Generation X-Pired

Preschool Mean Girls...Who Knew?

2012-02-02T14:58:00.000-08:00

The girls at my daughter's school can be brutal. They are so competitive; all they talk about is who is "best friends" with whom on a given day. They don't mean to be hurtful but they are. The scary part is they're only three.

"How was school today?" I ask. "Who'd you play with?"

"Abigail," she answers. "But Mommy, Abigail was best friends with Elizabeth today."

What does that even mean? Does it mean my poor baby was left out of that day's best-friend clique? Does it mean she was playing with Abigail only to be informed by Elizabeth that she was Abigail's best friend that day, not my daughter?

I don't know, exactly, because it's really difficult to get the straight dope from a three year old.

My daughter isn't just a victim, however, as I found out while dropping her off at school one day. We had just walked in the door when Abigail ran over. "Yay, you're here! You're my best friend," she announced.

Without missing a beat, my daughter coldly replied, "You're NOT my best friend. Elizabeth is my best friend."

My jaw hit the floor. Whaaaaat? I had never heard this kind of talk coming from my daughter's mouth before. Luckily, Abigail's dad had already left, so I only had to feel mortified in front of the teacher.

I'm sure this kind of behavior is normal in the preschool set these days (at least with girls--my son has never ever talked like this). But according to my daughter's teacher, this particular group of girls is one of the most competitive and best-friend-obsessed she's ever experienced.

Apparently, there are a couple of aggressive Alpha girls in the class (my daughter isn't one of them) who stir things up and stoke the fires. The ring leader is a precocious cutie who always wants to be the "best girl" at everything (and who also happens to have an older sister--which surely isn't a coincidence).

The teacher told me that, when things get too hairy, my daughter is good about removing herself from the fray and going off to read a book by herself--which I was really happy to hear. "But she's listening! She doesn't miss a word of what's going on," the teacher added. Oh, no doubt.

Sure, it's important that my daughter learn to deal with all sorts of social interactions--not just warm & fuzzy ones--but it still worries me. She is a strong, opinionated little girl, but when it comes to her peers, she seems more of a follower. My son has never been fresh or bratty just because his friends were acting that way, but my daughter is a mimic who will do anything to get a laugh.

Hopefully none of this bad behavior will sink into that little brain of hers and take hold. Hopefully next year's class will have a different dynamic (though I'm not holding my breath since many of the same kids will be in her class). Or maybe the kids will do some growing up over the summer, leave this pettiness behind, and begin the new school year with nothing but love and acceptance for all.

Yeah...maybe.

Judging a Book by It's Outdated, Groovy Cover

2012-01-20T16:07:00.000-08:00

I finally finished reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to my six-year-old son. At 734 pages, this one was a bear. By the time we got to the end, it was difficult to remember how the book had begun. Since the fifth (and next) volume in the Harry Potter series, The Order of the Phoenix, is the longest (a whopping 870 pages) not to mention a lot more complicated (too much about the Ministry of Magic and other wizard governmental goings-on that my Kindergartener won't understand), we decided to take well-deserved Harry Potter break.

But what to read next? Granny and Papa solved that problem by giving my son a copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe over Christmas. But since it's only 179 pages, my son and I got through the whole thing over the long MLK Jr. weekend.

So now we are on to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory--my husband's suggestion (it was one of his favorite books as a kid)--which is all the more appealing to me because I've never read it. It's a fun read so far, but its scant 161 pages means I'll be looking for the next book on Monday.

The psychedelic cover of the copy
I got from the library

I checked this one out of the library...and man-oh-man, did I get an OLD copy! The cover font is right out of "Laugh-In." Every time I look at the book, "The Age of Aquarius" begins playing in my head and I swear I can smell pachouli. (The book was published in 1964 so it's possible this is the original cover.)

And, written on the inside cover in a lovely, no-one-writes-like-that-anymore script is the following inscription:

To Gil

With love from

Aunt June

Christmas 1972

At first I thought this was cool: Gil is probably around 50 now and Aunt June is either a senior citizen or maybe even dead. But the more I thought about it, the more it depressed me.

Who is this Gil person? And why did he not keep and cherish this copy of one of the most popular and beloved children's books, given to him by his doting Aunt June, no less? Sure, it's great that Gil donated the book to the library, but didn't he plan on ever having kids of his own?

Did Gil ever even read the book? Would Aunt June have been offended if she knew her darling nephew gave away her well-thought-out Christmas gift? Or maybe Gil grew up, moved out of the house, and his parents gave the book away?

I will never know the answers to these questions. But one thing I know for sure is there's no way I'm ever giving away the books my kids' grandparents have lovingly inscribed to them. Those will remain on our bookshelves until my kids have children of their own, at which time my darling grandchildren will inherit them.

Because there is nothing better than reading to your own kids the books that were read to you as a child. It's a magical thing.

I Really Hope I Won't Have to Use the Imperius Curse Next Weekend

2012-01-06T19:32:00.000-08:00

I just spent over two hours making this Platform 9-3/4 Hogwarts Express sign for my son's sixth birthday party, which is a week away.

Over the next seven days, I'll be busy conjuring up Chocolate Frogs, Sugar Mice, Peppermint Humbugs, Butterscotch Broomsticks, Acid Pops, and cauldron cakes (cupcakes) decorated to look like Harry Potter, Hedwig the owl, and Harry's lightning-bolt scar. I will be hunched over creating signs pointing guests toward Potions Class, The Three Broomsticks Pub, and Honeyduke's Sweet Shoppe.

Why do I do this? I do enjoy it...mostly. I like the creativity, I love how excited my son gets when I tell him my latest greatest idea, I adore watching the kids have a blast, and, yes, I enjoy hearing the guests' compliments (meaning the parents because six year olds aren't exactly known for appreciating things).

Kids don't need all the hoopla to have fun--I know this. They'd be happy if the party consisted of two hours of unstructured play, pizza, and cake. Our moms didn't throw us elaborately themed parties when we were little--and we sure didn't complain. Party entertainment when we were little was Pin the Tail on the Donkey and maybe a pinata. There were no professional magicians or petting zoos or kids' gyms. Cone-shaped party hats and balloons were it.

I wanted to have the party elsewhere--a bowling alley or sports complex, perhaps--but my son really wanted it to be at home. And now that he's in Kindergarten there are so many more children to invite. And because there's nothing fun going on in January, 95% RSVP'd yes. And because the weather usually sucks on party day, we can't just toss the kids outside and say "Have fun."

So this time next week, I'll be running around the house like a crazy woman, snapping at my husband for not helping enough (he'll counter by pointing out that I didn't actually ask for his help), and trying to clean, set up, and decorate everything in time. All so 17 little boys and girls (and one magician with a rabbit) can trash it the next day.

But I'm pretty sure it'll be awesome.

My First Annual Best and Worst Songs of the Year List -- 2011 Edition

2011-12-29T22:00:00.000-08:00

First off, let me just say that I'm fully aware this isn't the most inclusive list. For example, there's no country, hip-hop, or dance/R&B music on it. I generally don't listen to anything besides rock and pop, so unless a song is awesome enough to catch my attention--like last year's "Single Ladies" by Beyonce or "D.J. Got Us Fallin' in Love" by Usher--it's not gonna make my list.

This year nothing outside my preferred genres piqued my interest. But all the pop & rock songs listed below are pretty great, I think.

TOP TEN BEST SONGS OF 2011:

10. "Lonely Boy" -- The Black Keys Completely rocking yet groovy at the same time, this song has a guitar riff that would make the Church Lady stand up and play air guitar.
9. "Brand New Day" -- Trevor Hall I don't know anything about this guy, but he's got a cool, throaty voice. And the song is super-feel-good.
8. "Cough Syrup" -- Young the Giant Chris Martin so wishes he wrote this catchy tune.
7. "Mr. Know It All" -- Kelly Clarkson I love a song that calls out a dude for being a jerk. Adding a great beat and Ms. Clarkson's powerful voice makes it pop perfection.
6. "The Last Living Rose" -- P.J. Harvey Ms. Harvey is one of my all-time favorite artists. This song is beautiful and haunting.

5. Tie: "The Calamity Song" and "This Is Why We Fight" -- The Decemberists Two interesting, expertly-constructed, and catchy tunes from the same album. I can't decide which one I like best.

4. "Holdin' on to Black Metal" -- My Morning Jacket Hiring an all-female choir to sing back-up on this song was brilliant. A bunch of hairy dudes + ladies in robes = pure magic.

3. "Lost in My Mind" -- The Head and the Heart The soaring harmonies in this song's chorus are spectacular. I smile every time I hear it.
2. "Pumped Out Kicks" -- Foster the People Even if I'm driving in my car when this awesome song comes on the radio, I can't help but dance and sing along. Watch out, highway patrol!

1. "Rolling in the Deep" -- Adele Yes, it was over-played and yes, Adele was over-exposed in 2011, but this song is pretty much perfect. I was completely blown away the first time I heard it...it deserves to be #1.

And since you can't have a "Best" list without a "Worst" one....

TOP FIVE WORST SONGS OF 2011:

5. "I Wanna Go" -- Britney Spears The worst Auto-Tune nightmare EVER.

4. "Moves Like Jagger" -- Maroon 5 I happen to like this band, which usually puts out delicious pop songs. Expecting more from them makes me extra-hate this one.

3. "Party Rock Anthem" -- LMFAO This joke-of-a-song was everywhere all year long. It just plain sucks.

2. "Comeback Kid (That's My Dog)" -- Brett Dennen If I'm home when this stupid tune comes on the radio, I have to sprint across the room to turn it off. Dumb, dumb, dumb song.

1. "Friday" -- Rebecca Black Putting this at #1 almost feels like a cop-out because it's so obvious. But the song is absolutely awful. You know the gory details, I don't need to explain myself.

That's my list...hope you enjoyed it. Maybe it even introduced you to a great song or two that you hadn't yet heard. If so, yay!

Happy 2012!

Deck the Halls (and Front Lawns, Steps, Porches, Shrubbery...)

2011-12-19T13:13:00.000-08:00

The holiday season brings out the kid in all of us. That or the Grinch secretly residing in our soul. Luckily for me, it's the former.

I get really excited about Christmas--maybe even more so than my kids. After all, I'm the one who suggests we go get our Christmas tree pretty much before we've even digested the Thanksgiving turkey. It's me who blasts the Christmas tunes in the car and sings along at the top of my voice (while my three year old screams "STOP SINGING!" from the back seat). I'm the one who, on or around December 18th, can no longer stand the suspense and sheepishly asks my husband if the kids and I can open just one present.

And oh, how I love the houses all decorated with lights! I even get a kick out of the cheesy blow-ups. Though I refuse to put one of those monstrosities on our own lawn, that doesn't stop me from admiring them on our neighbors' properties.

One of the over-the-top houses in our neighborhood.

We--as in the members of our generation--seem so much more willing to embrace our inner-children than our parents were. I wonder why that is?

When we were little, my brothers and I would beg our parents to drive us around the town next to ours because the people who lived there really went crazy with the decorations. (Here's the formula: Middle-class town=excessive, tacky, wonderful decorations; upper-middle-class town: wreaths and candles in the windows.)

Nothing has really changed--it's still me begging to check out Christmas decorations...except now I end up begging my kids instead of my parents.

The other day, I was driving the kids home after a pediatrician's appointment. It was around 5 p.m. and pitch black already.

"Hey, kids! How about we drive around the neighborhood and look at some decorations?"

"Nah," my son chimes in from the back. "I just want to go home."

"Oh, c'mon, pleeeeeeeease?" I beg.

But guess what? I'm the one in the driver's seat now (literally and figuratively). So there. These days, when I say we're going to drive around and look at the pretty Christmas decorations then WE ARE DRIVING AROUND AND LOOKING AT PRETTY CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS, DAMN IT! Whether my kids like it or not. Ha!

Happy holidays, everyone!

Face Invaders

2011-12-09T15:08:00.001-08:00

I've been looking forward to tomorrow night for a while now. The rugby team my husband played for for years is having their annual Awards/Get-Drunk-and-Crazy Dinner in the city. It was a fun event even when we lived in NYC pre-kids and went out all the time, but now that we can count on one hand the number of times we get out each year without the kids, it's downright exciting.

I will be wearing a pretty dress, heels, and mascara for the first time since summer.

So the cold sore that appeared on my upper lip a few days ago was less welcome than usual.

AAAHHHHHH, SUSAN!!! Why, why, why? This is SO YOU, just classic, gross Susan. Oh, there's an important event coming up? BAM! Cold sore!

You should hear me the week leading up to something fun (high-school reunion, Christmas party, tropical vacation, whatever); I begin reciting my pleasedon'tletmegetacoldsore, pleasedon'tletmegetacoldsore mantra. I'm not sure who I'm telling exactly because generally I'm not a prayer, but I figure begging and pleading can't hurt. (Hey, you never know who might be listening, though why they'd listen to me, I don't know.)

This week's cold sore got me thinking about my childhood and the dreaded SCHOOL PICTURE DAY. Because, inevitably, I'd get a cold sore beforehand and ruin the photo.

Oh, you think I'm exaggerating? Yeah, so did I at first. I thought maybe once I had a cold sore in a school picture and that time had distorted the memory. But then while at my parents' house over Thanksgiving, I decided to peruse some old photo albums.

And that's when I confronted The Horror (not in chronological order):

Super-cute pigtails...super-gross cold sore.

My mom calls this one my "Queen
Victoria" pose. I call it "Ugly Amish
girl with cold sore."

The smile is a hopeful one that says "Gee, I
hope my almost-but-not-quite-gone cold sore
doesn't show up in the picture!" No such
luck, Little Susan.

I loved that APPLE shirt. What I didn't love
was the cold sore that appeared on my face
every year before Picture Day. (The glare
hides it but trust me it's there, bottom-right).

Mustard-colored 70's turtleneck=ugly
Mustard-colored turtleneck + cold sore=heinous

All five photos are from elementary school. And since I was in elementary school for a total of six years...well, you do the math. Okay, I'll do the math: over 80% of the time I had a cold sore in my school photo. That is craaaazy. And disgusting, painful, and embarrassing.

And humbling...definitely oh-so humbling.

"Everyone Is the Age of Their Heart." - Guatemalan Proverb

2011-12-04T14:26:00.001-08:00

Ha-ha-ha, what a lie....

I think I might be having a mid-life crisis. All I know for sure is that I've been struggling lately, and I decided putting my thoughts and feelings down in words might help me sort it out. So please bear with me.

I've been feeling really nostalgic lately--not the good kind when you fondly remember past fun times, but the yucky kind when you feel not quite present in the present (if that makes any sense). I'm not nostalgic for any particular time or place or person, but rather I miss the way I used to be and feel and relate to the world.

Ahhh, those were the good ol' days. Too bad I didn't
appreciate it. "Youth is wasted on the young" as they say.

When I was younger, the way I looked played a big part in how I related to people--especially men, of course. A young woman's allure can be a useful and powerful thing. I wasn't one of those who used her looks to unfairly take advantage of a situation (unless the guy was a jerk and deserved it) but I certainly enjoyed the attention my appearance got me over the years. So shoot me. And there is no doubt a woman's allure can open doors.

Because the way I was treated was partially due to my appearance, of course how I looked became a significant part of my identity (as it does for most people, whether they admit it or not).

Now that I'm getting older, I feel myself teetering on the precipice of undesirable and this leaves me feeling a bit rudderless. While an older woman can "look good for her age," (and there's always that crushing "for her age" added on at the end) she will never again be a hot, young girl. An older woman is more experienced and (hopefully) wiser than her younger counterpart--and this is certainly something to celebrate--but it doesn't change the fact that she is no longer viewed as desirable by the world in general. And that sucks.

Nowadays when I walk past a construction site, I bristle in anticipation of the cat-call, but when it doesn't come, instead of feeling relieved I'm deflated. Life is more boring this way.

The questions I ask myself are these: What is my identity now? How do others see me (and do I really want to know)? What's my role in this world supposed to be? Yes, I'm a wife, mother, daughter, sister, etc., but who am I deep down inside?

All I know is, the girl I once was is no more and I miss her, hot mess that she was.

Does everyone have such problems as they age, or am I just vainer than most? My guess is it's about 50/50. Maybe it's especially difficult right now because it's only recently that I've started feeling, well, not old exactly...just not young anymore. Maybe, instead of getting worse as I age, I'll get used to feeling this way and it won't bother me as much?

I certainly hope so.

Good Friends Are Like Stars...

2011-11-29T09:38:00.001-08:00

...you don't always see them, but you know they are always there. -- Confucius

We went up to Massachusetts to spend Thanksgiving with my family this year. While there, I decided to help my parents by clearing out some of my old junk--stuff that's been cluttering up their space for the twenty years that they've lived in the house. The two nightstand drawers in my old room were crammed with letters from the late eighties and early nineties--these were my college years when I would go back home over school breaks and summer vacations.

I've been going through the letters slowly, trying to decipher my friends' almost-illegible scrawl. My goal was to throw out most of the letters, but yet keep a representative sample that would sum up the place and time, as well as each friend's individual personality.

A large proportion of the letters were from my freshman year at college. I guess this is because my old high school friends and I had yet to form any close friendships with kids at college, so we were, understandably, clinging to our former lives.

Summer of '88: Me and a few friends, back together
after our freshman year of college.

As I read through the letters, I wasn't surprised by all the mentions of cute boys, classes, partying, and roommates (whom ranged from awesome to awful). But what did surprise me, what I wasn't expecting to read, was so much written about our friendships with one another--what we missed, what we meant to each other, how close our bonds were, etc. We were surprisingly introspective young women considering we were just out of high school.

For example, here's what one friend wrote to me in September, 1987, just after we'd gone our separate ways to different colleges thousands of miles apart:

"My problem is I meet a lot of people but have no close friends. I wish in a way you and our other friends were with me. Though we'd all be trying to break away from each other, we'd still have each other there.... I miss you, Sue! I talk about you a lot. It's so weird to be starting new again! I like it, but there are certain security things I miss, like our group."

That is pretty self-aware for an eighteen year old, if you ask me.

In another letter, a different friend wrote:

"Sue, I really miss you and I know it sounds dumb but I really wish that you were here because you truly have been so strong for me on so many occasions. You are truly my best friend (a term I no longer use so lightly!) and I don't know how come I deserve you sometimes."

I love you, crazy girls.

Twenty years later, I'm blown away by the level of intimacy in these letters. I'm sure at the time I didn't think much of it; it would've just been how things were, how we felt about one another, and the way we communicated and responded to each other. But because I'm so far away from that time, and my focus is on family rather than friendships, it just seems so, so remarkable that we felt that strongly and deeply about each other.

I still love these ladies, though we remain geographically isolated from one another. I miss having them in my life on a regular basis, but even more, I miss having a gang of cool, smart, interesting, and fun women around to whom I can talk, vent, and bitch, and who also completely have my back. My husband and family are wonderful and supportive of course, but it's not the same.

So if any of you lovely ladies--my dearest friends from childhood and beyond--are reading this, I just want to thank you for all the love, laughs, hugs, support, and advice you've given me over the years.

I couldn't have made it through without you. And I miss you so much it hurts.

What Is There Not to Like About Preschool? I Don't Know, Ask My Daughter.

2011-11-17T11:30:00.001-08:00

My three-year-old daughter goes to preschool three mornings a week for a total of eight hours and fifteen minutes of school weekly. Just about the right amount of time away from Mommy, if you ask me.

After picking her up from preschool, as I'm ~~forcing~~ buckling her into her car seat, I almost always ask, "How was school today? Did you have fun?" And just about every time she answers, "A little bit...not too much."

Whoa. Though I struggle to understand how it's possible, the reality is that my little lady does not like school.

My baby, about to begin her first
day of school

The very idea flabbergasts me. Painting! Dress up! Play-doh! Story Time! Playground! What's not to like? Okay, so Mommy isn't there, I get it...but how can having six other little girls around to play with (not to mention seven adorable boys) not be way better than one distracted mom who's always interrupting the game to answer the phone or check Facebook?

We never had this problem with my son, who was always like, "YAY! SCHOOL TODAY! I LOVE SCHOOL!" from the moment I first dropped him off at Ms. Joan's class when he was two-and-a-half years old. He is a sweet, friendly kid, and the teachers would marvel at how easily he got along with everyone--he just as happily played kitchen with the girls as he did cars with the boys.

I know I shouldn't compare my kids, but earlier this year, upon picking my daughter up at school, the teacher greeted me with, "Wow, your daughter and Millicent can really get into it with each other!" Apparently, the two girls had been fighting over who got to use the single pair of classroom binoculars.

Don't be mistaken, my baby girl is a complete love--she's warm and affectionate (just ask her Grandpa, into whom's lap she climbs unbidden, or her Poppa, at whom she bats her eyelashes sweetly); quick as a whip; and, according to my father, the funniest of his five grandkids. Girlfriend knows how to work an audience, that's for sure.

