I bring this up only because school’s starting for most of our kids and September marks a time when moms typically readjust their priority lists. ‘Get in shape’ gets sandwiched in right above ‘Re-evaluate mortgage loan.’ At least that’s how it is in my house. So I researched different exercise classes this week - pilates, yoga, zumba (?!) - and I found myself longing for something familiar. Something…Fonda, if you will. I mean, whatever happened to Aerobics? Where did all those perky looking “work it out, ladies!” slave drivers in leotards go? So I began my search and lo and behold I found an “Old Style Aerobics” class two miles away from home. Three other old (school) broads and I “worked it out” to Michael Jackson’s P.Y.T. on Wednesday night and it felt just as it did in the eighties. Gloriously awful. So don’t overthink your list this fall. Whatever worked for you before kids should still work for you now.

And for those parts that don’t, throw a leg warmer over it and move on.

P.S. don’t forget to join me on momlogic where you can actually WIN things!!! http://community.momlogic.com/group/orangecountymomlogic

Just moments ago, I formalized a partnership with Telepictures  (of Ellen, Extra, etc.) “mom” site, www.momlogic.com. “Formalize” is sort of a strong word for it – we actually blew kisses over the phone. But to celebrate, they threw up a giveaway on my/their page for some “skins” (MUST HAVE rash guards, to you and me.) I believe they are 18mos., but regardless of whether or not you are in the market, they make great gifts. Plus, the more participation now, the bigger the loot later! Like, JEWELRY, MAKE-UP, CARS…(you can have mine, if not.) CLICK BELOW TO ENTER.

http://community.momlogic.com/group/orangecountymomlogic

I asked them to share the participation list with me, by the way, which means I’ll know who didn’t enter. Oooh…did you feel that chill? Anyway, no catch, no spam mail….please, please, please. Dads, too.

Xo times a million

p.s. You’ll find yourself in the OC MomLogic community, by the way, where you can rant to ME for a change (PLEASE SIGN UP!) But there are other great regional social networks within momlogic as well. There’s even a “moms with tattoos” group….

By Laguna standards, my husband and I live like monks. We have one small TV, void of Wii or DVR (true!) We grow our own carrots and tomatoes, and brag about each one of our kitchen cupboards being a potato chip virgin. Our rooms are small…filled with books, beds and maybe a marble. The funny thing is, we planned it that way. “Having kids won’t change us,” we’d boast. “They’ll conform to us.”

Idiots.

Instead we have two young sons with nothing fun to do. Some may see this as a good thing – Hey, let them mess up someone else’s house! But every time we do that, they come back with Dorito envy. Or new phrases like, “You’re so un-cool” or “Our house embarrasses me.” So we decided to build a tree house – a really big one – to convert our house into that house. The house where all the kids go. And so far – even though it’s still under construction – our plan has worked. Neighbors stop by on their walks, my kids’ friends beg their parents to drive by to check on its status after work each night. “Is it ready yet? Can we come in yet?” Their dads will ask, on their “kids’ behalf.”

But the truth is, we all needed this tree house. A place to be a kid –to hide, explore, to kiss.

And, yes, to even eat chips.

Here it is - proof of my 4-1/2 seconds of red carpet fame (AKA: mistaken identity.) That’s a clown, by the way, staying within the Pageant of the Masters theme. He knew right away I was an impostor. I mean, look at those eyes.

He’s totally laughing at me, isn’t he?

I was invited to attend Laguna Beach’s Pageant of the Masters Gala this weekend, hosted my Neil Patrick Harris. I was invited as a member of the press, mind you, not as a noteworthy guest. And as press, you have very specific requirements as to when to arrive, which badge to wear, etc. But because I’m not actually a reporter – I’m just a columnist – I naively ‘uh-huh, sure’d my way through my instruction download the day before. So when I pulled up to the event fifteen minutes past call-time, the red carpet hooplah was already in full swing. “Oh no!” I thought to myself. “I need to start interviewing these people!” So I ran to press check-in, heels clickety-clacketing against the pavement when I heard a photographer whisper, “Is that Reese?” Now, maybe if you’re legally blind in one eye and have impaired vision in the other due to a wicked bout of hay fever, I might look vaguely like Reese Witherspoon. Maybe.

But I detoured to the red carpet anyway.

“Snap!” I heard from the photographer’s camera. “Snap! Snap” I heard again. And then the press line-up quickly assessed that I was…nobody. Everyone’s cameras went down and I skulked over to the “badge” table.

Now, It isn’t that I strive to be a famous celebrity – that would be pretty unrealistic. I mean, name one columnist who’s made the worst-dressed list. I just wanted to know what it felt like to be…red carpet worthy. Just once. And honestly? It felt great. So great, that I tracked down the photographer to ask if he could email me the photo. “Just to have,” I pleaded.

