Midnight Mayhem

There is a recently not-renewed, failing in the ratings, extended miniseries on TV right now. It is poorly acted, poorly scripted, and completely terrible. The plot represents something like Melrose Place meets Survivor. Only rather than getting voted off the island, our characters are individually picked off by a sadistic and really stealthy mass murderer. So, I confess, I have been watching every episode of Harper's Island.
Last night we made the mistake of watching it last thing before bedtime. Then, I had to go outside in the dark all alone, to let the dog pee. When I come inside, M is waiting around the corner and scares the living daylights out of me. In the total dark of the house, he's whispering "die, die, die" as we go up the stairs. In the dark bedroom, I turn on my nightstand light, and he's like 4 inches from my face, making the I'm about to stab you gesture and wearing a psychopath expression. Absolute cardiac arrest.
By now, I have enough adrenaline in my blood to run to Pensacola, and it's unlikely that I will be dozing off anytime soon.
M raises his eyebrows at me in the universal husband signal for "hey, baby..." and I respond with, "doing it would be more terrifying than the movie." And that is his punishment for scaring me.
I tell him that we should hope neither kid wanders into our room in the middle of the night, as I will be in heightened self-defense mode, and will probably knock him out. (Actually, E DID wander in to our room, and I managed to differentiate his profile from that of serial killer, and slept with him in his room for a while. He was having nightmares--and really who am I not to empathize with that? Also, his room has REALLY spooky noises at night.)
Finally, the adrenaline starts to ebb, and I can hear M's breathing start to become more shallow and even and quiet. I am feeling bitter that he can just go to sleep unaffected by the terrifying slaughter of a bunch of twenty-somethings alone on an island in the Pacific Northwest. (As a side note, what family knows only beautiful people, consists of only beautiful people, and manages to stay beautiful despite being hunted through the beautiful forests and beautiful rustic towns of Washington State?) My bitterness grows. I am lying there, thinking of the gruesome dis-arming of one of tonight's characters. I am also irritated that I have been sucked into this idiotic show. It's B-A-D. I start silently speculating how many weeks of the show are left, and whom, among the final 7 are going to make it back to civilization. Then, I realize I am STILL awake, and still affected by this stupid show.
So, I sneak up right above M, grasp him suddenly, and give him a scary "argh!" He sits upright in bed, totally disoriented and scared. I feel better about everything, roll over to sleep, and leave him lying next to me, adrenaline pumping.

Do as I say, dammit!

In my life, B.C. (Before Children) I was relatively competent. I ran an office alone, set sales records in my region, and was on track for consistent promotion.

I do not say any of this to brag, but rather to say that my prior success makes my current situation all the more lamentable.

Currently, I am in charge of three "issues" we're having at the house. These are issues I do not usually cover, as they involve bills, contractors, or things usually under the purview of M. But, for whatever reasons, (I answered the phone, got indignant and said, "OF COURSE I can handle it, what do you think I am, INCOMPETENT?) I am shepherding these projects.

Issue number one is the pool. The pool is green. Not tinged green, not green-ish, I mean completely opaque neon pea soup green. According to the dude at the pool store, the chemicals are not far enough off to create said lime jello pool, so that it must be the sand in our filter requiring change. I contacted the pool guy. No response. I left another message. No response. I am in charge of making the pool swimmable, but I can't even get the cleaner guy on the phone! (It's disgusting, no?)

Second issue is a fraudulent charge on the credit card. I have been sitting on hold, arguing with operators, demanding supervisors for two weeks. I am getting the brush off. No refund has appeared on my statement, and I'm getting pretty testy. I felt like I was being intimidating and demanding, but obviously I have not. I kind of thought that even if I am unable to make my kids follow directions, I still had some sway over grown ups.

Third, is the water delivery service. We have ten, count 'em ten, empties in the back, and NO WATER to drink. Granted, this is no huge catastrophe given that there is, you know, water coming out of every spigot in the house (apparently, I have nothing to do with the utility payments). So, it's fine. But, since we're paying for the service, it sucks not to have any of its benefits, for however short a time.

So, what the hell? Am I totally ineffectual in all things not related to laundry or kids? Have I fallen out of professional authority, and lack the skills necessary to generate results from other people? Is it a strange confluence of events where it's not me, it's them? (A statistically unlikely, but more attractive option at this juncture.) What am I failing to do? Why am I tempted to quit altogether and let a man handle this? I concede, I AM incompetent. You fix it!

Maybe I should stick to the laundry, it never questions my authority.

