Science UnFair

In the springtime, I utter this silent prayer:

“Please, Lord, help me survive the Science Fair.”

The tri-fold boards, the complaining, the multiple trips for supplies

Make moms like me want to gouge out our own eyes

Each year, a black cloud hovers over Spring Break

Will there be logs to compile? Tables and graphs to make?

The work itself doesn’t get my spirits flagging

It’s the countless fresh hours devoted to nagging

“Did you take any notes today?” “Did you water your plants?”

My questions surpass typical homework rants

I carp about hypotheses, about cause and effect

Until my will to live is practically wrecked

It’s not that my children can’t be self-directed

They’re just a tad unclear on what is expected

They believe themselves possessed of magic powers

Allowing completion of three-week projects in under 24 hours

I know that it’s wrong to view this as my burden

That my kids’ self-sufficiency is what I risk hurtin’

That would be true if the playing field were a level one, folks

But as the California Mission projects taught me, now’s no time for jokes

Yes dearies, it was back when my kids were in the fourth grade

That’s when I learned how modern parental dues get paid

I could stand idly by, arms crossed, teaching my kids a lesson

But I’m too weak, I guess, that’s what I am confessin’

Those precise toothpick crosses, those papier-mâché adobes?

Yup—erected by parents with Architecture degrees!

By the time I saw the tenth hand-painted, thimble-sized monk

I knew how low we as “supportive parents” had sunk

So when my 6^th grader casually mentioned robotics

I tried steering him toward something a bit less exotic

That backfired—he’s researching solutions to the Rubik’s Cube

Which means any moment, I’ll be exposed as a dithering boob

Those mission projects, in retrospect? Positively quaint!

They required light reading and some tempera paint

You’re on your own now, kiddo, but we’ll still be buddies.

Sorry—my B.A.’s in American Studies. 

Dating Advice For The Ladies of L.A.

Horoscopes? You won’t be needing them.

Match-dot-com profiles? Don’t bother reading 'em

Everything you have to know, by far

You’ll find out by watching him drive his car

Does he cut people off? Does he drive too fast?

Would he rather die than arrive somewhere last?

When moving over, does he use his blinker?

Or is he, instead, a lane-weaving stinker?

Does he reply to texts at a four-way stop?

Is he hands-free only if he sees a cop?

Does he use the parking lane to pass?

Does he tailgate old ladies like a horse’s ass?

Does he treat La Brea like a lane at the races?

And when he parks: does he take up two spaces?

When he sees a pedestrian, does he grant right-of-way

Or step on the gas, churning up gravel spray?

You want to find out who’s the real hottie?

Don’t meet up for a Starbucks latté

Better to propose an afternoon drive

And if you’re lucky enough to come back alive—

You’ll see many of your concerns don’t matter

Be he tall or short, well-built or fatter

You won’t fail if you base your intuition

On what happens when his key’s in the ignition

Even if it feels like you’ve looked the world over

For a guy who can afford lease payments on a Range Rover

I’ll tell you what’s important, from where I sit:

It’s not what he drives, but how he drives it.

Foodbook

The pictures of you on your date night are sweet

The snaps of your summer vacation? A treat

I’ll tolerate shots of your dog or your cat

And your kids are adorable—there’s always that

But another dumb Instagram of what you’re eating and drinking—

I’ve got just one question: What are you thinking?

This important fact might take some of you by surprise:

Our lives are no better having viewed your beer and cheese fries

I’m sure that crab sushi is really delicious

But unless you handrolled it yourself, be judicious

That pretty Mojito, that dewy gin & tonic?

They give me a headache that’s verging on chronic

Food-photo posters often fall into two camps:

The stunt eaters and drinkers, or the abstinence champs

A third category is also worthy of mention:

Those who cook to cry out for cyber-attention

Some of you evangelize what others have forsaken

Whether it’s chocolate or booze, deep-fried Snickers or bacon

Then there are those who’ve restricted your diet

You’ve baked gluten-free muffins? Great—now, be quiet.

It starts innocently, with brownies, or umbrella drinks

But soon, it’s a 2:00 a.m. chili dog from Pink’s

When we compulsively post pictures of what we’ll put in our guts

There’s a name for that; here it is: ‘Facebook Food Sluts’

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t fallen prey, too

What can I say? I make a photogenic beef stew

But next time I have the urge to whip out my iPhone

I’m hoping I’ll have the strength to leave you alone

Because unless your waiter has set a whole pig on fire

There’s not much there to see that your “friends” need admire

If it’s your birthday or wedding, sure, show us that cake

But if not? Put that camera down, for God’s sake!

An Open Letter to the Other Customer in the Subaru Service Courtesy Lounge

Hey, gentleman a few seats over, or shall I say, dude

You may not realize it, but cell phone use here is rude

It’s bad enough that the TV is tuned to “The View”

On top of that, now I’ve got to listen to you

While waiting for a mechanic to replace my oil

It’s amazing how quickly my good mood can spoil

The day is young, that clock over there says it’s not even nine

And I’m ready to shove your Android where the sun doesn’t shine

The coffee may be complimentary, but I certainly am not

If it were legal, I’d kill you right here on the spot

The pastries are stale, and the donuts look greasy

And you’re an argument for the decline of the human species

I’d rather not hear you recite your shopping list

In fact, I’d prefer that you didn’t exist

And when you gossip about some chick from your work

You, sir, sound like both a dick and a jerk

I have an easy solution for you phone-talking bums

Have you considered exercising the use of your thumbs?

There’s a simple way to prevent others from becoming so vexed

All you have to do is stop talking, and start sending texts.

Trader Joe's Woes

Overheard yesterday, in the Trader Joe’s pasta aisle

One hipster to another: “Hey, dude! It’s been awhile!”

“Yeah, man,” said the first. “I just got back from Sundance.”

Well, good for you, I thought, Mr. Skinny Pants

Guess what I’m “back from”? I considered rebuking

Being up all night with a kid who was puking

I examined his cart: no gluten, dairy or meats

And mine: cheese, wine, burgers, and plenty of sweets

I know that in Sundance, it’s only thirty degrees

But here in L.A., it’s hot. Take off your ski cap, guy. Please.

And while I wish I could enjoy hearing about your script

Magnanimity is a trait with which I’m no longer equipped

It’s awesome that you’ve got a new film to produce

But I’m here mainly because my kid needs some juice

You’re off to Palm Springs next? I’ll try not to be bitter

Even though my next trip is to go out for cat litter

Only in this town, does my ego take a beating

While I’m out shopping for what my family’s eating

If I don’t see a hipster with an award-winning script

There’s some goddess in yoga pants, her abs fully ripped

I thought I’d be fine if I avoided the Whole Foods thing

But even Trader Joe’s can inspire a terrible mood swing

“You’re old,” a little voice tells me, “And you’ll die in obscurity—

You use carbs, wine and cheese to help soothe insecurity”

As I approach the cash register, I break out in a sweat

It’s not a hot flash, is it? Dear God, please—not yet!

And I decide to offer myself one more silent prayer:

Don’t call me “ma’am,” cashier girl. I beg you—play fair.