I don’t understand anything anymore.

We came home one night to this:

Sitting on the stairs.

It’s a brick, in case you can’t tell that from the picture. A brick with a purple construction paper curlicue, ostensibly representing hair, and a really goddamn big smile.

#5 made it. I do not know where the brick came from, or what possessed #5 to name it Brickie and give it the sentience equal to his most favored stuffed animals. All of #5’s stuffed animals at this time were named what they were, with an “ie” on the end (believe it or not, this is an east coast man thing).

Some nights he slept with Brickie.

Several times Brickie joined us for breakfast.

Brickie took part in many games and outings and blended right in with all the stuffed animals as if he were one of them.

But eventually, as always happens with talismans of childhood, Brickie was set on a shelf and not taken down again. Which is understandable, being that he’s heavy. And a brick. (Also at some point his name changed from Brickie to Bob the Brick. I have no proof, but that stinks of #4, because she names all of her stuffed animals Bob.) Brickie, a.k.a. Bob, was practically forgotten.

Then we moved.

#5 packed Brickie, a.k.a. Bob, carefully away in his pillowcase, then in a box. He pulled him out of the box first thing at the new house and slept with him every night. That bears clarifying: #5 was sleeping with a brick for his pillow. It took some top-notch maneuvers from a favorite babysitter, but Brickie, a.k.a. Bob, was eventually freed. Liberated, if you will. He joined some other bricks in a pile at the edge of an outside wall at our new house. I would see him out there sometimes when I was taking the puppies out, or pretending to garden.

He certainly looked happy.

He spent an enjoyable twenty-one months in the fresh air, surrounded by his own kind.

Until this week, when suddenly and without explanation, he was buried.

I don’t pretend to understand anything anymore. I just take pictures.

Snubbing Calvin Klein

I have bad celebrity karma.

Famous people come to my work sometimes. Mostly, I have no idea who the hell they are. If I manage to get the TV off of the inane shows the kids like, I prefer to either turn it off or watch something gory like shows about forensics, animal predators, or people of my culinary skill level trying to cook. This is because we don’t have Showtime and I can’t watch Dexter, which I think is unfair, being that I pay the bill.

I don’t see many movies either, unless there’s a vampire, wizard, or talking animal featured.

My sub, the other guy who does my job, has good celebrity karma. The famous people that I have heard of come when he is working instead of me. Betsey Johnson has been there twice. Once when I was on my honeymoon and once when one of the heathens was sick.

The only one who came while I was there that I cared about was Alice Cooper. I got all school girly. It was bad form, truly. But I got a picture. My friend John thinks he looks like Henry Winkler.

My kids were livid with me because when John Stamos (my Blackie; their Uncle Jesse) came, I didn’t get his autograph. Likewise a Jonas Brother. And Zack Effron.

Actual text exchange between me and #3 (yes, I spell out all my words and use punctuation in texts):

Me: Apparently, Zack Effron was here today.

#3: OOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMGGGGGGGGGG PLEEEEEEEEESE TELL ME U GOT HIS AUTOGRAPHHHHHH!!!!

Me: I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup. I followed him out the door but I didn’t know it was him. And don’t all your extra letters defeat the purpose of your abbreviations?

#3: NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! Wait what?

When former President Bill Clinton came, he came backstage at intermission. Intermission serves one purpose for me: pee break. A large crowd of our company gathered to meet him. In front of the bathroom. Blocking me. I tried to gracefully edge around the former President and the star-eyed musicians and actors waiting to say their piece and get a picture. I made it to the other side. I waited until what I thought was the right moment and went into the bathroom.

Of course someone tried to come in. Of course it was Bill Clinton. Thwarted from relieving himself by a locked door. A whole new kind of cock block. Ah, c’mon, you’d totally go there if this was your story.

Once a man and a woman came up after the show. The man held out his hand and said, “Hi, Calvin Klein.” I shook his hand but was all, yeah right, in my head. He introduced his companion and asked if he could come backstage. I told him he could go to the stage door and talk to the doorman.

The look on his face was my first indication that he may have been telling the truth about his identity. He said, “Yeah, I don’t do that,” and walked away. I related the story to CC later that night.

CC: Did he kinda look like Lyle Lovett?

Me: Yeah, totally!

CC: You idiot. That was Calvin Klein. They’re related.

Me: Crap.

Calvin Klein came back on a different night when I wasn’t there and my sub took him backstage. I’m pretty sure he gave him the entire spring line and a private cruise on his yacht as a thank-you.

My 15-year-old-self never dreamed MTV would do this to me

There are two things I don’t do: go grocery shopping during peak hours, and bring the kids with me to the store. These boundaries are necessary to preserve whatever shreds of my sanity are left. I’m convinced that I have a genuine grocery store disorder, and when I don’t follow these rules, I’m liable to walk out of the store having spent a hundred bucks but without the ingredients to make a single complete meal. Like I’ll have frozen waffles and no syrup; marinara sauce but no pasta.

(This never happens to CC. He can walk into a grocery store at rush hour and walk out in fifteen minutes with our next six meals, all fresh food. He can also pull a meal together for the seven of us with enough for last-minute guests and have it on the table in twenty-five minutes. Husband Contest: I Won It.)

So what does an accidental stepmom do on a rare Sunday off when she discovers there’s no food in the house? If you answered order takeout you would be correct, except for the fact that we have to go look at cakes for #4’s upcoming birthday.

This is how we end up at the Shop Rite at 4pm on a Sunday afternoon, along with 22,012 of our closest neighbors.

The aisles are packed. There are no carts left. I can feel my tenuous grip on reality sliding away. Jersey broads are serious and hardcore, not to mention pointy, and they handle their shopping carts like they do their SUV’s. It’s terrifying. I’m from Indiana. I am out of my league here. Thank god my roadie training kicks in and I go into damage control mode.

The first thing I do is decide to make CC deal with the cake tomorrow.

The second thing I do is decide that everyone will be given lunch money because there is no way I can handle the mob scene at the deli counter to get lunch meat.

The third thing I do is let the kids pick dinner. They choose:

frozen pizza

frozen french fries

frozen bagel bites

I manage to pick up fresh salmon and spinach for CC and I. That’s all I can manage.

In the checkout line we wait for a while, and eventually get close enough to read the tabloid headlines. This sparks a lively conversation about Teen Mom, which I’ve never seen, but am vaguely aware of solely due to time spent waiting in checkout lines reading tabloid headlines.

#2: It’s stupid. It totally sends the wrong message.

#3: No, it shows how hard it is to have a baby when you’re, like, sixteen. Like, who would want that?

#2: Yeah, but then they give these idiots a TV show! What kind of message is that?

They proceed to argue about this. They are thirteen and fifteen, and I’m pretty proud of both of them right now.

#5: Julie, how does somebody get pregnant and have a baby when they’re sixteen?

This is the point where I should probably remind you that #5 is our only boy and eight years old.

Me: Because either they have sex without birth control or they have sex and their birth control fails.

He grows very quiet and tilts his head at me. The puppies do this when they’re trying to figure something out.

I turn back around and there’s the cashier, standing there, staring at me with her mouth open.

In my defense, it was a pretty deep question for the checkout line.