Don't Rain on My Parade

And really, in Los Angeles, where it's rained approximately 2 inches since we moved here in June, you wouldn't think that would be much of an issue.  You can be damned sure it's not going to snow, so it's a fairly safe assumption that your neighborhood Christmas parade would be a precipitation-free event.  But then, you've never lived my life, where irony seems to reigns supreme.  

Cloudy and cool all day, but dry.  As always, dry.   Until we were getting ourselves out of the house to walk down the street to the parade.  Then mother nature decided it was as good a time as any to release the drizzle, which turned into a steady, cold rain by the time we got to Ventura Blvd.  

We took soggy shelter under the awning of a bridal shop and waited for the festivities to begin.  And waited.  And waited.  

Being a New Englander at heart, weather doesn't phase me much.  I am a classic "we walked to school, uphill, both ways, barefoot, in four feet of snow!  And we were happy to do it!!!" person.  As a teacher, I knew not to expect snow days unless there were at LEAST three inches of snow on the ground and numerous traffic accidents reported by 5am.  Had superintendents been any more lax with their school-canceling criteria, we'd have been going to school until late July.   I once drove 12 hours in a blizzard, up and over the mountains of Vermont to get to a boyfriend at Ft. Drum, in Watertown, NY, and was psyched to have gotten a head-start because my school was let out early due to inclement-weather (read: white-out conditions).  

When I moved to Washington, DC, I had a good laugh at the expense of people there who freaked if snow was so much as mentioned as a possibility in the forecast.  Just a good threat of snow would cancel school (the original preemptive strike) and empty grocery store shelves of bread, water, milk and canned goods (because apparently nothing says "snowed in" like a cold minestrone soup sandwich and a glass of room-temp water?).   I once enjoyed a fabulous "rain day" during my first year teaching in Maryland.  Nothing like having the mall ALL to yourself because it's rainy and cold outside.  The tiniest flakes of snow fluttering to the ground would send DC-area drivers into veritable tizzies, during which they drove, on the highway, at speeds of 15-20 miles per hour, to avoid the onslaught of the wicked flurry.  

But here, we don't even consider snow, although Wikipedia does say it snowed 2 inches here in 1932 (I guess they aren't including the wedding day of "Father of the Bride", the sappiest, weepiest movie of all time).   So I guess rain has to be the great weather phenomenon for us here.  When it rains, people here behave much the way they do in DC when it snows.  Traffic slows down to a crawl and all usually normally functioning brain cells take a hiatus; accidents increase, people accost eachother on the sidewalks with their long-neglected umbrellas and shoddy umbrella-using skills--seriously, in DC, 500 people can walk down the sidewalk with umbrellas open and not one bumps into each other.   Here, I imagine emergency rooms throughout the city, full of people clutching at their eye balls, having had them practically poked out by another person's umbrella in a sidewalk collision.   It ain't pretty. 

Anyway, tangent aside, the parade finally did start, rain be damned (actually, the rain stopped, which I figured it would because it never seems to rain for more than 15-20 minutes at a time here).   And here in the land of superficiality and special effects, mere miles away from the home of arguably one of the country's greatest parades (Tournament of Roses, anyone?), was the rinkiest, dinkiest, small-towniest Christmas Parade known to man.  

Aldermen and city councilors waving from the backseat of their convertible Toyotas, an elementary school class tossed into the back of a pick-up truck that had been strung with lights, singing "Joy to the World", a local high school marching band, playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic (so festive, right?), brownies and cub scouts troops walking all askew with their den keepers herding them into a reasonable amount of street space.  And of course, no small-town  parade would be complete without some local business renting a car, decorating it and driving slowly down the street, pelting children on the side walks with candy--in this case candy canes which shattered into a million choke-sized pieces in their plastic wrappers (standby for awesome 'Ethan choking on candy cane' pic, coming up).

Of course the finale of the parade was the jolly man himself, waving to the kids from a white carriage being pulled by a white horse, making him look more like he was on his way to a royal wedding than to his toy factory at the North Pole, but whatever.  And thus enters my dilemma for this particular holiday season--Santa.  

Last year, I hemmed and hawed about being a Jew with a "Christmas" tree.  We made peace with it through what I call the "great blue and silver compromise"--our tree is decorated in traditionally Jewish colors of blue and silver (should be white, but silver is more festive and close enough).  Sure, I have an unhealthy love of Christmas songs (much as I wish it did, "the driedel song just doesn't do it for me) and I HAVE to watch at least 20 hours of the 24-hour A Christmas Story marathon on TBS on Christmas day.  But we don't hang wreaths or display green and red anywhere, so no one is going to mistake us for a house of Christians.  And of course there's a menorah in the window and potato latkes burning on the stove.   Holiday identity crisis solved!

But this year, Ethan is very aware of this fat, white-beared man clad all in red and "ho ho ho"'ing his fool head off at the mall and the end of parade lines.  How do I explain to him that Santa brings presents to little boys and girls all over the world, but not to him because he doesn't believe in Jesus?   I realize I'm not the first non-Christian to struggle with this dilemma and I'm sure that thousands of better Jews than me have either bitten the bullet and been brutally honest with their little ones, or come up with far more creative and self-esteem enhancing reasons why Santa doesn't visit little Jewish boys and girls, but honestly?  I just want to see Ethan's eyes light up and see him revel in the joy of this time of year.  That's really all I care about.  

I believed in Santa as a little girl and it didn't make me grow up to believe in Jesus or anything like that.   I might not be the most practicing of Jews, but I do believe in my religion and that has never waivered (aside from the brief and clichely inevitable dabbling in Buddhism after college), in spite of eleven years of Catholic school.   I figure if I can withstand the browbeatings, I mean promises, of eternal life promised to me by Srs. Joan, Yvette, and Eleanor, Ethan can probably spend a couple of years believing that a man in a red velvet outfit brings presents down his chimney one night a year without risking a lifetime spent knocking on doors and asking the inhabitants if they've discovered Jesus.  

