Just Like I Dreamed It Would Be

I know you think you've got me pegged as one of those obsessed-with-celebrities LA newbies just because I've written an entry or two about some of the familiar faces I've run into over the last year.

But you didn't even know about Minnie Driver in the produce section at Whole Foods in November (or maybe December?). So there. I OBVIOUSLY couldn't care less who I encounter on a daily basis. I mean, I didn't even tell you. (PS - she's really pretty in person, and very skinny! Min - call me!)

I wouldn't get excited about seeing very many of the the more high-profile celebrities these days, truthfully. I might look, but I wouldn't really care.

Unless, of course, you are Steve Carell. Then I'd care.

And that, my friends, is who I met today. While on a new-shoes-and-a-milkshake date with my four-year-old at the local mall.

Now, if you don't watch "The Office," well, all I can say is - do. Unless you hate joy. Or puppies.

"The Office" is great, and Steve Carell is a freakin' genius, as far as I'm concerned. And I always thought of his as a sort of intelligent breed of comedy, the kind you had to really, really get the joke to appreciate fully, the kind that not everyone is going to dig in equal measure, and the kind I really GET. He rocks.

So, as freakish as this will undoubtedly make me sound, I've thought about what I would say to him if I ever did, by some strange turn of fate, actually meet him. I even spoke as much to a co-worker just last week (when discussing the episode in which Michael mourns the dead bird? Yeah, I know.).

I figured I'd ask him whether he ever cracks himself up mid-scene, or how he so cleverly manages to make you want to laugh and cry in the same moment. I wanted to let him know that his lower-key performance in "Little Miss Sunshine" was equally, yet differently brilliant. I thought I'd mention a few of his cast mates, like B.J. Novak, the guy who so-subtly plays Ryan and who is also a writer for the show. Or Kelly. Or, obviously, Jim and Pam. I figured that somehow, I'd squeeze in a mention of "The 40-Year Old Virgin," which, let's face it, was both vulgar AND touching, thanks entirely to him.

So. What did I say today, after grabbing Elan by his small, recently-broken arm, and sprinting across the mall with his body flailing behind me in pursuit of reassurance that it was, as suspected, Michael Scott himself walking out of Brookstone?

I said, "Steve. Carell."

To which he turned around, smiled, and, looking very uncomfortable, replied, "Hi."

The next three minutes are a blur of me clutching Elan for dear life and wiping beads of sweat from my nose, but I'm painfully aware that it went something like this:

"Oh my god you're like the funniest guy on TV. It's like, I don't really go up to famous people or anything I mean I really don't - usually - but I always thought if I ever saw you I would like HAVE to go up to you and say how awesome you are cuz you are just hysterical and also funny. And then I saw you, so -"

- So...what? I had to follow you into an exit hallway on the way to your car and harass you when everyone else in the mall managed to fight the impulse and leave you alone?! In front of my child?

Steve smiled again, if memory serves, and it was a genuine, kind smile. The type you give senile old ladies when they mutter something indiscernible as you pass them on the street.

A sympathetic smile.

"Well, thanks so much!"

Ah, but Steve. I wasn't finished.

"Yeah so once I ran into the guy who plays Stanley," [note to self: Sweet Jesus, WHY did you think this was worth mentioning, and once you were already going to sound like a psycho-Office-cast-stalker, why, oh WHY couldn't you at least remember Stanley's real name and sound legit? You blogged about him, for G-d's sake!] "...And I spoke to him, too. Because of your show which is like my favorite! And he was totally nice!"

Seriously, who am I?

Steve: "Wow, thank you very much. That's great."

Nope - not finished yet. I had already cornered him in a vacant hallway, and the poor guy wasn't going anywhere until I'd said ALL that I, apparently, needed to say:

"Anyway, it's just -" hand to heart here - "the way you play that character. Is just perfection. It was really nice meeting you."

Yes, it's over. You may stop cringing now.

