Writing yesterday about my memories of Graden as a toddler has opened the flood gates.

When my ex and I called it quits after almost twelve years and he moved from California to New Mexico, Graden was just about five. Graden and I packed up our stuffed animals, action figures and cooking utensils and moved shortly thereafter to Los Angeles.

So, what happens when you put a newly divorced single mother in the city of dreams with her little pre-schooler? Well, said child is exposed to said divorcee’s new set of friends and all that implies.

Hold on now.

If you’re thinking I ever subjected my child to inappropriate behavior, think again. Wait. Don’t think. And if I’m too late, and you are thinking that, don’t speak. Because I would no sooner subject my child to inappropriate behavior, than I would reach through the computer screen and put a choke hold on you before you could get the words out. Just sayin’. Don’t think it, and don’t say it. I am the mamma bear. No one subjects my kids to anything I don’t want them to. Period.

What does happen, is the child tends to pick up various pieces of “language” he or she might not otherwise have heard. Language in my very strong opinion is neither appropriate nor inappropriate, in and of itself. The “words” are defined by their use, people. So if I tell a moron on the road that his fucking BMW is going to have a brand new dent if he doesn’t stop fondling his cell phone while driving…well, I believe that makes a great case for a good use of the word “fucking.”

One of the methods I employed to keeping Graden in line was to talk about age-appropriateness. If he wanted a toy, he was required to be in the age-range of said toy. If he wanted to see a movie, it was based on the film’s rating. When he became of age to see PG and PG-13 films, we had an agreement. He could see any of them, as long as I never heard of or witnessed him modeling what he saw or heard on the screen.

Then one day, five-year old Graden and I were at a cross-walk near the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica. We’d just parked the car and hit the button to cross.  After a few minutes Graden said, looking out toward the promenade,”I wish this thing would hurry up, dammit.”

“What?” I said, looking down at him in shock.

He repeated himself, verbatim.

Another thing I’d decided would be different since the divorce, was I was going to remain calm if possible, when things upset me.  I would think before I responded.

So I thought…

After a few seconds I crouched down almost sitting on the ground and replied, “Honey, you are not old enough to say that word, okay?”

“Okay” he said simply, “When can I say it?”

I thought for a second. “When you have gray hairs like grandpa.” I decided.

Yeah.

That worked for a while.

This is Graden with a llama, because, hey… here’s a llama.

Every year about this time, a neighbor down the block from M.C. Nugget’s beach palace throws an outdoor party.  You may already know this, but we live three blocks from the sand, so I know what you are thinking. You’re envisioning palm tree and cute little Cape-Cod style house-lined streets. I admit, it’s not far from that. We have a pretty great little neighborhood. But before you picture a lush patio landscape with golden-bodied beach babes and guys, let me school you on the REAL beach communities of Southern California. True, there are oodles of golden bodied surfers, sunbathers, and fitness buffs prancing up and down the block, and we love the show. But if you took a stroll down Main Street, you’d see a seriously different landscape.

Jeff Fest – the annual party thrown by, you guessed it, Jeff, who lives in a compound with several women… is the hard-core rock-n-roll party you never experienced.

UNTIL NOW.

LAMINATES. Because if you don’t have one, you are nobody at Jeff Fest. NOBODY. (A skull shirt might help, but without laminates… shhhh… no one).

The man himself, “JEFF” on the left. You probably can’t see this here, but he has his beard braided with beads. It’s his trademark. His band was actually one of my favorites. They played Red Hot Chile Peppers covers we could sing along to. At a party like “Jeff Fest” one needs to be able to sing along once in a while.

Yep.  This just happened…

One step into Jeff Fest and you are one step closer to meeting a real-live groupie from… I dunno…  Poison, White Snake, Metallica or even Slayer maybe?

But seriously, these musicians became my new fascination. I loved the Christopher Hawley Rollers (last picture), who sounded a little like Jack Johnson, but BETTER. Yes, I said that.

And the Freelance Horn Section accompanied the artists on a few songs…

they rivaled any New Orleans jazz brass…

We love Jeff Fest – for all the quirky people and Metallica shirts roaming around, it is loads of fun and always offers up some great tunes.

It’s turned out to be an Asian fusion kinda night for me on two fronts: I made stir fry (yummy stir fry, I might add), and then when M.C. Nugget was walking a friend of ours out to his car after feasting on my glorious delicacy, he called me outside to see something. I walked out and the sky was black as night. Sprinkled upward from somewhere on the beach beyond, were asian ceremonial lanterns (sky lanterns) lit with candles being launched. Every few seconds another one went up. It was incredibly peaceful after my long, packed-schedule day.

When I say packed, I mean wake up at four o’clock in the f-ing morning packed, from that very moment, packed.

I woke up, started working and left the house for various commitments at 10 AM. I didn’t get back home until about 8 PM.

As I drove home from teaching a 5PM and 6PM Pilates class (after my full day, I might add), I was craving stir fry.

Shit. 

It’s not the craving that is so bad. It’s the getting the kind of stir fry I like that presents a challenge.  If I’m really craving “it” – the it I love – then I must make it.  The only restaurants I know that make stir fry the way I like it, are Teppanyaki restaurants (like Benihana). Stir fry must be fresh and crisp. There shall be no soggy vegetables in my stir fry, PERIOD.

It was after an incredibly long day involving one short film festival (where a film Nuggie was in, screened — he was INCREDIBLE, thank you very much) at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, and an ungodly amount of traffic. The CARS, people!  Oh, and the PEOPLE… the oodles and eons, and overflowing and shooting out in front of me like a shaken up bottle of diet coke, PEOPLE.

Today the friggin’ IDIOT drivers that were let out of their insane asylums for some reason, seemed to unleash an inordinate amount of hostility from deep within the recesses of my soul.  I was throwing F-Bombs around like a millionaire throwing twenty dollar bills in a strip bar. I was making it rain f-bombs.

So, there was that.

Then Pilates.

Then my craving.

Shit.

I stopped at the store for all of the ingredients to make the most fabulous stir fry known to man, and arrived at home to Nuggie and a friend watching football.  THAT – believe it or not – was the best part of my day.  Cocktails, football, Nuggie, me and a kitchen where I could make my stir fry – the way I like it… The sky lanterns (in celebration of someone’s nuptials) were just the icing on the cake.

Not a bad way to put an end to a hectic day, eh?

Image credit: http://cebulights.com/a-wedding-in-vista-mar/