A LITTLE DUMB

When I started writing this blog, I promised myself I wouldn't hold back. I would say what was on my mind (kind of) and speak the truth (sometimes). I promised myself that no matter how lame a thought might be, and how isolated I may be in my view point, that I would still say it. I would write for myself and not for "the people."

"You should at least use spell check," my Mom would say. "And at least use proper grammar..."

"What's wrong with my grammar?"

"....And you shouldn't say words like 'vagina.' "

"Okay, Mom."

"....Or 'dude.' I hate 'dude....'"

OMG, dude. I get it. Why does mom gotta bug like that, yo.

The truth is though, my mom kind of has a point. Sure, I can write. But I don't always write RIGHT. Believe me. I know. In high school, I was the only one in AP English who needed/used cliff notes. While everyone used the class to ensure (or is it "assure"?) a head start in college, I used it as an opportunity to get some action from the nerdy boys. I was definitely the dumbest smart kid in the class and was perfectly fine with that stature.

But these days, I'm not perfectly "fine." I'm perfectly disheveled and my attention to details, words, and unfortunately wit, isn't exactly, well... perfect. In fact, some of you have even noticed.... A couple weeks ago, I got an email from a friend/reader who said that she was so sorry to mention it, but that after reading the ode to my bangs, she had to tell me about a slight mistake. The sentence in my post read:

And though I never EVER strayed (with the exception of a very long/side swept

thing I tried right after college), for all intensive purposes, I have always been loyal...

Embarrassed and thankful for having readers that have a better grasp on the English language than I, I changed it immediately. Apparently, for 33 years I have been saying "intensive purposes" when in fact I should be saying "INTENTS AND PURPOSES." Who knew?!

"What?!" said my friend J, "Of course it's 'intents and purposes'. Everyone knows that."

"No," said his very educated and professional wife A, "I thought it was 'intense and purposes.'"

"Yeah," said his sister T (a 5th grade teacher with a masters in education), "I agree with J-Ko. I thought it was 'intensive purposes' too. I've been saying it wrong this whole time too?!"

"How is that there is a room full of sophisticated and intelligent women (with great butts I might add), saying something that seems so obvious, so ridiculously wrong?"

"Frightening," said T, "I'm shaping our youth."

"Shocking," said A, "I feel like I should know that."

"Embarrassing," I said, "I am a WRI-TER.... And this by the way, this is definitely going to be a blog post."

Without missing a beat, J chimed back in, "You want me to proof that before you post it??"

Ha. Ha.

The truth is though, I think I say a lot of things wrong. We all do. Not that I'm trying to pass the buck (or is it "dodge a bullet"?), but one of my very best friends, a Psychology Professor (a PROFESSOR people), says "irregardless." I think she knows "irregardless" is not a word, but she says it anyway, claiming that it souuuuuuunds like a word. Unfortunately, there is no such word. In fact, if you look up the definition of "Irregardless" on Merriam-Webster Online, they suggest not using it. "Use 'regardless' instead."

Even Wikipedia has a list of commonly misused English Words.... And I know the fact that we are all a little dumb (sometimes) doesn't excuse my misuse, but it should at least make me relatable to "the people...." And while I've never been fully sure of when/how to use "affect" or"effect," I can ASSURE you that being a little dumb is better than being a little lame.

So please, feel free to proof read, comment and share your thoughts on my writing.... I may resent your remark, but at least, AT LEAST, I would never "resemble that remark." Because that, THAT would definitely be a little dumb....

ME... AND EVERYONE ELSE

Over the weekend I saw Up in The Air, a film that centers on the recent economic plunge this country has taken. Plot-wise, while I've been going back and forth in my mind whether or not I loved it, there is one thing I'm certain of: HOT-wise, George Clooney is still very much number 1 on my list. Having said that (hello Larry David), no amount of his perfectly salt and peppered hair could have taken the depression away that lingered from watching his character Ryan and his company lay off thousands of people from their jobs each day....

