Laugh Out Loud Mom

"Scaling" Back on Technology

2012-01-11T15:02:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #480 | January 11th, 2012
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I’ve never been a big fan of absolutes, which is why I own one of those classic, mechanical “dial” scales. Accuracy is way over-rated when it comes to weighing in. Guestimates are the way to go. Self-delusion is even better.

Thanks to the nearly invisible needle on my scale and my increasingly poor eyesight, I have to bend all the way over to read the dial on my scale. I immediately get dizzy, start to wobble and the needle goes haywire. There’s a pretty good chance that I will one day fall off the scale, hit my head on the toilet and die naked on the floor of my bathroom.

I had hoped for a more elegant end.

Between my fear of an embarrassing death and the questionable accuracy of my weighing technique, I have only a ballpark idea of what I actually weigh. What if it’s really like 300lbs? What if the paramedics can't lift my body?

In my own mind I’m a svelte goddess, but for safety reasons it might be time to go digital.

The scale department at Bed Bath & Beyond takes up two entire aisles. Some of the scales even talk to you. These are the scales that insist on announcing your BMI to the entire store, and then cheekily suggest how much weight you should lose. All before you can figure out how to turn the volume down.

A few ‘super scales’ can even track your weight loss (or gain) over the past 5 years. They include a handy USB port so that you can download the data to your laptop and make depressing graphs and charts. This feature was definitely created by a male engineer. No woman would be this sadistic.

Women just want to fit into that pair of college jeans that sits on the top shelf of the closet collecting dust. We don’t need charts; we need a seam ripper.

The modern digital scale tries to act like your friend, but don’t be fooled. It is a cold hearted tool. No true friend would ever be so painfully blunt.

There’s no fudging the data anymore. We used to be able to employ a little harmless coping mechanism called “self-deceit”. The digital scale has changed all that. We can no longer say “aw…it’s just a couple pounds.” Our new best buddy tells us that it is exactly 7.73 pounds over the last 33.5 days.

If only it could also dispense anti-depressants.

Digital scales are complicated computer-like electronic gadgets which should be sold at Best Buy, NOT at Bed Bath where the staff merely points and grunts when asked about the graphing capabilities of the Ho-medic Platinum 3000.

Because I was overwhelmed by all the bells and whistles, I decided to choose my new scale using a proven scientific weighing-in method. First, I visited the Bed Bath ladies room to pee. I then removed EVERYTHING I could without getting arrested; my socks and shoes, jacket and sweater, even my watch. I tried all the scales to see which one clocked me in at the lowest weight and I bought it. Other features were relatively unimportant.

My new scale is even backlit, so I can weigh myself in the dark when my husband is asleep. From now on my weight will be measured to the nearest ounce, not rounded up or down to the nearest multiple of five. This kind of precision will take getting used to.

I refuse however, to activate the scale’s ‘tracking program’. There are some things that should remain a mystery, like the Shroud of Turin. A little self-delusion is good for my self-esteem.

And no matter what the new scale says…and whether or not my college jeans will EVER fit…I am still a svelte goddess. No one can take that away from me.
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Crisco: Not Intended for Use as a Spread

2012-01-04T17:57:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #479 | January 4th, 2011
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The Pecan Sandy and the Brown Sugar ‘slice and bake’ don’t taste quite right unless they’re made with lard. Ever wonder why you can’t seem to replicate the awesomeness of your Great Grandmother’s cookies? Close your eyes and fetch the Tums, folks, because the answer is rendered pork fat.

It’s true though; everything does taste better with pig.

Back in 1910, someone tried to replace lard with something more convenient, healthier, and more economical. Yes, I am talking about Crisco.

Crisco has the dubious honor of being one of the first ‘imitation’ foods. It was created for use in candle making, but looked so much like lard that the inventors decided to market it as food instead. Luckily, the FDA wouldn’t exist for another 17 years. Needless to say, Ron Paul’s grandfather was an investor.

When women learned that they no longer had to spend two days wrestling with a ham hock before they could bake, they switched to Crisco in droves. Ten years later, many of those same women became widows. Yet no one made the Crisco=Coronary connection for another 50 years.

Despite the fact that the Crisco website is filled with palatable sounding recipes, human uses for Crisco are limited…or so I thought. Last week I bought my annual can of Crisco in order to make a few of my favorite “historic” holiday cookies. I was surprised to find a warning on the label. “Not intended for use as a spread.”

I hadn’t previously considered smearing my English muffin with Crisco, but other Americans have apparently entertained this thought.

Seriously America!? And I was this close to agreeing with Rick Perry (of all people) about getting rid of the Department of Education! Now I’m having second thoughts.

The company that bought Crisco from P&G in 2001 (Smuckers ‘the Suckers’ as they are now known) offers no explanation for the warning, but I bet it has something to do with the fact that Crisco liquefies at 117 degrees - not exactly a melt in your mouth temperature. I’m guessing that it is pretty easy to choke to death on Crisco if you eat it straight from the can with a spoon like peanut butter. (Though I can’t find a single reference to this phenomenon on Wikipedia.)

Or maybe teenagers have figured out how huff the hydrogen atoms out of Crisco using a bagel as an extraction medium. Teenagers are clever.

Whatever the reason for the warning, I’m pretty sure the lawyers have all scenarios covered.

Even before there was Crisco, there was margarine (a.k.a. oleo). And I think we can all agree that margarine ruined our lives. As soon as the US lifted the ban on food coloring in margarine, our parents were convinced that margarine was just as tasty, healthier, and cheaper than butter. From about 1970 through 1990, vegetable solids were all I knew.

If the Buttercup shines as brightly under your chin as it does mine, then you know how psychologically damaging those 20 years were to a delicate ‘animal fat loving’ flower like myself.

Margarine is just like Crisco but with lots of salt, yellow dye #2, a lower melting point, and a longer shelf life. It was, and is, definitely not butter. Nor was it very good for you. Crisco also used to be VERY bad for you, but the company reformulated Crisco in 2007 so that it no longer contained trans-fats. I’m guessing that the lawyer recommended “warning” label appeared at about the same time.

I sure hope the new formula still works in my home made suet recipe.

Crisco will no longer clog your arteries, but it's still a choking hazard. And for what? If you’ve scooped up a finger full of Crisco lately, you know that even the butter flavored version still tastes like Vaseline.

If you are fascinated by this discussion of lard and lard-like products and you are wondering where to find Crisco recipes, they are on the clever Crisco website. I know this because I have been looking for a recipe that will allow me to use up my Christmas Crisco before it turns that iridescent green color and starts to smell. I’m leaning towards “Old Fashioned Deep Fried Chicken” as the healthiest alternative.

Or maybe I’ll put a Crisco, Cool Whip, and American cheese sandwich in everyone’s lunch box tomorrow. If I’m serving imitation food, I might as well go whole hog. Or else BUY the hog and render up some real lard, like Grandma used to do. Then I can re-make her cookies the right way.
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A Very Vegas Christmas

2011-12-21T14:04:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #478 | December 21st, 2011
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One of my favorite things to do on Christmas Eve is to drive around town and ogle the holiday lights. Nothing gets our family in the holiday spirit faster than the serene glow of electric “candlelight”, a glimpse of twinkling trees, and passing a carton of eggnog around in the car. It’s all so magical.

Of course there's always the house that looks like it’s been decorated by elves on crack.

There are five strobe lights mounted to the roof and an inflatable Santa dressed as Elvis on the porch. Motion sensor trash-talking deer line the driveway and giant candy canes hang from the gutters.

If my kids were still little, this would be the house of unadulterated joy - well worth a special trip to the Italian side of town. Drive-by slowly enough and the kids will have just enough time to take it all in before the strobe lights trigger an epileptic fit.

If there is one thing that Italians know how to do well - no offense Uncle Nico – it’s how to amp up Christmas.

Some people need to be overstimulated in order to achieve the same holiday ‘high’ that the rest of us can get from a single spotlight and a wreath on the front door. These folks are either neurologically impaired, or just very devout. Real Catholics know that you can’t adequately Light the Way for baby Jesus with fewer than 15 extension cords.

Episcopalians think you can do it with two, (which is why no one does Christmas Eve drive-bys in those neighborhoods.)

I’m normally pretty tolerant, but when it comes to Christmas decorating, I’ve got certain pre-conceived notions about how it should be done...

1) Tastefully. No giant blow-up anything and absolutely no live reindeer chained to a stake in the front yard. They’re covered in ticks, just like regular deer.
2) Environmentally. Your abuse of the electrical grid should not imperil the neighborhood or require more than one power strip. Assuage your inner ‘light junkie’ with a trip to Vegas.
3) Skillfully. If your parents never taught you how to put up lights, don’t just wing it, get help. Go online, ask a friendly neighbor, look closely at other badly lit houses and try not to emulate them.

Speaking of the badly lit, there's a house in my neighborhood that is in serious violation of Rule Number 3. It sits amidst our tasteful white lights and tabletop menorahs reeking of the post-Christmas 50% off sale at CVS.

These folks have stretched a single strand of red lights haphazardly across the front of their house in a decorating style best described as ‘war zone’. The Santa heads mounted on spikes in the lawn scream French Revolution. The overall look is more Arab Spring than Happy Holidays, but maybe that’s what they are going for. For all we know, they could be Tunisian expats just trying to make CT feel more like home.

Or maybe they just have terrible taste in holiday decorations.

I understand that it can be hard to find the time to put the lights up AND get the holiday cards out. But I assure you that it is more important to put the lights up right than to just fling them over a random bush in the yard and drive your neighbors crazy for three weeks.

Think about it. You sit inside your house, oblivious to what it looks like from everyone else’s perspective. Take pity on us and pull the plug. And seriously, the Creepy Santa Heads have to go. They’re attracting way too many sketchy, eggnog swigging drive-bys.
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Mommy Dearest, Please Don't Mail that Card!

2011-12-14T13:52:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #477 | December 14th, 2011
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My teenage daughter is damaged goods. Or so she says. She claims that last year’s holiday photo card pretty much ruined her life. I thought the kids looked happy and adorable. But what do I know. A teenager’s mind works in mysterious ways. I get blamed for a lot of stuff, lost mittens, misplaced homework, lame tweets, etc... Almost everything I do is deemed “life ruining”.

Last year’s holiday card featured a lovely photo of my three glorious, well-adjusted children whose very existence reflects well on my husband and me. Isn’t that the point of sending out “photo” cards every year? If we had sullen, angry children and an ugly three-legged dog, we probably wouldn’t go to all this trouble.

What could my daughter have found so offensive about last year’s photo?

Then I saw “IT” - the raw nerve, the open wound, the smoking gun. “It” was a wide open metal mouth grin, snapped mid-guffaw, with my daughter’s unnaturally long epiglottis dangling in full technicolor view. I don't know how I missed that.

Damaged goods might actually be too kind.

My daughter is not taking any chances with the card this year. She’s issued ultimatums and made demands. And quite frankly, after the drama over last year’s photo, I am more than willing to make amends. So I have agreed not to use any photo in the holiday card without her prior consent. I have given her full dictatorial veto power over the holiday card. It’s the least I could do for the poor, ruined child.

If anyone gets a card from us this year it will be an authentic Holiday Miracle.

As you can see, I’m bending over backwards to be a nicer, better parent, when my natural inclination is to say something immature and sarcastic that I’m sure to regret later. But what about me? Does anyone care that pre-menopausal hot flashes make life especially challenging for moms during the holidays? Of course no one cares. (But you don’t hear us telling the kids that they’ve ruined OUR lives do you?) That’s because parents aren’t allowed to say stuff like that out loud.

We can only think it, mumble it under our breath, and sneak canned dog food into the meatloaf.

I told my daughter that I was “fine” with ‘photo shopping’ a more acceptable version of her head onto her body this year if that would make her happy. I’d even be “fine” doing a Partridge Family style montage instead of a group photo, if that would make her happy. My efforts at being loving, understanding and accommodating were met with outright suspicion and lingering hostility.

But that was before we played paintball.

My daughter is now very enthusiastic about using the photo of us dressed head to toe in military camouflage and wielding paintball guns. She likes this photo for two reasons. One, because her face is completely obscured by a visor and safety goggles, and two, she REALLY enjoyed gunning her mother down with semi-automatic paintball rifle. (Repeatedly, even when we were on the same team.)

The bruising was a small price to pay to get our relationship back on track.

The paintball photo would not have been my first choice for the holiday card. Writing “Holiday Peace and Joy to Your Family from Ours” seems a bit incongruous when my family is got up like a Texas militia. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

I miss the days when I could unilaterally choose the holiday photo, order the cards, and send them out without anyone complaining about a life-ruining epiglottis 'moment'. But I can see that my daughter has a legitimate point. I probably wouldn’t want her choosing which photo of me to put on the holiday card.

What if it showed my chin waggle, or what if I was braless under my grannie jammies? What if, God forbid, I was making my “crazy eyed Wookiee face”? What if it were all THREE at once!

With that thought in mind, I am giving up my Putin-esque control over the family card. Everyone will get a say in choosing the holiday photo this year. No more drama; and no more camo. Paintball may be the cheapest form of family therapy, but it’s definitely not in the Holiday Spirit.
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Welcome to My Turkey Pleasure Palace

2011-11-30T16:38:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #476 | November 30th, 2011
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My family celebrated Thanksgiving, just the five of us, and it was very relaxing. Big family gatherings are nice too, but there are risks associated with having 4 cooks and 20 extra dysfunctional mouths to feed. One of those risks is incarceration. We’d all like to think we wouldn’t beat grandma senseless with a wooden spoon, but in reality, we could snap at any minute.

Why is Thanksgiving such an emotional holiday? Why are crimes of passion so prevalent?

Maybe it’s the combination of tryptophan and alcohol, or maybe it’s just that cooking together gets people’s dander up. The various family “stuffing factions” are intractable and belligerent, and holding kitchen knives. By the end of the meal, the pro-chestnut half the family won’t be on speaking terms with the pro-raisin half because, well, most of them are nuts.

And be honest...has the dog ever NOT thrown up on Thanksgiving? I rest my case.

I don’t want to go to jail simply because I was provoked into a violent act by an uncouth second cousin I never liked. Guests should behave like proper guests. Thanksgiving should not be treated differently from any other civilized event. Having dinner with your extended family is not an invitation to act like a caveman, really.

For example, if you are lucky enough to be invited to someone’s house for Thanksgiving, eat what your host serves, smile, and otherwise keep your mouth shut. Make polite conversation but refrain from expressing your opinion on how much celery to put in the stuffing. This is both unwelcome and potentially life-threatening.

Because we were on our own this year my husband got to cook the turkey and the stuffing all by himself, with only minimal interference from me. (And no, you may not ask my husband to define minimal.) Being in charge of the signature Thanksgiving dish is apparently very stressful, which explains the four fingers of Highland Park, but does NOT excuse the stuffing fiasco.

Let me summarize. The stuffing recipe that my husband chose (Betty Crocker, 1950) called for two heaping tablespoons of salt. Sadly enough, Betty Crocker died from hypertension in the 70s. Someone from the 21st century, with even a tiny bit of common sense might question that amount of sodium. My husband didn’t.

The stuffing was so salty that we could have used it to brine one of the kids.

The turkey, on the other hand, was stellar. You see, we always cook our turkey “breast down”, ever since the unorthodox but fortuitous Thanksgiving of ‘89. That was the year we accidentally learned that cooking a turkey upside down lets the legs and thighs cook more, while the breast stays juicy and moist. That was also the year I got to watch my husband awkwardly grope a turkey and fail to figure out where its breasts were located. You’d expect a guy to be better at something like that.

The pros of having Thanksgiving on your own is that you get to use as much butter, salt, and cream as you want, without regard to 15 other people’s dietary restrictions or unreasonable demands. The downside is that the day can be a bit dull without the traditional house full of sociopathic relatives.

The worst thing about our relative-less turkey day is that I don’t have any insanely funny Thanksgiving stories of near death to share with my friends like I usually do. They’ll be disappointed.

While I don't have any good in-law food fights or vicious femur snapping “touch” football tackles to talk about, I do have a tale of salty stuffing and a husband who got to second base with Tom the Turkey.

You know, on second thought, I might be able to get some mileage out of that last one after all.
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Garage Hook-ups and Hang-ups

2011-11-23T10:26:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #475 | November 23rd, 2011
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Rome wasn’t built in a day. That’s what I told my husband when he complained about not being able to fit a car in our garage. Let’s just say that the garage "situation” was a source of mild but constant friction between us, the elephant in the room, the poop on the shoe, the cap off the paste… You get the picture.

But I have good news. The car fits. And it only took me about a decade to accomplish the impossible. How did I do it? First, I joined “hoarders anonymous”; then I had three tag sales followed by a small, but effective bonfire. Then had my husband install about 25 hooks and floor to ceiling shelves on EVERY wall.

He was so ecstatic about finally getting a car in the garage that he barely complained at all. (“Barely”, in this case, is a relative term.)

I don’t know if other women get as excited as I do about organizing stuff. I literally tingle with anticipation. The Container Store catalogue does for me what the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit issue does for guys, I think. I get goose bumps all over.

You have to understand. The garage has been my nemesis, my arch enemy for a very long time. Over the years I’ve shifted things around, like a giant shell game, but could never seem to clear more than a one-butt path through the ski helmets, beach chairs, rollerblades, basketballs, ice skates, craft stuff, and lifejackets.

When we bought our house fifteen years ago, we were not put off by the fact that it only had a one car garage. What were we thinking!? If we’d bought a house with a Taj Mahal sized garage we would have argued less and gone hot tubbing more. If we were smarter, we’d now have plenty of room to accommodate our kids when they – inevitably - return home to live after college.

The Pew Research Center has reported an astounding rise in the number of Americans living in multi-generational homes since 2008. This information cannot possibly surprise anyone. With congress doing its hapless best to destroy our economy, I am convinced that we will soon all be living together - grandkids, parents and grandparents. Whether it’s as ‘one big happy family’ remains to be seen.

The thought of my future wouldn’t bother me so much if I had a bigger garage. A three car garage could easily be pimped out with a mini fridge and a couple space heaters for the in-laws (or for the college boomerangs.) And there’d STILL be room for a car.

At the rate things are going in America, most of us boomers won’t be downsizing into a two bedroom condo in Antigua anytime soon. And my personal dream of turning my son’s bedroom into a craft/sewing utopia when he leaves for college will have to wait until the economy turns around and I can be sure that he’s gone for good.

I wonder what my husband would say if I set-up my sewing machine in our spacious new garage? Of course that would leave me with no place to stash the in-laws in the event of a complete economic meltdown.

But maybe I shouldn’t be so focused on the garage. I hear that sheds are surprisingly affordable. The shed commune could be the answer to America’s multi-generational housing needs.

Just don’t call it a “shed” when it comes time to discuss it with the in-laws. I’m going with “private studio apartment”.
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Americans Know Diddly about Squat

2011-11-16T13:53:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #474 | November 16th, 2011
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Once upon a time, when the big decisions about our new country were being made, America parted ways from the rest of the world. The Founding Fathers decided, in the spirit of self-determination, that the Squat Toilet was not for them. In America there would be only new-fangled sit on top toilets. This approach was deemed more couth, less “native”, and overall more hygienic.

How could we have been so wrong?

As a result of this unfortunate cultural choice, American girls are not exposed to the squat toilet. Such a travesty! What do these girls do when they travel to Asia, Saudi Arabia, or tiny farm villages in Greece or Italy?

I’ll tell you what the young American abroad does. She pees all over herself.

I’m a big believer in the benefits of squatting, and not just because I gave birth to my second child in Japan. (I have the “squatting pail” to prove it.) In a utopian “world without borders” there are certain skills that young ladies should master before leaving home, and the ability to pee anywhere is definitely one of them. Needlepoint is not.

Squatters enjoy shapely thighs, have better sex, and are able to hold yoga poses longer. They are less likely to develop hemorrhoids, and EVERYONE (outside of America) knows that there is no better preparation for giving birth than regular, sustained squatting.

Don’t scoff. This skill (and possible Olympic sport) is not just for jet setters. There are FILTHY restrooms all around us, and if you don’t teach your daughter to touch nothing with her nether parts, then you aren’t much of a parent, are you? I don’t care if you are filthy rich, even the very privileged might someday need to use the restroom during the ferry ride to Nantucket.

When visiting public restrooms we already teach our kids to open doors with their shirtsleeves, flush with their foot, and to turn off the faucet with their elbows. None of this matters if they then plop their bare bottoms down on the same toilet enjoyed by a bevy of Bangladeshis fresh off a flight from Dhaka.

And I’m not just gratuitously insulting Bangladesh like they do in the movies. I have facts. The 2010 Mercer Health and Sanitation Index ranked Dhaka as the dirtiest city in the world. Your personal bottle of hand sanitizer is not going to cut it there.

Given that little factoid, I don’t think it is so terrible to yell “Squat or Die” at my girls from the next stall over while we are traveling internationally, or just passing through Grand Central Station. They can roll their eyes all they want, as long as they do it from a squatting position.

I’ve tried to teach my children that every surface of a public restroom is teeming with infectious disease causing germs like bacteria, viruses, fungi and protozoa, and that the stall itself is the biggest petri dish of all. They just seem to think I’m nuts.

The day will come when I no longer have the strength to maintain a proper squat. That will be the day that I must say goodbye to public bathrooms and hello to Depends. I’m hoping that by then Kimberly Clark will be manufacturing Depends in cool colors, and will offer a choice of bikini or thong cut by virtue of a super thin, ultra-absorbent space age material, yet to be developed. As of right now, they aren’t looking so cool.

Aging Boomers like me will be expecting a lot more style from our personal urination containment systems. And not calling them “adult diapers” would be a good place to start.
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Sexier Titles for Stay-at-Home Moms

2011-11-09T15:36:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #473 | November 9th, 2011
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Some stay-at-home moms and dads wallow in negative existential thoughts. Not me. I find my role as “homemaker” quite challenging, especially when the kids all vomit at once. The only thing I really object to is my title. I’m not Auntie Em, and I don’t make jam. I’m craving a better, hotter title, like “Bottom Line Babe”. Only then I could I justify wearing my pleather leggings.

Even the ridiculously over-educated can find joy in staying at home. A Harvard MBA can be surprisingly useful in plotting optimal carpool routes against traffic light density, time/distance traveled, and the proximity of Starbucks.

To be honest, I’m tired of all this talk of “hostility” between stay-at-home moms and working moms. I agree that staying at home is a job, but maybe the answer lies in making it LOOK more like a traditional job, or even a business.

We’d get a lot more respect if we kept a balance sheet, published an annual report, and gave EVERYONE in the family annual reviews, even the dog. Don’t tell my husband, but the dog is a MAJOR drain on resources. (He’d be the first one I’d let go if we had to downsize.)

Let’s solve the stay-at-home brouhaha once and for all. Let’s require a solid background in economics and business before marriage. Catholics could fold Econ 101 into Pre-Cana. (Jews could simply take a refresher.) Other people would have to go back to school.

For example, economies of scale apply as much to the home as they do to widgets. Why produce a single, ugly kid when you could genetically engineer super intelligent blue-eyed triplets? Why go to all the trouble to clean your house for just ONE couple when, for very little additional effort, you could entertain twenty?

Do you see how much more efficient we would be if we had the right training and education? If you already have an MBA, use it to raise the bar on home management! Don’t ignore the bottom line just because you’re busy wiping the baby’s bottom. Don’t let your skills wither away in mind-numbing, (and often disgusting) repetitive tasks. And whatever you do, don’t let society scoff at your choice to stay home, especially if you are lucky enough to have that choice.

What is the opportunity cost of a three hour finger painting session? There is absolutely nothing wrong with asking tough questions like that.

Some moms and dads aren’t good managers. These are the people who always look disheveled and overwhelmed in the grocery store. They leave their kids stranded all over town and are always borrowing eggs. Most of them were art history majors.

A lot of stay-at-home parents complain that their role is not valued by society, and they expect society to change what it values. This is rather cheeky. What we need to do is change society’s perception of the homemaker role by becoming more business-like.

And that means retooling what has been passing as “home management” training for the past 40 years.

The “Home Economics” class that we all took in middle school had NOTHING to do with economics and everything to do with sewing ugly halter tops. This never was, and still isn’t a highly valued skill (unless you live in Bolivia and just got a microloan to make indigenous crafts).

Not much has changed.

My kids can make nut and gluten-free banana muffins, but they can’t determine the market equilibrium price of those bananas. Nor would they ever think to hedge against rising oil prices with the canny purchase of an EPA certified wood stove. I find this shocking.

If we are to achieve the home management equivalent of “no parent left behind”, the current curriculum needs a complete overhaul. This will take years to have any effect.

In the meantime, I highly recommend a change in title. How about “Home Efficiency Engineer” or “Family CEO”? Give me a CEO title (even honorary) and my entire perspective will change. I’ll start seeing my kids as free labor, my time as money, and all my talented friends as possible business partners.

Give me a CFO who isn’t under the age of 4 and I might even turn a profit. Sadly enough, that’s still the only sure way to change perceptions…
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Reading is Dirty Work...but someone has to do it

2011-11-02T14:04:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #472 | November 2nd, 2011
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I’m afraid that I am going to have to give up reading. When I’m hooked on a book the first thing that falls through the cracks is keeping house. And to be honest, my housekeeping skills aren’t anything to brag about even when I don’t have my head buried in a book.

When I’m deep into a good book the world around me ceases to exist. That is, until the world around me starts to smell like a hamster cage from the piles of laundry, the stinky dog, and overflowing garbage can. Who knew reading was such a filthy habit?

The situation has gotten especially bad since I discovered George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series. I am enthralled. The man is a genius. As soon as I finished the first book I zipped off to the library for books two and three. Each thousand page treatise in the series takes George about five years to write. I finished the entire four book series in a single 20 day reading marathon.

I could have done it in less if it weren’t for the pesky husband who enjoys adult conversation and the perpetually hungry kids. Families can be so demanding.

But reading is good, right? It sets a wonderful example for the children. (I do it for them, of course.) So where do you draw the line? Is it when you find yourself hiding in the bathroom just to finish a chapter? Or is it when you secretly feed your kids a kibble augmented casserole just so you don’t have to go to the grocery store?

For me, life takes on a “happy glow” when I have a book in hand. It is an entirely different experience when I don’t. If I can escape into an alternate universe where dust bunnies and dirty grout don’t exist, why on earth wouldn’t I go there at every opportunity? (And stay there for as long as possible.)

Reality, on the other hand, is a messy place filled with husbands who never finish their “to do” lists, hormonal teenagers (e.g. stinky AND grumpy), and dogs that roll in squirrel guts immediately after being bathed. Books let you forget all that, if only for a few hours.

The problem is that I have now finished the last book in the awesome “Game of Thrones” series. Withdrawal has set in. I now have to wait FIVE more years for the next installment. How will I last? How will I survive?

I suppose that I can spend the next few years catching up on my cleaning, poisoning hapless rodents, and preparing delicious homemade soups from scratch for my family. I could also, conceivably, rub my husband’s feet after a hard day’s work.

There is so much I could do with all this extra time…

On second thought, the library is FULL of books. It will just take a few minutes for me to drive over there and see what’s new. My husband’s feet may have to take a rain check.

And right after I get back, I swear that I will give the dog another bath.
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Purgatory by the Dashboard Light

2011-10-26T13:11:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #471 | October 26th, 2011
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I just can’t take it anymore. My seven-seater SUV drains a tank of gas faster than two moms can empty a bottle of chardonnay. Yes, that fast. Semiweekly $60 dollar “fill-ups” are giving me heart palpitations. I’m this close to making the ultimate American sacrifice - family automotive comfort for better gas mileage. But how?

When I was a kid we crawled around in a faux wood-paneled Pontiac station wagon the size of a small mountain range. It didn’t just seat 6, it SLEPT six.

