My January Horoscope: “Plan to be home at month's end, however, for as said, the full moon January 30 will bring closure to a very important home-related topic.”

Jan 22: Our offer was accepted.

When I left Venice guy [To refresh your memory, read Beach Blanket Bingo] the very day I needed the apartment, I found it. It was a small complex of only eight apartments on La Mirada. The area had a dash of the Latino ghetto mixed with several cups of dirty Hollywood. Some days I would see white knee sock wearing gang members unloading a car in front of my house. Other days I would see a 50 year old hooker hobbling on crutches from her night job on Hollywood Blvd. There was a methadone clinic on one corner; on the other a small building that housed a Payless Shoe Store, a dry cleaner and a beauty supply shop. I lived in a melting pot on boil which conversely, made me feel invincible.

One morning a group of gang kids were blasting the base waiting for another member. I disheveled my hair, walked out in my robe and slippers, and headed straight for the car. Strangely, they all sat upright as I approached. “Guys, I’ve been up all night with my baby. Can you please turn that down?” They immediately complied and were very apologetic for waking my fake baby. Another morning at 5am one of the meth clinic security guards (I am sure that is a terrible job for a woman who had better dreams for herself in high school), left her car door open and set her stereo on full blast so she could hear the last half of a song while zipping up her official security guard slicker and finishing her menthol cigarette. It was beyond asshole. This time I didn’t pull the baby card, I pulled the gang card. I stuck a paper on her wiper that said if she can’t respect our neighborhood, we can’t respect her car. The fun was watching her paranoia as she slowly opened her door.

There was some predictability on the street. On Wednesdays the local crazy woman would unload 25 cans of wet cat food on the drive way of an abandoned home next door and all the feral cats in Hollywood came running. One particular cat, Whitey, lived around our complex. He was absolutely gorgeous, diminutive and full of chutzpa. No matter what trouble he got himself into, he greeted me every morning when I left and every night when I returned. But one night my furry chaperone didn’t show up to escort me from my car. My downstairs neighbors were a small Mexican family and the lothario dad was the apartment manager who never did a damn thing except for that day; he chopped down the tiny tree Whitey used to climb to the roof, leaving him for dead in the LA sun. As I reached my door, I heard Whitey’s scratchy mewing. I looked down the galley way and I saw him peering over the roof to get my attention. I hung myself over the edge of the railing and made a gangplank with my arms. The little shit actually tested the strength of the plank with one paw before leaping and turning his body like a question mark to get it under the roof’s overhang. As soon as he made contact with the last leg, I pulled my arms to the galley way for a landing. We both collapsed and froze for a minute. “Need a drink?” I said, wishing they made cat beer.

My other neighbor was a woman who looked like that curly blonde haired comedian from In Living Color. I mistook the resemblance for sanity and greeted her the first day she moved in saying, “well, if you ever need anything” to which she replied, “Really!?! Anything?” with an overly eager smile, wide eyes and raised eyebrows which could only mean one thing: fucking mental. She confirmed it one evening when I caught her standing in the space between my two windows, swaying from side to side in order to see into my apartment through the gaps in the blinds. I bought thick ass drapes from IKEA the next day but whenever I was home I could hear her fiddle with her keys for almost five minutes lingering outside my door in hopes that I would open it, greet her, and invite her in for a glass of wine. Then she could use my only kitchen knife to stab me forty times, put on my clothing and call my boyfriend.

My favorite character, which says a lot given his competition, was my landlord. His name was Jose Ortiz, a Spaniard who was married to a German woman named Uta. Even though he had to be over 60, he was adorably sexy. He always wore a white button down shirt, European shoes and frayed jeans, but mistakenly frayed through work which made them look like designer jeans purposely frayed by posers. Each time he stopped by, mainly to keep an eye on the land manager, he lectured me on “The American dream, Jeris….You must own a house, get married, have baby.” My fake one didn’t count apparently. “You can’t stay here with me long. You must move on.” I listened out of politeness, and out of obsession with his accent, but it never really hit home.

