Now that’s a reality show I’d watch. All these moms with their glasses still on, their young kids behind them pouring their own cereal, feigning a kiss to their betrothed with their mouse elbow…just knockin’ it out on the keyboard. Who’s funnier, fatter, more addicted to caffeine? Whose kids are more annoying, gifted, adopted, allergic? The host could throw out a topic - SEX AFTER KIDS, let’s say - and the viewer would get lured into montages of intimacy mangled with discarded sippy cups, tonka trucks and Polly Pockets. And we’d all go, “Oh yeah? I’ve got a story for you, girl.” So new contestants would start blogging. “Look at me! I’m way fatter! My kid’s on nebulizer! Seven times a day! And one night I found a lego in my rear!’

“A lego you say?” A contender would blog. “Huh. Try a monopoly game.”

And it would go on and on and on until there was only one. mommy blogger. left. standing.

The one with the board game up her a**.

Some of us believe we have a celebrity twin and, if that’s true, mine is definitely Jennifer Lopez. Not in the physical sense, mind you, but in the metaphysical. As in, our lives keep paralleling. Let’s flash back to 2001, after my first son Jackson was born with serious health issues and I had to return to work to keep his insurance. I experienced a shift in social motivation, I’d say, eating lunch at my desk and avoiding any physical contact (the hugs, the cards, my God…) with my pre-baby co-worker pals. And when I finally did reach out, my efforts were met with skepticism - like I was going to turn into Serious Girl at any moment. But I told them, “Come on, guys! I’m still Jenny from the block!” - totally out of the blue. And drinks were had, laughs were merry, and J-Lo’s song was stuck in my head for the next two weeks.

Flash forward to her marrying Marc Anthony who wears eye glasses indiscriminately. Now you see them, now you don’t, right? Well, guess who else’s husband cherry-picks his intellectual-looking moments? Mmmhmmm, that’s right.

Oh, and her triathlon earlier this year? I’m doing one, too. Next weekend, in fact. And when I tried to wriggle my flabby, very un-J-Lo butt out of it, I got an email from my friend that said, “Come on, Cynthia, if J-Lo can do it, so can you.” My friend had NO idea that Jen and I were practically sisters, so you tell me - coincidence?

I think not.

Nuts that I am attempting the unthinkable in freezing water when I can be home watching Selena, cuddling my cat?

YOU TELL ME.

As in, ‘you’ve got to be cluckin’ kidding me, ragging on cleaning ladies during these troubled times.’ Well, it’s shameful, but true. However, according to Orange County standards I live like a monk. My car is ten years old, as is my phone number. Well, one of them at least. But when I married Joe I had only one caveat. NO TOILETS. So we’ve cycled though our fair share of Maria’s, Maria’s cousin, her sister, her nonna, her ten-year-old son, even. True story - I gave this kid a twenty to organize my silverware drawer. And then I drove him home to Santa Ana and bought him a coke. Sorry, a Fanta.

My point is that I’m a kind person. A responsible person. Some may even say that I spew virtue in my sleep. So why is that I can’t get someone to clean my cluckin’ toilets without stealing, lying or using my computer to MySpace Julio?

Maria - I have HAD it. And when you show up tomorrow, I am going to assault you with…another check for $100.

Let me rephrase that - the boy I was supposed to marry, married someone else this weekend. And my husband and I flew up to San Francisco for the night to be there.

Just as we do with our girlfriends now, our mothers plotted our marriages with their best friends’ sons and daughters, too. So we can all be “real” sisters, right?

This weekend’s particular newlywed and I were born eight days apart, by the same doctor, in the same hospital, with our dads smoking the same brand of cigar in the waiting room, probably telling the same lame jokes.

The funny thing, though, is that our mothers never thrust us together outright. We would simply find ourselves at Thanksgivings and Christmases with neighboring name cards. The thinking was, I’ll assume, that if we spilt a turkey leg, our hands would touch and we’d never let go.

But it never happened. Despite him being wildly good-looking and me, well, skinny.

