An Ice Cube concert review by the whitest girl in the cosmos and how I came to realize I watch too much of VH1's reality programming (repost)

Backstory: Over the years, I've been known to attend concerts that stretch the parameters of my music tastes, because not only am I open-minded, I'm just cool like that. For instance, the last concert that I saw (other than the Wiggles or My Little Pony: The World's Largest Tea Party) was The Extreme Metal Tour 2001 - I say "saw" because as I've said before, you sure as hell can't hear it. I've also been to Ozzfest. Twice. And seen Metallica more times than I can remember. That sort of music really isn't my style (to say the least), but I used to take my little brother to a lot of shows when we were younger because he loves it, and I'm the best sister in the world.

But anyway, it had been a while since I'd seen a show, and when Carl asked me if I wanted to go with him and a group of our friends to see Ice Cube, I said what the hell, I'll go. Besides, I like Ice Cube. I'm familiar with his work in Boys in the Hood, and more recently the inimitable Are We There Yet? franchise. Yes, methinks this Ice Cube is a likeable fellow.

The Ice Cube concert is at the House of Blues. When we arrive I immediately take note of my fellow concert-goers. I observe that these are definitely not the sort of individuals that might attend say a Cat Power gig. Wait! I think I see Flavor Flav! Carl tells me that the gentleman I'm referring to is certainly not Flavor Flav and quietly suggests that I refrain from yelling "Do you know what time it is?" (and by that I mean that he told me that he would leave me then and there and pretend not to know me for the rest of the night if I did not stop it right now). The security line, while not long, takes ages to get through, which I consider to be a potentially ominous sign. I decide that there should be drinks. Lots of drinks. And have one of Carl's friends fetch me a rum and coke.

Finally we make it through security and into the venue. While we wait at the bar for more alcohol per my request, there is a brief scuffle and some girl throws a punch at our friend's date. Charming behavior, but that's nothing compared to a Metallica concert I attended where paramedics had to be summoned to assist the guy that o.d.'d in the row in front of us. I guess I'd rather have some bitch throw a punch than have a stranger projectile vomit in my direction. That's just my personal preference though. At that moment I also recall a time at Ozzfest when by the end of a long day of music and revelry, the ubiquitous red-necked males had become quite intoxicated and the environment potentially hostile and I locked myself inside the safe confines of my car until my brother was ready to go while blasting 'NSync in retaliation. Oh, the memories. But I digress...

After we finally get our drinks and find a spot down on the main floor, Ice Cube is nearly ready to take the stage. When the main act does begin and Ice Cube swaggers forth, I notice that he is considerably more portly than the image on the set design behind him. I prefer the portly Ice Cube and make a mental note to consider whether or not I have become a "chubby chaser." Food for thought.

Suddenly I recall something that I learned in grad school from a course on hip hop and film (I was actually the Teacher's Assistant in this class, which makes it even more frightening that I have retained almost NO information.) "Ice Cube is from N.W.A., right?!" I exclaim excitedly to Carl who confirms my observation. I'm all proud now. But I am distracted suddenly when I think I see Garth from VH1's cancelled reality show Megan Wants a Millionaire. I tell Carl that I'm certain that the greasy plumber that serenaded Megan with a plagiarized song called "Sex Mode"* is standing RIGHT BEHIND US!!! Carl does not watch VH1's ground-breaking brain cell eroding reality programming so he is oblivious to my washed up loser celebrity sighting. He ignores me, preferring the vocal stylings of Ice Cube.

As the concert progresses, Ice Cube performs some classic hip hop from the 80s and 90s. I like this about Ice Cube. Some of these songs I am familiar with (and by that I mean that I've heard them once or twice). At one point Ice Cube asks, "You Down with O.P.P.?" (you may want to refer to Wikipedia if you are unfamiliar with this acronym. I was, but I had the urban dictionary that is my husband to translate for me). "Why yes, Ice Cube, I am down with O.P.P., thank you for asking." At other points, Ice Cube gets down right gangsta, but he looks snugly to me and I wonder if he likes cuddles.

