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La Mirada and The American Dream

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 14:12:00 GMT

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.

Why Life Would Be Easier with Sam Elliot in My Purse

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 23:39:00 GMT

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.

The Lap Dance

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 22:42:00 GMT

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.

As the Barometer Turns

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 13:55:00 GMT

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.

My Take on Tiger

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 13:42:00 GMT

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.

False Start but Moving Engine in Motion

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 14:55:00 GMT

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.

My Self Waged War

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 13:27:00 GMT

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.

Not So Merry Madagascar

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 11:34:00 GMT

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.

Venice Beach Blanket Bingo: or, back to my moving blogs

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 20:29:00 GMT

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.

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 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 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.

Hubby Gets a Say

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 16:46:00 GMT

"Well, I would have to say this was smart or you would be sitting in a FL house that will never sell wearing a ball cap due to the amazingly low humidity in November."

I love this guy.

Roughing It

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 12:03:00 GMT

As the prospect of having an actual house dances before my eyes like a piece of New York cheesecake smothered in caramel and chocolate, I can’t shake my pessimism. Mainly because we have to move from this temporary condo [the one we have been killing time in while we sold our house in Illinois and found a new house in Florida] to a new, temporary apartment [in North Carolina while we find the house we were supposed to be living in by now if we had stayed in Florida] under even more sparse conditions. Hubby, who has already relocated, is sleeping on a blow up mattress and believes it perfectly logical that we leave our remaining possessions in a POD and live out of suitcases until we find a home. He has set a three month deadline. I wasn’t aware that I recently testified at a mafia hearing, so why are we living like we are in witness protection? As you know, I have lived under worse circumstances, but not with two toddlers, one of which makes comments like, “when will we get a real house?”

This “fake house” as she refers to it deserves the title. My mom used to say her idea of roughing it was staying at the Holiday Inn. My hubby should be very thankful that I take after my father. Fake house has one room and a closet of a kitchen on one level with two bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs. Try potty training a stick legged, 30lb two year old who has to climb the stairs with every urge. And so do I. As a result our living room now has a potty seat in it. It also has a bike hanging from a floor to ceiling bike rack because we have no garage. There were two bikes on that rack, but hubby took one, hoping to ride it more in North Carolina than he did here. (good luck with that 20 degree difference) The remaining bike sits on the highest perch which is better because the jagged chain thingy of the lower bike constantly scraped my daughters’ heads when they played in their “play corner” below. The “play corner” means a three basket cart that is jammed packed with everything from Donatello the Ninja Turtle to a rubber snake. All of its contents decorate the floor at some point each day and all of its contents are threaten to be thrown away each night to inspire cleaning up when the Barney song doesn’t work.

In another corner is a card table from Target and four chairs that serves as our kitchen table, craft table, my office for Sahmmy.com, and a laundry room or utility room as I see it referred to on my wish houses. It is also our receiving area for guests. When MIL and PIL come to visit, the only place for all of us to sit is around the card table or on our tiny cheap, “I bought something I can dump when we leave”, brown, micro fiber couch. Below the table/office/utility room is my printer and Thesaurus. Two feet behind the table is a closet with our washer and dryer which emits that wonderful sour Florida water smell all through the house with each wash and dry. The dryer used to take six cycles to dry our clothes because the channels to the outside have more turns than a soap opera. Hubby detached the hose from the wall so now when we dry it only takes one cycle, but our house feels like a steam bath.

Did I mention there is one closet on the main floor? A two foot by two foot closet, perfect if the condo’s inhabitant is a member of the Lollypop Guild. But it doesn’t matter because I never could get to the closet with our Trek bike carrier standing in front of it for the past eleven months. The brand new bike carrier we swore we would use every weekend, until hubby had to work 6 days a week, and the bike trailer I sold last weekend for 200 bones on Craigslist.

But don’t feel bad for me; I do have some things, like nutmeg. I am so glad that although hubby thought we should leave all my baking tools and many other personal items at MIL’s house (retrieved once we found our Florida home) he had the good sense of mind to pack nutmeg. Now in my closet of a kitchen for Thanksgiving, I can make….I can make…what the Hell do you make with nutmeg?

