flapping brick wings

Hi friends! Holy shit, right? 

Based on the current state of my neck (i.e., seized up on one side like an engine without oil), I’m pretty sure my subconscious mind is spending all the time worrying about the both the short term (i.e., people we love might die) and long-term (i.e., every we know might be completely fucked) implications of this still-pretty-fucking-new new world order, and I imagine yours is too. But I’m finding great comfort in the stories from all over the world of people pulling together to help each other, as well as those of the “penguins touring the aquarium” variety. So rather than cracking another “I may never wear a bra again” joke or telling a “wow, turns out I’m really bad at second grade math” tale, here’s a completely unrelated story that involves me humiliating myself again (bonus points on this one for also traumatizing my closest friends) in the hopes that it might take your mind off things for a minute or two. Please enjoy.

Take yourself back to a simpler time: February 2020, when my primary concerns included how to get two kids to overlapping soccer games, whether to go to Din Tai Fung or Damon’s for dinner, and if I should invest in a new pair of checkered Vans or throw caution to the wind and buy the python print ones. My three best ladies and I had planned a much-needed spa day. Much-needed because, despite all our high hopes, 2020 had already not gotten off to a fantastic start (I know, I know), and because life is hard, and because we’re all busy (correction: we were all busy) and only get together sans hanger-oners (spouses, children, dogs) once or twice a year at most. So we blocked out a whole day, a Sunday to be precise, all to ourselves. 

For weeks, months possibly (maybe even years), our iMessage thread was peppered with excited variations of “Calgon, take me away!” followed by counting down the sleeps, until at last our day arrived.

We piled into my friend Allison’s car (actually her husband’s truck because her sister was in all seriousness almost fucking killed in a car accident two days before and her miraculous survival and minimal injury was attributed to her sturdy Toyota pickup – see previous comment re: 2020) at 9am, rolling in deep athleisurewear (Rebecca was particularly impressive in head to toe Adidas, prompting her 13 year-old son to ask her not to get out of the car when she dropped him off at baseball practice that morning - rude) and cackled our way out to the spa. Upon arrival we checked in and donned our squishy bathrobes. Robyn and I also downed a mimosa. We discussed, with some disdain, how we would definitely not be using the plastic phone case necklaces provided to all patrons, presumably to enable easy selfie-taking (i.e., free marketing for the spa). We would not, we assured each other, be taking any bathing suit selfies, thank you very much. Then we hit the pools, feverish with excitement at all the hours of unbridled relaxation that lay ahead of us. 

We squeezed into the mineral tubs first, where we rubbed elbows with fellow bathers for the prescribed 20 minutes. Then we walked casually (as casually as one can walk in one’s bathing suit) to the next pool, which was shaded and infused with epsom salts, apparently. It was also quite crowded. It was also, unbeknownst to me, the hottest pool on the grounds. We found a spot near the stairs and soaked in the heat and saline for a while, still babbling excitedly, planning our route for the day. Around the time we started discussing lunch (the text-thread plan that morning was to “fuck up some nachos” when we got there), I also started looking around for something cooler than shade, feeling like I was maybe getting a wee bit hot. We agreed to move on. 

As soon as I stood up and started heading for the stairs, I felt it. That cold tingling sensation in my spine followed by a blurring on the edges of my vision. I remember looking over at the lounge chairs where we’d left our stuff, which were probably about 15 feet away but felt to me at that moment a thousand miles out of my reach, and thinking to myself, “Just get to the chair and put your head between your legs.” My brain screamed, Be cool, bitch! I even managed to say to my friends, “I feel a little bit like I might pass out.” 

And then I passed the fuck out. On the concrete. In my bikini. In front of about 5,000 people.

The worst thing about fainting is that you wake up with no idea what’s going on, wondering how you managed to have an impromptu nap in whatever random location you happen to find yourself in. You may remember my tattoo shop incident a few years ago, which was equally humiliating. That time I woke up lying on a tattoo table vaguely confused about what was happening. 

This time, I woke up to complete pandemonium. 

I was in the vicinity of the lounge chair I’d been aiming for, but not on it. Rebecca and Robyn were propping me up by my neck and elbow (I think – there may have been a leg involved) while some guy named Brian, who I suspected was a cop but who turned out to be a particularly dedicated spa employee, threw cold water in my face. My friend Allison was running around in her bathrobe screaming, “A phone! A phone! I need a phone!” at anyone who would listen, while another spa employee with a radio kept saying, “Code zero!” and several unfamiliar women in bathing suits were shouting my name and some other things I couldn’t understand in my general direction. (These kindly bathers turned out to be nurses who had jumped out of the pool when I dropped, as my husband would say, like a bag of shit. Bless them.) 

My first thought was, “Wow, how did I fall asleep in all this excitement?” followed closely by, “Wow, what is all this excitement about?” And hot on the heels of that thought came the realization that - oh, hey, it’s me. Clearly, I hadn’t made it to the lounge chair in time. I almost fainted again when I heard someone nearby announce excitedly, “The paramedics are on their way!” Fortunately, Robyn’s alter ego, Reggie, took over at that point, holding her hands up and saying, in the manner of one totally in control of the situation and not, as she actually was, freaking the fuck out, “Hold on, hold on – she has a history of fainting. She does this. Let’s just give her a minute.” 

Moments later another spa employee rolled up with a wheelchair and I really thought I would die. As Brian, Rebecca, and Robyn, my “triangle of support,” discussed how to best transfer me to said wheelchair (sidenote: Rebecca later informed me that it turns out I weigh 250 lbs when unconscious), Robyn casually leaned down and said, in a voice so low not a soul but me could hear, “Wait, before you stand up – did you shit yourself?” 

