tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42388541884100953222024-02-20T20:32:19.014-08:00My Mom's A Nerdlook out honey cause I'm using technology...Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.comBlogger374125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-51142245666802027232016-10-26T10:30:00.002-07:002016-10-26T10:30:38.589-07:00I'm just like Sia. You will not break me. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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That thing where you read the email from the kid’s kindergarten teacher that you have to turn in “family box” items TODAY, 7 minutes before your kid leaves the house. And you, swearing and cursing your lot in life, start maniacally culling pics from your instagram and sending them to the printer, only the printer jams, because of course, and you are shouting at your oldest to bring you a lego piece, ANY LEGO PIECE, to stick in the bag, only he brings you a special piece so you send him back to find a shitty piece, one that no one cares about, something his baby brother can glue to a box that represents his family. And then you’re thinking while running up the stairs with scissors in your hand to retrieve the precious printed photos, that the kids like sparklers, and there are some on the back table, and is it illegal to send your child to school with a sparkler? I mean, it’s not like he can light it with his mind or anything. Is that my period? Am I starting my period right now? That seems early. Make note to go to bathroom once kids are safely in car with precious family items that reflect our love and values. And as you crest the stairs you realize the fucking printer is jammed because PC LOAD LETTER it’s Wednesday! And girl you are going to get through this. SO you shout to your youngest, who is still not eating his breakfast, to find some art supplies, any art supplies, the ones in that bowl in the thing that we were using the other day, because that shows that our family likes to do art, and you have to go, and it’s family box day, so please for the love of everything that is holy learn to put your socks and shoes on by yourself right now, and I swear to god I will volunteer at a soup kitchen for thanksgiving. The whole family will! We’ll all do it! Because that’s the kind of family we are. Can I send him with one of those union rescue mission flyers? Have those started filling my mail box yet? He won’t know what it is, but he’s five. He’ll just glue it on there and his teacher will be like “awwww, being of service is a thing in their family!”. Fucking paper jam. It’s ok, you’ve got pictures of him at the beach with his bestie and him in an elephant costume with his brother, he doesn’t need a picture with his parents. Maybe she’ll think he’s like one of those tv kids who lives in a penthouse with a bunch of other kids and a nanny (because the picture of the babysitter printed because of course) and no parents. Fine. We’ll remain a mystery. Maybe it’s better that way. </div>
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Ziplock bag Contents (minus unfinished lego set with instructions that you had to dump on bed because we don’t have any empty ziplock bags because why would we have anything useful at all in this house?!)</div>
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6 pictures of child with friends, babysitter, and giant bear</div>
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one red lego square</div>
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one disneyland button that says “I’m celebrating” with Goofy’s face on it. </div>
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17 assorted googly eyes, assorted gems, sequins, and one ironman cutout (this probably banned from school property because violence on tv)</div>
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1 glitter star</div>
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1 untracked glow stick, size skinny</div>
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1 curious george reading a book image cut out from his (and previously older brother’s) crib sheet used for preschool naps. This contains the tears of youngest that it was cut out even as you explain that there is a lot more sheet and you were planning to cut it up to make a quilt anyway and please stop crying and I love you and have a great day and bye daddy, sorry. </div>
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I'm already 2 hours removed from the event and I've tricked myself into believing that it wasn't really that bad. But I'm going to watch <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBwELzvnrQg&app=desktop" target="_blank">this video</a> on loop today just to remember. </div>
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-57955576858026682402015-03-05T11:46:00.001-08:002015-03-05T12:09:41.568-08:00Clovercita for Black and White and Red All Over<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Prepare yourself for a deluge of sentimental sop. It’s been like, what 2 years since I posted here? Might as well have been a life. There’s nothing to be said for my absence. <b>I HAD ANOTHER BABY AND I THOUGHT LIFE WOULD GO ON AS USUAL</b>. Inevitably, life tumbles back to stasis, or entropy, depending on wether you’re a glass half empty or a “hey where’d my drink go?” kind of gal. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I’ve been busy, bored, anxious, flip, untoward, and lacking in minutes. But I’ve missed the writing. Even though I’ve done a little bit of this and that, I’ve missed the verbal vomit of which the internet is so accommodating. At this point a mom blog feels as relevant as pet rock or a bandana tied around my Guess jeans (Punky4evr). But you guys, we’re clearly all descending into <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqbYVr5jBVk" target="_blank">madness</a>, so why not do it together. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For the record. I might have just listened to the BBC thing on <a href="http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/546/burroughs-101" target="_blank">Burroughs</a>, who I don’t give a fig about, but it might have sparked a memory I once had about a creative life. A creative dangerous life I was going to live. No one wants that lady for their mom…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But here I am, living in this funny limbo of art and commerce. I don’t know what 23 year old me would make of this life (hey, we finally have a really nice couch!) or what 73 year old me will make of it (probably could have gone a little easier on the snark and the jeggings). But I’m making stuff. Making <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gFBxyNJaFCw" target="_blank">commercials</a>, <a href="http://oneanddoneshow.com/" target="_blank">making webisodes</a>, <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/Clovercita" target="_blank">making tote bags</a>, and now…making greeting cards. YOU SHUT UP. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Our brilliant, funny, creative friends used to own a shop here in LA called Uncle Jers, that was the best. It’s gone now, and they’ve moved on to greener pastures. They have a greeting card company called Black and White and Red All Over, whose cards you can find at <a href="http://www.papersource.com/" target="_blank">Paper Source</a>, and <a href="http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/urban/index.jsp" target="_blank">Urban Outfitters</a>, and cool gift shops all over. The schmancy kind in the vellum envelope. Last fall they asked me if I’d write a little line for them. Write jokes. Once I’d stop grinning ear to ear (3 days) I sat down and wrote. I wrote in the car, I wrote in the middle of neglecting my children. I even wrote one in the ER with Charlie on Christmas Eve, bc that’s how you do when you’re a mom. If you can’t laugh at this shit…”hey’ where’d my drink go?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So here’s the sentimental part. When I was growing up there, were a few small shops in Ann Arbor that were EVERYTHING. Middle Earth (now gone), Generations (now gone) A Peaceable Kingdom (moved to Main street) and <a href="http://www.thecaravanshop.net/" target="_blank">Caravan</a> in the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/nickelsarc/photos_stream" target="_blank">Nickels Arcade</a> (magic). My friend Misao and I used to buy tiny <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=hagen+renaker&client=safari&rls=en&biw=1440&bih=708&tbm=isch&source=lnms&sa=X&ei=wO_3VPTYCsH6oQSz5IHAAg&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ" target="_blank">Hagen Renaker</a> ceramic animals in there. They were glued to little pieces of card stock with the price, and we would stand in the window and try to pick the one we coveted the most. Remember the little duck butt? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Last week, our friends got word from their rep, the stores who had purchased my line for them at gift show at the Javits Center in NYC. He was reading the list of stores (<a href="http://posmanbooks.com/" target="_blank">Posman Books</a> in Chelsea, Grand Central, and Rockefeller center. <a href="http://www.cursivenewyork.com/locations/" target="_blank">Cursive</a> in ABC Home and Grand Central) and off handedly said “oh you’re from Ann Arbor, right? Caravan?”. I’m not gonna lie. I put my hand over my mouth, probably flushed as pink as a tomato and walked out of the room. I didn’t cry, but I almost did. Strange to have a far off piece of your </span>childhood<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> insert itself into your grown up life, in such a delightful way. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Sometimes I have a disconnect between the things I make and their existence in the world. Once I make it, and it’s out there, it no longer belongs to me. My image, my sewing, my jokes (I’m still giggling typing that). But the thought of a card (a fancy one in a vellum wrapper, and a mint green envelope) being sold at one of my favorite childhood shops, feels as close to artistic mortar as maybe I’ll ever have. My parents could walk in there one day, and buy a card. MY CARD. That says: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">postscript. I know there's a little dark schmutz in the middle of every picture. I took it with my iPhone instead of a proper camera bc CHILDREN. </span></div>
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-42740389621764883162013-03-15T17:35:00.001-07:002013-03-15T17:35:59.297-07:00Sitting Shiva<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Or in my barrio we say "sitting Chivas". Olé!<br />
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This friday evening, can we just take a moment of silence to mourn the fact that this still exists:<br />
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But this does not:<br />
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Lame</div>
Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-9040218340832157602013-03-11T12:36:00.000-07:002013-03-11T12:36:01.138-07:00In my continued effort to dress myself down for being a human being...Family Dinner<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm not alone in wanting more family dinners with my kids right? I mean, I'm not alone in being guilty of making separate meals for them and allowing them to eat them at the coffee table in the living room while watching a movie, so that we can eat like civilized people at 8 after they've gone to bed. It's not like they want what we're having anyway. And it's not like these bills, laundry, school lunches, emails, and stinky bathrooms are going to take care of themselves. We DO sit down for family dinner several nights a week, but I find that it requires so much effort on my part, that most nights, though I know the benefits, and enjoy it immensely in the moment, it just doesn't happen.<br />
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Family dinner requires thinking ahead so that there are the proper ingredients to make a meal that your whole family will eat. <b><u>A meal that your whole family will eat.</u></b> I've already lost myself, and I'm guessing a lot of you.<br />
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In our house, we have me, who likes:<br />
tacos, indian food, pizza, thai noodles sushi, cheese plates, pancakes, nuts in everything, and wine<br />
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Nipper Knapp who likes:<br />
sushi, salmon, cheeseburgers, indian food, pizza, pancakes, is allergic to nuts, and IPA<br />
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Jack who likes:<br />
quesadillas, toast, fruit, pizza, chicken nuggets, pancakes, and goldfish crackers<br />
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Charlie who likes:<br />
Oatmeal, turkey meatballs, scrambled eggs, pancakes, pizza, and all fruit.<br />
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Please note neither of my children will eat pasta or soup or vegetables. LORD GIVE ME STRENGTH. If someone comments and tells me to melt cheese on broccoli, I can't promise I won't wreck the place.<br />
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The boys and I out for pancakes last week. Out for pancakes because our kitchen had no bacon. </div>
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You see where this is going right? If we could all live on pizza and pancakes we would. Actually some weeks we do. Thank god for Nipper and his green smoothies (me=hypocrite I KNOW) or none of us would ever poop ever.<br />
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Yesterday at Trader Joes, I found myself with a shopping cart filled with snacks and wine. No real ingredients for meals. $176 of NOT food. It's not all junk, I count fruit and yogurt, and the stuff for smoothies as a snack, but still, nothing to make a meal. A friend told me she grocery shops once a week. ONCE. Huh? One of us goes almost every day. I was freaking out about this the other day, and Nipper Knapp said "meh, it's very French to shop every day". Uhm, yeah, if I was riding my bicyclette to the boulangerie maybe. But I'm driving le prius to Trader Joes every day for stuff like apple crushers and ouefs. Merde.<br />
