The Year in Review

Belated Merry Christmas, dear readers. Apologies for not sending you well wishes closer to the holiday but Christmas Eve found me preparing to host a large group of people for the traditional Italian Night of Seven Fishes, then winding up in the emergency room with my dear chef, H, who had a back spasm, obviously related to his repeatedly heaving a whole, raw, octopus in and out of the refrigerator to show anyone who walked into our house. Christmas Day I was drowning in wrapping paper and Geotrax parts, and began my week-long soak in champagne, which, sadly, will come to an end tomorrow night, New Year's Eve.

As I have written about before, the new year is a time when we all examine our flaws in the cold light of a hangover, crippled by the depressive effects of last night's alcohol, stuffed with last night's dessert binge, sure we are the laziest, fattest, lowest achieving person on the planet. I have the added benefit of a little practice session of self-examination every December the twenty-seventh, my birthday.*

Just like last year, and every year since I have had kids (since, you don't really get the true significance of birthdays until you are on the birth-giving end of one), I planned a lovely day for myself**, starting it off with a 10K. TOOOOT!! Yes, that's the sound of my own horn and, no, I don't care, because if you can't do it on your own birthday when can you? Also, doing it in 58 minutes made my thirty-sixth birthday much easier to swallow since I had hard evidence that I am not, as of yet, falling apart at the seams.

Planning my day was aided mightily by the presence of my father and stepmother, who not only watched the kids so H and I could go to Hoboken for a romantic dinner at the restaurant we once lived above many moons ago, but they also surprised us with a couples massage at a local spa that afternoon. It came with a pre-massage whirlpool for two, which sounded awesome to H and made me a little nauseous frankly, since as anticipated, I spent the entire time in the couples waiting area eyeballing the other clients deciding who was most/least likely to fool around in the tub, then, despite this being a top-notch spa, wondered who had been in our tub the hour before, regretting there was not a strong smell of bleach in the room to allay my fears of contracting an STD. It was even better than I anticipated, when ten minutes into our soak, the woman in the room next door began screaming like a banshee, and not in that way. Her husband, it seems was having a seizure and she had to suspend him out of the water to prevent his drowning and was unable to unlock the door to the suite. Cue spa staff, police and EMT's pounding on doors, including ours at first. Calgon take me away.

The massage itself did prove to be quite relaxing, after I managed to convince massage virgin, H, that his going boxer-less did not seem skeevy to the masseuse, and during it I had time to do my traditional Birthday Year in Review. And while it seems every year I have the same grand plans to have this year be the year I stop sticking my face in a plate of dessert every Saturday night as a way of rewarding myself for eating well and exercising during the week (see Mean Mommy antonym: moderation) and also be the year I finally start working on my book (which is suspiciously beginning to have the ring of "I coulda been a contender!"), I found I was, on the whole, content with my life. And I realized, I pretty much am each year. Does that mean there's something wrong with me?

If you look at magazine covers and see television commercials, it seems everyone in the United States has some grand, life-changing goals they are not realizing. In fact, last month, the lead article of O magazine (again, I confess to reading it since her staff writers are brilliant, I jsut wish her stupid, mug wasn't on the cover each month), was, "Who Are You Meant to Be? A step-by-step guide to finding and fulfilling your life's purpose". The article even included a quiz to determine what it is that you are meant to do with your life and featured pieces written by famous female designers, writers and politicians. And I sat there feeling like a simpleton because, I'm not looking to become anything else. Sounds bad, huh?

A lot of people in my position, and admittedly, myself at times, would see this stage in my life as a weigh station, just a place I'm stuck in until I can move on with my real life. In fact, if you search this blog you will find a few posts dedicated just to that subject. But I have begun to realize that my insecurities about what I am doing with my life stem from what I think others think about me and that is a gourmet recipe for misery. Now I'm not about to turn into one of those mothers who turn being a stay at home mom in to a calling of the highest degree. I don't think I'm reinventing the wheel here, but what if I just inhabited my life instead of wondering "what's it all about?".

Perhaps this post sounds defeatist, or like I'm giving up on my writing plans or any vision of my own future, but that us not the case at all. I will take opportunities where I can find them, like finding the wonderful S to watch the kids and signing up for a writing workshop, but constantly striving and searching is exhausting, and, honestly, I have enough in my life to exhaust me already. I just think searching for the perfect life is preventing me from enjoying my near-perfect one at times.

So I will make my low-expectation/high rate of success resolutions, as I do every year - although last year's calcium supplement plan did not stick - and see what this year holds for me without stressing about whether I am the Mary I was meant to be. Because as the phrase suggests, if I am meant to be her, then it will happen because she's already there inside. She just needs more sleep and a few more hours to write.

*Despite what my Facebook profile says. When I signed up for this mysterious service back in its nascence, I was afraid of being hacked and changed my birth info by one digit.

**And H narrowly escaped The Great Cake Fight Part Deux by bringing home gourmet cupcakes.

Long before the pony heels....

Look what I just found! I was cleaning out some boxes today and I stumbled a upon these. No, these are not rejects from the Salem Witch Trial reenactment wardrobe closet, these, dear reader are my wedding shoes.

I know! Can you believe Mean Mommy ever put such monstrosities on her feet even in jest, never mind on the most important day of her young life? Notice the oh, so flattering stacked heel. Were orthopedic shoes not available in white? And what's with the height of this "heel" (I use quotation marks since I now consider anything under three inches to be practically a flat)? I was young, I should have been teetering around on at least four inches.

This is yet more evidence that brides today have it so good with the way the wedding industry has been taken over by haute couture. I look at all the delicate, strappy heels I see brides wearing today and I want to cry, having missed out on such glorious footwear for my own nuptials and clomped around in, what might as well have been, giant boxes on my feet. Who the hell needs a pedicure when you are wearing shoes you can scrabble up Plymouth Rock in? And I did have a cute pedi - my toes wear my something blue.

So hear my sighs, dear readers, as I look back on a missed opportunity to wear fabulous footwear funded by my very generous father. Every bride wonders if her own daughter will wear her wedding dress some day, and while I can still do that since my dress was quite lovely, I know for certain my daughters will wear my wedding shoes, as these are being relegated to the dress-up box.

Happy Date-a-versary, H

Mean Mommy and H, circa 1991

present day

While, technically, I should have put up this post a few weeks back, but I wanted to say Happy Date-a-versary to H. Yes, we are queer, and not I don't care.

Our first date, pictured above, top*,was eighteen years ago, on December 7th, 1991. The Phi Tau semi-formal was the occasion. Yes, I outweighed him by twenty pounds - I think that was the year my father imitated me at the Christmas dinner table by putting two walnuts in his cheeks. Good times. And, yes, I am wearing a culotte one-piece, which I believe I bought at Merry Go Round. H does not fair much better. His pants? Is that the bottom half of a zoot suit?

Anyway, regardless of our horrible fashion sense, and my inability to stop eating dining hall brownies, this was the day it all began. Almost twenty years and three kids later, I would still totally skip studying for my Chem 101 final to get dressed up and do kamikaze shots with him in a fraternity house basement that had been cleansed of vomit and decked with Christmas lights just for the occasion.

But there's no way in hell I'd wear culottes again.

*Good God, am I going to pay dearly for posting this picture.

I'm not worthy...

The shoes

Wendy is TOUCHING me!

Is that my MOM dancing with Wanya?

I am still fumbling around in my post-Wendy fog (and post-K visit depression), making this Monday particularly difficult. Where, oh where do I begin describing my experience at The Experience*, dear readers? Do I begin at four forty-five in the morning, when I arose to start meticulously blowing out my hair and putting on enough makeup to make the kind gentleman who held the door for me at Starbucks later that morning think I was coming off my night shift on the local street corner? Do I detail my wardrobe crisis, trying decide between several cute sleeveless tops, which wound up being an exercise in futility, as the studio was so cold and I had such bad flop sweats I wound up wearing the frumpy sweater I had grabbed as an insulating layer for the long wait outside the studio in the arctic cold? In any case, K, Chrissy and I arrived at Wendy's studios at the bright and early hour of seven thirty, primped, dressed and caffeinated, ready to meet Wendy.

