Dear Chuck Lorre,

The first time I wrote an online letter to you, I did a great job keeping my cool and not making an ass of myself. Was that just the smoothest, coolest fan letter you’ve evah received?  Can you imagine what I’d say if by some wild chance we actually met in person?  See, that sounds awesome in theory.  Me, a Missouri housewife with dreams of one day being a lifestyle cable show creator, meeting her idol, the ultimate show creator/power house TV producer covered in funny goodness that is Chuck Lorre. Meet your idol, get inspired, and try not to frighten him in the process.

So, a few months ago I signed up for a seminar for wanna be television producers.  When I registered, the special guest producer of the seminar was yet to be announced.  I said to my husband, “Wouldn’t it be wild if Chuck Lorre was the special guest?”  And he said, “Dream on, Sugar Britches!”

Wait wait wait.  I can’t lie to you, Mr. Lorre.  He didn’t really say that. That was me, taking creative license with my kick ass Chuck Lorre story. I doubt my husband has ever used the word britches, much less with sugar in the same sentence.  He told me to dream on, and I did, with visions of Chuck Lorre fairies dancing in my head.

SO THEN a few weeks later I got an email from the seminar’s organizers.  I guess dreams really do come true for sugar britches like me. It appears the gods of television lost a bet and you are the unknowing victim who must settle up. Get your lawyer on the phone and get a restraining order on stand by, my television idol.

You’re the special guest.

When I read that email, I started dancin and whoopin and hollarin around the room.  Come to Missouri, leave your g’s at home.  The babies started whoopin and hollarin with me as we ran circles around the dining room.  I was shouting, “CHUCK LORRE!  CHUCK LORRE!  I GET TO MEET CHUCK LORRE!” until the four year old stopped me and asked, “Who’s Chunk Lordy?”

So Mr. Lordy,  when the cling-ons of the seminar are crowded around, desperately trying to press scripts for Two and a Half Men into your hands, “Charlie falls for a woman who’s actually from outer space!  Isn’t that great?” and you’re thinking whatever they paid you to lead the seminar wasn’t enough, I’ll be standing off to the side, sweating through my just my size granny panties and waiting ever so patiently to do this:

I want to stand next to you and make this face while someone takes a picture.

That, my favorite producer and show creator of all time, will be worth the price of admission, flight, hotel, gas surcharges, and luggage fees. I will print the picture and hang it above my computer as a reminder to never give up the dream.  The funny guy won. It gives me hope.

Oh, and If we do actually meet, I promise I won’t hug you and stroke your hair while softly singing You Are My Sunshine.

Your future seminar attendee,

Jaden

PS If the whole successful career in television thing doesn’t work out, you can have Chunk Lordy as your porn name.

Dear Chuck Lorre,

Hey Hot Stuff.  I can call you that now cuz we’re like THIS cuz we talked for ten minutes after you spoke at the LA TV Festival. By Hollywood relationship standards, we’re practically married.

I followed your advice from that beautiful ten minutes we shared.  Which sounds like we had a quickie in the bathroom.  We didn’t.  At least not in real life.  We might have made out in my head. I might have been picturing that the entire time you were giving me advice on how to get a TV deal. The advice worked. Thanks, I’m now bald and have an ulcer.  Welcome to television!

I had forgotten my camera that day and this lady sitting next to me said, “Here, I’ll take your picture with Mr. Lorre and email it to you!”  It was a good picture, too.  I looked hot.  You looked tired.  The important thing is what I looked hot. And now the world will never know because that lady never emailed me the picture. Which is another fine example of how relationships work in Hollywood.

So last night I had my very first Chuck Lorre dream.   I’m an enter -a -dream- with- the -action- already- in- progress kinda gal, ala Sam Beckett in Quantum Leap, who is not a gal, but Scott Bakula is from St. Louis.

The dream began with me discovering you were driving us somewhere in the mountains. We pulled alongside a river and I made a lame joke about being with Chuck Lorre in a van down by the river.  You snapped, “We’re in a Mercedes!”  Then you informed me your diaper was dirty and demanded to be changed.  I asked if it was too late to develop a career crush on Rob Reiner.

I exited the car and a fuzzy blonde monkey pounced on my head. You came out to rescue me, telling me you once killed a fuzzy blonde monkey with your bare hands.  The monkey climbed into the back of the Mercedes and asked for a ride to L.A.

We got into the car and headed to Los Angeles in silence that was soon broken by the monkey leaning forward and asking, “Hey, can I give you a script I wrote for Big Bang Theory?”

I dreamed  a super TV producer was sitting in a poo filled diaper driving myself and a script writing monkey to Los Angeles. After spending the past 8 months trying to get my show sold to a network, this dream doesn’t surprise me one bit.

Closer and closer to becoming the Chuck Lorre of cable television,

Jaden of Jaden Dot Com

I could put the ick in graphic by describing what’s been exploding out of various body parts of my family the past week, but I like you.

Instead, I wish to you entertain you with ickiness of another kind.

The following post was written before the Oh No, I Don’t Think So virus hit our home. So named because just when you think you’re feeling better, the virus taunts, “Oh no, I don’t think so” and laughs as you race to the bathroom.

Kind of funny that this post is about yucky odors. So erase thoughts of my sick family as you read what I wrote last week….

