I'm a Survivor

Thankfully, the dead time between fantastical summer reality programs (The Bachelorette and Top Chef were amazing) and the new fall line-up is finally over and I have a full-to-bursting DVR right now. There were some glitches while we were away for my sister's wedding, and the season premiers of some shows did not tape, but all was made right when my husband, Phil Dunphy, was able to access them through the interwebs with the help of his new girlfriend, I mean, ipad.

Our favorite show, Survivor, is off to a good start this season, full of goat herders and former NFL coaches, and this time they have split the players into an "older" tribe and a "younger" tribe. Probst, who has not gotten the memo yet that trucker caps are so 2002, divided the group by directing "anyone 30 and over to this side, anyone 30 and under to that side". Apparently, we people in our thirties are too smart or too busy to go into the wilderness for a month without toilet paper. As H's doppelganger, John Stewart, put it, "you have shit to do".*

After the tribe had spoken, H and I had our usual conversation, at the beginning of a new season, about how each of us would do on Survivor. I think H would do spectacularly well, with his intelligence, wit and watch-first-then-get-involved philosophy. Me, on the other hand? Not so much. I think if I managed not to piss my entire tribe off during the first day, making plans for building the shelter and assigning their lazy asses to wood-gathering and water-boiling duty, I'm sure I'd wind up in a fight pretty soon thereafter, when my tolerance for twenty-something angst and knee socks** had been surpassed. But, aside from the fact that I wouldn't even make it to the jury and I would be one of those, "Remember her?" faces during the opening credits, I have a lot of other problems with the show that prevent my sending in a tape.

First of all, clothing. Remember, once upon a time, Survivor contestants were allowed to bring a bag of clothing with them? And I'm not talking about sneakers and a swimsuit. People in the earlier seasons had t-shirts, long pants, anoraks, multiple pairs of socks!!! They were even allowed to bring a luxury item (Colby's Texas flag did prove a useful tarp). The once season-specific gimmick of dropping the tribes off with only the clothes on their backs, has now become derigueur. And considering the outfits a lot of these idiots wind up in, it seems the producers don't tell them what day this will be, tricking them with gatherings for "publicity photos", which is how we find men in suits and women in high heeled shoes on a beach in Fiji. So what would I do? Would I show up for every group event dressed in my cargo pants, Yankee cap and water-proof sneakers, with my full-coverage J Crew bathing suit underneath? Or would my vanity get the best of me and I'd wind up a fool, hobbling along the beach, cursing the ruination of the pony shoes? Probably the latter.

And speaking of vanity, the number one thing that would hold me back from kicking some ass and winning the million bucks has just four little letters. H. A. I. R. Hair. It is a many-faceted issue. First of all, the color. It's in the credits, "THIRTY-NINE DAYS! ONE...SURVIVOR!" Except all I hear is "THIRTY-NINE DAYS! A QUARTER INCH OF ROOT!" Sure, sure, it's all cute to see the dark, new growth of young twenty-somethings when they haven't had access to a Clairol highlighting kit, but what's not cute is a stripe of gray running down my scalp if I miss my monthly appointment with Samantha, like some kind of Irish Cruella Deville. I still claim I color my hair for fun not necessity, I don't need hard physical evidence to the contrary.

And not only is my hair color is a problem, but the texture as well. Pretty much every day, poor H wakes up to a female Shaun White wearing a sleep mask and a Frownie. I'm sure the two days a week that I actually do get to tame my main are barely enough to overcome that daily eye sore. So imagine what my hair would look like after a month in tropical humidity, with no shampoo, brushes, hot styling tools or product. And yes, I could tie it back, but it would have to be let loose to dry out once in a while lest I grow a head fungus - of which I was beginning to fear this summer with my constant sweating and bun-wearing when one day H said, "Your hair smells weird." I just imagine releasing it from the elastic to have it puff up like those instantly-expanding Chinese rice noodles.

Once we move past the hair on my head, it's hair in all the other places I'd worry about. How the hell do these women have hairless bikini lines after a month? The research I did claims they only have access to vital medical supplies like sunscreen, insect repellent (which some of them apparently do not know how to use, so bitten up are their legs), saline and prescription medication. Nowhere on the list is a razor. I guess they all invest in laser hair removal which I would need to do, if not for the nether regions, than for the old lady beard I am starting to grow. Long, white hairs like a damn witch!!! H thinks reciting lines from The Three Little Pigs will get him laughs. It goes like this... "Not by the ha-uuhhh! (gasping for air) Hey! That hurt!!" I can deal with armpit, leg and bikini line hair, but when I have a chance of looking like that woman from Throw Momma from the Train, I'm done.

