I Plead the Fifth

No more pencils, no more books.
No more teachers' dirty looks.
No more math and history.
Summer time has set us free....

After weeks of counting down the days (and a ridiculous number of seemingly pointless half-days) and jamming in countless end of school parties, field days, and early celebrations of summer birthdays, we finally made it through the school year.  Whew.

The end of the year is so hectic that I relish the lazy summer days--  a fact that would be nice for me to remember when I am signing the kids up for camp.  Here I've been every morning the past few weeks mentally ticking off the remaining healthy/appealing/peanut-free lunches I have left to pack and-- DUH!!!-- I still have to pack lunch.  For camp.   

So, off to the deli counter I trudged.  Begrudgingly, I took a number.  (The deli is like a casino floor in Vegas-- it doesn't matter if it's 8AM or 4PM, there's always lots of action.) 

I should point out that the deli clientele of our A&P is very high maintenance.  No meat can ever be sliced thin enough for this "let me have a pound of the Oven Gold" crowd (never a please or a thank you, natch).  No roast beef can ever be lean enough.  It's brutal.

But today was the topper.

The woman in front of me ordered one-fifth of a pound of turkey.  Like, seriously?  I actually let out a sort of snort/guffaw by mistake.  Maybe she heard me because she clarified.  "I'd like less than a quarter. You know, like a fifth."  What?!  Honestly that has to be a difference of about one slice of turkey (or maybe three paper thin ones) and approximately $.35.  Either way, decidedly NOT worth the confusion it caused behind the counter.

Gosh, I sure hope with all those half days of school my kids still had time to learn fractions....

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.

No Piggin' Way

My mother and her beloved dog, Eloise, gave birth to their first babies within weeks of each other.

A new baby requires loads of time, energy and attention.  As a matter of course, the naming of the new dog was not a top priority.   And so it was that the puppy was forever known as Puppy.

I came along six years later.  By the time I was old enough to appreciate Puppy she was almost gone.  We never got another dog, despite my best efforts.

As a consolation gift (actually, it was a birthday gift), I was given another fluffy, four legged animal.  A guinea pig.  I know I always rush to hyperbole but a guinea pig has to be the Worst Pet Ever.  And, like a couple who inexplicably tries to save their marriage by having a kid (or another kid), I thought having a second guinea pig would make the first one more fun.

I was wrong.  Babies ensued (We had a boy and a girl in the same cage! Galactically stupid!).  And then a premature follow-on pregnancy that killed the mother in childbirth.  And then infanticide by the father.  And then my brother had to feed the surviving son by dropper every few hours because I was away at camp.  And years and years of chirping and pooping and rat feet and...... ugh.

Last week I was at an impromptu birthday gathering for a ten year old girl who was visiting from out of town.  A married couple that has known the father for years came up from the city and brought "their boys"-- two guinea pigs.

I know that my husband and I kind of treated our dog as our first baby (my mom even calls her her granddog) but, really, guinea pigs??!   I could not imagine anyone loving guinea pigs that much.  I had to ask lots of questions.  And the answers left me gobsmacked.

Their boys don't live in a cage.  They have two living areas in the apartment and are allowed to run free.  They poop in one spot only.  They come when called.  Ooooookay.....

My daughter loved holding and playing with those guinea pigs.  I told her don't even think about it.  I'll get her a puppy first. 
 

Is There a Doctor in the House?

In sixth grade I spent countless hours on the phone with my best friend.  I called her so many times that, to this day, I still remember her telephone number.  I also remember her cold-as-ice father answering the phone sometimes....

 "Hi Mr. Bestfriend!" I would chirp politely, "This is [Snark], may I please speak with Bestie?"

"Dr. Bestfriend," he would correct me.  He was an opthalmalogist.

Even at 11, I knew he was a ridiculous pompous ass and was kind of embarrassed for him that he was so proud of his title that he couldn't let the occasional "Mister" go.

We are currently negotiating the sale of our house.  The potential buyers just sent us, through their broker, an infuriating letter presenting and justifying their final, painfully low offer.

