Once Was Enough

Not one of us hasn't wished that we could relive something from our youth. Still believing in Santa; getting excited by the "ice cream man" coming down the street; the adrenaline rush of that first crush; staying up all night being silly at a sleep-over...There's a ton of childhood memories we'd all love to redo or enjoy again. But as I sit here slathered in ointment, cursing the wicked three-leafed plant that somehow came into contact with my eyes/ear/neck/legs, I can think of a few rights of passage that I would take a "pass" on repeating!

Chicken Pox: Everyone over 30 has probably suffered through this one. We've got the tiny little pits here and there that our mothers warned us we'd get if we didn't stop scratching. I personally have a lovely one dead center in my forehead. In the right light, I look like a very boring Hindu. Sometimes, our parents would intentionally expose us to siblings or neighborhood kids who had it so that they could just "get it over with." When my brother got it at age 6, my folks made my 5 year old sister sleep next to him so she'd catch it. Bastards! (Speaking on your behalf, Beth!). We all got through it as adolescents: missing 8-10 days of school, soaking in oatmeal and pawing away at ourselves as soon as we were left alone. It was like an itchy precursor to masturbation. (Not that I ever did that). But getting the pox, or worse yet, Shingles, as an adult is a whole other ballgame. I know several peers who've suffered through Shingles, and they've described it as "worse than childbirth" and "absolute hell." So thanks, but I'll pass on reliving this one.

Poison Ivy: the step-sister of chicken pox. It doesn't stay around as long, but bares a family resemblance. Had it a dozen times as a kid. It's evil. It's proof that if there IS a God, he's got a warped sense of humor: Inventing an attractive plant, spreading it everywhere, and then torturing you if you come in contact with it. My siblings and I got it so bad as kids that sometimes our eyes swelled completely shut. I'm going through a "mild" case of it right now, which serves as inspiration for this blog entry. When you're a kid with poison ivy, you get some slack and some pitiful glances if you walk out in public slathered in the pinkish and mostly ineffective Calamine lotion. Try going to Target as a 40-something with that crap all over your face. Snickers. Nothing but stares and snickers.

Public Periods: OK men, you can skip this paragraph. You bastards! Sure, you occasionally took a basketball to the balls on the playground and had to pretend you weren't in agony to save face with your friends. That's a cakewalk, boys! Imagine being a girl age 11-13 in 1978...the year of the disco White Pants craze. Now imagine getting a surprise in the middle of class. In white pants! Being an early, pre-white-pants, bloomer, I was the designated "go to gal" for these poor 7th grade saps. "Go see Suzanne, she'll know what to do!" They all thought I was a genius who invented the "tie your sweater around your waist" look. If I were really a genius, I would have always carried a box of pads and charged $5 a pop. Again, public menstrual outings are something we (girls) all went through at least once. As some women approach the age when schedules once again become unpredictable, public outings are getting fairly common place once more. Just like Calamine lotion, you get a lot more sympathy suffering through it in Target when you're in your teens than you do in your 40s! (Not that I ever had this happen!)

Well I'm sure I lost most of you with that last anecdote, especially the men! But do your own reflecting and remember things you rather easily muddled through as a kid that would be torturous to you now, as an adult. Being berated at work. Getting dumped. Losing a job. Having a relative pass away...All rights of passage that are much easier to bear as a child than as an adult. So let them enjoy chasing the ice cream truck, being surprised on Christmas morning and the rush of their first kiss. They've got a lot to look forward to. Let's not tell them about the rest...just yet!

Twits for Friends?

Pen Pals. Anyone else have one way back in school? I had a few in my time. A couple were assigned as class projects and quickly fell by the wayside. Others I found through answering common interests ads in old teenybopper magazines.

Wanted: Pen Pal to share stories, pictures, dreams & thoughts on Barry Manilow...

Those were the ones that stayed around for a while. When you find someone you "click" with, you enjoy communicating with them --even if it's only monthly and by air mail. As an adult, you may think that most of us don't do such silly things as writing back and forth to perfect strangers! Well, the hell we don't! Twitter is the modern-day, rapid fire version of pen pals. Absolute strangers "tweeting" each other about common interests, 140 characters at a time. Sometimes it's done with absolute anonymity. No photo or real name used. But other times actual friendships start to develop online, which leads one to ask:

Can "internet friends" become "real friends"?

If you want the definitive answer to that question, just ask Kelly Hildebrandt. Or, you could ask Kelly Hildebrandt. Wha? Well, the two Kelly Hildebrandts met each other thanks to female Kelly's sending male Kelly a Facebook message about their common name. One thing lead to another...and wedding invitations should be going out soon for their October nuptuals! Not all internet friendships go that far, but some can evolve into something bordering on "real." Facebook is mostly for friends and friends-of-friends to keep in touch and share photos. Twitter is more anonymous, at first. On Twitter, you can end up with sometimes hundreds of "followers." It seems like an ego boost, until you realize that most are following you because they hope to sell you hemorrhoidal ointment or credit repair kits. But once in a while, you and some "followers" hit it off. Take Kathy and Amber, fellow mommy bloggers from Alaska and Indiana. And my insomnia buddies: FC, CW and KV.