Friends, friends. My wish for you is this: I hope you have someone (or three) in your life who, should you ever pass out in a crowded public place wearing only a bikini, will have the foresight to tell your to check yourself in case you wrecked yourself before you stand up in front of a gawking crowd. If you accomplish nothing else in life, let me tell you – this is something. 

I looked up at her, a little bewildered, and said, “I have no idea.” 

Spoiler alert: I didn’t shit myself. (Who says I have bad luck?) I was successfully transferred to the wheelchair. Someone (probably Brian) gave me two cups of cold water and told me to put my hands in them, which was surprisingly effective at waking me up. We were whisked off to the “medical room,” which turned out to be a closet housing an industrial ice machine, with an examination table and one folding chair. After reluctantly answering some questions (I was still convinced Brian was a cop – don’t ask me why, maybe lack of oxygen to the brain?), a giant plate of nachos appeared as if by magic and we were escorted via several wrong turns, which meant doubling back to pass curious spa-goers for the third or fourth time, to a small private dining area that was shady and quiet. Brian pushed the wheelchair, Robyn, Rebecca, and Allison followed, and the guy carrying the nachos brought up the rear.

Did I mention, this all took place within half on hour of our arrival? So yeah, kind of put a damper on the hours of unbridled relaxation. 2020 is really not fucking around. (Also, did I mention this is not the first time I fainted at a spa? Last time it was at Burke Williams in Hollywood and I was wearing a bathrobe with nothing underneath when I keeled over in the co-ed waiting room. No triangle of support.)

So, however worried you are about the current state of affairs, just remember – one day we’ll all be back out there in the world, standing within six feet other humans and being grateful we didn’t shit our pants in public. And if we’re lucky, being escorted by a plate of nachos.  

You’re welcome. 

As if today wasn’t bad enough, my seven-year-old just told me about the “lockdown” drill she had at after care today. Apparently the kids got graded on how well they did. (Although she could be confused about this. She is seven.) Here’s what happened.

After they finished snack time at the picnic tables in the shade, which usually involves juice and Goldfish or Cheezits, both in pouches (so fresh and healthy, thanks GUSD), they walked to the classroom together. 

(Side note: The after school program my girls are in is probably about 30 or 40 kids aged between first and sixth grade. They all share one classroom, which I think is awesome. They have snacks together. Do homework together. Play outside together. Make crafts together, like the orange-plaid-flannel-wrapped toilet paper rolls with a twig and felt leaves on top that sat on my toilet from Thanksgiving until like, last week, making the shitter super festive. They hang out for two to three hours, five days a week. My girls have both been in after care since kindergarten. They love it. They have a whole separate kid society with their after care crew, on top of their school society. And unless I’m the last parent there (which I often am), they usually don’t want to leave. So please, spare me your anti-after care lectures.) 

At this point, one of the teachers informed them that they would be having a “lockdown” drill. When I asked Billie what that means, she explained that sometimes someone who doesn’t have a kid might try to “break through the fence” and come in to, “like, try and steal a kid or with a gun or something.” 

My heart went to my heels. 

At 4pm, as expected, the teacher--let’s call her Ms. P--blew her whistle to start the drill. The kids all scrambled to find hiding places, while the teachers ran to lock the door and the “office lady” pretended to be the bad guy, trying to get in from outside. You know, for the sake of reality. According to Billie (Mila wasn’t there today so I can’t verify this), the fifth and sixth graders all hid under the desks, leaving the younger kids with nowhere to go except under the whiteboard, which has no furniture in front of it and therefore makes them sitting ducks. I mean, you can’t blame the fifth and sixth graders. Their brains are more developed. And yet they are still children. What wins--survival, or empathy? (What should win? Jesus.) But still, what the fuck.

And again--Billie said they got graded on how well they hid. We don’t get after care report cards, so I’m not sure what she means by this. But she was adamant. When the drill was over, they unlocked the door, crawled out from under the desks/whiteboard, and went back to their Chromebooks. Or their crafts. Or their homework. All these children just carried on like everything was completely normal.

I cannot emphasize enough how utterly fucked up this is. My friends in other countries are horrified by the notion that our kids have to have these drills. Because IT IS SO FUCKED UP. On a day when things, on a global scale, are not going, historically speaking, very well, this was really a little more than my tired heart could take.

My friend/boss Janelle said to me on Monday, in the wake of the Sunday’s heartbreaking news, “Everything just feels so dark and fleeting right now.” And I have been running that through my mind all week. It’s like a sore tooth, I can’t leave it alone.  

Dark and fleeting.

Dark and fleeting.

Dark and fleeting. 

And yet, I have a fucking ten year old. And a fucking seven year old. And maybe I am just as naive as parents have been in every other awful period of history, but I just can’t believe that things won’t get better. Right? They have to. 

Don’t they?    

These winter mornings are rough. It’s hard enough for me to get out of bed when it’s cold and dark out, let alone my little ladies who are snuggled up together under their super warm comforters with a heater on, their heads full of sugar plums/YouTube hack videos, and very little to motivate them. Also, daddy’s out of town, which just makes everything less fun. I’ve been trying to wake them up earlier to give them more time to stay in bed but that doesn’t seem to help. Getting into bed earlier is not an option, we can barely manage homework and one shower a week as it is. I’ve tried sending our new dog Cleo’s 72 lbs of year-and-a-half-old-puppy-fun into the room to wipe her ginormous tongue across their sleeping faces, but then I end up spending all my time wrestling various objects, from individuals Legos, to dirty socks, to pieces of the house and entire rolls of toilet paper, out of her mouth, which just slows me down even more. 