My husband keeps reminding me not to take it personally and I'm doing my best.  But I refuse to overlook the extreme lameness of their signing their letter "Doctors X and Y Smith."

Are you kidding me?  Assuming we proceed with this deal and it goes smoothly (fingers crossed!), it will take every ounce of self-restraint I have to make it through the closing without referencing and ripping them for that. 

All the best,

Weaselsnark, Esquire

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.

One a Day

That's how many stink bugs I find in my house. Granted, one a day is way, way preferable to 50 all at once; but it is a little freaky to me that each day brings exactly one bug face off.

It's gotten to the point that I count on it. Like waiting for the other shoe to fall. If the kids have gone off to bed B.S.B (before stink bug), I know that one of them-- a child, not a bug-- will be downstairs before I can fast-forward through most of The Voice to tell me that they have spotted my foe in their room.

I think I've established that I don't like bugs. I'm not one of those chill, crunchy types who can take note of a bug in the house and then do nothing about it. And yet, paradoxically, I feel bad about killing them. Killing them myself, that is. I'd have the exterminator here weekly if I weren't worried about the cumulative effects of the chemicals on my kids and my dog. (There's a parallel to be drawn between that mental disconnect and how troops get sent into battle....)

Just stay out of my house, I beseech all of bugdom telepathically. I never even consider killing bugs that are outside. That's shared territory. It's when they come in and threaten to creepy crawl (or fly!) their way into our hair or our ears.... Well, that's when I feel compelled to act.

And then feel bad about it. The daily battle waged between my neuroses and irrational fears on the one side and my empathy for living creatures and fear of bad karma on the other is taking it's toll on me.

I don't know who said it first but, seriously, if the outdoors is so great, why do the bugs keep trying to come inside?

Riches to Rags

Stemming from an incident with my father, on which I will not elaborate, my mother established a rule in our house that once clothing had been consigned to the "polish tin" (ie. was only useful for polishing shoes) it could not be retrieved. Along those lines, I feel that my husband's fleece, which I have just spent the last 20 minutes debobbling with an electric shaver, has lived a good life and must be replaced. But my husband thinks otherwise.

Once, he actually asked me to darn his socks! His $5/3 pairs Target socks no less. If it's a small hole - or minor pilling - sure, I'll have a go but where do you draw the line on repairing clothing? What is the effort:result ratio I should be pursuing?

This winter I have inexplicably gone through the toes of every pair of dark socks I own. My feet haven't busted through like the Incredible Hulk, but it is weird that they all went at the same time. They are so bad that I didn't even consider darning them, even if I knew how. Anyway, nobody wants a sock bump. I'll have to go and buy a slew more and throw the others out, wasteful or not.

Maybe I'll be green and keep them for sock puppets (NOT).

Picture This

The email I sent to the photographer who took the kids' school pictures:

Hi there,

Today was picture day for my son, a third grader at [elementary school].

When I saw him after school he had his (very casual) collared polo-type shirt buttoned (actually, snapped. Snapped!!) up all the way and I asked him why. It looked really awful-- extremely nerdy on it's own and, coupled with his crewcut, very gang-inductee/prisoner. He told me that the photographer's assistant told him to button his shirt. And, because he's eight and a good boy, he did what he was told.

While I can appreciate some "styling" of the kids-- making sure they don't have crazy messy hair or a collar that's folded in or food on their face-- I absolutely do not understand why you or your staff would undertake wardrobe decisions. And what a decision. Good grief-- who buttons up any shirt to the top button? Was he going to put on a tie? I can't imagine the picture.

You do always get great shots of the kids and maybe you can finesse something for my son with photoshop... otherwise, you'll have to let me know, please, when you are doing the reshoots.

Thanks.

[Weaselsnark]

I No Longer Have Piles!

My in-laws are coming to visit next week for my son's First Communion. It's a very good thing because our guest room is a pigsty and I needed a kick in the pants to do some spring cleaning.

