Sunday, April 25, 2010

Bloggy Boot Camp – "Out There"

We all picked words for 2010. My friend Dorothy, @EcoOrganizer picked “Magnetism”. My husband, @Taxes007 picked “Smarter Not Harder”. My friend Carolyn @Craftycmc said: “That’s Really Stupid.”

Anyway, I picked “Out There”.

Which should have been fucking easy since I am kind of a very Out There Girl!

I love a party, love speaking my mind, and love to discuss my pussy in mixed company.

But I found that there was something about moving out of the confines of my Palm Springs life that scares the hell out of me.

In the four months since I chose “Out There” to define my year, I have changed it once or twice… okay, fine more like 50 times to: “Never Mind”.

But the chick that said this whole ‘word’ thing was stupid reminds me every chance she gets… “What’s your word?”

Grrr… “Out There”

So I just did a photo shoot to put me and my face (I was only convinced when I was told I could wear the longest, thickest false eyelashes ever)…..“Out There”.

And I am putting together a web page. Of course I am also now laying in the fetal position, eating cheetos, chanting like Brick in the Middle “Never Mind” under my breath.

I’ve been bolder about reaching out to other bloggers. Of course one of the “Biggies”
slapped me publically on Twitter for saying I was stalking her with cheetos cuz I wanted to be her friend. Then she BLOCKED ME! And so did her other friends. (Clearly they didn’t think “stalking with Cheeto-stained fingers” was as hilarious as I did!).

Guess they didn’t get the memo about me being ‘Out There!’

That turned out to be a full week or two of changing my mind about this whole thing. I could barely tweet for a while. (Since then, using intensive Martini therapy, I have overcome those fears.)

So I am going to Bloggy Boot Camp in Phoenix this weekend (where for the love of God, I hope they teach me some stuff about blogs and sponsorship. I really want money.)
Because Damn it, I’m “Out There!” (Well, and it’s only an hour flight away and the weather is identical to Palm Springs, but my encroaching agoraphobia is a whole other blog.)

Brazenly I am putting up my website:

I am printing up business cards with my FACE on them (okay – very tiny, but still kinda “Out There”). I am bringing Goodie Bags for everyone (hey, I didn’t say anything about overcoming my need to buy affection).

I am bringing Press Kits for my one woman show, which I am positive no one wants, nor will anyone come see when it debuts in the Fall. (I am getting a bit ill just typing this…. Can you hear me whispering ‘never mind’ into my shirt?)

I have about half of a book written, which I am sure no one wants to hear about or read. (Talking about this is SO embarrassing.)

Plus, I am an older Mommy, and I hate that! So I will have a very busy week of coloring my roots and well, it is probably too late to get some botox. Now I will be exposed and I am pretty sure I will be shunned cuz of my advanced age.

But I am getting on that fucking plane. Even though leaving my 760 area code gives me stomach cramps and dry mouth. Nothing a little martini at the airport won’t cure. (What Honey? My plane leaves at 9:30 in the morning? And your point would be what exactly?)

Bloggy Boot Camp – I have my vodka, cheetos and pictures.

Here I come, Phoenix!

You ready for me to be “Out There?”

Never Mind.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Fuck You Mr. Doctor

So I need to see a doctor . . . it’s urgent. I have Crohn’s Disease. Had it forever. Having abdominal pain – never a good sign.

So this doctor, whom I have seen once (my other, NICE doctor, moved) runs a really efficient practice. Practically no wait times. I’ll put up with a lot to get in and our without waiting. (Clearly there may be an actual reason why there is no wait time . . .)

So when I needed this guy, he came at me with both barrels smoking. Instead of a “hello”, or “I see this is an emergency appointment we have for you today, what’s going on?”, this guy opened the door and bellowed: We are going to have to see whether or not I can even treat you!

Uh. . . I’m sorry. Can I just get a Cat Scan first before we have our big second date fight? I’m worried about losing what little bit of a colon I have left . . .

Turns out, while I waited for his office to decide whether or not they could see me within the WEEK (Hello – Crohn’s!? Abdominal Pain!? Medical Chart 4 inches thick!?)

I had asked my internist (whom I had seen just a couple days prior – love him) to order me a white count, to see if I had any infection running away in my body.