But, here I am now, ten years later, right where Jose wanted me to be, except for the house, almost. It seemed the more we looked at houses the more I didn’t know what I wanted. I think it is because over the past twenty years I have had many dreams that took me many places and after those dreams became reality, I dreamt again. But, never have I said, “I want a dream home” which is why I readily sacrificed that concept and lived in temporary crash pads, in shitty make shift apartments, on couches, and haven’t owned my own couch since 1993. The only reason I am tired of temporary living now is because I’d like more for my kids. Isn’t that what every parent wants? Not much, just not an air mattress on the floor, not “in storage” as the answer to the location of everything they care about, and not nights spent listening to the guy downstairs playing the same notes over and over ‘till 5:00am.

This home isn’t my dream home but our home; the place I will help build my children’s memories and the foundation from which they will pursue their dreams. Unlike my mother, I don’t really give a rat’s ass about the color of the carpet or how my living room is received by visitors. I am more concerned that I create a home base where my kids feel loved and encouraged. That way, when they take a risk to pursue the impossible, they can feel assured that the tether will pull them back to safety where they can regroup and head back out again. That is my American dream.

I have determined exactly what would make my 2010 much smoother than 2009 and I can’t rest until I find it. I hope someone can help me; someone with expert internet searching skills, or maybe a cloning scientist with a shrinking ray? Okay, backing up…I discovered what was missing in my life during the movie Up in the Air. It was the first time hubby and I had gone to the movies since …hmmm, wow, actually, it was the first time we had been alone together since September. I don’t know if it was that or the strangeness of finally being away from the kids that created such an unsettling feeling in my body that haunted me throughout the film. George’s character wasn’t helping with his nomadic lifestyle and isolation issues; however, the minute Sam Elliot hit the screen, all my anxiety melted away. Gone.  No butterflies.  No bouncing knee.  Just a slow deep breath that felt like a good scotch was working its way through my blood. I realized then what would make my life easier: keeping Sam Elliot in my purse.

Think about it. When Sam Elliot walks across the screen, even in a terrible movie, there is a feeling that “The Man” has arrived.  Any shit that just hit the fan is going to magically be swept away and the plan for any Fubar situation is going to immediately present itself.  And that is why they cast him. Seeing him smirk behind the wheel of a truck even for a split second in the commercial for the seemingly vapid Hugh Grant/SJP movie makes me feel it won’t suck that badly. I imagine that even my worst day would measurably improve if Sam would just walk through my living room or take a sip of coffee in my kitchen.

Also, I have yet to meet a woman who wouldn’t do him (and those that don’t readily admit it are secretly considering it) or a man (especially one who has seen Roadhouse) who wouldn’t be the bitch in a bromance with him.  Imagine how invaluable that presence would be in life. One day a cranky woman is behind me in the checkout line and she is becoming impatient while I struggle to keep the kids in the cart and my coupons in order. I pull Sam out of my purse, he gives cranky pants his hidden smile, and she melts and ignores me entirely. The bag boy takes extra care with my purchase knowing the man of all men is holding him accountable and the check out woman doesn’t dare ask for my member card; she assumes I am covered. If something ever happened to my car, God forbid, and hubby was unreachable, I could pull Sam out of my purse and feel confident that I won’t be screwed.

As for hubby, say he interrupted me during a story, Sam would just look at him sideways: “Let the little lady speak.” Awesome. If I truly believed my route was the road best taken, I’d pull Sam out. Hubby would have to take my route because Sam is a fucking cowboy!  “Take a left, damn it!” With my children, I would only take him out during those precarious moments in public, like when they are tempted to run between clothing racks. The girls, mesmerized by his baritone voice and twinkle in the eye, would be rendered motionless, void of any mischievous idea. Double awesome.

Okay, I need him. Seriously, does anyone know a guy with the ability to pull this off for me? A man besides Sam Elliot.

I am not someone who insists on things which is why my husband should thank his lucky stars every day that I am not a tyrannical fussy-pants (in my house, to avoid cussing around our children we add the word ‘pants’ after words that express someone’s negative mood…snitty-pants, gripey-pants…all interchangeable for “bitch”). But there is one thing I insist on like Ms. Mariah and her humidifiers and that is my kids take a picture with Santa every year. In my head, one day I will have a mantel to display the progression of pictures and each Christmas visitors will laud me for my creative foresight. My kids of course will regard it as a pain in the ass until they are thirty.

