Gray Matter Matters

LinkedIn invited my printer to join my network

2012-02-15T07:57:00.007-05:00

What happens when good technology goes bad?

Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of technology--it would be hard to write all those scripts for Digitwirl if I wasn't, but I have to say LinkedIn--you've gone too far.

I prefer programs and applications that assume you're an imbecile and always double check with you before you do anything drastic, like cancel an email you were sending, close your browser, or wear white after Labor Day.

"You are about to close four windows, are you suuuuuure you want to do that?

Oh crap! Thank God you asked! I was about to close my Twitter, Facebook, Klout and LinkedIn pages. That was a close one!

So last week when I was on LinkedIn they thoughtfully made some suggestions about who I might want to connect with. Kind of like a blind date, without having to wear Spanx.

In fact, they were going to make it easy for me. They were going to check all the people I already know and see who I might have overlooked to join my network.

Sounds good. Sure.

*Click*

Up popped a comprehensive list of people I know, all selected of course. I unselected everyone and then carefully went through and put a check mark next to all the people I was interested contacting.

Done and done.

*Click*

"Congratulations, you have sent out 216 invitations!"

I blinked a few times and stared at it the same way I did my pregnancy test.

What? Can that be right? (The same thing I thought when I saw my pregnancy test).

If I could have jumped into the computer and snatched up invites the way one might if 216 pieces of paper one was carrying went flying in a gust of wind I would have.

But it was done.

No, "Are you suuuuure you want to invite everyone you have ever interacted with in the history of ever?"

So, here are people I am now connected with:

My exterminator.

A kid who was a lifeguard at my pool club.

A friend I had a major falling out with four years ago.

My mother-in-law.

And, my printer.

Not the company that printed my book. My actual desktop printer. It has an email address and when I came home a printout of my invitation was waiting for me.

My printer clearly had no desire to link with my professional network (and exterminator, lifeguard and mother-in-law) and ignored my invitation. Jerk.

In today's day and age when a simple click of a button can link everything everywhere at anytime (yes Twitter and Facebook I'm looking at you), I think we all have to be very mindful before we breezily press any "submit, allow, or send" buttons.

If you've every done a reply all that eviscerates your boss and she was on the recipient list you know what I'm talking about. Do it once and I promise you will triple check every email you reply to.

So please, internet, applications and computer, treat me like a 3-year old. Let me take a second to think about the consequences of my actions.

If it means I won't accidentally connect with my gynecologist I'm totally ok with that.

[PS: Except for the tweet button below. You should definitely click that.]

*******

(By the way, if you want to know more about the printer you can email to, click the link above)

If you want to be as good as a French Parent just be a little lazier

2012-02-10T15:54:00.009-05:00

You Americans.

What with your enrichment programs, your responding to your child's every need, your willingness to play a 38th consecutive round of Candyland. Man, you really are sucky parents.

I've always said the key to being a great mom is being just a little bit selfish and fairly lazy.

And I think this recent article "Why French Parents are Superior" in the Wall Street Journal about the French being better than us bears that out.

I have one child. I knew very early on that I was not up to the task of being his playmate and his sole source of entertainment. I mean I guess I could have, I just didn't want to.

So I use a method that many of you may be uncomfortable with for fear of breaking your child.

I say "No."

"Mommy, do you want to play Candyland?"

"No, not really." (I say while taking a nap).

Voila!

"Mommy I'm bored."

"Sorry, honey. Find something to do." (I say while blogging).

C'est magnifique!

And off he'd go. He'd build a cool Lego structure. Read a book. Make up stories and, ok, fine, watch a lot of television.

"Mom. Mom. Maaaaaaahm..."

"Sweetie, this is not a lambchop, it's a phone. I'll finish up and then you can tell me what you have to say." (I'm going to assume it's obvious what I'm doing).

Vive la moi!

Of course I'm joking. Mostly. But I do have a parenting philosophy that I like to call "benevolent neglect."

My son is the center of my world, I just don't let him know it.

So take a page out of my book entitled "Lazy Parenting: How never to play Candyland again."

We might never be able to pull off a jaunty scarf like a French mom, or master the art of looking constantly aloof, but if you really want to raise kids like they do, just do a little less for your child and a little more for yourself.

De rien.

Photo credit: Zazzle

The best friends you've never met.

2012-02-06T20:25:00.000-05:00

I know blogging is not as bright and shiny and new as Twitter or Piniterest or Flshtb. (I made that last one up, but you thought you were out of the loop for a second, didn't you?)

In fact blogging may be downright old fashioned even though it only charged into the mainstream about 6 or 7 years ago.

Or maybe that's just mom-blogging. For myself, and I imagine many of you, what drew me to writing post after post after post was the sense that I was not alone. Even if sometimes my pitifully small (often none) number of comments made me question whether or not I was shouting into the abyss.

But as my blogroll (remember those) grew and I spent hours a day reading what my fellow moms had to say I formed bonds with so many incredible women. I marveled that people outside of New York could write with crackling wit and sarcasm that I thought only existed within a 50 mile radius of Times Square. How arrogant and stupid of me.

I would sob reading Kate Inglis' (who I only knew back then as Sweet & Salty) story of having lost one of her newborn twins. Liz's (Mom101) posts were, to me, the gold standard of how impeccably written and thought provoking funny posts could be. And they continue to be today.

My husband couldn't understand when I would tell him what my friend Christina was up to, or the hilarious thing Wendi "said." I'd have to clarify Christina, (sigh) Fairly Odd Mother! Wendi--you know the tampon thing?

I've always written anonymously so when I finally went to a BlogHer conference I'd wore a badge that said "Gray Matter Matters" and wrote my name underneath. And I'd be so excited when someone would grab and hug me and say "It's so nice to finally meet you!!"

Mom-blogging is a powerfully strong community. We laugh and cry and support one another in ways that are unfathomable to those who don't "get it."

Today Susan Neibur died after fighting Inflamatory Breast Cancer for years. I didn't know her. I may have ridden an elevator with her or sat at her table at BlogHer for all I know. I read her blog occasionally and my heart would ache. Sometimes I just couldn't read it, because I couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in her shoes. It was too scary.

We all knew she was going to die very soon. But today Twitter and Facebook ignited with a wave of sadness and sympathy for @whymommy. Just the words form a lump in my through. Why. Mommy. Unimaginable.

And beyond the devastation so many felt what moved me even more was how much we (yes, even those of us who didn't know her personally) loved her and would miss her. "One of our own."

Mom-blogging may seem old fashioned and blogrolls laughable, but one thing is still true--We are a true community. We come together. We support each other (usually). And we genuinely care deeply for one another.

Today I'm proud to be a mom-blogger.

Places worse than Punxsutawney to live.

2012-02-02T09:14:00.008-05:00

Don't you think that residents of Punxsutawney want to kidney punch everyone who makes reference to Groudhog's Day when they meet? Which I would imagine is every single person they meet.

I know I would.

It got me thinking about other places I'd hate to be from.

Here's a few:Intercourse, PA. Located in Lancaster, in the bosom of Amish country. Go figure.Boring, Oregon. Redundant? (With apologies to what I'm sure is actually a very exciting place to live).

How about Hell, Michigan? What? Did they rename Flint to more accurately reflect the city's character?

Jumping across the pond--Penistone, UK. Can you imagine all those Brits constantly saying, "Nooo, actually it's Pen-ES-ton or PEN-iston," or just trying to eliminate the "i" all together and claim they live in "Penstone."

And how can we forget our neighbors to the north, and this, I truly think--would cause me to relocate immediately--Dildo, Newfoundland. Once a thriving whaling town, by the way until some dicks outlawed whaling.

So, cheer up Punxsutawneyans, if you think it's annoying to be forever linked to a bastard rodent just remember, it could be far worse.

Photo Credit: From official Groundhog Day website!

Can you teach a child to be motivated?

2012-01-30T11:50:00.001-05:00

I remember it like it was yesterday, not 30mumblemumblemumble years ago. My dad flipping out at me, because I got a (ok, another) crappy grade on a math test. Of course in my house if you got a 99 on a test my parents would ask what happened to the other point?

I swore I'd never do that to MY kid. Of course I figured that by marrying a super smarty pants I wouldn't need to. Sadly he got my math genes.

So I cringed the other day as I heard from upstairs my husband yelling "YOU. ARE. SO. LAZY!" He was beyond frustrated by my son's progress (or lack thereof) studying for an upcoming math test. And yes, my son is maddening. He gets the concepts and blows it in the computation. Basic stuff like adding incorrectly or forgetting to carry the "2."

"Careless errors! You're not focusing! Jesus Christ! Apply yourself!" That was what I heard a lot of during my formative years when it came to math. And now I know how my parents felt. I hear those words coming out of my mouth.

"If you were stupid I'd understand!" he'd yell at me.

I get it now.

I was in "gifted" programs. Teachers always used the phrase "extremely bright," usually followed by, "but doesn't work up to full potential."

Oh that is soooo my son. He is brilliant in so many ways, but he shows no determination or motivation to do better if something is challenging for him.

He is not driven by his weaknesses, he surrenders to them.

I'm sure my dad felt the same way about me.

I know screaming doesn't work.

I know we can work with him so that he does better on tests.

What I don't know is how to make HIM want to do better.
Because I swear, if he really did work to his full potential amazing things would happen.

And that would mean more to me than any grade on any test.

Homework sucks. And my kid hates it too.

2012-01-26T08:52:00.005-05:00

I used to roll my eyes at parents who "did" homework with their kids.

I felt that at a certain point the most you should do is make sure your kid did everything, but it was up to them to sink or swim.

How else would the teacher know what was sticking and what wasn't?

But it soon became apparent that if I didn't make sure he understood the concepts then everything that followed was pointless. Math is his weakness. It was for me too.

Most of the time when he says "I don't get it," he really doesn't. I get that. It was me.

"Does he actually attend school?" my husband asked testily one night after my son got nearly every problem on his math worksheet wrong.

Here's my biggest problem with homework: First, as they get older the amount they get grows exponentially (exponentials, another math concept he doesn't "get"). Honestly I think it's too much. I think much of it is busy work. And I feel bad for him.

If you had to go to your job all day, stay hyper-focused with very few breaks, had to be an expert in five extremely different areas then come home and dig into another couple hours of work, eat, shower and go to sleep how would you like it?

Oh, and factor in if, God forbid, you want to have a hobby. Squeeze that in too.

I feel so bad for him. We expect so much of our kids.

Does anyone else feel this way?

I think our kids would be better served with longer term projects that they could work on a little at a time so they could both learn the material and how to manage their time. I find when he has assignments like that he is far more diligent about getting it right, rather than getting it done.

It would be wonderful if teachers were able to identify children who are consistently struggling with their lessons and give those students homework that simplifies the concepts and then pushes them to apply them. That type of homework makes a lot of sense to me.

Allowing a portion of each day to work with those kids while others have a chance to get a head start on their projects or homework makes a lot of sense to me.

Instead I watch him struggle, wilt under the fatigue, get stressed out and I feel bad for him.

I know our teachers are doing their best. I cannot think of a more important job, and we all know that each of our lives has been touched and affected by a few great teachers.

I know many are mandated to work the way they do. But I would ask everyone involved with the education of our children to spend one month working the way they do, and then decide if it's the best way to get the most out of our children.

Am I the only one who feels this way?

Yes I feed my son crap, what of it.

2012-01-19T18:48:00.009-05:00

Ok, hold onto your judgment caps, but I’m going to admit something that moms aren’t supposed to—we have junk food in the house.

(And the blogosphere gives a collective gasp)

As a new mother I didn’t whip up homemade batches of sweet potato baby food or buy organic quinoa teething biscuits.

(The blogosphere's head explodes)

I know for damn sure my mother didn’t, and somehow I survived.

I consider chewy granola bars health food and fruit leathers a perfectly reasonable source of fruit-based nutrients.

(The blogosphere calls Social Services)

The other day I admitted on Twitter that I leave a bowl of chocolate out and have a cabinet with Cheetos and Doritos. I’m proud to say even with ready access he always asks permission before he eats any of them.

Sometimes it’s granted and sometimes it’s denied, but he never sneaks. Ever.

As a kid my dad would buy stacks of the half-pound Crunch Bars and we’d all hang out in my parent’s room and eat them while we watched TV. We had cookies in the pantry and cans of squeeze cheese.

Again, somehow I survived.

It’s not an excuse it’s just a fact.

Sometimes we look back in horror at some of the things our parents did when it came to raising us. We were put on our stomachs in the crib, didn’t have car seats, and yet, if you’re reading this, somehow we survived.

Maybe that takes the pressure off. Maybe there’s a mom or two out there who has felt “less than,” because they didn’t play Mozart when their kids were in utero, enroll their kids in Francais Por Bébés, or compost.

We’re quick to judge each other and quicker to judge ourselves. But this is all I’m saying—whatever you’re doing or not doing is not going to make your child better or worse than everyone else’s.

And doesn’t make you a better or worse mother than everyone else.

Do what you’re comfortable with. Own it.

Allowing my son to eat some junk food is just one of many parenting decisions I make everyday.

The fact that my kid isn’t a sneak, with food or anything else, means I’m doing something right.

One small step away from boyhood, one giant step towards growing up

2012-01-15T14:51:00.005-05:00

I am the first to admit I am an overprotective parent.

I am also the first to admit that my son hasn't always shown himself to be the most independent, self-reliant kid.

And no, don't even suggest that the second is because of the first, Buster.

But today we were lounging around in my bed and I said (jokingly), "Grunt, go into town and get me some bagels."

(Grunt, it's a term of affection, really it is).

And he said, "Ok, where's your money?"

I, thinking this was one of our many ridiculous conversations like the "Why can't we get a seal" one we were having just prior to this one, said "In my wallet."

And before I knew it he was dressed and ready to go.

The moment of truth. For both of us. Would he really do it? Would I really let him?

We live on top of a steep hill with blind curves, but just at the bottom of it is the local village with a fantastic bagel shop (hey, it is New York). He has never, ever walked anywhere by himself. Well, once he walked to a friend's house from school and immediately decided that walking was for the birds.

Oh wait, flying is for the birds, but you get what I mean.

It was freezing outside. He's pretty lazy. And I was still fairly confident this would end with him changing his mind. But it didn't.

So, we mapped out a strategy--stay on this side of the road, watch out for lunatics flying around the curves, be careful at the crosswalk and let's stay on the phone.

So off he went, giving me a play-by-play. My pride overrode my fear as I listened to him politely ordering a dozen bagels, asking for change, stuffing them in his backpack and then deciding to head next door to the bakery for a croissant or muffin.

I texted my husband and he was utterly gobsmacked.

I should be honest, if the roles had been reversed and he let my son do this while I was out I would have flipped. Like called social services flipped. But that's a post for another day. You've been very patient so far.

When he returned home he was triumphant. We hugged and high-fived and both acknowledged that it was a really big deal.

I let him keep the change and he declared the massive chocolate muffin he devoured the best ever.

I'm not surprised.

He can re-program our electronics, but toilet paper has him baffled

2012-01-12T09:28:00.008-05:00

"Honey, we're out of toilet paper in the powder room, could you bring some up?"

This is what I discovered...

This is what I expected...

And this is why he's not getting laid tonight...

Sydney Spies, meet Whatsyourprice.com

2012-01-09T15:58:00.006-05:00

Honey, I feel for you.

After I saw your thought-provoking interview (exclusive interview!) this morning on the The Today Show I realized that you are being wrongfully persecuted for being too darn pretty.

I mean really, would the yearbook committee have rejected your extremely not in any way skanky picture if you had been ugly? Or heavy? Or a dude? They are so totally just, like totally jealous of you, riiiiight?

Clearly you are being targeting for being a pretty blonde with moxie and big boobs, I mean big dreams of making it in this crazy, mixed-up world.

So I do understand the pickle you're in.

And those uptight bastards had the nerve to reject your second picture.

Don't they get that you're just "built that way," and there is nothing remotely inappropriate about clawing against a faux concrete wall in a dress that may or may not be literally painted onto your nubile body?

I mean you explained it very clearly this morning to Matt Lauer: "I honestly think (the picture) describes who I am..." Well said, Syd, well said.

So when I heard that you were going to have to dig into your own pockets, which let's face it can't be easy to do in Daisy Duke jeggings, and shell out $300 to have your picture in the ad section of the yearbook I felt like I had to do something.

Ok, so I did a little research and here's what I came up with. Whatsyourprice.com. It's a site where unattractive guys, who have a few extra dollars, pay to go out with attractive women who love extra dollars.

What? No. No, that's not prostitution. Don't be ridiculous. How outrageous for you to suggest such a thing.

It's, um, it's---well, it's--it's how, if you price yourself right, you could easily buy 10 pages of ads in your yearbook and fill them with any tarty, I mean tasteful, pictures of you you want--that's what it is.

Your welcome.

Fight the power, Syd. Don't stop believin'.

Photos: The Today Show

WWJMD?

2012-01-08T10:47:00.002-05:00

You Tube has been known to be a star-maker.

Take Justin Beiber.

That kid, Chase Ramsey, who sang Paparazzi and got signed.

That nutty, nutty, badger.

What do all of these videos have in common?

Someone shared them in hopes of showing off what their kid, or rodent as the case may be, had going on.

So I asked, myself when my son created this stop-motion animation project at the Jacob Burns Media Arts Lab (a super cool place, check it out), why not show people what he conceived of, filmed, scored and starred in?

In other words, What Would Justin's Mom Do?

So, without too much build up, which you'd just think was a mother's blind pride, I want you to take a look at this. Share it with your kids, they'll totally get a kick out of it.

I'm still not even sure how he did some of the effects, but I just think it's pretty amazing.

Whoops, I said no build up.

Enjoy!

(Oh, and if any of you out there are agents looking to sign pint-sized future film directors, feel free to give me a shout).

I just want to fly

2012-01-06T16:18:00.014-05:00

Wednesday night I did something I very rarely do. (A subset of which could include, but is not limited to: scrubbing the toilets, rotating my wardrobe for the different seasons, reading the New Yorker, and things my husband would prefer I not expand upon).

I went to a "meet up" hosted by the incomparable Holly Fink and company. We met at The Voracious Reader, a quaint independent bookstore in Larchmont, (yes, there are still a few left). Rhonda Hurwitz was the speaker and she was talking on the topic of Klout and other social metrics all of which give me yet another way to feel like the girl desperately looking around the lunch room for a seat, with a tray of jello and tater tots feeling hopelessly uncool.

But that's just me. I gave up analyzing my analytics ages ago and you know what? For me, ignorance is bliss. So long as I'm not entirely aware of how irrelevant I am I can maintain the belief that what I write here, or anywhere, is being devoured by hoards of adoring fans.

But this isn't about that stuff. This is about how stimulating it was to being around smart, switched-on, people. Small business owners, interior designers, social media experts. I wish we had all had more time to chat, because I left feeling so inspired from connecting with these people.

Women who may or may not have had kids. I don't know since no time was spent discussing them. They all lived somewhere I assume, but not in my school district, so the conversation was not dominated by talk of budget cuts and tenure candidates.

This morning I had coffee with a woman I recently met. She is brilliant, beautiful, ambitious, and if I could think of a reason to hate her for all of that I would, but honestly she's just fantastic. And I don't know if it was the Guatemalan-African blend or the stimulating conversation, but I felt energized when we said goodbye.

On my way out of the coffee shop I ran into Jeff Pearlman, a frenetic, funny, honest-to-God author, who always makes my brain feel like it's stumbling to keep up pace with the twists and turns of the rapid-pace exchange. And that was awesome.

Which is not to say in any way, shape or form that my mom friends are not bright, interesting, fun women to be around. I can't stress that enough. But the reality is that most of the time the conversations default to the kids, the school, taxes, construction, vacation plans and my brain goes on autopilot.

But I want to have to actively fly the plane. In fact, I want to have to work damn hard to fly the plane.

Which is on me, because I can't fly the plane if I'm not getting my ass to the airport.

So, 2012--I will connect, engage, learn, laugh, be inspired, grow and fly, baby, fly.

Loyalty may be overrated

2012-01-04T17:09:00.005-05:00

As I sat on the toilet this morning (yes, I came back after a 5 month hiatus for this) I sat looking at the empty toilet paper roll which NOBODY (and by nobody I mean nobody with a penis) bothered to replace.

I began thinking about our brand of toilet paper. And about brand loyalty. And how fiercely attached we are to the brands we use. No one uses Skippy AND Jif. No one drinks Tropicana AND whatever the hell the another orange juice brand is since I only drink Tropicana.

But maybe we need to be mostly loyal. Have your preference, sure, but be flexible enough to have a plan B. Sometimes you've got to settle for quilted softness instead of cottony softness.

Recently I've been having a lot of talks with my son about brand loyalty as it relates to friendships. He tends to be a bit too brand loyal. And by that I mean he has one or two friends and that's it. He's done as far as he's concerned. No need to look any further.

But, what happens if there's a falling out, or silly banter turns surly or mean? It's happened to him several times so it's not an unrealistic possibility. We get nervous that he's only one bad experience from sitting by himself in the lunchroom, because he hasn't bothered to make other friends.

Friendships are a form of brand loyalty, aren't they? But as grown ups we recognize that you must make room for other friendships, or a bare minimum people you could grab a cup of coffee with.

Why?

Because things like this happen:

I got hooked on Fage greek yogurt last year. Couldn't get enough of it. Sure there were other options, but who needed those when I had my yummy tub of Fage plain yogurt. Until one day I scooped into it and found a feather. (Sorry other Fage lovers). Well color me a Chobani girl now.

There have been occasions where I've found feathers in my friendships--metaphorically of course--unless I was close with a cockatoo in which case it's not at all implausible, but I'm not. I'm petrified of birds.

And it sucked, but I had other options. They may not have been my Skippy or Tropicana, but some grew to be. That's all I want him to understand. It may be hard at his age, and hard for his personality type, but it's important for him to get it.

