I’ve been reading in the news lately about these celebrity moms who are doing some of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard. Have you seen this?

“Celebrity” 1: Alicia Silverstone. First of all, I’ve put the word celebrity in quotes, because she hasn’t done a damn thing since the Aerosmith videos. And really, since that consisted of rolling around and sliding up and down a pole, that makes her as much of a celebrity as one of the c-section scarred moms who dance at the Razzle Dazzle in my hometown. She’s chewing up food and then basically spitting it into her son’s mouth. She’s not regurgitating like a bird. Birds have to do that for their young so they survive. Toddlers can actually eat solid food, and crazy as it may sound, actually need to practice chewing so they won’t wander around as teenagers asking complete strangers to chew up their fruit roll-ups for them for an afternoon snack. Think about it. You’re on a date at a fancy restaurant. You’ve had your eye on this girl for weeks – and you finally got the nerve to ask her out. Now, here she sits, black strapless dress, blonde hair swept across her shoulder, laughing at all your pitiful jokes. The meal finally comes – she takes a bite of her lobster thermidor and you suddenly swoop in and suck the chewed up food out of her mouth. If you think that’s not going to make its way around the office, you’re insane. Good luck getting another date! I don’t even let my kids drink water from my glass – I can’t imagine sucking face with them at cookie time. Because that’s what it is. SUCKING FACE WITH YOUR CHILD. Sick.

Celebrity 2: January Jones. She saved her placenta and had it dried and ground up and made into “vitamins.” She said something like “humans are the only mammals who don’t eat their placenta.” Yep. You’re right. We’re also the only mammals who are capable of abstract thought, making fires to cook our food and using complex tools. Most researchers theorize that animals eat the placenta so they can hide any trace of childbirth from predators in the wild. I know of very few women who wander out to the prairie in this day and age to give birth. And even if they did, I think eating the placenta to hide the childbirth from predators would be the last thing on their mind, since they would have to have lost their mind to do that. Most sane women go to a hospital. Others stay at home with a midwife, or some type of medical professional to help out should something go wrong. And, according to TLC, some women crap a baby out while on the toilet because they didn’t know they were pregnant. Whichever method is chosen, there’s no need to hide the fact that you’ve given birth. Unless of course you’re a teenage girl at the prom. My point, as crass as I may have  sounded, is that there’s a reason we don’t eat our placentas. There’s no health benefit to it. And it’s gross. Your fetus pooped and puked in that thing for nine months, then it shot down your birth canal and out your vagina. No amount of soap can wipe clean that thought. Oh, and since you’re human, you are capable of imagining everything I just said.

Celebrity 3: Mayim Bialik. What the hell, Blossom? You have a PhD and you’re breastfeeding your three year-old? On the subway? I wouldn’t even chew gum on the subway.  Can you imagine a three year-old at preschool, sizing up the poor old grandmotherly-lady who’s handing out milk and cookies? It’s just creepy. If your child can ask for food, it’s time to stop flopping out your boob, okay? Boundaries are good. Kids need them. I’m not against breastfeeding. I didn’t do it, and my kids turned out okay. My friend did, and her kids are okay, too. But she stopped at an appropriate time. You know, before her kid was able to ask for seconds. I don’t think you need a doctorate degree to figure that out.

Look, I’m not the world’s greatest mom. I’m sure my kids will have plenty to tell their therapists in the years to come. But please, celebrity moms, quit trying to start a new fad or get publicity for your next appearance in an REO Speedwagon video. Just. . . try to be normal so you can give your kids a chance to be normal-ish. At the very least, get a good publicist to advise you. You’re all just freaking me out.

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One of my writing teachers suggested instead to write “what you don’t know.” While I couldn’t stand her, her writing, or the way she encouraged students to attend all of her local reading engagements for a better grade, I do like that suggestion. So, here goes:

Blue Crush. Or hazel crush? Put on some sunglasses! You're still pretty, though.

Heterochromia

That’s when a person has two different colored eyes. David Bowie, Kate Bosworth and Dan Aykroyd all have this. It makes me wonder, how, especially if you’re a woman, do you know which colors to wear to best bring out your eyes? Do you even want people to notice your eye color? If the eyes are the window to your soul, which one do you look at to see if the person is evil or not? Would it be bad to say to someone with this that they’re acting like “a green-eyed monster” if they’re jealous of someone, or would that be really mean, because essentially you’re calling them a cyclops, right? If one of their eyes was green of course. Can you really see eye to eye with them? It’s off balance. Would you have to close one of your eyes? What if you’re attracted to people with blue eyes and you meet someone with a blue eye and a brown eye? Would you force them to wear an eye patch during your intimate moments? I guess it would work if you also had a pirate fetish. I suppose telling them to “keep an eye on” your  ______ would be okay, as long as you’re not too specific with your request. I don’t know. This is all very confusing. I have to go lie down.

