Dear Tom,

Dear Tom Sawyer,
Your scheme to trick the boys of the town to pay for a turn painting your fence was genius. I was wondering if you could advise on a similar plan to relieve me of painting the dining room trim.
If not, perhaps Huck and Jim have room on the raft.
Regards,
Mary

As mentioned in my previous post...

Except I'M the one who looks like a sloppy, groping drunk. Trust me, he was a total lech. Or maybe that was me....
And no, H, despite my best efforts, I could not find any free face-blurring software.
Thanks for the picture, Gault.

Beer goggles? More like Love Lenses...

I am ridiculously excited, as waiting for me on the DVR, is last night’s season finale of The Bachelorette. Squee! Why didn’t I watch last night, you ask? Well even I, in my zeal for mocking drunken idiocy and over-gelled hair, can not take the forty-five minute re-cap reality shows insist on putting together for their finale, as if the producers think anyone but the schmucks they’ve already sucked into forfeiting hours of their lives are going to jump on the band wagon and, like current viewers, care with inappropriate intensity whether she will choose Kypton, aka The Guy Who Will Be Bald in Ten Minutes, or Reid, the cute smartass with the great sense of humor and, unfortunately, a problem professing his love in front of millions of viewers. Ahem…I’m just saying.

Speaking of drunken idiocy, my beloved Bachelor franchise has been criticized in the past for promoting excessive alcohol consumption in an effort to create drama and that perhaps the removal of mood altering substances might be better for the show. They can not be serious. This is a show about young people trying to find love and from personal experience; nothing helps lubricate the wheels of The Love Machine like a little booze.

Please don’t freak out and start throwing phrases like “beer goggles” and “one night stand” in my face. Yes, I agree, alcohol can cause problems when people make serious decisions under its influence, especially when meeting potential love interests. But in certain circumstances, like when a friendship is progressing toward romance, or either party is on the shy side, a drink can give Cupid the kick in the ass he sorely needs.

I can state with complete confidence, my own marriage exists primarily due to large quantities of Milwaukee’s Best beer. If my campus had been a dry one, I’d probably be married to the wet sock I was dating when I left for college. Hubby, as I have stated before, is not the most verbose or expressive of guys. So when the sparks had begun to fly, I would find myself in my dorm room, tearing my hair out, screeching to my roommate, “He acts like he likes me. So why the hell isn’t he doing anything about it?” It went on like this for weeks, until one fateful Friday night, Homecoming weekend. I can still see so clearly in my mind’s eye, walking up the stairs at the local watering hole with the opening strains of U2’s "Where the Streets Have No Name" blaring, seeing H sitting at a table wearing his Cleveland Indians hat and thinking to myself, “Jesus, I am in love with this asshole. Now what?” Also very clear in my mind’s eye is H, in that college stance - plastic cup in one hand, pitcher full of beer in the other. That, it turned out, was the answer.


Walking home that night, all of us from our dorm, staggering across the filed where the evening’s bonfire was slowly dying, H leaned on me for support, telling me repeatedly, “You schmell good.” Casanova. And as the male members of our party decided to almost burn their things off trying to pee on the glowing embers, and the females stood around laughing at them, H and I were left alone. Tripping over a tree root, H took me down with him like an NFL linebacker and, in the ensuing scuffle, we kissed. He pulled his head back from mine and I thought, “This is it, he’s going to tell me how much he likes me. Yes!” And H opens his drunken eyes, looks at me seriously and says, “Shit, Mare, did I just kiss you?” Aaaarrgghh!

Amazingly enough , I did let him live. And after several other emotionally ambiguous, inebriated, interactions - one night in particular involving a lot of beer on his part, running across a frozen lake on foot, to visit me, studying, in my dorm room, at midnight - he finally, finally, admitted his feelings for me and we became a couple. Now while I do not recommend this course of action for everyone, and as I reread this short synopsis of our beginnings I realize, in the abstract, is reads like a classic He’s Just Not The Into You scenario. But H was into me, he just needed to find the courage to tell me. Or liquid courage. I know people make a lot of bad decisions when they’re drunk, but they also let their guard down and that can make for some relationship altering events. Good or bad.

So I will watch the men on tonight’s show drink their martinis (they’re older, gotta class it up) and laugh as I watch them try to win this girl over with their new-found (in a bottle) emotional freedom. And I will hold H’s hand while I do so, laughing inside knowing that even though it’s been almost twenty years he’s still not immune to a case of the Drunken Lovies. I believe a friend of his has some incriminating pictures from his wedding last October involving H dancing (!) and some inappropriate wife-ass grabbing.
I want that picture, Gault

Be sweetie and sit on the seatie...