Considering that I too am currently unemployed (i.e. devoid of a "real" job and "real" work and certainly devoid of the income that comes along with those "real" things), I felt the fear during those scenes. Not knowing where my next check is going to come from has definitely made me feel a little sorry for myself... If I don't have a "real" paying job, and don't get paid for what I love to do (write!) then how do I measure my success?

Today I literally called three different retailers nearby to see if they needed extra help during the holidays with gift wrapping (they're not hiring. Go figure). But, I mean... Really?! That's what it's come to? Gift wrapping?! Like in the stock room with the teenagers picking up extra money during Winter Break?! (BTW, you can thank the job I had at Williams Sonoma during high school doing the exact same thing for my appreciation of copper cookware. Nerd.) The point is, What's next?? Becoming a cashier at Hot Dog on a Stick??? I mean, my life seems to be working in reverse and I feel like with each and every day (that I don't get "the job") I lose the ability to go after what I really want... Will I ever have "the job"? Will I ever do something worthy? Something good? Something that gets on the map? Something that puts me across from Barbara Goddamn Walters?!?!?

(Not so) Ironically, it is my 2 year old who continues to talk me off the ledge and calm my fears. This morning, chasing him down the block as he stomped and crunched leaves in his big boy rain boots, he came to a complete halt. Turning the corner, was what seemed like the most massive garbage truck I have ever seen.

"Whoah, Baby-Ko. Look at the garbage truck!" I said.

His eyes lit up.

Slowly, the Garbage Truck drove up the block towards us.

Baby-Ko started to wave. "Hiiii Garbage Truck! Hiiii!"

As it pulled up along side of us, the window rolled down: Two Garbage Men with the biggest smiles you've ever seen leaned in and waved back. "Hiiii!" They said as they honked their horn.

"Byeee Garbage Man!!" Baby-Ko shouted back and sort of leaped in delight, "Byeee!"

My heart was warmed and in that moment I knew that it doesn't matter who I become.... That no matter where I end up, what I end up doing, and whether or not it's where I thought I would be, somehow in some way, I will (hopefully) put a smile on someone's face....

I just hope it's not bagging groceries at Trader Joe's. Because between the Ginger Snaps and Pita Chips, I could get very fat working there very easily...

OOPS, I DID IT AGAIN

Yesterday, as I sat in a pediatric dentists' waiting room, watching Baby-Ko play with toys that had inevitably been contaminated by swine flu and every other contagious disease, a weird thing happened: I felt bad for Britney Spears. Though this feeling was probably brought on by a lack of caffeine and the outdated tabloid magazines lining the walls, it was an odd thought that came over me. (BTW, Doctors: would it kill you to rotate in some US Weekly's from the new millennium?I know Ben Affleck and J-Lo broke up. Please.) I remembered the gossip and stories that emerged when Brit started to go nutso and the accusations claiming that she wasn't a fit mom-- that her sons Jada and Presley (or whatever the eff their names are) at like age 2 had rotting teeth, and that she let them eat Cheetos and Coke.... I remember, at the time, (long before my own world became all things Baby-Ko) thinking she was a train wreck and those poor children with their cavity filled mouths. How could she be so negligent when it comes to their oral hygiene? What kind of a mother doesn't enforce tooth brushing and allows snacks right before bed?!

Yeahhhhhh.....

So here I was, about to take Baby-Ko in for his first dentist appointment and all I could think was 'thank god I'm not a celebrity.' Thank god no one will leak to the press that Baby-Ko's toothbrush went missing for a week and no one seemed to really miss it... or that the last thing in his mouth before bed time is Cheerios (better than Cheetos, I guess???)... or that if society didn't judge him (and me really), I probably would let him have a pacifier until he's 16 (he likes it. I want to give him the world. Is that so wrong??)

Forty-five, angst-filled, and sweaty minutes later (ever try holding a two year old down as a woman with teeth that, honestly, are a little too perfect tells said two year old that she "just needs to get rid of the SUGAR BUGS?!" Fuck the gym. Try that!), I, I mean Baby-Ko, emerged with a clean bill of health and what appears to be perfectly fine teeth. Despite the fact that I break nearly every dentistry rule in the book, Baby-Ko may stand a shot at having a decent future... orally speaking, that is.

