If I Were a Hunter I'd Mount Her Head

In a turn of events Sarah Palin found herself being the hunted one...by the paparazzi. Shots were fired but they failed to take down the beast and she's expected to appear in the audience of tonight's episode of Dancing With the Stars.

Bristol's performance last week was admirable given she's not a performer of any kind, though I think Levi would beg to differ. I found myself hoping the audience vote will keep her around for a while, if for no other reason than to piss her Moose huntin' momma off. I want to see her costumes get much smaller for the same reason.

Here's my take on the rest of the first week in competition...

Brooke Burke's dress is worthy of mention but second only to the body in it. Good grief, she's making the rest of us moms look bad. How about lowering the bar a bit so the rest of us can still look in the mirror? You can bet your sweet ass that if I had her trainer, personal chef and nanny I'd have that body too. Now that I think about it, she should have that body. I'd think less of her if she didn't.

Audrina is a natural dancer, she just needs to trust herself. Slamming body. She can suck it, she's like what, twenty two? Yeah, whatever. I'd think less of her too if she couldn't bring a body like that to the dance floor.

If the mirror ball trophy doesn't pan out for Rick Fox I predict he'll have a huge future in tooth paste commercials, man has a terrific smile. Partnering him up with Cheryl seemed like a mismatch in size, he's SO big. Though it's pretty much all the same when you're doing the horizontal mambo (I'm five one, I should know) dancing upright with a man that size would be a challenge. I immediately thought of Sookie standing chest to chest with the strapping, blonde, bloodsucking, viking, sheriff, Eric Northman. It's about the same size difference and they are electric hot so it may work for Mr. Fox and his pint-sized firecracker. I wanna see him throw her around. Think about it, you do too.

Mrs. Brady swears like a sailor. I like that. But, she has zero sex appeal so I'm hoping she goes soon. For the record, it's not her age. Helen Mirren gives me a boner.

Poor Chelsie. She has to dance with Michael Bolton. I'm feeling nothing more needs to be said. You feel me?

The situation with The Situation is this, he needs to situate.

Poor Kim. The Hoff was sweating Big Macs and Bourbon. Their routine to "Sex Bomb" bombed. I'd pray for a bomb to land on me if I had to watch him shake it one more week. Eewww! What a surprise though that he was the one to go. The Hoff is off, there IS a God. Nuff said.

Oh no Cho! You did not. Yeah, she did. I think she has some glimmer of raw talent but it'll be like forcing coal into it's diamond form.

Jennifer Grey. I want her to put her old nose back on. You with me?  More importantly, she can dance. She did Patrick proud. The media's revisiting of the fatal crash she and Matthew Broderick were involved in the week before dirty Dancing's release has to intense for her. Top it all off with her overcoming thyroid cancer and she deserves a break. She's dancing with Derek that's something.

My favorite performance of the night was the little piece of chocolate love, Kyle Massey. My kiddos watch reruns of Cory in the House all the time. I didn't expect him to move like that. I'm with Carrie Ann on this one, completely crushed out on the kid. He keeps dancing like that and he'll reel in more cougars than red meat. I am cougar. You hearing me roar?

This Bitch Is No Friend Of Mine

It's that happy little time of the month again. My "friend" has arrived.

Check it out... this crampy, bloated, carb craving, sobbing one moment, raging the next, make me wanna live in my sweatpants for the next three days, bloody bitch is NO friend of mine!

What kind of friend tells you that you look like a peg-legged pirate in your capris? Or that your thighs are as big as you think they are and for that matter so is your gut?

An honest friend?

Wrong answer a-hole! Wanna try again? Yeah, that's what I thought. I'll be asking the questions and giving the answers today. Take notes because there might be a test at the end and if you don't have the right answers I'm going to call you a failure. You'll suck. Like my period.

For several days leading up to the arrival of my least favorite Aunt ("Aunt Flow," you know) my body starts telling me the most obnoxious lies I've ever heard. Trust me, I've heard some doozies.

