#EthnicallyAmbiguousPeopleProblems

Daughter and I attended a screening of "Beyond the Lights" a couple nights ago. I had completely forgotten she'd auditioned for a small role (the main character as a child) in the film. Daughter recalled it as the young actress sang a song that was part of the audition. The role was for a biracial girl who can sing. With her mixed heritage and soulful voice (as determined by the unbiased ears of her proud mother), Daughter seemed perfect for the part. But we quickly realized while watching the movie that she was not a good fit. The role called for kinky hair, which was an important plot point. Daughter got that good hurr; her loose curls would not have worked. She even does a spot-on British accent that would have served her well for the one line she would've spoken. But hair is hair. You can't fake that shit; not convincingly. 

We chalked it up to a great reminder that sometimes--no matter how talented you may be--you just don't have the right look for the part. That wasn't the only time Daughter has been asked to audition for a role she isn't right for. She read for the daughter of the main characters in "The Conjuring." Hubs and I laughed when she got the request because the couple is white and their daughter is their biological child. It's based on real people, after all. So a little beige girl up in there would look a tad silly. But Daughter auditioned anyway.

She also auditioned for some movie in which she was to play a younger version of Isabelle Fuhrman's character. If you've seen Ms. Fuhrman in "Orphan" or "The Hunger Games," you know she's white. Like white white. But Daughter auditioned for that, too. What's that? You'd like Daughter to try out for the role of "small Jewish girl" in a Hanukah print ad? She'll be right there!

Daughter always auditions. You never know what may come of it, or what connections you'll make. So, if she gets an invitation to read for the role of a half-girl/half goat with green eyes and a red fro, Daughter will audition.   

Over the summer Daughter auditioned for a role in a much-hyped film releasing next year. They haven't announced who's been cast in "her" role, but the character's family has been announced. The dad looks biracial. The mom is brown. The brother is browner still. Not sure how my little beige child would fit credibly into that family, but "The Cosby Show" got away with it ...

Although she's half black, Daughter almost never gets auditions for black characters. There was that one Church's Chicken TV spot. We drove four hours round trip to discover what I'd already suspected; she was the only butterscotch chip in that chocolate chip cookie. You have to wonder what the casting director was thinking. But, hey, we stopped at our favorite outlet mall on the way home, so the day wasn't a total loss.

Such is the life of an ethnically ambiguous actress. Truth be told, the majority of work she books is Hispanic roles. Hell, if I didn't know better, I'd think she was a Latina. What can you do? Enroll the girl in Spanish lessons, that's what.

Así es la vida!



My ethnically ambiguous future star

Small But Perky

I'm just gonna put it out there: I've been neglecting my blog. But you need to cut me some slack. I've been busy with other creative ventures (insert shameless plug for Mouse Monikers). Life's all about balance, ya know? Lately, it seems as if I'm balancing a stack of plates on my head and both hands, while walking a tight rope. And, let's be honest, I've probably had a couple drinks.

I hate depriving you of my wit, but that's how it has to be for a while. After all, I'm writing a novel AND building a business (insert another shameless plug for Mouse Monikers). On top of that, there are these two kids who keep asking me to feed them and drive them places.

This doesn't make up for my negligence, but I'm gonna leave you with this text convo between Hubs and me this morning. If you're like me--immature with a 13-year-old boy's sense of humor--you'll have a laugh.

Disclaimer: While I'm sure Hubs wasn't expecting me to make our texts public, a writer's spouse gives up all rights to privacy. For reals. It's in the vows. Nothing's off limits. He should've known I'd milk this for all it's worth; that I'd squeeze every last drop of humor out of it.

Speaking of boobies, which I do often (see previous admission of immaturity in paragraph #3), I thought up the breast ... I mean, best ... shirt to wear on my upcoming trip to Disney World. Hubs made me pinky swear not to create this shirt to wear around innocent children. I really don't see the harm since most of the little dears probably can't even read yet. Well, I'm at least sharing it here. Brilliance like this demands to be seen.

Happy Mother's Day. Now Go Get Undressed For Brunch!

Hubs,

It's time for the (sorta-annual) Don't Screw Up My Mother's Day post.

With such an eclectic mix of Mother's Day offerings, you're probably struggling to choose the best way to celebrate me this weekend. I'm usually pretty easygoing. (Shut up. I am so.) But if you drag me to any of the following events, I will throw the mother of all tantrums. 


Zoo Brunch
Now, I'm down to get my Mother's Day grub on, but putting a big-ass elephant on an advertisement for brunch at a zoo doesn't make me feel great about stuffing my face with gluttonous abandon.

