the Hippo Brigade

Magazines and Boobs

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December 2, 2011

One of the great joys of going to an appointment is looking through magazines.

A dentist appointment where I have to get a cavity filled suddenly becomes my hidden sanctuary; my kids are being watched by my mom, I’m 8 minutes early, and there’s a recent copy of Vogue on the coffee table: Cue bliss.

This is what life as a mother has become. I now look forward to my annual Pap smear because I know my doctor’s office subscribes W Magazine, and if I get out early I might just swing by Mother’s Market and do some child-free shopping to pick up a homeopathic allergy medicine and chia seed snacks. Winning!

Yup. Life as a mother is very glamorous.

But I totally judge a waiting room by their magazine selection. And if they have a crappy selection, I may just consider going elsewhere.

My Dermatologist has a bad selection of magazines, but they have a flat screen mounted in the corner, and usually the Food Network on. So I don’t mind that they only have Business Consumer magazine and Good Housekeeping.

My childrens’ pediatrician has really dumb magazines, but they always have Travel and Leisure, so that makes up for all the messy stacks of Highlights and free copies of WebMD strewn around the room. I pride myself on the fact that I can usually thumb through a magazine while my kids are bouncing around because once they’re locked in that exam room I figure whatever they play with is fair game. I mean, they locked is in here for 23 minutes, what the hell do they expect me to do with my unruly kids, sit quietly and read a sticky copy of Highlights? No thank you. First my children usually go straight for the mini blinds, then the drawers filled with gauze squares, and finally they take turns pushing each other around on that wheeled stool, all while I hum to myself and dog ear pages of whimsical vacations. Ahhh, Prague is so magical this time a year.

I had a physical yesterday with a new doctor. She’s my mom’s GP, and since she does acupuncture, I thought I’d give her a go. Plus my mom had been nagging me for 3 months straight about going to the doctor.

Have you had your thyroid checked? You’re looking thin.

You know, high blood pressure is in our family, you should have a blood test.

It doesn’t hurt just to get things checked out. You’re a mom, so you need to take care of yourself.

Apparently she thinks I’m going to suddenly stop living. And then she’ll just shake her head and say, “I told her she needed to get a check up.”

My approach to medicine is to do nothing and wait.

Apparently my approach to medicine isn’t her favorite. And apparently even though I’m 31, I still need to be mothered.

BLAH.

But I obliged. Mainly because she used extortion to get me to go. “I’m not going to watch your kids until you make a doctor’s appointment.” She told me.

My mom is a crafty one.

The waiting room was average. Nothing too exceptional. There were a lot of Cosmopolitans, and those are basically one step above a porno mag, but I shifted around and found a GQ. And once I was inside the exam room I found a Harper’s Bazaar, so things were looking up.

Then the doctor came in and we chatted lightly about my health, and then she wanted to check my lungs and whatnot. So first I sat forward and she checked my breathing with her stethoscope from my back, then she came around towards the front.

And this is the part in the story where I tell you that I was wearing my “chicken cutlets.”

Perhaps a photo might help?

My top was tight and my boobs looked unshapely, so I stuck some extra business down my bra. And I was moments away from my doctor feeling me up and discovering my Target boobies. I took a deep breath in and averted my eyes.

Yup, there she was. Her stethoscope was resting, a direct hit, on my cutlet. I tried to act natural, but how could I when everything about this situation was so unnatural. I let out an uncomfortable laugh, but it came off more like a whimper.

She knew I stuffed my bra and now our relationship had to end. Much like when a high school boyfriend feels you up only to find crumpled up tissues.

I know our relationship had only just begun, but now it was over. I blame my search for finding a newer doctor on her lackluster assortment of magazines, but we all know the truth.

The dirty chickeny truth.

My Week in iPhone Photos (Northern Exposure Addition)

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November 30, 2011

The plan:

Brew-cation 2011

One week.

11 breweries

14 cities

288 amazing sights

All in an RV.

We started in Napa and then went along the Northern Californian and Oregon Coast, then we headed East to Portland, and made our way back home with a few stops along the way.

The Grass is Greener in Seattle

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November 18, 2011

I want to move.

Real bad.

Practically everyone who knows me knows I have this deep desire to live somewhere else. Somewhere a little chilly and beautiful.

Seattle.