But school is not, apparently, her thing. So far she has chosen not to make a big deal about going in the mornings--there haven't been any fights about it. I suppose that could change, but hopefully it won't; since I can't relate to not liking school, I doubt I'd be able to deal with the issue properly. What's the best way to handle this? Being stern and forcing her to go? Letting her stay home?

If it comes to that, I'll have to call in the expert on not liking school: her daddy.

Just Call Me Kindergarten Cop

2011-11-10T17:53:00.001-08:00

There is a girl in my son's Kindergarten class with whom he's become fast friends.

My husband and son ran into This Girl (I'll refer to her as "T.G." from now on) a few weeks ago, and she went on and on about how she wanted my son to come over her house for a playdate.

I had met T.G.'s mother only once before--at back-to-school-night--and, let's put it this way, she's not exactly the long-lost best friend I've been hoping to find. My first impression was that she was a little brash. I'm sure she's a perfectly decent person, but her scratchy smoker's voice and aloof manner turned me off.

However, my lovely boy wanted a playdate with his new friend, so I wasn't about to say no just because the mom was not my cup o' tea. Of course I had to give her the benefit of the doubt.

I knew T.G.'s last name so I tracked them down through whitepages.com (and felt pretty stalker-ish doing so), called, and her mom and I set something up for three days hence.

Kindergarten Halloween party

The day of the playdate, just as we were about to leave for their house, I noticed our machine was blinking; it was a message from elementary school. T.G.'s mom didn't have our number so she had the school call to cancel the playdate. No explanation, no apology, no nothin'.

Oh, how my sweet boy cried and cried! All I could do was hug him and tell him I was so, so sorry over and over again as his little body shook with giant sobs. The anger flooded my body--how I hated T.G.'s mother at that moment!

If I could've given my son a decent explanation--"Honey, T.G.'s little sister swallowed poison and was rushed to the emergency room"--I think it would've been easier for both of us to accept. But instead, we were left in the lurch.

The next time I saw her, at a class event, I avoided her because I didn't trust myself to make nice-nice after what had happened. And a Kindergarten classroom isn't exactly the ideal place for a confrontation.

It's been a month now, and she hasn't called to apologize or reschedule the playdate.

So everyday I grit my teeth while listening to my son go on and on about all the fun he and T.G. had during recess, or about how funny she is, or blahblahblah. Oh, sure, he may have forgotten all about his first heartbreak, but his mother sure hasn't. Grrrrrrr! I can't help it, but hearing that girl's dumb name instantly turns me into one of Sarah Palin's Mama Grizzlies.

So, guess what, T.G. and T.G.'s mom? Mama Grizzly is watching. Do NOT hurt my cub again if you know what's good for you. I will attack...and that's a promise.

Cat Scratch Fever

2011-11-03T10:20:00.000-07:00

Ted Nugent power chords played in my head as I read the brochure the vet had given me on Bartonella, "The Cat Scratch Disease Bacteria." (They give me cat scratch fever! Cat scratch fever!) Apparently, the Bartonella bacteria, which is transmitted from cats, can cause 22 human diseases, of which cat scratch disease is the most famous. Who knew?

When we adopted Paulina six months ago, she was a tiny, skinny thing. "She'll fatten up soon enough when you bring her home," the director of the shelter had assured us. But Paulina is just as skinny today as when we got her. She doesn't eat much--sometimes I even have to throw out food that has sat in her bowl for too long.

That was bad sign #1. Then there was the drooling and bad breath, both of which aren't normal for cats according to the various web sites I consulted. But the potential seriousness of the situation didn't sink in until a friend of mine who owns five cats came over and gave little Paulina a cuddle: "She is WAY too thin!" she announced.

So I called a recommended local animal hospital/veterinarian and, luckily, they were able to fit me in that very afternoon. The minute the vet picked up Paulina he became very concerned: "She's nothing but skin and bones!" (Oops, our bad.)

It turns out our 3-1/2-year-old cat only weighs 4.3 pounds.

The vet ordered a bunch of tests--to the tune of $600--and we sucked it up because, let's face it, guilt is a powerful motivator.

Should we have known something was wrong with Paulina? Neither my husband nor I had ever had a cat before, and little Paulina was always so sweet and uncomplaining. Besides, money has been tight lately, and I was afraid a visit to the vet would open up an extremely expensive can of worms (which is exactly what happened).

But then the vet said something about preparing myself for the test results and went on to mention the possibility of needing to have a conversation about "how to deal with the psyches of your kids" down the line. That's when it finally hit me: Crap, could Paulina be terminal?!

Thankfully, the feline leukemia and AIDS tests came back normal. The vet isn't 100% sure what's going on with Paulina, but her gums are red and painful, her white blood cell count is really high, and according to the X-rays (add another $200 to the running total) her intestines are enlarged, while her liver and kidneys are way too small.

The vet gave Paulina a long-lasting antibiotic shot to hopefully treat her inflamed gums and whatever else might be driving up her white cell count, and prescribed some special, hypo-allergenic (and wicked expensive, cha-ching!) food for the irritable bowel disease he suspects she might have. So far, Paulina has gobbled up two bowls of the food since yesterday--more than she's ever eaten in the same time period before--so that's a good sign, at least.

Meanwhile, the Bartonella test results won't be back for a few more days so we don't have any Cat Scratch Fever Disease diagnosis as of yet.

All we can do right now is wait...wait and give Paulina extra cuddles, make room for her on our bed at night, and make sure she feels loved and wanted. Poor little baby.

How the Apples Fall from the Trees

2011-10-22T14:40:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about having kids is the process of figuring out which parent each kid takes after and how. Outsiders like to comment on appearances: "Oh, your son looks just like your husband!" and "How fun to have a Mini-Me!"

But for me the most interesting thing about the genetic soup that makes our kids who they are is that it determines their personalities as well. I'm a big believer that "nature" trumps "nurture." Of course you can't torture and torment your kids and still expect them to be lovely and gentle, but it seems to me that kids are pretty much born with their personalities already hard-wired into their brains.

My kids are so dissimilar that the fact that both of them were spawned from the same genetic pool is pretty cool.

My kids look nothing alike.

First, they look nothing alike: eye color, skin color, body type--all different. My son gets his looks mainly from my Irish husband's side of the family, while my daughter has a tiny bit more Armenian shining through (as evidenced by her incredibly long eyelashes).

But considering both kids were raised by the same two parents, it's crazy how different their personalities are and how they are such interesting combinations of me and my husband. My five-year-old son is sweet, sensitive, and enthusiastic about everything (in other words, he's nothing like me); yet he also loves learning and discovering, has a real thirst for knowledge, digs science, and is super-inquisitive (in other words, he's a nerd just like me).

Take Harry Potter, for example. I love that little wizard, and was ecstatic when my slightly premature attempts at indoctrinating my son in the ways and wonders of the wizarding world paid off. I've just finished reading him Sorcerer's Stone and he's begging for Chamber of Secrets already. Every second he's home, he's pleading with me to read him more, while the only way my husband can get my son to show any interest in the World Series is by pointing out that the guy up at bat's last name is pronounced "poo holes."

I love that my son and I have this thing we share just between us two. It makes me smile to hear him prattle on to my husband about how Ron got bitten by Hagrid's dragon and the cut got infected, because my husband has no clue what he's talking about. My son and I share a secret language--a language of muggles, Slytherin, Voldemort, bludger, quaffle, alohomora, Filch....

I am a huge fan of the fantasy, sci-fi, and horror genres, while my husband...eh. Let's put it this way: He doesn't LOVE Star Wars.

My son looks nothing like me, yet he shares most of my interests. And, thanks to my husband, he's much sweeter than I am. That's pretty awesome.

My three-year-old daughter, on the other hand...whew! Now I know how my mother felt when I was growing up and she would exasperatedly tell me to stop being so bossy. I never saw it as being bossy--I was just damned sure that my way was the best way so therefore everyone needed to listen and do what I said.

I see that trait in my daughter as well. Like me, she's headstrong and stubborn. She knows what she wants and can't be coerced into changing direction (unlike my son who is more reasonable and can usually eventually be persuaded to consider other options).

Unlike me, however, she loves everything girly: pink, sparkles, princesses, fairies, dressing-up, shoes, purses, Hello Kitty, Minnie Mouse, mermaids, kittens, and puppies. It's not uncommon for her to change outfits three times a day, and she will even allow me to tug and pull at her hair ("You hurtin' me, Mommy!") if the end result is "boo-si-vle" (beautiful) poofy pigtails just like Abby Cadabby's.

Maybe it's because I grew up with two brothers, but I don't remember ever being so obsessed with all that girly stuff. I'm pretty certain I still allowed my mother pick out my clothes when I was three, and I doubt I begged and pleaded with her to buy me sparkly pink shoes every time we went to ~~Target~~ Bradlees.

Though come to think of it, did they even make sparkly pink shoes for kids back in the 70's, or were red Mary Janes as exciting as it got?

Drowning in the Past

2011-10-16T18:15:00.000-07:00

I've been spending too much time in the past lately. Facebook can do that to a person. Daily cyber-~~stalking~~-spying on your high school crush (Is he gross now, or pretty cute for an old guy?) or the mean girl who made your middle-school years a living hell (Please, PLEASE let her be fat now.) can take one's focus away from the here and now (Crap, my kid's bus will be here any second!). Facebook makes it really easy to lose yourself in the minutia of someone-you-haven't-seen-in-25-years-and-never-really-liked-to-begin-with's life.

But even before Facebook (the horrors!), my brain spent too much time dwelling on the past. I'm one of those people who like to pore through old photo albums--other people's as well as my own. Over and over again. I'm strange like that. I've always dwelled on the past, even when I was too young to have a past of my own. Then I would just obsess over previous eras and the people who glamorized them (Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Charles Manson, etc.).

Would 15-year-old me
say I made the best
choices in life so far?

But Facebook makes it much easier to regress.

I'm not sure why I do this. My life these days is pretty ideal, if I do say so myself. It's just as I'd hoped and imagined it would be...well, pretty much. No one gets everything they've ever wanted in life. I'm a little less rich than I'd hoped. But I have a lovely husband who makes me laugh, two super-adorable, smart, healthy kids, and a pretty house in a nice neighborhood. The American dream, baby.

I'm happier now than when I was a teenager or young adult, so why do I find myself reliving the past so often? Am I trying to reassure myself that I chose the correct path? Am I testing the waters? Dipping my toes in Lake What-Could-Have-Been in the hopes of finding the water horribly cold and brackish? That sounds about right.

I just hope I don't fall in and drown.

A Topsy-Turvy Day

2011-10-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

Today, Oakland Beach in Rye, NY

Today was a good one...but yet throughout the whole day things seemed off.

Because the forecast was for unseasonably warm weather, we decided to go to the beach--an unexpected, fantastic, bonus beach day.

The strangeness began on our drive to Rye, which is a town on the Long Island Sound with a few decent beaches. There we were, speeding down the highway--swim suits on, towels, floaties, and snacks all packed up--and lo and behold, the trees were starting to change color. It felt so odd to be admiring the yellow, orange, and red leaves while on our way to the beach with the car's air-conditioning humming.

Then once we arrived at the beach, there was the weirdness with the sun--the light just seemed wrong. At around 3 p.m., we were standing at the water's edge while Little Miss frolicked in the surf and Little Man tried to catch minnows. The sun was low--it seemed almost to be starting to go down--which made it feel much later than it actually was. Because normally when you are at the beach and the sunlight begins slanting that way, it's dinnertime.

Then it was time to go home. As we approached our neighborhood--sand between our toes and dried salt making our legs itch--the halloween decorations adorning the houses were downright jarring. Pumpkins, ghosts, and witches just don't go with flip-flops and shorts.

But, hey, I'm not complaining--I'll take it. Because before long, it'll be colder than a witch's tit, and our bonus beach day will just be a pleasant memory that we return to while freezing our butts off.

My Daughter, the Diva

2011-10-05T18:26:00.000-07:00

Fancy shoes, tights over the
swimsuit, Halloween hair tie

My three-year-old daughter thinks it's perfectly okay to go outside wearing a swimsuit with tights pulled up over it, plus fancy, white, flower girl shoes. I insist on a jacket because, well, it's October and 55 degrees out there.

Getting my daughter dressed every morning is a tiring negotiation. Her go-to look is psychotic fairy princess, so it's my job to tone it down as much as possible. No parent should ever fight with their child over the clothes they want to wear (unless said child is a 15-year-old female decked out in a micro-mini and belly shirt), but there's no way I'm standing back without at least attempting to coordinate her outfit. But often my ~~pleadings~~ suggestions fall on deaf ears, and my sweet pea leaves the house looking like a hot mess.

Minnie Mouse

Some days I can convince her that a sundress isn't the best choice for a chilly winter morning, but other times, I just have to insist on tights underneath, and hope her winter coat is thick enough to counteract the spaghetti straps and bare arms.

This morning she decided on a Halloween theme: black pumpkin shirt, jack-o-lantern hair tie, turquoise leggings with gold polka dots, and black socks to match. The fact that the socks had snowmen all over them did not deter her. After all, they were black and therefore matched.

I do realize this is normal behavior, but after being spoiled by my first-born--my son happily wears whatever I lay out for him--my diva-esque daughter is a bit of a shock.

Bathing beauty/princess

At least it's never boring. On a daily basis, I never know if I'm going to be hanging out with Snow White, Minnie Mouse, a prima ballerina, beach beauty, fairy, some wacky combination thereof, or some brand new character I've never met before. Every once in a while, I even get to hang out with a regular, three-year-old kid.

Those are the most surprising days of all.

Thanks for the Quality Family Time, Amtrak!

2011-09-29T14:39:00.001-07:00

Here I am, on the train to Newport News, Virginia, with my family, going to visit my sister-in-law and her family. We could've (should've?) flown, but decided to save some money and give our kids a train experience by taking Amtrak.

Unfortunately, I happen to despise Amtrak. I used to take the train from Boston to Philadelphia all the time back in college (20 years ago), and the damned train was almost always late. Then there was the time a woman committed suicide by jumping on the tracks; that was somewhere in Connecticut, and by the time I got into South Station it was almost 2 a.m.

My Amtrak track record (ha, pun intended!) got so bad that I finally switched to the Peter Pan/Greyhound bus.But I figured it's been 20 years, give 'em another chance, right? Yeah, not so much.

A two-hour delay later (on top of the eight-plus hour trip ahead of us) did nothing to change my opinion of Amtrak as something so broken it might never get fixed.But when we finally got on the train, it wasn't crowded. the seats were roomy and comfortable, the bathrooms didn't stink too badly, and the cafe car had plenty of wine. Greyhound doesn't sell wine.

And then somewhere just south of D.C., I looked out the window--the afternoon sun was sparkling so prettily off of some Northern Virginia river that a lovely feeling of peace and contentment came over me. I had my family with me, we were on an adventure, the scenery outside my window was beautiful.

What more did I want?Did it really matter that we were two hours delayed? Of course not.

It Was 20 Years Ago....

2011-09-24T18:47:00.000-07:00

Eddie Vedder, grunge's poster boy, in 1992.
Girls loved him, guys wanted to be him.

When I heard that Pearl Jam was celebrating their 20th anniversary this month, one of the first things that popped into my head was, "It was 20 years ago today, when Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play." Which really shows you how old I am.

I remember back in 1987, all the music critics were frothing at the mouth over the 20th anniversary of The Beatles' classic album, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. The DJs, VJs, and various talking heads played that snippet of the song--"It was 20 years ago today, when Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play."--over and over (and over again).

In 1987, I remember thinking that 1967 seemed like a million, billion years ago--a time of flower people, free love, and chicks with hairy legs (versus my 80's world of Wall Street, neon, and big hair).

Not surprisingly, 1991 doesn't seem like THAT long ago. After all, I was already an adult twenty years ago. Going from being a young adult to an older one isn't nearly so monumental as going from being not born yet to a teenager. Youth warps one's sense of time--while you are growing up, it seems to be taking so damned long that even five years feels like an eternity, let alone twenty.

Yet my adulthood is speeding by--imagine that.

So I was blown away when I realized an entire two decades has passed since Pearl Jam and Nirvana (not to mention Soundgarden, Nine Inch Nails, Jane's Addiction, and Alice in Chains) broke out and changed the landscape of rock 'n' roll forever. These awesome bands also convinced us to replace our boxy, Stop Making Sense-ian, shoulder-padded blazers and high-waisted designer jeans with plaid flannel shirts and ripped Levi's.

And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Awful Song Lyrics: Duran Duran Edition

2011-09-18T17:55:00.000-07:00

The same way awesome lyrics can turn a good song into a great one, awful lyrics can ruin a perfectly decent tune. If I truly adore a song's melody then horrible lyrics won't make me hate it, but I do get mad that the artist has gone ahead and ruined a great song by giving it stupid words.

This poster was on my bedroom wall in 1983.

The exception is Duran Duran. DD songs have some of the most asinine lyrics out there, yet I've never gotten angry about it. The ridiculous words fit somehow when it comes to the pop band whose pictures once covered my bedroom wall.

While in the car earlier today, I flipped the radio station to 95.5 PLJ (which I rarely listen to, but ever since 101.9 RXP went soft-rock, my choices are limited). "New Moon on Monday" by DD was on, and before I knew what was happening, I heard myself bellowing: "I light my torch and wave it for the new moon on Monday/and the fire dance through the night./I stayed the cold day with a lonely satellite."

What the hell? I thought. I mean, really, how meaningless and dumb and awful are those lyrics? And why has my brain continued to devote a whole bunch of cells to remembering them 28 years later?

Here is the video for "New Moon on Monday," from their 1983 album, Seven and the Ragged Tiger (the title of which doesn't make any sense either):

And here are some of the dumbest lyrics ever written for a hit song:

New Moon on Monday

Shake up the picture, the lizard mixture

With your dance on the eventide.

You got me coming up with answers

All of which I deny.

I said it again, but could I please rephrase it?

Maybe I can catch a ride.

I couldn't really put it much plainer

But I'll wait till you decide.

Send me your warning siren

As if I could ever hide.

Last time La Luna

CHORUS:

I light my torch and wave it for the

New moon on Monday

And a fire dance through the night.

I stayed the cold day with a lonely satellite.

Breaking away with the beast of both worlds

A smile that you can't disguise.

Every minute I keep finding

Clues that you leave behind.

Save me from these reminders

As if I'd forget tonight.

This time La Luna

CHORUS

FYI, "Union of the Snake," the first hit song off Seven and the Ragged Tiger also has idiotic lyrics. Pretty much all of Duran Duran's songs are dumb. But they are still awesome.

Bus Stop Mamas

2011-09-14T18:47:00.000-07:00

I was preoccupied all day--my mind wandering while driving, barely hearing my daughter prattle on, etc.--and it was because of something so totally insignificant and stupid. There are days when I'm amazed at how pathetic I am, and today was one of them.

First, a little background: I am way too insecure for someone my age. Seriously, aren't we supposed to "come into ourselves" in our 30's, and then by our 40's be effortlessly self-confident and radiating inner beauty? That's what Eileen Fisher would have us believe, but for me, unfortunately, it hasn't quite happened that way. Oh, sure, I'm less insecure about my appearance nowadays, but that's mainly because I'm old enough to realize that's a battle I'm not going to win.

Nor am I still insecure about what the hell I'm doing with my life, because I ended up getting married, having kids, and quitting my job to raise them--and I'm good with that. Sure, there are days I wonder what it would be like to go to an office everyday and contribute creatively and intellectually to society while a full-time nanny takes care of my kids, but it's not something I actually want. I don't regret the path I've chosen.

I am, however, insecure about my friends--or rather, lack thereof. And it's confusing to me because for most of my life, having and making friends came naturally and easily. Growing up, I didn't even think about it--friends just popped up wherever I went. I used to consider myself something of an Alpha Female--I was usually a leader amongst my various groups of friends.

But as I got older, things changed. Throughout my 20's and 30's, my number of female friends dwindled--people married, moved away, got jobs that left little time for socializing, etc. And because I was no longer making new friends left and right, pretty soon I was down to a precious few. Then I had my own kids and moved to the suburbs where I knew almost no one.

I've been trying to make new friends since we moved here five years ago, but because I've never had to actively pursue friendships before, I am pathetic at it. I've become good friends with about four mothers (in five years--sad), but then two of them moved away. The other two don't even live in our town.

Which is why my current best friend is my 3-year-old daughter.

So, yes, I'm a little fragile when it comes to friends.

For the past two weeks, I've been waiting at the bus stop with a few neighborhood moms. Two of them seem like they could be potential friends but I'm just so clueless when it comes to taking it to the next level. After the bus has come and gone, instead of staying to chat I just say goodbye and head home.

Well, shortly after the bus had picked up my son this morning, I was back at home reading my daughter a book. I looked out the window and saw the two moms I like pushing strollers down the street (they both have young kids) and taking a walk together. They were chatting like old friends, though I know they pretty much met at the bus stop, too.

I instantly felt like the biggest loser. Why not me? Don't they like me? Is it because they both have two boys and both their second sons are still young enough to be taken for a walk in a stroller? If my daughter were still stroller age would I have been included as well?

