NEVER LET IT REST...

La Vie en Rose....AVEC les Enfants!

2011-05-09T22:40:00.010-04:00

I don't watch much TV, which is odd considering my dream is to write for it. But tonight I watched three consecutive hours flipping between non-cable channels. The most I've watched straight in the last five years, probably. So excuse me if what I'm about to write is old-hat to most of you, but it's completely new to me because of my just emerging from a television coma:

Fuck you, Bayer. Pardon me. More specifically, Fuck you "Beyaz," Bayer's birth control pill.

Just saw your ad for the first time ever. A bunch of young women in a "store" choosing between all the wonderful things life has to offer. Hot car. Dream job. Buying a house. Trip to Paris. Or... a manic stork trying to drop a bundle at your feet. If you want one of the first four, you'd better stay well-clear of the bundle of joy that pesky diaper bearing ciconiiforme is dying to unload at your Manolo Blahnik's.

Mind you, I'm well aware that I'd be in a completely different place if I'd opted to NOT have kids. Yeah, this twin would probably be a single. On a bigger plot, in a better part of town, with a newer/better/leased foreign car parked in an attached three-car garage. I'd probably be waking up nights worrying about my investments instead of my kid's algebra test and bill collectors. And I'd be plotting how to get rid of my corporate competition instead of piece-mealing my share of the family's coffers. But a huge UP YOURS to Bayer for suggesting that nothing good can be obtained from that "store" if you opt for the stork's bundle.

I've been to Europe, several times before kids and once after. The trip after took a lot more pinching/saving/ebaying, but was the most memorable of the lot. Yeah, my car is extremely used, leaks oil and shows numerous traces of kids' wear-and-tear in the backseat. But I wouldn't trade a single crayon mark, sticky soda stain or smudge mark. My kids made them. My messy, fabulous kids. (Remind me to make them clean my car for a late Mothers Day present)

We own our house. It's not huge and it's not new, it's not in a "hot" neighborhood...but we bought it, despite the parasitic stork that Bayer's commercial blasts. So pardon my French, but va te faire foutre, Bayer et Beyaz. Life doesn't necessarily automatically suck if you have a kid or two.

Yeah, there aren't as many goodies. Some of your goodies may have to be second-hand, smudged, or domestic instead of imported. But every year on the second Sunday in May I get something awesome made from a handprint in art class. And every Christmas morning I get two amazed faces descending the staircase (even though one of them is faking it). And every day I get to know that I've had some small part in creating and shaping two kickass boys who'll do something decent and leave this trash heap of a planet a little better than they found it.

Yes, I gave up a LOT by deciding to have kids. But I got a lot in return. For Bayer/Beyaz to suggest that it's a dreams-or-genes alternative is infuriating to me. Unfulfilled dreams? Yeah, I've got some. But so do a lot of those "shoppers" who picked the house/trips/career over kids. Life isn't that black-and-white Bayer. Awesomeness and fulfillment are subjective. It's not up to some 50-something white guy at the corporate office in north Jersey to tell women that it's one or the other. Schmuck.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to research "European vacations" online with my boys. We may have to save for five years to get there, but we will. And we'll send you a postcard. Postage due.

Happy Smoth...I Mean Mothers Day!

2011-05-07T00:11:00.006-04:00

It’s Mothers Day Eve Eve. Or in layman’s terms, Friday night.

We’re back from Lansdale’s First Friday night, the boys and I have settled into the living room and are flipping through our limited non-cable channels for something to watch; they with their diet colas and “cheesy poofs” and me with my glass of cheap white wine and little dish of pistachios. As baseball fans, we all agree on the documentary-in-progress on PBS, a re-airing of Ken Burns series on Baseball that none of us has seen. It’s 30-minutes into the “Fifth Inning” when we turn on the television. This episode covers 1930-1940... Babe Ruth. Bob Feller. Joltin’ Joe. Dizzy Dean. The Negro Leagues and Satchel Paige.

As a family of baseball nuts, it’s the perfect choice to end the evening. We’ve just had a lovely stroll down our town’s Main Street, listening to mediocre musicians, popping into thrift stores and coin shops, and splitting desserts and fried pickles at the town’s Irish pub. As we settle in for the night, and the boys stop fidgeting and actually listen to the script being read by John Chancellor, 2nd grader Ben starts asking questions: “Why couldn’t the black player play with the white players?” … “They really couldn’t stay at the hotels or eat at the restaurants when they toured? Why not?” … “How come? I don’t get it.”

And with that “I don’t get it” … suddenly I do.

I may be a so-so sister. I may be an occasionally iffy friend. And I’ll admit to being a less-than-perfect wife. But that “I don’t get it” made me feel like a kick-ass mom.
That four-word sentence made me realize that I’ve done a decent job raising a color-blind, non-judgmental, all-accepting pair of sons. What’s to “get”? Treating people as inferior simply because they’re a different skin tone isn’t something you SHOULD “get.” It’s stupid. It’s illogical. It’s wrong. The fact that it’s beyond their comprehension makes me proud.

Sure, one of them may be floundering in algebra, and the other may be considering making competitive eating a vocation once he finishes 3rd grade. But they’re both two of the most decent, loving, unbigoted human beings on the planet. And I think/hope that I’ve somehow had a shred of influence on their becoming that way.

Mind you, I’m not exactly Mother Theresa and I freely admit it. I have a problem with people as a whole. I’m rather intolerant at times. Arrogant/ignorant drivers. People who talk on their cells loudly in public. Folks who act/feel like they have a sense of entitlement that sets them a notch above the rest of creation. Anyone who drives a Hummer. And anyone who has to punch a code into a gated community to make it to their driveway or lives in a “community” named after the species they wiped out to make room for their four-car garages…I could do without. But none of those prejudices are based on race, ethnicity, sexuality or religion. They’re based on your being a pompous asshole.

However, listening to my boxer-clad boys ponder why on earth anyone would object to a person of another color sitting/drinking/eating/residing or playing baseball alongside them flushed me with maternal pride. For all my Hummer-hating shortcomings, I have somehow successfully managed to rear two awesome sons who see people for what truly matters. Sure one of them can’t spell worth a hoot and the other one is a wee bit too cocksure for an 8-year-old. These are two boys who know what’s important; who know what’s right, what’s wrong, and know how to bait a hook without getting squeamish. I think that rocks. Happy Mothers Day to me.

I tried explaining in 2nd grade terms why some people during that time period treated people of a different color that way. Why mediocre white boys were paid quadruple-plus what players like Satchel Paige were paid. I thought of blaming it on the times, or blaming it on the South…but just one block away from our little three-bedroom-one-bath twin is a more expensive single home that proudly flies a Confederate flag in their front yard. And we live WELL above the Mason-Dixon. In 2011. So I told them it’s not about “the times”…and it’s not about “the South”…it’s about some people from the beginning of time having the need to feel better about themselves by looking down on someone else.

And they got it. They “get” it. They know in their heart/gut that the guy living behind us is making some sort of “I’m better than them” statement by flying that thing in his yard. Just like they know that the “old guy owners” in the documentary were making an asinine “We’re better than them” statement by keeping non-white greats out of the “real” leagues back in the day.

So I don’t care if I get any macaroni art or wilting flowers this Mother’s Day. Breakfast in bed, a quarrel-free day, a Hallmark card…I can live without ‘em. Just knowing that I’ve had a tiny part in raising two awesome boys who know that people’s worth has nothing to do with their race/gender/religion/orientation tops any brunch or bouquet.

(But a mug of hazelnut with cream and 3 Splendas would still be nice come Sunday morning. I’m just sayin’….)

For the Love of Man...or a Frying Pan

2011-01-20T22:51:00.007-05:00

For the first five years that we lived in this house, we lived with a defunct dishwasher. Oh, we thought we had a working appliance when we bought the place. In fact, we were thrilled at the prospect of not having to hand-wash everything after years renting non-washer abodes. But we were hoodwinked. For legal reason I won’t tell you about the scam that was pulled on us, but needless to say, we were quite disappointed when we ran that very first load as homeowners through its cycle, and the floor flooded.

Being “young” (a relative term) parents, we watched (still do) every penny and decided we could keep living without a dishwasher for a while. “A while” became years, and our dishwasher basically became a cabinet for seldom-used cookware and appliances. But one year, after helping wash up after a particularly dishy Thanksgiving dinner, my in-laws surprised us with the delivery of a brand new Maytag dishwasher…and we’ve never looked back.

Tonight however, after a fabulous dinner, we had to wash most of the dishes by hand because we were completely out of dishwasher detergent. As I was scouring the pans and scrubbing the glasses, I looked about our tiny galley kitchen at the years of accumulated crockery, flatware and culinary paraphernalia we’d accumulated. Some of it was sentimental: items we’d inherited or had purchased to recreate our childhood kitchen comfort zones. But most of it was/is totally expendable. That being said, there are a few items around this place that are indispensable. The Kitchen Trifecta, if you will.

The Potato Ricer

This device is basically a hand-press for boiled potatoes, guaranteed to turn a cooked spud into a lump-free puree that would satisfy the fussiest of Thanksgiving guests. But it’s so much more. I think mine comes in contact with tuna far more often than it does with tubers. Ever open a can of tuna and find yourself pressing the detached can lid down against the fish flesh so hard that the lid eventually buckles, your thumbs ache, and the tuna is still too moist to turn into salad? Two seconds in a potato ricer, and you’ll have every last drop of liquid squeezed from Charlie. Yes, it makes perfect potatoes. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. How about homemade baby food? And let’s talk spätzle! If your love of noodles has advanced beyond spaghetti and mac-and-cheese in a blue box, then you’ve heard of spätzle, an egg noodle popular in Germany, Switzerland, Austria and beyond. The recipe has few ingredients and seems simple enough. I’d tried making it a few times from scratch, pressing the dough through a colander as many cookbooks suggest. But I’ve always ended up swearing and returning to store-bought boxes. Then a friend suggested I try using my potato ricer instead. Done and done. Take that, Knorr!

A Cast Iron Skillet

These black beauties are good for more than just conking men on the noggin. A well-seasoned cast iron skillet is the working mule of any cook’s kitchen. I found mine at a thrift store for $2. It was black as tar, crusted and disgusting. But it was solid, had a sturdy wood handle, and the promise of many awesome meals to come. I snatched it up, brought it home, and sprayed it with oven cleaner to remove the years of caked on gunk. While you don’t want to “wash” a cast iron skillet, you do want to clean it, and its previous owners apparently didn’t know the difference. Once it had the charred on, caked on remains of myriad meals removed, I knew the pan had to be re-seasoned. This being my first cast iron skillet, I wasn’t sure how exactly to go about that task. Fortunately, the monkey-friendly Google came through for me, and entering “How to re-season a cast iron skillet” yielded the desired information. Grease, heat, cool, wipe, repeat. Voila. That was five years ago. This baby hasn’t seen soap since, and is better than any Teflon-coated piece of crap you could buy at Target. Best $2 my kitchen has ever seen. Anyone want pancakes?

A Good Knife

I have a lot of knives. Paring knives, boning knives, butter knives, “chef” knives…I could stab, smear or spread the crap out of any of you. But for people who truly enjoy cooking, it all boils down to ONE good knife. Just as some parents may have a “favorite child” (Bastards! I love my children equally!...That’s my story and I’m sticking with it), all cooks have a “favorite knife.” It’s the one that will slice through a tomato without dimpling it, will open a package of bacon, or butterfly a chicken breast like it were made of butter. I have a relative who paid $80+ for their “favorite knife.” I bought mine for $7.49 at Marshall's. I think I could de-bone the mailman without having to resharpen this puppy. (Chill out, Mailman Mark. Purely a figure of speech.) I miss it when it’s in the dishwasher and I’m forced to use its ugly stepsisters to chop and mince. I would sleep with it under my pillow were it not for my fear of my husband filing for a restraining order.

Speaking of husbands, mine just came home from the store with dishwasher detergent pellets. So I can stop going all pioneer bad-ass on these pans and treat them the way God intended, with “normal wash” and “economy dry.” Except for my baby. Mommy’s gonna hand wash and dry you, lil’ cast iron skillet. I may not always know how to treat my fellow man, but I ALWAYS know how to treat my cast iron.

Solid

2011-01-12T21:17:00.002-05:00

If you know either of these songs,
you're alright by me, Jack.
(not many do...)

Bring It On! ... with a few exceptions

2011-01-06T20:09:00.004-05:00

As I've frequently shared, I grew up living with my grandmother, my English/Welsh grandmother. The English/Welsh are known for many wonderful things, but culinary experimentation was not one of them in the 1970s. My grandmother, and her mother and mother's mother before her, believed in cooking things until they were D.O.N.E. done. Meat was cooked until it was brown, through-and-through. Vegetables were cooked until they were barely able to still be considered a "solid." At 433 West Upsal Street, things like wontons, sloppy joes or spaghetti were simply unheard of.

After we left Grandma's house, things got a little more interesting in the food department. Out went grandma's pressure cooker and in came the savior of 1970s working mothers' kitchens: the crockpot. I remember awesome all-day crockpotted (it's a word if I say it's a word) sloppy joes. And "barbecuing" became part of our vernacular. My father once even brought home and cooked blowfish. We survived.

When we moved west, we had our very first Mexican food when a Mexican family we befriended came to our house and prepared a feast. I remember thinking that guacamole looked revolting. But I was either willing or forced to try and was instantly addicted. Tamales hand-wrapped in husks, black beans, mole sauce...it was like a suburban white kid's version of a Mexican Babette's Feast. And it was the birth of my adventurous spirit when it comes food.

Today, I love "exotic" food, foreign food. Indian, Thai, Vietnamese...heaven. Spicy food? If it makes your nose run and your eyes water, bring it on. I pride myself on my willingness to try just about anything once, an attitude I've passed on to my boys. Over the course of my two-score-and-a-few years, I have eaten some very unusual foods. Sometimes I just wanted to try what the locals were eating (a giant haggis in Scotland). Sometimes I was trying to be polite (spicy raw crab in Los Angeles). I may not always enjoy what I'm offered, but I'm willing to try it. Scrapple, monk fish liver, beef tongue...sure, why the hell not. But despite my love of the exotic and my adventurous spirit, there are certain things that I simply cannot bring myself to even try. Some are foods that others I know adore. Others? Well, you decide....

Raw oysters. I cannot bring myself to slurp one of these down. To me, it feels and looks like I'd be swallowing whole a giant gob of salty phlegm topped with Tabasco and lemon. I'll take the Tabasco and lemon, but in a Bloody Mary. You can keep the snot-on-the-half-shell, thank you.

Brains. Nope, not gonna. I lived on a religious commune where one hippie mother fed her infant son calves brains. Blenderized brains to boot. We had tubs of them in our freezer. I'll never forget the look, smell and sound of her preparing them. I don't care if you cover them in Godiva chocolate or batter-fry them...I firmly believe that if it was encased in a skull it was not meant to be eaten. Which leads me to...

Head Cheese and/or Souse. This is a double whammy of things I don't "dig." Face meat and aspic. I can understand and appreciate its origins. It makes complete sense to use every available part of an animal if you can, including their cheeks, jowls, ears...Hell, I willingly eat scrapple and it has pig bits I don't even want to know about! But the inventors of scrapple knew what they were doing by grinding the bejeebers out of things then mixing them with cornmeal. It looks disgusting, but at least it's uniformly disgusting. (And delicious, BTW). The guy who invented head cheese, however, took the exact opposite approach. "Let's make every chunk visible and identifiable, then let's pack 'em in jelly! Make them jiggle a bit! I know, let's get Mikey to try it!" Pass.

Balut. This boiled egg is a treat in the Philippines that you can occasionally find in larger U.S. cities. It's no ordinary boiled egg. A balut is a duck (or chicken) egg with a nearly developed embryo inside that is boiled and eaten right from the shell. Yeah, you read that right. Look... I love eggs. I love chicken. I love duck. I don't love the idea of boiling and eating an unborn baby duck. I guess that makes me a poultry pro-lifer. I say let 'em hatch, grow up for a few months, then eat 'em!

If you're an oyster, brain, souse or balut fan...well, the more power to ya. I'd actually love you to leave me a comment below. Do your best to persuade me to reconsider my disdain for any of the above. I may be able to be swayed to try two of the four. I'm pretty sure you can guess which two.

"Chili Sauce" by Louis Prima

They're Baaaccckkkk

2011-01-05T17:13:00.002-05:00

Today I did the rarest of things for adult: I took a nap.

A medication I’m on is causing a dry cough that keeps me (and my husband) up half the night. Last night was so bad I think I slept a total of three hours, in 20 minute segments, between the coughing spells. I was so tired this morning as I readied for work that I didn’t notice until I started to get dressed that I had forgotten to rinse the shampoo out of my hair while I showered. So tired I spent five minutes looking for my reading glasses, which I had been wearing like a headband upon my freshly rinsed hair. So tired I had to drive back home when I was but blocks from the office, because I had forgotten my cell phone and my lozenges (which have left a permanent yellow spot in the center of my tongue from two weeks’ worth of sucking).

So as soon as I finished this morning’s work at the office, I had to lie down for a couple of hours before exhaustion made me iron the rabbit and put the laundry back in its cage. My husband gave his blessing (why do adults feel the need to ask permission to nap?), and I headed upstairs while he de-Christmased the rest of the house. Although I coughed half the time, I did manage to catch 34 ½ glorious winks…until the tornado blew in at exactly 4:01 p.m.

“We’re HOOMMMEE!!....What’s for snack? Can I eat this is or it for lunch? Can I have a juicebox? Where’s the remote?! Where are you?! MOOOOMMMM!!!!”

All that took 2.3 seconds to come out of mouths as they speed yelled in unison. By the time I descended the stairs literally one minute later, it looked like a bomb went off in the coat closet of my husband’s freshly cleaned living room. Coats, shoes, backpacks, lunchboxes, socks, THEIR JEANS…were all strew about the floor. Son #2 was hopping about yelling that his new pants had given him a rash on his thighs and he needed “itch goo.” Son #1 was yelling at Son #2 to put on some pants and that the “itch goo” (which by the way is prescription hydrocortisone…should you be wondering) was HIS and telling me he now refuses to use it on his neck if I allow Son #2 to put it anywhere near “his thing.” I may be dating myself with this reference, but this is the exact moment when I want to look into the imaginary camera that films every moment of my life and say, “Calgon, take me away!”

It’s not Calgon, but a large mug of “dreg” (reheated coffee from this morning’s pot….we’re out of wine) took the edge off just long enough for me to slather second grade thighs, pour drinks, dole out cookies (NEVER let them get their own), rinse out lunch boxes and point to the pile of outerwear in my trademarked “move it or lose it” gesture.

Once Son #1 and Son #2 were sated, settled and sitting on the sofa sipping soda (Can you say ‘alliteration’? I knew you could) I was able to look at them and remember why it was I wanted kids in the first place. But from 4:01 p.m. to 4:08 p.m., I had been cursing myself for not opting to raise cats.

Cats like naps.

Family Plot

2010-12-30T20:08:00.007-05:00

Yesterday while I was grocery shopping, my sons successfully managed to talk their father into letting them combine their $50 in Christmas gift cards and purchase a Chinese dwarf hamster. They met me in the frozen foods aisle with huge smiles on their faces, a bag full of rodent paraphernalia, a small box with airholes punched into the side, and $5 in change. There was no need for a cage, since they knew we already had one in the attic. WHY did we have a hamster cage in the attic? Well, that leads to the point of this entry.

"Nugget" is now residing in the former home of "Hammie." Hammie was a Black Bear hamster Evan got for his birthday about four years ago. Very sweet, and a bit of an escape artist. One day about six months after we got him, I came down stairs in the morning and started yelling at the kids for leaving a wet sock on the living room floor. Only, it wasn't a wet sock. It was Hammie. He'd pulled a noctural Houdini act, only to be found and "played with" by Daisy the Dalmatian.