I know you come here for glamorous tales of my rich and fabulous life in the fast lane. Today’s post will not disappoint.

Wooooo weee the smell that’s been in this house! I can only describe it as wet basement meets moldy green beans meets frog-egg covered pond in the heat of august. Hungry?

The smell hovered between the kitchen and the back bathroom, which share a wall. Two areas where you don’t want bad smells. Cuz then people come over and think the nasty food you’re cooking is giving you serious intestinal distress. That’s why you’ll always find a scented candle burning when you visit. I want the world to think my family smells of lilacs and cinnamon buns.

Since we don’t have a basement, cuz we’re the only idiots in Missouri who would buy a home without a basement, I went into a complete panic, thinking the pipes under the foundation had sprung a leak. You know, in an area of the house only accessible by a jack hammer and a lot of tears.

Situations like that only happen to people who hate their houses. The dollars fly right out the window when you realize you were an idiot for buying the wrong house. Oh yay, I’m sinking another 5 grand into a house I can’t stand! Girl, please. Let’s just light a match and walk away. No one will ever know…

Matt pulled out some cabinets and the dishwasher and to much relief, discovered we had an easy to access leak that required the expert of a plumber to fix. But. BUT. Guess what was in the water that had accumulated behind the dishwasher?

The larvae of sewer flies.

Oh yes, sewer flies made our leak their wakka wakka wow love shack. Globular masses of teeny white eggs, glistening and shimmering with life that is born from the depths of stanky, nasty ass water and problems that cost hundreds of dollars to fix.

And me without a spoon.

The plumber that arrived to fix the leak(S!) looked a lot like my husband. So much, in fact, that little BoomBoom kept walking up to hand him members of her prized Little People collection. BoomBoom. The one who’s completely terrified of human beings.

JuJu’s newest words are naked and mailman and BoomBoom’s unusually friendly with the plumber.

Now if Miss Boo starts calling the UPS guy daddy, Matt is going to get very very worried.

I have come up with the ultimate baby shower gift for the first time mom.

Take a big box. Fill it with sheets, numerous sheets. And towels,tons of towels. Get as many large plastic bowls as there are members of the family. Add some Lysol, add some fabric and carpet strain remover, and viola!

A puke patrol kit.
A deluxe upchuck box.
A throw up thwarter.

Otherwise known as the best damn shower gift she’ll ever receive.

And you know what? She won’t appreciate it. Oh no. The dear expectant mom will take one look at that box and go, “Um… I’m sorry? I just don’t… understand???” And her non-mommy friends will turn and shoot snooty little daggers at you while thinking, “That’s SO not an appropriate shower gift. There’s not one fluffy bunny in the box!”

And you, the experienced mother will lovingly pat the expectant mom’s shoulder and quietly exit, knowing one day she too will understand that even tho motherhood is amazing and wonderful and all that blah blah blah that should go without saying, it’s more about the puke patrol, less about the fluffy bunnies.

There is no doubt that one day in the future, you will get a phone call from her, and in an exhausted and stunned voice she will say, “Last night was so awful. The green beans. The noodles. They didn’t stop. They just kept COMING! And the milk? No one warned me about the milk.”

And you will slap your forehead and say, “Face mask or nose plugs! Damn! Forgot those!”

Then your friend, now an official member of The Parenting Club, will say in an appreciative voice, “I didn’t understand your shower gift. Now I do. Thank you, oh wise experienced one. Thank you.”

Oh yes, my friends. You aren’t really a part of the Parenting Club until you have upchucked Yogos spilling down your nightgown at 2am in all their artificially colored glory. You’re not a Real Mom until you’re sitting on the toilet with a big plastic bowl on your lap, praying for mercy while your sig other is in the other room, yelling, “They’re all doing it at once! It’s like the Exorcist in here!”

But there’s no time for your own toilet issues, Buttercup. Buck up, as you trudge down to the basement or into the closet to fetch your own Puke Patrol Kit, wisely packed after the “I’m still finding bits of regurgitated animal cookies in my hair incident of 03.” Don’t be surprised if you pause to hug the box with relief as you gently clean up freaked out babies and children, change sheets, soothe children some more, cover children’s cribs or beds with sheets and towels from your kit, then hand them a puke bowl of their own. It’s probably best to get the stains out of the carpet or furniture right away. And don’t forget that Lysol spray kills germs and odors.

Then, with your own puke bucket in hand, it’s time to do laundry before the next wave hits. The first of numerous loads of laundry in the hours to come. Since these things always happen at 2am, it’s ok to lean against the washer for support. Just remember to close the washer door so you don’t throw up into the wash machine as it’s filling with water. Because you need one more issue right now.

Your life for the next 3 to 4 days? Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat.

And pray you and your sig other (if applicable) are at least one or two days behind each other in the misery, so at least one parent is of sound mind and body. And if both of you go down in flames with the children? May your higher power be with you, my friend.

THAT is motherhood. THAT is fatherhood. THAT is parenthood. And during times like THAT, the ultimate shower gift of all the things you need in one box when everyone’s puking their guts out sure beats a fluffy stuffed bunny.

But if it makes you feel any better, go ahead and get her puke bowls with dancing duckies on the side. Sure to be appreciated when her head’s stuck in one for three days straight.