Balk!

Jimmy Fallon weighed the pros and cons of going to the World Cup the other night. As a “pro,” he acknowledged that soccer is the most popular sport in the world. The “con,” according to the folks at The Tonight Show, is that soccer is the 12th most popular sport in the US-- between Cornhole and Quidditch.

Pretty funny.

At least soccer’s US fanbase seems to be growing.

I’m assuming the number one sport on Jimmy’s fictional list of America’s favorites—if predicated on TV ratings-- would go to football (not to be confused with fútbol-- or búsketball or húckey). While it will probably forever be hailed as America’s national pastime, baseball appears to be slowly losing its audience.

Is it any wonder? The games take forever. And there are too many of them. And the lulls far outpace the action. The season is like a long, slow grind-- especially for those of us subjected every weekend from April through September to the grating radio pair of John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman (really? Suzyn? I just learned that. Even her name is annoying).

And that’s the professionals! Youth baseball is its own form of torture. I will admit that as the boys (and my son) have gotten older the pace of the games-- and my interest in them-- has picked up marginally. But there is still plenty of time to fill out there in the stands.

Fortunately, there are good moms on this year’s team so we share some laughs between attempts at lobbying all the Dads/coaches for the lesser of 6 innings OR 1.5 hours. It never works. Dads don’t always understand (or experience) the ripple effect of the missed bedtime.

One of our running gags is a preference for a particular ump— a cute high school senior who has a penchant for fixing his mask-flattened hair between innings in a very teen heartthrob-y way. Nothing creepy or salacious. No leering.

At last night’s game, the teenaged girl sitting behind me with her mom started giving our ump a hard time over some called strikes. “The ump sucks,” she yelled in what I assumed was support of her brother and his teammates.

I turned around, laughing, and asked her if she’d feel differently if she knew the ump was hubba-hubba handsome.

“That’s my son,” her mother said. Gah. Open mouth, insert foot.

As I rushed to find a way to make what I said not totally skeevy (it reads worse than it sounded in person), it quickly became clear that I had missed a swap at the plate-- the ump she was yelling at, this girl’s brother, was not in fact Mr. Tiger Beat.

Oddly enough, the mom seemed more disturbed by the suggestion that her daughter should find her own brother attractive than by my having commented on a teenager.

Still. Pretty awkward.

I’m telling you, baseball can’t end soon enough for me.

iStupid

I just got an iPhone! It's not that I particularly wanted a new phone but my Blackberry was quite literally deteriorating and leaving black spongey bits on my hands and in my bag. Of course, like having anything brand new I couldn't stand the thought of scratching or smudging it so I left the plastic protective cover on.

I was determined to program the thing myself and as long as you keep a clear head this is not a difficult task. Apple practically spoonfeeds you. I set my ringtone (a questionably-geeky SciFi noise), my email and text preferences and my screen saver and shockingly, I managed to download my contacts from one phone to another which my husband hadn't even attempted when he upgraded. Who's a Luddite now??!!!

It was (sad to say) a couple of days before anyone called me on my new phone and when I picked up, I could barely hear anything. Everyone in the car - husband, three kids - immediately lunged for my phone, screaming instructions on how to improve sound quality. Did I turn up the volume? Yes. Was it on mute? No. Did you turn on manual volume control? YES! Thank you, all, but I am not a COMPLETE idiot! I did check the basics!!!!!

Oh, famous last words.

"Did you take the plastic cover off the screen (where the speaker is)?

Phooey.

Soccer Coach, Stoned

Sorry to bore you with another soccer story but such is my life right now. So, for my oldest daughter's team we carpool with 2 other families. Without going into too many details, the girls' coach is mercurial and often cruel. She trains them at the intensity of a professional team, including having them carry each other on their backs for sprints and jumping side-to-side over a cowering fellow teammate wearing cleats (yes, ouch). Every time I drive (and presumably with other parents, too), our three little girls concoct ways to kill their coach without getting caught. Sometimes, after a particularly vicious drubbing, they don't even care about serving time and just want immediate results. While cast as a big joke, their ideas are quite elaborate and absolutely cold-blooded.

