I am Woman Hear Me Roar

Hold onto your hats, kiddies. Mean Mommy is pissed.

Last night my husband and I went to the car dealership to finalize the deal on our new van. The van we were turning in was in hubby's name since I had just had #2 and was nursing so often I basically couldn't leave the house. So for the new lease I wanted it to be in mine to add to my credit score. We brokered the deal, filled out the papers and were lead to the managers office to do the final singing. We sat down and I could tell already that, Rich, the manager was not happy. He's all red in the face and nervous looking. Then he started to explain that Tony had to be put down as the primary on the lease because I am not employed. He went on to explain that the bank that finances the lease can't lend money to someone without income, blah, blah, blah. And while he was very nice about it, readers, I have never been so humiliated in all my life. We finished signing, or should I say my husband, finished signing the papers and Rich congratulated us on being the lessees of a new van. To which I quipped, "Well one of us is." Childish, I know, but I was pissed. Poor guy. Now readers, I completely understand why the bank would not want to give a loan to someone with no income. In a vacuum, it makes perfect sense if Joe Schmo walks in and says, "Lend me twenty grand, but I have no job.", but when you put this situation in context of being a stay at home parent it makes me feel, even more than usual, that what I am doing with my life is looked down upon by society at large.

From my understanding, New Jersey in not a communal property state - a term which many of us are familiar with when it comes to divorce, but apparently when applied during a marriage it means one spouse can claim the other's income when applying for loans, etc. This seems a fair solution for a family with one breadwinner and why isn't it the case in all states? This got me thinking about the sharing of assets in general. My husband and I pool everything because, frankly, we didn't have pot to piss in when we got married so what was there to divvy up? And now that I'm not earning any money the money is still "ours" because we are a unit and we work symbiotically to make our family function. Unfortunately, the US government doesn't see it that way. For the past five years I have not been earning anything toward my Social Security benefits. While both of us have been slaving away only my hubby has increased his earnings. This makes me ask, why isn't there an option on a form somewhere that allows my husband to allot half of his earnings to me since we are sharing the work of our family? Am I not doing the same work of a day care staffer caring for my children and therefore shouldn't I receive some benefit?

It is not only fiscally that a stay at home parent - notice the gender neutral term since my brothers-in-arms count too - is devalued. Across the board the working world frowns upon the concept. I spent the better part of twenty years getting my education and working - a Bachelor's in Chemistry, a Master's in Education, years of teaching - and the thing that will jump off the page when some prospective employer reads my resume somewhere down the road is that I spent a significant number of years "not working" to raise my kids. If I went back to teaching tomorrow, I'd be forced to take a lower position because of my absence when, really, did I lose IQ points while I was home or forget how to teach division? No. Parents everywhere are afraid to get off the track at work when they have a child for fear of losing any ground they have gained. But why does that have to be? If you keep up to date with licenses and the latest information, why should a person automatically be penalized for being raising a family?

All of this, I feel, is a symptom of the basic devaluing of parenting. Being a stay at home mother was something I myself, never, ever thought I would do. In fact, the twenty year old Mary would probably be embarrassed by what I am doing with my life since my plan for myself included having a child and returning to work six weeks later. It wasn't until I was actually pregnant that I changed my mind. This whole issue is a question of what we value as a society. We pay great lip service to the American family, but what are we really dong to support it? Does caring for a child count as a valuable commodity in our world? Or is it something we relegate to underpaid young women so we can get on with what's really important, i.e., making money? What is our ideal scenario? In my utopian world, families would be able to make the choice between having both parents work or one stay at home without negative financial or professional repercussions. Because isn't that what the women's movement was all about? Choice? I am so grateful to my sisters out there who go back to work because they keep that a viable option for everyone. Even if it's not the one I chose, perhaps it will be what my daughters need or want to do. I just hope it comes at less of a cost for them.

Unfortunately, the people who are most affected by this problem and would be most positively affected by this change are too busy with the minutiae of raising children to have time to lobby Capitol Hill. You can't worry about what direction you're drifting in when bailing out a sinking boat - you're just trying to stay afloat. But maybe someday, as we come out of the fog of sleep deprivation and the kids get older and are sent off to school and we have more than two minutes to put a cohesive thought together we can remember how pissed we were at the car dealership or bank that day and do something about it - not just go back to work and pity those still fighting in the trenches earning nothing for themselves. They need financial security and respect. If they are raising the future of our world then that is the least they deserve and maybe if you've been there you'll care enough to fight for them.

My Dear Madonna letter

I recently watched the new Madonna/Justin Timberlake video, 4 Minutes, online - I'm too old to watch MTV anymore and I have no interest in sitting through an episode of Real World 27 - Duluth, MN waiting for the ten minutes a day they play actual music videos. While it was visually intense and the CG aspects were amazing, I am ready to announce, Madonna and I are breaking up.

This is not a hasty split, but rather the culmination of years of abuse and neglect. We were once so happy, Madonna and I. Our relationship began more than twenty years ago with a ten year old me standing in front of my bedroom mirror lip-synching into a hairbrush as I listened to Borderline on WPLJ - too young to buy any albums of my own I was at the mercy of the airwaves. This music was fun and great to dance to in my Smurf pajamas. When I finally got a glimpse of the woman responsible for this hit on the (in my house) forbidden MTV I was mildly put off by her disheveled appearance, but I loved her chutzpa as she spray painted that white Porsche. Then came Like a Virgin, which I liked to a degree, but was uncomfortable even at eleven with its sexual undertones. Once Material Girl hit the airwaves though, Madge and I really got serious. I would still, to this day, wear the dress from that video and who doesn't love the idea of being catered to by a bevy of men who adore you? While she did not maintain this level of glamor on a regular basis, I accepted her need to express herself in her ripped-and-torn kind of way and eventually begged my mother for rubber bracelets as the cool girls at school started dressing like Madonna. They went very well with my corduroys and turtlenecks as there was not a shot in hell I'd get any other item of clothing even vaguely resembling Madonna's get-up. Regardless, it was the upbeat music and her attitude of fun rebellion that I adored.

Madonna and I continued our affair, becoming more intense in my middle school years as the True Blue album provided the soundtrack for my one-sided love affair with Brian Cahill which consisted of my strategically placing myself in line so I could wind up his lab partner. I still remember hearing Open Your Heart on the eighth grade ice skating trip and hoping he would notice me. He didn't. It was during this honeymoon phase that Madge and I hit our first disagreement, but I forgave her for Who's That Girl and we moved on. During this period she also became more beautiful to me as she actually started wearing clothes rather than rags, started sporting that adorable platinum bob and had developed some serious guns. She looked fit and healthy and beautiful and I wanted to be her.

Fast forward to 1989. Like a Prayer was released and my world was officially rocked. Madonna was now sporting chocolate brown waves and was wearing the most beautiful wine colored satin cocktail dress as she danced around burning crosses and made out with a black Jesus inciting the rage of the Pope himself! My friend Rebecca and I must have worn out our cassette(!) copies that came out of the package smelling like incense (take that Vatican!!) And who can forget the fun Cherish video with that little mermaid boy and his hot dad? Sigh. The coup de gras, however, was undoubtedly Express Yourself. "Come on girls! Do you believe in love?" Does a sixteen year old girl need any other anthem when given this gem about demanding displays of affection from your boyfriend or kicking his ass to the curb? I think not. This was also the period of the cone bra, but ignoring that, I thought Madonna and I were partners for life.

