The Pantless Wonder

Storytellers – The Secret Life of Father

2012-02-16T09:22:00.001-05:00

When my husband’s family sits down and tells tales about growing up, it sounds like they are summing up old Leave it to Beaver episodes. They most they ever got up to were hijinks – even shenanigans would be stretching it. The one story that involves even a touch of violence involves my own husband (his sister, and an aborted Christmas shopping trip), and even that was pretty tame.

When my family sits down to tell stories, they involve mistaken identities, secret lives, ghosts, UFOs, belly dancers, and stalkers.

This brings me around to this past Sunday. My parents, the husband, the two monsters and I all attended a birthday party for some extended family. During lunch, while the kids played indoor kickball I decided it was a perfect time to ask my dad some delicate and probing questions about his past. It seemed like as good a time as any, really. (Some things must remain private, even on this blog but, to those of you who like soup – the answer is yes – and three.) However, during this inquiry, some startling revelations come to the foreground.

First and most intriguing – my father may actually be my uncle.

While this may appear to be a tale ripped straight out of a crappy daytime talk show, it is actually much more innocent than it seems. It’s not like my mom cheated on my dad with my uncle. It’s just that she might have actually been shagging my uncle all along. See – that’s much less disturbing. I know you are picturing a family moment that must have been fraught with tension and high drama. This is obviously quite the revelation. Instead, I actually had to call my husband over because I couldn’t stop laughing and I needed someone else to listen to the insanity.

You see, when my father and his identical twin brother were born, my grandmother could not tell them apart. For months, she kept their baby bracelets on as their only means of identification. One day, during a doctor visit, he removed them. From that day forward, no one ever had any idea which one was which. Eventually, one name stuck to one boy and one name stuck to another, but it’s really only a 50/50 chance that the right twin wound up with the right name. Considering that they could (and did) have passed for each other well into middle age, I have no doubt that as infants, it would have required CSI-level of forensics to differentiate between them. My poor, slightly addled grandmother never stood a chance.

Then I found out that my dad was actually a long rifleman for the SWAT team.

This one was not a surprise to my husband. Not because my dad took him outside while we were courting and had a talk with him while he cleaned his guns, which would have been funny but completely out of character, but because we have a picture of my dad standing in full gear holding said gun. Before you think I’m a complete idiot, his vest didn’t say SWAT, I can’t tell a toy gun from a real one, let alone the type and caliber like my husband can (he once worked for a major gun maker) and the word SWAT was never once mentioned in my home. Not once. Not ever. I always thought that picture was sort of the cop equivalent of a school yearbook picture – you know, they put you in all the gear just for the photo. My parents believed he should leave his job at work and so it was never, ever discussed. Imagine how much more entertaining dinner would have been if he had told us true stories about his day! Instead, all I ever heard was that he spent his day washing trucks. While this was true to some degree, the “trucks” in questions were all crash/fire rescue vehicles at a major international airport – and he probably was just cleaning the blood and soot off the tires.

The final revelation about my father related directly to me. The house I grew up in was an old Cape Cod, with the master bedroom downstairs and two, small bedrooms up in the dormered attic. I had one, my sister the other. When I was 12, I abandoned my bedroom, kept my clothes in laundry baskets in the basement, and slept exclusively on the couch in the family room. To this day, I have no memory of what led me to flee my own room. So, during the birthday party, I asked my parents. My mother remembered that I told them I saw a demon with red eyes. When I asked what led them to believe such a strange story, my father, a tad sheepishly replied,

“That’s because I accidentally let it in.”

Oh.

Well of course, that explains everything.

You see, one night, my father heard someone open the gate outside the house, re-latch it, walk up to the front door, and knock. My dad, thinking someone was at the door, opened it. No one was there. But after that night, I started to report lots of strange activity on the second floor of the house. As I had spent my entire youth seeing shit that would make straight hair curl (and they had always believed me), he soon realized this particular problem was his fault and they let me sleep on the couch. However, we did move out by the time I was 13.

It was, in my family, a logical answer to a logical question. My mother’s only follow-up comment is that she keeps hoping to see the house on Ghost Hunters one day.

So, that was the conversation I had with my father; mistaken identity, secret lives, and demons. And this was just during lunch! The chat I had with my mother about UFOs, stalkers, and belly dancing waited at least until we had cake. You my friends, will just have to wait for the next blog.

Product Testing

2012-02-09T14:16:00.004-05:00

This morning, my friend sent out a link to a product so ridiculous, she had to share it. The two of us on the receiving end of the e-mail were incredulous. The three of us then spent the morning trading e-mails back and forth about the absolute lunacy of this particular product. My friends, I will now share the product with you. Warning: this blog is NOT for the faint of heart, the squeamish, or those with penises.

Behold. I bring you the Diva Cup. http://www.divacup.com/

It is a menstrual cup. Nothing more, nothing less than an actual cup that you insert into your delicate bits that you then dump, wash, and reinsert every 12 hours. An actual cup!

Let’s get the ball rolling by discussing the name. I hate the word diva. It has been warped and manipulated and tortured out of meaning entirely. A diva used to be a woman who had enjoyed great success, specifically in opera. Now it has become just another code word for bitch. Calling the product a Diva Cup is just saying that women are bitchy when they have their periods, so why not go full out and call the product a Bitch Bucket? At that would be cheeky and while still offensive, it would at least be subversive enough to appeal to a different audience. A Diva Cup is just insulting.

Next, we’ll move on to the packing itself. The box looks like a princess cup, something you would put out for your five-year old at night to rinse with after she brushes her teeth. In no way, shape, or form, does it look like something a woman old enough to have a broken hymen would use. Feminine hygiene products don’t need to be whimsical. We know what we are using them for – the removal of blood. Fairies don’t need to fly out of my vagina when I remove a tampon so can we start using grown-up colors and fonts, please?

Moving on to the actual cup – I certainly hope the box makes it look bigger. Otherwise, I might just add another verse onto Toby Keith’s song about Red Solo Cups. Do you need to be dilated to a certain centimeter before use? The website helpfully offers two different sizes. Model 1 is for women under 30 who have never delivered vaginally or via cesarean. Model 2 is for those over 30 who have. My guess is that both cups are exactly the same size. Michelle Duggar may need a pitcher, but I’m guessing the average woman has an average vagina. It’s why tampons don’t really come in sizes bigger than the width of one finger to the next.

Now let’s discuss cleanliness. According to the website, if you accidentally drop the cup in the toilet, or in any way expose it to unsanitary conditions, you must dispose of it immediately. Not to put too fine a point on it, but isn’t it by its very nature designed for unsanitary conditions? You are also supposed to boil it after every menstrual cycle. How many do you think melt long before anyone remembers that they were on the stove? In the FAQ section, I did love the question about allergies, specifically pertaining to whether the cup is free of tree nuts. Now, having some pretty severe allergies among friends and family, I understand having to ask certain questions. However, what exactly would a tree nut and a menstrual cup have in common? What type of factory would produce both on the same piece of equipment?

The marketing materials discuss how fresh the cup will make you feel and how liberating it will be not to be chained to a bathroom. Perhaps they were wearing their tampons incorrectly because I feel pretty footloose and fancy free when I use one. Besides, almost every woman I know has to pee more often than every 12 hours anyway (some seem to have to go every 12 minutes), so hitting the potty every couple of hours isn’t really that much of a hardship. In fact, it’s pretty much a necessity, even if you just want a few minutes to lock the door and try to play Angry Birds without someone looking over your shoulder.

My girlfriends and I have decided to skip the Diva Cup. While it is getting rave reviews on Drugstore.com and seems to have a pretty healthy following, it isn’t my cup of tea. I prefer to drink mine out of something that didn’t get stuck up my hoo-ha.

What's in Yer Wallet?

2012-02-06T11:01:00.002-05:00

This year, I actually had a vested interest in the Super Bowl. I’m a Patriot’s fan, my husband roots against the Giants as a general rule, so we were looking forward to the game. Never have I prayed the Hail Mary so loudly. I guess Gisele’s letter to family asking for them to pray for “her Tommy” didn’t work after all. Ah well. It wasn’t a bad game, but I was pretty underwhelmed by the commercials. I did preview some beforehand (mostly those that showed up on Twitter or Facebook) and jotted down my thoughts during the game. To keep myself honest, I have not checked any media outlets to gather their view. Besides, I was too busy reloading David Beckham for H&M. Onto the show!

PREVIEWS

The Bark Side: Volkswagon Teaser: I watched this commercial at night, in bed right before I charged my phone for the night. I laughed so hard I woke up my husband. Twice. I love it. I love the subtle costuming of the dogs, the AT-AT zooming in at the end, and the fact that you really have to pay attention at first to catch that it is the Imperial March. It doesn’t sell anything. In fact, the only thing the ad says is that Volkswagon paid a lot of money for the rights to Star Wars and wants to make sure it uses them, but it makes me giggle every time I play it.

The Dog Strikes Back: Volkswagon: The dog is cute. The dog working out to get slim enough to chase the hot car is cute. If they had cut the commercial where it fades into the Mos Eisley Cantina at the line, “The dog was funnier than the Vader kid,” and left it there, it would have been a great nod to last year’s commercial, allowed Volkswagon to use its rights to Star Wars stuff once again, and been just a bit subtle. The true geeks would be able to name the character and the rest of the world would at least recognize the setting (minus the TV screens, though with all the extra crap Lucas has thrown into those movies, he might have added them above the bar by now.) But no, they had to bring in Vader and we all know that Vader wouldn’t be caught dead in such a wretched hive of scum and villainy. It is way too low-brow for him.

Acura –Seinfeld/Leno: I have two problems with this ad. First, what does Seinfeld get out of this? Money? Doesn’t he have enough? Creative satisfaction? Bullshit. You want to be creatively fulfilled and make money – go on tour! Otherwise, stay off my TV. Second, why are two mega-rich celebrities, both known for being class car collectors fighting over a measly Acura?

Ferris – Honda CRV: Bueller? Bueller? I still send that exact text message to my husband when I don’t get a response quickly enough. However, where was Cameron? Just like we all noticed that a CR-V is not a Ferrari 250, we all noticed Alan Ruck was missing from the commercial. Somehow, I don’t think that is what the agency had in mind.

GAMETIME

Audi – So Long Vampires: Can I drive that car to Forks? I have some vamps I’d like to dust. I would also love to see Buffy drive that car. In fact, next year, I’d love to see Buffy in that commercial.

Chevy – Apocalypse: I liked all the nods to past apocalyptic movies, even the obvious nod to the everlasting Twinkie. Self-reverential is always funny; that’s why the Best Buy ad was funny. Letting the audience connect the dots is always better than force-feeding them the information.

Budweiser – Prohibition: I don’t think that’s exactly how the bootleggers and mobsters remember the end of their careers. Somehow, I don’t think Nucky was cheering in the streets.

Teleflora: Yeah, if we all looked like that, our husbands wouldn’t forget about Valentine’s Day. When I asked my husband if he knew the name of the model, he could only come up with “the future ex Mrs. Insert Last Name” line. If they had played that back-to-back with the H&M ad, Neilson ratings would have gone through the roof.

The Voice: Dear NBC, Thank you for no longer trying to “introduce” Katherine McPhee. Considering her stint on American Idol was a full decade ago, I was getting really tired of screaming at my television every time that particular title card appeared. Also, please stop telling me that I have never seen anything like it before. I have, it’s called Glee. I’m just hoping your show will pay attention to plot, characterization, and tone. That would make it new!

Fiat - Abarth – You may never forget the first time you see it, but it’s because you’ll think it’s a Beetle.

Coke – Polar Bears: The concept was cute, but the animation fell flat. The Coca-Cola Company has a lot of money. They couldn’t hire better talent?

Metlife - Cartoons – Look, if you are going to pay for the rights for dozens of cartoons, don’t just briefly flash them on the screen. It doesn’t make financial sense. I’d rather my life insurance company uses those funds to pay better premiums. Stick to Snoopy, at least I know you are getting a bulk rate for him.

MOVIE TRAILERS

The Dictator - Ugh. That is what I say to Sasha Baron Cohen. When the best you can do is a Kardashian joke, the best I can say about it is “ugh.”

Avengers – Bring. It. On. Written and directed by Joss Whedon. Starring, well, everyone. Yeah. I'm flying my geek flag high for that one.

G.I. Joe – What happened to the career of Bruce Willis? He used to be A-list. Now, he’s stuck doing sequels to crappy action movies and sharing second billing with the Rock. While I realize he has done plenty of Die Hard movies, at least he starred in all of them. He wasn’t even in the first G.I. Joe movie! Not only that, but in G.I. Joe: Now With Even More Explosions top billing goes to Channing Tatum, a man far better known for his abs than his acting. How the mighty have fallen.

The rest of the bunch: Battleship looks awful, just loud and obnoxious. John Carter of Mars spent more time highlighting the Disney logo than the plot, always a bad sign. The Lorax trailer showed a host of characters, but not one of them looked like the Niffler, odd since he is one of TWO characters mentioned in the book. And where were the rest of the movies? Where was The Hunger Games trailer? You know, one of the most highly anticipated movies of the year? There were not a whole lot of summer tentpole movies highlighted this Super Bowl. The commercials that were shown, well, none of those made me want to do anything but fast-forward. Not good, marketing geniuses, not good.

HALFTIME

If we are going to drag out Madonna doing all her old hits, then can’t we just get Lady Gaga to sing her new ones? Watching Madonna “Vogue-ing” to a Roman Gladiator theme, then switching to a cheerleader routine (still in toga) while those poor backup dancers had to physically push and pull her through the cartwheels was painful to watch. (Did anyone else notice Cupid randomly flitting about? No? Just me? Ok, carry on.) In fact, her whole routine, with its terrible lip-synching, ridiculous costuming, and her odd facial contortions was remarkably similar to watching the talent portion of a toddler glitz pageant. Then of course, she had to bring out the gospel choir. Is there anything more overused than a gospel choir (besides CeeLo Green)? I’m going to ignore M.IA. and Nicki Minaj. I think it’s just better that way.

FINAL SCORE

Yes, I ignored some commercials entirely, such as Doritos, and Bud Light, and about a dozen car companies (Does anyone actually buy a car during the Super Bowl?) but that is mostly because I thought they were so boring, they didn’t even register. It was yet another year where Oscar winner Adrien Brody makes a commercial, but doesn’t make a movie. Dude, get a better agent. I was sad for Elton John as well. He is the King of Pop. He should never be dethroned for an Aretha wannabe and a mere soft drink. Clint Eastwood for Detroit scared me. John Stamos shilling Greek yogurt amused me. At least he’s Greek. However, I could watch David Beckham for H&M on repeat. No, my husband won’t look like him if I buy those trunks, but damn, I might buy them anyway, just in case. Now that’s successful advertising!

Hey Mommy

2012-01-19T11:10:00.001-05:00

My daughter does her best chatting in the car. I liken it to Chinese water torture. She has a Random Thought Generator that just cannot be turned off. Just when you get a good groove going in your head with a good idea for a blog or remember to add something to the ongoing Target list, she will break in with a “Hey Mommy . . .” and there goes whatever train of thought you were riding. She will do this mid-song, mid-conversation, even mid-word. She honestly can’t help herself. During extended car rides, I give her an iPod to keep her quiet, but on the short to and fro’s of daily life, I have been known to start twitching when the Hey Mommy’s start getting out of hand.

The problem is that now she is in Catholic school, the Hey Mommy’s don’t just include the usual assortment of dinner menus, play date requests, schedule questions, and random puffery, but now they tend to be philosophical. I don’t know about you, but I have a hard time coming up with a short but sturdy answer to the meaning of life between stop lights.
For example, the other night, I was asked, “Who is God’s mother?” She had me there. In my daughter’s world, mommies make and do everything, and so even though God made the world, somebody still is supposed to have made God. I did the only sensible thing and told her to ask her teacher. She persisted. So, in the time honored tradition of parents everywhere, I deflected. “Well, Jesus has a mother. Mary is his mom.” Then I prayed like hell that we didn’t delve any deeper into the paternity of Jesus, because trying to explain that Joseph was really more like a stepfather was just beyond me.

Then, out of the blue, again in the car a few days later was, “How does God put the baby in your belly?” Now I realize she is old enough for the birds and the bees. We use real vocabulary words for our body parts here, mostly because once I had one of each gender, just calling them “privates” got sort of stupid. In fairness, the boy persists in calling his a “peanut” due to an early aural misunderstanding, but she’s clear on the fact that she’s got a vagina and he’s got a penis and the twain shall not meet. Do I get medical and explain how Part A goes in Slot B allowing the little swimmers to aim for the target and get the hole in one that makes a baby? (Yes, that is the official AMA version.) Or do I go political and make a statement about marriage and how two people who love each other, of any sex, should be able to raise a family? Fearing that the look in my eye meant that I was about to get Biblical, Daddy stepped in and told her that after getting married, the parents pray for one. With a family history of PCOS, she’ll learn the hard way that prayer is probably the least effective way of making a baby, but considering just seven, she’s got a while before that particular lesson needs to be learned.

My son has recently jumped on the bandwagon and we now spend a lot of time sifting through who made what. “Did God make dinosaurs” and I will reply, “Yes, God made dinosaurs.” Or, “Did God make spoons?” and I will reply, “Nope, God made people and people made spoons.” He is always astounded by the whole middle management approach to life. Like, why didn’t God just make the spoons?

The best part about these conversations is that they never extend beyond the car. As soon as we get home, pop our shoes in the closet, and hang our coats on the rack, all their concerns about God and their interest in the mysteries of the universe just disappears. “Hey Mommy, can I have a snack?”

Breaking Down Breaking Dawn

2012-01-06T12:44:00.002-05:00

I didn’t get to see Twilight: Breaking Dawn: Part I in theaters on opening night. My viewing partner, JWM was busy, I was busy, and then life just kept getting in the way. However, when I realized that the movie was about to go out of theaters, we mobilized. Last night, for the final showing, with a grand total of seven people in the theater, we finally saw the latest installment of what my husband likes to refer to as, “that dumb vampire movie.” This is not a review. Better and brighter have already written those months ago. Nope, instead, these are some questions I am hoping some of you die-hard Twi-hards can answer for me. To wit:

How bad do you have to be in bed that after waiting 108 years to get laid, you wake up the next day and think, “You know what? I can wait to do that again until I’ve turned her into an animated corpse.” He shouldn’t have become a vampire; he should have become a monk.

When did practicing necrophilia become acceptable behavior? Let’s be clear, Bella’s honeymoon consists of having sex with a dead person. Bad sex, apparently. Then they play chess. Sign me up for that.

When did pedophilia become acceptable behavior? Jacob “imprints” on a newborn child. The movie tries to play it off as Jacob being able to see the woman she will become, but it’s cringe-worthy to think that the man who changes her diapers now is the man who is going to be first in her pants later. However way you slice it, Jacob is overly attached to a child who is not his. It just ain’t right.

Why doesn’t Edward sparkle? In the first movie, the man looked like Emma Frost when a shaft of sunlight hit his pale, pasty chest. In this movie, he could sunbathe outside in Rio with barely a pixie dust glow. Bella should have needed sunglasses to look at his reflection in all that sunlight. Instead, the palest non-dead woman in the movie didn’t even get sunburn and the actual undead guy didn’t throw enough glitter for a preschool project.

When did Bella become an X-Man? One night, she is completely covered with bruises. The rest of the honeymoon, they are completely gone. Mutant healing powers or incompetent continuity department: you be the judge.

Who thought shoehorning in a few scenes from a live-action Disney movie about wolf politics was a good idea? Yes, I know, Jacob needs to break off from the pack, but the whole – wolves talking in their heads to each other sequence – was just moronic. Add in their overgrown size, the weird electronic effect of their voices, and the abruptness of the scene change and I felt like any minute Mackenzie Astin was going to come out and slap a sled on those bad boys and set out to race across Canada.

During the birthing scene (which bears no resemblance to reality and I will only nitpick within the Twilight world) wouldn’t Edward ripping her open to bite out the baby (yes, this actually happens), count as a vampire bite and start the turning process? (Thanks to JWM for pointing this out.) In the first movie, James biting her on the HAND was unimaginable agony and she screamed like a banshee until she passed out from the pain. In this movie, Edward bites her STOMACH and UTERUS open to rip out a living child and all she does is thrash and moan a bit while remaining completely aware of her surroundings. That is some shot of morphine that gave her.

What do all the vampires do all the time? Carlyle at least goes to work occasionally. What the hell do the rest of them do except stare at Bella? What exactly was Bella’s post-life plan after becoming Edward’s wife? Forever is a mighty long time to sit around on your ass and stare at your husband.

Why invite so many witnesses to the wedding of two people who will not age? Gosh, I went to your wedding 30 years ago, you haven’t aged a bit, gee, that’s odd. Um, hello! Did the vamps keep hand warmers in their pockets so they didn’t freak everyone out with their abnormally cold grip every time they shook hands? Does no one notice their eye color? Bella’s dad is officially the Worst. Cop. Ever.

Why is Jacob dressed for the entire movie? Sure, there is a throw away scene at the beginning of the film where the fangirls get to hoot and howl at his abs (cough, cough, not me, cough, totally me, cough), but then he spends the rest of the movie wearing at least two layers of clothing. WTF movie? The poor kid can’t act his way out of a bag of puppy chow, and when you give him Kristen Stewart (who can’t close her mouth, like, ever) as an acting partner, he is just doomed to failure. So at least let me stare at his chest while he talks. He’s legal now. I don’t even have to feel guilty.

I’m sure I could go on and on, but what’s the point? The books are stupid. The movies are stupid. There is a whole generation of women who believe that Edward and Bella are the epitome of romance and if that doesn’t scare the shit out of you then I don’t know what will. However, they are also fun, goofy pleasures that I truly enjoy watching because they make me laugh. So bring on the next and final installment, when Bella finally becomes the vampire she’s always wanted to become and I’ll bring my friends, my snark, and my biggest bucket of popcorn.

Back in Black

2012-01-03T13:29:00.002-05:00

It’s a brand new year. Huzzah.

So, let me explain, dear readers, where the hell I have been for the past few months. Sadly, I have been in a drug-fueled haze. I’d love to say that I was touring with a band ala Penny Lane, or doing something amazingly cool, but let’s be real; I’m a mom with kids, so I really was just having a truly horrible reaction to prescription medication. Boring, yet true.

The end goal is weight loss. However, all of my minor medical conditions combine into one monster medical condition that laughs in the face of actual weight loss. Trust me. I spent six full months eating well and going to the gym religiously only to lose exactly five pounds. No one can remain motivated at that rate. It’s just too depressing. Bring on the drugs!

However, I had no idea that the side effects would be so, well, awful. How exactly could I get to the gym six days a week, when I couldn’t feel my feet or hands anymore? When I spent most days in a fog of exhaustion, barely able to handle the basic functions of motherhood and often took naps with my son in the afternoon just to get through dinner and bath time? The normal SAHM job of laundry, grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, etc., was hard enough, but the additional work of putting the new house together and getting Christmas together made it hard for me to get out of bed some days. (I’d play the smallest violin in the world, but I’m pretty sure I sat on it.) Normally, a member of the book a week club (sometimes two, even three), I couldn’t even follow a recipe. Magazines piled up and it had to be a good day before I could even get through US Weekly let alone TIME. My husband was dethroned as the king of the couch as I couldn’t stay awake past 8, even if I DID take a nap. You would think not being able to read was the worst part. At first I thought it was, but then I realized, it was not being able to write or think that was even harder.

It took a week or two to notice, but I started having problems finishing my sentences. Everyone has that problem occasionally. You start a sentence, lose your train of thought, laugh it off, and then carry on. The problem was that I wasn’t losing the train; I was losing the station, the people inside, the whole bloody concept of transportation entirely. Sometimes I could picture it in my head, see the steam coming out of it, the black gleam off the tracks, even hear the sound of it chugging along, but could not actually get the word “train” to come out of my mouth. Frustration is a good word but it does not even begin to explain the experience fully. My husband called it a “word balloon” and would just start calling out words like a game show host until he either guessed it or it would come back to me. But it was embarrassing when it happened in public. I knew that I was speaking much slower, using much smaller words, and taking a lot longer pauses between words when I spoke to other people but it was the only way I knew to keep them from noticing that I had lost half my brain cells.

Speaking was hard, writing was harder. I just didn’t have the words anymore. They were gone. The humor was gone, the snark was gone, the bitchiness was gone. My theory is that when you are struggling just to get any word out, getting a rude one out is just a waste of time. I’d have a thought, or even a paragraph, but never a whole blog.

But, my friends, I do believe that the clouds have finally broken and the sun is starting to shine again. It may have taken a full three months for the side effects to balance out enough (or for my natural bitchiness to claw its way back out), but the blog has returned. I may not be quite back up to full speed, but I’m at least close enough for it to count. So, bring on the celebriting divorce, the Golden Globes, the reviews of bad movies, and all the other pop culture stuff I have not been able to handle for lack of ability.

Thanksgiving with the 'Rents

2011-11-25T10:04:00.003-05:00

Every year, I dread Thanksgiving with my parents. It is not the Thanksgiving of yore, where we sat down to a table of 25, starting with antipasti at 1pm, then move on to the full turkey, broke for cards, then all the friends arrived for dessert. Those days are long gone. Sadly, most of the family is sitting at the heavenly table now and those still here on earth are far too scattered to share a meal. I alternate Thanksgiving Day with my parents and my in-laws, this year was my parents. So it was just me, the husband, the kids, and the ‘rents. Oh joy.

As always, at least once during the day, their dogs will try to eat my kids. Now, the dogs have no teeth, are completely decrepit, and literally are all bark, but my kids don’t actually know that. This means that for the rest of the visit, my daughter will cower in the corner and cry every time the dogs come near her. My mother always blames my child for the dog going nuts too, which adds to the drama.

Then there is always a visit to the Crap Closets. You see, my mom is a hoarder. She’s downgraded quite a bit since last year, but she still hoards closets filled with random junk that she buys at discount stores. Every visit, I have to help her cull the stock. Around the holidays, I always try to grab the good stuff, i.e., items that are actually shrink-wrapped, brand name, and brand new. She always tries to dissuade me because she “could use them for someone.” Who this mysterious “someone” is, I shall never know. I’ve had my eye on a box of Kinetix for two years. It’s still there. My end goal is to make sure this crap does not wind up in my own kid’s stockings. Most of it is open, used, is missing pieces, and just odd.

Dinner this year was a scene straight out of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, the bird actually steamed itself open, it was so dry. I didn’t complain, I was too busy looking around at my parents house slowly realizing that as an only child, all this crap, room after room of discount furniture, yard sale art, cheap collectibles, and consignment store stuff that they bought to fill their too-big house would be mine. There were actually fake china plates with gamboling kittens that would make Dolores Umbridge weep with envy staring at me during dinner! What the hell am I going to do with all this stuff? It’s not like the subject hasn’t come up – my mother has frequently said that if she ever gets ill, she wants me to just let her wander out into the cold woods to freeze to death (why wait til then?), so I have to plan ahead a little bit. A full day in her company certainly seems like the perfect time to estate plan.

By the time we reached dessert, where I am served my “favorite” chocolate cream pie (store-bought crust, instant pudding mix, tub of fake whipped cream), a concoction so disgusting I can barely force myself to eat it, but after almost 37 years on earth, can’t for the life of me figure out how to tell them I hate, I was ready for the exit. That was when I was hit with the piece de resistance, my daughter’s birthday present. As always, we celebrate it on Thanksgiving because it is so close to the holiday. As always, my parents bought her clothes. Usually, I am shown them beforehand and approve them. This year, I was not. This year, the box is going right back to the store. (Which store? Boscov’s of course.) Why? This year, my daughter was gifted a chocolate leopard and hot pink print shirt, with matching chocolate and rhinestone leggings. Holy shitballs Batman, she’s a mini-housewife of New Jersey! She is never putting this atrocity on her body. I honestly don’t know what makes it more offensive – the collar of sequins on the shirt or its see-through quality. For those of you who don’t see my kid on a regular basis, she normally dresses like a Mormon. She actually favors long printed dresses, or at least tunics and leggings. This is not her style. Did I mention the rhinestones on the leggings? Is she Dolly Parton now? It was just awful, from head to toe. Luckily, I was able to successfully lie to my daughter about the size of this particular garment and I can only hope that since the tags are still on it, I can get a store to take it back. Any store. Anywhere. For any price. I will pay cash money for a brand new outfit to replace this one, it’s just that bad.

Needless to say, after that debacle, we high tailed it out of there. I got one car with the kids, the crap, and the good stuffing my dad always makes extra for me. My husband got the dismantled snow blower, a gift from a gadget obsessed father-in-law who just bought the newest model. However, it was still filled with gas, requiring him to drive home with all the windows open so not to be completely overwhelmed by fumes. So while I got a quite ride home, while one kid slept and the other listed to my iPod, he got cold ears, numb fingers, and the sound of I76. Hey, at least we got a snow blower out of the deal.

Once again, I am thankful it is over. Of course, I still have Thanksgiving with his family to serve – the first one ever held at our house. We’re even cooking too, which should be entertaining. Wish me luck. The worst that could happen is that my sister-in-law could deliver my nephew in my dining room. In which case, I am definitely demanding naming rights!

Hey Baby, I Think I Want To Marry You

2011-11-10T08:15:00.002-05:00

I met my husband at a dinner party while we were both living in Raleigh, North Carolina. Photographic evidence exists to prove this happened. However, as my husband likes to remind me, I don’t remember our first meeting. He likes to claim it was because I was drunk. I like to claim it is because he excels at being a wall flower, to the point where even though there were fewer than ten people at the table and he was seated directly across from me, he was still able to make himself invisible. He counters that I was too busy flirting with a guy named Thor. I rebut that the guy was actually named Lore, was half my height, and an asshole. This is where the conversation usually runs off the rails entirely as we start making fun of the name Lore.

Ten years ago today we got married on Cape Cod (because we were living in Boston at the time). It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the weather was mild, there were still plenty of leaves on the trees, and all of my bridesmaids were hanging out in my room eating éclairs, ironing their dresses, while we waited to get our hair done. My hubby-to-be was biding his time watching college football in a bar with his buddies (because, like all good VT alumni, our wedding was scheduled around the game.) There were the usual bits and bobs of drama, all of them caused by my mother, but why discuss the negative? I remember putting on my dress, with the hair, and the makeup, and the veil and the handmade flats (because I totally refused to wear heels, even on my wedding day) and feeling beautiful. I still looked like me, mind you, but I felt beautiful.

We had a Catholic mass, though I ixnayed the kneelers at the last minute. Fainting syndrome + kneeling + wedding dress = very bad idea. I even cried, which I like to blame on the copious amounts of cold medicine I was taking to get rid of the flu symptoms (I was popping Dayquil like they were M&Ms). The reception, though small, was a blast. Though we were honored to have so many friends and family attend from so many different states, our invitations landed in the mail on September 12, 2001, so many balked at traveling. The dance floor was in continuous use, the bartenders never got a rest, and I think it is very safe to say that a good time was had by all. In the bridal suite at the end of the very long night, my husband pulled 67 pins out of my hair and sniggered at my bright blue Smurf butt, the occupational hazard of wearing my something blue bridal panties. I’d love to say that we consummated our union immediately, but I was bone tired, had a throbbing headache from the aforementioned 67 pins, and figured I’d had enough sex in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts; I could wait for the Caribbean. TMI alert - it was worth the wait.

So where are we ten years later? I am pleased to report we are still happy, thank you very much. We live a small town life. Every few months, we meet with the same group of friends for dinner. I go to all the small events for the kids; he joins me at the big ones. A good night involves a full DVR, a blanket, and take-out Chinese. Neither of us are high-maintenance when it comes to tokens of affection. Take out the trash, empty the dishwasher, bake some butterscotch cookies, help with the laundry, and make sure there is a big stack of magazines (for me) during Sunday night football (for him). I don’t need diamonds, he doesn’t need lingerie. We are simple people who want simple things. Love. Respect. Laughter. Sex. Sleep. A little bit of common sense when it comes to fighting (I refer to the classic Kenny Roger’s song The Gambler on this score. Know when to hold ‘em, Know when to fold ‘em) and a lot of patience when it comes to dealing with family. Having children certainly complicated matters, those damn things take up all of our time, energy, disposable income, and functioning brain cells, but we wouldn’t have it any other way. We made our choice (twice) and we’ll just have to live with them, watch them grow, and try to do our best by them.

But it’s only been a decade. A mere drop in the bucket, a splash in the fountain, a bucket in the ocean of time we have left to spend together. I’m in this til death do us part and there is plenty of time left on my clock. Let’s see where the next ten years takes us, then the next ten, and then the next ten after that. It’s a long way until retirement, then enjoying our twilight years, then letting our kids take care of us for a change. Tonight, we’ll pop in the wedding video, once again explain to the crying daughter that she wasn’t there because she wasn’t born yet, and have fun reliving the first best day of our life together. But it’ll have to be early, because the game’s on at 8 and I’ve got my famous buffalo chicken dip in the fridge. It may not be the lavish week-long beach front vacation we envisioned all those years ago, but it’ll do just fine.

Enough is Enough

2011-11-08T16:44:00.002-05:00

The Duggar’s announced today that they are expecting their 20th child. As always, this was done publicly, on the Today show. Then Facebook and Twitter lit up with opinions. I have had an e-mail going back and forth across the continent with my BFF all day about it. So I thought, hell, let’s write a blog!

So, here is my completely unnecessary two cents on the matter. Ready?

Free Jinger!

In fact, let’s free all the older girls. During the interview Michelle Duggar stated that she spends an hour per day, five to six days per week, on her elliptical machine. Her youngest is not quite two. There are two more under the age of five and a grand total of seven children under the age of ten years old. She should be exhausted by running around after them. How the hell does she find an hour a day to herself? The only way she does it is by having lots of help – her kids! Those older girls are practically indentured servants. They cook, they clean, they do laundry, they teach, they pack for trips, they practically raise the younger kids themselves. In fact, I wonder how well the parents actually know each individual child. It’s more like living in a neighborhood than a family. When asked during interviews, they always speak in generalities about each kid, saying they are sweet, or kind, or fun. But those older girls, I bet they know each little kid really, really well. They are the ones raising them.

During the interview, the oldest kid (the fat, sluggish one who seems to be settling into middle age about 20 years too early) was sitting on the couch with his two little ones. It’s just such a weird family dynamic to have aunts and uncles who are YOUNGER than you are. But that is exactly what is going to happen to the newest Duggar. I am not a family planning expert, but I’m pretty sure that you shouldn’t be raising your kids concurrently with your grandkids.

To be honest, there isn’t much to complain about with the Duggar’s. They can afford each and every one of their kids. Each child appears well-mannered, intelligent, well-spoken, and educated. While their beliefs may not be my beliefs, and while their grasp of science may not be very strong (creationism, shudder!), they aren’t stupid. In fact, I think Jim Bob just plays stupid on TV. The man has made some very savvy off-camera business decisions that have kept his family clothed, fed, and housed (and his house is lovely) in a very tough economy. The medical bills alone for his youngest daughter would have bankrupted a lesser man, no matter the reality TV paychecks. Plus, he helped another family (also enormous) build a house that better fit their needs. He can’t speak a foreign language worth a damn and he seems like the dorkiest dork that ever dorked, but he’s pretty much harmless.

But let’s get down to the nitty gritty here. After 19 children, I want to know how her bladder hasn’t fallen out entirely and how her vagina isn’t wider than the Holland Tunnel. Is Jim Bob hung like a porn star? Otherwise, sex must feel like lobbing a pencil down a parkway - nothing but open space. Now I’m really not trying to be mean. This is physics. You put a bowling ball down a space mean for a golf ball often enough, it is going to stretch. There aren’t enough “husband stitches” in this world that are going to make that tight again. Yet, here they are, happily plugging away, making kid number 20. So, either they have sex like bunnies, (which again brings up the whole issue of they should be exhausted by the end of the day, not randy and ready for action), or she is literally the most fertile woman in the world and every night they have sex, they should play the lottery because their odds are that good.

So, good on you, Duggar clan. Have a safe and healthy pregnancy. But I do think it's time to hang up the stirrups and let the girls out of the house for some good old fashioned courting. There are other names in the alphabet. Let them try out some Oh, oh, oh, OHHHHHs.

Tis The Season to Send Catalogs

2011-11-04T14:49:00.003-04:00

I left my husband to a pile of mail and a football game recently. Apparently, it wasn’t a good football game but it was a very entertaining pile of mail. Upon my return home, he had one page of a magazine lovingly opened to showcase his dream buy. It was large. It was expensive. It was 18 feet tall and had “its hindquarters and tail elevated above its head in a playful stance.” It has a red a green scarf and each hoof the size of an armchair. Yes, my friends, my husband wanted to buy a two story tall inflatable reindeer.