The first year, Rafael’s first conscious Santa pic, was truly a miracle. I was barely a month pregnant with China Doll and was beginning Nausea Fest ‘07. We were visiting my sister in law in Chicago and she happened to live a block from where the State Street Thanksgiving Parade lined up. The cold air was a great counter attack to my constant morning sickness so hubby and I bundled Rafael up and went outside among the hula dancers, the young tap dancers, and the miserable high school marching band members.  At 15 months, Rafael was more interested in the holding area than the actual parade so we just followed her around. Soon she became transfixed by a guy in a Rudolph suit flanked by three self-conscious young elvettes.

When it comes to character interaction it is hard to walk that line between having a really touching moment with your child and overstaying your welcome. Characters have to put up with so much. I remembered back to the time Andy Jun and I were Smokey the Bear and Woodsy the Owl for a town festival. Because I was taller than Andy I had to be Smokey and a little boy, not knowing a girl was in the costume, walked up and punched me in the stomach. Rudolph was getting off easy. We walked away four times and each time had to chase after her as she ran back to Rudolph only to stare at him and smile. The fifth time, since I found no way to slip a twenty into his suit without groping him, I leaned into to Rudolph, “Thanks for being cool about this.” And he was, each time bending down to see her, letting her touch his nose. The girl elves were snotty-pants about it, not quite into character.

Ever the worrier, I decided Rafael had been overexposed to the cold and we started back to the house. As we turned the corner, there… in a classic white carriage… was Santa. He wasn’t just a Santa, he was the Santa, the Santa that was to close the parade, the one with the real beard, the one you swore was actually Santa. It may have been hormones, but I was star struck. There was no one around except for his footman -not a soul on the street- it was perfect and I felt ballsy. I asked him if he would pose with Rafael for a picture. He said yes and before she could register anything she was up on his lap and back down within three clicks of my digital. And so the tradition began.

The next year I had a six month old and a two year old and that damn Thanksgiving parade Santa was nowhere to be found. That meant I had to find a mall Santa. And since I was off for Christmas break and hubby was working that meant doing it alone. But if I can move to LA by myself, I can pull off Operation Santa. The mission had to be airtight. I conducted surveillance, I calculated nap times in relation to off peak hours, I chronicled the moon phases, and I began hard selling after every Christmas commercial. “Do you know who that is?? That’s Santa!! Maybe you will get to meet him!”  It was a Tuesday at 11:00am; off peak day, off peak hour and to assure victory, I dressed them casually in jeans and Santa complimentary colored sweaters. Making a big fuss with formal Christmas dresses would mean 1. I would have to break down and buy formal Christmas dresses and 2. it would amp up the pressure. Kids smell pressure like dogs smell fear.  I approached the gold ropes with a “Well, fancy meeting you here,” attitude as we walked right to the front. “So, are we taking a picture today?” the elf said warily, staring at China Doll. “Well, we are going to try,” I whispered. This time, Rafael was star struck. She walked with lead feet toward Santa as if every bad thing she had ever done was flashing in front of her eyes. I took that as submission and plopped her up on one knee and the oblivious China Doll on the other and, with a few squeaks from a stuffed rabbit, it was a wrap. Fully expecting a double knee meltdown, the elf was dumbfounded. Even Santa was impressed. I felt like a rock star. The tradition was safe.

Last year however, it was in jeopardy. We were in the process of moving and my husband and I were too crazy-pants prepping our house for sale and moving states away right before Christmas to worry about a Santa pic. As a result, the Santa pic was an afterthought during an unplanned trip to the mall with kids. There was no one in line and I gave hubby my best hurt puppy face.  “Alright, let’s just do it.” It wasn’t until after the pic came off the printer that I realized we looked like a family who lived out of their car. That feeling was confirmed later when I showed the pic to MIL and she only said, “Ohhh!” as politely as one could without lying. You see, just as her ass hit Santa’s leg, China Doll freaked out so we decided all of us would sit with the big guy. Hubby and I looked like two people who just loaded a truck in a tornado, Rafael looked like an extra from Oliver!  and China Doll looked like she expected the camera to shoot bullets. But damn it, the tradition was still alive.

This year we recovered nicely. Mainly because they are at the age where they will do anything for a sucker and not pissing off Santa has become a viable threat. It’s how I convinced Rafael to let me wash and blow dry her hair: “Santa doesn’t like rats.” It’s how I kept them from killing each other in line: “You do realize you are pinching your sister right in front of Santa?” But this mall Santa did his part as well. He had paper reindeer hats emblazoned with the mall logo as souvenirs: “But only if visit me next year.” The tradition is safe.