Most American families can’t bring themselves to squeeze into a sedan like Europeans do because we were raised on cheap gas and the idea that BIGGER is better. As a result we have serious personal space issues which effectively prevent us from buying smaller cars.

Besides, every parent knows that if you pack three kids in the back seat of a standard size sedan, one of them will not survive. This is why the third row seat is so critical for longer trips.

I love my children, but is that third row worth the cost?

You may have noticed that your family “people mover” never achieves the official EPA “city” MPG. This is because the EPA does not test cars using a realistic approximation of how a mom with three children, each having 8 different activities, actually drives during her 5 hours on the road each day.

For example, a one way trip to the high school to drop off a forgotten musical instrument is 3 miles, takes me 8 minutes, never exceeds 24 MPH, and has exactly 23 stops. That’s nearly four times the number of stops in the EPA test. No mom will EVER achieve the official “city” MPG, so don’t be fooled into thinking that your Suburban is going to get its stickered 10 MPG around town. You’ll be lucky to get six. Try doing that math in your head without crying.

I’m ready for a new car I’m almost entirely focused on mileage.

My first car was a 1974 red MG midget with dual carburetors and a dazzling amount of chrome. It wouldn’t start in the rain and if I drove through a puddle the engine died. I couldn’t care less about reliability or MPG. That car was the coolest thing in the high school parking lot.

Now I want a car that gets wildly exciting gas mileage but is at the same time worthy of a glamorous Grace Kelly head-wrap and movie star shades.

That car doesn’t currently exist.

The incredibly adorable Mini Cooper and Fiat 500 only get 28 MPG city AND take premium gas. I had high hopes for the puppy-like Toyota IQ, but Toyota brought it to the US getting only 36 MPG instead of 50. Such a shame.

But wait! Come 2012 there are a slew of new cars hitting the market. The one I’ve got my eye on now is the Prius “c”. Yes, it is tiny. No, it is NOT adorable. After introducing a cool concept design, Toyota engineers lost their nerve and went into production with a safer “honey I shrunk the Prius” strategy.

But with pundits projecting up to $5 a gallon for gas in 2012, I’m willing to give up some Euro-cool for something even better - 60 MPG. A teetotaler compared to my SUV.

Now if only my friend will let me wear my new scarf and sunglasses in her chrome bedazzled Mini.

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"Extreme Couponing" can be Extremely Unhealthy

2011-10-19T11:46:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #470 | October 19th, 2011
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The tense, skinny blond chewed nervously on her thumb as the checkout girl rang up the last of 387 Tic Tac containers. The final total was $683.67 and included 50 jars of pickle relish. The crowd behind the register gasped. The blond took a deep breath and tried to act shocked.

The camera panned to the checkout girl who, on cue, paused momentously before asking, “Do you have any coupons?”

If at this point you aren’t perched at the edge of your couch and practically peeing in your pants from suspense, then maybe the new reality show Extreme Couponing is not for you.

It isn’t easy to make a TV show out of an activity that lacks conflict of any kind. To heighten the drama, the director has the coupon “star” hand over their coupons in three separate piles. This allows them to drag out the most entertaining part of the show (which by the way, is NOT when they fill two entire shopping carts with sanitary pads and tampons.) The real excitement comes from watching the register “ka-ching” in reverse, from $683.87 down to $21.62. Heady stuff.

Don’t get me wrong. I use coupons a lot. There is nothing I like better than getting free tampons, especially if they are the right brand, the right size, and feature the old style cardboard “injector”. None of that new-fangled plastic for me.

I totally respect the ingenuity of extreme couponers. They put a lot of time and effort into acquiring expensive packaged goods for mere pennies. The brand managers at Proctor and Gamble must be horrified and yet, oddly titillated.

Seriously, if I were addicted to Tic Tacs – which are expensive for a relatively tiny mint - I too would go out of my way to stockpile 1000 containers if I could get them for a nickel each.

On the other hand, many of the folks who appear on Extreme Couponing seem to be walking a fine line between unhealthy stockpiling and outright hoarding. They’ll move their kids into a tent in the backyard while racks and racks of laundry detergent and two liter bottles of orange soda take over the rest of the house.

There is something slightly terrifying about how people behave on this show.

I think there is more than just a little OCD (and brand brainwashing) involved when a person feels compelled to buy 200 bottles of Windex when they could make the same amount of glass cleaner with a gallon of vinegar.

Then there are the health issues to consider.

The Department of Health and Human Services is at this very moment battling a bizarre outbreak of scurvy among school children. Could this be related to the fact that newspaper inserts rarely include coupons for fresh fruits or vegetables while Devil Dogs and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese are practically free?

Most people would normally avoid foods that are 90% fat or have enough sodium to melt a slug, but triple coupons somehow pervert and distort the marketplace.

I see people achieving some pretty impressive savings on Extreme Couponing, but at what price? I wouldn’t feed most of that stuff to my kids unless I secretly wanted to get rid of them.

Now there’s a thought. If I offed the kids I’d be saving on more than just my grocery bill. Like on college tuition for example.

Maybe Extreme Couponing is onto something after all. I might tune into the season finale just to see if any of the kids on the show survive living outside all winter on a diet of Twinkies and Coke.
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World's Smallest Handcuffs

2011-10-05T11:25:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #469 | October 5th, 2011
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Just like marriage and tattoos, inscriptions are forever. So when you’re deciding what tender words or sassy saying to engrave on your wedding band, choose carefully. You’ll be staring at these words for many years to come and you don’t want to regret “My Hubby’s a Hottie!” 15 years from now when your booty starts to sag and he’s got a Hindenburg belly.

Unlike a lot of couples, my husband and I never found the time to get our wedding bands engraved before we got married. Thank goodness. If we HAD, we’d now be stuck with one of those cutesy adorable lovey-dovey sayings that are popular with newlyweds. Now that we know each other better we can inscribe something more meaningful, or dare I say more accurate, on our bands.

But what?

After 20 years of marriage, there are a LOT of things I could say about our love, tolerance and devotion to each other. Not all of them should be etched in gold however.

If we “texted” our inscription, we could fit an entire Shakespearian sonnet on our rings. Romantic right? While this is tempting, I prefer to keep these things short and sweet, like my husband. Here are a few of the options I’ve come up with to honor our 20 years of marriage. Tell me what you think.

1) OMG 20 yrs!
2) I’m His, He’s Mine, then I nearly lost my mind
3) Put me back on or you’ll forget where I am
4) Ex Amore, Tres Vitae
5) World’s Smallest Handcuffs
6) Come live with me and be my love. Marlowe

I can’t decide between something really sappy; something clever and ironic; or something literary. I like Latin because it never fails to make a person sound classy and intelligent. But it can also be cold and austere, and that’s not the ‘love aura’ I’m going for.

Lately I’ve been thinking that it would be nice to choose a line from our wedding song. I understand that this can work well, as long as you weren’t grooving to the Sex Pistols. Our wedding song was Elton John’s Your Song. Very tasteful and innuendo-free.

What do you think of something like this?

How Wonderful Life is… (my ring)
…While You’re in the World. (his ring)

I think this has just the right amount of sappiness without being trite. It would stand the test of time. I would be happy with Elton and Bernie on my ring, but would my husband?

As a baseball fan, my husband might prefer the classic Yogi Berra quote, “it ain’t over till it’s over”. Or how about…

He’s My Grand Slam
She’s My Perfect Game

If only our wedding song had been "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" that would SO work.

To be honest, this inscription thing is keeping me up at night. Who knew it would be so hard to choose a quote to both represent and commemorate 20 years of marriage? Talk about pressure.

Long ago my husband carved his way into my heart, and yes, he is STILL a hottie! Maybe that's what I should have etched in gold after all.

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The School Photo Scam

2011-09-28T13:02:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #468 | September 28th 2011
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For my next life I want to be reborn as the owner of a School Photo Company. Those guys have it made. Talk about a captive audience. Parents aren’t just their customers, we’re their hostages.

Do I sound hostile? Darn right I do. I’ve just shelled out $150 bucks for three dozen of unattractive photos of my kids that no one wants. Even my mother refuses to put these pictures on the fridge. She claims there is no “room”. But I know better. She’s afraid that a neighbor might stop in for pie and accidently get turned to stone.

Maybe your kids are preternaturally photogenic, but in my family the school photos almost never get framed. In real life my kids are adorable, but school photo day has a way of bringing out their inner Gollum.

Yes, I know we can do “re-takes”. But here’s the catch, re-take day is the domain of maladroit photographers-in-training whose regular job is passing out the combs. Don’t waste your time.

So why must I own 14 copies of the same abominable photo for each of my three kids? Because I can’t get the class photo without buying an entire “photo package”. The class photo is like the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box and the School Photo Company is way too smart to let you buy the “prize” for a mere 5 bucks when they could nail you for $50.

Nor does the photo company make it easy to figure out which photo package to buy. In the old days you had your bronze, silver or gold. Now you’ve got a dizzying array of options and an incomprehensible 12 page order form.

You can choose from 60 background colors and 42 borders. You can also opt for “expert” digital retouching if you feel the need to improve upon your child’s face. Got a teenager with some dermatological issues? Never fear. With enough retouching your crater-faced kid could grace the cover of Seventeen.

Families with an unlimited budget can also invest in add-ons like magnets, coffee mugs, bus wraps and billboards. I wouldn’t know what these are like because my kids’ school photos have never been “mug” worthy. And to be honest, I’m already grumpy enough in the morning.

Once the school photos come home I have a bigger problem – how to dispose of them. I don’t know about you, but for me, it is pure heresy to throw away pictures of my kids, no matter how awful. All of them MUST be saved. As a result, I have an entire shed full of school photos that should have been shredded but end up in storage instead.

The shed alone cost $500 bucks. I can only hope that someday it is struck by lightning and burns to the ground. Trust me, if the kids decided to torch said shed themselves and destroy the evidence, I wouldn’t press charges.

You have to empathize with your kids about school photos, especially when they’re in high school. These photos live on in yearbooks as a permanent and inescapable record of their, at times, unlovely young lives.

My husband, for example, sported a fabulously huge afro in his high school yearbook. Wouldn’t it have been a shame if his ‘fro’ had been retouched out of existence?

I think it’s important to “keep it real” when it comes to school photos. Your kids should look like your kids. Grandparents should be able to recognize their grandchildren. And if the photos don’t do the real thing justice, there’s always the storage shed.

For the photos of course, not the kids.

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It's Only Stuff

2011-09-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #467 | September 21, 2011
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Can you remember the days when you could move all your stuff in a single trip in your Toyota Corolla? If something didn’t fit in the car, you left it behind. All you owned was a suitcase, an inflatable mattress, and a bike. When life beckoned you took off like a clown from a cannon.

However, after a few years in the working world you felt compelled to abandon your slacker ways. It was time, you thought, to grow up. This meant buying a bed, a dining room table and a couch. As if having dinner parties where people didn’t sit on the floor was some kind of inescapable rite of passage. Before you even realized what was happening, you had accumulated a U-Haul worth of “stuff.”

Possessions forced you to say “no” to opportunities and spur of the moment moves. You were no longer the nimble free spirit you once were. Life beckoned, but your hiney was firmly stuck to your new couch.

Then you met a great guy and decided that he was worth the nightmare of double stuff. And I’m not talking Oreos, I’m talking 18 wheeler.

Once you were officially married, you had your parents’ blessing to hook up under their roof and produce fully legitimate grandkids. So you and your newly acquired husband had three. The resulting accursed collection of Little Tykes molded plastic required a room of its own.

So you bought a house.

You thought the ‘stuff’ situation couldn’t get any worse, but then your parents showed up during your housewarming party with a trailer full of stuff you left behind after college, plus a few things they claimed were “grandma’s” which you could not refuse to take (for sentimental reasons).

Your folks gleefully unloaded the trailer into your garage then bolted for Bora Bora. You gazed wistfully after them.

Then you needed two 18 wheelers to move.

One day you woke up and were surprised to find that every nook and cranny in your house was filled with STUFF despite your generous contributions to Goodwill over the years.

Fast forward to today...

Now you realize that you are living in a giant JUNK DRAWER and it freaks you out. You are faced with a tough decision. Buy a bigger house, force HomeGoods into bankruptcy, get a dumpster, or have a yard sale.

Because I have masochistic tendencies, I chose yard sale.

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“It’s only stuff,” said the lady carrying off the antique chair I bought when I was 25 at an auction, intending to reupholster.
“It’s only stuff,” said the guy as he walked away with my first briefcase.
“It’s only stuff,” said the lady who bought the Japanese tea-boxes I schlepped all the way home from Tokyo.
“It’s only stuff,” said the 20 something guy when he offered me a quarter for a classic Stones CD.
A quarter! I took the CD out of his hand. “It may only be stuff,” I said, “but this CD is still going to cost you a dollar.”

If I sell another 1,000 books, the contents of my attic, Grandma’s rocking chair (purportedly - though I have my doubts), and the mystery boxes under the stairs, I might someday be able to move in ONE eighteen wheeler.

You just watch. The next time life beckons I’ll be VERY close to being ready.
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...and the Holy Ghost

2011-09-14T15:34:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #466 | September 14th, 2011
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“Mom, what exactly is the “Holy Ghost?” asked my daughter, throwing me a tough question out of left field. I paused and thought for a minute.

Having spent 10 glorious years under the tutelage of Father O’Malley, you’d think I would know the answer to this one. But for some reason (suppressed childhood memories, perhaps?), I drew a blank.

I definitely have Selective Catholic Recall, but it is also possible that Father O’Malley, lacking confidence in our intellect, chose to not beat his head against the wall by trying to explain the Holy Ghost to my confirmation class.

To be honest, he was probably right about us. My intrepid classmates and I spent most of our time with Father O'Malley trying to hide the fact that we had huge wads of gum secreted in our cheeks, speculating about certain hot altar boys, and trying to avoid blasts of Eucharist breath. Needless to say, we weren't always hanging on his every word.

We could barely remember the 10 commandments from week to week; I doubt we could have handled a nebulous liturgical construct.

Of course I regret those unholy shenanigans now because I don’t like being stumped by my children. So, rather than admit ignorance, I made up something plausible-sounding. (In hindsight I probably should have called my mother, but isn't that always the case?)

“Well, sweetie,” I began, “the Holy Ghost is like the glue that holds the Trinity together, like a thick pea soup, a kind of God Fog.”

She frowned. “So it’s like the water in a lake, or the agar in a petri dish?”

I looked at her blankly. Was agar that jelly-like stuff from 8th grade science class? Darn it, yet another thing from my youth that I can’t quite remember, or that I’ve suppressed.

“Oh...I get it mom, you’re saying that the Holy Ghost is like a medium for spirituality.”

“YES!” I exclaimed, relieved. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You know, this question of who or what is the Holy Ghost has been hotly debated for thousands of years. Fistfights still break out in the seminary over it. Talk about controversy. I’ve personally always wondered how exactly the Holy Spirit knocked up Mary. They just won’t explain that stuff to you when you are a kid.”

“I don’t know where you are going with this, mom. Are we having ‘the talk’?”

“No, no, definitely not. I’m not prepared to talk about the birds and the bees right now, forget about metaphysical conception.”

Later on that day I did some research. As it turns out, the entire internet offers up only vague conjeccture about the role Holy Ghost/Spirit. Scholars have different interpretations and as a result there’s a lot of contradictory information out there. Even on GotChrist.com.

Right or wrong, ‘God Fog’ has a nice ring to it. But if anyone out there can explain the Holy Ghost better in 10 words or less, bring it on. As a tribute to Father O'Malley, I’ll even spit out my gum and give you my undivided attention.
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My Frenemy the Flatworm

2011-09-07T11:17:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #465 | September 7th, 2011
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My kids didn’t want me telling people that tiny free swimming parasitic flatworm larvae had burrowed under my skin, causing a severe auto-immune reaction. The truth about the hideous red pustules covering my legs was “TMI”, according to my mortified teenagers.

My kids would rather let strangers in the grocery store think that I had a rare jungle borne STD than stand next to me while I explained that I did not. Teens, like most sociopaths, don't exhibit much empathy.

What I had was simply a bad case of (non contagious) Swimmer’s Itch, which I will now tell you about in excruciating detail.

Immediately after a leisurely paddle through the marsh grasses of picturesque Greenwich Cove, my legs became inexplicably ‘tingly’. This, I learned later via the internet, was the feeling of flatworm larvae (cercaria) burrowing into my flesh.

I’m really glad I didn’t know this at the time.

These baby flatworms had recently hatched from their interim host, the snail, and were swimming about in the warm shallows, searching for their primary host, a goose or duck. Unfortunately flatworm larvae cannot tell a duck from a human leg dangling in the water, so I became what scientists call an “accidental host”.

You’ve heard the expression, “wrong place wrong time?” That was me.

Schistosomatidae (aka flukes or flatworms) have a “complex” parasitic life cycle, which means that they require two hosts (snail + bird) to complete their cycle. The good news is that the worms die quickly in humans (thank GOD!), but not before the awesome human immune system hits the little buggers with everything it’s got.

This reaction is what causes the itchy rash. And let me tell you, poison ivy, chicken pox and measles have got NOTHING on Swimmer’s Itch.

I bathed in oatmeal and baking soda, I smeared myself with hydrocortisone creme, topical Benadryl, and in a moment of insanity, Vicks Vapor Rub and toothpaste. What can I say, I was desperate.

I popped as much Aleve as my husband would let me and chased it down with vodka (despite explicit warnings against combining Aleve with martinis.) My reasoning was that I would definitely be more comfortable and happier in a semi-comatose state. I have never been so miserable, desperate, or ugly. My oozing, crusty legs cried out for a good scratch with a metal garden rake.

My husband took one look and kept WAY to his side of the bed. I can’t say I blame him.

At least the infection was only on my legs. I’ve seen internet photos of kids with Swimmer’s Itch pustules all over their bodies. Not sure how they survived it. Maybe their parents handcuffed them to their beds and knocked them unconscious.

Looking on the bright side of invasive parasitic infections, I am thankful that it wasn’t botflies. Those things DON’T die after they burrow under your skin. At the end of 6 weeks you end up hatching a giant hairy fly, Alien style. I understand there is a lot of screaming involved.

If I got to choose my poison, I’d take flatworms and Swimmer’s Itch over botflies any day.
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Irene Delivers a Flood of Argument & a Storm of Ire

2011-08-31T10:53:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #464 | August 31st, 2011
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Let’s face it, husbands and wives often disagree about stuff like which chick flick to watch and whether or not to have another kid. So it is TOTALLY natural for spouses to argue a bit about proper storm preparation, especially when contemplating 100 mph winds and an 8 foot tidal surge.

Being mostly rational, my husband and I quickly resolved a couple of minor spats as we got ready for hurricane Irene, but I wonder how amicably we would have behaved if we were facing something really extreme, like Noah’s Flood.

Do you think Noah and his wife (we’ll call her Buffy) were in total agreement about how to build the ark, which daughters-in-law to take along, and how much beef jerky to pack? Or is it much more likely that they had some knock-down-drag-out epic arguments?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Buffy (grumbling): “That doesn’t even look like a boat! Who gave you these plans? That thing will sink the minute the waters rise, if they rise at all…”

Noah (storming out of tent): “Enough woman! God has spoken and even though the details were a little fuzzy, this is what I came up with. If you don’t like my ‘ark’ interpretation you can join the infidels down in the valley!”

Buffy: “At least they’ve been having fun for the past 120 years! I still don’t understand why my parents can’t come along. They’ve always wanted to go on a cruise and you know this is going to be their last chance.”

Noah: “Have you listened to ANYTHING I’ve said? We need people who can procreate. And BTW, crazy Uncle Herod can’t come either. That guy is totally nuts. I don’t want his seed messing up our perfectly righteous, closely related eight person gene pool.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I’d like to think that the ark floated only because Buffy put her foot down and insisted that Noah use both pitch AND nails when he put it together. Of course we’ll never know for sure since history is written by guys and women don’t get credit for anything. Most of us don’t even get named unless we're hot prostitutes or the mother of God.

At least Irene was no biblical, world ending flood. My husband and my husband’s wife (that would be me trying to make a point) managed to agree on pretty much everything, EXCEPT on where to put the cars. We knew that branches would fall like manna; where they would land was up for debate. I wanted to put the cars on the front lawn since that area is mostly free from trees and therefore safest.

My husband reacted like a madman. Seriously, he did.

“Those cars will go on my lawn over my dead body! I will not sacrifice my lawn for anything! I will not have a single tire track mar my perfect lawn. Forswear it, woman!”

Okay then. In the interest of preserving my husband’s sanity (and my marriage) I quickly forswore the lawn idea. “How about this,” I suggested instead, “we’ll pull the cars way to one side of the driveway, next to but not on the lawn, and really close to the house?”

He disagreed. “They should be closer to the road. But if I’m wrong,” he added, cleverly thinking ahead, “you can’t say ‘I told you so’.”

And just because the storm was about to hit, I agreed to both his plan and his insane/unfair terms.

So here’s how the story ends. A big branch fell on his car and dented the roof. I didn’t say I told you so. I nearly burst, but a deal’s a deal.

I wrote it on my forehead with a sharpie instead.
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My Airplane Seatmate Runneth Over

2011-08-17T17:49:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #463 | August 17th, 2011
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Human compassion has its limits. And that limit is never more quickly reached than in an airplane when one passenger encroaches on another’s space. Humans are territorial. Neighbors put up fences to mark their territory, dogs urinate, and airplanes have armrests. The armrest distinguishes one passenger’s “space” from another’s. It creates order from chaos; it keeps YOU from peeing on MY seat.

But what happens when the armrest ‘can’t’ go down? I’ll tell you what happens. Civilization begins to crumble. Eyes roll and nasty things are said.

Yes, it is awkward to have to sit on another person during a 10 hour transcontinental flight because one can’t afford business class. On the other hand, it is equally awkward and uncomfortable to be sat upon. What’s an airline to do?

Most do very little. The ‘passenger size’ issue is a legal quagmire and airlines keep their rules vague and inconsistently enforced on purpose. From a legal perspective, it is much better for the airline to let their passengers duke it out amongst themselves.

So what ends up happening is this… Let’s say one person is slim and really only needs 14 inches of their 17 inch seat. Let’s say another person is large and needs the entire 17 inch seat, plus 8 inches of the adjoining seat. If the flight is full, the slim person will usually forgo making a scene and leave the armrest up. Then, even though these two lovebirds have only just met, they’ll spend the rest of the flight pressed intimately up against each other in flagrante delicto.

I have to wonder, should one of them find themselves “knocked up” at the end of the flight, would Jet Blue pay child support? Somehow I don’t think so.

The sit “er”, feels badly about sitting on someone for 10 hours (but not badly enough to pay for an extra seat.) The sit “ee” is uncomfortable, drenched in shared sweat, and royally pissed about getting a 9 inch seat when they paid for the full 17.

Who’s to blame?

Canada recently enacted a law saying that airlines must provide two seats (at no additional cost) to individuals “functionally disabled by obesity”, without defining exactly what that means. Airlines in America are totally spooked, are re-writing their “Contract of Carriage”, and are telling flight attendants to “zip it” regarding of ‘seatmates of size’.

I'd like to point out that flying is no longer fun.

Why has no airline (other than Maersk) come up with a creative solution to the ever expanding human waistline? Why are seats still ‘one width fits all’ even though the latest studies show that a full third of American butts require more? I would have expected Virgin, Southwest or Jet Blue to offer an extra wide seat option by now, like they do extra leg room. But American ingenuity seems to have been left at the gate. (Along with airline profitability, perhaps?)

I don’t think people should have to buy two seats when all they need is an extra 7 or 8 inches, unless of course that seat is mine. Airlines could supersize a couple rows in coach and charge a reasonable-ish price for those upgraded seats. I’d be more than willing to pay a $10 surcharge if it guaranteed me a comfortable flight, with the armrest down and no unwanted pregnancy to deal with upon my return from the BVIs.

The first airline to come up with a solution that satisfies both those who need a little extra space and those who are tired of giving up what little space they have will make a bloody fortune. Hint, the current system of robbing Peter to pay Paul, or humiliating Paul in hopes that he spontaneously drops 100lbs before the flight takes off is NOT working.

The sad fact is that Americans are not getting any thinner. If airlines think that they can compel Americans to conform to the available seat size, they’ve already been proven wrong. These Americans are, ironically, stronger willed than that. I don’t like this any more than Michelle Obama, but serving/caving to the needs of the marketplace has got to be better for the bottom line than completely ignoring those needs and sticking your head in the sand. Or am I missing something here?

This is an opportunity for airlines to differentiate themselves. This could be the game changer that this highly competitive (mostly failing) industry so desperately needs.

Consider this a challenge. We, your beleaguered customers, sit “ers” and sit “ees” alike, respectfully throw down the gauntlet. We’d throw down the armrest as well, but as you know, we all too often can’t.
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The Astonishing Stash Attack

2011-08-03T16:09:00.000-07:00

CHUCKLE #462 | August 3rd, 2011
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Every woman has secrets, and the biggest one of all is where she hides her stash of chocolate. My mom had a stash, and I’m pretty sure her mom did as well. I protect my stash by moving it frequently and by inexpertly juggling a set of very large Ginsu knives in front of my children. To scare them of course.

It can't hurt to impress upon my kids the fact that I am crazy enough to unleash unspeakable punishments upon them if they desecrate my stash. But that doesn’t stop them from seeking it like the Holy Grail.

Chocolate does that to people.

My kids already think that I’m slightly off my rocker. But they haven’t seen anything like what would happen if they actually ate my chocolate. I would cut them down like a jungle ninja. I would rend my garments. Then I would have their stomachs pumped, out of pure spite.

They say that good parents are clear about consequences. If that is true, then I am doing an excellent job.

Despite my efforts at “clarity” my kids find the very thought of my stash irresistible. They poke around quietly and act as if I’m clueless about what they are up to. I am really not that much of an idiot. (Unless you ask me to stream Vudu on the TV in the basement. Good luck with that.)

Dark chocolate is not my only vice, but it is my healthiest. Consuming up to 2 pounds of chocolate a day has been clinically proven to make women happier. (You’ll break out like a 14 year old, and weigh as much as a SUV, but you’ll be smiling.)

Chocolate consumption also promotes a healthy sexual appetite, which explains why guys give women chocolates all the time and why Godiva now offers a 4lb gift box of truffles called “love potion”. They are delicious.

I NEED a steady supply of high quality dark chocolate just like I NEED my morning coffee. Does that mean I’m addicted to chocolate or simply that I’m stuck in an existential routine from which my only relief is a seconds-long ecstatic rendezvous with a tiny piece of processed cacao?

Don’t answer that. (Self-analysis rarely cheers me up.)

And as it turned out, the successful stash attack didn’t come from the kids at all.

Just last week some mice found my best stuff* and chewed their way into the box. Then, and I’m only guessing about this part, they ran around inside the box and had an orgy. If the kids hadn’t been in the room when I discovered this, I might have been tempted to eat the chocolate anyway, it being chocolate and all.

In the end, sanity won out. Or rather fear did. I knew the kids would tell my husband and that he would be pretty grossed out if I ate rodent enhanced sweets. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was throwing that chocolate away. That’s how much I love my husband.

If he loves me back, he’ll probably come home with another box of my favorite chocolates very soon. This time I’ll keep them in a mouse AND kid proof hiding place. And just to be on the safe side, it can’t hurt to keep juggling those Ginsu knives.

*my “best stuff” is from Gertrude Hawk Chocolates. Get two boxes of the Dark Chocolate Silk Smidgens and hide them well!

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O Canada, Uu Kanata...How Brightly Shines your Economy

2011-07-27T13:09:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #461 | July 27th, 2011
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I love America. But after an eye opening visit to our impressive “neighbor to the North”, I’ve been thinking that we could do better. Quite frankly, the “51st” state is kicking our butt. Having been unapologetically raised (like most Americans) to feel superior to Canadians, I find that being jealous of them makes me uncomfortable. I would very much prefer to go back to making fun of how they pronounce “about”.

