Last week, we had the priveledge of having an extended tour of a firestation. A customer of mine heard about my (Son’s) obsession with firemen and firestations, and offered for us to come visit at his. So, we took him up on it, and it was one of the funnest day trips I’ve had with my kids!

Clayton checking out the exercise equipment

"Driving" the fire engine!

Just in case you’re wondering why my kid is wearing pajamas- it was pajama day at school that day, and I was in such a rush and so excited to go to the fire station, that I forgot to bring her a change of clothes. Bad Mommy.

The kids got a ride on the golf cart- I did too! I jumped off just to take the picture!

Avery was running all around, and tripped and fell head-first into a mud puddle. She gets her gracefulness from me...

Me with my little fireman, and one mud-soaked Avery

My favorite Fireman- Fireman Dave

So, I don’t have another visit lined up to a fire station anytime soon, but in case you are thinking of coordinating one, let me know! I’d be more than happy to help chaperone…

Sunless tanner: Oh, my bronze friend- thank you for making my ass look less flabby and for disguising my cellulite. Thank you for faking that I have toned abs and golden gams!

 Victoria’s Secret Very Sexy Push-up Bra: Thank you for helping me to pretend that I have the perfectly perky and forward pointing boobs that I had before I had kids. Thank you for coming with 1/2″ thick pads for me to place my doughy breasts on to make it look like either I’m 23 and a DD, or that I’ve spent $6,000 on a new set.

Kegels: Thank you, Dr. Sara, my OB/Gyn for both pregnancies, for instilling in me the importance of doing kegels. Thank you to myself for doing them, and for allowing me to sneeze and laugh without peeing on myself. Thank you God for designing women’s bodies so that you can do Kegels without anyone knowing- I think it’s always an adventure to see how many I can do, say, in line at the grocery store, or at a stoplight. Someday, I intend to learn how to do them without holding my breath, so that I can be doing them while talking to someone- could be you!

Wine: Thank you for giving me solstice at the end of a crazy day with my kids. Thank you for being so soothing, calming, nurturing. Thank you for having lots of fans, so that I’m always busy at work! Thank you for making me laugh, and for allowing me to think that I really do sound like Robert Plant when I sing Led Zeppelin when I’m drunk at karaoke.

Adhesive Breast Petals: Thank you for allowing me to go braless in revealing dresses that are made for 20-something girls who’s nipples still point forward. Thank you for masking unsightly “headlights”, and letting me go one more year wearing skimpy shit that a woman my age probably shouldn’t be wearing in the first place.

Jeans with lycra: Thank you for being so stretchy, and for allowing me to pretend that I still wear a size 4. Thank you for being made with a button with a metal rivet, so that I can keep pretending I’m a size that I’m actually two sizes larger than, and use a rubberband around the rivet and through the buttonhole to give me an extra inch around the middle. Thank you zipper for putting up with my constant pulling up with a set of pliars.

My Hairstylist: Thank you for letting me fake being blonde for so many years. Thank you for cutting my hair so that it looks thicker than it is, and coloring it so that it looks “natural”.

Candles: Thank you for making my house smell so good, and making it look so festive and elegant. Thank you also for your “airbrushing” properties- everyone looks hotter, younger, thinner in candlelight (and after a couple of glasses of wine)!

Spanx: Thank you for sculpting my thighs and ass and making it look like I just spent two hours at the gym. Thank you for having cut-off legs so that I can wear you under a short dress, and no one knows I’m wearing sausage casing that keeps all my lumps and bumps smooth under a slutty little black dress. I’ll thank you more next year if you come out with a version that allows me to breathe while wearing, or even better, come out with a crotchless version (it’s like a wrestling match with myself trying to get the damn things off and on in a bathroom stall…again thankful to Kegels)!

God: For allowing me to be a mom/woman/warrior who’s boobs may sag a little and butt may jiggle a little, but for giving me a body that can give birth to a human being and still be able to sneeze without peeing down my legs. And thank God for creating other women who come up with brilliant inventions like Spanx, or nipple covers. And mostly, thank God for the gift of laughter and humor!

Have a most fabulous Thanksgiving!

I just cracked up when I read that quote! As a stay-at-home, work-at-home, working Mom, I can absolutely relate to that! Sure, there is a small part of me that is very sad to see my daughter go to school and be influenced by others, and become more independent, but in the words of Mitch Hedberg, “If the (I’m sad my kid’s going to Kindergarten feeling) was represented in a pie chart graph, it would be as small as the slice of pie that shows ‘If I won the lottery, I’d give it all to charity’!” Yes, she’s getting grown up, yes she is not going to have me as the center of her world, but let’s be real here- when she screams at me “I hate you, stupid dork jackass!” from accross the backyard at me when I’m on the phone with my Mom, because I took away the Sharpie that she was using to grafitti the side of our (rented) home- I’m not feeling held real high in my daughter’s rank of things that are important to her!

