Letters to the Cupboard (in this case... the filing cabinet by my desk)

Dear Flavor Blasted Goldfish,

You. You and you're unique paper bag packaging. You even look like the lunches my mom used to send with me to the bus stop. But just because you look like an extreme reinterpretation of school lunch from a happy childhood doesn't mean I should treat you that way.

Like, I probably shouldn't eat your entire contents in one sitting.

Sure, it starts out simply enough. A salty craving justified by your small packaging. The knowledge that 51 -- yes 51! -- of you comprise a single serving. The low price point. Next thing I know you've found an open spot in my shopping basket, alongside things that represent my better judgment.

I added you to my secret stash -- the bottom drawer to my left -- and expected you to sit there quietly... like the pretzels do. But no, you and your fishy little contents swimming in flavor blasted goodness just had to stew in that drawer and jump up into my salivary glands every other thought.

Then, when I brought you out and made a 51-piece pile next to my computer, you repaid me by having 5 other 51-piece piles left in your reserves. And you let those 5 servings beckon me until not a single little fishy was left.

And to think they give you to babies as a snack. Shame on you Goldfish. Shame on you.

Love,
Amber

It's Beginning to Look a lot like Black History Month

If you have the day off today, you should watch this so you know why.

If you're working like me, you should steal 20 minutes from your employer and watch this so you won't feel like as much of a slave to capitalism.

Happy MLK-One-Day-'til-Obama Day! Let the end of segregation begin! Again!

Seriously

My friend David is in Congo right now making a documentary and mingling with child soldiers and it's got me thinking about, you know, child freaking soldiers.

I've heard about 100 stories of child soldiers carrying guns, getting raped, watching their families get slaughtered, sensational stories of survival go team! In general, I think it's bad to have child soldiers and I feel bad about children having to be soldiers.

In specific, look at this:
That woman up there (not the white one, duh) was a child soldier. Her name is Chantal and she was taken by rebels when she was six.

Six.

She was held captive in the forest for nine years.

Nine.

Every day of those nine years she was raped by seven different men.

Seven.

She, like any six- to 15-year-old being raped every day by seven different men, tried to escape. Three times she got away, only to be captured, brought back and tortured. On her fourth attempt, she finally found a way out.

But in the cruel reality of child soldierdom, her escape didn't leave her liberated. Instead she found out she would be forever tethered to the men who'd been raping her every single day because she was pregnant.

Pregnant and with no idea who the baby daddy was.

My friend David met Chantal. And her baby, who is now two years old. Chantal has just started to take care of her child because for the first two years she just couldn't stand the thought of being kind to something that was associated with the person who destroyed her life. I can't say I'd be so generous.

Who really wants to think about this sad crap on a Friday? Not me. It's far worse than I ever imagined it was, and even though I prefer being in the dark about the cruel reality, that won't help other kids like Chantal get a fair shot at life.

The Thing about HMOs

Since I'm in media and the media industry is insecure to put it nicely, I've decided to get my health in order. I've lived without insurance before, and, thanks to Planned Parenthood, it's manageable, but the things I need to do now aren't things Planned Parenthood takes care of.

Like a colonoscopy.

My Uncle Mike died from colon cancer when he was 33. He was diagnosed a couple years before that, which basically makes him my age. The thing about my Scott blood is that it really isn't optimized unless it's got a layer of filth in it -- courtesy of violence, sex, smoking or alcohol -- and Mike's blood was pristine compared to my other relatives. He didn't smoke or drink, didn't break his siblings' bones, didn't cheat on women and was generally a good guy. While the rest of the Scotts swam around in the smoky residue of Chesterfield Kings unfiltered cigarettes and toasted their health with cases of Hamm's beer, Mike focused his attention on his shiny red Corvette and adventures in Africa.

Fortunately, I exist with that protective layer of filth on me, but even so, I feel like I should get a colonoscopy to be sure it's working. Plus, my mom told me to do it on my 30th birthday and I put it off and put it off, and for some reason, she just won't forget about it like I do. If I want to hear the end of the colonoscopy, I need to send her footage of a healthy intestine for Mother's Day.

Today I started the process. I made an appointment with my Primary Care Physician (PCP) and paid $25 to spend 3 minutes with her while she filled out a referral form claiming I was "constipated." It's true that I don't crap every day, that sometimes I won't crap for 3 or 4 days, but I wouldn't say I'm ever constipated. I don't feel any pain... I just need the right circumstances to relieve myself. Like a cup of coffee, some reading material, an hour of isolation, and the confidence a book of matches buys you.

