Giving Thanks But Not for Road Trips

You know what I'm not thankful for today? The invent of the automobile. Without motorized vehicles people wouldn't be expected to drive hundreds upon hundreds of miles just to eat a big-ass bird stuffed with bread crumbs and wind up with a case of raging heartburn.

We left Tuesday night to avoid the traffic. My husband insists the trip home is four hours but it always takes five. "It's four with no traffic," he tells me. Last time I checked he didn't command the type of power to clear highways, thus the trip is five hours. And if it ALWAYS takes us five, it's a five-hour trip, no? Case closed.

So we took off in conjunction with the girls' bedtime under the delusion that they would go to sleep in the car soon after we left. "Go night night in car" they kept repeating after me. See? They were on board with the plan. They didn't whine the whole first five minutes of the trip. We hadn't even left the Chicago city limits when I considered jumping out of the moving car. Oh, I've done it three times before, although it's been a while: 1) On my 21st birthday; 2) On the way to a Dave Matthews concert when it suddenly occurred to me I hate Dave Matthews and 3) Around 2002 when a guy said the wrong thing at the wrong time in a cab.

But now I have children and lunging desperately out of moving vehicles seems irresponsible. Plus I'm older so it might hurt more. Or possibly break a hip.

Around Gary, Indiana, the girls started fighting about a singing puppy they've literally had since birth. "It's MY puppy!" "No, it's MY puppy!" This went on for an excruciatingly long time with the pitch getting louder and more annoying by the minute. Did I mention this toy wasn't even in the car with us and I was sitting in the backseat between them?

So I threaten them: "Mommy is going to sit in the front seat if you don't stop yelling!" I yelled. "Mommy go front seat! Mommy go front seat!" Apparently I overestimate the pleasure of my own company. I have to then awkwardly wedge my fat ass up to the front seat and I finally get settled with my seat belt on when they start crying for me to come back.

That's when I decided to treat them like I would an annoying sorority sister on a Walkout Roadtrip Weekend: Pretend they didn't exist. No matter how many times they addressed me, I looked straight ahead or out the window. Incidentally, you can learn a lot looking out the window on a road trip. Like there is a town called Climax. And another called Paw Paw.

At one point -- it is pouring rain causing poor visibility mind you -- my husband gets out his iPhone and pulls into the right lane and seems to be going extraordinarily slow. I decide to say nothing. But then 2 seconds later I can't help myself. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING???" He was trying to pull up a weather map. I guess to confirm we were in the middle of torrential rains where people should be watching the road and not looking at iPhones. I usually try not to be a back seat driver as my history of accidents and citations seem to indicate I'm not the best judge. But this rule, as most others, doesn't apply to the treatment of my husband. The iPhone was put away.

Alas, the girls finally fell asleep and I learned the "Bore and Ignore Technique" works just as well in 2009 on whiny toddlers as it did in the late 80s on chatty college co-eds. My husband got us here safe and sound. The girls are having fun. And I've eaten my own weight in homemade cookies. Which just means I'll have to stay in the same seat the entire ride home. Happy Thanksgiving...

Two Degrees of Separation

I don't mean to brag, but my husband hung out this weekend with the nephew of one of the most famous musicians on Earth. He had a guys weekend, so to speak, to attend a football game at his alma mater. (Snore.) So one of my husband's friends brought a guy he works with, the relative of seriously one of the most famous people on Earth. See if you can guess who.

He sells out concerts around the world to screaming fans. It's almost impossible to get tickets to any of his shows. He's Australian (no not Keith Urban but dear God if it was I would have driven to their location with girls in tow and hugged this guy in hopes that some of Keith's DNA rubbed off on me.) He's a really good dancer... Anyone? Okay, it's one of these guys:

So now I'm wondering if it would be too forward to ask the nephew to get us a private show with his uncle and his band as one of my kids' Christmas presents. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just a few songs. And, since the girls really don't like people, if they would mind dressing up as our current favorite characters. Like one could be Dora, another Boots, a Barney and finally one as Thomas the Train. I don't think the costumes would impact their routine too much. And, really, my husband rode in a car with this guy for five hours there and back and hung out for an entire weekend. It's the least the guy could do, right?

So this FameCrawler thing. I've been asked how you can search by author over there so you can find my posts. If you go to "tags" at the bottom of posts and in one of mine click on "LuLu and Moxleys Mom," all of my posts should come up. But, hey, if you're like me, you're a lazy SOB so here are links to a few you might enjoy. Or not.

Like this one where I piss someone off for making fun of Seal's name.

Or this one where I suggest Kathy Hilton should have given her children up to be raised by someone else.