What made me laugh/cringe this week was that three OTHER girls from the team arrived in THEIR carpool with their soccer shorts full of pebbles to throw at the coach if she was too mean to them! I pictured a scene from biblical times (or modern day Afghanistan?) peppered with a dash of Monty Python. She's a witch!! Stone her!!!!!

Time to shop around for a new team??? I think so.

And Now for Something Completely Different ...

Minx has been taking piano lessons since September. She absolutely loves to make music and while her first request was to play the drums, she seems very satisfied with our compromise. The first hint of trouble came a few weeks ago, when it was established that although she had taught herself 'Yankee Doodle', playing first the left hand than the right, and counting and naming the notes, this wasn't in fact her homework. She hadn't played any of the songs she had actually been assigned.

The teacher asked me if Minx was enjoying her lessons to which I replied, "Of course! She leaves each Tuesday proclaiming it to be the best lesson ever!" Well, in that case, the teacher felt that there might be a control issue, ie. who is leading the lesson (aside: she gets that trait from her father). She was concerned that reigning Minx in might put her off music altogether.

Apparently, it wasn't a question of Minx not listening, rather she was choosing her own way to respond. For example, instead of saying the names of the notes on the page as asked, she would play it on the piano. On at least one occasion she had miaowed the note, which on the one hand is borderline rude and on the other is highly amusing and either way hard to punish since it was in perfect pitch. Sometimes she left the piano altogether to play with the egg timer.

So I had a little conversation with Minx about being respectful. I explained that while it was fine to go off reservation on the piano at home, during the lesson she must do exactly as the teacher asks and will learn music much faster that way. It seems to have worked so far but I can see that there will have to be weekly reminders and I live in a state of nervous tension over the upcoming recital in June.

I guess I should just relax and celebrate the entertainment value of having a child who can miaow the E Major scale. It's better than burping the national anthem, right? Oh lord, I hope she never cottons on to that idea.

Excuse me but aren't you ...

I was standing in line at Starbucks when I noticed that the woman behind me looked an awful lot like Catherine Zeta Jones. Her outfit was black and chic but nothing too obviously Hollywood and she was ostensibly alone. Her jewelry, including her wedding band, was very simple. For a brief moment I considered telling this complete stranger that she looked just like CZJ (who wouldn't want to hear that?) and then I heard her order. That lilting Welsh singsong voice was a dead giveaway.

I looked around in complete amazement then tilted my head towards her and whispered, "Are you Catherine Zeta Jones?". To which she whispered back, "Yes." Now what? My brain absolutely froze. I searched for something to say that didn't sound completely dorky or stalker-ish, rejecting 'How is your husband feeling' and "How old are your children now?", along with 'I'm a huge fan.' In the end I went full-scale Chris Farley and muttered "That's awesome."

That's awesome???!!! Holy crap. I NEVER say awesome! It's such a teenage American cliche that I don't even use it when I am genuinely in awe! She was gracious, smiled kindly and then joined an older woman, who could possibly have been her mom, for a little shopping. Why didn't I ask her what she was doing here in our hometown? Why did I even draw attention to myself in my gym clothed, frizzy haired, didn't check my teeth after eating salad for lunch condition?

Is there a cool way to meet someone famous I wonder? Whatever. My brother will be SO jealous!

And She Told Two Friends....

The other night we ate at a very trendy South Beach restaurant.  A restaurant where boldface names are frequently spotted by the tabloids.  Unfortunately, we were there for a work function and were shuttled to the restaurant, along with 25 or so of my husband's colleagues and their spouses, in a massive tour bus.

Like a mortified teenager, I contemplated asking the driver to drop us off a block away from the restaurant.  Unfortunately, by the time that idea occurred to me we had already stopped in front.

Dignity dented, I had no qualms about securing a good spot inside-- "good spot" being wholly defined by who I would have to talk to all night.  It's my best-developed survival skill.  I surrounded myself with people I like, no whammies.