Of course, there are the general hygiene concerns we all think about when we see shows like these. No showers! No toothbrushes! No toilets! That is the one that gets me. A few seasons back, there was an elderly Asian contestant who became so constipated he was taken off the show for medical purposes. That? Would be me. Crapping in a hole in the woods surrounded by strangers? I think I'm going to need an enema, Probst. And I'm sure that all-rice diet is not like packing your intestines full of cement at all. Can my luxury item be prunes?

We all know the biggest reason I wouldn't wind up on this show though is my big, damn mouth and lack of filter. I can just see myself during some endurance challenge, of which I would be the master, (Hand-eye coordination? Not so much. Stubborn streak? A mile wide.) and Probst would say something like, "Mary, her legs are starting to shake, she might be on her way out..." and I'd growl, "SHUT UP, PROBST!!!" And instead of rolling my eyes behind a tribemates back when they were talking smack at tribal council I'd have to set the record straight, which I'm sure would charm and delight and win me friends. I'd be shouting at the back of the recently voted-off, "See you at the finale - LOSER!".

So while it might make great TV for you guys, I think I'm going to stay right here at home where I can mercilessly judge the people dumb enough to put themselves in this situation. Besides, how different is my life from the show? As it is, I am surrounded by crazy people, I never get to shower, often do not brush my teeth (until I remember later in the day), and have overgrown body hair. But I'm not going to win a million dollars. I don't have chin hairs though.

*Not sure what I'm talking about? Google "million moderate march" immediately. "We're here America! But inly until six...we have a sitter."
**Why do these young chicks think knee high wool socks are the way to go when on a tropical isle? Looking to make a fashion statement? A white, sequined gown is all you need. Just ask Ginger.

My Big, Fat, Gay Wedding

Please excuse the long absence, dear readers, but I am still digging out from my sister's wedding in California last weekend. Having to leave the kids for four days, three days after they began school, with all the emergency-form-signing-which-door-are-they-dismissed-from-the-teacher-needs-another-binder-by-tomorrow that includes, was a bit crazy. But wonderful.

And since I am not completely out of the hole yet (I still have to plan and organize my first Girls Scout meeting of the year, which might be earning their Rub Your Leaders Feet and Bring Her More Wine Badge), I will again distract you from my lack of writing with photos. I promise, this nonsense will stop as of next week when all the laundry has been done, the house has been cleaned or eighteen six year-olds have earned their Clean Your Leader's House Badge.

So for those of my readers who are not close friends and family (I love you the best since you are not obligated to read due to interrogations over the dinner table), here are some snaps
from the weekend.

I am allowing my sister her privacy and not posting any of her and her wife Chrissy, but let my assure you, they were both glowing and looked amazing in their white suits.

The first picture is of The World's Funniest Cake Topper. My sister and her wife actually do look like Marcy and Peppermint Patty, so each and every guest snarfed their wine upon seeing this atop the cake. This is the cake I drunkenly ate four pieces of before Tony carried me out to the car.

The second picture is of me, trying not to have a panic attack, waiting for them to come down the aisle. I look all serene, but really I am thinking, "Don't throw up, don't pass out." The ceremony went smoothly and their recessional - Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" was the bomb.

The third picture I put in purely to show how hot my boyfriend is, since you all know he's not my husband at weddings, but my boyfriend. His dancing was a bit stifled though since he was surrounded by gay fabulousness that almost intimidated me off the dance floor. I don't think there was enough vodka in the world to get him on the dance floor during RuPaul's "Supermodel". And don't we look all grown-up and shit? I remember when going to weddings meant wearing some dress I usually wore to sorority formals and hoping there was a drunk bus to the hotel.

So it will be back to business as usual next week come hell or high water. I am back in work gear, back in my yoga pants and baseball cap, but damn, I think that huge brooch I was wearing goes with any outfit.

*And screw you Blogspot, since I have no idea why the format I see during "Post Preview" looks all normal and upon being published, it looks like I put the text and photos in a blender. Whatever.

Meat Good...idiots

I've just finished running around my house naked, with Jersey Shore blaring on the television, guzzling wine straight from the bottle,while screaming profanity. Well, not really. But I could have if I wanted to. Why?

BECAUSE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY CHILDREN WAS AT SCHOOL THIS MORNING.

This day has been a long eight years in the making, dear readers. Remember back in the day, when I started this whole blog thing and I was drowning in children? That seems like a lifetime of shitty diapers and sleepless night ago. I wanted to punch everyone in the face who said to me, "You won't know what to do with yourself!" Um, yeah, I know exactly what I'm going to do with myself, thanks, since imagining this very day was the one thing that got me through some days once #3 was born. And, yes, even though I still do miss my kids desperately and wish we were all at the beach right now, I am ready to write until my fingers fall off. Well, that and finally decorate the house since "we just moved in" is no longer and excuse for the lack of curtains and living room furniture.