So next time you use your particular brand of toilet paper, or spread your favorite peanut butter onto your preferred brand of bread make room for the possibility that you may want to have a plan B.

Except with orange juice, you should drink nothing but Tropicana.

He's baaaaack

2011-08-15T14:53:00.003-05:00

He's back!

For a whole week already!

After 6 weeks away!

Finally more clothes to fold.

Oh to have not been preparing separate food for every meal.

At last there's someone who requires my total focus, instead of wasting it on myself or my work deadlines.

Someone to see kid movies with instead of those silly adult movies I've been wasting my evenings going to (any time I want).

Who needs to eat out 6 nights a week? Cooking and cleaning up is so much more...like cooking and cleaning up.

And there are still um...22, wait, no 24 days before school starts! 24 days!

Let my campaign for Mother of The Year begin.

You other moms don't stand a chance.

Guilt. Proof that you're a mother

2011-07-26T14:36:00.003-05:00

BlogHer tickets, check.

Astronomically expensive airline tickets, check.

Overwhelming maternal guilt, check.

Yup, looks like I'm all ready for the conference.

BlogHer'10 was one of the best experiences of my year last year. There's been a gazilibillion (look it up, it's a real number) posts about it, and a megabuttloadazillion to come, but this post is not about that.

This is about the fact that I will not be there for Parents' Weekend at my son's camp, and to take him home. I knew this when I signed him up, knew that I would feel conflicted, and guess what, I was right.

My husband and I agreed that I should go.

Sometimes we have to do for ourselves, right?

Sometimes it's ok for our kids to have to step out of the center of the universe, right?

The truth is that I know it's going to be awesome.

Make sure to say hi to me and give me a hug. I'll be the one wearing maternal guilt from head to toe.

No, seriously, say hi.

She must be psychic

2011-06-29T16:49:00.006-05:00

Well, in fact that's exactly what she was. Although I think that's kind of an old fashioned term, like calling a flight attendant a stewardess.

Intuitive counselor, spiritual guide, whatever, yesterday I sat down with a woman to see if she could help me make heads or tails out of what has felt like a seismic shift going on inside me.

I had done this before. I wandered into this place randomly in 2002 when I was at a crossroads professionally. I guess you could call it a store, you know, filled with crystals and books and Buddha statues, but behind the beaded curtain (yes, cliche) there is a small room where spiritual work gets done.

I was noticed that there was a woman who was seeing people that day and I made an appointment immediately.

She seemed to be able to grasp what was ahead of me. Not like a fortune teller, but it just felt like she "knew" things. I walked out of there feeling lighter, purified and calmer. There was a lot said, but I never forgot that the realities that occurred after had been "visualized" by her. I became a believer.

I returned in 2005 after a miscarriage and received the closure I needed and the validation I craved.

Again I went after a particularly painful "break up" with a best friend, and again she comprehended more than I could ever have expressed.

Yesterday I saw a different woman, since the other one no longer worked there. It wasn't like the other times, I didn't feel like she was seeing inside my soul and pulling out what was blocking me, but different isn't always bad.

We talked. I stared into her eyes waiting for something to happen. I don't know, a revelation, transcendence ?

But here's what she said, or at least what I took away.

She agreed, there is a period of transition occurring. And while not all happiness and unicorn kisses, in fact much of it quite painful, it will take me to a place that will fundamentally change how I live my life. THAT I live my life.

She said that the "light" part of ourselves the one we see and show to the world has an equally important counterpart that is in the shadows. It's easy to perceive it as darkness, but it is within that "shadow" part that opportunities for personal growth exist.

It all sounded a bit mumbo jumbo-y to me in the moment. But then she said something that hit the fundamental truth right on the head.

Recently there was a catalyst that lit a spark inside me. It woke me up, made me aware of what I want out of the next part of my life.

I wrote a post last week about what I perceived at the time as a mid-life crisis. But it's not. I realized I needed to find things that make me feel passionate and empowered. To keep from going back to feeling invisible. Something only I can do.

So I turned the idea to throw a dance party into a reality. I have become addicted to boxing (it's hard not to feel powerful when you are hitting things).

The spark was a gift, not a threat.

When I passed through the beaded curtain again I was slightly dissatisfied. I didn't feel purified, or lighter or healed. I felt like I had received words of wisdom, but I guess I expected something more mystical.

And as I walked through the store I glanced to my right. To a card rack, filled with simple cards with simple sayings. All of them went blurry except for one.

EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON

That's what it said. We've all heard it before, but it resonated like a bell within me.

Maybe to make us stronger. Or to teach us compassion. Or for reasons we have yet to understand.

This morning I woke up feeling purified. Calmer. Clear-minded.

Sometimes we all need a nudge, someone to hear us, or perhaps a beaded curtain to pass through.

And then there were two

2011-06-25T08:27:00.005-05:00

Tomorrow begins the time-honored tradition of the big bus send-off to sleep away camp.

There will be chaos, overstuffed soft-duffels, and lots of quivering chins. I’m willing to bet equally from the parents and the children.

The leap of faith it takes to send your child away for much of the summer to a new camp is akin to the leap of faith it takes to believe you can get away with Jeggings at 42 years old. (I cling to that belief, by the way).

There might as well be an oversized, old-fashioned school clock with a resonating ticker marking off every second left between now and standing in a parking lot with a hundred other families waving goodbye to their kids.

I know from last year that the moment of saying goodbye was followed by a solid 2-hours of sobbing and muttering over and over "What have I done?" as my husband drove us silently home. So why do it?

Many disapproving parents have written. I LOVE spending time with my child (translated=you must hate it). Yeah, I hate spending time with my kid. Loathe it. In fact the sole reason I gave birth to him was the giddy anticipation of how long it would before I could get him out of my face for as long as possible.

I just know summer camp was the highlight of my year. The friends I made during those 8 weeks became like sisters to me. The strongest memories of my childhood occurred 150 miles from home.

Last year’s camp experience was a mixed bag, he liked, but didn’t love the camp. (It was the camp I attended for 5 years so it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t). This year we have found a Performing Arts Camp. From the minute I saw the brochure and video I knew it was a perfect fit. Or what I hope will be a perfect fit.

Hoping. Leaps of Faith. Praying. Yes, it’s the religion of Sleep-Away Camp.

Now, the other thing, since he is my only child there is the simultaneous anxiety of if he’s enjoying himself combined with coming to grips with “Empty Nest Syndrome” years before he’s off to college. Let me give you the head's up. This two-fer sucks big time.

What’s a stay-at-home mom if she’s not momming?

"Live it up!"
"I’d give anything to have that time and freedom!" I hear you saying.
Well, thinking, it’d be weird if you were literally saying it out loud. And I will, it’ll take a few days and then I’ll find a groove.

But the final, and biggest change is that it will just be my husband and I for six weeks, which is totally great, but I’d be lying if I said it won’t be an adjustment as well. He still goes off to work and when he returns there are no “guess what happened at school today” stories to tell over dinner. The house feels like it has a little less oxygen and I’m no doubt a little harder to deal with when I hit my frequent potholes of depression.

So, right now there are waves of anxiety crashing upon the beaches of sadness. Dramatic. Yup. But I’ll keep you posted and let you know when the tides turn and I am feeling the relief of freedom from schedules and joy knowing he is enjoying his summer experience

My guess is you’ll be hearing from me a lot more often over the next 6 weeks—my apologies, or your welcome. ☺

I guess I'm dying at 84

2011-06-17T10:40:00.005-05:00

I'm no math wizard, but if my calculations are correct then I have officially hit my mid-life crisis which means I'm going to die at 84.

Men have it easy. Buy an inappropriate car, marry an inappropriate younger woman, train for a triathlon that will most likely kill them long before they get to reach their life expectancy.

But women, what do we do? Last time I checked Ferrari doesn't make minivans and if we get a younger man we just have to retrain them again like puppies.

I had this horrible realization recently that the first 42 years have been filled with a lot of living. School, college, career building, wifedom, motherhood, but what do the next 42 hold in store? My only child will be getting his own life sooner than I'd like to think about, so how do I make sure I get my own life too?

A rut. That's what it is.

I need a hobby. A passion. An interest that is not a requirement. Blogging used to be that. But, as you can tell by the cobwebs and dust that expelled from the page I'm certainly not passionate about that anymore.

Work. Well, that's challenging...and stressful, but a passion. No.

I could go on and on.

I envy my husband. He has tons of hobbies, which become mini-obsessions every time a new one starts. At the moment it's swimming. Up at 5:30 to swim laps at the local gym.

I'm not sure I'd wake up at 5:30 if the house was on fire.

But something is stirring. I feel a pull towards adolescence. My new playlist is packed with "grrrrr songs." Edgy. Loud. Angry. A radical change from the top hits crap I listen to when my son controls the dial.

Admittedly, it's pretty hard to feel like a badass blasting Linkin Park from a Prius as you pull out of the parking lot of the local grocery store. Still, adolescents want what they want, and they often look like total assholes trying to get it. Guilty as charged.

Yesterday I donned boxing gloves and with the help of my fantastic trainer slugged away with jabs and cross punches until my arms hung heavy. I felt like I could conquer the world. It was an amazing high.

I've decided to throw a dance party at a local restaurant. Girls only. A "Desperate (to dance) Housewives" party. Let's face it, I'm not schlepping into the city to stand pathetically in line behind the velvet rope to have the bouncer laugh in my face. Or worse, get in and try to gyrate next to a fetus in an outfit that is either a long tube top or a very short dress.

I don't want to wait until the Bar Mitzvah circuit starts two years from now only to have my son scarred for life by the sight of his mother shaking her groove thing with reckless abandon on the dance floor in between insipid games where cheap plastic beads are the grand prize.

I want to dance. Now. So what about a party that runs 8-10:30 on a Thursday night? Why not? So that's what I'm working on.

I have no idea where this mid-life...not crisis...exploration will take me. But for the first time in a long time I feel awake. And in control. And passionate.

I'd better enjoy it while it lasts. Plus, at my age, it's exhausting.

Thou Shalt Not Kill, right mom?

2011-05-02T11:48:00.003-05:00

I've taken some flak in the past for telling people I don't keep the news on when my son is in the room. In fact, I don't watch much news, other than the bits I catch before I jump in the shower in the morning. I figure, if it's newsy enough I'll read about it on the internet.

In fact nearly 10 years ago I was blaring music, with the TV on mute, while I got ready to head off to work when I saw the first tower on fire. We didn't know then that we were under attack. It appeared to be a weird accident. My husband worked two blocks away. He saw the second plane hit and got what must have been the last train out of Grand Central Station. He walked in the door as the towers collapsed. My son was playing with a toy on the floor giggling while we sobbed uncontrollably.

The story has been retold and retold by so many people describing their personal experience with the morning of 9/11. That's the brief version of mine.

The rage I, and every American, carried around in the days, weeks and months following the attacks was at times overwhelming.

So, why didn't I feel relief this morning when I flipped on the Today Show and saw the news that Osama Bin Laden had been killed? I didn't even feel happy. I just sort of felt, "Well, it's about time."

This morning I left on the news. I wanted my son to watch it. I tried to explain that the man who was behind the 9/11 attacks had been killed.

"We killed him?"

"Yes."

"We killed him?"

"Yes."

"I know that this is a good thing, but as Jews aren't we taught not to kill? And not to be happy when people are killed?"

"Um...."

"Wasn't there that story in the Haggadah about God yelling at the Jews for being happy that the Egyptians who were chasing us out of Egypt were killed in the Red Sea?"

"Ummm...."

I'll tell you what I said, completely caught off guard and still processing the death of this monster, but tell me what you would have said.

I said, "Well, I'm really proud of you for thinking about that. And yes, generally that's true, like in the story of the Jews escaping Egypt, but there is also a lot in the bible about justice. And, at times, God has been pretty vengeful--remember Noah's Arc? He doesn't have a lot of tolerance for evil."

"Osama murdered thousands of Americans when you were a baby and has done the same to many others. Think about Hitler. There are just some people who are so evil that they deserve to die. And, you should know, he shot at the soldiers and tried to kill them."

"Yeah, ok."

"This is a historic occasion. I want you to remember it. It will be talked about for a very long time and I want you to remember it."

"Ok, should I wear a hoodie?"

And our morning shifted back into it's regular routine.

Why do dead parents = great kids books?

2011-04-14T09:54:00.005-05:00

My son’s 5th grade class recently took a four-day trip to Philadelphia. I could sense both his excitement (it’s a right-of-passage at his school) and his anxiety. He’s not an “I want my mommy” kind of kid. Never has been, which is why I was surprised at sleep-away camp last summer he suffered from mild homesickness.

Still, he is looking forward to heading off this summer to a new camp and asked to sign up for the 6-week program.

At dinner we talked about the upcoming trip and my husband said jokingly (we always joke, and our humor of choice is sarcasm) “Should we tell him about how we’re moving while he’s gone?”

His face shifted. “Why would you say that?,” he asked with slight horror with a soupcon of disgust. I immediately said, “Do you really think we’d move without telling you?”

He then turned serious.

“Do you know why I was a little homesick this summer?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Because sometimes other people’s parents would visit.”

“Were you worried that we’d move and not tell you?” I asked.

“No, I was worried that you’d die.”

The silence sat there for a minute. I wanted to lunge across the table and hold him.

After assurances and promises not to die anytime soon the evening resumed as usual.

I got to thinking, why would he imagine such a thing? I needed to ponder no further than his bookshelf. It is packed with the most popular series for kids his age. Then I thought about the plots.

Here they are:

Artemis Fowl: teenage criminal mastermind whose father has disappeared.
He lives in the Lower Elements an underground city where no other humans live.

Harry Potter: A half-blood super wizard whose parents are killed and he is sent to live with abusive relatives. Eventually he is sent away to study his craft at a, at times, the menacing Hogwarts academy.

The Mysterious Benedict Society: unusually gifted children are sent to live in “The Institute” to solve mysteries. One character is an orphan, another a runaway, one has a mother who died and a father who was kidnapped.

Clearly these books had affected him far more than I realized. I looked online for some other options. The current super popular book is Hunger Games which takes place in a post-apocalyptic world where a two teenagers compete on a reality show where they try kill one another.

Yikes, oh, and WTF?

So I asked my friend, who is a school librarian, for recommendations that did not involve orphans being sent away without one’s parents or murdering of one’s peers. After struggling for a bit she gave me some suggestions,

We’ve only got a few months before he goes to camp, and I don’t want him carrying around the fear that his first day of camp may be the last day he sees us.

So, I’m looking for some suggestions. If you have kids around his age, pleeeease let me know if you’ve come across some engaging stories that involve positive life-lesson-y plots where the antagonist comes home to a safe home and loving parents.

Baby, I got it bad

2011-04-10T19:29:00.005-05:00

If you tell anyone I'll deny it.

I will, I swear I will.

But lately I've been looking at babies and wanting to hold them. To inhale their scent and brush my cheek up against their soft, pudgy cheek.

To see tiny little fingers wrapped around my forefinger and to kiss the center of its forehead.

To gaze, with that idiotic grin of pure love and amazement into its wide eyes.

Me, who "closed up shop" years ago with no hesitation or regrets after one child.

I don't have the yearning that existed 12-years ago when I felt incomplete and hungry for a new life to grow inside of me.

I certainly don't want to go back to the baby days and sleepless nights. And probably couldn't even if I wanted to.

So what is this?

I am overwhelmed with just wanting to hold one close to me and feel its heart beat against mine.

Maybe it's just the low-level, chronic heartache, of watching my child grow up and eventually grow away from me. I feel like I could write a post a day about all the little and big things that happen everyday that grip my heart as I watch my baby become a young man.

It leads me to believe that I am going to love being a grandmother. Which seems like a lifetime away. But if the past 12 years is any indication, lifetimes pass faster than you think.

If u want me, txt me

2011-03-22T08:04:00.003-05:00

Hey, can’t get to the phone right now, you can leave a message, but if you actually want to reach me, send a text.

Yup, that’s the real message on my cell phone.

Yup, I am one of those people those articles are talking about.

The ones who hate using their cell phones to speak to people and would always rather communicate through texts or email. Which works out well, because my AT&T iPhone is specifically designed for those not interested in maintaining the connection required to have a phone conversation.

I love this article where it says that says that many people find speaking on the phone awkward, intrusive and receiving phone calls rude.

Yeah! Screw people for wanting more than 15 seconds of my time.

Stupid pleasantries.

Ridiculous small talk.

Phony “Alright let me let you go.” As if you couldn’t go before I “let” you.

I find my ability to carry on phone conversations has completely atrophied. I can't keep focused. I start to multitask (by emailing, tweeting, surfing the web and texting) while trying to remember to insert, "uh huh," "yeah," during what I pray are the appropriate pauses.

I’m not saying it’s good, in fact is probably one more nail in the coffin of civilization.

And it's not that I don’t love “real communication”’ with people. Far from it. I love meeting up with friends for coffee, post-coffee coffee, lunch, and afternoon snacks, even a Kit Kat break.

I’m just saying that if I’m not physically with you I’d rather just keep it short and tweet. I mean sweet.

C u!

If I could turn back time

2011-03-09T10:13:00.003-05:00

I wouldn't.

What I might do is freeze it.

I was looking at my son's lunch box yesterday. It has a camouflage pattern with skulls nestled amongst the patches of olive and brown and black. And I felt this overwhelming sadness that his lunch box days are coming to an end.

That soon he'll be in Middle school. That lunch boxes will give way to brown bags, or he'll just buy crap from the cafeteria (not that what I send him to school with is much better).

It is going to kill me when it's time to throw that lunch box away.

The same way it hurt to switch his sheets from pirates to plaid.

The same way it gives me pangs when I think about him forgoing reading with his dad before bed, or not taking my hand when we cross the street.

I've had it good for a long time.

He's so great and I love this stage. Old enough to talk to, young enough to want to talk to me.

I just want to freeze time.

I'm not ready to give up the lunch box and all that goes with it.

Photo credit: Fan Pop

The Tit for Tat Tango

2011-02-26T17:04:00.008-05:00

Ok, raise your hand if this sounds remotely familiar:

HUSBAND: Good morning! Did you have a good sleep in? Oh, I emptied the dishwasher.

ME: That's great. Thanks. I was just upstairs making the bed and putting away the laundry.

HUSBAND: Did I fold it right, when I folded it all?

ME: Yes, perfect. Oh, was there any grime left over in the pan from the roasted chicken I cooked last night?

HUSBAND: No, not at all. It was delicious, It looked like the best package when I bought it at the supermarket.

ME: Yeah, it was. I hardly missed the green beans that you forgot to get while you were there. The frozen peas were good though, huh?

HUSBAND: Yeah. They always are. Ok, so I'm going to shovel the driveway. Heh, man it looks cold out there, bet your glad you don't have to do it.

ME: I know, right? Funny, you'd have thought it would have all melted by now since you waited so long, but don't worry, there's the 50 pound bag of ice melt I bought before the storm. I mean, they help you get it into the car, but then you get it home and it's like...helloooo. I nearly broke my back schlepping that thing in...alone.

HUSBAND: I know, the snow's been a drag this winter. You probably don't notice as much because you're in the car, but I walk down the hill every morning to catch the train for work. Heh. I mean, your new jeans aren't going to buy themselves.

ME: I squeezed an 6.3 lb. human out of my vagina.

FINAL SCORE:
ME: 1,253 HIM: 0

I finally figured out "What's Next"

2011-01-14T08:53:00.021-05:00

When I sold the Woolite spot I could already picture the awards it would win.

It was going to be visually stunning and truly inspired. The kind of commercial you'd run back from getting a snack in the kitchen to watch. These were the days waaaay before DVRs.

But the shoot was a disaster, the footage murky, and it's unclear whether it led to me getting fired, or me you can't fire me, because I quit-ed.

That was the last spot I produced. It was over 11 years ago.

Writing commercials gave me a lot of confidence. So, not surprisingly, not writing commercials created a fair amount of insecurities. After a few years of being a stay-at-home mom I found agencies weren't really looking to hire a suburban mom who hadn't produced a spot in 6 years.

So I spent an awful lot of time wondering: "What's next?"

I started my blog, which made me happy, and kept my brain engaged (hence, Gray Matter Matters), but while my other blogging friends were landing book deals and speaking engagements, I clicked away on the keyboard trying not to worry too much.
"What's next?"

I did land a really amazing writing gig at Mamapop and I am still very much a part of Cool Mom Picks, which is packed with some of the smartest, savviest and nicest women alive.

Those projects keep my insecurities somewhat quelled. At least I had something that kept me functioning as a writer.

But it all felt like treading water.

But then something really, really, really, exciting happened last spring.

I got an email:
"I LOVE your writing! I want to talk to you about a project."

And that project morphed and grew and evolved into Digitwirl.com. And I into its Content Director.

Conceived of by the insanely ambitious, pathologically motivated, and enviably gorgeous Carley Knobloch, Digitwirl is dedicated to showing busy moms (like there's any other kind) what technology will actually simplify their crazy lives, and more importantly, how to use it.

It feels so good to write the words "Open on Carley holding up a new pair of shoes..." and watch them be transformed into a beautifully shot, superbly produced, and (hopefully) entertaining video.

For a long time I've been asking myself "What's next."

Now I know.

Please check it out and tell me what you think.

In case it's not obvious, I'm ecstatic.

What to know about taking Ambi-Zzzzzzzzzz

2010-12-14T14:42:00.020-05:00

Next to Penicillin and computers I would say the single greatest invention of the 20th century is Ambien.

No hangover like with NyQuil.

No, "I wonder if this is going to work," like with out over-the-counter sleep aids.

Ambien is the Old Faithful of sleep-inducing medications.

But be warned, like the Mogwai in Gremilins, there are three simple rules that must be followed...or else.

1) Take a pill (half if you're a newbie).

2) Get your ass in bed and shut your eyes.

3) Wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Especially number two.

Consider the following experiences a cautionary tale to those who decide to take a pill and then do "just one more thing..."