Hammie rests in peace ( and just one piece, fortunately) in "Poopy Park," a small dog-walking park around the corner from our house. But Hammie is not the only occupant of the "Stanley Family Plot" at Poopy Park, for Hammie was preceded in death by Sponge Bob and Patrick. Sponge Bob and Patric were parakeets who met their doom one afternoon when someone accidentally bumped a knob on the stove and heated a Teflon frying pan on low for an hour. (Apparently, Teflon fumes are lethal to parakeets.) Sponge Bob, Patrick and Hammie were later joined by Bubbles the goldfish.

Yes, we buried a goldfish. Bubbles was no ordinary fish. We won him at the local church carnival, and he proceeded to grow as big as a tennis ball. This was the kind of fish who would swim to the edge of the tank to greet you in the morning and who, when he knew you were about to clean his tank, would swim INTO your hand as if to make your job easier and say "Thanks!" Bubbles lived a long life, and when he finally floated to the top, he was just too noble of a creature to get the customary "burial at sea." So Bubbles rests his fins alongside his furry and feathered counterparts in Poopy Park.

Daisy the Dalmatian and Pudding the cat have also passed on since we moved into the house of pet death, although they both lived long and happy lives (Daisy, 11; Pudding, 18) and neither was flushed or buried in the park. All we have now are two freakishly large goldfish (we apparently rock at raising fish); "Hopscotch," a dwarf rabbit who thinks he's a dog (we had two, but one was a psychotic, biting rapist and had to go); and now "Nugget."

Goldfish have been known to live up to 20 years. This is not acceptable. I do not want to be scraping algae off the sides of a tank well into my 60s. I'm giving "Oprah" and "Dr. Phil" until Ben hits high school, and then they're going into our friend's koi pond where they can grow to the size of shoe boxes and eat their weight in flakes. I'm not necessarily telling my friend they've gone in either. Let them think it's spontaneous generation.

The lifespan of an indoor rabbit could be 10-12 years, which means I'll be finding rabbit droppings on the sofa until Ben is a freshman in college, or Evan marries a woman who likes rabbits (unless he's living in his "basement apartment" when he's 24...which he won't be...)

Nugget isn't going to be a problem. Hamsters live 2-3 years. The Guinness Book of World Records says the world's oldest hamster made it to 7. Either way, Nugget will live a happy life running his wheel at 3 a.m. until his time comes, and then there's plenty of space at the family plot down the road. And the cage'll go back into the attic when it's vacated, just as before. Until it's time to give the unborn grandkids a hamster.

Or two.

*Ben by Michael Jackson.
About a kid and his pet rat named Ben.
I have a kid named Ben.
He has a pet hamster.
Close as I could get.

Christmas Mind#$%@

2010-12-27T21:12:00.007-05:00

Merry Christmas!

Hopefully, you have all found your lost gift cards after digging through the gravy soaked garbage bags, have dug yourselves out of your driveways (east coasters), figured out what that wet stuff coming down from the sky is (west coasters) or managed to shoot/stuff/mount somethin' (the middle bits).

I myself am hiding up in my bedroom office playing on the computer because I can't take one more minute listening to the background music that comes with the Wii. I hope that "composer" made a fortune, because I'm pretty sure there's a bounty on his head by now.

Christmas used to be a lot easier when my kids (two boys, 8 and 14) were younger. It wasn't so much about the content of the boxes under the tree as it was about bulk. Giant box? Good! Didn't matter to them that it was filled with $10 fake Legos. As long as the box took up half the living room, they were happy. Then something clicked in their little consumer brains, and they figured out that the "good stuff" came in smaller packages. They figured out the difference between name-brand and knock-off. And yet, they still expected bulk under the tree. I've heard I'm not alone in this. And I expect that Wells Fargo, Bank of America and Wachovia are pretty much expecting everyone's January mortgage payments to include a late fee.

Despite the "gotta wait for the next paycheck" shopping on Dec. 24, and the "cross your fingers and hope it goes through" credit card transactions, most of our kids probably had an awesome Christmas morning and are already plotting their wish lists for next year. The thought of that got me thinking about some of the best Christmas presents I've given, and gotten. (It's a real conjugation...I looked it up!)

Gotten: Hands down easy answer.

My parents were divorced for several years, then remarried each other and soon after moved my younger brother and I clear across the country from Pennsylvania to Nevada. Sparks, Nevada to be exact. Never heard of Sparks, Nevada? Yeah, well, why the hell should you have? It's in the middle of nowhere and it was butt ugly (at least in the mid-to-late 70s). Tumbleweed was their local flora. Their local fauna were truckers, commuting hookers and religious fanatics...at least in our neighborhood.

I was 11. I knew no one. I missed everyone back east. And I'd been told, against my will the year before, that Santa was "a lie, and did not exist." Needless to say, I wasn't expecting much that dusty Christmas. A cyanide pill would have been a welcomed stocking stuffer. But I got this little box under the tree that 6th Grade Christmas. In it was 20 business cards. No, I hadn't been franchised. They were all cards for a nearby ranch that sold horses and offered trail rides with Arabians. Each card was signed on the back by the ranch owner and was good for a one-hour trail ride.

To an average girl, a box of business cards instead of makeup or Donny Osmond posters would have seemed like crap. But these cards became, to this day, one of my most memorable gifts. These twenty hours on horseback were twenty hours I wasn't at home living with strangers. They were twenty hours spent on "Blackjack." Blackjack was my horse of choice. Not too tall, not too short, not too fast, not too slow, Blackjack knew the trail like he'd blazed it himself and was my Saturday companion for the rest of 6th grade. I dreamed of buying him for my own one day. When I got to know the ranch owner, she let me use my hour-long cards for two half-hour sessions instead, which enabled me to invite neighborhood girls to join me. Yeah, it was an 11-year-old transcontinental transplant's attempt at bribing kids into liking her. I knew it, and they knew it. I don't remember any of their names anymore, but for at last 30 minutes on each Saturday, I had a friend on my new coast. And I had Blackjack.

My last six hours or so, I didn't want to share with pseudo-friends. I just wanted Blackjack and the trail to myself. I knew I'd never own him, but I just wanted to savor the bladder-bursting gallops with him by myself. Blackjack's long since dead, but I'll always remember that winter/spring riding the barren trails of Sparks, Nevada with him as one of my favorite childhood Christmas gifts.

Given: Hands down easy answer.

I have two sons, Evan (now 14) and Ben (now 8). Evan is me. Ben is his father.

"Me" at Christmas is hooked on "A Christmas Story." The movie completely resonates with me, having grown up in my grandparents same-era house in West Mount Airy, Philadelphia. I've replicated some of the sets in our own house. The push-bottom radio with the chrome bowling ball liquor dispenser on top? Got that. Bing playing on Christmas morning as the kids descend the stairs? Done that. Pink, footed bunny jammies with hoodie and ears?....Well, I'm not psychotic, I've never done that to my kids. BUT the movie is ingrained into my brain, and into my son Evan's.

When Evan was 9 he still firmly (as far as we could tell) believed in Santa. Without consulting my other/better/wiser half, during a shopping trip in the Amish country I purchased at a dry goods store a "Red Ryder Official BB Gun." It didn't have "a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time," but it was as close to the real deal as they made. I wrapped it in plain paper. And Christmas Eve, after the kids had finally fallen asleep and when my husband wasn't looking, I hid it in the living room. Behind the desk.

Once all the presents were opened, somehow Evan was subtly (OK, maybe not so subtly) directed to look toward the desk. When he opened it, he was stunned. Something that he didn't even know he wanted and had never even asked Santa for instantly became his most treasured gift that year. He shot cans from our recycling bin, still dressed in his jammies. He schlepped his oiled steel beauty to New Jersey that afternoon and turned my in-laws backyard into a rifle range, much to the chagrin of their Home Owners Association I'm sure.

You don't get to many chances to blow a kids Christmas mind (in the good way) as a parent. I don't think my parents knew they were blowing mine when they stopped by that ranch and asked its owner to sign a bunch of 2x3" cards. But they accidentally did. And I don't know if that unexpected pediatric weaponry blew my son's mind, but that memorable look of amazement and surprise makes me hope it did.

I don't really relish growing older, but I do look forward to one day blowing my grandkids' minds, and maybe ruffling my daughter-in-laws' feathers, with one or two memorable Christmas gifts somewhere in the far future. To me, nothing would be cooler to Grandma Suze than knowing my sons' kids were drifting off to sleep, pringing ducks on the wing and getting off spectacular hip shots.

"Christmas Everyday" by Latch Key Kid on playlist (Yup, always pimpin')

Hell....The Wonder Years My Ass!

2010-12-07T18:49:00.005-05:00

Despite my parents best efforts and years of religious schooling, I turned out completely non-religious. With one exception. I'm a firm believer in hell. I know for a fact it exists. Hell is the place you go to be tormented by Satan's minions. A place where you live in fear and agony. A place where those around you thrive on finding ways to pick you apart and feast on your emotional carcass like ravenous vultures.

Middle school.

Something happens to kids (girls especially, I hate to admit it) that turns many of them pure evil between the ages of 11 and 14 or so. Maybe it's hormones, maybe it's actually their own insecurities, maybe it's an inbred instinct to attack the weakest members of the herd. Or maybe they're just little bitches. But middle school is the definition of "hell on earth" for many of those who don't fit into the popular, "jockular," beautiful cliques. We all survived it, some with more scars than others (literal, and figurative). And now a lot of us are going through it again, as observers.

This morning I had a flashback to those horrible years thanks to my nearly 14-year-old son. An eczema sufferer, the dry winter air has done a real number on his arms and has spread its damage to his face. Yesterday he started a new treatment, but until it kicks in, he's an itchy, patchy, flaky mess, slathered in prescription ointment. This morning, when I went to wake him up for school, he down at me from his top bunk and simply said "Please don't make me go."

Ever seen one of those television moments where the background blurs and zooms by, and suddenly the main character is standing there in their own past? In an instant, I was lying in my own 1978 bed, covered in chicken pox scabs, begging my mother not to send me back to school: "Tomorrow's Friday. Just let me stay home until Monday. Please!"

Sure, I'd managed to get by so far in middle school, buy only by the skin of my teeth. I went to middle school in three states on two coasts. I was perpetually the "new girl." The chubby new girl. The chubby new girl with the huge rack. Becoming the class clown with C-cups got me by, but not even a self-deprecating sense of humor and mastery of a filthy vocabulary could spare this funny, "Rubenesque" chick from ridicule once they saw me covered in Calamine and pox. So I begged. "If your temperature is normal in the morning, you're going." Thanks be to God I still had a fever the next morning. Well, actually, thanks be to the Thermos full of boiling water I kept under my bed that night. The minute she left the room with the thermometer under my tongue, I went into action. Thermos open, thermometer in, swearing that it instantly got up to 112 degrees, and shaking it as hard as I could until she came back. "That's odd. You don't feel like you've got a 101. I guess you lucked out. Stay in bed."

So when I heard "Please don't make me go" this morning, he didn't have to ask twice. I could see the pain in his face, anticipating being tormented for his splotchy cheeks and swollen eyelids. I'm a good mom. I'm not evil. And since federal law prevents me from going to school with him and shoving the tormentors into their lockers or giving them swirlies, he was allowed to stay home for the day.

And made to clean the living room.

Maybe I am just a little evil.

Putting the "URGE" in "Urgent"

2010-12-03T21:08:00.009-05:00

I do it.

I confess.

Yes, I'd rather someone else do it to me.

But sometimes, the urge is just there. So strong.

And either there's no one available to help me vanquish it, or I simply need the job done as quickly and easily as possible.

So I admit, I frequently quell the desire all by myself.

With my own hand.

Or any number of purposely designed or make-shift devices I have laying about for just such an occasion.

I have them throughout the house, for whenever the need arises.

There's one next to my bed.

There's one in the bathroom.

There's the cheap thing I bought in Chinatown.

There's the thing in the utensil drawer.

Hell, I've even been known to use furniture or wall corners in a pinch, the urge is sometimes that strong.

I have the world's itchiest back.

(And you're all a bunch of perverts, BTW.)

If Heaven is a place filled with nothing but things designed to bring us pleasure, than Suze Heaven consists of walls made of coarse sandpaper to rub against, people with long fingernails willing to do my back's bidding, and Eucerin waterfalls.

I don't know if it's dry skin, excessively sensitive nerves or what-have-you, but I derive such pleasure from a good back scratching that I've been accused of having secondary and tertiary clitorises (clitori?) in my shoulder blades.

If I were to be captured by the enemy, I'd be able to stick to "name, rank serial number" if subjected to water-boarding, "the box" or sleep deprivation. But so help me, I'd give up every thing I had on each and every one of you if they teased me with a light scratching across my back.

So out of all the bloggable things going on in the world today...TSA screenings, Tom Brady's hair, Kardashian kredit kards, Leslie Nielsen's passing...what made made me write a stupid blog entry about my neurotic/erotic/psychotic love of a good back scratching?

I'm home alone.

Everyone's at Lansdale's Christmas tree lighting.

I got itchy.

I saw the bread knife...

and now I desperately need a Band-Aid.

Web and Flow

2010-11-08T08:16:00.005-05:00

This is another one of those blog posts that requires a warning right up front: If you're one of those wussy men who can't handle the words "puberty" or "period" without having blood trickle from your ears or running away screaming, you should probably move along.

Of course, I've already said the words, I'm sure they're already fled the room.

I recently got an unexpected phone call from my very first ever boyfriend from the summer between 7th and 8th grades. It was really sweet and we laughed a lot remembering the past and catching up on the present, our kids, jobs, etc. Since we hung up, I've been mentally going back to that period (the other use for word, fellows) remembering every little thing or other. A lot of my childhood is a blur because we moved around so much. But that period (again, you're safe) when we lived in Middle-of-Nowhere, Nevada is pretty firmly fixed in my gray matter. Why? Puberty.

Here's where it starts getting ugly.

We moved to Nevada shortly after I began 6th grade. I was maybe 11 and a month. Something about the sagebrush and slots affected my hormones and puberty hit me like a ton of bricks, all in one afternoon. I'd already developed quite a bit in 5th grade, much to my horror. How do I remember it was in 5th grade? Oh, when your evil ex-nun school teacher loudly announces in the middle of your co-ed game of hopscotch "Suzanne, tell your mother that Miss Harris says it's time you start wearing a bra to school" you kind of remember that day. She'd be about 65 now, unless one of her former students has murdered her.

My family wasn't exactly the "let's talk about the facts of life" set, so when I was sitting in class that one November afternoon in 6th grade, my barely 11-year-old body doubled over in agony, the school nurse called my father and told him to pick me up: "She may have appendicitis." After lying down at home with a heating pad for two hours, it was suddenly well evident that I did indeed NOT have appendicitis. I was mortified. My mother was thrilled. I was a woman. "Let's call Grandma and tell her!"

*Now, I should explain a little something here. We were living in the outskirts of Reno, and Grandma, Grandpa and every other person we knew was back in Philadelphia. And we were living on a religious commune to boot. So there was a lot of praying over me during those 2 hours before the medical truth was revealed. Zealots lose their interest once they see you're not dying ~ just on the rag. (How many of you did I lose with that one?)*

So for some bizarre reason, I complied and called my grandmother back in Philadelphia and told her the "good" news. "Grandma...Mom wanted me to call you and tell you I just got my first period." I'll never forget her response. It was classic Grandma H. "That's WONDERFUL dear! Now, you don't have to tell me every month. This one should cover it."

So there you've got the background. Puberty hit me like a ton of bricks, all in one week. By that Friday, I think I had to start shaving my legs. Within a month, I was in an underwire. So by the time I hit 7th grade, let's just say I stood out even more from the other girls. My school picture is downright comical. Sitting behind an old fashioned desk, flag by my side, fake bookcase backdrop behind me...and all you really notice is a huge set of breasts on a mortified 12 year old girl. I out-racked some of the teachers. There was only one other kid in the entire school who'd been hit as hard and as early as I. He was in 8th grade, and had a full mustache. It was inevitable that we'd connect. And that summer we were inseparable.

I don't know what his folks had told or taught him about sex. I know my "knowledge" at that point was mostly that it would send me to hell. So there was a lot of innocent exploring and not-so-innocent "Oh, so that's what that does!" results that summer. Relax...we never did "anything" major really, but I did go farther with G. than I did with most boys in high school...And this is today's lesson folks: If all you tell your kids about sex is that it's wrong, hoping to curb their interest, well you'll get the opposite results. Guaranteed.

Half my friends have kids my older son's age, and we're all in the opposite end of the puberty boat now. Dealing with THEM dealing with puberty. Some of our kids have long crossed that bridge. One of my son's classmates has a mustache and sounds like Barry White. And others are years away. But we parents are all at the point where we've got to decide how far to take "the talk" (if we haven't already had it). I'm not saying we should start running out and stocking up on condoms and talking about the pill. But we can't be ostriches burying our heads in the sand and hoping they'll figure out their burgeoning bodies and urges on their own. No way in hell am I going to be a "Grandma" in my 40s. (Not thrilled about the prospect in my 50s either...or just the prospect of my 50s quite frankly).

Sex is awesome. It's right up there with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. And kids aren't stupid. All it takes is the first kid who's rounded the bases to tell all the others...and we're toast. I just hope that I'm being a good enough coach during spring training that my kid takes his sweet time and doesn't attempt to bat until he's completely ready to handle the outcome of the game.

Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good"...first concert/date I went to that summer.

Back to the Future?

2010-11-05T14:21:00.004-04:00

This week, one Stanley has decided to leap into the future and another is diving into the past. Let me elucidate...

When I was a communications major at Temple University, one of my journalism professors (who I happened to have a crush on...but I digress) was also an editor at my local daily newspaper. He got me a job in the summer of 1990 as a freelance writer, or "stringer." Being an overeager journalist-in-the-making, I took whatever assignment they'd throw my way, even if it meant working every weekend. Which it did. Being a small paper, many times I was the only person in the newsroom during my shift. One afternoon, a staff photographer I'd never met came into the newsroom, told me his car battery was dead and asked if I could give him a jump start. I didn't have cables...but I did end up jumping him several months later. Or he ended up jumping me, depending on whose side of the story you believe. One thing lead to another, and 20 years later we've got two kids, a mortgage and 9-year-old car with the "check engine" light constantly on.

While I left the paper eons ago, he's been working there in various capacities for 22 years. Until now.

Early this week, my husband was offered a job with the newspaper's parent company and will be leaving The Reporter's newsroom. He's worked there longer than it takes a person to be born, educated and become of legal drinking age. For the first time since 1988, there won't be a Stanley working at the local paper.

Strike that.

On the same day corporate offered him his new position, the paper's editor asked me if I'd be willing to come back part-time for a little while and help out while an employee was on disability. With Christmas right around the corner, and Apple products on someone's wishlist, I naturally agreed. So as my husband is packing up his desk of 22 years, I'll be sitting down to do the exact same job I left 15 years ago. Walking into that newsroom, with a new computer system I've never used, is going to be like 1990 all over again. Except this time I'm not the fresh-faced 20-something in a room full of seasoned staffers...I'm a good decade-plus older than most of their current writers. God, that's depressing.

All this got me thinking about how much all the little things have changed since 1990, and whether I'd pick the current over the past.

Lansdale itself looks extremely different. The elaborate and ornate Hotel Tremont that once welcomed folks into town and dominated Broad and Main for more than 100 years was razed to make way for our new centerpiece, a butt-ugly Rite Aid. Welcome to Lansdale ~ you want child-proof caps? Other landmarks are gone. Restaurants have opened, closed, reopened, reclosed and then become credit unions. "I Got It At Gary's" became Vidilia, Vidalia became Food Town. Parking meters cropped up like Main Street weeds. But a farmer's market, Oktoberfest and killer pub compensate, somewhat. Still, I think I'd take 1990 Lansdale's backdrop. Today, we just look like every other pharmacy-riddled Philly burb.

