This is how glamorous I am.  Last night I had an Oscar party with my five year old. She wore a Cinderella costume, I wore a bathrobe over mismatched pajamas. We ate popcorn and fudgesicles.

We were watching red carpet coverage when Miss Boo saw an up and down view of an actress and said, “Oh, bad hair. Bad makeup. Hate the dress.  Awful jewelry.  She won’t win.”

I turned to her and replied, “Who ARE you?”

The camera went to another famous actress.  Boo gasped, “Great hair. Great jewelry. Love the dress! Look at how it folds at the bottom!  Oooh what a gorgeous ring. And look at those shoes!”

“Boo, I think you have a future at the TV Guide Channel.”

Miss Boo then raced off and returned with her sketch book. “Give me a minute. I want to design your Oscar dress.”

Boo sketched two designs.  In the first, I’m walking down the red carpet wearing a rainbow colored princess dress.  In one hand I’m  holding a steaming mug of coffee and in the other I’m holding a trophy filled with money.  Miss Boo trails behind in a matching dress, smiling and waving at tiny reporters with wings who float in the air around us.

In the second picture I am stumbling forward while wearing a torn neon orange gown and I have a full beard. In one hand I am carrying a bottle of wine and I have dropped my Oscar on Miss Boo, who is sprawled out on the red carpet, grabbing her head, and yelling, “OWWW!”

I’m thinking of having them framed.

For Valentine’s Day we gave Miss Boo a bubblegum pink three ring binder filled with blank paper and brand new markers in a rainbow of colors. Boo spent about four straight hours that day filling the pages with scenes from the stories that exist in her head.  Since then Boo and her book are inseparable.  I sit down with Boo each night and she tells me the stories and I write them below her pictures.

I think her enthusiasm for illustration comes from preschool.  Boo’s teachers make it a point to show the kids where they can find the name of the author and illustrator of the books they read in class. Sometimes Boo’s homework assignment is to read a library book, write down the name of the author and illustrator, and draw a scene from the book.

Last night I sat down to check out her latest drawings.

Me: Boo, why does this crazy person have green squiggles around her body?

Boo: She doesn’t have on makeup, her hair is messed up, and she smells funny.

Me: So it’s a picture of Mommy?

Boo: No, this is you.  Here’s the dresser and Mowee is stuck in the underwear drawer.  Zappa is on the dresser looking worried about Mowee.  You are covering your face and laughing.

Me: Wow, that’s really good,  Boo!  Ok, what’s this picture about?  I see a girl and she has three thought bubbles.  One says, “I’m a,” one says, “a a a a ” and  what does this one say?

Boo: She’s thinking about who she is but she forgot.  She’s saying, “I’m a…aaaa….” and that’s a question mark.

Me: Another picture of Mommy, huh.  So Boo, what do we want to call your book?  Let’s write the title page.  Do you have a title in mind?

Boo: The Old Times And The Evil Times.

Me: Really?

Boo: Write it out, Mommy.

Me: Ok, I’m writing…

Boo: No, you’re doing it wrong!  Put a period at the end of the.

Me: There’s no period at the end of the.

Boo: What do you know about writing?

Me: You’ve make a great point, Boo.

The Old Times And The Evil Times goes on to feature girls dancing with umbrellas in the rain, monsters chasing princesses, and Hello Kitty’s quest to find a Halloween costume.  Or it’s more fun if you call her what Avie calls her.  Hello Titty.

I think I need to pitch The Old Times And The Evil Times the next time I’m in Hollywood. Miss Boo’s gonna bring back the mini series!

OH, and the babies.  I know they’re two! I can’t stop calling them THE BABIES.  They’re my babies!  Awwww!!   The other night Matt and I were discussing OWN, Oprah’s new TV network.  That lead to the following conversation between the Almost Twins.

Avie: I’m O-pah!

JunaBug: I’m O-Pah!

Avie: NO!  I’m O-pah!

JunaBug: No Avie!  NO!  I O-pah! I OPAH!!  I OPAH!!

Avie: *Bursting into tears*  Noooo!  Nooooo Doo-na!  Noooo!  I O-pah!  I Opah.

Which made JunaBug walk over and smack Avie in the head while screaming, “NOOOOOO!  I  O-pah!  ME ME ME!  O-pah!”

Which made Avie smack her back with both of them falling to the floor, beating the crap out of each other and crying hysterically while desperately trying to claim Oprah’s identity.  I patted them both on the back while soothing them with words I never thought I’d say as a mother, “No, sweeties.  You’re both Oprah.”

To which the five year old responded, “How come I can’t be Oprah?”

There’s only one Oprah but it doesn’t hurt to dream, now does it?

