Oh, Michelle. What have they done to you?

"President Barack H. Obama, First Lady Michelle, and their daughters Malia and Sasha."

This came from a Barack Obama coloring book my mother in-law bought my girls while on a trip to DC. While I absolutely love the book, I literally gasped in horror when I saw this last page.
Oh, Michelle. What have they done to you? From the Hilary Clinton-esque helmet hair we know you do not rock at all, to the non-descript Jane Jetson frock that is a smack in the face to the fashion legend you are already becoming (besides, you hardly ever wear sleeves if it's above ten degrees out, which I completely support as a fellow woman with smaller arms and a more ample caboose) this picture made me want to scream. Never mind the freakishly long arms and the fact the artist made you look, facially, like Barbara Bush. I apologize, Michelle, for not being able to rip this page out and burn it outright as the "Get Obama to the White House!" maze is on the oppostie side.

Leave no woman behind...

I just returned from dropping dinner off for my friend who's just had her third baby and on the drive back I asked myself, "Why aren't doing more of this stuff for each other?" What I mean by that is why aren't we helping other mothers whose unfashionable, sleep-deprived shoes we were all clomping around in not so long ago? Now, this whole post might sound like I'm tooting my own horn, but that is not my intention. My intention is to spread the word. I think we need to develop a simple catchphrase to remind us of all we have survived and lend a helping hand to those still in the trenches. LEAVE NO WOMAN BEHIND.

Remember what it feels like to be a babbling, sleep-deprived idiot and ask a new mother if you can come over and watch the baby, or take her older kids for a playdate so she can nap. Remember how, after having your second child, making dinner for your family seemed as insurmountable as climbing Mount Everest, and drop off a meal for her - especially after the first six weeks when everyone seems to think your life should be back to normal. Remember how you bruised the bejeezus out of you shins bumping them with the baby carrier as you dragged your infant and your three year-old across the packed parking lot into pre-school (which begs the point - park in the farthest spot if you have only one ambulatory child with you)? Offer to walk a friend's older child in, or if he/she is reluctant to leave Mommy, offer to stay by the car with her baby and let her bring your kid in with hers. Remember how lonely it felt to run, bent over, chasing after a small toddler on the playground to make sure he doesn't get clobbered by the psychos on the swings or catapult himself, headfirst, down the slide, not being able to engage in any of the adult playground conversation over on the benches? Be kind and follow your fellow mother around to chat for a bit instead of sitting on your smug ass the entire time (notice I said "entire time" since I think you are entitled to a little ass-widening time on the bench once you have weathered toddlerhood).

Perhaps I am hyper sensitive to helping other mothers out due to the absence of my own mother and lacking that person who sees you when you are drowning, even when you are hiding it from everyone else. It is our duty as mothers to keep our eyes open to others on the battlefield and help without being asked. So take the troubles you are going through as a lesson, and put the feelings you are experiencing now in the back of your mind, to be called into service when you see a comrade in trouble.

And if you only do one tiny, kind thing as a result of this post, tell a woman who has just had a baby, "My GOD! You look great!", with as much sincerity as you can muster.

Open Letter to the Ad Execs at IHOP

Dear Sirs or Madams,

I want to congratulate you on a job well done with your "National Pancake Day" campaign. While watching some early morning news today, I happened upon one of your TV spots and between my love of celebrating holidays (even though I'm sure I was witnessing the creation of a fake one), the fact that Hubby would be out at a work function tonight, and my kids love of pancakes I was sucked in.

When the kids woke up we decided to have a "mixed up" day and have dinner foods for breakfast (broccoli, pasta with cheese) and breakfast foods for dinner. Our whole day revolved around the fun we'd have at dinner and I piled all the kids in the van at five thirty on our way to our local franchise.

Said franchise is on the opposite side of a local highway and we pass it first before we turn around and crossover. This is when I first realized the breadth and scope of your media blitz. The parking lot was packed to capacity and the line wrapped around the building. Christ on a bike, people must really love free pancakes! Which probably explains why the line consisted of a rather unsavory collection of characters. And thus the fun really began for me as there was no possible way in hell I was waiting in line for an hour behind New Jersey's classiest citizens as they smoked Parliments and screamed at their kids to get out of the road while texting their girlfriends with acrylic tipped fingers, in the twenty degree weather with my three children, all of whom were clamoring at this point for refined carbs drowned in high-fructose, imitation maple syrup. This was not going to be a prime example of your slogan "Come hungy, leave happy!" It was more "Come hungry, leave with van full of crying offspring!"

