Market Share

I ran into a new friend, Y., at the grocery store.  She just moved here from California and she is very California.  Or maybe just very un-New York.  Totally laid back, totally glass half-full, and totally a hoot.

In my very New York way, I have taken to wearing headphones in the grocery store.  Because it's Monday morning and I don't necessarily feel like chatting.  Because hearing people talk on their phones (loudly) while they navigate their carts (poorly) aggravates me.  And because I can't abide by the seemingly endless loop of 80's hits (you have to go away for us to miss you, Tommy Tutone).

My headphones and I got a big thumbs up from Y.  She assumed not that I was being anti-social but that I was rocking out and hoped to see a viral video of me later literally doing the "shopping cart" (you've seen the dance floor move-- reach up as if you were taking something from the shelf and then put it in the imaginary cart).  This is not me.

Y. mentioned that the store's set up made no sense to her and that she felt like she always spent half her time looking for things-- naturally, asking for help would be admitting failure.  After an aisle by aisle search she had just finally located the power bars.  By the diapers.  Why?!  We decided that the powers that be must have decided that mothers of infants have no time to eat real meals.

Which led me to think how I might set up a grocery store.  What would my own logic dictate?  Obviously you'd put the buns, pickles, ketchup, and mustard near the hot dogs and hamburgers.  And the salad dressing near the salad fixings.  Paper towels near the watermelon?  Gum near the garlic?  Milk and ice cream right next to every register?  Shout! near the tomato sauce?

Hmmm.  Not very efficient.  I guess I'll defer to the professionals.  Except I'd put power bars near the cereal and granola bars.  Duh. 

We Bought the Farm

Literally.  We bought an old farm, with lots of land for the kids to hoon around on and a couple of mangy outbuilding for the kids to break limbs/contract tetanus in.  It is desperately in need of some love but it is heaven on earth with the exception of one aspect: the wildlife.  I know, as the owner of a "farm" (although it is completely defunct), I should be more open to Mother Nature and all her wonderful creatures but there is a line, people!

I am happy to follow and photograph a pair of wild turkeys zipping around under the pine trees with their 17 little chicks (giblets?) in tow.  NOT so happy to see the coyote.  I love the hawks and the chipmunks, not so much the big black ants, and stink bugs and lady bugs and mice that have invaded my home.  As the saying goes, if the great outdoors is so great, why are these creatures inside the house?!!!

Sometimes, when I think back to our previous house, I think about the bee hive we had in our walls and wonder if they are back now for the new owners to deal with.  I hope not.  But somewhere, I'm sure, the previous owners of our "farm" are laughing hysterically to each other and saying, "I wonder if they've discovered the ____ yet!!!!"

Che Malo

I'm supposed to be packing right now so I'll keep this brief.  I heard about this meteor crashing into Russia the other day and I would just like to point out that it does not pay to live in a town or region of Russia whose name begins with the letters"che".  Chernobyl - nuclear fallout, Chechnya - brutal civil war, and now a meteorite sears through the sky and injures over a thousand people in (drum roll) Chelyabinsk!

To the residents of Cherbakul, Cheboksary, Chegem, Chekalin, Chekhov, Chelyabinsk, Cherdyn, Cheremkhovo, Cherepanovo, Cherepovets, Cherkessk, Chernogolovka, Chernogorsk, Chernushka and Chernyakhovsk: Ya might want to relo.

OK, that's it for now.  No more stalling.  Back to the boxes ...

Skin Deep

Its been ages since I last blogged. Time flew and suddenly its the end of the year! What?!!! I have to say that Hurricane Sandy not only stole November from me, it aged me by about 8 years (don't ask how I came up with that number just take it as read). I am more stooped, much grayer and all traces of collagen in my face blew away in the high winds.

The other day I woke up and looked in the mirror and Morley Safer was looking back at me.  The deep tram lines between my eyebrows and parentheses around my mouth made me look like a bitter old hag (no comments please) so I decided to do some scientific-ish research into improving skin tone through diet and supplements.