I spent all morning wallowing in self-pity and feeling like the greasy-haired, zit-faced girl at the junior prom that no one will ask to dance.

9-11-01: What I Remember

2011-09-08T18:58:00.000-07:00

With the tenth anniversary of 9/11 just a few days away, it's impossible to watch the local news, listen to the radio, or read the paper without encountering something about that fateful day.

I don't much like hearing, reading, talking, or even thinking about that horrific event. I lived on 12th Street at the time, just a couple of miles from Ground Zero, so any reminder of the attack brings back awful memories. Thankfully none of my friends or family died that day, but living in the midst of such tragedy was still a terrible thing.

In those days if the weather was good, my habit was to walk to work, and on that fateful Tuesday morning, it was gorgeous: one of those late summer days with dry, crisp, clean-smelling air, a cloudless cobalt-blue sky, and a bright, cheery sun. The kind of weather that can't help but put you in a good mood.

I arrived at our nearly-empty office at around 9 a.m. As I walked to my cubicle, a young temp informed me that an airplane had just crashed into one of the Twin Towers. I looked over her shoulder at the frightening images on her computer screen, then ran to my desk and logged onto CNN.com. What a horrible, tragic accident! I thought. It was obvious that all of the people on the airplane must be dead, as well as dozens (if not more) who were working on those tower floors that suffered a direct hit.

I was listening to reports of fires in the tower and trying to process the horror of it all, when the news flashed across my screen: Another airplane had just hit the second tower. What?! A shiver ran down my spine as I realized what this meant. One hit could've been an accident but not two. By this point the office was full, and everyone was freaking out.

We ran to the conference room, where the office's only TV was located, and watched the disturbing images being shown: two airplanes sticking out of the World Trade Center; black smoke billowing from the towers; soot-covered emergency personnel running in and out of the buildings; people high up in the towers, standing at broken windows and waving white towels (spare dress shirts?), desperate to be rescued from the fires licking at their backs.

Then the TV showed something tiny falling from a tower...down, down, down. Oh, no, no, NO, it's a person! I couldn't look anymore--I covered my eyes and cried.

Then the towers fell, one after another, and the enormity of the event truly hit me. What at first appeared to be a horrible and tragic accident was officially now an evil, hate-filled, world-changing, never-to-be-forgotten, add-it-to-the-textbooks, hellish, historical attack.

I took this photo from the roof of my building on 9-11.

I walked home later that day, showing my I.D. to get past the police barricade at 14th Street, went up to the roof of my building, and looked South. Smoke. After watching the images on TV for hours, seeing the actual thing was surreal.

I didn't think things could get any worse, but they did. I lived two blocks from St. Vincent's, which was designated the primary admitting hospital for those injured in the attacks. Extra doctors and nurses were summoned, extra supplies gathered, but hardly any wounded arrived. Empty stretchers awaited bodies that never materialized--bodies that, as it turned out, were vaporized.

But people with missing loved ones flocked to the hospital anyway, just in case. A huge chain-link fence outside the hospital was soon covered with MISSING!! notices: sheet after sheet of Xeroxed, 8-1/2 x 11 pages showing the smiling faces of people who, we were beginning to realize, were gone. Every single one of the hundreds of faces staring back at me as I walked by were blown to bits. Their bodies would never be found...their loved ones would never be able to close a casket, bury a body, or visit a gravestone.

The Xeroxed notices lingered for weeks. They got mangled a little, wrinkled and ripped by the rain, they faded. But still the smiling faces stared out at me. I couldn't stop thinking about them--they haunted me.

But the worst was the smell. The acrid, burning stench was there 24/7. I closed my windows but could still smell it. For weeks I went to bed with the smell in my nostrils and woke with it still there. It got to the point where I couldn't remember what regular air even smelled like. I rode the subway all the way uptown but the smell followed me. I think if I ever encounter that particular stench again, I'll throw up on the spot.

I don't remember how long the smell lasted, because my attention soon was diverted by the Anthrax scares that were popping up all over Manhattan. People were also talking about the "very real possibility" of a subway bombing. Things were weird and SCARY for a long time.

What the reflecting pools will look like

Now ten years have passed and it seems like a lifetime ago. I don't like to remember because then I begin to think, hey, if it happened once, it probably will again. But last weekend after spending time at a cool, new downtown playground, we drove past the WTC site at the request of my son, who is obsessed with skyscrapers. It pretty much looks like any other construction site--except way bigger--and I was surprised to not feel much about it.

I do want to go back once the reflecting pools are completed, however. I think they will be beautiful and meaningful, and hopefully they'll bring some peace to those who lost a loved one that day. We can only hope.

I'm Not Ready to Say Goodbye to the Trucks, Dinosaurs, Skyscrapers & Dragons

2011-09-02T19:51:00.000-07:00

I didn't think I was stressing too much about my son starting Kindergarten next week--okay, maybe a little about the bus picking him up at 7:49 a.m. (so early!), and also about having to pack him a lunch and snack everyday...but not about the idea of him going to Kindergarten. I've been handling that just fine, thank you.

One of the Empire State Buildings I
found in the Ariel notebook

Or so I thought. But then I noticed something strange. Earlier this evening, I picked up a little Ariel notebook my daughter received as a favor from a birthday party--I wanted to jot something down--and when I opened it, there were pages and pages of sketches my son had made: multiple Chrysler Buildings, Empire State Buildings, and Eiffel Towers. Seeing them there so unexpectedly made me gasp, and I found it hard to breathe. I quickly flipped past the drawings to a blank page and cleared my head so I could jot down my note.

My son loves to draw, so I'm used to finding his little masterpieces all over the place: on the back of the notepad meant for phone messages, on the pieces of cardboard that come inside new tights and socks, on the backs of receipts. In my nightstand drawer, crumpled up at the bottom of the Lego box, under the car's driver seat.

I've always adored coming across them. It's fun to figure out when they were drawn. A truck? Age two. Volcano? Three. Velociraptors and skyscrapers are from when he was four, and dragons are his current passion.

But that seems to have changed. The drawings I found in the Ariel notebook tonight aren't the first ones that have left me short of breath. It's been happening for the past few weeks. I think it's because my son is growing up so fast, and whenever I find one of his drawings, it makes me wonder how much longer I'll have this pleasure. It's inevitable: The day will come when I no longer find his random sweet sketches all over the house. I can hardly bear to think about it...it makes me cry every time.

He's going to Kindergarten, he's getting older. My little boy is growing and changing, which means our relationship is going to change, too. And while I know that's a healthy thing, it also just happens to break my heart.

Goodbye, Summer, It's Been Nice

2011-08-28T18:15:00.000-07:00

The past couple of weeks have felt like Autumn. The weather's been cooler, rainier, windier, and less humid--and that was even before the hurricane. This weekend, however (although it wasn't particularly cold), chilled me to the bone. That's because, while the main story this weekend was undoubtedly Hurricane Irene, the unspoken story was Summer's End. It's eight o'clock and pitch black out there. And that bums me out.

I've always been ambivalent about the end of summer. Summer is absolutely, without a doubt, my favorite season. Except for the bugs, I love everything about summer--even the humidity. You will never hear me complaining about the weather on a 105-degree day. Yet all good things must come to an end. Back when I was a kid, Autumn meant finally seeing my friends again, new school clothes, and getting back into a routine. I've always liked a certain amount of structure in my life--and I'm also about 50% nerd and loved school--so rather than be sad about saying good-bye to summer, I would happily welcome Autumn's imminent arrival.

That changed when I graduated from college and got a job, because the end of summer no longer represented an exciting transition. Fall's arrival just meant doing the same job day in and day out but with less exposure to sunlight, crappier weather, and no one willing to pay for a new fall wardrobe. That was the only period of my life when I'd get majorly depressed at summer's end. Every August 15th, I'd start stressing out: I hadn't been to the beach enough, or taken enough trips, or visited all the outdoor bars and restaurants I'd wanted to try, or perfected my tan, or, or, or....

But now that I have kids who go back to school each Autumn, my feelings about summer's end have changed once again. Once again I'm not completely unhappy to be saying hello to fall. Sure, I will miss the hot-n-hazy-n-lazy days, wearing flip-flops, relaxing by the pool, trips to the beach, sweet-n-juicy peaches, and having nowhere special to be. But yet the idea of having a few precious hours to myself during the week is utterly intoxicating. My son will be in Kindergarten and my daughter will be in preschool three mornings a week. That only comes to about eight hours of Me Time, but that will surely feel like a lot after the ZERO hours I've had this summer. I'm not complaining--I chose not to sign both my kids up for camp and I don't regret it--but it's been exhausting.

And it's not just me who needs Autumn to arrive. The kids are starting to get at each other's throats. They are normally about as lovey-dovey as a brother and sister can be, but I've noticed more pushing and "Get away from me!"'s lately. They need space.

Sure, this week is going to be gorgeous--warm and sunny, no rain in sight--but that doesn't change anything. Fall is right around the corner...all the more reason to relish and savor this last week of freedom and unstructured days. I plan on enjoying it.

Nightmare House

2011-08-25T13:21:00.000-07:00

The day began at 4:40 a.m. I was awoken by murmuring sounds coming from the other side of the bed. Our five-year-old son was whispering something to my husband...and I tried my hardest to ignore it. After spending all day with the kids (not to mention the years of night feedings my husband got to sleep through when they were babies), nowadays I pretty much ~~make~~ let my husband deal with the nighttime interruptions.

Is this what my son's nightmare looked
like, I wonder?

My son has been having nightmares lately, and that's what was going on early this morning. I heard my husband walking around, setting up a "bed" for my son on the floor of our room. Soon all was quiet again. Ten minutes later, however, just as sleep was beginning to envelope me, I heard more whispers. The same nightmare--of our house about to be engulfed by flames--had interrupted my little man's sleep once more.

Clearly, he needed a little extra TLC, so I ~~idiotically~~ offered up the bed. My husband could sleep in the spare room and my son could cuddle up with Mommy. I kept my hand on his warm, smooth, little back as he fell fast asleep.

Soon I began to wonder if my boy was now dreaming perhaps of riding his bike or of having ants in his pants, because he was twitching and wriggling up a storm. Grrrrr. Over and over again, just as I'd begin falling down that blissful rabbit's hole of slumber, the bed would jiggle and shake. How is it possible for a 44-pound boy to make it feel as though I were experiencing a 7.2-magnitude earthquake?

I weighed my options: stay in my bed and not sleep, or go elsewhere but risk my little man waking up again and being extra-scared by my absence. I chose the later, and snuck down the hall to my son's room, falling with happy abandon into his red race-car bed with the dinosaur sheets. By now it was 5:30, and beginning to get light out.

Minutes later, I heard wailing. Yup, my son had woken up and found the bed empty. I trudged back into my bedroom, laid down next to the Wiggle Monster yet again, closed my eyes, and watched the inside of my eyelids slowly go from black to reddish as the day dawned.

I must've fallen asleep sometime around 6:30, because next thing I knew, I was waking up and my little man was staring at me. "Is it my time?" he asked. I rolled over and glanced at the clock: 7:05, his normal wake-up time.

"It would be your time if you hadn't been up half the night." I groaned, immediately falling back to sleep.

Rustle, wiggle, twitch.

"Fine. You can get up. But go wake daddy. I need to sleep."

My son climbed off the bed and scampered out of the room.

Ahhhh, alone at last.

Meeeoooow.

I know I'll Miss This Someday, but Right Now....

2011-08-21T18:48:00.000-07:00

Our neighborhood's annual block party was last night. It's always a fun day (and night) filled with live music, food, drinks, and good conversation. Well, at least for most people there's good conversation. Me? Not so much.

I was too busy dragging around an extra appendage (that looked an awful lot like my three-year-old daughter) to talk to anyone at length. I began a few conversations, but before long, my demanding, wants-me-all-to-herself little girl would start tugging on my hand, trying to pull me away. It was very distracting. And annoying.

I spent a good part of the day frustrated with her. I did understand that she was freaked out by all the people around and wanted me close by for security, but that didn't make her any less of a buzz-kill.

My girl during what was pretty much her only social
moment of the whole day (with her brother & a friend)

I was envious of my husband, who kept himself busy drinking beers and chatting with neighbors. Our five-year-old son spent the day happily playing with friends and riding his bike up and down the closed-off street, so my husband was free to drink and be merry. He attempted Daughter Duty a couple of times, but after just a a few minutes, darling girl would want her mama again.

And now that she's getting older, little princess has begun playing me. I'd ask if she needed to use the potty and she'd say yes. Then once back at the house, she'd sit on the pot for ages and ages pretending to try, when really she was just stalling. This happened a couple of times.

"C'mon hon, let's go back to the block party," I'd suggest.

"I no like block parties," she'd announce, as if she's been to so many and they are just so tiresome.

I struggled with her all day, and it put me in a bad mood. I was pissed off with her for ruining my block party. Bedtime was not pretty.

A couple of hours later, I looked in on her. She was facing the door, fast asleep, and as I opened the door wider, the light from the hallway fell upon her, illuminating her sweet and innocent little face. Tears sprung into my eyes as it hit me how stupid I'd been.

My daughter adores me and wants to be with me every second. I'm her best friend. This precious time I have with her will be so, so short-lived. God, I know that, yet last night I was dying to be unencumbered and free from her grabby little hands and whiny little voice. For what? So I could easily and breezily chat with my neighbors and have a few drinks? What the hell was I thinking?

Because I know...in what will feel like a mere instant, poof, it'll be gone. I'll blink and she'll be starting kindergarten, then I'll blink again and she'll be rolling her eyes over something stupid I said.

One morning I'll wake up, and this time will be over. And then I'll be pining to have it back, to have my baby back. My extra appendage. My shadow. My echo.

My best friend.

One of Those Days....

2011-08-16T19:15:00.000-07:00

Vacation is over. Camp is over. Swimming lessons--over. But that's okay, because in three short weeks my son will be starting kindergarten and I will miss him terribly. So I'm happy to be spending all day, every day of these next three weeks with my two favorite people. BUT (big but)...that doesn't mean my kids don't drive me insane ~~daily~~ now and then.

Take today, for example. The day started out so well. My youngest had her last toddler music class, and my son tagged along. Nice. Then a short walk through the woods and a fun splash through a stream to the Chappaqua library (luckily we wore our rain boots!) to watch a series of short films based on kids' books. The mini-movies were cute and we laughed. Then we investigated whether there could possibly be anymore Angelina Ballerina books that we hadn't yet read, and--SCORE!--checked out two new ones.

Things went smoothly when we got back home--the three-year-old was successful with the potty (a sticker for her Potty Chart and three M&Ms, yay!)--and no one complained about lunch. But before long, things slowly began going downhill.

It's never one big thing that changes the tone of the day, but rather a bunch of tiny, annoying occurrences that, added up, are enough to push a mother over the edge. A toddler who won't nap (but desperately needs to), a kid (or two) begging for just one more cookie, removing the husk from the corn-on-the-cob that's supposed to be for dinner to discover it rotting inside, trying to weed the overgrown mess that passes for the backyard and getting pricked by the weird, thorny vine that is slowly asphyxiating all the nice plants. The small snowflakes build up into a massive, dangerous avalanche.

Then the whining starts. Mostly from the three-year-old, but the five-year-old isn't too old to chime in with the occasional well-timed moan just when I'm about ready to crack. The half-hour before my husband gets home from work consists of me trying to give my son positive reinforcement on the marble run he's just built and read my daughter Dora and the Snow Princess (for the five-millionth time), all while eye-balling the oven to make I'm not burning dinner.

Then they whine throughout dinner, and I end up not even tasting the food I made, or else I'm up and down so many times that it's cold by the time I get to eat. By this time, not even the ~~bottle~~ glass of wine I'm drinking is helping me chill out.

I love, love, love my kids more than anything else on this earth, but bedtime cannot come soon enough. The three-year-old whines until the last possible minute but I bite my tongue because I know if I get testy with her right before lights-out, it will only delay things. So I take a deep breath and just get through it.

Then, on the way from my daughter's room to my son's so I can kiss him goodnight, the cat slinks up and makes her "PET ME" noise. It's somewhere between a meow and a purr (it sounds a little like hoochie-coochie Charo rolling her R's), and I can't help but laugh because I thought I was done, I really did, but now here's THE CAT demanding my attention.

But with the cat, at least I don't have to look or listen or talk or read Dora. I can just sit and enjoy the peace and quiet. Phew.

Awesome Song Lyrics: Suzanne Vega Edition

2011-08-15T19:26:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a relaxing, lovely, sun-, sea-, and beach-filled vacation on Cape Cod. It's been hard getting back into the routine of everyday life in our land-locked, middle-class, suburban town, and my mind has been wandering back to Cape Cod. But I've also been thinking about other wonderful summer vacations--some from the recent past, some from many, many years ago.

I took this photo in 1988 of the
beautiful white cliffs of Dover.

One of my fondest summer vacation memories was a trip my family took to England in the summer of 1988. Because my mother was born and raised in England and most of her family still lived there, we visited England every few years throughout my childhood. They were always great trips, but this particular vacation in 1988 was different. It came after I'd been away at college for a year. My universe was expanding and, as a result, I was finally mature enough to fully appreciate the rich history and pristine beauty England had to offer. (And after being away from my family for a year, I could actually stand them for once.)

We spent about a month driving all around the country: London, Bristol, Dover, Hampshire, Stratford-Upon-Avon, Wells, and Devon, just to name a few. And while the cathedrals, castle ruins, and historic monuments were certainly magnificent, it was the countryside I loved the most. I sat in the backseat of our rental car, listening to my Walkman and watching the thatched cottages, tapestried farmlands, fluffy white sheep, and blooming wildflowers from the window.

We drove down narrow country roads where the hedgerows scraped our car on both sides and bounced along lanes that suddenly went from light to dark as we entered tunnels formed by the curved branches of tall, ancient trees. It was magical. It was hundreds of years after Henry VIII had beheaded his wives, yet the countryside still felt medieval and primal. I half expected to see a hobbit or perhaps a rabbit wearing a waistcoat emerge from the hedgerows at any moment.

My soundtrack to this vacation was Suzanne Vega's self-titled first album, which had come out in 1985, but I'd only discovered after "Luka" (from 1987's Solitude Standing) became a massive hit. I thought Solitude Standing was okay, but the first album absolutely killed me. And it was perfect for England. We'd visit castle ruins and learn about the royals who ruled there and the battles that were fought, then I'd cue up Ms. Vega's "The Queen and the Soldier" and the castle and its inhabitants would come alive in my mind:

The soldier came knocking upon the queen's door.

He said, "I am not fighting for you any more."

The queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before

And slowly she let him inside.

He said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill

And I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill.

But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will

Only first I am asking you why."

Down the long narrow hall he was led

Into her rooms with her tapestries red

And she never once took the crown from her head

She asked him there to sit down.

He said, "I see you now, and you are so very young,

But I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won

And I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun,

And now will you tell me why?"

The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye.

She said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try."

But her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry

But she closed herself up like a fan.

And she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread,

It cuts me inside, and often I've bled."

He laid his hand then on top of her head

And he bowed her down to the ground.

"Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel

As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed.

But I won't march again on your battlefield."

And he took her to the window to see.

And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray

And she wanted more than she ever could say.

But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away

And would not look at his face again.

And he said, "I want to live as an honest man

To get all I deserve and to give all I can

And to love a young woman who I don't understand.

Your highness, your ways are very strange."

But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break

And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached.

She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait,

She would only be a moment inside.

Out in the distance her order was heard

And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word

And while the queen went on strangling in the solitude she preferred

The battle continued on.

Here is Suzanne Vega performing the song:

To "Summer" or Not to "Summer"?

2011-08-10T19:07:00.000-07:00

I am spending a nice, relaxing week at the beach with my family. The first thing I always notice upon arriving at the quiet corner of Cape Cod where my parents have their beach house is how straight-out-of-the-Polo-catalog-adorable the kids are. They are altogether blonder, preppier, and more outdoorsy than the kids where we live. The kids who summer on Cape Cod do not look like they spend hours playing video games in their bedrooms.

Then, just as I've gotten used to the angelic blondness of the local kids, I notice the moms. Wow, are they pretty! You remember that girl in college who excelled at field hockey, took extra courses because of her double major, did loads of charity work, yet still managed to be friends with everyone and was always smiling? Well, it appears that every single mom around here was "that girl" at her college. If life were a rom-com, the moms where I live would play the loud, funny best friend, but these Cape moms would all be leading ladies.

Pretty soon my mind begins to wander back to when I was a girl and my family would spend a week at the Cape--we'd stay at a house in a neighborhood where the families often stayed for the entire summer. I'd spend the whole week playing catch-up with the few beach "friends" I had and most of the time feeling clueless and pale. I didn't know the rules to the games they played and their inside jokes went right over my head. I so desperately wanted to be one of them: all sun bleached hair, golden skin, and freckled noses...sharp tan lines and perfectly worn rope bracelets.