Where did he get this idea? The Hammacher Schlemmer catalog. I can’t imagine actually buying anything out it, but it sure is fun to look through. (Yes dear, that includes the damn reindeer. I don’t need its beady little eyes staring directly into my bedroom while I sleep. Plus, it looks like it just got a proctology exam and it isn’t very happy about the results.)

If you want to spend oodles of money on absolutely ridiculous items, this is the place. Would you like a Rolling Stone Pinball Machine? It’s only $5,900 (stench of booze and used condoms not included.) How about the Stock Car Racing Simulator? For a mere $60,000 it can be yours and you won’t even have to worry about dying in a storm of fire, steel, and fumes. For the professional stargazer, there is the Observatory class telescope for $35,000. Obviously, the advanced astronomer buys one of these bad boys out of a run of the mill Christmas catalog, right?

Is a two-story inflatable not your speed? Want to go low tech and light on the wallet? Then, for the pet lover, there is the dogbrella. It’s an umbrella for a dog. You take a normal umbrella, except you put the handle on the top, so that the owner can hold it over the top of the dog. Sort of like a plunger, just really, really large. The umbrella goes on the bottom, the handle on the top, the dog under the umbrella, the owner holding the handle: wet owner, dry dog. Slightly higher tech and for the Harry Potter fan, there is the magic wand remote control. You can wingardium leviosa yourself into a carpel tunnel brace and probably poke your eye out all at the same time. Brilliant! There is also the healthy deep fryer, a contradiction in terms if I ever heard one.

Of course, there are always the basic Star Wars items. The original blueprints to the Death Star, along with the rest of the various vehicles, droids, and ships are available for your purchase. Many Bothan died to bring you that information. Use it wisely. Also available:

A remote controlled Millennium Falcon. (Can you fly it better than Han? Than Lando? He totally doesn’t get credit for his skills in Jedi.)

An R2-D2 Projection alarm clock (Since regular beeping noises aren’t bad enough, now you can get beeping and bipping in a “foreign language”)

An actual voice activated R2-D2 (he can play tag, but he can’t serve drinks)

Replica lightsabers (the description says they even hum and swoosh)

I’m not impressed, I’ve seen half of these items at the local Toys R Us, and a catalog without a Han Solo in carbonite or even a life-sized Storm Trooper isn’t worth its weight in galactic credits.

The catalog does have an intriguing assortment of what I could best describe as retro-technology. For example, you can turn your iPhone back into a standard handset telephone. Why you would want to, I have absolutely no idea. It also has totally useless baking supplies. Want the equivalent of a personal waffle maker, but for pies? They have it! Do you want heated socks? They have those too! If it is totally useless, completely novel, will only be used once, and will probably be forgotten about in the back of a closet never to be seen again, well by God, this is the catalog for you.

So, my friends, if come the holiday season, you see a reindeer the size of a house standing in my yard, looking like it got The Shocker, please know that my revenge will be swift but deadly. Because buried in the back of the pages, almost unseen, but definitely not unheard, is the Thunderclap Alarm Clock. At 113 decibels, with three flashing LEDs, with a vibrating pad for under the mattress, I’m pretty sure that when that thing goes off, you don’t just get out of bed, you go through the roof. That will be the punishment for the reindeer. I’ll make sure the kids are up first. And for those pesky little BIL’s who are thinking they can get away with an “inflate and run”, thinking impending aunt-hood will get them off, think again. Now I have an alarm clock. Ho! Ho! Ho!

Best Movie, Science Fiction

2011-10-20T13:17:00.002-04:00

This category gets a short shift in any awards ceremony. The old people who vote still probably do so by pen and then send the ballot via snail mail. They are not hip to technology. They, in fact, still use the word hip to describe something those newfangled gadgets the kids are playing with nowadays. There have occasionally been some sci-fi movies that garnered respect, Avatar, obviously comes to mind. (Side rant: Avatar was stupid. It was yet another example of the great white man coming in to save the nature-loving savages from their evil enemy, other greedy white people. The only difference is that this time, it was in 3-D with day-glo colors. James Cameron and his ego can go bite it.) But mostly, they are ignored.

A goods sci-fi movie has the same things any good movie in any genre should have: good plot, good script, good actors. However, it also needs good science and good internal logic. Inception had neither. If you think about that movie for more than a minute, you need a Tylenol. Lots of summer blockbusters are fun to watch, but don’t even try to be anything other than eye candy. I’m okay with that. But the best sci-fi movies create more than two hours of entertainment. They create worlds. They create a whole new way of seeing reality.

So, here are my top five. I am ignoring the obvious, standard choices such as Blade Runner and Alien mostly because they didn’t resonate with me.

1. The Matrix. Obvious, yes, but still worthy. I remember going to see this in the theater with a work buddy and having literally no idea what I was about to witness. I thought it was going to be a fun ride. It was so much more. The sequels may have been awful, but that original is a shining example of how to think big.

2. Dark City. This is my dark horse contender. It is deliriously weird, but creates a fascinating world where everything can change at a moment’s notice. It’s just cool. I know that isn’t exactly a Roger Ebert worthy review, but I don’t want to spoil any part of it for those who haven’t seen it. So go see it.

3. Serenity. My love of all things Whedon-esque is well documented. This movie, a love note to all the fans of the cancelled TV series, Firefly, was a fantastic way to bid farewell to our intrepid crew. I think it works as a stand-alone movie too though. It’s funny and sad and cool and fun and it even has a Buffy-Bot. What more could you possibly want out of a film?

4. The Abyss. Sure, Terminator is probably the best of Cameron, but Linda Hamilton’s Minnie Mouse voice drives me to distraction. Plus, I can never get my head around the chicken/egg conundrum of how John Conner had to send his dad to knock his mom up. I much prefer The Abyss. The ending sort of sucked (What happened to decompression?) but the very real fear of being trapped under the ocean and dying a slow, cold, wet death really hit home for me.

5. The Star Wars Trilogy. The original series, not the second set of movies and not any of the special edition versions George Lucas keeps releasing. Nope, I am talking about Luke, Vader, Leia, Han, Chewie, C-3PO, and R2-D2. These movies are part of my DNA. I still get my dad Star Wars related gifts and always will.

I may have very basic tastes and my geek cred might be in jeopardy, but the list stands.

Hijacked

2011-10-14T11:59:00.000-04:00

I’ve hijacked my wife’s blog to use it as my own soapbox.

Consider this your fair warning – I recognize my wife is the superior talent when it comes to communication, be it verbal or written. I attempt here not to duplicate or replace, but simply borrow an established medium to vent.

Those of you who are regular followers of the blog are aware, I’m sure, that we have just moved into the home that we will, by the grace of God, finish raising our family in. We’re done. No more moves. No more real estate transactions, ever. I’ve said more than once in the past month that I’ll burn this fucker down before I pack another box.

But this isn’t about that. This is about me confronting my issues, and confessing to the cyber world my shortcomings. The entirety of that list is enormous, but there’s one that surpasses all others.

I hate stupid people. Not the normal, average, every day stupid people, but that segment of the population that really makes me question whether or not Darwin was wrong. The ones that really make you think, “How the hell do these people reproduce?” These are not the folks who stop at yield signs, nor are they the folks who use the 10 items or fewer lane to check out 45 items. These aren’t the morons who try to talk on cell phones in elevators, or the ignorant assholes who can’t seem to park between the white lines. I’m even willing to forgive those idiots who can’t merge onto the highway (it’s really simple, if you can’t figure it out, you probably shouldn’t be driving).

No, the ones who have me currently wishing for the ability to use the force to choke the living shit out of them, are the folks who answer the phones at my TV/Internet provider. It shouldn’t be all that difficult. I call, they answer, the issue gets resolved. Under no circumstances should it take 3 fucking weeks, 18 phone calls, 3 supervisors, 4 tech visits, 2 routers, and 4 set top boxes in order for me to watch a simple football game as I surf the web, and use the fucking DVR I am paying an arm and a leg for in order to record something for later viewing. Jimminy freakin Christmas!

I realize that this is, as my lovely wife would phrase it, a first world problem. There are many people throughout the world who don’t have enough to eat, a roof over their heads, or the freedom to make choices to try and enrich their lives. But none of them are reading this, and I can’t solve their problems today – cause I‘m too busy trying to figure out how to make my fucking TV work properly.

I am a college educated man, with a degree in engineering, and pretty well versed in most things technological. I actually have a soft spot in my heart for tech support folks - throughout my career, I’ve had some sort of Customer Service responsibility in just about every job I’ve had. During one fateful late night support call, I actually had to utter the words “Is the CD in the drive?” I get it – people are stupid, and when I was on the other end of the line, it was always the moron calling in who couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a map.

But really – where the fuck do they find these people? Isn’t unemployment still at 9.something percent? Why the hell are the people at my internet provider still employed? Are there no better qualified people out there? There has to be – it’s statistically impossible for all the unemployed folks to be stupider than these guys. How fucking hard is it to get dispatch on the other line and find out when the tech will be at my house? You’ve got e-mail, instant messaging, chat, text messaging, a multi-line phone system, and can’t get through to an internal department? Jezzus – please tell me you are sterile.

Also, when I get transferred to another department, why the hell do I have to re-verify my name, account number, address where the service is installed, e-mail address, and alternate phone number to contact me in case we are disconnected? I’ve seen CRM systems from the other side – they not only know all that, but my shoe size, what I’ve had for breakfast and the last time I got laid. Don’t make me fucking go through the entire script again – use the information in the system – it’s not like we’re passing Post-It notes around with a name scribbled on it.

And I sure as shit should not have to describe the problem I am currently experiencing. If the first fucker didn’t note the problem with enough detail, then go ask him – I’m tired of reciting the same facts over and over again. I’m not lying, you’re not fucking Matlock, and this isn’t a murder case. My freaking cable’s out – fix it.

And goddamn it, you can see that this the 15th time I’ve called in the past three weeks – don’t you think the previous 14 people had me unplug the box, wait 15 seconds, and plug it back in? Or do you just assume that the previous idiots didn’t know what they were doing either? I’m sure you were listening when I told you that I have three other boxes, my original and two replacements that you have already sent – and it still doesn’t work. What makes you think that the box that you send out is going to work? What part of “DON’T SEND ME ANOTHER BOX” did you not understand? Please, don’t have kids – just buy a dog instead.

In the end, it turned out to be crossed wires. Literally – wires plugged into the wrong hole. Why it took 4 visits, 18 phone calls, 4 set box boxes, 2 routers, 3 supervisors and 3 weeks to figure this out, I don’t know. But I do know that all the time I invested in this first world problem of mine is time I will never get back. Let that be a lesson to you all –when all else fails, unplug all the wires and start over.

Jessie's Girl

2011-10-10T14:06:00.002-04:00

I have a friend, let’s call her Etsy, that is really, really into 80’s rockers. Her Top Five starts with Tommy Lee and goes downhill from there. Tommy Lee. A man I wouldn’t touch with a HAZMAT suit, who is probably a case study in STD’s, and is the textbook definition of “skeevy.” If a guy looks like a coked out death zombie with bad hair and who hasn’t bathed since Reagan was in office, Etsy will gleefully throw her panties at him.

Etsy just went to see Rick Springfield. She gleefully posted pictures of herself rubbing his sweaty back. (I hope there is a shot for that.) Now, let’s do a little math. Jessie’s Girl came out in 1981. Giving old Rick the benefit of the doubt that the girl in question (never named, because let’s face it, the fact that she is Jessie’s is what makes her desirable, not any actual quality she possesses in her own right) was of legal age and you add the full thirty years since that song came out, then if I do my math right, Jessie’s girl is getting ready to turn 50. Do you feel old yet?

What I wonder is this - what do those aging rockers see when they look into the current crowd? Back in their heyday, their fans were bra-less teenagers and come hither 20-somethings. Now? Not so much. There isn’t a bra in the world that could help most of his current fans pass the pencil test. That goes for all the aging rockers out there. I went to see Duran Duran back in college. Even back in those dark ages, we thought they were retro - and they are still touring! Can you imagine night after night after night after night having to sing the same songs, with the same level of enthusiasm, all while watching your audience creep toward middle age right along with you? That’s got to be a level of hell created solely for musicians.

For nostalgia purposes, let’s discuss New Kids On The Block. I wasn’t into them, but many of my friends were. They were only a few years older, so their concerts must have looked like all-you-could-shag buffets. What did it look like this past summer? I can’t imagine they gained a new crop of teenage fans, so it’s those same women who had their posters on the wall all those years ago, relieving their high school years singing along to all the worlds. That buffet must look pretty damn unappetizing.

So, do you think they rockers play make believe? Do you think they still send out security to find the youngest, prettiest girls to send back to their dressing rooms? The ones who still think sleeping with Rick Springfield would be a notch on their bedpost and not an immediate appointment to a clinic? I know half of them must be married by now, with kids, and the only thing they find interesting in their fans pants is their wallets. But the other half, the ones with the plastic faces that barely move who still struggle into leather pants and vests? How much longer can Rick look out into the crowd and sing about Jessie’s girl without said girl being hauled up onstage in a wheelchair?

It’s a sad, sad fate to be an aging rocker. Sadder still to be Etsy, the girl whose love for them will never, ever die.

Thank You

2011-09-30T11:45:00.002-04:00

I have obviously invented moving with children. At least, that is how I acted. While it was an onerous process that lasted over a year, the reality is that I sold my home in the worst real estate market in decades, without losing money, and managed to purchase my dream home in a fantastic location for an excellent price through the services of the best real estate agent ever. Overall, I have nothing to complain about.

However, that didn’t stop me from whining about it from start to finish. I have friends who moved while pregnant, who moved across state lines while pregnant AND starting new jobs, and who moved across state line while pregnant AND whose husband’s new job required his overseas deployment to a hot, sandy place. While my husband did change jobs (twice!) during the year, both were at his own choice. Sure, it added to the stress of life, but what doesn’t?

But I bitched, and I moaned, and then I bitched and moaned so more, and then, during the last two weeks, I bored people to tears with the intricacies of environmental law. (Did I mention my dream home came with its own 10-ton pile of contaminated dirt?) I practically put out hourly reports on the status of my packing and unpacking, and acted, as a whole, as if my real estate transaction was of monumental significance to many instead of just significant to me. In short, I was a right ass.

Thankfully, I have a legion of wonderful friends who never complained about my admittedly self-centered behavior. They allowed me to vent. They offered advice, opinions, and options. They cared for and fed my children when I needed time to get stuff done. They acted as lawyers, counselors, design experts, and handy men. They put a beer in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other when the stress of selling/buying was done but the stress of moving/unpacking had yet to begin. They sent encouraging texts, e-mails, and FB posts. They got my kids from point A to point B when I wasn’t able to ferry them myself. They brought donuts. They brought cards. They literally plucked my crying son out of my arms and brought him into his classroom. They brought history books on my new neighborhood. My husband affectionately refers to this group of people as the Gaggle. If it weren’t for the Gaggle, I never would have survived the past year. In fact, without the Gaggle, I wouldn't have survived the past five years. I love the Gaggle

Without family, I wouldn’t have survived move-in weekend. Seeing all of your stuff in boxes, piled high, room after room is both exhilarating and overwhelming. Where the hell does it all go? And how the hell do I put it away without tripping over a kid? Eldest BIL and SIL to the rescue! They took the kids out in style, spoiling them rotten and giving them a day of fun to remember. Youngest BIL and SIL did just as much heavy lifting by literally doing the heavy lifting. Forty boxes of books, six crates of Christmas decorations and several boxes simply marked “misc. attic” were all hauled in during a day of high humidity. Plus, as an added bonus I got to give hours of unsolicited advice to my pregnant SIL. A captive audience! Fun!

So, what have I learned during the last year of my life? First off, that I am incredibly lucky. I didn’t grow up in this area. I only moved here eight years ago, knowing no one and nothing. But now, less than a decade later, I am rich with friends. I have The Gaggle, many of them strangers I met at library story time, whom I could now call in the middle of the night in an emergency. I have people who have helped me in innumerable ways for no reason other than they wanted to help. They weren’t looking for thanks. They weren’t looking for anything other than a way to help a friend. And to all of you, I say thank you. Sincerely and utterly, thank you.

I will now never utter the words real estate, closing, or moving ever, ever gain. You’re welcome. ;)

A House is Not a Home

2011-09-20T12:33:00.001-04:00

A little over a year ago, we decided to sell our house. That first moment, when we started to take some of the art off the walls, when we started to put all our books in boxes, and when we started to anticipate moving our family, was when our house stopped being our home.

It’s weird, that first showing, when you realize someone is going to walk into your house, the place where you raised your babies, where you make late breakfast on Sundays, where you walk around naked after a shower, and consider whether they want it for their own. They are going to look at your nursery, with all the animals inexpertly hand-painted on the walls and consider what color they will paint over it. The room you sat and rocked a child in, night after night, for years, is suddenly going to be childless. There will be no nightlight softly illuminating its walls, no music box adding birdsong and falling water to the darkness. I have spent more time in that room than any other, soothing, changing, comforting, loving, reading, and playing with my children. I taught my children that their bedrooms were safe havens, places of shelter from storms, nightmares, and the world outside. My son, with his animals smiling down on him, my daughter, with her princesses watching over her will now have to get used to new configurations of light on their walls, new sounds of night falling outside their windows, and a new path to the bathroom.

Before the endless packing started and the walls started to close in due to all the boxes, I could walk around my house in a blindfold and never bump into a wall. I knew where the furniture was placed, which step was last before the floor, how wide the bathroom door was left open all by sense of touch. I always thought that in case of emergency, it would be effortless to grab what I needed and get out because it was placed in the same spot night after night. How long will it take me to find my way in my new home? How long before I understand its configuration without stubbed toes and muffled curses? When I won’t need to turn on a light to wander downstairs for a late-night drink out of the fridge?

In a home, everything has a place. Your keys go here, your shoes go there. This shelf holds boxes of pasta, that shelf holds the olive oil. You know where to find a flashlight when the power goes out, and how far to turn on the hose when the sun comes out. Right now, I feel like I am living in a really crappy hotel. It has only the most rudimentary supplies, nothing has a place, and everything feels temporary.

While I will miss the quiet stability of this house, I am quite looking forward to the adventure of the new one. The first trip to Target will be epic. After years of bemoaning the lack of counter space, the closeness of quarters, it will be nice to have a little more elbow room. I already live so much of my life in the new town that the move will be more of a homecoming than a farewell.

For seven of the eight years in this home, my job has been my kids. So when we pull into the new one, with real oak floors instead of laminate, with a stone façade instead of siding, with real wood-burning fireplaces instead of push-button gas ones, with windows and skylights and porches galore, I hope my husband feels proud of what he has accomplished for his family. I hope he surveys his expanded little kingdom and is happy. I know I will be. That house, with its unknown corners and undiscovered delights, is going to be our new home.

And the Best Picture Goes to . . .

2011-09-07T15:22:00.001-04:00

It is now time to move on to the best movies, drama category. This one gets tricky. Do I go for movies that were utterly fantastic but that I never, ever, ever want to watch again? Back in college, we did a double header of Dead Man Walking and Leaving Las Vegas. It was the most depressing night of my life, and made me want to both drink and kill myself, but damn, those were good movies. Do I choose style over substance and put Snow Falling on Cedars on the list, which I still remember as being the most beautifully shot movie I have ever seen. I wanted to crawl into that cinematography and live there forever. Do I stick to the official Oscar winner list, or veer off into Independent Spirit and BAFTA winners? How about movies that were perfect upon first viewing, but I know would fall apart upon repeat viewing such as Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Inception? Or do those two go into the best movie, sci-fi category? Does animation count? If so, then WALL-E deserves a spot on the list. Do I stick to made in America, or do I include foreign films? Decisions, decisions.

In the end, I picked movies that stuck with me, like a good stew, adding weight to my life. They may not be your choices, but they are mine.

(I will note that like most of my top comedic choices, my husband either hates these movies or has never seen them. How we have survived our entire marriage with only one television is a mystery to both of us.)

So, in no particular order, here are my top five movies, drama.

1. Heavenly Creatures. I still remember watching this for the first time. (Hi MJ!) It is visually stunning, emotionally upsetting, and features Kate Winslet’s debut performance on film. It is based on a true story about two teenage girls who formed an unusually strong attachment to each other and committed murder in order to keep from being separated. It sounds blah on paper, but in execution, it is fantastic. Trust me.

2. Schindler’s List. Obviously, this movie is just a tad depressing. A bit, really. Some of the scenes are almost painful to watch, they are so horrifying. However, the performances are all around stunning. Ralph Fiennes made being a sociopath look good. Plus, I think a large part of my love for this movie comes from Liam Neeson as Schindler. In every scene, he looms large, he cannot be ignored, even just sitting quietly, he is riveting.

3. The Godfather, Part II. This movie is better than Part I because of Fredo. Plus, there is no whiny Italian bride wasting any of my time. God, that woman was shrill. The second movie in the trilogy (which should have been the last), really gets you invested in past Vito and present Michael and shows that it really is all about who you can trust.

4. Goodfellas. The end all and be all of mob movies. If the Godfather is the epic tale of one family’s rise to prominence in the world of the mafia, Goodfellas is the down and dirty story of one guy in the mob. Sounds similar, but they couldn’t be more different. Joe Pesci manages to be horrifying and hilarious all in the same line reading, leading to some incredibly quotable lines of dialogue.

5. The Age of Innocence. I hemmed and hawed about this one, but I watched it practically on repeat and loved it every single time. If Joanne Woodward could narrate my life with the same dry wit and eye toward detail, I would be a very happy person indeed. In fact, I think it is the narration that sells it for me. It’s a simple story about repressed love in early New York society, which sounds tedious, but it actually quite torrid. No one gets nekkid and the ending is heart-breaking, but the actors sell it, even Winona Ryder.

So, once again, agree, disagree, just watch them at least once.

The Day the Earth Stopped Standing Still

2011-08-24T08:39:00.000-04:00

Look, I realize that for many millions of people around the world, an earthquake is just another day in paradise. But for the East Coast, they just don’t happen. It’s like being on a lake and watching a great white eat a water skier. It could happen, it just doesn’t. It’s not on the level of having the Loch Ness monster suddenly pop up and ask for an interview, but it is pretty damn close.

I happened to be sitting at my desk in the back room of my home. I had guys working under the house on my crawlspace all day. My kids were upstairs watching a movie. Quite suddenly, my desk started to shake. My initial thought was that it was the guys under the house. As I started to make my way through my kitchen and down the hallway to my front door, the entire house started shaking around me and there was n noise somewhere between the growl of wolves and the odd sound of wood under pressure. Walking through the hall, I felt like I was in a horror movie – things seemed so much slower, everything was in Shaky-cam, and the hallway seemed to go on forever. I realized I wasn’t having some sort of massive dizzy spell/psychotic break when I heard my daughter crying from upstairs. Surely, she and I were not hallucinating at the same time. By the time I made it out the front door with my daughter by my side, my mailbox (built on top of a pole) was swaying as if in a stiff breeze. The guys in the truck looked at me like I was nuts when I asked them if they had just caused my house to shake. Only when the neighbor came out looking as surprised as I was did I realize it probably wasn’t the contractors.

I know it didn’t take long, didn’t do any damage, didn’t hurt anyone, but what it did do was shake me to my core. I have taught my kids that home is a safe place. It doesn’t matter what type of storm is raging outside. Under my roof, within my walls, with me and my husband, they are safe and sound. And then the walls shook.

It took me all day to get my equilibrium back. Now, I know Left Coasters can “stir their coffee with a 5.8”. That’s great. But us East Coaster’s are considered more grounded for a reason: because our ground doesn’t shake. It has always been firm beneath our feet. I don’t think there were any hysterics, no holy men coming forward to proclaim that the end was near and that it was time to sacrifice a goat to appease the dogs. Well, except for my husband, and he was just hoping to forestall Hurricane Irene from ruining our coastal vacation this week. In fact, the coolest part of the experience is how much we all shared it. Facebook lit up like a Christmas tree. The Twitterverse went nuts. With cell phone towers jammed, texting became the communication of choice with my husband and his family. Sure, we didn’t need to check in with each other. The already infamous picture of one plastic lawn chair out of four being knocked over by the jolt does indeed give the right picture of how minor the quake really was. However, we weren’t calling to find out if our houses were still standing; we were calling to share stories.

Let’s be honest. The earth should only move for some very specific occasions: great sex, powerful thunder, bombs, and nearness to public transportation. If you were lucky enough to be getting lucky when the quake moved the world, then I hope you enjoyed it. You’ll never have better again. If you were unlucky enough to be driving or in motion enough that you missed the motion of plates shifting, then I am sorry for you. You missed out on an experience that will hopefully never be repeated. A moment when a dozen states, with countless millions of people, all stopped at the same moment in time and thought, “What the fuck?”

37! Inconceivable!

2011-08-23T12:22:00.002-04:00

I am a movie snob.

There, I said it. Now, to true movie snobs, the ones that see every indie movie, every classic, hell, every film (not flick, those are different) that have been made in the last 50 years, I am but a babe in the woods (infant, not hottie). My movie viewing has become somewhat limited after having children. Why waste a date night sitting next to my husband, but not talking? I can do that on my own couch. Plus, most movies are crap anyway, so I can either pay for a month’s subscription to Netflix and HBO combined and watch unlimited crap, or buy two tickets to the newest blockbuster and pay top dollar for two hours worth of crap. It’s not a hard decision.

Now don’t get me wrong, I was raised on 80s action movies and I still love them. Christmas Eve tradition is to watch Die Hard while wrapping the kid’s presents. “Now I have a machine gun. Ho.Ho.Ho.” See, it’s a Christmas movie! Also required for the holiday’s is A Christmas Story, and sadly, because my brothers/sisters-in law all have no taste but have made me watch the movie so many times I can now actually quote it and have actually started to enjoy it, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. “Shitter’s full” is a rallying cry among my husband’s family. Plus, I have seen the original Star Wars trilogy so many times that I have no idea if it is good or bad. It is a classic part of my childhood and my life and I am proud to say that my son got his first Star Wars book for his birthday and loved it. May the force be with him.

It’s not like I am only a fan of black & white movies from the silent era, I just hate Ben Stiller (excluding Tropic Thunder which was quite surprisingly hysterical). I also hate Vince Vaughn, Jim Carrey, and pretty much anything Judd Apatow has ever made. I would rather have surgery than watch Swingers, get hungover than watch the Hangover again, and nothing on heaven and earth will get me to watch any “comedy” with Cameron Diaz. Do I have a sense of humor? I think so. I just don’t do stupid. Or slap-stick. Or gross-out. (I also don’t do horror or westerns but that’s another blog.)

But recently, at a night out with some Smurfy friends, I was asked for a list of my top movies. In the interest of brevity, today I will focus on comedy. Here are the top five movies that make me laugh. They are in no particular order.

1. The Princess Bride. I unabashedly love this movie from start to finish. It’s just so silly and lovable and quotable. I honestly could find a quote for every situation. I could gush, but it would be unseemly. “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

2. Galaxy Quest. Take all the jokes about Star Trek, roll them up into a ball, and then stuff them into a totally self-aware movie about a fake sci-fi show and add an actual plot. There are red shirts, shirtless captains, Shakespearean actors lamenting their lot in life, and geeks. I only wish they would make a sequel. “Maybe you’re just the plucky comic relief?”

3. Cookie’s Fortune. It’s a Robert Altman movie starring Glenn Close, Julianne Moore, and a gallery of actors all putting on Southern accents. It’s sweet, and funny, and has lot of character moments, but also lots of little asides that make it worth watching multiple times. “So I’m part black!”

4. Clerks. Foul-mouthed, bottom of the barrel humor, and some pretty crappy acting, yet this movie is still hilarious. It launched Kevin Smith’s career (for better or worse), and made Jay and Silent Bob a cultural phenomenon. Plus, it made the number 37 infamous. “I’m not even supposed to be here today!”

5. My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Arguably, more of a chick flick, but still funny. It perfectly captured the sort of big family, big craziness feeling of throwing a big wedding. Plus, the fact that the groom noticed the bride when she was still schlubby makes it easier to digest than all of those, girl only gets guy when she gets hot. In this movie, she gets the guy because she gets self-esteem. It’s a mild difference in a rom-com, but still a noticeable one. “Put some Windex on it.”

I’m sure I’ll kick myself for forgetting some that changed my life in some way or that make me laugh until I cried, but those choices are out of my own personal movie cabinet. Agree, disagree, just try to watch them at least once.

When Reality Gets a Little Too Real

2011-08-16T12:46:00.001-04:00

At what point will it occur to someone that if you have a shitty private life, going on a public television show is not a good idea?

In light of today’s awful announcement, I think all reality tv people should take a good, hard look at their lives. Do you want all the nitty gritty details to become public? Have you checked your financial statements? Is your job secure? Any kids with mental/physical/emotional issues? How is the family doing? Are you close with all your brothers and sisters? How is your marriage? Obviously no one has a crystal ball and can predict how your future will turn out, but if you know that your whites are a bit dingy, then don’t air your laundry in public!

We’ve seen this time and time again. Jon and Kate started out all right, I might even say cautiously happy. Now, not only are they divorced, but it was an angry, bitter, public divorce that dragged their precious kids down with it. How many Housewives have lost their husbands or their homes? Half? How many of their kids needed counseling, not cameras? All? I don’t yell at my kids as much in fall and spring because my windows are open. I couldn’t imagine having all of my windows open, all year long, with millions of people peeping in at all hours of the day and night. That, right there, is my version of hell on earth.

So why do these people choose to be on television? Fame? Money? Love? I bet all three. Prostitution is the oldest profession because it requires the least skill. The only think you need to make money is a pulse. There is nothing to learn from any of the shows on Bravo, or MTV, or Discovery, or TLC other than people are crazy, people are stupid, and when you put people in stressful situations, they will react accordingly. None of this is exactly rocket science. Teenagers get drunk, mothers relive childhood through their children, money can’t buy you class, or taste, or true friends, and simply saying that you are a singer/author/designer doesn’t mean you actually are. All of these are known facts. I don’t need to watch TV to learn them.

However, train wreck television has become appointment viewing. I DVR most of the RH series, plus a host of other reality shows and I am both embarrassed by them and addicted to them. Why? Simple – they make me feel better about myself as a wife, mother, friend, and person. I don’t put my kids through pageants, begging the audience to believe that the child is the one who loves it while said child screams and cries her way through the day. I don’t pretend I am rich. I don’t pretend that all of my acquaintances are my true friends and that every minor slight is a duel to the death offense. I am not really a dramatic person. I try to tell a good story. I try to make people laugh. I gossip. But do I stir shit intentionally in order to cause others pain and suffering? No. I most emphatically do not. I’m just me. Pantless. Often braless. Usually tasteless. I may live quite a bit of my life publicly on FB and on my blog, but I choose what gets published. I choose what I say and how I say it. I can’t blame editing. I can’t blame Andy Cohen or Jon Gosselin or any of the behind the scenes production crew because there isn’t anyone else. Anything I say or do is my fault, good or bad.

So goodbye Russell Armstrong. I hope you get in the afterlife what you denied yourself in this one – peace and quiet.

What the Smurf?

2011-08-10T11:05:00.002-04:00

In a fit of desperation, I took my kids to see the Smurf movie. I had to be out of the house for three hours, during the early evening, and it was raining and storming. They don’t do malls, all play places are closing at that hour, and my fun plan of dinner at the pool was out the window. Plan B was dinner at Chik-Fil-A and a movie. We’ve already seen Cars 2. The Pooh movie only had a 68 minute running time, which made it a complete waste, and Zookeeper looked awful. That left us with the Smurfs.

Now, I love me some Neil Patrick Harris. He’s part of the Whedonverse and if you haven’t yet seen Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along-Blog, I highly suggest you download it from iTunes immediately. Actually, just go ahead and YouTube his opening number at the Tony Awards while you are at it. If you don’t laugh out loud at least once, well, we can’t be friends. I honestly believed that with NPH in it, it truly couldn’t be that bad. Sadly, I was mistaken.

For the record, my kids loved it. They actually laughed out loud at times and were really into it. Obviously, they have no taste.

Let’s start by discussing language. In this movie, the words “fuck” and “smurf” were interchangeable. Fuck you became Smurf You. Abso-fucking-lutely, became Abso-Smurf-ly. Perhaps my childhood memory is playing tricks on me, but I don’t remember Smurf being a curse word before. It certainly became one in this movie. It is just modernization? Was it an attempt to amuse the parents in the audience? I don’t know, but it got old pretty quickly. However, if I could get Samuel L. Jackson to record “Go the Smurf to Bed!” I would die happy.

My problems with the movie itself were numerous. It’s like someone at Sony decided they needed to make money on merchandising and built a movie around that concept. Big brands paid big money to be in this movie. But never was the product placement anything but egregious; every product felt like it was shoehorned into the script by marketing. Plus, who did Joan Rivers blow to get in this movie? The woman hasn’t been relevant since Papa Smurf was growing his first ‘stache, yet she still managed to get a line. And don’t think I didn’t notice James Beard award winner and Top Chef host Tom Colicchio just randomly standing around in one scene looking embarrassed. What on earth was he doing there?

The movie picked up and dropped plot lines worse than Glee, which is really saying something. Every joke was obvious. Even New York City got dumbed down. I think little blue creatures three apples tall are easier to believe in that finding Central Park deserted on a warm spring night. Also, could we put a moratorium on FAO Schwartz in movies? Please? For me? Poor Hank Azaria acted like he wandered off the set of Enchanted while the rest of the actors just gamely did their best to interact with empty sightlines. It was a mess. Child friendly doesn’t have to mean stupid. Just ask Pixar.

I know I sound crazy nitpicking a PG movie for kids, and I openly admit that I am a movie snob and am so not the target audience, but still! I think everyone should always do their best at their craft. At this was by far, not the best that NPH has to offer. Not by a long shot.

Leave it to Beaver

2011-08-03T10:56:00.001-04:00

My husband’s family has been vacationing at Lake Wallenpaupack in the Pocono region for nigh on forever. While he was growing up, the family would stay in a series of tiny, rustic cabins with his grandparents. They would fish off the dock, swim in the water, and play in the woods. This lake is very important to his family. His eldest brother got married up there. His youngest brother got engaged up there. Should this lake ever get hit by a meteor and disappear in a cloud of vapor and ash, his family would be devastated.

My children are well indoctrinated into lake culture. However, their experience is quite a bit different than that of their father’s childhood. For starters, there are no dirty cabins filled with spiders. Instead, they get to enjoy all the benefits of home (and then some) because their grandparents now own a lakefront cabin and a boat bigger than my living room. Fishing is a side interest at best, because they spend all of their time on the flotilla of flotation devices owned by their uncle. At six, my daughter has already been on a Jet Ski and gone tubing. She stays with her grandparents in comfort and splendor. My husband and I stay at my BIL/SIL’s gorgeous, custom-build log cabin in an alcoholic haze. It’s awesome.

This past weekend was one of the many “family weekends” that are scheduled where all four sets of children/spouses, their parents, the two grandchildren, and the grandchild-to-be all gather to make merry on land and lake. Sadly, we were without one set and they were dearly missed. But, the weather was a perfect 85 degrees with not a cloud in the sky and the alcohol flowed to the point where all three brothers were contemplating ditching work to go to a Motley Crüe concert. My daughter took her first turn ‘round the lake on a tube and loved it, my son continued his quest to be the youngest pontoon boat captain ever, and my husband I got to walk away from our earthly cares (and kids) to just relax.

This brings us to the damn Jet Ski. As Saturday afternoon was winding down, my daughter begged for one last run on it. Never having been known to say no to his niece, her uncle immediately agreed. In a kind turn, he invited my husband to be the driver and said I should go as well as it sat three. The obligatory picture was snapped and off we went. Straight was fine, straight was good. It was the turn that did us in. Within sight of the dock and our watching family (who, as it turned out, weren’t watching at all), we fell off the stupid floating death trap into the lake, flipping it over entirely. Luckily, my daughter took it rather well and after the ski was righted, clambered right back aboard and was ready to keep going. I thought this was an excellent attitude and meant to do the same. Except, well, every time we tried to get all three of us back on, we all fell off. Over and over and over again. By the sixth time we were unceremoniously dumped back into the drink, my daughter was no longer laughing. She was crying. So, once again, she climbs up, her father climbs up, and as I start swimming over to climb up, she turns to him as says,

“Let’s just leave Mommy and go.”