After the parade, we found our way home, fed the over-tired child and put him to bed.  Our tree is up in our house, but not yet decorated.  My family comes to join us in less than two weeks.  It's beginning to look at lot like Chrismukkah...

Ethan is prepared for the coming storm.  Winter hat that fit last year and still fits this year? Check.  Umbrella I don't know how to open?  Check. 

And the wait for the parade begins!

A-ha!!! Success!  It is open!! 

...Still waiting....

Look! A parade!  Check out the shiny shoes.  And please note the dreaded California Pizza Kitchen in the background.  The very one that left me vomiting for days in August.  Damn you and your crab and shrimp salad (urm, puke), CPK!

Apparently there's something over there...

Seriously, this was as fancy as it got.

Ethan gathering his candy-canes.

Ethan gagging on his candy canes.  (note: I did not take this picture intending to capture the moment of chokiness--that would make me a bad, bad mom.  He started to gag as the picture snapped, at which time I dropped the camera and helped him--even though he got the piece up on his own.  No judging!)

Ethan learning how to de-stickify his fingers post-candy cane incident.  Strangely, they remained sticky.  Which means we all got sticky.
Especially mama and her hair...good times. 

There Was a Farmer Had a Dog...

...and Drag Queen Bingo was her name-o. My friend Jane (of the election night Obama cake and pole dancing fame) had a birthday last week. I had no idea one could turn 28 so many years in a row. And for her birthday, Jane wanted to hang out with her friends and a foul-mouthed drag queen. Playing some bingo. Because really, who doesn't?

So on Wednesday night I found myself at Hamburger Mary's, sipping a gigantic martini (which looked like a wee little shot compared to some of the drinks served there), eating a burger (duh) and daubing B-16's and G-45's furiously, while a huge, sparkly drag queen named Bridget of Madison County (http://www.bridgetteofmadisoncounty.com/site/index.shtml) strung together a slew of profanities fit to make a nun's ears bleed. It was fabulous.

I won nothing, as is ALWAYS the case with me; I wouldn't win the lottery if I were the only ticket-holder. My table seemed to have been touched by the bingo-fairy, though because my friend Gloria won so many times that Bridget of Madison County said, "ugh, I hate that bitch, Gloria!" One of the guys at our table got to reach into the bag marked "Bag of Crap" and pulled out a lovely Santa-hat clad stuffed reindeer. Even birthday girl Jane "won" (it was really Gloria who won but didn't want to deal with the drunk and rabid bingo players who were all one daub away from beating her for the umpteenth time that night, so she gave her card to Jane instead).

I might have lost, but I got seriously in touch with my inner angry blue-haired granny. I daubed numbers so hard that ink splattered across the card. I yelled, "That's bullshit!!!" at the top of my lungs when I heard a disembodied voice from across the room yell, "BINGO!" I so would have been thrown out of a church hall. But I had a blast.

Still life with bingo-cards, instruction sheets, raffle ticket and sex-toy-esque ink dauber.

Beer the side of Kita's head. Said beer seems to have impacted Kita's bingo prowess, as I had to explain the idea of the game to her several times throughout the evening. ;-)

Bingo-maven Gloria showing off her bag 'o goodies.

This is how your check for the evening comes--shiny.

The girls and the guy...me thinks someone needs to talk to Bridget about how exactly one blends a self-tanner. Her breasts were blinding, and I look, in this picture, like a bizarre growth shooting out of her shoulder.

And I'm Back...

We cooked. We ate. It was magical.

Yes, I survived my first Thanksgiving (well, not my first ever, obviously, but the first one where I felt primarily responsible for the yumminess of the majority of the food on the table). No thanks to Gelman's market, which produced one of the saltiest tasting turkeys known to man, it was a relative success. We had turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, apple & sausage stuffing, beans, salad, dinner rolls and about seventeen million types of cranberry sauce. Well, perhaps I exaggerate the number of cranberry sauces by a few million, but if you'd been here (and some of you were), you know that talk of cranberry sauce pretty much dominated the discussion in the days leading up to the meal.

The problem with being a blogger who can't find the time or energy to blog is that your life is lived in bloggable moments. I cannot tell you how many times in the past two weeks that I found myself saying, "This will be great for the blog!", like when my mother in law and I took Ethan to get his hair cut and the woman doing it spiked his coif up with something called, I kid you not, "Short Sexy Hair" gel. "Short Sexy Hair". On my baby.

So know that, although I wasn't actually blogging in the past couple of weeks, I was living my life in little moments that I thought you'd get a kick out of, if I could only get my head out of my proverbial butt and write something. Alas, that did not happen. So here I am again, interwebs, back to blog. I have about 10 topics rattling around in my brain right now, but none of it will make it onto the page tonight, what with the left-over gorging-induced drowsiness I am battling at the current moment. Perhaps I will challenge myself to my own private NaBloPoMo, since I was the anti-NaBloPoMo'er last month.

I have to say though, to those of you on the East Coast, the "Oh, boo-hoo, I miss the cold and snow and ice" that I thought was going to plague me round this time of year has not hit. As a matter of fact, I am currently sitting at my dining room table, short-sleeved, open-windowed, looking across the street at the red and green Christmas lights and twinkling, grazing reindeer decking out my neighbor's front lawn. It's pretty nice to check out the pretty holiday lights without the insides of your nose freezing together.

So until I wake up from my food coma, here are a few pictures.

