The title of this post is supposed to help you imagine a Clark Kent like man with a white lab coat instead of a cape. He has great posture, and stands tall with his fists on his hips. He is a DOCTOR, and therefore infallible.

I was raised in a medical family. I was taught the USDA’s food pyramid in school. I loved meat, and drank so much milk there should have been a twelve step program for me.

Nowadays I eat a different diet. Over the past several months, I have been transitioning my family to a vegan diet. It hasn’t been without challenges. In fits of frustration, I have caught myself saying, “Fine. We’ll be vegan in our home, and vegetarian out in the rest of the world.”

I’m trying hard not to make my kids resent our diet. I don’t deny them the occasional ice cream cone. I let them participate in school parties when there’s jell-o on the menu. I decided right away that I didn’t want to be a vegan-Nazi. I reason that making certain foods forbidden will only add to their allure.

I myself am stumbling through this transition. Take chicken and cow’s milk, for example. How do you explain to a 4 year old who desperately wants cow’s milk in her cereal, that we don’t drink it anymore? Why was it ok to drink yesterday, but not today? And chicken – Karis LOVES chicken. So I give her a great substitute, and she can’t tell the difference, but the REASON we don’t eat chicken anymore is for both health reasons AND ethical reasons. So do I continue to call it “chicken”, or do I explain that it’s what we eat instead of chicken?

I’m getting off track here. I was writing this post to highlight an awkward little moment that took place during Brecken’s two year physical. I really like Brecken’s group of pediatricians. The doctor we saw that day was a lovely man with an excellent bedside manner. When he was asking me the usual questions about Brecken’s development, he asked the standard, “How is his diet? Is he eating all right?”.

I realized it was probably relevant to tell him that we were transitioning to veganism. His eyebrows shot up.

“Oh. That’s…good.” He said. “Uh, vegan. That means no milk, right? How is he getting his calcium?”

I laughed, thinking he was making a joke. He didn’t laugh back. Instead he looked at the crazy vegan woman in his exam room and wondered why she was laughing.

I squinted at him and gave a half smile. “You’re joking, right? You’re not actually saying that cow’s milk is the best source of calcium for a toddler, are you? I mean, it’s not even a good source, let alone the best.”

He shuffled his papers a moment and cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. So. Um. How did you say he was getting his calcium?”

“Green leafy vegetables. Kale? Broccoli?” I craned my neck in a not-so-subtle attempt to see what he was writing in Brecken’s file. Most likely something along the lines of “Has crazy, vegan mother. Check for calcium deficiencies at next appointment.”

He looked up from the file. “He eats that?!”

“If I put it into an orange juice smoothie, sure.”

He seemed hesitant to ask the next question. “…And, for protein?”  He asked in a meek voice.

“Legumes, nuts, seeds, tofu, mung beans, insects.”

His head snapped up again.

“Just kidding,” I laughed. “We almost never eat mung beans.”

(No, I don’t eat insects. But I’m not opposed to adding them to my diet if someone will dry them and grind them into an un-bug-like flour for me. Come on, Internet – get on that!)

This guy has the right idea.

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We came home from Ithaca on Sunday night to a power outage.

The kids were thrilled to bathe by candle light, but the novelty quickly wore off mid way through Monday. Monday afternoon found us leaning against a wall in an empty shopping mall, charging my cell phone. Good times.

When we came home from our attempted shopping adventure – which featured a near pitch black Target for the kids to explore – I put Brecken down for his nap and snuggled Karis on the couch while crocheting her a panda bear. I started to feel uncomfortably hot, and thought it was just the lack of AC coupled with the  heat of our stuffy house. I moved Karis away, gave her some water, and told her to lay down on the floor (She looked like she was tired).

She was passed out within seconds. She woke up an hour later with confused, rabid eyes, crying and complaining that she couldn’t get her shoes off. She was bare foot. I calmed her down, and carried her blazing body upstairs to take her temp. 103.6º.

She cried as I bathed her in lukewarm water. She loved taking a dose of medicine. She was down to 102.8º and running around like a March hare in no time, demanding we eat Thai food for dinner.

Having no power really brought our little community together. Everyone sat out on their stoops at dusk to chat and feel the slight breeze pass by. Flashlights were shared, dry ice was gifted, B-B-Q grills were used as stove tops to boil pasta water. We even socialized with our elusive neighbors! They were idling in their giant Navigator, watching DVD’s with the AC blasting. (That 1970′s crying Indian Native American has shed enough tears over my neighbors to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool.)