Tempting Fate

Short post today, as I have not been home most of the day:
1. Went to Target without kids. You know how batters in the on-deck circle swing bats with weighted doughnuts on them, so that when they're up, the bat is light in their hands? It's like that and grocery shopping with the kids. You go with them only to appreciate how much easier it is when you get to go without them. M pushed one cart and I pushed the second, and there was no whining, no begging to leave, no one begging for some sort of glow in the dark sugary cereal. So, so, so much better of an experience.
2. Went out to lunch at a new place. We shared a gourmet pizza of dubious healthfulness, had a lovely, ice cold beer, came home and...napped. The beer really helped--there was none of that senseless suggestive eyebrow raising (husbands, we see it, we just choose to ignore it), we craved that nap before the kids had to be picked up from camp. We ran upstairs, quick as newlyweds, stripped off our khakis, and dove under the covers. We snuggled down in the cool, clean sheets, and...slept. For 45 whole minutes. It was indulgent and magical.
3. We have E's friend over for a sleepover tonight. The three boys play so nicely together. In fact, this is one of my favorite friend playdates because this friend has three siblings and is so used to treating them nicely that he includes S in all of their playtime. It's wonderful. Not quiet, per se, but undemanding.
I'm sure karma is going to come kick me in the butt for this, but what a pleasant day. (Dare I speak it aloud?)

Fresh Cinnamon

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The Greatest Meh on Earth

Come one, come all, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls to see the Greatest Show On Earth (TM)!
Meh.
Last night, we took the kids to the circus. Not just any circus, but the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus....The Original Greatest Show On Earth (TM). Home to the most prestigious clown college in the U.S. The CIRCUS.
Meh.
Granted, the boys were tired from swimming all day. But I accidentally bought front row seats and we were "circus celebrities" and got to sit IN the main ring for the most of the first act. I could see the clown's crazy eyebrows. CIRCUS CELEBRITIES.
Meh.
During the tiger bit, S fell asleep. E had a faraway glazed look in his eyes, and it wasn't enthrallment. The motorcycle in the steel globe bit barely registered on their cool radar.
Meh.
M, who is bitterly opposed to clowns, reported only that he found it exactly how he imagined a circus to be. He wasn't bored, exactly, just mostly unimpressed (except for the motorcycle thing). The tigers WERE beautiful, but he just saw some at the zoo a couple of weeks ago.
Meh.
Me? I love the circus. I love the idea of performers from all over the world, living together in caravans, traveling the country and sharing their talents with one and all. I like the idea of the woman and her 8 cute white ponies having this special bond with her animals, and spending her days nurturing, rehearsing and loving them. I love the risk, however mitigated by lawyers, that still remains: the man alone with 12 tigers and a skewer of raw meat, 8 motorcyclists in a teeny cage at 40 miles an hour, a woman spinning by her hair.
But.
I concede this: the circus is a throwback. It is what remains of a simpler time, a simpler audience, a simpler world. It represents a time when the world's performers were assembled andwe went to see them, rather than now when we sit on our couches and the world is brought to us. We are jaded, and worldly, and easily unimpressed. We have seen BiggerLouderFaster already. We have been Supersized.
So, indeed, in the several occasions I've seen Cirque du Soleil, I have seen superior aerialists, gymnasts and freaky flexible people. I have been to the world's finest zoos and seen tigers and elephants (and there are many even luckier people who have seen the animals roaming free in Africa while on safari.) I've actually even seen an elephant paint a picture before.
Apparently, I am not the only one who feels this way: the bottom tier of half of the Mobile Civic Arena was not even filled. Concessions were a fortune. The experience felt Disney-fied, and overly rehearsed. Maybe even a bit tired. Some of the clowns put in a lackluster performance.
But then I think, surely, these people dreamed of being in the circus. They clearly trained for it for most of their lives. I know that there are institutes in China where young children with an aptitude for gymnastics train for hours a day. Certainly, those clowns who studied at the clown college and competed against other would-be clowns had this singular goal in mind: they must have WANTED to arrive in the circus. They must still experience the thrill of riding around the ring on an elephant or performing feats of strength and balance upon a horse, or while hanging from the ceiling. If not, then what? Is the circus a relic? It is a nostalgic remnant of times past? Are we just Wall-E-esque consumers lined up to buy overpriced sno cones and watch the circus like a tv show, idly wishing we would change the channel, if only there were a remote control?