My first objective was to find Kemar, the lovely, gay production assistant I had been speaking to over the phone. After being told the production people would find us, I spotted a fabulous little black man entering the building and told my sister, "If that's not Kemar, you're straight" and at this point decided I had better change into my Wendy-appropriate foot gear. I had determined that between the sub-zero windchill and the skyscraper height of my heels, I was sure to wind up with painful frozen stumps for feet if I wore the pony shoes before the show and had schlumped around Manhattan in my flats with the ponies hidden in my handbag. So using K for support, I climbed into my shoes before Kemar could get one look at my Payless ballet flats and say, "Um, just, NO."

The suspected-Kemar came traipsing down the street moments after my wardrobe change and as he passed us I trilled, "Excuse me? Are you Kemar?", and after he answered in the affirmative, I screeched, "I'm Mary!!!" to which he screeched, "Hey girl!!" and gave me big hug. No mean feet as I was a good two feet taller than he in my stilettos. Oh, how I enjoy flamboyant gay man love. I was checked in and my next step toward getting Wendy face time was to obtain the green light from the producers.

We were finally let into the waiting room of the studio where we were surrounded by hot pink walls and purple benches. It seems my purple top was, indeed, the right choice. I ran to the restroom to check hair and makeup and the stability of my flop-sweat absorbers. As you all know, I sweat like a man, which only gets worse when I am unnerved, and to prevent making a fool out of myself on national television, I had slapped two pantyliners under each armpit to absorb any wayward perspiration, which I would remove right before the cameras rolled. Hair? Good. Makeup? Still slutty. Pits of shirt? Still dry.

After emerging from the bathroom, K, Chrissy and I were herded into a holding area for "Ask Wendy" guests. I was introduced to a David Arquette-looking producer who asked me about my question, checked me out for obvious signs of crazy, as I flashed my best " nice white girl who can expand your demographics" smile, and was told in the final five minutes before the show my name would be called - or not. The suspense was killing me. But before I could dwell too long on the horror of possibly making it this far without seeing my idol, yet another producer grabbed the three of us for a "rehearsal".

If I hadn't mentioned it already, the guests for the show were to be Margaret Cho and 90's R&B sensation Boyz II Men. We were beside ourselves with anticipation of great gay comedy and Caucasian-beloved R&B. Sadly, Cho canceled, but the rehearsal we were pulled into was for BIIM. We were seated in two rows of chairs placed right in front of the stage, I behind an empty seat. Initially excited by the prospect of such close proximity to fun music, we quickly learned that this would be the "Slow Jam" portion of the performance, with all the vocal acrobatics and finger waving that entails. Wondering how we would keep interested faces on for the cameras, the three of us were told to return to these seats when called. But who was the empty seat in front of me for? WENDY. Huzzah! Even if I didn't get to speak to her, I would at least be able to touch her weave. Back to the waiting area we went.

Five minutes to show time and Kemar gets all five feet of himself up on a chair and starts calling names. The names of the chosen. "Please pick me, please pick me", I chant in my head and behold, my name is called, and we are ushered in to be assigned our aisle seats. And let the flop sweats commence! Upon entering the meat locker of a studio, my sweat glands were not daunted, and despite my best efforts, my pits were becoming a veritable Niagara Falls of perspiration. It seems the frumpastic sweater was going to have to stay. Not even the distraction of watching K participate in, and win, a pre-show dance contest was enough to calm my nerves. Then David Arquette shows up again and wants me to pretend he's Wendy and ask my question. He starts tweaking it, telling me to introduce myself to Wendy, make sure I tell her I have three small kids, not just "kids", and don't call my sister "gay", say "how you doin?", did I have all that? Could I do it again? Aaaah!!! Stop freaking me out and go get Courtney more Botox!!!! After screwing up three of four times I finally got it down, but could I really do this? Sweat, sweat, sweat. God, help me!

Two minutes to air and nothing exists but the words Arquette wants me to say. I rehearse them again and again in my head. But then the lights go up, the music pumps, the doors open, and there she is - WENDY! For those of you who didn't watch, the look on my face and the uncontrollable flailing of my arms is akin to that teenage girl they always show as The Beatles stepped onto the tarmac at JFK. All thought of my nerves vanished and I just started to have fun. We danced, we laughed, Wendy even told me she "loved my shoes" on one trip up our aisle. I sat behind Wendy for that tortuous slow jam, and controlled myself, her weave none the wiser as to how close it came to being molested. And as the Boyz left the stage Wendy tosses out, "After the break? ASK WENDY!!!" Cue wave of terror.

Arquette shows up to rehearse me again. Gah! Leave me alone! But I nail it this time. I am instructed to stay standing as the rest of the audience is given the two minute warning and told to take their seats. My heart races, my legs start to shake and knees lock and all I can envision is my going down like a sack of potatoes and snatching Wendy's wig off as I try to break my fall. I decide the only way to stop from passing out is to dance and get some blood flowing. So I start breakin' it down like the white girl I am, looking like I'm having the time of my life, when all I can feel is panic.

How do I describe that minute and a half? It was pretty much like Ralphie speaking to Santa in A Christmas Story, all foggy and strange. I manage to get my question out, adding in an redundant "small children" halfway through (happy now, David?) and then did not listen to any of Wendy's answer. Everyone told me afterward I looked so serious listening to her, but really I was thinking to myself, "Please stop talking Wendy, so they can get this camera off of me", feeling my face heat up, knowing I am turning the shade of the walls - my other favorite nervous reaction. After watching it at home I guess I didn't do too badly, despite some people claiming I spoke with a heavy Jersey accent (you know who you are).

So once that part of the show was over I really started to enjoy myself. I laughed at other people's questions and during the commercial break I had to tap Wendy on the arm and tell her how much I love her. After thanking me, she pointed to my thyroidectomy scar and asked, "Do you have thyroid issues?" After affirming this, she says, "That's a good cut!" (shout out Dr. Cusamano!) After showing me her pit sweat (ironic, no?) I told her, "pantyliners!", but then she told me they fall down and you look like you have four boobs. Now do you see why I love her?

To close out the show, Boyz II Men came back out to sing their greatest hit "Motown Philly" and, unbeknownst to us, were going to be singing in the audience - right next to us! - which we realized when Wanya (pronounced Wan-YAY, apparently) popped up in the aisle with a microphone. Watch me get down with my bad self as I revel in music I danced to in fraternity basements almost twenty years ago (shout out Phi Delts!). I really could not look whiter as I sang along, "Boyz II Men, ABC, BBD!!!" and did the white girl shuffle. PS, I now dance like my mom.

So the show wraps up, Wendy thanks us all for coming and we find ourselves out on the street in the harsh light of day, holding a free Boyz II Men CD, feeling like we've been spit out by a six foot tall, wig-wearing, hot pink tornado. The real world seemed so drab, so quiet, so devoid of peppy soundtrack. At least we had the added bonus of getting to relive it all once we got home!

Two hours later, K, Chrissy and I are back home with Italian heroes (OK, maybe I am from Jersey now since I didn't call them wedges), remote in hand, ready to see our TV debut. For those of you who missed it, it was seriously ridiculous how much camera time we got. Almost every audience reaction shot includes us. Or perhaps it's our shining whiteness. Even if the majority of the audience hadn't been African American, our almost-lavender-paleness paired with the red hair turns out to be a magnet for the eye. I also came away with some observations. You know how you watch talk shows and you think the audience in the shot is looking up at themselves on the monitor? They're not. They're reading along on the teleprompter. I didn't even see a monitor where I could check out if my flop sweat was apparent, even if I wanted to, but I do look like I'm checking myself out. Also, if you go to a talk show, be aware you will never know when you are on camera. Evidence? I had no idea I was in the closing shot of the show, the caffeine and adrenaline had worn off and I had a decidedly sour, I-need-a-nap face on. Not attractive. In other news, I really do have my father's nose, and I should have worn my retainer more often since two of my teeth are visibly recessing.

So other than hard, televised evidence of my physical flaws, this was one of my top ten days of all time. Possibly top five, after the kids' births and the day H and I married. I have watched this episode numerous times, not because I want to watch myself, but because I want to relive the feeling. Now if only my real life could take place in a hot pink room with a leopard print floor where fabulous shoes are a requirement. If only...

*The name of Wendy's former radio show.

I felt it, felt it, felt it!!!!

