Costume Fails

The 2012 New York Comic Con is coming up, and by "coming up" I of course mean in two months. That may not seem around the corner-ish to you Muggles, but for we geeks that's practically tomorrow.

Thing is, October is generally a busy month for me. I've got my son the Juban Princeling's birthday on the 8th, my husband's birthday on the 17th, my brother Mr. Funny's birthday on the 22nd, and Halloween on the 31st. (I guess technically we all have Halloween on the 31st. But I like it more than you do, probably.)

That's two things I need costumes for: NYCC and Halloween. 

Halloween is easy. My friend NoLa does a theme party, and even if she craps out on the party I still make us dress up for it. Last year she used the excuse of having "foot surgery" and "not being able to walk" for "10 weeks" as her excuse not to create a space alien theme party, but I still made the Princeling dress up as a spooky alien, because do you know how hard it is to find a space alien costume for a 3-year old? Surprisingly hard. But it paid dividends in cuteness:

"I'm a spooooooky alien!"

This year her theme is Classic Haunted House, though she's threatened to crap out on me again. Doesn't matter. I already have our costumes: we're going as the ghosts of a family who drowned in the Gowanus Canal. Body glow paint will be employed, as well as our masks from Sleep No More:

"MacBeth hath murdered sleep!"

So, Halloween is covered.

My problem is what to wear for NYCC.

NYCC does a Family Day, and I want to take the Princeling for his first ever geek con. One year they had the New York Jedi Academy - yes, that's a thing - train younglings on how to use light sabers. If they do that this year I may actually drop dead of happiness. But I've been racking my brain for good mother-son costumes for us. The problem is that most mothers in fantasy and sci-fi are either dead or bat-shit crazy. Some ideas I've had for us, but had to dismiss:

• Joffrey and Cersei (My son will be 4, and I know I'll end up having to schlep around the head on a pike when he gets tired of it.)
• Superman and his Kryptonian mother, blown to smithereens (too depressing for a 4-year old)
• Spiderman and whatever happen to his mother (ditto)
• Harry Potter and Ghost Lily Potter (super ditto)
• Spock and Winona Ryder (seeing a pattern, yet?)
• Luke Skywalker and Padme Amidala (I cannot pull off a white bodysuit) (no, not even a little bit)

Maybe we can do Wesley Crusher and Dr. Crusher? I already have the red hair. All I'd need is the blue ST: TNG body suit (still more flattering than Padme Amidala's), a tricorder, and a poorly hidden lust for Jean-Luc Picard. Like that would be so hard.

Ideas? What sort of family/parent-child/group costumes have you all done?

So It Will Make Us Mad

My brother, Mr. Funny, is pretty unflappable, generally speaking. He spent a chunk of time in college working at a store called Fairvilla (warning: link NSFW), which featured things like a people cage, medical-grade horse-size speculums, and something called "The Simian." 


So it takes a lot to shock him.


Something like hearing his sister say the following sentence:


"There was a part in the blood orgy that reminded me of my children."


Let me explain.


Saturday night I went with my husband and his brother, Gilligan, to "Sleep No More," which is probably one of the most awesome experiences of my life. It is, to paraphrase my cousin-in-law, like "MacBeth" on peyote.


An entire building in Chelsea was turned into the hotel set, and the actors go from room to room performing (very) loosely interpreted scenes from The Scottish Play. Guests are given creepy masks to wear, and are instructed to break off from their group and not to speak. At all. People who've been to "Sleep No More" have varying philosophies on how to do it best so that you see all the scenes and don't miss anything important, but honestly, even given the three hour window you have to wander around at will there is no humanly way to catch everything.

The Duke of Juban models the creepy "Sleep No More" mask.

So that's the situation I found myself in on Saturday night: Running silently around a dark, creepy hotel in a "Scream"-like mask, chasing actors covered in stage blood and getting grave dirt all over my feet. (Note to self: Don't wear open-toed shoes to "Sleep No More.")


Naturally there is a blood orgy. I mean, duh. How could there not be a blood orgy at something like this?