The Songs of Summer

So, we are now in the throes of midsummer. The mercury is high, the humidity is higher, and my patience is on a hair trigger.
When I look at the calendar, I realize that these are the dog days of summer. We, as parents are over the novelty of spending time with our dear little angels, and our dear little angels are over the novelty of not having school. We are getting on each other's nerves. As I speak to other moms, I realize there are a few methods of summer torture shared by young children everywhere:
"It's not fair." My dad had a million puns to offer up in response to this ubiquitous whine. Most frequent was: "if you want fare, take the bus," which as a child, I found agonizingly annoying. It is still pretty irritating when I think about it. Oh, hell I hate that complaint. Everything is essentially fair in the long run. Sure, one may be permitted to watch TV now while the other one must clean his room, but eventually, these things all even out. Why can't my kids get it? "I asked you to clean your room, and you didn't do it, so I took all the toys from the floor and am keeping them for 3 days." What about that is unfair? What grand injustice could that represent?
"Can I...?" This seems to be the only phrase that my children know. Before I can even mutter "good morning," before I can even pour that first, desperately needed cup of coffee, I have been asked "can I?" 137 times. "Can I watch TV?" "Can I play on the computer?" "Can I have cookies for breakfast?" "Can I be finished with breakfast even though all I ate was half a cookie?" "Can I play alone?" "Can E play with me?" "Can I? Can I? Can I?" My interior response is invariably something along the lines of "Can I duct tape your mouth shut?"
"I'm bored." How can a child of mine be bored? There is a playmate whining the same thing in the room next door. There is a park outside, there is a closet full of toys, there is a library's worth of books to look at. My sister and I used to play spy games, chase games, bike games, ball games, made-up fantastical adventures outside. Whether we were at home or at my grandmother's house, we played imagination games outside. Children seem to have lost this capacity. They literally collapse to the ground and droopily wave their limbs about like ancient Roman patricians, beckoning, "entertain me minstrel, for I could not possibly amuse myself."
God forbid I ask them to do something for me. If I announce a mandatory trip to the grocery, the protest that immediately erupts is something like oppressed that of Iranian voters. A spectator would think that I asked them to hike up Mt Everest in shorts, without a sherpa or oxygen. The complaining. The whine drone, "whyyyyyyyyyy doooooooooo weeeeeeeeee haaaaaaaaaaave tooooooooo goooooooooo?" (Because you are going to want to eat some time in the next 24 hours, no?) "wwwwwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhy caaaaaaaaaaaaaan't weeeeeeeeee waaaaaaaaaaait in thhhhhhhhhhe caaaaaaaaaaar?" (Because if you sit in the car in this heat for 15 seconds you will melt like the Nazis in Indiana Jones.) "Whhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhy is it ssssooooooooooo boooooooooooring?" (Because they didn't install a Wii in the produce section for your royal highnesses.) Worse than the grocery, of course, is asking them to clean some portion of the house. Forced-labor diamond miners in Africa have a life of luxury compared to my kids, if you ask them. The groaning, the gagging, the abject misery of picking up one's own toys is deafening. The agony of stooping to pick up yet another action figure is paralyzing. Their tale is tragic.
Whine. Bicker. Fight. Whine. Bicker. Fight. WhineBickerFight. This is the the natural rhythm of mid-summer. I find it difficult to wake up each morning with a fresh attitude towards those darlings because twelve hours is not enough time for me to reset my mood. So every day, I feel a little crankier. A little less patient.
By the way, E says he feels like I've been sitting at the computer writing this for 120 hours. He says I'm never getting up. Can he plllllllllleaaaaaaaaase watch TV now?
Can I have my FREAKING XANAX YET?!? I'm going to have to email a Dr. in Mexico or something aren't I?

