Martha Plimpton is Back

I've been catching bits and pieces of the new series Raising Hope with no other than Martha Plimpton.    The show is hilarious.  But I just can't get over Martha Plimpton.  She's back, she cracks me up and she's frigging Martha Plimpton.    Is it too much to mention Martha Plimpton thrice in a paragraph of four sentences? 

If you were born in the 80s or God forbid even later go troll other blogs because I absolutely do not want to hear Martha WHO?  This Martha was one of the coolest chicks ever.  She was in The Goonies, Mosquito Coast, Running on Empy and was the long time girlfriend of River Phoenix.  When I was a teenager every girl I knew wanted to be her and more accurately get River Phoenix in her. 

Thing is when I finally got to see a full episode I was sickened to see that Martha Plimpton was actually playing the GRANDMOTHER!!!  The grand frigging mother.  Sure she is the young mother to a young father but is still a grandmother no matter how you look at it.  No fucking way, there is no way that this is possible.  If she is playing a grandmother, that only means that technically I am part of her granny generation.  I try to convince myself that just the thought of it is completely absurd.  But I can do the math.  I have friends with kids old enough to have lost their virginity which only means that the next generation can produce offspring any moment now.  No, it isn't impossible. 

However I am late in the motherhood race, so I can still live in the delusion of being a young mother when I should be saying the mother of young children.

Jenga

Last weekend I got the boys Jenga. They are so stoked with this game of construction and destruction.  I found this very sad Jenga video on YouTube.  I don't know it it's for real but it's awesome.  What the hell did I do before YouTube or Google?

Preparing for Summer

Gael was thrilled to find an unsolicited Toys R Us catalog that arrived at out doorstep.  Why people insist on wasting our depleting natural resource to try and sell us the latest in summer toys is beyond comprehension.  As if summer play things have changed much in the last 30 years.  Hmmmm, let's see there are the inflatable pools, floatees, goggles, water guns, shovels, pails.  Did I miss anything else?  Do you need anything else?

So Gael browsed through it from cover to cover about 3,197 times.  Screeching, gasping and begging me to buy every other toy in the damned thing.

Gael:  Mama, can you buy me this big pool?

Me:  Gael, we don't have space for that pool.

Gael:  Mama, can I have this kick board?

Me:  You already have one.

Gael:  Mama, can I have this snorkel and goggles?

Me:  You'll have to learn how to snorkel first.

Gael:  Mama, can I have this Cars floatee?

Me:  Gael, that's for a baby.  You won't fit in it.

Gael:  When you get fat again and the baby comes out of your vagina we can put the baby in the floatee.

Me:  I'll get you the kick board, snorkel and goggles.

Sugar High

There is nothing more insane than voluntarily giving your kids the biggest sugar high.  The sugar crash is a whole other story.

At Martha's Cakes, Serendra.

The Joy of Boys 2

I'll keep this one short, simple and absolutely horrifying.  My two boys find great joy in pick their noses AND eating their snot.  I tell them it's gross, they argue that it's yummy.  I hope they read this when they are teenagers, preferably with girlfriends, and die in shame.  But we are talking about Gael and Aiden, who are more likely to pound their fists on the table and yell  "HELL YEAH! I ATE MY SNOT AND LOVED IT."

What Was I Thinking?

These are the most painful pair of shoes I own.  They are so tall they don't fit in any shoe closet.  But they are kinda fun.

Get Off Your Lazy Ass!

No wait, that should be GET OFF YOUR FAT LAZY ASS!  In a parallel universe this is what I yell every morning to motivate me but in the real world I simply whine about my fat ass and how I have to squeeze them into my favorite pair of jeans.  That is on a good day.  On a bad day I can't even get my fat ass in the jeans, I break out in a sweat in my tiny walk-in closet figuring out what to wear, clothes are strewn all over the place and Paco runs to the attic and cowers under noise canceling headphones.

I am far from the person that loves the adrenalin of any form of a fitness regimen.  The sort of person whose day is not complete with sweating it out, and distressing muscles and joints.  I don't feel this horrible guilt when I don't get to go to the gym.  Instead I feel blissful, comparable to when I went to brunch and the movies instead of going to school.  My mom the teacher must be cursing the computer screen right now, "You what?!?!?!?!"  Yep, you read that right.

If I add up the amount of time I have actually stepped foot in the gym it would add up to ...... drum roll please ..... 1 year.  One frigging year in all my 37 years.  There were also 2.5 years going to a yoga studio.  Faithfully I might add.  So that is a whopping 3.5 years of being healthy.  I totally suck and I should be slapped in the face every time I whine about my fat ass.  Karma is the one word I should remember when no amount of jumping, adjusting, inhaling or lying in bed will get those jeans on my fat ass.

I enjoy working out at home where no one can see my flab jiggle, that I cannot touch my toes unless I bend my knees, I can do it in the rattiest shirts and most importantly I can't be called out on for cheating.  Even then Jane Fonda, Billy Blanks and Shiva Rea have found themselves in their cases more than actually being played.

But I'm nearing 40 and I have a feeling it is only the beginning of the flab and the belly and the cellulite.  Twenty years ago I didn't need to do anything to look good.  Of course I thought I was fat then and tortured myself with unhealthy eating and diet pills.  Only to burn off all those brunches.  Seriously.  Yes, I was an idiot.  Ten years ago all I needed was a couple of days of dieting to fit into that little dress that made me look so hot.  Today if I eat a spoonful of rice I will look 5 months pregnant the next day, my cellulite fornicates like rabbits and multiplies at the speed of my blinking, and I think I've spent too many years not eating cake to not indulge now.

I have a new trainer coming in a Johnny Air box soon.  Jillian Michaels.  Let's see how long she lasts.

For The Victor

Your team may have been two players short and you had to play four games in four hours but you still won third place.  Sure it was third out of five, but you did win and it gave you the biggest thrill.  You had an even bigger smile than when you opened that Power Rangers motorcycle present from Santa.  I was never into being a spectator at sports games but now I don't mind the early rise, the six scorching hours in the sun or the tank top tan lines I end up with for weeks.  Hell, I'm even enjoying the cheering, screaming and coaching when the real coach isn't helping.  Yes, I'm that kind of a soccer mom.

I'm probably supposed to tell you that winning isn't everything and all that bullshit but I'll save that for when you don't get a trophy and medal.  Today was a day for top dogs, so I'll let you bask in that Cristiano Ronaldo moment for as long as it lasts.

Undopas

Aiden spends his days sounding out words and has recently ventured into spelling them out as well.  His favorite word to spell is UNDERPANTS.  He thinks it's hilarious.

The Joy of Boys

People always give me the big-eyed look of horror when they hear that my earthling boys are both below six and twenty months apart.  Trying to be compassionate they say 'That must be so hard!'  Clearly they are blinded by the tutu skirts, the pigtails and the Barbie dolls.  Boys are free spirits, they are wild and full of energy.  These boys rule my universe.

Then there are those moments.  Those moments when I realize those people were right, things would be better with girls.  Boys after all are boys no matter how old they are and this can only mean one thing - penises.  The last couple of years penises means pee drops in the bathroom.  Lots of them.  All over the fucking place.    On the seat, on the lid, on the mat, on the floor.  It's gross and it drives me KUHREYZEE.  I never actually taught them to pee standing up.  They had no clue, I led them to believe that everyone peed sitting down and Paco was lone weirdo that would pee standing up.  Until they saw other little boys do it and realized that it would be totally amusing to torture me with one of the biggest indignation that women ever go through.