Steve thanked me again, we walked away. Elan didn't for a second even ask me who the man was. He was more interested in pimping me out - or, at least, urging me to try on every leopard-printed pair of 4-inch spiked heels on the sale rack at Macy's ("Look Mommy! MORE leopards! Oh, please get these ones!").

Articulate, right? No mention of "Little Miss Sunshine," which is up for several Oscars. That would have been way too relevant. Nothing specific about "The Office" or the current season to prove I actually do watch the show or appreciate it anymore than an in-bred, mentally-challenged, newborn baboon might. Just a lot of "likes" and "you're totally funny!"s. Not even the word 'comedy.' Just: "funny."

"Like, ohmygod. You're so - funny!"

Somebody shoot me. Please.

Well, I can now attest to the fact that the guy is genuine, and unaffected, and obviously TOLERANT in real life, making him all the more likable onscreen.

And, yeah, so he was sporting the worst Mystic Tan I've ever seen up close. But maybe it's for the show.

Medicine

The flu has hit our family. Last weekend, my parents and brother came to visit. Ariel had a bit of a sniffle.

By the time they returned to their respective cities on Tuesday night, both of my kids, my niece, my two brothers, one sister-in-law, both parents, husband, and - yup - myself, had been hit with the Runny Nose. The Fever. The Fire-Throat. The Phlegm. The Dizziness.

The Misery.

But for the first part of the weekend it was just Ariel, and the poor guy was pretty uncomfortable. So when, on Saturday night, he cried and cried, frustrated from lack of success in breathing through his nose without swallowing large globs of mucus, it was understandably upsetting.

But I've been a mom for four years now and I've seen worse. I was sad for him, I wanted to comfort him, but I wasn't freaking out.

Elan, however, was. In the next room, lying in bed illuminated by the eerie red glow of Mr. Turtley's requisite round-the-clock warming lamp ("...Slash Nightlight! Just Like Being On Mars!"), Elan twirled his hair and listened worriedly to his younger brother's outburst.

And Elan might be manipulative, he might like to have a good time at Ariel's expense on, well, most days, but he also has a heart. A big one. And he's easily touched.

Like when Ariel falls asleep in the car and his cheeks get all pink and his lips puff out and he starts to resemble one of these Gerber babies from the Fifties, Elan is suddenly putty. And he makes all kinds of vows to give his Gerber baby every toy he's ever owned as soon as he wakes up. This intention, naturally, wears off exactly seven minutes after Ariel has woken up, but no matter. It was there.

And being faced with Ariel's pain causes even more of an inward tug than being confronted with overt cuteness. When, a few weeks ago, Ariel stubbed his toe, Elan tried everything he could conceive of that might forget the gnawing sting. And when I pointed out that it seemed to upset him to see his younger brother hurt, he nodded and pointed out, "And when Ariel had that rash all over his body that time, I feeled teerible!"

It was a nasty rash.

That night, tortured by the sounds of combined sniffles and sobs, we weren't that surprised when Elan called Y into his bedroom.

"Is Ariel going to be okay?" he asked nervously. "He sounds REALLY sad."

Y smiled. "Yes, he'll be fine, he's just not feeling well. You go to sleep, okay?"

"Okay," he replied, a bit hesitantly. Y left the room and Elan rolled onto his side to give sleep a shot. But Ariel kept crying, only half-conscious now that the Dimetapp had set it.

"Da-dddyyyyyyyy!" Elan wailed again.

Y came and saet on the edge of his bed.

"I was 'hinking," Elan began. "Ariel sounds really sick so he might need medicine. And I know sometimes Ariel doesn't want to take his medicine-" (This, I should point out, was some major projection, as Ariel takes medicine willingly so long as you applaud him afterward, and Elan would rather consume snake droppings) " - so if he won't do it, I e'cided I'll come out of bed and pretend to take some medicine too, so he will 'hink if I'm doing it, he should too!" he finished and sat up expectantly, ready to put The Plan into action.

Y grinned and smoothed his hair back. "Okay, honey. If we need your help, we'll come and get you."

