At Your Commando

There's so much laundry coming through the Salfino Laundry Service, it's kind of crazy that for a split second on one recent day, I actually sort of thought to myself, "Am I missing some of Ryan's underwear?"

See, I am the family laundress.  I know, I know, it sounds so quaint.  Yet pathetic.  The fact of the matter is, I never taught my daughter how to do her own laundry, nor, shockingly, has she shown any interest.  Mike's been pretty much banned from it because he'll throw everything in the dryer, let it shrink and leave it there to wrinkle.  And Ryan, well, let's just say he's doing his part by generating his fair share.

But of late, the workload seemed a bit lightened.  I recently found out why when Ryan and I were on line at a supermarket checkout.  I was blithely putting items on the conveyor belt, thinking about how many things I wouldn't be buying if Ryan wasn't with me.

Ryan, apropos of nothing: "Yeah, I've been going commando for a while now."

Me, snapping to attention: "What words did you just say?"

Ry: "I've been going commando."

Me: "What?!  Why are you saying this now?  And why would you DO that?!?"

Ryan: "It's comfortable.  It let's me be more free down there."

Me: "So... there really HAS been less of your underwear in the laundry lately!"

Ry: "Yeah, exactly.  See?  I'm helping you out."

Considering half the time Ry forgets his belt and his jeans are falling down, this latest development had me feeling slightly alarmed.

Me: "FYI, you're not 'going commando' anymore.  For god's sake, this can only end up with me getting a call from the principal's office."

Ry: "Okay, fine.  But it did cut down on the laundry.  Anyway...."

Ryan is a mastermind at distracting people from the main event.  And this time, the "Big Thing" was a fondue pot.  Apparently, Ryan felt like he hadn't really lived because we didn't own one.

His big break came as we were checking out a relatively new Fairway market near our house.  Boxes of fondue pots were scattered serendipitously around the store's fromagerie, fairly FORCING Ryan to put one in our cart.

This led to a cheese buying spree from which European nations are still reeling.

Me, looking at the box, waiting to check out: "Why am I buying this for you?  This is stupid."

Ryan: "Come on, you're not buying that for me. You're buying it for all of us."

Right.  Even though Cara doesn't eat bread or cheese, Mike doesn't eat melted cheese unless it involves something being parmagiana-ed, and I -- who WILL eat anything -- try to avoid things in the "Foods That Will Stick to Your Butt and Gut Longer Than You Thought Conceivable" family.  But sure, Ry, I was buying it for the family.

I stood online staring at the fondue box, flimsily making mental justifications for "investing" in this glorified saucepan and the accompanying bumper crop of cheeses.  I envisioned all kinds of reasons why it would "make sense" to  break out some melted dairy goodness: Movie night. Girls night. A decent report card.  A bad hair day.  Five minutes of being sad.  It was quickly dawning on me that in no time, my only apparel option would be triple XL muumuus.

                  
It was at this point that my son's sixth sense must have kicked in.  As I was picturing catastrophic weight gain and early onset heart failure, Ryan realized his dream of cheese-covered everything was rapidly melting away.

So, Ryan did what he had to do.  He pulled the emergency switch: "Yeah, I've been going commando for a while now."

Like iron bits to a magnet, my random and distracted thoughts suddenly honed in on one issue: "What?!"

And, just like that, I was the new owner of a fondue pot.

Yeah.  He's THAT good.

Bringing Up Tuxie

Last summer, we had a close encounter of the canine kind. But once the family realized I truly wasn't "just pretending" to be a crank about the prospect of taking care of a dog for the next 17-to-21 years, the dealio fell through.

Ryan levied a two-day "Mom sucks" campaign before launching into, "Well, we should at least get a new kitten."

Cut to two weeks ago. Enter Tux.  Tuxie, for short.

We've already had Molly, the Maine Coon cat, for three years. She's awesome: beautiful, playful (with me, and a little with Cara), sweet (to me, and a little with Cara). Perhaps best of all, she sleeps by my feet and learned early on not to wake me up before 8:30 a.m. on weekends. What more could you want in a pet?

Ryan: "I want a new kitten. One that will sleep by ME. One that will sit by ME. Molly is YOUR pet."

Pets are funny that way. They gravitate to the person that feeds, pets, grooms and cleans the litter box for them. Weirdos.

But I always wanted Molly to have a pal for those rarified times we all leave the house for more than half a day.  Or, God forbid, actually take a vacation.  I feel like Molly feels like we're abandoning her.

Molly: "Seriously, this is not a problem. Don't be bringing in a new feline on my account. I'm good--really. In fact, I'm begging you... "

Me: "Molly, meet Tux!"

Molly: "God dammit! Doesn't anybody listen to me around here?!"

Tux: "What's her glitch?"

If anyone has ever seen the children's book or TV show "Little Bear," Tux looks like Cat.   He's not a kitten, but a one-year-old rescue.  He's quite handsome, black with white down the front and on his paws -- like he's wearing a tuxedo.  Awwww, aren't we clever?

I wanted to name him George Clooney.  But nobody else around here was on board.   But the cat IS so handsome he deserved the title.  And both know how to rock the tux look.  Plus, how impressive would it have been to be at the grocery store talking about what to get George Clooney for dinner?

Random Evesdropper: "George Clooney is at your house for dinner?!"


Me: "Uhh, yeah.  Like, all the time."

Molly: "What's wrong with you? You're in major need of a vacation.  Go ahead and take it.  And take George Clooney with you.  Freak."

Before you side with Molly and say we upset the apple cart and destroyed her quiet, happy life, Tux was rescued from a Dunkin' Donuts parking lot.  The good people from the Save The Animals Rescue Team (S.T.A.R.T.) offered him through the Totowa, NJ, Petco adoption event.

So we brought the little guy home (okay, he's big for a cat, and bigger than Molly).  But he was SO grateful to not be eating frozen coffee grounds for dinner.  We followed all the instructions about keeping the cats separated and giving them a slow introduction. Well, when Tux first saw Molly, he was happy!  Happy to see another cat!  Happy to have a playmate!  Happy to have humans feeding him and a warm home!

In turn, Molly decided to show everyone where the term "hissy fit" comes from.

Molly: "WHAT. IN. THE. HELL?!?!?"