One the one hand, the tang of steel sliding between my shoulder blades hurt as she twisted that particular knife. On the other hand, I was actually proud of her rather bloodless ability to analyze the situation, find the flaw, and come up with a solution. Screw the no man left behind business, she really and honestly wanted to leave me floating in the middle of a lake to fend for myself while she got herself to safety. After years of believing that she was 100 percent her father’s daughter, I finally saw a glimmer of myself in her. It’s my own fault if that glimmer was reflecting off her cold, cold heart.

It was around this time that the monkey bunch back on the dock realized that the tomfoolery going on within binocular range involved their immediate family and they came to our aid. The girls climbed aboard, my husband got on the back of the godforsaken water beast and we were off. Except we weren’t – because we had broken the Jet Ski.

Now, this is not the first time we’ve been in this particular situation. Seven years ago, my father-in-law handed over the keys to the boat for a sunset cruise: my husband as captain, me as pregnant passenger. Off we went. A good ways away from land, the boat stopped. Just decided it was done. It was late in the season and there weren’t many boats on the water as dusk fell. Luckily, just ahead of us were my brothers-in-law, with wives! I waved, they waved back. I waved again, this time a bit more vigorously. They waved back cheerfully. They proceed to sit and have a snack while my husband desperately attempted to get us moving again. I start waving again, this time while shouting and using a red sweatshirt for a bit of exclamatory color. They wave back. It was at this point that I honestly thought they were going to pull anchor and leave us to a watery grave. Finally, finally, common sense kicked in and they realized that something must be wrong and floated to our aid. We ended the evening being towed back to the dock via rope while they threw pretzels at us for sustenance.

So here we were, another lake weekend, another broken piece of equipment, being towed back to the dock by rope. The only difference was the lack of pretzels. I’m pretty sure my Jet Ski career is over and only a fool would give my husband the keys to anything else again. But I’m sure we will be back, year after year, to that particular lake, with that particular family, making memories. Just hopefully, not more ones of us breaking shit – because that is going to get expensive.

Maisey Dotes, and Fainting Goats, and Little Yellow Wiggles

2011-07-20T11:35:00.001-04:00

I am a December baby, which means that it is quite possible that my Irish father helped to conceive me on that most drunken of all holidays, St. Patrick’s Day. Alcoholic sperm is as good a reason as any to explain why my body seems to have been made using all the wrong parts.

Have you ever watched the episode of Mythbusters where Tory, Kari, and Grant make goats faint just by scaring them? That’s what I have. Have you ever wondered why Greg, the Yellow Wiggle, left the band? He has orthostatic intolerance. Also what I have. Officially, it’s called postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS). Unofficially, it’s a right pain in the ass. In short, every time you stand up, your heart rate and blood pressure have to rebalance. Mine don’t always play nice together, so my heart rate soars and my blood pressure drops. When this happens, I must go horizontal (and usually unconscious) for the time it takes my body to stabilize. Fun, huh? I would be remiss if I didn’t shout to the heavens that I actually have a very, very mild case and that I am very lucky. Hear that God? Very lucky!

To explain how it feels, imagine being drunk. Not passing out, taking naked pictures of yourself drunk, but that pleasantly woozy feeling where all you want is a slice of pizza and a warm bed. Now, take away the alcohol (and pizza), but triple the need to lie down (flat as a board, not reclining in any way). Add in a little loss of fine-motor skills and a dash of heat and proceed to lose the next two hours of your day. Now know what it feels like to have what I refer to as, “an episode.”

The reason I bring this up today is that heat made my condition more prevalent. The hotter it is, the harder it is for my body to regulate itself. It is expected to reach 99 degrees for the next few days. In this type of weather, I obey the warnings and advisories posted for old people and stay the hell indoors. However, due to doctor’s orders, I am temporarily barred from any form of cardiovascular movement and cannot engage in any activity that will elevate my heart rate. Basically, I am stuck indoors with both kids trying to stay calm. Anyone else see a problem with that?

Obviously, my first line of defense is the DVD player. However, my kids have a saturation point when it comes to movies. Next comes the Activity Jar, but honestly they are so over each other that whatever comes out has to be separate activities or I’ll have to pick teeth up off the floor. Neither kid enjoys shopping so walking the mall is out. Unless I can cajole other families into joining us at a play place, it just boils down to my kids fighting with each other (again), only I’ve paid for the privilege of them doing so in public. We’ve seen Cars 2. In short, I’m SOL.

Luckily, my kids know that I don’t do well in heat. My son very sweetly brings me my blood pressure monitor in bed. My daughter is always admonishing me to “be careful.” They both know that this is only a short-lived captivity and that tomorrow is always another chance to go to a camp, or for daddy to come home early and liberate them, or for them to find a new movie they haven’t seen on Apple TV. Just like the heat, this too shall pass. But until then, no Wiggles.

Supply and Demand

2011-07-14T11:16:00.000-04:00

I hereby demand that stores stop selling products months before anyone is every ready to buy them.

My daughter had been out of school for exactly seven days before I received my first brochure in the mail hawking back to school supplies. Seven days. I barely had enough time to air out her lunchbox and wash all of her water bottles before TRU, Land’s End, and L.L. Bean started stuffing my mail box with glossy pictures of next season’s items. I went into Staples the other day and had to wind my way around display after display of heavily discounted crayons, scissors, markers, and pens. In a quick stop at Hallmark, I was dumb enough to ask why an entire section was covered in Christmas paper only to be dumbstruck by the response that they are going to unveil their entire line of Christmas ornaments this coming Saturday.

Which leads me to the obvious question, who is buying these products?

There has to be a reason that Hallmark is trying to sell Christmas in July, or Staples is trying to hustle Crayola in June. But surely, it can’t be based on customer demand, right? Does anyone need to decorate a tree in summer? Can you get a cut pine without getting arrested? Honestly, I applaud the person who can make these purchases and actually put them away until the time is ready to use them. I am not that person. I assure you, if I bought an ornament any earlier than November, I would find it months later, still in its bag, probably crushed to bits. The same would happen with pre-bought school supplies. I would stash them someplace the kids couldn’t find them and lose them forever.

Which brings us right back around to wondering who is doing the purchasing? I swear, back when I was a kid, this shit came out in-season. School supplies didn’t hit stores until the first checks were due for school tuitions. (Don’t get me started on all the college junk for sale. Where was Target when I was in school, eh?) Halloween decorations didn’t come in until school supplies went out. No one had Thanksgiving decorations (thankfully, since those little Pilgrims make me twitch), and Christmas decorations only arrived once all the last of the Halloween stuff went out. It also seemed to be a more gradual end. I remember having to go to Walgreens the day before school started because on the day of, everything would be back to regular price. Still in the store mind you, just no longer on sale. Everything wasn’t yanked at midnight on October 31st or December 25th. I was in charge of the Valentine craft for my son’s preschool class this year and was had to scramble to purchase the last two craft kits, at 75 percent discount, a full two weeks before February 14th. What’s up with that? What is the rush to jump right into the next holiday before we get a chance to enjoy the previous one?

If I ran the world, beyond switching the health benefits of sugar and vegetables, I would force stores to produce items only in season. If food should only be eaten in season for the best flavor, the same should be said for swing sets, and snow suits, and knee-high boots. Surely, if you only sold Christmas ornaments say between Black Friday and Boxing Day, you would build more of a demand for the product? If you kept everything full price, but only out for a limited time, instead of out for a long period of time, but discounted, you would make more money? I have the brain of an English major and my only retail experience is in book stores, but there has to be a better way to bring demand than to encourage excessive supply. I don’t want to have to buy my kid’s Halloween costume by Labor Day because it won’t be in stock by Columbus Day and spend the intervening time praying the kid doesn’t change her mind. I want to shop to the calendar – I want to buy shorts in July and a coat in February, not vice versa.

At some point, jumping the seasons is going to jump the shark and those will be happy days indeed.

Everybody Poops

2011-07-08T11:46:00.000-04:00

Excluding injury and illness, there is no harder part of parenting than potty training. When my daughter was 3, I spent 17 days trying to teach her to pee in the porcelain bowl. I devoted my life to this chore. We never left the house. We never left the first floor. We never moved further than 15 steps from the bathroom. I bribed that child with M&Ms. I bribed her with books. I bribed her with anything and everything. Yet, it still took 17 days. Trying to get her to poop was another matter entirely. She always waited until nap or bed when she had on a pull-up. This went on for four months. The final battle occurred at the World Trade Center in Baltimore. For one hour, the hubby, baby, and I watched every light come on in the Inner Harbor while we waited for my daughter to do her business. If we left for the hotel, she’d get a pull-up. If we stayed, she had to use the bathroom. We may never have wanted to see Domino Sugar sign again, but we left that building fully and completed potty trained.

My son is a different kettle of fish entirely. I don’t have 17 days to devote to him. I don’t even have 17 hours. He gets dragged out of the house every few hours every single day. He also cannot be bribed. Matchbox cars, books, M&Ms, you name it, I’ve tried it. He simply says, “No thank you” in a tone of utter politeness and dismissal and goes on with his day. Every few weeks, we start the process again. I have done everything in my power short of duct-taping the child to the bowl to get him to pee in it.

The week my husband was home we tried a different tactic. Target practice! Every 15 minutes, a timer went off and my husband and son whipped out their respective equipment and aimed at off-brand Fruit Loops. My husband got quite good at it. My son, on the other hand, never even managed to open fire. I’m also pretty sure he started developing PTSD from the timer.

Finally, finally, there was a breakthrough. The kid peed in the potty. Of course, he did it for daddy, not me, and couldn’t replicate the process again for love or money. Then, breakthrough number two (pun intended) happened at his grandparent’s house. Once again, I missed it and once again it could not be replicated. Worse, I had to give him the big reward I had been holding over him for months (the 2010 Hess truck with fighter jet). Days passed. Nothing. The dude has a bladder like a steel drum. Not only that, but if you don’t watch him like a hawk, his “tell” of grabbing his crotch, only gives you a 30-second window before the floodgates open and he pees on the floor.

I know you are supposed to hop the kid up on liquid, but short of sticking him with an IV, I can’t force him to drink. I made smoothies – he spent hours relishing every mouthful. We took water bottles wherever we went – and they always came home full. I offered him chocolate milk – the equivalent of 30-year old aged scotch to an alcoholic – and he would take a few sips and then leave the cup behind. It was maddening.

Finally, I had to do what I felt was necessary. I broke very single rule of parenting and potty training. I told the little bastard that I would start punishing him for it. Not, obviously, a tried and true, couldn’t-make-it-to-the-potty-in-time accident. But a go hide in the corner, poop his brains out, then come back and ask me to be changed “accident” would result in the loss of Matchbox cars. Two days of this and he caved. He can still go hours in between pit stops, but that just means that he has a larger bladder than my oldest sister-in-law. I heaved a big sigh of relief, bought a bucketload of new Cars II cars and dangled them in front of him as rewards for the other half of the problem. Yet again, he could have cared less.

So this time, it was the threat of not getting to go to the pool or to any summer camps that encouraged him. Never have I heard a child as happy as the day he finally let some drop. He sang. He danced. He ran around in the house reveling in the thrill of victory. He enthusiastically replayed every moment to anyone who would listen. After almost a full freaking year of trying with the little guy, I honestly think this developmental milestone was met with greater levels of celebration than my getting pregnant with him in the first place. Sure, I knew diaper changing was part of the deal, I just didn’t think ahead to realize I was signing up for six and a half years of it. So while we are still wearing pull-ups at night (at least until the box runs out), we are almost in the clear. Now, every morning, he decides which of his colorful “unders” he wants to wear. Some days, he matches them to his shirts. Other days, he picks based on his desire to be a car, or a train, or a super hero. But every single day for a few weeks now, he is free of accidents.

Now I can proudly say that while shit happens, it is confined to the appropriate receptacle.

Going to the Chapel

2011-07-05T13:07:00.003-04:00

I had a family wedding on Long Island last week. There was a Wednesday night rehearsal dinner, the Thursday night wedding, and then the Friday morning brunch – all because my daughter was the flower girl. This, of course, meant that my workaholic husband had to take a full three days off work in order to spend oodles of quality time with my parents. Please use your imagination on how well that conversation went.

Wednesday: My husband spent his “vacation” time by being on endless conference calls. I spent the entire four-hour drive listening to his side of techno-babble engineer-speak in complete silence, excluding the occasional requests for a movie change, snack, or drink from the back seat. That left me a lot of time with my thoughts and what I was primarily thinking was – I hate driving in New York. As a state, they seem to believe that signaling is for suckers, the line markers are private, motorcycle-only lanes, and that stop-and-go traffic means that you stop so they can go. When we finally arrived at our destination, I never wanted to curse more or hear “sku” less.

I was not in the best mood upon arrival and it only got worse when I was told up on check-in that my parents were in the next room. No sooner had we put the card key in the lock than she had poked her head out the door. She helped with nothing, got in the way more than the kids, and managed to make a rude comment about how I looked before the bride-to-be even emerged for the rehearsal. The kids were ill-behaved due to exhaustion (the dinner started well after their usual bed time), my parents were pissed that they weren’t at the head table, and my husband still had calls to make. It was a long, long dinner.

Thursday: The wedding day dawned bright and clear. I was so stressed out I couldn’t even take a deep breath. Like an ill wind, wherever we went, my parents were already there and were talking about death. While the butcher bill might be high in my family, I hardly think the best place to discuss for whom the bell tolled is at a wedding. Yet it was the constant topic of discussion. I spent the day getting a mani/pedi (sounds relaxing, but wasn’t), getting my daughter’s hair done, getting her pictures, getting her in place, etc. I had to stay with her because while everyone involved was family, none were family she had ever met. By the time I was handed a glass of champagne in the bridal lounge while we waited for the guests to be seated, I could have drank down an entire bottle.

With fifteen minutes to go before the wedding, my husband knocked at the door. My son, who was for the first time in his life, wearing a tie, was soaking, dripping wet. He had leaves in his hair. His shoes were making puddles. And he looked at me with the saddest, biggest eyes and said, “Mommy, I fell in the fountain.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

I gave the boy a kiss, smacked my husband on the ass for laughing, and sent them back to the room post-haste for a change. Lucky for my husband, three things were in his favor: I had already started drinking, our room was onsite, and we had a change of clothes packed. The bride thought it was hysterical, several guests took pictures, and my son was much happier in his shorts and polo than he would have been in his button-down and tie. I only learned afterward that the “fountain” was actually a pond with a three-foot drop, ringed in rocks, and deeper than he could stand. How he didn’t hurt himself on the way down, we’ll never know. In my husband’s defense, he was actively watching the child at the time of his fall because there is a picture of the moment before taken by his camera. It was a pure, simple accident.

So, onto the actual wedding; my daughter threw her petals with precision and did her best not to fidget during the ceremony. She then proved to be the life of the party and danced more than every other guest combined. While we were once again seated with my parents, this time the music was so loud that talking was impossible. My son was so exhausted that he sat glassy-eyed and dazed through most of the reception. By the time the very long night ended, I could have wept with relief and did actually utter a deep, unearthly moan when I finally shucked my Spanx, heels, and push-up bra.

Friday: My husband was up at 4 a.m. taking calls, my kids barely slept much later, and we had to attend the brunch before leaving for the drive home, which this time, meant driving in full-on holiday traffic as it was the first day of the Fourth of July weekend. Pictures of my sodden son were passed around, promises to get together soon were made, and we were finally, finally on our way home. But not, of course, without the box of crumbly, car-destroying cookies that my mom insisted on buying for the kids from a “real New York bakery.” Our GPS led us on a scenic tour of the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of Liberty before taking us safely back to Jersey, and minutes within entering our front door, I sent the kids out the back door to burn energy in the sprinkler.

While I was broken, battered, and beaten down from three days of wedded bliss, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Family is family. And while I would have liked to have added my mother’s name to the roll call of the dearly departed, that woman has the constitution of a cockroach and I’m sure I’ll still have reason to bitch for many weddings to come.

Summer in the Suburbs

2011-06-28T11:45:00.001-04:00

I am one week into summer vacation and it is less a summer of love and more a summer of Sam. The boy and I had a lovely month without preschool, without his sister, and we lazed it away in a haze of books, trains, PBS, and play dates. It was not a hard life. In the morning we went to the gym or ran errands. Lunch was followed by quiet time or nap time, his preference, then some playtime until we went to pick up his sister. In the afternoons, things tended to get rowdy between the two, usually one bout of tears, a few quality minutes of sharing and kindness, then dinner, bath, books, and bed. It wasn’t too bad because they weren’t together for that many hours.

And then, summer vacation began.

My kids, like most, prefer structure. Give them an empty day and they try to fill it with murder and destruction. My son’s last question to me at night is to ask what we are going to do the next day. My daughter chooses her wardrobe based on the day’s events so prior knowledge is essential. However, the first week of vacation, I made the rookie mistake of assuming that since the week prior had been a madcap dash of parties and dance commitments, and the week ahead would be spent in a family-themed episode of Say Yes to the Stress, that a week of calm was in order. It’s not like we sat home and stared at each other. We went to the movies, we went to a birthday party, we went to play with friends, we went to the toy store, we went to a picnic, and we even went to a local pool. Do those sound like empty days?

unfortunately, they were not busy enough. They still managed to try to kill each other a dozen times per day. There were screaming matches, WWF-style throw downs, copious amounts of tears, and some actual bloodshed. If one asked for grapes, the other wanted blueberries and then fought over which one wanted which. If one stopped to read quietly, the other would stomp like a T-Rex all across the books. Using the stamp and ink pads resulted in a Smurf for a child, using scissors and paper made it look like an Origami convention gone horribly awry, and anything that required them to actually clean up after themselves ensured a Chernobyl-level explosion. In short, my kids were right bastards.

I did what any parent would do – I complained to my friends. Luckily, one gave me the fantastic suggestion of creating a fun jar. Just take regular every day fun things, like riding a bike or breaking out the Play-Doh, write them down on slips of paper, put them in a jar, and when a kid inevitably whines that he or she is bored, out comes the jar, out comes a slip and they get to do that activity. Enforced fun – what’s not to like? We divided our slips of paper into three categories: inside, outside, and special events. This gave me the ability to keep us indoors on the hottest days and help monitor the amount of money spent on crazy activities. Kids may bowl free this summer, but that’s about all that’s free. Given a choice, my kids would go out to eat every night, which I am sure has nothing to do with my cooking and everything to do with the novelty of getting both M&M’s and ice cream for dessert. So far, we are still working on the choices. I vetoed play dates as an option because I like to set them up in advance. They vetoed nap time because, really, who wants to pull that as an activity? I may keep some blank paper and palm some of the more date-specific rewards such as the dollar movies, open plays at indoor sports centers, and other random activities.

We have a crazy busy week ahead of us with incoming visits from out-of-town guests and outgoing events where we are the incoming guests, so the jar won’t go into effect until next week where I can test its effectiveness. Currently, I’m cautiously optimistic about its success. My only hope is that I don’t have to add a fourth category that includes such choices as Sam Adams, Captain Morgan, and Jack Daniels or worse, Cooper, Virtua, and CHOP.

What I Learned in Kindergarten

2011-06-17T13:36:00.003-04:00

Today is the last day of kindergarten. I assume my daughter learned a lot, she is not one to come home and chat about her day. Mostly she just wants a snack. But I believe I have learned quite a bit about how to survive the daily onslaught that is our educational system. Obviously, this will change as my daughter actually adds say, real homework, to her daily routine, or a uniform, or a flow chart for her after-school activities. But for now, just for this one year, this is what I learned.

1. Backpack. Size matters. It has to be big enough to fit in a standard-sized lunchbox, but small enough not to overbalance them in a stiff wind (even though it will almost ever hold any books.) It must be checked daily. Water bottles, hair clips, the occasional small toy, and the never-ending stray crayons must be removed and put into their proper home.

2. Folder. She had a folder that came home every day. It contained every single piece of paper she had colored, cut, and pasted, as well as every note from the teacher, PTA, student council, cafeteria, superintendent, nurse, and room mom. It was also the source of birthday party invitations. This folder was a gaping hole of environmental destruction and had to be sifted very carefully, piece by piece to separate the actual useful information from the random art. Placement in this folder was very important: left side for home, right side for school. I intend to burn it in effigy.

3. Paperwork. In this day and age of e-mail, paper was still king in her elementary school. Nothing was sent electronically. Everything had to be signed, initialed, notarized, and practically fingerprinted. I learned the hard way to fill everything out and send it back immediately lest it get lost. (Putting it in a “safe place” just meant finding it two weeks past deadline.)

4. Money. There is no such thing as spare change once your child is in school. Quarters are a hot commodity. They buy pretzels. Small bills are also essential. No mother carries a twenty. What would we do with it? Fives and singles are the currency of the school yard.

5. Art. There is no craft as precious as the one you put in the trash yesterday. Random scraps are treasured gifts from friends. Everyone has a different way to deal with crafts. Find your own and stick to it. I employed a three prong method: fridge, playroom wall, or (after a suitable waiting period) trash.

6. Gossip. All the best gossip occurred at drop-off and pick-up. I made sure to figure out who had the best gossip and immediately befriended her. She had all the good stuff, not the water-down PTA version of events. I shall miss her. Luckily, I already know who has the goods at our new school.

7. Play Dates. Just say no.

8. Teachers. Nothing says “thoughtful parent” like the occasional gift of tissues, wipes, and sanitizer. I bought in bulk and deliver new supplies at the first outbreak of cold, flu, or stomach bug. A hand-pump of Purell a day could keep the doctor away.

9. Lunch. The school lunch is still a frightening thing. What are chicken fries? When did nachos become healthy? I let buy once a week on a pre-approved day. The rest of the time, she got water or milk, a sandwich, and fruit. No snacks, no cookies, no chips. Trust me, she got enough extra junk food during her school day, I didn’t need to add to it.

10. Volunteer. By doing what I could to get into my kid’s classroom as often as possible, I was able to get a much better idea of which kid to avoid, which teacher did what, and how well (or not) her classroom was handled. Of course, the downside was that once you go in once, you wind up going in for everything. The upside, lovely end-of-year gifts for being a good parent.

Next year, we are going parochial. God help us all.

Rated R for Ridiculous

2011-06-14T16:06:00.002-04:00

One of fellow bloggers recently found a web site that will determine how your blog would be rated if it were a movie. (Not only am I ripping off her idea, I am totally ripping off her latest blog post. Remember She Who Must Not Be Named, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.) Of course, I had to try this. Hers was rated NC-17, which impressed me to no end. Sadly, I only earned an R. Is it wrong that I am disappointed?

As with the MPAA, the site listed the specific examples of what made my blog rated R. I used the word porn four times, death three times, sex twice, and dead once. That’s it. Ugh. I feel like there are Curious George episodes that are dirtier. Plus, I am sure I used the word fuck at least three times, which should surely bump me up into NC-17 territory. When did I become so friendly? I don’t want to be friendly. I want to be snarky and rude and funny and intelligent and witty and odd and occasionally morbid. To steal yet another joke from the other blog, I feel like there should be far more necrophilia posts based on my rating. In this day and age, just going pantless is enough to earn you a PG-13. Maybe I need to start going braless too?

Plus, who decides if talking about death is only for mature audiences? True, I try not to discuss porn with my kids and sex jokes tend to go right over their heads, but kids understand death. Hell, last year in pre-k, the children in my daughter’s class were asked to draw a picture of their favorite pet and the resulting gallery was like a modern art wailing wall of the recently deceased. It would have been disturbing if it wasn’t so funny.

I don’t necessarily aspire to raunchy, but I’ll take naughty if I can get it. I should actually be glad I at least earned a red-band R. If there were a Blockbuster for the blog world, at least I’d still be available to rent. The big box retailers would still carry my words. I may even wind up in the dollar stores of the world, deeply discounted, but still available to own. My NC-17 rated friend cannot say the same.

So at least I’ve got that going for me.

Inter-Marriage E-mail

2011-06-03T13:21:00.003-04:00

My husband and I have both had pretty rough week. The first heat wave of summer always knocks me on my ass and pretty much locks me indoors. This week, it kept me in with a potty training child who is working through the big boy/little boy issue. Lots of tears, lots of having to leave places (such as parks on beautiful mornings) due to tears, lots of me day dreaming about getting drunk in the afternoon, etc. My husband has also been suffering through his own hell week and has spent almost every night working late and then coming home to turn on the computer until the wee hours. In short, this week sucked.

When I couldn’t get basic errands run yesterday, I sent my husband an e-mail asking for him to run them for me. This is a pretty common occurrence as it is basically a get out of jail free card. He works late, but blames in on the errand. I get a necessary task done, so ignore how long it takes him to do it. It’s one of the little ways we stay happily married. However, sending my dearly beloved an e-mail can be a tricky thing. He has a habit of ignoring them or reading and deleting. My most common messages are sent via text and read either, ETA? or Milk, please. There are no cutesy messages about missing him or looking forward to the weekend. Those would immediately put me on the Do Not Open list, never to be read again.

However, I figured both he and I needed a little bit of humor to get through our days. Luckily, he felt the same. So, my few readers, here is the e-mail chain between the two of us about running errands. Enjoy.

Dear Husband,

I am having problems motivating my employees. They refuse to dress appropriately and that is causing a breakdown in my ability to handle my daily responsibilities. Also, they seem to want me to micromanage every aspect of their performance which is leaving me very little to no time to actually manage any of my own. One employee seems to have an undiagnosed hearing loss, temporary memory loss, as well as separation anxiety from his partner, Lightning McQueen. The older, more experienced employee seems willing to take control, however, I fear her ideas of appropriate behavior and mine are vastly different.

As such, I have been entirely prevented from achieving my three goals for the day: the acquisition of rolls from the purveyor of choice, the acquisition of beef gravy from the grocery store, and a quick stop at a local pharmacy for such much needed medicines.

I would have used a more immediate form of communication to confer this information to you, but unfortunately, our employees are also now using company communication equipment for personal use.

Sincerely,

Your Wife, SAHM

Thank you for bringing this to my attention.

I do hope that you realize that your employee’s behavior is your responsibility, and your inability to lead them reflects poorly on your managerial skills.

Your unsuccessful completion of your tasks will result in disciplinary action, please be on the lookout for the form that I will require you to sign and return, in duplicate.

As it is a mission critical task, I will handle task 3, and pick up your medications this evening.

The other two tasks will have to be delayed until you can complete them tomorrow, and alternative plans will have to be made. I am open to suggestions at this point in time.

I appreciate your help in attaining the perfectly medicated state necessary for me to do my job properly. This will avoid my heart exploding and the extra hours that would cause maintenance. While I realize that managing my charges falls squarely under my job description, the attainment of our vertically-challenged staff was actually a dual venture and dual responsibility must be accepted. As to the tasks that are not deemed mission critical, no alternatives can be discussed until there is a set deadline placed on when they will be presented to management.

Unfortunately, due to our current corporate culture, any deadline given will undoubtedly be changed abruptly and without warning, so I may have to call in a third-party vendor to provide sustenance.

Also, will happily fill out all forms, in triplicate, if only I can then file them appropriately.

Your appreciation of my completing your tasks is noted, and the maintenance department is thankful for the OT avoided, as they have been under some resource strain lately.

While some responsibility for the recruitment of the vertically-challenged staff is mine, and the responsibility for leading and training these staffers is also a shared responsibility, in this instance, I cannot accept responsibility for their current behavior.

Using a third-party to fulfill the gaps left by the non-completion of tasks 1 and 2 shows good “out of the box” thinking, and you are to be commended for that. This allows the team to complete the assigned mission, without adversely affecting the overall timeline. Please follow the established procedures for purchasing from a third-party vendor, with the expectation that the purchasing dept should be able to complete their tasks by 7pm ET.

Due to the current economic environment, and the ongoing green initiative, the filing of forms in triplicate is prohibited; please consult your handbook for the proper completion steps of those forms.

And that, dear readers, is how we wound up having take-out Chinese for dinner last night (at 8:30) after he stopped at CVS.

Death by Lingerie

2011-05-25T12:08:00.003-04:00

Last weekend, as a belated Mother’s Day present, my husband took me shopping. We all know how much I hate to shop. However, I was down to my last pair of jeans, almost none of my summer clothes are flattering or fit properly, and even I had to admit that I had reached the point of no return in terms of men’s t-shirts.

The Rapture wasn't until nightfall, the children were visiting the grandparents, and the sun was shining – it was a perfect day to hit the outlets. Now, let me give a little background on shopping with the husband. He will not leave a store until all sizes and types of clothing have been rooted out of hiding and put on my body – the brighter the color, the better. No blacks, dark blues, or grays are tolerated unless absolutely necessary. His philosophy is thus, if he’s going to be stuck at the stores, then by God, he’s going to make it worthwhile. I, on the other hand, have a habit of walking into a store, heaving a deep sigh, then walking right back out. This is not acceptable to the husband. If it looks worthy, it will be tried, and if it fits, it will be bought. Due to him, I had a kick-ass maternity wardrobe. And thanks to him, I now have something of a summer wardrobe. But let’s be clear, he only enjoys it because it only happens every decade or so. If he had to do it regularly, I assure you, it would be a different story. But when the choice is listen to me bitch about how nothing fits every single day or take one entire day to buy clothes, he’ll go the shortest distance every time.

The day started well. One pink summer dress, one purple summer dress, one dark blue summer dress (allowable only because the alternative was white and that wouldn’t hold up on the playground), a handful of shirts, and a standard issue denim skirt provided an excellent start. I agreed on a hot-pink skirt, but turned down all efforts at lime green, lemon yellow, and Lysol blue. Who wears those colors besides the Queen? Nothing would draw more attention to my ass than bedecking it in violently violet-colored skorts. I avoided any attire that looked like I was about to play tennis, croquet, or golf. Clearly, I don’t do sports, so why pretend?

I hit the mother lode when I found a LBD for a Long Island wedding. It looked a bit Real Housewife on the rack, but on my rack, it looked great. Hugged all the right places and hit exactly the right price point. A few stores for him, a few more stores for me and we were almost done for the day.

But then, like a cloud on the horizon loomed the bra store. See, the little black dress needed a little black strapless bra, which I did not own. Normally, I shop for unmentionables with my SILs. The oldest usually takes before and after pictures of me in new bras, the middle one likes to find the loudest, most obnoxious colors and textures, and the youngest likes to wear them on her head. When they sort through the stacks for size, it’s like a circus act of underpants flying through the air. Left to their devices, I have wound up with some truly hideous undies. I once found myself in a pair of high-waisted granny panties with martinis printed all over them. Another time, I put on a cute little red pair only to realize they butt instructed the viewer to “unwrap me.” As the viewer at the time was my six-year old, this started quite a conversation. But without my darling SILs for guidance, I was left only with my husband and the ever helpful sales clerk who pointed me in the direction of a bra that would, she promised, make me look like a porn star.

Jesus, Mary, and the oft-forgotten Joseph.

Do I look like porn star material? I’m a fat housewife from Jersey. I’m pretty sure I am as far away from porn star material as you can get without actually going the fetish route. If it was physically possible for a Muggle to Apparate, my husband would have done so at that very moment. This sales woman was not for the timid. Once she found my size and directed me to the fitting room, she even went so far as to fetch my husband so that he could make appreciative noises at her handiwork. The poor man was then forced to find the balance between appropriate and leering about my bound boobage. I honestly thought he was going to die. However, all was not lost. After buying the necessary equipment needed to haul, hoist, hike, and hold my lovely ladies in place for the duration of an evening (at twice the cost of the dress covering them), we did manage to leave the store with an ever so small amount of our dignity intact.

This leaves us with two important questions:
1. Did I buy the porn star bra? Yes, oh yes I did – with the undies to match.
2. Do I have enough clothes to stop dressing like an overgrown teenage boy? Sort of.

But with the Rapture on hold until October, at least I’ll get good use out of them.

Limbo

2011-05-18T12:52:00.002-04:00

When I was little, my mom spent a lot of time talking about limbo. Not the limbo, which requires feats of dexterity I shudder to think about in connection to my flesh and blood, but the Catholic version of it. Specifically, she always wanted to know what happened to all the babies floating around in it. Why this was such an obsession of hers, I do not know since all the people in my family died after getting christened (and in most cases, thankfully, managed to receive most of their sacraments short of taking holy orders). When limbo was cancelled, or disbanded, or blown up, or whatever you do to an imaginary world you no longer believe exists, she still talked about it.

Now, years and years later, I can understand why. Limbo is just an awful point of existence. It is neither here nor there. It's in-between. It’s the gap between one step and the next. It’s the feeling of falling that wakes you out of a deep sleep in terror. And currently, it is my way of life. I live in the space between house and home. All I want to do is move forward and all I can do is tread water.

It’s nothing dramatic (writes the woman who just compared it to death without respite), I just want to sell my house and move to another town and I can’t. This is a plight million of people around the country are facing in much dire circumstances than my own. I don’t need to get out before the bank moves in. I just want to give my kids a better quality of life.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the housing market for casual moves. This housing market smells like desperation and fear. You sell low to buy low. No one really wins except new buyers, those lucky, lucky few who can actually manage the Olympian feat of getting a mortgage. I know this is not true around the country, but in a blue-collar neighborhood like mine, with a For Sale sign on every block, and one buyer for every five sellers, trying to sell a house is like trying to get that damn rock up the mountain. You get the call for a showing, you clean the house, you vacate the house, and then you get the call back saying they weren’t interested. Rock comes out of the gulley, up, up, up the hill, and then rolls all the way back down. The only difference between me and Sisyphus right now is that I can’t even control how often I can roll the rock. It’s all in someone else’s hands.

In this frame of mind, I find it hard to write. Ideas flitter in and out of my head, half-formed and half-deranged. Do I write a blog about how Samoa plans to time travel into the future in order to better trade with New Zealand? How trying to potty train my son might actually kill me? How much I learned about parenting by sending my child to kindergarten? How much I want my books back on their shelves instead of in storage? I think all of my ideas are in limbo with those babies. Can’t go to heaven, can’t go to hell. Just stuck. That’s me. Stuck.

What's in a Name?

2011-05-11T12:23:00.001-04:00

Bear Blu is not the name of a child. It is the name of a dog or a beloved doll. But no boy-child can grow to manhood saddled with that name and not have some severe psychological problems.

Obviously, a celebrity gave birth to this monstrosity of a baby name. I’m sure the kid is cute and all, but just because you once, long ago and far away, starred in a movie called Clueless doesn’t mean you have to act that way the rest of your natural born life. Yes, people, Alicia Silverstone just announced that she named her son Bear Blu. No E. While I do not believe every child must be given a Supreme Court worthy name, I do believe that creativity and originality only go so far in real life.

Of course, most celebrities seem to live in their own little world where “real” life has very little impact.

For example, the habit of naming children after the place where they were conceived seems like such a pretentious way to announce to the world where you had sex. Only in Hollywood would you wind up with names like Brooklyn, the lesser borough of the Bronx, Paris, Ireland, and Moroccan. Though, in the latter case, the celeb in question is not referring to the country but to the room in her home decorated like the country so it’s both tacky and affected. In the real world, you would get a lot of boys named Ford or Dodge and girls named Volvo. Following this trend to the likeliest conclusion and the sheer number of people who sleep on Swedish furnishings, the world may soon be overrun with children named Ikea.

I realize that celebrities by their nature crave attention. It’s the reason they saddle their offspring with such awful names as Moxie Crimefighter, Audio Science, Pilot Inspektor (double points for being misspelled], and my favorite, Kal-El. Your child’s name shouldn’t be an inside joke that only the fans at Comic-Con can understand. Trust me, I know from whence I speak. Let’s all remember that while my daughter’s name is both lovely and Germanic, it is also the name of a character from my favorite sci-fi show that just happened to be a vengeance demon.

Twee is also really big in celebrity baby-naming. As the lovely Emma Thompson recently defined it, twee is whimsy without wit. For example, naming the children in your family Buddy Bear Maurice, Poppy Honey Rosie, Daisy Boo Pamela, and Petal Blossom Rainbow is twee. It’s also moronic, although I do appreciate that most of them have a decent middle name they can use if they choose not to become strippers or pot dealers. Bluebell and Apple also fall into this category. The only witty celebrity baby name I ever heard is Tu Morrow. Hee. That’s just awesome. The worst? Jermajesty. That’s just wrong.

