Crazy Love

Yesterday was our ninth wedding anniversary. According to About.com, the “traditional” gift is pottery and willow. I don’t even know what that means. What’s a willow gift? A tree? The Val Kilmer movie?

The “modern” gift is leather. Yeah…. No.

We’re getting a ping pong table. And I’m totally psyched.

But forget gifts. As we all know, it’s the thought that counts. Want to know how I know my husband really loves me?

When he took our son to the batting cages last Sunday, he brought my son’s own batting helmet with them. Without my even asking him. Because I’m a little crazy.

I’m a lucky girl.

[N.B.: Crazy Love was our wedding song. Coincidence or prescience?]

Of Course I'm Sirius. And Stop Calling Me Shirley.

Our new car (now almost two years old) came with a free six-month subscription to Sirius Satellite radio. During those six months I figured that I’d sneak in a few minutes of Howard Stern here and there while the kids were in school and that would be that. What I didn’t figure on was Channel 116—Kids Place Live.

Kids Place Live plays fun, cool music for kids by bands like They Might Be Giants and Barenaked Ladies (and leaves all the HSM/Hannah Montana/Jonas Brothers stuff for Channel 115- Disney). The kids started asking for it, which meant no more Wiggles, no more Music Together cds, and—la la la hallelujah!-- no more Elmo’s Song.

The whole family quickly became hooked. We now pay for Sirius and even bought a receiver for the house.

Because I like music (and background noise), KPL is on most of the day. In the mornings we listen to Kenny Curtis and the Animal Farm, after school we catch up with Absolutely Mindy, and on the weekends we tune in to Robbie Schaefer. Each DJ has his/her own schtick and, for the most part, it works. They make us laugh. And they take requests!

The DJs—and the songs they play—have become part of our family’s shorthand. We reference bits and lyrics like they are common knowledge. Which, of course, they are not. I don’t think we know anyone who cares about satellite radio, much less Kids Place Live.

So, here we are, caught up in a whole little community that, to most people, doesn’t even exist. Like old school Snuffleupagus. Or Dragon Tales. Or Fight Club.

Oh well. In the words of Secret Agent 23 Skidoo, I gotta be me.

And Then What, Porky's?

Boy (no more than six years old): Dad, how old do you have to be to see a Rated R movie?

Dad: 17.

Boy: When I'm 17 I'm going to watch Revenge of the Nerds. Nerds are back!!

That '80s Show

I was watching 'Mystic Pizza' last night - much to my husband's chagrin - and LOVING the throwback to the '80s. It took us until about half-way throught to figure out why the actress who played the pizza parlour owner looked so familiar; it's Berta from 'Two and a Half Men'! There is also a very young Vincent D'Onofrio, Anabeth Gish and SUPER-young and v. nerdy Matt Damon. What a treat. All that big hair and cracking of chewing-gum and of course the essential across-class-lines romance (Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, St. Elmo's Fire).

Julia Roberts was fabulous, as always. If I were in a Windows 7 commercial, during that part when they cut to the idealized memory of inventing the idea, I would be Julia. And while I'm dreaming, I'd like a pony ...

George Elliot is a woman, idiot!

At church on Sunday I had to sit through an insufferably long and tedious sermon while simultaneously reminding my youngest that the church pews were not a jungle gym. What made it tedious was the total lack of inflection or expression in the speaker's voice. But the biggest offense was that the priest referred to George Elliot as the "man who wrote 'Middlemarch'. George Elliot! A man! I wanted to scream out in frustration right then and there but my husband gave me the stink eye so I kept my peace. Probably would have spoiled someone's First Communion. Afterwards, he made me promise not to bring the subject up again, including emailing the offending party. There was fine print involved because I have a reputation.


I am one of those people who cannot help but right a wrong. People who make mistakes, especially if they are being decidedly pompous about it, need to be told. I am the first to speak up to people who make ridiculous statements ("Madonna is not her real name, you know") and I am more than happy to take a bully aside, a la Rebecca De Mornay in "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle", and give them the direction they so clearly need.


Of course this quality makes my husband a tad nervous. He is afraid of public embarrassment and he is terrified that I will pick a fight with the wrong person, forcing him to step in physically to defend me. I sympathize but, like I said, I just can't help myself. I'd like to think that Mary Anne Evans would be proud.