Nekkid Brunch
This aptly named restaurant at a nude-y resort wants moms to join them for a delicious, clothing-optional meal. (Why am I suddenly picturing a plate of two hard-boiled eggs and Polish sausage?)

Some of the website copy:

"Beautiful murals fill the wall along the patio." Biggest waste of money ever. Who's going to notice the art with everyone's naughty bits dangling?

"Every direction you look, it's like paradise" ... and an amateur porn shoot.

"Dine inside in air-conditioned comfort" and your nipples will be harder than calculus by the time the check comes.

Medieval Times
If I wanted to watch a battle during dinner, I'd just tell Daughter that Son tweeted excerpts from her journal. For the record, my money's on the girl. I know he's a foot taller, but she fights dirty. #WW3

"Fun" Run

There's nothing fun about running. I've tried it. And what's all this about a runner's high? I never got high. Lost control of my bodily functions? Yes. But high? Not even close. That's just another crackpot conspiracy theory right up there with dead Paul McCartney and a race of elite reptiles secretly controlling humans.

Cooking Class
Hold up. Let me get this straight: I’m supposed to spend my special day preparing my own meal? Remember when we were house hunting and our realtor couldn't seem to find any homes without a kitchen? (Why can't realtors ever stick to your wish list? Do they not want the commission?) Just because we got stuck with a kitchen doesn't mean I make a habit of going in it. Incidentally, I don't enter Son's room either, but for entirely different reasons.

The event description says “BYOB encouraged.” Yeah, because I'd have to be slurry, slurpy drunk to actually pay for the privilege of cooking my own brunch.


Mother/Daughter Pole Dancing Class
What exactly was the thought process behind this? To give girls a marketable skill so they won't have to resort to more cerebral pursuits? Why not get the whole family involved? Dads can show their young sons how to make it rain up in there and how to hold in whiskey farts during lap dances.

Planetarium Outing

Gazing at the stars from a cushy recliner sounds cool, but it's too risky. Imagine a grown woman busting out laughing when the narrator says, "Astronomers discovered Uranus is full of ice and rock." You know how immature I can be. I can't even look at a map of Thailand without snickering. (Bangkok and Phuket? Seriously?!)

Well, Hubs, I trust I've made it clear what to avoid this Mother's Day weekend. You know me; I'm not one to be demanding. (Shut up. I am not.) Just make sure I'm well fed, well rested and well loved, and we shouldn't have any problems. 

A Momentary Lapse (I Should've Cleaned the Toilets Instead)

I am weak. I told myself not to, but I couldn't resist. It taunted me. Enticed me. Reeled me in. I knew it would lead to no good, but I just had to.

I got into a Facebook argument.

I know, I know. Why couldn't I leave it alone? Who cares if someone's status update is ill-informed, ill-conceived, offensive, insensitive, judgmental, short-sighted, egotistical, racist, sexist, anti-SAHM, anti-working mom, fat-shaming, skinny-shaming, and/or promotes animal cruelty? I could go on and on and on. But seriously--what good is engaging the poster in a debate? They're only words on a screen. I should've rolled my eyes and scrolled down to see what hilarious meme George Takei just posted.

Opinions are like assholes: Everybody has one and some people's stink more than others'. Your opinion (and--for that matter--your asshole) does not impact my life. Even if your status update or comment blatantly disparages sarcastic, large-breasted, fiscally conservative, socially liberal, 5'4", black, female bloggers who love all things Disney; it's of no consequence to me.

Fingers have been known to type more than mouths would say; in those cases it's not really an authentic debate. Where's the fun in that? And if said argument occurs on their timeline, their friends, family members, ex-coworkers, and that weird neighbor of theirs who yells at himself will all rush to their side. Pack mentality and Internet bravado will always win out. Always.

There are more worthwhile, more fulfilling things I could do with my time than allowing myself to get sucked into a Facebook pissing match. I could deep clean the five toilets in my house. I could root out that ingrown hair on my inner thigh. I could forage through the dog poop in our yard to confirm my suspicion that one of our pooches ate my dangly earring.

So I am publicly vowing to stop getting into Facebook arguments ... unless someone suggests Chris Hemsworth is not the absolute hottest man on this planet. Don't go there. I will virtually tear you apart.

A (Passive-Aggressive) Letter to My Dear Hubs

Hey, Babe!

I bet you're having a fantastic time in Italy. I know you're "working" and you go there as often as most people go to Publix, but you're enjoying yourself at least a little bit, right? Gosh, I sure hope so. One of my Facebook ads this morning asked me if I needed a trip to Italy. Everyone's a freakin' comedian these days.

