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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Last night I decided to finally put Brecken to sleep in his standard crib in Karis’s room, rather than the portable crib in my room. We were originally going to wait until he could defend himself from any sisterly aggression, but I settled for keeping the monitor on all night.

We have a video monitor with night vision. It makes Brecken’s eyes glow on the screen like a cat in the bushes at night. I managed to rig it on a shelf adjacent to his crib so that when you watch the screen, you are looking directly down on him, rather than through the bars. Due to the angle of the camera, the top right corner of the crib was off screen. Naturally that is the corner Brecken decided to sleep in. Every time I woke up last night and peeked at the monitor I would see different body parts creeping into view from the hidden corner. Each vision was a study in delicious chubby baby parts. First there were two scrumptious, chubby legs, each joint denting in as if encircled with a rubber band. Next was his arm strewn out straight above his head, his round moon face, with his round moon cheeks, resting on it – very much how his father sleeps. At one point he even managed to wedge himself so far into the corner, the crib looked empty.

This morning when he woke up and called out to his sleeping sister, I enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversation. Seeing his smiling, gurgling face cooing at her across the room seemed to instantly put her in a good mood.

Tonight marks night two of the siblings officially sharing a room. Last night I transferred Brecken in to the big crib after both of them had already fallen asleep. Tonight I bit the bullet and left them to fall asleep together. It went surprisingly well. Karis chattered away at Brecken to the point that I imagined his annoyance. I chuckled softly at the monitor screen and said, “Get used to it Boy. You’ll no doubt have  females chattering at you as you try to sleep for the rest of your life!”

They are now both sleeping soundly.

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I read in my local paper about an old pet cemetery that was falling to ruin. I have long had a fascination for old cemeteries – even better if it’s a PET cemetery! I snuck out to check it out today while the kids were napping with their dad. When I arrived I found three other vehicles parked just inside the rickety gate. Others who had read the same story, had come to volunteer their time to clean the place up. As I made my way into the thick of the cemetery I could hear two riding lawnmowers and a push mower, all going full throttle.

During my stay I happened upon one creepy mower guy that wanted to chat me up, one deer that was clearly pissed off about all the commotion going on in this usually serene place, two snakes hell bent on getting out of town, and no less than four spiders scuttling out of the way as my hand brushed away bits of foliage from tombstones. Not just regular spiders. The compact, icky spiders that make jerky little robotic movements that are so fast they appear to be teleporting themselves to a location right next to where they had just been. These are my least favorite kind of spiders.

I spent about an hour stumbling through the overgrowth, snapping pictures of tombstones being overtaken by ivy. Some of the inscriptions were very touching, others a simple pet name with a date underneath. I find it interesting that pet names, like human names, seem to go in trends. Nowadays the most common pet names are Max and Teddy. Judging from the tombstones I read today the popular names in the thirties were Pal, Skippy, and my personal favorite, Trouble.

I’m going to go back again tomorrow and drop off a case of Honest Tea for the volunteers. I would pitch in and help myself, but it would be  impossible to get any work done while trying to keep two toddlers away from creepy crawlies, creepy poison ivy, and creepy riding lawn mower guys. I’ll definitely visit again when the mowing is done. I can only imagine the beautiful stones that lay hidden and long neglected beneath that jungle of ivy.

Click on the picture of the hydrant to see more of the Aspin Hills Pet Cemetery.

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Shorts VS Dress from Theprimamomma on Vimeo.

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In the last 24 hours Karis has been very entertaining, if not profound.

Tonight as we were trying to get her ready for bed, she was jumping frantically on her bed. She would make a tight little fist and pump her arms up and down. It was hard not to laugh at her cherubic, naked body and serious expression.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

“I want to get sweaty.”

Oh. Of course.

*          *          *          *

Today when Brecken woke up from his nap, I pressed his damp, wrinkled cheek to mine and breathed him in. Instead of his usual heavenly smell, he had a distinct odor about him. It seemed to be a mixture of playing hard, sleeping hard, and teething hard, all mixed together into a familiar smell I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

When I took him downstairs to play with Karis, she looked at me with confusion.

“Mom. Brecken smells like cheese.”

Exactly.

*          *          *          *

Yesterday as Karis was wandering around in her underwear after a bathroom visit, she went over to the baby gate blocking the stairs and asked to be let through.

“Mom, I need to put on a princess dress!”

“Ok, just a minute. My hands are busy.”

“Mom, I NEED to put on a princess dress right now!”

“Alright. ONE moment.”

She spun impatiently in the hall for a moment. When I went to open the gate I asked her, “What’s the hurry?”

“I need to put on a princess dress to twirl. I’m naked, and naked don’t twirl.”

I couldn’t argue with that, folks. Naked indeed does *not* twirl.

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I was a huge My Little Pony enthusiast as a child. I owned a whole herd of MLP’s, I watched the t.v. show (the 1980′s show, “My Little Pony” – not the crappy, later produced “My little Pony TALES” which any true MLP fan will agree is sacrilegious garbage.) and I nearly peed myself with excitement when the movie came out!

My last confession post stirred a long buried memory. I must have been in the second or third grade at good ol’ C.H. Taylor Elementary School. It was recess and I went to use the little girls room. Two girls from my class were in the bathroom as I entered. They were together in one of the middle stalls. This struck me as odd, so I glanced in the half open door to investigate. At first they were startled, but became visibly relieved when they saw it was just me. I guess the fact that I was a fellow child, rather than an adult, was ok in their minds, even though my abhorrence at what they were doing  was equal to or greater than that of any adult that may have stumbled upon them. (How’s that for a run-on sentence?)