So the girls are off for their annual trip to Florida and H and I spent the weekend continuing to put the house back together. Having taken the girls to the airport twice in the last week, I have had a greater than average interaction with large, public restrooms as of late, and I was reminded, as I usually am, of my sister's groundbreaking idea when it comes to the toilets in public ladies' rooms. Her idea is simple, Let's all pledge to SIT DOWN.

Now before you all start screeching, "But I'll catch something!", let me tell you the results of my extensive research (which consists Goolging "germs public toilet seats"). Apparently, unless you have open sores on your tush , there is very little chance of catching something from a toilet seat. Which, if you do have sores, you are excused from the Sit Down Movement since you are probably home lying on your stomach waiting for your butt to heal.

But lets' think about it. What really skeeves you out about sitting on a public toilet seat? The possibility of getting wet with someone else's pee. The only way the seat gets wet is when we all hover over the seat, thighs trembling, causing us to try and pee faster, which, in turn, creates a lawn sprinkler situation, spraying the seat. Well, everyone sitting down would prevent all of that.

Sitting down is really the only way, even if you have quads of steel (such as myself after moving into this house) and can squat for long periods of time and still have perfect aim. And I'm not even sure perfect aim is possible. As H put it while we were potty training each of the girls, and he became way too familiar with the practical uses of the female anatomy, "Your equipment is really not designed all that well. Jesus, it gets everywhere!" No kidding. Ever try a nature pee? I love how men can go off into the woods and come out dry as a bone, while women have to squat, hope they're not rubbing their privates on some poison ivy, and try not to pee on the back of their own pants or feet. The male parts are more precision-oriented in that respect, although by the looks of my bathroom, H has pretty bad aim.

So let us join together, ladies, and pledge to give our legs a break and sit comfortably while relieving ourselves. If we can sit with confidence, knowing women everywhere are taking part in this movement, it will save us so much trouble in the bathroom. I especially, will enjoy being able to go into a public bathroom stall with the kids* and not have to prevent #2 from walking to the side of the commode to actually watch the pee go into the toilet like some twisted Vegas-style water display, which then usually leads to more fur vagina talk and questions about why Mommy's underwear go "up her heinie".

But letting my girls sit? I have to think about that one...

*Yet another indignity of being a mother with small children is squeezing all four of us into the handicapped stall after waiting for some bitch, who is all by her lonesome, and very able-bodied, to finish so that I can pee with an audience. And if the handicapped stall is out of order? Then we all squeeze into a regular one. It's like a clown car with waste products.

Please tell me it's not upstairs...

I know, I know. I was supposed to post yesterday, but the logistics of being in a new house are kicking my ass, even with my father's help. Having unpacked perhaps 60% of the boxes, I still don't know where the contents of the junk drawer are, so we have one functioning pen in the house, and #1's soccer stuff has disappeared, which is quite convenient considering her soccer camp started Monday. Add to that fun, my inexperience caring for three children in a house with more than one level, and having just moved into one with three, and you have a recipe for screaming quadriceps, and a screaming Mean Mommy. I guess I have my own oak-banistered Stairmaster.

So today's post is really just of the don't-stop-reading-I'll-be-back-soon variety since the baby is down for his nap and I need to pack the girls for their trip to Florida tomorrow (if I have to pack another item in a box, suitcase or bin any time in the next week I will throw myself into traffic). And a shower is pending as the plumber only just finished repairing the tub that had been clogged last night when the baby's washcloth got sucked down the stopper-less drain of my 1950's bathroom. Please forgive me for reneging on my promise. Next week, when I once again, become the mother of only one child, I will have time aplenty to write. Although if H has his way there will be no relaxing for me. When I told him I had hired a sitter for a few hours his response was, "Great! Gonna get the living room painted?"

For richer or poorer...

Well, um, OK then. I guess I lied. While the movers furiously scurry around my house packing my belongings into the truck, I find myself the proverbial "tits on a bull" and have set up camp in the backyard, with nothing to do except answer their random questions like,"Are you taking the mailbox?" (Do people do that?) while H runs around doing stuff for the closing. So thank God for the laptop.