With referral in hand, I left the office and called the gastrointestinal (GI) doctors. After confirming my HMO/PPO status, I made an appointment for a consultation with them for Jan. 27.

On Jan. 27, I'll pay another $25, offer up some hyperbole about my "constipation" problem -- something that involves bloody stool and cramping -- and hope that I'll be able to come back in another few weeks to get diarrhea. That is what my HMO makes me do. Lie about my condition so my poor mother (and a little bit of me) can get peace of mind.

From Crackle: Colonoscopy

Less than 5 feet from each other

There's some stuff going down at the office of The United States of America, and it's got me feeling all sentimental and wishy.

For the last few years, my job -- the one that has made me a horrible wife, a lousy friend, an absent sister, and a lame, one-dimensional person -- has been the highlight of my life. It's been the reason I get out of bed and do stuff all day long. Not necessarily because I love it, but because I love doing something. The sense of accomplishment I get from being productive is what makes me take note of my days, what gives time its value.

I have made almost all of my friends in Los Angeles thanks to my job. And while I've not connected with them as much as I wish I had because, you know, we're "colleagues," I plan to add these people to my collection of admirables and make sure they get a Christmas card from me every year at the very least.

But as my office -- and every office in the country -- works to suss out this insecure limbo we call "tough economic times," I'm afraid of losing these friends more than I am of losing my job. I'm afraid that the girl who sits not five feet from me, who I find to be talented and adorable and far more dimensional than myself, who brightens up the dingy corner of our quarters with her easy laugh and sweet reflection, will leave my life before the depth of our connection is realized.

Laura is my friend, but the ease between us when we are together -- lingering with margaritas at the work party, walking to the library during lunch, talking about baking our own bread and imagining how life would be if cars were gone and we had more time to conduct ourselves instead of conduct business -- is something so precious and so full of potential. She's one of the few people I've encountered in the last 10 years who could be a good friend if conditions were right.

It's tough to find good friends at my age. Especially good girl friends. The friends who are your given people. The ones you're going to be hanging out with over the weekend even though no one has planned for it. The ones you're going to go see Mamma Mia with without needing an invitation. Part of it is because my best friend is Mr. T, he's my given, and he's a good given to have. And a lot of women my age have spouses or serious partners who are their givens too. Which makes it hard for us to, you know, be friends.

I guess I'm just bummed that I've taken for granted something that was right next to me for so long. The potential of a good friend is just as valuable as the reality of one, and if this job has taught me anything, it's to break through the cubicle walls before they come crashing down.

Oh, and to build up my savings.

Hype, Hype Hooray!!

And now for the big reveal.

Also, those three gals in the last photo, yeah, me, Leiah and Betsy, WE'RE COMING!!

"I drank Shannon's puke. How do I deal with this?"

New Year's Eve 2009 was the first I've ever spent with just my sisters. Of course Seth was there, but he's always around, and Lara was there, but she volunteered to be the DD, which elevates her to sister status in my book.

Because we're all married gals (Seth is always around), we decided to hit up the gay bar so we could dance without having boners in our backs... okay, and because the drinks are always stronger at gay bars and we're in a recession people! We got dolled up, raided our mom's jewelry, put on our dancing shoes and had Charles drop us off at The Connection.
The night was primed to be a blast. Good company, strong drinks, balloons netted by the ceiling just waiting to rain down upon you, party hats, drag queens.
This was Betsy's first New Year's Eve as a legal drinker, so I made sure to keep pace with her as she slammed gin and tonicsI could better gauge her drunkenness.
A few minutes past midnight, Shannon, who had more reason to celebrate than just the passing of a year (it's Dr. Hensley now, especially if you nasty), got the dancing bug. I followed her out there, left her with a new friend who though my name was Edna to go look for Betsy, and then lost her in a sea of swirly lights and flailing arms. I sent Leiah and Lara in as reinforcements, and they dragged my leggy big sister back to the table, where she plopped down under a curtain of drunk hair.
And then good times started to roll.
Shannon looks up at me with her face -- her eyes weren't opening at this point -- and says, "Imunnabesich."