I Can Be Catty...

Jenny Linsky has been staying with us for a week. As houseguests go, she was pretty easy: she ate nothing, made zero mess and never complained about anything. She did, however, have a tendency to get left behind. And we were always forgetting her someplace-- at home... at the park... in the car... on the front steps.



This is Jenny.




And these are the cupcakes my daughter is bringing to school to celebrate the passing off of Jenny Linsky to the next lucky kid in her class.



Goodbye Jenny Linsky. May you and your dingy blue t-shirt be washed soon...

Haiku-na Matata

Forgot my nightgown...
Oops! Toothbrush too. Got one for me?
Is it Monday yet?

Video Jukebox

This is not new. But it's new to me. Did you know that VH-1 still shows videos every once in a while?

I still remember the pre-MTV days when my sister and I would be glued to the TV for the half-hour of HBO Video Jukebox. A mere 30 minutes. With credits and intros it was like six videos, one of which was always "Bette Davis Eyes." And that would have to sustain us for a whole month.

Now we have YouTube. But we still don't have cool spaceship cars like the Jetsons.

Giving Back

There was no pre-school today so my daughter and I met up with some of our friends at a local park.

It was a beautiful day and, happily, for once we all had nowhere else we had to be right away so we just hung out.

At some point, my daughter and her buddies started collecting sticks and rocks and piling them on a large tree stump. They were very busy, very focused on the task at hand.

After a while one of the worker bees broke ranks for a bathroom break. Her escort, my friend, returned from the creepy park toilet and informed our little kaffe klatsch that she had been told by the children that they were making "a present for God, Santa Claus and Nature."

Which is just adorable.

Except that the child's mother, who had just arrived, misunderstood and thought that her daughter had said that about her own poop. Which is just hilarious.

Funny, funny Kotex commercial

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOM4AMV050A

We@$el$not

Ke$ha's "Tik Tok" came on while I was in the car today.

I can't ever turn that song off because I just love the ridiculousness of the swagger/Mick Jagger rhyme. Can't you just picture the high fives all around when Ke$ha et al came up with that gem?

Anyway, I realized something. I haven't hit google with this because I don't want to find out that I'm actually the last person on the planet to have this mini-epiphany, but don't you think "Tik Tok" sounds just like (and is totally in keeping with the character of) Amanda on Ugly Betty?

<....crickets....>

Oh, that's right. I'm one of the only people who watched Ugly Betty. Nevermind.

UNCLE!

Lately, I've been feeling sad. Some mornings I just don't want to get out of bed and, honestly, if I didn't have to get the kids to school, I probably wouldn't. Why the sudden blues? Am I trapped under a pile of rubble in Haiti? No. Have I lost a loved one to the war in Afghanistan? No. Do I work for an airline? No. I have a loving family and the best friends a person could ever hope for. So what gives, princess?

Depression is a funny old thing. It can creep up on you when you least expect it and it can make you feel so guilty. On my doctor's advise, and with every fibre of my being screaming, "NOOOO, we agreed to keep our own counsel!", I went to see a therapist. It was surprisingly empowering. It felt good to relinquish control for a while and have a professional tell me that it is okay to not be perfect always.

So here goes: I spend every hour of every day caring for three children and a husband. I handle 12 loads of laundry a week on average, despite chronic pain from arthritis. I gave up a great career to cook and clean and babysit and coordinate and console and cheer and chauffeur, chauffeur, chauffeur. I try to take a little bit of time for myself but I forever have one eye on the clock. Oh, and I'm turning 40 next week.

Don't even think about questioning how much I spend at Starbucks.

Not the Best Way to Start the Week

I had to go to the doctor today for my annual checkup. Honestly, aside from adding a balcony and inviting friends and family in to observe, I can’t think of how a visit to the gynecologist could be any more ick. What’s so bad about it? Here’s my quick list.

• First of all, I hate the word gynecologist. It somehow sounds both whiny and guttural.
  
  
• The weighing and the measuring. Each year I’m slightly shorter. How? My doctor told me to picture the spaces between my vertebrae as jelly doughnuts that are being compressed. Lovely. And now I want doughnuts. Thanks.
  
  
• The poking and the prodding. No explanation needed.
  
  
• Worse than the poking and the prodding? Having to carry on inane conversation during said poking and prodding.
  
