Shut up about the car in the background. Check out the amount of snow. They actually cancelled school for this. I’m pretty sure I’m trying to keep my hands warm. That’s me on the right. I hope that’s not some 1980s modeling pose I’m trying to do.
I grew up in Texas. Houston, Texas. That picture is the one picture of the one time when it snowed. It’s with me and my pals, we made a one_foot tall snowman from the snow collected on the car, because we didn’t want to mess the pretty stuff up on the ground. That, and we didn’t know how to make a snow man.
When I went off to college, in the glory days, we got a huge snow storm my first December. Six_foot snow drifts. We held our breath while our coach drove us to practice. Wait, I was a red_shirt, and so, “practice” meant daily beatings, target practice, if you will. Then the snow melted. And it was windy and all was right with the world. There’s folklore out in Amarillo that the mall has a contract with the snow plows that above all, their parking lot gets plowed first. Amen. I’m certain it’s true. There’s just not that many big snows, and not that often. And I’m pretty sure there’s not enough snow plows.
So, when we moved to Nebraska, and I discovered we were bordering a Dakota, because all I knew up to that point was TEXAS geography, I was apprehensive to cross the Mason_Dixon line, but elated that I’d have a white Christmas. For three years, I’ve waited. I’ve muddled through snow in November, only to watch it melt away, then snow again in January…February….March…and then there was that one time in April when I defied Mother Nature to snow in April. That was funny. Because year four, and I got my White Christmas. It was pretty.
The thing about dreaming of a white christmas is timing. Of which, Mother Nature has no regard for, apparently. It snowed while we were in Mexico…at the BEGINNING OF DECEMBER. And that snow, plus about four other snow storms is still on the ground. Because we’ve had consistent sub zero temperatures. Not freezing. Sub zero. For a solid month now. It’s snowing right now. It snowed yesterday. And the day before too.
I’m so sick of snow. It’s cold, it’s wet. We put sand out so to melt it or make traction or something. And so, I get wet gravel all through my house. No one can wear shoes inside. The coats, the gloves, the hats, the boots, the snow pants are all over the place. Sick and Tired. I don’t even want to celebrate the snow in my hot tub while sipping a hot cocoa in peppermint schnapps. It’s too cold to even hot tub.
I can hear Mother Nature now, “Oh, you want a white Christmas? Yeah? Well FINE! Here you go!”
Thanks, for that. Now I’m forced to be trapped in a house avoiding Brit_Watch, while I fold endless amounts of laundry and sip hot tea all day. And when the kids get home, I actually have to PLAY with them! I can’t even make them go play outside. Although they want to. It’s just too cold. Thanks for all that.
So no thanks Bing. Thanks for sucking me in to your little lullaby of how pretty a White Christmas is. I’m not buying it anymore! Next year, I’ll dream of Christmas here:

That’s how I roll.

All I’m sayin is, this guy loves Disney.
We’re going to Disneyworld!…Mom On The Rocks Style.
I’ve had a lot of people tell me, You HAVE to do this. And you HAVE to do that. Something about waking up Tinkerbell, or dining with princesses. The first time you go, you need to stay here, the second…third….fourth time… And all I have to say to all that is, “Nuh_Uh.”
I know some very wonderful people in my life. Good, honest, wonderful Disneyworld Freakish people. In our humble opinion, these people are off their Mouse Ear Rockers. For the life of us, we can’t figure out why anyone would take their kids off a sleeping schedule for 7 days, sometimes 2 weeks for this place. And why in the name of all things Mousketeery would anyone go back, over and over again? I’m sure we’re about to find out when we go. Maybe we’ll fall in love with the place and in the midst of a mickey mouse cupid time share guy at the airport suckers us to come back over and over again. I doubt it. But never say never, especially to mouse ears. Here’s how we roll in Disneyworld:
1. We go once. One time only. Ricardo and I agree that this place is worth a visit. Worth taking the kids. But this isn’t the cool mall play area, folks. One time only. If they love it so much, they can go back…when they take their kids. We take them for the experience of a lifetime. And then after this, we take them to see other majestic, beautiful and somewhat educational places in America. I think Ricardo and I need a refresher on what makes America so great anyways. (It’s not Disneyworld, I know that.)Then, just when the kids think that the world revolves around Americans, we venture out, learn new cultures, new countries. That’s our MOTR Long Term Vacation Plan: Disneyworld, America, World. It’s a solid plan.