Today's topic is one I have been mulling over for quite sometime. There are many things I consider writing about, but am afraid of offending my regular readers should they think I am passing judgment on the way they live their lives, which, while I might silently (or not so silently to H) mock someone's wardrobe choice or disdain of Rupaul, who the hell am I to tell anyone how to live?

So the subject of today's post comes as question. Can a couple have a successful marriage if they keep their finances separate? The situation I'm talking about is where the couple either has one joint account from which they draw expenditures for the household and two personal accounts in which each spouse deposits funds to do with as they please or, the alternative arrangement, where each spouse maintains separate accounts and they split the household expenses down the middle*.

And now for a little background on my situation. When Hubby and I got married we didn't have one pot to piss in never mind numerous pots to be labeled "mine" and "yours". Everything, what little that was, was "ours". When you are with someone, essentially from childhood, and start from scratch having to put everything into the kitty to stay afloat, the idea of keeping anything for yourself is ludicrous.

But my situation, while not unheard of, is not the norm. Many, if not most, college educated women are getting married in their late twenties, if not in their thirties, at a point in their lives when they have begun to build careers with the associated 401K's and growing bank accounts. I didn't have to worry about H running off with my money, because I had none - if you don't count the tip jar I was saving for our first apartment in. But many women have assets they have worked hard for and, should the marriage dissolve, want to keep hold of. But I think the question is in this situation, isn't that what a pre-nup is for? Perhaps these women would say, "No, no, I don't think I'm going to get divorced! I don't need a pre-nup." Well, if you are certain the marriage will last and this guys isn't after you for your cash, then why not go whole hog and get a joint checking account? It's as if a pre-nup is to serious, but essentially they are saying the same thing.

OK, before some of you come after me with flaming torches and pitch forks, let me elaborate on another scenario. What of the couple who do have a joint account, but they keep separate "mad money" accounts, the contents of which, they can do with whatever they please without their partner's permission? While I totally understand the desperate need a pair of snakeskin pumps can engender, and it can be irritating to have to stop and think whether we can afford them or not, rather than pulling out my own debit card, knowing the exact amount I have to play with, aren't those decisions part of being a family? Having these separate accounts does prevent this particular emotional angst, but this "for the good of the whole" thinking is what makes a marriage work. And sometimes, the good of the whole includes one member getting to treat his or herself to a pair of shoes and the next month it's someone else's turn. And while I'm sure these couples go through times when they can't put a dime in their extra accounts, I feel learning that give-and-take is essential to the give-and-take required in marriage.

I know there will be plenty of you who think, "Sure, she'd be singing a different song if H left her haven't-worked-full-time-in-seven-years-ass with no money." And that is also part of the problem. The instances of spouses being left without enough funds to support families are frequent enough to justify keeping a little "Fuck you" money hidden, but then again, how do you wholly commit yourself to a partnership with that mindset? And, yes, on paper, I look like a total patsy, with no job, and no income of my own, admittedly. But the same people who think I'm a fool financially would probably have thought I was an idiot for "letting" H transfer to Georgetown and without calling him seventy-five times a day or for getting his initial tattooed on my ankle. There is no way to concretely justify my situation without seeming desperate. I jsut know I can trust him. Period.

I know life circumstances are different for everyone and it's not only who we are with, but our pasts, that dictate how much we are able or willing to trust and I know I have led a charmed existence on that front. And trust is what I think it comes down to essentially. Do you trust your partner with all you've worked hard for? Do you trust you are working toward the same goals, financially and personally? Do you trust your partner to look out for your happiness, sometimes at the expense of their own (like the month one of you buys a certain pair of shoes and one of you doesn't get to buy Guitar Hero)? So please educate me, dear readers, if you are in this situation, and the answer to all of these questions is yes and tell me how this all works.

And if anyone is pissed, I will wear heels to my lynching,

*Which always seems really awkward to me. Like who pays for birth control? Is that a household expense? Seems like it might cause a lot of ridiculous fights.

Mean Mommy entering radio silence...

OK, dear readers. The good news is I've made it this far without having a panic-induced heart attack, I'm sure because of the soothing effects of emotionally binge-eating peanut butter. The bad new is, H is dismantling the computer today and the Fios guy isn't coming to the new house until the 16th, so I will be out of contact. And let's be honest, with the eighty-five thousand boxes we have to unpack, I'm sure Hubby would strangle me if he finds me tapping away in the basement, so it's going to be a while until I can get back on the writing horse. So let's say I'll be back on Wednesday, July 22nd, as by then, my amazing dad will be up from Florida visiting for a few days before bringing the girls to his place for their yearly visit.

