Okay, this blog entry will be short and sweet - akin to the amount of time I'm allowed to myself each day.
As in, when I'm going to the bathroom.
As in, even that is no longer sacrosanct (post-kids-who-can-walk).
As in, chronic bathroomus interruptus.
I want to hear from all you parents out there.
Is anyone else fed up with this?
Any suggestions? Thoughts?
Is nothing sacred?
Monday, October 8, 2007
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Spoiler Alert!
No, I'm not going to give away anything about LOST or GREY's this season. Simply because I'm the only person alive not watching those shows. But I can tell you that some f'ed up girl with an eating disorder WILL be named America's Next Top Model! Oh, wait, wrong blog entry...
No, I'm talking about a spoiler, as in car parlance. As in, if you check out http://www.urbandictionary.com/ (which you most certainly should if you don't want to walk around sounding like a 40ish suburban mom) you will discover is...
SPOILER (noun): An aerodynamical feature that 'spoils' the air flow by forcing any air that reaches it into the shape, pushing the rear end of the vehicle downwards, this is used to improve handling. As in "I was racing my rice grinder and got up to 100 mph but started to get some gnarly upforce. Man, do I need me a spoiler!"
Those of you who know me know that I'm anything but a gearhead. My car - which I call Ugly Benzy - is always coated in a layer of dirt, child snack detritus and loaded with soccer gear, backpacks, yoga mats, spin shoes, real estate brochures and who knows what else that takes my 15 city/18 highway mileage down to about...oh...let's say 5 mpg.
But, I digress (when do I not, really - isn't that what a blog is, a big DIGRESSION?). Anyhoo...
Ugly Benzy had been screeching at me for some time to get a tune-up. At every stop light, each stop sign, she would shudder and scream..."Damn, girl, these brakes are OVER. I mean, they are sans pad, down to the rotor, yo! Hie thee to the service center, asap!"
So, after embarrassing myself and my progeny around town with Screechy Ugly Benzy, it was time to go to one of the places I most despise...the car dealership...and particularly, Le Fletcher Jones. Understand, I never has me any kind of a "jones" for Fletcher. Not only because you can't drive out of there for less than $1K, but also because the parade of sheer freakery there is not only mind-boggling, but also nausea-inducing. A vivid reminder of why I said I'd never come back to Newport Beach to feather my nest.
But, I digress...AGAIN.
My eight-year-old daughter - who is sage beyond her years (in some areas, you'll see what I mean in a minute) - accompanied me to Club FJ. She, of course, was lured by the free Nintendo Wii and the Starbucks-meets-service-center ambiance. While I unloaded all of the gear from the car - a feat no less impressive than saddling up a herd of Dromedary camels for a trans-Saharan trek - she enjoyed the games. When it was time to get our "complimentary" (as if we're not paying for it in these heinously padded service bills) rental car, I let my daughter choose it.
ME: "Hey, honey - you can choose from the silver or white small cars, or the black or silver SUVs. Which one?"
SHE: "Oooooooh, mom - for SURE the small silver one. It is hella cool!" (Seriously, she said that - this girl is ghetto fabulous already, but please don't tell her private school teacher who already hates me - See the Sweater Incident blog entry).
As I approach the too-small-for-our-sub-saharan-trek-gear trunk, I notice something. A SPOILER. WHAT THE?! Didn't spoilers go the way of the 80's dodo? Hasn't their survival been severely compromised by global warming or something?
I didn't want to create a scene - I pride myself on being one of the only people who don't wait for the Mercedes loaner at Club FJ. "I will take whatever car, in whatever color, in whatever condition is ready NOW please, thank you very much," I have been heard to utter.
So...I let it RIDE. And I do mean RIDE, baby. My daughter and I took corners, floored it (40 in a 25 zone!) drafted (not really, that's a little too Fast and Furious for me - but if Vin Diesel or Paul Walker had shown up at carpool, we'd a been going Tokyo Drift all da way!).
Heck, I was almost sad to give up Sexy Spoiler for Ugly Benzy when the time came. I handed the keys to the Enterprise Representative (was he looking at me a little differently - a little lustily - a little "hey this is one hot-spoiler-lovin' MAMA?"). I may never know.
A bigger question remains. Am I a bad role model? Have I "spoiled" my daughter with the spoiler? After all, when the time comes - I want her to go for the guy with the hip VW microbus or Thing. I want her to covet a classic Mercedes or a retrofitted bio-diesel Benz. I don't want her going for the guy in the IROC or the dude in the Trans-Am.