Currently we live in Orange County.

It’s cool here. I guess, that is if you like everything looking exactly the same. All the houses look the same. Shopping centers are built for driving not walking. Everyone has a swarthy 4-wheel drive SUVs with no intentions of taking it off-road. The women all look the same with their Lululemon yoga pants and blonde highlights. And while there’s nothing inherently wrong with yoga pants and highlights (Because I’ve been wearing these yoga pants for 6 days straight. And instead of washing them, like a reasonable person, I just wait until the jelly or snot or what-have-you dries, and then I scratch it off with my fingernail. Not only am I preserving the spandex-y-ness of my pants by not washing them, but I’m also conserving energy and water! Who’s the reasonable one now, huh?), it’s just that I’m ready for something different.

Orange County definatly has it’s good points.

We have a dreamy coast.

Go ahead and ignore that precious newborn in my arms, that's just Berlyn when she was 2 weeks old.

There’s also all these precious neighborhoods:

And we have the Real Housewives of Orange County, so that’s something.

Here in the OC, it’s a little too homogenized, if you will. You know homogenized, that’s the process of shaking milk fats into the milk liquids so you get one creamy smooth outcome. And I don’t want one creamy smooth outcome, you know, because I don’t tolerate the dairy. Plus, I’m ready for an adventure, a lactose-free adventure.

We’ve bounced around ideas of where we’d go:

San Francisco

Berkley

Portland

Seattle

We’ve even considered local cities like:

Costa Mesa

Laguna Beach

Venice Beach

Santa Monica

But we always come back to Seattle.

Ahhh Seattle. Like a cozy pair of rain-soaked jeans. What? You don’t think jeans can be cozy if they’re rain-soaked? Well you obviously aren’t cut out for the weather in Seattle.

But I totally am. I’m practically a Seattle-ite already, here’s why:

I own a pair sheerling boots

I don’t really style my hair anyways

Rain makes me sleepy and I love a good nap

I drink coffee

Flannel is making a huge comeback

I always forget to water my plants and if I move to Seattle, I won’t have to

Plus it’s so mossy there. And moss is a pretty color

So there’s my list.

I know, I know. I seem like a shoo-in for moving to Seattle. But it’s tough to leave this crazy place. I love that all my family and friends are at most a 30 minute drive. And I’m comfortable here. And my kids…well, kids are resilient, and mine would be happy where there is an abundance of string cheese and the movie Cars is playing.

But I’m not moving any time soon. I have to be content with where I am. I honestly love it here, but I think I’d just love it over there more.

See? Even the trees are cozier in Seattle.

I suck at writing Thank You cards.

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November 8, 2011

When Pat and I got married we registered for everything Williams-Sonoma had to offer. 19 shot glasses, and 78 ramekins rounded out our very thorough list of things a newlywed couple needed: Soup tureen? Check. Traditional French cookbook? Check. Silver plated candlesticks? Check.

Apparently we thought we were Ina and Jeffrey Garten, living in the Hamptons and throwing elaborate dinner parties on white sandy beaches. Unfortunately I do not have an assortment of sexually questionable men with armfuls of flowers who want to do a table-scape with me in return for my famous mushroom risotto.

Gawh.

What I should have got instead was an year’s supply of antibiotics for UTI’s and Easy Mac. But what the hell did I know?

As tore off the wedding bell wrapping paper at my bridal shower, one of my bridesmaids took copious notes:

•  6 white dinner plates and 3 cloth napkins with hemstitch trim from the Jennings
• 4 leaded white wine flutes from Marcia McDerby
• Silk table runner with blue Swarovski crystals from Great-Grandma Peg

I remember marveling at all my grown-up presents. I’d press my cheek into the silk table runner, and caress it, and I’d drink cranberry juice from the fancy wine glasses, and blot my face with the cloth napkins. But then it was time to write the thank you notes. I sat down at the table with my book of notes that my bridesmaid took, and my monogrammed stationary, and then I’d tap my pen thinking of the perfect thing to say:

Dearest Madam and Sir Jennings,

Thank you cordially for the 6 white dinner plates and 3 cloth napkins with hemstitch trim. They have served me well at dinner time. Your generosity is much appreciated.