Speaking of Facebook, I saw the photo you posted last night. That spaghetti and Chianti looked sublime. Makes me feel less guilty about you missing out on the Arby's feast we have planned for tonight.

The kids are fine. They still can't find any of the twelve wastebaskets in the house, nor have they figured out what that mystical lever on the toilet tank does. But, otherwise, they're peachy. School finally resumed Tuesday after a week off for Snowmageddon 2014 and Monday's scheduled holiday. It's a good thing, too. All that forced togetherness had me wondering how much I could get on the black market for a curly-haired Instagram addict and a tall, skinny kid who eats more than all the morbidly obese toddlers on Maury combined.

As we were leaving for school this morning, I noticed a bike on our neighbors' front lawn.

Me: "Is that your bike?"
Son: "No."
Me: "Are you sure?"
Son: "I'm not 100% sure."
Me: "THEN GET OUT OF THE CAR AND GO LOOOOOOK!"
Son: "Oh, OK."

The punchline: Daughter put Son's bike in our innocent neighbors' yard in retaliation for Son putting her iPod on top of my car. Isn't that hilarious? I laughed at an unnaturally high volume for a full minute. Those little jokesters of ours!

They both had soccer practice Monday night. Drop offs at 7:00 and 7:30 at two different fields went smoothly. In between the 8:00 and 9:00 pick-up times, I sat in my car eating leftover, lukewarm Pizza Hut and wondering if you were sleeping well all alone in your quiet hotel room.

Oh, I had to buy daughter new cleats because she inherited your giant feet. Did you know the poor dear can't play well unless she's wearing cute, overly-priced shoes?

Our three Yorkshire Terrorists are living up to their nickname. Old, senile Sassy is still pissing in the house every chance she gets. She stepped up her game today by taking a dump in the living room. And the pups (hmmm ... maybe if we quit calling our 2-year-old dogs "puppies," they'd quit behaving like puppies) are still absconding with everything that isn't nailed down. Socks, hair bows, expensive American Doll accessories, important papers--anything that fits through the pet door. By the look of the backyard, our goal of starting our own landfill is coming along great.

Don't worry: our vow renewal plans are going swimmingly. My seamstress is soooooo creative. She's doing all sorts of things I never even imagined (or asked for). You won't see my dress until we're on the beach celebrating 15 years of wedded bliss. But I think I'll be just as surprised as you are by the finished product.

I don't want to give you the impression things are all bad. Why just an hour ago, I received an email from a lovely gentleman who apparently met me on some beach. Now he wants to give me a cut of $18 mil in unclaimed funds that his deceased customer left behind. No strings attached! I don't know why he picked me. After seeing me in a swimsuit, he probably realized how desperately I need lipo and laser hair removal. Anyway, I better go so I can email him our bank account information.

Ciao, mi amore!

It's Complicated

I realize I haven’t been very attentive lately. And when I did finally see you the other night, all I did was criticize you. I felt shitty about that. I just didn’t like some of the stuff I saw. You were pretty messed up. I felt it was my duty to straighten you out.

We’ve hit some rough patches, but I think we should ride this thing out. I promise to keep a more open mind and try not to be so disparaging.

You know at one point I actually thought about bringing someone else in to … um … spice things up. I‘m too possessive, though. The thought of anyone else touching you freaks me out. That doesn't mean I won’t pass you around like Thanksgiving yams when I’m finished with you. (Haha!) But right now, let’s keep this between us.

Look, it won’t always be good. Some days I will lavish attention on you. And then weeks might go by without any word from me. Not a single word. It’s not as if I’m trying to neglect you. I do have other stuff going on and people who depend on me. I have a family, remember? I refuse to feel guilty about that. It doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you. I think about you all the time.

I guess I’m a little gun shy. My track record up to this point hasn’t exactly been stellar. I won't manipulate history: It was me, not them. I take full responsibility. We’d be going along great and—all of a sudden—I’d lose interest. Either that or something felt off, and I didn’t know how to fix it, so I bailed.

I want this time to be different because I think you’re the one. I’m not just saying that. It’s going to take more than a little writer’s block to make me quit on you. So, as-yet-untitled first draft, my schedule is wide open today. How about we spend a couple hours between your sheets?

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This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "manipulate" as defined below:

MANIPULATE
to change by artful or unfair means so as to serve one's purpose : to doctor

Word count: 333

At First Sight

This week's Trifecta challenge is to write a 33-word follow-up to this snippet:

The first time I saw. . .