Tux: "Hi, I'm new around here.  What's your na...?  Aaaagh!  That's wicked bile breath, sister!  No offense, but I didn't smell anything nearly that bad out back of Dunky D's.  You need to fix tha...  HEY!  Aaackk! Fine, I'll back away.  Oh my god, fix that."

Molly: "You know, hissing hurts me.  I've never even had to DO that before.  And now you're giving me crap about my breath?!  It's SUPPOSED to be offensive!  Boys are IDIOTS!"
                                   
                                        
So Molly spent the first week hiding from Tux.  Since he's a boy, and only one year old, he thinks galloping up and jumping on her is a great way to say, "Good morning."  But she's three and, like me,  not a morning person -- we don't want to deal with pleasantries until 5 p.m. or so.   She refused to eat or drink water with him around.  I had to carry her to her litter box so she would use it.  She was becoming an anti-social wreck.  I felt awful.

On the other hand, she mostly spends her days sleeping.  Lately, she seemed sorta bored.  Tux had the potential to add a little life to the party.  So what WAS her glitch??

Tux: "Seriously, I'm telling you.  She has diva issues."

Me: "She's being a brat, Tux, but come on.  You invaded her space.  And would it actually kill you to just WALK up to her instead of RACE into her face??  Could you just chill the hell out a little?"

Tux:  "Look, I'm a dude.  I do everything bigger and faster."

Molly & Me: "We know!"

Tux: "I eat fast."

Molly: "You eat like a pig is more like it.  Did you ever hear of NOT knocking your food all over the floor??  And stop eating MY food, by the way!"

Tux: "Ya snooze, ya lose."

Tux: "And I run fast.  Faster than you."

Molly: "You're a clod.  You crash into everything.  You already broke a vase!  I'm so glad they didn't name you George Clooney, you klutzy lug."

Tux: "They should have named you Mariah."

Molly: "Oh, my God.  I didn't ask for a bratty brother."

Cara: "Welcome to my world, Molly."

Ryan: "Tux, we're gonna be good, good friends.  Hey, ya wanna know what girls hate?  Farts."

Tux: "Right on, brother."

All On A Winter's Day

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a huge bruise on the back of my leg. Since I haven't been falling-down-drunk in a while, I was kind of wondering how I garnered this small ocean of blue on a leg that normally only features varicose streams.

And then it dawned on me: snow tubing.

I took the kids a couple weeks ago on a rare day when not only was there some snow on the ground, but it was barely cold.  That meant Cara, who has the body fat of a small zucchini, could stand to be outdoors for more than 10 minutes.

Now, I just want to put it out there that no one in this household has ever gone snow tubing before.  Probably because of my "crash fear."  Little did I know that a professionally run snow tube park is probably 100 times safer than the local sledding hill, where eight-year-old boys don't actually seem lethal until they're barreling down an icy slope screaming, "I'm out of contrrohhllll!!"

Sledding also involves walking yourself and your ride back to the top of the snow-covered hill.  That's why you don't see the old-timers, the overweight or the Salfino kids doing a lot of sledding.

So in my mind, snow tubing held a high probability level for broken bones, eye damage and/or nose bleeds due to inescapable crashes, preceded by an insufferable amount of grunting and grousing getting the tube back up long hills of packed powder.  Sorta doesn't really seem that fun.

Cut to this past Christmas break.  Every other day, either the weather was lousy or one of the kids was sick: a head cold, it's raining, a stomach ache, it's raining, a migraine (that would be me).  The break was a bust.

A week later, I couldn't take being stuck indoors anymore.  That's when I decided to explore the wild world of family snow tubing.  Not that our whole family would go.  Mike had to watch the NFL games for work, although, he normally opts out of things that smack of "fresh air activity."  So I went online and looked up local snow tubing options.

And that's where I saw two things that convinced me to give this venture a shot:

1) The snow tubes go down bermed chutes, so people can't slam into each other
2) There are conveyor belts or tow ropes to pull you back up the hill

Mike was out bowling at that point.  I knew if he came home before we got out, he'd react with his normal, "You're going to do what?!  Why??  You could break a leg!"  Read: "Cath, don't get hurt because it will really suck for me!"

So I yelled to the kids to get ready with hats, boots, gloves.

Me: "Ryan, get off the Xbox!  We're going snow tubing!"

Ryan: "We're going to do what?! Why??"

Me: "Ryan, you'll be kicked off the game as soon as Dad comes home.  And then it's either snow tubing with me or reading something."

Ryan: "Hold on!  I'm coming!!"

PS--Ryan is 12.  He got his last pair of snow boots a year ago... or so.  Who remembers these details? (More later on the "I can't walk!" portion of our day.)

We went to Camelback Mountain in Pennsylvania.  Ryan has gone to the resort in the summer when the place has its Camel Beach water park going.

Ryan: "It takes two hours to get there.  And with snow, and traffic... we won't get there until dark.  Why are we doing this??"

Me: "The web site says it should take an hour and a half.  Relax."

He put his head back and fell into a deep, disgruntled nap.

An hour later, we were walking through the parking lot.

Ry: "That two hours went fast."

Cara: "It didn't take two hours."

Ry: "It does on our camp bus."

Cara: "That's because your bus doesn't go 82 miles an hour."

Which isn't even legal, so of course I didn't drive that fast.

Anyway, we stood in line to pay and sign waivers saying we wouldn't sue anybody if we got hurt, maimed or killed.  Which, of course, we would.

While on line, Ry noticed most people had on apparel that seemed more suited to snow play than the denim jeans we were wearing.

Ry: "They all have legit snow gear, Mom."

Me, cribbing from the esteemed Ryan Reynolds film, "Just Friends": "We're from Jersey.  We tube in our jeans."

We went along a paved sidewalk, grabbed a snow tube, pulled it over a non-skid plastic walkway and boarded a slow-moving conveyor belt that took us up the hill.

Cara: "This is SO. MUCH. BETTER than sleigh riding!"

Ryan: "Seriously!"

Sad, but then again, my kids were agreeing on something!  It was a beautiful moment.

Our first run was great.  I had smooth ride with a couple of graceful twirls thrown in.  The second run...let's just say that amount of spinning is probably a bona fide torture technique somewhere in the world.  The end of the run culminated with 100-mph spins that were slowed only when I bounced very, VERY hard on something that I hoped wasn't a small child.  Because I bounced twice.  I was considering my lawsuit options as I opened and closed my eyes, waiting for the skies above me to come to a stop.