BioRhythmic Disonance

Are biorhythms real? (My spellcheck doesn't think so.) I don't mean natural cycles of sleep and wakefulness and morning people versus night people. I mean butterfingery, forgetful, walking into walls biorhythms. The ones that are completely out of whack with me for the last few days.
First, there was the ferocious PMS. Not that you, gentle reader, need to know the full details of my monthlies, suffice to say I was a horrible person last week. I saw red at the slightest irritation. The boys and M were cowering in fear. Even my friends politely pointed out (from afar) that I was not my social self. I found myself, on more than one occasion, sitting in a chair and growling at the world. That's not healthy.
Since then, though, I have been incredibly clumsy, forgetful, and altogether out of synch. There was the nightmarish experience of getting dressed for dinner the other night. Not a single thing in my closet was 1) appropriate for the occasion 2) fitting properly 3) cleaned 4) comfortable. I wound up in a standard shirt and nearly sweatsuit-fashioned linen pants.
Then, there was the scraping of the hand on the inside of the washing machine, of all things. So that now, despite the trash compactor incident scrape healing nicely, I have a whole new scrape on my hand.
Then there was a mysterious charge on my credit card that took hours to sort through. I explained to the woman thirty times that I did not know what an Acai Berry Colon Cleanse pill was, nor did I particularly wish to know (it sounds horrific), nor did I pay for it ($80, please!), nor did I receive it (thank goodness), nor do I wish to receive more (the horror!). Eventually, I broke down, yelled at her, and begged for a supervisor. He told me that per the terms of agreement, I had elected to receive another shipment. At which point I thought I was going to have a psychotic break. I explained to him that I had not agreed to the terms of agreement as I had not paid, received, or heard of his blessed product. Grrrr.
Yesterday, friends came over to swim. Which in and of itself did not really trigger any emotional anxiety on my part. But, when they left, I neglected to put the auto-vacuum-R2D2 thingie back in the pool. So, this morning at 4 AM, or whenever the timer kicks it on, all the water started flowing through the vacuum as it should, only it flowed out of the pool on to the yard, as it should not. By the time I got there at 6:30 (S slept in), the water level was tremendously low, the syphon in the filter had lost its suction, and the flower bed was flooded. Not good. Not good at all.
Then, there was the whole camera trauma. My SLR camera has been taking strange pictures lately. Or, rather, I have been taking pictures with strange light effects occurring in them. (It would be truly bizarre if the camera were taking pictures by itself.) A perfect halo forms on the left hand side of the prints. I searched on the Interwebs that all the kids use these days (and apparently, I searched inefficiently, as it took me forever to find a photographers' forum) to find experts who generally agreed that the shutter mechanism in the camera was failing. Canon assured me this would be fixable for $250. Which is not a good price, considering the problem would not be permanently fixed. I learned that shutters on my Canon model are only scheduled to last approximately 8,000 clicks. Mine crapped out at 6700. Figures. So, then I had to struggle to search for new camera, compare models, verify compatibility with my excellent lenses, and mire myself in technical specifications which I barely understand because technology changes moment to moment these days. In the end, M learned more than he ever wanted to about cameras and shutters and Canon so that he could order, pay for, and arrange for shipping on a new camera for me. I just couldn't cope. Bad development (haha. Pun).
Needless to say, if any of my doctor friends are reading (and I don't mean all you competent PhDs or academic "doctors,") although you are my friends. I mean those doctor friends wielding the almighty Rx pad--if you could just write me a script for like a thousand Xanax and wake me when school starts, I would appreciate it. Thank you.

Not-So-Guilty Pleasures

EVERYBODY has guilty pleasures...Godiva Chocolate, reality TV, Ben and Jerry's, gin and tonic, all of these at the same time, whatever. Sometimes we are even made to feel guilty over a pleasure that is not indulgent or embarrassing. Over the last day, I have discovered that Night At the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian is a made-to-feel-guilty pleasure. But, I sit here proudly in my workout clothes (for which there is no workout in sight...) and say, "Nay. I defy you to watch that movie and tell me it was not fun!" In fact, I will go further, and assert that this movie was more fun than the last.
Gasp. I hear that taken aback silence. I hear you snickering. Ok, now I hear your outright laughter. So, sue me. It was fun. Allow me to present my evidence:
1. Ben Stiller is a quality leading man. He is funny, handsome, and can legitimately deliver a straight line. He was good as the schlep guard in the first movie, and he is good in this film as the newly-confident businessman. He actively convinces us of his character, demonstrates how his character has matured since we saw him last, and wins us over with charm, good looks, and genuine affection for his museum friends.
2. Amy Adams is a star. First off, she is talented. Second, she is beautiful. Third, she's in practically every scene of this movie, and rocking it. Her staccato delivery of her olde-tyme language is convincing and bizarrely natural. Her soft smile and bouncy hairdo are disarming and sweet. Her enthusiasm for her character is solid and contagious. She's got that "goget'em, girl" attitude and we're buying.
3. The writing was solid. The jokes were a combination of subtle and over the top in a movie that was visually over the top. The plot, though obviously (and intentionally) implausible, was straightforward and clear. The writers didn't give us a convoluted story line, overfilled with backstory. The plot was linear, sensible, and as far as fantasy premises go, rational.
4. The visual gags were worth it. Let's face it, there was a lot going on in this movie. But if you've ever been to the Smithsonian, it feels like there's a lot going on there, too. The Smithsonian has often been referred to as the nation's attic. The visual atmosphere of the movie complemented that notion beautifully. Things were random, yet not unpredictable. Funny, but not totally ridiculous. Would you not believe there's a giant squid specimen in the Smithsonian? Sure. Would you not believe that you could see a mummy, Archie Bunker's chair, and a taxidermied hippo in one day were you to tour the museums? Sure. It works. The Wright Brothers eating freeze-dried NASA ice cream is funny. The original actors from the Apollo 13 cast having cameo roles as launch technicians in the Air and Space Museum is funny. Bringing crappy souvenir dolls to life as rocket scientists is funny.
5. This was not a movie about stupid gags. This was not about turning the corner in a museum to be terrified by a screeching T Rex. This wasn't about silly Jim Carey faces or bodily function jokes. This was an entertaining movie about a guy and his friends saving the world from a power-hungry villain. It happens that it was not violent, didn't have foul language or sex, and happens to be rated PG. It happens that some of the heroes are animated mannequins or miniatures, sure, but that's not what the movie was about.
So, I will be shouting from the rooftops that I had fun at Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian. It's not my favorite movie of all time or anything, but I didn't feel ripped off, either. I was promised an entertaining, escapist, comedy, and Museum delivered on that promise.
And, by the way, "pitchy" cupid Jonas Brothers ARE FUNNY.