Later, Ice Cube performs one of hits from the early 90's "Check Yo Self." He tells me "You better check yo self before you wreck yo self." Methinks this is sound advice Ice Cube. Yes indeed. While I do manage to get my groove on, I fear that I probably look like Bree Vandecamp from Desperate Housewives trying to fit in with the Ice Cube crowd, but roll with it anyway, trying to enjoy whatever contact high I can get from all the weed I smell around me.

In all seriousness though, I would have to say that I really had fun at this concert. It was a cool experience and I'm glad that I went. I might even consider attending another one. But only after Carl agrees to watch me rock out at a Rilo Kiley show - or better yet, maybe I could force him to go with me to see Morrissey (although I'm pretty certain that he'd throw down over that one). Really the options are limitless...

*Note: Carl does NOT consider it erotic when I serenade him with "Sex Mode" , just in case you were wondering. "Grab my stick and switch right into SEX MODE..."

In Philly even the geese have attitude and why my son has an irrational fear of gerbil-sized dogs and animals in general. (repost)

In the past I have for the most part refrained from posting about some of the more embarrassing behaviors of my kids, not so much because I'm fearful of embarrassment - I mean I think we've established at this point that I have absolutely no problem humiliating myself here for the sake of entertainment. No, I've refrained because I would never want to post something on my blog about my kids that might serve as fodder for their humiliation later in life. I mean adolescence is difficult enough without your mother spilling to the Internet all your childhood secrets about thumb sucking and toilet issues. That said, every now and then there comes a moment when I want to talk about my kids' freakish behaviors, if only to be able to commiserate, even briefly. Today's topic: my son's bizarre fear of dogs the size of a hamster. Even when they're on a leash.

A bit of back story: I've always been a dog-lover. I had dogs throughout my childhood. I even had one when C and I were dating. That's a story in and of itself. Let me just say that a decision to adopt a lab/pit bull mix should not be made after a night of drinking Tequila. Actually, that particular night I ended up with a dog and knocked up. Yes, that was a memorable night indeed. That damn dog ate everything from a bottle of prenatal vitamins which, on Christmas Eve had me desperately trying to contact animal poison control in a panic - and the only thing the dog suffered was an extra shiny coat. This dog also ate OUR HOUSE (I kid you not. He chewed all the stucco off the side of the condo we were renting at the time) and our YARD. Eventually, we had to give the dog away due to all the damage he inflicted on our condo, and the fact that as it turns out my kids are allergic to dogs. Don't worry, I assure you we found him a good home (which is far better than the one he came close to getting in Heaven). So anyway, we gave up the dog before my son was old to remember that we ever even had one.

Anyhoo, a couple of summers ago we went back East to visit C's family and decided to take a trip to the Philadelphia Zoo, as the kids had never been to a zoo before. All was fine and good aside from the 100 degree heat with humidity (I'm from the desert people. It's hot here, but it's not generally humid, and we have freakin' air conditioning everywhere). Anyway, when we sat down to eat our lunch, we were accosted by a giant herd or flock or whatever you call it of geese (I guess geese just randomly wander the Philly Zoo - maybe this is normal for zoos, I don't know), and let me tell you they were aggressive. In Philly, geese don't politely request that you toss a few crumbs their way Good Sir. No they get downright ghetto about it and demand that you give up the goods, motherfucker! And these geese were nasty. They had some sort of mucus emanating from their geese nostrils (germ phobe alert!). Anyway, the geese were practically charging us and, well a flock of geese forcibly snatching my son's hot dog from his tiny hand with their evil pestilence-covered beaks was understandably terrifying to my then three year old. My husband and his friend successfully chased the geese away (but then some idiots decided to start feeding them part of their lunch, which brought them right back).

