Not a Groupie

Recently, my friends have been joining "mommy groups." Groups where moms and their kids get together for weekly outings and activities.  (How is that different than the activities I already do with my son or friends?  I don't know...but I'm guessing that it just is.)  I don't belong to a mommy group.  Maybe I needed to.  I want to fit in, too.  I, too, want to swap recipes, host Tupperware parties and join multi-tiered marketing schemes.  I began to feel left out, something had to be done.

So, I did what any good mother would do, and researched the best of mommy groups out there (on the Internet, of course). 

And there it was: www.meetup.com.

Meetup.com is a group heaven.  There are hundreds of groups to choose from anywhere in the country, and not just for mommies.  I was overwhelmed.  How do you choose the perfect one? Then, I found one in my area.  "Star Trek and Space Exploration Group"...but thought that maybe I was getting off topic a little bit.  (How fun would it be to explore space?  Do they teleport themselves?)  So, I continued my search and found one that seemed to fit a little better.  I signed up for "San Fernando Valley Moms."  (Because I just knew that we already were going to have a lot in common.  We were from the same geographic location, how could we not?)

I couldn't wait to join.  I began imagining hosting my very own Tupperware party, buying scrapbooking supplies and earning my Gold Star sales executive pin in my new pyramid scheme group.  I couldn't wait...but I had to.  

I filled out the questionnaire and clicked "join."  A message appeared instantly: "awaiting reply from leader."  So, I waited and waited and waited.  No reply.  

I double checked that my "application" was complete.  Yup.  Three pages all about me, my hobbies, my likes, my dislikes, my background, my opinions, my ideas, my life story and what I ate this morning for breakfast (I thought the last one was a little much too, but answered it anyway -Lucky Charms.)

I couldn't wait to hear from "the leader." I couldn't wait to be "led."

Two days later, it came...the email I had been waiting for.  

It read:

Your request to join The San Fernando Valley Moms Meetup Group 

was declined.

The person who declined your request said:

Feel free to post your pic and re-

apply.  

A second chance?  Gold Star Executive of the month?  I decided to pass.  I'm actually glad I got rejected (I know...that's what everyone says when they get rejected).  But I REALLY mean it.  I'm just not cut out to fit into a 'certain' group...and besides, I have way too many plastic storage containers already.  

What's Going On?

People have been exceptionally nice today. Ok, what's going on? Where are the hidden cameras? Doors were being held, mothers were friendly on the playground. I broke a bowl while standing in line at a Mongolian barbeque restaurant and (get this) the guy next to me offered to pick up the broken pieces. What? I thanked him profusely and did it myself anyway. He moved me out of the way and insisted that I had my hands full already, as my son was rearing to go. Maybe he just felt that clumsy ol' me had done enough damage already. (He was being nice, regardless.)

I thanked him after we chatted for a bit about how selfish people have become. I guess we were wrong...today anyway.

What's Your Stori?

Mommyhood has recently made a comeback. This new trend in Hollywood, to become a mother, has made it o.k. for the rest of us. (Thank you Britney and Angelina.) So, on a recent trip to the bookstore, I was not surprised to find, yet another book, written by another celebrity mom. While my son was reading "Good Night Dora", I plopped myself down next to him with a copy of Mommywood, by Tori Spelling (and Hilary Liftin).

I began reading. "Ultrasound....blah blah blah". I kept reading. My mind began to wander. Back to the book. I read on. Something about fearing that her son's nose will be too big. I began skimming, hoping to find something interesting. My mind wandered again. "Should I get an iced coffee, hot coffee, tea, maybe a cookie for my son, some milk, hot or cold?" I even found myself peeking over my son's shoulder, more interested in finding out if Dora finally goes to sleep, than if baby Spelling's nose is the perfect size. (Maybe it's just me.)

My son was clearly annoyed by the fact that I was flipping the pages of his book and jumping ahead. I couldn't wait to find out what happens next. I was left with no choice but to go back to my book (or get my own copy of Good Night Dora, which was just not within arms' reach).

