BREAKING NEWS: Truth Revealed About Kopi Sotiropulos

Driving to school the other morning my 12 year-old informed me of an interesting playground rumor that EVERYBODY who was ANYBODY under the age of 15 knew to be true, which, in FUSD schoolyard circles is right up there with the adult equivalent of the Richard Gere rumor.

Seeing a bright, orange school bus pull away from the curb, my son detailed how every year, every elementary age student is required to watch the school bus safety video starring the Valley’s beloved weatherman, Kopi Sotiropulos. This I found both interesting and amusing but not too surprising—I mean, c’mon. He is Fresno’s real-live version of Troy McClure. (Don't believe me? Check out his ImDB page.)

My amusement was not to end there, but rather, with the tragic, gooey, absolute sworn certainty covered naiveté that, as a parent, I find amazingly delicious. It was playground gossip, and therefore fact, that Kopi – being a rich and important celebrity— brought tremendous value to the safety video; so much gravitas, apparently, that the poor Fresno Unified School District did not have enough money to pay Kopi his exorbitant fees. And therefore, they gave him a bus. THE bus, in fact, that he drives in the video itself.

“And you’re sure about this?” I asked my son. “I mean, son, if I go to press with this, I need to know that it’s true.”

“Mom I swear. Well, that’s what a fifth grader told me when we saw the video in second grade.”

Ah, HA. So it WAS true.

However, being a loyal employee of the Valley’s top news source and number one local news Web site (fresnobee.com), it was my responsibility to verify the validity of this “veritas,” as it were.

I had to find Kopi. Ahhhh, but where to start?

It was going to be difficult, but my superior Google sleuthing skills led me directly to Fox 26’s Web site, and within minutes I was leaving a message with the receptionist. Oh sure, she said he’d call me back, but we all know how coy these celebrities are with hardcore journalists such as myself.

He returned my call the next morning, leaving me a message with his personal cell phone number. Coy indeed.

Initially I wasn’t sure how to approach this delicate subject, but inevitably decided I’d just out with it.

“Kopi… there is a very serious rumor in schoolyard circles about you and that school bus safety video. I think you know the one I mean.” He assured me that he did.

“So let’s just get it out there: Rumor has it that the Fresno Unified School District could not afford your appearance fees for the video, and so as form of payment, they gave you a bus.”

Pause.

“A bus?”

“Yes, the school bus.”

Pause.

Laughter. Laughter?

“When you said there was a rumor… you see, I wear a hairpiece.” Pause. “I thought you were referring to my hairpiece. In the video, I’m bald. I thought maybe some of the kids were confused as to whether it was really me or not.”

I was stunned, caught in the headlights. It was like listening to someone actually TALK about the huge zebra in the living room. I mean, everybody knew about Kopi’s hairpiece, but nobody ever TALKED about it—well, everybody talked about it-- but not with HIM. To his FACE. I mean who DOES that? We all knew he had a hairpiece, but did he know we all knew he had a hairpiece?

“No, uhm… no, actually, the rumor was about the bus. The school bus in the video. Is it true? I mean, did they give you a school bus… as… payment?”

“They did give me a bus.”

My jaw dropped to the floor.

“To drive in the video. They gave me a bus to drive in the video. And out of the kindness of my heart, being the benevolent person that I am, I gave it back [at the end of filming]. I told them ‘I’m doing it for the kids.’”

And there you have it.

Kopi Sotiropulos wears a hair piece.

You read it here first.

crossposted to centralvalleymoms.com

Party planning, Step one: Choose Theme. No take-backs.

Though you wouldn’t necessarily know it by looking at my home, I’m a pretty detailed organizer/planner. When given a giant plateful of stuff, I’ve always had a talent for ordering the information into a series of steps, deciphering then completing tasks in their order of operations: How to go from A to Z and on to triple z subset iii, if you will. (A little formatting humor for you there.) (ah-GEEKchoo!). The only part of mathematics I’ve ever excelled at (let alone understood) was the proofs in Geometry. Thing A, thing B, set of rules for getting there. Follow rules in order. Done.

Knowing I could have a truly excellent military career as a battle planner, along that same line, I became a mom.

In addition to my planning skills and my bowstaff skills, are my creative WILL NOT EVER QUIT skills. These skills have served me in good stead, if only to prove that yes, you can make a pair of binoculars out of an empty tuna can and a stick of gum. Just go with it.

