Tag Archives: humor

Love, Disney Princess Style

When I got married almost 10 years ago, I thought it would be a Disney princess, happily ever after story. I mean, we were young, stupid, and madly in love. Why wouldn’t it be picture perfect?

I’ll wait for the laughter to die down.

The pee-soaked diaper of reality slapped me in the face 10 months later when my first child was born, and every high and low since then has flown in the face of storybook perfection. But, it wasn’t a nightmare; it was actually pretty good.

Sadly, over the past few months, my marriage has struggled against villainous tests and there were moments when I thought I’d have to go through the horrors of dating again. I mean, divorce is easy compared to entering the dating pool again. Even in the shallow end, I would be devoured by douchebag-shaped piranhas.

I have leapt free of the piranhas, and learned a few choice lessons about what makes a good relationship.

Books are the way to a woman’s heart. I fell in love with the Beast when he took Belle into his library. There is nothing that makes a woman’s panties drop like a thoughtful gift. For me, yes, it would be a magnificent library, or even a few books. When it comes to literary gifts, it doesn’t take much to get me off.

Love, Disney Princess Style | Ponies and Martinis

When you feel sexy, you are sexy. Cinderella had some hot glass slippers that took her outfit to the next level. Once she put those things on, she felt amazing, looked amazing, and got the man of her dreams. Or, at least the guy that could pull her out of that rat trap of a home she shared with her stepmother. So, find your slipper. A sexy skirt, some hot red lipstick, whatever it is that gets your mojo running and work it harder than a pimp turning out his most profitable trick.

Sometimes you need a little extra help. Did Snow White singlehandedly clean the dwarves’ cottage? No. She had some chipper little woodland creatures to help her. They used their tails and wings, and worked that shit out. The cottage was shiny and Snow White looked like a hero. My chipmunks were the maid service my mother paid for after my son was born. My home was clean and I got to nap with my kid. Lemon-scented cherubs filled my dreams and carried me away on clouds of sanitary sweetness. Oh. Hell. Yes.

Not speaking the same language is OK. John Smith and Pocahontas learned to speak with all of the colors of the wind, but even if you don’t have a talking willow tree as your own Tower of Babel, it’s all good. Once upon a time, I traveled abroad to visit a friend who lived in France. While she was in class, I was left to my own devices. I must have looked like a lost sheep because this ever-so-helpful Frenchman took me under his wing and showed me around Lyon. My French and his English were equally as awful, but he was hot and I was young so it was all completely magical. Le Mew, Le Sigh.

Take a catnap to work out your issues. Sleeping Beauty had a lot on her mind. The women who raised her were not her parents, she found out she was a princess after living out in the woods for 16 years, and there was a curse hanging over her head. Can you blame her for taking a powder? I would have too. Also, I never bought into that whole “don’t go to bed angry” business. Sometimes, you are angry and tried, and you’d rather sleep than face that cocksucker you married. Mostly, because he’s being an ass,  but you also know that sweet somnolence is restorative, and in the morning, your sweetie will seem more like the sexy beast you married. At least if he knows what’s good for him.

Ah, love. Spectacularly twisted. I am slowly finding my way back to the land of sparkly, twinkly, unicorns prancing through rose-scented aphrodisiacs. To get there, I shall strap on my favorite heels, brush up on some French, and prepare for some amazing sex atop a pile of books.



Filed under Martini Madness

The Greatest Day of My Life, So Far

The Greatest Day of My Life So Far | Ponies and MartinisToday, dear friends, I was given the most glorious gift a mother could ever receive; a trip by myself to Target. I laughed, cried tears of joy, and even pranced down the aisles.

You may wonder why this is a big deal. If you do, then you are probably not a parent. A typical trip to Target when you have kids starts with whining for Starbucks hot cocoa, continues with desperate grabs for My Little Pony plush, and ends in a full body meltdown when all entreaties to buy every single Skylander figure is denied.

An expedition to Target with kids is yeoman’s work and I am usually sapped of all energy when I leave.

But today was different.

Upon entering, I noticed the great red bullseye glowed brightly overhead. It sang to me a melody of peace and joy as I selected the cart that I wanted, not the unwieldy two-seated monster my daughter begs for and then uses for a solid five minutes.

Marching toward the dollar section, I make the stunning realization that I don’t have to walk up and down those aisles debating the merits and virtues of Frozen socks versus Barbie sandwich keepers.

Of course, I enter the land of cheap anyway, because it’s obvious I need to stock up on $1 gift bags, hand lotion that smells like plastic, and animal crackers. The frosted ones.

