Giving Thanks But Not for Road Trips

You know what I'm not thankful for today? The invent of the automobile. Without motorized vehicles people wouldn't be expected to drive hundreds upon hundreds of miles just to eat a big-ass bird stuffed with bread crumbs and wind up with a case of raging heartburn.

We left Tuesday night to avoid the traffic. My husband insists the trip home is four hours but it always takes five. "It's four with no traffic," he tells me. Last time I checked he didn't command the type of power to clear highways, thus the trip is five hours. And if it ALWAYS takes us five, it's a five-hour trip, no? Case closed.

So we took off in conjunction with the girls' bedtime under the delusion that they would go to sleep in the car soon after we left. "Go night night in car" they kept repeating after me. See? They were on board with the plan. They didn't whine the whole first five minutes of the trip. We hadn't even left the Chicago city limits when I considered jumping out of the moving car. Oh, I've done it three times before, although it's been a while: 1) On my 21st birthday; 2) On the way to a Dave Matthews concert when it suddenly occurred to me I hate Dave Matthews and 3) Around 2002 when a guy said the wrong thing at the wrong time in a cab.

But now I have children and lunging desperately out of moving vehicles seems irresponsible. Plus I'm older so it might hurt more. Or possibly break a hip.

Around Gary, Indiana, the girls started fighting about a singing puppy they've literally had since birth. "It's MY puppy!" "No, it's MY puppy!" This went on for an excruciatingly long time with the pitch getting louder and more annoying by the minute. Did I mention this toy wasn't even in the car with us and I was sitting in the backseat between them?

So I threaten them: "Mommy is going to sit in the front seat if you don't stop yelling!" I yelled. "Mommy go front seat! Mommy go front seat!" Apparently I overestimate the pleasure of my own company. I have to then awkwardly wedge my fat ass up to the front seat and I finally get settled with my seat belt on when they start crying for me to come back.

That's when I decided to treat them like I would an annoying sorority sister on a Walkout Roadtrip Weekend: Pretend they didn't exist. No matter how many times they addressed me, I looked straight ahead or out the window. Incidentally, you can learn a lot looking out the window on a road trip. Like there is a town called Climax. And another called Paw Paw.

At one point -- it is pouring rain causing poor visibility mind you -- my husband gets out his iPhone and pulls into the right lane and seems to be going extraordinarily slow. I decide to say nothing. But then 2 seconds later I can't help myself. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???" He was trying to pull up a weather map. I guess to confirm we were in the middle of torrential rains where people should be watching the road and not looking at iPhones. I usually try not to be a back seat driver as my history of accidents and citations seem to indicate I'm not the best judge. But this rule, as most others, doesn't apply to the treatment of my husband. The iPhone was put away.

Alas, the girls finally fell asleep and I learned the "Bore and Ignore Technique" works just as well in 2009 on whiny toddlers as it did in the late 80s on chatty college co-eds. My husband got us here safe and sound. The girls are having fun. And I've eaten my own weight in homemade cookies. Which just means I'll have to stay in the same seat the entire ride home. Happy Thanksgiving...

Two Degrees of Separation

I don't mean to brag, but my husband hung out this weekend with the nephew of one of the most famous musicians on Earth. He had a guys weekend, so to speak, to attend a football game at his alma mater. (Snore.) So one of my husband's friends brought a guy he works with, the relative of seriously one of the most famous people on Earth. See if you can guess who.

He sells out concerts around the world to screaming fans. It's almost impossible to get tickets to any of his shows. He's Australian (no not Keith Urban but dear God if it was I would have driven to their location with girls in tow and hugged this guy in hopes that some of Keith's DNA rubbed off on me.) He's a really good dancer... Anyone? Okay, it's one of these guys:

So now I'm wondering if it would be too forward to ask the nephew to get us a private show with his uncle and his band as one of my kids' Christmas presents. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just a few songs. And, since the girls really don't like people, if they would mind dressing up as our current favorite characters. Like one could be Dora, another Boots, a Barney and finally one as Thomas the Train. I don't think the costumes would impact their routine too much. And, really, my husband rode in a car with this guy for five hours there and back and hung out for an entire weekend. It's the least the guy could do, right?

So this FameCrawler thing. I've been asked how you can search by author over there so you can find my posts. If you go to "tags" at the bottom of posts and in one of mine click on "LuLu and Moxleys Mom," all of my posts should come up. But, hey, if you're like me, you're a lazy SOB so here are links to a few you might enjoy. Or not.

Like this one where I piss someone off for making fun of Seal's name.

Or this one where I suggest Kathy Hilton should have given her children up to be raised by someone else.