Then, things got ugly. Madge got bored and started all this crazy kink stuff with Erotica and Bedtime Stories. Frankly, I was a little uncomfortable. I felt cheated and betrayed. Where was my good time music and liberating lyrics? I could take some subtle sexuality hidden in the lyrics, but now I was embarrassed if my dad walked into the room when I was listening to some of her songs since they sounded like soft core porn. And the videos, please. My parents would as soon let me watch that as they would Deep Throat. Madonna forgot about me in her efforts to shock the world and gay men and people who had leather bodysuits in their closets became her demographic of choice. We had now reached our first break up and I rebounded with Erasure and Yaz.

Over the next ten years or so I'd take a listen to what latest Madonna tune was out. Kind of like Googling an old boyfriend. We got back together briefly when I loved Ray of Light. By now Madge had moved out of her sex-shop phase, but unfortunately, Kabbalah, macrobiotic food and anglophilia took over and now I can say with certainty we are done for good. She has become too serious and self-conscious for me, and the music is no fun. While her recent stuff does have a good beat, there's no personality in it, no "let's have fun together" vibe. She has become a sanctimonious, over-produced, underfed, overly Botoxed, too British version of herself (sorry Adam, but I only like my Brits genuine).

So, goodbye Madonna. Thank you for all the wonderful times we had together. I will never forget them - like dancing to Like a Prayer at my wedding - but I have to move on. I wish you luck. Now that you're fifty maybe you're ready to make some life changes. I doubt it though. My advice to you? Move back to the States, eat a damn cupcake and write me a third wave feminist anthem. If not, at least we'll always have Vogue.

Forever in blue jeans*

Again, while reading one of my women's mags I came across an article that gave me pause. It was entitled "The jeans of my dreams" and was written by a woman who, after shedding thirty pounds, was finally able to buy a pair of upscale jeans - 7 for All Mankind, specifically. While I applauded this woman's conversion to a healthy lifestyle, I began to wonder what the hell is the big deal about these pants? They are everywhere in the tabloids and the women's publications and it seems I am the only one on on the planet still shopping at the Gap. After thinking about it for while I have come up with two theories as to the popularity of these pants, or dungarees, as my father would call them.

First, we have run out of things to fancify - a verb I have created myself to describe the tricking out of everyday things by the rich and famous, the retail establishments and society at large to publicly display wealth. The obvious things were fancified first. Houses became larger and more grandiose in their furnishings. Remember when Cribs first came out on MTV? Oh my God! Snoop Dogg has a home theater and a solid gold toilet! Then a car was considered a jalopy if it didn't have rims made of pure platinum and individual DVD players behind every headrest. So when it came time to reexamine the ways we display our wealth on our bodies, something new needed to be found. Jewelry and furs were considered passe and it's tough to hang out at Tao in a full length mink in the LA heat, so HEY! Let's make a pair of jeans that cost as much as a car payment to let people know we've got some dough!

My second theory is that these jeans are a symbol of the idolization of pajama culture. This is a culture where hundred dollar T-shirts with "Little Miss Trouble" are worn by starlets and sneakers, white and fresh out of the box, are considered dress shoes. Jeans, originally created for workers during the gold rush, are now considered appropriate almost anywhere if they are nice enough. It's to the point where there are variations in the dressiness of jeans. Lighter washes are considered more casual as are, of course, frayed jeans - oops, that's the 80's in me talking - they're now called distressed. Whatever. The only thing distressing about them is you pay twice the price to have someone do professionally what I used to accomplish using scissors and a lot of bleach. Darker washes in pristine condition are considered the tuxedo of jeans. This type of jean is acceptable attire for more formal occasions such as dinner at nice restaurant or the Oscars.

There are items in addition to jeans that can be explained by these two theories as well. Uggs - which is the sound I make when I see these hideous boots - are another leader in this category. Other than looking ridiculous these overpriced kicks also seem to be the perfect foot-sweat sponges and must smell horrendous after a few short days. And those damn Juicy sweatsuits. Seriously people, they're sweatpants and while I throw up in my mouth a little at the writing on the ass I will try not to have a seizure that a sweatsuit can cost over three hundred dollars. (Keep an eye out for this item in a future post as I am completely fed up with the ubiquity of this item in the suburbs on overly nipped and tucked fifty year olds)

Now let me make myself a total hypocrite and tell you I am intrigued by these jeans. Does spending the extra cash really make a difference? Will I have Beyonce's behind if I shell out enough cash? I have been toying with the idea of trying a few pairs on in Nordstrom one day if I ever get there without the kids - I think the salesladies frown upon peanut butter being smeared on non-purchased items. I am not hopeful though as friend of mine went on a jeans mission after losing her baby weight and she said she had no success finding a pair of jeans in the haute section that made her look any different than her $29.99 Levis. If I do get to go I will report back with my findings - but it will be a cold day in hell when I try on anything with "Juicy" written on the ass.

* And if you didn't know the title was referring to the classic Neil Diamond tune get thee to iTunes immediately.

I'm on vacation...sort of

Dearest readers, Mean Mommy is going to have to take a short hiatus this week as the progeny are off from school. I will be too busy dragging them all to the playground and crafting my brains out to write. While I may find a few minutes to sneak away and do a quick post, I can't make any promises other than I will be that much closer to insane when I return next Monday.

ICE CREAM MAAAAAAN!

I was so inspired by my mention of the ice cream man in my Friday list last week and by my run-in with him at the park today that I had to make this Friday's list all about it.
So without further ado....

Top 5 Ice Cream Truck Treats of All Time

5. The classic chocolate/vanilla cup - OK, a boring start perhaps, but since I have just spent the better part of five years ordering only this treat from the ice cream man I have to give credit to a timeless classic. The c/v cup has not changed at all over the last fifty years because it is ice cream perfection. To begin, the awesome pull-tab paper top that you get to lick as an appetizer. Then - it comes with a utensil! How awesome was that as a kid? OK, maybe it was made of cheap balsa wood and was a case of oral splinters waiting to happen (wonder if that ever has?), but it was still fun. The ice cream itself is pretty good too. The vanilla is standard issue, decent vanilla, but the chocolate is that weird, not too chocolaty kind that you'd be disappointed getting anywhere else, but seems really good in that cup. The c/v cup is also a personality test disguised as a dairy treat. Do you eat one side first, and if so which one? Or do you just scoop away willy-nilly? Yeah, yeah, I meticulously ate the chocolate side first as kid lest the flavors infect each other. Shocking.

4. The Bomb Pop - Yet another classic, The Bomb Pop (BP) wins by sheer girth alone. Definitely the largest frozen treat on the truck it didn't matter that it didn't taste that great. The top, red, section was OK because it was cherry, the middle a tolerable lemon, and the bottom - which had usually melted all over your hand anyway because how fast can a seven year old eat three pounds of Italian ice on a stick? - was an indescribable flavor which was later identified in the late eighties as "blue raspberry". Regardless, all that for a buck - you can't beat that with a stick.