And you have homework, dear readers. If you have not yet familiarized yourself with Clean House on the Style Network, please do so before the 22nd as I am currently obsessed. What better to put on in the background as I pack than a show about cleaning and organizing homes hosted by a ballsy, black woman (pictures above) who looks sort of like a drag queen, complete with oversized flower in her hair, and has numerous catch phrases that I have adopted?

So I will see you all on the 22nd, from the new digs. And, now, as my last day in the old house begins, in the words of CH's Necie Nash, "Let's git to giitin'!!!"

A Good Little House

The time has finally come, dear readers. We are moving on Monday. In between overwhelming waves of sheer panic, trying to schedule the movers, the closing, the repair of a cracked sidewalk slab (Really town inspector? Really?) and finish packing, I have been fighting the deep, deep sadness I feel leaving our little house.

It feels like yesterday I was puling up in front of it, in our red Jetta, with a three month old #1 in the back seat and my dad riding shotgun to come see the house we would be living in gratis while Hubby and I rode out an ill-timed stint of unemployment. We had been planning on moving to the suburbs and renting while we saved for a house anyway, since I was realizing quickly hauling a baby up and down the four flights of stairs to our walk-up apartment in Hoboken was going to kill me, or turn me into Quadzilla, in short order. So when our luck took a turn for the worse and Pop, H’s grandfather, went into a nursing home, it seemed like the solution to everyone’s problems.

Then I walked in. Before I begin to describe my reaction to the house, let me explain that Pop was in his nineties, and up until months before, had been living on his own since his wife passed away ten years earlier. The house I walked into was exactly what you would expect of a man left to his own devices. No serious improvements had been made in years, I’m sure Mama loved her home the way it was, when she was keeping it. As we all know, most men, when on their own, will eventually come close to going feral, so as you would expect, getting new carpeting or giving the walls a fresh coat of paint to spruce things up did not even pass through his mind. He loved his yard and the Yankees and his house was just fine for him.

But not for me. Between the fifties bathroom that Pop really hadn’t done a great job of keeping clean (as his Y chromosome would dictate) and the cracked, orange linoleum floor in the kitchen with the seventies oak cabinetry, I was overwhelmed. After viewing my future home, I walked up to the park up the street with my father where I sat on a bench and sobbed, “I can’t live here!”*. I had no choice though, we were broke and it was free thanks to my father in-law’s generosity. So move in, we did.

Thus began what would be, unbeknownst to us, our seven year stay. We began making over the house bit by bit as money would allow. We ripped out the old carpeting, H choking on thirty years of dust, we painted the Brady Bunch-espque cabinets a bright white and replaced the hardware and laid a black and white checkered floor over that blindness-inducing linoleum and we painted rooms and stripped wallpaper. When our financial situation improved, we actually bought the house from my father in-law, as sadly, Pop had passed away shortly after our move in. We found money to redo the bathroom and finish the basement, making more room for our growing family.

As the house evolved over the years, so did we. We moved into our three bedroom bungalow, making the two other bedrooms an office and a nursery for #1. Then, when #2 unexpectedly came along, we essentially had two nurseries. And now, we have one nursery and a big girls room complete with bunk beds and Hannah Montana paraphernalia. And we changed as people. The day H and I moved into that house we were a young couple with a baby, now we are a family. We were a professionally frustrated young father and shell-shocked, struggling new mother trying to figure out if she could survive without a career. And now H is so happy, and doing well, at his job, and while I don’t claim to have all the answers, I have come to trust myself as a parent and I know the days when I can think about having a professional life are just around the corner.

Monday will be a day of reflection for both H and I. When I walk around the empty house I will be envisioning all the things, good and bad, that have taken place under this roof. This is the house where all of my children took their first steps. All those life changing moments, new jobs, first words, positive pregnancy tests, happened in this house. This tiny house was like my den, where I lived for seven sleep-deprived, milk-sodden years, surrounded by my babies, all of us on top of each other, but, most times, happy to be so. Now we move on to a bigger house to create new memories, but while I am happy about all the new space, I will miss this closeness.

When we close the door for the last time on Monday, it’s like we are closing a door on the chapter of our lives titled “The Early Years”. We leave our baby days behind us. While Little Man is still young, the floors in the new house will never be scratched by the dragging of a baby-laden Exersaucer across them. The glider isn’t even making the cut in his new big boy room and we are leaving his blue and white gingham curtains for the new owners. And my girls, they will both be in elementary school, away from me, in the real world. And we moved forward.