We talked with the dad, who refers to himself as “Mo”. He told us that his Navigator is a company car to impress clients. He is in “imports and exports” which Jesse says is a nice way of saying “terrorist”. He regularly travels to the Middle East on business. He has a six bedroom house there, and wants to take us to Ethiopia to have an adventure. “You Americans – you will love it!” (This was said directly following his proclamation that Americans are spoiled, and in Ethiopia most places don’t have electricity. Sounds like paradise.)

He then gave us the remainder of his sons birthday cake and demanded we allow him to take us out to an Ethiopian restaurant soon. I love our neighbors because they never cease to entertain. They are genuinely nice people… they just happen to have the sketchiest background EVER. And a huge carbon footprint. Terrorism and greenhouse gas emissions: Not my favorite qualities.

NOTE: Our power finally came on 29 hours later. I was sitting on my couch at the time, sewing by candle light (I can rock it American Revolution style when I have to). Our windows were open, and I could hear jovial shouts and elated shrieks throughout the neighborhood. People were less excited when they pulled baby Jessica out of that well that one time. We are pussies.

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Yours truly was featured on mom life today! Check it out here, and leave some comment love.

For those of you not familiar with mom life, it’s a web show hosted by two moms that live in LA. They host experts on each webisode, and talk about things like relationships, health & wellness, family time, how not to lose your identity when you become a parent… They can be a great resource for moms – and dads too.

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Many of you ask why I never post pics of myself. Well, I do, but admittedly not that often. It’s not because I’m trying to stay mysterious – I regularly post about gas for crying out loud – it’s just that no one really takes pics of me that often. So. This weekend there were a few pictures taken of me. The fact that I am sweaty, and drunk in a bar should probably be explained.

We went to Ithaca this weekend to visit Jesse’s father, step-mother and grandfather. Huns and Andrew also went up. We love going to Ithaca because it always means good food, happy kids and free babysitting!
The free babysitting allows for us parents to go haunt college bars and pretend we’re still young. I could totally pass for a college student, right? RIGHT?
Our adventure at The Chapter House began with an adorable bar tender that didn’t know the first thing about bar tending. She was cute – but that was the only thing she had going for her. This girl couldn’t even pour a beer correctly.
After three attempts at getting her to make my signature drink (a lemon drop martini for those of you keeping a scrap book of things you love about me) I gave up and said, “Just give me a Cosmo.”

She poured vodka into a glass and put a lime on the side. She then tossed a stir straw into the mix and set it in front of me. I was confused. I am certainly no expert when it comes to bar tending – or even drinking for that matter – but isn’t making a Cosmo on the exit exam for every bar tending 101 class? It’s not like I was asking her to entertain me with bottle flips ala Tom Cruise in Cocktail.

Two hot chicks at a bar. Literally. It was at least 107º in there!

Huns stepped in and taught her the secret way to turn a Cosmo pink. (Cranberry juice, for you beginners out there.) Why am I going on about our misadventures at the bar? The REAL fun started when we all decided to play pool. By that I mean we all said, “Let’s go play pool!” and I went to the pool area while everyone else stayed at the bar for twenty minutes.

Don’t worry – I wasn’t alone for long! That’s right, within minutes I was joined by two of Cornell’s finest. Well, technically ONE of Cornell’s finest, and his friend visiting from the Midwest; Ben and Evan, respectively. They regaled me with tales of  Ben’s big win at the robosub competition in San Diego.

Jealous? Robo Ben is on my right giving you that saucy wink. Oh, and ladies? They’re single!

By the time everyone finally decided to join me, I was officially drunk. Somewhere between claiming I could drive a bus full of kindergartners, and that moment, I had convinced the other bar tender to impress me with his lemon drop making abilities. He did.

Andrew bet me a buck that I couldn’t sink a ball when I broke. He later called it ‘the weakest break he had ever seen’, but lookie there – that’s me with my winnings:

Pool shark

The bar was pretty low key. We met an adorable ichthyologist named Erin (Hi Erin!). Erin schooled the boys in pool. She is studying a beetle that hurts pine trees? (If I got that right I will be amazed. My memory of our conversation is foggy at best.)

Erin the ichthyologist (bug lover)

My favorite quote of the night? That would have to be Huns saying something along the lines of, “I like it when you’re drunk! You’re not such a bitchy mom – you’re fun instead!” Thank you, Huns. I’ll be sure to remind you of this when you yourself have morphed into a “bitchy mom”. (Of four boys)

We played darts. Jesse and I kicked butt because the dart board kept giving us Andrew’s and Huns’ points because we are awesome dart players!!