I aim to leave the house at 7:25, and every day the time it takes to get from 6:30 to 7:25 seems to speed up. This morning I started asking them to get dressed at approximately 6:53. Buttery waffles were still being eaten, random pieces of paper that needed to be safely tucked into backpacks were strewn about the house, nary a hair nor a tooth had been brushed. As time ticked on my nudges became more urgent, bordering on frantic. When, at 7:18, I emerged from the bathroom ready to literally sprint the dog to the corner and back while the girls brushed their teeth, I found Billie, still in her pajamas, sitting at the coffee table holding a whiteboard marker and carefully tracing out her letters on the wipe-clean practice boards she just unearthed from somewhere deep in the closet. (Sidenote: Sure, she can dive into that closet and find those, but send her in for two matching socks in the morning and she will never ever return. Also, she’s in second grade. She knows how the fuck to write.) Here’s a sampling of the words that fell out of my mouth completely of their own accord while I jumped up and down and tore my hair out in chunks.

Seriously?

Are you kidding me right now?

This - this is the moment you choose to work on your handwriting? Right now?

I’ve been asking you to get dressed for half an hour. 

Are you dressed? You don’t look dressed to me! 

Have you brushed your hair? Your teeth? No, so what the hell are you doing practicing your m’s? 

We have to leave in seven minutes. SEVEN MINUTES.

You’re killing me, smalls. Seriously. You are causing me physical pain right now. 

It’s the same bloody thing every morning - why do I have to ask you fifty times to do the same things you have to do every day? I’m honestly asking for an answer. I really don’t understand. SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN. 

Do you think I’m talking to someone else?

Do you think I mean in an hour? 

Do you understand what day it is?

Do you understand English?

DO YOU JUST NOT UNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT OF TIME?

At which point, we all started giggling. (Okay they were probably gigging at me, not with me.) Because let’s be honest. She’s seven. Of course she doesn’t understand the fucking concept of time. She can’t even tell time. When she turned seven, she thought she’d been six for a year and a half. 

Come to think of it, I’m not even sure I understand the concept of time. If I did, maybe I wouldn’t have the same fucking problem every damn day. 

Six more days of school. Six more days of school. Six more days of school.

Last night Billie and I were dancing to Cardi B while she brushed her teeth. Getting into it (as you do), I leaned over her and started doing some “yah down with opp”-type arm motions that I quickly realized (we were in front of the mirror) were utterly ridiculous on me. I made a sort of “eeeerrr-blegh” sound and stopped, giving myself a “calm it down” look and stepping back to let her take the stage. 

She stopped dancing, looked me in the eye in the mirror, and said in her sweet little seven-year-old voice, “I will never be embarrassed by you, mama.” 

(Sidenote: Ohmygod, is my kid like, totally psychic? How did she know that’s exactly what I was thinking? Who were those kids in the seventies with the paranormal abilities, the ones Eleven is based on? The children of the corn? She’s totally one of them. I should get her tested.)

At the same time, from different rooms, Mila and I both said, “You say that now...” 

(Second sidenote: Billie thinks when an ellipsis appears on the page, you read it as a dramatic and ominous pause in an episode of Scooby-Doo, like: “Dah-dah-DAAAAH!” Apparently that’s what her first grade teacher taught her. I have no idea if her teacher actually said that, which is a whole nother can o’ worms, but it’s kind of hard to shake once it gets in your brain. Please enjoy...) 

I called out to Mila, “Do I embarrass you, Mikki?”

And she called back, “Not yet.”

Is this what it means to be a tween? To not actually be embarrassed by your parents yet, but to understand on some level, to know in some secret (possibly throbbing) vein, that soon you will be mortified by them? (Us. Sniff.) 

I wish I had an exceptional memory so I could step back into exactly what it’s like to be their ages. (Or a time-turner. That would be more fun.) You tell yourself you’ll never do these things when you’re a parent, and then you forget, and you do all of them. And then some. It doesn’t help that every time you start to figure things out, your kid completely changes and you have to start all over again. Feel like a complete failure, all over again. You know how they say your body regenerates itself every seven years? With kids, it’s more like every seven months. Keeping up is like trying to put the slime back in that tiny stupid container it came in. (Most likely at the birthday party you really didn’t want to go to in the first place.) The cards are totally stacked against us. Or is it the clock? Both, maybe. All of it. Everything. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I can’t wait to embarrass the hell out of this kid. 

(Also, we are so screwed.) 

Did you know that today is the thousandth day of this shitshow? Although it feels like the millionth... I have almost entirely given up posting here since election night because it feels a little frivolous and a lot pointless to share funny stories of the “kids say the darnedest things” variety when the world is literally burning to the fucking ground around us. 

And yet, here we are. Soldering on. Putting one foot in front of the other. And kids are still saying funny things. Also, parents. 

Last night at the dinner table Mila told us she’s excited to start volleyball. And I said oh is that starting soon? And she said not after school volleyball, PE volleyball. And I said oh fun. And she said yeah, I didn’t even know until Mr. Sondergaard (not to be confused with Søndergård... or Sondland) sent us an email. 

I looked up from my taco then and said, “He sent you an email?”

(I’ve never sent her an email.)

She nodded. 

“Like through the school?”

