moms

I case you were wondering about just such a thing—THIS is a Magic Wand farm.

As you know I supply my little slice of Studio City with magic wands. In the beginning, they looked like this:

The sign on the bucket was more creative than the wands themselves—but that’s beside the point.

Then, my sister “out wanded” me with her usual flair and because they were scooped up in less than a day by the hungry masses yearning for wands—I was forced to up my game.

But the wand phenomenon like I suppose all good things do has developed a life of its own. It has its “people” who talk to my “people” (me) voicing their thanks (mostly), opinions (often), and now…requests. This week a group of stroller moms as I call them were rifling through the bucket looking for just the perfect wands for their kids when they caught sight of me getting into my car.

“Oh, hey, are you the Magic Wand lady?” they asked.

“Yes, I am” I answered proudly waiting for the usual parental gushing. Instead, this is what happened:

Mom #1 – “Listen, we love the wands, we really do, but…”
Mom #2 – “The little ones chew on them so could you put more without any paint in the bucket?”
Mom #3 – “Unless you use pesticide, Do you, I mean, use pesticides?”

“Uh, no. No, I don’t” I stammered. I was caught completely off-guard.

Mom #1 – “Are you sure? Have you specifically asked your gardeners not to use any pesticides or even worse… Round Up?”
Mom #3 – “Oh, look, Barbara, she has dandelions everywhere, they don’t use Round up.”
Mom #2 – “You don’t look sure. Are you sure?”

They all looked at me waiting for an answer.  After a minute of biting my tongue I said, “No, I mean, yes, yes, I’m sure. In four years no kids have died from holding or chewing on these Magic Wands. I swear!” 

Mom #1 – “What I really wanted to ask you was, do you make them in any other colors besides purple and gold?”
Mom #2 – “She did. You did, you had blue ones once.”
Mom #3 – “The reason we’re asking is that our sons, well…”
Mom #1 – “Our sons are all nine and ten this summer, they’re getting to be big boys and well, they want a wand…”
Mom #2 – “Just not a pink one.”
Mom #3 – “They’re not really pink, they’re more purple…”
Mom #2 – “Magenta. They’re magenta!”
Mom #1 – “Anyway, they’re too old for pink…”
Mom #3 – “And sparkles. Do you make any wands without the sparkles?”

“The boys hate the sparkles too?” I asked, crestfallen.

Mom #1 – “Not really, it’s just that the sparkles get all over the carpet and…”
Mom #3 – “I’ve found sparkles all over Jimiraquois’ bed!”

They laughed and nodded in unison while the toddlers in the strollers happily chewed on my Magic Wands.

I was clearly outnumbered.

“Do you have a color in mind? Something that both girls and boys would like?” I HAD to ask knowing full well that they did.

All three moms in unison – “Red. Red works.”

So, in closing, you can’t fight progress. Kids get older. And boys don’t like pink. And requests. Some people are very comfortable with big asks, not that this was a particularly big ask, but still, I couldn’t have done it. But maybe that’s just me.

What do you think?

Speaking of moms and their big asks…

Now I don’t feel so bad.

Carry on,
xox

Let me be clear.
I never wanted kids.

I knew my limitations and the list was long.

As an adult, I had a cat and at times, even that was a stretch.

Then I met my husband and he had a dog. Rather, he was a dog and not in the way you’re thinking (Those days were over.) He explained to me that he was part BMW (motorcycle) and part Boxer. He still is.

Suddenly, I was a mom. A dog mom.

Let me say right here that I approach this job with great commitment.
I pick-up poop (never had to do that with a cat), I load her in my car and take her with me when she’s not attached to her dad’s hip, and I’ve gotten used to finding these little dog hairs (boxers don’t have fur they are covered with the equivalent of eyebrow hair), EVERYWHERE.

My wood floors are scratched to hell, my white kitchen cabinets are perpetually covered with dried eye goobers, and most of the fabric in my home has the stench of dog fart baked right into it.

Let me also be clear about this: I love her. Truly, madly and deeply.

Well, except for this morning.

I hate being woken up by anything other than my own circadian rhythm. That was one of the reasons I sidestepped motherhood. I can’t be bothered by someone else’s needs. I even slept peacefully through the night my husband was suffering from appendicitis because he knew better than to wake me up—he snuck silently into the guest room to whimper pitifully until it was safe to complain.