But anyway, that marked the conclusion of "The Geese Incident." It was, however, just the beginning of "The Zoo Incident," as we still refer to it to this very day. You see, the zoo does not allow straws on the premises because the animals can ingest them and die or something (I'm no zoo expert. I don't know.) But if you recall, it was about 100 degrees out and apparently I failed parenting 101 and never taught my kids how to drink out of a cup like normal people do, because Maggie wouldn't drink out of a cup without a straw that would enable her to suck "sippie cup style." Well this prompted the temper tantrum of the century. A temper tantrum to end all temper tantrums. This child wailed the entire way to the car (she had to be carried of course, as her back was arched, her face red from all the screaming. I worried that someone would think that we were abducting her, but then with the way she was carrying on, who would even want this kid I wondered?). She continued to scream non-stop for about 45 long minutes as we drove through downtown Philadelphia, screeching and frothing at the mouth. Recently when recalling "The Zoo Incident," the friend that accompanied us to the zoo told me that he had never in his life heard a kid scream like Maggie did that day. I'm fairly certain that "The Zoo Incident" single-handedly affirmed his decision to remain single and child-free for life.

But to return to the issue of the dog phobia, it became obvious to the hubs and me shortly after our return home from Pennsylvania that our son seemed to have developed an irrational fear of all animals, including even the very smallest of dogs, ON LEASHES, as well as cats which he believes to be dogs I think. We know this because when people innocently bring their pooch to the little park by our house my son has been known to loudly shout things like, "This is MY park! Tell that dog to GO HOME!" or better yet, "I HATE dogs!" Yes, we're so very proud of our anti-social animal-hater. My husband and I have tried on numerous occasions to explain to the boy that a) that's rude, b) it's not his park, and c) an animal the size of a gerbil on a leash is incapable of spontaneously mauling him. It just is. But this has been to no avail. There have been times when my six year old has literally jumped into my arms while shrieking uncontrollably to escape the immanent danger that he believes a Chihuahua poses him. Yes, my son is "that kid."

I think when it's all said and done, this pretty much says it all: This is a page from my son's school journal. It reads "A good pet would be a red fish." This makes sense to me seeing as how he hasn't had any unfortunate incidents with fish. Yet. I think his teacher's response of "That is a good idea!" is kind of funny. Perhaps she too has had a dog that ate her house. Either that, or she's witnessed my son's behavior around dogs and is saying "A fish IS the ideal pet for a freak like you. Your parents must be crack-dealing pedophiles."

A fish is the pet my son prefers.

*Update: Just yesterday some poor lady brought a dog to school when she came to pick up her kid - the dog was in in her purse by the way, so it was not a large threatening animal by any stretch of the imagination. When my son saw the dog he pointed to the sign posted on the side of the school that says "No Dogs Permitted On School Property" and said (loudly mind you), "That sign says no dogs here! Why does that lady have a dog? I HATE dogs!" Okay, now I'm embarrassed.

So Let's Talk About Buffets (repost)

Yeah, this is a repost. Lately with so much on my plate, a few repeats may be in order. Besides, I recieved a request from a friend that I repost this particular piece, as well as a few others, and quite frankly that makes my life just that much easier right now. But do not fear, I'm working on a little something about Disney Channel live action television programming and Grease. Oh yeah, baby.

As I'm sure it is for many families, dinner is often a source of contention in our household. It would seem that not one of the members of our foursome likes any of the same foods, with various food allergies making the process of choosing something for dinner all the more difficult. Lately my husband and I often find ourselves staring blankly at each other whenever the inevitable topic of "what should we have for dinner" presents itself. I do cook regularly for my children as does my husband, but lately the kids only like two things, and I'm gonna freak the hell out if I have to prepare tacos or plain noodles with meatballs one more f***ing time.

That said, last week Carl had a stroke of genius - we live in Vegas, why not take advantage of something that Vegas is known for the world round? Their fabulous buffets! At a buffet, each of us can choose whatever we want for dinner.(Plus we had a coupon that made dinner practically free, and considering the fact that we're flat broke, that was a nice bonus). Naturally I was resistant at first, I mean buffets are disgusting. How white trash are buffets (very)? But eventually I conceded because I sure as hell didn't want to have to start the painstaking process of reconsidering our dinner options all over again.

After we picked my son up from school, we headed directly to the buffet because we were all starving and it makes sense to try and beat the dinner rush (add that to the list of reasons I'm geriatric: I prefer to beat the dinner rush when I frequent the buffet at 3:30 in the afternoon). You may be wondering at this point "aren't you the same annoying pain in the ass person that is supposedly into "organic, hormone free this and that?" Yes, I am. But I'm also into not wanting to gouge my eyeballs out with a blunt instrument every time the question of dinner comes up. So that brings us back to our most recent visit to the buffet...

