One of the few times we realize there are twelve years between us

Me (Seated, lap topped by Fynn, watching The Thing About My Folks - which, by the way, is a pretty good little movie): "I have such a soft spot for Peter Falkner."

Scott: "You mean Peter Falk. From Columbo."

Me: "Yeah, Peter Falk. From Princess Bride.

Scott: "You mean Columbo."

Me: "No, I mean Princess Bride. He was the grandpa in Princess Bride."

Scott: "No, he was Columbo."

Me: "I was too little to watch Columbo. I never watched Columbo."

Scott: "Ohmigod. You never watched Columbo."

A Decade or More Ago...

This is too funny, you guys. Go read Chiada's "How we met" story. Keep in mind this was more than ten years ago...One Enchanted....(not) evening.. . Also: Wish her best of things on her real estate tests and a happy (belated) seventh anniversary. She's just the best, I tell ya!

Additionally: Please also visit over here here for "How Not to Act on J-Date" - this one is really, really funny. Worth the read-through, I didn't listen to much of the audio, but...what a JERK!

Where the Wild Things Are

Strange things are afoot in Santa Barbara. I went with Christie, Bella and her little charge, Rya to Oak Park this morning. The girls were adorable, but antagonizing each other the way only kids who are together every single day can - every five minutes or so Rya* would break out in enormous, heaving, opera-worthy sobs because Bella was either a) touching/not touching her b) not sharing c) dumping sand on her d) breathing to hard on her e) requesting our attention.
*Rya is unfairly equipped, at not-quite-two, with eyelashes as long as a camel, huge dark brown eyes and wisps of brown hair that curl cutely over her head. I've noticed that people ("people" = me) tend to scoop her up and kiss her instead of telling her, "Aaaaah, shut yer gob, ya little Drama Queen!" as much as would be good for her when she brings out the tears.

The charm of sitting at the park sewing my new napkins (yes, by hand...apparently I turned eighty last week and the year is 1900, no?) wore off when the temperature dropped, so we opted for food to try and soothe the savages. Pierre Lafond has this great, pigeon-infested patio for kids to run around on, plus: multiple varieties of quiche! Farm Cakes! Teeny-tiny chicken salad sandwiches! Salads loaded with things like wontons and sesame seeds! There is also the option of endless people and dog-watching. One could be forgiven for rhapsodizing and possibly allowing the kids to chase the pigeons, right?

We tooled down State Street (I'm on a mission to try and find tomato-red thread. Despite the fact that we've got a Starbucks every three blocks, I cannot find a blessed store at which to buy thread.) and through the "Dollar" Store, aka the scene of the crime. I was under the mistaken impression that things at the "dollar" store are supposed to cost a dollar. About the crime bit: Rya accidentally shoplifted a teddy bear that cost $4.99. Four dollars and ninety-nine cents, meaning five dollars and thirty-seven cents, at the DOLLAR STORE.

We celebrated our sucessful navigation of Urban Outfitters (Definition of a "Sucessful" shopping trip with two children under five: If you make it through the store and the children have not broken, smeared with one or more bodily fluids, or shoplifted anything, you get a calorie-free latte!) by returning the bear to his home at the "Dollar" store. There was an improvised Britney Spears (barefoot, not half-naked) dance number backed by a sitar-like instrument and a tambourine. Yeah! Dancing barefoot on the street! You cannot get much more joyful and spontaneous than that, really.

Today I had a startling ephiphany: Three year old people should really be attired in head-to-toe football kit (drop seats for emergencies) and protective headgear for their own safety. To my knowledge, no one has yet figured out how to make this suit comfortable, attractive and affordable for all. When Bella refused to put her sandals and subsequently split her toe wide open with very much blood, drama and anguish, I immediately saw my future in marketing the kiddy protective suit. No, I'm kidding... I whipped out a Band-Aid, cut it half with my embroidery scissors, bandaged the toe, and we retreated to Starbucks. The advantage of having a Starbucks every three blocks: Available bathrooms, large cushy chairs and hot chocolate with cups of extra whipped cream. Entire cups filled with sweet, thick, cool whipped cream that bring smiles to the faces of children everywhere - even when said children are covered in a greenish residual glaze of bran/carrot muffin, lollipop, snot and dirt.

Now about the Wild Thing portion of this episode: You've got to picture the scene first, though. Outside the Starbucks (State and Cota) we took refuge in, there is a 12-sided (dodecahedral, if you'd like the three dollar word version) fountain that I've always loved. Maybe eighteen inches tall with a soft dome-shaped top, the water just burbles up and falls softly down the arcing shape of the dome and into the star-shaped pool. Most people walk right by it and never give it a second thought. Christy, Bella, Rya and I were sipping our drinks when we saw a man walk up to the fountain carrying a newspaper. He started to gently unfurl the sheets of newspaper, like one pulls tissue from a box, and laid it all over the fountain. It looked like he was attempting to hide the fountain under a pile of news. Not one person attempted to stop him, said anything, or even stared hard at him for all of his craziness. Santa Barbara....Where the Crazy People Don't Take Their Medicine, and Everyone Else Pretends They Don't Notice.

Overheard

At the Daily Grind:

(Scruffy, slightly unkempt man) "Hi!"
"Hi! How are you?", (pretty girl, sitting with her friends)
"Weren't you on that Girls Gone Wild in Aruba?"
Stunned silence, followed by hysterical laughter and "NO!"
________________________________________________

Outside my house:

"Red light!"
"Green light!"
"Red light!"
"Green light! Dad, do you think that...."
"RED LIGHT! You have to STOP!"
________________________________________________

While taking my friends' daughters to the park with my father and husband:

"You're not supposed to pick other people's flowers!" (addressing my father)

"Shoot is a bad word!" (to my husband)

"NO!"