But that won’t be easy because Canada rocks.

From the mountains, to the oceans, and the glaciers; the place is gorgeous. The entire country is like a supersized national park. And everyone is extremely friendly. They also have that cool B.C. ferry system on which you can travel the entire inside passage for ‘aboot’ the cost of a single trip to Nantucket. Now that’s public transportation.

And if all that weren’t enough to make you jealous, they have “Poutine”. French fries and cheese curds drenched in a surprisingly delicious brown gravy.

The one bad thing about Canada right now is the terrible exchange rate. Americans have become used to being flogged by the Euro, but CANADA!? This is a new experience.

When I was growing up, getting passed a Canadian quarter was the worst thing that could happen to a kid. The creepy candy store manager refused to take Canadian coins because, at the time, they were practically worthless. This meant a serious and unacceptable reduction in my candy buying power. To an American kid hell-bent on sugaring herself up, Canada was a curse.

Just for the record, someone in Canada owes me a case of Sweet Tarts.

Canada was cheap. But thanks to the financial crisis, Canada is back on top. There are a couple reasons for this. Because Canadians are not nearly as rapacious as Americans, they avoided the total financial meltdown that we experienced. They also control VAST amounts of oil and because we have not bothered to devise any national renewables strategy, we are at their mercy. Lucky for us they are just a bunch of funny talking goofballs from up north.

Or are they? Up until a week ago, I had no idea how ‘schooled’ we got by Canada.

Fortunately Americans can blame their gross ignorance about Canada on the publishing industry which insists on listing a Canadian dollar price on books that is 25% higher than the US price without regard to the fact that there is an actual fluctuating exchange rate between our two currencies. Really, there is!

It wasn’t until I walked past a Canadian bank that I realized that I was actually paying 10% MORE for Canadian stuff, not 25% less. I immediately had a flashback to me sobbing at the candy counter. Ironic, eh?

Oil-besotted Americans know that Canadians have us by the balls. All we can hope for now is that they will squeeze real hard. Then congress might agree, in tutti falsetto, to do something about our dependency on oil.

At least we can still make fun ‘aboot’ the way Canadians talk. What can I say? Inbred superiority complexes die hard. And to be honest, I’m still a little testy about the Sweet Tarts they owe me…
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If You Float MY Boat, I'll Float Yours

2011-07-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #460 | July 13th, 2011
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Boats are beautiful, fun, romantic, and they are everyone’s fantasy. If you agree, then you are probably a boat freak like me and you should NEVER EVER bring your checkbook with you to a boat show. But seriously, if you don’t dream of owning a boat, or at least deeply envy those who do, then you aren’t quite normal.

What can I say? Like Balzac, I am philosophically opposed to envy, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and (after my sweet husband) what my heart wants is a boat.

The boat show salesman won’t claim outright that buying a boat is a sound financial investment, because it’s not. They won’t mention things like maintenance, storage, repairs or slip costs. And unless they aren’t very bright, they won’t even whisper the naughtiest of all boat-buying words, “depreciation”.

To be honest, your college savings account would be much healthier if you chose “boat mooching” over buying. Moochers are shameless suck-ups who bombard boat owners with tedious stories about their fabled high school sailing careers and suggestively serve-up Dark and Stormies.

This technique works especially well if you also always show up with a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon.

Boat owners don’t really care about the high cost of owning a boat. They will sacrifice just about anything (sometimes even their marriage) to have that glorious chunk of fiberglass at their beck and call 24/7.

Yes, boating IS a kind of sickness. And don’t go thinking you can change someone who’s got it. You WILL end up living on a boat at some point in your life.

I too want my little slice of floating waterfront heaven, no matter how much it depreciates in the first two years. And I’m no rube, I once owned a boat. A devil boat. A boat that nearly killed my husband and I multiple times. She was twenty-six feet of the beamiest soul sucking, blown sails ever built. We off-loaded her on a crazy Swede who already had three boats and whose wife probably left him immediately after he acquired ours.

I still feel badly about that, just so you know, Sven, if you are out there somewhere, living alone on your boat.

The one thing I learned from our first major boat purchase is that the boat for sale at the Coast Guard auction may not be the bargain it seems. (Shame on you Coast Guard, you now share the blame for Sven’s sad and lonely life.)

We still own a few boats, but they are little trailer-able ones and they have never once tried to kill us. When we need more boats we rent them from the local community sailing center. (This IS a sound financial approach to boating.) We will eventually join the town yacht club which has a fleet of Ideals, all included in a ridiculously low membership fee. (Also a smart approach to boating.)

But we all know where this story ends. We will someday purchase another boat. It’s inevitable.

My husband and I are not yet on the same page regarding this “future” boat. I’m favoring a classic Duffy Electric Launch, on which I can host sunset cocktail cruises with my friends, and have a place to pee after drinking said cocktails. I do not want to have to pass out adult diapers to my friends before they board. (For sailing, we'll have the club Ideals.)

My husband would rather yank out each and every remaining hair on his head than go electric boat cocktail cruising. (Those Ideals are nice little sailboats though, when you think about it…)

My husband wants a sailboat because he is fascinated by the math/geometry behind sail shape and efficiency. I’m not sure he’s as fascinated by figuring out where the rocks are or with tracking fast moving storm fronts, so that makes ME nervous. I’ve experienced both the fog filled storm crossing and the pleasant “Sunday Sail”.

Guess which one I’d rather be on?

But I’m capable of compromise. If my husband wants me to help “float his boat”, he’s going to have to start his captain training now. A good captain takes years to “cook”. And sailing with his buddies, “the Lost Boys”, does NOT count.

In the meantime, maybe we could “float” my boat first…

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Out of the Frying Pan & into the Fire

2011-07-06T12:24:00.000-07:00

Chuckle # 459 | July 6th, 2011
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Meat rules. Grilled meat rules even more. And grilled meat that’s dominated by giant bones is as good as it gets. Think T-bones, ribs, sides of beef and Fred Flintstone. Forget about fat and calories. If something is going to kill you it might as well be a big juicy slab of carcinogen laden sirloin.

Just a few short decades ago, men were the indisputable masters of the grill. Guys kept the functioning of “the grill” a mystery from us women, like GPS and urinals. We didn’t quite know what to do with the grill, so we stayed away.

With the invention of modern safety devices, such as paraffin-based fire starters, women have begun to grill more. Before that we were wary of approaching a lighter fluid soaked pile of charcoal with a lit match. Letting the guys have first dibs on scorching off their eyebrows seemed prudent. The longer life expectancies were just a bonus.

Having a talented ‘grilling’ wife can leave a man feeling a bit emasculated. Lucky for him, fireworks remain a masculine domain, mostly because women lack the ‘maybe I’ll blow myself up today’ gene. Mothers also like to set a good example for their kids to follow, which precludes us from engaging in wanton acts of self-destruction. (Other than marrying our husbands.)

But while mom is busy acting like a responsible adult, “Dad” is usually off buying up the entire supply of bottle rockets from the roadside explosives stand. If it were legal to fire Katyusha rocket launchers from your backyard on July 4th, Dad would do that too. (Yet somehow Dad seems to get by just fine with no thumbs…)

But I digress. The best part about being “the griller” in the family is that you are freed from the mundane chore of side-dish preparation AND you get waited on hand and foot. When you’ve just slapped $80 worth of prime aged sirloin over an open fire, YOU are the most important person in the backyard. The guy who brought the three bean salad? Not so much.

‘King of the Grill’ beats ‘Corn Boiler’ any day.

And we ladies aren’t horning in on the grill just to prove a point, like gender equality (or superiority), we have skills. Women bring a certain “je ne sais quoi” to the grill. Actually, I’m lying. I know exactly what women bring: moistness, sauces that do not come from a jar, and attention to detail, like not torching 20 pork chops because I forgot where I left the tongs and Derek Jeter was at bat.

You think that didn’t happen?!

Once a guy has gorged upon his wife’s perfectly succulent grilled meats, he is usually quite willing to yield the tongs and become her Chardonnay slave. At least in the privacy of his own home. (FYI, some men object to the black bowtie as being overly derivative, but you could come up with a more original uniform.)

Things change, though, when there are other guys around. Don’t embarrass your husband. If you love him, swallow your pride and hand over the spatula so he can save face. Of course that’s assuming that you’ve planned ahead and bought the fattiest, cheapest burger you could find and a bunch of Italian sausage. You just can’t kill that stuff and you don’t want guests to starve.

As long as you avoid the grass fed, free range beef, no one will ever know that he hasn’t touched his grill in years…
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A Bumper Crop of Booty Shorts

2011-06-29T15:35:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #458 | June 29th, 2011
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You hear about nutty cat hoarding ladies and think “how crazy is that?!” But take a hard look at your own “collections”. Just because you hoard Tupperware or scented candles instead of cats and dirty underwear doesn’t mean that you are normal. It means that you are just a teeny DNA twist away from a full blown crackpot. At least that’s what my husband tells me.

I don’t deny my own hoarding tendencies. I gleefully stockpile used party decorations (fuzzy dice anyone?), travel coffee cups, coolers and old magazines. My teenage daughters did not escape the hoarder gene. They’ve got clothes coming out their ears. Their emotional attachment to certain 5th grade crop tops and torn jeans borders on the absurd.

This inability to “let go” means that every couple years we have to get rid of half a ton of clothes.

This year’s purge was particularly productive, yielding a massive four foot diameter pile of outgrown stuff, some of it going back two or three years. The Yankee in me wouldn’t let me just pack it all up for Goodwill and be done with it. No, I had to try on every single teeny bopper thing.

As it turns out, the pile of cast offs was chock-full of Daisy Dukes, you know, the indecent short shorts that teenage girls wear so they can get sent home before the geometry midterm? Well, against my better judgment, I snatched up seven absolutely adorable and completely inappropriate pairs of “booty shorts” from the pile.

This year I not only hoed-out my daughters’ closets, but I managed to add a little “ho” to my own.

Trust me when I say that I would never buy anything that titillating, but these were free and therefore irresistible. Daisy Dukes are cool according to Katie Perry. And “coolness” is decidedly lacking in my current wardrobe of mom jeans, t-shirts, and orthopedic flip flop inserts.

I think the adrenalin rush of wearing my new shorts will help delay the onset of menopause. And unlike hormone replacement therapy, the only negative side effect is a bit of uncomfortable thigh chafing.

Given the severity of the middle school dress code, I can’t quite figure out why my daughters owned so many pairs of short shorts in the first place. The school rules clearly state that shorts must come to the tips of your fingers when your arms are held at your sides. The shorts I’ve seen prancing into school are way cheekier than that. Either the girls at school have severely stunted arms, or no one is playing by the rules.

So who exactly is monitoring the length of shorts at school? It creeps me out to think that the principal is trolling the hallways with a ruler in hand and a gleam in his eye. I’d like to believe that the school nurse is somehow involved with assessing female inseams and crotches. And that’s only slightly less creepy.

The shorts I inherited from my daughters are fairly tame since I still pay for most of their clothes in order to have some say about whether they leave the house looking like Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver. Which I do, barely.

I don’t mind if my daughters wear “short-ish” shorts. I’m not a prude. My bottom line is that their shorts should not resemble a thong in any way; they should not expose even a peek of cheek; they should not look painted on; and most of all, they should not make dad faint.

Capris are nice. How come girls don’t wear those anymore? And what about pedal pushers or clam diggers? Gidget looked absolutely adorable in pedal pushers, but un-cool 50s moms thought that they would lead directly to unwanted pregnancies. (As, I assure you, will booty shorts.)

So how do I teach my daughters that (exposing) LESS (flesh) IS MORE? That emulating an Amish Geisha can be far more tantalizing than a Lady Gaga? Somehow my long speeches about self-respect and circumspection seem hypocritical when I’m looking so very fine in their hand-me-down Daisy Dukes…
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Traveling on Pins and Needles

2011-06-15T16:54:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #456 | June 15th, 2011
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My daughter practically hyperventilates when she sees a hypodermic needle. She freaks at the mere thought of shots. Getting her the full complement of childhood vaccinations was so traumatic that even electroshock therapy (our “go to” remedy) failed to jolt her out of her needle willies.

And it’s not just my daughter who suffers. What about my husband and I? We can’t exactly put her up for adoption the week before her check-up every year. (Child Services would become suspicious.) No, we have to pretend that “everything is ok” while our normally reserved daughter goes berserk and the nurses run for their lives.

The turnover we’ve caused among our pediatrician’s staff has wreaked havoc on her practice over the years. I’m surprised she manages to stay in business. It’s a good thing that doctors take that Hippocratic Oath or we’d be buying vaccines on the black market and chasing our daughter around the house with a syringe ourselves.

(Yet another black mark with Child Services.)

I don’t think the nurses are fully aware of the danger they are in as they prep that little tray of needles right under my daughter’s nose. And I am not about to tell them. This is a girl who can pick me up and tuck me under her arm like a Beanie Baby. She could do some serious damage from the depths of a needle induced adrenalin rush.

When she was little, two or three people could immobilize her as long as they knew Krav Maga and were good with knots. Now that she is older, “speed injecting” seems to work best. (The velocity, not the drug.) The most skilled nurses can get in and get out AND avoid the disabling blow to the solar plexus.

And yes, for those curious lawyers out there (you know who you are) we have increased our liability insurance, just in case.

My daughter’s deep seated needle phobia has had some unintended consequences. “Adventure Travel” is out of the question for our family. For us, an adventure vacation is booking a summer cottage on Cape Cod sight unseen via the internet. Those places can be real dumps, with exposed wiring, stained mattresses, and unspeakable infestations.

The excitement of experiencing really deplorable accommodations together is the closest we’ll probably ever get to the third world as a family unit. Hey, we don’t need to face a lion in Africa to bond, though it would be nice.

My daughter will never be a true world traveler, but on the flip side, she won’t be a heroin addict either. (Yes Grandma, I did count that as one of my “blessings”.)

This summer, my two children who are NOT shot averse will head off to South America, where yellow fever, typhoid, hepatitis, rabies, malaria and a slew of other illnesses abound. My husband and I are sadly confined to destinations that are disease free. Many of which we’ve already visited. Oh how we too wish we could risk contracting a potentially deadly blood borne illness.

I used to think that traveling with babies was exhausting. Now I look back fondly on those days and think, at least we were traveling.

If we are to ever hit the road “less” traveled again, we are going to have to find a way to overcome my daughter’s needle issues. I’m thinking heavy sedation, or maybe even hypnosis. For obvious reasons we won’t be giving acupuncture a shot.

If all fails, we just have to remember that the world is a big, beautiful place. There’s plenty to see and do, and several countries that are not currently experiencing an outbreak of Dengue Fever.

Niagara Falls anyone? I hear the Canadian side is both lovely and disease free.
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Bunnies with BALLS

2011-06-08T10:11:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #455 | June 8th, 2011
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I don’t often use bad language, even under my breath at infuriating drivers who don’t signal. My mantra is what you’d call “laissez-faire”, or, do nothing. Very libertarian. But that was before the bunnies invaded my perfectly manicured yard and ATE IT. I’m now considering what dark and unseemly actions I can take against said bunnies, using the Caddy Shack script as a jumping off point.

There are times, like now, when I wish I could handle a bolt action .22 like Sarah Palin. If I could, my bunny troubles would be over “pretty darn quick-like”, as Sarah would say.

The bunnies in my yard are seriously bad_ss. (Pardon my French.) People whose yards lack basic landscaping, such as shrubs, grass, and flowering plants of any kind, think bunnies are adorable. The rest of us are stockpiling ammo.

Film and literature is full of evil apocalyptic rabbits because writers think it is clever to create juxtapositions, like “bad guy” bunnies. This would be even cleverer if it hadn’t already been done like, a million times. Think Wallace & Gromit’s Were-Rabbit, Monty Python’s Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog, and the psychotic Boingo of Hoodwinked - all very, very naughty bunnies.

My personal bunny troubles began this past spring when some well-meaning neighborhood parents asked animal control to relocate a pack of coyotes. I liked those coyotes. Even though none of us could venture outside after dusk, the coyotes had done an admirable job of keeping the population of feral bunnies in check.

Once the coyotes were gone the bunnies came back with a vengeance (and with a taste for expensive nursery grown perennials.) My gorgeous front door planters immediately became "the" local bunny salad bar and social club. I'm NOT flattered.

I grieved for my pansies and wept for my petunias. Then I got mad.

If I were British, the rat poison would have come out weeks ago. If I were more like Sarah Palin I would have shot’em from the roof then sold each little rabbit foot as a good luck charm from my kid's lemonade stand. But I’m neither, AND I’m reluctant to be seen shopping at the gun counter at Walmart. So instead, I asked one of my experienced gardening friends for advice.

Surely, I thought, there is a more humane way to drive the little beasts away, like exploding their eardrums with high frequency radio waves or something.

My friend first suggested I take up Falconry since falcons are known to enjoy dismembering bunnies just as much as coyotes, if not more. I liked the idea of a “circle of life” solution, but Falconry seemed a bit overly complicated. (Not to mention messy.)

She then suggested using cayenne pepper. Having once accidently rubbed cayenne pepper into my eyes at a pizza restaurant, I know how agonizing just a teeny bit can be. All I had to do, she said, was sprinkle some on my flower beds and the bunnies would seek greener pastures, or they would self-combust.

The cayenne pepper seems to be working. My only regret is that because I have no night vision goggles I cannot see how bunnies react to extra spicy "buffalo style" pansy petals. I bet they hop around a lot, real crazy-like, and become very difficult to shoot.

How far down the “rabbit hole” have I fallen in defense of my yard? Pretty far. But as Lewis Carroll says, a psychotic bunny invasion demands an equally psychotic solution.

Of course, he was hallucinating at the time.
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The Dangers and Delights of DEET

2011-06-08T09:55:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #454 | June 1st, 2011
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Every spring, hardy New Hampshire natives endure an extended period of bug induced human misery. The locals affectionately call this special time of year Black Fly Season. You would think that people would be clever enough to abandon the state during the “season”. But they don’t, because their excessive use of DEET has caused massive neurological damage.

They stay because they simply don’t remember how BAD bug season can get.

Collective amnesia is the only logical explanation for why the population of NH keeps growing despite the bugs and the ludicrous property taxes. It sure isn't for the hot girls at the strip clubs.

I totally understand where these folks are coming from though. Given the choice between bathing in 29% DEET or being the human happy hour snack for a swarm of black flies, I’d pick the debilitating poison every time. The scary side effects of DEET don’t scare me quite as much as NH bugs.

And besides, who needs ovaries at age 47?

My body has adapted very well to highly toxic levels of DEET. Don’t polyps grow out of everyone’s navels? My NH neighbor tells me that the facial twitching is temporary and will be gone by Christmas. Just the same, I’d occasionally like to able to dash to my car without having to apply a chemical weapon strength bug spray. So I’ve decided to go native. This year for my birthday, I’m asking for a full body titanium fly net, just like my neighbor’s.

I bet most of you don’t even know what that is. (Except maybe the Minnesotans.)

I already own five head nets, but those only protect my head, hence the clever name. My daughter is concerned that I will look completely ridiculous and will make the family appear crazy by association. She has a point. And for her benefit, I will remove my full body netting before I go into the local market. And because I love her, I will NOT tell her that everyone in town already thinks we are crazy summer people.

If you didn’t notice, humankind is engaged in an epic struggle against bugs, but in the end, the best defense against them is wind. If there is a strong enough wind I can stand outside wearing no DEET or net and taunt the little buggers with my exposed flesh as they are blown by. I delight in watching them beat their little wings frantically towards me to no avail. Once in a while one of the mightier flies will get close enough to lick me on his way past, but NONE are able to hold position long enough to buzz or bite.

Twenty knots sure makes for a nice spring day in NH.

There is ONE other “bug repelling” tactic that I’ve thought about, but haven’t had the guts to try. Surely you too have considered experimenting with your dog’s supply of Frontline? Think about it. One enticing little pill each month and you too could be bug free.

The side effects couldn’t possibly be any worse than applying Backwoods Off! eight times a day. Could they?
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Goodwill Guy with a God Complex

2011-05-25T15:13:00.000-07:00

Chuckle # 453 | May 25th, 2011
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I’m pretty selective about what I bring to Goodwill. Not because I’m embarrassed to donate stuff that isn’t perfect, but because the Goodwill Guy scares me. He has total control over what can go into the Goodwill trailer, and he makes his (seemingly random) decisions without regard for my tender feelings. He is judge, jury, gatekeeper, and the undisputed KING of the Goodwill fiefdom. And I am but a lowly serf.

No matter how unfair he may seem, do not attempt to argue with the Goodwill Guy. He easily takes offence, and he is not a merciful God.

I understand that it must get boring sitting on one’s godlike throne (aka camp chair) at the trailer all day long. So the pleasure Goodwill Guy takes in tormenting innocent do-gooders is probably to be expected. But that doesn’t make it right.

It has gotten to the point where I would almost rather leave my stuff in the “construction debris” area at the dump. Those guys don’t give me any guff. I set my Goodwill rejects down at the edge of the demolition debris and they’re usually gone before I turn my back.

Some people recognize a valuable lampshade when they see it.

There’s no stress and no power struggle when I leave my junk at the dump. On the other hand, there’s no IRS tax donation form either. And therein lies the true source of Goodwill Guy’s godlike powers.

Honestly, the guy is so unpredictable that I don’t know what to take to Goodwill anymore. Just last week he rejected my brand spanking new stretched canvas artwork but he TOOK the cowboy boot shaped beer vase. He claimed that the Goodwill shopper lacked the sophistication to appreciate inspirational art. I think he’s making dangerous assumptions.

Offloading all my valuable “stuff” on Goodwill requires some clever camouflage. Clothes are the one thing that Goodwill will always take because beat-up khakis and slightly imperfect Lacoste shirts can be shipped by the boatload to Africa at a profit. (That explains why you’ll sometimes see pictures of people in refugee camps looking like they are on their way to a polo match.)

So, to make a long story short, if I bury the “iffy” donations under a mound of good looking shirts, I can get rid of almost anything. The trick is to drive away before Goodwill Guy peels back the top layer and finds the 10 year old coffee grinder at the bottom of the box.

(I would argue that Goodwill shoppers must surely drink coffee, but that might make him mad enough to send a plague of locusts after me.)

Trying to clean out my garage shouldn’t be this stressful. I simply want to make a charitable donation and obtain that magical little slip of paper that allows me to take a massive, unsubstantiated tax write-off for my trouble.

If that is too much to ask, maybe it’s time I checked out “Salvation Army Guy.”
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What Happens at Prom, Stays Secret from Mom

2011-05-18T12:16:00.000-07:00

CHUCKLE #452 | May 19th, 2011
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My son went to Junior Prom last weekend. Don’t ask me how it went, because I know NOTHING. My son is a master the one word, betray nothing, dead pan response. He acts like a junior member of the CIA, code name Agent Aphonic.

As a first time “prom mom”, I am absolutely DESPERATE for details. I don’t need to know if he kissed her or not, I’ll take any news at all. Did the DJ have a beard? Were the tablecloths red? Did they serve Coke or Pepsi? Did anyone fail the breathalyzer? I begged like a junkie, but he gave up nada.

You think I’m joking, but I’m not exaggerating even a tiny bit. Here’s how the 12:30AM prom pick-up/debriefing went…

Son gets in car. Silence falls. Then more silence, followed by an extended period of silence, with an extra serving of catatonically deep silence. None of this seemed to make HIM uncomfortable in the least. Meanwhile I am apoplectic with suppressed curiosity and very close to popping a blood vessel.

I finally say (and I admit that by this point my voice is laced with sarcasm and exasperation) “Dad and the rest of us watched a movie tonight. What, perchance, did YOU do?”

Son: “I went to prom.”
Me: (feigning incredulity) “Really? So that’s what you were doing.”
Son: “Yes.”
Me: “Did your date have fun?”
Son: “I believe so.”
Me: “How was the D.J.?”
Son: “Adequate.”
Me: “What was the room like?”
Son: “Lots of round tables.”
Me: “Who did you sit with?”
Son: “My date.”
Me: “Did you dance?”
Son: “Yes.”

My son would make an excellent POW. He easily fended off a sustained “Gitmom-style” interrogation and gave away NOTHING of interest to the female gender. My giddy Q&A failed to produce any dirt. He showed no mercy, and I’m his mother. Imagine how he’d treat an actual Enemy of State.

I sure hope the Junior CIA appreciates his special skills.

Daunted and fuming about the dearth of prom intelligence, I decided to fight fire with fire. I gave him The Silent Treatment. Ha, I thought. This will teach the inarticulate little man-in-training a lesson. Big mistake. Men like the silent treatment. In their opinion, the less we talk the better.

I know at least one mom whose son tells her stuff without first being tasered. This is not normal behavior for a teenage boy, but I don’t want to tell her that because 1) I am jealous and 2) talking to her is the only way I can get information about what my son is doing since the two boys are friends.

My daughter tells me not to despair because when she goes to prom she will tell me everything. She’s a sweet girl, but I’m still going to ask her to put that in writing.

So in just two short years I will get my prom questions answered. Until then, out of spite, I am responding to my son using just two words: “leftovers” and “maybe.” I too can play this game. At some point he will BEG to hear a compound sentence.

Yep. Any day now…still waiting…
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Did You Just 'Dis My Dog?

2011-05-11T16:07:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #451 | May 11th, 2011
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Do you ever hang out with an adorable, younger friend who sucks up compliments and attention like a turkey baster? My dog does it all the time. He knows exactly how it must feel to be Brad Pitt’s bar buddy. You see, my friend and I walk our dogs together and her DOG is off the charts cute. My dog isn’t given the time of day when he’s with his pooch pal “Mr. T”.

I can handle being overlooked, but my dog? I feel for him.

Random strangers on the street go all goo-goo ga-ga over “Mr. T” while they ignore my dog. I try not to mind, but heck yeah, I’m hurt. But I can’t act sad because dogs pick up on human emotions and I don’t want him to be permanently scarred.

Little old ladies sure can be mean.

Now that all my kids are out of diapers, my dog is my baby. You ‘dis my dog; you ‘dis me. Think about it. Would you compliment one mom on her baby and completely ignore the other mom’s baby even if that other baby’s face left you speechless with despair? I don’t think so. You would come up with SOMETHING to say, and it should probably not include the phrase “Satan’s Spawn”.

Yes I know my dog is a mixed breed whose origins cannot be readily identified. AND he has surprisingly stubby legs for a canine that comes from poodle stock. But he is NOT butt ugly and he doesn’t deserve to be shunned like a leper.

I don’t know why I’m not surprised by this blatant display of superficiality. Actually, I do know why. People are shallow. They judge other people AND dogs by their looks.

I don’t care what they think. My dog is pure awesomeness. Those midsection thickened ladies speed-walking in their Shapeups should take a look in the mirror at their own spandex clad behinds. (Oh yeah, I said it.) My dog and I don’t need public adoration to know that we are special, even on bad haircut days.

Do dogs have feelings? Since we can’t be entirely sure, people should try to be fair and toss the homely dog a bone once in a while.

Someday I’m going to find a friend whose dog has the same “attractiveness” level as my dog. Then I can avoid all the time consuming fawning and drama that keeps us from getting to the park.

I’d like to think that being the owner of “the supermodel dog” gets old after a while. I can tell you that it sometimes does get a little old for the owner's her friend.
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The Magic of Millinery

2011-05-04T16:48:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #450 | May 4th, 2011
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Seth Meyers may have said it best …“I’m just thankful to live in a nation that doesn’t wear hats like that.” This got me thinking. Wacky hats definitely spiced-up the otherwise stodgy Kate and Willy nuptials, but the royal wedding needed much more excitement to make it worth watching, especially for an American audience.