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my GOD!!!!!

I can not believe what happened today! Not only did I get to ask Wendy my question, but in three separate interactions she told me she loved my shoes, my thyroidectomy scar was a "good cut" and she too uses pantyliners as pit-sweat absorbers. My sister, Chrissy and I also got so much screen time we might have to join the Screen Actors Guild.

After my sister's visit is over I will dissect today's events in all their fag hag, pony-shoe-wearing glory, but if you can, dear readers, watch the rerun on UPN9 or BET tonight and watch me dance with Boyz II Men.

I. Do. Not. Kid.

Set your DVR's...

Sorry for the long absence, dear readers, but between planning and running a Girl Scout meeting, Christmas shopping and manically preparing for my sister's arrival there has been not time. But...

I just spoke to Kemar, an assistant producer at Wendy Williams and I have been instructed to arrive early, dressed nicely because they would possibly like me to ask Wendy my question!!!!

So set your DVR's for 10am tomorrow. Mean Mommy goes live!

More tomorrow....

Jon & Kate make me cry...

While at the grocery store yesterday, waiting in line behind, yet another, old woman who can't understand the concept of filling out the check while the cashier is scanning your items, I had a moment to peruse the tabloid rack. Alongside the covers featuring the Kardashian sisters (remind me why they're famous again?) were sidebars cleaning up the scraps of the Gosselins' divorce and I had to sigh a sad little sigh thinking about Jon minus Kate.

After the kids were in bed last night and H was out walking the dog, I decided to do some research and watch bits of old episodes of Jon and Kate Plus Eight courtesy of our OnDemand service. And there Kate was in all her screeching, reverse-Mohawk-wearing, control freak glory. Watch as she warns the children not to get their clothing dirty during their cupcake-baking birthday party. Watch her potty train all the sextuplets at once, forcing them to sit on the potty en mass, drinking juice, until they felt the urge to urinate. Watch her force sick kids to sleep on folded up blankets on the laundry room floor when a bout of stomach flu had hit the house. Speaking of stomachs, watch her selfishly go get a tummy tuck while the kids are still young enough to need carrying, knowing the recovery will be hell. Watch her write and travel endlessly to push her books, brazenly making money off her children. And of course, watch her scream at Jon when he gives her a vacant, sloe-eyed stare after being asked where the kids' shoes are while trying to get ready for church. God this woman is a harpy.

And yet....

I can't help but defend her. Back in the day, when LM was really tiny and I thought I would lose my mind, I watched this show once in a while on winter afternoons since it is totally G-rated, the girls found it hilarious this family had eight kids, and it didn't involve animation. Kate made me feel less alone, being outnumbered by my kids and, admittedly, like a big pussy for feeling overwhelmed. And instead of making me hate her, it inspired me to be more organized, to keep up what I felt were my useless efforts to feed my children healthfully and not to feel bad about flipping out once in a while. At least there weren't cameras in my house.

Everyone wants to make Kate out to be this controlling, husband-abusing, money-hungry bitch, but really, what choice did she have? Granted, some of her tactics were over the top, but the fact that she was able to potty train six children simultaneously is awe-inspiring. If they were my kids I'd be buying the smallest size of Depends to this day. And the stomach flu episode? Well, the kids thought it was some kind of adventure, I'm sure, sleeping someplace new, as mine would get a kick sleeping in their closet if I gave in to their requests, and how else was she going to monitor all the puking? Alright, maybe it was cruel due to the lack of television.

I know there are members of my family (who shall remain nameless) who hate Kate with the fire of a thousand suns, and her choice to have plastic surgery sends them over the edge. Well, if someone offered me a free tummy tuck after birthing eight children and carrying around enough extra skin to make a Caucasian-hide Burkin bag, I'd have left skid marks in the driveway no matter how bad the recovery was going to be or how much it would put my husband out. Does that make me vain? Possibly. And Kate cooked and froze two weeks worth of organic meals for nine people before she left. I would have given H directions to McDonald's, Burger King and Wendy's to ensure my kids had enough variety in their diets.

To the point that Kate is shamelessly exploiting her children to make money - who exactly do you think she's making all this moolah for? She has said she did the show for the memories at first and now does it to provide for her family. She is being completely honest and I applaud her for that. She had no idea it would be a cash cow, but now that it is and it's obvious she was married to the world's most useless man, why not milk it for all it's worth before it ends? Do I think she's buying herself a few handbags and pairs of shoes? Sure.

Speaking of her brain-dead, teenager-fucking, Ed Hardy-wearing, man-child of an ex-husband, what choice did Kate have but to become a lunatic when her partner has not a clue? All those times we saw her scream at Jon, I felt her frustration at having to keep such a massive boat afloat with this idiot as an anchor around her neck. I am positive, if H and I were to do a reality show, I would be edited in the same way and he is actually a functioning parent. And all those who say she turned into a real witch over the years and he couldn't take it anymore - who do you think did that to her, Jon? YOU! And your dopey-ass self! And let's say, for the sake of argument, Kate was this way from the get-go, which I think is a theory that has some validity, then Jon knew what he was getting into, and he can lie in the bed he made. I'm not saying Kate is blameless here, but if he was so unhappy with what the show was doing to him and his family then grow a pair, lay down the law, and tell your wife, for the good of your family and your children, the show is over. But then who would pay for all your butt-ugly t-shirts, right?

Before you deluge me with hate mail, I do not think this woman is a saint. I just think she is making the best of a tough situation and I don't judge her for that. Maybe I am a sucker, but I really believe this woman has her children's best interests at heart. Looking back at old footage, it makes me so sad. Jon and Kate seemed so much like me and H. Boy, that sounds bad. But what I mean is their playful banter in the interview chair and the way he would roll his eyes at her, but you knew he respected what she did, or used to. You can tell in interviews now that she is still really in love with Jon and her heart is broken.

When discussing this post idea with H, he started laughing as I really worked myself into a lather saying, "Sounds like you're defending one of your own!" That might have a grain of truth. Well if one of my own is a ballsy woman who likes a clean house, well-behaved children* and who fights to make the best of a tough situation and has no patience for nonsense, then I am flattered to be counted among her company.

Except for the hair. Something needs to be done about that hair.

*Except for that Maddy, what the hell happened there?

Feel it, feel it, feel it...*

This year I have a lot to be thankful for - my family's and my health, the new house, the kids' adjusting well to the move and now, I AM GOING TO BE ON TV!!!

Sort of.

Set your DVR's, dear readers, Mean Mommy is going to be in the audience of one of her favorite gabfests, The Wendy William Show on Thursday, December 10th at 10:00 am and, by hook or by crook, I will get to talk to Wendy. Who is this Wendy, you ask? If I am such a rabid fan, it does seem strange that I haven't written about her before. I had thought about it on several occasions, but perhaps subconsciously I knew I'd have something more significant to write about, than merely me love of Ms. Williams. In a hundred words or less, the host of this celebrity gossip-fest, Wendy, is a tall, big-haired, shoe-obsessed, loud-mouthed, tranny-lookalike, fag hag. Gee, who does that remind you of? Other than looking like a tranny, obviously. She also takes questions from the audience about personal matters, such as what to do about baby-mama drama and how to get even with cheating boyfriends. She is fabulosity distilled down to its essence, with catch phrases such as "foo-foo la" (fancy embellishments, ex., "I love that dress with all its foo-foo la"), "Wiggy" (women who wear wigs) and the show's tag line "How you doin'?", which now said to everyone, was once the greeting used for only gays on her radio show. She interviews celebrities with brutal honesty and uses that same no-holds-barred approach discussing her own life, admitting things such as her love for Slim Jims heated over a flame. H says she is my walking id.

The radio was where I fell in love with Wendy. I found her one random afternoon five years ago, driving around in the van and have been listening to her ever since. It was here I learned the details of her life that made me love her like how she spends the weekends in sweats around her suburban New Jersey home crafting with her son. This makes me lover her even more. Because I really couldn't love a celebrity with the devotion I do if I didn't think she was a real person. Wendy is a devoted mother who takes off her wig and Manolos to be class mother. No one can be that fabulous all the time. It's just not appropriate, as much as we'd like it to be.