By the time I could stand again, the painful bouncing was forgotten, due to severe nausea.

But I had paid good money for this brand of fun, so we pressed on.  But by the end of the next run, Ryan said he was losing feeling in his feet, due to a constant pinching sensation.  I had brought a pair of hiking sneakers that he probably should have used the whole time, considering the conveyor belt, plastic non-slip walkway, etc..  Whoops.

This break was also when Cara asked how many more runs we were going to do.  Despite a good seven layers involving wool, down and thermal tech gear, she was shivering.

To be a good sport, she did one more run and beat a hasty retreat to the "snack shack" for some hot tea and a reboot of her circulation.

By now, it was dark.  Ryan and I did one more run.  I watched one mom put her toddler in a tube by herself and give her a push down the hill.  I watched another mom lay on her belly on the rear of a double tube, holding her year-old baby in the front tube.  I marveled at their lack of worry.  Actually, that's not true.  I thought these people were insane.

On the ride home, as Cara thawed out and before Ryan settled in for another nap, I told them we should be glad.  We tried something new!  We got some fresh winter air!  Dad didn't thwart our plans!  AND nobody got hurt!

Okay, well....

Getting Carded

                                            
So I wrote Christmas cards this year.  I finished them at 1:30 a.m. in the wee hours of Christmas morn', as a matter of fact.

And if you're sitting there wondering, "What's THAT about?," you are, in fact, a straight male.  And I simultaneously am jealous of and hate you.

The rational mind asks: Well, why did you feel compelled to write out Christmas cards until 1:30 in the morning on Christmas?  Wasn't that a little late at night?  Wasn't that a little late in the season??

If you'd asked me that when I sealed the last envelope, my answer to all three questions would have been, "Shut up."

But, time has passed.  I've slept a little since then.  So, to answer all three questions: Guilt.

See, last year I didn't send out any cards.  Not even an e-card.  So, like any good part-Irish American, I was guilt-ridden about it all year.  I imagined how many close (female) family members held a grudge because they got their acts together and sent out cards, while I shirked my duty.  I mean, they knew I wasn't laid up in the hospital or suffering from a broken hand.  Which brought me to feeling bad about the faraway (female) friends who sent cards and didn't get one in return.  Did they wonder about my health and welfare?  Would they, too, be ticked that I didn't send anything?  Was I destroying relationships and alienating myself because I wasn't getting around to caring enough to send the very best via the U.S. mail?

Probably none of that was happening, of course.  Except the part about my family.

Nevertheless, I decided to break out the cards I bought last year but didn't get around to mailing.  Who knows why?  Maybe because 2011 would have been the first year since having children that I wasn't mailing a "picture card."

When they were little, Cara and Ryan graced the cards wearing adorable little holiday outfits.  Ryan wore knit holiday sweaters.  Cara had velvet dresses.  One year we even got  a  Santa hat into the picture.

As they got older, asking them to pose for a picture seemed about as likely as a Middle East peace accord.  So I would head to my computer to pick one that captured how fun-loving they could appear to be.  Who knew it was only for a second or so?

Then there was the time two years ago when I picked a photo and had it made up into 75 greeting cards -- at which point Cara declared she hated it and began mounting a protest to bar me from mailing it to anyone.  Rather than declaring martial law and just shipping them out anyway, I went through the process of picking another photo, getting another card made up and going to the store to retrieve them.  Only to get home with cards that had some other kid's face looking out at me.

So, there was that.

Cut to last year.  On top of everything else, I kept reading about how everyone was sending e-greetings.  Or getting Shutterfly to send their cards for them.  All you had to do was choose a photo, choose a card, choose an inscription, input or upload all your addresses and voila, they'd mail your cards for mere hundreds of dollars.

Well, as 2012 went on those same sources that ran stories about how e-greetings were so now and wow began running stories about the beauty of the hand-written letter.  The excitement of an envelope in the mailbox.  The death of the U.S. postal service.

So, yeah.  I felt bad.  I had taken the excitement out of not just the 2011 holidays, but of someone's overall expectations for the possibilities the mailbox could hold.  And I had contributed to the further decline of a U.S. institution.  My inability to get my #*! together last year would help lead to mass layoffs -- on top of the mass grudges from the family.

Hence, this year I went in a whole new direction.  I made an e-card, and sent it to friends and family.   I also posted it on Facebook.

AND I hand wrote cards.  I looked up addresses for those who had moved but whose location wasn't logged into my ragged address book.  I wracked my head remembering the names of relatives of friends I hadn't seen in a decade or more, just so I could seem more together. I even went to the post office and bought stamps!

Sure, they didn't actually get mailed until the day after Christmas... But hey, I was dedicated.  To saving face.  Saving jobs.  Oh, and keepin' merry.... 

Rock Me Like A...Oh, Never Mind

                                            

You know, when a hurricane hits your neck of the woods, the potential for inconvenience can really become heightened.  Especially if you're one of those people who relies on things like electricity, gas, a food supply, mass transit, an operating school system....  Otherwise, who cares, right?

Something about having the kids home for 11 straight days -- seven of which they were supposed to be in school -- can throw a monkey wrench into the system.  And considering our "system" is held together with duct tape and fishing line...

But there were a few things I learned from the Hurricane Sandy period:

1) --Do not, under any circumstances, keep baking supplies in the home, lest your power returns and your teenage daughter decides to alleviate college application anxiety mixed with "time on her hands" by baking 50 dozen chocolate chip cookies.

2) --If you find you have 50 dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies on your hands and it's midnight, the local cops working the overnight shift will take some off your hands.

3) --Cheeze-It crackers really ARE better than Cheese Nips.

4) --Popchips are FAR BETTER than the lookalikes, as are Pretzel Crisps.  So don't waste your time and money on anything else if you're inviting me over, thank you.

Risking you thinking all my lessons learned during the hurricane had to do with food -- a.k.a. the mass quantities of empty calories that were consumed when I instinctively went into "hurricane survival mode" and Cheez-Its seem like a strong choice under duress -- you're wrong.

I also learned that granola is an annoying health food, if only because its makers have decided schlumpy plastic bags beat cardboard in the packaging wars.  And like many inanimate objects in our house that seem to be breeding -- nail polish, hair bands and dirty socks among them -- the bags of granola have started their own colony.