After breaking the news that we would not be going to "the pancake restaurant", and weathering the storm of tears that resulted and trying my best to rebutt the argument, "It won't be Pancake Day at a regular restaurant!", I brokered deals like Ban Ki-moon in the General Assembly. We could go to the diner and have fries and pancakes! We could have ice cream for dessert!, Mommy and Daddy would drag themselves out at the crack of dawn instead of lounging around the house dealing with their weekly wine-hangover/sleep deprivation combo and take everyone to the pancake restaurant on Sunday morning!

In the end, peace was restored, pancakes were eaten, syrup was gotten in many crevices and thanks to a kind old man at our local greasy spoon who we overhead tell the waitress that, traditionally, pancakes are eaten the night before lent begins, we realized Pancake Day (technically Mardi Gras, I suppose) is a holiday that can be celebrated anywhere. But don't worry, we won't tell anyone - as long as you never switch to real maple syrup.

Sincerely,
Mean Mommy

Would you like fries with that?

With the girls at my in-law's for the day, and the baby in for a nap, I am posting from the comfort of my bed. Yes, the location updates will now cease, but as I have already discussed posting from both the bathroom and bedroom, how much more inappropriate is it really going to get? My love affair with Shirley, which is what I have named my new laptop, has only begun though.

So Monday was President's Day, and Hubby mercifully had the day off to make the kids' week-long hiatus from school that much more manageable. (Seriously? A week off during a time of year we are all trying to pinch pennies after the holidays and it's too cold to kick them out in the back yard is too cruel, but having been a teacher myself and benefited from the plentiful vacation days I will promptly shut my donut-hole.) We took the kids out to lunch and after being on the receiving end of some of the worst service of my life I was reminded of my own days as a waitress, or server as they are now called, I have decided that in addition to compulsory primary grade education, our country should make mandatory a stint in such a food service role. Kind of like Israel and the army, minus the guns and stuff.

Having spent the longest, hardest year of my life supporting myself by waiting tables while finishing my Masters, student teaching and planning my wedding, I know firsthand there are valuable lessons to be learned from this job. In fact, I can unequivocally say my stint in the restaurant industry made me a better person and with my brief interaction with today's youth I think some time with a name tag and tray would do them a world of good.

First, waiting tables teaches you the importance of first impressions. They way you present yourself to a table and how friendly you are can directly affect your earnings. This might solve some of this long hair nonsense I see going on with the boys, but I digress. Second, while serving food you learn to eat shit gracefully, which is an essential workplace lesson. Waiting tables in wealthy Greenwich I was faced with asshole after Wall Street asshole who thought having a lot of money gave him the right to talk down to service people. Now having my explosive temper, things could have gotten ugly, but I was there to do a job, make my tips and get out. You have to be able to see the big picture and give good customer service to idiots and in today's "everybody wins" culture kids could use a dose of having to feel bad and still having to perform well because they have to.

Speaking of eating shit, you not only have to do that in the front of the house (the dining room for the uninitiated), but in the kitchen as well. Back there you are the scum of the earth. Even the Ecuadorian dishwasher with one eye and a limp is higher on the totem pole than you and you will have to grovel and beg from people who would normally make you cross the street should you see them coming. How much money your dad makes or where you went to college mean nothing. Do you enter your orders well, are you respectful of the head chef, and more importantly the line cooks, who control whether the dickhead on table three who thinks he wants his steak medium rare, but really means medium, gets the meat he sent back in time to finish his meal with his buddies and their salad-eating trophy wives and still give you a decent tip? You learn to respect the person in charge even if he looks like he dodged Border Control yesterday and barely speaks English. Servers who don't respect the kitchen never get their orders on the fly and wind up with accordingly bad tips.

You also learn some convenient life skills on the job like how to open wine and champagne, how to filet a fish table side and how to carry multiple plates on your forearms. You also learn how to treat restaurant staff once you are back on the other side of the table. You will forever know when you are getting good and bad service and be able to react accordingly. On Monday, when I knew our waiter had screwed up our ticket and should have been over to our table assuring us our food would be ready soon (that's another vital lesson - how to cover your ass - because he couldn't really admit his error) instead of hiding in the kitchen I went and found a manager and the problem was fixed. On the other hand, I know when the kitchen is in the weeds (busy) and the poor server is being hung out to dry watching her tips evaporate because the grill guy has a hangover and keeps fucking up the steaks and I react with appropriate sympathy, order another drink and still plan on tipping her twenty percent.

