"Wait 'til Otis sees us!"

The other day, I ran across a rerun of the MTV show Sorority Life. I watched for a few minutes, and in that short period of time was privy to backstabbing, in-fighting and general bitchiness. But, then again, it was about a sorority, so I turned the channel before they could show the girls having a pillow fight in their underwear. Because that's what it's like being in a sorority, right? Right? Sure, if Friends was an accurate depiction of how poor, twenty-somethings live in New York City. In other words...not at all.

I have mentioned obliquely, that both H and I were part of the Greek community at Colgate, or to use the vernacular, we were "Greek". H, for a much shorter period, living in his disgusting, beer-soaked, frat house sophomore year, before transferring to Georgetown our junior year, but for me, my college experience pretty much revolved around my sorority.

I knew I wanted to be Greek basically since driving down Fraternity Row right off campus and seeing the majestic homes that housed these exclusive social groups. Seeing the upper classmen walking around in their Champion letter sweatshirts, I couldn't wait for rush in the spring. And while that experience was mildly tortuous, enduring a series of thirty minute "parties" (if you can call various timed stops to drink punch at every sorority, trying to get to know a hundred girls, under the supervision of a senior chaperone to make sure no one was drinking, a "party") I did wind up joining a house that fit me like a glove.

So here's where you start getting an image of me in college with my blonde sorority sisters, where we'll all peppy, and perfect, and do nothing but party and gossip about boys and fight with each other. Well, we did talk an awful lot about guys, but rather than the Gamma Iota sisters, my friends and I were more the Deltas of Animal House.

That's right. If I had to describe my sorority, it would be the female equivalent of that fraternity full of misfits, that none but a few brave souls wanted to join, in that famous movie. When I first joined my house, we were not the low man on the Greek totem pole. A much smaller sorority, full of ver sweet girls, was given that distinction, and as is the case in social Darwinism, they went under a few years later due to lack of membership. That left us. Our campus already had other sororities full of blondes, who all seemed to come from Connecticut and were immune to the freshman fifteen. Or rather, there were two of those houses, one whose members were all sociology majors who would all eventually wind up working in fashion, and the other, full of athletes who would wind up working in PR. The third was full of girls who were, unfortunately, short brunettes (seriously, it was like I walked into Lilliput that first day of rush, needless to say I did not get invited back), and desperately wanted to be in the first two houses.

And then there was us - the Alpha Chis.

We were quite the mixed bag. My comparison to Animal House is apt, not just because we were the underdog in the Greek world, but because, in many ways we acted like guys. First of all, our sorority house had originally been a fraternity house, complete with a barroom in the basement and creepy mural of guys drinking beer in their underwear, left by the fraternity who had inhabited the house before us. Rather than paint over it, I think we were kind of inspired by it, hosting keg parties, which were verboten for sororities, in our basement. I'll never forget the panic-induced heart attack I nearly had as president, when the fire department showed up unexpectedly one day to check out an alarm that kept going off, and we had to stall them in the foyer in order to buy time to roll the keg out the back door.

Yes, you read that correctly I was president. While I see myself more as Boon in the AH scenario, trying to balance time between my boyfriend and my house, in truth, I was probably more Hoover - the poor president who is always trying to get his buddies out of trouble with the campus administration and represent his bag of nut jobs as a real fraternity. It was a great experience having to go to our sorority's national convention in Dallas, the heart of Serious Sorority Country, to represent our chapter. As the other presidents seated at tables around me got up to receive their chapter's philanthropic awards, I slunk low in my seat wondering if any of these girls had ever done a keg stand or jumped in Taylor Lake, fully-clothed, on a dare at two in the morning. Looking at their pastel twin sets, I seriously doubted it.

As you recall, I was also Pledge Master, and here too, we were more male than female. Yeah, yeah, we've all heard horror stories of female pledges forced to stand in their underwear while older sisters circled their fat with permanent marker, but we just wanted make our pledges bond over shared drunken foolery and mild hatred of us. While trying to operate under the administration's no-hazing radar, we made our pledges find a penny tossed on the gravel of the college president's house in the middle of the night after a round of shots. Or choreograph a dance to Right Said Fred's "I'm too Sexy" to be performed in front of the entire drunken sisterhood - well, OK, that was what my pledge class was made to do and I have to take credit for many of the moves. In fact, this is when B, decided we would be friends, so cool was my fake-driving-of-car move during that particular lyric.

We had our Otter, whose peach-colored, and smelling room, was like stepping into a Crabtree and Evelyn. We had our Flounder, who we had to let in, annoyed the shit out of us, and we eventually grew to love. We had our crazy D-Day and, yes, even a Bluto, and I dare any of my AXO readers to publicly identify yourselves as such. You know who you are, but you have husbands and children now so I will not publicly out you.

