Dear Martha Stewart,

Hi. I know you are very, very busy, but I just have a quick question. Aren't you tired, Martha? I occasionally catch a few minutes of your show after the end of the Today show with the abhorrent Kathy Lee Gifford (I reserve judgment of Hoda as I'm sure she, just beginning her prime-time career, would co-host with Hitler if he could read the teleprompter) and frankly, girl, you exhaust me.

It is not just your vast media empire (Hubby and I use a James Earl Jones-esque voice when you come up in conversation to say the name of your leviathan company "Martha Stewart OMNIMEDIA") or all of the projects you claim to have a hand in on your Connecticut estate - beekeeping, animal husbandry from chickens to sheep, gardening, etc., (which frankly, I do not buy for a single minute - there is a cast of minions doing your bidding while you tape your show), but Marty, isn't it fatiguing being so damn prim and proper all the time?

To begin, the wardrobe. Come on. I know those button down shirts probably cost more than my mortgage payment, but when you're gutting a pumkpin or decoupaging a dresser wouldn't a nice, long-sleeved T-shirt and pair of jeans be comfy? Trust me, they are.  Then you wouldn't have to move around in such a stately manner worrying about wrinkling your duds.  An old college sweatshirt also comes in handy.

And the speech. I don't need every word carefully enunciated. The way you says "herb", by the way? Like the man's name? It's not winning you any fans other than men named Herb. And your producers must want to pull their hair out at the snail's pace of your oration. That slow and deliberate way you speak makes me roll my eyes and wag my hand in the "out with it" gesture. I myself can speak so quickly and with such a Bronx accent when aggitated people can not understand me. Don't you ever want to scream, or shriek with laughter? Don't you ever want to use phrases like, "Screw this" or "What the hell?" I know you can't curse on national television, but the FCC approved equivalents would be fine. You know I don't trust people who don't swear and added to that list - people who are too reserved. You've made it, lady, now's the time to let your carefully frosted hair down and let us see the real you. And if this is the real you, I pity your daughter.  No wonder she seemed like such a cold fish on The Apprentice.

So I am extending an open invitation to you, Martha.  Come on over to my place for Halloween and we'll eat micro-waved chicken nuggets on paper plates while my children run around in their store-bought Halloween costumes in the glow of the jack-o-lanterns I made using an old gravy spoon and a dull kitchen knife.   You'll see how liberating imperfection can be.   Because after a few glasses of wine, everything looks perfect.

Sincerely,

Mary

Shut up, kid

It is shameful how long it has been since I posted, dear readers, but after last week, the wringer and I? We're good pals. Last week was a tough one not only for me, but for my eldest as well. And my father was not kidding, you are only as happy as your unhappiest child.

What I have been fearing for years finally came to pass with my girl. Background first. My oldest is a chip off the old block. As a child, I was hypersensitive and was only truly happy when everyone else was happy. We both share an intense, "can't we all just get along?" philosophy and while, somewhere around middle school, I decided to grow a thicker skin and develop the "fuck you" attitude most of you are alarmingly familiar with, Mean Mommy was, once upon a time, a wimp. I took shit left, right and center from a series of queen bees and went back for more. I am not ashamed to say it because it made me the person I am today, as my sister puts it, "the champion of the meek", but watching my poor, sweet girl go through this is exponentially worse and like a thousands knives through my heart.

So when #1 came home from school last week telling me some kid in her class was being mean to her I immediately began to plot this child's death while trying to repair the damage done. While after hearing the details of the story, it was obvious that my sensy little one was taking things way too seriously and this kid had a serious case of the I-Think-My-Opinion-Counts, it made me think not only of the bullies I encountered back in the day, but of most kids I am running into now that we are seriously entrenched in the social world of elementary school.

The epidemic of which I speak is running rampant through our youth and unless we do something about it America will become known, even more so, as a country of loud-mouthed assholes. The child my daughter was having trouble with was coming up to her to tell things like, "You're late" or "That joke's not funny". Petty, mean things that really don't need to be said. This child, like so many others, has been taught that his opinion actually matters. That every thought he has, mean or otherwise, is valid and needs to be shared regardless of the feelings of others or, god forbid, social graces.

Even with adults these kids can't keep their traps shut. When we have playdates, they are forever haunting me:
Step 1 - Annoying kid: "Can we watch TV?"
Step 2 - Mean Mommy: "No, we don't watch TV on playdates at our house. We play."
Step 3 - AK: "But why?"
Repeat Steps 2 and 3 until Mean Mommy makes a face that scares the kid and she shuts up.