It is a global obsession, and I have fallen prey to it! Three years ago, I was very content in my little world of a handful of friends and my family, until one night, I went to a bar to hear a local band play, and after, they said “You can hear more of our new music on Myspace!” What the hell is that, I wondered? So I asked my sister, who is eight years younger than I, and way more hip what it was. Like a crack dealer, she snuck me into her room upstairs at my parents house, locked the door behind us and said, “Dude- check this out…” Then she pulled up her Myspace account, and showed me all these pictures of long lost friends, bands and music that she loved, tons of pictures….my first question was, “You can just look someone up by their first and last name?” “Yeah, TRY IT…” she said in a low, convincing voice. My fingers trembled as I entered the first and last name of the first ex-boyfreind to pop into my head. Voila! He appeared- picture and all- pictures of him, his wife, their kids. Holy cow! This is fun! I started typing in the names of all of my ex-boyfriends, and one by one, got the scoop on all of them, what they were up to, whether or not they were married, whether or not their wives were hotter than me- if they upgraded or downgraded ( I know I’m not the only one who does this…don’t judge)! And like that- I was hooked!

Just when I really started getting into Myspace, and had even dared a couple of times to play drunk Myspace (kinda like drunk-dialing, but not as dangerous, ’cause you can’t really talk to anyone), and started friend requesting all these ex-boyfriends…I do not recommend operating a Myspace page while under the influence, by the way. I would run into people at the mall or around town, and feel super cool and uber-trendy when I could tell them “find me on Myspace- we’ll keep in touch!” I would change my song every day or so, I would “pimp” out my page with graphics and codes and glitter, send comments, post pictures- I had become a Myspace whore.

Then one day, I saw a comment from a gal I worked with that said, “Peace out, Myspace- I’m moving on to Facebook!” Facebook- what is that? Some Myspace knock-off, no way! I’m staying true to my roots, I’m sticking with Myspace. Oh, sure, I took a little peek and I was totally bewildered by the “status” the “posts”, the applications and getting “Poked”- yeah, don’t think I want to be “poked” by some creepy dude I blew off in highschool- thanks, but no thanks.

So, as my friends started to drop off Myspace like flies to jump onto the Facebook bandwagon- I was steadfast. I kept answering the “all about me surveys”, posting pictures, changing my music, until one day I realized that the people I really wanted to keep in touch with were all on Facebook now. That I went from trendy Myspace girl to not-cool girl who’s not yet on Facebook. Nobody wants to be the not-cool girl, right? So, I did it- gave into the peer pressure, and opened a Facebook account.

At first, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I posted a bunch of pictures into what I thought was an album, that ended up instead on my “wall”. I would send my friends messages, instead of writing on their wall, and they would bitch at me, “You never wrote me back! So, I figured you didn’t want to go to girl’s night out…” “WHAT? I totally wrote you back! I messaged you!” I would exclaim. “Noooo- you write on the wall- it’s faster” they explained. Oh. Not a cool girl quite yet.

After a couple of weeks, I got the hang of it. I was posting my status daily, finding friends, suggesting friends, even drunk friend requesting ex-boyfriends! After a month, I even closed my Myspace account- “Myspace- that’s for amateurs”, I thought to myself. I’ve had people friend request me that I went to Sunday school with when I was seven, and a girl that hated me in high-school- even slapped me once, were now my “friends”. Some, I had to reach into my deepest depths of memory, past all the haze caused by years of partying in L.A., to try to grasp who this person was, but I would always add them, even if I couldn’t remember how on earth I knew them, ’cause I’m an equal opportunity friend adder.

BUSTED! I’m supposed to be writing a book review, but I’m playing Facebook instead!

I even walked the uncharted territory of adding people I work with, my bosses and co-workers. I struggled with this one. Do I want them to know that my status is “Kristin is recovering from a blaring headache from a bottle of red wine she drank last night.” Or, do I lie on my status, censor myself, ignore my whole First Amendment right to my freedom of speech? I finally figured, “I’m a bartender, I’m not curing cancer- it’s not that big of a deal if my boss knows I tie one on once in a while.”

Then out of no where, WHAM!  “Charlene would like to add you as a friend”. *Gulp* I only know of one Charlene…my Mother. Now, I am close with my Mom, and I love my Mom, but if she’s my Facebook friend, she’s gonna know all kinds of crap that I might otherwise omit from casual conversation. For example, if she asks how my night was out with my girlfriends, I would tell her, “It was fun! We had some drinks, we were safe, took a cab.”  But, if she was my Facebook friend, she will see pictures of my drunk ass dressed all slutty singing “I Touch Myself” at karaoke, or the occasional cigarrette in my hand in pictures snapped before I could quickly hide it behind me… all evidence that would certainly out me from being the sweet little wifey-poo and mommy dearest that I would like for her to believe that I am! Now, I’ll really have to censor myself! But, she’s my Mom- she gave birth to me, I can’t NOT add her- how disrespectful is that? But if I do, then Facebooking is no longer fun, and every time I post a picture or a status, I have to wonder “what would my Mom think about this?” After half a day of agonizing over my decision, I decided to add her. Thankfully, she seldom checks her page, hasn’t even uploaded a picture yet, and definitely doesn’t get on enough to catch all my updates, so, it’s really not a big deal.