Or here where I accuse Posh Spice of being a big fat liar (or little emaciated liar as the case may be.)

TWO!

My babies turn two today. Their new, fairly obtrusive slide better keep them busy all winter long while we're stuck inside or I'm sending hate mail to ToysRUs and all the reviewers who said "It's hours of fun!" I hope they literally meant hours. How many toys come with the promise of "Keeps them busy all day!" and they take one look at the thing and just want to climb around in the box it came in?

Also, I have a tip for you: Want the most visually appalling not to mention most poorly made sleepwear on the planet? Look no further than the Dora winter footie, available at crappy discount stores everywhere:

It had a hole in it within 20 minutes of being worn. "Fix it!" one twin wailed. Right. Or burn it.

Well, maybe you've noticed I'm not overly mushy. So I'll spare you my sentiments regarding how I can't believe my girls are two and how I haven't teared up that way since Kate goes through all the trouble to return to the island to see Sawyer and he's shacking up with Juliet. (Oh, right, I also cried during Marley and Me -- I'm trying to forget about that...) That two years ago I was lying in the hospital looking at their scrawny little legs in complete and utter fear and that they used to look like this, swimming in their newborn outfits:

And so happy that despite their tininess I was allowed to take them home with me. Now, two years later, they are chubby little people-hating tyrants. Just like their mother. Happy birthday, girlies!

Haircuts and Hoodlums

Is this twin beginning to look slightly like Edward Scissorhands?

Or maybe Michael Jackson circa 1999?

And then I suspect the other twin has joined a dangerous toddler gang terrorizing the parks and playgroups around Chicago.

No wonder The Gap rejected us -- we need a makeover! And maybe one of those de-programmers who specialize in breaking at-risk youth's ties to fellow gang members.

Yup, that's all I've got today, people. Weak, I know.

CMAs: The Good, the Overly Tan and the Cat Lady

Did you know I love country music? Well, I do. I have family who finds this strange given we're originally from New York. It's not like I say "y'all" or anything. But I would if George Strait asked me to... A few observations about last night's Country Music Awards:

• Speaking of George Strait, the man is 58 years old and hot. If I had a geriatric top five, he would certainly be #1. As a matter of fact, I might slip him into my regular top five right behind Daniel Craig (who would have to get a sex change operation for me to drop him from #1). It's a long story but I once received a phone call from George's tour bus driver who claimed to be good at "rounding up the ladies." I'm not kidding and it's too convoluted to explain right now.
• Speaking of convoluted, what rehab center was Kris Kristofferson granted leave from to attend the CMAs? Did he seem like he was on something or was it just me? It was like he was starring in "A Star is Heavily Medicated."
• I usually hate Dave Matthews. So much so that I jumped off a moving bus that was headed to his concert. But last night as he sang with Kenny Chesney I almost didn't want to kill him.
• Nicole Kidman was seated in the front row with Keith Urban. Is Nicole Kidman dead and Keith Urban had her body taxidermied so he always had a date to award shows? She looks crazy. I don't know what she's having done or why, but maybe Tom Cruise saw that a plastic immovable face was in his future and that explains the abrupt divorce.
• At first glance, one might think Darius Rucker was the blackest person at the CMAs. He was -- until Winona Judd hit the stage. HOLY CRAP! Did she pass out on margaritas on some beach in Mexico and wake up right before the awards burnt to a crisp? And Naomi wasn't looking so hot herself but at least she still looked the same race.
• Speaking of perhaps not realizing one was supposed to appear at an event that evening, LeAnn Rimes looked like someone punched her in the face. Her stylist calls it "smoky eyes." I call it "got the crap beat out of you." And that's not entirely out of the realm of possibility given she really pissed off her married lover's wife.
• Speaking of eyes, does Taylor Swift look like a cat? Might she actually be a cat? I had to leave the room during her opening performance. It was that bad and I couldn't be party to it as a witness. Entertainer of the year? Silly. Female vocalist of the year? Ridiculous. Nothing can top Carrie Underwood's performance of "I Told You So." Regardless, I fear in 40 years Taylor is going to look like this, and that's without any plastic surgery.
• Listen, I like Darius Rucker as much as the next guy. But an award as a "new" artist? He's not new! He's Hootie! He's been around for years! He's not really even that country. The least he could have done was wear a cowboy hat to blend a little.
• Could they have shown that Father of the Bride chick any more sitting in the front row? Yes, I know she's married to Brad Paisley and he was hosting the show. But come on. I was waiting for Martin Short to come out and start wedding planning.
• Did you catch the Burger King commercial starring the Rascal Flatts? Umm. I hate to state the obvious, but might it be better if the lead singer stay away from the Whoppers for a while?
• Kid Rock is strangely sexy. Diseased, probably, but strangely sexy.
• Overall, these awards were way better than the Grammys or Emmys or Oscars. It was actually kind of funny and the award recipients didn't blather on or try to make political statements or wait to get chased off stage by music signaling them to shut the hell up.