And part of the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. I won't say why, but if you've been to "Sleep No More" you know what I'm talking about and you know I'm not a pervert. Well, I probably am a pervert, but not because the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. In fact, I think I am the real victim here. Who wants to think about their precious little babies at a blood orgy?


Charles Manson might. But I am not Charles Manson. Not even a little bit.


Besides, my husband and I were paying a very nice young woman $12 an hour to think about our children for us. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded of them at all, but especially not during a blood orgy. Now, suddenly, I couldn't help but think of them.

The Juban Princeling in the popular "Sleep No More" mask/Darth Vader pajamas combo

One thought lead to another and before I knew it my maternal instinct told me the nice-seeming young woman watching our children was probably a Charles Manson-like pervert who was at this very moment kidnapping my babies and bringing them to a blood orgy. Which is how I wound up being one of the jerks at "Sleep No More" who hid in the stairwell to check my phone. 


As if a Charles Mason-like pervert is going to send me a text message saying, "Got your kids. Blood orgy. Be back by 11."


I tried to shake it off, but the baby carriages in the psych ward didn't exactly comfort me.


Anyone else get accidentally reminded of children, or other family members, during really inappropriate moments?

Introducing the Duke of Juban

No, he's not throwing gang signs. NOT YET.

Please welcome the second in line to my royal throne (...yes, shut up), the Duke of Juban. Born Wednesday, March 7, 11:02am here in Brooklyn, NY and clocking in at a hefty 9 pounds, 8 ounces, 21 inches long.

Yes, that's NINE AND A HALF POUNDS.

All that complaining and whining I did about how big my belly was, how much it hurt, and how uncomfortable I was all the time was, you know, kind of justified because I gave birth to a second grader. I'd like to think of myself as a sort of hero, but I've been told that heroes whine less.

Anyway, he's super cute and no, you cannot eat those chubby cheeks because as his mother I called dibs and already ate them all up.

The Juban Princeling has taken to big brotherhood like a pro. I'm so proud of my little guys. 

What's that inside my brother's nose? Lemme just check and see...

 

My Favorite Year(s)

:::NOTE: I'll be taking a sort of "writing maternity leave" starting after this post. While I have this baby removed and recover from that, a handful of my super awesome friends are taking over. I promise they are each and every one way cooler than I am. :::

*******

When I was a teenager I spent my summers working at the local JCC, first as a "CIT" (counselor-in-training, aka an unpaid babysitter) and then as a junior counselor. 

Every spring we were given the choice of any age group to work with, and while most of my peers fought for the older kids, I happily signed up for Chaverim, the 3-5 year olds.

These kids were my absolute favorite. They were still little and cute, and I could fit three of them on my lap at a time during Friday Shabbos singing. They thought I lived in the classroom. Most of them still needed help getting dressed for swimming class. They colored themselves with crayons and called going to the bathroom "making," as in, "Meri, I have to make."


Once, I heard giggling - from several voices - coming from our bathroom. There was no lock on the door to keep the kids from locking themselves in, so I peeked inside. There sat about four or five of my campers, perched around the rim of the toilet, little naked toushies in a row. I asked them what they were doing.

They were having a making party, of course. DUH.

How could you not love that, and I don't mean in a weird way?

Most of the kids I babysat, too, were 3-5 years old. I got 3-5 years old. I am expert at 3-5 years old. 

Kids that age still take everything at face value. They are absolutely unself-conscious. Their imaginations have kicked in, hard, and the crazier thoughts they have the more it all makes sense to them. If it enters their minds, it comes out their mouths. 

The 3-5 year old age range is just fine by me. I know it. I love it. Everything before, and everything after...I just try not to let them accidentally die, and maybe don't grow up to hate my guts. When they're teenagers I'm pretty sure, based on my own parents, all I have to do is pick from ignoring them, laughing at them, and telling embarrassing stories to their friends.