I can fall asleep at a semi-regular hour, but without exception I shoot up in bed a couple of hours later wide awake, mind racing. Until recently I would have just laid there, fretting over whatever it was that rattled my subconscious. Now, I just reach over for my little, brightly-glowing iThing and log on to tweet for a bit with one of the nighttime crew. Two live in LA and one is a 3rd shift worker in Ohio. So when I'm up at 2 a.m. tossing and turning, someone's either on a work break, sitting down for one last email check before bed, or in some cases getting ready for a party (this is LA). We talk about jobs, ambitions, baseball, comedy...you name it. Then we part ways. Sure, we're not at the "I'd give you a kidney" point, by any means but we are swapping email addresses, trying to expand each other's horizons, and keeping each other entertained, even in the daytime hours. So even though I haven't a clue what some of them look like (CW, we all know what you look like!) I do think of them as friends-in-the-making. Well I have to go now and get ready for bed soon. In a couple of hours, I'll wake up and hear how FC made out on her first day of vacation; what book CW has picked out for me; and how KV's flight was once she lands. All in 140 characters or less.

Make it Memorable

I don't know who you are, Jill and Kevin. I don't know any of your friends or family. I don't know where you live, where you work or even how old you are. But I do know that if you two keep this spirit alive, you will have a long and wonderful marriage. Congratulations! Your video made me laugh...until I ended up crying! Why did I spend so much time worrying about seating charts and cake designs! THIS is what I should have been doing! Enjoy folks!

Man Trapped in Woman's Body?

Short and Sweet: I think I may be an 18-34 year old man trapped in a 40ish woman's body. I love Judd Apatow movies; I often quote Fuzzy Door TV shows verbatim;I can swear up a blue streak when needed, and drink like a sailor at times; I pee standing up; and I am nuts for the Phillies. Alright...one of those isn't true. (I don't swear that much). But I have a rabid devotion to the Phillies that is a little freaky in a woman. I'm not the only woman I know with this affliction, but it's freaky just the same.

I've gone through periods of Phillies remission. In fact, I actually thought I was doing rather well since 1994. Back in 1993, when I had a "Press" discount card and could get into games for a mere $3, I was going to Phillies games several times a week, dragging along anyone who'd come with me. I didn't care if my nose might bleed up there in the cheap seats! Ricky, Micky, Dicky, Lennie and Kruk needed me there! Schilling didn't need anybody, he was that good. But I was there for him anyway. I was even there for the "Wild Thing." I remember feeling bad for Mitch Williams when Schilling covered his head with a towel as Mitch took the mound late in Game 6 of the World Series. Now, I wish Schilling had strangled the future salsa-making SOB with that towel. But I digress...

Who can we blame for the origins of my occasional gender confusion? Well there are myriad sources, but I rest blame squarely on the beautifully sculpted shoulders of Dwight Clark and Joe Montana. Going to high school in the heart of San Francisco, Montana had just come to town and was a sight to behold. Great player, cute as a button, and media savvy. I was in love. Pair him up with Miss Universe-dating wide receiver and equally handsome Dwight Clark, and girls my age were hooked not only on Clark and Montana, but on football and the 49ers that season. I watched every game; went to three. I went on walkathons to meet them. I volunteered at the Y when I knew some would be there to help out. I was pathetic. Then came Super Bowl XVI and "The Catch." If you don't know what I'm talking about, Google it. If you do, then you'll understand. It was a thing of beauty. They let us out of school early so we could run down California Street to catch the victory parade. I was right at the cable car turnaround at the Embarcadaro, watching Clark and Montana (in fur coats!) board their cars. My family moved back east the next year, but I stayed loyal to my Niners as they went to the Super Bowl over and over again.

Other interests eventually took over for my love of sports (or players?) as I got older. College, music, travel, etc. But the fever seems to be creeping back in. I was embarrassed to admit it for a while. But as I meet more and more women who are suffering from these same hot Phillies flashes, I'm starting to come out of the closet. Make that "come out of the locker." There are more of us dames out there than you guys realize. And some of us know what the hell we're talking about. So the next time you're sitting next to a woman at a sports bar and think she's only there for the cheap drinks on Ladies Night, think again. Buy her the drink, but think again! She may know more about the game than you. Hell, she probably knows more about most things than you!

Ground Control to Major...Armstrong

Tomorrow marks the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11's landing, and Neil Armstrong's first walk, on the moon. I don't have a lot of memories from July 1969. I was only 3. But I have a few very vivid memories of that event: Driving with my parents on a highway from Philadelphia to my father's folks in New York; staring up at the day moon to see if I could find a shadow of the spaceship, perhaps. I remember telling my mother to turn down the radio, because it made it hard for me to concentrate on the moon. I remember standing outside that same night, looking up and straining my eyes to try and catch a glimpse of the craft, or of the flag or even of Armstrong himself. Now, at 43, I strain my eyes that hard just to read a menu at Applebees.

Ve Vant to Be Alone!

What do women secretly crave?

Correction: What do wives and mothers secretly crave? It's not chocolate or great sex. (OK-yes, we crave chocolate and great sex, but that's no secret). It's Alone Time. Single women can find a moment's solitude whenever they like, but wives and mothers pine for just a morsel of it now and then.