There are days I really miss living in that house. Sure, it was cramped and it sucked having to clean a community bathroom, but we had great times. I learned you can love a friend, but not always like her when she forgets it's her turn to stock the toilet paper. I learned how women can come together in a crisis, surrounded by girls I had chosen to be my sisters at the luncheon after my mother's funeral, not speaking, but comfortable in our silence. Watching Melrose Place in the TV room, or studying in the common room for my organic chemistry final with a fellow science nerd, or carrying our tiniest member across a field atop a mattress to win the Derby Day race, I learned how women can make a family no matter where we are, just because we're women.

So to all my sisters out there, those who I am in touch with and those I am not, to all of you Greeks out there who throw up a little in your mouths when you see the media's portrayal of female greek life, I raise a lukewarm Milwaukee's Best, in a red plastic cup to you. We all know sororities can be about more than clothes and boys and bitchy nonsense. They can teach you to be a better woman.

That and how to tap a keg.

An ode to Jack

Sorry for the long absence, dear, readers, but it seems my "please don't let anyone get sick before Disney" prayers were answered...and everyone got colds after we got back, including myself. So I've been using every spare moment this week to lie on the couch and fall asleep in front of the same DVR'd Bachelor episode.

So I'm sure many of you heard, fitness legend, Jack LaLanne died this past Sunday at the age of 96. I never wrote about it before, but this guy was sort of one of my role models. Most of my generation only knows LaLanne as the freakishly strong old guy we'd see on TV once in a while, but he was a pioneer in the health and fitness industry and his goal in life was "to help people feel better, look better, and live longer."

As I have written before, I endure exercising, not only to work off all the peanut butter I eat, but also so I can live longer and have a better quality of life as I age, for myself and for my children - and LaLanne personified this belief. He was also a trail blazer for women. His first fitness show aired in 1951 and his approach was directed at his female, homemaker audience. Back then, it was absolutely unheard of for women, not in organized sports, where they still wore skirts anyway, to exercise. He even acknowledged the children plopped in front of the screen, back in those two-channels-but-stick-the-kid-in-front-of-it-all-day-regardless-of-the-programming days, encouraging them to go grab their moms for a workout. Sure, his collared unitard was a little creepy, but his dedication to at-home fitness is the reason we have all the workout DVD's and the Fitness Channel, all of us trapped at home with children who refuse to be n the care of the teenager tapping away on her phone at the day care of the local gym, benefit from.

Speaking of working out at home, I had my first workout in public in about a year when we were Disney. Knowing I could potentially turn into Clark W. Griswold every day, dragging my family manically from attraction to attraction, a morning jog was just what the doctor ordered to calm me down and work off some of those funnel cakes*. I packed my public-appropriate workout gear, (which you will be happy to find out has actually become my regular work out gear, although I still rock the schemata at home), my Yankee hat, and headed to the gym. And I discovered I can never workout in a gym regularly again.

First of all, on the second morning, I had to wait for a treadmill. It took all my effort to drag myself out of bed after wine and room service with H the night before, now I needed to wait for the privilege of torturing myself on one of these things? Luckily, the Lance Armstrong wanna-be (you can NOT be serious with that yellow, spandex top) finished a few minutes after my arrival, preventing me from monitoring who was breaking the 30 minute limit, and standing in front of them tapping my foot in an agitated manner. And the freeweights. Do you really need the twelves, the fifteeens and the twenties** there, Grandpa? Let me inform you, you only have temporary ownership of the pair you are using, put the others back on the rack to prevent my giving judg-y looks while I sweetly ask my rhetorical question, "Mind if I grab this pair since you're not using them?"

Working out with the elderly is a benefit of exercising at six in the morning at a vacation resort. You get to really enjoy CNBC the other old guy put on all three televisions at ear-splitting volume so he could watch his retirement portfolio in surround sound. I have never seen so many Cialis ads in my life. Other equipment fouls abounded. You know that dispenser with the sanitary wipes? Feel free to use one after you're done Snorty McHock-A-Loogey, since I don't feel like catching the plague you are sure to have. And I can sweat with the best of them, so let me justifiably judge you Back Sweat guy for not either putting a towel down on the recline weight bench or wiping it off when you are finished.