As I sit here waiting to go through the chaos, roller coaster, and exercise in sleep deprivation torture that is infanthood again, I keep reminding myself that before I blink, the Duke of Juban will be 3. My older son, the Juban Princeling, is 3, and although at times it felt like several decades passed during those first agonizing six months, here we are - he's 3 years old. He sits on the couch in his shiny blue scooter helmet, and Darth Vader costume, holding his blankie in one hand and his sippy cup in the other, with his dress-up knight doll resting happily by his side. His fingernails are painted blue because that's his favorite color, and what else would you do when you have a favorite color but paint it on your nails? (Liberal disclosure: blue is not his favorite color because we pushed it on him in some attempt at obeying gender rules. Blue is his favorite color because that's the color of my mother's car, and he is obsessed with her car.) His favorite word is "poop," and sometimes out of nowhere he'll stick out his butt and make a fake farting noise and then crack up. He insists his toys be friends with each other, and doesn't understand why Darth Vader has to be a bad guy. He comes into our room, sometimes, during the night and wants our attention but knows he's supposed to be quiet when people are sleeping, which is how I woke up last weekend to a fully extended, lit up light saber inches from my face.

Sometimes I am so overwhelmed with love and adoration I want to squeeze him and kiss him and hug him and never let him get older.

If this isn't the cutest, sweetest thing
you've seen all day, you are DEAD INSIDE.

And it's this, when I see him doing his "foot dance" (hopping around the living room on one foot) or when he tells me that the unborn baby's favorite color is purple, that I know will get me through those first months I'm so dreading, the months when we do nothing but give, give, give to this little sack of neediness and dependence. But some day the Duke of Juban will turn 3 and do things like call me his best friend, and run into my arms when he gets scared, and have entire conversations with me about the importance of proper vitamin color selection.


Eventually the Princeling, and, later, the Duke, will each turn 6 and I'll once again be utterly clueless as to how to deal with them. I assume I just throw food in their direction, hose them down once in a while, and hope they don't kill me in my sleep.

The Joy(lessness) of a Valentine's Birthday

When you're a kid and Valentine's Day means little more than candy and Strawberry Shortcake/Transformers cards from your classmates, having a February 14th birthday is really not such a big deal.

Then you get older.


Junior high rolled around, and my priorities in life were:

• Do I take the laces out of my Keds, or keep them in?
• Are my acid-washed Edwin stretch jeans acid-washed and stretchy enough?
• Do I have enough pins on my (acid-washed) Hard Rock Cafe jean jacket?
• Is my hair permed enough?
• Do I own enough yellow ribbon t-shirts to support our troops in Desert Storm?

In junior high, most kids didn't have "relationships" yet, and those who did were considered weird and/or sophisticated. My best friend Tia had a boyfriend who drove, and that was an enormous deal. 


What I do remember about Valentine's Day in junior high was that everyone got those shiny silver helium balloons to schlep around.


This was a problem for me, because it was also tradition to get your friends shiny silver helium balloons to schlep around on their birthdays, so that in every class they had to feign embarrassment and be all, "Yes, it's my birthday." 


But since my birthday was February 14th, my balloons from Tia went largely unnoticed. 


At least, I assume they went largely unnoticed. For my 13th birthday I was sick as a dog and had to stay home, and around lunch time I got a phone call from a pissed-off Tia hissing into the phone, "Where the fuck are you? Do you know I have to carry these stupid balloons around all day?"


As if I woke up on the morning of my own birthday with a 102 fever just to piss her off. Somehow she has managed to overcome this kink in our friendship and stick by me for the past 24 years.

Me at 16, circa 1992. Yes, those are clear braces.
No wonder I didn't have a boyfriend.

Then I got to high school, and the pain of a February 14th birthday started to sting a little bit. I had exactly two boyfriends in high school: one lasted for the first two months of my sophomore year, the other lasted for the first three months of my junior year. So, no Valentine's boyfriend to buy red carnations for me. No stupid pink bears to carry triumphantly through the halls. No chocolates to share. 


Most of my friends in high school just happened to be members of the school choral group - like a real life "Glee," but somehow even more gay. For Valentine's Day they did "Singing Valentines," where you could embarrass the crap out of someone by sending half a dozen or so singers to their class to serenade them. Since most of the singing group were my friends, they came to my 3rd period class for my 18th birthday and sang both "That's What Friends are For" and "Happy Birthday." 


