Karis is in denial about turning the big oh-four. If you ask her how old she is, she will look at you as if sizing up how likely you are to know her true age, then she will say that she is three years old. If you try to correct her by saying, “Didn’t you just have a birthday? Aren’t you four years old now?” She will shake her head violently, and insist that she is still three.

She begs me to let her be a baby again, reminiscing about the days of old. “Remember when I used to have a binkie?” She’ll ask, with dreamy eyes.

She recently learned that children grow while they are sleeping. That night, she refused to go to bed, wailing forlornly, “I don’t want to groooowwww. I want to be your little girl foreverrr.”

As young as she is, she is learning the harsh reality that time waits for no man. (Or little girl.)

To celebrate her birthday we went to California to visit Aunt Danielle. While there, we took advantage of Danielle’s connection to Karis’s favorite children’s show, and let Karis hang out on the set of The Fresh Beat Band.

As we approached stage 19 at Paramount, Karis asked if it was The Fresh Beats house. I hated to ruin the magic of television for her, but I explained that The Fresh Beats lived in a pretend house. Just as I finished my explanation, the giant door rolled open, revealing the bright, happy set.

She recognized it immediately.

As sets go, The Fresh Beat set is one of the brightest, most cheerful sets I have ever seen. It’s impossible to be in a bad mood when you’re surrounded by such vibrant colors and cartoon like props. I wasn’t allowed to take any pictures of it, and can’t find any online, but here’s a video of The Fresh Beats singing “Bananas”. Even the video can’t capture how bright that set is – it’s crazy.

Karis curb side on set, after having raided craft services. (Who wouldn’t love pink and yellow streets?)

The cast and crew were all super nice. The cast especially were exactly how you would want children’s entertainers to be. When Karis first laid eyes on Twist, she melted into Danielle’s arms. Twist (Jon Beavers) was so incredibly sweet. Karis was shy and star-struck, meaning she lost all ability to speak or move. I asked Twist if I could get a picture of the two of them together. When he saw how nervous Karis was, he said, “I would love to take a picture with Karis. I’m very shy and nervous! Karis, I’m a little scared, can I take a picture with you?”

He really went above and beyond to make her feel more comfortable. He kept up a running dialogue, (well, technically it was a monologue because Karis was mute) talking about being a big sister, and having a birthday etc.

The rest of the cast was equally awesome. Shout (Thomas Hobson) has an aura about him that could make the sun come out on an overcast day. That man is filled to the brim with kindness and good intentions. I wish I could capture some of his sweetness and sew it into a teddy bear.

Marina (Shayna Rose) was sweet and demure. Her eyes twinkle when she smiles, and it’s easy to see why kids love her immediately.

Kiki (Yvette Gonzalez-Nacer) is Karis’s favorite Fresh Beat (Assuming, of course, that you can ignore her obvious obsession with Twist) Yvette was  more than happy to pose with Karis by her trailer. She also tried to get Karis to talk, but Karis continued to exercise her right to remain silent.

So, where was Brecken this whole time? Naturally he felt inclined to screech as loudly as possible the second he heard the crew call “action”, so Danielle grabbed him in a foot ball hold and ran him the hell off set. He spent the bulk of his time on the Paramount lot eating snacks from craft services, and admiring the electric golf carts that are so popular on lots. He couldn’t have been happier.

Yeah. I’m bad-ass.

Thank you so much to Danielle, the cast, Keith and the rest of the crew, for making my baby girl’s fourth birthday such a magical day. What a wonderful job you guys have – making children happy.

Karis & Danielle

Doing a bit of choreography to her favorite Fresh Beat song. (Note Brecken admiring Kiki’s wheels in the background.)

Oh – and for those of you that keep asking about the cake, here it is:

It was supposed to be a life-sized (kid sized) replica of Kiki’s guitar. The body was covered in fondant, and the details were made out of sugar cookies with royal icing for color. Yeah, Karis is reluctant to age, but at least a little chocolate cake helps to sweeten the deal.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHI-CHI!!!

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Any parents of young children will tell you that finding time together without the kids is key to keeping the magic alive in your relationship. That’s why Jesse and I indulge in a regularly scheduled date night. We go out without the kids once every two years, whether we want to or not! This last Saturday was our bi-annual date night! It was a romantic, care-free night, just for us. Oh, no, wait. We went to a charity gala.

Jesse is frugal, which is a nice way of saying he’s a cheap bastard. The thought of paying a babysitter to watch our kids leaves him a little out of breath. His reluctance to spend money comes from growing up in a small house, located next to a very wealthy neighborhood of not small houses. He vowed to grow up and never again be the guy in the small house. (His parents may not have had a lot of square footage, but they gave him an abundance of love and macrobiotic meals – they were way ahead of their time.) His drive to be successful has served him well, and he is on course to become a vice president at age 33. I think it’s safe to say he has done well for himself. Maybe to celebrate his promotion we might go crazy and rent an On Demand movie after the kids go to bed!

