A Fine Line

You guys, I’m in a quandary.

I was at the park yesterday with the squirt, letting him blow off some steam.  We went early-ish in the day so there really wasn’t anyone there except for a few nannies, making sure their charges were getting some sunshine while they chatted away in various languages on their cell phones.

I kinda prefer it this way.  And Ben could care.  As long as he gets pushed on the swings long enough, and I don’t hinder his new found climbing skills, to the detriment of my blood pressure, he’s good.

And frankly, I don’t like dealing with other parents.

Now, you may be thinking, “Oh you misanthrope!”  and you’d be right, but that isn’t why I don’t want to deal with them.  Socially, I appear fairly inapproachable, so I don’t get too many “mommy chats” that make me want to pour bleach in my ears.  No, I don’t like dealing with them because I don’t know the rules anymore.

Look–I have a boy.  A boy who craves sensory input.  A boy who is JUST beginning to understand the concept of ownership.  Who cannot understand what other kids say to him most of the time, and can’t read a social cue for nothing.

Now, he’s not some Tasmanian devil trolling the playstructure with destruction.  He’s a happy kid, smiling, scripting his own strange language, smiling, wanting to join in, smiling and running around.  He loves the slide.  The higher the better.  And he loves, LOVES, when kids wanna pile on one another in some sort of game that only kids understand.

If a kid chases him, run near him, or within 5 feet of him, IT’S ON.  If two kids are squishing against one another in a 10-foot radius, he will find them and join in.  And generally, giggles ensue.

But sometimes he engages first, for whatever reason. Because he doesn’t understand that not all kids love a good squish.  And THAT I cannot explain in words that he understands.  I’ve tried–GODDESS KNOWS–but he just looks at me all cockeyed.

But even that isn’t what confuses me.

Here’s the story.  Yesterday, my kid was wanting to go down a slide.  And there was a little girl in front of him, younger, waiting at the top of the slide.  A tall slide too–a big kid slide. and her mom was on the sidelines, checking her FB status.  I don’t judge.  My phone was in my hand too.  Off–but in my hand.  Anyway, the little girl was waiting at the top FOREVER, and seemed to be smiling and giggling with Ben, right behind her.  I reminded Ben to wait his turn, then she went down the slide and he quickly followed.  Then they ran back up the structure to do it again.  And she waited at the top, with Ben right behind her.  And waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Now, I couldn’t see their legs, but I have to assume that Ben gave her a leg shove to move her down the slide.  and she came down the slide, physically unharmed, but crying, into her mother’s arms. (we both rushed over about the same time, so props to her for multitasking with the phone and parenting)  I grab Ben and apologize to the mother and gently admonish Ben for not being gentle with a little one–which is my rule.

The daggers that came from the mother to me for the remainder of this park adventure could have put ginsu to shame.

And I thought–when did we become such pansies?

Look–I am a helicopter mom.  I know it.  My kid has a tendency to lash out or do things that are inappropriate for which I try to run interference.  But he’s also a kid.  A boy, even.  There is a great deal of shenanigans to be done in his lifetime, that I will try my best to not hinder.  I’m just trying to keep him from inadvertently beating anyone up in the process.  Look–he’s strong, with some weight behind him.  He could decimate someone.  Not that he wants to, but he could.

And even calling myself a helicopter mom, I don’t hover NEARLY as much as others.  And I don’t judge–well, sorta, but only in my head as I am obviously in no place to really say anything.

And not wanting to sound like an old geezer–but when we were little, my mom wasn’t even AT the park with me (granted it was our backyard–but still).  There was no hover.  There was playground justice.  Big kids looked after little kids.  Little kids ate sand.  Bullying happened. Wrestling  and grab-ass occurred.  Monkey bars were licked.  Cuts and scrapes were acquired.  Friendships were made.  I’m in no way saying it was perfect or bucolic, but it was different.  And we were tougher for it.

Now, I’ve been annoyed with other kids and their parents at the park, here and here.  But I’ve also seen kids pile on Benji in ways that he liked and didn’t like.  If he didn’t, he usually comes running to me, and I tell him to avoid those kids.  Because that’s how that works, right?  Am I supposed to sit there in indignant anger?  Am I doing this wrong?

Eventually we had to leave because the local day-camp released the inmates, and the noise was a bit much for my boy.  But that lady didn’t quit glaring at me until I was out of eyesight.  really.

This.  This is the reason I dislike the park so. Because obviously a memo went out on how to hinder kids from playing, and I missed it.