Now, I am the queen of knee-jerk reactions.  My husband has to edit/destroy every Monday morning email I write to my kids' coaches about the amount of play time they got during the weekend's games. Even my nice emails come across as snooty because email has no tone and I am English.  Anyway, when I came across an article about a supplement that boosts your pituitary gland (thereby improving collagen production, muscle tone, hair lustre, sleep quality, etc.) I jumped on it.  Snake Oil!  Fantastic!

Long story short, I'm not seeing any improvement.  I saw Denise Richards on TV yesterday and now I'm dying to know HER secret.  That chick is radiant! On balance though, of all the things Sandy took from people, my youthful glow is a small price to pay; what we at Weaselsnot like to call a "princess problem".  Plus I've asked Santa for a new face for Christmas.  Hope I made the "nice" list.

Why-yi-yi Oh Why?

The Frankenstorm is coming!  The governor of Connecticut was on TV this morning calling the storm "the worst disaster of our lifetime that we have been able to prepare ourselves for."  (He's got a way with words)  Winds will reach sustained speeds of up to 80 miles per hour, storm surges will flood coastal areas and people may lose power for days.  Already thousands of people have been forced to evacuate their homes.

The only non-threatening aspect of this storm?  It's name. Sandy.  Really?  It's like the big, jowly bulldog that answers to Fifi.   Here's what comes to my mind when I hear Sandy.

Little Orphan Annie's lovable rescue pup.  Only a threat if your last name is Hannigan.

Because I am TV-minded, the name Sandy also makes me think of the warm-hearted patriarch of the Cohen family, played by Peter Gallagher.  Sandy Cohen brought the Hannukah to Seth's Chrismukkah, which I loved him for.




And, of course, last-- but not least-- the name Sandy calls to mind pop culture's most famous Sandy:

And this scene (more specifically the song "Sandy" that Travolta sings later on in this scene) is the one that is plaguing me.  I can't help but try to make new lyrics.

Stranded in my drive-way,
Shut-in--not cool.  And the district
has cancelled all school....

Sandy, can't you see, I'm in misery.
You're gonna hit, they've closed Target
There's nothing left for me
Trees have flown, all alone
I sit and wonder why-iy-iy oh why
They named you-- ugh--Sandy.

Let's hope Sandy turns out to be all hype and as wimpy as its name suggests.

I Have a Good Excuse

Weaselsnob has been doing all the heavy lifting around here lately. I haven't blogged in a while.  This is because:

a) We just packed up our whole house and moved;

b) I spend my days either unpacking boxes or waiting on (bad musical) hold finding out why Verizon and/or Cablevision has blown off their service window YET AGAIN; or

c)

Clearly I do not have my priorities straight.



La Vie en Bleu

For some time my 11-year-old daughter has wanted to chop all her hair off a la Emma Watson.  I have stalled her for as long as possible knowing that while short hair on a girl wouldn't cause a flutter in England, American girls prize long hair. That's just the reality.  Plus, she dresses exclusively in sportswear and already gets mistaken for a boy. On the heels of the London Olympics, however, she begged me to let her "Abby Wambach" her hair and against my better judgement (and own cringe worthy experience) I let her. 

Every woman I know with curly hair has at some point cut it boy-short.  And regretted it.  I totally had a John Taylor haircut in the '80s until a dear old lady approached me on the sidewalk one day and said, "You look like a nice, strong young man.  Could you help me with these boxes?"  Yeah.  Haven't had short hair since.

Weaselsnark recalled a time when someone told her she was in the wrong bathroom.  "No, I'm a girl", she squeaked in mortification.