For the ten months we lived in Florida, we used a router box for our TV entertainment which meant getting only Fox, CW, a local channel that only played news or infomercials, and four channels of Christian programming. Depending on how I turned the rabbit ears and the wind velocity, I could occasionally get ABC and two NBC channels (including that one plays the Olympics). Now that I am in NC, and in an apartment with free cable, or as my daughter refers to it “hotel TV”, I can pick up my obsession with my favorite soap opera: The Weather Channel.

I am obsessed with the Weather Channel family. I love to see how they torture Mike Seidel, the doughy baby brother. Doesn’t he get the worst assignments? It is like God himself likes screwing with him. And I love watching big brother Jim “Weather Makes Me Hard” Cantore foam at the mouth when he watches Mike get pounded by winds. “Well, Mike, I wish I was where you are, brother,” he says, hiding his contempt for WC producers. Ubermale Jim with his bald head and fake bake looks like a hot dog on steroids. I believe he is behind all the pregnancies on that show: Bette Davis, Kelly Cass, Vivian Brown, especially Alexandra Steele’s. Considering her presumed anorexia, only the Ubermale could accomplish that task. His sperm has survived a Cat 5. My presumption is confirmed every time they share the desk. She can’t even look at him. It’s sooo good. Perhaps it was just hormones, but one broadcast they looked more like the Freezmiser and Heatmiser throwing lightening bolts at each other. Poor Mike Bettes, Mr. Transition, had to practically soft shoe to compensate.

But the real All About Eve story is Mike Bettes twin sister, Stephanie Abrams. Stephanie comes across as the female Jim Cantore with her cheerleader “Isn’t this exciting!” approach to weather. I enjoyed watching producers make her over from geeky big toothed little sister to hair straightened Harlow in “wow, when did she get those?” outfits. Much to Alexandra’s chagrin, in a very short time she has gone from being slapped by horizontal rain to being slapped by Al Roker, putting Marshal Cease, the Patriarch, to pasture. Don’t let her perky disposition fool you; she’s the new Paula Zahn.  But she is irresistible, isn’t she? She’s the little sister we can’t help but love and the other anchorettes can’t help but hate. It is great TV. Mike Bettes is so lucky he came out of the WC womb when she did. Forget Days of Our Lives, this is drama.

I really don’t care enough about golf or Tiger or Nike for that matter to weigh in on all this stuff but it has become so ridiculous that I can’t avoid it.  

I think what makes me so confused is that I can’t even wrap my head around the idea of cheating on my spouse. I’m not talking about the obvious morality issue, what I mean to say is that every minute of a given day I am tired because every minute of a given day I am with my children. For the past month, because hubby relocated early and we were in the process of moving, I was a 24/7 single mom which included sleeping with my children on mattresses, so…no room for that nightclub bouncer or Perkins busboy. Actually because our budget has been so tight with the move, no room for even getting a sitter to go to a nightclub to meet the bouncer, and because eating out with children can be like putting socks on a monkey, I couldn’t tell you if Cracker Barrel even has busboys because that would require peripheral vision.  

Perhaps that is why my ex-hometown reluctant celebrity Quinn Grey (read here) had to be “kidnapped” to have an affair. How else can a stay at home mom pull that off between the errands, the cooking, the play dates, the ballet lessons, and the potty training (I swear hours of my day are spent just wiping butts)? No wonder she got caught and it folded like a house of cards. It is impossible to plan a fake kidnapping heist when you are trying to hold a family together. I can’t even get out of the house without forgetting an extra pair of underwear or my own cell phone let alone remember to check whether or not my fake kidnapper/lover is audio taping our sex for self-preservation. It is so hard to trust people you cheat with these days. But you know all about that, don’t you, Tiger.

I may know nothing about picking mistresses but I know enough to avoid women who have websites. Tiger, if you just watched free internet porn instead of paying for high priced “hostesses” no one would be the wiser and it’s free. But then, I am famous for my frugality, not my drive. Elyn, instead of smashing car windows, ask mistress number one over and have her handle the full Tiger package: babysitting (let them clean baby Tiger’s shit), laundry (let them clean Tiger’s shit), and ask them to do it for free. And while they are there, go get a massage, a new wardrobe, hell go to Vegas. I’m sure Rachel is as good at taking care of toddlers as she is taking care of celebrities. Really, aren’t they the same?  