On that note...

I was indulging myself in some daytime television, as I cleaned up from the nuclear holocaust that is my kitchen on days when I have to get all three kids out the door by eight-thirty, when I saw a commercial for Kentucky Fried Chicken's Double Down. I had heard tell of this sandwich/monstrosity, so I ran into the family room and hit rewind on the DVR. "What are you going to do today? Fix that leaky faucet? Vacuum the floorboards?", the spokesperson taunts. He then encourages the viewer to "grab life by the horns", and by that he means eating many strips of bacon and much cheese sandwiched between two fried chicken breasts. 'Doubling Down' is not just lunch, my friend, it's a triumph."

This is the zenith of a trend I have dubbed Meat As Masculinity. It all started in the time of the caveman with male homo sapiens in charge of tracking down and killing the woolly mammoth or saber-toothed tiger. As we have gotten farther and father from that time, and gender lines become more and more blurred, it seems some * mens' obsession with the cooking and eating of flesh has grown in direct proportion to the number of diapers they are expected the change or floors to vacuum. And speaking of vacuuming, notice how the KFC commercial tries to be gender neutral with it's choice of boring tasks to mock. But we all know it's the men this idiot in his flannel shirt and artful razor stubble is talking to.

Now, I don't begrudge men their overt displays of gender, what I take issue with is the poor choice of vehicle in this particular case. I understand there are times when one has a strong need to identify with one's sex. For example, I quite enjoy a manicure which renders my usual field laborer's hands useless, since it makes me feel pampered, and I also enjoy wearing ridiculously impractical shoes while making H drop me at the entrance to wherever we are going or be forced to carry me there on his back*. Both of these make me feel more "womanly", but neither of these vices is going to, you know, cause me to have a heart attack.

I fail to understand the short-sightedness of men with their obsession with high-fat flesh. It seems childish and selfish. Yes, women have their own deadly vices - I'm sure all the hydrogenated fat in the donuts I love so much and the cholesterol in the buttercream icing on my favorite coconut cake aren't doing my arteries any favors - but perhaps from all our years being bombarded with messages of self-control and dieting, women seem to have an internal policing system that, if it doesn't prevent us from overindulging in something unhealthy, we at least have the common sense to feel guilty about it. At this point, you would expect me to start railing against the societal constructs that rob women of gustatory pleasure, and I have on other occasions, but there's a reason women live longer than men. The fact that fitting into our skinny jeans stops us from eating "The Baconator" at Burger King has longer lasting health benefits and the fact that most men could give a crap about how they look in a bathing suit is putting those same guys in early graves. Seriously, the evidence is right before your eyes. The host of Meat & Potatoes, a show solely about the host's obsession with "all things meat", looks like he's one slab of ribs away from turning into Fat Bastard from Austin Powers.

I think some men's blindness concerning the health ramifications of this behavior, much like smoking, is overshadowed by wanting to be "bad", to cast off the shackles of modern manhood and all the stepping around of social landmines involved (Do you hold the door open for her on the first date? How do you discuss with your wife that you really want her to stay home with the kids without sounding like a dick?). So let me put it out there guys. Women do not see a testoterone-fueled feat of achievement when you eat three pounds of beef, or pork, or bacon. We envision you being wheeled out of the OR, just having come out of bypass surgery twenty years from now. And do you feel particularly masculine after you've put away a Double Whopper with bacon? I think you just feel sleepy and bloated. We love you, we want you to stick around. We understand milling around the barbecue, beers in hand, is an excuse to talk without chicks around, but couldn't you also do that while playing pool, or fixing up old cars or boating?

And, really, turkey bacon tastes just like the real thing***

*I'd say "in his arms" to make him feel manly, but we both know I'm a big gal and how narrowly we escaped a trip to the ER when he carreid me over the threshold of the new house last summer.
**Spare me your hate mail. Yes, there are plenty of men who can control what they eat just fine. I do not happen to be married to one of them so my core sample is tainted. Hooray for those women who don't have to count the number of slices of bacon their husband eats at brunch.

***OK, even I know that's bullshit.

Goodbye Summer

I site here, on the deck of the beach house, drinking a cup of coffee, feeling the chill in the air that heralds the change of season, knowing the beginning of school is just a few short days away. Have you ever seen that Staples commercial where the mother is running through the aisles, gleefully tossing school supplies into a cart, her sullen children trudging behind her, all while "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" plays? Bet you think that's exactly how I feel after eighty-five days of summer vacation.

And you would be wrong.

