, my husband would be dead to me.

10. What’s your preference: Phone call, text or email? Do you mean for sex? That would definitely have to be snail mail - I'm a sucker for love letters.

11. Do you have a new/newer/newish laptop that you just have no need for and you want to send to a family who currently has only one working computer, and it’s a work computer and really isn’t supposed to be used for anything but work but is currently being used for this blog right this very second? Yes. My personal assistant, who looks like The Rock, is on it right now.

Thanks for enduring that slice of mediocrity. Now for Mission: Impossible - pick a prompt and don't be shy. When you post it, I'll be sure to link it here so that all the world may see what blogging geniuses my blogger friends are.

1. Tattoos: Will they remain fashionable forever? How will you handle your kid getting one? And if you're kid-less, how would you handle your dog getting one?

2. The worst boss or teacher you ever knew.

3. Who will play you in a movie about your life and how will it end?

4. What's going to be your retired look when you're as old as Betty White or Dick Clark?

5. You're allowed to loot for a day - any city, any store and you don't have to fight zombies or rabid dogs.

6. The world is at peace - what comes next, boredom or mayhem?

7. What drink goes best with a luscious sunset?

8. If you could take credit for writing one book, composing one song and accomplishing one life achievement what would they be?

9. What famous people share your birthday and what traits do you like or dislike that you have in common?

10. A mistake or regret you hope your kids will never repeat.

11. You are commissioned to write the story line for "Where The Wild Things Are," for the screen. Let's pretend the Spike Jonze version never happened - we never made it to the end, anyway.

The Impossible Team:
Maureen: Tatterscoops
Ava: Grapes And Oranges
Diplo Daddy: Educated Abroad
Bridget: Twinisms
Megan: Best Of Fates
Tricia: Critters And Crayons
Michelle: And Lily Makes 3
Trinity: Real Life Reslers
Grace: Mama Grace (where have you been, girl?)
Last but not least - the gal who got me into this club: Kim: The G Is Silent

Hymn Of The Schedule Battle

2012-02-02T12:16:00.000-05:00

Every stay-at-home parent faces this question at least once in their career, "What do you do all day?" Although, I admit, my husband's been smart about not asking that question - I do get asked from complete strangers. The audacity, right? Usually I tell them that I go bar hopping after shoe shopping and they know to avoid asking me that question again.

After reading Megan's quirky entry at "Best Of Fates", where she posted a snapshot of her awkward schedule and visiting Bridget's hilarious post at "Twinisms" on why she was so tired - I decided, why not pile on more evidence? Just to show you how good your life is.

05:53 am My eyes snap open. I await an onslaught of some sort
05:57 am Still trying to go back to sleep but I'm sure a little guy is going to crash my bed any sec
06:05 am The alarm goes off - I curse the lost 12 minutes of sleep
06:20 am Ten minute workout with husband farting throughout the ENTIRE thing. STIN-keee!
06:45 am The battle begins!! And goes on until I drop the suckers off @school
08:45 am Jot down a "To Do" list and ignore it completely
09:00 am Write, check emails, pay bills and stare - just stare - at the mess in my house
12:00 pm Realize I can't have lunch because I haven't gone shopping and starve
12:01 pm Set up manuscripts to send in for rejection notices
2:20 pm Pick up the Air Head and begin the homework battle
5:45 pm Pick up "Piss Pants" a.k.a. Samu and begin the dinner battle
8:30 pm Put the demons to bed and say, "Don't give me any crap tomorrow!"

But of course, they do give me crap because I wasn't specific enough. Same day - different battle hymn. As for the attempt to make myself look noble, you know, the 'manuscript' submission thing? Yeah, well it's like saying I'm sending out my resume to an electronic job posting (which I have done). Useless, yes, but it feeds my delusion so nicely.

With my day typed out like this, you may think me productive. Organized even. But I assure you that nothing - absolutely nothing - gets done on time around here. Well, except beer o'clock.

Farting The Sound Of Music

2012-01-31T10:27:00.000-05:00

Samu's been singing before he could talk. Unlike his big brother, Samu can actually carry a tune. The Air Head, although he has a memorable husky voice, follows a melody sounding like Bob Dylan being birthed by a rhinoceros. It's painful entertainment.

Recently, Samu's been singing "My Favorite Things" from The Sound Of Music. Who knows where he's learning it, the Kindergarten Glee club perhaps. After school programs make kids do the weirdest things.

Naturally, boys can't leave well enough alone. After stamping the tune into their heads, they decided to play with the lyrics and change it to some of their favorite things.

Raindrops on roses
And whiskers on kittens

Became:
Fart, burp and poopies
And boogers and buttocks

The adaptation went on. And on. Rodgers and Hammerstein must be turning in their graves. They should be proud, however - they got my numbskulls to goof off at 3/4 timing. Not an easy time signature.

When they were done bastardizing that song, we moved on to another classic: "Saturday Night," by the Bay City Rollers (there's a trivia question).

I figured it's also a good way to teach them how to spell Saturday.

So I chanted the chorus, "S-A...T-U-R-D-A-Y...NIGHT!"

Then I asked them, "What does that spell?"

"Turd!! No, no, no..Turdy!"

Honestly. I'm not even gonna go there with Aretha.