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I can't lie, I was never a foodie. I didn't scour the local farmers market looking for escarole (which I still not sure is a fish or a lettuce). I was never able to whip together gourmet meals from what was in the kitchen. But I did enjoy food of all kinds, and I enjoyed trying new recipes. I miss Thai food. I miss curry. I miss tapas night with garlic, and stinky cheese. There used to be some variety in our diet, and there used to be some adventure. There used to be time, and mental space for thinking about food. I don't want to blame the kids. It's not their fault. It's mine, right? I could have forced them to eat the things I love. I could have left the bowl of Phat see ew in front of them at every meal until they learned to like it, but I'm not that mom. So now they eat kid food and I'm afraid they always will.<br />
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I'm always envious of people who are amazing cooks. People who's kitchens are the true center of their homes, and whose kids bok choy. I have been thinking about having a breakfast nook built in our kitchen. Kitchen renovation will solve all my problems! (that was the sound of Nipper fainting) It would give us extra kitchen storage, and a cozy place to sit, do homework, nosh. I have this fantasy of my boys sitting there reading books and coloring while I make some Barefoot Contessa style feast that they both love. We sit and we eat, and the boys say the darndest things. We laugh and carefully note them, remembering to write them in their baby books, so we can all laugh about them later. When I confessed this daydream to another mom recently, she replied laughingly "oh I know, it's all so Leave it to Beaver!"<br />
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But is it? Is it an absurd and outdated notion that I want to enjoy food with my family, to teach them to enjoy each others company? Is it really all just going to be meals on the go, and faces in screens? I know, I'm starting to sound like such a MOM, and one of those whoowhoo people that want to touch your chakras, but dudes. My boys are still so little and it's only going to go faster. Soon they'll want to have dinner at a friends house, or in their room, or none at all because they have after-school activities, or are fasting for political prisoners somewhere (I have high hopes for their evolution). So I've got to get to it now.<br />
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one sausage, one veg, and one everything for us! </div>
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Last week I had to make 2 pans of lasagna for the teachers at Jack's school. Only because I had volunteered for this, did I make one for us as well. I knew the kids wouldn't eat it, but if I was going to be in the kitchen, why not cook for us as well. This is part of the bad thinking that gets me into trouble. Why am I willing to cook for guests, but not for myself and my kids? Nipper Knapp and I got three dinners out of that lasagna, and even though they ate something else, 2 out of those 3 were attended by both kids. We laughed, told stories, played a round of "what is Charlie doing" wherein we all do exactly what Charlie is doing. It was mom heaven. And it doesn't happen enough.<br />
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I must find a way to make our brains think 7 days out, and force myself to cook a meal, and have them help, when what we want to do is anything but, because we are exhausted. I have to force myself to not be paralyzed by lack of will, fear of ingredients (is this the thing that will be on the list of things that will kill us all this week, and if so should I just feed everyone more goldfish, which will obviously kill us all), and the inevitable bad dinner, where it doesn't go over, and everyone is cranky, and no one sits for more than a minute.<br />
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And I have to remember that there's nothing wrong with all of this failing from time to time. Because frankly sometimes Mama wants to eat a bag of goldfish with a glass of wine in front of the tv instead of the organic quinoa and brussels sprouts feast that I sprang on them last week.<br />
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Is anyone out there feeling my pain? Or do the rest of you have a live in chef? You do. I knew it. </div>
Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-83919436566695578152013-03-09T14:35:00.000-08:002013-03-09T14:35:03.729-08:00mix mix mix<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Every night Nipper Knapp makes a smoothie. Every night. Am I opposed to this? No. Do I have a problem with kale, or berries, or the intermingling of soy milk, and frozen peaches? NO. I don't. Don't I want him to be healthy? Don't I want him to live FOREVER?! YES! YES I DO!<br />
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But something happened. I dunno when. I can't pinpoint the day. Don't know the last time I was able to tune out the once gentle whir of the blender. The last time, I didn't mind pausing The Daily Show, not once but 3-4 times, so the smoothie would be just right. The day it felt personal. One day, I realized that every time he said "you want a smoothie?" I started silently planning ways to destroy him. At first it was just a chin tuck and an eye roll from the other room. "No thank you". But at some point I became openly hostile. It was volcanic. Not explosive, just the rushing hot magma of marital contempt. "Smoothies?" he would text innocently from Jack's room after he heard me leave Charlie's bedroom to go downstairs. "I'm having wine" I'd write back, but I might as well have said "WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO CRUSH MY SOUL, AND WHY CAN'T WE JUST RUN FREE LIKE WILD PALOMINOS?!" And then imagine me on the stairs doing an elaborate full body, arms raised, "why god why" move. Nipper Knapp would call this a spastic seizure. I call it a tiny fissure.<br />
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I don't know much. In fact, I'm pretty sure that there's a chronic leak in the portion of my brain that once held important facts. Stuff like, the inner workings of a bicameral legislature, and how to fix my hair like I did the summer after college. But here's the thing about marriage. It's a marathon, blah blah blah. If you are a trained runner, someone who wants to be in the race, it's not the distance that kills you, it's the tiny blister left untended, or the unusually high temperature with not enough water, or some other banal detail, that can be your undoing. "We could have kept going, but for those fucking smoothies". Right.<br />
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One day, after much sighing (me) and much apologizing, and I'm sure eye rolling (Nipper Knapp), we both realized it is a stupid problem, and said it out loud. "You hate my smoothies." he laughed. "I hate the sound." And we came up with a solution. And this my friends is how two people grow old and completely the same kind of crazy together.<br />
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Poor Nipper Knapp, look at this face. </div>
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-4282049262981425912013-03-08T21:14:00.000-08:002013-03-08T21:14:30.268-08:00Twinkle Mouth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Our dear friends, and old neighbors are in a band. It's an 80's band, and it's awesome. If they ever come to your town, I demand you put on your Frankie Goes to Hollywood tee and go see them. Great show. When we were in SF over the holidays visiting them, they had just gotten these cards printed, so I took one to put on our fridge at home. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Tonight Jack took the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;">card off the fridge and wrote a practice note to Santa inside. He says we have to send it to him with 2 quarters inside. I told him we don't bribe Santa, but he insisted. He drew a picture of a cookie, then a tiny pic of Santa's face.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He said "Look mom, a cookie" and then "there's Santa, twinkle mouth, sad eyes". </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"What? What does that mean"</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"wait, let me draw it on the back, bigger." </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He does, and then, pointing "See? Twinkle mouth, sad eyes", and then gave me a look, like, "you get it now?" and walked away. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yeah yeah kid, that's right, red coat, white, beard, twinkle mouth and sad eyes. That's how Santa has been described since always. </span></span></div>
Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-92134899208400579472012-11-02T16:19:00.001-07:002012-11-02T16:19:01.824-07:00Oh to have your problems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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At every stage of my life I have looked back at my younger days and thought "oh to have those struggles, what a fool". I was thinking this kind of thing when I was nine. I actually remember thinking wistfully about "baby problems" somewhere around 6th grade. </div>
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I worry about Jack. He's like me in so many ways. He has WAY too much angst for a 5 year old. Actually he has way too much angst for a human, much less a 5 year old human. The list of things he worries about it endless, and unpredictable. I find myself trying to plan, and explain things for him so thoroughly, and inevitably I fail to mention some tiny thing, or fail to imagine, that some aspect of an activity will cause him CRIPPLING anxiety. Then I fantasize about how I used to be able to take drugs when life got crazy or unmanageable. Then I snap back to reality, and try to talk him off the ledge because, really he is going to be FINE if Miss Alison (the apple of his eye), or ANYONE ELSE ON EARTH walks him, the 72 feet from his classroom to his after school taekwondo class, that he loves. Instead of mommy or daddy coming in the middle of the day, for the 32 second walk from his classroom, to his taekwondo class, THAT HE LOVES.<br />
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This of course does not happen in one sitting. Or even one afternoon. This tragedy unfolds over days and weeks of us talking around and around, trying to get to the nut of what is happening. Until finally after 3 weeks of asking every 3.27 minutes, "how many days until taekwondo?" And "what is the plan for taekowndo?" And "who is going to walk me to taekwondo?" Which we establish over and over, HE LOVES! We finally get to the bottom of it. "I don't like to listen to the other kid's names being called, and knowing their parents are outside, and they are going home with their mommy and daddy, and I am going to taekwondo" (WHICH YOU LOOOOOVE!!!), he finally croaks out in between sobs, one afternoon at the kitchen table. OHHHHHHH! I get it. Poor bubs.<br />
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How bad is your life when your biggest problem is that you love your mom and dad so much, that you hate to think of other kids getting to be with theirs, instead of going to learn how to kick ass Korean style.<br />
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I ask him if there is something he can occupy himself with while the kid's names are being called, if there is any way to maybe solve this problem ourselves. "I could read a really long book!" he exclaims. I want to eat his face. "Yes! I think that's a great idea! We'll tell Miss Alison our plan tomorrow! Right before pickup, you grab a long book, and start reading. Do you feel better? Good. I love you" And I do. But, god, I want to rough him up a little. How on earth is he going to get through dating, and braces, and libertarians?! <br />
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The next day, I see his teacher in the morning, and I begin to explain our problem, and proposed solution. She cuts me off at the pass. "Actually I have a plan, because he's not the only one who is struggling with that. I have decided that I will personally walk them all over to taekwondo BEFORE parents get here for pickup." Done. So...he is not alone. I am not alone.<br />
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I am always isolating myself like some uninitiated teenager, when I have a hard time with something. I stupidly believe I am the only human being to ever struggle with say, mom fatigue, actor self loathing, or, "oh my silly husband doesn't seem to understand that stockings don't go in my pants drawer just because they go on my legs-itis" (yes, this IS the most passive aggressive way I could think to tell him). Yup, I'm the only one who ever felt like they were failing miserably at work/mom/marriage balance. Apparently I've never heard of Oprah.<br />
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And frankly, Jack is my easy child (for now). This morning, I discovered, that no person in the history of humankind has ever experienced as much despair as Charlie Tru when you try to put a pair of socks on him. Socks! Soft, cozy bamboo socks. I mean, you would think I was trying to saw off his leg with my teeth. Good thing we don't live in an actual cold climate, because it looks like he will be spending the winter in crocs with no socks. Heh, baby problems.<br />
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-30515222322276482512012-10-10T07:33:00.000-07:002012-10-10T07:33:02.939-07:00no YOU shut up<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday Nipper Knapp told me that I should just change the name of my blog to wallpaintcolor.com. But he's stupid (at least 12 I.Q. points ahead of me for his ability to remember every single thing that has happened in every single sport. Ever. I'm just jealous.) (Also he went to UofM which gives him a point or 2 just for sheer volume of students...) And maybe he's just mad because he saw this in the downstairs bathroom last night:<br />
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Paint chips just make Nipper Knapp ANGRY!!!!<br />
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I'd love to know if this kind of things fills him with apathy, dread, fury, or secret excitement that someone wants to give him a brand new mint green pissoir. I'm so generous.</div>