Mind you, I do not buy all this granola of my own free will.  Cara comes to the store to "help" me and throws it in the cart when I'm clearly distracted -- like when I'm choosing a sympathy card or rifling through the toothbrush department.  Recently, I told her I'm declaring a housewide moratorium on granola.  So now she's missing out on a seasonal cinnamon pumpkin variety, which has garnered me the "Meanest Mom Ever" title for the 78th week in a row.

But, seriously, these idiotic bags are making me crazy.  Fine -- crazier.  These bags are the new "thing" food brands are adopting.  I haven't read a study on "why" so many food products are coming in bags these days, but I blame the biologists.  Lately, they're all, "Plants have feelings and lead rich lives." So now we can't cut trees to make a box, or even recycle the box because it's feelings have already been through the ringer so how much more can it possibly take?  I watched a video of a big tree getting cut down, and all the little trees started screaming for their mama.  It was pure propaganda on the part of the trees.

Truth be told, I know the packaging thing is all about money.  As in: what looks like it just came from "the market" in a ____ (fill in the blank) hipster/quaint/olde worlde place of interest?  Food in a box with bold, primary colors?  Or food in an adorable bag featuring homey pictures, charming lettering and a price tag that cold-cocks you right there in Aisle 11?

So now we have rice that comes in bags.  Pasta that comes in bags.  Dried fruit, coffee, croutons, crackers, even SOUP comes in bags.


You might say, "Well, Miss Who Doesn't Care About the Earth, using bags means less cardboard."  To which I reply, "Don't call me 'Miss.' It's sexist.  But don't call me ma'am, either. That's ageist."

Where was I?  Oh, right: the disaster area in my pantry closet.

So, it used to be I could pretend there was some semblance of order by stacking the food boxes.  Or simply putting the taller boxes in front of everything else if someone was coming over and I wanted to look all "not slobby."

Now, the jig's up.

Before you ask, "Hey, why don't you just put it all in food storage containers and stack them?" you need to know I just don't do that.  Mostly because I can't find the matching lids.

When the hurricane struck, Cara and Ryan had more free time at home than they'd seen since their pre-K days.  Hell, there was no school or homework, the town put curfews in place, a gas crisis kept everyone from driving, crashing tree limbs and live electrical wires terrorized people into staying indoors.  Of COURSE the kitchen became a crisis center.  And that pantry closet became a bag-ridden mess.  

Now, something's gotta give.  I mean, how long can I blame "the hurricane" for making my pantry look like a tornado hit it?

Home Ecchh!

Sometimes there are so many events unspooling in my household, it's hard to decide which hilarity to write about.  Like many a writer, I become paralyzed with indecision and take to raiding the pantry closet while considering my options, only to deem each event unworthy of putting down the bag of buffalo wing Snyder's.
                                      
But this week, one particular event stood out.  In it, the kids made out like bandits.  Of course, I felt robbed.  But I'll press on.

For Ryan's birthday, which was only half a year ago, he received an Amazon e-gift.  It's perfect for a kid whose always pushing for more Microsoft points and Xbox games.  Somehow though, he didn't spend this gift.  Something about having lots of GameStop gift cards, birthday cash and a Machiavellian personality aided him in getting all the new gamer tags, cheats and boosts he needed.

Recently, Ryan got as far as uploading the Amazon gift code.  But he didn't want to wait for delivery of some hot new game every one of his Xbox friends from here to England was playing so he convinced me to go to GameStop: where males talk smack in inane jibberish that has nothing to do with sports or yo mama.

GameStop Worker 1: "Dude, I was so clamping his crecktar.  It was epic."

GameStop Worker 2: "That's ultra, man.  Did you transform from quagliator?"

My thought bubble: "Help me."

After absorbing that banter for the 10 minutes it took for them to serve two other customers, Ryan threw the game box on the counter for something that's rated "Not For Your 7th Grade 12-Year-Old Boy."

GameStop Worker: "It's okay that he gets this?"

Ryan, with an assured nod of the head: "Oh, yeah."

My thought bubble: "I need to leave.  I need to leave."

I just nodded numbly.

GameStop Worker: "So, buddy, you have PowerUp Rewards?  If you do your trade-ins now...."

My next thought bubble: "Oh, my god -- this store is somehow getting more boring!  Stop with the questions!"  It must be how a guy feels when he's trapped in Sephora.

The game cost $60-something dollars.  Ryan's Amazon e-gift was worth $50.

Ryan: "So, Mom, you take the Amazon money and buy yourself something, and I'll give you $10."

Me: "First of all, like I'll find time to buy something on Amazon.  Second, do you even have $10 left in your wallet?"

Ry, with a assured nod of the head, "...Maybe."





I promptly forgot about the e-gift.  Mostly because I have so many other fun places to shop, like the grocery store, Costco and Petco.

Cut to this past weekend, when the weather turned chilly here in the Northeast.

Cara: "I want to get a Snuggie!  I'm so cold!"

Me: "Didn't you mock Ryan for a solid three months last winter because he got one?  Now you want one?"

Cara: "But I want one that looks like a Harry Potter robe!  If they don't make one, I'll get somebody to make it."

Me: "So... this will be a Halloween thing?"

Cara: "Ohmigod! No!  It will be the most awesome Snuggie ever! Halloween... come on."

So there I was, doing whatever moms do in the kitchen on a rainy Sunday at dinnertime, while Cara was on her computer, doing what I thought was homework.  Suddenly she exclaimed, "Yes! I'm so doing this!"  But she didn't mean clean the kitchen, so I wasn't as revved as she was.

Cara: "There IS a Harry Potter Snuggie robe!  Can I get it?!"
                                                                              
Even though this thing isn't made by the Snuggie brand, it does bear that tres chic "oversized, backwards blanket with sleeves" look akin to Snuggie.  It also has the edgy Hogwarts emblem, shirt collar and private school tie woven into the design.

Me: "How much?"

Cara: "Well, it's $35.  But if you pay for it with your credit card, I'll give you the cash."

Me: "What cash? The cash you'll take from my wallet?"

Cara: "...Maybe."

Coincidentally, Cara found this item at a vendor for ... wait for it... Amazon.  She clicked on the purchase button and voila!, there appeared a $50 credit on our Amazon account.  Wow, how magical.  I wonder how that got there.