"And you know how you said you'd get me a toy tomorrow for cleaning up the whole mess in the family room?" Elan continued. (Y doles out the rewards pretty generously by the end of a long work-week.)

"So could you maybe get me some'ping with a whole bunch of pieces? Because I'm going to give whatever you get me to Ariel tomorrow to make him feel better. So if you get me some'ping with a lot of pieces, I could maybe just still keep one of them."

"Yes, sweetie. I will." Y kissed him and left the room. And then told me what Elan had said.

Ariel was finally quieting down, but still whimpered confusedly when I began lowering him into his bed.

"Hey, you know what Elan just said?" I whispered into his cheek while pulling the covers up to his chin.

For the first time in hours, Ariel went still. He stop, and then, unable to resist, whispered back groggily, "What?"

"He said to tell you he loves you and he's sad that you're sick. And he wants to share his toys with you tomorrow to make you feel better."

And just like that, the storm was over. Ariel smiled.

And then he snuggled into his pillow and went to sleep.

In Case You Forgot They Were Listening

Saturday mornings are tough. The boys are up as early as any other day, anywhere between 6 - 7 am, and usually closer to 6. It's the Sabbath, so we don't plug them up with early morning TV, as is the weekday norm, to try and pull off another thirty minutes or so of semi-consciousness before before being jerked towards the reality of custom breakfast platters for each child. Because you can't expect both a two-year-old AND A FOUR YEAR OLD to like the same variety of frozen waffle.

On Saturdays, there isn't much we can do to keep the boys from waking us up and demanding our attention, and it can be tough to suffer politely. Lately, both Y and I are dealing with greater-than-usual work-related stress, and while he has never been a great sleeper, my membership to the insomnia club is relatively new and unfailingly frustrating. Lately, I'm drifting off for the first time all night close to the crack of dawn, and I've never been much of a morning person to begin with.

So when, last Saturday, Elan ignored my eighth 6:15 AM request to quit blowing raspberries of saliva all over my sleep-deprived face in a mad effort to irritate his younger brother, I reached across the bed and clamped my hand over his mouth. Angrily, I'll admit. But, in my half-awake haze, maybe a little harder than I'd intended.

"You smacked me!" Elan wailed to the Heavens. "You smacked my mouth!"

I apologized profusely, and we made up. But when, a few minutes later, Y emerged from the bathroom, Elan quickly seized the opportunity to rat me out.

"Mommy hit me on the face!" he announced, grinning.

Y spun to look at me, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, G-d," I said, rolling my eyes. "It was NOT like that. I did NOT hit him on the face."

Y continued to stare.

"I don't hit him!" I said, perhaps a little too loudly - but I was upset. "He was spitting and ignoring me and I covered his mouth. Elan, tell him."

Elan nodded. "Yup. I was spitting, so she hit me."

Y looked at me accusingly. "Mag?"

"Elan," I said seriously. "Parents who hit children for real get in major trouble for it. It's against the law to hurt a child. Parents CAN'T do that."

"The law? So police can put them in jail?" Elan asked.

"Yes," I replied. "It's not something to joke about."

"You'da go to jail??" Ariel chimed in incredulously out of nowhere.

"Yeah, boys, whaddya say?" Y joked. "Should we send Mommy to jail?"

"No!" Both boys yelled, tumbling across the bed to hug me and climb under the covers. "No way! She's ours!"

It turned out to be a gorgeous day. A few hours later, we walked with the boys outside, on our way to friends' for lunch. And we ran into Detective P., a local cop who is also a member of our community, and of great reverence to my children. He lets them hold his badge at shul. In return, they worship him. Not a bad deal.

"Hey guys!" He bellowed, reaching out to high-five each little hand. Elan smiled shyly, ready to hang on his every word.

Ariel, on the other hand, prompty blurted out: "MY MOMMY DA GO TO JAIL!"

"What?" Asked Detective P., leaning down to hear him better.