I myself look pretty different. 1990 Suzanne had really really long, thick, awesome hair. 2010 Suze has the post-kids, thinner, shoulder-length "mommy" thing going on. Too old for the "Grab my ponytail and drag me to your cave, Thag!" look. 1990 Suzanne was also 80 pounds heavier than 2010 Suze, however. So go ahead, keep the hair 1990. Reading glasses, blood pressure medicine and the one varicose vein aside, I think I actually prefer 2010 Suze. She's more interesting and seasoned than 1990 Suzanne. She's got a killer tattoo. And a secret wild side that only a lucky (?) few know about. When she's not depressed or dieting, she can rock.

That photographer I told you about? Well, the jerk looks almost exactly the same in 2010 as he did in 1990. (We've been together 20 years, so I can use the term "jerk" as an expression of affection.) Despite the fact that he has WAY more gray hairs than me (I have five. I counted), as I'm getting the insultingly polite "Ma'am" on occasion, HE still gets carded on occasion at the state store. On one photo assignment not too long ago, someone actually asked him what school newspaper he worked for. Obviously, they were drunk and/or myopic.

I may have rambled a bit, as people of my advanced age sometimes tend to do. I'm not even sure what the original point of this belated blog was, but I'm going with this: Times change, and like it or not, you've gotta roll with 'em. Hopefully that means taking a giant, risky leap forward. Sometimes it means taking a necessary, temporary step backward. Buildings, jobs, pounds and hairlines come and go, but what keeps us young is the company and attitudes we keep. There you go. I think.

By the way, I'm only 37 and will deny any age to the contrary.

And if you happen to see a reprinting of this blog entry in a future issue of "Cooks Source" magazine...please let me know.

Splitting Hairs

2010-09-19T22:33:00.004-04:00

Warning: The following blog entry should not be read by the easily embarrassed, the easily offended, the overly judgmental, the Amish, anyone who may see me at the grocery store or PTA meetings or my relatives…

I haven’t blogged in ages. Between entertaining the kids during summer break and working, I just haven’t had the time. But now that everyone’s schedules are back to “normal,” I’m finally carving out a little time every day to write. In fact, I’m working on a script, and as is my custom, I dove into research before putting the proverbial pen to paper.

In researching a story I’m working on about middle aged women, dating and sex, I have recently found myself required to visit some online porn sites. (That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.) I must say, adult “films” have changed significantly since I watched my first one back during the Reagan administration on the $600 Betamax VCR I bought with my babysitting money. Back in the day, you had to pay an annual membership fee to join a video club. Once inside, you’d look left-right-left as if you were about to cross a busy intersection, to make sure no one you knew noticed you entering the red-bulb-lit “naughty room” in the back of the store. You’d read the back of the tape boxes, trying to find a movie that had at least a semblance of a storyline (or maybe that was just me), and avoid making eye contact with anyone else who may have crossed the threshold into adult territory. Today, thanks to the internet, I don’t know if they even rent porn anymore. But I digress.

Like I said, everything’s changed since that first Beta tape, which I still remember vividly. I think the plot involved a lone guy on a sailboat who shipwrecked on an island conveniently inhabited only by women who’d never seen a man before. Or maybe he was a pilot. Or a pizza delivery guy….OK, I don’t remember it that well after all. But I DO remember one thing. Pubic hair still existed back in the 1980s.

If an alien were to tap into the internet and judge us solely from images he saw in today’s porn, he would assume that the human race has been genetically altered to the point that short-and-curlies no longer exist, on women OR men. He’d also assume that human females are all born with butterfly tattoos on their lower backs and that our species now propagates through dermatological osmosis (that was the most polite way I could say what I think you know I’m talking about.)

Other changes I’ve noticed? Well…acts that were considered edgy or even shocking back in the “Luke and Laura,” Duran Duran days are now de rigeur and don’t even raise an eyebrow. Of course, eyebrows aren’t what they aim at raising. Men are no longer required to be even slightly attractive, only freakishly well-endowed. In fact, not even all the women are required to be attractive anymore, just willing to push the limits of the human anatomy. I know that porn isn’t truly my “thing” since I mostly find myself judging the dialog, noticing the men’s butt acne and the women’s dental fillings. There is a lot of bad dentistry among porn “actresses”!

Of course some things remain the same. No one plays pool on pool tables, although there are usually plenty of racks and balls on the felt. Coeds still manage to convince their professors not to fail them. Police, plumbers and pizza guys are still willing to accept the bartering system for payment. And boobs are still defying gravity.

Porn has been around since the first caveman drew a pair of Neanderthal breasts in the dirt with a stick, and has evolved with the changing technologies and public tastes. And porn will still be around a thousand years from now, when we’re all living somewhere in space. Maybe by then pubic hair will even reappear.

I could go on and on, but I’ve got to go. The Domino’s guy just pulled up, and I can’t find my wallet.

I'm Feelin' the Urge...The Urge to Purge

2010-07-28T11:23:00.007-04:00

When my husband and I first started dating 20 years ago, I was very excited when he invited me over to his apartment for the first time for dinner. Looking around his mini one-bedroom place, which bore mostly the remnants of his college days, I quickly realized he was a minimalist. His bedroom furniture consisted of a one-man futon, a “table” that was actually an old electric cable spool and a typewriter table to hold his turtle tank. His living room held an old desk chair and arm chair from his parents’ house and his tv sat on his childhood nightstand. And in the kitchen was a two-man table from Ikea and an ironing board. “I never want to own more than I can fit into my Honda Civic because you never know where an opportunity may take you, or when,” he said. I had to laugh. By 23, I already had a storage unit, having moved from my apartment back in with my parents so I could go back to college. I thought to myself, "Well, this attitude is going to change!" And sure enough, it did.

When we moved in together, we discovered a joint love of flea marketing. He now loved to collect vintage radios and televisions (didn’t matter that none of them worked, they all looked cool). And I felt the need to recreate the comfort zone of a tortured childhood: my grandparents kitchen. As our now two-bedroom apartment filled up with my old furniture, old RCAs and every 1940s utensil we could get our hands on, it started to feel like a home…a very cluttered home. When we got married, rented a tiny house and had our first son, we felt the natural need to nest. “Nest” coming from the Latin word meaning “to collect crap.” We became very sentimental and whenever a relative was going to give away some item from our childhoods, we felt the need to become its caretakers. Dining room set, dressers, desks, paintings, books…we were doing our lineage a service by minding the mess.

When we bought our own home and had our second son, this naturally progressed. We have more rooms! Look at all the cabinet and closet space! Let’s fill ‘em! Aunt Mildred’s gone. Sure, I’ll take the bureau and sofabed. Grandma’s gone. Sure, I’ll take the dressers. Ooooo, look at that 1950s oven! It’s just like Grandma’s! Bring it on! When both of our parents downsized their houses, guess who took a lot of the overflow.

Now, something in me has either clicked or snapped (the verb depends on if you’re an optimist or a pessimist). Recently I began feeling the urge. The urge to purge. In the month since I’ve been back from my last trip to Los Angeles, I’ve purged probably half of my personal belongings. Clothes, shoes, jewelry, books…if I didn’t wear, walk in or read it in the past year, it's outta here. Same with the kids’ room. And this morning, since I’m childless for the rest of the week, I decided to tackle my “hot spot.” The kitchen. I started writing this blog in my head after I pulled my third fondue set from a cabinet. This is not 1974. There are no fondue-based key parties in my future. Bye-bye skewers and pots. Why the hell do I have seven pie plates? I have never baked more than three pies at one time, even on my biggest Thanksgiving. So long 9” Pyrexes. There are only four of us in this house. Why do I have 11 coffee mugs? Three crockpots? I have never made homemade French onion soup. And yet I have the crocks. I have the internet, I don’t need 12 cookbooks (at one time I had over 40, so only having 12 now is already impressive but I’m only keeping three). I think I now have two Honda Civic’s worth of crap to get out of this kitchen. If you’re looking for a gravy boat or vintage cake plate, better call me before my husband gets back from work!

I admit that when under stress, when I’m feeling a lack of control, I have the tendency to rearrange the proverbial deck chairs. I have arranged the furniture in this house in every possible configuration at one point or another, short of putting the only-semi-functional 1950s Norge oven in the living room. But as my next September birthday looms, I’m feeling a deep need to lighten loads, metaphorically and physically. I’m obsessed with shedding weight, shedding clutter, shedding stress. So far, I’m two-for-three.

I have a dear friend named Christina, a kindred spirit whom I’ve never actually met. She recently turned 30 and I’ve sometimes made fun of her for becoming overly reflective and worried about her life’s direction so early. And I really shouldn’t have. It’s never too early to reflect. Never too early to start sorting through your life. Whenever you’re facing transition, whether it’s a milestone age, a career change or some personal drama…it’s never too early to want to do something about it and think about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Sorry Christina. Keep on thinking and doing something about it. And let me know if you need a fondue set.

Versus Verses

2010-07-25T10:59:00.013-04:00

When a man says “I’m going to bed,” he takes off his pants, (if they already haven't been off for the past three hours), turns off the light, gets into bed and falls asleep. When a woman says “I’m going to bed,” she rotates the laundry cycle, checks on the kids, makes her “to do list” for the next day, checks her emails, pays the mortgage online, washes off her makeup, gets undressed, turns off the light, gets into bed, turns the light back on, takes the medicine she forgot, turns the light back off, gets into bed, and lies there for two hours wide awake.

When a man says “Nothing’s wrong,” he actually means: “Nothing is wrong, why are you asking?” When a woman says “Nothing’s wrong,” She actually means: “I am so pissed off right now, and your not knowing why is half the reason I’m pissed, so you’d better figure it out for yourself because I’m not going to tell you and if you don’t figure it out soon, be prepared for no sex for a while.”

When a man says “I’ll be home at 6,” he actually means: “I will be home sometime between 6 and 7:30.” When a woman says “I’ll be home at 6,” she actually means: “I’ll be home between 5:58 and 6:02.”

When a man says “She seemed very nice,” he either actually means: “She seemed very nice” or “Oh my god, that was the best rack I’ve seen in AGES.” When a woman says “She seemed very nice,” she either actually means “I could take her or leave her” OR “Oh my god, those were SO fake! And I SAW you looking!”

When a man says "I bought you a present. I hope it fits," he actually means: "It may be too small because I know if I accidentally bought one too large, you'd get depressed and accuse me of thinking you're fat." When a woman says "I bought you a present, I hope it fits," she actually means : nothing. No woman has ever said that sentence. We know every size of every member of both sides of the family.

When a man says "That guy's really good looking, don't you think?" he actually means: nothing. No (straight) man has ever said that sentence. When a woman says "That guy's really good looking, don't you think?" she actually means: "I think you should eat more salads, dear."

When a man says "I'll be ready to go in five minutes," he actually means "I'll be ready to go in five minutes. I may not remember where we're going, how to get there, or to be dressed appropriately, but I'll be ready." When a woman says "I'll be ready to go in five minutes," she actually means "You may as well turn on the television and make yourself a snack."

When a man says “That woman’s beautiful, don’t you think?” he actually means: “I am a very brave and possibly quite stupid man who is willing to take my life into my own hands by pointing a woman I find attractive out to you.” When a woman says “That woman’s beautiful, don’t you think?” she actually means: “That woman’s beautiful. I’m feeling frumpy. I’m subliminally asking you to tell me you find me attractive. You get one shot at answering correctly. If you fail, please refer to the consequences of example #2.

Feel free to add your own below.

"Nothing’s wrong."

Pros at Prose

2010-07-03T12:08:00.006-04:00

I love writing.

I’ve wanted to be a writer since the 8th grade, when my jackass teacher refused to submit a short story I’d written to a contest, saying: “This must have been plagiarized from somewhere. You’re too young to write about an alcoholic matador so realistically.” What can I say? I had a vivid imagination and a decent vocabulary at 13. And a thing for drunken bullfighters apparently.

There’s just something about being able to combine words in such a fashion that you tell a story in a way someone else can’t. In a way that makes someone want to keep reading, and then talk about it after. I don’t care what the format is, I just love the process and the outcome. Even if it’s only 140 characters at a time.

This week I’ve written pages and pages about music licensors, DVD replicators, golden-haired minstrels and inbred homicidal psychotics, only three of whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I’ve “tweeted” about tattoos and Facebooked about horny hares. And I’ve dusted off long-shelved words like “Sapphic’ and “minstrel.” This is the stuff that floats my boat. Now if only this sailor could just reap some serious booty from the wordsmithing.

The point of this entry? Well, like “minstrel” and “Sapphic” (great word, made two people run to look it up so far), I let my love of writing sit on a shelf too long. I’ve know for close to 30 years that it’s what I was meant to do. And I got paid to do it for a while, but then stopped. Now that I’ve recommitted to it wholeheartedly, I sometimes worry that it’s too late. It’s hard to compete with kids 20 years younger in any field, let alone a creative one. But I’m busting a hump (not every turn of phrase has to be poetic) to make things happen.

I see both of my sons developing talents very early, things that I can see them doing as a profession. My 13-year-old spends hours drawing everything from Fenway to a portrait of his brother. I can totally see him becoming an artist or an architect. And I can see his 7-year-old brother becoming the President of the United States...or a highly successful used car salesman…or both. One’s an illustrator, the other an orator. I just hope that when the time comes for them to decide which paths to take, that I remember my floundering years and don’t try and make them pick something “safe” instead, like I did for a while. I’d like to think that I’d encourage them to go with their gifts rather than the safe road. Because I would love to see Evan design a building one day. And I would love to see Ben get Congress to make gay marriage legal in every state. Or at least get me a really good deal on a previously owned BMW.

"Lady Writer" by Dire Straits

My Karma Ran Over My Dogma

2010-06-12T14:58:00.002-04:00

3:00 p.m., Saturday June 12:
Blogging quickly from the USAirways gate, about to board a flight to Los Angeles. I was originally slated to fly out at 2 p.m., stopping in Phoenix for an hour. They screwed up and made it impossible to catch my connection. But by some twist of fate, the airline paged me and offered to put me on a later, direct flight that would get me to LA at my original landing time. Awesome. Then I look at my new ticket and see it says, 1D "First Class." I look at the woman at the counter, and she simply whispers "You were a sweetheart, you never saw me, don't mention my name or I'll get in trouble." Awesome! "I was never here, I never met you, but I love you" I tell her. Feeling full of luck and with a bit of swagger, I ask at the information booth if USAir has a first class lounge. Yes, I'm a rube whose never flown first class, and I plan on milking this ticket for all the perks it's worth. I'm directed to take a secret elevator to the third floor. WHO KNEW the airport had a third floor! The doors open, and the elevator is immediately filled with the aroma of gardenias and orchids from the lounge's reception desk. "I don't know if I'm allowed to be here, but I thought I'd try," I say to the size 0 supermodel behind the desk. She looks at my ticket, asks if I arrived from Europe, and then denies me entry upon getting my answer. *Note to self: whenever a skinny broad asks if you've arrived from Europe, say "yes." I return to the aromatic lift (that's British for elevator, you peasants) with my head hung in shame, as Eurotrash in ripped jeans and sweat-pitted T's look on in disdain. "Bugger off" they seem to be saying in their minds (British for F.U., you peasant!). So now I sit at the gate, with my prized golden ticket, waiting to board and sink my suburban housewife ass into a plush, extra-wide window seat with extra leg room, built in TV screen, free dinner and wine served on real plates in real glasses...typing to the background noise of two SCREAMING and kicking toddler twins sitting behind me, kicking my chair. Their mother is oblivious, talking on her cell about Milan and D&G. Crap. No on in coach talks about Milan and D&G. Yep. First class. I see her ticket. First class, seat 2D. Right behind me, with her screaming tantrum twins. I'm thinking of spending $12 for a bottle of Benadryl at the airport shop, slipping it into her purse, and hoping she gets the hint. Karma's a bitch.

Metal Poisons and Mental Plungers

2010-06-05T19:53:00.011-04:00

Between working two jobs and various volunteer work, I’ve had very little time to write for pleasure. I was lamenting this fact recently to a friend, who then replied that he had the perfect topic of my next blog entry. He sent me the following news story.

McDonald’s recalled 12 million "Shrek Forever After 3D" drinking glasses because they’re tainted with cadmium, a heavy metal that when ingested can be dangerous. When I reminded my friend that mine is a humor blog, and heavy metal poisoning ain’t exactly funny, he simply said, “Spin it.”

Well, the level of cadmium in the cartoon characters on the exterior of McDonald’s glasses is not toxic. In fact, unless your kid has a habit of obsessively licking the outside of their drinkware, these glasses would cause no harm. And McDonald’s should be credited for swiftly recalling them as soon as they learned of the contamination. Well done. But, McDonalds, if you really have the America's best interest at heart, try recalling the 800-calorie “Angus Bacon & Cheese” burger. (Of course, just typing that sentence made me want one. Damned diet.)

You can look at this story as a reason to be furious at a corporation, or as a reason to admire it. Yeah, some underlings were pretty sloppy in their testing before these things went out. But then again, the company could have dragged their feet for months or even fought a recall, and they didn’t. This story is all so “small potatoes” compared to the environmental disaster in the gulf that I think it’s only worthy of a shoulder shrug, and not the hysterics I’ve heard some moms devoting it. If you really want to fret over children being exposed to danger, think back your own, or your parents’, childhoods for a moment.

I remember taking a nap on the backseat of our car before seat belts were mandatory and getting thrown the floor when a car cut us off. Before safety locks on back doors were available, my younger brother once opened the car door while it was moving and hung onto the handle as his legs dangled out. Of course this was the same kid who climbed over the front seat, put the parked car in gear and drove down a hill at age 5. And had to go to the emergency room after lodging peas up his nose. Not a bright child, although he never washed his hands in the toilet as far as I recall.

I remember unzipping my beanbag chair so I could hide the diary professing my love for Donny Osmond amid the billions of pellets, and more than once inhaling a few dozen of the most-likely toxic microballs. I remember playing hide and seek in the trunk of a car and falling asleep. Before mandatory car seats, my kid brother and sister would both sit on my father’s lap while he was driving and help him steer the car. They also ate entire Play-Doh meals and cut off each other’s bangs with scissors they’d found lying around. The fact that the four of us made it to adulthood is impressive. Wait...Now that I think about it, going back a generation (long before safety caps and shrink-wrapped boxes), my mother once ate an entire bottle of candy-flavored aspirin. And my father wandered onto a San Diego highway when he was two to play in a cardboard box. How the #$%@ were the four of us ever even born?!

But I’ve digressed. I've "spinned" out of control my friend. But at least I'm blog-unclogged.

Holy Hasenpfeffer!

2010-04-25T18:50:00.004-04:00

A few days ago, while covering the teachers’ strike in our school district (North Penn), my husband noticed a few familiar faces approaching him with what appeared to be picket signs. It was my sons’ 4-H leader and her two daughters. As they approached, they revealed their protest cards. They weren’t aimed at swaying teachers or the school board to give in. Instead, these personalized placards were aimed right at my husband.

Well after a year of trying, my husband’s spine and resolve finally cracked and he surprised our boys tonight by telling them they could have a bunny. They’re not ripe yet, so we have to wait a month. But we got to visit the “nursery.” They were very white. Very small. With very blue eyes. We picked the one we wanted and I chose the name, Frankie.

We have no idea whether Frankie (or any of it’s siblings) is a boy or a girl. Frankie’s goodies aren’t visible yet. I’m told that by next month, if I blow on them I may be able to figure it out…but I’m just not quite curious enough to blow on a rabbit’s groin. Maybe once we get to know each other better. Or after I’ve had a few drinks.