She said yes, and explained that they have a Google classroom for each subject which the teachers can use to send the kids messages. 

Now, I was aware of the Google classrooms. I get a weekly Google classroom update for Mila. But to be honest I never really gave it much thought. I know she does a lot of school projects in Google docs, but being of the “I hate Google docs” generation, preferring to do my work in isolation on a Word doc, like a normal person, I didn’t realize they used it for other things. While I have blown her away by showing her some simple tricks like how to insert a page break (remind me to tell you about how I REALLY blew her mind last week explaining what a fax machine is), Mila is much more skilled than me in many regards. For example, she changed my Google profile picture to an image of Harry Potter taking a joyride on Buckbeak the hippogriff (which brings me great pleasure when I’m forced, by millennials of course, to work in a Google doc and that’s what they see on my account avatar in place of a selfie) and she knows how to insert videos of things like penguins sliding down ice hills into her Google doc projects, which I couldn’t do for a million dollars.

I said something like oh, is that how Google classroom works? and she gave me a look that implied I was a complete moron and said yeah, that’s what Google classroom is.

At this point, Sash (who has about 20 Gmail addresses because he keeps forgetting his password, bless his heart) looked up from his taco and said, after a beat, “The fuck is that?”

In case you’re wondering what it’s like to parent these days.

Yup, that’s right bitches. I turned 41 this month. Thank the lord we only have to change decades once a decade. It was SO much more enjoyable turning 41 than turning 40. (The mind-fuckage. Christ.) This year? No pressure, just chocolate covered strawberries and champagne. What more could a girl (er, middle-aged mama) ask for?

On the eve of my birthday we had a thunderstorm – a rare and true gift from the gods. I grabbed the girls and we ran out to the front porch to watch for lightening and count in the thunder. Apparently the storm was very, very far away. So far we lost count. But still, so satisfying. We went to bed early and it rained all night. When I woke up it was still raining and the girls were asleep on either side of me.

Divine.

Mila had an orthodontist appointment (Sidenote: guess who made her appointment on my birthday? Not me. Guess who had no idea it was my birthday when they made her appointment? Someone I’ve been married to for 18 years and another someone I gave birth to. Cool.) so we took Billie to school then went to Starbucks and sat in the car listening to Harry Potter while rain pounded the roof and the windows steamed up. At the orthodontist, Mila unexpectedly lost a tooth (bit traumatic) and then almost threw up so it was all rather exciting. Later I got a massage, had flowers delivered not once but twice in addition to the aforementioned chocolate covered strawberries, had a champagne lunch with my partner in crime, wandered around the book store for as long as I wanted, then took the girls to buy umbrellas and rain boots so we could walk to Damon’s in the rain for dinner and chi-chi’s. Apart from husband being in absentia, it was pretty much perfect. 

Had a nice chat with my (also 41-year-old) friend Anna the other night about how entering our forties has made us really not give a fuck about most of the things we spent most of our lives worrying about. And not the “I don’t have time for people who don’t actually like me” level not-giving-a-fuck that arrives in your thirties. Like a deep, genuine, whole-hearted lack of fucks to give. It’s fantastic. I can see now how, by the time I’m 60, I’ll be charging around town in purple dresses and red hats yelling at youngsters (I’ll use words like youngster) about how they need to listen to more Led Zepplin and pull their pants up. Or down. Or sideways, who knows what they’ll be doing by then.  

Time is a construct and life is a dream. So fuck it.

Oh, hi. How’s it going? It’s been a while since I posted because, 2018. (My boss uttered a phrase the other day that we have since adopted as the perfect hashtag to sum up this whole wretched year: fucking exhausting and not so successful. Am I right? #fuckingexhaustingandnotsosuccessful)

I don’t want to talk about the year or the holidays or the politics or the evils of Amazon, etc etc etc (boring). I do want to make a friendly suggestion because December is hard. We’re all feeling it. During the next week or so, which can be both the best and worst of the year, if you need a little juice in your tank, junk in your trunk, swing in your swagger, try this.

First thing in the morning, before you check Twitter, get out of bed to turn on the heat, or even think about what (or who) you have to achieve/avoid/withstand today, put your ear buds in and dial up, “Don’t Stop Me Now,” as loud as you can take it. Lay and listen with the lights off and your eyes closed so it’s like a private concert. Give Freddie and the boys a mainline directly into your brain. Let them serenade you, ignite you, launch you like a rocket ship, like a tiger defying the laws of gravity, like a mother-trucking atom bomb ready to explode, into your day. 

Seriously. Try it. And then tell me if that doesn’t set you on track for a good goddam time (just give me a call....), send you dancing out of bed, and make it easier to deal with aunt Marge and her red hat. 

Repeat as needed. I’m about to go to bed and I just had another hit. I might even do one more before I fall asleep. 

Don’t even try and stop me. 

Of all the things I’m awesome at (I can count them on like three fingers), embarrassing myself is probably numero uno. So this was fun. My sister and her kids are visiting (yay!) so last week we enjoyed a week of outings in LA. Tuesday afternoon we went bowling. I did not actually bowl (though that would have been an excellent opportunity to flex my embarrassing myself muscle), but I was perched behind the bowlers enjoying a cold beer and some fries when I stepped backwards into the walkway behind the bench and unknowingly stepped right into the path of a motorized wheelchair. I realized my mistake when the vehicle plowed into my heel, at exactly the same moment as I felt a hand on my ass. 