Let me just preface this by stating a disclaimer: children sometimes say things (unintentionally) that are not politically correct. I am not advocating or encouraging these statements; my children are 4 and 6 - they don't know what the hell they're saying. If you're offended please remove the stick from your ass and go away.

So after we made one of many rounds at the buffet (come on - you know it's a pig fest! It's a buffet!) Maggie and I took our seats and proceeded to chow down while Carl and Bear rampaged the taco bar. While I ate mashed potatoes, Maggie began feasting on one of her personal favorites: watermelon. And boy she was gettin' into it. With her eyes practically rolling back in her head, "Mmmmm, I love me some watermelon. Watermelon is gooood." Naturally these comments were said in the not-so-subtle tones of a four year old (meaning she's practically shouting), which aside from the bad manners wouldn't have caused such embarrassment if we weren't sitting next to a table of African Americans. Again, I don't think this would matter all that much if I weren't getting looks, and by looks I mean they were turning around to stare at the person that was loudly saying "Oh yeah, I do LOOOVE me some watermelon!" I mean Maggie did seem to be putting on quite the show and I kind of wondered if they thought she was doing it on purpose or if I had put her up to it or what. (Yes by writing this I am acknowledging the existence of a stereotype about African Americans liking watermelon. What can I say, I was mortified). I was very embarrassed and at that point attempted to get Maggie to keep her ecstasy over the watermelon to a minimum. And I will admit after that I did forbid her to get fried chicken.

Then there was the point at which my son loudly called my husband fat and offended an old lady, all in one fell swoop.. Whoo hoo! We were on a roll! After dinner Carl was standing up because he was so full (our family really believes in getting our money's worth at the buffet). Bear was all (in the loud kid voice of course), "Dad your belly is FAT! I've never seen a belly that big!" and then proceeded to hit the belly and we all know that doesn't feel so good after a binge like we just had. Carl told Bear to stop that and jokingly said that he might explode if he doesn't stop to which Bear replied, "Yeah! Explode! That'd be cool!" Carl responded, "I don't think so. I'd die." Which at this point I'm thinking "Dumb-ass. Don't say 'die' - I so don't wanna go down that road right now. But Maggie didn't miss a beat with that one.
Maggie: (Loud kid voice) "Mommy where do we go when we die?" (We talk about this A LOT).
Me: (Resigned) "Heaven."
Bear: (As usual) I'm not going to Heaven. That's boooring.
Maggie: "But not for a long time right?"
Me: (Looking around and noticing the elderly woman sitting at the next table, only three feet away. Shit. She's looking at US now). Um, yup. More desserts anyone? (Mind you, we were all about to throw up at this point).
Bear: (Again, in the loud kid voice) You mean we'll go to Heaven when we're all old and wrinkly, right?
At this point Carl and I pretty much decided to high tail it out of there (yes with the kids in tow, although at that point we did consider leaving them). Hopefully we're not eighty-sixed from the buffet, because we just got another one of those coupons in the mail. Besides, my son likes the buffet because you don't have to wait for the server to bring you food because waiting (like Heaven) is soooooo boooorrring.

Happiness Project

Kid dance classes.


There's just something about watching a bunch of pre-school age little girls arabesque to songs like "Bust a Move" and "Word Up." Yes, Maggs loves her dance classes and so do I. Last week, parents were encouraged to join in on the fun and cut a rug a la John Travolta to the Bee Gees' "Stayin' Alive," preferably while making silly faces. What can I say, I'm a sucker for a little song and dance. But I'm even more of a sucker for Maggs in a ballet suit making good use of disco fingers. How can something like that not put a smile on your face?


Now it's your turn. Go ahead and grab Leigh's button and post a photo of something that makes you happy. I mean, what the hell's wrong with you? Do you have something against happiness?

Um, pardon me father but that cow is no longer mooing...

