Lunchables
Hummers
Vegans
Daylight Savings Time
People Who Still Write Checks
Rabid Football Fans
Interest in Jennifer "Sour Puss" Aniston
My Dad
Plastic Surgery/Botox/Liposuction (I need it, just don't get it)
Preschool Hysteria
Bumper Stickers - Especially more than two
Running/Jogging if you're not being chased
Homophobes
Skinny Jeans (I get them, just can't wear them)
Dane Cook
Twenty Five Dollars For A Can of Baby Formula
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Los Angeles Times Essay from 2007
I need to reread my Los Angeles Times essay published in '07. So much has changed in the last year and a half but the familiar "School" anxiety for the 4 year old has reared its ugly head again.
(Don't worry folks. My favorite anxieties are still lurking including the popular "I'm 41! What have I accomplished?" and now "What's up with my short term memory and inability to read small print?")
Toddler trauma
Drive yourself crazy with preschool
July 10, 2007
http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-oew-robertson10jul10,0,6234212.story
"Have you picked out a preschool?" My jaw would have hit the floor if it could get past my belly. My PREGNANT belly. "Ummmm…you mean school before kindergarten? In six years? " I asked innocently. "Oh no!" said the perky mom. "Preschool starts at two nine and if you're not on a list now...well…." She clutched her Baby Bjorn and hightailed it to an SUV adorned with a Mommy, Daddy, Baby and Kitty stick figure decal. The look in her eyes said I was probably carrying a serial killer or worse — an unpreschooled serial killer. My What to Expect When You're Expecting handbook was missing a chapter called "Expect to be asked about preschool ten times a day and judged on your answer."
Lots of things surprised me about becoming a parent. I thought baby-proofing was simply putting the bong away and covering electrical outlets. I couldn't image not being gung ho for sex. I swore I'd never be in public with vomit on my shirt. But the biggest shocker was the insanity surrounding TWO NINE!
What do those numbers mean? It's the magic age of two years, nine months when you can ship your crumb cruncher off to a preschool that will shape the course of their lives. Prison or Princeton? Teen pregnancy or Rhodes Scholar? According to some, it all depends on the preschool. For fun, I Googled preschools in the San Fernando Valley and got about nine billion hits. Luckily, you can throw a rock at the mall and hit a mother who has visited all of them.
I should have seen the signs of impending preschool hysteria at playgroup with my 3-month-old daughter. Playgroup is mostly eating pastry and talking about being tired. But it doesn't take long before a sleep deprived new mom starts waxing philosophical about her little mini-me's future. "I'd like Madyson to be an advocate for the environment!" said a minivan driver. I'd love to say, "Congressman Xander" cooed one delusional mother. Yikes — I didn't have a fantasy career in mind for my poop machine so I blurted out the only wish my husband and I had discussed: "I hope she's hot." A mom on four exclusive waiting lists shot me an icy glare. "I'm not sure what preschool she should attend to achieve that goal." I excused myself and said I had to fill out Sabrina's early admission papers for USC.
A preschool in Los Angeles can cost more than college, with prices ranging from really expensive to crazy expensive. Seriously, does snack time include a cheese course? Do art projects use Swarovski crystals? Once you've figured out how to pay tuition — cancel cable, pawn your grandmother's jewelry, sell plasma — there's a registration fee! This scam can cost fifty to five hundred bucks. I imagine the school administrator waving registration checks above her head and buying drinks for the whole bar. "Suckers," she'll slur as administrators high-five each other for inventing another way to squeeze money out of panicked parents.
And you don't choose a preschool — preschool has to choose you. Your two-year-old may have an admissions interview. I set up a mock interrogation, certain my kid would ace it. Elmo, Barney and one of the creepy Care Bears sat around the table. Question one: "What is your favorite color?" Sabrina didn't hesitate and shouted "Spiderman!" Thanks, Sony marketing department. Elmo showed us the door.
Before I got knocked up, my husband and I decided that I would quit my job (yippee!) and become a full time mom. Wasn't the payoff for living on one salary spending time with your kid? It's pretty cool. I get to look at Los Angeles' great parks, beautiful beaches, museums and cultural events with fresh eyes. Sabrina and I have a blast at music class and we love our Mommy and Me group. What would I do while she was at school? Laundry? Dusting? HA!