A famous last name as a first name also seems to be a trend that manages to overthrow both gender bias and common sense. Being named Monroe or Harlow is a lot to live up to, especially if you want to live past 40. Hopper is a terrible name for either sex, as is Chaplin. All of these actors/actresses have first names. What is wrong with Dennis or Charlie, Marilyn or Jean? And as a throwback to Nicolas Cage (who chose his own stage name based on a comic), couldn’t you have just named the kid Luke instead of Kal-El? Clark is less common than the equivalent Jor-El but at least your kid won’t be beat up in kindergarten.

Then there are of course, the “cool” names. Rocket, Rebel, Racer, Rogue, and Rhiannon all belong to one family – a family, I imagine that has a hell of a time finding a babysitter. There are “historical” names like Homer, Ptolomy, and Hermés. Sean “P. Diddy” Combs deserves a double smack in the head for naming his African-American daughter after the Confederate outlaw Jessie (sic) James. Musicians are not exempt from dumb baby names, but I figure they are on so many drugs that their kids will never be normal, so an abnormal name works just fine for them.

There are a world of names out there beyond John and Jane. Go to any bookstore and you will find baby name books for every country, race, creed, and religion. But just think about this – if, when you call out your child’s name – a dog comes running or an adult bursts out laughing, then perhaps you should start from scratch.

It's ALIVE!

2011-04-28T12:21:00.001-04:00

It’s ALIVE!!!!

I am creating a monster. I am aware of this yet cannot seem to stop myself. I have fed this beast, watered it, nurtured it, and even taped shows for it. What awful animal is this? My friends, I have made a Bridezilla.

It all started so innocently. My children are very limited in what they are allowed to watch on television. PBS Kids is still king, they don’t know Nickelodeon exists, or that there is a whole Disney channel. My daughter just watched High School Musical for the first time and her choice of lounging around the house clothes still leans toward princess or ballerina-wear. However, come nighttime, when I need to cook a meal, or take a shower, or put the little guy to bed, I needed something for her to watch to keep her from bothering me. Enter Say Yes to the Dress.

For those of you blessedly unaware of this little piece of hell in Manhattan, the show is about women going wedding dress shopping. My daughter loves it. She now requires that I DVR it for her. I did draw the line at taping the spinoff Big Bliss which just focuses on fat women and I do preview every episode and delete the ones that focus too heavily on body issues or the fiancé picking the dress. Call me old-fashioned, but I still think a woman should dress to please herself.

From there, my daughter started becoming obsessed with weddings. She wore the Ariel wedding dress to her sixth birthday party. Her favorite song is Bruno Mars “Marry You.” She plays it on repeat, at top volume. I actually had to look up the lyrics so that she stopped saying “dancing Jews” and used the correct phrase “dancing juice.” She could play Taylor’s Swifts “Love Story” for eternity because it is a perfect blend of her two fave’s – princess dresses and weddings. On the few occasions she has been allowed to watch my wedding video, she cries because she wasn’t there. I have tried explaining that she was a few years away from even existing but she still cries. I was not a Bridezilla (I don’t think), but to be fair, that is probably because I spent most of my time fending off Momzilla. The fact that I even survived my wedding is an accomplishment.

My bride-in-training is actually going to a flower girl in a wedding this summer and I am not worried about her walking down the aisle; I’m worried about her stepping aside in order for the bride to follow. In her head, because she will go first, she is the most important. So of course, the Easter Bunny had to bring her the Barbie Wedding set, complete with flower girl, bridesmaid, bride, groom, cake, and presents. She loved it, though had no idea what the point of the guy was. Brilliant.

Where is this all leading? Well, tomorrow is the Royal Wedding. I would be remiss as a parent if I didn’t wake my little girl at 5 a.m. and let her gorge herself on the pomp and circumstance that is the British in full bloom. I’m serving banana and cinnamon bread and a nice selection of caffeine-free tea for us to share. I remember Diana getting married. Why not allow my child to witness the marriage of the couple she will live to see crowned? (Though seriously, those Windsor’s live forever so it could take awhile.) I know that I could DVR it, but that’s not watching history being made. She’s off from school, we have nothing else to do, so if we laze away the afternoon in a fog of lethargy and carb-overload, then so be it. This is how memories are made.

Will I pay for this later in life? Probabaly. But here’s hoping that if I do get to take her bridal dress shopping one day, the fond recollection of our morning spent watching Will and Kate will help alleviate the pain of paying for the damn thing.

What’s in YOUR Basket?

2011-04-22T14:15:00.001-04:00

Where exactly do jelly beans come from? A friend of mine always leaves a trail of jelly beans from her children’s door to their Easter basket. The commercials for the movie Hop seem to highlight the same idea. The Easter Bunny poops out jelly beans. Can we all say “ewwww” together? Does Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans have a poo-flavored bean? If so, I think I’ll skip all the brown ones.

I find Easter candy in general to be rather disturbing. At a recent cooking class, my daughter made me a beautiful Peep bouquet. While there, my husband let her eat one of the sugary confections. She pretended to like it, but while there are lots of children who want to mainline sugar, my kid isn’t one of them. The bouquet has been sitting on my counter for two weeks with nary a sign of decay. Even the seasonal ants that are the bane of my existence every spring want absolutely nothing to do with them. Peeps definitely don’t count as a healthy carb. They are barely even candy. They simply exist to be destroyed via microwave. Coating them in chocolate just makes them worse. I nibbled the ear off one of them and almost went a sugar coma. They are completely and utterly disgusting. So tell me, who is actually eating these things?

Also in the “I wonder” category, why do we feel the need to immortalize the Easter Bunny (and to the same extent, Santa) in chocolate? Isn’t eating the jolly fat man a form of cannibalism? Can vegetarians eat a bunny so long as it is made out of chocolate? There is something very wicked about being encouraged to bite the ears off the bunny. Where’s PETA when you need them? Wouldn’t it make more sense to sell a chocolate Jesus for Easter? At the very least, it would be a tastier way to take Communion. It certainly couldn’t be counted as sacrilegious since Catholics around the world take the body of Christ every Sunday. Why not make it scrumptiously delicious? You could make the Virgin Mary out of white chocolate. If you really wanted to get historical, you could make the entire holy family out of dark chocolate since I’m pretty sure there weren’t a lot of pale, blue-eyed blondes hanging out in ancient Palestine. When you combine it all in one basket, you get fecal waste, early on-set diabetes, and animal cruelty. Yum!

For many of us, you also get a week with your children to go along with that bulging basket filled with sugar, fat, high-fructose corn syrup, and empty carbs. Being a fat girl in love with chocolate (though I haven’t eaten any for 67 days and counting), I am not a food Nazi in any way, but the last thing I want to do is be trapped with my children for 10 days during the rainiest April ever with a buttload of candy. So once again, my children aren’t getting any. Call me cruel, call me mean, but I’d rather pay three times more for an actual toy they will use than crap I will probably wind up throwing out. They made out like bandits already at the town-wide Easter egg hunt where due to precarious weather, only a handful of kids showed up, allowing my kids to take home four dozen eggs – EACH. Each egg had at least two pieces of candy, some had four. Throw in egg hunts at each school and their baskets are already well-stocked with Nestlé balls, mini-Hershey bars, and lollipops. The giant imaginary rabbit who mysteriously enters the house will be leaving behind a Barbie Wedding Set (I’m prepping her for the Royal Wedding next week) and a Imaginext Dragon Boat.

So happy Easter to all of you Christians, happy belated-Passover to all of my Jewish friends, and happy fertility to all the rest of you. What, you think there was always supposed to be candy in those eggs?

Houston, We Have A Moron

2011-04-15T11:04:00.003-04:00

My mother is a Luddite. Any technology given to her will automatically cease working, mostly because she has no idea how to use it. My father is happy to use any tool that can be bought from Sears, but only if it doesn’t include batteries. This has made for some very interesting conversations.

For example, the computer in my parent’s home is ancient. I bought it in 2001. It is the size of a dozen iPads stacked on top of each other and has almost no programs on it excluding the absolute basics. It runs on a dial-up and it’s version of Word is practically in old English. My mother uses the Internet once a month (for those few web sites that will actually load) and Word once a year to print dog graduation certificates. (Don’t ask.) And every year, she calls to ask me how to do it. But now, she wants a laptop. I have begged her to just go to her local library instead when she needs to surf the web. She also wants Skype so that she can see more of the grandkids. By the time she turned it on and figured out how to position it, she could drive the hour to see them in person. My husband flat-out refuses to help them buy or install one. There are reasons for this.

Reason 1: Paranoia. My parents honestly believe that their GPS lies to them – on purpose. My father cannot understand that it isn’t lying; the problem is that he isn’t listening. When the GPS says to turn in 1 mile, he turns immediately. He doesn’t process what he hears, he just obeys it. (No doubt this is his survival mechanism for living with my mother.) When the GPS inevitably tells him to turn around, he blames it for sending him in the wrong direction in the first place. Plus, my mother likes to point out every single turn and exit you shouldn’t take, even if there is no reason for you to try to take it. She’s like an anti-GPS and the real one just can’t compete with her.

Reason 2: Parsimony. My mother refuses to pay a dime for electronics she believes she doesn’t need, but could actually use. (This is in direct contrast to her ability to spend obscene amounts of money at Boscov’s for items she won’t use, but believes she may need in the future. It’s a conundrum.) She is currently planning to demote her cable package back down to the absolute basic service. As she puts it, she can never find the other channels anyway because, and I quote, “They move around too much.” People, I am not kidding. My genetic code links me to a human being who honestly believes channels change stations on a daily basis just to fuck with her. This is a woman who not only still uses a VCR to tape shows, but in the 22 years since the technology entered our home, hasn’t actually figured out how to program it correctly and only manages to tape one attempt out of three. I have fruitlessly explained that a DVR would automatically tape everything and help her find new channels to watch. No go.

Reason 3: Impatience. My father once hit so many buttons consecutively in an effort to simply change the channel that he wound up five sub-menus deep and managed to turn one half of the screen black and white and the other half upside down. True story. It took my husband ages to fix it. When cell phones first became popular, my mother asked for and received a child-friendly one. It only had five buttons total and I had them all programmed perfectly. The problem was that she would hit them simultaneously so that she could never manage to actually make a call.

Reason 4: Blindness. I have bought my dad several of those large remote tablets to help him stop pressing random buttons. I am not talking about the high-tech ones where you can start your car, cook a meal, and watch seven channels at once in three different rooms. I’m talking about a basic remote about the size of the slabs Moses used to transcribe the Ten Commandments. These remotes are larger than an iPad. Astronauts could use them to change the channel from space without even using binoculars. As technology gets smaller, my dad gets more hopeless at reading any of it.

Reason 5: Fear. I received my first e-mail from my mother two months ago. She has e-mail access through her part-time job but waited seven years to send me something out of fear someone would catch her in the act and punish her. She also seems to believe that if you press the wrong button, the technology in question may actually explode. Or at least, that is the best explanation I can give for why she touches it so gingerly and then steps back quickly. There is no “exploring” a program to see how it runs, there is only diligently following hand-written notes dictated by my husband to do one or two very simple functions.

For all of these reasons and so many more, I refuse to get my parents a laptop. I know many people their age who are always first adaptors on the bleeding edge of technology and gleefully use everything they get their hands on to its utmost potential (Hi Dad-in-law!). My parents are not those people. They don’t need a laptop, they won’t properly use a laptop, and they won’t know how to trouble-shoot a laptop. I once spent 25 minutes on the phone helping my mom work through a printing issue only to realize that my mother hadn’t actually turned the printer on. This is not a woman who needs a laptop. This is a woman who needs an abacus.

Rock A Bye Baby

2011-04-12T11:49:00.000-04:00

Is there anything in life more adorable than a sleeping child? They always look so much younger and milder when their cheeks are red with pillow marks and their eyes are closed. I love how my daughter always throws off the blankets, no matter the temperature, and how my son will always wind up upside down and with one leg thrown off the bed entirely.

That is, until they do these things while sleeping in my bed.

My husband is away this week and instead of enjoying the full width of my bed, sleeping in the middle, using more than one pillow, etc., I get a small child and a menagerie of stuffed animals as my bedfellows. I can hear my very practical friend’s voice now, “It’s your bed, you tell her to get out.” It’s never that easy. See, she honestly believes that she is doing me a service by sleeping with me. In her mind, she is preventing me from getting lonely, scared, or cold. She knows just where to install her night light, puts a book on the bedside table, and is very proud of herself for taking care of me.

Normally, I put up with it. It’s cute, she’s still small enough that if I situate her at the far side of the bed, I still have plenty of room and she generates just enough heat to keep the bed warm, but not toasty. But last night, the boy decided to get in on the act. I put him down in his own bed only to find him up and about over and over again during the night. And let me tell you, suddenly hearing a rocking chair bounce off the walls in an otherwise silent house will jump start your heart right quick.

Now, I only have a queen-sized bed and I am pretty much a queen-sized woman. With her on one end and me on the other, that meant the little guy had to go smack dab in the middle. I need that middle as a happy median between me and the whirling dervish of arms that is my daughter in repose. By putting a living, breathing human being in that spot, I managed to avoid the arm flung across my face but gained constant elbows to my head, knees in my back, and the dead zombie smell of his beloved blanket in my nostrils as he tried unsuccessfully to turn himself feet side up in my bed. Throw in the fact that neither kid could really settle down, and were constantly moving, moaning, talking, sniffling, snoring, and grinding teeth, and the overwhelming stuffiness of a house recovering from an 80+ degree day and I was in hell.

How was my husband enjoying his night? Sleeping in a king-sized bed, with the soothing tones of ESPN as background noise, and with the thermostat set to freezing. He denies that he sleeps well away from the comforting arms of his wife but I am not buying it.

I know that as a parent, I had all the power. However, the thought of moving one or both back to their respective rooms with the ensuing tears, whining, protestations, and possible never going back to sleep (and knowing how fun that would make daylight hours) was just too much for me. I did what I had to do. I moved to the folded-up futon. Obviously, I didn’t want to flatten it out since I always lose control of it and it lands smashing to the floor. Instead, I just wrapped myself in a blanket (because sheets were out of the question at 2 a.m.) and tried to sleep.

By 4 a.m., my dozing repeatedly interrupted by that awful feeling of falling (because I kept trying to roll forward but the curve of the mattress kept rolling me backward), I realized that my children were giggling. This is never a good sound to hear in the wee hours of the night. By the time I got them back to sleep, the birds were already chirping. When the morning alarm rang and both children popped out of bed like a pair of deranged Jack-in-the-boxes, I was so tired that I could only marvel at their energy.

My goal for tonight is to keep both rugrats in their own rooms. Music boxes playing, light-blocking shades down, nightlights on, stuffed animals keeping them safe. Sleeping is my number two favorite thing to do in bed and I would really, really like to do it alone tonight.

The Freebie Five: 2011 edition

2011-04-01T11:43:00.003-04:00

As you know, I have a Freebie Five list. Recently I have done some serious thinking about who I would or would not boink if the opportunity occurred (it’s been a long winter) and I have revamped my list. The old top five were: Matt Damon, David Boreanaz, Matthew McConaughey, Keifer Sutherland, and Boston Rob Mariano. Honorable mentions included Johnny Depp, Jon Bon Jovi, Alexander Skarsgård, Harry Connick Jr., and Mark Salling. These too, have been changed.

Matt Damon stays in his number one perch. Watch an interview with him, any interview, and you’ll notice that he very deftly answers personal questions by deflecting them entirely, giving generic answers, or repeating something he’s already said publicly. He gives nothing away. I love that. It allows me to build him up to be anything I want with none of that pesky reality to interfere. Keifer Sutherland also remains firmly on the list. As long as he has his voice, he’ll have my heart. He’s still short and still an alcoholic, but as I’ve said before, when you are lying down, height doesn’t matter and as the only way he’d ever acquiesce to bedding me would be while drunk out of his mind, I’ll really have to let the alcoholism slide.

David Boreanaz and Matthew McConaughey, however, are both off the list. First and foremost, I’m tired of spell-check arguing with me over their names. I married into a German last name with a host of extra vowels, so I know about wacky spellings, but enough already. Secondly, they have released far too much public information (see above about ignorance being bliss) and I’m so turned off by them in real life that I don’t even want them in my fantasy life. Knowing that Boreanaz banged the same woman Tiger Woods did means he has both horrible taste and a (probable) STD. Adding insult to injury, his ability to produce his own television show is non-existent as it switched from character to caricature with the actors obviously just showing up to read lines and receive their paychecks. He also gave his daughter a stupid name. Mr. Just Keep Livin, on the other hand, needs to add the “G” and grow up. A philosophy espoused in a 90’s stoner movie is not a good look for a guy in his early 40s. He is also too orange for my taste. There is a difference between a healthy outdoor glow and glowing in the dark. It’s not a fine a line as you would think. Boston Rob Mariano has also wandered off the list by sheer dint of overexposure. I’ve been done with Survivor for several seasons and when I realized that even the return of Boston Rob couldn’t get me to tune in; I realized I was done with him as well.

Jon Bon Jovi, Harry Connick Jr., and Mark Salling are no longer honorable mentions. Jon’s hair is too fried, Harry hasn’t sang in a while, and Mark, well, Mark hasn’t lit my fire recently on Glee. Maybe it’s the storylines, maybe it’s the songs, maybe it’s the acting ability (or lack thereof), but until he sings “Beth” again, he’s gone. I have also booted Johnny Depp. While he comes off as a very nice guy in interviews with a charming charitable side, I have come to the realization that he probably smells. Body odor just can’t be ignored, even in a dream.

To keep up my quota of supernatural creatures, I have kept Alexander Skarsgård and upgraded him from honorable mention to the actual list. For a short while, I toyed with the idea of adding Taylor Lautner. Once he was legal, he was fair game. Very quickly though, I put aside boyish things and found myself a real half-man, half-wolf: Joe Manganiello. That is a man who knows how to wear nothing at all. I can’t even look at poor little Jacob (Twilight) again without thinking he looks like a Scooby snack compared to Alcide (True Blood). (As as aside, does anyone else wonder why werewolves in their human form only have hair on their heads? I know back hair isn’t ever in fashion but a little chest hair never hurt anyone.)

The final spot is still up for grabs until I watch a little more television. It’s a tie between two newcomers. Both are on sci-fi series and have been around for a while, but they didn’t bing my radar until recently. You see, I was never into Dawson’s Creek. I knew it existed, could tell you the names of the four leads and even how the final episode ended, but overall, it wasn’t my cup of tea. Recently, however, I started watching Fringe. Oh my my, Joshua Jackson is all grown up now and he is fine. Forget Pacey, I want Peter. Also in the running is John Barrowman. Think of him as the Scottish equivalent of Neil Patrick Harris. I discovered him while watching the revamped Doctor Who. As Captain Jack Harkness, he’s devilish, smart, charming, and all around awesome. Sure, in real life he’s out and proud, but I really doubt his sexual orientation is going to be the problem in us consummating our torrid affair, you know? I may have to add yet another sci-fi series to the roster just to watch more of him in the spinoff Torchwood and my Netflix queue is already laden in geek television. I will also have to watch lots of clips of him talking in his natural Scottish accent on You Tube. Did I mention he can sing? Yummy.

So there you have it. Take a few minutes on this snowy April morning before the first Phillies game of the season starts (or even while it plays because seriously, baseball is boring), and think of your own top five. Dead or alive, gay or straight, impossible or merely slightly problematic – who would you do if your spouse let you?

Cobra Kai!

2011-03-29T12:16:00.002-04:00

My husband just changed jobs, so we are in a bit of an insurance no-fly zone. To cover the basics until his benefits kick in, we are on COBRA. While we will eventually get reimbursed for all of our prescriptions and whatnot, the sticker shock at having to pay full price for them is enough to make me hope I don’t get really sick before May.

Let’s take, for example, my birth control pills. I have polycystic ovary syndrome, so getting pregnant required a team of experts, precision timing, and lots of poking with things that were not a penis. While not getting a period is actually a fine problem to have the rest of the time, it isn’t actually healthy. Plus, the price of a monthly pill pack against a monthly pregnancy test “just in case” is well worth it. That is until I actually paid full price for the pills. They cost $85 for 28 pills, seven of which could be replaced with Skittles for all their health benefits. Breaking out my rusty calculator, that equals roughly $4 per day for the 21 days of actual medicinal content.

Or as my husband put it, “Well honey, we might as well get our money’s worth.” No shit! No spin class for me this month, I’ll be too busy riding other equipment, thanks.

At least the pharmacist was willing to let me pay out of pocket for them. It took a week of back and forth to get the local drugstore chain to relinquish my blood pressure medication. (Taken because not only does my body not want to get pregnant, it didn’t want to stay pregnant and is still holding a grudge.) No insurance, no pills! I was so stunned that they didn’t hand the bag over that I just walked right out of the store. I’m sure the week I went without my scrip had a fantastic effect on my health. Eventually my husband took matters into his own hands and paid a grand total of $15 for them. Why does it cost more to stop me from making babies than it does to stop my heart from exploding? Does the need of the one outweigh the need of not making many? Who knows? What I do know is that my beta blocker container is almost empty and I shudder to think how much that is going to cost me to refill.

So, in light of the recent foray into actually paying full price for medicine, I am making my kids wash their hands twice as often and may just start bathing them in Purell. If they so much as sniffle or cough, I’ll start pumping them with every holistic remedy I can find on the Internet. That should work, right?

It's Not Easy Being Green

2011-03-18T09:37:00.002-04:00

When I was a child, St. Patrick’s Day meant wearing green and eating corned beef and cabbage, a meal I hated intensely and survived consuming only through a liberal application of mustard. My dad is Irish Catholic, a former New York Port Authority cop (pre-9/11 when no one knew what that was) and at one time, long before he had children, he even had red hair. His only flaw in the stereotype is this – he is a terrible drinker. Not that he has a drinking problem, but that he is actually terrible at drinking. Considering his heritage, occupation, and choice of spouse, one would assume the man would be an alcoholic. However, excluding one memorable incident concerning a neighbor with homemade grappa, I have never seen my father drunk. I have never seen my father order more than one cocktail with dinner (either a martini or a White Russian), and he buys one case of beer per summer (Coors Light). There was no alcohol served at family gathering save what other’s brought.

When I was in college, St. Patrick’s Day meant drinking green beer. The less I remember of that, the better. Remember kids, it doesn’t taste any better coming up than it did going down.

Now that I am a parent, St. Patrick’s Day means making sure the kid’s wear green to school and teaching them that a little wee man with a red beard and a green top hat sneaks around their home and school and wrecks havoc when they aren’t looking. I didn’t know it would be so much fun to mess with them, but pouring white milk into a glass that is pre-laced with a few drops of green food coloring is the most fun I’ve had with clothes on in a long time. I even went into their rooms and dropped a few fake coins along with one teeny tiny green hat. Why? Because apparently, teaching children that invisible, mythical creatures can sneak into their homes silently and stealthy without even their parents knowing is a good idea! Stranger danger be damned.

Think about it – Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy are all guilty of a little breaking and entering. Their entire existence is predicated on the fact that they are never seen. Yet we teach kids that ghosts are make-believe! Go figure. Dead people coming back from the grave to give a final wave is wrong (except if you are Christian because we just call him Jesus), but a little imp with wings coming to take your teeth and leave you money is right. What the hell does the fairy do with all the teeth anyway? Isn’t that a bit morbid? Can she be a he? Would that make him the Fairy Tooth Person?

The Easter Bunny is just as bad. Am I the only one who finds the little chocolate candies he leaves behind suspicious? Am I to believe that the Easter Bunny is made of chocolate and is simply pooping out candy? Or is he made of sugar and that’s why you get jelly beans? Plus, at least the fat man and the fairy have hands. What does the bunny use to carry things? I can’t imagine those short stubby little front legs are good for much hard labor. Who does all of the work packaging the candy? Santa has elves to make the toys and wrap them. I imagine the Tooth Fairy can manage on her own, one sack for the cash, another for the teeth. But the bunny, it’s a mystery.

Leprechauns are just an odd byproduct of St. Patrick’s Day. I guess they are just the muscle. A good overlord needs lots of henchmen if he is going to constantly chase the big payoff – or in his case, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Probably not a bad gig if you can get it – you get to hang out in mostly tropical locations, staying nice and dry from the rain until just that exact moment when the sun comes out. If you don’t get the gold, at least you can work on your tan.

Yes, I know all of these traditions come from the bastardization of ancient religions and rituals. And I know that in a very few precious years, my children will not believe a word of them, yet will still expect the toys, candy, and money. I mock in good fun because I know one day, I’ll have gone round the circle and will be left with either forcing my kids to eat nasty Irish food (that no good Irishman actually enjoys) or downing some green beer. Shudder.

Taste Testing

2011-03-15T10:53:00.003-04:00

I’m a big fan of the website Newser. My father-in-law introduced me to it and he’s a man who knows his way around news sites. Each article is a maximum of two paragraphs long and gives you just enough information that you can successfully answer the questions on NPR’s Wait! Wait!, but probably won’t help you win any future games of Trivial Pursuit.

Today, I have a problem with it. In this era of celebrity news being more important than world news, I know that celebrities sell. Their opinions, for whatever reason, get to be heard, whereas the leaders of the free world get largely ignored. The only reason Ghaddafi (there are so many spellings, I have no idea which one is correct) is getting press at all is because his drunken ramblings mirror those of Charlie Sheen, arguably the bigger “name” in this day and age. However, this story in particular seems to go above and beyond celebrity interest and straight into celebrity insanity.

To wit, “Breast Milk Ice Cream OK’d – Lady Gaga isn’t happy.”

So, where to begin with this little nugget of stupidity?

Breast milk ice cream is a thing now? Really? Beyond going the Tony Bourdain route and eating it just to say you have, who actually would want to eat it on a regular basis? How tasty can it possibly be? Isn’t ice cream milk-based anyway? How is adding milk to milk making it yummier? Unless you are making the donor boobs (in both meanings) ingest lots of flavoring for a better final product, I just don’t see the point. Is the breast milk pasteurized? Is it from free-range women? Are they grass-fed? Is the grass legal? It also must be prohibitively expensive! Women aren’t really cows. They don’t produce quarts of the stuff at a time. How large can each batch be? A cup? Can you order a double DD with sprinkles?
We care what Lady Gaga thinks? Really? About anything? About ice cream? I barely let my husband choose my Ben & Jerry’s, let alone some chick I’ve never met. Plus, when I look for suggestions on fatty desserts, the last person I am going to ask is the too skinny size-zero who hasn’t even inhaled a carb in years.
Since when did Lady Gaga shy away from free publicity? Is it because she isn’t getting a cut of the profits?
Gaga is a word used to express the sounds a baby makes. Babies have been making those sounds long before Lady Gaga has been making music. By about, oh several centuries. By calling the ice cream Baby Gaga, they may be riffing on her name, but really, even if she weren’t a thing (and I really can’t wait til she isn’t), the ice cream name would still make sense. You don’t need to know who Lady Gaga is to understand the naming of Baby Gaga breast milk ice cream. So please, shut it crazy lady.
Who thought of this? Who was sitting around one day watching a woman pump, or nurse, or leak, or anything breast milk related and thought, man, if only I could freeze that, put it in a bowl, and put a cherry on top? Most men I know are great admirers of boobs, so that part makes sense. But most women I know have pretty firm ideas of what boobs are supposed to be used for and creaming and sugaring is not one of them.
And my final and most important question is this – why is this news? One tiny shop is probably selling very tiny portions of ice cream and suddenly it’s a story? I’m sure they obtained the breast milk legally. It may be gross, but my brother-in-law brought my kids scorpion lollipops for Christmas. What’s more disgusting? Only you can decide.

Newser is still my go-to news source since CNN failed me over and over again, but I do wish they would drop the dumber stories, or at least put them in a “stupid people” section.

National Lampoons Vacation

2011-03-03T13:47:00.001-05:00

My husband just switched jobs and for the first time ever, actually gave himself a week off in between. This is the man who didn’t even take time off when our children were born. Not counting the pre-baby hospital stay where he never left my side, he was back in his office 24 hours after our daughter entered the world. A few complications brought him back to the hospital with us for a few days, but once we were both home safe and sound, he spent the next 48 hours pacing the house like a trapped animal before I finally broke down and sent him back to work. So, call it a stay-cation, call it a bye week, call it what you will, but for one miraculous ten-day period, he was home.

The week did not start off auspiciously. In fact, the day after he turned in all the paraphernalia of the modern working man, I found him taking a conference call. To his credit, he didn’t try to hide it. He just packed up the kids in the car, loading the trunk, turning on the DVD player, preparing for our weekend away while he chatted. I drove, he used the royal “we” to discuss a project he no longer worked on, for a company he no longer worked for, with people he no longer worked with, while I drove down I-95. Twenty minutes later, call complete, he turned to answer a question from our son only to realize, and I quote, “Holy shit honey, he’s not buckled!”

You know in cartoons when a car pulls over so suddenly that it actually makes a little “rreeerrrrttt sound? Well, when you are going 80 mph on a major highway and you very suddenly swerve into the left shoulder at top speed kicking up a cloud of asphalt before you come to a complete stop, it turns out that the sound the car makes is much, much quieter. Deadly quiet, in fact. I jumped out, locked the boy’s five-point harness into place, and shot my husband a look that would have made Medusa proud. It is entirely possible that my ponytail hissed at him. Luckily, no children were actually harmed in the making of his phone call.

After that, he did pretty well. While he did keep checking his e-mail, which had not yet been de-activated, he was able to keep himself from answering it. By the time he was well and truly cut off from his former employer, he seemed at peace with the silence.

Or so I thought. I very quickly came to realize that my husband is addicted to his phone. But what do you call an iPhone addict? His CrackBerry habit was easy to explain. Even the Commander-in-Chief has a BarackBerry. An iCrack sounds like a plumbing problem. A crackPhone sounds like something a Batman villain would use. An App Addict just sounds ridiculous. But what else could it be? He spent the remainder of his vacation playing Scrabble on his phone just so he would have a reason to hold it in his hands. Never was he so relieved as when he started his first day of work and found himself with over five thousand e-mails in his in-box.

To give credit where it is due, he did spent most of his time with the children (and the phone.) He still got up every morning to take my daughter to school and he put both kids to bed almost every night. In between, he cooked family meals, played lots of games, took them on lots of walks, and made them the absolute focus of his attention (minus trying to figure out how to use six consonants and only one vowel). I got to leave the boy at home a lot (instead of bringing him everywhere like a piece of very active luggage), got to spend quality time with the girl, and read three books in one week.

Would I like him home all the time? Oh my God in heaven, no. The man is a routine-killer. I was so thrown off by him being home that I barely knew what day it was. The kids thought every day was Saturday. Due to our new Apple TV, I feel asleep more often to the sound of explosions and screaming than is usual (does anyone on Battlestar Galactica ever catch a break?) and woke up more often to the sound of someone snoring from one floor below than I would have liked.

So, while I am glad he enjoyed his time home I think we were both ready for him to walk out the door on Monday morning. And while I am sure it won’t take long for him to resume his grueling work schedule and I won’t get to see him during daylight hours, at least we’ll both be content. He will be in a job he enjoys, and I will get the remote to myself again.

And the Oscar Goes To . . .

2011-02-28T11:23:00.002-05:00

As I have every year since I can remember, I watched the Oscars last night. For those of you smart enough to watch anything else, you missed the worst telecast in recent memory. It was so bad that I read a book, followed The Fug Girls on Twitter, and kept hopping onto Facebook all while keeping track of my ballot. If my husband hadn’t been busy paying bills and whatnot, I probably would have been playing Scrabble with him as well.

Let’s start with the hosts. Instead of a comedian, or a song-and-dance man, or a combination of the two, the Academy chose two young actors with no experience hosting beyond appearing on SNL. Every time James Franco came out, his eyes were smaller and brighter and his skin was waxier. I’m not sure what he was doing backstage, but by the end of the telecast, he was starting to slur. To combat this, Anne Hathaway ramped up the perkiness and spent more time fawning over all the other performers and acting humble than actually, you know, hosting. Imagine going to a dinner party where instead of entertaining you, one host just got high (without sharing) and the other just kept thanking you for coming over and over and over again when she wasn’t talking about how well another person hosted the same party a few years ago. Poor Hugh Jackman looked like he wanted to crawl underneath his front-row chair to get away from little orphan Annie singing about him.

This year, it was also painfully obvious that the only way you got to present was if you had a movie coming out. This is the only explanation for why Matthew McConaughey shows up year after year, because let’s face it, he’ll never be on that stage accepting an award. In terms of most popular hot young male, last year, we got Robert Pattinson. This year, we got Justin Timberlake. I was actually hoping he was Banksy just so he would throw a hood over his head and go the fuck away. He was on that stage so long I thought they were going to have to get the hook to get him away from the microphone.

The hook was already primed and ready to go anyway after Kirk Douglas got on stage. Who thought it was a good idea to let the Cryptkeeper out? Worse was that he must have thought he was at open mike night instead of the Oscars. First, he hit on Anne Hathaway. Dude, she is old enough to be your great-granddaughter. And poor Anne had to throw him kisses and act as if she was honored that a randy 92 year-old thought she was hot. It was like a scene from the Playboy mansion. Then, instead of reading the name of the winner, he screwed around for another two minutes. It was completely disrespectful to the five women nominated for best supporting actress. Helena Bonham Carter looked like she was going to walk onto the stage, rip the damn envelope out of his hands, beat him with it, and then hand it over to whoever won just to get it over with. Poor winner Melissa Leo got it worse. As they exited the stage, he gave her his cane and put his arm completely around her for support – except he seemed to mistake her tits for her waist because that’s totally where his hand was! Dirty old man.

The whole show was disjointed and odd. There were no upsets, no truly hideous dresses, but no truly fabulous ones either. Some actresses looked lovely, some just looked frightened. Javier Bardem and Josh Brolin chose to exchange their black tux coats for white ones when they presented together, giving the impression that they wandered on set straight from shooting an ice-cream van commercial. For reasons known only to himself and his personal dealer, James Franco felt the need to dress like Marilyn Monroe to deliver the required Charlie Sheen joke. To say it was going the long way around for the laugh is putting it mildly. I also think we are long past the expiration date on Robert Downey Jr. being a druggie jokes. He’s been sober for a decade now, let’s all let it go.

I wish I could speak with more authority on the movies, but I didn’t see many of them. In truth, I’d rather bite my own hand off than watch Franco do it to himself in 127 Hours. Same goes for Rabbit Hole. Does anyone really want to watch two people suffer through losing a child? I turned The Social Network off mid-way through because I could not take anymore Aaron Sorkin-isms. He took the fine wine that was the writing on The West Wing and distilled it until it became bitter vinegar. Read the book, there were far less scenes of people running across Harvard in it. The Kids Are Alright was all right, but not fantastic. I expect excellent acting from the cast and I got it. That shouldn’t be Oscar-worthy, it should be business as usual. Inception was fascinating if terminally stupid since the plot holes in that movie almost negate it entirely. I don’t do Westerns and haven’t made it to the theater to see Black Swan or The King’s Speech, but they are on my Netflix queue. All in all, it wasn’t a good year to be a best picture. Of all of those nominated, I truly believe the only one that will stand the test of time was Toy Story 3. It may have been a cartoon, but it was certainly more real than last year’s Avatar.

All in all, next year, I’m hoping they just let the kids from P.S. 22 sing the whole time. At least they looked like they were having fun.

You know You’re a Bad Parent If . . . .

2011-02-23T12:35:00.001-05:00

When you watch Toddlers & Tiaras you think, wow, I should do that with my child.

Toddlers & Tiaras is my new obsession. Like a fickle lover, I’m sure I’ll soon abandon it for the even more horrifying Outrageous Kids Parties which actually manages to look worse than MTV’s My Super Sweet Sixteen. But until that show debuts, I’m going to stick with the legalized form of child abuse that is a toddler beauty pageant.

For those of you with actual taste and self-respect who have never watched the show, each episode follows three or four little girls ranging in ages from 18 months to eight years as they prepare for and then perform in a beauty pageant. We see the family home, meet the parents, are walked through the closet filled with tacky thousand dollar gowns, and the shelves piled high with cubic zirconia-encrusted headgear, and meet the little pageant queen. She is inevitably referred to as either a diva or a princess, because calling her a brat would be rude. Almost every little girl has to be subtitled because while beauty and “talent” are prized in the pageant world, diction and clear speech are for losers.