Cara: "Whaaat??  This was meant to be!  We have a $50 credit!"

Me: "Umm, yeah, that was supposed to be for me after I bought Ryan his Xbox game at GameStop."

Cara: "Come on -- you would never get around to using this.  And meantime, your daughter could be happy in a HARRY POTTER SNUGGIE!!  Come on, please!  Okay, I'm clicking 'Buy.'"

Did I mention that this robe is fulfilled by Amazon, and sold by This Is Why I'm Broke.com?

Now, ain't that hilarious?

Ahoy, There!

When my kids were little, I took them out on Sundays so Mike could watch the NFL games without having screaming and crying going on in the background.  I can get a little loud with that.

But now that they're older, Sunday time has taken on a new meaning.  After all, Cara will be heading to college next year.   Not only do I want to spend as much time with her as possible.  I want her and Ryan to bond over the "things Mom MADE US DO!" in an effort to foster a "sibling relationship" between them.  As opposed to the simmering hostility and sarcasm that counts as kinship now.

And I want to take Ryan out if only to get him off Xbox.  He's not allowed to play it during the week.  Or Sunday nights.  So unless we're out of the house, he's always scheming to get back on.

Last Sunday, Cara had her usual boatload of homework to do.  She couldn't come out with me and Ryan -- to take a stab at kayaking or canoeing around the Meadowlands.


Ryan: "Mom, seriously, I do NOT want to do that!"

Me: "Why not?  It's nice out, we'll be on the water.  We've never done it before."

Ryan: "Exactly!  We've never done it before and we could tip over, or get lost or some animal or giant snake could come along...."

Me: "Ry, end it.  You're done with the Xbox for the weekend.  Put on your water sandals and get in the car."

He yanked on his Nike basketball sneakers and proceeded to punctuate the short ride to the Secaucus paddling station with banter like:

--"What kind of parent makes their kid DO something like this?!  I mean, kayaking??"

--"I'm not paddling.  I'm not.  Just so you know.  You're on your own."

We passed some "Live Dinosaurs!" park on our way to the boating area.

Ry: "What's that?  I'd go to that."

Me: "We'll do that another day.  I really want to try the boating."

We got to the paddling station and told the girl that was running it that her we wanted a rental.  She told me I couldn't take Ryan out unless another adult was with us.  I swear to you, while my mouth was hanging open trying to process this rule, Ryan suddenly went from Mr. I Hate The World to Ryan, The Agreeable Chum.  The girl said, "Sorry," and made a sad face.  Ryan was like, "Aww, it's okay," and waved good-bye.

We got back in the car.

Ryan: "HA!"

Rather than make him walk home, I opted to continue my quest to keep him off Xbox, and said we could check out the "Live Dinosaurs."

                                                                               

After I paid $10 to park in what I thought was a county parking lot, Ryan decided this looked too babyfied.

Ryan: "Mom, these kids are all in strollers!"

Me: "They're not ALL in strollers.  Come on we'll just walk around and kill some time."

Ryan: "I could be home on Xbox with my friends right now.  Instead, I'm walking around with babies and strollers.  I'd rather go KAYAKING."

Of course he would.

We walked up to the entrance, and I saw a ticket window.  I have no idea why I thought this dinosaur thing was part of the county park system, other than the fact that it's located at the ENTRANCE to Laurel Hill Park, a Hudson County-owned public land.  But apparently, it's not park operated.  By which I mean, its entry fees rival Six Flags.

This place was $25 for adults and $20 for kids 12 and younger.   Plus tax.  Plus that parking fee I just paid.  I was like, "Really?  I'm going to spend $60 to keep Ryan off Xbox for two hours, so I can listen to him complain about babies and strollers the whole time??"

I went back to the parking attendant, who knew exactly why I was walking up to him, got my $10 back and told Ry we were going on a walk.

"Who does this?!  I could be on Xbox! What kind of parent FORCES their kid to walk around parks to kill time?"

Gluttons for punishment, I would imagine.
We saw a plane heading to Newark, flying so low we could clearly see its landing gear.

                                           

We saw a bunch of older dudes with mega remote-controlled planes and helicopters.  We saw a retaining wall with water and lots of small fish.

And that's when I saw THE RACCOON walking on the other side of the iron fence.  In broad daylight.  It was a teachable moment and I told Ryan to get back because it could be rabid, since raccoons are nocturnal.  And then I told him to hold the water bottle while I took a picture.

Ryan: "Oh, I have to get back, but you're getting closer to take pictures.  What if it jumps through the fence?"

Me: "Raccoons don't jump.  And it can't squeeze through the bars of this..."

Suddenly, it was through the bars of the fence.

But just as quickly it went back, eventually sauntering into the trees and down toward the river.  So I told Ry we should continue the walk.

Ryan: "My god!  We just saw a rabid raccoon.  Planes are practically landing on our heads.  What will it take to make you stop and just go back to the car??  A bear coming at us?!"

Readers, I know you're all jealous of the fun I was having.  I continued down the path, determined to get to the end, or see if it looped around, whatever.  And when I say path, I don't mean some muddy, unmarked, backwater trail.  I mean a wide path of stone pavers.  Imagine the Yellow Brick Road, only not yellow.  This was the madness I was foisting upon my youngest child.

Just was we reached the end, Ryan saw a big turtle.

Ryan: "Mom, quick, look!  A turtle!"

Me: "Wow -- that's really big!  Hold the water bottle while I take a picture!"

Again, you live you learn.  Who knew that just because turtles have no ears, they'll move as quickly as their stump legs will allow to hide from people who are yelling and running towards them?  It disappeared into the meadow reeds.

Ryan: "Great.  The ONE THING that wasn't a fail, and you don't get a picture."

Ah, I don't know.  I think we had many, many priceless moments.

Hello, Out There In TV Land

Once upon a time, there was a little girl growing up in the '70s with a black & white TV that was hooked up to an antennae on her rooftop in the countryside of New Jersey.  And for those of you who don't believe there is countryside in New Jersey, Google "NJ Bear Hunt."  It's a fun read when you don't live anywhere near a wild animal that could eat your cat as an appetizer.

But I digress.

