Delicious & Nutritious

Packing lunches for your kids is not a new idea. However, I feel I'm totally biting Jennifer Shmoo's style because packing lunches never seemed as awesome as this.


I think most parents are scared of what is served as "food" in the school cafeteria. After reading Fast Food Nation and watching Super Size Me, I fear many secrets are kept in some school-budgetary vault that would probably make us all shit our pants. ("You hauled that meat out of a dumpster? But it saves us $5? Serve it up to the kiddies then!") And I couldn't just let my girls roll the die with the processed, sugar-laden selection anymore especially when Maya reported how gross the spread was. Though my husband's Hey-We-Lived-Through-It-And-We-Came-Out-Fine argument is compelling, I couldn't, in clear conscious, continue to make a huge push for my own health and not for theirs. So, since the beginning of this school year, I've been packing their lunches daily. This was going over fairly well though Mina is not quite the sandwich-and-chips type. She'd get home and her sandwich would be whole. I'd say, "Baby, what did you eat today?" Only to learn from her spying sister that six year old Mina has learned to bum dollars off classmates at the Boys & Girls Club. After 15 minutes of coaxing the truth, she finally tells me what she bought out of the vending machines: "Funyons and a Honey Bun." I was minutes from making her take a piss test for weed when she then admits, "My stomach hurts." Ya think?

And then I discovered Jennifer's site. The little laptop lunchboxes make you want to pack the perfect lunch. It's all so adorable, and I pat myself on the back every morning. Every day, I make Husband check out their lunches and I say, "Look at that. Isn't that so cute?" He says dryly, "Delicious and nutritious." The response from the girls has been gangbusters. I pack spaghetti and rice & beans and vegetables and fruit and veggie corn dogs and chili and chips and dip . . . My girls are digging it, even Mina. I stole another idea from Jennifer. I told the girls to rate the lunches from 1 - 5 stars so I can best gage what they really like. I say, "Mina, out of 5 stars, 5 being best, how did you like your lunch today?" She says, "9 stars." She hasn't answered within the parameters of the 1-5 system yet. I'll say, "But you didn't eat all of the rice." She says, "Yeah, I didn't like the rice so well today." "So," I say, "maybe 3 stars?" She says, "7 stars." Meaning, stop trying to shove me in your conventional means of measure, woman. So, I make note: 7 stars, not so great.

Morality Schmorality

Saturday night, when we were out with friends for Husband's birthday, we went to a sushi spot on Sunset. When all the couples were ordering rolls and slabs of dead fish and whatnot, they asked me what kind of sushi I liked. Husband chimed in and loudly said, "DON'T WORRY 'BOUT HER, SHE'S A VEGAN." Which sometimes you just want to keep on the down low because the mass public loves to have a confrontation about this subject. So the people at the table started to ask me why as I blushed demurely. Husband, who apparently was my mouthpiece for the night said, "It's not like she does it for moral reasons . . . " And the sentence trailed off into a light echo as I stared at him.

I quickly added, "Well, that is part of it; y'know, moral reasons. I mean, the killing bothers me. It's how they treat THEN kill them, that really bothers me. But it's mainly how contaminated I think all animal products are . . ." I thought, am I really going to be Debbie Downer at this dinner party right now? Somebody help me.

One dinner guest said, "Yeah, you're a vegan with a peacock purse."

WHAT THE FUCK -- attacking my purse? My fantastic 1950's clutch with the peacock feather decorating the front that I bought from EBay for $20? Is this necessary, to be so judgmental? This guy is going to point out the imperfections of my veganism as he stuffs his face with bottom-dwelling, shit-eating shrimp? It's a feather adorning the front, not the poor bird's carcass. These types always think they've gained a small victory when they point out you've failed at something that seems too hard for them. I said, "My mother (who was also a vegan) used to buy old fur-lined items at old ladies' garage sales and would declare, 'Someone has to care for them now.'"

But the dinner party was already thinking, "Mmmhmm. Vegan Schmegan."

Obviously what bothered me most was that Husband believes I'm a callus vegan. One only concerned with the health aspects of veganism and of course, that disgusting contamination thing that I'm neurotically paranoid about. Seriously . . . one of the (many) things I thought about when they were finally able to drain New Orleans was, Where is that water going? For God sake, no one eat the fish coming from the Gulf of Mexico and, fuck it, from the entire Atlantic.

I'm off the subject . . .I don't think my husband realizes how much this is a moral issue for me. That saddens me, and I wonder if I am not vocal enough. But any adjustment I make to my life comes from a lot of thought and is based in morality. Maybe I should tell Husband that. Or maybe I don't have to make any goddamn explanations for why I don't eat animals or why I wear conscientious make up (a lot of it, thank you) or why I want to take care of my pretty peacock purse.