  
• Worse still? Debating politics. That’s what my doctor wanted to do today. Dude, you have clothes on. You’re standing up. You win.
  
  
• The assistant/witness. Is she there to help the doctor or to guard against lawsuits? Whichever it is, the demands of her role are minimal enough that I can’t help but feel she has plenty of time to judge my personal grooming, my pedicure, and my thighs.

Ick, right?

Gob-smacked

A friend of mine was explaining the dangers of smoking to her five-year-old daughter and made her promise to forgo cigarettes.

"I'll never smoke, mommy," the daughter exclaimed, and then reconsidered, "unless I'm really drunk!"

Eek.

Mortifying Moment #698

We're inching closer and closer to finishing the bathroom.

Today, after being unavailable all week, the plumber came back (a minor miracle).

I was in the hallway of the first grade “wing” at my son’s school with my son, the rest of the kids in his grade, and most of their parents when I got a call from the plumber telling me that the toilet and sink were in. But the connection was bad, so I wasn’t sure if the plumber said that there was a problem-- as there has been every step of the way (which is why I answered the phone)-- or that there were no problems.

Like every lame sitcom character, I decided that the best course of action was to talk louder (only slightly more logical than talking louder to people who don’t speak English). Which brings us to this moment… out in the hall… surrounded by people:

Me: “SO, CAN I USE THE TOILET?!”

How do you think that went over with a bunch of seven year olds?

Poppin' Fresh

A few weeks ago on In Plain Sight, WitSec relocated Marky Mark’s brother Donnie. In his new life, Donnie had a diner. And a penchant for popovers. And, wouldn't you know, ever since that night I’ve been craving popovers.

Today I finally grabbed a few minutes to scratch the itch. So, so yummy. If you’ve never made popovers do yourself a favor and start pre-heating the oven. They couldn’t be easier to make (or, be forewarned, eat).

1. Grease your muffin tin (with butter or vegetable oil) and put it in the oven while it heats up to 425.
2. Combine 2 eggs, 1 tablespoon of melted butter, 1 cup of milk (skim is fine), 1 teaspoon of sugar, and ½ teaspoon of salt.
3. Gradually add in a cup of flour and keep beating the mixture until it is smooth. Fill each muffin tin compartment halfway (or higher).
4. Cook for fifteen minutes and then lower the oven to 350 and cook for fifteen more minutes.
   

And…. eat! At the Popover Café in New York, where the popovers are as big as cantaloupes, they serve these toasty tasty treats with strawberry butter. Oh, man. I may have to make more tomorrow.

A Haiku for a friend (who had ACL surgery today)

Naked man apron
Elizabethan England
Lilly Pulitzer

Crank calls, air biscuits
Hugs and kisses, jerry bag girl
Hope your knee is cool!

Julie and Julia

Finally got around to uploading photos of my 'Hello Cupcake!' projects from December and January for school birthday parties. Between the two of us, we have almost made every recipe in the first book. Sittin' by the phone, Hollywood!

Who in the What Now?

A few weeks into this Weaselsnot thing and we two bloggers (weasels?) have made a startling discovery: our lives are confusingly similar. Even to our nearest and dearest.

It seems we both have hair that won’t always cooperate, grind our teeth, and have post-lice-stress-disorder. Though we each have our own linguistic tics (and, in my case, a few punctuational ones as well), it turns out that sometimes our own mothers can’t tell who wrote what. And they want to know.

In an attempt to keep things simple, going forward we will post under separate names-- weasselsnob and weaselsnark.

There is at least one clear difference between us: weaselsnob has three kids, I have two.

Seacrest.... Out! (and yet, ironically, not)

Dear Ryan Seacrest,

Please stop trying to be something you are not. Drop the “wassup?” Cut out the "my brother." Don’t you know that you are more Jay Leno than Jay-Z? (and, really? “Wassup?” The bloom was off that rose once those Budweiser ads hit. Like four or five years ago.)

And don’t think I didn’t cringe when you tried “brotha” again last night. Trust me when I tell you that you can’t pull it off. You are no Desmond Hume. Not even close.

Love,
Weaselsnot

p.s. I haven’t forgotten that you are responsible for unleashing those Kardashians upon the world. Thanks for nothing.