3. Fat Frog - The bayou cousin of #1 on my list, Fat Frog was the brightest, most horribly green ice cream ever created. In fact, I'm not even sure it was ice cream, just some frozen, sweetened dairy byproduct, with knock-off M&M's for the eyes. Any ice cream that came with a secondary sugar delivery system was a winner. It was also a hefty item. Manys the summer day I wasn't sure the wooden stick would hold up under this confection's weight and I was forced to inhale it immediately. Or so I told myself. Sadly, FF, is now extinct.

2. Good Humor Coconut Bar - I really toyed with making this my number one choice for quite a while before putting it in second place. The Good Humor Coconut Bar is, to this day, the best ice cream I have ever had in my entire life. Perhaps it's the fact that it's no longer available and memories of childhood foods are so strong because you have about a billion taste buds when you're little, but I swear to you, these things were better than any gelato I had in Rome. The interior was a slightly coconut flavored vanilla ice cream which was then covered with shredded sweetened coconut. And you know how I love some fake coconut. Sure, Ben and Jerry's makes a good knock off coconut flavor, and those FrozFruit (love the kitschy spelling) things come close, but it's all I can do to drown my sorrows in a whole box of Toasted Almonds to make up for my loss.

1. Bubble-O-Bill - Oh where do I begin? This treat was so popular in my town there was a shortage on the ice cream truck. Kids would eagerly line up to buy a BOB only to be stuck with the vastly inferior Fat Frog mentioned above. What was so special about this confection? To begin, it was actually made of ice cream and tasted like it. Shaped like the face of a cowboy, it was a combination of the same chocolate and vanilla from the classic c/v cup. Then the whole back of it was dipped in chocolate - I know! The piece de resistance, however, was the gigantic, bright pink, gum ball nose smack in the middle of the face! This was not only a secondary sugar source, but one that lasted for hours! Ice cream and gum? I think I feel faint.

I can still recall my method of eating this highly coveted treat - carefully eat the chocolate shell off the back, then the ends of the hat. By this point, the bottom will have started to get soft so eat that part next, then work all around the edges until you are left with a nest of ice cream keeping the gumball intact - which was the only way because where were you going to put this humid, tacky ball while you ate the ice cream? Your linty shorts pocket - I think not. Unlike kids today, our parents were not at all worried about us dehydrating and we ran around all day without water bottles strung around our necks which we probably could have used clean the it off. Woe is you if the worst happened and it fell on the ground because then you were faced with the dilemma of, "Did anyone see that? And if not, can I still eat it?"

As with FF and The Coconut Bar, Bubble-O-Bill has been discontinued. Sure, there are pretenders to the throne - there's a Dora pop now with a giant head made of a weird ice-milk with scary, black eyes. Seriously, who thought black gumballs were a good idea for four year olds - the target demographic? It is the parents of these tots who remember the forefather of this atrocity and we weep that our children will not know such ice cream nirvana.

So there it is, yet another post about food. I think I have a problem. I should rename this blog "I bitch about my kids and fetishize food". Anyway, I hope the ice cream man makes a stop in your neighborhood this weekend and you can get a Bomb Pop for yourselves since now you know how to eat it without turning yourself into a Smurf.
Happy Friday to all!

Jane, his wife

It's just a typical day here in my house, I got the kids off to school, the baby down for his nap, worked out, folded laundry, packed a picnic, picked the kids up from school, took them to the park for said picnic and playtime.  

Do you see a shower or a meal anywhere in there?  No?  Because there wasn't one in any significant way worth mentioning, at least not in the true sense of the words "shower" or "meal".  By shower I mean spending more than thirty seconds under running water to wash my body and hair rather than what I usually do which is throw my hair up in a bun and shower leaning slightly backward so it doesn't get wet while I frantically wash the rest of me hoping no one wakes up or loses an eye during my absence depending on the hour.  The shower I dream of also includes time to dry my newly washed hair rather than letting it air dry into its usual rat's nest and having time to put an outfit together that actually includes things that button or zip. By meal, I mean preparing food for myself that takes more then three minutes in the microwave or can not be eaten by the handful - hopefully it includes some produce.  It also involves sitting down to eat so I can relax and enjoy it, tuning into my body's hunger cues to know when I'm finished instead of turning around five minutes later and asking myself, "Holy crap.  Where the did that whole bag of Goldfish go?"

These are the times I am green with envy over the life of Jane Jetson.  Sure she had a cleaning robot (love ya, Rosie!), but that's not the only thing in her household that I covet.  Obviously, the beds that make themselves and the self-loading dishwasher rock, but the machine I love the most is that shower/dressing machine.  Jane would step onto one end of the conveyor belt in her robe with those few hairs they drew askew and lines under her eyes to make her look tired and you'd watch as she was washed, brushed and dressed by mechanical arms until she popped out the other end with perfectly coiffed hair, in the purple mini-dress we know and love, with her rings-of-Saturn bangles gracefully encircling her wrists.  My GOD what I wouldn't pay for a machine like that.  I'd burn my collection of over-worn yoga pants and broken in baseballs caps in a hot minute.

Second to the appliances in her home in my jealous fantasy is the food.  While you all know I love food, during the week with my kids, food is purely for nourishment.  I don't have time to devote attention to all my kids, never mind my food.  So I spend my weekdays eating Lean Cuisines and carrots with hummus since they're not terrible for you and quick.  Do you remember those food pills the Jetsons took?  Genius!  No cooking, no clean up, calorie controlled and nutritious - sign me up!  Of course the weekends are a different story and I'd be pissed if brie and chocolate cake only came in capsule form, but  I can not tell you how many times I've been stuck out somewhere with all three kids, starving because I didn't have time to grab something, wishing I could pop a Garden Salad with Grilled Chicken pill instead of having to choose between finishing my daughter's PB&J or stealing the baby's Gerber Puffs.

So Jane, I hope you appreciate how awesome your imaginary life is, because I spend way too much time doing so for a person over the age of nine.  Your flying car doesn't impress me though, because I know if I had one it'd just be an airborne version of the rolling trash can I currently drive.  And I'm not sure how safe rock-hard, stale bagels would be with all that turbulence. 

"This one sounds like an asshole."

"You can't call a baby an asshole."
"Why not? She called it a meatloaf."

This is one of my favorite conversations from Sex and the City. It's so hilarious because it's true - babies can be assholes. I don't do it often, but there have been times, especially with my youngest, after I've been dealing with the other two all day and he won't sleep that I have asked my husband, "Why is he being such an asshole?" Call me a bad mother, but there is just some behavior that can not be described any other way when you are exhausted and your patience is worn too thin and your child just has to go that extra mile to make life as unpleasant as possible for you.

Sleep is the usual arena for the assholery and it is here babies can really display their skills. For example, today was my oldest's monthly Daisy meeting (Junior Girl Scouts) and it was scheduled to start at three-thirty. So I figured if my little one went about his day as usual he'd nap for two hours in the morning, then do an hour in the afternoon, and be up at three o'clock just in time to for me to nurse him and drag all three kids to the car and make it to Daisies. Of course, what do I hear forty-five minutes after I put him in his crib for his morning snooze? Happy babbling. So not only is he awake, but he's not even crabby so I can justify trying to let him cry himself back to sleep, the well rested asshole. Of course this means that later on when he took his afternoon siesta, he slept like Rip freakin' Van Winkle and I had to wake him up at three-fifteen, stuff a nipple in his mouth, feed him, have him spit up all over me because I didn't have any more time to wait for His Majesty to belch after burping him for fifteen minutes and then be late for Daisies. Sweet.