Let's start with... "Hey fat ass, just because it zips doesn't mean it fits."
Uh, it fit last week, what the hell happened? Oh yeah, Aunt Flow forgot a real present and re-gifted her bloat. Fine. I'll wear something else. Just because my size 2 jeans don't wanna button doesn't mean I'm a fat ass. It means I am a woman on the edge...of her cycle. Besides, my tits are huge right now and that's what they see first. They can kiss this fat ass as I walk away.

Let's move on to the next lie. "Your worst fear is going to come true. The genetic, emotional, and psychological disorders in your family tree did NOT skip your branch and the voices in your head are real."
If they are, and they aren't (right?) I'm going to start walking around whispering to myself, "Hey, you guys in there, shut the eff up or I'm going to stab you with a q-tip." Nuff said?

Then there's the lie only us writers hear. "Everything you write is crap. No one is reading it. No one wants to read it. Stick a pen in your eye, then wear a patch and talk like a pirate. That would be far more interesting than this shit."
I actually contemplated this one longer than I'd like but only because I dressed up like a pirate for Halloween a few years ago and, hold onto your buccan-ears, I was one hot piece of pirate booty. The rest of the lie is, well, just a lie. My "analytics" (a traffic counter thingy-ma-bobber I attached to this here little blog) tells me people ARE reading, even when there's nothing new to read. They may not be commenting but they're coming back for more. I don't leave comments at the McDonald's drive thru but I keep going back for more french fries. French fries are good. I like french fries and you like me or you wouldn't be here. Bonus: I'm better for you than a french fry.

Lastly, (Not because I'm out of lies my body tells me but because I am almost out of ranting time, lucky you.)
"That cramping and clawing sensation in your lower abdomen has nothing to do with your cycle. You were kidnapped by aliens and they had their way with you. You're growing an army of aliens in you right now." Really? Fine. Bring it. While on my period, I'm a badder bitch than Sigourney Weaver ever was and I don't even have to shave my head. But just in case, I'm armed with Midol and a loaded bong*. Just kidding about the bong, haven't actually owned one in years. Everyone knows vaporizing is the way to go. Yeah, I'll vaporize the aliens, that sounds better anyway, no mess to clean up.

*Dani Lamb does not advocate the use of illegal drugs, only medicinal.

Beautiful Word Art

If I had an alter where I placed dreams for me, this is what one might see...

Random word placement compliments of http://www.wordle.net/

Things I Miss About My Life, B.C. (Before Children)

Before anyone gets their knickers in a wad because they think I don't love my children enough let's get one thing straight...I love them. Madly. Even when they drive me mad and leave me teetering on top of the "Crazy-lady Mountain." I usually relent when I hear them yelling up from the bottom, "Mommmm, when you comin' down? We're hungry." They're boys. They're always hungry. I would fight a Grizzly bear for the little monsters and I would win too. 

Motherhood has been good for me. It settled me down, got my life organized, taught me what is really important and gave me something to love, more than myself. My children are my greatest contribution to this planet. Combine my efforts in raising them with my efforts in recycling paper, plastic, glass, and aluminum and I'd say I've banked some good-ass karma. Not that I'm keeping track. But, (there is always a but, even if it's my own butt, which in this case it is not) there are a few things I miss about Dani Before Children (B.C.) and I'll own them. Hell, I'm going to write 'em down...

1. A clean car. If you crawl around the backseat of my Yukon you are guaranteed to collect all the components of a Happy Meal with a myriad of "Made in China" toys to choose from. In my own defense of their eating habits might I add you could also find some peanuts and a shriveled up pickle. Kidding. About the peanuts.

2. Forget the car, I miss a clean house. B.C. I could clean it and revel for days in all the neat and tidy glory of a job well done. Now I'm happy if I clean the bathroom and go back five minutes later to NOT find pee on the seat they have been taught to lift. They're continued failure to comply may result in an installation of a "shock seat" similar to the training collars some use on dogs. Shut up, you're just mad you didn't think of it first. While I am on the bathroom shtick I may as well mention how much I miss the Playboys in the basket by the potty. I read all the articles. After I looked at all of the pictures.