Assuming you are now entering a forced personal rehab, Tiger, my challenge for you is try to work towards becoming a dad, not just a father. A “dad” wouldn’t cheat on his wife. A “dad” would be too busy being paranoid about whether or not the baby is going to live through the night than whether or not he could make it with a stranger in his SUV without being caught. A “dad” would worry about the legacy he is leaving his children than the tip he is leaving to hush a hooker. Spend less time tucking in Vegas “hostesses” and try tucking your own kids in at night, every night after you feed them, bath them, read to them, clean their room, fold their laundry. Trust me, after doing that for a week, you will be too tired to cheat.  

So the day was to begin with a late trip to the gym, the last trip to the gym, for a kick ass workout sure to exhaust me beyond concern. The movers were coming at 12ish to load the POD and take my couch to a women’s shelter; the carpet guy was coming a day early; and we were going to relax before leaving early this morning.

Okay, actually the day began with me taking all the crap my kids insist on moving (an empty paper towel roll, a broken Halloween cupcake decoration, a calculator), or everything that could fit into the Mickey Mouse and pink suit cases that I got at Goodwill for 4 bucks total, and moving them into the bedroom upstairs. The bedroom was to become distraction central (DC) while I cleaned, men moved our shit into a POD, and another man cleaned our carpets. To prepare DC, I had to wrestle our memory foam mattress, wrapped in a plastic protective cover, down the stairs. It was like trying to move a slippery whale in an ill-fitting condom…make that a drunk, slippery whale in an ill-fitting condom. Midway, I hear, “Mom! I pooped ‘n the pahE cha!” from China Doll who I knew was hovering over the Bjorn potty chair, trying to keep her oversized, pink satin nightgown from being dipped in shit. Greenpeace be damned, I shoved and kicked drunk whale as hard as I could, then did my best Lucille Ball trip and slide over it (“Mom, are you okay?” from Rafael) to get to China Doll. All to avoid saying, “And over here we have this little poop stain” to the carpet cleaning guy. It was going to be that kind of day.

Door knock at 12:15pm. Opened door to sweaty, pissed off mover. There is nothing more frightening than a pissed off mover; it means they will take it out on your stuff. “Your number is disconnected!” he said. I gave him my number which was about 7 digits different than the one his boss gave him. Anger shifted from me to his boss. “Typical.” I handed him the gate buzzer and a feeling of doom floated through my veins. When they returned, I went over what went, etc. and said, “And this is the couch and TV stand we want to donate to the shelter.” “Ahh, we don’t know anything about that,” he replied, “he just said something about ‘do we know anyone who might want a couch,’ but I can’t take anything in my van.” Now I hated his boss. Because hubby said, “cancel the Goodwill pick up, this is much better”, I canceled the Goodwill pick up. An angry call to the boss ended in him blaming hubby for not "calling back to confirm". An angry call to hubby confirmed that he did confirm. How could I complete this amazing, philanthropic gesture if move boss was a lying jackass? I made a quick call to Goodwill to beg and got, in an Indian accent with a consoling guru-like tone, “Now… these things happen all the time, they are nothing to be upset about. We just have to move on and let it go... I can’t help you until Thursday.” Well, we planned on leaving today (Wednesday). He did give me a much needed moment of Zen, but now I had two surly movers, a couch stuck in my room, a carpet cleaner coming in an hour, the downstairs neighbor (who was also going to generously donate furniture) standing at my door, and two naked girls coming down the stairs. In the whirlwind of activity, I had forgotten to check in at DC. It was that kind of day.

The upside: neighbor agreed to store couch in her apartment until we devised a plan, movers moved as if expecting an alien invasion, carpet guy showed up early.