Yesterday, I received a message from my cousin, asking if I received a Friend request from my Grammie. Are you kidding me? I type her name in the “Friend Finder” and sure enough, my 78-year-old Southern Baptist, heart of gold, pure as snow, knows the bible from cover-to-cover Grammie is on Facebook. Now that would definitely put a damper on my Facebook party! The woman has never let alcohol touch her lips, or sinned in her life, and I’m gonna let her see status posts about ”Kristin is still voiceless after singing ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’, and twisted an ankle while doing cartwheels on Main Street while she was out with the girls last night”- I THINK NOT! So, for now, I’m in Facebook undercover spy mode- adding a hyphen in between my two last names every couple of days, taking it back out, changing my location once in a while, and so far, sweet Grammie hasn’t found me yet! But, if she does, believe you me- I will be forced to jump ship, and give into the enemy, at which time, you can chose or chose not to “Follow Me”.

We recently went on a camping trip, and prior to leaving, I had to do the traditional Target shopping spree to stock up for the weekend’s adventures. While shopping at Target (or anywhere for that matter) with a three and a five-year-old is much like assigning yourself as a glutton for punishment, it had to be done. One trick I have up my sleeve that I use while shopping with my kids, is right when we walk in, I let them each pick a cheap toy or treat to carry around with them, then if they act up, I take it away! Works like a charm.

On this particular day, my son chose this 3-foot long wand full of bubbles as his “prize” for good behavior. Against my better judgement, I let him carry it with him through Target. Within minutes, he hit his sister with it, so I took it away. Allow me to ellaborate: I grabbed the bubble wand, my son fell to the floor in hysterics, screaming through the entire tampon/pantyliner/KY jelly/feminine product aisle of Target, “I WANT MY BIG STICK BACK MOM!” Now allow me to translate what every mom/child/hot single dad/red-hued shirt wearing Target worker/cute guy stocking Pepsi products/anyone within a 10-aisle radius heard: “I WANT MY BIG ‘DICK’ BACK MOM!” In as calm and refrained manner as I could muster, I said to my son, “Stop it! You can have your S-S-STICK back when you can behave.” Good Mommy. My son wails down every remaining aisle in Target, “I won’t hit sister with my ‘dick’ anymore! I want my big ‘dick’ back, MOOOOOO—MMMMYYY!”

I try to power through- just grab what I need, and of course about $50 worth of shit that I don’t, because that’s what everybody does when they go to Target or Wal Mart, or any variety of the two, while my son is blaring out of the cart over and over about his “big dick” and how he wants it back, and won’t hit anyone with it, et cetera. Finally, we get to the checkout, and I tell him that if he promises to be good, he can have his bubble stick back after his nap…amazingly he is satisfied with this, and we go home, he takes a nap and gets his “dick” back.

The next day, we leave to go camping with my family, and my in-laws for our anniversary weekend. I know you’re thinking wedding anniversary + parents + in-laws = romantic Tahoe getaway? I think not….but that’s another Oprah for another time. So, we’re all sitting around the campfire, and all of the kids (my two, plus my sister-in-laws two) are running around trying to gather wood for my dad-in-law “for the fire”, which is really a ploy to keep them away from the fire while therre is a can of firestarter and a blowtorch being used to light said fire. My son tromps up, dragging this huge tree-limb and yells to my mom, “Grandma! Look at my BIG ‘DICK’!” He yells- my head goes directly to my hand, and I shake my head in disbelief. Then he walks up to everyone in the campfire circle (not all family, some are friends of family that I barely know), “I found a big ‘dick’!” as he trodges through the camp dragging this huge 4-foot tree branch behind him. To increase my embarassment, because of his love for Gravedigger and everything monster trucks, he says “big dick” with this loud, growling monster truck voice that makes him sound even more pornographic. The soft-spoken sweet British lady that camps with us now and again looks at me, and says, “Dear, are you aware that your son is walking around the camp refering to his plonker?” in her beautiful English lilt. I sigh, and explain to her that he can’t pronounce his S’s and that he’s talking about his big stick that he found for the fire, which sends her giggling away.

By this time, my mom has had a couple of Long Island Iced Teas, and thinks it’s roaringly funny to have my son walk up to people and tell them what he has found.”Go up to Papa, show him your stick!” She prods….sure enough he walks up to his Grandfather and declares,”I got a BIG ‘dick’ Papa!” As he holds up the end of the tree branch, my dad laughs and says, “That’s ’cause you take after your Papa!” Now, my face is in both hands- I am truly mortified. I should be laughing…and I am now while recalling the “Big Stick” incident, but at the time, all I could do was let me son walk all over Tahoe Valley Campground, and declare to anyone who would listen that he had and/or found (not sure which is worse) a big ‘dick’, while I sat in silence, pretending not to know who’s kid he was, while I sat by the campfire and had a glass (or three) of wine.