So. Saturday. We have already been over the necessary preparations. We left the kids with Mugga for what would be my first ever night away from them, not counting that one time I left Karis for one night in order to give birth to a second child. (Hopefully this time would be less painful, and feature more alcohol.)

Our Garmin thought it would be funny to take us on a circuitous route in order to add a good 20 minutes to our travel time. That Nuvi, she’s a real bitch. We were supposed to be meeting some friends for drinks before the gala. Sadly, we were late. We were beyond “fashionably” late – we were full on “haute couture” late. Luckily, Jon and Lauren are a pretty laid back pair, and when we finally got to the hotel, we found Jon happily chatting up elderly mavens in the lobby. I’m pretty sure he got a few numbers.

Jon and Lauren

We checked in to our room, and I quickly stuffed myself into my dress. Childbearing has left me with a little more to love in the gut region and a little less in the boob sector. This meant that I didn’t have enough boobage to fill my dress properly, and I spent the night inadvertently flashing the other party goers my nipples. We didn’t get any complaints.

Jesse and me, Nipplegate 2010

Dinner was uh-mazing. Every part of it was delicious. We were seated at a table with several other people, one of which was a loud, garish woman from Brooklyn. I know she was from Brooklyn, because she announced it loudly every 47 seconds or so. I’m from Brooklyn, so I can be loud and obnoxious, and you all think it’s charming because I’m from Brooklyn. I’M FROM BROOKLYN! I’M LOUD, AND THAT MAKES ME THE LIFE OF THIS PARTY! We were also seated with a delightful pitching coach. I wanted to go home with him and drink hot chocolate on his porch while he told me stories of the olden days.

The charity auction took place during the second half of dinner. It was to benefit their youth program, and a diabetic center for children? The auctioneer kept reminding us of that fact. “Come on! It’s for the children.”

The VIP after party was being held in a club on the eighteenth floor of the hotel. Like all good clubs, this one was ridiculously hard to find. One of the elevator banks were inoperable due to the windstorm (if you ever have to get stuck in an elevator, I highly recommend getting stuck in a glass elevator – it makes it a little less claustrophobic. A little.) We were all still technically sober at this point, so we were feeling kind of stupid at not being able to find the damn club.

Lauren attempting to locate the club.

In the glass elevator, searching fruitlessly for the club.

We felt a little less stupid after we stumbled out of the elevator to find a handful of Nationals players also unable to find the club. We are all familiar with my inability to recognize faces, but I’m pretty sure we were in the company of Ryan Zimmerman and Adam Kennedy. If I followed ANY other baseball team besides the Yankees, I probably would have been very excited to be wandering around lost with major leage ball players, but I didn’t know them, so I spent much of our time together ogling one of their pieces of arm candy girlfriends. (Or wife? Or mistress? Like I said – I don’t know these guys…)

Finally, we found the club! It had its own private elevator. We were given wrist bands, and sent on up. Upon reaching the club, we were immediately shepherded into the VIP area. VIP areas can best be described by Dave Barry in an excerpt from his new book, I’ll Mature When I’m Dead, which I will quote here without his permission:

Another perk that comes with being a celebrity is that you get to go into VIP areas. These are areas at clubs or events where only celebrities are allowed to go, so they’ll have some privacy while they engage in exclusive celebrity activities such as standing around. In my experience, this is mainly what VIPs do in their areas: They stand around.

Upon reaching the VIP area, we wasted no time, and started standing around immediately. We eventually wandered in to a little half curtained nook.  Once inside the nook, we ate mini desserts, and Jon poured beer all over the table. I guess you had to be there to fully appreciate the performance art aspect of this act. I’m sure the staff member that had to mop it up was very moved by the whole thing.

It wasn’t as messy as it looks.

The night ended around 1:00AM. Jon and Lauren headed off to catch a cab, and I lead Jesse back to our room. He had that vacant I drank a few gallons too many look about him. How was it that I was still sober? I honestly could have driven home.

I let us into the room and thought, Woo-hoo! Time to slip into a sexy little number and get romantic! Which is exactly what happened, if you consider helping your spouse to stumble through a shower before he passed  out cold across the king sized bed to be “getting romantic”. Yeah. Do we know how to do sexy, or what?

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My stepmother used to have pet alligators. You read that right, alligators. Two of them. One of them was very small. I think around 6 inches. The other one was not so small. I never met them, so I’m guessing based on stories, that the larger alligator was around 2 feet. She called him Mr. Al.