Bay City Rollers: Saturday Night

Show Me The Proce$$

2012-01-27T16:13:00.000-05:00

Despite the fact that I didn't go to college, I've given my boys no say in the matter - they are going to college. Should they challenge me when the time comes, their alternative will be to enlist with the Israeli Defense Force. I think the boys will make the right decision given that choice, don't you?

But the way schools are re-focusing their agenda, I'm hoping they'll be enthusiastic about pursuing higher education anyway. In my day, the cookie-cutter standards were based on memorization. It's why I loathed Social Studies - who cares about the Gold Rush or the bubonic plague? How come they never mentioned the Flintstones or Little House On The Prairie?

Algebra, on the other hand, piqued my interest to no end. The mysterious X factor. Trying to figure it out was all consuming. When I learned later on that algebra isn't so much math, as it is a creative problem solving process, it explained why I'm always getting ripped off at the cash register.

But that's where the school's are headed now. Critical thinking - show me the process. It's called the "Common Core," and if your kid is anywhere between Pre-K through sixth grade, you've been hearing about it. Unless you're in Alaska or Texas where I assume survival is critical thinking in itself.

According to a parent workshop I attended, by 2014 all state testing, in forty-some-odd states, will incorporate the new format.

In a nutshell, it's read, process and react.

This sounds easy, but believe me, I've worked with a few twenty-year old kids who had trouble multi-tasking.

Go tell the boss his client's here and bring back the stack of mail.

"Whaaaat? How'm I gonna do ALL that?!"

Critical thinking. We're starting to teach this in America now? My generation is so screwed when it's time to retire.

In the meantime, here's what I've learned that can be done to prepare your kids. Read. A lot. Interact and ask questions, kind of like Dora, only you don't have to blink as much - or stand deathly still until they answer. Help them articulate and formulate their answers because by the time they're in third grade, they're going to need to write a best selling essay.

I asked the literacy coach how much handwriting and spelling counted - she said, "Not as much as sentence structure."

Phew.

"But they have to clearly articulate their thoughts."

Oh. So, when Zuki writes stuff like, "I throwed him the the scinse," or "Can you buyed me u wach," we need to work on that.

A Good Thing

2012-01-24T13:03:00.000-05:00

You know those cliche scenes of the protagonist being the last to be picked for a team? Well, that never happened to me. It's not that I was popular, it's that most city schools don't have yards to play in, we have stuffy, stinky gyms. We're lucky if they're not co-ed and even then, it's overcrowded. We don't play Dodge Ball because that would be like target practice encouraging drive-by shootings or gang beatings.

Of course, I'm exaggerating. We all know drive-by shootings happen in L.A., not New York but that doesn't stop me from avoiding Chinatown on Chinese New Year. The Chinese mob are notorious for shooting everybody except the target and what better time to practice than Chinese New Year? Happy New Year, by the way.

But again, I'm delaying the topic. I'm here today to talk about a good thing. A very good thing. It's called a Read-A-Thon and it's a fundraising event that's been introduced to Zuki's school by the current PTA team. The object is for every student to pledge a set goal of books to read and get sponsors to donate towards the goal.

Isn't it a fantastic idea?

We're not pushing candies to diabetics or knickknacks to hoarders to raise money. We're reading books. And with the money, we can replace the lightbulbs. No actually, we're replacing worn out books. An idea that's foreign to our local library, apparently.

Also, the drive appeared in the January 13th issue of the Woodside Herald but that's not the exciting part. The real news is: I wrote it. Yes ma'am; my first published piece in print.

And I'm working on my best Jerry Lewis impression just in case they need a spokesperson for TV.

Beauties And The Midget Beasts

2012-01-22T14:04:00.001-05:00

The boys met Rebecca and Melissa - pictured here. These beautiful girls are the daughters of very good friends who moved to New Zealand when the girls were wee tots. The reason this meeting was so special to me was because of who was missing - my sister.

Long story short: my sister died thirteen years ago and I've had very little or rather, no contact with her daughter. My niece and Rebecca were best friends when they were babies. They're the same age, so seeing Rebecca now, is a reflection in time of how my niece must be doing.

I feel like their aunt by association - approximately five degrees of separation. These lovely ladies are not my daughters but because I like to take credit for things I didn't do, I am so proud of them. The boys, especially Zuki, are totally in love. I'm glad he has such excellent taste. They're smart, gorgeous and entirely so sweet, my teeth are rotting thinking about it. Damn, I'm really getting old.


Rebecca (Zuki/Samu) Melissa

Oh, That Samu

2012-01-18T21:49:00.000-05:00

Age has nothing to do with experience. When it comes to babies and kids, age is just a marker. If your baby isn't walking at 15 months, then I say, sit back and have a cold one because once that thing starts walking you're not going to have a chance to finish anything but a shot of vodka. And you'll need that, too by the way.

Big brother, Zuki liked to take it easy. Talking and walking...what for? He made raising baby so easy, that we decided to have another! But his little brother has always kept me on edge. Even pregnant, I couldn't rest between the hiccups and the skinny elbow poking out from my stretchy blouse. He started walking at exactly eleven months and twenty-nine days. He walked for a day and then took off like lightening towards the nearest speeding car - laughing all the way.

When he entered Kindergarten, I wondered when he'd start pushing the panic button - just for shits and giggles. Kindergarteners love experimenting with strings. You know, the ones that are attached to their parents wrists and head? They play them like marionettes dancing in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Apparently, he figured it out last week. I got that heart stopping phone call from school. "You need to pick up your son - he's had...an accident."