3. Unedited music. There's nothing like hearing your four-year old Beastie Boy, in his booster seat singing, "The sheriff's after me for what I did to his daughter. I did it like this, I did it like that, I did it with a whiffle-ball bat." Yeah, that's what I want him singing on the playground. Even better, "You spin my head right round, right round, when you go down, when you go down down." Damn Alvin and the Chipmunks and damn the guy who had the furry little eff'ers sing it for the soundtrack too. It's not so cute from a ten year old boy with one lone armpit hair. By the way, I do not swear in front of my children which is probably why I do so freely here. It kinda feels like I'm being bad and that feels kinda good. Screw the radio edit versions. I like the naughty bits just not out of the mouths of my babes.

4. Expendable cash. Having kids will suck the cash right out of you. It's my own fault, in part. I know I really have no one to blame but myself. I spoil them rotten because their happiness is a powerful drug and I am hooked on it like a monkey on meth.

5. Uninterrupted showers. I thought once they could be entertained by a half hour of The Disney Channel I could shampoo, condition, exfoliate, shave, rinse, dry and moisturize (20 minutes) without one of them knocking on the door. That is, when and if they they knock. A perfectly good leg shave goes down the drain with one good blast of cold hallway air. This body that bore them is a temple and even temples need maintenance.

6. Uninterrupted phone conversations. This complaint is lodged on behalf of my non-child bearing sisters and brothers. It hasn't been so long ago that I have forgotten what it is like to be asked, as if you have a choice, to hold on while the parent deals with whatever "crisis" is at hand. Funny the way it is, these "crises" never happen until the parent is fully engaged in a conversation that does not include them. B.C I ended many a phone call in frustration that the parent wouldn't just stuff a sock in the blabbering kid's mouth. I was an a-hole. You CANNOT shut them up. It's impossible. Duct tape works but is frowned upon.

7. Sleeping naked. Long before there was any awareness of modesty in my children (I still haven't any) it became necessary to sleep with something on. You just never know when a child will wake and scream for you till you arrive just certain that the Boogie Man is about to carry them off. Hell if I am gonna give the Boogie Man a peek at my sweet treats. He's over a decade late for that sort of thing and I heard he was a cheap tipper anyway.

8. Sex with a soundtrack. This one should be pretty self explanatory. Need a visual? Admit you want one. Go ahead, no one will know. Okay, think silent movie with each frame being a picture worth a thousand words. Thank goodness for date nights that include five star hotels because no child should ever hear their parents bumpin' uglies, knockin' boots or knocking the pictures off the walls. Nuff  said?

I had intended for this to be a top ten list but I could make it twenty with a little more thought. At this point I'm going with the dad from that early eighties show and gonna say...Eight Is Enough.

I love my children. I love them madly. I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world.

And I wouldn't give two cents for another pair just like them.

Kid-Schleping Sherpa Seeks Sturdy Yak or a Twin

Yesterday was my sweet Jacob's first day of kindergarten. I didn't cry. Until I was in the hall. This is progress. Dylan started fifth grade which means he has had eight first-days-of-school (two years of preschool). I used to not be able to exit the classroom before my love took it's liquid form and spilled out of my face.

The passage of time is never more evident than when you are looking at your child dressed in his school uniform, at his big boy desk, half resisting the kiss you are trying to plant on his mouth. "Uh mom, don't e-barrass me." he says as he gives me the cheek. I sigh. Okay. But didn't I just push your little peanut body out of my own? Wasn't it just last week that you took those tentative first steps, clinging to the dog for balance? Wasn't it just last week that you mastered wiping your own butt? Oh yeah, that was last week. As for the rest of it...days gone by.

So now that the school year is officially in full swing I am busier than a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. I am a kid-schleping sherpa minus the Yak. I have a YUKon, does that qualify? I know things will settle down into a routine within a couple of weeks so for now I'm just gonna roll with it. Breathe deep, seek peace and let the universe help sort it out. That's my nature, in part.

