The Stress-O-Matic

Got some problems weighing you down?
Looking for something to take your mind off your worries?

We've got your solution right here!

Hi, Billy Mays here, from the afterlife, with the perfect cure for your midlife navel-gazing and medical mini-dramas: Vacation!

But Billy, you say, won't vacation just leave me with hours to stare out at the sea and think? How, you ask, will that help?

Well, we're not talking about any old vacation, folks. No sir. How about we throw in a little earthquake? Distracted yet?

Well, hold on to your hats, because I'm going to blow you away! And I mean literally-- with winds at up to 100 miles per hour! That's right, your vacation includes a mandatory evacuation AND a hurricane that will follow you home.

And, if you act now, we'll throw in downed phone lines and a stream running through your basement.

Don't delay. Operators are standing by....

O'Donnell Did Say She Was a Witch...

I'm not really one for bumper stickers, especially not ones that attempt humor.

Like vanity plates, even the best "funny" bumper stickers can seem kind of cute or clever at first... but, in the time it takes for the light to turn green, the bloom is off the rose.

But then today I saw a bumper sticker that was so right-on I actually want to tell people about it (which is not to say that I would actually stick it to my car).

In stark white letters, against the generic stars and stripes/red, white and blue backdrop of every political bumper sticker, it read:

REPUBLICANS FOR VOLDEMORT.

Tee-hee!

I Am Yours, MRI, You Are What You Are....

I had an MRI today. (Weaselsnob caled it the hypochondriac's dream.... funny because it's true!)

Happily it was first thing in the morning so I didn't have time to get all worked up about it. Not the results, the actual MRI itself. I've always heard stories about people freaking out inside the machine-- which is why I suppose they asked me if I get claustrophobic (and whether I have any shrapnel in my body).

Fortunately, I answered all their mental-- and metal-- questions correctly and was permitted to continue. Liz, the very helpful and friendly tech, explained what was going to happen and what I should expect over the course of the next 40 or so minutes. She then gave me some headphones and asked what kind of music I would like to listen to.

My mind blanked. Liz started rattling off the options in their CD library: "Classical, Jazz, Light Rock, Classic Rock...." I chose Light Rock (Lite Rock?) figuring it was a safe bet and then made a nervous joke about how awful it would be to hear "Macarena" over and over. Liz parried with "Not as bad as 'Hot Hot Hot!'" I actually banned that song from my wedding. I could hang with this Liz.

Headphones, collar and head gear in place, I entered the machine. And the music started. A classic Crosby Stills & Nash song. Not bad.... about what I expected. I was happy with my choice. Then the next song came on. I didn't know it but recognized the CSN/CSNY harmonies. And then "Our House" came on. Oh good god. A whole Crosby Stills & Nash CD?!!!

I contemplated squeezing my Emergency Stop Bulb but decided to tough it out.

Curl Talk

Judith Newman wrote a piece in the NYT about being curly in a straight world. Weaselsnob emailed me about it. We both have bathroom cabinets full of half-empty bottles promising to fight frizz and tame curls.

Ms. Newman points out that lots of curly girls pass for straight (it is not possible, she writes, that all news anchors have naturally straight hair). For some reason, Newman notes, straight hair is generally perceived as more attractive, more respectable, more refined, more business-like, and on and on.

I only wish she had gone even further in illustrating how pervasive the bias against curly hair is. Off the top of my head:

1. Sandy in Grease.
Want to achieve a super trampy look that signals to your loser greaser boyfriend that you're leaving the whole good girl thing behind? Go super curly (and wear spandex).

2. Tangled.
Rapunzel has magical, long (straight) hair. Her evil witch of a step-mother is curly, curly, curly.

3. Katy Perry's "TGIF" Video
The awkward teen alter ego of Russell Brand's wife has glasses, head gear, and-- horrors-- really bad frizzy hair!

4. Glenn Close

On Damages, Glenn Close plays a brilliant lawyer with straight hair.
In Fatal Attraction.... yup, curly. Super curly.