If you do not put yourself into the full and non-upright position you might enter a phase which is called "tripping." You will know you are entering it, because the words in your book will start swirling around like milk in coffee. The floorboards will begin to undulate like waves. David Letterman will have three faces and his tie will be glowing. And don't get me started on what Paul Shaffer will look like.

In a word, you will hallucinate. And it will not be altogether unpleasant.

But at that point the rollercoaster will have left the station and it's anyone's guess how crazy the ride will be.

Here is a list of what I like to call Ambien Antics. These are all things that I have actually done while under the influence...most of which have been told to me by my husband as I have absolutely no recollection.

1) Drawn disturbing, although fairly accurate, portraits of my husband.

2) Written and sent incoherent emails that, when I read them the next day, have been so embarrassing I have considered entering the witness protection program.

3) Downloaded music I don't even like on iTunes.

4) Had deep and meaningful conversations with my husband that provide tremendous insight and about our relationship. Or so I've been told.

5) Made the beast with two backs--more times than I can shake a prescription pad at. Needless to say one woman's insomnia is another man's ultimate to make sexy bonanza.

My husband swears to me that I am in no way zombie-like. In fact, supposedly I am happy, playful, funny, and apparently, incredibly easy.

The temporary amnesia is a real bummer, because it sounds like I have an awful lot of fun on my quest for a good night's sleep.

Wish I was there.

The responsible thing to do is to let you all know that blah, blah, blah, powerful drug, blah, blah, blah, be careful, blah, blah, blah, don't blame me if you write a mortifying email while listening to Wayne Newton after having crazy sex and then talking for hours about the meaning of life.

Any Ambien Antics of your own to share?
_____________________________________________________________
Photo Credit: Toothpaste for Dinner packed with heaps of hilarious Ambien-related comics.

Blood in the water

2010-12-08T08:02:00.009-05:00

Recently my son has taken to wrapping bandanas around his head.

Worse than that he's taken to thinking he looks super cool that way.

I humbly submit evidence to the contrary:

Ok, I'm willing to concede that all these celebs were total sex-symbols at the time, but that was 30 years ago.

I myself owned a pair of rainbow Mork suspenders and feathered my hair like Kristy McNichol, but who didn't?

He keeps asking me how he looks and I keep telling him, "You look cute, because you're cute, but you can NOT wear that bandana out of the house."

"Why not? It's cool."

(It's not)

And then I answer him as honestly as I can:

"Because 5th grade is a shark tank and letting you wear that to school would be like cutting your finger in a gam (look it up) of sharks and swimming away. Those kids will smell blood and they will destroy you."

Ok Judgeypants, I can hear your fingers flying over the keyboard--

"Let him be an individual!"

"Kudos to your kid, you suck mom."

"Bandanas are, and always have been cool. I'm wearing one right now."

But the social structure of 5th grade is very precarious. The kids are evil geniuses when it comes to being obnoxious. They particularly like to focus on the things you can't change about yourself: your height, your name, the size of your ears.

I say, why serve up a helping of verbal kickass on a silver platter to these kids?

I actually do applaud his confidence and creativity in jumping on the headband express, I love that he admires himself in every reflective surface of the house when he's wearing them. My kid is already a big personality and a true individual.

I just want to make sure he's a big personality and a true individual who is allowed to keep his lunch money.

Good playdates gone bad

2010-11-23T10:24:00.006-05:00

I heard the screaming from inside the house.

I went outside to see my son and his close friend arguing on the front lawn (which was covered in every item I had in my garage—they had built forts).

“He threw a hammer at me!” my son cried.

“It was an accident!” he friend screamed on the verge of tears.

From that point on no amount of intervention could de-escalate what had become an absolute implosion of this playdate.

His friend grew red in the face as he lugged the bins and traffic cones, and badminton racquets into the garage. (I told you they had grabbed everything).

“He’s such a weakling! He can’t do anything!” he was now crying.

In truth my son is about a foot shorter and definitely less strong than his friend. And in further truth I think he does tend towards helpless more than helpful. But this had become about far more than who was carrying what.

My son complained of being constantly criticized and bossed around. This is not unfounded. I have listened to their conversations and “Dude, that’s idiotic,” or “Dude, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” is sort of common.

I try not to butt in or reprimand, because I figure that if it bothered my son he’d say something.

His friend punched in his home number furiously into his cell phone. I heard him growl “Get me out of here. Come get me. I want to leave” to his mom. My friend.

My son was still outside and his friend sat stewing on the couch. I sat down and tried to listen with the ear of a therapist, rather than react with the heart of a mom who was devastated at what was happening.

He was really crying. I tried to be understanding. To validate his frustrations. But what do you say when one of your son’s best friends declares the friendship null and void?

I tried to console him and remind him that one bad playdate does not the end of a friendship make. That friends fight, and then they get over it and make up. I thought I was getting through to him until his mom, my friend, showed up and he snatched his backpack and demanded, “Let’s get out of here NOW. Come on! I want to leave!”

She sent him to wait in the car while we quickly discussed what had happened (not that I exactly knew for sure).

My son was depressed after the boy left. He said, “I’m not exactly sure why I’m friends with him. He criticized me all the time. He hurts me at least once every time we play. And he’s not loyal.”

Basically if the evening were a pop-quiz on good parenting I’d give myself a “C.”

Obviously I don’t want to say it’s ok for him to be treated that way, but I found myself more concerned with the fact that my son only has a few friends. What would happen if he lost this one? Would he lose the others too if they chose this boy over my son?

What if this kid goes into school and tells everyone that my kid is a wimp? Useless? Helpless? A loser?

So I sit here with a pit in my stomach, imagining a day of torment. Imagining picking him up this afternoon and seeing the sadness in his face. The humiliation of being picked on or teased by boys he thought were his friends.

Maybe none of this will happen.

Maybe it will remain strictly in my imagination.

Maybe they will, in some “cool” and “manly” way, forgive each other and move on.

I guess it comes down to this. If they never made mistakes they’d never learn to do things correctly. If they never fell down they’d never learn to get back up. And if they never fought with their friends they’d never learn to make up.

Still, it’s not feeling like much of a consolation.

What have you done when your child had a falling out with a good friend?

Photo credit: Getty images

Megamind cost $150 million to make and nearly as much to see

2010-11-07T17:39:00.016-05:00

You! You there! Bathing in gold bullions and wearing an "I'm with stupid" t-shirt that points to us, the movie-going public. I have a few choice words for you.

You insidious, evil-doers whip our children into a frenzy with your endless movie advertisements until their clambering to see it is so unrelenting that we acquiesce.

In fact, we acquiesce so much we even bring another kid.

So there I am online selecting an afternoon showing a Megamind--the 3D version, naturally.

Wait! What the crap?

$15.75 per ticket? Regardless of how old you are? Plus a $1 service fee for buying it in advance and printing my own ticket at home--how is that service? I'm blooding doing everything myself!

I wince as I press "purchase." Yup, $50 to see a cartoon.

I packed up snacks to smuggle in--hey, screw you movie theater fake police, did you see how much you charged for tickets? I'll bring a full Chinese buffet in if I want.

Once we got situated I sent my son to get he and his friend some drinks. I gave him a $20. Imagine my surprise when he returned with an Icee and a bottle of water, and handed me a $10.

"Where's the rest of it?" I asked.

"No, that's the change."

Then he handed me the receipt. Icee: $5.50, Bottle of Poland Springs $4.50.

They sell a bottle of water for $4.50 and they don't even where ski masks?

And if that weren't bad enough, I started seeing the previews--Kung Fu Panda 2 3D. Gulliver's Travels 3D. Yogi Bear 3D.

And let me just say, that Yogi Bear looked like the biggest piece of shit kids' movie ever to be slapped together and served up to the viewing public...and their parents. Which we all know is saying a lot, because...hello...Alvin & The Chipmunks the Squeakuel?

Personally I think that particular cinematic masterpiece should be shown on endless loop to prisoners on death row. Along with and Space Chimps and Valentine's Day (oh Garry Marshal, what happened to you?)

It wasn't that long ago that the new medium of CGI was thrilling in and of itself. Toy Story, Finding Nemo, Monsters Inc. were clever, creative and visually engaging. And, they didn't charge extra for seeing them. Personally I don't believe that there has been a single 3D kids' movie that has been made better by the Elvis Costello glasses and the inability to opt out.

And now, with everything being created exclusively for 3D viewing, I feel like we're at the point where we have to choose carefully what movies we can (or want to) afford to see.

But try to explain to an excited 10-year old why he's watching a shaky version of the movie at home with the silhouette of a guy's head in the foreground and the sound of someone eating popcorn in the background.

Shouldn't all these 3D movies really be rated "X" since, if you think about, they all involved getting screwed.

*********

PS: To be fair, I loved Megamind. Not $50 worth, but at least $41.78.

photo credit: realsimple.com

Sadly I once owned this particular item

2010-11-04T11:47:00.002-05:00

This is only ridiculous until you are on crutches and it's pouring out.

This concludes my shortest post ever.

When is the right time to teach kids about the Holocaust?

2010-10-28T11:01:00.010-05:00

We just had our annual Scholastic book fair. My fifth-grade son bought all the usual suspects--a sci-fi book, a gross humor book, and pre-ordered the new Diary of a Wimpy kid.

A few days later his Hebrew School had a book fair where he found a Jewish sci-fi book (no idea what that means) a graphic novel and a book called The Devil's Arithmetic. He said it was on his 5th grade reading list and if he reads every book on the list they have a big party.

I read the back--it's a story about a modern-day 12-year old girl who is transported back in time and experiences the "horrors" of her historical past.

Then I quickly flipped through the pages.

"Auchtung!" caught my eye.

"Death camps."

"Gas chambers."

I felt sick.

"I'm not sure this is appropriate," I said.

"But it's on the regular school reading list. I'm supposed to read it."

"It's a very serious, disturbing subject matter. It deals with the Holocaust. I think you might be very upset reading it." (I know I was).

I asked the School Director what she thought about it, and she raved that it was a fantastic, and extremely well-written book.

"For 10-year olds?"

"Yes." She said.

So I did what any good mother does when faced with a difficult parenting decision--I googled "When is it appropriate to teach the holocaust to children?" (And variations thereof).

Again and again, 5th grade kept popping up.

When I was my son's age the Holocaust was only a few decades old, I don't recall ever not knowing about it. But, what happened, the utter lack of humanity, of sadism, of other's lack of intervention, is the stuff of nightmares. I can still vividly picture images we were shown of the prisoners in concentration camps. Barely living skeletons, with bald heads and vacant, terrified, eyes.

I'm having a hard time getting comfortable exposing those nightmarish concepts to my son. Still pretty innocent. Still somewhat sheltered. And isn't that ok? I don't even watch the news in front of him, because it is crammed with murders, rapes, and fear-mongering, even if it's about your "local salad bar" being a silent killer.

He will need to learn about the Holocaust. And learn that what happened 60 years ago is still happening today. The Jewish mantra regarding the Holocaust is "Never Again." But look at Darfur and other nations where genocide is taking place right now. He needs to know that too. But does he need to know (so graphically) that information at 10?

I did get him the book. I will read it before he does. I will google to try to find answers to his questions--although there really are none. I will speak to his teacher and my Rabbi. And I will cry.

Because I will wish that this was that this was never a question I'd have to ask myself. When is the right time to teach kids about the senseless, cruel beyond imagination, horrific death of 6 million Jews, a quarter of whom were under children 15-years old?

What do you think?

Without a leg to stand on

2010-10-10T14:01:00.005-05:00

Hi!

I had ankle surgery a couple weeks ago and the weird thing is that while I've been doing practically nothing except murdering time, I mean it, killing time does not describe my relationship to every 24-hour cycle, I haven't been able to accomplish a damn thing.

Including writing here.

Half thoughts float into my head, but then my pain meds sneak up behind them and clobber them with a croquet mallet. Or shred them with a machete, I can't be sure, but either way I know they scatter before I can gather them up into a coherent string of words.

Some of the thoughts are silly little anecdotes about life on crutches.

Some of them are wallowing, self-pitying, loads of crap, that I need only turn on the news to snap myself out of. Frankly I'd kick my own ass for being such a baby if I could put weight on my left foot.

Some of them are emotional, about the love that I have for my mom who has been the one person I have been absolutely able to count on for the past 10 days. Not always the most nurturing (I have the therapy bills to prove it), she was so amazing following the surgery that I now truly understand that there are lots of different ways to show that you love someone. Even if it's just subtlety moving the TV remote closer so I didn't have to ask, one more time, for someone else's help.

Last night I got some quality sleep.

Today my head feels clear.

I can't say if I'm turning a corner, or just enjoying a temporary reprieve.

Either way, I just wanted to say "hi."

The great cell-phone debate

2010-09-16T15:17:00.008-05:00

Stop me if you've heard this one, "Mooooommmmmm, EV-ER-Y-body has a cell phone. EVERYBODY!"

Sadly, he's not that far off. More and more, younger and younger kids are being given cell phones--sometimes a serendipitous by-product of a parent upgrading their phones which leaves them with an extra phone or two just taking up drawer space.

Sometimes it's because both parents work and need to be able to reach their child at any time, and vice versa.

And sometimes it's because, well, EV-ER-Y-BODY has one!!

We have held firm that we feel 12 is the appropriate age for our son to get a phone. (He has 1 and a half years to go). And I don't judge anyone who disagrees and gives their preschooler a Blackberry to tuck into their Dora backpack. Ok, that sounded judge-y, but truly, 12 is just the age my husband and I agreed upon.

Here are the top 10 reasons why my son does not need a cell phone.

1) I'm not sure he even knows how to use our home phone.

2) He has no one to call. He's with his friends during the day and at night he has use of the home phone (which he may or may not know how to use)..

3) I am a stay-at-home mom who picks him up and drops him off wherever he needs to be. I'm assuming that his friends have home phones from which he could call me, if he knew how to use a phone.

4) He does not need the distraction. I'm always astounded if he makes it home with both shoes on his feet, he does not need one more thing to weaken his tenuous focus.

5) Although I'm very well aware that cell phones are really just mobile gaming devices or used more for texting than talking, I have this irrational, or perhaps completely valid, fear of cell phones creating an increased risk for cancer.

I refuse to put an antenna in my ear and generally use the speaker function whenever possible. I didn't get my first phone until I was in my early 20's. Do I really want my kid to start snuggling up to microwaves or gamma waves or whatever the hell cell phones emit a full decade longer?

6) Face time vs. Facebook. I can't tell you how many kids I see staring down at their little mobile screen ignoring their friend who is standing next to them. Or not joining the game of soccer that just started, because OMG, LOL, This app is SIK!

7) The video they shot that seems hysterical today may prove mortifying tomorrow. All these devices have cameras and shoot video. Even iPods do now. 6, 8 and 10-year-olds are incapable of realizing, like diamonds and herpes, the stuff on the internet is forever. And yes, I probably will be even MORE concerned about that as he becomes a teenager, but I'll cross that bridge when I am dragged to it.

8) He will lose it.

9) He will lose it.

10) He will lose it.

But as my friends call, one by one, and somewhat apologetically inform me that they've given their kid a cell phone it makes it harder and harder to hang tough.

You don't want your kid to feel like a total dork, or be taunted by friends (because that is what 10-year-old guys do...when they're not playing with their cell phones). But I really, really feel like there's no reason for him to have one. Especially in light of reasons 8-10.

Guess peer pressure isn't just for kids anymore.

When do you think you'll give your kid a phone...and why?

The Zen of Back-to-School

2010-09-08T11:10:00.008-05:00

Have you ever gone to see a matinee and exited the dark, cool, theater only to assaulted by blinding daylight? It's quite a shock to the system, right?

It's a bit what I feel like today. The summer has been patched together like a quilt. The total freedom (and anxieties) of having my son away for a month at sleep-away camp, the relief and normalcy of his returning to day-camp followed by trips here and there, but mostly a lot of running down the clock. Together. Always.

But today was his first day of 5th grade. In 5th grade there are no 1st day of school pictures. You don't get to walk, hand-in-hand, into school or meet his teacher. There is only the gloom of a kid who is resentful of going back to "that place," and is moderately annoyed that his hair doesn't look "cool enough."

But what struck me most as I peeled away from the drop-off line was that I was...oh, what's the word I'm looking for...oh right! Alone.

I too resumed my back-to-school schedule of writing at the local Paneras, doing grocery shopping, even getting a long overdue manicure without constantly having to look at my watch.

I was thinking about the Zen philosophy that there is no light without darkness (a circle back to the movie theater metaphor). So too, without a child attached to your hip, there is no sweet, sweet freedom of being alone.

What if I don't want to unplug?

2010-09-05T18:48:00.007-05:00

I just came back from a wonderful week in Vermont.

The clean, mountain air.

The beautiful scenery.

Time away with my family.

And WiFi. Thank God for glorious, glorious WiFi.

I know it's not the fashionable thing to say, or think, or feel, or bury deep into your subconscious, but I didn't really want a break from technology.

I didn't crave shutting off my cell phone, leaving my computer behind, or tuning out the world of the wide web.

I liked checking in on Twitter, or posting on facebook. I liked my endless loop of check email, go to three or four bookmarked pages, check email again, google some random stuff, and so on.

I don't knit, or do yoga, or meditate. This is what I do to relax. I'm not saying it's good, it's just what is.

Being on my computer is actively passively. I have a hard time being passively passive.

I got antsy sitting by the pool reading my book. I would excuse myself a few minutes early under the premise of making lunch or tossing in a load of laundry (yeah, vacation, I know), but what I most wanted was quiet time on the computer. With no one there to give me the hairy eyeball (despite the fact that those very hairy eyeballs had been transfixed on the iPad screen for the better part of the day) and no one to interrupt me.

Is it great that I clutch my iPhone like a toddler does his binky? Probably not, but in very much the same way, it does comfort me.

Scientists have recently come out with theories about how all these gadgets and technology have actually rewired our brains and have created similar neurological transmissions between our synapses as other addictions like drugs and alcohol. And I believe it.

But I don't care.

Which I guess is why I came upstairs after dinner tonight to score a hit of blog.

And I already feel more relaxed.

By the way, I'll be checking my email about three seconds after I post, and it would improve my high exponentially if you left a comment. See you on twitter. Like really soon. Really, really soon.

photo credit: www.gayakuman.com

You have to abuse your kids just a little bit

2010-08-22T11:07:00.009-05:00

Ok, take your hand off the phone. No need to call social services.

I went and saw comedian Christopher Titus last night and in one of his many whip-smart, hilarious rants, he used that phrase. Brilliant comedians don't just make you laugh until your over-priced cocktails comes squirting out your nose, they make you think. He is one of those comedians.

He talked about how crazy it is that we reward kids for basically showing up (trophies for everyone!), and want to do everything in our power to keep their ever expanding egos ever expanding. Don't criticize. Don't discipline. Don't show disappointment.

So, what are we creating? What kind of next generation can we expect? I'm sorry to say, but I think it's going to be a generation of emotionally stunted, egocentric, weaklings who don't have the ability to pick themselves up by their bootstraps, because they were never knocked down.

I've written about it before (once or twice). How we over-praise our kids. We over-involve ourselves. We over-protect. And yes, by we I mean myself included.

I grew up in a house where praise was in short supply, but I still knew I was loved. I worked hard, because so much was expected of me, and I was certainly going to hear about it if I fell short. There were no trophies just for showing up. You lost. Maybe even cried about it. And then you moved on.

But the greatest successes in my life came from people telling me I couldn't do something. I wrote two books (the second was an update of the first) and the single biggest motivating factor in doing it was that my husband said that he didn't think I would do it.

Not that I couldn't, but that I wouldn't. You'd be amazed what can be accomplished if for no other reason than to prove someone wrong.

I know it feels good to pat your kid on the back. But maybe if we only do it when they deserve it they'll work just a little bit harder. Because they'll know when that pat on the back comes, they earned it.

*******************************
Oh, and check out Titus if he's in your area, it's totally worth the price of the two-drink minimum.

This was SO much worse than the sex talk

2010-08-11T08:35:00.008-05:00

My 10-year-old son and I love the same music. I'm pretty proud of this. After he graduated from Laurie Berkner he went straight into Ozzy Osborne and AC/DC. (I'm flashing my rock horns as we speak).

We also love Lady Gaga, Train and recently Eminem.

Eminem has two big hits right now, "Not Afraid," and "Love the Way You Lie," featuring Rhianna.

First let me say that I think, whether or not you like his lyrics, Eminem is a brilliant writer and innovative rapper. Just as we use our blogs to get out our deepest fears, most intense frustrations and greatest joys, he turns his life experiences into lyrics.

But as we're happily singing along to the intensely catchy chorus of "Love the Way You Lie" it occurred to me that this song bears some explanation. I hardly wanted him to be walking around singing about tying someone to the bed and setting the house on fire.

Why are you letting him listen to the song if it's so abhorrent? I hear you asking.

Well, before you judge here's why: I think they call this a "teaching moment."

"Listen," I said to him, "Even though this song is really great to listen to, it's actually about a pretty disturbing thing called Domestic Violence."

Huh?

Did you ever hear about what happened with Chris Brown and Rhianna?

No.

Well, they were boyfriend and girlfriend, but a couple years ago he beat her up. Badly. And at first she didn't break up with him. Sometimes people who are abused think they deserve it. Or are afraid to leave.

That's weird.

Well, this song isn't about Eminem wanting hurt someone, it was written about what happened between Chris Brown and Rhianna, (although Brown denies it). So if you listen to the lyrics Eminem talks about hitting and fighting and yet says he loves her. And she sings about being ok with what he's doing. Rhianna did leave Chris Brown, eventually.

Sometimes the topics of these catchy songs are actually pretty disturbing. And you need to understand that.

Ok, I got it. But it's still a good song, sound-wise.

Yeah.

Video below:
(Which by the way I'd never let him watch, I can only take so many "teaching moments").
***********************************************************

I'm auditing BlogHer'10

2010-08-02T07:56:00.005-05:00

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." --Janis Joplin

My attitude exactly as I head to BlogHer'10 this weekend. My blog and I are having a trial separation, so I won't be introducing myself as "Gray Matter," I'll just be Betsy.