The happiest place on earth?

So yesterday the squirt and I went to Disneyland.  We (the Old Man and I) decided to spend the $$ to get season passes two years ago, and it pays for itself every time. I think we figured if we go at least 4 times, the passes pay for themselves, so I try to go 5-6x a year, because we all know I love a bargain.  The Old Man doesn’t always get to go–we only have passes for me and Ben, because Disney is all agro and the passes are person-specific–and park-hopper tix are (last time I checked) $119.  Really.  I think I heard/read something last week that said if the price of Disney tix increased in the last ten years via inflation alone, it would only cost $28 to get in.

But THAT is a different blog post for another time.  And also the primary reason I RARELY buy anything, other than churros or the occasional corn dog at the park.

Anyway, I wanted to take the squirt as a celebration of completing pre-school, and as one last ditch effort before we are blocked out for the summer. (our passes are good–they’re not THAT good) although honestly–Disneyland in 100degree heat in august?  NO THANK YOU.  I actually prefer the fall and winter trips to Disney myself.

Also–Cars Land just opened up.  (I mean JUST as in last week) and as my son is fluent in Mater and Lightening McQueen, it was a necessary adventure.

My plan was to go STUPID early to get to Carsland before it was stupid crowded.

somehow that memo got leaked.

But that’s ok.  we have the Guest Assistance Pass(GAP), which allows us to use the handicapped entrances to avoided the sensory-laden crowded lines. The alternate entrances are not without their wait, but it usually isn’t as long, and certainly NOT as crowded.

So we head over to the main attraction of Cars Land–the racing ride–and present our pass to those who know.

And they hand-write a fast pass.

THIS. IS. NEW.

Now–I am not complaining about this process.  It’s only fair.  I often feel a little guilty that we get to stroll onto the major rides with what is essential an automatic fast pass (Lord knows I’ve fielded enough looks with people who agree with that).  That said, my child also almost NEVER gets to meet characters because he simply cannot handle the lines/crowds(and he’s at an age where he kinda wants to), I don’t use the pass if the line is short enough (about two cycles of waiting) and we rarely go on any of the “grown-up rides.  so it evens out.

But USUALLY, we just get in line and wait the fast-pass wait. So, we were not expecting this.

Now–Autie parents will get me here.  I was 3 seconds away from a melt-down.  a BIG one.  I had shown him the online gallery of the rides, we had discussed that he wanted this ride.  He was fussing the entire time we were renewing our GAP because he wanted the “Lightening McQueen ride!” and now I had to turn to him, tell him to get back in the stroller because we had to come back in 2.5 hours.

all I’m sayin–a head’s up would have been nice.

You can see the Luigi ride in the background. Anxiety still etches his face, though…

As his eyes began to swim around madly and his face began to crumple, I quickly rushed him over to the Luigi floating tire ride, where we got on almost instantly, and the moment was saved by giant beach balls.

but for the next two hours I had to field “Lightning McQueen ride?” questions and tears.  trying to explain to a child who has NO CONCEPT of time, that it wasn’t our turn yet.  and I had no kind of visual timer that would ease that anxiety.

so we went on Mater’s ride, and over to the Pier for the Toy Story ride (one of his favorite–if not THE favorite), the little mermaid nap, almost everything over at a Bug’s Life (which he usually enjoys with great fervor), all the while: “Lightning McQueen?”

we finally had @ 40 minutes left, so I took us over to Soarin’ Over California–a ride he LURVES–which had a bit of an un-fastpass wait in the fast pass line, but we toughed it out.  He calls it the “airplane ride” and generally it induces giggles and squeals and cries of delight.

Except this time.

TEARS and screams of terror.

For the unknowing, it is a simulator ride with a large parabolic screen that simulates a helicopter/hang glider ride over certain parts of California.  I love it, as it shows some of my favorite areas–including Redwood Creek!  Anyway, we rise up, we float over the Golden Gate, we’re speeding over Redwood Creek, and then we at Mammoth or Big Bear and come up over the mountain to soar down the other side…

and he is scared out of his wits.