Some of the issues I have with working out in public are my own. Let me just put it out there - am I the only one who farts every time they exercise? It can't just be me letting them fly when I run. So what does one do? Yes, I have been the victim of a few gym gassings in my life, but not every single time. Are you all just holding it in? That's just not healthy. I also don't want to be looked at like a weirdo when I try the strange sit-up thing I saw in Shape, n or do I want to be judge when I am having a bad Monday morning workout due to too much wine over the weekend and need to hop on the side rails every three minutes during my run. Or, conversely, if I am really kicking it up having a great workout, and sprinting, I don't want anyone witnessing my labored huffing and ugly "run face", including myself. Working out plus mirrors equals bad! I don't want to see the bat wings I'm trying to get rid of, thanks. I've really enjoyed the last eight years of pretending I already look like Jillian Michaels during my weight routine.

So it was with great joy that I returned to my basement routine. Schemata firmly tied, beginning my workout when I want to, all the weights at my disposal, farting and sweating away. And thank you, Jack LaLanne for making this all seem normal.

* Seriously, those damn things were everywhere and they fit them into whatever theme the park had. In Animal Kingdom, they were served out of an African hut, at the Magic Kingdom, they were Colonial America specialties served at The Sleepy Hollow Pub. They also did this for smoked turkey legs, which I think is odd for a theme park with a usually hot climate. Ice cream everywhere I can understand. Fried dough and smoked poultry? Weird. I still ate though.

** No pinks and purples for me! I swear, half the motivation I had to lift heavier weights was to escape H's derision at the girly colors the five to eight pound weights usually come in, and graduate to a heavier set that only came in black. Why do they do that? I'm sure there are poor, skinny men at somewhere, trying to get stronger, who have to hide their lavender, five pound dumbells when their buddies come over.

When You Wish Upon a Star...

I have been to Disney, dear readers, and lived to tell the tale. Prepare yourselves, as this post is going to be epic, The Odyssey of my blog, if you will.

I already detailed the craziness involved in getting our flights changed Monday to escape before last week's snow hit the Northeast Tuesday night, with H away for work and not able to leave until Tuesday evening, so let's begin on Tuesday morning....

Part One: That Which Sucked

I was up at the crack of dawn, not to run, but to start manically throwing last minute things into the suitcases and various distractions for the kids into the carry on bags, and getting my mental wheels spinning to ensure I'd be as keyed up as possible for the flight. I got the kids off to school for a few hours, not only so I could finish packing, but so they would not have to witness all the crazy in the house as their mother ran from room to room scattering to-do and packing lists in her wake. It was an attempt to spare their poor, innocent psyches. Later in the trip, I would see how useless this effort would be. Oh, and I started drinking a lot of coffee. A lot. I think we can all see where this is going.

At ten-thirty, Little Man and I roll up to the school, car packed to the gills with suitcases, carry-ons, and a Kmart umbrella stroller, as well as the dog, his twenty pound bag of food, and his bed, creating a tornado of dog hair inside the van. I quickly grab the girls and head to my in-law's to drop the canine and pick up my father in-law, Big T, who graciously volunteered to drive us to the airport and help me with the luggage, since with all the kids, moving four large suitcases through the airport was not an option. Big T helps me unload the dog and all his crap and then walks toward the driver side door, at which point I say, "Pfft. Have we met? Control freak on the way to the airport? I'll drive." He pretends not to notice as I drive like Mario Andretti to Newark airport.

After assisting me with luggage check-in, Big T escorts me to security, at which point I get a phone call from H. "I have good news and bad news." Oh Jesus. His flight is scheduled to leave Newark at 8:51pm, right as the snow is about to hit, and I have been praying he will make it out. "My flight's been canceled, but I got on a flight to Chicago with a connection to Orlando. I get in around one in the morning." OK, not ideal to be dragging an exhausted husband through The Most Magical Place on Earth, but it's better than having to do it alone and wind up in the psych ward. I tell him, "You'd better get on that last chopper out of Saigon, my friend, or we are screwed."*

Just a blip on the radar I think, until H tells me, after his safe arrival, what actually happened. Apparently, that morning, JetBlue told him his flight was canceled, but they could get him to Orlando on Thursday, to which he responded, "I have a wife and three small kids on their first trip to Disney waiting for me. Get me there tonight or the Mrs. will lose her mind." Then he proceeded to do his own research and find that crazy Chicago connection on his own. He kept me totally in the dark until it was all resolved. This is why I love this man. H knew that if he clued me into the problem before he could solve it, I would dissolve into a state of panicked hysteria fueled by no sleep, too much caffeine and the pressure of a trip we have been waiting to take for three years. Good man.

