Cheerios in My Underwear is comic Amy Simon's motherhood show being produced for Mother's Day at the Westside Eclectic. Time is 3 pm. Theater is 310-451-0850. Address 1323-A Third St. Promenade, in the alley between Third and Fourth St.

The following is some of her earlier musings. Her website is cheeriosin myunderwear.com

Ovaries should come with a warning label.

Pregnant People have NO idea what they’re getting into. Ask any parent – especially of a teenager – if you knew then what you know now, wouldja still have ‘em? You might be surprised at the answer.

\I had no idea what I was getting into. I read all the books like “What To Expect When You’re Expecting”. Not that helpful. Did not prepare me. I took the Lamaze courses. I was SO eager and so naïve. I did everything they said – quit smoking – crack – quit drinking – took long walks and all that and when I went into labor I brought my little food bag for the beer they said I could finally drink and my Led Zeppelin tapes – yes tapes in those days – they said would help me pass the time. PULEEEZE! I had one of those long long labors – 37 hours, three days of labor! Oy. We got to the hospital on a Friday night and by Monday I was a mommy.

Why do we have these kids anyway? Lotsa reasons. Babies are cute and cuddly and they smell good and you don’t realize that they turn you into a fluids control monitor or a sleep-deprived nurture shocked multi-tasking slave – until it’s too late. But then they hug and kiss you and their eyes light up when they see you and your heart grows bigger then you ever imagined. Then they start tawkin’ – “momma”, “dada” - oh it’s soooo cute. Then they turn into toddlers and become mobile – “oh she took her first step”, and your life is over and you realize you can’t sneeze or pee without wondering where they are which is invariably hanging from the chandelier or trying to get out the front door or sniffing paint. Then they hit daycare – if you can afford it - or pre-school – if you can afford it and what happens then? They bring home every germ on the planet and there’s snot and puke and crap for years and that’s the way it’s supposed to be so their immune system develops.

Then they hit school, unless you’re one of those people who home-school – I’d personally rather burst into flame – I couldn’t WAIT for those little humans to be out of my hair for a couple of hours - and they come home from the playground with all sorts of stuff – opinions, ideas, beefs “Mommy, how come Janey’s allowed to eat pop tarts and Doritos for snack”! “Well, sweetie, because Janey’s parents don’t care if she gets cancer or diabetes”. Yeah yeah it’s all a big learning curve isn’t it?

Then the scariest thing happens. They turn into teenagers. Strange alien beings. I am the mother of a teenager and I am ready for rehab. She’s fourteen and I never imagined puberty would have been harder the second time around. And she gets all “leave me alone” and “don’t touch my hair”. I walked into her room the other day and she said “Can I help you?” Can I help you??? I’m your mother. You used to live inside of me.

But she’s out there in the world and I am terrified. When she was little she would say “oh mom you’re so smart you know everything” and I would say “oh honey I don’t know everything. But I always know when you’re lying and I always will”. Now when she goes out I say have a good time honey, make good choices and remember… GOD IS WATCHING! Never mind that she doesn’t believe in god. I believe in guilt. Guilt works. And fear. She’s scared and that’s the way I like it. I want her to be terrified of “consequences” and me. And she is. I don’t wanna be her friend – she has friends. She has one mother. And I am one mother, if you know what I mean. So as my mothering evolves with her teenaging, I have become more creative, inventive – pro-active if you will and I am proud to say that I have figured out how to keep tabs on teenagers.

Sniff ‘em. If my parents had sniffed me – they would have been surprised. The nose knows. When I was a teenager my parents had no idea what I was up to. They weren’t even up when I got home. And I told her. When you get home sweetie, I’m gonna sniff you. Not that I think this is a fool-proof method but it’s a start. Being a parent can be a thankless job. Sometimes you can’t win. Just ask Paris Hilton’s parents.

Or blame them.

Oh yes, of course I have to bring up pop stars and celebrities, like Paris Hilton. Look, I don’t know anything about that family other than what I read. Maybe they tried to instill good values in her and maybe they are really great parents but I’ll tell ya this. If I ever turned on the TV and saw my kid in a bikini eating a cheeseburger and humping a car, I’d kill her. I don’t know – these kids today. You look at the few that get all the bad press – Lindsay Lohan and how her mother was her party pal and apparently her dad did her no favors. The point is – you can’t win. And it’s easy for me to look like a good parent when you have parent’s like Paris Hilton’s. Or Lindsay Lohan’s and of course the poor “pop wreck”– Britny Spears. Tawk about a disaster.

How about HER mom. Yikes..