Or here where I accuse Posh Spice of being a big fat liar (or little emaciated liar as the case may be.)

More Babbles and Crappy Dora Toys

DO NOT BUY YOUR TODDLER THIS TOY!

Peeps, do you have any idea how much harder blogging is when you have to worry about trivial matters like getting the facts right and giving proper photo credits and other nonsense like that? Sheesh!

So below are some LIFE-CHANGING (and legally accurate and properly credited) posts over at FameCrawler that you really should click on and then leave a comment. Insult me in writing if need be. No matter. Just click. (Am I beginning to sound like the guy on the corner asking for a dollar so he can buy a cup of coffee when he is wearing more expensive sneakers than I am?)

• Jenna Jameson and Jenna Jameson. I'm fascinated with porn stars.
• Kendra Wilkison. And stupid people.
• Courteney Cox. And people who are particular about how their ham sandwiches are prepared.
• Keith Urban. And men who carry purses.
• Suri Cruise. And toddlers who wear high heels.
• Sharon Stone. And mothers who like to Botox their kid's feet.

Anyhoo, enough of that, on to my questionable parenting. I make a lot of bad decisions, but none as asinine as deciding to take my girls to Target the evening of their birthday and allow them to "pick out" a new ride-on toy. We have the Disney Princess version and they fight over it about 12 hours per day every day. The faster twin (the one in the toddler gang), just races off on it whenever her sister gets within a two-foot radius taunting "Mine! Mine! Mine!" She also refuses to get off of it to eat her meals and even jettisons over in front of the tv, honking the Disney-esque horn, demanding her milk be served while she's still perched atop. They've had this for a year but the interest has been renewed now that they've learned to drive it themselves after I began refusing to push them around the house three hours every day while Ariel chirped about the undersea adventures we were all going on.

Back to my point... I could no longer take the constant bickering and the crying and the "This is mine!" anymore so I put on their coats, announced we were going to Target and that it would be a birthday "adventure" given they've never been discount shopping before. It would be fun! (It wasn't.) So off we went. After Target's web site assured me (well, sort of indicated) that the Disney Ariel thing was in stock. (It wasn't).

But that damn Dora model was there, right within reach with its ferris wheel spinning and Dora singing in some other language and Swiper popping up and down and the girls were smitten. The pushy twin hopped right on board and starting screaming for me to take the box off so she could presumably go scooting down the escalator before the other girl had a chance to even honk the horn and see Boots do a cartwheel or similar.

So I come home with that piece of junk PLUS two cars for $10 each that make a deafening siren noise. The whole way home I kept thinking the fuzz was pulling me over for driving erratically. And I was. Because I had two monsters in the back blaring sirens and yelling about whose toy the damn Dora jalopy is.

Alas, my problem is not solved. The bully dominant twin now has managed to commandeer BOTH ride on toys. Lessons learned:

• Ride-on toys suck.
• Dora sucks.
• Target sucks.
• I suck.

PS -- But YOU don't suck! Thanks to those of you who left comments on the FameCrawler stuff! Made me feel at home if home means I have to keep up on why Shiloh is always dressed as a boy.

Babbling

Like I give a rat's ass what LuLu and Moxley's Mom thinks of me...

People, you know how sometimes I preface something by reminding you how I never ask you for anything but then I ask you for something? Now is one of those times. For reasons still unclear to me, Babble.com has invited me to write for its FameCrawler blog where I will cover high-brow topics such as baby bumps, ridiculously named celebrity offspring and what that pint-sized brat fashionista Suri Cruise is wearing each day to preschool.

Here's where you come in. I get extra dough for "bonus traffic" so if you read my crap brilliance I get more money. More money means I'm happier. And, ironically, the happier I am the meaner I am, thus the more entertaining I am. In other words, how mean and entertaining I am is DIRECTLY IN YOUR HANDS.

I'm posting over there as Lulu and Moxley's Mom. See how easy I am making this for you??? And would it kill you to post comments below my entries? No, it wouldn't. Visit FameCrawler here. I just published my first post. And perhaps my last as I suspect I may get fired sooner rather than later.

PS -- Babble.com is a highly respected (and might I add award-winning) media outlet. Therefore, my snark over might be a little less mean-spirited. They have advertisers and such, unlike my personal blog where I can insult big-wigs like Opes and offer Daniel Craig payment for sexual favors and it won't affect my revenue stream. Because I don't have one.

TWO!

My babies turn two today. Their new, fairly obtrusive slide better keep them busy all winter long while we're stuck inside or I'm sending hate mail to ToysRUs and all the reviewers who said "It's hours of fun!" I hope they literally meant hours. How many toys come with the promise of "Keeps them busy all day!" and they take one look at the thing and just want to climb around in the box it came in?

