From today’s Epic hour-long meltdown by a five-year-old… Further evidence that this whole parenting thing is turning me into a chick…
A Parent’s Credo (by me):
I will hold you when you cry.
I will sing to you when you scream.
I will whisper to you when you yell.
I will reason with you when you are irrational.
I will kiss you when you kick.
I will protect you when you are a danger.
I will hug you when you hit.
And, I will Love you when you Hate me.
Then, I will go to bed and cry.
I will pay for your college education.
I will stomach your boyfriend.
I will stomach your girlfriend.
I will celebrate your graduation.
I will finance your apartment.
I will help you “find yourself.”
I will indulge your tattoos.
I will call the mechanic.
I will get you on your feet.
I will respect your decisions.
I will help you become the woman you were meant to be.
I will be your father.
Then, I will go to bed and cry.
I know you’ve seen those home improvement and restaurant redesign shows where the host is yelling and screaming at the end that they are out of time, right? Dear Producers: These are your shows. You are in control. And, this happens every week. Why don’t you just give yourselves more time? You can do that, you know.
7-year-old Julianna practicing her reading skills by telling me what the supermarket aisle signs say. Things go well until Aisle 12…
J: “Feminine Needs.” Daddy, what does that even mean. What are THEY?
Me: Well, Honey… Um, since I work for Disney, I think I’m required to say: a Handsome Prince and Talking Animal Sidekicks.
J: (Blink.) Daaaaaaad! Why are you like that?
Yes, I know. Wrong aisle number. I was at a different store when I had my camera. So there, Mr. Gottacorrectsomeonestein.
Sorry, Facebook, I am breaking up with you. And to be clear, it was you, not me. I’m moving in with Twitter, though I know you think she’s a skank. (But, you just don’t know her very well.) Yes, her 140 character limit is going to pose a problem, but I’m sure in time we’ll adjust. And she has so many great qualities, things that I know you have been trying to emulate. I wish you the best. (By the way, I’d certainly appreciate it if you would forward my stuff to me at Twitter’s place. The address is @Darren_Otero)
My first Twitter ‘follower’ Olliem51 posts: “Sex is like snow; you never know how many inches you are going to get or how long it is going to last.”
Rimshot! Wow, I’m already having buyer’s remorse. (And not because it is still September, and no snow has fallen.)
Maybe I’ll start a blog or something. How hard could it be?
But, in response to Olliem51: All I have to say is, not long, and not long.
So far, I’m disillusioned by my move to Twitter. I have a total of 4 followers: my mother-in-law (Hi Darlynn!) and three hoochie-mamas whose website addresses are of the order of: sluttygirl27@www.TripleXXXBabes.com… (Really, are there 26 sluttier girls than you?) Plus, I really don’t care if Kathy Griffin’s performance last night “rocked Mackinaw!!!!” So, while I am totally distrustful of Facebook, understand this: Twitter, you are weak… I may not be through with FB after all.
The first rain drop falls just as the guy at the car wash signals to me that he is finished. Then the first thunder clap scares the crap out of a bird just as it passes over my windshield. Please tell me that the rest of the day isn’t going to be like this…
As he was leaving us after a three week visit, my father tried to slip me a $100 bill, as parents are apt to do. I refused his charity and explained to him that in Hollywood I earn enough through talent, smarts, skills, and shooting the occasional smile in the right direction.
He paused, looked me over, and said, “You should take the Hundred… You’re gonna need it.”
Dear MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas: I have enjoyed staying in your Celebrity Spa Suite. However, I really don’t need to see countless reflections of myself in all those many mirrors when exiting the shower. Maybe your “Hot, Hip and Sexy” guests enjoy that, but I nearly called Security.
I spent the last hour searching for that elusive cool spot on my pillow. Since I am now typing this message, it is safe to assume that I was not successful.
NBC’s “Minute to Win It” was on tonight. Lynn complains that the women on that show always have to be hot, smart, witty, engaging, and have great bodies, but the men can be dorky, sweaty, doughy schlubbs.
I look at her. I look at me.
”That’s just Art imitating Life,” I say.
The first 15 minutes of tonight’s local newscast: The Japanese “Radiation Plume” will hit California around 2:00 tomorrow afternoon. They even had fancy graphics “from the United Nations” showing the “cloud” as it crosses the Pacific that is “ready to attack” the West Coast.
The “weather girl” delivering much of this news is more at risk from her silicone implants (which are quite generous — though I’m not complaining) than we are from the ominous Radioactive Nuclear Fallout Cloud.
Oh, and at the very end of the reports… “The doses are so low that we’ll have no way of detecting it.” Really? Then what’s the point?
Thanks KCAL 9 for keeping us non-informed!
Correction… I’m told that the “weather girl” is actually a meteorologist. In a ridiculously short skirt. Who knew?