Drunk and sweaty

All in all it was a fun night. Maybe we’ll do a repeat performance when we go to Maine this year. Mugga can babysit, and we can go practice being lushes with the townies.

Three lemon drops and a “Cosmo”

If you run into us stumbling down the side of the road, don’t worry – I’m a happy drunk!

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In reading over some of my posts I realized I come across as a bit of a name dropper. Ugh.

I think name droppers are usually insecure people, and/or people that think dropping the name of a well known person somehow gives them credibility or maybe a little bit of the power of the named person. I don’t think I fall into either of those categories. Despite my recent odor problem, I don’t consider myself to be insecure. And as far as power goes… Well, I’m a stay at home mom – the only power I need to wield has to do with fighting stubborn laundry stains.

That being said, I think I’m “doing it wrong”. I don’t drop names in the hopes that you’ll think I hang out with famous people. Quite the opposite actually. If I have named a celebrity in a passing post, you can bet I don’t know them. I only ever mention casual run-ins – which happen constantly if you live in LA longer than 10 minutes.

If I have a story that paints a celebrity in an unfavorable light, I tend to keep it to myself. Maybe they were having a bad day. We all have less-than-perfect moments.

I do happen to count a handful of well-knowns among my friends. People very successful in their chosen professions. People you would recognize. I will never write about them without their permission. I’ll probably never write about them period, unless they happen to be involved in an epic, post-worthy adventure with me, at which point I will change their names so as not to detract from the awesomeness of the story. I’m professional like that. *cough*

The public’s fascination with celebrity has always struck me as an interesting phenomenon. Why are people so quick to name drop? Why was the magician at Karis’ school so eager to tell us he had recently done a magic show for Sasha Obama? I think it has to do with our primitive brain. Back when we all sported uni-brows and grunting was an acceptable form of communicating, we knew what a dangerous world it was out there. We took comfort in the familiar, because familiar things were less likely to eat us.

Nowadays, though we are only rarely ever eaten while going about our daily routine, we still tend to fall prey to that herd mentality. Though we don’t actually know the celebrities we see on our t.v. screens, we recognize them, and in so doing, we subconsciously take ownership of them.

Living in LA helped me remember that celebrities are just people. People that have good days and bad days. People that make mistakes. People that struggle with hidden demons. People that live their lives in a fish bowl. Yeah, we tell ourselves that the celebrities signed up for fame, and shouldn’t complain about things like the paparazzi. They’re rich – they have their huge bank accounts to comfort them. But if you take a minute to think about what that kind of life must be like – it’s tragic.

I can prove my point in two words. Mel Gibson.

Then man has some serious issues to work through. Imagine having those same issues. Now imagine having to work through them in front of the world, while being mocked and ridiculed. We feel betrayed. Turns out Mel Gibson isn’t the hero we’ve all seen portrayed on the big screen. Yeah – no shit. He’s an actor. His choice of profession doesn’t give us the right to humiliate him. I’m guilty of it too. If you follow me on twitter, you may have read my tweet about Mel’s rant. It wasn’t a cruel tweet, but I still put my 2¢ in to the bucket. So I’ll take this opportunity to say, “Sorry, Mel. No hard feelings?” (Mel Gibson is a regular reader of this blog, ya’ll.)

What? Mel Gibson’s latest embarrassment isn’t enough of a point? Fine. Fill in any pop star/starlet that got their start on Disney. That oughtta  keep ya busy for a while.

Have a great day, Internet. I’m off to rejoice in my anonymity.  Maybe I’ll pick my nose in rush hour traffic today, or fart in an elevator. The possibilities are endless!

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I stink. This is the second time this week that I have stunk.

I’m not talking about average B.O. – I smell like a partially decomposed body on a pile of onion peels.

The first stench incident happened last Saturday. I had spent the early afternoon in the hot sun at a child’s birthday party. Later, when Jesse decided to take the kids car shopping with us (we’re masochists) he reached over me to grab a car charger or something and said, “Oh God! What stinks? Is that YOU?”

Surely I couldn’t stink badly enough to elicit such a dramatic reaction. “No, it’s not me.” I said.

He leaned over and gave me a tentative sniff. He quickly backed away, scrunching his nose and blowing sharply out his nostrils. “Yes, it is you. My God – you stink like a New York cab driver in August.”

I sniffed myself. Whew. I did have a bit of an odor, but nothing worthy of Jesse’s hysterics.