Also, I have a tip for you: Want the most visually appalling not to mention most poorly made sleepwear on the planet? Look no further than the Dora winter footie, available at crappy discount stores everywhere:

It had a hole in it within 20 minutes of being worn. "Fix it!" one twin wailed. Right. Or burn it.

Well, maybe you've noticed I'm not overly mushy. So I'll spare you my sentiments regarding how I can't believe my girls are two and how I haven't teared up that way since Kate goes through all the trouble to return to the island to see Sawyer and he's shacking up with Juliet. (Oh, right, I also cried during Marley and Me -- I'm trying to forget about that...) That two years ago I was lying in the hospital looking at their scrawny little legs in complete and utter fear and that they used to look like this, swimming in their newborn outfits:

And so happy that despite their tininess I was allowed to take them home with me. Now, two years later, they are chubby little people-hating tyrants. Just like their mother. Happy birthday, girlies!

Haircuts and Hoodlums

Is this twin beginning to look slightly like Edward Scissorhands?

Or maybe Michael Jackson circa 1999?

And then I suspect the other twin has joined a dangerous toddler gang terrorizing the parks and playgroups around Chicago.

No wonder The Gap rejected us -- we need a makeover! And maybe one of those de-programmers who specialize in breaking at-risk youth's ties to fellow gang members.

Yup, that's all I've got today, people. Weak, I know.

CMAs: The Good, the Overly Tan and the Cat Lady

Did you know I love country music? Well, I do. I have family who finds this strange given we're originally from New York. It's not like I say "y'all" or anything. But I would if George Strait asked me to... A few observations about last night's Country Music Awards:

• Speaking of George Strait, the man is 58 years old and hot. If I had a geriatric top five, he would certainly be #1. As a matter of fact, I might slip him into my regular top five right behind Daniel Craig (who would have to get a sex change operation for me to drop him from #1). It's a long story but I once received a phone call from George's tour bus driver who claimed to be good at "rounding up the ladies." I'm not kidding and it's too convoluted to explain right now.
• Speaking of convoluted, what rehab center was Kris Kristofferson granted leave from to attend the CMAs? Did he seem like he was on something or was it just me? It was like he was starring in "A Star is Heavily Medicated."
• I usually hate Dave Matthews. So much so that I jumped off a moving bus that was headed to his concert. But last night as he sang with Kenny Chesney I almost didn't want to kill him.
• Nicole Kidman was seated in the front row with Keith Urban. Is Nicole Kidman dead and Keith Urban had her body taxidermied so he always had a date to award shows? She looks crazy. I don't know what she's having done or why, but maybe Tom Cruise saw that a plastic immovable face was in his future and that explains the abrupt divorce.
• At first glance, one might think Darius Rucker was the blackest person at the CMAs. He was -- until Winona Judd hit the stage. HOLY CRAP! Did she pass out on margaritas on some beach in Mexico and wake up right before the awards burnt to a crisp? And Naomi wasn't looking so hot herself but at least she still looked the same race.
• Speaking of perhaps not realizing one was supposed to appear at an event that evening, LeAnn Rimes looked like someone punched her in the face. Her stylist calls it "smoky eyes." I call it "got the crap beat out of you." And that's not entirely out of the realm of possibility given she really pissed off her married lover's wife.
• Speaking of eyes, does Taylor Swift look like a cat? Might she actually be a cat? I had to leave the room during her opening performance. It was that bad and I couldn't be party to it as a witness. Entertainer of the year? Silly. Female vocalist of the year? Ridiculous. Nothing can top Carrie Underwood's performance of "I Told You So." Regardless, I fear in 40 years Taylor is going to look like this, and that's without any plastic surgery.
• Listen, I like Darius Rucker as much as the next guy. But an award as a "new" artist? He's not new! He's Hootie! He's been around for years! He's not really even that country. The least he could have done was wear a cowboy hat to blend a little.
• Could they have shown that Father of the Bride chick any more sitting in the front row? Yes, I know she's married to Brad Paisley and he was hosting the show. But come on. I was waiting for Martin Short to come out and start wedding planning.
• Did you catch the Burger King commercial starring the Rascal Flatts? Umm. I hate to state the obvious, but might it be better if the lead singer stay away from the Whoppers for a while?
• Kid Rock is strangely sexy. Diseased, probably, but strangely sexy.
• Overall, these awards were way better than the Grammys or Emmys or Oscars. It was actually kind of funny and the award recipients didn't blather on or try to make political statements or wait to get chased off stage by music signaling them to shut the hell up.