Barney, The Gap and Rejection

Who is the sick bastard who thought me up?

My children have finally realized that we've seen every Caillou ever made 10 times each and keep saying, "New Caillou!" I gently explained that the Caillou production staff can't keep up with the public's insatiable appetite for fresh programming. When that didn't register, I simply said "Caillou night night" and that seemed to do the trick.

So we channel surfed until we landed on Barney and they seemed intrigued. Good God in Heaven! Where do they find the children featured on this show? I'm trying to understand what such a casting call might say:

Seeking inordinately unattractive children who are shunned by their peers and often get thrown in lockers at school for long periods of time. The more annoying and unlikeable the better! Must not be fearful of large, extinct, dancing reptiles. Overweight with no sense of rhythm and very thick eyeglasses a plus.

What is Barney selling anyway? The theme of the one we saw was about saving the Earth and I half-wondered if Al Gore was in that big purple suit.

Speaking of exploited children, I haven't heard from The Gap people. If you recall I entered the girls in the Baby Gap modeling contest in a misguided attempt at a free vacation to Sesame Street Beaches. Apparently -- and feel free to share my disbelief -- the Gap powers-that-be must think they've found kids CUTER THAN MINE. I'm not so upset for me but more for the girls. I think facing rejection at the tender age of 2 is a lot to handle. I guess I'll just be honest: "The Gap doesn't think you're pretty enough for the big-time and if you're hell-bent on a career in entertainment you might want to consider plastic surgery." Then to rub it in maybe I'll suggest they try out for Barney.

Girls Gone Wild: Toddler Edition

I hope its pure coincidence that my daughters ripped off their shirts and half-streaked across the park right around the time Joe Francis reached a plea deal and got time served for schmarminess tax evasion and they don't have aspirations toward flashing for the cameras. Have you ever seen a more grotesque, meatier face than the cad below? Ewww. I was hoping they would throw him in a dungeon with a bunch of sex-starved inmates armed with video equipment.

By the way, just to prove we in fact took the girls to the park fully dressed:

Anyway, what's with today's culture where everyone gets naked (adults, not toddlers) for cameras and videos and doesn't expect the footage to appear at some point. I always thought while her singing and acting are questionable, that JLo was at least smart. (Making money with relatively little talent must take some intelligence.) Apparently not enough to realize you don't make an ELEVEN-HOUR (???!!!) sex tape on your honeymoon, divorce the loser, and then expect him not to sell said sex tape. Too bad Marc Anthony doesn't weigh more than 90 pounds so he could kick some ex-husband ass.

Am I the only person left on the planet without a sex tape I'm anxiously waiting to surface?

PS -- Combining my kids, Joe Francis and the topic of sex tapes in the same post is admittedly a bit creepy but I'm a bit scattered today...

Who Moved My Cheese?

We are back and settled in our home if you call surrounded by boxes and not being able to find a blender when you need one "settled in." I'd love to report the blender was for a stiff "boat drink" as Jimmy Buffet would call it, but sadly it was for pureed (homemade, organic) sweet potatoes for the girls. My point in mentioning the sweet potato part is to remind you I am all that and a bag of chips as a mother. Anyway, I became irate at my husband -- who was at work at the time -- that I couldn't find the blender. I'm sure somehow it's his fault.

What's also his fault: Since we had to completely unpack our house as though we just moved in, I took this opportunity to clean out and organize the girls' room and clothes. A pile they've outgrown to pass on to their younger cousin, a pile for donating and a pile that no human should ever have to lay eyes on ever again. I found a place for everything that currently fits and was pleased as punch with myself. So imagine my surprise when I went to the sock / tights drawer and the socks were missing. "Where the @#$! are their socks?!" I screamed like a deranged lunatic in my husband's general direction. Turns out he "thought it made more sense for the socks to be in a different drawer." BECAUSE HE IS THE ONE WHO PUTS THEIR SOCKS ON EVERY DAY??? Well, no.