Do I?
No, I'm talking about a spoiler, as in car parlance. As in, if you check out http://www.urbandictionary.com/ (which you most certainly should if you don't want to walk around sounding like a 40ish suburban mom) you will discover is...
SPOILER (noun): An aerodynamical feature that 'spoils' the air flow by forcing any air that reaches it into the shape, pushing the rear end of the vehicle downwards, this is used to improve handling. As in "I was racing my rice grinder and got up to 100 mph but started to get some gnarly upforce. Man, do I need me a spoiler!"
Those of you who know me know that I'm anything but a gearhead. My car - which I call Ugly Benzy - is always coated in a layer of dirt, child snack detritus and loaded with soccer gear, backpacks, yoga mats, spin shoes, real estate brochures and who knows what else that takes my 15 city/18 highway mileage down to about...oh...let's say 5 mpg.
But, I digress (when do I not, really - isn't that what a blog is, a big DIGRESSION?). Anyhoo...
Ugly Benzy had been screeching at me for some time to get a tune-up. At every stop light, each stop sign, she would shudder and scream..."Damn, girl, these brakes are OVER. I mean, they are sans pad, down to the rotor, yo! Hie thee to the service center, asap!"
So, after embarrassing myself and my progeny around town with Screechy Ugly Benzy, it was time to go to one of the places I most despise...the car dealership...and particularly, Le Fletcher Jones. Understand, I never has me any kind of a "jones" for Fletcher. Not only because you can't drive out of there for less than $1K, but also because the parade of sheer freakery there is not only mind-boggling, but also nausea-inducing. A vivid reminder of why I said I'd never come back to Newport Beach to feather my nest.
But, I digress...AGAIN.
My eight-year-old daughter - who is sage beyond her years (in some areas, you'll see what I mean in a minute) - accompanied me to Club FJ. She, of course, was lured by the free Nintendo Wii and the Starbucks-meets-service-center ambiance. While I unloaded all of the gear from the car - a feat no less impressive than saddling up a herd of Dromedary camels for a trans-Saharan trek - she enjoyed the games. When it was time to get our "complimentary" (as if we're not paying for it in these heinously padded service bills) rental car, I let my daughter choose it.
ME: "Hey, honey - you can choose from the silver or white small cars, or the black or silver SUVs. Which one?"
SHE: "Oooooooh, mom - for SURE the small silver one. It is hella cool!" (Seriously, she said that - this girl is ghetto fabulous already, but please don't tell her private school teacher who already hates me - See the Sweater Incident blog entry).
As I approach the too-small-for-our-sub-saharan-trek-gear trunk, I notice something. A SPOILER. WHAT THE?! Didn't spoilers go the way of the 80's dodo? Hasn't their survival been severely compromised by global warming or something?
I didn't want to create a scene - I pride myself on being one of the only people who don't wait for the Mercedes loaner at Club FJ. "I will take whatever car, in whatever color, in whatever condition is ready NOW please, thank you very much," I have been heard to utter.
So...I let it RIDE. And I do mean RIDE, baby. My daughter and I took corners, floored it (40 in a 25 zone!) drafted (not really, that's a little too Fast and Furious for me - but if Vin Diesel or Paul Walker had shown up at carpool, we'd a been going Tokyo Drift all da way!).
Heck, I was almost sad to give up Sexy Spoiler for Ugly Benzy when the time came. I handed the keys to the Enterprise Representative (was he looking at me a little differently - a little lustily - a little "hey this is one hot-spoiler-lovin' MAMA?"). I may never know.
A bigger question remains. Am I a bad role model? Have I "spoiled" my daughter with the spoiler? After all, when the time comes - I want her to go for the guy with the hip VW microbus or Thing. I want her to covet a classic Mercedes or a retrofitted bio-diesel Benz. I don't want her going for the guy in the IROC or the dude in the Trans-Am.
Do I?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
America's Next Top Hoochie Mama
Having watched every season of ANTM to-date - and Tyra's endless parade of wigs - I was excited to tune in to the latest "cycle" of the show (which, appropriately, makes the show sound like it's focused on a bunch of women on the PMS-verge - and I'm not just talking about J. Alexander).