There are two kinds of pageants – natural and glitz. They are fairly self-explanatory to anyone who has ever seen a before and after picture of JonBenet Ramsey. Now, I freaked when I had to put a full-face of eye shadow, blush, mascara, and lipstick on my daughter for her first dance rehearsal. That’s nothing compared to what these little girls are forced to wear. Spray-on tans, acrylic nails, false eyelashes, fake teeth, fake hair, and enough makeup to put a drag queen to shame are the norm. Essentially, unless you have turned your pretty little girl into a dwarf-sized professional escort, you haven’t gone far enough. Then there are the clothes. Only by putting the stage clothes of Dolly Parton, Liberace, and fat Elvis into a blender and cutting them into doll-size pieces would you be able to replicate glitz-wear. These are clothes even Barbie wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. In fact, I think if you tried to dress a Cabbage Patch like a pageant child, Xavier Robert’s will personally come to your house and put that doll into foster care.

Each parent claims that it is the CHILD who loves pageants. I call bullshit on that. There was one little girl whose mother cried to the heavens that her daughter loved performing on stage. Now, this little girl’s absolutely favorite doll, or her lovey, was a life-sized handicapped puppet that was carted around in a miniature wheel chair. Yes, you read it correctly. I’m pretty sure my one psych class in college is enough of an education for me to pronounce that this child is projecting. I mean come on. Having a life-sized handicapped puppet is weird enough, but pushing it around in a mini-wheelchair is just off the rails. Plus, when she does her routines on stage, Arnold, the life-sized handicapped puppet mimics her off-stage (via her father, lest you start to have nightmares of the damn thing coming to life a la Chucky). What impairs the puppet so much it can’t walk but can dance is never established.

One parent claimed that by being in pageants, her child was well on her way to becoming Miss America. The child in question could barely walk. Another claimed that pageants will help her child keep a husband because she will always know to look beautiful for him. My husband’s reply was roughly that beauty was in the eye of the beholder as long as the beauty in question was kneeling. You get the perverted point. One parent went so far as to complain when her child won the natural beauty section because, “I didn’t pay all this money for her to be naturally pretty.” The best are the ones who talk about how much their child has won. When you spent $2,000 to win $500, I’m pretty sure you are still pretty far into the hole. It takes some fuzzy math indeed to think you have come out ahead in that investment.

What do I get out of watching this train wreck? That’s easy. On the days when I put my kids to bed without reading to them (a punishment in our house), or I feed them cereal for dinner, or when I put on a movie instead of playing a game with them, I know that even when I suck at parenting, I don’t suck as bad as the parent who taught her daughter to “shake her bottom” at the judges to earn a higher score.

Imperial Keyless Entry

2011-02-09T15:09:00.002-05:00

That problem I have with commercials is that rarely do they make me want to buy the product they are advertising. How many ads for medication list so many potential side effects that surely you would be better off dying from the original ailment than you would be taking the new drug? I know that commercials are basically mind control. An idea is planted now, but comes to fruition later when you actually make the purchase. But out of the umpteen car commercials aired during the Super Bowl (all performed on closed roads with professional drivers in safe conditions), the only one I can remember is Volkswagon. Unfortunately, all it really made me want to do is perfect my Phil Keoghan-esqu eyebrow pop and watch Star Wars.

None of the ads were all that great and some of them were in need of some serious editing. For example, who thought Timothy Hutton was relevant? Sure, Groupon pissed of civil rights groups with their ad about getting cheap fish curry (because the best way to honor a culture is to use coupons to pay less for their goods), but I was more upset by their implication that a guy from the USA network was cool. I actually think Tibet got off lucky. The transgender community got an ugly guy in a dress who found his true identity through Living Social. They couldn’t have used an actor with chiseled cheekbones? The movie ads all passed by far too quickly to get an actual sense of anything other than what city they were destroying, which considering that the world is about to be graced with Transformers 3 and a Cowboys vs. Aliens that does not star Nathan Fillion, I think we’re better off not seeing more of them.

In terms of irony, I was much amused by the anti-gambling ad. The bookies in Vegas are surely feeling bad about themselves now. I was also amused by Adrien Brody singing his nose out shilling for beer. I don’t know much about acting, but I always thought you were supposed to start at commercials and progress upward to earn an Academy Award. I don’t think the process works so well in reverse. Stars in commercials only work if they are a wink and a nod to their known personas. Eminent in Detroit was fine. His iced-tea commercial was not. A claymation Clay Aiken would have been funny. Eminem selling M&Ms would have been funny. But a claymation Eminem selling iced-tea by yelling at us? Not funny. Putting Ozzy and Beiber together would have been so much better if only, as lovingly suggested by a friend on FB, Ozzy had bitten Beiber’s head off. Since he didn’t, I now refuse to shop at Best Buy.

Radio ads have even worse luck getting me to purchase anything because they tend to be ridiculously stupid. Cancer is no joke. Survivors deserve medals, not just mawkish commercials about “she didn’t get a choice.” No shit. No one, if given the choice of cancer or health would choose cancer. That’s why God’s a crafty devil. There is also an ad for erectile dysfunction that makes me seriously doubt the authenticity of the doctor. His ad says that you will see results while in his office. Really! Is he located in the Crazy Horse office park? Are singles the only acceptable form of co-pay? Are his nurses uniforms purchased at Frederick’s of Hollywood? Not being able to get it up must be awful for men, but the potential of never getting it to go down again has got to be worse.

Maybe the problem is that I am too cynical for 30-second bursts of mind control. Maybe I just don’t need what they are selling. More than likely, I’m not really the target audience for most products. But if it was as easy to relieve border tension as advertised, then all we have to do is give the world a Coke and the North and South Korea problem would be solved.

Oh, The Weather Outside is Frightful

2011-01-26T10:51:00.002-05:00

I would like to compare this year and last year in terms of snow. Last year . . .

White Christmas – The first major snowfall of the year was met with happy smiles. It was a weekend, so everyone was already home from work. Facebook was filled with status updates detailing the loving meals being prepared, how the kids were frolicking in their new snow boots, how everyone was warming their hands with hot chocolate, and how wonderful it was to have a weekend devoted to family right before the holiday.

February Fury: The Snowicane – The second snowstorm of the season was a surprise, but hey, it’s February, it’s the Northeast. It snows. Status updates on Facebook mentioned getting a lot of use out of snow clothes and equipment. We all ho-hummed our way through another batch of cookies and some well loved movies but the enthusiasm was definitely waning.

February Fury Part Two: The Snowpocalypse – The second major snowstorm in one week is enough to send anyone cowering under the covers. Facebook updates are more along the lines of “Really?” and “Again?” My son, who was only 35 inches tall, could not walk in the 48 inches of snow piled in our backyard. Groceries were scarce because there wasn’t much time to get to the store and the shelves were bare because the trucks barely had time to deliver.

Fast forward one year . . .

Instead of big storms that are predicted days and days in advance, giving you plenty of warning to stockpile bread, ice cream, and early onset diabetes, we are getting a series of small storms that seem to spring up with absolutely no warning. It has snowed once per week for the past five weeks and each time, forecasters took their time about actually predicting snowfall amounts. They say rain, it sleets. They say sleet, it is dry. They say snow, but forget to carry over the one. Is there any other job in the known world that allows for more inaccuracy? How can Reed Timmer predict five days in advance where a tornado will hit in Omaha but Paul Goodloe of TWC can’t tell me today what will happen tomorrow?

As a whole, the little drips and drabs of snow have been underwhelming. Snowmen built last year hung around for a while and were big enough to wield their own shovels. The snow-Smurfs of this year get stepped on almost immediately. There aren’t any cool names for three inches that rise up by morning light (well, there are, but they have almost nothing to do with snow). It’s not a Snowapalooza, or a Snowmitzvah, or even a Snownado. It’s just sad. No one’s bragging on Facebook about baking cookies and no one is celebrating school cancellations because this year, we all have our eye on our beginning-of-year resolutions and end-of-year calendars. This year’s snow isn’t being celebrated, it is being endured. It isn’t death by a thousand cuts; it is death by a thousand flakes. Pity the poor groundhog who predicts six more weeks of winter. He won’t make it back to his hollow alive.

Sophie’s Choice

2011-01-18T10:32:00.000-05:00

Today I realized that in order to be a good parent to one child, I had to be a bad parent to the other one.

First, let me explain the weather. When the forecasters call for a blustery day with a wintry mix, you know the day is going to suck even before the sun feebly casts a pallid shadow over the world. Old crusty, icy snow covered in wet, heavy snow, then ice, then rain, makes for treacherous driving conditions and appalling walking conditions. Snow boots would be overkill but rain boots would require two layers of socks because the cold just seeps through. In short, it’s gross out. This is the type of weather even God uses as an excuse to curl up under the covers with a good book from Lucien’s library.

Enter a delayed opening for my oldest and a school cancellation for my youngest. This actually worked out to the benefit of the little guy since he woke up with a cough and a sniffle but presents a serious problem for the older one. See, Daddy does mornings. With him out and gone, this means it is my responsibility to get my oldest to school. While I am perfectly capable of suiting up and getting the job done, my son has no such inclination. Every single time we have to take his sister to school in the mornings, he cries. He cries in the car (because his hands are cold and he refuses to wear gloves). He cries as we park and walk the last block to school (because he doesn’t want his feet to get wet). He cries when we wait for her to go inside (because he wants to be carried). He cries on the walk back to the car (because he is now cold and wet and wants to be carried). He cries on the ride home (because he wasn’t carried). This entire process doubles the time it actually takes to walk her inside. Add in being under the already atrocious weather and I was looking at 20 minutes of pure, unadulterated, grade preschool torture.

My neighbor has children who attend the same school. However, both are way older and they haven’t seen a car seat in ages. School is only five blocks away and both neighbors are very safe drivers.

So, do I send my daughter to school without a car seat and expect her six-year old self to find the right door and line up properly? Or, do I bring the sort-of sick little guy out in nasty weather, soaking everyone in the process?

Well, what would you do if your mother asked you?

15 Authors

2011-01-14T11:44:00.003-05:00

So I got tagged on Facebook to very quickly write a list of the 15 authors who have influenced me and will always stick with me. I sat for a moment and then spit out the following names. My friends who participated also had many of these names on their list. My husband recognized less than half and had only read two – both for school. And that, my friends, is why we have a book problem. Anyway, I thought that since I love these authors so much, I should at least try to explain why or how they made the list.

1. Neil Gaiman
Sandman. ‘Nuff said. Well, not quite. You see, I actually am permanently scarred from reading American Gods. It was an overcast morning in July and I was reading the last 100 pages by the in-laws pool. By the time I reached the end, the clouds had cleared and I was par-boiled – so wrapped up in Shadow that I never noticed sunlight. I burned so badly that a decade later, I still have the scars. Now that’s a good book.

2. Terry Pratchett
I found him through Gaiman as they had co-written Good Omens. Then I slowly and methodically started working my way through the Discworld series. When I finished one book, I went right out and bought the next one. Ah, disposable income and free time. How I miss thee. If I could live in the mythical city of my choosing, it would be Ankh-Morpork. (Hogsmeade is more of a village.)

3. Madeline L'Engle
I have read and reread A Wrinkle in Time so often that I have no idea if it is good or bad. “It was a dark and stormy night,” is not usually an auspicious way to start a story, but I didn’t know any better. To me, it was magical. And dark. And stormy.

4. Judy Blume
I dare you to find a girl who did not sneak a copy of Forever out of the school library during junior high just to read the sexy bits. Masturbation, sex, God, menstruation, it was all fair game. How much I understood at the time of reading is questionable. I was a voracious reader with no oversight so I probably read all of her books years too early to really comprehend them, but when the light finally went on, I had Judy to guide me.

5. Phillipa Gregory
Everything I know about the Tudor reign I learned from historical fiction. The food is always cold, God’s laws are constantly mentioned by never headed, and being queen was never, ever easy. The clothes may have been gorgeous, but were they worth the burnings and beheadings? Probably not.

6. Sharon Shinn
Her books are a total guilty pleasure. I saw the cover of Angelica in a book store over a decade ago and had to have it. I have since devoured all of the Samaria books, the Twelve Houses, all her YA, and the standalone books. I wouldn’t put any of them up for a book club, and since they are essentially fantasy Harlequins, I am not exactly proud of my love for them, but I love them all the same.

7. Stephen King
When I was far too young, my parents let me read ‘Salems Lot. I spent years afraid to look out my bedroom window at night. Then I read IT. I remember very clearly sitting in my bedroom and wanting to go downstairs, but being too afraid to step into the dark hallway to turn on the stairway light. I could hear my parents downstairs, hear the sounds on the TV, but nothing would get me to take those four steps from my door to the light switch. I lost my taste for King somewhere around Gerald’s Game but after an inspired live reading from The Body at Radio City Music Hall, I came to love the author (if not the fiction) again.

8. John Irving
If you have not read A Prayer for Owen Meaney then do so (even A Widow for One Year would be my preferred pick over Garp. The first time I heard Owen speak (via John Irving, again at Radio City), a shiver went through my entire body. His character is so clear, so well-written, so true that his VOICE while an essential part of the story, just becomes another part of the page. Until you hear it IN PERSON. Most of his books haven’t aged well, but Owen, well, Owen will never age.

9. Pat Conroy
I don’t know why The Prince of Tides moved me so much. Honestly. It is overly sentimental, overwrought, and over-written. But for whatever reason, it sang to me. I haven’t even gotten four pages into South of Broad without having to take a bath to get rid of all those fragrant words. Obviously, my Conroy phase has passed, but it was good while it lasted.

10. Robert Frost
My first and last go-to poet. I can still recite Nothing Gold Can Stay in its entirety. Who hasn’t used lines from The Road Not Taken or Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening? My tastes in poetry may be pedestrian, but it’s not my fault. Blame S.E. Hinton.

11. William Shakespeare
He’s the Bard. If you have only ever read his plays, but never seen them performed, that is the same as only reading sheet music without ever having heard it played. Millions of students have been tortured with terrible BBC productions and monotone in-class readings. Rent Baz Lurhman’s Romeo + Juliet, any of the Branaugh productions, or, at the very least, Hamlet with Mel Gibson, to get a much better sense of how a good story is meant to be told.

12. Anne Rice
Another author who soured on me as I grew older: any of her books written before 1990 are far, far superior to anything written after. It almost seemed as if she became less of the actual author and more of the fan-fic writer of her own works. In 1993 I threw one of her books against a wall and haven’t picked one up again since. However, I do think Interview with a Vampire remains a worthwhile addition to vampire lore.

13. J.K. Rowling
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. In my home, two copies of every new book were bought at midnight so that my husband and I didn’t have to share. I will never, ever let my child see a Harry Potter movie until long after she has devoured every book. The details are just so rich, the characters so well-rounded, the story so intricate, that I refuse to let Warner Bros. fill in any of the blanks for her. Oh, and J.K. Rowling has killer taste in footwear.

14. Robert Heinlein
He rounds out the trio of authors who I would not, could not read again, but whose books I loved during my adolescence. His treatment of women is derisive at best, and adornment at its worst. If I remember correctly, he mostly liked them naked and willing, though they were usually at least marginally intelligent. Stranger in a Strange Land is odd as hell and seemed mostly to say that easy sex is the key to an easy life. It was the 60s, what can you do?

15. J. D. Salinger
Can a body catch a body coming through the rye? If you didn’t read this book as a teenager, I doubt it can ever have the same impact. Luckily, I read it in Mrs. Tink’s class my junior year. Holden definitely falls into the category of names that have too much literary importance to bestow upon a child, yet dumb celebrities keep doing it anyway. It would be a good name for a dog though.

When in Doubt, Throw it Out

2011-01-10T14:04:00.003-05:00

If you have enough money to pay someone to open your mail, you are officially too stupid to be rich and should hand over the money to people with the common sense to do something useful with it.

A friend posted an article on Facebook today (via The New York Times) about a woman whose job is to organize homes and offices. (Link below) Needing to organize and de-clutter your home is definitely a first-world problem. The women in the article live in homes that count square feet in the thousands. They have closets as big as my bedrooms. I am supposed to be sympathetic to their plights because, “privilege does not relieve stress. Stress is clutter and clutter is stress.” How very Zen. Or, as I’m sure they would spell is so that it is more unique, Zenne.

Now I realize that there is nothing more annoying that opening up a drawer and not being able to find the object in question, but opening up an apartment and not being able to find the children who live there because their parents don’t want any signs of their presence is another matter entirely. Children bring both stress and clutter to your life. They cannot be neatly organized into a bin (mostly because their arms and legs don’t fit). All their toys, books, and clothes may be organized, but a child using Play-Doh will still make an unholy mess across your floor, no matter how neatly you have labeled the containers. However, the children of these clients obviously have far better things to do than waste time actually playing with their toys anyway. And I quote, “Candy Land? Between sporting events, music lessons, and charity galas, who has time?” I don’t know about you, but I don’t know a lot of four-year olds who attend charity galas. A parent who can spend $1500 on organization (though you have to provide your own label-maker) surely has a nanny who will play the game with the kids, right?

The second page of the article uses the following scenario to explain why this organizer’s services are in such high demand:

“Let’s say you have a home in Aspen and you’re supposed to have a business dinner for 30 there on Friday, and you’ve promised your 8-year-old you’d go to his baseball game, and then the house manager in Aspen quits, and your 8-year-old is crying to go to the baseball game.”

Well, damn, that is a problem. The two hours attending the game will surely ruin your dinner party. If only there was an invention that would allow you to watch the game while simultaneously allowing you to talk to people in another location. With the dinner mere days away, surely the caterer, cleaning crew, valets, and Lord knows who else rich people hire to feed and entertain other people have already been hired? I made sure my hot deli trays were ordered a week in advance when I had family over for my daughter’s dance recital. Good riddance to the woefully unprepared house manager if he/she hadn’t already done the same. (Sorry, just the phrase house manager makes me giggle. I think I will add it to my list of pretend job titles.) And if you have hired help to run your second home in your vacation destination of choice, your nanny can probably stop playing Candy Land long enough to take the kid to the game.

Here is another gem:“The perfect bag or a great pair of shoes can give you so much pleasure, but it can torture you when you don’t know where to put it."

Torture is really such a strong word to use for proper purse storage, don’t you think? Especially when the woman in question has a closet entirely devoted to the accessory. Here’s a hint: if you have so much of one item that you no longer have a place for it, the problem is not the storage but the shopper. (And yes, I know I have more boxes of books in storage than I dare count for fear my BILs will not help me move them, but they are books! Literature! Rooms devoted to them are called libraries, not closets. Books are good for you. Purses are just another way to hold all the stuff you probably don’t need anyway.)

The article ends by pointing out that the organizer herself runs a tight ship at home with her own children: “Silly Bandz are meticulously organized by type (creatures, sports, “rare”). Matthew’s toy cars are parked on the windowsill, perfectly parallel, a few inches apart.

Yes, please pass on your undiagnosed OCD to your children. It really is the gift that keeps on giving.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/09/nyregion/09organizer.html?_r=1

I Want to Pump You Up

2011-01-05T13:09:00.003-05:00

On some days, God made supermodels. On other days, he made people like me.

I’ve been going to the gym three times per week for the two months. It has become part of my routine and while I would be lying if I said I enjoy it, I do enjoy becoming healthier. What I want is to become skinnier, but I have an impressionable six-year old daughter, so words such as fat, skinny, etc. are not used in my house. Instead, we aim to be “healthy.”

I started out in the old lady classes. The instructors talked about healthy bone density and how to avoid hip injuries. While we pumped away with our little three-pound hand weights and moved slowly to the music, I could see into the opposite classroom where my friends were hauling barbells up and down, doing crunches, and pouring sweat. I would wave merrily and keep barely-sweating with the oldies. However, it didn’t take long to realize that my fat ass needed a little something more.

This led me to body pump classes. My first one was grueling. I introduced myself to the instructor and when she asked how in shape I was, I merely laughed. Pear may be a shape, but not the one I am aiming for. She took great care of me and showed me exactly how I should lift, the appropriate weights, and alternate postures. The first problem I had was that I couldn’t curse as much as I liked because if I stopped counting for even a minute, I lost focus and was pretty sure I was going to bring the barbells down on my chest and crush my boobs into pulp. The second problem was that my legs were sore for three days afterward.

However, at the end of my first body pump class, the entire group gave me a round of applause. At the end of my second one, with a different instructor, the entire group laughed at me. I’ll take both. At least they are interested in my progress. After my first (and last) disastrous spin class, I had a few people approach me to encourage me to try again and give me pointers (and a gel seat) to urge me back onto the saddles. In every group class I have taken, someone always shows me what to do and keeps me motivated. Sure, I may want to kill some of them, especially the perky ones who cheer through the pain (I am so looking at you D!) and the already skinny ones who don’t even seem to need the gym at all (S), but we all have our body issues to bear.

When I don’t take classes, I use the cardio and weight machines to “strengthen my core.” I really just want to flatten my tummy and tighten my ass, but I’ll take what I can get. I met with a trainer on my first visit and he gave me a list of machines, weights, and reps to perform. I feel like an idiot, I am pretty sure I look like an idiot, but I do them faithfully. I’m not as good on the cardio machines. It is much harder to make myself run because I’m sure the sound of my thundering feet is deafening and I really don’t want to poke an eye out. My girls may be double-strapped down, but they are still lethal weapons.

So every Tuesday and Thursday and whatever third day I can fit in besides, I go to the gym. I watch Ken and Barbie, a lovely couple burnished to a golden copper, who both work out in a full blow-out and makeup. I watch the little old man who uses the rowing machine wearing jeans and a cardigan. I check out everyone’s asses because that’s the only part I can see to determine which style and shape I am trying to achieve. I say hi to everyone I know, try to get my place in either the back of the class (the better to hide) or the side of the cardio machines (the better to watch ESPN), and try to remember that sweat is good. Money to have lipo would be better, but sweat is good for now.

Never Judge a Book by Its Movie

2010-12-31T11:06:00.002-05:00

Everyone is running a Best Of list at this time of year, so once again, I am going to jump on the bandwagon and do the same. My medium of choice – books! I read 60 books this year, frontloaded with lots of non-fiction, rounded out nicely by a wide selection of historical fiction, all if it taking place in either England or Italy, and as always, dipping shallowly into the pool of vampire lore. I ended the year rather limply, with just a collection of essays about living with children in New York that had almost nothing to do with children and everything to do with being congratulatory about living in New York. To me, this is a singularly unimpressive feat. There are roughly 8 million people living in Manhattan. You want to impress me? Take your kids to the Antarctic.

After perusing my list, I actually think all of my top reads are non-fiction. The Mockingjay series was engaging, but the last book was seriously flawed and the last chapter was almost insulting. Steig Larsson has gotten enough press and while his books are good, they really aren’t great. I also found myself unimpressed with many second-time around authors such as Stephanie Kallos (Broken), Stephen L. Carter (Jericho’s Fall), and Christopher Moore (Fool).

My top five reads of 2010 were:

1. Columbine – Dave Cullen. He gets the worst over with first and then moves into figuring out exactly what brought the two boys to commit such a heinous crime. Fascinating, horrifying, and moving, it tells the stories of the students, faculty, and law enforcement that were on the scene that day. An absolute must-read.

2. Game Change – John Heilemann and Mark Halpern. The 2008 presidential race was fun to watch, but going behind the scenes of how decisions were made is riveting. Even if you aren’t a fan of politics and didn’t vote for Obama, this book shows the gains and losses of Edwards, McCain, Palin, Clinton, Obama, and Biden in a way that humanizes all of them.

3. My Life in France – Julia Child. I have never eaten French food. I am not a gourmand. My idea of happiness is a cheeseburger and chocolate cake. I have never cooked anything that took longer than 30 minutes and would not eat 99 percent of anything on the Food Network. And yet, the story is more than food, it is about her marriage, her drive to be more than just a housewife, and her love of sharing her passion with others.

4. Monday Night Mayhem – Marc Gunther & Bill Carter. My husband loves football. I love movies and television. This book, found at a library sale, combined both of those loves and made for some really interesting reading. Unfortunately, it was written in the mid-80s, so it definitely more for those who are interested in the backstory of how Monday Night Football was created and not any of the current issues surrounding it.

5. The Blind Side – Michael Lewis. More football, but this time, the story focuses on the machinery behind turning talented kids into pro football players. This book confirmed my already strongly-held belief that no child of mine will ever play pro sports.

And the dubious distinction of the top five books I wish I hadn’t wasted my time reading goes to:

1. In the President’s Secret Service – Ronald Kessler. Too gossipy and bitchy, but not in a good way.

2. A Reliable Wife – Robert Goolrick. If any character had once been honest with another, the entire story would have collapsed.

3. American Adulterer – Jed Mercurio. It could have been a good story, but the structure and narrative killed any chances of that actually happening.

4. Through the Children’s Gate – Adam Gopnik. How he didn’t sprain his arm reaching around to pat himself on the back, I will never know.

5. The Crowning Glory of Calla Lily Ponder – Rebecca Wells. Dumb. From start to finish, just dumb.

And that my friends, is that. Happy New Year and happy reading.

Working 9 to 5

2010-12-28T15:09:00.002-05:00

My husband is a workaholic. It’s like a disease, only dumber. Last night, I had to call and remind him that 18 hours is more than enough for one day. I made the call at 2:30 am in the morning and I think it is a sign of how used to his symptoms I have become that when he called me at 9:30 pm to tell me he would be late(r), I was more surprised he called at all than the lateness of the hour.

It is not like this is a new illness that has recently come upon him. Oh no, he was like this when I met him. He and his friend M would show up at my friend MJ’s after work on Friday night for drinks. They never came over earlier than 8:30 pm and often, it was closer to 9:30. One of the first times we were supposed to “hang out” without others around (which I didn’t realize was a date and I don’t think counts as one because of the rest of the story), he showed up two hours late to pick me up - on a Saturday morning. Where was he? He was at work, of course! We may have missed the beer fest in Chapel Hill, but we did have a nice time all the same. Once we actually started dating (much easier to identify with the sex and all), his habits didn’t change, but at least he didn’t have to eat Chinese alone.

I am going to skip the brief, nightmarish period of our lives together where he worked out of our shared apartment. The less said about it the better, but how we managed to get married when he worked from sunup EST to sundown PST I will never know.

Anyway, onto a new job, a new city, and new levels of work dementia – our first Christmas Eve in our home, we had his brother and lovely wife over for dinner. My dippy dear came home mid-afternoon. An early day! Yay! However, during dinner, his brother seemed perplexed that the office had even been open at all and forced to either lie or confess, my husband sheepishly replied that well, yes, the office actually had been closed. While I stared at him in shock, he explained that he really hadn’t realized it was closed, but since he was there, he figured he’d get a lot of work done. And, he went on to point out, he had come home early.

My husband in a nutshell: the office was closed, but at least he got a lot of work done.

There are benefits to being married to a workaholic. I get to watch whatever I want on TV at night. I get to hog the blankets on the couch. On the nights he is home, I get to foist the kids off on him with nary a pang of guilt. Lest you think I am a pushover, he also does get punished for egregious lateness. End-of-quarter, end-of-year, or holiday season (he’s senior management for an e-retailer), lateness is expected. When end-of-quarter falls on every major holiday, as it did this year, trapping him in the office over Easter, the Fourth of July weekend, and New Years? I grin and bear it. But working late just for the sake of working? That is punishable by a fine of one $25 gift card to BN. This year I earned so many I actually have a few stashed away. As my friend C explains, being late is not the problem, being late when you say you are going to be early is. So, on the rare nights when I cooked a nice meal, or needed him home for an event, or was sick – kaching!

I’d complain (more than just in a blog) but really, when there is one paycheck for four people, how do you tell the guy earning it not to work so hard? True, I did honestly believe you couldn’t turn off a CrackBerry because I had never seen one in a resting state, I have threatened to throw it in various bodies of water, and considering his work habits, a less self-confident woman might believe he is cheating – but I just let it all pass. Sure, we were once SIX HOURS LATE to a weekend getaway (with his family), and every friend can tell a story of how I arrived late because I was waiting for my husband to get home, but now they just lie to me and tell me earlier times and it all works out. As for cheating? Never. He was so subtle about asking me out on dates that we went on three of them before I realized what they were. The man hasn’t spoken to a stranger since 1982 and practically has to be stepped on to make a sound in front of friends we have known for years. The only mistress he has is strapped to his belt and allows him to play Angry Birds in the bathroom.

So when he does come home “early” so that I can attend book club, or PTA meetings, or mom’s night out, I do try to appreciate his efforts. This year, he made great strides and actually took two separate vacations without his laptop. He doesn’t check e-mail under the table at dinner anymore (mostly) and has been known to make it through an entire movie without getting up to check his messages. He may even use all of his vacation days. Baby steps, but I’ll take them. Because really - what would I do if he suddenly started showing up in time for a hot meal every night? Learn to cook? Only if he, he himself, the Grinch carved the roast beast.

Good Intentions

2010-12-21T12:23:00.001-05:00

The road to Christmas, much like hell, is paved with good intentions. We all start the season thinking we’ll get all of our shopping done early, will pare down the number of gifts we buy, and will really try to enjoy the season. I know that worked not at all for me. Nope. Once again, I found myself buried under a mountain of gifts, making Internet purchases on the knife’s edge of pre-Christmas delivery, and spending way more than I thought I would. How does this happen every year? In a word – marketing.

This year, the Back-to-School decorations were barely down in stores before they were putting up Christmas lights. What other event, besides a wedding or birth, do you prepare for so far in advance? Stores create the sense of urgency by making you believe that if you don’t shop early, you will miss out. Personally, I think that is just poor logistical planning on the part of the store. If they can’t figure out supply and demand, then why should that become my problem? Why should I help stores reduce inventory?

Sales are also ever-present during the extended holiday season. This is price fixing at its best. If a widget costs a dollar, then it should always cost a dollar. It shouldn’t cost $1.50 on a Wednesday and $.50 on a Friday. It especially shouldn’t be three for a dollar on Black Friday. This year, some poor guy got trampled at a Target. There is video of him desperately calling out for help as people just rush over top of him. News flash: there is nothing in any store, at any time of year, for any price that is worth a human life. Don’t believe me? Just ask the family of the guy who was killed at Wal-Mart in 2008. I bet Christmas is pretty bleak for them, but I sure hope the people who murdered him are enjoying their half-priced electronics. The bottom line is this - unless zombies have actually risen from the dead and your only shelter, food, and water is available at a big box store, you don’t need to push and shove to get inside of it. Ever.

Even the best laid shopping plans cannot withstand the blitzkrieg of marketing. I personally bought into the Sing-a-ma-jig “craze” and bought two of them, full-priced, on Amazon (even though I already made fun of them on the blog). As it turns out, I sort of can’t stop playing with them whenever I see them, but therein is the problem – I see them everywhere. Every store has them. Picking up a prescription? CVS has them. Picking up groceries? Shoprite has them too. I bet Petco has them as dog toys (and the thought of the noises they must make as the animals rip them to shreds may just keep me up nights.) They might have been the “must-have” toy of the year, but I’m pretty sure everyone was able to get them. Forget zombies, it’s the Sing-a-ma-jigs that are going to rise up in one unending chorus.

I think the more kids you have, the more crazy you go around the holidays. Just trying to keep track of who got what requires a spreadsheet. I found myself frantically texting my husband (on my brand new iPhone – thanks Santa) to order one extra gift for my son because I had picked up an extra one for my daughter. I even made sure to wrap their shared gift in a combination of their personal wrapping paper. And yes, I just admitted to purchasing different paper for each kid. I even went so far as to use their special-ordered name stamps (my daughter has a unique name that has yet to be found on a carousel of mugs, nametags, etc.) for each present lest my handwriting give me away.

Thankfully, Christmas is almost here. I already did my parental duty and read my son’s favorite holiday book to his class – it is a delightful story about aliens stealing all of Santa’s toys and replacing them with underpants. He giggled through the entire reading, the rest of the kids just stared at me in horror. I just have to get through the last few days and then it will be Christmas Eve – where this year, I may put out more than cookies.

Harry Connick Christmas

2010-12-14T13:59:00.000-05:00

Another year, another SIL shopathon – but this was one was a little different. To recap, every year, A, B, C, and me go shopping at the largest mall on the East Coast, then the outlets, all in two days, all on a weekend during December. We shop until we drop starting from the moment the first doors at the first anchor store open and ending only when we have run out of money. There are preplanned routes, routines, and rules to follow. This year, we broke them all.

It all started with C. Four months ago, we booked our shopping weekend. Four weeks ago, C wound up with a work commitment. No matter how we begged and cajoled, she could not be induced to possibly lose her job and career to go shopping with us. Rescheduling was out of the question due to everyone’s already crowded calendars. A then asked to limit us to one day of shopping due to her work commitments. Down our fearless leader (and greatest shopper) and facing a severe time crunch, I advocated hitting the stores in reverse order to get more bang for our bucks. Rules, what rules?

As always, in times of change, there are design flaws that had to be worked out. Without the tiniest bladder in Christendom to keep us merrily potty-breaking along, we hit a crisis moment where kidney failure was imminent. In the rush not to wet ourselves, we actually didn’t use one of the pre-ordained bathrooms (high-end anchor stores only) and had to deign to pee with the downtrodden masses in the food court restroom. There were multiple White Rabbit moments as B would start sprinting through the mall madly checking her watch and trying to hurry us along to our next destination. And, without the Buddy System in place, we couldn’t split up into pairs and every store (excluding Sephora which makes me itch) required the attendance of all three of us.

But all was not lost. Williams Sonoma took quite a lot of time and money, but allowed me the opportunity for a mid-morning snack. One pre-packed oatmeal bar (thanks A!), some free peppermint hot chocolate with whipped cream to wash it down, and a dollop of free peppermint ice cream for dessert and I left that store sated and sugared. This helped me deal with the usual shenanigans at the plus-sized lingerie store, though to give credit where it is due, A did not walk around with a bra on her head (per usual) but did actually get me to purchase some sassy undies. This made her (and I imagine my husband) very happy. In fact, a ridiculous amount of time was spent mentioning ladies unmentionables, shopping for them, and discussing when and where to take them off. There is always something new to learn about the sex life of my SILs (much to my BILs chagrin).

After exhausting the mall (and the patience of those in the parking lot who wanted our spots but didn’t seem to understand that they needed to let us OUT of them in order to get IN them, the outlets proved to be a veritable goldmine of bargains and though it was damn cold outside, we kept warm by constantly exercising our wallets. Sheets, slankets, and snack food all added weight to our arms, and by dark, we had crossed the last person off the last list and were trudging with heavy bags and light bank accounts back to the car. It was at that very moment when I spied the cutest purse ever and broke the last and most pivotal rule. C, thousands of miles away in a world where a bright shiny orb filled the sky and air with warmth, must have felt her heart grow three sizes as I, the thriftiest of thrifty, bought my first real Kate Spade bag.(In my own defense, it was 80 perent off.)

And thus ended this year’s annual SILS. C was dearly missed, B actually found this year’s impossible-to-find item, A realized that she has been wearing the wrong bra for fifteen years, and I, I found that Christmas indeed, can be found in a store.

HGTV-Free

2010-12-10T15:25:00.000-05:00

So my house was on the market for the “second best” realtor season. Not a single showing. Out of two open houses, we had a grand total of two visitors. I have de-cluttered, de-booked, and absolutely delighted in making sure every single item is put away exactly where it belongs every time we leave the house. (That last part is a lie.) I have a sister-in-law who lives in a home that is sparkling and neat at all times. I once had to stop her from Windexing her front door until after I had left because my son kept licking it and I was afraid he was going to become brain damaged. I have never seen so much as a remote control in plain sight. Even she would find the level of “house for sale” cleanliness exhausting to maintain.

Kids and clutter go hand in hand. Every day, their book bags disgorge craft projects, artwork, and various odds and ends. I tried slyly throwing out most of it. My daughter not only caught me, but she cried. Never will a child cry so hard over a forgotten item as to think that said item will go in the trash. I have tried to get my kids to help me keep the house clean. However, getting my three-year old to make his bed is difficult at best - the stuffed animals take up more room in bed than the child. We had more luck teaching more daughter, but that is mostly because she is anal-retentive about where each doll and stuffed dog belong. Between the two of them, they require more electricity to go to sleep at night than I do to work at home during the day. My backyard is filled with plastic graveyard of slides and swings and my bathtub is filled with foam letters and numbers. This is my life. Unless I throw out the kids, I can’t exactly throw out all of their stuff.

At one point, the few realtors who attended the broker’s open house felt that I needed to stage it even more. They believe that in order to sell it, it has to be an absolutely blank slate. If it is personal, or if is not absolutely essential to living, it needs to be put away. Sound easy? Sure! Oh wait, but I have two kids. How can I turn their playroom, where they spend 80 percent of their waking moments, into a bland and featureless “multi-purpose” room? How can I paint over all the animals on my son’s walls or tell my daughter that all of the toys in her room need to be put in storage? I promise you that if I have to hide the bananas and apples every time I leave the house, I will never find them again.