"Oh, ha ha!" I replied, forcing what I hoped sounded like jovial laughter. Knowing EXACTLY what Ariel had said and EXACTLY why he'd said it, I quickly stepped between them, turning the stroller to leave. "Who can ever tell what he's saying?!" I waved a hand in Ariel's direction. "It's all mumble-jumble to us! Still learning to talk! Ha ha! Well, see you..." I trailed off.

"I SAID, my mommy has to Go. To. JAAAIL." Ariel spelled it out slowly this time, as if talking to a child, to clear up any confusion.

Elan giggled and I flushed. Everybody can understand Ariel - he never mumbles.

"Jail?" Detective P. said in his most child-friendly voice. "Only bad guys, kiddies!"

"Well she -" Ariel began, but Y came to my rescue. He shook Detective P.'s hand and told him we had to get going.

We walked off, and I poked Y in the ribs. "Thanks," I said sheepishly. "I know you were dying to watch that play out."

He grinned. "You, my dear, should just be grateful Elan's too shy to speak to most adults."

Coming of Age and Airplanes

Tonight was Y's baby sister's bat mitzvah. This kid was 5 when I first met her - just a year older than Elan is now - so I really feel like I've watched her grow up. Y is a wreck over the whole her-growing-up thing, but at least he can concede that she's turning into quite a wonderful young - if not so incredibly young - person.

The party was beautifully done and the lady of the hour both looked and spoke beautifully. C, we're so impressed with you.

My boys looked pretty spiffy in their black vests and bowties, and took the party by storm. Nobody could pull Ariel away from the dance floor, where he spent hours boogying the night away while locking eyes with every pre-pubescent girl in sight, and trust me, there were many. He put on a special performance for each of his favorites and only paused to ask random guests if they'd thought to bring any chicken nuggets, because he sure AS HELL could go for some about then.

Elan giggled at his brother but wouldn't dance and wouldn't talk to anyone remotely female until he had to go to the bathroom, and the female in question was yours truly. There is always, always a line in the lady's room, and tonight was no exception, but Elan and I stayed cluttered in a stall for a good twenty minutes while he took care of business and gave me a detailed report of his progress. Fortunately, he also tends to get rather philisophical while on the toilet, and we've had some of our best conversations while he's in this rather compromised position.

"The bat mitzvah is really fun," he started. "Chani looks so big. And she talked in front of everyone. And everyone is watching her. It's really fun. The bat mitzvah is really fun. When's she gonna have another one?"

"You only have one in your life," I explained. "When girls turn twelve, and Jewish boys have their bar mitzvah when they turn thirteen."

"So she's never going to have another one, EVER?"

"Nope. But you'll have one some day."

"Oh. I don't ever want a bat mitzvah."

"You never know. You might not be so shy at that age."

"Ugh," he groans.

"What?"

"Strawberries."

Ah. Back to the job at hand.

I thought about how different Elan and Ariel were - how Ariel thrived as the center of attention, how he'd smiled and posed for each and every picture as if it was all just part of his career - the burden of the paparazzi, and how Elan had - well, needed to be bribed. How Elan couldn't imagine being the focus of a room full of people for one evening and not wanting to JUST DIE.

On the drive home, Y and I figured the boys would be out like lights upon contact with their car seats - they'd worked so hard all evening - but even Enya couldn't get them to doze off. Ariel chattered sleepily in an obvious effort to remain conscious, and got excited when he spotted an airplane high above the highway.

"Daddy? You sometime take me on a airplane, just me and you?" he asked.

"Sure, sweetie," Y replied. "We'll go on a special airplane sometime together."

"To Chago? Jus' me and you?"

"Of course," Y promised, and Elan and I smiled at each other over his little brother's silliness.

It must have made an impression, however, because when I tucked Elan into bed minutes later, he twirled a cowlick of hair in the exact same manner he had every night since he was six months old, and said, "Mommy? Can we talk?"

"Ok," I said. "For a few minutes, but you've got to get some sleep. What's up?"