A couple of years ago when my pre-teen thought I was “mean”, I found a horrible and true article in the newspaper about a couple whose son was so difficult that they couldn’t figure out a good way to discipline him. So they made him sleep outside and when he didn’t take the dog for a walk they put dogpoop in his backpack. Swear to god true story.

So I cut this article out and had my daughter read it. And I said, “Who’s mean”?

Why do we have kids anyway? Oh sure when they do well, such Naches. Naches is a Yiddish word that means pride from your children. And it is THE BEST FEELING in the world.

And when they excel and do well – who gets the credit? The mutha.
And when they screw up or turn out to be a serial killer – who takes the rap? The mutha.

Yes Ovaries should come with a warning.

The day started out fine—got up on time, no major problems getting kids off to school, no trauma over clothes, skirt length, inappropriateness—and then by 8:45 I started feeling depressed, unmotivated and lethargic.

Started crying, worked out, cried during workout, had breakfast, cried some more through breakfast and after breakfast, put on makeup, got dressed and continued crying. Had hair (and eyebrows) colored and cut, spilled guts to beloved hair stylist, bragged about new boyfriend, cried a little more in car even though I looked a lot better, bought coffee cake, went to memorial service at home of friend who lost her mother.

Tried to be helpful, watched friend in non-stop frenzy of activity flutter around kitchen obviously avoiding stillness which would lead to acknowledging feelings. Imagined myself in her shoes. Did that, felt sad, went to school to pick up 8-year-old, learned that said 8-year-old was told by great friend of hers (who is a boy) that she "had sex" with a boy. Freaked out, reported incident to proper authorities, tried not to tell boy (who I love and is a good boy) and mother (who I love and is a great friend) off.

Went home and spent next two hours getting 8-year-old to do homework while monitoring whereabouts of 12-year-old. Cried some more (secretly), managed to open bills, learned bills were late, realized important file filled with important papers—such as bills—were missing. Looked, cried etc. Lost contact with 12-year-old for 15 minutes, panicked, freaked, found her, got her, got home and realized more things were missing in house such as expensive and hard to find lightbulbs for all fixtures in living room.

Realized I've lost control, open wine, tried to get children ready for mid-week transfer to soon-to-be ex-husband. Spent ridiculous and fruitless amount of time looking for 8-year-old's other sneaker. How does one lose a shoe in the house? Soon-to-be ex-husband arrives, uncharacteristically sweet, sick, needy, infected tooth, "borrows" darvocet. He uncharacteristically patiently waits while fruitless shoe search continues.

All leave. All alone. Cry more. Drink more wine. Prepare fresh halibut in fridge. Prepare beautiful four-course meal for self while crying and looking for everything—important file, light bulbs, sneaker. Meal ready, not hungry, eat anyway. Inadvertently stumble across The Wedding Planner on TV while channel surfing.

Get depressed thinking about Jennifer Lopez and my situation. Get period. Have Oprah-like 'a ha' moment. Manically wash kitchen floor with new Swifter. Remove makeup, wash face, exfoliate, floss. Surrender to loss of files, sneaker, light bulbs, marriage. Wait expectantly for new boyfriend to finish bowling so we can talk on the phone for the rest of the night. Put wine back in fridge, half a bottle left. Fantasize that tomorrow will find things— light bulbs, sneaker, bills, pea...

After countless hours of self-obsession, innumerable nervous breakdowns and failed relationships, the Dolly Lila now feels qualified to pass on her wisdom. The Dolly lives in a small hilltop commune for women only… and men, but only if they are really, really sorry. The Dolly is a natural redhead and many of her followers experience 'Redmatta' (a spontaneous reddening of the hair) in homage to their beloved leader." For her first Divine Lesson, she begins with diet advice.
a) Set your alarm to ring 15 minutes after your usual waking hour. The Dolly sets hers at 7:15 a.m., which makes her 15 minutes late in the morning.

b) Realizing that you are late, you quickly jump out of bed. This limb pounding will strengthen ankle and calf muscles. Morning panics burn-off an automatic 20 calories.

c) Place an unused condom filled with chilled witch-hazel on your eyes to reduce unsightly morning puffiness. Continue with rigorous morning regimen with the chilled condom placed firmly on your bags. Reduced water weight: 0.001 ounces. Calories burned: 2.
d) Pop a multi-grain piece of health bread into your toaster. Use a long knife to jimmy your crumbling bread out of your toaster. A quick electrical shock will give your heart that cardio-workout necessary to jump start your day. Another 50 calories burned!

e) With no time left to eat, you skip breakfast altogether. Jump into your clothes and then run to your car: 50 calories.
f) Remember to bump your head on the car door as you enter and then start swearing. This warms up the vocal cords and starts producing stomach acid, which will in turn tighten those tummy muscles: 50 more calories.
g) If your bump is severe enough you may be one of the lucky ones who gets amnesia and so repeats The Dolly Breakfast Plan over again. Total calories burned: 172!
In her next blog, The Dolly will offer a special way to "Power Lunch." You won't want to miss it.