“No problem,” he smiled, “if…you shoot me with her.” And then he pointed to a gorgeous soap star whose name I can’t pronounce.

“You got it.” I said, and I picked up his camera (which weighed about as much as my car) and got the shot.

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s not often an 83-year-old man gets to spend some time with a woman like that.”

Which, of course, explains the Reese mix-up.

I’m still waiting for his email, by the way. If I get it, I’ll post it. If not, that’s OK too. I’m just thrilled to have met a kindred spirit that night.

And, of course, that Reese never showed up.

Could have been all the bug spray but my skin is radiant with post-glamp glow. This is a good thing, because I have been asked to cover my very first red carpet event on Saturday! Neil Patrick Harris is hosting the world-renowned Pageant of the Masters Gala in Laguna Beach and Sugar Mama will be on his tail, toes and probably his pant leg.

I’ll fill in more blanks as they come, including photos. In the meantime, I have received several requests for more “Glamping” information. Check it all out at www.elcapitancanyon.com. They really do a nice job at marrying comfort with nature. I’ll definitely go back.

Normally, I refuse to utter any made-up word unless I’m the one who’s made it up. But not so with “glamping,” a phrase coined by Sunset Magazine to describe the hybrid “glamorous camping” I’ll be experiencing in less than 24 hours with my family. Now, “Hawaii” isn’t one I made up either (which was where we were SUPPOSED TO BE GOING) and I’ve been muttering that one just as frequently. As in, “Why are we going glamping, hon, when we’re supposed to be in Hawaii?”

Anyway, I’ll be offline for a few days of glam and ping.

Kiss, kiss. I’ll tell all when I return. If i return…

They sound so much like Beavis and Butthead, but they’re nothing alike. To begin with, these two are typically women. (I say ‘typically’ because every Beemish and Beulah I’ve ever met has been a woman.) “Beemish” is your typical stand-offish, look-you-up-and down sister who’s found herself in a position of power - waitress, bouncer, DMV clerk - who gets a small thrill out of making your life difficult just because you have a smaller butt.

“Beulah” is downright mean. She has all of Beemish’s qualities, but she takes it to the next level by publicly humiliating you, dumping a drink down your dress…I’ve even known some to snarl like feral cats.

I mention this because the other night Joe and I had to go to a function and came across…Beemish. I didn’t invest enough time in her to witness any Beulah crossover, but I wouldn’t have been surprised had it happened. We stayed for just one drink and left

“Why the quick exit?” my husband asked me.

“I don’t know - that girl in the red was all Beemish* and I wasn’t in the mood.” I said

“Excuse me? What the heck is Beemish?” he asked.

And then I explained Beemish and Beulah’s profiles in detail, completely shocked he was hearing this for the first time. Especially because Beemish and Beulah have been around for a long time – in fact, I nabbed this vernacular from a friend years ago - a friend all the way from Kansas City.

Anyway, say it a few times and it’ll stick…so much more ladylike than cussing. Which is more than I can say for those other gals.

* “Beemish” can be- and should be - used as an adjective/descriptor whenever appropriate

My oldest turns six today. Six. I don’t even remember that age. I’m sure I skipped with my friends, went roller-skating and bobbed for apples. All things Jackson was never supposed to do after his brain hemorrhage as an infant. I still keep all of his x-rays and MRI’s in my car – just in case we get in an accident and the hospital needs a benchmark for what his brain looks like. Not like I, personally, need the reminder. I used to know the size and shape of his enlarged ventricles so well, I could draw them.

They looked like a butterfly.

We celebrate his birthday at an amusement park today – which, under any other circumstances, would make me vomit. In fact, when my husband handed me my coffee this morning, he chuckled. “You got the wrong end of the stick today, Shoog. Try and have fun.”

Are you kidding? I thought to myself. I prayed for this. A hot, sticky birthday party where my now, perfectly normal son drives me crazy with his perfectly normal friends?

Hallelujah.

But the truth is, we’ll never know the impact that bleed had on our son. Would he have run faster without it? Would he have been as good at Chess? Who knows, who cares…

My butterfly turns six today. And I get to ride on his wings.

I, quite frankly, think I’m a genius. Or thought I was until yesterday. It was one of those perfect Sundays at the beach, when Joe had the kids in the water and I was left to read under my umbrella, alone. I must have dozed off – or half-dozed - because I distinctly remember my exposed legs feeling hot and me flipping sand over them to protect them from the sun. Hmmm…”sandscreen,” was my last conscious thought. And how rich I’d be if I could market this full-coverage, environmentally friendly sun protection with loofah qualities to boot.

Well, there’s a reason I had to take chemistry over. And over. I look like a chicken. Or worse, a tourist. Joe even suggested I wear jeans last night to save us all the back-of-the-leg burn embarrassment at a local concert. I can’t say much for my dancing but at least my “sandscreen” debacle remained hush. Gawd.