Both boys have promised to take charge of Frankie’s cage ~ a promise that I know is as big a load of crap as Frankie’s cage will soon be. Just like the cat, and the dog, and the goldfish, I’ll eventually get charge of Frankie. I’m trying my hardest not to notice just how much Frankie looks like the rabbit in Fatal Attraction. And I do have a little bit of guilt that Frankie will be the first pet whose species I’ve actually eaten, in a delicious Moroccan tangine with olives, lemons and couscous served by belly dancers.

Knowing for a fact that a pet tastes like chicken is a bit disconcerting.

SPARE US THE STRIKE!

2010-04-22T16:15:00.004-04:00

There are several positive phrases that come to mind when you hear the word “strike.”

“Strike while the iron’s hot.”

"Strike up the band."

“Strike gold.”

“Strike up a conversation.”

“Strike it rich.”

But if you live within a 5-mile radius of my house, those aren’t the phrases that come to mind this week. Our teachers are on strike. Today is school-day #4 at home with our little “darlings.” And chances are, we’ll be home with them for another three before the strike legally has to end. Now, I’m not going to go into the politics of the strike or which side I support. If you know me personally, you already know the answer to that question. If you don’t…well you really should because I’m a fabulous person. (And humble.) But no matter which side you support, we parents of the North Penn School District have one thing in common:

OUR KIDS ARE DRIVING US CRAZY AND WE WANT YOU TO TAKE THEM BACK!

This early taste of summer vacation has gone to their heads…and their stomachs. They want to be entertained, and fed, constantly. “I’m bored” is their manta (“I’m bord” for those of us with crappy spellers). No, mommy can’t take you to the movies. Or mini golf. Or the batting cage. Or the mall. Mommy works while you’re in school and just because you’re home doesn’t mean she too gets to play all day. No, we can’t go to McDonald's/Wendy’s/Taco Bell every day. I bought plenty of groceries for the week last Sunday. How you ate them all by Wednesday is beyond me. See the Ramen in the pantry? Lunch. No, you can’t have a bag of potato chips. Why? Because it’s 9 in the morning!

Luckily, the weather so far during the strike has been fairly nice, so we can set our tykes free outside to ride bikes, play in the yard and dig for worms (Why? We’re not going fishing! Why is there a jar of worms on my picnic table?) But while we may be temporarily able to fend off boredom for a few hours with neighborhood friends and outdoor play, we parents must constantly be on guard for the foe who is milking this strike to his full advantage. We must keep an ear out for the evil one who is waiting to entice our children every afternoon just as we’re calling them in for dinner. You know of whom I speak. He lures our offspring with his siren song from blocks away. And like dogs listening to a whistle, the children freeze, cock their heads, then run into the house to plunder. The “Ice Cream Man.” The spoiler of appetites. The maker of purse pillagers. Fagin, with sprinkles.

As the teachers’ strike continues, parents are getting more and more annoyed at either the teachers or the school board. But it’s a waste of energy to feel hostility toward either side. Eventually the strike will end and a contract will be agreed upon. Once we’re all back in school, this animosity will be all but forgotten. And then we parents can direct our ire at the real enemy. Mr. Softee.

I'm Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam I am...Now Cough it Up!

2010-04-15T15:48:00.004-04:00

Mid April means means different things to different people.

To the kids/dependents, mid-April means riding bikes, staying outside later at night, peeking outside to see if it’s a shorts or jeans day for school, getting covered in dirt and grass stains, sliding into home plate and the opening of Allentown’s drive in theaters. Mid-April also means the end of school is within reach…a sneak preview of summer bliss.

If you’re a grownup/filer, mid-April means it’s time to oil up the lawnmower, start taking Claritin, switch the wardrobes from winter to summer, clean the birds nest out of the grill, start washing tree pollen off your car, and wishing the 4 a.m. mating birds and the 7 a.m. mowing neighbors would all just shut up. And filing taxes.

I just left the long line at the post office, having waited to make sure that I put enough Bart Simpson stamps on our tax returns. Bart seemed the appropriate postage choice since each return included a payment. My little way of subtly telling the IRS and the state department of revenue to “eat my shorts.” Everyone in line had the same look of resignation on our faces. We all owed. How did I know? Because if you get a refund, you sure as blazes file before April 15. Only we owers hold off until the deadline.

This year a lot of companies have picked up on the April 15th misery and are offering freebies today. I’d like to thank Starbucks for the free coffee they offered today to help wash down the bitter tax pill. Free Starbucks coffee somehow tastes so much better than paid-for Starbucks coffee. They both leave me doubled over a half-hour after drinking, but at least I didn’t pay for the pain this time. Later we’re going to Boston Market for their “tax break” B.O.G.O. dinners and then my husband is taking the kids to Maggie Moos for their free “tax day giveaway” ice cream. I’m on a diet and no one’s offering free Income Tax Day cottage cheese so I’m S.O.L. Free ice cream is great, but expenses aren’t the only thing this mom is trying to deduct.

After...Happily Ever After

2010-04-14T14:25:00.008-04:00

CINDERELLA

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

SLEEPING BEAUTY

BEAUTY

JASMINE (ALADDIN)

LITTLE MERMAID

Let Me See You Sweat

2010-04-05T20:48:00.005-04:00

Tonight I felt like my heart was going to explode, I was on the verge of throwing up and my left inner thigh muscle was visibly twitching. No, I wasn't having a stroke. I've joined a gym. A friend excitedly told me these symptoms are all “very good things.” That's nice. I still put 911 on speed dial, just in case.

I haven't belonged all that long, but I've already noticed a couple of things about my gym, and I presume gyms in general. The clientele varies greatly depending on the time of day you go. Weekday mornings are the mom and seniors crowd. The pace is slower, the sweat flows a little lighter and there's plenty of available equipment. Lunchtime, when I'm usually able to go, is some of the same crowd, with die hard exercise nuts thrown in the mix. People who run in from work, sweat for a half hour, shower, and go back to work with wet hair. They scare me. They need a burger.

Tonight was the first time I joined the “just clocked out” crowd. There was a waiting list for some of the cardio equipment. Unfortunately, everything I needed was available. There were a lot of teenage girls working out together, all plugged into iPods. I was envious of that. Not the teenage part (I only long to be 30...you couldn't pay me to be a teen again), but the working out next to someone you know part. I could go for that. (I have three guest passes people, HINT!) And then there were the no-necks. The biggest men I have ever seen who weren't wearing an NFL uniform. So much grunting going on there on the weight floor that it sounded like they were filming porn. Or Andre Agassi was playing Pete Sampras.

Someday I hope to get to the point where I feel comfortable working out alongside the no-necked grunters. I'm sure they're a swell bunch of guys. But for now I think I'll stick to the mom and senior hours for a while. Yes, there's quite a bit of grunting there too. But it just me trying to get off the recumbent bike after my legs have jellied.

Treadmilling to "Trampoline" by Latch Key Kid...great music always helps!

Putting the "Happy" in Happy Easter

2010-04-03T21:51:00.005-04:00

Just a few giggles for Easter

The Origin of the Easter Egg If we'd only let 'em hatch

Time to Bleach the Little White Ones

2010-03-28T20:43:00.004-04:00

Tonight I sat across the table from my sons at a chain steakhouse where you throw peanuts on the floor and the waiters break out into line dancing every half-hour. As I was looking at my first grader's toothless smile, I suddenly remembered a flood of bull I had been fed when I was his age. Mind you, I still feed the bull myself. I've got a stash of Easter basket goodies waiting in the closet, and I slip crisp dollar bills under pillows when teeth fall out (although having a 13-year-old roll over at 1 a.m., catch me in the act and saying “Thanks, Mom” kind of takes the wind out of your sails). I may go along with some of the same lines I was fed as a kid. But tonight I feel the need to break some rules and set some records straight. Don't worry, I'm not going to throw the Bunny, the Fairy and the bulemic man in red under the bus. But a few “truths” I was told as a child definitely should be flattened and treadmarked. Such as:

Eat your crust, it will make your hair nice and curly.
You know, I fell for this for years. Until it dawned on me that the grandmother spewing it got her hair permed every few months. Those curls were chemical, not crustical. Despite years of crusts, my hair is still brookstick straight. Only now it's also thinning and I'm bread intolerant. Thanks, Grandma. Thanks a lot.

Never EVER talk to strangers.
Unless, of course, you go into journalism, marketing or PR. Then go after them with a vengeance. Seek out strangers. Grab them on the street. Ask for their emails, Twitter names, Facebook accounts, Linked In connections... The more strangers you talk to the better.

It's what's on the inside that counts.
Yes, that's true...IF everyone you know is deep and thoughtful. But line up any company's top sales reps and I guarantee the hotties made more this year. And forget about dating in any major city if you're not a size 2 and either blond or 26. So put down the fork and hit the gym, and crawl into bed at night trying to NOT think about how old you are. (Where's my corkscrew?)

Women are just as good as men.
COMPLETELY true. In fact, it's most often an understatement! We just happen to get paid less and are expected to do twice as much for the privilege.

Clear your plate, it'll help the starving children in China.
Now, what one thing had to do with the other still perplexes me. Why would my eating overboiled French-cut green beans and well-done lamb help the impoverished youth of Asia? And would they even want this stuff? I mean, those beans literally pushed the definition of a “solid” to its limits. So you can blame my weight problem on my misguided youthful attempt at making the world a better place.

Be patient! Good things come to those who wait.
BULLSHIT. Good things come to those who pursue them vigorously.

You'll go blind doing that!
Nonsense. It's perfect natural. Now, where are my reading glasses?

Les Culs Stupide de la Semaine

2010-03-23T22:24:00.011-04:00

Dumb Ass Moves

No matter how smart we may be, how many degrees we may hold, or how many years of experience we have under our belts, we've all made a few dumbass moves. I, for one, have made more than my fair share. As a girl, covering my father's eyes and playing hide and seek while he was driving would qualify as a dumbass move. Trying to “double process” dye myself into a platinum blond in the mid-80s, only to end up with green hair, a mortifying public bus ride to the nearby mall, a $100 repair due, and being a brassy blonde for a year would qualify as a dumbass move. Leaving a Venice (Italy, not Cali) nightclub at 1 AM with three other 20-somethings and accidentally ending up in an alley where a guy was waiting to cut off our purses...dumbass move. Doing almost the same exact same thing two years later? Priceless dumbass move. But these pale in comparison to some dumbass moves I've seen this week. Let me elucidate.

Meet Twitter Dumbass(es) of the Week: @THHEEE_JAY and @Solly_Forell

These Mensa members were all over Twitter during the health care reform debate, literally calling for the execution of the president of the United States. Graphically. And repeatedly. Of course those on Twitter who had advanced beyond the stem cell stage started calling them on it. At first they steadfastly demanded bullets to the brain. Then their little tiny 4 watt lightbulbs above their heads went off and they started to backpedal. TLTL guys. Secret Service came acallin'. Hope you ain't purdy boys. Don't drop the soap. Dumbasses.

Meet Congressional Dumbass of the Week: Republican Rep. Randy Neugebauer

Neugebauer apparently is a graduate of the Joe Wilson Charm Schnool. You remember former Congressional Dumbass of the Week Republican Rep. Joe Wilson. Mr.“You Lie!” from Obama's September congressional address? Well, Neugebauer decided to kick it up a notch. Screaming out “Baby Killer!” at anti-abortion Democrat Rep. Bart Stupak during Stupak's speech on Sunday night supporting the newly passed health care bill. Once busted (sure, he “confessed” the next day, but he'd have been busted soon enough), Neugebauer, like his tweeting compatriots, backpedaled a bit by saying that for some bizarre reason, no one in America heard the “It's a...” before the “baby killer!” The poor mook wasn't screaming out a personal attack on a fellow member of congress, he was merely venting at the actual bill. Bullshit! Oh, I'm sorry. You mean you didn't hear the “I can't believe you think we're falling for your load of....” that preceded “Bullshit”? Dumbass.

Meet Personal Dumbass of the Week: Oh, let's just call him “Opie”

Opie is a young lad, but not that young. Old enough to dive. Old enough to vote or enlist. Maybe even old enough to drink. And definitely old enough to know better. Opie signed on as an intern at a company I know, to earn credits toward graduation. Opie started off decently enough. Put in a really good hour's work. Showed up at an event, stayed a while, then hit his internship sponsors up for some dough. Then poof...like the fluff on an October dandelion...Opie was gone. Oh, they called Opie. But Opie didn't call back. They emailed Opie, but he must have been at the fishin' hole with Pa. And no one thought of Opie ever again. Until Opie got in touch this week asking his sponsor to fill out a form saying he'd logged one hundred interning hours. Opie, as it turns out has some major cojones. Beyond balls of steel. We're talking titanium testicles. But, so does Opie's sponsor. Our Opie will be retaking his internship course. Elsewhere. Dumbass.

And maybe this whacked out song selection was a dumbass move. But until Latch Key Kid learns how to whistle the theme to Andy Griffith, you take what you can get.

Who in the Blazes...?

2010-03-18T23:56:00.006-04:00

I've been going blind typing day after day on my minuscule netbook, working on press releases, freelance projects and pitch deadlines, and trying to come up with a blog entry. Just when I was about to give up and maybe chuck the entire blog concept, I find this news item online:

According to Deadline.com, Columbia Pictures which released Julie & Julia to a $94 million domestic box office (on a $40 million budget) has optioned the rights the Ree Drummond's life Who in blazes is Ree Drummond? A blogger. Just a city gal who met and married a cowboy, raised and home schooled a gaggle of gigglers and decided to create a blog and then wrote a cookbook. Reese Witherspoon is signed on to play the blogger.

So today I'll blog about blogging. And microblogging.

What's "microblogging"? Basically, a twenty-five cent word for Twitter. "Surely nothing good can come from Twitter," you say. Well I'm sure Justin Halpern would beg to differ. Who in blazes is Justin Halpern (are you detecting a theme yet?)? Just an under-30 who moved back in with his folks and started tweeting little ditties his septuagenarian father would spout. Little nuggets of wisdom like: "A parent's only as good as their dumbest kid. If one wins a Nobel Prize but the other gets robbed by a hooker, you failed" or "The dog is an outside dog. You want an inside dog, you go get your own inside." A few hundred F-bombs and over a million followers later, our young Mr. Halpern has a book deal and a CBS comedy in the works based on his 140-character-limit Dadisms. Of course, CBS will have to come up with a title to replace Halpern's Twitter name @ShitMyDadSays.

Now granted, Ree Drummond and Justin Halpern may be exceptions to the mostly mediocre bloggers and microbloggers out there. Most microblogs are muddled with mundane nonsense about what people are wearing, eating, drinking, watching or just did to other people in bed. And there's more about Justin Bieber than should be legally allowed. Who is blazes is Justin Bieber? (No, really, I'm asking). But there are treasures to be found...little snippets of comedic/political/satirical genius waiting to be read. Maybe you can add to them. If done right, microblogging is a great exercise in creativity and self-editing. There may not be millions of dollars in your future from it, but there may actually be job opportunities or new friends. I've found both. And a couple of lunatics, but I digress...

Same can be said for blogs. If you've got something to say about something you think people will want to read, then go for it and try your had at blogging. Even if it's just pictures. Whatever you need to get out, there's someone out there who will read it. Or if you just want to get glimpses into other people's minds, try reading other people's blogs for a while. Whatever you may be into, I guarantee there's a like-minded person blogging about it right now and you're missing something good by not looking for it. A caveat: Yes, we bloggers can also write a bunch of crap. Sometimes things seem interesting or funny in our heads but just don't translate in print. That's why I chose to not blog about this huge wart on my ring finger that's starting to look like an undeveloped twin. It just isn't that funny in print.

"Plan Suzanne"

2010-03-07T16:19:00.017-05:00

The photo itinerary of my week. Set to the theme song of my week, "Streets of Gold" by Latch Key Kid...except for the lyrics about ending up a hooker. Only "everything" I'll be selling is scripts. (Unless I run out of cash by Wednesday, in which case I can be found at the Hollywood Motel 6 on Whitley Ave. between 9-midnight. Just slip the desk clerk a ten and ask for "Brandee.")

Yes, I'm aware the "Puppetry of the Penis" picture is exceptionally large. "Wishful blogging." And no, they don't allow flash photography. It makes them recoil like frightened turtles.

To Blog, or Not to Blog. That is the Question

2010-02-27T21:52:00.007-05:00

I sat down at the computer tonight ready to unleash a comical tirade full of R-rated expletives (I save the X ones for conversation), wrote a couple of paragraphs, then backspaced them all gone. There are rules to this blogging business, and I was about to violate them. Which leads to the question: When to blog or not blog?

When to NOT Blog Rules:

Never blog when you’re in a foul mood.
Never blog when you’ve got your period (which may just be an extension of rule #1).
Never blog when you’re pissed off at one person in particular (yeah, I’m talking about you, buddy)
Never blog after three too many (one too many and you can still be funny, two too many can be funny but with really bad spelling, three too many just ain’t worth it)
Never blog about people who may read your blog (just bitch about them the old fashioned way…behind their back).

When TO Blog Rules:

Blog when you’ve got a great story/joke/lesson to share.
Blog when you’re in a really good mood.
Blog when you need to be creative and have time to proofrreed
Blog when you're sure your kids won't be fighting or screaming they've clogged the toilet...again.
Blog when you’ve got a full cup of coffee by your side.

Well my kids are home and in bed, so they won’t clog the toilet. But my husband had a lot of carbs at the Scout banquet so there’s still the possibility of plunging. I don’t have a cup of coffee, but I do have a beer. I’m in a good mood, but I’m a wee bit pissed off at a particular person. I’ve got a great story and joke to share, but it’s about someone who may read my blog. I’m feeling all creative, but a little bloated and PMSy.

What to do? What to do?

Screw the blog, I’m going downstairs to shoot for two too many. Go read a book folks.

Kids Say the Damndest Things....(I'm not the PG type)

2010-02-17T19:13:00.006-05:00

As some of you may (or may not) know, one of my personalities works at a preschool with sixteen 4- to 5-year-old pre-K students. There's a lot of the typical preschool chit chat and banter mixed in with lessons, stories and music time. But once in a while, someone comes up with something that makes you wish you had a pen tucked behind your ear. These are some of my pen moments from this year so far. Enjoy.

Secondary Colors
Girl: "Teacher, we're out of green paint."
Me: "Well, do you know what you'll get if you mix yellow paint with blue paint?"
Girl: "Punished?"

Snacktime Banter
Me: "Can anyone tell me a word that starts with C?"
Various kids: "Cat! Cookie! Crayon! Car!...Crap!"
Me: "Well, let's not say THAT word, okay?"
Boy: "Why? Does it start with a K?"

Boy 1: "That girl's my girlfriend."
Boy 2: "Girls are gross."
Boy 1: "I know, but she brings good snacks to lunch bunch!"

Boy 1: Teacher, X is eating one of Y's pretzel sticks.
Me: "Everyone eat their own snacks, not someone else's."
Boy 2 (chewing): "But he gave it to me."
Boy 3: "Teacher, he can have it. I was up my nose."

ABCs
Teacher: "Today's letter is Q. And when you write Q, it's always next to another letter. Who knows what letter that is?"
Boy 1: "R!"
Teacher: "No, I'm talking about what letter you always see written down next to Q."
Boy 2: "P!"
Teacher: "Well, in words, it's the letter U."
Boy 1 to Boy 2: "She really doesn't know the alphabet? It's right on the wall! PQR!"

Texas Holdem
Me to boy holding himself: "Honey, do you have to go potty?"
Boy: "No, sometimes my wiener just sticks to my pants."

Circle Time
After telling a boy to be still several times, boy says to teacher:
"You really have a tough job, don't you?"

Ouch! Moments
Woman 1: He's such a nice boy. Do you watch your grandson every day?
Woman 2: I'm his mother.

Mom 1: I don't know how you manage with a kindergartner, a 3-year-old AND being pregnant!
Mom 2: I'm NOT pregnant.

