Separated at Birth

The Donald and Owen Wilson: Same squinty eyes, sucking-a-lemon pursed lips and floppy hair. Let's take a poll: Who would you rather have as your President?

Someday Is Not A Day Of The Week

There is an article in this month's Real Simple magazine about procrastinating and how to stop. I haven't got around to reading it yet but I plan to. It's very frustrating to know full-well what you have to do, whether it be sending an email to that long-neglected friend or cleaning out your closet of things you haven't worn for five years or more, or putting your family photos in an album, and yet still not be able to bring yourself to do it.

For example, my son really needs a tie for his first Communion. I tried one store, weeks ago, then gave up. He's probably going to end up wearing the Gryffindor tie that was part of his Halloween costume two years ago. Is that offensive? The Church of England refused to allow the Harry Potter films to be set in Canterbury Cathedral because of the witchcraft theme, so I'm assuming the Catholic church isn't too happy about it either.

Mostly I procrastinate when it's something I don't like doing. I would rather do almost anything else but grocery shop, for example, so sometimes we literally have nothing in the way of real food in our house. I'll finally get up the energy to go and then be diverted by the first phone call suggesting a coffee break. I'm not talking 'Glass Castle' here (no one actually goes hungry), but we've had Lean Pockets for dinner. Once or twice.

Other times I put off things that seem like they would require a lot of logistics; going away on a girls' weekend or learning how to play the guitar. I have nothing but admiration for people who know what they want and make it happen. I have good friends who are like that - how can they can stand me?!

So I'm going to read that article and see if I can motivate myself to be a more efficient, organized person. As soon as I've finished folding the laundry. And watching 'Iron Chef'...

Miss Crankypants

I remember reading Miss Lonelyhearts in high school and being inspired to write a daily column on things that bugged me. But then I got distracted by all the AP Calculus I wasn't understanding and forgot about my pet peeves. Or at least about sharing them.

Well, no more! My time has finally come.

Today's gripe: Why do packaged loaves of bread always have an odd number of slices? Wouldn't you assume that most people are using sliced sandwich bread for..... I don't know, sandwiches?! A single slice of bread is of exactly no use to me. And if you've ever been left literally holding the bag (as I was this morning) you know the desperation of trying to cut the heel enough to make it pass (upside down, natch) as a regular slice of bread.

I can imagine how that will go over in the lunchroom. What could be less appealing to a kid who-- much to my chagrin/bemusement-- carefully eats every morsel up-to-but-not-including the crusts, than a whole piece made up of nothing but crust?

And while we're fixing the loaves of bread, why not just leave off the ends altogether? Lop them off at the factory and recycle them right there into breadcrumbs or stuffing. Does anyone eat the ends or do we all just reach past the heel to get to the good stuff underneath? (Strangely, I never throw away that top end until the whole loaf is otherwise finished-- I've always treated it as the protector of the other slices or something).

I'm feeling better already.

Clothes Encounters

We were invited to a family party two weekends back - no, I'm sorry, per the invitation it was an "event" - and far too late to do anything about it, we discovered that our older daughter has absolutely NOTHING to wear except sweats. We cobbled something together out of clothes of mine that shrank in the wash (I swear) and vowed to go shopping together the following weekend.

So last Saturday we went to the mall. The problem was, neither of us knew where to shop anymore. Gap was too "young" for her (really? 'cos you're 10), Crewcuts was too fussy and designed for stick figures, and Justice was just plain nasty (my eyes actually hurt from all the tacky colors).

Finally, we found Abercrombie and, as I would have been at her age, my daughter was in heaven: Skinny, stretch jeans, plaid shirts, cute cardies, tiered skirts, Justin Bieber blaring (Baby, Baby, Baby, Oh!), a miasma of perfume wafting through the air!

We grabbed armfuls of clothes and headed for the changing rooms where we were stopped short by a very ditsy shop assistant who informed us that only one person was allowed in the changing room at a time.