Big T departs, I get all three kids through security with minimal crying. Which is no mean feat. How is a lone parent supposed to do this? Go through myself first and have Little man, thinking I'm leaving him? Send the kids through first which will require essentially shoving them through the metal detector yelling at them to "stay on the other side!!"? I sent #1 through first, followed by #2, then had them entice LM over as I followed quickly behind. Shoes back on (those pesky child shoe bombers!), I feed them at the gate the peanut butter sandwiches I brought from home, since traipsing around the airport looking for kid-friendly food is NOT something I'm going to do, then successfully board the flight. I settle into my seat, stick headphones on LM's head, hand the girls their Nintendo DS's and think, "I made it! I only have to survive the flight, then I'm home free", since part of the package when you stay at a Disney resort, is a shuttle bus that takes you directly to your hotel and picks up your bags for you. LM has Handy Manny on Disney so I'm all set. Then we take off, #2's ears start to hurt despite all the gum I've packed into her mouth, and since she and #1 are sitting in front of me, she spends fifteen minutes shouting, "MY EARS HURT MOOOOMMY!!!" through the gap between the seats since she can't hear properly. Then LM discovers the joy of kicking the tray table his sippy cup and Play-Doh are sitting on, sending everything flying. He is also fascinated with the tiny bathroom, and tells me he has to pee every ten seconds, requiring me to wake the poor twenty-something sitting in the aisle seat, who obviously had a very rough night the evening before, as she is essentially wearing pajamas and Uggs, which, make every outfit you wear with them look like pajamas so maybe they were clothes. Did you really think I'd get lucky enough to get aisle seats? Apparently, God needs to laugh once in a while. Upon our return from Bathroom Trip Number Infinity, Disney has moved onto the older kid programming for the day and now LM's only viewing choice is iCarly which has about as much to interest him as Oprah. Cue more kicking and bathroom trips.

After a long three hours, we land, and I can see the light at the end on the shuttle bus. We deplane and begin our walk to the shuttle - except there are no signs. Not one. I head to ground transportation, two floors down and am told I am on the wrong side of ground transport and have to head back up two floors, across the airport and back down two floors. I am now exhausted, the kids are crabby and the wheels on the cheap-ass stroller I brought keep turning sideways and sticking, causing LM to be almost catapulted out of it every time I stop and start. I make it to the shuttle counter nearly weeping with relief, hand my tickets to the attendant who asks, "Do you have your luggage?" I reply, "Um, no. was told it would be delivered to the resort." She smiles pityingly at me and says, "Yes, in four hours. I'm sure they didn't tell you that. So you can go back and get them yourself and bring them to the bus, or you can wait for them."

This, my friends, was my darkest hour. Contemplating heading back up the two flights to gather our four enormous bags and them find a Skycap to help me with them, or waiting until approximately ten o'clock for our bags, not having a single diaper on me for LM to go to sleep in, or pajamas for the girls, my eyes fill with tears. Turning to wave at my eyes with my hands, the female attendant turns to her male cohort and mutters,"Now she's getting upset." if I hadn't felt I'd already scarred my kids enough with this display of emotion, I would have jumped across that desk and punched this woman in the face. I pulled myself together, and was about to begin my trek upstairs, when an angel stepped in. Ed, the other attendant, who was seventy if he was a day, and looked exactly like Bob Barker, silver bouffant, dark tan, and all, gently pats my arm and tells me, "You sit over there, honey. I'll go get your bags." And I start to cry again! To answer you question, yes, I have started saving for my children's psychotherapy already. I drag the kids to some benches and wait, with #1 looking at me with wary eyes. Ed returns twenty minutes later, with all of our bags and resist my attempts to give him a twenty telling me to "buy the kids something nice at Disney World." And more tears..

We make our way to the bus, each child devouring a family size bag of animal crackers I bought at the newsstand, since dinner is a ways off, and I lapse into a catatonic state. Since it is only my family and one other, whose child is terribly behaved, on the bus, I decide to let Little Man jump on the seats all he wants and allow the girls to talk way too loudly. I just don't care anymore. I just have to get to the hotel room and this terrible day can end.

Arriving at The Contemporary, I am given keys and directions to our room. This hotel was part of the emergency plan, and we will be moving to another one tomorrow, where we will have two adjoining rooms, but for tonight, we will all be packed in together like passengers on a Japanese subway. The Contemporary is a ranch-style hotel, with many one-floored, interminably long wings (apparently, modern means "averse to elevators or stairs"), so this was the Baatan Death March of hospitality. With each room number we passed I became more hopeful my journey would finally be at its end. We reach our room, I triumphantly throw open the door...and the room has one bed. ONE FUCKING BED. The bell hop rolls up right behind me, providing what will be the only example of fast customer service at this hotel, dumps my bags and takes off, telling me to call the front desk. Not having the strength to chase him down and beat him to death for leaving me stranded with three kids and all our luggage, I call down to be told new keys and a bellman will be up in fifteen minutes. Twenty-I'm-hungry-whine-filled minutes later I call down to see what the story is. When I am told it will be another twenty minutes by Brad, the very gay-sounding operator, I tell him, "Brad, I have been traveling all day, alone, with three kids. None of them have eaten. They are all tired. I am a woman on the edge, Brad. Get me my keys and some food to my new room in fifteen minutes or there is going to be an incident." Damn, if there wasn't a knock on my door five minutes later.