Long before marriage and kids, Matt and I were watching a late night show that featured people who had bizarre fetishes, like getting pleasure from being vomited on.  I turned to Matt and said, “No way. No pee, no poop, no vomit.”

Then we had kids.

Yesterday I was holding little Avie when she made a little choking noise, turned to face me, and threw up everything she’s eaten since she was born.  Then she paused a moment and went for round two. My kids can’t get their socks into the hamper but they have perfect aim when it’s time to puke.

A situation like this isn’t pleasant, but it’s easier to handle when your partner is home and can clean up the kid while you clean up yourself.  But this time Matt was at work, I was covered, Avie was covered, and so was the floor.  AND I had two other kids freaking out beside me and in their panic they were running back and forth across the vomit covered floor.

I paused just for a moment to curse silently under my breath  then stood up to take care of the situation, stepping with my bare feet into.. yeah…squish.  So if I was to talk to the bathroom to get towels, I’d… yeah.  Track it all over the house.

Since I got the worst of the damage I stripped myself down first, just as little Avie ran out of the room and came back wearing my shoes and saying, “I’m a lady!  I’m a lady!”  Oh my shoes. My new shoes.  Now with insides smeared with upchucked avocado.

That night Matt got home from work and I quickly escaped the house of sick to the gym.  I had the best workout and felt like a million bucks.  Until I tried to start the car in the 10 degree weather and it kept dying unless I kept my foot on the gas.  Have you ever tried to back out of a parking space in a tight lot filled with people with one foot on the gas and one on the brake?  It’s challenging.

I called home to find out the kids were all in bed and sound asleep.  If you have twins that share a room, that’s an accomplishment and you don’t dare wake them up. They’ll never sleep again.  I told Matt I’d get home, dammit.  And I did, at ten miles an hour and stalling in every intersection with a line of angry honking cars behind me. Nope, no stress at all!

I woke up this morning thinking ahhhhh a new day!  A new start!  That’s when I realized I forgot to defrost tonight’s pork chops.  I was running them under water with the Almost Twins watching in fascination when the trash truck came rumbling down the street.  Both girls fear the trash man and panicked.  Normally I can pick them up and comfort them but my hands were covered in raw pork. JunaBug got so freaked she peed all over the floor.  Avie came running to me crying hysterically and slipped and fell into the pee. I threw the meat into the sink and sighed. That’s it.  We’re having pork-sicles tonight!

No vomit, pee, or poop, huh. I’ve had vomit and I’ve had pee this week.  I’ve haven’t had any poop incidents (yet) but I’ve sure said my fair share of oh shit!

What I know about Hollywood I learned from Jackie Collins novels and bad reality TV. I do so love to pretend I’m a big expert on All Things Television. (I know nothing.)

I was scaring one of my stay at home mom friends about the horrors of Hollywood when I made a fun little slip of the tongue. OH!  Tee hee.  Slip of the tongue. Damn!!

Me: Yep, that’s Hollywood. It’s crazy!  It will eat you up and eat you out.

Her: *horrified look*

Me: What?  What did I just say?  OMG, did I say eat you up and eat you out?

Her: YES!

Me: I meant eat you up and spit you out.

Her: That’s what I thought.

Me: But you know… what I said applies, too! Hey, should I call the Los Angeles tourism board and suggest it as their new travel slogan?  Come to Hollywood!  It will eat you up and eat you out!

Her: I’m so glad I’m a stay at home mom from St. Louis.

Tonight my friend Britney had a Superbowl commercial party. Bring the kids, bring some food, and not watch the Superbowl.  I’m not a sports girl, but I am all for any excuse for a party.  I brought brownies. Not THOSE kind of brownies.  I’ve never had THOSE kind of brownies before. I have had jello shots. Not really the same effect, is it?

It’s true that when the wives have the chance to sit alone and talk, the talk gets pretty raunchy.  Those ladies had me in stitches.  I was busting a gut. I was busting my pants.

And I mean that thing about busting my pants literally because it wasn’t until I got home and changed that I realized I had a HUGE and I mean HUGE rip in the butt of my jeans.  Huge.  Undies showing through loud and clear huge tear in my jeans. And I was wearing white undies, too, so there was no hiding that unfortunate scene.

THe girls didn’t notice.  If they had noticed, they would have pulled me aside.  No, my friends would have made do a model walk back and forth across the kitchen.  They didn’t notice, but I have to wonder if their husbands did?  “Does that large rear ended woman not feel a draft gently caressing her cheeks?”

I don’t know the husbands well enough to be pulled aside and asked that question.  So I bet that yes, at least one husband noticed that giant tear down the center of my giant ass.

OH GAWD! I was playing Wii bowling.  Standing up.  In front of the entire room of people who were sitting down.  Eye level with my butt.

Only me, my friends.  Only me.