No surprises tonight - there is the Tyra look-alike, the J. Alexander pre-op tranny look-alike, the short-haired gamine wanna be Audrey Hepburn (a nod to judge Twiggy), an Eastern European import (something _____ova), a girl who would be better off going straight to soft-core porn (and who will, but only after she's gotten into at least one catfight and then is summarily eliminated during the "look classy" challenge), the "plus-size" model (the only one at a healthy weight) who will never win, but who they like to shame and mortify before eliminating, and, of course, the girl with some disorder-du-jour (lupus, ADD...ironically, it's never an eating disorder and they don't "count" sheer stupidity).
Lack of surprise twists notwithstanding, what tonight's show DID bring was:
1. A new word for our ANTM lexicon (William Safire take note);
and,
2. Another mind-blowingly bizarre challenge and the hilariously insane judging commentary to go with it.
We'll start with #1. A new noun for the OED, or at least the TGFD (Tyra Ghetto Fabulous Dictionary) - Hoochification.
Hoochification (hoo-chi-fih-kay-shun), noun
1. The state of acting or looking like a hoochie-mama, ie, slutty, cheap or whoreish, like a prostitute.
2. Verb form - Hoochify (hoo-chi-fie), to make oneself - or to render a situation or photo (in the case of a model) - whoreish, slutty or cheap. As in..."Girl, did you just HOOCHIFY that shot of you wearing a mini skirt sitting at the vanity?" "You need to de-HOOCHIFY yourself in the next photo shoot, or you will no longer be in the running to become America's Next Top Model."
Now...we move on to tonight's challenge and the post-mortem judging commentary. In tonight's show, the girls were asked to pose for a dualistic photo shoot - kind of a quasi-PSA for the American Lung Association and the stop smoking campaign. Each girl had to pose for a "high fashion glamour shot" of herself sucking down a tar stick, a nicotine time-bomb. Then, the girl had to pose for the "fallout" shot depicting the aftereffects/side effects of smoking. The girl who drew the short straw (or cigarillo, if you will) got to pose as a chemo patient - and then others ranged from the tumor-sticking-out-of-face-femme-fatal(e) to heinous-gingivitis-girl to "damn, I used to look good before I started smoking, but now my face is sunken in and I have huge bags under my eyes" woman.
After the girls were submitted to looking ugly for the first time in their lives (the only thing that maybe could have redeemed the challenge), the judges proceeded to comment on the photos. "Girl, you made that post-chemo hair look FIERCE," or "You worked that face tumor OUT, darlin," or "You just didn't rock the gum disease HARD ENOUGH, sister, I'm sorry to say that you have been eliminated."
After the challenge, Tyra made a distressing announcement - this "cycle" would be a smoke-free zone, because girls everywhere are looking up to these contestants as beacons of hope, upstanding citizens of the world (0r maybe it was humanity, like the jeans?), pillars of the community...you know, self-obesssed gals who have eating disorders and self-image issues. The girls looked at each other in terror as they realized that the staple of their diets - and the only thing they had in common - cigarettes, were being taken away. The horror!
Thank god Tyra didn't say it was a crack-free show this season, because I think she and the other judges need to keep smoking it to really take their jobs seriously.
No surprises tonight - there is the Tyra look-alike, the J. Alexander pre-op tranny look-alike, the short-haired gamine wanna be Audrey Hepburn (a nod to judge Twiggy), an Eastern European import (something _____ova), a girl who would be better off going straight to soft-core porn (and who will, but only after she's gotten into at least one catfight and then is summarily eliminated during the "look classy" challenge), the "plus-size" model (the only one at a healthy weight) who will never win, but who they like to shame and mortify before eliminating, and, of course, the girl with some disorder-du-jour (lupus, ADD...ironically, it's never an eating disorder and they don't "count" sheer stupidity).
Lack of surprise twists notwithstanding, what tonight's show DID bring was:
1. A new word for our ANTM lexicon (William Safire take note);
and,
2. Another mind-blowingly bizarre challenge and the hilariously insane judging commentary to go with it.
We'll start with #1. A new noun for the OED, or at least the TGFD (Tyra Ghetto Fabulous Dictionary) - Hoochification.
Hoochification (hoo-chi-fih-kay-shun), noun
1. The state of acting or looking like a hoochie-mama, ie, slutty, cheap or whoreish, like a prostitute.
2. Verb form - Hoochify (hoo-chi-fie), to make oneself - or to render a situation or photo (in the case of a model) - whoreish, slutty or cheap. As in..."Girl, did you just HOOCHIFY that shot of you wearing a mini skirt sitting at the vanity?" "You need to de-HOOCHIFY yourself in the next photo shoot, or you will no longer be in the running to become America's Next Top Model."