Yours truly,

Beckey

Mrs. Patrick

Rebecca

Okay, not bad for my first attempt, I thought. Just mail it off, I have 50 more of these, but next time I should probably be less specific and less stuffy, and maybe I should tell an antidote or something to lighten it up.

Marcia,

Thanks for the wine glasses, I will be getting drunk and making poor choices very soon thanks to you.

 Yee haa!

Beckey

Humm…Who is Marcia McDerby anyways? Is she my mom’s friend? My great aunt? Crap. Well if she didn’t want me getting drunk she shouldn’t have bought me wine glasses, her fault, not mine. At least I’m honest. I like honesty, maybe I’ll try that with Grandma’s thank you card.

Dear G. Grandma,

Your table runner gift is stunning. Only problem is I’ll probably never use it. Stick with the registry, Grams. Can I have the gift receipt so I can return it?

Thanks,

B

Here’s the thing, I really shouldn’t be writing thank you cards. I kinda suck at it. My handwriting’s all squirly and there’s the added pressure of filling up all the space on the card. I’m pretty good at email and I think it would be best if I just sent out a mass text.

To: Everyone who sent me a gift

Message: Thanks. I love it.

I really can’t mess anything up that way, and I think I seem genuinely grateful, don’t you? Alright it’s settled, next time you get me a gift, be prepared for an amazingly concise and eco-friendly text message in return.

Halloween wrap-up

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November 1, 2011

And now I bring to you the obligatory after-Halloween wrap-up blog post where I tell you that I dressed up as a Real Orange County Housewife for Halloween. I wore a fuchsia Juicy track suit, had french manicure polish on my toe nails, a feather piece in my hair, big ol’ fake knockers, and a Starbucks blended iced coffee in one hand and a glass of Chardonnay in the other. Cheers!

Just kidding, no one would know I was dressed up. It would basically be a typical day for me, only I’d have bigger boobs.

This year I didn’t dress up. Actually I never dress up, but I always want to. The urge is very strong in me. But I fight it, with everything I have. Mainly because my husband doesn’t enjoy my company when I’m wearing a Magnum P.I. costume with matching mustache. Perhaps he’s jealous of my aviators, or maybe it’s because I look better than him?

Well whatever. Halloween’s over and I’m not bitter that I didn’t dress up, okay maybe just a little bit, and I might just retaliate by dressing up on a day in the very near future. Maybe to your daughter’s 4th birthday party? I’ll be the one dressed as a slutty astronaut. Happy Halloween, er, I mean Birthday I got a glow-in-the-dark solar system and fishnet stockings.

Berlyn and Hudson chose to be matchy-matchy this year. Honestly I had very little to do with it. This was the first year that I fought the urge to interject my sage advice and wise opinions. Of course I always have a say, but this year I let them decide, and they were so excited with their choice of Lightening McQueen race car drivers. Seriously, if I just printed out some Cars logos and scotched taped them to a pair of red sweatpants they would have been just as happy. But I caved and actually bought them costumes.

Their joy is my joy.

When I dropped Berlyn off at school in her costume, I’ll admit, I was a little hesitant. Because at her age every single girl dresses up as a princess of some sort. But not Berlyn, there wasn’t a stitch of pink on her, no flouncy dress or golden scepter to wave around. When she met up with her pack of friends at school they circled around her and told her she looked like a boy, and one of her friend’s said, “I don’t like your costume.”

My eyes widened and held my breath, waiting to hear what Berlyn would say. I didn’t want her to feel bad for choosing something counter-gender. I wanted to celebrate her uniqueness, and I certainly didn’t want anyone to crush her spirit. I know I can’t protect her forever, but she’s 4 and I’m going to try until she’s at least 57.

Then she says, “Well, I like your costume.”

Zing.

Perfection.

Maybe it was the high I was riding from raising such a well-adjusted and secure young lady, or maybe it was my coffee kicking in, or maybe it was because I was just really, really hungry, but whatever it was, I got home from dropping her off and spent the rest of the day in the kitchen making fall food.

Pumpkin pie, caramel, cookies, chili, corn bread, apple cider, popcorn, and whipped cream (for the pie)

Everything was entirely homemade, and everything went entirely into my belly.

After that we went trick-or-treating, and I stole all my kids candy, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right?