Personally, I thought the realtors should spend less time pointing out that the grout in the bathroom is wavy instead of straight and more time actually bringing people into the damn house. My job is to make the house presentable and sellable, but if they don’t actually bring people to see it, then it won’t matter what it looks like inside. I have kept up my end of the bargain – but they didn’t keep up theirs. No sale.

I was told that people like to come through homes during the holidays to check out their directions. To that I say, bah humbug. There are a plethora of Holiday House tours to attend – but mine isn’t going to be on any of them. Until the spring thaw, my house will remain unlisted and unstaged. There will be mail on the table, shoes on the floor, and books on every available surface. This house is going to be mine for a few months longer – I might as well enjoy it in its natural state.

2010-12-09T16:38:00.001-05:00

To quote Granny Weatherwax, "I Aint Dead."

Something Old, Something New

2010-11-19T13:26:00.002-05:00

I just read that 80 to 90 percent of athletes cheat on their wives. My first question is how on earth did they get men to admit to that? I assume that even if the survey results are supposed to be completely anonymous, men would still lie. Right? It’s like the penis size survey. Supposedly, the average is six inches, but if you are a guy and you think you have a small dick, are you really going to have it measured? More than likely, only men who believe they are hung like a horse are going to be proud enough to drop trou. Those who are hung like a pony are not going to participate. Same with the number of cheating men – there are always going to be some who lie and some who boast. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle. (And which sports did they measure? Do football players cheat more than basketball players? Surely, hockey players get less action on the side, than say, baseball players?)

So let’s half that number and go with 40 percent of professional athletes cheat on their wives. What woman in her right mind is willing to take on those odds? The pressure of always being thin, well-groomed, pleasant and sweet-tempered, and let me emphasize this – willing to put out, must be exhausting. If the culture is to score as many broads as you score points, then how on earth can the average woman compete? We aren’t even playing the same game.

A normal guy, after a rough day of work, comes home to his wife. His ability to pick up a PYT between the door of his office and the door of his home is probably pretty slim. Sure, there is always the time-dishonored work affair, but since those always leave pretty obvious repercussions (Favre), let’s ignore them in favor of the stranger quickie. The athlete (or actor, or politician, or rich old guy) does not leave the [insert gym, studio, Senate, or office] and head directly home. There are lots of steps in between, i.e., business dinners, hotels, flights, meet-and-greets, etc. The guy doesn’t have to initiate conversation, wine and dine, even really impress a woman – in fact, he might not even have to talk to her directly at all and just have a handler do it for him. They can order a piece of ass the way others order a piece of steak. That’s got to be very, very tempting. Plus, you have to eliminate the natural barriers to complete stupidity – friends. Sure, they’ll take your picture when you are drunk and post it on Facebook, but will they hand you a condom as you go cheat on your wife? A good one won’t, but a paid one? Please. Tiger’s caddy probably kept them in a range of flavors. Add in being on the road alot and what happens in Colorado supposedly staying in Colorado seems like a pretty solid plan.

So, what is a scorned woman to do? She played the odds and lost. Does she rise above (which in celebrity-gossip is almost always the road not taken)? What fun is that? Eva Longoria (I’m pretty sure the Parker is long, long gone) is practically pulling a public Lorena Bobbit on her husband. And why shouldn’t she? It’s humiliating enough to realize your husband is slam-dunking his balls in someone else’s court, quite another to know that it is going to be aired on ESPN.

Cheating is never an accident. I am pretty sure that you can’t trip and accidentally stick your dick in someone. I can’t even imagine the position a woman would have to be in for that to happen. Some clothes have to be removed. The flag doesn’t rise on its own (past the age of say 17). There is a level of premeditation involved that cannot be ignored. Room service and hookers must both be ordered; they don’t just show up at your door. And if you go to as strip club and take home a stripper, it’s a lot like taking home leftovers in a doggy bag – you still paid for the food.

In a perfect world, the sanctity of marriage would be revered, power would not be an aphrodisiac, and sex would not be news. But we don’t live in that world. In this world,” til death do us part” is just another slogan and marriage to an athlete is just another game for the wagering.

And We're Off!

2010-11-09T16:05:00.001-05:00

The bet is on! My friend S and I have conferred and decided that we must go to the gym three times per week. If not, we have to pay the other $10. Big ups to S for taking this on with me!

First things first - going to a gym meant joining a gym. Stop one was the big box gym. Gleaming equipment, more televisions than a Best Buy, a sauna, and an enormous playroom (mysteriously empty of toys). After the tour, we sat down to discuss cost. This is where things got shady. First of all, the membership price should not change daily – it’s not the NASDAQ. Second, it should be non-negotiable. The longer we sat, the lower the price. I didn’t appreciate the used car feeling of it all. So, onto the second choice: old equipment, a handful of TVs, no extras, and a small playroom. Obviously, I chose the second one. No joining fee, reasonable membership dues, personal training sessions (with follow-ups to keep me honest), and lots of classes. And did I mention the old ladies? Yeah, I’ll come back to them.

(By the way, during my tours, I also discovered my body mass index. As an FYI, if you are about to freeze to death on an ice planet, slitting me open will indeed keep you warm. I could also be used to make lots of candles or soap, whichever you prefer.)

So today was my first class and I am happy to report that I did not, at any point, need defibrillators. But I swear it was touch and go for a while. My first class was step. Step on, step off. Sounds simple? Not when you have the coordination of a drunken hippo. I tried not to take it personally when the woman behind me left the class early. I think I was making her nauseas with my bobbing and weaving. Luckily, the woman directly in front of me was a friend, though I am not sure this made the fact that I spent the entire class staring at her ass more or less embarrassing. (I was just trying to follow along- honest!) I just couldn’t follow the instructor – she was facing us, so all of her footwork was backward. Since I am the type of visual learner who actually has to turn the map in the direction in which we are going to understand it and who could still use am L and R on my shoes, this was a nightmare. To keep myself motivated, I kept up a steady string of inaudible swearing. I dropped more f-bombs than a Tarantino movie. I also laughed a lot. What else can you do when the instructor calls out, “Be light on your feet” when you can’t even pick them off the ground fully because you are so tired? Or when you are a full two beats behind the music, using the wrong leg, on the wrong side of the step? Or when the little old lady who is twice your age and half your size is not only keeping up, but seems to be barely breaking a sweat and is using hand weights to make it that much more challenging? Laugh. And curse.

Will I be back? Yup. Will I continue to hate it? Yup. Will I eventually stay on the step and not make a total ass out of myself? Questionable. But I will certainly keep trying. If not, I’m going to owe S a whole lot of money.

There Can Be Only One

2010-11-05T15:49:00.001-04:00

So this was my first experience suffering through teacher convention week. I still have teacher conferences yet to get through and already I am considering locking my children together in a steel cage and just letting them fight to the pain. (Not to the death, obviously, that would make me a horrible mother, but just to an obscure Princess Bride reference.)

Let me give you an idea of how much time children spend in school this week – in Disney, this seven-day period is referred to as “Jersey Week.” My daughter had school two days out of five (but only attended one day due to a stomach bug). My son had it one day out of two. Their days at school did not overlap. Do you know what this means? It means that I did not get my much needed, deserved, relied upon, and dreamed about four hours off this week. And yes, I realize that since my kids go to bed ridiculously early, that nighttime counts as free time – but with a husband in another state this week, it’s not like I could go run errands or anything. Leaving them home alone is decidedly frowned upon.

It doesn’t get much better as the month progresses. I can’t imagine how much she’ll actually learn in school this month with six days off and six half days. After-school activities also become erratic as everyone tries to adjust to the crazy schedule. Now, I’m a SAHM. A conference in the middle of the day, random dismissal times, and more time off than in is nothing more than a bother for me. Since taking care of them is my job, I can’t really complain about the extra hours. But what about all those parents who don’t have my level of freedom? The ones who are paid hourly? Who only get a handful of days off to try to spread through an entire year? Who only have a certain budget for after-care? November just has to suck for them. Reduced pay checks and pissed off bosses will not make the holiday season any more merry.

So, what to do with kids with endless days off in November? My kids just want to sit on the couch and watch movies. Sounds great in theory, but the execution is the tricky part. Who gets to pick the movie? Pixar or Disney? Scholastic or PBS? My son never sits still for an entire movie, especially once he has seen often. He plays cars by racing them around and around our coffee table while he watches. This means my daughter has to sit herself on the couch and put her feet up on the coffee table – effectively blocking his path. It’s like clockwork. He does A, she does B to piss him off. This hardly makes for a quiet, relaxing afternoon. Instead, it’s like modern warfare. In fact, the longer my children spend in the same room together, the closer we get to visiting CHOP.

I’ve tried to fill the days with fun things, but “The best laid plans of mice and men oft goes astray,” should be the rallying cry of parenthood. No matter what I planned, one child wound up crying, in time out, or both. The main problem is that they are just far apart in age and ability right now that what amuses the youngest bores the oldest, and what amuses the oldest baffles the youngest. The only middle ground is Candyland – and they both cheat.

My new goal is to keep them separated long enough to send them back to school. Because of course, since karma is a spiteful wench, my husband has to work this weekend and I honestly think that if I try to force any more “fun” time on them, it is going to become very Lord of the Flies around here, and I’m Piggy.

The Muffin

2010-11-01T15:32:00.001-04:00

Back in college, my friends and I were really into making bets. No, we didn’t wager on sports, or horses, or even the Oscars. Nope, we wagered on each other. Who could hook up with a person first? (Kissing, not sex; we weren’t THAT bad). Who could last the longest during Drinking Uno? Drinking Jenga? The Hour of Power? The most shots? We made a drinking game out of the absolutely atrocious, yet infectious song, Whoomp, There It Is! You get the picture. But, since we were always broke, the bets were small. They usually involved humiliation rather than restitution. Once, they involved both and a truly stirring rendition of Denis Leary’s I’m An Asshole. No matter the end result, they were always inspiring. No one wanted to lose a bet. In fact, in my senior year, I accidentally dyed my very, very long hair jet black. I looked like I had a bad witch wig permanently affixed to my head. When I claimed it was a result of a bet, people just shook their heads at me.

Fast forward more years than I care to count and I am at a crossroads. I need motivation. I need a good old-fashioned bet to get me going. But this time, I need higher stakes. I’ve only got one guy to kiss, I can’t even smell tequila without shuddering, and if I tried to drink my way through Candyland I would find myself joining Sookie in Fairyland. What’s a fat woman to do?

So, I am calling on all my friends both old and new to help turn me from the Stay-Puft Marshmallow mom into Stacy’s Mom (has got it going on). Your goals do not have to be the same. I’d kill most of the women I know for their post-baby look, so think outside the body. What if you always wanted to write a book? Always wanted to scrapbook all of your family photos? Organize them (with names and dates)? Any task, as long as it is long and arduous is a good task.

Then, the sky is the limit on the bet. What have you always wanted but refused to buy for yourself? Try to win it in the bet! What chore do you absolutely dread and secretly wish someone else would do for you? Make it a bet! Make it worthwhile. Make it outlandish. Make it something I would absolutely despise doing or something so pricey that it would kill me to buy it for you (and not for me). Come on, use your imagination. Let’s have fun with this. I know I should just be able to put down the cookie and pick up the carrot, but seriously, if I enjoyed vegetables, then I wouldn’t need to diet, would it?

My husband and I have tried this. However, as a man, he always loses a ton of weight early in the process, then I get discouraged, then he tries to slow down to encourage me, and next thing I know, we are back to ordering take-out instead of making a salad. I’ve tried to motivate myself with things, but since I have to buy them myself and I’m cheap, it is self-defeating.

I am looking to you readers! The Pantless Wonder needs to be able to take her pants off without fear of being speared by a delusional fisherman. I no longer want to be the cautionary whale of what NOT to eat.

So . . . wanna make a bet?

All Hallow's Eve

2010-10-25T12:08:00.001-04:00

This is the first year that both of my kids truly understand the spirit of Halloween. You dress up, you get candy. The end. It is a simple holiday, but second only to Christmas in fun. This being my fifth year of actively engaging in the holiday, I have learned some very simple lessons that I will share with you about children, costumes, and candy.

1. Never, ever put your child in a sports-themed costume unless that team is winning. For example, this would not be the year to send them around in Phillies gear. I learned this lesson the hard way when I took my then almost two-year old out and about in an Eagle’s cheerleading costume during a losing streak. She was inexhaustible and spent three full hours trick or treating. She was also very, very confused as to why some adults kept pulling the candy bowl away, yelling rude things at her, and making her work twice as hard for her treat as the next kid. You wouldn’t think she looked anything like Andy Reid, but yet, she kept getting treated like him. Never again.

2. Let them pick what they like out of the candy bowl. That same year, my daughter decided that lollipops were her candy of choice. Bowl after chocolate filled bowl, she went for the suckers and even requested a special bag just for carrying her lollipops. With visions of dental bills dancing in my head, I kept trying to steer her away from sugar on a stick. She kept going back for more. We came home with enough DumDums and Blowpops for several raves. She never ate one. Turns out, she had no actual interest in them as candy and just liked how they fit in her hand.

3. Plan ahead. This year, my daughter is Jessie from Toy Story. She gave her brother the choice of being either Buzz or Woody. (She always picks for him. Last year, she was Princess Leia to his Ewok. Another year, she was Dorothy and he was the Cowardly Lion.) He chose Buzz. I bought both (and by bought, I mean, I got both Buzz and Woody pajamas, which are the actual basis of his costume). And wouldn’t you know, turns out he is afraid of the inflatable wings I bought for Buzz. Ten dollars in foresight saved me a fortune in agida.

4. If the kids needs a weapon to make the costume complete, choose a different costume. At a Halloween event this past weekend, I saw a kid dressed as a gangster, complete with prop Tommy gun. Does he watch a lot of The Sopranos on Saturday mornings? I also saw a kid dressed in full Viking gear, complete with anvil. Indy with his whip and Obi-Wan with his light saber is one thing, but an anvil? Why don’t you just give him a mace and call it a day. Surely kids totally hopped up on sugar and excitement will remember to always play nice with their medieval weaponry.

5. Donate your candy. My children are like Ferengi on their quest for candy, but unlike gold-pressed latinum, candy, once gathered, accrues nothing but dust. They gather untold pounds of it but really can only eat a few ounces without getting heartily sick. Sure, those first few days of picking through and eating all the good stuff (which in our house are any Reese’s products and the 100,000 Grand bars) is fun for me and my husband, but my kids lose interest the moment we finish the first sort. So every year, I find a place that sends the candy oversees to our military troops. Just make sure you don’t pick out all the good stuff. No one wants to receive a box of Tootsie Rolls.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas?

2010-10-12T12:44:00.001-04:00

It is mid-October. Mums are in bloom, kids are prepping for Halloween, pumpkins are being picked, and apple recipes are being tested in kitchens all over the Northeast. So of course, Wal-Mart sent out a press-release about Christmas.

Now, I love Christmas. There is much making of merry come holiday season. But this isn’t it. It isn’t even cold out. I can still shop in sandals. Back to school shopping should not morph directly into Christmas shopping –it’s just not right.

But of course, being the glutton for punishment, I clicked on the Top Picks link to see what toys I am going to studiously avoid this year. And number one on that list would be the child-sized version of Beer Pong. Sure, they are calling it “Cuponk” but the basic stratagem is the same: bounce balls off table into cup. First and foremost, what crazy-ass parent chooses to give their child a projectile and unleash it into their dining room? “Sure son, please feel free to wing that bouncy ball as hard as you can at your great-great grandmother’s dining room table. Just make sure you don’t hit the china cabinet. And make sure to chug your milk if you get it in the cup.” Please. This gift will indeed be hard to find this year if only because every college student in America is going to snatch it up at the first opportunity.

Then there is, of course, the newest version of the Disney Princesses. The marketing machine at Disney is nothing if not robust. At 18 inches high, the damn things are practically child-sized and are scary as hell. Let me tell you what – until those things actually start doing the domesticated chores they embrace so happily in their movies, cooking, cleaning, mending, etc., then the dolls don’t need hands large enough to hold a spoon, broom, or needle. And I don’t know what a “Monster High” is, but I can sure as hell promise you that my daughter will not be finding out anytime soon. Those dolls are freaky.

I’ll skip the remote-controlled Bigfoot, monster truck, and motorcross racing bike. My son can destroy things well enough on his own, thanks. I would like to know what idiot created the Hot Wheels Stealth Rides though. A remote-controlled car that is smaller than a deck of cards but retails for $24.99 just seems like a really bad idea. Any wagers on how long before that particular toy gets lost? It might be easier to just buy one of those monster collections of Match Box cars and throw them into random corners and under hard-to-reach pieces of furniture and call it a day.

Also on my do-not-buy list, the Nerf N-Strike Stampede which looks exactly like a miniature machine gun, but in bright orange. The perfect toy for keeping terrorists off the San Francisco Bay Bridge! I will also be studiously avoiding the weird “Loopz” game that does nothing more than remind me of that really uncomfortable Star Trek: The Next Generation episode where Wesley has to stop everyone from playing that sexually-charged video game alongside a fetal Ashley Judd. Riker’s “o” face gave me nightmares for weeks and the thought of seeing a preschool version on my son’s face leaves me at a loss for words.

However, I do like the Pillow Pets, though I’m not sure how they are a new toy being as half the people I know bought one last year. The Sing-a-ma-jigs seem cute, it not really poorly named and Electronic Scrabble just seems like a waste of batteries especially since it appears to be a rip-off of Boggle more than anything else. The Leapster Explorer seems fun, but my daughter is still quite happy with her regular Leapster and until I need to pass it along to her younger brother, she isn’t getting a new one.

So, once again, the Must Have list leaves me cold and short of ideas. Once again, I will have to undertake exploratory trips to toy stores, will have to leave catalogues open for perusing, and will have to plant ideas in their heads like I do every year. Once again, I will try to get them to want what I want them to have, not what marketing companies have decided they need based on supply. But for now, I am going to ignore Christmas entirely. I still have Halloween costumes to finish and lots and lots of candy to gather. Only after the pumpkins have been thoroughly ravaged by squirrels and socks need to be worn on a regular basis will I start Christmas shopping. And no amount of prodding from Wal-Mart will make me start any earlier.

Adventures in Bargain Shopping

2010-10-08T16:00:00.001-04:00

My excuse this week was that my paying gig (I’m a freelance editor) was pretty busy, forcing me to slouch off on my non-paying, but way more fun habit of writing for you, my little tiny reading audience. So, in the style of David Sedaris, I am going to include a few very short anecdotes about shopping to get you through the long holiday weekend.

Size Does Matter
I recently decided I needed a new sports bra so that I could batten down my baguettes so that I could exercise without being hit in the eye. While at the store, I decided to try on shirts. There were nine regular dressing rooms and one family-sized/handicapped one. Guess which one the itty bitty ninny used to try on her teeny weeny skinny-legged jeans? That’s right, the family one. I guess it had the best views of her ass. When she finally emerged, she seemed completely surprised that there were two kids right outside her half-door, which means she must have been deaf as well as stupid because Thing One and Thing Two were not exactly quiet as they waited. The best part of this shopping trip – the shirts I waited ten minutes to try on didn’t even fit and the sports bras didn’t come in my size. I guess only skinny people are supposed to work out. The rest of us will just have to make do with oversized t-shirts and heat-stroke inducing track pants made out of itchiest, sweatiest blend of fabrics known to mankind.

To add insult to injury, I then decided to try on coats. I currently wear either a shapeless fleece that, while toasty, isn’t exactly flattering or my men’s Old Navy pea coat that gives me shoulders like a linebacker and is heavier than it is warm. Guess what I found? First, that I actually do have shoulders like a linebacker, which makes me look ridiculous in short-waisted, wide-lapel jackets, and second, that coats that look oh so jaunty and hip on the rack just make me look and gigantic and hippy . Sigh. Over to the dreaded “women’s” section I went only to discover that the material in my size is practically fire-retardant. It was shiny and slippery and looked like they put the inner lining on the outside by accident. Why Lord? Why can’t fat people look nice too? I dream of some day owning a long, brown trench, reminiscent of Captain Mal’s. Of course, in my dream, I don’t look like a giant sack of potatoes in it, but that’s a whole other problem. In reality, I just want a coat that fits well, that keeps me warm, and that matches my Gryffindor scarf. (You know you want one.) Maybe someday, that dream will come true.

Mine! Mine! Mine!
I know many people view shopping as a competitive sport and we all know that unless it has books in it, stores don’t interest me at all. But unless you are a superstar and can afford to have a shop closed down for your own personal amusement, then share the space. Don’t park your oversized cart filled with oversized products directly in the middle of the aisle at the local warehouse store. Don’t go to a consignment sale and grab all the costumes off the Halloween rack to drag to a dark, deserted corner to go through in secret. You aren’t Gollum and the clothes aren’t all that precious. Share. You do not exist in a bubble and the world is not your oyster. (Shuck you if you think it is). If you want it, take it and move on. Don’t stand there and ruminate over the bargain bin. Trust me, if you don’t need it, then even if it is cheap, you are still paying more for it than it is worth. Don’t read all the labels in the baking aisle on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. People have been killed for less. And finally, don’t offer advice to a harried parent who is desperately trying to just get through the grocery store before the screaming, crying, whining child she is carting around self-implodes. A knowing smile and an “I’ve been there” grin will go a lot further than any “kind” words you want to offer and those enormous, difficult to maneuver driving carts she is probably shoving with all of her might through the store are going to hurt like a sonafabitch when she just gives in and runs over your toes with them.

I Do! (And Do! And Do! and Do!)

2010-09-28T13:11:00.002-04:00

I have not watched Sister Wives. I have seen clips of the “cast” on The Today Show and I’ve seen various commercials. And while I firmly and strongly believe that what happens between two consenting adults in their own bedroom is their own business, the whole concept of polygamy grosses me out. It’s like sloppy seconds to the nth degree.

Let’s talk about sex (baby). So the one husband has to put out enough to satisfy three women. That part doesn’t seem all that difficult. How long does the average middle-aged guy take anyway? He could hit all four rooms and still be sound asleep before the nightly news. It does appears that he only has to hit one room per night, which seems more hygienic, but infinitely more problematic. What if one of the women has her period? Does she get a bye night, like in football? If he is gone one night, does that woman get skipped in the rotation or does it pick up where it left off, like in school schedules? Does he only have to tuck in children from that particular mother? Do all the wives sit around and compare notes when he isn’t around? Does he ever call out the wrong name? I assume since they are very religious, the standard “Oh God” might be a commandment breaker. (But to be honest, I’m not sure polygamist Mormons follow the Ten Commandments. Taking the Lord’s name FTW!)

In an effort to be a bit more informed on this issue, I watched some of the clips posted on TLC. What I learned is that this husband has more wives than brain cells. Instead of buying say, a small apartment building, he gutted his house and built three distinct apartments (containing bedroom, kitchen, and living room). The fourth wife is still waiting for her addition. Why not build one huge McMansion and everyone can actually share cooking and cleaning it? Plus, not that I think the Dugger’s are the shining model of family normalcy, but at least they cook for all 19 children at once. If I only have the possibility of getting laid every fourth night, then I damn sure shouldn’t have to cook on the other three.

I also learned that while they learned how to merge many of their different family traditions, such as birthday rituals or Tooth Fairy rewards, they were not willing to compromise on their own individual Christmas celebrations. Instead, Christmas lasts for three full days as each wife gets to do it her own way. Jesus Christ indeed. Throw in the fourth wife and her traditions and that newborn king will be walking before the wrapping paper is even cleared away.

It’s all just very odd. Wife number two is excited she finally has a toaster. A plain, non-descript two-slice toaster. Not even a bagel toaster or one that burns Mickey Mouse or Hello Kitty into the bread. Just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill toaster. Now, I know they live in middle America, but do they also live in the middle ages? Who doesn’t have a toaster? And why is he driving a Lexus (which probably comes with a built-in espresso machine) while she is trying to toast bread in an oven?

The fourth wife is the newest one. She’s only been around one year to the others 13 years. Which really begs the question, is she high? Most women I know don’t even want to join a book club that has long-standing members, let alone a family. The best part is the first wife is the one who sent her husband on the prowl. It’s like every guy’s fantasy, “Hey hon, that girl is hot, wanna bring her home?” Except in this case, they kept her.

Now let’s talk about the inner, thornier issue of why any woman should accept just one piece of the proverbial man-pie. What sad, misguided, and delusional part of her thinks that the best she deserves is one-quarter of this guy’s time? I’ve seen the guy. He isn’t on anyone’s Top Five. He wouldn’t even make the annual hot Polygamist Calendar. If I have to share my bed with three other women (without the Sapphic overtones which would at least make it more fun for those who swing that way), then the guy I am sharing it for better be “hot like Tyson Bedford with the charm of Robert Redford.” And this guy? Looks like an overgrown puppet from Avenue Q. Why should they all accept one night out of four? Why should they accept a “marriage” with is actually a third-degree felony? I don’t particularly care if the marriage bed contains two men, two women, or one of each, but I’m pretty sure it should be limited to two. Why? Because I believe every one person deserves to be the sun in someone else’s sky, not some minor moon on a rotation.

Gleek is the Word

2010-09-21T12:01:00.003-04:00

The second season of Glee is about to begin. This makes me happy. I watched every episode of last season the way other people watch porn – in the dark, in private, rewinding all the good parts. And there were always lots of good parts. Sure, the writers often seemed to forget who was dating whom and opened and closed secondary storylines completely at random. Sure, Sue Sylvester and Mr. Schu seemed to fight the same battle over and over again and yes, his hair does probably smell like cookies. But all that is beside the point. It’s fun. It contains a character whose sole purpose is to just play the piano. (How does he always know what song to play? Why doesn’t he ever need sheet music? Is he a voice-activated robot? Does Principal Figgins know about him? Curious minds want to know.) I may not let my daughter watch it, but I play (most) of the songs for her the next day.

I read somewhere that many people like the show better when they are not singing. iTunes couldn’t disagree more. I love when they sing. It’s the singing that makes the show. While I am not totally lame and have not bought every Glee album, I have created a playlist of all my fave showstoppers, some by the original artist, some by the cast. It’s long, it’s odd, and it manages to contain both KISS and Barbra Streisand, which just can’t be right. But that is the beauty of Glee. It brings all sort of disparate genres together. It has also helped me to overcome my severe and utter hatred of Journey.

So, to get you all hyped up for tonight’s season premiere (and to keep you interested during a week where major life changes, illness, and new schedules have kept me from blogging), here is my Glee playlist in no particular order. I should warn you that I lost my musical taste somewhere in the 90s, around the time I attended my last concert. The list:

4 Minutes – Madonna and Justin Timberlake
You Can’t Always Get What You Want – Rolling Stones
Take A Bow – Rihanna
Single Ladies – Beyonce
No Air – Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown
My Life Would Suck Without You – Kelly Clarkson
Loser – Beck
Keep Holding On – Avril Lavigne
It’s My Life/Confessions – Glee Cast
Hate on Me – Jill Scott
Halo – Beyonce
Gold Digger – Kanye West
Gives You Hell – The All-American Rejects
Don’t Rain on My Parade – Barbra Streisand
Defying Gravity – Idina Menzel & Kristen Chenoweth
The Boy Is Mine – Glee Cast
Beth – The Rolling Stones
Bad Romance – Lady Gaga
And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going – Jennifer Holliday
Don’t Stop Believing – Glee Cast Version
To Sir, With Love – Lulu
Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World – Israel Kamakawiwo’ole

Sadly, my bonus video by Mark Salling singing about why he loved working on Glee had to be removed due to copyright infringement. You'll just have to seek it out on YouTube.

Back in Black

2010-09-10T10:33:00.004-04:00

The headline was, "Diner Burns to Ground in South Jersey." Make your own jokes, I’m too tired. You see, when the fire alarms started ringing in every town within earshot (and several I had previously thought were out of earshot), I thought I was dreaming. Why, I thought, are they running the sirens before dawn? Are we under attack? Am I in Camden? ‘Nam? My windows were open to take in the first real breeze of the season so the sound carried over hill and vale (or in this instance, brick and mortar) to my bedroom. I swear I could hear each individual firehouse light up and get going. I could even follow their drive through town based on how the sirens varied.

Too lazy to get out of bed (which I had already done three time during the night in service of my son and my bladder), I hunched under the covers and tried to go back to sleep. When that didn’t work, I tried to figure out what target the terrorists would want to hit in my area on the eve of September 11th. The sirens were going in the opposite direction of the local bridges, which also eliminated them going to Philly, and there isn’t a nuclear power plant or government base anywhere close. Finally, I realized that terrorists couldn’t find my town with a map and compass (which would oddly prove to be true of local newscasters as well) and drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Twenty minutes later, I woke again, this time to the sound of a helicopter hovering above my roof. Funny, I didn’t know I had a landing pad up there. Sure, Santa finds it every year but I don’t remember extending the invitation to the local aviation industry. I have never heard such a cacophony of noise in my life (and I've been to Gymboree). It was a form of aural torture that was like trying to take in a wall of sound. Think of the loudest point in any professional sports game, when you are surrounded by thousands of screaming (and in Philly, bloodthirsty) fans. Multiply that sound by ten, expand it so that it lasts for a full hour, and then pinpoint it directly above your head. I actually had to go outside my home and look up to find the damn thing it was so close. Not close enough to curse them roundly, but close enough to discover it was my usual nemesis at play: Fox News. This is when I was finally able to see the smoke billowing into the sky mere blocks from my home.

Obviously wide awake now and curious, I turned on the television. I flipped channels a bit while I waited to get a clear shot of what the hell was so important that they had to get a news copter out to record it when I finally uncovered the truth – a diner had caught fire. In New Jersey. Good lord people. There are more diners in Jersey than guidos and mobsters combined. In fact, before they even named the diner, I was trying to figure out which one of the four within a one-mile radius it could have been. And yes, it is devastating to the owners of the property, the employees, even the regular customers, but did it deserve a news copter? Are we really still at the caveman stage where we have to stand around a fire and say “ooooohhh pretty?” If so, can you stand a bit to the side? I can’t see around you.

It must have been a big f’ing fire if only because the diner apparently stretched across three separate towns. That’s a lot of cheese fries. Now, I know South Jersey is just one, continuous, traffic-clogged road that leads down the shore for most people, but there are individual towns here. Fox News got the name of the town wrong. ABC got the name of the town wrong. Philadelphia is a large metropolitan area with multiple media outlets. They employ a lot of people. If they can afford a chopper, they can afford a freakin’ fact checker.

And so, I did not have a good morning. Obviously, the owners of the diner had a far worse one and the brave and noble volunteer and professional firefighters had a rough one as well putting out the blaze and keeping safe. I’m sure they will all need an extra cup of coffee or a Red Bull this afternoon. And for those people, I feel sorry. But for the mothertrucker who decided that X marked the spot on my roof and used it as his (or her) fixed location for filming – I wish dark and evil thoughts unto you. Involving rotor blades. And wind shear.

(Fun fact: never post "read about me trying to build a ground-to-air missle out of Legos" on the anniversary of a terrorist attack on Facebook. It will get pulled.)

In The Beginning

2010-09-07T10:17:00.002-04:00

And so it begins.

School.

I sent my daughter to kindergarten today. Sure, the morning started out with happy smiles and lots of shouting, but the closer we got to school, the quieter she became. Our neighbor’s daughters walked with us, and my daughter switched back and forth between Daddy (holding up the rear with a coffee cup) and Mommy (leading the procession with the stroller.) There was more hand-holding this morning than at a fifth-grade dance. She was brave and did not cry. (Neither did I, although my husband did have a somewhat suspicious allergy problem.) She didn’t smile, but she didn’t cry. Once the children went indoors, the parents rushed to the windows like tourists at a zoo to see how the little people behaved. I watched as my daughter found her cubby and coat hook, found her spot at the (severely overcrowded) table, carefully analyzed each person already sitting at it, then sat down. She looked outside, blew me a wave and a kiss, and then seemed to dismiss me from her mind entirely.

The drop-off was immediately followed by a welcome PTA tea. There were no familiar faces, excluding one: the mother with the ugly kids about whom I have previously written (http://thepantlesswonder.blogspot.com/2010/05/ugly-duckling.html.) Karma is a bitch. Otherwise, the environs and fellow participants were as unfamiliar to me as they were to my child. There were, of course, the usual stereotypes: the parent who already declared that she does not give her child flu shots (and thank you for giving me even more reasons to get my child vaccinated), the pregnant mom, the anxious grandparents, etc. Then there were a few new ones: the visibly and numerously tattooed, the hangover helmet, and the too-short leopard print dress (and that one was on a child.) Toto, we are not preschool anymore. Obviously, I have nothing against the tattooed (having some myself), tying one on, or animal prints (as long as I’m not wearing them), but it being the first day of school and all, I sort of expected all the kids (and parents) to be scrubbed and wearing their best. One child looked like he had been slapped awake just minutes prior and was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Obviously, I’m being a judgmental be-yotch here as everyone with a small child knows that fighting over clothes is a losing battle, but a little cold water and a brush never did anyone any harm.

Strangely enough, it is her brother who seems the most upset at the change in routine. The victim of her crimes, the tortured and abused younger child was really sad this morning. He screamed, he cried, he refused to put on his shoes, and kept asking where she was going. After the PTA tea (where no tea was served) he wanted to know why we were leaving his sister behind. He was one very unhappy child. However, once we arrived back home and he realized it was just the two of us, he cheered up considerably. I’m sure he’ll be even happier when he realizes that his naptime is all but forgotten as well as his sister’s pick-up time cuts directly into it. Lose one kid, gain the other.

And so, I don’t have to pick up my daughter until almost three o’clock in the afternoon. Even her longest day at preschool was two-hours shorter than her first day of kindergarten. I can't wait to hear all about her day and her new friends. It's a toss-up if she'll go stealthy and silent, keeping everything to herself as she processes it all, or if she goes wide and loud and not only tells me every detail, but insists on calling both sets of grandparents and her father to share as well. Also up for debate is whether she is excited about returning tomorrow. Only time will tell - lots and lots of time. Hours and hours of it before she's back home with me. I bet she'll get used to it quicker than I will.

Kate Plus Hate

2010-08-31T10:19:00.001-04:00

If you can give me a plausible explanation why Kate Gosselin still exists as a “celebrity” and further expand on your thesis to explain why she was at the Emmy Awards, I will give you a cookie.

I think I have reached maximum exposure to fake celebrities. Why it a Kardashian and why is it on my television screen? Why does Matthew Morrison, who sings, dances, and acts his hot little ass off on Glee make as much per episode as Snookie, the vile orange Oompa Loompa from The Jersey Shore whose sole marketable skill seems to be drinking to the point of falling down? A few years ago, admitting to using an online dating service to find true love was considered embarrassing. Now, going on a televised dating show to do the same is worthy of magazine covers. And I bet there was a lot less sex on Match.com than there is on The Bachelor/Bachelorette and your grandmother wasn’t watching you do it.

I understand reality television, but not what about being on television constitutes reality. Even as I type, I am wearing yoga shorts and my husband’s faded college tee, glasses, and a ponytail. Breakfast consisted of me throwing the occasional granola bar at my kids whenever they wandered past me in their quest to cover my house in Matchbox cars and musical instruments. Does anyone need to see that? Nope. But would they if I had a television crew in my house? Nope.

Let’s use for example, the evil incarnate that is Kate Gosselin. In the beginning, her show really was just about a mousy SAHM, her relatively useless working husband, and their litter of babies. (I’m going to ignore the older two much the same way their parents do.) They appeared, if not happy, then at least settled into their lives of quiet desperation. Then product placement reared its ugly head, whoring out the kids became a full-time job for both of them, and their small day trips to local attractions spiraled into all-expense paid trip to exotic locales. At one point exactly do you think Kate realized that her reality was no longer very real? That without the show, there was no life? Obviously, for anyone who watched Dancing with the Stars or any episode of her awful television show, the answer is that she can’t tell the difference between what is real (she’s a soulless shrew with no talent or personality) and what is reality (she is a hot commodity who brings in ratings and money). She got to dance with the cast of Glee on an award show that supposedly celebrates the best of all that is televised and now thinks she should be an actor! What the hell is wrong with the world?

If video killed the radio star, then what can we do to kill the reality star? How can we teach people the difference between famous and infamous? I sure as hell don’t know. I live in Jersey, where reality has reached an all-time low. You want an onyx, granite, and marble mansion filled with leopard print and fur? I know where you can get one - cheap. You want all manner of STD and ‘roid rage fueled violence? I know just the town. You want the lowest common denominator of all humankind, preening for a camera? “Come See for Yourself” indeed.