My stepbrother, Justin, was in preschool around that time. Apparently he had a little friend over one day, and he showed that friend Mr. Al. (I know, I know, not only was there a freakin’ ALLIGATOR in the house, but preschoolers were playing unsupervised in the vicinity. Good God! Forget about asking parents if they have a gun in the house – be sure to ask if they are harboring any exotic “pets” capable of maiming or eating your child.) Justin was an industrious little fellow, and told his friend to bring him x number of toys, or he would feed him to Mr. Al. This little friend proceeded to have nightmares, and told his mother about the scary dinosaur at Justin’s house. The mother, being a sane human being, thought he had an overactive imagination. She asked my stepmom if there were any scary dinosaur toys the boys had played with. Knowing exactly what must have happened, my stepmom gave a shrug as if to say “boys will be boys”, but she never mentioned the lethal reptile.

I don’t know what ever happened to Mr. Al or his smaller friend. They were not the last of my stepmom’s exotic pets. She had an 8 foot Burmese python named Clyde. Clyde used to escape his giant terrarium that took up a majority of our living room, and wrap himself around the rafters in our garage.

Aside from Clyde, we had pet chickens, rabbits, dogs, geckos, hermit crabs and more rodents than I can name. Did I mention we lived in Sacramento? IN THE SUBURBS – not out in the middle of farm country.

I’ll never understand what it is that makes people crave the company of exotic, wild animals that would as soon eat you as look at you. Luckily, my stepmom’s tastes run a bit less savage these days. She now has a cat… and a pig named Baby. Hey, at least the pig is a domesticated animal! That’s a step in the right direction.

I’ve rescued tigers, bottle fed squirrels, nursed owls and hawks back to health, and have even been known to foster a crippled tree frog or two. (ALL of which were released back into the wild when deemed appropriate by a veterinarian – with the exception of the tigers, that now reside in a wildlife reserve in California.) I think I can speak with authority when I say that exotic pet “ownership” is not for everyone. Frankly, I’ll go so far as to say that exotic pets should not be left in the care of any layman.

When I hear the tragic stories of people whose faces have been ripped off by their pet chimpanzee, or whose arms were severed by their pet lion, my sympathies lay with the animals; Wild animals that should never have been held in captivity in the first place, and certainly not by average citizens that lack the proper training and facilities.

I guess this makes me a big, fat hypocrite. Yesterday I adopted a hedgehog. Hedgehogs have only begun being domesticated in the last 15 years, and are still considered “exotic”. They are not native to North America or South America. My new hedgehog, like a majority of “pet” hedgehogs in America, is a descendant of African pygmy hedgehogs.

I didn’t decide to get a hedgehog on a whim because I thought they were cute. I did research, weighed the pros and cons, and spoke with hedgehog enthusiasts before deciding a hedgehog would be a nice fit for my family. I encourage anyone considering adopting any pet to do your homework first.

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February is my least favorite month. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because February is always so damn cold and dreary. Maybe it’s because February tries so hard to be different with its floating leap day. I don’t know when my disgust of February started, but I do know that I am starting to see a pattern developing. Ponder this: Yesterday I could have told you that the last time Karis threw a puke party was February 15, 2009. Did you notice how I specified “yesterday”?

I am about to tell you way too much information. The following story contains almost every bodily excretion possible. Read further at your own risk – no one will blame you if you turn around now and leave.

Around 5 o’clock this morning Karis came into my room and said, “Mama, my stomach hurts.”

I immediately went in to denial mode and said, “Want to come snuggle?” She wiggled in to bed beside me, and a record breaking 30 seconds later, she began vomiting all over me, my bed, and my dignity.

I rushed her into the bathroom and tried to aim her over the toilet. My uterus decided this seemed like a perfect time to start hemorrhaging, and when my uterus decides something, there is no changing its mind. Here’s the part where I officially start to give you way too much information. In a valiant attempt at saving my brand new, comfy pajama bottoms, I steadied Karis with one hand and whipped my pants down with the other. I couldn’t reach a towel or toilet paper, so I hung my ass over the side of the tub and called Jesse over for vomit aiming duty so I could clean myself up. (Isn’t that a beautiful mental image? I realize that by disclosing this particular story to you, you may never look at me the same way again.)

Just as Jesse comes over, Karis looks up at me and gasps. “Ah! Mama, you’re bleeding!”

“I’m okay,” I assured her, “Let’s both get cleaned up!”

I righted myself at the speed of light, and as Jesse stripped Karis down for a shower, I stripped the vomit soaked sheets off our bed. As Jesse washed chunks out of Karis’s hair, I washed chunks out of our carpet. We were a team! A vomit cleaning duo. As I was putting fresh sheets on the bed while Jesse dried Karis off, I was counting every one of my blessings that I wasn’t a single mother. Mad respect for all you single parents out there!!!