Anyone that’s ever gone car shopping knows that it’s never a simple process. We couldn’t agree on anything – model, color, package… we did not see eye to eye. Meanwhile, my stink was only growing in strength. I could smell myself getting more rancid by the minute. At one point I apologized to the car salesman that was forced to share breathing space with me during a test drive. As you can imagine, that only made him more uncomfortable, because now not only did he have to endure my assault on his olfactory senses, but he had to assure me that he had no idea what I was talking about. Yeah. Dude, it’s a good thing you’re a car salesman and not an actor.

Today’s stink snuck up on me. (Yes, “snuck” is a word in America.) I was driving my elderly neighbor to Home Depot (Don’t ask) and I thought, “Oh man. I gotta crack a window or something. Neighbor is not-so-fresh!” After we got home, I  couldn’t get that smell out of my nose.

I was running late for my core class. I shuffled the kids back into the car. Naturally the car still smelled foul, right? I mean, that was where Neighbor had been. Funny thing was, Neighbor hadn’t ever been to my core class, and wouldn’t you know it, I could still smell him.

While working on my obliques, I had to do the ol’ hands-behind-my-head maneuver.  Just then, I had what Oprah refers to as an “ah-ha moment”. I stank. ME. I do not like this trend.

I’m a clean girl. I shower twice daily. I eat healthfully. I drink plenty of water. WTF? Why the stinky?

Why am I sharing this with the world? Well, anyone that comes within 3 feet of me already knows this information. As to the rest of you? I think a more obvious question would be why are you still reading about it?

I am off to go shower. Then I’m off to go buy a new brand of deodorant.

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When I was a nanny in LA, I was romanced by an agency that had Rob Lowe as a client. Rob and his wife were looking for a nanny at the same time I was looking for a job. Sadly, they lived in Santa Barbara, and that was too much of a commute for my liking, so I declined to interview with them.

My girlfriend was willing to interview with them, but unfortunately for her (and, as it turns out, them) they hired another nanny. This other nanny would later go on to attempt to extort 1.5 million bucks from them, and allege that Rob sexually harassed her, groped her, and showed her his penis multiple times. (None of her allegations were ever proven, but am I alone in considering being sexually harassed by Rob Lowe to be a job perk as opposed to a problem?)

If I were his nanny, I would probably be the one doing the harassing. I’m just sayin’.

*cough* But that was all a very long time ago. Back when I was a young twenty-something, prone to school girl crushes. I have since become a happily married woman, and graduated from harboring crushes, to having The List.

Everyone in a relationship knows what I’m talking about. The List is your top three celebrity heart throbs that you are allowed to sleep with, no questions asked, if the opportunity ever presents itself.

Jesse and I were rambling about our lists last night as we drifted off to sleep. He put Ashley Greene on his list. (I quite agree with that addition. I might even put her on MY list.)

I had originally brought up The List because earlier in the day I had overheard a young couple talking arguing about it. The girl was apparently upset by her boyfriend’s List. His List consisted of “Any Victoria’s Secret model. Ever.” She argued that that was too vague, and then she got all bent out of shape because he “wanted to sleep with a bunch of models.”

It was all I could do not to butt in and say, “First off, LOOK at him. He could meet every VS model that has ever lived – including any that may have been maimed in some tragic accident, or lost their sight – and there is no way any of them would ever sleep with him. I don’t care how dazzling his personality. Secondly, the fact that your boyfriend wants to sleep with Victoria’s Secret models should not be a surprise to you. It should be common knowledge.”

Who’s on my List? I’m not telling. But one of them may or may not be pictured in this post. (School girl crushes die hard.)

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Oh yeah, he was hard core.

When Jesse was around 10 years old he spent two weeks of his summer vacation building a skate ramp in his back yard. After only one day of enjoying the fruits of his labor, his neighbor made him take it down because it was too loud.

Jesse begrudgingly took the ramp down, but not before railing against “The Man”.

Jesse continued to skate throughout his youth, and on in to his adult years. He’s no Tony Hawk, but he is quite good. The kids get breathless with excitement when he does skate tricks for them.

As happens with everyone, eventually that line between indignant adolescence and annoyed adulthood blurred, and suddenly he found himself on the other side.

We’re not quite sure when it happened. Did it happen when he got married? When he had kids? When he started making a 6 figure salary? We don’t know, because it snuck up on him.

This morning he read in the paper about the new community area that just opened down town. When we checked it out last week, we saw a bunch of skate boarders doing tricks off the stair ways and rolling around the concrete stage area. He commented that the new area was a “skater’s paradise”.