You always brace yourself for the worst. Hospital trip or possible law suit? But no, all it was - was number two. He didn't make it to the midget-throne in time.

I cleaned him up. I tried not to emphasize it and we spent a pleasant afternoon off together.
Mistake Number One. But don't step in number two.

This afternoon, one week later - another phone call. Same thing.

Are you shitting me?

No, it's on your son.

So after I picked him up - he got the talk. The I-know-what-you're-up-to talk. Zuki tried it when he was in Kindergarten, too. He'd tell the teacher he felt feverish and get sent to the nurses office...with two lovely escorts.

I'd take him to the doctor and guess what - his temperature was gone. Like mutant powers or something. After the second time, I told Zuki he'd better not ask to see the school nurse again unless he burst into flames. He got it.

Samu, however, he's got other plans. I can see it in his eyes. I'd like to remember him like this:

But for the past couple of years, he's been like this:

So, all I can do is shake my head, dust my hands off and say, "Oh, that Samu!"

Dreams Really Do Come True

2012-01-15T17:24:00.000-05:00

My boys have been socially active for a couple of years now - playing in parks, eating in restaurants - attending public schools. In the interim, they have never asked to me to explain any racial slur. A far cry from when I was in Kindergarten, when I asked my mother how to respond to people calling me a "Jap". Her answer was, "Call them a spaghetti face."

Now, I may have been green behind the ears when it came to insulting comebacks, but I knew - even then - that it was better to stay quiet than give that as a retort.

Nigger, Chink, Spic, Gook, Mick, Kike were all phrases that were common to me by the time I was done with second grade. My boys - they never heard these terms in use - not even in movies. On occasion I might call them a half-a-cracker but they assume I'm talking about the ones that get crumbled in soup. Besides, how insulting is it to be called a cracker anyway? Guess that's a Southern thing - it's always about food.

But with all seriousness, every year the boys bring home school work and information about Dr. King for M.L.K. day. They read about segregation - I fill in the details and then I comment, "That's fucked up right?" I'd rather not curse, but there's really no other way to say it. To candy coat it would be like saying Hitler really just needed a better barber.

By the time I came around, Dr. King's movement was but a newborn baby. Do I remember every slight? Yes, I remember. Every-single-incident. I was a child learning ABC's, like my kids are learning now. These days, we're concerned with reading levels - back then it was tolerance levels. Even in New York, the most liberal, melting pot mecca of the country - there were lines.

I think about it and wonder how much parents must've worried about sending their children out into the world. Would they return with their innocence intact or would some violation against their humanity force them to grow up early? And that's not even including the pedophile predators or other psychos lurking as well. And what about the generations of parents before them - it wasn't even a worry for them but a fact of life.

At times, I feel that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. knew he would never live to see the fruition of his dream. Children who see character before they see stereotypes. Children who notice all the beautifully variant skin tones rather than just black and white. They appreciate diversity - they're charmed by it, even. Just as Dr. King had dreamed, children on opposite sides - holding hands.

They have evolved...

...to play Angry Birds.

But I'll take it.

Photo taken by my BFF's dad - She's on the right, I'm in the middle

Friday the 13th 2012

2012-01-13T22:01:00.000-05:00

What year starts off with a Friday the 13th and is fine with it? 2012, apparently. It's only just begun and already, it's being boinked from behind. Personally, this day has put me through the wringer - like dealing with the IRS while PMS'ing. About the only thing that made me feel grateful for my current situation was stumbling on a Cosmo article on how to survive a breakup. It's been a while since I've experienced one. I read it and wondered if I was ever that stupid. No doubt I was, I just have really good friends who forgive the douche-y-ness abound. Besides, reading the sidebar articles on Low Down & Dirty Breakups, I actually patted myself on the back for not going that far into loserville.

Since it's Friday the 13th, I'm going to make like a horror flick and not get too deep into a character before killing him or her off.

I actually like the number thirteen. It's PBS "Mister Rogers", "Sesame Street" and my long, lost niece's birthday in October. It's ominous, humbly threatening like Lego's.

Today started off warm and humid - ended up windy and frigid. A lot of relationships are like that. As a matter of fact, most relationships - after time - fall into that category. It's always the ones who say they'll "never" become one of those pet peeves that become that exact pet peeve.

That's what Friday, the 13th of January 2012 has taught me. See, I told you - plenty of bouncing around all over the place.

There's a certain satisfaction in knowing that you're right and things actually fall into place, without your bitchy-prodding, proving that fact. When it happens for me, I'll be the first to tell you. In the meantime, I'll work on my post for M.L.K Day, which is a very big day for me personally, and leave you with this very funny clip of Zuki talking without his teeth.

Before you watch it, he's saying:

"Mickey Mouse's car had a hole in the tire,
Mickey Mouse's car had a hole in the tire,
and he fixed it with chewing gum, hchack-pucht!"

Smile Under Construction

2012-01-11T12:02:00.000-05:00

As promised here is a picture of Zuki's current smile under construction.

I expected him to have trouble eating this burger, but as you can tell by the bite mark, fast food does not require actual teeth for mastication.

It explains why a lot of senior citizens eat this crap.

Although, I have to admit that B.K.'s coffee is like cocaine. Tastes like shit - but it gets me through the day without giving me the runs. Now that's a coffee-secret-formula if you ask me.