This full-of-shit Doctor (who’s office didn’t even know if they would be able to “contact doctor” today) was fit to be tied that I had “gone around his back” and “ordered my own blood work”. I wasn’t allowing him to practice good medicine. (Cuz yelling? That’s some really good medicine there. Thank God all my other doctors missed the special “yelling class” at medical school.)

And man, he let me know how I had not ordered the full compliment of tests that he needed. Again, I’m sorry Mr. Yelling Doctor…just needed to know if I had another perforated bowel. So sorry to be pesky like that.

To deflect his anger and disappointment I said: I am happy to go get any other test you think I need. He then castigated me about my safety and health in getting two blood draws in a day. (Uh, I’ve had multiple blood draws in a day, many times. I’ve had nurses try to start IV’s up to 10 times. I ain’t afraid of no blood draw. But you? You are scaring the shit out of me. (Oops. Bad Crohn’s joke.)

He even vilified my internist (aka The Good Doctor) saying why didn’t he communicate with me? (Cuz it appeared no one knew where you were.)

Well, I felt like sobbing. But I didn’t. Cuz I’m brave like that.

I felt like defending myself and my other doc. Which I did. Cuz I’m defensive like that.

But I had my eye on the prize. I could hate this guy every day for the rest of my life, but FIRST, I had to be a Good Girl, and get that CAT SCAN ordered, cuz for me? That test is literally the sign of life or death.

Once the Cat Scan had been ordered, I decided to tell Mr. Doctor that he kinda scared me, and I’m sorry he was upset, but I was operating off the info his office had provided me. I was trying to take care of myself while I waited for his office to let me know if he could see me.

He said: There are no other patients like you. Patients come in, tell the doctor their symptoms, then ask the doctor what HE should do next. (I swear to God, this guy is barely 40 years old – he’s not some ancient, doddering old dude practicing medicine in a small town in the 1940’s.)

Again, he let me know that the “team approach” to medicine was unheard of. And just to be sure, he said again: there are no patients like you.

Well Mr. Doctor. Here is what I have to say to you, (which btw, I am actually too big of a pussy to actually say):

First: Fuck you Mr. Doctor.

Second: Mr. Doctor. I have had Crohn’s disease for 30 years. I have worked with the world’s most preeminent doctors in this field at Cedar Sinai. There are no other doctors like you. I have never heard of a doctor that doesn’t welcome a “team approach” to practicing medicine.

Doctors who berate patients (before saying hello) are not practicing medicine. They are practicing their own version of I’m-insecure-and-will-meet-my-fucked-up-psychological-needs-by-controlling-sick-people. I wouldn’t let you treat a feral cat. (Or actually, maybe I would, cuz I’m pretty sure the cat would win. And I would like that.)

BTW, thanks for the Cat Scan. I found a new doctor. He practices a freakish kind of medicine. He listens to the patient. He promised to take care of me.

(I wanted to offer to bear him children, but I’m old, infertile and he ain’t no youngster himself.)

That new guy? He’s my kinda doctor. You? You are a bully, a meanie and a control freak. And I heard you yelling at those other people in the other exam room. It’s cuz of them I’m sending you a letter. Not this letter, but another one.

Fuck you Mr. Doctor.



Monday, April 19, 2010

Who Are You? And What Have You Done With My Daughter Dammit?

I've heard people talk about the difficult tween years. But THOSE parents have problems with their children because they aren't “in-tune”, they aren’t really cool, connected parents. They haven’t done years (okay dammit, decades) of therapy.

They could have a better handle on their kids. I mean my daughter is 10 and she is fabulous: great student, sweet kid, tomboy, soccer player, devoted to her little sister (cuz they don't get playdates, so who else are they going to hang out with), a loving little cuddle bug.


It happened overnight. This past weekend as a matter of fact. I've never seen such sobbing cuz it is 8:00 a.m. and she's not quite ready for school yet.

Or the crying because she lost her book. Or the pouting cuz there is foam on her milk in the morning. Or the complaining that there are too many apple slices in her lunch. Or the howling that “My sister won’t quit looking at me”. (Oh wait, maybe that is me howling?)

Oh, and she knows everything. I am trying to tell her how to clean the toilet: "I know Mom. I know, I know."