Tearing myself away from the Panda cookies, I spy a My Little Pony stationery set for The Girl and Ninja Turtles lunch accessories for The Boy. I squee with delight, because the kids would LOVE them. Actually, my daughter would also love the cheap Elsa headband, Palace Pets puzzle, the ratty felt fox, and broken basket on the bottom shelf. But, since she’s not there, I DON’T CARE.

Tossing my cheap goodies into the cart, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the women’s clothing section. I only have vague notions of what this couture wonderland contains as it’s usually passed in a blur of voices crying out, “This isn’t the toy section! It’s so boring!”

Instead of bidding the cotton confections adieu, I stroll leisurely past the clothing racks, fingering the items that are 50, and even 70, percent off. Sighing with joy, I find a striped, long-sleeved shirt on sale for $6. It’s such a good deal, I could buy two, and have a little left over for pants. Not wanting to get too crazy, I hold myself back and promise to come back for the striped shirt’s friends when I can get another day away.

Hide yourself sweet distressed jeans, mama’s coming for you soon.

I make my way over to the other part of Target that is forbidden with children; the lingerie section. I could walk through there on a typical shopping outing, but then I have my son trying bras on his head or listening to him and my daughter snicker at the sight of thong underwear. “Where’s the rest of it?!?”

Sadly, I have been known to ask myself the same question.

Bypassing a few choice items from the Gillian O’Malley hooker collection, I ogle some underwear whose comfort is masked by lace and a modest bow. I love a sexy pair of pantaloons, but for day-to-day wear, I need something that I can wear for longer than an hour that won’t rub my ladyland raw.

It’s the little things in life that make me happy, like an un-chafed vagina.

Of course the comfiest britches are on racks that face the aisle, so I get to stand in the middle of Target rubbing my paws all over silky underwear to find my size. Nothing to see here folks, just a lady fondling the crotch covers.

Floating through row after heavenly row, I savor the scent of those weird little soy candles, imaging where I’d put them and then remember that they would sit there and get dusty before I’d light them; planning parties that would need star pinatas, of which there should be none because those things make an ungodly mess; and eventually I wind up in the $5 movie section trying to talk myself into Scrooged because I loved that movie at one time, and IT’S ONLY FIVE DOLLARS! How many people can buy happiness for $5? Me! I can!

My time at Target comes to an end, and I even enjoy the checkout line. No one begs for Pokemon cards or Snickers bars, and I get to make pleasant chit-chat with the teenage checker.

Walking out, I let the majesty of the big red bullseye wash over me. Target is my motherland, and it is even better when I get to savor each and every nuance all on my own. It’s better than sex, I tell you, and no one can ever tell me differently.

Viva solo shopping!


Filed under Martini Madness

New Year’s Resolutions I Can Keep

New Year’s Resolutions I Can Keep | Ponies and Martinis

I resolve to be more beach-friendly this year.

With the very best of intentions, I start off the new year with an ambitious resolution or two, like working out every day or not yelling at the kids. And slowly, but surely, I fail to keep them. This is why I still carry some baby weight and my kids are deaf.

This year, I have come up with a few resolutions that I know I can stick with.

1. Wear yoga pants more often. I have kept my yoga pants isolated to the gym, but I think I have been severely limiting my comfort. Have you ever worn those things? It’s like rolling in butter and lying in velvet all at the same time. I won’t wear them out in public, like one of those people from Walmart, but, I’ll wear them for lounging, kid drop-off, and girls’ night. Maybe I’ll buy my friends a pair or two too.

2. Drink more wine. I love, love, love wine, so when the kids go to bed, I pour myself a glass. Unfortunately, life gets in the way of me enjoying it. There’s laundry to fold, dishes to do, and eventually, it’s time for bed. Sometimes, I don’t even drink the whole thing. I know! It’s the saddest story in the world! There will be no more sad stories in 2015. God as my witness, I will finish my wine.

3. Act like an idiot with my girlfriends. When I had kids, I stopped going out with my friends. Oh, there would be brunch or coffee, or a night in, but nothing like the bacchanal we’d had in our 20s. I miss those days, when we’d go out looking super skanky, dancing like the rhythmless white girls we are, and knocking back a few Manhattans. We’d sing along with Bon Jovi and do things that I am really glad were not captured on video. Of course the next day would be hell, but it was worth it. I need to do that again. But, this time with a better hangover cure.

4. Enjoy mindless entertainment. I finally read The Grapes of Wrath, a few fascinating books by Bill Bryson, and watched the Ken Burns documentary series on Prohibition. I am so much smarter now than I was 12 months ago. But, dammit, I want to take my edumacation down a notch. I won’t go to the dark side and start watching the Kardashians, but I need more Amy Poehler, Doctor Who, and Arrested Development. The Joad family is way too depressing. Sweet baby Jesus, someone find them a Habitat for Humanity house and a union to join.

