BEST COSTUME EVER

Tomorrow is Halloween and T-Ko's 33rd Birthday.  

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Happy Birthday! I'm so glad you're my douche bag...

xoxo

J-Ko

ALL GROWNS UP

The other night,  as I was feeding the baby, T-Ko was rifling through the mail and declared, "I'm over Victoria Secret."

"Huh?" I looked up. He holds up a Nordstrom lingerie catalogue. "Victoria Secret. It sucks. This. THIS is hot." T-Ko points to one of the pages, "Dude. Look at this. Isn't this hot?" 

I nod and wait for his next inevitable statement: "You should wear this."

Sure. But if you think that's hot, may I also introduce you to stores called Saks, Neiman's, and Barneys...

Later in the evening, as we were brushing our teeth, T-Ko tells me he saw one of our doctors, who is sort of a Hollywood/shmoozer type, at the mall. 

"... And I see him walking with this hot, young woman, and I'm like, 'uh oh.'"

"Oh no, really?" I say.

"No, it turned out it was his wife. My mom recognized her."

"Oh. Good. That would have sucked."  I rinse my mouth. "What does she look like? I picture like a very fake, over the top woman..."

"No. Not at all," he says: "She's like a more put together version of you."

Dude.

BYE-BYE BIRDIES

Aloha! We just got back from a beautiful week in Maui for Dirty Uncle P and Auntie J's wedding. It was awesome. The wedding, the weather, the family and friends.... it was a blast. I can't say that I am coming back relaxed, but I definitely am coming back exhausted which is a sign that I had a great time...

So as you know by now, I hate birds. But now that Baby-Ko can actually say the word "Bird" (well, it sounds more like "burr"),  I feel like I have to stifle my desire to scream and run when those nasty little creatures fly by or land near me. When I was in college, I baby sat for a little boy and every afternoon, I would take him to this playground which was constantly bombarded by pigeons. Panicked, I would shoo away the birds and mutter something probably very inappropriate for a 3 year old to hear under my breath. One day, the birds started to hover near his stroller and on cue, Z said "Go 'way birdies. I don't wike you." Uh oh. I said, "No, you can like birds. You like birds. IIIII don't like birds." "No!" He said, "I don't wike birds. Go 'way!" And that was that. I created a monster.

Determined not to make the same mistake with my own child (ha ha), I mustered up a lot of courage (mostly impart to the constant flow of pina coladas and other umbrella laden drinks), and endured the insane amount of bird presence at the hotel. There are birds, there are parrots, there are flamingos, there are swans. There are even penguins. Vomit. BUT, I remained so calm. We even ate breakfast at Swan Court (yes, literally, it's a fucking court for swans. Die.), and  the "burrs" were flying around like it was a Hitchcock film. I wanted to scream and shoo them away with my napkin, but I didn't. Instead, I pointed them out like a good mommy. I even turned a blind eye for a half a second when he threw a piece of food on the floor purposefully so the birds would come and eat it (okay, it wasn't completely blind. I had my foot nearly up the birds beak ready to kick it the fuck away if it got any closer). The point is, the fact that Baby-Ko is using his words and identifying things and even composing sentences like "Bye-Bye Burr", I have no choice but to chill out. 

But it's a damn good  thing he doesn't know how to say "Germs" and "Plane" yet. Because I don't know just how much "chilling" I can do...

A BARE NECESSITY

I normally would not share a story of a  bikini wax from hell with my readers, but I'm watching "The Rachel Zoe Project" and for some unknown reason, something about this show is making me want to dish... 

**

We're leaving for this week to go to Maui for my brother in law's wedding. (Twice in five months. I'm a lucky girl, I know!)  Of course, leaving for a tropical vacation means beautifying from head to toe...  I found an amazing waxer close to my house who charges a lot, but who's meticulous, CLEAN (key!), fast and painless. BUT, since I'm a working mama now, I kind of need one-stop shopping. SO, at the urging of the woman who owns my nail salon, I decided to try her Waxing Lady. 