T-shirts with The Dolly's favorite sayings such as 'I Just Want You to Like Me for the Person I Pretend to be When I am With You' can be ordered from her website www.selfhell.com. You can learn more about her there as well as view her Dolly Meditation "Revenge what the Buddha Never Spoke" and an "Interview with Her Holy Mess." (Yes, it's a real website!)

I suffer. From PMS. Perfect Mother Syndrome. Very common, very textbook very classic. But how could you blame me? I was raised on Donna Reed. Let's talk TV Moms. Donna Reed was always cheerful, impeccably dressed and surrounded by cleanliness, calm and order. Happily subservient, seemingly content and fulfilled, she vacuumed in high heels and pearls. Harriet Nelson from The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet is another example of cheerful subservience in pearls. Jane Wyatt played the lovely Mrs. Anderson from Father Knows Best, smilingly elegant in heels. And of course who could ever forget Barbara Billingsley as June Cleaver, mother of The Beaver on Leave It To Beaver.

Then there was Julia. Remember Diahann Carroll as Julia? She was one of the first single working mothers on television and was very controversial. She was a nurse raising her son. And she was black. She always looked absolutely beautiful, always had it together and always wore makeup. I hate that. Then there's the always-effervescent Florence Henderson as Carol Brady from The Brady Bunch—mother of six, always looked great and again—always smiling even though her husband was gay. Of course the reason she smiled all the time is because she had a housekeeper —Alice! Then there was Shirley Jones as Shirley Partridge from The Partridge Family—again one of the first single working mothers on television where she proved you CAN have it all by successfully combining motherhood and career by raising her family while on tour. She had a nice bus. There wasn't a realistic TV mom until my absolute favorite—Roseanne. I will always love her for having the guts to do that show and show how it really is.

So there you have it. The TV moms I grew up with. Which brings us to my favorite current TV moms: Jane Kaczmarek as Lois from Malcolm In The Middle is an EXTREMELY accurate and realistic portrayal of a truly crazy mother. And finally, she's been off TV for a while but her portrayal of the penultimate modern mother will not easily be forgotten—Sharon Osbourne.

Well, I'm not raising my girls on Donna Reed OR Sharon Osbourne. Although I do borrow a little from each. I tell my girls the truth! No Superman, no Supermom. I tell them YES! You can be an astronaut - sure! Talk to Dr. Sally Ride – first American Female Astronaut in space – talk to Eileen Collins – first Female Shuttle Commander – go ahead and go to the moon! Just don't go to God Forbid – Afghanistan, or Cuba or South America and don't even get me STARTED on the Far East. There are still lots of places where you don't wanna be a woman. Like India. They still have dowry's in Delhi and if you're a Hindu widow in India, you're blamed for your husband's death. Ya can't remarry, ya can't inherit. You're basically cast out, and end up either begging or working for like ten bucks a month - a cup of rice. Nice.

In Nigeria, Amina Lawall - this poor woman was part of an Islamic sect, had sex with her ex, was arrested for having a baby out of wedlock, and the Nigerian Supreme Court upheld the death penalty and as soon as she weaned her baby, they were gonna bury her up to her neck stone her to death! Then Amnesty International and the Internet got in it and they freed her. Yea. Ahhh civilization. Well, as an American, lucky me! I get to raise my girls on Hannah Montana, Kim Possible and Zoey 101! Finally, stories with female protagonists who turn out to be the heroes and DON'T go off with the guy! And then there's always Pocahontas, in which like most of the Disney stories and fairy tales, the mother IS dead and I get to explain that America was really settled by a bunch of violent white male gun toting imperialists. Opens up a whole dialogue on imperialism and racism and assassination and Martin Luther King Day. How do you talk to your kids about the holocaust and September 11th and Darfur?

I'll tell ya a secret. I yearn. For the 50s. Not the REAL 50s, where many Moms were repressed, trapped, sedated, pill popping alcoholics in denial. Not the my own mother stayed home because she had no choices and was miserable 50s. Not the Hillary Clinton applied to NASA and was rejected just because she was a woman 50s. No no no. The Fake 50s. The Donna Reed 50s when men and women knew their places. The men went off to work and the women stayed home. They hung out with the other Moms. They drank coffee, smoked cigarettes and had cocktails. At least that's how it was when I was a kid growing up in Queens, New York in the old days. Ahhh, the old days. I remember the old days. So simple then. What were there seven, maybe eight channels on the TV and no one thought twice about jumping in a convertible in the summer - no car seat no seatbelt no sunscreen. An open beer and a lit cigarette.