The extra wet, cold spring meant that I had plenty of time to go through the kids' rooms and get rid of the clothes that don't fit them anymore. I only wish we had cousins nearby to offload the stuff in one fell swoop. Instead I put it into piles on the spare bed: girl clothes that can be passed down to my younger daughter (that I think she'll want to wear), boy clothes that can be sold on consignment, boy and girl clothes for Goodwill and little girl clothes for consignment. Consignment potentials also have to be divided and dropped off seasonally.

Once I had categorized and bagged up all the clothes that were on the bed, I found wrapping paper, a humidifier filter, partner-deficient socks and my royal wedding paraphernalia (so THAT'S where the bunting went!). I still have some work to do in there but it was very cathartic to get the clothing sorted. Now the kids can open and close their drawers and wear seasonally-appropriate clothing. For a couple of months anyway.

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.

Nostalgia

Dana Carvey hosted Saturday Night Live this weekend. I don't know if SNL was better back when Dana Carvey was on or if I just watched it more regularly but I was actually happy seeing Wayne, Garth, and the Church Lady again.

Unfortunately, not all walks down memory lane are as welcome: I find myself living inside one skit from that era every Monday afternoon (my own personal Groundhog Day) and it's like Chinese water torture.

The original bit had Chris Farley nervously interviewing or chatting with a celebrity and all of Farley's lines would begin with "Remember that time..." Like to Paul McCartney: "Remember that time you were in the Beatles? That was cool." Or to Bruce Willis: "Remember that time in Die Hard when you jumped from a building? That was cool."

In my life, it's a little girl that I carpool to and from dance class. "Remember when I climbed over the seat? That was funny." (Yes, I remember, it just happened five minutes ago.) And then, invariably, on the way home: "Remember before when I climbed over the seat? That was funny." And-- I'm not exaggerating-- it happens every week. We are always forced to reminisce about events THAT JUST TOOK PLACE. Or things that happened during last week's drive. Things that, really, weren't particularly memorable even at the time they occured.

Hey! Remember that time we played who can be the quietest both ways? That was cool.

Aye Chihuahua!!!

Feeding into the celebration of mediocrity, Minx's kindergarten teacher brought up the subject of half-birthdays at school and sent around an email suggesting that parents of summer babies could bring in a special snack on that day. In case you didn't get the message, there followed a list of upcoming half-birthdays in the class. Bugger.

So, despite having a Mother Hubbard pantry (from the winter storms and mismanagement - not necessarily in that order), I scraped together some ingredients and made 24 cupcakes. In the shape of Chihuahuas.

Oh, and by the way, to those kids who complained that the nose was a Raisinet instead of a Jellybean: you will not be invited to the REAL birthday.

Party Crasher

We had my son's birthday party at our house again this year and as with every year, I set off with noble plans to make the BEST CAKE EVER and ended up having a sub-par, food-coloring-laden behemoth that no nine kids could possibly eat. It's a recipe for disaster for an incompetent perfectionist like myself. Needless to say, by the time party day arrives I am wound tighter that a frozen viola (that's tight!) which goes some way to explaining my ire at the gatecrasher.

Yes, that's right, we had a gatecrasher. It was only a sibling of an invitee but it was a 5-year-old, chronically misbehaving, disruptive, nose-picking, no-please-or-thank-you sibling who walked straight into our house trailing snow and proceeded to interrupt the magic show in progress. Her mother rather impudently asked, "It's alright if she stays, right?" and I began my passive-aggressive seething.

So straight after the magic show, the kids sit down for pizza and piggy-wiggy nose-picker starts bawling that there isn't place for her at the table (that's cos you weren't bleeping invited, you little @*&*). I manage to wedge in another chair at our already overcrowded table and immediately demands fly for juice and pizza, and more juice and more pizza. She out-ate every 8-year-old boy at the table. You can imagine the reaction to there not being a loot bag. And this is with her mother present!