Now, don’t get me wrong - this is not a me too moment. This man’s hand was resting innocently on the arm of his wheelchair, palm up and curled into a perfect cup, and I basically placed my butt cheek in it. I mean if you really think about it the geometry and physics are quite impressive. What are the chances? In any case, he stopped his wheelchair and looked up at me wide-eyed as I turned purple and began apologizing profusely, mortified. To make matters worse I realized I’ve run into this guy before. Not literally - I’m not a serial wheelchair obstructor, I promise - but I used to see him around my old neighborhood when I was walking my dog. We always said hello and I swear I never put my ass anywhere near his hand, but here we are.

He continued to stare, which made me turn a deeper shade of purple and start stammering. I tried apologizing to the guy behind him, who was not in a wheelchair and was also not impressed. In fact he looked quite angry but like, it was totally an accident and we’re in a bowling alley with loud music playing so I didn’t hear the motor and what am I supposed to do, look first every time I take a step? Finally I kind of bowed and then squeezed onto the bench next to my niece and stuck my head in the spinach and artichoke dip while he drove away. Like my friend Gretlyn always says, “Thou art full of grace.”    

8:22 pm Monday night. Doorbell rings. I think it must be Fedex delivering a missing package, but when I open the door it’s two clean cut white boys (I mean like so white they’re blue) in shirts and ties, wearing name tags and carrying black books. (The balls!) I don’t open the screen door.

They introduce themselves as missionaries from the church of Latter Day Saints, and I’m surprised to hear Aussie accents. Teenage Australian mormon missionaries in Glendale? What in the actual...

I let them give me their pitch, “We were wondering if we can share a pamphlet about Jesus Christ with you?”

Allow me to sidetrack for a second here and tell you that since we got back from Australia I’ve been trying to gently coach Billie to stop saying “Jesus Christ!” all the time. It’s a popular turn of phrase in Oz, as common in every day speech as the slightly more colorful F and C words. I mean in all honesty, she’s really using it well - grammatically speaking, and in terms of dramatic effect. For example, when we had friends over the other week and the kids begged me to get out the blow up pool, which is ginormous and a huge pain in the ass to pump up and then fill with like 7,000 gallons of water, and literally the second the water reached the fill line and they all decided to get out, I stormed into the bedroom while the girls were changing and yelled, “I can’t believe you guys are getting out after you made me do all that work!” Their friend Scout (eight) looked at me like I was a complete moron and said simply, “It’s cold.” (Duh.) Then Billie (six), midway through peeling off her bathing suit, shot me a scathing look and muttered, “Jesus Christ, mum.”

So really, she’s nailing it.

I’m not religious, but I’m also not an asshole so I’ve been explaining to her that some people, including her grandparents and probably most if not all of her Spanish speaking friends at school, would be quite offended by this because Jesus is very special to a lot of people so it’s probably best if she tries to ix-nay it from her ocabulary-vay. Certainly before school starts.

Anyway, cut back to the missionaries.

As I said, I’m not religious but I’m also not an asshole so I politely tell them, “No thank you, we’re not interested,” and shut the door.

The girls, always excited by an unexpected visitor, bound back to the couch as I walk back into the kitchen, and Billie says, “A what about what?”

“A pamphlet about Jesus Christ,” I say, rolling my eyes.

She smiles, mildly interested, and asks, “Who’s Jesus Christ?”

Like I said, nailing it.

We are recently back from a trip to the motherland (okay technically step-motherland for me, but since my actual motherland has gone to hell in a hand basket I’m doubling down on claiming her as my own). Here are just a few of the many reasons I fucking love Australia.

You can go barefoot anywhere. Like, anywhere. Shops, cafes, restaurants. Planes, trains, and automobiles. Pubs. Prisons. Parliament, I imagine. If people were still allowed to climb Uluru, you can bet your bottom dollar they’d be climbing it barefoot. Back when there was a playground at the Americana we once let Mila walk about three feet away from it without her shoes on and were immediately accosted by a security guard who put his small self bodily in front of us and refused to let us take another step without correcting this grievous and offensive error. She was three, it was summer, and the playground was full of sand. Imagine I tried to walk into WholeFoods with no shoes on. I wouldn’t make it past the Kombucha with being put in hemp handcuffs and having a pair of vegan sandals forcibly strapped to my feet. 

I love a barefoot country, a land of sandy toes...

Everyone is laid back. Like, everyone. In the land of legalized marijuana, I consider myself a pretty laid back person. I do yoga and shit. In the land of the Southern Cross, I’m an uptight twat. Why do you need your flat white this instant? the whole country asks nicely. Chillax! Take a load off, enjoy the clean air, kookaburras, and complete lack of threat from a possible impending active shooter that normally hangs over your head and heart as constantly as the haze of pollution hangs over the entirety of southern California. Your coffee will be ready when it’s ready, grasshopper. 

Exhibit A: Laid back Aussie in her natural habitat, enjoying a cold one with lunch. (As ya do.)

People are funny as fuck. Like, everyone. I’m not sure exactly how Australia won the sense of humor lottery (probably something to do with the whole “19 crimes” business) but they sure as shit did. Laughing is the national pass time. (Okay maybe the runner up, after drinking.) I know plenty of funny people of many nationalities, but on a national level Australia win hands down. Having a laugh is a way of life, embedded as deep as the ocean in the culture and the language. Case in point: The first day we were there we met a lovely young lad named Liam who gave Sash a 10-year anniversary edition mullet (10 years since the original mullet, which coincided with his mum’s cancer diagnosis and subsequent remission - so much to celebrate) who, just by opening his mouth, was funnier than 90% of Netflix one hour specials. I jotted this gem of his down so I wouldn’t forget: “I’m from Woy Woy, a town so small me dad always says you fart at one end of the street and before you get to the other end of the street you get a call that you’ve shit yourself.” Aussies can find the funny in anything. 