And now I'm all grown up, yet spending a week in this insular Cape town can make me feel like that child again. The moms all know each other--most of them spend the summer here with the kids, waiting for their husbands to drive down every weekend. They are on local committees, they plan parties and set up play-dates between their kids, and their adorable spawn take swimming, tennis, and sailing lessons through the local yacht club. For the most part, they live in wealthy Boston suburbs; because we live a four-hour (at least) drive away in New York, this arrangement could never work for us. Which is too bad...because once, just once in my life, I really want to try the whole "summering" thing.

I will probably always be an outsider here. Which doesn't bother me so much now that I'm a grown up. But I do wonder how spending a week or two here each summer will affect my kids as they get older. Will they experience the same sort of alienation I did? Will the wealthy and beautiful kids here make my kids feel inadequate? Or worse, will seeing all those silver spoons cause my children to resent living in the middle-class town we call home?

Hey, perhaps witnessing all that wealth will make my kids appreciate our less-adorned life at home. A mother can hope, you know.

What I Miss Most About the 1990s Is....

2011-08-06T19:14:00.000-07:00

There's an article in tomorrow's (8/7/11) The New York Times Magazine titled, "My So-Called Adulthood" about how Generation X--like every other generation before it--has become nostalgic for all things 1990s (the era of its youth), despite the fact that Gen X was famous for reviling the nostalgia it grew up with: the Baby Boomers fondness for all things 1960s.

Here is the link to the article.

The author Carl Wilson wonders how our generation can proudly embrace retromania when we grew up listening to the Baby Boomers talk about how great the 60s were: how their generation created the best music, ended segregation, were activists, and truly "believed in something, man." Back in the early 90s, didn't we hate the way they always reminisced about the good ol' days, then called us slackers and pointed out that by the time they were our age, they'd already marched on Washington five times and been thrown in jail for protesting something-or-another? They even insisted their drugs were better.

Yay! Beavis and Butthead are
coming back!

And now here we are, 20 years later, in the midst of a 1990s revival. Limp Bizkit, Faith No More, and Third Eye Blind (just to name a few) are touring this summer, plus MTV is bringing back some of its old programming, like "Beavis and Butthead" and "Pop-Up Video." It makes me laugh because we slackers are now the demo with the disposable income. HA! You love us now, don't you?

Mr. Wilson asks the following question in the article: "How does an anti-nostalgic generation deal with the human reflex to sentimentalize its youth?" Of course when I read that sentence, the only thing that popped into my head was, "The reflex...is in charge of finding treasure in the daaaark!"

Right Said Fred: Amusing
yet oh so embarrassing

The answer, according to Mr. Wilson, is mix-tapes. Apparently, some young musicians are creating music called "hypnagogic" or "hauntological" (I swear, I'm not making this up), with melodies that sound like pop songs from previous decades, but recorded to simulate old age by sounding fuzzy or staticky. And many of the artists are recording this music on the practically-extinct cassette tape. (I bet they are really proud of themselves, too).

I have a better idea: How about we Gen Xers join Facebook, post the original videos of all our favorite 80s and 90s songs, share comments about what that song means to each of us, and have fun honestly reminiscing about the good (e.g. Nirvana) and the bad (e.g. Right Said Fred) that our generation had to offer?

Oh, duh.

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String

2011-08-03T14:04:00.000-07:00

Here are a few things I'm loving these days:

FurGOPet

Before we got our cat three months ago, I'd never had a pet that shed, so I was clueless about how to deal with all the hair that kept flying off Paulina whenever we touched her. A regular wire brush worked pretty well to remove all the dead hair that had accumulated on our Princess Paulina while she sat at the shelter waiting for us to adopt her. But this hot summer has required a more powerful device...and FurGoPet is it! The first stroke down my kitty's back yielded the most massive hunk o' fur I've ever seen. After a regular grooming session, I'd almost collected enough fur for an entire new kitty! And Paulina loves it--she's been much less scratchy and rubby since I've been using it on her. It comes in small dog, big dog, and cat models. Also reduces hair balls. $20-$25.

A Song of Ice and Fire Series

How the hell did I miss the original publication of the four novels in the A Song of Ice and Fire series, by American author George R.R. Martin? (I was working in children's publishing and following the adventures of a certain boy wizard, that's how.) I'd never even heard of George R.R. Martin or his books before reading an article about him in The New Yorker back in April. This was a few weeks before the HBO series aired, and it piqued my interest. I'm currently almost done with the second book, Clash of Kings, and the ongoing adventures of the knights, princes, queens, and "cravens" who live, love, and kill throughout the Seven Kingdoms (and beyond) get better and better with every page I turn. If you enjoy a good fantasy, pick up Game of Thrones and see if you get hooked. It's sort of like Tolkein lite: more sex and incest, less highbrow Englishness. The highly anticipated fifth book in the series, A Dance With Dragons, was just recently published.

Mission Tortillas--Whole Wheat Life Balance Flavor

Kids love carbs (at least mine do!) but plain bagels aren't exactly nutritious. I'm always looking for foods that pack a punch--that are loaded with vitamins, minerals, and other good stuff. Ideally, the foods should come by these nutrients naturally, but that isn't always possible. That's where Mission’s new Life Balance™ tortillas come in. These yummy tortillas are fortified with 23 vitamins and minerals, as much calcium as a glass of milk, have 3 grams of fiber, and 4 grams of protein each. They even contain heart-healthy omega-3 fatty acids. Roll up whatever healthy filling your kid prefers and you are good to go.

A Letter to the So-Called Baby Experts

2011-07-30T19:39:00.000-07:00

I've been hearing a lot about attachment parenting lately. That's when a parent keeps his/her baby close through baby-wearing, co-sleeping, etc. Personally, I'm all for it. But for some reason it irks me that the "experts"are pushing it so hard. The same "experts" are also rabid about breastfeeding, but that doesn't bother me as much (though I'm sure it's infuriating to moms who either cannot or choose not to breastfeed), probably because there's so much scientific research showing it to be the best thing for baby (and mom, too, as long as she can do it comfortably and productively).

Attachment parenting is different. Sure, it's great for baby to be near mommy, and it's usually wonderful for mommy as well, because she can get more done when baby is calm (and a worn baby is usually a calm one). But there isn't the same medical component to it that there is for breastfeeding. Yes, research shows it's best...but the argument isn't as compelling as the one touting breastfeeding.

I think attachment parenting is a great idea. In fact, I wore both my babies a lot and even kept my second one in my bed until she was six months old. But I didn't do it because someone told me to. In fact, much of the literature at the time warned against keeping baby in your bed for that long. But despite the various books' warnings, my sweet baby had no trouble transitioning to her crib. She was (and still is) a great, happy sleeper.

Nowadays, I am always skeptical about what the "experts"have to say about child-rearing. It's a never-ending list of Do's and Don't's--enough to make your head spin. I wasn't always so savvy, however. Five-and-a-half years ago, when I was a hormone-crazed, first-time mom, I desperately and cluelessly turned to those "experts" for advice.

I bought the books: Happiest Baby on the Block by Harvey Karp, What to Expect the First Year, and Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth, to name a few. I truly believed the authors knew best. Boy, was I wrong.

This book should be banned.

Some of the books are useful, some are amusing, and others are downright EVIL. In the latter category belongs this gem: The Contented Little Baby Book: The Simple Secrets of Calm, Confident Parenting by Gina Ford. Ms. Ford is supposedly a British "maternity nurse" (without formal qualifications) but to me she's a sadistic drill sergeant masquerading as Mary Poppins.

This book is a massive best-seller. Too bad it made me cry...and cry and cry. In it, Ms. Ford promises to get your baby on a schedule--sleeping from 7 p.m. through to 7 a.m.--at six weeks of age. She's critical of "feeding on demand," however, and requires baby to wait three hours between feedings.

In my sleep-deprived state, having a six week old who slept through the night sounded p-r-e-t-t-y damn good, so I tried it. And tried and tried and TRIED to get my firstborn on a "schedule." Guess what? It turns out breastfed newborns should be fed on demand and shouldn't be forced to wait three hours between feedings. Newborns aren't meant to be on a schedule! I hate this book.

Parents need to do what's right for them: what they can handle, what works, what's comfortable. Yes, it's important to know about the latest baby-rearing research, but when dedicated, nurturing, loving mothers are made to feel guilty about not breastfeeding, not making their own baby food, not using cloth diapers, or not wearing their babies on their backs 24/7, something is seriously wrong with society.

Back to Black

2011-07-26T19:10:00.000-07:00

Amy Winehouse's death has hit me harder than it should have.

Ever since her untimely passing on Sunday, I've noticed that whenever I see a photo of her looking especially zonked out or emaciated (see left), I get a weird churning in my stomach. I finally figured it out; it's because she reminds me so, so much of one of my best friends--a friend whom I fear could die any day.

Like Ms. Winehouse, my friend has/had addiction problems--mostly alcohol but also, in the past, cocaine and possibly prescription meds. Like Amy, my friend also has/had eating disorders, depressive episodes, and dental concerns. Both ladies wear/wore too much makeup, have/had terrible taste in (and luck with) men, and are/were hot messes.

And, from everything I've read about Ms. Winehouse, both were/are interesting, smart, funny, crazy, charismatic, and loyal.

The reason I was freaking out about Ms. Winehouse's death only became clear to me upon reading British comedian/actor Russell Brand's touching words about his friend's death. When I read this passage, my brain buzzed and my heart ached:

"When you love someone who suffers from the disease of addiction you await the phone call. There will be a phone call. The sincere hope is that the call will be from the addict themselves, telling you they’ve had enough, that they’re ready to stop, ready to try something new. Of course though, you fear the other call, the sad nocturnal chime from a friend or relative telling you it’s too late, she’s gone."

I have received this call before--many calls, actually. They've not been of the "I've had enough" variety, nor the "She's gone" sort, but more like: "She hasn't shown up for work in days," "Hi, I'm in the hospital," "I want to die," "I've been throwing up all day," or "I really need a drink."

Years have passed. My friend has been getting help for at least a decade now, yet the self-destructive behavior continues. It's not nearly as bad as when we were young and stupid, but how much more can her weak and broken body take?

I do expect to receive the "She's gone" call one day. I only hope it's not for many, many years to come.

Awesome Song Lyrics: Tears for Fears Edition

2011-07-24T18:06:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm a mother, it hurts
to look at this album cover.

I heard a song on the radio today that brought me waaay back. It's one of the most haunting songs I know: "Mad World" by Tears for Fears (off their debut album, The Hurting, from 1983). I only remember this song slightly from when it first came out--the single from The Hurting that got the most airplay on American radio was "Change"--but "Mad World" has had a long life and is still relevant.

The version I heard today was by some dude Gary Jules, recorded for the soundtrack to 2001's Donnie Darko. The original Tears for Fears version was early-80's synth-pop, with an uptempo beat. The Donnie Darko version is much slower and sadder. This haunting version of the song is the one Adam Lambert absolutely slayed on Idol a couple years back.

The lyrics (written by Roland Orzabal):

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places...worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere...going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression...no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow...no tomorrow

*chorus*
And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I’m dying
Are the best I’ve ever had
I find it hard to tell you
coz I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It’s a very very
Mad world...mad world

Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy birthday...happy birthday
Made to feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen...sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me...no one knew me
Hello teacher tell me what’s my lesson
Look right through me...look right through me
*chorus*

Click here to watch the original Tears for Fears video.

And to see Adam Lambert's great performance of the song (which earned a rare standing ovation from Simon Cowell), click here.

Father Knows Best (About Some Things)

2011-07-20T16:28:00.000-07:00

I'll bet Don Draper never got peed on while
changing a diaper.

Men have come a long way in the past 30 years. Back when I was growing up, most of the dads I knew had the following responsibilities: bring home the paycheck, take out the trash, mow the lawn, play catch with his sons, dole out the serious punishments ("Just wait 'til your father gets home!"), give pep talks, BBQ up dinner two times a summer, and maybe coach soccer or little league.

My very own father likes to brag that he's never changed a diaper in his life.

Nowadays, things are P-R-E-T-T-Y different. Roles and responsibilities are more evenly doled out; however, even when the dad is the sole breadwinner, he's still expected to change diapers, babysit while mom goes to the grocery store, handle the midnight feeding, and pitch in with housework--plus most of the things listed above. It's a big change over the Mad Men era, when Dad walked in the door after a hard day's work (those three-martini lunches must've been grueling) and was greeted with a steak dinner, a scotch & soda, and a smile.

However, despite the strides fathers have made, there is still room for improvement. Here are some things dads still can't do:

1. Give their daughter a neat ponytail.
2. Cut the kids' raviolis just the way they like it.
3. Put the baby's diaper on tight enough.
4. Figure out which toothpaste is for which child.
5. Bathe the kids without flooding the bathroom.
6. Put the kitchen utensils in the correct drawers.
7. Do more than two things at once.

These minor short-comings aside, fathers are the family unit's unsung heroes. Everyone talks about how hard motherhood is, and moms usually clean up on Mother's Day--jewelry, spa visits, etc. But you never hear people commenting on how difficult it is being a dad. And what does Pops get for Father's Day? A card, if he's lucky.

We moms really should thank our partners more often for all the great things they do. Are they perfect? No way. But we couldn't live without them. Nor would we want to--because life is more fun with Dad around. Dads make awesome paper airplanes, will play dinosaurs for hours, and most importantly, help us moms to not sweat the small stuff.

So a big thank you to all the fathers out there. We appreciate all you do and we love you.

Sister Act

2011-07-16T19:17:00.000-07:00

I've just spent a fun day with my in-laws. While I adore them all, hanging out with my three excellent sisters-in-law is always bittersweet because it makes me sad that I don't have a sister of my own.

Don't get me wrong, my two brothers are awesome and I love them dearly. But, as I've learned over the years from watching my gal pals and their sissies, the bond of sisterhood is like no other. Even sisters that hate each other are usually ridiculously close.

I can count the number of conversations I have with each brother per year on one or two hands (depending on if Christmas is at my parents' house or my in-laws' that particular year). Certainly I'm partially responsible--it's not like I call them much more often than they call me (which is somewhere between never and once a year), but that's mainly because they are men and just not that chatty.

I hang out with my sisters-in-law and am envious. Even though they all live in different states, they talk all the time and still have that sisterly shorthand with one another. Sure, there were rough patches when they were younger--my husband has told me about some knock-down-drag-out fights that happened during their teen years--but now they are best friends and share everything.

I wish I had that kind of relationship with someone. My husband's sisters could not be warmer, nicer, or more welcoming to me, but it's just not the same as having a sister of my own. In high school and college I had girlfriends who were almost like sisters, and even though I'm still close with most of them, it's only inevitable that we've grown apart somewhat. Family takes priority, and since these lovely ladies aren't actually family, well, we aren't each other's priorities anymore.

I used to think being the only girl was the best thing ever, because my dad spoiled me, I never had to wear hand-me-downs, and I didn't have to share my girly toys with anyone. But now I realize how wrong I was.

I hope all of you ladies out there with sisters realize how lucky you are.

Uno, Dos, Tres

2011-07-13T19:27:00.000-07:00

I'm going to admit it: I kinda hate Dora. She's shrill, she yells, her singing is painful, and as my five-year-old son noted, "Dora is rude. She is always telling you to do something but never says 'Please.' " He makes a good point. "Say 'salta'! Again! Salta! Say 'salta'!" Jeez, stop bossing my kids around, Dora.

BUT. But my daughter LURVES Dora, and has for over a year now. (Over a year! Good god!) So, yeah, we have to live with the annoying, giant-headed, bilingual, monkey-loving beyotch.

However, I'm sort of loving Dora at this particular moment because I just realized my three-year-old can count to ten in Spanish--and really well, too. Like, if I plopped her down in Mexico, her counting would be understood by the locals.

This may not sound like a big deal, but my little girl was slow to talk--she was barely saying anything at two. So the fact that she knows her Spanish numbers (in addition to her English ones up to twenty) blows my mind.

The reason I was unaware of my daughter's proficiency en Espanol is because I NEVER sit and watch Dora with her. Yeah, I know I'm supposed to, but Dora is just too painful. So tonight, there we were on the train after enjoying dinner in the city, my daughter watching Dora on the iPad right next to me. I couldn't help but listen. Suddenly, I hear my baby counting, "Uno, dos, tres," etc.

Dora, I owe you a big apology--sorry for hating you. And thank you for teaching my baby some Spanish.

Awesome Song Lyrics: Pearl Jam Edition

2011-07-11T17:22:00.000-07:00

Ever since I can remember, I've been a sucker for good song lyrics. When I saw Annie as a kid back in the 70's, "It's a Hard-Knock Life" became by favorite song--I liked it way more than the famous "Tomorrow," mainly because it's lyrics are so great ("Instead of treated, we get tricked. Instead of kisses, we get kicked"). The words horrified and enthralled me.

The first "grown-up" song lyrics I obsessed over were the ones to "Jessie's Girl" (Rick Springfield), which came out in 1981, when I was the impressionable age of 12. I remember actually having trouble understanding what was going on in this song. Jessie is a boy? Isn't that a girl's name? Rick Springfield and Jessie are friends but Rick loves Jessie's girlfriend? Is that even possible?

I learned a lot from "Jesse's Girl." It actually got me to look up the definition of "moot" in the dictionary. And people say rock 'n' roll rots your mind--ha!

Because song lyrics have affected me so deeply over the years, I've decided to occasionally post lyrics that I find particularly interesting, thought-provoking, meaningful, sad, or funny.

I'm starting with "Wishlist" by Pearl Jam because, 1.) I heard it on the radio yesterday and remembered how much I love it, 2.) Pearl Jam are awesome, and 3.) every time I hear it, I want to cry and laugh at the same time.

"WISHLIST"
I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off.
I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow still lived on.
I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on
The Christmas tree, I wish I was the star that went on top.
I wish I was the evidence, I wish I was the grounds
For 50 million hands upraised and open toward the sky.

I wish I was a sailor with someone who waited for me.
I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me.
I wish I was a messenger and all the news was good.
I wish I was the full moon shining off a Camaro's hood.

I wish I was an alien at home behind the sun.
I wish I was the souvenir you kept your house key on.
I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on.
I wish I was the verb 'to trust' and never let you down.

I wish I was a radio song, the one that you turned up.
I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish,
I guess it never stops.

(Here is the video, for any of you who don't know the song.)

7th Annual Pleasantville Music Festival

2011-07-10T16:25:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the Pleasantville Music Festival, an event we've attended and enjoyed just about every summer since we've moved to Westchester. Last year's line-up was great--Rusted Root, The Bacon Brothers (as in Kevin Bacon), and Jakob Dylan--but this year the bands scheduled to perform were less impressive. Sure, the headliner, Marc Cohn, is a huge recording star, but he's just not my cup o' tea. And the other acts scheduled for earlier in the day were mostly no-names (except for Augustana, who I saw opening up for Stereophonics at Bowery Ballroom back in 2005), so I wasn't quite as psyched to go this year. But I'm always up for an outdoor music festival, no matter the lineup.

Nicole Atkins

Back in 2005, I thought Augustana were just okay, and yesterday's performance didn't change my mind. They were pretty good, but a bit twee for my taste. However, the big surprise of the day, for me, was how awesome Nicole Atkins & the Black Sea were. They totally rocked! Atkins has a powerful, smoky voice, and her guitarist is a woman, which is always cool to see. The two other members of the band--bassist and drummer--are hairy dudes with scruffy beards (of course they live in Brooklyn).

I enjoy getting as close to the stage as possible when I see live music, but since we had the kids along with us, we couldn't sit up front next to the blasting speakers. But when I saw that two of the four members of Nicole Atkins's band were female, I suggested to my 3-year-old daughter that we walk up closer to see them. I want her to learn that girls can rock out just as hard as the boys, and this was the perfect opportunity. I held her in my arms so she could see the musicians up on stage, and I pointed out the various instruments. She seemed to be enjoying herself, even though it was pretty darn loud.

We stayed for a song or two, then started making our way back to our spot on the grass (where my husband and son were watching from afar). Halfway there, my little one abruptly stopped walking and began to cry. When I asked her what was wrong, she wailed, "I want to see the lady sing more!" Yeah, that's my girl! So we went back and resumed our position in front of the stage.

I loved it. I mean, what's better than a mother & daughter enjoying some kick-ass chick rock 'n' roll on a sunny summer afternoon? As far as I'm concerned, that's pretty much as good as it gets.

Yeah, it was a great day.

(And go check out Nicole Atkins & the Black Sea--you won't regret it.)

The Sad Tale of Swing Boy

2011-07-07T20:06:00.000-07:00

My husband and I took the kids to a nearby playground tonight. It's not the closest one, but I like going there for a number of reasons--one being the diversity of the kids who play there.

Our town is not diverse. In fact, it's my second least favorite thing about our Westchester hamlet (my #1 being that you can't walk anywhere good). I grew up in a very white town, and once I was old enough to realize it, it sort of bummed me out. I didn't have the chance to meet people from various backgrounds, and when I went off to college I was unprepared for the diversity I found there. I was naive.