I try to comfort etc, but NOTHING will soothe.  a scene over the ocean helps, but then we’re in Napa and the screaming starts again.  I cover his eyes and tell him not to look and he plays a kind of hide-and-seek with my hand, which ceases the screams but not his trembling.  at the end he is just crying inconsolably and I have to hold him for a moment before we can exit.  But the promise that our next ride is “Lightning McQueen” gets his little butt in motion.

so we hustle back over to Cars Land to stand in what may be the longest fast-pass line EVER, and he is quiet and subdued.  I’m not fussin at him, letting him process, and frankly it was hot.

we FINALLY get on the ride, he’s excited about our car, he laughs at certain parts, jumps at others (Frank IS a little scary) but he likes the talking cars.

then comes the race.  apparently there is a race.  a fast race.

cue screams of terror.

it is called “Radiator Springs Racers” after all.

Now–before you judgey-McJudgerson me for taking a kid on fast ride, this kids spends HOURS watching roller coaster videos.  He asks to go on them all the time at places like the fair and whatnot.  As far as “roller coaster” this was mild.  It wasn’t Thunder mountain.  it was, for most folks, a fun little race.

But luckily, since it was a race, it was over quickly.

And as we wait to get off the ride–you know, sitting in limbo, edging closer, he is crying and trembling and I am consoling and comforting.  And everytime the car lurches forward, he screams again.

and the twit sitting next to me laughed.

My medal for not smacking her?  you can mail it today.

we finally get to the end, and we struggle to get out of the car because he is just a mess.  I may or may not have tried to trip the eejit who sat next to me.  sue me.

we get out, I search for my stroller, because they have people who constantly shuffle them, get him seated with a juice box and some apple chips and we go sit somewhere NOT crowded and QUIET(ish).

Mommy:  Did you like that ride?

Ben: yeah

Mommy: but you were crying and screaming

Ben: *nods his head* Benji cries.

Mommy:  did it scare you?

Ben:  it was too fast

Mommy:  do you wanna go on it again sometime?

Ben: *thinks about it* yes.

*FACEPALM*

My sunburn, care of Neutrogena Sunblock stick–that obviously missed a few spots…

The rest of the day was the usual.  we hied over to Disneyland and went on the usual rides with little incident.  At the end of the day, foot sore and sunburned, we took one last trip on the Disneyland railroad and headed home.

I am glad the summer block out is soon upon us.

Mean Girl

So, I had this whole other thing  planned, via Mama Kat’s blog topic of someone saying something mean to you and not forgetting it.  I still haven’t forgotten it–but this morning I became aware of an attack by a particular mean girl, and I need to address it.

*ahem*

FUCK YOU, JENNY MCCARTHY.

Since I don’t follow her nonsense I didn’t know she was the Key Note speaker at the Autism One conference earlier this year.  And since I don’t really care what a playboy bunny/MTV talking monkey has to say, I wasn’t aware of the contents of her speech.  Until now.  The video is here (she makes her lovely remarks around the 7 minute mark) and here is a delightful little quote:

“They didn’t get attention in their lives and then this incredible door opens…and they’re loving it”

You know who she’s talking about there?  Me.  And other moms like me who do not use quackery and other forms of alternative medicine that are questionable and dangerous.  Somehow, because I choose to not use chelation or biomeds or bleach enemas, I am adopting a “victim” role instead of being dubbed a “warrior mom.”

{aside–I am not attacking all forms of alternative meds here–I am a proponent of acupuncture, ayurvedic diets and other forms of eastern medicine that has proven to help people without poisoning them.}

Anyway, back to the whore, I mean, warrior mother extraordinaire.

She is making a comment here about seeking attention.  She of “oh Jim Carrey doesn’t talk to my kid and I’m gonna pose naked in a magazine”–yeah, she isn’t an attention-seeking victim AT ALL.  [please note sarcasm]

I am medically cautious.  I like to use natural remedies and generally let nature do the work it needs to do.  That doesn’t mean I am averse to a little neosporin or advil from time to time, but generally, I don’t take pills.  Personally, I think we rely too much on meds in this country and don’t focus on true problems for things like chronic illnesses.  That said, thank Goddess for penicillin and the smallpox vaccine.

But that’s not what I want to talk about–because frankly my stance on medical choices aint nobody’s binnis.

No, what I want to address is the outright INSULT given my one Ms. McCarthy to any mom who does not adopt her stance.  Ms McCarthy–WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU GET OFF?

I am not a victim.  Nor am I a survivor.  I am a mother.  Doing the best damn job I can to make sure my son has all the opportunities available to him that he deserves. My life isn’t much different from any other mom in that regard.  Oh–there is some different vocabulary and some extra appointments and hoops to jump through, but me bitching about that isn’t any different than a mom of a typical child bitching about soccer practice and piano lessons.  This hardly makes me a “woe is me” mom–as you pointed out in your book that put you on the Autism stage.