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But why must these celebrities show us their giant belly? WHY? I know you’re air-brushed.  I know you’ve had your hair and make-up done professionally. Unless you want to pose showing the real you – the real pregnancy look – dry, chapped lips, dark circles under your eyes, hairy legs because you can’t bend over to shave them, hair slapped back in a ponytail, wearing your husband’s sweat pants and an XXXL shirt from Wal-Mart – then keep your damn belly to yourself. You are not like the rest of us women who’ve had babies. We didn’t schedule a c-section so we could still make it to the Oscars after-parties. We aren’t rolling our babies around town in a $1,000 stroller. You are not like us, so stop. Please. We’ve seen the pregnant belly. Up close. With no airbrushing. Have you?

And P.S.: You  should also know that you will have stretch marks, no matter how much Palmer’s Coca Butter lotion you use.

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The Pirate Movie. A classic from 1982.

I always think of  “The Pirate Movie” starring Kristy McNichol and that guy from “The Blue Lagoon” on Leap Day. Remember that movie? The guy from BL is a former pirate who’s supposed to inherit something, but it turns out he was born on Leap Day, so he’s not 20 —  he’s technically five. Not the greatest movie, but, you know, it’s got that whole Leap Day thing in it.

So, an extra day for us. An extra day to drop off the kid at school. An extra day to clean and do laundry. An extra day to think about all the other extra days I’ve had and wasted. An extra day to wander around my house, wondering what I’m supposed to do with my life.  I don’t need this kind of pressure. Instead, let’s see what some Leap Day traditions include:

1. According to an old Irish legend, St Bridget struck a deal with St Patrick to allow women to propose to men every 4 years. Yay? Just like Sadie Hawkins Day – the character that was created by Al Capp and was the “homeliest gal in all them hills.” So, another day dedicated  to rejecting ugly girls. Let’s move on.

2. In Greece, it’s bad luck to marry during a Leap Year. Greece has been having a lot of bad luck lately. I think getting married there during  a Leap Year might not be too unlucky, unless of course you paid for the wedding in advance.

3. In Scotland, it’s considered bad luck to be born on Leap Day. I can see where they’re going with that. Getting presents only every four years? A Spongebob cake when you’re actually four is cool. However, since the body continues to age regardless of the calendar date of your birth, you might be made fun of for having that cake at your Sweet 16 party.

So, I think the real moral of Leap Day, if there were actually a moral to be had,  is to just be yourself.

I’m back, baby!

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6:30 a.m.: Kiss husband good-bye and get  whiff of own morning breath. Wonder if my hair matches. Wonder if husband regrets marrying disgusting blob laying in bed, but assume his eyes were closed and move on.

6:37 a.m.: Start pot of coffee, turn on news, curse  weatherman for his pack of lies about nice weather.

7 a.m.: Matt Lauer announces breaking news on Today show. Realize he says this every morning and wonder if everyone else gets duped by that announcement, or if it’s just me.

7:15 a.m. Wake up kids. First of 87,000 questions asked for the day. No response to Tessa’s, “Mama, if my arm fell off, would I still be able to wear a pink shirt?”

8: 40 a.m.: After 40 minutes of getting the kids breakfast, dressed, reviewing homework and answering 14,006 questions, drop Tess off at school. Head to coffee shop for morning latte while Jack kicks the back of my seat and sings about hating Batman while simultaneously loving Batman. Wonder if he watches too much t.v. then laugh to self, because that’s just not possible.

9:20 a.m.: Check email for job #1. Answer as many as I can before Jack decides he wants human interaction. Am able to get through 2 emails.

9:25 a.m.: Help Jack line up all 65 of his Thomas the Tank Engine trains, end-to-end. Get yelled at for placing 2 Percys next to each other. Wonder if he’s too young to be medicated for OCD. Consider knocking them all over just to mess with him, then realize that I may not be able to afford therapy for him in a couple of years, so start lining up Hot Wheels instead.

10:30 a.m.: Start first load of laundry. Unload dishwasher. Clean kitchen. Start another pot of coffee.  Wonder if I drink too much coffee. Watch Jack drag stuffed dolphin attached to dog leash down hallway while singing song about stupid pizza pie-yas. Proud of his attempt at accents, but concerned stereotypical cartoon Italian pizza man will file lawsuit against him for defamation of character.

11:15 a.m.: Build giant pile of stuffed animals in middle of living room with Jack. Hope he doesn’t break an arm as he jumps off top of couch into pile. Wish I was kid again and had no fear. Let Jack bury me in said pile and try to catch a quick nap. Get wind knocked out of me when Jack lands on stomach.