And so, when our sixteen-year old to-be decided she wanted a Sweet Sixteen party, and the theme would be Roaring Twenties, I was all flippin’ over this thing. Major events, famous people, music of the bygone era... Each room had a theme. The loft was going to be a jazz club; the bathroom was going to be the Stock Market Crash. The party was completely outlined within a week, give or take.

And when theme became an Evening in Hollywood, NOT A PROBLEM. I was so all over that like white on rice. Easy as pie. I had the entire thing dialed in from palm trees to red carpet to Lindsay Lohan’s arrest. It was elegant. It was mind-blowing. Naturally, it was changing.

I was nonplussed. I could handle anything she threw at me—even though we were a mere six weeks out. I am a party planning genius, I told myself. So, what’s it going to be?

“I’m thinking like, cities, but different.”

“Cities? Like, A Night in Paris?” DONE.

“Mmmnn.. no, more like, lots of cities.”

Lots of cities?

“Like, you know, like… the world.”

*blink*

She narrowed the theme down to… the WORLD??

Thank gawd I am a party planning genius. Even better, thank gawd I am a procrastinator extraordinaire. Because, let me tell you, it takes both of those things to stage The World in six weeks.

Just ask God. Though a slightly better planner than I am, she'll tell you the same thing.

It's PARTY TIME, baby!

Ahhh, the delights of party planning season are upon us.

As the happy coparent of six kids, almost all of whom were born in the spring (mammals much?), as of right this very second I face five birthdays (and as many parties) between March 23 and June 14. And each child faces the possibility his or her celebration a little differently.

It all starts off with kid number 1, who turns Sweet 16 in March. Originally slated as a get “together with a few people” at a friend’s house, it later became a “joint party” with a best friend, which then moved to our house because the 20+ person guest list was too unwieldy for it's former location. The guest list somehow stretched to 50 shortly thereafter. And then came the decision to bifurcate the parties-- just the celebration of our girl turning Sweet 16.

But the guest list expanded to 70 people.

*blink*

Next up is kid number 2, who could care less about a huge hullabaloo, but would likely groove on a family party, pizza and Xbox. However, as "family party" is defined as upwards of 25 people, it takes a little coordination.

Kid six cuts in line for party 3 and really has no idea what to expect. This will be her first beyond just-family birthday party, which for her is an exciting and frightening prospect all at once. Apart from cake (which she has dictated WILL be chocolate WITH pink and purple frosting AND princesses AND a bride AND a groom AND sparkles AND maybe a rainbow on it) and the knowledge that presents will be involved in some way, she is pretty much open to anything that comes down the pike. So long as it's pink and purple and sparkly. With princesses. And brides.

Kid five, as party 4 honoree, describes her needs in one word: Boomers. ‘Nuff said.

And kid four? House full of musky 12 year-old boys. Pizza. Xbox. (I am seeing a theme among the boys.)

I counted the months, I looked at the planning, the guests, the food, the sheer cost of all these to-dos and I reacted like… like… well, think Robin Williams in The Birdcage.

I WAS BORN FOR THIS! I'm so excited, my synapses are firing off like microwave popcorn. Move over Emeril, cuz BAM! I’m kicking the creativity up a notch.

Stick with me in the coming months as I ride the party-planning wave, from theme, to food, to invitations, to decorations, to where to buy the cheapest Advil. Got suggestions? Send them. Got advice? Linky love? Pass it all along.

Something tells me I’m going to need a little help.

No, I don't want a bigger penis. Thank you for asking.

It was a big weekend for me.

I’d been informed, by a super secret, totally anonymous source that I had “too much junk in the trunk” and I needed to lose weight. Someone I apparently met at “Kimber’s party” was bored and wanted excitement, and politely queried whether I was interested in perusing “hot XXX shots” of her on her live Web cam. I'd also gotten an amazing business offer from this really needy poor-speller in Nicaragua which I am a little hesitant to mention here because I’m supposed to keep it under wraps. Suffice it to say, with a small investment, the exiled prince will be sending me MILLIONS for my efforts.

Wow. I could retire and become a full-time blogger. Right after I enhance my penis, of course.

Spam, spam, spam, spam, unwanted e-mail and spam. It’s exactly like that really funny Monty Python sketch, only there are no men in drag with overloud squawky voices. That, and it’s not funny.