5. Juliana Margulies

On The Good Wife, she is putting the pieces of her life together and improbably handling (and winning) trials as a first year associate with (impossibly) straight hair.

On ER, one of Nurse Hathaway's first scenes finds her being wheeled into the ER after trying to kill herself. Her hair is as unstable as she is.

6. Natalie Portman in The Other Woman (I just saw this on a plane)

As a woman trying to build a relationship with her new stepson and to cope with the recent death of her baby, Natalie's character is an emotional mess (as telegraphed by her wild, poofy, frizzy hair).

At the end, the movie jumps ahead to a time when Natalie's character is more mentally stable. And guess what? So is her hair! It looks good for the first time.

7. The Princess Diaries

Anne Hathaway's character is transformed from ugly duckling to royal swan by-- yup-- straightening her hair. (Same trick that happens on almost every makeover show, especially What Not to Wear).


I've come to terms with my curly hair. But I've got my fingers crossed hoping that my daughter's hair stays straight. And if it doesn't? Well, at least she'll have my lifetime of curl wrangling knowledge at her disposal, along with way better products than were available when I was a teenager (omg, mousse?! why???).

40 Serving Love

My son ran me all over the tennis court the other day, leaving both me and my self-esteem sore.

Though wounded, my ego was able to throw up any number of weak justifications: I haven't played in years (decades even); he practices six hours a week with the tennis team and/or pros and every weekend with my husband; my racket is ancient (with a nauseatingly sticky grip); I have 40 year old legs; and on and on.

But he and I both know that, notwithstanding the fact that he called every single close ball in his favor, he beat me fair and square. And even though I contributed to his win by having umpteen unforced errors, I was trying my best.

He's being semi-gracious about it, but it still doesn't sit well with me. I'm raring for a rematch. I'm just going to have to sneak in some practice first.

Good grief. What am I going to do when he (inevitably) grows stronger and taller than I am?

Excuse Me, Is Your Refrigerator Running?

I have always paid attention to song lyrics and, with some rap-based exceptions, am fairly adept at both deciphering and retaining them.

As an aside, it's practically criminal how the brain can hold on to some information like phone numbers and lyrics and completely void itself of useful stuff. I often wish my entire education had been set to music just so I could have a shot at remembering something actually relevant to my daily life and the questions my kids ask me-- as opposed to the year in which the Battle of Hastings was fought (1066).

My mindless focusing (oxymoron alert!) on the words I'm singing must feed into my enjoyment of those misheard lyrics roundups. You know what I'm talking about... "'scuse me while I kiss this guy" (Purple Haze); "I'm not talking 'bout the linens" (I'd Really Love to See You Tonight); "the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me" (You Oughta Know); and, of course, "Hold me closer Tony Danza...." (Tiny Dancer). I'm sure there are websites devoted to them. (Just checked. Yup.)

We may have a new entry.

Our family's song of the summer is Foster the People's "Pumped Up Kicks." Notwithstanding what I said about being good with words, I have practically no idea what they are saying during most of the song. The verse is sung through some kind of megaphone that distorts the sound, but then it breaks into a very catchy chorus that I love but which is still somewhat hard to decipher. Turns out that the words were being purposefully manipulated as a way of censoring them (the chorus references guns and bullets).

A second aside: The upshot of all of Tipper Gore's fist shaking all those years ago is that they garble "gun" and "bullet," meanwhile I have to keep my hand on the dial to navigate away from Rihanna singing about how she likes the smell of sex in the air and sweet little Bruno Mars' plans for after he does his p90x? It's like radio morality and censorship are in direct contradiction with what is deemed okay by the ratings boards/standards and practices for movies and tv. Can you all meet in the middle somewhere please?

On Sirius we can hear the song as written and it clearly says (in part) "all the other kids with the pumped up kicks you'd better run, better run faster than my bullet." Except my son hears-- and sings-- it a little differently: "better run, better run, faster than my oven."

He insists it makes perfect sense.