Now...we move on to tonight's challenge and the post-mortem judging commentary. In tonight's show, the girls were asked to pose for a dualistic photo shoot - kind of a quasi-PSA for the American Lung Association and the stop smoking campaign. Each girl had to pose for a "high fashion glamour shot" of herself sucking down a tar stick, a nicotine time-bomb. Then, the girl had to pose for the "fallout" shot depicting the aftereffects/side effects of smoking. The girl who drew the short straw (or cigarillo, if you will) got to pose as a chemo patient - and then others ranged from the tumor-sticking-out-of-face-femme-fatal(e) to heinous-gingivitis-girl to "damn, I used to look good before I started smoking, but now my face is sunken in and I have huge bags under my eyes" woman.
After the girls were submitted to looking ugly for the first time in their lives (the only thing that maybe could have redeemed the challenge), the judges proceeded to comment on the photos. "Girl, you made that post-chemo hair look FIERCE," or "You worked that face tumor OUT, darlin," or "You just didn't rock the gum disease HARD ENOUGH, sister, I'm sorry to say that you have been eliminated."
After the challenge, Tyra made a distressing announcement - this "cycle" would be a smoke-free zone, because girls everywhere are looking up to these contestants as beacons of hope, upstanding citizens of the world (0r maybe it was humanity, like the jeans?), pillars of the community...you know, self-obesssed gals who have eating disorders and self-image issues. The girls looked at each other in terror as they realized that the staple of their diets - and the only thing they had in common - cigarettes, were being taken away. The horror!
Thank god Tyra didn't say it was a crack-free show this season, because I think she and the other judges need to keep smoking it to really take their jobs seriously.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Mama Mia!
Top 10 Things I'd Rather Do Than Hear the Words
"Mama? Mama? MAMA!" One More Time Tonight...
1. Watch my Tivo'ed episode of The Hills...again. I can never get enough of that Max Headroom-Meets-Robocop looking creepizoid Spencer weaving his spells of stupidity and snarkiness. Not to mention the fab outfits that LC and Whitney put together (they've gotta be stealing from the market editor's/stylist's closet). And let's not forget the major bagger that is Teen Vogue West Coast Editor Lisa Love, who makes me feel thankful it's not too late for me to apply BOTOX to my grill.
2. Eat yet another 100 Calorie Pack of Chips Ahoy Crisps! (Question - would it be more enviro-nice of me to just go ahead and buy a huge bag of Chips Ahoy, rather than to eat the entire box of individually wrapped "crisps" in one sitting? Something to consider.)
3. Visit my high school reunion's blog and see that the hottest guy from the Class of '87 has posted a lengthy entry enumerating my many virtues and killer qualities (If it's in poetry form, all the better - I loves me a dude who can write in iambic pentameter).
4. Visit my high school reunion's photo gallery and see that someone has (mercifully) removed the series of action shots chronicling my reenactment of Club 54 at the Balboa Pavilion.
5. Watch my Tivo'ed episode of Newport Harbor again. Because there's something comforting in knowing that everybody that grows up in these 'posh' OC enclaves gets a little f'ed up and it's not just me!
6. Peruse the Martha Stewart Living Halloween special edition mag for the tenth time, trying to discern which of the projects is the lowest effort/highest bang for the mom-is-so-crafty-and-doting buck (and, of course, which project I can actually figure out how to do).
7. Skim the $13 copy of a British parenting mag I bought in the Bay Area this weekend and steal ideas for the next issue of Coast Kids. (While simultaneously wishing I were hip enough to be a Brit - and I'm not talking about that train wreck Ms. Spears.)
8. Go to perezhilton.com and laugh at the lame-ass pics of Janice Dickinson staging a photo op for paparazzi at Gianni Versace's former Miami manse. Then, check out pic of B.S. (that's Britney Spears, again) and kids in her car - that she is driving illegally. The poor tots are holding onto each other for dear life! At least she has them in the back seat this time.
9. Reminisce about my daughter's first cotillion yesterday, where, among the darling kids and charming-yet-campy-meets-chivalry-and-the-cha-cha atmosphere, I was given the opportunity to finally solve the mystery of where ex-pageant contestants go to find gainful employment.