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-74838231672871597852012-10-09T14:19:00.000-07:002012-10-09T14:19:22.651-07:00Jacaranda house<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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See how nicely the dark wood looks against the blossoms? That's how my wall will look with persian violet gates! </div>
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Trumpets! We have a winner! After buying SEVEN different colors of brown samples, for the brick wall, I finally chose one. The ONLY one that Nipper Knapp said he absolutely didn't want. But hear me out. The other ones looked too poopy, or to drab. The lighter ones, that I thought I'd love looked like nursing home spit up. I chose Willow. Nipper Knapp thought it was too grey and would look like cinder block. BUT...I had a revelation.<br />
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We both agreed that red gates would be cute, and they always say a red door will help sell your house and make it look like a home. The problem with that is we are not red people. We are blue people. Green people. Sometimes pink and orange people. But never red. It didn't go with anything about us or our house. It made everything seem very traditional, and our house is anything but that. I even tried a "parrot red" that had a lot of orange in it. But next to my lavender plants, the jacaranda tree, and purple and turquoise pots...Hey! That's when I had the revelation. We could paint the gates the same color as the jacaranda blossoms!<br />
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I didn't even have to go to the paint store. I have an entire drawer FILLED with paint swatches. I took the purples out in the yard and matched them as best I could with a fallen blossom. The true match would have been something too close to a unicorns and rainbow outfit I had when I was 9, so I went with a slightly more subdued Persian Violet. It looks amazing with the green, brings out the jacaranda. Brings UP the brown in the Willow. AND it goes with ME! Oh and Nipper Knapp says he actually likes it. Hooray! WIN!<br />
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Great. Done. Well except the painting part. When am I going to get a chance to do that? Who fucking knows. I'm a working mom you know. But aren't you proud that it only took 2 weeks to pick the color? Well, 2 weeks of talking, and a year before of thinking. Someone pat me on my em effing back. Then take my husband and kids for a long walk so I can eat ice cream on the couch in my underwear without being mauled. Daughters don't maul you right? They just sit nicely on the couch with you until they are 9, and then they tell you your'e whole life is a lie. I could live with that.<br />
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-16260829141036782312012-10-04T12:50:00.003-07:002012-10-04T12:50:50.581-07:00I need a hero<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You've heard this one before. Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love. Girls get's married, buys house, has babies, loses identity, goes creatively adrift, girl's husband insists she take grueling acting intensive to get her mojo back, girl is filled with dread, but goes. Acting intensive is scary, rewarding, and yes grueling. Girl remembers that husband is best friend in the world, and possibly saver of sad previous single life. Girl smothers husband in fit of grateful hugs and tearful kisses due to lack of sleep, emotional instability and gratitude. Husband laughs at crazy wife. Baby does something adorable, kindergartner says something brilliant. Ray Charles sings... You've heard this one before. Right? </div>
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-10667457015517023652012-10-02T19:53:00.000-07:002012-10-02T19:53:57.417-07:00Can we please have a moment of silence for the mom staring at her appliances <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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That thing where you are so stunned your kids are asleep that you can't remember one thing on the list of things you've been thinking you need to do all day, and you stand in your kitchen for a full three minutes silently staring at the blender. That.<br />
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-8492445408609770102012-09-29T13:36:00.001-07:002012-09-29T13:36:41.850-07:00Let the simplification begin! (right after this...)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I shouldn't start right back with the swearing, because I know we are on tentative terms here, but seriously, fuck this fucking house sometimes. How can I love my house, and want to burn it to the ground and take the kids to live in a coconut hut in tahiti at the same time? Something happens when you get married. Something no one tells you about. Or maybe they do, but I don't listen to people when they talk because most of the time they are SO boring! You start to acquire stuff. All kinds of stuff. At first it's cute little stuff like dishes, and towels. But then it's bigger more serious stuff like couches, and cars, and ouef cribs, because no baby of mine is going to live with hard edges! Never mind that now, you have buy round sheets, and a fancy vacuum, and a hutch for all those dishes, and new tires for your car, like every five minutes.<br />
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One day inevitably, this stuff starts to own you. Your daily life is all about maintaining the stuff, instead of laying on the floor with the kids, and eating food out a bag (most good food comes from a bag, go ahead argue with me...Doritos. Done)<br />
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I've been in this giant purge since Charlie was born. Sending boxes of clothes to our beautiful niece, who looks much better in them than I ever did. Donating carloads of toys to the daycare (sorry Buzz), and throwing away MASSIVE quantities of papers, birthday party favors, and broken things that I WILL NEVER FIX. Adding one more body (albeit a bison sized body) to this house, was our tipping point. The amount of stuff, just became too much. Clothes, toys, furniture, papers, art projects, books, broken stuff, old stuff, unfixable stuff. Endless amounts of sorting and decision making. When what I want, every day, is to just sit. To swing in the swing chair and tell stories, and watch them play, to color, and read books (books are never on the list of too much stuff), and just have peace.<br />
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Our house is tidy, every thing has a place, but as the mom, I have a catalog of every single thing in it, including the stuff in bins in the basement. The catalog is now so large, that huge chunks of important stuff has been edged out of my brain. I am a nervous wreck at all times, even when there is nothing wrong. And I've decided it's because of the stuff.<br />
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So this year, I am open to all and any suggestions for living more simply with kids. I'm canceling catalogs, clicking unsubscribe on spam emails, signing up for online bill pay for anything that doesn't require monitoring. And no more new stuff until the old stuff is all used up. Both boys have clothes drawers that barely close. Jack has 7 pairs of shoes that fit him right now. Absurd.<br />
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I'm going to stop beating myself up about not having planted tomatoes in the raised bed yet, because truthfully I always let them wither on the vine, because I don't have time to make my own damned spaghetti sauce to preserve. Also, I like Rao's. Sue me. What a failure! People can see my failure from SPACE!<br />
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More time to write, play, eat (no more cadging a few bites of mac and cheese standing up), less time maintaining stuff. I know it's not New Years, but I'm getting an early start. 2012 has been all around stink town, so I'm calling it officially closed. 2013 starts right now...<br />
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The first project, I need your help with? Paint chips. And this doesn't count as new stuff, this counts as not letting the old stuff crumble to dust. Don't you love how we get the psychoanalysis out of the way before we move on to creative endeavors. SO healthy. One should never pick paint colors with a muddled mind.<br />
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Our neighborhood is one of the oldest in LA. Our house was built in 1928. Or maybe 1929, I can't remember, and you know why. It's called a transitional house because it's neither spanish nor craftsmen but at odd little mix of both. To me it's a stucco farmhouse. It's got a pitched roof, but terra-cotta tiles on the porches. The oddest thing is our flour de lys retaining wall. There are several of these in the neighborhood. The owner of another one down the hill, said they are french foreign legion bricks. I don't know if that's true, but it makes me like them 3% more than I do which is not much. We can't replace the wall because we are in a historical overlay, and they'd fine us, or put us in stocks with a sign around our heads that says "killer of context" or something like that. I don't mind the bricks themselves, so much as the overall effect of the dark red square bricks with the old white, chipping mortar. Oh and the GIANT concrete fleur de lys, on each pedestal. It looks like a french brothel in Tijuana to me, and I don't want to go to there.<br />
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<span id="goog_2079772927"></span><span id="goog_2079772928"></span>If you tell me we should paint the trim to match the wall, I'll faint, because 1. that's not going to happen and 2. I have a strong inclination we should... Marija fait boom.<br />
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The other people painted their wall, and it looks so much better. Like <i>almost</i> cute. So I'm in. Let's do this thing. Before you go and tell me I shouldn't paint brick, and I'm going to regret it, my life is filled with bad choices, and this will be the least of them. Also it's happening, so get on board.<br />
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In full sun under the loverly flour de lys (should we knock these off?)</div>
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Our house is a pale jadeite green with white trim. We have lots of trees and shrubs with soft foliage around the house, and in the spring the jacaranda tree is filled with purple blossoms. The terra-cotta makes is tricky to pick a wall color. You can't go too cool, or it just looks too disjointed. So here are my options, and maybe this is too haphazard to even see, but I'm not going to start painting swatches until I've at least narrowed it down to 3-5 colors.<br />
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This is the color combination that Benjamin Moore has on their site as being complimentary. I like it, but think the black bean soup would be too dark for a giant brick wall?</div>
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this is the color of our house</div>
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What do you guys think? Dark? Lighter? Brown? Greige? Should we paint the Fleur de Lys toppers the same color, or a different color? Should we take a baseball bat to them and tell the HPOZ it was hooligans? Someone tell me what to do?!<br />
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Here are some pics of our neighbors houses. Their paint is so cute, and I'd like ours to be complimentary. <br />
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-54181859254581758562012-09-28T10:38:00.000-07:002012-09-28T10:38:03.170-07:00Can we get back together?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I was trying to see if I could make it a full year. Just leave it all behind. Make this a blog about longing and neglect. You know, start off strong, make you laugh and cry, get your hopes up, and just when you start to get comfortable, and think about leaving your toothbrush, I start to get weird, and apologetic, sporadic, and then poof, I'm gone, like that underclassmen you dated in college who promised he'd call everyday from his semester abroad at Innsbruck. Did he meet someone else? Is he OK? Why wasn't I good enough. You've probably been sitting at home writing really tragic poetry about mymomsanerd. Lots of stuff about still waters, empty marc jacobs bags, and broken bedazzlers. I know I hurt you. I'd love for you to read it to me...when you're ready.<br />
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For real this one time, it was ME, not you. You were awesome, I just needed some time, to you know, work on me. And now that I'm back, I want you to know that I've been around the block a few times, nothing serious, but baby, you're the best. Can we just try to make this work? For old times sake? Sure it'll be awkward at first. You don't trust me. I get it. I really let you down. But everything's different now. I'm different, but still the same. You know? So like, maybe later, after you read my post about paint chips and how my kid goes to a leftist liberal elite training camp (I mean kindergarten)...can we hold hands, or maybe even make out on the train? No? Too soon? Ok, Ok, I'll be patient...because you are worth it.<br />
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I'm back bitches. </div>
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Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-56356042303531826512012-01-11T09:24:00.000-08:002012-01-11T09:24:48.783-08:00school daze<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGXeM5wTxcssz9hsv6S4zW8ULRlLyES5bU5EG6L4I91FqxdGSrI6AmgFnqQJXzcpYaZRqtLtzQ_Dsv8N692wE72Mn4CFUZdqSVXVdLB3h-9Yw_jEwGRYIv7UTIPo1iM7Pw2bqLjfzSlSn/s1600/gossipgirl2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGXeM5wTxcssz9hsv6S4zW8ULRlLyES5bU5EG6L4I91FqxdGSrI6AmgFnqQJXzcpYaZRqtLtzQ_Dsv8N692wE72Mn4CFUZdqSVXVdLB3h-9Yw_jEwGRYIv7UTIPo1iM7Pw2bqLjfzSlSn/s640/gossipgirl2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Ok, so I've completely abandoned you. I'm shit. I know it. But if we're going to be friends you're just going to have to understand that from time to time, I'm going to drop you like penicillin drops the plague. It's not personal. It's the cray cray. I wonder sometimes if I did drugs, if I would be able to juggle everything better. I know that sounds counterintuitive. Not a lot of junkies out there that you think "man she has REALLY got it together!". But I just mean you, know, a little dabble to take the edge off...Go ahead, you know you are thinking it. Mother of the year.<br />