4-yr-old Girl: "I like hugging you hello, Miss Suzanne."
Me: "Well that's sweet. I like hugging you hello too."
Girl: "You're just so squishy!"

If Only I Could Smack Parents Moment
Mom: "Say goodbye to Miss Suzanne."
3-yr-old: "Goodbye butthole face."
Mom: "Oh...you know how kids are!"
Me (in my head): "I know how YOUR kids are."

Prize Winner
Me: "You just picked that out of your nose. Do NOT eat it!"
Boy: "Why, do you want it?"

So Many Titles I Could Write...Let's Just Call This One...OMFG

2010-02-09T21:58:00.008-05:00

I get a lot of forwarded emails. I mean A LOT. Most of them are utter crap and I delete them without even opening. Some come from friends or family, so I'll read it thinking it's a pleasantry before realizing it's a forwarded fable attempting to sell me on their politician/religion/insurance....THEN I delete (if I've had my morning coffee) or send a "knock it the fuck off" reply (if I haven't). And many forwarded emails have me heading straight to Snopes.com so I can provide to the other 68 people who received the "personal" message that:

Tampax doesn't put asbestos in their tampons so you'll bleed more.
deodorant doesn't cause breast cancer.
asparagus won't cure the deodorant-caused cancer.
people aren't hiding under your car at the mall to slice your achilles tendon.
Jamie Lee Curtis isn't a hermaphrodite (that one's still a little shaky).
Ashley Flores is NOT missing.
Mikey did not die of a tragic Pepsi/PopRocks combo.
Applebees/Microsoft/IBM/Target will not pay you if you forward this email.
Marilyn Manson is not: Paul Pfeiffer from Wonder Years; slaughtering puppies on stage; able to self-fellate thanks to having a rib removed.

But once in a while I get a forward that I LOVE. More often than not it's from my friend Kathy, who shares my wicked sense of humor and left-leaning politics. But even Kathy once in a while sends me something that makes me question its validity. Tonight was one of those times. She sent me some old ads she had been sent. One of them made me search the web to see if it could possibly be fake. But nope, it was real. It's so...bizarre/obsolete/mysogynistic/offensive...It's an OMFG forward. And research proved it was just the tip of the iceberg.

So Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to some 1920s-1940s advertisements for Lysol. NOT for what it could do for your horrifically offensive garbage can or diaper pail. For your vagina. Yeah, you heard me. THAT's why husbands were acting like such an assholes from 1927-1948. Your nether-regions didn't have that same "AH! Now THAT's clean!" aroma that your disinfected trash bins did. Read 'em and weep/laugh, ladies. And smack yourselves upside the head in atonement for your grandfathers, men. I hate to paraphrase an old cigarette ad, but vagina's have come a long way baby. Now if you'll pardon me, I've got a bottle of Massengill's "Mango Mist" somewhere in the hall closet that's about to expire. Flowers and tropical fruit...now THAT's the way God intended it to smell down there.

Note: If you got this blog entry sent to you automatically via email, just click on the link at the bottom of the email so you can see it real blog, with the pictures and the "appropriate" song choice. Oh...and everyone...feel free to forward this email. ;-)

If You Can't Say Something Nice...

2010-02-04T23:07:00.002-05:00

...then just blog a picture.

"Day of Rest" My Ass!

2010-01-31T10:58:00.007-05:00

Sunday mornings have evolved greatly over the course of my forty-slur years.

When I was a little girl living with my grandmother, Sunday mornings started off by watching "Davy and Goliath" and putting on whatever red velvet dress of the week was laid out for me. There'd be a full breakfast, and I had damned-well better eat all of it because "there are children starving in China" and somehow my finishing my waffles would help ease their suffering. Then I'd just wait for the grown ups to finish their tiny porcelain cups of coffee before we'd head out to church, which ended promptly one hour after it started. We'd then come home, put on our non-church, yet still company approved clothes ("in case someone important popped by," we still had to look Sunday worthy...this was a very formal household), and sit down to the weekly meal of leg of lamb and over-boiled French-cut green beans. (Which I've refused to touch since 1974 and believe to be the side dish most frequently served in Hell's cafeteria.)

When I was a tween and teen, Dad was back on the scene and "church" meant something entirely different. Therefore Sunday mornings did too. Sunday mornings would be spent looking for an unwrinkled skirt, because in the 80s God apparently hated women who wore pants. Church would often last three hours and involved tambourines, tongues and dancing in the aisles. No snakes though. Bummer, I like snakes. By now a well-seasoned eye-roller at these "services," I had learned to pack a granola bar in my pocket to get me through the morning. Of course you'd have to unwrap it at home, lest God and the woman in the head-covering sitting next to you hear cellophane crinkle. Crinkling was a sin. I'd spend Sunday mornings avoiding having someone lay their hands on me and prophecy my future. My baby brother couldn't avoid it however, since he was in the womb when he had his future foretold by some guy dancing in an aisle. He said he had a vision of my unborn brother becoming "a Great prophet for God." My brother is now a creative director in advertising. Steve, how's that "Got God?" ad campaign coming along?

When I was in my 20s and "shacking up" with my husband, Sunday mornings were AWESOME. They were spent sleeping in late to recover from whatever we'd done the Saturday night before. They involved diners, newspapers, long car rides to no where, music and more often than not...well, you know. If you're in this stage of life, savor THESE Sundays. Because next comes:

Sundays as a parent. These Sundays start EARLY. The same kids who you can't wake up for school because they're "just so tired" somehow manage to wake up by 7 a.m. on Sunday to demand cartoons and breakfast. And don't think you'll get away with putting on the Disney Channel, handing them a bowl of cereal, and then go back to bed for a couple of hours. Maybe that might work if you only have one. But if you've got two or more, you'll only have about 10 minutes of peace before they're fighting over the remote.

I'm sure that a few years down the road, if I were to rewrite this blog entry, I'd tell you to savor THOSE Sundays. The Sundays when you still had kids in the house to fight over Cheerios and channels. Instead we'll be spending our Sundays wondering if either of them is going to call to say "Hello" from college or from their own home. Maybe I'd better take my own advance advice...and do the same. Boys! Who wants French toast?

I Phelta Thi...Tappa Kegga Bru...It's All Greek to Me

2010-01-28T23:43:00.005-05:00

Yesterday I spent several hours researching sororities for a PR project. This lead to several discoveries:

Discovery #1: On each college campus there is a "hottie" sorority; a "brains" sorority; a "lets change the world" sorority; a ton of "the same as every other" sorority; and a "but we've got great personalities" sorority.

Discovery #2: When men, who up until now have had very little interest in your PR ideas, hear you are working on a sorority project, they suddenly pay attention.

Discover #3: You men are horny pigs.

Discovery #4: Sororities all market themselves in the same way in their group pictures: "Everybody put on shorts and tank tops. Three hottest girls: you get in front, sit down with legs extended and knees bent. Blondes, you stand behind them. Tall brunettes with dimples, you go to the back. Fat girls...go stand by that tree. We only pledged you because you're good at typing and your father owns the local Subway.

Discovery #5: We women are jealous, vicious shrews.

Discovery #6: I am fucking OLD!

This project idea actually may be brilliant, IMNSHO. Its research and groundwork were painstaking and lengthy. I was seeing results less than five hours after I finished Stage 1. You would think I'd have a grand sense of accomplishment...Eh...I did good...But my sense of worker pride is way overshadowed as I sit here with my 11th cup of coffee. I'm feeling incredibly...early-40s. Feeling incredibly...un-blond. Feeling incredibly...un-pledged. Feeling incredibly...diner dinner roll. (That analogy makes sense in my head somehow...white, doughy, a little old..get it?)

I know I'm smart. Damn smart! I know I'm skilled at what I'm doing. Damn skilled! I know I'm nice/giving/loving/funny. Damn nice/giving/loving/funny! But after looking at page after page of toothy tank-topped perfection playing volleyball (these are SoCal sororities BTW), hanging at the quad, holding charity car washes in bikini tops ("Oops, we're all wet and sudsy!") or "studying" (I swear to God, one of them had their book upside down in the photo), I'm feeling rather frumpy. If I were to stand next to these "they're just babies" (as a male friend called them), no one would say "Wow, she sure looks smart, skilled, nice, giving, loving and funny!" Well, they actually might say "She looks funny." But most likely, I would just be completely invisible.

But I've decided to do something about this, and I'm using my project research to do it. I'm starting my own sorority. Aye Eta Pi. We will be very discriminating. Not everyone will be accepted. For instance: No one under 30. No one who pronounces nuclear "nucular" (anyone named Bush need not pledge). No one who doesn't have at least three stretchmarks somewhere on her body. No one who thinks tying a cherry stem into knot using only their tongue is a resume-worthy skill. Other than that, pretty much anyone can get in. And you will rise directly to officer status if you've had a c-section, an episiotomy,a cheating husband, or are starting to grow a John Waters-esque mustache. If someone applies who has had all of the preceding, then they become president-for-life. We too will hold charity car washes. We will wash your car without asking, whilst wearing bikini tops, and not stop until you make a donation to charity. And we will hold killer Sorority House parties, which will end promptly at 10 p.m. because most of us can't stay awake much past that. So rush with me, fellow non-20/non-blondes! Let's show these "sisters" there's still fire in our furnaces and our souls (and in our stomachs if we eat after 7 p.m.). Let's show them we too know how to have a good time ("Golden Girls" marathons are fun, right?). And most importantly, let's show these men of ours that they can drool all they want over these "babies" but in the long run, THEY WOULDN'T TOUCH YOU GUYS WITH A 10 FOOT POLE. That's right, I checked out their fraternity counterparts. And let me tell you....WOOF!

Shake It Up!

2010-01-22T11:00:00.011-05:00

I've been incredibly busy all week and developed a terrible case of blogger backup. But I just had an entire pot of Starbucks coffee and I have the iTunes playlist blaring, so I’m ready to unload. Clear your calendar, this one will take a few minutes to read. I've blogged about this journey of self-discovery and second-half re-creation I've been on before, and I'm not going to bore you with it again. Instead, I'm going to bore you with something completely different! And I will try to be funny whenever I can. But I’m trying to make you think on this wintery Friday, not just laugh this time around.

I'm completely clueless as to the identity of the vast majority of the people who read my blog. But I can tell from the live feed who some of you are. If you're from Canada, chances are I went to high school with you in San Francisco. If you're from the Philly area, our kids go to school together or you work with one of us. If you're from London, I probably met you through Twitter and my toast owes you a debt of gratitude every morning. If you're from Texas, I'm sorry. And if you're from LosAngeles/Beverly Hills/Glendale/Encinitas, well then you're one of the coolest people I know. This blog isn't about you. It's about the rest of us. You SoCal people can go about your business: eating superior sushi; retracing the footsteps of the cast of 90210 until old coots yell "get the hell off my lawn!"; trying to write songs, record songs, sell songs; cracking white-collar crime; being fabulously Cali. Bastards.

This blog is about the other 95% of us that are stuck in a rut. Doing the same-old same-old; eating the same-old same-old; wearing the same-old same-old; listening to/watching the same-old same-old. I for one don't want to be the same-old. And neither should you. It's time we shook things up a bit. With this blog entry, consider me your vibrator. I want to rattle your insides. (That one is going to get me at least one phone call this morning).

FOOD: PUT DOWN THE FORK. PICK UP SOME CHOPSTICKS!

Stop thinking everything you've never tried before is still not worth trying. Do you seriously want to turn 40 or 50...or 60 (!) having never tried something new? Sushi. It's raw fish. Get the hell over it. It's the greatest food ever created and if you turn your nose up at it without trying it you're an idiot and I won't buy your daughter's Girl Scout cookies. There is more to “Asian food” than sweet-and-sour pork (which has about as much of a Chinese pedigree as Tiger Woods). Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Cambodian... For God's sake step away from menu you found tucked into your screen door and try something different! Just once ~ that's all I'm asking. You don't have to dive straight into the Monk Fish Liver or Spicy Raw Crab. Work your way up to it. (And once you do, be discreet if you spit it into your napkin when no one's looking). Indian food: Greatest stuff on earth. One billion Indians can’t be wrong. Stop thinking it all tastes the same. People have a false preconception when they hear the word "curry." But Indian food can be as delicate or as kick-ass as you want it to be. Ordering Indian is like picking out a date online during a convention in Vegas. You can request something pleasant and mild that you'll forget about an hour after you're done; or you can go a little crazy and order something incredibly spicy that you'll still be feeling the effects of the next morning. It's your call. Just make the call. Even if you still just can't bring yourself to go push your palate to its limits, consider bumping up what you do like a notch ~ or five. There's more to Italian than pasta. More to German than brats. More to French than fries. We're getting old people! It's time to start shaking things up a bit at meal time, before the only choices we're allowed to make are between tapioca or gelatin for dessert in the nursing home.

FRIENDS: MAKE SOME MORE!

This is a special subject for me. I grew up being bounced around all over the country. It s.u.c.k.e.d. I would make friends, then say goodbye and never see them again. I was always the NKOTB. The only advantage in life that it gave me was that it forced me to become outgoing. Forced me to try and connect with people quickly. I have a lot of friends, very good friends, but absolutely NONE from childhood. I'm completely envious of those of you who do. But aside from those childhood playmates, most of the people we call "friends" as adults are people we met through certain circumstances. People we met through work. Through our spouse. Through our kids. Sometimes the friendships become life-long and deep. But sometimes...if you take away the common factor...the spouse, the job, the child...you're left sitting across the table from a person you realize you have absolutely nothing else in common with. And sometimes that's OK. But sometimes you crave more: friendships that are based on things you care deeply about. Things that have absolutely nothing to do with your husband, your kids, your job...just things that define "you." It's time to start making some of those friends folks. Because if you're married with kids and working...eventually you're going to be an empty nester. And those kid-centric friends will fall by the wayside. Eventually you'll get laid off or retire, and those job-centric friends will slough off. And face it. Eventually you'll become divorced or widowed and spouse-centric friends will be too uncomfortable around you (or you'll lose them in the settlement). What you have left is the friends you've made based on YOU. Your own personal interests and fascinations. Start making them now, if you haven't already. I love my kid-based friends. My couple-based friends. My work friends. But I am truly reveling in the new friendships I have made over the past year that are based on absolutely none of the above. These are people I can confide in without worry. People who may not actually be able to stand each other if they ever met, but each is deeply connected with at least one thing that defines me: writing...humor...music… They're men, women, gay, straight, white, black, 26, 46...they're just tied into some part of "me." So get OUT there. PUT yourselves out there. I don't care if you're 14 or 44. It's hard to make yourself vulnerable and seek out friendship. But if you do, and you find it, it's so damned worth it in the end.

MUSIC: TUNE IN!

I can hear the sighs. "Here she goes." Yes, here I go. Like I said, aside from the few high school and one middle school ( hey Gene ;-) ) friends I’ve reconnected with this past year, none of you know what I was like as a teenager. Well let me fill you in. I was a music fiend. Permanent ear-phone dents in my Farrah wings. It was my obsession and I dove deep into it and anyone who had anything to do with it. I babysat for a Doobie Brother. I exchanged letters with another for more than a decade. Just an innocent and frequent correspondence about our shared love. He and his wife introduced me to Carlos Santana ~ not the album, the man. When I lived in London, I “discovered” musicians that became worldwide sensations more than a year after I got back. But I heard ‘em first. Then came college. Work. Marriage. Kids. And Barney’s “Clean Up, Clean Up” song replaced Depeche Mode in my internal MP3 player. But I’ve come out of my coma at last. Thanks to friends and friends-of-friends and brothers-of-friends I’ve “discovered” some really great music over the past year and have become involved in the business side of it. I want you to take a listen to some of it.

Glasvegas: A friend’s brother got him hooked on it, and he passed it on to me as quick as a case of mono. They’re a Scottish alt rock group with a killer female drummer. They’re the Glasgow version of Ireland’s U2, before they became shills for iPod. Their sound is amazing, their lyrics profound. You may have a hard time making some of them out through the thick Scottish brogue of lead singer James Allen, but once you do you’ll be blown away. Check out this video (turn off playlist to the left) for their song “Flowers and Football Tops.” Then check out the horrific story it was written about. ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_of_Kriss_Donald ) I defy you not to be moved.

Trenchtown : A Detroit punk band transplanted to the shores of Hermosa Beach, near LA. Hard rockers carving their niche in the SoCal music scene. Discovered them through a friend of a friend and got instantly hooked and haven’t been able to stop listening (this is why I never tried coke whenever it was offered…I know my weaknesses). Their song “Unpaid Holiday” just played on the playlist. Play it again. Then check out more of their stuff at www.trenchtownmusic.com or in person if you’re one my SoCal friends. They play at Hermosa Beach’s Lighthouse Café Friday evenings.

TRENCHTOWN

Latch Key Kid : Gavin Heaney. Unless this if your first time on this blog, you’ve heard him, and of him. He’s been a real catalyst to this musical epiphany. I wouldn’t have heard of Trenchtown if they hadn’t “followed” our friend Chelsea on Twitter. I would never have learned about Glasvegas if Gavin hadn’t introduced me to my friend Evan. Gavin has no clue how many changes in my life that he’s had a hand in. How many different paths he’s unknowingly lead me down. Love the guy like a brother; a brother who really needs a haircut and owes me many a Beam. If you are here for the first time, you can hear him somewhere on that playlist of mine. Or at www.latchkeykid.org. Or at The Mint in LA tomorrow night.

OK, my job is done. No more preaching to the people about masala, mates and music. Take from it what you may. Just open yourselves up your mouths, your hearts and your ears to SOMETHING new. Don’t discount ANYTHING. We don’t let our kids push away new things without at least making them TRY them, yet we do it ourselves all the time. It’s time for the grown ups to grow up…just a little more.

I Want a Girl, Just Like the Girl, that Lapdanced Dear Old Dad

2010-01-19T18:14:00.004-05:00

A 1st Grade teacher gave her students a simple homework assignment. Draw what you want to be when you grow up. One girl handed in her paper.

After it was graded and the child brought it home, she returned to school the next day with the following note:

Dear Ms. Davis,

I want to be very clear on my child's illustration. It is NOT of me on a dance pole on a stage in a strip joint. I work at Home Depot and had commented to my daughter how much money we made in the recent snowstorm. This drawing is of me selling a shovel.

Mrs. Harrington

Sometimes You Don't Need Words To Show How You Feel

2010-01-18T20:04:00.007-05:00

Here's The Situation

2010-01-17T22:52:00.006-05:00

Through the miracle of social networking, I have discovered that I can actually NOT watch top television shows and STILL manage to know what the hell is going on in the world of pop culture.

Case Study #1 MTV's "Jersey Shore" and Facebook

I have never seen a single episode of MTV's "Jersey Shore." When I first read my brother's Facebook update about it, I was mostly surprised to read that MTV was even still on the air. As someone who loves going to Ocean Grove (one town south of Springsteen's Asbury Park) during the summer, the thought of a program about the shore sounded intriguing. But after reading myriad FB updates about the show, I quickly realized that even though they share a state and a coastline, the charming, dry town of Ocean Grove is not the SAME Jersey Shore as the one on MTV. My one-square-mile gay-friendly haven of Victorian houses and wandering geriatric Methodists would probably make The Situation turn on his heel and run. But the point of this blog is that I actually even know the name "The Situation," (who I am assuming is an enormously pompous ass). Despite never seeing the show, I know all about the Prince Albert (Google it people), big hair, Snookie, ab posing and hook ups. I'm sure once their 45 minutes of fame are over (I'm tripling Warhol's estimate), years from now J-Woww will one day proudly show her grandchildren Nana Gram-Woww's reel.