Slight down turn: As movers gave the “Ma’am, we’re all done here,” China Doll gave the “Mommmmy, I poooohhpd ‘n my underwear!” which she has never done since we began training. Carpet guy asked if anyone told me about the “fight fee” which means spending $40 more than my coupon quote. A quick survey of the rooms lead to an executive decision to blow off the recently cleaned upstairs (ahh, 6 mos ago) and only do downstairs. Back on budget, but he needed it in cash which meant breaking up DC and dressing naked girls to go across the street to the bank. (remember when small tasks like this didn’t take such effort?) A McDonald’s $1 ice cream bribe got them out the door; both barefoot, one wore kitty pj bottoms and a Christmas shirt, the other insisted on dressing like a 101 Dalmation. After an hour of touring neighborhoods looking for Christmas decorations, carpet was complete. I gave the carpet guy the cash and a fist pound and we headed back to DC. I had never been more excited to see Martha Speaks.

I spent the evening making the third Martha White pizza in a row for dinner and cleaned the kitchen and bathroom while they continued to watch PBS and Smile of a Child Network, which is all we can get on the converter box and antenna which hangs out the bedroom window. We had a shitty night’s sleep on our floor nest and I was up at 5am taking loads of trash to the dumpster. Now, after all that, a major storm that is concentrated on our I95 route is preventing us from leaving today. No matter how many times I show Rafael the red and yellow patch on weather.com, she only hears, “you can’t see your dad until tomorrow.” It will be that kind of day.

I have launched a war against my body. Recent blood work suggests rebels are organizing; my cholesterol is teetering on the edge of a slippery slope. Advisors suggest a “lifestyle change” strategy. Obviously, my body hasn’t paid attention to the many hair colors I have sported over the years. I invented change, Bitch. Bring it on!

Don’t let my bravado fool you. Like any good ruler, I didn’t receive the news well because I 1. thought all factions my body were content with my regime, 2. am physically active, and 3. am a responsible eater. Thanks to my dad though, I am also 4. hereditarily challenged. I do though wholeheartedly agree with my doctor that I need a “lifestyle change” but I was thinking a little more in the area of rediscovering Happy Hours, not rediscovering oatmeal.

I missed most of my doctor’s preprogrammed speech on high cholesterol because I was distracted by her ripping off her lab coat to fight off a hot flash.  But I did hear this: “If you tackle it now with diet and increased cardiovascular workouts, you can probably avoid medication at a later date.” Whoa…increased?  Meaning two hours of cardio a day? If I didn’t know she was menopausal, I would have misinterpreted her sweating as a reveal that she was feeding me bullshit on a tongue depressor. I must have revealed myself with the look on my face because she said, “Well, we all get older.”  Now, I hate the idea that my body is now reaching minor repair age, but I hate it even more when doctors tell me I am at minor repair age with a smarmy “what did you expect” tone. At my last eye doctor visit, the son of a bitch said I will need bi-focals next prescription because, “it is typical when you hit 40.” I am still seething. But anger is my most influential motivator.

The day after the briefing I loaded up the kids and my anger and headed to the battlefield, or gym, only to discover they would be renovating it for the next five days but patrons could travel twenty minutes up the road to a newer, better YMCA. More anger. But, ever the optimist, I determined that a new location and new classes would equate a surprise attack on my body. Advantage me. I found the schedule online, looked at the classes, day care hours, etc. and devised a plan. I would shock my body into chaos and force the rebels to question their cause.

First Class: Body Attack.

What I expected: (A fitting title) I expected to be “attacked”. Strenuous cardio and brutal biometrics.

What it was: Five women entered the room wearing black leotards, leg warmers and gold sparkly wrist and head bands. I was expecting Jamie Lee Curtis to follow. The lights dimmed, the women lined the front of the room and dreadful 80s songs slammed into my ears. Old school aerobics my friends, like the 20 minute workout ones we used to watch as a kid, pretending it wasn’t soft porn. To top it off, the instructors had playful bits to accompany the music (read this with a Valley accent) like when “Wild West” played, and we hear gun shots at the end, one instructor acted like she was shooting the others and they all fell. Oh my gawd, so cute, huh? Yeah, maybe in college when I was drunk and it was a sorority air band contest in a basement of a frat house, but not when I am at war. This was the equivalent of sending a flamboyant, mounted herald to the enemy saying, “A battle shall be conducted hence forth!”  and seeing the herald return with a medieval wedgie.

Second Class: Body Combat:

What I expected: (Again, a title synonymous with my situation) Kick boxing, getting my fight fix.