Here’s what I was thinking…

1) Why stop with a hat that looks like a “Kracken” attack? Why not have “transformer” hats that would offer both form AND function. A hat that could double as a gin still or turn into an umbrella could be huge in the UK.
2) Sir Elton should have been invited to perform instead of just sit on his tush – what a waste. And I’m pretty sure his hat would have outshone them all.
3) There should have been at least a hundred more Arch Bishops ‘cause you just can’t have too many of those pointy Bishop hats no matter what the event.
4) What kind of “red carpet” was that! Where was Joan Rivers?
5) I would very much have liked to see how the wacky hats handled high winds.
6) Given how dangerous some of those hats looked, I expected to see more hat related royal blood-letting, such as punctured lungs and loss of sight etc. “Hat fight club” would be totally worth watching.
7) If this was America there would surely have been some brawls due to hat obstructed views. Unfortunately upper class Brits are too polite to brawl, except in Parliament and over soccer. Or maybe they just didn’t catch the royals “duking” it out on film.
8) Best hat ever? The crown that will someday provide coverage for William’s increasingly shiny pate.

Seriously, if you are going to marry a prematurely bald guy, he might as well be the future King of England.

More mother country factoids you may or may not have known…

1) Most of the weird head pieces you saw at the royal wedding are called “fascinators”. Really.
2) The gravity defying placement of royal hats is achieved with pins, combs and clips, and in the case of Posh Spice, an oversized forehead and industrial strength glue.
3) In my humble commoner opinion, the Prime Minister’s wife was technically wearing a headband and was therefore embarrassingly “under-hatted”. (And you probably heard that the PM was planning to wear a business suit instead of a morning coat until thankfully, someone with sense intervened.)
4) With Brits complaining about the cost of royal family upkeep, it is brilliant of William to have allied himself with a family that has its own business. If the royal thingy doesn’t work out, he can always help Pippa sell party favors.
5) Meanwhile the royal couple is saving money for a down payment on a palace of their own by shacking up with Charles and Camilla. I agree that this could be very awkward, but economically it makes perfect sense.

In the end there is just ONE THING that I am just dying to know. Did the Best Man and Maid of Honor hook up at the reception or not? Tight lipped Brits will never tell, which means I’m going to have to spend another 5 bucks on People Magazine this month.

And just maybe I’ll get myself a hat. I think Princess Beatrice’s Cthulhu number would totally rock at hat fight club.
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Addicted or Just Obsessed?

2011-04-27T15:24:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #449 | April 27th, 2011
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Men don’t “get” women. We are full of mystery and subterfuge and many guys won’t even try to crack that nut. But even the most Neanderthal husband knows enough to start worrying when his woman gets that little contemplative “knitted brow” look. They know something is up, they just don’t know what, and that can be scary for men.

But women really aren’t that complicated. Nine times out of ten what women think about when they are staring off into space is redecorating - paint, tile, wallpaper….maybe even an addition. OK, so maybe that is a little scary.

Lucky for guys, most women don’t have the money or energy to constantly decorate, so we do so vicariously. We read magazines; we go on house tours; and when we just can’t resist any longer, we buy accessories. But the BEST way to sate the decorating “junkie” within (without financial outlay or physical exertion) is with House and Garden Television.

HGTV is “lady crack”. It’s a triple shot, estrogen-enhanced video latte. And that’s not just the female histrionics talking. The fairytale goes something like this…Once upon-a-time a bunch of seriously smart people got together and said, “what if we brought valium back, but instead of a pill the delivery mechanism was cable TV?” And thus HGTV was born.

Halleluiah. Raise the roof. Woo woo. Does that even come close to conveying how much I love HGTV?

My husband is flummoxed by my HGTV “habit”. Why would an otherwise intelligent person like me watch so much bad TV? His disappointment in me is palpable. But I can’t stop. I think that a show about re-arranging your furniture is pure genius. To my husband the same show is more like Chinese water torture.

Funny, I feel the same way about watching baseball.

What men don’t realize is that they should be eternally thankful for HGTV. For one, it keeps us women watching instead of doing. Those savings not only pay the cable bill, but will eventually put a couple of kids through community college. And as I get closer and closer to a serious midlife crisis, watching International House Hunters is the only thing that keeps me from running off to Fiji.

Well, that and the three kids. (I do have some sense left.)

My husband claims I have an “illness”. I think my HGTV watching is more of a harmless pastime than a serious addiction. Like my afternoon piece of Dove chocolate or my collection of flavored vodkas.

Husbands should be thankful when wives take an interest in making the family house “a home”. Husbands who like sleeping indoors should also not get all up in my grill about what I choose to watch on TV. This is especially true when said husband’s own life is RULED by Yankees baseball in a decidedly unhealthy way.

In the interest of marital bliss I FULLY support and even encourage my husband’s Derek Jeter infatuation. I just want a little quid pro quo. Or a vacation house in sunny, goat infested Nicaragua…my husband’s choice of course.
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Seeking Toga Parties & other Temporal Pursuits

2011-04-13T11:44:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #448 | April 13th, 2011
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If there is one thing I’ve learned from visiting colleges with my son, it is that college is totally wasted on the young. Campus tour guides clearly have a sadistic streak. They make college sound SO AWESOME, that I want to go back – forget about sending my kids.

After hearing all about college life today, which at most schools seems to include a “Condom Carnival”, I honestly don’t think I made the most of my college experience my first time around.

I certainly didn’t pay enough attention (given what’s going on in the world) to my famous professor of Iran/Iraq Relations. It is possible that I spent too much of my time trying to figure out what fluid mixes best with cheap vodka and agitating for a new waffle maker for the cafeteria. You know, the important stuff.

And I was one of the more “academic” kids on campus.

How many 18 year olds are really ready for a great “intellectual awakening”? How many 45 year olds are? Comparatively speaking, a lot. We old folks would lap college life up. We’re ready to do college all over again. We are starved for intellectual stimulation and are tired of dinner parties dominating our social scene.

Whatever happened to tiki bars and toga parties? When exactly did life become so darn civilized?

Picture us back at college...

“Ding Dong” dorm party tonight? No thanks, my back is acting up and I've got that big Beowulf recital tomorrow. Old English bites.

Panty Raid? Sorry, I’m going to that lecture at the Women’s Center “Hermaphrodite Heroes of the Civil War”.

Martini pong tournament on Tuesday? Now you’re talking. What time?

Yeah, college sure would be different at age 47, and not just because I can’t keep my eyes open past 11PM.

My parents spent a lot of cold hard cash to send me to college, and I’m about to do the same thing for my kids. I sure hope they understand what an incredible gift this is, and savor/maximize every moment. I wish I had. Or maybe I did, but I just can’t remember.

The problem with youth is that it is so FLEETING, and then regret sets in.

Going back to college may SOUND appealing, but to be honest, I really don’t want to pull any all-nighters, write any 30 page papers, or be put on the spot in a seminar class full of smug valedictorian braniacs.

Would I really be capable of cramming 300 dense pages of a professor’s self-published textbook, then expounding intelligently on the underlying themes? I have my doubts.

I think I could sate this “back to school” urge by auditing a college class or two. I’ll be that creepy old person sitting in the front row of the lecture hall, looking eager. FYI, I’ll be the only one not taking notes on a tablet.

A few of my friends are also pining to return to school, but not as students. Their plan is to go back as professors. Of course they want to be the “cool” professor who gets invited out for beers by their students.

Or they are really well liked, maybe even to the condom carnival.
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My "Projects" Runneth Over

2011-04-06T11:19:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #447 | April 6th, 2011
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Finishing the “projects” I’ve started could easily take the rest of my life. And that’s assuming some rather generous increases in average life expectancy over the next 20 years. Part of my problem is that I’m so darn Yankee cheap that I always think that I can make something for less than it would cost to buy.

Of course my homemade stuff is only cheaper if you assume that my time is free and that my husband is a bottomless pit of supportive love, money and patience.

So far so good.

I take on most projects to “save” money (though an honest look at actual costs might prove that the savings, if any, are nominal.) But you can’t put a price on the fact that everything I make is by definition Made in America, no matter how BUTT ugly.

But crafting is not always about saving money. Sometimes I “create” just for the joy of it and for the thrill of repurposing something I picked up from the dump. Those are the most dangerous projects of all because 1) I am not a visionary like Martha Stewart; and 2) I failed Home Economics in 7th grade.

Let’s just say that I am VERY good at gathering all the required supplies for a project idea. I am TERRIBLE at execution. When it comes time to break out the scissors, the glue gun or the chain saw, that’s right about when I start to lose interest.

For a while now I have suspected that I suffer from a mild form of ADD because of the number of projects I have in “craft limbo”. But if not finishing craft projects is some kind of disorder, I’m guessing that I am not alone.

I’m also pretty sure that the sheer vastness of my incomplete project universe is slowly driving my husband nuts. (And that’s without him knowing what’s hidden in the garage.) But every few years I manage to redeem myself by making something that looks reasonably attractive; often surprising us both.

Then I tell him that I just saved $500 over what that same item would have cost at Sotheby's. Financial “spin” is what keeps my craft orgy afloat.

I know you are desperate to know what I’m currently “working” on so here’s a sample…

Project #1) Making a mini-skirt out of my husband’s old ties. Status: after 5 years I have accumulated 37 ties and lots of stretchy waistband material. I’m not quite sure how to proceed.

Project #2) Making a bed skirt out of two linen curtains and a roll of grosgrain ribbon. Status: half complete after 9 months. What’s holding me back? Tender fingertips. I keep burning myself on the glue gun.

Project #3) Making cushions for the kitchen bench nook. Status: 15 years… I have the material but actually taking scissors to cloth is just too stressful.

Those are my big projects. But I also have mini-obsessions that provide day to day distractions.

For example, just last week, after extensive online research, I tried to dehydrate grapes in my oven. I gave up after an hour. It didn't take me long to figure out that running the oven for 80 hours to create ½ cup of raisins made no sense.

Perhaps I am penny wise and pound foolish. Or just pound foolish. I am chock full of awesome ideas, but I definitely have more “creative” energy than “execution” energy. And I occasionally do things that make no economic sense at all. But that’s part of my charm.

At least that’s what I tell my husband. There's nothing wrong with a little positive spin.
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Hazmat Suit does Double Doody

2011-03-30T14:04:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #446 | March 30th, 2011
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As spring draws tantalizingly near, families are gearing up for their favorite fertility rites and rituals. For many of us, one of those annual rituals will probably include a classic “Egg Hunt”. But before mom and dad can fill the yard with chocolate eggs and bunnies, they must first hunt for something else: petrified poop.

“Spring Cleaning” takes on a whole new meaning for dog owners.

I admit that I often neglect my winter “doody” duties. Who doesn’t? Especially this past winter when two feet of snow made it difficult to convince even the dog to “go” outdoors, forget about picking up after him. As a result, my current excrement status is somewhat less than hygienic. (That’s the polite version.)

In a better economy I might have been willing to pass this job off on the professionals. Instead, I bought a cheap hazmat suit, a construction grade garbage bag (intended for demolition debris) and spent half a day in the yard removing dog doo. And that’s only because my husband put his foot down.

And that foot happened to land in something squishy.

Once I de-dooed the lawn however, I was free to contemplate more enjoyable spring pastimes. As a child I’ve always enjoyed hunting for Easter eggs. But even as a 6 year old, with my brain churning with confusion over the slim connection between jelly beans and Jesus, I was smart enough not to question my good fortune.

“Why do you ply me with truly unhealthy amounts of candy on Easter?” is not a question an intelligent young Christian child asks her parents if she hopes to receive her full quota of Cadbury eggs. In this case I was more than willing to let my parents off the hook.

One does not “grill” the goose that lays the chocolate egg.

Egg hunts may be, as some claim, an insidious Vatican youth marketing strategy, but you can’t deny that they are a lot of fun. The thrill of the childhood egg hunt is unforgettable. I think this explains why, at some level of consciousness, I also enjoy hunting for poops.

Have you ever tried to find 300 partially decomposed poops? It’s a challenge. By comparison, festively colored plastic eggs are relatively easy to spot. Unless your dog has recently eaten a Beanie Baby, poops are not.

Don’t pooh-pooh my archeological fascination with fossilized canine BMs. Thousands of years from now, if and when my yard becomes a famous dig site (like Pompeii but hopefully without the death and devastation), scientists will be able to tell a lot about my family’s life from our collection of petrified dung. Like the fact that my family most likely owned a dog. And that we did not regularly clean-up after said dog. And that this particular dog had an unfortunate penchant for buttons and Barbie feet.

Not exactly the Dead Sea Scrolls, but interesting nonetheless. Of course I also think that owl pellet dissection is cool. And worm composting. Did you know that an earthworm can produce its own weight in castings every day?

Now imagine if your dog did that.
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Trying on Bathtubs

2011-03-23T12:07:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #445 | March 23rd, 2011
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No dressing rooms. No soft lighting. No cool music. No privacy. Who could possibly enjoy trying out bathtubs in a public showroom? Exhibitionists and voyeurs that’s who. Me? Not so much.

But when you are desperately seeking the perfect five foot long double ended pedestal tub, you learn to faux bathe with panache. Lately I’ve been leaping into tubs whenever the opportunity arises. And I’m not at all shy about asking mere acquaintances if I can lie down in their tubs. Clothed of course, I’m not entirely without couth.

You just never know where you’ll be when you find “the one”. So boldly beg because owning the perfect tub is worth every second of red faced shame and embarrassment. The tub is no design afterthought for a serious bather. The right tub can make a bad day good and a good day better, like chocolate.

The biggest problem with trying on bathtubs is that empty tubs aren’t all that comfortable. My imagination is as good as the next person’s but without the anti-gravitational effects of H2O, pretty much every tub feels like a slab of granite. (Even with a well-padded backside.) A little showroom ambiance wouldn’t hurt either.

Would it kill the salesperson to light a few candles or burn some incense?

And FYI, “faux bathing” has rules, which I’ve conveniently listed below because public awareness of these rules seems to range from limited to nil.

1) Wait your turn.

2) Remove your shoes.

3) Don’t overstay.

4) No double dipping. Singles only.

5) Do not stare at other “bathers”. This whole thing is already awkward enough.

6) Remain fully clothed. Must I define fully?

The general rule of tub shopping is that if you fall asleep in the tub it’s “the one”. Just buy it already and put your husband out of his misery. Guys only enjoy shopping for TVs, stereos, steak, and cars. Guys do NOT like shopping for bathtubs.

And speaking of significant others, heed this warning. Double tubs are like double kayaks, they can be tough on a marriage. You and your husband may think you want one of those monsterous two person tubs now, but later in your marriage, a quiet private soak is what will keep your relationship humming along.

Bath time is for escaping from your family. Why on earth would you bring them with you? If you really want to bathe with your husband, get a hot tub.

Besides, two people “trying on a tub” at the same time is just plain kinky. Others would stare. I have stared. How could I help myself? It’s not often you get to see another couple “pretending” to take a bath together.

So now I’m a creepy voyeur. And all I really wanted was a decent bath.
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To Yoga or not To Yoga

2011-03-16T10:56:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #444 | March 16th, 2011
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There are a lot of uptight people in this world who should be doing yoga. Think about Hamlet. If Hamlet had been a yogi, murder and betrayal might not have bothered him quite so much. Imagine if the most famous monologue of all time had ended with a marriage instead of mass murder.

Given what went down in Hamlet, I decided it was time to yoga.

I went to my first “Basic” class on Sunday. The practice of yoga requires a lot of concentration if one is to eventually attain a state of “perfect spiritual insight and tranquility”. At least, that’s what the brochure said.

Yoga is a lot harder than it looks. It didn’t take more than one ‘downward dog’ for me to realize that a perfectly balanced mind would be a long time in coming. During a particularly prolonged and painful warrior pose I considered easier paths to tranquility, such as mind altering (legal) drugs, or even a voluntary lobotomy.

Yes, my first yoga class was that challenging, and not just physically.

“Clear your mind,” suggested my yoga teacher. Yeah right, I thought to myself. What mother can clear her mind on command? My brain is hard wired to be thinking six carpools, three permission slips, two tournaments, four concerts and five meals ahead. My brain is not a bathtub that can be emptied and refilled at will. My mind is more like a clogged toilet.

And yes, it sometimes overflows.

But I gave yoga my best shot despite my mental shortcomings. I tried to relax and enjoy some “me” time. I tried to think of my body as a vessel, to coordinate my breathing and my body, and to empty my mind. I tried really hard not to think about who sweated on my yoga mat in the class before mine. But I couldn’t do it.

Being super grossed out has a way of ruining my Zen.

Luckily my yoga gift certificate entitles me to 9 more classes. So the entertainment I provide for the rest of my yoga-mates will continue. But no more body fluids unless they are my own. Next week I’m definitely bringing my own yoga mat

Only then will I be able to fully enjoy the physical benefits of yoga - improved flexibility, posture, strength, and balance. I know yoga is good for me because my inner thighs are still quivering like jelly.

Then there’s the spiritual side of yoga, and ‘therein lies the rub’. I may never become a full yogi before I 'shuffle off this mortal coil', but maybe that's aiming too high. At this point, just having the discipline to finish a one hour yoga class (which is a bit like watching blimps race) shows an impressive amount of focus and patience.

But the true beauty of yoga is that it accepts my many imperfections and puts a high value on effort. I doubt I will ever master the half lotus headstand, but if I can learn to sit cross-legged like a Buddha, I’m ok with that.
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The Dog Days of Dieting

2011-03-09T15:39:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #443 | March 9th, 2011
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My vet has declared my dog ‘overweight’ by exactly three pounds. I think she made that number up. Are there really “ideal” doggy weights? The fact that the vet did not substantiate her opinion with detailed CDC recommended height/weight charts makes me wonder if the whole thing is a hoax.

Vets know very well that every dog owner over-treats and over-feeds his dog. Who here hasn’t shared the occasional ice cream cone with “Spot”? But vets are smarter than us. To keep owner overfeeding in check, they simply declare each and every dog just a wee bit fat.

Since my dog’s “diagnosis” my daughter has taken to calling him (affectionately of course) FATTY. This does absolutely nothing for his self-esteem.

Just so you know; my dog is NOT fat. I’ve seen fat dogs. I prefer to think of my dog, like my husband, as being “just right”. What’s a love handle here and there among friends? In the case of the dog it is only excess winter fur that gives him the illusion of being chubby. Once he has his spring shave he will regain his svelte figure.

If only there was a “Spring Shave” option for me.

I did not, at first, consider three pounds to be a big deal. But then I did the math. Three pounds is 14% of his body weight. That would be like me gaining 16 pounds, which is a lot, so I can kind of see the vet’s point. If I put on that much weight I would need an entirely new wardrobe. Lucky for me, I don’t buy clothes for my dog.

So after much handwringing and internal debate, my dog is now on a diet. And I’ve never felt more TERRIBLE.

My dog never used to beg at the table and steal food off the counter when he was getting the full recommended serving of dog food every day. Now he does. But in his defense, I’m sure that he’s only become a food hound because he’s so gosh darn HUNGRY.

Let’s face facts. Being on a diet is no fun. I barely have the discipline to stay on my OWN diet, forget about keeping the dog on his. Those big puppy-dog eyes follow my every move in the kitchen. It’s killing me. You’d think that it would be relatively easy to say “Suck it up Spot, no pain no gain.” Well it’s not.

My dog hasn’t lost any weight yet, but this is neither my fault, nor his. There is a vast conspiracy of “treating” that goes on behind my back by the mailman, the laundry delivery guy, UPS, and the cleaning lady.

These people don’t care how fat my dog gets. They don’t have to face the music at the vet. All they want is a dog that is deliriously happy to see them. And while this does not reflect very well on my dog's character, delirium is easily achieved with a pocket full of milkbones.

The good news is that I have a full year to make some progress before my dog’s next check-up. The bad news is that I’m beginning to think that shorting the dog’s food might be a little too risky. Risky because the only dependable source we have for unconditional love in this life is SPOT, no matter what our kids might tell us on Mother’s Day.

So bottom line, messing with Spot may not be such a good idea.
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Oscar(s) the Grouch

2011-03-09T09:05:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #442 | March 3rd, 2011
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Let’s be frank. Actor and actress “eye candy” was the only thing that the Oscars had going for it this year. You know you are in for a painful evening when the red carpet dialogue outshines the Oscars opening monologue. Was it just me, or was Sunday’s show both interminably long and mind numbingly boring?

You would think that after 83 years the mysterious “Academy” would have accumulated enough Nielsen data to KNOW that no one over 40 stays up past 10:30 just to see what happens Oscar night. Certainly not in the age of TiVo and IO. In fact, if it weren’t for the welcome distraction of the “Oscars Drinking Game”, I might have tuned-out and turned-in even earlier.

And would it have killed them to put a can of Red Bull in the party bag just to keep the “live” audience looking, well, a little more “alive”?

This year I set an ‘early to bed’ record by bailing right after “Best Sound Mixing.” I appreciate sound, really I do. The talkies were a definite breakthrough for the movie industry. But I lack the technical skills to truly understand the significance of this highly coveted award, hence my extreme ennui at this precise moment.

Then there were our Oscar hosts. Short of sawing off James Franco’s arm on live TV, there really wasn’t much Ann Hathaway could do to improve the script. I doubt Franco would have felt a thing since he was either in a coma or was in reality, a low functioning avatar of himself. I give Ann Hathaway an “A” for effort, but even a MAJOR Givenchy wardrobe malfunction wouldn’t have been enough to distract us from the lame dialogue between her and Franco.

Then Billy Crystal gets up on stage and proves once and for all that the skillful application of COMIC timing could have saved us from Oscar boredom. Crystal got a standing ovation before he even said a word, just by LOOKING at the audience. Yes, we were all that desperate.

And what was all that host chatter about the new more “youthful” Oscars? As one of the presumably “older” skewing Oscar viewers, I found this quite insulting. Was it really necessary to keep over-annunciating the words “app” and “tweet” like we were either morons; their grandparents – or both?

There came a point in the show at which I began grasping at straws. If I had to be specific, I would say that it was right around the 6th shot of tequila. Compared to our official Oscar hosts, Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law were HILARIOUS. Kirk Douglas was both funny and sweet despite the irony of a significant speech impediment. And Russell Brand managed to keep my attention simply by looking and talking, as usual, like a lunatic. But then, he’s a real comedian.

Maybe I expected too much from an ABC show. Or maybe the Oscar(s) just bring out the grouch in me.

What the Oscars need is perfectly clear. It’s Ricky Gervais. Controversial yes, but genuinely funny with that distinctly acerbic British wit that we Americans find so refreshing, unless we are the target of it. (Oh lighten up Charlie Sheen.)

Given the pain I suffered at the hands of this year’s Oscars, I might just Hulu the 2012 show. Shocking as this news may be to the Academy, I am familiar with Hulu (and Twitter for that matter.)

For future reference, I’m not a moron nor a luddite. I’m just BORED.
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The Cupcake Economy

2011-03-02T12:18:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #441 | February 16th, 2011
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A shop called “Crumbs” just opened in my town and the only thing it sells is ginormous, over-the-top cupcakes. You’d think it would be difficult to find funding for a business that relies entirely on the sale of $4 cupcakes. Not true. The Cupcake Bakery concept is booming. And I know this because…

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” said my husband, presenting me with a tray of four elaborately decorated cupcakes.

“Wow,” I exclaimed, thinking that I could not have picked a worse time to be on a low carb diet. “Is there any chance that one of those cupcakes is made entirely of fat and protein? You know, bacon lard frosting with an ethanol filling?”

“Nope” he replied. “But if you’re desperate to chew on something, you could eat the flowers I brought you instead.”

I did not eat the flowers, even though carnations are Atkins approved. I was more than willing to break my four week old diet and stuff three insidious forkfuls of cupcake into my mouth. (All for my husband’s sake, of course.)

Fads come and go, but I’m pretty sure that the cupcake is heir apparent to the “Crispy Crème”, at least for the decadent made-with-lard crowd.

But before we get carried away, let’s take a moment to look at the econometrics behind this foodie boom-let. We all know in our hearts that cupcakes are only successful because of recent fundamental social and economic change in America.

Cupcake mania is the product of the lagging economy AND a very American fear of commitment.

Let’s start with commitment. People these days don’t want to buy an entire cake and be stuck eating the same dessert for weeks. We don’t want to invest $20 bucks in just one indulgence when the world is full of so many possibilities. What if chocolate decadence disappoints?

This theory goes a long way towards explaining the renewed popularity of “tasting” menus and tapas restaurants; and ordering two appetizers for dinner instead of an entrée. (Or am I the only one who does that?)

But the true beauty of a cupcake bakery is that all your cake fantasies can be realized at once. What woman wouldn’t love a place where she could buy miniature versions of all her favorite cakes? Mini desserts are like having mutiple slices of utopia…without the ball and chain of the entire pie.

Have you ever had two boyfriends at once? Sweet. That’s what cupcakes are all about. (Choice that is, not two-timing some poor kid.)

Then there’s the economy, which has NOT recovered despite the recent increase in Starbucks same store sales. If Starbucks can still sell a cup of coffee for $3.50, why shouldn’t “Crumbs” be able to sell a slice of carbohydrate heaven for $4?

If you can’t afford to buy the vacation home on the beach, why not assuage the pain with a killer cupcake? Seriously, there is nothing like a recession to make a “crummy” idea seem like pure genius.
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The Dire Consequences of Jumping for Joy

2011-02-09T17:03:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #440 | February 9th, 2011
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“Everybody JUMP!” yelled the DJ at my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah last Saturday. So we jumped - forty energetic 13 year olds and forty equally enthusiastic, but slightly less coordinated parents. Then we jumped some more. I’m not sure the grandparents even tried to get off the ground, but then they’re a lot older, and ergo smarter than the rest of us.

The Bat Mitzvah was awesome. The day after? Not so awesome.

My clubbing days are at least 20 years behind me. In fact, I haven’t been “out dancing” since the last family Bat Mitzvah two years ago. That’s long enough for certain muscle groups to have forgotten how unforgiving a three hour dance party can be.

Literary hyperbole it may be, but speaking from experience, muscles really can scream.

At least I had the sense to wear flats to the party. A few of my vertically challenged friends let vanity force them into four inch Jimmy Choos. I’m sure the calf and toe cramps that night were EXCRUCIATING, and many husbands were "lucky" if all they got was an earful. In the words of my sister-in-law (in the massive groovy platforms) “Owww.”

But you can’t opt out of jumping if you’re planning to indulge in a piece of chocolate cake filled with chocolate mousse and covered with chocolate fudge frosting. So I jumped like a lunatic; got “low”; and tried my best to do Cotton Eyed Joe.

Is it me or has line dancing become more challenging? Whatever happened to the bump and the electric slide, or even the Macarena? Those I could DO.

It wasn’t until Sunday morning, in the process of clawing my way out of bed, that I realized that my butt muscles were shot. Unfortunately butt muscles appear to be critical to successful ambulatory movement of any speed, even sauntering or moseying. And they are an absolute must for getting on and off the toilet without a walker.

What this past weekend taught me is that there are definitely some flaws in my exercise routine. Either my social life needs more high impact dance parties, or I need to take up that new thing called Zumba! (Yes! It’s Dance plus Exercise!) And it’s FUN! Or so they say.

With another family Bat Mitzvah coming up in May, I’ve got just three months to prepare my butt for another night of non-stop jumping for joy (and for cake.)

Just in case my butt gives out half way through “Shout”, I have a back-up plan.

Hide behind the grandparents and let them raise the roof.
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Oh Lord, Give me a Sign! (Just not Ophiuchus)

2011-01-26T09:12:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #439 | January 26th, 2011
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I’ve never been a big fan of astrology, mostly because I've suffered through too many wince-worthy Scorpio pick-up lines. So the shocking news that my “sign” might have changed did not freak me out like it did some people.

It did get me thinking though.

I am (or was) a Gemini, the “bipolar charmer" of the astrology world. And I was fine with that. Gemini has fit like a glove for the past 46 years. Now what? How much of my personality is natural? How much of it developed simply because I thought I was a Gemini?