So keep you fingers crossed, dear readers, that you will see me in more than the wide, audience shot. Apparently, some producer will call to see if I have a question for the "Ask Wendy" segment. Since Wendy is such a fag-hag, and gays make up a huge percentage of her audience, I am stacking the deck, bringing my sister and Chrissy with me and my question will be how to explain their upcoming nuptials to my children (even though that has already been done). And if God is really, really smiling on me, I will be picked to intro the show. Considering the poorly dressed schlubs they've been picking lately (despite the website's urging to dress chicly, in bright colors), I am a shoe in (pun intended) as I will be wearing a purple sleeveless top, the necklace in my new profile picture, and my pony heels. It would be a dream come true to throw my arms wide, filled with love for my hero, and exclaim, "AND HERE'S WENDYYYY!"

*These are lyrics from the amazing theme song

Meet me at the baah.

I am back from a luxurious weekend away in Boston visiting friends where I went for long runs, did some shopping, actually blew out my hair, and got way too drunk. So in between putting the house back together (H did a great job, but unimportant things like, say, #2's winter coat, have gone missing) and managing the second day of my hangover, I wanted to share a few random things I learned this weekend.

1. I am officially an old lady and can not sleep well anywhere except my own bed. I was becoming more aware of this lately and usually travel with my sleep mask, noise machine, pillow from home and clip on fan to aid the effort of attaining quality zzz's. Yes, I'm high maintenance and, no, I don't care. This trip I forgot everything but the sleep mask and have the under eye circles to prove it. Or was it all the booze?

2. Cementing my title of old lady, it is now official that I can no longer frequent bars that feature live music without H. To be specific, I can no longer do this when dressed up and with my girlfriends. B and I wound up in some bar in Boston, that we thought was the perfect place since it seemed every drinking age bracket was represented, including, creepy old, Irish guy at the end of the bar. Alas, no. We both felt rather exposed not having anyone to grind on during "American Girl" and were not actively searching for interested candidates. I think our future plans need to include upscale places with actual bar stools. Places that sell "Sean's Happy Juice" as the drink of the night are to be avoided in the future.

3. Not all gay bars are fabulous. I knew this, yet we had to at least walk past the place our waitress suggested. Sadly, it was not a scene straight out of Sex and the City. I guess the Boston gays prefer a tamer atmosphere. Nary a bare chest or glow stick to be seen. A gay bar with a pool table? That's just not right.

4. Nothing screams "I'm from New York!"* more than wearing a sleeveless top in Boston after Labor Day. Also a giveaway? Asking where the coat check is. After being given a quizzical stare by the barback at the very busy, hip restaurant, he took our coats and returned with out ticket. the number? ONE. I looked around and every damn person in the place had some kind of outerwear stuffed behind them in their seats like and elementary school cafeteria. Curious, but I guess it is quite chilly up there.

5. The lobster tail from Mike's Pastry that you bought at one in the afternoon, thinking, "That is ridiculously big", will seem ridiculously the right size at one in the morning.

6. My mother is still in my life and my best friend, B, is channeling her. Having a friend who I can tell, I love my life but am sometimes overly concerned about other people's low opinions of what I do, is a blessing. She also talks me out of buying unflattering pants.

So B and I have decided to make this an annual tradition and meet in Boston the weekend before Thanksgiving every year (see, no backing out now, it's in writing!). Because nothing makes you more thankful for your life than getting a break from it. And still having hangover-related-alcohol aversion prevents Turkey Day binge drinking as well.

*Yes, I realize I am from New Jersey, but I refuse to truly accept at and screaming that would entail my wearing a velour track suit, which, no.

I AM my hair...*

I’m at the hairdresser, getting my roots done and while I sit here looking like an alien with a whole roll of tin foil on my head, wearing a leopard print cape (is this the place for me or what?) I am thinking about my hair. I have a theory that, as a grown woman, your hair is a reflection of your life circumstance and what you consider important.

Now to begin fully informed, I have a shit load of thick, unruly hair. Seriously, my hairdresser frequently asks me to book appointments at the beginning of the day so she has the strength to blow it out. It has a weird texture that is neither curly or straight and it must be coaxed with heating elements to take on either of those characteristics. I have never had, except in childhood, hair that was wash and go and once I hit my teenage years, an inordinate amount of time was spent taming my mane.

Currently, I have absolutely no time for my hair. But in the days before kids, I would spend forty-five minutes a day blowing it out before work. Today? I spent six minutes scraping my hair back into bun, blowing out my bangs and using an old can of Pantene to hold down the flyaways. I can not imagine the luxury of being able to spend so much time purely on my appearance as in the old days. This is my point exactly, my focus right now is no longer on myself, it is on my children. My workday hairstyle is functional, it keeps Little Man from grabbing my locks with his peanut-buttery hands, or myself from becoming overheated as I chase him around the playground. I have referenced before, the putting up of hair that young women partook in upon reaching adulthood, back in the time of hoop skirts and I feel that is exactly right. My time to be totally frivolous and self-centered has passed and my ‘do reflects that.

So one might ask, why not cut it all off and stop lamenting the fact you never get to wear your hair down? Because I love my hair. When my hair is clean and blown smooth and scented with the perfume I only wear when I go out, I feel like the “pre-kids” Mary. Don’t get me wrong, my hair is an appropriate length for my age, just an inch or two below the shoulders. In my opinion, too long hair on a woman over thirty-five is like wearing a t-shirt that says “President of the Trying Too Hard Club”. Does anyone remember Crystal Gayle? I also refuse to cut it because I have to believe at some point in the future I will have more time than most people take to fix their coffee to fix my hair. My ponytail may annoy me with its constant reminder that I am last on the priority list around here, but it also is a symbol of promise. The promise that my old self, who I only see in glimpses, will be coming back, full time, soon.

I asked H over coffee the other day what I will do with my unruly crowning glory once I’m too old to sport a ponytail. This I feel, loses its appropriateness sometime in your forties unless you are partaking in an athletic activity, making you look like you are playing dress-up (kind of like women over twenty who wear pigtails when not in a Halloween costume). Then I caught myself, thinking Little Man will be in first grade by that point and if I don’t have time to blow it out, I’ll be so irritated, maybe I will cut it off. After sharing this with H, he made his feelings clear quipping, “And I will tell you to your face you’re ugly.” Guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t want me to cut my hair.

*Props to you if you picked up the India Arie and previous post reference.

You are now a lone wolf...

Dear Daddy,

It's me, Reilly. I am writing to tell you have officially been kicked out of the pack. I thought you and I were tight. Until the Small Person #3 arrived, we were the only men in the house (and if you bring up the fact that I do not qualify due to the technical fact I am missing my nuts, I will remind you are shooting blanks as well, my friend). Our fervor for napping, disgusting meat products, such as Taylor ham, and love of head-scratching from, and fear of, The Redhead, created a bond I thought was unbreakable.

Until today.

Let me set the scene. The Redhead had wrapped all the small people in their winter fur-replacement things and partaken in her usual screaming and pushing/pulling of tiny bodies out of the house and into that moving compartment you use to take me to the needle-stabber guy in the white coat. The door had finally closed and I was left to roam the house. Let me tell you, the silence is deafening each morning after all that nonsense. I did my usual rounds, looking for sticky syrup plates left on the coffee table and errant bits of bagel behind Smallest Person's chair, then settled in for a nice nap.

I don't know how much time had elapsed, but all of the sudden The Redhead was standing in the family room doorway making that gasping sound that, first, causes you look around in panic, wondering what you've done, then, when you can't figure it out or escape, lower your head in submission waiting for your inevitable beating anyway. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, I've seen you two fight. The words "NOOOO!!!"...."COUCH!!!!" and "BAD BOY!!!!!" were clear despite my hearing them as I raced out of the room to escape the blows raining down on my behind. My first thought was of you. What the fuck, man?

Remember a few weeks back, when you were glued to that glowing screen, watching some men in striped uniforms, swinging big sticks every night and The Redhead would sigh and go to bed early? Remember how you patted the cushion on the new couch I haven't been on in three years since I was trained (read:beaten) to not go on it, and told me to come up? I thought it was too good to be true - and it was. You neglected to tell Big Red about it and I see it was for good reason. Maybe she'd have been smacking you in the ass, instead of me, if you had.