Apart from having a hard time discerning what this kid is saying, I'm having my own personal fun feeding him food that present some sort of challenge. Yes, it's cruel - like sticking scotch tape to the bottom of a cat's paw or sneaking up on Samu and scaring the nuts off him, but I'm not biased - I do it to everybody with a temporary handicap. Including myself. I try to thread a needle with my contacts in. It's the most frustrating thing.

The food experiment kind of happened by accident. We had steak for dinner the other night. I cut the meat into bite sized cubes for O'Toothless One. He put it in his mouth and was about to eat it when his tongue pushed it right out the opening. He was like a Pez dispenser. Only with steak. Yes, he did re-eat it and no, I didn't laugh...I was hysterical with tears streaming down my face. Terrible, I know. If anything, the boys can write a book about how I traumatized them. Until then, I think I'll make peas tonight.

The Sunday Of Misery

2012-01-10T13:48:00.000-05:00

Sunday, Zuki and I spent six hours doing his schoolwork. Six-friggin' hours! That's a job, if you ask me. I'm almost tempted to take it out of his savings account. Even if I cracked open his version of a piggy bank, which is a tin Pokemon box, I'd be lucky to get eight dollars. I suppose that's why he paid me in advance with this lovely necklace he purchased during Christmas.

Zuki's necklace for Mommy

Okay, dude - you're forgiven. It's nice that one of my guys buys me jewelry. Although, I'm not allowed to take it out of the box and actually wear it. I might lose it, Zuki reasons.

To be honest, he's absolutely right. It's why I never wear jewelry - not even a wedding ring. Quite frankly, even if I had the real deal, Zuki's necklace is one I'd like to keep until the day I'm simultaneously laughing and trying to keep my false teeth from falling out of my head.

Yes, six hours of school work sounds extreme but we were working on a school project. Ugh. It's happening already. Next year, it'll be science projects and I have a feeling that somehow it's going to lead to keeping a pet.

This project, however, was a five page essay on something about New York. He chose transportation. Yippee - the subway. I promised myself not to harp on the negative and might I say, the research taught me enough to develop a new-found respect for our subterranean jungle. In the end, Zuki did a fabulous job. True, I helped with the writing. And the editing. And with putting the whole thing together - but come - onnnnn. It's second grade! They're not going to get a Steve Jobs presentation - they're getting Microsoft.

As it was, six hours of working with an air head did make me nuts. I felt like Kathy Bates tormenting James Caan in "Misery." While there was no ankle-smashing with a sledgehammer, there was an undeniable urge to play Liberace when Zuki finally learned - after 3.5 hours of drilling - that "transportation" ends with t-i-o-n. Not s-h-u-n. Air head.

And then there was his incessant need to play with his loose tooth. Granted, if my front tooth were loose, I don't think I could work - at all. I get a small blister or even a pimple and my attention would be focused on irritating it until it was pop-worthy. So, Zuki would write a word, play with his tooth, start writing again, play with his tooth - it was all I could do to stop myself from taking out a pair of pliers and pry the little sucker out.
The following morning, he pulled it out of his head like King Arthur's sword in a stone. When he's less shy about his air conditioned mouth, I promise to post a picture.

Japanese Over The Top Pop Music

2012-01-04T12:41:00.000-05:00

Like many Japanese folks, we've had a long standing family tradition watching NHK's New Year's talent show. It's a trip, especially when you're slowly getting inebriated with hot sake. The pop stars are outrageously skinny. Many have fried their hair to be blond. And the old timers wear costumes that make "Transformers" look like Barbie in a Matchbox - it's crazy I tell you. All in all, the show gives me a headache more than the sake but I can't stop watching the insanity. It's the Asian Grammy Awards performed by Anime on Extacy.

The best are the Japanese rock bands. They look like Green Day but act like the Osmonds - they're so polite and humble - it's hysterical. Imagine Metallica being interviewed by Billy Crystal, if they were Japanese it would go something like this.

"James, you've been sober for six years now?"

"Yes Billy, and I'm looking forward to playing in front of my fans again. Thank you for your support!"

Audience cheers, girls scream "metalli-CAH!"

"Well, you better take your place on stage - what song are you playing for us today?"

"Master Of Puppets."

"Master Of Puppets - that sounds wonderful!"

Yes, Japanese pop is way over the top. What's with their gazillion member boy bands? I don't mean to sound ignorant, but they all look the same to me. Actually, all boy bands do. In my opinion, a country that produces a large number of Boy bands demonstrates a clueless economy. Not poor - clueless. If they were poor, they'd sing. Like their meal depended on it. Since they're Dunkin'-Donuts-instead-of-Starbucks-poor, they lip sync. And dance around like cheerleaders.

We've yet to see a Japanese music artist make it big in America. The closest was "Loudness," a heavy metal band that sort of made a break in the mid-eighties.

Gee, I wonder what went wrong.

Then there was "Pink Lady," a duo with a normal sized girl and a twig. They barely spoke English but NBC thought it would be a great idea to give them a prime time television show here.

It lasted a whopping six weeks. See what happens when you end with a hot tub?

There's always Cibo Matto made semi-famous by associating with Sean Lennon. But seriously, who knows any song by them? And don't even go there with Yoko. I'd put her in the same capsule as Paula Abdul - it's named "Just Go Away".