Now equipped with a toothbrush shaped like a penguin and watermelon toothpaste imported from Japan that cost me more than my defrizz (Again, these bangs don't just straighten themselves), I feel like I've been given another shot at Mommyhood. I dodged a bullet in that dentist's office-- What could have been a big slap on the wrist by the patient lady with too perfect teeth, turned in to a decent affirmation.... I'm not as bad as Britney. And while I realize I may be setting the bar kind of low by comparing myself to her, I think cutting myself some slack is better than becoming a psycho about this stuff. After all, in 33 years I've never had a cavity, braces, or a retainer (no matter how many times I showed up at the dentist with a paper clip in my mouth begging for one), so Baby-Ko might actually inherit some good goddamn teeth after all. If not, at least he'll have his pacifier and his two life partners (Blankie #1 and Blankie #2) to cover up his mouth when he gets embarrassed.... his first day of college...

TO MY BANGS... WITH LOVE

Dear Bangs,

While looking through old photos the other day, I found a photo taken of me in 1st Grade... It must have been around Thanksgiving time because half the class is wearing what appears to be Pilgrim hats (made out of construction paper), while the other half dons Indian Chief hats (it was okay to say "Indian" back then. We didn't know).

Anyway, Bangs, this was in 1982.... which means I was 6.... which means we've been together for 27 years. We've grown up together, you and I... And though I never EVER strayed (with the exception of a very long/side swept thing I tried right after college), for all intents and purposes, I have always been loyal. In fact, I stuck with you when no one else did.

Sure... I haven't always been kind: I have teased you. I have sprayed you. I have fried you.

And I have certainly cursed you.

I forgive you for all your little frayed ends, and your twisty little curls that sometimes make me look like I have payis, and all the times you've put me in a bad mood. (Yes, hair can do that).

Bangs, we, me and you... WE are a team. My hair, my look, my daily routine would be incomplete without you. .And no matter how many times you've heard my grandmother say she'd like to see you out of my eyes, I hope you know that I, I am faithfully yours and have no intentions of ending this relationship any time soon.

You've been with me through thick and thin... good times and bad...blood sweat and tears. You've covered my eyebrows when they were a mess and you've let me straighten you when you just wanted to be wild. Oh, Bangs, though I want to tell you how much money I've actually spent trying to give you the best life possible, I won't. I won't. Because that would be rude and this is a love letter. SO, my friend, I just want to thank you and wish you a happy, healthy, stylish, and face slimming anniversary.

With love,

J-Ko

P.S. Going to San Francisco this weekend. Supposed to Rain. PLEASE do your best to behave. I would hate to cheat on you with my other love, The Bandana...

EVERYONE'S ANGRY

Thanks to another informative and entertaining episode of Sesame Street, Baby-Ko's word of the week (not to be confused with Murray's "Word on the Street") is "ANGRY...." (pronounced: "ANGA-REE.") There's a segment with Cuba Gooding Jr. talking about the word "angry" -- only, every time he refers to the word "angry," the word "angry" keeps running off screen, causing Cuba to get increasingly, you guessed it: ANGRY! "Really, really angry!"

I'm pretty sure that up until now, this fine piece of media was the only time Baby-Ko heard this word and saw what it meant (at the same time). But obviously, it stuck. In fact, it's now one of his favorites and every day we have a little conversation that goes like this:

Me: "Did you have fun at day care?"

B-Ko: "Yeah."

Me: "I'm so happy to hear that. What did you do?"

B-Ko: "I push a baby."

Me: "You pushed a baby? Oh no. That's not nice."

B-Ko: "Yeah, baby fell down. Baby cryyyyy."

Me: "The baby cried???"

B-Ko: "Yeah, baby so ANGA-REE."

Later... (bath-time)....

Me: "Baby-Ko, please stop splashing the water. The water needs to stay in the tub."

B-Ko: "No! I want to splash!" WHOOSH.

Me: (Taking a deep breath) "I asked you to stop. Why are you splashing?"

B-Ko: "Cuz... cuz... I so ANGA-REE."

Me: "Why are you so angry?"

B-Ko: "Cuz... cuz... Baby fell down. Baby cryyyyy."