Before the waiter could even take our drink orders, one of my friends leaned in and asked if I was reading "that book."  What book?  "The mommy porn," she said.

She explained that she had been on vacation a few weeks earlier with a couple of other families and that the other women, close friends of hers, had been so engrossed in their Kindles that they would barely speak to her at the pool.  When she called them on their rudeness they blamed it on the book, Fifty Shades of Grey.

Intrigued, my friend had downloaded it and then found herself up all night reading.  She was asking me about it because there had been a story about the book-- about the secret cult-like phenomenon of the book-- on the Today show.  I had never heard of it.

I can't stand feeling like I'm out of the pop culture loop. Back at the hotel I went straight to ibooks, pausing for only a brief moment to contemplate what impact downloading something categorized as "erotica" might have on Big Brother's cookie profile of me.

Fifty Shades evidently started as Twilight fanfiction.  It is a thinly-veiled retelling of that book's ordinary girl tames the unattainable god-like man story, with an emotionally unavailable/sexually deviant billionaire taking the place of the vampire. Unlike Twighlight, this book does not have an abstinence agenda.  Quite the opposite.

But there's got to be a ton of downloadable erotica out there (I refuse to search ibooks to confirm that!)  Why is this book getting all the attention?  The media coverage seems to suggest it's the nature of the relationship, which dabbles in S&M. 

That could be it.  I don't know.  My old roommate used to ask me to edit her Smallville fanfiction for her.  She wrote slash stories about Clark Kent and Lex Luthor, so let's just say that it takes a lot to shock me.  It's all pretty repetitive and I wind up feeling embarrassed for the writer and myself.  And yet...

I emailed my friend this morning to tell her that I think I must be a masochist: I'm now reading part two of this wretchedly written trilogy because I have to know what happens in the actual story.  It's truly painful.

Only I Can Criticize Me!

I absolutely HATE making mistakes. As a child, if I were told off, I would recede into what my family called my "black mood" for hours at a time, unable to forgive myself or the messenger for calling attention to (gasp!) my faults. I have somewhat mellowed over the years but by a disappointingly small degree.

Last week I drove into the city (with all three children, during rush hour) to pick up my mother-in-law from the train station. Approaching a major intersection I found myself having to sneak between two city buses, the one on my right stationary and the one on my left moving. Realizing it was too narrow for me to comfortably squeeze through I stopped. Well! Cars behind me started sitting on their horns and the traffic cop at the intersection was blowing his whistle furiously and stamping his foot so STUPIDLY I drove through.

The next thing I knew there was a loud bang and my wing mirror flipped up (insert colourful language). So I pulled around the corner to inspect the damage and saw that happily the mirror was unscathed! I snapped it back into place and drove off to collect my mother-in-law.

The next day my husband came in from his run and asked me what the heck I had done to my car. What?!!! The entire right side was slightly scraped. At the time of the accident, in my relief over the state of the wing mirror,it didn't occur to me to check for other damage or file an accident report. Still, the damage wasn't so bad, just superficial. "It'll probably buff right out!" I assured my husband.

Long story short, the damage will cost almost $5000 to repair. Yes, that's three 0s. My husband sends me an email with the quote from Geico and quips, "Guess it WON'T just buff right out."

We've been married for 17 years. He REALLY should know better.

Don't be THAT guy

A friend of mine told me that the best advice she ever gave her kids was 'Don't be THAT guy'. Don't be the boy who combines Mentos and Diet coke in the parking lot of Rite Aid. Don't be the girl arrested behind middle school, charging $5 a pop for sexual favors. Don't be the dad at the soccer game wearing the too-tight tracksuit with his name embroidered on the chest, who yells so much at their own kid that even the opposing team's parents and coach are cheering the kid on.

My husband and I went to a wedding on Saturday night and had not one but two THAT guys at our table! Or, I should say, THAT girl. One of them, in her late 20s actually introduced herself as "Eleanor, but my gay friends call me Ellie" (So ... 'Eleanor' then). She then butchered my name and had the nerve to ask if my accent was Irish. Even before the main course was served she was three sheets to the wind, telling everyone her life story before barfing, passing out and finding her second wind in time to heckle the best man's speech. When we left at midnight, she was still drinking.