Hey! I can hear you… Jeez… You guys are judgy AF!

Anyway, this morning was especially brutal because we had been away all weekend partying with friends.


See what I mean.

I needed sleep. Real sleep. Ten hours of sleep uninterrupted by alcohol and hotel sex if ya know what I mean.

Instead, this morning at 6 am while my husband was at the gym, I got skunked. Rather, she got skunked.

For the fourth time in six months.

I blame the skunk. He’s not stupid, he knows a dog lives here. There are “Beware of the Dog” signs posted all over the place to discourage this kind of bad behavior.

Besides, I’m sure he can smell her! But this guy doesn’t give a shit. He’s got his tail in the air like he just don’t care.

And for the fourth fucking time, my dog has been the face-first, one woman, early morning welcoming committee.

Since this debacle has happened more than once, we now keep the ingredients for the anti-skunking right there in the bathroom next to the shower.

1 Large pan of water.
Baking soda
liquid detergent (I use Dawn)
Hydrogen peroxide
Bloody Mary (optional)

I don’t measure any amounts because who can be bothered? I just make a paste and smear it all over the unfortunate victim’s face, rinse and repeat.

By the time her dad got home she was cleaned up but the house had the lingering, now familiar stench of skunk road kill.

“She must be a slow learner”, I said like I imagine a mother does when her kid bites into a lemon every time she hands it one. 

My husband wasn’t having any of it. You’re allowed to fuck up three times in our family while we good-naturedly just look the other way. Need a Silkwood shower first thing in the morning before we’ve had our coffee? No problem.

But four times? Fuck that. Four times—You are called out!

“What are you, a dumbass?” he asked her to her face.

She’s a teenager so she just shrugged and flipped her hair.

Different parenting style is also one of the reasons on that long list. Not that we would have ever had kids. My eggs had turned to capers by the time we met. But still.

So to make her feel better about herself I made her a sign. She likes signs. I told her it said “You is smart, you is kind, you is pretty” and she believed me.

In retrospect, I think I would have made one helluva mom.

Maybe not…

Carry on,
xox

I believe with every fiber of my being that we ALL have a superpower. The thing or things that we are better at than almost ANYONE else.

Mine is my memory. I remember every word you said, the shoes you wore, and the song that was playing on the radio when you dumped me.
And then there’s my ability to weave that into a story.
Ouch. Oh relax, I’m only joking…sort of.

I have a friend that can make a box of Girl Scout Thin Mint Cookies last for more than three days — I know — UNBELIEVABLE. Yet, I have seen it with my own eyes.

My mom, and for that matter most mothers, are able to hear the spoken and often un-spoken mischievous musings, whispered plans and naughty plots of their children clear across the house; sometimes from out in the backyard with a cocktail while listening to the Dodger game; or even from the neighbor kid’s treehouse.

“No, you most certainly are NOT going to rig that old clothesline and beat up beach chair into a neighborhood zip line!”

Is she kidding? Could she have cracked our code? How did she know that was our plan? She’s making baloney sandwiches — in a house —down the block.

I was convinced as a child that her pink plastic hair rollers were some kind of sound enhancing devices.

Or how about this other widely demonstrated talent — the eyes in the back of her head trick.

“I see you…give your baby sister her cookie back. NOW!”

How is that possible…she’s driving?

Maternal Superpowers — used mostly in the service of good rather than evil; although as a child, that point was debatable.

My little sister is a kind of Culinary Wonder Woman. She can put together an event or party at the drop of a hint and I can guarantee you — it will be SPECTACULAR.

If you want to feed 6 or 60, it doesn’t matter call Sue.

She’ll cater it herself with eight to fifteen different appetizers, each more delicious than the next. Then she’ll serve a roast turkey AND a Prime rib, AND a smoked ham AND a goat; all lovingly prepared and garnished to perfection — with thirty-five gourmet side dishes — half of them using kale. That’s a talent.

Oh, and you’d better leave room for dessert. They’ll be seventeen pies, ten cakes, donuts, pastries and fountains of chocolate, both dark and white.

All of them homemade. In her spare time.

Every inch of her home will be decorated for the affair. Gorgeous fresh flowers (grown, picked and arranged by her own loving hands), tablecloths and centerpieces with white twinkle lights hung by Tinkerbelle herself.