Disney and Me: The breakup

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 21:10:00 GMT

For years I have held a grudge against Disney and to be honest, I am not even sure who started the fight. As a child in Kansas, I only had four channels to choose from so I grew up on “The Wonderful World of Disney” and reruns of “The Mickey Mouse Club” (at times I wish my children had such a wholesome offering). One would think I would be as smitten with all things Mickey as those obsessive pin collectors with their fanny packs full of treasures and their hawk eyes leering at the lanyards of every cast member they see. But somewhere along my time line, the magic spell was broken.

Perhaps the reason I lost interest in Mickey over the years was because my family never vacationed in Disneyland or Disneyworld. We were Silver Dollar City folks; Branson, pre-Jimmy Osmond. My family’s idea of vacation was watching pioneers make lye soap or dancing saloon girls playfully rough up my dad’s hair with their skirts. This destination fit very well with my sister’s obsession with “Little House on the Prairie” and she not only used the lye soap, but she bought, and for years wore, a night cap. On our various trips I bought a corn cob pipe and a pair of moccasins, but I never really bought into Silver Dollar City. I guess I am just not a very good tourist. I have a terrible knack for seeing the man behind the curtain.

Now that I have children, I have tried to put aside my cynicism and my differences with Mickey, especially since I still can’t pinpoint exactly what they are, and have taken my kids to Disneyworld…twice. Granted on our first trip, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about (See Loosing My Disneyginity) but on our recent trip for the Not So Scary Halloween Party, I felt like I was having dinner with an ex-boyfriend: why did we ever break up? Mickey was delightful (I swear they give cast members ecstasy), giving (insane amount Disney-good candy), spontaneous (wow a parade! look! The Mad Hatter! Wow fireworks!) and surprising (I am now sexually attracted to the Headless Horseman who charged through Main Street on a gorgeous, dark horse). I was becoming light headed, drunk off the magic and then Mickey did that thing…that thing that pissed me off and broke us up in the first place. Waiting in line to see Minnie’s kitchen, I noticed on her fake hallway desk a fake list of things to do each day and a grey ire began to pulse through my veins, pushing out all the pixie dust.

According to Walt, all Minnie (and China Doll, my daughter who is obsessed with her) needs to worry about each day is pleasing Mickey, losing weight, pleasing Mickey, dieting, pleasing Mickey…and recycling. Apparently, Minnie needs a low fat breakfast, but Mickey can eat all the cake she can bake. If the list wasn’t plastic and permanently sealed to a plastic desk, I would have ripped it up. Before we reached this list, we passed a room with an easel and impressive examples of her art. Notice, “Attend art class” or “Call Stefan about wine for gallery opening” is not in the top 9. I don’t want to draw any conclusions, but the last celluloid character to repress her passion for art was Mrs. Robinson.

Compared to the Pirates of the Carribean ride, this infraction was slight. On that ride my daughters floated past an animatronic scene of women bound together with rope and an auctioneer selling them to the highest bidder shouting derogatory remarks: “Turn around and let ‘em see what they’re buying, ya wench!” When Rafael asked, “Why are they tied up?” it took several minutes for me to respond. “They’re playing a game,” was all I could come up with because “Disney is evil” would require follow up. There should be a disclaimer before entering, placed somewhere near the height requirement, that reads, “Don’t take your daughters. This ride is to teach boys to demean your daughters and treat them like possessions. Yo Ho!” Did no one in the planning session see that this was a terrible choice? And why weren’t there any African American pirates? Since when has Disney chosen historical accuracy over good storytelling? (I know it is too much to ask for responsible storytelling)

I feel had, like being conned in to sleeping with the ex-boyfriend because the tequila was too good. But now we have season passes and two children who think Disney is the cloud before heaven. I am sure some people think I am overreacting, but having a degree in Gender Studies makes it impossible for me to overlook this shit. I wish I could regard Ariel giving her voice away in order to marry a man as a cute story and believe Aurora is as affective a heroine as Paris Hilton is a member of society. I wish I didn’t notice that in a recent “news” program, discussion focused on who was the fairest First Lady: Michelle Obama or Carla Bruni and that I wouldnt see that on the release of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs Platinum Edition, society hasn’t progressed very far.

Match.home

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 00:34:00 GMT

Returning from our three day whirlwind tour of NC to look for houses, I have come to the decision that house hunting is just like dating. Nothing is perfect, you just have to decide what you are willing to overlook for a 30 year marriage...I mean, mortgage.