Yes, I was that little girl, living in the wilds of New Jersey, on a blustery hilltop, when the TV antennae would inevitably "stop working."  Which would mean my dad would have to "go on the roof" and twist the antennae while we'd scream from the family room window "Still no picture!" or "Awww, you almost have it!"  The drama really kicked into high gear when ice and snow covered the rooftop shingles.

My father would go through this because there were five of us kids, and one television in the house.  He and my mom were wildly outnumbered.  But one fuzzy TV with eight channels could buy him all kinds of time for reading the local paper or sorting nails in the basement.

Cut to modern times.  We have two kids.  We also have four TVs, two desktop computers, three laptops, an iPad and iPhones laying all over the house.  We have DirectTV HD with, seriously, HD-DVRs attached to every TV.  Because you never know when you need to watch an high-def episode of "Phineas and Ferb" at 3 a.m.

Clearly, we are not in dire straights when it comes to screens in our home.  But when one TV recently ceased working, Mike called me in a state of panic while I was AT THE GYM (a.k.a., THE HOUSE BETTER BE ON FIRE BEFORE YOU CALL ME HERE!) to enquire about the blank screen.

Mike: "When were you guys going to tell me the TV in the living room isn't working?"

Me: "I'm sorry, you have the wrong number.  Good-bye."

Mike persisted. "Did you KNOW the TV is NOT WORKING?!"

Me: "It was working a half-hour ago when I told Ryan to turn it off."

Mike: "Well it's not working now and I have to go to Costco to buy a new one!  When will you be home?  A TV won't fit in my car!  DAMMIT!"

Somehow, Mike held it together until Ryan and I returned.  And within two hours, the old flat-screen was in the garage -- waiting for the "correct" day when we could put it to the curb without being hit with a fine or jail time by town officials -- and the new, (obviously BIGGER) TV was in place.

Now, see, what I used to like about watching TV was it was mindless.  You turned on the power button and it worked.  But that, apparently, was a little too mindless. These days, potential viewers choose how to turn the TV on by picking the HDMI 1 or HDMI 2, or AUX, or URSOSTUPID button to get it on.  And once you get the fancy new TV on, and you see that people look blurry if they turn their heads too fast!, you get to choose how to stop this fresh hell by going to the viewing menu, which includes: "standard," "better," "you-need-a-PhD-to-program this,""URSOSTUPID, give it up."

                              

Mike was seriously programming the TV for two hours to watch an episode of "Modern Family."  Children were born into the world, major contributions to science were made, Hollywood added another awards show to its roster and STILL he was programming the TV.

Mike, called me in a good 27 times to gauge his progress.  "Okay, how's this?"

Me: "Awww, you ALMOST have it!"

At least nobody was sliding around on a rooftop for this....

Let's Get This Party Started -- A Day Earlier!

Can someone please tell me why the Super Bowl is held so late on a Sunday night? Is it due in any part to heavy lobbying by Budweiser?

Sunday games are always at 1 or 4 o'clock, Eastern Standard Time. At least, as far as I know or need to know. Or care to know.

But the National Football League has succeeded in turning the Super Bowl into a nationwide celebration. It's to the point where you're eyed suspiciously if you say you have any other plans than to be glued to your set on Super Sunday. So why does the party start so late??

Certainly, I'm not against a party. Who doesn't like stuffing their face with chips & salsa, chips & dip, chips & chili, chips & cupcake icing? (Let's face it: by the end of the day, the real dip is all gone, and so is all judgment.)

And that's just part of the problem with holding the Big Game hostage until 6:30 p.m., EST. People start the partying at about 2 in the afternoon. By 3:30, they're half in the bag. By 4, they're done with snacks and moving on to burgers, ribs, chorizo nachos, Buffalo chicken pizza, duck chili, the neighbor's cat.

Cut to 6:30: Game Time.

Party Goer #1: "I think I'm gonna barf. Whose idea was it to eat chips and icing, anyway?! And where's Fluffy?"

Party Goer #2: "I'm wrecked. Whose idea was it make Jager margaritas?"



Party Goer #3: "I'm in full hangover mode so everybody shut up. Zzzzzzz...."

If kids are in tow, this is about when they've had enough of the Super festivities and they're crying, fighting or entering their fifth hour of embezzling food and soda contraband, right under the unwatchful eyes of their disengaged parents.

Parent #1: "How many cookies has Susie eaten today? Did she even eat real food?!"

Parent #2: "Who cares! I'm losing my buzz, don't make it worse. Can't somebody fix the tap on this keg?!"

By half-time, if the kids aren't passed out with food all over their faces, clothes and hair, they're begging for a sleepover.

Parent: "You have school tomorrow. No sleepovers."

Kid: "School?! I'm not going to school! Today's the Super Bowl. This is like Christmas. You don't go to school the day after Christmas! I want a sleepov..."

Parent: "Get in the car! Party's over!"

                                                 
Kid: "What?! Waahhh. I hate you! I hate this house and everybody in it! Waaaah."

A scene like this usually ends up with observers muttering, "I may be bloated and bombed right now, but at least I don't have to sober up for that crap...."

And for most everyone (though not me, thanks to my teetotaler husband), halftime marks the moment when people start questioning themselves:

"Should we stay or should we go?"

"Am I close to winning the pool?"

"Can I even sober up in the next half hour?"

See, for East Coast fans, the game doesn't end until around 10 at night. And for some, the festivities will go much later this year -- depending on whether it's New York or New England that takes home the trophy.

Now, if the Super Bowl were on a "Super Saturday," all this would be different. People could pass out on the floor and stay there. Or, as a favor to the host, start sobering up at 9, drinking coffee at 10 and driving home at 2 a.m. They could deal with the headache and salt overload all day on Sunday, and arrive to work Monday. Still half-bloated. But at least they'd BE there, possibly in a productive state of mind.

And are there any stats on how many kids bail on school because they've been forced to stay at their uncle's party waaay too late for reasons beyond their control? Test scores everywhere are at risk!

I say enough! For the good of this country, this is an issue that needs to be addressed by the NFL, the presidential candidates and party people throughout these United States of America.

Taking The Vow

Mike and I went to the movies while the kids were home sick during Christmas break.  That's right, we busted loose to go see "Young Adult."  It's a dark comedy full of bitter humor.  I completely identified with it.