2. We go to one amusement/theme park a day. And only the ones we want. No water parks. This comes from a long standing successful theory on child rearing, you give them too many choices, they will explode. Just a few options. We’ll hit the big stuff. It’s clutch time in the fourth quarter. We go in, we ride, we see stuff, we get out. No harm, no foul. If we can’t see it all in a day, then we don’t see it. We’ll never know what we missed. And if we can’t see it in a day, then we just don’t see it. That’s the beauty of it.
3. It’s like Eminem was writing the song for Disneyworld:
You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You want it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo.
Maybe I’ll sing that to the kids on the way down there.
4. We will not tell the kids we are going until the night before we leave. This does two things: it alleviates the “Are we going to Disneyworld today?” every hour for the next 6 weeks. And also, by not telling them, they’ll get no pre_conceived notions. They’ll have no time to do research, ask their pals, or look online. I’m pretty sure the look on their faces when they just see the castle as we walk in is going to be worth the whole deal. So, nobody blow it for them.
5. This is the only time ever I will ever ever ever take my kids out of school for a vacation. This is a minor attempt to keep what little sanity we have in tact and avoid the crowds. It’s worth the sacrifice of our children’s Kindergarten education to have minimal crowds. And don’t get all high and might on me, I’ve coordinated with both teachers that indeed, they are brilliant enough to fall out of line for a few days. And staying with the consistency of Meanest Mommy in the World (it’s hard to hold that title when you take your kids to Disneyworld.) I will be bringing all of their assignments and homework with us. They will do it. When I was in high school, I missed a bunch of school for some basketball tournament, and when I got back, in my typing class, I’d missed the p’s and the q’s section. Just never really able to recoup from that. I think I missed the numbers section too. So, we’ll KNOW our letter of the week. Don’t you worry! Maybe it’ll be D for Disney. Or F for Effn Mouse. Something like that.
6. I will ride that monorail. I will make the whole family get on it with me and ride it. I’ve always wanted to. I will force my kids and RIcardo to ride It’s A Small World too. That’s all. Everything else will be a relaxed, fly_by_the_seat of our pants celebration.
I’m looking forward to hearing all of your tips and planning advice. That’s how I roll in Disneyworld.

Don’t let the smile fool ya, they’re killers.
There is so much. I just don’t even know where to start.
Some of this is so ironic. Even more so, my vet thinks I’m absurdly crazy and mean. He’s brilliant like that.
Two days ago, Ricardo emails me a story about raisins and grapes being toxic to dogs. I read it, and kind of laughed in the face of death for Farley. First of all, I thought, “Too bad for those people that they don’t have the dog who can defy all odds like our dog.” Secondly, I thought, ” Let’s go try it out on Farley.” And thirdly, I’d just been to giant grocery shopping day and purchased grapes, at SAM’S CLUB, so it was in bulk, and yougurt covered raisins on a whim. I take note, and go on with my day.
Wednesday, I get back from taking the kids to school and see that Max left his grapes on the table. Farley didn’t touch them, and I’m shocked and grateful. I pick up the kids, we go to Julz (Holla!)’s house, and I’m telling her about the email for dogs and raisins, because she has a dog, and well, she’s nuts, but loved. Aren’t they all, these wacked out, enabled pets of ours?
When we got back, I saw that Max’s lunch bag was on the floor open, with a raisin box out, and empty. Max was ticked because he was saving them for later. After I pressed our kid to tell me how much he’d eaten, so I could figure out how much was left for Farley to inhale, I realized, it’s tiny kid serving of raisins. And the dog looks fine. I kept my eye on Farley and went on with the day.