You’ll receive a keepsake memento as you enter, and another as you leave (after she gets to know you better). They will be thoughtful and touching things that are personally selected for you and you alone. Things that will make you cry; items you will treasure for years to come. (We haven’t yet figured out how she does that; as far as we can guess she has a team of people who go through your drawers while you’re at the party, then shop, gift wrap and return before you’re ever the wiser.)

If you’re one of the lucky ones she may have put together a slide show of long forgotten but favorite photographs which will play on an endless loop — with a tear-jerking soundtrack.

Her parties are so inventive and fabulous that Martha Stewart has installed a top-secret party cam just to swipe ideas.

At Christmas, the elves at the North Pole have a Pinterest page of several years of her winter wonderland home and decoration ideas, which they present to Santa as their own — tiny lying slackers.

Susan’s undeniable superpower? — Making people happy with delicious food, beautiful ambiance and her over-the-top thoughtfulness.

My husband has the good fortune to have been blessed, as many of you have, with two superpowers.

He has his MacGyver Superpower and his Sparkle*.
Our friends and I tease him about it…but if you’ve ever been on the receiving end, they are both equally indispensable.

He can build you a house out of eleven Popsicle sticks, a random shard of glass, nine paperclips, one stick of Black Jack gum, and a sweat sock.
With those same exact items he can also fabricate a life raft, patch a blown tire, signal a rescue helicopter, fix a motorcycle, design a prom dress, start a signal fire, and end world hunger.

You want him on your team when the Zombie’s attack.

As for the Sparkle*(ting)…well, those that have been caught in its spell have given us the best table at a packed restaurant, upgraded us to First Class at no charge, overlooking the fact that our three bags each were over the weight limit, and found us front row tickets to a sold out concert.

Men, women, it doesn’t matter, his superpowers don’t discriminate.

Does it only work for he and I? Nope, whole groups of friends have benefited from his equal opportunity Sparkle*.

If he switched to the darkside…the man could rule the world. Seriously.

We all have ‘em these Superpowers; have you figured out what yours is?

Carry on,
xox

“If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all”
~ My Mom~

She’d usually lob that nugget of wisdom behind her, into the backseat of the car, where my brother and sister and I were calling each other “doodie heads” or something worse.

That directive felt like a HUGE challenge to me, since everything bugged me and I could never keep my mouth shut. It may as well have been a vow of silence, which I tried once – and thought I would rather die.

We weren’t allowed to “tattle” either, and it was our “go to” pastime as children.
She just would not have any of it.
“I don’t care – work it out.” She’d snort, exasperated, after hearing hours of “he did this” and “she said that.”

If we weren’t bleeding and could still walk upright, her complaint department was closed.

“Tell your troubles to Jesus” was an old favorite.
It would leave her mouth the minute she sensed a sour face walking in her direction. She wouldn’t even turn her head your way.
That one was Kryptonite; nothing could turn a disgruntled Catholic kid around faster than a suggestion of a bitch session with the Almighty. Too much like confession.
Plus, I knew even then, that Jesus would just laugh.

“Methinks thou doth protest too much” Is from William Shakespeare’s Hamlet – and my mom.

Us kids could get very dramatic, and I was, by far, the worst of the bunch.
My mom nicknamed me Desdemona, who is a character from Othello, ( yeah she’s clearly THAT mom) because of my histrionics. I could bring the crowd to its feet over a burnt grilled cheese sandwich, or tangled hair.

“Children are to be seen and not heard.” 
That was saved for those occasions when we had adult company at the house. It was the sixties and everyone said that to their kids, so I’ll give her a pass.
Of course it never applied to me.
I’d politely meet a complete stranger, and then ask them if they’d like to hear a special song I’d prepared for that evening.
Precocious? Ya think?!

But her best words of wisdom, the ones I’ve taken with me into adulthood, into the world of internet haters, are these:
“Consider the source (honey).”

She’d just calmly shake her head and tisk a few tisks, clearly signifying the completely misguided nature of the comment that had made me cry, by someone who had NO business ruining my day.

“Well that just doesn’t sound like a smart boy” or “their mother lets them stay up past midnight” or “they don’t wear shoes.”
I’d weigh that against the insult – and immediately feel better.

I still do to this day.

Well played mom.