I’m another year older

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October 21, 2011

Birthdays always beget this monumental introspection into my life. I create these thoughts of grander, like how this is the year that I’m going to start waxing my upper lip, or now that I’m older it’s time to start stretching properly before a work out, or this year I’m going to stop spending money on shoes and start a boat fund because old people need boats. But usually I just get really down on myself because I think, geez, how is it that I’m another year older but still a punk ass bitch? I thought I had resolved to change that on my last birthday. Or I’ll think, I’m so lazy, people that have way more kids than me have a clean house and time to blog about their recent trip to the dentist, meanwhile I haven’t been to the dentist in way too long and I swear I have 3 cavities because I’m addicted to watching Rachel Zoe on Bravo which leads me to eating handfuls of candy corn because I get sad that I can’t afford a Chanel tweed jacket, plus I don’t like to brush for the full 2 minutes because it makes my teeth hurt, and people who have hurty teeth probably have mouth cancer, and it’s not like I can just stop eating these sweet nuggets of non-corn because I’m addicted, yo, and this is my crack, and I’m like that smoker that just gets their throat removed but still smokes out of the hole in their neck. Just send your flowers to me at the hospital, I don’t know what the room number is, but just ask the nurse to put them in the room with the crazy lady who throws candy corns into her face hole.

But this year it was different.

No introspection.

No thoughtful reflection on how I’m going to make this year better than the last.

I’m 31 now. It’s serious. I’m now a full-fledged adult. I have kids and wrinkles and a sensible car, and I buy groceries like a mo-fo.

10 years ago I used to wander the isles awkwardly with my cart, I was like a baby calf just learning to walk. I’d stare up at the tall shelves, intimidated by words like red wine vinegar or orecchiette. I wouldn’t know the difference between All-Natural and Organic. And I’d never go up to the deli-counter because that was scary, and if I did I’d probably be all, “um, like how much is like a pound or something?” I’d only buy things that I recognized: Triscuts, boxed White Zin, and Kid Cusines, the one that came with the fried chicken and the brownie/pudding situation.

But now, I’m a shopping maven, I stay away from frozen fake food, I hardly ever wander into the center of the store, and I buy produce that sometimes I can’t even pronounce like endive. Is it en-dive or en-deeve?

So happy birthday to me, I’m another year older, and all I have to show for it is sensible grocery store decorum, an addiction to fashion that I could never afford, a few cavities, and absolutely no desire to eat the brownie/pudding situation.

But hey, things can’t be all bad because at least I don’t have a face hole.

So there’s that.

Cruise-Over

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October 11, 2011

I just came back from my 8 day cruise vacation with my family. And seriously, there should be some sort of disclaimer when you sign up for a cruise that says after you get home, you’ll probably feel like crap for approximately two-and-a-half-days. A veritable “cruise-over” if you will. It’s like a hang-over but with less alcohol and more karaoke.

For the past two-and-a-half days, I have been swirling, barfing, singing, sleeping, and spinning. But it was all worth it.

Here are some words I would use to sum up my New England, Canadian cruise:

New York

Ale

Kennebunkport, Maine

Lobstas

Churches

Canadian, eh?

Wicked Cold

Famiy

 Fancy

Sunset Talk

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September 28, 2011

I’m going to have to start saying things like, avast matey or over the starboard bow me hearties, or ye be a saucy wench because I’m going to be on a cruise for the next few days. And when you’re on a boat you have to talk like a pirate right? Well maybe that’s not exactly how it works, but honestly I don’t know because I’ve never been on a big o’ boat before. I had drinks at the Queen Mary once, and I’ve seen the Titanic movie, and that’s about all the exposure I’ve had to ships.

I have all these ideas of what it’s going to be like, the romance of the sea, the crisp wind on my cheeks, and the new land to be explored. But I’m nervous too, for starters, I’m “motion sensitive.” I duck out of amusement park rides that go round and round, I get car sick if I’m shoved in the back seat, and the last time I was on a sail boat my face literally turned green. Plus, I’m fearful of the cabin situation. I’m imagining this cabin to be the size of my shoe closet. Am I going to have bruises all over my legs from navigating the tiny room? I bruise easily, ya know. I have this sneaking suspicion that my cabin will have a bathroom that looks just like the airplane lavatory complete with flickering florescent lights, wonky water pressure, and an odd-shaped toilet that produces green liquid when you flush. I already have a hard enough time doing my twosies on vakay, and I’m sure this trip will be no exception.