What would we do with it if we got it? Maybe enjoy a long, hot soak in the tub without hearing "Hurry up, Mommy! I have to pee!" ... Maybe finish the chapter in the book that we've started and stopped five times because the kids keep squabbling...Maybe catch up with a friend on the telephone without having to fix a snack, wipe up a spill or kiss a boo-boo at the same time (Why does a ringing telephone always seem to provoke a sudden, Pavlovian need for attention in kids, BTW? As soon as they see you're on the phone, they "REALLY NEED YOU!" Haven't wanted you for an hour, but pick up the receiver and BAM!)

I have a friend with 2-year-old twins. She doesn't crave a trip to the salon or even a disturbance-free movie. She would just like to take a shower without having the curtian flung open by a moppet yelling "Hi, Mommy!" Locking the door doesn't even help in her case, the duo has actually learned to pick the lock to get to her! Another friend has been eagerly awaiting her husband and children's camping trip so she could get a mani/pedi/facial and spend some quality time with her friends. (I'll be over at 6). And a mother of four I know just longs for an hour without having to wipe a nose.

Why do we wives and moms long for moments of temporary solitude in such secrecy? Because we feel guilty. We're supposed to love our husbands and kids 24/7. Which we do! (OK, we love you 21/5.8 ...but that's pretty damned good!) But we, and sometimes they, make ourselves feel as though we're leaving our families derelict if we desire even an hour of time to ourselves.

I'm lucky. I've got a wonderful husband and two great kids. In addition to enjoying time spent together as a family, they love their time doing "man stuff" without me. This is a "man stuff" afternoon. I'll be alone for at least five hours. I'm doing laundry. But I'm also doing all the little things I love that I rarely get to do undisturbed. I "Twittered" for an hour without Ben begging to play Webkinz. I made a girls' date for an Indian supper downtown. And I wrote an entire blog entry without once being asked to check the status of Evan's Ebay bid.

Come to think of it, I wonder when they'll all be coming home? I'm starting to miss them.

Slow and Steady Boys...Slow and Steady

When will men ever learn that taking their time is always better than just ramming it in?

Phanatic!

Yes, I Frenched and frotted the Phillie Phanatic this evening after the kid's day camp's musical performance. Notice his reaction he realized Ben was wearing a Red Sox t-shirt. Rightfully buried the boy's face in shame! The Phanatic (whose secret identity is being preserved for his own protection) is a really sweet guy whose son went to preschool with Evan, and we see him quite a bit. I didn't have the heart to tell him that he was a bit ripe tonight. That snout smells god-awful when you've got your face shoved into it!

Liar, Liar...

Last night the Tooth Fairy visited our 6-year-old in his top bunk. Ben's tooth actually fell out four days ago, but he and I kept forgetting to deposit it at bedtime. He was in a panic yesterday afternoon that "she" just might not come anymore. As if his tiny tooth was an outdated check that couldn't be cashed. But she came. Of course, since "she" wasn't prepared (as usual lately), the Tooth Fairy left four quarters instead of a paper dollar. Ben said he thinks that was her way of telling him to remember earlier next time.

In case you're wondering if he's really hip to the scene and is just playing along--well, my kids aren't hip to anything. Evan only just figured out last year that there is no Santa. Shhh. And only because he directly asked and I spilled the polar beans. I could have probably squeezed one more believing Christmas out of him by bold-faced lying, but it was his time. Ben still believes in it all though; and slipping those quarters under the pillow at 4 a.m. got me thinking about all the other non-truths/lies/fairtales we adults tell kids. Some are for tradition, some for their own good, and some just to yank their little chains. Things like:

The Tooth Fairy
Who was the idiot who got this one started? Paying kids for their outgrown or decayed teeth! And they all ask what she does with them. Tooth castles, necklaces, crowns...I keep trying to come up with something believable. Yesterday I said I think she grinds them down and recycles them into dentures for old people. But we all believe in her when we're little. I remember rolling over at the crack of dawn one morning as my grandfather was slipping a quarter under my pillow (yes, we only got one quarter back then kids!), sitting upright and screaming, "Grandma! Grandpa's stealing my toothfairy money!"

Santa Claus
I get where this started, but it's the hardest one to break. No parent wants to confess when they're finally out-and-out asked if the man in red is the real McCoy. We lie with a straight face for several years. Sure, we start transitioning them out of if slowly with sayings like "Now, Santa can't bring you everything on your list..." or "Santa doesn't bring children PS3s when he just brought them a PS2 last year..." or "Santa wasn't thrilled with your last report card so you'll be lucky if you get anything, Buster." When they're hip enough to realize that Santa can't be at each mall at the same time, we tell them those are just his helpers. The real Santa is at Macy's in New York. (Wanamakers if you're from Philly!) Now that one son knows, we just hope he can keep a lid on it so we can continue to lie to #2 for a few more years.