Don't invest in a car -or blog- made on Friday

Once, M had a student who failed to turn in an assignment for his class. When he asked her about it, she said only, "I'm just not feelin' it, Dr. P."
Today, I echo her sentiment. I was not feelin' it when S came into my room at 5:30. I was not feelin' it when I sat outside for half an hour waiting for Clooney to poop. I am not feelin' it now, as I struggle to find some creative impulse that is active this morning.
Today, I am looking forward to yet another day in and by the pool, begging my children to entertain one another, and praying that the mosquitoes do not suck the blood completely out of me.
I feel that I am shirking my responsibility to synthesize my life experience into a short, entertaining essay each day; but I'm just NOT FEELIN' IT.
It's hot. I'm still groggy. I'm cranky. My mother told me that if I didn't have anything nice to say, not to say anything at all.
Mum.

Once Upon a Time

Feminism has fairly well squashed out the enjoyment most of us have with the romantic idea of the knight in shining armor. We all know that the princess could have gotten herself out of the jam, if only she weren't being thwarted by malicious stereotypes of unattractive women. But feminism and fairy tales is a complicated literary/socialogical debate. And really, my brain hasn't been used for any academic purpose lately, so I will just say that sometimes a knight in shining armor is just what we all need.
Yesterday, E's sleepover friend left before lunch. I had a bunch of errands to do, and dragged my children, Whiney and Cry-ey (distant cousins of Happy and Doc), along with me. After indulging every childhood desire for these kids, you'd think a few short stops would be a fair compromise. But, instead, we pull into a parking space, and the moaning starts: "Here? We have to go here?" "Yes. It is a short stop, we will be in and out if you just cooperate." "But it's soooo BORING." "Well, it's not my idea of a three ring circus, either. But some things just need to be done." We had to get the pool water analyzed because after a jillion kids in it and a bunch of sunblock, the water was cloudy. Apparently, a $16 bottle of blue crap will clean that right up. Then, we had to return a movie--a prolonged argument over who would get out of the car and put the movie in the return slot. (I was in no rush to go--it was 100 degrees outside. Apparently, the excitement of the return slot trumps sauna weather.)
We had to stop in the grocery store for dinner ingredients, which of course translates into a whine/cryfest over how disgusting and poisonous my dinner is going to be. (Dinner was NOT disgusting OR poisonous. I shelled and de-veined local shrimp, marinated them in chili powder and buttermilk, tossed them in a light mixture of panko breading, flour and cornstarch, and flash fried them. I served them in tortillas with mango salsa, napa cabbage and guacamole. Whine and Cry had theirs plain with ketchup, natch.) Then, I took them to Moe's for lunch, where Whiney and Cry-ey picked at their food in a feeble attempt to "earn" their desserts. (They did not earn dessert) So, after running these errands, I was frustrated, hot, irritated and very unhappy. My starring role in an alter-fairy tale where the dwarfs were evil was wearing thin. Where the hell was my knight?
Then, the phone rings. I am at the neverending stoplight. It is under a spell from the evil stepsister of the Department of Transportation. The light easily lasts four minutes. Whiney and Cry-ey argue about how many poisonous shrimp they are going to have to eat to get dessert for dinner. The generic AT&T cell phone ring is like the sweet twitter of Disney's birds flitting through the car. I answer. It is my fairy godmother: MT. She has endured a series of errands much like mine with her own dwarfs: Smarty, Sweetie, and Curly. MT is at the end of her rope. We agree to meet at the pool. To drown the dwarfs? Or to play, I guess.
MT arrives. Dwarfs get in the pool. I make magic potion of rum and lime juice. Dwarfs transform into playmates. MT and I drift in the pool and chat. The golden rays slant down from above with the angelic chorus of "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."
My knight in shining armor has arrived. Feminists of the world rejoice: the knight is actually a woman. In swimwear. Rescue is actually drunken solidarity.

