Even Jason Priestley Has Hoes in Different Area (& Zip) Codes

I can’t drive by this:

Without thinking of this:

The gang has been on my mind even more lately, as Jason Priestley’s children are in summer camp with my 4 year old daughter.  We totes hang.  I mean, not together, but on the same playground.  I am wearing my acid washed denim jacket all over again, and I love it.

My zip code is a hike from the 90210, but any woman my age who won’t admit that at some point she wished she lived there, or dated Dillon McKay, or wanted Kelly’s hair, or drove Steve’s car, or shouted "Donna Martin Graduates!" or had Brenda’s.... (I’m stumped, but you get the point) is lying.

But, you don’t need to have your personal assistant print the famous zip code on your Black: American Express statement to feel like a welcomed part of the Peach Pit crowd.  Babies lucky enough to have been born on September 2, 2010 will be writing 9/02/10 on documents for decades to come.

(I have no idea when this child was born but would love to find out, because I've got a feeling he's a Virgo)

Then I realized that tons of dates mimic postal codes.  So I googled the date of my discovery, 7/10/12.  The postal code that came up was for Rodi Garganico, in the Italian city of Foggia, less than 100 miles from Panni, where I took this very photograph:

I visited the tiny mountain town with my family so I could experience firsthand and forever remember the village my father-in-law left behind (in geography only) to raise his family in America.  Thank God that he did...

I hope encouraged you to waste a bit of time googling numbers today... If you discover anything cool, let me know.

Seeking: A Comment, A Wig & A (Tall) Shot of Vodka

Some people watch reality television because it's an escape from their own reality.  Not me.  Reality television is my reality.

(Bachelor Pad, Season One, Roughly 4am)

The average viewer experiences love, passion, fantasy and creativity.  Don't get me wrong.  I feel those things as well, but they look more like the magical room seen below (coupled with a side of exhaustion, and a tall shot of vodka):

A Pretty Standard Control Room: This One is For an Upcoming Show on VH1 

Instead, my escape is the leaning tower of paperbacks on my nightstand.  One of my latest reads was the insanely eloquent Eleanor Brown's, "The Weird Sisters".  Here's an excerpt that really resonated with me, and I've searched for the answers to her questions ever since.

"How old were you when you first realized your parents were human?  That they were not omnipotent; that what they said did not, in fact, go; That they had dreams, and feelings, and scars?  Or have you not realized that yet?  Do you still call your parents and have a one-sided conversation with them, child to parent, not adult to adult?"

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this... (comment section below: hint, hint)

I believe most of my conversations with my mom are adult to adult, but I definitely reserve the right to revert back to the decade of my choice at any point in time, which I am sure she enjoys.

As for my chats with my little ones, I hope to keep them one-sided for as long as humanly possible.  I mean, honestly, who wouldn't want to receive the latest voicemail I marked as 'saved'?

"Hi Mommy.  It's Emilia.  I don't like your new colored hair, but... um.... I love you anyway.  

Now come home."

Too bad "save forever" wasn't an option.

It Was The Best Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Zzzzzzzz's

I swear when Charles Dickens wrote the line “it was the best of times, it was the worst of times” in his masterpiece A Tale of Two Cities he was referring to the struggle to which so many can relate… that of putting a young child to sleep.

Undoubtedly some of my most precious moments with the girls have been at bedtime.  Just the other night I was cuddling my four year old when she whispered, “buckle me”.  A split second of confusion later, I realized she was asking me to wrap my arm around her belly, to hold her close.  I filed that under “best of times”.  It was a jewel, sort of like this:

Miley Cyrus’ engagement ring.  A one-of-a-kind thing of beauty, way smaller than you might imagine for all that fuss, but cherished more than anything else in her collection-- just like my “buckle me” moment.  Isn't it crazy how one little gem can cause such a wave of emotion?

But before you get all warm and fuzzy, remember there are two tales here, and the other isn’t nearly as heartwarming…

I’ve always blamed myself for my kids' poor sleeping habits.  As a working mother, I’ve tended to adjust their schedule to accommodate mine- not out of selfishness, but out of a desire to be the last face they see each night (which now that I put it like that, sounds incredibly selfish).

As a result, my bed hasn’t been my own in years.  I’ve been drooled on, rolled over and kicked in the face.  (Whether the foot of a toddler or an adult, either reserves a spot in the "worst of times" category.  Just ask Drake.)

So, I put up with this:

(note the king size wingspan)

And let the ladies of the house sleep better than I do.

 

Even the king reigns supreme.

Still, each morning, I wake up more and more thankful for the miracles beside me- both figuratively, and literally.