The second woman, who was probably in her late 50s, initially rolled her eyes at the obnoxious behaviour of our table companion but quickly became her dance partner. As more alcohol was consumed she became obsessed with men's ties, particularly those of the groomsmen, dancing over and grabbing said neck wear, then writhing erotically with it. Thankfully, she passed out reasonably early on and had to be escorted back to her hotel.

I'm not a volume drinker so it always amazes me that people of any age can let themselves get so plastered that they literally can't control bodily functions. It's sad, really. So I've got to agree that the advice stands. I think I'll pass it on to my kids.

Fumble!

My son got a gift card to a sports store for his birthday and had been itching to spend it. It worried me a little that he didn't actually NEED anything but I took him to the store and as soon as we walked in we saw the sign for 50% off football jerseys. The next day (Friday before the Superbowl) was team spirit day at school and there at the front of the rack was a blue Manning jersey!!!! And it was size XL so he could wear it for years. We snapped it up along with some flannel Giants pj bottoms. Score!

On Friday I dropped him off at school. He started looking around anxiously at all the other kids and said to me, "Mom - why does everyone else's Manning jersey say #10 and mine says #18?"

"Maybe he changed numbers?" I replied, hopefully.

Poor kid. Now Peyton Manning is arguably the better player (I'm told) but he is out for at least a year and will probably no longer play for the Colts. It REALLY should have occurred to me to question why an Eli Manning jersey would be on sale three days before the Giants were in the Superbowl. Over the weekend another mom confessed to making the same mistake, although hers was returnable. It's just so embarrassing.

Hair No Evil

This afternoon's carpool was all kinds of hairy.

HAIRY adj \ˈher-ē\
1a : covered with hair or hairlike material
b : having a downy fuzz on the stems and leaves
2: made of or resembling hair
3a : tending to cause nervous tension (as from danger)
b : difficult to deal with or comprehend

Driving three very giggly, screechy six year old girls and one very loud, button-pushing eight year old boy in the dark through pouring rain to a remote location is hairy enough.

When you factor in the conversation taking place in the back of the car,* which somehow degenerated from all three girls making fun of their older brothers to two of them (not my own thankfully) talking about the relative size of their fathers' privates (as compared to their brothers' privates), you've entered into a new realm of hairy.

Taking definition 3a to its "hairy adventure" limits, one of the little girls realized she could elicit riotous laughs from the other three kids by referring to her father's evidently-not-so-private parts as hairy. And so that's what she did. Loudly and often.

Except she hasn't quite gotten her r's in line yet so it sounded more like hairwee.

Hairwee. Heh Heh. Shut up, Beavis.

I'm off to scrub my ear holes with soap and bleach.

* When, oh when, will some automotive engineer or enterprising wannabe Shark Tank contestant run with my brilliant idea to put limo-type partitions between the front seat and crazy town?!

Picture This

I'm a fairly critical person. That's probably sugarcoating it. I'm pretty tough-- both on myself and others (but always with humor!).

Like finds like, so I suppose it is no surprise that my closest friends have always matched me in observing, and noting, human foibles.

Not all transgressions are minor, though. Since high school, my best friend and I have used the term "stupid picture" as shorthand for that moment where you've seen someone do something that will forever change how you view them. The boyfriend that showed up one day wearing knee-high mocassin boots. The roommate who angrily insisted to the waitress that it's "pea-lime pie." Ugh. Even thinking about examples is making me uncomfortable.

And yet, as many stupid pictures as I've witnessed, I know I've committed more of them myself (and that's not including the slew that I've happily forgotten-- there's the downside of Marilu Henner's incredible memory gift right there). Last night I added another cringe-worthy moment to my long list.

A friend called after 8pm begging me to please get on the phone with her daughter and pretend to be the tooth fairy. Evidently Sue, the woman who usually plays that role, was out at her son's ball game or something. What?! Wouldn't the daughter recognize my voice?? What do I say?? Don't you have a million other friends who could do this? (I was already super uncomfortable). My friend pleaded with me, saying that her daughter lost two teeth that day and had been waiting by the phone for the tooth fairy to call. Sue, she added helpfully, always uses a high squeaky voice. Groan.