My husband wants me to let this go so I'm hoping that writing it down will prove cathartic. I'm sorry to stay that the whole affair soured my party mood considerably and took my attention away from my son. Thankfully his experience, being less petty, was a happier one.

... Nope, I'm still angry.

I've Got Mail (Damn it!)

I have communication issues. Unless someone is in my face, I just don't stay in touch well. Part of the problem is that there just is never a good time to sit down and have a quiet, uninterrupted phone call. The other part is that I hate talking on the phone.

To some extent email has saved me from being totally wiped off the holiday card list. It allows me to communicate at any hour of the day or night and not have to worry about screaming kids in the background. Or foreground. And my Blackberry makes email even easier. At this time of year when we are bombarded with offers from J. Crew, Restoration Hardware, and every online photo service in existence, it feels really good to erase 11 emails while standing in line at Starbucks.

Personal emails are trickier. I like the text-message-email, which has a specific question or request and can be answered in one line. Invitation emails are also fun, easy to respond to and paper-saving to boot. Obviously, spam is a big no-no (seriously, how many times do I have to put the Christian Singles Club on my delete list?).

Then there is the misplaced instant-reply email which gives false urgency to a friendship-maintenance-email: You get a message, you respond, and PING you get another email right back. No! No! No! I crossed you off my list! I didn't require a response but now that I have one, I owe you again. Basic etiquette must be to wait a few days, no? Otherwise, do you reply back instantly or wait a few days yourself?

I am such an ingrate.

What a Gwyndbag

Why oh why is Gwyneth Paltrow coming out with a cookbook?

It can't be the money. It can't be a big career move. It can't be that she fears she doesn't have enough media exposure.

Really, it has to be one of just a few potential reasons: the first is that she is trying to help me deflect some of my enormous hatred for Sarah Palin back on to Gwyneth, where it was cultivated and has thrived for so many years thanks to Gwyneth's inherent annoying fish stick-iness. Ladies, please, there's more than enough to go around!

The second possibility is that Gwyneth doesn't just come across like she thinks she is the cat's pajamas, she actually believes that she is and that others aspire to be just like her. And she wants to help them with their noble undertaking. What a generous soul! The cookbook would supplement Gwyneth's lifestyle website, the poorly named GOOP, where, as I understand it (lord knows I would never let any cookie anywhere register me as having visited the damn thing), Lady P. lets people in on all kinds of Gwysdom and Gwyfty Gwyft ideas. I just made those up, but I should totally file for the copyright before she co-opts them and becomes a macrobiotic Hasselhoff. Hoff with her head.

The only other thing I can come up with is that somehow, even with the acting career, the GOOP, the televised foodie trips with Mario Batali, the ruining Glee! for me, the yoga, and the celebrity matchmaking, she is bored. To which I say (cc: Jerry Seinfeld's wife), go spend some time with your kids! Help out at their school! Or do some volunteer work! Or get a dog! Whatever, just spare me from having to see your mug on yet more magazines and talk shows as you do publicity for the book. At the very least, please combine the book tour with the promotional tour for that movie in which you sing country music.

In case you think that Gwyneth can't possibly be Gwyneth in recipe form, here are a few lines from the book that were quoted on eater.com and that I masochistically read through:

"In the last ten years or so, cooking has become my main ancillary passion in life."

"The stove is really the epicenter of my house — I am never far away from it and most of the time there is something atop it, simmering away for my family."

"More often than not when I prepare desserts, I am thinking about keeping the sugar intake low, as well as limiting other ingredients that don't do us any favors."

"I am constantly thinking about ways to give my children something filled with as much nutritional value as possible."

GAAAAAAHHHH.

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.

Bare Naked Ladies

I could write a book about the weird things women do in gym changing rooms. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit upfront that I am a class-A prude. If I shower at the gym I'll walk into the stall fully dressed, close the curtain and then disrobe. Getting dressed afterwards is always a lesson in "less haste, more speed" as I frantically try to don my ENTIRE ensemble in 0.8 seconds without slipping, tripping or otherwise drawing attention to myself in any way, while simultaneously clutching my towel with one hand.