All joking aside, I should mention that this year's NHK show was dedicated to the folks in Fukushima, Japan. The residents are undoubtedly still dealing with the horrendous aftermath of the numerous disasters they survived from last March. The live feeds showed the audience watching the broadcast from shelters and homes in good spirits. I don't think any amount of hot sake and boy bands would do it for me if my town was quaked, drowned and radio-activated.

I thought of dedicating an original tune on YouTube but every time I sing falsetto I wind up singing Pick up your TOYS! So, here's the future boy band I'm currently working with. Right now, they're calling themselves "The Fart Boys."

P.S.: My camera and I are on working terms, again. (Thanks for the gift, Grammy!)

Holy Cups Batman, It's 2012

2012-01-01T11:02:00.000-05:00

2012. Isn't this the year that John Cusak met Woody Harrelson on a top of a mountain waiting for Armageddon?

I can relate.

I had some really great pictures to share with you, taken with my new camera. They were deleted.

You know I have personal relationships with my gadgets - like my iPhone nemesis. I'd say as far as relationships go, this one has gotten off to a very bad start.

Fortunately, I write. So I shall describe the pictures I was going to share and it will be better, because I'll be in them! Looking younger. And coiffed.

Early evening party at Tomomi's. Actually, the boys took the pictures as an ice breaker. There was one of a kid sitting amongst an explosion of Magnetix, lip gloss and markers. It was before the group of shots of adults with their heads above range. Those were taken during Samu's sugar rush. Three mouthfuls of Jelly Bellies. Come to think of it, not much lost here.

Ringing in the New Year with a bottle of Champagne and Korean Tofu soup. I should've known these would be lost - I actually remembered to smile without doubling my chin. We toasted glasses of Moet, they sparkled beside the seafood salad, smoked salmon and fresh fruit. The traditional New Year's Eve soba noodles were replaced with spicy Korean tofu soup with mussels. I don't mind breaking tradition when it's this good. And my hair was perfect - not Gene Simmons-looking at all.

My New Year's kiss. 2012's was the best ever. As usual, my husband passed out at 11:13 pm. I expected the boys to have passed out long before but they were enamored with the Batman marathon.

"It's the Batmobile! Nobody would ticket the Batmobile, Batman!" Robin says trying to stop Batman from feeding the meter.

"No Robin, this nickel helps Gotham City flourish - we must do our part as model citizens!"

Are they high? Does nobody in Gotham City notice that Batman and Robin don't wear cups? My eyes were glued as well this trip down Bat-channel memory lane.

I periodically switched to channel seven to watch the sober idiots that filled the streets in Times Square. Fifteen minutes to midnight and the boys told me to leave it on Lady Gaga. I think she was wearing a cup.

We watched the embalmed Dick Clark count down the last twelve seconds. He was a second behind. Then the crowd went wild with New Year's kisses beneath the glowing 2012 ball. Zuki was prepared to mimic the policeman making out with Jenny McCarthy - I told him a peck is sweeter. And so went my first kisses of 2012 - from Zuki and Samu. Now, back to the Batcave!

Health, prosperity and cups! Happy 2012.

Really Got Me

2011-12-29T21:25:00.000-05:00

Soon, 2011 will tick away into oblivion. This is the final entry of the year. Rather than write about my post-holiday recovery, like a journal entry of Lindsay Lohan in jail (if she even knows how to write), I chose to revisit the blog posts of this year that really got me. It's my little way of showing gratitude for the generous support in this blogging network. As Clarence pointed out to George Bailey via Mark Twain, "No man is a failure who has friends," so has my blogging journey proved this to me seven fold.

There were endless posts worth mentioning but these are a few, just a few, that were personally memorable to me. Ones that made me laugh above my blaring headphones causing the minions to check if I was having a seizure. Posts that forced me to grab a tissue before I reached for my beer. Thanks for making me look mental.

About sons and mothers - I love how Adrienne writes from the heart in such an honest, comforting voice. "Boldly Speaking About Love," from All These Things summed up the endless well of love and the stark reality of love a mom has for her son. Perhaps daughters get this too, but I wouldn't know because I don't have one and my mother's not the best example. I asked her to teach me how to select fish at the market once and her answer was, "Look at it."

Ever wonder if blog posts could be literature? The "The Odd Man Out" entry by According To Chip And Bobo is so perfect, it's sick. It's personal to women who have been pregnant. For men and women who haven't fallen into this category yet, it should be required reading. Quiz will follow. It's called life.

Being labelled as "funny" is a serious responsibility. Somehow, Bridget manages to pull it off every friggin' time. "Focusing On Chores" by Twinisms remains my favorite post among the countless hysterical ones that followed it. It's my favorite simply because it has all the right elements for a perfect blog entry: a conversation between a four-year old and his dad eavesdropped by a blogger.

Like many single moms, Maureen is courageous. Like, television sitcom courageous. I don't know how she does it. "A Day In The Life," by Tatterscoops recounts, well...a day in her life. A single mom - in conventional Jakarta. Not even Bonnie Franklin could've pulled that off.

I often wondered how my husband managed to walk all his married years, what with one foot constantly in his mouth. After reading "The Things Men Say That Live Forever," by Critters And Crayons, I realized that thinking before speaking is an impediment for most husbands.

I love posts about personal triumphs. I love posts about memorable days with Dad. Put them together like "Mini Triatholon" by Real Life Reslers and you've got a new Ben & Jerry flavor.