Finally, in a room with enough sleeping surfaces for five people, with food for the children and wine for me (room service did not have wine by the glass, and I did not think it safe to order an entire bottle, thank God they had a split), we ate, and bathed to wash all the plane stink off our bodies. At ten-thirty, twelve hours after we began our travels, the last of the three kids fell asleep, I turned off the light, and passed out.

I never even felt H get into the bed, but at six o'clock in the morning I am woken by Little Man's train noises and I see my beloved has finally made it to Disney. knowing it could not have been any earlier than two in the morning before he got in, I grab LM, some pants for both of us, and run into the bathroom before he can wake H or the girls with his E.T.-esque repetitious inquiries, "I go to Disney World now?...I go to Disney World now?" We change and head all the way to the lobby in search of milk and a banana. Finding both items, we snack, then spend an hour chasing birds outside, until LM has a pee-pee accident and I need some new undies. Dragging him back to the room, I plan on grabbing the clothes and heading back out to let them sleep. I get to the door and the goddamn key the bellman gave me the night before does not work. At this point I am d-o-n-e with this hotel. So this means walking all the way back to the lobby again. I stomp to the concierge desk, carrying all forty-two pounds of LM whose legs have given out after all the walking to a from the room, and demand I speak to a manager and no, I don't care that it's seven-thirty in the morning and I am a sweaty, red-faced lunatic. I tell Maria, the lovely manager, who ignores my obvious rage-induced facial twitch, of my trials at The Contemporary, which earns our family a free breakfast. Woot! At this point I get a text from H saying everyone is up and it's time for the magic to begin...

Part Two: That Which was Awesome

So far our trip to Disney has been anything but magical, but once we are all dressed and are enjoying the food it took me five trays to carry from the ala carte breakfast place (when you comp my breakfast, we will all eat like lumber jacks on death row- pancakes, eggs, sausage, pastries, fruit cups, yogurts, milks and A LOT of coffee), everything shifted. Plus we were checking out of this damn hotel and into the one I had actually chosen before the Great Escape Plan required me to book an extra night. We hopped on the monorail and were ready to meet The Mouse.

I will not bore you with the details of every single ride and show we experienced, as I have with everything that went wrong getting to The Magic Kingdom, but let me assure you, it was worth everything we went through in the first twelve hours. Before this trip, I used to think the only adults who were into Disney were of the denim-shirt-embroidered-with-characters-wearing variety, the same people who get married at Disney and want to dance with Mickey and Minne at their reception. My eldest was on the brink of becoming one of those women before I set her straight. Checking into The Grand Floridian** and passing a bride, #1 asks, "You can get married at Disney?" To which I reply, "Some people but do, but you won't. Trust me on this." But despite my disdain for people who feel the need to ride in Cinderella's actual carriage on their wedding day, taking the whole "princess for a day"thing to frightening extremes, I became a believer in the magic of The Magic Kingdom.

We screamed with laughter together on rides and ate way too many funnel cakes. I watched as my children grinned ear to ear, meeting characters they had only seen on TV, but believed were their friends. Watching Little Man shake hands with Woody, nearly peeing himself with excitement, and watching #2 get over her Don't-bother-me-I'm-thinking-Ralphie-from-A-Christmas-Story act to hug Rapunzel, was worth almost killing a bell hop. I even sort of enjoyed meeting the characters, especially Cinderella's wicked step-mother, who my daughters were shocked to find I favored. "But she's mean, Mommy!" I prefer to think misunderstood. And, yes, I am surprised too, that I had any patience at all for these kind of interactions. You all know my hatred of these types of situations, and Disney is the Super Bowl of awkward performances for children. I wondered if there was a hierarchy among the performers. Was there stiff competition to play Cinderella? Did the guy who played Pete of Pete's Dragon know not one kid knew or cared who he was in The Electric Light Parade? And the extras - the poor saps who aren't even characters, but wear colorful outfits, and oddly enough for the women, Dorothy Hammill-esque wigs, and dance on the sidelines of parades and shows - there was enough frustrated performance energy in that group to power Space Mountain. Also, if my gay-dar is correct, almost all the men were gay, or at least confused.