Yesterday, I returned a call to the vet because he needs to tell me how to ween my dog off Prozac. It’s not helping. I truly believe that nothing can help nor harm this dog. Not even Prozac. I call to talk to the doctor who isn’t in, and tell them why I’m calling, leave a message, and by the way, I think my dog ate a small kiddie box of raisins, is there something I should watch for, he seems fine, but just in case.
“You REALLY need to bring him in and get his bloodwork drawn and tested.”
Still kind of laughing, clearly, she doesn’t know Farley, “Well, he’s 120 pounds and he ate maybe 15 raisins. And I’m weening him off of Prozac. I’m trying to not be a hypochondriac here. I think he’s fine.”
“Ok, we strongly recommend that you bring him in.”
I say fine, I’ll do it. And rush to get in the shower before I talk myself out of it. The dog is fine. I’m not taking him in. We have a new strict regulation on this dog _ we love him _ he’s ten years old and unless he’s in pain, or due for shots, we’re not bringing him in.
I pick up the kids from school and head to the gym. That’s when our vet calls.
“I know you want to talk about weening Farley off the Prozac, but first, I have to ask you, did he eat raisins?”
I say yes, but it’s no big deal, and that’s when the vet tells me to get him in. I keep telling him, we’ve been watching him, he’s fine. And we know that even if it’s the raisins that kills this dog, there’s nothing they can do. He assures me that it takes a few days for his kidneys to shut down, there will be a lot of barfing involved, and I DO have new carpet, and they WILL need to do something to keep him out of pain eventually. So, they need to know if he’s in renal failure or not. Now, this guy knows me and my dog fairly well. He knows our kids, and he knows how we feel about this dog. So, I turn the effn car around and head back to get the stupid dog. Now I’m totally freaked out that my dog will die.
We take him in, I assure the vet that I do love my dog. He says he knows I do, and they take Farley to the back while I sit there with the kids, staring at the potential small and sterile room where they just might have to put him down. This isn’t good enough. I get Farley back home, Doctor tells me he’ll call me with the results and I take the kids to the gym.
I got Lucy ready for her swim class, and went straight to the steam room. I actually laid there waiting for the call, planning a brilliant death for this dog. To let him just be put down on a sterile table, would not do him justice. Maybe just like his name sake, we should hire him a hooker, and get him some serious dark chocolate. It’d be just like cocaine for him. I needed to call Outback for a steak, what else, he loves peanutbutter jars too.
The more I wait, the more I realize this dog is going to die. That the vet is dreading the call, and so, the more time it takes, the more I realize the dog’s going to die. We have just a few more days with ol Farley and I better make the best of it.
Ricardo calls me when I’m getting Lucy dressed in the lockerroom and says the vet called. I hold my breath and ask what the results say.
“100% Normal Levels.” That effn dog. Now I’m pissed, because he’s not going to die, I TOLD YOU SO, and I missed my workout. When Doctor left the message he said, “It looks like Farley has beaten the odds….again.” So, awesome vet, who I think might understand me, I keep TELLING you and you don’t believe me! The next time something happens, I’m not calling. We’ll just be on Doggie Death Watch.
Dogs his size aren’t supposed to live more than 10-12 years. I’m guessing Farley will go to 20. I better go give him his Prozac.
That’s how I roll.

Back in the Glory Days, my dad was the dad who may or may not make it to the game. Let’s cut him a break:
$400 roundtrip
$150 a night in a hotel because he said he didn’t want to sleep in the dorm.
Wagering whether your daughter would even play, PRICELESS.
But the last two years, I played quite a bit. I even started. OOOOH! So, my dad would come to the games, and he was the guy who sat quietly up in a back corner. Oh, sure, he cheered. But that was it. He never once turned red in the face, screamed expletives to the refs, or painted his bare chest with our letters. Well, there was this one time on a dare…no, he didn’t do it.
