Even though you can't hear, LISTEN TO THIS!

Do you guys remember the episode of American Idol when Seacrest offered a congratulatory high five TO A BLIND GUY?

A similar experience occurred last week when one of my dearest (and most intelligent...) friends was discussing her two thumbs up! for the movie 127 Hours.

Julie: "Saw 127 Hours this weekend and give it two thumbs up!
A tip for moviegoers: skip the snacks and drinks - particularly anything yellow like Mt. Dew. Just sayin'."

Unabashed Me: "that's kinda like seacrest throwing up his HIGH FIVE! for the blind guy..."

Just sayin'.

I have no reservations

Wil Wheaton, Brian Bloom, Chad Allen, Ashton Kutcher. What do these boys have in common? They have each held a piece of my heart at one point during my lifetime. Granted they are no longer boys, and one isn't even interested in women (although tell that to 11-year-old Emily as she dutifully tuned in each week to Our House). At 36, divorced, and a mother of 3, I've moved on to men.

One man in particular: Anthony Bourdain.

While I can do without the one-earring look, this brash mouthed silver fox captivates my unwavering attention with his gruff yet silky smooth narration on No Reservations. I've never even read a single one of his books. Nor am I familiar with his cooking abilities. His scruffy exterior, affinity for drinking whatever the locals do, while reaching for his pack of smokes in the Himalayas are all responsible for my devotion to the show each time I happen upon it.

Sure the mere sight of Tony makes me giggle; just looking at his picture has me blushing and turning my bashful head. But it's more than that. Join me in imagining the damage he and I could make wandering the bustling streets of Shanghai, bellying up to a historic bar in Montana, or listening to Pink Floyd while paragliding in Patagonia.

Oh who am I kidding. If his writing is anything like his narration, I'm jellied bean curd betwixt his chopsticks.

Eight

The new ages of my children has me wondering whatever happened to the sweet ages when I felt like I actually liked them. Of course I love them, you guys. Unconditionally I do. I'm talking about Gil here. Luckily I'm still standing in the sweet cuddly sunlit glow of Egan's Adorable Window: 4. I can describe Gil at 4 years old as equally if not more sweet. Hence his nickname Sweet Boy. But 8? Really? Why are you doing this to me?

I remember babysitting boys Gil's age and grumbling about how annoying they were the entire 5 hours I had to be "responsible" for them. Responsible for me in my babysitting teen years was watching tv, raiding the fridge for junk food (as I was forbidden soda, chips, and sweets most people had on hand after every trip to the grocery store), and talking to my friends on the phone. What an asshole I was. Wait. I still do that.

Now I have one of those.

Jon and I are still trying to figure out if it's his age or genes that has him whining about EVERYTHING, back-talking to EVERY SINGLE directive. Seriously?

And that's what I say to him: "SERIOUSLY Gilmore?!"

I'm running out of fingers and toes to count how many times I send that kid to his room. Only to hear each stomp on every stair; the huff and puff, sobbing cries, and mucous membranes exploding with snot, until his door slams and he continues to wail, intermittently holding the next bawl to hear if I'm coming to kick his ass.

When describing how loudly Gil's been know to snore and breathe, I have figured out he may need to have his tonsils and adenoids checked. I'm beginning to wonder if this duo of the ENT world and lack of proper solid sleep could be contributing to his dickhead behavior during the day.

Of course Jon and I are assured he does not display these antics at school. Quite the opposite, actually. Apparently each classmate worships the ground he walks on, the books he reads, the pictures he draws, the games he plays at recess.

SERIOUSLY, GILMORE?! Let's hope its your goddamned adenoids.

Couch potato

Jon's return home each week is more often than not about me and my needs than anyone else's. I punched out around 7:00 last night. A 10-year-old can totally watch Grey's Anatomy, right?

Laying on the couch together

Allie: Who is Grey?
Me: The main girl. That one.
Allie: Her name is Grey?
Me: That's what they tell me.
Allie: What's anatomy?
Me: It's, um, uhh...like, the make up of something? Your body parts are all your anatomy?
Allie: So why is the show about that girl's....EW! ANOTHER TURNING KISS!