Really? She knows? When the fuck has she ever cleaned a damned thing in this house, let alone A TOILET?!? She’s going to clean the toilet like she cleans her room? What, she’s going to hide all the toilet dirt IN THE HAMPER, UNDER THE DIRTY CLOTHES?

Who is this overwrought (somewhat sweaty) child, who now hates bathing, has her eyes locked in a permanent eye-rolling position, wearing size 12 skinny jeans?

And what the fuck has she done with MY daughter?

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Uncork the Vodka Baby! It’s April 15th!

April 15th is the biggest holiday of the year in our household. My husband is a CPA and we have an accounting firm, with a couple of locations.

I take great pride in having tripled the size of our business in the past five years. I’m all about growth, expansion, efficiency, customer service. I’m good at that kinda thing. I’m the Director of Big Picture thinking. (Whatever you do, please don’t ask me a tax question. I’ll just tell you to call your accountant. Then I’ll give you our office phone number. Cuz I’m always working it.)

And I am the kinda girl that thinks Bigger is Better. (You’re welcome Honey.)

I always thought “Less is More” is the stupidest saying on earth. (Well, that and the one about “nothing tastes better than being thin feels!)

So we’ve grown this wonderful accounting practice that pays our bills, with a little bit left over for shoes (for ME! Who cares about the rest of my family.) But the downside is, from January through April we are one pretty stressed-out family.

I rarely see my husband and when I do, all we do is talk about the business, the calendar and office problem solving.

He has dinner with us a few nights a week, but it’s a quickie, then he’s back to the office until midnight. Most mornings he’s gone before the kids wake up.

This is the life we have chosen and the life we have created. It is a life that works for us. But for a couple months of the year, my kids get kinda edgy, we all get really tired from the long hours and then , my husband and I can’t remember why we married each other. (Seriously, the duress does make us both wonder what on earth we are doing!)

We have a siege mentality: eat fast food, skip showers, sporadic attendance at Soccer practices, weeping (I’m not referring to the kids), temper tantrums (again, not the kids), minimize the kids injuries cuz there really is no time to go to the doctor, tring to use a tone of voice other than pure exasperation etc.

Hey, not that we don’t operate that way all year long (it’s a full service accounting firm after all) but the stress of tax season makes us all a little bloated and oddly pale.

But it is April 15th! And we are done! Don’t call our office CUZ WE ARE NOT TAKING YOUR CALLS!

You can find us at the local bar. We’ll be swilling some booze. We’ll be the only people in Palm Springs that aren’t rocking some kind of bronze skin thing. We won’t be that fresh either. But we’ll be the happiest drunks in the place.

It will be like a combination of Mardi Gras and New Years Eve all in one. It is our big holiday of the year. So toast us, and save your tax questions for May.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Dog vs. Mom

I have a new dog. Well, the family has a new dog which means I have a new dog. We are a family with three dogs most of the time, but two suffered untimely deaths within a month. My kids were devastated. My last remaining dog was depressed. (Oddly enough, the vet wouldn’t respond to my repeated requests for Doggie Prozac.)

So we decided to get another dog. And it is exciting. But not so much after traveling from shelter to shelter each weekend. But then we find THE dog: friendly, big, sweet, good looking (we are shallow this way). I even pull the kids out of school an hour early so we can go as a family to the shelter to pick him up.

Then we bring him home. Then I remember how much work a new dog is. Now bear in my mind, I don’t ever feed our dogs. I have children for that. I also don’t pick up poop. Again, the children!

But the training is all Mommy, all the time.

And the walks through the neighborhood. Why is it that all damned dogs think they need to be in the lead? I call my morning walk Resistance Training FOR ME, turning my morning walk into full on, sweaty exercise. And then there is the whole Ninja move when the dog sees a cat. (The Ninja in this visual is supposed to be me – lithe body (oh, it is not a visual, it is a fantasy), knees bent, all senses tuned to the slightest change in the environment.) Of course, he sees the cat, lurches with his full weight and I get whiplash of my arm.

Plus the dog won’t come to me yet (I’m still hopeful for the future however).