Can you fucking imagine the nerve????? It's all I can do not to smack the kid in the face and say, "Becasue I freakin' said so and who the hell asked you?" We had one kid over for dinner last week before a Halloween party and after being told we'd put on our costumes after dinner, she continued to haunt me for the next hour and forty-five minutes, "Can we now?" Then as I'm feeding the baby, "Is dinner over yet?" Not to toot my kid's horn, but she would sooner stick hot pokers in her eyes than challenge a grown-up once given a reasonable answer.

Kids today, in my opinion, think they are important and while we all love our kids and think the sun rises and sets with them, it is our job to instill a sense of humility in them that lets them know, really, everyone is not hanging on your every word and not everything you think needs to come shooting out of that little graham cracker-hole. Did you ever wonder why our parents' generation had about fifty kids in each public school class and no one got out of hand and our generation is calling the newspapers if Johnny's first grade has more than fifteen? That's because each child also brings their ego, doubling class size. Remember the adage "Children should be seen and not heard"? A little of that goes a long way if you ask me.

Now I am not saying we should teach children to never express their opinions or challenge authority when warranted, but an appropriate amount of restraint would be nice. So while we all work on that I know I have a responsibilitiy to toughen my eldest up, as well as myself. It's going to be a long road ahead with losts of stings and barbs and we both need to be prepared for that. I will comfort myself at night, however, with visions of these kids, years down the road, when they are managing a Friendly's or selling used cars. Maybe someone will care what they have to say then and ask them what flavor to order their Fribble.

I don't get...

This is a topic I think I am going to start exploring regularly here at MM. There are just too many things in the world that perplex me and I wonder if I am the only one. So to begin. I don't get...

...people who back into parking spaces. Obviously, I don't mean parallel parking spaces, what I am talking about are people who screw up the entire traffic pattern at the mall, grocery store or other any other center of commerce to drive by the spot they want, stop, and back into it, rather than doing what the rest of us normal people do which is put on our directional (unless you are my father, in which case you think the whole world knows where you are going and turn at will) and pull in. Apparently, it is such a problem at my local grocery store they have erected signs that read "Head In Parking Only". Are all of these people EMT's, firefighters, or undercover police officers? Because I really can't see any other reason to need to pull out of a parking space in such a hurry you don't have a few seconds to look in the rear view mirror.

Another group or parkers who must have descended from the first, and annoy me equally, are the "pull through leavers". These are the people who, when leaving a parking space where the adjacent space in front has been vacated, pull through that empty spot to exit their space rather than reverse out. Again, is your neck in brace? Then maybe you shouldn't be driving. Because what inevitably happens is, said driver pulls out just as another car is trying to take the space that appears to be empty and both drivers slam on their brakes. Or, even better, the schmuck pulling through does so as if every other driver in the lane should be looking two rows over for traffic or at least be expecting a car to come barreling out of an empty parking spot, and another accident is barely averted with much brake squealing.

This entry has jogged many bad car related memories so be prepared for more down the line. Other drivers I do not get to be outed in the near future? The guy who gets in the car next to mine as I am in the middle of strapping my kids in and glares at me for taking so long so he can pull out (I was here first, asshole, and you can wait a damn minute) and people with expensive cars who purposely park straddling two spaces so no one dents their baby (you are a loser and I have to use every bit of decency I have not to key your stupid yellow Viper).

Monday's meeting cancelled

Since I am usually complaining in this blog about things that stink or are difficult about being a stay at home mom, I thought I'd change things up today and highlight one aspect that rocks that I am currently enjoying today. I am my own boss. While it could be argued that I am not entirely in control as my job is to meet every need of three occasionally irrational individuals, for the most part I set the schedule and decide how each day is going to run.

Today, for example, I am enjoying Day 2 of a post-wedding hangover (a wonderful side effect of having three babies in five years and turning into an old lady is the wicked hangover that results when I imbibe more than three glasses of wine which I definitely did Saturday night). So instead of my usual Monday morning run-around of laundry and the grocery store, I have decided we can dig clean underwear out of the pile for yet another day and survive on randomness in the fridge and just fart around. In addition, I'm feeling more than a little bloated and squidgy after all the drinking, subsequent late-night pizza and next day Chinese food binging associated with a night out so it is with great joy that I can pull on a pair of yoga pants and sweatshirt and call myself "dressed".

I remember my days before kids, as a teacher, feeling this way on a Monday morning and cursing the gods that I had to squeeze myself into an outfit with some semblance of professionalism and spend the day in a room with thirty kids teaching them something other than "Don't mix red wine and martinis". While, at that time I envisioned stay at home motherhood as a fantasy complete with an immaculately clean home and lots of daytime TV, I was accurate in my prediction that once I was at home with my kids I would no longer have "The Mondays" (that's two Office Space references in one week!).