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Oh. Did you think the story was over? Not at all. If today were a movie, the part you just read would be the opening credits.

I failed to set up this scene. I never mentioned the fact that the day before, a contractor had removed most of the drywall and insulation from the outer facing wall of our bedroom. The beams were still soaking wet from our ice dam adventure, so we have to leave the walls open for a few days, with a noisy fan blowing on them.

I also failed to mention that we had flooring contractors scheduled to come later that day to replace our living room carpet and put hard wood in our basement.

I made a little bed for Karis on our floor. She happily snuggled in to it and went to sleep. I tried to go back to sleep too, but my mind was racing, going over all the stuff I had to move to get ready for the flooring people. Karis puked three more times throughout the morning, and at the happy hour of 8:00AM the phone rang. It was the flooring guys, telling me they’d be there in 30 minutes. THREE HOURS EARLY.

Long about this time Jesse started turning green and ashy. “I don’t feel so great…” He moaned. Sigh. The happy half of the vomit cleaning duo was about to become a single mother to two sick kids AND a sick man-baby. I rumaged in my mental closet and pulled out my Super Woman cape. It wasn’t even dusty! I gave it a good shake, put it on, and went to face the day.

I am way too tired to go in to much detail about the twelve hours between 9:00AM and 9:00PM, just know this: There was much running up and down stairs, vomiting, pants pooping, baby crying, contractor arguing, snot wiping, moaning, cramping, cleaning cleaning cleaning, AND to add insult to injury, I tweaked my left quadricep and could barely walk for several hours.

Just as I put the kids to sleep, Jesse asked me to run to the store for some Ginger Ale to help settle his stomach. He had spent the day horking into the toilet bowl loudly enough to alarm passing motorists. He was feeble and exhausted, having nearly blacked out from one of his vomiting bouts. He never does the whole vomiting thing half way. Once he gets going, there’s no stopping him. Add to that his annoying refusal of all medical advice and you have …well, you have Jesse – I’m too tired to come up with anything clever.

I dragged myself to the grocery store. I stumbled in through the automatic doors and schlepped towards the bananas. That’s when it happened. That’s when I split in two. One minute I was Super Woman, searching out just the right bunch of bananas, and the next thing I knew, I was staring at my weaker self standing beside me.

She was crying. crying right there between the bananas and the green seedless grapes. She looked at me, weary and defeated. She took a step toward me, as if she wanted a hug, or some form of support. I lurched backwards, pulling my cape out from under her battered shoe. I gave her a stern look, as if to say, we don’t have time for this! and I left her. I left her standing there in the produce section, tears of exhaustion streaming down her cheeks, smelling of dried vomit and despair.

She’ll find her way home, I’m sure. She’ll probably join me in the shower, as the hot water pounds against the back of my aching neck. I’ll give her a hug. An unspoken sorry for abandoning you. I’ll let her cry, even. But just in the shower – that’s it!

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1. Have your husband leave his shoes in the bedroom doorway (as usual).
2. Let your toddler “help” you put laundry away in your bedroom.
3. Watch in horror as your toddler runs full speed, trips over your husband’s shoes, and cracks his forehead into the edge of the bedroom door so forcefully it shakes the house.
4. Calmly pick up your toddler and check for obvious skull fractures.
5. Attempt to apply ice to the injured area.
6. Give up.
7. Check toddler’s pupils.
8. Call your mom. (If your mother is not a RN, call your usual advice nurse or pediatrician.)
9. Observe toddler for signs of concussion.
10. Wait for the magical unicorn horn to break through your toddler’s forehead.

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There are roughly 6.795 billion people on this planet, and 3.397 billion of them want to have sex with my wife.

The fact that she doesn’t understand this just speaks to the differences in male vs. female brains. At any given time, men are thinking about one of four things.

Sex. Food. Money. Sports.

The order of those thoughts on a man’s list of priorities depends on his current situation. If he’s hungry, food is probably the top thought. If his team is playing in the world series, sports on the mind is a safe bet. However all of those things can be canceled out by a beautiful woman. Hell, all of those things can be canceled out by an average woman, providing she’s got a nice rack.

If there is a beautiful woman within easy viewing distance of a man, the top thought is set to sex by default.

My wife thinks the UPS guy delivers packages to our house because it’s his job. She fails to understand that when he’s saying, “Please sign here”, what he really means is, “I want to have sex with you.”

Our friendly neighbor that asks her if the kids want to pet his puppy? He just never finishes his sentence – “Do your kids want to pet the puppy while I have sex with you?”

Her old college buddy? Not only does he want to have sex with my wife, he surely has a shrine dedicated to her somewhere in his apartment. You don’t keep in touch with old college friends of the opposite sex unless you want to have sex with them.

