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.