Sorry I've been slacking in the commenting department lately - I assure you that it's not for lack of interest. Sometime last week I determined that I'd finally had enough of the general disorder and filth around here and decided that it was time once and for all to get my act together and get some housework done. I really busted ass all weekend and the house has actually been restored to some semblance of order again. I mean, let's not get ahead of ourselves, there's still much more to be done, but at least we all have clean underwear in our dressers biatches (oh yeah, we be fancy now). What's more, this morning I didn't have to perform an emergency scramble for socks, which usually requires that I blindly rummage through 10 loads of unfolded laundry piled up precariously in my laundry room, all the while praying to god that I don't cause some sort of laundry avalanche. On more than one occasion the children have had to settle for socks that don't match. Well, their socks match today, baby! Booyah!

I'm about to continue my 1950's housewife shtick and go vacuum something - oh trust me, I'm sure this little phase will run it's course and my household will once again begin to look more like a re-run of Roseanne than Leave it to Beaver. For the time being, however, I will leave you with this...

Last night we were enjoying a typical EW dinner. Okay, maybe not so typical: the hubs was having a steak and I was having a martini (okay you got me again, I was actually eating a meal too - I'm not a complete lush. But I did mention that I'm pretending to live in the 1950's. Aren't steaks and martinis pretty much prerequisites for any 1950's fantasy?) Anyway, Maggs inquired as to what her father was eating...

Dad: Steak

Maggs: What's steak?

Dad: Beef, which is from cows.

Maggs: (Incredulous, even though we've told her this before) Cows?!

Dad: Yeah, cows.

Maggs: You mean the kind that go "moo?"

Dad: Yeah.

Maggs: (Suspiciously, as if she's onto us) Um, then why isn't it mooing anymore?

The conversation continued until Maggs wanted to know specific details about how cows are killed and then made into steak. I kind of shushed the hubs because Maggs still weeps inconsolably about (what she considers) the untimely death of Goldie the goldfish over 2 years ago. I'm pretty sure she'd require therapy if the hubs were to detail the slaying and butchering of her favorite barnyard friend.
























By the way, my son, over-tired from a busy weekend, had already been dismissed from the dinner table at this point for unacceptable behavior - AKA whining, complaining, and generally being unpleasant. I guess the Beav didn't get the memo requesting that he behave like a Stepford child until further notice. Let's hope that while he's at school today a space pod replaces my son's current incarnation with a more 1950's sitcom-friendly version...

If my man wants a sausage party, by golly I give it to him!

This week C celebrates his 33rd birthday (yeah, that's right. I'm 2 years older than him. I'm one of them cougars. Meow! Okay, so I'm not a cougar, but C assures me that I am a MILF - to which I say, aww thanks, babe! Now why ya be goin' and gettin' all romantic-like?)

Anyway, C has to work all week, so the kids and I threw him a little pre-birthday soiree here at home. Bear and Maggs gave him some clothes (okay, really it was I who gave him the clothes because the children don't have any money and can't drive or anything - they're kinda lazy like that) - you know his usual "Cholo on Easter" attire (I totally stole that from Knocked Up, but this description just suits the hubs and his "look" ever so well). I also made him two of my famous "mixed tapes." I put a lot of effort into these musical endeavours because, while I like to think that my knowledge of most genres of music is above average, my familiarity with rap and country is admittedly fairly limited, and rap is C's music of choice. It's actually pretty funny to be trying to select the best songs for these compilations and to hit the thirty second "preview" on itunes, only to hear "Move bitch!/ Get out the way!" or "You's a fine mother fucker/ won't you back that ass up?" - at which point the kids come running from the next room to inquire if I'm listening to "Daddy's music." You know what they say - it's all fun and games until someone calls social services...

Nevertheless, my CD's are usually a big hit with the hubs because, as my son is fond of saying, "I'm too good." In order to add flavor to the festivities C style, I suggested that we grill some sausages to go along with dinner, as this is one of the hubs' personal favorites. I myself opted for a few pomegranate martinis (damn, I'm hooked on those suckers!).

When it's all said and done, I think that the hubs' birthday party was a success. Just before bed, I paused to give C a tender peck on the cheek and to whisper ever so lovingly, "Happy Birthday, Honey. I really hope that you enjoyed your sausage party." Because I'm considerate like that. If my husband wants a sausage party for his birthday, by golly I let my man have a sausage party! I am such an awesome wife like that.