This isn’t high school, Ms McCarthy, although your style of dress and sad attempts at attention-seeking make me think you wish it were.  There is not a “with us or against us” mentality here. My choices involving MY son are MINE–not yours, and not some quack who has scared the entire world with his claims, which has lead to a rise in childhood diseases like measles and whooping cough, which can KILL CHILDREN.  Autism doesn’t kill, turns out.

You wanna know why there isn’t enough research into causes and treatments? BECAUSE OF NONSENSE LIKE YOURS.  People outside the autism community look at us and think we’re a bunch of kooks who can’t agree on a goddamn thing because of the divisiveness YOU have created.  Because of your fear-mongering.  Because of your stupid accusations.

Hell, there are people outside our community who think we FAKE IT, just to get our kids services.  Who takes us seriously, Ms McCarthy?  WHO?  Because of Mean Girls like you, I am almost afraid to mention my kid has autism, because more often than not it is met with either an eye-roll or a pitying glance.

My son’s Autism was NOT the end of my world, and NOT the end of his.  I make choices to not bombard his body with chemicals because I LOVE HIM and NOT because I want to be a victim.  And somehow, I don’’t accuse you of not loving your child because you make those choices.  See how that works?  I parent my way, you parent yours.  This is called MATURITY.

What I will accuse you of, however is a petty attempt at bringing the spotlight to your otherwise useless career and personal life, LIKE A TEENAGER WOULD, instead of simply being a grown-up and living your life.  No one, other than TEENS care about your stupid comments about Jim Carrey or your next spread in playboy.

We are ALL warriors, Ms McCarthy.  Any parent of ANY child, typical or special needs, who loses sleep over what to do to help their child, who sacrifice personal happiness to secure the happiness of their child, who pinch every penny and make homemade lunches, and play transformers when they’re dog tired, and sit up all night with fevers and the pukes, and sit by hospital beds praying, and strive to give them every opportunity and experience they can squeeze into a 24 hours day–THEY are warriors.  And you have no right, NO RIGHT to belittle their experience or accuse them of anything otherwise.    YOU are not the expert here, despite your attempts to prove otherwise.  And YOU are NOT the voice of thousands of mothers who work and live with their children’s diagnosis.

The only victim I see here is YOU,  because it is someone with a victim mentality that lashes out and bullies others.  So again–fuck you Ms Mcarthy.  You do NOT speak for me.

Because in real life, in grown-up life, the mean girls don’t win.

[update–i crossed off some stuff  from an earlier paragraph, because it was pointed out to me that it came across that i was discrediting those parents who DO choose to use biomeds or chelation.  That was not my wish–i wished to discredit the judgy-mcjudgersons of that world that look down on those of us who don’t.  Please understand–what you choose for your child is your choice–as long as it is SAFE.  I will NEVER condone the use of MMS or anything bleach or poison-related on a child. ]

Expressing Your Opinion: "The Right Way"

HAH!

(imagine Mrs Krabopple doing that, and you’ll have my laughy bark in your head)

Now, before you jump all over my shit about the title–read the post.  You’ll get it.

So, while trolling about on FB, I came across a blog post  expressing an opinion about a particular parenting method.  I’m not gonna discuss it here–because frankly I thought the argument was kinda stupid–but I do want to discuss the title.  It was:

“[parenting method] done the right way”

 And I thought–really?  judge much?  and then went on my way to look at kitten pictures and rage comics, because I’ve learned that a) most of that shit really doesn’t apply to me b) half of these eejits don’t really know what they are talking about having read a singular article or whatnot.  if the topic interests me, I might gander, but generally I’ve learned to just stay away.

Anyway, I refresh my FB page only to find same said page making a comment about people getting upset, and she didn’t know why.

And again, I thought, really?

So (foolishly) I stepped into the argument (which wasn’t an argument at this point but more of a “don’t listen to those people, they just feel guilty because they are guilty” kind of thread) and I brought up–delicately I might point out–that the wording of the title might be offputting to some.