I have no business to build and I still view social networking as a way to stay in touch with my freshman-year college roommate.

So, other than picking a few outfits that don't make me feel like a total goober, I am released from all pre-conference anxiety. (Although I will be packing a few pharmaceuticals just in case).

I've been around the BlogHer block once before and, yes, I'll bring my wad of business cards (thanks Cool Mom Picks for not making me feel like a total fraud) and I know I'll come home with twice as many.

There will be a flurry of emails and tweets and possible friendings--and lordie, the BlogHer postmortems. But mostly, what I am so excited about is the chance to wrap my arms around some of the ladies that I've known for years and years yet never met face to face.

I don't even know some of these cool chicks real names. They're going in my phone under things like "Issas's Crazy World" (ok, bad example, but you get my point).

I do feel like I need to do a little pre-conference cramming. I've not only been a remiss blogger, but a remiss reader as well. It'll be like looking through my college face book (you know the actual printed ones with the most pretentious mid-80's new wave picture you've ever taken), before heading to my college reunion.

So, whether I make it to a seminar, or whether I just end up gabbing over coffee for hours with some new, old friends, I can't wait to go.

So please, tweet me, text me, page me, I want to finally meet you. If for no other reason than I'll be the one with pharmaceuticals.

See you soon!

Relaxing is hard work

2010-06-30T09:31:00.006-05:00

Ok, first I apologize in advance to everyone who is rushing to slather sunscreen on three children and pack up camp backpacks on their way to their job. In fact, don't read this. Please.

Growing up my mother was a master at honing in on the child that was comfortably relaxing, minding their own business, and disrupting them.

Mom: Did you finish your homework?

Me: Yes.

Mom: Put away your laundry?

Me: Yes.

Mom: Did you start your book report? It's due next week.

Me: Yes.

This would go on until she would find something, anything, that I had not done.

Mom: Did you plant a vegetable garden?

Me: No.

Mom: Well maybe you shouldn't be laying around when there's stuff to be done.

And so began my difficulty with just doing nothing. To me relaxation equals laziness and irresponsibility.

I have a friend who can sit outside during the day and read for hours. Or nap. Of course she does a ton of stuff for her family, always has a fully stocked fridge and finished laundry. But she also gives herself permission to take those unaccounted for chunks of time to just "be."

Even now, while my son is away at camp, and my "Have Tos" list is pretty sparse I have such an uneasy feeling doing nothing. After all, there's always a vegetable garden to plant.

Today is a good example. I booked a massage for this afternoon and have dinner plans with a girlfriend tonight. I don't have to wake up at a certain time or take care of a ton of stuff, but when I woke up, my inclination was to leap out of bed, shower, eat and get out the door.

To go where?

Well, I'd find something to do. A trip to the post office or a return at Target. Or at least sit down and write all my Cool Mom Picks posts that I have waiting for me. Work on the weekly e-blast for my pool club. Call my surgeon about my upcoming ankle surgery.

But I'm trying to, at least for one day, give myself permission to stay in bed. Watch America's Next Top Model (even though I never do). To relax over coffee and yes, maybe even read a my book. (Horns, by the way, which is fantastic).

And you know what? It's only 10:45 and I'm so uneasy. An endless loop of "You should be...you should be...you should be..." is playing in my head. So, I turn to my trusty, neglected, blog to try to exorcise these feelings by putting them into words.

It reminds me of a great All in the Family episode where the doctor tells Archie that he needs to relax. Not lose his temper. Everyone around him tries to help by trying desperately to not set him off. And in the end he can't handle it. Remaining calm and relaxing is not who he is. He needs his tirades to blow off steam.

Maybe relaxing is just too stressful for me.

Or maybe learning to relax should be at the top of my "To Do" list today.

What do you do to relax?

What is a stay-at-home mom with no kid?

2010-06-14T17:06:00.004-05:00

Without the noun "mom," "stay-at-home" is kind of a lousy adjective.

And there aren't a lot of careers that start off that way that I can think of.

I mean there are no stay-at-home surgeons. Or if there are I strongly advise against using them.

There are no stay-at-home rodeo clowns.

In exactly 8 days I become a stay-at-home mom with no kid.

A boat with no rutter or destination. At least that's how it feels.

My days, as unexciting as they may be, are filled with purpose--even if that purpose is just buying toilet paper and remembering to sign a math test.

While it sounds like an enviable problem I'm not exactly sure what's going to get me out of bed in the morning if I don't have to drive him to school or some activity.

And my fear, bigger than what will I do with my time, is that I will do nothing. That he'll return from camp and I will have wasted the freedom that I should have been enjoying. That I'll waste hours on the computer or wander aimlessly around Target.

Although I spend much of my time alone, while he is at school, I rarely feel lonely. I'm worried that 8 days from now that is going to change.

Take a class. Go on a trip. Babysit my kids! All lovely suggestions from friends and family, but no, that's not exactly what I'm looking for. Especially the babysitting of other people's children.

I need a plan.

A schedule.

A reason to get up and out in the morning.

In short, I need to get a life.

Any thoughts?

Little Boxes

2010-05-24T20:26:00.008-05:00

Well, first off, I've sort of lost the will to blog.

So without a long rambling soliloquy about why, and without making any grand declarations I'll leave it at this: I'm glad to know it's here when I have something I want to write about, but I'm not going to write, because, GASP, it's been 6 days, or 16, since I last posted something that a few people still read and even less comment on.

My blog started as an invisible online journal (remember that's what blogs were four years ago?) and I suspect it will end that way as well. No big sponsors (although I appreciate the $75 in 4 years I've earned from the BlogHer ad network--seriously, I love those gals). No giveaways or book deals. Just me finding a place for the stuff in my head to find a home.

I've been thinking a lot about something my day used to say:

"Live your life in day-tight compartments."

When I graduated High School the full-page ad he took out in my senior yearbook had a black-and-white picture of me at four-years old. Puny, chicken-like, me--with large brown eyes and a sideways smirk, holding a hot dog with an glass bottle of Coke next to me. And printed in the upper right hand corner it read:

For yesterday is but a dream,
and tomorrow is only a vision.
But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness,
and tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well, therefore, to this day.

Lately I've been consumed with the notion of trying to live that way. Not wasting energy fretting about what happened in the past, since it can't be changed. And not spending all my effort worrying about the future, since I have no control over it.

As someone who has carried the weight of life's sadness's and slights, disappointments and deaths it is not easy.

As someone who battles anxiety over the "what ifs" of life with a need to control as my sole weapon it is hard to let go.

It is work.

And I fail. A lot.

But I keep trying. Because I believe my dad was right and because I want to be more like him.

So my world is filled with little boxes. Day-tight compartments. Or sometimes, hour-tight compartments if that's all I can manage.

And in one of those little boxes is the idea that letting my blog exist with absolutely no expectations or aspirations other than having an outlet to get what's inside, out, is not a sign of failure.

It's freedom.

When he's right he's right

2010-05-05T09:22:00.004-05:00

So the 4th, 5th and 6th-Graders at my son's school are having a Variety Show.

My son, spotlight whore that he is, wants to perform a song.

His first choice? Whaddaya Want From Me, by Sir Adam (G)Lambert.

After a somewhat uncomfortable conversation about why that might not be the best song choice he decided on a new song: Eye of the Tiger, by Survivor.

I sat stunned. I certainly didn't want to be a kill joy, but I also didn't want to picture him just standing there on the stage during the interminable introduction followed by trying to pull off a huge anthem rock song all alone. Plus, we have no lasers nor smoke machines.

My husband intervened on that one and eventually got him to realize that there are some bells that can't be un-rung and while what he's picturing in his head might seem epic, the reality would probably be somewhat different.

He could definitely become a legend, in the worst sense of the word.

I still haven't come to terms with the debacle of my "Let's Get Physical" solo dance routine from summer camp circa '82.

Well, third time was indeed the charm.

Good Riddance (Time of your life), by Green Day.
Acoustic, good lyrics, eminently singable. Score!

So we asked his friend's sister, an amazing guitar player and singer in her own right, if she would play the music for his performance. They practiced over the weekend and it was truly terrific. This was going to be perfect!

Legendary. In a good way.

Unfortunately the teachers running the Variety Show went all Gestapo on our ass and refused to let a ninth-grader play guitar since the show is only for 4th, 5th and 6th graders. Citing the ol' "If we do it for you we have to do it for everyone..."

My son's response to the news?

"Well, if no one else was smart enough to think of doing this why is that my problem?"

He had me there.

So, as sometimes we parents are forced to do, I broke the code of conduct and said, "You're right. It's idiotic."

Sometimes commiseration is much better than comforting.

Flutter. Flutter. Gone.

2010-05-01T12:12:00.006-05:00

My head is filled with butterflies. Well, thoughts that flutter around like butterflies. Sometimes landing for a second or two before taking off, others remaining in constant motion.

It should be easy to write a blog post when your head is filled with thoughts, but none of them will stay put long enough to be committed to the written word.

Just when I sit down to write about our scary trip to the emergency room--first, and hopefully last ride in an ambulance--I start to think, what's the point? Everything's fine. I know so many of you who have, dealt with far worse.

But here's the gist: my son's horrible seasonal allergies set off something akin to a severe croup attack, he could not breathe, we called 911 and they used a nebulizer of epinephrine to open up his airways on the way to the hospital. He is fine. It was exhausting. I feel like a brand new, first-time mom all over again. Checking on him at night to make sure he's breathing.

Being too scared to go to sleep worrying I won't hear him choking this time.

But the new additions to his already enormous seasonal allergy medical regime seem to be working great.

Flutter. Flutter. Gone.

I was lamenting the fact that I used to have an amazing memory. Almost like a photographic memory, but audio-based. I did very well all through college barely reading the materials because I absorbed so much of what the professors said.

I remembered my Kindergarten girlfriend's phone number for decades, intricate details of stories people told me, and certainly my daily, hell, monthly schedule without ever writing anything down.

Now I have to set alarms to remind myself to turn off the oven so the garlic bread won't burn. Email myself notes so that I won't forget that I have to pick up my friend's son after school. 3 seconds after I've been introduced to someone I forget their name. I hate it.

I have a lot of theories, beyond "old age," to try make sense of it, but at the end of the day, the fact remains that my memory, is a distant memory.

Flutter. Flutter. Gone.

I hate tan minivans.

Flutter.

The guys at the Subway Sandwich place near me creep me out.

Flutter.

I'm way behind on some work I have to do and I can't seem to get back on top of things at the moment.

Flutter.

So, until one of these butterfly thoughts lays an egg, that turns into a cocoon, that actually hatches into a full-blown, coherent idea I'm just going to have to wait.

Gone.

The latest must-have accessory isn't a what, it's a who.

2010-04-21T07:46:00.016-05:00

First it was the pocket Chihuahua. For a while it seemed like every socialite, celebutant, and wannabe was walking around with an enormous bag packed with prescriptions pills and petite pooches.

Paris seemed to have an endless supply of them as I never saw her photographed with the same one twice. I've often wondered what becomes of these wet-eyed, shaky, canines once their owners got tired of dressing in matching outfits and cleaning poop out of their designer handbags.

I'm convinced that somewhere in Beverly Hills, or on the Upper East Side, there are packs of half-dressed Chihuahuas roaming the streets desperate for their next caviar canine treat.

But now it seems that the lastest must-have accessory is the Day Gay.

I mean wasn't it trendsetter SJP's alter-ego, Carrie Bradshaw, who showed us that sometimes the best girlfriend was actually a guy? Stanford Blatch dished, dined and shopped with Carrie until she could no longer teeter on her 5" Manolos.

And who could forget the perfect chemistry between Jack and Karen?

And more recently, in a case of life imitating art, I'd like to present Exhibit "G":

Alex van Kempen, from Real Housewives of New York, and her BF who likes B's, Derek.

Now this is a trend I can get behind. Sure, I have a gay brother, but he's not a "fun gay." And my dearest friend is also gay, but, and I mean no offense, she's a she.

I want a bawdy, stylish, guy who will crack jokes as we shop, who will find the latest greatest restaurant and insist that we go there opening night, and get us free drinks by flirting with the bartender. I want someone who isn't mired in the world of children, husbands and homework. I would love to go clubbing vicariously. I want witty banter between me and a guy without a hint of sexual tension or impropriety.

Now the hard part. Where does one find such a gay, I mean guy? One who wants to hang out with a middle-aged, suburban, hausfrau who is mired in the world of children, husbands and homework?

Do you think we might catch on as the must-have accessory in the gay community any time soon?

Yeah, I thought not.

I guess I'll just go get some gladiator sandals.

Yup. We finally had THE talk.

2010-04-08T07:57:00.005-05:00

About a year ago I wrote a post "Let's NOT talk about Sex, Baby" which I had to delete (first and only time I did that), because I routinely got a crazy amount of foreign spam. I'm sorry I did, because frankly I'd love to see what I wrote about the subject.

Well, I think the gist was that some of my friends had already had "the" talk with their kids, but that I wasn't ready to fill in my child, as a third grader, about the birds and the bees.

First, there were a few off-handed questions like, "How do you decide to have a baby? Can you decide not to? How does it work?" Then, while waiting for How to Train Your Dragon to start there was a heated debate, with the 6-year-old sitting behind us, regarding whether or not there was such a thing as an "X" rating--by the way it was the 6-year-old who swore there was. After multiple attempts to change the topic my husband leaned over and whispered that there was and that they had to do with sex.

Sex! We've never even used the word with him!

After I located my eyes off the sticky movie theater floor and popped them back into my skull I glared at my husband and said, "there's nudity. That's why they're rated X."

That night we asked him if he had ever heard of sex and he said that he had heard a lot of kids use the word, but he wasn't really sure what it meant. Which led us to the decision that it was time to have "the" talk.

Over the next few days I thought about how I would explain it. How detailed I would get. Whether or not there should be visual aids. Finally, I felt I had the planned the perfect talk.

One snag.

My husband had done the same thing.

We argued over who would have the talk with him.

"No, this is a talk that a father has with his son," he said.

"Maybe usually, but he and I are so close. We talk about everything."

"But he should know that he can talk to me about this kind of stuff. No boy wants to talk to his mom about this."

"But I'm the one that he spends most of his free time with. I pick him up from school. I talk about his day. I do homework with him, plan his playdates, sign him up for activities and deal with his melt-downs."

It turns out that those were exactly the reasons he felt he wanted to be the one to share this moment with his son.

Dammit. I knew that he was right. And, as much as it crushed me, that this was a milestone I would not be a part of.

Well, not exactly.

I made him record the conversation on the iPhone.

Thank God, there's an App for that.

So she grabs my right breast and...

2010-03-31T12:34:00.010-05:00

Oh, hey, got your attention didn't I?

Well, as I was saying, I went for my annual mammogram/ultrasound today and there's a few things I want to say to the fine professionals at my imaging facility.

1) Introduce yourself before you wedge my boob under a piece of plastic and have me stand there like an animal in a bear trap.

2) Make casual conversation, or, perhaps explain the process. Yes, this is my sixth time doing this, but you don't know that. For all you know I could be there after my doctor felt something suspicious, and I could be scared out of my mind. And P.S. as far as you know I also don't generally disrobe in front of complete strangers. Well, not without them at least buying me a drink first.

3) Surely you are able to provide more current reading material in the holding pen than Organic Living circa 2004. Spoiler alert, there's a new gizmo coming out called the iPod!

4) And you, with the gel, thank you for warming it before covering my chest like you were icing a wedding cake, seriously, I truly appreciate it.

5) And, FYI, closing up my paper gown after the sonogram, essentially sealing it to my goopy chest is really gross. Frankly it looked like a kid's art project. And the fact that you wanted me to walk down the hall to the holding pen/changing room and put back on my clothes without giving me anything to wash myself off with is equally as gross.

In fact, it felt a little like having bad, drunken sex and then the guy kinda just leaves afterwards. I mean, I've heard. That's what I've heard. Of course I have never had that experience myself. Per se. Nope. Not me.

So no, I'm not leaving the room until I've used 2/3 of a roll of dry paper towels so as to merely have a sticky film of gel left on my body before heading straight to the bathroom to work on the rest.

6) Not unlike the satisfaction of seeing the douche who was speeding and weaving in and out of traffic being pulled over by a cop, thank you, thank you, thank you, for the patient survey I received upon leaving. The only thing better than being able to make a few well-placed checks in the "Poor" column is being able to blog about it.

Having said all that, inconveniences and mild humiliations aside, I will continue to get my annual mammogram, and I urge you to do the same. Three of my good friends (all under 45) were diagnosed with breast cancer in the past year. I have a family history, but they didn't.

And trust me, when they say the words, "Everything looks fine, see you next year," you'll totally forget about the other stuff.

Well, after you blog about it, that is.

*************************************************************************************
I may have written about a previous visit to Mammogramland, if you want the gory details, read this.

Why Fiddle de dee, Toyota, thank you so very kindly

2010-03-22T15:56:00.003-05:00

As if the inadvertent acceleration wasn't bad enough...

I'm not sure this one needs much commentary:

One can only imagine the crappy service the poor men get.

Pop goes the Culture

2010-03-18T09:57:00.006-05:00

When I used to write for the illustrious Mamapop, I got to pontificate about pop-culture at least once a week. Here, not so much, but there are still just a few things I feel compelled to write about, so indulge me.

Or not, no one has a gun to your head, I'm just thrilled you popped by.

American Tragedy:

Last night I watched American Idol for the second time this season. The other being Tuesday night when all the fresh-scrubbed hopefuls belted out (and sometimes screeched) their versions of classic Rolling Stones songs.

I have nothing to say one way or another about their performances, I want to talk about the "special guest," they had on last night just before the two girls standing on the proverbial Idol's gallows awaited their fate.

Remember when I wrote about Ke$HA a few weeks ago? Remember how I told you that she is the reason I feared for our children? Well there she was performing (notice I don't say singing) her latest smash hit "Blah, Blah, Blah."

First things first, does anyone know how to remove an ice pick from an ear canal?

Holy crap! There are no words in the English language to describe how utterly horrific, talentless, embarrassing and suck-a-lacious, she is. (Oh! I may have just have invented one).

All I could think about was how cruel it was to have her as the special guest performer on AI. It was sooooo much worse than Simon telling you that you are a no-talent karaoke wanna-be, and he hates your shoes. And that you smell. And so does your mother.

This is who they hold up as the paragon of what these contestants can be if they work really, really, really hard? These people are song-writers, lovers of music, burning with a desire to share their gift with the world. As far as I can tell, Ke$HA likes glitter make-up a little too much and has no artistic integrity whatsoever.

Jesus! The freakin' song is called "Blah, Blah, Blah!"

Moving on...
I'd never forgive myself if I neglected to give you the head's up about two great shows that are premiering tonight on Showtime.

Nurse Jackie:

You will be as addicted to the show as Nurse Jackie, played by the amazing Edie Falco, is to her pharmaceuticals. This show crept up on me like a...um...help me drug addicts, what drug creeps up on you, instills waves of euphoria then leaves you desperate for your next fix. What? All of them? Ok. Well, then, you get the idea. Watch this show. It'll be the best monkey you'll ever have on your back.

United States of Tara:
I was late to the prom on this one. I watched Season 1 on Netflix and let me just say, I'm crazy about this show. USoT was created by Diablo Cody (of Juno fame) and is executive produced by some shmo named Steven Spielberg. It stars Toni Collette and John Corbert (yum), as a couple dealing with lead character, Tara's, Multiple Personality Disorder.

I worried that it would be gimmicky, in a Tracey Ullman sort of way, but Collette does such an amazing job portraying the complexities of this disorder, I find myself both laughing and crying as she tries to integrate them successfully into her day to day life as a wife and mother.

So, to sum up.

Ke$HA is the anti-Christ.

Nurse Jackie will get you hooked.

United States of Tara is an amazing show with lots of personality.

Discuss.

This Prius situation is hitting too close too home, literally

2010-03-12T11:25:00.005-05:00

I'm going to let you in on a little secret.

Prius owners all feel a little smug.

It's true. We think we're just a smidge better than you.

It's the same kind of smugness I believe Vegans and parents who homeschool feel. And you can only imagine how overbearing Homeschooling, Vegans who drive Priuses are.

To be fair, I also own an SUV, but I am selectively smug since I only drive that in bad weather.

However, in light of all the damning stories coming out, on a nearly a daily basis, about how potentially unsafe my species of vehicle may be, I'm feeling completely duped, and decidedly un-smug.

Last week, a 2005 Prius (same year as mine) accelerated uncontrollably and slammed into a stone wall in a town just a few minutes from where I live.

All of the sudden the funny looking, silver hybrid I've been driving proudly for the past 5 years feels like a time bomb on wheels.

I used to feel like owning a Prius was shorthand to other parents that I was cool, responsible, and progressive. Now I feel like parents are going to look at me as if I'm going to let their kids play with matches and run with scissors.

I am certain I can feel disapproving stares when I go to pick up, and I can only imagine what is being whispered.

"We were going to elect her to the PTA Executive Board, but, I mean, she drives a Prius...need I say more?"

"Oh. My. God. My son had a sleep over there last year. What was I thinking?"

"Crap! I have her down as my Emergency Contact, I've gotta go to the office and change some paperwork."

The service representative I called at Toyota sounded beleaguered, defensive and exhausted.

"I can get you in mid-April," he said.

"No! Nonononono, I can't drive this around with my child for the next month. And you told me a few weeks ago at my check up that my airband, belty, thingie was cracked and dry. That sounds dangerous to me. The last thing we want is more bad publicity, right?" I said.

So, they're "squeezing me in," in a week or so, but in the meantime I feel like I need to park and shroud my beloved hybrid.

Here's the thing, I don't compost.

I don't eat organic.

I very rarely separate my co-mingled recycling properly.