Most of the other ladies are very free and comfortable with their bodies and to them I say, good on ya, mate! There is a lot of naked toing and froing between lockers and showers and mirrors, whatever the shape and size. Even some who REALLY shouldn't be displaying the Full Monty deserve credit for sheer chutzpah. OK that's a poor choice of words! I just mean that they are fearless.

However, I do object to those who go out of their way to be naked when there's absolutely no need: Example (1) The woman who stood in front of the mirror putting on make-up, wearing nothing but socks; Example (2) The woman who stood with one leg up on the bench and blow-dried (blew-dry?) her private parts; and DEFINITELY example (3) The woman who used one of those paper perfume samples from a magazine to freshen up her scent where the sun don't shine. Ouch.

I wonder if the equivalent goes on in the men's changing room ... Ew.

Picture This

On Tuesday, my eldest daughter woke up with a very red and swollen face. The other two had small rashes - my son on the back of his neck and around his left eye and my little one in her hairline - but were otherwise fine. I racked my brain trying to remember what we had eaten the night before, whether we had used new soap or lotion. Nothing.

Concerned, I took her to the doctor who immediately diagnosed Strep and gave me a prescription for antibiotics. It felt wrong (why did the other two have very localized rashes then?) because the only symptom was a rash. Yes, her tonsils were huge, but then her tonsils are aways huge. And the quick Strep test came back negative.

On Wednesday morning my daughter was unrecognizable; channeling Eric Stoltz from Mask. "I look like that woman who threw acid in her own face!", she wailed. "No, you don't!", I reassured (yes, she did). Meanwhile, the other two were presenting classic symptoms of poison ivy. Ohhhhhhhh! The "nature walk" they went on with the sitter on Monday ...

Back to the doctor, who immediately stops the antibiotics and prescribes an intense course of steroids for a severe allergic reaction to poison ivy.

Wait, but here's the cherry on top: Wednesday was school photo day. You cannot make this stuff up.

Keep Your Sniglets to Yourself

The kids go to school for six hours a day. I go for one, sometimes two.

[It turns out that getting a new empty-nester to over-commit to the PTA is easier than beating a five year old at Scrabble.]

So... I sit through lots of committee meetings. Aside from the Type A(holes), the only part I actually mind is that the meetings are generally held in the school's cafetorium. {shudder}

You see, sometimes it's the cafeteria, sometimes it's the auditorium. Hey, I know! Let's give it a name that drives that point home. Cafetorium! It's like Bennifer! Or Brangelina! Ugh. I simply can. not. stand. the. word. I don't like saying it and I don't like hearing it. And I've been hearing it way too much lately.

So, it goes on the list-- right between phlegm and moisten.

And, also, jeggings.

Why are there leggings that look like jeans anyway? And, furthermore, why are there pajamas that look like jeans? Who wants to wear jeans to bed?

Referee!

I spent all day last Saturday with a Poodle, a Vampire and a Dragon. No, Hallowe'en hasn't come early and no, this is not the beginning of a very poor joke. Soccer season has started.

This year our kindergarten girls' teams are named after dog breeds and while I really would have preferred to be a Bulldog or at least a Terrier, I do take solace in not being a Chihuahua (there were no Rottweilers or Pit Bulls). Second grade boys are mythical creatures, so my son is a Vampire, dressed inexplicably in a green kit. It's early in the season but at some point someone on the opposing team is going to realize that vampires suck. Fortunately, he won his first game. We played the Cyclops who perhaps were hampered by their only having one eye.

My Dragon is neither scaly nor fierce and sometimes still picks Daisies on the field during the match but I believe a financial incentive of some sort might solve that problem. Paying for goals can light a fire under even the most soporific dragon.

If I were in charge of making up team names, I'd pick much cooler themes like World Cup teams or European "football" clubs; something soccer-related at least, and kick-ass, hoo-ah at best. Let's keep the 'creative' names for nail polish hues.