I had an underlying thought that he never really liked me playing volleyball. He was not too happy when I quit basketball. I think I slept in the garage that night. But in hindsight, he liked it, he just had to learn the game. And then learn that I was a benchwarmer. Then it all came to fruition. He was a quiet guy. Not shy, just taking it all in. I should probably learn from that, but I’m too busy talking.
Even when talking to my coach, I knew that she probably didn’t enjoy conversations with my dad. Dad just had a look. He did the look when I’d go out on dates to the guy picking me up. There were LOTS. Or not. But the guys still to this day refer to my Dad as scaring them because he’d just look at them, not much to say. I suppose there’s power in silence. I’m guessing I’ll never really know. I think he was okay with the fact that I rode the pine for three years. He knew I sucked. Coach knew it. It’s just that, well, no one sent me the memo. It turns out that being 6’3″ on a college level team isn’t all you need. You have to have other stuff like, drive, ambition, determination, maybe a bit of athleticism even. Blah blah blah.
I always wished my dad was more involved, more conversational with my coach and the boosters. You know _ more of a suck up. Later, I was told by a coach, I’m not mentioning any names here, that she appreciated that my dad let me go to college and learn from my mistakes and take direction from the woman who gave me a scholarship. It turns out, those red faced, expletive shouting, painted chest parents (there were some moms _ awkward) were just as loud and vocal off the court, in constant calls to Coach’s office. My dad would never do that.
Fast forward to a couple of years out of college, and I was coaching a club team. The crapjob about coaching is the parents. Any coach on any level will tell you this. I actually had a mom call me at work and threaten to send her husband to my office to kick my ass. After I called the volleyball club’s board director and quit, and called HR, asked for security (they were all retired military, and I think looking forward to a security breach), I called my Dad.
“Dad, thanks for being quiet.” Is all I could say.
None the less, when on Saturday, we went to our kids’ debut in basketball, I was prepared to be the quiet good little parent, which clearly is hard for me to do, because I’m vocal and obnoxious. Granted, we’re pretty sure the kids will go pro, and that’s our investment and retirement plan. We figure since Max is supposed to be 6’10″, and he plays left_handed. (So what if I tied his right hand behind his back for 2 years when playing any sport.) Even if he rides the bench on a mediocre NBA team, he’ll make a few million. And he’s stunningly good looking. He’ll be the poster child of wholesome goodness for marketing products. So, he’s got that too. And as long as we treat him really nice, and remind him of all the things we did for him, I’m sure he’ll share. He told me once, when I had the flu, that he’d take care of me. I made him write it down and sign it. So, it’s all legal now.
I was prepared to be a good quiet bleachers parent because they are FIVE. What could possibly go awry at a YMCA co_ed 5 year_old game?
Well, I’ll tell ya. We met the coach (because I know better than to coach, I’m willing to pay to have my kid play) and he’s nice enough. Good with the kids. We’re sitting there, it’s the 4th quarter. Everyone’s getting equal playing time. The other team has some good little shooters…potential point guards. Lucy, it turns out, who didn’t even want to really do this, but I forced her to, because a) it’s the only time she’ll be able to play on a team with her brother and 2) I had to constantly explain to her that there’s just not any 6’4″ cheerleaders or gymnasts around. (I’m a dream crusher, I’m well aware.) It turns out that she is a defensive master. All is well.
There’s a kid on our team, a little guy. (The little ones are always the feistiest.) And although our coach has explained zone defense to the kids, the kids are just basically going to the kid with the ball. This little kid is guarding the kid pretty good, when he decides to reach over his back and actually has this kid with the ball in like a heimlich maneuver type of hold. I’m waiting for our coach to tell our kid (not my kid) but our team’s kid, to get off of him. I’m watching, I’m waiting….then finally he goes to say something…to the other coach,
“Can you get your kid to stop throwing his elbows?”
WTF? Oh, no. Which is exactly what the other coach said in his head, I’m sure. Out loud he said something like, “What? Get your kid off of him.”