I have to ask because, as a Gemini, I am naturally inquisitive.

Under the “new” (and some say fraudulent) zodiac, I become a Taurus. Taurus is dependable, patient and loyal (AKA boring) whereas Gemini is fun, witty and devious. That’s a big change to contemplate.

What really worries me is that my husband is also a Taurus, but he’s for real. His sign did not change. His world was not turned upside down. And to top it all off, in researching this column I’ve learned that a Gemini shouldn’t marry a Taurus. Apparently “earth” and “air” are not especially compatible.

This came as quite a surprise to me.

You see, I’ve always believed that my husband and I were perfect together. I’m flighty, he’s steady. I flirt, he ignores. I flit, he sticks. He sooths my restless nature like cream in my coffee. Without his influence I’d surely be living with my 5th husband in a second hand tent camper.

I don’t know what those “so called” experts are talking about. As far as I’m concerned, Gemini+Taurus is a match made in heaven.

But what if we really are both Taurus? There goes our social life. We’ll be the very nice but dull couple that everyone tries to avoid. Luckily the change didn’t go the other way. A Gemini+Gemini combo would have been even worse. Picture a never-ending, exhausting foursome.

I’m finding this whole Tropical vs. Sidereal thing quite confusing. Or as my husband might say, it’s all bull. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

Who am I, really? Am I outgoing or subdued? Superficial or dependable? For sanity sake I’m going to ignore this little intellectual catfight between astronomy and astrology and stick with what I know is true and good in my life, and that means sticking with my husband.

The bottom line is that I am very happy.

So if my husband can continue to put up with my “superficiality”, I can certainly tolerate his “self-indulgence”. A good match is more than just a sign in the sky or the tilt of a planet’s axis; it’s a feeling in the heart.

And for those of you who find yourself sporting the “new” sign, Ophiuchus! I’m sorry, you are officially ophiuched. Note the similarity in pronunciation to a terribly inappropriate expletive. Repeatedly shouting that into someone’s ear at a noisy bar will definitely get you into trouble.

New Ophiuchus might just want to claim ignorance the next time they get asked “What’s your sign?” Nothing good can come of it.
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Could the "Times" I Spend in Bed be Better Spent?

2011-01-26T05:00:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #438 | January 19th, 2011
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My favorite thing to do on Sunday morning is to have coffee in bed while reading the New York Times. Pure self-indulgence always makes me feel like I’m 25 again – back when the most difficult task of my day was to figure out where to have brunch. Ah, youth…

But lately my Sunday ritual has become a little too intellectually challenging. I blame The Times of course, since it couldn’t possibly be me.

Here’s the thing. The articles in The Times have gotten too long; they are hard to decipher and even harder to finish. The Times is the serpent in my Garden of Eden. It offers knowledge, but only after it makes me eat a dozen rotten apples. That's intellectual hazing.

I know The Times is sacred, but someone needs to remind certain revered journalists that they are not penning War & Peace. Someone needs to point out that these precious “oeuvres” will be recycled precisely two hours after they are skimmed and barely understood by yours truly.

I’m not proud that I have a hard time wading through a weighty two page spread on Darfur. It’s not that don’t care about Darfur. I’ve simply succumbed to intellectual fatigue brought on by age and a really, really comfy bed. If it weren’t for those convenient blurbs on page two I’d have very little idea of what was going on in the world.

You’d think that Sunday would be the perfect time to get myself up to speed on chaos in Africa. But it’s not. Think about it, I’m lying in my cozy bed with my home-foamed latte at my fingertips and my heated mattress pad turned up to “high.” My environment makes it hard to focus.

I can’t deny that under the twin influences of age and warmth, the mind will wander.

Don’t get me wrong, The Times is a great publication. Why else would I capitalize “The”? The writers are top-notch…real deep thinkers who, more often than not, have too much to say. Their mission? To single handedly reduce the number of idiots in America using nothing but the quill in their hand and power of the written word.

I find this to be an admirable (and possibly futile) goal. But might I suggest that sometimes less is more?

Lucky for me the Sunday Times has some lighter sections that don’t require much thought at all: Metro; Real Estate; the Target insert.

Call me intellectually lame and/or apathetic, but hey, this is the age of EMAIL, and the New York Times should make some adjustments, however small. The Times needs to remember that it is not an academic journal; it is a newspaper (that happens to lean to the left.) And as such it has a responsibility to shorten up the treatises it calls “articles” and save some trees.

Don’t misunderstand. I’m still a greedy quasi intellectual. I still want thought provoking analysis and depth, but I want the Cliff note equivalent.
Or maybe I should just appreciate The Times for what it is, one of the few papers “left”, and save the more challenging articles for a day when I’m NOT lying in bed trying to remember what it was like being 25.

On second thought, perhaps I shouldn’t blame this ALL on The Times…
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Could a Constitutional Amendment Save Christmas?

2011-01-12T13:23:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #437 | January 12th, 2011
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I don’t care if you just gave birth to triplets or had your knee replaced, un-decorating the house after Christmas is still your job, simply because you are “woman”. (Don’t bother roaring.) And don’t waste your breath asking your family for help because you won’t get any. There is no such thing as equal rights when it comes to taking down the Christmas decorations.

And the sad thing is that we women have only ourselves to blame.

Do really think it was Cro-Magnon guy who brought the first pine branch into the cave and said, “Ooh, honey this smells good, let’s do this every year?” Nope, it was one of us gals, in what may arguably be the greatest gender betrayal of our evolution.

Think about it. When was the last time your husband came home all excited about the cute new ornament he bought? The correct answer is NEVER. So while I bitterly complain that my kids and husband are uncooperative (understatement intended), I take full responsibility for their un-decorating inertia.

You see, with 12 large boxes of holiday “stuff” to be packed-up, it’s no surprise that helping mom lacks the appeal of say, a two hour Facebook chat.

Sure we ladies get a little help BEFORE Christmas when the kids’ anticipation and excitement is at Kilimanjaro heights. Christmas is by far the biggest carrot out there. But after the Epiphany all we’ve got left is “stick” and anyone in the family who couldn’t get into the witness protection program has gone AWOL.

If I waited for my kids to help me put away the Christmas stuff, the bells and bows would stay up all year.

While my husband doesn’t necessarily help “un” decorate either, he will dutifully haul the 12 boxes back up into the attic after having just schlepped them down 4 weeks earlier. You might think this makes him a good guy. In reality he’s simply afraid to let me up into the attic in case I freak out upon seeing the stuff he’s shoved up there over the past 15 years.

Equal rights issues and hidden agendas aside, I have to give my sweet Jewish mate credit for his willingness to climb the rickety pull-down ladder year after year. I would make him a saint if I could, but as a woman I don’t have much pull with the Vatican.

To be honest, I don’t feel the need to go all Gloria Steinem about “un-decorating unfairness”. I totally buy into the idea that I am from Venus and that my husband is from Mars. You could call us “separate but equal”. My husband drinks scotch and does the heavy lifting while I carefully wrap and put the ornaments away. Weirdly enough, we’re both happy.

I can’t change the world order, genetics, or the nature of man. I “can’t stop Christmas from coming” (nor do I want to). And just between you and me, I don’t expect the Equal Rights Amendment to ever pass, in any form. But in a post Epiphany epiphany, I realized that there is one thing I can change in hopes of getting more help from the kids.

I can get rid of some unnecessary holiday “stuff”. If there’s less to put away, my kids might become more enthusiastic about lending a hand.

So this year I managed to get my 12 boxes down to 11; a small step in the right direction.

Next year I’ll try for 10.

If that fails, I have only two options left. Leave the holiday stuff up all year, or get a bigger stick.
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The Folly of Chasing the Hair of the Dog

2011-01-12T11:33:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #436 | January 5th, 2011
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I’ve learned several really important things during my lifetime. One is that “chasing the hair of the dog” is in fact a myth perpetuated by drunken Englishmen. Another is that there is a definite “point of no return” when plucking eyebrows. Once you tweeze past that point, an already bad situation will only get much, much worse.

Given that my tweezers are the second thing I reach for when I’m all liquored-up and bored, I get to do a lot of eyebrow reconstruction. I can now repair some pretty ugly “plucking” faux pas including “Perplexed Picasso”, “Angry Manga”, and “the Marlene Dietrich”. All it takes is a steady hand and well sharpened eyebrow pencil - which can be elusive given that an extra drink probably caused the problem in the first place.

I think women over-tweeze because we are always seeking perfection.

I suppose it IS possible that we are all just one hair away from revealing the supermodel within. But it is more likely that God intended us to develop this aggravating layer of fur later in life and that by willy nilly plucking it out we are messing with his/her grand design. (My apologies to Mr. Hawking.)

No worries though. If the mistake can’t be fixed, the hair will eventually grow back.

But that is exactly the problem, hair grows. And as I enter my late forties, this “hair” is becoming more and more of an issue.

They say men become increasingly hirsute as they age, virtual teddy bears. Women get hairy in a more disturbingly random way. Let’s just say that eyebrows are the least of my “stray hair” worries.

I’m always in pursuit of that mysterious extra-long chin hair. Where does it come from, what is it’s purpose? And what’s with those wiry black witch hairs that seem to spring up overnight? Certain tender body parts are glamorously glabrous no more. Maybe it’s time to talk full body wax job.

Of course all this talk of “new” hair is an undeniably clever way for me to segue into the topic of the “new” year and my “New” Year’s resolutions. Or so I’d like to think.

So stash your tweezers, put down your drink, and ready yourself for what I’ve got planned for 2011…Drum roll please…

1) I resolve to NEVER buy the 8 pound platter of Baklava from Costco ever again. (No one likes Baklava that much, which is why normal stores sell it only in tiny packages.) If I come to your house bearing Baklava, you’ll know why.

2) I resolve to find and use-up all those partially redeemed gift cards that are lying around the house like plastic pirate treasure, no matter who’s they are. I hereby lay claim to them.

3) I resolve to finally use or throw out all the weird stuff I’ve been shoving into the back of my pantry. (Even the freeze dried Persian food and the Falafel mix, both of which seemed like such a good idea 3 years ago.)

4) And finally, I resolve to spend less time conducting “search and destroy” follicle missions so that I can spend more quality time with my loving family. I’m pretty sure they’ll accept me as I am; crazy witch hairs and all.

But just in case my hirsute-self grosses them out, I won’t get rid of the tweezers quite yet. I’m still waiting for that freakishly long chin hair to make its 2011 debut. When it does I’ll be ready and waiting…
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'Tis the Season to Steal from the Poor

2010-12-22T15:04:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #435 | December 22, 2010
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There is something strangely compelling - and guilt inducing - about a person who selflessly stands outside a store in the freezing cold, ringing a bell. The resulting primal urge to stuff a buck into absurd looking red kettle is simply irresistible...as noted by the insightful minor talent Robert Palmer.

Did you ever wonder why the Salvation Army uses a red camp cooker to collect money? Or why Pavlov used bells to train his dogs? Yeah, me too. Apparently the color red and the sound of bells, attract…especially around the holidays. And unless you are a cold hearted down-on-your luck scrooge, you are going to put SOMETHING in that pot.

I’ve got to hand it to the Salvation Army. Someone there has a brilliant understanding of human motivation. Maslow placed the “urge to donate” (or more specifically, to be seen donating) at the very top of the hierarchy of needs pyramid. So why people make gigantic anonymous donations is hard to understand.

Then there’s me. Caught up in the holiday excitement of making my 15th paltry kettle contribution (and becoming self-actualized), I somehow managed to get my fingers stuck in the pot. Not because I have pudgy fingers or anything, but because there are obvious design flaws in that T shaped money slot.

The people coming out of the grocery store behind me were confronted with a hysterical bell ringer and an even more disturbed woman who looked like she was trying to steal from the Salvation Army.

This particular situation was clearly NOT covered in the bell ringer dude training manual, because he kind of flipped out right along with me.

Sadly enough, I was stealing from the Salvation Army. If my hand had NOT been stuck in the slot for five minutes, they would have taken in at least another 20 bucks. That’s a significant donor shortfall for which I am personally responsible. On the other hand, I drew a pretty big crowd with my kettle dance shenanigans – which surely made up the difference.

That was a LOT of excitement for a 10AM trip to the grocery store. And the day had only just begun.

The holidays are exhausting, even when you DON’T inadvertently steal from the poor; suffer a minor finger injury; and endure massive reputational damage.

The next time I donate, (and there will be a next time because you can’t exit any store without tripping over a Salvation Army guy) I’m using coins. They drop right in and don’t require any prestidigitation at all.

Despite evidence to the contrary, stealing from the poor is not really what I’m all about, (no matter how enticing a class action suit might appear now that I’ve contacted the hundred other people who’ve also gotten their hands stuck in the kettle.)

But just in “case”, the Salvation Army should probably make sure that their liability coverage extends to donor entrapment and holiday mental anguish. Just a friendly suggestion made in the true spirit of the holiday season.

…and to all my Wiccan, Druid and Pagan readers, happy winter solstice.
See you all in 2011!
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Waiting to Explode in Line at Starbucks

2010-12-15T09:55:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #434 | December 15th 2010
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I like waiting in lines. It’s my favorite part of the holiday season. Lines give me the chance to demonstrate just how much better I am than the cranky guy standing next to me in line at Starbucks. I am living proof that the holiday spirit is alive and well simply because I do NOT roll my eyes and radiate absolute despair.

In the old days, God used to test us by asking us to do stuff like sacrifice our first born son or build an improbably large ark. Nowadays he simply puts 10 Starbucks “rookies” in line in front of us, several of whom are trying to chat, breastfeed and order all at the same time. If you can hold it together under those circumstances, you are truly virtuous.

Long lines challenge us to show that we are worthy of evolution (or of creation) by staying perfectly, beatifically CALM. Call it what you will – sainthood or survival instinct – patience is what separates us from the apes, our dogs, and precocious two year olds.

At least this is what I told myself while waiting in line at the post office yesterday.

The line was, as expected, ASTRONOMICALLY long. Two of the three postal workers were on break, which bothered some people but left me unperturbed. As I’ve always said, a happy, well rested postal worker doesn’t feel the need to bring his shotgun to work wrapped in a baby blanket.

Yes, the wait was interminable, but finally there was just one person between me and the counter…an attractive Swedish lady with a striking resemblance to Gisele Bundchen. She was so pretty she made everyone in line smile. And she wasn’t even breastfeeding.

“Gisele” wanted to mail some letters, but she had a lot of random stamps to use up. The post office guy told her he didn’t have 10 cent stamps but he could give her 4 cent and 6 cent stamps so that she could combine them with her old stamps and mail her stuff without spending a single extra penny on postage.

Gisele, unsure of how many letters/stamps she had, spent the next 10 minutes counting them. Let’s just say that Gisele's math skills did not seem to be as honed as her appearance. NOT profiling (because I am better than that), just an honest observation.

It didn’t take long for EVERYONE in line to begin to despise Gisele and to swear off Toblerone forever.

By the time Gisele finished her basic math calculations the postman’s face was very red. Total cost to Gisele: 66 cents. Total cost to the rest of us: 20 minutes of our lives and a heightened risk of postal attack. I couldn’t help but think that it would only be fair if Gisele were shot first, giving the rest of us time to bolt for the exit.

Is it possible that God (or the Alien Being that Lives 8 Billion Light Years Away) sent Gisele to test the patience that I so smugly claim to possess? If so, I have failed.

To redeem myself and regain my aura of niceness, I have determined that I must subject myself to an even worse line than the post office in December - which as we all know means a trip to the DMV at lunch time.

I will become the Madonna of Lines once again, even if I have to walk through fire. Even if it requires a pilgrimage to the Mecca of Lines, Disney World.

What I’ve learned from this experience is that many of us, including me (and a certain tightly wound lawyer friend of mine who probably shouldn’t be having caffeine at all), could show a little more patience this time of year.

So the next time “we” are in line at Starbucks, “we” will cut the nursing mom with the three screaming toddlers some slack. “We” won’t make rude gestures at the guy ordering for 10 of his colleagues.

And this holiday season, all of us will remember that real mensch’s DO NOT order blender drinks, especially if there are any postal workers in line behind us.
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Trouble with Towels

2010-12-08T12:16:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #433 | December 8th, 2010
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I’ve been having towel trouble. I know, I know…as problems go this is a relatively minor one, but it is slowly sucking the joy out of my life; making me resentful of my family; and eating away at my normally happy-go-lucky nature.

All I seem to do these days is endless loads of laundry, half of which are towels. Yet the linen closet is nearly always empty. Wiped out.

I thought I could solve this problem by simply buying more towels. Rookie mistake. I learned that the more towels I own, the more towels I wash and the more indescribably annoyed I become.

Then I figured out that problem is not so much the towels as it is the people who use them. An infinite number of towels can be absorbed into the teenage lair. A teenager will choose the towel that is clean and folded over one of the five barely touched towels on their bedroom floor EVERY single time.

Hence the mania.

I honestly don’t think my kids have even noticed how obsessed I’ve become. Or maybe they have, and it’s all part of their “plan” to drive me so close to the edge that I don’t care about towels anymore.

If so, they are cleverer than I thought. But I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.

In the book Angela’s Ashes, 12 Irish immigrants in a NYC boarding house share TWO towels for an entire week. For hygiene sake they have some complicated rules about “top” use vs. “bottom” use, but somehow they make it work, because that is all they have. And therein lay the answer to my towel problem.

Fewer towels. (Or fewer teenagers, but my husband refuses to consider boarding school.)

So I sorted through my towel collection and kept just two towels per person. I assigned each person a color. I donated the rest. (Most of which were badly fraying anyway.)

If you’ve read Angela’s Ashes, you know that an allotment of two towels per person is downright generous. And the color coding makes it easy to identify the perpetrators of towel crime and punish them by making them dry-off with toilet paper.

Yes, I am both crazy and creative.

My new system was working great for a while. Then my son stopped doing his laundry. He took my husband’s towel; then he took my towel. He stashed said towels in his closet.

We searched for weeks for the towels that my son denied ever touching or seeing. I accepted his argument of plausible deniability since one, we couldn’t find the towels, and two; sleep-deprived teenage boys quite legitimately remember very little.

Meanwhile my husband and I got creative with hand towels.

We eventually found the stolen bath towels at the bottom of a stanky 4 foot pile of laundry in my son’s closet. I ranted; I complained; I whined. Then I took yet another page from Frank McCourt and began to drink, which made me feel much better. Wish I’d thought of it sooner.

But I’m not beaten yet. My NEW idea is for each family member to hide their towels in an undisclosed location to keep them from being pilfered. This seems to be working, though I did not intend to create so much fear and distrust, especially around the holidays.

If this final effort fails, I will buy a case of Vodka. If I can’t win, I might as well not care.
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A Perfect Pat-Down is Priceless

2010-12-08T12:04:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #432 | December 1st, 2010
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Our federal bureaucracies need to hire more Harvard MBAs. How do I know? Because the Transportation Security Administration could be making a bajillion dollars by offering travelers an “upgraded” security experience - for a hefty fee - and it doesn’t.

For example, if I could choose Sven, the 6 foot Icelandic blond with the rippling forearms to do my pat-down; would I not pay at least 20 extra bucks for the privilege? Especially if standing behind “scary pat-down door number two” was toothless “body-odor Billie Bob” with the unusually sweaty palms.

Now that I can visualize the options, I might even pay $40.

The TSA has a captive, unhappy audience, ripe for a value-added upsell. What they obviously DON’T have is a marketing and sales department.

Our economy is in the dumpster, yet the TSA refuses to cash in on the desires of travelers like myself who would gladly shell out for Sven. Enhanced security fees are a NO-BRAINER, they are like an optional progressive tax, a win win. It’s the kind of revenue stream that Republicans and Democrats have DREAMED of for years– but which I came up with after just two hours in the airport security line.

Let the rich pay for stuff they desperately want. Let the government reap the reward. This country needs new sources of “voluntary” revenue that’s not generated from regressive options like casinos and lotteries.

There’s no need to tax the rich when they’re willing to purchase “security services” at astronomical prices. Why shouldn’t our government monopolies take advantage of their power over the free market? (Just ignore the fact that this might be communism and focus on the money.)

Think about it. Charging “extra” has kept the airline industry afloat for years. Security upgrade fees could do the same for Washington.

Patriotic Americans will NOT complain about having the opportunity to “pimp” their security experience, because most Americans are capitalists and accept that life often includes Pareto optimal outcomes. (In other words, life isn't fair.)

The airlines have paved the way for TSA to make its move. We are already used to paying extra for luggage, for snacks, for movies, for blankets and pillows, for extra leg room, for being fat, and for the air hostess to be extra nice (it’s called First Class). The American Traveler is ripe for the picking.

So how will the TSA bring in the big bucks? For starters, they have to make enhanced pat- downs required for all passengers. Then they have to make the regular security process extremely tedious and unpleasant with really long lines. (Oh wait, they’ve already done that.) All that is left to do is to offer a menu of security experience “upgrades” beyond the current basic offerings.

I suggest the following “Travel Menu” for starters.

“Security Express” - a quicker route through security, AKA authorized cutting.

“Pat-Down Plus” - a more “spa-like” enhanced pat-down room, with plush robes and slippers, changing rooms and a beverage service.

“Pat-Down Choice” – pat-downs by educated, attractive individuals, who offer scintillating conversation as you are felt-up, to help take your mind off (or enhance) the experience.

“Keepsake Scanner Art” – option to purchase a copy of your naked body scanner image as a souvenir or framed art. They make excellent gifts.

People who don’t wish to pay for “upgrades” (or who can’t afford to) can simply keep doing what they are doing now for free. Research shows that people respond very positively to the word “free”.

While security is our first priority, I see no problem with putting a price on public “outrage”.

If I have to get a pat-down, I want the option of getting it from Sven.
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Wall to Wall Filth

2010-11-24T06:31:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #431 | November 24th, 2010
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I really thought I was moving up the decorating food chain the day I installed cushy, expensive wall to wall carpet in my bedroom. A sea of pale green luxury beneath my feet, and most importantly, warm toes. So classy, I said to myself.

A mere 3 years later I hated that carpet with all my soul. There is a reason why carpet cleaning products abound and carpet cleaning businesses thrive…it’s because carpet is a filth collector. Wall-to-wall is a man-made mite and dirt magnet that cannot be cleaned to any socially acceptable standards, (even my own relatively low ones.)

Not to mention the fact that super magnified pictures of dust mites really freak me out.

Dust mites thrive in an area where it's about 77 degrees, and the relative humidity is 75 percent. Their ideal habitat is a fully-carpeted room. (Hint: do not carpet the bathroom.) Yet the mite itself is not the problem, though they are seriously ugly little 8-legged arachnids. It’s their POOP - which they generate by eating bits of our dead skin. From our carpets.

Grossed out yet?

What really bothers me is that for almost the same price, I could have installed hardwood in my bedroom and saved myself from a decade of steam cleaner rental, frantic calls to the carpet stain removal guys, and the purchase of endless vats of Carpet “Fresh” and Pet “Fresh.” (“Fresh” meaning “laden with toxic chemicals.”)

None of the above, including intensive vacuuming had any visible effect on the dirt / dog hair / mite-poop buildup on my carpet. No matter what we did, that carpet looked DIRTY.

What bothers me even more is that I did this to myself; I chose carpet over hardwood in the first place.

Finally, after 10 years of punishing myself, I’ve ripped up the wall-to-wall and installed beautiful ebony-stained hardwood. It looks awesome. And yes, I still have to vacuum, but I’ll take a few dust bunnies and dog hair tumbleweeds over 100 billion dust mites any day.

Now when the dog barfs I’m no longer faced with a 6 hour barf scraping de-staining project. Red wine spills…no problem. Coffee sloshes…bring it on. All I need is a roll of paper towels. Thanks to my new hardwood floor, I’m in stanky stain heaven. Maybe I should be embarrassed to admit that, but I’m not.

My carpet is gone and I’ve never been happier. So what if I have to wear socks in my room. So what if I have no-one to eat my dead skin bits and have to vacuum them up myself. It’s such a teeny tiny price to pay.

Of course it would have been a much teenier price if I had just put the hardwood floor in to begin with.
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Inside the Floundering Fortune Cookie Industry

2010-11-17T14:02:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #430 | November 17th, 2010
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I fully expect that one hour after eating Chinese food, I will be hungry. But what I don’t expect at the end of my meal is a LAME fortune. And that’s exactly what I’ve been getting lately. Take-out has never been so disappointing.

I used to be able to make major life decisions based on my fortune. New jobs, marriage, pregnancy, you name it, all came about because of 5 oracular words inside a (let’s be honest) not-so-tasty cookie. Nowadays fortune cookies seem to be filled with gimmicky feel good sayings that have no bearing on life, death, success or love.

Yet another reason to miss the ‘90s.

The superficial platitudes being passed off as “fortunes” today are an embarrassment to Sun Tzu, Confucius and the billion other people who live in China. For example…

- The more baths you take, the cleaner you will be.
- The road to happiness is paved with good deeds.
- Open your door to good fortune.

Obviously the Chinese are too focused on WORLD DOMINATION to write a decent fortune anymore. What happened to the art of abstruseness? Where is the inscrutable Chinese mind?

Fortunately, before I actually published this column I learned that fortune cookies are NOT actually Chinese. (Oops.)

Fortune cookies are Japanese in origin and manufactured solely in America. In fact, Wonton Foods (a second generation American company based in Brooklyn and run by guys with heavy Chinese accents and a database of 10,000 so-called “fortunes”) tried to export the idea to China, but the Chinese rejected them as being “too American”. Meanwhile, 300 million Americans are convinced that the fortune cookie is totally Chinese. That’s just weird.

But the discovery of incontrovertible facts does not change my desire to have my faux wisdom served up in deep, meaningful, and preferably poetic, prose. AND I want my fortunes to be as cryptic as possible. It's more intellectually challenging. Fortunes should read more like this…

- The chrysanthemum that blooms in fall is like the duck that swims in winter.
- A choice between two demons may be not a choice, but a punishment.
- Make every Tuesday sexy panty day.
- The sun may choose to shine on a single blade of grass.

That’s what I’m talking about! I’m more than happy to upgrade my panties, but what the hell does that really mean?! And why Tuesday? Do you see what I’m getting at? We need to get back to the way fortunes were meant to be written, enigmatically, like Haiku. (Yes, another deceptively simple Japanese art form with subtle, hidden meaning.)

Stop complaining, you say – it’s JUST a fortune cookie? Switch to horoscopes? I think not. The ‘fortune’ is king. Horoscopes are for needy people who require way too much direction in their lives. Fortunes are for people who can make a leap of faith from 5 fathomless words written in supposedly “food safe” ink on a tiny slip of paper.

Fortunes are for the bold.

I once thought that I would make a great “greeting card” writer. But now I have a better idea. I’m turning my dubious talents to the fortune industry, which is clearly in distress.

In my humble opinion, fortune cookie prophesies should…

• Have more sexual innuendo. (That goes over the kids’ heads but not mom & dads.)
• Be completely incomprehensible so that they can be interpreted however we want, like tea leaves.
• Have lots of typos so they seem more authentically Chinese, even though they are not.
• Be dipped in chocolate.

Anyone with me?

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Hungry Or Bored?

2010-11-10T17:14:00.000-08:00

Chuckle #429 | November 10th, 2010
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I should be able to tell whether I’m hungry or simply bored, but that fine distinction often eludes me. Especially when there are vats of leftover Halloween candy scattered around the house. Twix and Heath bars call to me like last season’s peasant skirt on the clearance rack at Marshalls. It is not physically possible for me to simply walk on by. Skirt or candy.

Sugar makes me surly but I can’t stop indulging. My face is an unsightly mass of chocolate induced blotches, but put the Hershey’s bar down? Not a chance. The Chocolate Goddess has me in her thrall. Cocoa is after all, a drug of sorts. Why else would we crave it so much?