My only hope is that one day, Kate Gosselin gets her comeuppance. One day, her world, built entirely on the backs of her children, will come crumbling down. One day, in the not-so-distant future, those neglected older children will, taking a page from their mother’s bible of selling your soul for a sou, write a tell-all that will put Mommy Dearest to shame. And I will read it. Oh yes I will.

The Sixth Sense

2010-08-24T10:31:00.000-04:00

My daughter asked me the other day if I have eyes in the back of my head. Of course, I answered in the affirmative. Why allow her to think otherwise? Then I sat and thought about it and realized the obvious truth, she really does have no idea how easy it is to use my basic senses (we’ll leave out taste since I have no intention of eating my young anytime soon) to be a good (or at least moderately successful) parent.

Sound It is a mystery to my child that I can tell when she has not flushed the toilet or washed her hands. She is amazed when I tell her to sit back down at the kitchen table when I am in another room. My ability to suss out when her brother hasn’t taken his shoes off, or when he has stopped eating his dinner, or when she has left her bedroom without permission is practically epic in her eyes. And they are all such easy tricks. Bathroom fixtures and moving chairs make noise. The boys’ shoes have bells on them - he’s practically a walking musical instrument. He sings when he should be eating (as does she), so the only time the dinner hour is actually silent is when they are stuffing their faces. I have a chain of bells on her bedroom room (DYI motion detectors), plus the door itself sticks a bit, so she has to heave-ho her little body into the frame to get it open. This is not a quiet procedure. And yet, she is always amazed when I yell up the stairs for her to flush, wash, and get back into bed. She’s not deaf. I assure you, the child will pick out the one word in a sentence that you don’t want her to hear – from two rooms away, with the TV on – even if you say it under your breath and/or using sign language. But the average every day sounds of daily living are not pertinent to her, so they become just so much background static.

Sight My children seem to think they have the gift of invisibility. Hide under the covers, and no matter how big the lump, how loud the giggling, and how often this hiding place is chosen, they will shriek with surprise when they are found. My daughter once sent her brother on a top secret mission to get Goldfish from the kitchen. To do so, he had to walk past me in the dining room. He waved. He also, as noted above, jingled. Plan thwarted. However, she really did think that if he just walked quietly enough, I wouldn’t notice. My children are also terrible liars (a skill upon which I do not want them to improve). Ask my daughter a question and she either tells the truth or umms herself into trouble. No imagination equals a complete inability to manufacture a lie. Thus, my ability to simply look at her and tell what she is planning to do or what she just did is no harder than glancing at ESPN for a sports score.

Smell My son has a habit of denying his bowel movements. No amount of sewage smell emanating from his general direction like a real-life Pigpen will convince him that I can tell when he’s pooped. I have often walked into his room after nap to find that the air has a toxic quality comparable to a low-grade fertilizer factory – and yet there he is, breathing it all in and entirely bewildered by my retching noises. It must be some sort of built-in survival mechanism.

Touch I can heal the sick with just the touch of my hands. Didn’t know I possessed that little trick, eh? It’s magic! In reality, it is simply the strong belief by the little people in my life that if I kiss it, it will get better. No matter what the ailment, real or imaginary, I can heal it instantly. It’s a pretty neat skill and probably the most fun one to have.

Umami I have always understood this sense to mean sort of the distillation of all the senses. It is essence of what you are experiencing. For example, when eating a mushroom, you would be able to smell the forest and the earth in which it was grown while simultaneously enjoying the sight of the food and the texture of it. I could be wrong. I watch a lot of cooking shows, but until they come in Smell-O-Vision, I am taking my best guess. With kids, I think this occurs in the exact moment before the crying starts, before something falls, before something burns, and before the fever actually starts. It is the whisper in the air that wakes us up to tell us something is wrong just moments the shit really hits the fan. Everyone has it – but with parents, we can focus it with pinpoint precision on our children’s daily existence.

One day in the far, far, far distant future (after they have achieved college degrees, matrimony, and financial, emotional, and personal stability of course), my kids will have kids. And they will learn all the little tricks of the trade that come with that duty. But until then, I much prefer for my kids to think that I can see through walls and read their souls in a glance. It keeps them on their toes. Learning right from wrong is important, but learning how not to get caught, well, that is something else entirely.

Another Brick in the Wall

2010-08-18T09:27:00.002-04:00

Can someone please explain to me the logic behind one store carrying the same character, made by the same brand, but in completely different styles and patterns? As in, why is there a Hello Kitty black and silver star backpack but only a hot pink with blue butterflies lunch box? Does that make any sense? I can’t have the only child in the world who wants everything to match, right? Wouldn’t it make more sense to sell them by sets? Double the price, throw in a “bonus” reusable bottle and it would fly off the shelves. Fly!

And what the hell is going on with reusable bottles nowadays? Back in the day when I had to walk five miles to school, each way, barefoot, each tin lunchbox came with a thermos. The lunchboxes were probably pounded out by convicts at the local penitentiary for pennies an hour. The thermos took on the smell of anything you put it in and one bad milk day could ruin it forever. But they were cheap. Now, with plastic being completely verboten, all reusable bottles are made of hard metals. Steel, titanium, hell, I wouldn’t be surprised to find some made of kryptonite considering how much they freaking cost. My kids went to dance camp six days this summer. (Yes, the boy went and yes, he loved it, particularly the tap shoes. What boy doesn’t like making noise?) Anyway, while there, they managed to lose three different pieces of Tupperware. I buy it in bulk and I buy it cheap, so it was no great loss. But at $10 per metal bottle ($12 if it has a character), the only way I’m sending one to school with her is if I shackle it to her wrist, nuclear code style.

Once I do find non-poisonous bottles to go in her lunchbox (and thank God indeed for the Christmas Tree shop, proud purveyor of crap, nonsense, miscellaneous, off-brand, and unnecessary items for selling them at $2 a pop), I also have to find tree-hugging ways to send the food to school. To help save the environment, should I wrap her sandwiches in newspaper? Better make sure it isn’t the funnies as I don’t want to get in trouble for accidentally letting red ink into her food. Plus, what am I supposed to do with the metric ton of Disney brand plastic snack bags I already picked up to help make her lunch special? I like the idea of reusing the bags, but I also bought little motivational stickers to put on her lunch every day. I think she’ll notice if she gets the same one for a week. I doubt my mother had these problems. Then again, my mom probably sent me off to school with a bowie knife to hunt my own food.

On top of the sartorial and environmental concerns, I also have to focus on nutrition. This is my first year packing a daily lunch and snack. (Or, to give credit where credit is due, this is the first year her father will have to do it. Daddy does mornings.) Her occasional forays into after-care at preschool allowed me to focus on carb-loading to get her through the extended play day. She didn’t have to learn anything after 11:15, so I didn’t worry about making sure she had her essential food groups. Now, however, she needs a “healthy” snack for midmorning, her lunch, and I assume that as soon as she gets home, a second lunch because my child is nothing but Hobbit-like when it comes to meals. I anticipate much higher grocery bills come September. Luckily, my daughter loves fruit, carrot sticks, hummus, and whole wheat. Sure, she’ll cut your heart out with a spoon for bowl of ice cream or a bag of popcorn, but everyone has a vice. Many a night, the only reason my husband isn’t locked out of the house entirely is because he comes home bearing Rita’s mango water ice. Who am I to judge?

So, come fall, we’ll begin the next stage of our life – lunch at school. Biodegradable, environmentally-friendly, ecologically sound, and nutritiously delicious. I wonder if it might just be easier to give her a cardboard box to eat.

You Are A Toy!

2010-08-10T11:22:00.001-04:00

Is it just me, or are the “classic” toys of yesteryear kind of crappy? My kids love to play Hungry, Hungry, Hippo. My son cheats by using his fingers to hand-feed his hippo and my daughter cheats by dumping all her balls into the middle first so that she is also the first to scoop them back up. I cheat my giving my hippo lockjaw. Fun is had by all (though my tolerance for the game is much, much shorter than theirs.) But I have to admit that the first time I took it out of the box, I was appalled at how poorly made it was. Every time you put it away, you have to detach the cheap plastic hippos from the base. I live in fear that I am going accidentally rip a hippos butt off and have to explain to my children what euthanasia means.

Lincoln Logs have proved similarly disappointing. My son just received a set for his birthday and I was really looking forward to helping him build a veritable dream cabin to rival his uncle’s. My son has a good imagination and likes to manipulate his toys (as opposed to my daughter who has no imagination and expects her toys to come to life and entertain her, a la Toy Story) so anything he can build, take apart, etc. makes him happy. Imagine my surprise when I dumped out the gigantic box and realized that there were barely enough pieces inside to build a shack. Sure, you could build the exact model pictured on the front, but where is the imagination in that? (Fun fact, the original sets came with instructions on how to build Uncle Tom’s Cabin! Imagine explaining that one to your kids.) When I was a child, I remember my cousin having a veritable forest of logs at his disposal. Maybe he had multiple sets, maybe everything seems different through the haze of time, but he surely had enough for three cousins to play simultaneously. My son and I built his “Old West Jailhouse” yesterday and thought the set comes with wee little lawmen to make the structure seem that much more imposing, it didn’t fool him and he just keeps begging me to make it bigger.

I’m sure it is just my memory playing tricks on me. The tea sets of the past were probably coated in lead paint, the train sets probably ran on oil, and the toy kitchens didn’t even come with microwaves. After all, I was raised in a home where my first Barbie was actually a knock-off called Darcy who was two sizes too big for all the clothes. In fact, when I finally was given a real Barbie, her “fun” accessory was a briefcase and she was wearing a boring gray suit. Who wants Working Girl Barbie unless her profession is the oldest one in the world? The few memories I do have of playing with actual brand-name toys are all away from home. One cousin had an actual Donkey Kong machine in her basement. Full size! In the 80s! The other was actually allowed to use Play-Doh indoors! He had buckets of Lego’s (which were banned in my home for being too easy to step on), the aforementioned Lincoln Logs, and these odd, round plastic building toys that I can’t for the life of me remember the name of, but we would use to build fanciful towers Rapunzel would have been proud to call home. Surely, they weren’t sold in sets of ten, right?

I guess in my head, the toys were classic because they were unbreakable, abundant, and offered unending hours of delight. In reality, they were probably just as shoddily made, probably came in even smaller sets, and probably played with in the same ten minute increments that my children use now. Ah well. Who knows what my children will remember playing with when they grow up? With my luck, it won’t be the huge playhouse, the cabinet filled with crafts, or the backyard filled with a bone yard of plastic toys. It will be the one gadget, gizmo, or geegaw that I didn’t buy them.

Total Eclipse of the Heart

2010-07-30T09:42:00.002-04:00

My theme for today is simple. The Twilight Saga: Eclipse movie is ridiculously bad. Discuss.

Let’s start with the basics. I could have trained some dogs, scavenged McKinley High’s prop department, and hired a local children’s theater company as my actors – and I could have done no worse than the director of this movie. Summit Entertainment spent $70 million on what? Wigs RuPaul wouldn’t wear, dialogue written by a fifth grader, and day-for-night shooting FX so bad that basic cable wept for it. You could see the freaking contacts in the actor’s eyes for Christ’s sake. I mean come on!

There is no internal logic to this movie. A scene in which a man climbs a hill in daylight suddenly shifts to him cresting it in full darkness. Ed Wood would have been proud. A woman camping on the top of a mountain is so cold that she is in danger of both hypothermia and frostbite can walk out of the tent the next morning wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a rolled up flannel? The ground is still covered in snow, so it is obviously still cold and, by the way, she’s at the top of a goddamn mountain in the Pacific Northwest, so you know its not balmy by any stretch of the imagination. Yet nary a shiver or a long sleeve in sight. Better yet, two scenes later, she is hanging out in a field of wildflowers. Glad they weren’t killed off by that sudden biting snowstorm or anything. (And by the way, while a shot of the moon might be appropriate when a werewolf is present, if it is SNOWING OUTSIDE, then it is CLOUDY and hence, no moon. Jesus.)

In another scene, we are very clearly shown that any vampire can smell any other vampire, even after the first vamp has left the premises. Got it? Like a dog pissing on a tree. This point is reinforced several times. So, much later in the movie when a vampire just wanders out from behind a rock without any other of the other vampires standing ten feet away noticing, I honestly thought for a split second that it must be a zombie. I lost complete control of my senses and assumed that the teenage vampire/werewolf movie took a left turn at Albuquerque and suddenly turned into World War Z.

I have mentioned that I never took physics. My concept of it is sketchy at best. (I once almost caused a grown man to cry while discussing aerodynamics.) Yet, I’m pretty sure that a 125 lb man should only be able to turn into a 125 lb wolf. Right? So why do the men in this movie turn into wolves of Hippogriff-like proportions? Seriously, these wolves wouldn’t need to huff and puff a house down, they would merely have to sit on it. It is absolutely ludicrous to see a tiny hairless boy turn into a giant beast. (His fur doesn’t even match his hair color! Like what is that? Do the drapes not match the carpet or something?) Along these lines, I am sorry to say that my lust for underage abs has ended. I’ve seen what a real wolf can look like (Alcide Herveaux, I am slobbering in your general direction) and hence, Jacob is nothing but a puppy to me now.

What I know about filmmaking could fit on a Chinese food menu, but I do know that if every single solitary shot is in close-up, you have defeated the purpose of the close-up. Also, if you are going to shoot the pores of your actors, then your makeup shouldn’t (a) look like it was put on by a drunk clown and/or (b) look like it wore off when the actor last showered days ago. There was no happy medium. Everyone either looked coated in pancake or greasy. They also looked like they bought all their clothes at the SalVal the day before shooting started and no one had time to get them altered.

I’ve read the books, I know they are crap. I’ve seen the other movies, I know they are crap. But still, I was unprepared by how, well, crappy, everything was. A bracelet created by a character (who yes, is supposedly to be mechanically inclined, but was never supposed to be a damn jeweler) looks like it came right off the rack of Claire’s. When an “expensive” diamond is added to it, it looks exactly like what it is – a mass-produced CZ that I can get in multi-packs for the princess party of my dreams. Now, I know the marketing department needs to keep manufacturing costs down when it sells these bracelets in bulk at a retailer near you, but the original should still look like it is, you know, real. Not made of spit and bailing wire.

I don’t expect a lot from these movies. See above about them being crap. But I’ve seen better production values on a Lifetime Original. I am not expecting Oscar-caliber performances (thought these people should definitely be up for a Razzie), or an epic score (which would randomly cut in and out, including at the end of one scene before the dialogue was even complete), or hell, even fantastic locations (if the epic battle didn’t take place on a soundstage, I’ll eat your lunch). But when a bad, evil vampire is about to kill an innocent, she shouldn’t be backlit like she “is never going to go hungry again.” That may well be the case her being a vampire and all, but the red eyes are a dead giveaway that she is not Scarlett O’Hara, so how ‘bout not shooting her like she is?

So, in summary: this movie was awful and I am actually really sad I didn’t wind up going with my fellow fanbangers to MST3K it while at the theater. But I do look forward to watching it with them when the DVD comes out. Will I go see The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn (parts I and II) in the theater? Hell yeah. Despite the ridiculously lond and overly pretentious title I’m like a dog with a bad master. I just keep coming back for more hoping that this time, he'll love me instead of hurt me.

By the way, if you want to read a really complex and fantastic review of why this movie is awful in terms of social relations between men and women then check out this link. Never has anyone better explained why this epic story of romance is anything but romantic.

http://www.hitfix.com/blogs/2008-12-6-motion-captured/posts/the-m-c-review-the-twilight-saga-eclipse

Under the Boardwalk

2010-07-26T12:36:00.002-04:00

Sorry for the delay in posts, but I have been on vacation. The whole family went down the shore for a week of surf, sand, sun, and fun. My husband only checked his CrackBerry every two hours instead of every half-hour. I would have preferred the damn thing get turned off entirely as it would make the entire beach bag shake with is constant new e-mail alerts, but I suppose I should be glad he didn’t figure out a way to waterproof it and attach it to his bathing suit.

The hotel we stayed at was awesome. A kiddie pool with slides and lazy river, a family pool with swim-up bar, daily kid’s crafts, and you could walk right out of the hotel and onto the beach. What more could you ask for? Our room was on the 12th floor and we had good views of dolphin rush hour (9 to 10 am, Wednesday only), the invading alien armada (11pm Tuesday night), and biplanes that flew so close I could have asked the pilot for Grey Poupon.

Bathing in general was kept to a minimum. The jetted whirlpool tub seemed really inviting the first night, but after it developed a fine layer of sand, it really lost its allure. In fact, the damn thing was so high and so deep that it required I turn into Ms. Fantastic with bendy, stretchy arms to actually reach and clean two small children. My usual backup plan of just standing them in the shower was thwarted by a low pressure rainforest shower head. Spray bottles produce more water than that shower did. In fact, I learned early in the week that the outdoor hose the hotel provided to guests was better at removing sand than any indoor plumbing they provided.

Cooking was also kept to a minimum, but that was not the initial plan. Our first day, we stocked the fridge with morning essentials so that the entire family would eat a large, yummy breakfast of eggs, toast, and chocolate-chip pancakes cooked in the fully-stocked galley kitchen in our suite. As it turned out, their cookware was horrible and I couldn’t get a pancake to unstick and actually flip to save my life. My husband’s efforts at trying to fry an egg were similarly unsuccessful and the length of time it took for our toaster to crisp a piece of bread could be measured in five-minute increments. Cereal and muffins for everyone!

We took the vacation very seriously. We were at the beach every morning and the pool every afternoon. I’m honestly surprised the lot of us didn’t wind up with diaper rash considering we spent an entire week in damp drawers. My son graduated from eating sand to actually playing in it but never made if further than his knees into the ocean. We tried, he cried. He did enjoy finding seashells for me and proved adept at dropping them into my pockets for safekeeping. By mid-morning, I had pants full of sand and pockets filled with shards. My daughter attempted body surfing, but was limited by the amount of actual surf. Afternoons were spent either at the kiddie pool or the family pool where decked out in giant yellow swimmies, my son floated in the water like a duck, turning this way and that at random and occasionally stopping to tread and drink the water. My daughter just begged to be tossed. It is disturbing how satisfying it is to really throw a child and how satisfying her sputtering splash can be.

My daughter also attended at least one class per day at the hotel. Cooking, clowning, and crafts were her respite away from us and, to be honest, ours away from her. A five year old requires a lot of energy, especially when dealing with her from the moment her eyes open to the moment they close (one bedroom to rule them all). At the very least, her classes allowed my husband and I to enjoy a few kid-free hours (The boy was too young to attend.) What did we do with them? Well, read, of course! Duh. Her classes usually coincided with his naps (when he deigned to take them). A napping child only provides so much freedom. My husband read at the swim-up bar, I read on our balcony. As tempting as any other activity might have been, I’ve been walked in on once before, and what can be forgotten as a dream cannot be denied by a head poking out of a pack-n-play in broad daylight.

We mostly skipped the boardwalk this year due to excessive crowds. No one missed it. Sure, a night of skeet-ball, the Ferris wheel, and crappy food would have been fun, fighting the throng for it wouldn’t have been. And while my husband seemed to briefly forget that kite-flying is not a competitive sport and that his sand castle crew were not union and could not be controlled, he did seem to relax and enjoy the week. We kicked four bottle of sunscreen, successfully avoiding any burns, and at least a pack of swim diapers, successfully avoiding any pool-related accidents.

All in all, a good time was had by all. Next up, a short family weekend in the Poconos and then (hopefully) weekly one-day outings until the summer ends and the school year begins. I don’t require much – I’m not a fan of long plane rides, exotic food, or outdoor adventures. Give me a warm sun, a cool pool, and room for my family to splash and I am one happy woman.

Third Time’s the Charm

2010-07-16T16:16:00.001-04:00

I know, I know, I just finished an entry about VBS. What more could I possibly have to say about it? Well, since I essentially wound up volunteering at a third one, a whole damn lot.

The week at my planned volunteer stop has been fine, if a bit odd. When you find yourself outdoors during a thunderstorm, surrounded by seven year-olds attempting to make fake blood, you really have to rethink your life choices. The forecast called for storms, it was raining before I even got to VBS that morning, but with the faith of God behind them, everyone at VBS assured me that it wasn’t going to storm. It did. Violently. Loudly. Wetly. And there I was, with my adult leader, a handful of teenagers, and the aforementioned seven year olds, trying to teach kids about the viscosity of our bodily fluids. Why? I have no idea because I couldn’t hear the lesson being offered at the other end of the table since the thunder kept rolling over all of our words. We couldn’t even see past the confines of our tent – which I have to admit, kept us nice and dry. The second tent housing our supplies was also relatively dry – however, the two inch gap between the tents made those of us who had to go back and forth to get stuff pretty wet. Thankfully, I’m pretty sure any naughty thoughts brought on by our soaking white t-shirts was ruined by the religious logos covering our girly bits (and by the fact that I’m too old to even be a MILF to these kids). The rest of the week was pretty tame in comparison.

But here is where things got wonky. My kids attend a preschool that is affiliated with a church. As it turns out, that church was running a nighttime VBS for free, dinner included, and was being led by Mr. Steve. You’ve never heard of Mr. Steve? http://www.thebigsbyshow.com/ He officially goes by the name of Bigsby and he sings children’s Christian music. In fact, he sings it at my kids’ school and they love it like chocolate and ice cream and puppies and rainbows. When he put on a free concert for the school, those kids rocked out. They swarmed the stage, knew the words to every song, and would have waved lighters in the air if they were allowed to play with fire yet. His is the only children’s CD allowed in my car and putting on his music is certain to soothe my savage beasts back to sensibility as they invariably stop hitting each other long enough to sing along. And while Christian music isn’t my usual choice of music (like ever), his stuff really is catchy. So how could I pass up a chance for them to listen to their own personal Dave Matthews?

I didn’t. I wound up taking them to not one, but two VBS’s per day. And since the boy isn’t potty trained, I had to stay in case of accidents. And since a good portion of the kids knew me, but didn’t know the women running the program, I became, quite by accident, a volunteer. I helped with crafts. I helped serve drinks. I helped resolve disputes. I watched Mr. Steve lead his merry band of followers in a variety of activities and they loved every minute of it. And I, well I didn’t have to cook and the food was pretty yummy and since my husband didn’t make it in the door before 9pm most nights, at least it gave me something to do.

But now? I am done. Done. Done. Done. It was lovely to be of service, and I have racked up quite a few karma points in my favor, but damn, am I tired of small children and religion.

The H Stands for Hallowed

2010-07-12T12:33:00.003-04:00

I am not a religious woman.

Out of the Ten Commandments, I’ve broken eight. I have never and will never cheat on my husband and I haven’t committed murder. (Only because I’d never get away with it. If my mother ever turned up dead, everyone I know would provide so many alibis that I’d be jailed for sure). But coveting, taking the Lord’s name, idolatry, not honoring (others and the Sabbath), and theft (college was a hazy time) are definitely in my wheelhouse. I am, at best, a lapsed Catholic, and at worst, almost Lutheran. I haven’t been to mass in years, haven’t been to confession in decades, and am way more comfortable talking about the Elf on the Shelf than the Nativity.

So, how did I wind up volunteering at not one, but two different vacation bible schools? It all started way back, such a long, long time back . . . when I felt guilty. See, one of my friends belonged to a church that was hosting a vacation bible school. Twenty bucks for three hours, five days, was a bargain I was not willing to pass up, but I felt like I was taking advantage of them, so I volunteered to help out. There would be a nursery for my infant son and other people taking care of my daughter. My (flawed) reasoning was thus: why take care of my own two when I can keep watch over 200 others?

I wound up outside, in 100+ degree heat, under a tent, teaching kids “science”. First, let’s appreciate for a moment the woman who took chemistry twice in college (and technically failed both times), has never taken physics even once, and had to memorize a mnemonic for the planets. Science is not my thing. Second, I have never, ever taught anything to anyone. I took a few English education classes in my day, but always chose to write a paper instead of a lesson plan. Third and most importantly, I feel faintly goofy using the word Jesus ardently in anything other than the throes of passion. Building a bible story around a science experiment is absolutely beyond my ability. Thankfully, the woman with whom I was paired was actually religious and she handled the godliness while I managed to avoid all hints of cleanliness while showering the kids in a mix of Mentos and Coke. I don’t remember how that tied into the bible story of the day, but it sure was fun. As it turned out, I had a blast, my daughter was thrilled to see me one “class” per day and I felt like I had earned some nice karma points.

The second year, the same reasoning applied. Giving away my two for a few hours still seemed like a deal. Plus, the little guy was too young to go and rather than cart him around like luggage every morning while I used my “free” time to run errands, I thought it would be more beneficial if he got to play in a nursery with other kids. My new partner was an actual friend, I was no longer terrified of the gaggle of teenagers who wandered around in packs, and fun was indeed had by all.

This year, my reasoning was much more selfish. If I volunteered, I could get my son into the program (he’s a month younger than the required age). Woohoo! Now the poor bastard can actually attend something of his own instead of spend his life dropping off and picking up his sister like some sort of midget valet service. Plus, if he freaks out, I won’t exactly have to cancel my massage and skip my pedicure. I’ll already be at the school, so he’ll just be another child underfoot, except he’ll call me Mommy instead of the random noises and such little kids use to get your attention when they don’t know your (almost unpronounceable) last name.

As to the second VBS (though it was first on the calendar), I was hoodwinked! A friend told me to volunteer for crafts with her so we could have a fun week, while, once again, someone else watched my kids. (Are you sensing a theme here? Truly, I love my little teacup-sized humans, but a little separation is a good thing.) Once again, the older would go into the program, the younger into the nursery. Alas, this was not to be as she bailed entirely. Boo! Hiss! And instead of getting put into crafts, I was a classroom aid. See above about my classroom skills. Not good. Not good at all.

It actually turned out to be a fun week. Once again, the real teacher was good and kind and religious, taking over all actual teaching duties, leaving me the random fun stuff. I made the kids act like different animals as we walked the halls. I did constant headcounts, kept track of who was in the bathroom, who was leaving early, and who had food allergies, and generally spent my days singing along to the disturbingly chirpy music. My son wound up the only child in the nursery and spent the week surrounded by doting teenagers, or as he called them, “his girls.” My daughter woke up two hours early every day in anticipation, so I think it is safe to say that she liked it as well.

And me, well, I’m a SAHM for a reason, right? If I don’t take the opportunity to do as much with my kids as I can, then why the hell am I at home? My mother claims she didn’t go back to work until I was in third grade, but I have no memory of her at school functions, outings, etc. Was she there and I don’t remember? It’s possible. Her outfits were probably traumatic enough to trigger memory loss. But I want to be able to say that I was there. I saw you dance. I saw you sing. I hugged you every time I passed you in the halls and I knew your teachers by their first names. And if I took the Lord’s name in vain a few times under my breath, I think He understood. Points for trying, right?

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot

2010-07-06T13:35:00.002-04:00

When I say that it felt hot as hell out, I really don’t think I need to actually experience the underworld personally. If I were to burn for eternity in a landscape of fire and brimstone, I cannot imagine that it would feel much different than South Jersey right now. (And yes, I do realize some people would consider South Jersey a form of hell, no matter the weather, but those people would be wrong. That would be North Jersey.)

As it will be like this for the foreseeable future, I thought I should start trucking out other sayings. My husband is fond of saying it is “cold as a witch’s tit” outside. I imagine the opposite of that would be “hot as a wizard’s balls.” Being of the female persuasion, I am not entirely sure how hot balls get vis-á-vis the rest of the male body but I can assure you that my tits can get pretty damn cold, so perhaps the gender switch is apt.

Hot enough to fry an egg. I think that depends on the surface on which the egg rests. Is tarmac preferable to cement? Would a car hood be better than a roof, and does it matter what type of car? How long do you have to leave it outside? Unless it happens fairly rapidly, I don’t think you can count it as fried so much as rotten. Also, what kind of egg? An ostrich egg would take much longer than say, a quail egg? Is the chicken egg the gold standard in terms of frying?

Hot enough to boil water. I haven’t seen a pool erupt into a bubbling cauldron yet, but taking into account evaporation, I think it is pretty safe to say that it is boiling out.

Hotter than a cat on a hot tin roof. What the hell does that even mean? Why is the cat on the roof? Why does the roof have to be tin? Can it be copper? Iron? Who has to get the cat down? Personally, I think the fireman in full-out gear is going to be way hotter than the cat, even if it is a long-haired breed.

Hotter than [insert small animals] in a [insert small space]. Apparently, there are a multitude of animals you can insert into that phrase as well as a multitude of places that add up to the same final image – woodland creatures and farm animals, if placed in a very small space, will create a ferocious amount of heat. Squirrels in wool socks, snakes in a wagon, goats in a pepper patch. You get the picture. For extra fun, you can give the animal in question extra genetalia. So, say, it is hotter than a three-balled tomcat in a barn loft.

Hotter than whore in church. Personally, as long as the whore is praying for forgiveness, I think she’ll be fine. Even if she’s just attending a wedding, I have never heard of a thunderbolt cleaving a bridesmaid in two yet. And if if didn't happen at my wedding, it isn't going to. Plus, when I hear this, I always think of the Old West, where the whores all wore tattered red clothing and lots of rouge. Kind of hard to think of her using her knees to pray, as it were.

Let’s take a left turn at Albuquerque and talk about Hell. Hell on wheels makes me think of a little shark cage filled with moving flame, being carted around on the back of a Red Rider wagon. Not exactly awe inspiring. Hell in a hand basket inspires a similar picture, except this time, a ball of flames is contained within a Longaberger basket. Hell is other people is just a fact of life. Nothing particularly weather-specific there. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions (or Good Samaritans) is just silly. Why use people for pavers? Way too messy and they don’t squish down real well.

I’m sure as the week wears on, I will hear more colorful phrases describing the heat. But after writing a blog complaining about the cold back in February, I think the best saying about Hell comes from the man himself, Neil Gaiman.

“What power would Hell have if those imprisoned there were not able to dream of Heaven?”

Hot Town, Summer in the City

2010-06-28T10:47:00.002-04:00

I hate summer. It’s hot. It’s sticky. It’s buggy. The days are endless and need to be filled on a constant basis with new activities. Every water park, amusement park, zoo, and aquarium is filled with families desperate for fun and all roads that lead to the shore are jam-packed with cars. Throw in the cost of the average outing and stay-cations start to seem like a perfect idea – until you realize all that means is that you are still at home, but for an extended period of time.

What to do, what to do? Play outdoors? In summer, an average day means that the kids cannot go outside without being shellacked in a healthy coat of sunscreen. When they sweat or play various water-based activities, the cycle of spray, melt, repeat begins. Then they start to stink. Hose water leaves a metallic undercoat to them, pool water, a chemical one. Feet are rank from sandals and their hair has bits of leaves and grass stuck in it. If they were lucky enough to be given popsicles, that adds a layer of sticky, multi-colored stains to their bodies and clothing. By the end of the day, I don’t need a wash cloth; I need a scrub brush and a scraper to get the various coats of grossness off them. That doesn’t even include their nails, which at this point, I am thinking of removing entirely rather than try to uncaulk the layers of gunk and dirt they seem to acquire within minutes of going outside. Thank god for Shout stain remover, because without it, I would be reduced to tie-dying all of my children’s clothes to cover the spots or moving to a nudist colony. And people, no one wants to see me naked.

Ok, how ‘bout keeping them indoors? I heard once that having children relatively close in age means they will play with each other. That is so not the case in this house. Left to his own devices, my son could sit inside at his train table alternating between Thomas and Lightning McQueen or outside in the water table alternating between boats and pails for hours, with occasional breaks for snacks. Left to her own devices, my daughter goes crazy. Even the mandatory quiet time is usually filled with the dual sounds of audio books played on her iPod and princess games played on her Leapster. Combined, they two cancel each other out entirely as she refuses to leave him alone and he refuses to let her join in. I can’t count the times I remind them to share, play nice, don’t hit, don’t yell, etc. I wonder if there is an App for that? Rare is the moment that they can actually occupy the same space without inflicting bodily harm. Sure, I can actually play with them, but I can only play so many rounds of Hungry Hungry Hippos before wanting to serve them with a side of cornbread and both kids cheat at Candy Land.

Find free activities! Yes, that is always the answer, but how many vacation bible schools can one child attend before getting confused about religion? Several theaters have free summer movies in the morning, and there is usually a story time at a local library or bookstore once per week to keep us entertained. A park visit here, a play date there, a random birthday party or visit with grandparents here can easily fill a few hours per week. But this is summer! They get up at dawn; try to linger on til dusk. That’s a lot of time to fill. Lots of summer activities start when their day is usually ending (fireworks, baseball games, etc.) so one late night of fun equals two days of grumpiness. And that’s just me. They turn into beasts that make the ones in the Wild Things seem like fluffy bunnies.

Paid activities could fill the entire summer, but they will also empty my entire bank account. There are enough camps, clubs, teams, and memberships to keep any child occupied, but the trick is to find one that takes both children for a short period of time and a little amount of money. That’s quite a hat trick. Just one of the three doesn’t do me a whole lot of good.

What is a mother to do? Well, I could stop bitching and realize how lucky I am to even have endless summer days to spend with them, before school calendars erode into our time or before the jig really is up and I have to go back to work. But what fun would that be? Or more importantly, who would want to read that blog? Instead, I will just keep plugging away, trying to find the balance between play and rest, sun and shade until I send my daughter to full-day kindergarten and find myself writing a post of a different nature about how I miss all the time I had with her. (Yeah, right.)

Little Girls All in a Row

2010-06-21T13:55:00.002-04:00

Last week, I found myself telling my daughter that while blush, eye shadow, mascara, and lip stick were all ok, I was drawing the line at eye liner. Then I made her blot. How did we get here? Two words: dance recital.

At five, this was her first year in dance, putting her a bit behind the curve in terms of joining. My thought process was that I have the next two decades to pay for activities, why start earlier than necessary? She smiled throughout her entire first class. Often, the leotard and tights would be worn for the rest of the day, so happy was she to even have them on. With her first recital around the corner, she was adamant that she had to grow her hair long so that it could be put into the required bun. As she informed me of this a mere week beforehand, and her hair is currently bobbed at her ears, this presented a problem. Also a problem? The full face she needed to wear onstage, not one item of which I owned. Thankfully, my SILs came through and gave their niece all the makeup she required in a cute little leopard-print bag, which my daughter openly covets.

On picture day, I took her to a local kiddie salon to get her hair done. If I did to her what they did to her, she would have screamed to the high heavens and police would have been called on suspicions of child endangerment. But, no, a total stranger in an apron pulled, sprayed, pinned, and glued her hair into the smallest, tightest bun ever and all she could do was smile.

I was lucky enough to skip the dress rehearsal due to a very kind friend, but was unable to skip out on full hair and makeup. This time, I did it myself and liberally applied half a can of spray to my child’s head while using enough pins to secure an entire Rockette’s worth of buns. I apologize to anyone in my immediate area who suffered extraordinary sunburn this past weekend because I most definitely put a hole in the ozone layer. I wonder if you can name them, like stars?

Finally, finally, dance day arrived. Early. Very early. Breakfast, hair salon (this time they used so much product I thought for sure she’d have that bun for life), snack, makeup, costume, and off she went. No nerves, not even the idea of stage fright passed through her head. And let me tell you, she was a star. They all were. Cute as buttons, twirling here, pointing there, and if it wasn’t the smoothest or most professional performance I’d ever seen, they were five. They didn’t have to be professional, just adorable.

Of course, she is already asking when she can start lessons again and has barely taken off her costume. And though we said we wouldn’t, we already bought a DVD of the performance, took dozens of pictures, and posted on FB about it. I’m sure, once that video arrives, it will get watched on every rainy day, overly sunny day, or just days ending in “y”. And that’s what it’s all about right? At this age, it isn’t a career, a scholarship chance, or even exercise. For her, it’s just about the joy of dancing and for me, the joy of watching her. And though I had to point out which one she was for my father, and my mother missed her entirely during the closing bow, I could spot her in an instant – because she was the only one without eye liner.

Book 'Em, Dano

2010-06-16T11:31:00.001-04:00

My hatred of shopping has been well documented. But, as with every rule, there is always an exception and in my case, this comes in the form of book sales. When the annual bargain book sale at BN.com comes around, I will go through every entry in my little black book (which contains not phone numbers, but authors and titles) to find hardcovers for the price of paperbacks. So, it should come as no surprise that when the twice yearly Camden County Library sale came around, I anticipated it with the joy usually reserved for brides at Kleinfeld’s sample sale.