Here is happy Ethan (with a little bit of "short, sexy hair" still in his hair. This is the genuine smile, unlike....

This is what happens when you make the mistake of asking Ethan to smile for the camera. Not sure when it started, but I so hope he gets over it before the dawning of the school picture days. Does anyone else think of the Friends episode when Chandler and Monica try to have an engagement picture taken? Please, dear lord, don't let my child be Chandler.

The Hostess With the Mostest...

At least that's how the saying goes. In my case, though, it should say, "The hostess with the hostessing anxiety." But see how it doesn't quite flow as well?

When Husband and I decided to haul our lives out to the left coast, I declared, in a moment of indignence and poutiness (at least I can admit it, right?) that if we were going to make a go of being Californians, we had to create roots and traditions as a family. I suggested (read: demanded) that all holidays for the first year be held in our new "home", to foster a sense of "home" in a place that, at the time, I couldn't imagine ever feeling like "home".

Husband agreed without much of a fuss. Perhaps it was the added bonus that making Los Angeles into Holiday Central for us meant that we did not have to deal with a two and a half year old repeatedly kicking the seat-back of some poor sap's airplane seat for six hours straight. Never underestimate the power of avoiding having to hold a toddler's legs still for 1/4 of a day.

Now, that first holiday is swiftly approaching (as are the in-laws), and I'm starting to realize exactly what I've gotten myself into. These people aren't going to want spaghetti and meatballs for Thanksgiving, which is a shame, because I kick some serious culinary ass with spaghetti and meatballs (or so I've been told, and yes, I realize that's not really a difficult dish, which is kind of my point). Turkey? Not so much.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not regretting the decision to host Thanksgiving. I am actually really looking forward to it, in a browse through cooking magazines to find the perfect recipe for mashed potatoes and spend way more than is reasonable on things like table runners, gold chargers and napkin rings (none of which go with our china pattern, which is decidedly UNThanksgiving-y, which means we need new plates). And of course I'm looking forward to it in a visit-with-the-family-and-show-them-where-we-live-our-lives kind of way. I am blessed not to have the type of relationship with my inlaws that makes one need to borrow a week's worth of Xanax from a friend (and I don't say that only because they read this...), so that's not the issue. I cannot wait to see Ethan get reacquainted with Grandma Judy and Grandpa Harry as well as his Tia Emi and Tio Pete and baby Sofia. And I can't wait to have the house full of family, telling stories and watching movies and having meals together.

My source of stress comes from the "oh my god, what if something is undercooked and I make everyone sick," kind of anxiety (i.e. Frank Costanza giving food poisoning to his entire battalion in Korea and suffering flashbacks into his old age, anyone? "No good!!! No good!!").

I am also sure that this brand new experience is going to dredge up some awesome control issues. I am learning that I have a serious problem asking for help and I tend to interpret someone's attempt at help as an indication of my own incompetence (please feel free to spin your finger around your ear in a traditional "koo koo! she's koo koo!" motion. I accept that). So I am anticipating that by next Tuesday I'll be swirling in an whirlpool of self-doubt and defensiveness, and hey, who doesn't LOVE that in a hostess?

Husband is very familiar with this self-doubt and defensiveness maelstrom; it's a wonder to me that he agrees to let me host a play date, let alone Thanksgiving (again, the seduction of avoiding the airplane/toddler equation is almost unbeatable). He knows that my craziness will probably extend from shopping for ingredients to chopping vegetables to finding room in the refrigerator to reheating the ordered turkey (see, I will have an opportunity to muck that up!) to setting the table. And it will probably involve me drinking quite a bit of red wine.

So to my wonderful family traveling great distances to spend the holidays with us--if I seem like a bit of a whackadoo in the day or two leading up to Thanksgiving, please don't take it as a sign that I don't want you around or that I don't want you to help. It will just be me grappling with my inner perfectionist (which we all know from my lack of housekeeping and culinary skills lies dormant for the better part of the year--she's got a LOT of work to do to get all that Martha Stewart out in those 48 hours). But take heart, only a few weeks after Thanksgiving, my side of the family will be arriving for Hannukah, so I will try my very best to keep some of the crazy for them, too.

Seriously, though, with the driving...

It's hard to overstate just how emphatic this child is that he should be the one behind the wheel of my car. It's my own fault. One day I thought it would be cute to let him hold my keys and use the automatic lock button to lock the doors as we walked into the house.

Little did I know then that what I heard as a mere, innocent "beep" was actually the call of the Siren to Ethan, beckoning him to dash mommy's sanity against the rocks.

Since then, I spend a lot of time searching for my keys. Early onset Alzheimers, you ask? No. Early onset boy/car infatuation, more like. Now that he can climb furniture like a monkey, and move various pieces of other furniture (chairs, etc) to facilitate said extreme toddler sport, the only place I can really safely deposit my keys is on the mantel. Given that I forget to do that a lot of the time, I often find myself reaching for invisible keys off of the diningroom table or the table in the foyer. Invisible because my stealth monkey, erm, child, has lifted and absconded with them. Maybe they are between the cushions of the couch, or in his bin 'o Thomases, and once I found them in my laundry basket, but they are rarely where I left them if I dont' leave them at practically ceiling level.

Once my neighbor knocked on my door and asked if our car was having electrical troubles because the alarm kept randomly beeping at odd intervals. Imagine my pride and unabashed glee at telling her, no, the car's electrical system was fine; it was just my toddler standing in the living room window, randomly hitting the "lock" button on my key ring and listening to the pretty music of the Nissan. I have found that since enabling my son to become a public nuisance and noise polluter, I am getting better at putting the keys on the mantel.