11:30 a.m.: Make dental appointments for everyone. Pay two bills. Wonder where the hell all the pens in the junk drawer go. Check email for job #2. Start lunch then do second load of laundry. Wish Alice was here to do this for me, then decide the Bradys need her more than I do. Let Jack wrap jump-rope around my leg and pull as hard as he can. Realize he’s surprisingly strong for a 2 year old. Wonder how to explain rope burns to husband.

12:20 p.m.: Beg Jack to go on the big boy potty. Watch in dismay as he gets off the tiolet and pees on the floor in front of it. Read “Yummy Yucky” for 900th time. Put Jack down for nap and find all pens from junk drawer stuffed under his blanket.

12:30 p.m. – 2:15 p.m.: Work job #1 while watching Oxygen channel. Wish I was borderline mentally challenged so I could get own reality show. Try to fix blinds that Jack pulled cord out of. Put away laundry. Vacuum rugs. Get mail from mailbox and realize this is the most exciting part of day. Die a little inside.

2:15 p.m.: Jack wanders out asking where his pens are and tells me Batman needs one. Tell him Batman carries one on his bat-utility belt so Mama put them back where they belong. Listen to him repeat question over and over. And over. Consider smacking him on back of head to fix broken record. Realize he would hit me back and decide to ignore him.  Show him “shiny rock” (fruit snack) and he stops asking the question. Love whomever invented bribery.

3:30 p.m.: Pick up Tess from school. Try to avoid Crazy Mom who has no regard for personal space or appropriate small talk. Turn to take Jack’s hand and find Crazy Mom standing half inch from my face. Try not to look like I want to jam pencil in her ear as she tells me her parents’ house is pink and that she doesn’t know the difference between a tornado watch and a tornado warning. Wonder if “what is wrong with you?” is an appropriate response to that. Realize she has probably miscalculated how many pills she’s taken today, smile, shrug shoulders and walk away.

3:45 p.m. – 5:30 p.m.: Answer 19,006 of my children’s questions while cleaning house and making dinner. Think housewives from the 60s had the right idea about popping pills all day long. Listen to kids scream at each over variety of topics. Close eyes and try to find happy place but see that it’s been burned to the ground by hoodlums. Die a little more inside.

6 p.m.: Continue working on job #2. Think working from home is awesome, but wish it was only 1 job.

8 p.m.: Repeat “brush your teeth” 17 times to kids. Threaten to throw away “Big Time Rush” CD if they don’t. Clean globs of toothpaste off back of door. Tell kids teeth will fall out if they don’t brush teeth. Tess tells me new ones will grow in so it doesn’t really matter.  Mentally applaud her comeback. Answer 45,309 questions ranging from farm animals to molecular biology. Realize stall tactics apparently work on me.

8:30 p.m.: Kids in bed arguing and yelling for us to come back in. Use Supernanny technique of ignoring them. Go back to work at job #2.

9 p.m.: Finally get to talk to husband. Realize there’s not a lot to say and sit in silent defeat. Kiss him good night and go back to work on job #1.

12:40 a.m.: Finally finish working. Realize I haven’t washed hair in 4 days. Decide to let it go another day and lay on couch instead.

1:15 a.m.: Argue with self about going to bed. Realize we both lose since we’re now too exhausted to sleep and have to get up in about 5 hours. Consider solitary life of pot pies, scratch tickets and chain-smoking. Remember trailer parks aren’t safe during tornado season. Fall asleep and dream about work.

6:15 a.m.: See above.

That’s where I’ve been.

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“It’s like de ja vu all over again!” So, what you’re telling me, Yogi Berra, is that you’re experiencing something all over again, all over again? It’s just de ja vu. If you aren’t truly bilingual, then don’t use this French term. Just don’t. Chances are, you’re hallucinating anyway and what you’re experiencing is merely drug-induced-you should probably just stop talking to avoid a situation where a 5150 is necessary for your safety.

It’s not pronounced “heighTH” it’s height. While it’s close to its counterpart “width” it doesn’t need to rhyme. They’re not twins a crazy soccer mom dresses identically too far into puberty. One measures something vertically (heighT) while the other measures horizontally (widTH).

Exscape. It’s pronounced “es -cape.” Ex- is in fact a prefix meaning “out of” so that part’s correct. However, unless you at one time were made of velvet and were tied around a magician’s neck but gave it up to follow your dreams of being the manager of a strip club, you’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to pronounce this word. You probably don’t visit the libary much, do you?

And finally, you can’t go acrossed the lake, nor did someone drowned in said lake. You can, however, go across that lake and there is a possibility that someone did in fact drown there, so just be careful, okay?