My husband and I are a complimentary couple; I believe the glass is half full and he believes someone is going to take the glass away before he can pour the water. Most of the time it works, especially with major purchases. Being a cop and a now catastrophe insurance claim guy, he is a worst case scenario freak. Being a gypsy, I've survived enough worst case scenarios to think it's not the end of the world. I have no business buying a house based on the places I have lived and the conditions I have tolerated. I thought a house was perfect and he said, "For a five year house, the tar strip on the shingles should have been under the next highest shingle. This roof wouldn't pass inspection." I could tell you that U2 shot their "Streets Have No Name" video on a roof, but I can't determine when one close to collapsing. Another house had a huge kitchen, now, if you read my LA blog you would understand that any kitchen for me is a good kitchen. He said, "the drawers are not dovetail, it's a piece of shit." My children are worse help than me because they want the house with the most acorns.

For this reason, we have worked out a house hunting plan. I play kid wrangler and he plays buyer. I don't even unfasten the car seats unless he comes back out and gives me the "hi"sign. My only kudos is that of the houses that almost passed his inspection, our "favorites", have been ones I have picked aesthetically by looking at pictures online. I must be somewhat in tune, but even so, he did point out their few flaws...all of which I could live with. But could I live with him living with them is the question. We continue to look.

So, what do we want? An acre lot, trees that surround the sides(I've had my share of close neighbors), transitional (a new term for me) with a wrap around porch, a screened in porch and a grilling patio. Ideally a jack and jill bathroom for future quarreling teen girls and a guest room w/ bath for my MIL (Obama Mama and FIL and a Target nearby. Okay, that's what I want. He wants a list of qualities that I never knew existed with "attention to detail" and a 24ft wide garage. Oh, and a grilling patio, too. We continue to look.

We are in the speed dating phase of our mortage pursuit, and just like dating, on the surface everything looks good. The really bad ones get eliminated after 30seconds and the others we exchange emails to find out more about each other. It won't be until we spend some real time that we start to see the cracks. What I hope hubby realizes is that just like marriage there will still be flaws that reveal themselves as time goes by, the "I never saw that when we bought it" surprise. At that point, it's all in how you look at it.

Move #15: LA Woman

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 18:06:00 GMT

Short recap- I packed up Champagne and moved from Chicago to LA. Until then I had never traveled past Colorado, in fact, I had never even been to LA. But this series is a tribute to my moves so more story for another blog...by the way, we are heading to Raleigh, NC in November. If any one has any information or helpful facts, please email them to me.

Move #15

Perhaps what amazed me the most about LA was how undiscovered talent lived; many in their car, some in closets (seriously, closets), some in unfinished attics…you get the picture. They make these sacrifices so that their days can be spent auditioning not working a 9 to 5 job just to pay rent. My first year in LA, I lived off Hollywood Blvd in the porch of a house once owned by Charlie Chaplin. I have never lived in such a shit hole before or since.

Some set up here- there were two houses side by side and in those houses, very Real World style, lived about sixteen people who worked the industry in some capacity. Stephan, the tyrannical land manager, (a miserable “director’ who never did anything in the year that I lived there except for a terrible stage reading with Rebecca DeMornay that we tenants had to suffer through) had chopped up the houses into a communal mess. He lived in the basement of our house but had his office in what should have been the common living room of the other one; a room he hand wallpapered with cut out pictures of pin up girls of all decades…actually that makes it sound half-way eclectic…more accurately, when he found anything with a boob on it he brought home and stuck it on the walls. I never saw his room in our basement but I heard that it was very “it rubs the lotion on its skin” disturbing. I do know that there was no bathroom because each morning he would emerge from the storm door (which he covered with a sheet of blue plastic to keep the water out) with a piss pail and dump its contents behind an orange tree in the back yard. A really disturbing moment was watching a sweet Mexican woman, who worked in the one man auto shop behind our house, pick an orange from that tree, peel it and eat it.