Fresh Cinnamon

Today's fresh cinnamon is on stageoflife.com! To explore stage of life, read today's post, and learn/shop/explore the site, click on the link:

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Today's entry is Unfulfilled Desire.
Thanks for your support, as always.

Memory Loss

An all time first: S fell asleep on the sofa last night while the rest of us were hanging out. By himself. At 6 something. No, no, no--you don't understand--he fell asleep. By himself. Early. Before he even made it to bed. The child who "just doesn't like to sleep." My night owl.
At first, I was worried. I was thinking cold, swine flu, sudden onset death. But no, as it turns out, four hours of swimming, two hours of running around like a monkey, and a crappy previous night's sleep will actually result in an S so tired that he will put himself to sleep.
Amazing.
I carried him up to his bed, tucked him in and was completely struck by how simply beautiful he looked. His little lips were just slightly apart and his little freckles looked so cheerful on his cheeks. Feeling thus inspired by the wonder of a child, I went into E's room: nope. Still awake. And talking. No magic there.
It wasn't until my bedtime that I could go into E's room and see his simple beauty. He sleeps with limbs flailed out as though he's parachuting in his dreams. His long eyelashes brushed his cheeks, and the gape of his missing tooth could just barely be seen between his perfect lips.
Much like there are chemical processes in the brain that help to conceal the agony of childbirth from our memories, there are processes that allow us to appreciate our children in rare moments of sleep or silence and forget how completely obnoxious they are to be around nearly all the time they're awake.
I know, I know. It's mean to say they're obnoxious. It's only partially true: if I could be with each of my children separately, and alone, I would enjoy it. Each one is funny, clever, curious, bright, and wonderful. Put them together, and it's like a territorial battle to the death a la Discovery Channel. Together, they spend a day locked in endless struggles of "am not, are too" and "not me, he did it." Not to mention the chronic complaint of the child: "it's not fair." Only at night when they are sleeping, or if I sneak into their rooms and spy on them as they read intently, or are absorbed in play can I see that sweetness, that near angelic perfection of childhood. Instantly, I can forget the irritations of the day, and I sincerely wish that I could freeze each of them at this ideal moment in time.
Unfortunately, as parents, we don't get to see those moments often. When my kids are quiet, I usually run in the opposite direction: why question silence? I hardly ever check on them in their sleep, as they have laid landmines of Hot Wheels and Bakugans that result in calamitous noise and god forbid I wake them. When they are playing nicely, I usually thank the powers that be and promptly make a cocktail. Because the little spawns of evil are likely to rear their nasty heads at any moment and I had better be prepared.

The Evolution of Style

I once read that for all intents and purposes, our sense of style from high school graduation is the one that stays with us forever. Obviously, this is less true in highly cosmopolitan areas where people are very chic and fashion-conscious. But, by and large, when I look around at people my age, I see a lot of poofy bangs that never grew out. For guys, I think this is a more pervasive issue: the obvious exception being any metrosexual guy out there who happens to subscribe to GQ or Esquire.
I got my hair cut this weekend. I was having issues with multi-grown out layers, weird angles, and goofy sticky-outy parts. Out of frustration, I had a bunch cut off to approximate a bob and to be done with the whole growing out "process." The end result is the same basic cut I had when I graduated from high school.
Now bear with me: since high school, my hair has been partly shaved, auburn, red, very long, very short, dangerously close to a mullet, purple, the "Rachel," heavily layered, not layered at all, with bangs and without bangs, highlighted a little, highlighted a lot.
Looking back on all of these styles, and looking at my reflection NOW, I realize that this is probably the most flattering, easy to maintain 'do I've had in a while. Which means that the last time my mother had any input into my style, she was right.
This is a bad development. What if she was right about other things? What if the last time my mother had any control/input into other parts of my life it was the highlight of those aspects, too?
Let's review: she was clearly right about the hairstyle. She was clearly right about bedtime, too. An early bedtime REALLY is refreshing. Also, Mom may have been right about one of my best friends in high school--she DID kind of turn out to be "promiscuous" (my mother LOVED that word as the most scathing criticism she could offer.) She seems to have been right about make-up as well: less is more, and brown eyeliner DOES make my eyes look more blue. Brown is so much less severe than black. (This applies to mascara as well.) Also, as it turns out, long hippie skirts over jeans with a man's undershirt tee might not have been my fahion apex.
While I am apprehensive about this development, I am reassured that Mom was definitely not right about some other things: matching bra and panties is not necessary. The firemen will not care if I am not wearing clean underwear. Pantyhose are OVER. Black is still the best way to go when it comes to cocktail dresses and daily work wear. A pattern would probably kill me. A ponytail can be stumpy AND cute. It's ok for girls to call boys to ask them out. Otherwise I'd never met M.
So, phew. As it turns out, Mom was not always right. And fashion should evolve, at least some of the time. (Although I REALLY miss those hippie skirts. So practical!) And bangs? Bangs are never EVER the answer.