Tipping, sweet mother of God do not get me started. Deep breath...MIDDLE AGED WOMEN ARE THE WORST TIPPERS ON THE PLANET AND THEY NEED TO BE STOPPED*. Sorry, but I have worked too many lunch services in wealthy neighborhoods where two female pals each order a salad and a glass of white wine only to leave me five bucks. Was it the minimally acceptable fifteen percent? Sure. But why not leave twenty percent or if the bill is low a higher amount? Waiters get no other pay except tips as the paltry base pay only covers taxes so while two bucks might not seem like a big deal to you, when it's added up a few times it can make the difference between a decent day at work and "Why the hell did I even come in today?" Ladies, think of these workers as your own children and throw down the extra five bucks. He or she probably had their balls busted in the kitchen on your behalf getting your damn dressing on the side.

The last and truly most valuable thing you learn as a restaurant worker is that you do not want to work there forever. Putting in a few shifts with a "lifer" - someone who is over thirty with no real career plan or who is still trying to find themselves - motivates like no lecture from your parents will. Seeing some guy your dad's age trying to make rent or scrounging free drinks at the bar makes your boring Poli Sci class look pretty appealing pretty fast. Stints in restaurants should be like stays in the hospital, quick and for a purpose.

So the next time you go out to eat, take a look at the poor schmuck serving your food. Give him a break if he's really trying and don't be afraid to talk to the manager if he's really not. But for the love of Christ, if you get good service you must leave twenty percent or there is a special place in hell for you that involves an apron, a notepad and a tray and all of the customers want everything on the side.

*Mick , I know this isn't you but I hope you teach everyone your age this lesson.

Mean Mommy is now wireless!

Guess where I'm posting from dear readers? THE TOILET! Well, I'm sitting on the lid of the closed can watching my pig pile of children in the tub with one with one eye while I use the other one to post on MY NEW LAPTOP! In one of his greatest subterfuges ever, Hubby ran out yesterday with Little Man to "run some errands" and came came home with this fabulous piece of technology that I am more than a little intimidated by and presented it to me with a flourish and a wry, "Go ahead and start that damn book", which is even a greater gift since he is a main character in a semi-fictional memoir I want to begin and you all know his love of being in the spotlight.

As you all know, I am more than little technologically challenged. In fact, Hubby stayed up late last night installing software, setting up networks, And I think my answer to, "What do you want me to put on this?" was, "Just make it so I can type stuff." I was so not involved as I at next to him on the couch watching The Amazing Race, that before he left for work this morning I actaully had to ask him where the On button was. And, somehow, magically, I am able to get online. Something wi-fi, blah, blah, blah.

So, hopefully, dear readers, this will increase the frequency of my posts and not just my ability to be alerted when yet another person feels it necessary to tell me "25 Things About Me".*

*As I was finishing this entry, I was pulled from my reverie with shrieks of, "BUDDY DID A POOP!" Yet again, my youngest felt the need to empty his bowels in a body of water, this time, with both of his sisters in attendance. Then, as I am pulling all three kids out of the feces infested water the PSE&G guy shows up to check the meter. At least I was able to write about it right away this time. Of course, after washing my hands a thousand times.

My Gift to You, H

Dear Hubby,

After eighteen Valentine's Days together, I thought it high time I give you some gifts that really matter. February the fourteenth is, traditionally, a holiday when men are supposed to bring out the big guns and wow the woman in their life with flowers, candy and jewelry. Despite my love of flowers , you are given a reprieve on this day, as not even I can justify the one hundred percent mark-up florists inflict upon men in new relationships, or those who are with a woman who has no basic math skills. You have done a fine job of meeting my minimum requirement each year which the largest Russell Stover heart-shaped box of chocolates you can find, which no one else in the family may touch, so I can eat all the caramels and fully enjoy being able to nibble the end of one of the mystery chocolates only to say, "Bleh! Peach creme!", and put it back in the box to be eaten a week later when all the chocolate centers and nougats have been eaten and the pickins are slim.

This year I thought, instead of spending money, since we are singular in our determination to get out of this house, I would give you the gifts I think really show how much I care. Sadly, none of them involve nudity, but I think you will be thrilled nonetheless.