I have had a lifelong tendency toward just making it up as I go along. Some would say I inherited that quality. My papa was a rolling stone. My momma was a gypsy. Between the both of them, they had about a lick of sense when it came to planning, structure, routine. Up until the time I had my first child I was content to follow suit. No structure. No routine. No plan. I was perfectly content just flying by the seat of my pants. That is if I was wearing pants and I didn't always. Those times needed a plan of an entirely different type and nature but let's not get off track. Children need structure, routine and a consistent bedtime. Seriously, look it up. Interestingly enough, so do I. So, the next couple of weeks will be spent reconstructing the family dynamic to include a screaming alarm clock, two breakfasts (four if you count the dog and the cat) before sunrise, lunch bags, backpacks, soccer stuff, and a twice a day twenty mile commute. Somewhere in there I'll squeeze in housework, bill paying, grocery shopping, leg shaving, eye brow waxing, yard work, dog washing, time with my husband and maybe, just maybe there will still be time to finish writing my book. For the moment I'm feeling like one of those contortionists that bend themselves like a pretzel then spin china plates on their fingertips. Tricky but not impossible.

When my daddy was having a particularly tender moment or if I'd made him exceptionally proud he'd look at me and say, "If I knew then what I know now I would have made you twins." The first thing that occurred to me is that I would have to share clothes with a bitch that looked just like me. No way.

But, it's days like this when the to-do list is as long as my leg that I contemplate how helpful it would be to have another "me." One of us could assume the domestic goddess role cooking like Betty Crocker and cleaning like Martha Stewart. The other could just be a goddess. She'd read and write and go to book stores and fill her pretty little head with knowledge. Maybe she'd learn Italian and then go to Italy. She'd definitely go to yoga and have time to play the guitar and garden and daydream the day away if she pleased. She'd have perfect toenails and post pics of them on facebook and she would never, ever, ever be too tired to rock it like a porn star under the covers. Big sigh. I need a pedicure.

Holy crap, it's time to get the kids. Being late for pick up is like a cardinal sin. Hell hath no fury like that unleashed upon the mother of the last child waiting on the sidewalk. You can bet it won't be me.

She's Crafty, She Gets Around. She's Crafty, She's Always Down

I am a writer.
I love the way that sounds.
You are my reader.
I love the way that sounds too.

I am also a cook, a house cleaner, a daydream believer. A chauffeur, a go-fer, a queen in my dreams and a woman of means, though I really have no idea what that means. I'm a baby-raiser, a roof-raiser and a hell- raiser too. I'm a wife and a lover and sometimes an angel under the covers. I'm a friend in deed, if you're a friend in need. I'm a yogini who makes a mean martini. Okay, that's enough. I could go on all day but I think you get the picture.

I can't be pigeon-holed. Impossible. I'm not a pigeon. I'm not even a bird. I can, however, give the middle finger and call it the bird. I have been known to let that bird fly, high. And for the times that one bird just won't do, I have a pair.

The list of name tags I've worn over the years is as long and diverse (and to some, perverse) as the day is long. As the sum of all of my experiences I would not change a thing and those who know me well really wouldn't have me any other way. Especially those that that end up with my creations after a day in my craft corner. See for yourself...

This is the "diaper cake" I made for my god child. Three tiers of rolled-up diapers held secure by flannel blankets and velvet ribbon. Adorned with two pairs of bunny slippers and one pair of patent leather shoes. Topped with a "My Melody" stuffed bunny that I loved so much I didn't want to give it away. The photo really doesn't do justice to this labor of love and frankly every time I look at it all I can see is the God-awful wallpaper that covered both my kitchen and dining room before we remodeled. Hideous, huh? Moving on...

  This is the wreath I made for my sweet-souled sister last year. I used a marabou boa wrapped around a styro-foam form. I had an idea of what I wanted when I went to the craft store but when I found that red peacock I did a happy dance and realigned my vision to include it. What worked once was worth doing twice. Enter Dani does wreaths version 2.0...