And then the verbal war began. The YMCA rep comes out, tells them to calm down. DAY ONE folks.
Okay a.) our coach was out of line, and missed an opportunity to tell our kids, that hey, it’s not okay to bear hug your opponents. b.) no fighting boys. and c.) you want them to quit throwing elbows? THEY ARE FIVE they don’t even know what that means, let alone that they are doing it on purpose? C’Mon!
We went home, the kids happy as can be. And I was devastated that indeed, we’re stuck. I’m hoping this is a one time occurence, and that maybe our coach had a brain fart. It happens. Then I get a call from him, he needs my email because he wants to email all the parents about what happened and explain. Super. We get the email, and basically, it’s him defending himself, and by the way, he’s a high school basketball referree, and he knows the rules. DAMN.
I’m going to maintain my dad’s stance here, and keep a quiet lip. When he called to get my email, I told the coach that indeed, our kid was holding the other kid. But I quickly realized that he wasn’t hearing any of it. He was right, and that was that. I know people like that, and it’s better to just hit your head on a brick wall than to argue with them. So, I gave him the email address and tried, for the sake of my kids to maintain a good fluffy and positive tone with this guy.
I will, like my father, log that little tidbit of information about him being a ref. It’ll come in handy when my kids are playing in a game in 10 years, and I can scream at him, “YOU WANTED 5_YEAR OLDS TO STOP THROWING ELBOWS! YOU MO_RON!” It’s gonna be great.
That’s how I roll.

You know, I expected Madonna with her Kabbalah bond with Britney to come in and shake Britney out of it. Or maybe Larry Birkhead_ since he hasn’t been in the media for a couple of weeks exploiting his daughter. Maybe Pee Wee Herman, or that red_headed has_been from the Partridge family, ooh, maybe even Corey Feldman to swoop in for some more screen time to save Britney. But really, Dr. Phil, you’re still in the limelight, you still have a show…a job, you don’t need a boost. This may have been your career killer. Going in and helping Britney at the hospital is good. But then exploiting the experience, well, that’s no better than the stupid paparrazzi drooling all over her. Now, is it? Who needs a Dr. Phil intervention more than Dr. Phil at this point is all I’m sayin. I’m so disappointed. I might break up with you.
I’m so sick of watching Britney on tv. I actually made a personal stand the other day to stop watching shows that talk about her or mention her. I’m down to the Biggest Loser and uh….that’s it. There is absolutely no NEWS show on tv that doesn’t have the balls to say, “Guess what, she’s not news. Let’s not run her face on our NEWS PROGRAM.” I think the judge in this case, should ban the media from mentioning her name or pictures. All of it.
“Well, Les, that might put a large damper on the whole Freedom of Speech and Freedom of the Press gig.”
How about the journalist’s responsibility to report the news? What about the fact that all pix of our pal are solely based on hired stalkers. They are getting paid to stalk her. When I see her with just a tshirt on a balcony trading cigs and lollipops with a buddy, I don’t see her, I’m more curious about how that shot was taken. I see the putz in the bushes with the camera. Eww. Even more eww, is the putz in the bushes is probably the boytoy’s friend. Because the boy toy is paparazzi! “Hey dude, I’m going up to her room. No, I’ll make sure we get out on the balcony and she takes her pants off. This is totally awesome dude!” (Spicoli style)
There is no doube in my mind that this whole BritWatch phenomenon is in hindsight from the Ana Nicole gig. Does the media think, maybe if the public watches her every move in self_destruction, we can save Britney? No.Absolutely not. Perhaps, we missed the opportunity to watch Ana Nicole die on camera, maybe for huge profit, and the media can give us the gift of watching Britney do it. Maybe we can watch it all happen on tv. Perhaps. That is sick.