10. Fantasize about a world where I wouldn't have to get up and make school snacks and lunches in the morning - and where I'd have enough energy left at night to avoid snapping at my darling daughters for asking me for one more...book, hug, kiss, tuck-in, glass of water, check-on, stuffed animal, light dimmed...is that so wrong?
Gotta go - I hear a "Mama!" emanating from the general direction of the kids' rooms - and you can bet it's not ABBA.
"Mama? Mama? MAMA!" One More Time Tonight...
1. Watch my Tivo'ed episode of The Hills...again. I can never get enough of that Max Headroom-Meets-Robocop looking creepizoid Spencer weaving his spells of stupidity and snarkiness. Not to mention the fab outfits that LC and Whitney put together (they've gotta be stealing from the market editor's/stylist's closet). And let's not forget the major bagger that is Teen Vogue West Coast Editor Lisa Love, who makes me feel thankful it's not too late for me to apply BOTOX to my grill.
2. Eat yet another 100 Calorie Pack of Chips Ahoy Crisps! (Question - would it be more enviro-nice of me to just go ahead and buy a huge bag of Chips Ahoy, rather than to eat the entire box of individually wrapped "crisps" in one sitting? Something to consider.)
3. Visit my high school reunion's blog and see that the hottest guy from the Class of '87 has posted a lengthy entry enumerating my many virtues and killer qualities (If it's in poetry form, all the better - I loves me a dude who can write in iambic pentameter).
4. Visit my high school reunion's photo gallery and see that someone has (mercifully) removed the series of action shots chronicling my reenactment of Club 54 at the Balboa Pavilion.
5. Watch my Tivo'ed episode of Newport Harbor again. Because there's something comforting in knowing that everybody that grows up in these 'posh' OC enclaves gets a little f'ed up and it's not just me!
6. Peruse the Martha Stewart Living Halloween special edition mag for the tenth time, trying to discern which of the projects is the lowest effort/highest bang for the mom-is-so-crafty-and-doting buck (and, of course, which project I can actually figure out how to do).
7. Skim the $13 copy of a British parenting mag I bought in the Bay Area this weekend and steal ideas for the next issue of Coast Kids. (While simultaneously wishing I were hip enough to be a Brit - and I'm not talking about that train wreck Ms. Spears.)
8. Go to perezhilton.com and laugh at the lame-ass pics of Janice Dickinson staging a photo op for paparazzi at Gianni Versace's former Miami manse. Then, check out pic of B.S. (that's Britney Spears, again) and kids in her car - that she is driving illegally. The poor tots are holding onto each other for dear life! At least she has them in the back seat this time.
9. Reminisce about my daughter's first cotillion yesterday, where, among the darling kids and charming-yet-campy-meets-chivalry-and-the-cha-cha atmosphere, I was given the opportunity to finally solve the mystery of where ex-pageant contestants go to find gainful employment.
10. Fantasize about a world where I wouldn't have to get up and make school snacks and lunches in the morning - and where I'd have enough energy left at night to avoid snapping at my darling daughters for asking me for one more...book, hug, kiss, tuck-in, glass of water, check-on, stuffed animal, light dimmed...is that so wrong?
Gotta go - I hear a "Mama!" emanating from the general direction of the kids' rooms - and you can bet it's not ABBA.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Cat Fight - Me? Ow.
I know. With a title like that you are expecting some serious foxy boxing or GLOW (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling for those WWF-neophytes). But no. I'm talking about my cats, mes chats, my puss-ows.
The Question: Is it possible to win a battle with two cats? Methinks not. I am outwitted, outplayed and outlasted, Survivor-style, in this sitch. Even Jeff Probst in all of his epaulets-and-cargos glory has given up on me, extinguished my torch and told me to pack up all my belongings (kitty litter, food bowls and Eukanuba) and go HOME.
How did I get to this place? Here's how it went down...
Recently, our two cats - Belly and Stinky (don't ask for the meanings behind the nomenclature) - laid siege to our abode with a double-barrel offensive (in both senses of the word) attack - the cornerstones of which were the deployment of both hairballs and diarrhea in simultaneous blitzkriegs and incursions in all manner of rooms of the residence. Agent Orange it was not...perhaps Agent Puce is more apropos. Either way, it was a rumble in the jungle and the sh**ty kitties were WINNING.
After all I've done for them! How could they go and turn tail on me like that?!
Deep breath. Let's take a moment to consider. After all, I've been through nearly 30 years of sporadic therapy, so I'm up for a little self-evaluation.