The porch was small and dirty, but unlike the others who shared the main house, I had my own entrance and a bit of privacy. I felt very lucky to have my own kitchen and bathroom, especially when my friend (who is now on a successful sitcom) told me she once had to shower in a back yard under a hose rigged in a banana tree. My bathroom had a toilet and a shower but the floor tiles were missing revealing the home’s original dirt and wood floor. I asked for money to replace the tiles and Stephan said, “Well, if you are that picky, you can replace them yourself.” He also rolled his eyes when I tried in vein to sweep decades of dirt off the kitchen’s 1930s laminated floor with the broom I found from the same era. Considering he wore the same shirt, flack jacket and pants every day of the year that I lived there, I didn’t take offense.

The kitchen was a tiny refrigerator that had two shelves inside and two out of three working burners on top for cooking. Weirdest damn thing I ever saw, but space efficient. Next to the refrig-stove was a small sink. All of this was pushed into a corner of the porch and a half wall separated that area from the bedroom which was “furnished” with a futon, a tall white book shelf, a dilapidated desk, and a lamp. God only knows who slept on that futon before me.

My ex-boyfriend stopped by to see my new digs and felt so guilty and so sorry for me (we were supposed to get a place together but he chickened out of the “making a go of acting in LA” idea two weeks in and decided to move back to Chicago) that he purchased a carpet section and six squares of tile at Home Depot, redid the floor in the bathroom, stapled down new carpet in the kitchen and slapped paint on the walls. It was still a shit hole, but with the makeover it became my shit hole.

Besides the fresh coat of peach paint, what made it livable was the unique mix of housemates. Next to me in the back of the house, also with his own private entrance, was a young, gay set designer from Alabama who made terrific pressed coffee for me each morning and quickly became my best friend. Up the fire escape stairs above me was a new college graduate from Indiana who became the little brother I never had. (Consequently he is now a writer/director/editor and remains one of the most creative people I know) The majority of our successes and failures were shared between the three of us in our outdoor living room. Previous tenants had left a chair, a coffee table and a couch on the patch of grass between Alabama’s back stoop and my door. It was soon the place we started and ended our days.

The people in the front of the house shared a kitchen and the two bathrooms which is probably why there was constant turnover. The only long term tenants were in the writer in the upper corner who I could see pounding away daily on his computer through the window and a 40 yr old cinematographer who was his best buddy. Of the other cast of characters, I remember at one point in the front corner room lived an unsuccessful actress who married a gay waiter to get him citizenship, but tragically she fell in love with him and became crazy jealous of his boyfriends. In the lower front room was a guy from Germany who was desperately in love with a woman who didn’t return his affection. He soon left LA and was replaced by a beautiful gay guy, David, who graciously took the role of a porn star in a comic video I shot. The man was cut like a Greek god, was painfully nice and sweetly naïve- a dangerous combination for someone new to LA.

I loved living on the For $400 a month, no lease and no deposit, I could have done much worse.There was no judgment, except that we all hated Bad Santa Stephan. Everyone in both houses accepted and supported each other in their creative pursuits. In the "me first" world of LA, support like that is hard to come by.

Consequently, shortly after I, Indiana, and Alabama moved out the other housemates overthrew Stephan. The owners fired and evicted him and they remodeled the front room of the other house into a nice family room. I drove by after I heard this and was happy to see a Christmas tree in the front window.

A Punch of Reality

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 18:25:00 GMT

As many of you have read, there is one thing I really look forward to each week and that is kickboxing. It rights me. It allows me to beat the shit out of someone who willingly takes the punishment thereby significantly diminishing the possibility of me verbally attacking anyone who violates any of my basic principals on a given day. This is important because most violations (a car nearly hitting me, a person letting their dog shit on our lawn) occur in front of my very impressionable children. Another added benefit is the feeling of indestructibility that comes with knowing you have a solid punch; however, that power was significantly reduced this week when my class, normally filled with 35-40 something mothers, was invaded by high school students.

Typically, I take great pride in being able to perform the grueling workout routine our instructor designs for us, beginning with our warm up of jogging, butt kicks, high knees, and side shuffles up and down the floor. With my post baby body, I am just glad that at the end I don’t feel like throwing up or peeing. But it is embarrassing to take pride in a task that others more than half your age can gossip and giggle while doing. If they could, they would have been texting.