To this day, that goes down as one of my best birthdays, ever. (Along with my 30th, when I took a personal day from work to stay home and watch the entire box set of "Firefly.")

Things I am sick of hearing when people find out my birthday is February 14:

• Oh, your parents must extra love you! (Why, do your parents extra hate you because you weren't born on Valentine's Day?) (Also, do you realize this means that for 18 years my parents didn't get to celebrate Valentine's Day alone with one another?)
• Do you get extra presents? (From who? My non-existent boyfriends?)
• Your parents should have named you Valerie! Or Valentine! (Your parents should have named you Dumbass.)
• Is it because you are extra loveable? (You tell me, after I finish punching you in the throat.)
• Oh, that's Valentine's Day! (Is it? I HADN'T NOTICED.)
• Don't you just love it? (No.)

Then I got to college and pretended like I was too existential to care about Valentine's Day. I wore a black knit beret and red lipstick, smoked clove cigarettes, and told everyone within earshot how nothing meant anything anyway.


My 20s rolled around and things got awkward. My girlfriends and I tried very hard to ignore Valentine's Day by focusing on my birthday instead, but even one's best gal pals can't hide from you the sight of all those lovey dovey couples out at dinner. One year we went to Eve Ensler's "V-Day" at Madison Square Garden, and that was kind of awesome. Queen Latifah performed and even Oprah showed up.


However, the year I was dreading happened for my 23rd birthday: the year all my friends had someone to spend Valentine's Day with, and I (still) did not. 


Back then air travel was dirt cheap, so I bought myself a ticket to England and spent the whole weekend in a small town where everyone thought my American accent was sexy and Valentine's Day was not a very big deal and I had to try real hard not to ruin the plot of "Friends" for people.


Finally, at the end of 2002 I met the Man Who Would Be My Husband. By Valentine's Day 2003 we were still too new, so I sent him an e-card and he texted me that he thought I was pretty, and sent me some chocolates and a little ceramic dragon.


And now all 26 of those lonely Valentine's Days don't matter, because all my future Valentine's Day birthdays belong to the man who has spent not one, but now two pregnancies of mine, listening to me talk about my digestive issues in harrowing detail, massaging my swollen feet, and picking up all the slack around the house, and still tells me, genuinely and sincerely, while I'm wearing the same faded grey undershirt (of his) and worn out maternity yoga pants outfit I've been wearing for four months non-stop, that he thinks I'm the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world, and how he thinks he's the lucky one to get to travel our life paths together.


So, suck it, stupid Valentine's birthday. I win.

Dude!

The next little member of our family will be born with a penis. Which means I will be the mother of two boys. 

(Liberal disclaimer: should either or both of my children-born-with-penises feel more comfortable as girls, I will fully support them, and depending on how our financial investments go, we might even help pay for any operations they wish to have.)


While we did sort of want a daughter - and the ladies in my husband's family are practically donning widow's weeds for lack of a princess to dote upon - I have to admit to a few reasons why I'm happy we get to have two boys: 

(Liberal disclaimer: a lot of these are non-politically correct on purpose for the sake of humor.)
  

• I will never have to defend letting her play with Disney Princesses
• No crying tantrums when she wakes up with her hair in a knotted, tangled mess
• My husband doesn't have to reverse his stance on gun ownership for her dating years
• I get to retain my title as Queen of the Household
• No one in this house will ever steal my tampons
• Three words we can all happily live without: Teenage Girl PMS
• The uppance for my 14-year old obsession with New Kids on the Block will now never come
• I never have to take anyone shopping for a training bra
• I've just DOUBLED my chances of having a child of mine play for the Yankees
• My husband now has TWO strapping young men to pass on the near-extinct family name Lopez
• Boys love their mommies

The biggest downside right now? My husband and I can only agree on one boy's name, and we already used it for our first son. 


The second biggest downside? Now I won't get the Skywalker Family costume I've always wanted to do. Maybe that's the biggest downside, actually. 