Perhaps it began with the arrival of our canine companions nine years ago. Surely, that didn't go over well, as the felines watched us feed, walk, cuddle with and...gasp...DRESS UP the dogs in a collection of canine couture including, but not limited to, customized George collars, faux Burberry coats and even (gag) rain slickers with hats. Les chiens were included in the Christmas cards while the forgotten felines were left on the sidelines, with nary a faux fur mouse or kitty grass container in sight.
Perhaps more legitimately, the arrival of our daughters eight and six years ago (respectively)may have signalled the proverbial harbinger of doom and tolling death knell of any extra attention to be lavished on the pusses-sans-boots - who were, from then on, largely ignored.
How could I not have seen this coming, you ask? There were SIGNS, you say!
True.
If I'm really honest about it, it started innocently enough. Just a few fluffs of feline fur strategically placed here and there among the designer cushions from Juxtaposition. An array of scratch marks on the newly purchased Butera club chairs. A little "spillage" from the litter box onto the travertine floors each day - despite my attempts to stock that most disgusting of all pieces of household equipment with the most expensive, odor-reducing kitty crystals available on the open market (not that there's a black market for kitty litter, but work with me because it helps the story).
So, yes, there were signs. Meow culpa.
Which brings us back to the battle on the homefront and the new "GI Bill" - aka, the $1000 vet bill that determined...shocker...the cats had GastroIntestinal issues(cause unknown).
"Enough!" I yelled. "You may have won the battle, you ungrateful felines, but you have not won the WAR!" I continued.
And - right then and there - I downgraded the household terror threat from orange to yellow with a bold maneuver, taking those cats from indoor to outdoor status, stat. No truces reached. No treaties signed. No ticker tape parades paraded.
I did get to throw out the damn litter box. But I know those cats are plotting something. It's entirely too quiet out there. Better go sharpen my claws...
The Question: Is it possible to win a battle with two cats? Methinks not. I am outwitted, outplayed and outlasted, Survivor-style, in this sitch. Even Jeff Probst in all of his epaulets-and-cargos glory has given up on me, extinguished my torch and told me to pack up all my belongings (kitty litter, food bowls and Eukanuba) and go HOME.
How did I get to this place? Here's how it went down...
Recently, our two cats - Belly and Stinky (don't ask for the meanings behind the nomenclature) - laid siege to our abode with a double-barrel offensive (in both senses of the word) attack - the cornerstones of which were the deployment of both hairballs and diarrhea in simultaneous blitzkriegs and incursions in all manner of rooms of the residence. Agent Orange it was not...perhaps Agent Puce is more apropos. Either way, it was a rumble in the jungle and the sh**ty kitties were WINNING.
After all I've done for them! How could they go and turn tail on me like that?!
Deep breath. Let's take a moment to consider. After all, I've been through nearly 30 years of sporadic therapy, so I'm up for a little self-evaluation.
Perhaps it began with the arrival of our canine companions nine years ago. Surely, that didn't go over well, as the felines watched us feed, walk, cuddle with and...gasp...DRESS UP the dogs in a collection of canine couture including, but not limited to, customized George collars, faux Burberry coats and even (gag) rain slickers with hats. Les chiens were included in the Christmas cards while the forgotten felines were left on the sidelines, with nary a faux fur mouse or kitty grass container in sight.
Perhaps more legitimately, the arrival of our daughters eight and six years ago (respectively)may have signalled the proverbial harbinger of doom and tolling death knell of any extra attention to be lavished on the pusses-sans-boots - who were, from then on, largely ignored.
How could I not have seen this coming, you ask? There were SIGNS, you say!
True.
If I'm really honest about it, it started innocently enough. Just a few fluffs of feline fur strategically placed here and there among the designer cushions from Juxtaposition. An array of scratch marks on the newly purchased Butera club chairs. A little "spillage" from the litter box onto the travertine floors each day - despite my attempts to stock that most disgusting of all pieces of household equipment with the most expensive, odor-reducing kitty crystals available on the open market (not that there's a black market for kitty litter, but work with me because it helps the story).
So, yes, there were signs. Meow culpa.
Which brings us back to the battle on the homefront and the new "GI Bill" - aka, the $1000 vet bill that determined...shocker...the cats had GastroIntestinal issues(cause unknown).
"Enough!" I yelled. "You may have won the battle, you ungrateful felines, but you have not won the WAR!" I continued.
