Little Lessons on the Prairie

The move to Owasso has been tough. Back home in Alabama I was in the middle of everything. It’s kinda hard for a social butterfly to be without places to land, light, and spread a little pollen. Here, I am pretty much unknown. I say that like I’m Angelina Jolie, huh? Well, I wasn’t famous enough to hire some nanny to take care of the McBrothas, but I was famous enough to have my own seat at the bar.

While the changes over the last 12 months have been hard, I can definitively say that they haven’t been all bad. I’ve grown in ways I never imagined. I am free of most distractions… them young ‘uns and that husband of mine still keep me away from the navel gazing and lint picking I miss.

I’ve learned some pretty valuable lessons while being frozen stiff, whipped around like a chubby tumbleweed, and dry roasted:

I will not die, if I cannot plant my big butt on a bar stool in Old Cloverdale. (I did pout about not having any fun people to hang out with for 9 months. I have abandoned the entire idea of going to nursing homes to meet new friends and calling them the names of old friends, just to make myself feel better. I get a sense that that is frowned upon…)

Hot glue is all that. How did I live without it?

Walking to the library is really more fun than listening to some lying ass politician/ lobbyist/ legislative aide tell you about his glory days as second-string quarterback at the University of Alabama.

A guy who bought 2,000 copies of his own book is not really a writer. Oh, and another thing, just because some dude works for a bookstore doesn’t mean he’s a writer, either. Oh, yeah, one more thing, I have just as much right to publish my crappy books as you do. I can’t believe it took me 10 years and 750 miles to finally get my drawers pressed enough to accept this fact!

Drama free living is as refreshing as lemonade spiked with a little vodka at a church potluck. I’ve done both, now.

The same guy that irked the cow crap out of me in Alabama irks the cow crap me on Facebook and Twitter. Some things never change.



MCBrotha Navel Gazing Expo:

Life as a comedian isn’t any easier here. There are just more comedy venues. That just means there are more people who are funnier than me. Not that I care. I’ve learned how to hot glue stuff. I can always make a living working for NASA.

Where Were You?

There are tragic moments in history that are seared into the American consciousness. These moments can galvanize a generation into action or apathy. These moments can spring forth spontaneous memorials and public mourning. These moments make us true citizens of the United States. In playgroups and daycares and parents’ day out groups all over America, tragedy has struck a new generation: Nick Jr. has REPLACED the actress that played Marina in the tour-de-force pre-school program, The Fresh Beat Band.

Where were you the day the music died? I was in the kitchen sneaking me an ice cream sandwich. (When you have pre-school aged kids, you never get to ENJOY treats near them, because they are like crayon-wielding sharks. They can smell a snack from a mile off, and they have no problem with “sharing” your snack.) I remember this moment like it was yesterday. Because it was yesterday when Adam let loose the scream heard round the world, “That’s not my MaWeena! Gimme my MaWeena back!” He then dissolved into a screaming, snotting meltdown that ranked up there with “The Great Wal-Mart Hissy Fit of 2011.” I actually had to put my ice cream sandwich back in the freezer, because I knew this wasn’t gonna be one of those temporary freak outs. ( Sidebar: Dontcha just hate it when the first ice cream sandwich you eat out of the box is the perfect temp then you leave the box in the freezer and you grab another one a couple of days later to find those yucky ice crystals?) Damn you to hell, Marina! I wonder if I can sue somebody, and get the child some college money because of this trauma ?!?!

Who the hell is the Fresh Beat Band? For enlightened parents, who actually care about real issues in the world, they are an annoying pre-school version of a pre-fab TV show band-- an updated, multicultural, “Monkees” without the dreamy Davey Jones for four-year-olds. They even have a Latina as the lead singer. Old Marina is not the lead singer. Old Marina has fiery red hair, and she plays (insert laugh track here) drums. Old Marina manages to look like the grown- up version of that little girl from the Partidge Family who could give less than a damn about “acting” or staying on beat. But my son loves Old Marina. For four-year olds, the Fresh Beat Band ROCKS!!!! Their songs speak to my son’s soul: Let’s Go Bananas, Great Day, Quack Shoes, are like Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On to little Adam.

According to “sources,” Old Marina has left the show to get married and start a family. But, I did some cyber stalking, and it appears Old Marina may have been moonlighting as a singer- songwriter. Damn you to hell, Old Marina. Parents have taken to the interweb to loudly reveal their displeasure. And here I was thinking my kid was the only stalker-in-training. Twitter is atwitter with calls for the beheading of the Director of Programming at Nick Jr. Facebook posts on the official Fresh Beat Band page are scathing and down-right ugly. As my friend Tara said, “Those parents are ready to riot.” I wish these people would find a life.

After much thought, I have decided not to “take it to the streets” over this new, Miss Clairol- assisted Marina. In the stay at home mom community, I bet that makes me a bad mother. As if I care. I’m old-school. I believe this is a teachable moment for my distraught toddler: change happens. You may hate it, but it does happen. I wonder if losing “his MaWeena “will be to my sons’ childhood what the Challenger Explosion was to mine. That was the day I learned to never watch another space ship launch live. I wonder if in 20 years, a group of young people affected by this Old Marina/ New Marina thing will get together and pen a moving, hip-hop anthem to commemorate the day the music died?