On our honeymoon Pat and I went to Paris where we spent 9 glorious days exploring the City of Lights and having room service cheese plates delivered to our hotel room at 3:30 in the morning. Maybe it was all that cheese or my refusal to adjust to French time, but whatever it was, I was massively constipated. Every morning I’d give my new husband a run down of my BM progress, or lack thereof. I figured he needs to know this information as soon as possible because he has just pledged to spend the next 75 years with me, and the veil has been removed. It’s imperative that he know that I talk about poop with as much flippancy as most would talk about the weather.

I spent the whole trip plugged up. Which I didn’t understand, because so much was going in my belly: steak frites, crêpes, beer, wine, second-hand smoke, pate, foie gras, escargot, canard, poisson, and enough chocolate and macrons to induce a diabetic coma. I needed the whole French cuisine experience, no stone unturned for me. But apparently my colon had other plans.

It wasn’t until I was home that I finally was able to relieve myself, a mere 10 days later.

I’m fearful that this cruise will create the same situation for my intestines. And apparently cruise food is massively abundant.

So for starters, I’m loading up on the bran muffins at the buffet breakfast each morning. I’m also bringing a list of topics to avoid when talking to my mom.

OH! I forgot to mention, I’m going with my mom, plus my brother, his girlfriend, a few cousins and an aunt and uncle. I am not going with my husband and kids. I’m leaving them at home, there’s really no need to introduce my children to the crazy that runs so ramped in my family during such a tender age.

As for my mother, I have decided that it’s best to only speak when spoken to and try to gingerly change the subject when any of these topics may come up: travel, fanny packs, stranger-danger, general health, cab rides, hair color, body mass index, whether or not I need to wear jacket, and food. I’ll stick with neutral topics like my kids, and how beautiful the sunset looks.

She’s already propelled herself into nervous frenzy when she thinks about me traveling by myself to get to the hotel the night before we leave on the cruise ship. I have to take a 5 hour plane flight, then a taxi in a very busy city to get to our room. I’ve heard the following statements from her regarding this:

Wear a fanny pack, it’s best to keep your valuables on you when you travel. And then pull your shirt over it. Nobody will pull up your shirt to get to your money. I promise. But if you carry it in a purse, you might as well be waiving a red flag that says, “I have stuff in here that I want you to steal!”

Don’t talk to strangers, even if they say they have a taxi cab and are willing to give you a ride. They are con-artists and they only ride they’ll give you is a DEATH RIDE!

And recently she’s enjoyed bringing up these topics:

Have you gotten that hernia looked at? If you don’t do it soon you’re going to need an intestinal transplant, and don’t come running to me, I’m not donating any of mine to you,  I’ll just tell you I told you so!

You’re getting too skinny! What’s wrong with you, EAT something! Oh that’s right, I forgot, you don’t like the taste of food anymore. I’d be skinny too if the only thing I ate was bowls full of lettuce.

It’s 69 degrees outside and all you’re going to wear is jeans and a tee-shirt? You know you’re going to freeze! Don’t come running to me when you do, I’m not giving you my extra jacket!

So I think my trip will be great as long as I stick with bran muffins and sunset talk.

Car Show

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September 24, 2011

We went to the car show this weekend. We go every year, and I love it.

This year we ended up at the Orange County Auto Show where I rubbed elbows with a mass of overweight men wearing jorts (jean shorts) and tank tops. And there was a time when a man’s hairy shoulder came in very close proximity to my cheek.

I was exiting a Subaru and he was eager to be the next to sit down, a little too eager, and before I could completely remove myself from the car, he grabbed at the steering wheel and started to lower himself in. A mere two centimeters from my face were his abhorrent shoulder hairs. Each standing defiantly, and proudly, as if being perched up high on this man’s body gave his shoulder hairs bragging rights over all his other body hairs. I was arrested by awe. I watched as they danced lightly when the air conditioning blew gently on them. His gaping neon green tank top showed that he not only had hair on his shoulders, but also on every part of his torso. Being that close, I saw every wiry hair was lightly covered in a dewy sweat that smelled a tiny bit like corn dogs, Jet Ski fumes, and Miller Genuine Draft. My face turned sour; I squinted my eyes and drew my lips into a tight pucker. I wouldn’t want one of those fluttering hairs in my mouth, now would I?