The really deflating moment was during our jump rope and push up segment. I’m no UFC fighter, but after several months I have become pretty damn good at jumping rope again. I felt confident I could keep up with the competition. The boy next to me jumped backwards the entire time. I wanted to slap him. Then, this same boy consistently completed two push ups to my one. He was on 25 when I was on 8 and by then I was doing them on my knees. I started to get a little pissed. Don’t they have P.E.? Shouldn’t they be off somewhere trying to get to third base while faking doing homework? Do they have to lift their shirts to much to reveal their Abercrombie abs while I’m fighting to keep my shirt from exposing my double C-section slack? But then I got it, a chance to right myself. I was asked to spar with Push Up Boy.

Once I looked him in the eye, I lost all resentment. I realized how intimidating it must be to have to box a woman your mother’s age (well, if I played my life cards differently, I could be), especially if he was taught to respect his elders not try to punch them in the head. I also know I could never be a MILF or a cougar because all I wanted to do was give him cookies and condescendingly tousle his hair. But, first I had to beat the shit out of him. “Hi, I’m Jeris,” I said, “How old are you?” “I’m a senior in high school,” he said, eyes shifting left and right (poor thing, have another cookie). “Does that mean I can cuss?” I asked, smiling. He looked me in the eye, returned the smile in relief and said, “Yeah, definitely.” And we were off.

While I was working with him, coaching him and repeatedly telling him it was okay to beat the crap out of me, I truly realized something for the first time. I am old. Not get a rocking chair and put me in a shady area old, although today that sounds really nice, but wise old and with that wisdom comes great responsibility. I have crossed over the line that separates the age of finding out what life is about from the age of helping others discover it for themselves. I am surprisingly comfortable with that. Sadly, there are a lot of mothers my age, non-hunting cougars and MILF wannabes included, who are not. Like the woman we saw at dinner last weekend who was wearing a boob tube, denim hot pants and 4 inch pumps to dinner with her 5 year old daughter and a man. Too bad. Surprisingly, there was a certain indestructibility that came with my realization, and a renewed sense of power. But not as much power as Push Up Boy felt from my right hook.

Move #12-#14: Chicago is....

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 00:13:00 GMT

My first apartment as a new divorcé in Chicago was on Clifton in between School and Belmont. For those who know Chicago, this is a pretty sweet spot for a single gal to live, especially with two other single gals. I could walk to Wrigley Field for a Cubs game, to Southport for a beer at an Irish pub, to Belmont for a pair of Doc Martins, and to the L to take me anywhere else. I quit the mafia restaurant bar and began working for a brand new martini bar, which, like all martini bars in Chicago, lasted about as long as a Hollywood marriage. I am still amazed with what speed I could concoct a chocolate martini (in a chocolate dipped martini glass…man that sounds good right now), a cosmopolitan and a dirty martini, all at the same time. I am convinced that becoming an ambidextrous bartender was critical for early motherhood success.

As the martini bar’s popularity began to wind down and the bank began to repossess its capital, I started to panic for another job. I had to find a bartending job because I needed my days free for auditioning. I got so desperate that I almost took a job at the Crazy Horse strip club, as a bartender. I was told my experience made ideal for the VIP room and that I would only have to sign a confidentiality agreement because of “things I would most likely see”. Secretly, I wish I would have taken the job for the material, but still, the thought of those “things” makes me throw up a bit in my mouth. Thankfully, a job at Shelter, a popular rave bar, fell into my lap. I saw plenty there: glittered club kids on X, suburban jocks on G and fellow bartenders on coke. One night my co-bartender disappeared later to be found hunched on a toilet, whacked out on GHB. We carried her up the stairs and were debating what to do when another bartender popped a “diet pill” in the girl’s mouth and the rest of us watched as she flopped alive like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. “Someone else count out her drawer,” she said, steering the poor girl to a dirty couch. My anti-drug policy helped me quickly become one of the club’s fastest bartenders and I earned a spot in the VIP lounge where the real action was. [A blog for another day]

One year after living on Clifton, one of my roommates found a huge three bedroom apartment on Chicago and Sedgwick. It was a beautiful apartment, dining room, fireplace, laundry room, and close to Shelter, but it was right across the street from the Cabrini Green housing projects. Despite my preconceptions, I never had a problem with the neighborhood, even with my erratic hours. Only one roomie had her car broken into- within minutes after she double parked to unload a work computer. The same roommate was talking to her boyfriend out on the sidewalk one evening and noticed the red light from a laser was glowing on his forehead. We convinced ourselves it was just kids playing a joke, not a laser gunsight. A year later, my roomie bought a house with laser boy, the other roomie moved in with another girl, and I began making plans to move to LA; temporarily moving into an apartment in Roger’s Park with the guy who was joining me on that journey. He lived in a quaint, old apartment building perched on the lake. There is nothing more invigorating that taking an afternoon swim in Lake Michigan. It helps clear the mind when you are about to make the greatest leap of faith in your life.