My wife’s most recent display of naivete is a relationship she has struck up with a web developer guy over the internet. After hearing his name come up for the third time in three days I asked her, “Why the hell are you talking to this guy everyday? Is your website that fucked up?”

We’re friends she says. HA! Friends. Right.

We talk about interesting things like politics and science

Politics and science? I’m sure this guy really cares what a SAHM in Maryland thinks about our global economy.

Why are you so threatened by an internet friend that lives in the UK?

The United Kingdom? Great – so he probably has an accent. What a fun novelty. My wife is talking politics and science with Hugh fucking Grant.

Why don’t I just hire a gardener? Some totally ripped ball of tanned testosterone to come over and prune our hedges?

I swear to God my wife’s ignorance will put me in an early grave. Now that I have a daughter, I have a whole new generation of penises to worry about.

There are approximately 216,000 babies born every day. 108,000 of them will want to have sex with my daughter…

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My uncle’s wife makes a line of chap sticks called Naturally Wicked Lip Balm. Having giant lips that need constant hydration, I am a bit of a chap stick connoisseur. I was very excited the day a package of lip balms arrived in my mail box. Aside from being made of natural ingredients, they are deliciously flavored!

The package contained a variety of lip balms with names like mocha latte and peachy keen. By far my favorite ended up being lime. It is very citrus-y and refreshing.

I toted my precious lime lip balm with me everywhere I went. If my lips felt the slightest bit dry I would happily slather some on. I was understandably horrified the day I reached into my pocket and found it empty! Where was my lime lip balm?!

I was in the childrens’ section of my local library. Toddlers wandered around the area clutching books and fighting over half chewed wooden puzzle pieces. I followed after Brecken as he joined the masses of diaper clad board book enthusiasts. As we ambled past a table my eye was drawn to a quiet little girl. In one of her little fists she was holding a well worn doll from the library’s doll house (circa 1976) and in her other fist she was clutching…No – could it be? My lime lip balm?!

I could just make out the distinct purple cap.

Don’t be ridiculous, I thought. Lots of chap sticks have purple caps.

Just then, the quiet little girl decided to stand. She braced herself against the table, accidentally dropping the chap stick in the process. It rolled to a stop right in front of me. I could clearly see the Naturally Wicked Lip Balm title set against a pink pentagram. I bent and picked it up.

“Oh, thank you.” came a voice beside me. I looked up to see the girl’s mother.

“Actually, I think this is mine. It must have fallen out of my pocket earlier.”

The mom looked at me like I was some creepy chap stick thief.

“No, it’s ours.” She said sweetly. “I just gave it to her out of my purse.”

“Are you sure? You gave her this chap stick?” I was surprised this mom wanted to keep my chap stick so badly. That’s gross. She didn’t know what kind of cooties I had. Used chap stick is a veritable petri dish of yuck.

“Yes, I’m sure.” She held out her hand expectantly.

“I really think you might be mistaken. You see, I happen to know that this brand of chap stick is a very tiny, boutique brand made very far away.”

She was starting to look uneasy, like she was just realizing she was dealing with a paranoid schizophrenic.

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’d have to ask my mother. She sent it in a care package. My daughter loves peaches.”

Peaches? What is she talking about?

“Where does your mother live?”

“Sparks, Nevada.”

Yup. You guessed it. My uncle and his wife live five miles away from Sparks Nevada.

Just as she said “Sparks” I noticed the flavor title on the chap stick tube I was holding hostage. It was peachy keen. Not lime.

“Oh my gosh! Sparks! What are the odds?”

She was still waiting for the chap stick.

“Oh, God. I’m sorry – here you go.” I stumbled over myself to give her her lip balm back. “You must think I’m crazy!” I chuckled at her, waiting for her to return the laugh. She didn’t.

I ended up finding my lime chap stick a few weeks later in the bottom of my camera bag. Sadly, our reunion was to be short lived.

I went to visit my step-mom this last week. She has a pet pig. Yes, I know – but it’s a far sight better than the pet alligator she used to have.

The pig’s name is Baby. He is very tame and loves to snuggle. Baby is a comical delight. He grumbles under his breath like a pissy teenager whenever he is forced to do something other than snore under the covers or bask by the fireplace. Aside from his affinity for chewing on the linoleum in the entry hall, Baby really only has one vice; He can’t help but ingest things that smell edible.

He doesn’t waste time with unwrapping the random treasures he stumbles upon in his daily sojourns around the house. He’s more of a cram-it-in-and-swallow kind of guy. You can already see where this is going.

Baby found my lime lip balm.

It all happened in slow motion. I can still recall in vivid detail watching that little piggie snout push its way around the pocket of my carry-on bag. I wasn’t giving in without a fight! I wrestled that piggy. I stuffed my hand into his slobbery mouth and pryed my lime lip balm from his squealing jaws. Alas, this is all that remains of my lime lip balm:

I’ve been forced to use watermelon or margarita ever since.