The Easter Bunny
Why children ever fall for this one is beyond me. I know they're innocent and gullible, but for Pete's sake! Come on kids! A rabbit delivering colored eggs and baskets of candy? How freaking huge is that rabbit? Surely someone must have caught him lurking about and called the police. Yet we all tell the tale, and they all believe it, and we all love it. When I was growing up in my grandparents house, I believed in him completely. When my uber-religious father came back on the scene, he laid down the biblical law and said plainly, "there is no Easter Bunny, there will be no more Easter baskets." Man out-and-out killed the rabbit for us. He was like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction -- only with a gut, a beard and a Bible.

Everday Fibs
Fairy tales aside, adults lie to kids constantly. Mostly for encouragement or to spare their feelings. "Keep practicing like that, and you could make the majors!"..."That was the greatest band concert ever! I could really hear you up there!"..."You're much prettier than that mean girl said!"...the list goes on. Doesn't make us bad people. Just makes us human, and humane.
Now I've got to get ready to pick up the kids from daycamp. They'll be bringing home refrigerator magnets made from macaroni or pipecleaners. "The most beautiful magnets I've ever seen."

Worthy of Note

Two "news" items I read this morning that have stuck with me all day...

Headline: Swearing Makes Pain More Tolerable
LiveScience - That muttered curse word that reflexively comes out when you stub your toe could actually make it easier to bear the throbbing pain, a new study suggests.

Swearing is good for you? I fucking knew it!

Headline: Jon Gosseling, Girlfriend Enjoy Night Out with Ed Hardy Fashion Designer
US Magazine- Jon Gosseling and Hailey Glassman -- the 22-year-old daughter of Kate's tummy-tuck surgeon -- enjoyed a night on the town with Ed Hardy designer Christian Audigier in St. Tropez, France, Sunday..... ....The father of eight and Audigier are planning to launch "a line of children's clothing," Audigier told E! News over the weekend."

I admit that I have never seen even a single episode of that reality show. That makes me either fruity or fabulous, I'm not sure which. Even when I found out friends knew the Gosseling's neighbors, I didn't tune in. It wasn't until the marital sh#% hit the fan that I paid any attention. But here's what gets me most about this story:

1. How proud the surgeon and his wife must be of their lovely young daughter. To have aimed so high as to romantically and openly link herself with an immature, narcissistic, recently-separated media whore and father of eight. I'm sure they'll still be together, co-raising the twins and sextuplets in years to come. ROFL.
2. Who on earth would consider either Gosseling a good spokesperson for anything child-related, especially Jon? Reminds me of Brooke Shield's Calvin Klein ads from the 70s..."Nothing comes between me and my Hardy's...not marriage, kids or two chicas on the side."

London Calling

Working on a London-related project this afternoon got me seriously pining to go back! No matter how long you've been away, it's too long. Coolest bloody city on the planet. Always something to do...even if you don't drink! I've been flashing back to things that stood out most on each trip. Back...

...to my first trip at 18... Youth hostel at Earl's Court with all the Australians, discovering Fosters Lager before Crocodile Dundee ruined it, the tail end of punk rockers, pub crawls on double-decker buses, Stonehenge, Bass Ale, Hampton Court, Fuller's London Pride Ale, discovering Go West, Wham! and Level 42 before they hit the US, Newcastle Brown Ale, Sherlock Holmes Pub, The Albert, dim sum near Leicester Square, feeding pigeons in Trafalgar Square, saying goodbye to new friends while toasting with Fosters Lager...

...to staying in Hampton & Lewisham in my early 20s...Spitting Image puppets on TV, Hither Green station, Courage Ale, coin-operated room heater in the cheapest B&B in Edinburgh, rediscovering Scotch in an attempt to keep warm, Giulford, Samuel Smith's India Ale, touring Europe with absolute strangers on a crowded motorcoach and loving every person I met, toasting Fergie and Andrew's wedding with Whitbread Pale Ale...

...to my 5th trip for my honeymoon at 29...Liberty of London, the ceiling tiles at the Euston Plaza Hotel, Carling Black Label, the ceiling fan at the B&B in Tenby Wales, G&T in one bottle, train to Wales, the ceiling tiles back at the Euston Plaza (it was our honeymoon--I spent a lot of time looking up), Sunday dinner in Saundersfoot, 36 pubs in 14 days, rum balls from Harrod's food court, Slug and Lettuce Lager, Slug and Lettuce Light, having tea at the table next to Bill O'Reilly at Covent Garden back when he was only a semi-jackass, first Stella Artois, discovering Belgian beer kicked British beer's ass...

...and to my last trip, when my son first met London...Stella Artois within a hour of landing, no more pigeons in Trafalgar Square, the London Eye, Jennie's graduating, Stella, Evan digging up bones and pipes at the Tower Bridge, finding out pubs let kids in before 6, Stella, boat down the Thames to Greenwich, Stella, finding a hidden creperie along the river on the East End, discovering Stella doesn't sit well with crepes...

Now that I think about it, It's amazing I remember anything about London. Let alone enough to make me pine for it! But I do. Now just sit listen to the first two songs on the playlist, and you will too. Cheers mate!

And In Other News...

There was more news in the world this week other than Michael Jackson's missing corpse (conspiracy theorists are atwitter on Twitter). Oscar Mayer died this week. They attempted cremation but he plumped when they cooked him. Sorry, I just had to.