And - right then and there - I downgraded the household terror threat from orange to yellow with a bold maneuver, taking those cats from indoor to outdoor status, stat. No truces reached. No treaties signed. No ticker tape parades paraded.
I did get to throw out the damn litter box. But I know those cats are plotting something. It's entirely too quiet out there. Better go sharpen my claws...
Friday, September 21, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
You'll Never Eat (Sack) Lunch in this Town Again
I had a third grade moment today. An event, centered on my third grade daughter's classroom, that ultimately made me feel like...well...a third grader myself.
Before I launch into my story, I will tell you that the price of admission to this prestigious private school's third grade biosphere is not only a spendy tuition (and the give-'til-it-hurts fundraisers), but also a contractual agreement that, as a parent, I will not interfere in my third grader's student life. To wit...
Thou shalt not ask your child if he/she has homework, has done homework, is thinking about doing homework at some point in the evening, has put homework in the backpack, and its corollary - Thou shalt not fret if your child goes to the Hall of Shame for not doing homework.
Thou shalt not remind your child to bring his/her lunch to school - and, its corollary, Thou shalt not worry if your child semi-starves at lunchtime.
And, after today, I can add...
Thou shalt not deliver a sweater to your child at school to ensure his/her comfort on a blustery day - and its corollary, Thou shalt not worry that the child sent to school with wet hair and short sleeves on what becomes a windy day will catch pneumonia and bankrupt your PPO health plan.
But...Thou certainly SHALL live to regret any transgressions to aforementioned Commandments. To wit...
The day starts out innocently enough. Get the girls up, ready and off to school on time. Some clouds in the sky, a bit brisk but seems it will clear and get warmer. The girls are dressed in short sleeves and skirts. An hour after drop-off, the weather isn't resolving, so - in a rare moment of mommy-coddling, I decide to run sweaters to school.
Arrive, park in red zone (natch), and the front office directs me to deliver the sweaters to the classrooms. First, to my younger daughter's Kindergarten class, where I'm greeted with smiles, waves and air kisses. You'd have thought it was national Bring Your Daughter's Sweater to School Day.
Feeling like a very loving and wonderfully caring mother, I practically skip to my elder daughter's third grade class. As I get close to the classroom, however, my confidence erodes just a bit as I remember "the contract." It occurs to me - now that I'm here, I'm a bit unsure of how to actually deliver the sweater to my daughter.
Do I leave it in her backpack outside the classroom? Maybe, but it's a new sweater - she won't recognize it. Will she put it in lost and found? Will she even know it's there to avail herself of its warmth? Will it end up snuggling some other child and not my beloved? That won't do. I'm already 30 minutes into this project.
So, against what now seems like all better judgement, I decide to quickly skulk into the class, drape the sweater on the back of her chair, kiss the back of her head (still wet from AM shower) - and slip out the way I came. Kind of like Tom Cruise's dangling-from-the-ropes entry into the inner sanctum to get the NOC List.
And, here's where we cue the music signalling impending doom.....................
At the beginning, everything is going as planned. I'm executing my maneuver, halfway across the room now, when I notice with horror that my daughter's teacher is looking at me like I'm Linda Blair in the Exorcist. Or maybe I'm Damien Omen. I think I actually started bleeding through stigmata imparted by the laser beams emanating from her retinas. Adding insult to injury, my daughter is looking mortified at me like "You stupid idiot, what the HELL are you doing? I don't even need that dumb sweater that I don't recognize anyway. Please leave before you shame me further and ruin my budding academic career."
Unfortunately, I'm in the middle of the room. I'm committed to the mission. There is no choice but to complete the maneuver as quickly as possible, repeatedly mouthing the words "I'm sorry" to everyone affronted by my egregious error. Then, I turn tail and practically run out of the room in tears while trying not to barf. Rush to the car while trying to invoke deep "u-gi" breathing from yoga and throw in a few kegels just in case that may help. (They didn't - never could do those damn things right, as evidenced by my postpartum inability to jump on a trampoline or even belly laugh without repercussions).
How will this PR gal spin the debacle? What damage control strategies to deploy?
First, unleash the back-line classroom voicemail message tactic. Open with mea culpas, continue with self-flagellation (damage of which 2 sessions of therapy may hope to undo), and culminate with a huge run-on soliliquy revealing every element of my psychic dilemma on how best to deliver the sweater and repenting the error of my ways.