"Oh, woe is me!"

During my last pregnancy, when people asked if I was having a boy or a girl and I'd tell them, I got the dumbest reactions. 

Pregnancy is generally a time when everyone but the pregnant woman says asinine things. I think that preggos should be allowed to punch people. Or taser them. Whether strangers in elevators told me I looked like I was "about to give birth" (at 7 months along) or co-workers shouted, "Waddle waddle waddle!" as I waddled by, what on earth makes people think it's OK to say these things to a pregnant lady? 


But the worst reactions of all came in response to my declaration that we were having a boy. OTHER MOTHERS would tell me, "Oh, good. I mean, I love my daughters, but boys are better."


Yes, someone actually said that to me.

Possibly my own mother may have confirmed this statement, though I was high on post-natal hormones, sleep deprivation, and Percocet, and she now denies it.


Forget for a second that I am someone's daughter, and let's talk about how insensitive that remark is. What if we were having a girl? Would these women then gasp, clutch their pearls, and scream, "Oh dear god in heaven, someone help me get this poor girl-bearing woman to the nearest back alley abortionist!" I get that they were trying to be nice, but a simple, "Oh, how wonderful, boys are such a joy!" would have been fine. Really.

Do we really still live in a time when people prefer boys to girls? What is this, China? Do people really still believe that all girls all the time are always manipulative, evil, back-stabbing, overly dramatic creatures? Just because I was that way? 


As a feminist I did look forward to raising a strong-willed, outspoken, kick-ass young womym who would some day grow up to be the first Jewish-Cuban female President of the United States. 


Instead, I get to raise two strong-willed, outspoken, kick-ass young men who will become part of the solution and not part of the problem, will respect women as human beings, will follow their father's example and self-identify as feminist and LGBTQ allies, and will never ever ever leave me.


So let it be written. So let it be done.

Forgiving Brent Spiner

For seventeen years now my family has been deeply devoted to an angry - and mostly* one-sided - feud with Brent Spiner, "Star Trek: The Next Generation"'s Lt. Cmdr. Data.

It all started 17 years ago when my then-14 year old brother, Mr. Funny, went to a Star Trek convention in Miami dressed as Data. It being 1994 and me being a high school senior, I had nothing better to do that weekend than apply my brother's makeup for him. Brent Spiner spoke at this particular con, and called my brother up for an impromptu photo op, because there's nothing cuter than a pup-sized fan in cosplay. He promised that if Mr. Funny sent him the photo, he would autograph it and send it back. A nice fan took my brother's address and sent him an 8 x 10 color photo:

Makeup courtesy of Meredith Morgenstern's Fantastic
Sci-Fi Makeup Studio. Brent Spiner's pants courtesy of a
serious Fashion Don't.

My brother sent it on to Brent Spiner.

Who never sent it back, autographed or otherwise.

I realize that Brent Spiner was at the pinnacle of his "ST:TNG" career at the time, but really? REALLY? He didn't have two seconds to autograph this photo, which he promised he'd do, and then have one of his assistants mail it to us? Did he think we'd be impressed by that, like all, "Ooooh, that Brent Spiner! He's too busy and cool and douchey to keep his promise to a little fanboy! We love him and should name our guinea pigs after him!"

Well, Brent Spiner, WE WERE NOT IMPRESSED.

Ever since, my family has collectively shaken our fist at the Heavens and spat curses upon the name Brent Spiner.

Fast forward several years, through Lewinskygate, Y2K, the 2000 Subway World Series, 9/11, a new Pope, Hurricane Katrina, the rebooting of the Batman franchise, and the 2008 Presidential Elections, to 2011. Like the Montagues and the Capulets at the end of "Romeo and Juliet,"** our long-standing, multi-generational feud has come to an end, albeit one a little happier than those stupid Renaissance teenagers.