Pregnancy was one of the most astonishing experiences of my life. I took classes for the first one. The second one, however, was all based around what the first parasite wanted to do. In other words, I don't remember nothin'. That's why I got a kick out of "Goodnight Moon," by And Lily Makes Three.

This post, "Learning The Hard Way," by Educated Abroad reminds me of that Faith No More song that goes, "it's always funny until someone gets hurt and then it's just hilarious." Real mature of me, right?

I really wrestled with two posts but settled on "For My Mom's Birthday, I Made Us Leave The Restaurant After We'd Already Ordered..." by Best Of Fates. If I treated my mom to the birthday adventure Megan planned, my picture would be plastered on the side of milk cartons advertising for missing people. Fortunately, Megan's mom is a good sport.

My husband once confessed to me that if we had a girl, he would be more conscientious about his appearance. Why a daughter would impact his effort to improve his image more than his nagging wife was a mystery to me until I read "I Finally Am Able To Convince Her To Wear Her School Uniform," by Grapes And Oranges.

It seems the site for Musings Of Mama Grace is currently going through some kind of metamorphosis. Although, I've mentioned her "Meditation" post as an inspiration, there is so much more. Once the site is navigational, I'll share my favorite post along with some others that really deserve the mention.

Hope you all get piss-ass drunk and regretfully amnesic entering 2012 - in other words, Happy New Year!

That's a lotta balls!

Say NO To White

2011-12-23T23:31:00.000-05:00

This was Christmas vacation 2010.

Dec. 26 - four hours after the first snowflake fell.

Who'd rather be in Aruba?

It was the Avalanche that hit New York.

December 27, 2010

Seriously, if I see this much snow again on a holiday break, I'm going to set fire to the next person that lectures me about global warming. Is that warm enough for you, because it does the trick for me.

This year, I'd like to do more exploring with my guys other than dog poop treasure hunting in the snow. I have plans to revisit museums, sights and locations where famous movie scenes were shot because I never know what they'll remember. They are both obsessed with the Linda Blair "Exorcist" doll that was displayed at the Museum of the Moving Image in Astoria. Yes, that of all things. Hope it's not foreshadowing.

So please...say "no" to a White Christmas this year. I'm sure Mr. Snow Miser can use a break. He worked awful hard last year.

And if you're still bent on seeing the white stuff, listen - I have these two guys to entertain. Tell me you don't get wrinkles and gray hair just looking at them.

All they want during Christmas break is adventure ending with a hot plate of fries. At a pub. A pub that pours a perfect pint. Okay, I added that last part but we deserve that, don't you think?

Merry Snow-less Christmas wishes from our family to yours!

Pin Drop Head

2011-12-21T12:40:00.000-05:00

It ain't over until the fat lady is muted. That's what I've learned after one week of meditation. It's really hard to shut yourself up and quiet your thoughts enough to hear a pin drop in your head. Funny thing is, when it comes to evicting that mad gibberish into writing - I find myself staring at a blinking cursor while my fingers are on infinite standby. We've all done it. Brain constipation, I call it.

I think it was my father who let me in on that secret: if you do five things the same every day, one new thing will occur to you. Apart from the meditation, what I've done the same every day is have three pieces of chocolate with my coffee. It has occurred to me that I need new pants that are roomier.

I miss my dad. I see him reflected in Zuki's facial expressions, temper tantrums and the way he can't open a simple bag of chips. Although my dad wasn't an "air head," he certainly wasn't "handy." The air head is endearing, though. For homework, Zuki was reading aloud the "Greenwich Guide To Day And Night." It's slightly above his reading level, but I figured the challenge was beneficial. Plus, I get a good laugh at things like this, "The Earth spins on Texas."

Zuki, I believe the book says 'axis' but Texans would probably agree with you.

He gets these crazy writing topics in school: "Would you prefer to live in New York present or past?"

The teacher meant like "pre-sliced-bread" past. Past enough when they had cameras to take pictures to show you just how shitty life was back then.

I explained how they had no cars zipping down the street so the kids played in front of their stoop but they also had no playgrounds.

"No restaurants, either?" - Nope.

"No haircutters?" - Nope.

"NO STICKERS?"

That stickers would impact their quality of life so much made me feel old. That was his deciding factor - he would rather live in the present. Stickers was even the closing sentence of his composition. If that were my paper, it would say - Well, I'm not going back to sanitary belts, that's for sure!

Speaking of going back, Samu has gone back to his "Weiner and Tushie Show." But he hasn't pissed his pants. I must be saying a different trigger word - there's time to find that out.

This is the last installment on meditation week. But it's the week that's over, not the journey. I feel like Dorothy, on a mission to find "home" with new friends who humbly want a brain, a heart and the courage not to piss his pants. Were it not for her old farm house landing on the confidence-stripping-witch, she may have never ventured with these guys to find a man who travels by hot-air balloon. Although...I've always known that these Bozos lived on my farm since life was black and white.

Cracked Nut

2011-12-18T22:51:00.000-05:00

The Christmas performance by the Sunnyside Ballet students was so damn good, it made me want to get trashed. "After Show" parties don't go that way, however, when the performers are only old enough for Capri Sun and pizza. I'm not kidding though, the performance, execution and showmanship was just so adorable, were it not for the grumpy old man claiming he was going to be sick all over me, I'd have been crying like a blithering idiot.

It just goes to show that every child's talent can be uncovered, nurtured and polished under the guidance of a fantastic teacher. And that grumpy old men should be left at the bar until the show's over.