With so much tragedy going on in the world, it's obvious that some news stories deserve much more mention than others. I'm however am mentioning the others:

Headline: French seen as world's worst tourists
"PARIS (Reuters Life!) – French tourists are the worst in the world, coming across as bad at foreign languages, tight-fisted and arrogant, according to a survey of 4,500 hotel owners across the world."

The French are rude and arrogant? No!!!

Headline: Monkeys live longer on low-cal diet; would humans?
"WASHINGTON – Eat less, live longer? It seems to work for monkeys: A 20-year study found cutting calories by almost a third slowed their aging and fended off death."

It took 20-years and millions of dollars to find out you live longer with a better diet. They've now moved onto a 10-year, $10 million study to determine if males become aroused by watching porn. Same skinny monkeys volunteered for the study.

Headline: Obama and Pope meet for first time
"VATICAN CITY – President Barack Obama sat down with Pope Benedict XVI at the Vatican on Friday for frank but constructive talks between two men who agree on helping the poor but disagree on abortion and stem cell research."

I thought for sure Obama could have swayed him on those two! At least he got him to approve birth control and female priests.

Local Headline: Anger management for porn-blaring neighbor
"PHOENIXVILLE — An agreement involving anger management courses and community service was reached in district court Thursday for Michael W. Buck, arrested May 31 after he allegedly played a pornographic movie over his stereo system in the direction of children playing near his residence.......Parents informed police that around 7:10 p.m., they began to hear what was "a woman vocalizing her pleasure during sexual intercourse.......One parent stated that they were 1½ blocks away and could hear the woman having sex."

Notice that no one could hear the man? Typical. On a separate note, Mr. Buck's defense was that he was part of a 10-year scientific study. The room full of monkeys verified his claim.

Best Oscar Mayer Related Headline:
In the wake of chairman's death, PETA asks Oscar Mayer company to "bury the Wienermobile"

Ladies, how many times have we heard that line.

Funniest Entertainment Headline:
Mel, Jodie Reunite for Beaver

I simply can't top that one! I don't even care what the story's about.


And finally, the best double-entendre headline of the week:
Berlin 'sex academy' offers tips for visitors

Spreading smiles wherever she goes...

I am having a very good day. It wouldn't take much to be an improvement over yesterday. But today is definitely a good day. And to spread the smile, I'm recommending that you click the following...if you're over 17...and have a sense of humor similar to mine (warped and slightly filthy). If not, then go read Cathy on the funny pages and check back tomorrow. I've got to come up with something really good by then. Pressure! Time for a shot of amber liquid courage on ice.

Britain Gone Wild - Top 10 Tasteless Ads - TIME

Do You Want Fries with That?

I've never put up two photo items in a row, but my sister-in-law sent me a link to this and I couldn't resist. I'm half offended, half laughing and half in the mood for a burger suddenly. And I don't do burgers...or fractions apparently.

Can't "Turn On" the Lights? ...there's a pill for that!

Should the lights stay on for more than 4 hours, consult an electrician immediately.

Beyond the Lipstick

Well it was a wonderful, lazy 4th of July break...with an overabundance of pyrotechnics, pilsner and pie. At one point someone jumped into a pool fully clothed. I plead the 5th. In the news: Michael Jackson is still dead. Hasn't been spotted at a Wal-Mart yet. And while folks were still yammering on about him as they crammed down dogs and burgers, a sneaky little gal up in the last frontier thought she could take advantage of the distractions and make a little announcement.

Yes, Palin's quitting. No, not college again. No, not a TV job. The governing of Alaska. She's stepping down 3/4 of the way through her first term. Reasons given vary from not wanting to be a "lame duck" to wanting to protect her family. But the short of it is that the head MILF of Alaska (I guess it's GILF now!) is calling it quits, dontchaknow.

Being the nostalgic soul I tend to be, I started reminiscing about the good times we've had together. About the debt we all owe her...for the laughs...for an improved SNL...for helping Obama win! I thought back to the first time we all saw her, up there at the podium at the Republican National Convention. How she "won" the crowd with her poise and humor. How she joked about the only difference between a Hockey Mom and a pitbull was lipstick. That got me wondering about what other differences and similarities there might be between said mom and pooch. So I looked up some of the traits on pitbulls...and away we go:

"A pitbull is a dog that tends to love people, all people..."
As long as they're pro-life, non-immigrant, and Republican.

"Pits are notorious clowns and will always make you laugh."
Well, yeah! Maybe not intentionally, but hell yeah!

"They seem to subsist on love and attention."
From plumbers, radio show hosts and the RNC.

"Pitbulls may exhibit intense 'prey drive,' leading them to stalk smaller creatures."
Such as former in-laws, state troopers, councilmen and Alaskan librarians.

"Pitbulls are extremely intelligent."
Some even know the names of magazines, websites and news journals they read.

"Pitbulls are very adaptable."
They'll do well now matter how many times they switch colleges or careers.

"Pitbulls that may have once been calm, when they become 'middle aged' may start to become agressive and to lose their eyesight."
They can no longer see Russia from their front porch.

"Pitbulls are strong, energetic, agile and powerful."
Check.

"They are very resourceful and driven."
Double check.

"'Determination' is one of their most notable traits. They just don't give up easily...once they sink their teeth into something they will never let go."
Except when they've only one year left on their term as governor. Then..."feh."