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After a delicious sushi birthday dinner we stopped by Giant to pick up a cake. Jesse didn’t know you had to call in your order the day before, so I figured I’d just run in and grab one of the pre-made, stale cakes they keep stocked in the bakery cooler.

I found an 1/8 sheet cake – just the right size for our little party.

I took it up to the counter and politely excused myself to get the attention of the young woman sprawled across the only free area, eating a greasy rotisserie chicken from a plastic container.

She jumped in surprise, clutching dramatically at her breast and drawing my attention to her name tag. “Jessica”.

Jessica: “Oh girl! I’m sorry! I’m all up in here eatin’ my chicken. Lemme get out yer way.”

Me: “That’s alright, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. I just need a cake inscribed.”

Jessica scooted over, allowing me room to set the cake down. A large, scowling woman from behind the counter lumbered over to help me. Her name was “Angel” which led me to believe that her mother was either in denial when she named her, or had a great sense of humor. Angel had a giant ring threaded through her bottom lip. She was tired, but in a decent mood. I noted her lack of hair net and unwashed hands.

Me: “Hi, do you think you could fit “happy twenty eleventh” on this little cake?”

Angel: “I can TRY.”

Angel and her unwashed, un-gloved hands fumbled around in a bucket until she found the pastry bag with the white frosting. She used her dirty finger to pick off the cap of dried icing. When she realized it was still clogged, she snipped off the tip with a pair of old scissors she found in a junk drawer.

She squeezed out a thick, uneven line for the first leg of the “H”, then she looked up at me and said,

Angel: “It’s not goin’ to look like that!”

and she thumped the decorative sign above her head that showcased a beautifully scripted birthday cake.

I swallowed my Isn’t that the point of having the “professional” at the bakery cake counter write on your cake?, and smiled back at her.

Me: “Just do your best.”

After finishing a very shaky “Happy”,  Angel got distracted by a particularly juicy bit of gossip from Jessica. Three letters in to the “Twenty” she realized she had made a spacing mistake.

Me: “I don’t think you’re going to be able to fit everything on there.”

Angel: “No, I can do it…”

At this point she has finished writing “Twenty” and there is NO room left on the cake.

Me: “I don’t see how it’s possible…”

Angel: “I’ll MAKE it fit.”

Angel takes a deep breath and squeezes an illegible “E-l-e-v” on the edge of the cake. Half of the letters are dripping down the side.

Me: “You know what? That’s ok – I’ll just buy the bigger cake.”

Angel: “But what about this one? I’ll have to throw it away!”

Me: “No you wont. Just re-frost it.”

Angel huffs in exasperation and scribbles her frustration all over the top of the little cake. The phone rings. As Angel is answering the so-dirty-you-can-see-the-filthy-hand-outlines-on-the-receiver phone, I pick up a 1/4 sheet cake with blue flowers on it.

Holding the dirty phone against her ear with her shoulder, Angel pulls a blue icing bag from the frosting supplies bucket. She barks at her friend on the other end of the line, “Hold on, fool!” and sets the receiver down.

Angel: “This color good for you?”

Angel picks at the dried chunk of icing with a dirty fingernail. My smile must be faltering by now.

Me: “Uh, that’s ok. You know, I think I’ll just do it myself. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Angel shrugs and tosses me the dirty blue icing bag.

Me: “Oh, no, I’ll just do it at home. I need a tip. You can do a good job without a tip, but I need a tip…”

Angel: “Pshaw! You think this looks good?” She pulls the little cake back into view with her earlier scribbles on it.

This is the point at which everything got jumbled up. You see, Angel had done a terrible job on the first cake. I could see it. She could see it. Hell, RAY CHARLES could see it. So I thought it would be condescending and fake of me to give her the standard, “Oh, don’t be silly! You did a great job!”. I mean, she was using the cake as an example of being “not good” by the inflection in her question. So I answered honestly, with a chuckle and a good natured shrug to show her we were on the same team.

Me: “No.”

That was the wrong answer to give. The most wrong answer. I could not have come up with a more wrong answer.

Angel’s entire demeanor changed immediately. Her eyes bugged out, and she became very, very still. She looked down upon me with a hatred in her eyes usually reserved for pedophiles and puppy killers.

Angel: “You just said ‘No.’! Oh I see how it is…”

I stuttered frantically, trying to come up with a comprehensible sentence that would convey to her that I thought we were close enough to tease each other  like this! Hadn’t we just bonded over the first cake?! Didn’t I know embarrassing things about Jessica’s boyfriend? But before I could show her a proper amount of contrition, she held up her hand, effectively staunching the flow of my thoughts.