"Noooo!"

"NoooOOoo!"

"WaaaauuaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaa!" (all towards me)
_______________________________________________________

Later on in the evening:

"Appa?" (gesturing at grapes)

"Appol?" (pointing towards banannas)

"AAAPPLE!!" (reaching for a large strawberry)

My husbands' stalker, Mrrmph Walker

As I've mentioned before, Scott plays guitar. Technically, that is an understatement; he plays, practices, collects, trades, buys and sells, repairs, tinkers with, modifies and generally loves guitars of all kinds.. In fact, he's gently strumming (While My Guitar Gently Weeps) as I type this, on one of his accoustic peices. Fynn is lying on me, a front paw stretched out and gently resting on my arm. Every once in a while, I crane my neck down and inhale the sweet scent of the fur on the top of his head. In a little while his gentle breathing will segue into kitty snores.

Back to Scott, though - he's been in or around the same band for the last twenty years - they aren't doing much together these days, which is a real shame. To fill the time (until some of the other members get their heads straight, cough, mama-bear growl) he's been taking some lessons lately. I've really noticed a big improvement in his playing lately... but don't tell him that, please. Truly, is there nothing more embarrasing than a wife gushing over her husband?

He's also a frequent visitor down at one of our local guitar shops. Jensens' is the typical music shops. Home to a few of the characters from High Fidelity, typical musician-types, all rabidly passionate about their various niches of musical culture, Jensens' has good prices and a pretty impressive stock of instruments. Hardly the type of place that you expect to bump into this guy (ladies, please, stop your drooling):
Much less twice in two weeks. The good news is we've had dealings with Mr. Walker before, and he is, so far as we can tell, a Nice and indeed, Normal/Regular/Not Head-Swollen guy. Despite that picture, which makes him look like someone who gets waxed from the armpits down on a bi-weekly basis. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, right?) Oddly enough, in real life, he looks just like that, albeit with a shirt on. You know, someone who you might expect to have a hissy fit if forced to wait in line or if faced with an accidental milk-instead-of-soy in his latte. (Well, that is, you might not be surprised by this sort of behavior. Not if you live within one hundred miles of L.A., in a town that does a fair amount of pandering to the Hollyweird ilk.) He's nothing of the kind, actually - Scott came home last week, laughing and shaking his head. "You'll never guess who I saw again at Jensens'," he said.

Note: My one and only close encounter with Mr. Walker was sitting at Baja Fresh and eating burritos when he came in and got the same. He was very kind to the staff, who were blithering on about, "Duuuuude... aren't you the guy from The Fast and the Furious! Oh man! I LOVED that movie, man!," etc. He seemed a bit embarassed to be recognized, just mumbled something along the lines of, "Yadude, 'scool, can I have a mrrmpph please? Yeah, dude, I know, the new movie's coming out next month." He was really pretty keen to get on with eating his mrrmpph with his pretty, surfer-looking girl/friend, and they looked to be having a nice, low-key time together.

Scott however, just can't be rid of him, I tell you. One day he turned up at Jensens', asking for music lessons but not wanting to leave his name. Next, he wanted to change the lesson time because he "had to ... uh... fly...to uhh...do this mrrmpphthing..", as if anyone at Jensens' gave a rats' patootie about him having to fly off to an audition, or a reading, or a shoot in Phukhet, or what-have-you. Than Scott went in to leave one of his guitars for a (who knows? Probably something along the lines of a mrrmpph, I'm thinking) service of some sort, and guess who left their guitar right next to his? I've simply got to start going to Jensens with him more often.

Oh! Yeah! I've almost forgot - we're going to Magic Mountain tomorrow! Yeah! With E. and Chiada! Double yeah! For half-price, thanks to Chiada! Triple yeaaah!

Still Waiting for the Punchline

The other night, S. turned to me and asked,

"Babe, what do you call the top of Africa?"

Me: "Ummm... Egypt? Libya? Morocco?" (thanks, American geography system, for allowing me to completely MISS Tunisia and Algeria, gaaaahhhhd!)

S: "No, what do you call the top part?" (v. intense voice)

M: "Really, I have no idea what you're talking about. At all."

S: "Ok, well what do they call the bottom of Africa?"

M: "South Africa?" (anticipatory)

S: "aaannnd... the middle of Africa?"

M: "Africa... dear, is there a point to this line of questioning? Seriously, I need to know if I should be consulting an atlas or possibly Google earth?"

S: "Ok, well, what do they call the top of South America?"

M: (rolling eyes) South. bloody. America. Venezuela. Columbia. Whatever."

S: "and the bottom of South America?"

M: "Duuude...Chile! Get to the point, please. For the love of all that is holy!" (Yes, we really call each other dude. Get over it.)

S: "So, why don't they call the bottom of it South South America, and the top of it North South America?" I stared at him for about thirty seconds, to see if there was a secret punchline hidden deep in there somewhere. There wasn't. I started my own version of the Silent Shake, tears pouring down my face.

"You know, 'cause I was doing some thinking, and that was what I was thinking about."

The comedy in our house? Never-ending.

When Animals Attack

We've discovered a new species, S and I.... so without further ado I present to you...the rare and previously unknown ... Pocket Panther. Native to most continents, although rarely seen during daylight hours, they prowl through the jungles of many suburbs, searching for their elusive prey.

Favorite prey items include wicker baskets, shoelaces, human toes, and tampax. When a particularly delectable morsel is found, they attack with ferocity.










These shots detail the carnage that ensues during a hunt.
















He uses his rough tounge to peel off the outer layers of paper and get to the delectable, cottony innards.
Contented and well-fed, the Pocket Panther relaxes with his disemboweled prey.