This trip was amazing because H and I immersed ourselves fully in our children's world. No Blackberry, no email, we spent every one of their waking moments together. Where else can you find such family togetherness? At the beach I am distracted, at times, wanting to read my book, and H to fish, but at Disney, we all wanted to go on the Dumbo ride and we all wanted, yet another, funnel cake***. Even my dad, who hates crowds, got sucked into staying for both the parade and the fireworks. We were "yes parents", agreeing to any reasonable request. Swimming in the hotel's heated pool, even though it's fifty-five degrees out? Sure! Pizza for both lunch and dinner? Knock yourself out! We didn't even have to argue over bedtimes as we were up until nine each night and the kids barely made it to their beds before collapsing into a deep slumber. H and I would then hang out in our room, drinking wine and eating room service (there are only so many chicken nuggets one can consume in five days before one's bowels seize up) and choosing from the strangely bad television choices. There was a lot of TV evangelism, and one memorable performance by a Gospo-centric singer that was so terrible, we just had to watch, as well as the Miss America pageant where Miss Arkansas did a ventriloquism act, making the dummies sing "My Cowboy Sweetheart", while wearing a red, sequined, strapless jumpsuit. No, really. I'm not kidding.

One of the last nights, we had a prime spot to watch the fireworks, right next to the castle. H ran, fought the crowds, and heroically brought back ice cream for all of us, just in time. We sat there looking like a damn commercial, mouths agape, as a real woman dressed in a light-up Tinkerbell costume, flew out of the castle and across to Main Street to start the show(Back in my day it was a green light. These kids don't know how good they have it!) In the rainbow-colored light, I watched my kids' faces as they listened to Jiminy Cricket speak of believing in your dreams and having courage, and I thought my heart would burst. In the final moments, "When you Wish Upon a Star" played, and Jiminy told everyone to find their deepest wish, and at that point I knew how very, very blessed I am in life. Because I couldn't find a wish. It seems for so many years there were big things to wish for, to get married, to have a baby, then another and another, to finally move out of our tiny house, to be able to get ahead. That moment was my wish. And it came true.

So thank you, Mr. Walt Disney. You gave my family the experience of a lifetime. And while we are all suffering from a little post-Disney depression, and funnel-cake-induced pants-tightness, there is a new kind of closeness among us, having experienced magic like that together. We talk about this trip like cult-members, it's really kind of surprising. We will definitely be back for a dose as my children edge toward their teenage years and we need to circle the wagons against the influences of the outside world. A booster shot, if you will.

Just don't think I'll be buying one of those shirts though.

*To clarify for my readers at H's office, I was the author of that joke, although H shamelessly took credit for it with you all.

**This is why I wear Target sunglasses, V.

***And now I feel every single one I ate, like they're in a bag tied to my waist, as I run each morning.

Guess who...

Guess who lives in an area with heavy snow predicted for Wednesday? Guess who is supposed to leave for Disney Wednesday morning? Guess who decided to call the Disney, add a night to her stay, and leave a day early despite the cost, and the fact that her husband is away on business, requiring her to fly with all three kids by herself, while her husband watches Entourage reruns on his childless Jetblue flight to meet them? Guess who found out an hour after paying for the privilege of wrangling three children under ten solo on an airplane, that the airline was doing it for FREE, but she got charged? Guess who spent an hour on the phone getting her money back? Guess who has been packing for five people all day? Guess who, when the teenage babysitter showed up for her to run to Target to buy socks, sunglasses and sunscreen, discovered the thirty minutes the van door had been left open after school was enoughto kill the battery? Guess who then drove her babysitter's 1985 Toyota Corolla to CVS and discovered they carry all of those things, in the fourty-five minutes ot took Amex roadside sevice to show up? Guess who is on the couch with a glass of wine, wondering how she will possibly finish packing, get her hair done at nine (guess who refuses to have photographic evidence of one of the biggest trips of her children's lives with roots?), get the carpacked up and to her in-laws at eleven to drop off the dog, and make her flight without some sort of divine intervention?

Me.

See you on Sunday when we return. If I live that long. I fear some sort of TSA altercation where my children force an emergency landing. Alice, are those teacups full of wine?

Accepting you have a problem is the first step...

So, how's everybody's first week after New Year's going? Are we all enjoying going to the gym, eating low-fat, high-fiber meals, and abstaining from alcohol (at least until we become so fed up with our new regime, we return to our gluttonous ways, having our brownies a la mode, with a big scoop of guilt)? Thought so.

You all know I set the bar very, very low for New Year's resolutions. Yes, I'm still flossing, but 2009's calcium supplementation plan did not take. So I will make a second attempt and hope the bottle of pills I have stashed in the van will help that (boy that's a phrase, when taken out of context, that can get Child Protective Services sent to my door). My other resolution is actually the opposite of a resolution, it's an anti-resolution. I have resolved to not change a damn thing, accept certain aspects of my life, and let them go. Otherwise known as stop beating the shit out of myself for things that are never going to change. Wanna know what they are? Of course you do!