Have a great day off and mind your Ps and Qs!

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Anyhoo, so here’s my story: Jack has recently discovered how to lock a door. He does not, however, know how to unlock a door. You can see where this is going, right? So, last week we were in his room, playing with cars when my coffee kicked in. I sauntered across the hall into the bathroom, leaving Jack in his bedroom to throw his cars from one side of the room to the other (“They go faster that way, Mama!”) and take care of my business. I had turned the doorknob around on his bedroom door so he could  no longer lock himself in, so I had no qualms about leaving him for two minutes.

I heard him close the door to his room (he has a thing about open doors) and run down the hall to my bedroom and slam the door. I finished as quickly as I could and walked down the hall only to discover – that’s right – he had locked the door. Now, not really a big deal, except that we have a spiral staircase with an open loft in our bedroom (very retro, no?) and since my children have been known to fall down from a standing position, I was a bit worried.

“Jack,” I said in a very sing-songy voice. “Jaaa-aack, open the door.” Because he’s somehow learned how to do that in the last 30 seconds, I guess. No response. “Jackie, please open the door for Mama.” Nothing.

“JACK, OPEN THE DOOR,” this was through clenched teeth, not yelling. And then, a sickening thump. The first thing that popped into my mind is that scene from “Almost Famous.” I pictured Jack at the top of the railing on the loft, declaring that he is in fact a golden god and diving onto our lower-end carpet (came with the house) instead of a full swimming pool. Jack can’t swim, so either way, it’s a bad scene. “JACK!” Now, I yelled. No response.

I don’t know how to pick a lock, and even if I did, I don’ think I would have had the presence of mind to go and find something to fit in that stupid little hole and pop it open. I immediately kicked the door open to find, lying in a pool of its own literature, a dictionary. Jack, hands behind his back, glasses low on his nose, was standing up in the loft, looking down at the book he had assaulted.

I didn’t yell at him. I hugged him. I told him I loved him and that if he ever locked a door again, I would take every door in the house off of its hinges, which would be really awkward for him when he hits his teenage years. And then I reflected on how AWESOME it was that I kicked in a door, just like hundreds of t.v. cops have done in almost every cop show ever made. One freaking kick and it was open.

I need help.

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Febreeze has a “Limited Edition” collection. Really? Your job is to cover up stink. That’s it. It makes no difference if my bathroom smells like “Winter Evening” or “Winterberry” or “Original.” I just don’t want it to smell like wet towels and dirty socks. I’m not going to buy your stupid new scent in the hope that 25 years from now, I can sell it on ebay for $200 because it was a limited edition. Unless it’s signed by Mr. Febreeze and there were only 100 cans made, don’t call it a limited edition.

Coffee Mate: Peppermint Mocha. I heart you, I really do. Eggnog? Nope. You can’t mix Eggnog with coffee. Again, just because Christmas is coming up doesn’t mean you need to cram Christmasy-themed flavors into CREAMER. Salami and cheese trays are big around Christmas time too, maybe that could be your next flavor. Or glazed ham. Simmer down, coffeemates.

Coca Cola: Limited edition Coke cans. You put Santa on your can. I see where you’re going with it, but I think you need to expand on that. Maybe the Hanukkah Armadillo (Friends? Anyone?). It doesn’t matter, because I’m going to jam it into my recycling bin anyway. I’m not going to put it in an air-tight container and display it next to my Grandma’s Hummel figurines.

Ritz crackers: see above. 

Please, stop calling your overpriced goods “Limited Editions.” If I can’t cash you in to pay for my daughter’s college tuition, you’re just another non-perishable item I will donate in the spring to her school’s food drive.

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Remember when you were a kid and your mom would buy (like once a year) the good cereal? Not Cheerios or Rice Chex, but Cookie Crisp or Fruity Pebbles? Man, that was the best day. You’d poor that first bowl and it was like a junkie getting a fix. You hunched over that bowl, elbows out, ready to tag anyone who got too close, shoving spoonful after spoonful of cereal into your  mouth so quickly you didn’t even notice the fact that the Cap’n Crunch WAS TEARING THE SHIT OUT OF THE ROOF OF YOUR  MOUTH. No, you only noticed that after your third bowl, when your mouth looked and felt like the inside of a jack-o-lantern – ragged pieces of your skin hanging from the roof of your mouth like little spiderwebs. I miss that.

2.

Dear Guy at Target who clearly spends too much  money on hair products and not enough time working out at the gym who let the door shut on me as I was struggling on a windy day to corral my son who was trying to break free from my grasp to go pick up the giant red cement ball along the sidewalk outside the store and get him inside,

You’re a dick. Get some manners.

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