While I can admit that my Murano is sloppy second option to Husband's Audi in Ethan's eyes, it is more readily available to him, as it's the car that transports him the vast majority of the time. Therefore, he apparently thinks he's got a better chance with it than the Audi. We've managed to convince Ethan that "daddy's car is sleeping" when he gets home from work, and that he cannot disturb the Audi because it needs its rest to drive Daddy to work in the morning. My car, however, gets no such break because it is always "waking up" to take us places.

It is only in the past few days that the need to beep the locks has blossomed into a dire need to actually be the one behind the wheel. Again, my fault. One day while waiting for Husband to arrive home, Ethan and I were wandering around outside and he innocently (as if) asked to sit in mommy's seat in the car. Foolishly unaware of what lay ahead, I obliged and hoisted Ethan into the driver's seat.

What transpired can only be described as magical. Well, I could describe it a lot of other ways, but from the 2.5 year old's point of view--magic. He found the radio. He found the wipers. And the lights. And the horn.

When I was a little girl, I used to sneak into my father's car in the evenings and mess with all the dials and knobs. I would set the volume on the radio to high, I'd turn on the wipers, I'd put the seat all the way back, and anything else I could think of to give dear old dad a big fat "GOOD MORNING!!!!!" when he left for work in the morning, while the rest of us were still asleep. This, apparently is my payback.

Since that trip to the front seat, Ethan is a boy obsessed and spends much of his day telling me that he NEEDS to drive momma's car. Phrases like, "No, I drive!" and "I need to drive Mama's car," and "I can drive, Mama," spill forth from his mouth any time transportation is required. And the tantrum that ensues upon being rudely relegated to his car seat is unprecedented. The indignation and look of abject betrayal plastered all over his face (predominantly in the protruding lower lip and the furiously knit brows) would be amusing if he weren't so genuinely hurt (okay, though, it's still a little amusing).

It matters not how much I try to explain to him that his legs are too short to reach the gas and breaks, and that he doesn't know how to work the transmission, or you know, read, he truly believes that his life's purpose right now is to drive my car.

Poor kiddo. He's got a long 14 years ahead of him. And so do I.

They Grow Up So Fast

This morning, Ethan informed me that he was going to drive my car today and that I could sit in the back seat. He is so going to be on the evening news as "youngest joy rider ever."

Ethan saves the day...

Well, that's perhaps an overstatement, but it sort of felt like it at the time.

It has only been recently that I've been able to, shall we say, use the facilities without an audience. Who ever knew that something as simple as 20 seconds alone in the bathroom would become a luxury in the land of Toddler. Fortunately for me, Mickey Mouse has become more riveting to Ethan than talking me through my bodily functions, ("you're peeing, Mommy," etc., etc.).

However, this morning, I found myself in a bit of a conundrum as, after a minute or two of blissful solitude in the loo (thank you, mystery mousekatools), I reached for the Charmin and found an empty cardboard roll instead.

Ooops.

He may have spent the rest of the day whining like a banshee, and following me around, begging to be carried until I wanted to rip every last hair out of my head and run screaming out of the house, declaring, "MOMMY DOESN'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE!!!", but at that moment, he was my hero because when I called, "Ethan? Can you help mommy?" the child got up from his riveting pre-school programming and followed my directions to the floor of the linen closet, where the spare toilet paper is stored, and brought me a brand new roll.

Some things...

I really should get with the program and figure out how to use Twitter so I can update the blog a bazillion times a day when Ethan does cute things, like on Sunday when he ran down the frozen food aisle at Gelson's, arms spread wide, declaring at the top of his lungs, "I'M A WILD MAN!" because I merely suggested, in a normal decibel and with no flourish, that he may in fact, be a wild man. Or how after watching an episode of Backyardigans about volcanoes, he approached me, pointed to his diaper and said, "Mommy, my bum is a volcano." (and indeed, it was.)

But I don't get the whole twitter thing (I am 37 years old, damn it; let me age gracefully!), so I'll just have to try to remember as much of the adorable toddler quirkiness as I can and report to you when I get a few minutes here and there.

In general "blog housekeeping" information, Ethan had his 2.5 year appointment today and he may actually be the scrawniest hot dog, tater-tot, ice cream eating toddler in the universe--22 lbs and 6 ounces. This is where my mother in law (hi, Judy!) chimes in and tells me that Husband was equally petite at that age and I turn off the "stress out" button. It's a routine we've had since Ethan was about four months old it works out well for me.

Also, I realized after my election party post that I was completely negligent about Halloween. How could it be November 11th and I've not plastered my blog full of bumble bee pictures? Seriously. Bad mama.

"Bumble bee, fireman. Fireman, bumble bee...."

checking out his loot.

strapping on the candy feeding troughs...

smiley bee

People go batshit (no pun intended) crazy for this holiday here; next year we'll have to get some skeletons or something because unless your yard looks like a voodoo graveyard, people don't know that you've got candy. Want some candy? We've got extra....

Ethan and the good witch of Studio City.

I know, know...

I said I was going to post more often, I posted frenetically for a few days and then POOF! I disappeared. I guess I'm sitting out this NaBloPoMo, as it is already the 5th. Perhaps I will champion the cause of delinquent bloggers everywhere and make this the inaugural post of NaBloPoWhIDaWeFeLiItMo, which would stand for National Blog Post Whenever I Damn Well Feel Like It Month... that will probably work out well for me.

Anyway, it's been busy. My mom was in town and we magically managed to get through an entire week, PRE-election, no less, without letting too much of our opposing visions of Blue and Red get in our way too much. We swore off FOX and MSNBC (I love her enough to endure the Olberman/Maddow withdrawals and they ain't pretty) and we did quite nicely. Although I have to admit, the second we got back from dropping her off at the airport, my television was tuned to MSNBC for the better part of the next 24 hours.