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Which brings me to the pursuit of knowledge, the search for the right elementary school, or as I like to think of it, the one decision that we make that will possibly influence, the way he learns, the way he feels about school, learning, teachers, and KNOWLEDGE. Whatevs, no biggie. Someone pass the joint, because I am FUCKING FREAKING OUT. But you know, quietly, in a suuuuuper dignified suburban way. I'm asking questions, I'm taking tours. I'm learning about things like "singapore math", and "dolch words".<br />
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The thing is, and I know you're thinking it, I know that Nipper and I will be the biggest, most formative influence on how he feels about school, books, learning, etc... But if we choose wrong, or he doesn't get in, I'll feel like maybe we missed an opportunity for everything to be perfect. There I said it. Saying it out loud, is the first step right? I'm Marija, and I keep trying to make everything perfect. Someone please send me a vaporizer. Mommy needs to go bye bye.<br />
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We are trying to get him into a good neighboring public school, but don't know if that's going to work out. So we are looking at some privates (that we can't really afford). Yesterday we toured a school that shall remain nameless. It was not for us. I don't want to say I knew it when we were still in the parking lot... But very shortly thereafter. I had to leave half way through the tour, at which point, I was more than sure it was not for us. There were 4 parents of currents students on the tour, with 4 of us who were looking. It was awkward. They were trying too hard. It was like a super awkward group date where they kept grinning, saying how great it was going, and all I wanted to do was go home, put on my buffet pants and watch The Daily Show. The director was a dingbat, and the second grade teacher wore so much perfume, her classroom smelled like church on easter sunday. And for all of that you could have the privilege of paying $16,000 a year. For Kindergarten. And for the uninitiated $16k is at the low end of the "independent school" tuitions. (I guess we've decided "private" sounds too much like we might be excluding someone, and we all learn in pre-k that we never ever exclude anyone...)<br />
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At the end of the tour, Nipper said they were standing in the small courtyard between the classrooms and the modular buildings that make up the school. Oh...yeah...where do you think we are, New England? For $16k, you get a smaller class size, maybe p.e., perhaps art of foreign language, in a school that is usually located in an abandoned public school, or worse an old office building. "But OH LOOK AT OUR PHILOSOPHY!" So they are standing around talking, and the 5th and 6th graders are having their "recess" in this squalid courtyard. One of the parents on the tour asked the director what is their "conflict resolution system"? The dingy director prevaricated briefly, which is shocking, because these things are usually so ingrained in their spiel, it's like they are DYING for you to ask. Then said, they didn't really have one (gasp), as their kids are really good kids, and they don't have incidents often enough to warrant a whole system.<br />
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As she was speaking, Nipper looked beyond her shoulder where a wild eyed 10 year old was pounding his fist into an open palm at a fellow student in a menacing manner. The only thing better would have been if he'd dragged his index finger slowly across his neck and mouthed "I will cut you".<br />
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</div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-19457547114034114452011-12-15T21:06:00.000-08:002011-12-15T21:06:31.114-08:00I'm not back...not really...I just have this to say<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I love Nipper Knapp because he acts like I look like this:<br />
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Even though I really look like this:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf01iPxB7p4OGt_UcSNNEhKLJpDrgyWrs9ygKmbhFohTSj2Sd08pwytDLqNpttahHWL8yCfqJ6zGMLWhp6PQ8boUvayD2AczS5rAD2RcrrId_l4ozo_VIh9hXJk1JV-pm3T8cq6ktURccx/s1600/Pig-Pen.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf01iPxB7p4OGt_UcSNNEhKLJpDrgyWrs9ygKmbhFohTSj2Sd08pwytDLqNpttahHWL8yCfqJ6zGMLWhp6PQ8boUvayD2AczS5rAD2RcrrId_l4ozo_VIh9hXJk1JV-pm3T8cq6ktURccx/s640/Pig-Pen.gif" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
I know I have some splainin to do. Where I've been. What I've been doing. I will. I swear. Just as soon as I bake the 12 dozen cookies I need to bake tonight... Oh and then, after I let thirty 5 and unders, and their parents come over here and decorate them this weekend. Happy Holidays nerds.<br />
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</div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-20423495909849258282011-11-22T20:20:00.000-08:002011-11-22T20:30:35.756-08:00santa baby<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Are you talking to me?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1C_s0pupopeawpO6pPxV-afoSgXuoZ7zINomzVPrs8HVdLnRRsmebpJYHs-YWU39AZxT4MdXM-HgWefYnWx932GuktA7WvxiS3fkWR0Qi4544fZyhXDXExrVvdPk_jiIguQeF04kYwkOH/s1600/IMG_4130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1C_s0pupopeawpO6pPxV-afoSgXuoZ7zINomzVPrs8HVdLnRRsmebpJYHs-YWU39AZxT4MdXM-HgWefYnWx932GuktA7WvxiS3fkWR0Qi4544fZyhXDXExrVvdPk_jiIguQeF04kYwkOH/s640/IMG_4130.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> You must be talking to me</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqNidYKM67TOX9uLnhX-LY8PloEyDpnTDCuOSqME1vTIzXkPyHd6vhyphenhyphenIrp_ZkYKm64mHXOg0-Ot3oh9rLocS3P3fwvupuNwI4aLBPufCurYqSzHm_W8cHW4r8c4dkL9-S3xBLTNP6CAd3/s1600/IMG_4129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqNidYKM67TOX9uLnhX-LY8PloEyDpnTDCuOSqME1vTIzXkPyHd6vhyphenhyphenIrp_ZkYKm64mHXOg0-Ot3oh9rLocS3P3fwvupuNwI4aLBPufCurYqSzHm_W8cHW4r8c4dkL9-S3xBLTNP6CAd3/s640/IMG_4129.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">You talkin to ME? </div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvPLZUu0nBK8DdijIRpoUd1hmKAnY8VKIrZm5WqUACXGhJo5ftVdESZMVRRymtBm2glg37CEYhNf8akfwAh2alCZzoL317JdKNeyX_P-BxzuJ5Mv1L_EzNAb_QxfoDEGKcxBZo10rbnhW/s1600/IMG_4128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYvPLZUu0nBK8DdijIRpoUd1hmKAnY8VKIrZm5WqUACXGhJo5ftVdESZMVRRymtBm2glg37CEYhNf8akfwAh2alCZzoL317JdKNeyX_P-BxzuJ5Mv1L_EzNAb_QxfoDEGKcxBZo10rbnhW/s640/IMG_4128.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">I'm the only one here, you must be talking to me</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBa_0g2JdWbgWAIKnFh-Iy9N9MAtKEvzAFayo9l4c0SOjGuCggNaDG7bB3M10onoiE_z_gro0ttjs67PZPCMRuLk6Qu4gVqlCjeC4wjo0xob5vSb7yw28M-Nr_84wEuHcllNCI9HvmfES/s1600/IMG_4127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBa_0g2JdWbgWAIKnFh-Iy9N9MAtKEvzAFayo9l4c0SOjGuCggNaDG7bB3M10onoiE_z_gro0ttjs67PZPCMRuLk6Qu4gVqlCjeC4wjo0xob5vSb7yw28M-Nr_84wEuHcllNCI9HvmfES/s640/IMG_4127.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
Let's do this thing! Any of you crabby grinchypants that want to harumph about it being too early for Christmas can take it up with congress, because as of 4pm tomorrow, it is countdown to Santa time around here.<br />
<br />
For the most part, the last three months have been SUCK CITY, around here. So we're putting it all away for the next 6 weeks. Gonna put our troubles on the back burner and try to enjoy the season. They'll still be there in January, so why let them ruin my favorite time of year? This is the only 1st Christmas, Charlie Truman is going to have, (and the only 4th Christmas for Jack! SOB. 4!) and I'm not going to let grown up stuff get in the way of making it magical the way Christmas should be when you're a kid.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnjQCVLIiGiVAe79aAbHC_ZQV6E0EA0O94hQj49CQi4T0CowvG0CrcjnBrKVSSvr0B_hpT7bUuzYFiXjoc2G09Q6_W549qE9QaBy-oEAVSg7Vv4kGFakFLpyxdO0lw9kKrP0RjzxBEbIm/s1600/DPP_97.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnjQCVLIiGiVAe79aAbHC_ZQV6E0EA0O94hQj49CQi4T0CowvG0CrcjnBrKVSSvr0B_hpT7bUuzYFiXjoc2G09Q6_W549qE9QaBy-oEAVSg7Vv4kGFakFLpyxdO0lw9kKrP0RjzxBEbIm/s640/DPP_97.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite pics of Jack from his 1st Christmas</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Jack and I are going to cook all day Thursday while Nipper Knapp curses football calls, and tells us funny things people are tweeting. Charlie will mostly just be gnawing on his hammer (should I be worried the hammer is his favorite toy?), and wishing he could eat my porcini mushroom gravy. We'll go see the muppet movie, which I'm sure will make me verklempt.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-tr7ATWxjbbl19Hm84MS6IyZFNHrNdcWhLvKmwR2N-uR737y1vf8O1thZrt-U6F4iepeDPm2iDQNGmVE1e6YMx-Mv3B4_jEQ-LnVKWLwmIAhsgZQYoMFwo5aHuYc3eodVJrUwQVLUkwA/s1600/photo-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-tr7ATWxjbbl19Hm84MS6IyZFNHrNdcWhLvKmwR2N-uR737y1vf8O1thZrt-U6F4iepeDPm2iDQNGmVE1e6YMx-Mv3B4_jEQ-LnVKWLwmIAhsgZQYoMFwo5aHuYc3eodVJrUwQVLUkwA/s640/photo-1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">My Kermit and Ms. Piggy puppets from when I was a kid. In case you wondered, I can do a spot on Ms. Piggy (shocking)</div><br />
I hope that in this time of so much upheaval, and discomfort, for so many, that this week finds you all with friends, family, lots of mashed potatoes. And if it doesn't, then send me an email, and I'll send you a really dirty joke and hug to make it all better.<br />
<br />
Happy Holidays everyone. I promise to write more. And I will because I'll be high on glitter and pine needles for the next 2 months. Watch out now! </div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-29199003825214041512011-11-12T20:16:00.000-08:002011-11-12T20:16:10.249-08:00let it snow let it snow let it snow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">You guys. I'm sorry. I have been busy. It's true. But that's not why I've been away. I have FORSAKEN YOU! I'm the worst bloginatrix ever. We've been dealing with some stuff and it has hijacked my ability to write, think, sleep... Good times.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcM9m_idvbLjYOi1L2kIDQGk35_hFGfHQw8zDMVk40S1r45bknhxVJhDfhr7lCLUZbb8S8AuDbs7ktUWn1wWQmzfLU9kI0vLCEeQtGOrV2HUJ81CZRuWDLF91PBio1D8os0QLki8gy6j3M/s1600/IMG_3422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcM9m_idvbLjYOi1L2kIDQGk35_hFGfHQw8zDMVk40S1r45bknhxVJhDfhr7lCLUZbb8S8AuDbs7ktUWn1wWQmzfLU9kI0vLCEeQtGOrV2HUJ81CZRuWDLF91PBio1D8os0QLki8gy6j3M/s640/IMG_3422.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0fJ6mN-l12m2uq8ZOEta2pWrcoZIEgOPGfXdZLPxuspDqLKJFWfRR3MKpTJYIwWvyXl5dfvrX08_s_pxr7kj9XLi6WMR8hO3pul9-pFKHlGdpSo_5eoDnDG8eAs5trM00u5kUGKy8Ins/s1600/IMG_3423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH0fJ6mN-l12m2uq8ZOEta2pWrcoZIEgOPGfXdZLPxuspDqLKJFWfRR3MKpTJYIwWvyXl5dfvrX08_s_pxr7kj9XLi6WMR8hO3pul9-pFKHlGdpSo_5eoDnDG8eAs5trM00u5kUGKy8Ins/s640/IMG_3423.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Last week I had a chance to walk through Anthropologie by myself, for like 15 MINUTES. Staycation... And OH, the christmas decorations are in. I was at The Grove, and they were setting up the giant Christmas tree. Sadie said it greatly disturbed her, because it wasn't even Halloween. I wanted to tell her that if I could mainline that<br />
Christmas tree I would.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS7o23g2k3Wzc3WLa53ECIigpBeXP6Qt7rV6l-Z0FLVp79HwVckFGG1IWCypYBXt6Smm2cY9Q_SGaTvqISWjebfVKLoWCrtsIBiire4ENbnY-gHXwg0VjAGoREuYzcjuno9sZHV_OmQYyt/s1600/IMG_3425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS7o23g2k3Wzc3WLa53ECIigpBeXP6Qt7rV6l-Z0FLVp79HwVckFGG1IWCypYBXt6Smm2cY9Q_SGaTvqISWjebfVKLoWCrtsIBiire4ENbnY-gHXwg0VjAGoREuYzcjuno9sZHV_OmQYyt/s640/IMG_3425.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8bF0xn4bOO_wHW_R1fvPkGgm2dAv3xycONFt27QlBtM3L7dNTQ4Ukunc0eJqhRQMh-Eb1Sn4gGewhEAVEnz2pqumO6xfaSAkkdnb4Z8MABRW-yJBBq9p3yjljKtTBsFxtCiCHRNrjXCv/s1600/IMG_3426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy8bF0xn4bOO_wHW_R1fvPkGgm2dAv3xycONFt27QlBtM3L7dNTQ4Ukunc0eJqhRQMh-Eb1Sn4gGewhEAVEnz2pqumO6xfaSAkkdnb4Z8MABRW-yJBBq9p3yjljKtTBsFxtCiCHRNrjXCv/s640/IMG_3426.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