A friend of my brother's - by way of their wives, who are friends - happens to live in Ye Olde England, which is why I'm going to call him Sir Brit. Sir Brit recently attended a major sci-fi con over there across the pond, where a certain Brent Spiner happened to be speaking and giving autographs. Sir Brit, knowing the sad saga of my brother's failed attempt to get his own photo signed by Brent Spiner, acquired himself a standard-issue publicity photo. But here's the best part:

Sir Brit told Brent Spiner the story, and Brent Spiner not only autographed the publicity shot for my brother, but he apologized!

Seventeen years in the making.

But, as Inigo Montoya famously said at the end of "The Princess Bride" (greatest movie ever ever ever ever EVER***), "I've been in the revenge business so long, I don't know what to do with the rest of my life." Now that we are no longer coming together as a family over our hatred of Brent Spiner, what do we do with ourselves? Find someone new to collectively hate? To whom will my poor mother spew her venom now? What will my brother long wistfully for at each upcoming Star Trek con? Whose pants can I make fun of now? Won't someone please think of the children???

Sir Brit also (very nicely) sent me an autographed photo of Alex Kingston as River Song in the most recent season of "Doctor Who." But she autographed it as Alex Kingston, not River Song. Maybe I can hate her for that? No? Oy.

*completely

**if the Capulets had no idea the Montagues even existed

***that is, the greatest STAND-ALONE movie ever ever ever ever ever EVER. Of course, "Star Wars" wins greatest series of movies ever ever ever ever EVER.

Juban Princeling Photo of the Week: 6/25/11

Running Towards Summer:

Summer Solstice 20011
(And yes, those ARE pirate monkey shorts)

Return of Juban Princeling Photo of the Week!

Better late than never.

This one is titled, "This is What a Feminist Looks Like!"*



And that sippy cup next to him? Is a Tinker Bell sippy cup. I'll just take that Liberal Mother of the Year Award now, thanks.


*My BIL's boyfriend, The Professor, pointed out that any ol' misogynist might see this photo and make the case that feminists are illiterate, since the magazine is upside-down. To which I would respond to those misogynists: HE'S TWO AND A HALF GO HAVE A GREAT BIG GLASS OF SHUT THE F**K UP.

Juban Princeling Photo of the Week, 5/14/11

So overwhelmed by the book selection at Barnes & Noble,
the Princeling has to have a little lie-down.

Happy Mother's Day!

To my own mom, and to her mom, and to every other mom out there - have a very happy, restful, and fun Mother's Day, and may you be showered with love and gratitude!

Juban Princeling Photo of the Week

My husband says "flashlight," I say SONIC SCREWDRIVER!

I mean, right?

(Image of David Tennant as the Tenth Doctor from geek.com)

Halloween 2010

My friend NoLa had a big Halloween bash yesterday. The theme was Creepy Carnival, and she - along with her pal Cali - went all-out creating a huge set, complete with music, and everyone in appropriate carnival-esque costumes.

I had volunteered the Lopez family to go as the Freak Show, with my son, the Juban Princeling, as the Tattooed Baby, my husband as the Bearded Lady, and myself as the Two-Headed Woman. Alas and alack, October kicked my ass and I never really got around to creating our costumes.

Note to self: next year have all costumes DONE and READY TO WEAR by the end of September.

Instead, like the slacker loser that I am, I went to the neighborhood costume shop and bought us a family's worth of Star Wars-inspired costumes:

Help me, Juban-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.

My brother went as Mr. Spock. Because our family is nothing if not geek-tastic.

May the Force be with you and prosper.

Before heading out, Husband and I took the Princeling trick-or-treating for the very first time. I bought him a 99-cent Star Wars-themed bag, and we stayed in our building. Even with just six floors and four apartments per floor the kid still made out like a bandit, especially considering we went trick-or-treating at 3pm, a time when most families were either watching football or still getting into their own costumes. More than one of my neighbors had to open their brand-new bags of candy for my son's benefit. But everyone was tickled by my little miniature Obi Wan Kenobi, and the Princeling enjoyed knocking on doors. He was too shy to say, "Trick or treat!" to anyone, but not too shy to take the proffered candy.