Tassels Make the World Go Round

There are advantages and disadvantages of taking your husband to a burlesque show for his birthday two days before your period starts. Mainly disadvantages. And really only one advantage. Let's start with the lone positive: Your boobs are bigger? Hormonal swelling is working in your favor when you decide to stuff yourself into a corset for your man's birthday. Also, you believe that since you are armed with a corset you are just as hot as any stripper hopes to be. Your secret mission is to get on stage. You actually think this even when you are going to the Forty Deuce Club.



Here is an array of disadvantages:
1. Your boobs are way too big in a corset. And your husband says all night, "What would the girls like to drink?" "I'm glad the girls could come out for my birthday." At any other time of the month you'd be loving this: You'd make the "girls" talk back shaking them around. But when you are PMS'ing this seems degrading and sexist. What's everyone looking at? Just keep your eyes on the stripper show, will you?

2. As you laugh off the utter mentioning that you have problems seeing a mild strip show with your husband -- ahahahaha, Jealousy and Bitter Envy, I laugh in your face because I am secure and open and hip, ahahaha! -- your heart actually seizes into a freeze-dried mast the second the first girl slinks her way onto the stage wearing the rad-est see-through night gown with matching fringe-beaded panties and bra where she precedes to crawl her way across the bar, thong in patrons' face. You break out in sweats and yelp out a half-assed, "whoohoo," as she astoundingly hoists herself upside down up with bionic strength by grabbing the ceiling beam. She does the splits against the ceiling beam and you've secretly fallen for her yourself.

3. Your man is too reassuring. Telling you you're hot the entire time. Nice caresses on the arm, kisses on the head. And though he'll tell you it's to let you know that he thinks you're the hottest girl in the room, you believe he's just turned on by all the tramps on stage and you're just easy access. Men are pigs!

4. You realize that you would really enjoy this if you were ovulating. Or not with your husband. Burlesque of the 40's and 50's seems ironically empowering. You feel an urge to hand make tassels with a feminist symbol on them and take a few courses in modern dance. Or at least stretch more.

5. Later, when you and your husband are turned on a bit by the skin shaking and the upside down antics and the rope swinging -- no ones admitting anything! --, you believe you can't live up the calf-behind-the-ear move, nor do you have a cheeseless ass, and you feel hesitant, shy almost. (Fucking PMS)

BUT, luckily you've had enough alcohol to squash the evil PMS voices and you bust out of the corset without using hands because you have a few skills of your own.

I Don't Heart Puppies

When I brought this precious little pug morsel home a few weeks ago, I believed she was a genius. She instantaneously peed and pooped on the puppy pads provided. She barked, "Voila! I produce pee and poo at will, wherever you humans like." She was a source of perfect joy for the kids, Lupe, my husband and of course, me. She's so cute I want to bite her face off. Mina constantly says, as if English is her second language, "She's too cute for me!" It's nearly with an accent.

But after one week of innate, perfect potty training, all hell broke loose. I'm convinced Lupe is putting her up to it, whispering in her ear to shit in random places around the house. We are all baffled including poor little Carmen. But seriously, if I were to carpet the house with puppy pads and a one-inch tile was exposed, she'd shit on the one-inch tile. I think we got so excited and full of praise when she first came home and went potty on the pads that she thinks relieving herself anywhere in the house will elicit the same kind of HOORAYS. "If you like what I've done on this little pad here, what do you think of This?!" Shits on couch pillow.

The worst is when she pees on our bed comforter. I mean, doesn't she know we sleep there? I don't piss in her crate though I may start. She doesn't even pee in her crate - so, what's up with that? When she does this, we turn into Caveman Trainers: "NO. NO. You pee there. NO pee here. ggrr." After three times of doing this -- my duvet cover has shrunk down to the size of a wash cloth -- we thought she was cured, that she got the hint with the caveman yelling. But the other night as we all snuggled in bed, Carmen romped with lightening speed to the end of the bed, copped a squat and peed. I had to rescue her from Husband drop kicking her off the balcony. He said, "If she shits on my pillow, Somebody is so out of here." So, as of right now, Carmen is banned from our bed which is a bit torturous as she whines to come up. Husband has a heart of ice! I mean, look at her face. She'sa too-a cute-a for me-a!

The whole family took both Lupe and Carmen to the vet two days ago for shots and check ups. Lupe has an ear-yeast infection -- EEWW. And the vet told us that little Carmen's nostrils are too slight which explains the little gulp of air she takes every minute. It sounds like a throaty, "howp," and it's the sweetest sound to my ears. The whole family does it now. We randomly "howp" at each other. The vet also said that Carmen may need surgery to open up her nostrils, and this caused my husband to burn a hole in my face with a wicked side glance. Howp. The best part of the vet visit was re-discovering what spaz'es we all are. When they examined Lupe and Carmen they took them to a room where all the healing magic happens, where only nurses and doctors can go and they enter this room through a swinging door. They attached our two dogs' leashes to some hook right behind the swinging door. Every time they opened the door to check on other animals or to bring an animal out, we'd see Lupe's huge pug monkey bear head peeking around the door. And every time we saw her, all four of us would yell in high-pitched delight, "LUPE! LUPE! THERE'S LUPE!" Every single time. Which was like, forty. And every time we yelled that, Lupe would try to escape but could only scratch the floor like she was running on a treadmill. We were ridiculous. Dog nurses shook their heads.