He twirled more furiously, trying to think of something we could discuss that would prevent me from leaving the room for a few moments longer, and finally came up with: "Sometime can I go on a trip with Daddy on an airplane, just me and him, and you stay home? Would that be okay with you? If we left you?"

"I think so," I replied. "You could have a special trip with Daddy. But maybe not for too long. Maybe for just a little while, so that when I started to really miss you, you'd already be coming back."

"Well I would leave you with one of my projects so you'd be able to remember me," he offered.

"Know what?" I touched the tip of his nose gently. "I don't need a project to remind me of you. I don't need anything like that. You're my child, and I couldn't ever forget you for even a second."

Elan looked at me thoughtfully, then pulled me close in hug. "Actually, I don't think I want to go," he said.

Swoon. Turns out Ariel's not the only flirt in town.

More pictures from the night are here.

Wasted Effort

In order to avoid paying a meter all day when parked at work, most of us find a spot a block or two away on one of the side streets. Being West Hollywood, we get our fair share of local crazies, and probably more than our fair share of terrible drivers.

A couple of weeks ago, I'm leaving work at 6 pm, and I find that the driver's side mirror of my virtually brand-new Accord has been knocked nearly off and cracked down the center. I'm not terribly surprised, as I had parked on a pretty narrow, heavily-trafficked street, and I'm not even all that upset. As per usual at 6 pm, all I can think about is getting home to my kids. Zipping up and down the canyon while catching up on my correspondences to distract me from the agony of having to WAIT to see them, having to endure the 25-minute commute when I've already been away from them for eight hours.

So my mirror seems like small potatoes, and, I remind myself, something like that was bound to happen eventually. A hit and run, probably one of three hundred that occurred on that very day, in that very neighborhood. I completely forget about filing a police report.

The next morning, however, I notice something blue on my windshield. A note! The hitter had left a note! There are decent people left in this world!

I pluck it from under my wipers, ready to accept an apology, and give the Post-It a quick read. It is, indeed, a note. And it says this:

"I saw who hit your car! She hit it, backed up, looked, and drove off!
BITCH!!
It was a BMW, lic # XXXXXXX.

- John Doe, 310-555-5555."

Like I said, there are decent people left in this world.

When I get to work, I call the sherrif's department to file a report, and they send a gruff-looking deputy to my office. I hadn't thought to pull the car up in front for him, and he looks a little peeved when I suggest we walk around the corner to where I was parked.

I try smiling and looking cute to lighten the mood, but this guy's attitude is no-nonsense.

He practically growls: "Aren't you aware that you're supposed to call the police right away when something like this happens? Not - the next morning?"

"Um, yeah, but I just didn't think of it. I was anxious to get home to my kids after work, and, well...um, I'm sorry."

He softens a notch. When we got to the car, I search for my insurance and registration while he takes notes on my story - on the note.

"Who's this guy calling a bitch?" he asked defiantly.

"Um, I don't think he meant me, sir."

"What do you want us to do to this lady if we manage to track her down?" He called from behind my back.

Assuming he was joking, I shoot back: "Maximum security prison, 15 - 20 solid years, no bail?"

Silence. I turned around to find the heavy-set, uniformed deputy glaring at me, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Ma'am, I'm not joking."

"Oh. Well, then, what are my options? Can you make her pay for the damage?"

"No, you'll have to deal with all of that through your insurance company. But if you choose to prosecute, she can get 5-6 months in a county facility."

"Well, that seems a bit harsh. Can I first see if she'll pay for the damage, and then decide whether or not to prosecute?"

"No."

"Do I have any real choices here?"

"Not really."

"Okay then. Do you still need my registration? 'Cause I'm having a hard time finding the papers."

"No, this is fine."

"Good."

"Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"Are you aware that there is gum stuck to your back-seat window?"

"No, I wasn't, but I'm not surprised. I have a four year old. Findings like that come with the territory."

Finally, a smile. And suddenly, we are fast friends.

"I'm going to do a little license plate search right now, Ma'am. If the number on this note is correct, I'll track the perp down today! I'll go right to her house and see what she says!"

