Dear Weeknight Dinner,

I hate you.

At the end of a day that begins with shuttling children to school after preparing and packing various other (less annoying) meals, and continues with manically running errands, that includes agitatedly tapping my foot behind the woman using a check to pay at Target (why didn't you just bring a bag of pennies for Christ's sake?), then drags on as I gather children from school, and chauffeur them to various after school activities, I finally, FINALLY, end up back in the kitchen exhausted. All I want to do is sit down, for what is probably the first time of the day, and have a glass of wine. Instead, I have the pleasure of supervising two children doing homework, while trying to corral, in a separate room, my third child, who, not having seen his sisters for six hours, is desperate to share the details of his day. While doing this, and sifting through the piles of forms the girls have thrown at me from their backpacks, trying in vain, to prevent their being misplaced, I have to put together a nutritious, balanced meal. That's you.

Nothing really puts the shit icing on my cake of a day than getting to overcook the broccoli while cuing up another episode of Octonauts (some free babysitting, why thank you, Nick Jr!), or scorch the chicken while ejudicating possession of the shamrock eraser at the homework table. And let's not forget, like some bizarre fine dining restaurant, where the decor is dominated by abstract crayon drawings, and your server is a cranky thirty-something wearing yoga pants, I have not one, but two dinner seatings. One for the kids, and one when H gets home. This requires the meals I prepare have a moderately kid-friendly element, while, at the same time pleasing the palette of my food snob of a husband, and be microwaveable for reheating. Simple!

What I really want to do is scramble a dozen eggs, throw the pan on the table with three forks and collapse on the floor. Then I want to call H and tell him to eat a hot dog on the train while he watches whatever show he's downloaded onto his ipad, all the while, trying not to think of the radical difference between what he's doing at 5:30 and what I'm doing. Instead, I cook the damn lean protein, whole grain and vegetables, and for my efforts, spend the meal watching my oldest drown everything in ketchup, and #2 eat three bites and say she's full, and Little Man refusing to eat whatever form of healthy flesh I've given him because it isn't batter-coated and deep fried. At this point they know better than to complain. Recently, LM made the mistake of calling whatever I was trying to cram into his craw "yucky". The girls began silently gesturing with desperate eyes, furtively shaking their heads at him, as if to say, "Are you nuts???? She's crazy, man. Just shut your trap and eat!"

Save me the defensive yammering, Dinner. I have tried all of the time and work-saving tricks in the book to no avail. I have tried prepping for the weekday meals on Sunday. That was short-lived, since a mild Sunday morning hangover is a deterrent from spending hours chopping vegetables, and I don't want to spend two of the forty-eight hours H is actually around each week in the kitchen. Another idea, cooking one component of the meal that can be served many different ways, such as roast chicken, to be used in soups, sandwiches and salads, resulted in complaints from H along the lines of eating prison food. And the crock pot. Oh, the crock pot. There are two issues with this kitchen gadget. One, you have to actually remember you are planning to use it and start dinner eight hours ahead. I usually remember around noon and I wind up dumping the contents of the crock pot into a regular pot and boiling it, trying to get the chicken thighs to cook. Delicious! And two, my beloved complains bitterly when he sees this device darkening the kitchen counter since he will be served some sort of ethnic stew. Or as he calls them, "chick peas, vegetables, weird spices, and no meat". Did I mention he's a food snob?

My life is like an never-ending season of Top Chef, with very specific parameters, limited time and picky judges - except I don't get to drink in the stew room or win a Prius. I'd like to see Marcel survive in my kitchen, topping the food with various secretions and ejaculates. I wish Tom Colicchio would send me home.

But instead, Dinner, you and I will continue to wrassle every night, with my victory over you being lauded by my family with a resounding, "What is this?"

Screw you,
MM

Where are you, Fabio?

Mom friend: "Have you read it?"

Me: "No."

MF: "Are you going to?"

Me: "No."