Cartoon Capers

Why, in ScoobyDoo cartoons, does everybody except for Scooby have flesh-colored eyes? I mean they all have white teeth, but the eyes they left peach? Weird.

Ah, Fangface is the same thing ... Watching too much Boomerang apparently.

Please take the 'man' out of manicure

This afternoon I went for a manicure. It hadn’t been that long since my last one but I had done some irresponsibly-gloveless gardening and my nails were splitting. So, to avoid the appearance of diva-ness (although, in my town, it honestly wouldn’t have caused a ripple), I went to a different-than-usual nail salon. This was a mistake.

A young man waived me over and reluctantly I sat down opposite him to begin what became a very tedious procedure. Waah, waah, poor little rich girl, right? I know it’s not PC but I don’t like male manicurists. On the whole I find them to be rough, careless and surly (what I want in a man but not a manicurist – tee hee, just kidding!). This guy put on a surgical mask which immediately made me feel like a leper, then proceeded to take an hour (an HOUR) to file and polish my nails. He was looking everywhere but my hands, consistently sanding the skin around my nails and he must have left me at least eight times to answer the phone or talk to his friend. The back massage at the end – my second favorite part of a manicure – lasted precisely 0.7 seconds. AND, they didn’t have the color ‘Wink’ so I had to settle for ‘Hearts and Tarts.’ So a loose leper.

Manicures are my one beauty indulgence and I usually get one once a month, if that. I don’t even need the color really, I just love the hand massage and the way it makes my nails look neat. A manicure that isn’t relaxing is a waste of time and money.

We should all have such problems …

Group Three

A million or so years ago, when I was just starting out as a practicing professional-type person, I had a boss who I thought was pretty cool. My advisor soon set me straight. “There are three types of people here,” he told me. “People who like the guy, people who hate the guy, and people who used to like him and now know better.”

Turns out my advisor was right. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that the guy was a vindictive, egomaniacal, unprofessional, sexist, sexual-harassing jerk. I joined the ranks of Group Three.

Last week, when Tiki Barber’s infidelity came to light, my brother sent me an e-mail saying how glad he was that he had stopped liking Tiki years ago. Group Three, I thought.

You can apply those three categories --like, hate, used to like and now don’t—to all kinds of things. Try doing it with famous people (especially useful when you can’t fall asleep). As of one o’clock this morning, I’m in Group Three when it comes to these celebrities: Cameron Diaz, Katie Holmes, Jim Carrey, Jennifer Garner, Mel Gibson, Gisele Bundchen, Val Kilmer, Kobe Bryant and Tom Cruise.

(I never liked Tiger.)

Idiosyncracy #1043

I'm going to admit something that I'm not terribly proud of and that I can't explain. There are certain words that set my teeth on edge and make me want to smack someone, preferably the person who has just uttered them.

At the risk of setting myself up for future peeves, the list so far is as follows: 'moist', anything ending in 'ette' (moist towelettes send me into conniptions), 'blouse', 'chassis', 'penalize' and 'chipotle'.

Apart from asking for hot sauce my husband steers clear of these words - he learned the hard way - but one day he got careless and instructed our children on the subject. They, being children and more willing to take me on over such things, added these offensive words to their considerable arsenal and deploy them at every opportunity. Sometimes it's a guided missile:

Me: "If you don't clean your room, you can't have a playdate today"
Kid: "Are you going to penalize me? Hehehe."

And sometimes it's a cluster bomb:
Me: "Please set the table."
Kid: "Mommy spilled chipotle on her blouse while she was cleaning the chassis and now it's moist!" (Imagine this in a Sarah Palin/Tina Fey "I can see Russia from my house" tone of voice and you've got the picture) Grrrr.

As psychoses go, it's probably quite a tame one. And at least these are words you don't hear too often. Anyone else have a list?

All I Wanted was an Iced Latte

When I moved from the big bad city (where I grew up) to the small town I now live in, I didn’t realize how... well... small town it would be.

Everyone is no more than two degrees of separation from everyone else. You can’t flip someone off for not using their blinker because you might run into them at the elementary school later or on the soccer field on Saturday or at your neighbor’s barbecue. And that would be awkward.

But not as awkward as my day today.

A few months ago, a story went around about two people I know who may or may not have been having an affair. It was awful even to contemplate. And while the Us Weekly side of me wanted all the gory details, the rest of me wished I could just delete everything I’d already heard.