What it was: no mits, no hitting (boo), kicks and punches coordinated to music, a lot of sweating, and one hyper, slightly crazed martial arts expert as an instructor. Several times during routines, she would get within inches of someone’s punch and fully react (“Whuaaa!”) as if she were receiving the blow. Other times, she stared menacingly at her fictitious victim, who after her vicious yet perfectly choreographed blows was lying on the ground, and say things like, “You had enough? Or do you want more?!” I wish I could put her in pill form and send her to the rebels. They would be scared shitless. I do have to say I was impressed with her aerial split back kick (if that is what it’s called) but it was a bit too showy for the group of moms and young professionals playing hooky.

Third Class: Zumba!!! What I expected: Swirvy hips and girly dancing.

What it was: I remembered driving past a sports store in a strip mall and seeing a man standing outside holding sign that read, “Zumba equipment”. I now know that means wearing a scarf around the waist that is bejeweled with metal coins and bells that jingle with each hip shake; some women sport black dancing shoes. A shiny belt is a far cry from the do-rag and boxing gloves I typically wear for my shitkicking class, but this war requires desperate measures. So, I began my first class amid the Zumbafied women in my green Gap Christmas t-shirt from last year and boxing shorts. The instructor began with a warm up and apparently noticed that I was catching on quickly. “There is an extra belt up here, perhaps someone in green would like to borrow it?” “Someone in green would not,” I replied. The music began and my sarcasm was slapped out of my mind harder than a left jab. Before I could catch my breath we launched into a Bollywood number, then a belly dancing number, then a Samba number, my God my core was screaming. All that swiveling, leg lifting, twisting, thrusting, and quick stepping was kicking my ass. I was no longer a mom with two kids, a cholesterol problem, and no future prospects for a night on the town. I was Anita from West Side Story, and, even without the belt, I was sexy. “Congratulations, ladies, you just burned 600 calories!” Shock and awe my friends. Advantage me.

File under exfilm instructor who now only watches kids' movies:

Like most single parents (well, hubby relocated ahead of us and we will be a month behind), I look forward to holiday specials so I can strategically use them to entertain my children while I clean the kitchen, load the dishwasher, program the coffee for my 6am wake up, fold laundry, and a litany of “to dos” before I start the bedtime routine. A week ago on NBC they advertised Merry Madagascar starring our favorite furry New Yorkers. I couldn’t believe my luck. I began a blitz marketing campaign, plugging it all week, promising popcorn and pillowy viewing nests. If only the film lived up to my incredible hype.

The first problem with Merry Madagascar is the story. “Where is Alex’s dad?” asked my four year old. Which inspired me to ask other questions: why are the penguins on the island while they are trying to escape? Where is the ship? Why are none of King Julian’s disciples at the farewell feast, but all were present at the farewell feast at the end of M1? Ignoring the end of M1 and Madagascar II, the creators chose not to begin the tale after the group’s voyage and subsequent redirection to Africa landing exactly at Alex’s birthplace (an implausible navigational error, but a cute story). Considering all the important characters were in M2, there was no reason to go back in time when the story could have taken place in Africa, and could have been an opportunity to highlight Kwanza. Okay, that was a stretch for Hollywood.  Even in kids’ movies, I hate lazy writing. Which brings me to the second problem with M2, missed opportunities.

Kids love the penguins, which is why they landed a development deal of their own and now have a cartoon series. So why in the Family Guy did they not explore the back story of the rivalry between the North Polers (reindeer) and the South Polers (penguins)? We get told that the penguins used to work with Santa but that the reindeer negotiated a better deal. Why didn’t they cut away from the dialogue and show us scenes from that comedy gold mine. There could be countless, hilarious reasons why the Skipper screwed up Christmas with the Big Guy.

Speaking of the Big Guy, I think we can all agree that there is only one Santa. He is the only one who can do the job and do it well. This might be why the writers opted for the flimsy amnesia trope as the cause for Santa’s inability to deliver toys. “Santa’s Furry Helpers”, as a little girl calls Alex, Gloria, Melman and Marty after they crash through her brick house, struggle filling Santa’s shoes but, of course, they pull it off. After all, we can’t have a show about the failure of Christmas. Unfortunately, we don’t get to see how they do it; we just get a montage of prat falls, crashes, levels of exhaustion and stereotypical weather changes that tip us off to what country they are in at a given hour. But to have them barely pull if off, or not pull if off and be forced to return for Santa’s help, is a concept far more interesting and far closer to the spirit of Father Christmas than cutting away from the real action to Santa dancing to “I Like to Move It”. Santa is magical to children because he is a man who has the ability to fly around the world in one night. Alex shouldn’t be able to do that. Ben Stiller with his celebrity couldn’t do that.