The piece should be exactly 38 words, and all words must be one syllable each.



The first time I saw you, I fell hard.

Big feet, red face, head cone shaped.

You were just right.

Now here you are ...

Huge feet, peach fuzz, your dad’s bowed legs.

You are just right.

My son.


As my first born turns 14 this week, I wonder what happened to that chubby little boy who arrived on his due date (albeit after 24 hours of labor). Now he's all legs and I can count his ribs. Sigh. In a flash, I went from picking him up to looking up at him. 
 
Fortunately, he hasn't completely changed ...

 

Ferbie and Grinch: A Bromance

Here's what happens when you combine a dog-tired Yorkie, a Grinch plush, and a healthy dose of post-holiday cleaning procrastination.

 

Grinch's expression could have one questioning his motives,

but his intentions are strictly platonic.





Grinch is going to have a bad case

of dead arm after this spoon fest.



Snuggle buddies!



        

Grinch demonstrating how Daughter sleeps with (or on) me.

 

Photos used with permission from Ferbie, our Yorkshire Terrier.
Well, he didn't exactly say yes; but he didn't say no either. 

Three Little Words

The folks at Trifecta have challenged us to write a three-word New Year's resolution.

Oh, man. I can think of a bazillion.

Finish that novel.
Drink less booze.
Go to church.
Don't overwhelm myself.
Say "no" more.
Say "yes" more.
F*cking swear less.

Hubs offered a suggestion: "Don't hit people." I didn't appreciate the implication that I'm violent, so I smacked him.

In the end, I guess I really need to:

Just do better.

Our Elf Has Gone Rogue

I wrote this story a couple weeks ago, but I added an update this morning. I decided to use this for the Trifecta challenge because it fit the prompt, and it's time someone raised awareness about rogue elves.

This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "father" as defined below:

FATHER
a : one related to another in a way suggesting that of father to child  
b : an old man —used as a respectful form of address

Word count: 333

Our Elf Has Gone Rogue

We have an elf, but he doesn't hang out on shelves. No, our elf--Clyde--prefers the company of Barbie and her friends to books and dust bunnies. He doesn't wear any femmy red bodysuit, either. Our elf has style.

Clyde's a pimp. Not in a "bitch betta have my money" way. What I mean is he's a player. The ladies love him. (You know what they say about elves with big feet.) His girls don't even mind sharing him. The other day I overheard Barbie's trashy sister Skipper announce, "Ain't no fun if my homies can't have none." Until I discovered Clyde's proclivities toward the honeys, I used to wonder why Daughter's dolls were never dressed. Sluts.

Clyde's been with us four years now. In that time, we've overlooked LOTS of questionable behavior because, well, he's a fun guy. And he always leaves out the really bad stuff when he reports back to good ol' Father Christmas. Besides, our naughty list worthy offenses are nothing compared to Clyde's antics. We can't help but love the little dude, though. He's the life of the party, and he tells the most hilarious dirty jokes. Ever heard the gem about the elf, the unicorn and the fairy? That one still cracks me up.

Well, today Clyde went full-on rogue. I received the following photo via text this morning--no doubt from an untraceable phone:

Obviously, we feel awful for Mr. and Mrs. Snow. And abducting innocent snow children is nothing short of heinous. But where are we supposed to get $1,000,000? I could implore my loyal readers to each donate a dollar, but that would net, like, three bucks.

Why couldn't Clyde be content to poop chocolate chips or make snow angels in our flour like other people's elves? Why?!


UPDATE: The Snows returned with nary a carrot out of place. Clyde apologized, but he's back to his old tricks. Aladdin has every reason to be pissed. From what I've heard, once you go elf ...

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The Story of Us

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: a 33-word free write.

Hubs and my upcoming vow renewal (in honor of our 15th anniversary) has me feeling all gooey and lovey-dovey lately. Groaning and eye rolling are perfectly understandable.

First blind date

Hello, fate

Married fast

"Will it last?"

Honeymoon

Baby soon

And another

Joined big brother

Fifteen years

Sometimes tears

Mostly smiles

Despite trials

Love abounds

And surrounds

You

Me

Us



Before stretch marks, worry lines, gray hair and all
the fun bonuses that come with children.

In the interest of full disclosure, that kid on the right is
really about 4 inches taller than me. (Thank you, heels!)

When She's Gone

Every day my mother seems thinner, fuzzier, and less able to do for herself. I’m terrified her final day is officially on the calendar. She is too. Will she leave me next month? Next year? We don’t dare speak it, yet the fear of death is a tempest over her sickbed.