1. Every night you are kind enough to "walk me in". For those of you who don't already know, I am an early bird and am usually asleep by nine thirty. After a short stint on the couch each night I get up to get ready for bed, applying my various serums and potions, and Hubby stands in the bathroom with me so we can eek out a few more minutes together each night. He then follows me into our room while I put on my pj's. He lies on the bed with me while we continue to chat and once I am finally ready for sleep, he cracks the window (I love to be cold when I sleep), turns on the ceiling fan and just as he thinks he's about to make his escape and finally get to play some Guitar Hero, I ask him for either a drink of water, to put the laundry in the dryer or load the coffee maker. My gift to you, Hubby, is a night off of your choosing.

2. Speaking of a drink of water, my hydration habits are also an albatross around Hubby's neck. Not only do I feel I need a bottle of water on my person at all times, but I am specific about the temperature of said water. If I had a dime for every minute Hubby has spent trying to explain to some Pakistani hot dog cart vendor in the city, or pimple-faced nineteen year-old selling water at Yankee Stadium that, no, his wife does not want the refreshingly cold agua in your cooler, but she would rather have the display water you have adhered to your cart with three rolls worth of packing tape, we'd be in our new house already. My gift to you, H? If you buy it, I'll drink it. No questions asked.

3. Lastly, my greatest gift to you. From this day forward, I free you from ever having to watch either of the following shows for even a nano-second: The Bachelor 13 and RuPaul's Drag Race. While I can not free you from your contractual obligation to watch either The Biggest Loser or The Amazing Race, as those were the terms agreed upon when Old Glory was purchased, and I still insist these are fine specimens of reality television, I will not demonad you watch Ongina lip-sync Destiny's Child's "Say My Name" or watch another twenty-nine year-old preschool teacher tearfully express her desire to settle down.

So, Happy V-day, H. As I have said repeatedly, you rock my world. I am more in love with you than the day I met you, in large part, because you have put up with all the crap listed above for so long along with my fresh-wine-glass-with-refills at bars requirement, my insistence on ordering mayonnaise on my pastrami at Katz's even when they warn you not to right on the menu and my affinity for takeout places that never offer delivery. And while I would rather give you every piece of technology your geeky little heart desires, I hope these gifts are pretty good substitutions. Especially when you consider my gift costs $9.99.

Are You There God? It's Me, Mary.

Sorry for the long absence, dear readers, between the offspring, and then Hubby coming down with history's longest lasting cold, and various obligations over at the preschool (where they were dumb enough to make me president of the board), I have barely had time to shower, never mind write. Yes, I did find time to watch Drag Race, but let's not mention that.

The title of today's blog refers to a crisis of faith, or should I say, non-faith, as it were, that I am having. Hubby and I are both former Catholics. My last official religious act was my wedding mass, at the request (read:successful bribery attempt) of my father. Afterward, Hubby and I stopped going to church (not that we were), and stopped receiving communion whenever we were in a mass situation, and when our children were born, hosted "Welcome to our Family" parties in lieu of baptisms.

We figured that some day, we would find a religion that suited our beliefs and at such a time, we would become members of a new faith. Apparently, we thought religious representatives, of the non-crazy variety (seriously, I'm not home, Jehova's witnesses!) would come knocking at our door instead of our having to actively pursue a new faith, kind of like sorority rush, minus the name tags and lame, theme parties. And since a priest, a rabbi and a minister did not, in fact, all show up at my door begging for our presence in their respective houses of worship, we have been happy heathens for the past ten years having a relationship with God akin to a rich elderly relative who you only hit up when you need something - praying my babies would all be healthy as I went into labor, and that the weird mole on Hubby's back would turn out to be nothing. Until now. I have kids, and kids have questions.

While most of our religious discussions have piggy-backed discussions about my late mother and where she is, my eldest, now six, is entering the time of life when fellow class members begin formal religious education, and what I truly dread, the beginning of communion season. I'm sure my oldest would sell her soul to the devil to get to wear a white, frilly dress, and princess-like headgear of some sort and the mere thought of explaining this event to her makes my head hurt. We're going to my cousin's baptism this weekend and I am already doing a thesis-worthy amount of research in order to be prepared to answer questions like, "What is church?" Awful, isn't it? My kids don't even know what a church is. Never mind God. I think I'm going to need a Xanax...