A Belated "Happy Independence Day" Alaska!

Happy 4th...on the 3rd

Wishing everyone a happy Fourth of July tomorrow! Remember to party responsibly. I've promised Chris I'll only drink one beer.

10 Things about Suzanne You May Not Know...

...or ever care to!

1. I shoot straight up in bed every single morning at 4 a.m. and again 7. Apparently my brain can only handle three hours of down-time, then worry, thoughts, fears, etc. shake it awake.
2. I'm double-jointed and can still wrap both legs completely behind my head. This is not a pretty sight anymore (was it ever?). Getting them unwrapped is another story.
3. I'm descended from almost-cannibals. What are almost-cannibals? They're folks who sat around watching their friends eat other friends, but didn't partake themselves...or at least wouldn't admit that they did. "What the..." you may ask? Well read up on the Donner-Reed Party on Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donner_Party). We're directly related to James Reed, the leader of the rescue party whose wife and children were stuck in the snow (my father was named Reed after him). Documentaries say the Reeds were among the few who didn't cannibalize those who died, but who really knows. Blech, eh?
4. I can get the lowdown on just about anybody in 48 hours. Try me. Thank you, investigative journalism courses.
5. I was pen pals with the Doobie Brother's sax player for years. He even tracked me down and called me at home when I was in college to invite me to a concert in Philly. He's dead now. RIP Cornelius.
6. I tossed back (and lit up) a few with Carlos Santana and the band back in H.S. (at an arena concert with the Doobies and Rick Springfield of all people) without even knowing who they were. I think my being clueless/unimpressed is what was my "in." I had to be told later who "those guys" were. What a twit I was...Now don't tell my kids!
7. We moved around so much when I was a kid that I went to four high schools and nine elementary schools in six states. I even went to four schools in four states all in one year! (First Grade in NJ, PA, DE and IN). My father said recently that moving that much isn't traumatic for a kid. My father is descended from lying cannibals, so who you gonna believe, LOL.
8. I met my husband when his car wouldn't start and he asked me if I had cables and could jump him. I didn't have cables...but I did later jump him.
9. The only non-vital organ I have left is my spleen. Tonsils-gone; adenoids-gone; gallbladder-gone;appendix-gone; brain-1/2 gone.
10. I reveal too much when I blog.

Baby You Can Drive My Car...if you can get it started

Chris and the boys went to Lansdale's "Under the Lights" car show this past Saturday, and the three shutterbugs went nuts. Even Ben was snapping away with an old digital. Looking over all the great shots that the three of them took made me think about les pieces de merde that I've owned over the years, some of which you will NEVER see on the road again.

My first car was a used Reneault Le Car, complete with crankable vinyl "moon roof." If you did over 60 (which was hard to do), not only did the car shake, but the vinyl flap rattled like it was going to fly right off and hit the car behind you. And that's when it was closed! When it was opened, you felt like the entire car could become airborne. It was officially declared a lemon, having the transission replaced twice in the three months I owned it. I got most of my money back and then had a hard choice to make...a used Pontiac LeMans station wagon or, for the same price, a brand new fully loaded Yugo. I wanted the Yugo, but wiser minds talked me out of it and I loved the wagon when I got it. Everyone assumed it was a hand-me-down, since no 22 year old in her right mind would buy a station wagon for herself. But I've never been accused of being in my "right mind."

I've also owned or inherited a used Toyota Celica and a Mazda Protege. But the most memorable mechanical member of the family is of course "Betsy," our famous (infamous?) 1989 Olds Cutlas wagon. Betsy was a recently put out to pasture when we inherited a much-used but slightly younger Toyota Corolla. Betsy sits in the driveway, lovingly collecting rust spots and a funky smell, awaiting our decision as to her fate. Much as I imagine I will be doing one day while Ben and Evan and their wives fight over who gets stuck with me living in their basement.

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

I'm Starting to Wonder...

Bedroom Wall...Suzanne @ 17

The passing of Michael Jackson has made me a bit reflective the last few days. No matter what you thought of him --- which could run the gamut from tortured odd duck to pedophile --- you have to agree that he was a creative genius. But he was also serious wall art in my teens.

One wall in my bedroom was covered with posters and clipped photos from Tiger Beat and Teen Beat magazines. (I had to Google it to see if they even publish those anymore. They publish those two, which sell quite well, but not Life. And they say we American's are unrefined!) There were so many photos and the like on that wall that when it was time to move and I had to tear them down, the chunks of wall plaster that came off with the adhesive made my room look like the scene of the Romanov execution. (Look it up people...the July 1918 edition of Tiger Beat had a great cover story.)

But I digress from the original theme of this blog entry. Look carefully at the photos above, which are copies of the actual posters from said wall. Now imagine a 15'x12' collage of the same faces. Notice anything? Anything at all? Greg Louganis? George Michael? Elton freaking John? What the hell was wrong with me? Was I completely clueless at 17? I mean, I moved here from San Francisco! So many months (OK, it was years, an admission that makes me even lamer) lusting after men who ended up being completely flammable. Only thing I was missing was a poster of Rock Hudson for Pete's sake!