Crazy is as Crazy does

I think I am a little masochistic. Again, I throw around psychological diagnoses like I'm somehow qualified to do so. As I've mentioned before, I have a family practice license: I'm practicing on my father's license. (My sister does it too; ergo FAMILY practice.) But, one of the things I really like is having people in my home.
I like the sound of laughter and clinking glasses and music. I like to know that people are enjoying the hospitality I am offering. I enjoy making the best food I can and extending the best service I can, and making people feel completely comfortable.
UNFORTUNATELY, I inevitably go overboard. I worry too much. I make too much food. I spend too much money. I stress out WAY too much. All of this anxiety beforehand, but then I LOVE the party. Sadly, this is a vicious circle: if I don't stress out, then I don't enjoy the party, because I feel as though I could have done better. If I do stress out, then I'm stressed for the whole day and tired for the party.
Remember that episode of Friends when crazy Monica bet her entire apartment on a trivia contest hosted by Ross? (Right answer: Ms. Chenandler Bong) And she and Rachel had to move across the hall? Then, Monica spent days cleaning, refinishing floors, and decorating only to have everyone over at her apartment while she slept on the couch? That is totally me. So, today I am having some people over for a "casual, outdoor barbecue." Which means, I will be cleaning the INSIDE of my house (just in case) and cooking, and baking (I'm really not a baker) and if I get time, I'll be pressure washing the pool deck.
My guests asked if there's anything they can bring. I suggest: lawn chairs and Xanax. Thanks. I appreciate it.
It's 8:30. I have until 3. Crazy's gotta get moving.

Physician Problems

I, like every woman who has the good fortune of health insurance, hate preventive care visits to the doctor. The dread annual: I honestly get heebie jeebies just writing about it. PAP stands for Perfectly Agonizing Procedure. Not that I have one coming up immediately. I usually make my appointment for that funfest after the kids are back in school in the fall. But it's looming out there.
I also have a general distrust of the traditionally male-dominated field of medicine. Aren't we all sure that if women led the industry, we would have a tampon/dustbuster that reduces your monthly to a one-hour, mess-free experience? Wouldn't we have diet pills that don't just help you slim, but actually MAKE you thin instantly? Wouldn't birth control be a non-invasive, non-hormonal, non-crazy making, easy to remember gadget/procedure/pill? Wouldn't we NEVER invent Viagra? What crazy man-researcher thought women (even women in their 'golden years') would want men all over them even MORE than before? Wouldn't there be Prozac and Fluoride in the water supply?
But, back to preventive care. Every year, I go to a dermatologist for a "mole inspection." I have a million little moles on my body that need to be checked by a professional. I have had dozens removed--atypical little buggers. And, living all over the country, I have seen a bunch of dermatologists. Most of them, to be honest, are these fresh faced women whose skin lends total credibility to whatever salve/cream/injection they are selling. But, nearly all the dermatologists I've visited have been serious about their task. They check for moles under armpits, between my toes, and even on all my unmentionables. The last dermatologist I visited, though, was a disappointment. Not only did she not do a FULL body inspection, but she tried hawking her wrinkle cream to me. ("Not that I'm making judgement, but you really could get ahead of those furrows on your forehead before they get any deeper." Internal reply: I'll show you a furrow on your forehead, biatch.)
So, I have been questing for a new physician. One was recommended to me yesterday, in fact. But he came with a disclaimer: I heard he's really thorough, but really young and cute.
Great. As if there's any chance I'll lose 20 pounds and get a boob job before I die of melanoma.