So here's my plan. One day when he's traveling or otherwise not in his office, I'm going to smugly take the train downtown, make myself at home at his place of employment and rearrange everything how I would like it if I were still a productive member of corporate America. Pens will unnecessarily change drawers, pictures put on different shelves and file names changed and alphabetized in such a manner that Einstein couldn't decipher code. He won't be able to find a damn thing by the time I'm done with it. And then, just for effect, I'll send out several obnoxiously inappropriate e-mails from his computer, the kind I might have sent back in the day that seemed to rub folks the wrong way. Example:

Dear Legal People:

I'm assuming by all of the non-legal-related edits you made to the press release that you'd like to be an editor rather than a lawyer. Might I suggest we compare paychecks at next Friday's happy hour before you decide for sure? Regardless, attached is the FINAL draft of the press release. While I admire your enthusiasm for the correct usage of the English language and its accompanying punctuation, if and only if you find something that WILL GET US SUED are you permitted to edit any further. Thanks for your understanding and ongoing legal expertise.

Unfortunately, my husband is in a different line of work than I was so I can't send this one verbatim. Although that would really confuse people and scream "crazy" so it might just work...

Ding Dong

I'm from the school of thought that you just don't show up unannounced on someone's doorstep. I'm also from the school of thought that if you ring my buzzer during naptime and wake up my children you might get yourself shot. Not in the heart or head or anywhere deadly. Maybe just the foot or groin depending on your sex.

When those someones have shown up and rang my buzzer and woken up my children and I come to find out their uninvited visit is in an attempt to convert me to their religious beliefs, I am inclined to ask them for their addresses so I can return the favor around, say, 3:00 am or thereabouts. I also want to ask them what their success rates are with this particular form of outreach. I mean how many people really let them in, chat amicably for a bit and then announce, "You know what! They sounds fanfuckingtastic! Sign me up!" I'm not even sure what religion these people were touting, but if it requires me going door to door as a member the answer is "thank-you-very-much-for-thinking-of-my-salvation-but-I'll-have-to-pass." I say that after I shoot them of course.

Does this happen in the suburbs or only in the city?

My Mama Dresses Me Funny II

Dear God there's a winterized version of the Jolly Romper! So mesmerized was I by this trend that I hired several investigative photojournalists to document its continuing popularity south of the Mason Dixon Line. Apparently this dear boy's sister was wearing a coordinating one covered in bows but my paparazzo got nervous and couldn't capture the sibling on film.

How many years of therapy will this kid need? Ten? Twenty? An entire lifetime? What's sad is his parents and multitude of psychiatrists probably won't even be able to pinpoint his impending mental instability to this very outfit. The mother will fret her whole life: "Was I too permissive? Not permissive enough? Did I nurse too long? Not long enough?" Nope, lady, you just had sucky-ass taste in toddler wear.

I will say that the fall/winter Jolly Romper is more becoming in that the colder weather necessitates an undergarment so at least the kid isn't exposing his armpits. But need it have a girly habit-like collar? Remember this precious little profile people. Because someday we will see it again. On America's Most Wanted.

PS -- I'm slightly concerned about the ethics of posting photos of other people's children. But not enough not to do it.

Marley and Jennifer Aniston

I am not a dog person. I thought the book Marley and Me was the biggest piece of crap I've ever read and the only reason I read it was because I was stuck on a tarmac with nothing else to read except Southwest's in-flight magazine and that SkyMall catalog and even those were riveting in comparison. Having bought it for my mom (who is a dog person) as a birthday gift I was tempted to throw it out and save her the misery. Showing up with no present might have been better than showing up with that present.

So when my husband TIVO'd the movie, I thought he'd gone nuts. He dislikes Jennifer Aniston and seemed to be personally affronted when Owen Wilson tried to take his own life. ("What the hell does that guy have to be upset about?!")

Nevertheless, we sat down to watch it Saturday night. And I bawled my eyes out. AND I'M NOT A DOG PERSON. Anyone who is a dog person I would imagine needs a prescription for Prozac just to get through it.

But here is my bone of contention. (People, there's always a bone of contention.) Is Jennifer Aniston ever not Jennifer Aniston in a movie? Does she ever do accents or novel facial expressions or gestures she doesn't ordinarily do when, say, being interview by Oprah? Don't get me wrong. I love Jennifer Aniston. I want to BE Jennifer Aniston. (I want to BE anyone who's made out with Vince Vaughn.) I mean, she's likable in all of her roles. Because she's, well, her. In her next role, I think they should just call the character she's going to play Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer Aniston as Jennifer Aniston.

Oh, sure, she played that depressed wife role in The Good Girl. So she slouched a bit and didn't smile much. Big whoop. Okay, maybe I'll make an exception for Leprechaun. Because if you can pull off hunting down a murderous Irish munchkin with a straight face, anything's possible.

Also, could the makeup people have at least TRIED to make it seem like they aged a bit? Jennifer and Owen looked exactly the same throughout the movie which takes place over like 13 years or something. The only thing aging was the dog. And the kids.

That said, I actually liked this movie. Shoot me.