Fussy eating and loud screaming also qualify for the school of assholish behavior as do constant from-the-stroller toy throwing and middle-of-the-night pacifier ejecting. Especially when they laugh after doing it or do it for the twentieth time in an hour at four in the morning. My point is, your baby's behavior can be really aggravating and it's OK to get mad. It's OK to call him a name in your head in the other room where, yes, you will berate yourself later for doing it. I have a friend who, when her baby would wake up too often at night after an appropriate age, would sit on the edge of the bed and let loose a stream of profanity that would make a rapper blush. She just needed to get that rage out of her system and then she would calmly proceed into her son's room and meet his every need.

So let's not beat ourselves up for getting pissed. For not meeting yet another bad night's sleep with a "thank you sir, may I have another?" sense of stoicism. The well of human kindness only runs so deep and when your child has been drawing buckets-full all day it's only natural to get angry. We are mothers, not saints. As Miranda from SATC put it so well when speaking about her colicky, infant son, "No, he's not sick. He's not hungry, he's not teething, he just wants to scream. I'm doing everything I can but I can't please him. If he was 35, this is when we would break up."

Take a little time

I had great time this weekend. I went to my sister in-law's baby shower one day and then spent the day having lunch with my aunt the next. The evenings were spent hanging out with my husband, so all in all, I'd say it was the perfect weekend. My hubby, however tells an entirely different story.

According to him, spending so much time alone with his children was akin to working in a coal mine. Now let me preface this story by expressing what a great father my husband is. He is loving and physically affectionate with all of the kids. He plays with them, but doesn't overdo it in the jackass department where I feel like I have four children instead of three. He and I create the rules and boundaries together and he enforces them regularly, not requiring me to be the bad cop. So I wasn't asking him to be a different kind of parent or do things out of the ordinary, it was the fact that he had to do it alone and for such an extended period of time that he found exhausting. "Hmm", I told him. "Because I wouldn't know anything about that basically being a single parent during the workweek, now would I?"

This is the point where my husband starts being all "Yeah, yeah. You're better at it, I know." and this is not my focus at all. I'm more interested in his acknowledging how draining this job is - especially when you do it for five consecutive days - and that some time away from "work" is what I need each week. Saturday morning, I expressed this desire outright when he asked me why I was so crabby. It was because I had already fed all the kids, made the beds, and vacuumed, like any other day. I was still at work! How would he feel if he got dragged into a meeting at nine o'clock on a Saturday? Add to this, I'm usually trying to get the family ready to go somewhere where I can't wear my weekday uniform of baseball hat and yoga pants so I have to do all of my usual crap and make myself presentable as well. As I mentioned, this Saturday it was my sister in-law's shower to which I was going, but only bringing the baby - this constituted a "break" in hubby's book as I only had the one, non-mobile child to care for during a social event.

Sunday morning when I was getting ready to go on the true "break" portion of the weekend, up to Connecticut to have lunch with my fabulous aunt, he had the nerve to ask me, "Are you really going? I haven't seen you much." When I called my aunt to check the location he looked at me, crestfallen, after I got off the phone and said, " I thought you were calling to cancel." Fat chance. This may seem bitchy to some since I know it seems he wanted to spend time with me, which may be true, but I had to draw a line somewhere. In my opinion, every mother, every parent, deserves a break once a week. I do not expect my husband to go from work to home and never have time for himself, and I expect him to extend me the same courtesy. If he doesn't then it's my job to take it by force. I do not understand these women who tell me, "I never have time for myself." What man in his right mind is going to suggest you leave him with all the kids? I totally understand why they don't. You would have time for yourself if you demanded it. Get off the cross, lady, and go get a pedicure.

So ladies, let me be the one to tell you it's OK to leave the house without a child, diaper bag or list of errands to do. You have a right to recharge your batteries and your husband has a responsibility to make sure you do. The next time he asks you if it's OK he plays golf next Saturday, after you say yes, you pick up the phone and schedule a massage for yourself Sunday.

Open letter to my neighbor across the street who insists on using his weed-whacker at eight-thirty at night.

This format of post was blatantly stolen from McSweeney's.

Dear Neighbor,

I'm sure you remember this past Saturday since it was one of the nicest days of spring so far. It was sunny and beautiful - the perfect kind of day to spend outside. My husband and I spent it separately in various child-related pursuits and were looking forward to a nice evening on the couch with the windows wide open to let in the cool spring breeze drinking some wine and catching up with one another. No sooner did we wrangle all three of our offspring into bed promptly at eight o'clock and settle in on said couch when we were interrupted by the high-pitched whine if your weed-whacker. Try as we might, we were unable to ignore it's shrill tone as it drowned out any attempts we made at conversation. In an effort to continue our romantic evening, we closed the windows, but then the living room became too warm. We reopened the windows figuring since it was almost completely dark out you would be wrapping up your landscaping session and you finished your whacking soon after.

A few moments later as my husband and I began to relax, what should we hear but a grinding hum as you started up your leaf blower. This, dear Neighbor, was too much to bear. Not only did you interrupt us once, but you commenced to use this audio torture device for the next THIRTY minutes. We were so incensed that, unbeknownst to you in your leaf-blowing trance we opened the front door and watched for ten minutes, incredulously, as you proceeded, in the dark of night, to obsessively blow every bit of weed whacked not only into the street, but a further ten yards down the road into the intersection lest a single particle make it's way back onto your property. To add to this assault on our eardrums you would turn off your blower at random intervals only to start it right back up again just as we assumed you had finished for the evening.

So my question to you Neighbor is, don't you have a life? I assume by your Giants Super Bowl sweatshirt, circa 1987, you are at least a sports fan. The Zubaz pants you wear suggest at some point you were a gym-goer. Either of these pursuits would be a better use of your time than manicuring your lawn on a Saturday night - SATURDAY NIGHT! Now I understand that perhaps you had a busy Saturday as well, and you did not have a chance to do your chores. But is the world going to end if you don't get to your lawn this weekend? And you know we're not going to judge you - look at our grass. It's more of a safe-haven for dandelions than it is a lawn. For Christ's sake go inside and have a beer.

Neighbor, you are not an old guy - I put you at thirty-eighty, forty, tops - so why are you acting like one? Your wife is cute, I see her jaunting around in her terry sweatsuit, so why is she spending Saturday night alone? - which I know for fact because we saw her come out to speak to you as we were staring at you in disbelief from our front stoop. My husband and I wondered about your childless status and were concerned that perhaps you were struggling with infertility when, in reality, the problem is you are outside massaging your lawn when you should be inside massaging your wife. Or perhaps impotence is the problem and you feel better waving around the huge wand of your leaf-blower than contemplating your flacidity.

The point of my letter, dear neighbor, is this. You got off easy. As my husband will attest I am a woman who has no problem with confrontation and limited time to realx. So the next time you decide it's time to play Lawn Doctor anytime after 7:00pm on a weekend, we will be having a little chat. Sure, I'll try to be nice about it and maybe I'll even bring over a bottle of wine and offer you a glass to persuade you to relax a bit and cut out the damn landscaping, but if it the conversation doesn't go the way it should maybe I'll just use it to bash you in the head.

Sincerely,
Mary

PS - This also applies to landscaping before 8:00am on weekends. Interrupt my morning coffee and feel my wrath.