Faith has really taken a backseat in modern life, for most of our yuppie crowd. Sure, most of us were raised in some sort of organized religion, but it seems, more and more couples I know are religion shopping. And when that proves to daunting, many of them return to the religion of their youth. Trust me, it is tempting. Hubby and I briefly considered it after watching a movie about an Irish Catholic family the other night and what we distilled out of our discussion and almost-return to the church, was that we miss the shared traditions, not the theology. We are sad our children won't know how bad your first communion wafer actually tastes, after months of preparation and anticipation. They won't experience the butterflies in their stomachs waiting in line for confession to rattle off your lame little list of seven year old's wrong doings, one of which was lying as you had to make up some of your sins to add to your pathetic tally so you didn't feel like you were wasting Father Flagherty's time with only, "I disobeyed my parents." The hardness of the kneelers, the lame music, how weird we all look on Ash Wednesday, all of this is a shared experience among my family and my kids will have no idea.

So we did not wind up running over to Saint Luke's the next morning to have our kids dunked, but I am still at a loss in the religion department. I am jealous of people who have a faith the were born into and actually serves their needs. I envy people, like my aunt, who can give things over to God in hard times and lean on their faith to get them through. Piety like that is frowned upon and sneered at among the over-educated as a lack of probative intelligence, to believe in a something you can't see, or follow a religion that doesn't make you feel like every little thing you do in life is great. Struggling with the nature of forgiveness in my life recently, it would have been nice to have an impartial third party, like a priest to talk to. But maybe that's what our therapists are now. Priests, minus the collars. And the pedophilia.

I have no answers readers, perhaps you have some for me. But I really want to find a way to get God back into our lives, at least so we can thank him/her for all we have. But for now I have to find a four-to-six-year-old-accessible explanation of original sin.

Open letter to the woman who parked in the handicapped spot at the Dunkin' Donuts today,

Perhaps you will find this letter redundant as we have already spoken, but I would like to reiterate the points I made during today's meeting.

When I pulled into the DD lot this morning, piloting the sporty Pontiac GT I am now renting since last week's car accident*, I too, was disappointed to find no good parking as it was, assuredly, one of the coldest days of the winter thus far. Seeing the only spot open right by the door was the handicapped one, I parked all the way at the end of the lot, across the street, wrapped my youngest child in seventeen layers of outerwear, dodged the contractor's trucks as they screech into the lot on their Nextel walkie-talkie thingys and made it to the door.

So why do you, Souless Hag, all by your lonesome, with your perfectly functioning (although nauseatingly encased in age-inappropriate Uggs) legs feel you have the right to park your ridiculous Hummer in a spot reserved for someone with a disability? And while one can reason a lack of concept of other to be a social handicap, it does not prevent you from getting from point A to point B in an upright position. Unless, of course, you park in this spot again and we cross paths, at which point the only sheep skin you will need will be a bed-sore preventing pad beneath you in your wheel chair.

And, yes , I know, there was much eye-averting from the other customers as I made my opinion known to you, but I will not be deterred. If no else one is gonna say something, I will. Get the look, or what passes for one, off your botoxed face, try not to break an acrylic tip as you fish for your keys in your ridiculous over-sized handbag - which, by the way, if you want to carry a big bag offer to carry my camo diaper satchel to the car - grab your skim latte with ten Splendas, and GET THE HELL OUT OF THAT SPACE.

Sincerely,
Mean Mommy

PS - And although I do have a passing resemblance to a homeless woman, appearing not to have showered, hair scraped into a bun, with no make-up on, and am carrying a baby with snot running out of his nose, I will be taken seriously, dammit!

*Post to come

Sashay, Shante...

I can barely sit upright thanks to a horrible cold I caught from the kids, but watching the last hour of the Today Show in a prone position from the couch while the girls were at school and Little Man spent the morning at grandma's*, I obtained a piece of information that must be shared. RuPaul has a reality show. That's right.

RuPaul. Has. A. Reality. Show.

Rupaul combined with reality TV? Throw in a food service-sized jar of peanut butter and a magnum of Veuve and it's paradise to me. And it's called, drumroll please....

RuPaul: Drag Queen

Squee! So excited! Sadly, it is not on a major network. Logo? What the hell channel is that and does Jeff Zucker not know what he is missing out on? Regardless, my DVR is set and Hubby has been forewarned. His response, "Um, I think that's one you can watch on your own." My answer?
"YOU BETTA' WORK!"

*Have I mentioned before how my mother in-law repeatedly saves me?