So consider this your pink slip. There will be no more cuddling, no more excitement to see you when you get home regardless of the time elapsed, just a cold steely stare as I lay on the floor. And our nightly walks? Well, January can be really cold, my friend, and I have quite the natural protection from it. You, on the other hand, might want to bundle up since I'm anticipating some constipation issues regardless of how many times you tell me to "hurry the hell up".

Seriously, dude. Not cool. Not. Cool.

Reilly

PS - I have included a picture of our better days so you can see what you're missing. I will not be fooled again.

The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth

A few weeks ago I received an text from my sister, K, in California, asking if I had seen the trailer for the new Sandra Bullock movie due out in November. Since I only watch DVR'd television these days, the chances are slim to none I'll see a movie trailer unless I am actually at the movies - a twice yearly occurrence since making it to a movie on time is a stretch for people who don't have three kids and babysitting issues - or actively seek one out on Youtube.

You all know of my love of Sandy, so I was excited, indeed, when I started trolling the web. And then I found it, the trailer for The Blindside, a movie about a disadvantaged, African American teenager from Mississippi who eventually becomes a Division 1 college football player. The trailer featured scenes of this kid picking up discarded popcorn bags at basketball games in order to eat, walking home on cold, dark roads with no coat, and marveling at the luxury of having an actual bed to sleep in, something he has never had in his life, until Bullock's character takes him into her home. Conclusion?

There is no fucking way I am seeing this movie.

This is another one of Mean Mommy's peccadilloes. It might come as a surprise to some of you, with the bravado with which I write on this blog, that under the hard candy shell, I am ridiculously sensitive when it comes to others being hurt or maligned, especially the disadvantaged or weak. My sister has nicknamed me "The Champion of the Meek". Woe was you, as one of my former students, if I caught you teasing a fellow classmate. Humiliation was to be yours in spades. While I rage against cruelty toward anyone, there are a few categories of people who when wronged, really send me careening over the edge. They are, in no particular order: the overweight, African Americans*, the mentally challenged and children. If we are to be politically incorrect, as we often are in the MM household, H and I call it my "fat, black, retarded, kid thing". Any of these characteristics, singularly or in combination, in a victim of mistreatment can almost immediately brings me to tears.

It is only worse in the celluloid world. When I am a prisoner to a screenwriter's heartbreaking turn of phrase or a director's soul-destroying visuals, the wrath I would normally unleash on the perpetrator of abuse turns inward and becomes a gut-wrenching, run-out-of-the-theater-when-the-lights-come-up-so-no-one-knows-it-was-me-sobbing-so-loudly, crying jag. The movies I have suffered through throughout the years include: Rain Man, I Am Sam, Forest Gump, The Color Purple and the coup de gras - The Green Mile. I started crying ten minutes into that one (H says he remembers thinking," We are in trouble here...") and cried for three days after. Think about it. He's a large, black, mentally challenged angel who is wrongly being put to death. I didn't stand a chance. There are many, many more, but I don't have the emotional strength to go searching for titles that made me weep.**

It took me a few years, but after finally narrowing down the things that make me cry the most, there are dozens of movies and books I have avoided because their main characters fall squarely into one or more than one of these demographics. My brothers in-law have promised, under penalty of death, to never EVER tell me about Monster's Ball - I believe it involves some candy bar scene***. I mistakenly sat through the trailer of Pursuit of Happyness, online at home one night, thinking it was another goofy Will Smith vehicle (love!) and it was such a scarring experience, I ran out of the theater months later when confronted with it again.

So what am I to do? Sandy seriously looks like she rocks it in this film, with her blond wig, tight, white pants and Southern accent. But I just don't think I can take the downtrodden expression of the main character. And, yes, I know it's an uplifting story, but what will keep me knee-deep in Kleenex for hours after the credits roll, is the idea that there are thousands of children who are not saved by well-meaning Junior league ladies and at this very moment are starving, hurt or suffering. And I think that's my main issue. I don't want to see all the ugliness, even when a character is rescued from it, because I know more is out there and, as a mother, I die thinking people are capable of these things. I'm trying to raise kids here people, in my leisure time, let me think the world is full of sunshine and light so I can get a break from worrying about my kids coming down with swine flu or being abducted from the front yard.

In the end, I know I will wind up going to see this film with K during her December visit, since we share this Bullock obsession and getting to see it in the theater together is like the planets aligning. During rough scenes, I will just have to breath deeply, and think of rainbows and unicorns. Or maybe I can guarantee my institutionalization and make it a double feature with a screening of Precious.

* Not sure where this falls on the Does-This-Make-Me-Racist? spectrum.
**No, don't remind me of any.
***NO, DON'T YOU TELL ME ABOUT IT EITHER!

Dear Hipsters,

Dear Hipsters,

After watching Sesame Street this morning, I just had to write to thank you.

I know this comes as a shock, since it seems I may not have always understood you and your habits. For instance, your love of other people's old stuff, which you insist on calling "vintage", and how you can get over the fact that some guy named Sal was sweating in that very same blue mechanic's shirt twenty years ago, is beyond me. Or your fanatical knowledge of music and love of minor chords. Or your insistence that song lyrics have, you know, meaning, when the bar I set for my own music is the kind that involves alcohol and can I dance to it in one.

But one thing we can both agree on is our nostalgia for all things related to our childhoods. Because of your refusal to grow up (and I mean that in the best Peter Pan sense*, since if the gentrification of the once run-down neighborhoods you frequented after college, and the plethora of Bugaboo strollers on said streets, is any indication, you are making some serious pay-pah) and decision of many of you made to channel this eternal youth into the entertainment and toy industries, my children and I are a having a great time together.

If not for you, how else would the Snoopy Snowcone machine be back in production? I get to enjoy the same agonizing process of shaving ice cubes down bit by bit with my kids instead of only telling them about it after refusing to buy a disgusting old one at a garage sale. If I went to garage sales. I don't. But the toys you have resurrected for future generations to enjoy are surely your ticket into heaven.

Getting back to my original reason for writing, if not for you, how else would I be able to enjoy a children's Bob Marley album? Or the likes of Will Arnett and Feist on Sesame Street (I bet The Children's Television Workshop is a virtual mecca for you guys, huh?)? Or Jack Black and Elijah Wood on Yo Gabba Gabba? That show, by the way, might as well be called Hipster Parents, This One's for You! since even its title is an oblique Ramones reference and bands like The Shins are regular guest stars. But despite it's obvious clash (no pun intended) with my, admittedly, uptight sensibilities, I enjoy it because it has humor and intelligence and that is something you guys bring to the table in heaps in this over-incorporated, homogenized world of children's programming.

So thank you, hipsters, for your fine, fine work. You make my days brighter by giving me a laugh as I watch a Liz Lemon (an actual lemon with glasses) count 30 rocks on Sesame Street. I thank you for preventing my brains from literally running out of my ears at the saccharine hands of Barney and his evil minions The Teletubbies. I owe you for all the snide comments I ever made about your bizarre facial hair or lack of personal hygiene.

Sincerely,

Mean Mommy

*And I thank those of who you didn't grown up in the regular non-Peter-Pan way for being there to make my latte every morning.

Right Round....

While adding to my carbon footprint and throwing out random catalogues last night, I came across this item in an educational toy catalogue. You know the kind, filled with chemistry sets and Build Your Own Sistine Chapel kits, feeding on modern parents' deluded belief that every single plaything our children hold in their wee little hands influences their future higher educational and professional possibilities, appealing to us with their lack of trademarked characters and promised hours of brain-developing fun, until, we realize, we are the ones who will be helping mix the chemicals and construct the flying buttresses, so incomprehensible are the instructions, and suddenly that Sponge Bob Nintendo DS doesn't seem like a bad choice after all. But I digress...

The item pictured above, The Mighty Rock Tumbler, is not new. In fact, my sister and I were the lucky recipients of one of these babies one mid-eighties Christmas. There was much ooh-ing and aah-ing upon its opening, and as with most educational toys, it was promptly put away to be used later, yet another benefit of these complicated, educational toys - the total lack of instant gratification. If you read the fine print of the exceprt above, you will see, once we were actually allowed to use this marvel, gratification was still three weeks away. Three minutes seems like an eternity when you're seven. Three weeks? Baby Smurf could grow up in that time!