Case Study #2 The "Golden Globes" and Twitter

At this very moment, the Golden Globes award show is being telecast. I'm not watching it. I'm upstairs sitting at my computer writing. But I have "Tweetdeck" open. Every time someone I follow on Twitter writes (tweets) something, there is literally a "ping" noise and their tweet appears in a box in the corner of my laptop's screen. Apparently EVERYONE I follow is watching the Golden Globes. Let me tell you what I know, despite not seeing a single moment for myself. Ricky Gervais had one of his penises removed, Sandra Bullock is covering a very expensive gown with what appears to be a felt Christmas tree skirt. CGI movies about blue aliens are apparently more important than those about war atrocities. Jennifer Aniston and Halle Berry make 40+ look kick-ass. Pixar is an award hog. Sophia Loren looks like Sarah Palin's grandmother. Diablo Cody may or may not be there, either smelling bad and eating bread or at home eating nachos (depending on who you believe). Jeff Bridges makes women from Texas hot. Quentin Tarantino needs to lay off the carbs. James Cameron and Mel Gibson share the same mailman. Women from Texas like to retweet men from Los Angeles too much. Scorsese is...short. And I apparently really need to start watching "Glee."

So there you have it. Turn off your televisions America (except for the 3/4 of Fox animation produced by my friend K-Poww). All you need to know about what's on TV can be found on Facebook or Twitter, the modern-day, live-time water coolers of American pop culture. I'm sorry, I've got to run. My fellow Guidette E-Pop is IMing me on FB asking if I'd like to come over for a Jersey Shore drinking game party. Fo Shizzle! S-Train is signing out!

B.U.I.

2010-01-09T23:55:00.007-05:00

Tonight, I am conducting a minor experiment. I am blogging under the influence of a friend's gifted bottle of:

In those two sentences, I used the backspace key 12 times to delete misplaced letters. I just used it another 9.

Why am I conducting this experiment? (4 more times) Well the reason is many-fold. First, I'm way behind in my blogging (4). Second, I happen to be full of Jack. Third (3!), I thought it would be interesting to write just a few sentences the way the tortured greats like Hemmingway (had to take 2 extra M's out of Hemmingway), Chandler, Parker and Poe (wow, that was a good run!) may have.

There is a fine line between the amount of intoxicants it takes to heighten one's senses and the amount it takes to dull them. (Holy crap, no mistakes) I have found that I tend to write funnier jokes when I've had a couple than when I'm stone cold sober (3). This has been confirmed by people who have read what I've written. (0! Yay me!). So what does this say about me? About alcohol (2)? About writing in general (2)?

Well...

About me? It says that I shouldn't accept offers of unwanted bottles of J.D. from friends, especially on a Saturday night when there's nothing good on TV and I know I don't have to drive anywhere because my husband is as sober as an Amish tobacco farmer (3). About alcohol? It says that booze is nothing more than a lubricant: Apply a little, and things slide out a little more easily...jokes, insults, secrets, hypocrisies (even my sober husband couldn't spell it right the first time), etc. Apply too much, and shit flows out of you like a honeymooner in Cancun who accidentally drank the water. About writing? Well if you're funny, you'll be funny sober or plastered. Maybe a tad bit more when plastered...until the spelling mistakes (I actually wrote "smelling" mistakes twice) make it impossible to decipher what your intent was.

Lessons to be learned? Most things are good in moderation. Nothing is good in excess. Spell-Check is a wonderful invention! And never blog under the influence unless you're ready to accept the consequences. (I've lost count!) Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to put the children out and tuck the cat into bed.

Celibacy

2010-01-08T11:22:00.002-05:00

What is Celibacy?

Celibacy can be a choice in life, or a condition imposed by circumstances.

While attending a Marriage Weekend, Walter and his wife, Ann, listened to the instructor declare, 'It is essential that husbands and wives know the things that are important to each other.."

He then addressed the men: 'Can you name and describe your wife's favorite flower?'

Walter leaned over, touched Ann's arm gently, and whispered, 'Gold Medal-All-Purpose, isn't it?'

...And thus began Walter's life of celibacy.

(thanks Kathy)

They Say You Want a Resolution

2010-01-01T19:05:00.006-05:00

January 1

The day when everyone sits down and writes a list of all the things they want to change about themselves. The old standards like "lose weight" or "save more money" or "get a new job." Same old, same old. Granted, I did pretty well with my resolutions from last year. Although I still have no money and on occasion drink like Karen Allen in "Raiders of the Lost Ark." I've written down some real and serious resolutions for 2010, which I'm keeping to myself so that I won't be judged by you people when I inevitably screw them up. But I will share some of my more realistic resolutions with you.

In 2010, I, Suzanne Stanley of Lansdale, Pennsylvania (for the time being) hereby resolve:

1. To care less about what people think about me. Unless of course it’s something negative in which case it’s all I’ll be able to think about.

2. To try to surrender to sleep. My husband complains that I feed my insomnia by preparing for it when I go to bed, so I resolve to stop doing this. That means no taking my reading glasses, ear phones, iPod, cell phone, magazines and glass of water to bed at night. Instead I’ll just lie there when I shoot up at 4 a.m. in a panic. Just lie there and sigh loudly. Maybe toss and turn a bit. Get up and use the bathroom a couple of times even though I really don’t have to go, which will of course make the dog bark. Then go back to bed and toss around for a while more until I’m sleepy....hang on a minute….my husband was reading over my shoulder and just said I’m allowed to take all the aforementioned contraband to bed after all.

3. To open bills as soon as they arrive. I’m not promising to be able to do anything with them, but I’ll open them just for fun.

4. To swear less in print. Or to at least use creative punctuation when I need to emphasize a £u¢k!n9 point.

5. To stop buying conditioner every time I buy shampoo. I’m the only one who uses it. This is why we have enough conditioner in the house to last through the next three years. I may even give a few bottles of it away to a friend of mine. For some reason her teenage sons go through an excessive amount during their exceptionally long showers even though they have crewcuts. Puzzling.

6. To try and be less frustrated with stupid people. You know the ones I’m talking about. The people who don’t pay attention to the road because they’re putting on makeup using the rear-view mirror; the idiots in restaurants who talk so loudly on their cell phones that you learn every detail of their life from their child’s last BM to their husband’s worsening erectile dysfunction; the jackass in front of you at the McDonald’s drive-thru who acts like he has no idea what they serve, asks what exactly goes on a quarter-pounder and if the fish fillet’s are fresh or frozen (Clue: the meat in any sandwich with an -o- in the middle of its name came fr-o-zen).

7. To be more subtle when trying to sway you toward things I really really enjoy. Things like horror movies, exotic food, and the music of Gavin Heaney, aka Latch Key Kid, who will be performing an all-ages show at The Mint in Los Angeles on Saturday, Jan. 23rd at 9 p.m. What? That was subtle! I didn’t even give you his websites! www.latchkeykid.org or www.myspace.com/latchkeykid1

8. To not let my mind go straight for the dirty if a story or joke can be taken two ways. OK...I promise to not let you know that my mind went straight for the dirty. My mind does what it does.

9. To have more sex. Yes, with my husband. Although if he’d just loosen up a little bit…

10. To correct my husband less. He recently said that I correct his stories, punchlines and grammar too often when I should instead just sit, listen and let things slide by. This is indeed not the case, and I pointed that out to him.

11. To blog more frequently, and try not to take it personally when people read it yet never bother to leave a comment at the bottom. I mean, how else would I know what people really think about me?

Oh shit…there goes resolution #1. And #4! Dear, do you want to go upstairs?

My First Rerun

2009-12-29T19:42:00.002-05:00

Since I'm aspiring to be a television writer, it seems appropriate that I get around to having my own re-run. It's not a case of narcissism. At least I hope not. A friend's grandmother died today. She lived a long life and died peacefully in her sleep. But that's not really much consolation when you really love someone. His hurt was obvious, and reminded me of when Gwennie died at almost 101. It was pre-Twitter, pre-Facebook, pre-blog. I never wrote about what it was like being there with her at 2 in the morning, watching, and holding her hand as my mother and I waited for what we knew would be coming within hours. And I'm not going to do it now. But I did write about Grandma Shirley's passing this summer. And I thought I'd run that again today, just in case my friend happens to read. Once you stop hurting, remember the good stuff. Remember the fun. I'm sure that's what she'd want. What any grandmother would. I can't hug you E. but I'm thinking of you. Best wishes. Suze

Grandma Shirley

We just found out tonight that my paternal grandmother died yesterday down in Florida. Grandma Merino, or Shirley, was in her day what would be called a spitfire. Her personality was the polar opposite of my maternal grandmother, Gwen who died almost three years to the day before Shirley. Gwen would never wear slacks, drink liquor or swear (unless losing badly at cards...man did she let one fly once!). Shirley however was a California country gal who could ride with cattle, toss back a few and let the expletives fly when called for (and sometimes when not).

Maybe because of geography, but more likely because of divorce, I was never close with Shirley when I was growing up. It wasn't until I hit college that we started to bond. When I was 17 I cut classes for a few days and took a bus and two trains to go from Kutztown to her home in Long Island for a visit. She took me drinking. Yeah, I got hammered with Grandma. She made me try her favorites, all of which I hated. Grasshoppers, Melonballs...basically anything green and disgustingly sweet. Having just read Catcher in the Rye, I was inspired to switch to Holden Caufield's favorite, Scotch. Grandma switched right along with me. We spent the next day nursing hangovers and hanging out at the pool. Not your average "baking cooking with grandma" memory, but one I'll never forget and remember fondly.

Soon after that bender, Shirley moved to Florida and never looked back. She wasn't the type who looked back much. Maybe that's another reason we weren't terribly close. It dwindled down to a bi-annual letter or phone call as time went by. But when she did come north to visit, she was always the same as I remembered...a free-spirit with a great sense of adventure and no filtering of thoughts. (She could tell you she loved you, and that you looked bloated in the same breath, LOL). My kids thought she was a riot. Which, if you overlooked the "bloated" remarks, she was.

In the end, Shirley couldn't remember much. But I'll always remember her. And I may just have to have a Grasshopper this weekend in her memory. Raise some hell up there Shirley! Love, Suzanne

Merry Christmas

2009-12-25T12:44:00.002-05:00

In Case You Missed It

2009-12-23T10:56:00.002-05:00

For the very few of you who had legitimate excuses for missing it, such as a death in the family, alien abduction, or ...no those two are the only legit ones...here's the best part of Scrubs from last night. Just turn off the playlist to the left and listen to "This World Keeps Turning" by Gavin Heaney, aka "Latch Key Kid."

Do You Remember? ... Well Your Wife Does!

2009-12-18T13:01:00.004-05:00

If you know me even slightly, either from real life or from the internet, you probably know that I’m an insomniac. Through social networking I’ve discovered a lot of fellow zombies, and every single one of them is a woman. Why is this? Maybe there’s a uterine-based explanation. Maybe the cuter you are the less sleep you need. ;-) But it’s more likely due to our inability to shut the brain down because there’s just too damned much whirling around up there. Now this is not a slight on men. It’s just a fact that we have more going on upstairs. Guys, it doesn’t matter if you’re a neurosurgeon, nuclear physicist or fry cook. Your brain holds less information than your wife’s.

I doubt any man reading this blog knows his wife’s social security number. But you bet your ass she knows yours. And your children’s. All your children’s shoe and clothing sizes, their most recent illnesses and vaccinations, and the numbers for all the family doctors. Not only the names of your coworkers and friends, but your children’s teachers, their friends, their friends’ parents names and phone numbers. When every project at school is due, and the grade the last project got. Every birthday, anniversary, phone number and address for every member of both sides of the family. When the dog needs to get its shots. Exactly how many pounds of hamburger are in the freezer. What comes out of the checking account automatically every month. Not only your checking account number, but the routing number and the three-digit security codes on the backs of all your credit cards. The balances of all the credit cards, and how far behind you are on the payments. The PIN numbers for your debit and credit cards, and the passwords for your email/Facebook/Twitter/Ebay/Paypal accounts. The names of your neighbors and some of their kids. When the next class party is and who’s supposed to bring what. Your shoe/inseam/neck sizes and your favorite tie. Who will eat what, who hates what and who’s allergic to what. When each car is due for inspection. When she’s supposed to get her period, and whether she should panic this month if it’s late.

This is the coding that swirls about in our insomniac brains as we lay there at night. While Albert was blissfully dreaming of splitting atoms and taking showers with Marie Curie, Mrs. Einstein was laying there sorting the pantry in her head and trying not to forget Albert's suit at the cleaners. Personally, I don’t think I can cram much more data up there. Every time I have to memorize a new phone number I misplace a pair of reading glasses. This is not a coincidence. I’ve reached the saturation level. If something goes in, something else has to come out. This is why I now call both my sons “Fred” and call every kid at school who yells “Hey Mrs. Stanley!” simply “Kiddo.” My husband is “Dear.” Not as a term of affection, but because his first name has been replaced by our license plate number. However, his Social Security number is 565-70-…….

And no, this isn't "Latch Key Kid" playing, it's Jack Johnson. HA! (But don't forget to listen for him at the end of Scrubs Tuesday night at 9 on ABC. It's okay if you do,guys. You're wife will remember.)

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out!...Attaboy Clarence...I Always Wanted a Yo-Yo!...Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!

2009-12-17T12:48:00.007-05:00

Between being sick, being away and simply being a procrastinator, this year I’ve somehow put off a lot of the Christmas things that I normally would have tackled by now.

Shopping: I only started yesterday and had a panic attack at Toys R Us when I realized I’m screwed.
Baking: Nada. Not a single cookie in the house. One year by this time I had baked 1,000. Santa will be lucky if he gets an stale Oreo. My grandmother is turning over in her urn.
Cards: “Merry Christmas everyone!” That’s your card this year from the Stanleys.

I have yet to even watch a single holiday special on television. I missed the Big Kahuna, "A Charlie Brown Christmas." Yeah, I own it on tape, but that’s somehow not the same. So last night I went online and found all of the shows that still remain to be seen. There is a TON that is either absolute treacle or inanely stupid. But I’m making sure to catch some of these below. You should too, and I’ll tell you why.

“Frosty The Snowman,” Friday, Dec. 18 at 8 on CBS
We showed this to our preschool class the other day as a treat. The kids loved it, but we teachers had a couple of questions: Didn’t Suzy’s parents notice that she was missing all of Christmas eve while she holed up in a boxcar with a rabbit and a snowstranger? Did they put out an Amber Alert? And why the hell did Santa drop her off on her roof and then just take off? It was a three-story house! How the heck did Suzy get down? Incredibly dangerous, Kringle.We want answers.

"Eight Crazy Nights," Friday, Dec. 18 at 10 p.m. on MTV
Adam Sandler’s animated Hanukkah movie. I’m recommending this because my friend Kara was the supervising producer. I can think of absolutely no other reason. None. Es tut mir bahng.

“A Very Brady Christmas,” Tuesday, Dec 22 at 1:00 p.m. on ABC-FAM
Just because it’s so nauseatingly Brady that you have to watch it once every five years. Plus, you can make fun of the replacement Bradys. I mean, come on Susan Olsen! Like you had much else to do that month!

“Scrubs,” Tuesday, Dec. 22 at 9 p.m. on ABC
I know it’s not a "special." But it’s their holiday episode. And my friend Gavin Heaney, yes…here comes the plug…Latch Key Kid…is having his song “This World Keeps Turning” featured during the closing scene. This is huge. Important to me. Watch it. Friends and relatives will be tested Wednesday morning to find out which of you didn’t. Christmas presents will be adjusted accordingly~I’ve saved my receipts. Here’s a link to him rehearsing the song. Yes, this is also required viewing and will be on the test.

“The Polar Express,” Wednesday, Dec. 23 at 10 p.m. on ABC-FAM
For Tom Hanks.

"11th Annual “A Home for the Holidays,” Wednesday, Dec. 23 at 8:30 p.m. on CBS
A huge concert spectacular shot during my recent visit to LA and edited by my genius brother-in-law Conrad Stanley. Plus, you can find his wife and kids in the audience. (I can't get it to embed properly, but you can check it out here http://bit.ly/7G2Zst)

“Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town,” Thursday, Dec. 24 at 8 p.m. on ABC-FAM
Because it’s the only time all year you’ll hear the word “Burgomaster.” (Yes, I spell checked it!)

“It's a Wonderful Life,” Thursday, Dec. 24th at 8 p.m. on NBC
Now this one I’m just putting in for my husband, who loves this movie and complains that he can’t enjoy watching it anymore because he knows I hate it, and he can’t believe he married a Wonderful Life hater. Why do I hate it? Because the cynic in me can’t help but project the storyline beyond “The End.” I keep picturing the next day, when someone sobers up and gets around to asking “Hey, why did George need all that money after all?” By then the holiday spirit would have passed, someone would have gotten pissed, and Potter will have gotten away with it all. I would have preferred an ending where Potter gets hit by a trolly and they find George’s drunken uncle’s deposit slip in his pocket. But that’s just me.

“A Christmas Story,” for a solid 24 hours beginning 8 p.m. Dec. 24 on TBS
Because this is the greatest Christmas movie of all time. If you don’t agree I don’t want to know about it because it will be the end of our friendship. Jean Shepherd for Pete’s sake. And being a complete loon for all things 40s, this one just does it for me. I can quote 80% of it. I own the radio and the chrome bowling ball decanter set and half the kitchen props. Yes, Melinda Dillon’s hair is completely inappropriate for the 40s. I’ll give you that ONE complaint. Other than that, I don’t want to hear a word. Fuuudddgge.

“Miracle on 34th Street,” Friday, Dec. 25 at 3:30 p.m. on ABC-FAM

For Natalie Wood. And Maureen O’Hara. And John Payne. And Edmund Gwenn. And William Frawley! Come on, it has Fred Mertz in it! It’s just the most perfectly cast holiday movie ever.

Caution...Teenager Now on Premises

2009-12-12T23:23:00.007-05:00

Today is monumental. Mommy monumental. Today my son is a teenager.

I don’t know if it feels monumental because he is now a teenager, or because I remember exactly what I was going through when I became one. Granted I was a girl and as we all well know, girls (and women) mature earlier (and more thoroughly) than boys (and men). But the day I turned 13, I had hormones pumping through my system faster and harder than water flows through my basement sump pump during a flash flood. When I turned 13, I didn’t dream of getting roller skates or my ears pierced. I dreamed of getting a hickey from Mark Hamill. Or Shawn Cassidy. Or Donny Osmond. Or all three. (Watch out for us preachers' kids.)

Luckily, I think those kinds of thoughts aren’t yet going through my 13-year-old’s head. I’m pretty sure I’d know if they were. He shares a room with his little brother. When he demands more privacy, I’ll know I’m in trouble. We do take all the teenage wasteland precautions...although he has an old computer in his room, we didn't hook it up to the internet. Certain cable channels are blocked (Chris didn't want me watching them either...but I figured out the code!) The only thing we finally caved on was that when he woke up this morning, we had finally created a Facebook page for him. Who did he friend first? Us. Then some relatives. Maybe he's just yanking our chain. Or maybe he's still pretty innocent after all.

Right now, thank God, it’s still seems to be all about baseball cards, iTunes, and Nickelodeon shows. Not so much Nick cartoons like Sponge Bob anymore. It’s mostly iCarly these days. Never heard of iCarly? It’s this show about this doofy sculptor who has has custody of his kid sister. She’s a super cute 15-year-old brunette. With a really cute blond best friend….Oh crap.

Welcome to the Discovery Channel

2009-12-11T23:04:00.007-05:00

Dear latecomers: This blog will make very little sense at one point unless you've turned off "Teenage Wasteland" on the playlist to your left. Song #2, "All Becomes One" accompanies this blog entry. Please forward playlist to song #2 NOW. Gracias!