Economically, the New England town I grew up in ranged from well-to-do electricians and contractors to ivy league professors and renowned neurosurgeons. Ethnic diversity meant Greeks and Armenians. A handful of Asians lived in town--mostly affiliated with Boston's many universities and hospitals--but basically no black or hispanic families. There were some black kids in the school system--bussed in through the much-maligned METCO (Metropolitan Council for Educational Opportunity) program--but they didn't live in town and tended to stick together.

I was hoping to raise my kids in a more diverse environment, but because our town isn't great in that regard, I have to leave town so my kids can learn that not everyone looks the same.

The playground was packed tonight. After pushing my daughter in one of the baby swings, my husband informed me there was a little boy, around three-years-old, in the other swing who seemed to be parent-less. He pushed the kid a few times because he felt sorry for the boy, who was just hanging there. He wasn't complaining, not crying, not acting out...just hanging, legs dangling.

My husband asked him if his parents were around. He pointed behind him, to a picnic table with three adults. Because the grown-ups at that table never even glanced over at the boy, my husband was not convinced they were actually the parents.

The boy was stuck in the swing for over an hour! He didn't look unhappy, but neither could he get out on his own. Whenever the other baby swing opened up, a new parent would put his or her kid in, start pushing, and then notice the sad little boy hanging adjacent. The other parent would awkwardly push both swings for a little while, glancing around for the boy's caretaker all the while. In between, the boy would just hang there.

What the heck was going on? Were his parents really not there? If they were, in fact, around, did they not care that dozens of random adults were pushing their kid on the swing? How lazy could they be? Apparently, this particular playground is diverse even in terms of parenting skills.

Finally my husband went over and asked the boy if he wanted to get out. He did, so my husband lifted him out. The boy ran off to the play structure. We still weren't sure his parents existed, but after a few minutes he ran over to the picnic table with the three adults sitting around it.

I couldn't believe it! For an hour, the boy's parents (or guardians, at least) completely ignored it while random other adults uncomfortably pushed their boy on the swing. I was looking around the whole time, and the adults at that table didn't look at Swing Boy even once. And they appeared normal enough. Sure, the dad/male had a tattoo sleeve on one arm but that's hardly unusual these days. The two women were...eh...texting on their phones most of the time. Not great, but they weren't strung-out junkies, either.

They didn't care that he was just hanging there! For an hour! While other adults pushed him! While my husband talked to him and helped him out of the swing!

What the hell? In this era of helicopter parenting, this kind of disregard is downright shocking.

My husband: "Well, he'll probably end up being really independent, at least."

Me: "Or a drug addict."

But isn't that the great parenting dilemma?

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String

2011-07-05T17:51:00.000-07:00

Wave by Suzy Lee

This children's picture book isn't new--it came out in 2008--but we just discovered it. Wave is without words, and the color palette is just black, white, and blue, but it tells a better story than 90% of the picture books out there. I came across the book at the library a couple of weeks ago. I checked it out because my kids were eagerly anticipating our upcoming beach vacation, and I thought they'd enjoy the pictures. I was surprised, however, by just how much they love it. The pages are deceptively simple--the artist Suzy Lee has transformed simple illustrations of a girl and the ocean into works of art. Her brush strokes perfectly capture the beauty and wildness of the ocean, as well as the emotions of a little girl who is, in turn, scared of the wave, enchanted by it, and then soaked from it.

Let England Shake by PJ Harvey

I've been a fan of PJ Harvey's going on 20 years. Her latest album, Let England Shake, is a homage to her country. England gets a bad rap as a dreary, uptight place, but it's actually a magical place full of breath-taking scenery, charming villages, and colorful folklore. There's plenty of ugliness, war, and death in its history, too, of course...PJ Harvey captures it all on her new album. The song "The Last Living Rose" is one of her loveliest and most haunting to date, with lyrics that truly paint a picture. The song, like the album, is raw, honest, and beautiful.
Goddam' Europeans!
Take me back to England
& the grey, damp filthiness of ages,
fog rolling down behind the mountains,
& on the graveyards, and dead sea-captains.
Let me watch night fall on the river,
the moon rise up and turn to silver,
the sky move,
the ocean shimmer,
the hedge shake,
the last living rose quiver.

Berry Burst Ice Cream-Flavored Oreos

This is what happens when you bring your five-year-old to the grocery store--you come home with the most repulsive-looking cookies imaginable. But then, sometimes, what looks gross actually tastes sinfully delicious. That's what happened with these pink, berry-cream Oreos. I am usually a purist when it comes to the cookies I loved as a child--I'll try the newfangled flavors, but I won't like them! So I was truly surprised to try one of these berry-flavored Oreos and find it even better than the original. Oh, and they're double-stuff, too. Double-yum.

Summer Breeze, Makes Me Feel Fine

2011-07-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh, the beach! There's nothing like it, of course. I can be in the foulest mood, but let me loose on a serene beach for an hour and it's guaranteed I'll return in much better form.

I've been coming to Cape Cod since I was a baby--my uncle bought a place in North Falmouth's Old Silver Beach in 1969, the year I was born. My family spent a week or two there every summer, and many of my fondest memories are from those visits.

I remember the drive down seeming interminable, even though it was only an hour-and-a-half (mere child's play to my kids, who are used to regular five-hour drives to see their grandparents.) "Are we there yet?" is such a cliche, but I distinctly recall driving my parents insane with that query the whole way. Or maybe the parental insanity was due to there being no car seats to prevent me and my brothers from pummeling each other the entire 75 miles, and no in-car DVD player to put a stop to the endless litany of complaints.

Three years ago, my parents bought a to-die-for Cape house, right across the street from the beach. So now it falls on me--the parent with New England roots--to instill in my kids a love of Cape Cod. Not that it's difficult--the Cape pretty much sells itself--but five-hour drives suck no matter how many snacks, DVDs, and Sesame Street CDs I pack. Seven-mile backups leading to the Bourne Bridge don't help, either.

But then we arrive...the cool sea breezes beckon, the warm sand slips between our toes, the waves gently lap at the shore, the sun turns the water into an ocean of glittering jewels...and the memory of the long drive, bridge traffic, moaning children, and crappy fast-food fades away.

Because now we are in Paradise. "Hello, Paradise, I've missed you."

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String

2011-06-28T09:13:00.000-07:00

Blue Diamond Wasabi & Soy Sauce Almonds

Note the big "BOLD" warning on the side of these almonds; it's no joke-- these nuts pack a spicy, delicious punch. Perhaps you love almonds so much you can eat a whole container of them in one sitting. Perhaps you are thinking that such extreme-tasting almonds will prevent those nutty binges. Well, you are wrong. Quite the opposite: they are so damn good you will eat the whole container and then rush back to the grocery store for more. Around $4.99.

Automoblox

A couple of years ago, my son received a set of three Mini-Automoblox for his third birthday. At the time, he was obsessed with cars and trucks (like 80% of boys that age), and the toy immediately became his favorite plaything. No wonder: Each Automoblox can be taken apart and then reassembled in various ways by mixing and matching parts from different vehicles. The combinations are endless, and because the wooden cars are precision engineered, all pieces fit together perfectly and each newly-created vehicle runs smoothly. Automoblox were designed by industrial designer Patrick Calello and took five years to perfect. $30 for a set of three different mini-vehicles.

California Baby Tea Tree & Lavender Shampoo & Bodywash

When my daughter was a baby, she had cradle cap, but unlike most kids, she didn't grow out of it. I tried rubbing baby oil into her scalp then sloughing off the oily, peeling, gross skin (per the suggestion of her pediatrician) but that didn't work, and it took three washings to get out the oiliness. Then there's my son, who has sensitive, pale, Irish skin prone to rashes. So I was definitely in the market for a product that was super-gentle and natural. I found it in California Baby's Tea Tree & Lavender Shampoo & Bodywash, which is tear free, allergy tested, and helps to remove cradle cap and flaky scalp. All ingredients are organic, sustainably grown, vegan, not tested on animals, with no animal ingredients, no irritating sulfates, gluten, soy, oat, dairy, or nuts. $12 for 8.5 oz.

Itsy, Bitsy, Teeny, Weeny Bikini

2011-06-24T09:31:00.000-07:00

Summer is here once again, which is awesome. I'm a big fan of summertime. Here in our town of Mt. Pleasant, we are lucky to have the greatest municipal pool I've ever seen. It has a million features, including a 40-foot, tunneled, corkscrew water slide. All for less than $500 per family.

As you can imagine, we are at the pool as often as possible, which means running into the same families day after day. This can be great when the moms are interesting and the kids well-behaved. But when the kids are wild and the mom weird, well, it can be sucky.

There is this woman: We don't see her much during the school-year (thankfully we're in different school districts), but every time we're at the pool, we run into her and her brood. Because my children are close in age to two of hers (she has three kids and is pregnant with #4), we get to talking as moms do. She's perfectly nice, but let's just say that our politics and philosophies could not be more different, and for that reason she annoys me.

Mind you, it's not like we actually talk about politics or philosophy, but you can learn a lot about a person just by discussing kids and hobbies. I've written about this woman before: Once she made a crack about how she'd better start using sunscreen or else she'd "look 40" in no time (not realizing I was 41); another time, she offended me with the Pro-life bumper stickers on her mini-van.

Since our paths have started crossing again, I've been a bit wary of her. And sure enough, the other day Ms. Clueless did it again. We were sitting on the edge of the kiddie pool watching our kids and chatting. Her four-year-old daughter had on the cutest bathing suit: pink and green, flamingo-patterned, skirt bottom, short-sleeved top, matching headband. I complimented the mom on the suit, and she said, "Yeah, I think it's so cute but I couldn't get her to wear it at first. Then I was like, 'I paid $20 bucks for it, you're wearing it!' I don't know, I'm just not into bikinis for little girls." She crinkled up her nose. "There's no need to show that much skin when they're so young."

Not ten feet away, my three-year-old daughter was splashing around in her bikini. I wanted to smack the b*#ch.

Looking adorbs in her bikini

I happen to think bikinis on little girls are adorable. And they are also practical when you are trying to potty train your kid--getting a wet one-piece off an about-to-bust toddler is challenging, to say the least. My daughter has about five swimsuits, yet she almost always chooses the bikini, even though it's from last year and barely fits anymore.

I'm not about to argue with her about which swimsuit to wear. I mean, what is the BFD if your toddler wears a bikini? In Europe the little girls splash around topless, and no one cares. Why must Americans--especially those who are part of the religious right--be so uptight about this stuff?

They think they're protecting their kids but what they're really doing is giving them complexes. What's Ms. Clueless going to do when her precious little girl turns sixteen and starts rebelling against all the Puritanical dogma with micro-minis and piercings?

That I would like to see.

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String

2011-06-21T16:23:00.000-07:00

Method Bathroom Cleaner

I've slowly been going green for, oh, decades now, but for the longest time, I wouldn't give up my Tilex bathroom cleaner. My loyalty goes back to college days when the bathroom was so disgusting that you wanted to blast the crap out of it with the most toxic stuff out there. But those days are gone, and the bathrooms in our house are only mildly gross (5-year-old boys often miss the bowl). So it was finally time to green my bathroom cleaning, and a coupon for a Method product sealed the deal. However, I still wasn't convinced a non-toxic product would actually get rid of the soap scum and mold that quickly grows in the crevices of our limestone shower. The first thing I noticed when using Method's Bathroom Cleaner was the delicious eucalyptus-mint scent--it made me want to lick the walls. And that's when I realized: my nostrils weren't burning! I wasn't light-headed! The plant-based, non-toxic formula dissolves soap scum just as well as Tilex (maybe even better because now I don't rush the job to get away from the noxious fumes). $5.49

Migoga Marble Run

My son purchased this building set a few months ago using Christmas money from Great-Grandma. We had been to his friend's house, where they had a different marble run game (cheaper and flimsier, as it turned out). My son loved it, so I did some research online. The reviews of that product were horrible; the Migoga marble runs were reviewed favorably, however, so we purchased a set at our local toy shop. The marble runs come in various sizes, and some even have a motorized marble elevator thingy, but we got the medium sized, low-tech set called Vortis. My son has had hours of fun with this toy (and so have I). I'm pretty sure it teaches advanced mathematical skills--there's a lot of spacial and geometric calculations going on when you build a marble run. You can build one of four models pictured on the box (instructions are not provided--yay!) or else just build free-form. Then you race marbles (real glass ones, not crappy plastic like in some other sets) and see who wins. Sets run from $35 upward.

Benefit Moon Beam or High Beam

Okay, so I'm cheating with this one, because I haven't actually used this product yet. But I'm seriously just about to order it. I am excited about this product because, after months of watching American Idol and wondering how the hell Jennifer Lopez's skin looks that glowy and dewy (yet still remarkably un-Botoxed) when she's almost 42, I read that she uses a facial highlighter--something like Benefit's Moon Beam. I don't know for sure which exact highlighter she uses, because celebs guard their beauty secrets like Fort Knox, but the reviews of this product are excellent. Obviously, J-lo has the resources to purchase products and procedures that mere mortals can only dream of one day having, yet some of her signature radiance surely comes from using a facial highlighter like this one. Moon Beam has an apricot tone, while Benefit's High Beam is pinker. $24.00

I Love You, Dad

2011-06-17T18:14:00.000-07:00

Father's Day is coming up, and it's got me thinking about my dear ol' dad.

My dad is the greatest. Thanks to him (and my mom) I had a wonderful, stable, secure childhood. My dad was (and still is) reliable, consistent, and loving--when I was little, he was always telling me how much he adored me, that I was beautiful, that I was his "little dahling" (Boston accent).

He was exceedingly proud of my academic achievements, so in addition to feeling loved and beautiful, I also felt smart. He assured me I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up; however, that didn't stop him from telling me what he thought I should be.

When I was seven or eight, I informed him that I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up (I'd just read an inspiring biography of Clara Barton).

"Oh, no, no, no, honey, you don't want to be a nurse. Being a nurse is such difficult, thankless work. Nurses empty out bedpans and bathe patients. If you want to go into the medical field, be a doctor, not a nurse."

I considered his advice...and decided I wanted to be a doctor instead (though that didn't last long).

Yes, my dad has always been reliable and consistent, yet he's also human and occasionally makes mistakes. One of my most vivid childhood memories was one of these mistakes.

I was around eight or nine. My dad had taken the day off work because he had some sort of important luncheon. Much alcohol was imbibed. Now, this was the 1970's when three-martini lunches were pretty common, but my dad didn't travel in those circles and was never a big drinker. But for some reason, he drank way more than he should've that day.

I was upstairs playing in my room when my dad got home (drunk driving--nice!). I must've been bored, because when he stumbled upstairs to change clothes, I said, "Hi, Daddy!" and followed him into my parents' room. I don't remember exactly what happened or what he said, but it went something like this: My dad slurs/yells at me to leave him alone, lurches by, falls onto the bed, and passes out.

I ran back to my room and cried--and have never forgotten it to this day. See, my dad hardly ever yelled at me (he saved it for my brothers); I only got it if I really, really deserved it. Which wasn't too often because I was a good kid. This event traumatized me because I hadn't done anything wrong, and besides, my dad looked weird--he was all disheveled and crazy-eyed. He scared me.

My dad in 1984, not long before boys started
messing up our relationship.

That was pretty much it for traumatic fatherly events during childhood. High school, however, was a completely different story. Once boys came into the picture, my dad became THE ENEMY. He was super-protective and strict, and I hated him for it.

One of his crazy rules was my weekend curfew: 11 p.m. if I was on a date, midnight if I was with friends. (Yet my brother, who was only one year older, had no curfew at all.) So, yeah, once or twice, I lied. I said I was out with friends when I was actually with my boyfriend. Of course I did! It was a terrible, unfair rule that deserved to be broken.

Because I was a good girl by nature, I wasn't great at subterfuge--I didn't inform my friends of my plan to lie, so unfortunately, while I was out with my boyfriend, the friend I was supposed to be with called the house. As this was before cell phones, my dad had to wait until I got home at midnight to ream me out. I have blocked out most of the ugliness, but the one thing I do remember is him hissing: "You lied to us! Look at you! Look at your face...those lips have been kissed!" He said it like I truly disgusted him. By the sound of it, you would've thought he had found me naked in the back seat of a car. He made me feel so dirty.

I yelled back: "You made me lie! It's totally unfair that I have a curfew while Alan gets to stay out as late as he wants!"

"It's different with boys."

Arrggh! That was his favorite argument, and I deplored it. Whenever I argued that lots of my friends were allowed to stay out past 12 a.m. he'd end the discussion with, "Nothing good happens after midnight." It sucked, because when I was out with friends, it always felt like I was leaving just when things were getting good (and by good I mean bad).

But now I'm all grown-up, with kids of my own, and my dad and I are close once again.

And here's what I want to say to him: Although we had a few rough years when I wished you were more of a pushover, thank you, Dad, for always letting me know that you cared about me, worried about me, and were watching me. Because, although I hated every minute of it, your discipline led me to behave better than I would have otherwise.

To paraphrase Chris Rock: Thank you for keeping me off the pole.

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String (A Few of My Favorite Things)

2011-06-13T19:31:00.000-07:00

Zoomorphs

I recently found this wonderful item in our local independent toy store, and since then I've bought a set as gifts for the last three kids' birthday parties we've gone to. Zoomorphs is a building system; the pieces snap together easily and securely. There's a set for every kid's interest: Dinomorphs, Petmorphs, Mythmorphs, Rainforestmorphs, Jumpermorphs, Nightmorphs, Insectmorphs, Safarimorphs, and Diggermorphs. Whew! You can put them together to make a recognizable animal or mix up the pieces and make crazy critters. All the sets are interchangeable, too. $15 to $10 per set.

Lumene Time Freeze Instant Cooling Eye Stick

I love this product. As the name says, it's a stick, but unlike most sticks, it glides on smoothly and gently. And the instant cooling sensation is awesome. After waking up and washing my face, applying this feels great and moisturizes the delicate skin under my eyes while reducing puffiness. It's also refreshing on hot summer afternoons. Contains "natural arctic heather and plant sterols extracted from arctic white peat"--okaaaay, ifs they say so. These ingredients are supposed to help reduce wrinkles and protect against further aging; I can't vouch for that--all I'm saying is it feels nice and soothing to put on. $21.00

Sam's Club Grilled Chicken & Four-Cheese Ravioli

This is a dinner that has it all: inexpensive, super-easy to throw together (just boil for five minutes and top with tomato sauce), healthy (especially if you add some veggies to the tomato sauce), delicious, and filling. Best of all, my kids--even my picky toddler--LOVES them. My 3-year-old can eat about six of these large raviolis. When you don't have a lot of time to prepare a homemade meal, these raviolis are perfect. They taste way better than anything available at the grocery store, and are cheaper than what you'll find at Whole Foods and Trader Joe's. Per serving: 270 cals, 9 g fat, 18 g protein, calcium 15%. $9.99 for a twin-pack; each pack has about 20 large raviolis.

Nothing a Little Trip to Provincetown Won't Fix

2011-06-12T17:24:00.000-07:00

I took my kids to the dentist the other day, and when their checkups were done, the dentist let them pick out a toy ring as a treat. My son chose a grasshopper ring, while my daughter picked the pink gemstone one (surprise, suprise).

When we got home, I took my daughter's ring and playfully slipped it onto her finger. "There. Now we're married."

"Two girls would never get married," my son said knowingly.

"Umm...well...yeah, we'll talk about that another time," I lamely replied.

Should I read my kids
this book, perhaps?

It got me thinking: When is the right time to explain to one's kids that there are other ways a family can look besides the traditional One Mommy-One Daddy-Plus Kids model? My son is only five and barely understands the concept of marriage, so to explain all the possible variations would only confuse him at this point (I think).

Ideally, the conversation will occur naturally when he's a bit older--maybe he'll overhear something on the news about New York passing a Marriage Equality Act (soon, I hope!) and ask questions. Or maybe he'll make a new friend at school who just happens to have two mommies or two daddies (though it's unlikely in our traditional Westchester hamlet). Most likely however, it'll be one of our day trips into the city that will get my son scratching his head and wondering Hmmmm.

If we'd signed my son up for afternoon preschool instead of the morning session this past year, he would've learned pretty quickly that families come in many configurations:

One day last fall, I was looking through the preschool directory for a phone number to arrange a playdate for my son with a kid in the afternoon session. As I skimmed the list of names, I saw that three of the kids had the same hyphenated last name. Wow, triplets! I thought. But then I noticed that only two of these siblings had the same December 2006 birthday; the third was born in January '06, 11 months earlier. OMG, Irish triplets? The mom had one baby in January then got pregnant again immediately with twins? I shuddered at the thought, and couldn't wait to find out the deets at my son's playdate.