But equally as good as the movie was the trailer for an upcoming flick called, "The Vow." In yet another preview that was so long and rich in detail they saved me the inconvenience of seeing the picture, I learned this is a movie I would need to be either outrageously paid or outrageously bombed to watch in the first place.
                                                   
"The Vow" features a young couple who are just about as happy as two clams could be before they're cracked open and splashed with lemon and Tabasco.  Well, in the movie, a truck cracks into the back of their car and the wife goes into a coma.

After witnessing such a devastating and contrived Hollywood scene, I couldn't help but think, "Why did she feel the need to unbuckle her seat belt to kiss him while he was singing a Meatloaf song?"  Like, if you're husband is crooning, "I would do anything for you, but I won't do that," and you unbuckle your belt, I'm thinking you're automatically exiting the vehicle and dialing DIVORCE-R-US.  No?

I pulled myself out of my "What Would Really Happen" stupor in time to see the female lead (Rachel McAdams) address her husband as "Dr. So-and-So."  Ooohh, plot twist.  Because her husband is NOT a doctor.  So that must mean she's got -- dunh, dunh, DUNH -- amnesia!

In this schmaltzy, triple pack of Sweet-N-Low, cheese and barf, the husband (Channing Tatum) decides that this amnesia thing is just a little set back 'cuz he's gonna make his lady fall in love with him all over again.  They'll have a first date all over again.  They'll have their first kiss all over again.  They'll have their whole life ALL OVER AGAIN.  He will once again be the bacon to her eggs, the peanut butter to her mayonnaise, or whatever Elvis ate.

Cut to my New Year's Eve.  My sister and I saw a shortened commercial for "The Vow."   And, because she, too, has a brain, she was as incredulous as I at this insanity.

Anne: "What?!  She gets amnesia and stays with him?? My God, that's the perfect opportunity to change everything!"  

Me: "RIGHT?!?!?!  I was thinking of getting into a fender bender next week!"

Anne: "Really!  Then it would be 'Later for you losers!'  What could anybody do -- we'd have amnesia!"



The New Year's champagne fueled the viability of our plan.

Anne, gesturing to her family: "These guys would go out and inspect the car.  They'd be like, 'What do you mean amnesia? There's barely a scratch on your car!  Did you even hit anything??'"

Me: "We'd just have to be like, 'Look, I don't recognize any of you.  In fact, aren't I supposed to be in Maui right now?  Is this Maui?  Who are those kids?  Why are you bringing me into a house that doesn't appear to be inhabited by George Clooney?  Why are there shoes and laundry everywhere?!'"

As my sister and I were scripting our escapes from the everyday, my brother-in-law just looked at us.  He didn't even crack a smile.  Come to think of it, maybe we shouldn't have brainstormed our master plan right in front of him like that.

Anywho, when you hear of my amnesia attack, you can send letters of condolence to the Ritz-Carlton Kapalua.

Getting the Grease Out

Cleaning up.  Two hateful words.

As in I hate when the house is ready to crawl away from itself and "cleaning up" is the only way to save the situation.  And the kids hate when I lay down the law and involve them in the effort.

I've tried to keep my dislike of it all to myself.  You know, to set a good example for the wee ones.  But somehow, like me, they long ago adopted this same aversion.  Unfortunately, unlike me, they're more than happy to complain long and loud about it.

Cara: "Ryan, stop staring into space and dust already!"

Ryan: "Cara, stop being a security camera looking at me!  What are YOU doing?!"

Cara: "I'M straightening up!"

Ryan: "Yeah, well it's all YOUR crap YOU leave all over the place anyway!"

Cara: "Dirty tissues don't belong to ME!  God!"

Ryan: "Love ya!"

I left out the swearing, personal insults and gender hate that also seems to come naturally to them.

I know it would be somewhat easier to hire a cleaning service.  Trust me, Mike and I had one before kids.  It was great.  We'd straighten up for 10 minutes the day she was due to arrive.  And the house would look pretty much the same until the next time she came.

But once the diapers, wipes, baby toys, baby blankets, Barbies, Tonkas, Fischer-Price, Bratz Dolls, Silly Bandz, Nerf Guns and 40,000 slips of paper from their respective schools came along... it seemed kind of a waste to spend half a day picking up before a cleaning woman came, only to have the place look like somebody detonated a garbage bomb two hours later.

I've tried to get the kids to be more organized.  I've tried to enforce rules like, "Hang up your coat," "Don't leave your shoes in the middle of the floor," "Do put your plates in the dishwasher," "Don't leave a half-eaten ice pop that you stuck in a cup on the coffee table for three hours," "Do use a napkin when you eat frozen blueberries with your hands while watching TV because the carpet actually is NOT a napkin."

Of course, there are many more do's and don'ts that I dish out on an hourly basis, but you all have lives....

What really gets me is when my alleged "friends" on Facebook post that their pre-tweens cleaned all kinds of stuff "without even being asked."  Good.  Open a kid cleaning school.  I'll enroll my two tomorrow.

Before anybody starts sending me ideas on how to get my kids to happily, or unhappily for all I care, pitch in, I've tried it all.

--Praise.   I've used this when they've helped without my asking.  Such as, "It's so great when you clean your dirty tissues off the dining room table.  It's helpful things like that that make me happy and less revolted as I go about my day."

--Chore money.  I've paid up.  Ohhhh, I've paid.  Dearly.  But even when I've paid the money, the kids eventually decide no amount of money is worth doing chores, even though they're risking a total wigging out rant.  (See next item).

--Rants.  These aren't fun for anyone.  Particularly my neighbors.  These tirades can last anywhere from two minutes to two angry hours, depending on my energy level and the amount of back talking and ratting out Cara and Ryan pile on.

--Chore sheets.  My sister successfully wrote one of these up for her kids.  My therapist seconded the idea.  So,  I wrote one up with Daily, Weekly and "Whenever I Ask" chores plotted out for each kid. I showed them.  I explained the importance of it.  I posted it inside a kitchen cabinet regularly visited by everyone.   One month later:

Cara, sitting across the kitchen from said cabinet: "What's that white sheet of paper taped inside that cabinet?"

Me: "Really?  It's the CHORE CHART you're supposed to be following."

Cara: "Ohhhh....  huh..."  ...She then retreated from conversation while sitting right in front of me.

So now, it comes down to bribing situations.  But we're from Jersey, so it doesn't even really feel like a bribe. It feels like what's right.  Things like, "Sure you can have friends over" or "Sure, I'll take you to the mall," or "Yeah, I'll bring you to Game Stop" BUT "You have to help with cleaning up around here."