Anyway, I keep reminding Husband that Lupe was a little fucker too when she was a puppy, but he doesn't want to hear it because Lupe is on some Golden Pedestal that not even the kids nor I can compare. Lupe is Daddy's Girl and he says that our daughters like me best, and Lupe likes him best. And I'll bet big money Carmen will be daddy's girl soon too. As soon as she stops shitting on our couch and peeing on our bed. Howp.

"Mom, What's for dinner?"

I was at a local mall with my girls over the weekend and a woman approaches me saying she's with a talent group that casts kids for commercials and tv shows. She asks me if the girls can come to an audition the following day. And before I can think SHAM, Maya practically yells out, "HELL YES." Mina's with me, raising her little eyebrow suspiciously at this woman. The woman says to Mina in a high-pitched squeal, "Would you like to do it too?" Mina smiles, but stares at her. The woman persists, "Can you say something like, 'Mom, What's for dinner!'?" Mina's like, fuck off.

After the woman hands me instructions with a few lines to memorize, she leaves us so she can troll the mall to bolster the hopes of other children. It was all Maya could talk about. "Maybe I'll meet Raven from That's So Raven. She's so cool. This is going to be great. I don't care about money. I just want to meet Raven. Maybe I'll be on her show." I realize I have to assemble a speech that isn't dream-crushing, but weighs down this situation with a bit of reality. (Parenting is hard, fyi) My speech starts, "Uh, Maya . . ." Her face is beaming and I fight the urge to just blurt out that she's the most beautiful and funniest and smartest child ever and of course they NEED her on That's So Raven. "Well, you see . . ." (Why must I be the dick?) I tell her that though this is totally exciting, Raven will not be there tomorrow and this is all just to see if this is something she's interested in, and MAYBE there's an opportunity and if she IS interested, it's like anything else; You gotta work hard, blah, blah, blah, blah . . . Maya says, "Sure Mami. I love Raven!" Then I say, "You're smart and beautiful and funny. Have fun tomorrow."

So, we go home and practice non-stop. I want to tell Maya ENOUGH ALREADY WITH THE GODDAMN BUBBLEGUM TOOTHPASTE, but she wants to memorize the assigned snippet of commercial perfectly. I tell her to be clear and loud, but then I suggest, Let's sing it opera style. Then we recite it how the cast of Chicago would do it. Then we try to rap it. Then we do it blues style and reggae style, and back to opera . . . I say, "Mina, what's your line?" And she says, "Mom, what's for dinner? Yum, that's good." And I say, "No, it's 'Mom, what's for dinner? That's smells yummy!'" And Mina says, "Yum, that smells good" 50x's in a row until I just say, "You're smart and beautiful and funny."

At the audition, I get a tiny taste of what stage moms are like because the second I walk in with the girls, one mom eyeballs us up and down and says, "Your kids are cute," with a sneer and disdain in her voice. And I'm like, Let the hating begin! I want to tell the girls to get used to this kind of bullshit, but I just sign them in with a big smile like this is no big deal. One of the organizers comes out to warm the kids up so they're not so nervous which is good because Maya has slipped into some kind of abyss that I'm trying to talk her down from. The organizer makes us all stand up, parents too, and we play Simon Says and dance The Chicken Dance. And the girls and I are stoked because that stuff is fun to us and we dance the Chicken Dance how Missy Elliot would with extra rump shaking, some krumping; we are also making chicken noises. I look around the room and some kids are not standing and then I see half the parents sitting with their arms crossed with a look like, "Give me a break." Damn, where's the goof-ball joy, people?

Maya is standing in line waiting her turn. Mina is right behind her. And I tell them to do the focus move from Karate Kid II, the one before he breaks the six blocks of ice, where he's all yoga-like with heavy breathing. Which, of course, we all do together. The other moms hate us at this point. Maya goes up and does great. She's nervous, but thrilled. Mina goes up and as I'm waiting for the sweet, "Yum, that's good”, she belts out "Mom, what's for dinner? THAT SMELLS YUMMY!" The cad.

They're supposed to call us within two weeks. In the meantime I will have mentally paid for college, quit my job as I take my geniuses to auditions and write a great novel while they wrap up another episode of That's So Raven. Did I say that out loud?