With my children once again happily squirreled away with their grandparents (whose main goal seem to be to fattening them for slaughter), I was able to enjoy shopping by myself. Book sales are not for children. The children’s book section is a hotbed of insanity. At this sale, the insanity took place in a tiny, windowless room absolutely packed with tables, adults, children, and strollers. Being at elbow height is not a good vantage point in a crowd. Strollers became low-riders as they groaned under the weight of the works of J.K. Rowling and even the most patient child can only be hit in the head by Disney books so many times. Plus, you haven’t experienced ruthlessness until you’ve watched a woman trying to find the few Junie B. Jones her child doesn’t have. I was lucky to get out with my life and a handful of Little Golden books, a few Step One readers, and one Oh David!

Then, I headed over to the fiction tables – where I stayed for the next two hours. I fondled more spines than a chiropractor as I looked through row after row after row of hardcovers. When I came upon a particularly juicy find (say, the newest Stephen King, still in stores at full price), or a title long listed in my little black book, but never acquired, I actually let out little squeals of excitement. In the real world, this type of behavior is frowned upon, but there, it was just another happy noise. But a quiet, hushed happy noise. This was a library after all.

Book sales are not for the faint of heart. You do not simply wander around, casually browsing, pausing to read a back cover here, a book jacket there, while sipping a latte. That type of behavior will get you trampled and killed. Plastic bags are verboten. Instead, cloth bags are preferred, allowing you to contribute to deforestation in an eco-friendly way. Hoarding is also frowned upon. Even the re-sellers (easy to spot because they scanned every book with an electronic wand) usually only had a box or two of books at their feet. The goal is to skim the titles, take what you like, and move on quickly and efficiently. As such, there is a system to perusing. All of the titles face the same direction and as there are hundreds of books in a row you must keep moving to keep reading. The polite way to get someone to move the hell out of your way was to ask them to “switch” with you. I must have heard this word dozens of times. This also happened beneath the tables, where I would tunnel under and open all the unpacked boxes to unearth new treasures. The unspoken rule was that you always gave the person next to you time to peek into the box, and if there was a bottom row of books, then you would lift the top row in unison. This sounds crazy, I know, but readers are not the most confrontational people, so there was a truly epic level of civility on display.

All told, I bought a case of books for less than the price of a case of beer. My husband even joined in the fun during the second day of the sale and picked up his own baker’s dozen of random tomes. Now I just have to get them all read before the next sale in October. Switch!

Save the Ta-Tas

2010-06-10T09:39:00.002-04:00

So, the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force released new information recently stating that they no longer believe mammograms are necessary for women under 50. Apparently, because “the 10-year breast cancer risk for a 40-year-old is only 1.4%, their absolute reduction in death is very small.”

Ok, so saving 1.4 percent of lives isn’t worthwhile then? What percentage would be worthwhile? Who decides that number?

The report further states that women under 50 who receive mammograms are at risk for “false alarms.” A false positive will cause them “additional pain, expense and worry because of additional scans and biopsies.”

Well, yes, but won’t they feel so much better once they realize they are cancer-free? Wouldn’t most women choose a false positive at 35 rather than a definite positive at 50?

Then of course, both sides of the debate are presented. The under-50 group believes that mammograms have reduced mortality rates by 30 percent. The over-50 group claims that mammograms still miss very aggressive cancers that can spring up between screenings. They believe the results of mammograms are overly hyped.

Ok, sure, it might not catch all cancers, but isn’t some better than nothing? Thirty percent (of what I assume is all women with breast cancer who were diagnosed under 50) is a whole lot of women. Let’s put it in perspective. If out of 100 women, 30 were saved, that is an entire class of first graders who didn’t lose their mothers. It is a transit bus full of people who didn’t lose their sisters. It is a plane full of men who did not lose their wives. Now magnify that by the thousands, nay millions of women, the reduced screenings would eliminate from the world. Schools full of children, parking lots full of buses, airfields lined with planes – all filled with grieving family members. I think 30 percent is worthwhile, don’t you?

This entire concept is a head scratcher. I honestly don’t understand why anyone would choose to put women at risk rather than just get them tested. The test itself isn’t invasive, just embarrassing. I just had my first mammogram and what the technician did to my boobs was nothing short of miraculous. My voluptuous womanhood was mashed between two plates of plastic to become nothing more than a boob pancake. This was done a few different times in a few different ways. For some it may be painful, but for me it was just odd. I haven’t been that manhandled since high school. The entire test took 10 minutes. The government mandates a 15 minute break for every four hours of work. It can't spring for a once a year test that takes less time than the average coffee break? Even adding in the travel time to and from the office and waiting time, the test took an hour. I think out of 525,600 minutes in a year, women can spare 60 to make sure they live another one. And I think it is a crime if they have to pay for the privilage of doing so.

It’s a Cookbook!

2010-06-01T09:21:00.002-04:00

I came home from my book club the other night to find my husband watching, quite possible, the dumbest television show ever. I’ve seen every version of the Real Housewives franchise, so I know from dumb television. He was watching Ancient Aliens on the History Channel. In this ridiculous series, proponents of ancient astronaut theory (!) give examples as to how they can prove that aliens have been buzzing our proverbial flight tower for millennia. They cite references to the journal of Christopher Columbus, where he wrote that he saw strange lights in the sky while sailing. DUN Dun dun. Why mention it if it wasn’t important, they wondered. Well, it probably scared the shit out of him, that’s why! The video of the meteor careening across the Midwest back in April scared the shit out of me – and I knew what it was! Back in 1492, you couldn’t just Google it and find thousand of camera phone clips to determine what you saw. But, you see, he was sailing through the Bermuda Triangle at the time of the sighting. Dun Dun Dun! An area that has been so thoroughly debunked of being mysterious that even Oceanic Flight 815 managed to miss it. So, unless Columbus also recorded the score of Close Encounters note for note in his journal along with the sighting, I’m not buying.

On another episode, the topic is Nazi Germany and aliens. Hitler happened across a UFO in the Black Forest and using reverse engineering, replicated its weaponry and used it on the Allies. Ok, so let’s take this step by step. Hitler stumbled upon an alien craft during what, his morning stroll? Were they blonde, so they were ok? Because, let’s be honest, he wasn’t known as being the most inclusive and welcoming of people. And then, using the technology of the era, he figured out how to replicate its weaponry? I’m not sure 1940 technology could replicate an iPod let alone a “foo fighter.” (Not Dave Grohl). Hmm. That’s quite a mouthful. I’m not sure I can swallow it.

I’m not even going to touch upon why the Pyramid of Giza was probably not a hydrogen power plant. Or why Noah probably wasn’t carrying human DNA on his ark, or even why ancient depictions of flying discs were nothing more than art. However, I am amused by the thought that the Black Plague was created by aliens. Ignoring the obvious, which is that even in our Purell-coated world, the Avian Flu managed to get a toe hold and that 1300s Europe, with its severe lack of basic sanitation, medical care, hygiene, food, and shelter wasn’t exactly a sterile environment, I would like to focus on the obscure. Due to popular belief in witches, cats were slaughtered en masse. No cats, more rats, lots of plague. I’d bet good money that the people currently shouting “Alien!” are descended from the people who were once shouting “Witch!” It’s like a circle of stupidity.

This brings me to my final point. Why are aliens as stupid as the people they abduct? The human race hasn’t managed to send a man past its own moon, yet we are working on decoding the human genome. But aliens, having managed to fly light years, and in stealth and secrecy, descend on a far distant planet can’t seem to figure out that our brains aren’t actually in our butts? Why would any intelligent creature, equipped with enough technology to navigate the Milky Way, continually fly over the most desolate and isolated regions of our country? Broken GPS? Womp rat practice? (I hear there’s a kid who can hit one from two meters.) Why not New York City, Paris, or even Dubai? The Palm Jumeira has to be at least as beautiful at night as say, the Badlands.

Do I believe aliens exist? Well, it’s a really, really big universe. There may even be a restaurant at the end of it. And I’d much rather hope that there are creatures of greater intelligence floating around out there than despair that the average Wal-Mart shopper is the best our entire existence has to offer. But I really don’t want them to stop by anytime soon. If we learned any lesson at all from Christopher Columbus, it was not that aliens exist, but that if they come ashore, it will not end well for the natives.

Hi-ya Cha Cha Cha

2010-05-24T18:58:00.002-04:00

I’ve started watching Say Yes to the Dress as my Friday night guilty pleasure while I wait for my husband to come home. I am in awe of happy little families who all go dress shopping together, mother and daughter, hand in hand, tearing up at the sight of the perfect wedding gown. How lovely it must be to have such a close and loving relationship with a mother.

That is not my life.

My mother is not close or loving with anything other than her dogs, a fact to which she readily admits. My mother’s family is coming into town and it just so happens they will be here near her birthday. Her cousin wanted to get a cake and since they are not local, I told him I would do the honors. When given the choice of birthday cakes at a local (high-end) grocery store, my mother flat out refused to go pick one out (I was buying), as said store was 20 minutes out of her way and she’d get stuck in rush hour traffic. My mother gets out of work at 2pm. Unless she milked the cows, churned the butter, grew the cacao trees, and went to pastry school while at the store, she could reasonably be home by, say, 3pm. Which, considering she lives an hour outside of the nearest city, would get her well out of harm’s way of traffic. But no. So, her second and more devious plan to thwart me from celebrating her birthday is to create a cake out of thin air, claim it is her favorite, and demand it as the only choice for dessert.

Now, though I desperately tried to get away from this madwoman as soon as humanly possible, I was probably home for most of her birthdays up to and throughout college. So, assuming we are only counting those celebrated in NY, and those I am old enough to remember, I should have eaten this cake at least two dozen times. That would be a cake I’d remember. And yet, I don’t. And I like my cake. So either she is making it up from scratch or she had it once, at some random baby shower or birthday party and conjured it from memory just for the fun of sending me on a wild goose chase.

I will admit that birthdays were not big occasions in my family. They were usually ignored, forgotten, or celebrated in tandem with another event. Now I make sure to make a big as celebration as possible for my own family and once dragged my poor, exhausted husband out for his birthday dinner after a week of hellacious travel just so he could blow out a little tiny candle at his favorite restaurant. But growing up, this was not the case. So I don’t understand why, when given a chance to properly celebrate with people who don’t see her enough to dislike her, she is being so incredibly annoying.

Truth to tell, my mother has always been difficult. I could fill a dozen blogs with stories about her random clothing choices, her rude behavior, and how she tried to humiliate me at my own wedding. If I had a dollar for every time I heard this sentence, “I have never said this to anyone before, but your mother is crazy,” I would be the one telling D-list celebrities that they are fired. I have heard this from coworkers, from groomsmen, from relatives, and from hairdressers. To know her is to have a story about an ill-timed, ill-judged, and ill-mannered comment made by her. She has burned more bridges than Alexander and Napoleon combined. She is impossible. She is obnoxious, and she and my husband absolutely and completely ignore one another.

Many well-meaning friends have offered me recipes and support for making the cake myself. Rather than call every baker in the area, it probably will be easier to attempt my own version. It will make me look like a good and dutiful daughter and she’ll have to act like a thankful and loving mother. Neither of us will feel that way, but will certainly act it. And if she doesn’t eat the cake, I’ll feed it to her dogs. I’ve heard they just LOVE chocolate.

It’s Like a Spa Day . . . with Cheese Fries

2010-05-17T10:00:00.001-04:00

Every year my husband goes away for a weekend with his friends. They call it the Ultimate Testosterone Invitational (UTI for short) and plan months in advance to do manly things like golf, deep sea fish, grille, gamble, and drink copious amounts of sub-standard beer while studiously avoiding any mention of their families. They stay in dive motels, tripling the occupancy rate while halving the oxygen level in the bathrooms and end the weekend with the traditional trip to Hooters for their fantasy football draft.

I too have started an annual trip with several girlfriends. However, other than a chance crossover in location, the trips could not be more different. I end the weekend rested, refreshed, and rejuvenated. He comes home hungover, haggard, and hazy. I come home with freshly-painted toes and freshly-popped kettle corn. He, well, does not. They may sound so similar – a trip down the shore – but they are so very, very different.

My weekend was awesome, but to be honest, rather more exercise than I had bargained for. We purposely started one of our mornings with a brisk three-mile walk. For fun! Another day, we walked up 199 steps to see the ocean from the top of a lighthouse. Would you like to know what the ocean looked like from the top of the lighthouse? About the same damn way it looked at ground level. The only difference was the amount of human remains. You see, some complete idjits decided the absolute best moment to grieve and remember the passing of a loved one was to dump their ashes in high wind among a crowd of strangers in the middle of the day at the top of a f’ing lighthouse. We thought, at best, that they were sprinkling good luck salt, or at worst, were dumping coffee grounds. Nope, instead of inhuming their dearly beloved, we were inhaling him.

Though to be honest, there was probably more protein and fiber in that gust of grandpa than there was in a single item I ate the entire weekend. Pizza and pancakes, Chex mix and chocolate chip cookies, burnt bacon and beer, spicy salsa and small ice cream cones – diet was definitely a four-letter word. We were disappointed we forgot to break open the feed bags of popcorn and we complained when our French fries were not liberally coated in cheese. So while I can (and did) grumble about the blisters I developed endlessly walking on the sand and the street, a lovely pedicure soothed my savaged soles and those extra miles helped soften my hardening arteries.

I also learned lots and lots of new things on my weekend away! I learned that children can get fake nails. Big, long, fake ones pained with black tips. (No really!) I learned that no matter how cold you are, you and your friends should never wear matching sweatshirts, even if they are sale, and I learned that no matter how late you want to sleep, your internal body clock cannot be reset. Among other lessons? Semen can be brought into almost any conversation and surly waitresses are as much a staple of breakfast dining as coffee in chipped white mugs. I learned that I can wear pants to bed if necessary, that dolphins are easy to find (I stopped counting at 20), and sun-brewed iced tea mixed with fresh lemonade makes the best Arnold Palmer you have ever tasted.

And finally, I learned that, in the end, it is probably best that my husband and I enjoy separate weekends away. After all, the girls and I never did turn on the television, kick our case, or stay up til midnight. My husband would call that hell, but I call it heaven. With cheese fries.

The Ugly Duckling

2010-05-07T08:09:00.004-04:00

Do you think that you would know if your own child was ugly? Oh sure, everyone is beautiful on the inside, blah, blah, blah, but I’m not talking about the soul, I’m talking about the face.

Today, at the library, I saw two children that were just completely unattractive. The shorter one was bowlegged, with a severely receded hairline, albino coloring, bug eyes, and thin, scraggly hair. The taller one was rocking a disheveled mullet that was also oddly straight in some areas, curly in others, knotted all around. Both children wore severely stained, ill-fitting clothes. The mom wore a beautiful hippie dress, lots of jewelry, blown-out hair, and cute shoes.

Now, I fully understand “judge not lest ye be judged” particularly when it comes to dressing children. My own daughter has insisted upon outfits that could bring on hysterical blindness and my son could get dirty in a sterile room. For all I know, both kids could have been up since the ass crack of dawn, gone through three outfits, and burst into hysterics at the sight of a brush. These things have been known to happen. But the bottom line is that even well scrubbed, suited, and straightened, those kids had been hit with the ugly stick. And I wonder, if, or even when, the mother will realize it.

All babies are odd-looking. No matter the method of birth, the end result is that a very big head and body has been pushed or pulled through a very small opening. Their eyes are goopy, they are odd colors, and they are covered in slime. Or so I’ve seen on A Baby Story. I have remarkably little insider knowledge of the whole birthing process, but that is a story for another time. Only the parents of such a creature could coo over its loveliness. At what point can a mother look at the creature she created, the little persons she grew and think, “Ew”?

Is there a moment of calm (not one where you are covered in something sticky and/or when the child is trying to break the sound barrier using sheer lung power alone), that you can look at your own child and finally notice that both eyes are wonky, his head is misshapen, or she has more resemblance to Sloth from Goonies than anyone on either side of the family? Does that moment really ever occur? Do parents ever really see their children that clearly? Or is parental instinct so strong that even if the child looks like it hit every branch of the ugly tree on its fall down the evolutionary ladder, you still think he or she is the most beautiful child in the world? Obviously, grown children present their own problems and as my relationship with my own mother attests, parents may love, but they may also actively dislike.

Honestly, I don’t have any particular insight into this issue. My daughter was told she was beautiful so often as a baby that long before she understood the meaning of the world, she would smile when it was uttered. If I could count the times someone complimented my children’s looks, then followed up that perfectly innocent sentence with, “And they must look like their father,” well, then I wouldn’t have been an English major. My fingers and toes don’t go that high. I did always thank people for the spirit of the compliment, if not the execution, though. I am nothing if not polite to your face.

Do I think that the library mom saw her children the same way I did? I doubt it. I bet it takes a pretty long time for the rose color to wear off a parent’s point of view. But boy oh boy, I hope she has some alcohol on hand for when she finally sees them in the light of day. She’s gonna need it.

If you Take a Child to School

2010-04-30T12:20:00.001-04:00

So, after filling out the necessary ream of paperwork and leaving enough emergency numbers that the president could reach me in a time of crisis, I signed my child up for kindergarten. After handing the encyclopedia of information off to the school secretary, my daughter was “assessed.” Not to be too obnoxious about it, but the child can read, so I wasn’t overly worried about the actual assessment, but what did she get dinged on? Handwriting. I hold my pen like a child using crayons for the first time. I just hold it in my fist and move it around in the best approximation of a letter. I don’t know the “correct” way, so I couldn’t teach it to her. A Catholic school upbringing couldn’t get me to hold a pen properly and I still manage to write (better than my husband anyway), so I truly don’t understand the problem. But there my daughter was, proudly writing her own name for a teacher, and getting in trouble for doing it wrong. Sigh. In a few years, she’ll probably do all her writing electronically anyway, and as long as her thumbs work, her texting skills will be first rate.

After the assessment, I was given a packet of information. It did not contain information I deemed noteworthy, such as what time school starts, ends, and how the lunch process works. It did not provide me with a rough schedule of her day or what types of skills they expect her to learn. And while the supply list was a nice touch, it was actually very short and I have no doubt I have two of everyone somewhere in my desk drawers.

Instead, the packet contained such gems as “Internet Safety and Your Child” and “Ten Steps to Staying Ahead of Lice” with a truly terrifying picture of said vermin in ten times scale. I fully expect to see these on Ms. Pillsbury’s desk on the next episode of Glee. Also among the pamphlets, “Child Care: Making the Right Choice for You.” A little late for that, don’t you think? Wouldn’t that have been more appropriate, say, at the hospital, before I brought her home? At this point, five years in, either I’ve found child care options or I’ve handed her over to the wolves. (Hmm, maybe if my mother had been given one of those before I left the hospital, she wouldn’t have actually left me to the wolves after all!) Subtracting time for gossiping, Web surfing, lunch, and meetings, my daughter’s day will last as long as the average banker. She won’t need child care, she’ll need Red Bull.

I understand that her teachers are trying to provide me with the necessary skills to raising a better, smarter, thinner child with their information on good parenting, encouraging reading, and fighting obesity and I appreciate it. But the list of fun things to do without television was just ridiculous. I would rather starve then take my child to the supermarket for “fun.” Yes, we have been known to go to Wegman’s just to people-watch, but they have a balcony for that! Beyond picking out a cookie and drink, no shopping is involved. I can’t imagine asking her to write a list, pick out ingredients, figure out the price, and then check the total against the receipt (Actual tip!). You’d find my bones in the dry food aisle. And asking them to watch the speedometer as you drive was another howler. Just where is that child sitting to read that particular gauge? Back seat drivers are bad enough, am I really encouraging booster-seat driving?

Other ideas referred us to reading, watching, and discussing the daily news. Since I am not interested in teaching her about murder, fires, vandalism, and politics quite yet, I think I’ll skip that tip. I’ll also pass on helping her build her own dictionary and introducing debate topics at the dinner table. “Are Goldfish a cookie or a cracker? Discuss.” I did, however, enjoy the list of authors every child should read. Any excuse to buy more books is always a good thing.

Overall, the intent was pure, but the end result was just bizarre. The Survival Guide for parents was a nice touch, but I’ve had this kid for a while now. We’ve obviously survived long enough to get her to school, so at this point, I think I’m good. Now, come September, when I send her off for the first time, that’s when I’ll need a little help surviving.

Veni! Vidi! Vici!

2010-04-23T14:00:00.001-04:00

We went to see the princesses, and by god, the princesses we did see. So much so, that by the time we saw Snow White (again) my son decided he had absolutely had enough and flatly refused a picture. But my daughter, she just could not get enough. As expected, she wore a different princess dress each day and just loved how many people complimented her outfits, addressed her by title, or bowed to her as she walked past. I don’t think she stopped smiling from the moment we entered the park to the moment we left. Heaven, to my daughter, looks just like Cinderella’s castle.

Now, while my son’s memories of this momentous vacation will be zero (he’s not quite 3), the cost of bringing him (excluding flights) was also zero. He pretty much ignored all the characters the first day, but when we saw Woody and Jessie on the second day, he was primed and ready to go. He ran right into the loving arms of his favorite cowboy and cowgirl and then very carefully gave them his book for them to sign. His one request, to see Winnie the Pooh, was granted by means of a character dinner, and his smile could have lit a room. He hugged Pooh so hard I expected to see stuffing start flying out through the poor bear’s ears.

As for the rest of us, fun was indeed had by all. I left my dignity at the gates and found that I had a far better experience because of it. I happily bought a pair of Tinkerbelle ears to go with my assortment of multi-colored Tink shirts and could have made a blind man squint, but what the hell. I did a conga line with Eeyore as my son danced and clapped along beside me and shook my money-maker at the street party while my daughter carefully copied the dancer’s every move in front of me. I oohed and aahed at story time with Belle, chatted like best friends with Tiana, blushed at Naveen, took silly pictures with Peter Pan and Goofy, and tried to make sure my children had the time of their lives.

I did, however, forget to schedule in time for eating. As a result, my very hungry husband ate two meals out of the hotel market, and my kids had a meal consisting of nothing but goldfish and pretzels. They didn’t mind. He did. Poor guy. He walked the park in a pair of ears that had Mickey’s face with a mini-sorcerer’s apprentice cap on top, engraved to say “Daddy.” The least I could have done was fed him more often.

But kids are funny little people. If the ride was old enough that Uncle Walt could have built it with his own two hands, then my kids loved it. If it was modern, 3-D, and “cool”, they cried. I might have scared them permanently with our visit to Pirates of the Caribbean, and Mickey’s Philharmagic was an absolute disaster, but anything audio-animatronic, from the Hall of Presidents to the Country Bears was a win. My son thought the general forms of transportation around the park, including the tram, monorail, ferry, and train, were part of the amusements, and my daughter just couldn’t get over that the castle changed color every few minutes at night. It truly was the simple things that made them happy. That, and It’s a Small World. I still have that song in my head.

Overall, it was a perfect vacation. And as for rule-breaking, well, let’s just say my children drank 17 juice boxes (just flavored water, but still!) in two days. Rules? What rules?

I Believe! I Believe!

2010-04-18T16:26:00.001-04:00

I believe that I will break every rule of parenting before my trip to the Magic Kingdom has ended.

For starters, I have already let my children watch more TV this past week than they are supposed to watch in an entire month. And to make the transgression worse, it has been all Disney, all the time. Thanks to several kind friends, my daughter has her choice of every princess movie – all of which (minus one) she has never seen before. I’ve had my kids on lockdown to prevent germ contamination, bruising, and breakage. Of course, one child managed to fall out of bed reading a book, so this has worked out about as well as expected, but at least I tried. No great outdoors. No playing with friends, just television. Bad parenting? Read on.

I did manage to turn off the television for a little while – to take my daughter to get a mani-pedi. She’s five. A friend even visited us at the salon and marveled at the stripper pink polish my daughter chose. A color so vibrant it can be seen from space has also been accented by tiny yellow flowers. To say she was thrilled would be an understatement; to say I was horrified would be the same.

Also along the lines of creating my own monster, I bought a harness for my son. Yes, good people of the Internet, I will be walking my child on a leash. I’ve taught him to bark and plan on throwing Scooby Snacks to him when he does it at anyone who dares to make a comment within my hearing. My son is two. He’s a runner and cannot be expected to meekly sit in a stroller for days on end. My husband is a worrier and cannot be expected to let my son walk among the throng without inventing RFID technology that can be implanted in his skull. My attempt at avoiding exploratory surgery and endless screaming of “Let me out!” is a harness. I didn’t pretty it up either. No plush toy, or little backpack, or cute character is on this thing. It’s a leash, plain and simple. There are many, many places I want to visit with the Magic Kingdom – the Lost Child center is NOT one of them.

So, I’ll have Jon-Benet on one side of me and Fido on the other, both of whom will be squinting at the sun after almost a full week cooped up indoors. What other parenting sins will I commit on the road? How many strangers will I actively encourage my children to talk to? How many meals will end with ice cream and will be completely absent of vegetables? How many different forms of locomotion will we take totally absent of any type of restraining device? How much sleep will be missed and how much unnecessary merchandise bought? It’s a mystery. And put together, it is all, very, very, bad parenting. But it surely will make a very fun vacation.

Going to War with Walt

2010-04-07T12:56:00.002-04:00

Planning for a Disney vacation is like planning an invasion. You need to launch your attack from a well-positioned stronghold. You must make sure your troops are provisioned with food, footwear, gear, and proper identification. Transportation must be arranged and baggage must be properly packed for minimum weight and maximum ease of carry. You must have a detailed strategy in place so that you can storm the castle in the allotted amount of time. Communication plans must be firmly established, and in the case of retreat, a point of surrender must be located. And fun must be had by all.

I’m exhausted already.

To start with, my lists have lists. I have the list of toiletries I still have to acquire. I have a list of things to be packed, a list of things that must go in the diaper bag and the princess pack (more on this later), a list of tickets, confirmation numbers, and information that must be brought with us, and a list of things to do, places to see, and people to meet. I also need to make a list of grocery items to buy upon arrival, a list of items that need to be purchased, fixed, or updated before we depart, and a list of people who must be notified that we are going to be away. That’s a whole lot of lists.

Then there is the packing. Car seats, cribs, and strollers are still necessities of my daily life. The diaper bag is ever present. As we are flying, we’ll need a bag just for airport entertainment and another bag for the laptop. Bedtime requires books, blankets, nightlights, sound machines, and beloved stuffed animals. Obviously, princess dresses are required, but no force on this earth will convince my daughter that the matching tiaras, necklaces, and shoes are optional, so into the suitcase they go. All that stuff adds up and quickly starts taking over space usually reserved for say, actual clothes. Which we’ll need enough of for four people, for four days, adding in changes of clothes due to sweat, mess, or whimsy, plus shoes, rain gear, and hats.

All this crap must be brought to the airport. Some will get loaded at check-in, some at the gate, and some onto the actual plane. My careful packing will be not so carefully unpacked by security. Will then have to board, fly, deplane, hope everything we brought to the airport in Philly finds its way to the airport in Orlando, load everything into our rental car, and find our way to our hotel.

Upon arrival, we have to grocery shop.

Before leaving for the park each day, the diaper bag must be fully stocked. The camera and the extra batteries must be loaded. The princess pack, containing Little Golden Books for the characters to autograph and the heels that match each dress (I won’t allow them to be worn in the park, but I agreed to let her change into them whenever she meets a character), plus small coloring sets to keep both kids occupied while we wait in lines must be filled. We’ll have two portable coolers for food drinks and one cooler just filled with ice and bottled water for the car. Cell phones must be charged, ID tags placed around the kids necks, and a general game plan set into place for each excursion.

Replenish, re-accessorize, restock, and repeat.

I don’t need a travel agent. I need a quartermaster.

If the Shoe Fits

2010-04-01T09:36:00.002-04:00

A few months ago, my eldest sister-in-law shot me an e-mail asking me to blog about the current fashion of high-heeled shoes for small children. I put the idea on the backburner until today, when I had to take my daughter shopping for her summer sandals and found myself confronted with wedge heels. In toddler sizes.

My daughter can trip walking across a flat surface. It has taken her months to walk in her plastic princess heels (elevation one-half inch) without tripping every third step and the whole time, she sounds like an elephant on parade. I’m sure as with anything, practice would make perfect, but considering the fact that the first (and last) time she saw me wearing heels she asked why there were poles attached to my feet, she certainly won’t learn through imitation. Which brings up the question: why should she learn at all? High heels aren’t healthy. They won’t make her smarter, faster, or anything other than taller. And last time I checked, there wasn’t a height requirement for kindergarten.

Obviously, I skipped the wedges in favor of a practical brown sandal, sturdy and well-soled. Magically, that sandal was “way too small” but the same exact shoe, in hot pink, was pronounced perfect. In very short order, she had found five pairs of shoes she deemed suitable for summer. I winnowed the grand total down to three, ixnaying both the thong toe and the platform flip-flops. I’m sure if she had looked hard enough, she would have found a pair of kitten heels for me to veto as well.

Now, I expect celebrities to be stupid. I get US Weekly. I know that they spend more on a toddler dress than I spent on my wedding dress. I know that they have lost all sense of reason when it comes to price point. But even I was surprised to see Dorothy heels on a two-year old. Many big box stores sell a similar version – slip-on flats, covered in ruby-red sparkles, average cost under $12. My daughter had a pair and loved them until she had worn all the sparkle off the toes. But I have never, in my life, seen a pair with two-inch heels (listed for $250) until I saw them on a celebrity toddler. I have since seen this toddler photographed in a wide assortment of heels, befitting different seasons, styles, and colors. Why? Why make this little girl into a little woman? What is the goal of dressing a three-year old like a 30-year old? Won’t she have the rest of her life to get bunions, bad posture, and shapely calves? Do little girls even have calves? Aren’t they just legs at that age? I recently stopped into the Disney Store and found a beautiful Cinderella dress, but the size I wanted wasn’t in stock. Imagine my surprise when I got online and realized it was called “Cinderella’s Wedding Night.” A boudoir dress! For a child whose knowledge of boys and girls is limited to “girls have boobs, boys have muscles.” (That gem was courtesy of my husband.) What next, a Victoria’s Secret collection for the pre-k set?

If your child cannot read the designer name on the tag without sounding out every syllable, then she is too young to wear it. I only learned how to say Mizrahi when he did a line for Target and I’ll never correctly pronounce Hermes. I make an annual pilgrimage to Burberry, but the only item I have is a stuffed bear my SIL received free with purchase. (She could afford the purchase; I could only afford the free bear.) My daughter has no concept of brand except for the ubiquitous Disney one. And that’s the way I like it.

Children are not adults; they should not dress like them. Nothing a small child wears should ever be sexy. Cute, adorable, beautiful, pretty, are all well and good, but when your child thinks “hot” refers to something other than temperature, you are in for a world of hurt once she hits middle school. And as for high school, well, as my husband says, time for the convent.

[Note to Aunt C – start prepping because in a few short years, I’ll be handing over a wad of cash and my daughter and letting you have at it. Five pair of summer shoes! I don’t even have one!]

Never Grow Old, Never Die

2010-03-29T14:49:00.002-04:00

And if you can recite the end of that movie tag line, then you too are a child of the '80s. Lost Boys was my introduction to the vampire oeuvre. Teenage boys were still way out of my league, so hot teenage boys that were vampires? Be still my still beating heart. That movie made such an impression on me that 23 years later (yes, I actually did the math), Kiefer Sutherland is STILL on my list. I loved that movie. I can probably still quote a dozen or so lines from it, verbatim.

Ten years later, vampires once again sunk their teeth into me. I was working two jobs, never sleeping, eating the worst that Applebee’s had to offer, when, on a random night off, I switched on my illegal cable and came across the first episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It was love at first bite. (Sorry, sorry.) In a world before TIVO and DVR, and being inept at recording on my dilapidated VCR, I arranged my work schedule to always be off when Buffy was on. When Angel took her virginity then broke her heart, he broke mine as well. I can name the top five Buffy episodes off the top of my head (Hush, The Gift, The Body, The Wish, Once More with Feeling) and can explain why Band Candy, while fantastic, did not make the list. Buffy was must-see TV for me and it never released its hold. Through both the good (the Mayor) and the bad (Glory), I never missed an episode or a chance to discuss an episode, in depth, ad nauseam.

It took another decade before my fancy was once again caught by vampires, but this time, vampires didn’t live in fictional Sunnydale, they lived on your street. True Blood took vampires out of books and planted them straight in your backyard. There was sex, violence, and all sorts of other goodies. Once again, I was hooked. This was vampires for adults. (The books are practically porn.) Throw in an incredibly hot blonde (shades of Kiefer, but much taller), Southern accents, and plenty of atmosphere and I gladly hoodwink HBO for my free three months every time a new season airs.

Why do I go into such detail to explain my love of vampires? Because on the eve of my Twilight: New Moon viewing party, I believe it is important to set the groundwork that I do actually enjoy and appreciate vampire stories that are done well. And I appreciate the Twilight series, but for a totally different reason.

There is no subtlety in Twilight. No character development. No background, no foreshadowing, no humor. On Buffy, demons and vampires play poker for kittens, not coins. On True Blood, they play Yatzee and first person to reach a million points wins. In Twilight, they play piano. Boring! Twilight brings the vampire back to basics. Edward is the most neutered vamp in history. He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage, he likes to cuddle, he can go out in anything other than direct sunlight (and even then, he doesn’t burn, he only sparkles), and, to add insult to injury, he doesn’t even eat people! He’s a vegetarian vampire! There are Disney cartoon villains scarier than Edward. Even Jacob, the sexless soul mate is just an overgrown puppy with big teeth. The Twilight series is vampires for dummies.

Compared to the filet mignon (served rare) that was Buffy and is True Blood, Twilight is beef jerky. It’s what happens when you take out all of the flavor, the fat, the bones, and the blood. Did I read all four books in one week? Yes, I did. Have I gone to see both movies within 12 hours of release? Yup. I didn’t say beef jerky wasn’t addictive, or unsatisfying, but it certainly isn’t good for you and, like any salty snack, it just leaves you thirsty for something more. Luckily, I have only two months to go until True Blood sates that thirst (and if I can ever find bottled True Blood in stores, I will be one happy bloodsucker.)

“I don’t know who you think you are, but before this night is through. I’m gonna do bad things with you.”

Back in Time

2010-03-23T17:54:00.001-04:00

Sadly, our gay teenage friend will not have a prom. The judge denied a motion for a preliminary injunction but ruled to hold a trial – at a later date. Prom was supposed to be in two weeks. Guess that gets him out of actually having to make a judgment. Good thing that is not in his job description or anything.

Honestly, I think the only true lesson to be learned here is one my brother-in-law taught me years ago. He was referring to his habit of coming home with new cars without telling his wife he had bought them, but I think it covers all sorts of bases. His lesson? “Ask forgiveness, not permission.” Our out and proud teenager could have simply bought two tickets and left it open ended as to whom she would bring. If she absolutely had to write down a date’s name, she could have lied. In fact, there are many ways she could have gotten into prom. Once there, do you think they actually would have denied her entrance? Do you think the teachers stuck on prom duty would have been willing to make a stand and show her the door? They might have gossiped in a corner, but that’s what I assume all teachers do about students, so no biggie there.

Let’s be real. Do you honestly and truly believe that when our intrepid gay heroine showed up at prom, with a woman on her arm and a tux on her body, that a hush would have fallen over the crowd? Do you believe all conversation would have ceased as she and her date proudly walked through the parting sea of students onto the dance floor as a spotlight magically followed them to their first dance? That really only happens in movies. In real life, you can’t shut teenagers up with duct tape and getting them to move en masse is like herding cats. The girl is a senior in her school. She’s an out lesbian. I’m pretty sure her fellow students had a certain expectation of how she would dress. Showing up in an evening gown with a boy? Well that would have been news? But a chick and a tux? Peshaw.

So where does this leave us? As my sister-in-law pointed out, 20 years ago (damn, she’s old), her prom was cancelled in fear that blacks and whites would co-mingle. At my prom, only a scant two years later than hers but in a different part of the country, not only did blacks and whites co-mingle, they were flat out coupling. I have pictures on FB to prove it. Maybe even now, there are prom committees shaking their heads and wondering what all the fuss is about as they plan playlists jam packed with Adam Lambert, Elton John, George Michael, Rufus Wainright, and Clay Aiken (ok, no one under 45 listens to the Gayken). Maybe even now there are proms fully expecting girls in tuxes and boys in drag. Who knows? But if she had just shown up and tried to dance the futterwack vigorously, none of this would have happened. But it has. And it’s a shame.