I hope everyone is getting into the swing of things on this fine Monday morning. If I can ever figure out a way to balance housework and mom duties with my blog addiction, maybe I'll get around to finishing one of the 50 unfinished drafts I have going right now (keeping my fingers crossed). But for now, I'm going to go fold laundry and scrub some toilets. Jealous much?

Blast from the past.

The following is a repost from when I first started writing this blog. I seem to be fighting something off yet again, and I just can't deal (with anything) this week. Don't fret, I have more great stories in the works - just you wait!

Until then, please enjoy the following tale of dorky teen angst, waiter-stalking, and crappy teenage cruise-mobiles. And I'd like to give a shout-out to Girl in the Room for giving me the idea to repost this.

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From December '08

Blast From the Past

This has been a busy week and I'm glad that's it's finally coming to an end - although now it's looking like the weekend might be just as busy. Bear is the "Star Student" in his class next week, and I have to make him a poster, a journal complete with pictures of him hanging out with the class bear "Ted," and snacks to share with his classmates - it's amazing how much work I have now that he's in school. And of course he has a winter play next week, a student-teacher conference, and then there's the holidays to consider...anyway, we're busy.

C is going out of town until Tuesday, and the kids and I will be left to fend for ourselves for the next few days. Bear and Maggs really love their weekends with their dad, so I've come up with lots of fun things for us to do in order to distract them from his absence. Today I took the kiddos for a ride on the carousel that's by our neighborhood Whole Foods, and then we had dinner at Chili's.

I haven't eaten at a Chili's in years, but it seemed like a good idea since it's kid-friendly (my main objective in selecting this particular restaurant), and there's one a couple of blocks from Bear's taekwondo class. For a brief period during my teen years, I frequented Chili's with two close friends on a pretty regular basis. In addition to driving our crappy cars aimlessly around the suburbs (more on my crappy car in a minute), we took great pleasure in eating out as often as our jobs permitted - and I'm not talking about Taco Bell or Burger King (perish the thought!), I'm talking about real restaurants, pretty much every day after school (and no, we did not weigh 300 pounds).

For a while Chili's was the destination of choice, and for a short time we decided that we were in love with one of the waiters that worked at Chili's because we thought he looked like Neil Finn from Crowded House (perhaps not most teen-aged girl's idea of a heart-throb in the early 90's, but to each her own). I'm not sure that he even served us food more than once or twice, but we sure thought he was the cat's pajamas.



Neil Finn. You know you want him.

On the subject of my crappy car: it was a 1984 dark red Ford Thunderbird with paint chipping off of most of the passenger-side door (I always suspected that it had been spray-painted by the previous owner). It had no AC, which wouldn't have been such a big deal if we didn't live in a place that can sometimes reach 120 degrees in the summer; that car felt like an oven in July. This car also made strange noises when it accelerated, which deterred several friends from wanting to ride with me (although if I'm being completely honest, my less than stellar driving skills were more likely the real reason people politely declined a ride in my "cruise-mobile").

Tonight when, coincidentally, I heard "Something So Strong" playing on Chili's piped in musak, it really took me back to those days. I laugh at the absurdity of our crush on the Chili's waiter (sort of a la William H. Macy's crush on the braces-wearing bartender in Magnolia, but in a funny way and, I'd like to think, less pathetic. We thankfully possessed enough self-awareness to recognize how ridiculous we were, and derived great pleasure from making fun of ourselves. I guess some things never change).

I also laugh at our version of teen angst: driving around the 'burbs in crappy cars, cranking "How Soon is Now?," and debating about which restaurant to eat at after school. (As I recently pointed out to A, we probably could have afforded better cars if we didn't spend so much money on restaurants. But as usual, our love of food prevailed). I suppose we could have been using illicit drugs and having unprotected sex (I saved that for my mid twenties. Good times.), but that just wasn't a part of our journey. We may have been dorks (okay, we were defintely dorks), but now that I have my own little girl I hope, no I pray, that someday she'll be a dork too.