On the flip side of the media, I’d like to point out, who the hell is controlling who, here? Somehow, even high as a kite, our little pal, Britney is making out with the paparazzi. Asking them to help her in the bathroom. More than drugs, she needs her people to follow her around. If she runs off all her friends, she can still get all her paparazzi peeps out there to act like they care and literally wipe her ass. And if she’s banned by the judge from drugs, why not the media? Please, blacklist Britney. Wouldn’t that be refreshing?
With all that said, I have a few points to make before I break up with my BritWatch. Her mother sounds like a real winner. And although, I truly feel that you should strengthen from the bullshit adversity your parents’ mistakes and how they effect you, it’s good to know we can start with her when we all go to therapy with Britney.
But let’s move on to our clean cut Kevin Federline. All I care about this guy is that I’m pretty sure he’s the one who catapulted our Britney into a world of drugs. I’m sure she liked him because he was a bad boy and maybe she’s into greasy hair. (Now it’s shaved off, I know, but before, eww.) And I’m sure she’d been offered drugs prior to meeting mister hip_hop dancer. There is a video on youtube somewhere of Britney high. And rather than watching the effing video to see our all_American pop princess high, I find it even more relevant as to who is behind the camera. What lowly creature would consciously get her drugs, get her high, and then film it? Baby daddy, that’s who. All for a buck.
All these people are making money off of Britney’s destruction. I’m not making a dime. So I’m out. Unless you want to pay me to read about her or watch about her, I’m out.
Screw you Mark McGrath with your daily Britney_Watch graphics is all I’m sayin.
That’s how I roll.

The value of a friend, in my humble opinion, is solely based on the pain you feel when that friend is hurting.
At times, when my dear friends hurt, I truly believe I’m the one who should go through therapy. I truly love my friends.
That’s how I roll.

Ricardo and this guy should be sponsored, not by AA, but by the companies. These guys don’t have race cars, but should at the very least have a sponsor_ridden racecar suit with their logos all over it.
The last few months, Ricardo has a new passion. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Well, yes I have. Remember that dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding who thought everything could be fixed with Windex? Well, let’s just say, we’re going out today to get a squirt bottle. He can use it to his hearts desire.
His new passion: vinegar.
He started talking about all the benefits one day, and then proclaimed he would drink a cup of vinegar/water mixture each day to stay healthy. He talked me into trying it, even mixing mine with a little honey. But when the vinegar ate my stomach lining, I retreated. I need my stomach lining, I’m sure of it.
Then, at lunch with one of his co_workers one day, I discover co_worker is not only having a vinegar cocktail with him, they are buying the vinegar together. Like a married couple. Should I be jealous? And should I be jealous of the vinegar or the co_worker?
When we went to Mexico, he didn’t get his mixture. I think he was worried the Mexicans would laugh at us (him). I’m sure they weren’t laughing at us because we were the tall freakshow, or that night we were the obnoxiously loud people summoning our bartender every 7 minutes with EL CAPITAN! Yeah, I’m sure the next morning, they weren’t laughing at us at all.
It was an all_inclusive, I’m guessing there was vinegar around. I wonder if Mexican vinegar has the same health benefits as American processed FDA approved vinegar. Mexican vanilla is so good. Maybe the vinegar is too. But we’ll never know. So, after his vinegar withdrawals, a stop in the nasty smog capital of the world, LAX, and travel, Ricardo gets the worst cold and flu I’ve ever witnessed.
I personally went and got vinegar at Sam’s Club for him. He’s back to drinking his breakfast cocktail again. And also boiling some vinegar concoction and breathing the vinegar steam for direct effect.
Other things Ricardo now does with vinegar:
Cleans my coffee pot.
Cleans the windows.
I think he threw some in the laundry the other day.
Steams it.
Drinks it.
I’m pretty sure after he changed the oil in the cars yesterday, he came in and washed his hands with vinegar.
If you have any uses for vinegar, we’d love to hear them. Be nice. Vinegar is nasty on it’s own, I don’t need any sickos telling me their freakshow stories. So, keep it clean. Like vinegar.
That’s how I roll.