Ode to Emily

I am sorry Emily.
For losing your gloves.
At the game.
When I was two sheets to the wind.
And off we are sailing again.

You were kind enough to gather a smile for me.
When my dumb ass hugged and squeezed you in the wintery mix.
Apologizing.

If it makes thee feel better.
I karate kicked myself in the mirror that day.
And had many concerned drunk people laughing at me.
Without a friendly face in sight.

We danced like hippies in the night.
With random strangers.
To the tune of the Faces Oh La La.
And grubbed on Burke sushi that rocked.

I packed my suitcase after a small vomit.
Napped and I was on another plonit.
Back in LV.
Where months went by before...
I remembered the score.

Emily 1
Carla 0

You are my zen-like hero.

I owe thee gloves ;0

Boom Boom Boom. It's Over.

Have you ever heard something from a distance that might just be in your head? And the thought crosses your mind that perhaps this is the last moment before an aneurysm debilitates or takes you? 

Today, I was sitting with my kids and for a moment, just a moment, I heard a loud bass-like sound. The tots didn't flinch which led me to believe I was the only one aware of the strange distant boom. For a second I thought about all of the things I had never done. The dreaded bucket list begins to flow: live in India for a month with a guru, learn francais, see all of the great operas, raise happy people, spend a vacation tasting beautiful champagne in France, hot air balloon ride. 

Why do we wait so long to fulfill our dreams? What is the purpose of this list? Do we ever truly plan on completing each of these goals? 

My theory is that these are supposed to be landmarks of accomplishments that we believe define our character. But really, if you think about it, it's the daily acts that make you who you are, not whether or not you learned to speak french or meditated in India. 

Maybe the trick is to live mini dreams every day, to be your own story's hero. 

And as I start thinking of closing my eyes it occurs to me that this sound is the beating of my own heart, happy and full of life. 

Time to go out and live it.

Cue my happy song.......

Is There Such Thing As Soft Punk?

It has recently come to my attention, through the utmost of scientific data (Facebook), that Punk Rock and all things associated, are back in fashion.

Marc Jacobs' new spring collection features models strutting their studded, collared stuff on the runway. 

When coming up with my spring collection, I listened to The Replacements "Kids Don't Follow" on repeat. Every now and then, I sprinkled some Dead Kennedys and the Circle Jerks. I fell back in love with the Dead Milkmen and Operation Ivy.

So: What's up Marc Jacobs? Why are you copying me?

I remember mosh pits and violent elbow flings. You probably got elbowed on your way to boarding school.

Okay, really, I was not that cool. I thought I was special, shitty attitude and all. All of my friends followed the same formula. 

The beauty of Facebook has recently reunited me with my old friends from high school. When I see their profile pictures, smiling and looking like normal, functioning members of society, I feel confused.

I expect them to still have shaved heads and bad attitudes. I expect to talk about "posers" and how Green Day's "Kerplunk" ruined punk music altogether in one fell swoop.

Instead, we talk about our kids. We talk about baking and work. We have waved bye bye to Punk Rock. We are now, at best, Soft Rock.

I miss those days. 

One of my best friends in high school loved to call me Ralphonzo. This was her thing. I talked to her the other day, after many years without knowledge of her whereabouts.

She called me Carla.

My memories of high school are parked in high school. I, however, am parked in the harsh reality of my 30s.

I Think I Need To Share (To The Four Wonderful People That Read This)

I stumbled upon this video:

Does this remind anyone of ANYTHING?!?!?!??!?!?!

Maybe I've seen it HERE:

You can't out do Boats and Hos, call me crazy.

Latinos Everywhere....Exhale

I was surfing the web yesterday and realized there is a huge internet controversy. The message boards were covered with questions and outrage, mostly by Latino people wanting to know:

is she one of ours?

Nadya Suleman, mother of the famous Octuplets, is NOT of Latin American descent. I repeat.

This woman 

is not a reason for Latin people to sob themselves to sleep every night.

We didn't do it this time!!! Applause to us!

Sorry Iraq, this one's all yours.

Pedicure Vs. PediPaws and Shizzzz

My husband is in the top five most hilarious people I have ever met. The reason I say this is because, after years of knowing him, his ridiculous idiosyncrasies are still intriguing to me. 

This man is incredibly rational and full of knowledge about everything, and I mean EVERYTHING: so much so that my brother has nicknamed him "Facts."

My Baby Daddy loves infomercials. He loves them so much that he has memorized a few important ones, like ShamWow.

 

Every time ShamWow comes on, he begins his shtick: 

"Try this fuckin' thing. It was developed in Germany. Would ya just try this fuckin' thing? It's German, you fucking Mo." 

I don't know why this never stops being hilarious to me. I wiggle around in delight just to hear what profanity will shoot out next.

Another infomercial he LOVES is for a product called PediPaws. In case you have been under a rock for the past five years, PediPaws, like its brother Pedicure, is a little electric dog nail trimmer. 

My husband stayed up till 3 a.m. two nights ago doing Internet research on the difference between the two products so that he could make an educated purchase. I could hear the infomercial over and over again in my sleep.  I finally had to beg him to put the computer away or I might try to trim his nails during a REM cycle.

A few days went by with no mention of the product research, but I knew it was coming.

Today, I left him alone with the kids and dogs while I ran errands. When I came home, he approached me like a little kid who had seen his first lightning bug, all wide eyed and happy.

"Shh, do you hear that?" he asks

"What are you talking abou..."

"Shh. Listen," he interrupts sticking his finger in the air.

"Ugh! What are you talking about?!" I start to say impatiently as I throw my purse on the chair.

"No more clickety clack, clickety clack. The dogs. I trimmed their nails," Facts says.

"Did you buy a Pediwhatever? Wait.....what did you do?" I ask walking towards the power tools on the kitchen counter. A dog runs past me, silently, with its' tail tucked between its' legs. 

"I used the Dremmel! It worked like a charm. They didn't really struggle," he says smiling proudly.

"You used the Dremmel to trim the dogs' nails?! Are you out of your mind?"

Now the important thing to note here is that this is the type of shit my husband is known to do. He loves doctoring great ideas into his own little work of art; this little work of art also has to include the air of danger or it is not worthwhile.

This is the type of stuff I live for. I am crazy about this man for so many reasons. He did the research, he cared about the dog toes and then he decided to Dremmel them instead. The way his mind works makes me giggle to myself for days.

Another thing to mention today, since we are on the subject of dogs, is that I dragged him to see Marley and Me. Now I did not read the book because I really don't care much for that type of writing, but the movie intrigued me for some reason.

Let me just say, this movie was a cheap shot to the heart. "BASTARDS!" I kept screaming in my husbands' ear on the way out of the theatre. There wasn't a dry eye in the house...and I will tell you why (By the way, this might spoil the movie for you):

WHILE THEY ARE PUTTING THE DOG TO SLEEP THEY RUN A FLIPPING MONTAGE. 

Oh yeah, this montage was complete with adorable puppy belly flops and tongue baths. I mean, COME ON! What the hell are they thinking?! I actually thought for a second that I was going to let out an audible wail. I hiccuped, snarfed and held back a snot bubble. 

My husband shifted uncomfortably in his seat, hand conveniently covering his eyes. I tried to sneak a peek, just a little one, to see if he was crying. Then I figured....aw, just let the man have his privacy. Let him be your strong man. Let him be your Dremmel-carrying, ShamWow man.

What's My Name Again?

I need a cookie.