Hot fun...

Today was yet another amazing spring day and the kids and I spent the afternoon at the park. It was so warm we were able to shed some layers and I even had to crack out the sunblock. The smell alone reminds me of summer and all the good stuff that comes with it. So, this Friday, looking forward to many more warm days, I was inspired to make this list.

Top 5 Things that Rock About Spring/Summer When You're a Stay at Home Mom

5. Fruits and veggies - I know, boring, but one of the best things about this season is the abundance of produce alleviating my cold weather guilt that the only fruits and veggies my kids will eat October through March is broccoli, carrots, bananas, apples and oranges. I wish I had the kind of children who loved spinach or brussell sprouts, but I think you need to have been the Dalai Lama in a past life to wind up with a kid like that. In summer, I can give them grapes (good ones, not nasty, sour, winter ones), peaches, plums, corn and enough watermelon that I worry about their digestive health (we found out watermelon has a laxative effect the hard way).

4. Picnic/barbecue dinners - My husband is definitely the cook in our family so the fact that I struggle to put something edible on the table every night is a testament to how much I love him. In the warm weather this becomes infinitely easier as I only need to throw some form of flesh on the grill to make him happy - "Meat gooood." Throw together some pasta salad and it's dinner. Also, any season that allows me to eat large quantities of hot dogs is OK in my book (which is really any season).

3. Minimal outerwear - Jean Shepard had it right in A Christmas Story - "Getting ready to go to school was like getting ready for extended deep-sea diving" - because that's exactly what it's like in the winter. The snow pants, parkas, boots, mittens and hats, all of which need to be put on and taken off each time you leave the house. Never mind the inevitable, "I have to pee!" after you've gotten a kid ready to head into the tundra despite the fact that you asked her eighty-five times while getting her bundled up. Spring and summer are a sweet respite from all of that and it's so nice to be able to get out the door in less than an hour in the morning.

2. No socks - Weird, I know, but since I am so laundry-challenged, socks are the last thing to get folded and returned to their drawers in this house. Every morning before school, October through April, you will find me in front of the dryer bent over a pile of clean laundry muttering curses under my breath as I search for three pairs of matching socks each one smaller than the next - seriously, baby socks are a cruel joke. So it is with great joy that I welcome the return of Crocs and sandal season. I will admit that I scoffed at Crocs last year and once I was forced to buy two pairs for a trip to Sesame Place because it was August and God forbid a shoe store carry summer shoes in August I became a zealous convert. Crocs rock.

1. ICE CREAM MAN!!!!! - No three words in the English language inspire such joy and fear at the same time - except maybe "I am pregnant", but I digress. This phrase has two implicit meanings to a child. One, "I love ice cream and I am so excited to have some!" Two, "What if he drives away before we catch him and all I am left with are his haunting music and diesel fumes to remind me of what could have been?" I remember this joy/terror combo as a kid, sprinting to raid my mother's laundromat change, so I am very sensitive to it as a parent. Nothing brings me more joy than when I can say, "Ice cream? You got it." It does not help my cause though that our local ice cream truck drives about a hundred miles an hour down our street and I'd have to be perched in our living room window waiting for him to make it with all three kids in tow. My daughters are very reasonable because they have accepted that we only get ice cream from the truck when daddy's home, and he's been stretching his hammies.

So, happy Friday to all. Of course now that it's the weekend, it's going to piss rain, but let's look forward to the warm days ahead. Although soon enough I'll be sick of the hot weather and I'll have to write my Things That Suck list - like sunblock. Trying to slather some on a three year old is harder than wrestling a greased pig.

The Trail of Tears

Today was a beautiful, sunny day in New Jersey (insert air pollution jokes here). My oldest had a playdate in the neighborhood and instead of piling the rest of the family into my suburban assault vehicle (read: minivan) I decided to take my younger two and the dog for a stroll to pick her up. My middle one is almost four years old and to avoid the "but why does she get to ride in the stroller?" argument from my eldest, I left the double jogger at home and decided #2 and I would hoof it while pushing His Highness in his rig. To make sure I wasn't asking too much of her short little legs I mapquested the address and it was exactly half a mile - five cross-town blocks - I thought she could handle that and we all set off.

The walk there was lovely. Other than having to scream at her a few times as she jumped off the sidewalk, and threatening the dog with death each time he pulled on the leash, we spent a nice half an hour pointing out budding flowers and picking up sticks to drag behind us to further slow us down. We arrived on time and instead of my usually chipper older daughter, I was presented with a child who was hot from running around outside and crabby from not eating her lunch. When she was confronted with the sight of us, sans van, she complained mightily. "But I don't want to waaaaaalk. I'm tiiiiiired." To which I responded, "Well, unless you can fly, we're walking." Thus began our long, long journey home. We walked for about a block in silence, or rather, she was silent as I peppered her with questions about her day. Then she began her complaining in earnest. "I'm thirsty. Did you bring me a drink? Why is it so faaaar? I don't want to walk anymooooore." Then my younger one discovered that we were playing a round of Annoy Mommy to Death and began protesting as well. You would think we were walking The Trail of Tears the way these two carried on. After finally, and loudly, telling them both to put a sock in it we walked the rest of the way home in relative peace as I
seethed inside.

Do these kids have any idea how good they have it? Not to get all "I walked to school uphill - both ways", but kids today are chauffeured around like royalty. God forbid their tender little feet hit the pavement for more than five minutes or for anything other than their own enjoyment - say for locomoting themselves purposefully between two destinations. No wonder kids today are so damn fat and lazy. We live about a quarter of a mile from the elementary school, as do a lot of other families in the neighborhood and everyone drives their kid to school. Now, I am guilty as well because I'd rather put a bullet in my head than have to get all three kids out the door an extra thirty minutes early to walk, but once my first born is old enough to walk to school and participate in the "check in" program (for the safety of kids who walk) she is hittin' those bricks.

The other thing I thought about relating to this lack of motion is the fact that modern parents feel they have to be outside with their kids participating in whatever activity they are enjoying or at least watching them lest they be snatched out of our yards. This seriously reduces the amount of time kids spend out of doors since I know, personally, I actually have to do some things to keep this house running and everyone alive and can't be in the back jumping rope all afternoon. Remember the good ole days when kids were kicked them out of the house until dinner time? While this is certainly something I would not do, I see nothing wrong with forcing my two out into the fenced-in backyard for some fresh air and sunshine without my having to be activities director. To facilitate my absence I have refused to get a swing set until the youngest one is smart enough to get out of the way of the swings. What good is my yard if I have to stand there watching them like a hawk so we don't wind up in the emergency room? They have found plenty to entertain themselves between the sandbox and eight billion ride-on toys. Whenever I'm feeling particularly guilty about not playing developmentally appropriate games with them all day I remind myself that back in Colonial times they would not only know not to bother Mommy while she's churning the butter or carding the wool, but they'd be helping me or be locked in the barn. Industrial Revolution? Never mind jacks and hopscotch, those tiny little appendages are just the right size for turning lead-laced bolts on an assembly line. While these might not have been the golden ages in terms of childhood, at least kids learned they wouldn't die if they physically exerted themselves participating in anything other than during an adult supervised recreational activity.