There were three dance numbers, but the shakiest one was the peppermint or candy cane dance of the Nutcracker. It involved most of the Sunnyside Ballet students. Including...the boys class.

Boys. Wild boys.

The thing about boys is, they act like flatulent-happy-monkeys on dope during rehearsals. Even dress rehearsals. But when it comes down to the wire - they get it. Actually, they're stellar - the heroes, the team players and the minions in between.

It made me realize - they are as big of a mystery to girls as girls are to boys. How they manage to know what was going on during the movie when they were streaking through half the story is a complete mystery. It's how they store knowledge, I guess - gives a new meaning to the word exposure.

At a parent workshop, I recently learned that girls draw nouns and boys draw verbs. For instance, if you asked children to draw a picture of a rocket ship, girls would draw a rocket ship whereas boys will draw it in flight.

Perhaps we need to do our homework whilst skateboarding?

Major kudos to you kids! I'd say I'm good for my annual dosage of "The Nutcracker" until next year.

Goody Bag infused boys class

There's a cross eyed peppermint in the middle.

The ballet and violin troupe that were told to pose...or else

Ohm My God

2011-12-16T21:06:00.000-05:00

I am stubborn. At least that's what my husband will tell you. My mother, too. And a good portion of my friends - all except the ones who are more stubborn than me - they'd say I'm a pushover. The term I like to use is "determined." There's a distinct difference. Stubbornness, simply does not budge. Determination will move on, but behind the compliant smile, it's fixing to find another way to walk over the hot coals. It's why we keep plenty of ice in the freezer - what's left over does wonders for a martini.

True, I don't give up that easy. For that I am labelled "stubborn"? Well, I suppose my butt does resemble a mule's.

Day two of meditation week was not so good. Then again, day two of anything is never good. Diets, new jobs, school, even vacations - the second day is always the hitch. Rather than trudge through it, I look for the lesson to be learned. In Meditation Week that lesson was: don't use my iPhone to play the music.

It thoroughly pissed me off. It does that sometimes because it's stubborn. Seriously.

While I raged at my iPhone for changing the music, my husband sat serenely meditating - oblivious to the negative charges I was inflicting on my nemesis of a gadget. Good for hubby. The bastard.

Four days in, I have to say there's been some subtle changes in our house. There so subtle, like losing weight the correct way of one pound a week, the difference is told in time. But so far, I've not had the homework battles with Zuki. And Samu has kept his wiener in his pants during dinner for the entire week.

One realization, I am compelled to share at the risk of sounding flaky was a particular exercise that calls for connection to others. When someone is rude or unreasonable (and that's like five people per square foot in New York) you say to yourself, "There I go being an ass, again."

Of course, the meditation tip didn't say "ass" but that's what I use. It's to connect yourself with that ass and realize that we are all in this hot mess together.

With that, Shalom, Amen, Namu ami dabutsu ~ uh, have a good one.

Get Your Ohm On: Day One

2011-12-13T10:18:00.000-05:00

I'll try just about anything once. Just about. Chicken feet dim sum - done that. Cockroach canapes? Uh, never. A willingness to try new things has its virtues, such as exposure to...new things. It also has its setbacks - "Master of None." Still, when a challenge filtered in my email to set aside ten minutes of my day for a week to meditate, I decided to take it up.

Perhaps Grace over at Mama Grace is about the only person to appreciate this act - after all, it was her post on meditation that first inspired me. Truth is, the first impression most people have of other people who meditate is "flake." In Western culture, when we need to find peace, we take drugs Mannnnn. Booze, weed, Valium; otherwise, it's Jesus on the dashboard! You get the picture.

I publicly stated my commitment on Facebook and recruited my husband as added affirmation. If I didn't do that...yeah, I would've hit the snooze button this morning.

To my surprise, he got up early and was rearing to get his Ohm on. I'm not sure what his goals are for the end of the week but mine was to get a lot of writing done. And look! I'm writing. Spelling with my eyes closed, even. I just may finish that short story I've been working on for a month. It'll still be crap but at least I could say it's done.

And the low-self esteem thing is next on my agenda. It's a result of listening to too much Nirvana.

Santa's Memo

2011-12-12T11:01:00.000-05:00

Our Kindergartner is loving Christmas this year. He's at that age where Santa has become an opportune fantasy. He's written a letter to Santa in Pre-K class last year but now he's wondering, wouldn't it be great if it's truly effective? If all this fat man needs is a letter and the goods are delivered like Maribella's pizza? Despite his limited knowledge of sight words, he managed to write this memo:

"Can I HAVE a DS for Christmas"

Unfortunately for him, he wrote it on my memo pad. He wrote it after I told him he couldn't have a DS until after his seventh birthday - which isn't for another two years.

I reminded him how he already has a Leapster and he's allowed to play games my iPad or our iPhones when we're outside.

He doesn't need another gadget - that's final.

And I'd have to sell his older brother to afford it and the overpriced games that don't come with it.

He knows that Grammy and my mother would agree.

So he took matters into his own hands and went over our heads. His plan was to get this order in to Santa via his Kindergarten school teacher. But like I said, he wrote it on my memo pad and the messaged was intercepted.

"Better luck next time," I said. It was cruel, but not as cruel as the thought that was going through my head which was, "wouldn't have made a difference anyway."

I'm sure he's writing a letter to his lawyer right now.