K and I were convinced to overcome our impatience with the enticing wording on the package - "Make your own jewelry!"..."Hidden riches!" We were sure our fortune would be made with a few spins of The Tumbler, so we loaded ours up with the unimpressive rocks that were surely diamonds in the rough, water, and some gritty polishing sand, plugged 'er in and waited. And waited. And waited. Twenty one days never seemed so long. Night after night we checked our cylindrical gold mine that sounded much like a jack hammer working a few blocks away. If we couldn't stand the waiting, I have no idea how my parents stood the noise.

The day finally arrived and, being careful not to get my new neon-orange sweatshirt dirty, I opened The Tumbler, with K at my side, ready to bask in the glimmer of valuable semi-precious gems. And what was inside? Rocks. Definitely much rounder ones, but still rocks, swimming in the filthy sludge that had been created from the polishing sand and ground off bits of rock. We felt like Ralphie using his decoder ring in A Christmas Story.

So the moral of this story? Even educational toys can wind up being useless pieces of plastic crap taking up space in your playroom. With the added bonus of costing twice as much and, therefore, making you feel twice the sucker.

You gotta fight!...For your rights!...At kid's paaaarties!

The dust has finally settled after the tornado that was Halloween. I am still jittery from the roller coaster ride of sugar highs and lows exacerbated by the caffeine highs (and subsequent lows) needed to get through the two day extravaganza and am still finding spider rings in between the cushions and getting up coated in glitter from #2's Sleeping Beauty costume every time I sit on the couch.

Adding to the craziness already usually generated by Halloween, was its falling on a Saturday this year. Therefore it needed to be celebrated twice, obviously on the day of, but also on the Friday before at school, requiring me to pick Little Man up early from his school at 11:10 so I would be on time to pick #1 up at 11:30, in order to bring her home, where she and #2 would change into their costumes and pretend to eat, then drop them both off for the afternoon session at 12:20, where I would return once again at 2:00 in order to watch the Halloween parade.

So one would think I would have taken all of this into account and kept Saturday morning's plans mellow to prepare for the death march that is trick or treating. But no, after years of begging, my children finally got their wish and since this Halloween met all the requirements - being on a Saturday and our being in a bigger house - we had a Halloween party. We invited all the girls in each of their classes and a smattering of friends from the old town to come to a grand total of 22 guests.

Yes, it was crazy and overwhelming and ridiculously fun for my kids. While I did enjoy watching them have fun, I worked my ass off spending the two hours tapping into my teaching roots, running musical chairs, hot potato and various party games (all with H's help). And while I would say the event was a success, it brought to light some of the issues that always seem to pop up when throwing a children's party, and I have decided to set a very few simple ground rules to make your next soiree a smashing success.

Mean Mommy's Children's Party Rules

1. RSVP - Apparently, some of you are not aware what RSVP stands for since there has not been a single party I have thrown where I did not wind up calling at least one invitee to inquire whether or not they would be in attendance. It means "Respondez-Vour S'il Vous Plait". And while that does, technically, mean in French "respond, if you please" what it should really translate to is "respond because it's the right thing to do when somebody invites you into their home and/or maybe said hostess needs to know how much pizza to order and how many Hannah Montana microphones she needs to purchase and doesn't want to be left with ten extra".
I mean, come on. Nine times out of ten, you know the minute you read the invitation whether or not your child can attend. So why not call right then and be done with it and avoid losing the invitation in the pile of school fliers and junk mail that sits on all of our kitchen counters? And when the hostess makes it even easier for you by including her email so you don't have to have any awkward chit chat on the phone and you still don't reply, you will take her guilt-inducing call and subsequent accusatory tone as the verbal bitch-slap it is intended to be.

2. R-E-S-P-E-C-T - Am I wearing a ratty, mouse mascot suit? No? Then my house is not a Chuck E. Cheese. Please teach your children my furniture is not indoor play equipment* and there are no prizes for knocking anything over here.

3. Manners are a must - Let me pass on some pearls of wisdom that your children, apparently, have not learned at your masterful hands. "Please" is a word used to preface a request and "thank you" is the correct response when that request has been met. Was that so hard?

4. You get what you get... - While I despise the sing-song created by someone with too much time on their hands**, the sentiment does ring true and your children need to become familiar with this principle. Just be damn happy you're getting a cupcake, kid, and never mind about the color of the sprinkles. And if another one of your offspring ask me where are the goody bags, I can not be held responsible for my own actions.

5. Pick your kid up on time - I have just spent the last two hours killing myself entertaining your kid (or paying damn good money for someone else to do so) and, therefore, need to start drinking immediately. So save my child the shame of being known as the kid of a white wino and get your kid out of my house before he/she can bear witness.***

*One would think by second grade all children would have learned this. Tell that to the kid who broke her wrist jumping off my couch Saturday. No, I'm not kidding. It. Was. Awesome.
**Oh, alright, for the childless readers - "You get what you get and you don't get upset"
***I controlled myself on Saturday when two mothers strolled in thirty minutes late without a word of apology. Barely.

Keepin' It Classy In New Town

I know how you all love when I share my most deeply embarrassing parenting, and non-parenting moments, with you dear readers, so please, enjoy in it's entirety, the email exchange I accidentally had on the school website this morning:

The email I received:

"Dear Parents,
As noted on our website, Visitation Day is Wednesday, November 4 from 9:00-11:30 for Pre-K through grade 5 and from 12:30-1:15 for PM sessions of Pre-K and kindergarten. No siblings please."

My response:

"How the f@ck am I supposed to do this alone? I am so tired of being between a rock and hard place with these schools assuming you don't have any other kids."

This message was intended for H, and I hadn’t even realized it had not gone to him until this mother kindly wrote back:

"Hi Mary,

I'm not sure who should answer this. I forwarded your email to find out who could answer your question.

Random Mom"

So imagine the scene as I read this email. All the color drained from my face as I stared incredulously at my Blackberry screen. Having sent the email from the home computer, I started moaning, “Oh no, oh no”, under my breath, #2 asking as I threw her off the computer, “Mommy, what’s wrong?”. And there I saw in my Sent folder, I had replied to the school mailbox rather than sending my missive to H.

I. Was. Screwed. Let's dissect my mortification, shall we?

First, notice the lack of salutation. If I had only prefaced this rant with "Hubby", anyone not named "Hubby" would know this had to be an error. I normally do not greet H in emails, so this came in handy allowing anyone who read it to think my rage was directed at them.

Second, oh yes, the f-bomb. I drop them so frequently in said non-salutatory emails, I have been blocked by H's office's compliance software. Hence my clever use of the "@" symbol. While I still look like a classless, sewer-mouth who should be hiking up her low-rise jeans, trying to light a Newport, while simultaneously pulling Little Man out of his car-seat-less spot in my Chevy Nova, at least I look like I was trying to tone it down a tiny bit. Kind of like Lil' Km wearing that pasty. You all know my love of swearing when aggravated, but I wasn’t quite ready to let the citizenry of New Town know that just yet.

Third, I go beyond railing against the sitter-less-unless-it’s-Thursday confines of my existence and go on to attack the school. I do have a valid point, since if younger siblings are not welcome, who, but the stay at home parent of all school-aged children, would be able to attend this event? But being new to town, I’m not about to go all Norma Rae and start shouting from my soapbox – yet.

Notice how Random Mom's language is all don’t-rattle-the-cage-y? She isn't even going to acknowledge my obvious mental instability. Like ignoring the guy who's shouting at you while peeing in the corner of the subway car. Email would not be fast enough to prevent my kids forever being known as “the children of that crazy, foul-mouthed redhead”. I immediately Googled her, got her number and called. Thankfully, she was totally cool, laughed, and went on to tell me she is in the same boat herself, as are many other moms and they are all pissed. She also mercifully informed me that only she checks the school account, not the principal and the entire PTA, as I had feared.

So in the end, dear readers, Mean Mommy has not yet earned herself a reputation here in New Town. But now that I know the parent body is behind me, perhaps I need to start a letter writing campaign about this no sibling nonsense. And this time, mine will be expletive free.

I Do, Now I Don't...