So, grudgingly, I hid myself away from my husband (who gleefully threatened to tape my discomfort) and made the call. So self-conscious I could barely speak, I could only hope that my friend wasn't listening in on the extension as I tried to make tooth small talk with a five year old in my best Minnie Mouse voice. Awful. It couldn't be over soon enough for me.

Although, I guess it worked. My friend called back ten minutes later and told me that her daughter practically flew from the phone to her bed. Small consolation for my stupid picture, a squeaky, goofy, over-acting self-portrait. Oof.

Re-gift Re-gaffe

The end of the school year is like Christmas, if only in the sense that you practically bleed money thanking everyone from the bus driver to the assistant assistant t-ball coach.

This year I found myself running out the door for the last baseball game with no thank you gift for my son's very kind, very dedicated coach. What to do? No time. Panic!

I scanned my re-gift shelf. Electronic weather center? Nah. Dangerous Book for Cats? Um...no. Spiderman umbrella? A possibility. Wait, no.

Then I remembered that in the fall my husband coached our son's soccer team with Coach X. Coach X received a Starbucks card from one of the players as thanks and graciously mailed it to my husband. My husband, intent on somehow slipping it back to Coach X, left the card in its envelope in our junk drawer.

Problem solved! Shamelessly, I put the old card in a new envelope with a note from our son and... gave it to Coach S.

Who then thanked us profusely. Over and over. In person. And by email. And with a handwritten note to our son. And then I realized that my great solution had one not so tiny flaw: I have no idea how much money was on that Starbucks card.

It's entirely possible that whoever gifted Coach X was a generous soul and that we, in turn, came off that way. It is also possible that the card was a token $5 thank you and Coach S. didn't realize it until after the parade of thanks. D'oh!

The most torturous part is that I will never know.

(I didn't come off so) Well Visit

I took the kids to the pediatrician today for their annual check-ups. These appointments play out the same way each year: first the vision test; then the hearing test; a quick hop onto the scale for the weigh-in; back down and heels against the wall for a height check; wait another ten minutes for the doctor; and then brace for the agonizing attempts by the doctor to establish a dialogue with my children.

My kids are chatty. Like, super chatty. Like, don't-ever-try-to-watch-a-game-show-with-them-because-you-won't-hear-any-answers-or-questions chatty.

They bombard us with questions-- technical, theoretical, and, yes, even rhetorical. They talk each other into fits of rage and fits of giggles. They talk to themselves, inventing fantasy worlds and fantasy shoot-outs. Good grief, they even talk in their sleep (oddly, mostly about food).

But guess where they say nary a word? Yup. Must be something about that exam table, because once their little behinds hit that crinkly paper their lips practically seal.

Today the doctor (who, granted, walks the line between warm and off-putting) hit them with some doozies. My six-year-old was up first. She got through her grade in school and favorite color but then he shut her right up with "What games do you like to play with your friends at school?"

[blink. blink.]

"If your best friend came over for a playdate, what would you play?"

[picture Cindy Brady frozen, transfixed by the "On Air" light on that TV quiz show she was on]

"How do Mommy and Daddy show you they love you?" (What the????? Kind of a creepy question, no?)

Teeny little voice: "They kiss me."

Bolstered, he followed up with "And how do Mommy and Daddy show you they are mad?" (Wait, what???? Definitely creepy, man.)

Looooooooong pause. And then, clear as a bell, "They spank me."

WE HAVE NEVER SPANKED HER. EVER. Listen, I'm not perfect. I'll yell. I'll hold a grudge. I'll give the silent treatment. But I'm just not a spanker. Neither is my husband.

The one bright side to being slandered? It forced my son to speak to the doctor --- in my defense. He practically jumped to his feet to contradict his sister. "Mommy never spanks us, she just takes away the wii."