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It rained today. If I happen to drive by Home Depot tomorrow, and they happen to have christmas trees. I'm buying one. I need Christmas to start early this year.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKogW0Z-CjRRctRTDTXcyMYcubCRtCgh_9eGHpVqSh1wEL2VbZCXPzz2epJ4dsNkOn_xGpJRkJ5P3Xc-7xQF6VfXzuMsIxil4fMtlCR8SLpqDUFOcyFSnOrw8O0NU9hz8jpLoHKqC43luL/s1600/IMG_3427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKogW0Z-CjRRctRTDTXcyMYcubCRtCgh_9eGHpVqSh1wEL2VbZCXPzz2epJ4dsNkOn_xGpJRkJ5P3Xc-7xQF6VfXzuMsIxil4fMtlCR8SLpqDUFOcyFSnOrw8O0NU9hz8jpLoHKqC43luL/s640/IMG_3427.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBMlLSklrhswkxifqysyImr8d3fumhbgEAA_8rEC7VceyENWZHgADqVUEg23u4pJynywvLoICpV8sipJSDp80evIJTXF-8PVWYVy-TFEdRo2Nh4XrmftCktbqyoW4jk71iJKj-EEHE7m6/s1600/IMG_3429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBMlLSklrhswkxifqysyImr8d3fumhbgEAA_8rEC7VceyENWZHgADqVUEg23u4pJynywvLoICpV8sipJSDp80evIJTXF-8PVWYVy-TFEdRo2Nh4XrmftCktbqyoW4jk71iJKj-EEHE7m6/s640/IMG_3429.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7z1p5eDEAMNKh8JCLgSk03ntJEXSXmPhG62QvgPDvW8Iq4HXBVpGWfLZT20gGbcn804DGamOaKDoveAGUFHjkKxKzAYjjP5-jB2yf4B8qA4Pu_vwJUUp9vaW1my6x4WkcbAc85gINYYDJ/s1600/IMG_3428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7z1p5eDEAMNKh8JCLgSk03ntJEXSXmPhG62QvgPDvW8Iq4HXBVpGWfLZT20gGbcn804DGamOaKDoveAGUFHjkKxKzAYjjP5-jB2yf4B8qA4Pu_vwJUUp9vaW1my6x4WkcbAc85gINYYDJ/s640/IMG_3428.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-53708746279748781302011-10-13T10:32:00.000-07:002011-10-13T10:32:08.576-07:00Straight Outta Compton<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7DDWEoc9bia1kvQJVDfuHi-l7vVJHQ4didUZlOpSCpCW40pVcm5lgwGrsML1_2aGY3mMWxIH3nnA6Z0UzD4zzDlS4Wrr5CCIw_qYATJQTaRLVKzQC5lPydPkuZPaq7C-YtOAdxRcm8dB/s1600/ice-cube-straight-outta-compton-the-roots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK7DDWEoc9bia1kvQJVDfuHi-l7vVJHQ4didUZlOpSCpCW40pVcm5lgwGrsML1_2aGY3mMWxIH3nnA6Z0UzD4zzDlS4Wrr5CCIw_qYATJQTaRLVKzQC5lPydPkuZPaq7C-YtOAdxRcm8dB/s640/ice-cube-straight-outta-compton-the-roots.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is the LA everyone wants to think they know.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I heard <a href="http://www.npr.org/2011/04/03/134981907/straight-outta-compton-on-horseback">a story on NPR</a> a few weeks (days? months?) ago, about how Compton is not really as bad as, you know, COMPTON. How people use "South Central", or "Compton" as a euphemism for the worst, of the worst. People will be looking at a house in say, oh I don't know, MY neighborhood, and say, "I mean, it's not COMPTON!". The story was about how there's actually a large agricultural center there, with horses, and goats, and people making their own cheese. IN COMPTON. The point is, Nipper and I find, that when we tell people outside of LA, that we are from LA, often, they bring up the LA Riots, or NWA, or some other thing that has absolutely nothing to do with our life here. I want to say "yeah, we get shot at all the time, but you know, the weather is like, so, so, great."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPrpQYSgl4Hlx_gUHJFYrGRQU1J7NKoOEs4IuOErpHHVQ2aPMLwN9Fte3xAHmzEXBnEk6Nc94CdobG8aUkmG6zNZvukZwYeabxvbSmTamcyn_HGtrYL2nzrm_fps9Xv6ROBM4I1MVma3S/s1600/Ice_Cube_in_Are_We_There_Yet_Wallpaper_1_800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOPrpQYSgl4Hlx_gUHJFYrGRQU1J7NKoOEs4IuOErpHHVQ2aPMLwN9Fte3xAHmzEXBnEk6Nc94CdobG8aUkmG6zNZvukZwYeabxvbSmTamcyn_HGtrYL2nzrm_fps9Xv6ROBM4I1MVma3S/s640/Ice_Cube_in_Are_We_There_Yet_Wallpaper_1_800.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But really this is the LA most people know. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Admittedly it is a city divided, just like any big city. There is incredible wealth, and devastating poverty. I've seen things here on both ends of the spectrum that have knocked me out. Stuff like, people throwing a $50,000 birthday party for their 1 year old; and two grown women fighting in the middle of a street, one of them wearing nothing, but a make-shift diaper. We live somewhere in the middle of that, but definitely closer to the diaper than the party.</span><br />
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</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I feel extremely fortunate, to live and work in a city that allows us to enjoy so many great things, the ocean, the mountains, one of the country's largest city parks (Griffith), beautiful local canyons for hiking, skiing an hour away from the beach, outdoor malls in December, Night blooming jasmine in winter, Orange blossoms, and the Disney Symphony hall, Zankou chicken, the movies (I mean it, I love them), spooky old theaters in a downtown that looks half like NYC, and half like Mexico City, gourmet food trucks that make everything from waffles to portuguese sushi tacos, and Scientologists in their natural habitat! And this is like the worst list, of the best stuff. How can you top that?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I know that many, many, people are born and raised here and never see the good parts of LA. I knew a guy in college, who had grown up on Portrero Hill in San Francisco. He had never seen the ocean. San Francisco is 7 miles wide at it's widest. He had never crossed those seven miles, because of poverty, not apathy. But there are a lot of people who move here from other places that never see the good stuff either. These people make me crazy. The transplants who endlessly feel the need to talk about how much they hate LA. Nipper Knapp and I have one word advice for these people "leave". No one is begging you to stay, and frankly, you're just making traffic worse. No other city in the world is such an easy target for people's disdain, people looooove, to hate LA. It's like the anti-Paris. People who have spent 3 days here, like to expound on all the terribleness that they encountered in their travels. "It's not for me", they'll say. Fine, then go, back to wherever it was you escaped to come here and complain. I'm sure they've been missing you.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_7OPastK71ruCSCGuuUJGVt_CSurNR7_vatQefgGeM2aSyHT-hVQIVqc4d8U7IhAENo9uFo0h4kUl8VuR7PIei1ffcaN0q-yv2Hz7YJ3P5_uqF3SziSKp8qMO6Db8xjvOOc_4OrFXV1B/s1600/griffith-observatory-address1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_7OPastK71ruCSCGuuUJGVt_CSurNR7_vatQefgGeM2aSyHT-hVQIVqc4d8U7IhAENo9uFo0h4kUl8VuR7PIei1ffcaN0q-yv2Hz7YJ3P5_uqF3SziSKp8qMO6Db8xjvOOc_4OrFXV1B/s640/griffith-observatory-address1.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I'm not gonna lie, LA is vast, and I think it takes a long time to get to know. A long time to be able to take a deep breath and call it home. My first year here, I didn't know anyone, for A YEAR. I didn't know how to begin to meet anyone. I spent looooong days walking in the Hollywood Hills, smelling the canyon air, getting dusty, seeking shade, reaching the top, staring incredulous at the grid, hoping there was a life for me somewhere out there. Some weeks, there were days when I didn't speak to anyone except the checkout girl at the grocery store. It can be a lonely town, until you find your place, your people, your way. But it's that loneliness that alienated me in the beginning that has held me here for so long. You can be anonymous in this town. You can do anything you want, any way you want, and be sure that while you may be doing it differently, you are not doing it alone. I used to hate that. I wanted someone to tell me what the rules of life were. The older I get the more I love that LA lets you make your own. It's a sleepy town hidden under a crazy traffic jam. It's shy, and stubborn, and it has a funny face. You could very easily write it off as city gone wrong. But you'd be wrong. There are a million different ways to live in this town, and if you can't find one that fits you, you haven't looked hard enough. But for some reason, it's more acceptable to hate it, than to love it. I LOVE LA. I might as well have just shouted "I love syphilis". That's how much people love to hate LA.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz7Xm52wwlJKtvgOmNn2uudd4dhhQJr3sYtHTFV4VKauoJhevnp6yLx0S6bMRrkAZuUKribhTX7mSv6-EF_qKns3CPDr-_6Lb0oA1D6AnAJxKOITkL0_EoksMZZ6lu1dAy_GypSSTZIHWX/s1600/LosAngeles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz7Xm52wwlJKtvgOmNn2uudd4dhhQJr3sYtHTFV4VKauoJhevnp6yLx0S6bMRrkAZuUKribhTX7mSv6-EF_qKns3CPDr-_6Lb0oA1D6AnAJxKOITkL0_EoksMZZ6lu1dAy_GypSSTZIHWX/s640/LosAngeles.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The street I lived on when I first moved here. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That stearn love note was a long preamble to what happened here two nights ago. You guys know my mom moved here a few weeks ago to help with the kids. She is not in the "LA haters" club, as a matter of fact, she gets around really well. In her visits over the years, she has found her favorite places, and sometimes goes off on her own to get "that salad from that place we went that one time". She is making a nice little life for herself down here. My mom is bold, brave, different, and generally dives head first into most things. In many ways, she's a born Angeleno. I like to think I got a lot of my courage from her. She is however, a mom. So you know, she worries. Sometimes she expresses her worries out loud. And because I'm you know, her kid, I roll my eyes, and say "ok WHATEVER". Then I make a note to myself that when Jack and Charlie are grown, I will still feel the way I do about them as babies, and they, being grown men will roll their eyes, and say "ok, WHATEVER", and that's the way it should be. All moms have the crazy crazy. All of us.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When we bought our house, I'm sure our entire family was worried. Is that neighborhood "ok?", (mezzo mezzo), is that mortgage "too high?" (YES), will they be "ok?" (sure). But it's a mom's job to say these things out loud, and sometimes to say them with a little added color, that makes their children want to scream, kick their mother in the shin, and then take a nap (see it never changes). So for years, my mom would ask about the neighbors "pit bull", (a chow mix), and about the tagging (it was tagging), and gangs (closest thing we have around here, are these really pushy Waldorf moms, "Oh you are raising little Azalea without screens? How brave". You know stuff that living in a city, we ignore, don't see, don't think about, because you can't. You have to keep your eyes on the prize, and live your life, because oh my god couldn't you get lost fast. Louis C.K. has a bit on bringing a girl from a small town into NYC through Port Authority for the first time. She sees a homeless man in a terrible state, she bends down to see if he's ok, and Louis and his friend, grab her and say "oh NO, we don't do that". As if she's wrong. But when he tells it, it's funny. Jesus, I've just made Louis C.K. unfunny. Now I want to die.</span><br />
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</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So for years, I've just rolled my eyes when my mom talks about all the dangerous or terrible things she sees in and around LA, because hey, I live in my pink man cave, with my macbook, and my eames rocker, and my organic yogurt, and my kids wear bamboo socks that don't chafe, and you know, WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! LOOK AT ME! I'VE MADE HEAVEN RIGHT INSIDE OF HELL AND YOU CAN'T EVEN SEE IT!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My friend Paul told me about moving here from Rhode Island. He was going to stay with a friend. When he got in from the airport, the friend wasn't home, so he waited on his front porch. I can't remember exactly where it was, Beverly Hills, Brentwood? Somewhere swanky. While he waited he called his mom. He told her what he was doing, and she said, in a concerned tone "well don't be a target". Oh god, this is going to happen to me someday. I'll be saying something like that to Jack or Charlie. They'll be having lunch with someone in the Hamptons, and I'll say "watch out for land mines!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You know where this is going right? Do I even need to write anything else?</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYC0sIyy-3AoULmk_lezT-lqBFEBFldf3wa4W5Hlp3ds7zXSGPqBzfRFOQaE_tU7V9dyOLSPVEvmonCF_eKyEjc-5kMRtROALuoyFjTyif3uR4Rlopr3TVXlNDpCudVCEEm01CVi-goxGm/s1600/phmal4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYC0sIyy-3AoULmk_lezT-lqBFEBFldf3wa4W5Hlp3ds7zXSGPqBzfRFOQaE_tU7V9dyOLSPVEvmonCF_eKyEjc-5kMRtROALuoyFjTyif3uR4Rlopr3TVXlNDpCudVCEEm01CVi-goxGm/s640/phmal4.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Two nights ago, Nipper and I went on a date. Well, we went to see a movie, that's a date, right? We came home, and my mom was upstairs in Charlie's room. He had just woken up, and she was rocking him. Jack was asleep. Awesome. My mom gave me a kiss on the cheek, passed me the baby, and said good night. I was thinking "see how well this whole arrangement is working?! I might even get a little time to make out with my husband on the couch. We have kids people. The window for getting lucky is very, very, very, (very) small. But when I came down after nursing Charlie, my mom was still there in the living room, watching a movie. Uh... mom please don't read this next sentence. Goodbye lady boner. Uh... I'd like to take back that last sentence. Ick. But seriously, nothing makes you want to have sex with your husband, less, than your own mother watching Tangled in your living room. It's true, you can wikipedia that shit, because it's a fact. Night time babysitters need to make like a tree and leave as soon as people get home. But she's my mom, so how do you say that? (you write a blog for 2 years, and then slip it in casually) I decided I'd curl my hair, so I wouldn't have to do it in the morning. Back to reality. 20 minutes later, the movie ended and she headed home. Good Night and Good Luck.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Three minutes after leaving our house, my mom was in a traffic altercation with several young men, who tried to ram her car, then jumped out and waved a gun at her. Right in front of my house. Good. Night. I watched the whole thing happening out my front window, where I was standing curling my hair. We live on a curvy hill street. Only one car can go up or down at a time. There are impasses 20 times a day. Someone backs up to let the other past, and life goes on. At first I thought this was what was happening. I heard them rev their engine, she was going down, they were coming up. I said "ok, easy, she's an old lady" (sorry mom). But then they revved the engine again, and again,and squealed the tires. As I pulled back the curtain, I saw a man emerge from the car and run at her, his arms in the air. OH SHIT.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Buy the time I got out the front door, shouting at Nipper Knapp to call 911, she had driven down the dead end below our house, and they had (I thought), trapped her, in her car, I heard a crash. OH MY GOD THEY ARE TRYING TO KILL MY MOTHER. This is what my brain must have thought. I don't know, because I was too busy saying "oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck" and calling the police, to know what I was thinking. I called the police too, because sometimes they don't pick up 911 from a cell phone for a very long time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I ran out into the street, the men were still in front of the house, but then, I couldn't see what was happening, as they followed my mom down the hill, below our garden wall. I knew one of them was out of the car, and so I started shouting "THE POLICE ARE ON THEIR WAY", over and over. I guess I wanted them to leave, to drive off. I wanted to get them away from my mom. When I got past the wall, I saw that my mom had pulled into a tiny driveway, and the men had driven past her and were now blocked in by a big grey truck. A good samaritan? My mom was getting out of her car. wtf. "RUN!" I yelled at her. "GET BACK IN THE HOUSE!" she yelled at me. Nipper said that when she came into the house she said "he has a gun". I didn't hear this because I was too busy being nonsensical to the 911 operator. She kept asking for my address and I kept saying "please send them, they have my mom". Oh, I hope Jim Rome doesn't play that tape ever. Mortifying.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Miraculously, both my and Nipper Knapp's 911 calls went through, and the police arrived within minutes. For reasons unknown to us at the time, the men stayed down in the dead end, out of their cars. As if they hadn't done anything wrong. We could see them down there. What was going on?!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, it turns out they were suuuuuuuuper stoned. The guy with the gun, had waved it in the face of another neighbor as he ran past, and shouted at him to get back in his house. This neighbor, a young guy, asked the police if they were on pcp or something. "Nope, just pot". REALLY? Who gets high and acts like that? And you make fun of us for pms? Testosterone is a bitch. Ok, so the police come, they interview everyone. They arrest the guys for attempted carjacking, and assault with a vehicle. Are you kidding me?</span><br />