Pardon my French, but Liam is one funny cunt.

They know the value of bubbles. Like, for real. Because life is good and everything is worth celebrating. Just landed from a 20 hour trip? Bust out the bubbly. Is it lunchtime already? That’s cause for celebration. Off to the races? Bubbly for breakfast! Get another melanoma removed? Well, we’d better toast your health. Hey, you’re here - we better get some champers! Favorite movie on tv/song on the radio/book in your hand? Is it Friday/ Saturday/ Sunday? (Also Monday/ Tuesday/ Wednesday/ Thursday?) You survived a shark/ crocodile/ funnel web/ brown snake/ jelly fish/ dingo/ koala attack? All reasonable reasons to pop a cork and raise a glass. Cheers to that, my fine friends.

And so many more. Reasons to love Australia, that is. I could tell you about the best beaches in the world with rock pools, shark nets, and surf clubs, and the Violet Crumbles, and cheese jaffles, and Vegemite toast on bread that’s (wait for it) not sweet, and the Thai Food (why, dear god, has no one in America heard of LAKSA?), and Cockatoos and Galahs and Rainbow Lorikeets, schooners and middies, crinkle cut chips and wedges with sweet chili sauce, and Bonds undies and Penfold’s Shiraz and Bubble-O Bills and L plates and P plates stubbies and stubby-holders and roundabouts without stop signs and so on and so forth. But I won’t bore you.

Last Friday was the Edison Elementary School Talent Show so needless to say I cried like a baby for two hours straight. (While my dear friend Anna laughed at me mercilessly and unrepentantly, I might add.) There is something so raw and brave and vulnerable about kids getting up in the spotlight that just kills me. Maybe because it so blatantly contrasts their innocence, enthusiasm, and trust that they really can do anything they want and everyone watching will cheer them on forever against my own agonizing belief that the entire world is laughing at me, all the time. Or maybe it’s just because they’re so darn cute. Who’s to say.

In any case, from the Smooth Criminal throw down to the multiple renditions of Remember Me (I mean come on, if you don’t cry at a six year old standing on stage singing that song a capella, you need to seriously examine your emotional availability.... ok I don’t think that’s really the right word but what I’m trying to say is, dig deep... Anna) to all the dancers who gave it their all (my girls included) this jaded old lady is still giving you a standing ovation in my soul. Seriously, I’m crying again right now just thinking about you. Please don’t let this mean, beautiful world get you down. Keep dancing your little hearts out.

That’s how my husband responded last weekend when we escaped to the Ace  to celebrate/mourn reaching middle age, I said, “Holy fuck, can you believe we’re 40?” And he’s right. He’s funny like that. And quite insightful, sometimes.  

I on the other hand was less cucumber-like and more Mentos-in-a-Coke-bottle-ish about the whole situation. Forgive me for being a cliche wrapped up in a platitude rolled in a metaphor as overused as a bear in the woods, but I ain’t gonna lie: Staring down the barrel of 40 has been seriously fucking with my head. I’ve been laying awake for hours obsessing over all my shortcomings and wondering if I should do something drastic like shave my head or give up cheese (as if this would make up for never having bought a home or been to Morocco). This is followed by fitful sleep full of dreams in which I do things like chaperone a kinder field trip and get lost for hours in a confusing parking structure, which is full of strippers and investment advisory offices (also, lots of characters from Harry Potter) with all 26 kids in tow, or, more obviously, getting bowled over by a crocodile while walking my girls to school alongside a river full of sharks.

My point is, I’m tired. And, like, really fucking old. 

I had big plans for a post called, “40 things I’ve learned at 40″ which would be packed with witty, poignant observations about life and love and children and grammar and teeth and, I don’t know, vermin, or maybe poetic justice, or beets? - whatever. I’ve been thinking about this for at least two months, framing every interaction to see if I could make something of it, or milk something from it. (Like, hey Ari - remember that kid who peed her pants at the roller skating rink because she couldn’t skate into the bathroom in time to get them down? Talk about a life lesson.)  

Apparently I’m not that smart because I could only come up with about 12. (Cool, another reason to feel awesome about myself.) Which actually makes sense because 12 is about how old I feel, you know, in a spiritual sense. (That one grey pube that keeps stubbornly growing back begs to differ.) 

(Side note: If you’re under 35 and reading this - yup, grey pubes are a thing. As real as bitcoin. So there’s that to look forward to.)

Then I went back and re-read them and realized all of my witty and poignant observations were utter crap. Really, only one is worth sharing at all. (If you live in LA and we’re friends, you’ve probably already heard this one.) Please enjoy responsibly.

One thing I’ve learned at 40:

When playing Cards Against Humanity with a group of people you don’t know very well, it’s best to play a round or two conservatively to get a reading on the group. What I’m trying to say is, don’t play the Auschwitz card on the first round. (Trust me.) Definitely keep the bukkake card up your sleeve.

Okay, two:

When it comes to clocking the passing years, mammograms work just as well as Coachella’s. As in, “Wow, has it really been a year since my last Coachella/mammogram? Gee, time flies.” 

There you have it - the sum total of what four decades of living has taught me. Sheesh. No wonder I’m not sleeping. 