Ethan is asserting his independence more with each day. Most of the time it's just plain old bossiness ("You tickle me!!!" or "Ready to get up, Mommy," which is spoken in a tone of implied command). We're doing a LOT of "I need you to say 'please'" just to offset the tone o' brat that comes through in some of his, erm, requests. Thankfully he always obliges and is happy to "please" and "thank you" his way into getting his way all. the. freaking. time.

Although, Husband and I have decided though that "WANT DADDY'S KEY!!!!!! please." now has to be met with a stern "nope. Sorry. No can do, kiddo," because as he becomes more comfortable with that particular proverbial pot of gold in his clutches, he feels freer and freer to roam the house with them and deposit them G-d knows where. This is a problem as the key is one of those shmancy computer-chip jobbies that can't be replaced at your local ACE hardware store. Given the amount of cash I drop on this kid's toys, he really doesn't need to run us a couple hundred in fancy key replacement costs. So Daddy's key is now officially on the very short list of things that are off-limits to Ethan.

In another "it's a whole new ballgame now" show of independence, Ethan decided to take himself on a little field trip the other day. I was babysitting a friend's little one and while I was getting her a sippy of water in the kitchen, Ethan announced matter-of-factly, "I'm going to Starbucks! Bye bye!" and proceeded to push the screen door open and waltz down the driveway. Fortunately I heard him and intercepted his little sojourn before he could turn onto the sidewalk and down the street. Seriously. I'm putting a cow bell around his neck.

In "Liberal Indoctrination" news, Ethan participated in his second trip in his lifetime to the polls this week. Aside from flirting with James Van der Beek (of Dawsons' Creek "fame"), and the guy who plays "Horn-Rimmed Glasses" on HEROES, both of whom were in line with us, Ethan sat quietly while Mama tried to figure out California's "could you make it a bit more complicated by maybe making me vote in Morse Code, please?" voting system. It wasn't too bad, but seriously gave me standardized testing flash backs that I could have lived without.

On top of that, a day earlier, Ethan joined me in rallying for Obama and against a proposition to ban gay marriage in our state. Thankfully Obama won, but sadly, so did the proposition. It's hard to celebrate one victory when my heart is breaking for so many people who were essentially told by their fellow Californians that they are second-class citizens and unworthy of a basic right. I just keep trying to remind myself that 50 years ago, Barack Obama would have had to ride on the back of the bus, and now he is our President-elect. I can't help but believe that someday, those who teach their children love and tolerance will outnumber those who teach their children hate and prejudice, and then it won't matter who loves who, or how; it will just be enough that there is love.

So, anyway, at the rally, Ethan's cute little mug won us a spot on the City Hall steps, right behind the mayor and several other Angeleno big-wigs. He spent most of the time trying to take a snooze and I spent most of my time holding up "Vote NO on Prop 8" and "HOPE" signs with the others up on the steps, while news crews took film and pictures. I have no idea if we made it onto the news, either print or TV because immediately following the rally and all of the next day was a flurry of Election Party '08 preparations and I completely forgot to pay attention.

Either way, I'm proud to be introducing Ethan to the idea of finding your voice and standing up for what you believe in. I'm sure he doesn't remember our participation in the Delta ticket-counter nurse-in two years ago and I'm sure he won't remember this as anything more than a distant blur, if at all; but I want him to know that no matter what he believes, his voice should be heard.

Speaking of voices being heard, at about 8pm PST last night, our roof was about blown off by the collective celebratory scream as CNN announced that Obama had indeed won the last electoral votes needed to be the next President. Husband and I had a small group of our friends and their little ones over and we decked ourselves out in red, white & blue and Obama for the occasion.

The victory would have been sweet had I been sitting all alone, but to be able to share it with Husband, my child and people we've come to care about here made the celebration monumental to me and solidified my appreciation of community and a shared cause. I longed to share the moment with friends back East, too, for whom I knew the news was just as, if not more, significant; but I was still so satisfied looking around my living room at kids laughing and blowing noise-makers, completely unaware, for now, how this election changes their worlds; and husbands and wives, hugging with joyful tears in their eyes, because they do know how this election changes the world for their children. It was amazing.

Ethan on the steps of City Hall with Mama, someone's grandmother, and a bunch of people who want to get married.

Ethan's stroller o' HOPE.

After the rally, enjoying a lemonade @ Starbucks

See, I DO have friends out here...

Gloria's Obama wine (cue the conservatives complaint about us liberals drinking the kool-aid)

Note to self: order smaller hats...

hats, pin-wheels and a bowl full of leis..

Nekkid Uncle Sam wants you...to change his diaper.

Wish I could say I made it. Thanks, Jane! You are my baked good ambassador of HOPE.

Ethan's victory dance. Complete with Thomas the Train back pack

He's not quite sure of what he's talking about...

No, I'm not referring to McCain, I"m talking about Ethan.

This is his first year of really having some sense of what Halloween is. The peapod at 6 months and the monkey at a year and a half held excitement and and "how cute is our little kid?!" factor for Husband and I; it was of little to no interest to Ethan.

This year, however, Ethan is all about the ghosts and the mummies and the witches and the spiders (dear god, the itsy bitsy spiders!). We bought his bumble bee costume weeks ago and every time he walks by it in his closet, he exclaims, "I be a bumble bee for Hall'ween!" and then runs through the house making a buzzing sound.

He also insists on carrying around his little plastic jack'o lantern trick or treating bucket, even when I tell him that Halloween isn't for another week (or two, or three). He's found the bucket is handy in collecting match box and hot wheels cars (of which he has eleventy billion). Sometimes the bucket has to come in the car with us and sometimes I can convince him to leave it at the door. Either way, "pumpkin with us" is a big phrase around the house these days.