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</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As soon as I could ascertain that my mom was ok, once she was in the house, once the police where there, here is what I thought: "I am NEVER going to hear the end of this". That's how fast it happened. Within 5 minutes of being TERRIFIED, that some guys were trying to kill my mom, I was rolling my eyes, saying "ok WHATEVER". I was still shaking. My bones were shaking, a sign from my body that it was time to run, but my brain had gained back control, and that's when the shit show really began. Carjacking? Meh, throw down between me and my mom? ATOMIC.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Nipper went down to get my mother's car. She was watching out the window, and I was pacing back and forth babbling like an idiot. Don't you wish you could tell me to shut up right now? She was telling me what happened, but I couldn't even really hear what she was saying, because all I was thinking was "how can I keep her from what just happened?" " How can I minimize this, so that I don't have to hear about how this city isn't safe FOREVER." "Why did this happen to HER? Why couldn't it have happened to me?" I would have taken it as a secret to my grave. "Nothing bad EVER happens here!" "We live in PARADISE! LOOK AT MY BAMBOO SOCKS!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> "Of course it's not safe!" I was shouting in my own head, "it's a city!" But this is what came out of my mouth: "in 14 years of living here I have never had anything like this happen! Nothing!" And then: "I just find it amazing that you are here 1 week, and of course this happens to YOU". She walked right out the front door. Nothing like blaming the victim, while their still at the scene of the crime. Don't worry, Nipper Knapp informed me immediately that I am in fact the world's biggest asshole, and I apologized. But you know I was in fight or flight baby! I had to excise my demons! Had to dump the adrenaline on someone! Had to try to shape the current events to match my world view. Had to keep my mom from saying "I told you so" AT ALL COSTS. Whoopsy tootsie!</span><br />
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</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the last 24 hours, my mother has heard every different side of the story from several neighbors. My neighborhood is super gossipy, I can't imagine what they say about us, and I give them NOTHING. I'm convinced, we'll never know what really happened. One side says that the guys had smashed into the guy in the grey truck on their way up the hill and they were trying to escape his wrath, when they met my mother's car coming down the hill. Which explains the engine revving, tires squealing, panicked escape from vehicle, and gun waving (no it doesn't explain that, but...). They weren't trying to car jack my mom, they were trying to get past my mom. But then why'd they follow her into the dead end? They were super stoned. The crash we heard was not them smashing into her car. They smashed into something else. I don't actually know what. Or maybe the grey truck crashed into them. They were super high. Did they even see my mom? Apparently when the cops asked them in they were high, they were just like "uh yeeeeah". Again this from a game of telephone amongst my neighbors.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I ran out on the street shouting "the police are on their way" the grey truck apparently drove off, maybe had something to hide. But today, the other neighbor who called 911, said the driver of the truck pounded on his door and said to call 911, so why then, did he leave before they got there. I didn't see him drive off, because I was in my dining room, hugging my mom, shaking, and about to say something really regrettable.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So that happened. But then I had a glass of wine, and the next morning, the neighbors who also called the police, brought my mom a very nice bottle of Cuban Rum, with a note reminding her that "LA has lots of nice people". My mom and Charlie went for a long walk, they had a swing in the breezeway. We've turned the whole thing over and over, pulling out every detail to debate it's merit. I'm ready to let it pass. Our life is busy, and I have things to do. Everything keeps going, the sky is so blue, and the mountains are so clear. Why are some of the most beautiful days the ones before or after disaster. So yeah, someone waved a gun at my mom, the neighbors talk about you behind your back, and there's a T-mobile billboard at the bottom of the hill that just says "SIN" in big pink letters because it's en español. But hey, say it with me "IT'S NOT COMPTON!</span><br />
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</div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-82073168530867471462011-10-07T10:27:00.000-07:002011-10-07T10:27:25.983-07:00The Man Repeller in a nutshell<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A little bit ago I mentioned a website called <a href="http://www.manrepeller.com/">The Man Repeller</a>. It's a cute girl who works in fashion, whose clothes choices, are all things that girls LOVE, and men hate. You have to go to the site to see what I'm talking about, but I experience this with Nipper Knapp all the time. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The first "infraction", I incurred was wearing uggs with mini skirts when we were first married. "This makes no sense!" he would exclaim. "It's warm enough for a skirt, but then you're wearing big wooly muckalucks. You think this looks cute. It doesn't." He can pry my uggs from my cold dead feet. Motherhood has gone ahead and taken my mini skirts. They're still in the closet, because I can't bear to think I'm *gasp* too old for them, but, they haven't been touched in years. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzV5RiZ45mz88MaxTk6aNrw30MlkSGuyDQSyqNxcXvx_2aclY5UkLsWv2AnTgvARdhDm6U3YSsmR7DXyLlnul0Jgtxb_G4K9RDgtGReIoyvqLifyo-HQt7jsYwIimo5TA-bAEeZXTJRu0Q/s1600/img-thing.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzV5RiZ45mz88MaxTk6aNrw30MlkSGuyDQSyqNxcXvx_2aclY5UkLsWv2AnTgvARdhDm6U3YSsmR7DXyLlnul0Jgtxb_G4K9RDgtGReIoyvqLifyo-HQt7jsYwIimo5TA-bAEeZXTJRu0Q/s400/img-thing.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then came the Luke Skywalker boots. I actually had these in two iterations. The first was a cheap pair from Target. They were sandy suede mid calf boots with a zipper, and had suede buckle straps all around them. I also wore these with mini skirts. For this infraction he'd greet me at the door with a "Hi honey, how was your trip to Tatooine today?" Stupid man. For my birthday three years ago Nipper's mother upgraded my Tatooine boots to a pair of Fiorentini and Baker boots from Barney's. (I love this woman) I don't get to wear these enough because I have kids, and you actually have to buckle the buckles (3 per boot) and who has time to do that, or the flexibility to bend over while holding Andre the Giant baby. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I know there are other fashion things I do that make Nipper roll his eyes. There was a beautiful cream YA-YA trench coat I got at a sample sale at the house of the Billion Dollar Babes founder. It had a giant cowl neck, and all kind of complicated buttons and a belt. GORGEOUS. It made me feel like Diane Keaton in a Nancy Meyers movie. He hates it.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nlbgWM4nCBZAJTxnQyd3hxURSBa9-8Ce-2OoGfPTVk-aGj-SX3eIJS7q_HVlZ3c9xuSGw3SDJJXWxmzY484lSvrIE6VgvLyn5cWfQ_nKxkeiuMNvraiDDXp5Cum3VPu6Au4rt4Rcd_Iq/s1600/IMG_3371.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nlbgWM4nCBZAJTxnQyd3hxURSBa9-8Ce-2OoGfPTVk-aGj-SX3eIJS7q_HVlZ3c9xuSGw3SDJJXWxmzY484lSvrIE6VgvLyn5cWfQ_nKxkeiuMNvraiDDXp5Cum3VPu6Au4rt4Rcd_Iq/s640/IMG_3371.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ok, I blocked their faces to protect identities, but these two beauties are an example of the difference between men and women. One is a man repeller, and one is not. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The other day we were waiting at an audition space in Santa Monica. This girl walked in, and as she passes in front of us, both staring I say "oh COME ON". To which he says "you see?!" She was gorgeous. She looked like Naomi Watts, all wind tousled, and wearing some drapey outfit with a short skirt, and layered tops, and suede knee boots, and a big boho bag. She was the effortless beauty every girl aspires too. That's what my "oh come on" meant, like, she's perfect, stop looking. But Nipper's "you see?!" meant something entirely different. He thought she looked RIDICULOUS. He was like why'd she have to ruin being cute, with that horrible outfit. And then he asked where she was hiding her light saber, and if she left the window cracked for the Jawas she left in the car. DUDES! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">About 5 minutes later another girl walked by. This time we both just stared. Her legs were 14 feet tall. She was the closest thing to a giraffe I've ever seen in person. She was wearing shorts, a simple blouse, and great shoes. On this we can agree, if you have legs like that, you can wear whatever you want. Sigh. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWpQEAkXoUxWu1zvooytma7u4eyGlwYycHsRuqQR5owBnXxkVHL_VYm3AVteBNH3X74ddO4igrBMpELXR-Hsi33xyudDIW4CAnqdyFfAfFgsH2iREq8yO-gfmDafjiC5mlZiU7Jzt1WEg1/s1600/IMG_3365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWpQEAkXoUxWu1zvooytma7u4eyGlwYycHsRuqQR5owBnXxkVHL_VYm3AVteBNH3X74ddO4igrBMpELXR-Hsi33xyudDIW4CAnqdyFfAfFgsH2iREq8yO-gfmDafjiC5mlZiU7Jzt1WEg1/s640/IMG_3365.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinoiWTwqO4ga6l8PUMdKDwRM7n0UnP2xfG7k68fpp6xmqBp4c4T1UaNAsMTIu_EOpjvwyllbXeybsNQrdSGLUbPqju7D11PPo7ljKKBsaNdDImHW6TucMEfBhypztgphoWaWKnLBcJjsLy/s1600/IMG_3366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinoiWTwqO4ga6l8PUMdKDwRM7n0UnP2xfG7k68fpp6xmqBp4c4T1UaNAsMTIu_EOpjvwyllbXeybsNQrdSGLUbPqju7D11PPo7ljKKBsaNdDImHW6TucMEfBhypztgphoWaWKnLBcJjsLy/s640/IMG_3366.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The other day I saw these jackets at American Rag. The first one is amazing. Perfectly broken in, buttery soft. Ironic patches, nehru collar. I had one just like it in high school. I think it had a Misfits skull painted on the back. It's a terrible picture, and you can't really see, but the second one is navy blue. You also can't see that it's $2000. They were both $2000. I think this would be the perfect thing to remind me that I was once cool, and can still be, if only I had $2000 laying around to spend on a jacket, I'd be embarrassed to wear to pre-k drop off...with my mini skirt and skywalker boots. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_axzJsPtq8AhUYQO80M6O6R0JxlGUG76DTWUb91NN1Xtmy9mChrWaxq9xJFjpqLFBmN3x6tWqVj68PLYh-3_WahCOSivM1ZjYV7LD8-45VBo7VEKlhBCvhcX5cS3skE8bjklEHm8EkVL/s1600/photo-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO_axzJsPtq8AhUYQO80M6O6R0JxlGUG76DTWUb91NN1Xtmy9mChrWaxq9xJFjpqLFBmN3x6tWqVj68PLYh-3_WahCOSivM1ZjYV7LD8-45VBo7VEKlhBCvhcX5cS3skE8bjklEHm8EkVL/s640/photo-1.JPG" width="480" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That's all I've got for today. Oh except this. I got these gold safety pin earrings made for me last year, by the a goldsmith, who is a friend of a stylist we work with a bunch. (brag drop <a href="http://www.deargreer.com/">dear greer</a>) They are my homage to my punk rock youth, (I may or may not have pierced my nose in a London hotel room with a safety pin when I was 15) But they are solid gold, so it's ironic. God I hate when I have to explain things. I get tons of compliments on them. They are my diamond studs. I never take them off. I'm wearing them right now with khakis and a lavender cashmere cardigan. OH THE IRONY! Take that mom! Sorry, having my mom around may or may not be raising some inner teen rebellion. If you notice me hiding out in the prius sneaking cigarettes, and sexting with Nipper Knapp, don't be alarmed, I'm fine. Just fine...</span><br />