So to our house I say, I will miss you. We walked in your door so unsure, and we leave much the same way, but certain in our strength as a couple and as a family. While some times were tough, our memories of them are wonderful, as memories of hard times survived are. You will live on in our memory forever as the house where we became a family. You were, and still are, a good, good little house.

*Pop, please in no way think I was ever not grateful to you, but even you have to admit, it was like walking in to a time machine.

No one's making a pilgrmage to see me...

T-minus four days until the move and I am already exhausted. Add to that the world's worst timed case of PMS (thank you hormones!) and you have a recipe for me being short tempered with Hubby and the kids as I limp through a week that includes taking all three kids to the doctor for checkups, staying up until one in the morning wrapping presents and decorating the house for #1's birthday, followed by a day in the city to celebrate at American girl, and a three hour Girl Scout leader training last night during which four of the planet's dumbest women repeatedly asked, "Wait, who do I give this form to?", apparently unable to read a tree diagram.

My impatient behavior over the last week was brought into stark relief this morning as I watched a segment on Amma The Hugging Saint's visit to NYC. This woman travels the world preaching about peace and understanding and at the end of her engagements, offers a healing embrace to those who need one. The footage showed thousands of people lined up before this diminutive Indian woman, with a peaceful smile, who was not give out mere arms-length-greeting-at-a-cocktail-party style hugs, but enveloping embraces where she brought her face over the recipient's shoulder to whisper blessings in their ear with a beatific look on her face. In my progesterone-riddled, sleep-deprived state, it made me tear up and made me want a hug.

How do people like this exist? Were they born perfect? Were they perfect children, sleeping through the night since birth and never having a No-I-don't-want-to-leave-the-park temper tantrum? It made my own behavior seem that much more monstrous by comparison. And I began to wonder, Amma's a woman, does she ever get hormonally bitchy? Does she ever tap her foot impatiently in line behind some old woman taking forever to write a check for cat food at the grocery store? Does she ever almost go blind with rage when she realizes, after driving off with all her kids in the van, that Mobin forgot to put two Splenda in the iced coffee she so desperately needs? Does she ever sit and drink too much wine with her husband and mock the prematurely baldly contestant on The Bachelor? (Kippton, will you accept this Rogaine?) Does she ever obsess about her roots, or her thighs or whether her bindi is on right? I'm guessing no, which is why she's, you know, a saint.

So I switched off the TV, trudged upstairs to take my post-workout shower, and pledged to be nicer to my husband, my children and the world in general today. It didn't last more than ten minutes, of course, as I came into the bathroom to find H's hair products all over the counter and the bath mat soaking wet and I felt my blood pressure go up thirty points. But I guess that's why I don't have thousands of people coming to see me looking to hug it out. I'm not perfect, I'm not a saint. I get pissed, I judge people. I'm human. And if I had to hug some of those grungy looking college kids with dreads I saw in line for Amma, they would have been given a smile, the Heisman, and been told, "Go in peace. And the universe wants you to wash off some of that patchouli."

It's summer, time to get out the boxing gloves...

I am trying to take my own advice from posts-past and take a few minutes to write while Little Man is asleep and the girls are at the pool with my magnificent mother in-law, instead of continuing to orbit around the house, manically throwing things in boxes and wondering how the hell we're going to get all this packing done in the next thirteen days, all the while tripping over piles of unfolded laundry, train tracks and Groovy Girls.

So summer is upon me, and while I mentioned (just a few times) how I am having my ass kicked three ways 'til Sunday, I have actually managed to settle into a groove with the kids and have begun to enjoying all this time with them while they still want to spend it with me, rather than have me drop them three blocks from the town pool. A major part of finding balance this summer is getting into a schedule of outings to keep everyone busy and from unpacking every box I have worked so hard to fill. So if we are spending so much time out and about with other children of varying ages and other parents of varying intelligences, you know what that means. Time for my annual Fight at the Park.

As you will recall from last summer, I am not one to avoid disciplining someone else's kid when the safety of my own is at risk, since I firmly believe we need to harken back to the olden days and participate in communal parenting when sharing the same sandbox. You will also remember, on occasion, I Bronx out when doing so. So I'm not sure if it's something to do with this particular park that I don't frequent that often, but it seems every time I have an unpleasant interaction with some adolescent ape, stumbling about in his testosterone fog, with a sense of entitlement in proportion to the length of his hair (I still do not understand this phenomenon). Again, see last summer's post.