So the idea is taking shape. He still has no idea that there's candy involved in Halloween and I'm not sure how to handle that element of it--I'm thinking Husband's going to be bringing a huge plastic pumpkin of sugar-laden loot to work with him on Monday of that week. The last thing I need Ethan thinking is that donning a costume and saying "trick or treat" will garner him an endless supply of chocolate.

He's also not quite up on all of his Halloween lingo and imagery. Moments ago we were playing with stickers of spiders and mummies. As Ethan pulled a sticker of a mummy rising up out of a coffin (um, creepy!) and pressed it down onto his piece of paper, he turned to me and said, "Look, he's in the tubby! Mummy's in the tubby!"

I might just eat him for Hall'ween; he's just that sweet.

Ethan has a few songs he'd like to share with you...

Excuse the weird lighting halo-y effect (I'm wicked good at using this camera). You'll notice Ethan is in his "flip myself over the couch" position.

Not sure what provoked such a rousing rendition of the ABC's, but it could be that he expected his grandparents (to whom it is dedicated, apparently) to be able to hear it on the East coast, live as it was happening...

This Land (and pen, and computer, and toe) is My Land (and pen and computer and toe)...

Ethan has discovered the glory of "mine". Sometime a couple of weeks ago I noticed it seeping it's way into his vocabulary and now, pointing out exactly what in this world belongs to him has become his primary motivation for getting out of bed. Also? This getting out of bed in the morning thing now comes with an announcement. "Ready to get up, Mommy", which is code for "if we don't get up and out of bed at this very minute, I am going to start repeating my announcement at regular, quickly successive intervals with increasing intensity and volume until you can no longer take it." Ethan is my alarm clock.

Our days now consist of Ethan pointing out the name of everything and exactly to whom it belongs. While he does tend to focus on what belongs to him ("that's my car," "that's Ethan's paci," "This is my popcicle," "That's Ethan's boo-boo,"), he is also an equal opportunity identifier. Today I alone, Ethan has considerately pointed out to me that I am indeed wearing my shirt, am in possession of my own nose and hair (I mean that separately, not like he was pointing out nose hair, dear god!), and am in fact, the owner of my car.

He is also in possession of a memory of steel when it comes to just what belongs to whom; he can pick up a toy in the backyard that was left by a friend weeks ago and say, "That's Jackson's fire truck", or find a peace pendant in between our sofa cushions and say, "That's Lucy's." Husband and I always find ourselves slack-jawed at his ability to recall these little things. After our playdate with Kingston (a friend of ours is friends of theirs and their nanny; rest assured, I am not BFFs with Gwen Stefani), I mentioned off-hand that a song on the radio was by "Kingston's mommy". Now every single time any Gwen Stefani song comes on the radio, I can hear from the backseat, "That's Kingston's mommy."

One down-side to the dawn of the age of "this is mine and this is yours" is when there's confusion over exactly what qualifies as "IS" is that equation. In the mind of a two and a half year old, the deciding factor seems to be desire, period. I want that car that you're playing with, ergo, it is "mine", or it is "my turn! my turn!" to grab it out of your white-knuckled grasp. These are good times. Obviously to be expected, what with the age and the completely self-absorbed developmental state and all, but it really does make one long for the day when one could put one's baby down on a blanket with four other babies and know that they wouldn't kvetch over the toys because they barely even knew they were there (they being the babies themselves). Ah, the good old days when the only thing that stressed me out was the colic. Oh, wait. That was hell. I'll take this any day.

Thoughts on Blogging, Yodelling and Potty Training

Or "randomness"

I promise to start writing more often (yes, I delude myself into thinking it matters to you, vast internet). For some reason I have fallen into a "once a week" pattern and by the time the weekend rolls around, I'm overwhelmed by what story to tell and the idea that's it's got to be really good because it's all I'm going to have to show for the week. So from here on out, there will be more for you to read, and less pressure for me to make it good. Get ready for a ton of Sarah-created mediocrity (except of course for the pictures and news about Ethan; he is anything BUT mediocre).

Where to begin? Oh! First of all, WHO taught my son to yodel? Yeah, you read that right.

Somewhere in the last couple of weeks, Ethan has started chiming in with "Yoo-del-ay-hee-hooo" when we are playing or driving or changing a diaper, or any other random activity that happens to NOT be climbing the Swiss Alps (that is where they yodel, right?) I have no idea where it came from; Husband rarely ever yodels (read: never) and I am not a yodeler, period. Jews don't yodel. So any of you out there who read this and happen to spend time with my child, 'fess up; I'm thinking one of you has been giving my kid yodeling lessons. I need to figure out who you are so I can thank you because I would never have thought to teach him such a, erm, skill and it is freaking cute. My goal for next week is to get it on video so I can share it with you.

One thing I will NOT be sharing with you any time soon is stories about Ethan using the big boy potty. Not only because there are some things I just don't think need to be televised in full-length detail (says the girls who wrote about pole dancing class). But more so because there's a good chance the child is going to be heading to college with a year's supply of Depends and I'll be telling you stories instead about how proud I am of him for learning to change his own diaper.

Yes I know he's young yet and Husband and I aren't in any hurry to force it on him. Honestly, the lazy girl in me secretly (um, or not so secretly) dreads the idea of having to be so vigilant about the process and the "do you have to go?" and the cleaning up the accidents and the dealing with "Mommy, I have to poop" in a public place.

Part of me hopes that one day, as we near his 3rd birthday, he will grab a copy of the NY Times, announce that he needs some privacy and then abscond to the bathroom for 20 minutes, returning with freshly washed hands and saying, "I need real underwear. The ones with Thomas on them. Let's go to Target."

I realize that he'd be the only child in the history of the world to do so, but damn, wouldn't that be sweet?