Of course, the kids react like duly indignant Hudson County politicians.  But like those back room heroes, they inevitably realize that in order to get their way, they have to grease the palm, or clean the kitchen.  Whichever.

Everybody has their bitter pill to swallow.

Ho, Ho, Ho NO!

One of my friends told me a week ago that it had been three weeks since I wrote a blog.  In my defense, this is supposed to be a humor blog.  And I guess I JUST WASN'T FEELING VERY HUMOROUS!

For example, the Sunday after Thanksgiving, while I was knee-deep in strings of lights, tubs of Christmas decorations and raw hostility toward all things living, Mike asked, "So, I guess you don't know the Jets won."

Me: "I didn't even know the Jets started playing!  This is crazy!!"

Crazy was trying to do Christmas decorating in what turned out to be "on my own."  It wasn't supposed to be that way.  Of course.  After all, it was Cara's idea to lug the eight or nine monster tubs out of the garage to get the decorating under way first thing that a.m.

Me: "Really, Cara?  I'm trying to beat this cold before it seriously kicks in.... You have a tennis lesson.  I wanted to go to Zumba...."

Cara: "Well, I want to have friends over for a holiday party on Friday night.  And I'm busy with school stuff all week."

Translation: I would be stuck doing it on my own if she and I didn't start the process last Sunday.  But lo-and-behold, her homework struck right before the first lid was pulled from the tub -- a semi-legitimate excuse.  It was also when Ryan needed to see a friend down the street -- a completely illegitimate excuse, but he's barely helpful so I let him go.  And Mike needed to watch football for work--which was actually legitimate, so I never even tried to get his help.

And that's when I came down with a bad case of, "This sucks!"

Last year, both kids actually helped.  We did the lights, the tree, the little village all together.  With holiday music playing.  And only six to ten fights.

But this year, I was attempting to do a whole-house holiday transformation just one week after we hosted Thanksgiving for my family.  And THAT effort required a major house transformation, mostly involving bulldozing crap from one floor to another, giving the false impression that our home is "cared for" by people with organizational skills, a fierce cleaning regimen and a modicum of pride.

But here I am, posting a new blog.  So you might be tempted to think the pressure's off and now I'm chillin' out with my feet up and a Santa hat on my head -- much like your co-worker this afternoon after his two-bowls of holiday cheer at lunch.  But you'd be wrong.

I'm just ignoring things like, oh I dunno, CHRISTMAS SHOPPING!  Yes, I've managed to ignore the malls, the 40,000 email "deals" that came to my inbox, my phone and my Facebook page, not to mention the beautiful catalogs that have arrived in my oldey fashionedy mailbox outside.  Which reminds me I haven't yet considered a greeting card theme, never mind made and mailed any actual cards.

I write about retail for a living, so you'd think I'd be more on top of this.  But I think I've reached the point where I now expect the magic of Macy's to cover buying, wrapping and delivering all the gifts under my tree without any involvement on my part.

So, without further ado, I present a much belated blog.  Not, I hope, to be paired with much belated presents... 

Morning Rush

I'm a disgrace to my profession.  No, not chauffer-laundress-chef-secretary-social secretary-gardener/landscaper-maid-grocery service.

I'm a disgrace to the fashion industry about which I spend my professional life writing.  I've had this inkling for quite some time.  But it was put into sharp focus today when I read a NY Times article about moms who wear Prada, Gucci and all manner of designer duds to drop off their little darlings at school.

Apparently, it's becoming quite common for NYC moms to bring their kids to school carrying Celine totes and wearing Christian Laboutin shoes -- y'know, the ones with the red soles.  If my shoes are ever red on the bottom, it means Ryan's spilled something and neglected to clean it up.  Again.
 

To be honest, I don't even want to say what I wear when I'm racing my kids to their respective schools.

Before you say, "Why do you need to race these kids to school?," let me just put it out there that our town doesn't have bus service.   We have five elementary schools and one high school.  Somebody, about 100 years ago, had the quaint idea that the children would all walk to their "neighborhood" schools.

Well, many of us in our neighborly town of 18,000+ never got around to regularly having our kids walk.  Especially in the morning.  For us these days, morning is when we're desperately trying to get Cara to school on time, with her 30-pound book backpack, gym sneakers & clothes in a drawstring backpack, tennis gear in another bag and, if she's lucky, a piping hot cup of tea in her hand.

My son's school starts a little later than the high school.  But with much arguing and ranting, I manage to get him and his gear in the car at the same time as Cara, so he's actually early for school every day.  All of which leaves me looking, well, a little rough around the edges.

What I'm not is the Manhattan-style "calculated casual."  I mean, I'm looking casual, but in that "what a slob" kind of way.

It wasn't always like this.  When I used to walk the kids into their pre-school, and in later years when I waited with them until they went into their grammar school doors, I made somewhat of an effort.  It wasn't Rag & Bone jeans with a Prada coat and boots.  But it wasn't my current sleepwear-meets-sweats-meets-"Look away, man!" either.

I'd feel worse except I know I'm not the only person in Rutherford dropping off my kids wearing the Ab Fab combo of pajamas, Merrill slide-ons and my kid's sweat jacket.  You know how I know that?  Every now and then, some idiot kid -- and by "idiot" I mean, "rat bastard out to humiliate his mother" --  leaves his lunch in the car.  You see a mom start to pull away, jam on the brakes, then jump out screaming and waving a lunch bag.  And you think, "There but for the grace of God go I...."

I do manage to brush my teeth -- in case I get pulled over or into an accident.  And I get my contact lenses in -- because I'm too vain to be seen in my glasses if I get pulled over or into an accident.  I yank my hair into a pony tail and rely on Jackie O-sized sunglasses to hide as much of my visage as possible.  If I'm lucky, I HAVE the Merrill shoes on, and I'm not wearing slippers.  Although, that's happened.

Ironic how I worry about getting pulled over by the cops when, apparently, I should be worried about getting written up by the fashion police.  These Manhattan moms are going simple when they pair a shirtdress with ballet flats.  Some of them are considering snapping up some red skinny jeans to wear with their impractically high heels.

Me?  I'll be in my "Mom, dear God, stay in the car and keep the windows rolled up!" garb.  Livin' the dream....