Then, call all friends who can empathize and provide advice.
Next, draft email striking perfect balance between self-deprecation, apologies and humor "I will not walk into a third grade classroom again. I will not walk into a third grade classroom again. I will not walk into a third grade classroom again."
End with two generous pours of red wine at a friend's house.
Before I launch into my story, I will tell you that the price of admission to this prestigious private school's third grade biosphere is not only a spendy tuition (and the give-'til-it-hurts fundraisers), but also a contractual agreement that, as a parent, I will not interfere in my third grader's student life. To wit...
Thou shalt not ask your child if he/she has homework, has done homework, is thinking about doing homework at some point in the evening, has put homework in the backpack, and its corollary - Thou shalt not fret if your child goes to the Hall of Shame for not doing homework.
Thou shalt not remind your child to bring his/her lunch to school - and, its corollary, Thou shalt not worry if your child semi-starves at lunchtime.
And, after today, I can add...
Thou shalt not deliver a sweater to your child at school to ensure his/her comfort on a blustery day - and its corollary, Thou shalt not worry that the child sent to school with wet hair and short sleeves on what becomes a windy day will catch pneumonia and bankrupt your PPO health plan.
But...Thou certainly SHALL live to regret any transgressions to aforementioned Commandments. To wit...
The day starts out innocently enough. Get the girls up, ready and off to school on time. Some clouds in the sky, a bit brisk but seems it will clear and get warmer. The girls are dressed in short sleeves and skirts. An hour after drop-off, the weather isn't resolving, so - in a rare moment of mommy-coddling, I decide to run sweaters to school.
Arrive, park in red zone (natch), and the front office directs me to deliver the sweaters to the classrooms. First, to my younger daughter's Kindergarten class, where I'm greeted with smiles, waves and air kisses. You'd have thought it was national Bring Your Daughter's Sweater to School Day.
Feeling like a very loving and wonderfully caring mother, I practically skip to my elder daughter's third grade class. As I get close to the classroom, however, my confidence erodes just a bit as I remember "the contract." It occurs to me - now that I'm here, I'm a bit unsure of how to actually deliver the sweater to my daughter.
Do I leave it in her backpack outside the classroom? Maybe, but it's a new sweater - she won't recognize it. Will she put it in lost and found? Will she even know it's there to avail herself of its warmth? Will it end up snuggling some other child and not my beloved? That won't do. I'm already 30 minutes into this project.
So, against what now seems like all better judgement, I decide to quickly skulk into the class, drape the sweater on the back of her chair, kiss the back of her head (still wet from AM shower) - and slip out the way I came. Kind of like Tom Cruise's dangling-from-the-ropes entry into the inner sanctum to get the NOC List.
And, here's where we cue the music signalling impending doom.....................
At the beginning, everything is going as planned. I'm executing my maneuver, halfway across the room now, when I notice with horror that my daughter's teacher is looking at me like I'm Linda Blair in the Exorcist. Or maybe I'm Damien Omen. I think I actually started bleeding through stigmata imparted by the laser beams emanating from her retinas. Adding insult to injury, my daughter is looking mortified at me like "You stupid idiot, what the HELL are you doing? I don't even need that dumb sweater that I don't recognize anyway. Please leave before you shame me further and ruin my budding academic career."
Unfortunately, I'm in the middle of the room. I'm committed to the mission. There is no choice but to complete the maneuver as quickly as possible, repeatedly mouthing the words "I'm sorry" to everyone affronted by my egregious error. Then, I turn tail and practically run out of the room in tears while trying not to barf. Rush to the car while trying to invoke deep "u-gi" breathing from yoga and throw in a few kegels just in case that may help. (They didn't - never could do those damn things right, as evidenced by my postpartum inability to jump on a trampoline or even belly laugh without repercussions).
How will this PR gal spin the debacle? What damage control strategies to deploy?
First, unleash the back-line classroom voicemail message tactic. Open with mea culpas, continue with self-flagellation (damage of which 2 sessions of therapy may hope to undo), and culminate with a huge run-on soliliquy revealing every element of my psychic dilemma on how best to deliver the sweater and repenting the error of my ways.
Then, call all friends who can empathize and provide advice.
Next, draft email striking perfect balance between self-deprecation, apologies and humor "I will not walk into a third grade classroom again. I will not walk into a third grade classroom again. I will not walk into a third grade classroom again."
End with two generous pours of red wine at a friend's house.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)