Dog hair - Nothing sends me into a burning rage more than getting the kids all Eskimo-ed up in their layers of fleece, only to have them start wrestling on the floor and wind up looking like a trio of used Swiffer sweepers when they are finished. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, is there anything dog hair is more magnetically attracted to than fleece? I have started traveling with a roll of painter's tape in the van to quickly de-hair the kids before they go off to school. This behavior will not stop, since I refuse to let them go off looking like their mother hoards dogs, but what I will stop doing is cringing with shame every time someone shows up at my house unannounced, or before I've had a chance to vacuum. We have a dog, he sheds, there fore, there will always be tumbleweeds of dog hair somewhere, unless the cleaning lady has just left, and then they don't become visible until 30 minutes later. I need to accept that. Or invent a dog-sized plastic suit with hole for his snout.

My wardrobe - This year, rather than lamenting the fact that I wear a baseball hat and yoga pants 70% of the workweek - which you can really tell sticks in my craw, since I've only mentioned it 8,000 times - I will accept the fact that I would rather use the 30 minutes it would take to put myself together to write or take a nap. I really just don't care all that much about what anyone thinks I look like except H, and I manage to pull a 1950's housewife make-over a few minutes before he gets home, blowing out the bangs and throwing on some mascara. I figure I really haven't "let myself go if I can still fit into my skinny jeans, I just choose not to wear them to carpool. If the yoga pants show up on Saturday night, then we have a problem.

Napping - Yes, you read that correctly, I nap. Yeah, I said it. I wake up at five-fucking-o-clock in the morning, people. I am also the type of person who, like a six year-old, needs nine hours of sleep to function well. I try my best to go to bed early, but with H getting home after eight most nights, it's more like ten o'clock, since I want to, you know, see my husband. So I can either over-caffeinate, which turns me into a jittery, overeacting lunatic ("You put your dirty socks where????"), or I can lie down on the couch for twenty minutes each afternoon while LM is imprisoned in his room, and not turn into Mommy Dearest. I used to feel guilty about it and tried to do it as little as possible. Now I don't care who knows, since advertising will only decrease the number of nap-interrupting phone calls between twelve-thirty and twelve-fifty.

The van - Yes, that is a picture of the van's front seat. Let's take a tour, shall we? To your right is my purse, which lives in the van and causes me to sprint out of the house to grab my wallet anytime I'm ordering something online or takeout. It also produces melted and/or frozen MAC lipsticks depending on the season. Under that are two library books which were due back in November. The white bag contains my new 2011 calendar and planner, which I have not yet filled out. No wonder I missed a dentist appointment last week. Moving left, we see the ubiquitous empty water bottle. I used to think my slovenly ways saved me some hassle, since whenever the kids were thirsty, I simply unearthed a half-empty Poland Spring that was rolling around dangerously near the accelerator. Now with all this BPA nonsense, I have to worry I've given my kids cancer from all the hot, plastic-y water they've drunk over the years, and I have added, empty, aluminum bottles to the rattling in the back of the van, which remind me of those stupid, blue, metal beer bottles. Further left, you will see my dry cleaning that was pulled out of the dry cleaning bag, in an effort to separate H's shirts before heading to the cheap Korean dry cleaner who ruins all my stuff. Lastly, the beverage holder, with the ever-present DD cup, half-full of cold hazelnut coffee. Next to it? A Greek yogurt container and real spoon from the kitchen, which will at some point, wind up in the back seat and begin clanging against those water bottles.

Getting in the van each morning usually raises my blood pressure ten points, as I envision some of my friends, who have immaculate cars (I'm looking at you, Murphy), but I am done caring. Unless I plan on throwing a cocktail party in the van soon, why the hell do I care? Sure, I'll still clean it out whenever I have to drive someone else's kid home so they don't think we actually live in the van, which we could with all the clothes and edibles, but I'm done beating myself up about it. I leave the van a wreck so I have time to clean up all the dog hair in the house.

So there you have it. I have been trying so hard this week to stick with this new theory of acceptance. My mantra is, "let it go". I have too much real stuff to keep me up at night to worry about all of this bullshit. And besides, if I cleaned out the van, I wouldn't have my calcium supplements to crash into the water bottles, to create a sound as soothing as wind chimes.

Dear Glamour Magazine,

Sorry I haven't returned any of your emails, inquiring as to why I have let my subscription expire, I was really busy getting ready for the holidays with the kids and all. Not that you want anyone with children reading your magazine, maybe someone with their first baby bump, who can buy some adorable, high-end maternity fashions, but certainly not anyone with three children, who considers getting her yoga pants from Express these days instead of Old Navy a step up up in the world. So to that end, Glamour, it's time to end our relationship.