When the WL took me back to the private room, I was a little taken aback by the fact that she put on a surgical mask. Perhaps she's sick?  "Are you sick?" I ask, as I start sliding off my jeans. "No. Duck chicken school." Ummm.... okay. She is Vietnamese. Her English isn't great, and under the mask it's much worse. I lay on the table, fully nude from waist down, and she takes a big magnifying light, (the kind that the dentist uses when he's digging for a cavity), and shines it down there.  I take a deep breath.

"What we doing today, honey?" she asks, "Brazillian, Playboy...?"

"Um, both?" As if I really can ever tell the difference.  She reaches into her little caddy.

"Whoah. What is that? What are you doing??!??!" I ask shocked. SHE IS SPRAYING SOMETHING. LIKE A FUCKING ODORIZER OR SOMETHING!

"Don't worry. You don' t want to know." WHAT?! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW? WHAT????? Just for the record, this isn't my first trip down bikini waxing lane. Been doing this for quite some time. NEVER, I repeat, NEVER has someone SPRAYED something near my hoo ha. Never.  HOWEVER, I am now naked waist down. Hot wax is about to become my worst enemy, and an unclear Vietnamese lady is in charge. I take the second of MANY deep breaths, and decide not to respond.

The WL sticks the popsicle stick in the wax and approaches said area, "Hold, " she demands, "HOLD!" she says again putting my hands on my thigh and stomach, making me pull back my skin, fat and organs so as to make the skin taught. "I'm holding," I say frightened. 

"Tighter," TIGHTER?! How much more can I pull?! She YANKS my thigh back. "THERE!" She screams. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP. 

"You see. Tighter. I get heaven." Huh? Did she say "heaven?" Did she mean it gets "even?" I have no fucking clue. As I start to internally scream at myself for agreeing to let this wacky broad tear at my privates, without missing a beat, the WL has my hands pulling my other thigh and stomach tight again. Literally, she has me pulling, lifting, flattening my body out so much that you'd think I was a morbidly obese person who's lost something in the folds of their fat. I think about asking her what the purpose of me groping myself like this is, because clearly it's not to minimize the pain, but she's already so busy proudly muttering something else about how "other people don't do like I do" that I realize it will be pointless. 

I sit up slightly to see the work that she's done so far. She pushes my head back. "You look later." Okaaaaaaaaaay. I guess she likes her clients to be surprised... 

Next thing I know, she's shoving a popsicle stick in my hand. "HOLD," she says and positions my hand and the popsicle stick in such a way that I wonder if I'm causing physical damage. "HOLD." She says again, pushing firmly. "Ow," I say meekly, praying that this will be over soon. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.  

"YES!" She exclaims and shows me the muslin. "You see. Very curly. Chicken. Pad thai bullet proof," is what I can make out. Whatever. Just finish. Please. FINISH.

For the rest of the session she pulls, tightens, pushes and violates my hoo ha and has me in positions that I don't think my husband has even seen.  After a grueling 25 minutes, she finally finishes. I grab my underwear and jeans and pull them up.  Was I just her bitch??

As I walk back out into the nail salon to pay, I can hear whispers in Vietnamese and I can only imagine what she's telling them.  Omg... So embarrassing.

 And to quote Rachel Zoe: "DIE. I DIE...."

IT'S ALL RELATIVE

Well, it's only Monday but I feel like there's already a few things that are post worthy... or not. You be the judge.
Let's see....
1) I got my first "Your Son is Sick" call from Day Care today. Around 4pm my cell phone rang and one of the teachers at Baby-Ko's day care told me that he felt warm and when she took his temperature, it was about 100. I quickly grabbed my stuff, told my coworkers the situation, and ran out the door to save my son. Okay, maybe he didn't need saving, but I felt like I needed to be there as fast as I could for him. It was a textbook case of new/working mom/baby's sick.  I have officially joined "the club." For reals though.