Got it. I spot a discarded drink on the table, toss the ice out of it, and put it in front of her. One heave and it overflows onto my hand. I set it on the table, turn to the first doctor in our family, and help her get through it. Bystanders clear out like an atomic bomb of stomach bile would expect them too, the limp body goes rigid with pukey pulses, and as soon as there's a break in the action, it's all, "Come on, we gotta walk, let's go, gotta walk, fresh air, gotta walk."

I call Charles, apologize for the condition his wife is in, explain it's not her or our fault... she got overserved!... and ask him to come retrieve her. We sit outside while a nice smoker goes inside and gets her a cup of water.

"Imunnabesich."

Leiah meets me outside and we assure Shannon that three steps ahead and one to the right is a perfectly acceptable place to yak up all the disgusting mess that 2008 put inside her body. Charles pulls up, we plop her in the car, and me and Leiah head back the party people.
The second we see Betsy, she grabs my arm, gets as serious as a happy drunk can get, and says, "I drank Shannon's puke."

Awww, Betsy. That is a special kind of gross. Why in the....

"How do I deal with this?"

I don't know if she's said anything that funny since the time she told Leiah to "just let it come out your nose." That comment right there made my New Year's 2009 one of the most memorable of my life.

At the time, the only advice I could muster for her was probably, "Don't drink it again," but having had some time to reflect, here's what I would have said if I wasn't about to zerbert a stranger's stomach, steal beers and blow chunks myself within an hour.

"First of all, don't puke up her puke because that seems like a new type of incestuous. Then, pretend it never happened."

Too bad Betsy's big sister has a blog, huh?

Half Time Entertainment

Who's sick of babies??!!! Not me!!!

Enjoy this little diddy by Ben, in which he teaches you the ABC's.

And now for a sweet number by Renee. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star can now be retired from the toddler vernacular.

We are a musically gifted bunch, a collective of singers and songwriters whose talent is so immense, it may be mistaken for a piercing shrill.

Rock on, my people.

There's a reason we call him Bam Bam

Benjamin Ace Messer is a maniac. A bonafide two-year-old tornado who gets so amped up by a conga line that he clotheslines his darling cousin Renee.

I used to give him cuddles with Leiah when he drank his bottle, but now he wants none of it. He wants to line his cars up and ram his cars into peoples' toes and watch Cars. Either you're into cars or he's knocking you on the ground in an attempt to get you to like cars.
We went to a party at Charles' sister's house over Christmas, and Ben fed off the energy and ran around the room roaring at people... roaring like a dinosaur-lion-maniac in the faces of adult strangers. Luckily, his chubby cheeks and sparkly blue eyes made this frenzy quite adorable.
Sometimes when he gets uber-boyish, there's nothing you can do but baby body slam him, lay on top of him, and squish his scrawny little butt into the ground. Gigi says, "He needs someone to wrestle him. He needs it," and she's right. Twenty minutes of repeated takedowns later, you've got a sweaty little angel who's perfectly content to take his bath and go night-night.

Because he is so boy and needs to beat the living shit out of things, Santa Claus brought him a baby drum set for Christmas. Pretty much the cutest thing ever, although I've gotta say, I am glad it was out of sight before New Year's Day. I can only handle one pounding headache at a time.

Sensual Seduction

Renee, in addition to saying "okay," "sit," and "rest" in the cutest little raspy voice you've ever heard, is basically a little sugar nugget.
She likes to talk to you nose to nose while staring into your eyes more intensely than most adults. She squeals when she's pissed, hoards stuffed animals, and melts into your arms when you kiss her neck.

And the girl can put down some M&Ms. She loves her num-num. I was playing duckies with her in the bath and it was only after 10 minutes of soaking that she finally handed over her yogurt covered raisins. But it's when she feels her nibbles may be threatened by the camera that she really gives you the looks.
I mean it, she is good enough to eat.

Coming in 2009

Here's what you can expect from me for the next few days.

I've just spent the last couple weeks in the delightful oblivion of home -- you know, where the heart is -- and I've come to realize a few things.

Namely that sugar cookies make babies insanely fun, gay bars always overserve you on New Year's Eve (much to my New Year's Day chagrin), and regressing to your 12-year-old self while still being allowed to purchase liquor is basically heaven on earth.

Because I want to relive the joy that was Holidays 2008 again and again, I'm going to here. I mean, really, who doesn't want to hear about Shannon's projectile vomiting, Seth's kissing boys and Ben's green poop in his ball wrinkles?!!