Occasionally, I have fantasies of leaving Sabrina at school. I'll turn off Radio Disney, listen to Howard Stern and say the "f" word out loud. But I'm not ready for that yet. Will she go to preschool? Sure. Will she be scarred for life and horribly disadvantaged if she doesn't attend a "top tier" preschool at two? I don't think so. I'm pretty sure my mom parked me in a play pen and waved a cigarette for stimulation during my preschool years, and yet I managed to achieve the American Dream — trapping a man to pay my bills. And to that end, we still hope that Sabrina turns out to be hot. Because no one cares where a smokin' chick went to preschool.
(Don't worry folks. My favorite anxieties are still lurking including the popular "I'm 41! What have I accomplished?" and now "What's up with my short term memory and inability to read small print?")
Toddler trauma
Drive yourself crazy with preschool
July 10, 2007
http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-oew-robertson10jul10,0,6234212.story
"Have you picked out a preschool?" My jaw would have hit the floor if it could get past my belly. My PREGNANT belly. "Ummmm…you mean school before kindergarten? In six years? " I asked innocently. "Oh no!" said the perky mom. "Preschool starts at two nine and if you're not on a list now...well…." She clutched her Baby Bjorn and hightailed it to an SUV adorned with a Mommy, Daddy, Baby and Kitty stick figure decal. The look in her eyes said I was probably carrying a serial killer or worse — an unpreschooled serial killer. My What to Expect When You're Expecting handbook was missing a chapter called "Expect to be asked about preschool ten times a day and judged on your answer."
Lots of things surprised me about becoming a parent. I thought baby-proofing was simply putting the bong away and covering electrical outlets. I couldn't image not being gung ho for sex. I swore I'd never be in public with vomit on my shirt. But the biggest shocker was the insanity surrounding TWO NINE!
What do those numbers mean? It's the magic age of two years, nine months when you can ship your crumb cruncher off to a preschool that will shape the course of their lives. Prison or Princeton? Teen pregnancy or Rhodes Scholar? According to some, it all depends on the preschool. For fun, I Googled preschools in the San Fernando Valley and got about nine billion hits. Luckily, you can throw a rock at the mall and hit a mother who has visited all of them.
I should have seen the signs of impending preschool hysteria at playgroup with my 3-month-old daughter. Playgroup is mostly eating pastry and talking about being tired. But it doesn't take long before a sleep deprived new mom starts waxing philosophical about her little mini-me's future. "I'd like Madyson to be an advocate for the environment!" said a minivan driver. I'd love to say, "Congressman Xander" cooed one delusional mother. Yikes — I didn't have a fantasy career in mind for my poop machine so I blurted out the only wish my husband and I had discussed: "I hope she's hot." A mom on four exclusive waiting lists shot me an icy glare. "I'm not sure what preschool she should attend to achieve that goal." I excused myself and said I had to fill out Sabrina's early admission papers for USC.
A preschool in Los Angeles can cost more than college, with prices ranging from really expensive to crazy expensive. Seriously, does snack time include a cheese course? Do art projects use Swarovski crystals? Once you've figured out how to pay tuition — cancel cable, pawn your grandmother's jewelry, sell plasma — there's a registration fee! This scam can cost fifty to five hundred bucks. I imagine the school administrator waving registration checks above her head and buying drinks for the whole bar. "Suckers," she'll slur as administrators high-five each other for inventing another way to squeeze money out of panicked parents.
And you don't choose a preschool — preschool has to choose you. Your two-year-old may have an admissions interview. I set up a mock interrogation, certain my kid would ace it. Elmo, Barney and one of the creepy Care Bears sat around the table. Question one: "What is your favorite color?" Sabrina didn't hesitate and shouted "Spiderman!" Thanks, Sony marketing department. Elmo showed us the door.
Before I got knocked up, my husband and I decided that I would quit my job (yippee!) and become a full time mom. Wasn't the payoff for living on one salary spending time with your kid? It's pretty cool. I get to look at Los Angeles' great parks, beautiful beaches, museums and cultural events with fresh eyes. Sabrina and I have a blast at music class and we love our Mommy and Me group. What would I do while she was at school? Laundry? Dusting? HA!
Occasionally, I have fantasies of leaving Sabrina at school. I'll turn off Radio Disney, listen to Howard Stern and say the "f" word out loud. But I'm not ready for that yet. Will she go to preschool? Sure. Will she be scarred for life and horribly disadvantaged if she doesn't attend a "top tier" preschool at two? I don't think so. I'm pretty sure my mom parked me in a play pen and waved a cigarette for stimulation during my preschool years, and yet I managed to achieve the American Dream — trapping a man to pay my bills. And to that end, we still hope that Sabrina turns out to be hot. Because no one cares where a smokin' chick went to preschool.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Get the F*&K off the playground.