So to all of you at home I hope you enjoy what I call the "professional flexibility" that comes with the job. Because even though I can't hide out in my cube answering e-mail and guzzling lattes (I NEED a drive through DD!) and still must provide peanut butter sandwiches at a moment's notice ("no crusts please!"), I revel in the fact that, at The Barchetto Corporation, I am the boss and today my only meeting is with a one year old concerning some blocks.

Mean Mommy - almost a cautionary tale

POP AND DAD READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. SERIOUSLY. I MEAN IT. REALLY.

Gather round children and listen to the tale of a woman so dumb, she deserves every bit of blood pressure-raising, stomach-churning stress caused by her idiocy.

Um, yeah. That's me.

I'll cut right to the chase and tell you Mean Mommy thought she was pregnant, again. As you all know, I have vacillated between wanting a fourth child and being done with reproducing several times over the last year. And finally, after much soul searching, Hubby and I concluded three is enough and decided to shut down the factory. Permanently. His factory. That's right, I am lucky enough to be married to a man comfortable enough with his own masculinity to give his wife the gift of a vasectomy. So much so he had no problem telling the fellas at work why he would be out for a few days. Now this is a man so private I am not allowed to use his real name in this blog, so I, of course, questioned him abut his new found openness. His response, "Telling guys I'm having a vasectomy is practically telling them, after three kids, I'm still getting enough sex to have to worry about birth control." Well, then.

So appointments were made and Hubby went in for his neutering on the ominous date of September 11th. After a disturbingly short amount of time, he was home on the couch with a bag of frozen peas in his crotch and CNBC on the tube. I won't bore you with the details of the week following and the ensuing complaints of pain. While I sympathize, and thank Hubby for his choice, puh-lease. All I have to say is, nine pound baby, no epidural, third-degree vaginal tear. Oh, and shut up.

A week later Hubby trotted off for his follow-up exam with his sterile sample container and scratching his, now hopefully vestigial, testicles as the shaving began to grow back (Am I sick to be glad there was some form of humiliation involved even if it was only with an electric shaver? I pooped on a delivery table with people watching for Christ's sake!). And speaking of samples, he did that one on his own. I had fantasized about his having to do it alone in a doctor's office with a ratty old titty mag as away to equate above mentioned poop-related embarrassment, but alas, he was allowed to do it in the privacy of the bathroom. I still wonder how the aiming aspect of that worked out, but not enough to ask.

H returned home with the good news. H e was now shooting blanks and, following a second sample, in a week we would be officially "done". So since I was at the very end of my cycle and couldn't get pregnant under the best of circumstances, we celebrated in the laundry room while the girls watched Beauty and the Beast.

OK, fast forward ten days and my period is no where to be seen. I am officially late and, also, officially going insane. I couldn't do it again. The sleepless nights, the breast feeding, losing the baby weight. I enlisted the tried and true method of bringing on your period - spending $17.00 on a pregnancy test. Still nothing. I told H of the situation. His response? "If you are this kid better perfect cold fusion or bring about world peace." Translation? If we were going through the wringer a fourth time, it'd better count.

Two more days pass and just as I was about to call my doctor to get a blood-draw pregnancy test, it came. I have never been so happy to see my period in all my life. Sure I had a few "scares" in high school when I wasn't actually having sex, and thought the fumbling my boyfriend and engaged in could produce an Oprah worthy immaculate conception(R, is that test still buried in your back yard?), but this was the first time I was ever truly worried. And, yes, #2 was an accident (a happy one), but at that point I was already ready for another baby so I guess she just came to the party early.

Closing the proverbial barn door after the proverbial horse, I took Hubby's second sample in yesterday and, yes, he is shooting blanks. And while I did not enjoy the acute stress of the past few days, it did show me how absolutely, completely done I am having babies and I thank the fates, along with Hubby's and my inability to keep our hands off each other, for that clarity. And while this does not exclude the possibility of posts further down the line reminiscing about the feeling of carrying a child inside me, it does exclude any real emotional trauma associated with those feelings. Mean Mommy is done and happy to be. Everyone's on board our ship and it's time to move forward. At least now we can push the crate of condoms overboard.

This Old (and Small as Hell) House

Let me scrape one last bit of paint off my hands and rub the sawdust out of my eyes before I begin typing. I am returning to you, dear readers, after a week in a hell of my own making known as kitchen renovation. I have spent the last week with no kitchen access, running around the outside of the house going through the garage to grab cold items from the extra fridge in our basement (inevitably, forgetting the very thing I went down for and returning with random food stuffs), making sandwiches on a card table in the living room and heating the baby's milk up in the microwave on our bedroom dresser (nothing says classy like being able to make microwave popcorn and change your underwear in the same room!).