2) Due to Baby-Ko suffering from a cold, or molars coming in, or a reaction to his vaccinations, or all of the above, we're going to keep him home from day care. Of course, this is kind of problematic since we don't have alternative day care lined up. Fortunately, my Nana has offered to come and spend the day with Baby-Ko.  We've decided to dub her as Nana Poppins. The best part of having her here is that we can watch Dancing with the Stars together. She thinks Cloris Leachman looks "marvelous." I think Brooke Burke looks "ridic."  I guess it's all relative...

3) Last night, as I got in to bed, I realized it had been a long time since I had fallen asleep on T-Ko's chest. I used to be able to pass out, drool, and sleep like a log on his chest. Lately, though bed time is all business. But last night, I went for the chest and found the perfect position almost immediately. Just as I started to drift off, T-Ko said, "You know, when you were pregnant, you weren't able to do this."

"Huh, why?" I said.

"Because of the smell..." He had showered before we got into bed. "I used this soap once when you were pregnant and I got out of the shower and you freaked out and told me that it was the worst most, perfumey, soapy scent EVER.  You told me that I smelled like Borat at a night club and you were having an allergic reaction to the smell."

"I probably was. My nose was super sensitive when I was pregnant. Seriously."

"''Throw it away. Immediately,' you told me," he said mimicking me.

"And did you?" I asked.

"Nooo.  I kept the soap."

"You kept the soap???"

"Yeah, i kept the soap. You were pregnant. Hormonal. Nuts. I kept the soap. And tonight, I ran out of soap, and guess what I used--"

Silence. I take a deep breath. Oh, no. The soap. I seriously smell the soap.

"Oh my god, it's horrible. I can't believe you used the soap."

"You would have NEVER noticed if I hadn't said anything," he said.

"Yeah, but now I notice and now I can't even breath. You do smell like Borat. I feel like I'm in a department store with bad perfume. Oh my god, it's the worst smell ever," I say rolling over to the other side.

"You really are crazy," T-Ko said.

"You really smell."

"Good night. Love you."

"Love you too. Please throw out the soap," I say dozing off... and realizing that we really did run out of soap, and now I  too will smell like homeless gypsy. Crap.

ROLLING OUT THE RED CARPET

I had just had a busy day at work, dropped off/picked up baby from day care, put baby to sleep, sent out bills and washed bottles... As I sat down to finally catch my breath and inhale the world's most fattening tostada, I looked over to T-Ko who was digging into his tostada with one hand and controlling the remote with the other.

All of a sudden I felt like such an adult. Not sure what it was but it hit me. Excited by the feeling of being a real adult in a real marriage with someone I really love, I started to make small talk about my day.
"... so then," I said, with guacamole hanging out of my mouth, "they ordered breakfast burritos for everyone. I was so excited but I already brought lunch with me. So I just had a little bit then waited for lunch. But THEN-"
I look up. His eyes are not on me. They're are not even on his plate. They are on the TV. Aha, I should have known. Dodger Game.
"Um, you're not even listening are you?"
"No, babe. I'm not. This is my Oscars. My Emmy's. My red carpet. So, no. I'm not listening to you," he says unapologetically. Hmm. Just like that.

I get it. I do. The Dodgers are in the playoffs. It's huge. It's fun. It's HISTORY.
But I feel like he gets to have "his oscars" once a month... Basketball, Baseball, Football (omg. Don't get me started on football!), Hockey (he doesn't even like hockey)... It's always something. Me, I get the Oscars ONCE a year. The red carpet? Please! As if I have 4 hours at once now to sit down and watch the arrivals. Those days are over!

The point is, I realize my silly story about what I was eating at work certainly wasn't worth him breaking his trance during playoffs (or listening to at all, for that matter), BUT I just wonder if now that I'm fully committed with work and baby and life, if I'll ever get a chance to tune out and have my "Oscar" moment whenever I please...  If so, T-Ko, be prepared to walk the red carpet alone tomorrow at 6am. I'll be busy accepting my award....