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</div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-46324360599284352862011-10-06T11:09:00.000-07:002011-10-06T11:09:43.705-07:00Burnout Book Club<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCMY3jRBJ8dgGhSGwUC5S8E7qO5dDe67dduVywaVYBKSjftuLhkdMY3SqR37YFYnzhaaePii43Q2TZ4DkaQfHjrV8qL0LbNEonRIhYn8TIIXCdGsxzvh3mg6BiiOqCuG5P1Q1gLrkqTao/s1600/ex+libris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXCMY3jRBJ8dgGhSGwUC5S8E7qO5dDe67dduVywaVYBKSjftuLhkdMY3SqR37YFYnzhaaePii43Q2TZ4DkaQfHjrV8qL0LbNEonRIhYn8TIIXCdGsxzvh3mg6BiiOqCuG5P1Q1gLrkqTao/s640/ex+libris.jpg" width="414" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">one of my favorite books...well it used to be. Now my favorite book is paddington.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ok, here's MY book club proposal. Only mom's and singles with very little energy can be asked to join. No go-getters, or people with "big plans". The meetings will rotate from each persons house each month, meet at a park, coffee house, or pre-school parking lot. The meetings will last anywhere from 15 minutes to 3 hours depending on nap time. No new books will be read. As a matter of fact no reading will be required at all. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the beginning of each meeting someone will start by saying "hey did you ever read ______" and name a book they read in college/high school/ before death and taxes were everything. Then people will either say yes, or no. Everyone can say "I loved that book, it really changed my view of ________" or "oh I always meant to read that, but never got around to it", or "I picked it up 5 times over the last 15 years, but can't get past page 7." </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then we'd all order a round of drinks, and move on to complaining about the following topics: Kids, schools, husbands, sex, other moms, other kids, in-laws, own mother, fat, vaccines, and most importantly "those people". </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After that people can quietly excuse themselves as their ability to put together any more thoughts or sentences for the day are exhausted. The host will be left feeling edified, and a tiny bit triumphant, and will sleep like a baby...when they get a minute</span></div></div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-25703753672410027132011-10-04T13:20:00.000-07:002011-10-04T13:20:10.525-07:00oh darla!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqufwqFLG0Lrhpxz7HvDeTZEQYkI0PvGIoUK7B82-r2gIfQCxxxzFBBu8OD6J51x6QYeBPtsuF-Hz60xbu0XF9FLT29SwjvPu1EPMMkMbUsLz1vifppcz6nLga31TTHAgowtXDUpcSt16_/s1600/opie+fishing.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqufwqFLG0Lrhpxz7HvDeTZEQYkI0PvGIoUK7B82-r2gIfQCxxxzFBBu8OD6J51x6QYeBPtsuF-Hz60xbu0XF9FLT29SwjvPu1EPMMkMbUsLz1vifppcz6nLga31TTHAgowtXDUpcSt16_/s640/opie+fishing.png" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div>I was telling Nipper Knapp that I don't like some of the things Jack has been doing lately. Not behaviors, he's great. Activities. The usual mom complaints. Too much tv, too much ipad, mostly just too much time inside. He asked what I'd rather he be doing, to which I replied immediately, "read a book, ride a bike, play in his tree house, run outside and not come back until I call for dinner, get dirty, CATCH FROGS!" He said "ok". But before he could mock me I said "I know, I want him to be a boy in 1953, I get it."<br />
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I have no illusions about the world we live in. I have my nose buried in an iphone, ipad, imac, half the time. I write a mom blog. I make a living selling things on tv. The irony is not lost on me. But sometimes I wish I could just take my boys to a compound near the sea and raise them, just like they do in the wild. You'll notice I didn't say the country. I don't want to live in the country. Because you know, there's other people in "the country". People with opinions about things. What I want is a solitary life where they can climb rocks, and swim in the ocean, and ponder the vastness of the universe without some local crumb bum filling their mind with thoughts about stuff. I want my boys to be filled with curiousity and wanderlust, oh and an undying love for their mama. is that too much to ask?<br />
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</div></div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-91158689173568665262011-09-30T14:53:00.000-07:002011-09-30T15:01:45.349-07:00School of choice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><object height="288" width="512"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/mefeedia/http%3A%2F%2Fwww.hulu.com%2Fwatch%2F169534%2Flouie-pta-meeting/embed/HM6MZxfctemgjiDR-4hCYw"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/mefeedia/http%3A%2F%2Fwww.hulu.com%2Fwatch%2F169534%2Flouie-pta-meeting/embed/HM6MZxfctemgjiDR-4hCYw" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="288" allowFullScreen="true"></embed></object></span><br />
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</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We are entering the thorny thicket of school choices. I use the word "choices" broadly, because what I really mean is "desperate hail mary attempts to get our child into a school where he won't be maimed, mentally, physically, or otherwise".</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We bought our house a few months before Jack was born. We had the sunny belief that we'd be sending him to the French school when it came time for his little mind to be molded into a good little citizen. But then we met him, got to know him, realized we're pretty partial to him, and oh yeah, visited the French school. No cold Gaullist was going to reprimand my baby for mixing up his etre with his avoir. We lucked out with his preschool, because all they required of us was a reasonable amount of money. But now it's time to get him into an elementary school, hopefully that he will be in with the same (ish) kids until he graduates from High School. In Los Angeles. I KNOW. What kind of 1970's midwestern fantasyland am I living in?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here's the problem. Our neighborhood public school is bad. Not so bad that it's on the list for schools you can opt out of in the, school of choice, program, but bad enough that we wouldn't send him there for one day. There's another school nearby, that needs bodies. I mean children. It's a BEAUTIFUL school, so pretty, they used it in an episode of MAD MEN, because it looks like a beautiful mid 20th century learning heaven, where older ladies who maybe still wore girdles under their tweed skirts, taught the youth of tomorrow, to conjugate verbs, and dream about space. The houses surrounding the school are estates. Not just mansions, estates. Long rolling green lawns leading to 8000 square foot homes in every style, with guest house, and pools, tennis courts with lights. But guess what. The school sucks. None of the kids in that school live in those estates. Everyone who lives in the neighborhood is 112 years old. There are no children. I don't know which came first the bad school, or the no kids, but now it's an ever worsening cycle. So depressing.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCF_KNPtTfjuP-bR1czsrcpcBPkUrg7gWfWb2Dq1gRHSJ47Y0ob9YApk_W-PA7V-P6C5aU1rZT16LV3F8X3vphtaxZb5PWt6BHly7wdXfUM1iCZPUo3fl5BbxKL5obggOG0SMRLHosqC5R/s1600/arroyo+vista+elementary+school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCF_KNPtTfjuP-bR1czsrcpcBPkUrg7gWfWb2Dq1gRHSJ47Y0ob9YApk_W-PA7V-P6C5aU1rZT16LV3F8X3vphtaxZb5PWt6BHly7wdXfUM1iCZPUo3fl5BbxKL5obggOG0SMRLHosqC5R/s640/arroyo+vista+elementary+school.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is Arroyo Vista, one of the schools, in one of the 3 good school districts in all of Los Angeles. Even kids who live IN this district, have to lottery into the school. INSANE.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, that leaves us with neighboring schools that we would have to get an inter-district permit for EVERY YEAR (read, we can be happily sailing along in the 8th grade after years and years in a school, and they can give him the boot), private schools we can't afford (if one more person tells me $19,475 a year really isn't that bad for Los Angeles...murder), magnet schools, (museum science anyone?),and charter schools. We walked out of a meeting for a charter school this morning that everyone has been saying is THE BEST, when we read that they have temporarily ended their music and art classes due to budget cuts. For elementary school. No music. No art. For little kids. That's a deal breaker for us. What are they going to teach them ALGEBRA? CHEMISTRY? What a disaster. Have we lost our minds?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No Child Left Behind should be called America Left Behind. We're such idiots. I don't want to get into some political discussion here, (so please don't write me some libertarian rant about educating our own), but seriously, dudes, in terms of brain trust, we are like the grasshopper who sang all summer. Except that instead of singing, we just binged ourselves on suvs, subprime mortgages, dancing with the stars, and fat. I'M A COMMUNIST! You didn't know. I told you I went to Cuba in college. You were confused by all the Marc Jacobs, and stories about fancy cookies. Well, now you know.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We're not alone. Sandra Tsing Loh, wrote a whole web page about this very topic after navigating the impenetrable maze of middle class school options in the LAUSD. It's called "Sandra Tsing Loh's Scandalously Informal Guide to Los Angeles Schools". It's an easy read, and if you know STL, you can imagine her saying the words in her funny cadence, and it makes it, just that much more entertaining...and depressing. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don't know what we're going to do. Deadlines for tours are coming and going. Lotteries, application dates, move by dates (yes I said that), are upon us. In the last 5 days we've even discussed bribing (I mean paying, PAYING) Nipper's sister, who is an amazing, and dedicated school teacher to come to Los Angeles, to teach our kids, and our friend's kids. You know, sort of like a private tutor, home school, one room school house sort of thing. At least for elementary and middle school. Why not? When you start looking at the real options, it doesn't seem so far fetched. I know, communist. It's not your fault, you thought I was some kind of Target loving dilettante who just flitted from one half finished glamor project to the next. I am, but I'm also a pinko. I put kale in my smoothies.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'd love to hear some of your stories about school placement anxiety. Just to make myself feel better. Oh, and for those of you who live in Portland, and your kids walk two blocks to the AWESOME neighborhood public school where they have a spring musical, and an organic farm, you know where you can stick your story. </span></div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-5383366249095885982011-09-27T10:03:00.000-07:002011-09-27T10:03:17.162-07:00As I lay Dying<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><iframe frameborder="0" height="347" id="NBC Video Widget" src="http://www.nbc.com/assets/video/widget/widget.html?vid=1085169" width="512"></iframe></span><br />
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</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A few weeks ago, a friend of mine started a book club. I like her, and knew she'd bring together a great group of people. I was curious. As soon as I brought it up, everyone who knows me just gave me "the look". "Obviously, you aren't going to do this and why are you even talking about it?" That's what the look says. It also says "Bitch please". But I ignored the look. Then my friend chose "As I Lay Dying", by Faulkner as the first book. Uhm, ok. Never mind I can't find time to read Vanity Fair in the bathroom even. I can totally do this! I WENT TO COLLEGE!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I happen to have the book already. It's been on my shelf for years. It's one of my father's favorite books. My first clue should have been that I've owned the book since before I had kids. Hello Dumb Dumb.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don't really need to go on about this anymore. I didn't even get the book off the shelf. Didn't even physically move it from the shelf to say, my bedside table, or the diaper bag. Didn't even pretend to try.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I remember talking to this ex boyfriend of mine once, years ago. I was here in LA, single, 3 cats, guitar, lots of expensive salads, and he was in NYC. We were talking over email, and I must have asked him to talk about something, or about talking on the phone about something, or to look at something. I don't know. And he said "I won't be able to do that until October". It was mid-summer. I remember thinking he was a douchebag (he was), and what kind of asshole says, they are busy until "insert month name". I thought he was just being blustery and self important (he was). </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But dudes, I will be busy, and won't be able to look at your thing, talk on the phone, or get together for an expensive salad until October, of 2025. Excuse me if I'm overusing this phrase, but this two kid thing is for realz. I wish I could take that sentence back. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After the fender bender, air dry, day, Nipper and I agreed we need help. He doesn't have time to write, I don't have time to write. Every time we get auditions we sigh. The daily acrobatics to get to auditions, school, get everyone fed, were becoming more and more terse. No one has time to work out, much less see each other, or eat sitting down. The pink man cave? Haven't been in there in months. The kitchen counter is covered in mail (did you just hear Nipper Knapp shiver?) I haven't been to a dentist, in a really, really, really, long time. There's a thing on my arm, I think I need to have looked at. My hair color, which I've been doing myself is a ridiculous color yellow. On a good note, I now KNOW that I can function on 5 hours of sleep a night.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGCb5aeb_NI3zxYZJdBwrlDJYUfeiXqWBs2rrmLd7Sax9KgSpCNZHFbYoQVLzUE_jYC9mKCCP_jFDi_seWsG_cRPwj5jy20YD6WpYiHCvnzV3_09AgAQsXC1XP2EhzBzxP2bo8483ZA-l/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKGCb5aeb_NI3zxYZJdBwrlDJYUfeiXqWBs2rrmLd7Sax9KgSpCNZHFbYoQVLzUE_jYC9mKCCP_jFDi_seWsG_cRPwj5jy20YD6WpYiHCvnzV3_09AgAQsXC1XP2EhzBzxP2bo8483ZA-l/s640/photo.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So we asked my mom. To move here. To Los Angeles. From Oregon. For a year. And guess what. She said yes. As a matter of fact, she was here, and had an apartment rented within 3 weeks of asking. That's family. She has a busy life, filled with projects and people of her own to look after. But here she is, looking after my little people, so I can catch a breath. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A week after Charlie was born, we parted ways with Jack's longtime babysitter (not ready to talk about that yet). Our good friends across the street (Brett, this guilt trip's just for you!) moved away, and my whole world went kaboom. All my best laid plans up in smoke, we managed to hobble through the first few months. I thought it was a little more stressful, but not too bad. Then I went back to work. Then I died. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So here we are. In the most unlikely scenario I could have predicted. I sort of imagine my mom getting the email where I ask her if she can move here for the year, to help, like this: My mom sits in a bookshelf lined room. She's in a heavy leather office chair facing a computer screen. It's silent, save the sound of birds in a tree near an open window. She's quietly checking facebook, reading articles friends have sent her about feline leukemia, Bella Abzug, and the Marshall plan, when a chime sounds that she has an email. She clicks over to read it. At once she is standing, the chair upended, several loose papers swan to the ground. "<b>I GOT THE CALL!</b>" she shouts, as her previously sleeping cat opens one eye, rolls it, and goes back to sleep. Also it's possible that the theme song from Rocky started playing quietly as she read, and was blasting by the time she announced her victory, leading into a montage of her packing, doing push-ups and sitting in a coffee shop with a bunch of other yoga grandmas patting her on the back, shaking there heads approvingly. I'm pretty sure that's how it went.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My mom is busy setting up her apartment, which is absolutely perfect, and reminds me of a cross between Melrose Place, and the Brady Bunch house. It's got a pool in an elevated center courtyard. We've already moved a closet full of kids toys over there (can you hear Nipper Knapp laughing maniacally?) Nipper and I have seen TWO movies since she got here a week ago. TWO! There isn't much I like better than sitting in a dark movie theater eating popcorn with Nipper Knapp. I've been to several auditions sans baby, and Nipper and I even carpooled to a few last week. He listened to his sports podcast on the car radio and I listened to the WTF podcast on my headphones. HEAVEN. Dear people without kids, heaven is no one talking to you. We got to our audition all relaxed and dreamy, and holding hands. I'm sure half of Los Angeles wants to punch us. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5dDtUwCN6EYNJOalF3DxrZybcfLsirMfENod08xI5l-VWMTfQjo6Bx36hn5Zarh1hgRS94IE2cvZ-ZsCjhMFIHAxRhtQ3l8n8tbseKbQq1UTh4VON-SU1sfAK4enNtEuIN33amMnMTSoS/s1600/greygardens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5dDtUwCN6EYNJOalF3DxrZybcfLsirMfENod08xI5l-VWMTfQjo6Bx36hn5Zarh1hgRS94IE2cvZ-ZsCjhMFIHAxRhtQ3l8n8tbseKbQq1UTh4VON-SU1sfAK4enNtEuIN33amMnMTSoS/s640/greygardens.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So wish us luck. My mom and I haven't lived with, or near each other in 20 years. But before my hair falls out and we have raccoons living in the attic, I will have a year of free babysitting, free from worry (about those things), free from missing my husband, and she will have a year of smelling baby necks, and learning ALL about each and every detail of the Lego Hero Factory robots. Win-win. Right?</span></div></div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-59227738578105525442011-09-26T20:41:00.000-07:002011-09-26T20:41:52.662-07:00But they're so slimming!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDtvyH98oJDVdhcZjJbkL_ttAGNvnhclpWCNjSYjzdkhbeC3X6VaPCER0S3ULBLbzY_c6TLoOgkuRhfqHjSuM8k90rGTMfN6XKuB6HGP1L_94ym7pjT_V08rb5zEC5SYPLiZ_FKqg9y-s0/s1600/IMG_3181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDtvyH98oJDVdhcZjJbkL_ttAGNvnhclpWCNjSYjzdkhbeC3X6VaPCER0S3ULBLbzY_c6TLoOgkuRhfqHjSuM8k90rGTMfN6XKuB6HGP1L_94ym7pjT_V08rb5zEC5SYPLiZ_FKqg9y-s0/s640/IMG_3181.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">God, grant me the serenity to accept the maternity stretch pants I cannot change out of,<br />
Courage to change into a pair with a button when I can,<br />
And wisdom to know the difference.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'm not gonna lie, I need to do some sit-ups. And stop eating gorilla munch every night. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The other night my friend Danielle's husband outed her maxi dress for what it really is: sweatpants without a crotch. BASTARD. Why do you have to ruin the illusion?! It's a dress! So what that's it's basically a long tshirt that hides everything. It's a dress!</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Which brings me to <a href="http://www.manrepeller.com/">The Man Repeller</a>. Have you guys seen this site? It's dedicated to all the cute stuff that girls love that men hate: boots with skirts, dresses over jeans, giant sweaters with weird fringe, etc... I sent it to a very fashionable friend of mine, and she called me laughing "It's like ALL of my clothes! It's amazing I have a husband and a baby!"</span></span></div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4238854188410095322.post-57202402617598596882011-09-21T15:51:00.000-07:002011-09-21T15:51:57.147-07:00Just when you thought it was safe to get back in the water.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUqZTyjy3hwCEL4oiTaIOfa_VhtaiSR-EZrR6wCcub-7Hadjm60BXKCFiZ27hf9PqzoXY_511mqeSMfE39f5PZhMJBGM36hGR_g8mjKmvGKhTBE57Lyp16LBQLJXed5l0MQ09MMza_ZWT/s1600/IMG_3077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfUqZTyjy3hwCEL4oiTaIOfa_VhtaiSR-EZrR6wCcub-7Hadjm60BXKCFiZ27hf9PqzoXY_511mqeSMfE39f5PZhMJBGM36hGR_g8mjKmvGKhTBE57Lyp16LBQLJXed5l0MQ09MMza_ZWT/s640/IMG_3077.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">please note the shoes...</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A few weeks ago, I had one of those days that makes you question everything. I know I've been super dramatic lately (LATELY), but since I went back to work, everything feels like crazytown. Someone always needs something, and no one seems to be getting what they need. I miss Jack, I miss Nipper Knapp, I can't stand how many bottles Charlie has already had in his little life (I know, I know, but it's how I feel). The nursing, pumping, driving, mascara, slating, smiling, driving, pumping, nursing, sleeping, oh eating, nursing, schedule is starting to tear me apart. How is it that I'm "doing it all", and still feel guilty. On this particular day we had auditions all over, and Jack was out of school, so he was along for the ride. Poor circus baby. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We had a callback in the afternoon in Santa Monica that we couldn't take the kids too. So we had arranged to have Sadie's AMAZING babysitter, who has been helping us out a bit here and there pick up the kids in between auditions at the pizza place where we'd be having lunch. I was a little nervous. Jack doesn't really know the sitter very well, and I was worried he was going to be upset. He wasn't. I told him she had good music in her car, and he said "but daddy and I listen to DUDES music". I asked what that might be and he said "Star Wars, and Batman". "And Tangled?" I asked. "YES, and Tangled". I burned him a cd for her car. But then I was worried about having both boys in the car with someone else, driving around LA, on the 110 freeway, eek! You know mom stuff.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLNpKsvslkf5e6r5wk0ecg2UgOthMEx-ccbSIqVTnuHW-68q5O7Xxxyfwbeq_1V3MTBIz5XC8bROM8ploZbMmAMjAkoIhwlNli5Ta00z-NaT9I2hxgRhWOolREJuH2sAB2sefWtGFB6bi/s1600/IMG_3096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLNpKsvslkf5e6r5wk0ecg2UgOthMEx-ccbSIqVTnuHW-68q5O7Xxxyfwbeq_1V3MTBIz5XC8bROM8ploZbMmAMjAkoIhwlNli5Ta00z-NaT9I2hxgRhWOolREJuH2sAB2sefWtGFB6bi/s640/IMG_3096.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was worrying about mom stuff, talking on the phone with Sadie (on the bluetooth to the car, geez). I was stopped in traffic about halfway between Pico and Venice, on La Brea, when I saw a car speeding up behind me. Crash. Shit. I think I might have said "I'm having an accident". I don't know. It was a blur. The tail end of my car was smushed, the trunk pushed into itself, so the door won't close. The girl didn't have any id. No wallet. No purse. Nothing. Oh, and it wasn't her car. She said "can I just give you my phone number?" She was young. Sigh. No, you can't just give me your phone number. The whole time I'm standing out there talking to this twit, the headache that I'd been staving off starts to build. I'm squinting into the mid day heat, taking iphone pics of the car, the girl, her car, the plates. I'm going to be late for my callback now. I'm paying someone $18 an hour to drive my kids home so I can talk to this girl. That's the economic facts of the situation. This girl cost me at least $7 in babysitter time. I take the registration info from the owner of the car.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the middle of it, the babysitter texts. They're home. Jack gave her directions the whole way. I'm thinking over and over how glad I am that the kids weren't in the car, their little bodies safe at home.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I meet Nipper Knapp at our callback. I hug him hard, and for a long time. I know we need to go in, but I'm stunned, and I just want to stand there on the street and hug some more. I also want to lay down a little bit. We go into the casting office. We make small talk with the casting agent and her husband. We do our scene for the director, which happens to be our house has just been robbed, no problem, I'm right there.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We had planned to try to get in early and go to the Rose Bowl to use the gym, and swim, while we had a sitter. But now, the bumper of the car is hanging off, and I'm frazzled, and it's 3:30 and we're out in Santa Monica, and it'll be an hour home anyway. "Let's just go home." "No", Nipper says, you should go swim a little, decompress, I'll go home and relieve the babysitter. I love him.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So he hauls my swim bag out of the trunk of the broken car. Up and over the backseat because the trunk door is broken. Off I go. I'm in a fog. I'm in that weird state where stress gives way to extreme sleepiness and lack of focus. I text my mom, she calls me 13 seconds later. "Are you ok?" "I'm fine". Not really though.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6jfyz88TWDydDn3of26LGi2Ta_cs78J1y3CTcMTAt5FpDEGxdGHF-uKJwLXZvUfroZFqnaWOv-GyEpIk3Ch7HDGkosTiLIqQFHMvkbt2K6VURUmiDDlYKH1BKEw0YjMWhBhAS1J4Y2_Y/s1600/DPP_247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha6jfyz88TWDydDn3of26LGi2Ta_cs78J1y3CTcMTAt5FpDEGxdGHF-uKJwLXZvUfroZFqnaWOv-GyEpIk3Ch7HDGkosTiLIqQFHMvkbt2K6VURUmiDDlYKH1BKEw0YjMWhBhAS1J4Y2_Y/s640/DPP_247.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">this doesn't haven't anything to do with this story, I just saw it, and it made me laugh. Am I the whale? Is life the whale? </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I get to the Rose Bowl, I realize that some things fell out of my bag. I have one flip flop, and no towel. COME ON! I'm determined to have one thing progress as usual. I put on my swimsuit, tiptoe across the hot pavement, and jump in the pool. My back and neck are tight, and I can't tell if it's tension or from the accident. I swim a little, but mostly, I just float. After 20 minutes of staring at the sky, I get out.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here's my grand plan. I'm going to shower, and then I'm going to get enough paper towels to dry my hair a little, just so it's not dripping. I'm going to put on some lotion, and air dry. It won't take long. This is my plan. We all know how well my plans have been going lately. As soon as I get in the shower I realize I'm an idiot, but it's too late. The locker room is filling with tween girls. They've just finished swim practice, and they're everywhere. There's nowhere to stand much less AIR DRY. I'm used to being there in the middle of the day with all the other jobless old ladies and hobos.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I wedge myself in between two 12 year olds. I'm naked holding my giant pink and orange LL Bean bag. You know, they're like "Uhm, gross". I would be, if it wasn't me being the weirdo. I walk over to the paper towel dispenser and it's out. Of course it is. The only other one is near the door to the pool. What are my options? Did I mention the only clothes I have to change into are my audition clothes (too tight jeans, and a halter top, electric blue clog sandals), and my workout clothes (white v-neck tee, nursing bra, grey striped cotton leggings). None of this is going to be awesome if I have to put it on wet. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here's what I do. Because I have apparently lost the shame particle, that should have made me wait naked in the bathroom stall until I was dry. I dry myself off with the halter top. That's right, in the middle of a throng of overachieving (swim team? c'mon) 13 year old girls, I dab myself dry with a halter top. I make every effort not to get too *ahem* personal, but god help me, I'm not gonna walk through the Rose Bowl lobby and parking lot with a wet cooter. I get mostly dry, and I wrap the halter around my hair to keep it from dripping. I'm standing there with this drenched halter turban, digging through my bag, and it's really hot in there, and I'm still a little bit damp, and I'm starting to sweat because my nervous system is shouting "FLIGHT! FLIGHT!"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Not just a little bit, I'm dying inside. I want to tell this girl next to me who has become morbidly silent amidst the other chattering girls, to "I used to be normal, just wait until you go back to work after having your second baby, extracurriculars my ass..." But I don't say anything, I just bury my shame deep behind an aloof mask and carry on. Like, this is just how I do it. Soon this is how everyone will do it. I'M DOING THIS FOR THE ENVIRONMENT!!! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The girls clear out as fast as they came in, and I'm mostly alone to finish the post swim of shame. I'm just pulling on my workout clothes, with my clogs (Maybe they'll mistake me for one of those cool/weird European women, that don't understand fashion conventions, but ends up looking "neat" anyway) (#maybeIshouldstayhome) as another rush hits the locker room. College aged lifeguards in training. Thank you god for small miracles. "I really didn't need to stand in a humid toilet stall and dry myself with tp today."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Did I mention we just asked my mom to move here for the year to help us out? Do you like how I buried the lead?</span></div>Mrs Nipper Knapphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209865473383387371noreply@blogger.com2