So, I kept skimmeading (skimming and reading), until I read something that caught my attention. Finally! Tori writes, "...I work as hard as the next person to make a home." This is the last sentence I read before I returned the book to its appropriate section: fiction.

Just for the record, from what I could tell, it was a great read and well written. Everyone should pick up a copy of "G0od Night Dora". I did.

Naked Brothers Band

My interview with Nat and Alex Wolff (Naked Brothers Band) on their musical influences, recent nomination, upcoming summer tour and more...

For full interview, go to Naked Brothers Band

The Stall of Shame

“I was with a married man at seventeen years old.”

Although I would like to take credit for this great feat (no, not really), this quote is not mine. This quote stuck out among the other quotes written on the bathroom stall at Borders.

The others included: "I slept with your ex." "I’m pretty, but I want to be beautiful." "I love hooking." There must have been at least fifty in different color inks, pencil and permanent marker. I stood in the stall, enthralled, nearly forgetting what I had come here to do.

Who were these girls writing to? An audience of women with full bladders? Were they seeking approval? If so, how would they get it? I didn’t see any w/b (write backs) or a contact number. K.I.T.? Would they be back to see if anyone had written? When I was a teen, we wrote in diaries; now, stalls must be the way.

I thought I would take the liberty of commenting on the quote that stood out for me. Because I believe strongly in not defacing public property, I decided to write here. It was hard not to pull out my permanent marker and comment on all these quotes (I carry one in my purse, in case any 5 year olds happen to want me to autograph a copy of their Highlights magazine.)

So I hurried out of the stall…and kicked off the toilet paper that was stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
Here I am. (Just to make it clear-out of the bathroom altogether.)

To the girl who slept with a married man at 17:

It is not YOU who should be proud, but him.

Let me guess, it probably went something like this. Mr. Married Man was probably in his mid to late forties with a comb over , a subtle pin-striped navy blue suit, Crest white-stripped brightened teeth, a shiny manicure and a corporate position going nowhere. It’s no wonder his wife stopped sleeping with him, tired of coming home to a guy whose only outlet was porn magazines and golf on the weekends with his buddies. His marriage was in trouble. Having been put on Viagra after his blood pressure and cholesterol meds made him lose the ability to perform, sleeping with him made his wife feel just like sleeping with grandpa (that makes for another blog). In fact, who would want to sleep him? Not even his wife, who found more of a thrill shopping with the girls and flirting with the smoothie maker at her gym after spin class.
But, nonetheless, he was smooth. He sat back in his easy chair at the Borders Café after a long day of work, with a shot of espresso in one hand and meds in the other. How could you resist?

He walked over towards you and your girlfriend and chose YOU. (Everyone always thought she was prettier; not this time.) You looked up from your iPod. It was love at first sight (for you, anyway). It was the hopes of a one nighter for Mr. Man or at least a few good hours.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” you giggled. Your friend left while you and Mr. Man chatted the night away over hot chocolates. Well, you chatted anyway…about finals coming up, how your mom doesn’t get you, your friends don’t get you, in fact, no one gets you. You even spoke of how hard it was to grow up without a father.
”Bingo,” he thought to himself, almost saying it out loud. There he was: Mr. Man, the father you never had.

He made you feel beautiful; grown up, in fact. He let you be yourself. He would do anything for you…to get you in the sack, of course.

One thing led to another as you left Borders in his beat-up black Porsche. He put his hand on your knee and assured you it would all be okay. You envisioned how you would introduce him to your friends and your mother. You imagined your wedding day. Where would you honeymoon? How many kids would he want? You had so many questions for him, but chose not to ask.