So I spend a lot of time on the floor with doggy biscuits. (I don’t know if you’ve read my stories, but I actually don’t ever “get on the floor”.) But they aren’t that appealing to him. So I get off the floor (barely), get a bowl of yogurt, get back down on the floor (there’s whimpering now and yes, it is me) and try to tempt him.

I don’t get on the floor for my fucking kids, but there I am on the floor with a bowl of yogurt pleading with a 55 pounds beast to pleassssse give me some attention.

Then there is the opening of the gate to drive the car in and out. And his mad dash out into the street. And his complete unwillingness to come back home. And my franticness down on the ground, pulling dog biscuits out of my pocket, thinking Shit Shit Shit. I GOTTA get this dog back.

And the grooming. I run a tight ship at my house. (And yes, I can turn coal into diamonds in my ass.) My kids huddle in the house, watching through the window as the dogs writhe as I vigorously brush them with my special grooming tools. (I know the 10 yr old has said to the 7 yo: I’m so glad that isn’t one of us right now.)

Sit, down, come, stay, heel.

Yep it's working about as well as it does on the damned kids. Don't they know it's supposed to be all about Mommy, all of the time?

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Living in Gay Town…Ode to Palm Springs

This is a departure from my normal, Bitter Mommy Rant. in the life of TheDeeView, well we live it in Gay Town. And we fucking love it.

A town filled with gay people is a town with a fun party scene and all the houses look fabulous – inside and out. But what we really love, is the open-minded, all accepting vibe that living in here in Palm Springs brings.

Our daughters joyously wave at drag queens and have attended two gay weddings. (My youngest still wondered where the hell the bride was. She knew that the two men were getting married but she still didn’t understand why there wasn’t a white gown involved.)

And there is nothing like being at a cocktail party and having someone introduce you to their husband/partner and their husband/partner. It is a *Big Love* thing except without the weird hair dos, and the pussies. It is a town where the terms *top* and *bottom* no longer refer to which shelf the spare jar of mayonnaise is on.

These boys throw the most fabulous parties, where everyone has a good time. But there is a witching hour when the booze has been flowing and everyone is feeling loose.

Um…yeah, that’s kinda when shirts start to come off and boys start looking at each other with something other than cocktail laughter in their eye. That is when it is time for the Straight People To Go Home.

Of course, at that hour, my husband is also nice and liquored up and in the middle of telling stories himself. He’ll say: Let’s stay a little longer. We now have a deal.

When I say: Baby it is TIME to go, he gets that it is TIME TO GO.

These gay boys like to do things without their clothes on. Hike (really, what about branches and large cactus? And hello? It is Palm Springs – the SUN FACTOR!), hang out, party, paint (again, really? And what about the paint smears on your . . . never mind).

We have a rule in our ‘hood: We call first before stopping by.

(Or get an eyeful.)

@Taxes007 and I are both only children. My parents are gone, so essentially, we have no family. But our children are so blessed to have our gay friends.

One is a doctor who doesn’t love kids, BUT when our girls our sick, they call his name at the top of their lungs. Cuz they are sure he is the one who can make them feel better.

(Those house calls are expensive though. In our ‘hood you gotta keep that Kettle One stocked up and on the shelves.)

When our doggie died, it was the gay boys that rushed over with cards and gifts and love.

Our emergency call list at the school? Filled with our gay friends and neighbors.

Decorating advice? Well, they are NOT those kind of gays. (As they often tell me.) Which is fine, cuz hello . . . I can rock Mid Century Modern better than any gay guy in any town.

Hey, we even bought a little place in the mountains so our daughters would be exposed to straight people.

We thought it was important that they understand that men and women can get married too.

We wanted them to know that love transcends gender: that woman and men can love each other just like two men.

We need them to understand that straight people are fully contributing members of society also.

Who knew?

Life in Gay Town. We fucking love it. Bring your kids.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

I have an unnatural relationship with Zappos.

I mean unnatural, probably illegal in several states. Zappos and I have one of 'those' a special relationship. If I tweeted this much with a guy, I think my husband would have grounds. I know you think this blog is all about shoes. Ah…Well, what is wrong with that? It is simply a metaphor for MY LIFE and SELF WORTH.

It is one of those cyber relationships, if you will. I pay for the attention and affection. But that doesn’t make it any less real or meaningful in my life.