A few days later, I grilled the friend's mother about this unusual family. Turns out there's two moms! Which, though it makes way more sense than one poor mama birthing three babies in a single year, never even occurred to me (I'm ashamed to say). Everyone just seems so traditional and straight-laced around here (including me these days) that I never thought we'd actually have a same-sex couple living in our vicinity.

So that's good to know, because I'm all for diversity.

But my son doesn't know these kids and won't be going to school with them in the fall. Sure, I realize that he doesn't need to learn about "two mommies" or "two daddies" anytime soon, yet I'm also aware that it's best to teach kids about diversity early on.

And besides, all of my daughter's princess books aren't exactly helping the issue. The Disney Princesses are all poor/overworked/misunderstood at first, then WHAM!, they get fabulous new gowns & jewels, marry The Prince, and only then can they live happily ever after. There's just so much Boy + Girl = Happiness messaging (plus close-minded bullying) in the world that I worry my kids could end up ignorant and unintentionally hurtful if I don't say something sooner rather than later.

So then the question is this: How soon is too soon, and how late is too late?

Weiner the Wiener

2011-06-09T17:46:00.000-07:00

I live in the state of New York, less than 35 miles from the Brooklyn/Queens district that Congressman Anthony Weiner represents.

You think you've been hearing a lot about Weiner's wiener? Ha, you have no idea.

This latest episode in philandering got me thinking about politicians and cheating. It sure seems like more of them do than don't, and I've been wondering why this is the case. Certainly men with normal jobs don't cheat this much, do they? Athletes and movie stars are known to be horndogs, so does that mean politicians see themselves more as rockstars than as the public servants they actually are? If that's true, well, it's just sad.

Not that I really care if some local congressman--or even presidential candidate--is unable to keep it in his pants. I'm not convinced it means he will be any less good at his job than the dude who doesn't father children out of wedlock (or tweet penis pics to porn stars, solicit young men in public bathrooms, grope interns, etc., etc., etc.). My husband, however, makes a good point that this sort of behavior suggests a lack of moral character that could, in fact, affect a politician's ability to make the best decisions for his constituents. Could be.

But I'm still not sure we should care about our politicians' philandering (provided it's not illegal). I look at these "episodes" as mainly their wives' problems, not the voting public's.

The only thing that does bother me is the fact that many of these men--especially those high up the chain of command--are role models for our kids. It makes me sad to think that, back in 1998, there was surely an ambitious Arkansas boy or two who idolized President Clinton and dreamed of following in his footsteps, only to have his hopes dashed by Lewinsky-gate. I happen to LOVE Bill Clinton and believe his good qualities outweigh the bad, yet I was let down by his behavior...which is nothing compared to how alienated and betrayed countless impressionable youths must've felt. It strikes me as a missed opportunity to inspire the future generation, which is a huge bummer.

With all of these men, it's not just one isolated incident, either. A single slip-up we could more easily forgive and forget; everyone makes mistakes, after all. But with these guys, it's chronic infidelity. What's behind it? Is it a sickness? Are they drunk on power and influence? Maybe that's the case with a President, but a Representative like Anthony Weiner? Puh-lease.

I used to think the problem was the American voters' habit of electing mainly men of privilege to office. Some of the worst offenders have been guys who were just plain used to getting what they wanted when they wanted it. Whether they were born into it, like JFK, or learned to expect it due to later stardom (Arnold), many of our elected officials have hugely inflated egos that need stroking.

I also used to think the answer was to elect a geek. Get someone in office who spent his formative years questioning the ways of the world; developing his mind through endless games of Stratego and Dungeons and Dragons; and grappling with existential issues alone on a Saturday night, and we'd be all set. Former losers don't have massive egos. They don't feel entitled to marry a great woman yet still get a hot piece of ass on the side. They have moral fortitude! They fight for the little guy! Geeks unite!

And then I saw this:

High school nerd, 1981

Hmmm...maybe geeks are so used to being beaten down and treated like crap that they get even drunker on the power of their office? Because they spent their young lives being laughed at by attractive women, to suddenly have hot chicks following them on Twitter must be utterly intoxicating. Weiner was sexting a whole bunch of women, a whole bunch of times. This behavior doesn't inherently make him a less-effective legislator; however, isn't being forced to resign as ineffective as it gets for an elected official? If (when?) it happens, it'll be a huge waste of a promising career.

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String (A Few of My Favorite Things)

2011-06-07T05:23:00.000-07:00

I enjoy reading the blog of my old high school soccer teammate, Dorothea Coelho, and she does this cool thing: Every Friday she writes a "Stuff That I Love" feature, outlining a few products she thinks are awesome. What a great idea! So, with credit to Dorothea--who was just about the coolest girl at Belmont High--and inspiration from one of my favorite movies, I've decided to publish a post every Tuesday called "Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String (A Few of My Favorite Things)," in which I review three things I adore.*

Here we go!

Bio-Oil

I've noticed that lot of natural/organic skin lotions and creams tout their formula as being "mineral oil-free." Now, I don't know what's so bad about mineral oil, but if you have a problem with it, stay away from Bio-Oil. If it's not an issue, however, rush out to the drug store and buy some NOW. Because this stuff is great! You can use it to moisturize, reduce the appearance of stretch marks and scars, even out skin tone, and remove makeup. Yes, it's oil, but it doesn't feel greasy, so you can even put it on your face without it being gross. I swear, the skin on my post-pregnancy belly has become smoother since using this stuff! It smells great, too. About $11-12 for a 2-oz. bottle. www.bio-oil.com

CitiBlocs

My son received these wooden building blocks for his fifth birthday a few months ago, and we've been enjoying their limitless possibilities ever since. What a simple and wonderful concept! They are all the same size--"precision cut" says the website, and I believe it (they are smoooooth)--but they come in gorgeous, saturated colors that turn your creations into works of art. It's won a bunch of awards, including the Oppenheim Toy Portfolio award. Made out of Grade A Radiata pine (whatever that means) that comes from certified renewable forests, they're green as well! There are no missing pieces and no instructions to frustrate parents and kids (though building suggestions are included). You can get a box of 100 pieces for $19.99-$24.99. www.citiblocs.com

TouchBack Hair Color Marker

Getting your hair professionally colored at the salon can run you a fortune these days, and do-it-yourself dyes are messy and a pain. Personally, I can still get away with at-home color, but what used to last me eight weeks is now good for six tops. A month after I color, the grays really start to bum me out. That's where the TouchBack Marker comes in. It's exactly what the name suggests: hair color in a marker. You put it on dry hair roots to cover the grays. It only takes a minute to apply, then won't come off when you brush or comb your hair, yet it washes out easily. It comes in eight shades and costs $29.95. I've had mine for about six months and it still works great. www.touchbackgray.com

* All endorsements are unpaid.

What I Learned From Reading "Bossypants"

2011-06-04T17:23:00.000-07:00

To all my funny and fiercely intelligent (yet awkward) friends from back in our Middle School days, here's something you should know: Tiny Fey is one of us!

She's an ex-geek, but she had just enough going on that she didn't end up a total loser. She took the pain and ostracism she experienced in her tween and teen years, mined it for material, and turned in into comedic gold.

The first thing I learned from reading Tina Fey's book Bossypants is how to prevent your dorky kid from getting so bullied that you have to switch school districts. Here's what Tina suggests. Your nerd spawn must:

1. Have a sense of humor;
2. Have a friend--just one is necessary, but it's preferable that he's gay;
3. Find one thing that he or she is good at.

I also learned how to raise a daughter who is "an achievement-oriented, drug-free, adult virgin" (something that all parents of girls want). Your daughter must experience and/or have:

1. Bad skin;
2. A childhood calamity (Tina Fey's face was slashed by a stranger);
3. A ridiculous amount of parental praise;
4. Involvement in local theater;
3. A strong father-figure/fear thereof.

Ms. Fey didn't lose her virginity until she was well into her twenties. Now, I certainly wouldn't wish a childhood calamity on my little princess, but nor do I want her starring in the 20th season of 16 and Pregnant. So I'm pretty much willing to try any old cockamamie idea if it might possibly spare my babygirl heartbreak and STDs.

I also learned that Tina Fey is a true child of the 1980's, as evidenced by this photo:

Tina Fey, 1988

As Tina explains, buying this white denim suit is the moment she associates with entering womanhood:

I bought it with my own money under the advisement of my cool friend Sandee. I wore it to Senior Awards Night 1988, where it blew people's minds as I accepted the Sunday School Scholorship. That turned-up collar. The jacket that zipped all the way down the front into a nice fitted shape.

That's hard-core 80's right there.

I would recommend Bossypants to serious Tina Fey fans only. It's an amusing look at this talented lady's childhood, with anecdotes that anyone raised in the late 70's-early 80's will relate to. She also provides some interesting insider information: After 9/11, when Anthrax was found at 30 Rock (where SNL is based) Ms. Fey, who was then head writer and "Weekend Update" co-anchor, walked out and didn't return until Lorne Michaels sweet-talked her back.

But the book contains no real groundbreaking info, unless you consider the fact that Sarah Palin, when she appeared on SNL, offered her daughter Bristol to babysit Tina's toddler groundbreaking.

Don't pay full-price for the hardcover, but if you can get it from your local library, I promise you won't regret it: it's a great beach-read or a the perfect airplane companion. If you are a Tina Fey fan, don't miss it.

There Goes "Thou Shall Not Covet"

2011-06-02T18:56:00.000-07:00

At my age, I probably shouldn't still be succumbing to ridiculous and expensive trends, right? Because that kind of nonsense is nothing but youthful folly. Then why did I find myself caving in and buying some Hunter rain boots yesterday?

The boots I bought

I don't know how long these boots have been "in" (probably for ages), but I only began noticing them a year or two ago. They're pretty ugly, but after the insanely wet early spring we had around here, I found myself jealously eyeing the stylish moms I'd see wearing them; they were nice and dry, while I walked around for month straight with soaking wet feet and sodden pant hems. The boots started looking really good to me.

I could tell by which moms wore Hunter boots that they wouldn't come cheap. I looked online and found that, yup, they are at least $125. I tried Ebay, but they aren't cheap there, either. Once I realized how expensive and trendy they are, that was it: I HAD TO HAVE THEM.

But they're way too expensive! I told myself. And they're ugly! And I don't live in an English manor house or keep horses or have an extensive rose garden to tend! Nothing worked: Every time it rained, I was pissed I wasn't wearing them.

I got angry at myself. What the heck was going on? I felt like I did back in fifth grade when I just HAD TO HAVE A PAIR OF CLOGS OR I WOULD DIE. Or seventh grade when it was all about the perfect Nikes.

The clogs I HAD TO have in 1979,
but mine were a burgundy color

The Nikes I NEEDED in 1981,
but my swoosh was sky blue

Why do silly fashion trends still influence me so? I wish I could say I've grown out of it, but that's not the case. I don't go crazy with the name-brands, and I'm not a big shopper at all, but it bugs me that I'm still so affected by what "everyone else" is wearing or doing. After all, my kids own Crocs and not the cheap knock-off brands, even though they're too young to know the difference or care. Spending the extra $20 a pair for the real thing is 100% for my benefit.

I'm gonna go out on a limb and blame it on my parents. I never got name-brand stuff when I was a kid. No Calvins for this girl--it was crummy Lees all the way. And I remember having this polo-type shirt, but instead of the Izod alligator, there was some other stupid animal on my budding boob. It was mortifying.

That was the case for just about everything. My English/Scottish mother, who grew up during WWII with bombings and rationing, was slow to warm to America's capitalist and consumerist ways. She didn't understand the younger generation's obsession with wearing the correct label. And my dad, well, it was the 70's; dads then didn't bother themselves with such mundane household issues.

Back then, I was constantly coveting some trendy brand or another: Sweats bi Ebe (or Chego), Bermuda bags (made from real wood, not crappy plastic like the one I had), Jordache jeans, Capezios, Izod shirts, Members Only jackets, L.L. Bean Bluchers, the latest Swatch watch. It was never-ending.

And here I am, thirty years later, still wanting what the cool girls have. At least these days, I don't have to ask my mom to buy it for me.

Oh, Deer!

2011-05-31T19:00:00.000-07:00

I do not love days like I had today. Nothing terrible happened but nothing fun did, either. The day went from nauseating to annoying to aggravating. It was just your average, sucky day.

Beginning the day with a doctor's appointment is never a positive omen, so I can't say I was expecting laughter and merriment, but neither was I anticipating blood and death. Luckily the gore was only of the deer-hit-by-car variety (unlucky for the deer, however), but it was still nasty. Living in Westchester, we certainly see a lot of deer around (I hit one with my car a few short weeks after moving here from the city--talk about a rude suburban awakening!) but what we don't see a lot of are guns.

The deer looked just like this one--
except it was lying by the road
with blood pouring out of its head.

So, when, at 8:30 this morning, some civilian standing in the road put his hand up to stop traffic and I watched as a State Trooper marched across the street with what looked like a rifle in his hands (but was actually a shotgun according to my cop friend Pete--who knew those suckers were so big?), I was transfixed. Mesmerized even. Then BANG! That's when I saw the deer lying by the side of the road up.

"Oh, God" I moaned.

"What is it?" inquired my son from the back seat. "What was that noise?"

Then another shot. Agghhh! Did the cop not kill the deer with the first one? Travesty!

"What was that loud noise? asked my son again.

By now we were being waved through. I didn't respond until we'd passed the deer (a pool of blood around its head), because I didn't want my son to look out his window and see the carnage. Luckily, his attention was diverted by the police car on the other side of the street.

It wasn't until we were pulling into the doctor's parking lot a minute later that I told him what had happened. He had a lot of questions: Why did they have to kill the deer? Why didn't they take it to the vet to be fixed? Why did they have to shoot it twice?

The rest of the day was...eh. My daughter's doctor's appointment went fine. No shots, which was awesome--last thing I wanted was to see more blood--but I was disappointed that the doctor couldn't give me any suggestions about how to get my daughter to stop biting her nails down so low that they sometimes bled.

"Every kid has their own particular bad habit," she reassured me. Gee, thanks.

Then we stopped by DD for doughnuts (Tuesday is our official Doughnut Day).

"That's something nice that happened to you today!" is what you are probably saying to yourself right now. Well, it would be if I actually allowed myself to eat a doughnut. But no, I just get a strawberry frosted with sprinkles for the girl and maple frosted with sprinkles for the boy. It's bikini season, after all.

After my daughter's Tiny Ballerinas class, we returned home, where my kids proceeded to try my patience, as per usual. My daughter wouldn't take her (much needed) nap, and then my son had a massive meltdown all because I was about to beat him at Chutes and Ladders (he's five--finally old enough to lose now and then). It was extra-annoying because five minutes earlier he'd beaten me fair and square at Candy Land.

"You can't win every time, you know!"

And, hey, losing at Chutes and Ladders isn't such a bad way to learn this lesson. The deer? She had to learn the hard way.

Lady Madonna

2011-05-29T17:59:00.000-07:00

Last night, I caught a bit of the HBO special, "Lady Gaga Presents the Monster Ball Tour: At Madison Square Garden." As I was watching, I realized I used to sing along with Gaga and watch her bump & grind 25 years ago--back when she went by the name "Madonna."

First, let me just say that I don't know lots about Gaga: The only songs I know are the ones I hear on the car radio (yes, I still listen to radio, I'm old school like that), and while I've watched a number of her performances on TV, I've never seen her live.

And while I was bombarded with Madonna during my formative years, I've never purchased one of her albums or seen her live, either. But I've certainly heard her songs countless times, seen her videos over and over, and watched her perform on TV enough to be familiar with her repertoire.

I'm familiar enough with both artists to know I'm onto something. I'm aware people have been comparing the two performers since Gaga first came on the scene (like in this SNL skit from 2009), but at that time, it was mainly their images that were similar. Well, Lady Gaga sure has been ramping things up since then.

A few months ago I was listening to Gaga's brand new single, "Born This Way," and found myself humming along. How the heck did I know the melody when I'd never even heard the song before? Then, just as the chorus was about to come in, I started singing, "Express yourself! (You've got to make him) express himself, hey, hey, hey, hey."

Turns out it's the exact same song.

And it doesn't just stop there. Gaga's "Alejandro" and "La Isla Bonita" are extremely similar (with a little of ABBA's "Fernando" thrown in as well). What I can't figure out is why Madonna isn't suing her.

It's not just the music, either. Here are other things Lady Gaga has in common with Madonna: studded cone bra, dance moves, black leotard-esque get-ups, black fishnets, bleached hair, religious imagery (Judas, Mary, Jesus), an Italian heritage, gay dancers with whom she simulates sex, and even a similar way of warming up the crowd by sharing personal stories about her outcast days. It just goes on and on!

Here's how they're different: Lady Gaga can actually sing and play the piano! But Madonna was a better dancer and had more interesting boyfriends.

I enjoy listening to Lady Gaga now and then, I really do, but at this point, I always end up comparing her to Madonna and trying to figure out what melody, lyric, or dance move she stole from her this time. And that's too bad, because while I suspect Lady Gaga might actually be more talented than Madonna, she'll just always be a copy-cat to me.

Freaks, Band Geeks, and X-Rated Movies

2011-05-27T17:26:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was telling/yelling at one of my kids to "C'mon, do it, already! Do it!" (about who knows what), and then later on, I found myself humming "Do it, do it" under my breath. I started laughing because it reminded me of a funny story, which I will now tell.

Yes, that's really me, circa '86 or '87

Back in high school I played the clarinet in the band. Yes, I know I've just crushed the image you had of me as a confident, sophisticated, well-dressed, popular teen, but the reality is that I took A/P classes and was in the marching band. But in my defense, I was as cool as a girl with a plume coming out of her hat could be.

Our school's band happened to be excellent, so we occasionally traveled to competitions where we had to stay in hotels overnight. After one competition (to Quebec, maybe?), we were all on the bus heading back home, when some boys in the very back started singing a song: It started softly, almost a whisper, "Do it, do it, d-d-d-do it, do it," then got louder, "DO IT, DO IT, D-D-D-DO IT, DO IT," and on and on, louder and louder.

Turns out it was the theme song from a porn flick they'd ordered at the hotel. Thirty seconds into it and just about every boy on that bus was singing along. Yes, they were all under 18 and yes, they got into trouble (well, sort of...not really...they just had to pay the porn rental charges.)

Bus ride home after a band trip to Quebec, 1986. This
may (or may not) have been the "Do it, do it" ride.

It was one of those crazy moments that are both hysterical and educational. Sure my girlfriends and I laughed and laughed, but we also learned something: Teenage boys do actually like to watch porn! I don't think we ever knew that for sure before that day.

Fast-forward 15 years or so, and my then-boyfriend and I were renting a movie from my local place in the West Village. (Remember that? Renting movies?) I don't recall what movie we had rented, but I'm sure it was rated PG. The reason I know this is because of my shock when the following happened: We popped in the DVD and the opening credits came on, accompanied by blurry, flesh-colored images that were back-lit in blood-red. Then we heard, oh-so-softly, "Do it, do it, d-d-d-do it, do it," and again, louder and louder.

Something went ding! ding! ding! in my brain, but not until the blurry images came into focus and we were able to see that they were actually naked bodies, did the pieces fall into place. It was THAT MOVIE! I hadn't thought of the high school bus episode since it had happened 15 years earlier but, wow, that song brought it all back in vivid detail.

Yup, an X-rated DVD had mistakenly been put into a PG-rated, family flick box.

I don't recall if my boyfriend and I watched the whole flick. I don't think so--I'm sure, like all porns, it was lacking in plot and got boring after the first 15 minutes. But what I do remember is marching back to the video place and blasting them for their mistake: "Do you realize this is a family film?! A child could've been watching! How could this have happened?"

The slacker dude (this was in the 90's before hipsters were invented) just sort of shrugged and thanked me for pointing out the mistake. I was disappointed because I thought I'd at least be offered a free rental for my troubles. But no.

I wish I could remember the name of the "Do it" porn movie--just for old time's sake, get your head out of the gutter!--but I can't. And a quick Google search of "'Do it, do it' porn song" did not yield any web pages that I dared click on. So here I am, left wondering.

Unless anyone can enlighten me? Anyone?

"Remember When You Used to Be a Rascal?"

2011-05-25T13:59:00.000-07:00

My parents were in town visiting for a couple days, and they were nice enough to put the kids to bed last night while my husband and I had the rare chance to attend an actual rock 'n' roll show in Manhattan.

I've been a huge Arctic Monkeys fan ever since I first saw them play live three-and-a-half years ago in Central Park. Alex Turner's intelligent and often surprising lyrics, the band's tendency to change tempo mid-song, and the complex riffs impressed me. The band has been in heavy rotation on my iPod ever since (especially my "Running Songs" playlist--it's impossible not to turn your jog into a sprint while listening to "Brianstorm").

So when I heard they were playing Rumsey Playfield in Central Park again, I had to get tickets.

My husband and I took the train in, then made our way uptown. We took a taxi because I was wearing brand-new wedge heels and wasn't sure how much walking I could do. (This was less about style than practicality: I always wear heels to general-seating shows because I'm too short to see anything in flats.) There was traffic, but luckily we were in no rush.