Angel: “Goodbye.”

I gave her one last friendly smile, raising my eyebrows to test her response.

Angel: “Good. Bye.”

I slunk off to the baking isle and grabbed a can of frosting so I could ice the damn cake at home. This meant my impromptu birthday cake ended up costing me $16.00 for the unnecessarily large cake and $3.00 for the icing, to total $19.00, instead of the $9.00 the little cake would have been. Giant should give Angel kudos for the up-sale!

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You can’t tell by looking at me, but I am missing a key component deep in the creases of my brain. This missing key component is taken for granted by every person that has it. It is that little piece of brain matter responsible for facial recognition. That piece? I don’t have it.

I am literally a muggers dream victim.

“Can you describe your attacker miss?”

“Yes. He was tall. wearing a black pea coat…. uh…”

“Race?”

“Um,  he was an African American white guy with roundish Asian eyes”

“What?”

“What?”

“Tell me again about his eyes.”

“Yes, he had eyes.”

A perfect example of my deficiency in action: My husband and I were walking by a billboard with Johnny Depp advertising a Rolex watch.

“People say I look like him sometimes.” Says my husband.

“People say you look like the Rolex watch guy?”

That’s right folks, put Johnny Depp on something other than a movie poster, and 9 times out of 10 I wont recognize him. JOHNNY FREAKIN’ DEPP.

Where does Fred come in to all of this, you ask? Let me set the scene for you:

The year is 2004 (I think. It may have been earlier – but not much.) It is night time and I am standing out in front of Improv Olympic West on Hollywood Blvd. There is the usual rowdy crowd of improvers, and students, and happy homeless drunks milling about. I’m with my buddy Tuttle. We are Alumni of I.O. West, and can usually be found haunting the place on most Wednesday and Saturday nights. Suddenly, from the depths of the crowd I hear, “Kristy! Kristy, over here!”

I turn and see a smiling young man with a baseball cap on, waving enthusiastically.

Confused, I glance behind me for any other Kristy’s in the immediate area. There are none. Noticing my befuddled expression, the young man tries again.

“It’s me, Fred. Fred Cross!”

He can probably hear the crickets chirping in the hollow area of my brain where the face recognition neurons are usually housed. I smile to encourage him. I definitely KNOW the name Fred Cross, but damn me if I can place that face. Fred soldiers on.

“Fred. Fred Cross from American Blues Theater? Harvey?”

His words are familiar, but they are out of place. American Blues Theater was 300 miles north, in Stockton California. We were standing at A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT IMPROV THEATER in Hollywood. WHY IS JOHNNY DEPP HOCKING ROLEX WATCHES?!

By this time it’s just getting awkward. My buddy Tuttle is looking at this guy like he has obviously mistaken me for someone else. I want so badly to place this face! It’s like when you wake up suddenly from an AWESOME dream, but can’t quite remember what it was about, but you keep TRYING because it is SO CLOSE.

Finally a spark! Fred Cross. American Blues Theater. Harvey. “OHMYGOSHYOU’REBALDFRED!” I exclaimed as I ripped the baseball hat from his unsuspecting head. I was so exaulted that I placed a face to a name (yes, yes, both face and name were handed to me on a silver platter – but this was still a huge accomplishment for me.) that I didn’t even think about how one might take offense at being called “Bald Fred”.

At this point in the story I should clarify a few key points.

Firstly, I never before had referred to Fred as “bald Fred”, either to his face or behind his back. The reason my faulty brain used Fred’s hair, or lack there of, to bridge the face recognition synapses has everything to do with a conversation we had had about his hair once. Why were we conversing about his hair, you ask? Well, that brings us to the second key point:

Fred and I had been friends back in college. A scant 3 years before this encounter took place. I say “friends” and not “acquaintances” because not recognizing an old acquaintance is perfectly acceptable, where as not recognizing someone you spent large amounts of time with is just asinine. Fred and I interned together at a small start up theater owned by one of my Drama teachers. By “small” I mean it sat a mere 50 people in a black box theater space.

There were a total of 4 interns. That’s right, Fred and I made up 50% of the crew. The 4 of us, Fred, Mike, Emily and myself, would often times find ourselves strewn across the tattered stage couch and various beanbag chairs, shooting the shit. During one such captivating chat session the subject of age came up. Mike guessed Fred’s age to be older than he was. Fred called him on it, saying Mike only thought he was older because of his hair. A great debate ensued, where it was determined that hair wasn’t always a contributing factor in how old you look, and then Mike named off several sexy celebrities that had shaved heads and looked young. A stupid conversation? Yes. But the passion with which they both argued their points made it a memorable conversation. At least for me.