This morning he scoffed at the photo of the stage area in the paper. It had been set up with chairs, and showed idyllic little families strolling by. Home owner Jesse tapped at the photo and said, “Ha! Notice they don’t show any pictures of those punk kids. What were they thinking building that? Now our neighborhood has become an attraction for little skate thugs.”

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I have a Canadian boyfriend. He is funny, and cute, and a very talented artist. He draws darling pictures of animals and other miscellaneous stuff. He makes me laugh every day, and doesn’t mind that I’m married. (He’s married too.)

If you’re in the market for a boyfriend, I highly recommend the Canadian variety.

How did we meet? I found him on Twitter. He’s a friend of a friend.

I follow a lot of really funny, talented people on Twitter. A lot of my old comedy improv buddies are starting to make names for themselves, which only serves to blur my reality. I’ll see a comedian on a show and think, “Hey, I used to hang out with them at IO!” Then I’ll realize I’m mistaken, and I only recognize them from Saturday Night Live or something.

Many of my old class mates get cast in commercials. I always get excited when I see an old friend on t.v. because it means they got PAID to do something they love. A few months ago, while channel surfing, I saw my ex-boyfriend (He’s not Canadian, in case you were wondering.) in a Geico commercial. I’m that girl that remains friends with all of her ex’s, so I was thrilled for him. I think I gave him a facebook high-five.

Some of the people I follow on Twitter pretend not to know me. *cough* Rob Delaney and Dave Holmes *cough*. Never mind that we went through an entire long form comedy improv program together from start to finish, and you invited me to be a part of your herald team… Then you kicked me out. Ok, technically you didn’t kick me out. You just dissolved the team, then made a new one that consisted of all the old members except me. I can’t say that I blame you. I was a bit much to take back then. (Ok, I still am.)

Dave, I’ve been in your home (while you were there even!) and broken bread with you, but I know I was an insignificant background player in the movie that is your life, so the fact that you probably couldn’t pick me out of a line up doesn’t bother me in the least.

Rob, your ignorance of my exhistance stings a little bit. I used to have a bit of a crush on you, and I thought it was subconsciously returned because even though I’m not a very hairy woman, you used to give many of your improv characters the last name of Phillips. My maiden name. That right there is a clear indication that I was on your mind too.

I don’t only follow comedians on Twitter. I also follow bloggers. The fact that most of them happen to be funny is just a bonus. The first blogger I followed was Heather B. Armstrong. She’s famous ya’ll! I have been reading her blog for years, and was thrilled to actually meet her in person back in March. (Of course I blogged about it.) I consider Heather to be my awesome, older (By 3 years – so we totally would have shared clothes growing up) cyber sister. She rocked a pair of cobalt blue tights to meet the president you guys. That’s hard core.

Heather has 1,587,828 followers as I write this. She follows 288. I am one of those 1,587,828, and I am also one of those 288. Believe me, I am thrilled to no end that if I tweet about eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and Heather happens to be on Twitter at that time, she will actually SEE my tweet, and know that I am eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And really, isn’t that a beautiful thing?

Another blogger I follow is Tara. That’s Tar-uh, and not Tear-uh, for those of you not in the know. Tara has recently discovered a way to increase a Ken doll’s penis size. I don’t know about you, but if someone finds a cure for cancer this year and robs Tara of the Nobel Peace Prize, I’m gonna be pissed. I mean, yay, cancer sucks, I’m glad it would be defeated and all, but this woman is a genius, and deserves to be properly recognized.

In addition to solving Ken’s package problem, Tara is an amazing writer. She pens cathartic memoires that make me laugh, tear up, and totally relate to her, all at the same time.

Oh, crap. The orchestra is playing me off. I have run out of my allotted speach giving time. I have many other special Twitter people I would love to introduce you to. Sadly I can’t party online all damn day. My kids tend to get violent if I don’t feed them somewhat regularly. I will leave you with links to their Twitter feeds, and you can try to figure out why I heart them on your own. It will be fun. You can make a little game out of it!

Wuppy Allie Sarah Dadsuplate

Fuck it – this is taking forever. Check out my Twitter feed, and rest secure in the knowledge that if I’m following them, they are awesome. Check ‘em out.

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Me: See, this one is called a “domino”, and this one over here is a “rhode island red”. This one is a rhode island red rooster… You’re not listening to me!

Jesse: I don’t care about your chicken fantasies.

Me: You know, one day you may find yourself on a game show, and you’re going to need an answer to poultry trivia. I’m not gonna answer your call.

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