I begged my kids to donate their Halloween loot days ago, to no avail. Shouldn’t a more deserving family have the opportunity to pack on the pounds, ruin their complexions and rot their teeth? I certainly think so.

I eat the Halloween candy not because I am hypoglycemic (which is one of my more creative excuses) but because it is THERE. Hunger has absolutely nothing to do with my chocolate consumption. Even the kids now know better than to leave for school and leave their candy anywhere near mom.

But my problems go well beyond the short-lived temptations of Halloween.

My pantry is perpetually stocked with the snacks necessary to satisfy three kids and a voracious husband. How is a woman supposed to eat egg whites when hot dogs and cheese are so plentiful? As a mother, I have to meet the needs of my family - don’t I? Given the variety and quantity of food available for my snacking pleasure, I doubt I’ll have the chance to experience real “hunger” for years.

Sure, I occasionally utter the words, “Boy am I starving!” But by pot-bellied African children standards, that’s a gross exaggeration. In my case, “starving” usually means that I skipped my third cup of coffee or my 5PM pre-dinner bag of cheese corn. Not exactly the stuff of hardship.

Yeah, I’m a snacker. I pretty much snack all day long, starting with a handful of cereal at 7AM, a muffin at 8:30, then a brownie at 10. After 11 or so I start to debate whether I should have a mid-morning 2nd breakfast, or wait a bit and have a proper lunch.

In the afternoon all hell breaks loose because I have NO RULES, NO LIMITS, and from what I can tell, NO SELF RESPECT.

In fact, at this very moment there’s a Hundred Thousand Dollar bar SHOUTING my name – from a Ziploc bag stuffed in the back of a cabinet that I can’t reach without a stool. And I’m willing to bet you 8 pounds of leftover Halloween candy that it won’t be there when my kids get home from school.

I’m not saying it’s a healthy way to eat, but it’s what I do.

Actually, the "experts" say this approach is healthy. Nutritionists claim that “grazing” is best. (As long as the “grazing” isn’t primarily on Halloween candy and Brie). We’ve been told that rather than consuming three super-sized meals each day, it’s better to stare at the contents of the pantry 20 times a day; wonder what you “feel” like eating; then grab a few pita chips or a handful of nuts. Like me.

My “Snacker Diet” would be cutting edge if it didn’t consist primarily of sugar and caffeine.

And I take it back. I have rules. They just don’t kick in until the kids get home…
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One Woman, One Vote, & 257 Oversized Political Postcards

2010-11-03T11:03:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #428 | November 3rd, 2010
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Because I kept my maiden name, and because my husband and I are both registered to vote, we receive TWO copies of every political mailing. If there ever was a good reason to take your husband’s name, this would be it. My recycling bin is simply not big enough to handle this much political discourse AND the early holiday catalogues.

On the other hand, some of this propaganda has excellent entertainment value.

My favorite mailings are the ones where candidates have clearly tried to make their opponent look really unlikeable by using the most unflattering photos they can find off the internet. The best graphic designers can then realistically Photoshop in chain link fence backgrounds and pet Pit Bulls. It’s really quite remarkable.

And it's all done in the name of democracy.

By the time you read this, Election Day will have come and gone, and you, like me, will have recycled that 40 gallon bin full of diatribe and vitriol and cast your vote for the person who has annoyed you the least during the last 6 months.

This process of figuring out who to vote for takes a lot of effort. Reviewing candidates’ positions, visiting factcheck.org, and reading the League of Women Voter’s “Voter Guide” is time consuming. I can see why people sometimes take the easy way out and simply vote along party lines, or for their favorite pundit’s candidates. I totally understand. Participating in Democracy is easy; doing it with intelligence is really hard work.

So when I can’t decide between two candidates, or it doesn’t seem to matter who I pick, I choose the person who parts their hair on the left…like me.

At least I have a system.

Just so you know where I am coming from, I’m one of those “unaffiliated” swing voters who’s become so disillusioned with our two party system that I’ve been actively seeking a more moderate, normal third party to call my own.

My intensive research and deep soul searching has let me to the Modern Whig Party, to which I have now given permission to send me email. I have single-handedly broadened their base to include disaffected stay-at-home suburban moms who are deeply concerned about the state of our great nation, but are too busy arranging carpools to do much about it.

They say they are happy to have me, despite my limitations.

The Modern Whigs are moderates who believe in fiscal responsibility and social tolerance; the defense of our nation, and the need for US supremacy in renewable energy and education. The founding members are veterans of the Iraq and Afghan wars, and are therefore well acquainted with the M16.

Good friends to have as 2012 approaches.

The real reason I joined the party is because they have the best slogan ever, “Whig Out!” (and partly because I’ve always had a “thing” for Lincoln.)

While I’m psyched about my new party, I’m feeling subdued this election year. The euphoria is gone and all I’ve got left is political ennui and mistrust. Do you feel it too?

If you’ve got my political symptoms, and you think there could be some truth to the Mayan rumors of apocalypse in 2012, then the Modern Whigs might be right for you. At the very least they can teach you how to shoot that sawed-off shotgun.

According to the experts, the next few years are going to be all about survival.
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My Knuckle Headed Navigation System

2010-10-27T10:54:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #427 | October 27th, 2010
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The future of transportation is definitely NOT now. I once had a dream that by 2010 I could strap myself into my “hover pod” and be futuristically transported to my destination. We’re not even close. The only major improvement in personal transportation in the past 30 years has been the invention of GPS “navigation”.

And even that’s debatable.

I had high hopes for satellite navigation, but as it turns out, nav is more of a curse than a panacea. You can’t trust it. My nav system will unerringly choose a one lane road full of badly timed traffic lights over a highway. If I am bold enough to select “detour” the new route will add at least 2 hours to my trip.

Since my nav has so frequently led me astray, I now prepare for long trips into unfamiliar territory by printing at least four Google map options plus a MapQuest backup. Then I spend two hours comparing those routes with what my Garmin says I should do. They never match. And exactly how does this make my life better?

I’m convinced that my “HAL 9000” Garmin is no improvement over the classic road atlas, with the exception of its ability to speak. At least my road atlas has never tried to send me to a burned out building for a Slurpee.

I’ve always been a big fan of real maps. You can see where you’re going and where you’ve been. You can look for an interesting side trip or a more scenic route. There is nothing like spreading a big ‘ole paper map out across the dashboard and ogling an entire 3 day road trip in its entirety. GPS navigation offers no visual gratification.

I know what you are thinking. Yes, women like maps. We are a very visual sex. We have a pleasure center dedicated entirely to map reading. We were the original “nav system”, before men invented a high tech gadget with a sexy British accent to replace us. Now that our role as trip “navigator” has been marginalized, at least husbands and wives don’t fight as much in the car. I suppose that is some form of progress.

But here’s what I don’t get.

Google has a car that can drive itself for 300 miles in traffic with no human intervention, yet my nav still can’t tell me when there is a 25 mile back-up on the Jersey Turnpike.

And since redlining was outlawed by the Community Reinvestment Act, I don’t dare mention the lack of integrated neighborhood crime data. Why can’t my nav tell me that a particular exit off the Cross Bronx Expressway is a bona fide Bonfire of the Vanities BAD IDEA?

I think a serious GPS backlash is coming. Women have become disillusioned. Our lack of confidence will devastate the GeoWeb industry. I’ve already shorted MapQuest and Garmin and I’m starting to invest in real geography- e.g. glorious, fold-out printed MAPS from the likes of Michelin and Rand McNally.

Why am I being such a Luddite? Because every kid should be able to read a map. Because I want my kids to develop a sense of direction and rely less on technology in a crisis. If someone said “Go west young man” my son wouldn’t have a clue. He’d freeze to death in Minnesota. If the satellites went down, so would my kids. It's a survival thing.

So take heart cartographers! GPS has failed to win the hearts and minds of American moms, which means that the archaic map industry will soon boom again. At least until the words “Beam me up Scotty” can be said with confidence, which may be sooner than you think. The science behind quantum teleportation was recently proven - by the Chinese of course.

At least someone is making progress in transportation.
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CNN’s Hubris & Eliot Spitzer’s Arrogance

2010-10-20T07:38:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #426 | October 20th, 2010
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I really appreciate what CNN does. Their political programming is some of the best out there. Over the years they’ve introduced me to some truly even-handed and talented correspondents such as David Gergen, Aaron Brown, Anderson Cooper, and Christiane Amanpour.

I watch CNN because I like my news network ands its reporters to be respectful, intelligent, factual, and balanced. Unfortunately CNN’s ratings have suffered because it has persistently taken the news “high road”. I totally understand that, for economic reasons, a network may occasionally need to program for survival. But there are certain LINES that should not be crossed.

So I just have to ask CNN directly…

An Eliot Spitzer show! What were you thinking?

Are you trying to tick women off? Do you really think our memories are that short? Women may be the “gentler sex” but we will not so easily forgive a man who cheats. Think Lorena Bobbitt - not so gentle.

Women don’t generally want to get their news and political commentary from cheating hypocrites who grievously wrong their wife and children. (No matter what their political affiliation may be.) We don’t care that this happened two years ago. Eliot may be slick, but how smart could he really be if he was caught by the Feds wtih his pants (figuratively) down? We just don’t trust him.

Women hold grudges against married guys with brobdingnagian egos and overactive man parts.

And since we women have higher levels of voter turnout, college attendance and business start-ups than guys, you should listen to us.

Here’s what I suggest.

Mr. Spitzer should get out of the spotlight for a while. He should man-up and spend the next 10 years fighting human trafficking. He should use his famous “bulldog” prosecutorial skills to defend American women and girls trapped in or forced into a life of prostitution. That’s called restitution. As a former attorney general I’m sure he knows what it means.

Only THEN might he become worthy of a CNN show.

At your next programming meeting (where I sincerely hope there are some senior level women) ask yourselves the question… “Can CNN really get into bed with Eliot Spitzer and still respect itself in the morning?”

CNN ratings might be down 40%, but your core viewers, the educated thought leaders who stick with you even when the news cycle is slow, are worth more than those at other networks. Try selling that idea to your advertisers - instead of trying to sell us on Eliot Spitzer.

You’ve got to remember that you are special. There are still a few Americans out there who can tell the difference between a “show” and the news. Some of us can still think for ourselves.

Don’t make us leave you for the BBC!
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I Only Nag You Because I Love You

2010-10-13T13:58:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #425 | October 13th, 2010
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I don’t want to be a nag. (And I certainly don’t like BEING nagged.) But despite my best intentions, I find myself doing it. And once I start, I can’t seem to shut myself up.

I like to think that nagging is born of motherly love, worry and concern. In reality, we moms are not nagging, we are simply reminding our children that certain things must get done if they are to realize their full potential and enjoy a bright future. This is hopefully a “future” in which we no longer do our kids’ laundry or make them lunch.

For some reason kids insist on calling this pure expression of motherly love, nagging.

Dads don’t nag, mostly because “nag” can also mean an old and overworked FEMALE horse. It’s therefore unseemly for a man to nag. Most men have learned to endure the chaos of family life in manly silence, even when they trip over stuff left on the mudroom floor.

What Dads have really learned is to do is to leave the nagging to mom.

With regards to mom, the definition of “Nag” is…

1. To annoy by constant scolding, complaining, or urging.
2. To be a persistent source of anxiety or annoyance.

So what distinguishes “reminding” from “nagging”?

In a close reading of the Webster’s definition above, the difference appears to be the words “constant”, “persistent”, and “annoy”. Apparently you can “remind” someone to do something once or twice. To do so repeatedly means that you have become unbearable.

“Reminding” is done at the dinner table during civilized conversation. “Nagging” is done while standing in front of the TV during the kids’ favorite show. Big difference.

But aren’t moms forced to nag because ONE reminder is never enough? If we do not repeat ourselves ad nauseam, then important stuff falls through the cracks. We LOVE our kids too way much to let them suffer the consequences of procrastination. That is why we nag.

If I did not nag, my kids would NEVER change their sheets. If I did not nag, my son would probably not apply to college. If I did not nag, my children would re-use their dirty underwear and leave their bicycles out in the rain. Who suffers? THEY do. Why can’t my kids seem to understand that I’m only trying to help?

It is very difficult, nay, it is impossible for a woman to stay silent about some things, especially dirty underwear. But are we really helping when we parrot the same demands over and over, only to let our kids’ slide day after day?

Over time I have learned that nagging only works if it comes with some tough love in the form of really unsettling consequences. For example, “I am removing all the toilet paper from this house until you sign-up for the SATs.” Say it once…take the paper…watch the reaction.

So if you want to be heard (and obeyed), try delivering some compelling consequences along with your gentle “reminders”. Then bite your tongue and be willing to let your kids drop the ball and totally screw-up.

They call it tough love for two reasons. 1) It takes guts to deliver, and 2) letting your kid fail usually hurts you even more than it hurts them.
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My Ridonculous Refrigerator Folly

2010-10-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #424 | October 6th, 2010
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We’re all familiar with Murphy’s Law, the Law of Diminishing Returns, Lemon Laws and “In” Laws. Combine all four and you get Appliance Law.

Appliance Law dictates that your dishwasher will break down the minute your in-laws arrive and that your fridge will fail the day before Thanksgiving. These things will happen precisely three weeks after your warrantee expires. That’s because appliance companies are smart enough to hire actuaries, but not smart enough to build stuff that lasts.

I’m told that we live in the age of “disposable” hard goods. And yes, that should be a non sequitur, but sadly, it is not.

The day my fridge stopped working I went online to find out why. The helpful consumer blog “GE Blows” informed me that my icebox was at the end of its life expectancy of approximately 10 years. Even my DOG will last longer than that, and I've only had to "repair" him once.

To Repair or To Replace? That is the question we beleaguered consumers face more and more often. So what would it cost to replace my fridge? Almost as much as a brand new Nissan Versa – which unlike a fridge, has re-sale value and comes in many attractive colors.

I did see some perfectly lovely fridges in the showroom for around $1000-$1500 bucks. But the custom paneled ice/water dispensing, counter depth 42 inch unit that would fit in my fridge “space” costs a whole lot more.

I wish I could remember what was I thinking (or how much model glue I was exposed to) 10 years ago when I was planning my kitchen.

In my parents’ day, fridges lasted 30 years. I know this because when I called to tell my mom that my fridge was broken, she spent a ½ hour communicating this 10 second factoid to me. Of course the old fridge had to be manually de-frosted every 5 days, using pans of boiling water and an ice pick. But at least it kept stuff cold.

And don’t get me started on my GE Spacemaker microwave. It is the ONLY model microwave that fits in my upper cabinet “microwave designated” built-in space, and therefore GE knows that it can break with IMPUNITY every two years.

I once had the nerve to ask GE why this microwave was so darn bad. GE kindly suggested that I refrain from wiping the control panel with a damp rag as it causes the panel to short out. So as long as people don’t clean this microwave, it should be fine. GE is very helpful that way. I only wish that this minor caveat had appeared in the manual two microwaves ago.

So here’s the lesson learned. Do not “build in” or put expensive wood panels on your appliances (unless you are filthy rich.) Sure it looks nice for a couple years, but once the appliance breaks, you are stuck, sucker.

Given that today’s appliances last only 10-12 years, the smart consumer should buy the cheapest possible energy star rated appliances. If you can also design a charming “unfitted” kitchen, like in the old days, you can really save big when you inevitably have to replace every appliance you own.

BTW, my fridge was eventually repaired, but only after I subtly shared my Italian heritage with Mario the repair guy, and told him that replacing the fridge would mean dipping into the college fund. He took pity on me and fixed it within an hour.

And here’s some more food for thought. The repair of my built-in refrigerator folly cost about the same as my parents paid for their first fridge, delivered.

See mom, I was listening…
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Shopping in the Red Light District

2010-09-29T14:41:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #423 | September 29th, 2010
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The blond slowly ran her hands over my husband’s butt and down his inseam. He stood passively in the cubicle as I watched. It was both uncomfortable and titillating. She tugged seductively at his waistband and turned him to face me. I could barely meet his eyes I felt so embarrassed.

No, we weren’t in Amsterdam on the Oudezijds Achterburgwal. We were buying a suit. Still, this fitting room threesome felt way too ménage à wrong.

The suddenly business-like sales lady pronounced the pants “perfect”. “Flat front is the way to go for him, don’t you think?”

“Flat front is definitely sexy,” I replied, still reeling from the shock of watching another woman lasciviously handle my husband as he stood before a three way mirror. In public, on a platform. Like a Wall Street pole dancer.

“What do you think?” I asked, turning to my mother-in-law.

“They look great,” she said nodding her approval, and not looking the least bit titillated. (For which I am eternally thankful.)

“How about cuffs?” my husband asked.

“No cuffs”, said the saleslady.

“No cuffs”, agreed his mother.

He looked hopefully over at me. “I want cuffs”, he insisted, looking more like a mulish 16 year old than a successful man of finance.

“Sorry sweetie, I have to agree with your mom, no cuffs. These flat front pants have a very sexy European gigolo look and cuffs would ruin them.” I winked suggestively. Then I shrugged to show him how helpless both he and I were in the face of the combined force of his mom and the sales lady. Secretly I cheered. Finally, a pair of pant without pleats or cuffs!

Women have been telling men what to wear since the first colorblind husband emerged from his closet wearing a hideous “tan on tan” combination. You’d think guys would know by now what NOT to wear with khakis.

I don’t have a lot of rules about clothes. I’m not one of those wives who insists on “dressing” their husband. As long he doesn’t clash horribly or put on a Speedo, I am ok with whatever he chooses to wear.

Shopping for casual clothes is hard enough, but shopping for suits is sheer torture. For one, suits are expensive and a mistake will cost you a bundle. Plus, watching your husband get groped by a salesperson, male or female, is decidedly uncomfortable. And what the tailor does to a man’s pants is practically X-rated, or would be if he wasn’t a 90 year old Italian guy.

Some people are into that sort of thing. I have to look away.

So last weekend, even after I endured this thoroughly disturbing fitting on my husband’s behalf, he still complains that he doesn’t have cuffs on his new suit. He claims he was railroaded by a bunch of women. Well, he was. And he looks great because of it.

We ladies made it up to him by letting him pick out all his own ties, even some ugly ones.

All I can say is that these suits had better last a long, long time because I might never fully recover from sharing that experience with my mother-in-law. My husband should show some concern for my delicate mental state, and stop whining about his lack of cuffs!
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My Rude Response to "Reply All"

2010-09-29T13:03:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #422 | September 22nd, 2010
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The misuse, over-use and general abuse of “Reply All” is driving me crazy. Why are so many seemingly intelligent people unable to determine when to use “reply all” vs. “reply”? This is NOT a difficult distinction to make. Am I wrong?

Would you shout in a restaurant so that everyone could hear your conversation? Would you yell at all three of your kids when only one of them was in trouble? No you would not. But there are people out there who don’t think twice about hitting “reply all”. And those people need help.

“Reply all” is for super important, need-to-know stuff, like delays, cancellations, injuries, and acts of God. Using “reply all” for ANY other reason is unacceptably bad mannered.

Our inboxes are clogged with “reply all” messages from well-meaning moms who can’t make a distinction between stuff that is truly important and getting their hair highlighted. We have no choice but to read these emails on the miniscule chance that they contain critical information.

There is a mom on a “water related” team email distribution list who is a prime offender. She ALWAYS replies to group emails with consecutive group replies, such as “Thanks!” “Where is it?” and “Oops!” I kid you not.

This mom has become the “boy who cried wolf” of my inbox. I routinely delete her messages without reading them, knowing that 99.9% of the time, they will be a colossal waste of my time. One day she is going to email me something that could have saved my life, and I will have prematurely sent it into cyberspace.

Sometimes a “tree” should fall in the forest without being heard. George Berkeley would have had a metaphysical field day with people who compulsively “reply all”. He might have said that they are desperately trying to confirm their own existence by “emailing it” from the rooftops, and hoping for a reply. "Esse est percipi" (To be is to be perceived.)

Ok, so maybe that is complete drunken Irish philosopher psycho-babble. In my opinion, most people who over-use “reply all” are suffering from Digital Diva Disease or simply don’t have a clue. This column might help them get one.

Reply all is an important communication tool, assuming you can distinguish important information from hogwash. For example, for a group of 200, the fact that little Becky has lice is VERY important to all of us. The fact that Jane is having dinner with her husband at Tavern on the Green and can’t make the Parent Orientation Meeting is NOT.

Sadly, the over-use of “reply all” has made us extra suspicious. We systematically delete almost every email we receive. What if one of them contains the critical update that Becky, in addition to head lice, now has a highly communicable water-borne disease and should be avoided at all costs? It’s a risk we all take in a digital age.

So how do you stop the “reply all” epidemic? How do you tell your wife that she talks too much? Probably not going to happen. So you keep hitting delete and hoping that the Google brain trust is working on a solution.

In the meantime, if any “reply all” abusers are reading this column right now, take this message to heart. And maybe try something new for a change, like “forward this email to a friend.”
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So When Exactly IS "Losing" an Option?

2010-09-15T11:30:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #421 | September 15th, 2010
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I am descended from warriors. And like most warriors, competition brings out the beast in me. It has never been enough for me to simply participate in sports. I want to win. I want to crush my opponents, rob them of their dignity, cast them naked into a roiling sea, and if necessary, disembowel them. I don’t know what gets into me. It must be the Viking blood.

Luckily, I have a couple of friends who are exactly like me. Mongols at heart. Otherwise I would have no one to play with.

I can try to blame genetics, but I am what I am mostly because I was raised by intensely competitive parents. I learned to take no prisoners – even in CandyLand.

My kids are not like me.

This makes them very hard for me to understand. My kids enjoy playing sports for the fun of it, for the physical challenge and the camaraderie. They have no problem with participation trophies and consolation prizes. They invariably win the “coaches” award…for being good natured, supportive of their teammates and trying their best. Of course I am very proud. And no, I am not grinding my teeth.

After watching their games I try not to say things like, “You call that defense?” or “Next time, try to shoot more and bleed less.” But sometimes I can’t resist. My husband counters my “constructive” criticisms with inane comments like “You were great!” Thank goodness for my husband.

My kids think I am a lunatic. (Until I agree to a psychological evaluation they can’t prove a thing.) Mostly they ignore me, until I embarrass them. Oddly enough, this happens quite often.

The lure of the “parent/child” volleyball game this past weekend was too hard to resist. Let me just say that there is no such thing as a “friendly” game for any group of ex-athlete parents.

Let our kids beat us? I don’t think so. Cheat to win? Absolutely.

We parents toasted those freshman girls even after I went down with a serious hand injury in the first 15 minutes of play. Shameful, I know. Luckily my hand wasn’t broken, which I found out only after I shelled out $345 to Dr. Raj at the emergency medical care center.

My daughter suggested that $345 might have been better spent on therapy for my competitive personality disorder. She didn’t say it out loud, but I’m pretty sure she thought I got what I deserved. She could be right.

What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants. The fact that the body can no longer consistently deliver is a serious bummer. This year I pulled 4 major muscles, rolled an ankle, jammed a finger, twisted my neck, and nearly broke my wrist. I have incapacitated myself at least 6 times in recent memory.

I might be a lunatic (still unproven), but I am not a complete idiot. I get the message that my body is trying to send. Diving for balls is no longer such a good idea.

It’s time I lightened up and learned something from my surprisingly well-adjusted kids.

Winning isn’t everything. There is a certain JOY to simply being on the court and playing. I learned this during the 4 days I just spent in a wrist brace. And as soon as I recover, I plan to participate more and get hurt less. I’m also going to take up a new activity with less potential for fractures and where no one keeps score.

Yoga for Beginners here I come. If I work hard, I bet that I can be the best “stretcher” in my class. So don’t crowd my yoga mat, okay?
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Eight is MORE than Enough

2010-09-15T11:08:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #420 | September 8th, 2010
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I am flattered that my in-laws find my family so simpatico that they are thinking of moving up to CT. But staying with us for eight days while they house hunt is probably not the best way to get us excited about a permanent relocation.

Don’t get me wrong. We adore having family members and friends visit. But eight days is more than enough. Even the dog is starting to wonder when he’ll get his favorite spot on the couch back.

Did I happen to mention the number “eight” yet?

I told the kids to have patience. That it is “better to light a candle than curse the darkness.” Cryptic advice for my 12 year old, but after three glasses of wine what can you expect? I think she understood.

Ahhh…the extended-stay house guest. Quite honestly, I don’t even need to write this column. It writes itself. There is a reason why there are already dozens of sayings explaining precisely why house guests should keep their visits short.

These sayings are so indisputably UNIVERSAL that I feel compelled to ask my husband the delicate intergalactic question, “exactly which universe are your parents from?”

Some of these sayings originate from the time Homo Erectus built his first stick shelter and then couldn’t get rid of his annoying inbred cousin. (Back then if people stayed too long you could simply club them to death.) Now it’s not so simple. Other one-liners came to me just this week during some long escapist hours spent soaking in the bathtub. I do my best thinking in the tub.

So forget the column. The list of proverbs below is for everyone out there who has ever had a guest stay just a wee bit too long. Starting with the classic…

• Even fresh fish and favorite guests start to smell after three days.
• A constant guest is never welcome.
• House guests should be perishable.
• Until his parents leave the house, hubby gets no love from spouse.
• His balls are in their court.
• Prolonged exposure to anything is hazardous to your health.
• While you can’t hold your finger over the candle flame, you can pass through it many times.
• He Kiore Kai Whata (Maori saying in the Tainui dialect) Translation: The rats are eating the stored-up food

I have a second list of helpful clichés for people who somehow got through life without learning that perfect visit ends after three days. Take these to heart.

• Keep it short and sweet.
• Leave them wanting more
• Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
• The garbage doesn’t take itself out.
• Can one desire too much of a good thing? (Rosalind to Orlando, As You Like It)

Think about it. Even adorable little Goldilocks managed to annoy everyone in the bear family, and she only stayed ONE night.

And quite honestly, visiting us is not that great. We run around like crazy people, rarely sit still for more than 20 minutes at a time, the food is marginal, and the house is always a bit of a wreck.

On the other hand, one of the truly great things about family is that they don’t care about any of that. They love you, tolerate you, and want to be with you no matter what. I understand. We love them back.

But if I’m being perfectly “Candide”, wouldn’t it be the best of all possible worlds if that mutual “love” could be expressed in visits of a slightly shorter duration?
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The "Bike Butt" Blues

2010-09-15T10:54:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #419 | September 1st, 1020
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Once upon a time I was a Yuppie living in Brooklyn. I bought a good racing bike and a sweet little pair of Lycra bike shorts. I did gratuitous laps around the park on weekends to impress guys. New York City was my oyster and the mother of all STDs was virtually unknown. Life was good.

Twenty years later, much has changed. Not the least of which is the size and shape of my BUTT.

Back in the old days I wore bike shorts because they made me look fit and attractive. Now I need my bike shorts just like Superman needs his spandex. For support.

Bike shorts are no longer just a fashion statement; they are a transformational piece of athletic equipment. The extra padding makes biking tolerable for butts over 40. And just between you and me, a super wide, gel-filled granny seat can’t hurt either. So go ahead, pimp your ride.

I recently dug my old bike shorts out of my closet. By some fluke (maybe because I stored them next to my cryogenically preserved wedding dress) the Lycra fibers were still intact. And most importantly, they still fit, albeit like an extra small book sock forcing itself War & Peace.

Still, Lycra is a miracle product. It can be stretched to fit over almost anything, including my age altered buttocks. I think most women would continue to wear Lycra even if they had to kill puppies to make it. I’m sorry, but you know it’s true.

When my husband saw me in my bike shorts he did not faint, nor did he swoon with desire. Like I said, my butt has changed. Then he disappeared into his closet and emerged 20 minutes later wearing his ancient bike shorts. His shorts also “fit”. (See book sock analogy above for elaboration.)

