Oh, Deer!

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

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

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?"

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

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?

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

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.

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

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

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!

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.