So PARENTS UNITE! Kick your kids out into the yard. Make them walk or ride their bike somewhere because you simply refuse to drive them, not because you can't. And no, you can't come outside and play right now because you have things to do - laundry, cooking, Law & Order reruns to catch up on - but you will when you're done. Because I'm not saying to completely ignore your kids, but you were a kid already - and you walked your own ass to the park.

Do I have big gal complex?

During my little mini-break this weekend I was able to watch several movies, one of them being The Holiday with Cameron Diaz (seriously, what is with her mouth?), Kate Winslet (love!), Jack Black (always hilarious) and Jude Law (sound of recored screeching to a halt). I'm sorry to admit this as a woman, but I just do not, and will not ever, get the appeal of Jude Law.

I know, I know, I should just turn in my ovaries right now since every woman on the planet is seemingly wild about this guy, but really, what's the deal? I do not claim to know him personally, but his demeanor, at least in films is kind of, well, gay. He's a little too groomed and non-threatening in his sexuality. In this I understand why thirteen year-old girls would dig him, but a grown woman? I don't want to date someone I'm afraid is going to use up all my under-eye cream. He also seems small and rodent-like, maybe because he's a little guy. He's short - at least in my book since I'm 5' 9" - Jude is only 5' 11" and he's a feather weight at 145lbs. I personally have a problem being attracted to a man who makes me feel like a big girl and whom I might crush to death should I accidentally roll over in bed. These physical stats, coupled with his above mentioned questionable sexual orientation, make him a bit of a wuss in my book.

And now that I stop and think about it Jude is just one member of the club. His fellow wiry-bodied-scruffy-facial-hair-sporting-skinny-jeans-wearing-not-overtly-masculine club members include Johnny Depp (I know, I must be the only one not into him), James McAvoy (that guy from Atonement), Tom Cruise (before he went coo-coo) and Leonardo Dicaprio. Again, maybe it's the fact that I'm a big gal, but these guys just aren't manly enough for me. Give me Russell Crowe (again before her went coo-coo with that phone business), Mel Gibson (wait, are they all coo-coo?) or Matt Damon. I need a leading man who I don't know for sure I can beat in an arm wrestling contest and who definitely couldn't borrow my jeans.

Potty up in here

It's a miracle! After a year of stressing about it, my middle daughter has finally, FINALLY gone pee-pee on the potty. Oh yes, I am this excited about waste matter and I don't give a damn how lame I sound. Now sadly, I am not saying she is potty trained. Or should I say "potty taught" since the PC police tell us we can't call it training anymore lest we make our children sound like dogs. Well aren't they similar? Aren't they both mammals you have to teach not to pee on your rug? Anyway, all my kid did was actually evacuate on the potty, but once you know the back story you will see why I am so excited.

It all began last summer. I was heavily pregnant with my son and I decided it was time to tackle potty training with daughter #2 since she had already shown interest in the potty and was staying dry a fair amount of the day. Training had gone relatively easily for her older sister so I decided to use the same method. I waited until school was over so we could have an entire week during which to stay home and not worry about peeing on the floor in a public place. The plan was to ply her with juice all day and spend our time in the backyard wearing a dress with nothing underneath - her, not me - to facilitate potty usage. A note about this method, I simply refuse to use those ridiculously expensive and ineffective Pull-ups for training. Their only purpose is to make parents feel like they have some control in this scenario and that their child is technically no longer in "diapers". I'll take a diaper any day when my kid takes a massive shit (which is what it should be called at this point, let's not play around and call it a poop when it smells like something my husband could produce) in a Pull-up which has no side flaps and you have to tear both sides open trying to get it off your kid without smearing crap all over her, yourself and anyone within a five foot radius. If she's going to use it as a diaper, then I'm putting her in one to save myself some hassle.

So the first day of our no-more-diaper plan dawned. My daughter thoroughly enjoyed the plentitude of juice she was offered, since juice is sparingly-doled-out, golden nectar to my kids, as well as the no-pants aspect of our morning, feeling the cool summer breeze blowing on her toches. One hour and two cups of juice into our experiment and she had to go. She asked me for a diaper and I led her over to the potty where she gingerly sat and peed. Much shouting and excitement followed and then...crying. It seems she did not enjoy the hoopla and I vowed on her next attempt we would be quieter. Another hour passes and she starts to get squirmy. I ask her if she needs to go potty to which she emphatically replies, "NOOOO!" I lead her over to the potty at which time she begin to scream. I sit her down and the tears start. I gently try to coax her to go and she does, about a tablespoon's worth. Perplexed, I let her get up and she proceeds too stand there and cry because she has to pee. Which she does, on the grass. This is how the rest of our day and the next one went. Juice, scream, dribble of pee in the potty, cry, pee on the grass. Needless to say I gave up.

Fast forward six months and my stubborn second born is still refusing to pee on the potty despite my persistent bribing. "If you go on the potty I'll give you a sticker!" Nothing. I even stooped so low as to follow a former-similarly-desperate mother's advice and offer chocolate as a reward - because you can't give a girl food issues early enough! Her response to the full bowl of M&M's placed strategically next to the crapper? "No, fanks." Of course I had been consulting the pediatrician all the while who agreed with the bribery attempts and that I should keep trying every so often, but the take home message was that she would do it when she was ready and pushing her would only result in producing fear of the toilet and perhaps subsequent, chronic, constipation. I know a woman whose child "withholds" and it's not pretty having to give a four year old an enema.

So I abandoned my no-pants days and decided to save myself frustration and urine-soaked carpeting (let me tell you first hand, there is a reason homeless guys smell so bad, human urine stinks after a shockingly short amount of time) by keeping her in undies, but asking her if she'd like to use the potty whenever she asked for a diaper. This new method worked very well and she was consistently dry, and consistently disdainful of the potty, for three months. Until this weekend. I do not know what triggered it, but yesterday evening we did our usual ask for a diaper bit, and when I asked her if she'd like to use the potty SHE SAID YES! I alerted no one. I quietly slipped into the loo with her alone, helped her with her pants and asked her if she'd like some privacy which, of course, my strange little bird did. When she finished, she called me in and remembering our past, unpleasant experiences with the post-pee end-zone dance I kept it upbeat, but subdued and gave her some special stickers I had been hiding away. I was excited, but not ready to even entertain the thought that in a few weeks I might only have one child in diapers.

Then she did it again today! While it took a little coaxing the first time, she went on the potty each time she had to pee today with minimal leakage. There is a light at the end of the tunnel! I will soon no longer have to schlep around two sizes of diapers in my bag and try to read the ridiculously minuscule writing on them to decipher which one is hers and which is the baby's. I will no longer have to squeeze her diapered rear end into her pants because kids her age are usually trained by now and the pants are cut slimmer. And yes, I can stop changing her massive deuces.

While it has been a long road, I have learned how to be a better mother to my middle one. This whole experience brought to light a fact I had known, but not yet had to put into practice - my daughters are different people and will probably need to mothered a little differently. What works for one, may not work for the other. Potty training also gave me my first experience in learning how not to compare my girls. They each have their own strengths and one of my jobs is to help them make the best of them. Regardless of what I've learned though, I am so happy at the possibility of having one less ass to wipe.

Enjoy the Silence...

This weekend I traveled back in time. Suffering from a bad cold I had to bail on the plans hubby and I had to go visit my brother in-law and his family overnight and since the baby is still tethered to me with the nursing, the plan was he would stay with me and hubby would take the girls to his brother's.