“What on earth were they doing?” You ask? They were only playing with their My Little Ponies….. wait for it…. IN THE TOILET!

Ok, ok, I’ll admit my reaction may be a little dramatic. The toilets were flushed after all. Still, even as a child I was predisposed to be germaphobic. The thought of sharing a sip of some one’s drink – either by straw or cup’s edge – was enough to make me squirm and dry heave. If anyone ever asked for a sip of my drink I would always take one last sip and say, “That’s okay, you can have the rest.” and hand over my beverage. So you can imagine the shock wracking my 7 year old frame as I witnessed my associates willingly splashing through toilet water with innocent, rainbow hued ponies.

The memory gets a little foggy after that. Probably a psychological defense mechanism – blocking out the horror! The toilet twins asked me if I wanted to play. I politely declined. They tried to convince me to bring some of my herd the following day, you know, to go swimming with theirs. I was very noncommittal, to say the least.

No, my ponies never did have to go swimming in a public toilet. Or a private toilet for that matter. They did however suffer a very tragic, humiliating demise. They endured a fate usually reserved for trashy Barbies and unloved baby dolls. That’s right, you guessed it. They were shorn of their beautiful rainbow locks. My 3 year old sister, in one of her many diabolical plots for world domination, took a pair of scissors to my ponies while I was out with my mother, ironically getting a haircut. I had MANY ponies, and she nailed ALL of them. This begs the question; Who the hell was supposed to be watching her, and why was a 3 year old left alone with scissors long enough to decimate the dreams of an 8 year old via the disfigurement of the toys said 8 year old holds most dear? (My God, but I can throw together a run-on sentence like nobody’s business!)

Now we have come full circle. My daughter has a few 3G (third generation) My Little Pony figures of her own. I’ll admit, I find them a little flashy for my taste. They’re like show girl ponies with their metalic weaves and beglittered asses. Note the hanger tatoo on her ankle. That is to let you know that she will fit all the odd, sequined, just-not-right outfits they make for these ponies now. It’s like Paris Hilton in equine form. Ah well, I’m sure it wont be long before this pony too, is set upon with scissors and is forced to sport a butch lesbian hairstyle. That otta knock ‘er down a few pegs.

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I pee in the shower. Anyone that claims they don’t, is either lying, or way too uptight to party with.

I DO draw the line at peeing in the TUB or a POOL, as no one should toil in their soil.

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I have started taking a pilates class one night a week. I would like to go two nights a week, but the world as we know it ceases to exist, and my house falls into utter chaos if I am not there for the dinner/bath time routine. God forbid mommy not boil that pasta water and wash that hair!

My pilates instructor is a delightful woman in her fifties. She has an apple shape that belies her flexibility. I must admit to questioning the efficacy of the class when I met her and her star pupil. Both women are round and busty. It wasn’t until I saw them in action that I came to respect their athleticism. These woman have apparently had their joints replaced with Silly Putty and their tendons removed all together.  Seeing their body types, and then seeing them perform the stretches and exercises, was their first lesson for me; Pilates, good for flexibility, not so much with the fat burning.

The class starts out with some basic stretches. We focus on the ham strings and it actually feels really good. It isn’t until later, towards the end of the hour and a half, that you start wanting to phone your congressman and report these ladies for practicing things clearly made illegal by the Geneva Conventions. An exercise called “whips” is particularly tortuous. You lay on your back, raise your legs perpendicular to your spine, open your legs, “whip” them closed, and tuck your knees in again, all while doing crunches and breathing without expanding your abdomen. Repeat 400 times. Nice.

I intend to stick with the class. Not only is it nice to have a little guilt-free time away from the monotony of evening chores, it has the added benefit of improving my flexibility. I’m looking forward to enjoying the ability to floss my teeth with my feet. Backwards.

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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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Tonight as we were putting Karis to bed, Vanessa’s beau Andrew noticed a big black fly drunkenly navigating through the room. Being a devout follower of The Man Code in which all insects and other creepy crawlies are to be immediately dispatched of, Andrew alerted Jesse to it’s presence. The two of them jumped in to action.

Jesse tested three board books before finding one with just the right amount of give.

Meanwhile, Andrew kept close tabs on the location of the interloper. When Jesse was ready to strike, Andrew gave him the fly’s coordinates and stood aside to watch Jesse make quick work of the beast.

Both men greatly underestimated the mettle of their opponent.

Jesse whacked the fly a solid blow that sent it slamming to the floor. Down, but not out, the fly shook it off and attempted to crawl away.

Jesse whacked it again.

Again, the fly rested a beat, and then made a break for it.

Long about this time Mugga started sadly lamenting the demise of the fly. She said a fly with such a will to live must be the reincarnated spirit of her father. We all gave a collective eye roll and continued to pursue the fly with great determination.

After the fourth assault on the fly was unsuccessful I started singing Eye Of The Tiger. Jesse smacked him one last good one and – NOTHING. The fly was gone.

“Check the back of the book.” I suggested.

“Nah, it’s not there.” He said.

Jesse then set about dismantling the bathroom. Victory could not be declared without a body.

I cracked a joke about the fly hiding in fear, his little germy body pressed up against a dark corner somewhere, little fly pulse raising. As we all chuckled at this mental image, Jesse found the fly behind Karis’s potty seat. “He was hiding!”

By this time the poor fly was so beaten and abused, we felt a smidgen of compassion for him. Jesse trapped it in a soap container and we agreed to let it go outside… but not before capturing his likeness in pixel form for posterity.

Behold, The Fly:

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