Monday, July 11, 2005

Everything You Never Wanted to Know About Me And Were Afraid to Ask But I'm Telling You Anyway

From the overwhelming amount of comments I received from my first post (that would be a whopping zero) I thought I'd take a few moments and give a bit of background on who I am. The answer, like my prescription for Zoloft, is generic. I'm a freelance TV writer/35 year old mother of two kids/reluctant S.A.H.M. (For you newbies, S.A.H.M. stands for "Stay at Home Mom" or, as I like to define it, "Shit Another Huge Mess". ) I'd love to say that I live in a swank highrise in the city where I chat wittly to the bellman about my hurried life of writing meetings in between slurps of cappucino. I'd love say that I have a wonderful nanny who helps helps me out with my kids and cleans my mansion. (She's like Mary Poppins, only a lot uglier, so I never have to worry about my husband taking a spoon of her sugar.) I'd love to say I have the time to work out at a gym, go to the movies and read all the literature in Oprah's book club. I'd like to say I'm married to an artistic god who buys me flowers on a weekly basis and surprises me with European trips. The truth is, I live in Chatsworth, a sleepy suburb of the San Fernando Valley whose only claim to fame is its ideal location for shooting westerns and being one of the porn capitals of the state. The only bellman I see all day is my 2 year old son who insists on ringing the back doorbell on a minute by minute basis, the end result startling the dog into barking and waking up his one year old sister who is closing in on her Oscar win for "The Child Who Never Sleeps." The only nanny I have is yours truly. Taking care of two kids under 3 is about as easy as watching Tom Cruise tell Matt Lauer that Post Pardum Depression is not a medical condition, but I'd like to say that I excel at wearing many hats (including the ones my son puts on my noggin, such as colanders, diapers, and today, a toilet plunger). Despite my loyality to the firm, as many times as I check the mailbox, there's no paycheck waiting for me. The closest I've been to a gym in two years has been walking to the local stripmall, along the way ensuring I have my daily carbohydrate supplements. First stop: Arco, where Albert, the Israeli manager, stuffs my sons Oshkosh pockets with Reeses. Second stop: Western Bagel, where Cass automatically cuts a chocolate chip Danish in half for me (in an effort to stave off white sugar). Should I have a wrinkle in my brow (the benefits of not being able to afford botox), she automatically heats up the entire Danish and sends me on my way. Third stop: Starbucks. Here I must decide the ever burning question, “Do I get that cappucino or pay my mortgage this month?” Juan already knows the answer, and before I can say “Venti Cappucino Percent” we’re talking in Spanish, him grabbing me an actual mug to stay and chat. I love the idea of my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee while I socialize my children and nosh with the locals, even though most of my time is spent keeping my daughter from gnawing off the stroller strap and practicing my Spanish with my son. “Quiere a TIME OUT? Uno! Dos! Tres!” My husband is less artistic god and more Computer Geek. Just the other day my good friend from college was complaining to me (from her highrise loft, ironically) about her husband. I yelled back at her “Hey, at least for Valentines Day he bought you a Tiffany's heart necklace. I got ass warmers for my car.”

While my life has certainly not turned out like my fantasy, I have to say, the reality is pretty sweet. Sure, I complain, but I adore my pragmatic husband (who I refer to as the "string on my balloon") My kids slop me with Gerber fruit kisses and make me laugh to no end. My house is a charming 1950’s starter home, and I have a great view of Washington Mutual from the garage (where I type at night once the rug rockets are snoring and dream of my writing fortune being tucked in their steel vaults). I have family and friends that love me. So I don’t have the big career. So I don’t have the city loft. So I jump for joy when I see a new episode of Dora and can tell you the plot lines of Blues Clues and the difference between Joe and Steve’s voice with my eyes shut… I wonder sometimes how I dare to bitch when so many others have so much less. As my writing partner chides, “Ooooh, poor Frazer, with her house and S.U.V. and two healthy kids… she didn’t sell a script this month… call the United Nations.” Maybe I didn’t sign up to be a stay at home mom, and some days are hell, but most times, I manage to have some fun. Maybe I don’t really need that nanny. Maybe, I’m being given the life I was born to lead and am actually content to wait for my ship to come in. As freaky as this sounds, most days, I’m pretty content. (Just don’t tell too many people. I’m still holding out for a bellman.)

5 comments:

War Bride said...

As a former Stay at Home Wife (I finally got a part time job), I appreciate where you're coming from. I look forward to what you have to say in the future.

Christine said...

Ah, welcome. You're starter kit is in the mail. It was sent via another SAHM. So, don't expect it soon.

Mama P said...

War bride, you win the new broom and dust pan for being the first person to respond to my blog. Thank you so much!

Linda said...

I adore you, sis! You are doing a wonderful job as a Mommy, wife, sister, daughter, friend, cousin, Aunt, niece. Your writing makes me laugh and soon enough the world will laugh along with me; don't give up ever ... you got talent, dahlink! I love you :) Linda

Liza's Eyeview said...

I was going to comment on your first blog but that would ruin this post; so I am posting here.

You're a very talented writer..I'd be back here often. Thanks.