Before I begin, my apologies to my sisters-in-arms who are currently at home with their first child. I am not in any way belittling how hard you work or how tired you are, but OH MY GOD, I can't believe this is what my life used to be like! First of all, the blessed, blessed silence. Yes, my baby whines when he is hungry or tired and he babbles and does his happy baby screaming, but I can't wrap my head around the fact that I used to live a life where no one was asking me for a snack or to finger paint or why flowers die within the space of five minutes. I had to remind myself every so often that I was not alone and try to engage in conversation with my son as I am so used to the constant chatter of my older two. Then I started to worry, would he have a speech delay because every time his sisters are gone I'll want to enjoy the sound of silence? Well, maybe he will too.

The other thing I could not get over was how clean my house was! With the exception of the toys scattered around his play mat or ejected from the Exersaucer, my floors and surfaces were devoid of their usual detritus. I didn't have to chase anyone around asking, "Did you clean up?" scattering Polly Pockets and broken crayons in my wake. There were no water cups or snack bowls lying around for the dog to knock over and finish off. With only one child on my hands I actually had time to vacuum and fold some laundry while he happily munched away on a biter biscuit.

Speaking of meals, there was no bargaining or cajoling. Eat my peas? No problem! My son just opens his little maw and is happy with whatever nutritious food I shove in - well, except for that Meat Lasagna Stage 3 baby food which was a momentary lapse in judgment. Bananas, sweet potatoes, cheese, keep it comin', lady! Feeding my girls, I sound like the mother in A Christmas Story, "There are starving people in China!", as I try to convince my eldest to eat three measly baby carrots. Never mind the mid-morning or mid-afternoon meltdowns that ensue after one of them decides she was too busy too eat breakfast or lunch. Nope, for my son it's all about the basics. "Me hungry. Me eat."

I was also freed from was the daily bombardment of "Can I watch a show?" The TV, which usually goes off after Sesame Street in the morning, was on non-stop and was entirely mine! And you know I love TV. While I wasn't watching porn or horror movies, I did glut myself on TV "inappropriate" by preschool standards. Meticulously facing him away from the screen, I was able to watch a Gilmore Girls marathon, and two movies - Stomp the Yard, about an historically black college's fraternities and step squads - delightfully bad - and In Her Shoes with the hateful, giant-mouthed, Cameron Diaz and the lovely Toni Collette - while folding said laundry. Any other day and my TV time is relegated to the hours of eight and ten when I'm usually half asleep on the couch.

And the naps! Two a day! Two windows of opportunity to shower, exercise, stare at a blank wall. Such riches! I scarcely knew what to do with myself. While my middle one does still nap, my oldest one has given it up. She stills goes in her room for "quiet time" which consists of her coming out every five minutes asking, "Can I get up yet?" until I am worn down and relent. So all told, I have about ten minutes a day without at least one of my children conscious. Alone with my son, this much free time during the daylight hours was a shock to my system. I orbited around the house for the first twenty minutes of each nap trying to decide what to do first.

Of course there were the usual bonuses, only having to schlep one kid around when I ran to the store, only having to use the single stroller to walk the dog and, most importantly, getting to really play with my son who, as my third child, gets so little one on one time with me. Having this time with him made me feel guilty about how much more of my time his sisters got and what a calmer parent I must have been back then. I suppose there are benefits and drawbacks to being the youngest and on the plus side he'll always have playmates and I'll probably let him do things much younger than his older siblings did (I can hear the complaints from his sisters already).

Hubby and the kids are due home soon and, honestly, I have to say I miss the chaos. While it's been nice to have some peace and quiet, I love the insanity that comes from having a large brood. While I can do without the crumbs and Polly and all her crap, the noise is what I miss the most. Hearing my girls play silly games together and calling me, "Mommy?", is the soundtrack of my life and without it I feel like I'm in the wrong movie.

The Facts of Life

This Friday I would like to pay homage to five women who have had a great impact on my life. They were role models, good friends and eventually...cancelled. The women of which I speak? The five fabulous ladies of The Facts of Life. They rocked my world and now they make up my Friday 5. Notice there's no top, because, seriously, how do you choose?

Friday 5 - The Women of The Facts of Life

1. Age before beauty, let's begin with Mrs. G. Not that Mrs. Edna Garrett was not beautiful with her obviously bottle-dyed, red, bouffant hair-do - seriously, that thing was day-glow and bulletproof. In case you didn't receive a copy of her resume, Mrs. Garrett was formerly employed as the housekeeper of a Mr. Phillip Drummond of New York City where she performed the usual household duties including engaging in comedic banter with Drummond's two adopted, black sons and biological daughter Kimberly. Her experiences on Park Avenue led her to believe she was capable of handling larger numbers of wealthy progeny at the all-girls Eastland boarding school and she was given a spin-off. With her shrill voice and gentle eyes she guided these girls through the maze of adolescence before they would face the real world of whatever Ivy League college their parents bought their way into.

2. Natalie Green. Oh, Natalie. Always the comedienne. During one episode you confessed you were funny to distract from your weight. While we laughed at your jokes about childhood obesity, we were crying inside, Nat. Sadly, you were before your time as TV censors today would never allow any actual jokes about your weight, but they'd cast a girl thirty pounds lighter and call her "the fat one". I loved your ringletted hair and middle part and I thought those kilts were very flattering. Remember her wise words, "I'd be a happier magic marker than a skinny pencil."

3. Tootie Ramsey- or Dorothy as she demanded she be called during the reunion show. Please, she'll always be Tootie to us. As you recall, Tootie wore rollerskates for most of the first season to make herself stand out as "that rollerskating girl" instead of "the only black girl in a sea of Arian youth". This braces-wearing, roller-skating, polyester-beribboned, pig-tail-sporting, Perez Hilton of her time covered up her big-mouthed ways with an insipid smile and a, "Soooory!" Maybe the tabloids should try that instead of high-priced libel attorneys.

4. Blair Warner- I had a love-hate relationship with Blair as did most girls my age. You loved her for that long, luxurious, blond hair, hot-rollered and hairsprayed within an inch of its life, and her obviously surgically enhanced ski-jump nose, but you hated her for what a stark-raving bitch she was. Oh, but she was more than a little bit of fabulous and you know I loves me some fab. She had a vanity table - a vanity table! - for Christ's sake, which was the height of glamorous to the ten year-old me. She was an incredible butt for Joe's jokes and we loved her even more on the rare occasions she was humbled and seemed just one of us.

5. Jo Polniaczek - Yes, I had to Google the name to find the spelling. Jo holds a special place in my heart because she was my sister's favorite. K even sported Jo's hairstyle for a while - awkwardly placed ponytail, two plain metal barrettes on the sides, butt-parted, feathered bangs - I am still trying to find photographic evidence. Jo was Polish, the only girl whose ancestors couldn't be traced back to the Mayflower, poor, her father worked as an auto mechanic, and obviously, a lesbian. Ignoring the blatant fox-in-a-hen house connotations, Jo's lack of gentility and love of motorcycles and coveralls made her stand out among the Eastland girls. She found her place among this gaggle of misfits though and formed a close "friendship" with Blair. The producers tried, in vain, to put the gay rumors to rest by having Jo be the first of the girls to get married at the series' end, but no amount of lace and sequins can cover that up.