"But I'm her mother and I want to see how everything fits!" I spluttered.

"It's store policy ma'am" (Oh no you didn't!).

The policy is probably aimed at tweens/teens on a shoplifting spree but this girl clearly couldn't work out the difference and I didn't feel like pushing it. She said what she was told to say. I guess a store that sells padded bikini tops to seven-year-olds really has a pretty twisted view of the world.

Of course, we'll go back.

How to Tick Off Your Kids

Step one: Tell them it's a snow day.

Step two: Wait for them to get all excited.

Step three: Say "April Fool's!"

Tried and true.

Wrinkles in Time

It's weird that certain things can make you feel suddenly old. It's not so much birthdays for me; it tends to be incidents that illustrate the narrowing of my life-choices.

The first time this happened was when I realized I was older than the reigning Wimbledon champions. Even though I never even played tennis on a school team let alone at competition level, the remotest possibility that I might someday be a tennis star was now removed.

And just like September 11th or the day the OJ Simpson verdict was handed down, I remember exactly where I was the first time somebody called me "Ma'am". I can also clearly recall the first time I wasn't carded while buying beer.

Today, thanks to a fabulous new development at the DMV, I went to get an eye test and renew my driver's license at the optometrist. Looking at the doctor's diplomas hanging on the wall I noticed he was younger than me by several years. Oh man. Another milestone.

Rough Ruff

When we go out for a walk in the park, our dog-- much like her owners-- is not all that into hanging out and socializing with the other dogs/dog walkers we run into. Good dog.

The other day, as we deftly navigated past a group chit-chatting and fetching balls, we noticed the preschool-aged son of an acquaintance grabbing their black lab by the tail. And tugging.

The boy's mother rescued the dog, wearily admonished her son, and then turned and said "I swear, he's going to be like the next Jeffrey Dahmer or something."

N.B. Dr. Pediatrician Man: I've never named or even alluded to a cannibalistic serial killer when discussing my kids' behavior. So, I've got that going for me, which is nice.

(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.

Collect Calls

I'm no anthropologist, but there's got to be something primal about collecting stuff.

Whether intended or not, we all have collections-- it might be shoes, cars, jeans, art, tea cups, snowglobes or tsotchkes. Some people pursue their collections (picking up a magnet in each city they visit, say), others have collections thrust upon them (I saw this frog and thought of you since you have so many frog things...).

My weakness is toys. Toy makers are no dummies. They know that the real money is to be made not from the one-time toy purchase but from the repeat customer, the collector. So Snoopy gets a wardrobe. And Matchbox manufactures every make and model. And Hello Kitty-- is there anything you can't get these days with Hello Kitty on it? I wish I could go back in time with a trunk of today's Hello Kitty loot and make my seven-year-old-self's day.

Back when my son was into Thomas the Tank Engine, he played with the wooden trains all the time. And we collected them. I say we because I think I was just as into adding new trains as he was. What collection would be complete without Daisy? Or Spencer? Or Diesel 10? But, man, there was always another overpriced train being released. When I realized that they were using the TV show to introduce this endless parade of new trains my cynicism (finally) took over. Fortunately, at around that time, my son's interests moved on. (Baseball and football cards have yet to draw me in)

My daughter has about 20 active collections. Littlest Pet Shops. Boos. Webkinz. Pandas.

For her birthday last year we gave her one of those Charm-It charm bracelets. I figured it would appeal to her on many levels: jewelry, adorable miniatures, collecting things.... But I think I was just projecting. The other day I was at the toy store and was checking out the spindle of charms. (They always have new ones and some are ridiculously awesome.) And, lo and behold, there it was! Finally! A panda charm. I think I actually squealed. The intersection of two collections? Priceless. Right? Right?

I called my daughter over, figuring she'd go nuts. Eh. Not so much. She used her store credit on (yet another) stuffed animal.