Damn, my mom looks good. She looks like Jane Fonda from her “Klute” days, in this picture.
Makes sense, it was taken in the early seventies. She was about 35 years old.

My mom was just getting aquatinted with herself right around that time.
Divorcing my dad, getting out from under her Jackie Kennedy bouffant, becoming politically active, getting back into the workforce and finding her independence. Her musical tastes changed from Andy Williams to Bruce Springsteen.
She became a free spirit, a hippie of sorts.

I have a very different experience of my mom than my brother and sister.
I was the oldest. To me, growing up, my mom was a hard ass.
The disciplinarian. The enforcer. Strict but fair.

She made sure my Catholic School uniform skirt touched the floor when I kneeled.

She took me to see live theatre, which in turn got me hooked on live theatre.

She insisted I walk the one mile to and from my Catholic school every day, rain or shine. It was no big deal back then. ( I was the only one in the family that went to Catholic School all the way through grades 2-12)

She enrolled me in Girl Scouts so I could learn teamwork, sales and acquire some camping and outdoor skills.
(It barely worked)

She enforced a strict 7pm bedtime, even in the summer, when it was still light 
outside.

She indulged my fear of the dark. She checked under the bed for monsters, never shut the door to my room after saying goodnight, and made sure there was a nightlight on in the bathroom.

She “locked” us outside in the summer with a kiddie pool bought with green stamps. (She made a game out of wetting the sheets with a sponge and putting them in the books) and prompted us to run through the sprinklers.
At noon she provided a lunch of bologna sandwiches and pitchers of Kool Aid.
At three, homemade Popsicles made from freezing grape juice in Tupperware Popsicle forms. All the neighborhood kids hung out at our house.

She sat with me, and nursed me back to health when I had Scarlett Fever at seven years old. She would walk up to my school every day and get my first grade schoolwork. I missed almost the entire year.

She washed my mouth out MANY times with soap for being sassy.

She made every holiday a big hoopla. Parades with red,white and blue streamers on our bikes, watermelon eating contests (with no front teeth) and backyard fireworks for the fourth. Egg hunts and clues that lead us to HUGE elaborate baskets for Easter. Imaginatively wrapped presents (my name in red licorice whips, my sister’s in Hershey’s kisses) under a giant tree whose every branch was lit, ornamented and perfectly tinseled. Elves on shelves and Gumdrop villages. Cookies and milk for Santa, who left a ridiculously nasty mess of ashes and wood on Christmas morning.

She never gave us soda, so I got to sidestep that addiction.

An addiction she did introduce me to was the Rose Bowl Flea Market and my wallet has been the thinner for it.

She made sure my dad bought me a swing set after I escaped to a neighbor to swing on theirs.

She gave me an appreciation of history and current events.
She sat me down in front of our black and white TV for the 1968 Democratic Convention and corresponding riots, the Watts riots, the March on Washington,the astronauts stepping foot on the moon for the first time, the coverage of Apollo 13 and the funerals of President Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr. And Bobby Kennedy (for whom she campaigned).
Classic mom phrase: Pay attention, this is history!

She always had the Dodger game on in the background……always. Still does.
Vin Scully’s voice is like a natural sedative to me.

She gave me books and talked with me about sex. (funny story alert)

She made sure I did my homework, polished my shoes, loaded the dishwasher and made my lunch in my Partridge Family lunch box (sigh) every night before I went to bed.
Often she would write me a love note on my napkin and sneak it inside before I left in the morning. I felt love and embarrassment at the same time, so I threw them away. But I did thank her now and then.
(I wish I’d kept them all)

She taught me how to: 
walk, talk, go potty in the potty, tie my shoes, ride a bike, tell time, read a book (I knew how to read before I entered kindergarten), change a diaper, burp a baby (my sister), set a table, say please and thank you, whisper, write a thank you note, braid hair, swim, roller skate, brush my teeth, paint my toenails, make chocolate chip cookies, wrap a present, embroider, climb a wall AND a tree, pick myself up and brush myself off, collect lady bugs, collect leaves for our silk worms, finish a puzzle, love cats, love food, love music, sing, clean a house, be on time, love the holidays (especially Christmas), weed a garden, trim a rosebush, body surf and love the beach. To name a few.

She thought I could DO anything and BE anything. She still does.
Thanks mom, I wouldn’t be who I am without you.
I love you.
Happy Mother’s Day!

Xox