I did recently try to introduce the idea, slowly, with some Pull-up diapers. The kind with Lightening McQueen on them (or as Ethan calls him, "Ca-chow! car") However, the diaper itself became such an attraction that I doubted Ethan would ever opt to live without them, thus putting a big damper on the "Do you want to take them off and go potty on the big boy potty?" Because that would mean parting with "car diaper"!

He did enjoy pulling them up, though, and announced that he was "a big boy!!!" each time he got a chance to; but I fear that his journey to big boy (and the toilet) will be stuck at this point for awhile. Whenever we ask him if he wants to use the potty, he is adamant that, no indeed, he does not (and often runs away from us).

So for now we have to be content that we did get to dance around the house doing the "potty dance" once in August. Perhaps we were too enthusiastic the one time he did use the potty. Do 2 year olds have the capacity to be embarrassed? Because it's not like Mommy & Daddy did the conga and sang "he pee-pee'd on the potty! he pee-pee'd on the potty!" in front of his friends or anything....

That's all from me for now; as much as I've not been writing my own blog, I've not been keeping up with others' either (what the hell have I been doing with my time???!!!). So now I am off to read what I can before I get fed up with the crazy guy sitting next to me in Panera who is regaling his friend (I cant' believe she would possibly be his girlfriend) with his impersonation of Chewbacca from Start Wars. Oh yeah, I'm serious. I love LA.

How Sarah Got Her Groove Back...

Just a note: this entry is not for those who may have known me as, or still see me as, a sweet little girl. Just saying, you might want to slowly back away from the post now and come back another day.

Because last night I took a pole-dancing class. Yes, that's right. A pole. Like strippers use. For stripping.

Now, dad, if you're reading, don't get on the phone to your lawyer and write me out of the will or anything (besides, I totally warned you not to read, so it's your own fault). I'm not rethinking career options. I'm exercising.

Turns out, those girls get quite a work out. And here in the land of beautiful bodies and healthy living, they've figured out a way to take that work out and teach it to girls who have no intention of letting drunken bachelor party attendees or lascivious, dirty old men stick dollar bills into their panties.

A girlfriend of mine who's been taking the class for a long time invited me along to an open house/introduction class. I wish I could say I hesitated (because, you know, it's less shocking then, right?) But I really think (and maybe I'm wrong) that there's a tiny little piece of every woman who wonders what it might be like to take a swing around that pole. Not in front of people and not wearing tassled pasties and a g-string or anything, but just to see.

I'm not going to give tons of details about what all is entailed in one of these classes because my blog's not meant to be a peep-show (and yes, this is one entry I'll most likely NOT include should I one day print out the blog and present it to my child(ren) as a chronicle of their early years), and while I'm not at ALL uncomfortable with having participated in the class, I imagine some people who read my blog and know me probably don't need the visual. The majority of the class was basically what I'd call sexy yoga, followed by a few exhilarating minutes flying around a shiny silver pole to a room full of applause (by my fellow class mates, not skeevy men).

But I have to say, it was kind of like jumping out of an airplane. Only on a yoga mat, and by candle light. And with a bunch of women I don't know (and one or two that I do). I've not had the greatest relationship with my body, well, ever. But especially not in the past couple of years. Pregnancy was not kind to my body (is it to anyone's?), and I have not been kind to it since, either.

But I felt that changing last night. Not that I'm thrilled with the extra roll of flab around my belly, or ecstatic about that fabulous back-fat I'm rocking under the bra strap. But I found a strength in myself last night I forgot I had, and I remembered what I'm capable of, outside of getting the laundry done and chasing my child around the park. Not that I don't love those things (well, who am I kidding? Laundry? Hate it), but it's nice to dig deep and find other pieces of myself.

Sure, I could have gone for a run, or something else more conventionally exercise-y; but I never do go running and I rarely do things that are conventionally exercise-y. And when I do, they don't make me feel like I did last night. Today, my muscles are killing me--it's an insane workout, no doubt.

But I also feel a sense of myself and my strength that I haven't felt since I took my first yoga class more than a decade ago. Those yoga classes in a gym aeorbics room next to a noisy raquet ball court changed my life way back then, bringing me out of a depression that was the darkest place in my life. It was new, it introduced me to muscles I didn't know I had and pieces of my psyche I'd ignored all my life. I felt that last night, too. Who knew an almost 37 year old mom in a velour track suit could get her groove on stripper-style?! Only in LA, my friends. Only in LA. And that alone, makes it just a little bit more worth it.

Catching Up...

All right; lest you think I've gone all "crazy cat lady" on you and you assume that I'm at home, sitting shiva for the felines, I suppose I should actually post something. It has been a tough week, and I appreciate all of your kind words and condolences about the kitties. It really is odd and empty-feeling to sit on my couch at night and not have a soft furry ball at my feet, purring and adoring. But I'm muddling through, usually with just one good cry a day, normally when I realize it's 9pm and my feet are cold, when they would otherwise be warmed by the aforementioned purring ball o' love.

But, such is life, and we move on.

So this weekend, after 90+ temperatures and not a drop of rain for 90+ days, we were graced with a day of full-on overcast and drizzle and temperatures that didn't get out of the 60's all day. I was tempted to strip down to my underwear (unpleasant) and go lie out in the front yard to bask in the chilly drizzly goodness of it all; seriously, my entire being is so parched from living on the surface of the sun for the past three months that nothing sounded more appealing to me than communing with the east-coast-esque weather for just a little bit.

Instead, though, we decided to get into the spirit of the fall weather, knowing it would be fleeting (it was 104 degrees today), and we dressed Ethan in long sleeves for the first time in eleventy billion years and probably the only time we'll be able to until December, and headed to the pumpkin festival.