The decade of the ‘0s is wrapping up. Un-freaking-believable. Remember the Y2K panic when nutjobs were stocking up on canned goods, cash, barrels of water, and guns…convinced the world would come to a grinding halt when its computers' programs all rolled over to the year ’00? I didn’t stock up on anything beyond beer and chips that New Years Eve, but I did have just a slight twinge of worry that the ATM machine might eat my card the next day. Which it did. But only because I was overdrawn. Too much has happened over the past decade to reflect properly in one blog entry. 9/11. Our Ben. War. Grandma Gwen making it to a feisty 100 as if by sheer will, only to will herself gone the next summer. Too much for one entry. Too much for one book. So let me just stick to 2009.

For me, 2009 could simply be described as my year of discovery. I discovered a lot about myself and about others. I discovered places, faces, talents, terrors, music and muses. Everyone makes New Years resolutions, which usually last six weeks at best then fall by the wayside. I’m no better. Let me introduce you to my museum of resolutions. The treadmills that end up large clothes racks, the knitting gear in the bottom of the hall closet, the 20 words I learned to say in Spanish. Todos ellos cayeron en el camino. (Don’t be impressed…I Google translated that…just like you’re about to do.) But I decided that 2009 was going to be different. Why? Because I was a couple of years into my @#$%ing 40s and knew that if I put off change one more year, I’d put it off forever. I was determined that when 2009 came to its close I wouldn’t be the same Suzanne. Well, it’s closing. You tell me.

I’m by no means a delicate flower, but there’s 40+ lbs. less Suzanne than there was last Christmas. And next year there’ll be even less of her. I discovered just a little more willpower and resolve. I quit the PTA. Not because I didn’t enjoy it (stop laughing) but because I knew I needed to devote more time to working on Project Suze. While I still have “people pleasing” ingrained into my soul (that backstory’s a whole other book), I discovered the ability to say “no” on occasion. You don’t see me wearing the scout uniform this time around. I do whatever I can, for whoever I can, whenever I can…but I can’t lead everything anymore. I discovered I don’t want to.

I discovered it’s never too late to make new friends. In “real life” I’ve made terrific friends through #2 son Ben (how Charlie Chan did that sound?). For example, I have a new red-headed male kindred spirit down the road who, despite having an equally warped and filthy sense of humor, somehow managed to attract a lovely wife and make three sons…all of whom I’ve seen naked. Several times. I have two lovely new mom-friends in the neighborhood…one whose son shares Ben’s first name, the other whose daughter will assuredly one day share his last. Remember, the girl’s family pays for the wedding. The rehearsal dinner will be at Applebee’s.

But most of the progress in Project Suze (a completely narcissistic title I admit), has come as result of my discovery of social networking. Screw MySpace. I’m not 17 or in a band. I’m a Facebooker. I keep it for day-to-day, face-to-face people. People I’ve actually met. Or am 100% convinced I’d like if I did. I’m also…I’m...I’m…I’m a tweeter. SHUT UP. Let he who has not updated cast the first stone. Yeah, I tweet. God it feels so good to admit that in public. I USE TWITTER. Wow. Like coming out of the blue birded, fail whaled closet. (Yes, I’m well aware some of you don’t get those references. Too bad for you. Google.) Say what you will ~ relatives, kinda-relatives, naysayers. To paraphrase Chico Escuela, “Twitter been berry, berry good to me.” If you don’t get that reference, please just click on “next blog” at the top of this page!

I’ve met lots of great people through Twitter. Met online, then actually met in the flesh. John from Vieques, Puerto Rico, a telecommuting techie who shared tidbits on his beloved island, then eventually a few drinks at sunset. Flo from Burbank, a writer-turned-lawyer who shared advice on sitcom writing and life in LA, then eventually a great sushi lunch near Sunset and Vine. Steve from LA, an television writer/series creator/all-around great guy who bought Boy Scout raffle tickets from me before he even met me, then let me parade a friend’s Flat Stanley around his show’s set. Sarah from London, a techno-wizard who’s me circa 1990, and will be sharing a pint with me in a few weeks during her visit to New York. But I wouldn’t be toiling on scripts and planning my next visit to LA if it weren’t for two particular tweeters…Kara and Gavin. I’ve never really been able to toot my own horn. But I have no problem tooting theirs. Like it or not, here it comes kids.

Kara. (I’ll omit her last name for her privacy…but give the okay and it’s in kiddo). A Philly gal moved west. Phillies fan to rival any man. Hardest working woman in her field. Not an exaggeration. Works for and with an industry icon. Pure happenstance how we met online. It involved international travel, the BBC and a midget. But we clicked, connected and eventually met on the east coast a couple of times, then out west. Verizon owes us both a huge “thank you” for our rabid texting during the World Series (Wahoo!...@#$% Lidge!) Despite her frantic pace and weary workload, Kara has always taken time to help a friend. A lot of people in her position would have blown off the world’s oldest newbie. But Kara’s an incredibly supportive person who I consider a mentor, and more importantly a true friend. You’ve been helping me work on me and my goals. Now…let me help you with your frozen yogurt dependency.

Gavin. Gavin Heaney (I don’t care if he wants privacy, he’s not getting it). As Cali as they come ~ from the too-long blond locks to the board wax and guitar picks in his pocket. Hardest working man in his field. Not an exaggeration. Works for and by himself; not yet an icon. Again, pure happenstance how we met online. It involved the “I Love You, Man” movie soundtrack, east coast insomnia, west coast PR…and a midget. But like Kara, and at exactly the same time, we clicked and became friends. Despite booking gigs and promoting his newest Latch Key Kid album “All Becomes One” (available on iTunes, Amazon or through www.latchkeykid.org …yeah, I can promote with the best of them), Gavin took an actual interest in what I was doing, helped flesh out a story idea, critiqued it along the way, and put me in touch with someone who could offer more expert advice; someone who has since also become a very good friend. I’ve blogged with his songs in the background before, and you’ve probably wondered who the hell he is. Well he’s a renaissance man. Correction: a renaissance dude. Whatever LKK song you’ve involuntarily heard on this blog…every word sung, note penned or instrument played was done solely by Gavin. If you want to “meet” him, check out what some kids from his old high school just created (but be sure to first turn off his song that's on the playlist to your left):

So 2009 was my year of discovery. I discovered I’m not as old as I actually sometimes feel, that I can still become something/somebody new. I discovered I’m not completely without talents. Although I can’t animate/produce/compose/sing/strum…I can cook like a demon, write decently, make people laugh and still iron the crap out of a pleated shirt. I’ve discovered I’m not too proud to ask for help from friends when needed. And when you discover friends who can create something from nothing, and still take the time to help you along your way, you’ve got to toot their horns. So “toot” to all of you. Here’s hoping by this time next year, we’re all in the places we’d love to be, doing the things we’d love to do, with the people we love by our side.

Frosty Funnies

2009-12-10T13:03:00.009-05:00

I'd love to take credit, but it's Christmas and Santa's watching. Thanks Liz!

Time for Christmas

2009-12-09T14:03:00.004-05:00

As I sit here wearing two sweaters because I’m freezing despite having a fever, with a nose that could rival Rudolph’s and a cough like a Winston-Salem executive, I’m looking for any excuse to put off a national pre-Christmas tradition…the sorting of the bills. All moms know of which I speak. Trying to figure out exactly how much Santa can pony up. Keep in mind, I’ve also got a son turning 13 in four days. Thank God we don’t have to do a bar mitzvah.
I have done absolutely NOTHING Christmas-wise yet, which is so not me. No cookies. No music. No shopping. No cards. I haven’t a clue what to get anyone. But I do know what I’d like for myself. Time.

If I had an extra hour each day, my house would be a little cleaner.

If I had an extra day each week, I’d be a lot more organized, play more with the kids and maybe go on a date (with my husband).

If I had an extra week each month, I’d read a book, write a story, tackle projects, make some money…get ahead.

If I had an extra month each year…I’d explore.

But the time we have is the time we have. And we’ve got to make the most of it. So from now until Christmas…a little less time on the computer and little more shopping. A little less time with the laundry and a little more baking. A little less time contemplating time and a little more enjoying what’s left of the season…before it’s gone.

"Christmas Everyday" by Latch Key Kid (Gavin Heaney)

John Stewart for President

2009-12-09T13:00:00.003-05:00

Well no, not really, but damn if that man isn't near-perfect. Watch from start to finish. Yes, even YOU Mr. Farmville. I guartantee that at least 109% of you will find it spot on.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Gretchen Carlson Dumbs Down

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show
Full Episodes

Political Humor

Health Care Crisis

Surviving Suburbia

2009-12-04T20:18:00.008-05:00

I live in a very small suburb of Philadelphia. It’s not rural by any means. I mean, we don’t cow tip on Friday nights…although I do have ready access to a cow, goats and evil hens through the kids' 4-H. No, this is your typical east coast bedroom community: a pharmacy and/or bank on every corner, dueling over-priced ice cream parlors, roaming teens with nothing better to do than practice their angst in the park, and the world’s worst library (I think their flag has 48 stars). A good part of our Main Street could be the set for a “Leave It to Beaver” sequel. And despite my bitching about being stuck in suburbia from time to time (translation: constantly), our family is actually a fixture at borough events. The benefit (curse?) of working for the local newspaper.

As much as I hope to be paroled and head west, I do have to admit that this little burg has its appeal. We have concerts in the parks every summer. We have a kick-ass holiday parade. Our high school, while ridiculously enormous, has a great rep, sports teams and marching band. Santa Claus actually drives down each and every street throwing candy from a fire engine on Christmas eve. And then there’s tonight.

The annual Christmas tree lighting in Lansdale. People pack the “downtown” (HA!) park to listen to carolers, eat free hot dogs, and mingle with locals they haven’t seen since the last summer concert. “Little Miss Lansdale” (a friend’s daughter this year) and Santa arrive on a towed sleigh, flip the switch lighting the tree, and shake hands with scores of eager rosy-cheeked townfolk. My boys get our traditional holiday photo with the mayor. Everyone then walks over to the library, which upon reflection may not be that horrible, to give their letters to Santa and watch the animated “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”

So we have a Starbucks. We have a Salvation Army. We have a SuperFresh. And we have a soul. Suburbia. Bloom where you’re planted. But have an exit strategy.

"Suburbia" by Pet Shop Boys. Only because Latch Key Kid didn't have a suburban anthem (Get to work on that, Gavin).

North Penn High School Football Highlights

2009-12-03T08:23:00.003-05:00

TURN OFF PLAYLIST AT LEFT

(Note: Blogger Redwolf7782 wrote about this blog entry recently, wondering why I posted the video. Clue #1, Redwolf: I know the musician. Clue #2: I'm married to the video editor.

Blogger Block

2009-12-02T15:34:00.006-05:00

Can't think of a #$%^ing thing to write. So just go insane looking at the optical illusion below while listening some cool music and stop checking the blog until I tell you there's something worth reading!.....Oh, and if you live in Southern California, go to the O.C. Tavern, 2369 El Camino Real in San Clemente on Friday night at 9 p.m. to see Gavin Heaney (Latch Key Kid). And do me a favor, leave a comment below on which you like better, going by Gavin Heaney or "Latch Key Kid."

Gotta Give It a Try

2009-11-30T19:57:00.005-05:00

Tonight I ate something that someone “found” somewhere. No, it wasn’t old gum from under a desk or half an Aunt Annie’s pretzel from the food court floor. It was an enormous wild mushroom that an amateur ‘shroom hunter we know found in the woods this weekend. Why he didn’t eat it himself, I don’t know (I’m trying to not think sinister thoughts right now). I’d like to tell you the conversation that transpired as we fried this sucker up in olive oil and garlic, but it was SO funny that I had to write it into a script instead of finishing dinner. When I was done, I started thinking about all the other weird items we’ve put into our mouths throught the years. (Note: I know five Jennifers on Facebook, and I can guarantee that right now three out of the five are giggling…while the other two are praying for us.). I’m thinking more along the lines of:

Play-Doh: What kid hasn’t eating this? It’s colorful. You can make it look like food. It’s soft. Sure it smells like absolute crap, but the eyes trump the nose when you’re three. Why else do you think Hasbro makes sure the formula’s non-toxic? They know diapers and pull-ups are going to be coated in colorful #2s the day after Christmas and birthday parties. Been there. Eaten that.

Ex-Lax: Now granted, it’s been years and they may have finally wised up on this one…I hope! But back in the day, the highly intelligent makers of Ex-Lax decide it would be a smart move to make their intestinal drano the same shape/color/texture/taste as chocolate. Genius! Every child on the planet got into their parents secret medicine cabinet candy stash at one point, only to double over with the runs an hour later in the car. Been there. Eaten that. And later, every high school pothead thought it would be funny to bake some into brownies and give them to a “frenemy.” Been there. Baked that. (What are they going to do with that confession, take away my diploma? Good luck. Even I can’t find it.)

Un-labeled alcohol: Back in the underage day. When you’d gather what you could from the cabinet above the family fridge, and all meet at a friend’s house on a Saturday for Space Invaders, pizza and petting. Maybe it’s Jack Daniels, maybe it’s cooking Sherry, maybe it’s Manischewitz (only a possibility when Larry Schwartz was invited). It didn’t matter. They all got thrown up exactly the same. Been there. Drank that.

“Fit in” food: Now we all learned our lessons from youth to stop eating things from the medicine cabinet or toy box, and drinking things without first asking their proof, but this is the category that even the most respectable adult still deals with on occasion. Mostly when meeting new people or at business dinners. Examples? Say you’re at a dinner at a Korean restaurant with a group of highly successful business women, and a good friend (who sometimes reads this blog) says, “Would you like to try the raw spicy crab? It’s delicious!” Your heart might be saying, “Right! Would you like to try this tube of Vaseline Intensive Care hand lotion in my purse?” But your head says, “Moron, put the uncooked crustacean in your mouth immediately.” So you do. And it’s not bad. And you fit in. And you may even try it again. Or you may be handed monk fish liver two days later at the world’s greatest sushi restaurant by the same good friend, and your heart is saying, “Orange Play-Doh…have you learned nothing?” But again your head tells you to put it in your mouth immediately. So you do. And it’s not bad. And you fit in. And you’d even try it again. (You don’t know any places that serve Rocky Mountain Oysters in LA, do you, Kiddo?)

Thnk U !

2009-11-27T15:07:00.011-05:00

All the remnants of yesterday's Thanksgiving meal are in the fridge...the half-eaten pies, slightly burned stuffing, congealed gravy and turkey carcass I brought home for soup but will probably never touch. And as I give thanks for aluminum foil and Tupperware, I think of other things I'm grateful for. Things like:

Twitter. Okay, you social networking snobs…don’t judge me. Anyone who’s reading this uses either Facebook, Twitter, MySpace or a combination of the three. Funny how staunchly anti-Twitter some Facebookers are. And how anti-MySpace some tweeters are. A social networking caste system. I dig them all. (Granted, I never touched my MySpace after I opened it because I'm not 17 or in a band). Say what U will abt Twtr, U FB elitists, but it’s been GR8 4 me. Sure I now abbrv evrythg I write 2 save space. But I’ve met lts o GR8 ppl thru Twtr. So scrw U.

People who “get” me. Who get my sense of humor, my politics, where I’m coming from…and going. And people who don’t “get” me, but like me anyway. The overly serious or right-winged folks I know who, for one reason or another, like me despite my cynicism, constant quips and my left leanings. I like you too, despite your moronic Fox-fueled beliefs and complete lack of humor. Well, most of you. A couple of you I have plans for (insert evil laugh).

People who put others before themselves. They’re out there. Those of you who worked the soup kitchens yesterday, even though you were out of town. Those of you who gave up soccer games to work scout food drives two Saturdays in a row. Those of you who tell people to screw holiday shopping and make a charitable donation in your name instead. You know who you all are. I’d name you, but I know you’d hate it.

The person who invented cheese. And TiVo. And alcohol. And the iPod. And sushi. And laceless Chucks. And sex.

Online dictionaries and thesauruses. Also called concordances, references, sourcebooks…

www.UrbanDictionary.com How else would I ever keep up with the 20-somethings I know? Or how would I have ever found out what *u*k*k* was? (Please…for the love of God...don’t look it up, Mom.)

The ability to clear the browsing history on the shared family laptop after looking up things like “*u*k*k*.”

GPS devices that allow you to tool around LA like you know what the hell you’re doing, and to find the nearest well-lit ATM at 2 a.m. (Although that condescending “Recalculating” the Garmin gal says when you don’t take her recommended turn really pisses me off. Pushy, passive-aggressive dashboard driver! I heard you the first time, but there was a dog in the road! Lighten the hell up or I’ll give TomTom a go.)

Really good music that I can listen to 100 times without getting sick of it. And the kids in the car with me who are sick to death of it but let me listen anyway. I’m sorry you know all the words to every Latch Key Kid and Eric Hutchinson song. I know all the words to every damned Barney song ever written. Consider us even.

And lastly, I'm actually thankful for my evil psychotic dog. It’s because of you that we now truly appreciate the cat.

note: I had to edit *u*k*K* from my original posting. Despite a "for the love of God" warning, people were looking it up then emailing/texting/tweeting me that they were shocked. People! If you can't abide by a "for the love of God" warning, don't shoot the *u*k*n* messenger!

Said Goodbye to Hollywood

2009-11-24T12:55:00.008-05:00

I’m back. Yeah, I know I didn’t blog while I was in LA…sue me. The week was busy, went phenomenally well, and exceeded all expectations. Fortunately, I was raised to set the bar very low, so as long as I wasn’t mugged, shived or driven out of town on a rail my expectations would have been surpassed. But this week would have exceeded the expectations of even a normal person. So "thank you" to everyone I met who helped/encouraged/guided me, who passed on their now treasured business card, who allowed Flat Stanley onto your set, or who plied me with raw fish. You all know who you are. I adore you all. I have an extra kidney, type A+ blood and ¼ of a liver I’d happily donate to any one of you (I can’t vouch for the quality of the liver…thank you, Jim Beam). There won’t be any name dropping in this blog entry, 'cause that ain’t my style, but I met a few famous people during my stay. Sure, I could tell you how I sat so close to Seth MacFarlane that I could have pinched him, but that would sound dumb. Yeah, I could tell you about being next to Demi Lovato at the craft services table during the filming of her show, but then I’d just come off like an ass. (And I’d be required to admit that I had no idea who the hell Demi Lovato was until 20 minutes earlier). Actually both people were very nice and rather unassuming. I was really more excited about meeting the people who write for these "celebrities." And I met some awesome writers this week who were incredibly friendly and helpful. So thanks guys. You know who you are. See the above referenced donatables. They’re yours.

A lot has changed since the last time I was in LA. The Farmers Market on Fairfax is the same, but is now surrounded by an enormous upscale mall, and the price of everything in the market basically doubled. The last time I was at the Farmer’s Market, I discovered fish tacos. This time I discovered scarves. I also discovered that my junior relatives aren’t kids anymore! My nephew who I once bathed in the sink is now way taller than me, with a deep voice, Jonas Brother face and exceedingly hairy legs. And he now refuses to bathe in the sink. The other nephew who once crammed a peanut butter sandwich into the family VCR is now waiting to start college next semester and has replaced his love of peanut butter sandwiches with taquitos (which could also fit into a VCR, if they still even exist). And my niece, the “baby” of the California faction, is in middle school and every bit the actress and honor student. Their parents and I haven’t aged a bit, however. Funny how that happened.

I saw a lot of the expected while in LA…the older Beverly Hills women with faces pulled so taut that their ears now flap when they blink; the younger women with bejeweled “dogs” the size of kittens in their purses, sharing non-fat soy milk “ice cream” cones the pooches lick-for-lick; the script writers doing revisions in the corner coffee shop so everyone can see what they do for a living, while three models pick bits off a shared bagel with their manicured talons and complain how fat they are now that they're no longer size double-0; hipsters lined up outside clubs on Sunset, not wearing enough for the chilly night air and pretending that they’re dancing about when they’re actually shivering in their tube top and skinny jeans; and the men in their Bentleys with women that look like their granddaughters but are actually their third wife (the trophy wife having aged out at 40).

