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?