MF: "Really? Dont you wan to see what all the hype's about?"

Me: "Nope."

This is the transcript of several similar conversations I have had about the book Fifty Shades of Grey. If you haven't heard of it, then you probably aren't a woman in her late thirties/early forties who drives a minvan. Or, at least, this is what the media would have you think, considering almost every bit of coverage shows women of just this demographic salivating over this tome. But in summary, the book "centers on the lives (and affection for whips, chains and handcuffs) of Christian Grey, a rich, handsome tycoon, and Anastasia Steele, an innocent college student, who enter into a dominant-submissive relationship." And this is where I cover my eyes and ears and start saying, "La, la, la, I can't hear you!".

Yes, yes, yes, I am probably, after Mother Theresa, the World's Biggest Prude. Movies with boobs make me uncomfortable, and I find 99% of sex in media to be gratuitous and pandering to fourteen year-old boys, but don't get me wrong. I am not anti-porn (this is the point where I beg my father and father in-law to stop reading and go click on some investment site). I think erotica, a term that makes me vaguely nauseous, and pornography, its more mature sister, both have their place in society and normal sexual development. Broadening one's sexual horizons is a good thing, and if watching or reading something helps you out, then Godspeed to the nearest Romantic Dept, my friend. My problem is the subtext of detachment that is seemingly almost always there in porn (never mind the violence and anger that usually accompanies it). Why is no one ever happily married or in love and going at it like rabbits? I'm sure it's out there. I'm sure someone is making a mint off of married people porn, but you have to admit the majority of the stuff we see is single people or strangers, or people cheating. We all make fun of Fabio, but I think that's why romance novels do so well. Women want to read this kind of stuff, but within the safe confines of a caring relationship.*


I also can't stand that this book has made a mockery of older women and their sexuality. Kathy Lee and Hoda (which is more shameful to admit watching than porn) did a while segment where they featured ad group of middle-aged suburban woman drinking wine and tittering over Fifty Shades of Grey. Would they ever feature a group of guys who regularly go to strip clubs together? The point was to highlight how empowering this book is and how it's changing the sexual landscape of some marriages, but it felt disingenuous and cliched. Or maybe I'm wrong and millions of people are only doing it in the missionary position, under the covers with the lights out. And this book was written by a woman, so at least it has as hot at being somewhat realistic. I'm sure Anastasia isn't ready to go after three seconds. Who believes that, by the way? Thanks porn industry, for creating unrealistic expectations for everyone.

So for those of you enjoying Fifty Shades of Grey - you go, girl. I, myself, won't be picking upa copy. Which, I'm guessing will be fine with H. With three kids in the house finding time to do it, never mind read about it, is a challenge itself.


*Me, make broad generalizations about the preferences of an entire gender? Never! Seriously, I know it takes all kinds, so save me the hate mail. And, PLEASE no suggestions. I can already imagine the ads Google is going to put on this post.

Ode to our 1999 Jetta,

We knew this day was coming, old friend, but I didn't think it would be so soon. It's time for us to say goodbye. We have all been ignoring the signs of your demise for a while. First, the radio start turning stations whenever we hit a bump in the road, then your locks started locking and unlocking spontaneously, ala Christine. Then your heating system began to smell oddly of maple syrup. This last year the real decline began, when you became incontinent, leaking oil at an alarming rate and your engine began to rattle, making it sound as if we were driving a tin can full of marbles. But we held on Jetta, not ashamed to drive you around. OK, maybe that one time at dinner with H's boss when the valet pulled up his yellow Ferrari and you at the same time, his car silently purring and you shaking your death rattle. Not able to ignore what everyone was already thinking, I came to your defense with a joke, "Who wants to drag race?!"