I hear the collective, "Whaaaat?", from all of you, since I began the summer fearing for my sanity, having decided to only send the girls to one week of camp and, otherwise, entertain them at home and, save for the two weeks they were in Florida, that would mean a lot of togetherness. But the only way to express it, dear readers, is to say I am absolutely bereft at the thought of this summer coming to an end. In a word, this summer has been magical.

In June , I was terrified that I would have the same experience I did last year. I mistakenly tried to keep up with my daily routine of laundry, cooking and cleaning, all with three small children underfoot and, with the added stress of the move, all I succeeded in doing was driving everyone mad. I decided that this summer I would surrender to the season and slow down. This summer would be about me and my kids.* Yes, I did put The Summer Commandments into effect, which are, seemingly, the opposite of slowing down, but they helped tremendously. What I mean by slowing down is if the laundry didn't get done, or we had eggs for dinner, I just told myeslf, "It's summer." Doing this, we were able to grab this summer by the balls. We conquered the beach four times, The Land of Make Believe twice, the Crayola Factory, the poorly named Please Touch Children's Museum in Philadelphia, Central Park and the Bronx Zoo.

Am I tired? Sure. Is my house a wreck? Definitely. But nothing is better than the feeling of being safely back in the van** ready to drive home, all three of my children glassy-eyed with fatigue from a day of summer fun, having created a memory. I know that these days are numbered. #1 turned eight this summer, and while she is still the ingenue she has always been, her penchant for Hannah Montana music and demand for privacy when dressing, are signs that soon, one of my babies will no longer be a baby and someday, sneaking into bed to read with with me at night after her sister has fallen asleep will be replaced by trying to text her friends under the covers***. I realized this summer, I have spent a lot of time in the last eight years bitching about how much work it is having my children around all the time, when, really, this time is a gift.

This summer. this Summer of Us, as I called it, is quite possibly the best summer I have ever had. This is the summer, instead of picking the girls up, sunburned and cranky from some camp where terrifyingly young teenagers were charged with the corralling large groups of small children, I was a part of it all. This is the summer #1 went off the diving board and the water slide in the big pool, #2 actually put her whole head under water (she previously had the water affinity of a hairless cat, which was a bit of an impediment to swimming) and Little Man learned how to use a boogie board. I read Little House on the Prairie with #1, took #2 to get her ears pierced and rode a camel with Little Man.

To quote our favorite book of the summer, When the Fireflies Come, "Summer is almost over. Sometimes it seems like the dasy come and go like the light of the fireflies...day-night, day-night, day-night...". It all went so fast. And now in a few short days I will find myself in the kitchen, hands covered in peanut butter, screaming for everyone to brush their teeth or we're going to be late, and I want to cry. But this summer will be my template for all summers going forward since I know my kids enjoyed it too. Little Man described it exactly on the beach yesterday. This summer, "we fit togehter like a puzzle."

*Poor H, slaving away in the city. Thanks for makin' the pay-pah!
**Before it became the useless piece of shit it is currently, sitting dead in the driveway. That's an added bonus to returning from vacation. Having to shuttle all three kids around in the Jetta. Can we say "clown car"?
***Which i describe for dramatic effect. Like I won't be confiscating her phone every night to obsessively check her text messages. Controlling? Yes. But will I wind up with a twelve year old who sends naked pcitures of her herself? Hells no.

OOO* - Mean Mommy

"Hey, let's go to the beach!"

This was H's simple idea about ten days ago when, burnt out from work, he decided the vacation we decided not to take had to be taken. The kids' school does not begin until the 14th, as they are building a massive new science wing on the school (WOOT, New Town!), so we would easily be able to get a half-priced beach rental for the week after Labor Day. Sounds ideal, right?

Cue zany music as you picture me in the last seven days doing everything that I would have done in the week before school started - physicals, dental appointments, haircuts, new shoes, dance shoes, school supplies - and add to that all the packing going to a rental with five people includes - sheets, towels, beach gear, dry goods, sunscreen, beach umbrellas, toys to occupy this children when in the rental so they don't wreck the place - and you have one fried Mean Mommy.

Oh, and then once everything is done, the van is all packed, and all five of us are in the driveway ready to begin our trip, H turns the key in the van's ignition and...nothing. the fucking thing is dead. Three hours later, we have rented a Ford Explorer, repacked the cars and are finally off.

So the moral of the story, dear readers, is that while I packed this laptop excited over the fact that the rental had wifi, thinking I'd be writing away, I think I'm just going to work my way through the six bottles of wine we brought and read Us Weekly.

I will be back next week, hopefully, refreshed and ready to go. Or very hungover. Could go either way.

*For those of us not in the office work force, this means "Out of Office", although "Oooohhh, Mean Mommy" would have been a good title too.