But with age comes wisdom, and better gaydar. From moving day on, I only hung art on my walls. And now in my bedroom hangs only vintage posters and heirloom paintings, and a photo of my husband. Ummmm......

Death of a King and an Angel

In a town called "The Angels,"
Where gold stars line the street,
the ordinary and nameless
walk amid the rich and the elite.

Yet they all gasped together,
some with tears in their eyes,
at the news of two deaths --
one expected, one a surprise.

She was blonde, tall and toothy
(well known for that poster).
He was gifted, yet tortured
by his life's roller coaster.

She'll be remembered for her smile,
for the angel she once played.
An icon of the 70s
who from our minds won't soon fade.

He'll be remembered for the troubles,
but also for the good.
For his limitless talent
and an anguished childhood.

by Suze

May they both Rest in Peace.

Michael Jackson...doomed since childhood

R.I.P.

Worth a Thousand Words

Nothing I could write would be funnier.

What Was She Thinking?

Seemed like a good idea at the time...

...AS A KID...

Ordering Sea Monkeys from the back of a comic book then forgetting to feed them.

Writing FU%@ on my grandmother's bathroom wall in quick dry paint (and being too dumb to figure out I could just paint over it).

Eating that peanut butter and jelly that come together in one jar.

Trying to walk on hot coals at a barbecue while wearing rubber soled tennis shoes.

...AS A TEEN...

Going one base too far the summer before 8th grade (don't worry, strictly minor league ball).

Tossing back a few with the band backstage at a Santana concert @15 (I looked 21). Maybe this was a good idea at the time...don't tell my kids.

Hopping off a moving cable car while buzzed on Jack. Wanna see my scar?

Going platinum blond, by way of bright green, and living with it for a year.

...AS A "GROWN UP"...

Wearing brand new pumps on my wedding day (and spending half my honeymoon nursing blisters).

Buying a house 3 blocks from my parents...and not locking our door.

A certain ladybug on a certain body part.

Falling for a cute puppy... with obvious issues.

Telling my 12 year old I once smoked...thrown back in face many times.

Starting a blog?

Anti-Social Networking ?

Hello, my name is Suzanne...and I'm on my way to becoming an addict. I have admittedly become more and more hooked on "social networking" via Facebook, and just this week started tweeting on Twitter (yes, the verb is to tweet, not to twit). It all started as a way to write more and flex the creative cranial muscles, but it quickly took on a life of its own and I'm now hooked. Granted, I'm not an addict of junior high school proportions. My Facebook friends are actually friends, and number less than 50. But something odd is starting to happen...

On Twitter, you microblog thoughts of 140 characters or less. It's a good exercise in self-editing and creativity. But I discovered there are lurkers floating out and about who just search for specific words in entries and then become your "followers." Case in point--I made the following entry: "Any good recipes for cooking a 40-pound evil dog? I'm thinking about grilling or crockpotting!" Within an hour I had two new followers who were recipe enthusiasts! They just saw the word "recipe" in my entry and became a disciple. Now I guess I have to figure out how many minutes per pound are required for a terrier/spaniel mix!

Example #2--I made a risque entry about an anagram of my name that included the word "Zen" in it. I immediately had a new follower who's a yoga instructor. If you read the entry...it ain't about yoga! (Although some clever twisting wouldn't hurt.)

I'm apparently taking relatives down with me now too. After months of poking fun at Facebook, my husband finally saw some actual work possiblities from the networking and he joined this afternoon. So there the entire family was all in the office late on a sunny Sunday afternoon. You may be thinking, "Oh isn't that nice, they were all together!! And on Father's Day too!" Well let me paint a clearer picture. Chris on one laptop setting up his Facebook profile. Me on the other laptop Tweeting. Evan on his iPod Touch IMing his friend. I even texted my husband from 4 feet away to tell him it was time to light the grill. And there in the middle of all this "social" networking was 6-yr-old Ben, playing with his barn animals set.

So off went the PCs, off went the iPod, on went the sneakers and out went the Stanleys for a walk around the 'hood. We saw real people and actually spoke with them! And no one said "BRB" or "LOL" even once! It was so nice, as soon as we got home I ran upstairs to blog, tweet and FB about it! Baby steps, people...baby steps.

A rose by any other name...is a sore

Back when I was den mother to 12 flatulent prepubescent boys (half of whom had ADHD), I thought it would be fun one week to make anagrams of all their names and have them figure out just who was who. Teensy Naval for example was what I had for Evan Stanley. I nixed the idea however when the worst scout’s name came out as The Chosen. I won't name the boy, but it's easy to solve. I knew both he and his parents thought that that was actually the case--that he was The Chosen one---and I certainly didn’t want to provide anagrammatic proof! Of course I knew it meant he was Satan’s chosen one, LOL.

I revisited the online generator today on a whim, and I wanted to see if there might be other prophetic anagrams out there. I may have actually stumbled onto something. George W. Bush is Where Bugs Go and Dick Cheney is a Needy Chick. Sarah Palin however has several options worth mentioning. For our Spanish speaking friends, she is La Piranhas. Small but vicious. She is also an Anal Parish. Don’t know what that means exactly, but it’s to funny not to mention. I saved the best for last, as Mrs. Palin is also A Rash In Lap. That could SO explain her quick temper and irritability. Nothing a little Monistat couldn’t fix!