Move 7 & 8 Peoria #9 Arlington Hts #10 my car #11 Andersonville

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 12:33:00 GMT

Since my parents didn’t want me to move to NYC anyway, they were somewhat cool about this absolutely insane turn of events. The only stipulation was that we had to be engaged for a year to make sure we weren’t making a mistake. The mistake was living at home. It is very difficult to be engaged to someone when living with neurotically conservative parents. My mother has always been a “what do others think” person and I was never allowed to be alone with any boy I was dating, unless I was outside on the porch so all the neighbors could see we weren’t in the house having sex. When I went away to college, my first college boyfriend, an amazingly patient guy, was the recipient of all that baggage. I used to make him keep his frat room door open whenever we were together; he didn’t have a porch. Later with Virginity Guy, I actually crawled out of his window in the mornings so his frat brothers wouldn’t know I stayed over. In my post college years, I embraced the walk of shame, or stride of pride, depending on the guy. I digress.

Since this blog series is about moving, I will save the marriage and divorce story for another time. I did get married and moved to Peoria where he had a job as an anchor for the local news station. We lived in an apartment first then moved to a little, and I mean little, house. While in Peoria I satisfied the acting itch by getting involved in community theater and went from play to play to play. Divorce ensued, after a year and a half, and I moved with the Ameritec job I had to Chicago, Arlington Heights specifically, where I lived in a one bedroom apartment with my Indian co-worker who, once her parents began prearranging her marriage, took the transfer in hopes of finding her own husband. I slept on a short purple couch that came from her parents’ hotel and she slept on a mattress on the floor.

Returning to my acting plan, I worked a ridiculous amount of overtime and saved enough money to afford Second City classes. I soon got an agent, headshots and a bartending job at a mafia bar and steak joint which allowed me to quit Ameritec. For the bar job, I had to watch training videos on cigars and single malt scotches. Both of which I served to young, obnoxious mafia sons as they ate handfuls of olives out of my station.

Arlington Hts was too far away for my developing life in the city so I began living out of my car and squatting on my friend’s couch as I waited over two months for an apartment and two roommates to become available. At one point I also had a suitcase in Andersonville at a boyfriend’s apartment, but the steady flophouse was my car. I loved that car. Champagne Super Nova was her name, or “Champagne” for short; a beige Nissan Altima that I leased after my divorce. (Always name your cars. And talk to them. It makes them more reliable). After spending all night watching middle aged singles trying to do the Macarena, seeing Champagne in the parking lot always brought a smile to my face. It even had an escape hatch. The back seat arm rest reclined and opened to the trunk. I had to use it one day when I locked myself out of my car, but left the trunk open. Champagne survived being a victim of hit and run and a small scrape with a Jersey barrier on a slick turn in Roger’s Park. I drove it from Chicago to LA where is lasted five years without accident but suffered a break in two weeks before I moved. Even after she lost her luster, she was beautiful to me. (Inner city parking made her back bumper look like it had been attacked by tigers) There will never be another car like it.

Move #4 & #5: My Short Affair with New York

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 10:23:00 GMT

After I told my parents my intentions, my mother began her “Ignore Jeris” campaign. She continued it until the day I left, I admired her commitment and it made it easy to get a lot done; not having to spend time listening to angry lectures or taking her phone calls. I saved all the paychecks from one job and had about 1,000 to put in a New York bank. Okay, back up. The realization that I wanted to pursue acting came to me on New Year’s Eve, [still sober, pre partying] after the Amtrak broke down and I was forced to ride a Greyhound bus to Chicago to meet with my college buddies. I think sitting with people who typically ride Greyhound busses would put any one in a carpe diem mood. When I arrived at the hotel room, I got a surprise phone call from the bartender/artist. We corresponded from time to time and he had moved from Providence to NYC to pursue an acting career. He was working at a bar and was the only one who listened to my crazy plan with complete understanding. On that phone call, he told me his roommate was moving out and offered to share his one bedroom on the Upper East Side. I now had money and a place to stay with someone who knew the city.