While most of my friends keep telling me how “everything gets better” and “you’re gonna love it!” last week my sister really laid it out for me.

“Nothing happens.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you turn 40. Nothing happens.”

Also true. (If somewhat deflating.) 

Here’s to nothing. 

With the loss of her first baby tooth, my baby has joined the ranks of the size-obsessed and turned against me. Yesterday one of her tiny chompers came out in a river of blood. (I didn’t see it happen but apparently it was initially dislodged by a cucumber, then properly evicted by a handstand. Or maybe a knee-to-the-mouth after a handstand, I’m not sure.) This morning while I was buttoning up her shirt she said, with the most adorable little missing-tooth lisp, “Mummy, your two teeth right here are really big.”

“Yup,” I said. Christ kid, I haven’t even had my morning cup of tea yet.

“Why?” she asked. 

“Just how they are, baby,” I replied, gritting my giant horse teeth.

She thought for a moment then put her two little fingers on her own two (little) front teeth and said, “They look like, what are they called, beavers? When they try to chop down the trees.”

I guess what I’m saying is the honeymoon is over.

Well well well, here we are. Ten days into 2018 and I have already failed at every half-hearted resolution. I blame all the Capricorns in my life, there’s just too much to celebrate. Also the rain. Also the old lady named Angel (my ass) who drove blindly into my car last week, the Hollywood elite, Instagram influencers, Apple, the illuminati, the entire Marlborough region of New Zealand, Kaiser Permanente, J.P Morgan Chase et. al, green antioxidant pills, Damon’s delicious chi-chi’s, Netflix, Hulu, HBO, JK Rowling, Amor Towles, and of course, my mother. (Just kidding. Actually it’s my mother in law. JUST KIDDING.) 

My kind and funny aunt (shout out - happy birthday Aunt Cathy!) reminded me yesterday that I have a blog, which I have been neglecting for months because every time I start to write something all I end up doing is complain about the current political/social/let’s-undo-everything-good-in-the-world-and-plow-ahead-with-everything-bad-while-carrying-fucking-tiki-torches situation, and frankly I don’t want to do that because I am/we are already inundated with that same shit all day, every day. 

But enough bitching. (See? I did it again without even meaning to. How is this period impacting the next generation - are the kids in households so horrified by our daily Twitter feeds that we literally can’t talk about anything else going to grow up to be incessant moaners? Or self-assured activists? Will we dismantle this legacy of yuck?) ANYWAY. I have a funny/mean kid story to lighten the mood because, 2018! 

The other day Mila and I were watching Prisoner of Azkaban (again) and when Scabbers the rat transformed into Peter Pettigrew Mila said, “That guy has really weird teeth,” then, glancing at me, she added, “Actually they look just like yours.”

Now. I have mentioned before that young children both known and unknown to me find great glee in pointing out how big my front teeth are, often repeatedly. I have been compared to a rabbit on more occasions than I care to recall. But seriously, this kid is eight years old. And she knows me. I mean, she lives with me. Has she not yet developed the empathy to understand that a) I FUCKING KNOW MY TEETH ARE TOO BIG, and b) it kind of hurts my feelings when you remind me, even if I am a bonafide grown up (ish)?

(Editor’s note: If she hasn’t, whose fault is that? And did you really just say she “hurt your feelings”? Boo-hoo, bitch.)

So I refrained from bitch-slapping her and instead spat out a sarcastic, “Thanks,” that would have made my mother proud. To which she replied innocently/heartlessly, “What? They do.” 

She’s right. But the really mean part of me deep down inside (okay maybe not that deep) nudged me and pointed out that that poor Mila has yet to realize she inherited my teeth. 

Joke’s on you, ratbag.

They’re cute now, kid... 

Sometimes kids are so deeply insightful it’s easy to believe in reincarnation. Like oh hello little time and space traveler, thank you for sharing this gem of wisdom you clutched in your wee hand as you journeyed through the vortex to remind me of what a miracle it is that we’re here, now, alive with wonder and pulsing with joy. 

Other times they’re unrepentant little assholes.

The other day Billie (who’s struggling with her own existential crisis) said to me out of nowhere, “I don’t want to grow up! I want to little so I can stay with you and daddy forever, for my whole life.” 

I picked her up and hugged her to my chest, savoring the warmth and weight of her little body and the softness of her cheek against my neck and said, “I know baby, sometimes it’s so hard isn’t it?” 

Then she pulled away from me and said, “Yeah, cos you guys are like almost dying already.”

Thanks for the reminder kid. With five months left in my thirties and a deep midlife crisis already grabbing me by the guts, that’s just what I needed to hear.

Remember that brief horrific period epic six year battle we had with rats? I feel like I’ve done my time with these pesky little Norwegians. Imagine my horror last week when we discovered a rat on the loose in my office. 

Wednesday evening when our suite-neighbor opened the door to the warehouse a “mouse” darted past her and ran into our office. By the time I got in it the next day was nowhere to be found. My office mates chose not to mention it to me, presumably out of kindness knowing my history, i.e. rodent PTSD.

So I was totally unprepared when Janelle called in that high-pitched voice that rodents produce in everyone, “Oh I see it! I see the mouse! It’s in my office!”

While Janelle and Rebecca jumped up and scampered into the kitchen where the “mouse” disappeared behind the refrigerator, I kept my distance because a) this was the first I’d heard about it and b) see above - I’ve done my time. DONE. 

I watched from afar as they devised a plan: Open the warehouse door, block the hallway back to our office with a box, and scare it out. 

I eyed the box dubiously. 