"Wow, really? You must be so busy. I don't want to bother you with something so small..."

"This is what I do all day, Ma'am. I file reports."

We're walking side-by-side back towards his squad car. "If she doesn't want to own up and cooperate? I'll take her car!"

I pretend to be impressed, because the machismo is suddenly palpable.

"You can do that?"

"I sure as hell can! This one time, this bratty 17-year-old kid was driving his daddy's Bentley in Beverly Hills? And he hits and runs. So I track 'im down, show up at his front door. He won't fess up. He won't take responsibility. So whadoIdo? I call the tow truck and take his car, right in front of his eyes. His dad was PISSED. OFF. I just TAKE that '07 Bentley. Know what kinda fancy car that is?

"After a coupla days kid gets sick of not having a car. He breaks. He pays the damage. It was great."

Now I've got to lay it on thick. We're on the same team. Bad guys vs. good guys. Me and my deputy? We're clearly the good guys.

"Wooow. That must've been great. The look on his face when you took his daddy's Bentley - priceless, right?"

The deputy is now putty in my hands. He starts punching the plate number from the note onto a keypad in his car. He's ready to be my hero, to take Bitch's BMW and, well, make her eat shit and beg. I'm wringing my hands, hopeful.

Suddenly, he screws up his eyebrows. "Hmm. This isn't good. This number is turning up as registered to a Lincoln, not a Beemer. Guy musta written it down wrong in the dark."

"Oh, come on. Serious? Does this mean I'm going to have to pay for the damage?"

"Well, your insurance might cover it. But not if you haven't yet met your deductible."

"Crap. She's got a BMW, I've only got an Accord. And she needs to take my money? Thanks a million."

"Gonna run you about $400. I'm sorry. That's terrible."

"Yeah. Well, thanks for your time."

"Hey, I'll keep working on this, trying different combos. And I'll call the guy who wrote the note, see if he remembers anything else. I'll call you back."

I smile. Muster up love and appreciation in my eyes. Go back to work.

A co-worker says, "That's the same dude who filed my report when my car was hit last week. He's kinda scary."

"Nah."

I call my insurance. I've got a $500 unmet deductible. I'll be paying for the costs of damage under that amount.

And the cop? Never called back.

Is it wrong to pray he's confiscated another bratty kid's dad's Bentley since then?

Upon Emerging from the Blackness

Yup. You guessed it. I'm home, and I'm online.

So very good. And despite the fact that my mother appears to be the sole commentator left on this blog, however sad that may sound, I know - I just KNOW - that the rest of you are glad to hear from me, too.

And in return, I'm sending you a hug. Hell, I'd hug the mailman right now, I'm just so damn pleased to be online.

Of course, I opted for self-installation, which, at my dare-I-say-it expert proficiency of level at that sort of thing, should have been a breeze.

Naturally, it was a bitch, and through no fault of mine. I guess the high-speed service that advertises itself as the cheapest in town is also trying to say, and you'll get what you pay for. But no matter. I'm here. And it's fast.

So I can blog again, but the very Michael Jackson "Thriller"-esque brace I'm wearing to eases the tendonitis on my left wrist is making it a little hard to type. So I'll just get the ball rolling again with this link to pictures of the house.

Obviously, I've done quite a bit of redecorating since I took these over two weeks ago, but they'll give you an idea. And my camera battery is dead. But remember, these are old.

K. Check 'em out here.

Note: DSL stopped working mid-post, which means it is now the next morning. I. Hate. AT&T.

If My DSL Modem Isn't...

...Sitting at my front door when I get home tonight as promised, albeit two weeks late, I recommend the fine people of AT&T stay far, far away from me.

I told my mother I've been without high-speed at home since I moved in, and she said - and I quote - "I'd be suicidal."

And dial-up? Not what it used to be.

I promise to get back in the swing of things soon. Everyone has their "time." For so many reasons, this has been mine. Thanks for checking in anyway.

Happy new year!