At the end there is an opportunity to reveal his all knowingness, but it has as much fan fare as a good mechanic telling Tim the Toolman Taylor how to properly use a socket wrench. My kids and I were left feeling empty with an ending wrapped in a “Huh, that was close” bow and, adding insult to injury, we get kicked in the heart with an “oh well” unrequited penguin/reindeer ships that pass in the night love story. Boo!

Merry Madagascar should be called Messy Madagascar or Marketing Madagascar since I have already seen the double DVD set for sale in Wal-Mart this morning after watching a commercial announcing its availability last night. I asked my daughter, “On a scale from one to five, five being Up, how do you rate that film. “One finger,” she said. I have to agree, although considering I was hoping my kids would have been so enthralled with it that I could have accomplished the world in half an hour, I would use a particular finger to express my dislike to the execs at NBC.

After a long year at Charlie Chaplin’s house, I was running out of tolerance. I was dating a guy and just before Christmas, on a reckless whim (both of our leases were up), we decided to move in together. We found a charming duplex bungalow in Venice near Abbot Kinney Blvd which was the hipster, artsy section of this little beach town. The beach was a hearty mile walk directly west and a vegan coffee shop was a fuzzy slipper walk around the corner.

The bungalow was built some time in the 50s. We didn’t have air conditioning, but the constant ocean breeze made it unnecessary. The kitchen had the original sink and stove which gave it a precious charm. The stove only had one rack, but since my old shit hole didn’t even have a stove, it was a giant step forward. My artist boyfriend painted the kitchen a hazy blue and put wispy clouds around the windows to serve as frames. The frames revealed the vibrant bulgonvia that canopied the side yard. Many mornings were spent drinking a cup of coffee and staring at our “art”.

The other roommates were three cats or “The Three Queens” as I referred to them because they resembled the characters in the movie Pricilla Queen of the Desert. Bernadette, the old drag queen, was the boyfriend’s black Manx, a bit of an asshole with sharp claws that he would slowly sink into your skin when you had petted him long enough.  Felicia was Kuan, the adorable, egotistical kitten I found under a bush the day after he was born. He was the younger, strikingly beautiful drag queen who earned applause in every outfit and as a result had a “look at me!” personality. Mitzi was my sister’s cat Seymour that she flew to me from Colorado. He was the middle aged drag queen who could pull off most outfits but whose routine was becoming dated. He never found his bearings and was constantly tortured by the bullishness of the Manx and the obnoxiousness Kuan.

Venice Beach itself was a constant carnival. Street vendors and street performers ranged from the outrageous to the ridiculous. I would love to understand what inspires someone to cover themselves in silver paint and stand motionless (unless a small fare is placed in a box) for hours in the California sun. But I also have no idea why any tourist would want their name written on a grain of rice. The beautiful attribute of Venice Beach was of course the ocean. There is nothing like walking the shoreline during a pink and orange sunset while your earphones pump out U2.  There is nothing like a morning run along the boardwalk in the misty fog. There is nothing like sitting on the beach with friends, drunk on Coronas, watching July fireworks decorate the coast.  But there are some less than desirable attributes of Venice: the constant stream of mentally unstable homeless characters with skin that looks like beef jerky, the sound of beach bum heroine addicts throwing up in the community bathrooms during those early morning runs, the neglected beach littered with cigarette butts and bits of indefinable trash, and tourists.

But I did love living there. There was a certain street cred to living in Dog Town where real skateboarding began. I got a silly buzz when I passed people like the white haired Donald Sutherland on my beach runs (who unlike most celebs, stared directly at me and smiled when I passed instead of shirking, which made him smokin’ hot). But mainly after surviving a year at Charlie’s, a real home felt pretty good. I didn’t have to share a shower with daddy long leg spiders. The real nostalgia however was after growing up in Kansas watching Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon, I finally made it to the beach.