Ever the subversive, I am part of that shadow group that prays that the New Marina adds a Ted McGingley cancel curse to the damn show, BECAUSE I HATE IT. I hate every vapid song. I hate every jerky dance move. I hate every scratch of the turntables by “The Real MC Twist,” or is he Shout? Hell if I know.

I do feel bad that my child has lost his first character on a TV show, but if he would stop beau-guarding the damn TV, I could introduce him to the world of soap operas, where character replacement is high art: one day you are seven years old, and poof the next day you’re 32, and head of Jabot Cosmetics, like Victoria Newman on The Young and The Restless.

I will have to endure another old black lady all up on the casket moment with Adam, because I just cut the TV on, and wouldn’t you know it, the channel is set to Nick Jr. I feel a meltdown in 5,4,3,2,…

The McBrothas: Preschool Pariahs

They told me I couldn’t have any more babies in 1997. They lied. I found myself inexplicably knocked up in 2005 and 2006. Ok, it’s not inexplicable, but it is surprising since I am the proud owner of a prolapsed this, half-torqued that, a scrambled egg, and Frankenwomb. Hell, I should get sole Executive Producing credit on “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant!” Once again, I find myself robbed of a reality show, but I digress. Anyhow, after finding about the impending miracle babies, I set about finding names for the children that wouldn’t be too ethnic, too granola, or just plain cringe worthy. So, Debrickashaw, Earthflake, and Shirley were out of contention for the boy name coronation. My name drew a butt load of teasing for me as a kid. I was an Orange Bowl float without a parade. And, my husband’s name is cool for a man in France, only in France. The one thing we bonded over from the very beginning was we’d never give our kids names that would get them a front row seat on the Wedgie Express or a special dispensation by the National Bullying Association as Ass Kickees for Life. Mr. Rene and I know a thing or two about being jacked with because of names, and we were duty bound to protect them.
We settled on Daniel and Adam because they were biblical, practical, and no one would ever make any assumptions about their race, gender, or awesomeness based on their names. We thought we got it right. Daniel would grow up to be brave and faithful when faced with life’s lion dens. Adam would be man enough to listen to his woman, even when she’s telling him to do something downright stupid—I love that in a man. Theologically the kids would be alright.
In hindsight, we were wrong. Jim Bakker crying on t.v. wrong. Jersey Shore being on the air wrong. No playoff in college football wrong. We should have gone with more Nordic names: Daniel the Destroyer and Adam the Abolisher. As they have grown into toddlerhood, one thing has become very apparent: these little wonder twins can tear up anything. Theologically, the kids may be alright, but the husband and I are about ready to remove everything from the house, and force them to live and play in cardboard boxes until we can ship them off to college or boarding school. Mr. Rene looks at me with distrust after the inevitable 5pm crash—not when the stock market closes, but when one hoists the other into the kitchen cabinet to get down a plate. I think Mr. Rene thinks that he may not be the father. Well, he is their damn daddy. He is brute force incarnate. Any man who can pick up a washer and dryer without a dolly and carry it is a bit of a damn heathen.
I have a recurring nightmare about my husband taking me on Maury Povitch demanding a DNA test on me and David Banner of the Incredible Hulk Banners. I see the husband sitting there all smug, telling Maury the kids have superhuman strength, so there is no way he is the father. We cut to a commercial for Binder and Binder, while I rack my brain, “Did I do shots with that dude at Bud’s? Damn you, bartender for overserving me, again! “
Back from commercial, Maury is waving the DNA result packet around like it’s a flag on Puerto Rican Day in the Bronx. And I want to go upside his head something fierce. Old David is sitting there chameleonizing from lime green to spring maple leaf. Maury makes on last ditch effort to get me to come clean about creeping with David. “Maury,” I say, “ There is no way I had relations with THE HULK. I’d remember that, even after the Jager!” Maury slowly opens the envelope, looks at Mr. Rene, “YOU ARRREEE The Father!” I get my cobra neck roll on, as only the animated baby mamas on this show can. The audience is shouting, the Hulk is sweating green food color everywhere, and I wake up to the sound of something breaking. It’s not the Hulk, it’s one of my beloved, beautiful cherubs, knocking a picture frame off of the mantle. The Mantle. What kind of lizard toes does a kid have to climb up on a damn mantle?
Since we’ve been in OK, the boys have taken a ceremonial leap off of their bunk beds onto their ceiling fan, leaving it minus a blade. Five minutes after my new to me sofa arrived in the house, Adam bled on it. Daniel, in an effort to prove asthma can be contracted by an entire family in one sitting, sprayed an entire canister of Glade all over the bathroom to mask the smell of a heinous stinky.
There is no reason why I should have to seek employment. My children are baby model beautiful, but I don’t take them on model calls, because I’m afraid of them drop kicking a photographer or burning down a modeling agency. I think it’s a cruel joke that the big guy has given me such cute kids, yet, I’m unable to profit from them. Hell, the Lohans ain’t as cute as my boys, yet the Deena gets to spend all of her young ‘uns earnings on new clothes…I want a chance, too! In the words of Daniel the Destroyer, “Not Fair!”
Beat them. I know that’s what you’re thinking. Beating them only makes them stronger, and turn a strange shade of chartreuse. Mr. Rene says that’s all the proof he needs. I tell Mr. Rene’ it’s a side effect of race mixing. It happens to all biracial kids. It’s what the klan tried to warn you about. Then I remember sitting next to a green dude at the World Famous Johnny Zip Lounge.