Still, I think she’s ready to go. The love of her life has already waited four years to see her again. And she feels like shit. Constant nausea and an uncooperative brain ravage her waking hours. Her twig-like legs won’t obey, choosing instead to arbitrarily jut out from under her or remain defiantly stationary.

Lately she’s been asking what things of hers we want so she can remember us in her will. We refuse to shop through her possessions. Besides, what I really want is my old mom—and life—back.

One day she was living independently, and I spent hours writing. The next day, she fell and suddenly needed constant care and supervision. She says I’ve become the parent and she the child. I secretly, shamefully resent this staggering responsibility as characters in my now-neglected novel become strangers to me.

When she’s gone, I’ll hate myself for getting irritated when she needed “just one more thing.” Will I forgive myself for pouting about ruined plans and sleeping on the couch outside her bedroom? Probably not.

Her new wheelchair helps … when she remembers to use it. I worry another fall could do her in. She’s hit her head so many times there’s a quarter-sized cavity in her scalp. I can flush out the pus and change the dressing without retching now.

When she’s gone, the vacant bed will chastise me for grumbling about driving her to thrice-weekly doctor appointments. Her arsenal of pills (that didn’t do enough) will deride me for each time I impatiently repeated myself for her waning ears.

Every day I pray for strength to be the daughter she deserves so I can live with myself when she’s gone.

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This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "remember" as defined below:

REMEMBER
a :  to keep in mind for attention or consideration <remembers friends at Christmas>
b :  REWARD <was remembered in the will>

Word count: 333

My Sweet Apostrophe

This weekend's Trifextra challenge: Write a 33-word apostrophe. About.com defines apostrophe as, "A figure of speech in which some absent or nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of understanding." 

So, of course, my first impulse was to write an apostrophe about the punctuation mark of the same name. Yep, that's how my mind works. I've learned to just go with it.


O, my sweet apostrophe!
Show me thy versatility.
How I love when you’re possessive. 
Join two words as one. Impressive!
Do pluralize that single letter,
But not whole words. (“S” does that better.)

The Itch

A few nights ago the kids stayed at my mom's, so Hubs and I went to a movie. When we came back to our empty house, we both wanted--no, needed--to do it. We couldn't wait 'til we got to our bedroom. So, in the middle of our kitchen, we shed our clothes and ...

... rubbed calamine lotion on each other.

Ooooh, yeah.

Right there.

Mmm-hmmmm.

Oh, didn't I mention Hubs and I have poison ivy? Go ahead; get the "Ivy has poison ivy" jokes out of your system. Hilarious, right? What's even funnier is I don't go outside, except to get in my car or check the mailbox. I prefer the great indoors. So how in the hell did I contract poison ivy?

My malady may be one of the few documented cases of LTD (laundry transmitted disease). Washing Hubs's poison ivy-infested clothes was my downfall. As if I needed another reason to hate laundry. I'm not one of those new age loons who finds this repetitive chore soothing or cathartic. I'll tell you what it is: It's a vicious cycle (pun not intended--but fabulous, nonetheless) of

1. washing
2. rewashing due to the musty smell clothes get when inadvertently left in the machine overnight
3. drying
4. throwing clothes in a heap on my bedroom floor
5. waiting for somebody else to get so tired of hunting for underwear they fold the heap of clothes  

The laundry process is time consuming AND you can catch poison ivy doing it? Hardly seems worth the risk.

Poison ivy has revealed unsettling flaws in our marriage. Yesterday I walked in on Hubs pleasuring himself (i.e., applying calamine lotion on his rashes). I honestly felt betrayed. I mean, we're supposed to be sharing this tiny, expensive bottle, and there he was using it without me. Trust has never been an issue with us ... until now. For the sake of our relationship, we bought more of that amazing pink elixir.

This ordeal has also spurred some bizarre competition between us. Hubs feels superior because he doesn't scratch himself as much as I do. But I figure since I'm so short my rashes are more concentrated and, thus, way more intense. Seems legit.

There is a bright spot in all this: My affliction has made me more tolerant of others. Now when I see a girl whose breasts are barely contained in her top, I no longer immediately assume she's an attention-seeking skank with low self-esteem. She could be a P.I.S. (poison ivy survivor) who's wearing as little as possible to air out her rashes. I'd grocery shop buck naked right now if I could.

You can't always tell a person is suffering from a non-life-threatening-but-really-really-annoying condition. So, the next time you're standing behind someone scratching her ass like nobody's business in the check-out lane, don't judge.

My apologies to any laundry-loving new age loons I may have offended with this post. If it'll make you feel better, I'll let you do my laundry.