Sounds great doesn't it? If you did that today you'd get arrested for child endangerment and I'd be the first one to call! Oh the good old days when you didn't need Mommy and Me's and playdates. You just HAD that stuff there, built-in. All the kids played outside together and all the Moms sat around coffee klotching and smoking. Boy does that sound good. I love Coffee klotches. And I miss smoking. No one coffee klotches here. We're way too busy to coffee klotch. Most of the Moms I know have no time and when they do, they drink water and go to the gym. Oh how I yearn! To just tell my kids to outside and play. Ha! Sure just go outside and play and get kidnapped, drugged, abused, mugged. It's just so different. They need so much more supervision. There's danger everywhere. Everything is dangerous! There's Elizabeth Smart and Danielle Van Dam. Being outside unsupervised. Nannie cams. Porn on the Internet. Pedophiles in the neighborhood, the web - and the church; chemicals, sugar, too much sun. Toxic tap water, indoor air quality in the classroom. Too much TV. We are soooooo enlightened! Ignorance is bliss. So I yearn. For innocence and ignorance and rainbows and lollipops.

Amy Simon is an LA comic and comedy writer. Check out her website at www.cheeeriosinmyunderwear.com.

For over ten years I lived in the neighborhood bordered by Fairfax, La Brea, Melrose and Beverly. I fell in love with the area after my sister moved there and took me to a bar walking distance from her apartment. As a twenty-four-year-old who grew up in the Valley, walking to a bar from your apartment was something I only saw in movies. Like snow. And taxis. The realization that this could happen right here in Los Angeles changed my life and liver forever. I soon moved and for years my friends poured over the hill for the chance to walk for drinks. "It's just like New York!"

But eventually we all started settling down and getting married. Many of my friends bought houses, had kids and for reasons no one has adequately explained, moved to Thousand Oaks. Before I knew it Jaeger on tap was not a good enough reason for them to come over the hill and "Where are we going to park?" became a very real and serious concern. The pour over the hill became a trickle and eventually, for me, Laurel Canyon dried up.

Then they built the Grove. The Field of Dreams for anyone with something to return to The Gap. Suddenly I was back at the center of the universe. And the universe was anchored by Lionel Richie and a dancing fountain. Just as I had always suspected. My friends once again poured over the hill, this time for the chance to walk to Nordstrom.

The Circle of Life

What bothered me most about the building of a mall in my precious, quirky neighborhood was not, as you might think, the giant Glockenspiel now looming less than a mile from my apartment. Nor was it being reduced to meeting friends I once met for pitchers for potstickers at the Cheesecake Factory. No, what troubled me most about the Grove was how much I came to love it.

I know, I'm part of the problem. As it was being built I swear I thought it represented everything I stood against, namely Banana Republic and Wetzles Pretzles. But the reality of the Grove is so much more than flat-front trousers and pretzel-wrapped hotdogs. (Though it turns out, pretzel-wrapped hotdogs -- delicious). For better or worse, the Grove is L.A.'s Main Street. In spite of all its garish faux-European newness, it is really a throwback to a simpler time. A time when people strolled around outside past 9 p.m. on weeknights eating ice cream and buying lingerie. I challenge you to find something more quintessentially American than buying a scoop of chocolate chocolate chip and a wonder bra in the same night.

Sure it would be better if L.A.'s Main Street could be an actual street like other cities seem to manage. But keeping in mind that when I grew up taking the bus to Topanga Plaza was considered a good weekend activity for pre-teens, this is a step in the right direction. Besides boasting sunlight and fresh air, the Grove even features its own transportation: the trolley.

In fact, the trolley is my favorite part of the whole Grove operation. To me it represents a simpler time not just aesthetically but existentially. That in the very epicenter of our grossly litigious society there is a huge bus driving back and forth through a crowded mall teeming with small children is a step back in time I applaud. A step back to a time when we didn't hover over our children, when we were trusted to not be complete morons and when city workers wore Olde Tyme caps.

When I was 24, having a bar walking distance from my apartment was all I asked of my city. Now, on the wrong side of thirty, I'm ashamed to admit the Grove gives me more of what I need. A gathering place where I can still get a drink, but also return a sweater. And a nod to a quainter America where people mingled outside on a warm summer night, ate ice cream and let their children play freely near heavy machinery.