We were pretty much ridiculously proud that we could squeeze into our old shorts. We felt cool. Whether we LOOKED cool is debatable. Luckily our youngest daughter was on hand to set us straight.

“Are you going OUTSIDE in those?” she asked incredulously. Then she refused to bike with us, even after we tried to bribe her with ice cream. She said it would be too embarrassing, especially since the start of school was just days away. If we made her go, her life and reputation would be ruined. We might as well smear her with bacon fat right now and leave her outside for the coyotes.

We began to have second thoughts about the shorts.

Bike short padding has the unfortunate effect of making one’s butt appear even larger than it is. Like objects in rear view mirrors. And when you are seductively hunched over your handle bars, every car approaching from behind has a clear view of what your behind has become.

A daunting thought.

I admit that I have, when the occasion called for it, made insensitive and possibly derogatory comments about other peoples’ bike butts. I am not proud of this. And knowing, from my own sad example, how cruel women can be, I refuse to let my butt become a topic of conversation.

So before heading out on our ride, I tied a sweatshirt around my waist as a defensive tactic. My husband looked at me as if I were nuts because it was 96 degrees.

He said, “Its 96 degrees. I don’t think you are going to need that”.

And I said, “That is where you are wrong, mister. This sweatshirt is strictly for protection. What if my butt looks enormous? What if people talk?”

Then he said, quite brilliantly, “They won’t talk because you don’t need that sweatshirt.”

And this is exactly why I married a smart guy with superior powers of observation, and the uncanny ability to tell me what I wanted to hear.

Despite these assurances (aka little white lies), I still wore the sweatshirt, plus a helmet and sunglasses. You just can’t be too incognito when wearing Lycra. Even Superman knew that.
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A River Outing “Outs” American Education

2010-09-08T10:26:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #418 | August 25th, 2010
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If the people who go “River Tubing” are representative of America, then America kind of scares me. Have you recently spent the afternoon Tubing? If the answer is a resounding and mortified YES, then you are now aware (as am I), that America does not spend nearly enough time and money trying to fix our broken education system.

The flaws are almost too numerous to list. Not only have our schools failed to provide American youth with one or two adjectives that could be used in place of “effing” (might I suggest “very”?), they have also failed to encourage common sense limits on tattoos and body piercings.

My recent tubing experience is certifiable proof that our schools have also failed to provide kids with the basic nutritional and health information that would have enabled them to make better lifestyle choices and “tube” in relative safety as adults.

Despite the generous weight limits on tubes, many tubers still ran aground. Those who tried to smoke and tube simultaneously suffered oddly circular third degree burns, and were charged for similarly damaged tubes. Had they been taught, as part of a robust science curriculum, that heat melts plastic, they’d still be merrily afloat.

Our tubing trip made me sad. I've been taught how to properly conjugate verbs, yet have done very little to promote education for all. I have failed my country. This must change.

Delivering the American educational system from its hillbilly black hole will not be easy, but for starters, I suggest this…

EVERY American president (and school principal, chancellor, superintendent, and board of Ed member) should be required to spend some quality time on the Delaware River in New Jersey with his/her butt stuck in a bright blue inner tube. Because in my personal experience, THAT is where he or she will come face to face with the adult product of our schools. At a float speed of approximately 1 MPH, there is plenty of time to get to know your fellow Americans. And to weep.

Now it’s possible that I am being statistically unfair. We chose to tube on a Sunday when the church going population who might otherwise have raised the education/morality bar was NOT in attendance. The representation of Jersey shore Snooki types was therefore higher in the studied sample than they might have been, say, on a Wednesday. Let’s just say that this “study” is not entirely scientific.

I realize that I sound like the privileged, east coast, public school educated, middle class, self-made, easily grossed-out woman that I am. (Even Disney crowds freak me out.) And I’m not proud for thinking that a hefty price tag of $27 per person to tube (plus $15 for the VIP line) would have kept the riff raff off the river. But I was wrong, so very wrong.

For one, the “VIP” line was a total waste of money. We had to use the same porta-potty and sketchy bus as everyone else. But at least my civic duty has been awakened.

Besides, I now have a personal interest in fixing the educational system. Thanks to the river trip, my kids just got their Eliza Doolittle education in reverse and can now creatively conjugate basic verbs like “to have” into “I don’t got no.” It’ll take a lot of work to undo the damage…

On the flip side, there is nothing like an afternoon spent tubing with the swearing, smoking, tattooed, and vocabulary challenged public to make your kids appreciate the lifestyle and educational opportunities you have provided. At the end of our tubing trip, my kids actually told ME how lucky and privileged and EDUCATED they felt. Maybe that’s what the $27 bucks was really for. If so, it was a bargain.

Yes, our tubing trip made me sad. But it also made me mad.

Being born into a poor, under-educated home in the inner city, rural Georgia or even central Jersey is America’s hidden caste system. Public education, or lack thereof, is our nation’s biggest “dirty little secret” and pardon my newly acquired River French, it’s “effing” unfair.

So in the end, I’m RECOMMENDING a river tubing trip. The experience will turn us all, young and old, into education activists. There’s a river of knowledge out there, and Americans have a right to do more than simply float on top of it.
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Napping our way to Economic Recovery

2010-09-08T10:10:00.000-07:00

Chuckle # 417 | August 18th, 2010
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A good nap is a glorious thing. I love those delicious drowsy moments between waking and sleeping. Your eyelids feel as heavy as a calculus textbook and you know that just minutes separate you from a deep sleep – in the middle of the day. That’s how a perfect afternoon NAP begins.

Some Americans believe that napping is, well, un-American. I mean, look where it’s gotten Europe’s PIGS. It’s no coincidence that the most financially distressed countries are those in which people regularly waste away entire afternoons in blissful siesta (and prefer their beverages without ice.)

Go ahead, call me a crackpot theorist, but consider this. If certain nations had spent a little less time napping, they might now find themselves in less of an economic pickle.

Sure, those well-rested citizens might have sunnier dispositions than us, but their economies are in the proverbial toilet. Let’s face it, if you spend 1/6th of your potential working hours asleep, it’s going to have a negative effect on GDP. Trust me, I’ve tried to buy a bottle of wine in Italy between 2PM and 6PM. It can’t be done. If they would give up just ½ their afternoon nap, the negative balance of payments would disappear.

I can’t believe that the IMF or the World Bank, the Group of Eight/Twenty, or at the very least, the non-napping very productive euro-zone dominating GERMANS, haven’t imposed some kind of nap reduction requirement as part of the debt re-negotiations with the PIGS.

Why am I the first person to suggest that napping is the key to economic recovery? Probably because I am a mom and see everything through that very special lens. And probably because like other people with big ideas, namely Sarah Palin, I refuse to let real macro-economic theory get in the way of creative thinking. That’s the American way.

I’m not saying that we should completely eliminate the afternoon nap. I like a good nap as much as the next person. It’s a beautiful thing. The midday NAP can improve moods and increase productivity, for everyone from preschoolers to presidents. Every mother knows this.

Everyone wakes up refreshed from a 20 minute. (Back in the 80s this was called “power napping” and you were supposed to do it at your desk.) It was the topic of several books that purported to increase the productivity of the American worker. For some reason, it never really took off. Americans are too self-conscious to sleep (and drool) in public. Most of us also won’t wear monokinis in the Riviera for the same reason.

I urge the economic powers of the world to action. As some guy once said…“This is the moment. This is our time.”

To save the world from financial ruin, we must harness the power of the nap. The American worker must learn TO nap. The citizens of certain European nations should learn to nap LESS. (And Americans should continue to wear tank-suits in Cannes for the good of everyone.)

How much nap is the right amount? I’ll leave that to the economists who have the most experience with this sort of thing. The one’s who totally get what I’m talking about…the ones who understand the VALUE of the nap. The ones with kids.
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My Man has Misplaced his Mojo

2010-09-08T09:54:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #416 | August 4th, 2010
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After months of assuring my husband that his lawn looked fine, (despite obvious evidence to the contrary) I finally had to agree that the grass was indeed, dead. I did my best to soft pedal the diagnosis out of respect for the delicate male ego, but he still cried like a baby.

A suburban man’s MOJO is so closely tied to the condition of his lawn that to even suggest that something isn’t right in the land of green can cause a disturbing slide into depression.

For months I’ve been trying to be the upbeat buffer between my hubby and his badly performing blades. But the lawn is definitely DOA. An epic fail. The problem is that this has never really happened before. My poor husband is in shock. He’s incredulous. He needs to know WHY.

So now, much to my chagrin, we need to talk about it. A lot. It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good lawn post mortem as much as the next wife, but there is a limit to how much quality “couples” time I want to spend discussing it. “Do you think it was mold?” he asks. “Could it be bugs?” he moans. “What about water? Too much, too little? Acid Rain? Environmental effects beyond our control?” “A jealous neighbor?”

He even tried to blame the dog until I gently pointed out even a 140lb Saint Bernard could not produce enough toxic urine to kill half our lawn. Certainly not an adorable 25lb Cockapoo. And I definitely didn’t spill weed and grass killer on it like I did last year. I’ve categorically denied any involvement.

Maybe our lawn is just bored. It needs a change of scenery, new seed, new mowing patterns, a little thatching… While the lawn is a man’s “turf” might I suggest that my husband shake things up a little? Perhaps he should talk to the lawn, praise it more…tell it how beautiful it is.

Maybe if he treats his lawn like a woman, she might respond. What’s he got to lose? He can always rotor-till and re-seed her in the fall. Nothing brings a man’s mojo back faster than the need to buy or rent a big new power tool.
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I Confess! I am a Harbinger of Death & the Nemesis of Nature

2010-09-03T11:09:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #415 | July 28th, 2010
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I’ve just returned from an awesome “girl’s weekend” at our NH cabin. My daughters and I had a great time communing with nature, reading, and just hanging out. It was one of those truly zen-like, memorable weekends…until things took a murderous turn…

Somehow I became a harbinger of death, responsible for the untimely demise of no fewer than three living creatures in a single weekend (albeit a long weekend.)

Let me just say that I am not an evil person, though a certain amphibian might beg to differ.

I have enough lawyer friends to know that I have the right to remain silent, but I prefer to explain in order to shed a little guilt. The fond memories of my mother-daughter weekend are otherwise ruined. By ‘fessing up, I hope to silence those three tell-tale hearts. Surely it’s what Poe would have me do.

First, I’d like to ask the frog, fish and snake communities of NH to take this as an official and heartfelt apology. Unlike Montresor, I feel deep remorse. (And if necessary, this column can serve as evidence for the defense, should PETA decide to file charges.)

Before madness renders me entirely insensible, I will now admit to three counts of unintentional creature-slaughter.

The Fish: The mother fish and her eggs were in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was hungry and tired. So when the worm dangled so tantalizingly near, she took the “bait.” I couldn’t get the hook out. I should have cut the line and let her go, but I attempted to remove the hook from deep within her guts. Let’s just say that revival efforts failed. The Bass immediately moved in and ate the eggs. An entire family was wiped-out by a single cast of my line. I’ll never, ever, fish for “fun” again.

The Snake: For many years now the dog and the snake have played among the rocks on our point; the dog chasing; the snake slithering away. Now that I think of it, maybe this wasn’t so much fun for the snake. Maybe I should have put a stop to the game before it was too late. On Sunday the dog barked but the snake did not slither. Despite a clear lack of evidence, I’m guessing the dog had something to do with it. Since the dog is mine, I accept full responsibility.

The Frog: The frog was clearly suicidal. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. As I was mowing our tiny patch of grass with our eco friendly push mower, a frog suddenly leaped from the bushes directly into the 12 hypnotically spinning blades. I had to put the twitching frog out of its misery. It was the merciful thing to do. Sparing you the gory details, let’s just say that I am now scarred for life.

And while I’m in the nature confessional, I might as well come clean about the dozens of mosquitoes and horseflies that I intentionally did away with without a flicker of conscience. They deserved it. I also attempted to drown six spiders that did NOT deserve it, but were in my kayak. So much for communing with nature.

Now that all of this is off my chest, I’m hoping the nightmares will end along with the imagined midnight frog calls. They say that bad things happen in threes. I sincerely hope that “they” are right.
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The Happy Grasshopper & the Uptight Ant

2010-09-03T09:52:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #414 | July 21st, 2010
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Ever the optimist, I put my bikini on and gazed hopefully into the three-way/full length/no place to hide mirror. And...GASP! I took the bikini off. For an entire week I ate only carrots. I prayed. I tried again. No luck. My squishy “muffin top”, now carrot enhanced, stared back at me in defiance.

Ever since I was a wee Catholic girl I’ve been told that miracles can happen. But even though I’ve been asking very nicely, God has politely declined to step in and transform my 40 something jiggly mom body into that of a 17 year old Swedish nanny. I believe I’ve been misled.

Apparently God is not that interested in helping self-serving postulants like me. I can’t say I blame her (or him.) If it is true that God only helps those who help themselves, then I am certainly NOT worthy.

Each spring I have excellent intentions of getting in shape. And each spring I fail. I am incapable of making the intellectual connection between what needs to be done to get into bikini shape, and actually doing it. The reality is that I am not willing cut out, or even cut back on my Chardonnay intake in order to don a bikini in daylight. And as it turns out, walking the dog is not really exercise. Who knew?

I lack discipline. I have vices like drinking wine, eating cheese, and sitting around reading the New York Times. I hate to admit it, but if I’m going to blatantly ignore such obvious causal relationships, I DESERVE to be in a tankini.

I am the Lazy Grasshopper of the Grasshopper / Ant story. And I’m pretty sure that the Grasshopper died at the end of that fable. Yet I continue to eat cheese.

What I need to do is simply “accept who I am”…says my daughter, sanctimoniously parroting my own words back at me. The good news is that she actually listens to me when I talk. The bad news is that I now know exactly how annoying I sound.

Actually, what I need to do is visit a place where women aren’t ashamed of their womanly bodies. I need to go to a country like France where even 80 year old grandmas wear bikinis despite being more shockingly veined than the venerable “fromage bleu”. Then I could accept my less than perfect body, (including handles d’amour), be a role model to my daughters, and not have to cut back at all on cheese or wine. Yes, we are talking win/win scenario.

But since I’m stuck in America and deep in denial, I’m still hoping for a miracle to save me from myself this summer. You never know, if God wasn’t able to squeeze into his Speedo this year, I might just score a last minute empathy miracle.

And if that doesn’t work out, I need, at the very least, a new tankini. I’m sure the Grasshopper would agree.
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Blaming Einstein is "Relatively" Easy

2010-07-24T04:46:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #413 | July 14th, 2010
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I have a “pile” on my kitchen counter. You know exactly what it looks like because you have one too. (I’d be willing to bet my third born child that you do.) Our piles are big, messy collections of random “stuff”. Stuff that we are not quite ready to throw out, or simply don’t want to lose. In addition to important documents, my pile often includes junk mail, empty candy wrappers, expired coupons and dead batteries. It’s your basic kitchen counter flotsam.

Messy piles are NOT, as some might insinuate, the result of mom’s laziness or incompetence. Only science can fully explain how a “pile” is born. Einstein's got my back on this...

Einstein’s very clever “Theory of Relativity” (sort of) implies that individual items left on a counter will gravitate towards each other, forming the nascent beginnings of a “pile.” The pile will continue to expand (like the universe) ad infinitum. Meanwhile the items that join the pile will remain bound together in “pile” stasis until a greater force is exerted upon them, such as when I finally FLIP OUT at the mess, frighten the kids by acting all crazy, and start burning stuff in the fire-pit.

I offer you three truisms about “piles”. See if you agree…

1. Pretty much anything left on a kitchen counter will eventually be absorbed into a “pile”, including food and pets.
2. The “pile” never shrinks of its own volition, it only grows.
3. Men will never search through the “pile” for something they have lost, no matter how important it may be to them. This drives all wives crazy, without exception.

Eventually these “piles” grow too big to ignore. When the pile becomes an amorphous blob, consuming children and threatening access to the coffee maker, you’ve GOT to do something. Coffee is THAT important. Without coffee there would be extreme dysfunction in my home. I bet even Einstein drank 3 cups a day.

Since I’m almost never in the mood to spend a half a day sorting, filing, tossing and recycling, I usually just put my overgrown pile somewhere out of sight and out of mind. Speaking from experience, I DO NOT recommend this approach to home organization.

Moving the pile is never optimal, even if you are desperately trying to get ready for a really important dinner party. The emancipation and joy you feel will be brief, because moving the pile invariably results in your gas or electricity being cut off and the inability to purchase movies on demand. Utility companies, especially cable, are notoriously cranky about being paid on time.

There is hope, however. I think the piles in my house will finally begin to shrink when the kids leave home and the sheer volume of paper stuff entering my house is reduced. But I don’t think we’ll ever be completely free of “the pile” until we successfully deforest the planet - and eliminate the means to make paper.

So hand me a chain saw, or make everyone go paperless. I’m way too tired to file the pile. And Einstein, disappointingly, offers only theories, not solutions.
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Polygamy for Feminists

2010-07-07T12:41:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #412 | July 7th, 2010
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Is polygamy wrong? It’s certainly illegal in the good old USA, though still practiced here and in 100 other countries. Illegal, legal, wrong or right, polygamy keeps rearing its happy little head. I think the concept is utterly fascinating. Besides, its mere existence gives the fading flame of feminism a badly needed fanning.

Can’t we all admit to a little prurient curiosity about how polygamy works in practice? Be honest with yourself. Surely you read the People magazine expose about the break-away Mormon family/cult /sect of 500 uncovered in Texas, if only in the grocery store line (like me.) Surely you want to know how a group of women shares one man. Or in fairness, how a group of men might share one wife.

I do. (And please don’t tell me I’m alone.)

Men are always complaining about their wives…how much they talk, how much they spend on their hair, how much they nag…so what does a guy get out of an arrangement like this, other than a few extra mouths to feed, a cleaner house, and perfectly starched shirts?

Don’t answer that if you are a man.

Brady Udall just came out with a new book called The Lonely Polygamist. It is a work of fiction for sure, because the emasculated protagonist complains too much about the demands of child-making, and the wives are in charge of everything. Since none of that rings true, I’m pretty sure he didn’t interview any actually polygynists for background research. But that won’t stop me from reading the book. There are some things I just need to know. And books like this, along with People Magazine are happy to oblige. So if you have a 6th grade reading level or above, feel free to join me.

I’m definitely not interested in being one of 5 wives, but if I wasn’t already happily married, I would be interested in having a few extra husbands around, a la polyandry.

I’d like to see my hubby “to do” list wiped out by my four husbands in a single weekend. Imagine how much stuff four handy guys could get done around the house. Presuming two weren’t getting their hair and nails done. Staggering amounts. Projects galore. My handyman harem would ROCK my world.

Then again, after coming home from a long day at work, I might find it difficult to listen with genuine interest as four guys described all the awesome chores they got done, while caring for our 10 children. But as a loving spouse, I would do it. The real problem might lie in the bedroom department…the pre-nup(s) would definitely have to ban the use of Viagra, and subscriptions to Hustler.

I wonder if we would all sit together around the dinner table as one big happy family? That could be weird. Would I limit the number of children that I would bear each husband? What if one husband was handier than the others, would I subconsciously favor that husband over the others? Would they bicker?

I don’t know. The more I think about trying to make polygamy work, the less I want to try it at all. Since the only real benefit seems to be getting more stuff done around the house, maybe I should just manage my current husband’s project list more efficiently.That would be a lot simpler than managing four spouses.

The extreme feminist in me would probably give polyandry a try. Luckily I’m way too lazy to make the effort.
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When Opportunity (and the recession) Knocks

2010-06-30T19:38:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #411 | June 30th, 2010
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I can no longer ignore the possibility that my children are spoiled. There is way too much evidence. Teenagers have it easy these days. Aside from occasionally mowing the lawn, they do little actual manual labor. What will happen to them when they enter the “real” world?

My friends and I are worried that we are raising a lost generation of ne’er-do-well freeloaders. We commiserate over organic Foie Gras and Dom Perignon. (Just kidding.) Funny, our parents worried about the same thing. Nor were they shy about telling us exactly what they endured on our behalf.

It goes something like this…

I walked to school all winter, 5 miles each way, BAREFOOT.
I worked five summer jobs to pay for college, because my parents couldn’t spare a dime once the cow died.
I had to clean the rabbits and squirrels that my dad shot for our dinner.

As a child of the 70s, I did none of that. In fact, I suffered very little.

No, when I was a teenager, I selflessly bought myself a convertible with my hard earned summer job money. The fact that my house was peeling was not my concern. In my mother’s day, that money would have gone for college tuition or to put food on the table. By those standards “teenager me” was spoiled, and by those standards, my kids are spoiled rotten.

I think the rising standard of living, new technologies, and John Maynard Keynes are all equally at fault for the current situation. (Ok, maybe I bear SOME responsibility.) Luckily there is hope, but only because we are in a recession. History tells us that there is nothing like a GREAT DEPRESSION, to teach a kid the value of a buck (and of child labor laws.)

The current economic downturn is a blessing in disguise. A new generation of Americans will have lower expectations of economic success and social mobility. A new generation of Americans will be happier with less.

Our kids could learn to live without internet access on their cell phones and without HBO. They could learn to appreciate having a roof over their heads, and food on their plates, and not say things like, pasta? Again?

Then again, thanks to the recession, there aren’t many jobs for teenagers. It’s hard to learn about how to work hard when you can’t get work. No problem. We’ll simply teach our kids the value of hard work the old fashioned way, (no, not by telling them stories of our youth) but by giving them rewarding tasks like painting the house, chopping wood, and cleaning crusty bird poop off the car.

Come to think of it, I’ve got a major “to do” list that will cost me hundreds if not thousands of dollars to complete – IF I hired professionals. But lucky for me, I have unemployed teenagers. Aka FREE labor. (The only hard labor they’ve ever seen is when I gave birth to them.) They owe me.

I will assign them menial tasks and sweaty nasty jobs that I don’t want to do. They will learn about hard work and hard times. They will become better people. They will despise me at first (but thank me when they are 25 and no have to live at home.) I will reward them with home cooked meals. Which they will not eat because they’d rather have Chinese. (Some things will never change.) But I will not shirk from my duty.

Enough with the pampering, coddling, and indulging. This depression (aka recession) is an opportunity that I will not…no…I cannot waste. And once I clue my friends into the free labor lurking on their couch and eating their Fritos, neither will they.

We take our parenting duties seriously. And the house really does need painting.
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Wanna be Friends? (with benefits?)

2010-06-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #410 | June 23rd, 2010
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I like having friends with benefits. No, not those kinds of benefits. Of which I disapprove by the way. I’m talking about friends with big hearts, open ears, and lots of cool stuff. If you are very lucky, that “stuff” might include a fully staffed Tuscan Villa with a well-stocked wine cellar. That’s what I call friends with benefits.

When you make friends, you really shouldn’t take into consideration their material possessions. But if you happen to discover (after the fact) that your carefully chosen friend “soul mates” also have desirable skills, knowledge, and European vacation homes, you should certainly partake of them; and they of your case of Bud Light. ‘Cause that’s what being a friend is all about. Sharing.

You see, as preschoolers we are taught, nay, we are required to share our toys. All that early childhood brainwashing about “toy sharing” continues to benefit those of us with the fewest toys - well into adulthood. If your friends were raised right, they will feel COMPELLED to share their stuff with you. Don’t feel bad. As long as you share back, you shouldn’t feel any guilt about taking what they gladly have to offer.

SHARING makes everyone feel good, whether it’s a 50 foot yacht or a 2-man tent.

Material goods (and joking) aside, the most important thing for women to share is advice and support. For this we need friends. Close friends, best friends, acquaintances, work buddies, neighbors – we need them all. No woman in her right mind is going to ask her teenage daughter a question like, “Do these jeans make me look fat?” unless she wants to end up in counseling, or jail. That’s what friends are for. (‘Cause husbands would only lie.)

I have brainy and compassionate friends who would NEVER say that I look fat in my jeans. They would say that the color was wrong for me or that the cut was bad. This makes me an excellent friend chooser. Over time these friends have also acquired vacation homes, boats, pools and tennis courts. They have organizational skills, decorating know-how, gardening knowledge and are willing to carpool. I honestly don’t know what they get out of being friends with me, but I hope that they are too big hearted to care.

And FYI, if your female friends happen to have cool husbands, you get a relationship two-fer, you get bro-friends. (Note that bro-friends do NOT come with “benefits” of ANY KIND, other than emergency spider or mouse removal. Just in case you were wondering where to draw the line.)

If you are really looking for a “friend with benefits”, just look at the guy who married you. He’s seen you at your worst and persevered through it all. He probably knows you better than anyone else, and STILL loves you. My husband also defragments my hard drive, tells me I’m beautiful and takes out the garbage. Talk about friends with benefits…
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The Caveman Diet is not so "Offal"

2010-06-16T07:12:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #409 | June 16th, 2010
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Yesterday my husband told me that I eat too much red meat. Because I love my husband, I decided to take his concerns seriously. BUT, because I also love meat, (not quite as much as I love my husband, but close) I am determined to preserve and protect my meat centered lifestyle. I’m now desperately seeking a scientific justification for extreme carnivoredom. Not an easy task.

So I temporarily took the pork butt off the grill and began searching for nutritional proof that meat rules. What I found was the Caveman Diet - AKA Paleolithic Diet; Hunter-Gatherer or Stone Age Diet. This is an approach that supports my love for meat, but appears to be a completely idiotic way to live. But who am I to judge?

There are apparently many people, mostly macho hedge fund guys in NYC, who think that eating just meat, roots and berries will make them live longer and improve their virility. Since most cavemen never lived past age 17, I’m not sure how this could be right. On the other hand, you and I are living proof that there is something to the claim of improved virility.

Then I discovered the very disappointing fact that I’m only meant to consume 2.5 ounces of red meat per day. That’s total barbeque buzz kill. That’s like one teriyaki beef stick at a Chinese restaurant, or one sirloin cube from a kabob. You can’t even buy a steak that small. Unfortunately, every medical “association” in America seems to be on the same page when it comes to red meat. Too much is bad. But 2.5 ounces? I can’t live with that. I’ve got a 12 pound pork butt on the grill, and I’ve named it Bluebell.

There has to be a happy medium (or preferably, a happy medium rare.)

But then I thought, why give up my copious meat intake, when I can simply eat healthier meat? That’s when I found Slanker’s Grass Fed Meats of Texas. Lower in fat, higher in omega-3s, free range in the USA, hormone free, and raised by libertarians. Politics aside, I just found the scientific justification for my preferred lifestyle.

This is happy meat, vs. happy meals. I can get a quarter cow for just $675 which, unfortunately, is about 75 more pounds of beef than my family of 5 is supposed to eat in a month. This means I need to find a friend who is willing to take a share in a cow. Preferably a friend that already owns a large meat freezer and knows what to do with marrow bones.

As it happens, I’ve got the perfect family in mind. A friend of mine married a big meat loving mid western guy whose choice of steak is always Flintstone sized. If anyone is up for a ¼ cow it will be him. Maybe even a ½ a cow. I might even be able to talk him into the cow/hog combo pack. In fact, I’m going to call him right now. This whole thing is actually turning out much better than I thought.

So in the interest of living longer and being a better person, I’ve decided to both cut back a little on my meat eating AND eat leaner, happier meats. At the same time, I’ll see what roots, shoots and berries are growing in my backyard, a la Caveman Diet. Might as well see if there’s anything to that virility claim.

If there is, I have a “haunch” that this approach will more than satisfy my husband, or will at least distract him while I grill-up the T-bones.

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A Dingo Ate My Baby

2010-06-09T06:18:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #408 | June 9th, 2010
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I secretly wish that my neighbor’s dogs will be eaten by coyotes. All five of them. I am not proud of feeling this way. This sentiment does not sit well with my Judeo-Christian upbringing. But you don’t know these dogs.