So why was I surprised at yesterday's occurrences? I showed up at the park with all three kids so slathered in sunscreen they looked like understudies for Powder and I immediately knew we were in trouble as I saw dozens of teenagers wearing neon green t-shirts with "STAFF" emblazoned on the back. Ugh. The town "day camp", otherwise known as the cheapest way to not spend time with your kids during the summer while entrusting them to the care of inattentive dimwits. I know much about this having attended one myself (because my parents worked) and because H was a counselor/future Gitmo warden at the one in his town where he spent his summer playing Get Under It with his third grade group*. Today there were dozens of children were wilding around the playground while their counselors sat, in the shade, oblivious, texting. Oh, boy. The hairs were already standing up on the back of my neck.

Our trouble began over by the sandbox, where LM set up shop, and coincidentally, there is a gate down to the baseball field of last summer's fame. Now while I am an attentive mother on most days, when I am out with all three kids in public and therefore, outnumbered, I rely on conveniences like wooden barriers to ensure one of them doesn't wander into traffic while I rescue someone from the top of the jungle gym. So when groups of kids and their wardens started coming and going from the playground and field, would it really have been to much to ask of the hormone bag bringing up the rear to shut the gate behind him? Apparently so. And apparently, once again, it was my job to educate someone. After speaking nicely to a large group of pimple faced child-wranglers who, to be fair, did listen and were closing the gate, I realized there were so many groups coming and going there was no way I could inform them all of proper playground etiquette (and why the town did not, I have no idea), and I sure as hell was not getting up every thirty-five seconds to close the gate, so I just began shouting as groups entered and left, "CLOSE THE GATE!". I thought, as usual, I was making myself into the park pariah, and embarrassing my mom friends who had met up with me (although they should be used to my behavior by now), but after my fifth shouted directive I heard a cry of, "You're awesome!", from a gaggle of mom's by the swings. Go, me.

Then, Little Man grew tired of the sandbox and we moved on to the toddler jungle gym. For those of you unfamiliar with playground equipment, they make specific types of monkey bars for wee ones complete with lower slides and shallower steps. So why, pray tell, was there a gaggle of ten year old boys repeatedly bumping into and almost knocking over my two year old on Lilliputian equipment? Because their asshole counselors were down on the playground below sitting in the fucking shade, that's why!!!! Can you see where this is going? Can you?

After trying ro manage the erratic movements of eight grade school idiots to prevent my child from being trampled to death to no avail, I had had enough. I marched over to the fence and shouted down to the miscreants lounging in the shade, "EXCUSE ME! DO YOU THINK YOU COULD COME UP HERE AND STOP YOUR CAMPERS FROM ACTING LIKE IDIOTS???" Most of them just looked up at me with dazed expression, but the one in the center of this circle jerk actually mastered his powers of speech to say, "What do you want me to do? It's a playground." I swear to God, dear readers, my head almost exploded and it was all I could do to stop myself from grabbing him by his pooka shell necklace and cramming his iPhone down his throat. My response, instead was, "This equipment is for children under six. Are your campers under six?" He answers, "No, but, God, they're just playing." Don't worry, dear readers, I am not writing this post from jail, so I obviously managed to contain my rage long enough to ask him, "Are you seriously arguing with me?", march off and find the director. I took much pleasure at watching him stammer out his explanation while his boss basically told him to shut the hell up and start doing his damn job.

Again, I beg the question, when did the idiots start running the asylum? I will try, once again, to send out a call of action to take back control. I not only highly recommend you take matters into your own hands at the local parks when you see unchecked and child-endangering idiocy, but to think about how we, the parents of the next generation, are raising the camp counselors of the future. We need to instill a sense of humility and respect in our children when faced with legitimate criticism. And I have come up with the perfect catch phrase to help us take our children down a notch when they get their sassy britches on. I'm considering getting t-shirts printed with this phrase to remind us to educate our children, no matter how smart they themselves think they are at fifteen, how little anyone else cares about their opinion. Perhaps you might have heard it before?

JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Let it be our battle cry.

*Get Under It consisted of H and his fellow counselors throwing a 24 inch diameter kickball high into the air and screaming at their campers to "Get under it!" so as to watch their little sixty pound bodies be knocked down like bowling pins as the ball came screaming back down to earth.