Notes from a Small Island

We just got back from our annual trip home to England and the jet-lag hasn't been too bad this time, even for the kids. We had a really great two weeks; perfect weather, Wimbledon (on the telly), a day trip to London to go on the Eye, watch the changing of the guards and see where Prince William and K-Middy got married. Minx got well into pate on toast and all three kids discovered the joys of a local sweet shop where everything was in jars and had to be weighed on an old brass scale, straight out of Harry Potter.

We explored the tunnels underneath the cliffs of Dover where the Dunkirk rescue was masterminded and took a miniature train down the coast for a fish and chips dinner. We went to a quintessential English fair with a coconut stall (if you can hit the coconut with a ball, you get the coconut!!!). My eldest, Lefty, who's been pitching for her softball team all summer, winged the ball so hard it not only took out the coconut but also the stall behind and landed somewhere in the forest beyond. Coconut all round!

It was lovely to spend time with my family most of whom I only get to see once a year. Once, my brother scared the crap out of the children by racing out into the garden (where they were quietly playing cards) wearing a gorilla costume. He later tried it on me when I was hanging out the washing but it backfired when I swung the whirligig at him in panic and knocked him on his back. My brother-in-law also spent hours with the kids, playing games, blowing up a soccer ball too much so that it exploded and left a hexagonal welt on Lefty's stomach, and teaching them English slang. Worst thing to call someone? Frenchman. In fact, when we arrived back home to 99 degree heat, Lefty declared it to be "scorchio". Uncle P would be proud.

We also got to spend time with one of our nieces who got on famously with Minx and spend most of the days either asking for ice cream or telling people to sit in the corner. On her last day, she called me a bony-bum which I've never been called before and for which she will always be my favourite niece. My mum and sister provided a rather gentler form of entertainment in the shape of books, stickers, crayons, cooking projects and issues of Heat magazine.

It's good to be home, but I do miss them all.

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.

Survivor: Suburbia

I am making new alliances and trying to break old ones without looking like a conniving beyotch. I am firmly straddling two opposing sides, double-agent style, while the game plays out and other people reveal their loyalties. No, I'm not on a reality TV show although I think I could be. I am negotiating my daughter's soccer team for next year.

Apparently, it's like this every year; a complete and utter bun-fight. We had one girl leave the current team because her family is moving abroad and another quit soccer altogether and suddenly it's all up for grabs! Like dominos they fell until only five players were left: three definites and my daughter and her best friend who had offers from another team.

So we look for substitutes for Team A while keeping our options at Team B open. Team A = very convenient practices and great experience (plus we just bought $100 worth of uniform for them). Team B = much less convenient location, second-mortgage-time expensive but great reputation. Hmmmmm.

It will all come to a head in the next week or so when a final decision has to be made. I will hopefully come out of this unscathed, carrying the winner's torch and gaining the ultimate prize: a happy 10 year-old girl.

p.s. Sadly, while gruelling and cut-throat, Survivor: Suburbia has not resulted in any significant weight-loss.

The Darndest Things

The final weeks of school are always a little crazy-- field trips, school-wide theme days, summer birthdays celebrated early, dress rehearsals, recitals, tournaments, try-outs, conferences, committee meetings, teachers' gifts, library books to be tracked down, and on and on.

I think I look forward to and appreciate the lazy, carefree days of summer because they come on the heels of so many concurrent-- and sometimes conflicting-- obligations.

Yesterday I had to force my son to come inside and fill out a questionnaire about second grade. His answers, along with those of his classmates, will be assembled into a "memory book" for his teacher, Mrs. F. And those answers had to be in today (along with a check and a recent photo of my son, which, because I didn't have one handy, I actually had to take and print before the bus came).

Mrs. F. is a wonderful teacher. My son had a great year. Unfortunately, his monosyllabic or near-monosyllabic responses to questions like "What was the best part of second grade?" (gym) and "What did you enjoy most about class?" (tadpoles) don't quite convey the warm feelings and appreciation I had hoped for. But he's eight. And a boy. And being 100% genuine. I assume a second grade teacher can appreciate those things.

The worst/best part was how he finished the prompt "I like Mrs. F because...."

His response: I like Mrs. F because she doesn't yell too much.

High praise in his mind but it reads like it belongs here .