These are purse-size dogs. I think the neighbors had two when they moved in, but quickly accumulated more. I can’t see into their backyard very well from mine, but from what I can glimpse, the dogs appear to be a mixture of Toy Poodle, Bichon Frise, and Yorkies. It’s basically a kennel for obnoxious little purebreds.

These dogs are regularly placed in the backyard in a low playpen while the owners stay inside with their Bose Acoustic Noise-Dampening headphones. The dogs whine, cry, and complain. They are like colicky babies. No wonder my neighbors banish their pets to the backyard (where the rest of us can enjoy the cacophony.)

Unfortunately, the yapping of the tiny dogs makes my dog bark. My awesomely well behaved dog, who used to only bark once a day at a squirrel, will now stand in the corner of my backyard and bray endlessly at the 5 annoying dogs. If he’s hoping, as I am, that it will shut them up, it’s not working.

Now I have to yell at my dog so he doesn’t annoy my other neighbors. It’s just not fair.

Yesterday I got news that a coyote was spotted roaming our street. I immediately had Evil Thoughts. These Evil Thoughts involved a 5 course meal plucked by a hungry predator from a playpen full of annoying little designer dogs. The backyard could become a peaceful sanctuary, my personal Eden, once again. Or so whispered the devil seductively in my ear.

Hey, don’t condemn me just for wishful thinking. No prosecutor could convict. If you think about it from the coyote’s perspective, we are on their territory. The poor coyote is simply trying to survive in a world taken over by us humans without regard for the species we displace. If a coyote is presented with the “special of the day”, tastefully arranged and trapped in a pen, can you really expect him to chase a squirrel instead?

My thoughts exactly.

In fact, if you think about this for very long, like I did, you find yourself facing something of a moral dilemma. If you don’t agree, just take a look at some of those oil encrusted bird photos from the BP spill, and think about what we’ve done. I guarantee that you’ll start to feel sorry for the coyote. Guilty even. Responsible.

Yet, on “coyote day”, when I heard the neighbor dogs start to cry and wail, while mine went especially berserk, I hesitated only briefly before I dashed outside. Honestly. I grabbed a shovel as a weapon and leaped into the neighbor’s yard, ready to defend the little beasts.

The prix fixe menu of the day looked up at me dumbly, finally shocked into silence. There was no coyote, there was no threat. The dogs were just being especially whiny. At that point I could have wacked them with the shovel myself.

So in the end, years of religious school training combined with perfect attendance had the desired effect. I acted to protect the weak over the strong. I chose the interests of my species over another. Good triumphed over evil. Or did it? For some reason, I don’t feel quite right.

Next time I’m giving the coyote dibs. It’s only fair.
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The "Bad Banana' Theorem

2010-05-26T07:40:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #407 | May 26th, 2010
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My bananas have spots. For a banana, this is the beginning of the end. For me, spots mean it's time to trigger the stop-loss order. Because when a banana is ever so slightly past its prime, no one will eat it. This is a classic Yankee Dilemma. There is NO WAY I am throwing these bananas out, so how should I attempt to salvage them this time?

I could…

1) Eat the bananas myself, even though I don’t like bananas.
2) Make banana bread.
3) Disguise the bananas in a smoothie and feed them to my kids without their knowledge.
4) Freeze them for future use, only to throw them out 4 months from now when I can’t identify the strange mush in the Ziploc.
5) Mail them to my dad who is more than happy to eat anything, even black bananas.

What makes this banana crisis even worse than the usual banana crisis is that these were ORGANIC bananas. Ka-ching$$$! The only thing more painful than throwing out a 25 cent banana, is throwing out a banana that cost me a buck fifty.

I don’t know about you, but for me, the bad banana situation is psychologically untenable. I cannot bring myself to throw away the bananas, yet there is not much I can do with said bananas (that is both palatable and effortless.) Bad bananas are to moms what Fermat's Last Theorem is (or had been) to mathematicians, or the Cuban missile crisis to Kennedy, etc…. It’s an unsolvable riddle; a lose/lose; a conundrum.

Yet I am COMPELLED to act. I know from experience that getting rid of a fruit fly infestation is even harder than getting rid of bananas.

Nobody likes a bad banana. Bad banana disdain is deeply rooted in our society’s shared experience. Bad banana messages have been ingrained in our psyche through song, proverbs, and various incomprehensible sayings…

“You’re a bad banana with a greasy black peel…” (Grinch soundtrack.)

“No sane person sharpens his machete to cut a banana tree.” (Nigerian proverb.)

“Time flies like an arrow, but fruit flies like a banana.”

“One bad banana can spoil the whole bunch.”

And NO, I have not gone bananas, I’m just trying to get rid of them. Smoothie anyone?
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The Consequences of Being Raised by Bears

2010-05-19T12:20:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #406 | May 19th, 2010
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I’m a huge fan of Emily Post. Like Emily, I think table manners are important. So over the years I’ve put a lot of effort into teaching my children proper table behavior. I do this through constant nagging, public embarrassment, occasional bribery, and complicated hand signals that only an MLB pitcher could follow. Emily would not have approved of my methods. But then Emily was not blessed with my three children.

I thought my efforts were paying off until I looked around the dinner table last night. Not a single child had remembered to put their napkin on their lap. I was discouraged. My kids were so completely lacking in savoir-faire, you’d think they had been raised by bears.

Some people think this stuff isn’t important. Some people don’t care how others hold their forks or cut their meat. Some people are unbothered by elbows on the table. If you haven’t already guessed, I am not some people. But my children are. It is now my job to “fix” them, so that they can get a good job; marry a prince; or attend a presidential dinner without qualms. Or at least not embarrass themselves in public.

Good manners should fit like a glove. But most kids are “not to the manner born”*. They need to be taught. Over time, with lots of repetition, your kids will put their napkins on their laps. Good manners will hopefully become second nature, overcoming “first nature,” which compels them to trash their rooms and eat with their hands. Like bears.

What if I fail to teach my kids proper table manners? This is the scary part. Then the only people who would consider marrying them will also be etiquette challenged. I will have sons and daughters-in-law who are slobs. They will breed children who blow their noses at the dinner table and wipe their hands on their shirts. There is simply no way I am hosting Thanksgiving dinner under those circumstances.

So you see, the stakes are huge.

If I fail, I will be responsible for creating an entirely new generation of badly mannered grandchildren. The mere thought of the little monsters gives me the strength to keep nagging my own kids about “elbows off the table”. Thank goodness I still have time to mold my kids into proper ladies and gentlemen, and save us all.

I will NOT let the bears win this one.

*(Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 4)

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Confessions of a Musically Challenged Mom

2010-05-12T06:48:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #405 | May 12th, 2010
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That's it. I can no longer physically or mentally, keep up. My kids seem to start a new activity or hobby every 5 minutes. In just the past six months I’ve had to learn the ins and outs of chorale, crew, volleyball, mock trial, and fencing. My brain is full. I’m an “old dog”.

Unfortunately there are still “new tricks” to learn. Showing a surprising lack of compassion for my intellectual limitations, my son has taken up composing. So I must now learn stuff about classical music. Compared to volleyball, the world of classical music is EPIC. I love my son, but my musical horizons have long been limited to rocking the Black Eyed Peas on my way to Marshalls to shop. Now I need to know the answer to questions like “what is a fugue?” and “which instruments make up a wind quintet?”

This is NOT how I had planned to use the few middle aged brain cells I have left.

I’ve tried to like classical music. I’ve tried to train my ear. I have three classical music stations pre-programmed into my car’s XM. But yesterday (ex-post piano concerto), I arrived at Marshalls only to find myself too sleepy to shop. Not the desired effect of a get psyched “shop till I drop” anthem.

Symphonies (or rather Sonatas for Orchestras) average about 35 minutes, though Beethoven’s Symphony #3 in E Flat Major (AKA Eroica) is closer to an hour. In the age of shortened attention spans, I think popular music became popular simply because the songs last only 2 minutes. They fit better into modern carpool life. And you can totally appreciate Lady Gaga without having a degree in music theory.

It does not help me at all that most classical music pieces are known only by a number. A “real” name would give a listener like me context (especially when there are no lyrics to tell you what the heck is going on.)

I encourage my son to call his compositions something other than “Piano Concerto #4.” I suggest clever alliteratives like “Cafeteria Cacophony” and “Teenager Tantrum.” Suggestions he has ignored in favor of cleverer names like “Thinis Burning”, (which provides a metaphorical context only for those of us intimately familiar with ancient Egyptian history.) Which I am not. No wonder classical music audiences are dwindling – so the experts say.

There is an ocean between my son’s musical tastes and my own. I’m doing my best to part the waters, but Moses I am not. (Though the purchase of “Classical Music for Dummies” has been a godsend.) I pity the poor boy. When he asks me to listen to his compositions, I say insightful, constructive things like “that middle part was weird” and “sounds like fairies being chased by saber wielding Mongols.”

My son suffers my ignorance like a true gentleman. He continues to seek, and actually listens to, my layman’s opinion. Perhaps my son will be “the one” to bring a true love of classical music to middle aged, musically challenged moms like myself. Who knows, people like me (whose interest in classical is driven by love, not intellectual curiosity) just might be the future of the art. Carnegie Hall subscription holders can cringe all they want.

That said, if I am to keep up with my son’s musical interests, con molto brio, I’m going to need a few more brain cells. Maybe I can harvest them from my kids. They seem to have plenty to spare.
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Mother's Day Ode on a Selfless Spouse (He's "Urned" It)

2010-05-04T16:10:00.000-07:00

CHUCKLE #404 | May 5th, 2010
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I would like to take a moment to sing the praises and extol the virtues of my husband. Why? Because Mother’s Day is upon us and the “orchestration” of this momentous occasion invariably falls to him, poor guy. My children, while well meaning and adorable, don’t care that much about Mother's Day. But mothers do. So every year my husband selflessly steps in to bridge the gap between expectation and reality.

But is this love, or self-preservation?

Let’s face facts. Taking care of Mom is clearly in Dad’s interest. If the kids fail to perform, or forget Mother’s Day entirely, husbands will have unhappy wives. Unhappy wives make for VERY unhappy husbands. Hence my spouse’s enthusiastic shouldering of the role of writer, producer and director of our annual Mother’s Day docudrama. If only he could hire more talented child actors to replace the ones he sired.

Given the stakes, most men know better than to leave this day to chance (or worse, to the imagination and efforts of their own kids.)

Luckily for my husband, I am not high maintenance. I feel pretty well loved all year, so Mother’s Day is no biggie. I don’t expect anything fancy, but I DO like my traditional coffee in bed. It’s also nice if my kids come into my room while I am drinking said coffee, and tell me how awesome I am. White lies are encouraged and homemade cards are always a nice touch. (Hint, hint.)

Once the breakfast-in-bed ritual is complete, I’m more than happy to let the remainder of the day revolve around the kids, as usual.

So if you have a GREAT Mother’s Day weekend, be sure to thank your husband. He is most likely behind both the concept and execution of any touching moments your children may “spontaneously” create on your behalf.

And just between you and me, I think we all know the real reason why “Dad” takes the time to ensure that Mother’s Day goes well…

FATHER’S DAY is just around the corner.
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Look Who's Coming To Dinner, & Look What He's Leaving "Behind"

2010-04-28T15:11:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #403 | April 28th, 2010
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Forget about the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, the real bonding among women occurs within the “Sisterhood of the Traveling Wives.” Call it estrogen induced dubiety, or simply a group vote of “no confidence”, but when a dad is left alone with his children for an extended period of time, the “sisterhood” deploys a crack team of “watch moms” to ensure that all goes well.

Sometimes three pages of written instructions, cleaning lady back-up, and a nanny cam is not enough. Dad’s sanity, the kids’ welfare, and the traveling mom’s peace of mind are all at stake. The Sisterhood’s prime directive is clear. Observe and report. And if necessary, intervene.

As part of my sisterhood duties, I recently invited one such abandoned dad over for dinner. He had been on his own with his kids for a full week, so a close-up inspection was warranted. And since they just got a dog, and we have a dog; we included the new puppy in the dinner invitation.

The problem with puppies is that they are unreliable. The bigger problem is that they don’t wear diapers. An even bigger problem is that this DAD didn’t know “squat” about dogs. He never wanted one in the first place, and up until now (per paragraph three of the puppy pre-nup), Mom’s been in charge. So when the visiting puppy got over excited – new place, new friends, underdeveloped holding tanks - you get the picture.

The evening started out well. Our friend busied himself steaming up the homemade Chinese “dumplings” that he had brought. They were very delicious. Because he was working so hard, we felt that we should only delicately point out that his dog was in the process of taking a “dump” on our kitchen floor. I give him credit for his quick, but ill conceived response of waving his dumpling spatula in the air and going berserk in an attempt to “stop the drop”. But as all dog owners know (except this one) once this process has begun, it cannot be put on “paws”.

There was a brief moment in which I thought the spatula would be put to use as a pooper scooper, because it was conveniently in hand, and would have been the quickest way to remove the offending pile from sight, but it wasn’t. I don’t blame the dad, he is quite a chef, and it was a very nice spatula. I have a fancy ladle that I would probably not use to drain a clogged toilet, either.

Ultimately the children were called in and unlike their dad, efficiently whisked away both poo and pup. If MOM had been present, the puppy’s signals would not have been missed. “Butt” on the positive side, every time I see my friend I now get to say, “When you said you were bringing “DUMP-lings, I didn’t know you meant canine!” Which for some reason he doesn’t find funny, but nearly every one else does.

Despite the very real "foulness" of indoor canine poop, we assured our friend, “no harm, no foul”. The puppy on the other hand, was traumatized. The mere gleam of a spatula may now be enough to cause a lifetime of involuntary bowel movements, a sad and somewhat unusual side effect of Chinese dumplings, a trip to Greece and being left alone with “dad”. At least it wasn't one of the kids.

So the official “sisterhood” report to my traveling friend was: “Kids fine, Puppy in therapy, Husband apoplectic, You Grounded. Stay in Greece!”
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Catch & Release: Fish Trump Lingerie

2010-04-21T10:18:00.000-07:00

CHUCKLE #402 | April 21st, 2010
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If you had a baby that kept hitting itself in the head with a wooden spoon, you would bring it to your doctor and ask, what the heck is wrong with this kid? Or if you were smart, you'd simply take away the spoon.

But if you have a husband who seems to enjoy a similarly futile activity, like golf, or in my case, FISHING, it's not like you can hide his fishing rods. Distraction doesn't work either, I've tried. There is not a single piece of lingerie I own that can keep him off his boat when the mood (to fish) strikes.

My husband is a smart guy. You'd think he would eventually realize that he's not getting any better. He has been enthusiastically fishing for about 10 years and STILL only averages about 1.25 fish per year. The decimal is in the right place. And if you don't count the "branch snags" that he claims were 36 inch lake trout that got away, the average is more like .25 fish per year. There is a troubling lack of fish "caught" per fishing hour invested.

I may be troubled by this statistic, but my husband is not. When he sets out with rod and reel (and whiskey) he's grinning like a fool. The grin gets even wider if one of the kids agrees to go with him, which is only when he redeems an "I'll go fishing with daddy for 2 hours if he promises not to make me fish (or watch him fish) and I can read my book the entire time COUPON".

My coupons clearly state that I will be dropped off at the dock ON DEMAND, and that I cannot be yelled at for steering the trolling motor over his line and losing his favorite lure. (Not sure how he can have "favorites" when none of them seem to catch any fish, but maybe it's based on longevity.)

Rather than think there is something wrong with my spouse (and possibly with all men) I prefer to believe that his fruitless fishing efforts illustrate some of his most excellent traits.

Optimism. Perseverance. Fearlessness.

Yes, fearlessness. Each and every fishing trip comes with a near death tale, as well as "the big one that got away" story. "The day I nearly swamped". "The day the wind came up all of a sudden and smashed the boat on the rocks because both my lines were snagged." "The day I met the nudist in the kayak, and didn't realize at first that he was a nudist."

My husband is the 007 of fishing; danger follows him into every cove. I now make sure he has his survival kit before he heads out. If disaster strikes (or rather, WHEN disaster strikes) he'll at least have his waterproof matches, whistle, and above all, toilet paper.

So if you have a husband who relentlessly pursues an activity with glee but little improvement, AND a giggling baby that repeatedly hits itself in the head with a spoon, at least you know where the baby gets it.

And who am I to define fishing "success" or fishing "failure" simply by the number of fish in the pan? I think the name of my husband's boat says it all. No, it's not "The Dauntless, it's "Fishful Thinking."

There's a lot to be said for optimism in a mate. Sometimes, when you find the right guy, you catch and don't release.
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A Spring “Shout Out” to Julia Child & My Peeps

2010-04-07T07:03:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #401 | April 7th, 2010
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Spring has sprung. How do I know? By blooming daffodils, the pungent smell of my neighbor’s manure-laced mulch, and by the PEEPS. Spring is officially “in the house” only when CVS is resplendent with sugar coated marshmallow chicks and bunnies.

The great thing about Peeps is that they aren’t extruded just for Easter any more. Holiday themed Peeps are now available for Valentine’s Day, Halloween and Christmas. Yippee.

The Peep company, aka Just Born Confections of Bethlehem PA (famed for Steel and Peeps) is no Proctor and Gamble. It took management nearly 80 years to figure out that PEEPS could be a year round phenomenon, thereby raising profitability 800%. Kudos. As far as I’m concerned, nothing says I love you (or “you’re too fat for chocolate”) like a pink, heart shaped Peep. Except for maybe those inedible “conversation” hearts that actually say “I ♥ U”.

If you have to ask, “What’s a Peep?” you were probably born to Birkenstock cavorting parents who put real chickens in your Easter Basket (or you don’t do Easter at all.) If Peeps were indeed the forbidden fruit of your childhood, you now have a chance to express some free will. And though I do not appreciate this analogy, like the snake in the Garden of Eden, I will teach you how to enjoy this classic confection.

Most people simply pop a Peep into their mouth, chew, and repeat until nauseated. Studies have shown that the average human stomach can tolerate about three Peeps. (Animal testing is inconclusive because rats refuse to eat them.) But why limit yourself to three when Peeps have only 32 empty calories and zero percent fat? Compared to Girl Scout cookies they’re practically a health food.

My very favorite way to eat a Peep is toasted over an open fire. Any person with basic eye-hand coordination can toast a marshmallow, but it takes the culinary skills of Julia Child to perfectly caramelize the sugar on a Peep into “Peep Brule”. At my house this is called “nirvana on a stick”.

And don’t bother to mourn the Peeps that inevitably drop into the fire. A burning marshmallow bunny has no more feeling than a regular old amorphous marshmallow. (As long as you don’t give them names.)

For parents who are into “teachable moments”, toasting Peeps is a highly recommended activity. The process of turning sugar into caramel makes for an excellent early childhood science experiment. Learning not to touch 350 degree sugar is a life lesson. Providing first aid for the inevitable third degree burns is a life skill. “Peep Toasting” has so many teachable moments that it might someday qualify for college credit.

And since you’ve persevered this far, I now feel compelled to thrill you with some Peep trivia. The rumor that there are Giant Bunny Peeps is true, but sadly my CVS does not carry them. For what its worth, there is a Peep Fan Club. Do NOT put Peeps in the microwave. Because I said so. And finally, they are called Peeps because they are shaped like newly hatched chicks, which are commonly called “Peeps”. You may also call your very best friends Peeps.

Personally, and linguistically speaking, this makes “Peep” the most apropos of names for a very special spring candy.

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I Have a (Abstract) Dream, in which Mothers-in-Law Surf & Picasso won't do Laundry

2010-03-30T13:04:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #400 | March 31st, 2010
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I have a dream. A recurring nightmare really. A giant, unfolded pile of laundry sits in the middle of my bed. I want to go to sleep, but I can’t because, did I say this already? There is a giant pile of laundry sitting in the middle of my bed.

I see a hand sticking up out of the pile, waving at me. The scene is realistically surreal for someone who barely studied art in college. When I start to dig, I uncover my daughter, who calmly climbs out of the pile, says “thanks mom”, and walks away. I yell after her, “Why do you have only one eyeball?"

Then Picasso comes out of my closet, wanders over and says “really?” in what I perceive to be a sarcastic tone, but that might just be Picasso. He sets up an easel and begins to paint. I ignore him. I prefer Dali, even in my dreams.

I try to fold, but the pile keeps growing - an unstoppable exponential incoming tide of shirts and underwear. Clothes begin to fall off the sides of the bed and spread across the floor. The pile slowly forces me out of the room and down the stairs.

I find myself standing outside the house while ash covered panties shoot Vesuvius-like from the chimney. If I’m lucky, in 400 years my body will be found preserved beneath a layer of cheap synthetic undergarments. My remains will be famous.

As I contemplate my own ironic demise (I am NOT wearing my best underwear), my mother-in-law surfs out the front door on a wave of unmatched socks. She hops off her board and exclaims, “Gee that was fun! Can I come back next week and do it again?”

I reply, “It’s not always like this, really.” But she knows I’m fibbing because I own 14 laundry baskets. “By the way,” I continue, “we’re having chicken for dinner.” Then her body separates into parts that float around the yard like bubbles. I cup my hands to my mouth (which is luckily still attached to my face) and yell up at the house, “Knock it off Picasso, you’re freaking me out!”

Then from somewhere deep inside the house, the dog barks. And I wake up.

At this point, you and I are probably wondering the same thing. Where exactly was my husband in this dream? I’d like to think that he was fixing dinner for his mother, or was at the very least, putting her back together.

As for me, I’ve got to stop folding clothes right before I go to bed. AND get rid of all those pretentious “coffee table” art books. Especially that Andy Warhol one, or the next dream could get really weird.
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Thus Spoke Zarathustra (to my 4 Year Old)

2010-03-23T09:52:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #399 | March 24th, 2010
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There will come a time when your child will ask you about GOD. You’ll be prepared for the God question because you’ve been repeatedly warned by parenting experts that it’s coming. So when my youngest daughter said she wanted to talk God, I was not only ready, I was informed.

As it turns out, my daughter did not want to talk about God. She had already briefly entertained and rejected monotheism without bothering to seek my vast, newly acquired wisdom. I was hurt. Until she said she wanted to discuss the finer points of atheism and agnosticism instead. Yikes.

What ever happened to “Where do babies come from?” or “What is my belly button for?” The simple, physical questions are so easy to answer. While I hold out hope that my daughter will someday believe in SOMETHING - even the undeniable existence of intelligent dust in space - I’m not holding my breath.

Where did my husband and I go wrong?

We purposefully raised our children to have a firm sense of their own cultural and religious identity. They were dutifully subjected to the rigors of religious education and all the other yada yada. This kind of “identity building” is good for kids, or so I'm told. More importantly, a strong sense of “self” acts as a talisman of sorts against the insidious recruiting efforts of CULTS. At the very least, at the moment of truth, my kids might refuse to “drink the cool-aid” along with the guru’s 300 other wives. That was “THE PLAN” anyway.

This approach worked fine on my older kids. Unfortunately my 12 year old daughter won’t put her rational super-ego in the back seat so that she can enjoy the religion “ride” without over thinking it. She insists on debating the existence of God and other tenets of pure faith.

Not only that, but at age 4 she declared Santa Claus a parental hoax and impossible by virtue of simple physics. Angry (hoax perpetuating) parents blacklisted her from play dates at Christmastime. The child is simply a “non-believer” and I’m not sure that any amount of religious indoctrination can change her into something she is not. (The effect of the hypnosis and the Mysterious Chinese Herb treatment are not conclusive.)

I can’t say I blame her. She probably got “it” from me. You see, I have this thing about women’s equality that makes it hard for me to accept certain aspects of organized religion. (And pretty much anything else run by “the man”.) In the 80’s I would have been called a feminist. So I blame myself that my child is a soulless skeptic (and budding activist) who will undoubtedly suffer greatly in the afterlife. If only she cared.

She and I do like to talk – scientifically of course - about different religions. I’ve just recently made the argument that the religion of “CHOCOLATE CAKE” is technically idolatry, as in the Golden Calf, and not a religion at all. (Especially the way she practices it.) The worst case scenario would be that she discovers philosophy, is charmed by nihilism, and never leaves home. So in the hopes of averting a permanent freeloader situation, I keep the lines of communication open.

One of our favorite religions is Zoroastrianism, the central theme of which is personal moral choice. E.g. we bear responsibility for the situations we are in, and the way we act towards each other. Zoroastrianism can be summed up as, "good thoughts, good words, good deeds". And they venerate dogs. We especially like the dog thing.

So if and when we come back (though our chosen religion doesn’t believe in reincarnation), we’ve decided to come back Zarathustrian, and generally be good to people and our pets.

Please don’t cast any “holier than thou” stones at me. I realize that this is an unorthodox way to approach the God question, but at least she is still contemplates a God. And trust me, that’s progress.

The one thing I’m sure of is that she is safe from cults. No cult could possibly want this obstinate, opinionated child as a member.

So I guess THE PLAN worked after all.
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The REAL Cost of Driver's Education

2010-03-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

Chuckle #398 | March 17th, 2010
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My son is about to turn 16. This happens to be the magical age at which a child may obtain a DRIVER’S PERMIT. Or so proclaims the state of CT. Stripped of our parental decision-making rights by our own “constitution” state, my husband and I have only two choices. We can alienate and embarrass our eldest child, or accept our fate and begin the ordeal of “practice driving.”

We all know what’s going to happen.

Does it make sense to let your kid get their permit? Every cost/benefit analysis shows that it does NOT. There is no scenario (even doomsday) under which it makes economic or practical sense to teach your kid to drive at age 16. And once you factor in loss of sanity and the risk to other humans (and pets) – it actually begins to sound kind of CRAZY.

But driving is an American right of passage, and it’s hard to keep a teenager from it. (It’s also hard to pay the astronomical premium on your insurance when you add a teenager to your policy.) But CAR = FREEDOM. It always has. And no matter how hard I try to sell my son on the concept of a new, awesome BIKE instead, he’s not buying.

Unfortunately for us parents, the more our kids drive, the better they get at it. And that means putting our selves inside a weapon of mass destruction with our child at the wheel. (The child we KNOW as immature, easily distracted, and inclined to swerve to avoid bunnies.) But we owe it to society to deliver a good driver. (Besides, every hour of official Driving School behind the wheel “training” costs about $100 bucks.) I’ll endure almost anything to save $100 bucks. Or so I thought.

In preparation for “permit day” we’ve been conscientiously doing some practice driving to get our son comfortable behind the wheel, mostly in local parking lots and cemeteries. (The cemetery is a bit too prescient for my taste, but it’s a good exercise in avoiding stationary objects like tombstones.) And as my friend said, everyone there is already dead, so the harm my son can inflict is quite limited.

Practicing in a cemetery also subtly reinforces an important message. “Invincible or not, drive badly and you could end up here.”

One of our first practice driving sessions was at the local elementary school and it was a failure from the start. There were too many kids learning how to ride their bikes. A wobbly 5 year old doesn’t stand a chance against a jumpy teenager learning how to drive. The dads eyed us nervously. I eyed them longingly. What I would give to be back in training wheels with my son instead of behind the wheel.

We tried again at the high school parking lot. I made the mistake of bringing the dog for moral support (and comfort.) My son’s first effort at braking sent the dog slamming into the dashboard and down onto the floor with a whimper. He’s ok now. Note to self. Do NOT bring dog to driving lessons. (If possible, do not bring SELF to driving lessons.)

Our third outing was after the recent Big Windstorm of 2010. In hindsight it seems obvious. Streets filled with downed trees and live electrical wires, while challenging, are a relatively poor training environment for a new driver. Did I mention I hadn't done this before?

Final note to self. It’s time for DAD to take over. Mom’s neck and fragile mental condition cannot handle 20 more hours of practice driving. And the poor dog refuses to get in the car. For any reason. I love my son, but I’m starting to feel the same way as the dog.

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