               I gave this one to a girlfriend whom I love more than all the partridges and pear trees, ever.

I don't always give away that which I create. That would suck. Occasionally I keep the magic I create and then I hang it around my neck and wear it out on the town....

Pretty, right? What you can't see in this photo is the dark blue embroidery around the just-past-the-knee hem. The necklace is peppered with vintage glass beads that belonged to my grandmother and whimsical charms I reused from another necklace my sister gave me as a gift. Now that I think about it I did give this away. Actually I left it at my sister's house, in LA. No, don't send it back Jaime, I'll come get it. Soon.







 

I Want That Mirror Ball Trophy!

The official cast list for this season's Dancing With the Stars has been released.

I wasn't on it.

Again.

Hold up, wait a minute, stop the presses! What? Really? I can cut a rug, shake a leg, get low, back that thang up, get down on it, get jiggy wit it and shake what my momma gave me. I can lock and pop and I can drop it like it's mo-fo hot! I've danced a jig, danced my pants off and danced like no one's watching and many times no one was.  I WANT THAT MIRROR BALL TROPHY DAMMIT! As far as I can see the only thing standing between me and that sparkliest and shiniest of all sparkly and shiny things is...I'm not a star. Though once upon a time I made some cash shaking my money maker under that very name. Not so much because I fancied myself a star but because I'd watched Lost Boys too many times and a boy I went to high school with told me I looked like Jami Gertz. I can dance and I could so do this thing.

In today's world there a number of ways to get famous and an even greater number of ways to become infamous. I would most likely qualify for the latter sooner than the former and to the casting agents of DWTS it doesn't seem to matter. Finally, something in my favor. See for yourself...From the Hills, Audrina Partridge. Mike, greasy, tanned, eight pack, "The Situation" Sorrentino and Bristol "Levi got in my Levi's" Palin. The list could stop there but for good measure let me mention both Michael Bolton and David Hasselhoff. God help us all, The Hoff has a huge cult following in other countries and I'd double-down on a bet that they will ALL be watching and worse yet, voting. I predict he'll be in the final five. Florence Henderson? Kill me now. She does commercals for Polident, a denture adhesive. There is nothing sexy about this woman and even the fact that she was banging Greg back in her Brady Bunch days is just plain creepy. I just can't hang a cougar nametag on her with a clear conscience. Wanna be's, never gonna be's, has been's, never, ever shoulda been's. Somebody please hand me a pair of dancing shoes and an opportunity. I can't say I know shit-from-shine-o-la about the athletes. None of them are Detroit Pistons. That leaves... Brandy, she can probably dance. Jennifer "no one puts Baby in a corner" Grey and Margaret Cho. Jennifer made a good showing next to Patrick Swayze (Johnny Castle gave me a boner, like everytime, I watched him dance. May he rest in peace.) but that was decades and a different nose ago.

My underdog pick for the season is Margaret Cho. She once poked fun at herself by saying she didn't think she was attractive. She said she had the kind of face and body that should be squatting near an ice fishing hole in a the Museum of Natural History. Her people hunted and fished and ate it all, eyeballs, scales, guts and ass, all of it. I laughed so hard I almost peed myself. I think anyone who can laugh at themselves is beautiful. Plus there's some question about her sexuality and she's all full-sleeved out and she talks dirty. I think she rocks and hope she has even the smallest amount of natural ability. Go CHO! Go Cho-oooo!

Enough about them and back to me. What I need is a plan to get famous or infamous or become some version of the socially agreed upon definition of a star. The possibilities are endless, the plausibility is another thing. Let me know if you think of anything and in the mean time I'm going to set my DVR cause when this seasons DWTS crazy train pulls out of the station I don't want to miss a thing. I know, it's pathetic.

PS. Runner up for my underdog choice is Brisol Palin. I hope she dances like a slut and has a wardrobe malfunction.