Holy Hasenpfeffer!

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!

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!

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

CINDERELLA

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

SLEEPING BEAUTY

BEAUTY

JASMINE (ALADDIN)

LITTLE MERMAID

Let Me See You Sweat

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

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

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

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...?

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"

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

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:

1. Never blog when you’re in a foul mood.
2. Never blog when you’ve got your period (which may just be an extension of rule #1).
3. Never blog when you’re pissed off at one person in particular (yeah, I’m talking about you, buddy)
4. 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)
5. Never blog about people who may read your blog (just bitch about them the old fashioned way…behind their back).

When TO Blog Rules:

1. Blog when you’ve got a great story/joke/lesson to share.
2. Blog when you’re in a really good mood.
3. Blog when you need to be creative and have time to proofrreed
4. Blog when you're sure your kids won't be fighting or screaming they've clogged the toilet...again.
5. 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)

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

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...

...then just blog a picture.