I mean it's ZAPPOS. We all know what Zappos is . . . right?

No? Oh Christ... It's like the American Cinderella’s dream. It makes Fairy Tales look ridiculous and banal. It is shoes, tens of thousands of shoes. Whore shoes, classy shoes, wedding shoes, comfort shoes, work shoes, kids shoes, men’s shoes. And they all get to you within 24 hours.

Let me explain part of my bizarre (well, NOT bizarre!) attachment to Zappos comes from the calm inducing effects of just shopping on their web site. While the kids are screaming, and there is no hope of dinner in sight, and I am just DONE being a mom for that day (okay, for that year, week) I lose myself in the Zappos website, throwing 6 inch high, brilliant hued, $400 dollar shoes, emblazoned with feathers into a basket. When my total is $3,000, I can empty the basket (almost), and return to dinner, parenting, you know that kind of stuff.

When the UPS truck pulls up with that gorgeous (BIG) white box, with the Zappos logo (love the shoe/exclamation point – hah! You are looking it up now aren’t you?) my children run into the house screaming, Mommy, the Zappos box is here, IT IS HERE Mommy!

Now you can try those suckers on in the privacy of your own home, bad crop yoga pants, (which aren’t that fresh), raccoon eyes (cuz you are too lazy to wash your face from last night) morning breath (which may have lasted all day, and has a disturbing exponential quality to it).

Plus you've got your entire wardrobe, just waiting to try on with each pair of shoes. You can twirl like Julie Andrews, you can crump like you are on So You Think You Can Dance (well, I don’t actually understand crumping, but I do a set of gyrations that are quite effective to test out new shoes), you can strut like you are on America’s Next Top Model (Super Plus Size Edition).

And after you have selected your ah…priceless treasures (this is a nice way of saying Come Eff Me Pumps), or amazing fuschia athletic shoes (cuz I know I walk faster in fuschia), or the latest in Ugg knockoffs (I live in Palm Springs, where real sheepskin boots are essential for those three bitterly cold days of winter), or comfort shoes (having to buy comfort shoes just sucks) can pack anything that did not go with those grungy yoga pants back in the box and Zappos has them whisked away, on THEIR tab.

I find this more gratifying than an attentive man during sex. (I could wax on about the use of certain shoes during sex, but that would be wrong. #prude)

Now with our every busy freaking lives, we may not have family dinner hour together every night (and if we do, it is highly likely to be fast food takeout) but we do have FAMILY ZAPPOS time!

This is where everyone, quietly gathers around the big white box and, zippp, we unseal it’s magnificence. The children reverentially open each box, then suggest which pair I try on first. They are trying on shoes also. There may not be any shoes in the box for them, but even my 10 year old Tomboy daughter likes to strut her stuff in a crazy pair of Mama’s shoes.

These decisions, about Mommy’s shoes, they are family decisions. There are flip charts, pro and con lists, price analysis . . . and alas, I don’t keep every pair. But this is my Mommy Pay Off. It doesn’t happen often (enough) but when it does, it brings us together.

Cuz the family that shoe shops together (in the comfort of their own living room) stays together. (Really, where are my kids going to go? Pretty far in their stinking cute Vans, or Converse or Bear Paws.)

What else in life provides all of this, I ask you?

Marriage? (Your wants and needs met within 24 hours? Ah, #no)

Kids? (So far, Zappos has yet to pout, sulk, or tell me I don’t understand them.)

Friends? (They just tell me to get out of cyberspace, something Zappos has never done!)

Family? (Uh, even Zappos understands my need to Tweet. And they tweet with me – HEAVEN!)

Zappos maybe doesn’t hold me at night, but I can surround myself with beautiful shoes, all tucked around me in bed (like my daughter with her stuffed animals) and have the sweetest dreams.

Yeah, something about this isn’t natural. And neither is using a vibrator . . . but the results are equally as orgasmic. Shoes…A woman’s salvation…

Thank you, so much for reading my blog. It makes me feel all gooey. (I live for Blog Hits.) If you’d like, please leave your blog address in the comment below. (It appears I’m too technologically challenged to find you on my own!) ( Also, I may be very busy trying on shoes.) xxx Dee Dee