Four days alone with the three of them and their myriad requests leaves this mother ready to make any inappropriate show suitable for her children. Except maybe not The Hills. That's my secret.

Hands off

A lot of my girlfriends are finally having their first kids, some are on to the second. I'm beginning to realize the difference between the stages in parenting and I'm finding relief from what I'm discovering.

So many of my friends are all, "THREE KIDS?! How do you DO it?" And I'm all, "Ummm...I just, do?"

These girlfriends devote all of their time and energy to Kid 1, and of course Kid 2 if it applies. Most of them are SAHMs because I'm thinking, really you guys, that if we do work as mothers we're sort of frowned upon. Let's face it. We are expected to throw aside our goals, dreams, and professional aspirations to raising our kids. Or we satisfy all of those dreams and aspirations before having the family, but I don't know about that. What I do know is staying at home to parent children is of course a tremendous feat in itself while adding FULL TIME WORK on top of it means you're Super Mom. Or a selfish bitch, depending on who you ask.

What I'm really witnessing here is the different stages of parenting. I did my Kid 1 and Kid 2 obsessing when these girls were still worrying about which bar to go to. Of course, I would rather die than miss the party so I'd try to meet up with them, puking into bathroom sinks at 10:00, then pumping and dumping my beer infused breastmilk. Priorities, people! I devoted much of my time entertaining Allie and Gil, worrying about their soda intake and exposure to sugary snacks. Rigid schedule keeping and bathing every other day. Doing arts and crafts all day. Television watching for a two-year-old? Nothing but minimal PBS and maybe Baby Einstein.

I was just telling a girlfriend about Egan's exposure to things I'd never even dream of letting him experience if he were Kid 1. Or Kid 2. Nope, welcome Kid 3. Kid 3 knows the difference between Bob the Builder and Handy Manny, drinks soda when given the opportunity, stays up late, AND WILL GO WITHOUT A NAP!

My point here, dear readers, isn't about you and your parenting. It's about me and mine. You guys are doing the little kid stuff while I have moved onto the pre-teen big kid stuff. Having discussions about girlfriend drama and crushes with the same little girl who used to toddle up to me in her plastic footed one piece PJs, whispy hair in ever-requested "nuggets," asking me, "How are doin, Mom?" Or when not quite finished with her snack would announce, "I save it to later." Now I have to beg her to let me even think about putting her hair in nuggets. Or braids. Or ponytails. Apparently I don't know as much about fashion as I thought I did.

As I'm surrounded by you newer moms I found myself questioning the amount of interaction I have with my kids. With a sigh of relief, the big kid phase is far more hands-off. With the exception of Kid 3, Kid 1 & Kid 2 are independently brushing their own teeth, bathing themselves, playing outside for hours on end, packing their lunches for first and fourth grade. They read to me often times at bedtime. They even read to Kid 3 from time to time, giving me the opportunity to snuggle while reading but with my eyes closed. Until I'm woken up by Egan clip-clopping around in dancin shoes, asking me to paint his nails.

All's I'm saying, Internet, is that things change when your kids get older. You kind of feel like you still need to give them the same amount of hands-ON attention, when really, after you adjust and pat yourself on the back for a job well done with the little kid phase, it's a lot more hands-OFF.

On being duped

I'm thinking I'm beginning to believe our friend Joaquin Phoenix (see previous post) is a far better actor than drug addict. Although who ever said one can't succeed at both simulataneously.

There's been a lot of scrutiny surrounding the antics of Joaquin on Letterman last week. But apparently, have you heard this yet? He's supposedly working on a documentary with buddy Casey Affleck. On what, I'm not sure. My guess is Affleck, co-star from his latest film Gwyneth Paltrow, and a few other close friends and fellow actors are in on the plan. It appears Letterman himself was let in based on the clip of Joaquin taking off his sunglasses and whispering sweet nothings deep into Letterman's ear after what looked like a similar interaction with Farrah Fawcett on Letterman some few years ago.