Getting 45 mpg was the least I could do (literally) to be one of the "better people."

And now that's gone.

Talk about an inconvenient truth.

He kissed a girl and he liked it...

2010-03-08T16:44:00.006-05:00

"Just to tell you, I got kissed tonight, but that's all I'm gonna say about it," he announced as he climbed into the car. Into his booster seat, because, at 10, he is still too short not to need one.

"Really?" I said, my voice higher than I intended it to be. "Who was it?" I ventured a guess since I only knew the name of one girl from his acting program.

"No, and I told you, that's all I'm going to say about it. It's private."

And so it begins.

The flag has now officially been planted in the landscape of our mother/son relationship.

His life is going to be more and more his, and less and less mine.

Oh hell no, I'm not going down without a fight.

"You know you can tell me anything," I said casually.

"I know." he responded.

I know. But nothing more. The words just hung there.

Meaning: "I know I can tell you anything, but tough noogies for you old lady, I'm not going to. Not her name. Not the location of the kiss. Not the conversation leading up to and following it. Not the nature of the kiss. I will not divulge if it was an 'awwww, you're so adorable let me peck you on the cheek' kind of kiss or an 'I know I'm an older woman of 12, worldlier than you, but I am madly drawn to your diminutive size and brilliant mind. Kiss me, you fool.' kind of kiss. And I most certainly will not give you any clue as to whether or not it did anything to my 'boy parts,' or whether we're planning a Spring or Summer wedding."

Now I am quite sure we cut the umbilical cord on the day of his birth, cuz, like I was there, but why does it feel like it's been cut again?

Up until this point we've had such a close, open relationship, and I guess I thought we always would. And if he's not going to fill me in on the details of such a minor thing, what's going to happen when there's actually more to tell?

I've been assured by experts that this is not only a totally normal part of growing up, but that it's actually healthy.

And that may be true. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

And you, Hot Lips from acting, I'm officially putting you on notice.

Female pop stars who make me glad I have a son

2010-02-25T14:04:00.016-05:00

The little girl stepped out from behind the thick blue curtain, her striped shirt clung to her slightly protruding belly. Her thick brown hair was pulled back by a sparkly pink headband and she showed no signs of excitement, nor fear, when she grabbed the mike.

In fact, with no background music, it took me a second to register that she was singing:

"Wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy,
Grab my glasses I'm out the door,
I'm gonna hit the city,
Before I leave I brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack..."

**sound of needle scratching across an album in my head**

WHAT? What did she just say? I try to refocus.

"...Don't stop, make it pop,
DJ blow my speakers up,
Tonight, I'mma fight,
'til we see the sunlight,
Tick Tock, on the clock,
But the party don't stop, no..."

The song is by Ke$ha, one of the latest crop of pop stars, who isn't just a horrible songwriter, but a horrible role model. Like cigarettes, her music should come with a warning label--WARNING: KE$HA IS A SKANK WHO WRITES SHITTY SONGS ABOUT GETTING DRUNK AND GROPED AND YOU SHOULD NOT LET YOUR YOUNG DAUGHTER LISTEN TO HER.

Granted, it would be a big label, but still.

I started to rift in my head about how much worse the pop-stars of today are in terms of setting good examples for young girls, but then I remembered a scrappy, young, up-and-comer, from my youth:

I wonder what ever became of her.

Anyway, I'm not sure that the likes of Ke$ha, or Lady Gaga, or even Ms. Miley Cyrus are actually all that different than who I grew up listening to, except for one thing. We didn't have constant access (or Access Hollywood) to their image the way kids do today.

MTV was in its infancy when I was growing up, and we never had cable. There were no cell phones or internet (or wheels). If you wanted to be negatively influenced by a celebrity then had to save up your money, get a ride to the mall to grab a record at Sam Goody, and, of course, the latest issue of Teen Beat.

But the point is, I was horrified that the little girl on the stage, and more precisely her parents, felt it was an appropriate song to sing in the Resort's talent show.

I don't have a daughter, so maybe I'm being all judgey (which I'm allowed to, 'cuz it's my blog, yo) but I wondered if that girl had any idea what the lyrics she was singing meant. And quite frankly I think I'd be more horrified if she did, but certainly her mom and dad did. Oh God, I'm getting dangerously close to Church Lady status here (which is weird, because I'm a liberal Jew).

Watching this girl singing about "crunking" and "her junk," made me so incredibly grateful that I have a son. Boys don't seem to try to emulate their favorite celebrities by dressing like them, or trying to be "sexy." The concept of sexy does not generally have a home in a ten-year-old boy's mental roladex.

I'm sure my mother hated the Madonna posters on my wall, and the "new wave" rat tail I had hanging down the middle of my back. But I managed to avoid teenage pregnancy despite songs like "Like a Virgin," and got into a good college, rubber bracelets notwithstanding. Sure I think you should Purell your TV after watching a Ke$ha video with your 8-year old little girl (actually I don't think you should be watching a Ke$ha video with an 8-year-old girl under any circumstance), and yes, Lady Gaga may be nutty as a fruit cake, but apparently even Queen Elizabeth digs her "Po-po-poker Face."

And if it's good enough for the original Diva, who am I to quibble?

I'm a glass is half it's gonna spill kinda person

2010-02-11T12:00:00.003-05:00

For the past week I've been reading my friend, Allison's, manuscript for her new book: Parentless Parents: How the Deaths of Our Mothers and Fathers Impact the Way We Parent Our Own Children. Yes, it's a mouthful, but it's also a really interesting read.

The chapter that resonated with me the most was about how parents, who have lost their parents, can tend towards being extremely over-protective, because, at least in my case, my mind always goes to the worst case scenario--what would happen if something happened to me?

My father died when I was 22, long before I was a mother, but I know that his death dramatically affected my life. I was basically a hermit after my son was born (10 years ago today!), because somewhere inside me I believed that nothing bad could happen to me so long as I didn't leave the house.

The thought that my son would be without his mother was too terrifying to deal with, so for the first three weeks after he was born I barely left the house. And when I did I'd usually end up pulling off the road in panicky tears or have trouble breathing while I waited in line at the supermarket or tried to enjoy a coffee with a girlfriend.

Many years, and therapy sessions later, I am able to see that spending all my energy worrying that something bad is going to happen is a fairly miserable way to go through life. And many 0f the anxieties that had suffocated me have loosened their grips. Still, I am always shadowed by the "what ifs."

My irrational belief is that, if I just try to figure out every worst-case-scenario, I can figure out how to protect against it. People think of me as a "Type A" personality, but really it runs much deeper.

I'm the person who makes three reservations for a Saturday night so my friends and I are sure to get into the restaurant of our choice.

I'm the one who always has a snack on hand or a bunch of bandaids for an unexpected injury.

An extra jacket in case it turns colder, or the air conditioning in a restaurant is too high.

Yes, these are all such little things, but it makes me feel better to, like a Boy Scout, always be prepared. Because deep down I know that there are so many bigger things that I can't plan my way out of: a car accident, a natural disaster, and most especially cancer--which is how my dad died. So, I over-prepare, over-plan, and yes, in some ways, over-protect my child.

I could get a thousand comments...or more realistically 6, that all tell me to "let go," "relax," let my child get hurt every now and again. And I couldn't agree more. But telling me that is like telling an asthmatic to breathe easier, or person suffering from depression to "cheer up." A parent's death changes you in both enormous and imperceptible ways.

Although I never fixate on my father's death, the birth of my son and therefore the birth of me as a mother is forever changed because of my dad's absence. And yet my heart is so full today as I celebrate one full decade of motherhood.

This morning I was able to bestow the best present of all upon my son--a two-hour snow delay. He woke to a balloon attached to the foot of his bed, and a Tenth Anniversary edition of Calvin & Hobbs. (His "real" gift will be given to him later at dinner).

He bounded into my room and jumped into my bed. We turned on cartoons and snuggled as I drifted in and out of sleep with my arms wrapped around him. Just like I did when he was a baby.

It occurs to me that everything in life truly is yin and yang. The presence of one balanced with the absence of another. And tonight when we sing the "Happy Birthday song," I will be celebrating both the memory of my father, and the life my son, since they share the same name.

So, I guess more important than figuring out if the glass is half full or if it's half empty, is to remember to drink it. Especially if it's raised up as a toast in celebration.

Cheers! Happy Birthday to my Big Man!!

My son, the athletic supporter

2010-02-03T09:31:00.019-05:00

"He's more spazzy than sporty," I'd explain when moms would ask me which soccer-football-baseball team my son was playing on. I felt a little bad putting him down like that, but it was meant to be shorthand for "my kid's a non-athlete and I'm totally ok with it."

Even if I wasn't sometimes.

One part of me, (the incredibly lazy part), was thrilled not to have to schlep my kid to mid-week practices and get up early on the weekends to go to travel games against other 3rd and 4th graders. All of whom were clearly professional athletes in the making.

The other part of me felt bad, because it made both him, and me, outsiders to a major aspect of the social network in our community.

His being non-athletic, or should I say completely disinterested in athletics, expanded far beyond the sports fields. Last year, while others kids played kickball during recess, he was content to dig holes or make up games like "fire pit" where you have to stay on the rocks or risk falling into the pretend moat of lava. Behavior that made him, how do I put this nicely, not exactly unpopular, but definitely somewhat invisible.

So last summer my husband and I decided, in an effort to put him on the social radar, that he needed to be tudored in "Sports as a Second Language. (SSL)." We figured even if he couldn't play sports, the least he could do is be able to talk about them.

Our first step was to start recording Sports Center on ESPN. Each day we'd put it on for a few minutes so that he could see the highlights reel. That way he'd get the basic gist and at least a few phrases to pepper his conversations with. Like, "The whole free agent system is really corroding the integrity of the game," and such.

The two stories that grabbed his attention immediately were Michael Vick's conviction and Brett Favre coming out of retirement. The next day he went to camp armed with this new information, and Voila! came home thrilled that he was able to talk about it with a bunch of boys. "They couldn't believe that I knew about Brett Favre!" he said proudly.

Well, success breeds success and by the time he went back to school he knew enough to hold his own during the school yard discussions about A-Rod, Jorge Posada and Hideki Matsui. Kids started looking at him a little differently, and suddenly he wasn't "the kid who stands on the rocks during recess." He was "the kid who stands on the rocks during recess who knows a thing or two about the Yanks' chances in the World Series."

Then, with football season approaching we took his sports education to the next level. We realized, even if he would never don a cup and shoulder pads, he should understand the ins and outs of the game.

That's where the Wii came in. I went and bought a used copy of Madden '08.

My husband and son spent hours playing together and, within a week or two, he seemed to have gained a fundamental understanding of the sport. Now he could recognize plays, and players. He took his new-found knowledge and applied it on Sundays by betting my husband, with M&M's, whether the next play would be a run or a pass.

He emerged a huge Vikings' fan. My husband, a lifelong Jet's fan, was unbelievable grateful that future generations of Gray Matters would not be saddled with the burden of supporting a team that has never failed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. We even bought him an official Brett Favre Vikings' jersey.

So, this Sunday we will be watching Superbowl 44 with genuine enthusiasm. As a copywriter my interest used to be limited to the commercial breaks, but now I will officially joining the ranks of "Sports Family."

Pushing our son to learn about sports so that he would have a common language with which to connect with his peers wasn't about our need to have him be popular. And I certainly wouldn't define him that way, even now. But like teaching a child to ride a bike, so that he ride with his friends, this is an achievement that he is truly proud of and has really helped him be more comfortable and confident with other kids.

So, I don't know if most parents would agree with our intervention, but unlike football, parenthood doesn't come with a play book. I guess we did a Hail Mary pass, and happened to score.

Now excuse me while I go find my big foam finger and start chanting...

We're number 1!

We're number 1!

They say "Sharing is Caring," but...

2010-02-01T18:05:00.006-05:00

Today, while driving home from school, my son said to me, "I don't know if this makes me a bad person, but I have a really difficult time caring about what the other kids are saying about their weekend during our sharing circle."

I can't remember the last time I laughed that hard.

Of course I didn't tell him that I feel the exact same way 98% of the time.

I guess that makes me a bad person too.

Guess the rotten apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

My Mid-Wife Crisis

2010-01-25T09:34:00.005-05:00

As I sit at the kitchen island, laptop open, all signs of productivity are being sucked into the vortex of the internet. I glance at the dishwasher. Then my gaze drifts over to the coffee mug sitting next to me. I need to get up and put the mug into the dishwasher and start it. And yet, I cannot muster the energy or desire for this simple task.

Maybe it's because I know starting the dishwasher means emptying the dishwasher, a counter full of still-wet plastic containers (hey, in fairness to Bosch it's not called a dish dryer) and then the third, and final step, of putting everything back where it belongs.

As I type this I know there is a laundry basket bursting with dirty laundry upstairs. Now, it's not like I have to go down to the river and beat it against the rocks, but I feel indignant about having to drag the basket three floors down to the basement and start the sisyphusian task of doing laundry. Wash, dry, fold, ignore folded clothes in basket for two or three days, angrily put clothes away, realize that I am four days behind on laundry.

How is that possible?

How do I have more laundry to do when I've just done it all? Are the t-shirts mating with the mismatched socks? Spontaneous generation is a definite possibility. All I know is that, as I heave the heavy basket back up three flights of stairs, there is inevitably a sweatshirt just waiting on the floor by the bed mocking me.

I guess the stuff that is now "my job" as a housewife/stay-at-home mom still chafes my ass a bit. I'm a college-grad who had a pretty decent run in advertising actually getting paid to write. Sometimes, even after eight years, I can't help but think "This is what it's come to? Seriously?"

Here's the part where lots of bloggers recount some incredible moment they shared with their children and end with, "...and that makes it all worth it. There's no place I'd rather be."

Yeah, I'm not doing that.

I'm ending with an incomplete thought.

If this is indeed what my life has come to, can I make peace with it?

Sometimes it's good to have a lawyer in the house

2010-01-21T08:54:00.006-05:00

"You LIED!"

"You're LIARS!!"

My son stormed into the house, tears streaming down his reddened face.

The tirade continued--

"You said I could grow my hair as long as I wanted to during the school year. That's what you said! Does this look long? NO! I look like a toddler. A DORK! You're never touching another single cell on MY body!"

Stifling a giggle I tried to explain, "Sweetie, that was before your uncle was getting married. You're the ring-bearer. You have to look nice..."

"NICE! This doesn't look NICE. This looks STUPID. I'm going to wear a hat!"

"It's a wedding, you can't wear a hat."

"I'll wear a top hat! People wear those. And anyway you broke your promise! You always do."

"I do not!"

"Yes! You said you'd get me a Brett Favre jersey months ago. You didn't..."

"Well, actually that was Dad." (Sometimes saving yourself means throwing your spouse under the bus)

My husband mercifully interceded.

"Ok, you're right. We did say you could grow your hair, but these are extenuating circumstances. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, that you lied!"

In your family maybe you would have scooped your child up in your arms, quieted his tears and tried to explain why it was important to look nice for a special family occasion.

Or maybe you would have sent your child to his room for a time out until he calmed down.

In our family we handle disputes like this a little differently.

We drew up a contract. Here it is:

Whereas, Son of Gray Matter (“Kid”) wants to grow his hair as long as possible;

Whereas Kid’s parents Gray Matter and Mr. Gray Matter (collectively “Parents”) want Kid’s hair to be presentable and for him not to look like a wookie that was caught off guard by a leafblower; and

Whereas Kid and Parents have reached a compromise that will enable Kid to manage his hair;

Therefore Kid and Parents hereby agree to the following:

1. During the winter months, beginning October and ending on the fifth day of June 2010, Kid will not be required to have a full haircut. A full haircut is defined as a trip to the barber or hair stylist in which Kid’s hair is shortened by more than two (2) inches in length over his entire head.

2. During the winter months Kid will be required, at the discretion of Parents, to have his hair trimmed. A hair trim is defined as a trip to the barber in which Kid’s hair is shortened such that the overall shape of his hair is improved but in which the length is not materially shortened.

3. The parties may mutually agree to haircuts during the winter months in the event that a special event, such as an audition or major family event, requires.

4. In the event that Kid breaches this agreement he will be subject to loss of his Brett Farve jersey and other such punishments as Parents deem appropriate.

5. In the event that Parents breach this agreement Kid will be entitled to liquidated damages of five (5) dollars from each of Parents in the form of either two five dollar bills or one ten dollar bill.

This agreement is entered into on January 17, 2010.

AGREED TO AND ACCEPTED:

Kid:_____________________

Mr. Gray Matter:____________________

Gray Matter:_____________________

Sometimes it's good to have a lawyer in the house.

Stomach Bug Survival Guide

2010-01-15T09:00:00.006-05:00

Like a the mighty Phoenix, if Phoenixes rose from vomitty, shitty quagmires rather than ashes, I have emerged from case of the stomach bug that's going around.

I missed Delurking Day yesterday, but show a sister a little love and delurk anyway. Leave me a comment even if you never do, it's like Chicken Soup for the Blogger's Soul.

Since my son came down (and then back up, and back up and back out) with this virus I was better equipped when my turn came. Anyway, I sincerely hope that you don't get this bug, but if you do, I'm going to offer a few simple tips:

Supplies:

Multiple rolls of cottony-soft toilet paper. Even if you don't splurge on the likes of Charmin under normal circumstances now would be the time to spend the extra buck. You're going to be becoming quite intimate with this product and you want to be kind to your butt under trying circumstances.

NOTE: Place them within arms reach of the toilet, because if you are caught paperless midstream, so to speak, you will NOT be able to get up and run down the hall to your linen closet for another roll.

A plush blanket or two. You may find yourself lying prone on the floor in front of your toilet and, unlike a drunken bender, the cold floor will not feel refreshing. It will feel cold and hard, and you will most likely be shivering, covered in a cold sweat. Use the blanket as cushion and the other to cover yourself up while you whimper in the fetal position. And you will be.

I also found the second blanket rolled up to be helpful while in a sitting position to use as a pillow for support. It also muffled the sobs.

A Towel: Similar to the blanket, you will want something, besides tile, to kneel on when you are "assuming the position."

An extra toothbrush. You will be doing a lot of rinsing and brushing during this heinous 6-8 hour period. You do not want to have to replace your $23 electric toothbrush head, that will be riddled with stomach virus cooties the following day, so buy a cheap brush and then toss it.

Disinfectant wipes. There will be a lot of fluids flying. (Literally). You are going to want to be able to quickly wipe up, or off, any affected surfaces as you will already be nauseous enough and do not need to be overwhelmed by the sights and smells of what you're going through.

Small trashcan, lined with plastic bags. You will be cursing yourself for only using those recyclable hemp bags if you don't make sure to have at least a handful of plastic bags around. For those of you thinking that you'd just use the toilet, trust me, you may find yourself in the position of needing to use both simultaneously.

Popsicles: This is perhaps the single biggest tip I can give you. You will not be able to keep water or Gatorade down and yet you will be feeling excruciatingly thirsty and hungry. Like ice-chips when you're going through childbirth (which is only slightly worse than this), it is going to taste and feel like manna from heaven to suck on these sweet, artificially flavored sticks of ice.

Mantra: Repeat over and over. Tomorrow I will be thinner. Tomorrow I will be thinner. I woke up 4 pounds lighter, which almost made up for the weakness and exhaustion. And, since you'll be in no mood to eat for a few more days, other than bready stuff, you'll keep it off--at least for a little while.

The good news is that, as with most stomach bugs, the worst of it only lasts a 6-8 hours, during which you will be having some pretty interesting talks with God. And, within a day you'll mostly be over it. Be sure to douse your toilet, sink and door handles (and if it's really gotten out of control, your ceiling) with Lysol then burn your sheets. Ok, fine wash them, just use Chernobyl-temperature water.

Oh, but that blanket you used on the floor and as a pillow during the digestive tract rampage, burn that.

Seriously.

Is it kosher to criticize your kid?

2010-01-05T17:07:00.008-05:00

I know we all love to praise our children incessantly...ooops, I mean give positive reinforcement, but I've wondered before whether as a result of all those gold stars and pats on the head we're actually creating praise-crazy monsters?

Raising their expectations to the point where they will be disappointed if they don't get gold stars from their professors and smiley faces on their business reports?

On the other hand, is it kosher to criticize them?

Today my son told me that his class was asked to write about anything they wanted. He wrote a paragraph about how he couldn't think of anything to write about.

I was disappointed in him.

Annoyed.

Angry even.

He is a terrific, creative, imaginative writer and I couldn't believe that was the best he could come up with.

"What about how you just learned to rollerblade? Or, how you had a great visit with a friend you met at camp last summer? Or about the horrificly bumpy flight you had back from Florida when you threw up in a ziplock bag?" I questioned.

Then, I said it.

"You know what. What you did was a cop-out. It just wasn't good and you're capable of better."

Was that a terrible thing to say?

After all, he's not a 3-year old showing me his first scribble on a piece of paper that he triumphantly declared an elephant--which of course was nothing short of total genius.

So, is this a case of "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all?" Should I not have criticized his efforts (or lack there of).

Are we only supposed to offer heaping helpings of praise or keep our yaps shut?

I do believe that you need to be very praising of young children, but I also believe that we need to make adjustments as kids get older.

I grew up in a house where if you got a 98 on a test you were asked "What happened to the extra two points?" So, I'm acutely aware of what it feels like when a parent criticizes. The difference is that, in my house, it was rarely the counterbalanced with praise.

So I guess I'm looking to strike a balance.

I want him to know that when I tell him something is incredibly, wonderfully, fabulous and brilliant, that I really mean it. Which I guess means sometimes letting him know when it isn't.

*****
Photo credit: itsok2suck.com

Doh!

2010-01-04T18:02:00.006-05:00

SON:

I had an epiphany! I love Red Velvet cake.

Oh, and I had another epiphany, I'm really good at rollerblading!

Oh, and I had another epiphany, I should put my comics online!

ME:

Um, do you actually know what the word epiphany means?

SON:

A sudden realization of a great truth.