“You know that’s not going to work, right?” I said, like a total dick. Like, I know this guy. I know exactly what he’s going to do. I’m inside his tiny head. He’s going to hurdle that box like an Olympian and go exactly where you don’t want him to go. 

“No, I think it’s going to work,” Rebecca replied, totally confident. “We just need to steer him towards the warehouse then we’ll shut the door behind him.” 

“Okay,” I said, retreating quietly into my office. 

A moment’s silence.

The scrape of furniture. 

Total pandemonium.

“Gaaaaah! It’s on the run! It’s headed your way!”

The next second a frantic rat rounds the corner (two corners, actually) at breakneck speed, beelining for my feet. MY FEET. I squeal like a pig and start dancing like James Brown and this motherfucker doesn’t change course. Not even a little bit. I’m 99.9% percent sure it ran directly in between my feet, or where my feet would have been had they not at that moment been air pedaling like the goddam Road Runner. While I levitated the rat ran directly to my corner of the office and hid under my filing cabinet. 

The nerve. 

At this point I retreated (sweaty and shaken) to the hall while Janelle and Rebecca tried again to scare the rat out of hiding, which amounted to it running laps around our office darting from one piece of furniture to the next with each sprint punctuated by more squeals. (Mine included.) At one point Janelle said to me, “Okay we’re gonna scare it out, if it runs at you just jump up and down and make a lot of noise so it will go towards the warehouse.” 

I shook my head and whispered, “I can’t. I just can’t.”

After like 20 minutes we realized this was really the landlord’s problem. During Rebecca’s conversation with him about the “mouse” on the loose I politely pointed out, “That’s not a mouse - that’s a motherfucking rat.” 

With the rat deep under my filing cabinet, I took my computer to the back office where I tried to concentrate on my work and failed miserably. When I say I have rodent PTSD I’m not kidding. I was instantly thrown back to the anxiety-ridden days of checking rooms before I step inside, constantly listening for the telltale scritch-scratching of claws and teeth on wood, and always having a knot in my stomach. If I’d been armed I totally would have shot an innocent bystander.

An hour later Rebecca cried, “Look out! He’s on the run! He’s coming your way!” My head snapped up to see the rat scamper into sight then turn and run underneath another filing cabinet. Directly in front of me. 

What in the actual fuck?

“It’s like you’re some kind of fucked up Pied Piper!” my friend Rebecca (different Rebecca) texted me later. Cool, thanks. Just what I always wanted to be when I grew up, the fucked up Pied Piper. 

At that point I shut my computer and went home. 

“I’m out! I can’t take it. Call me when they’re gone.” 

...As if they will ever be gone.

Billie started kindergarten last week.

Two weeks ago, everyone I know: “BV’s gonna walk in like a boss!”

This week, everyone I know: “Yeah it’s always more challenging with the second child because you expect them to adapt more quickly and also they cling to being the younger one and struggle against the inevitable tides of time and change. It’s only to be expected.”

Cool, thanks for the heads up y’all.

First clue: Total meltdown the night before school started. I mean absolute. Clearly she’s been repressing her feelings for a long time. Can’t imagine where she picked that up.

Day one (Wednesday): Pretty good! She shed a tear when we left and we did notice the class was heavily weighted with boys (”bit of a sausage-fest” as Sash said, only not quite so politely) and also almost every other kid seemed to already know the Spanish alphabet song (ruh-roh) but she seemed to take it in stride. 

Day two (Thursday): Meltdown over uniform. Also something about the cafeteria. Despite my efforts to talk her out of it (i.e. so gross) gave her money for lunch along with clear instructions for making sure she gets the main part of the meal due to prior experience with Mila who in kindergarten often reported leaving the line with only carrot sticks and a bread roll (again, where’s the oversight?). After school Billie reported having pineapple and carrot sticks for lunch. So that worked.

Day three (Friyay): Things looking up! Late start and looming weekend big help.

Weekend: Return to our blissfully learning-free life and forget all about this school nonsense, which must have been a bad dream.

Day four (Monday): Things fall apart. At approximately 6:53am after putting on and violently taking off all four uniform-compliant skirt options Billie stomps down the hall and climbs into a laundry basket, pulls blankets over her head, and proceeds to scream, cry, and rage for a solid 45 minutes. Covers everything from hating uniform to having no friends. Repeatedly. Also reeeeally hates me for making her go. (Obvs.) I try (not necessarily in this order) empathizing, sympathizing, active listening, bribing, threatening, cajoling, man-handling - wash, rinse, and repeat, punctuated with lots of attempted hugs which were thwarted with varying degrees of animosity. Also try really really hard not to lose my temper or start crying. (Never a given.) Finally at approximately 7:38 put Billie’s clothes, shoes, and a bottle of mouthwash into a bag, pick her up and load her into the car in her underwear telling her in the least bitchy voice I can manage, “You can either decide to get dressed or you can go to school in your underwear,” definitely setting her up for some therapy and/or substance abuse later in life. So feeling really good about that.    

She decided to get dressed. 

That evening my friend Elizabeth, who’s the bouncer at our drop-off gate, texted me and said, “How’s Billie doing?”

I told her. She replied, “Yeah, she looked a little shell-shocked this morning!”

Poor kid.

Educational journey off to excellent start. Really winning at this parenting thing. I should have had like five more kids - I’m doing so well with these two.

(Note: Billie apologized when I picked her up that day, so hopefully I didn’t emotionally scar her too badly. Perhaps only few therapy sessions and socially acceptable wine habit?)