Obviously my flaw here was not saying “hey, idiot, maybe people wouldn’t be so upset if you weren’t judging them, you stupid whore”

You see why I chose my first method…

A few minutes later I was greeted with the response

I chose the title because it IS the right method. (paraphrase)

At which point, instead of engaging in a pointless argument based on emotion and irrational discourse, I unliked the page and unsubscribed from her blog. (and for those of you thinking this is extreme, I’ve been thinking about the unsubscribe for a while…)

Now this isn’t just an issue of parenting opinion.  This concept, this idea of the “the right way” pervades our very existence.  Politics, spirituality, diet, lawn maintenance–there is always some asshat with a back pocket of scientific facts and statistics and names of very important people who claim they know the right way, and will sit tall in the saddle of their very high horse and pontificate and dictate and judge–OH HOW THEY JUDGE.

Which always takes me back to my usual response of “hmm, that’s interesting.  I will have to think about that” OR, “well, that is one method.  We choose a different one” OR “GET OFF MY PORCH DOORKNOCKER!!”

I believe I’ve discussed that here and here.

So then, as I pondered about how I would write this post, I began to think–is there REALLY a right way for ANYTHING?

And as I began to think about it, I began to doubt.

Examples:

To remove a pan from a hot oven, one must use oven mitts.

–WRONG–I know a dude whose mom can pull a pan out of the oven with her BARE HAND

In this country, we drive down the right side of the street.

–UNLESS there is an asshat in the parking lot who doesn’t pulled out of their parking spot all wonky and has to drive on the left side, forcing you to do the same

Surviving a Tornado requires a basement

–WRONG.  ask anyone who grew up in Tornado Alley.  A mattress and bathtub will serve in a pinch, and even people in basements have died in tornados.

There is no “right way” to make bread, start a fire, ride a unicycle, take a picture, paint a masterpiece, elect a president or raise a child.  In fact, there also isn’t a right way to express your opinion.  Not a single damn person reading this has to agree or like what I have to say. Not a one of them have to strike the words “right way” from their vocabulary, because I am not the arbiter of universal rules.  But, while there is no “right way” of doing it, there is a polite way of doing it.  It’s called respecting how others live their lives, and not placing judgement on their choices.  Ain’t nobody sayin you gotta do it this way–just don’t act all surprised when people get up in your face about it, is all. Respect begets respect, and I suggest checking the make-up of your own house before you start throwing rocks.

peace.

Repost: Jealousy

I was having a moment yesterday, thinking we’ve been in this stage of development with Ben, it seems, FOREVER, and it was buggin me a little.  And then we all went out for ice cream and it got better.  So here’s some earlier musings on that green-eyed monster…

April 12, 2011

O! beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.
~William Shakespeare, Othello


Yeah, i’ll admit it.  I’m jealous.The grass is always greener, yada yada yada.  But sometimes, looking at other parents at the park or the mall, i get a little green-eyed.

I see parents ask their kids questions–kids ben’s age or younger, and the child will answer them.  with a coherent answer.  Answers to questions like, what do you want to be for Halloween, or what kind of birthday party do you want?

or, what did you do at school today?

I’m jealous of parents who can reason with their kids, argue and use psychology.  What?  you don’t like green beans?  i hear Brobie likes green beans?  I guess i’ll have to tell him you don’t…

I’m jealous of parents whose kids are in soccer, t-ball, basketball, karate and dance.  That it is a non-issue for them to enroll them wherever and generally watch them have a good time.

I’m jealous of parents who can actually make plans and keep to them, and not have to make game-day decisions on a daily basis.

And then my kid will walk up to me, for no reason, and lean into me, and smile, and tell me “hugs make happy”

and i tell myself those other parents can go fuck themselves.  Because nothing is cuter than that, and their little cross-eyed freaks will never be this adorable.
(’cause i’m a little petty like that)

and i give him a hug, and we go outside to blow bubbles.

Eat it, jealousy.

Special Needs Ryan Gosling

We don’t often have these kinds of meltdowns anymore, but I’ve gone through my share of neosporin… (and Haagen Daas for that matter… *pats rump*) But it IS thoughtful of Ryan to clean up for me…

 

It’s So Hard…

Last week, I was treated to an evening out with a good friend whom I’ve mentioned before here.  She and her husband are members of The Academy so she gets invites to special events and whatnot.  Last week it was a Top Chef panel and tasting menu.  And whom did she choose to dish on Padma and Tom?  None other…

A little background on my girl Krista.  She’s a Resource Specialist for a local school district.  Her husband and mine have been friends for a long time, but she and I only became close, what, 8 years ago?  She and I have  had a few adventures together–running off to the hardware store when our house was threatened with a mudslide, her pregnancy and then mine right after, mommy “when-will-this-fucking-end” and me classes, another birth (hers) and a miscarriage (mine), and other random whatnot.  She went back to work this year, so we don’t get to see much of one another much, but when we do, it’s really as if we saw each other yesterday–the mark of a true friendship in my book.  And we both like sushi, HARD.