Lest my Republican friends accuse me of bias (wait...do I have any Republican friends?) I decided it would only be fair to try some Democrats out. Hillary Clinton is I Call Lint Horny. Perhaps Lint's her pet name for Bill. "Lint! Dinner's ready!" Barack Hussein Obama is A Hunkier Mob's Casaba and A Honkie Bub's Mascara. Not to mention Marihuana Ebbs A Sock and Uh, Bros! Mike's A Cabana!

It also works for non politicos, so I tried it on myself before exiting the site. Suzanne Stanley? How about Lazy Unseen Ants. They're the ones off watching Springer while the other ones tunnel. I saved the worst for last of course. I'm apparently also Neat Sleazy Nuns who have Ten Zen Anus Lays. I guess you really would have to be Zen to do 10! But that's a whole other blog entry for another time.

Check out wordsmith.org/anagram if you're bored. I highly recommend it to my friends Urgent Rascal...Casual Nurses...Thy Rehab Trek ...Keg Me Nicely and of course Beneath Ken. (Ken, get the hell off my sister!)

I love my kids. I love my kids. There. I said it twice, so you know that it's true and that I'm a good person and loving mother despite what I'm about to write. I'm starting to seriously pine for some of the things that existed in the world during the B.C. era. Not Before Christ. Before Children. Things I enjoyed somewhat regularly that are now either just a memory or merely an occasional treat. Let me elaborate.

Non-animated, R-rated movies. Movies that don't involve super heroes, robots, or chimps in outer space. We're talking movies with dirty words, healthy doses of nudity, or the occasional axe-wielding lunatic with mother issues. I hear they still make these. I recently snuck off to a movie all by myself and saw I Love You, Man. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. I not sure if I enjoyed it so much because it was a great movie, or because I didn't have to leave in the middle to take someone to the potty. I love my kids.

Happy Hour. That golden time between 4-6 p.m. when wings come 10 for a dollar and drinks come for a song. Now days, Happy Hour is from 10-11 p.m. when I do the ironing while drinking a beer and watching the early news. I love my kids.

A clean house. There was once a time when I could clean the house, leave, and come back to a house that was still clean. Now I usually do have a clean house--about once a month. For an hour. Then it starts creeping back in...socks between the sofa cushions...broken crayons...wrappers...goddamn Legos everywhere. A pox upon you, Ole Kirk Christiansen of Denmark, for inventing those foot bruising vacuum destroyers! I love my kids.

Naps. Laying down, alone or with the one you love, on a lazy Sunday afternoon and catching an hour or two's kip. If it's lightly raining outside, all the better. Only having a migraine will excuse a nap now. I think I feel one coming on. I love my kids.

Long car rides to nowhere. Just getting in the car on a Saturday with the other half, and driving for hours with no particular destination. Getting out when the mood strikes for a stroll or a pint. Talking about everything or just holding hands and listening to the radio. Not hearing "Are we there yet?" even once. I love my kids.

Sex. Enough said. I love my kids.

All that being said, I really really DO love my kids. I love going to T-Ball games, band concerts, 4-H and scouts. I love bedtime stories, burp contests and even homework time. I love having them smile when they see me in the school halls and watching their faces as they come down the stairs on Christmas morning. I love it all. I really do. But I could really go for nap. Followed by a long car ride before an early movie, then Happy Hour at a bar, and maybe later when we get home....

Holy Crap

I haven't done anything with this blog since November? Where the hell did the last seven months go? In fact, where have the last 43 years gone? Yeah, I'll admit it. I'm 43. This is officially the last time I'm going to acknowledge that fact though. From now on I'm shaving off a year every time the subject comes up. I'll see how far down I can go before someone has the nerve to say "Really?"

I've never felt older than I have this year. It's because of Ben starting kindergarten. When Evan started school he was our firstborn and I, like most of the other moms in his class, had a baby at home. Now that Ben's the one in K, most of the other kids in his class are firstborns and most of the moms have little ones at home. I'm the slightly-graying mare in a sea of early-to-mid-30-somethings. Granted they're a great group of women and Ben and I have made some really good friends this year. But once in a while when I hear one of them mention their graduation year, or hear one say "Oh man, I can't believe I'm almost 35!" I get a pain in my chest. Of course that could just be my blood pressure acting up...at my age who knows! To make matters worse, my 30-year-old sister aimed a hearty laugh my way at lunch today when she saw that I had to hold the menu halfway across the table to read it! My only solace is that it's genetic baby! These eyes will be your eyes in a decade Sister! Of course, I'll be blind by then.

So after realizing that I'm older than most of my friends (note to self: find some over-50s to hang around so I look/feel younger), I decided I needed to shake things up a bit. I've dropped 40+ pounds since January, which sadly is but a drop in the bucket but is at least a running start. I "retired" as president of the PTA (we call it the Home and School Assoc. in these here parts) so I could work more hours, etc. And I decided to go back to my first love (writing---not Gene from the 7th grade) and take a class in scriptwriting. Maybe it's not too late to do something really great and interesting with what's left of my life. After all, I'm only 42.