Not another breeder blog! But write what you know so here’s my rant of the day: If you have a mustache and a driver’s license, get the f*&K off the playground.
Hey over here! Yes you! With your baggy Raiders jersey and untied shoes. Shouldn’t you be texting or driving too fast?
Oh no. Here you come! Your lazy shuffle walk has brought you to the toddler play ground.
I get it. It's the middle of holiday break and you're bored. Even though you think I'm from the metazoan age, I do remember that school-free days in the winter can be long and tedious. I feel for you but there are thousands of activities for you to do that don’t put you on a collision course with children.
Look. A sign.
Perhaps you can't read?
I'll help you sound it out - AGES THREE TO SEVEN. You are eight to ten years too old for this area of the park.
Oh good. Here come two of your friends.
One has a clever message on his shirt reading "vagitarian". Hilarious to announce your penchant for eating pussy to the world. With your big jiggly belly and acne covered face I’m sure the girls are lining up for you.
You're suddenly filled with energy! Use it to go away. But no, yelling "Hey motherfucker!" to your friends while leaping to the top of the jungle gym is so much more fun.
Your 200 plus pounds is on a collision course with the Talker! (4 years old)
I have Tiny Bubbles (6 months old) in baby carrier so leaping body block is out of the question!
By a hair, you miss mowing down Talker. Oblivious, you jump onto the slide, over to the teeter totter then across the monkey bars with a continuous stream of vulgarities including “Hey faggot!” and “Fuck you dude” The Talker gets tears in her eyes and runs to my side.
I become alpha mom and yell “GET OFF THE PLAYGROUND ASSHOLES”
After 4 years of spelling cuss words and speaking in sing-song mommy voice it feels very, very good.
Thank you for slouching away. Parents and kids are such a buzz kill. I know! Back in the beginning of time, I used to blow a stream of Marlboro Light smoke toward the heavens while ignoring the stink-eye from nearby breeders and glaring at their snot nosed brats.
Now go home and do what I did during school breaks – steal liquor from your folks.
New Year’s Resolution #3 – Don’t be so bitchy. Broken January 1, 2009 at 2:00 pm.
Hey over here! Yes you! With your baggy Raiders jersey and untied shoes. Shouldn’t you be texting or driving too fast?
Oh no. Here you come! Your lazy shuffle walk has brought you to the toddler play ground.
I get it. It's the middle of holiday break and you're bored. Even though you think I'm from the metazoan age, I do remember that school-free days in the winter can be long and tedious. I feel for you but there are thousands of activities for you to do that don’t put you on a collision course with children.
Look. A sign.
Perhaps you can't read?
I'll help you sound it out - AGES THREE TO SEVEN. You are eight to ten years too old for this area of the park.
Oh good. Here come two of your friends.
One has a clever message on his shirt reading "vagitarian". Hilarious to announce your penchant for eating pussy to the world. With your big jiggly belly and acne covered face I’m sure the girls are lining up for you.
You're suddenly filled with energy! Use it to go away. But no, yelling "Hey motherfucker!" to your friends while leaping to the top of the jungle gym is so much more fun.
Your 200 plus pounds is on a collision course with the Talker! (4 years old)
I have Tiny Bubbles (6 months old) in baby carrier so leaping body block is out of the question!
By a hair, you miss mowing down Talker. Oblivious, you jump onto the slide, over to the teeter totter then across the monkey bars with a continuous stream of vulgarities including “Hey faggot!” and “Fuck you dude” The Talker gets tears in her eyes and runs to my side.
I become alpha mom and yell “GET OFF THE PLAYGROUND ASSHOLES”
After 4 years of spelling cuss words and speaking in sing-song mommy voice it feels very, very good.
Thank you for slouching away. Parents and kids are such a buzz kill. I know! Back in the beginning of time, I used to blow a stream of Marlboro Light smoke toward the heavens while ignoring the stink-eye from nearby breeders and glaring at their snot nosed brats.
Now go home and do what I did during school breaks – steal liquor from your folks.
New Year’s Resolution #3 – Don’t be so bitchy. Broken January 1, 2009 at 2:00 pm.
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