5. Nap. Oh, naps. How I do love thee. With every fiber of my soul, I worship you, O, great nap. This is a no-brainer. And to accomplish this, I will…

6. Stick to the basics with housecleaning. Scrub the toilets, vacuum up the tumbleweeds of dog hair in the hall, wipe down a few jelly smears, and call it a day. Dirt can only help my kids, right? Build up their immune system and stuff? And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll burn my house down and start over. Perfect.

7. Lose my filter. For most of my life, I have worried about what other people thought of me. I always had a frank personality that I kept locked away like a crazy aunt in the attic. This year, she is breaking free and taking over. Here comes the crazy, and it’s going to be good.

I may not manage to keep any of these resolutions, but I am going to do my damnedest to try. I mean, seriously, how fun is this year going to be?


Filed under Partying with the Ponies

Putting the “Fun” in Funerals

Laughter, followed by fits of crying, ending with ennui. That has been the cycle I have followed for the past week. Am I going completely insane? Maybe.

If you read my blog on a semi-regular basis, you’ll remember that my brother died almost two months ago. Missed that post? Catch up here. Don’t worry; I’ll wait.

Last week, my parents and I traveled to the homeland to have a wake/closure ceremony/cry-fest. It was weird, dark, and cathartic; much like the rest of my family’s get-togethers.

My father likened the trip to entering a parallel universe; things seem the same, but are just a little off.

Let’s start with the cake. My family, and more specifically, my mother, has a twisted sense of humor. Her logic is that since my brother has died, he’s obviously a ghost now, so we really should have a cake with ghosts, and maybe a grim reaper in case anyone didn’t get the intent of the cake, with chipper ghosts alone, to wish my brother well in the great beyond.

Try explaining this to the bakery at the Ralph’s.

Instead of asking for a grim reaper dessert, we chose a Halloween cake. That’s not weird at all, nearly 7 months after the holiday.

Of course, all the poor man behind the counter has is a bag of Casper the friendly ghost rings. He offers to make a black and orange cake, but that would just be ridiculous. So we skip around the real intent of the cake and ask for one with chocolate frosting and an assortment of Casper rings.

I also opt to have the cake filled with strawberries and whipped cream. Would my brother have wanted that? I don’t know but it sure sounded yummy. It’s not like he’s going to have a slice.

And what do we inscribe on the cake? “See you soon?” “Sorry you’re not here to eat this delicious cake?” What’s appropriate for a ghost cake? We end up with a simple “We’ll miss you” message and hope for the best.

Now, to explain a little something about my family, we usually create a poster board full of pictures from the deceased person’s life. I don’t know if this is common at other funerals, because I haven’t been to too many outside my family.

Anyway, it’s up to my mom and me to decorate the board. We picked out pictures before we flew out, making sure we had good hair in all of the photos where we appeared. And we went to Michael’s to pick out a few embellishments.

Of course, our choices were not angels or warm sentiments. We wanted to keep with our ghost theme and found a Halloween pack with the phrase, “Happy Haunting.” It was really too good to pass up. My mom and I were laughing so hard we were crying and I honestly don’t know if we were amused or sad or both.

Needless to say, the patrons at Michael’s gave us a wide berth.

Before you think we’re too tasteless, we did not buy the sticker that read, “Bon Voyage.” Although, I was very tempted.

The family gathering was an understated affair, and other than the ghost cake and photo board it could have been mistaken for a family birthday party.

The guest of honor was even there, albeit in a basket.

My brother was cremated, and my other brother brought the ashes in something larger than an urn but smaller than a breadbox. I can only describe it as a basket. Not quite like the one in which Moses was found, though.

As the festivities were winding down, someone asked my mom if she wanted to take some of the ashes and sprinkle them somewhere meaningful. She said yes.

This is how I ended up holding a plastic Solo cup partially filled with the ashes of my brother. I did not need to be this intimately acquainted with him, but I was willing to do anything for my mother.

Side note… The awful truth about cremation? It’s not a pile of ash. There are bits. I will leave it at that.

Later she swore that she had been joking and had no clue what to do with the ashes. We transferred them to a child-proof pill bottle to prevent spillage, because that was not a horror we wanted to deal with. All I could picture was the scene from that Woody Allen movie where he sneezes on the giant pile of cocaine.

I do not appreciate my mother’s humor.

So, on Sunday, we travelled north and left him in a place we thought he would enjoy for eternity. Truthfully, I found it incredibly difficult to leave him. It was too final. Funny since the reason for the gathering was to have closure. I am nothing if not a loveable ball of contradictions.