What disappointed me about this Halloween, besides disappointment in myself for not keeping up with NoLa's Creepy Carnival theme, was the number of little boys dressed in costumes from the new Clone Wars cartoon who did not recognize me as one of their own. One little boy said, "Star Wars rules!" or something as we passed him, and all the grown-ups got it, but more than one boy dressed as an Imperial Storm Trooper walked right past me without so much as a "We have orders from Lord Vader!" I even said to one of them, "Oh no! Don't arrest me!" and he looked at me like I just spoke in ancient Babylonian to him.

Now that Halloween 2010 is behind us it's time to start thinking about Halloween 2011...

Love Hurts

Yesterday morning I took my son, the Juban Princeling, to a nearby playground. I was actually quite looking forward to our day together, as it would be the last day of just us two for a while: today he has daycare, and tomorrow my parents fly into town for a week.

The Princeling was engaging in his favorite activity, swinging a gate back and forth. I bent down to pull up his pants, which were falling down, and he swung the gate, hard, into my head. Stunned for a second, I reached up to touch the tender spot where the gate had made contact, and my fingers came away covered in blood. I stuffed the Princeling into his stroller, called his daycare babysitter, and ran him to her. He was happy enough to be there. I then walked myself to the nearby emergency room, where, 2 1/2 hour later, I walked out with a tetnus shot in my left arm and two staples in my scalp:

It's exactly as painful as it looks.

I picked up the Princeling on my way home. Despite what my father said on the phone about my son being wholly unaware of what he had done to me, I considered pressing assault charges.

My mom: "For what, elder abuse?"

Hardee har har.

When we got home I cut off my hospital wrist band and taped it to the Princeling's baby book with a little description of what happened. This way I can use this as guilt-trip fodder for the rest of his natural life.

Only 77 More Days Until Halloween!

I take Halloween very seriously. It's my favorite holiday. The only thing I love more than dressing in costume is dressing in a FAMILY costume.

Last year my husband had none of it. I went as a witch, and the Juban Princeling went as my black cat familiar.

The Princeling and I, and our friend Julie, Halloween 2009, Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

This year I can't convince my husband to do a family costume: I was thinking, since I have red hair and he has black hair that we could go as Ariel and Prince Erik from "The Little Mermaid," and the Princeling could be that little red crab who sings the Under the Sea song.

Not meant to be. :-(

Alas, I'm now charged with coming up with a costume for the Princeling and myself, sans husband/Da Da. I have a few ideas, but they won't be easy to pull off, and I'm not exactly Martha Stewart when it comes to DIY costumes. Tick-tock, tick-tock...I'd better get a move on.

Happy 21-Months, Juban Princeling!

I can't believe this happened 21 months ago - and that in just three more short months I'm going to have a 2-year old on my hands!

I love you, little boy, so very much. You are the best son a mother could ever ask for.

Go Spain!

The hubby and I celebrating our 1-year wedding anniversary in Sevilla, Spain. May, 2007.

Crayola Washable Crayons are the Greatest Thing EVER EVER EVER

Ropa Vieja

Last night I made my first ropa vieja, or Cuban pulled steak hash. I have to say - it came out quite delish. For a blancita such as myself, I do cook up some rather tasty Cuban food if I do say so. (And Husband confirms.) We have so many wonderful cookbooks at home, and as we are a family on a budget and trying to be healthy(ish), I don't often take advantage of all the delicious recipes I have laying around. With that in mind, I pulled out my copy of Mary Urrutia Randelman's "Memories of a Cuban Kitchen," and made some ropa last night. I bought the book years ago, back when my Cuban-American Husband was still just my Cuban-American Boyfriend, in order to impress him with my mad Cuban cooking skills, yo.

My first photo of the ropa was taken with the Hipstamatic app for iPhone, which all my friends have been downloading and posting photos all over Facebook with. I wanted to capture that authentic, old-fashioned Cuban feel, as if this was a ropa made during the Revolution. But Husband said the Hipstamtic just made the food look green and gross. So I took another with the regular camera feature on my iPhone.


Soylent Ropa is people...it's people!!!!


Ropa even Jose Marti would love.