Let me just pause here for a minute to say: OMFG, Panera people!!! I ordered an Orchard Harvest salad 30 minutes ago and have had to go up and inquire about it TWICE!!! One time I was given something else with mandarin oranges and walnuts in it--NOT what I want. Get it right! I'm HUNGRY! I'm sure someone else in this vibrating restaurant is currently dining on my order (or 1/2 way through digesting it given how long it's been since I freaking paid for it!), but I am still sitting here by the soda machines with a rumbling tummy!! FEED ME!

Okay--I can focus again having gotten that out. I have been promised my salad for a 3rd time. We will see if it arrives. If not, I will be eating the heart of the fool behind the counter because I am just that hungry and annoyed.

So, back to the pumpkin festival. We took Ethan in the drizzly rain (have I mentioned how happy I was about the drizzly rain? hmmmm??) and let him have at it. Honestly, the place should have been called the "big giant bounce house and scary-ass choo-choo" festival, because that's really all Ethan cared about.

The choo-choo was our first order of business after making our way through the farmer's stand type country store. Ethan loves him a choo-choo so as soon as we saw it, we imagined we'd be stuck there for a good portion of the rest of our natural lives, handing over activity tickets to the carney conductor. Fortunately for us, and less so for Ethan, the train was more along the lines of a thrill ride in that it whipped around the tiny track at what must have seemed to Ethan like break-neck speeds. Our Sunday morning choo-choo at the farmer's market is a bit of a lolly-gagger (I'm thinking hung-over carney-induced sluggishness), so this one was a shock to Ethan's system. The first couple of times around he put on a brave face, but after the fourth or fifth time around, there were tears. And screaming. So we bid farewell to the train, and what we figured would be any chance of Ethan getting on any other ride for the rest of the day, and headed over to the bounce house

(Panera update: The correct salad has arrived, and with a complimentary cookie to boot. That could either be a really sweet "we effed up; let us make it up to you" gesture, OR the woman can sense that I was threatening to eat her heart and she gave me the cookie on the off chance that I have a deadly peanut allergy. Either way, yummy salad. yummy cookie. All is well. Except that I keep dropping field greens all over myself like I've never eaten with a fork before. I'm super charming.)

The bounce house was a success once I hauled my adult-sized self through the child-sized entrance. It was AWESOME for my confidence and ego when I asked the two slack-jawed teenaged girls if I could get into the bounce house with Ethan. They thought I meant to actually jump and they looked at each other like, "um. she'll like totally like bust that thing like to pieces if we actually like let her in there." That felt good, that glance between them, I can tell you that. When I clarified that I simply intended to crawl in to show Ethan that it was safe and that then I'd just sit on the "floor" while all 21lbs of my child did the actual bouncing, you could hear whatever air was left in their heads woooooshing out in relief.

So bounce house it was. Sure, he ran through the rows of pumpkins after we begged him to and he got on the carousel after several "are you sure you don't want to get on the carousel???"'s (nothing like mandatory fun!), but the bounce house was where it was at. And considering the nap he took afterwards, we're seriously contemplating getting a bounce house for the back yard.

No tears yet, but see how he's hanging on for dear life...

Aaaaand, there they are; the tears of complete and abject terror. "Why did my parents put me on this and why are they taking pictures of me in my agony??!! I am so filing for parental emancipation when I get off this damn thing! Mommy!!"

Attempting to ease the post-choo-choo nausea...

Promising never to make him ride on the scary-ass choo-choo ever again and begging forgiveness for being such a bad mommy (clearly he's not convinced)....

Behold, five minutes later, the return of jovial Ethan, courtesy of the bounce house!

You've heard of James and the Giant Peach, no? Meet Ethan and the giant tractor wheel...

...and Ethan and giant bales of hay....

...and Ethan avoiding the giant pumpkin...

Awkward self-portrait: can you tell we've not had any pictures of ourselves taken in, oh, about 2.5 year? (And yes, I realize there's a joke in here somewhere along the lines of "the giant nose", but I'm too tired to go fishing for it, so add it at will.)

Ethan's new "I will go about my life and let you snap all the pictures you want, crazy lady; but I will NOT look at you!! You can't make me". Sadly, he is correct.

More of the "this pumpkin stalk is wayyyyy more interesting than your camera lens, woman."

Los Angeles--Apparently Where Cats Go to Die...

So we've been here for three months and both of my cats have seen fit to up and die on me. I guess that pretty much firms up what they think of being moved cross country in their golden years.

Miss Independence seems to have had a couple of lungs full of cancer; at least that's what the xray I found myself staring at last night at midnight showed us. Abby stopped eating yesterday and around 6pm she was having a hard time breathing. I thought I'd take her in to the vet this morning, hoping that it was a respiratory cold, but by 11pm last night I was feeling neglectful and selfish for not taking her in, so she and I took that long, sad ride down the street to the emergency vet clinic.

So I found myself once again, for the second time in just over two months, murmuring my gratitude and farewell into one of my kitty's furry ears while the vet just made it all go away.

We had fifteen years together and I have to say it was a bit heart-ripping to wake up this morning after the few hours of sleep I managed to get, and find that I'd left the hallway door open (we normally close it so she can't come in to our room and rattle our window blinds to wake us) and that there was no kitty to feed, for the first time in my adult life.

When Penny died, I had days to process it; there were tons of tests and "is this the right thing?" and time to snuggle and soak in all her Penny-ness before saying goodbye. With Abby it happened so quickly and urgently, I am still finding myself surprised by her absence and catching my breath when I realize that, "oh yeah, she died last night."

So thanks Miss Abby, for being my kitty and keeping me company on this part of the journey. Like I told you last night, I will miss you every day.