Before you knew it, the night was over. You gathered your things sprawled on the motel floor motel, which reeked of stale cigarette smoke. You smiled while he lay asleep. Just then, he got up in a hurry, dressed and left to pick up the bill. How thoughtful of him. He dropped you back off at your car parked outside of Borders, where it all began. Neither of you said much. I’ll call you," he muttered, and waved as he sped off. You stood there, thrilled, knowing he would soon leave his wife for you. Maybe he’d even be your date to the prom, you imagined. So many plans, so many dreams…with which you headed up to the restroom and tagged what you had done…so proud.

He called his buddies on his way home. He felt rejuvenated, knowing he still had it in him. He was now ready to work it out with the woman he loved, who waited up for him at home with a warm cooked meal.

I wish you luck and hope that the next time you feel like tagging something on the wall it is worth the mention, for your sake. In fact, maybe just keep it to yourself, so that others don’t have to feel so bad for another young girl gone wrong, not to mention destruction of property.

Sincerely (and I mean it)
-Me

Along Came A Spider

At first, I was just minding my own business, enjoying my sushi at the bar, before a couple sat down next to me. I swear I tried to focus on the California roll before me, but couldn’t. The couple next to me, the girl in particular, was so loud. I am sure the people on the other end of the bar heard what she was saying as well. I know this because they were staring. (At least I told myself this, so that I wasn’t the only one eavesdropping.)

There I was, focusing on maneuvering the sushi from my plate to my mouth with my chopsticks, when they sat down. She pulled out his stool for him and then her own.
“Oh, ok,” he mumbled sitting down. She had a puzzled look on her face as she sat down.
“I’m just not used to that. That’s all,” he said
“What? Girls being nice to you ?” she asked sarcastically.
He just sat in his stool and they both concentrated on penciling in their orders.
Ok, I was curious. I really tried not to listen again, really, and refilled my soy sauce dish.
“So?” He said uncomfortably. Obviously this was going nowhere real fast. “Tell me about yourself, what do you do?”
(Shouldn’t they have known about this through the site they met on or friend that introduced them? Back to my ginger…sorry)
“I’m a movie-goer,” she said.
Turned out he was fascinated. “Oh, you work in the industry?”
“No, I just like seeing a lot of movies.”
“I see.”
Oh boy, he was really struggling here…but not for long. It wasn’t too long before she went into details about her dog’s surgery, and I mean details. (I had to shut this part out…come on, we’re eating here!) She went on to how much she loved her dogs and how difficult it was to train her rabbit to go in the litter box. Blah blah blah. All the while, the poor guy was trying to get in a word here and there. So he finally tries..
“I’m not much of a dog person, although I love…” he was then interrupted.
As if she was reciting a monologue, she continued. “I’ve always loved dogs. In fact, I want to get more, but my roommates won’t let me. I would never get a cat, though. I hate cats.”
That’s when he interrupted, “Yeah, that what I was just going to say. I love cats. I have had mine since college and can’t live without him.”
“I guess I could learn to love them,” she joked, as if he asked her to.
She continued to look down at her food, while he did the same. The sushi chef kept passing their plates and she would take his and hand it to him.
Finally, I think he flipped. “I can get my OWN sushi. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome,” she said obliviously.
I was done with my sushi and was haphazardly shoving ginger in my mouth at this point. That’s where I had to draw the line. I asked for the check, and so did she, apparently.
Our checks came. I paid my bill. She did the same…”I’ll pick up the tab,” she said.
“But we’re not done.” He pleaded.
“I am.”
“OK. Thanks…I guess.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied while slapping down the cash. She jetted out.
The sushi chef came over to the poor guy. “What happened?”
“I got free sushi. Woman’s lib!”
Sometimes…there is nothing left to say.

I Bet You Think This Blog is About You...

...don't you, don't you. If your scarf is "apricot", we've got a serious coincidence here. (quoting the lyrics to Carly Simon's "You're so Vain")

This blog is about YOU. YOU- everyone that has ever crossed my path, ends up in my mind, on my notepad and even my blog...indirectly. I often get asked "was that 'ME' you mentioned in one of your blogs?" People that I don't even know approach me about this. Even the barista at Starbucks asked the other day, now that's just odd.