Frankly, it’s been awhile since I’ve been subjected to the deluge of offers and the unapologetic cajoling of peddlers trying to sell me various and sundry items, or the pleadings of anonymous people pushing me to make really bad X-rated choices. And I hadn’t missed it. Yes, I would occasionally get this junk e-mail at work, but our ultra strong-like-bull spam filter would kill out most of this stuff. And since I switched to gmail (Google’s free super awesome [technical term] e-mail service), my personal account has been largely spam free. My e-world went quiet.

And it has been deliciously quiet for several months.

But then, suddenly, lately, it’s back, spawning like sick salmon fighting their way upstream to my inbox with an unforeseen tenacity. Over the last few weeks I’ve begun receiving a spate of offers from Russia. And this spam, it’s nothing like the old days. There are no images of sexy vixens, no mortgage offers, no sound files, no badly designed, overly-blinky HTML giving me seizures.

This spam is black and white and text driven, and boring. Enough squabbling, we have the answer: boring spam is a sure sign of recession.

(cross posted to centralvalleymoms.com)

I'm on jury duty (HA! I said duty!)

I was recently empanelled on a jury. That much I can officially tell you. I can also tell you that the trial is scheduled to last at least a couple of weeks.

What’s it about, you ask? BNNNNN! Officially, I am prohibited from answering that question.

Wanna know who is involved? BNNNN! Sorry. Again, the whole prohibited from answering thing.

Who’s the judge? BNNN. Can’t even tell you if she’s hot. Or if he’s hot. So don’t ask.

But, I know you’re curious, so I can officially tell you that I am officially empanelled on a jury and that the trial is officially scheduled to last a couple of weeks.

Unofficially, however… part of me needs talk about my experience.

So here it is:

Secretly, I love being on a jury. It gives me the sense that I am doing something really good and beneficial for society at large. It makes me feel important, and honestly, there have been very few times in my small little life when I’ve gotten to feel like the star of a show. And when you’re a juror, it’s like you’re part of an ensemble cast in a very successful show.

People move aside for the jurors. Hello, obnoxious lawyer! See my badge? That’s right—no talking to me. My mere presence makes attorneys look awkwardly askance and move away. SUCH POWER!

We the jury get our own lines and entry doors; we get fresh coffee (albeit Folgers) and breaks and smiles from bailiffs and officers in uniform. We actually talk to these uniformed individuals, and they are polite and talk nicely to us. This includes security guards.

I don’t know if I should be wowed by the fact that the police talk to us, instead of at us, but I am all the same.

Added bonus: There’s the whole get-to-see-sunshine thing--which in my day job, hasn’t happened in almost 8 years.

Overtly, I loathe being on a jury, because fitting jury duty into my life is like trying to shove the circus fat lady into a clown car sans grease. No worky.

To wit: This morning I had to rise at the butt crack of dawn, perform a half-hearted and sleepy job/walk combo; work on the computer; bathe (always a good thing after the jog/walk); wake 6 kids (not as easy as it sounds); pack 7 lunches (mine included); force 3 kids to brush their teeth, 2 to bathe and persuade one four-year old to wear clothing; and get 3 kids to schools each located in separate parts of town.

AND THEN I was ready to go to jury duty. I’m fairly certain I dressed myself at some point.

The jury waiting room is nothing but temptation. First there are the admonitions not to discuss the case, but I’m stuck in a small room around a conference table with upwards of 12 other people I don’t know, being asked to avoid the largest, stinkiest zebra that ever existed in any living room anywhere, ever.

Next, like a preacher in a cathouse, I must force my newly Weight Watcher converted self to avert my eyes and abstain from engaging in intimate relations with the sleazy, tawdry donuts lying seductively on the table. Naughty, naughty donuts.

Finally, and possibly worst of all, there is no privacy whatsoever in the bathroom connected to this place. I am absolutely convinced all the jurors can hear every move I make when I’m in there. Suffice it to say, I personally am not able to function properly when others are in earshot. That is a whole special kind of discomfort, right there.

But the one thing I was dying to tell someone—ANYONE— today but could not was that today, apparently, was Blue Day. Every official person in the courtroom was wearing a blue suit. This recognition was somehow important for me to note, if only in that Chandler Bing laugh-at-the-word-duty kind-of way (which they did say several times, by the way, forcing me to snicker inwardly).

Alas, I suspect no one else cared that it was Blue Day, because I bet no one else noticed that it was blue day, because I couldn’t share with anyone my keen observation. Because as a juror, I’m not allowed to share any observations. Not about the case. Not about anything.

Except… well… I am officially empanelled on a jury and the trial is officially scheduled to last a couple of weeks.