For two weeks I lived in that apartment. I still remember the hot, exhausting walk, after spending 85.00 on a cab ride (pre-Giuliani), to his bar, hauling my guitar and massive suitcase, to get his key so I could then walk back and haul it all up seven flights of stairs. While I was there I sat in on a session at the acting school I planned to attend, a tip I got from comic Greg Fitzsimmons who graciously talked to me about it by referral from another comic. The school was perfect and had a spot for me. Compared to the adrenaline pumping NYC, Springfield was six feet under, and I, despite my parents’ disapproval, felt fantastic about my decision.

After two weeks in NYC, I returned home in order to pack what remained in a rental car and drive back. [at this time I began my ‘be able to put your life in a car and go’ philosophy]
One week before I left, I went out on the town with two cocktail waitresses from Boon’s. We were at a bar and I was walking through the crowd. Now, I had heard storied of love at first site and thought them to be simply Meg Ryan fantasies but when I looked up at this guy, it all made sense. He was very tall, had dark hair and olive skin, and I was struck. We spent as much time as possible together that week before I left. [No, we never had sex, which makes the story even better] He helped me pack my car and made a map of my planned route so he could follow me. I promised I would call him to check in each night of my journey and we planned to see each other when we could.

In a hotel in Clarion, PA at 3am, on my last check in phone call, the night before I was to meet my bartender friend (tough decision because after NYC our friendship started to go to another level) at the airport so he could help me navigate NYC traffic, First Site Guy said, “I want you to come back because I realized that I want to marry you, but I'm not asking you now because I don't want to ask you over this phone.” I know…I know… I only knew him for one week. But, it is romantic, n’est pas? Very Meg Ryan.

Move #3 and #4: An Actor's Life For Me...almost

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 12:06:00 GMT

Before I explain quitting the paper sales job, I must give a little back story. When I was a freshman in college, my English comp prof suggested that I major in English or even technical writing. I told my dad this and he said, “Bullshit. Major in Business.” Since he was paying the bills, I took his suggestion, but majored in marketing. Reflecting on my college Finance and Accounting grades, as compared to my Advertising and Creative Writing grades, my prof had a better handle on my talents. Not that I’m a great writer, but I’m a shitty economist. Luckily that has no bearing on whether or not you can sell a product. I guess from that perspective, my dad was right, I was majoring in the art of bullshit.

It took a lot of that bullshit to convince my parents that I needed to quit a job that paid me 50K and provided me with a corporate AmEx and a car. But I knew the buzz words that would win them over. “I think I want to get my master’s”. My sister was working on her master’s at the time and the pitch involved living with her, paying for it myself and finally majoring in English in order to teach. Considering my father worked in education all his life, it was an easy sale.

The truth of why I quit? I realized I didn’t want to spend my life being a corporate mench. I had been moonlighting in stand up for over a year and felt more alive hanging my ass out to dry on a stage than I did selling paper. Stand up reconnected me to my creativity and I (thinking it was brilliant) put together a monthly cartoon newsletter for all my customers that talked about my product and how the character Ceaseless Coldcall (a balding middle aged man in a bad suit) changed his sales career by selling it. It was sarcastic and the customers loved it. [Remember this for later: the artist was a bartender I met in Providence, RI after a long sales day] When the VP of Sales came for a visit, an event similar to the Pope showing up at your office door, he handed me a copy of that newsletter that a customer had sent him, remarking that it was a nice change from the typical rep. My supportive co-worker said, “Well, what do you think?” and the VP replied, “Whatever it takes.” What? Whatever it takes? Not, “Great job!” or “Hey, that kind of ingenuity belongs at corporate!” or “Bless you, my daughter.” In that moment I realized I was a corporate mench and that he only came to visit us so he could play golf in Connecticut.