But I also saw a lot of the unexpected: The high powered suit who didn’t have to give me the time of day but willingly gave advice, encouragement and contact information; the two friends who went WAY above and beyond for me; the friend who surprised me; complete strangers quickly becoming good friends; and a lot of helpfulness in a town where I had been warned to “trust no one.” Of course, I may get hugely bitten in the ass somewhere down the line, but my ass is big enough to take a chomp. So thank you LA peeps. Your advice hasn’t fallen on deaf ears and your kindnesses will be returned. While your traffic may be deplorable, your gasoline overpriced, and your airport a royal pain in the ass…your sushi more than makes up for it. Until we meet again in February…later, dudes. Rock on. (And Dear, thanks for handling the kids solo for an entire seven days. The house looked awesome, the fish weren't dead and the boys had a great time. Now...about Los Angeles...)

She packed her bags tonight, preflight...

2009-11-14T22:55:00.004-05:00

Wheels up in 10 1/2 hours. I'm forgetting something. I know I am. I won't know what it is until that crucial moment when I HAVE to use it. I'll let you all know what it was when I get back. Hopefully I will not have contracted H1N1 from the screaming baby I'm bound to be seated next to. Seven hours later I will be in a rental car, probably on the wrong highway and cursing US Airways for losing my luggage. That's the "glass half empty" version. Here's the "glass half full." This song will be playing at a ridiculously high volume in the car, and will just seem so damned appropriate. (Just hum your favorite song, Sarah from London who you can't get the playlist to work over there). By this exact time tomorrow I will hopefully be somewhere warmer, drinking something cold, eating something hot, with someone cool. Now accepting applications. Talk to you on the other side, folks. ~Suze

(Mostly) Alright with Me

2009-11-10T13:12:00.008-05:00

Sitting here looking at sushi shaped flash drives got me thinking about things that I hated as a kid and how times have changed, or not. But I'm busy writing today, so here's a quickie blog:

Sushi. Then: "Raw fish? That’s so gross!"
Now: "Raw fish? Pass the wasabi."

Alcohol. Then: “That smells disgusting. Can I taste it? That tastes awful.”
Now: “I’m going to need a ride home.”

Pea Soup. Then: “It looks like vomit. I’m not touching it.”
Now: “It looks like vomit. It’s delicious.”

Liver. Then: “I hate it! It smells awful. It’s gross. You can’t make me eat it!”
Now: “I hate it! It smells awful. It’s gross. You can’t make me eat it.”

Cartoons. Then: "Yay! Bugs Bunny's on! Hurry up everybody!"
Now: "Yay! Family Guy's on! Everybody get out of the room!"

Coffee. Then: “That smells good, can I have a sip? Ugh! That’s icky.”
Now: “Just stick a straw in the pot, would ya?”

Sex. Then: “They put what where? Get out! That is disgusting!”
Now: “Psst...you awake?”

(And BTW...how awesome is this song?)

Streets of Gold

2009-11-06T18:34:00.006-05:00

I lead a double life. People who know me only online know more about it than most people who actually know me in real life. So this blog entry will make more sense to them than to the moms at school, Scout parents and folks I actually work with. No, I'm not a hooker or a coke addict. I don't have the body for the first, and my allergies would make me sneeze out the second. I'm a writer. Well I was a writer, put it aside for kids/scouts/PTA and took it up again. I've been working on it for months, have made some great and helpful friends, and am taking the next step next week.

This coming weekend, in addition to the usual half-dozen loads of laundry and litter pan scooping, I'll be preparing for a trip to LA in nine days. That means a last minute haircut, a bit of shopping, a lot of ironing and trying to get the house ready for my week away. That's right. MY week away. The boys and husband will be on their own in Pennsylvania for seven whole days. I am leaving casseroles in the freezer, outfits layed out for Ben (I trust the older two can dress themselves) and plenty of clean underwear in all their drawers. USE THEM boys. Someone will have to get the boys to school, home from school, and both to scouts. Please remember to feed the cat and the fish. There are three fish in the tank now and I want the SAME three there when I get back. If you forget to feed the dog, that's fine. (At least our mailman will appreciate that joke).

I'm a bit worried about sticking out like a sore thumb in LA and Beverly Hills. I'm over-30, under-tanned, over-weight and under-hip. And worst of all I'm iPhone-less. I fear being arrested should I whip out my non-touchscreen cell phone in public. I'm going armed with nothing but a script, a suitcase full of TastyKakes for a Philly-transplant friend, and a smile ~ which will also stand out because it's not bleached.

There's a lot of sushi, a little Conan, a lot of laughing and a little threat of martini bars in store for me. In a dream world I'd come back with an agent, future appointments or a job offer. But I'll be temporarily satisfied if I come back sushi-sated and slightly tanned, having met some helpful people, some people that I know and some that I've only met electronically. There's the writer-turned-lawyer-turned-cat-rescuer; the surfing singer-songwriter-musician (you're listenting to him right now) and his extremely helpful manager; the in-laws; and the aforementioned Krimpet-deprived amiga. I haven't been this excited/nervous/terrified in a long time. Yes, I know odds are not fully in my favor. But you never know. Sometimes good things happen. Wish me luck...and that the kids remember to brush their teeth at least once while I'm gone.

*You can check out more music by Gavin Heaney (Latch Key Kid) by visiting

http://www.latchkeykid.org/music.php or www.myspace.com/latchkeykid1

All in All, We're Just Another Kid in the Mall

2009-11-03T16:36:00.002-05:00

Today I willingly went to a place I normally avoid like the plague ~ the mall. When I was 13 or so and in California, I practically lived at the mall on weekends. Now I try to avoid even driving past it. It’s not really that bad of a place. I don’t know why it gives me hives. Maybe it's the traffic, the parking lot, the gaggles of giggling girls and "whatever" dudes everywhere you turn. The oddest thing is that I fondly remember being one of them. But the mall I lovingly remember had stores which no longer even exist. Such as:

Custom t-shirt shops. The stores where you’d pick your style of shirt, then the rubberized iron-on transfer of choice from a giant book. They’d fuse your Bay City Rollers or Star Wars transfer onto your shirt with those giant presses that are probably now used to make paninis somewhere. The shirt would smell of melted rubber for days. And if you were lucky it would last about four washes before it started peeling. Somewhere in this house is an old Shaun Cassidy jersey. Or what’s left of it.

Orange Julius. The grandpa of smoothie joints. Sure they’re still around in some places as part of the mall Dairy Queen, but you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting one back in the day. Some malls even had two. Such a simple menu, two Julius flavors. No wonder they’ve been trampled by the competitors. Orange and strawberry just can’t compare to Very Berry Blitz with Soy Protein and Wheat Grass. (Excuse me, I just threw up a little).

The video arcade. The arcade was the pickup joint for the too-young-to-drive set (if the guys could take their eyes and hands off the games long enough to notice you in your Calvins.) If a boy challenged you to a game of air hockey, you knew you were in. Until you wiped the floor with him, then you were out again. I miss Centipede and Pac Man ~~ I refused to be relegated to Ms. PacMan, that ghost gobbling whore in a bow.

The mall movie theater. None of our area malls have attached movie theaters, but they all seemed to back in the day. Which was perfect for us less than honest teens. “Dad could you drop us off at the mall? We want to see ‘The Black Hole’ for the third time.” Parents would be so grateful to get you out of the house for a few hours that they’d drop you off, watch you buy your PG tickets, walk past the minimum-wage ticket ripper then happily drive away. Then you’d leave your theater and walk over to see Animal House or later, Porky’s. Of course you would rely on the one friend in the group who had the PG film to give you a crash course on it in case your parents suddenly got a clue. Which they never did.

The record store. This is where the majority of my babysitting money was spent. Hours sorting through LPs (for the kids reading this: they were big black CDs with tiny holes in the middle) and cassette tapes (spooled brown ribbon in a plastic case) and 45s (medium black CDs with big holes in the middle). If your mall’s lucky enough to still have one, got there quick. It'll be gone next week.

Today’s mall adventure revealed that while a lot has changed since I was a mall rat, a lot has remained the same. Parents still dump off gangs of pre-drivers looking to pass the time and hook up with the opposite sex. Girls hang with the girls and boys with the boys, until they pair up at the food court over a slice from Sbarro. I may take my husband on a mall date sometime in the near future. We can hold hands and kiss while sharing a plain old Orange Julius. Nothing gives me more pleasure than making 13-year-olds squirm. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick up my son from middle school. In my bathrobe.

Trick or Treat

2009-10-31T18:12:00.003-04:00

I’m watching the kids carve pumpkins and get their costumes ready for trick-or-treating tonight, terribly excited about the pillow case full of sugar they’ll be divvying up. Bringing back a flood of memories of cheap plastic costumes in a box, with masks that cut your ears with their rubber band straps and eye/nose/mouth holes so small you could barely see/breathe/talk. I loved those crappy get ups! And as I watch the excitement build in their faces, one thought fills my mind…..Being a grown up sucks!

When I was a kid, all I could think about some times was how cool it was going to be when I was a grown up. I could finally stay up as late as I wanted. Nobody could force me to eat fried liver in order to go on a camping trip (yes, they actually did that once). I could have as many pets as I wanted. I could wear whatever I wanted, eat whatever I wanted, watch whatever I wanted on TV. It was going to be SWEET!

Then it came. The adulthood of my 20s. And for a while it was indeed dandy! I’d stay up til 3, drink like a fish, dress like I was in Miami Vice, and watch whatever I wanted on TV. And to hell with fried liver. Of course, my 20s meant some serious expenses coming my way. A car, an apartment, student loans. But I had cable, Letterman and didn’t have to panic when I got carded. So I was right! 20s adulthood was as sweet as milk chocolate.

Then came the adulthood of my 30s. Marriage and a few years later, motherhood. Adulthood was still sort of sweet. There were now two car payments, a bigger apartment and eventually a mortgage. And the lingering student loans. But I could still stay up as late as I wanted! Sure, I didn’t want to stay up past midnight anymore, but if I wanted to I could have! And still no liver! 30s adulthood was…semi-sweet chocolate.

Now I have a firm foothold into the adulthood of my 40s. Two kids. Both involved in lots of activities that cost mucho dinero. Medical bills for to sets of over-40 eyes, ears and joints. Mortgage, cars, insurance premiums, office equipment…and why the hell am I still paying student loans?! I do still stay up as long as I want, but unfortunately it’s now because of insomnia. I can eat what I want, as long as it’s preceded by Bean-O and immediately followed by Imodium or Tums. Of course now I’m slightly anemic so the doctor recommends I try eating some fried liver. Yes, the adulthood of the 40s…baker’s chocolate. Trick or Treat.

"Frillies" Huh?

2009-10-29T13:43:00.004-04:00

Sometimes, you just don't need to write much to tell a good story.

Just a "Little" Unwell

2009-10-27T12:54:00.004-04:00

Welcome to Cold and Flu Season. If you should see me about town, avoid me like the plague. Oh, I’m perfectly healthy. But I work in a pre-K Petri dish. Sixteen kids in my class, and five called out sick today. Out of the remaining eleven, seven kept coughing and several were warm and/or sleepy. Which brings me to ask:

WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

If your kid’s warm ~ keep them home. If they blow bubbles out of their nose every time they sneeze ~ keep them home. If they bark like a seal when they cough ~ keep them home. If their eyes are so red they look like college freshmen after a two-day frat party ~ keep them home. If they’re as green and nauseated as you were in your first trimester carrying them ~ keep them home! There isn’t enough Purell in Pennsylvania to kill off what you folks are knowingly sending into school.

Sure, it’s nice to have three hours to yourself in the morning. I live for Fridays when I get the same. But come on! Surely you noticed the green mucus oozing from junior’s nose before you dropped him off and ran for the mall! It’s nice that some of you are teaching your tubercled tots to hack up into their elbows on occasion. But then stuffing snotty Kleenex into the play kitchen’s oven kind of undoes the deed.

Enough said. Hopefully people will get the hint. But I doubt it. So tomorrow, I invest sixteen of the world’s largest hamster balls. Gazundheit!

A Matter of Trust

2009-10-24T23:08:00.005-04:00

Trust.

It’s a fine line that’s very hard to walk, and constantly shifting. If you do it too quickly you can be burned. Sometimes badly. If you hold it back too long, you could ruin a potentially wonderful relationship.

I often give it too quickly. Sometimes it takes weeks, even months to realize I’ve made a mistake. I was too eager to please someone and ignored signs or signals. Or I was just blind-sided, bamboozled, hornswoggled. (I bet NONE of you typed those last two this week!). But sometimes the regret comes literally within minutes. A V-8 moment where you hit yourself upside the head and say “why the hell did I just share that about myself?”

Yesterday I had a V-8 moment. Someone I “kinda” “sorta” knew asked me for information on myself that I just too quickly shared. It seemed innocuous at the time. I mildly regretted it instantly, but held out hope that I was right in my knee jerk decision to share. Less than 24 hours later...bitten in the ass. Nothing major. I'm not the proud owner of a time share or a Nigerian bank account co-signatory. I just hate it when I have to tell MYSELF “I told you so.” I’ve given out my email too quickly. My social-networking site names. My age. I’ve never been dumb enough to give out my phone number. But it floats out there, like everyone else’s does. Someone found it. The same wonderful Internet that helps us spell hornswoggle and find free "classy" porn (not me...a friend) also reveals a lot of information about ourselves we may not want teenage nutcases to know. Fortunately my quick thrust trust mistakes only ever extend to myself. I don’t trust anyone with information I have about anyone else. And if anyone asks for it, the crimson flags immediately go up. Take note: INSTANTLY UP.

Of course, there are many times when my initial decision to quickly trust someone has been right on target. I’ve made many good friends through the years who I’ve been able to confide in completely on very personal issues. And I think I’ve earned their trust back. Like most folks, I have names, numbers and juicy tidbits in my head that lots of other people would love to have. And I can be trusted with them. Hopefully the people who've made the decision to trust me have never had a V-8 moment; or if they did, that they quickly got over it. I’m the full daily requirement of veggies, baby. Don’t doubt it.

I’ve also been on the other side of the fence. Where you’ve completely proven yourself trustworthy, but you still are met with a wall. It doesn’t matter if it’s the Great Wall of Distrust or just a picket fence of doubt; if you know it shouldn’t be there, it hurts. I guess that’s why I sometimes give away my trust just a little too freely. I know how it feels to give it, deserve it in return, and not get it completely back. So while I may get bitten in the ass on occasion, I’ve got a big enough ass that I can stand a few chomps if it means not having to build my own Great Wall. So to show you all how sincere I am, my Social Security number is 453-52-V8V8.

Blogging Broads and Baseball

2009-10-17T22:37:00.003-04:00

Blogging has taken a back seat to scriptwriting these days. But I got a complaint, so here ya go! A little something on…baseball.

What does MLB have against Phillies fans? First they schedule post-season Round One against the Rockies at crappy hours that most die-hard Phils fans (and all school aged kids) can’t manage. TWO 2 p.m. weekday games. And then 10 p.m. on a Sunday. Of course, the Sunday game was supposed to be on Saturday. But the Rockies' domeless Coors Field was full of snow Saturday. So the game had to be postponed. Gee…early snow in Colorado. What are the chances? Genius planning, Colorado. And your beer sucks too.

And why does the American League get all their coverage on free Fox, when us NLers have to pony up for TBS for all our post-season? In the long run, however, these television slights will matter not for the Phils as a team. They kicked CO tail to make it to Round Two. They gave is a nail-biter of a 9th in Game 1 against the Dodgers. I don’t want to talk about Game 2. Too painful and too soon. Although I do thank the pizzeria owner who gave everyone free condolence zeppole after the third out on Friday. I do suspect the strength of his faith in the team based on the fact that he came out of the kitchen door with them 10 seconds after the out. But they were so good that he's forgiven. For now.

The off-Broad Boys of Summer (did I mention it's 42 here?!) now have to go from playing in 90+ degree heat to playing in 40-degree sop. But I have no doubt they’ll do it. Sure, Lidge will give us all an ulcer or two in the process. Sure, we’ll all feel incredibly bad for Old Man Moyer. But they’ll do it. And pretty boy Hamels’ orange wife will soon be kissing a 2009 World Series ring. You’ll see. I bet you a box of Pancake Krimpets we make it to the series. And a Schmitter that we win. Google it. It’s worth the bet!

The Answer (and Hair) is Blowing in the Wind

2009-10-10T00:17:00.005-04:00

Tonight I actually ran up the stairs in a rush to get something, and by the time I reach the top step, I forgot what it was. Since this isn't the first time that's happened it got me thinking. So I put on my now-requisite CVS reading glasses and sat down to blog. Blog about the effects of being...

40 - Something

What the hell is happening with my locks? Used to be a time when my hair was so thick my mother would have the hairdresser thin it out with these freaky scissors. Dumb, dumb move. I’m now starting to leave hairs everywhere I go. If I’m caught in a good wind, I sometimes feel like a giant dandelion who just had her fluff blown off. I thought I’d dread going gray when I hit 40. Now I’d will my hair to go gray as long as it stayed! I used to think this was just happening to me, until I started looking at all the other women about my age. Ladies in the gym, you may think I’m looking at you intently while we talk, but I’m just reassuring myself by checking out your also widening parts! There are quite a few thinners among us! First one of us to need a comb-over wins $20. And a hat.

OK, so if it’s coming out on top, why’s it coming in everywhere else? This is proof that if there is a God, he’s got a wicked sense of humor. When I was a kid, I would quietly giggle to myself when I’d watch my grandmother go to town on her chin and upper lip with her pink, rhinestone-encrusted electric Lady Schick. Now I wonder where the hell I can buy one. Sometimes I feel like Richard Nixon during the televised Kennedy debate. Like the world is noticing I’m developing a 5-o’clock shadow on my chin. Of course, the world has no clue (until they read this concessional), because I take great pains to mow the lawn. Again, I thought this was just me. Until a good friend admitted over lunch that she too tends the field. And if the school’s hottest mom has to do it, then I feel just a weee bit better about plucking. Now I just have to make sure I have a coma buddy lined up and ready to go. You know, a gal pal who’ll creep into my ICU room if the need ever arises, and tweeze as needed.

My arms are clearly getting shorter. Why else would I now need to hold menus halfway across the table in order to read them? Sure the computer screen is blurry and I have to get the kids to read pill bottles and microwave instructions, but I’m convinced it’s an arm problem and not aging eyes. It if wree ralely a prolebm wtih my eyes my splelnig on the copmteur would be afefcetd.

People are starting to get a little too respectful. Case in point: On a recent Friday night trip to the liquor store, the diligent clerk asked the three people in front of me the same thing. “Could I please see some ID?”…”Could I please see some ID?”…”Could I please see some ID?” When I got up to the register, I however was asked, “How are you this evening, ma’am?” MA’AM. Just stab me in the gut while you bag my bourbon, buddy! Of course to make matters worse, the next day I read on Facebook how my close friend~~a bald mono-browed and clearly 40-year-old Hatfield-ian (Hatfield-ite? Hatfield-er?) who shall remain nameless ~~was himself carded last week. Again, God’s warped sense of humor.

I could go on. I could write about how my knees pop when I first get up, how I’m starting to use dreaded phrases from my youth like “Because I said so!” and “Don’t make me come up there!” more than I’d like. How I sometimes find myself becoming…my mother (Hi, Mom!) But I won’t. There are a few things that are actually good about being in my 40s. I no longer really give a rat’s ass if I accidentally do something embarrassing. I’m way more outgoing and make friends easier than I did in my youth. Probably because I no longer care about being embarrassed. My car insurance premium decreases at the same rate my blood pressure increases. And my vocabulary’s getting pretty damned good even if my splelnig is geinttg wosre. So you lose a little, you gain a little. I can deal with the 40s I guess. But so help me I may go postal when I hit 50.