For years, H and I have put off buying a new car. First, financially, but second, because we don't know life without you. I still remember the first day, when I picked you up, reveling in your newness and the fiery red a newlywed H gave in and let me pick, blasting TLC's Fanmail album on the drive home (RIP Left Eye). Bought in our first year of marriage, you have been there for every kid-free adventure H and I have taken. Long weekends away with our equally childless friends, trips to the shore, jaunts into the city, were all taken in you. H and I would open the windows and blast "good time" music, preferably Journey's "Anyway You Want It".

Time marches on, and you rolled along with us into parenthood. We all got our feet wet (and interiors soiled) first with Reilly. You made the six hour round trip drive upstate with us, the latter half with H and I taking turns in the passenger seat with an eight pund puppy curled around our necks. Then came the kids and your diminutive size became an issue. Heavily pregnant with #1, I decided it was a great idea to pack my huge-ass self, KK, H and Reilly into the car for a six hour drive to New Hampshire, like a yuppie clown car. I apologize to you and everyone at that rest stop for leaping out of the car, like my ill-fitting maternity pants were on fire, the moment H screeched to a halt, screaming, "I CAN'T GET COMFORTABLE!!!" Six weeks later, you were there when we tentatively started our journey as parents. As I staggered from the wheelchair, and H snapped in the car seat, I took refuge in your familiarity. My world had turned upside down with a heartbeat and a push, and after two days in a strange new world, you were my first taste of home and my old self.

You brought, yet another, child home from the hospital, and containing our progeny in your cabin became an impossibility. Passenger seat cranked forward to accommodate a rear-facing car seat, an adult passenger would have to ride, literally hugging the dashboard. So then came your chubby younger sister, the minivan. Perhaps you felt displaced, now that I was driving her everyday, but you know that was out of sheer necessity. H let me pick the color of the van, thinking this would be exciting - like letting a kid pick out the color of the rubber bands on his braces. I now piloted a loser cruiser*, and had become a typical suburban mother, but I still had you. Physically not being able to cram all the kids into you, I was child-free whenever IW as behind your wheel and driving you became instantly related to freedom.

Dear Jetta, freedom is why H and I love you so much. Driving you alone on date nights, we are still "the kids", the nickname given to us by his younger brother when the only kids around were all of us in our twenties. H prying open your creaky passenger side door for me, my hair freshly blown out, smelling of perfume and lipstick in stead of spit up and apple juice, has been my favorite moment of the week for the last few years. Trying desperately to bring you into the 21st century, we used the casette deck iPod input to play our music, no Miley Cyrus here, speeding off, away from our responsibilities for a few precious hours. And I am never more in love with you than when I peel out of the driveway for my annual weekend with B, coffee in your broken cup holder teetering precariously, Beyonce blasting from your one working speaker and your engine rattling away. Let's not mention I had to leave you at home this year and take the van. It still makes me sad. And all of our solo vacations - did you mind all those hours spent in the long term parking at Newark Airport? Or was it fun hanging out with all the other cars?

I had H take a picture of you and me, just like the one he took thirteen years ago. We both look a little worse for wear - a few more dents and cracks on both of us, but we both have a few more good miles left in the tank. I'd like to say that it's time we both move on, that it's fitting that at this point in my life, we buy a bigger, snazzier car, but I can't. I don't want to say goodbye to that part of my life. When I drive you I am twenty-four without a care in the world, instead of fast approaching forty with the tragedies and triumphs of three little people on my mind. I had a good little cry as H and I sat in the dealer parking lot, ready to trade you in ($500 was an insult, AN INSULT, I tell you!). Leaving you there was like leaving part of us behind.

I wish you well, good little Jetta. I hope they tune you up, and some teenage girl convinces her dad that she is responsible enough to handle you and she gets a job at a mall kiosk selling cell phone covers to pay for your insurance. I hope she hangs her graduation tassel from your rear view mirror and adds a college sticker to your back window. I hope your ashtray is full of ponytail elastics and tubes of lip gloss. I hope one day this summer, you are cruising down the Garden State Parkway, maybe going a little too fast, with her and her friends blasting Rihanna. I hope, after us, you go on and have a whole nother life.