Whenever I would see one of them in town I’d have to carry on a casual conversation while simultaneously analyzing everything that was said by me and by them. Does he know that I know….? Does she know that I know that she knows that I know…? Like that Friends episode where Phoebe finds out about Monica and Chandler.

Rumors + Small Town = Bad Situation. The two people— who each maintain that nothing ever happened-- were sufficiently raked over the hot coals of gossip and J’accuse!-ers that they just stopped having anything to do with each other whatsoever.

And so it was that I was talking to “him” outside of Starbucks today, when who should happen down the street but “her.” Short of turning around and walking in the other direction, she had no choice but to stop and say hello. I was stuck standing between two people who really didn’t want to be standing anywhere near each other. And I felt like I couldn’t be the first to leave because any number of resident Gossip Girls might spot them and start new rumors flying.

I’m still cringing from my attempts at jollying along a normal conversation to avoid any lengthy silences. I can’t shake off the awkward.

Veruca Salt is Everywhere?

Are kids today more spoiled or is there just more stuff (and more expensive stuff) to clamor for these days?

In elementary school all I really wanted were Hello Kitty trinkets and stickers (especially puffy, moving, googly-eyed stickers). If I had to guess, I’d say that most of the kids in my son’s first grade class have either a Nintendo DS or an ipod or both.

In middle school, designer jeans were all the rage. I remember getting a pair of Sassons (ooh la la Sasson!) for Christmas and being so, so, excited. Today’s girls have similar wants but they all seem to have designer shoes and bags to go with their fancy jeans. At age 12. And what’s in those designer bags? Cell phones and itouches of course!

By high school we wanted cars, but mostly to escape the school bus and for a car’s ability to take us from point A to point B. The high school kid who delivers pizza here (and at least he actually has a job!) drives a BMW.

And, okay, I live in a crazy town but I’m hearing the same thing from friends in all different parts of the country.

So do kids today want (and, in some cases, get) more? Are we raising a generation of voracious consumers? Or has nothing really changed (except my ability to remember details)?

What did you want most as a kid?

I Spy

Things that are inextricably linked in my mind: Bacon and eggs. Salt and pepper. Bert and Ernie. Peanut butter and jelly. Captain and Tenille. My daughter and restaurant bathrooms.

It’s true. And it doesn’t matter whether she goes at home before we leave or not. Her cue is the arrival of the food. Actually, it’s more like seven minutes after the arrival of the food. Just long enough for her to eat whatever she is interested in eating. Of course, at that point, my plate is practically still full.

I’d make her wait if I didn’t know that, more often than not, she needs to be in there for more than a minute... if you catch my (tmi) drift. And, because she has my undivided attention while we are trapped in the bathroom, she tends to take even longer. On the inside I’m screaming because I can’t remember the last uninterrupted meal I’ve had out with the kids, but on the outside we’re making up stories or playing “I Spy” in the stall.

Every minute or so I have to ask her if she’s finished-- because if I don’t ask her she’ll never volunteer that crucial piece of information.

On Saturday night we were out at a place we go to practically once a weekend. By now, we’ve spy-ed every smidge of color and every scratch on every stall more than once. I’ve hit the wall. “Are you finished?” “Are you finished?” “Honey, are you finished?”

“Mommy, I spy… a not patient person.”

I love that kid.

Bird Brain

The forsythia! The daffodils! Spring has returned. And, unfortunately, so has Tapper the bird. Unlike the other signs of spring, I do not welcome Tapper. Each year Tapper and I engage in an epic struggle that leaves us both cranky and frustrated.

Tapper, I should point out, is not necessarily the same bird each year. The Tapper mystique is far bigger than any one being. Kind of like Shamu. Or Uga. Or Batman. The role of Tapper-- if any bird agents are reading this—- calls for a bird that is willing to fly into my living room window over and over again and to perch on the branches near my living room window and peck at it. It’s a grueling role. The bird has to be up at dawn and be willing to literally bloody himself in his pursuit of… I have no idea what.

Seriously, I can’t figure out what it is that Tapper is trying to get to. There aren’t any plants in that window so maybe he sees a reflection of my yard. But he taps away on rainy and cloudy days too so I don’t think that’s it. I’ve tried hanging things in the window—tin foil, the kids’ artwork, paper plate scarecrows – but they don’t help Tapper (or my curb appeal).