Once at Central Park, we meandered down the paths toward Rumsey Playfield. Then THE LINE came into view. More traffic--this time of the human variety. For some reason, even though the venue's doors had been open for over an hour and the warm-up band (The Vaccines) was almost done with their set, there was a massive, snaking line for ticket-holders. The line turned out to have no purpose whatsoever, but since the Arctic Monkeys weren't due on for at least a half-hour, I didn't care. I was just happy to be out in Manhattan.

Once inside the venue, we again queued up--this time for $8 beers--and then made our way toward the stage. The band emerged to the strains of "American Woman" by The Guess Who playing over the sound system. Kinda a huge cliche, but they're just young boys from Sheffield, England, so what do they know?

The only negative about going to concerts with my husband is this: Because he's tall and gets claustrophobic in crowds, he likes to stand toward the back, but because I'm short and enjoy getting caught up in the action, I like pushing my way to the front. So I always end up going it alone. We arranged a meeting place just in case, and I headed into the crowd.

I had only gone about 20 feet, though, when some weird barrier system prevented me from getting any closer. I settled in and checked out my surroundings. Clean cut twenty-something dude with madras shirt on my left, clean cut twenty-something dude with madras shirt on my right. And they didn't even know each other. (Since when is Hipster out and Prepster in?)

Arctic Monkeys, Central Park, 5-24-11

The moment the band started playing, out popped the iPhones. Argh, the iPhones! I completely understand taking a photo or two, or even shooting a 60-second video, but people were practically recording the whole concert! Why bother seeing them live if you're going to watch the entire show through a 3.5-inch screen?

The only other thing that bugged me was the smoking. I don't think I've even seen an actual, real-life cigarette in months, let alone breathed in the smoke from one, so when both of the clean cut dudes sparked up at once, I started reconsidering my choice of viewing spots. I hadn't minded so much when it was a doobie burning away, but the cigs were killing me. I tried not to be a fuddy-duddy, though, and persevered.

I had figured my husband and I would be the oldest people there, but was pleasantly surprised to see a few other folks in their late 30's to early 40's rocking out. The average age was still under 30, though, which made listening to hundreds of young people sing/scream the following lyrics from "I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor" a bit surreal:

Your name isn't Rio, but I don't care for sand.
And lighting the fuse might result in a bang b-b-bang! Go!
I bet that you look good on the dance floor.
I don't know if you're looking for romance or, I don't know what you're lookin' for.
I said I bet that you look good on the dance floor!
Dancing to electro-pop like a robot from 1984. Well, from 1984!

Did the kids there even get the Rio reference? Did they even know what it meant to dance like a robot? Were they even alive in 1984?

We had a great time. The band sounded awesome, the crowd was totally into it, the weather was perfect, and my new shoes only hurt a little. I eventually rejoined my husband in the back (when the Madras Men simultaneously lit up smokes for the third time), and we enjoyed the encore of their hit (in England, anyway) "Fluorescent Adolescent" together. Considering we were an old married couple at a rock show, surrounded by a bunch of twenty-somethings, the lyrics were perfect:

You used to get it in your fishnets,
Now you only get it in your nightdress.
Discarded all the naughty nights for niceness,
Landed in a very common crisis.
Everything's in order in a black hole,
Nothing seems as pretty as the past, though.
That Bloody Mary's lacking in Tabasco.
Remember when you used to be a rascal?

I may not be a rascal anymore, and, yes, occasionally my life does feel like an orderly black hole, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten how to have fun. Nor would I give up the life I have now to be one of those twenty-somethings again.

Thank you, Arctic Monkeys, for reminding me of what I sometimes forget.

A Carnival of Memories

2011-05-21T18:58:00.000-07:00

There is an event I look forward to every year, and it's finally here! I'm talking about the pop-up carnival at our local church, which features all kinds of entertainment: the Tilt-a-Whirl, Ferris Wheel, Scrambler, Dizzy Dragons, Bumper Cars, Ali Baba, Funhouse, games galore, and cotton candy.

I love every single thing about the local carnival: the lame rides which are only scary because I literally watched them being assembled three days ago; the fact that we can walk there and laugh at all the people driving around searching for a parking space; the sound of tweens screaming on the Tilt-a-Whirl (which we can hear through our bedroom window because we live that close); running into friends unexpectedly; the fact that it gives hoards of middle-schoolers, who are yearning for independence, a chance to safely roam the fair grounds unsupervised; and last, but certainly not least, how excited my kids get about it every year.

I didn't experience my first local carnival until high school. Of course, I'd visited amusement parks many times before, but there's something particularly magical about a local fair, especially during a girl's teenage years. I remember feeling so free and alive--wandering through the fair grounds at night, the paths lit by bright, blinking lights; the excited screams coming from all over the park; the sense of anticipation while waiting in line for the scariest ride; the wind whipping through our hair while a steel contraption flung us around and around and around again.

But the best part by far was the sheer possibility the night held. It was as if anything could happen. Pretty much the entire high school was there, including my closest friends and, more importantly, the cutest boys. While at the fair, my heart never stopped racing, either because of the thrilling rides or the close proximity of my latest crush.

I remember one fair in particular: It was June 1987, I was about to turn 18, my high school graduation was mere days away, I was heading off to college in the fall, and I was heady with the idea of my impending independence. I could taste it. The fair was our last high school fling, and for me, the perfect way to kick off summer.

I remember I was on the Ferris Wheel with a friend, and each time we rose high in the sky, we'd scan the fair grounds and check out who was there. I spotted this boy I was sort-of dating. He and I had gone to Prom together a few weeks earlier, but I wasn't sure what was going on between us. I waved down to him, and he waited around for the ride to end. We chatted and flirted for a little while, and then he leaned over and kissed me right in the middle of the teeming carnival, as people streamed by us. It was ten times more frightening and thrilling than the rides, and completely unforgettable. Twenty-four years later and I still remember that the kiss tasted like his cinnamon gum.

Fun on the Ferris Wheel
with my little lady

Nowadays, of course, it's all about how much fun my kids are having at the fair. But I will admit this: While on the Ferris Wheel with my daughter yesterday, I couldn't help but scan the fair grounds, wondering who I might see below....

Meat Is Murder. But What Do I Tell My Kids?

2011-05-18T16:59:00.000-07:00

I was making chicken salad yesterday, and I offered my five-year-old son a tiny piece to feed to our cat. We've only had Paulina a few weeks, and she's still a bit shy. I thought if my son offered her a delicious morsel of chicken, perhaps she'd eat out of his hand--and that would totally make his day.

As my son headed to the stairs with the chicken, he called out, "Paulina, here's some fresh chicken from the stream!"

I'm pretty sure the fact that chicken is from, well, chicken is something he already knew. I'm positive we've discussed this before. But you know how little kids are--they only remember what they want to remember. And because he knows cats like fish, I guess he just assumed.

"Chicken isn't from the stream; it's not a fish. Chicken is chicken," I corrected.

"Does that mean the chicken had to be killed first?"

"Yes."

"So that means farmers are so, so mean, right?"

Uh, hmmm.... I didn't know what to say, because I do sort of think farmers are mean. I just don't understand it: How they can witness the birth of an adorable little piglet, raise this intelligent animal until adulthood, and then slaughter it for bacon? I guess you get used to it after a while, but still. I want my son to know the truth but I don't love the idea of him going around bad-mouthing Old MacDonald all the time. After all, nobody wants their kid to be a Debbie Downer.

I'm trying to raise my son so he'll be equipped to make his own educated decisions on issues like whether or not to eat meat, so I've been trying not to subject him to any anti-meat tirades. (For the record, I don't eat anything with four legs and haven't for about 15 years. I used to not eat birds, either, but then I got pregnant and realized how little protein I ingested. It was just easier to start eating chicken again. Chickens are pretty stupid, right?) I don't want to freak him out by explaining to him in gory detail where his food comes from because I have trouble getting him to eat protein-rich foods as it is, but at the same time, I do have my opinions and I am his mother. The fact that I find it disgusting when someone digs into a massive, bloody steak is not easy for me to hide; it's such a visceral experience that the cringing is involuntary.

I ended up explaining to my son that we eat chicken and turkey meat, and that, yes, someone had to kill them in order for us to do so. I also told him this: "I don't believe in eating any animal with four legs, and so I don't cook it and we don't eat it. Except for bacon--which comes from pigs--because Daddy likes bacon."

"I love bacon, too!"

And, with that, the conversation was over. My son ran upstairs to feed chicken to our cat (who did, in fact, eat it out of his hand and made his day).

The More Things Change, the More Some A#*holes Stay the Same

2011-05-16T10:06:00.000-07:00

Early this past Saturday morning I boarded a Metro-North train to Manhattan, where my old college roommate picked me up, and off we drove to Philadelphia. We were both a bit anxious about leaving our kids in the hands of our (extremely capable) husbands, but excited to reconnect with old friends, see the UPenn campus we loved, and not be "Mommy" for 30 or so hours. It was our 20th College Reunion.

I was a little apprehensive about what the whole scene would be like. During my college years there had been a group of girls who were all popular, classy, prep-school-educated, pretty, and rich (well, richer than me, at least). I was good friends with a couple of these girls, but as a group they were exclusive. Back then, they made me nervous. Twenty years later, however, the exclusionary tactics were basically gone, and I had little reason to feel apprehensive. Overall, I had some nice conversations with some smart, witty women. Turns out two decades can really change a person.

Or not. Late Saturday night, a group of us were walking from the Class of 1991 gala to a brewpub for the after-party. I knew where the place was so I was out in front, leading the way. At some point, I was aware of a guy walking next to me. I didn't remember his name, but his face was certainly familiar--we weren't friends in college but travelled in the same social circles. We chatted a little as we walked. Something about him started nagging at my brain but I couldn't put my finger on it.

As we entered the super-packed brewpub, he did the whole hand-on-your-lower-back-to-help-navigate-you-through-the-crowd thing and asked me, with a creepy glint in his eyes, what I wanted to drink. That's when I realized he was hitting on me. I admit I was flattered (I don't get hit on much these days), but also a bit uncomfortable; I'm a happily married woman, after all.

I looked around, and that's when I realized we'd become separated from the rest of our group. I started getting nervous. Then the guy ran into someone he recognized, and over the din of the crowd, I heard him introduce himself. "Hi, I'm Tom," he said.

WHAM-O! went my brain, as the pieces fell together. I suddenly realized that this guy, Tom*, was the worst, grossest, most pathetic scammer back in college. He'd hit on any girl with a pulse. Oh. My. God. I was being macked on by that dude! I started panicking. I grabbed my phone and frantically started texting my friends trying to find where they were in the huge, mobbed bar.

"I wonder where everyone else is?" I said to Tom, my heart pounding. "I want to go find them." I took off fighting my way through the crowd, putting as much distance between me and Tom as possible. I found our group in a private back room, ran over to my friends, and collapsed on the banquette, laughing: "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, protect me! I just got scammed on by The Scammer!"

A little while later, this other guy came up to me and my friends as we were reminiscing about old times. He leaned in close--way too close--and said something basically unintelligible, he was so drunk. But his intentions were crystal clear.

Now this guy I remembered. Cameron Cordi was a capital D.I.C.K. back in college. Let's put it this way: If someone had told me he was a date rapist, I'd believe them, no questions asked. I think he was an athlete--lacrosse, maybe?--and he'd always walked around campus with the most privileged air about him. He was cocky and smug and good-looking: a lethal combination. He's definitely less good-looking these days, but just as cocky and smug. And, according to his Facebook page, married with a baby.

As closing time neared, Tom the Scammer slithered over again, trying to chat me up. I answered his question curtly and turned back to my friends. Then Cam Cordi sauntered up, practically falling on me, and this time, I couldn't understand even a single word (though his face was inches from mine). He was totally plastered.

Later on, as I was lying in my hotel room bed, running through the night's events in my head, I got a weird sense of deja vu. It dawned on me that both these men had hit on me back in college (though they were boys back then). It's one thing for an 18- or 19-year-old boy to act so badly, but a 41-year-old man? That's just disgusting and pathetic and offensive. Twenty years of misogynistic, piggish behavior--their moms must be so proud!

Hopefully five years from now, when I'm back on campus for our 25th reunion, I'll remember what happened and steer clear of these guys. Because if they haven't changed in twenty years, another five isn't going to make a difference. They were jerks then, are jerks now, and probably will still be jerks when they're 80.

* All names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Elementary, My Dear Watson.

2011-05-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

For the past few years, I've observed parents of soon-to-be Kindergarteners freaking out. What, I thought to myself every time, is the big freakin' deal?

Well, now I know. And, no, the big deal isn't that your "little man" or "baby girl" is embarking on a new phase of life or that his or her well-being will suddenly be in someone else's hands for most of the day. The big deal is the insane amount of forms to fill out, orientations to attend, and brochures to read.

My five-year-old is starting Kindergarten in the Fall. And this past month alone, I've had three events to attend at the elementary school, plus numerous forms to sort through and complete. Registering your kid for K is practically a full-time job in and of itself. Medical forms, dental forms, tell-us-about-your-kid forms, please-join-the-PTA forms--it's never-ending.

I'm pretty sure entering Kindergarten didn't require this much parental effort back in the olden days (the Seventies). Back then, K was just a half-day, and nap time was still a reality. Kindergarten then was more like how preschool is now. Play-Doh has been replaced with flash cards. Back in the Seventies, there was probably just a quick tour of the school and maybe a parents' night sometime in late August or early September.

But with four months to go before school even starts in the fall, I'm already stressed out. I know my son will do great--he's smart, friendly, kind, polite, and a voracious learner--so it's not him I'm worried about. No, I'm worried about ME. If this orientation process is any indication of the next 12 years to come, I'm going to have to start mentally preparing.

And when I say "mentally preparing" I actually mean "stocking up on wine." It's going to be a long 12 years. Or maybe it'll go by in a flash. One or the other. Or both.

Tiny Dancers

2011-05-10T11:13:00.000-07:00

Raising a 3-year-old girl is such a good time! I love the darling outfits and the pink shoes, and I have great fun styling her pretty, wavy, brown hair. But lately I've been wondering about something: When did ballerinas reach the #2 slot on the "Stuff Little Girls Love" list? (The #1 spot? Princesses, natch.)

I've known about the princess obsession for years, even before I had kids of my own (how could you not, they're everywhere). But this ballerina thing has really taken me by surprise.

When I was growing up, not every little girl took ballet lessons. But nowadays it's as if signing up at the local dance studio is a rite of passage that every girl must go through when she hits age three. I certainly understand the appeal; I've thought ballerinas were beautiful ever since I can remember.

But back then, girls didn't just dabble in ballet; if you wanted to dance, it was a major commitment that required hours of practice, hard-core dedication, and a major cash outlay. My best friend was a dedicated dancer. I fondly recall her tattered toe shoes and tight chignons. Watching her dance in the Boston Ballet's production of The Nutcracker was exhilarating, but also made me envious. I kinda wanted to do what she was doing up there on stage, but in those days it seemed like only the girls who aspired to be Principal Ballerina for the ABT took lessons.

Babygirl with two Tiny Ballerinas classmates

That's not the case in 2011, that's for sure. You can't go to the grocery store without spotting at least one little girl in a pink tutu. Our town's community center offers a Tiny Ballerinas class: eight sessions for only $72. Ballet for everyone!

Which is great...except it means one more thing for my little girl to obsess over: the ballet slippers, leotards, tutus, and tights--all of them the pinker the better. Sure, it's harmless now but ballet is not exactly an equal-opportunity activity, and if my darling girl wants to continue dancing, at some point she will most likely develop body-shape issues. (Well, she probably will even without the ballet, but dancing can only make it worse.) I know I'm getting ahead of myself, but do I really want to set her up for that?

So much in these little girls' world already centers around appearance--the princess dresses, jeweled tiaras, sparkly lelli kelly shoes, crazy hair accessories, pink everything--that it almost seems irresponsible for me to encourage something like ballet, the appeal of which is mostly the outfits. Yeah, yeah, I know...ballet is exercise, art, grace, discipline, and cooperation all in one. But that's not why the little girls love it.

It's all about the tutus.

What I Learned Today: Sheep Hate Having Their Butts Shaved

2011-05-08T13:11:00.000-07:00

Seven years ago today, my husband and I were married on Cape Cod. It was a beautiful thing. Our years together have been surprisingly harmonious considering: 1.) we are raising two small children, 2.) I am opinionated, 3.) I am bossy, 4.) I pretty much always think I'm right (though, to be honest, I really and truly usually am).

Did I remember it's our anniversary today? No, I did not.

To be fair, we don't usually celebrate our anniversary beyond a nice dinner out (sans kids). We don't exchange gifts or make a big deal out of it. This is the first time I've forgotten all about it, however. But this year was a tough one; with our anniversary falling on Mother's Day and all my attention focussed on Charlotte's birthday party, I plum forgot. Luckily, my husband did not; he made a dinner reservation at a restaurant we've been wanting to try and even booked the babysitter and everything.

Ladies, if you want a husband who will do nice things for you, marry a man with sisters. Mine has three, and so far, he's never forgotten a birthday, Mother's Day, or anniversary. He even remembers his sisters' and mother's birthdays, which is pretty impressive for someone with a Y-chromosome.

For Mother's Day, he gave me a lovely bouquet of flowers, two cool tops, and two interesting books (Tina Fey's Bossypants, which I can't wait to read, and a bio of Obama's mother, which will probably make me feel like an underachiever). And I got to pick our day's activity.

I chose the sheep-shearing/farmer's market at Muscoot Farm. Muscoot Farm, originally a "gentleman's farm" begun in the 19th century, is now open to the public and free. It's only 20 minutes away so I take the kids there all the time. Gavin loves the two huge Percherons and Charlotte adores the cows and ducks.

My favorites are the piglets, though the two giant Tamworth pigs haven't had a litter these past couple of years. It's too bad for Charlotte because pigs are her favorite animals, but she has yet to see a real-life piglet in her three short years on Earth. I keep hoping we'll show up at the farm one of these days and there'll be a bunch of adorable oinking piglets frolicking around, but I think they would've been born already if it was going to happen this spring. Bummer.

The sheep-shearing was interesting. I know it doesn't hurt the sheep, but their pleading baaas made it clear they didn't exactly love what was going on. In particular, they did NOT like it when the dude shaved around their anuses. Wow, those were some angry sheep! But I thanked them for sacrificing their wool so I could have a cozy blanket to keep me warm all winter, and I think that made them feel better. The kids got to take home a piece of freshly-shorn wool, which made it all worth it.

And at the farmer's market, I bought myself a Mother's Day present: some Hudson River Apricot Kir wine, which is chilling in the fridge as we speak.

All in all, a pretty darn good Mother's Day (if I do say so myself). Oh, yeah...and a nice anniversary, too.

Pigs, Cows and Roosters, Oh, My!

2011-05-07T18:24:00.000-07:00

Today was Charlotte's 3rd birthday party (though she doesn't actually turn three until Wednesday). I invited a whole bunch of kids--probably around 10--but only 3 could make it, due almost completely to First Communions. I think I've been in denial that we live in such a Catholic town, but this made me have to face the facts.

The party was at our house; around here, having a birthday at one's house is quite rare. Most people have 'em at a kids' gym, karate studio, or wherever. Call me old-school, but there is something so wonderful about celebrating special occasions in the comfort of one's home. And I think my kids also like being on their own turf: parties can be so overwhelming but when the venue is home, it gives them some comfort.

And it's certainly a lot cheaper. I don't know what the kids' gyms cost in the rest of the county, but here in Westchester, parties run close to $400...which is absolutely insane!

So we had three adorable 3-year-olds at the party, plus one of my 5-year-old son's friends (a girl whom Charlotte happens to love)...and a bunch of parents. And it was really nice.

I made all the food myself, which (it's so funny and strange that this is the case) people are always impressed by. I always get a few, "Oh, wow, you made all this?" Like it's so hard to make chicken salad? I didn't actually have to kill and pluck the chicken, people! It's a little celery, honey-mustard, mayo, spices, etc. Not rocket science.

It helps that I don't work outside the home. I have the time and brain power to devote to planning a three year old's birthday party. If I had a job-job, I'd be booking the kids' gym and ordering pizza, too. Who has the energy to do both?

Of course when I was growing up, everyone had their parties at home, though in my town not many moms worked outside the home back then (in fact, I can't think of one!) God forbid a mother ordered in the food! Okay, maybe the rich families bought a fancy bakery cake, but for the rest of us, it was mom's best efforts. My mom was pretty good at cake decorating. I remember she'd rummage through our box of Fisher-Price stuff for inspiration. She'd end up decorating our cakes with little people, furniture, vehicles etc., all arranged in a homey scene. Our cakes were tiny, beautiful, suburban dioramas.

Charlotte's party was a barnyard theme (little girl loves her some pigs & cows!), and I had SO MUCH fun decorating the cupcakes! I didn't come up with the idea myself--that's what the Internet is for, am I right?--but I have to brag that at least I am a very good copier. Anyway, here are the cupcakes:

PIGGIES!