"There you have the Facts of Life...", my Friday five. This show was the starting point for many a star, Molly Ringwald and George Clooney to name two. If that doesn't earn this show a place in posterity, what does? I miss these ladies so much and fully intend on buying the DVDs for my girls. Well, for myself, but let's pretend their for them, shall we?

"That Guy"

This morning while reading a women's magazine on the treadmill I came across an article describing over the top romantic gestures men have performed for the women they love. While they varied from hiring a sky-writer to writing a love song, I have to say the majority of them made me a little nauseous. Articles like this one create a fantasy for women and an unattainable standard for men that, I think, causes a lot of friction in man-woman relations. We women measure our potential mates by this standard and most guys fall terribly short. I say some and not all men because That Guy* does exist who does all of these things. We all think we want to date That Guy (TG), but trust me, I have, and it's not all it's cracked up to be.

One of the desired behaviors that TG exhibits is always being there for you. He'll come shoe shopping with you or cancel plans with his buddies if you want to hang out - understandable when you first start dating, but stalkerish after a while. Who the hell wants that? While dating TG his constant availability became a noose around my neck. He was always showing up at my school (yes, this was a high school boyfriend whose name will not be mentioned**) when we didn't have plans and it sort of creeped me out. And don't you have a life? Even as an old married lady, I enjoy when my husband is particularly busy at work because it gives me the chance to miss him.

Women also think we want an expressive guy. TG would write me poems and call me sickening pet names that I can not even type lest I puke all over my keyboard and frankly, I was embarrassed for him. I do love the occasional, random, display of affection from hubby, but it's the understated quality of his expressions that I like. His pet names for me are the generic "Hon" and "Babe", which when spoken in the kitchen don't make me vomit on the child I'm holding. And his missives are limited to Valentine and anniversary cards with a random, cute e-mail here and there.

Flowers - yeah, yeah, we all say we want flowers all the time, but how special would that gesture be if it was a weekly occurrence? TG would regularly bring me a single red rose. OK, I just threw up in my mouth a little. Why do guys think that's the symbol of romance? Yeah, when you're TWELVE! Any time I've ever received one I've felt like I was looking at a poster in a cheap nail salon minus the disembodied hand with scary, long acrylic tips. Anyway, these botanical expressions of his affection became so common place I stopped gushing and started responding along the lines of, "Um, great. Thanks." when I received them. While hubby is to the other extreme (ahem, hint there) I do appreciate it more when he randomly gets me flowers. And he knows no damn, red roses.

The biggest pet peeve I have with That Guy is he's usually a crier. Now I appreciate appropriate amounts of manly crying at appropriate times. My husband cried when our kids were born and his grandfather died, I'll even say I enjoy that he cries when watching My Dog Skip, but what I can not stand is the guy who cries whenever you have a fight or every time he gets too emotional. You want a guy who's in touch with his feelings, not giving them a Swedish massage every day. When my TG boyfriend would cry I wanted to scream, "Jesus! Grow a pair!"

So ladies, take it from me, you don't want to date or, God forbid, marry That Guy. While he might be just what you need after a breakup That Guy will quickly become your shadow showing up at your door at seven in the morning telling you how beautiful you look with sleep in your eyes. What we all want and need is a regular guy who regularly tells us he loves us and occasionally makes the grand gesture. TG had made so many the only thing he had left to do was give me a kidney. Which I would have refused if it meant spending a lifetime being called "Angel" There! I typed it! GAK!

*This is a phrase my husband and I use all the time when we can't quite describe the behavior of a certain person. For example, "So he was in front of me in line, screaming on his cell phone like he's a big shot, you know, That Guy." It can be used in all scenarios and situations because there's always That Guy somewhere.

* KK, Alex, Jen V., Jen W. and Rebecca all know who I am talking about. Speech impediment, bad kisser from Kennedy who I took to prom.

Random Confessions of a Stay at Home Mom

I confess I am letting my daughters watch Handy Manny and my son cry in his crib with the hopes that he'll fall back to sleep after a too short nap while I write this.

I confess I ran five miles today and still have not showered.

I confess I did not brush my teeth until eleven o'clock today.

I confess I wash my hair only twice a week, but my colorist says it's great for my hair - so there.
I guess I'm also confessing I'm not a natural redhead.

I confess I don't bother turning laundry right side out if it's been put in the hamper inside out. I also fold and put laundry away in that condition. Put it in as you'd like it returned. I confess I really don't care if the bottom of our socks are dingy. Throw in some bleach, see what happens, move on. I confess I have had to rewash a load of laundry after it sat wet in the washer for too long and started to smell bad. I confess I do not pre-treat stains, I just wash and hope for the best. I confess I can not remember the last time I washed the nursing bra I am wearing.

I confess that my underwear drawer, my husband's sock drawer and the kids' pajama drawers are really only drawers in th academic sense - they are rectangular and pull out - but really, they are small spaces into which I stuff clean garments never knowing what lurks in the rear.

I confess selecting a piece of Tupperware in my house consists of opening the door, allowing all the containers and lids spill out, finding what I need and literally throwing the rest back in the cabinet and slamming the door.

I confess that rather than change my sons' crib sheet I move him to the cleaner side of the crib until the cleaning lady comes. I confess I am a stay at home mom who has a cleaning lady who was only supposed to be coming for the first three months after the baby was born. I confess I hope my husband doesn't notice and I will do anything short of whoring myself to keep her.

I confess, when at home, if one of my kids has a runny nose and I don't have a tissue handy, such as we're running late for school, I will use my sleeve. To prove this point we were at the park one day and my middle daughter developed a runny nose. With nary a tissue in sight she asks , "Can I use your shirt?" in front of a group of other moms and I have to say, "No!" and roll my eyes to them like, "Where the hell did they come up with these things?" knowing full well if no one were watching, I'd do it.

I confess my lunch on some days consists of an entire bag of Goldfish, graham crackers and a Diet Coke because that's exactly what I want.

I confess I eat peanut butter straight out of the jar from which I feed my children - using my index finger.

I confess I do not think half a pie an unreasonable amount of pizza - or pie for that matter.

I confess that this morning I paid $1.00 to download Lita Ford's Kiss Me Deadly.

I confess that I am overly excited to watch Pussycat Dolls present Girliscious tonight while my husband is at a business function.

I confess I hated The Forty Year Old Virgin and think it was made for fourteen year old virgins.

I confess I love The Rock, or Dwayne Johnson, whatever he's calling himself these days and would like to have him over for my celebrity dinner party which also includes Bono, Alice Cooper, Sandra Bullock, Jennifer Garner & Ben Affleck (more for her, but he can tag along), Matt Damon, Jeremy Piven, Tina Fey, the woman who plays Pam on The Office and Jennifer Lopez. Yes, it might get awkward with Ben and the Jens, but couldn't you just see the two gals getting drunk, giggling in a corner together saying, "He did that with you too?".

I confess I think my husband, sweatpants, a bottle of wine and a Nicholas Cage action movie are the ingredients for a great Friday night. I confess I love Nicholas Cage movies - except Leaving Las Vegas which was creepy and dark and I saw it with my dad not knowing it opened with a threesome scene. Awkward.

I confess it is 8:30 and I am seriously contemplating going to bed.