On the cover of the New York Times today was a large -- too large -- photo of a dead man floating face down in the French Quarter waters. And I stared at it for five straight minutes. I put the paper down and I picked it back up, and though I think it's important to understand the levels of devastation that Katrina has wreaked, I could only think of, What of this man's family? Is this now his lasting memory?

And this sent me into a tailspin because the real question is Why Must People Suffer This Way? Why must a man perish -- one of the thousands -- in the throws of poverty; perish disastrously enough where his people must leave him behind, unable to transport him, no where to put him, no time to grieve him and they must send him floating with the rest, nameless and alone.

Why is there this kind of suffering? And can we alleviate any of it -- at all?

Here's a comprehensive list of charities and relief funds. Go Fug Yourself put it together.

Can't Touch This; Break It Down Hammer

I'm the only person I know that goes into a massage feeling relatively relaxed and comes out tense. And the verdict is still out whether I even like massages.

I did not get my first professional massage until I was 27 and pregnant with my first baby. I was in Vegas on business which when you're eight-months pregnant is non-stop fun because there is nothing more you want than to be on your feet constantly, inhale 24 hours of smoke, drink heavily and go to strip joints especially when you’re weeks away from being initiated into goddessness. (I did go to the industry party, however, in a short, tight black dress that repulsed some and excited others. Freaks!) While in Vegas, I partook of the luxurious spa massage where I just laid on my back like a big slab o' meat and the masseuse slid her hands under me and worked some heavenly magic. I put my feet in her face as she rounded the table hoping she'd get the hint. And she did. I drooled as she kneaded my pillowy sausage feet. I haven't had a good pro massage since.

I have realized most recently the following things about my massage experience - as I search to make it good again:

1. I don't like women massaging me for the simple reason that their slim fingers feel like chopsticks digging into my back. Like, little ginsu knives tediously needling me until I'm so tense that I am flexing my muscles to fight her back. My goal is to completely push her off of me with my deltoids, but so far I've only ground my teeth down a quarter inch. "Boy, you're tight," she says. You think?

2. I do not like a massager touching my legs. Nothing makes me tenser than that. And I've realized that my calves are annoyingly sensitive and my thighs, apparently, are the most intimate part of my body. They could massage my ass, my titties, but touching my thighs seems to be a form of sexual harassment to me. Not only does that feel extremely sexual, but all I'm thinking is, "Oh, did you get a nice handful of fat pocket there? Swish, swish - does that feel good to you? Because it doesn't to me. Ok, fuck me now. I mean, STOP TOUCHING ME."

But all this doesn't keep me from getting massages because admittedly about 50% of a massage does feel good. I keep wanting them to do my feet more and my shoulders and hands but they don't listen. They seem lost if they can't do my legs.

At the Post Ranch Inn, I booked a His n Her in-room massage. A man and a woman showed up. The woman says to me, "Ok, so what style would you like?" And I say, "Oh, you're with him,” pointing to Husband. And I look at the guy massager who is Corky Romano in white gauze yoga pants with the fly open (creepy) and I say, "I don't like my legs massaged. It's just a thing I have." He says all compassionately, "No problem." But he adds, "It's only half your body." Oh, Corkey's a funny man. I say, "I do love my feet, shoulders and hands best." "Great," he says. Nice and clear, right?
Mid-way through the massage he whispers in my ear (creepy again) "Do you want me to try a couple compression things on your legs? Just to see if you're comfortable with that?" Mother fucker, what don't you understand about I Don't Like My Legs Touched? Did it sound like I wasn't sure? And I say, "Sure," Fuckin Corkey. "How was that?" He whispers each time he presses down on my legs like he's curing me of my leg-touch issues. "Yeah, that's great," I say when I'm thinking HURRY THE FUCK UP.

Yesterday, the company I work for generously brought in a masseuse to massage all the employees for 20 minutes at a clip. She set up one of those cool chairs where you lean your face against a toilet seat and a pad presses your boobs back into your sternum. I should've said, "May I please just sit in the chair for 20 minutes?" Because honestly, that chair is more comfortable than the massage. I wonder if I could work in one of those? Could you image, typing while peering through a toilet seat? So, my massage was alright. Chopstick fingers digging and poking and jabbing . . . ug, but the 3 minutes she spent on my hands were divine.

There is one massage that I know I will like every time. It's when Husband rubs my back which is him asking "Can I stick my penis inside you?" And I could have worked 23 hours that day and I could be beyond exhausted -- and I hate when they wait until you’re on the downswing into sleepdom -- but once he puts his hands on my back I'm like, God that feels good and yes, you can have sex with me, and don't stop massaging my legs . . . It works every time. Which is unfair because he knows this. I could go to bed furious about having to pick up 5 billion socks scattered throughout the house -- how many socks can a man wear in one day? -- but once he puts his magic hands on me, it's over.