I will miss you.

Love,
MM


*Love that term Linds.

I Love Rock 'n Roll

IT'S OVER! The bathrooms are done, the cleaning lady has come and dealt with all the dust and now I can finally get back to real life - when I'm not screaming at the kids for getting the grout dirty, or H for leaving water pooled on the marble counter top. I did manage to escape last weekend, however, and squeeze in a quick trip to Houston to see my sister. Of course, there was plenty of barbecue, although not enough to horrify a small, Mexican waitress. We also stuffed ourselves with Indian food, which I tried reluctantly, at my sister's urging, since the restaurant smelled like a spicy armpit.

To and from said restaurants, we listened to The World's Most Eclectic Mix, on Pandora. Is Pandora not the best invention ever? It's like your own personal DJ! I was all set to listen to some C+C Music Factory, but, yes, I would also enjoy some Technotronic! Thank you, Pandora! My sister, musical genius that she is, has figured out a way to merge stations, which still eludes me (which is not surprising since I still find touch screen technology intimidating. Seriously, Apple, whose fingers are that tiny?), so we listened to Dolly Parton, Daft Punk, The Spice Grils and The Bangles. While rocking out to "I Hate Myself for Loving You", I got to thinking, where did all the girl rockers go?

You remember them, or maybe you were too young (I'm looking at you, V). These gals were the badass older sisters we all wanted to be like. Performers like Joan Jett, The Go-Gos, and the previously mentioned Bangles*, they were tough, and strong and sassy and, awesomely, played their own instruments. They made little girls on play dates everywhere argue over who got to play bass and who got to play drums (and back then it was just called "having a friend over"). I myself had quite the kerfluffle over who got to be Belinda at my friend Danielle's house. She won, stupid bitch. These women had balls. The jumped in fountains in their videos (The Go-Gos in "Vacation"), they were the stars, not the background eye candy.

So how come my girls now get to choose between Rihanna and Ke$ha?

One could argue these are both strong women as well. Ke$ha, when not singing about glitter (seriously, it's in, like, four of her songs), wants guys to just shut up if they want to have sex with her, and Rihanna clams she perfectly good at being bad. Although someone needs to talk about that nauseating lyric about loving the smell of sex. I threw up in my mouth when I heard that. Go take a shower. The problem is these gals are SO sexual. I can't even let my girls listen to half the music on the radio. Thank God for the annoyingly misspelled Kidz-Bop, that changes lyrics even as innocuous as "I think you're sexy" to I think you're funny" in Top 40 songs. Of course, Joan Jett sang about taking guys home, and The Bangles were begging to be taken to their bedroom in one of their most popular songs, but that wasn't their one trick. They had love songs, and get-the-hell-away-from-me songs, and fun, hanging out with my friends songs (I dare you NOT to dance to either "Our Lips Are Sealed" or "Walk Like an Egyptian"). You kind of get the feeling, without all the audio tricks and back up dancers, the likes of Ke$ha and Rihanna wouldn't know what to do with themselves, but have you seen footage of any of these 80's gals playing live? Intense and sweaty (OK, maybe that's from the coke, Belinda Carlisle), and really, you know, performing. And the fact that the groups were formed by friends with a common love of music, rather than by the puppeteering of a producer, makes you love them even more.

A lot of things were cringe-inducingly dorky in the 80's, including my hair and the clothes, but some of the music still really rocks. In the middle of all the Taylor Swift, who, again, is a mystery to me, so awful is her live singing, and the Selena Gomez, I try to throw in some of these gals to round out my daughters' musical education. They need to know women can be more than pretty solo acts, backed by no-named musicians. They can wear crazy-ass outfits and play instruments.

And for God's sake, you don't need a friggin' dollar sign in your name.

*Yes, there was also Chrissie Hynde and Patty Smyth, but did I mention I was dork?