Desmond's Wishes And More

2011-12-09T13:49:00.000-05:00

The second graders in Zuki's school have lunch at 9:50 am. To me, that's brunch. Minus the cocktail. So from 10:30 until school gets out at 2:30, they're running on fumes. By the time they're dismissed, the kids are like ravenous zombies.

It wasn't surprising then, that Desmond (Zuki's schoolmate) said, "I wish a hot meal would fall out of the sky."

"Yeah," Zuki agreed, licking his lips.

I could only imagine what "hot meal" he was thinking of. He's such an air head, he was probably thinking of a ham and cheese sandwich.

Seeing that this was not Cloudy with a chance of meatballs, Desmond then wished aloud for something else.

"I wish I had some cash."

Good wish, I thought and agreed out loud.

"I wish a thousand dollars would fall out of the sky." He said.

It's no wonder Desmond's in the "Gifted" class. That's a pretty abstemious number to wish for, especially for a seven year old boy. Most kids who would wish for money are like congress, I want a billion-gazillion-five-hundred-zero-forty cents!

Luckily, Samu wasn't there to be part of the conversation. He always has to upstage everybody. This morning, he said to me, "Mommy, I can spell "December" with my eyes closed!"

He closed his eyes and said, "D - E - C- M - B - E - R - E - R."

So much for that trick. Next time, I'll tell him to keep his eyes open.

When I Think About Me, I Talk To Myself

2011-12-08T12:06:00.000-05:00

This morning, my mountain of chores and tasks had me confused as usual where to start. My alter ego said, "Why don't you start by making the beds?"

"Good idea!" I replied. "Thanks....er, Honey."

"Don't call me 'Honey'. I hate that."

"Yeah, me too."

What the- ? I was talking to myself. Out loud.

When I was working full time - at an actual job that paid me for wearing nice clothes - I used to talk to myself all the time. My co-workers would look at me and say, "are you having a conversation with yourself?"

And I was. A full fledged conversation. Asking myself questions and answering them. It was disturbing to watch, I'm sure. But you know what? It helped me get the job done. Instead of those words and tasks running amuck in my head, my "assistant" would blurt out the next obvious step and it was all business.

I should've name her Pepper Pots.

In the days before baby-brain set in, I was like Pepper Pots. Well, a slightly disorganized version. A little heavier, too. Actually, I was nothing like Pepper Pots - I'm just wondering how many times I can include her name in one paragraph. And if you're wondering, Pepper Pots is that fabulous secretary for Tony Starks (Iron Man), played by the cute-but-not-at-all-sexy Gwyneth Paltrow.

They say that talking to yourself is a healthy habit. Don't ask me who said it exactly, or why "They" think it's healthy - I'm just assuming it is because of how much it helped me. I stopped talking to myself when the boys happened. Communication became this split personality of talking normally, infused with yelling in baby talk.

A typical cell phone conversation at the park went something like this, "I'm calling to get the paperwork to pilfer my 401k...SAMU DON'T TOUCH THAT, ICKY POO...sorry, where was I?"

When there was nothing to say, it was just easier to shut up and listen to the hum of my headache. My "assistant" probably felt neglected and took a well deserved vacation.

But she came back. Must've heard through the neurological grapevine the calamitous state of my affairs. Thus, when she found me this morning, in the eye of the hurricane-mess in my boys room, she took over. The room got cleaned, my day got planned and she got her old job back.

Wait till the boys meet her! They'll say, "Who are you talking to, mom?"

We Are Shaking The Tree

2011-12-06T22:45:00.000-05:00

December - it's my new November. Until last year, November was my nemesis. The time when skeletons came rattling out of my closet to beat my spirits down with their femur. Even during the dullest years of my life, I can't remember a dull day in November. But this year was different.

2011, I guess was always a little off. What with major natural disasters, including Kim Kardashian's wedding, the trivial trials of life had to take a back seat.

Without going into the sordid details, I've been letting an uncomfortable situation go on for the past couple months. It's been gnawing at my sides, insides and stealing my sleep. I just got a haircut and I still look a wreck. Recently, a good friend of mine took out her pitchfork - she found it at Bo Peep's yard sale, and stuck me with it.

"Get a move on," she poked and said,"Shake the tree. It's gonna be okay."

She's a pro when it comes to holding her friends accountable for following through, especially when her friends are a'threatenin' to fight injustice...or shoddy customer service.

So first thing Monday morning, I shook the tree and guess what? It bore fruit. Apples, oranges - even lemons. How's does that saying go about life giving you lemons?

I realized that I'd never be saved by the stray satellite tearing through our atmosphere to simply crush my nuisance away. Even if it did, in the great scheme of things, nothing ever changes. But that doesn't mean that no one will understand. And it certainly doesn't mean it has to be accepted.

People have been understanding and if nothing else comes of it, at least I know who has my back.

Perhaps this is an affirmation to myself so I don't lose the balls to continue fighting the good fight I'm currently fighting because how many times can I use the word fight in one sentence? But synchronicity works in strange ways - if this makes sense to you then you know what I'm talking about. Otherwise, feel free to assume I'm having a Miss Teen South Carolina moment. Such as.

To salvage the time you've spent reading this post thus far, let's just take a moment to thank our most precious benefactors for forcing us to shake that tree. Where would Newton be without tree-shakers? My guess is Pennsylvania.

Excuse me now, I've got to make some lemonade.