How galactically stupid is this bird? Right now I have little bits of what I can only assume is bird blood all over the window. He will not give up and he will not learn. Is he like Dory in Finding Nemo and he simply forgets that he JUST FLEW INTO THE WINDOW? Does he mistake my couch for a super hot lady bird? Why won’t he just stop?! Why does this happen every year??!

And why does all this head banging kind of remind me of my own futile attempts to get my kids to stop talking to me when I’m on the phone? Maybe Tapper needs a sticker chart.

Dignity Lost

Age can really creep up on you, you know? At what point do we decide to just let certain standards go? Is it even a point or is it more of a subconscious slide into I-don’t-really-care-ness? Last night my daughter rocketed upstairs at three in the morning to seek help with extracting a goblin from her bedroom closet. I tried to comfort her with words, explaining that goblins don’t exist and that if they did and were going to attack they would hardly hang out in her closet waiting for the perfect moment to do so. But she couldn’t understand a word I was saying because I had my mouth guard in.

I grind my teeth at night. Actually, it’s more of a clenching motion, but the effect is the same. So I wear a plastic hockey-goalie mouth guard and it really helps me sleep. I also wear a leg brace on my right lower leg for a chronic Achilles heel injury. And on the occasion of lice invading our home, I coat my hair with olive oil and don a shower cap to suffocate the little buggers. What a beauty. So help me if there were a genuine emergency that would necessitate me leaving the house in the middle of the night.

My husband recently got a mouth guard as well which made me feel a whole lot better, although I still wait for him to go to sleep before I put mine in. And to make me feel even smugger still, I have a friend who has a mouth guard and a husband with sleep apnea, so he visits the land of nod with the help of an oxygen snorkel (not a medical term). Wow. I know it’s mean to laugh at the misfortune of others and all that, but it’s nice to know I’m not alone.

Of course, that mentality is also dangerously enabling.

Spring is in the hair

Today it is raining and my hair is doing its best Hermione Granger impression. Okay, let's face it, Hagrid. I am very angry about this because I recently spend a considerable amount of money having a keratin treatment designed specifically to de-frizz my hair. Harumph.

I must be a slow learner. Over the years I have tried absolutely every style and potion to tame my unmanageable tresses. As a young girl, I had the boy cut, then the pudding bowl, followed by the Sassoon, the Lady Di, the John Taylor (in orange, because I used Sun-In, although I claimed that I hadn't), the Madonna and, on one very unfortunate occasion, a mullet (skillet?). I have tried gels, mousses, leave-in conditioners, mayonnaise, and washing my hair less often.

In recent years I have kept it longish hoping that the weight would pull it into submission but it is basically the same hair, just longer. So I tried the keratin ‘miracle’ treatment. I had model hair for a day, greasy, lank hair for two days, then back to Brillo and complaining about said steel wool.

“Oh, the keratin treatment is such a misnomer!” cried one helpful eavesdropper, “What you have to do is ... (Yes? Oh yes? Oh yes? What? What? WHAT???!!!!!). Go to the salon twice a week and have it blown out.”

Oh, is THAT all?! Who has the time? I guess I'll return to my old faithful: the ponytail. Besides, a scrunchie is SO much cheaper.

Here Comes Peter Cottontail...

In honor of the season (Passover doesn't really lend itself to cupcakes, for obvious reasons).

Did you know that the Hello, Cupcake! people have a new book? It's called What's New, Cupcake? and I will be getting my copy today.

At the risk of over-cupcaking the joint, here are some flowers for spring:

Sit, Ubu, Sit. Good Dog.

I dig this video.

But I was surprised to learn that this is just one very talented guy, not twins, because the one on the right seems to be cuter. I showed the link to my mom and sister and they agreed. We then tried to isolate and identify why the same guy would appear to be his own more attractive brother. Is it that playing the guitar is somehow more happening? Is it the white shirt (maybe like a Darth Vader vs. Luke Skywalker thing? Or Spy vs. Spy? Or simply fashion?)? Or does he maybe have a bit of scruff on the right? Whatever. It's a fun video. Enjoy.

Can you identify what the title is from? Hint: It's not a theme song.