Yes, yes, I get nostalgic too, thinking about our beginnings, but don't let that fool you into thinking this thing will still work. Those days were magical, twenty years ago, lying on my white, canopy bed, with a smuggled copy of you, dreaming of the glamorous life I would lead once I was an actual adult, as your title would have me believe. Your younger and actually age-appropriate, younger sister, Seventeen, lay discarded on the floor, full of Benetton and Cornsilk adds, while I dreamed of a time when I could wear high-heeled pumps everyday, and buy that color of Wet 'n Wild my mother threatened to "break my face" if I dared try to wear it to the homecoming dance. Ignoring the articles about sex, like the prude I was, and focused, instead, on the shoulder-padded twenty-somethings making their way in the big city.

During college, I did start reading those sex articles, and became convinced every guy on my college campus was a date rapist in-the-making. I started taking birth control pills, guided in my choice of brand by the numerous ads in your pages. I was able to give my friends sage advice as they constantly monitored their answering machines (with actual cassette tapes inside!) hoping to hear from a one night stand we both knew was not going to call, no matter how hot she looked in that body suit last night. Still prudish as ever, and already with H, I read those articles from more of an anthropological point of view. And you kept me as au currant as possible, as I rocked my blazer and light wash jeans to class each day.

My early adult life was our hey day, Glamour. I was young, independent, and working in the city. Seriously contemplating marriage, your articles helped me see that H was The One (OK, it was more the fact that he would patiently take your asinine quizzes, that tipped me off). And I knew we would have an egalitarian marriage where we both did half the chores and contributed financially, were still deeply romantic, and would easily conceive two beautiful kids when we felt the time was right. You and I became closer than ever, as I was actually able to wear some of the fashions in your pages without looking like I was playing dress-up. I strode down the street in my pilgrim pumps, black lycra skirt and tights and mock turtle neck from Banana Republic, confident everything was going our way.

And then...children. My days in the city over, your fashion pages became both a taunt and an inspiration to lose the baby weight, only to have no place to wear ridiculously low rise jeans without showing toddlers my ass crack, as I bent to pick up my child. Sure, I still had a couple nights out for which to stock pile a few sleeveless tops, but an entire spread on how to wear a wool pencil skirt was no longer of any use to me, as were features on the new trend of lip glosses (which get immediately rubbed off by grabby, toddler hands or by kissing boo-boos) and self tanners (barely having time to shower, having ten minutes to walk around naked for this product to dry seemed laughable). Aside from the fashion, your articles on love and romance began to be filled with modern complications that sounded like made up words to me - Twitter, Tweeting, Facebook - were these new children's shows? And what is all this "friends with benefits" business? In my day, that made you a whore, and while I'm glad women are confident enough to not care if a guy calls, and not be judged for having no-strings sex, even I know, you are fooling yourself if you think you'll have any interest, or time for Christ's sake, to find your solemate, while you've got a piece on the side. And having been through the wringer with H, raising three kids, you can shove your egalitarian, "never go to bed angry", bullshit, marriage articles up your ass. It doesn't mean he doesn't love me if I do all the laundry (although putting it in the hamper might help), and sometimes the crap you say to each other after only five hours of sleep the night before is worse than saying, "Let's talk about this in the morning before I call you an asshole..again."

Let's not end this on a negative note thought, G. Through the years, you have been a fun, and occasionally, inspirational friend, and you current focus on world topics is educational and commendable (you even got me to send that whole box of the kids' stuffed animals to Africa). My wardrobe would have been a complete disaster this season with my new boots, and while I laughed at you for showing them to me in August, I thank you now. But I have outgrown you and it's time for me to move on.

Instead of replacing you, I think I'll just be down one magazine in the monthly rotation. I'm not ready to move on to the likes of Redbook just yet, since I like my glossies to be an escape and completely devoid of parenting articles, (although they did have a great article on jeans last month). And please, don't take this the wrong way, but things are getting pretty serious with your sister magazine, Self. Yes, it's awkward that you are both published by Conde Nast, but she really meets my needs. Great health and fitness articles, good fashion, and her relationship articles glancingly refer to the stress of having kids.

I hope you can move on an be happy helping the young girls of today navigate the mine-fields of love, work and fashion. And we'll meet again, someday, when #1 is in college. But be warned, if I catch you in her room before then, I'll burn you. I dont' need any of that "friends with benefits" shit in this house.
Love,
MM

PS - I knew it was time to get out when Miley Cyrus, Vanessa Hudgens, Taylor Swift, and Leighton Meester were among this year's cover girls. Especially since I don't even know who the hell the last one is.