Needless to say I was nervous about the haircut but - shocking newsflash - my daughter is not in fact, me!  Her hair looks so pretty short and she is absolutely FINE with people thinking she's a boy.  When I suggested on the first-day-at-school-with-boy-hair that she dress slightly more femininely she pooh-poohed me and came downstairs wearing soccer shorts, a basketball shirt and Sambas.  "I'm going to pretend I'm the new boy," she laughed.

Now she comes home every day with a tally of how many people mistook her for a boy and she sincerely finds it funny.  She even had her own weaselsnark experience in the bathroom! Her best friend who also battles the boy-identity issue even with very long hair advised her that when people ask if you're a girl or a boy just answer, "Yes".  God bless.  That's confidence for you.

Jiminy!

Is anyone else experiencing a plague of crickets or grasshoppers at the moment??!  How do they get in the house?  In the last week I have had one jump out of the washing machine at me, one on the ceiling by my bed (ew) and one on the back of my headrest in the car.  In the last incident I out- screamed Minx's 7-year-old friend as I peeled up our road like an old lady, crouched over the steering wheel (PLEASE do not jump into my hair!!!!).  In moments like that, you come so perilously close to the abyss that madness becomes almost a welcome state of disconnect.

It's not that crickets aren't cute in an intelligent-looking, elegant kind of way. It's just the possibility of having one randomly fly at great speed in your direction with its long legs and antennae twitching.  And I just can't subscribe to the Disney-fication of wild animals.  It's too hard to suspend belief when Bambi is eating all your carefully tended Hostas, Simba has dismembered his trainer or Jiminy is hiding in your smalls.

No Ifs, Ands, or Butts

In the process of packing up our house I came across my son's joke book-- a notebook in which I compiled jokes that my son made up.  I started keeping the joke book when he was about four and stopped updating it when he was about.... four.

Okay, so it is more of a joke pamphlet than a joke book.  Nevertheless, at a young age he was churning out some pretty decent material.

Example:
Q: What did one poop say to the other?
A: You look flushed.

Not bad wordplay (if you can get past the poop part).  Unfortunately, for the past few years, there has been no getting past the poop part.  Or the parts that poop.  My kids (and their friends) think that true humor lies in the mere utterance of certain words.  I have tried-- and failed-- numerous times to explain to my son how much funnier he is when he turns a phrase or draws a parallel.

Toilet humor, I tell him, is beyond lame.

Which is why it is all the more shameful that I am still laughing when I think of the anatomy lesson my seven year old daughter's friend gave me.

"Do you know what this is called?" she asked, pulling on the extra skin on the back of her elbow.

I shrugged. 

"The wenis" she informed me, matter-of-factly.  "And do you know what this is called?" she asked, pointing to the inside fold of her elbow.

I shook my head.

"THE WAGINA!" she guffawed, ever so pleased that I had walked right into it.

Dog Days of Summer

Over the summer my kids (and I'm including my husband in this bracket) stepped up their campaign to convince me that we must get a dog. I had fobbed them off for years arguing that I couldn't possibly clean up the shit of two living things concurrently so until they were all out of diapers ...

Obviously (hopefully), we have been diaper-free for 4 years now but something rekindled their interest this summer - maybe visiting friends with cute dogs? - and I am once again in the hot seat. The thing is, I like dogs. I just don't want any more responsibility or guilt since I am looking to going back to work at least part-time. More importantly, I also REALLY don't want to have to scoop poop.

Minx has been the most vocal canine advocate and recently when my parents were visiting she kicked up again. My mother, who honed her own arguments a generation ago, explained that I work very hard and don't need anything else to clean up after.

"My mom doesn't work!", spat Minx with a scowl.

Granny patiently explained that I did in fact work and that if Minx wasn't careful, she would arrange for Minx and I to have a Freaky Friday so that she could walk in my shoes and develop a healthy respect for me.

"Yuck!", quipped my elder daughter, "I definitely wouldn't want Minx for a mother!"

Minx turned to her and with laser precision said, "I'd buy you a dog."

Touche