If you’re ever in California and run into Casper, say hi and offer my brother your sympathies on his crazy family. I know I’ll have a lot to explain when I see him again.


Filed under Martini Madness

Finding Humor in Death

“We may laugh about everything. We must laugh about everything – even death. Especially death. After all, does death show any qualm about laughing at us?” – Pierre Desproges

Last week, I decided to join my husband on a trip to Puerto Rico. I thought it would be great to get out of the snow, lay by a pool and sip tiny tropical beverages for week. And God laughed at me. Hard. Pretty sure it was the kind of laughter that ended in snorts.

Less than 12 hours before I was supposed to fly out, I found out that my brother passed away.

Insert long, heavy pause here.

Since I don’t want to bore bring anyone down with the details, I will leave it at that this was a surprise.

I did decide to go on vacation and, yes, I have spent roughly 1/4 of my time crying randomly around Old San Juan, convincing the locals that we mainland gringos really are crazy. But I have also brought forth great memories of my brother, which also spawned crazy crying. Here’s a sample.

1. I was born on the mean streets of LA (okay, it was the valley). Consequently, I did not see snow in person until I was 5 or 6. My parents thought I should experience the horror wonder that is snow, so we trundled up to the mountains and pulled off to the side of the road and played in a random patch of snow.

Side note… My parents sure know how to make “baby’s first snowfall” special. I will give them the benefit of the doubt and instead of assuming they are lazy for not taking us to a “proper snow patch” I’ll pretend a snow-covered turnout in the mountains was the perfect plan.

Of course initial wonderment devolved into a snowball fight. I gleefully lobbed snowballs at my brother, and in turn, he put snow down my back.

It was the best of times. It was the frostiest of times. I am lucky I didn’t end up with hypothermia. Thanks for the snow slushie, big brother.

2. When I was growing up, I LOVED Pee Wee’s Playhouse, and that show was something that gave my brother and me something to bond on. Before this, it was hard to find common ground with him. He was in high school and I was watching Snorks. I mean, seriously. What is he going to ask me? “So…how’s that finger painting coming along? Have you learned to paint within the lines yet?”

Pee Wee was a gateway drug that led him to introducing me to Pink Floyd, muscle cars, and other things that made me more well rounded, and most importantly to my teenage self, more attractive to boys. I am sure this is not what my brother had in mind, but I’ll just say it was a delightful benefit.

3. When he was a teenager, my brother bought a truck. So, of course he was expected to play chauffeur for his baby sister. One day he picked me up from school. I was younger (we will say 3rd grade because I really don’t know when it happened, only that I was little) and sitting in the front seat with him.

Let that settle in. I am in roughly 3rd grade and in the front seat of a pickup truck.  Long live the unsafe 80s.

As we are driving and chatting, I notice he has these little containers of creamer in his cupholder. I pick one up and for whatever reason known only to my childhood self, decide to open it. Pickup trucks are bumpy. Creamer tends to build up lactic acid, making it swell with air.

I think you can guess what happens next. I cover my brother’s sweet ride in coffee creamer. He was not amused. I feared for my life. I don’t remember what the outcome was, but since I am here and he is not (nothing like a little gallows humor to spice things up), I can only assume I ran to my dad who was bigger and tougher than my brother and he fixed everything.

4. Speaking of the gallows, my brother had a dark sense of humor. It’s something that runs in my family. Kind of like poop through a goose.

For a period of time, my brother received phone calls from someone asking for a person named Metahia. He was polite and explained that the caller had the wrong number. Unfortunately, the caller didn’t speak English and kept calling back, asking for Metahia.

My brother took a logical leap and decided the caller spoke Spanish (before any reader gets uppity, please remember I was living in the San Fernando Valley where everything is bilingual English/Spanish). So, he learned how to say that Metahia wasn’t there and the caller had the wrong number. When the mystery guest phoned again, my brother used his magic phrase and hung up. You’d think that would be the end of it. Nope. Not long afterward, he got another call for Metahia.

No wonder Metahia didn’t give her family the right phone number. They never give up. I’d want to avoid them too.

In a fit of frustration, my brother shouts, “Metahia esta muerto.”

There was silence on the other end and the caller hung up. You might think that is cruel, but, it did stop the phone calls. I think everyone wins in that situation.

I have so many more wonderful memories, more than four anyway, and I look forward to reminiscing with my family when we gather to say goodbye. There will be dark jokes, and playful jabs; all part of this crazy family that is mine, all mine. God help us all.

Don’t worry. Right now I am in my black crepe and wearing a jet necklace, but I promise to put on my half-mourning garb soon and spin a delightfully funny take on the other reasons I should not have taken this vacation.


Filed under Martini Madness