The title's of today's post comes from a website highlighted during the human interest portion of the early, early news. This is a website that traffics in once cherished, now unwanted, jewelry - specifically engagement and wedding rings. And while you would think, I would have objections to a site such as this, concerning wearing other people's misfortune on your finger, I actually think this idea is genius - if the guy's an asshole and dumps you, why not sell his ring and buy a car?

It was the couple they interviewed during the segment who got the wheels turning.

The couple, who were featured shopping this website, were the typical type who wind up on Bridezillas, Whose Wedding Is It Anyway and all the other voyeuristic nuptial-related programs conveniently aired on Sunday evenings so I can enjoy them while working on my Sunday night glass of wine. She, overbearing and demanding, with a this-is-my-day-and-I-will-be-a-princess-no-matter-what-the-cost attitude and he, subdued, beaten down by the daily onslaught of criticisms and demands, staring sleepily into the camera, waking only to mutter a "Yes, dear" when prompted.*

She began to tell the story about their betrothal and how everything was smooth sailing until the issue of the ring came up. His budget? $5,000. Hers? $10,000-$15,000. And this is the point I throw my water bottle at the screen, screaming, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME????" This, to me, is part of the bigger problem of divorce.

It seems to me, the focus on all the bells and whistles of a wedding, rather than on the marriage itself, is causing a lot of post-honeymoon "So now what?" let downs, and the ring is just the starting point. Look at engagement rings. This ring is supposed to be your partners offering of love to you in exchange for your spending the rest of your life with him.** It should not be a piece of jewelry that will put him in debt until your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary just so you can impress the girls at work. In my opinion, this ring should be a reflection of where you were in life when you got engaged, not where you plan to be in twenty years. If a half a carat is all he can afford, then so be it. And horror of all horrors, maybe you even accept a ring that's not a diamond.

Now don't get me wrong, I went through a massive period of ring lust around the time H and I got engaged and you all know I am a major jewelry whore, but looking around at women my age, who did receive huge rocks, it just didn't seem right. Like they were playing dress-up with their mother's jewelry. Isn't the beginning of your marriage supposed to be about building a home and life together? Didn't Frank Sinatra say "The Best is Yet to Come"? My ring may not be the hugest on the block***, but when I look at it I see twenty-four year-old H, doing his best to buy the nicest ring he could for me, running downtown to the jeweler on his lunch break, with a wad of cash in his pocket, having palpitations he was going to get mugged going on or coming from this errand. (And don't get me started on women who are there when their fiances buy their ring. Can we say "control issues"?)

Even wedding rings, I think, have taken a turn for the worse. There are loads and loads of songs that make reference to a "band of gold". Will the kids of today even know what that means when all they see are diamond eternity bands on the married women around them? And before you ask me how the sour grapes taste, I honestly, honestly, did not want an eternity band when I got married. Diamond lover that I am, I don't even wear my engagement ring on a daily basis for fear of the stone falling out at the playground or falling down a drain. So an entire band of diamonds seemed like sentencing me to a life as an amputee on a practical basis so afraid would I be to use my left hand.

Our wedding bands was one of the few areas of our nuptials in which H had a strong opinion. Obviously, because it was a non-time-telling piece of jewelry he was going to be wearing for the rest of his life, but also because he felt it represented us as a team. He was adamant about our rings looking very similar. I did him one better and got the very same ring as he did. A thick, solid, platinum band, with a loving sentiment engraved on the inside seemed to reflect us. If the engagement ring is a symbol of your circumstances when you decided to get hitched, then I wanted my ring to be a symbol of our marriage - strong, durable, able to go through anything and maintain its understated beauty.

And before you all send me loads of hate mail, yes, I do know plenty of great couples in which the wife has a large engagement ring and/or an eternity band. What really pisses me off is people buying these things who can not afford them or merely want them as status symbols. If you are happy and flush, then bling-bling away. I just wish the message were out there that all that extra stuff is not what a marriage is about and if you don't feel you can marry someone without being presented with the Hope Diamond then I pity you the day one of you walks through the door bearing the financial burden of a pink slip or an unexpected positive pregnancy test. Well, maybe not, because then at least you can hock the ring.

*Who does that remind me of? Hmmm...
**K, for simplicity I am referring to the parties as male and female in an obvious hetero-centric way - no hate. And you and Chrissy did an awesome job on your rings!
***Keep your shirt on, H. I can already hear the complaints "Nice to make me look like a cheap bastard!" My ring is lovely, people.

My Mexican Mary Poppins

Two posts in a row! And during a week H is traveling for work, nonetheless. Can you believe this? I can, and do you know why? Because of my new babysitter, S. That’s right, dear readers, after all my bitching and moaning, hemming and hawing, and finally escaping the world’s smallest house, I have hired a sitter. And it is a miracle.

This is a miracle that almost didn’t happen. S is the sister of a nanny here in New Town and was looking to fill some extra days since her employment with another family was dwindling as the kids aged. I was reluctant at first, when my neighbor told me of her availability, still feeling nervous about the new financial situation we were in since the move, and then the summer ended and H got back to work – with a vengeance. Most days he is gone before the kids get up and home moments before they go to bed. And the travel. Sweet Jesus, I think I’ve seen him for about four hours this week. He got off a red-eye from California yesterday morning and got on a shuttle to DC today at nine. Basically, Monday through Friday, I have become a single parent.

Now one would think, with the kids going back to school, I’d have loads of time to get the laundry, cooking and cleaning done and still find time to write. One would be wrong when one factors in the unexpected bullshit that fills up my life like preparing my presentation for the Daisies parent meeting, trying to find a Jerry costume (of Tom & Jerry fame) for #2*, changing out everyone’s fall and summer clothes (which is my job in hell, by the way), and trying to set up a family-room-closet-toy-storage system that does not result in Little Man being buried by an avalanche of Thomas trains and Geotrax every time he opens the door. Obviously, this left very little time for writing or, you know, sanity. So after much discussion and pouring over the finances to convince me I was not putting our family in the poor house or, at the very least denying my children ridiculously overpriced swimming lessons, I asked S to come for an interview.

Other than her pathetic attempts to hide her mortal fear of Reilly**, S was perfect. Shockingly young, about my age, I think I was more expecting an hispanic Mrs. Doubtfire, she came right in and got on the floor to play with Little Man while we chatted. She would not only keep my children alive when I needed to leave the house, but when not occupied with the kids, like during LM’s nap, she would do housework like vacuum, empty the dishwasher, or fold and put away the laundry. She had me at “light housework” and we made arrangements for her to come once a week for six hours. But first she had to check with her mother.

KABOOM! That’s the sound of my nuclear warhead of white guilt exploding, covering me in a radioactive layer of self-doubt. Turns out S has a two year old daughter who stays with her mother while S watches upper-middle class white women’s children so they can get Botox injections or meet their personal shoppers – or at least that’s what , I’m sure, S must think of me, wrenching her away from her own child to sing endless rounds of The Wheels on the Bus in heavily accented English to mine. Also not mitigating these feelings? Reading The Help, a novel that takes place in 1960’s South, and focuses on the black women who raised generations of white babies while suffering the indignities of segregation.

S left ready to come to work the next Thursday, but I still wasn’t sure I could do this. My interview with her sowed the seeds of insecurity. Did I really need the help? Couldn’t I do this on my own? Sure, I haven’t been to dentist or gynecologist in two years, but all three kids will be in school all morning next year, surely my impending route canal, lady-bit problems and writing career, could wait. I mean this poor woman would probably kill to be home with her kid and here I was bribing her to take mine off my hands.

Thankfully, I had my amazing stepmother to talk to. Born in Brazil, she regaled me with stories, as she had done in the past, of her days as a young mother back in her home country with a housekeeper and babysitter. These services are standard there, with almost every mother, not just the upwardly mobile, employing one or both on a regular basis. I remember the look of sheer terror on her face as she left at the end of her two week stay after Little Man’s birth, incredulous as to how I would manage to cook, clean ad do laundry for five people while caring for three children under six. In her experience, it was not humanly possible. And hearing that made me feel much better. As for my guilt about keeping S from her child, my stepmom reminded me the very decent salary I was paying her (I opted to go right to the pay S was earning with her other family after two years rather than start low and give raises along the way to assuage said white guilt), was way more than she would make at any other job she would be able to get with her language skills and questionable immigration status***, and would, therefore, benefit said child.