Soon it was all over when I shimmied myself out of the car unscathed. I dusted myself off and turned back to see if that man had any idea that he left me with deep emotional scars. He didn’t, he just pushed buttons and pretended to run over the people in front of the Subaru.

So I had no other choice but to forage onward. I had a job to do and my job was to find myself a new family car. The Passat is getting too cramped. And I want a car with a third-row.Well, it’s actually fine on space, I hate to complain about the size of my car, it sounds so prissy. Did you know that in some parts of the world there are people that don’t even have an SUV?! Shocking. How do they get their children to soccer practice and piano lessons? For all of my adolescence my mom drove my brother and me around in zippy two-door cars, and aside from my 16 year bout of car sickness, I turned out just fine. So I’m very adamant when I say I “want” a car with three-rows, I don’t need it, I just want it.

After months of making pie charts, looking at bar graphs and several power point presentations, I’ve narrowed my search down to 5 cars. I came to these conclusions based on a few criterion.

One: Can I use a hose to clean the inside of it?

Two: Does it have a back-up camera?

Three: Does my next door neighbor own it?

and Four: Will the third row collapse easily to accommodate for a impromptu quickie?

Apparently you can’t use a hose to clean the inside of your car, after I recovered from that realization, I narrowed it down to these 5 cars:

Ford Flex

Pro of the Ford Flex is the technology. I consider myself somewhat tech-savvy and my iPhone is an integral part of my life. So the fact that my phone can sync up with the Ford as soon as I enter the car is pretty dang cool. Especially since I’ve been living under a rock with car technology for the past 6 years with my Volkswagen. As far as the technology is concerned, my VW is on par with a 1989 Pontiac Firebird.

The Con is that everyone in the whole wide County of Orange owns one of these.

Chevy Tahoe Hybrid

Pro of the Chevy Tahoe is its size and how awesome and mean it looks. Grrrr! It’s spacious, and we’re big fans of road trips, so we’d be nice and cozy in one of these. Plus it’s a hybrid, which is nice because I hate getting gas. Gas getting and going to the bank are two chores that I simply refuse to do.

Con is the size. It might be a little too big for my needs.

Range Rover LR4

Pro of the LR4 is how pretty it is. I’d like to sing a song to it everyday, lovingly clean out the front grill, and do oil paintings of it to hang above my bed.

Con is it’s a bit too fancy and if my kids barfed in it or my dog released her anal sac fluid on the seats I might launch myself into a fit of rage.

GMC Acadia

Pro of the GMC Acadia is that it’s as cute as a button, but in a very grown-up-I-pay-taxes-and-have-a-life-insurance-policy-kind-of-way. It’s like the Tahoe but less obtrusive. It’s snappy and fun to drive (The nice GM people let me drive one for a day while I was at BlogHer a few months ago and I loved it). It’s a smooth, quiet ride and incredibly classy.

Con is OnStar. I would probably never use it. And I’d hate to buy a car but never use a major component of it. I like the idea of OnStar,  and I think there is definitely a use for it, but I’m not the kind of gal that would ever use it, I’ll just stick with my smart phone.

Audi Q7

Pro of the Audi Q7 it’s German. We have a crush on German cars over here, and it’s a full fledged luxury car. I’m used to turning the big crank analogue style to lower my passenger seat into a recline position when Pat drives and I want to take a road-nap, but this thing is all fancy all the time. No big crank here, it’s all buttons, toggles, and lacquered wood paneling.

Con It would cost a butt-load to fix when it needs maintenance. I’m not down with that.

We’re not going to buy a new car for a few months. So I guess you’ll have to wait and see what we choose. I’m so excited, I can’t wait for that new car smell!

My Weekend in iPhone Photos

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September 19, 2011

 We headed out to L.A. for yummy food at Malo and music courtesy of We Barbarians.

I’m a sucker for a photo booth.

Next we had a full day of everything Disney.

Crap, we go there a lot.

First we took our kids to build a custom car.

It’s like Build-A-Bear but for cars.

Then we headed off to Disneyland,

had fun with friends,

and fell asleep.

AND when I woke up this morning, I found a note from my husband who left for work early:

I’m going to see Bon Iver tonight!