"I see.... So, how much wii are you playing?" Ruh-roh.

Hey, now! Let's get back to who can be the quietest!

So Special

My daughter found out about an on-line creative writing course and decided to sign up. It's a "gifted" program so first we had to release her academic records, then we had to set up a time for her to take a mini-SAT test at a local testing center.

The test time we were given was right at lunch time and it was a fair drive to get there, so we packed lunch for her to eat in the car. Naturally, in spite of wearing her jacket, by the time we arrived her white t-shirt was covered in food. "Who's gifted?", I teased.

Ducking down in the car I removed my undershirt (and so had to wear wool next to my skin -ITCHY) and had her put it on over her soiled one. Perfect. We went in to sign the paperwork and get ready for the test. While I confirmed her details, she filled a cup at the water fountain, took a swig and spilled all down her/my clean t-shirt.

She looked at me with a big, beautiful grin and quipped, "Who's gifted?!" And just like that, we weren't nervous about the test anymore.

Phone Home

The other day I took the kids into the city on the train. The permit to park at the train station only covers one car, so, to minimize the hassles, the kids and I joined my husband and the rest of the commuters traveling on the 7:23.

Of course, actually catching the 7:23 is not without hassles. In the frenzy of waking up two extremely sound sleepers and getting them (and me) washed up, dressed, and out the door-- while also making sure that the dog went out to do her business and that I had something with me for each of the kids to eat, drink and do while on the train-- I forgot a few things. Like to put on any makeup. Or my watch. Or to grab my blackberry.

If I didn't already know that I am dependent on my phone, consider that lesson learned. I can't tell you how many times I reached for my phone before remembering I didn't have it. Not having my watch only compounded the problem-- I came thisclose to having to ask a stranger for the time.

On only one other occasion can I remember feeling the same way: when we lost power in our house. "I can't use the stove... I'll just use the microwave. Oh, wait.... That won't work.... The toaster! Oh, wait..." And then later, "The TV doesn't work but we have stuff on Tivo. Oh, wait...."

As the kids sat on the train home, happily reading their books, I again regretted having planned to return a backlog of emails over bringing my book. And then, an epiphany: I'll play Word Mole to pass the time! Oh, wait....

My next thought? I am too stupid to live! (Extra credit if you know who I'm quoting.)

Unfit to Print

My printer broke. It's one of those things I don't appreciate as much as, say, my Blackberry, because I don't use it daily but not having it was a royal pain in the you-know-what. Whether by accident or divine meddling (paranoid, much?) I suddenly needed to print lots of things.

After a full week of trying to fix it myself, getting cross, driving up to the nearest Kinko's and waiting in line for a computer at the local library I decided to bite the bullet and call the helpline at Dell.

"My printer says it has a paper jam but I can't see any kind of blockage."
"Did you lift up the lid where the ink cartridges go, Ma'am."
("Duh! And by the way, you need to not call me Ma'am.")/ "Yes"
Did you look in the back where the paper feeds in?"
"No ... oh, there's a Nerf dart in there, wedged under one of the rollers!"
" .... OK then?"
"OK."

Bloody kids.

JK Rowling's Biggest Little Fan

We went to New York City today on a culture trip to see the King Tut exhibit. It was interesting, especially the work being done to analyze the mummy's DNA. The artifacts were beautiful too but definitely second tier, ie. no sarcophagus.

So, we're walking through the crowded rooms and my youngest, Minx, is instantly bored. She can appreciate shiny gold baubles as much as the next girl, but not if she can't see them. I was trying to give her an abridged version of the history and explain how the ancient Egyptians put little statues in with the dead to give them protection in the afterlife. "Harry Potter's mother needed that!", she responds. Okaaaaay. At least she's making connections and relating, right?

On the way out, we buy the kids "papyrus" scrolls with their names written in hieroglyphs (spurious, as even the silent letters were translated) and Minx turns hers into a marauder's map.

Then we head to the Hard Rock Cafe for lunch - the kids have been STARVING for at least an hour - where we are seated in front of a giant poster of John Lennon wearing his New York t-shirt and signature little round glasses. "Look", Minx squeals, "Harry Potter!!!"