Now let’s go back to that Hollywood Blvd street corner. Sweet, good natured Fred has just snatched his baseball cap back and is settling it on his head. Tuttle is looking at me with a mixture of shock and horror. I am standing there grinning widely, thrilled with my accomplishment of facial recognition, and completely oblivious to how wretched my behavior has been. I can’t remember how the rest of our conversation went. I think there were a few “How have you been”‘s and “What are you up to”‘s. We parted ways with the obligatory, “We should get together for drinks sometime” that we never ended up doing.

Fate would throw us into each-other’s paths again. Fred ended up renting an apartment just below my sister-in-law. Los Angeles is a huge city. What are the odds Fred would happen to rent an apartment below my sister-in-law? Even crazier – what are the odds that of the two times I ever visited her in her apartment, both times Fred would be walking out just as I was walking in?

“Hey, Fred.” I said as I walked up the stairs in the courtyard.

He paused a second to place my face. (only ONE second! What a pro!) “Oh, hi.” But the light of friendship was gone from his eyes.

Fred and I have quite a few friends in common. Naturally this means we are “friends” on facebook. He is a very funny and talented actor – and I’m not just saying that to kiss his ass, as he will probably never read this – and I enjoy reading his posts. He recently got married to a beautiful woman, competed on a game show, and turned 33. I’ll make the occasional comment to his wall, but mostly I just quietly read of his adventures and wish him all the best.

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I am a stay at home mother. I do not have a traditional career. My kids are my career. Well, not the kids themselves, but taking care of the kids.

I do not get sick days. I do not get paid vacation days. Hell, I do not get paid period.

I will never get a raise. I am not contributing to a 401K. I have no hope of ever making partner and getting my name on the company letterhead. All of that is ok with me. I love my job. I give my job “110%”, and “do my best to be a team player”, and “try to take it to the next level” – and any other obnoxious office cliche you can think of.

Professional football players have The Super Bowl. Actors and film industry folks have The Academy Awards. Stay at home mom’s have Birthday Parties.

I’m not that mom that has a triple digit guest list and a professional catering company on speed dial. You wont see any pony rides going on in my front yard, no costumed college kids trying to make a buck by playing Disney characters. No, I’m not a big party kind of mom. What I am is a tradition forming kind of mom. A mom that wants to express her love for her munchkins in little ways. I have made custom little party hats for each of my kids. Karis has a pink hat, complete with Mirabeau feathering around the rim and on top. Every year I add a silk flower to her hat – one flower for every year in age.  Brecken’s hat is blue. Each year he will get another polka-dot. I thought that would be a fun tradition for them. I also thought it would be neat to see yearly pictures of them in their hats.

Another birthday tradition I started with Karis’s first birthday is that I make their cake. I am not an experienced baker. Every thing I know about cake decorating I have taught myself in the last three years. I can now use fondant with somewhat predictable results, and can pipe pretty decent lettering. I love Ace of Cakes and have always been fascinated with the idea of making fun, edible art for birthday celebrations.

For Brecken’s first birthday I decided to do a 3-d rubber ducky cake. I bought a 3-d cake pan, but didn’t like the look of the finished product featured on the box. The box showed ducks with piped on frosting and coconut shavings. I wanted a rubber ducky. A smooth, plastic looking rubber ducky. Traditional rolled fondant is too stiff to seamlessly cover a 3-d duck cake, so I experimented with a few different recipes until I found a fondant with a marshmallow base, allowing for stretching and seamless blending. I made two, yes TWO, practice cakes before working out all of the kinks.

The night before the party I finished the official rubber ducky cake. It was very cute; Very rubber duck like. I was satisfied with the finished product and excited to see Brecken’s reaction when he saw it. The morning of the party I decorated the dining room with streamers and bright, festive table clothes. I brought home yellow, blue and white balloons with a giant, Mylar rubber ducky accent balloon. When everything was just so I snapped off a bunch of pictures for Brecken’s birthday book. (I have big 3 ring binders that I’ve turned into make shift birthday scrap books.)

As the guests arrived and the party got under way, I continued to take pictures. I got some great shots of the kids playing out in the backyard. The lighting was pretty good and I was very pleased with many of the shots I was getting. There were some particularly cute shots of my cousin’s daughter demonstrating how to do a somersault.

Eventually we all made our way inside for cake and presents! We sang the song. We cut the cake. We ate the cake. A grand time was had by all. That is, until tonight. Tonight when I went to upload those fun birthday pictures. Tonight when I went to post duck cake pictures on my blog. Tonight when I searched through ALL 4 of my memory cards, only to find that every picture I took of the kids and the decorations and the F#@%&*G duck cake had been erased before I had uploaded them to my computer.

This is me losing the big account. This is me fumbling the ball just before reaching the end zone. This is me tripping on the train of my sequined gown as I reach to accept my Oscar.

F#@k a duck from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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