While we only had the cabinets refaced, new counter tops (which have yet to arrive so I have fifty year old Formica counters balanced precariously on new cabinets - safety first!) and a new dishwasher installed, the ensuing chaos and disorder was enough to drive me insane and I fear for the day we do actually move out of this shoebox of a house - I will definitely need Xanax or a homemade IV cobbled together from medical tubing and wine in a box.

Said renovation was in preparation for putting our cozy bungalow (Sounds good, right? Gotta practice for the ads.) on the market since the kitchen was a total shithole complete with NO DISHWASHER. My in-laws took pity on me after #2's birth and bought us a portable one. And while I am eternally grateful for the hours it saved me, it had become a 200 lb albatross around our necks having to drag its heaving bulk in front of the sink each night to hook it up and then listening to its deafening roar as it ran. Or, alternately, waiting for Hubby to forget to run it every night because he didn't want to listen to it while watching TV, waking up to a load of dirty dishes and then running it while feeding the kids breakfast screaming, "WHAAAAT? YOU NEED MORE SYRUP?" So it was with great joy that we finally had a nice, new dishwasher installed when the cabinets were done and were able to drag the beast to the curb this morning. Hubby and I had fantasies of going all Office Space fax machine on it (and then having a drunken dance party in our living room, of course), but we restrained ourselves, especially since I think I'd pull a hammy with the leg-chop move.

After spending the weekend painting (I am the painter in our family as Hubby's version of painting involves no tape and results in the "camouflaging" of all our outlets and switch plates), and moving our stuff back in we have a lovely new kitchen. I will now have more time to write as I will not being doing laps around my house muttering under my breath, "Forgot the fucking syrup - again!"
Happy Monday.

Dear Ann Taylor

Dear Ann Talyor,

I want to thank you for my recent, very pleasant trip to your offshoot store, Ann Taylor Loft. I ran in on a whim with my two daughters in tow after seeing an adorable corduroy jacket in the front window thinking I could quickly try it on over my T-shirt without having to disturb everyone in the dressing room with my girls' usual game of "Bunk Beds" where they argue over who gets to lie on top of and underneath the bench in the cubicle and they both wind up covered in dust bunnies (Old Navy is especially filthy).

After trying on said jacket and deciding to purchase it, I noticed a rack of lovely, fine-whaled cords behind the display and, buying the kids' silence with the promise of cinnamon sugar pretzels, sojourned into the dressing room with my usual size 12. Yes, Mean Mommy is a big gal, being almost five foot nine. In my dream world there would be a size 11 since I need to eat more desserts to really fill out a 12 or keep sending my local tailor's kids to private college with alterations. And I'd never get to eat dessert again (not possible) to fit into a 10 any other time than after a bout of stomach flu.

So imagine my surprise when I slipped on the pants and they were swimming on me! The attendant brought me a 10 and, again, too big! I was so shocked I hardly noticed #2's feet sticking out from under the bench and #1 pretending to snore. A size 8 was procured and - perfection! Had I entered a magical place where pounds melt off as you walk through the door? Donuts and fries for everyone!

Sadly, no. Having just weighed myself that morning, Ann Taylor, I knew I weighed not one pound more or less than I did a few weeks ago. While I thank you for the ego boost, I beg you to stop with this vanity sizing. While I'm sure you are seeing sales skyrocket, are you really doing women any good? I see the problem as two-fold.

First, if I have eaten my way into a bigger size, I should have to face it. I know, rationally, I can not exist on pie and wine and still keep my figure. You are only helping women delude themselves and have unfortunate, "Who the hell is the girl with the big butt in the mirror?" moments later on. A Size 16 butt is still a size 16 whatever the label says and I'd like to know when I've achieved one (as I did one unfortunate winter in college eating sour cream straight from the food service tub). And to not be totally superficial about it, it's just not healthy.

Second, you are not helping women accept the size and shape of their bodies. If I am exercising regularly and eating healthfully, I should be proud of my body no matter what size I wear. You are reinforcing the idea that women should be a certain size to be attractive and I do not like it. Not. At. All.

So, Ann Taylor, please do something about this. I not only disagree with your sizing based on the reasons above, but it also exponentially increases my time in the dressing room playing What Size Am I Here? It also allows enough time to produce two children who look like they've come out of a lint trap by the time we leave the dressing room. Someone really needs to get under there with a vacuum.

Sincerely,
Mary