Me: "The baby cried??"

B-Ko: "Yeah, baby so ANGA-REE."

You're probably wondering what said baby has to do with my now sopping wet leggings... But I encourage you to indulge me for a moment while I take this opportunity to brag and point out how brilliant I think the association is. Sure, it's off, and there wasn't an actual baby falling in my tub when I asked Baby-Ko to stop splashing. Sure, my son maaaay have at some point pushed a small child down resulting in tears and a conversation that is a little groundhog day-ish. BUT, he obviously now knows that there are many things that can cause anger (even if HE is the actual anger-causer) and for THAT, I'm extraordinarily proud of this development. (Go with it.)

Eventually I will break the news to him that he can be upset and feel whatever he wants without another child getting injured (and certainly without talking about another child getting injured). But for now, I quite enjoy our little discussions.... If not for any reason other than it sounds pretty cute to hear him say "Anga-ree."

In other kinda-sorta related news, a new study out of London says that families spend, on average, 15 minutes a day FIGHTING. The cause: Moms. Yep. Your mama. Click HERE to read... It will probably make you pretty ANGA-REE....

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(DON'T) CUT THE CHEESE

As a mom, I try really hard to do the right thing. I try to be organized. I try to be patient. I try to be thoughtful. I try to anticipate the needs and wants of my very strong willed and curious (two year old) child by being prepared. And I certainly try to handle all situations, where said personality traits can push ones buttons, with grace (and speed).

I TRY.

So, when Baby-Ko accompanied me to a very crowded and not so kid friendly Home Depot, you can imagine how hard I TRIED to explain to him why roaming the aisles (without holding my hand) wasn't really an option. You can also imagine how hard I TRIED to reason with him as we were leaving (literally four and a half minutes after we got there) that riding the fork lift in the parking lot was also not an option. And certainly, you can imagine how hard I TRIED to lure him into my very obvious not-a-contractor-just-a-stressed-out-mom-doing-an-errand-too-close-to-nap-time-SUV-with a "yummy string cheese...???"

"Cheese baby? Do you want cheese?" I said sweetly (waiting for a defiant "No!").

"Yeahhh. I want it," he said relaxing his body and sitting in to the car seat.

"Okay, my love. Here you are." Phew.

Without thinking, I peeled back the wrapper, broke the stick in half and handed him one of the pieces.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He wailed. "I want to bite it!!!" Tears erupted.

"What? Why? Wait, no! Look, you have TWO pieces! Mommy gave you two pieces of cheese!"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He flailed. "I don't want two!! I want together!!!"

Are you kidding me??? WTF?! Who doesn't like two pieces of cheese???

"Okay, shhhh! Calm down, Baby-Ko. Give it back to Mommy. I will make you one piece," I said boldly.

With one hand on the steering wheel (did I mention we were already on the road??), and one hand on the cheese(s), I literally started to mush the two ends together to create one "string," if you will. As I handed what I thought was a perfectly welded string/stick of friggin' cheese back to my boy, it fell apart. MORE TEARS.

"Baby! It's not working."

"I want it!!!! I want to bite!!!" He said, chucking half of the cheese back at me (thankfully landing on the console). OMG, kid.

O. M. G.

Doing my best not to lose it (with both tears and laughter), I took a deep breath and dug deep to my inner MacGyver. I mushed, and mushed, and contorted the over-processed (and while we're being honest: NOT organic) cheese back in to one stick and supported it by using the wrapper (like a banana leaf).

With my fingers now smelling like a combo of ass, foot crud, and Wisconsin Cheddar, I delicately handed the golden stick of goodness back to his royal highness.

"Okay, Baby-Ko. One stick. Eat it slowly."

"It's mine," he said sniffling. "My cheese."

"Yes," I said, "It's your cheese...." And for some reason, (and I have no idea why I said it, I just did), under my breath muttered: "Believe me it's yours. My hand smells like vagina."

Without missing a beat he responded: "I want my penis."

This time, I said and tried nothing. Down the road, (a long road, I hope) I think my strong willed and curious child will handle this one on his own... I just hope I'm prepared.....