ROOSTERS!

COWS!

They were adorable and delicious!

So overall a success. The rain held off and the kids were able to play outside. No one got (too badly) hurt. No one threw up. The presents were really good...which is pretty much all a 3-year-old (and her mom) can hope for.

At Least Now I know Where the Expression "Scaredy Cat" Comes From

2011-04-28T20:11:00.000-07:00

We got a cat five days ago. Paulina's cute, she's furry...and end of story. Okay, so it's probably too soon to judge, but I really wouldn't know. That's because I'm a dog person. I've never spent much time around cats and have never particularly liked them. So why did I allow one in our house, you ask? Ha, because I'm a sucker, that's why.

The literature the animal shelter sent us home with outlined how cats take a while to warm up, and that it might be a week before she even shows her face. Well, Paulina isn't that extreme. She does let us pet her...BUT you have to lie on the floor next to the bed under which she's camped (she's taken over the spare bedroom) and reach, reach, REACH your arm in to do so. Then sometimes she'll purr and use your hand as a scratching post. But you have to go to her; so far it's never the other way around.

I think my problem with this "cat attitude" is that I sort of have one myself. Throughout my life, I've not often been the one who pursued relationships; either they've just happened or else I've been the one pursued. It's just not in my nature to aggressively seek love and affection. Which is why I'm a dog person. Dogs do not hide their love; they slather you with it. With dogs, you get back what you give. With cats...not so much.

The way I feel is that, if the cat wants companionship, she'll come to me. I refuse to beg for her love.

My husband, on the other hand, is always up there reaching his long arm under the bed to pet her, trying to win her affection. Is this a guy thing? Perhaps all those years of wooing girls makes it come naturally to them? Is this learned behavior or innate? Because my son is up there even more than my husband, cooing to the kitty for ages. My daughter, however--whose 3rd birthday present the cat was to begin with--can't understand why the cat is always hiding under the bed, and probably wishes she'd asked for a new tutu for her birthday instead.

Maybe it's a gender thing, or maybe my daughter just takes after me while my son takes after my husband. Who knows?

What I do know is that cats can live a looong time. I also know that I don't plan on sharing my house with a feline stranger for the next decade.

You hear that, Paulina? You'd better start showing us some love soon.

(Oh, and FYI, by love I don't mean the pile of poop you left in our bedroom earlier today because you were too scared by three noisy kids running around to venture down to the basement to use your litter box. That is NOT okay.)

Talking to Girls About Duran Duran

2011-04-22T19:10:00.000-07:00

One of the Christmas presents I received from my husband last December was Talking to Girls About Duran Duran by Rob Sheffield. I've admired Sheffield's music writing in Rolling Stone for years, and, as those who know me are well aware, I was a HUGE Durannie back in the day. So I was definitely looking forward to reading his latest book, which is basically a music memoir (as is his first book, Love Is a Mix Tape, which I have not read).

I'm enjoying Talking to Girls About Duran Duran and would recommend it--but mainly just to those folks who came of age in the '80s and will be able to appreciate all the era-specific references (Phoebe Cates, Soloflex Man posters, Square Pegs) and one-hit-wonder recording artists (Haircut 100, Kim Wilde, Tone Loc). If you didn't live it, I don't think you'll really get it.

Also, Sheffield's writing style suffers slightly in the longer format; he tends to repeat himself and over-explain things, as if he stretched 100 pages of material into a 274-page book.

But that's okay, because it turns out Sheffield is even a bigger Duran Duran fan than I am, so I gotta respect that. I was a young girl when they made it big, and therefore my flame burned hotter (I doubt Rob wallpapered his bedroom with John Taylor photos). But his flickered longer: Sheffield still buys Duran Duran albums, while I stopped when the '80s ended.

One great thing Sheffield does is completely and utterly capture the way teenagers can infuse music with way too much meaning and importance. For example, this is what he says about Hall & Oates's "Maneater":

"But I love every minute of this song. The long, smoldering intro, building up tension beat by beat. The cheesy '80s sax solo to end all cheesy '80s sax solos.... And the way it warns me about those tough girls they were always singing about. The girl was deadly, man, but she could really rip my world apart?

Why the hell didn't I meet any girls like this? Where did all these she-cats hang out?...Okay, so the beauty is there, but the beast is in her heart. Where's the downside, Hall? He wouldn't say. All he told me was, 'I wouldn't if I were you. I know what she can do.' And all Oates added was 'Watch out!' I have to admit, I was intrigued."

Clearly, Sheffield put way too much thought into each and every song he heard in the '80s. But didn't we all? Because, as Sheffield writes, these were the songs that "...warped my brain with dubious ideas, boneheaded goals, laughable hopes and timeless mysteries.... But I'm not tossing these songs into any kind of fire--I'm just shaking them to see what memories come tumbling out. And of course, a lot of those memories have to do with love, and learning about love through pop music."

That's why these songs mean so much to us: because at the time, everything meant so much to us. We felt every aspect of life so deeply, and music was no exception. Nowadays, I can still occasionally get fired up about a song (like Adele's "Running in the Deep"), but it's not the same. I miss those days when I would rush out to the record store, babysitting money in hand, to buy an eagerly anticipated album the day it came out. Needless to say, that doesn't happen anymore.

Reading Talking to Girls About Duran Duran brought all that back to me. So thank you, Rob Sheffield, for the trip down memory lane.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

2011-04-12T18:55:00.000-07:00

My upcoming 20th college reunion has got me thinking about old friends and acquaintances I haven't seen in years. Who will show up for the festivities? And what will they look like now that the glow of youth has faded? Seeing people after so many years can be an unsettling thing: Some folks look pretty good, which is to say they've aged gracefully. A few actually look even better than when they were young--those who coped with bad acne or lingering baby fat back in the day. Then there are the "What the hell...?" folks--the unlucky ones who have aged so horribly they're barely recognizable.

Here's a few of our favorite stars of the '80s and the categories in which they belong:

Category One: Looking Pretty Good for Your Age

Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface,
1983--perfection

Michelle now--just as stunning
(surely she's had plastic surgery,
but at least it hasn't completely
changed her looks)

John Stamos in his 80s
General Hospital days--
very cute!

John now--still gorgeous

Category Two: Better Than Before

Jeremy Piven--a bad case
of dorkiness-with-braces
(he was in Lucas and
Say Anything in the 80s,
but I couldn't find photos)

Jeremy now--sure, he's an
ass, but aging is working
in his favor

Sarah Jessica Parker in her
less-than-glamorous
Square Pegs days

S.J. now--never a beauty,
with age she's learned to work
with what she's got and looks
much better (though she's
almost certainly had a nose job)

Category Three: GOOD GOD! What Happened to You?!

Kelly LeBrock in Weird Science, 1985--
so hot she could melt an iceberg

Kelly now--Oy, vey!

Val Kilmer--he was beyond
sexy in 1984's Top Secret

Val now--AAAHHHH!
Say it isn't so!

I'm hoping that most of the people I see at the reunion look great...except, that is, for the guy who broke my heart. Him? I'm hoping he makes Val Kilmer look like John Stamos.

Time Passages

2011-04-08T14:25:00.000-07:00

I was in the car the other day, and "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong" by the Spin Doctors came on the radio. When the D.J. informed us listeners that the tune was from 1993, at first I just thought, "Oh, right, that was when I was living in Boston after college, before I moved to Manhattan." But then I did the math: "Holy crap, that was EIGHTEEN years ago!" Because, while it doesn't quite feel like yesterday, it certainly doesn't seem like almost two decades ago.

It got me thinking about how the passage of time feels so much different now that I'm getting older. I remember being, oh, fifteen maybe, and rolling my eyes whenever adults would say something stupid like, "Enjoy it while you can...before you know it, you'll be all grown up with real responsibilities!" Because back then, it seemed like it was taking forever to grow up. And now, of course, the years do seem to be passing by much more quickly.

But that's to be expected so it's no big deal. However, what I am having trouble wrapping my brain around is this:

When I was 15 years old, 18 years earlier was 1967, and the differences between 1985 & 1967 seem SO MUCH more extreme than the differences between 2011 & 1993. The confusing/disturbing/weird part is that I can't figure out why this is the case. Surely it can't only be because I actually experienced the years between '93 and '11, while I was either unborn or else a young child for most of the years between '67 and '85, can it? That just seems crazy. Perhaps it's because the changes in the world in the late 60s and 70s were so huge and important that it makes it feel as though 1967-1985 had to be more than 18 years.

Because think about it....

1967 was the Summer of Love, The Doors, Beatles, hippies, flowers in hair, Vietnam War, and protests.

The following 18 years were incredible: Students were shot at Kent State, the Vietnam War finally ended, the Women's Rights Movement took off, abortion was legalized, Watergate happened, there was the Three Mile Island incident, the arms race with the Soviets escalated, and punk co-existed with disco...just to name a few monumental events.

Now let's look at 1985:

Madonna, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, day-glo, drug cartels, Reaganomics, New Coke, Live Aid, and Miami Vice.

So much changed in the world from the late 60s to 1985!

However, when I think of the 18 years following 1993, sure there were some important events that occurred--most notably the terrorist attacks of 9-11, cell phones, and the Internet--but in 1993, the U.S. was in a recession and we were mired in Middle East nonsense...and well, it's pretty much the same today.

I think what it comes down to is innocence. Back in 1967, it seemed like our country still had an aura of innocence about it. Although I wasn't yet born, everything I've read, watched, and listened to from that era has me believing that people generally felt as if everything would be okay. People were still optimistic about the world and about life.

Innocence was lost shortly thereafter. It was hard to remain optimistic in the face of civilian massacres in Vietnam (and at home), the Charles Manson murders, and numerous rock star O.D.s. By 1985, forget it: Cynicism and pessimism ruled. We'd become a suspicious, untrusting nation.

But in 1993, innocence had already been lost, so there wasn't that same monumental change taking place in the 18 years following. We just went from pessimistic to pessimistic again.

Or maybe it just seems this way because I'm getting old and delusional. Who knows?

You Win Some, You "Win" Some

2011-04-03T18:11:00.000-07:00

My five-year-old son, Gavin, is starting soccer next weekend. It's his first foray into organized sports, and I'm not all that confident it's going to go smoothly.

Gavin is, shall we say, competition-adverse. You know those little boys who are always challenging their friends with, "I'll race you!" and "Let's see who gets there first!" Yeah, well, I don't have one of those. But my nephew is one of those boys, and when he and Gavin are together and Gavin responds to his invitations to race with "No thanks," the confusion in my nephew's eyes makes me sad. Why can't my son just say, "Sure!" and make his 3-1/2-year-old cousin's day?

Gavin is sweet, funny, smart, and creative. He's also athletic and coordinated: The problem with sports is all in his head. He enjoys kicking a ball around or hitting pitches but any whiff of competition shuts him down.

I know this isn't particularly unusual and that lots of kids behave this way, but that doesn't necessarily make it acceptable. Is it just me or are more parents letting their kids off the hook nowadays when it comes to competing? When I was little, you played games and learned to lose without being a total baby, and learned to win without being a total jerk. Because being a baby or a jerk meant you weren't gonna be too popular with your peers.

But these days, kids don't get to learn what competition is all about. Parents are always trying to protect their kids from getting their feelings hurt; nowadays everyone wins and everyone gets a medal. But competition is part of life, and I don't think age five is too young to learn about losing--especially when the outcome just doesn't matter much.

So next weekend, no matter what, I'll be out there encouraging my son to play, to try his best, and to have fun. And I swear, I'm not going to let a few tears change my mind: he's playing for sure.

It's Called "March Madness" Because the People Who Watch It Are Insane

2011-03-30T18:41:00.000-07:00

I just need to rant a little bit about the insanity called "March Madness." Okay, so the "March" part is clear, but "Madness?" The only reason it could be called that is because the people who live and breathe college basketball this month are CRAAAAZY. Cuz if you ask me, it's a colossal snorefest.

The bottom line is that I just don't get it: Why are so many people who were actually last in college during the Ford administration watching a bunch of kids play ball who've probably never even heard of Gerald Ford?

Every year this question occurs to me, but since my husband is not a basketball fan and doesn't force me to watch the tournament, I've not had reason to really ponder it. But this year, we happened to spend a March weekend at my in-laws' house, and because my mother-in-law is a basketball fan and an even bigger March Madness fan, we ended up watching a lot of college b-ball that weekend. (Or, in my case, staring a lot at the wall just above the TV set.)

So I asked my m-i-l, "What is it that you love so much about watching non-professional players who are more than 40 years your junior and who attend colleges you have no affiliation with compete against each other?"

"I like watching good plays."

Really? Is it that simple? No, it can't be...not for most people. I mean, back in the 80s when I was a youngun, I went through a massive basketball phase, watching every Celtics game I could. Back then, NBA basketball was still fast-paced and entertaining--full of good plays!--but despite my love of the game, I didn't watch March Madness. Nor did I watch it when I was actually in college and went to lots of games because I was friends with many of my university team's basketball players.

I guess it just wasn't as big a deal back then? Though according to Wikipedia, the tournament's been happening since 1939.

So, please, can someone explain it to me? Why do so many people suddenly care about colleges they've hardly heard of before, like Butler and Gonzaga and VCU? Why? Why?

Absolut Crap

2011-03-13T17:37:00.000-07:00

While at the liquor store earlier today (replenishing supplies), I saw something Absolut-ly heinous and offensive:

Yes, you are correct: the limited edition Absolut Brooklyn. This offends me on quite a few levels, actually. The first level is the ridiculousness of the vodka's flavor: red apple and ginger. I kinda get the ginger part but my feeling on apple is that, unless you are under the age of ten, you should not be drinking apple-flavored beverages. The very thought of lifting a glass to my lips and getting a strong whiff of red delicious makes me want to barf.

Not that this new flavor combination should surprise me. Gross vodkas have been around for decades, though the first couple Absolut variations--Citron and Kurant--were relatively grown-up, at least. Now however, other wacky flavors are available: Berri Acai (does anyone actually know what acai tastes like?), Wild Tea (are there really people out there who wish their hard liquor tasted more like tea?), and the super-sweet and cloying sounding Absolut Mango.

The second level of offensiveness is, of course, the name.

I have nothing against the regular, old Brooklyn (a sometimes gritty/sometimes lovely place); it's even my second favorite borough. My problem is with the "new" Brooklyn: the one with all the greasy, bearded hipsters, trendy bistros, and just-completed, over-priced condos.

As someone who lived for over a decade in downtown Manhattan back when it was the center of the rock-n-roll universe, I resent Brooklyn for stealing that title from the city I love. Because, despite what it desperately wants to believe, Brooklyn will never be as cool as Manhattan. TRUST ME (because I've been to Brooklyn).

Sure, it's got some cool and funky parts, but they are tiny, hip pockets nestled within a sprawling, usually-dirty, often-dangerous, 99-cent-store borough. Brooklyn as a whole will never have Manhattan's energy. You know how the second you enter the city, its energy zips through you like electricity coursing through your veins? Doesn't happen in Brooklyn.

And the third level of offensiveness is to whom the vodka is marketed. It's certainly not meant to appeal to the bedraggled Brooklyn hipsters (and that's just the chicks), because they can't afford $18 cocktails. And surely Manhattan folks aren't clamoring for hooch named after the borough that stole their precious borough's thunder, right?

Which pretty much leaves Jersey...and/or other areas of the country aspiring to hipster-dom and trendiness.

And I resent any alcoholic beverage that's marketed to Jersey.

The Dreaded Post About Religion

2011-03-06T17:55:00.000-08:00

My husband and I watched Bill Maher’s scathing documentary, Religulous, for the first time last night and I have to say, it made me happy not to be religious. No duh, of course it did; Maher found and interviewed every religious wacko he could find, so there was no chance of religious fanaticism coming across as anything but ridiculous. Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Mormons alike were skewered.

There is no one more cynical and mean-spirited than Bill Maher, and this movie was by no means a fair and balanced investigation of organized religion. Nevertheless, I can relate to a lot of what he said in Religulous. I'm a realist (even as a child, I was less prone to flights of fancy than most kids) and therefore I've always found Biblical "stories" (The Creation, The Resurrection, etc.) hard to swallow. I can remember many an Easter, sitting in Sunday School (which my dad forced us to attend only sporadically), listening to the teacher explain the resurrection story, and trying really hard to believe that Jesus actually came back to life on the third day. Even as a kid I knew that dead is dead and there's no coming back.

Even though I had issues with some of the Bible's contents, that didn't mean I didn't pray to God just like the other kids. Every night before bed, I’d pray for my family and friends, as well as for whichever animal or people were in the news at that time (starving Ethiopians, clubbed baby fur seals, etc.). My final prayer would be, “And please, God, don’t let there be a nuclear war.” Hey, it was the Seventies, after all.

Occasionally I would communicate with God at other times, but it would almost always be when I either wanted something or was in trouble and as a result, it ended up being stressful for me, not reassuring. I figured that since God sees and knows everything, he most certainly would have realized that I only called on him in times of trouble. I was a poor-weather friend to God: when everything was going great, I forgot all about him. This made me nervous that perhaps God didn't hold me in very high regard, and therefore I was never confident that my prayers would be answered. I started to get resentful of the whole God thing.

Despite my misgivings, I generally believed in God while growing up. It seemed like the thing do to, and since I was always pretty much a rule-follower, I just went along.

But then I became a teenager and, as teens will do, started questioning everything I believed in. God and religion came under fire, and I stopped praying. I didn't exactly stop believing, but God pretty much disappeared from my life. Eh...I had other things on my mind, you know?

Then came college, and agnosticism set in. Being religious in college was almost as bad as having an STD: it made you a social pariah. You were basically considered an idiot of you were religious. I'm sure there were God-loving and God-fearing people around, but I certainly didn't know them.

And that brings me to the present. I have two young children with malleable little brains: what to do, what to do? We live in a very Catholic town, so when it comes to religion I've decided to keep my mouth shut and leave their religious upbringing to my Catholic-raised husband. He takes them to church (while Mommy goes to the gym) and leads them in their bedtime prayers. I figure my role will come later on, when they are teenagers and begin to question and doubt. I'll tell them it's okay to be unsure, that they need to make their own decisions, and that they are wonderful people no matter what they choose to believe.

What else can I do, right? After all, I can't make myself believe in something I don't. And when it comes right down to it, I'll admit it: I'm sort of with Bill Maher on this one.

School Daze

2011-02-18T18:07:00.000-08:00

Ack! I can't believe I'm already stressing my son getting into college...and he hasn't even started Kindergarten yet. It's going to be a nerve-wracking 13 years, that's for sure.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those Tiger Mothers who sign their two-year-olds up for Arabic classes or force piano lessons on 'em at age four. My son is smart but normal: he's five and just starting to read, and he only speaks one language. I want him to have a normal childhood and pursue those activities that truly interest him, regardless of what might look best on his college application.

But is playing dinosaurs and making pom-pom animals really putting my son on the Ivy League track?

And that's what it comes down to, folks. I went to an Ivy League university and I'll do everything in my power to give my kids that opportunity as well. Because, unlike the haters out there (you're all just jealous!), I believe that graduating from an Ivy League college opened many doors for me.

I was a driven teenager. I knew from an early age that I wanted to attend a top-notch university, so everything I did from then on was with my eyes on the prize. Sure, I enjoyed playing clarinet, but the only reason I busted my butt learning every single scale--minors included!--was so I'd earn a spot in the selective, award-winning concert band. Why? Because it would look good on my college app.

I was an excellent student--ranked #8 in my graduating class of 270 students--but nowadays even being Valedictorian does not guarantee a kid admittance to an Ivy. And besides my grades, I did everything else quite averagely: average soccer player, average clarinet player, average number of extracurriculars. My SAT scores were above-average but nothing spectacular.

There are high school seniors out there today who, with the same qualifications I had 24 years ago, wouldn't even get into one of my safety schools. So what does that mean for my kid? Things are bound to get even more competitive over the next decade, no?

I'm just afraid that, in order to be a competitive candidate, my son will have to sign up for every single club his school offers, speak multiple languages, be a musical virtuoso, have a .350 batting average on the varsity baseball team, and take five AP classes every semester. Not mention summer internships at the White House. Forget about how the heck my kid is supposed to deal with that workload, let's talk about how his MOTHER's going to hack it. Am I right, people?

Because I know, I JUST KNOW...it's going to be me gently nudging him to amp it up, me suggesting he join the f-ing Mathletes (may he forgive me someday), me helping him study for his APs. Did you know high school kids these days compile something called an Activity Sheet? It's essentially a resume for high-achieving teens without jobs on which they brag about how many Science Fairs they've won. Reading one can make your skin crawl.

I should probably not care what colleges my kids get into. I should probably not push them at all and just let them "follow their bliss" wherever it may lead them. But knowing myself, it's unlikely that will happen. I don't know what the answer is. All I do know is that it's a scary world out there...and it freaks me out that we are willingly sending our kids out into it.