So, after several rounds of exit interviews, two Rastafarians packed me and my cat [Morrissey, who was saved from the jaws of a dog in near Harvard and I answered an ad in the paper to take her] in a UHaul and my mother and I drove from Boston to Springfield, IL. [Consequently, that is the only time either parent visited me in Boston while I lived there…see A Nanny Diary for an explanation] I moved into Clock Tower or New England apartments, something like that, across from Alexander’s Steakhouse, one of my bartending jobs. I mainly worked at Boon’s Saloon, a political/neighborhood bar full of its own drama but fun nonetheless. I went from living near Cheers to working our bar party for the show’s last episode. To make even more money, I did the books part time for Alexander’s, finally putting to use my accounting classes. It was easy to get up at 8am, walk across the street, and knock at the kitchen door. The hard part was getting over the marinade smell that early in the morning.

For almost two years (involving move #4 within the city) I worked on my master’s degree by day and on my martini at night. In preparation for my new lifestyle, I had spent a few weekends in Boston completing a degree in Mixology at The New England Bartending School. I received particularly high marks in the ‘Sours’ and mention my credentials when lesser bartenders tell me that an amaretto sour is the same as an amaretto stone sour. Considering my parents were heavy drinkers, this additional education went over well, especially when I made my mother a brandy Alexander or a grasshopper. Those are the drinks I served when I told them, four classes and a dissertation shy of completing my master’s that I wanted to move to New York [and live with the bartender friend] and pursue acting.

My Obama Mama

Sahmmy@Sahmmy.com (SaHMMY Snippets) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 19:18:00 GMT

Sitting in my kid's dentist office, I was reading Time magazine, well not reading reading, it is impossible to actually read when you are nervously waiting for the dental assistant to come running from the back to get you after the "parents wait in the lobby" policy fails. Frantically skimming was more like it. Anyway, I came across an article about the problem stand up comics are having trying to come up with jokes about Obama. I realized I have the same problem with my mother in law. From a daughter in law's stand point, she is a gift from heaven, but from a comic's stand point, she is a nightmare. I simply can not come up with any bits about her because she is so damn perfect.

I just returned from visiting my in laws with my children sans Hubby for a week because he had to work. I didn't think anything of this little excursion (except the anxiety of flying with toddlers) until Rafael's preschool teacher said, "You visited your in laws? Alone? I didn't consider myself a maverick, but I gathered from their facial expressions that to them I am now Luke Skywalker. When my friends heard of my trip, their typical response was, "Suicide mission, huh?"

I expect my friends' responses because many of them have the traditional evil MIL, the comic's gold mine. Most have the common jealous MIL, with the creepy "he used to be my boy" Electra complex. I have a friend with a MIL who always tries to peel her son's hand away from her DIL's grasp and whines things like, "why aren't you sitting next to me, Petey? Shrink time, honey. Others have MILs who lecture them about how to raise their grandchildren. Me? I actually ask my MIL for constructive criticism, but she rarely gives it. She did kindly mention that the name "Crock Addict" on Sahmmy.com was better than "Crock Whore", my original idea, because it was less offensive.

Her cooking can't be touched; the woman gets Cook's and tries the recipes. My God, her chicken satay and homemade spicy peanut sauce rivals any Thai restaurant in every city I have lived. I grew up in Kansas, biscuit and gravy headquarters, and my B&G recipe came from my mom who majored in Home Ec and cooked for schools and senior citizen kitchens. But my MIL taught me how to make it even better. I can't work with this!

Her house is a grandkid's paradise. There are bikes in the garage, lovingly purchased for each grandchild, and a pool in the large backyard. She has saved dress up clothes and play jewelry for future girls to play with that my girls spend hours wearing. There are bins of toys, books for nighttime stories, extra diapers in each of her grandkid's sizes and mountains of pillows and blankets for movie watching naps. For my visit, she bought me a Venus razor to use so I wouldn't have to pack mine. (she doesn't
know how infrequently I shave) Seriously, she is untouchable.

Those are only a few examples of her frustrating virtue. In case any of you read this as a "kiss ass" entry, remember, I am a comic. This is my worst dream come true. In a territory that is normally a flood plain, I have dust. I drew the flawless MIL card which means I have to work even harder to come up with new material. And now Rafael's first solo dentist experience rendered nothing as she was crowned "best child patient we have ever had". As parent, I was relieved, but as a comic, I was pissed.