*blink*

ME:

Was that one of your vocabulary words?

SON:

No, it's from the Simpons Movie.

******************************

So, all you parents out there who won't let your kids watch TV, I'm just sayin'.

Truly, Madly, Deeply

2009-12-24T17:26:00.004-05:00

I stare over my book at him, his dark brown eyes, with enviable long, dark lashes, glide back and forth across the page of the book he is reading. His skin glows from the fire in the fireplace behind him, which is crackling and whooshing.

His fingers play along his bottom lip absentmindedly while his thick black robe, covered in skulls, hangs off his small shoulders.

I can't remember when he turned into such a real person.

One who can devour chapter books in hours.

And who has the most surprisingly sophisticated, and twisted, sense of humor.

A person that, when we play Scrabble, gives me a run for my money.

I glance over at my husband on the couch nearby, his face obscured by the graphic novel he has taken out of the library.

I feel something more than love.

More than pride.

More than blessed.

I don't know what it's called, but I am deeply in it.

Does anyone know how to say "thank you" in Korean?

2009-12-21T08:46:00.004-05:00

To all my reader, brace yourself, it turns out I'm HUGE in Korea.

Well, or at least my post about when to talk to your kids about sex is.

I'd link, but I deleted it because it was generating too darn many comments.

I know, since when is too many comments a problem, right?

It's just, I didn't want to make you bloggers out there, who only get 43 of them when you post a cute picture of your cat sleeping in a box, feel bad.

But seriously, they were really clogging up my inbox, which I like to reserve strictly for Canadian pharmaceutical offers and urgent notices that I have over a million dollars of unclaimed funds in the United Bank of Sri Lanka.

Now, I don't actually speak Korean, so I'm not entirely sure what the comments said, but I've got to imagine they were each very thoughtful, poinient and generous.

Something like, and again, these are very loose translations:

Anonymous:
OMG, LMAO, ROTF! Geeze Gray, I can always count on you to take a topic that all of us parents deal with and put it into perspective so comically, yet eloquently. Would you mind if I contacted you with all my parenting issues, I mean you seem to really be excellent at it. Do you have Skype? I'd love to call you, but the overseas rates from Korea are murder. You've totally got yourself a loyal reader for life. Keep up the great work! With great honor and respect--

**************************************************
Anonymous:
Hi! I'm just delurking to let you know that I snorted Kimchi out my nose when I was reading this post. And, if you've ever had Kimchi you know how much that hurts. Anyway, it was totally worth it. I don't know if it makes you feel any better, but I have to say, your blog is so completely underrated. I notice you don't get the recognition you deserve, but I admire that you keep posting. Stay true to yourself, Gray.

**************************************************
Anonymous:
I totally agree with the last anonymous comment. I read about all these "big bloggers" and have clicked over occasionally to see what all the hub bub is. I mean, yes, they're funny, but come on, this post alone should put you at the top of the blog world. Do you think you'd get more readers if you gave stuff away? Just spitballin' here.

**************************************************
Anonymous:
Don't do it! Don't start with the giveaways. I know sometimes you review stuff and you've always been dead on. All my pirated TV viewing comes directly from your suggestions. You totally nailed it with The Good Wife, BTW.

**************************************************
Anonymous:
My friend, Anonymous, told me to check out your blog. I kinda thought blogs were self-indulgent, whiny, brain spews from moms with too much time on their hands, but WOW, I was wrong. Well, mostly wrong. There are some of those too, but not yours, Gray. Not yours. Ok, sometimes you get a little self-indulgent, but I'm totally willing to overlook those few posts on the strength of the content overall. I do agree with Anonymous, not my friend, the other one. I don't get why you're still relatively unknown. Why are you not in any of these blogging collection books or developing a sitcom?

**************************************************

That's just a small taste. Again, I don't speak Korean and, although I've been tempted to bring my laptop into my nail salon and ask one of the women who works there to translate for me, I think I'm going to just go on the assumption that, despite our language barrier, me and my anonymous, Korean commenters understand each other perfectly.

A consequence is a punishment you give yourself

2009-12-16T20:53:00.012-05:00

So? What do you think?

Personally, I think one day it can end up in the Pantheon of Mom-isms like "Don't make me come back there," "Because I said so," and "It's not that your a disappointment, per se, but seriously, why can't you be more like your sister?" What? You've never heard that last one?

Oh, yeah, heh, me neither.

Anyway, the "A consequence is a punishment you give yourself" line is one I've been using for a very long time, and this year I've got the ultimate back up, a badass teacher who doesn't take any crap. None. And I have never seen a bunch of kids who respect their teacher more, and also love her to death. Her classroom is tightly run by consequences, and one the biggest is that if you don't finish your homework you don't get recess.

And they don't spend the time doing their work, they just sit there.

At first I thought, What a waste! Why doesn't she make them finish their work?, but then I realized that she didn't want to make skipping recess and finishing their work be a viable alternative to getting it done the night before.

And guess what, last year's homework battles have all but disappeared as now my response to "I don't want to do my homework!!" is, "Ok, don't."

"But then I won't have recess."

"Yes, that's called a consequence."

I think consequences are much more effective than punishments, because I truly believe that kids learn a lot more from them.

How? I'm glad you asked.

Here's a simple example, if your child insists on going outside on a cold day without a jacket and he's freezing, that's not a punishment. You didn't make him cold. He's experiencing the result from his actions. He has no one to blame but himself. Next time he (hopefully) will choose to wear his jacket.

Last night my son had a melt down, because he realized that he had forgotten a book that he needed to complete one of his assignments. First he resorted to his usual antics of blaming his teacher for giving him too much work, then he blamed the fact that he had Hebrew School. Once he was out of scapegoats he turned his focus inward.

"I feel like an idiot."

Now, that's not exactly what every mother wants to hear her child say, or feel, but honestly it wasn't the worst thing. For the first time ever I saw him take personal responsibility for his mistake. It couldn't be forgiven with a "Sorry!" It couldn't be made better with a note from me (I tried that the first week, I'm telling you she's a badass!).

And best of all--we weren't fighting over it. I wasn't preventing him from going out for recess. He was. Meanwhile, I got to do something even better. Comfort him and talk to him about how he could avoid this from happening in the future.

Which it will.

But maybe not as often.

I know what you're thinking, geeze, when did Gray start taking Preachy McPreachy pills?

I guess last night's homework debacle, followed by my son finally taking responsibility for his mistake, was like a sign that all these years of using consequences was actually a valid parenting strategy, and I was finally seeing the payoff.

We don't get signs like that very often. Usually we're swimming in a sea of "Well, they're still alive, so I guess I'm doing ok." It was nice to feel like I was on solid ground for a minute.

So, for those of you out there with little, little ones, just think about what I'm saying. Because frankly, having a disobedient, or bratty kid is a consequence too.

Do I have the Write Stuff?

2009-12-10T11:21:00.004-05:00

My junior year of college my creative writing professor gave me a "C" and criticized my writing, because he said it read like ad copy, which turned out to be a good thing since I ended up making a good living writing ad copy for about 12 years.

But I was intrigued by Mrs. Flinger's (W)rite of Passage Challenge where bloggers sign up to do short writing exercises. The first challenge was to write a Character piece. I'm not sure if I followed the challenge to the letter, but it was really fun to write something that didn't have to mention lower prices, better absorbency or repeat the client's name three times.

I hope you enjoy it.

***********************************

A Raggedy Halloween

She stood in the costume aisle at the Duane Reade on Broadway considering her options, which were few given that it was 6:37 pm on October 31st. God, how she hated Halloween. Aside from a few capes and a Freddie Krueger outfit that looked as it if had been bought and returned, the only thing left was a Raggedy Ann costume in a children’s size large.

Still, it was something. And it was Halloween.

Last year she had spent Halloween laying on the floor of her apartment stroking her friend Sid’s sweater pondering the lyrics of “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” from a new album that had just been released. They were high on “X.”

“This is the anthem of our generation,” she declared.

With the lights out, it’s less dangerous.
Here we are now, entertain us.
I feel stupid, and contagious.
Here we are now.
Entertain us.”

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” Sid agreed.

“I mean, it’s like, we’re going to take over the world, and they know it. Only they don’t, because they’re old, or middle-aged, or whatever the fuck, but we are totally, like here. Now.” She said, wondering when they started making sweaters out of clouds.

But this year would be different.

Her partner, Jake, had convinced Adrian, the new Creative Director, to let them throw a Halloween party in his West Village carriage house.

Adrian had recently relocated to New York, via LA, via San Francisco, via London, via Glasgow. And although his accent had been worn away over the years, as if the moving crews had lost bits and pieces of it, like barware, when they moved him from place to place, his speech was still decidedly British and riddled with playful sayings like “Gob smacked,” and “And Bob’s your uncle.”

Their attraction had been electric, and instantaneous. She imagined that, if you listened carefully enough, you might even be able to hear a faint hum when they were within three feet of one another. And yet, there was nothing particularly attractive about him. Ten years older, and twenty pounds overweight. His face was broad, his green eyes were large and intense, and he had a smile, filled with slightly smallish teeth. His boisterous laugh, which exploded on the exhale and continued on the inhale,“HA HA HA! ah ah!,” could be heard from down the hall.

She found herself wondering where his wife was. The one whose picture sat on his desk in a checkerboard frame. Her thick, straight, Asian hair, poking out from under a hot pink ski hat, dusted with oversized snowflakes. It was taken on their last trip to Taos; she had learned when she commented on the picture the first time she stood in his office.

But it had been four months since he arrived, and the wife hadn’t. He spent late-night writing sessions in her shitty, little cubicle rather than with the other Alpha Males, in corner offices, who loved nothing more hanging out on worn-leather couches, watching basketball and calling each other by their boyhood names. Charles was known as Charlie. Bill was Billy. It was like people who refer to Robert DeNiro as “Bobby.” Annoying.

As she chopped the feet off the red and white tights she smiled. It excited her to think of spending Halloween in his house, amongst his things. Sure there would be tons of people there, but they’d still find a way to sneak off to a quiet corner, or maybe upstairs to the bedroom where all the coats would be tossed. A chance to finally see where all the months of flirtation would lead them.

She shimmied into the one-piece Raggedy Ann costume, which all things considered, looked pretty cute. The child’s size skirt came to her mid-thigh, and the red and white-striped tights clung to her thin legs, stopping just below her knees.

A few exaggerated eyelashes, drawn with kohl eyeliner, spread out like rays above and below her eyes. She formed a lively, red heart in the middle of her lips and added two small triangles on her cheeks. The wig sat in the corner of her bathroom, like a red yarn pet napping by the bathtub. Her own long, unruly red hair would work in her favor tonight.

It was warm for the end of October, she would have no trouble getting a cab tonight. The driver smiled as she flung herself into the backseat, she had forgotten, for a minute, that she was a 22-year old girl dressed as a rag doll.

They reached downtown where the streets were packed with Halloween revelers. Drag queens, in shocking latex outfits, dominated the streets of the West Village as the cab wound its way through the narrow side streets.

She finally located the low, rounded door set unobtrusively into a long stone wall. She opened it and ducked her head, even though she was short enough to walk upright through the narrow passageway to the courtyard just outside the carriage house where he lived.

The throbbing music pumped out of expensive Bang & Olufsen speakers. Vampires and sexy cats mingled with those in more conceptual costumes like a junior copywriter who wore a pink negligee—“I’m a pink slip, get it?” She laughed before lodging a cherry Blow Pop back into her mouth.

First she heard the laugh, and then she saw Adrian with a group of people in the corner by the fireplace. When she tilted her head slightly to the right she could see that he was wearing a traditional Scottish outfit, complete with kilt and sgian dubh tucked into his sock. When a guy, wearing a matted blonde wig and a dingy green striped sweater, stepped out of the way she also saw that Adrian had his arm tucked tightly around the waist of a woman. A small Korean woman, dressed as a devil, with tiny sequined horns popping out of her thick, black hair.

She was shocked how much it felt as if she’d literally been punched in the gut, nor was she prepared for the tears that rolled from her eyes. As she wiped them away, the black lines she’d drawn earlier that evening turned from cheerful stripes into shapeless black blobs.

As she ran through the tunnel, back to the street, she was sure she could hear the faint sounds of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

I feel stupid and contagious.
Here we are now. Entertain us.

I know funny. And this, my friends, is funny.

2009-12-08T09:03:00.008-05:00

Like picking out a ripe melon, or being able to sense when a steak is grilled to perfection, there are some people who have a knack for being able to tell when something is just right. I'm gonna go ahead and say I'm one of those people.

Amongst the glut of ridiculous reality shows and formulaic cop show spin-offs, Better Off Ted, a comedy that premiered last year on ABC, stood out as one of the freshest, quirkiest and most clever shows I've seen in quite a while. And don't just take my word for it, this guy says it's great too, and he's a "real critic."

The only well-known star is Portia de Rossi (depending how you define well-known). This ensemble comedy, based on the inner workings of corporate America (think Office Space, but at an executive level), had me cackling every week. And I'm not proud of that. My cackle is not my best attribute. Nor is my chortle, snort or guffaw. And yet, Better Off Ted made me do all of them.

You can even watch the last season on hulu. It's only 13 episodes, what else have you got to do today?

Ok, fine, just watch this little "Ted bit." Ok, that was bad. But, watch any way--

The thing is, my husband and I have a near perfect record of discovering hilarious, unique shows only to have them canceled, because no one else is watching them. Case in point--Carpoolers and The Loop. But I refuse to sit idly by and let this show suffer death by low ratings. No sir. Not on my Watching habits.

And while I wish that there was an armored vehicle, full of cash from ABC, backing up to my door as we speak, there isn't.

I'm just a huge fan of this show and want you to be too.

However, if you'd prefer to watch "So You Think You Can Dance" or "The Biggest Loser" then go right ahead. Just know that you are standing on the tube that delivers oxygen to well-written, scripted original programing, choking off its ability to exist.

But, whatever. One day when all there is left to watch is "So You Think You Can Burp," and CSI Boise, don't say I didn't warn you.

So tune in to ABC tonight at 9:30--or at least set your DVR--and watch Better Off Ted.

You'll thank me tomorrow.

How my trying to get pretty turned ugly.

2009-12-06T15:48:00.023-05:00

Today is my husband's birthday. He went, with my son and their friends, to a Knicks game, leaving me by myself.

***furtively looking right and left to make sure no one is around before exclaiming*** WOOOO HOOOO!

Not "Wooo Hooo I'm spending the day without my husband on his birthday!" No, "Wooo Hooo," because weekend days around the house alone are completely different from weekday days around the house alone.

Do laundry, don't do laundry, it's the weekend.

Make the bed? Pffft. It's the weekend.

Book a facial with a gift certificate you've been driving around with for the past 11 and a half months? You betcha! It's the weekend.

I arrived early, with plenty of time to "get my Zen on" before the treatment.

Or so I thought. The spa is on the fourth floor of a large complex which contains a massive gym, a drive-thru Starbucks, and a few other businesses all of which must do a ton of business on Sundays.

I had not anticipated the throngs of angry, aggressive, gym-clad assholes that I came face to face with, or, more precisely, fender to fender with. There was the Mercedes guy who nearly hit me flying around the corner to beat me to a spot. There was the Camry, driven by a fetus, careening through the lot, who gave me the "Shut up you old biddie!" roll of his eyes when I honked and shook my fists at him like, well, like an old biddie.

But the worst. The worst was the "No I was here first, No I was here first" stand off I had with a bright blue Mini Cooper.

I had been driving around this lot for twenty minutes. I was totally there first, I deserved that spot. I had earned that spot. I was getting that spot.

What I had not anticipated was that a woman would jump out of the passenger side of that Mini Cooper and charge my car to prevent me from pulling in.

"No! NO! We were here first!" she snarled.

"No, you weren't!" I growled.

"I'm late!" she screamed as she literally stood in the spot, blocking me.

"Oh, you're late. Well, then by all means. You're much more important that anyone else..." I spewed sarcastically.

I'm ashamed by some of the insults that were collecting in my head waiting to be hurled at her. It's so easy to get vicious so quickly. I wish I could tell you that I put it all in perspective. That I realized that it was only a parking spot.

I wish I could tell you that, but when she shrieked "I have a little baby in the car, you bitch!" I could not hold back and I screamed, "Nice mouth! That's one lucky baby!"

Having engaging in verbal combat and several near collisions I was shaking with rage, and frustration.

I pulled over to a corner of the lot and called up the spa.

"I. AM. IN. THE. PARKING LOT!" I vented. "You must be kidding with this place. Is there not a valet guy or something? Am I missing an alternate lot, because this cannot possibly be all the parking there is."

The woman at the front desk listened calmly, but I didn't want calm. I wanted her to come down and relieve me of my vehicle so that I could go get my freakin' relaxing, freakin' facial.

"I've never been to this place before, but I would never, EVER, recommend it to anyone. This parking situation is craaaaazy!" Yes, I recognize that I myself was behaving like a crazy person.

Then, finally, my "waiting like a spider" tactic worked. Lexus guy pulled out and I victoriously pulled in, where upon I immediately slammed my car door into the cement pillar next to me.

I staggered into the spa lobby, crazy-eyes flashing wildly as I was having some sort of mild breakdown.

Then, suddenly the scent of lavender wafting through the air, and the sympathetic looks from the people behind the front desk, loosed the knot in my gut. They all shared their stories of near fist-to-cuffs they'd encountered in that crazy parking lot and offered to give me 10% off my facial.

I began to breathe. I smiled. I may have wiped a tear from my eye.

The rest of the visit was perfectly pleasant. When I left my skin glowed and my mood had lightened.

Still, I'm not sure how soon I'll be rushing back there for another facial.

I hear stress is bad for your skin.

A stage mom in the making

2009-12-03T08:58:00.010-05:00

Mark the date, because on this day I solemnly swear that when my son becomes the next break out star on Nick or Disney or even a local Sears commercial I will not become "that mom."

There will be no paparazzi shots of the two of us stumbling out of a nightclub at 3am, wearing sunglasses to shield our swollen eyes, sideways smiles plastered on our faces.

I will not "liberate" his funds.

Or...yuck. Just yuck...

I will be supportive and loving and keep him grounded. I will be the Michelle Obama of stage moms when my son becomes famous.

We are just embarking on a journey to see if there is any merit to the frequent comments people have made about my son's performance abilities.

Is he a great actor? Not really. An amazing dancer? No. Vocals that could make you weep? I wouldn't say so. But he's got something. I guess what people call the "it" factor. Ugh, did I just say that?

His voice is more Daughtry than Archuleta, his dance style is more enthusiastic than coordinated and he's more a comedian than actor, but he is fearless. He loves being in front of a crowd, on a stage, belting out "Rock Star" by P!nk or performing his own rap as, his gangsta alter-ego, "Big Buck."

He's a character to be sure, and so I've enrolled him in a commercial/tv/film acting class and a performance group. We'll see how it goes and if, in the end, it's only fun, instead of fame, that's totally cool with me too.

However, if you're an agent and want to get in on the ground floor of the world's next mega-talent feel free to have your people get in touch with my people.

Forgive the poor quality, but it protects the other kiddies. Anyway, you get the idea...

Help Wanted.

2009-11-28T15:51:00.011-05:00

Hey there, yeah, it's been a while.

Swine Flu, Thanksgiving, blogging ambivalence, yada, yada, yada...

So it turns out that if you're an 82-year old man, with Alzheimer's-related dementia, you should really try and avoid being involuntarily admitted to a psychiatric hospital.

It seems that the Baker Act, which was designed to protect the elderly by assigning them around-the-clock aides, could just as easily trap you in an inescapable nightmare when it is clear that the hospital would rather create a compliant zombie than help stabilize a human being with an already mentally debilitating disease.

Oh, and if you're really, really lucky you'll get a geriatric psychiatrist who seems to take some sadistic pleasure in playing Russian Roulette with your medication. 4 different psychotropic meds in 10 days. What? You're not stabilized? Hmmm, let's push Haldol, Atavan, Seroquel and a few other medications that will leave you unable to feed yourself, speak clearly or stay awake for that matter.

"He thinks he's in New Jersey" Dr. David B. Rooney, the doctor, scoffed at my mom.

"Well, I just transported him from a living facility in New Jersey, he was placed directly into an Alzheimer's Unit at a Senior Living facility down here (Florida) two days ago, he hasn't been outside in six days, it's not surprising he's unsure where he is. Oh, and he has de-men-tia!" she explained.

The last two weeks have been a series of restricted visits, uncooperative hospital staff, un-returned phone calls and general condescending and dismissive treatment. My mother is frantic.

She can't bring him back to the living facility until he's stabilized and he can't be stabilized while the doctor plays Three Card Monte with his medication. There seem to be no advocates or resources to assist her through this terrifying experience.

She flew up to join us for Thanksgiving, but it was clear that, although she loved being surrounded by her family, she was preoccupied by the person who wasn't there. Her husband, who is alone, in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, being giving tons of different drugs (and sometimes not being given his regular medication). He is back down in the warmth of Florida, but has not had a breath of fresh air nor felt the sun on his face in weeks.

It is heart breaking, and scary, and leaves us all feeling helpless. But especially my mother.

The doctor left word (via a nurse at a number he knew my mother would not be at) that she was not to call him anymore and that he would not speak to her until the guardianship hearing on Thursday--can you imagine not being allowed to speak to the doctor who is treating (or mistreating) your husband for the next 6 days?

So, it seems that the only thing to do is to find an Eldercare attorney who may be able to help my mom navigate the hostile waters of the mental care profession.

If anyone knows of someone in the South Eastern Florida region (she is in Boca Raton) who we can contact--a geriatric psychiatrist or nurse in that field, an Eldercare attorney, or some sort of Alzheimer's advocate please let me know. I am taking to twitter, facebook and word-of-mouth, to do anything I can to help my mom through this nightmare.

Alzheimer's is, as Patti Davis coined the phrase, "The Long Goodbye." It takes everything from you that makes you you, while it takes just as much from the one's you love.