After our conversation, I also came to the realization that I do not have to hang on the cross to be a good mother. In fact, all I was doing, trying to do it all, was preventing myself from being the mother I want to be. If I could by a few precious hours to write and have someone help shoulder some of the some domestic burden, I was a fool not to. As I found during my short stint working at Planned Parenthood before I became pregnant with LM, having something productive of my own, made me a better mother. Nobody’s checking for stigmata at bedtime and handing out awards.

Women today are in a precarious situation. Most of us do not live close enough to our families, our mothers specifically, to have the regular, day in, day out, help, once just a shout up the apartment building stairs away****, that made a trip to the grocery store a pleasant jaunt where one could price compare and haggle amicably with the butcher, rather than the modern sanity-endangering gauntlet of today, pushing three kids in the cart to prevent them from knocking over displays, leaving just enough room for the food you barely check the price on as you toss it in the cart, jealously eyeing the women, unaccompanied by minors, who actually have time to stand in line at the deli counter. We need help, yet feel the sting of guilt thinking of our mothers or grandmothers doing it on their own. In reality, they were not alone, when the kids could just run down the block to grandma's for an hour. So I asked myself, what exactly the difference is between having a family member watch my children gratis and paying someone to do the exact same thing? Not a damn thing but some Benjamins.

So while I will continue to suffer from white guilt, mother guilt and financial guilt (So many flavors! Try them all!), I will remind myself that the small weekly price I pay for my sanity, my sense of self and, for the love of all that is holy, the satisfaction of someone else matching and putting away a week’s worth of three different sized little-kid socks, is worth every damn penny. And if all of this sounds like justification, so be it. I'm really too damn tired to care.

*Which she has seen exactly ONCE, but now my life revolves around finding a brown, NOT GRAY, mouse costume.

**Why is it the less someone wants his affection, the more obsessed Reilly becomes with them? If he had not cut out the jackassery and ruined this for me I would seriously have considered putting him out on the street wearing a "Free Dog" sandwich board.

***There goes my political career I suppose!

****Yet again, I betray my Bronx roots. Do you have the stereotypical Bronx Irish image in your head of my grandmother shouting out the window with a kerchief on her head, “Just let me hang out the wash and take the potatoes off the stove!”?

Say Cheesy!

So today is school picture day for all three kids. Of course this is also the day #1 has her heart set on wearing her tackiest Hannah Montana t-shirt, Little Man wakes up with the world's worst case of bedhead which resists even the most determined minstrations with water and a comb*, and #2 decides tights make her legs feel "too soft" forcing me to search for the only pair of leggings that match the dress she insists on wearing. So after finding appropriate and not-too-soft attire, bathing LM to tame his wayward locks, brushing, braiding and polishing my offspring, they were all ready for their close-ups.

This made me think of my own school picture days and, frankly, I don't remember such parental acrobatics. Being the child of a dual income family, many times photo day was forgotten entirely and I wound up being snapped in an unfortunately strawberry covered turtleneck in the third grade. I do remember trying desperately to show my recently lost lower front tooth in second grade, resulting in a rigor-mortis-like grimace. I remember how unfortunate it was to have pictures after recess, which produced a rather windswept appearance in photos, despite my best attempts at using the awesome free comb the photographers gave out with their names embossed on the side. I had so much hair, it would wind up stick in the back ala Freddie "Boom Boom" Washington.

So who remembers those backdrops? Of course there was the plain, sky blue one, but there was also the diagonal neon lights, the fake fall foliage (and equally fake rail fence to lean on), and my personal favorite, which I will call The Floating Dead Kid. This was the pose my mother chose nine times out of ten (not for my kindergarten picture, above, obviously). This photo was comprised of a smiling front shot of me standing before a black background, on which was superimposed a larger, translucent, non-smiling side shot of me, that seemed to float like my soul itself above my left shoulder. Dear GOD, do I wish I could find the one from second grade. It not only includes the Joker grin discussed above, but on the straight face, you can clearly see a huge scratch which was battle scar from the previous night's bedtime scratch fight with my sister.

And the class photo. Not until I was a teacher did I realize what a logistical nightmare these are. It is never as simple as putting the kids in line shortest to tallest, but which kid can't be next to the other kid because they start telling fart jokes. Try looking good as a teacher smiling through clenched teeth, hissing "Kevin, if you don't cut it out now you are inside for recess today!" And as the tallest kid in my class for the majority of the school year, standing in the back row, never getting to be front and center next to that little black sign with the class name and year was a total bummer.

So my children, living in the suburban Shangri La of New Town, had their pictures taken in the grove of oak trees in front of their school, hair perfectly in place and appropriately attired. My oldest, not yet tired of it, reveled in being the second tallest in her class and, word on the street has it, #2 even smiled (her preschool picture, which I can not find after the move, has a decidedly "fuck you" vibe, shocking). Don't ask me how they got Little Man to sit still though. I have a feeling his proofs will come back with nothing but a blur that seems to be wearing a blue oxford.

* I now regret my evil thoughts as teacher when my male students would come in each morning looking like Cameron Diaz in There's Something About Mary. I was all, "Jeez, people, ever heard of a comb and water?". Now I know, little boy hair, like little boy pee goes where it wants and can not be tamed.

Mean Mommy's got some competition

I think this might be a new low, rifling through my daughter's belongings for writing material, but I just HAD to show this to you, dear readers. Look! Her first book! She is so secretive about her work, like many authors I know, she has hidden it in various locations in her room, which, of course, I discover during the course of my usual clean-up each day. Finally I just had to ask her to tell me where she had put it and swear I would respect her privacy. Which is a total lie, as you can see.*

She has recently been reading the Nancy Drew series so I suppose this was the inspiration for this "mystary" novel. There are so many things I love about this writing I don't even know where to begin. I love that she has chosen to keep the last name Drew for her character, but substitute her friend's first name, yet leaves herself entirely out of it. I love that she uses dialogue ("hmm...mm") and that she is also the illustrator. I love that she sets the Kelly character up as the theif who uses the guise of borrowing her "six colored pen" to steal her friend's party invitations. She based this on the four colored pen I bought her, but is using artistic license to make the pen even more enviable. I love that she used her real kindergarten and first grade teacher's names.

But most of all, I love that she is writing! The fact that she just had to put this down on paper, in the middle of the night, wearing her spelunker's headlamp (I'm not shitting you, my dad bought them as night lights and they are GENIUS), using her four-colored pen, makes me dance with joy. I can help but sneak into her room every night to see what she has written. There are very few times as a parent you get hard proof that what you do affects them in a positive way (Not like, say, letting her drink water out of a wine glass and watching Project Runway with me Sunday evenings.**) I will revel in this one for the next month, using it to distract me from #2 still not wanting to go to school (Tears, still? Really?).

So forgive me, dear readers, for forcing you to look at my kid's stuff, and please, I want no emails about how great a writer she is and all that jazz.*** I struggled with the decision to do so, feeling like one of those moms who use their kids' pictures as their Facebook profile shot (talk about an identity crisis, get some therapy, woman).

One thing that upsets me about this book, though? She's already completed the first chapter of her first book and my book? I've got nothin'.

*Family members, you obviously can say NOTHING about this or I am screwed and will never be able to work this deal with her diary when she's a teenager.

**Keep your shirt on, I pre-screen them so I can fast-forward any bleeped language, inappropriate dialogue or the entire drag-queen challenge (too many fake breasts).

***Comments about what an inspiring parent I am, however, are welcome!

A people-pleaser she is not...

I had to laugh out loud when I pulled this out of #2's backpack today after her half-day of kindergarten. This is the five year-old's equivalent of a "fuck you" if I've ever seen it. I can just see her picking up a pencil in her chubby hand and saying, "Pfft. Whatever. Why would I have a good week? I have to come here everyday. There is significantly less playdough and significantly more sitting. And have you people ever heard of a snack?* Don't even get me started on the lack of napping. So a good week? I don't think so."

While her brutal honesty can be a bit of a buzz-kill at times, you'll never be able to accuse her of being a kiss-ass, I guess.

*to be fair, they squeeze a lot into the half day and I find the lack of snack time ridiculous, but then again, my children have the eating habits of Hobbits and get cranky when they aren't fed every ninety minutes.