MommyAlert: Don't Stay Home Without It

So, yesterday I slammed my finger in the trash compactor door. Hard. The finger was skinned the entire length of the knuckle, and the nail instantly turned a sickly shade of lavender. I couldn't even get to the kitchen sink before blood started dripping on the floor.
Owowowowowowowowow. Nobody was home when this happened, and so I was swearing and crying and swearing some more. (As if swearing is related to my children's proximity) And I called M at work and he wasn't there. And so I called my sister, whose husband answered on a very late ring. I was so happy to cry to someone. Have someone ask if it was ok. Sniff. Yes. But it hurts. I know. Keep the Bandaid and Neosporin on it. It really hurts. Sniff.
And I realize that clearly, I need a MedicAlert necklace. Maybe mine shouldn't be directly connected to 911 or anything. But I need to have a network of people close by who I can contact instantly with the push of a button on the easy-to-use device. So that if I squish my finger in a large kitchen appliance, someone will come right over to check it out and commiserate with me. Hell, I could chop my hand OFF and even if my kids WERE home, I couldn't pry them away from the TV to help in any way. The police CSI team would come and find my exsanguinated body on the kitchen floor, and ask each other:
Chief: Were there witnessess?
Jr. CSI Fishburne: Well sir, there were some kids in the house. But they didn't notice anything. They said they might have heard cries for help, but thought that it was Tom begging Jerry for mercy.
Chief: Well, she died slowly, probably an hour--surely the kids weren't watching the whole time?
Jr. CSI Fishburne: No, sir. One of the kids got up from the TV for a drink, but says he thought his mom was taking a nap on the kitchen floor. Didn't stop to look at her.
Chief: Nice kids, eh?
Jr. CSI Fishburne: Well, sir. They do seem to like their TV.
Enter MommyAlert. So, by depressing the button on my MommyAlert necklace, I could summon the nearest mom-friend to come and help me out. Not only would MommyAlert be helpful in injuries or health-related emergencies, but could be used in other crises as well: out of vodka? Press the button, speak clearly into the device, and within minutes an operator will send a mom with a fifth of Absolut right over. Dinner-related malaise? Press the button, and a friend who has leftovers will be dispatched directly to you. Buried under a pile of laundry? Your best friend will be sent over with a giant box of Tide and keep you company during the spin cycle.
Naturally, if you purchase a MommyAlert, you will occasionally be on call to help a friend. Our operators will contact you:
Operator: MommyAlert partner? We have received a call regarding your friend on Elm Avenue. Apparently, her husband is on a business trip, and she has been home with a toddler and a preschooler for 3 days. She requests reinforcements so that she may take a shower and have 30 minutes of adult conversation. Please depart immediately.
Operator: MommyAlert partner? We have a call of a four year old putting on his fourth temper tantrum of the day. The mom is wearing down and considering giving in. You must go and assume discipline authority for 15 minutes.
MommyAlert: Don't worry about Mom being alone for another moment. Call now for more information.

I Want My Kids' Life

My dad used to say that if there is reincarnation, he wants to come back to life as his kids. I never understood what he meant. I mean, we were sometimes in trouble, we had to clean our rooms, we had to eat broccoli and stroganoff (sometimes at the same meal!)--who would want THAT life?
Now, as a parent, I get it. And I want to be reincarnated as my kids. This week, I am introducing myself as Julie, the Cruise Director from the Love Boat. The most immediate similarity between me and Julie, the Cruise Director from the Love Boat, is that I am always ready to avail myself of the services of Isaac, the Bartender. But on a deeper level, I am coordinating my kids' week like they were paying for an all-inclusive cruise to Puerto Vallarta. Today, they went to summer camp and had swim lessons. Tomorrow, they are going to luncheon at a restaurant of their choosing and see the movie Up! and then have swim lessons. Tuesday afternoon, E's best friend will be coming to the house for a sleepover and swim lessons, and Wednesday, he'll stay here to play with my boys. Thursday, S's beloved girlfriends come over to play, and Friday more friends come over to play. I am the personal assistant and activity planner for the youngest socialites since Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen.
I bought s'mores ingredients and a tent for an at-home camp out. My kids don't even have time to be bored! On the one hand, it's easier to have them on the go with their friends than it is to sit inside at home with them. But, on the other, it takes a lot of energy to coordinate, schedule, and pay for every summer activity known to man.
But it's all good, because their daily signs of gratitude make every second worth while. Oh, no wait....