I know the internet is a big place and can reach a lot of people. I'm hoping I can take a moment from writing about my son's quirkiness, or my circus adventures to ask for your help.

I'd be really grateful.

You say Oedipus Rex, I say Oedipus Rocks!

2009-11-16T19:24:00.008-05:00

The Oedipus Theory basically says that all male children go through a phase where they want to "displace" (euphemism for kill) their fathers so that they can be with their mothers.

My husband is traveling to Chicago tonight for business and I am taking this rare opportunity to have a sleep over with my son.

That's right.

In my bed.

Where my husband usually sleeps.

There will be my son.

As he nears double digits, I am painfully aware that my days of unabashed snuggling are drawing to an end.

So I am going to relish every would-be Oedipal second of it.

Oh, and Freudians, you can suck it.

When friendship becomes a family affair

2009-11-15T13:26:00.010-05:00

When you're young a mutual love of Barbies is enough to spark the closest of friendships.

As you get older it might be a shared class or activity that forms life-long bonds.

At work camaraderie is established over impossible deadlines and after work drinks.

Marriage brings about new friendships as each partner brings people from their lives into the fold. And, if you're really lucky, you connect with them, and their spouses, making your circle of friends expand dramatically.

And then there's the inevitable move to the suburbs, or at least into a bigger space, once a baby comes into the picture. And your connection with "singles" or "marrieds without kids" begins to fade more and more into the background.

Now comes the daunting task of building, from scratch, a new life and new friendships. Mommy friendships. Playdate friendships. Preschool and grade school friendships.

Friendships that are based on, in large part, your children's friendships.

I have to admit I've been struggling for a while now. I have a lot of "coffee date" friends, and "lunchtime" friends, but in terms of having a close family friends, we really don't. I imagined life in the suburbs would be a string of family get togethers and spontaneous Sunday gatherings.

I feel a slight sting every time I hear one of my friends mention a last minute invitation to join another family or two for a barbecue or brunch. Is it jealousy, yeah maybe. Bereft is more accurate. There is a definite sense of loss in not having those kinds of relationships.

It's hard not to take it personally, but I know that at the core of all of it is my son's lack of close friends himself. He is not a kid you can toss into any situation and know that it'll be easy. For as funny and enthusiastic as he is, he can be equally argumentative and rigid. There are kids who can take that in stride, and many others who can't. The simple truth is that if our friends' children don't want to hang out with him, our friends can't hang out with us.

As we spend the weekends, just the three of us, it's hard sometimes not to feel isolated and lonely, even in our own togetherness. I wish sometimes we didn't live so far away from my sister and her kids. I miss that easy closeness.

I haven't given up hope, well not completely. I find I have a strong desire to meet new people, get involved with new things in the hopes that maybe new friendships can be formed creating that special bond that has mostly alluded us so far.

I treasure the friends I have deeply. I could not survive if not for them.

But still, I look forward to the day when I have to buy an extra steak or more chips and beer, because we have some family friends coming over later for dinner. It makes me feel like a bit of a loser writing about this. And maybe it's exposing too much, but as I always say "If it's on my mind, it's on my blog."

So there it is.

Why I didn't entirely hate going to the Big Apple Circus.

2009-11-08T14:32:00.013-05:00

My husband and son were supposed to be gone this weekend for a Cub Scout overnight on a battleship in NJ, which sounds cool (I mean not to me, but to people who find sleeping on metal slabs cool), but in the wake of the plague going around I felt spending 12 hours in a confined space with 500 walking petri dishes was ill-advised.

My husband agreed, and I'm pretty sure was secretly relieved. (If you can call breaking into a flailing jig "secretly"). We decided that we needed to find a replacement activity that would be a decent consolation to my son who has been waiting for this trip since last year.

I jumped over to MommyPoppins, an awesome website filled with tidbits about what's going on around Manhattan, and stumbled upon an ad for The Big Apple Circus (with discount code!)

I have to interject at this point that I HATE the circus. Like loathe more than Speidi, and that's saying a lot. But my son, he loves it. So, we served up the canceled battleship trip with a "We're going to the circus!" chaser. He was elated.

The Big Apple Circus is different than the massive ones that you've probably been to. There's only one ring, there's no parade of elephants, although they do have some dogs do some nifty tricks and, since it's such a small venue, every seat is relatively close to the action.

The star of the show is Bello who's not exactly a clown and, truth be told, is actually quite an impressive performer. In fact he's the seventh generation of circus folk from his family. I mean the pressure, could you imagine:

BELLO: Mom, I got into Harvard Law School!

MOM: The hell. You grab your baggy pants and small tie this instant, and just WAIT until your father gets off his impossibly tiny bicycle. I wouldn't want to be in your big, floppy shoes, Mister.

Besides Bello (and his clown sidekick, Grandma) there are a dozen other basic acts. My husband said it best, "And now for something incredibly difficult to do, yet fairly boring to watch..."

I know. I'm jaded. Cynical. Baby Seal Beater-ish.

But in fact we were all wildly entertained, although perhaps for different reasons.

My son was amazed by the Long Twins, who were contortionists from China, and The Russian trapeze troupe.

Me, my entertainment came in the form of the internal mock-fest that was bouncing around my cranium faster than the juggler's balls. (God that sounds dirty) Topics covered: costumes that were so gay even Liberace would refuse to wear them, why watching two male contortionists twist themselves in to several face to "junk" poses made me feel slightly squirmy and how unsanitary it was for the juggler to juggle balls in his mouth that had also been on the floor of a freakin' circus tent.

Still, after the recent tooth fairy revelation that left both my son and I reeling from the realization that he is getting more and more grown up by the second, I have to say that I wish I could have bottled the unbridled enthusiasm being generated by every fiber of his being.

He belly laughed at Bello's antics, clapped loudly when the trampoline troupe flipped like ragdolls on Red Bull and had an electric smile on his face that lasted the entire two hours. I reveled in the fact that the childlike sense of wonder and magic was still very much in residence and that I saw no sign of the tween who is sure to be moving in before I know it.

It also happened to turn out to be a Mom Bloggers event for which I can only assume my invitation had been, ahem, lost in the mail. (No free tix, but at least I had the discount code) Still, it was cool to see Kelcey, from Mamabirddiaries, take center stage as an honorary ring master. How she was so eloquent and composed (and rocked a top hat and coat with epaulets) is so beyond me.

I only found out during a twitter feed that some of my other faves, like Marinka, were also there who I would have really enjoyed meeting.

The Big Apple Circus is coming to Atlanta next and then DC and, despite my Scrooge-like attitude towards the circus, I promise you that you'll definitely have an amazing time.

Even if it's mostly from watching your kid have one.

The Moment of Tooth

2009-11-03T19:48:00.007-05:00

As I buzzed around the kitchen making the dinner my son, who is nearly ten, said "Tell me the truth, and I mean the real truth. Is the Tooth Fairy real?"

Now, of course you all remember the last time we had this same conversation -you do remember don't you? Well, basically I lied my ass off. "Of course there is a Tooth Fairy," I declared. And all was right in the world.

For some idiotic reason I felt that this time when he asked I should tell him the whole truth, well the mostly whole truth.

I tried to evade, "Well, the truth is that parents do have a hand in it."

"You mean they buy the presents, or..."

I turned around and looked him in the eye, "Well, you have to swear not to tell anyone, and I mean anyone, but, after the first tooth Moms and Dads give the gifts"

"So the Magic 8 Ball and other toys, those were you?"

"Um, yeah," I replied trying to gauge which way this was going. Was I the hero? Was this going to secure my position as the best Mom ever for all time? No, no it was not. I might has well have popped his balloon while knocking his ice cream cone out of his hand as I smashed his LEGO project, while stabbing him in the gut. Because that's how he looked.

Gutted.

His eyes glistened with tears and, with a slight quiver in his bottom lip, he said, "I wish I hadn't asked. I regret knowing that."

I tried desperately to recover. "But the first tooth, that's all her, just the one's after the first tooth were Dad and me." Does anyone else hear the sounds of me tap dancing as fast as I can?

"What about that time that the gift I got didn't work and there was a book the next day with a note signed by The Tooth Fairy, and it wasn't your writing. Was that you?"

Well I'm no fool, I had learned my lesson, I shook my head, "No, that was her."

He seemed relieved. Still, he sat there with his shoulders slumped as he rested his head heavily on his left hand.

"Mom, I'm sad."

I ran over and hugged him and started crying (only I was laughing too, which is a nervous habit of mine). "Me too." I said.

"Why are you sad?" He asked.

"Because I feel like now that you know the (almost) truth I've lost something. There's something really special about when your kid is younger and they are filled with magic and belief. I feel like I've lost my younger kid."

"I feel like I lost something too. I didn't think I'd be scared of getting older. Ever. But this kinda made me scared."

"Here's the thing," I said, "the excitement you felt when you woke up each of those mornings and found that something had magically appeared for you, those feelings still exist and knowing that I put the gift there doesn't change it. Does that make sense? The feelings you experienced haven't disappeared. They're always going to be with you."

"So, how old were you when you found out the truth?"

"I dunno, about your age I guess."

"When do you think I should tell my kids?"

"I dunno, when do you think you should?"

"I think maybe when they're twenty or so."

"And if they ask you when they're nine-and-three-quarters for you to tell them the absolute truth?" I asked.

"I'll just tell them that they really don't want to know."

Amen to that.

I'm having that not-so-fresh feeling

2009-10-31T10:54:00.008-05:00

Oh Blog,

What can I write about? What personal insights, ruminations or humorous tales can I toss out into the vast blogosphere?

Is there anything left to say that hasn't been said? Any hoaxes (of either the blog or the flying jiffy pop balloons variety) that haven't been discected ad nauseum?

Are there any corporate giants that I can expose for deceitful and dangerous business practices that could put countless babies at risk, with a cunning use of a hashtag in a twitter-bitter-bottle-battle? No, that's been pretty well covered.

I have a lot of questions about whether or not to get vaccinated for the H1N1 virus, the run-of-the-mill flu, or just wash my hands obsessively, bathe in Purell and bribe my local pharmacist for an advanced stash of Tamiflu. But apparently one or two (hundred thousand) other writers have actually researched the subject in depth and have come to definitive conflicting conclusions.

Oh! It's Halloween, the perfect time to tell you about how ridiculously slaggy (a fancy word for slutty) the women costumes are! What? Oh, you've already read about that.

Hmmmm, did my kid do anything blog-worthy this week? Eh.

There's not even good, trashy celebrity news. Jon Gosselin, yup, he's still an enema bag (I'm trying that out, I feel douche bag is overused).

Dear Blog. Have we come to the end of the line?

Is there truly nothing new under the sun?

What? Ask commenters to help?

Ask them to leave a topic to cover, or a personal question to answer so that I can get some fresh material to write about.

I'm begging you people. Even you, "anonymous," help a blogger out.

In the meantime, here's a picture of a kitten in a snifter.

Count on Octomom to make Halloween truly scary!

2009-10-26T09:15:00.007-05:00

I know I should be able to whip off 500 words on how Octomom, Nadya Suleman, is koo-koo-craaaaazy, but why bother, when I can just do this--

Supposedly this is worth a thousand words, and yet has rendered me speechless.

Motherhood is a movie you’re going to want to see, but shouldn’t.

2009-10-20T18:38:00.008-05:00

If ever there was a Sirens’ Song for mothers to ditch their husbands for the night, grab their girlfriends and throw together a “Girls Night Out” this is it. A comedy about motherhood starring the lovely Uma Thurman, the clever Minnie Driver and the adorable Anthony Edwards, what could be bad? Here's what--this movie makes motherhood look so soul-sucking, stressful and debasing that you’ll leave the movie feeling like you’ve left your screaming toddler at home with a sitter, so that you could have a dinner date with your husband, only to be seated next to a screaming toddler.

Eliza Welch (Thurman) is a former fiction writer who, after she had kids, exchanged her “Person Brain”for a “Mommy Brain.” You know, the one that is only capable of dealing with the endless To Do list that greets her each morning—but at least she has a, gulp, blog on which to ruminate about it. She blasts out three sentence posts between walking her daughter to school and walking her incontinent dog.

As a blogger I felt like screaming—“Those aren’t posts! They’re twitter updates. A facebook status at best!”

I guess my biggest problem with Motherhood (the movie, not the life choice) is that it talks to itself. It seeks to find comedy in the hassles not of being a mom, but of being a mom in Manhattan, which even I, as former city dweller, struggled to relate to. Like how annoying it can be when your street is shut down, again, so that they can film a movie--Man, if I had a nickle for every time that happened. Or the intense parking battles that arise over alternate side of the street parking. If you have no idea what alternate side of the street parking means, then you see my point.

In fact Eliza’s reaction to many of the difficulties she faces as an urban mom is to become an obnoxious, self absorbed, sanctimonious…well…New Yorker, who doesn’t understand why drivers behind her are honking and screaming as she blocks the street waiting for a parking spot to become available.

Watching her struggle on bicycle to grab groceries, party favors for her daughter’s 6 birthday, and juggle a cake, with a misspelled name, isn’t funny, it’s stressful. And, although the trailer will make it seem like a comedy, trust me, unless you’re a masochist, it's not.

It did have a few moments of authenticity that I could identify with. During an argument with her "distracted" husband, who is naturally of the “Ooops-my-ringer-must have-been-off-sorry-I-missed-your-eight-calls” variety, she eloquently articulates the sense of loss that many moms feel when they put their greater ambitions on hold to focus on raising children. How, as she puts it, the constant, and crushing, banality of the day-to-day duties wears away at your self worth and former passion. I know I’ve felt that from time to time.

If you’re looking for a truly funny take on motherhood you need look no further than some of the hilarious new shows cropping up on television. I snaughed (snort/laughed) when I saw Patricia Heaton grab her kid’s marker to attack some grey roots in The Middle on ABC. And giggled watching gay parents, Mitchell and Cam, stealing another baby's pile of blocks at Gymboree, so that everyone would think their adopted daughter had built it, on Modern Family, also on ABC.

So, if you want to grab the girls for a fun night out, my suggestion is wait for the next Will Ferrel movie, or Sex and the City 2. And if you want to laugh the trials and tribulations of raising children while struggling to hold onto one’s self-worth I have a whole blogroll of amazing real blogs that do it a thousand times better, not to mention, for free.

Where Expectation and Expiration Collide

2009-10-18T15:08:00.010-05:00

I am not a fan of Warehouse Stores like Costco, in fact I actively loathe them.

They should be renamed "Seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time O'Rama"

I recently opened my downstairs freezer, which is largely occupied by expired products I bought at Costco in an attempt to be thrifty.

5 packages of hotdog buns, 3, 2-packs of wheat bread, and multiple bricks of frozen meat, chicken and, inexplicably, turkey sausage which I have never eaten nor had any desire to eat. Damn you Rachel Ray and your 30-Minute turkey sausage bolognese sauce!

And, by and large, they are all so far past the point where you could, or would want to, eat any of these items in my attempt to save money I wasted about $112.

I've consulted various websites about how long a frozen flank steak is good for and honestly as it's bumping up to 11.5 months I'm not sure it matters what the answer is. Do I really want to risk the nightmare of food poisoning so that the $8.79 I spent on that meat last September was not spent in vain.

Or worse. What if I died? Can you imagine the autopsy report--"Death by tough, but delicious, beef?"

I swear I thought I was being a clever consumer and a consummate housewife, but alas I once again learned the hard way, the road to hell is paved with frozen flank steak.

Pop Goes the Karma

2009-10-12T07:56:00.017-05:00

There are certain rules of etiquette to life in the suburbs.

Don't put your shopping cart behind someone else's car. Don't let your grass get too scruffy or your shutters too shabby. And, support your local school community, even though your property taxes are laughably high and you feel like every time you turn around there's another bake sale, gift-wrapping fundraiser or field trip which requires you to dig into your wallet.

Now, just like most rules, there are those who will break them, but they're forgetting the cardinal rule of life in the 'burbs--Karma's a bitch...so make sure you're not.

When the teenager down the street rings your bell asking you to buy candy to raise money for the football team, buy a damn Kit Kat bar.

When the PTA sets up a table of brownies and chocolate chip cookies to raise money for after-school programs you snatch up two of those suckers, even if your entire family is on a juice fast.

And when a Cub Scout approaches you on the playground, in full scouting regalia, asking you to buy popcorn to support his organization, do it.

I have been amazed at the reaction some people have given my son as he enthusiastically runs over to them trying to sell popcorn. And remember, it's not as easy a sell as Girl Scout Cookies--who doesn't love Thin Mints and Samoas? I've seen people chase down Girl Scouts during their cookie drive...ok, that was me...but Cub Scout popcorn, which is more expensive and not as easy to hide in the back of your sock drawer for midnight binging, requires a little bit more effort.

A few weekends ago my son set up a table at our local Farmers Market. We thought, what could be more perfect? People from our community milling around carrying canvas bags with a pocketful of cash.

No one bought. In fact, no one stopped to hear his well-rehearsed pitch. Most people avoided eye contact entirely.

I felt like shouting:

"He's not a Hobo, people! He's not begging for money to score a damn bottle of Ripple. These kids were out cleaning the local playground last weekend and collecting t-shirts to send to Hurricane victims. Next week they'll be at the Thunderbird Games which happens to NOT be available on Wii. They will do rope obstacle courses, and have races, learn to build things and sing songs. And you there with the bushel of Honeycrisp apples, you know what goes great with Honeycrisp apples? Carmel popcorn does. So pony up."

Ok, fine. Those were strangers. But recently a mother curtly said to my son, "I hate popcorn."

Well, fair enough I guess, but what she, and every parent, needs to remember is that you are part of a community and there is a social contract that subtly, but most definitely, exists.

The same social contract that dictates that if you notice that the wind has blown your neighbor's trashcan into the road, you stop and return it to their drive way.

The contract where we agree to keep an eye out for one another's kids, or bring a meal to a sick friend.

In fact, a neighbor of ours, who has never bought in years past, gave a small cash donation this year. Who knows if it's because one day his son may need to raise money for his football team or whether he just felt that the five dollars in his pocket wasn't too much to spend to build good will in his community.

There's a special kind of karma in the suburbs.

As they say, what goes around comes around...and it might just come around in a huge SUV that hits your trashcan which was in the road, because no one bothered to move it.

Motherhood, Gangsta Style

2009-10-07T10:37:00.004-05:00

Because I don't have your email address, Twitter ID or you're not (yet) my Facebook friend this is the best way for me to share comedian Sally Brooks hilarious take on motherhood.

Yo, yo, yo! Wait until the kids are out of the room for this one.

Word.

I've been tagged for easy observation

2009-10-06T08:43:00.003-05:00

Just like the Serengeti Wildebeests and the Gorillas of the Congo it appears that I too have been tagged and released back into my natural habitat.

After a recent occurrence of identity theft my husband and I changed our passwords on all our credit cards, registered with the credit unions and, as an extra safety measure, he set up a charge alert system on his cell phone.

Imagine my surprise when he asked me the other night what I bought at Lord & Taylor.

Or did I remember to get reduced sodium almonds at Trader Joe's.

It turns out that every time I use the credit card he gets pinged, so he knows how I'm spending my daytime hours and our money.

After a day or two he realized that my life consists of near daily trips to the super market, weekly trips to the dry cleaner, gas station and Target.

I wish I could also swipe my credit card every time I did a load of laundry, emptied the dishwasher and made the beds.

I mean, if he's going to get a snapshot of the tedium of my weekly routine I'd rather it be an accurate one.

The bon bons, pedicures and massages, well, those I pay for in cash. Ssshhhhhh!

Perhaps the most lovely birthday present ever...

2009-10-01T19:02:00.014-05:00

When Fairly Odd Mother sent me an email about Kevin's mission to get 100 bloggers to post his daughter's story on their sites I was so excited to be able to use this space for something other than ranting about Grey's Anatomy or griping about what monsters 4th graders can be.

So please read this incredibly moving, lovely and inspirational post below written by Kevin, of Always Home and Uncool, about a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day, seven years ago, called Juvenile Myositis.

It's written as a gift to his wife on her birthday. Me? I got bubble bath.

**********************************************************

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

*********************************************************

Because it's Kevin's hope that he can raise awareness and funds for the organization through this post PLEASE feel free to link to it, cut and paste it in your own blog (only today though, generally post theft is frowned upon) or social media the bejesus out of it. Thanks, Happy Birthday Rhonda.

Could any of us survive 4th Grade in real life?

2009-09-29T17:35:00.008-05:00

YOU IN A BUSINESS MEETING: Excuse me, everyone...

COLLEAGUE 1: There's no excuse for you...

YOU: What? Um, so thank you for all coming to this meeting, we have a lot of things to cover today...

COLLEAGUE 2: You should cover your face.

YOU: People, third quarter earnings were down significantly, any thoughts as to why?

COLLEAGUE 1: 'Cuz you suck.

COLLEAGUE 2: (Arm pit farts)

Common Wisdom: Just ignore them.

**************************************************

YOU AT SUPERMARKET on line for checkout with a full cart, another mom cuts in front of you and sneers.

YOU: Hey! No cutting!

HER: What? I was here first.

YOU: No you weren't!

HER: Yuh huh

YOU: I'm getting the manager.

HER: Oh yeah? Baby gonna tell? Baby gonna cry?

Common Wisdom: Shoppers will be shoppers.

**************************************************

YOU AT YOGA CLASS laying out your mat.

YOGA CHICK 1: I'm saving that space.

YOU: Oh, ok.

(YOU move over to another spot.)

YOGA CHICK 2: Sorry, that's taken.

YOU: But no one's here.

YOGA CHICK 2: So? This is our space. Go find your own space.

YOU: But there's no place else for me to fit.

YOGA CHICK 1: Well maybe if you weren't so fat you'd be able to fit somewhere.

YOGA CHICK 2: Heh, yeah!

YOU: Uh, it's a free country. I can put my mat here if I want.

YOGA CHICK 2: Ooooh, free country? Who are you? Betsy Ross?