Anyway, she decided I would be the perfect companion for this lovely evening, because the first portion would be the panel droning on and on about how awesome they are, and how awesome the show is, and how awesome it is to be on the show… and well, I have a talent–a GIFT, really, for making a number of inappropriate comments during long boring talky things.  Lemme tell you, I used to  KILL at Faculty meetings.  KILL.

We get there and the Auditorium is pretty much packed, beautifully lit, with the big TOP CHEF logo on a screen between the giant Emmy Statues and the predictable black directors chairs arranged artfully across the stage.  And of course by artfully I mean in the same formation found at any panel discussion ever had anywhere.  oooh!  A semi circle!  How nouveau!

There were also two mikes set up in either aisle, as there would be questions fielded from the audience later on.

Krista looks at me and says “NO.”

Ok–perHAPS my language is peppered with colorful epithets from time to time, and perHAPS I find Tom Colicchio to be a raging asshat, and perHAPS, if given the opportunity, I would tackle Padma and force feed her full-fat custard if I could.  But Krista had this THING about how she wanted to come BACK here in the future and be all respectful and shit.  Whatevs.  She did however later commend me on my lack of restraint, when it was quite obvious to me, and a few others, I don’t doubt, that SOMEONE needed to stand up and yell “CUNT!!” just to see what would happen.

blah blah blah, its so hard, blah blah blah, high metabolism, blah blah blah

(yeah–you read that right.  What?  You know you’ve thought it.  Like, right in the middle of a crappy dramatic movie that you’re trapped in.  Or that quiet touching moment in a movie that is so contrived and useless?  You know you want to)

ANYWAY

I was good and kept my mouth shut.  I listened to the panel drone on about nonsense, and then Padma just got CHATTY.  Like talking talking talking talking…and a few times she was commenting on how hard something was for her–like the amount of hours she works, or the weight she puts on every season, or how people talk about her online.

Respect my restraint NOW?

really dude. just gonna stand there. waiting for your answer.  standing there.

It’s obviously quite hard to be Padma.  I shouldn’t hate.  I mean, having to have your own personal wardrobe people buying clothes for you in three different sizes so that you always look tall and thin?  Or eating delicious concoctions every few days, sometimes having to taste them more than once?  So hard. Having to lose 15 lbs after every season, especially with that self proclaimed high metabolism?  The HORROR.

So, as you can imagine, the catch line for the evening between Krista and I was this pitying “Its so hard for her,” followed by riotous laughter. I do want to make one observation, though–NOT Padma related.  Why is it when people get up to ask their question to the panel, they STAY there at the mike, like Padma is going to engage in some sort of philosophical tete-a-tete instead of just answering the question safely and quickly?  I mean, how awkward is it to just STAND THERE listening to someone drone on, on a completely different tangent than what you originally ask?  Really?  You’re just gonna stand there?

ok–so he can cook some pig. I’ll give him THAT…

this bouche was amused

Afterward, of course was the reason people were here–three tasting dishes from winning dishes or inspired by those dishes.  And the winner of the last season was there.  So while Krista made moony eyes at him, I scarfed down these little Amuse-bouche and drank from the free bar.  And HATED on some folks.  Because some people have no sense of taste or fashion.  And my traitorous phone would never take a pic fast enough to get any of them.  Like the lady in the skin tight rainbow horizontal stripe with bumps and curves NOT where they were supposed to be.  I mean, hell, why not show up in a tube top and a pair of daisy dukes?

I did however catch this one (and yes she caught me as well).  THAT is one sparkly bow/bag.

You like my bag? She must have thought i was being nice. BAHAHAHAHA!

We did actually get to have a photo op with Padma later–I let Krista pose as lord only KNOWS what might have happened if I stood next to her.  Is it me, or does Padma look scared?  I realize how hard it was for her to be a celebrity and take pictures.  It’s so hard.

a) why does Padma look nervous? does she know i’ve got a bowl of custard with her name on it? and b) what’s up with the dude in the blue striped shirt?

Did I MENTION the free bar?

All in all a fantastic night.  Caught up with my girl, shared more than a few curse words and skinny girl hate, and ate some YUMMY food.  Or bites. And got a lesson in just how HARD it is to be Padma.  So hard.

Special Needs Ryan Gosling

I don’t get it either Ryan.