Apparently, we need to get out more.

Sapper!

My daughter just turned ten and, in her excitement, has taken to signing everything with her name followed by 'DD'. I only discovered this little gem when a (male) classmate's mother emailed me to ask what it stood for. In screaming hysterics, I assured her it wasn't an allusion to bra-size and promised I would find out. It turned out to be 'Double Digits'. Poor thing; even when I said that DD had another meaning, she guessed 'Dunkin Donuts'.

When I finally gave the giant boobs explanation, she was duly mortified and asked me if this was like the time she voted to name the newly-hatched class chick, Pecker. "Exactly", I said.

There's no way to walk the minefield that is our language without receiving at least a fleshwound but I'm trying to ward off as much embarassment for my kids as possible. They can recite most of the swear-word-alphabet (or say they can - for some reason they won't say it to me) but even there, Minx thinks the "s" word is "shut-up". More importantly, they fall short on the double-entendres and here's where I come in. There's nothing like a good British upbringing for finding rude hidden meanings in practically anything. I just have to tailor my talent to age-appropriate knowledge and remember that some prejudices must not cross the Atlantic (in America there's nothing wrong with the name Kevin). In fact, I fancy myself as a bit of a sapper, carefully seeking out and defusing verbal mines.

Speaking of which, I now have to go have a word with my son for making Minx sing Yankee Doodle, starting every word with the letter 'F'.

Think about it.

When Bad People Happen to Good People

A very dear friend of mine always has crazy-neighbor stories to share. Most of the people on her street are genuinely certifiable and I delight in hearing the latest loony installment. Then I got a crazy neighbor of my very own and the shine wore off: It's just too close to home.

The first couple of incidents occurred at preschool, where this woman's kid and mine were students. In front of the teachers and a classroom full of four-year-olds, she gave me a huge bear hug (that lifted me clean off the floor), followed by a threefold locker-room pat on the bum. What the???? A week later, waiting to pick up our children from school, she admired my Keratin-straightened hair and asked if I'd had my "other" hair straightened too. EWWWWWW! So inappropriate.

Over the next several months we reluctantly learned exactly what she did to earn a fabulous new pair of boots from her husband and how she tells her husband she would never cheat on him because she doesn't even want to have sex with him; she is "all dried up". The children at the bus stop look on with saucer-eyes.

The cherry (so far, at least) was this morning. She strutted down the road, butted right into a conversation about a play date, and announced that she was getting old. My heart filled with DREAD. We laughed politely and continued with our conversation. But she wasn't done.

"I'm getting old, y'know why?"
"No ..."
"I just did a wee-wee in my pants." (verbatim, I swear)

Thank God, the school bus picked that moment to arrive. We busied ourselves with saying goodbye to the kids, then hastily beat a retreat, shouting excuses on the fly.
"Not much of filter on that one!' my other neighbor whispered.
No filter at all.

Mea Culpa

She doesn't have a dragon tattoo and she doesn't play with fire but on Sunday my daughter was the girl who kicked the hornets' nest. Well, to be precise, the girl who kicked her soccer ball into a hornets' nest, then went to retrieve the ball.

The first I knew of it was when I looked across the field at half-time and saw my daughter doing some sort of a dance and screeching. In defence of what I'm about to say next, we had had some issues in earlier games with the girls acting up at half time or when they were subbed off and not paying attention to the game. I had to have a conversation with her beforehand about taking herself and her team seriously. So it was with great dismay that I watched her side-line jig.

Striding around the field to lay down the law I became aware that the girls' trainer had tackled my daughter to the ground and was hitting her legs which were teeming with hornets from the knees down. She was stung four times (thank goodness for shin guards) and five other girls and a linesman were also stung. It took them a while to recover but the girls went on to win 2-0. Maybe, like a whippet with a sprig of ginger in it's bum (look it up, it's true), they were inspired to run away from the sting.

Boy did I feel guilty though. I vastly overcompensated by celebrating the victory like it was a World Cup win.