YOGA CHICK 1: Yeah, Betsy Ross...Betsy, WETSY Ross.

Common Wisdom: Sticks and stones will break your bones, but names will never hurt you.

**************************************************

Is anyone buying this?

Right. I didn't think so.

Grey's Anatomy, Seriously?

2009-09-25T09:29:00.006-05:00

I know I should love Grey's Anatomy forever solely for the fact it gave us the phrase, "Seriously?"

But--and I know I'm risking life, limb, and readership here--but I think I may have actually sprained my eyes from the amount of rigorous eye rolling I was doing while watching the two-hour season opener last night.

It's worse than not good, it's boring!

Aside from the eye sprains I also came down with an acute case of "Greysspeakitis." I should mention that I suffered a similar condition during the latter years of West Wing known as "Sorkenspeakitis."

The dialogue has become a caricature of a Grey's Anatomy script. Like the self-flagellating repetition of:

"I was a bad friend. I was a bad friend to George. And why? Because he didn't love me back? I was a bad. friend."

I want to talk like that in real life.

(TO LIBRARIAN):
I'm a bad book borrower. I'm bad at borrowing books. I take them out, then I don't return them on time. I'm a bad. book borrower.

And the freakin' "my people" shtick. It begins to sound like the Dr. Pepper jingle: "I'm your person. You're my person. We're our people. Wouldn't you like to be a person too?"

Oh, and, for the love of God, Ms. Shonda Rhimes, please repeat after me: "Drama is not the same depressing." We get it. You want to pull at our heart strings. Just beat a pack of baby seals for 44 minutes and be done with it. Short of that, how about you focus on writing interesting, or at least moderately believable, story lines that are not dictated by who's not playing nicely during contract negotiations.

So I am through. I am through with Grey's Anatomy. I. am. through.

Until next week.

Seriously.

So this chicken goes to the gynecologist...

2009-09-23T10:05:00.002-05:00

Ok, maybe it's just me, but this made me uncomfortable 7 different ways.

Note to self: You're a Mom

2009-09-22T07:52:00.008-05:00

For the first six months of my son's life I fully expected his "real" mom to show up.

Someone far more qualified than myself.

Someone who didn't obsess over nap and feeding schedules.

Someone who actually had fun with him at baby gym and playdates rather than ticking it off a list of "stuff moms do."

Sure I kept him alive for the first six months. He was happy and healthy and thriving, but hey, jokes over, time for a real grown up to take over.

Eventually it became clear that I was, for better or worse, the best he was going to do.

And yet, nearly ten years later I still can't believe that I'm a parent.

A wife.

A homeowner.

In short, a grown up.

Well, if I'm remotely good at it then it's only because I'm faking it pretty well.

I wrote recently that I'm a 14-year-old trapped in a 40-year old's body. Which may account for all the times I feel more like my son's older sister than his parent.

We crack up about Phineas & Ferb over dinner.

We tease each other mercilessly.

I'll frequently tell him to "beat it," like an older sister kicking her kid brother out of her room.

But I am also his mom.

Which means attending PTA meetings and teacher conferences, paying the mortgage and cooking his meals, overseeing homework and doling out punishment.

And frequently, feeling like an impostor.

I wonder if it will ever feel completely natural. My guess is no.

I think it's always going to blow my mind that the role of the mother is going to be played by me forever.

Is it just me or are all the soccer moms out there, who are raising two or three kids while volunteering to serve school lunches and doing power yoga, all feeling the same way?

If so, then this is one hell of a production we're putting on.

But here's the thing, while it's always nice to hear "I love you," it fills my heart with such gooey big love to hear, "I love you, Mom."

And that's when I know that, even if I feel like I'm faking it most of the time, I am a real mom.

Could I be The Good Wife? Could you?

2009-09-16T08:44:00.010-05:00

Given that I get furious with my husband for leaving a pile of socks and underwear next to the hamper I'm not sure how I would handle finding out that he had an affair.

CBS has a new show starting next Tuesday called, The Good Wife, which I am eagerly awaiting.

Not just because it stars Julianna Margulies, who I have loved since her Carol Hathaway days on ER, and Chris "Mr. Big" Noth, but because it poses such an interesting question to all wives and mothers--what would you do if, suddenly, your life was turned upside down by your spouse's infidelity?

Would you leave him?

Stand by him?

Stand behind him...with a butcher's knife?

We've seen so many political scandals over the years where the wife stands up at the podium with her husband, who delivers an emotional, and heart-felt, public apology, most likely crafted by a staff writer.

And there stands the wife. Stoic. Brave. Foolish?

Few can weather the storm as Hillary did, and there are plenty of theories about why she was able, and willing, to stand by her man.

But what about the millions of other women out there who discover their husband has been unfaithful?

I've had an cheating boyfriend or two in my time. The kind that drive you to become "that girl." The one who snoops through emails and date books (there was no texting waaaaay back during my dating career, but I hear that many a dalliance have been discovered that way).

And you know what? In every case, as upset as I was at my boyfriend, I felt worse about myself. What was I doing wrong? Why wasn't I enough? Ooooh that freakin' skank, just wait till I get my hands on her...

Well obviously I didn't "stand by them," I left them.

But The Good Wife isn't just about how a marriage survives, or is destroyed by, infidelity. What I'm compelled by is the bigger story. After her husband is convicted, and goes to jail for corruption, she is faced with having to provide not only emotionally for her two children, but financially.

She goes back to work as a defense attorney after a 13-year absence and faces a world that has moved forward without her. Surrounded by colleagues who look barely old enough to drive, let alone compete with her professionally, not to mention the constant scrutiny of being you-know-who's wife.

The other thing I will be curious about is to see is how the show does in the ratings.

Can a show that is bound to stir up strong "what if" emotions in wives, and make husbands squirm knowing at least one conversation is going to start, "If you ever cheated on me I'd...," do well in the ratings?

I don't know a single man, who saw Fatal Attraction, starring Glen Close as the psychopathic bunny boiler and Michael Douglas as the adulterous husband (who really wishes he'd taken the stairs that day), that didn't walk out of the theater feeling a bit freaked out. And more likely, "scared straight."

And women, well I suspect most of us felt at least a tinge of "That's right jerk, see what happens when you cheat?"

I say let's all tune in, especially since the alternatives are The Jay Leno Show (snore) and The Forgotten (creepy).

Reward Hollywood for finally coming up with a smart drama depicting a strong woman (with no supernatural powers) who is doing her best when faced with the worst.

I predict The Good Wife will be "The Good Show" of the season.

***********************************************************************

The first episode premiers Tuesday, Sept. 22 at 10pm on CBS, and no, no one paid me to write this.

I am a 14-year old trapped in a 40-year old's body

2009-09-10T08:51:00.009-05:00

You know what the world needs?

The world needs more beauty products...

...that look like sex toys.

It wasn't until I got it home and placed my new hair product on the sink, in all it's phallic glory, that I realized what I had done.

I purchased a creamy, gooey, styling product that erupts from a large, hot-pink, shaft which is capped by a big, round tipped top.

I have to admit. I was a little horrified.

Even though I'm 40 I still bury my box of Tampons under a bag of Doritos at the bottom of my shopping cart and, back in the day, I would always buy additional stuff at the drug store so I wouldn't look like I was coming in strictly for a box of condoms.

That's right Mr. Drug-Store-Ringer-Upper-Guy, I need a Bic Pen, a pack of gum, a Slim Jim and...oh, this box of Trojans.

I worried about what my cleaning woman would think if I left it out, amongst the innocent face cleaner and mouthwash on my sink, so I tried to find a place to stash it.

I wanted to shove it in my medicine cabinet, but it was too large--GAH!--even that sentence seems naughty.

My inner Beavis and Butthead were having a "heh, heh, heh," field day.

BEAVIS: Dude, that hair stuff totally looks like a dildo.

BUTT HEAD: Yeah, heh heh, and it's named Bed HEAD, heh heh heh.

BEAVIS: Yeh, get it? HEAD? Hey, when you take the cap off it's like a circumcision.

BUTT HEAD: Circumcisions suck.

BEAVIS: Yeh. Dude, I'm not circumcised.

BUTT HEAD: Really, Dude? But I thought your mom was Jewish.

BEAVIS: Yeh, but she's more of a secular Jew. Theologically she's more of a Hindu, but she has some strong issues against any organized religion. I guess I've been exploring my own spiritual and emotional feelings as they pertain towards aligning myself with any one particular religious group. The concept of God, and our own mortality is a pretty heady subject and...

BUTT HEAD: Heh, heh, heh...you said HEADy.

BEAVIS: Yeh, heh heh heh, Boobs.

Oh God, I am a child.

To pee or not to pee, that is the question.

2009-08-30T20:09:00.006-05:00

More permanent than the Great Wall of China, and more sacred than the Holy Grail, is the rule that my husband and I never, under any circumstance, “do our business” in front of one another.

Not even pee.

Now, there are a lot of my husband’s personal moments that I have witnessed, at times much to my horror, and there are some things that I’ve been observed doing that I’d rather he not have seen, (vomiting, using a breast pump and waxing spring to mind).

But here's the thing, we’re on vacation, with our son, at Smuggler’s Notch in Vermont. The condo unit we are staying in is tremendous. Spacious, well appointed and it even has a few really nice touches like a deck and a couple gas fireplaces.

One of these fireplaces is in our bedroom. Ooooh la la! It’s actually double sided with the other side of it located just above the Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. I know, cue the bad porn synthesizer.

Do you see the problem?

The double fireplace is essentially a glass box, which means you can see clearly into the bathroom from the bedroom. They made a small attempt at privacy by putting in a (far too) short wall, (not) blocking the toilet seat, so basically you are perfectly framed when you are on the toilet.

Geeze, I just noticed that the fake logs in the foreground are actually
worse looking than anything that could be going on behind it. Gross!

My husband and I have made a solemn pact that we will not, intentionally, look, but you know about the road to hell, and what it’s paved with.

And yes, of course I close the door to the bedroom, but what about my pre-sleep pee? That’s the worst! All the lights are off in the bedroom, but the lights are on in the bathroom so then it's like I’m starring on The Bathroom Channel's latest hit, "What Did YOU Eat Today?"

Oh, and forget about me! What about him!

The fireplace doors don’t open, but if I were to see my husband crapping I would have to break the glass and burn my eyes out. No, that wouldn’t help, because the image would still be indelibly seared into my brain.

Fine, maybe I’m uptight when it comes to this.

Or am I?

Tell me, do you, and your SigOth, have an “open door” policy when it comes to the bathroom?

If you do, then I have a great recommendation for your next vacation.

Anchor's Away

2009-08-20T17:20:00.004-05:00

I hesitate to mention this, as I think it might be greeted with the same wrath as a skinny girl, at Weight Watchers meeting, complaining about her "high metabolism," or a mom, with a
two- month-old, talking about how her child sleeps until 9 every morning, or a wife who's husband helps out with...well, you get the idea.

Today was last day of my son's day camp and looking back on the past few weeks I realized that I've simply had too much time on my hands.

I've been bored.

That I've sort of filled up my days rather than having full days.

Sometimes I joke that my son, all kids in fact, are anchors.

C'mon, it's a joke!

It's mostly a joke.

Well, the truth is that I realized that my son is not an anchor, he's my rutter. Helping me steer my way through my life. Giving me direction and purpose.

Tomorrow I'll be spending the day looking for ways to occupy him, while getting the housework done, doing the grocery shopping, having the oil changed and getting organized for our upcoming family vacation.

There will be too much to do and not enough time.

No meeting girlfriends for lunch or wandering into a boutique just to take a peek around.

In short, I can kiss my freedom goodbye.

Sigh.

I can't wait.

Someone around here is an idiot

2009-08-17T11:19:00.003-05:00

(Standing in shower, staring blankly at tube of Pantene conditioner.)

What?

Fortifying Fortifier?

Redundant much?

God!

So stupid.

What dopes.

Oh, yeah, like, let me grab my brushing toothbrush and my soapy soap.

Snort. I hope that my drying hair dryer works.

Idiots.

**blink**

Ooooooh. French. It's French. They did the label in both languages.

Fortifier is French for Fortifying.

Hmm.

Smells nice.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I rest my face

2009-08-12T14:43:00.011-05:00

Yesterday I wandered into the fancy schmancy mall to get my niece a gift certificate for her 13th birthday.

I had to pass through Nordstrom's cosmetics section. I made the colossal mistake of pausing for a nanosecond during which time a woman ran over and, before I knew it, I was lassoed and placed on a tall black stool under heroically unflattering harsh lighting. I can't explain exactly how it happened except to say that when a woman compliments your skin by telling you that you shouldn't even be wearing foundation (snort), while coming out you with a tube of foundation primer that will "change your life"--well, I froze.

Somehow I mixed up makeup counter ladies with grizzly bears and thought that if I just stayed still she'd leave me alone. So I sat there while she spontaneously generated extra limbs so as to grab a dozen products while never leaving my side.

And be sure to try our anti-aging-serum-gel-cream-scrub!

All of these products are guaranteed to "streamline" my morning beauty regimen. Ha! My morning beauty regimen? I'm not sure if eye liner and a pony tail that can only be described as The Pebbles Flintstone qualifies as a beauty regimen.

One of the weirdest things was that she kept asking me my name, and then continued to refer to me as "Hon" and "Sweetie."

And then it occurred to me, I was dealing with a psychopath. Or sociopath. Whichever one isn't the one that Charles Manson is. Basically someone who is a big, fat, lying liar.

Which made me start fantasizing about putting her on the witness stand while I cross-examined her.

Welcome to my inner-dialogue:

ME: Can you please tell me what your name is?

LINDA: Linda

ME: And do you remember my name?

LINDA: Yes, Hon.

ME: Is it, or is it not true, that you specifically said that I should not be wearing any foundation.

LINDA: Well, yes.

ME: And then did you, or did you not, proceed to remove my foundation with $65 facial cleanser, a $55 Beta-Hydroxy wipe--which you claim to use everyday despite the fact that the label recommends once a week--followed by an $85 foundation primer.

LINDA: It's a face brightener too, with SPF 15.

ME: SPF 15! That's a completely ineffective level! I might as well rub Crisco on myself and call it a day. But we're getting off topic. Linda, tell me, why would you put foundation primer on someone to whom you had just, minutes before, recommended should not wear foundation.

LINDA: Well, I just thought that you have such cute freckles, but maybe just a smidge of foundation would make your skin pop a little bit better.

ME: I object, your honor, they are not cute freckles, they're hideous age spots! Moving on. Did you then proceed to apply foundation?

LINDA: Yes.

ME: Did you apply bronzer on top of that.

LINDA: Yes.

ME: Did you apply peachy rose blush on top of the foundation and bronzer making me look like a discount hooker in the Meat Packing District?

LINDA: Honestly, I think it really made your cheekbones pop.

ME: Pop? What does that even mean? They're cheekbones not corn kernels. Changing course. Did we, or did we not, discuss that I am a mom who tends to spend little over 8 minutes on her personal grooming from the time she steps out of the shower to the time she walks out the door. That I frequently wear the same jeans for four days straight. And, that I'm often in such a rush that I forget to put on my wedding band.

LINDA: I don't recall, I was gathering up our simple five-step-program to make your lips look totally natural.

ME: Five-steps. To make me look natural. Linda, look at me. I use Lipsmackers clear lip gloss. Did you honestly think that I would take the time to moisturize, prime, paint, line and gloss my lips...with gold gloss no less?

LINDA: No.

ME: What's that Linda? Could you speak up?

LINDA: No.

ME: You're a pathological liar aren't you, Linda.

LINDA: Yes.

ME: Your honor, I rest my case.

I have to say though, I admire these snake-oil saleswomen in the same way that I am impressed by street fair psychics. It does take a certain skill, an ability to think on one's feet, to spin a yarn of horse crap that sounds totally plausible and sincere day in and day out.

If I sound bitter it's only because I've fallen prey to these charlatans dozens of times in my life. I am ashamed to say that I have bought night cream that cost as much per ounce as gold. I have wasted thousands of dollars on peachy rose blushes and gold glosses all because someone, wielding a puff brush, has told me that they really make my lips or eyes or cheeks "pop."

And you know what, I'd probably happily still plunk down $35 for lipstick if, just once, the lady behind the counter would say, "Look, it's cheaper than plastic surgery and less fattening than a pint of Haagen-Dazs. Go on, you'll feel better."

Because that, my friends, would be the absolute truth.

Untying the knot.

2009-08-10T12:36:00.008-05:00

Here's some relationship advice I'm completely unqualified to give, but since I have been in a relationship for over 40 years I'm going to.

Just like any relationship, the relationship I have with myself isn't always smooth going, which is why infinite hours (literally, I have the bills to prove it) have been spent on the proverbial couch trying to sort out the whats and whys and what to dos.

Personal therapy is all about going back and examining, in infinitesimal detail, your life, your upbringing, your choices--trying to figure out what makes you tick so that you can tick better, easier and more confidently.

On the other hand, marriage, or any close relationship for that matter, is completely different. We all know that there are ups and downs and sometimes the downs may seem so deep that you can't imagine how to begin climbing out, but I've realized that, unlike when you're dealing with your personal issues, there is very little benefit to looking backwards and examining with a fine-tooth comb every mis-step and mis-communication, every perceived insult or hurtful word ever spoken.

If you do then it can feel like there is no untangling the knot, which got bigger and more snarled and tighter over time.

So my advice is to cut the knot free and start fresh immediately. This isn't just true of husband or wife, but of friends too.

Would any of us have any friends left if we couldn't get past a stinging comment, petty jealousy or an unsolicited piece of advice that left us feeling wounded?

Obviously there are many exceptions. Physical abuse is not something you "just get over." Or a pattern of any behavior that constantly leaves you feeling hurt or belittled. In those types of situations you don't just have to cut the knot free, but you may also have to cut the person free.

So maybe when we get frustrated, insecure or just plain fed up the only solution is to just let it go so you can move forward, together.

Hey Baby, Nice Apps!

2009-08-06T07:53:00.013-05:00

What's your sign?

What's on your playlist?

Or, the personality test du jour, What's your App?

I just got the new 3G iPhone and I'm of mixed minds about it. On the one hand it is the greatest hand-held computer I've ever owned, on the other hand, as the word "phone" plays prominently in the product name it should probably be better at sending and receiving phone calls.

But one of my favorite things about the iPhone is the Apps. (Short for applications). These are small programs that can do nifty things like play games, create ad-free individualized radio stations, and even allow you to catch up on an episode of Young and the Restless, I mean, Face the Nation, that you may have missed.

One of my favorite questions to ask iPhone users now is "What's your favorite App?" Not only because I think it says a lot about a person, but because there is a seemingly infinite supply of them. Many of mine are free, some cost a buck or two, but when you get the right one, one that actually does improve your life in some infinitesimal way, it's totally worth it.

So, here is a list of my current favorites:

1) Amazon Kindle: This App allows me to sync with my current read on Kindle and take it with me, for those times when 13 ounces is just too much to schlepp. Then, when you get back. you can re-sync them so that your Kindle catches up to where you are in the book.

2) Yelp: Wanna know where a good Mexican restaurant within a 5 mile radius is, read what people who have been there before think and be able to dial the phone number to make a reservation in a jiffy? This App is great for that. It uses a GPS to identify where you are, so even if you're on your summer road trip you'll always have a little Maven in your pocket. It also can find Gas stations, drugstores, banks, and, most importantly, bars.

3) Google: Yeah, I know what you're thinking, "Isn't Google available through the web browser," Well, hold your horses, this application lets you enter your search via voice command so you don't have to do the pointy finger peck to enter your search. And it's voice recognition is remarkable dead on.

4) Pandora: Type in your favorite musical artist and Pandora will create a radio station packed with compatible artists. My stations? Lady Ga Ga, Timberland, Ozzy Osborne, Daughtry...how eclectic am I?

5) TV.com: Did you miss last night's The Late Show with Craig Ferguson or CSI: Miami, or perhaps you're jonesing for a little celebrity gossip from ET, this free App lets you watch clips and select full episodes of shows from CBS, CW, Showtime, CNet, CBS Sports and even "Classic TV" filled with the shows we wasted our youth on like The Love Boat and Twin Peaks.

I've also noticed that dinners out have gotten a lot more relaxed, and quiet, since I got my iPhone. I used to be horrified when I'd see kids playing hand-held video games at the table, but I must say, I've gone to the dark side. We chat as a family for a while then he contentedly plays silly games while I nurse a nice glass of Pinot.

Horrified? Ok, how about this for a compromise--Myths & Facts gives true or false questions in various categories (Science, Animals, Candy, Food Facts) and then we all guess what the correct answer is. For instance, it turns out that Twinkies do not last 25 years, their actual shelf life is 25 days.

And before you poo-poo too harshly (I hate a harsh poo) there are also "enrichment" Apps for your toddler genius, like digital flashcards to teach kids number, letters or even how to say dog in French. Now...you were saying?

And App shopping is the ultimate form of window shopping since I can search for what might be out there that can help me organize my shopping list, find discounts or coupons or easily check in on my twitter peeps. You just go to the Apple Applications Store on iTunes, or you can browse them on your iPhone like I do, and then enjoy the immediate gratification of downloading them on the spot.

Users rate them so you can see what other people think of an App before you download it and since many of them are free you can try it and delete it if you're disappointed, like I was with SpongeBob Lite--it turns out being about to hear his annoying warblely "Hello! I'm SpongeBob" over and over and over, isn't actually as enjoyable as you might guess.

I'd love to hear what your favorite Apps are. Please, even if you never, ever, ever would be caught dead commenting on a blog, in the name of all that is sacred and holy I beg you--share an App or two that has rocked your world.

Who knows, maybe it's time to replace Blogrolls with Approlls.

***************************

Oh, and I feel compelled to mention, in light of the hub bub and rigamaroll going on about sponsored posts, this is not one. This is simply me sharing my opinion, as Nature and the Blogosphere intended.