Everyone says Andy Kauffman would be so proud. Except I don't know much more about Andy Kauffman than he was on Taxi and REM sings a song about him. I'm thinking he pissed off a bunch of people WHO BELIEVED HIS ANTICS. Didn't Jim Carrey do the same thing a few years back in the spirit of ACTING! (insert Jon Lovitz's Master Thespian on SNL circa 1991).

Americans do NOT like being deceived, you guys. Entertainers need to be predictable. Sanitized. Totally censored for us to feel safe. Where would be possibly be without the MPAA and their Disney-esque rating system? Sure, our government can fuck with us for 8 years but NOT our entertainment industry!

Are we expected to believe Phoenix is truly throwing in the silver screen towel and taking up hip hop? Or is it just another extremely talented thespian proving us all a bunch of suckers?

Walkin' the line

This isn't so much about our goings-on, although I'm betting I could come up with a few goodies. This post is about idle times spent staring at the various newswires that suddenly appear on my computer screen. One particular said moment was consumed observing our old friend, little brother to the late River Phoenix, Joaquin Phoenix.

David Letterman attempted to penetrate the bearded mystery man on last night's program. Quite the interesting exchange, wouldn't you say? I'm left wondering which pharmaceutical grade tranquilizer our dear Joaquin is dabbling in these days.

In retrospect, perhaps referring to the fella as "River's little brother" is exactly the reason he's trying to reinvent himself. Apparently while not feeling himself. Literally.

Come on, Internet! or Marlo Thomas instilled some values

Time to update this stale medium where I either share family stories, complain about my responsibilities, or pontificate on whatever might have crept into the folds of my frontal lobe, lodging itself so deep I can't get it out EXCEPT FOR HERE.

When I go to the gym, I fall victim privy to the wall of televisions that motivate those who think watching an interview with Kathie Lee and Hooda and some washed up television actor really gets 'em going. I can't help but notice the various advertisements for teeth whitening, hair color, or Nutrisystem, all serenaded between my ear buds by the Ting Tings and Justin Timberlake.

Why do they keep telling me I shouldn't accept my body the way it is: prematurely grey; coffee stained teeth; the beginning laugh lines of almost 34 years of hilarity; my magnificent mama muffin top a sensational reminder of my thrice in a lifetime achievement of bringing three of the most amazing creatures into this world?

The programming begins again and there's now a woman on the morning show telling me How to Look Sexy at Any Age! Because she's actually going to convince me that wearing pantyhose with a built-in butt-pusher-upper fools anyone?

As women we are constantly told how imperfect we are. If we only had that creaseless forehead, the biggest boobs, a perfect shade of auburn that washed that grey right out of your hair, or teeth so white they're grey. On the one hand it's perfectly understood to buy a product that you think lifts your saggy ass. Yet the other hand is holding way too accessible plastic surgeons brought to you by E! and their exclusive zip code. Let me rephrase that. Those surgeons appear to be so accessible because they are on E! every time I sit down to fold yet another load of laundry. Sure, you and I get that these doctors are as exclusive as Oprah Winfrey. But to others their local alleyway knife wielding ICS certificate holding physician can achieve the same looks as Brazilian goon on E!.

Why are we a society dedicated to achieving a look resembling Barbie's plastic fantastic unchanging face? Mary Tyler Moore is an applaudable success story for that. We are actually supposed to believe we aren't awesome just the way we are. If you're unhealthy, get healthy. If you're looking for a fun new hair color, go for it. Cover your grey? Hell no! All those advertisements for products and purely cosmetic surgeries are a very painfully obvious symbol of corporate America making bank off our insecurities. Insecurities they've instilled within us.

You fellas can't escape it either. Balding men need not spray the tops of their gorgeous heads with black spray paint because that's no more persuasively plausible than butt lifting panty hose.

Excuse me while I high-five my stretchmarked muffin top and stuff it discretely back into my cords.

It's got to be the hedgehog