As I looked at him and his bride at the altar on Saturday and then at Joe next to me, it became clear why we never came to be. Joe touched my foot on our first date. I got a pebble in my sandal and he leaned down, took my shoe off, shook the pebble out and placed my sandal back on my foot. That was the moment cupid shot his arrow - no one else had a chance, in case anyone had asked. In this weekend’s groom’s case, I can only imagine that cupid hid behind his beautiful bride’s teeth when they met. Because the moment I saw her dazzling smile, Joe wanted to marry her, too. 

The groom and I have never spoken of 38-year-old matrimony fantasy, but as I hugged him and congratulated him on his nuptials, I’ll admit that I did feel a special connection with him.

It was the bond of having two determined mothers who, despite their original intentions, groomed us to find our perfect mates.

Congratulations, T & T. Now go make some daughters so they can marry my sons.

I went to meet William (Bill) Lobdell, the author of a book entitled Losing My Religion last week. His book chronicles his journey as an award-winning journalist on the religious beat - how he went from a believer to a non-believer - a cross-over due, largely in part, to the very unGodly religious scandals he had been covering. Still, I wanted to meet the man with a beautiful wife and four healthy sons who didn’t believe in God. Because when I looked at his Facebook pictures (I know), I couldn’t understand where he thought all of his good fortune came from. But he said to me, “I don’t have eternity to rely on anymore, so I live each day to the fullest - as if it could be my last. I’m probably better to my family now than I’ve ever been.”

Good answer. Great book. Whatever your faith.

www.williamlobdell.com

I, too, am taken with Britian’s Got Talent phenom Susan Boyle. She got up on that stage and sang like a bird, wowing the world. But the comments linking her virginity to her cat-loving ways peeve me a bit. Why is it that we associate social “offness” to cats?

I, like Susan, adore cats. I would carry a litter in my own womb if I could. I have cat calendars on my fridge, cat coffee mugs in my cupboards, I doodle cats, I dream of cats. I would trade in my own kids for one big, 200-pound orange cat that I could cuddle with all. day. long.

Does this make me strange? bizarre?

Undesirable?

I have a neighbor. Her name is, er…Diane. Well, Diane has a nasty habit of hurling veiled insults. Here’s an example - we’re at a park with her perfectly coiffed daughters and my perfectly not sons.

Diane: Now, why is it that some moms feel like it’s ok to have their kids looking like vagrants in public. (PAUSE) Oh, I’m not talking about yours, of course.

Me: Of course.

Diane: I mean, how hard can it be to run a brush through a head of hair? Or wear clothes that match?

Me: You’re asking me rhetorically, of course.

Diane: Of course! I just worry about self-esteem issues later on with some of these kids. Not yours, of course.

Me: Of course.

Well, Diane…why is it that you care? And why is it that all your beefs start with ‘why is it’ when you know exactly why it is. IT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE A SUPERIOR BEING. BEYOND HUMAN. MAYBE EVEN A GODDESS. YOU SHOULD BE MARTYRED. HAILED. SLAIN.

Kidding…of course.

After having my clavicle groped by a number of your wives, I’ve contacted www.robindira.com for any Mother’s Day specials to pass along to you. Their specific gem in high, yank-off-my neck demand is the Byzantine Starburst, for the “star in your (or your kid’s!) life.” The prices for this dazzling line start at $150 and for Mother’s Day they are OFFERING FREE 2-DAY UPS SHIPPING! So there you have it - a little sparkle from Brooke Shield’s, Camryn Manheim’s, Katie Holme’s (and Sugar Mama’s!) jewelry boxes to yours…www.robindira.com

I advised an old friend against “mommy blogging” a few months ago - mostly because I knew she’d be funnier, more poignant and, well, a heck of a lot more famous. seriously, blogging about the innards of your growing family (no, I’m not pregnant) can test even the most solid of constitutions. 

thank goodness she ignored me.

introducing teresa strasser, part deux: www.teresastrasser.com

My mother is gonna kill me.

http://www.parentingoc.com/sugarmama_0904.html